Velvet Room MUSH Wiki - User contributions [en]

2026-08-20: A Torch Borne For The Lost

2026-09-19T07:30:37Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Cutscene: The Torch Borne For the Lost''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara, Kouhei Ryouhara *'''Where:''' The Inscrutable Region, Mizunagi *'''OOC Date:''' 2026-08-20 *'''IC Date:''' Sometime between Dec 30th and the new year.. *'''Summary''': After forever, the shihaisha of Ryouhara takes a young man through the winding, twisting labyrinths of the disappeared ship, Mizunagi, to gather one of their fallen own who was left behind. But it was not just one that died o..."

*'''Cutscene: The Torch Borne For the Lost'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], Kouhei Ryouhara
*'''Where:''' The Inscrutable Region, Mizunagi
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-08-20
*'''IC Date:''' Sometime between Dec 30th and the new year..
*'''Summary''': After forever, the shihaisha of Ryouhara takes a young man through the winding, twisting labyrinths of the disappeared ship, Mizunagi, to gather one of their fallen own who was left behind. But it was not just one that died on the shihaisha's watch, something he is going to be reminded of by the one with the right to hold the biggest grudge of all.''
----

<poem>

"...Don't throw away your father's legacy so needlessly."

The shihaisha watched the twisting, worming path ahead, trapping him between the past and the unknown, tumultuous future. His half-lidded gaze was impassive, his hands folded underneath the drape of his haori.

He spoke without looking back, without looking back at the boy behind him. It may have been foolishness to believe that Shiryuu was unaware of his heart. As much as the Akita pureblood seemed completely disconnected from the realities of his crimes, the rare moment of insight seemed almost absurd. But Shirogarasu had the devil's luck, and the devil's eye beside.

It was hard for Kouhei not to bridle against the warning, hard for him not to lift his sword right then and there. It was an abominable crawl across the upper deck. Before them was a still, felled form, wearing a black gi. Evidence of another crime -- the price paid for the shihaisha's mad, treasonous obsession with breaking away from their lords.

The air was still damp from the flooded holds below, where the moisture seeped upward through the deck by its endless mechanical reconfiguration. Even as he watched, deckboards and railing shifted restlessly as part of some abhorrent mechanism, driven by some cruel god's spring. The younger Ryouhara felt the same way, having fought through no end of mechanical horrors to escort the comparably defenseless shihaisha to the summit of the ship.
The shihaisha had left his ninkou Bankasoujin on the ship when ecaping with Kurou and the girl, leaving him only one of the clan's simple blades at his side. Without the ability to channel the full extent of his supralunar power, the field had been leveled between them.

He was waiting, Kouhei told himself. For the right moment. The right opportunity. The machines and psychosis spaces on the ship made it hard to get a clean shot at his father's killer, and Kouhei had no intention of dying for Shiryuu by getting distracted, not like Zakuro had. But soon, the older Ryouhara would be within reach of his full power again. The window was closing.

Time did not seem to pass in the same way on the ship as it did everywhere else. Or perhaps it was simply that physics worked differently here. Zakuro laid in place right where he fell, with the light from above shining off of the bright splotch of red still on the deck. There wasn't an ounce of decay, as if time had just forgotten to pass. It's not where he originally fell according to their cartography, but the body had been shifted to the skyward-oriented bow of the ship through unknown means. It was as if the ship itself were jealously holding hostage the memory of the man in black had shooting down their clan brother like a dog.

It could have been Shuuhei, Kouhei reminded himself, while watching the way the shihaisha knelt by the ashen-grey figure that used to be their family. Silken strands of hair had snaked through seams in the deck beneath Zakuro, emerging from the pool of blood to wind crimson-dipped locks at crossed angles about the body. The sleek, glassy tresses were as smooth and shining as any woman's, in a mindlessly abominable fashion. In a haphazard way, the taut bindings cinching Zakuro to the deck could barely resemble a botched kanji: enclosed on three sides, with a bright black saltire in the middle crossing his shoulders and chest. An evil symbol of misfortune, it felt like the boat was trying to pass judgment. The shihaisha examined the way the hair slithered around his fingertips, before he cut the questing strands short with the kodachi he carried.

'Don't throw away your father's legacy so needlessly,' he'd said.

It lent the words that followed the taste of poison, to Kouhei.

The shihaisha straightened, appearing cold and serene as if he'd never said anything at all. Those words of warning hung in the air, his back still facing Kouhei. The short sword clicked back into its sheath, hung at the front of his belt with cordage to make room for the empty saya that still hung at his side. "You can't see the moon from here," the grey-haired young man thought calmly. "But it exists, even so."

"...maybe it's the same, for all of those who came before."

Middling poetry. The gall was too much for the younger shinobi to bear. The guard plates on the backs of his sleeves tightened until he could hear the rivets click to the end of their tolerances for fitment. The outburst that followed was entirely involuntary, the result of months of dutiful compliance, of holding back. "Those are just the words of a scoundrel," Kouhei spat. "Words from a person who decided to do whatever he wanted! Who threw away our lives! There's no justice in that!"

The shihaisha didn't turn towards him. For a moment, a small, immature part of Kouhei flinched, thinking he may have already been killed. His father had told him the young man at the highest step of the clan was merciless, cold, and killed in an instant.

No. There were forces much, much more powerful than him, Kouhei reminded himself.

The grey-haired man's voice fell to an obvious hush when he tilted his chin down, his eyes settling on the body before them. "... you're right," the shihaisha contemplated. "There can be no forgiveness for those who throw away people's lives before their own."

The words didn't bring Kouhei any peace. Hypocrisy never could. Only action. Emboldened, he pointed at the symbol at the shihaisha's back, their clan symbol. As if he'd betrayed it. "Then what's your excuse? What's heaven's judgment for you!?"

And then, the older shinobi sighed. It was a quiet, diminutive sound, as he looked up to the cavern above, and the single stab of light emanating from above.
"...You're a misfortunate child..."

When Shiryuu turned to finally face Kouhei, his eyes were only pale paintings behind the darkness of his bangs. "I was born in a different light from you," the young man began solemnly. "Where you've endured the darkness of our endeavors and the miseries of our ambitions, I've lived a shining life. In that light, the amount of blood between us is more different than it is alike. To its extent, that difference between us is so vast that it's not just 'blood' but also 'power.' It is because of that difference that I have to hold all reins. And because of that, if it comes to something like excusing myself... I wouldn't be that callous."

The shihaisha was placid, flat and calm as he pointed out what should have been painfully obvious the whole time. It didn't matter whether he was behind him, or in front of him, whether he was trained or whether he was armed and Shiryuu was not. If he drew his sword....

Kouhei never finished the thought, as Shiryuu cut it short.

"...And so I implore you again. Live a full life. Get excellent grades, cherish your bonds and your family. Become strong, become exemplary. Keep that man in your heart. Don't throw this life away so carelessly."

No. What does it all mean, if traitors can just get away with doing as they please? "It's all so easy for you to say, 'savior from Akita,'" Kouhei bit back, spitting the title like it was bitter dirt. "You'd say different, if it were your father, if it were your brother, if it were your sister, if it were your mother--!"

He tried. Tried to get the savage, infuriatingly facetious little blonde runaway to distract the grey-haired tyrant long enough for the situation to take care of itself. But the shihaisha had the devil's own luck, and avoided getting killed by a hair -- instead, Zakuro died. It left it up to him. Dauntless, Kouhei drew his blade with a flash, holding it in front of his face as if whispering an oath before it and the shihaisha. "...If you're a savior," he declared, "then I'm an avenger, the tenchuu that even you must face."

Kouhei forced steel to his nerves. It was the reason the Order retained the services of the Ryouhara, as the hands in the dark who could do the things no one else could. And yet, despite reaching out to decide his own fate, the boy was stunned to see the silver-haired man do nothing in kind.

He did not respond in kind; that man merely shook his head.
"...no, you're not."

Instead of making any reasonable argument, the shihaisha reached into his haori, looking away. Instead of a weapon, he drew a flat piece of coal-smudged origami, a bisectional envelope blazoned with ink marks over its mottled surfaces. Junenhouin, a ninkou made to annihilate other ninkou. Its flames were measurably hotter than even most other fire ninkou, and the white crackle of the pincer-shaped ignition envelope as the shihaisha opened it was dazzing.
Like a flare dropped from the sky, the igniting flame fell onto Zakuro's body, the white sparks and coruscating trails of flame immolating hair, cloth and flesh all the same. The scent of the reactants overpowered the scent of the burning body with an acrid, bitter smell. It was part of the plan -- they were going to burn Zakuro to the deckboards here, and then gather his ashes to return them.

Now only a silhouette in front of that fire, the young man was solemn and quiet as he watched. That flame meant different things to the two of them, but what little fight Kouhei had dissipated in the face of the clan's loss. Shiryuu watched the flame impassively.

"You are... a memorial to everyone who ever cared for you."

It was hard to tell if he had it in him. If he ever did. He couldn't kill him here, not on this mission, not this way. The fittings of his katana made a soft sound as Kouhei reluctantly lowered his blade, the oath spoken over it seeming to settle and curl, like an avid, hungry viper. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that Shirogarasu and his pet blonde played on, while his father grew cold in the ground and Zakuro burned in front of them. "...I won't forgive what you've done," the dark-haired boy promised breathlessly.
"No matter what you say to me, no matter what they say about you. I'll protect my brother from you and avenge everyone. Even if I have to eat the shadows out from the foundations beneath you, I'll find a way."

Shiryuu stayed there, watching the fire burn.

"...good."

</poem>
[[Category:Cutscenes]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 2]]

Shiryuu Ryouhara

2026-08-09T07:59:28Z

Strangehat:

{{Character1
|MUSHName=Shiryuu Ryouhara
|BGColor=#000000
|BorderColor=#033801
|TextColor=#D9F6FF
|Img=[[File:Shiryuu3.png|300px]]
|Name=Shiryuu Ryouhara (漁原志龍)
|Arcana=Chariot
|Gender=Male
|Age=20
|Birthdate=December 17, 1992
|Residence=Yumezaki, Sumaru
|HairColor=Black
|EyeColor=Russet (right) Honey (left)
|Height=5'10"
|Workplace=Club Harai
|Job=Contractor
|Role=Nemesis
|Source=Velvet Room MUSH (OC)
|Group=New World Order
|Player=Strangehat
|Quote=<center>"For good or ill, we are the ones who sanction the night."</center>
|Profile=A quiet, exotic-looking young man hailing from rainy Akita, not much is known about the boy slinking through the back rooms of the seedy nightlife in Sumaru. A fragment of something else entirely, the boy has some form of connection to the masked EDM artist, 'Gin,' whom is said to have died in the Club Harai Fire in the fall of 2012. The late artist's mind-bending messaging of counterculture and supreme Japanese restoration is a ideological mausoleum surrounding the boy, and more oft than not he is haunted by the idea of 'synthesis' and his own eerie understanding of the dead artist's legend. His possession of a old prop of Gin's labels him as a true superfan, but rumors of ancient connections to the darkest occult in Sumaru linger around the boy like old ghosts. Even now, the extent of the influence he wields is not well understood by the waking world, leaving him to struggle with vacuous gaps in his memory aided by the shadows alone, a boy lost in the heartless rave.
|Background=The boy known as Shiryuu is a studied creature of many faces. For most, he is only a face in the crowd -- unimportant, nondescript, studious, quiet. It is really only when one stands in his path that he begins to become 'someone' at all, and when he does, he is swift and terrible. Who then, would really know anything of the bloody events that brought him to Sumaru?
|S1E1=
* He's been seen working at the reconstruction worksite for Club Harai in Sumaru, though his work is mostly menial labor. He appeared shortly after the explosion there that claimed the life of well known club artist 'Gin.' His status as an EDM fan is well known among the work crew there, whom regard him generally as a skilled, quiet, hard worker who is probably being very underpaid. That does not stop them from making fun of him for the flirty girl that visited the worksite once. The boss told him to stop causing a stir.
* He is paradoxically also known as a very dangerous person in the schools of Sumaru, particularly Kasugayama. Rumors abound if the silver-haired guy is just a tough fight or if he really did kidnap someone??
* He also seems to know quite a few other dangerous people, and has a habit of appearing at the site of many freak disasters. He was there during the fire at the Aerospace Museum, and was one of the patients at the hospital when a freak waterspout threw a research ship halfway through Narumi Memorial.
* He seems to have the same last name as an ancient ninja clan that was recently connected to the Akabane family. No way this guy is related.. right?
|PersonaInfo=<center>'''''I am thou... thou art I. With this, I have come to guide all of the wayward descendants of Amaterasu.'''''</center>
|PersonaDesc=A mechanical kami wearing a mask, the Persona Sarutahiko Okami appears wearing wind chime regalia and the uniform of a Shinto kannushi. He wields a massively long eight shaku gohei, standing at the apex of an impossible network of ancient rope bridges. it represents the early god who guards the bridge connecting Heaven and Earth, Ame no Ukihashi, upon which Izanagi and Izanami stood when they made the world as we know it. He is the leader of the earthbound, patron of martial arts, and he represents strength, guidance, and the way.
= 'Gin' =
A mysterious, nameless figure at the head of a counterculture movement in the electronic dance community. He was killed in a freak accident at his club in Yumezaki, which caused a massive explosion and a fire that took the better part of a day to extinguish. It's not known what connection this person had to Shiryuu.
= The Ryouhara Clan =
''"What do you think you know of the Crows over Shinano? We were there to take up the mantle when the warlord rode with Hell at his side. We were born in the master's garden, and we were there when the black ships first arrived. We were there when the six coins were strung for the emperor, and we were there when the sky was choked with smoke and red mist. Even when the sword was broken and our names were cursed, we still worked the fire. Our blood is scattered across Japan in a thousand secret places, and our hands weave the eight miracles of the kami. We are here even today, and even demons do not say our name. We are the wind that stirs the leaves, and we are the masters of the mountain. You will never see us, nor know us. But it is you we will know, and your name will be written on the blade that comes for your neck."''
= Soundtrack =
[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oBnCgu7bdQk '''The Shihaisha of Ryouhara'''] - Lappy, "Chrono Apocalypse"

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wR1IXSn1jqU '''Who is 'Gin?''''] - Nhato, "Gekka (Original Mix)"

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NnoEbpLimkM '''Akita's Judgment'''] - Escape the Fate, "One for the Money"

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tTtjg6qAeGI '''Legacies'''] - SENZO, "Test of Faith"

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9vKAt6FT3Qg '''Apple Red'''] - Kaskade, "obvious"

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1JkoEeCOWok '''lock TF in'''] - Subtronics x Wooli, "Lock In"

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dNA2-qEPlyY '''The Grey Haired Boy'''] - zippy, "Ruins of Rain"

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T2PyK7HT350 '''The Shihaisha of Ryouhara (Second Stage)'''] - Xenoblade Chronicles 2 OST, "Death Match with Torna"

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=14SRHDvkO3o '''Ultimate Judgment'''] - Shadow Warrior 2, "Off With Your Head"

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aXaj0kDn_S8 '''Club Harai Backrooms'''] - The Yoshida Brothers, "Fukaki Umi no Kanata (Beyond the Deep Sea)"

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aa42TzaChus '''Original Sinners'''] - Paul Oakenfold, "Get Out Of My Life Now"

[https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l_vYQ2aKoUc '''Theme of '????''''] - Hell's Paradise, "Torsion"
}}

Shiryuu Ryouhara

2026-08-06T13:06:27Z

Strangehat:

Shiryuu Ryouhara

2026-08-06T12:59:15Z

Strangehat:

{{Character1
|MUSHName=Shiryuu Ryouhara
|BGColor=#000000
|BorderColor=#033801
|TextColor=#D9F6FF
|Img=[[File:Shiryuu3.png|300px]]
|Name=Shiryuu Ryouhara (漁原志龍)
|Arcana=Chariot
|Gender=Male
|Age=20
|Birthdate=December 17, 1992
|Residence=Yumezaki, Sumaru
|HairColor=Black
|EyeColor=Russet (right) Honey (left)
|Height=5'10"
|Workplace=Construction Site at Club Harai
|Job=Contractor
|Role=Nemesis
|Source=Velvet Room MUSH (OC)
|Group=New World Order
|Player=Strangehat
|Quote=<center>"For good or ill, we are the ones who sanction the night."</center>
|Profile=A quiet, exotic-looking young man hailing from rainy Akita, not much is known about the boy slinking through the back rooms of the seedy nightlife in Sumaru. A fragment of something else entirely, the boy has some form of connection to the masked EDM artist, 'Gin,' whom is said to have died in the Club Harai Fire in the fall of 2012. The late artist's mind-bending messaging of counterculture and supreme Japanese restoration is a ideological mausoleum surrounding the boy, and more oft than not he is haunted by the idea of 'synthesis' and his own eerie understanding of the dead artist's legend. His possession of a old prop of Gin's labels him as a true superfan, but rumors of ancient connections to the darkest occult in Sumaru linger around the boy like old ghosts. Even now, the extent of the influence he wields is not well understood by the waking world, leaving him to struggle with vacuous gaps in his memory aided by the shadows alone, a boy lost in the heartless rave.
|Background=The boy known as Shiryuu is a studied creature of many faces. For most, he is only a face in the crowd -- unimportant, nondescript, studious, quiet. It is really only when one stands in his path that he begins to become 'someone' at all, and when he does, he is swift and terrible. Who then, would really know anything of the bloody events that brought him to Sumaru?
|S1E1=
* He's been seen working at the reconstruction worksite for Club Harai in Sumaru, though his work is mostly menial labor. He appeared shortly after the explosion there that claimed the life of well known club artist 'Gin.' His status as an EDM fan is well known among the work crew there, whom regard him generally as a skilled, quiet, hard worker who is probably being very underpaid. That does not stop them from making fun of him for the flirty girl that visited the worksite once. The boss told him to stop causing a stir.
* He is paradoxically also known as a very dangerous person in the schools of Sumaru, particularly Kasugayama. Rumors abound if the silver-haired guy is just a tough fight or if he really did kidnap someone??
* He also seems to know quite a few other dangerous people, and has a habit of appearing at the site of many freak disasters. He was there during the fire at the Aerospace Museum, and was one of the patients at the hospital when a freak waterspout threw a research ship halfway through Narumi Memorial.
* He seems to have the same last name as an ancient ninja clan that was recently connected to the Akabane family. No way this guy is related.. right?
|PersonaInfo=<center>'''''I am thou... thou art I. With this, I have come to guide all of the wayward descendants of Amaterasu.'''''</center>
|PersonaDesc=A mechanical kami wearing a mask, the Persona Sarutahiko Okami appears wearing wind chime regalia and the uniform of a Shinto kannushi. He wields a massively long eight shaku gohei, standing at the apex of an impossible network of ancient rope bridges. it represents the early god who guards the bridge connecting Heaven and Earth, Ame no Ukihashi, upon which Izanagi and Izanami stood when they made the world as we know it. He is the leader of the earthbound, patron of martial arts, and he represents strength, guidance, and the way.
= 'Gin' =
A mysterious, nameless figure at the head of a counterculture movement in the electronic dance community. He was killed in a freak accident at his club in Yumezaki, which caused a massive explosion and a fire that took the better part of a day to extinguish. It's not known what connection this person had to Shiryuu.
= The Ryouhara Clan =
''"What do you think you know of the Crows over Shinano? We were there to take up the mantle when the warlord rode with Hell at his side. We were born in the master's garden, and we were there when the black ships first arrived. We were there when the six coins were strung for the emperor, and we were there when the sky was choked with smoke and red mist. Even when the sword was broken and our names were cursed, we still worked the fire. Our blood is scattered across Japan in a thousand secret places, and our hands weave the eight miracles of the kami. We are here even today, and even demons do not say our name. We are the wind that stirs the leaves, and we are the masters of the mountain. You will never see us, nor know us. But it is you we will know, and your name will be written on the blade that comes for your neck."''
}}

Shiryuu Ryouhara

2026-08-06T12:57:04Z

Strangehat:

{{Character1
|MUSHName=Shiryuu Ryouhara
|BGColor=#000000
|BorderColor=#033801
|TextColor=#D9F6FF
|Img=[[File:Shiryuu3.png|300px]]
|Name=Shiryuu Ryouhara (漁原志龍)
|Arcana=Chariot
|Gender=Male
|Age=20
|Birthdate=January 17, 1992
|Residence=Yumezaki, Sumaru
|HairColor=Black
|EyeColor=Russet (right) Honey (left)
|Height=5'10"
|Workplace=Construction Site at Club Harai
|Job=Contractor
|Role=Nemesis
|Source=Velvet Room MUSH (OC)
|Group=New World Order
|Player=Strangehat
|Quote=<center>"For good or ill, we are the ones who sanction the night."</center>
|Profile=A quiet, exotic-looking young man hailing from rainy Akita, not much is known about the boy slinking through the back rooms of the seedy nightlife in Sumaru. A fragment of something else entirely, the boy has some form of connection to the masked EDM artist, 'Gin,' whom is said to have died in the Club Harai Fire in the fall of 2012. The late artist's mind-bending messaging of counterculture and supreme Japanese restoration is a ideological mausoleum surrounding the boy, and more oft than not he is haunted by the idea of 'synthesis' and his own eerie understanding of the dead artist's legend. His possession of a old prop of Gin's labels him as a true superfan, but rumors of ancient connections to the darkest occult in Sumaru linger around the boy like old ghosts. Even now, the extent of the influence he wields is not well understood by the waking world, leaving him to struggle with vacuous gaps in his memory aided by the shadows alone, a boy lost in the heartless rave.
|Background=The boy known as Shiryuu is a studied creature of many faces. For most, he is only a face in the crowd -- unimportant, nondescript, studious, quiet. It is really only when one stands in his path that he begins to become 'someone' at all, and when he does, he is swift and terrible. Who then, would really know anything of the bloody events that brought him to Sumaru?
|S1E1=
* He's been seen working at the reconstruction worksite for Club Harai in Sumaru, though his work is mostly menial labor. He appeared shortly after the explosion there that claimed the life of well known club artist 'Gin.' His status as an EDM fan is well known among the work crew there, whom regard him generally as a skilled, quiet, hard worker who is probably being very underpaid. That does not stop them from making fun of him for the flirty girl that visited the worksite once. The boss told him to stop causing a stir.
* He is paradoxically also known as a very dangerous person in the schools of Sumaru, particularly Kasugayama. Rumors abound if the silver-haired guy is just a tough fight or if he really did kidnap someone??
* He also seems to know quite a few other dangerous people, and has a habit of appearing at the site of many freak disasters. He was there during the fire at the Aerospace Museum, and was one of the patients at the hospital when a freak waterspout threw a research ship halfway through Narumi Memorial.
* He seems to have the same last name as an ancient ninja clan that was recently connected to the Akabane family. No way this guy is related.. right?
|PersonaInfo=<center>'''''I am thou... thou art I. With this, I have come to guide all of the wayward descendants of Amaterasu.'''''</center>
|PersonaDesc=A mechanical kami wearing a mask, the Persona Sarutahiko Okami appears wearing wind chime regalia and the uniform of a Shinto kannushi. He wields a massively long eight shaku gohei, standing at the apex of an impossible network of ancient rope bridges. it represents the early god who guards the bridge connecting Heaven and Earth, Ame no Ukihashi, upon which Izanagi and Izanami stood when they made the world as we know it. He is the leader of the earthbound, patron of martial arts, and he represents strength, guidance, and the way.
= 'Gin' =
A mysterious, nameless figure at the head of a counterculture movement in the electronic dance community. He was killed in a freak accident at his club in Yumezaki, which caused a massive explosion and a fire that took the better part of a day to extinguish. It's not known what connection this person had to Shiryuu.
= The Ryouhara Clan =
''"What do you think you know of the Crows over Shinano? We were there to take up the mantle when the warlord rode with Hell at his side. We were born in the master's garden, and we were there when the black ships first arrived. We were there when the six coins were strung for the emperor, and we were there when the sky was choked with smoke and red mist. Even when the sword was broken and our names were cursed, we still worked the fire. Our blood is scattered across Japan in a thousand secret places, and our hands weave the eight miracles of the kami. We are here even today, and even demons do not say our name. We are the wind that stirs the leaves, and we are the masters of the mountain. You will never see us, nor know us. But it is you we will know, and your name will be written on the blade that comes for your neck."''
}}

File:Shiryuu3.png

2026-08-06T08:28:43Z

Strangehat: Shiryuu Ryouhara, made by a paperdoll generator on neka.cc. Source: https://www.neka.cc/composer/11357

== Summary ==
Shiryuu Ryouhara, made by a paperdoll generator on neka.cc. Source: https://www.neka.cc/composer/11357

2026-05-01: Ahead the Demon's Gate

2026-05-02T06:59:23Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Cutscene: Ahead the Demon's Gate''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara, O-Shinkun Ryouhara, Nahara Ryouhara *'''Where:''' Industrial District, Konan Ward, Sumaru *'''OOC Date:''' 2026-05-01 *'''IC Date:''' Sometime between Oct 10th and Oct 19th 2012... *'''Summary''': In the grey morning mist, the new leaders of the Ryouhara clan met to unpack the ambitions of the new youth.'' ---- <poem> The abandoned railyards on the outskirts of Sumaru were a circuitous t..."

*'''Cutscene: Ahead the Demon's Gate'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], O-Shinkun Ryouhara, Nahara Ryouhara
*'''Where:''' Industrial District, Konan Ward, Sumaru
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-05-01
*'''IC Date:''' Sometime between Oct 10th and Oct 19th 2012...
*'''Summary''': In the grey morning mist, the new leaders of the Ryouhara clan met to unpack the ambitions of the new youth.''
----

<poem>
The abandoned railyards on the outskirts of Sumaru were a circuitous tangle of empty tracks, empty cars, and empty containers, all politely rotting under the autumn sun in a barely populated tangle of post-industry disinterest. It was rainy of late, which had kept most of the urban explorers of Sumaru's adventurously-minded out of the area. Even the day laborers and less fortunate homeless had been encouraged to go by the recent gang activity.

And yet, a certain contingent of men had remained, just out of sight in the grey morning and its on-and-off drizzle. Without notice, some of the rail infrastructure thought decommissioned had been repaired with a careful hand.

In the shadow of an overpass, beneath the awning of a railway stop, a boy in a storm grey haori sits atop an overturned vending machine, long since emptied of product. Arm draped over a knee and across his face, he's waiting, passing the time by watching one of the railway trains in the distance, its cars being separated by laborers in blue raincoats.

"Ahh, the illustrious shijou," a deeply contoured shape of a voice greeted him from not too far behind. "Ever immaculate as always... ever gloomy. As always."

"O-Shinkun." Shiryuu's voice was flat and unperturbed by the implied slight. He'd become used to the slightly older man, tall, dark and lean in the elaborate outfit he wore. The outside of the outfit was subtle -- dominated by a Restoration-era hikeshi's fireproof coat hung off his shoulders, long and black with a subtle grey silhouette of crows and leaves printed over the mantle of the outer layer. However, the inner lining of the coat was a dyed explosion of color, depicting a war between a red oni and a blue oni in the mountains. Both the coat's color and the shine of studded gloves and silver dragon lapels were but a muted flash in the dim light.

Even so, even in the shade, O-Shinkun's jade eyes flashed conspiratorially. "You'd think," he chides, "having supralunar power _and_ a cooperative Yongarasu would have made you more cheerful." A heavy leather glove raised, for the shinobi to wag a finger at his superior.

"After all, you went through all that trouble..." O-Shinkun's voice dropped an octave, his labret piercing lifting with his thin, tight smile. The notion bought Shiryuu's attention. "It could possibly the first time in our family's history that most of us agreed on anything. A nip from Sukunabikona himself."

"Aa." Aside from the vague agreement, the silver-haired boy remained quiet, prickly but mostly unfazed by the ongoing chatter.

"Ugh, fine. Where's your handler?" O-Shinkun mused forlornly. "If you gave her this kind of boon, Kiria-chan would never mope."

"Iih.. that's enough." Apparently reaching the end of his patience, the boy finally broke his stare with the middle distance, looking back at the man with the kohl-rimmed eyes. "Did you bring the Mizugarasu?"

"Raigarasu," a spritely voice reminded him, belonging to the shorter woman elegantly landing on the concrete. Ever the practical girl, she was the only one of them who apparently thought it prudent to bring an umbrella, shaking the rainwater off of the nylon by cycling the action a few times before closing it with a click. A cute creamy white neko charm chain hung off the handle -- it was mostly covered by her hands when she leaned on the umbrella, themselves sheathed in thin, short and lace-trimmed cocktail-cut leather handling gloves. Though not overly short, her lacking height in comparison to the other two was bolstered by a one-inch rise in the reinforced heels she wore, and the wild, vagabond grin painted across her round face told the rest of the tale.

"Nahara," O-Shinkun greeted, with the thinnest veneer of professionalism. "Creative, as always, though your interest in bucking four hundred years of tradition is always refreshing," he needled sarcastically. "Ancestor Motomaro would be spinning in his grave if he heard."

Preening, the girl with the short, sea green hair and glasses raised a hand to dust an imagined speck off the shoulder of a short, devil red sleeveless jinbaori, worn over a shorter muddy crimson coat whose sleeves were buckled snug halfway up her arms. It was the same as her slacks, tied before they reached her calves. "Don't nitpick, Shinkun-kun~" she shot back, refusing to use his full name. "Just because you have all the fun field work doesn't mean the rest of us can't show off even a little. Setsuya might have been happy with his title, but we all know what happens to old, bitter men hiding in the dark, right?"

She winked at the silver-haired boy, perhaps a little more candidly than Shiryuu would have liked, being the one caught in the middle of this whole exchange. "Besides," she continued, unperturbed. "What's good for the white crow is good for the lightning crow, ne?"

With a long-suffering sigh, Shiryuu finally moved. The boy slung a leg over the edge of the vending machine on which he had been content to perch, and finally stood up to his full height. Though not as tall as the Americans and younger than O-Shinkun by a handful of years and Nahara by far less, the shihaisha was much taller than he looked at first glance, and was just shy of being O-Shinkun's equal in that regard. A cold, pale brown eye made up the infinitesimal differences in both.

"You weren't chosen to replace bickering old men to take their roles in squabbling over ancient history," Shiryuu told them both, his voice severe. "At this point, we have an 'unmitigated supremacy' to realize our goals ... and the moment of action is now."

"Marvelous," O-Shinkun replied, pressing his hands flat together. "Well then, it seems that the trials here are coming close to being arranged... it took time. Rail diversions and repair materials for aging lines are not easy to come by. We also bribed a few children. A few high profile fights in the schools will get the word out. Even so, Shirogarasu... it would have been easier if you let us coerce one of these rumormongers of yours."

"Aaah~" Nahara interjected musically, "and watch you get thrown on your colorful ass by one? Shinkun-kun, you're so adorable~"

"Get literal, lemonade fairy... the day I ask you for anything ..."

"... have Shuuhei and Kouhei returned with the fragment?" Shiryuu asked tersely, his head tilting to interrupt the two. Despite the others around him, the boy hadn't moved more than a step from his spot since he stood, his hands shrouded by the draping sleeves of his storm-grey haori.

Nahara's large silver-rimmed glasses flashed with the incline of her head, framing her ambitiously wide medallion-yellow eyes. "Ohhh," she teased, playing at being someone who had just thought of a long forgotten fact. "The 'fragment.' The boys returned with it a few days ago..."

"....and?" Shiryuu's patience, or lack thereof, had grown legendary in the clan.

"Well~" Nahara continued, unkowed. "We tried having the brothers butcher a few demons with it, but it turns out that it's very resistant to being alloyed, so we had to have special ninkou commissioned. You'd be am-a-zed at all the wicked things it does to those 'other' monsters...not to mention us."

O-Shinkun shook his head. "All of the money we end up kicking to gendai-ryu ... 'wicked' surely isn't all you came up with?" He made a censuring gesture, flicking two fingers dismissively at Nahara as if sprinkling dishwater on a misbehaving cat by the sink. She did not take it kindly.

"Don't~! Shinkun-kun!" she whined, absent an objection from Shiryuu. "You'll hurt my feelings! They're delicate," she insisted, a sentiment that earned her an immediate snort from the taller shinobi. She stuck her tongue out at him until he backed off.
"Anyway," Nahara recovered airily, "Shirogarasu may as well have had adorable Kurou-kun bring us Kagura metal itself." Having emphasized the grey-haired boy's official title as if proving an ancillary point, the ninkougakusha folded her arms in satisfaction, pushing the frames of her glasses up the bridge of her nose with a thumb. As she did, tiny cerulean text flickered along the bottom of her lenses. The Shinshingankyou she wore were a type of high-tech analytical ninkou, and she passively referenced the information it displayed.

"So far it's mesmerized two demons," she interpreted of the encoded data. "And caused at least five anomalies to go mad. There was a sixth, but Kouhei was too fast in dispatching it." She seemed vexed at the idea, and O-Shinkun snorted audibly. Nahara ignored him. "It seems to have similar properties to our oldest 'ko-ryu' ninkou... we're calling it an 'Original Material' for now. It's on a different level... maybe something that exists at the very edge of human fear. It's already terrorized three of our shokunin ninkougakusha."

The idea made the kunoichi sigh, wistfully. "And you guys say you want to weaponize it. We're all going to die... Isn't it lovely?"

O-Shinkun was noticeably less enthusiastic, though his bitter smile was no less sanguine as he looked to Shiryuu, who was deep in thought. "How grim. ...you said this was one of our host's assets that had this sort of power..? That it killed 'the Joker Killer?' ... you know, they say even you couldn't..."

"--Aa," Shiryuu cut him short in icy reply. "That man is dead." The statement landed like a lead weight, and the boy with the shock of grey hair turned away, showing only the three leaves symbol of the clan at his back -- the same Nahara wore at her hip, and O-Shinkun across the the hem of his coat.

"He represents 'the past.'"

"It's the future that remains. A barrier as foreboding as a demon's gate. We have to address it all. An S-class danger surpassing Tatsuya Sudou ... the tendrils of a dark conspiracy ... the inheritance of vengeance ... and wanton apathy and unrest alike, all in the worlds above and below the moon. It's the results of Setsuya Ryouhara's failure to act. It's the rotting roots of our own hesitation... and the ultimate challenge remaining to real 'synthesis.'"

"That's why we're here. We're not going to be the ones who stand idly by and scheme, waiting for an opportunity... that's not who we are. Not anymore."

The grey-haired boy never looked back.

"...so..." O-Shinkun ventured, trying to elicit a response after the moment had grown long enough to be uncomfortable. Nahara tittered, noticeably less fettered. "I notice you're not talking about your own priorities. The new-gen from Siren's Alley? The cute blonde? Don't tell me all by yourself, you're going to--"

"--I hate repeating myself," Shiryuu replied.

It was the end of the conversation.

</poem>
[[Category:Cutscenes]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 2]]

2026-03-06: Going Down

2026-04-14T09:59:06Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Cutscene: Going Down''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara, Kurou Ryouhara *'''Where:''' The Aerospace Museum, Konan District *'''OOC Date:''' 2026-03-06 *'''IC Date:''' Oct 6th, 2012 *'''Summary''': ''In the shadows of the others, they arrived. Even in a raging inferno, the onmitsu on-site at the Aerospace Museum are yet still to learn the power of heroes.'' ---- (|======================== Monad - Aerospace Museum ========================|) -==== Round 1: Th..."

*'''Cutscene: Going Down'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], [[Kurou Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' The Aerospace Museum, Konan District
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-03-06
*'''IC Date:''' Oct 6th, 2012
*'''Summary''': ''In the shadows of the others, they arrived. Even in a raging inferno, the onmitsu on-site at the Aerospace Museum are yet still to learn the power of heroes.''

----

(|======================== Monad - Aerospace Museum ========================|)
-==== Round 1: The Other Side - Challenge Level 2 ===========================-
| Approach Options: Academics or Proficiency |
| Conditions: Curse - -1 to Group Roll (Per Character), Educational - |
| Academics Up L1, and Terrifying - Guts Down L2 |
-==== Challenge =============================================================-

The Konan District's Aerospace Museum is easy enough to find, in part
because it has a life-sized Zeppelin replica attached to the building as
both exhibit and restaurant. Rumor has it that it can actually fly, but well
you can't believe everything you hear, right?

In the lobby, there's World War II memorabilia, including a Mitsubishi A6M
Zero hanging in pristine condition from the roof above. The lobby looks
empty save for a beautiful young man in the Kasugayama High uniform that
some may recognize as Jun Kashihara. He's looking around with a fretful
frown, as if searching for a museum employee; upon spotting you, he
approaches with a letter in hand to say:

"Excuse me--I don't mean to alarm you, but you should leave immediately.
Someone dangerous is coming here..."

The letter in his hand is tightly clenched, but the eagle-eyed can make out
a message like 'cOMe aLOnE tO ThE AerOspAcE MuSEUM oR ELsE <3' in a
scrawled, erratic hand.

No sooner does he start a conversation with you, when abruptly an entire
wall detonates into a great conflagration, as some incendiary device
detonates.

"Kya-hahaha! Welcome to my walk down memory lane. Guess you ran into the
first of my bombs. The next will go off in the stairwell, then the other
floors will go up in flames one by one!"

As flames of expiation light the heavens
The Lion's roar echoes far and wide

"Don't you remember? It's just like the Other Side. There's a field trip
touring the museum right now. If you don't get those kids to the roof,
they'll become barbeque! Better hurry! Kya-hehehe-ahahahaha!"

Your first challenge is rather simple, the voice wasn't kidding about the
stairwell going up in flames next. You have seconds to locate it, and run up
to the second floor before the fastest way to the second floor goes up in
flames.

Can you make it in time?

OOC: The Red Text in this Monad represents Deja Vu moments from 'the Other
Side'. If you've determined that your character was not present in Innocent
Sin, or you haven't decided yet, then you can ignore these moments.

(|=========================================================== Monad 1.1 ====|)
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

They never meet that boy at the front.

They gathered the information from spies in the region who were assigned to .. other projects. A tersely scribbled copy of the message clenched in the hand of 'that boy', a relay of the overheard excitement from a tearful exchange between parents outside, an accounting of who's come, who's gone.

Then the explosions started going off.

"The first directive is move quickly," the Ryouhara Shirogarasu had said, before the group of onmitsu staged on the neighboring rooftop. "Secure all explosives encountered... remove all stragglers." Anyone unable to fight or escape on their own. "Children, first."

The young man in the white haori looks from one, to the other, a flat mien etched across his face.

"... we are gathering intel for our sponsors, as many supralunar assets are tracked as currently en route to the museum. We will not interfere with their mission. But we will not, in turn, abide their interference. Against aggressors at level 'jounin' or higher... lethal force is authorized."

He points to a map, encoded and hastily scrawled on a roofing tile.

"Our goal is to assemble the parts for Kouhigoki here, on this floor, and there, on that floor, while they are operable. We'll use those as staging areas to escape, and provide assistance for Order assets to escape. and then place assets as needed further on."

Shiryuu Ryouhara lowers his head.
"Sanction is given. Mission start."
The zip-lines start getting fired, down to the lower floors.

''MONAD: Shiryuu Ryouhara has acted with Ninjutsu toward The Other Side! Specialty!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

It is all the better that they do not. Kurou does not know Kashihara-senpai personally, but he does know that the boy /is/ Kashihara-senpai. He does not suspect himself to be known in turn, but since Seki-senpai once referred him, it could be a complication. No, instead, the note itself. Nothing good comes from such messages in such tones.

Kurou barely has time to survey the area before the would is consumed in an explosive roar of flames. The detonations' percussion is like a punch into Kurou's chest, rattling his bones until they feel loose in the meat of his flesh.

Despite the ringing in his ears, his eyes are sharp and attention to Shiryuu's words. He knows the balance here will be a delicate one, but the blood in his veins feels hotter than the flames devouring the museum at the idea of children sacrificed for a mad man's idea of the future.

Shiryuu authorizes lethal force, and Kurou's fingers hook into and tighten around the scarf at his throat.

"Understood, Shirogarasu," Kurou says, only once the instructions are made and the sanction is given.

Then he moves without further delay or hesitation, even when it comes to zip-lining into a building being consumed in fire. If paths do not cross, there is no need for interference on either side, and each Kurou's assembly is swift and decisive, with a silence that seems to presume he could inexplicably hide from flame itself. Some instincts might never be smothered.

''MONAD: Kurou Ryouhara has acted with Without a Trace toward The Other Side! Diligence and Patra!''

</poem>
(|============================ Monad - Results =============================|)
-==== The Other Side - Round 1 ==============================================-
Shiryuu Ryouhara Proficiency Success
Ninjutsu Specialty Fatigue: 0
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kurou Ryouhara Proficiency Success
Without a Trace Diligence and Patra Fatigue: 0
-============================ Party Conditions: =============================-
Starting Conditions: Curse-0, Educational-2, and Terrifying-2
Final Conditions: Educational-1
-====================================== Party Result: Success: Reach Up! ====-
-==== Reach: 1/6 |= | ===================================================-
(|=========================================================== Monad 1.1 ====|)
<poem>

''MONAD: Shiryuu Ryouhara has drawn a new Challenge!''

</poem>
(|======================== Monad - Aerospace Museum ========================|)
-==== Round 2: Worst Field Trip Ever - Challenge Level 2 ====================-
| Approach Options: Proficiency or Guts |
| Conditions: Clumsy - Proficiency Down L1, Educational - Academics Up L1, |
| and Scary - Guts Down L1 |
-==== Challenge =============================================================-

The second floor of the Aerospace museum is already filling with smoke, as
flames from the first floor have already caught hold here, licking along
several particularly flammable spaces. Exhibits about the history of
aviation in Japan and in general are lined up with artifacts of prior
generations.

Fifteen. Fifteen minutes. That's how long you have to find the kids and get
to the roof. You're not sure why you get that instinct.

You've gotta find those kids! Quick!

Unfortunately there are demons coming down the hallway already. Horse-headed
creatures that stand on two-feet. With a whinny of rage, they come at you,
spreading more flames with Maragi spells.

And that's just the first group of them.

You have to search this floor quickly AND thoroughly, fighting demons as you
go, paths that were open before closing off in flame.

(|=========================================================== Monad 1.1 ====|)
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Windows explode inwards as shinobi break through them. There are a few carrying bags with the parts for the Kouhigoki statues, but aside from grappling lines and shortswords, they're not terribly well equipped to handle more than frightened security guards. (Two are, in fact, defeated rather handily, and shuttled out of the building almost immediately, shouting something about lost children..)

The shinobi form a beachhead rather quickly, and begin assembling the first statue at the second floor level. Smoke is everywhere, and tongues of flame lick at the edges of the hall, but the onmitsu wear masks specially designed for smoke. Heat, on the other hand...

One of the blue-clad onmitsu is blown down almost immediately by a wave of fire while trying to unpack his bag, and the ominous snort of equine beasts fill the halls. Thickly muscled and horned, the pack throw blue-shaded tufts o flame into the hall further, creating a conflagration that forces the other onmitsu back -- retreat, before perishing immediately in the flames.

That is why supralunar onmitsu were authorized for the mission.

The shihaisha never actually carries a wheel for the lines. Instead of ziplining down, the boy simply hops atop the line... and skids down it on his sneakers. Haori fluttering in the wind with his balance, he reaches within eyesight of the window and --

-- steps into the room as if opening a door.

Fireballs fly past him, missing by inches, and the hiss of his blade exiting its saya reverberates with mortal gravity, black feathers trailing off of the blade's edge as it bares to the hot air. One stroke.

And the wind howls to a luxe beat, cutting into and churning the fire as if turned back by a massive lash.

The backdraft of the flame forms a brutal wall against the huge demons, the rejection of their attack almost total, leaving the shihaisha to glance at the other onmitsu. Hurry up.

In the end, the attack is just a distraction, a veil.

Those demons will never see Kurou coming.

''MONAD: Shiryuu Ryouhara has acted with Shinsoku toward Worst Field Trip Ever! Escape and Efficient!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

Heat and smoke. Crackling flame. Falling debris. Even with a mask, every breath feels borrowed. Yet this all must at once be a background haze that invites no vacillation, yet Kurou's senses must also remain keenly aware of any fluctuation in the rhythm of the destruction for when it shifts.

And it does shift.

Shinobi fall, and anything like regret, remorse, or grief -- if, indeed, Kurou's spirit sees fit to hold those things -- is a weight to hold and carry later. For it is when such monstrosities appear that his own purpose comes into dangerously simple clarity.

The gleam of two massive, burning eyes is nearly lost in the flames, only noted by being more gold than red as the world burns.

A massive, skeletal hand /slams/ down upon one of the Horse-headed demons, with some of its knuckles made of human skulls, and others clusters of broken vertebrae.

It is the first warning before a maw of jagged teeth chomps over a demon's head from above, while a chain coils around the neck of another. It is dragged into the smoke, where Kurou plays a brutal symphony of blade meeting flesh.

''MONAD: Kurou Ryouhara has acted with Overkill toward Worst Field Trip Ever! Specialty!''

</poem>
(|============================ Monad - Results =============================|)
-==== Worst Field Trip Ever - Round 2 =======================================-
Shiryuu Ryouhara Proficiency Success
Shinsoku Escape and Efficient Fatigue: 0
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kurou Ryouhara Guts Success
Overkill Specialty Fatigue: 0
-============================ Party Conditions: =============================-
Starting Conditions: Clumsy-2, Educational-1, and Scary-2
Final Conditions: Clumsy-1 and Scary-1
-====================================== Party Result: Success: Reach Up! ====-
-==== Reach: 2/6 |== | ===================================================-
(|=========================================================== Monad 1.1 ====|)
<poem>

''MONAD: Shiryuu Ryouhara has drawn a new Challenge!''

</poem>
(|======================== Monad - Aerospace Museum ========================|)
-==== Round 3: Grab Your Asses! - Challenge Level 2 =========================-
| Approach Options: Charm or Understanding |
| Conditions: Clumsy - Proficiency Down L1, Scary - Guts Down L1, Smooth - |
| Charm Up L1, and Soft - Understanding Up L1 |
-==== Challenge =============================================================-

Entering an exhibit on the events leading up to Westernisation and the
birth of Aviation in Japan after the Meiji Restoration, you find about a
dozen elementary schoolers huddled close to the floor, due to the smoke
already spilling into the room, even before it was opened.

"Are you firefighters?"
"Please get us out of here!"
"I'm scared..."

Some kids are outright crying on the floor, shaking, in little state to even
move, much less to follow your directions in demon infested burning
hallways.

Now is the time to change that. What do you say to them!?

(|=========================================================== Monad 1.1 ====|)
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

The onmitsu contractor's shadow falls over the regrouping shinobi.

"You," he says, to one of the masked men trying to wake the badly burned shinobi, whose shozoku is partially melted, revealing a network of scars. "Finish assembling the Kouhigoki, then get him out to Nahara," he says. Sword still drawn, the young man doesn't seem at all bothered by the raging inferno at his back. Truth told, it doesn't seem to be able to get close to him -- like the whirlwind symbol on the back of his haori, fire seems to wrap around him.

Behind him, there is the cursed snort and death whinny of fire demons, the entire hall shaking as beyond the flame barrier Kurou's arrival is heralded by an entire skeleton demon painting its bleach white bones with horse blood. Shiryuu pays the stomach-churning violence no mind as he sets the black spine of his blade to his shoulder, providing overwatch as the remaining onmitsu assemble the protective statue, a small four-armed praying kami with swords crossed above its head. He turns just as the last demon is drug into black smoke, disappearing squealing into the black. He turns just as another onmitsu comes back from the exhibits up ahead. "Shirogarasu-sama, it's bad...!"

"...."

The next area, though easily banished with smoke, is less manageable than an entire roomful of demons. A katana will not solve an _entire class_ of children. "Is this what that guard was on about...?" Shiryuu wonders, stepping past the scale models. It does seem familiar, doesn't it... "!" A child runs to cling to him, gibbering and snot'ting up his haori.

"Are you firefighters...??"

Illustrate Shiryuu, at a loss. It takes him a long time to sigh. To shake his head slowly. "...we're better than firefighters. I am the invincible Shirogarasu."

He lays a hand on the child's shoulder.

He wills it. The surge in that beat. Excessive, powerful, energetic. They need to get all the children to cooperate, so his subordinates can escort them to the safe point. The scintillating beat is thrilling, heroic. The kind of hallowed beat that played when that robot was on his last shred of battery power chasing down the bad guy trying to make his escape on a speedboat.

"This is my subordinate, the inescapable Kurou. He knows.." pause.
Think.

"...The Skeleton Hero Song."

''MONAD: Shiryuu Ryouhara has acted with Heartless Rave Theory toward Grab Your Asses!! Patra and Find!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

Blade and bone cut and chew. A statue must be assembled, and Kurou's commitment to violence will see that it can be. One he finally finishes with his grim task, Kurou emerges with a flesh splatter of demon's blood over his cheek.

This is surely an /excellent/ fashion statement to be making when encountering a group of terrified children.

Regrettably, Kurou knows little of fashion or its statements, and has forgotten the blood is there to begin with as he cants his head to one side as he witnesses a child cling to Shiryuu.

Firefighters. Hm. Kurou did just get into a fight with fire, didn't he? He glances up, pondering if this counts, before Shiryuu declares himself better than any firefighter. Kurou looks directly at the child, nodding in silence to affirm the truth of these words.

A beat begins to play, and Kurou nods to it, eyes closed. He is the kind of creature easily swayed by such rhythm and drawn into its tempo. It is a song that makes his body want to move with violence and triumph. It is --

/The Skeleton Hero Song/

Kurou stops all micromotion to looks directly at Shiryuu. Several beats pass in this empty stillness, but the rhythm continues as a thrum in Kurou's heart. He has nodded along, and this is where that path has led.

His gaze returns to the children.

And then Kurou begins to... sing(?). It's more of a... murmur.

"Skeleton hero... An undead megaton hero. Follow skeleton hero."

His emotionless voice relies on Shiryuu's beat to carry it, but he does speak with enough intent to his cadence to /maybe/ a little bit /resemble/ a song with its help.

"Skeleton hero... Reduce foes to zero. Whoa whoa skeleton hero..."

''MONAD: Kurou Ryouhara has acted with Shut Up and Nod toward Grab Your Asses!! Amrita!''

</poem>
(|============================ Monad - Results =============================|)
-==== Grab Your Asses! - Round 3 ============================================-
Shiryuu Ryouhara Charm Success
Heartless Rave Theor Patra and Find Fatigue: 0
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kurou Ryouhara Understanding Success
Shut Up and Nod Amrita Fatigue: 0
-============================ Party Conditions: =============================-
Starting Conditions: Clumsy-1, Scary-1, Smooth-2, and Soft-2
Final Conditions: Smooth-1 and Soft-1
-====================================== Party Result: Success: Reach Up! ====-
-==== Reach: 3/6 |=== | ===================================================-
-==== Loot So Far: ==========================================================-
Items: 1, Money: 1, Gear: 0
(|=========================================================== Monad 1.1 ====|)
<poem>

''MONAD: Shiryuu Ryouhara has drawn a new Challenge!''

</poem>
(|======================== Monad - Aerospace Museum ========================|)
-==== Round 4: SCREAM for Ice Cream - Challenge Level 2 =====================-
| Approach Options: Charm or Academics |
| Conditions: Curse - -1 to Group Roll (Per Character), Fairy - Subtract 1 |
| Fatigue on success., Smooth - Charm Up L1, and Soft - Understanding Up L1 |
-==== Challenge =============================================================-

It's only getting worse as more devices are going off, the hallways are
choked with smoke, and the kids are coughing the whole way.

But! Sanctuary! Glorious sanctuary! You see the outline of a doorway which
leads to a certain money-grubbing fairy's shrine.

Entering the spring is an instant relief. The kids breathe easier. You'll
have to move before long, but any reprieve is welcome.

"Hey rugrats! Nothing in life is free, and that includes fresh air!" Trish
crosses her arms, tapping a riding crop, "Since you're exceeding maximum
occupancy, I'll have you know that I'm charging by the minute. I'd put it on
your tab but... ha! You don't have one. Tabs are for deadbeats and losers."

Then, with a grin, the fairy suddenly goes to stand behind a new fixture in
her fountain, covered by a bright red cloth, which she pulls off with a
sudden flourish, to reveal an ICE CREAM COUNTER and brandishes a scoop.

"Also I'd like to introduce you all to the latest addition to my business,
the Trish Refreshment Stand. Who wants Ice Cream? Only 5000 yen per scoop."

"Me!"
"Please! My throat feels like it's on fire!"
"Is she a real fairy!?" "Nah, it's gotta be a costume."

"That's right kiddos." She winks at them, before looking at all of you.
"Just a costume." She makes a gesture of two fingers rubbing against each
other at you. You start to realize, you've been CONNED! She's definitely
price-gouging in the middle of the raging inferno, tugging on your heart
strings and using the kids as props.

Are you really gonna let these kids go without ice cream?

Maybe you can convince her to be reasonable. That's one big maybe.

(|=========================================================== Monad 1.1 ====|)
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Did you think Shiryuu was done?
Hardly.

The pulse-pounding hero beat surging behind Kurou is supported by the Ryouhara shihaisha as he lides both hands out of the drape of his sleeves and slowly raises them, palms up, behind Kurou. An intensely grim look is fixed to his face with the carpenter nails of pure fate.

'Skeleton hero...' *WHOSE CAPE BURNS THE COLOR OF FLAME*
Fire swirls in the air behind Kurou.

'An undead megaton hero.' *THE BAD GUYS FEAR HIS NAME*
Wind churns the smoke and sucks it out the windows, which all break in unison.

'Follow skeleton hero.' *THE COOLEST GUY WITHOUT SHAME*
One of the onmitsu opens a folding fan, trying to beat back the flames.

'Skeleton hero...' *...!! amplified! THE CAPE THAT TAMES!*
Lightning shoots all over the room to electronica trumpets.

By the end of it, there are exactly 12 children absolutely convinced Kurou is the Skeleton Heroranger. A few even insist they've seen him in episodes that only aired when school was on.

"...Let's go," Shiryuu beckons, as the hall falls behind him. The child that has snotted him up has now moved on to the greatest hero who ever lived, Kurou Ryouhara. Luckily they're elementary students. Unfortunately, while Shiryuu and the onmitsu can now successfully move them quickly, this leaves another problem.

There's a fairy. And she's -overcharging-. "Wh --" Kurou, please manage the children while Shiryuu finds the words. "How dare --" Mouth slack and open, the kids are starting to clamor. And all of their hard work is being undone.

"...as shihaisha I -do not sanction your- --" Shiryuu is on the verge of martial aggression until he remembers his company. A viper's cold look at her, and then the boy pulls out his wallet, opening it, trying to count children -- and money -- at the same time.

While bridling mightily. Oh, he has the money.
But it's the principle of the thing. Wait, how many kids were there? Wait, did he count that one twice?? Stop moving! "J--just go on ahead," he tells one of the agents. "Find a point to anchor the next Kouhigoki. Don't get killed."

''MONAD: Shiryuu Ryouhara has acted with Academics toward SCREAM for Ice Cream! Base!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

Even surrounded by fire and lightning, Kurou can always be depended on for his steady consistency: the song continues apace, as Kurou perhaps unfairly earns the awesome respect that comes with being Skeleton Hero.

"Skeleton hero... Whoa whoa impervious strong skull... Femur, patella, fibula, and tibia..." Kurou murmurs to himself as he helps Shiryuu lead the children along. Has he too fallen for the allure of Skeleton Hero...?! Maybe he can ask Umie to borrow the TV so he can catch an episode one day.

These starry eyed plans are rudely interrupted by capitalism.

"Skel - e - ton... he... ro..." Kurou tapers off as he beholds Trish and immediately /reaches for his weapon/. Thankfully, Shiryuu begins to stammer an attempt at conversation, which is enough to clue Kurou into the idea that violence is not the appropriate response.

At least, not yet.

Instead, there are clamoring children to attend to. "... The skeleton warriors demand calcium," Kurou notes as he tries to corral the hungering swarm. "Such a suspiciously precise targeting of a skeleton hero's weakness..."

That is quite suspicious, as all Pixie's are as far as Kurou is concerned.

"Be wary of her schemes," he tells the children as he moves to protect them from the nefarious calcium peddler, which might accidentally get some of the children believing that Trish is one of Skeleton Heroranger's rogues' gallery.

... Whether or not this is /helpful/ is another matter entirely.

''MONAD: Kurou Ryouhara has acted with Academics toward SCREAM for Ice Cream! Base!''

</poem>
(|============================ Monad - Results =============================|)
-==== SCREAM for Ice Cream - Round 4 ========================================-
Shiryuu Ryouhara Academics Success
Academics Base Fatigue: 0
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kurou Ryouhara Academics Success
Academics Base Fatigue: 0
-============================ Party Conditions: =============================-
Starting Conditions: Curse-0, Fairy-0, Smooth-1, and Soft-1
Final Conditions:
-====================================== Party Result: Success: Reach Up! ====-
-==== Reach: 4/6 |==== | ===================================================-
-==== Loot So Far: ==========================================================-
Items: 1, Money: 1, Gear: 0
(|=========================================================== Monad 1.1 ====|)
<poem>

''MONAD: Shiryuu Ryouhara has drawn a new Challenge!''

</poem>
(|======================== Monad - Aerospace Museum ========================|)
-==== Round 5: Déjà View - Challenge Level 1 ================================-
| Approach Options: Guts or Understanding |
| Conditions: Hard - Understanding Down L1 and Heartening - Guts Up L1 |
-==== Challenge =============================================================-

You rush into one of the hanging displays in the Aerospace Museum. A
life-sized model airplane hangs from the ceiling over an open floor plan. A
portion of the floor acts as a walkway that leads right up to it. There's no
reason to approach it, given that the place is actively on fire and you
still have a ways to go before you reach the roof.

But... you could swear--some of you--that you hear a young girl screaming
for help from over where the model airplane is. No matter how much you look,
though, there's no one there. Eerie.

Not everyone will hear. Just those who might be getting reminded of a past
that never was, if they were a part of it. Those who wouldn't are simply met
with another empty room.

Whether you hear or not, do you move on, or do you double down? Tick tock...

(|=========================================================== Monad 1.1 ====|)
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"There's no reputable creamery that charges that much!"
"Take it or leave it, gramps~ <3"
"Gramps?? Is a tanuki covering your eyes as well??"
"It's the rule of supply and demand! I have all the supply, and you have all the demand! Besides, don't think I don't know all about you, so stop acting like you can't afford it, McDuck!"
"IIih! You're even worse than 'her'!!"

Thus is the story of how Shiryuu was robbed blind to avoid having to crush a fairy in front of the children. Luckily, the children are all but carrying Kurou as a conquering hero who will DEFINITELY defeat Trish after his smelly, inept cousin Shootryoo (Shiryuu: "_what_ I do not!") inevitably gets kidnapped by her. A few of the rowdy boys are even cheering for a fight. They want to see Kurou use his Skeleton Beam (one of the kids is insisting he has a hidden arm cannon) badly.

"Alright, that's enough," Shiryuu hisses through his teeth, vexed as he counts off the last of his yen to Trish. "There'd better not be a single scoop missing, or I'm coming back and annexing your fountain." "Right right, whatever. GUESS WHAT KIDS~~" "yay! Way to go, Kurou!"

Shiryuu ...frowns, taking his sword's hilt back out of the crook of his elbow into his hand.
This is what happens when the kids are no longer afraid of immediately dying.

Luckily, the logistics of the matter get easier, as several of the children are shuttled off by their ninja to the prior extraction point, which reduces their crowd to something manageable of the moment, as another explosion rocks the museum. It's left mostly of rowdy die-hard Heroranger boys pair-bonded with their best friends. At least one of them is carrying his sister on his shoulders. What a trooper.

The forward scout returns in the display section.
"Some of the others are saying there might be other people trapped up ... but there's more children up ahead. They're saying they may not make it in time, they had to ..."

"Aa," Shiryuu confirms, absently looking up at a specific exact one of the hanging displays, his eyes narrowing until his left eye is just a thin sliver of shining blue.

"...Kurou."

''MONAD: Shiryuu Ryouhara has acted with Understanding toward Déjà View! Base!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

Kurou squints at Trish. Watching. Waiting. Wondering where she even got all of this ice cream, and if it will vanish in the stomachs of the needy children. He does not like this pixie. He does not like her at all...

"Kidnapping?" he asks, a slight bit more weight to his voice. His stare at Trish grows more intense. So her crimes are this severe, are they...?

At the mention of Skeleton Beam, Kurou sets his hand on the child's head. "Skeleton Beams would endanger the integrity of the building further. We must hurry." Beams. Plural. Well... it's true Kurou does not use Kotsuzui Shikaeshi by halves.

Somehow Kurou gets credit for Shiryuu's ice cream acquisition, and before his mouth can catch up to his thoughts, they are moving on. He cannot deny some relief when the children are put in other ninja hands who are, undoubtedly, more capable than them. He does send them off by way of, "Be safe, skeleton warriors," to let them know they are honorary Skeleton Herorangers, at least.

Kurou has his own childish sincerity, in his own way.

But to hear of other children up ahead, Kurou looks to Shiryuu, expecting a swift answer. His eyes follow his shihaisha's absent gaze toward the hanging display. With his own eagerness to act, he hears his name called and interprets it as a call to action.

Recognizing no one there in need of saving, he leaps to the offending model plane, cuts it down, and without stopping, already moves past to continue toward where the children are reportedly still trapped. This does, at least, prevent it from falling at a less opportunity time later from fire damage, perhaps. Otherwise, it would look like needless destruction along the way.

''MONAD: Kurou Ryouhara has acted with Overkill toward Déjà View! Specialty!''

</poem>
(|============================ Monad - Results =============================|)
-==== Déjà View - Round 5 ===================================================-
Shiryuu Ryouhara Understanding Success
Understanding Base Fatigue: 0
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Kurou Ryouhara Guts Success
Overkill Specialty Fatigue: 0
-============================ Party Conditions: =============================-
Starting Conditions: Hard-2 and Heartening-2
Final Conditions: Hard-1 and Heartening-1
-====================================== Party Result: Success: Reach Up! ====-
-==== Reach: 6/6 |=====| ===================================================-
-==== Loot So Far: ==========================================================-
Items: 1, Money: 1, Gear: 0
(|=========================================================== Monad 1.1 ====|)
<poem>

''MONAD: Shiryuu Ryouhara has drawn a new Challenge!''

</poem>
(|======================== Monad - Aerospace Museum ========================|)
-==== Round 6: A Page from an Old Script - Challenge Level 1 ================-
| Approach Options: None |
| Conditions: Revelation - The best result. |
-==== Challenge =============================================================-

You burst out of the third floor's entrance, where the Zero hangs from the
ceiling; the entire ground floor is up in flames now.

Some of you may get a sense you've seen this before. A sudden fear that
someone might fall into the blaze. But when you search, no one is here.

As soon as you make it to the next floor, you feel it.

Sound effect: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RARotEaobh0

The world shifts into a monochromatic hue, and nausea churns in your gut. A
familiar presence awaits you on the rooftop.

You feel as if you're repeating the same actions. Reading from the same
script. That's impossible.

You know he's there. Steeling your resolve, you head up to the roof.

OOC Note: If you got this card, you'll start the next battle with the
Prophecy buff.

Final Loot: 1 Item and 1 boxes of Money!
(|=========================================================== Monad 1.1 ====|)
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Several of the children are in slack-jawed awe at Kurou right before they are ushered of. BEAMS? PLURAL? How many arm cannons does he have? "Whoah," Kentaro says, right before he's shuttled off by an onmitsu. "So cool..."

Powerful enough to destroy the whole building?! Powered Up Jiro is completely freaking out right now! He too, is taken. With his ice cream. Shiryuu is transparently pleased. By now, his shinobi are starting to regroup.

But his attention was drug to a particular plane, hanging up there. In a particular...

'Kurou.'

Shinobi don't oft have need for clearly labelled paths, and the younger Ryouhara takes down the plane with a single, mighty jump and expert precision. A single word, and the whole thing crashes down at Shiryuu's feet. The impact causes him to take a step back.

And ... it's empty?

"...." Shiryuu stares at the crumpled plane for a long time.
It's almost like he didn't know what to expect at all, or if he even should have expected anything different. It's not like he's been here before.

No... that's not the feeling at all. Right?

.... "excellent work," he tells Kurou, before turning away. "Let's move on."

It's only when they ascend the rest of the stairs to the next floor that that bizarre, flanged sound catches on every sense Shiryuu has. It causes the boy to stop in his tracks, his sword lowering as he raises his left hand to his temple. The air flickers, as the color bleeds out of it. That sensation is familiar to everyone -- and the flames are beginning to consume the entire building.

".... my eye is starting to hunger," Shiryuu breathes, attempting to gain his composure. His left eye -- Kyotosaigan -- is indeed shining brightly absent his attention. He forces steel into his back as he straightens, on the periphery of the mad realm. He turns slowly towards Kurou and towards the gathered onmitsu, the latter of whom are repelled by the very nature of the space.

"Fall back a half measure, and set up the last Kouhigoki near the structural supports. From there, make sure all of the prior groups have been extracted. Recover all abandoned equipment and accessories. From this moment, you have four minutes."

He'll stay here.
Until it all comes crashing down, if need be.

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

If there are consequences to inspiring the wild imaginations of children in Sumeru City, Kurou does not know yet to fathom what they are. His focus is far more singular than such concerns. For one, the plane.

It is an offense, one way or another. This Side or That Side, in this moment or another.

So it is gone, and holds neither friend nor foe within its shell.

He gives a single nod to Shiryuu and hurries onward.

But even Kurou's stoicism wavers as his vision is robbed of color and his gut finds a new way to twist even in the familiarity of the sensation's utter wrongness. His fingers twitch at his scarf, breath leaving him in a slow exhale that must pass through his teeth.

"... Shirogarasu?" Kurou nearly questions in a quiet breath, but does not press on the matter of the eye. Surely he does not intend to --

He does.

Kurou's response is not quite so quick to relent, but inevitably, he does. "... It will be done." For the Kouhigoki is a critical task itself, and he will see the onmitsu protected from demons as it is done.

Silently, he resolves to rendezvous to 'report' once it is done. He cannot leave Shiryuu to face a burning building alone a second time.

</poem>

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2026-04-05: A Cup for Two

2026-04-14T07:15:18Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Log: A Cup for Two''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara, Umie Akabane *'''Where:''' Hotel Indigo Rooftop, Shibuya *'''OOC Date:''' 2026-04-05 *'''IC Date:''' Oct 20 2012 *'''Summary''': ''After an idyllic meeting with Kurou, Ren and Umie, Ryouhara returns more properly to his empty room at the Indigo. Later that night he meets the latter at the rooftop cafe atop the hotel, to answer for acts far less warmly resolved.'' ---- <poem> '''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryo..."

*'''Log: A Cup for Two'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], [[Umie Akabane]]
*'''Where:''' Hotel Indigo Rooftop, Shibuya
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-04-05
*'''IC Date:''' Oct 20 2012
*'''Summary''': ''After an idyllic meeting with Kurou, Ren and Umie, Ryouhara returns more properly to his empty room at the Indigo. Later that night he meets the latter at the rooftop cafe atop the hotel, to answer for acts far less warmly resolved.''

----

<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

The Hotel Indigo isn't particularly far from her apartment, just on the other side of the crossing. It seems almost obvious that the proximity is the point, a closer space to monitor Kurou's comings and goings, even if not Umie's directly. So it makes a fair bit of sense that Shiryuu would choose it for a meeting.

She said she needed to figure things out with him..

Unlike a lot of other places in the Shibuya skyline, the Indigo actually has an upscale rooftop terrace area named for the art gallery the building hosts on its eleventh floor, so there is very little lockpicking required this time to gain rooftop access. Just someone asking to see if she's on the reservation list. Interestingly, she is.

The elegant tumble of torches, lanterns, patio furniture and gazebos forms a sprawling thicket over the carpeted terrace in the evening. The sun is just now beneath the horizon, leaving pinkish traces and the dull moon in a fattening crescent, a giant smoky scythe shape hung just over the cityscape itself, poised to shortly follow the sunset as well. The air is still damp and crisp from the rain earlier, and if one strained their ears, they could still hear echoing patters from the condensation of buildings dripping into alleyways far below.

The onmitsu is not sitting with any of the other scattered socialites in the middle of the terrace proper. He's managed to get over one of the glass barriers in an out of the way section of the roof, just past a little copse of cultivated potted juniper trees. Hardly immediately visible, which is likely why nobody's asked him to come down yet.

That, and he is known as a very generous guest who likes to be left to his own devices.

The fall chill is inspiring, despite the air distortion cast by the outdoor heaters and torches for lighting. The boy has changed out his haori for a full black and blue color-blocked jacket, thick and layered with an overbuilt collar likely doubling as an attachment point for a zip-on hood. Somewhat predictably, it is blazoned with the three leaves symbol in a tiny stamp in the middle of the shoulderblades.

The boy's sitting there on the edge, watching the horizon in silence. At his knees, fingertips tap together pensively.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

"Ah, reservation... Umie Akabane."

At the question of whether Umie has a reservation, Umie barely gets to think of some explanation/white lie before she is told that she's already on the list.

.... Oh. Well. That makes things easier.

Walking out into the brisk fall chill, Umie's thankful for the outdoor heaters, which reduce the colder temperature from the higher altitude to being on par with what it'd be closer to the ground.

It's the sky that draws Umie's consideration the most, however, once she tears her eyes away from the glitter of socialites.

Now, where would an onmitsu be?

.... somewhere else, most likely. If limited to this roof, he must be... over there, past those glass barriers.

Her senses confirm it, sensing that familiar resonance of his, a rhythm like a heartbeat in one's ears, easily ignored until someone looks for it.

Even without the use of her Persona, there's a way to become ignored; one merely needs to seem like they belong there, and past that, not gawk at the sky like it's your first time up here. Be ignorable. Be a blackbird.

Soon enough, with a bit of waiting, she's on the other side, quietly leaving the warmth of the heaters to Shiryuu, there on the edge. "Hey," she says, kneeling down into a crossed leg position near him.

As much as she'd skip through the night from certain heights, she needs the embrace of the Badb to even feel like it was worth the risk.

"Did I keep you waiting?"

Her coat is pink, her usual grey too light, and a burnt mess besides. As it is, even this temporary replacement feels too thin, against the chill up here.

But the view makes it worth some chill alone.

"It's a beautiful sight," she says, keeping her volume low.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Tap tap tap. The boy's hands never seem to sit quite still. Subconsciously, the tapping rhythm matches that subconscious beat in his energy, the thing all but invisible to the spiritually insensate. It is a feat that she can pick up on it all -- shinobi are not well known for easily detectable resonance.

Ah, but she is so very familiar with his, and his reaches so far for her. The onmitsu's resonance has always been slightly more magnified than most shinobi, moreso lately than usual.

But above a whisper is still sotto voce, and so he's not entirely surprised for her to find him. To the contrary, the grey-haired boy's expression changes when he sees her, the silent song of his darkened mien lifting in tenor by a key.

Fingertips stop, for a second, two.

'It's a beautiful sight.' "It is," Shiryuu agrees distantly, looking at her directly for a long, mystified second, before a spate of self-awareness rises, and the boy is forced to look away again.

He blinks twice, as if just now becoming aware of the skyline he's been staring at for the past hour.

"....iih. You didn't keep me waiting," Ryouhara says quietly, the space between his fingertips opening like a gate to all available thought. Hands hover there in space, a moment, as he looks, again. Just a quick glance, this time.

He doesn't know if her jacket is thick enough for the weather right now. But the boy luckily manages to keep his concerns to a dull roar inside of his own head for the moment. It's taken out on his fingertips, wide open palms tapping together again.

He breathes out. "...but.."

That resonance dims, ever slightly.

"... a bird's told me that we have things to figure out."
For good or ill, he wants to add.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

Being a veteran brings certain perks, when it comes to looking, and sensing other resonances. There are people who already dwarf her in terms of ability, but for Umie, with experience comes the honed ability to sometimes pick up on the more subtle beats.

Especially when she's fallen asleep being aware of them, and finding comfort in them.

He agrees, that it's a beautiful sight.... while looking at her, for a long, dazed second.

On another person, Umie would find it frustrating. On him, it's charming. Adorable, one could say.

Her mouth snakes in a sideways smirk. "... The sunset."

It's hard to believe, in these moments, that this could be the same person that kidnapped a Phantom Thief. However, she knows better.

"Mmn, a bird certainly did," Umie says, her expression caught between a pixie's smile and a frown.

One never forgets their first, as Shiryuu once said to her, upon a time.

The first person she's ever fought with a Persona, and the first person she's ever seriously felt so strongly about.

"I talked with Phoenix-san, finally," she says, "I needed to understand what was going on, especially as..."

No, don't talk about people questioning you, Umie thinks.

"I finally understand the reasoning, though likely not the parts you'd likely want me to," she admits. "A Phantom Thief would be able to slip away quite easily. Assuming this was a supernatural area, since Ryouhara-kun and the Phantom Thieves were able to summon their Personas... you'd had to mentally exhaust someone, in order to keep them from summoning their Persona straight away."

She looks over the sunset.

"You charged them with a heavy task, one I won't speak of freely here. You gave them a jade locket, and after five songs are done, you'd kill everyone they loved, as well as them."

She breathes in a sigh. "Do you understand... how this would likely end up with the Phantom Thieves being destroyed. They'll take Phoenix-san's burden as all their own. It's the only way that group can survive, cut off as they are. Their hidden identities is their strength, but it's also very easily going to cause them to fall if they misstep."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

It feels like an eternity ago, those scant months between then and now.

Shiryuu's open concern about her comforts are mercifully wrangled for now, and the way she specifies exactly what it is she's talking about is enough to break his concentration of any other lingering distractions.

"....ah," the boy replies, somewhat awkwardly, his mouth partly open as he considers the barren landscape of his own thought.

Truthfully, it's more her than him that builds his mindspace. Patiently, a brick at a time, as the little crow tells the grey-headed boy everything that she's found out. A tiny, the smallest quirk of pensive distress reaches his lip, somewhere between a genuine sadness, and an acid annoyance.

"... you shouldn't be involved," he remarks.
It's not a stain that should be on her hands.
And he does notice when she fails to bring up a complication. He looks at her very closely, during that moment. It's only when he can produce nothing of use for his perspicacity that he relents, slow.

"To wear the mask of a shinobi ... is to be subject to the rules of the world of night."

Slowly, the grey-haired boy's admission causes him to interlace his fingertips. Gone is the nervous energy, the anxiety. It's dulled, numbed, by something in the back of his throat. There is steel in his voice, but somewhere beyond that..

"...It's not a place where a person can get away with half-measures," he continues. "It is a cruel world, a brutal world. A world that doesn't obey laws or limits."

He looks up, to the far distance, tracking her line of attention.

"...In that occult night, outside those protective moors of order, the shape of a thief and a killer are the same. There, ambition will easily doom you. There is no disguise you can clutch. No curse you can shout, that will keep you safe. These ideas are only pretty 'maboroshi,' waiting for the sunset."

It hurts, to hear her repeat it. Which is why he listens closely. The crime is his, and he assumes it as needed. There is no point to regretting anything for what is already done. For once, the interminable colorlessness is a benefit.

"I'm not a 'good' person. There is no limit to what I will do to protect those whom I'm responsible for. These children fight, and they rile against the natural order. But they will learn to protect their own with the same resolve, so that they never have to..."

...The boy blinks.

"...I will bring them all under my protection, in the end," he decides.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

It may be difficult, for Shiryuu, to fully forget his earlier assessment of Umie's coat, as time goes by.

Namely, because of how closer she keeps getting as the minutes tick by, like an oncoming cold front slowly inching across a radar screen, not even conscious of how she's drawing closer the the nearest source of heat here.

He still has time to escape, at this point, but not for long...

'You shouldn't be involved.' Therein lies where Umie can see where that belief occurs: when someone works alone, it'd be natural to expect that all costs would begin and end with one's self.

It's how she's operated, in the dark, with only demons knowing what she did, night by night.

A lonely existence, that exists without bonds.

Shiryuu can no longer afford to pretend he exists outside of them, if he wants that connection to the world, and... neither does she.

"Phoenix-san... is not someone who sees things in shades of grey. They're liable to see enemies in everyone. They may tear everything down around them in order to appease that paranoia." Like that nurse, at the Sanitarium. Phoenix didn't see someone who was stuck, defenseless, likely doing the best they could. Maybe, they were as terrible as Phoenix thought. There was no way of knowing, and that's why, as someone who existed in the grey, Umie stepped in, her own manner of looking at things causing both parties to find her the one that was wrong. Maybe, that nurse was as terrible as Phoenix thought.

No wonder Phoenix and Tsubasa are friends; they likely find peace in each other like she and Shiryuu do, in their own similarities.

"Shiryuu." She's an inch closer than she was before, drawn to Shiryuu's warmth like an oblivious moth to one of the torches set up several feet away.

"... What about those, who had something taken from them, because they were seen?"

She's not sure how to make it make sense, as she finds herself turning the topic to herself, selfishly.

"On the zeppelin, the Black Mask was there. He was the one to make sure the Old Maid was dead and gone. I even have a fragment of the weird bullet he used. He could have killed Sudou cleanly, but he didn't. He wanted everyone to know it was him, and how everyone was in danger, from him specifically. Them, and their loved ones."

She holds her knees to her chest. "The only people he couldn't threaten were the Mask-sans. He could only threaten them directly."

Wait.

She looks at Shiryuu. ".... You... wouldn't know either, would you? Who to target."

Red-brown eyes, so close now that Shiryuu can see how they're tinted by the sunset, blink.

Is this... just a ploy? "Phoenix-san is taking you seriously... just what are you aiming for, Shiryuu?"

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"Paranoia..." Ryouhara echoes, somewhere in the midst of a thought.

"Mmm."

The sound is short, sharp, unsurprised. There's no doubt that Shiryuu picks up on the subtleties of it, the connection between 'bonds' and a price that falls outside where it should for the crime of 'what must be done.'

He breathes out, sword-long and slow, his eyes down over the precipice, and into the chasmal void and the pretty end below. Every so often, his eyes flick, beneath the veiling shroud of his hair. His attention dances, from the streets below to the boundary of the little ledge they've absconded to. There would be a 'guilt' about him, but the struggle in the boy is less that, and more the sharp eyes and intense thought of being presented a problem. Thought occurs like distant cracks of lightning over the city, the impulse driving him.

"The idea of paranoia is 'maboroshi,'" he finally says.

"The idea of an objective, incontrovertible black and white, 'maboroshi.'"

"The idea that one could know everything against them, that if they persecute endlessly, that they'll keep a safe life ... 'maboroshi.'"

The boy raises a hand, pushing a whole handful of dingy grey back over his hairline wearily. It never quite lasts, but it eases his own pensive nerves. Now more than it has recently, though he's hardly aware of the reason why just yet, so tied up in his thought. "Pretty, fanciful dreams, all of it. Entertaining those fantasies, for a young X charged with our future, will simply get them killed. If they're lucky, it will be them. If not... it will be someone else. They're doomed, the moment they run up against something ... someone, real."

"....like the Black Mask."

Shiryuu is passingly familiar with the name, and the dark message he sent did not escape his notice, when she tells him exactly how much of a threat was posed. That she admits to having a fragment of the bullet is only the beginning of his sudden shift to an alert mien, the idle verveless pitch of his spine replaced with a discomfited straightening.

The boy presses his hands into the knees of his pants, as if trying to evict the other feeling, the burning notion of 'the Old Maid is dead' scalding something very deep.

"....be careful of that fragment," he says instead of anything else, pressing the feeling at the back of his throat down and away. "They're not safe to handle for long periods, my shokunin tell me."

'...You wouldn't know either, would you? Who to target.'

"...that's n--" He almost disabuses her of the notion. But it's at that exact moment, looking into her reddish eyes, that he realizes exactly how close she is. The boy's own eyes widen in faint alarm. When did...?

Her eyes almost gild with gold in this light, he notices.

"....mnnh."

Two-tone eyes shutter, half-lidding. The boy starts with a smooth touch along the pink of her jacket absently, thoughtless instinct to interrogate the make, the depth of it. A wandering touch, the same as his thought, minding her lapels, the closures. A tiny, small tug at the neckline, to touch bared skin with the back of his fingers. A thought, before the boy leans over.

"...are you _freezing,_ Akabane?"

It's something that would be confused for a kiss -- were it not that he's done the very same before. Instead of affection, the boy presses his lips unbidden against her collarline, letting the intimate warmth of him -- intense warmth -- settle, as he feels the temperature of her skin against his.

'Just what are you aiming for?'

"...synthesis," he explains against her, returning to his prior thought.
As if it explained anything. It does not.

Absolutely not, the boy decides. Ryouhara worms himself out of his massive jacket, a shoulder at a time. "..ih--" as the air hits him, fended off only by his extraordinarily dense and omnipresent sweater.

This he drops on her shoulders unceremoniously. The jacket is *heavy*. It's almost assuredly has a bunch of things in the pockets. "I'll be merciless, ruthless, a terrible oni, if needed," he thinks, hands setting onto Akabane's shoulders, making sure his jacket sits just right.

"...but I will break those maboroshi, and show every last one of them what it means to protect something important."

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

"... How is that any different than someone like me, so does similar things?" Umie quietly debates. "Phoenix-san likely only Awakened recently; that, or they've been hiding like I've been." She glances out towards the landscape of skyscrapers. "Not everyone is like me, or you. I have the advantage of experience, and... my parents weren't... extremely rich, but they're more well-off than many." Thanks to their connections through the NWO, anyway.

The setting sun produces harsh angles in the lines of Umie's face, as she lightly scowls at the thought.

All the better to avoid looking at Shiryuu herself, and the way his face is lit, his grey hair taking on muted tones of sunset. The way his eyes focus on the buildings below, like a hawk, deep in thought.

Umie's bias is implicit in the way she treats Shiryuu, versus someone like Hyousuke. Their thinking can fall along the same black and white, of 'right' and 'wrong', though Shiryuu's framing is very different.

Shiryuu, however, is not spared the fury of Umie's supposition; in fact, he may even recieve the worst of it, being that Umie feels no need to draw back her punches.

Shiryuu has made it clear, after all, that he could take it. This, too, is what it means to have a 'bond': a way to be shown the world, and those connections that come with it.

"Wouldn't the legacies of families like yours have started out as something classified the same way? As fanciful dreams, up until the people behind them proved they weren't."

.... Could that be Shiryuu's point, Umie wonders? If so, he's woefully behind on considering just how such tests can go far, far off. "Someone like Phoenix-san will not learn this way. You're assuming they'll draw the same conclusions as you, or even me, or fail by the same measures you'd judge yourself by."

Like the Black Mask, a challenge Shiryuu himself seemed uncomfortable with, when she brought up the fragment. Umie's expression flattens; she brings up an index finger, playfully wagging a pink-orange nail in Shiryuu's direction with a wink. "Tsk tsk. By your logic, it would behoove me to investigate. To believe that something so dangerous could be ignored? Ma-bo-ro-shi~" (.... by her logic, as well, but Umie's not about to share that.)

She's about to take out her fragment when she feels the touch of Shiryuu's fingers against her jacket. "... Ah?" She stops, one end of her lips quirking in a smile. "Cold? Oh, I'll be fine, I'm just..." Her words still as he leans in, as if going for a kiss.

... for what Umie *hoped* was a kiss.

It's like revenge, for all the times she's made him go mute, or worse, made him unable to think at all. His lips are right there, on the exposed skin of her collarbone, and Umie just stops there, still shocked at the tickle of grey hair against her chin, and the feel of lips against the rise of her collarbone. It's new, but furiously welcomed; her hand could, at any point slap him away, but no urge comes to Umie to do anything other than bring her fingers to make a stupefied trail against the back of Shiryuu's head.

"Sh.... S...." It could sound like Umie is freezing, from the way she's trying to say his name. He feels as warm as she had subconsciously hoped, as she positioned herself closer and closer to him.

Her eyes flutter closed. She fails at doing anything more, more dazed than he's likely seen her, when he backs away.

"S-urely you're going to get cold!" she then interjects back, when he pulls away from her, taking off his jacket.

*whup* Shiryuu's own jacket hangs heavy around her shoulders.

A merciless, terrible oni... who worries over things like coats and how prepared for the cold she is.

What was he saying, when he spoke against her?

.... Synthesis. Right...

"Not everything has to exist in the day or night," Umie says, with some humor, as she tries to regain her control. Her eyes are cast aside, her cheeks, still red. "Somethings can only exist in the inbetween. I also refused to align myself to your rules."

Her point would be better, if she wasn't lost in Shiryuu's jacket.

"Am I not also maboroshi...?"

She pauses. "Get close to me at the very least!" Like a hen waiting for a much larger chick to join her under her wing, Umie holds up the side of the jacket closest to him. "Come on!"

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Now, what kind of oni would Ryouhara be, if he were to do something devillish like 'kiss Akabane to win an argument?' Of course he wouldn't do anything that untoward or dishonorable.

Jogashima Park doesn't count.

"Mmm," he thinks, far too close to her. Even if he enjoys her touch along the back of his head, the grey-haired boy is listening, truthfully. In fact, Shiryuu is (comparably) much less interested in the kiss, or exactly where he might be kissing than the regrettable abdication of her jacket's responsibilities. A jacket is supposed to keep you warm, and clearly, it's not doing well for her. As someone who he would call his 'bond,' it's not acceptable. 'Absolutely not,' in other words.

'Surely you're going to get too cold!' Not relevant.

Shiryuu's jacket, like literally everything he wears, is much heavier, and intensely warm. It also, paradoxically, breathes well. It is, in fact, the latest technology.

Once his jacket is gifted, once his hands lift from her shoulders, the onmitsu does lean back, giving her just a bit of room to breathe, to further oppose him if need be. It's not like the point is lost on him; that the differences in their upbringing make very, very different people. That her well to-do bearing and his own ... exemplary, peerless and without weakness ... life meant that they came to certain conclusions on their own that no one else would.

A person's belief is molded by their preconceptions. And those observations and preconceptions are what their world is built on. Mmm. The boy's lips part with his sigh, setting his hands against his knees and straightening his elbows.

He finds himself thinking instead about the way Akabane wagged his finger at him just then, the gesture far too close for his comfort. The color of her nails, the way her lips quirked around his word, 'maboroshi.'

...it really is cold, isn't it?

His eyes closed, grimly satisfied that she's taken care of for now. "It is the responsibility of the strong to care for those who will inherit the future. If we are really so much better off, it is up to us to show them the way. They deserve the chance to make the choice for themselves, with full understanding, before the world ..."

The boy's eyes are hard and faraway, as he struggles with the idea inside of his own head. She's seen him do this before; when too many thoughts are rattling around in his head at once.

"...it can't be left to just chance," the boy says, determined. "Even for what it means I have to be, it just can't," he repeats. It's almost more to himself than anything.

He tangles up in his own thoughts. As a result, he is completely and mercifully unaware of the flush of her cheeks and her entire loss for words. It's a miserable situation, to not be paying attention at all when you have the upper hand on your rival. It's only until he hears the crack of his own jacket being raised like some grand wing that his attention is drug away.

"...." He sighs, any hopes of holding his train of thought entirely defeated.

She said that some things can be between night and day, but...

With an aloof, imperious discretion, the grey-haired boy relents, lifting his hips just enough to slide across the ledge to hers, until a tiny -bump- erases any pretense of there being space between them. The difference in their height becomes painfully obvious, this close, as the boy has to become very, very small to fit under the same jacket as her. One arm loops with hers, wrist to wrist, a quiet, spartan ask for a hand to thoughtfully entwine his with. "I don't know.."

".. you don't _feel_ like 'maboroshi,'" the shihaisha thinks aloud.

The moment turns on its own. Shiryuu is left to mull on what's been said, and the mild humor caught in his voice does decant the stress, the tension, most of the thoughts rolling around in his head, the boy's alert visibly easing as he relaxes around her. He blinks. The moment wants to last forever.

"... this is a very inefficient use of my jacket, Akabane."
It doesn't.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

Jogashima Park absolutely counts, Umie would say. (And it was great and she'd occasionally find herself daydreaming about it. She'd love for it to happen again.)

And it's not like Umie hasn't enjoyed her own methods of distraction when it came to Shiryuu. She deployed a few, just now. Was it intentional, or just idle flirting?
.... Was Shiryuu kissing her on the collarbone, or checking her temperature?

It is something to note in how, Umie, so used to being the one who came from a well-to-do background (at least, for the last half of her life), still pales in comparison to Shiryuu. She still had an allowance, and things weren't to be frivolously wasted just because.

There were no luxurious hotels with high rises, for one; her parents were far too married to their work to think of things like 'family vacations' once Umie was older. So much of the oxygen that would go towards what seemed like a normal family life felt siphoned entirely to the Order and its grander, photogenic whims, and the pursuit of betterment.

Even a simple jacket feels like something so much more lavish than the coats she had, well over a year ago. Something nicely made, rather than just priced because of fashion or taste.... hardly the thing Umie would ever consider wearing so openly.

"... Who gave us that right, to decide for others what the right way is?" Umie says, her eyes looking away from Shiryuu's own, before she's tempted to look longer, at how his face follows that familiar manner of his, caught deep in thought, hovering on a tightrope over uncertainty and chaos.

She reaches out, to brush a hand over his cheek, studying the play of shadows her fingers draw across it.

.... She was going to say something, but her voice lies still, her thoughts aligning with the arc of her thumb against his jaw.

So much of this is simple infatuation; the lure of something new and just forbidden enough to draw out the blackbird in her soul. Danger, but also, a person who dances on the same fields as her, who understands what it means to think and ponder the same thoughts and questions, whether or not he draws different conclusions.

His cheek feels cool. No, this will not do, thinks Umie Akabane. Absolutely not.

She urges Shiryuu underneath his own coat, and only thinks about how it feels to be sharing the same jacket as him when the sides of their bodies touch.

It is absolutely ridiculous, and Shiryuu may definitely spot the way her face is trying to look downward, in order to hide that selfish little gremlin grin, that greedy glint in her eyes as she soaks in that closeness.

'You don't _feel_ like 'maboroshi',' he says. Umie cranes her head up towards him, lips curving in a mischievous smile as she leans a touch closer, her fingers entwining around his.

"Then what am I?" She has a few ideas on what his answers will be, as she playfully tests his limits.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Inexorably, the soft lines of the silhouettes between them eclipse, despite all reservations of the shirogarasu to the contrary. Certainly, there's a part of him that mulls over the safety and practicality of it. There is a lump that is almost assuredly a sheathed knife in his leftmost inner pocket. Another suspicious hard spot that feels entirely too much like an incendiary device. Mm. Perhaps he should have considered that.

It seems less important now. Most of Shiryuu's attention is lost to thoughts of her, all but swallowed up in the drape of his coat -- large for him, and likely all but a cloak for the grinning blackbird. Between the two of them there is enough room, but only just so, and only just so for the boy's taste in oversized clothing.

Almost like he leaves just enough room for someone else.

"--! ...ihh..."

There is much lost in the delineations between 'what he thinks' and 'the words he says.' For all of the talent that exists between them, they are still handicapped by a lack of synchronicity, he is painfully aware. The little awkward moments, the tiny bits of indiscretion, when it shamefully takes him a second to even remember what it was that was so important.

His skin was cool to the touch then, even with the way he almost fell off the building in raw escape instinct in reaction. It takes him a long time and a lot of self-recrimination before he can relax in that way. Before he can share that space with her honestly.

What was it he was saying? A stronger person would be better at this.

"... it's not a right," Shiryuu finds the words, quietly.
"If fate finds it in her heart to gift you something, it is not without a cost. You're obligated not to waste it. Not even for a second."

He spent far too long idle, is the unspoken thought.

It's shameful, how long it takes him to slide his fingers between hers, the sure, and easy way she claims him as hers not at all reciprocated in the smooth, silken way he'd like. Ryouhara is painfully aware of every second, the hidden softness of that wild creature, and the feel of her hand wound up in his. The way he relaxes with her is almost a fought instinct, little electric charges of tension winding him up for every small concession.

'Then.. what am I?'

She looks up at him, with that easy blackbird smile of hers, and the young man does his best with being brave, with being calm. As if nothing cost anything.

Perhaps, if he holds onto her hand with both of his, he can hold that second tight. His forehead lowers to meet hers, the cool press of skin to skin, three different shades of brown mixing in the way he looks at her. First down along the contour of her lips, then up, to meet her eyes. Grey hair feathers into blonde in the proximity.

She can tell which of his irises is fake, the slightly lighter shade, the normally indistinguishable wire buried in the striations, in the whites. He is close enough for her to track every saccade, and the neutral, firm press of his lips, the way they break into a flicker of a smile, watery and brief. An infatuation, distracted and awkward.

He wants to kiss her. Arguably, he already has. But .. the tumble of thought means he takes Akabane's question entirely too seriously.

"... you're someone who is going to be important to the entire world," he says, after a thought plucks away every other middling answer.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

To her credit, when Shiryuu reacts, Umie's first instinct isn't to poke fun or roll her eyes at him. Her eyes soften, and she holds her hand in place, giving Shiryuu a chance to move away, or get used to her touch. "Sometimes I forget." Just how much touch can draw a different reaction from him, if she acts without remembering his own comfort. "... Just how quick you are."

... It's a dressed up way of saying 'she's sorry she almost made you fall off a building'.

"... Then... it's your duty to see if your methods are hampering your message." She can't argue Shiryuu out of this, nor does she find it her duty to plunge into the same depths of black and white. Her loyalty is sound to those she gives it to, sometimes to a fault, but how she expresses it is another matter. Phoenix *does* need to understand how their actions affect others, especially when the key to the Phantom Thieves' downfall could be any weak link. She disagrees with Shiryuu's methods, however, and feels the bonds Pheonix has with the Phantom Thieves is a stronger teacher.

Unless... "... You want to be their enemy," Umie summarizes, using a few words to convey what Shiryuu had spent many to communicate to her. (Who is meant by 'they' is.... another matter.)

"I will warn you-- my disagreement with your methods may mean we'll fight, in the future. I've made it clear to Kurou that it's okay if this happens, and that he's to fight me like he did the Phantom Thieves."

There it is: Shiryuu's own private little blackbird's smile, cutting and sweet, like a citrus fruit biting against the tongue. "And if that day comes, I'll fight you." A promise, that Umie is certain Shiryuu'd want to hear.

What is she?

.... If Umie wasn't enjoying the closeness of their foreheads together, the way she can clearly see which eye of his is which, and the strands of hair haphazardly pressed together... She would have had trouble forming a thought between the startling grandness of his words, and the secret, selfish glee, not to mention the curiosity in just how he means it.

She closes her eyes, instead, a smile threatening against her lips, despite how she tries to tamp it down.

"... The only world I'm interested in is just yours." As if there was anything in Shiryuu that could be regarded as 'just'... except for all the things he tries to hide. The flicker of smiles, the troubling dreams, the way he feels he needs to leave, even when his company is wanted.

.... even when he himself wants the company, and especially when it's something he wants.

.....

Ah. There it is. The black mixing in with the grey and blonde. The coy giggle.

The sensation of being watched, and percieved.

'Go on, Umie-chan. Kiss him. Tell him you're his entire world, and him yours. Betray all your creeds, because you love pretty little words telling you how special you are.'

Umie reaches into her jacket with her free hand, pressing her hands about a certain fragment.

Silence.

She gives a nervous, bewildered little giggle, her eyes staring past Shiryuu entirely.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"... it's okay."

It borders on painful, the sharp, sudden realization that he's running away from something he really shouldn't. Instinct and reflexes lay raw and chastised, lost in the comfort he takes from Umie, the blackbird's touch, and her all-but-apologia.

The thought does occur to him she might be humoring his nature, a thought that burns a little more than he thought it would when he finally relents into her, giving in just slightly. Just enough for the world to drain from his shoulders. Even if only for now.

".... aa.."

The consent comes quietly, thoughtfully. As if expected, certainly -- the shihaisha Shiryuu Ryouhara has never met a responsibility he didn't like, and the charge is no different. But the boy doesn't seem at all unmoored by her dissent. This close, the only evidence that she'd said anything disagreeable at all would be the slow incline of his stare away from her eyes, the slow, deliberate blink. The smallest of consents, even when that foxfire smile disappears in the black.

He isn't looking for a subordinate. Not with Umie.

'... You want to be their enemy.'

"Everyone's," Shiryuu clarifies. She's always been better than him at the simple things. "Fate has been kind to me." For what I've squandered. "...even now."

There is a cost to this, too.

I'll fight you. "With everything you have," he tells her, in no uncertain terms. A thought warms the neutrality of his tight, uneasy expression. The radiance finds its way to his eyes, but never more than a kindling flame.

"...we're cruel, to make fate choose between us, you know."

The grey-headed boy waits for Umie there in that drift, letting the times settle overlong, at the very end of the conversation. 'His world.' His heart beats faster, the subconscious rhythm permeating his life moves faster. It's hard for him to focus on just that much.

"...I'd like to show you, someday," he breathes.
A genuine want, though he never explains further.

Instead, the boy finds himself distracted. His eyes are fast, and attention that is all too easily cowed by even a glance from her is loosed like an arrow the moment her concentration breaks. He picks up on her unease, the hapless sound of laughter in a cant he's never quite placed before.

'Sometimes you're somewhere I can't follow.'

Shiryuu lowers himself to her, shifting his weight slightly, the drag of his grey strands snaking across her hairline, down her forehead. He'll give her a single, brief kiss. An infinitely small one, less to give in to any want but to remind her that the drop beneath their feet is not so far that he wouldn't catch her. She could stop him easily.

Is it fine if he kisses her like this? It's an open question.

"... Hey, come back.."
'Are you okay?'

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

Is it okay?

It'll take a while, most likely, and may not completely leave Shiryuu at all, that sharply tense nature.

That's fine.

Just like it's okay, when Shiryuu glances away from Umie's challenge.

An acceptance that they'll come to blows, and it didn't change how they feel, about each other.

Where in one moonlit night, Umie would have refused, in another, she may rise to Shiryuu's challenge.

'Everyone's.'

"Then I'll have to be extra hard on you." Dark eyelashes lower halfway, complimenting a smile hat eclipses all but a thin line of teeth. "So I know you'll survive." She'll have her stopping point.

What will Shiryuu's be?

'... we're cruel, to make fate choose between us, you know.'

As Umie looks up at Shiryuu, her eyes may seem a shade further into that of devil's red, aided by the brilliant dying light of sunset.

"Then let's be villains to fate," she quips, carelessly. "And make it realize there can be more than one." If someone tries hard enough to pick that final lock.

No wonder, then, that Maihime's imposter would play her own joke, reminding Umie how much further she has before she could claim any kind of victory.

In a fairy tale, a kiss would be all it takes, if it would be given the correct way.

It brings awareness to Umie through the sensation of touch, reminding her of where and when her body is, and how the fragment in her hand stings, a ready contrast to the way the boy's lips felt on hers, simple, short. A reminder.

"When I hold it, I don't hear her," she quietly says, plainly, but with full trust in the grey-haired boy to understand at least enough.

She brings out the strange object, holding it in a half covered palm for Shiryuu to see. He'd know what it is, she knows; Kurou must have grabbed a fragment of his own.

"It made Him go away for Sudou, as well."

A pause, and Umie says, ".... I'm here. Don't worry."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

'Then I'll have to be extra hard on you.'
You really would think that Shiryuu would be pleased by this, but there is a moment where the shinobi absolutely forgets every part of his plan and every musing he's had right up until this point, where the boy takes her absolutely seriously in the way she lowers her lashes and leans _far too much_ into the idea. "Hey, wait, why does it seem like..."

O--oh.

The onmitsu tilts his chin up reflexively. "Yes, that's right." Fight as hard as you want, you bunned beast, you won't be able to destroy the invincible Shirogarasu of Ryouhara. Ih-- mm..

'Then, let's be villains to fate.'
... even Shiryuu Ryouhara has to admit that was fairly cool. "...ugh," he manages, purposefully looking up and away from Akabane. Even wanting as he does, the boy is simply unwilling to betray even a scintilla of exactly how well the devil got him in that moment, his mouth a very tight, pressed line pointed in an arrowshot straight over the horizon. "J-- just..."

"... iihh. You're completely incorrigible."

It's only when he actually becomes concerned for her, and only when every intense obsession is broken that Ryouhara returns to the now, the moment, the second, where she reveals that tiny fragment.

There isn't a second he doesn't think of kissing her again, but the notion is overridden by his carefully metered alarm. Of course, she brings it along. They're all going to die, if Nahara's estimation is any guess.

It's really not, Nahara has a habit of being overly excited by things.

But every so often she is distressingly right. That's the part that Shiryuu is concerned by. The boy is absolutely brave enough to patiently close a hand over hers, quelling the sight of it from them, as if it could hear. He is halfway through thinking of something to say when she explains.

That she could no longer hear 'her.' That it made 'Him' go away.

His lips part lightly. There's something there, something nestled deep in Kouzou's ravings, deep in a Ryouhara safehouse, and all of her ill-omened vagaries, that forms the basis of the boy's nod, his understanding.

It might be reckless, but ...

"... just be careful with it," Shiryuu warns. "It's made of something ancient, something that the clan is calling an Original Material. It has the same basis as our jutsu. ...that means it could be dangerous beyond measure. If something happened to you..."

...Ryouhara shakes his head.
"...just be careful," he repeats.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

What does it seem like, from Shiryuu's perspective?

Umie's not going to give him any clues, merely a glint in her eyes as he comes to his own sort of understanding. "Mmhm." She murmurs a soft laugh, mouth closed.

Oh, that comment definitely hit its mark, didn't it? Umie can tell, and the Badb in her wants to relentlessly pursue at the sight of first blood.

Or... whatever it'd actually be, in this case.

But it's not meant to last, as Umie's fate had long been sealed since the moment she saw that firelit shrine.

She comes back to him, a terrible, rude little blackbird princess, and she studies him, as Shiryuu thinks his thoughts in silence.

In that silence, Umie can hear the distant, muffled chatter of the socialites, the soft melody of some background music, inconsequential as a sprig of parsley on a dinner plate.

Then there's the beat of Shiryuu's own resonance, pitching and falling with whatever moods manage to outpace his usual neutral nature. The beat of her heart. The beat of his, as he closes a hand over hers, closing off the sight of that strange material.

If the wrongness of that fragment against her skin didn't make her feel uncomfortable, she'd likely kiss him right now, like she always feels like doing in these moments.

Instead. "What? I'm not going to eat it or anything," she objects, with a sideways grin. "I definitely don't feel lucky holding it, either."

No, the two nestling crows will never allow themselves their feelings, if they can help it.

"When you came by, earlier today..." He had a red bag on him, didn't he? "... Was there... a reason? Or you just wanted to see my cute face?"

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Luckily, Shiryuu's offense is short lived, his tolerance for the rambunctious Akabane-sama apparently having a high water mark. The boy's blue blood showing for only a second, he remains stubbornly fixated on the Shibuya skyline at the dawn of night. It doesn't even matter if it's pretty, or the way he imagines the final fading rays of sunset playing off of her hair.

No matter how cool she's being, absolutely do not let her win.

It's only in the following quiet that he gentles, that his heart has a chance to catch up with the moment. In that, the resonant curve of his inner frequency gentles, a rolling sine that prickles in receding urgency until it settles along the curves of Umie's own. She'll feel it as the slowing of his heartbeat until it comes to quarrel, and eventually match with her own.

It's the only counterpoint to that polite chatter he can't hear at all.

The boy, close as he is, doesn't seem overly thrilled with the presence of that fragment, but neither does he seem to pay it much attention, or at the very least, less than the feel of her wrist under his fingertips. One hand in one, one hand entwined with the other. It's almost a tragedy that Shiryuu returns both to her, reluctantly lingering in that featherlight touch for as long as possible. He's barely given the chance to box his shoulders, to lean back just slightly.

'What? I'm not going to eat it or anything.'

The slow burn, the asymmetrical, severe, narrow-eyed look Shiryuu fixes her with is the very definition of the raw ideation of suspicion itself. That sideways grin is not going to save her. "You absolutely thought about it, didn't you," he infers damningly.

He knew it. It's just like a Ryouhara's fate to be cursed with feelings for a wild tengu straight from the mountains.

Ryouhara breathes outward, a short, sharp puff that sends strands of muddy grey everywhere. It's only when she asks him what happened not but a few hours earlier that his attention goes anywhere else.

"...ehh. I just ..."

Now words come far less surely. Shiryuu looks down, with a far harder gaze than should be appropriate. "I was heading back to Sumaru for the day to attend to ... some important obligations," the boy says, quietly. His hands are now set to his sides, on the rooftop beneath them, in the space between their knees.

"After you sent me that text. After the fire. After the Joker Killer... I was making sure you were ... going to be okay."

Now, a few hours later, he is not wearing that red bag -- the long, narrow cloth that is simply the polite way to carry a sheathed sword in public.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

Don't ever let Umie win. No matter how the setting sun lights her face, or how she's looking at you, seeing how those same rays fall on his own.

How is this the same person she fought on Ebisu Beach?

She'll likely have to fight him again, but not now, as they settle into each other.

Part of her is sharply disturbed by the touch of that fragment, the other, an exact opposite, even if Shiryuu is quite capable of producing just as much alarm.

The two moments balance out, the pendulum of Umie's mind moving in languid pushes back and forth, until that hand leaves hers, lingering like a ghost.

The idea that is Umie Akabane is likewise, shifting to and fro, the woman who leans into his body and his touch, and the wild tengu who cackles at his indignation.

It's the latter who smiles up at him now, a line of white teeth peeking from the top half of that crow's grin as she leans back with him. A cold breeze riles the strands of blonde as she gives a quiet huff of laughter. She doesn't want to make the guests notice them, just yet. "You think it'd taste like rock candy...?"

Ah, but it's nothing to joke about, really. It's a piece of a bullet that pierced through a man's heart, leaving him to slowly bleed out while they watched.

"...."

It's just as well that Shiryuu's mind goes to similarly grim thoughts.

She finally puts away that damned fragment, slipping it into a hidden pocket inside her jacket, and zipping it up.

He wanted to see if she was okay.

"... I don't know why, but it was... really sweet. We were all packed in there like sardines, but I finally understood then what Kyouhara-kun meant, when he said my place felt warm. Watching Amamiya-kun and Kurou study, and you prepare tea..."

She gazes out towards the skyline. "... I never thought I'd feel happy like that."

....

".... It's okay, for you to stay in those moments, Shiryuu. You have every right, because there's people who want you there. Don't give them up because you feel you have to."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

That dangerous fragment strikes a vein in him, one in which Shiryuu is deeply conscious of. Reasonably, he knows why that ominous sense leaps from his wrist and down his bones, sending a cold chill down his spine. It makes his eye ache to think about it overlong, even here, even far from the borders of Sumaru.

He knows, logically, what the Original Material is, and why to be concerned by it, what his artisans have told him. But that boy ... is determined not to turn away from it, even as she tucks it away.

She cracks a joke, an annoying one that forces him to purse his lips at her, nettled at the way her serrated grin and collarline catches the wan light of the torches just beyond the garden juniper when she leans back.

But she isn't afraid, and neither, he resolves, is he.

"Th..." Shiryuu starts to reply. Then he settles on making another face at her.

IT's enough to provide cover to his own little scintilla of worry, the worry that she might have been the next victim of one of those reaper bullets, or that he could only be so close in the moment. It's why it comes as a surprise to him, a quick blink almost betraying him as she shares what it felt like to be there with them all. Even the accursed part-timer.

It was hard for him to understand what it felt like, even for himself, even in that moment.

'I never thought I'd feel happy like that.'
The boy's broken smile flashes, painfully awkward. "I'm glad."

It's the kind of world he'd prefer Kurou live in, if even given the slightest chance.

It would be easy to say what he's supposed to say. 'A shinobi doesn't belong.' 'Those moments must be protected from afar.' 'It's not for a shihaisha to engage in.' 'Shirogarasu does not have these luxuries.'

It would be easy to say it.
To discharge his obligation, and be done with it.
He tries to pretend as if he didn't see the look in his subordinate's eyes.

The colorlessness of all of those summer nights in Sendai ache in his head. The scar in his memory burns, as that empty-headed boy wonders if that man would have known what to say any better, the confident, aloof creature that was all but unapproachable. The flawless performer, the one from whom rhythm flowed like a river. What changed, he thinks, between then and now? It would be easy, for someone strong like him. It should be easy, to say the things he's supposed to say.

It's not, somehow, not when it's her.

"I.. ... when.. .. I just.. I can't find a way there." It's almost impossible to even find that many words.
What does it mean? There's a hundred ways he could try to explain what it felt like. Maybe it had something to do with knowing what the evening would bring. Maybe it had to do with his station. Maybe his presence alone was too awkward not to ruin it. Thinking about it is enough to give the grey-haired boy pause, a tiny sniff given as he leans into that infuriating crow's weight, snaking an arm around her middle, to pull her close.

Really, all he can do is soothe her away from the idea that he belongs. But the notion sits cold and dead with him, his discomfort obvious. For a second, the quiet is searing.

"...Hey, so... um, stay with me, tonight...?"
He can always go back to Sumaru in the morning.

"It turns out... I need your warmth," the boy in the dense sweater admits. "...really is getting sorta cold out..."

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

A flash of a smile, an awkward glance.

Even with Sudou gone, whatever he did to Shiryuu can't be undone.

Phoenix is right, in that Umie feels some blame for that.

It's not like she knows just what was taken, or if it would even relate to their situation now. Was it that part of him being cut away that made him able to see Umie the way he does now? If he ever regained it, would he lose his affection for her?

It draws a cold chill down Umie's spine, to consider it, and how she could lose something so fleeting as the love of someone meant to not be here, in this role.

He's glad for her, but what about him? What about Kurou?

When he displays that vulnerability, Umie reaches over, curling a pink-orange nail over a curtain of those grey bangs, tucking them aside.

".... It's okay," she says, softly.

"... I couldn't give you back what he took from you. I'm sorry." And she means it, even if she dreads him becoming cold and indifferent to her if he does, somehow, gain it back.

A tiny sniff, an arm around her waist, and she's already leaning herself into him, the coat piled back around them.

Stay with him. A request, much like she had made to him, several nights ago.

It takes everything to keep herself from just kissing him right then and there, with no preamble, no quip, no ironic comment.

No, she has to dress it up at least *a little*.

She leans in. "I should check, to see just how cold you are..." Umie says, before she tests her lips on his.

It felt like a cool thing to say, before kissing your ninja boyfriend (they *are* boyfriend and girlfriend, right??).

However, like a web, that initial touch of her lips on his creates another trap, and another, which she keeps failing at, whether or not Shiryuu is assisting in that.

"........ we should... maybe, ah... go.. uh... room..." No, nevermind, that good effort to stop herself from making out on a cold-ass rooftop is just thrown out the window (figuratively speaking) as she's just continuing to test how cold Shiryuu is, with her lips on his.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

The words are absolute acid to say, each one burning in the back of his head as the most awkward, thin way to admit something you shouldn't be admitting at all. Self-recrimination is something that comes *fast* for Shiryuu, especially in matters like this. A drive for be endlessly, peerlessly perfect means that for every success, you also fall violently, fiercely short.

"...eh--" that touch locks the boy in place, the warm proximity that close to his face breaking his concentration, and the recursive cycle of doubt replaced by surprise and -- finally, the smallest relent. Eyes blown wide in shock half-lid with the tickle of her peach-tangerine nails along his temple. Soothed only just so, the boy's glance does not meet her eyes when she apologizes.

'It's okay.' That, even alone, means something.

"...not your fault," he says, firmly.
It's the closest he'll come to admitting anything was taken from him at all.

Instead of elaborating any further, the boy's feelings are made crystalline in the tight cinch of her to him, snug and secure -- even in the struggle of everything else, there's very little doubt in what and who he wants close to him, to fill in the blanks drawn so agonizingly rampant. Warmth, of a type that's far beyond what the so-called 'latest technology' can muster.

The pause is enough to make Shiryuu reconsider his choice of words, his boldness. Perhaps he should take her back to her apartment? Maybe it's improper. Maybe it's wrong..

'I should test to see just how cold you are..'

"...ih?" Ryouhara is confused very briefly, his eyes narrowing suspiciously in that dimmed, wan expression of his as she leans closer. And closer.

_Oh._ The truth dawns on him, just as every fiber of his being pulls drawstring-tight at the back of his less rational mind. "...damn," Shiryuu whispers, leaning into her intent, tilting his head just slightly in what is deeply clear consent, all the while trying to think of anything to say other than trying to find a reason as to exactly why his hands find their way to her waist to pull her with him as he slowly loses all sense of where he is. "that's..."

Damn, he repeats in his mind, heavily distracted.

"th...mnh..that was really cool.." is about all he manages to concede, halfway and undecided where to be between vexed and charmed before he hits the glass barrier, His shoulderblades raise, his want being the wily crow slid all but into his lap, wrapping up with her as their lips meet a second time. This time, Shiryuu's insistence draws out the kiss far longer than a test, and the unmoored shinobi ultimately finds his way to his back, the two all but swallowed up in the messy drape of his coat.

A dark and wanton little array of 'testing' sounds come from the two over the next twisting moments, a tryst vividly dangerous only in retrospect.

She says something about going back to his room.
"... yeah.." Sounds like a good idea. "...nn..." then it doesn't. "...hhhnn-" desperation, or frustration? Shiryuu finds a second to breathe. "--in, in a minute.."

He doesn't want to have to think anymore. "... just be with me ..."

For the record, Shiryuu's lips are very cool to the touch.
Not for very long. The boy warms up, in time.

</poem>
[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 2]]

2026-03-08: A Ripple for Two

2026-03-16T11:51:19Z

Strangehat: Created page with " *'''Log: A Ripple for Two''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara, Umie Akabane *'''Where:''' Yumezaki Ward, Sumaru City *'''OOC Date:''' 2026-03-08 *'''IC Date:''' Oct 6th, 2012 *'''Summary''': ''It started with a walk in the rain.'' ---- <poem> '''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.''' "... So ... he escaped." The sound is a trickle against a slow build of a cognitive rhythm, discordant and meandering, consciously quelled to little more th..."

*'''Log: A Ripple for Two'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], [[Umie Akabane]]
*'''Where:''' Yumezaki Ward, Sumaru City
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-03-08
*'''IC Date:''' Oct 6th, 2012
*'''Summary''': ''It started with a walk in the rain.''

----
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"... So ... he escaped."

The sound is a trickle against a slow build of a cognitive rhythm, discordant and meandering, consciously quelled to little more than the subcurrents of a whisper by a tense, unrested mind.

The observation is quiet, terse, absent.

The shihaisha has finished disseminating order to his onmitsu. The Bride, an identity as befits the Order's particular flavor of doomed operational fantasy, had been too weak to ferry away Kurou, an oversight that required Shiryuu to return to Kouhei and Shuuhei and direct them to recover Kurou and direct him to the safehouse in Sumaru for the time being.

Picking up the pieces was simply expected.

It's not hard for Shiryuu to find Akabane from that point -- the entire space atop the mountain is cognitive, and the boy moves at the speed of will. The biggest difficulty was assuring the survivors were in hand while not alerting the children assigned to escorting them.

One or two in particular, Shiryuu didn't find a particular need to alert to his presence. Not yet.

Once he'd reached his confirmations, there's more important things to attend to, for the time being. And as she tries to make her own way, Umie will shortly find him in her path, a white haori flagging slowly in the wind.

The grey haired boy steps forward after a thought, moving with a furtive step as if he'd been waiting in this specific spot the entire time.

A nagging thought at the back of his mind, carefully pushed away.

".... I'm here to take you back now."
Next moment. Next second. Keep moving.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

There were likely offers from various people after the battle at the sanitarium atop Mt. Katatsumuri to shuttle Umie whereever she needed to go.

Alas, that would be a good, responsible decision and Umie is in a mood where the last thing she wants is to be besides the very people who would, in a sense, understand exactly why she stinks like a rotten corpse, why her mouth tastes like metal, why she does not want to talk or think about anything, for a while.

The rest of why Umie is currently walking towards the subway entrance instead, sneakers numbly stepping through the rain, is because--

''None of them truly understand at all, do they? All you have, and ever need, is yourself.''

Umie looks down at the puddle in the street, and sees her silhouette, framed in the reflection of the lights of the city outskirts above. She can still make out the details of herself at an extreme angle: black leggings peeking out under a sagging, dripping pale rain jacket, loosening blonde buns sagging to hang below her ears, soaking up the drips of blessed rain from the heavens. There's no mask now, having been safely hidden from the rain in the small duffle bag on Umie's shoulder.

''... And me.''

There's a small girl in her reflection, alongside her, miraculously dry. Her silk kosode (Umie was never able to understand what article of clothing it was) was a beautiful shade of red, patterned with flowers and butterflies. Her hair, not short, as would Umie would *think* would be traditional, is the same dark shade of mouse brown, almost black that Umie's would be, if she didn't fray her hair to get to the shade of blonde she wants.

"... Mmnh." The crossing lights turn, and a passing car disturbs the vision, splashing water onto the hapless Umie, who curses under her breath at the sensation of Wet seeping into her socks.

She loves the rain. Loves being in it. Loves listening to it, or the smell of it on a day that ends in day.

Just not right now.

'I'm here to take you back now.'

She instantly knows that voice. "Shiryuu." Umie looks up to him with a critical frown, tilting her head. "...."

A million quips fill her head, all of them requiring levels of energy she just doesn't have right now. "Is this in a date sense, or did they finally get tired of my bullshit?" she asks, growing more and more aware of how much her toes dislike the falling depletion of 'dry' going on. ".... please," she says, her shoulders sagging.

Please what?

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

'Shiryuu.'

The grey-haired boy tilts his head forward, lowering his jaw. Against anyone else, it'd probably be the most threatening expression the boy could level, something that would presage the hiss of even steel. Certainly, the boy has a naturally hostile countenance -- all quiet and sharp edges.

But against the soaking wet bird across the way from him, his critical off-colored stare is simple confusion. Caution, the boy's eyes dancing along her state, sharply taking stock. Any one of a number of variables storm in him -- gait, possible exposure to curses and toxins, the listless shift of someone missing a section of their soul.

But her voice tells enough of the tale for the perceptive boy.
"Mmm."

The sound is noncommittal, the flat line of his expression elusive when crossed with her frown. A line of water drips down a single stringy bang -- and she might notice he doesn't actually wear a rain jacket. His haori is surprisingly well-suited to it despite being made of silk, but there's less to be said about the rest of him. He's surprisingly dry, but that's changing rapidly by the drizzling moment.

But the boy doesn't even seem to notice it's raining.

His lips part, silent for only a second or two.
'...did they finally get tired of my bullshit?'
"... Even if it were so, I don't consent."

The boy steps forward.
"...and 'dating' was something that passed us by, long ago, maybe.."

It's a rare, thoughtless admission that will absolutely come back to haunt the boy later when he bothers to think about it in the very slightest. He's paying attention to her instead, the weight of his appraisal forefront in his mind, even as she's...

...he approaches her slowly, his Nikes rippling the puddle he steps through to close the distance. "... ehh.."

'please?' Closer now, Shiryuu tilts his head just so -- it's clear he doesn't understand what she asks. The vocalization is off the back of his throat before he realizes it, before his eyes drop down, further.

The leggings are a nice touch, but.

"You're soaking wet," the boy notes. "And...."
Her shoes. And ... that scent. His brows furrow.

".... absolutely not," the boy decides. "Did you ... step in them?"

Shiryuu promptly kneels down, taking great care to pull up his haori sleeves so they don't drag on the ground. Little droplets spatter the ground from his hair -- he's still wearing that weird bangle on his left hand, that cord tied around his right. He sniffs, suppressing a cough in his chest, wiping water out of the orbital of his left eye, touching the water to his tongue testingly.

First, he'll untie her shoes unceremoniously. "...splashing in them or something..." the boy repeats, thinking aloud, as if Akabane wasn't even there. Tug. Pull. Then, he ties the laces together in a simplistic square knot. He tries not to pay attention to her new leggings as he does this. He absolutely fails to do this, and has to re-tie the knot at least twice. Sigh. He's really better than this.

"Come on, you." Ryouhara tells her, in no uncertain terms.

He's not cool, like the Phantom Thieves or .. whatever she was on about at Jogashima. A cool person would just sweep her off her feet and jump. No, Shiryuu isn't really like that.

Instead, he presses his back into her hips and -- lift. "Hup." Right across his back, lifting Akabane right out of her shoes, if she doesn't fight too hard and get them both face-down in a puddle. It's entirely likely.

But, he's not interested in having her walk the whole way in soggy shoes. That's unacceptable.

"You'd better not had gotten bitten," Shiryuu notes.
"And if you did, you'd better not bite me while I'm carrying you."

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

Two birds stare openly at one another, one wet, the other steadily approaching a closer approximation of it.

Two souls, soaked in rain.

"Your clothing's going to get soaked." With her hood up, at the very least, Umie is protected, the rain softly pattering against her rain jacket as she looks him over, her head nearly tilting sideways.

Looking at him seems to have activated her, in some way, though the two pale birds gather their share of looks from passersby, who rapidly decide to look elsewhere on their late night errand runs.

Whatever was activated, it's furthered by Shiryuu's response to her query. ".... There we go..." she breathes, a devilish little smile dancing on her lips--

'... and 'dating' was something that passed us by, long ago, maybe...' "O-oh," Umie says, perplexed, as much as Shiryuu was by her open-ended 'please'. Did he mean that they weren't.... or... that they're even more serious, or.... _but they made out at Jogashima_, surely that leaves no room for this being an idle thing...!!

.... he lost a part of his soul to the Old Maid. Or something like it; a symbolic death that travels on the lines of the cognitive mind. He came, many times, to see if she was alright, and she fell asleep against him on nights when she wanted to feel what it was like, to be close to someone.

She stood in front of him and denied him the act of drawing her weapon, even when he commanded her to.

"... That is what happens, when it rains," Umie whispers, hoarsely, as he comes closer.

'Absolutely not.' 'Did you... step in them?'

"Stepped in who?" Her eyes look down to her shoes, which, is blocked by Shiryuu's head as he hovers over them. ".... Oh, you meant..." Yeah, no wonder people were giving her a wide berth; she's likely nose-blind to it at this point. "It was kind of unavoidable," she grumbles, looking away with a flush of embarrassment.

(Wait, did he just... tie her sneakers together??)

To be fair to Shiryuu right now, Akechi *did* 'sweep her off her feet' (though he'd likely bristle at being considered anything *but* a Phantom Thief, and he swept her off in the most literal meaning of the term). He even did a dashing leap from the trees, triumphant to have caught Umie in the middle of her escape from his watchful eye.

"Wh--" That same wet blackbird is now on Shiryuu's back. She settles there, and doesn't struggle.

'... you'd better not bite me while I'm carrying you.' Do not make the mistake of thinking she wouldn't let him get away with *some* sort of tease.

"... Don't say it like you wouldn't like it." Shiryuu could probably hear the sharp curved, open-mouthed grin as she says it.

As if, by being freed from the ground, she's just become a little more herself, albeit wet and more than a little stinky.

At least the scent of rain takes the bite of it (no pun intended) down a peg or three.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"....mm?" She brings it up and Shiryuu only, just then, seems to notice the rain, as if the sky and her state were not a direct correlation with one another. (admittedly he seems more interested in the fact she's been saber dancing on zombies) Consequently, the boy looks up, a hand held to his head as the rainfall patters off of his bare knuckles. "....ah.."

"...it'll be fine. Akita is usually worse," he thinks.

Apparently, he has much more of a problem with her being wet than him, despite exactly one of them having a rain jacket with a hood.

She gives him that scythe-sharp grin, and the boy's eyes narrow, darkly satisfied.

"Besides..." -hup-
"...you can just protect me, if you're worried about it."

She's grinning like a fiend behind him, and Shiryuu's openly quarrelsome frown rejects the notion openly, puffing at her scandalous nature. "I said -protect-," he grouses, taking one of the fiend's legs into the crook of his arm. "From the rain. I'm not going to be the snack of a messy 'ZANBII' in leggings tonight..."

--he pauses, suddenly looking down with a grimace.

It's a bit of a careful shift, but Ryouhara manages to lower himself just enough to pick up her shoes by the laces with his free hand. By the same, they're hung off of his sword hilt, the sheathed weapon still tucked in his belt. That, and the smell are probably what's contributing to the wide berth just about every reasonable citizen of Japan is giving them right now.

"Well," he supposes, "I know a supralunar area or two nearby, but with you in tow, I won't be able to use Kyotosaigan anymore." He says this like it means something to anyone but him. "And the subway probably isn't the greatest idea for some of the trip, I don't want to deal with police." So Shibuya is out.

"...it's fine," he thinks aloud.

Yeah... luckily, he doesn't know anything about Akechi, whom would probably go up on suspicion of being a Thief just on general principle if he had. Luckily, the onmitsu is busy being distracted.

"I know a place," the boy sighs, taking her other leg in arm until he's reasonably sure he's not going to drop her in the gutter on accident. On purpose, that's another story entirely -- if she keeps it up.

Shiryuu smugly hides a stupidly satisfied grin at the thought. Yeah, don't let her win, Ryouhara.
"Hopefully," Shiryuu mulls, "you like samurai."

COLORFUL! SAMURAI ICHI

The neon sign all but blurts the most gaudy tourist's idea of a samurai club to the entirety of Yumezaki. It takes an unreasonably long and awkward amount of time for Shiryuu to -walk- Umie (most of) the way to the ward, and that's counting the shortcuts over buildings. If there was even a single point at which the grey-headed boy at all felt anything like 'being cool' during the venture, it is absolutely obliterated by the journey with all of the mercilessness of fate herself.

They almost assuredly argued relentlessly for at least the first half of the journey. Likely, mostly about the proper way to dispatch zombies.

And now this. Judging by the rat-looking fellow in a nice suit who may in fact be leering at either Shiryuu or Umie, it is a far, far cry from the upscale hotel in Shibuya. It's actually in full view of the worksite for that burned-down club, so... yeah, seedy types may have taken over recently from all the construction going on.

"It's not bad," Ryouhara insists.
Then someone in cosplay sticks their tongue out at him from the second story window. Shiryuu grimaces, again.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

"Eeh...?" Umie looks bewildered as the young man, as if noticing the rain for the first time, simply seems to wave it off. "Ugh... You're hopeless."

One of the advantages of being hauled up like this is that, for a moment, the pink of Umie's cheeks is well hidden, especially when he hooks one of her legs into the crook of his arm. "I'll protect you, alright," she answers in revenge, about to whisper something close to his ear--

wait no, her duffle bag's on the ground. "Augh, grab that too! Don't put the shoes inside it, though, my stuff's in there!" .... "And... the mask Ryouhara-kun made for me's in there, too."

Supralunar area. "... So... a supernatural area?" She furrows her brow, trying to concentrate. ".... to the.... southwest of here, right? Medium sized area? Or the one east of here? Real scattered... that one makes the Badb restless. Most be an active spot..." The Badb, being her, but also the Badb. The mention of Kyotosaigan draws a raised eyebrow, but Shiryuu, as he is, can't appreciate it.

Really, it's all just an exercise in the most important skill of all: showing off.

"How is Ryouha--ra-kun?" Kurou, that is. Even if Umie would like to call him just Kurou-kun, it feels like something she needs him to allow, first, given how mannerly and polite he is.

The odd hitch in her voice was just about when Shiryuu managed to hook in that other leg.

"... And... are you... doing ok--" Oop, they're taking a building shortcut.

Yeah, they're definitely bantering back and forth on the way there to this 'samurai host club', as Umie is calling it. "Ah, a bunch of handsome young men, posing as the Shinsengumi, ready to set a maiden's heart aflutter... you spoil me, Shiryuu..."

Nope that's definitely not what's going on here, as the only thing going aflutter here is that ratty-looking fellow, who Umie can't tell is leering at her or Shiryuu.

She gives the ratty looking fellow her best narrow-eyed glare, doing her best to indicate that the boy hauling her like a sack of potatoes (plus some items) is, in fact, hers. "Could you... get a room with a decent bath? Something I can just sink into for hours and not be bothered," she grumbles. "I want to become a prune at this point."

After a certain someone sticks their tongue out at Shiryuu from above long enough for Shiryuu to contemplate his life's choices, Umie's body seems to loose some of its strength, as she mumbles, "... I don't want to think. About anything."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"Aa," he confirms, contemplating her bag, and especially what she said was inside. It is as he'd explained it, once. The clan refers to occult power in relation to the moon -- either above or below it. He thinks on her musing before looking up to get his bearings and figure out where 'east' is. His jawline is close to brushing by her arm, and the awareness is something that arrests his train of thought. Just for a moment. It's bad enough he's wondering what she was going to threaten him with. "....Mm," he asserts the thought wordlessly.

A beat. "My sense of it isn't as good," he admits. "I just remember them. From reports. From places where my eye..."

The boy pauses, thinking better of explaining.

Instead, he comes to a resolution about the gym bag, lowering down just enough to tuck the strap onto his shoulder, adjusting it with a hand (there is a height difference) so that the shape of it sits centered behind him, below her, at about hip level. It takes a bit of coordination, but at the end it's only lightly off-center, so the boy's balance shouldn't be severely affected.

With that and Akabane secured, the boy marches.

"I had Shuuhei and Kouhei escort him to a safehouse in the city," the shihaisha explains, again glossing over critical facts with implication alone. "Kouhei bridles under my word, but he understands the mission. Between the three, Kurou's safety is peerless."

'And ... are you ... doing ok--'

To his merit, it actually matters very little whether they're in a supernatural space or not. He's not cool, the damp, grey-haired boy with the strange, melancholy-ish girl on his back, carrying bags, shoes and a sword, staring up with annoyance at a second-story parking ramp just out of reach. He just scuffs his shoe soles against a dry spot on the ground to make sure they're not slick from the street, and then -- *squeek* he manages a fairly decent jump from a bollard, to the wall, and then a little slide to flick a leg over the barrier. That, in turn, leads to a little hop down onto a roof ventilation duct, squaring himself across the boxy edge and sliding down the curved return so it doesn't crumple when his weight hits it.

He has someone else to think of and doesn't have his hands, so he has to keep the path to a practical one of one or two stories, only relying on those tiny patches in Sumaru where physics truly won't mind to do anything untoward. But he manages, a boy idly picking along the structural supports of an awning.

he never does answer that question, really, lost to other, more important things, like zombie movies, and whether vampires are any better than zombies, and how the devious Akabane is absolutely not allowed to wear vampire-grade heels until she learns how to treat a pair of sneakers.

It's slow going, but he gets there, eventually.

"Iih. Go find comfort in the bottom of a lake," Ryouhara grouses icily at the leering ne'er-do-well, pretending like someone dressed as that one girl from that demon anime doesn't hate him for an undefined reason.

"...Akabane.." he says, undecided as to say anything more, when the fight drains out of her against the silk of his haori.

"...this place has soaking tubs," Ryouhara awkwardly allows, somber for exactly as long it takes for the front attendant to almost fall over.

"R--Ryouhara-sama!" SAMURAI Kenjiro panicks. "woooh~~!!! You're not by your--" the guy with glasses and dressed as an officer of old Japan (yes, a Shinsengumi) stares. "AND SHE'S--" He flails. He makes a sky-blue scene of it. And Shiryuu almost dies on the spot. The shihaisha levels his absolute highest calibre glare. "Send up new sheets and towels in a little while," Ryouhara tells him, with the kind of tone of voice that Shiryuu usually reserves for Katsuya Suou.

"There's nothing cool about the Miburo," he remarks, moody. Shiryuu is still half dead from embarassment.

Seriously, why is it always such a problem everywhere for him to have a visitor...

Luckily, Shiryuu already _has_ a room here. Somewhat bafflingly. It's a sprawling space on the third floor, not at all cramped, mostly so for the fact that it's been ruthlessly stripped of unnecessary furniture, with a little sword stand set on a desk, a chair, and a bed, a linen closet and that's literally about it, aside from a conspicuous box of rolled up wall scrolls and at least eleven folding fans in a stack.

The washroom is set on a slightly lower level than the rest of the room, hooking around a corner. Shiryuu doesn't mind it at all. Depending on how restless this Badb person is, he'll let Umie down right on the bed, not really minding how wet it is. The rest of the things will be set down near the desk, aside from the shoes, which are placed by the door along with his own. Consulting the linen cabinet, the boy makes a face.

And starts stacking towels on the bed. One. Two. Three. Five. All of them are powder blue, and are of varying sizes. How many towels does he think a girl needs? How many towels does he have? Why?

"Off with all that," Shiryuu tells her.
He tries his best not to make it sound like he intends to have her entire outfit burned. He doesn't! It just sounds like it. Because he's not a terrible person, the boy politely steps away, leaving Umie with a disconcerting number of towels. He still hasn't taken off his sword yet, notably.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

"... Badb can sense them. Or, well, technically, *I* can," Umie explains, in a tone a touch softer than her usual. "It's... like... knowing where to go." Which isn't that much better in terms of an explanation...

... Except when one looks at what the Badb is. But then again, it's not like Umie is the only one searching for words of any kind, be it Shiryuu's eye, and its relation to Kyotosaigan.

At the very least, Umie is quietly cooperative as Shiryuu tries to integrate the duffle bag into his load, not wanting to walk around in soaked socks or cold tied together sneakers.

Shiryuu gives an answer over Kurou's safety, and he can feel something relax in the posture of Umie's musculature against his back. "... Didn't know whether to be more worried for the people fighting against him, or Kurou himself." There's a soft sigh, as Umie adjusts her posture to better compliment Shiryuu's hold; if Shiryuu wasn't sure before, he'd definitely be aware of the short blonde's core strength at this moment. "I guess that's just part of what I'll have to navigate."

To ignore the boundaries of what she hates, because of the people she's come to care about, within. "The Order sent in an entire faction of Tawainese mafia, just to die..."

Shiryuu wouldn't let Kurou go through an experience like that, again, but he can't be everywhere. "It's bigger than the Old Maid... The Order either doesn't know what they're dealing with, or they simply don't care..." Her words are barely a whisper, her body tensing up once again.

Which turns to her question as to whether Shiryuu himself is okay, given he likely became involved in his own way. At his silence, Umie follows the angle of the back of Shiryuu's neck towards the parking lot. In her mind's eye, Umie can see the invisible trail her body could take to get higher up. Such paths would not be something she'd chance outside of a supernatural area, given how the simplest of fractures could turn bad.

But still, her mind automatically makes these paths, and her body knows, when Shiryuu begins to move. "Wh--! Wait this isn't--!!" She's *clenching* her body against his back as the boy who doesn't think he's all that cool completes one of many paths, with a full load on his back, something Umie wouldn't be keen to try on her own. ".... Wh... Y.... You... What!!"

SIlence. "... That was..." Amazing. Terrific. Terrifying. Exciting. Her mouth is open, and she's fighting the urge to do that dumb little smile she always does, in weird little situations like this.

"Really, really dangerous."

_IT GOES WITHOUT SAYING, UMIE_

------------

The mention of soaking tubs has Umie perking right back up.

The mention of RYOUHARA-SAMA as Umie perk further up, mischievously smiling as Shiryuu grumbles to himself. "... well, they'll think you're cool now, at least~"

Settling against the bed, Umie lays there for a single, golden moment, finally relaxing her muscles against the bed cushions, before letting her head turn to regard the emptiness of the room. (She's beginning to see the pattern here.)

The towels begin to be stacked, one, two, three. "Uh..." Umie begins to object, but then, just leaves Shiryuu to it.

'Off with all that.' "... So demanding," she says, eyelids lowering halfway, as her lips split in a smile as he steps away.

.... whatever effect this may have is likely offset by the fact that she's sitting up surrounded by a pile of towels.

'I'll go draw the bath.' Her expression softens, then, reminded of how he's treated her. "... Thank you, Shiryuu," she says, as she takes off her coat. "... We can... split the check, on this one."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

'So demanding.' "Iiih! Akabane. We've been over this."
Shiryuu doesn't want to become a zombie.
It would seem strange, except that Shiryuu literally re-killed three of them on the mountain. In that context, it's a perfectly reasonable thing to say.

The room is very different from the noticeably classier Hotel Indigo in Shibuya. For one, the windows are noticeably smaller, though aside from a tiny crack visible of a construction zone from the bed, the heavy curtain is drawn as it was before. The lighting is much less baroque -- though attempts have been made to tie cellophane filters to the string of hanging lanterns providing most of the lighting for the space to tint them blue, the warm lighting grudgingly persists in lighting the space much more invitingly, with the only thing the wrapping accomplishing being to add a spray of bright blue halos across the ceiling, in murky shades somewhere between sky blue and indigo.

The entire floor is spotless, despite the questionable locale, and kept that way by what is clearly a merciless fastidiousness, though there doesn't seem to be a whole lot of space for 'storing' things. Just a few drawers in the desk and that hickory sword rack.

He remembers what she'd said before, about worrying more about Kurou or the people he was fighting against. 'Kurou understands the role we have to play,' he'd said simply, at the time. 'And the Ryouhara blood is strong. Stronger than most,' he'd said.

But... it presented another interesting conundrum. About the Order, and their presence there. 'It's reprehensible to say, but there's no one who isn't disposable to them, for the right purpose...'

Nothing to say of their purpose there, the Ryouhara clan. He was there too, though he'd not interfered as he may have liked. But on that journey, he'd said nothing of it.

Yes, another person would be cooler about it. She would, he thinks. This is a world where Thieves fly and devils dance with inimitable grace. Compared to that... well. He feels her against him, and makes sure his grip is sound. He makes sure not to be distracted. Compared to those stylish, flying things...

He's skilled. It's enough.

Now, Shiryuu is in the washroom, fiddling with the deck-mounted knobs of the private bath. Set near the actual wash shower, the bath is a large and tall stone-cut heated affair that has been inlaid into a deck made up to look like wooden barrel-style tub bindings. It would be imposing without that sprig of charm, and the boy kneels, pulling his sleeves up to check the temperature. "Hmm." Turn. "Iih." Turn. "Ow! ... ah.. ow!" It's probably right. *bonk* The bamboo noisemaker at the end of the tub also activates with the running water, filled with a recirculating tap that causes the bamboo to *klonk* hollowly against the tub, adding little bits of heated water to it, and ostensibly *klonk* ambiance.

Shiryuu glowers at it. He hasn't figured out a way to turn it off. It's infuriating. *klonk*

While the water's running, the boy just barely catches her words, and only because he's sharply attuned to hearing them. "Iih," he objects, glaring at the noisemaker. "It's fine. I stay here. There's a discount for me, anyway. Even if there was, I *KLONK* .... don't need anything."

sigh.

Shiryuu drops the little novelty box of incense in the washroom left in the drawer at least twice, and little muffled curses betray him. A tiny sniff. Then a sneeze. Urgh. He's getting distracted.

"...and you don't have to thank me, anyway. I intend to roast you until we can be sure. Just don't say anything about it to the Miburo child." SAMURAI Kenjiro is not a child. Sure of what? Is she done? Shiryuu knocks on the washroom door before looking out expectantly, the little box in hand. His hands are absolutely not covered in dust and he doesn't smell like damp sandalwood. "Ano, Umie... we sh--*KLONK*"

sigh.

"nevermind."

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

They've been over this! .... But it bears repeating.
The same goes for Kurou, as well. ... But again, it bears repeating.

*klonk*

Huh, what's making that sound? Well, Shiryuu's likely just dealing with whatever, so, she should just leave him to it.

*klonk*

She continues undressing, and, out of force of habit, nearly leaves her clothes in a pile on the floor. "....." Yeaahhhh, she probably should at least acknowledge Shiryuu's tidiness, even if he'll likely need them to be folded again, possibly. Kneeling down, she picks up the clothing, and, with the stench now concentrated, makes a gagging sound. She went around smelling like this?!

*klonk*

The clothes are now properly folded. Umie presses her hands in a small prayer for the souls of the undead now dead.

*klonk*

".... Shiryuu. You're... what, my age? A little younger or older, at most?" She clears her throat. Get to the point. "He had to have been around our age, so, I think calling him 'child' is pushing it a little?"
..... wait, he called the person he kidnapped... ..... a child
_oh ffs_ shiryuu, you idiot, you had Umie thinking you were kidnapping kids for a moment there

*klonk*

"We should what?" ... Damn it, Shiryuu needs help, doesn't he
Umie grabs the biggest towel, wrapping it around the midsection of her body and tying it securely as best she can, and turns around, trying to adjust to make sure any scandalous views are properly masked.
He'll probably still react, but _Umie can't help it if he's like that, can she_

*klonk*

"I'm coming over there. Don't freak out, I'm in a towel." Marching over, another towel at the ready in front of her for *extra protection*, when-- "....!"

Bare footsteps pad over to the wash area, Umie looking around the area, eyes wide. "... Whoah..." she breathes, with barely held enthusiasm. "I haven't been in a place like this in forever. It's like something from a retro Showa era roadside hotel..." Shiryuu can see the dark outline of the Mark on her right wrist as she kneels by the bamboo noisemaker, breath held, waiting for the end to tip over and make that characteristic--

*klonk*

noise. She giggles, left hand holding the towel close to her. "Okay, let's see that again."

*klonk*

".... So. What were you going to roast me about?" she says, a smug grin on her lips as she turns to him.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Well, luckily, Shiryuu has it mostly under control. Mostly. 'It' being the situation at hand, not his patience level, as the boy is entirely nonplussed by the very ambient sound of -- *klonk* -- a bamboo cup. Serviced by twin waterfall faucets mounted to the deck--one slow for the mood, the other fast for efficiency--the efforts made for authentic style are all completely lost on him.

That does not mean Shiryuu gets away with not still smelling like he lost a fight with an incense-wielding corpse now. In his defense, part of that is Akabane's fault. He was fine when he left the sanitarium.

*klonk* Frown.

He doesn't answer her first question, conspicuously, but still absolutely appreciates being warned. Though as she rounds the corner in full riot towels, he is grimly satisfied to see his number was absolutely put to good use. Even if the boy tilts his chin up in slow dismay at the shield she holds between them.

He doesn't flush, but he does take some tiny exception.
"Hey ... i-it's not like I'm some maniac..." he notes, catty and cavalier as he makes room for her to pass by, relaxing with the incense box clasped in a hand.

There's a moment when they are entirely too close, and Shiryuu notices, the soft brush of silk against her bare arm, so close to that Mark. Her warmth is noticed.

"...Hh..." He looks away, pointedly. "...you.."

'pushing it a little,' he suddenly remembers. "...No, it is not," Shiryuu finally says, quickly cutting the subject short. "The Miburo boy is earnest and honorable, but the difference between our power levels is the same as a trickle against a tsunami.."

*KLONK* Why does it sound like it's louder to him?? You can see the moment where Ryouhara visibly fails to relax the moment Umie is against outside of his immediate company, the boy gripping onto the incense box with both hands now, holding it close to his chest.

"I don't use it that often," Shiryuu remarks tensely. "But it's the primary selling point of the club," he says. "You're free to come and use it whenever you *klonk*...."

Sigh. What was he going to roast her about?

"I-- that wasn't what I was saying," Shiryuu sighs, sword-long in full objection. Turning on a hip, he's still holding the box with both hands, one index finger pointing at her. "I was just saying that you're thoroughly contaminated, so I intend to *klonk* --!-- rngh! I intend, thoroughly intend, to heat you up, not roast you."

Pause. Shiryuu frowns.

"Make you hot, that is."

Pause. The boy's withering glare can neuter a cat.

"/Boil you alive,/ don't test --" *klonk*

The boy sighs, tight-lipped and in full rout.
".... just scrub up, don't contaminate the bath before I come back."

He leaves her to wash up, while he deals with the clothes in the main room and lights incense to dispell the evil spirits he's sure came in with the zombie juice.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

"What, if I was that afraid, would I let you haul me in like a sack of potatoes?" Umie gives Shiryuu a lopsided smirk, tilting her head towards him. "I was trying to be gentle, and not prey on your noble, honorable nature."

*klonk* "Besides, I stink like un-death. You *really* want that on you when you got such nice clothes on?"

Yet, there's that brush of silk, as Umie presses her path just a little too close to Shiryuu, her bare upper arm brushing by. Having been covered previously by the combo of her long-sleeved shirt and jacket, it's not as gregious as the more exposed areas are, or the ones that have been throughly soaked by spare splatters of tarry gore and rain.

If she lingers a second, would anyone mind?
(.... Just a moment, before she realizes she should move on before she's tempted to stay longer.)

*klonk*

"So," Umie continues, raising a dark red nail as she's facing away from him, "it follows that you'd call anyone you perceive as respectable, but with a power level lower than yours, as a 'child'? Not to diminish them," she offers, carefully, "but to..."

No, she's trying to dress up what he did, all over again.

*klonk*

'I intend, thoroughly intend, to heat you up, not roast you.' Umie slowly turns, looking over her shoulder, lips pursed slightly, lower eyelids crinkling up over devilish red brown eyes.

'Make you hot, that is.' She hovers her fingers in front of her mouth, in a silent 'oh my' gesture.

'/Boil you alive,/ don't test --' *klonk*

"Hehe." She turns back. "Right, righttt. You can trust me."

After he leaves, and Umie begins the process of cleaning, she offers a final, parting shot:

"You better not peek," she says, in a singsong voice.

How is this the same melancholy girl on the wet sidewalk? The difference would lie with Shiryuu, but she avoids admitting to it, looking instead at the Mark on her arm as she begins showering down.

Nyarlathotep....

She shivers, despite the heat of the spray of water from the hose in her hand.

Tightening her lips, she powers through it, remembering, and feeling comfort in, the presence of Shiryuu nearby.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

The strange, awkward moment twists along in the air, like a leaf on the fall wind. The boy isn't inclined to move, his hand separated from her own only by a thin drape of silk. His eyes half-lid. This close, Ryouhara is .. tempted, to remain. To forget whatever it was he was doing. But..

Beneath his turtleneck, the boy swallows a lump in his throat.

...duty. Right.

*klonk.*

The wily blackbird's _infuriating facial expressions_ notwithstanding, the grey-haired boy manages little more than a tiny growl to carry out his frustration before he turns on a brisk heel, crashing out the moment he's out of eyesight.

"Iiih!! I am the leader!!" The boy declares, almost knocking the incense off the desk with furious clawed hands. "A shihaisha doesn't go around daydreaming about peeking at bunned devils!! No matter how good her fitness regimen is, I'd wrestle Kagutsuchi first!!"

Shiryuu angrily faces the folded-up pile of clothes, with an imperious glare. "Hmph," he declares to the stack, sliding his arms out of his sleeves of his damp, thoroughly desecrated haori, giving it its own courtesy sniff, before wrinkling his nose in distaste. The garment is folded, and draped over the curve in the cradle of the sword stand, shortly followed by his sword, which he rests curve-up in the stand's arms.

The interminable racket stirred by the noisemaker is almost forgotten, eclipsed by easy routine and fast decisions. Her clothes are gathered, pockets checked, loose change, phone, keys and varying other trinkets carefully removed and sorted on the desk. Then, Shiryuu throws the entire pile onto the bed, to fold the comforters over it. This is gathered into a bundle, which will later be surrendered to housekeeping to launder at a generous fee ('any price is fine, just make sure it's clean,' he'll say, as the new bedding and towels are delivered. Ostensibly he will remember to ask for a robe.)

It's actually quiet for a long time, as she washes up, as Shiryuu sets about cleaning up the little box, splitting it into two, unscrewing the tiny tools from it, and tamping a little wrapped paper package out. Cedar ash mounded in the censer, with the cursed sandalwood dust kneaded with oil until it's only a tiny ball. Shiryuu sits at the desk, working at it patiently, quietly. He bows his head once before he ignites the coal beneath the little mote.

He waits until it's quiet enough. *klonk*

"....Oi. Umie."

His hands lay flat on his thighs, working out his thoughts in the play against his fingertips, supporting himself as much as his thoughts.

He'd heard the way she trailed off, trying to reconcile something in her mind he can't quite put his finger on.

"...It's no different than it was at Jogashima," he says into the quiet. "If you need to..." he thinks, searching for the right word. Fight him, Stand against him? Hate him...? In the end, no words come to fit just right, and the boy's lips part. "....so be it," he continues, as if the word would take care of itself.

The tiny *klonk* of the noisemaker seems harsher now to his ear than it did even before. Such contraptions were used to scare away birds in the old times. Now, just sound. Just a way to space out the seconds.

"'That woman' you were fighting...she's someone I've placed under the clan's protective aegis," he states plainly. "At some point, it may come to be that we're..."

It's easier, talking to the next room, but some ideas are hard to convey no matter what. The boy lays his hands flat on the table, watching the incense smoulder, tiny amounts of smoke curling with its sweet, warm aroma.

He thinks of that room, and the scrawl across the wall. Of her.

"....it's important to me, that you do what you have to. To be able to stand proudly by an ideal."

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

Umie grins, as she hears the fluttering of the shihaisha's anger, like a controlled whirlwind.

'No matter how good her fitness regimen is, I'd--' He thinks she... well, yes, of course he likely thinks she looks nice, but he appreciates her fitness? Umie can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, something that surprises her, almost the point of dropping her spraynozzle.

"...." She's quiet a moment, patting a now cleaner hand against her cheek, as if to confirm its warmth.

"... I was recommended something called 'bouldering', from a friend," yeah let's just call Akechi a friend, "of mine. Sort of... a controlled way to strengthen myself." Her lips curve into a gentler, fond smile, carrying into her voice. "You were... really impressive too, when we were getting here. You did all that, while carrying me and my things."

She lets the silence move back in to populate the room, the quiet 'tock' of the bamboo an accent to the rush of water and the rustling shifting of things in the other room.

*klonk* 'Oi. Umie.'

"Yeah?"

It's no different than it was at Jogashima, Shiryuu says, with that quiet tone of his. And that woman...

To be able to stand proudly by an ideal.

Umie's eyelids lower, as she turns the sprayer off.

"What happened at Jogashima, that was... me communicating with you, directly."

*klonk*

"You mean a lot to me." Is this what he meant, by them being past dating? She can't delude herself into thinking her feelings only belong to herself.

"Do what you need to, and I'll do the same. Just know that... I only will use the amount of force I need, and no more." She wouldn't harm the Bride or the Groom, in the end; when the latter carried the Bridge away, Umie gave no thought to attacking, just to Kurou's safety.

*klonk*

"I'm not..." the strong person you think I am, she wants to say.

She thinks of that room, and those scrawls.

".... I've... never let anyone come as close as you have, to me. For so many reasons, I shouldn't have, but maybe, the idea that you were my enemy made me not care about being anybody else, but me."

*KLONK*

"If you were gone. It scares me, to feel like I'd... to be alone, with...""

An outline of an eye blinks, against a wall.
It's not there.

"The same thing that's in that serial killer, is in me, and in all of us, including those two."

* K L O N K *

Umie's voice grows more quiet still. "And that's even worse than being truly alone."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"Bouldering?" Ryouhara echoes, putting down the ash brush with a tiny clink, to set off against the little *klonk*. In his heightened state of agitation activated by being hassled, a hundred thoughts broadside across the inside of the boy's skull. Is this that person she respects? No, she didn't describe that one as a friend. Wait a minute.

"Iiih..." he sweats. "Are you breaking boulders??" Incredulous. Even Shiryuu has to use explosives to get that done. Is her core strength really that powerful?? What if she decides to break him too? Shiryuu suddenly is victim to a tremendous influx of anxiety.

and curiosity. *klonk* shut up

He almost forgets she's complimenting him, in the exchange. Actually, he's really forgetting just about everything. "Eh.. I mean... it's fine, just, ah, my training. I'll do better next time," he insists, suddenly remembering the trip here, and how hard he had to try not to slip and faceplant the two of them in concrete, or when he got a little cramp in his thigh and had to walk it out. Honestly his thigh still hurts a little bit if he's thinking on it. Ah--ugh. Don't tell her anything, Shiryuu.

"...."

The unyielding chain of agitated thoughts subsides quickly, like a summer storm. The bamboo cup teeters, then drops in the background as he falls silent, letting the pour of water trickle into the following silence.

"...No matter what amount of force we use," the boy reflects, quiet and slow. "...and no matter what side we're on... people will get hurt anyway. It's in the nature of these things we do." It's what fighting demons entails.

"It's important to face it, with full resolve and spirit."

Shiryuu hears what she says, at first. 'You mean a lot to me.' It's not something he responds to at first, preferring instead to address the practical thought, to say the right thing first.

But then everything else is left, and...

"...both of you are under my protection," he says simply, trying to make sense of the matter rationally, no matter how hard his heart beats in his chest. There's something in her voice, something haunted. The boy stands from the seat, taking with him the scent of sandalwood as it clings to the wool in his sweater. He steps closer to the washroom, but stops before it hooks around into the open room, out of respect. She can't see the way he touches the wall, with her just beyond. But he sounds closer now.

"...she's someone I think I owed a debt to. I would like to see her child enter into a peaceful life, as best we can. But that organization... is not kind."

*klonk*.

"...I don't know anything about what I saw in that room," he tells her, absently touching the silk cordage that hangs low on his wrist.

"...but.."

The boy thinks hard on it, picking his way through the abomination all over again. "...I do know... sharing a legacy with an evil person doesn't doom you to also be a monster. The dark isn't always that simple."

The boy rests with those thoughts, folding his arms and settling against the outside edge of the doorframe. The far wall across from the washroom's entrance serves as his attention's focus, that empty space where wall scrolls used to hang before he took them down. He listens to the water, the patient little plunk.

"...what happened at Jogashima," his thoughts finally alight upon the heaviest subject. "I ... think.." he pauses, looking up for the will.

"...I realized, then, that I did want to ask you that question, forever ago, at the yakitori stand. I think that you were the person that I wanted to ask most. And .. I think I realized why."

He doesn't ask the question.

"...anyway. If it's for you, it's fine. I won't let you be alone. Even if you try to kill me, you won't have to worry. I'll be three times as invincible. That's what counts." He presses a thumb into his chest, deeply confident.

"It's what's in your heart that matters. And mine is steel."

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

Breaking boulders? Umie snickers. "No, ah, like... rock climbing, but it's much shorter heights. There's no ropes, so you have to navigate from hold to hold with a lot of thought."

No, there is no room for mercy, Shiryuu. You are in the lion's den. "Ah... so you want to train carrying me around more~?"

The playful banter subsides, leaving the quiet klonk of the bamboo pipe and their thoughts, in the large space.

'No matter what amount of force we use...'

To face it, with full resolve and spirit.

When he's like this, a part of Umie's heart begins to flutter, just so. The notes have to be right, the tone quiet, the mood bare of brassy bravado.

Just a boy's words, thoughtful, unhurried.

Trusting in her ability to rise to the occasion, as she must do.

"... Then I'll meet you there, at the bar you've set for yourself." She draws a tendril of wet hair against her ear, her skin prickling against the cold beginning to seep in. "But I'll do things my way."

How like her.

And how like him, to respond to her confession with anything but.

Something '''prickles''' at her heart, whispering how this was a betrayal, and that he truly didn't love--

wait, love?!

His voice is closer, now, and her confusion over her own feelings recedes, for now, existing only in the way her heart beats.

"... I want you to uphold that promise to her," she says. Later, something in her heart will accuse Shiryuu of betrayal again, only to be forced to bleed away in the face of these words. "She needs someone to protect her and her baby, too."

Her eyelids lower. "The other two with me were SEES students. They were just as concerned for the Bride's baby as I was, and we all tried to work around it. But things may not work out that way, next time."

The things in that room....

"...." Shapes crawl through the lingering steam: butterflies and eyes, fanciful images, prophecies scrawled in chalk and paint.

'The dark isn't always that simple.'

A question.
What is the question?

'If it's for you, it's fine.'

"Shiryuu..." SHe wants to say something, blast out another quip to hide the naked truth of her feelings, and why her heart beats the way it does.

"... I told prophecies, too. Ones like those on the walls. I was just a kid, back, then." She gets up, walking over to the tub, in order to carefully step in. ".... I probably told you this, but... they were lies that I told my parents."

There's a sound of a rush of water as the tub overfills, and she sinks in, her head poking against the edge. "My parents got absorbed into this weird group. First my dad, then, my mom. There was all this talk, about how all of this suffering was to go towards this sinless, pure world, and how..." She trails off. It really wasn't important, that part. "Nothing I did was ever good enough, when that happened. Grades, friends, what I was interested in, how I acted... so I began to tell them about my visions, about this 'better world'. They probably just humored me, but one day... the lies wouldn't stop."

"After that, it was just a matter of time before..." She frowns. It happened... before, huh.

"I felt like I recognized those writings, somehow, even if I've never been in that room before." She lets out a burble of a chuckle. "That strange 'deja vu' people keep talking about... I finally get it, and it's over this shit."

....

"My photo was on his wall, but that felt like the least disturbing thing. The other part..."

Water drips from her hair. "Did you go into that room? And if you did.... did you see the name, besides the drawing of the eye?"

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Somewhere between this and that, Ryouhara had stopped paying attention to anything else. The infuriating sound of the noisemaker, the sound of the water, the scent of the incense chasing away the malign scent of the undead. He doesn't see the empty wall, and he's really only peripherally aware when she slips into the tub. Not even his thoughts, the streak of unreality in his memories, or the things he wants to say the most to her have any relevance to him, in that moment.

"Aaa," he replies distantly, arms still folded. As if keeping his promises -- to everyone -- was a foregone conclusion. It was secondary.

The grey-headed boy's feelings were a far-flung and distant third priority, if even that. His heartbeat is steady and even, and however fast it moved only a few moments ago, he carefully keeps it in rein. It doesn't matter.

Instead, the crow in him is focused on her voice, attuned finely to the details, a creature very much of sound. And, he thinks, if he pays close enough attention ... he can hear the slightest bit of sadness in it.

"The sinless world." Shiryuu echoes the oft-repeated refrain with an edge of derision in his voice. A child, left all on her own. Shiryuu knows some of the story.

'After that...'

"...they put you in front of the head," Shiryuu notes, thinking hard to lace together the pieces he already knows. "And then... you were hospitalized."

A little girl, tortured for hoping for her parent's love. Ryouhara's eyes half-lid, ice cold brown reflected in his irises. His mien is a thin pressed, noncommittal line of icy consideration. For a second, his thoughts stray from her, and take a very different tack indeed.

He only warms when she asks him if he went there.

"...aa," he confirms.
"I saw you there."

The admission is quiet, the implication passing fast, like a leaf in the wind. A tiny, small sniff cracks the air, as the onmitsu catches a disagreeable hint of sandalwood. "Was it a name?" he asks. Shiryuu's memory is very, very sharp, and the peculiar arrangement of letters stood out amidst the ravings. N Y A R.

"At the time... most of it didn't mean anything at all to me ... just some words, painted in the reprobate theatrics of a man who needs to choke on a knife. But.."

... they meant more to her, didn't they? That was a name? The thought goes unsaid, instead the boy settling into a thought, a silver strung moment.

He settles on his better nature.

"... hey, Akabane ..."

The boy thinks hard about it, something sitting with him as ill, wrong.
"..This world isn't... kind. But ... it's not sinful, like they say, either. Maybe ... not today. But ... maybe you tell me about what else you were interested in, back then. And... the friends you had. And ... your grades."

The sinless world doesn't really matter to him.
And he's not afraid of that eye, whether it's on a wall or on her arm.
But someone should hear that little girl.

"Even if it's late... if it's okay. I'd like to hear it sometime."

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

Shiryuu isn't the only one here paying attention to each minute shift. Turning in the bath so that she can perch her chin on the tub's edge, Umie tries to identify where Shiryuu is, mentally drawing in his outline on the other side of the room.

''They all choose something else, instead of what's here. This Umie Akabane, and the world she lives in, is not good enough for them.''

'The sinless world' has no room for an Umie Akabane, or a Shiryuu Ryouhara, for that matter.

Anger, like a sharpened pen knife, wedges itself into her thoughts, digging in deeper with each run of the thought through her mind.

'.... they put you in front of the head.' It stops her from going further, as Shiryuu inadvertently brings the image of her parents having to stay behind, as Tatsuzou urged her on with a grace that felt grandfatherly to Umie at the time. (That, perhaps, was just her inflicting what she wanted to see in the old man, at the time.)

"My parents weren't the ones to do that," Umie says, after a pause. "As far as they knew, I went to go see the Order's highest sage. Since it was sacred ground... only certain people could enter that place." A sacred place-- a white shrine, cast in the red line of the sacred bonfire. Thinking back on Akechi's words on how dangerous just this much is... "Just by knowing what you know, if you didn't know this already, I've placed you in a lot of danger."

....
'I saw you there.' "... The white crow." She smiles fondly, at the memory, and at the warmth in Shiryuu's voice. "He was cute." She was in a hallway, hiding from many, many people who would likely understand, or at least try to, with her struggles.

It would take a crow to know another crow's tricks.

Was it a name? "The Old Maid had mentioned the name before."

"Nyarlathotep." She says it, quietly, like it could sneak past without anyone noticing.

K L O N K K L O N K K L O N K K L O N K

What would be a single sound for Shiryuu's ears is magnified in Umie's, startling her.

".... I'm fine!" she yells, instantly, a foot angled out of the bath to hold the noisemaker in place with a clasp of her toes.

'... hey, Akabane ....' She lets the bamboo piece drop free from her grip. "Mmn?"

The world isn't kind...
... but it isn't sinful, either.

And the boy that had threatened her, held a blade to her throat, had told her how terrible it was for her to become his enemy...

... wants to know her memories, of the things she did. What a normal life is like, for an Umie Akabane.

She's finding herself tracing the outline of Shiryuu again with her eyes, her fingertips resting on the tub's edge with the lightest touch.

"I'd... like to hear the same about you. What it was like, growing up in Akita, what you did to pass the time. What you liked to do. Your friends."

"And even if you can't tell me about any of those things, you can tell me about the rain."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

His hands never quite sit still, a tiny tap of his small finger on the dense wool sheathing his upper arm, idly drumming a miniscule rhythm against his bicep. The boy is otherwise shock still, arms folded, one sneaker crossed in front of the other. His voice is low, calm, never quite disquieted, but never quite relaxed either.

Every step closer to a 'bond' is a dangerous one, isn't it...

Speaking of. ".... Iih."

He shakes his head slowly. He was the one who warned her after all, about placing the Order's name in the open air. But this was a different assertion, a different time. That was forever ago, wasn't it?

"... it wouldn't matter what you said," the boy replies, his voice trailing off, thoughtfully.

"We are not mice.."

The thought comes from beyond the borderposts of that invincible rhetoric, a raw, untame thought. The way he says it, trailing low at the end... it begs words left unsaid. 'We are not mice...'

'...not anymore, and never again.'

He leaves behind the idea of her parents, of relations, and being alone. His illusion, though her reaction drags a hidden face in the awkward pause that follows. Cute?? ... it must be a girl thing.

Shiryuu leaves it aside and doesn't object to anything he made being labeled cute, in a Herculean effort. It helps that his mind is on other things. "...I'd tried, already, to kill that man." The harsh cicada buzz of desaturated memory of dance floors without color reminds him in painful reproach. "....Now," he says, his breath hitching lightly on the sharp, clarion sound between his ears. "... it's up to you all to succeed where I failed."

"None of you deserve to go it alone."

Nyarlathotep. The onmitsu barely gets the time to focus on the name, before the sound of the noisemaker and her subsequent surprise jar him from his regrettable acceptance of it. Shiryuu is intensely attuned to sounds, and the panic in her voice and accompanying splash almost sees the boy cutthe noisemaker off of its mooring with Juurishojin's blade, still coiled up at his wrist.

Luckily, the content of her words reaches him shortly after her distress, and he doesn't incur any unfortunate charges on his host bill.

... the toebox of his house shoe taps against the wood flooring.

Ryouhara reins in every instinct he has, filing them down as she instead thinks about the rain. His eyes raise up, brown against the light. Any objections, or other such argument fades in the sunlight of that honesty. For a moment, Shiryuu truly doesn't know what to say.

"We'll.." the boy thinks aloud, in that room just beyond. He never finishes his thought. *Klonk* the noisemaker goes politely as Umie releases it. The boy frowns.

A tiny, slow sigh, as he steps off the wall.

Shiryuu has never really been the type to worry overmuch about skin. The boy's footfalls are hushed to a sound just above silent as he pads into the room after her, mindfully taking off his house shoes just before he enters the washroom area. There is no announcement, but Shiryuu is not looking at her. Instead, the boy stretches out an arm, pulling -- is that a garrotte wire??

With nary more than the whisper of his clothes and the warm scent of sandalwood, that boy kneels beside Akabane by the soaking tub and with slow, crisp movements, ties up the noisemaker for her.

"...we'll have to ask fate to grace us with more time together," Shiryuu finishes thinking in that closer space. He's careful enough to suspend the bamboo tube at half-drop before twisting together the ends of his wire. It lets the water from the spigot trickle off of it and into the basin, without splashing everywhere.

It's probably bad luck, somehow. It doesn't matter to him.

Shiryuu is very intent on looking at the 'fixed' noisemaker, instead of literally anywhere else. No, it doesn't really matter to him, but... "...sorry," the boy says, straightening. The onmitsu turns, to attend the linens.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

'We are not mice...' She waits for the answer that felt like it was coming in Shiryuu's voice, but like the question he intended to ask her that one night, he leaves it unsaid.

So there is Umie, in the round tub; if her hair wasn't done up in a single bun but instead two, she'd be a proper mouse.

A tiny hawk is as much a predator as a giant eagle, as the steel in Umie's voice calls out in an echo to Shiryuu's own.

"... We'll succeed, Shiryuu. He's got less places to go now."

'None of you deserve to go it alone.' ".... Neither do you." Insistent, persistent, resistant; all three apply to Umie Akabane, right now.

... And the beat of those words exist in Shiryuu, in a different key.

Just like how Umie's heart charges a beat faster as she hears Shiryuu's movements, the pause of him taking off his house slippers, and--

Pressing her knees to her chest, her cheeks still red, she forces herself further into the tub, trying to mask any hint of something more secret disappearing into the steaming water. He's not looking at her, after all. Aside from a comment about her abs, or a quiet appreciation or satisfaction of an outfit, he's never shown any indication that he'd someone she couldn't trust to be respectful. So instead, there's no exclamation, only her back turned to him, knees pressed in as she sinks down, her chin touching the water.

.... He smells like sandalwood.

Wait, is that... wire?

Her head turns, trying to look towards him as he kneels beside her, so close that she can see his hands move, and hear the brush of his clothing.

Soon enough, the act is dropped; there's a face there watching him, her body angling to avoid anything showing as she watches him work.

'... we'll have to ask fate to grace us with more time together.'

"My, my," Umie breathes. "I never thought you'd leave anything to chance."

The playful comment is replaced by something softer, as the onmitsu turns.

"... What was the question, Shiryuu? The one you were going to ask me."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

The boy is fast with the wire. Despite appearing relatively less than hostile at the moment, it's hard to forget that it's very seldom that Shiryuu Ryouhara is not armed to the teeth. And in so doing, the ninkougakusha ties snug the offending piece, its fate sealed the moment it disturbed Akabane's peace.

Somewhat tellingly, his own is a secondary concern. That does not mean he isn't grimly satisfied when the telltale *klonk* and *splash* is replaced with a steady thread of hot water rippling on the surface of the bath.

But...

They are unconscionably close. In his work, the onmitsu is hyperaware of her, though his eye-line remains locked dead forward, with little variance. With it, her words meander across his mindspace, itself a featureless, flat plain instead of the convoluted network of impulses and thoughts that normally plague him.

The shape of her words are different now, this close.

His hands still on the final tie of the wire. "... I've lived an advantageous existence," the boy replies, carefully. It feels better, correct, to say it like that. It wouldn't be right, proper to let victims stand for the guilty. And, he is...

Even if, when he thinks about more time with her...

He's still looking towards the wall when the blonde devil decides to tease. He's crouched there aside the tub, his elbows sliding over his knees, hands hung in the space between.

"...I..."

It feels like everything she's said, from training to carry her to that frustrating 'oh my' face in the minutes previous all rush in to finally hit critical. His cheeks grow warm, and his glance runs the fine stone line of the basin without turning his head, beyond one single infinitesimally small degree. He is painfully aware of the distance between them. And ... it's really the only time she'll catch him flush and at a loss.

He really doesn't know what to say.

'...Sorry,' he'd settled on.

He'd stepped away quickly. She can see the cloth wraps over the arches of his bare feet as he goes, picking up her towel and re-folding it neatly. A second towel, the one she was using prior for protection, stacked neatly atop, placed as close as possible to arm's reach on the deck without... well. Another cabinet opened. Another (...) towel. At least this one is smaller.

The sound of the faucet fills the room, the hand basin on the other side of the washroom filling. Cool water runs over the small towel, Ryouhara working quietly to wring the towel out in two hands.

'What was the question, Shiryuu?'

The sound of the lever squeaks lightly as the water shuts off, as the basin drains. For awhile, the onmitsu is quiet, fangs and strands of stringy grey darkening his eyesight. For a second, he's simply tempted to gloss over it, dismiss it as unimportant. There's a hundred other things to attend to that take priority. It would be rational.

"....It's.." Torrent thought arrested in his head, the boy pauses, picking his way through, eyes downcast. "...something I've been thinking about, for a long time."

A slow blink. "About the way people naturally relate to eachother. I .. lived well, so .. it's different for the people I meet, it's only natural to expect that."

He's punishing that towel, with all the wringing.

"... and.. it was when you told me about when you escaped your bubble of safety, how you'd never go back to a normal, boring role again. It was when I'd decided you were 'my responsibility.' ... it was simple, then. I think I just wanted to see you be free. But... I thought ... if we to become close... does that mean I would hold you back?"

By now, the grey-haired boy has ruthlessly wrung all the drips out of the now-damp towel. He smooths it out on the edge of the basin, uses it as basis for a fold. It's absolutely a pretense, something.. anything to keep his hands busy.

The empty-headed boy frowns.
"It's strange ... not to know what 'it' even is supposed to look like."

His shoulders sink into the weight of his frame, the boy setting down the towel so that he can sink his hands into the smooth finish of the basin around it.

He recites it slowly. "'If freedom is important... what does a 'bond' mean to Umie Akabane?'"

A beat passes, just long enough for him to breathe. "I've asked the question... a lot. But the answer never sounds right to my ear. Not unless 'that person' tells me, I thought. Not unless I hear it from you."

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

Watching him work has always been like a window into a different side of Shiryuu, someone without all the prideful trappings and pomp that, while it has its own charm, overshadows the quiet underpinnings that mark the onmitsu.

"I guess we have that in common," she says to Shiryuu's side lightly. "You'd probably not think it from my apartment, though."

The pink the settles on Shiryuu's cheeks make Umie stop, briefly wondering if she stepped too far. Her own cheeks, already flush from the heat of the water, somehow manage to redden just a note more. For someone whose background is as old-fashioned as Shiryuu's, would that really matter that her body isn't visible? He doesn't even let himself be underdressed. This may even be the first time she's really seen his bare feet-- well, mostly bare, as his arches are wrapped in cloth.

Umie remains silent after launching that question, letting the grey-haired boy have the silence to process it without a single comment or tease.

It may have been the cruelest thing she could have unintentionally done at that moment, not providing any safe harbor for Shiryuu to hide from his own words and thoughts. All he has is his actions, like the towels that are meticulously folded and placed within reach, which Umie extends a hand to slide them the rest of the way to her, once Shiryuu's turned away.

'... if we to become close... does that mean I would hold you back?' "..." Something inside her tenses, afraid of what would happen if she answered the question wrong. Still, the very act of him asking her turns in her heart, as she regards him with a certain fondness.

As she crosses her forearms over the edge of the tub, creating a space to lean her head into, her eyes shift down to the matte black of the Mark. What sort of mark did Shiryuu carry, to place himself as separate from others in a way that felt painfully resonant?

The water trickles into the tub, reserving the space where Umie would normally speak. "No, that's... not strange at all, to not know. I'm not so sure I..." She doesn't finish it; her eyes instead follow up the line of Shiryuu's back, his posture, seeing the way he folds that towel.

"Freedom was what I lacked, so... everything else felt unimportant."

'The absence of something holding you down--some call it 'freedom', and are glad for it. ...But 'untied' is another word for 'alone'.' Oh, if only Shiryuu knew that it's Reiya's words she's remembering. She wasn't even asking for advice, he just said that.

"Someone getting close to me meant them having to find out all those things about me that I've kept secret." But what about Shiryuu, then? He's being vulnerable now-- how could she answer him, in a way he'd understand?

".... Remember, in Tartarus? When I looked back at you, and you responded? It was natural; you understood why I looked back at you, and I understood your response. We didn't have some kind of telepathic connection or plan; it was something we had built up to."

"I think... that is a bond. Not that moment, specifically, but that slow--"

Umie trails off as a dark-haired girl is suddenly there, next to Shiryuu, sitting within the trajectory of Umie's line of sight as she looks at Shiryuu's face. There's no weight on Shiryuu's hands, no depressed fabric from where she sits. She's not even a ghost; her entirety lies within the mind that observes her.

"...." A trap. Don't react to her, Umie thinks. "... build-up."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Yes. Trying to pick out his thoughts from the pure empty sky, he is acutely aware of that quiet. The silence burns like a brand, the absence of her voice for him to fix on manifests in the way he works, his hands faster, more restless. Idle hands are the devil's plaything, and there are no hands less idle than his.

The damp towel is folded over twice and once again, in fitful attempt, the wet linen contemplated before being unfolded, thrown over into a chevron style shape againt the basin's edge.

"...Aa," he thinks. "It's nice of you to say."
"Your apartment... absolutely not," Ryouhara decides quietly.
"But... it's comfortable. For the moment."

It's possibly the closest she'll come to a tacit admission that her cozy nook in Shibuya is even livable, let alone thriving by the onmitsu's standards. Stripped bare of the pretense, with only his intense disquiet to carry his thoughts, Shiryuu is far less inclined to the performative.

After all, she's ...
Shiryuu closes his eyes, now acutely aware of the disadvantage he's at. Why wasn't it important at all in Sendai? He'd been much closer and in far more forward company.

The boy he remembers was slung deeply into the sofa, lost somewhere in the labyrinth of soft touch, a bramble the affections of the ambitious. It doesn't feel like he felt ... anything at all ... back then. Or would he remember it at all, if he could? The days then lack color..

Days like this, not being able to see beyond that boy's 'helmet' seems more of a curse than a blessing. What was it he felt...? Was it anything like now?

"...Ah.." he finally breathes, sliding a hand into his hairline to soothe himself. The way he speaks, it's very evident that he appreciates her assertion as a privileged caste, but..

... no matter how nice the house, the idea of a poor, heartbroken child all alone in it haunts him.

'I'm not sure I...'

His hands still on the damp towel still on the basin as he listens, bold brown eyes focused on the middle space of nothing. Were it not for the 'forbidden distance' between them, she'd be seeing his eyes closely, but as it is, the eye that is even partially turned towards her is his left -- the unnatural, modified one. At the end of it, the raw unfinished hemp edge of the braid of thoughts, drifts an open question, the very same one she navigates so carefully.

And the boy is quiet.

Does he remember that night in Tartarus? "Aa." It would be hard not to, the fear he'd felt of it not being enough. The worry he'd had of her being hurt. The appreciation of the way she found her way on his path, as he exceeded his own ability. The ache he'd felt in his hands as he pushed harder, and wanted her to go as far as she wanted. But, even with that apex, the boy's attention shifts in that space she makes with the pause in her voice. A brief suspicion draws his attention, carefully trying to trace the source of that shade of displeasure. ..was it him, somehow?

...his smile is faint.
"...look at us, then."

A slow, quiet breath out, as the onmitsu's eyes close.

With reservation, he turns, padding towards that soaking tub, the little chevron of a damp towel folded and held in both hands. He's walked back and forth enough that 'seeing' is not entirely important. Instead, the boy navigates by sound alone, by the feel of his bare feet on the boards, by the way his words come back to him.

"'Synthesis' is a phenomenon where every person has a bond, and through that bond, is connected to everyone else. One great conduit to unify the world. It's what I hope for this place, not that dismal world of theirs. But ..."

The boy slowly kneels before her, closer now than he was before. Unlidding his eyes, he allows himself that much; to trace the bare line of her neck, the subtle shape of her chin and the bounds of her hair. He sighs, as he kneels on the other side of the wooden boards hiding the tub and its deck, prim, heels to thighs. Once there, he's mostly at eye level with Akabane; the reflection of the light dancing off the surface of the water.

"..." It's very hard for him to form a comparable thought to the one he'd had when his eyes were closed, and it shows in the faraway distance of his voice. "That all starts with a 'bond.' If I don't.."

That grey-haired boy thinks, his eyes peeling off of hers, never quite settling. It's only when he realizes her cheeks are rosed from the heat of the bath that he remembers what he was doing at all. He reaches over slowly, patiently, to take Umie by the nape of the neck, to give her something to rest against as he presses the cool compress of the towel against her cheek, bleeding off the heat with his touch, the cradle of her jawline in his hands.

No matter how hot she likes it, she'll get nauseous if she soaks too long and doesn't regulate her temperature. Shiryuu is patient even while fretting, pressing the damp, cool towel to her forehead, in lieu of saying literally anything else.

And then the chevron-folded towel is crowned atop her head, leaving the edges of the shape a perfect cut to make room for the single bun on her head. A soft, quiet, sword-long sigh from that boy as he settles, who only just now can meet that woman's eyes with his own, two disagreeing shades of brown rising. He is, in that moment, brave. It's a strange time for it, isn't it?

But even so.. the thought of 'doubt' dies, the boy abandoning his notion then and there. "... I want to find out with you, what that is. You're important to me as well."

"And ... I'd like you to be my 'bond.'"

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

"Of course. I can't let Ryouhara-kun deal with my mess." And in fact, Umie has been keeping up on making sure things are moderately cleaned up for Kurou's comfort, as well as to ensure at least some space exists for him to relax in.

To have someone regard your place as 'warm', when you had seen it as simply a means to an end, had awakened something within Umie. Maybe, then, he'd look for the same in his own surroundings...

.... it'd be sad to see him go when he does, but likely for the best, given what happened at the sanitarium. What would people like Hyousuke and Minako think, if they saw Kurou heading for her apartment?

At the same time, Shiryuu thinks about Sendai, and the monochrome memories that feel like another world, and may as well be. There is no part of Umie Akabane that would be in those memories; no sharply smiling teasing, no quiet moments where the gremlin seemed to thrive in. No moments of someone falling asleep on Shiryuu, or finding comfort in his presence as he had in hers.

Umie wouldn't consider it a bad thing; she'd find it sad that he's been so rudely disconnected from them, especially when she feels she herself was the cause of that disconnect.

That night in Tartarus... even if Umie hadn't hugged Shiryuu that night, she imagines Hyousuke would still make that connection between her and Shiryuu. For two people to respond and act in such a way...

But there is a girl in a red kosode there, smiling coyly as her tabi-covered feet, peeking from underneath the hem of the richly patterned garment, swing to and fro in languid movements. Watching. Waiting for things to go wrong, as they always have.

'Look at us, then.' He closes his eyes, making a quiet path to the soaking tub without the aid of sight. "...." Umie's mouth opens slightly, about to say a warning, or point out he might trip. She makes the decision to not say a thing a nanosecond later, as Shiryuu exerts his confidence with a soundless grace, save for his words.

One great conduit to unify the world. A part of Umie's mind bristles at that, looking for some catch like it was another one of the NWO's many pretty claims. A vision, whose weight and price is kept underneath, to ensure no one is distracted from the goal.

All one needs is to give everything.

Yet, this is the boy who told Umie to fight him, if needed, and to stand for what she believed in, something none of the NWO would ever be caught doing, especially if it deterred from their goals. But the idea of connection... that itself... "Like ripples on on the water's surface." Things people do, and say, and act, and how those, in turn, influence others, whether in positive or negative ways.

Whatever thoughts she has, they flee in the wake of Shiryuu's closeness. "...." His eyes travel her face and neck as hers cover his, unable to see or care about a single other presence in the room with them.

If there was ever a detail that could identify the photo of that slightly younger Umie Akabane, it would be the small mark below her right eye-- a beauty mark, some would call it. That itself never changed, though the hair color and expression did.

This, Shiryuu may notice, if he hasn't already, especially as his hands press cool against her skin, the cloth siphoning away the heat, her eyelids briefly fluttering before she has a chance to stop herself from--

Oh, no, on second thought, fuck that, she'll relish this; her eyes close, and her head weighs heavy against Shiryuu's touch; the corners of her mouth angled upward, slightly.

When she opens them again, she sees Shiryuu's own, mismatched shades of brown.

He reciprocates Umie's feelings. It takes everything to keep herself from reaching her hands to caress his brave, vulnerable face.

She's still in the tub, after all...

"Of course." Her voice is a soft whisper, lacking any irony. Underneath it all, she's as romantic as the next person, and just as weak to such words from someone she cares for.

"... It'll be a complicated one, you know." Her eyes are shining, as she gazes at the onmitsu. "But I think... you prefer that, don't you?"

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

'Like ripples on the water's surface.'

"Just so," Ryouhara confirms, kneeling close to her just then.
There is something awakened and activated in Shiryuu as he looks after her, his touch careful yet firm, the cool press of the damp terrycloth a fitting surrogate for skin. Hands that can't stop moving are still and calm when the boy comes aware of her, the way she relaxes into his wrists and care. Anxious, fitful movements are slower now, tiny beads of perspiration patiently daubed away, the boy attending to rosed cheeks before bestowing upon her her due crown.

There is something in her--a warm, unrestrained, fey presence that makes it far easier to misplace troubled thoughts. Easier to push the thought of neon rooms turned to cruel greyscale out of relevance, replaced with an ephemeral constellation of minuscule details, keeping his attention as captive as all of the facets of a deep crystal.

It doesn't matter. Not much does.

His hands -- hungry, stifled things though they are -- are reluctant to leave her, not in that vertiginous, chasmal space before and between 'yes' or 'no.' Instead of minding his own, he is content holding her custom; one of those myriad facets capturing his memory all anew. The beauty mark just below her eye enjoys the slow blink, the tiny saccade of his attention. Traced beneath a wondering thumb, the boy lingers with her far, far longer than he needs to.

It is better, perhaps, that she doesn't get the boy wet by inadvertently splashing him.

Slowly, the searchlight interest of the boy's own confession flickers, shaded by sprigs of grey and the glint of his jade pendants. The gravity of the moment plays out in his heartbeat, quickening as a single, unbidden notion echoes along a thoughtless plain. A realization of how vulnerable he is to her; and exactly which words she could say to spear him right here.

Those words... are never said.

"...mm." The slow, cool rinse of satisfaction steals the anxious verve from his shoulders. His countenance breaks in the face of her answer; a sharp, intent confession gives softer way to something that could at best be described as a half smile. As with so many things, the boy replies wordlessly, the warm vibrancy of his satisfied sound a subtlety that says it most.

He rests his hands on the deck of the tub, slowly shifting his weight forward, into the long pitch of his knees, into his hips. The boy leans to cross that space between them, temporarily giving her bare skin the warmth of not water, but his own thick wool and the paint of his struggle with the incense.

The kiss he gives as he leans into her, left uninterrupted, is soft, sweet, brief, his lips barely touching hers for long than a second, perhaps a scandalous two, the muted crack of affection softened by the boy's gentle, eagerly pure heat.

It is, notably, not even a tenth of what they've already shared.
But it feels like a 'thank you' all the same.

He doesn't mean to interrupt her bath -- instead, the boy settles relatively quickly, resting back so that he can share space with her on the deck, folding his arms in front of him on their very edge, so that he can tuck his chin -- and most of his face -- in the crossing between his forearms. It causes his voice to be slightly muffle by his own wool, comically.

Luckily, Shiryuu the master orator is not at all in attendance today. "Is it?" the boy asks, more of a curious thought than any true question. Is it complicated at all...? There's a lot of things about bonds that Shiryuu doesn't understand.

But 'what he wants' is not one of them.

He watches her carefully, eyes open and tracing lazily along her neckline. "...I should check and see if they have a robe in your size," Ryouhara thinks aloud.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

Like ripples across the water's surface.
An attack on the beach. A threat in a dark corner of an underground mall. Warnings cast to certain people (even a brief mention to Joker, ironically), a boy with a sad, bent umbrella being bought a new one, a meeting that ended with a trip for shoes, another for yakitori, an angry meeting with a ghost under a green moon, and more, more after that...

Each a drop that resonates across the ties of one to another, drawing out sides and words normally kept hidden. She had described her relationship to Hyousuke as 'an understanding', but that was an understatement.

There's a trust in how Umie's head rests against Shiryuu's hands, an unwinding that comes easier to her since that night when he offered to her his shoulder.

It would be a simple matter of spearing the boy through with words, like Umie did at Jogashima. There, they stood on equal grounds, each having their own matters to turn their will into steel.

Umie's gaze outlines the half smile on Shiryuu's face; she answers it with an equally wordless smile, her eyes glinting in the scattered light of the bath.

A rustle of clothing and a kiss, barely louder than the drip of water from the spigot, pure in a way their kissing at Jogashima was not.

There is nothing to release here; just a content softness of two people who have confessed, and made a tranquil pact of bonds.

His warmth leaves her, instead settling down, sharing a space where Umie lets out a content giggle.

No one, least of all Shiryuu, shall ever find how cute she finds him in that exact moment, as he wonders at Umie's question.

She just doesn't say anything, letting her impish smirk make endless explanations, none of them particularly enlightening.

There will be room for many lessons, in the future.

"I suppose that'd be a good idea." Umie's eyelids lower, angling her head back. "Better not take too long... I may dissolve in the steam and become a steam yokai, forever doomed to haunt this single tub..."

Her body lowers in the water, in preparation; during all of this, she's still managed to keep her modesty, whether due to Shiryuu's own attention to his angles, or her own positioning.

This does not change here, as she lifts a hand up now, in order to brush a wet thumb against Shiryuu's cheek with the utmost affection.

"You'd have to rent this room so many times, in order to kiss me." It lingers there, then lifts, to take a gentle detour against his lips, lifting before the temptation grows too great.

"Ah, it's not as cute when my fingers are all wrinkly..."

A Badb's smile is then hidden underneath the surface of the water, its owner content with a new prize, as Shiryuu has gained his own.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"/..../"

That onmitsu is deeply suspicious, not understanding in the slightest how and why that devillish blonde giggles, whose ear-to-ear smirk implies enough potential answers that any particular answer is not easily guessable.

Even so, the boy's expression narrows, brows arching sharply enough to rival a bird's wings at full dive. It's easy to imagine him leaping back in full revolt whem she paints his features softly with a water-gnarled finger.

No.. he seems to like it.. wrinkles and all.

Yes. She complains, and the boy is -very- serious when he looks her in the eye.

Don't let her win, Shiryuu.

'You'd have to rent this room so many times..' "You can become a demon witch a hundred times if you want," the boy points out, calm and cavalier as he finally makes the move to get up with a tiny breath. No sleeping legs this time.

"I'm rich, and the staff gives me a shihaisha discount. I'll kiss you as I like..."

</poem>

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2026-03-06: Shades of White

2026-03-07T08:42:02Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Cutscene: Shades of White''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara *'''Where:''' The Morimoto Sanitarium Atop Mt. Katatsumuri *'''OOC Date:''' 2026-03-06 *'''IC Date:''' Oct 6th, 2012 *'''Summary''': ''Shirogarasu, with his attendants, also ascended the mountain during that tumultuous time. He sentthem away, before proceeding onward alone. He is not a creature accustomed to standing idly by.'' ---- <poem> His shadow casts long against the halls of the sanitariu..."

*'''Cutscene: Shades of White'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' The Morimoto Sanitarium Atop Mt. Katatsumuri
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-03-06
*'''IC Date:''' Oct 6th, 2012
*'''Summary''': ''Shirogarasu, with his attendants, also ascended the mountain during that tumultuous time. He sentthem away, before proceeding onward alone. He is not a creature accustomed to standing idly by.''

----
<poem>

His shadow casts long against the halls of the sanitarium.

The movements of the Taiwanese had drawn him out, but as expected, the attack did not go well. But that's not a concern for him. The flash of the black blade is swift, merciless, with no quarter given or consideration to the souls that once inhabited the flesh.

But these beasts-once-men are so very noxious, and they are so very undeserving of his steel. The scent of rot pollutes every corner, the intense scent of both filth and kegare causing both his sinuses and his eye to ache. A tiny sniff as a body joins the pile, the shihaisha's white silk sleeve raising over his nose and mouth as he turns derisive eyes upon the carnage, the blood in the halls, the empty eyes, the cyanotic skin.

"Ugh." the boy is fastidious, as he wipes off his sword with a cloth, not even wanting one droplet of the inimitable, unbearable stench to cling. The door ahead is the slightest bit ajar, and he knows that somewhere ahead are several groups of children going all the way into the maw of a place that may as well be Hell.

Even now, the onmitsu can feel the trickle of sensory Resonance, pawing at the fine edges of his own. They were skilled, he recognizes, and moving across those searchlight rays wouldn't have been possible for most.

Yet, they do not have his consent, and as long as they don't...

Fingertips dripping with ink close over the open candleflame, quelling the glow and painting the entire candle black, cutting open the way with unheard, unfelt resonance darker than the new moon. It is as if the shihaisha never existed.

Even despite everything, he still had a 'task' to complete, here.

Neither demons nor monsters nor men impede the boy as he walks the halls in the wake of those children. Those bodies, the rotting heaps, bear little fascination by the shihaisha, his silent step treading past open cells and miserable environs.

It was easier than seeing their blood in imagined grass. "Is this... the fate of all dead," he wonders. To be piled high like trash?

No, there were survivors, he realizes, and they are not alone.

He spends a long time watching them from afar, from just around every corner, a whisper behind a door, an extra bit of shadow inside of a room. The children ought not see him until he consents -- if he ever does. It wasn't part of his 'mission' to hurt them. And therefore...

Instead, he allows the menace to settle into his bones.

The onmitsu appears silently in room #303, exactly according to his intelligence. The mission...

Shiryuu's eyes trace over the clippings and scrawls of 'that madman' until every part of his lost years hurt, like a phantom limb. That chant ... it burns as familiar to him, and the menace everywhere is clear. It reawakens a primal fear, bile rising in the back of his throat.

"...it is the duty of those who are strong," he reflects quietly, taking a single photo from the wall to tuck into his haori, "... to be the bulwark for those who can't be..."

There, in the baleful furnace of that malevolent resonance, the boy crouches, sighing quietly as he sets his sword across his knees. He hears the distant sound of children, trying to remain strong despite the madness. Slowly, he reaches into nowhere, and draws out a single card that spins into the conjured wind and becomes nothing.

The illusion of a white crow with ice blue eyes flickers into view before him. His left eye glows that same bright blue as he folds his arms over his knees, cradling his black blade as he takes up his sleeves to keep them off the ground. He breathes in, forcing the quiver from his voice.

He dictates thus to the crow:

''"You are far braver than you know. You are stronger than you know. Despite everything, you've come so far. And ... even if everything goes wrong ... we should be the ones to shepherd this generation into the shining future."''

''"Show everyone know how proud the future will be of them. Of you."''

By the time anyone hears him, by the time anyone feels his illusory crow take flight in the halls, the Shirogarasu is already gone away, to the rest of his mission.

</poem>
[[Category:Cutscenes]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2026-02-28: A Knife for Two

2026-03-03T06:17:52Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Log: A Knife for Two''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara, Umie Akabane *'''Where:''' Jogashima Park, Miura *'''OOC Date:''' 2026-02-28 *'''IC Date:''' Oct 2 2012 *'''Summary''': ''In the far south, Umie meets Shiryuu to demand answers about the cold-blooded kidnapping of one of the Thieves' own. But the boy is far more skilled with knives than answers.'' ---- <poem> '''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.''' Jogashima Park, in Miura, furthest so..."

*'''Log: A Knife for Two'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], [[Umie Akabane]]
*'''Where:''' Jogashima Park, Miura
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-02-28
*'''IC Date:''' Oct 2 2012
*'''Summary''': ''In the far south, Umie meets Shiryuu to demand answers about the cold-blooded kidnapping of one of the Thieves' own. But the boy is far more skilled with knives than answers.''

----
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Jogashima Park, in Miura, furthest south of Sumaru. That was the location he'd suggested. The eastern edge had seen some better times, truthfully -- the two lighthouses on the opposite ends of the park were oft romanticized in idyllic tourist literature, and certainly earned their fair share of gaijin in the daytime. But truthfully, there were nicer lighthouses, like the one at Tsurugisaki. Even the lighthouse at the western end of the island was more popular. Awasaki, to contrast, is little more than a reinforced concrete pillar in the rocky shallows, the flash of its beacon being the only noteworthy thing about it. In truth, it looks like an inverted and awkward chesspiece, reinforced since the ancient earthquake that knocked down the original structure.

There's been some talks about rebuilding it again, but for now, in 2012, it is functional.

'We need to talk. It's important.'

Shiryuu is standing just above the waterside, just above the shallows, with the hiss and sigh of the tide cracking against the rocks just below. He's lit by little more than the thumbnail of the moon in the sky, and the glow of his phone screen as he stares at the text intensely. Frowning at it for what was probably the third time this evening, he slides the red phone away into a pocket. His haori draped over his shoulders, the pale gleam of the silk making him stand out in the dark. He's crouched, his elbows on his knees as he waits in silence. His blade is slung across his shoulders, and he's the only one here, currently.

'Meet me in Miura,' he'd replied, and his subordinates had taken care of showing her exactly where.

It's cold here, as Fall takes firm hold. There are a hundred better places to do this, he thinks. But ...

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

----?? DAYS AGO----

The moment Umie got home, it was a matter of de-stressing. The late hour helped disguise the remnants of whatever transferred over when she stepped out from the kingdom, but all she really could do for the ache in her shoulder (courtesy of Phoenix) is take an aspirin and bear it, as she tried to figure out what to do with what Joker told her.

'Didn't you enjoy how much *fun* you had with your precious buddies? Go on. Be that _compassionate person_ who stands for broken things...'

A tendril of hair brushes against her ear, easily becoming the stand-in for a pair of small lips holding a quiet peal of laughter.

'And break a poor boy's heart...'

----?? NIGHTS AGO----

The Kingdom that was Maria's prison is no more, and now, Umie walks through the door of her apartment, and grabs something from the fridge.

Whatever high she was riding crashed like a dinner plate against concrete. as she pulled out her phone.

She hadn't sent a message yet; it was a wise decision, considering she's even more sore now.

Maybe... tomorrow... Yes, she wants to talk to Phoenix first, that's why she didn't...

(She eventually does send that message.)

-----NOW----

Umie is a responsible adult. Umie is a person who has a good heart.

(Umie is.... a coward, trying to make sure no one finds out.)

... But at least she still showed up.

"Shiryuu...." There's no care taken to hide the sound of the footfalls of her sneakers.

He cuts such a good figure, standing in the moonlight like this.

"It's... a good night. And... a good place, to talk." Where's that anger? She's trying to summon it now. Is it because she's not in front of Joker, or wearing a mask?

She's not covering up anything at all, and certainly isn't looking down to hide the confused muddle of her emotions.

"You... know now, that I'm connected with the Phantom Thieves. I'm not a part of them, but... I owe them a lot. They saved my life, after all." She looks up, placing her hands in the pockets of her jacket. ".... You kidnapped a friend of theirs, tortured them, and then, when they came to save that person, you had Kurou Ryouhara try to kill them." She takes a step, then another, moving closer towards the figure. ".... Why."
"Why did you do it? Was it for the NWO?" Please, tell her it was.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

He's ...painfully aware of how enchanting she would look, the selene halo dancing off of her clothes from the moon straddling the eastern sky across his mantle. For a time, he is a quiet creature, crouching small and unobtrusive, staring out over the water.

"It's a good night," he agrees, quietly.

If he doesn't look back. If he thinks for a moment, if he imagines, he could think of her as 'the enemy,' or 'a rival' or 'a person who is sure of her next moment,' someone cool and powerful and sure and worthy of the next few moments. Someone who would understand, clear-eyed, that she needed to take her weapon and put it through him for her ideals.

It would be easy, the shihaisha thinks, if it could be like that.

She tells him of the Thieves, and how they saved her. A tiny, white hot ember settles in his middle as his fingertips steeple, tightening with every passing second as Shiryuu thinks, as she tells him what they thought happened.

The boy is bracketed by the ruthless tide, for a time.

"...as expected."

The boy's grey hair shifts, pouring over as he tilts his mouth into his hands, the sharp expression hidden there completely lost on the sea. His shoulders shift, encompassing a single breath around that heavy question.

Why.

"...That young X, is the future."

Shiryuu stands slowly, the emblem of the three leaves on his back straightening with him, opening across his back like a flown flag. Slowly, his hands go to his sides, the volume of his sleeves dropping over his wrists. He thinks that it would easy, if he looked at her and found deadly resolve.

He turns towards her, and is saddened.

The shihaisha's face is a fine honed neutral, the flat press of his mouth evincing no shame nor fear nor mercy. It's easy to imagine his eyes as hard and sharp as a sword, but the shade of his grey hair falls over them, and it's hard to make out his gaze with the moon at his back.

His mouth moves, and his voice is calm and clear.

"Understand that the Order will never control the Ryouhara clan," the boy states, with heat lingering in his voice. "The responsibility for every heartless act falls to me and me alone. Every blade and every hand exists underneath the sovereign authority of the shihaisha, with the censure for defiance being immediate execution without hesitation."

The shadow across his face creeps lower.

"... even if you brought your shoge, it won't be enough."

Irrespective of whether she's hidden it, the thought is interrupted. The twirling saya of Bankasoujin lands between them, not more than three arm lengths from Umie, the smooth violet pearlescent hilt of the katana sticking straight up, as the polished black saya sticks in the silt between rocks, expertly thrown. The entire weapon hums with ominous force with the heavy impact.

"Here," the boy says, straightening after the throw to raise a thumb over his chest. He pokes once. "Strike here, to kill. But ..."

He breathes out, sword long and slow, steeling his nerves.
She can't tell where he's looking, not in the dark.

"...if you come at me with anything less than full force, you won't succeed."

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

They were both suited to the moonlight, as well as the moon. The pale of their clothing and hair catch it so well, throwing the angles of their eyes and face in sharp shadow.

How did Umie not know, when she met him on the beach, how he'd look here? Was it how he handled a blade, or made her first battle against another Persona User a fairly difficult one, despite her backup? Or how she wondered how quicker she'd bleed out, if he attacked her outside the Dark Hour?

Those memories have been pushed back, making room for the way he held her wrist, tracing that Mark while his eyes kept on her own. Squabbling in the taxi, or seeing him chatter over shoes in that upscale shoe shop. His little fits and mannerisms, his pride, the quiet little slips of a smile that make her feel like she's been one of the few to ever see them. Falling asleep close to him, trusting that the morning will bring those little morning routines.

The smell of rain and citrus that remained on his coat.

.... he tortured someone. He's done more, she's sure. The Order wouldn't have leave a useless tool lying around, nor would they allow that person to access the same files her profile would naturally be among.

"Young X? The person you kidnapped?"

In the end, the NWO was just a nice, dependable bogeyman for Umie to point her finger at, instead of the person she'd find her thoughts drifting towards on slow shifts, or when she smelled rain.

She still can't summon the will necessary to project the steel she needs, right now. The closest thing sits at her fingertips in the pocket of her jacket, but her fingers are reluctant to even consider drawing it. ".... It wasn't exclusively for you. I'm still a target of the Order; it'd be real easy for..." Her voice trails off, disappearing under the sound of lapping waves.

The blonde stumbles back a step at the saya that lands between them, nearly tripping as her body tries to replicate the natural grace her Persona usually would afford her.

It's a rather beautifully made weapon, looking at it in the moonlight, like this...

A perfect weapon, to end a man who stands at perhaps his zenith, or on his approach to it.

".... goddamn it, Shiryuu..." The white of her teeth are outlined in the lowering of her creased, pained face.

... He warned her, and she didn't listen.
She pushed her feelings on him.
She never even thought she could be interested in anyone.

She can't.

She raises her hands from her coat, and slowly, begins to sit, crossing her legs.

"I told you, when you came back from the dead." The wet glint in Umie's eyes betrays what her face turns back towards the light. "Someone I respect... has a firm opinion on that sort of thing."

"... The Phantom Thieves, to be more specific, don't kill. Even if I'm not one, it'd... look really bad, you know?"

...Don't lie. You just prefer your victims to be innocent, don't you?

With a subtle but sharp little tilt of her head, Umie bites the side of her cheek, in order to keep that instinctual need to respond to that mental jab at bay.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

The way she looks at him now is not enough. It's not correct, and nonsensical to the onmitsu, Shirogarasu. Instead of readying herself, instead of that steel he needs, there is a different sort of heat. A question, posed more as a refraction of the truth.

'The person you kidnapped.' 'Tortured them.'
Good. There's no question.

"Aa," the boy confirms coldly.
How so like you.. ".. it is an ill-fitting burden that child has been dealt," Shiryuu notes clinically, focusing carefully on the words. "But it's naivete in the highest order to allow a simple child bearing a tenebrous legacy to go rampantly unminded in this world. For that reason, orders of harm are authorized."

That neutral expression, so carefully, flawlessly cut, pulls like the rope of a guillotine. His mien settles into the ghost of a frown.

"It is for that reason that I will bear the title of 'heartless.'"

He forces it away, the idea that a single 'bond' is something he could achieve. It's in what she says, that she doesn't carry her weapon just for him; that she is still a target. The onmitsu bridles visibly, rancor painting the sudden act of planting his sword in the silt, the javelin throw leaving the sword singing amidst the tide. For a moment, there is heat in everything he does and he takes a step forward when she almost slips, a tiny 'tch' bitten off sharply.

"...no," he finally says.
"Of all of the nameless, faceless blackguard, of all of the killers, it will be 'me' who is acknowledged as the most heartless, and 'me' who is the most feared. Anyone who quarrels with me, the Shirogarasu, for the right to target you -- surrenders to me their continuing right to breathe."

Hands tighten beneath silk; shifting the sleeves of his haori slightly.

"I told you," he warns her again.
"There's no one in the world who would do well with being my enemy." It's not a coincidence he reminds her just as she steps to sit down. He's telling her: Draw the blade.

She is sitting; and Shiryuu's lip draws tight in annoyance, a flash of sharp, white teeth showing. Principle stands on steel alone; pick up the sword.

"Pick up the blade, Umie..."

He's ignored. Now she is telling him about Phantom Thieves, and the boy's temper flares, spurring him to stalk to the left in a burst of motion. "Don't speak to me of that theatre of gentle idiots," Shiryuu grouses, ramming a hand through his silver hair. "I didn't...urgh. Get up, Akabane. Pick up the sword."

Why is her face wet with tears??

It's because he's not strong enough to scare her, the boy realizes. She doesn't trust him to be the person he says he is. His arms settle at his sides, forcing aside memories of heads rolling in the grass. He breathes slowly, darkly, evenly.

"...just an empty-headed pet," Ryouhara repeats to himself.
..and the edge of a knife drops out of his sleeve into his hand.

No matter whether it's above or below the moon, Shiryuu moves like the wind. He is inside of Umie's range in the space of a heartbeat, and the knife is at her throat inside of that same second, the boy dropping down from his jump to whirl into a squealing crouch and an overhand stab, that sharpened knife stopping only an inch away from spilling her blood.

The boy presses the palm of his hand against the pommel of his knife, to steady an uninvited tremor in his hand. His face is tight with determination, his eyes wide and ready -- no tears, no feeling, no remembering. Nothing but the next moment.

".....draw. your. weapon."
His grip tightens on the knife. Both hands. Stop shaking, Shiryuu.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

".... so they're a child?" Umie narrows her eyes. For better or worse, she takes it literally.

"You and the NWO just hate to see those little warped threads stand uncut," she hisses back, that reflexive bite of anger finally making its late arrival known in her voice. "I mean, that person might grow up to become like me, and no one needs *that* hassle, right?! But that's what the Order's really *good* at!! Creating little problems and letting others deal with them!"

She could still blame it being a scheme of the NWO, and she would have insisted on it, if she didn't know Shiryuu like she did.

It's a crutch. It's always been. It's better to blame the NWO for everything, fall back into the shadows, and feel like her helplessness is somehow justified. 'There's nothing anyone can do', 'it is what it is', 'what, you expect things to change?'

Umie reigns her anger back, not to dismiss it, but to help hone the blade of her thoughts, rather than let it burn her logic. "So here I am, Shiryuu. I'm your problem. That's all I ever was, to you." No, she wasn't. And he wasn't to her, either, even now. "You and Kurou'll deal with me, and you'll deal with everyone else that decides me being dead was ever an issue. Then, you'll go back to your routine, and your plans. Just an inconvenience. No one will ever know what became of Umie Akabane, and eventually, whatever ripples I created will cease to be noticed."

No weapon is in her hand but the one in her voice, the one she could wield in this battle the best, with her first name being urged on his lips. To hear it here...

It's personal.

"Those 'gentle idiots' took on a supernatural world with *no* idea of what would happen. To challenge the status quo... better if they didn't exist at all, eh?" Her eyelids lower, dark eyelashes reflected against the wet glint of her eyes. "How does it feel, to know that we never would have gotten to know each other, if not for them? And I..." But that's how it all works.

Connections start that simply, and grow when you least expect it.
'You should have given in. Look where it's gotten you. ... Deeper, and deeper it drags you into the Abyss.' Maria's Shadow's words were likely just a reflection of her extreme state, but...
'The Ryouharas are our enemies now. I pray you need not join them.'
'There's no one in the world who would do well with being my enemy.'
'...And I fear you may be put to the test.'

Despite it being outside any zone that could bring the aid of their Personas, Shiryuu is just as deadly outside of it as within. The blade is at her throat, and she has to pause, to keep herself from flinching, or reacting in a way that would continue the script laid out. Draw your weapon, and fight the NWO agent.

Joker definitely didn't mean *this* to be the test, but she was the one to walk into this.

Why does she have the Badb? Was it a quirk of receiving the Mark, a sign of her soul's corruption?

A less confident part of herself once wondered if it was a reflection of herself in a less than charitable way: a goddess of battle and death, driving her enemies mad and her beneficiaries towards the apogee of their short, brutal lives. A being who could be crone or maiden, who pointed a finger at powerful men and reminded them of their mortality. A damned crow who scholars struggle to pin where she starts and broader concepts like the Morrigan begin.

"... I should warn you." The path forward towards freedom will never be easy. "... Without Badb's protection, I'll bleed out pretty quickly. Those pesky bloodthinners can't take a hint..." That confident statement would be so much more effective, if not for the quiver in her voice.

Or is that the tremble of Shiryuu's hands? That's not the sort of grip a confident shihaisha should have...

It's both. "What do you do all this for, Shiryuu... And why.... did I come here, if I knew death was one of the outcomes?"

'You can't remember the moments you never grasp.'

Terrible tears betray her again. How weak, to cry when there's a blade to your throat.

"Neither of us.... are empty, Shiryuu. We might be broken, but we're... not empty."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Yes, it's good. It's correct.

The boy whose eyes can't be seen is finally, achingly satisfied with her vitriol, the heat in her voice, the way she twists the knife like he knows she can. The white hot sting behind his eye is purifying to his resolve, focusing everything down to that single point.

If it goes on, he can force her to burn everything about them away, so that she can, too, be the child she was meant to be.

And everything that hurts will fade, and become irrelevant in the face of what needs to be done.

She tells him she will be a ripple that will fade in time, that her name will disappear. The boy's sudden, sharp flinch is only coincidental, he tells her with his stance.
No matter who she is to him, the time for his being weak is long past.

And then he can feel the weight of his knife in his hands. Lighter than it looks, heavier than you'd think.

"Aa," Shiryuu confirms, icily.
"..you're my problem, and you always will be."

He hunts her down, in every sense of the word. Don't back off, Umie Akabane. Be that terror in your mind. Find the invincible Shirogarasu's weakness, the way he riles at owing anyone anything, least of all Them, least of all Her. Don't run from it. He'll be every nightmare you ever dreamt of.

Because...

And now that steel is inches from her, the killer's hands tightening on the knife he hunts her with, every fiber of him forcing himself closer to it.

'I should warn you--' "--Don't," Shiryuu interrupts her, swift and fierce and sharp and harsh. Not even one more word, he tells himself. The next sound out of her mouth is going to be steel or blood, he tells himself.

He knows she has a weapon. "Draw it--" he tries to talk over her, to replace her thoughts with his own, to not have to think about it. To not have to think about how close they are, the way he leans in tight, keeping the knife close to his collar-line to make sure it's steady, to keep it retained, to keep from being disarmed by the idea of just how fast she'll bleed.

He forces the idea to override the thoughts in his head. The idea of the cool girl who is his enemy.

"Draw it--!"

When he's that close, finally his eyes can be seen, wet red to two shades of brave and battered brown, wide and angry and confused and committed and broken.

The boy flinches, when she asks him what it's all for. His lips tighten, trying to hold in the secret. 'What is the pain for?' Why?

"... no one in this whole world should have to die alone--"

'We might be broken, but we're not emp--'

He never gets out his whole thought, and she won't either. The boy closes that last lethal inch of space between them, resolved to kill her before anything else has a chance to break. But he doesn't move as he wills, the knife misses by a centimeter, punching past her shoulder as it drops away, haphazardly suspended on a finger for an instant when he wallows her into his tight embrace.

A knife is replaced by every charged intensity, the boy finally, angrily flicking the blade away. She only has a second to turn. An instant, a moment, the time to drag her into the drape of his white silk, a breath for the white crow to take every aggravation out on the sordid night exclusively with her, the damned crow, his claimed problem.

The knife is, in the end, replaced by the every demand of a stormy kiss.

It's messy, a haphazard passion amidst the tide and the rocks. It explains exactly nothing.
It's what happens, regardless.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

There are moments when the Badb's shriek shows its face in Umie's own: the bite of her words, using every advantage to stab back, draw blood, and continue, unsure if it's your own or someone else's.

Because her weaknesses lie in Shiryuu, and breaking them could mean she somehow became stronger.

And yet, all the coward could do.... was refuse to commit to the play.

'Draw it--'
"No."
'Draw it--!'
"_No_."

The more he tries to force it, the more she resists every attempt to hold her to her role. The cool girl. The child. The person who insisted that she'd die alone.

Anything but Umie Akabane, who fell asleep in his arms, who wept so quietly, who winced and resisted letting loose every ounce of vulnerability in front of him...

But gave each to him, because he gently accepted it, and showed his own.

What is all this pain for, anyway?

"....!" She flinches as the blade closes in, as the boy who kissed her forehead and wiped her sweat presses in that blade.

Ah, what a dumb, dumb way to die. Mai-chan doesn't need to tell her anything.

The knife nearly catches on the hood of her jacket, the pull of cloth being the first clue.
The second, the closing in of his embrace.
The third, how close his face is to hers, eyes close enough to see her reflection in his, and feel the heat of his breath.
The fourth, the feel of silk against skin and the distant 'ping' of a discarded dagger.

The fifth... ......

She's forgotten to care about numbers thereafter.

She can't even care about how long it'd take for her to die.

There's just his lips, and she's pressing herself into them, finally joining him on a field where she joins him, kiss for kiss, folding into his embrace with her own.

It's the only battleground she seems willing to match him on, merciless, ruthless, nearly breathless.

She's crying, and laughing, gasping and then just diving back in.

He smells like rain, and citrus.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

There is a band of strength in him, somewhere beyond the aggression. It lay there in the reflection of that knife's smooth, polished blade, discarded amid the messy scattering of rocks, worn smooth by the shuttling tide. There in the sea-sprayed steel's reflection, their silhouette is sharply entwined, as the powerful, sure boy replaces his killing stroke with a tight embrace.

"Umi--" words fail violently in that tumbled moment, that awkward, riled, intense kiss.

He lays hands on his so-called enemy -- and instead of killing her as he asserts every right to, he cinches her into the warmth of layers of wool and silk, threads of thought hyper-aware of how cold it is in the spray, how thin her blood is, how much she'll catch her death of cold. It's one of a hundred thoughts all competing for attention in his head.

But he holds her so very tightly to him, hand behind her shoulder, hand at the small of her back, her jacket bunching up in his arms. That last inch with her, hands tying tight the red thread of fate. It's the least gentle he will ever be with her, the last insistent tug existing solely as wordless affirmation of the boy's 'feeling.'

He thinks of her, and the nightmares she stands against, and if it's okay that he stirs those very same nightmares. It's one of a hundred thoughts, all competing for attention in his head.

And there they are, pressed forehead to forehead, parted lips scrabbling and competing through the only warm space between them for air, wantonly breathing in a conspiracy with the vexing, infuriatingly uncooperative girl.

Sprays of blonde and grey intermix.

"Y..you ruined it," Shiryuu quietly laments, a fragmentary notion hopelessly trying to pick up on a single useless thought of the hundred competing in his overfull skull.

She cries, because of him.
Then she laughs, and he thinks it could be because of him.

A fresh surge of sharp want eclipses every other thought in the boy's head, until no other is left.
He moves, this much he knows. His lips meet hers again -- soft, deep, wanting, apple-sweet -- and this time his aim is much, much better.

He's not sure of the rest.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

In the end, it was foolish for Umie to go straight to Shiryuu.

The path most direct might seem like the fastest way to resolve an issue, but the mess that is their feelings cannot and will not resolve easily.

Umie nearly got herself killed with her refusal.

"You ruined it yourself, by not answering," she murmurs back, between breaths, her lips curling against a row of white teeth, showing an involuntary smile that refuses to go away.

To ask a knife what the hand intends is foolish. He won't tell her, and be it the NWO or Shiryuu himself, he may not be capable of doing so.

There is a lock here. Umie has no key. But a lock is simply a barrier, and there is more than one way to seek a way past it.

But not tonight. Whatever thoughts she had to hone into a narrow purpose disappears against the touch of those sweet lips to hers, fading to nonsense like the noise of waves failing continually to become a musical performance.

......

That night, no pertinent questions were answered.

As for the rest...

.... Umie'll just have to hope Phoenix will fill her in, and go from here.

</poem>

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2026-02-15: Bloodstained

2026-02-16T02:41:27Z

Strangehat:

*'''Cutscene: Bloodstained'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], Junpei Ryouhara
*'''Where:''' A creek in the Kanto region
*'''OOC Date:''' 2025-02-15
*'''IC Date:''' September 26, 2012
*'''Summary''': ''Mmm. Sometimes there are things harder to wash out than blood.''

----
<poem>

"Shirogarasu-sama. The Kimeihi Nenkon was placed at the Kouhigoki at Kasugayama High. No one was seen. We believe it was taken during the missing time, as you predicted."

The grey haired boy was sitting on his knees primly at the side of the creek, the gentle rush of water downstream filling the air around them. He doesn't look up at the older man behind him, a man wearing the navy blue uwagi and tied hakama of the standard Ryouhara shozoku. Instead, he continues pressing the water from his washing in front of him. The older man is patient, the young man will speak in time.

"Aa ... that 'x' ... it's in their nature to protect those close to them."

Shiryuu leans back, draping the damp mottled silk over his lap. A small wooden pail is lifted as he speaks, taking a small amount of salt paste onto his first, second and third fingers, to work gently into the fibers of the silk. He continues.

"It would have been easy, for someone selfish, you know."

Beside him, the individual panels of the lotus-white haori lay unstitched from one another, each folded neatly in a pile and laid atop a smooth wood edge-glued board, the repeating puzzle pattern in the wood made up of pieces hewed from cedar.

"To walk away from making such a promise to me. To simply abandon their allies to the true nature of the sword in the dark. It would be the rational answer. To get free, to leave that thin veneer of responsibility behind."

The boy wore an exceptionally warm sweater that clung snug to his frame. Even so, his sleeves were tied with red cords at his elbows securely, the iron bangle and the white silk cord carefully undone and set, the more delicate cord laid inside the bangle with care, resting at his knee by the board. Everything had an exacting, rational process to it. From what the shinobi could read of the boy's slippery, wandering mien, it was enough to make him wary and uncomfortable.

He lifted a hand, "Shirogarasu... you don't need to...?"

"Iih. It's fine," the grey-haired boy replied quietly, resting on his heels to let the mixture sit for a breath. For the space of a thought, there was only the quiet babble of the stream, the water flowing from the nearby shrine.

"It's fine ... if I do this myself."

That boy lifted the soft horsehair hand brush, gently scrubbing at the delicate fabric, at the mottled stains all over it. There was really nothing to do with it but this, he'd let it sit too long, and the salt paste had to be worked in deeply, to draw out the blood. He worked diligently at it, quiet for a time with the efforts. Soon enough, he continued.

"A shinobi that just lives and dies to protect a distant lord's way of life is unimportant. It is the reason 'shinobi' exist. Just tools. Just weapons. That is where the lie of 'the greater good' originated."

The onmitsu submerged the fabric in the stream, letting it spread out in the turbulence, rinsing. When the water ran cloudy white around his hands, he stared at it for a long time, as if seeing it still run red.

"Who said that a lord's life was worth more? Who said that the young have to die for the old? But ... a shinobi that knew that, a shinobi that laid down their life only for the right reasons could do anything."

Leaning over against the creekside, he folded the fabric over against a rock, and gently pressed out the moisture. Unfolding it, he frowned. Like a curse, the bloodstains had only spread, only slightly fainter for the effort.

The man seemed to struggle with the idea, unsure if it were a test. "The right reasons...?"

The boy looked on the blazon of the Ryouhara symbol across the silk bolt. Fingertips rested gently on one of the three leaves of the kamon, touching lightly where the bloodstains had spread to them. He nodded. "The only thing that matters in this dismal world is people."

"A shinobi who lived and died for their bonds could change the world, if given... the right choice. I think the solution would be there, at the apex."

He tried again, this time more aggressively. A small, tiny sniff, as his shoulderblades raised, as he plunged the silk into the stream with both hands.

"Would it be camaraderie? Passion?" the boy asks, a heat kindling in his voice around the cycle of his turbulent thrust, as he tried not to wring the heavy, natural fabric in his bare hands. "Would it still be needed," he spits the words like venom, "to stain one's hands so thoroughly..."

'...to achieve real synthesis.' The words never materialized for him. No matter how much the boy tried and rinsed, the blood simply would not wash out.

The grey-haired boy sighed, surrendering only long enough to sit back, the wet cloth soaking into the stone. At this point, the man behind him dared not speak. The boy wasn't surprised, distantly; words alone were enough, they now say, to cost you your head in the presence of Shirogarasu.

Sighing, Shiryuu picked up the horsehair brush to start again.

"Ah. I know," he continues, his mood cooling with the lift of the brush.
"It's a nonsense dream of mine. but... I still can't help but think that would be a truly exemplary shinobi.."
</poem>

[[Category:Cutscenes]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2026-02-15: Bloodstained

2026-02-16T02:39:44Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Cutscene: Bloodstained''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara, Junpei Ryouhara *'''Where:''' A creek in the Kanto region *'''OOC Date:''' 2025-02-15 *'''IC Date:''' September 26, 2012 *'''Summary''': ''When life gets complicated, go to the studio and mix it out. Or so the saying goes. Was it a saying? Shiryuu doesn't recall. He certainly said it.'' ---- <poem> "Shirogarasu-sama. The Kimeihi Nenkon was placed at the Kouhigoki at Kasugayama High. No one was seen. We be..."

*'''Cutscene: Bloodstained'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], Junpei Ryouhara
*'''Where:''' A creek in the Kanto region
*'''OOC Date:''' 2025-02-15
*'''IC Date:''' September 26, 2012
*'''Summary''': ''When life gets complicated, go to the studio and mix it out. Or so the saying goes. Was it a saying? Shiryuu doesn't recall. He certainly said it.''

----
<poem>

"Shirogarasu-sama. The Kimeihi Nenkon was placed at the Kouhigoki at Kasugayama High. No one was seen. We believe it was taken during the missing time, as you predicted."

The grey haired boy was sitting on his knees primly at the side of the creek, the gentle rush of water downstream filling the air around them. He doesn't look up at the older man behind him, a man wearing the navy blue uwagi and tied hakama of the standard Ryouhara shozoku. Instead, he continues pressing the water from his washing in front of him. The older man is patient, the young man will speak in time.

"Aa ... that 'x' ... it's in their nature to protect those close to them."

Shiryuu leans back, draping the damp mottled silk over his lap. A small wooden pail is lifted as he speaks, taking a small amount of salt paste onto his first, second and third fingers, to work gently into the fibers of the silk. He continues.

"It would have been easy, for someone selfish, you know."

Beside him, the individual panels of the lotus-white haori lay unstitched from one another, each folded neatly in a pile and laid atop a smooth wood edge-glued board, the repeating puzzle pattern in the wood made up of pieces hewed from cedar.

"To walk away from making such a promise to me. To simply abandon their allies to the true nature of the sword in the dark. It would be the rational answer. To get free, to leave that thin veneer of responsibility behind."

The boy wore an exceptionally warm sweater that clung snug to his frame. Even so, his sleeves were tied with red cords at his elbows securely, the iron bangle and the white silk cord carefully undone and set, the more delicate cord laid inside the bangle with care, resting at his knee by the board. Everything had an exacting, rational process to it. From what the shinobi could read of the boy's slippery, wandering mien, it was enough to make him wary and uncomfortable.

He lifted a hand, "Shirogarasu... you don't need to...?"

"Iih. It's fine," the grey-haired boy replied quietly, resting on his heels to let the mixture sit for a breath. For the space of a thought, there was only the quiet babble of the stream, the water flowing from the nearby shrine.

"It's fine ... if I do this myself."

That boy lifted the soft horsehair hand brush, gently scrubbing at the delicate fabric, at the mottled stains all over it. There was really nothing to do with it but this, he'd let it sit too long, and the salt paste had to be worked in deeply, to draw out the blood. He worked diligently at it, quiet for a time with the efforts. Soon enough, he continued.

"A shinobi that just lives and dies to protect a distant lord's way of life is unimportant. It is the reason 'shinobi' exist. Just tools. Just weapons. That is where the lie of 'the greater good' originated."

The onmitsu submerged the fabric in the stream, letting it spread out in the turbulence, rinsing. When the water ran cloudy white around his hands, he stared at it for a long time, as if seeing it still run red.

"Who said that a lord's life was worth more? Who said that the young have to die for the old? But ... a shinobi that knew that, a shinobi that laid down their life only for the right reasons could do anything."

Leaning over against the creekside, he folded the fabric over against a rock, and gently pressed out the moisture. Unfolding it, he frowned. Like a curse, the bloodstains had only spread, only slightly fainter for the effort.

The man seemed to struggle with the idea, unsure if it were a test. "The right reasons...?"

The boy looked on the blazon of the Ryouhara symbol across the silk bolt. Fingertips rested gently on one of the three leaves of the kamon, touching lightly where the bloodstains had spread to them. He nodded. "The only thing that matters in this dismal world is people."

"A shinobi who lived and died for their bonds could change the world, if given... the right choice. I think the solution would be there, at the apex."

He tried again, this time more aggressively. A small, tiny sniff, as his shoulderblades raised, as he plunged the silk into the stream with both hands.

"Would it be camaraderie? Passion?" the boy asks, a heat kindling in his voice around the cycle of his turbulent thrust, as he tried not to wring the heavy, natural fabric in his bare hands. "Would it still be needed," he spits the words like venom, "to stain one's hands so thoroughly..."

'...to achieve real synthesis.' The words never materialized for him. No matter how much the boy tried and rinsed, the blood simply would not wash out.

The grey-haired boy sighed, surrendering only long enough to sit back, the wet cloth soaking into the stone. At this point, the man behind him dared not speak. The boy wasn't surprised, distantly; words alone were enough, they now say, to cost you your head in the presence of Shirogarasu.

Sighing, Shiryuu picked up the horsehair brush to start again.

"Ah. I know," he continues, his mood cooling with the lift of the brush.
"It's a nonsense dream of mine. but... I still can't help but think that would be a truly exemplary shinobi.."
</poem>

[[Category:Cutscenes]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2026-02-10: Who You Are, Inside Your Very Self

2026-02-11T09:56:06Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Log:''' Who You Are, Inside Your Very Self *'''Cast:''' Tsubasa Seki, Shiryuu Ryouhara *'''Where:''' Siren Alley, Yumezaki *'''OOC Date:''' 2026-02-10 *'''IC Date:''' Sun, Sept 23 2012 *'''Summary''': ''Tsubasa wakes, late at night, to find Shiryuu hard at work. Unable to fight back, they're forced to listen to his philosophy, as he works at chipping away their defences. He learns a great many things about them -- and finds at last that the way to wound them..."

*'''Log:''' Who You Are, Inside Your Very Self
*'''Cast:''' [[Tsubasa Seki]], [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' Siren Alley, Yumezaki
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-02-10
*'''IC Date:''' Sun, Sept 23 2012
*'''Summary''': ''Tsubasa wakes, late at night, to find Shiryuu hard at work. Unable to fight back, they're forced to listen to his philosophy, as he works at chipping away their defences. He learns a great many things about them -- and finds at last that the way to wound them most is to take the thing he most fears and employ it against them. He gives them a ticking, melodic pendant, and an ultimatum: strike the NWO, or they and their loved ones will die.''
*'''Content warning:''' Kidnapping

----

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
<poem>

There are a lot of places one could theoretically get lost in Sumaru. Not in the same way as an ill-reputed man looking to escape his family for a few hours, or a kid looking for a place to run away. In Sumaru, there exists cracks and crevices where people fall through the cracks all the time. Places where one cannot just be robbed of their cash, or their pearls, or even worse. There are places where one can fall through the cracks and lose their lives or worse -- their very soul.

The winding, abominable alley is one such place, named for a lonely music shop whose purveyor is said to be a siren, whose lonely songs lure men astray. And blood, as it happens, begets more blood.

But there's unfortunate men, and then there's dangerous people.

The person, bound, drugged, and sealed into a silencing helmet is taken there as sundown comes, offloaded from an unmarked moving van and carried numbly into the alley by men whom might as well be shadows. They move quietly down the alley into what used to be a former mechanic's stockhouse, with a sealed-up rolling door and windows board and battened black, each marked with hostile-looking paper charms with equally hostile-looking kanji scrawled across them.

The demons are curious, as always. They ply their trade, singing sweet songs and peering out of upper windows. But the silver-haired ghost that steps out of the truck is enough to stay them. The boy walks down the alley into the door, wearing a bloodstained white haori, a sheathed sword hung plainly off of his hip.

He knows these places, the miserable little crevices in the neon labyrinth of Yumezaki where men do not go. And yet ... they do. Three leaves in the wind. That symbol, austere and proud at his back, is enough to buy them all peaceful passage.

Amongst the demons, the Ryouhara clan are most unfortunately known.

Tsubasa will wake up in a two story safehouse, the featureless two piece helmet unsealed and split down the middle to hang on either side of their perch. Locked to a grand chair made of folded iron and strap anchors, the Phoenix has been secured in place with a weighted collar and hands entirely encased in iron-banded jade shrouds.

They will find themselves at the foot of a huge mechanical statue locked in fearsome repose, a fierce kami whose slavering jaws drip an undetermined substance into a massive bowl in front of it. It has six arms, and in each of six hands is a weapon, and for each of six wrists, a massive chained tether, secured to the floor with sliding bolts as thick as a man's wrist.

The guards have left now. It's just them, and him, the grey haired boy, standing at the far end of that hall. He's working idly at a long row of cabinetry, along a workbench.

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Tsubasa Seki has posed.
<poem>

The Siren who moved from the cliffs of the shore to find her passion in ''business'' likes Shiryuu; specifically, she likes the fact that he always seems to show up ''bloodstained.'' He's an interesting boy...

... and a boy like that provides excellent gossip for the locals.

Have you heard? Titter the harpies, who live here, too. ''Have you heard?'' The Ryouhara boy killed his own, just for looking at him wrong! Hee hee, tee hee! Now he's brought one of his victims here! Can we see? ''Can we see?''

But they don't invade the safehouse... they've not been invited in.

And Tsubasa --

Tsubasa tried to scream for help, though their voice just echoed back to them. It became harder, with a prick of a needle; harder still, when their vision and their consciousness blurred. They felt the jostling of a vehicle, then...

It is some hours before they wake. Even with Momiji's healing sealing the cuts, they were carved many times, exhausted by the pain and the terror. The marks are angrily pink, advanced only to a middle stage of repair.

And it is Tsubasa who is held there, in that formidable throne; a youth with 'hair' of cyan and magenta and yellow, which Shiryuu may have previously ascertained to be a wig, massive old burn scars evident across one side of their body. They are dressed in a military-style tank top, and another thing like a tank top beneath it -- although this is green and black and tight to their skin, stretching down to a midsection which would otherwise be bared. Their cargo pants are a warm shade of grey; their high-top sneakers have several patches stitched to them.

Their breathing is shallowed, and it was even, until a few moments prior.

"Nn..."

Tsubasa's brow knits. (No eyebrows; there's cyan and white makeup over their brows, instead.) Their teeth clench together, lips pulling back, as they try to centre themself in reality... until they do.

Then -- "HELP!" Tsubasa belts out, only to cough, ragged, as their lungs protest the action. Still, again, as they yank their arms and legs to try and get free of whatever fucking torture device ''this'' is: "HEEEELP!"

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
<poem>

The boy doesn't respond immediately as the student comes to. He is busy, strictly speaking, with the affairs of the workbench. A tiny jeweller's screwdriver put to a mechanism, a spring wound with a series of tiny clicks. A jade-edged locket, in the shape of a three-sided star, more scalloped into the blades of a shallow windmill than pointed. A drum is pressed down into place with a click. And then the entire affair is wound with a tiny key until a tiny *ting* sets the spring to maximum tension against the drum's drive gear. he threads a small chain through that, just at about when the phoenix begins to make noise.

And make noise they do, with a voice that reaches the overhead ventilation pipes, and almost certainly gets the attention of his -truly unfortunate- neighbors. Luckily, Shiryuu pays no attention to and has no interest in the gossip of demons, no matter how fascinating Shuuhei finds it. Consequently, the onmitsu lets out a long, low sigh as this goes on in the background, running a hand through his grey mop.

If it were simply 'a chair,' if they were simply 'ties,' Tsubasa might have been able to at least tilt the whole affair over, maybe wriggle loose. But the Ryouhara are not cheap, and banal cable ties are almost an insult. No, it's heavy stone and iron that holds Tsubasa in place, proof enough to give even the supernatural pause at the ominous jade hand-seals, just shy of actual shackles. The seat they're tied into is indeed more appropriately called a throne, and it cares very little if a pauper or a king sits upon it.

In comparison, the heavy aluminum chair Ryouhara sits in is positively pedestrian in comparison.

The boy gets up as all the shouting goes on, taking his chair by the backrest, tapping it with hollow sound as he slides the locket into his haori.

And then _krrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnn...._

The sound across the concrete is awkwardly earsplitting in the most obnoxious way, drowning out Tsubasa's cries for help as Shiryuu simply drags his chair all the way across the safehouse. _Krrrrnnnn...._ he is unceremonious in the way he drags it, a patience to his gait as calm as it is completely uncaring of the noxious squall that fills the cavernous space to the point where it rattles the steel rollups. _Krrrrrrnnnnn...._ it goes, and that boy approaches Tsubasa unceremoniously.

_Krrrnnnnn....._ ... _chnk_.
The boy puts the chair down in front of Tsubasa, with some finality.

He sighs again, before sitting in front of them, tucking his sword to the side to do so, bracing his elbows on his knees. His fingertips show just barely from his sleeves as he touches them together in front of Tsubasa, contemplatively.

A click, and then a thought.

"That's not good for you," Ryouhara points out.
"Especially for your throat."
It doesn't take a genius to understand that his captive likely has long-standing smoke inhalation injuries, even if based off of the lung capacity alone.

"And... it won't help."

He's calm. Shiryuu is very matter of fact about the whole affair. "You're not in a place that's safe. So, if you don't quiet down, you'll probably just get eaten. And if you behave, I won't have to become difficult with you. That's the rule. It's easy. It's the only one. Do you understand it?"

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Tsubasa Seki has posed.
<poem>

"I'M -- I'M IN HERE!" Gasp, "HEY!" Gasp, "HEEEELP!!"

It's fruitless; Tsubasa still struggles at their bonds, trying to take in the way their hands are captured. Shit, they think: if they were more free, they could probably finangle their way outta here. Picking a lock with one hand can't be easy, but necessity, invention, c'mon!

"HEEEEELP!"

There's got to be something they can do!

They flinch, hearing that noise scraping across the concrete. It wavers their effort, but just for a moment. "HEEEELP!" They try, again.

They don't know that no one who cares can hear them, even as loud as they're trying to be. (They avoid raising their voice, as a rule; the register gets way too feminine as it rises. But these aren't exactly normal circumstances.)

The boy drags that chair towards them, without a single care to hurry, and their struggles only increase in their violence as he steps closer. A few of those knit cuts split; a little red stains the armrests of their ignoble throne.

When they ''realise'' that, the pain pulling their blue gaze down, they can't stop the sick thought that it's probably not the first time that's happened here.

And then -- ''chunk.''

Their breath is laboured, now, and just as shallow, teeth grit tightly as they glare him down. Of course, he tells them not to fight. Of course!

Their compressed heart's hammering in their chest, as their anger rises. They're surprised -- momentarily -- when those boiling feelings summon their feathered hood over their body, the clothes they wear in reality replaced with their Will of Rebellion. "This joint's--?" They realise, looking down to their ninja robes.

But if it's a Supernatural space, they can serve this guy his own ass--!

They just have to -- get free, and --

Phoenix's struggling redoubles, for a few moments, before they realise the terrible truth: supernatural safehouse or no, they're exhausted, their brain's fogged, and they've been beaten all to Hell.

Like this... they can't even summon their Persona.

Tears sting at the corners of their eyes, beneath that pointed witch's mask they're wearing. Their anger hasn't gone away, though; the anger that someone would ''subjugate'' them like this, expect them not to be able to fight ''back.''

There's not much they can do right now; that doesn't mean they're out of options.

They answer Shiryuu's request for understanding with a gutteral noise -- as they spit at him. "Get FUCKED!"

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
<poem>

"You're bleeding."

The shihaisha is dispassionate and passive, watching Tsubasa closely as they struggle. Two index fingers hinge, tapping fingertips together as the student struggles, as they fight, as the awesome weight of jade drags against every movement. It casts an eerie pallor over the Phoenix's cognitive robes, that heavy stone collar doing less to snug tightly over their neck and more to blunt the aggression of their struggling, to tire them out, to impose the only real bindings that matter in a supernatural world: Fatigue.

He is quiet for a time, waiting patiently, distantly, as the person in the shinobi shozoku sags in their traces.

Two differently colored shades of brown eyes half-lid, as the shihaisha stares while they try not to despair openly.

'I'm a person who has to enact a terrible will on the world.'

The words echo in the back of the boy's head as Tsubasa curses, spits at him, spraying his pants and sweater. The motion is violent, undirected, chaotic, enough so that the young man dusts his haori quietly, finally leaning back slowly to fold his hands in his lap, one resting on the other, to be draped over by his sleeves as he primly crosses his legs. Settling into his voluminous clothes, there is the finest tone of sound trickling from beneath him, the sound of a telltale beat, broken and jangled.

The same boy, in the same bloodstained haori of white from one moment to the next. The 'invincible' Shiryuu Ryouhara does not spawn a mask in the supralunar dark. What is left in the absence of one is the broken vestiges of sound, shattered like glass around him absent his fierce will to spur it whole.

Ryouhara understands being subjugated.

"'Rebellion' is something you can do when a person is stronger than you in one way, and weaker in another," the shihaisha points out. "You 'rebel' when they are physically stronger, but less righteous. When they have superior numbers, but have an inferior will. When they are more cunning, but less sure of themselves. Then, 'Rebellion' is the sacred recourse. And it is effective."

The shihaisha blinks slowly, once, calm.
There's something inexorably sad about him, in a fashion.
"...'Rebellion' will do nothing for you, here."

For a second, Shiryuu looks up slowly to the overhead lights, slow curving things that roll and pitch slowly, casting and twisting pale cerulean shapes and slate grey shadows as they go. He seems to be searching for something to pluck from the air itself.

His mouth opens, a tiny sound as his lips part.

"Tonight ... who ... do you wish to be known as?"

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Tsubasa Seki has posed.
<poem>

Ryouhara points out they're bleeding...

"Like you give a shit!"

... but it doesn't do much to calm them down.

Phoenix pants, against the confines of that collar, stilling for a moment.

Until --

"Rraghhhhh--!!"

Phoenix pushes themself to a frenzy, again. The only thing they succeed at is feeling more pain.

What happens if they open their wounds properly? They wonder, in the middle of their rage. Would a guy like this just watch them bleed out? What happens when Ichika comes to find them, and brings home a body?

Just like she had to bring home Toshiaki...

In the end, it isn't Shiryuu's insistence that they can't win which makes that feather cloak fade from existence, replaced again with that bare, tanned skin, all covered with concealer.

... but perhaps the way their head hangs, arrested in its sag by the collar at their neck, might seem like a reply.

"You're really... full a yaself, huh?" They grumble, their voice even raspier than usual after all that shouting; apparently, it ''is'' possible for Tsubasa to sound more hoarse. "... fuck you."

Tsubasa resolves, swallowing, that they're not going to cry here. They're sure someone like this would be ''satisfied.''

"... I'm not tellin' you nothin'," they insist, sullen. "How 'bout ''you'' tell ''me'' what you even fuckin' want?"

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
<poem>

'You're really full a yaself, huh?'

"I've heard it before," Shiryuu remarks quietly in reply, looking off to one side. There's no bemusement in his voice, no riposte -- he's saying something that's true, something that doesn't matter.

He is hardly satisfied that Tsubasa calms down, that that shozoku fades back into their current situation of iron and jade. His brow lowers as they insist. "A moment ago, when you shouted, your voice..."

Shiryuu shakes his head slowly, his voice trailing off.
"... nevermind. Who we are really doesn't matter in the long run, does it..."

He's content to leave it at that.

"There's really no point in telling you much more, as you are, right now," Shiryuu decides, his eyes returning to Tsubasa. "The one who roars and comes at me so boldly, no matter what the danger."

He shifts slightly in that bloodstained haori, betraying just a little of his stillness to the moment. He's watching Tsubasa closely in that moment.

"Was I wrong to think that that person was 'strong...' ... that that person felt the same as I, in that moment?"

He doesn't explain what that feeling was. Instead he poses a more direct question:

"Was it just your intention to die when you put yourself against my Mugen Setsuna?"

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Tsubasa Seki has posed.
<poem>

"Try listenin'," Tsubasa snaps, when Shiryuu supposes he's heard it before -- though their voice is lower, now. He might not be riposting, but they're evidently not so beaten they won't still strike back with their words.

He mentions their voice, though, and they scowl -- an expression which only grows more intense as he talks about who they ''really'' are. "I ain't no fuckin' girl!" They insist, and finds the fire they'd lost a moment ago. "Fuck you, fuck YOU!"

But, of course, it becomes more obvious when they raise their voice.

Inside those jade shackles, their hands tighten.

They bare their teeth, when he talks about their boldness; their nostrils flare, their jaw set. ... their breathing is still a touch laboured, and they're tense, in their bonds. But their eyes aren't settled on Shiryuu; they're darting around to what they can see of the room, with their limited field of view, framed on both sides by that sick helm.

(There must be something...)

They really didn't intend on telling him anything. But anger sparks in them, again, when he asks if they just meant to ''die.'' "Fuck that," Tsubasa scowls, looking back to him with those light, steely blue eyes of theirs. (Was it foreign blood, or were they just born beneath a strange star?) "Swore I weren't gon' die for no one when th' Joker Killer tossed me into a fuckin' buildin' to cook again. You think you're as tough as that motherfucker? Don't make me laugh..." ... but their chuckling just has them coughing, again.

"Ugh," they grimace, eyes squinting shut for a moment. "Gh. Nah. I coulda pulled it off if I weren't distracted by that fuckin'..." They jerk their chin, in Shiryuu's direction. "There! Right fuckin' there, it's playin' now, right?!" They're not sure when they realised they could hear it, but now they have, they can't ''unhear'' it.

"... an' if you think I was gonna let you skewer me friend or me girl, you're even more delusional than I thought you were," they add, sullen again. "Woulda fucked you up first.. asshole."

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
<poem>

There's something in the exact tone of Tsubasa's voice, that fresh spate of venom that tugs at the boy's attention, though his countenance doesn't at all waver in the face of that anger.

Though certainly they might think otherwise, Shiryuu's eyeline settles on the middle distance not because of their vitriol, but from another thought entirely.

"... then you're not," that shihaisha decides, once Tsubasa is done.
Do you have to be something you're not?
Shiryuu really doesn't know. He hopes not.

Even so, he doesn't ask again.

Instead, the shihaisha listens to Tsubasa quietly, and they might not even notice that they currently enjoy his full attention, their mention of the Joker Killer earning them a light, slow nod. He doesn't argue.

"Then you and I share more than one thing in common."

His attention truthfully only wavers when Tsubasa brings the undercurrent of sound to his attention, the shinobi's fingers sliding out of his sleeves to settle his palms flat on his thighs, legs uncrossing and his head turning to the side as if it's the first he's actually heard it.

Tsubasa can feel when Shiryuu trains his attention on his own cognitive BPM -- the sound flanges suddenly, going from a song that is simply too faint to hear to a muffled warble, the harsh wobble of sound battering the air pressure in the entire stockhouse. It's an ugly sound, and the boy has to lever his entire will on it to tamp down that crush of air to a whisper.

The beat is still there, though with Ryouhara's attention on it, it is now audible only in the way one could readily attribute to their imagination.

"...sorry," the boy apologizes simply.

A low sigh precursors the onmitsu standing before Tsubasa, the grey-haired getting to his feet. The scarlet spattering all over his white haori almost seems like an intentional pattern as the silk billows, the young man approaching Tsubasa and the throne that binds them slowly, taking one step up onto the dais that raises the throne above his own position, until he and Tsubasa are at the same 'level.'

"Anyway," the boy continues, absently. "Mugen Setsuna is a refined killing method using the power of 'shinsoku' to guide a blade through the necks of multiple targets in an instant. You only step in front of it if you want to die, or if you don't want someone else to die. An admirable resolve."

It's hard to believe how far Shiryuu really was from Tsubasa until he actually approaches. A few steps can feel like a mile away.

He lifts a hand, unceremoniously pressing a palm under Tsubasa's chin and above the line of that weighted collar, taking advantage of their predicament to grip them by the throat. But he won't strangle them.

The shihaisha's touch is gentle.

"Breathe," he tells them.
He's sensing the modulations in their breathing, the strength of their pulse, and quite likely, the actual strength of their voice when they respond poorly. A bizarre means to do so, but Ryouhara doesn't explain why or how.

"Answer. Are your ribs broken?"

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Tsubasa Seki has posed.
<poem>

"Damn right I'm not," Tsubasa grumbles. They hope their irritated attempt to claim the last word covers the relief they're feeling, hearing him accept their identity so easily. It doesn't; not entirely; but it might be clearer, hearing that, how they're trying to cover things up. ... like all that concealer, which is getting a little battered after a day like this, smudged in places to reveal the burns beneath.

(Burns which are more stark, against that fake tan, the pale Japanese scars unwilling to take on the colour in nearly the same way.)

They don't notice that they're centre stage -- except, of course, to note that they're on this weird dais, which of course they liken immediately to some kind of sacrifical altar. "Tch," their tongue clicks to their teeth, when he insists they have ''things in common.'' "As if."

They wince, though, hearing that mistuned noise. "Get a fuckin' tuner, asshole," they mutter, and it's the kind of thoughtless comment that gives him yet more information.

A 'tuner' -- be it tuning fork or a modern electric tuner -- is an essential part of music which most laymen wouldn't think of for an instant, ''particularly'' for heavy music like rock or metal where amps -- guitar amplifiers -- wreck any hope of tuning by ear.

Tsubasa still feels like they can hear it... but it's quiet enough that they really can't be sure. Maybe they're just remembering how they heard it...

Their attention fixes on the boy himself, though, as he stands. "Fuck's a shinsoku, and why the fuck do I care?" They scowl, and again, they hope the ferocity in their thuggish expression covers their nervousness.

Again: it doesn't, really. Particularly not when he reaches out, and their breath shallows further. "H-hey, don't --" touch me, they might have said, except that they feel his fingertips around their throat, and they go -- dead -- silent.

He has to tell them to breathe again; the breath they take is ragged, their eyes wide, and though their teeth are grit the fear pulling their lips down is miles from a snarl. "W--why, so you can choke me out?" They lobby back to him; their heart is racing. The medically-inclined of his clan would call it ''tachycardia.'' "Sick bastard..."

And he can feel them swallow, when he demands his answer.

Rapidly, running through their head: can I get out of this? -- no, idiot, this crazy murderer's literally got you by the throat. Fuck! And that internal swearing lasts a good few moments; their heart doesn't stop pounding while they're grappling with it.

"N...no, man, hope not, prolly jus'... bruised up... what ya expect, tossin' me like a sack a potatoes an' whatever th' fuck else ya did while I was in me binder?" Suddenly, an idea strikes them. "Jus' -- lemme outta this a sec so I can take it off, yeah? Won't do nothin' stupid, jus' -- can't leave this thing on all night."

TECHNICALLY: they're not lying!

It's not stupid to use the opportunities they have to summon their Persona, knock this guy on his ass and bolt.

It's actually a brilliant idea and as soon as they get outta here they'll demand a fucking medal.

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
<poem>

He frowns very slightly, as they tell him he needs a tuner.
It confirms for the onmitsu him that nothing of the person in front of him is as hard or as foolish as they insist they are.

But there is a price for that, and the shinobi's mien isn't hostile, but as distant as the mountain is from the riverside as they approach.

And then Shiryuu has them by the throat, with the ability to do whatever he pleases to them in that moment. And he is silent in that -- and he is --

... listening.

Shiryuu doesn't need equipment to place their heartbeat. To count out rhythm, and to understand how close the phoenix may be to outright fainting from the stress of their situation. He can feel their heartbeat thunder, stop, canter, then stampede anew.

The slide of silk across the young phoenix's throat has never been so soft as when Shiryuu's hand falls away from them.

It would be easy for the paranoia to imagine in the young man derision in that moment. Dark brown eyes look to the colors of their false hair, their concealer as it runs, the slow notice that they wear more than one shirt, a mysterious underarmor tied so tight so as to cut off their breathing.

If the boy ever really considers Tsubasa's plan seriously, he certainly doesn't show it.

Instead, the silver-haired boy straightens, solemn as his silhouette slips together into a continuous shape, as his once-pure white mantle eclipses his hands anew. It's only for a few moments, as his weary mien tightens, sharpens into the imperious authority of the shihaisha.

And yet, there is a single notion that wanders just beyond it, as he raises a hand to press an exposed thumb into the dense wool covering his chest.

" ... who we are in our heart is not in the things we wear."

The boy in the bloodstained haori tells them this, a hallowed voice hardly above the weight of a whisper. He doesn't look at Tsubasa, not exactly, not directly as he says so, on the contrary, the saccade of his eyeline skating away from them infuriatingly inexact.

"Our soul ... cannot be what and where people see and think it is. It is a necessary defense measure for our 'sense of self.' Every day, people tell us what they want us to be, who we are. They praise us, and curse us, and think good or ill of us, all the while unaware that they're interacting with a shadow cast on the wall. It has to be this way, or else our gossamer hearts would be destroyed by the weight of 'expectation.'"

A small, wan expression marks his face, his lips set in a light, neutral line. The shihaisha blinks slowly, half-lidded eyes shuttering.

"But that discrepancy between where a person looks and where you are... is also where 'loneliness' begins."

Instead of lowering his hand from his chest, Shiryuu shows Tsubasa the knife, a short, double-edged blade seemingly produced out of thin air, as if that slavering kami behind them dropped the gleaming sharp into his hand.

His voice is both warm and cold at once.
"That is the basis of what it is to be 'shinobi.'"

Kneeling before them so that his knee rests against the edge of the abominable throne, Ryouhara takes Tsubasa with only the more precursory of roughness -- he doesn't remove their tank top, and truthfully couldn't, with them bound as they are. Instead, that sharp knife slides along the edge of that undershirt until it settles just in a line with their right shoulder. The knife's tip, turned flat for an instant, will hook under that undergarment, the make of it braced under the weight of his thumb. The way he searches out the thinnest part of that region of the paneling through feel would almost be like working a seam ripper blind, were he actually looking to take apart the (mis?)worn thing at any sewn seams. He pinches the lower hem of their tank top, to keep it in place when he goes beneath it.

Shiryuu is good with a knife -- no matter how much they might fight or struggle against it, he won't even so much as nick Tsubasa in the next instant. And his knife is sharp -- a single thrust underneath clothing, and Shiryuu will have cut the binder open right out from under their tank top.

The young phoenix will feel the first kiss of his knife, and that's it.

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Tsubasa Seki has posed.
<poem>

Tsubasa swallows, again, as Shiryuu's hand slips away. They hate every part of this, but they feel deeply and uncomfortably aware of just where they're ''sitting,'' right now. They can't even lift their hands...

Fuck, man, this is about survival.

(And that grim realisation is evident in their eyes, and their edge of desperation.)

It's not an unfamiliar place to them; they're just on the back foot. But all their attention's on him, as he goes through that distance to examining ''them,'' solemn to stern.

They need to get a read on him. They can do this. They were always so good... at knowing what their father was feeling.

"Yeah, man. Th' West calls it Plato's cave. We all heard that shit." Many Japanese teenagers have assuredly ''not'' heard about ancient Greek philosophy. "Why you tellin' me this...?"

Shiryuu's hand turns, to show the knife to them, and those blue eyes of theirs widen as Tsubasa presses themself against the back of their throne. "H--hey, w-wait a minute!" They yelp, having evidently misunderstood the message. "W-we can talk about this, man!!"

And why wouldn't they think they were about to get stabbed? That's been his whole thesis on shinobi so ''far.''

"H--hey!" They say, again, and they can't squirm ''far'' in a trap like this, but they certainly try. "What --" -- the knife turns flat, goes under their binder's strap, and Tsubasa realises just what he's about to do.

What Shiryuu will find, under there, is that he'll need to slice the side of the garment as much as its shoulder-strap; it is tight enough that when that strap falls away, the rest of the garment doesn't fall as much as simply demonstrate it's held up by ''tension.'' Mercifully, this compression shirt was evidently ''hand-made'' -- the seams aren't that hard to find ''or'' to cut through. Stitched together with a machine, clearly, but still amateur work.

A talented amateur, though.

And what that outer tank-top is far too light and breezy to obscure, when the binder's been cut away, is the entire ''reason'' why Tsubasa would be so touchy about being ''not a girl.''

Chest thus freed, Tsubasa takes a series of deep breaths, turning their face away to cough heavily a few times.

"... ain't tryin' to be rude," they mutter, in explanation. "Gotta... clear ya airway out after wearin' one a those a while. Or ya get pneumonia or some shit."

They at least seem to be breathing easier, now it's gone.

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
<poem>

He is, of note, remarkably more gentle with the garment when he realizes it's handmade.

It would have taken one cut. Clean, surgical, precise, to find the edges between the panels, to make one cut and destroy it. But there's something ... about when the young man finds a particular vagary in the thread direction.

He is no tailor. He cannot by eye tell the difference between an overlock stitch and a zigzag stitch. But his thumb runs the hem of that fabric as he's had a hundred times before for a hundred different garments, and he can feel the difference between a slip stitch and an overlock, a professional serger and a home sewing machine. Of soulless corporate precision and the care of hands.

Fine, then. It takes more than one cut, another moment, another second of the interminable intimacy of the shihaisha and the phoenix, another moment of panic, of muted terror.

So be it.

The boy straightens, watching them closely as their struggle subsides, as their breathing returns to normal, the weight of his quiet mien settling on them like a hammer.

'...ain't tryin' to be rude.' "Mm."

Placing his actual mood is hard, as every moment in that safehouse does not match the grandiose posture of the young man whose sword bares itself in battle without hesitation, with full resolve and all of the authority above the moon.

Now, it's different, and the silver-haired young man with the distant eyes is the one who picks up the pieces in the wake of all of that blood.

"...so you know what it is."

Shiryuu does not dwell overlong on the obvious. His eyes only trace the injuries, the parts where that tension banding cut into flesh, the scarring that is evident with the looseness of the tank top, the tiny shift and press of their shoulders as their breathing relaxes even under the domineering weight of jade. Instead, Shiryuu clears the next moment with the revelation that Tsubasa did, in fact, pay attention in school.

"... and why it's important, not least of all to those of us with supralunar power."

He lifts his right hand -- and Tsubasa will see the haori drop away from his wrist, the long stretch of his sweater falling, and a pretty, almost iridescent white silk cord lay slack and light around his wrist as the boy slides a tiny saya from his sleeve with a thumb, tucking the small knife away before tucking the sheathed weapon into a pocket.

"So. I can expect you to have an answer when I ask."

His hands again disappear into his sleeves, and Tsubasa will realize that the grey-headed boy's attention is like the moonrise. Gentle, such that you might not even notice you have it until it is omnipresent. His eyes fix on them, quietly.

"What is a man, to you?"

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Tsubasa Seki has posed.
<poem>

When Tsubasa realises ''why'' he's taking so long -- well, their first thought, of course.

It's 'what rib is he going to slip that in between?'

(They know, vaguely, that there's a difference between them; remember their brother practicing counting down them to rap at their heart. Well, the heart will be at the top, but it wouldn't be to the right, would it? Isn't that, like... left-leaning? No, down there... that's the liver. Right. The liver's on the right side, at the bottom of the ribs. And the lungs, of course. There was something about the lungs... like, one was bigger than the other one?)

But once they get through all that terror, feeling that knife working, though they don't dare look -- at some point in their rambling thoughts they realise that he's taking care with the binder they've made, and their teeth come to cradle their bottom lip, worrying it gently.

Don't think he gives a shit, they remind themself. He doesn't even ''know'' you made it yourself.

And the lines of their binder are familiar to their flesh: there's a depression, there, where the skin has grown used to its addendum.

Their scars are far more evident on their belly, where they haven't applied concealer at all. There, the dark orange-brown of their tan is sharply delineated by the scar tissue -- though not always ''evenly;'' there are places, particularly at the middle of their belly, where the scarring is faint enough that the skin is able to darken in the places undamaged.

The cuts which Shiryuu carved into their limbs, too, fight for space with that scar tissue. Where they laid over the scars, the cuts are shallower, owing to the tougher nature of the lighter tissue; where the skin is less damaged, the cuts bore deeper, and it is these which more easily broke open in their struggling. The blood drips, at least, rather than pouring; skin remodelling is not a set of seams to be torn, but a complex healing process which can be compromised and set back on track.

Which means, practically speaking, there's more blood leaking out and blotching on the left than the right.

Tsubasa can feel themself being traced, ''assessed;'' they glance away, for a moment, and he may note a strange addition to the press of their lips and the crease of their brow. Shame! They are ''ashamed'' to be seen this way, without the armour that makes them more of themself.

They don't take their attention from him for long, though. His hand lifts -- and Tsubasa's attention snaps back to him, again. (And there is fear, there, in their intent stare and the flare of their nostrils.) But his haori dops away, and there was a sheathe in his pocket, and he's putting the knife away...

Not that they're all that safe, even so.

"Uh... a man, huh?" They ask, and they're scanning ''him,'' just as intently. "Uh... look, I ain't a boy neither, so this ain't a dog I'm racin'," they explain, a touch awkwardly, though their initial fears that they were going to get stabbed for the crime of gender have at least ''so far'' proven to be unsubstantiated. "I ain't neither. Where ya put down 'M' or 'F', I'm 'X'. Jus', like... if I gotta run with one or the other, prefer to hang with th' dudes. I ain't no fuckin' girl. But a man, that's..."

Tsubasa pauses, here; they could lie, or invent some half-truth, but the way this boy's looking at them they're not entirely sure he couldn't ''tell.'' It's just a matter of survival, right? So... "... it's somethin' I'm definin' by what it's not," they admit, their gaze dropping again, their tone growing quiet and dismally thoughtful. "Dunno if me father put you up to this, but he's a piece a shit to his family... pre' sure he beats his wife, but I couldn't fuckin' tell you, we weren't never allowed in their room. Beats on me, can tell you that. An' that fuckin' Hajime... always got in his head 'bout me lookin' at other guys, even when we were jus' watchin' a movie. Made me bow down in front a his whole school... piece a shit. So when I'm with me girl, one thing I'm thinkin' is... doin' the opposite a what they did. Got bad blood," because of course the idea that immorality in the father is expressed in the child is quite central to society, "but... she likes that I'm tryin' to do better. Well, that ain't really 'bout bein' a man, but... a real man can't be doin' that shit."

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
<poem>

It's true. Tsubasa enjoying the sum of the onmitsu contractor's attention, that silk-lined razor thing, is itself a dubious boon. There is nothing hostile in him, but the boy's attention doesn't know restraint in the slightest. Shiryuu shows them no mercy; his eyes are searchlights. He watches them as they flash him their intent to defy; the flare of their nostrils, the broken will and shards of shame that lay between them.

It's easy for them to think of it, he thinks. The barriers between people, as so many shards of glass surrounding that dais. Shiryuu can almost see it, if he took his eyes off Tsubasa.

Turned one way, those shards of shame reflect one thing.
Turned another, it's a thing entirely new.

Tsubasa is studying him just as closely as he them, but the onmitsu's feelings are much less openly pervasive. There is a worn down quality to that boy, of the sort that one would be hard pressed to see when he is moving, when all of him is wired by that lotus beat, but every part of that grey-headed boy is lost in subtlety, as much as he is in his intensities.

There are a great many things that Shiryuu could put Tsubasa to the blade over -- but answering his questions is not one of them.

There is a slow, subtle rise of the brow that they will not miss, as Tsubasa reveals their truest gender. It's clear that it would be the first the boy has seen of it in practice, though a small thought occurs to him as his eyes lower from theirs for a moment. A memory.

Then it's gone, the young man raising his eyes to Tsubasa once more. It's one silver-strung moment before he replies.

"'A man' can be many things, I think."

The shihaisha is subtle in the way he replies; there is nothing of the overbearing order he is capable of wielding like a bludgeon in his voice. Instead, the silver-haired man slides his hand to his side, his fingertips visible for only a second as it disappears into a pocket.

"I'm told that I carry the purest blood of my family. Hallowed, ancient, cursed. Blood can be many things. It can predestine you to glory, or it can consign you to the pit. The difference in it is in the honor and will of a man." He pauses, reflecting. "... of a person."

There could be so many things that appear from Ryouhara. He is a boy with a hundred weapons, a thousand ways to break bones. To think then, that the most dangerous things he could draw would be a small clockwork pendant from his haori.

"A person can be gentle. A person can be harsh. According to their nature and their ability, a person can be many things. But in this world and the next, it's an incontrovertible law that a person who can allow their loved ones to come to harm is reprehensible. For a shinobi, thrice so," he explains.

"Unfortunately, for shinobi protecting one's loved ones in the light is not enough. There are costs to be paid for power."

The boy is quiet as the lake, as dark and deep as the ocean. He lifts his hand, the jewelrychain threading through his fingers as he drops the jade-lined pendant into the weight of its own chain, suspended. It emits a light ticking, just barely audible. He holds it there.

"Young X, whom has suffered so much misery at this world's hand. I'll give you only this one chance to recant. Those people you stand for. The ones you laid your life down so bravely for... that woman that is so close to you ... do you mean what you say when you say you mean to do them better than the generation before...?"

Brown eyes are sharp.
"Do not speak the words thoughtlessly."

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Tsubasa Seki has posed.
<poem>

Tsubasa's ''Will,'' at least, is not broken so easily... but the unfortunate truth of their situation is that they cannot escape through sheer force of will alone.

They have to survive... so that Ichika can fulfill her promise.

And that's why they have to watch him so closely.

Tsubasa is someone who covers things up, habitually: scars, biological sex, deformity, level of giving a shit. But they are not someone who does it with subtlety. They get ''loud.''

They notice his hand going to his pocket; keep an eye on it, in their periphery, as their attention goes back to his face. "You, uh... you under a lot a pressure, huh?" They ask, their lips twitching back in what they were ''meaning'' to be a smile but which really just tastes desperate. "W-with all that blood or whatever... look, if this is all some weird cry for help you can jus' let me go, man, I won't tell th' cops or nothin'..."

What his hand is doing is pulling out a pendant, and at first, Tsubasa doesn't think much of it.

Their attempt to reason with Shiryuu, though, is shattered when he starts talking about ''protecting their loved ones.'' "H--hold on a sec! Jus' what're you threatenin'?!" Tsubasa demands, anger gripping their expression again. "Keep ya hands off Ogre, you piece a shit!"

There's a soft clink as that pendant drops down, to dangle.

And at that point, Tsubasa cuts all his gravitas off at the knees, as they hear the ticking and squark:

"IS THAT A FUCKIN' BOMB?!"

Their teeth grit; the pace of their breathing quickens. "Wha' th' fuck, man! If you're askin' if you can go ''blow her up'' the answer is obviously fuckin' not you goddamn creep! Are you insane?! Fuck you! If you so much as touch her I'll make sure you don't GOT no problems with havin' blood no more!"

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
<poem>

"Good. You understand the situation, then..."

The boy's dispassion overpowers his sadness with the young phoenix's lot in life, his expression flattening, erasing any vestige of softness, replaced only by the grim acceptance of 'reality.'

"I am not someone who cries for help," Shiryuu tells them, in no uncertain terms. "The burden I carry is not so winsome, or deserving of pity."

No matter how loudly Tsubasa yells, the grey-haired boy is slow to roll that ominous pendant into a hand. He knows that Tsubasa would say anything to be released from captivity, to act exactly how and where they need to to see tomorrow. Words, accepted plainly as hollow and desperate. Fear. No matter which smile it hides behind, Shiryuu is used to the expression.

With a plain, bitter tongue, he continues.
"I'm the person who has to enact a terrible will upon the world..."

For a moment, it seems as if he's content with letting Tsubasa think it's a bomb, and Shiryuu certainly seems intent on letting them rave as they finally turn, and step down the dais, walking away. It is really only in the middle of threatening him that he responds, sharp, interrupting.

"...-- this pendant will sing, five times."

His voice is like a sword. The jade edged locket is set back down on the workbench, gently, delicately, as Shiryuu gathers the seemingly delicate jewelrychain in a tiny pile on the bamboo worktable surface.

"A shinobi is someone who will do anything for the world they want their precious people to live in. Even if it stains their hands with blood. Even if it's a miserable task. Even if it tarnishes their soul. That is what it means to be a shinobi. To take on the burden that your people cannot. I need you to bear that burden, to undertake an impossible task. To run against ill-reputed men who poison the shadows themselves, and bring back for me their darkest treasures."

Eyes look up, cold and hard-hearted.
"While it sings, you and yours are safe by my absolute word. But, when the locket is out of songs to sing, if I do not have what I need, I will come before the person most precious in your life when you are gone."

"... and you'll never have the chance to say goodbye."

There is the lightest modulation in his voice as he says it; the slightest note out of tune. The trickle of the beat beneath his sneakers can be felt in the way the boy shifts, in the way he sighs.

"I'm sorry, young one. It's the best choice I can give you. The moment you wore that shozoku, your life was marked, and you were forced to be 'strong.' With that, we could never be..." he trails off, shaking his head.

"Inhuman people like me are not meant to be 'merciful.'"

Shiryuu is careful to clean up after himself, the tools, and locking the drawers. All that can be seen is the symbol at his back, at that bloodstained haori. "When you leave this place, this pendant will be in Kasugayama High during the next Dark Hour. It will appear there only once, and then it will disappear forever." He doesn't look back, as he raises a hand.

"... but it will not stop singing, irrespective of whether you can hear it or not."

"It represents my promise to you. Take it, and it will represent your promise to me. That's all."

The boy heads towards the back room, to leave.

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Tsubasa Seki has posed.
<poem>

Internally, Tsubasa thinks: YEAH it doesn't deserve pity, man, you fucking kidnapped me! What the fuck!

"W--what'dya mean, sing?" They ask, and there is desperation, to their voice. ... the explanation offers them no succour; not a bomb, but a ''countdown.''

Reiko Shimizu showed them video games, while they were staying with her, in crisis. They remember one of the status effects; a simple number running to zero, atop the RPG heroes' heads. Five, four, three, two, one, zero... and then...

Encased in jade, their own hands are trembling. Why... why does he want them to be so awful? Is he really working with their father? Or... is he really the Black Mask, continuing his experiments? Whatever that burden is... it doesn't matter, they think, their eyes stinging. He'll kill them first, then Ichika... Ryuji might not be safe, either, now he's seen their ''face.'' They won't be able to say goodbye...? He says 'a' terrible will; Tsubasa thinks bitterly that it is ''his,'' despite his desire not to associate with it.

"You're sick," they say, but their own voice is small.

They listen, their horror muted, as he apologises; as he blames the robes they saw as such a sign of strength. Saying it will keep singing... he's fastidious. Does he clean up his corpses so carefully?

"H--hey, wait!" Tsubasa cries, as he turns to leave. "You're sayin' it'll count down to our deaths if I take it or not, right?! L--look, you gotta give me more information than that! I don't fuckin' know who those shadow-poisoners are or nothin'! Or -- or -- what do you want from them, man?!" Their voice cracks with their grief, tears welling in their eyes, despite themself. "Just tell me what you want!"

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.
<poem>

Breaking someone is a regrettable talent Shiryuu has. Whether by body or by mind, Shiryuu knows which bones to break, which points to drive the needle. And it is a familiar sound, that particular kind of quiet. He can hear the way their voice drops off, the sound of silence, and a complete lack of that fierce reply.

'You're sick.' The words sound so small.
Shiryuu does not turn, looking down.
Ah, is this what made 'senpai'...

But, in the end, he muses, was it any real surprise that this much would be the thing that terrifies Tsubasa the most? Shiryuu's already watched them, known what it is they feel. The boy in the bloodstained haori doesn't think it's any surprise at all that this much would be the confirmation that Tsubasa is everything he thought they were.

After all, it only took Shiryuu thinking of the very worst thing that would break even him, and use it himself.

To lose your precious person without even being able to say goodbye.

"... I want you to aggress against the New World Order for me."

In reply to that blind panic, he responds. The worlds are calm, measured, exact. Their name is not one he speaks lightly, itself thought to be a neologism of the time, describing forces much, much older and much, much worse. It's almost pointless even to say, a child's fever dream or nightmare. But when he says it, he wants it to be without any doubt at all. To give something, anything.

Shiryuu looks back at Tsubasa, into that grief-streaked, miserable face, into those desperate, terrified eyes. And the silver haired man's calming smile is _absolutely radiant._ The boy has the kind of smile that shines brighter than the full moon.

A complete tonal shift from only seconds ago.

"You don't need to worry at all. I'll take care of things, to make sure you have everything you need to fulfill your promise... to be proud as a real, whole person, right?"

The door clicks as he unlocks it, as he opens it.
His smile is haunting, only for a few moments more.
Then, he is gone, to arrange the watch schedule.

He leaves them there with their thoughts awhile, with only the faintest song of a siren in the distance to lull.

</poem>
<Pose Tracker> Tsubasa Seki has posed.
<poem>

Tsubasa doesn't realise how close they are, in that moment. Shiryuu is the monster who kidnapped them and forced them to work on pain of their partners' deaths; he cannot possibly be any measure of ''relatable.''

Except -- at least -- at least he paused.

He asks them to attack the New World Order, and a sickening lurch would have set them stumbling, if they had the latitude to ''move'' that much. "But-- don't you ''work'' for th' Order!?" Tsubasa asks, as they stare. It doesn't make any sense. Is there just -- this group of ninja who are also evil and have nothing to do with them?! No way, man!

It doesn't make any sense... until they recall something that assassin told them, when they were terrified.

'The organization has many levers of control, some more subtle than others. They control their own members as surely as they try to control others--I am not overfond of them, myself.'

"... you people... you're twisted," they curse him, realising in that same breath the vast gulf between people like that fencer, this ninja, and their own soul.

They really weren't like them.

But now... now, he wants them to...

He's smiling, Tsubasa realises. After something as horrific as that... he's smiling.

They hear his 'reassurance,' and their teeth grit, as they look away.

"I don't want it," they mumble, into the darkness, after they hear the door click. "Jus'... leave me alone..."

At some point, they realise what that yearning song is, out there, that thing which calls them to break free and leave this place. They think of the man who lashed himself to his ship to hear the song, as they look down at their bindings.

Those people in the New World Order... if they catch them, they will kill them.

But first, Tsubasa supposes, they must catch them.
</poem>

2026-02-02: Sweetcrisp

2026-02-09T10:49:10Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Log: Sweetcrisp''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara, Umie Akabane *'''Where:''' Shibuya Ward, Tokyo *'''OOC Date:''' 2026-02-02 *'''IC Date:''' Sep 22 2012 *'''Summary''': ''Umie, despite all of her better judgment, is adventurous enough to invite the notorious Shiryuu Ryouhara to a local farmer's market. It definitely isn't a date, and it definitely goes well.'' ---- <poem> '''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.''' There's been a part of Umie's mi..."

*'''Log: Sweetcrisp'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], [[Umie Akabane]]
*'''Where:''' Shibuya Ward, Tokyo
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-02-02
*'''IC Date:''' Sep 22 2012
*'''Summary''': ''Umie, despite all of her better judgment, is adventurous enough to invite the notorious Shiryuu Ryouhara to a local farmer's market. It definitely isn't a date, and it definitely goes well.''

----
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

There's been a part of Umie's mind that still drifts to that night on the rooftop of her apartment.

How many people could say that'd feel that comfortable feeling asleep under the light of a yellow-green moon, in a position that would be wholly exposed and dangerous? Shadows can climb and fly.

It just didn't seem to matter, as her eyelids lowered and fluttered shut, her head growing heavy against Shiryuu's shoulder.
It didn't even matter when she woke up with a sore neck and Shiryuu likely briefly immobilized, having spent the night stuck in that pose.
It definitely didn't matter when they complained at each other for how dangerous it was to fall asleep out in the open during the Dark Hour.

Even with the upcoming art show created by Tatsuya Sudou, Maria Sakurai's disappearance, and Kazusa Motojima's atelier... her thoughts still wander.

"... Bwuh?" Umie looks up from looking up at the clock, disturbed from her reverie by her boss. "... Right, right."

goddamn it, shiryuu's getting into her head again, that's totally screwing up her ability to do this extremely monotonous, thankless task!!

... she should call him.

---------

This is not a date. This is, by no means, a date. She just thought Shiryuu would appreciate some shopping with her. Normal people shop all the time, for fruit, and he's encouraged her to not eat konbini food all the time.

Umie is just buying apples. From Aomori. Aomori apples. There's many different varieties. It is *not* a date.

There's a farmer's market in Shimokitazawa that's rumored to have quite a few varieties.

Did she pay attention to her hair a little bit more? Her makeup? Her clothing? Yes. But that's because it's just a tad bit cooler today, and she wanted to wear something that suited the weather! Some nice khakis, the bottoms rolled up just so, a red tank top, a cotton button-up blouse, some matching armcuffs, and her usual red charm bracelet and hairband.

Umie checks her phone; she's early here. Nervously early. If he decides not to show up, that's fine, she'll get apples. And she'll eat one of every variety and see which ones fare the best. Perfect.

Umie adjusts her hairbuns just... one more time.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"--Iiihh!! How could you fall asleep so easily!! What do you mean I did as well -- it's impossible, I merely used peerless focus to slow my heartrate down and lull enemies into a false sense of security! -- _I do not snore!_ Akabane, this sacrilege will not go unanswered. Help me up, so that I may censure you. NO, I can get up on my own! WH-- I do not want to hold your hand! It's just conven... you twin bunned devil!! ..."

..or such is how it went. Something like. And so on, and so forth, with the shihaisha angrily inchworming all over the roof to prove his independence.

At what point would the onmitsu care to mention that it had actually been the only time he had slept longer than an hour or two in the past month? At what point would he even realize it, somewhere between the long, neon-painted interludes of staring in abject obsession at the walls until his head threatened to split between his hands?

No. It was just a temporary state. A problem to be solved. It was his absolute charge as the strongest that kept him going, forced the iron into his hands as he finished cutting the girder, lifting the heavy section away.

There's really only one thought that made the nights any shorter.

I JUST FEEL, RHYTHM EMOTION~ ..

Startled out of his own mindspace, the boy swathed in layers of wool and scarves looks up at the cream white phone, a golden four pointed star on the flip case and the letters EFSF. It repeats, the tinny sound of the MP3 ringtone filling the room that felt far too small. Through the creases in his fingers, Shiryuu peered at the phone with one bloodshot eye as it merrily vibrated across the desk.

... slowly, he remembers who the ringtone was assigned to.

"!!!" The boy almost vaults off of the floor.

"WH... hhh..." He pauses, swallows, his mind spinning.
"....hey," the onmitsu manages.
"...where are you?"

--------

It was, for the record, exceedingly hard to convince Shiryuu that she was not speaking in code, she was not in any danger, and for him not to show up fully armed.

At first, it was easy to imagine he ditched entirely, as the onmitsu isn't anywhere to be seen. But, being this early, it's hard to tell what kind of person Shiryuu is -- it's easy to imagine the shihaisha of Ryouhara to be the relentlessly early type. But perhaps he's simply punctual. Is he a late sleeper all the time, or is it just...

"...you look nice."

The voice originates from somewhere to the side of Akabane and ... up.

It's impossible to tell for the first few moments exactly how long the boy had been waiting for her, his fingertips slowly flexing out spare energy against his knees. Cargo pants are held up by a snug belt and a hip pack that is absolutely not at all suspiciously behind his right side for easy access. His cargos are sharply tailored to drape over the instep of a pair of black and gold ASICS gel sneakers from last year's Atmos collections and somewhat true to form, he's wearing a deep hunter green wool turtleneck. Not a wrinkle to be seen for miles, save for the sole discretion he shows, a pertly folded white jacket tied around his waist does a poor job of hiding the hip pack, and lord knows what else. A set of matching pendant jade earrings match the energy.

More importantly, he's sitting on the roof of a nearby stall. There is a chicken down below that has elected to take offense, and is staring at him with barely constrained disapproval. Her owner is nowhere to be seen.

"...." Shiryuu, stop staring at Akabane.

"...ah," he remembers himself. "... I ..."
He taps his barely-exposed fingertips together, slowly.
It's fine. Akabane said it wasn't a date. Right? Did she? It was very vague. ".... I scouted the vendors already," he decides to say. "It should be safe for ...us here."

Why did he have so much trouble saying that?

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

Umie may or may not have made things harder on the two of them, with her tendency to slip into sarcastic bits of humor at a moment's notice. 'You never know, farmer's markets are incredibly dangerous nowadays... all that produce, just lying around... someone might get the wrong idea--'

But she manages to hold back, for Shiryuu's sake (as well as hers).

And now, he's come, his voice coming from an angle she would have only expected if it had been another time or place, be it some sort of supernatural field, or the Dark Hour. No, it's daylight, and the Badb in her is, at best, restless for action, due to the current lack of any.

Umie scans around, then thinks to look up, a brief bewilderment on her face at Shiryuu's location before she quickly masks it. Warm brown eyes gather in how he's dressed, as well as the sheer difference of it.

He looks... really nice. Did he wear this, for her? .... Wait, no. _This is not a date, she insisted on it_. He can wear whatever he wants, she'll just accept him as he is.

..... the earrings look really nice with the turtleneck though UMIE NO

"You... look nice too," Umie allows herself to say, quietly. "... I like your earrings." He's worn ones like them before.

It just felt... okay to compliment them.

"Now, can you please get down from on top of the stall? You're going to stick out." Nevermind she was doing something similar the other day, hunching over a neon light in a wartorn cyberpunk city locale.

There's a time and place for being a little extra! Farmer's market would be more for the 'busking something that was never meant to be played on your instrument' sort of extra.

'It should be safe for ...us here.'

She should say 'thank you, for looking out for you and I'. She's even thinking it, a little.

But Umie cannot be Umie if she is not being Umie.

"Yes, those deadly apple vendors." Umie's lips split in a sharp grin, tapping a deep wine-colored fingernail to her chin. "... I hear the apple orchards sneak a poison apple or two in every batch, as a their sacrifice to the apple god. The blood of the fallen to color the apples for next year... Or so they say..."

She pauses a moment, just long enough, before deploying a coy, "... Just kidding." UMIE THAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN CLEAR AT THE GET-GO

also stop letting Akechi be a terrible influence, it just encourages him from afar

"Shall we? Maybe we'll find some pears, too." When *is* pear season, anyway....?

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

The boy's asymmetrically dark brown eyes fix on Akabane with idle intensity as he trails off into a silence that feels more awkward to him than it is. She may note that he frequently looks like that, and it has a smoothing effect on his nerves, slowing the tapping of his fingertips.

She's saying something. She's complimenting him?

Shiryuu blinks, as if not paying attention.
"Ihh," the boy vocalizes, his eyes narrowing in a hazy, confused expression. She... likes how he looks? Is that a thing? What does it mean? A hundred possibilities cross his mind in fast relief, none of which are the fact that he just said as much too. It's fine if he compliments her. The other way around though? Is that even okay? "...it's fine," Shiryuu decides to say.

Then makes a face, when he realizes it only makes sense to him.

'Now can you please get down?' The boy blinks. Luckily, his eye seems to be in much better shape than it was in times prior, otherwise he might have blinked it to bleeding again. "Oh, right..."

The boy jumps down and is immediately attacked. "!"

Hanzoko pecks him in the leg, hard, the moment he's on the ground level, wings stretching ominously. Shiryuu, naturally, is too busy with Umie's safety to notice the direct tangible threat to his own, and the boy almost falls in indecision when he has the option of dodging out of the way or keeping himself between the aggressor and Akabane. This does not go well, for the next twenty seconds.

"--hh, no, what are you -- ow! Aren't you a hen -- ow! go, shoo, don't make me destroy yo-- ow!"

Luckily, Shiryuu thinks fast on his feet, and moves a long sign to block the stall, nudging the angry hen behind it to be disapproving of him on her own time. He is dusting his pants off by the time Umie's fun with his attention to detail registers. Somewhat accordingly, he's stuck staring at her nails by the time her words find their way to the back of his mind, where he left all of his thoughts.

"Yeah, they're a nice color," Shiryuu says at first, eyes noticeably pointed downward, only looking up by the time Umie lifts her hands to her lips to smile. "....ah.."

'Those deadly apple vendors..' "You're a high value target, though," he objects, before trailing off. It's natural to check the area for threats with that in mind. Right? That's what an 'aegis of protection' is all about. Why is she even!

He is struggling to catch up, between the attack and the absurdity of poison sacrifice to apple gods. "I have a resistance to metabolic poison... wh.." ..at are you even talking about.. Shiryuu's head lifts, his earrings swaying pointedly as his mouth sets in a thin pressed, nettled line.

"...you're an impossible woman, Akabane.."

The possibility of pears, at least, seems to repair his grimace significantly. "You're right," he thinks. "... they should have pear juice here," he decides.

Absently, the young man raises an open hand to Akabane, gesturing once, twice, crisply for her hand. He's already turning away, so the boy is clearly busy making important decisions.

Feel free to guess which ones involve thinking at all.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

"Of course it's fine," Umie answers back with a laugh, beckoning the boy down with a pawing motion. "What, are you not used to a compliment like that? Or is it because it came from me?"

Indeed, she's noticed; while Shiryuu's eyes focus on Umie, it's simplistic to say that he's just distracted; it's as if he finds something that softens that constant hyperalert state of his, something Umie wonders if she can correctly call 'anxiety'. ... Maybe she's just laying the mantle of her own emotions on Shiryuu, in an attempt to make him seem anything but a danger to her, due to that evergreen present of the NWO behind him.

Speaking of dangers: chikken

"...." In the presence of danger, Umie's senses activate. Pupil size changes, posture shifts, expression tightens, fingers splay.

Well, okay, nevermind, it's a chicken, and Shiryuu seems like he wants to handle it himself, so she'll just record scratch on that and watch the Ryouhara prince deploy his vast ocean of skills and knowledge against the might and ancient dinosaur instincts of the hen.

(okay nevermind the apples, this is actually kind of fun to watch)

With the chicken dealt with, Umie gives a polite clap. "My knight in shining armor." She even sounds a little impressed: it *is* a freely roaming, angry chicken. "Probably got lost from one of the other stalls," she says, yawning into her hand. "Man, I hate getting up this early..." She pauses, mid-yawn, then blinks, realizing Shiryuu is looking at her nails. With a proud little grin, she displays them out to him, turning her hand so that the slight sheen of the red catches in the light. "Pretty, isn't it?"

'You're a high value target, though,' he says, trailing off. Umie's scythe-like smile intensifies as he reiterates her impossible-ness, which pairs well with those merry, crinkling eyes. "Of course I am. Will you be the one to save me from all the dangers that await me? If I fall into the hands of the enemy, how will you get to use me to your ends?"

She remembers he said something like that, once-- that he needed something from her. Or did she misremember? (When did her feelings towards him become something different...?)

As Shiryuu gestures crisply for her hand, while he coincidentally looks away, Umie tilts her chin, amused. Raising her hand, she slips it onto Shiryuu's own.

Not a date. Not at all.

The stalls bear a variety of different items, especially fresh produce. Plenty of apples from apple orchards, including many from Aomori Prefecture. Ranging from deep reds like Umie's fingernails, to pale golden yellows, it's still early in the apple season, limiting the varieties to the ones that are only available in September. Umie is distracted, once the allure of the giant apples and the sweet scent of produce no longer feels new.

.... She's looking for pear juice.

"Mmn. There's a stall that's selling nashi pears, but no pear juice, just yet. Want to buy some?"

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Yes, the chicken problem is dealt with, and Shiryuu is reasonably sure the hen angrily peering at him from the gap inbetween the sign and a wedged stool is evidence of a neutralized threat. More importantly, it gives him something to focus on other than her smile; the boy's prickly imperiousness settles exactly on the crossroads between 'confused,' 'suspicious' and 'shy' when Umie makes a few educated guesses as to his staid reaction against being complimented.

"It's not like that," he objects, trying very, very hard to focus on the moment. "I just..."

Things do not go well from there, as the master shinobi is completely sidetracked when his co-conspirator decides to show off a little with a flash of color and a scythe-wide grin. The boy's pupils dilate as his attempts to answer even one question fall by the wayside, just as more questions arise. It is absolutely in the smallest voice the onmitsu murmurs. "So many shades," he says, more to himself than anything else. "It's different from the color when you.."

When she first put her hand on his shoulder.

"...I ... they're good," he says, because simply agreeing with her would let her do as she likes, and right now Shiryuu really needs to focus. She keeps saying things, and ...

Immediately after, Shiryuu is intensely scandalized. He almost managed to ignore being referred to as a knight until the bunned demon drives the dagger home. 'Will you be the one to save me from all the dangers that await me? If I fall into the hands of the enemy, how will you get to use me to your ends?'

"!!"

"AH-- that's not even fair," Shiryuu complains, lifting his chin proudly, and looking up and -away-, not giving her the satisfaction of paying attention to how hot his cheeks feel. "It was about our --" that's not right. "We--" NOPE that's not the right word to use right now. "It sounds bad like that, but isn't even like --" nope, she won't let that stand either. "Iiiih. I, it's like you yearn for destruction, Akabane...!"
The boy trails off, his lips sealing tight in exasperation. Hands up, and palms together, with a single chop forward as if slicing a loaf of bread on a high table right in half decisively. The only way to recover is to restart this entire conversation from the beginning.

"...I'm too powerful for compliments to be effective against me," he says, completely non-sequitur to the conversation as it's progressed. He says it with conviction, power, and absolute focus.

It sounds right to him right up until he says it.
Shutting his eyes, the onmitsu frowns, deeply mortified.

"Come on. We need to go." He turns, eager to be done with the entire line of thinking. He grabs her hand without thinking and abruptly marches off into the market, leaving the hen to promptly hopflutter over the sign and tail the two the moment she's left unobserved.

Shiryuu manages to get roughly ... 100 yards and maybe six or seven minutes into the stalls before he realizes that despite having a detailed map of the market not even ten minutes ago, he has absolutely no idea where he's going or what he was actually looking for. "....."

His hand tightens on hers lightly as he looks around at an entire rainbow of fruit. Left, right. He finally realizes he's not actually been looking at anything. "...um." He tries to say it quietly, so she doesn't hear. What was he even after before? Was it something to do with Aomori?

Ohh, she has been looking at the apples, hasn't she?
That's why he hasn't been paying attention to where he was going. She reminds him that he was looking for pear juice, and that there isn't any. "...ah?" Blink.

"...oh..."

He's holding her hand. Wait.
The onmitsu's eyebrows rise beyond the eclipse of his grey hair. "I ... it's fine," he says, again, as if it made sense the first time. "We should get ... some apples for you," he says, thinking very hard about exactly how quiet he needs his voice to be, and exactly how hard to absently stare at an unrelated vendor who is definitely not being freaked out by his intensity.

He's being very careful with his words, now.
"Which do you like most?"

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

"Oh?" Umie's smile hinges on the end of smug, like a cat that's caught a mouse underneath its paw. Does it let it go, or does it fling the mouse into the air to start the chase once more? Does it kill?

'So many shades. It's different from the color when you...' Umie blinks, momentarily dumbfounded, as her fingers pause in that momentary tilting position. "... Yeah, the polish isn't meant to hold up against all the things I do. Also, sometimes, change is good." She's been looking for that color, ever since. Not because of that event, but because it's a shade of red she liked, and right now, she can't find it anywhere. "... Is there a color you like?"

Umie's not even smiling like she usually does, like she's laying a trap. She seems genuinely curious.

Like sakura flowers in spring, that soft question is empheral, leading to the brassy heat of summer.

"Ahh... so you wanted to use me, but your heart intervened..." Umie murmurs quietly; they're among others in public, she's not about to break the casual allure of a couple walking through the farmer's market, hand in hand. "You took pity on my frail, innocent maiden self..." She lowers her eyelashes, playfully fluttering them just so as she angles her gaze up towards him, whether he's trying to look away or not. "Or am I a witch, who's enchanted your heart? Or maybe I'm a thief, who's stolen it instead..." She giggles, near the end there, as a frowning middle-aged woman who happened to overhear the conversation gives her a disapproving side eye. "Sorry, you just looked so serious there that I couldn't resist."

He's too powerful for compliments to be effective. "So, if I want to pay you a compliment," Umie begins, revisiting that devious smile of hers, "I'll need to hide it. Got it. You'll never see it until it's too late."

She's... chatty, Umie thinks, as she slows her own chatter down. Is she... having fun? Is her own heart beating a little faster as well? This isn't a date.

After all, they're not here for dates, but for apples--

Huh. Where are they, again? Did they just pass several stalls and not even really look at any of them?

"Which ones." Umie reasserts her control of the situation, but instead of being coy, she gives another answer instead. "It's always different, each year. Different memories." Last year, she felt alone, despite having so many things many around her didn't: home, family, friends, a weak but passable future, stability. She gave it all up for the costs that she felt came with it, and all the downsides. Maybe, she would have come along the same path, if she still lived at home. It just doesn't feel like she would have been able to break completely free if she was still tethered to that house.

She definitely wouldn't be holding Shiryuu's hand, right now. "... I want to see which one it'll be this year."

Her hand, clasped around his, tightens just a little, her cheeks growing hot. Maybe, the next year it won't feel this way, or the next. "The first year I've been on my own. It'll have a clean taste, very crisp, I think."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

At some point, Shiryuu is going to get his affairs in order, but for the moment, the boy is trying very hard not to look at Akabane too much, the onmitsu training his laser like attention on the stall vendor until the man finds a way to get out of his direct line of sight by stepping behind a draping sign. Somewhat predictably, the boy doesn't notice.

"....oh.." he realizes he's being asked a question, his voice faraway despite himself. Eyes finally break their spell with a blink or two, and the vendor is free to have the run of his stall again. He looks down, his thoughts trickling in one by one around the idea.

His favorite color? Like... "You mean, not of the ones..?" The ones she wore. He absolutely does not keep track, and absolutely doesn't have a favorite. But. He doesn't think that's what she was asking. "... my favorite color?"

"....."
The boy doesn't actually seem to know. Was it because he had one, and forgot? Or ... did he ever have a favorite color? Was it because he couldn't decide? The question whirls in his head momentarily, and it's only when his eyes lift from the ground and he returns to her face that 'an answer' comes to him.

"Ah... if you're wearing it, I think it should be my favorite," Shiryuu replies, stealing a glance of her current color before looking at her underneath the cut of his brow. His voice is small, his eyes are soft; and he's not smiling when he says it.

He isn't well equipped to say much more than that, at least until she threatens him, and the boy's lips purse to say flatly to her a single, tiny sound: 'pff.'

A featherlight breath, sharp as a needle. "Don't misunderstand, Akabane," he definitely deals better with things that sound like threats. His previous discomfort forgotten, he continues. "You're definitely one hundred years too early to make off with anything of mine..."

But Shiryuu doesn't rancor for very long at his bunned devil of a shopping partner, and she enjoys his undivided attention, the boy watching her closely as she muses. He doesn't even notice the disapproving hen in the distance that's slowly getting closer. Really, Shiryuu only seems to break and notice when Umie becomes uncomfortable, when her hand tightens in his own. A single blink, two. "...ohh." A feeling, connected to the season...

"...ano, Umie. .."
...he trails off.

...and squeezes her hand back, soothingly, before turning her hand in his, with one slow pat. A little look of intensity flashes in the boy's brown eyes. "... we should definitely find you one that suits you then." Decisive, the boy switches gears, pointing at the closest vendor. Those apples are yellow! He might not even be aware of what type they even are. "Iiieh, excuse me! We need help. My -- she would like to try one of your crispest. Gold is a strong color for apples, right? Please, spare no expense. I'll accept nothing less but the very best experience...!"

It's him being friendly. Kind of. In a very aggressive way.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

Maybe Umie is reading too much into it. Still.... what is it, that draws Shiryuu's face to look at her, and draws his thoughts away? Is it the thrill of being on a (not)date, or something else?

"... Hey... is... everything okay? We can take a break, if you want."

Her face angled towards him the way that it is, it's hard to miss that small frown of concern on her face.

"Unless, of course--" She'll let it pass, if to preserve the onmitsu's honor, "this is because you think I'm trying to get a specific answer out of you. Or trying to trick you. Even if it's a color I've never worn before, I'd love to try something--"

'....if you're wearing it...' That line *should* make Umie regard him sarcastically. Really? _Really_?

... It's just that this is Shiryuu, a person Umie would never mistake as someone who makes needless, meaningless compliments, especially when he looks like that. For a brief moment, her cheeks grow warm.

How can his eyes look so soft like that...? "You sound like you got that from a book," she says, instead.

...

A hundred years too early, huh... Umie gives him a lopsided smirk and a tilt of her head, brown eyes glinting. "... Which means I'd be the first, if I succeed? Even better."

It's a romantic concept, one Umie wonders if, by allowing it, she's entertaining disaster. Icy fingertips at the back of her neck, the whispers.

''I wonder how you'll look in white...''

'...ano, Umie. ..' Shiryuu says, trailing off.

''Will you cry at the end, just like she did?''

Shiryuu's hand squeezing hers jolts her back. "....!"

'We should definitely find you one that suits you then.' What?

An apple. He's looking for an apple. Searching, drowning in an arena he has no expertise in.

"AH, yes, we have some Kiou apples here! Very crisp, just a bit of tang to offset the sweetness!" Umie, broken from her daze, closes her fingers around one apple and holds it up in her left hand, curling her fingers around it and letting it sit in her half-covered hand.

"... This one. Let's try this one," she says, with a dazed tone.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

It takes Shiryuu a moment to even figure out what Umie is talking about. When she asks if he needs to take a break, he first blinks, then his face becomes an open question, lips pursed and brow tilted in an affect of vague alarm. Is something...?

Instinctively, Ryouhara blinks twice, then touches the lower orbit of his eye with a fingertip, examining it self-consciously. Passing muster, the boy steals a tiny stare at her; something knotted up between distress and guilt flashing in his eyes.

What is going on? He's not paying attention like he really should to the situation at hand; his focus is not as sharp as it should be. While it's entirely apropos to say he's aware of the discrepancies -- the fact that she can even tell at all is an open matter of concern to Ryouhara.

Get it together, Shiryuu. Half of a person is of no use to anyone.

"....." Shiryuu's eyes narrow at her, as a shining smile crosses his face, the most accommodating flash of light he can muster in the moment. Fast, sharp, warm. "...ah," he objects lightly, more sound than words. That smile is radiant.

'You sound like you got that from a book.' He would laugh at that; instead, the boy puts a hand through his hair. "I ..." mm. "Would it be easier if I.." pause. That doesn't sound right.

"...It's fine," he says, finally. He doesn't need anything, his words say without saying. "Try all you like. I won't let you trick me so easily." There's no real aggression the way he speaks; and if he were any other person, one could accuse him of trying to tease her. But instead, the onmitsu tilts his head, the lower of his earrings touching the thick wool of his sweater. "I like ... mm... gold?" He's still smiling.

His hand is snug holding hers, and he's been looking at the apple stand by now with focus, determination. Whatever it is, he's determined for it not to matter. Not like...

He doesn't miss when she startles at him -- and his touch is meant to give her something to focus on other than the loneliness he knows she's felt. This is something the boy accounts for -- his strength will be enough, and he tilts his jawline up at the vendor, taking the lead to cover for her. "Hooh..." the boy remarks.

"Kiou! A fine type," Shiryuu crows, pretending like he knows at all what those are. "A strong, powerful harvest starts in the heart, I suppose," he says. "But, you're not to show us any fruit mercy...! Our taste buds are ready to be decimated. Oh, right."

Shiryuu almost forgets. He reaches behind, to his hip pack, which surprisingly is NOT entirely full of knives, bombs and shuriken, but also has his cash. He takes -great- care in opening his billfold with his teeth, handing over expertly folded notes with a single hand. "mmnf mf."

He's actually quite good at doing things one-handed. Just not talking with his mouth full.
He also overpaid. And he entirely forgot to buy a -second- apple for himself.
He can be forgiven; he's got other affairs to worry about, right now.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

Something is definitely happening here. When did it start? He's definitely not going to tell her.

Was it the time when he told her he was afraid he'd never see her again? Which was the day he had revealed himself to have survived his attack on the Joker Killer.

It'll take more than a radiant smile, now that Umie's finally gotten past her own bullshit to try to seek the truth in Shiryuu.

But first... she'll have to keep him from making a single stall filthy rich because _someone's_ not bothering to look at the amount of money they're flashing.

"Oh hey, you don't need to..." Her lips smooth out in a firm, definite line as she reaches a hand over to her purse, opening her billfold. "Another one, of the same variety," she says, to the confused vendor.

"Some of those, too: two of the Tsugaru, and Natsumidori, as well." At the very least, it's got her mind off of a certain being's coy words.

Before Shiryuu can object, and before he could try to get their trajectory changed, Umie asserts control herself, taking the paper bag of apples, as well as two plastic knives and some napkins in one arm, while the other remains affixed to Shiryuu's own, her grip firm.

-----------

At the most isolated picnic table Umie can find, she attempts to sit Shiryuu down, then begins setting out napkins.

She busily tries to use a plastic knife to cut slices from each, almost as if to soothe the onmitsu into believing this (not)date is just about apples.

"Hey," she starts, quietly, her eyes glancing up towards Shiryuu's own.

"What's going on?"

She'll give him a chance, before she attempts to seek the truth of the matter herself with a far more direct course.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"....?"

His hands are flat at the table, and he is acutely aware of the way his fingers curl lightly and flex in response to her question; his head inclining slightly as he meets her glance, with all of the grave weight and authority of the shihaisha.

He's dimly aware of what transpired in the last handful of minutes, of course. He would have to be, objectively speaking -- he was there for most of it.

He remembers most clearly the objection he had, partway between relieved and aggressed upon when Akabane buys an apple for him. "Mmf!" he remembers complaining in the background, his billfold still in his mouth as he's all but drug away by the hand.

To his merit, he notices they have a tail at that point. Less to his merit, he's at a disadvantage about the whole affair with his mouth full and being pulled away. He flails, a little, in a direction, but there's quite a bit going on, and by the time he's got his cash (he dropped a few bills and some kids -- hey! th-- wait, the confusion it generates is perfect --) more importantly -- "Don't be fooled--!" he calls after the confused vendor as Umie marches him away.

"T, this doesn't mean anything!" he recalls declaring. "I know those apples too! I'm the strongest--!"

Things are a little hazy, from there, truth told, as the boy is all but abducted with brutal efficiency, and is aware only of a row of stalls, turns, an isolated table tucked away with one or two more behind a batch of stalls. Shady, in the way the autumn should only be. Shiryuu had very little agency to object, if he recalled, more than completely lost, and focused only on the feel of her firm grip on his hand, his own an instinctive attachment completely absent of conscious thought.

Try as she might, her hands were still softer than anything he'd ever known.
Is this what ... a bond feels like?

But now his hands are empty, and Shiryuu's skin prickled somewhere underneath his clothes, as if subconsciously expecting rain. He was vaguely aware that it bothered him more than he expected, but he tried not to tap his fingers or fidget, while watching her cut into the apples.

He remembers saying something about having a knife, if she needed one.

'Hey, what's going on?'

Shiryuu blinks, his attention sharpening into the now. The gravity of the moment weighs into him slowly, and the boy lowers his head, holding her eyes evenly and trying not to be distracted by the way she handles a knife. He .. is strong.

His expression is neutral, not unpleasant, but hardly the polished smile of a moment before.

"ah ... you seemed distressed," the shihaisha explains simply, eyes dim. "I couldn't let that person notice, so it was necessary to enforce my ultimate order upon him.... that's all. Protecting you is part of my will, so it's to be expected. If it was too fearsome.. I'm sorry."

His fingertip makes the tiniest, faintest sound on the table beneath his hands as a fingernail scrapes idly at the wood.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

It's not like he hasn't been like this earlier. He's always been pompous, like he's been raised to believe something more of himself, while also being taught how to exert his belief on others.

Alas, Shiryuu won't come clean immediately.

"See, at first, I thought you--" were feeling like she was? No, don't say THAT, Umie, say something more direct "--were just... uh..." She motions with her plastic knife idly. "That you were feeling like...."

She blushes, and forces herself to muster onwards.

"First off," she begins, despite it *not* being the first point she's making, "you don't need to prove yourself as being the strongest at anything, Shiryuu." She doesn't even realize she's being so direct in how she's addressing him; it *was* what Shiryuu told her to call him, after all, no alternations.

But here, it's direct for a reason. "I just want to know if you're holding something back yourself. If it's just who you really are, and I've just never noticed until now, that's okay too."

She wants to make that part clear too; she doesn't want to lose the parts of him that have shown such kindness to her, or such... vulnerability.

"I just want to make sure it's not because of, well..."

She notices the way his fingernail scrapes at the wood. Lips tighten.

"You confronted the Old Maid because I told you that he attacked me, once, right? In spite of everything I told you about him, you still sought him out."

Just like something she'd do, she realizes, grimly. She's always taking on tasks like that, refusing to listen when she's told it's not something she needs to take on.

Her hands abandon the plastic knife in the first yellow-green apple, going to set over his own, encapsulating them in the coolness of her own.

"I'd be a hypocrite, if I said I wouldn't do the same. But that doesn't mean I can't turn away from the consequences of my actions." If he allows his hands to be held in the first place. Unlike that night when they fell asleep on the roof, he'd see and feel the bands of cloth that cover her lower hand and upper wrist, camouflaging the mark of her childhood sin on her right wrist.

"Is it fear? Or..."

She leans in, slightly moving her body to the edge of her seat, so that her upper half is better able to ask him a specific question, as well as to hear his answer.

'They took something from me,' she told Tsumugi once, in more or less those words, and here, she borrows those words, not realize he connection her brain is beginning to make.

".... What did he take from you?" She'd be expecting an analogy of course; never would she expect his answer to be literal.

'Tell me, so I can wrestle it back from him.' She doesn't say it, but it's told in the way her lips purse and her eyes narrow, underneath the blonde strands of hair that drape over her face.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Shiryuu's natural mien is not that of an aggressive person. He doesn't prefer having to levy his will. And like most, the misery is not something he enjoys. But at the same time, 'a smile' is not what he prefers to wear.

It's much easier to lose yourself in the rhythm, he thinks, to search for something beneath it all. This is how he treats her, in that moment -- the boy watches Umie closely, his lips softening, his expression a low, lost line across his face. If he blinks while she's trying to pick out her thoughts, it's only the winds of his curiosity, buffeting gently across the table.

What was she going to say before...?

But there's much more to her than the fruit split and laid across the table between them, and it's that recognition of the true direction of her questions that has him set at such a distinct unease, leaving him to worry at the table with fingernails, pulling up tiny threads of wood absently.

'You don't need to prove you're the strongest at anything.'
Absolutely not.

The shihaisha's shoulders rise nigh imperceptibly in the volume of his sweater, and the objection begins nigh immediately with all of the gravity of a sword being drawn. "It's because there isn't any question to that --" he begins, quickly scanning the length of the table tersely, his grey hair immediately shuttering over his eyes. "I am the ruler of --"

There exists a combination of words somewhere that that shinobi can use, to make her understand that he's of value, and his word is law, and his strength is incontrovertible, and --

'If it's just who you really are, and I've just never noticed until now, that's okay too.'

"-- iieh, but, it's not like I'm --" the only thing that keeps the edge from the shihaisha's voice is that it's too small, too quiet, echoing inside of his own head as he attempts to outthink both her and himself. It's fine, if he just thinks about it enough -- what does she mean? "-- ah, but, I'm definitely a real person, though, not --"

An empty headed pet? No, don't think about that now. She has some sort of inside information. He has some sort of tell he hasn't figured out. She'll figure out what he's thinking, and then...

'Even despite everything I told you about him, you still sought him out.' This is the core of it, isn't it? The onmitsu plucks one of the long splinters from the wood surface with a muted crack, pressing the sharp end to an index finger and twisting absently. "I know, I should have --"

... she places her hands over his, just as the first drops of blood start to wet the wood beneath them.

"...."

...The boy looks up at Umie, the two tones of his brown eyes just barely appearing beneath the flared strands of his grey hair. His hands are locked tight against the table, and he's not moving, but for that moment, he can't say anything to object, and there's no words he can think of to interrupt anymore.

The boy's lips part slightly, and he breathes outward, a sword long sigh cutting into, and through the tension.

"....I didn't seek him out," he admits. "I called him. I gave him me. He came. And .." he was afraid. And ... "... he won."

An exact answer doesn't come, for Shiryuu is preoccupied with the steel he hears in her, something he can't even comprehend. Why would she react that way? Now the boy looks down again -- for an entirely different reason. He can hear the determination in her voice. The barest shake of his head, the wag of silver strands against the unspoken idea.

There is a tremor in his hands, smoothed over quickly.

"It's fine this way ... enough people have suffered because of my derelictions. No one should bear the burdens of my failures but me."

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

What was she going to say, as she looked at Shiryuu's face, with that look she has?

The red shades in the brown in her eyes are visible here, in this lighting, just like the single dark beauty mark sitting wanly underneath her right eye, or the dust of pale powder on her face, or the tint of lipstick on her lips.

It's a violent foil to the way Shiryuu's nails pull at the wood of the picnic table.

What is he trying to prove? He's already proven--

As Umie's hand grasps over Shiryuu's, and as blood begins to wet the splintered wood, Umie tries to turn them over in hers, in order to keep them within her own.

The way of the Badb is blood, and suffering. Victory, and conviction. Whether you derive that from compassion, love, violence, or hate, all are worthy to grace the field.

The Badb laughs in battle, and shrieks to foretell death, but is quiet in warmer matters of the heart.

So, instead, Umie waits, determined to listen for the answer to come to her.

And still, it surprises her when it comes. "You... called him...?"

The Joker Killer's 'curse' (for lack of a better word) preys on a person's heart, she had theorized out loud to Joker, once. Back then, it was a matter of someone wanting to use it to kill someone else, a way to bypass the weight of taking another's life. "You...."

This is not a ghost in front of Umie, right? A ghost wouldn't be able to bring Kurou over. They've just bought apples. She remembers how his fingers felt against her wrist, and how he checked her heartbeat.

A ghost wouldn't have a heartbeat, would it?

"Shiryuu..." she breathes, softly.

Another impossible mirror across a chasm, as Shiryuu justifies what very well may be a wound to his soul, all over an attempt to correct an imbalance.

"... why do you have to use those words."

One hand raises from its accompanying pair, raising up to place itself against Shiryuu's cheek. If allowed, it will trace a thumbpad underneath his mis-matched eye, then rest there, against his cheek.

"You're real to me."

It makes no sense, to tell him that. Of course Shiryuu is real; he's right in front of her. He's definitely a real person; he said so himself.

However, something about it makes her wonder if he's saying that to convince himself, more than anything. "Those times you came over... it wasn't about inspections, was it?"

"You needed to be around someone who'd reaffirm those words."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

It is something Shiryuu Ryouhara will have to think on, the nature of what she means to say, what is said, and the chasm that exists between the two. There is so much left unsaid between them, he starts to realize. Thoughts fly past at the back of his skull, searching for the way, but...

It's hard to look at her, as much as he wants to. Eyes settle on her lips as she speaks, the shade anchoring itself somewhere in the back of his mind. She's all made up for a moment other than this -- a moment searched for, and not found.

The boy settles deeply into the volume of his sweater with guilt, as his eyes fix on the slices of apple on the table.

The misericorde splinter drops to the table, as she pulls his hands into hers. "... There are others, with more impossible burdens," he says, his voice sliding underneath hers.

His hands slowly curl, tightening at the wrist, trying to avoid staining her hands with blood. He can feel the wrap around her wrist, the one concealing her Mark. The brand of her ordeal. There is no right for the shihaisha to feel this way, when even a single person remains who's suffered.

'You ... called him?' Another small, low breath.

"There is no other way to locate the Joker Killer without compromising the safety of my people," he replies simply. It feels more correct to speak about it like this; calm, clinical, factual. "The mission would have been simple. I'm faster than he is. My weapons are superior to his." These two facts are not in dispute. It's just the third that hangs in his throat, unsaid.

"But.."
You failed, Shiryuu. That much is also fact.

The boy is still staring at the apples, unwilling to look up. What can he really say, to explain what's happened? How does one even put words to being 'half of a person?' It's not right to even say this much. There must be a way to say something that will return that terrible smile to her face, to get her to say 'I'll shoot you right through the heart!' or something else infuriatingly annoying and sweet like that. There has to be a way out. To fix this. It--

The sound of his name in her voice distracts him, a blink stirring up his train of thought once again, sending his ideas into the breeze like leaves. So preoccupied, he almost jumps out of his own skin when she touches his face, and his heartbeat thunders in his wrists like a stallion at full gallop.

His eyes are as wide as dinner plates, when she's _that_ close, when he can feel her touch that explicitly. The tiny wires in his left eye glint as the pale brown flashes at her regard. It's almost impossible to tell which of his eyes is real and which is not until she's that close.

'...You're real to me.'

Self consciously, the boy reaches behind himself -- a tiny click can be heard. Immediately, the onmitsu lifts a triangle folded cloth to that eye, his wrist crossing hers temporarily as he presses it to the orbit, to the lacrimal duct.

He's confused, when he doesn't see blood on the soft white. His eyes soften, his hand lowering along her wrist.

"I..."

What can he really say? There is nothing left in him to outright lie. Not to her. Not like this. It isn't right.

"I'm not..." That's not appropriate. Um. "I'm a person who has to enact ... a terrible will on this world. There is no end to the number of crimes that will bear the name 'Ryouhara,' in the end, I suspect. And..."

It almost feels wrong, to know her softly, like this.

"... I needed to remind myself of the world it was all for."

How do you describe being nothing more than a weapon to a person who's important to you? No... he decides. She doesn't deserve that ugly thing.

"...I'm sorry," Shiryuu almost whispers.
"This isn't the moment I wanted to give you, Umie."

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

Umie's made up and dressed for another sort of moment, while never saying or asking what moment she actually wants, even going as far as to say what it isn't.

This is not a date, but she's dressed for one; the outfit is casual, but Shiryuu's eyes would know better. The button-up blouse is nicer, tailored in a way that softly flatters her despite it being unbuttoned, the red tee underneath a nice accent. There's jewelry: the band at her throat, the charm bracelet on her left wrist, and the gold earrings, far more understated than the jade Shiryuu wears, especially when they're covered by the side bangs on either side of her head.

They both are dressed nicely, in fact; Umie's eyes keep lowering to the cut of his turtleneck, or the swing of his matching jade earrings.

It's an impossible dance, two people standing at opposite ends of a chasm, constantly remembering and forgetting it's even there.

'There is no other way to locate the Joker Killer without compromising the safety of my people.' Shiryuu's reasoning is clinical and impossible to ignore; it's no wonder why it's been devised as a centerpiece for a plan for another group in order to lure Sudou. It's far better to set yourself up as the target, than continually putting out the fires Sudou creates.

... But would it really be that way if people see what it could cause, if Shiryuu's current state is not 'just' a product of his own fear and shame?

It should have been simple to defeat a serial killer.

"His Persona isn't. It shouldn't even act the way that it does; none of the Personas act the way the Old Maid's persona does. He was the first who was Marked, as best as I can tell. Me, the second. There could have been more before us, but if there are, they're either hiding, or dead." She's rambling, taking about things that don't matter. Who cases if Sudou was the first or the second or the sixth one who was Marked? It only makes sense in Umie's mind.

She couldn't have been the one to 'invite' the presense, if Sudou was the first, but she could have been the one to bring it to the NWO.

The tiny click confuses Umie, who briefly draws her hand back so Shiryuu can apply that folded cloth to his eye. Was he expecting blood? Or...

'There is no end to the number of crimes that will bear the name 'Ryouhara,' in the end, I suspect.' But what for?

"You could... break away, from the Order," Umie says, softly. "You don't have to work for them. I could help you, maybe, get contacts, or..."

Umie doesn't know, and that's by design. She already knows more than she should, before Shiryuu even entered her life.

There's more that she doesn't reveal, likely secrets so buried she can't even remember them-- the faces of officials and people in places of power, if just taller, younger, seen through the eyes of a young child. The things she saw, the concept of Gozen, the truth of what Shadows are, the half-remembered bits of prophecy of events that have already passed...

Her lower eyelids rise, wrinkling against eyes that can't quite navigate the waters between the mischievous two-bunned devil Shiryuu is craving, and the person who fell asleep against Shiryuu that night, when the skies were still green.

"You can't remember the moments you never grasp."

''This year's apples may be the last she'll ever taste.'
'''So she should taste them while she still can.'''

That hand goes to his cheek again, and Umie leans in, leaning across the table between them, leaning on her hand to better steady herself.

It was much easier in her head to do this; the table's edge is cutting against her lower waist. What's more, her shifting dislodged the paper bag of apples, some of them spilling onto the wooden table.

She can't bring herself particularly to care about anything, right now, as she selfishly, gently, presses her lips against Shiryuu's own.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

It is easier to think about things in that detached, ruthless abstract. The thinking of a shinobi -- absent any consideration but the goal ahead. The mission, if he wanted to be vain, puerile and perfectly accurate in that moment. A leader is someone who sanctions a mission. A leader is one who understands and knows the risks.

A leader is one who finds a way.

"He bleeds... that should have been enough."
Shiryuu's mind levels on the affair, his conviction enough to slow his pulse, a fitful turn of his wrist in hers. There is some part of him that is the winds and rain of Akita, the storm that promised itself to the world -- and therein, there is nothing she says that soothes the fact that he should have been better.

There is no word that soothes the fact that if he had laid down his life there, she would have at least been safe for a single minute of her life. And yet, the boy's mind cannot help but graze along the first reasons that that sick pit in his stomach opened, seeing the truth of the Joker Killer's Persona.

He had something real to lose, for once in his life.
'I wouldn't get to see you again.'

And now here is the cloth laid flat against the table. His eye felt wet a moment before, and it ached when her hand dropped away. It was strange -- he hasn't used Kyotosaigan at all, so there was no reason for it to hurt, no reason for his eye to be wet if it wasn't bleeding. Irritation, he thinks, absently, self-consciously.

So then why does his glance so closely fall on the fine lines of her hands? The fine details are a preoccupation for the boy, the hidden emotion in her voice when she offers him a way out. Help. A connection. A bond...?

Nakamura had called her a target, back then.

"But... it's ..not like that," Shiryuu starts, though a satisfactory explanation never reaches him, more than overwhelmed by the details of the moment going so, so far awry.

Protecting her shouldn't be a burden she takes on, he thinks. His burden should not be hers. Not now. She said that she was the second...? Only the second to be subjected to all of the misery of that abominable 'it.' He's not being a good shepherd, by letting her take on this much of what he is. Doesn't she know enough? Hasn't she been tormented enough?

Does he really care for her, if he lets her know this much?
"...Why do I feel .."
Why is he even talking?

And then she touches him anew, and his mind runs out of thoughts to put to voice. To his merit, he tries, when he notices her leaning over, putting herself at risk of injury, two tones of brown skating downward to the apple bag as it tilts dangerously.

"...hey," he warns, voice hushed in muted emergency. "You're going to ... --"

The boy doesn't react with near the same amount of alarm, when that difficult woman presses her lips to his. Shock drives his eyebrows high, his immediate instinct to lean back cut off by ... he's not sure. A sudden and sharp hyperawareness of everything around him -- "mmn--" --leaves the boy to subconsciously try to catch at least some of the apples as they scatter across the table in the awkwardness of the moment. Hands blindly scrabble this way and that as apples mischievously roll this was and that. To the merit of his dexterity, he manages to catch onto one with his fingertips, just at the very edge of the picnic table, pawed at helplessly to try and prevent it from falling.

And then she leans closer, and he realizes exactly what's happening.

You can't remember the moments you never grasp..

Fingertips slide against hers, a thumb wandering her wristline against the thin fabric of her fine blouse. The warmth of his sweater settles over her hand as he holds onto her, as if concerned that she might slip. Slowly, he forgets everything else.

The golden apple falls off the table, as Shiryuu lets it drop, returning her affection with the lightest tilt of his head, bringing her closer to him.

A hand is raised to run the length of her jawline, gingerly, as if even the slightest vagary might break the moment, and in that moment, his heart drums in him.

It's him who breaks the kiss first, though it's only to rest his forehead against hers, sharing the intimate space between them, the slow breath of something much more. ".... s...sorry," he tells her, again, quieter than the nightfall still.

He rests there with her, if allowed, if awhile.

"....come with me tonight," he asks, quiet. "I..."
"... I need to make reparations to you."

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

"I want it to end too. I said that I'd see his death." She closes her eyes.

''"The discarded sun lies buried in the hill.''
''The spiral clockwork ticks to the inevitable climax.''
''As the dragon rises from its slumber,''
''the feast will begin anew."''

Something in the words she recites, feels deeper, reaches deeper, than they should. Maybe it's in the way her eyelids feel like they're twitching, itching from the inside out, or how the dark behind her eyelids feels like the afterimage of a shadowed room, something lurking further within the inverted shades.

She truthfully only remembered a scant part of it, but when Umie concentrated, it flowed from her like water from a spring, as fresh as the day she first said it, which was--

"Something bad will happen." It should sound like it's obvious; nothing the Old Maid is involved with will ever end *well*. Like Akechi had said, you didn't have to be an oracle to know that.

"... But something bad *did* happen." A grasp of something, like a truth, a revelation, and it's gone.

She waves a hand, letting it pass. "Is your eye okay? I didn't poke it with my thumb did I?" God help her if a corner of Umie's lips slide up, almost compulsively; she knows, for a fact, that her thumb did not stray anywhere close to Shiryuu's eye.

It's not like that? What else could there be, but the NWO? What other business or reason would someone have, to do something to the degree that Shiryuu implies he needs to do?

Why does she feel something for Shiryuu, out of everyone? At least, with Joker, she could just watch him from afar, and feel a rush. To feel something, yet never act on it, means you still feel something in the first place.

It's far too dangerous, to go beyond that, she had reasoned.

..... and here she is, hearing the apples tumbling, feeling the picnic table's edge press against her waist, the wood splinters catching on the fabric of her blouse, not caring, grasping, and feeling Shiryuu's hand against her jawline.

The kiss breaks, and the angle of their foreheads make a small, intimate pocket of space for them to share. She chuckles, breathy, still riding high on the thrill of it all. "Why are you apologizing. I'm the one who kissed you."

She's closed her eyes, content, her lips smiling, breaking to show the fainted shadow of her relaxed mouth.

Was that his first? Likely not, just like it's not been hers.

It's the first time she's kissed someone who knows the basic secret that's formed herself, why she laughs when she runs during the Dark Hour, why a Dark Hour can exist at all, and why her Persona is a lady of the red fields that always, always smiles, if she's not shrieking.

Umie Akabane is a creature formed of many things, and all those things, and those memories, came to here, in this silence.

He asks her to come with him tonight.

"Okay." She didn't even thing of what implications would lie behind those words, or even think about it.

Well, except for one,

".... We're bringing the apples with us."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"A discarded sun..." Shiryuu echoes. A dragon? Her words will be stuck in his head for a long time, allusions to things he has no preconcept of in the shadowed world. It's a seldom-felt sensation for the boy who took the role of leader, to be completely clueless about something, anything in the world.

She said that she would see that man's death. That something bad will happen. Something bad -did- happen. Shiryuu's eye is aching again, but it's different this time, and he isn't sure why. Is it guilt? He could have dealt with this, solved everything. He should have. But..

"... how do you prevent something that's ... already happened," the onmitsu wonders. Does it even make sense? Is it even okay?

She brings up his eye, and the boy instinctively recoils, the cloth bunching in his hand in muted offense. He sees right through her pretext the moment she smiles. "Th-- it's nothing at all," he insists. He was just making sure. His guard rises and falls like the tide -- sparked by the phases of an itinerant moon, she who needles him in just, /just/ the right way.

She needles him in other ways, too.

Shiryuu is still breathless, his heartbeat a sharp, living rhythm in every thread of his veins, taking on a new canter beat when he's this close to her. The air feels different, in this space. Open sky, an open way. She lives in that world, doesn't she...

He apologizes. And then she asks him why. "...sorry." he apologizes again, before breathing out. A sharp, short puff, an attempt to get his thoughts in line. I owe you more than this, he thinks, without ever actually saying it. But what's the feeling, somewhere deep in his blood?

It's not the first time for Shiryuu. But there is a vast gulf of distance between the shihaisha and others -- what happened in a series of dimly lit back rooms overpainted with graffiti what feels like aeons ago was not 'synthesis,' no matter how hard Shiryuu could convince himself of it at the time. Dim, tiny, claustrophobic. How like 'that room' now.. he knew then that he couldn't really be close to anyone.

Then ... what was ... the meaning of it, what transpired so long ago? And ... why is it different now?

A slow, heady build of resolve finally leads Ryouhara to feel a tiny scintilla of the sensation in his blood, the same as when she first pressed into him. It's only after remembering a few seconds ago, a few weeks ago, that his mind finally mercifully relents to something approaching 'real.'

He smiles, and this time it is not radiant, overpowering. It is an awkward, tight little thing, breaking past his dim expression of restrained introversion as she accepts his offer, as she imposes an order of her own. That particular smile, tiny, hidden and broken thing that it is, is there and gone in an instant.

"I suppose," he accepts her proposal, with the smallest, featherlight laugh. "Carrying your apples is better than being kicked in the face.."
Seriously, he had an intermittent nosebleed for days...

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

"... I don't know," Umie says, truthfully. "It was something I said when I was 11 or so."

To... who?

Why does she want to remember? It's the same as trying to remember what it meant to awaken: valueless. No truth can come from it, right?

No truth--

'How do you prevent something that's ... already happened.' "Things can have two meanings," Umie answers, with less of her usual, prideful pomp and more of the quiet rivers of knowledge that run underground. "Tarot cards can be playing cards, but also be used to find meaning in the future."

But the impish little smile is still there,. primed and ready to deploy, just for Shiryuu.

Just a special little gift for anyone that manages to inspire Umie Akabane in the right kind of way.

"Are you sure it's nothing." Not even a question; her own brown eyes regarding him with a curious sort of glee at this shiny new potential piece of information about himself.

He still holds his mysteries to her, and he can take pride in that, or despair.

In that space of heartbeats lies the way to wild, open skies.

Where a creature rejoices in spaces where nothing can take you, and you can fight back. A nest of corridors through the beating heart of collective humanity, where the shadows of humanity can be confronted. An atelier, setting a stage for a battle of wills, where the original soul is fated to slowly die, consumed by the Homunculus.

.... A darked, neon-lit city, where cognitions feel aware of the boundaries of their being, but fight for the soul of someone trapped further within the egg of the world.

But the delicate smile on Shiryuu's lips...

She takes it in, holding it in her memory like a delicate blue-eyed nestling. It disappears, but she's not sad for it; knowing that she'll likely see it again.

"What, it wasn't from enjoying that view?" Teeth glint more sharply in the widened space of that smile of her own.

She'll help him with those apples; and, whether they split for the day or not after their (not)date, the two meet again, as promised.

To say that Umie's heart is beating quickly is an understatement. .... just... what is she getting herself into?!?

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

The grey-haired boy makes a face at Umie. Features screw tight, lips pursed in miniscule offense as he's nettled by the beast smiling at him so fetchingly. "Iiihh..."

He can't help but stare just a little, when that wild creature rejoices, when she smiles at him just as she is, in the moment now.

"You're a pesky person, Akabane..."

He strides down a long, swaying bridge. Beneath him is a yawning chasm of nothingness, and above him hangs too low the abominable moon. There are those who fly, and those who are fated to walk a way, a path, a road. Every footstep is in the outline of those before them, and every footprint they leave is architect for the next person following, and everyone thereafter. Each step on the ancient wood planks is another line of a legacy, power, intellect and wisdom.

There is a space between those places -- a liminal mist, where anything can be. If only he could find the way through it.

It takes every iota of Shiryuu's will to let Akabane attend to the affairs of her day, and truthfully the only thing that reminds him to do so is that he had a more tangible obligation to Umie Akabane, which prompted a swift and brutal review of his own room, along with a few placed phone calls. A the very least, he did take a single apple with him.

But then the sun went down, and Shiryuu had to leave to fetch her before he started to second-guess himself again.

'Meet me at the Saikyo Line platform at ten o'clock. I'll come pick you up,' he said.

He does come for her. When he arrived, the boy had completely changed his clothes. Still that feathered mop that got him compared to a vagrant in any other context, he'd swapped his hunter green turtleneck for a slate grey cable-knit half-zip, the zipper snugged around his throat. Earrings replaced with hanging obsidian bead chains and a matching thumb-ring, the boy is wearing his favorite mastermind JP Nikes by the time she sees him next. She'll note that this time he's not wearing a jacket, and his hip pack has been upgraded to a shoulder bag.

"...Hopefully you didn't wait too long."
He is careful to hide his relief that she's even there.

So. Interestingly, the onmitsu has apparently had a room for quite some time at the Hotel Indigo on the other side of Shibuya Crossing, judging from the way the night staff seem to recognize him when he arrives. They are considerably more surprised that someone is with him this time.

Somewhat less interestingly, the shinobi's room is also unreasonably high up in the tower. This results in a jaunt through polished halls and an unreasonably long elevator ride. An elevator ride that's not awkward at all given the events of the morning, and the fact that Shiryuu cannot avoid making crinkling noises while carrying the bag of apples for Akabane.

Seriously, no matter how still he tries to be: crinkle, crinkle.
He can hear his own heartbeat. Seriously, it's his, right?

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

'You're a pesky person, Akabane...'

Umie's smile moves slightly, allowing it to wrinkle her nose devilishly. "I always appreciate when you recognize my efforts."

======

The day went by woefully slowly. She had picked up a shift at Rafflesia Flower Shop to make the time pass more easily, but the flowers kept distracting her. It wouldn't be good to *bring* flowers to Shiryuu, that'd send the wrong message. Still, if a hypothetical Umie did so, what flowers would she get for this theoretical bouquet?

And so on.

"I was looking for something red, for my girlfriend. A biug statement piece," said the nervous businessman in front of her.

"Roses," Umie suggests, automatically. "Red ones. That'd really send a message." Is she... a girlfriend, now? What is this?

''Getting ahead of ourselves, are we?'' chimes a cute, distracting whisper. ''You know what will happen, in the end.''

.....

"... Miss?" The customer is still in front of Umie; she hadn't realized she had frozen in place. "... I, uh, think the roses would be good?"

Umie continues on where she left off, a skill honed through constant practice. "Right, let me get those for you."

She is definitely not getting any bouquets, hypothetical or no. Her messaging is already suspect.

======

The components of Umie's outfit are more or less the same, though the blouse had been exchanged for a loose windbreaker instead. Not much beyond that has changed, though her hairbuns look more loose, having been through a day of retail and not much done about it aside from a quick combing through.

Umie shakes her head. "No, I just got here, it's fine." He's dressed nicely, in a completely different outfit. How many does he have? Or maybe, it was because he was meeting her.

Where the Farmer's Market managed to still have Umie in her element despite them both being new to it, the upscaled building of the Hotel Indigo has her more quiet, keeping close to Shiryuu.

Suspicious, to have someone like her tagging along, Umie imagines. The Umie of before would be missable here, as she would blend in. Tired-looking, blonde dyed hair, red nails... the Umie of now would certainly stand out.

She tries not to think about it.

The long elevator ride does the thinking for her, allowing her to be aware of her pounding heart.

(Can Shiryuu hear it, or is she hearing his?)

The scent of the florist shop still lingers on her. Will Shiryuu think this is some weird kind of perfume? While it's not unpleasant, it's also... a message.

".... I got off work from the Rafflesia Flower Shop, so, I... may be smelling like it for a while," she says, quietly.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

In truth, Ryouhara doesn't seem any more out of place than he usually does in either environment. The only curiosity is that he never seems to attract more attention that is necessarily due -- he has a habit of fading into the background, no matter what he's wearing or what he's even doing.

At least... until he's with her.

Is that a glance stolen by the attendant on the way up? It's almost instinctive, the way Shiryuu subconsciously takes her by the arm, pulling her closer in that moment as if to...

...what? What's the purpose of it? To protect her? To make sure everyone knows she's..

It's uniquely one of those kinds of bad ideas that will keep Shiryuu second guessing himself through the next week.

And now they're in an elevator ride that Shiryuu swore did not feel quite so long yesterday or the day before. Not that he's used it as often as one would think -- Kyotosaigan does have quite a few ancillary benefits during the Dark Hour, and one of those is being able to skip dumb situations like this.

But making Akabane climb twenty flights of stairs is probably not the greatest way of making reparations.

If she looks a little worse for wear at the stretch of the day, it'll be the first Shiryuu actually notices -- out of character, for the boy who insists her ceiling is on the verge of failing and killing everyone in her apartment. It's in that vein that Shiryuu is very intensely studying the row of buttons on the elevator for no real reason in what is possibly the world's most awkward silence ever invented. Crinkle. Crinkle. Damn it.

Somewhat bravely, Umie is the first one to break the silence. 'I ...may be smelling like it for awhile.' "Oh," Shiryuu remarks, doing his best to remain neutral on the matter. "It was nice. I thought it was ..." he sounds a shade disappointed, but quickly reins it in.

You thought it was _what?_ Get it together, Shiryuu.

A light puff buffers the space between this awkward stretch and that. Suddenly, and without due notice, the boy begins to crinkle like mad, switching the paper bag to a space just settled between the crook of his elbows. He's actually fairly good at it, accessing both of his hands at the same time, revealing a leather bangle on one wrist and a silk rope tie on the other when his sleeves drop. The boy links the first two fingers of his first hand with the last two fingers of his second, raising a modified thunderseal mudra, shutting his eyes.

He makes a tiny -hyah!- sound. It's like a gunshot in the quiet.

...and then, without explanation, goes back to holding the bag.

Another few seconds pass as Shiryuu much more smoothly transfers the bag back to his left arm. Crinkle. Crinkle. Crumple. ... he pauses.

"... I like it, it's fine," he tells her. Again. As if it beared repeating.

Mercifully, the elevator ride does end. Traipsing through a hallway is not so brutal.

------

Shiryuu's room unlocks with a little -click- of an electronic keycard. He has one of the east facing rooms on the tower, and is clearly paying a premium for the floorspace, although a stunning 'none of it' seems to have been of use until relatively recently.

The room is a single spaced flat, not entirely dissimilar in size to Umie's own studio. However, that is where the differences abruptly end.

Even a cursory glance at Hotel Indigo's booking sites would tell that the room has simply been torn down to something just shy of the bare studs. Any vestige of the hotel's signature warm persona has been ruthlessly stripped bare, reorganized for floor space and utility. Area rugs missing, artsy wall hangings removed, missing television. The boy's sword sits in what used to be portrait brackets above his bed, a black sheathed saya with a red bag folded neatly on a hook installed just below it. At the foot of his bed, there is a locked clockwork (literal exposed clockwork...is it just an aesthetic?) chest, sealed with a paper tag.

On the south wall, a little spartan desk sits, with a laptop and the primary source of lighting in the room: a spinning orrery lamp, spraying the room with an almost eye-watering amount of neon LED light, flooding the area with curving auroral blues and pinks and purples. A large laptop is open, playing a vivid dance bassline, with a feminine voice laid over it. The effect is dispelled almost immediately when Shiryuu hits the overhead lights, clipping the neon effect short, and, recognizing the song, goes over to wake the screen up and shut it off almost immediately.

It gets as far as ~ show you the things I can do for you. Don't make this one dimensional -- ~ and then it's off, and banished to the digital AEther. The background has a stylized picture of a silver fox on it. Dominating the desktop is an array of folder icons, speaker icons and curved, glowing icons. One of the glowing ones is open, but minimized. He doesn't seem to pay it much more mind than that. ".... sorry," he apologizes again, for unknown reasons.

However, what is glaringly out of place in the layout is the very intentional way that two seats have been set out that almost certainly weren't there before. It is a -tiny- bistro table falling into the vacuous middle of the room. Beneath it, a comically small plastic cooler. On the top, a stacked set of plates, a few utensils, and a sheathed black knife and cutting board. A pristine mountain snow lotus, potted in black, has been placed on the corner of the table, authoritatively. It is absolutely not something that came from the flower shop.

Then and only then does Shiryuu think to set down the bag of apples, next to the lamp. Finally, the demonic crinkling is no longer his responsibility. Instead, the boy moves to step behind the only piece of furniture that doesn't seem to be aligned to an exact grid pattern throughout the room -- a weirdly colorful futon, as he addresses the hard drapery panels that are closing off the window. A window that spans almost the entire wall. Shiryuu notices the discrepancy of the futon almost immediately, and in the process almost trips over it. "Gh-- ngh..!"

He's busy navigating the moment of indecision over whether to open the window first or move the futon so it's straight by the time he realizes what's happening. "Ah -- please, take a seat," he says, without specifying where, because he really did stub his toe and it really does hurt. His nature won out -- he's absolutely straightening the futon first.

(Nevermind the flower. It's still not a date.)

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

'I thought it was ...' Oh no, oh no. Shiryuu, you fool.

"You thought it was perfume I put on just for you?" Umie slowly turns her head towards Shiryuu, head tilted, eyes twinkling mischeviously. "My, my. I could've said nothing and pretended. However, you seemed like someone who'd be sensitive to smells on top of everything else."

Then, quiet.

Umie adjusts her bracelet, the cord making a tiny jingle barely heard above the din of the elevator motor.

Then--

"... what did you just do?" Umie asks, eyes wide as she cranes her neck back towards him.

There's a brief softening of her gaze as she recongizes the silk cord bracelet, confirming it with her eyes instead of just by touch alone. The leather band is there as well; a fashion statement? It's hidden though-- maybe a watch? Or something of meaning to him.

'I like it, it's fine.' She opens her mouth to say something, then quietly nods instead, her cheeks turning slightly pink again.

With a click of Shiryuu's keycard, they enter the apartment. Umie glances around, trying to soothe the way her heart is beating, while projecting an aura of calm.

It's... not that dissimilar to the size of Umie's apartment. Perhaps the difference is in the view and the furnishings?

... That is, the furnishings that'd be there, if they hadn't been removed and replaced with... well, she recongizes that sword, for one. The clockwork, not so much. Maybe it's a design choice, but then again, there's that paper charm(?) on it.

Of course she's over there immediately, squatting down and peering at it (thankfully not touching it, notably).

There's a desk, and a laptop, and... ah, so that's where all the swirling lights are coming from.

She stands, as Shiryuu apologizes again. "What," Umie starts with a slight smirk, the slight show of teeth stained white from the swirling LED lights. "

It definitely makes a different kind of impact, despite so much being taken down.

But what takes on more of Umie's attention, if only now that she's eased into the room is the odd addition of the two seats and the bistro table, set with many items. And next...

"Whoah..." Umie says, as she sets up to the potted snow lotus. "... It's..." She prods it experimentally with an index finger. "It's real? It's beautiful..."

Her awe is interrupted by Shiryuu nearly falling over the futon. "H-hey, you okay there?" Then, as if the concern was too obvious...

She has to say something to diminish it. "... I'm not sure we'd be able to get a doctor up this high, after all."

That'd be a way to make a not-date memorable.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Absolutely not messing it up tonight, Shiryuu.

Despite being relatively cavalier about the act in the elevator ('no need to be alarmed, it's just my ninjutsu,' the boy would have told her,) Shiryuu is much less forthcoming about the chest at the foot of the bed, which is a black steel and leather reinforced thing, ominous in the way its gears interlace to slide together two fat iron battens in place with four smaller iron bolts, each as thick around as a man's thumb. Thick bands of leather secure the edges of the chest, and it's lined in small carbide tips at its leading edges, with kanji seals acting as tamperproofing. 'KIN' is written on each, a forbidding kanji limned in ink scrawl all up and down the edges as they seal over the opening top of the lid.

Inspecting it, it looks like it's strong enough to be thrown out the window and survive the fall.

'What,' Umie smirks at him, and Shiryuu makes a face at her in turn. "I'll have something appropriate for you in a minute," he says. Then he promptly almost dies on moving a futon.

"I... if this was enough to take me out," he grouses, but never finishes his thought. Once Shiryuu has the futon muscled straight, the boy leans his hands across the backrest, catching just a bit of his breath while trying not to make it too obvious.

Then he turns to the drapery panels. While the window itself doesn't open, there are hard blackout panels that shut off the outside daylight during the day. These he slowly wheels open, one at a time.

"Anyway. They're from the clan's compound in Nagano," Shiryuu explains, as each panel slides into eachother with an audible click. "The Ryouhara claims the lotus as its symbolic flower. However, Mount Iizuna is not close enough to the Chikuma's basins to reliably host an aquatic garden every season, so these are regularly grown on the peaks instead..."

It's all rather matter of fact for the boy, a rote repetition of memory. The matter changes once the window is clear, however. The boy clearly is paying _just_ for the view: A dominating view of the Tokyo skyline, where each building is distant enough to appear like a Christmas tree, gatherings of a hundred twinkling lights apiece. The room has the east face of the tower, which can see Shibuya Crossing not far away at all, shot through with skyways and people milling about the crosswalks below, overlit by fierce blazons of the corporate tower spectaculars, advertising soft drinks, internet companies, the latest shows, and banks.

Against Ryouhara, the distant light glows like a halo against him, and the boy's voice trails off as he stares. It's only when the flicker of the neon orrery catches his attention in the reflection, reminding him that she can see his reflection in the window.

Without looking, his mouth sets in a thin, quiet line.
"....I thought you'd appreciate seeing one."

Luckily, Ryouhara seems a little reticent to shut off the lights, and the warm overhead does a lot to quell the neon rave audacity of the electric arcs that shape his figure as he steps past her. Laptop finally addressed, the boy opens a module program, setting a beat synthesizer. 88 BPM... kicks every two measures.. minimal open hihat... set to a low choir loop with a few strings.

There. It takes only a few seconds, but there is a tiny little beat strumming from the computer's speakers, with a low choir hum set to something pretty sounding in the back. The volume is low enough to be unobtrusive, but the beat is enough that it takes Shiryuu's mind off his own heartbeat.

"That'll go until the Dark Hour," the boy with the grey hair remarks ruefully as he finally takes his seat on the other side of the table, with a tiny -hup.- "...Or until the program crashes," he thinks aloud, rueful.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

'No need to be alarmed, it's just my ninjutsu.' What an utterly normal thing to say.

"Mmn." Umie's dark eyelashes lower as she touches a curled finger to her bottom lip.

Much of Umie's teasing is due to who it is, opposite her. She knows he's powerful, and that, in a moment, he could quickly overwhelm her, being someone with skills that can work outside of the Dark Hour.

However, as a counterpoint: she just can't help herself.

Just like now, when Shiryuu makes that face., However, then, whatever cheeky remark she was going to make had gone out the window (well, not literally) the moment she saw that snow lotus.

"Beauty in adversity," Umie notes quietly, imagining it in the harsh sun of the craggy mountain peak.

This one sits in a pot instead in this needle of a mountain, with a view just as expansive, as Shiryuu works the curtains back to expose the view.

"...." Perhaps it's just as satisfying to see the sometimes sardonic Umie be too in awe to speak, as the skyline is revealed.

It's like seeing a sea of lights, or a mountain range of humanity, skyscrapers lining the sky like the lines on a readout for a track in a music program.

And against it, the ghost of Shiryuu, outlined in the white of the lights.

She does, indeed, see Shiryuu's reflection. And he hers, as her eyes trail across his shoulders with a brief gentling of her gaze.

Umie glances back towards the potted mountain lotus, noting the eerie beauty of the leaves, the pale veins of the white petals, the black stamen in the middle.

Like the white of his haori, the petals soft as his lips felt.

Her heart's beginning to pound again. She gathers back a blonde bang from her face, biting her lip.

.....

It's enough that Umie lets Shiryuu work in peace, taking a seat in one of the chairs as she gazes out into the city lights beyond.

By the time Shiryuu takes a seat, she's managed to calm herself back down, though the way her right hand had tended to her red bracelet is an immediate tell.

Umie chuckles. "I appreciate all the thought you placed into everything, especially when there wasn't a lot of time to do so."

She looks over the skyline, then back to Shiryuu, leaning in just slightly, as if to share an embarrassing secret. "I wonder what it'll look like, when the Dark Hour hits. I don't think I'd ever seen it from this high up."

Excitement peeks through in her voice, even if she keeps the volume of her voice low.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"Aa," Shiryuu confirms for her. "Though it is not the same as the lotus that grows in the lakes, both symbolize the purity of struggle, and the founder of the clan's journey..."

It seems as if there's a little more to it than that, but Shiryuu trails off thoughtfully, watching her in the glass. He's quiet as well. Yet, the young man is very proper when he moves, from the formal way he strides across the room, to the way he sits, legs lined up exactly with the table, hands settling on his knees as he tilts his head.

Gone is some of the anxiety and tension from before, replaced with a steady glance, though there is always trepidation, some manner of guilt, as if meeting her eyes was something he was simply not allowed to do, and it's a sheer feat of will that he even manages it without his cheeks warming.

Was it his imagination, or was she just looking at him, the same way..?

It is strange, for the shihaisha to meet her in this way. There is a certain formal honesty in how he behaves, nodding once as she sits. "It's not strange to expect of a ... person," he tells her simply, though he still pauses on the last word, the ghost of consternation crossing his face as if unsure it was the correct one to use.

"People such as us live on the edge of life and death every night, and with respect to everything that's transpired... I owe you this much, at least."

!

As his eyes dip downward, the onmitsu seems shot out of his reverie, a sudden startle causing the boy to reach beneath the table, opening the tiny cooler. "One second." Oh, look, he's produced the apple he took with him. One of the Tsugaru, the pinkish red tone set on the tiny 'Mike panchi!!' cutting board set on the table. He had it packed with cool packs, so the apple's chilled. The boy takes a moment to separate out the little glass plates he had sent up, and unsheathes the small black lacquered tanto set alongside the board. Noticeably, the tanto's saya is carved with the same symbol that appears on the back of his haori, when he's wearing it; three leaves in the wind. This he uses to slice the apple, with about a solemn an expression on his face as possible.

And Shiryuu, somewhat expectedly, is extremely good with a knife.

He goes about this in an exacting way. First, the boy cuts the sections out of the apple, into crisp fourths. Then, he cuts into the skin of the apple, making first lateral slits, then longitudinal slits. He's fast, so the warmth of his hands don't warm the apple overmuch, but each alternating square of skin is plucked off of the apple, before he clips out the seed core with a quick notch. When it's done, there are two quarters of the apple on each small plate, their skin peeled in an alternating ichimatsu checkerboard pattern. The tanto is wiped off with a kerchief, and sheathed before being set aside.

"... It's ... something to see," Shiryuu explains of her admission, while cutting. The Dark Hour has its own implications for him lately, but it's not a subject he gets into, a small flash of a smile betraying him hearing the restrained excitement in her voice, a scintilla of tension draining from the pride of his shoulders. Something about it puts him at ease.

"...Of course, you don't have to, but..."

Shiryuu offers one of the plates to Umie, sliding it across the tiny bistro with both hands and head bowed in deference. He is absolutely not looking at her when he speaks. He is trying not to get distracted about what happened the last time they were at a table like this. All of it. Even when she.. no, don't get distracted, Shiryuu. Make sure she understands the situation.

"... if you want, you can stay and see it..." ... with me.
It's now alarmingly clear that he thought to leave her just enough time to be taken home, if she wanted to be. Or..

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

The purity of struggle. Beauty in adversity. It's a foreign concept, thinking of a clan, much less a clan's founder, enough to enshrine certain objects or concepts as being related to it as much as the kanji that lies within a surname.

While red lies in Umie's own surname, it isn't what led to her picking red as a favorite color, anymore than the kanji of 'wing' foretold Badb. One could look at Umie's own first name for a reference that's more direct, but even then, was it the knowledge of that kanji that spawned the Badb?

Or was it the concept of the crow, the raven, or the blackbird that lies at the heart of all?

Further still is the idea of the shihaisha, what it means, or why Umie should hold it in a different light, rather than treat it as any meaningless, ancient title.

It's the smaller things she respects, the details, the story that lies within. A clan's name is nothing, but a snow-petalled lotus that blooms on a mountain grounds it in something she can understand and grasp.

'Of course it's not your imagination, I kissed you,' would be Umie's natural remark, if the shihaisha had spoke his thoughts aloud.

A shihaisha that leaves the 'us' vague, found Umie imagines herself being included in that, placed as an equal, her struggles quietly acknowledged, without drawing attention to them. (Had it been any more direct, she would have refused to respect it.)

He could have equally meant himself, recognizing his own unique circumstances as a reason to place value in the present, as the future may not be so kind.

The sweetest apple you will taste will be the one you taste in the present, being not a memory, or an expectation of the future.
Umie's attention is spent on the chilled Tsugaru apple, the setting of the glass plates, the shine of the black lacquer tanto and its symbol, unsheathed in front of her. She watches Shiryuu's hands cut the apple with care, the checkboard pattern unfolding in front of her fascinated eyes.

She doesn't dare move to take the offered plate until the tanto is wiped and sheathed, not wanting to disrupt what feels like a ritual.

Especially seeing how he offers that glass plate before her, the apple slice beautifully checked.

'So you set this up as a carrot on a stick, just to lure me in,' she would normally say, with a smirk.

The weight of the plate shifts as she takes it, in the next second giving her answer.

"... I do," Umie says, down glancing at Shiryuu, eyelids lowered slightly over dark eyes. "I'd love nothing more."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

It's truthfully hard for Shiryuu to avoid thinking about. Is it even okay that he let her kiss him like that? Is it really okay to have let things advance that far...?

Is it okay to have ...liked it?
Is it ... the feeling of a bond?

The subtext hangs thick enough in the air to be cut with a knife. Unfortunately, Shiryuu is no longer so armed, as he's already offered the ichimatsu-giri Tsugaru formally and sheathed his tanto.

Tension runs in his veins, in the median between the two roads he offers her, his own plate almost neglected as the boy takes great care to dispense with the cutting board. There is something desolate just at the edge of the silence, tense and ready.

In a certain manner of thinking, someone like him doesn't really deserve to exist in this moment. But he can ignore it, for just a moment, if he remembers that keeping his word is more important.

All of this transpires between this second and that. Just enough time for the boy to set the cutting board beneath the table, on top of the cooler. Just enough time for his hands to tense up just so.

'I'd love nothing more.'

His smile is hardly very radiant at all -- a gentle line, weak by any reasonable estimate, but worn for longer than the second or two betraying him prioe. He thinks he is satisfied -- he thinks that's what that feeling is.

It's not.

"...I'm glad," he says, leaving the rest unsaid. Instead, he takes a moment to look down at his own apple. He doesn't know the type, truthfully, or what to expect, but the design is nice enough. "... I'm told," he starts, absent, "that this is the best pattern for luck." Superior to the swan or the rabbit, it's stated, which he also learned to cut just today.

He breaks the apple with a tiny pop in his hands, instinctively right along a crisp line, though it's very clear he's not thinking about anything of the like, as the boy presses the two halves back together, a second later.

"And.."
Is it fair to just .. not tell her?

"...It's something.." the boy starts to think, staring at the apple.
"...I'd like to try again, sometime. Thank you."

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

Is it okay?

Umie never asked herself that, only if this is a chance she could pass up.

When a boy in front of you feels so pale, and you remember the way that same boy gathered you against him that one night, and how his hand touched your Mark without a single flinch, his thoughts centered on you...

And how he quietly confessed how scared he was, that he wouldn't be able to see you again-

When those feelings are inside you as well, you kiss that boy.

And you tell him you'd love nothing more than to watch the Dark Hour with him, because it's the truth.

"It seems you're pretty skilled with a knife outside of battle as well," Umie notes, with some humor. "I definitely couldn't do something like that."

Shiryuu breaks the apple with an audible pop, and Umie is delighted.

And then, as if not thinking, he presses the two halves together, commenting how it's something he'd liked to try again, sometime.

Ah ha.

Shiryuu will definitely notice the small curlling smile on her lips, that gleeful, terrible expression that can only hint at the carnage of what's to come.

She leans in close, merely a foot away from him as she reaches up, a gentle hand brushing a bang from his forehead, trying her best not to startle him.

"... All you need to do is ask."

It's a invitation, in every sense of the word, but also a reminder, as that expression softens.

".... You won't disappear tonight, Shiryuu. I'll be here. So sleep well."

Half or whole, Shiryuu is here.

And so is Umie.
</poem>

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

01-18-2026: Security for Two

2026-01-26T06:48:21Z

Strangehat: Strangehat moved page 01-18-2026: Security for Two to 2026-01-18: Security for Two: Misspelled title

#REDIRECT [[2026-01-18: Security for Two]]

2026-01-18: Security for Two

2026-01-26T06:48:21Z

Strangehat: Strangehat moved page 01-18-2026: Security for Two to 2026-01-18: Security for Two: Misspelled title

*'''Log: Security for Two'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], [[Umie Akabane]]
*'''Where:''' Shibuya, Tokyo
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-01-18
*'''IC Date:''' Sep 13 2012
*'''Summary''': ''After the battle with the mad artist, Shiryuu returns to Shibuya, ostensibly to give a warning. However, it turns out that Umie Akabane is just as hurt and restless as he.''
----
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

>> can't come in, srry, friend got sick
>> got what they had

Umie's phone fell into the cushion of the futon from an outstretched hand.

At least her bosses are used to such antics; it's why no one quite seems to trust Umie Akabane's commitment to full-time work.

Whatever the response was, Umie didn't get to read it until several hours later, when she got up to brush her teeth (whoops, shouldn't forget dental hygiene), take a bathroom break, eat something, then... staring at the futon laid out there, bathed in the comforting breeze of the two panda fans, she eventually fell back in.

.... Until a nightmare wakes her up, an hour later, and the air feels so much colder than it should be.

A walk around the block later, she comes back up, sweaty, and dips into the bathtub for a long soak...

.... and nearly falls asleep, waking from another tableau of noxious imagery she can't quite remember.

Her hair is still damp and limp as she crawls into bed, still exhausted. She can't even muster the idea of going into Mementos to allow her Persona to speed up the process; her mind doesn't want to process any further the trappings of something cognitive or supernatural.

So.

By the time the next day came and faded into evening, Umie was still sore, still tired, still waking up, either too hot or too cold, whether from the last wheezes of summer refusing to let go of the temperature, or the fans cooling her a little too much, or something else.

Falling into a similar pattern is Umie's mental state: she doesn't want to talk to anybody. She wants to talk to someone.
She wants to eat something. She's not hungry.
She feels numb. She wants to cry.
She feels fine. She feels angry.

When thunder echoes outside her window, it's like some god finally listened to her pleas.

The apartment closes in like cocoon, with the sounds of distant traffic and voices, the luminous patter of rainfall and rolling bellows of lightning, the sound of occasional voices in the hallway outside.

The vroom of fans.

Her eyes close.

....

And seemingly, in the next moment, though in reality she had slept those last few hours, the Dark Hour comes.

Umie feels the comforting weight of Badb fill her with the necessary readiness and joy; the green environs accented with red a welcoming, unnerving sight.

A contradiction, in every sense.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

But then, was it really like he thought it was?

Shiryuu is a different creature when it comes to addressing problems. Sleeping just enough to realize how much his body hurts. Awake just enough to realize how much his skull aches.

He'd done all the familiar things, Exercise, kata, a bath filled with ice. The boy had nigh exhausted his strips of linen, the passing hours reduced to a pile of bloodied rags in the sprawl of the washroom of the hotel he frequents in the Tokyo region. He pretends as if they're not an ill omen, as he sits in the -- if he were really telling himself the truth, rather uncomfortable -- rolling chair across from the bed.

The bed looked like a bomb had hit it, with comforter torn off and thrown across the room, the sheets rolled all the way up into a haphazard knot-or-rope, hanging over the low footboard. The grey-headed boy was sitting there, listening to the thump of a beatbox synth go through its six note cycle repeatedly, part of some track or another sitting on a brand new laptop.

Sitting in a pile of wool that would, on a bigger person, rightly be called a sweater with a winding of fresh linen around his head and eye, the boy stares morosely at the screen, watching the tracker snap across the beats. He's been looking at it for the past fifteen minutes, with no more salient progress made on the track in front of him today than has been made in the weeks prior. A single dark brown eye focuses on the screen, and the single loop he's successfully placed for the entire day.

It was like the way he thought it was, wasn't it? He was just there for the mission. To protect them. He was strong enough to not need help. Not from Yua, not from her. He was, in fact, the strongest. He definitely didn't care at all when Akabane shouted his name like a gunshot in the dark. He didn't cave when she checked him, his first instinct was not to hold onto her hand tightly.

He clicks the macro to stop playback, rolling the trackball under his fingers in the acidic silence that follows. She threw her arms around him. Or something like that... he won't pretend like he was paying attention. He wasn't. Sentimentality wasn't his strong suit. That wasn't what 'shinobi' were. It doesn't matter. That sick weight still sinks in his gut.

He just needed a minute to think it through.
A shinobi has no value. Not as people... only as ideas.
They're more useful as empty-headed pets.
Unless they run when they're needed.

The boy's head lolls back as he breathes outward into the air. He doesn't even know it when the Dark Hour hits, and his computer screen goes black, leaving him in a room with no sound and no lights.

It was the way he thought it was, right...?
It didn't mean anything to him at all.

A hand drenched in wool tightens against his head, almost pulling out a fistful of grey hair. It all comes out as one tiny muted sound, strangled in his throat until there was nothing left to get out.

He snatches his haori off the back of the chair.

It's not much later when the grey-headed boy arrives in Akabane's apartment, the sudden stir of wind putting him on what passes for the countertop in what would have been a kitchen in any reasonable house. He's perched there, the draping sleeves of his grey haori piled up and trailing between his knees, hiding his hands entirely as he leans forward. Luckily, it's new or at least laundered -- it's not covered in his blood.

He's still not carrying his sword or his shoulder bag.
The great kami Sarutahiko is there somewhere at the back of his mind, but only just so, only grudgingly within his call: Elusive, evasive, omnipresent but never quite within reach.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

In the bathroom, which is aligned right next to the tiny kitchen in the rectangular apartment, Umie carefully pours a bottle of water against her face in lieu of no running water, the red liquid washing the sleep from her eyes.

You really get used to it, partially, after several years. The water is red, like blood. Blood puddles on the floor. When you wipe your face against the towel next to the sink, it'll be stained red as well.

The Dark Hour, by virtue of existing, must always warn one of one's inevitable death.

Umie, with the Badb in her soul, is no exception.

The wind stirs in her apartment, ruffling the stray strands of hair.

Her lips hang open in a slight sigh. A breeze at a time when none should exist, just like the sound of crows at a time when nothing living should call.

Her lips curve, for a slight moment.

....

No, she can't led Invincible-san know how relieved she is to know he's here.

Rubbing her face for good measure, as if to scrub the stupid little smile from her lips, Umie walks out of the bathroom, glances about, and then, towards the hallway, where the kitchen lies.

_And he's just there_. The blonde, dressed in a tank top and shorts, notes the lack of a sword, or bag.

.... What is he planning?

"....." She looks at him, folding her arms, as if waiting for some remark, before letting them fall restlessly to her sides.

Her brain says, 'Are you doing okay? Are you feeling restless too?'

Her mouth says, instead, "You'd be more comfortable in a chair, you know."

A chair she... doesn't currently have, aside from the couch, where the futon is in front of. "..."

She begins the process of rolling up the futon temporarily so that she can at least push it aside, throwing any stray clothes against the small clothing rack that she bought with plans of using it to tame her mess.

(It's just become a frame that clothes are thrown on, with rather impressive accuracy at this moment.)

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

The grey-headed boy is ghost-silent for a time.
No, ghosts can be louder.

It really is the smallest sound, the youth's recognition of her presence when Akabane slips from the bathroom across the span of his attention, though certainly not his line of sight.

The linen wrapped haphazardly over his head to stripe across his eye sends his hair haphazardly in every direction, shooting to and fro around the tightly-tied band, whose knot lays towards the back of his head. Even so, the rancorous grey mop knows no barrier that will contain it, and the boy's remaining eye is almost entirely occluded by the angle his chin hangs, close to disappearing into the neck of his sweater, which has mercifully been changed out for something at least a little more form-fit.

The clothing he wears at least betrays his movement somewhat -- it's really the only indicator that he made a sound at all, the soft draw of breath and the pensive energy that leaps, electric, between his shoulder-blades with the crow's presence.

She can feel the subtle change, the way the boy moves from morose to instantly alert and living at her presence. She is less privy to how painfully hyperaware he is of every detail in those moments.

It manifests as a tiny, hard-wrought sigh, fingertips appearing from his sleeves to tap together between his knees. She's the first to say something.

She is also much cooler than he is, and some part of the shihaisha riles about it. He _was_ famous, at one point...

Finally, he manages a single gesture: an index finger pressed to his lips silently, briefly: Shh.

He notes her activity, finally spotting the rack's real purpose. The boy lands on -- she'll notice his shoes have been _fastidiously_ cleaned since the fight and getting cognitive paint on them, which turns out just to be real paint outside the Dark Hour, which is even worse -- the floor with not a single sound, crossing the space in the tiny studio sprawl behind her. He's apparently had enough of that, since the boy leans over quietly, pointedly helping her gather her things. These he folds, specifically, and with care, to place on the rack. Not that he isn't slightly impressed by her aim--he's trying not to stare. And not doing a great job with it.

The process is quiet, and the onmitsu doesn't seem to mind it, as long as there's a certain distance between them. Or at least as long as he doesn't think about it too hard. It's only when he's sufficiently helped her move the futon that he stands in front of her, hands to his sides. The moment that slides between then and imminently is entirely too awkward.

'... I'll be okay. I came because of you.'

The boy's mouth sets itself; a thin, pressed line.

"You'll die cooped up in here," Ryouhara elects to say, instead.
Finally. "You should come to the roof with me."

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

Umie's own eyes trace over the linen wrapped over his eye.

".... I can help you wrap it again," she offers, feeling a touch guilty. "Probably'll be a lot easier. Is it doing okay? I've got plenty of bandages."

It's probably bleeding a lot, after that fight; a price tag that exceeds the itch and pull of the Mark, which is most likely merely a product of Umie's own imagination.

After all, she's never used it since that day, years ago. Nothing bad can happen to *her*, no one would even know she had it, if she wasn't so quick now to reveal it.

Because she wants to know if someone will accept it, Umie thinks to herself. Otherwise, she'll linger in that twilight of not knowing how far she can trust someone, or how they'd see her, in light of what acts others have done with the Mark's power.

Shush, his movements say.

Her eyes narrow, her lips falling flat in a straight line. If he wants to be all quiet? Fine, then.

How much did she stain his haori? That white must be a pain to clean, Umie reflects, as she observes the grey-haired boy's shoes touch the floor.

Soon enough, he's helping her clean up, folding up her clothes, being distracted, always trying to keep a certain distance.

..... right. Between the way she broke his personal space in front of Kurou, and then, that awkward hug last night.

(He squeezed her hand, her memory helpfully brings up, which wretchedly makes her heart beat just a little bit faster for a spare moment or two.)

shitshitshitshit, STOP DOING THIS, UMIE. YOU KNOW WANT HAPPENS.

They're just standing there, the two of them.

'You'll die cooped up in here.'
'You should come to the roof with me.'

".... It's locked." With an ease that shows she's been there before, she smirks, moving away to grab her jacket. "The lock's even easier to pick than the one on my door."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"Iih." For someone who is likely easily capable of blowing out every door in the building with supralunar bass and thunder, Shiryuu is not a terribly loud speaker, especially in his objection. The sound is scarcely louder than the fall of a single black feather, stirring mostly in his chest. Just a fragment of a word, nothing more.

But it does not come fast, nor does it come in due time. There is enough space between her offer and his reply for a single thought, before a decision is made. "It's functional enough," Shiryuu explains simply, as if satisfied just to say that. It's only after perusing the thought for a breath that he finds it wanting. "Mugen Setsuna places more stress on the body, due to the saccade-rhythm transportation staccato. If something endangers you, I can still.."

Pause. Shiryuu realizes it's the wrong tack to take, a few seconds too late. He's talking too much. The boy clears his throat, lifting the drape of a sleeve to his mouth, painfully self-aware.

"....it would just be a mess, right now. That's all."

The torrid moment turns. There is a gossamer second in which the boy was able to hold her gaze, was able to face her. There was a moment in which he was invincible. And then it's gone, and he turns away from her, plainly waiting for her to get her jacket under the guise of straightening the clothes on her rack, tiny little tugs playing out here and there. He's really concerned about wrinkles right now.

She might, if she's paying real attention, notice that he steals a glance at her Mark every so often, but only in that strange boyish way where he thinks he might not be detected doing so. Not with fear, not judgment, but with open consternation. Like a question yet to be asked. An answer, yet to be found. And then she goes for her jacket.

'The lock's even easier to pick than the one on my door.' "iih.." he sighs, looking down and to the right, as if contemplating looking over his shoulder. The difficulty of the lock is no problem. "You know I come from a family of technicians, right...?"

Too quiet. Too hard to hear. Shiryuu has no choice but to let Umie do things her way, and helpfully doesn't even use his technique to go to the roof ahead of her. It absolutely has nothing to do with him having a concern about shadows in the hall.

"Just don't trip. It's dark." The pit in his stomach is reminding him of mishandling danger all too readily.

She doesn't seem to have much trouble with the roof access; and he doesn't expect it, watching her from this point many a time previous, which is information he'll also not share. Instead, the shihaisha allows Akabane to lead the way, out into the open air, under the sickly crescent of the moon. Each hand tucked into the opposite's sleeve, the boy follows. It's only when the light actually falls on his mantle that the boy seems to breathe, decompressing ever slightly.

"The sky doesn't feel cramped tonight," Ryouhara observes passively.
"...It's a good night for a conversation," he decides.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

There's something different about Shiryuu's manner, in a way that doesn't seem to be a product of their strangely deepening relationship(?? surely there's a better word!!). Shiryuu's always been a touch on the quiet side, but his tendency to exert his own form of control over a conversation with prideful statements has become a pattern of his.

It leaves her own equally overconfident comments alone, echoing their own insecurities in her ears without something else to bounce them off of.

"It's the Dark Hour. Everything's going to look messy," Umie offers, pausing to itch behind an ear, her gaze equally drawing away from his. "But I'll... take your word for it."

She feels the boy's gaze as she slips her jacket on; the Badb in her wants to drag it along, making each movement smooth and deliberately mysterious, while casting a cheeky gaze back at him in challenge.

It's just that, her heart's just not in it right now, especially as she becomes conscious of his gaze on her Mark, as her right hand pops out of its respective jacket sleeve.

This is how it happens. Even an NWO agent would eventually look on her with questions, especially after last night. What makes her any different from that artist, or Sudou? She's just as cursed; she could just be a late bloomer.

(Or maybe, she just hides it very, very well, until that hard little bud blooms and all the corruption held inside is exposed wide for the world to see.)

As she puts on her sneakers, Shiryuu says something, but it's too faint for her to hear clearly, even in the quiet of the Dark Hour. Umie hesitates, glancing back towards him, then unlocks the door. "Let's go, then."

Going out into the hallway (Umie does lock up after they leave) and up the stairs, Umie pauses at Shiryuu's next words. Maybe it's just concern that's coloring his responses, but he's never been quite like this, before, has he? "Then keep close to me."

A lockpick is dug out of one pocket; Umie makes short work of the simple lock on the door and opens it, letting it sound out a siren of a long, drawn out creak to whatever may await them on the roof itself.

Fortunately, all that's there is the green night sky, the wan smile of a crescent moon, and the dark silhouettes of other buildings around them.

The ease with which she moves suggests it's not the first time she's been here. "Be careful. Shadows can sometimes get up here; it's just less frequent."

It's a good night for a conversation, indeed.

"... Hey." With little time to prepare, Umie's hair is in a simple ponytail, left to hang limply against her shoulders with no dramatic breeze to come and help as she turns to face him, once the door is closed behind them. "That was a tough fight, last night, in a way neither of us would have been used to."

Silent concern glints in those eyes as she looks Shiryuu over, pupils colored dark by the dim lighting.

"Are you doing okay? I mean, I had to skip out on work and just spent the entire day like I was sick, so... you can be honest." She gestures with her right hand casually, not even being mindful of the Mark that's there.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Yes. The air is cleaner here. The onmitsu doesn't take his hands out of his sleeves, silent as she moves out into the open air. He doesn't have the same level of caution she does, the warning she gives about the shadows passing with far too little discretion in the quiet boy's mind.

He could have argued about the mess, but didn't. It's true, where there once was a rash of aggression and confidence ('it's not _overconfidence,_ Akabane,' he would have reminded her in any other situation..) there remains a mood as flat as the river plains south of Nagano. There's something less aggressive about it, something harshly vacant as the boy steps forward. Polite, not severe. Gentle, if one were pressed to a single word.

... "Do you think the bride realized it was you?" he asks simply, absently, idly, the moment that there's space enough to do so. The way the words are casually thrown. He uses their chosen colloquialisms -- the so-called 'secret identities' that his contemporaries are so fond of. For awhile, his back is facing her -- much of the tense, listless energy in his shoulders lost and muffled in the layers he wears but still bleeding out slow.

It really has nothing to do with what he's thinking about.

... "It wasn't a hard fight at all," the onmitsu insists, his voice distant and faraway, as if spurred to say it by reflex alone. She asks him if he's okay, but her explanation drags more attention than the question itself. She mentions that she had to skip out of work. This gets the dragon's share of his attention immediately, and the boy turns, one brown eye lost in the Hour as he looks her ov --

Shiryuu finds himself staring right in her eyes, with the exact same look of concern.

She'd said 'stay close to her,' and he...

A blink, sharp -- and the boy looks up, immediately breaking eye contact to shoot a look to be lost entirely in the sky. A low, dark sigh slithers from his chest. Unlike her, the boy is almost always dressed in -far- too many layers to make any reasonable determination of his wellbeing, other than the little rattle at the very end of his breath. It's the one thing he isn't trained to hide.

"... It's not right, for you to care," he tells her, pointedly.
"In that situation... it would have been catastrophic for that boy to fight the Bride." There is a subtext there. "I would have been bound to cut him in half."

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

"... eh?" Umie looks at Shiryuu, eyes blinking in a short melody of complete and utter cluelessness. "She's... got navigation-type abilities. I guess I... just assumed. I mean, she's seen me summon Badb before so I just..." She hesitates a moment. "... It.... worked...?"

It's been so easy to pierce that veil that she had assumed it only worked at first, with a sharply dropping rate of success as someone got to know her. "It... worked..."

Her wonder over this revelation is spoiled the moment Shiryuu claims the fight, contrary to Umie's belief, *wasn't* hard. "Bullshiiittt," Umie mutters underneath her breath, lips twitching as she tries to keep herself from smiling; thankfully, with Shiryuu turning to face away from her, she doesn't have to try too hard.

(Is he just doing that because he has trouble looking her in the eyes? And why is she having trouble, as well?)

Which necessitates the question if Shiryuu's okay himself, with that added bit of explanation, trying to show her hand in a bid to get the onmitsu to show his own.

... With that risk she takes, they're gazing at each other. The dim light reveals little that he didn't already see in the apartment, now with the added complication of the jacket hanging over Umie's body. Some bruises, a stiff ache in her walk that she doesn't bother to hide, but thankfully, Badb's presence adds a buffer of resilience her normal self wouldn't have.

The eyes, however, betray that weary, worried glimmer. Her lips, open to speak, but the eye contact is broken, Shiryuu casting his gaze upwards.

Her sigh, a touch frustrated, follows Shiryuu's, as Umie sits down, crossing her legs and propping herself on the palms of her hands, giving her body the necessary angle to look towards the sky herself without craning her neck.

She'll play this game.

"I'll care about who I want," she murmurs, softly. "..."

That exposed her a little too much, in the negative space it leaves behind.

"The boy... the one that came in later, you mean?" She shakes her head again. "... Wait, no, nevermind that. Why are you mentioning that? I have no love for the Order myself, but even I was telling him to not go after them."

'I would have been bound to cut him in half.'

She cast her eyes down from the heavens, her chin sinking. "... Because you're part of them." Her eyes lower. Her lips grimace, slightly. "I get it. This is about that, right... You were there to protect them, and there I went--" She tries to dredge up that same anger she felt, in order to thrust it at Shiryuu, but every handful she manages to wrestle from herself simply slips from her hands.

"What, did you get in trouble? Because you're not playing by the rules?" A tense bitterness creeps into her voice. "Or... maybe you're beginning to see me the way that boy would likely look at me if *he* knew. If I used my Mark, after all, I'd feel the same way as the Old Maid to everyone. I suppose that'd get that boy's attention really quick, wouldn't it, eh?"

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"There may be a benefit," Shiryuu supposes while deliberately attempting not to sound bemused with her, "to not being able to decide on a mask."

The intense heat of his blood hopefully never reaches his face. Truthfully, it takes every ounce of Shiryuu's power to keep his heartbeat from skyrocketing past the borderlines of good sense. Were he of a less respectable physicality, he might have fainted attempting to do so. Ah, luckily..

What was that she said? Shiryuu didn't hear it. He almost becomes prophylactically offended, just to be safe.

Instead, his hands itch. Not in the physical sense, but Shiryuu becomes aware of the sensation while tracking bruises he might not have noticed immediately while being distracted in her apartment, working back through what he knows of her gait and breathing patterns to determine anomalies he might have to address. The onmitsu's hands slide out of his sleeves, the little twitch of his fingertips revealed in that moment, though good sense leaves Ryouhara nothing to do with them but hang his wrists at his sides in tense exasperation with himself.

Don't crack, Shiryuu. It's not like that at all..

She sits unceremoniously, and Shiryuu is briefly extremely alarmed, trying not to look and failing miserably. Did she faint? No, it's .. Shiryuu is even more off-put by this sudden change, and doubly so when she speaks. 'I'll care about who I want.'

"Ih--" Shiryuu starts to say something, starts to step towards her, starts to open a hand, only to find himself completely unable to approach for want of simply knowing exactly what to do.

'...Because you're part of them.' Therein lay the problem, the young man's head lowering as she puts the words to the air. It's not something he denies, and the boy remains aloof until she continues.

"... I wasn't there to protect 'them,'" he replies, solemn. "You were there as well."

When the young man lowers beside her, it's to sit in perfect seiza, his calves underneath him, and his knees curled up beneath his sleeves. The concession to her is slow, and every bit the practiced ceremony learned when he was too young to remember, to the point that it's simply instinct now. His fingertips are visible at his knees, as he thinks, as his lips part slightly, the perfect answer resting there.

Or that's what he wished.

"I'm not the someone who gets in trouble," Shiryuu points out. "But .. I have to do the things I say I will. And those things that I need to do..."

Shiryuu stops, for a moment. A head bounces across the ground, in his mind's eye. He blinks it away, and the rest of the words die in his throat. "...I'm not the person you think I am," Shiryuu points out, his eye closing.

"I'm the person that it's dangerous to admit knowing."

There is a tinge of venom he detects in her. Of pain. A more important person would be able to explain it all much easier than he, empty-headed thing that he is.

"...how I'm beginning to see you," Shiryuu echoes her, on the edge of misery and incredulousness.

Almost absent his own good judgment, the boy reaches for her hand, to take it up between his own, until her painted nails disappear entirely in the anonymizing swath of white sleeves. If she doesn't fight him, if she doesn't pull away, Shiryuu will let her feel his heartbeat between his palms, setting her hand between his in his lap.

His heartbeat slows. It's even, strong, calm right now.
Is it because he's reached out to her?

"It's enough," he tells her, calm, dark, soothing.
"You aren't the sum of what's been done to you," Shiryuu says quietly.
It's very little, he reminds himself. But it's what he can do.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

"... If it gets better, I could..." Umie wonders aloud, quietly. "Well, the mask isn't strictly necessary, it just... made sense. So I *guess* that makes it necessary, but it's not like I've actively *tried*, but--"

That rare moment of excitement remains there, Umie's eyes remaining cast towards the concrete flooring of the roof in hushed amusement.

Unexpected victory comes so rarely that Umie can't hold it back, which likely makes Shiryuu's struggle that much more difficult.

But, alas, like a cloud passes the moon, it leaves, and Umie's sitting cross-legged, leaving Shiryuu to worry if Umie had collapsed.

Her chin tilts slightly as she senses the step Shiryuu makes towards her; the line of her back and the loose hang of her jacket leaving her exposed. A single strike to take her down.

The first and second times they had met, with would have never happened. The third, she flaunted it, when he changed course to take her to get shoes. The fourth, she didn't seem to care at all. The fifth--

And so on.

She knows he's there. It's not even a matter of her not caring anymore; she's comfortable with his presence. And also, she...

How did she get in this situation, she wonders. A simple act of kindness or two, and she develops feelings? What is this nonsense...

'I'll care about who I want.'

It's said so childishly, in Umie's ears, and when she shoots those next few words, it feels more childish still.

'You were there as well.' His wording draws a surprised flush of heat to her cheeks. He's come to her aid before, disguising it with the bluster of wanting to ensure their future fight was preserved.

She feels the deliberate weight of Shiryuu's movements, lowering into a seiza pose that contrasts with hers, the flow of her body a mix of casual and conflicted. Her blush is still there, deepening; it'd be hard for Shiryuu to miss it.

"I didn't intend to..." Umie's words start and stop in her throat in a hiss, her eyes grimacing.

"Demons are easier to know than humans," she says instead, closing her eyes, as if trying to avoid the conflict in Shiryuu's next statements. "They'll love you, hurt you, hate you. You can expect them to trick you. You can always count on them to flip on you for doing something wrong. So you look to the phases of the moon, you trick them back, you ply them with trinkets. You can reveal a little about yourself, but they will never, ever care about you. You do not matter to them. You don't have to *be* anything to them."

"Humans-- people, are dangerous. You can't know them completely, and if they know enough about you, they'll definitely reject you. Having one foot in the supernatural world, and one in the normal, and never acknowledging one or the other..."

Mai-chan may have been the reason she didn't crack, and that is the most painful part of all; especially the times when she left Umie to flail on her own, content to laugh until Umie begged for her to come back. (Because no one knows her heart better.)

"...!" Shiryuu takes Umie's hand, and it shocks her; her face flushes red as ever.

Still, like a hand holding a trusting sparrow, she keeps her hand still, letting Shiryuu direct it while watching it disappear into the white sleeves of his haori.

"...." His heartbeat... is relaxed. Her hand curls, slightly, in his grip.

People with Personas are the most dangerous of all.

".... You aren't either, Shiryuu." Her words drop softly, like the first drops of a recurrent rain.

How else would he continually fail to do as he bids himself to do, if he didn't understand?

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

It is still intensely hard for Shiryuu not to be endeared, when she's like 'that.' But there are a great many things that stir Ryouhara to entertain Akabane's moods, from suspicious to sweet, and it's only when he's absolutely sure that she's not about to die and he doesn't need to do anything about it that he's even able to approach calm.

But then he is, and then she is. And she's telling him everything she can, his eyes looking down as he sits, prim, proper, miserable in a fashion he can't quite put to a word. She tells him of demons, she tells him of people, and the boy's eye searches the ground for answers, finding none.

"We are dangerous," he agrees. "But demons..."

It's not something he likes to say. But is it not what he just asserted? "...Meddling with demons was considered restricted, when I was younger. They were the ones regarded as dangerous. We only know their 'hate.' They were regarded as only tools, and ..."

The boy pauses thoughtfully, trailing off.

"... I think of those people, those they say are better off as 'empty-headed pets.' They lie, they kill, they steal, they judge. They live in a shroud of secrets, and they too, are useful as only tools. And ... if it's thought about that way ... aren't they like demons too?"

Can a human be no better than a demon, Shiryuu muses, grim.

'You aren't either.' She shows him the mirror, and he wants to scream across the gulf.

But then he realizes her hand is so curled in his, and Shiryuu's expression seems less gloomy than it rightfully should be.

Instead, what would have been a scream comes out as a slow tilt of the head, the press of his lips hard and neutral, stifling any remaining childish wants or wills. Tired and broken, fingers twine slowly with hers, the hard wear and little cuts that made up the history of the battle the day before, and Shiryuu counts every one absently in the back of his mind.

"...Umie."

"It's fine if the situation is not the same between us," he tells her, without looking directly at her. In a moment, his peace is tied up in a knot. His grip worries lightly, pensive, snug, restrained, mindful of the sparrow between his hands. "There is something 'between' us... a gulf. A child cannot be accountable for their situation, for the miseries visited upon them. But the weight of our burden changes as we take charge of the next generation ourselves."

"... I guess.. if it comes to it, you should fight me. To hold a grudge. To hate me, if needed. I'll give you my permission. But .. you have to keep yourself safe."

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

It's not as if Umie didn't feel the same, that time she yelled his name. It's this that will land her in danger, she realizes, and what may be what plagues Shiryuu.

It was one thing when they touched hands, or when she crudely teased and poked at him in the safety of the cab, arguing like they were two normal young adults unable to let each other have the last word. It made it easy to not acknowledge the gulf between them, and what fueled the savage nature of their first and the muted threat of their second meetings.

He is as dangerous as the agent who came to visit her that night, and even moreso, for how her body relaxes close to his.

He could destroy her so completely, and let her days as a problem come to an end, she thinks.

But her thoughts only imagine what Shiryuu was as a child, instead. To live in a family that considered demons as real, and realer still their 'hate'. What would that even be like?

"Don't tell me that's what you think of yourself," Umie comments, a flat tone touching her words. "If that's what you're getting at."

But then, her own relationship with demons is stranger still.

"The only time I used my Mark," she remarks, as if giving something small in return, "Mai--..." She corrects herself mid-sentence. "I found out I could use it to summon demons, about a year later. I summoned one: a Mothman. He didn't have a name to call himself, so I gave him the name Taro-kun." She smiles softly at the memory. "He had a chubby little belly, and would let me scratch his head. When I slept, he'd lay on top and drape his wings over me. It was a short time, but..." Her voice breaks. "It could have gone so badly, but it didn't. Just a lot of noise and me taking the blame for a lot of things breaking or missing."

Silence marks the conversation after Umie holds that mirror, like a version of the Eight Ata Mirror revealing the gulf that exists, despite the warmth of Umie's hand, intertwining with his.

She can feel each cut and roughness, and feel the ones on her own reflected in that touch.

It's that easy, isn't it, to play the victim, and he the cold assassin.

A child should not be blameless.

"... Does it make it easier for you if I hated you? Or that you think I haven't done things, on my own? Mistakes, even."

Her free hand clasps on top of his, her thumb traveling over the knuckles of his topmost hand if he doesn't jerk them away.

"The reason I was so angry with Okaga-san... Each time you open a coffin, there is a chance something very terrible happens. He's been incredibly lucky." Her whisper is a rattle, almost bitter. "People come out confused, terrified, and vulnerable to the full pressure of the Dark Hour. An innocent man..." Her words crash into one another, concepts and meanings scattering as her resolve fails her. "... I was old enough that I should have figured... It's a fate worse than death, and I just... ran away."

Tears drip onto her fingers, intertwined with his.

".... It'll never be enough, no matter what I do. His family'll never know."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

The conversation does warm to the moment. In comparison to the woman sitting not so far from him, Shiryuu has completely forgotten the killing ache in his hands, no matter how many cuts and bruises they share. The number is an academic abstraction, a sequence of details for Shiryuu to mull over. A kyoketsu shoge leaves a telltale mark here, because of the reversed distribution of weight from a katana, and so much and so many kata will cause this rough spot.

In that moment, Ryouhara has completely forgotten how to do anything at all. For a moment, she might as well be speaking Greek -- the boy is simply not listening.

He will be able to recall with eerie specificity exactly how many marks, cuts and tender spots are on her hands months later, however.

The onmitsu shihaisha blinks, as he's struck from his reverie by her flat voice of disapproval. "Ah?" he asks. He almost forgot what he was saying. Oh... right. He smiles, the rarest of all expressions for the boy.

"Of course not," he tells her. "Who would ever think that of themselves," he points out. "I'm too strong for that sort of thing," he assures, and thinks nothing of it at all.

Or such is the point.

Shiryuu's touch becomes less worrisome while she is talking, she'll note, when he can simply listen. It's warm beneath his haori's sleeves, though not at all uncomfortable, even in the warm air of the waning summer. It offers the smallest explanation as to why he can wear so many layers, but there's still the matter of the layers of soft wool, whose fringes she can still detect overlapping his wrists. He wears two bracelets tucked far under his sleeves, and from the slope of his lap's angle, their edges rest deep against the back notch of his thumbs, such that they can be felt. The one at his left is curling and endless and made of uncomfortable ridged metal. The other, his right, is a simple braided silk cord, affixed with a clasp.

"It sounded like the opposite could have been true," Shiryuu remarks quietly. "A demon could be like a human as well.."

How many peaches did it take for the man to become an immortal? Shiryuu cannot recall.

The moment settles ill, after Shiryuu gives his consent. The boy doesn't look directly at her, the morose consignment and trepidation both manifesting in his grasp, the furtive stroke of his thumb over hers. By now, the notion that he's trying at all to soothe her is lost, and he's now hand-in-hand with her because he doesn't know anyway else to be, and so..

'Does it make it easier for you?' When she meets his own touch, finding her way beneath his layers to run touch across the bridge of his knuckles, the boy's head drops quickly -- suddenly, starkly, painfully aware of what was actually happening right then, right now, in that moment.

His eye flicks fast, to her and back and then across the city skyline, until his implant aches in his head behind the bandages, tired of following. Literally the only thing that keeps him from breaking the contact there and then is the raw strain in her voice as she makes an admission of her own secret to him.

'It's a fate worse than death, and I just.. ran away.'

Shiryuu's one brown eye rises at her, a tiny shimmer of recognition in his eye shooting like a star across the small space between them. Far and away from terrified to meet her eyes anymore, the boy can no longer -see- them, as teardrops wet bare skin.

...he does break the contact, after all. His topmost hand slides out from under hers, as if in a solemn rejection. It lasts only seconds, before the boy takes each of her hands in his, quietly, nimbly folding them both, one on one, equally, against his lap.

He doesn't hold her, as he might like. As he might want. Instead, the boy leans forward into her 'space.' He takes her chin against his shoulder, and rests her entirety against the mantle of him -- a soft press of seemingly endless wool, silk, and his heartbeat, transmitted through his hands to hers.

This close, the onmitsu's breathing is slow, steady, solemn.
There's something slow, sad, knowing in him when he says it:

"...it's okay," Shiryuu says, as if he could say it and make it real. As if he knew anything else to say. As if he could do anything else. "I'll know that for you."

"..rest against me awhile...okay?"

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

A wiser person would wear gloves, but many surfaces Umie crosses need that sense of touch to be able to register how much pressure can be used, what grip is needed, and what amount of force is required to hoist her body up, or to manipulate the length of the kyoketsu-shoge. To touch is to provide a story where eyes can't always look, and in touching, the hands are slowly changed to reflect it, providing a map another can read. Like reading someone's Persona, and understanding why and where the person begins and the story ends. Why does Badb look like she does? Where is Umie, in it? Where is Shiryuu, in these hands?

What Umie's fingers feel on Shiryuu's own is strangely familiar, recognizing those similarities she's felt in her own. She's never handled a katana herself, so it's a new story; this must be where a hand grips it, distributes its weight against the rest of the body. Dedication to his craft. And beyond his thumbs she feels something hanging on each wrist. Funny, how she never noticed, before...

(That braid she feels... is that...?)

Not everything Shiryuu says is just blustering for the sake of it, but Umie laughs, her lower eyelids crinkling over amused eyes as Shiryuu gives that rare smile. "Really."

The story of the girl who summoned a Mothman for a precious length of time is a sweet one, but also misleading. Umie can't let it stay without giving her own disclaimer. "A summoned demon feels an obligation to the summoner, as far as I can tell. If I had told Taro-kun to do even worse, he'd likely do so. A demon can enable the worse in a person; if I was a different sort of kid, the story wouldn't have been so sweet. If I really wanted to, I could summon demons to protect me, or do my bidding."

The words could be delivered in a playful, coy way, as if veiling their threat. She could summon the power of demons, at any time, if she chose to.

Her expression, and the angle of her lips, bear the rest of the story: nothing comes without a cost, and something that she gained with no word of its ultimate cost would also apply the same to its powers.

What drives the Mark? What drives Gozen? Who even is Gozen? What is the person, who grows up with the Mark, who speaks, navigates, and associates with demons, who bears the whispers of something beyond?

And what is in the eye of the onmitsu, recognizing those threads and the parts that ring familiar and true to him? The gulf is there, but the pain may come from those connections, like sutures attempting to bridge a distance that shouldn't be crossed.

After all, Umie is not an assassin; she cut herself from familial ties with distance and lack of contact just to get away from any instance of the NWO. Shiryuu was, himself, the first human being she had ever fought, and now, they share this space, closer than they have a right to be, one side sharing secrets that could very well be used against her.

He could devastate her with words, or with a quiet action; such is this act of trust, that even those seconds, where Umie feels those hands pull away, feel like she was suspended in mid-air.

.... and felt the grip of hands reaching out to hold hers.

"...!" The silver-haired boy leans forward, and Umie lets out a brief inhale, her chin feeling the layers of cloth draped over his shoulder. "..."

At first, the blonde's body has to let go, decreasing the natural tension of holding itself up. But, like a chord following a beat, she acquiesces, relaxing, closing her eyes.

'I'll know that for you.' Shiryuu'd feel the warmth of Umie's exhale against his shoulder, like something calcified finally freed. Shinjiro is the only other soul who even knows this, not counting people who suspect as such, from Umie's own actions and admissions.

Her head turns such, that she's resting against Shiryuu's shoulder fully.

".... Your shoulder's warm."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

These are all questions whose answers were demanded in blood, in Ryouhara's world. The nature of that Mark, no matter how well entrenched he and his were in the culture of the underworld, remained a mystery, upsetting now more than ever. Those who meddle with those powers, who foist them off on others are reprehensible people. It begged the question: Who, really, in this treacherous world, gained their power consensually?

And what happens if 'that Mark' ...

All of these trepidations are scarcely reflected in the boy's face, that lightly quirked smile broken like glass, mended for a breath, and left to soften on its own. 'Really,' she says. "Aa," he confirms, solemn once more. "The very strongest."

He squeezes her hands lightly. The cold knot in his belly is pressed down, further. It's not important, not when he's being called so clearly.

"If you were a different sort of child," he repeats, though he uses a different word for it. His point made, he almost doesn't see a need to say anything else, his wandering eye betraying his diffidence, and his touch is soothing to reflect his intent, even when he thinks on what she says a little more.

"...I'm not afraid of you."
At first it's meant to be humorous. And he tries to smile again. This time, he manages to just look confused, as his mind wanders off with the idea. Is it really okay to say it like that? Will they have to fight? Is he ready to face Akabane right now? He's not even really healed from the prior battle.. but does she know that? He is very good at hiding his injuries. What happens if she wins? Inconceivable, Shiryuu.

If she could kill him, will she feel better?
His hands worry, just a touch.

It's easy to forget with what he says hand-in-hand with her. The cool touch warming in his well-blanketed grasp is the very best he can manage without soothing his anxious nerves. But, if he were to think on it, if he were to really think on it...

"Don't worry," he thinks, picking his words, and reinforcing them with will. "No matter what happens, I'll bear the things that would harm you. There's no one else in this world more po..."

...The light drape of her weight, as she relaxes into the soft bearing of his entirely proper stance, gives the onmitsu a peace he cannot quite explain. If he were to think on it -- and he does -- he would only come away with more questions. And he does. They just don't feel as relevant to him with the sound of her breath against his mantle, the sound of her voice in his ear.

The rhythm of her heartbeat, settling into him.
What was he really thinking to say..?

"...." A low, charged sigh, arcing with the electric, burning sensation at the back of his neck that he's not making the right things known, fighting against the feeling of every other one of his tensions draining out of his bones. Ryouhara. Shut up.

"....yes," he finally acknowledges her, accepting Akabane at her word. It's certainly because he's wearing excellent wool. He lifts her hands, and presses them to his chest, demonstratively. Squish. That is a dense knit.
"...it's the latest technology," he offers, helplessly.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

It's unfortunate that everyone that's found out the true nature and price of the Mark seems unable to talk, for some reason or another.

'The very strongest.' ".... Invincible, even?" She smirks, teeth flashing as she chuckles.

'I'm not afraid of you.' "Is that a challenge?" There's that tease of a smile again: lop-sided, terrible, only emphasized further by the way her head angles, blonde bangs scattering across her forehead.

"I'm not afraid of you, either, so we're even." A slanted smile that could only happen from someone who grew up in a world where there were 25 hours in a day, and on that 25th, a green moon appeared that no one acknowledged. "Otherwise... why would I want you to spar with me, sometime?"

It's been harder than it should be to find someone, mostly because of Umie's own quirks.

'No matter what happens, I'll bear the things that would harm you.' "... I've done just fine. Besides, if you did, and the Order picked up on it..." It's not quite a rejection; it's a reflection of the worn parts of Umie's hands, the spots that would normally be soft. ".... But."

Green outlines Umie's face, as she gazes back at Shiryuu with a single bit of acquiescence. ".... I don't mind a little help, now and then." That moment they helped one another was smoother than Umie could have ever planned; yet, it was in the space of the moment, when she looked outside her circling thoughts of relentless self-reliance, and he answered.

If he hadn't, would she have been able to complete her task? Would that be enough, to free the artist from the curse?

Such thoughts fade against the shape they make, Shiryuu's proper stance providing something for Umie to lay against and settle, eyelashes drifting closed.

'.... it's the latest technology.'

Umie giggles into his shoulder, her fingers curling against the fabric of his sweater.

It's not the sweater she's feeling there, for a moment, but the pulse of his heart, underneath the layers.

"It is," she agrees, finally, giving him the satisfaction of actually agreeing.

This may be one of the few moments in the history of the Dark Hour that someone as ever selfishly wanted it to keep going, for as long as it took for her to rest in that closeness.

"..... Could we..."

"... stay like this, for just a little longer," she says, her voice fainter, relaxed.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"Aa?!" The sound catches in Shiryuu's throat in response to that smirk, the boy's mouth slack in objection. Being invincible is no joke, and to have his challenge accepted at a time like this, they're really going to have to fight? The only weapons he has aren't even designed for anything other than grievous injury! How is he even going to --

With agonizing slowness, Shiryuu picks up on the fact that Umie might not entirely be serious. "..... iih." The shihaisha purses his lips, nettled.

He will later instruct Kurou to give her a gold star, then immediately remove it.

The note is less settled in his mind than his eye -- cursed as it is to have one -- does make note of the way she smiles against him, and the way her hair drapes across her face as the other side of her smile comes into play, untame but sharp as ever. If one were of an accusatory bent, one could fault the young man for staring overlong, tilting the entirety of his head to fix one russet eye on the very uncivil trickster. He doesn't say .. anything at all, for a time.

Two of his fingertips move absent themselves, as his eyeline traces along a feathery strand of blonde straying across her forehead.

The spell is only broken when the name of the Order is brought up, the perfidious 'they,' and she can feel the boy shift beneath her in that disciplined seiza, bridled firmly but spurred to unrest. "I'll take care of them," he breathes inward, as if to summon strength, sudden, sharp, fast, until --

'But. I don't mind a little help, now and then.'
The notion sends his train of thought hard to another angle entirely. The moment of muted terror, worry, misery, fear that it would all go wrong if he did nothing. He could not help but respond to that call. Something in her spurred him to channel his Persona so directly, the ability to will her the path, to reach beyond 'rhythm.' Her bravery..

Was that ... what 'synthesis' was?

So deep is the boy in his mind that he is almost not cognizant of her accepting his reasoned explanation. He is stirred from his reverie by felicity alone, her tiny laugh against him spurring the boy to blink, his pupil returning to the proper size against the moonlight. She agrees with him, and she can feel how he doesn't notice her feeling at his heartbeat, a steady, eager drumline beneath her painted nails.

If his smile can be seen, it's hidden quickly in the way the young man dips his head, waves of unkempt grey shading his eyes as he temporarily forgets about the next day, or the day after that.

This is fine enough to be here, when she asks if they can just be. He'll have to stay vigilant against this mad green hour, but..

"...Aa," he repeats. The same sound from earlier, in an entirely different tone and context. The onmitsu shifts in place as she relaxes, drawing the notorious person 'Umie Akabane' just a little closer to him.

Affirmed. He's fine with being vigilant forever, if it lasted that long.

"...I'd like that."

</poem>

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2026-01-23: The Rising Spirit

2026-01-25T10:23:24Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Log: The Rising Spirit''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara, Yua Ijuuin *'''Where:''' Aoba Ward, Sumaru *'''OOC Date:''' 2026-01-23 *'''IC Date:''' Sep 14 2012 *'''Summary''': ''It's a warm day of gardening for Yua at the penthouse over Pyramid Plaza, all seems idyllic when she and hers have the wits scared out of them when a lone perpetrator manages to scale up the side of the building!'' ---- <poem> '''<Pose Tracker> Yua Ijuuin has posed.''' Yua wake..."

*'''Log: The Rising Spirit'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], [[Yua Ijuuin]]
*'''Where:''' Aoba Ward, Sumaru
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-01-23
*'''IC Date:''' Sep 14 2012
*'''Summary''': ''It's a warm day of gardening for Yua at the penthouse over Pyramid Plaza, all seems idyllic when she and hers have the wits scared out of them when a lone perpetrator manages to scale up the side of the building!''

----
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Yua Ijuuin has posed.'''

Yua wakes with the sun in order to get in her morning exercise with Miho and cook her breakfast (and her lunch!); of course, while Yua's busy cooking, Miho just /keeps exercising./ Once she sees her off, though, there are still a good few hours before /she/ has to leave for work, given she arrives far closer to /lunchtime./

(Her classes run in the afternoons, and she's able to use the shield of being /part time/ to avoid getting saddled with morning activities. And to be sure, there are some full-time staff who resent her for that... but the people she's working with have by and large sussed out that she's an eccentric wealthy woman filling her time with a passion project, so few of them really judge her by the same /standards./)

That isn't to say she's /idle,/ in those morning hours, though. Yua spends the earlier of them setting the house in order, taking Eiko's help when she clocks in for the day; she plays with Tiger, and writes shopping lists, and prepares anything she needs to start well in /advance/ of dinner. At some point, Sachie visits for her daily check-up; she's asked her to come by /daily,/ now she has Hiroki, just to make sure she's still well. (Sometimes she needs to put a needle in her arm and drip water into her veins, and Yua's never very happy, about that.)

And once that appointment is done, well...

The bottom three floors of Pyramid Plaza, in Aoba, are arranged in pyramidal fashion just as it's named; /these/ floors are commercial, hosting stores and boutiques and commercial studios. Above them are four private residential floors, arranged in a straight-up tower; those elevators are accessible by keycard or intercom buzz. The top of the building, though, /completes/ the pyramid: the final three floors become smaller by degrees, forming a triangle atop the tower furnished with deluxe penthouse suites.

At the very /top/ floor of the tower -- the smallest section of the pyramid -- there is only one penthouse: here dwells Miho Ijuuin, and, her name encircled by hearts on their name plaque, Yua Ijuuin beside her. There's an elevator which goes straight up here, likewise needing keycard or intercom access, which empties into a hallway which leads to a front door and a few service exits.

(That is not to say there is only one /living space/ at the top floor, of course -- some of the space has been converted into a modest living-space with its own number and name plaque by the door, so that their live-in maid, Eiko Ikeda, can have her /own/ home and her own mailing address with it down the hall a little. ... but certainly, it was /intended/ as a singular space.)

There is a balcony all around the foremost penthouse, where that lower floor would be; and one corner of the terrace is clearly /primary,/ a square of open-air space carved into the structure. The building curves around it on two sides, a square in a square; stairs lead up, at the innermost corner, to the very /top/ of the pyramid.

Here... all there is is a /pool./ How is there a /pool/ on the /high-rise./ That's impossible. They're /impossible./

But let us come back down to the terrace: here, and dotted around the balcony, there are /plants./ Beautiful yellow chrysanthemums, peonies, hydrangea, violets, and even the rare nadeshiko join hibiscus, azalea, peacock flowers, lilies, and the simply beautiful himeyuri. It is a combination of Japanese and Okinawan flower sensibilities, and a prime spot amongst them is offered to...

... the rose bushes.

There are quite a few of them, most blooming red with the fierceness of their love -- though a few are blooming /white,/ instead, with devotion and silence and innocence. It's prime flowering season for them, now, and they're flourishing, aided by a woman who crouches by them, tilting a watering can carefully into their pots.

Yua wears a black dancer's leotard, her skirt sheer against her legs; her hair is done up in a neat bun, exposing the eyepatch on the left of her head. She wears fine jewelry, including her wedding ring and the fabric decoration which hides the back of her right hand; she is /not,/ notably, wearing gardening gloves, despite the thorny bushes. Somehow, her hands are still soft and unscratched; it speaks to the delicacy of her movements, as she clips a flower and places it carefully into a vase with a few of its fellows.

She needs to make dinner very nice tonight, because Kimitake's /borrowing/ her, again, tomorrow. Nice, fresh flowers... that's just the trick.

But Yua does not think of tomorrow, this morning. Under the warm sun, she sings a children's song in Okinawan, softly, befitting the chiragra spider conch hung by the sliding glass doors for luck. It's not mutually intelligible with Japanese -- they're entirely different languages, though they share a /family/ -- but one might find some commonalities, between the Okinawan Miruku and the Japanese Miroku.

''OST+Translation:'' [https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zf8fsMvQV4c Akata Sundunchi]

"In Akata Village, in Shuri, within the grand manor,
"A golden lantern gleams brightly.
"When it shines with radiant light,
"Let us welcome the deity Miruku.

"When the sun rises, I head to school.
"Please tie my hair, my dear parents.

"Miruku of the great land, come to my island too.
"And spread the era of Yugafu.

"In every street and corner, everyone sings a song in peace.
"It seems Miruku's Yugafu is drawing near..."

Her gentle, sweet soprano is backed by the content humming of a sheltered beehive, tucked against one of the inner walls; ten stories up, there's little in the way of /insects,/ so Yua keeps a small hive of Japanese honeybees to aid her in pollinating her flowers.

Hiroki won't be able to hear her for seven more weeks... but that's no excuse not to start practicing /now./ Besides... these traditional songs calm her down, too. Even Tiger -- an absolutely /massive/ orange Norwegian Forest Cat, easily /ten/ kilos, standing thirty-five centimetres tall at the shoulders and ninety centimetres long from nose to outrageously fluffy tail -- has flopped down on the sunny deck beside her, listening contentedly to the music.

What might strike anyone, beyond her gentle expression, is how much /less/ of her there is; she has lost kilos where she ought have gained one, and her exhaustion isn't entirely something which can be covered with her careful makeup, her blush and winged eyeliner. To soothe everyone's nerves isn't an easy thing...

... even so, she's singing.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

It's been... a strange few days.

After recovering from his injuries (somewhat), Ryouhara had straightened things up at the hotel and taken the Tokaido line from Tokyo back south to straighten up affairs. First at the Harai worksite, where he was -roundly- chastised by the boss of the work crew for taking days off without authorization, and then put to labor bending conduit for the rest of the day, a task which Ryouhara didn't exactly mind.

It helped clear his head from the events of the night before, and exactly what he was feeling. Though he would normally have a man's hands for speaking to him in so ill a fashion, it really wasn't the boss' fault. He didn't know he was speaking to the very owner of the property that was being repaired, just a 'listless day laborer!!'

Plus also, technically he did sleep in... er. Very unusual.

Arguing with Akabane for fifteen minutes straight didn't make things any easier on him with the boss, but it did help him get mentally ready for the day, he was annoyed to notice. Or at least, it helped him compartmentalize the misery unspooled by that thing carrying around the artist's portrait. At least, so is what he insisted to himself.

Right now, the boy is opening a window, and stripping off his coveralls.

The problem with glass towers owned by people who are rich enough to own glass towers but not rich enough to forget their servant's names is that they are ridiculously hard to infiltrate. Buzzing oneself in is out of the question -- it would raise too many red flags, especially among those who might not be aware of their arrangement, whose power is in its secrecy. However, looking like a member of a maintenance crew makes things a little simpler, especially where you were willing to lift keycards.

That nonsense stops right at about the fifth or sixth floor up. There's just not that many people with reasonable access anymore. See the point above. There's one maid. Just one!

"sigh." Shiryuu pokes his head out of a service window absently, having stripped off his coveralls and stashed them, leaving only his thick grey turtleneck sweater (it's much harder to spot against the facade of a building.) His grey hair blows in the sudden, sharp, brisk wind as he looks up the remaining floor. Floors. Many floors.

"At least it's an incline," Ryouhara observes in annoyance, absently tying on a set of shuko to his hands, and slipping off his shoes, while keeping an eye out at the ground level for Ijuuin's driver. That guy...

Shiryuu swings a leg out of the tower, and gets moving.

Yua's singing reaches his sharp ear long before anything else, and the boy hesitates, leaning with his back to a mullion as he catches his breath, slow and smooth and controlled. He looks up with dark eyes, as the occupant above sings of Miruku, which is really one of the few words he can pick out at this distance, with a barrier between them.

But the idle, sweet melody is what catches on his attention the most.

"...." Fingertips twitch on steel. The boy looks up from below, as a rogue thought slips unbidden into the back of his mind.

My god, thank you so.
For coming to us, thank you so.
Hush-a-bye baby, sleep in mother's arms.
His lips part. "....?"

The onmitsu catches himself, just before he begins to tumble into the vertiginous abyss and what would have been a short, painful reintroduction to the ground. "!!"

Eventually his heart decides on a rhythm, and the boy manages to recover, finally wrapping a hand over the edge of the balcony, "hup--!" and hops up onto the skyway somewhere on it's periphery. And by 'hop up' we mean 'clamber over and probably die a little on the way.' He's usually kind of good about this sort of thing. However, that usually doesn't mean 'in the morning, injured, and having to save his own life on the way.'

Really, it's a miracle he's managed to NOT faceplant on the concrete and die right there. Possibly to spite Miho. Hmn.

No, she wouldn't care, on second thought.

'''<Pose Tracker> Yua Ijuuin has posed.'''

It's nice to be able to talk to your loved ones before you set off for the day, isn't it?

... of course, Yua doesn't know anything about /Shiryuu's/ affections. Just a mysterious woman who doesn't like her very much...

Yua's starting in on another song when Tiger leaps up, all puffed up, with a terrible 'hiss!!!' That's the first warning she gets, and her head turns to look at what Tiger's looking at, only to see --

"Oh my GOODNESS!" Yua exclaims, quite loud in her concern; her hand jerks, and /now/ her finger is scratched by the thorns, a single line of red on her dark finger. "Ryouhara-kun!"

But she can't quite get up to go to him. She tries, of course -- only for a vague expression to cross her face as she gets her feet under her, the blood in her body far from enough to feed her expanded veins. She swoons forward --

-- right as the blue-haired maid bursts in. She's dressed in a polo shirt and slacks, rather than an inconvenient maid's outfit, though she still wears a maid's /apron./ "Ijuuin-san?!" She demands, only to see the /boy/ on the /roof./ "You -- step away from Ijuuin-san." She demands, as she reaches into a pocket of her apron and pulls out... a small pistol, which she holds with /remarkable/ discipline and skill for supposedly just being a maid.

Yua, though, did /not/ hit the floor -- and her faintness passes in the time it takes for Eiko Ikeda to alarm. "Ah -- Eiko-san, it's all right!" She cries out, with a touch of desperation. "He won't hurt me--! Ryouhara-kun, please don't fight! Let's all calm down, please--!"

Yua's the one who sounds the least calm out of anyone...

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Shiryuu moves unnervingly quickly.

At first, the boy is kneeling against the ground, fingertips touching cool ground beneath him as he takes the barest moment to gather thoughts, breath and heartbeats against the deficit he built up. Life goes like that -- one breath's debt must be paid by the next. And Shiryuu's has been accruing a -stunning- amount of debt lately.

But then he's aware of a commotion as of everyone, it's the cat that's noticed him and raised the alarm. New is demanded of him, and so the shihaisha doesn't even think -- he goes.

The onmitsu is used to watching people for weaknesses in their form, in their stance. If pressed, he really doesn't know much about pregnancy other than the reading he's been doing, and he's not gotten far enough in his book to do anything other than recognize she should be kept away from pesticides. It's thus that original, elemental training that causes the boy's eyebrows to shoot up, and his heel to raise from the ground.

Scrambling across the ground no further than a few inches above it, Shiryuu crosses the luxuriously, infuriatingly large expanse between himself and the ballet teacher in an instant, the muted whipcrack of feet over ground rolling across the terrace in a staccato rapid-fire.

Open palm, he thinks, to spread out the impact. Slow down, to assert deceleration gently. The boy kicks out, his stance carving out a half moon to cut his speed -- and the catch Yua by the shoulder, all but wrapping himself around her like a protective bubble...

Right about when the maid busts in packing heat.

"I--eh?!" A knife gets pulled, a tiny throwing blade snapped out of his sleeve, spun quickly by the grip ring, as Shiryuu unconsciously shifts Yua's weight (further) out of the line of fire, reducing his own cross section and -- coincidentally -- looking like for all the world like he apparently broke in just to catch Yua offguard and dip her.

"Hyihh--!!"

On the other hand (literally) the boy is halfway through throwing a knife down Eiko's pistol barrel before Yua manages to break in, saying something about not fighting. "....?"

"....hrmn."
If not attacked, Shiryuu frowns. (He should not be frowning about this) And then he gently releases Yua. After setting her upright.

"...ahem."

'''<Pose Tracker> Yua Ijuuin has posed.'''

Shiryuu may not know a lot about /pregnancy,/ but he knows very much, it seems, about the kinetics of the human body. If Yua were all the way conscious at the time, she'd applaud his grace and speed, but her faint spell takes her out for a precious instant --

It /almost/ was the last instant someone would have.

Eiko's eyes widen in alarm, seeing the boy pull a /knife/ from his /sleeve,/ though -- give her credit -- her arms don't waver. What makes her put her gun down (the safety clicking back on in the motion) is, instead, Yua coming to her senses and vouching on his behalf. "Do... you know this boy, Ijuuin-san?" She asks, a touch off-put.

Yua, Shiryuu will find, is easily manipulated in space -- she grasps Shiryuu's shoulder, as she becomes sure of the ground beneath her feet. "T--thank you," she breathes, and she clasps her hands in front of her as she looks to Eiko again. "I do! I'm very sorry for the shock... I was just startled, so I made you worry, didn't I?" She bows in apology, despite the fact that Eiko works for /her./

Eiko bows, in turn, an arm across her chest. "Er... then, excuse me," she says, and /mostly/ manages to take this strange turn in stride. "Please let me know if you or your guest need anything, Ijuuin-san."

Yua looks down at her palm, and the slight streak of blood there. "Er... could you fetch the first-aid kit?" She asks, a touch meekly.

"You're hurt?" Eiko asks, with clear concern.

"No, no, just a little scratch from the thorns!" Yua insists, waving her hands. "I just want to disinfect it, just in case!"

"Scratched by the thorns? That's unlike you..." Eiko blinks, with mild surprise. "I'll set it up in the lounge for you," she settles on, a moment later. "Will Ryouhara-san be having anything to drink?"

Yua turns to him, and asks: "Would you like anything?" And then, turning back to Eiko -- "Um, and can you get that gross water for me? I should probably drink it before work..."

"Of course," Eiko nods, and disappears, back inside.

"Um..." Yua starts, turning to Shiryuu. "W--welcome to our home! I-I don't think anyone's ever come in that way..." She lifts her hand to her lips, giggling. "Were you trying to impress me? It worked, but you didn't need to, you know! I already know you're really special!"

Yua tilts her head, then, as she scrutinises him a little closer. He looks very... mm...

But /since/ he's really something, he'd be bothered if she said something, right?

"Please come inside!" She bids him, instead, waving him in.

The loungeroom is spacious and stately; there's a massive display cabinet devoted to Miho's myriad medals and trophies, another potted plant off to the side, a generous television, tasteful and likely very /expensive/ wall decorations, and leather chairs and couches surrounding a fine glass coffee table. Eiko's already set the drinks out, there, as well as set up the first aid kit -- it folds out a lot like a tackle box, really.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"Boy...?"
Despite being relatively quiet and noncommittal by nature, Shiryuu's tone still fairly drips with resentment hen he echoes Eiko.

"An admirable ballistic stance," the grey-haired boy comments coldly, "but ...I'm the one fated to take on every burden in the night," he insists almost immediately to Eiko. He's apparently intent on introducing himself. For given values thereof. Despite his obvious and plain discomfort with handling people, the boy still flips his knife easily in a hand, tucking it into his sash pointedly.

It's much more important that he introduces himself than anybody pays attention to him right now, because laws don't need to be acknowledged to be true, insofar as Shiryuu is concerned. Even so, the shihaisha bridles only slightly towards Yua's maid until she points out that Yua is hurt, a fact that snaps the young man's attention to the fore. "!" the boy pronounces expertly, before snapping out a cloth reflexively to attend the wound. It's only when the prospect of an actual first aid kit is raised that the boy calms, looking back to Eiko when she asks him what he'd like to drink.

He looks at her closely.
"...water will be fine by me," he states, decisive and flat faced.

The moment vanishes when Yua starts talking about his entrance and -- impressing her?? Shiryuu makes a face, his honor impugned mightily but unable to reply with swift sanctions. All that he can do is level the smallest, quietest of objections in the smallest, quietest voice. "....It's important I leave as small a trace as possible when coming here," he defenses, stepping back and giving one long, slow sigh before fixing his turtleneck, and the sleeves at his wrists. He takes a long time about it, discomfited with being described as anything other than 'the invincible shihaisha.'

It's just not fair play.

It is -not- improved by Yua examining him. "i---ieh?" Cautiously, the onmitsu puts space between them, running a hand through his hair to tame it from being windblown again. "Hey, you need to look after your body," he repeats, an oft-lamented sentiment held by the Ryouhara boy, none moreso than when he enters the stateroom, immediately attending the first aid to do -- something -- with Yua.

"In fact, I'm here to make sure the fishbowl thing didn't injure you ... in any regrettable way." Two-toned eyes look up to her; he is now gathering up what he knows of her. Eyes narrow pointedly. "Among other things."

He hasn't gotten far enough in his book to know if he should be concerned. He's still frowning in consternation.

'''<Pose Tracker> Yua Ijuuin has posed.'''

"I meant no offense," Eiko bows her head to Shiryuu. (She won't be the one to point out that his face is still quite young.) "I make no claim to that world, Ryouhara-san. I've simply been asked to help protect Ijuuin-san when Ijuuin-san is away." Which is which? It's carried in Eiko's tone; she's a little softer speaking of Yua, and clearly has a lot of bonded respect for /Miho./

But then -- Yua giggles, and Shiryuu is /impugned./ "Um... did I offend you, too?" Yua asks, and sounds contrite about it, at least. "It really was impressive, I wasn't making fun of you...! Just, now I realise it was you, it's funny to me that I was scared... if it was someone else, I guess they ought to be terrified, but I know you won't do anything bad, you said you wouldn't! That's, umm... your word as 'shihaisha', right?"

At least she /remembers/ his title.

"Ah, did I worry you, too...? Sorry," Yua smiles, apologetically, as she heads inside. "It's really okay, though, see?" She shows him the scratch, once she's seated -- and then asks, "... will you sit with me?"

Maybe it will be easier for him to justify sitting down a while if it's a favour to /her,/ she thinks.

Yua is, at least, quite good at treating that little cut; she winces a little at the disinfectant, but offers no complaint, and then covers the whole thing with a bandaid so that no more infection can get through. "I'll get Eiko-san to get you my spare keycard, okay?" She asks, as she works. "I know you don't want to leave a trace, or anything... but that one's registered to me, so no one will know you're coming up here!" Please don't murder people using it, Yua will be very upset if she becomes a circumstantial murderer.

"But I'm really okay," she goes on, showing Shiryuu the bandaged cut, as she does. "This is how my village has always done it, you know? When we're doing things in nature -- diving, foraging, fishing -- we stay close to it. I don't use oxygen tanks or goggles or anything when I'm diving... actually, I can hold my breath for five minutes!" Yua's quite proud of that -- she ought to be, it's a skill someone only gets with /training./ "And it's the same when I'm gardening. If I wore gloves, I'd be disrespecting the plants... it's already unfair to place them in pots, so the least I can do is treat them gently enough that they don't need to scratch me as I'm tending them."

Yua smiles, turning to him, folding her hands on her lap. "I went to my doctor the morning after it happened," she assures him. "Mimi's spoken to her, so she's willing to give me a full checkup without asking too many questions... and I was okay. Gretchen's done a really good job making sure I don't get hit. And this time, I had you and Recchi protecting me!" /This time?!/ "I get really tired after it, but... physically I'm fine, you know?"

Is she really fine, when she's so light? She may as well have weighed nothing at all, against Shiryuu's strength.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

It's almost endearing. Shiryuu does seem to pick up on the difference between Ijuuin (pronounced with hearts) and Ijuuin (pronounced with swords) by the maid, and it's almost enough that it makes Shiryuu forget his wariness. Almost. "Mm."

But the onmitsu's will is steel, and it's really only by looking over at Yua does Shiryuu faintly grimace, looking back and thinking to add, "....nice hair," grudgingly to Eiko, though it would be mistruth to say that there isn't the light of a genuine interest in his voice. For a boy who lies and obfuscates as a matter of common practice, it is strange, isn't it.

"Aa.." his attention returns. Shiryuu isn't terribly well known for being eloquent until upset, but Yua's demand merits a response as they enter the main space, the boy padding along in bare feet. "It's no dishonor," he says, pretending as if he weren't just upset. He becomes more serious (and consequently less upset) when she puts the correct pronunciation to the title of the 'highest.' "Underneath the curtain of my word, you are in an aegis of protection, bound by the promise of swift vengeance."

It's actually an interesting matter -- since Ryouhara declared for Ijuuin, the clan has made very little secret of it in their back alley dealings, and bombings are almost guaranteed for any clan who opposed the old samurai family.

Shiryuu blinks. There is a restless, unsettled part of the boy burning the back of his spine, and he almost instinctively looks left and right as Yua asks him to sit, shifting his weight away from the proffered rest as he looks -- that is a huge cat!!! good god! -- over the area around him, disinclined, as if he might be attacked at any moment.

He doesn't have his sword on him at least, and a slow, dark sigh is surrendered, as Shiryuu very, very primly sits when asked.

Here is where the boy blinks -- not once, but twice -- when she seems perfectly fine, and instead offering proof of her capability. She even offers him a falsified keycard. "Mmm," he replies, though without actually knowing him for longer, it's going to be difficult to tell if he's giving his consent or not.

Shiryuu is really vague sometimes.

Hands half-covered by ridiculously warm wool for the weather lay flat on the onmitsu's knees as he rests his weight on them. The pan of his gaze slowly locks to Yua, settling on her eye. "Please don't go diving in your condition," he remarks absently, somewhere in the background while she is explaining, his concerns not at all addressed by the notion of the Order's warmongering being made okay by a doctor's visit and the power of Persona.

He breathes outward, curling his fingers against the knees of his pants, as he tries to relax. 'This time?'

"...Ijuuin-san," Ryouhara finally states. "It's important to practice the utmost of cautions. With this, you are now 'the deliverance of the next generation.' With that, we are the caretakers of our loved one's dreams, and the custodians of the shining future those younger than us will behold. In that sort of context, any action is sanctioned to protect them. I will have to do more to ensure that safety."

Shiryuu doesn't actually say it outright, and he has little reason to mistrust her based on what she says, but she is much, much lighter than she was before. It may necessitate some spying on her doctor, to verify what's being said is what's being told, and what's being told is what's being found. Ryouhara will not be merciful if there is a discrepancy.

'''<Pose Tracker> Yua Ijuuin has posed.'''

"Thank you," Eiko does smile, hearing Shiryuu compliment her hair. She keeps it in a short bob, but she's quite fond of it; she goes out for regular haircuts and everything!

Yua finds /Shiryuu's/ shift to eloquence endearing, though this time she at least does that silently, but for the warmth to her smile. (He's so serious...) "I feel a lot safer knowing you and your people are all looking out for us," she says, instead; it's just as true as her delight.

"It's okay," Yua adds, seeing him look back and forth. (She's seen that kind of gesture before.) "Mimi sweeps the house for bugs all the time! I'm not entirely sure what she's looking for, since there are no bugs all the way up here, except our bees... I guess they're really little gadgets or something?" So Yua's absolutely no help in the security department, but /Miho/ probably knows what she's doing.

That cat is SO huge, though. Who even knew cats could get that big. Yua would need both hands to hold that cat and the cat would spill out over the edges.

Luckily, Yua will get that keycard for him /regardless/ of whether he was consenting or not. The worst he can do is deny it!

Yua shakes her head, looking a touch sad, when Shiryuu asks her not to go diving. "I knooow," she says, and even sounds a touch whining about it. Pout! "There's diseases and stuff in the water, and my immune system isn't very good right now, since if it was working properly my body might attack Hiroki too... that's why I had to bandage my cut right away, too. Haa... I miss swimming in the ocean," Yua sighs, before she smiles, to Shiryuu, again. "But it's okay! Mimi makes sure our pool is always nice and clean and safe, so I can dive there just fine! We have lots of toys for the pool, too... Mimi sets up these plastic rocks and stuff so I can pretend I'm at the reef, and hides toy sea-creatures for me to find! It's so much fun!"

Can... can adults talk about things being /so much fun?/ Like, /legally?/ Is that /allowed?/

Yua's hand comes to rest on her belly, as she listens to what Shiryuu has to say about her own responsibilities. "You're right," she says, and she is gentler, now. "I've been trying really hard... I even let Sachie-san put the needle in my arm to give me fluids when I can't keep water down." Is she scared of needles...? Well, that's also true. "Is that what you're worried about...? I didn't want to be rude, but... I don't want to worry you, either." It's considered a deep offence, after all, for a woman to /discuss/ her maladies in pregnancy, here on the mainland. "It's normal to become ill when you're carrying a child... but sometimes it becomes much worse than normal. When that happens, it doesn't get better after the first three months, either... but it's okay!" She insists, bravely. "I'm strong enough to handle something like this if it's for Hiroki!"

Yua glances aside, to the glass of water in front of her -- takes a bracing breath, and takes it in hand. Shiryuu may note the slight cloudy texture, to it. "I'm doing things to help," she says. "I've got this gross water I need to drink whenever I can, it's got, um, electrolytes and things...? Since they could be out of balance in my body. And there's this powder I mix up into a drink which is like food, too... and I have barley and ginger, and I know about snacking so my stomach isn't ever empty all the way, they say that makes it worse... I've got medications, too."

And then, 'ulp,' Yua gulps in trepidation, and then gulps down the horrible electrolyte water.

"... bleeeeeeh."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

There's a lot to be lucky with in the next few moments. The minor feud is somewhat averted with a tactically threatened pout, and Shiryuu grudgingly accepts Eiko as a superior maid worthy of recognition. He may, in fact, even drink a little of the formerly placed water, while staring at the wild beast lazing about. Seriously, the boy can't help but think to himself. In an emergency, Yua-san will just hop on the cat and ride to safety...

Ijuuins always do everything big, apparently. Even the Akayaten is not as tall as this penthouse.

The chilled glass sets against his lap, giving Shiryuu something for his fingertips to focus on instead of worrying his knees threadbare. Little lines drawn in condensation of the cool glass detail the quiet rake of his fingertips across the wet surface, some of it disappearing to be absorbed by densely knit wool.

The young man brightens as Yua talks about bugs, making the connection immediately. He opens his mouth -- and it's not hard to see the exact point where the thought to explain the exact nature of bugs dies in his head, leaving him with a freight train of unresolved excitement, itself smoothed down anxiously in the form of a firmer grip on his water glass. Discretion is the nature of shinobi -- and it just occurred to Shiryuu exactly why telling Yua about tiny devices planted by evil men to watch your every move would be in poor taste.

Shiryuu does not want to be x'ed again.

"Miho-sama is truly an attentive person," he says, faraway. He's mercifully (questionably) distracted from the idea of being ballet x'ed in time. Fun for fun's sake. It seems like something so faraway, something out of reach, for the shihaisha. The idea that there's simply this sort of thing going on between people in other situations leaves the boy's eyes dimmed, half-lidded, wondrous and mystified at once. He doesn't look at her, not directly, as the thought gets away from him, as he tries to put something to it, something behind it. "As long as you are supervised," he says quietly, absently.

Why is it he feels inadequate, at that exact moment?

Another for the bounty of fortune; Yua telling Shiryuu more of the truth likely inadvertantly saved her doctor from being dangled out of a window on Ryouhara's orders, or something equally distasteful. The boy looks up quietly. "Aa," he confirms. "It's important we know, in case it becomes necessary to act during a situation of distress." There's nothing in Shiryuu's book about dehydration or electrolyte imbalances in Mementos or Tartarus, but at the very least he can intuit the meaning. "A lot of times, an electrolytic solution is salty..." he's clearly still picking his way through her words. It's very clear Yua talks much, much faster than Shiryuu is entirely socially prepared for, and his water glass pays the price for it, having been spun around in his hands at least three times over in the past minute, the little ice cubes clinking with each movement.

Pause. There is something Shiryuu focuses on, perhaps enough so that Yua might catch exactly its importance to him.

"Ijuuin... Hiroki.."

The words are quiet, experimental, a thumb raising to the rim of the glass in his lap. It twitches before resting, as if some mild urge is suppressed when she drinks her own water, which is much worse than his. The notion of it spurs the boy.

"Ano... Ijuuin-san. If I may."

That name alone lets the notion of a rogue thought finally trickle back into his attention, letting the boy put his thumb on it long enough for it to take root.

"Yourself and Miho... when she does these things for you.. is it what you need to have a good 'bond?'" the onmitsu asks. In that moment, his voice is several things. He would like for it to be sure, strong, interrogating. That would be ideal, and certainly, there is much in the boy that is.

"I mean... what does an ideal 'bond' mean to you?"
And then there's the moments where he simply is not, and his voice canters off into something quiet, his eyes focusing on the middle distance between them.

'''<Pose Tracker> Yua Ijuuin has posed.'''

However, Tiger is more likely to leap into Yua's arms to be carried to safety...

The one saving grace of this building is that it's not /all/ penthouses. The luxury apartments up top are paired with /normal/ apartments below them... and even cute little shops! Studio Chura's down there, too!!

Yua remains ignorant, to this day, of the power of 'X'... though she /does/ notice him focusing on his glass.

Supervised! "Don't you worry about that," Yua giggles, apparently unperturbed by the idea of being /supervised/ as a grown adult. That's more concerning than it sounds. It's fine.

"Mm... the big thing is that I'm fainting more than I usually do," Yua offers, to Shiryuu, helpfully. Is... is there a normal amount of fainting that Yua does? "It's something to do with my blood... um... they said my veins were getting bigger, so I could feed Hiroki better? But since I'm having trouble drinking enough, I don't have as much blood, so when I stand up too quick it takes a while to get to my head again... I think." Aren't you supposed to be a health teacher, Yua?!

Be fair: she's a /fake/ health teacher.

Her smile brightens, though, as she realizes Shiryuu's echoing her son's name. (She doesn't know he's a boy yet; she won't know that for some weeks, yet. But she's /praying/ to the Hinukan for a boy, every day, so she's quite sure it will be true.) "Hee hee... have I told you the trick, yet?" Yua puts down her empty glass as she fetches a notebook from the corner table, alongside a fountain pen -- and writes, with excellent calligraphy-work for something which isn't a brush, a set of kanji -- 'Great' and 'Castle'.

"Hiroki," she sounds it out.

And then, she writes the same kanji, a second time.

"Ooshiro!" She sounds it out, illustratively.

Yua looks quite sunny, having revealed her evil scheme to honour her family with her firstborn son.

She pauses, though, as she's re-capping her pen. "Of course," she prompts him, smiling. He gets to his question, eventually, and she taps the capped pen thoughtfully against the notebook. "Hmmm..."

Yua lifts her gaze to the fine lighting, tapping the pen to her chin, instead. "This is a secret, okay? But... Mimi and me are tied together by fate," she explains, thoughtfully. "That didn't mean we were destined to be partners, or anything... but no matter what, we would definitely, definitely be part of each other's lives. It was true once before... in a better world. She's told me so much about it..." Yua smiles, fondly, as she recalls.

"But... I knew even when I was a teenager that I wanted to be Mimi's wife. I wanted to cook breakfast for her every morning, and have dinner ready when she came home... I wanted to help her through her bad days, and I wanted to make a warm home for her to return to. And I was happy when Mimi protected me... it was kind of startling when she slammed that girl's hand in the locker for putting that dissected frog in my bag, but I was also happy, you know? It felt nice... that someone cared that much about protecting me. And when she saved me again, years later... there was no one I relied on more than her, when I was getting better. I'm sure it deepened our bond... oh, she was so patient with me, even when I was incoherent. She was so gentle." Yua is quite wordy -- quite /theatric;/ it is through her constant performance that she's able to communicate, in this world.

"That isn't the only way a good bond can be, though," Yua says, looking back down to Shiryuu. "There's a man I work with, Watanabe-san, who isn't awake for the Dark Hour -- but his wife is. Ayawata protects him, even as he works overtime to try and improve things for his family... she works really hard to make his home welcoming, but she's the one who can fight, too. I don't think their marriage is any less than mine, you know? They really love each other a lot. Then there's Ton-Ton... he has to do awful things, but he does them to keep his family safe. I'd never question the strength of his family bonds, either."

(Man, Shiryuu could be getting /so much/ intel if only Yua didn't give so many people nicknames...)

"So I guess, if I really thought about it... an ideal bond means someone who you feel safe around, and who cares about you, and who you care about, and who you want to help, too! Someone you really want to see when they're not around... and who you think about when they're gone."

Yua tilts her head, tapping her pen to her cheek, as she smiles to Shiryuu. "Hey, hey, this wouldn't have anything to do with that masked woman, would it?" She asks him, a touch sly, before she giggles. "Don't worry! I won't ask too many questions. But tell her I'm sorry for scaring her, okay? I don't really remember what I did, but it must have been something." Yua sighs, her cheer dimming, for a moment, as she gnaws idly on the cap of her fountain pen. "Maybe when I attacked the back alleys out in Yumezaki... I scared a lot of normal people, then. They said it was a gas leak... moouuuuu."

Yua might be a terrorist, but she feels /really/ bad about it.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Luckily, Shiryuu is wise enough to avoid making miss teacher put an 'x' on him, and the dreaded situation is far, far in the past, let it never be brought up again by anyone who knows. Being gestured at is not Shiryuu's strong suite.

Shiryuu moves and communicates primarily with his hands, so the slow twist and turn of the glass in his hands subtly envisions the slope of his mood, a smooth mien carefully measuring out the tone of what Yua says. Caution and care cornerstone the notion, and the boy slowly leans back in his seat, trying absently to release the energy currently sparking in his shoulders. The glass is balanced against his belly at that point, letting the moisture on the glass now disappear into another rich press of wool. It's honestly getting used more as a stress ball than a refreshment.

"I will endeavor," Ryouhara thinks aloud, "to make sure you have access to snacks." He doesn't know much about it, but he's given enough blood for the shinobi that he knows sugar seems to help with having more of it. "I will also speak with Tsurugi."

He is probably going to fight her.

His eyes flick down to the notebook as Yua draws, laying out the linework with precision, like she's done it a million times before. He seems genuinely pleased when she repeats the kanji's different readings, his eyes brightening. "Oho," Ryouhara recognizes, slyly. "Filial piety is truly a commendable virtue. You should be proud."

Ijuuin Hiroki. Ijuuin Ooshiro, he reflects. The future is something that must be protected.

But then there are the hopes and dreams of today. Shiryuu is mostly quiet as Yua tells him the tale. Of course, his eyes seem surprised, at the idea of a dead frog in her bag, or the resultant consequence thereof -- the injustice makes his hand itch, and it shows. But the boy is clearly drifting off into another train of thoughts entirely as she describes the contours of their history, the secrets of her coworkers, and ...

Well, needless to say, Shiryuu is a good listener -- and will be able to recall most of this conversation with clarity, word for word. There are certain parts that his attention settles on, more than most, his mouth shaping the words silently, for some. But none moreso than the start, the idea and words that built upon it all, enough on their own to cause his voice to fade against the shape of them.

"Tied together by fate," he wonders, quietly..

Finally, as if suddenly very, very self-conscious, the boy drinks, lifting the glass to his lips primly and taking a moment to gather himself, a moment to let his throat relax around the cool feeling. The glass is finally given reprieve, set down so that Shiryuu can ask the next question.

"And that Kimitake isn't interfering," he asks, as if it would be a problem if he was.

"Treating you with kindness," the boy continues a second later, as if a secondary thought. 'Treating you well' is something different, the way a normal person would ask. But Shiryuu is not normal, as he is asking about 'bonds.' If Kimitake is kind but doesn't understand, it would be just as regrettable a crime.

His hands flex, fingers interlocking to stretch themselves out, to relax his nerves.

"Aa!?" Th, the masked woman?? Shiryuu had forgotten -entirely- that they were both there, having fully compartmentalized 'his actions' with 'her presence' and 'her presence' as something entirely separated. "Iih--" he looks down, eyes darting to Tiger for help. Then off to the side, looking for Eiko. Then to the ceiling. Fingertips that were in the process of relaxing themselves now lock in place at his lap, as Shiryuu clearly has a minor seizure. A sudden, sharp, hostile puff of air from pursed lips.

A second, and he successfully avoids disaster.

"I just ..." Shiryuu starts quietly, then thinks better of it. "I think..." that sounds better, "... there is a way for things to fit together. For pieces, for spirits, for kami, for people. A 'bond' unites them. An understanding between people. And when everything is solved, there won't be any more 'space' for people to be lonely in. That's 'synthesis.'"

The boy breathes out again, keeping that minimal distance, closing his eyes. "I don't think that person, at least, is the type that scares easily. Perhaps. If the 'bond' is correct, then... it should be fine if you have to do things that are regrettable.. right? ... someone can be forgiven for that much, I hope."

He breathes, once last.
"That is the unfortunate part of our lots in life."
He should really go, before things become more complicated..

'''<Pose Tracker> Yua Ijuuin has posed.'''

"Be kind to Tsurugi, all right?" Yua asks, her smile growing a touch strained. "I know she was harsh with you, but... I think she can't forget the way you and I met. And... she's someone who is compelled to keep me safe, so..." She looks down, sadness crossing over her face. "... it's why I don't always feel good asking her for help when it's a fight," she admits, a touch ashamed. "She... doesn't really have a choice. I really worry about her, since it's hard for me to look out for her when I'm addled, too... oh, but that's a secret, too."

She /is/ quite proud, though, when Shiryuu praises her filial piety. "Thank you!! I know that on the mainland, you join someone else's house and leave your family behind, but... that's not how we do it back home, you know? So... I wanted to connect my family to them, somehow."

Yua shakes her head, though, when Shiryuu asks about Kimitake. "Oh, no! This is... an arrangement that helps both of us, you know? Um, this is a super-double /mega/ secret," and one might ask why Yua's sharing so many with Shiryuu, but... she worries about what he might think he has to do if he doesn't have /enough/ information. "But he's like me, you know...? His wife left him because he wasn't very affectionate, and he didn't really want to do that kind of thing with another woman... so Father realised that we could solve each other's problems?" The head of the clan, that is, Takashi Ijuuin. Of course, she addresses him as otou-/sama,/ unlike addressing her beloved dad.

"Um, Kimi-san needs someone to act like his wife so that he can go to parties and have people over for dinner and stuff, you know, for his work... and he's asked me to bear him children, too, since his wife took his daughters with her, b-but we can use IVF for that, too, so I don't have to, um, /do anything/ with him." Yua's still a little intimidated by that idea, though, clearly; and perhaps it's no surprise, given how hard /this/ pregnancy apparently is on her. "But that means he's willing to pretend like Hiroki is mine and his, too, so he'll have a father... and marrying him meant that I could join Mimi's family, too. And he really is very kind!" She insists, a touch more firmly. (She's convincing Shiryuu, surely.) "I mean -- you know how the Ijuuins are all super-imposing and stuff...? He's always been very considerate about not scaring me with that... he's very thoughtful. He helped me figure out how to talk about what happened to me, and he isn't trying to replace Mimi's home with his or anything! He even prayed with me at Alaya Shrine, when I got really scared about how we lied to Mimi's Gods... so we could tell them it was all a trick."

She's saying a lot of words about him, isn't she?

She notices when Shiryuu has more /sounds/ than words about the Masked Woman, though. And she tilts her head, thoughtfully, when he talks about people fitting together. "Hmm... I think that's really nice," she decides, with a sparkling smile. "I like the idea of understanding Mimi so much I'm not lonely any more."

And Yua looks away, in turn, pen tapping at that cursed ring on her finger. "If it's a good bond, y... mm, someone would definitely be forgiven!" It took her a minute to catch on, but she got there. "It's not like I have a choice, right...? So she'd surely understand." A light pause, and Yua shakes her head. "... I won't try and find out who she is, though. If she's someone angry with me, it would be pretty inconvenient if I knew, right? Since there are people who might make me tell them, and if they made me fight her, it's not like you could protect us both very easily."

Yua... at least sounds pretty understanding.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

The onmitsu is forced to think back on it, when it's brought up. The nature of their first meeting, in what was not so long ago yet feels like an entire age. Shiryuu still bridles at the order of Rokuro, not for its content, but for the presumption that the onmitsu contractor _could_ be ordered so easily.

He had at the time considered killing him if he deigned him to give him a second. Luckily, their relationship was not so, with the shihaisha's distance from their mutual contacts.

Even so. It was easy to write Yua off then. Some random name. Some random target. It didn't matter, when it wasn't killing. Anything but a killing would be fine. Would be forgivable, for a boy...

The thought of blood staining the dirt flickers somewhere in the back of his mind, not so long ago.

Now, it seemed too much, too cruel, not real synthesis. There was a certain horror in her that the Order seemed to enjoy. She wouldn't be the only one whose terror they hungered for.

The thought plays out absently in Shiryuu's mind, separating his hands to rest at his knees, stable and calm and pensive. "....Aa," he finally replies, to her request. He'll be kind, perhaps, when she hints that that woman is not entirely of her own will. Isn't that like all of them? But then, a notion.

A thought of Kurou, too young to choose.
She, too young to choose.
Shiryuu's mouth sets in a firm, hard line.

"I'll take care of it." Shiryuu replies, though his mind settles on the word addled. He doesn't need to think very hard to recall the almost frenetic pace of her words and declarations during that battle. He doesn't pretend to understand, dipping his head once and not raising it for some time, pensive aggainst the thought.

The idea of the Ijuuin patriarchy comes into play, and things are much simpler.

"I gathered," Shiryuu replies, levering his voice to sound milder than he feels. It's not difficult for someone on both sides of the coin to understand the difference between a marriage and a production, which is likely why Shiryuu felt very little guilt about replacing some of the kannushi at the event with his shinobi, and himself. But..

Shiryuu is not too slow to catch some of the other implications. It's a natural thing, however, and it seems secondary compared to the problems faced today, the thing that spurs her to pre-emptively assure him that nothing at all untoward is going on. It would be a simple thing to believe it -- after all, how many clans in Japan struggled in the same fashion? She all but apologizes in advance.

Shiryuu glances at the notebook, the rows of matching kanji. He glances far longer than he really should.

"Well.. I'm glad he is kind to you," Ryouhara assures her that he believes her implicitly. "You are a thrice-blessed person." He flashes a very unusual expression: a thin, neat, gentle smile.

Slowly, Ryouhara stands to his feet -- he's not actually wearing shoes, so the movement is more organic than one would initially square.

"As for that understanding, I can only hope that everyone shares it," Shiryuu says. "Achieving synthesis is important in life, I think." It's a mild way of talking about something that the boy personally believes in harder than anything else, but what would be the point of really telling ... anyone at all, really? Now, this moment? There are other things to consider. "..but.."

"...Ijuuin-san," he starts.

"If there is a situation that arises that discomforts you, please rely on my strength as shihaisha. Even if it only feels somewhat strange. Even if it's a secret. Even if it's something that will endanger 'your bond' to know. This is the sacred nature of the shinobi, to know and do things that others cannot in the dark. That is the meaning of the word 'miracle.'"

The boy flicks -- sharply -- the grey out of his eyes abruptly, building back brick by brick the cloak of imperiousness in his words. It's only the smallest of concessions that -- his hair lands right back in his face again, forcing a sigh from the boy as he pushes the entire mess back over his head.

He relents, the smallest bit. "....thank you for your discretion."
Only when it's couched in multiple meanings will Shiryuu say literally anything of the masked woman to anyone at all.

"I understand how hard it is to go out of your way to speak with me like this," he finally says. "And I wouldn't expect you to try and summon our family's power directly. From this place, throw a note with a wish into the wind at first light on a sixth day. I will hear it."

The boy with the grey hair gives the smallest of bows.
"I'll be on my way now."

'''<Pose Tracker> Yua Ijuuin has posed.'''

"Thank you," Yua smiles, when Shiryuu assures her he'll take care of the meeting with Redi. "I'm trusting you, okay?"

... how does a woman like this trust so easily, when her horror feeds the same machine that feeds on this city? How is she so -- /positive/ in the face of an arrangement which clearly cares nothing for her desires? How can she still smile like that...?

Maybe this is what it means when they talk about a woman's secrets.

Yua's own smile brightens, when Shiryuu believes her. When she smiles! He actually can smile!! "Mmhm, mmhm!" She hums, happily, with a cheerful nod. (Does she understand why his attention falls to the names...? Surely that's just because 'Hiroki' is clever!)

She sighs, gripped by romance for a moment. "I would like to be able to achieve something like that," she agrees, softly. "I'm never lonely when I'm with Mimi... it would be really nice if being with Mimi meant I never felt alone." It's a nice thought, isn't it...? Yua decides she's quite fond of his synthesis, then.

She tilts her head, though, as he calls her attention to him again. "...?" She hums, but just slightly, as her eye considers him. "Oh," Yua smiles, when he's done. "That's right... you're really looking out for me, aren't you? Thank you, shihaisha," and this time, she actually addresses him properly; maybe she can hear the way he's trying to put himself back together, again.

"You're welcome!" She chirps, in turn, when he thanks her /discretion./ "Actually, I'm really happy you trusted me enough to ask!"

She looks up at him, tilting her head a little, with a slight note of confusion. Wasn't it harder for him...? "Eeeeh... um... w-wait," that's not the thing that startles her, though, "by the solar calendar or the lunar calendar?!"

Who uses the lunar calendar?!

(Okinawans use the lunar calendar.)

"Thank you for coming by, really," Yua smiles, to him. "I'm happy for the company. But -- oh!" Yua starts to rise -- thinks better of it, and raises her voice a little, instead. "Eiko-san?" And at once, the woman appears. "Can you please grab my spare key-card for Shishi?" Shiryuu -- Shihaisha -- YUA!!!

"Of course," Eiko nods, and shortly thereafter returns with a magnetised card, which she hands to him. (Without, one notes, necessitating he touch her hand.)

"Please let me make the trip down a little easier for you," Yua asks, of him, smiling again. "I know you can climb, but I'll worry about you, you know?"

Yua's pretty effortless at making these kinds of things into favours the people she's beseeching can do to help /her./

When he's taken his leave, and Eiko's helping Yua to stand, the maid looks to her queen with a touch of bafflement. "Was that... a traditional ninja?"

"Mmhm! He's their boss!" Yua chirps, brightly. "We got off on the wrong foot, but he's really a nice guy! He does things his way, though... sorry it startled you." Yua giggles, as she admits: "It startled me, too! What will Mimi think!"

"Heaven only knows," Eiko supposes, with her own thoughts as to what Miho would /think/ about their back door being accessible.

... if Shiryuu keeps an eye on the building a little longer, he'll see her safely heading off with her mysteriously-competent chauffeur to school in order to run her classes in the afternoon.

The nice thing about Yua is that her schedule is /remarkably/ consistent.

</poem>

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2026-01-19: Promise Kept

2026-01-22T06:24:21Z

Strangehat:

*'''Log: Promise Kept'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], [[Hiroto Nakamura]]
*'''Where:''' Narumi Ward, Sumaru
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-01-19
*'''IC Date:''' Sep 14 2012
*'''Summary''': ''On a lonely train platform, Hiroto encounters the shihaisha of Ryouhara, whom apparently keeps a long memory and a deep grudge.''

----
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.'''

Hiroto Nakamura works late into the night frequently, especially on a Friday night. It's the quirk of his particular dual-role job, as both salaryman and Ferryman. At times like this, he often has to take the subway, the station still under construction.

Unfortunately, it's minutes from midnight. And he's not going to sit in a train car during the Dark Hour. It's unsettling for the soul.

So, instead, he's taking a walk through the station quietly, memorizing pathways, ambush trajectories, ingress and egress options...

Something he often does for the sake of training his mind to be healthy.

A manual watch is often checked at his wrist, the time you can set yourself. It's almost time. Tick, tick, tick.

Hiroto is dressed in his salaryman suit with striped tie and a pair of dark square spectacles. He looks like he could be anybody, the most generic salaryman in the world.

Maybe that's to his advantage.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Really, there's nobody there. The stroll through the platform is lonely even outside of the Dark Hour, with the scarce few workers dedicated enough to be out this late -- but not have a nearby arrangement of their own to live at -- is scarce.

Too dedicated to leave. Too scared to stay. It's a strange situation to be in for most. But then there are some who walk amidst the platforms for a different reason today. People who are used to the exchange.

People used to being on two sides of things at once.

The sound tightens in the tunnels, gaining that telltale, ghostly echo, as slabs of obsidian slam over the slumbering, locking them in place during the twenty fifth hour. The sound of stone echoes down the halls, up the stairs, everywhere.

The sound of wind is almost a whisper in comparison. That man can check every path, every ingress and egress he likes. The boy came from nowhere.

"Eh..."

The sound is meandering, just shy of too quiet to hear. It's very clear, from the bandages wrapped around his head that the boy has seen a fight or two prior. But his silver hair dances about his head in a haphazard mop, and his hands are shoved in his pockets. He's facing away from Hiroto to start, on the opposite end of the platform. The pristine white long jacket he wears has a peculiar mark on it, three leaves in the wind.

The family symbol of the Order's clan of ghosts, the Ryouhara.

But the sound he makes is not at all decisive, the wondering thought of a lost boy. "It's a nice night, isn't it," he thinks aloud. That stirred wind is the only source of a breeze in the underground, now stuffy without its myriad ventilation systems.

There is a sheathed sword tucked into his sash, the hilt hovering just over his wrist.

'''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.'''

The boy, the swordsman, is not heard or seen at first. When he's finally noticed, Hiroto turns to look at him, eyebrows raised but otherwise fairly neutral in expression. The Ryouhara... he's aware, of course, of their existence, as a cleaner for the Order. He doesn't know *much*, but he knows who the other bogeymen are.

He stops in his tracks. He doesn't move, doesn't take an apparent stance. But he does speak.

"It is. Quiet, serene. Who could have thought a subway station would evoke those feelings?"

There is no smile. No tight change of expression. He's controlling himself so well.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Slowly, Shiryuu turns to face him. There is a tight, accomodating smile painted across his face; entirely prepared for the moment, and entirely polite.

Also, entirely false.

"I wouldn't call it 'serene,' exactly."

Yes. Bogeymen know dimly of one another. There are some that know much more of what goes on in the dark. But it's not really important, 'what all' is known, right..?

Only one or two little bits of information can turn the tide on everything.

"I have to admit, I've been meaning to talk to you for some time."

His smile is razor sharp.

"Unfortunately, this is not going to be an easy conversation."

His sword slowly rakes from its sheath, drawn with the wrong hand. THe click it makes as it exits the sheathe echoes in all the wrong spaces of the soul. A single black feather glitches between colors as it settles on the cement by his sneaker.

"I'd like to test your power."

'''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.'''

"There is a certain kind of serenity in impending violence, is there not?"

Hiroto doesn't move first. The Ryouhara wants to talk, but this isn't how one talks like a civilized person. This is how one prepares to talk like a beast.

"It never is," Hiroto says with a relaxed tone. For the first time, he moves, but it's neither quick nor hostile, a hand moving to slowly set his watch.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"That should give us enough time before we get tired."

The sword is unsheathed. Hiroto starts walking forward, but he does not hurry his pace.

"Then I'll see the same. What will be the power of Ryouhara? And... what chains bind him?"

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

No, it really isn't how one talks, is it?

At least, not in the ways of men.

"Mm. Philosophy isn't my strong suit," the onmitsu admits, letting the ferryman set his watch. He is ostensibly civilized enough to give the older man warning, itself likely the reason he specified 'tired' instead of 'dead.' Shiryuu had said as much.

There would have been no such warning, otherwise.

The trickle of a heartbeat fills the ground beneath the soles. But it's not a heartbeat. It picks up speed, and goes far too fast.

210 bpm or more is the goal.

"...Chains," he finally remarks, derisively.

In the next instant, he's inches from Hiroto, airborne with a flying knee to the chest. He'll hit him at least twice more in that instant, rolling that knee into a rolling kick, an attempt to pin the ferryman immediately by the neck underneath the hard line of his shin.

There is no more warning.
170 BPM to start.

''AS: Weapon! Shiryuu Ryouhara has used the Strike skill Ryouhara Ninjutsu on Hiroto Nakamura! 3 Hits!''
''AS: Aggression: Shiryuu Ryouhara gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara's turn has ended.''
''AS: Block Best! Hiroto Nakamura takes 11 Strike damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Ryouhara Ninjutsu.''
''AS: Counter Neutral! Hiroto Nakamura takes 34 Strike damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Ryouhara Ninjutsu. Counter Strike!''
''AS: COUNTER! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 17 Strike damage in return for his attack!''
''AS: Counter Best! Hiroto Nakamura takes 28 Strike damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Ryouhara Ninjutsu. Counter Strike!''
''AS: COUNTER! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 21 Strike damage in return for his attack!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.'''

Hiroto can tell the BPM of that heartbeat, listening carefully. He doesn't know what it is.

The flying knee comes for his chest. In an instant, Hiroto's in stance, both arms rising to block the flying knee, which pushes him back but does not break his stance or knock him off his feet.

This is followed by the next strike being countered with an elbow, and then a forearm blow for the final strike, staggering backwards from the blows but escaping a pin.

"Hm," Hiroto says, as he has no time to make space. Instead, as he pushes Shiryuu back to the ground, he's sweeping a leg up to hit Shiryuu with his own knee, trying to send him back and make distance.

"Certainly a Ryouhara," he remarks.

''AS: Weapon! Hiroto Nakamura has used the Strike skill Leviathan Kick on Shiryuu Ryouhara!''
''AS: Aggression: Hiroto Nakamura gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Hiroto Nakamura regains 3 SP from Invigorate!''
''AS: Hiroto Nakamura's turn has ended.''
''AS: Counter Worst! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 128 Strike damage from Hiroto Nakamura's Leviathan Kick. Counter Strike!''
''AS: COUNTER! Hiroto Nakamura takes 34 Strike damage in return for his attack! ''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

On the other hand, Shiryuu is keeping count.

The movements of the Ferryman are extremely high class as Shiryuu unloads the entirety of his momentum into that crushing knee blow, his arms behind him spread like great wings. The attempt to have Hiroto on the ground instantly is thwarted by Hiroto's arm spear, the breach in tempo forcing the boy out of atari position, and the sweep of the forearm is absorbed in the boy's hip, knocking him to the ground almost immediately, the onmitsu landing hard on his sneakers.

It's just in time to catch the salaryman's response, a brutal knee to the middle that cuts his wind loose and almost disarms him. Almost.

The response is a whirl of the blade, a thrust of the sword he's pulled with his false hand, trying to spear the man in the side with the hilt of his blade before the knee breaks their deadlock, the proverbial grip of four hands.

The boy is almost standing straight up as his sneakers skid him to a stop with a tiny squeal against the concrete when he gains traction. A small chuff, a spit of air.

"As expected," the boy remarks, forcing breath back into his solar plexus while looking at Hiroto through one annoyed eye.

He drops his heel, sending a sharp, hard scratch into the jumping beat, raising the volume and speed of that heartbeat openly into the air. The rickety sound is sickening, sounding a lot like the distended rhythm of being in a speeding car on the freeway with only one door open. It's something that takes root in the inner ear, disrupting equilibrium for just a moment. Just a second.

And then the onmitsu is there, with the long blade of his sword, splitting the second entirely with a viciously fast black bladed cut. There is no room to see him coming, as if distance meant absolutely nothing to him. There is only the space for a single thought.

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara spends Limit on Shock Noise! Spd_Dn applied to Hiroto Nakamura!''
''AS: Weapon! Shiryuu Ryouhara has used the Slash skill Setsuna on Hiroto Nakamura!''
''AS: Aggression: Shiryuu Ryouhara gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara's turn has ended.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.'''

The whirling blade hint comes in, smashing Hiroto in the side and breaking them apart simultaneously with his knee. As he falls to his feet, winded, taking a breath...

The clock keeps ticking. The sword comes in, in the blink of a second, as that heartbeat hits him. He doesn't outwardly react, but it is sickening, forced to keep his balance manually instead of automatically.

The cut comes forth, and Hiroto can only have one thought.

'Kill.'

The blade gashes straight into Hiroto, cutting his suit and spilling blood on his arm where it has been blocked. It's a bad wound - he'll probably need medical attention of some stripe. His other hand gashes against Shiryuu's skin, trying to claw him with sharp nails.

Hiroto then kicks himself backwards through the air like a wuxia guy would, using his Persona-enhanced strength for just a second. There's an icky, sickly feeling as a flash of red soon surges over him...

"Charon."

And a giant bronze obol appears, a wolf on one side, a ferryman on the other.

"Have you ever drowned under the weight of your chains? Your burdens?" A pause.

Then, he's rushing forward, as the coin empowers him with a black-and-blue aura.

"Do you want to?"

Suddenly, he's behind Shiryuu in an inky blur, as if he literally flowed like water. The first strike is a kick to the back of his leg, trying to hobble it.

Then, he's to Shiryuu's side, a Bajiquan elbow blow to the ribs whether the kick works or not.

"Drown under the weight of life, Ryouhara."

His hand moves up, a single strike straight to Shiryuu's lungs, trying to make him feel like he's drowning under the sheer liquid force of the blow.

''AS: Hiroto Nakamura spends Limit on Psych!''
''AS: Tandem! Hiroto Nakamura has used the Water skill Flow Like Water on Shiryuu Ryouhara! 3 Hits!''
''AS: Aggression: Hiroto Nakamura gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Hiroto Nakamura: Psych removed!''
''AS: Hiroto Nakamura regains 3 SP from Invigorate!''
''AS: Hiroto Nakamura's turn has ended.''
''AS: Avoid Neutral! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 67 Water damage from Hiroto Nakamura's Flow Like Water. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 87 Water damage from Hiroto Nakamura's Flow Like Water.''
''AS: Avoid Neutral! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 67 Water damage from Hiroto Nakamura's Flow Like Water. Critical Hit!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

It's actually impressive, to even find a spot to cut Shiryuu with one's bare hands, as swathed as the boy is in silk and wool. But when Hiroto kicks away and the boy's false hand drops to his side, there it is -- blood, trickling down his hand.

The young man pays no attention to it until he lifts his hand, to taste the copper from his knuckles with a touch of the tongue before it can sully the wrappings of his sword hilt, before it can soak into the wool of his sleeve under his white coat.

The onmitsu regards the ferryman grimly as he summons that massive spinning coin behind him, recognizing it instinctively for a Persona, as anyone might.. Wordlessly, soundlessly, the wind stirs, and his own Persona alights behind him on a single foot, a mechanical kami, dressed in the garbs of a kannushi Shinto priest, with an old wood staff whose length easily spans the height of that boy's entire body and then some, a long trail of lightning paper shide trickling from its shaped and capped end. The light tinny -cloc- sound of its landing is in time to the rhythm, causing the beat to vibrate beneath his shoes, crazing the BPM even as the volume sways and dips, seeming to force the ground to pitch and roll with it like waves that simply aren't.

"...I thought it was two coins the boatman was owed," the boy thinks aloud. Whose coin would it be, then?

He doesn't get much of a chance to answer any further. He is grimly impressed with the way the salaryman moves, eating up the seconds in a red and black blur that seems to defy all moors of gravity and tension. It is almost unreasonable to evade, and it takes all of Shiryuu's formidable speed to even try, his eyes widening as the man slips into fluid water itself to appear behind him. The boy's movements are blurred, stepping to the side quickly to absorb the kick to his hip instead of having his knee kicked in. But the flow of that man spills around him, and the elbow to his ribs goes off like cannonfire, leaving him stunned for just long enough that he can't turn -- not fully -- to prevent being struck through the lungs with the broad side of a fist.

The force rockets him back, leaving the boy silent, back arched. A rivulet of water trickles down his jawline, until it soaks into the linen of his bandages. A shaking hand raises to his chest before suddenly the boy pitches forward, water ejecting violently from his throat and lungs, splashing on the ground for far longer than it should. Far more unreasonably long. He moves, jumping back, to one side, then the next, not presenting an easy target even while his head grows faint from the exertion.

By the time he stops convulsing, the boy is breathing hard, a puddle of water at his feet. In the Dark Hour, the pool is indistinguishable from his blood.

A tinge of red is wiped off his lips, and the boy smiles. The point of his sword touches the ground briefly.

"'Umie Akabane.'" He starts.

"This pain .. is owed to her. It belongs to me ... and is my gift..."

The boy stands slowly, putting his feet underneath him. Slowly, he swaps his blade's hilt from one hand to the other. The right hand. "There's nothing of 'life' in the Crows over Shinano, boatman," he reminds him coldly. "Only ghosts of a bygone past."

"As the Shirogarasu of Ryouhara, I've staked my claim. ....she's mine to tear to pieces, and I'll share with you this ache, that you remember it well."

His free hand opens, as black sakura petals begin to fall around him. There is the sound of chain. It's the salaryman's only warning of Juurishojin.

The blade -- or blades -- linked by the whip of a viciously thin chain cross the space between them in a heartbeat, unfurling from the boy's wrist and guided with eerie precision through the sudden cut of wind spawned by his Persona. It stirs those petals into a storm, reducing the boy to just a silhouette, the racked blades to merely 'some' of many.

He'll pierce through the man, if he's not fast. He'll have his breath to think, his skills to thank, if he can escape that piercing point. Whether or not he does matters very little to the shinobi.

The black sakura he spawns surge through the platform, obscuring everything. Either Shiryuu will drag him bodily into the heart of them...

...or he'll hunt them down inside them.
What happens next is between that man and Shiryuu's sword.

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara spends Limit on Exploit! Shiryuu Ryouhara can use another Weak skill this round!''
''AS: Tandem! Shiryuu Ryouhara has used the Slash skill Magatama Cipher on Hiroto Nakamura!''
''AS: Aggression: Shiryuu Ryouhara gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Tandem! Shiryuu Ryouhara has used the Slash skill Yozakura Revival on Hiroto Nakamura!''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara's turn has ended.''
''AS: Counter Worst! Hiroto Nakamura takes 163 Slash damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Magatama Cipher. Critical Hit!''
''AS: COUNTER! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 39 Slash damage in return for his attack! ''
''AS: Block Neutral! Hiroto Nakamura takes 46 Slash damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Yozakura Revival.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.'''

"Six mon, locally," Hiroto educates Shiryuu. "One obol in the mouth, for the Greeks."

As Shiryuu smiles, having survived the attack, Hiroto hears the name he says. "Ah."

"She's yours, is that so?"

The black sakura petals fall, but the chain is heard. As the whip chain comes forth, there's the feeling of a hit. It all happens so fast, as Hiroto, too, disappears in those petals...

The next moment, he's rushing on Shiryuu, jabbing his hand - with the blades embedded in it - straight into Shiryuu to dislodge them and cut him with them. His arm moves to counter the sword, diffusing force even as he continues to bleed, as he feels himself nearly lose the arm if he had guarded at the wrong position.

Hiroto eventually breaks off in the petals. Shiryuu might see it then. A grin - not a human's grin, one of cheer or joy or excitement.

The feral grin of a beast. One who could have been run down, and is not thanks both to his skill and his sheer willingness to get hurt.

"You claim her. You test me because of, what, a childish attachment to a target? You may be a Ryouhara..."

The wolf bears its teeth.

"But know your place. We are chained under another's grasp. As long as you think yourself a player and not a pawn..."

Hiroto raises a hand. "You'll never be free."

And with a snap of his fingers, Charon reappears, a crackling white ray of almighty energy falling straight on Shiryuu, possibly obliterating the petals in its path.

'''AS: Persona! Hiroto Nakamura has used the Almighty skill Megido on Shiryuu Ryouhara!'''
'''AS: Hiroto Nakamura regains 3 SP from Invigorate!'''
'''AS: Hiroto Nakamura's turn has ended.'''
'''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara spends Limit on Brace!'''
'''AS: Avoid Worst! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 157 Almighty damage from Hiroto Nakamura's Megido.'''
'''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara is unable to continue fighting!'''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"Oh... my apologies," Shiryuu replies politely to being corrected. Like he said. It's really not his strong suit.

This is: The next whirling, spinning moment passes in eyeblinks.

Vertigo sets in, as he holds onto the chain, as Hiroto chases him while pinned on it. They run, the chain of the ninkou Juurishojin kept tight as it spins over all points of the clock, the twin suicide grip held fast as the white crow runs with the black wolf, stampeding around the same five by five circle of space.

The whirlwind breaks as Hiroto falls on the onmitsu, and the onmitsu tries to pull him apart for the effort, flipping his sword false to account for the close quarters, to cut through the man's arm and take it as recompense for his transgressions.

But no limb ever flies, and the night sakura swirl as Hiroto bursts out of the cloud, leaving only Shiryuu to take a chasing step forward. He's not paying attention to the blood soaking through the wool in his middle, only the flip of his sword in his hand and the twisting steps he takes to djust his stance towards him.

Shiryuu's eyes narrow. "Childish?" Ryouhara's mouth pulls into a disdainful expression, a light twitch sticking in his eye.

The rest, Shiryuu has no response for, his empyrean mien not budging an inch in the face of the savage animal the ferryman presents them.

The blast is catastrophic, snuffing out the night around them, and Ryouhara has comparably few defenses against it as he's bleached to all one color in the nigh blinding light.

A black petal flows past Hiroto's dress shoe, glitching as it flickers against his heel, turning to dust as it blows past.

... but the wind is punctuated by the placement of Ryouhara's sword point against the concrete.

He doesn't fall, and when the light fades, he's still there. The boy's arm is limp against his side, the fabric of his coat draping across him like a broken wing. His hand tightens on his sword's hilt, and the staff of Sarutahiko Okami is planted firmly in the ground at his side, like a signpost in the dark.

"Speak my family name with due wonder, wolf. I am the ruler of the steel dark, and the thousand blades of ninkougakujutsu exist under and above the moon at my pleasure."

Blood spatters the ground at his feet, and he takes a step forward, the black blade of Bankasoujin clattering as he moves.

"Even in the endless black, the word of the shihaisha is bound in blood and bone, iron and steel. You can consider yourself chained if you like. But my only bond is 'the word of Shirogarasu.'"

One mad eye lifts. It seems that Hiroto struck a nerve.

"I've tested you, as is my right. I've not found you wanting."

That eye narrows dangerously.

"...But don't misunderstand. Every heartbeat before me beats on only at my suffering. ... My will is consecrate, and I've given it to you. Defy it in any way ... and I'll come before you with my right hand, to better guide the moon through the back of your skull."

He lifts a hand, and cuts through the air. The sudden stir of wind heralds his exit, and the boy leaves no trace of his movement at all.

</poem>

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2026-01-19: Promise Kept

2026-01-22T06:23:41Z

Strangehat:

*'''Log: Promise Kept'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], [[Hiroto Nakamura]]
*'''Where:''' Narumi Ward, Sumaru
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-01-19
*'''IC Date:''' Sep 14 2012
*'''Summary''': ''On a lonely train platform, Hiroto encounters the shihaisha of Ryouhara, whom apparently keeps a long memory and a deep grudge.''

----
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.'''

Hiroto Nakamura works late into the night frequently, especially on a Friday night. It's the quirk of his particular dual-role job, as both salaryman and Ferryman. At times like this, he often has to take the subway, the station still under construction.

Unfortunately, it's minutes from midnight. And he's not going to sit in a train car during the Dark Hour. It's unsettling for the soul.

So, instead, he's taking a walk through the station quietly, memorizing pathways, ambush trajectories, ingress and egress options...

Something he often does for the sake of training his mind to be healthy.

A manual watch is often checked at his wrist, the time you can set yourself. It's almost time. Tick, tick, tick.

Hiroto is dressed in his salaryman suit with striped tie and a pair of dark square spectacles. He looks like he could be anybody, the most generic salaryman in the world.

Maybe that's to his advantage.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Really, there's nobody there. The stroll through the platform is lonely even outside of the Dark Hour, with the scarce few workers dedicated enough to be out this late -- but not have a nearby arrangement of their own to live at -- is scarce.

Too dedicated to leave. Too scared to stay. It's a strange situation to be in for most. But then there are some who walk amidst the platforms for a different reason today. People who are used to the exchange.

People used to being on two sides of things at once.

The sound tightens in the tunnels, gaining that telltale, ghostly echo, as slabs of obsidian slam over the slumbering, locking them in place during the twenty fifth hour. The sound of stone echoes down the halls, up the stairs, everywhere.

The sound of wind is almost a whisper in comparison. That man can check every path, every ingress and egress he likes. The boy came from nowhere.

"Eh..."

The sound is meandering, just shy of too quiet to hear. It's very clear, from the bandages wrapped around his head that the boy has seen a fight or two prior. But his silver hair dances about his head in a haphazard mop, and his hands are shoved in his pockets. He's facing away from Hiroto to start, on the opposite end of the platform. The pristine white long jacket he wears has a peculiar mark on it, three leaves in the wind.

The family symbol of the Order's clan of ghosts, the Ryouhara.

But the sound he makes is not at all decisive, the wondering thought of a lost boy. "It's a nice night, isn't it," he thinks aloud. That stirred wind is the only source of a breeze in the underground, now stuffy without its myriad ventilation systems.

There is a sheathed sword tucked into his sash, the hilt hovering just over his wrist.

'''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.'''

The boy, the swordsman, is not heard or seen at first. When he's finally noticed, Hiroto turns to look at him, eyebrows raised but otherwise fairly neutral in expression. The Ryouhara... he's aware, of course, of their existence, as a cleaner for the Order. He doesn't know *much*, but he knows who the other bogeymen are.

He stops in his tracks. He doesn't move, doesn't take an apparent stance. But he does speak.

"It is. Quiet, serene. Who could have thought a subway station would evoke those feelings?"

There is no smile. No tight change of expression. He's controlling himself so well.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Slowly, Shiryuu turns to face him. There is a tight, accomodating smile painted across his face; entirely prepared for the moment, and entirely polite.

Also, entirely false.

"I wouldn't call it 'serene,' exactly."

Yes. Bogeymen know dimly of one another. There are some that know much more of what goes on in the dark. But it's not really important, 'what all' is known, right..?

Only one or two little bits of information can turn the tide on everything.

"I have to admit, I've been meaning to talk to you for some time."

His smile is razor sharp.

"Unfortunately, this is not going to be an easy conversation."

His sword slowly rakes from its sheath, drawn with the wrong hand. THe click it makes as it exits the sheathe echoes in all the wrong spaces of the soul. A single black feather glitches between colors as it settles on the cement by his sneaker.

"I'd like to test your power."

'''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.'''

"There is a certain kind of serenity in impending violence, is there not?"

Hiroto doesn't move first. The Ryouhara wants to talk, but this isn't how one talks like a civilized person. This is how one prepares to talk like a beast.

"It never is," Hiroto says with a relaxed tone. For the first time, he moves, but it's neither quick nor hostile, a hand moving to slowly set his watch.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"That should give us enough time before we get tired."

The sword is unsheathed. Hiroto starts walking forward, but he does not hurry his pace.

"Then I'll see the same. What will be the power of Ryouhara? And... what chains bind him?"

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

No, it really isn't how one talks, is it?

At least, not in the ways of men.

"Mm. Philosophy isn't my strong suit," the onmitsu admits, letting the ferryman set his watch. He is ostensibly civilized enough to give the older man warning, itself likely the reason he specified 'tired' instead of 'dead.' Shiryuu had said as much.

There would have been no such warning, otherwise.

The trickle of a heartbeat fills the ground beneath the soles. But it's not a heartbeat. It picks up speed, and goes far too fast.

210 bpm or more is the goal.

"...Chains," he finally remarks, derisively.

In the next instant, he's inches from Hiroto, airborne with a flying knee to the chest. He'll hit him at least twice more in that instant, rolling that knee into a rolling kick, an attempt to pin the ferryman immediately by the neck underneath the hard line of his shin.

There is no more warning.
170 BPM to start.

''AS: Weapon! Shiryuu Ryouhara has used the Strike skill Ryouhara Ninjutsu on Hiroto Nakamura! 3 Hits!''
''AS: Aggression: Shiryuu Ryouhara gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara's turn has ended.''
''AS: Block Best! Hiroto Nakamura takes 11 Strike damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Ryouhara Ninjutsu.''
''AS: Counter Neutral! Hiroto Nakamura takes 34 Strike damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Ryouhara Ninjutsu. Counter Strike!''
''AS: COUNTER! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 17 Strike damage in return for his attack!''
''AS: Counter Best! Hiroto Nakamura takes 28 Strike damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Ryouhara Ninjutsu. Counter Strike!''
''AS: COUNTER! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 21 Strike damage in return for his attack!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.'''
Hiroto can tell the BPM of that heartbeat, listening carefully. He doesn't know what it is.

The flying knee comes for his chest. In an instant, Hiroto's in stance, both arms rising to block the flying knee, which pushes him back but does not break his stance or knock him off his feet.

This is followed by the next strike being countered with an elbow, and then a forearm blow for the final strike, staggering backwards from the blows but escaping a pin.

"Hm," Hiroto says, as he has no time to make space. Instead, as he pushes Shiryuu back to the ground, he's sweeping a leg up to hit Shiryuu with his own knee, trying to send him back and make distance.

"Certainly a Ryouhara," he remarks.

''AS: Weapon! Hiroto Nakamura has used the Strike skill Leviathan Kick on Shiryuu Ryouhara!''
''AS: Aggression: Hiroto Nakamura gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Hiroto Nakamura regains 3 SP from Invigorate!''
''AS: Hiroto Nakamura's turn has ended.''
''AS: Counter Worst! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 128 Strike damage from Hiroto Nakamura's Leviathan Kick. Counter Strike!''
''AS: COUNTER! Hiroto Nakamura takes 34 Strike damage in return for his attack! ''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

On the other hand, Shiryuu is keeping count.

The movements of the Ferryman are extremely high class as Shiryuu unloads the entirety of his momentum into that crushing knee blow, his arms behind him spread like great wings. The attempt to have Hiroto on the ground instantly is thwarted by Hiroto's arm spear, the breach in tempo forcing the boy out of atari position, and the sweep of the forearm is absorbed in the boy's hip, knocking him to the ground almost immediately, the onmitsu landing hard on his sneakers.

It's just in time to catch the salaryman's response, a brutal knee to the middle that cuts his wind loose and almost disarms him. Almost.

The response is a whirl of the blade, a thrust of the sword he's pulled with his false hand, trying to spear the man in the side with the hilt of his blade before the knee breaks their deadlock, the proverbial grip of four hands.

The boy is almost standing straight up as his sneakers skid him to a stop with a tiny squeal against the concrete when he gains traction. A small chuff, a spit of air.

"As expected," the boy remarks, forcing breath back into his solar plexus while looking at Hiroto through one annoyed eye.

He drops his heel, sending a sharp, hard scratch into the jumping beat, raising the volume and speed of that heartbeat openly into the air. The rickety sound is sickening, sounding a lot like the distended rhythm of being in a speeding car on the freeway with only one door open. It's something that takes root in the inner ear, disrupting equilibrium for just a moment. Just a second.

And then the onmitsu is there, with the long blade of his sword, splitting the second entirely with a viciously fast black bladed cut. There is no room to see him coming, as if distance meant absolutely nothing to him. There is only the space for a single thought.

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara spends Limit on Shock Noise! Spd_Dn applied to Hiroto Nakamura!''
''AS: Weapon! Shiryuu Ryouhara has used the Slash skill Setsuna on Hiroto Nakamura!''
''AS: Aggression: Shiryuu Ryouhara gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara's turn has ended.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.'''

The whirling blade hint comes in, smashing Hiroto in the side and breaking them apart simultaneously with his knee. As he falls to his feet, winded, taking a breath...

The clock keeps ticking. The sword comes in, in the blink of a second, as that heartbeat hits him. He doesn't outwardly react, but it is sickening, forced to keep his balance manually instead of automatically.

The cut comes forth, and Hiroto can only have one thought.

'Kill.'

The blade gashes straight into Hiroto, cutting his suit and spilling blood on his arm where it has been blocked. It's a bad wound - he'll probably need medical attention of some stripe. His other hand gashes against Shiryuu's skin, trying to claw him with sharp nails.

Hiroto then kicks himself backwards through the air like a wuxia guy would, using his Persona-enhanced strength for just a second. There's an icky, sickly feeling as a flash of red soon surges over him...

"Charon."

And a giant bronze obol appears, a wolf on one side, a ferryman on the other.

"Have you ever drowned under the weight of your chains? Your burdens?" A pause.

Then, he's rushing forward, as the coin empowers him with a black-and-blue aura.

"Do you want to?"

Suddenly, he's behind Shiryuu in an inky blur, as if he literally flowed like water. The first strike is a kick to the back of his leg, trying to hobble it.

Then, he's to Shiryuu's side, a Bajiquan elbow blow to the ribs whether the kick works or not.

"Drown under the weight of life, Ryouhara."

His hand moves up, a single strike straight to Shiryuu's lungs, trying to make him feel like he's drowning under the sheer liquid force of the blow.

''AS: Hiroto Nakamura spends Limit on Psych!''
''AS: Tandem! Hiroto Nakamura has used the Water skill Flow Like Water on Shiryuu Ryouhara! 3 Hits!''
''AS: Aggression: Hiroto Nakamura gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Hiroto Nakamura: Psych removed!''
''AS: Hiroto Nakamura regains 3 SP from Invigorate!''
''AS: Hiroto Nakamura's turn has ended.''
''AS: Avoid Neutral! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 67 Water damage from Hiroto Nakamura's Flow Like Water. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 87 Water damage from Hiroto Nakamura's Flow Like Water.''
''AS: Avoid Neutral! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 67 Water damage from Hiroto Nakamura's Flow Like Water. Critical Hit!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

It's actually impressive, to even find a spot to cut Shiryuu with one's bare hands, as swathed as the boy is in silk and wool. But when Hiroto kicks away and the boy's false hand drops to his side, there it is -- blood, trickling down his hand.

The young man pays no attention to it until he lifts his hand, to taste the copper from his knuckles with a touch of the tongue before it can sully the wrappings of his sword hilt, before it can soak into the wool of his sleeve under his white coat.

The onmitsu regards the ferryman grimly as he summons that massive spinning coin behind him, recognizing it instinctively for a Persona, as anyone might.. Wordlessly, soundlessly, the wind stirs, and his own Persona alights behind him on a single foot, a mechanical kami, dressed in the garbs of a kannushi Shinto priest, with an old wood staff whose length easily spans the height of that boy's entire body and then some, a long trail of lightning paper shide trickling from its shaped and capped end. The light tinny -cloc- sound of its landing is in time to the rhythm, causing the beat to vibrate beneath his shoes, crazing the BPM even as the volume sways and dips, seeming to force the ground to pitch and roll with it like waves that simply aren't.

"...I thought it was two coins the boatman was owed," the boy thinks aloud. Whose coin would it be, then?

He doesn't get much of a chance to answer any further. He is grimly impressed with the way the salaryman moves, eating up the seconds in a red and black blur that seems to defy all moors of gravity and tension. It is almost unreasonable to evade, and it takes all of Shiryuu's formidable speed to even try, his eyes widening as the man slips into fluid water itself to appear behind him. The boy's movements are blurred, stepping to the side quickly to absorb the kick to his hip instead of having his knee kicked in. But the flow of that man spills around him, and the elbow to his ribs goes off like cannonfire, leaving him stunned for just long enough that he can't turn -- not fully -- to prevent being struck through the lungs with the broad side of a fist.

The force rockets him back, leaving the boy silent, back arched. A rivulet of water trickles down his jawline, until it soaks into the linen of his bandages. A shaking hand raises to his chest before suddenly the boy pitches forward, water ejecting violently from his throat and lungs, splashing on the ground for far longer than it should. Far more unreasonably long. He moves, jumping back, to one side, then the next, not presenting an easy target even while his head grows faint from the exertion.

By the time he stops convulsing, the boy is breathing hard, a puddle of water at his feet. In the Dark Hour, the pool is indistinguishable from his blood.

A tinge of red is wiped off his lips, and the boy smiles. The point of his sword touches the ground briefly.

"'Umie Akabane.'" He starts.

"This pain .. is owed to her. It belongs to me ... and is my gift..."

The boy stands slowly, putting his feet underneath him. Slowly, he swaps his blade's hilt from one hand to the other. The right hand. "There's nothing of 'life' in the Crows over Shinano, boatman," he reminds him coldly. "Only ghosts of a bygone past."

"As the Shirogarasu of Ryouhara, I've staked my claim. ....she's mine to tear to pieces, and I'll share with you this ache, that you remember it well."

His free hand opens, as black sakura petals begin to fall around him. There is the sound of chain. It's the salaryman's only warning of Juurishojin.

The blade -- or blades -- linked by the whip of a viciously thin chain cross the space between them in a heartbeat, unfurling from the boy's wrist and guided with eerie precision through the sudden cut of wind spawned by his Persona. It stirs those petals into a storm, reducing the boy to just a silhouette, the racked blades to merely 'some' of many.

He'll pierce through the man, if he's not fast. He'll have his breath to think, his skills to thank, if he can escape that piercing point. Whether or not he does matters very little to the shinobi.

The black sakura he spawns surge through the platform, obscuring everything. Either Shiryuu will drag him bodily into the heart of them...

...or he'll hunt them down inside them.
What happens next is between that man and Shiryuu's sword.

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara spends Limit on Exploit! Shiryuu Ryouhara can use another Weak skill this round!''
''AS: Tandem! Shiryuu Ryouhara has used the Slash skill Magatama Cipher on Hiroto Nakamura!''
''AS: Aggression: Shiryuu Ryouhara gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Tandem! Shiryuu Ryouhara has used the Slash skill Yozakura Revival on Hiroto Nakamura!''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara's turn has ended.''
''AS: Counter Worst! Hiroto Nakamura takes 163 Slash damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Magatama Cipher. Critical Hit!''
''AS: COUNTER! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 39 Slash damage in return for his attack! ''
''AS: Block Neutral! Hiroto Nakamura takes 46 Slash damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Yozakura Revival.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.'''

"Six mon, locally," Hiroto educates Shiryuu. "One obol in the mouth, for the Greeks."

As Shiryuu smiles, having survived the attack, Hiroto hears the name he says. "Ah."

"She's yours, is that so?"

The black sakura petals fall, but the chain is heard. As the whip chain comes forth, there's the feeling of a hit. It all happens so fast, as Hiroto, too, disappears in those petals...

The next moment, he's rushing on Shiryuu, jabbing his hand - with the blades embedded in it - straight into Shiryuu to dislodge them and cut him with them. His arm moves to counter the sword, diffusing force even as he continues to bleed, as he feels himself nearly lose the arm if he had guarded at the wrong position.

Hiroto eventually breaks off in the petals. Shiryuu might see it then. A grin - not a human's grin, one of cheer or joy or excitement.

The feral grin of a beast. One who could have been run down, and is not thanks both to his skill and his sheer willingness to get hurt.

"You claim her. You test me because of, what, a childish attachment to a target? You may be a Ryouhara..."

The wolf bears its teeth.

"But know your place. We are chained under another's grasp. As long as you think yourself a player and not a pawn..."

Hiroto raises a hand. "You'll never be free."

And with a snap of his fingers, Charon reappears, a crackling white ray of almighty energy falling straight on Shiryuu, possibly obliterating the petals in its path.

'''AS: Persona! Hiroto Nakamura has used the Almighty skill Megido on Shiryuu Ryouhara!'''
'''AS: Hiroto Nakamura regains 3 SP from Invigorate!'''
'''AS: Hiroto Nakamura's turn has ended.'''
'''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara spends Limit on Brace!'''
'''AS: Avoid Worst! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 157 Almighty damage from Hiroto Nakamura's Megido.'''
'''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara is unable to continue fighting!'''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"Oh... my apologies," Shiryuu replies politely to being corrected. Like he said. It's really not his strong suit.

This is: The next whirling, spinning moment passes in eyeblinks.

Vertigo sets in, as he holds onto the chain, as Hiroto chases him while pinned on it. They run, the chain of the ninkou Juurishojin kept tight as it spins over all points of the clock, the twin suicide grip held fast as the white crow runs with the black wolf, stampeding around the same five by five circle of space.

The whirlwind breaks as Hiroto falls on the onmitsu, and the onmitsu tries to pull him apart for the effort, flipping his sword false to account for the close quarters, to cut through the man's arm and take it as recompense for his transgressions.

But no limb ever flies, and the night sakura swirl as Hiroto bursts out of the cloud, leaving only Shiryuu to take a chasing step forward. He's not paying attention to the blood soaking through the wool in his middle, only the flip of his sword in his hand and the twisting steps he takes to djust his stance towards him.

Shiryuu's eyes narrow. "Childish?" Ryouhara's mouth pulls into a disdainful expression, a light twitch sticking in his eye.

The rest, Shiryuu has no response for, his empyrean mien not budging an inch in the face of the savage animal the ferryman presents them.

The blast is catastrophic, snuffing out the night around them, and Ryouhara has comparably few defenses against it as he's bleached to all one color in the nigh blinding light.

A black petal flows past Hiroto's dress shoe, glitching as it flickers against his heel, turning to dust as it blows past.

... but the wind is punctuated by the placement of Ryouhara's sword point against the concrete.

He doesn't fall, and when the light fades, he's still there. The boy's arm is limp against his side, the fabric of his coat draping across him like a broken wing. His hand tightens on his sword's hilt, and the staff of Sarutahiko Okami is planted firmly in the ground at his side, like a signpost in the dark.

"Speak my family name with due wonder, wolf. I am the ruler of the steel dark, and the thousand blades of ninkougakujutsu exist under and above the moon at my pleasure."

Blood spatters the ground at his feet, and he takes a step forward, the black blade of Bankasoujin clattering as he moves.

"Even in the endless black, the word of the shihaisha is bound in blood and bone, iron and steel. You can consider yourself chained if you like. But my only bond is 'the word of Shirogarasu.'"

One mad eye lifts. It seems that Hiroto struck a nerve.

"I've tested you, as is my right. I've not found you wanting."

That eye narrows dangerously.

"...But don't misunderstand. Every heartbeat before me beats on only at my suffering. ... My will is consecrate, and I've given it to you. Defy it in any way ... and I'll come before you with my right hand, to better guide the moon through the back of your skull."

He lifts a hand, and cuts through the air. The sudden stir of wind heralds his exit, and the boy leaves no trace of his movement at all.

</poem>

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2026-01-19: Promise Kept

2026-01-22T06:22:26Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Log: Promise Kept''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara, Hiroto Nakamura *'''Where:''' Narumi Ward, Sumaru *'''OOC Date:''' 2026-01-19 *'''IC Date:''' Sep 14 2012 *'''Summary''': ''On a lonely train platform, Hiroto encounters the shihaisha of Ryouhara, whom apparently keeps a long memory and a deep grudge.'' ---- <poem> '''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.''' Hiroto Nakamura works late into the night frequently, especially on a Friday night. It's the q..."

*'''Log: Promise Kept'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], [[Hiroto Nakamura]]
*'''Where:''' Narumi Ward, Sumaru
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-01-19
*'''IC Date:''' Sep 14 2012
*'''Summary''': ''On a lonely train platform, Hiroto encounters the shihaisha of Ryouhara, whom apparently keeps a long memory and a deep grudge.''

----
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.'''

Hiroto Nakamura works late into the night frequently, especially on a Friday night. It's the quirk of his particular dual-role job, as both salaryman and Ferryman. At times like this, he often has to take the subway, the station still under construction.

Unfortunately, it's minutes from midnight. And he's not going to sit in a train car during the Dark Hour. It's unsettling for the soul.

So, instead, he's taking a walk through the station quietly, memorizing pathways, ambush trajectories, ingress and egress options...

Something he often does for the sake of training his mind to be healthy.

A manual watch is often checked at his wrist, the time you can set yourself. It's almost time. Tick, tick, tick.

Hiroto is dressed in his salaryman suit with striped tie and a pair of dark square spectacles. He looks like he could be anybody, the most generic salaryman in the world.

Maybe that's to his advantage.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Really, there's nobody there. The stroll through the platform is lonely even outside of the Dark Hour, with the scarce few workers dedicated enough to be out this late -- but not have a nearby arrangement of their own to live at -- is scarce.

Too dedicated to leave. Too scared to stay. It's a strange situation to be in for most. But then there are some who walk amidst the platforms for a different reason today. People who are used to the exchange.

People used to being on two sides of things at once.

The sound tightens in the tunnels, gaining that telltale, ghostly echo, as slabs of obsidian slam over the slumbering, locking them in place during the twenty fifth hour. The sound of stone echoes down the halls, up the stairs, everywhere.

The sound of wind is almost a whisper in comparison. That man can check every path, every ingress and egress he likes. The boy came from nowhere.

"Eh..."

The sound is meandering, just shy of too quiet to hear. It's very clear, from the bandages wrapped around his head that the boy has seen a fight or two prior. But his silver hair dances about his head in a haphazard mop, and his hands are shoved in his pockets. He's facing away from Hiroto to start, on the opposite end of the platform. The pristine white long jacket he wears has a peculiar mark on it, three leaves in the wind.

The family symbol of the Order's clan of ghosts, the Ryouhara.

But the sound he makes is not at all decisive, the wondering thought of a lost boy. "It's a nice night, isn't it," he thinks aloud. That stirred wind is the only source of a breeze in the underground, now stuffy without its myriad ventilation systems.

There is a sheathed sword tucked into his sash, the hilt hovering just over his wrist.

'''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.'''

The boy, the swordsman, is not heard or seen at first. When he's finally noticed, Hiroto turns to look at him, eyebrows raised but otherwise fairly neutral in expression. The Ryouhara... he's aware, of course, of their existence, as a cleaner for the Order. He doesn't know *much*, but he knows who the other bogeymen are.

He stops in his tracks. He doesn't move, doesn't take an apparent stance. But he does speak.

"It is. Quiet, serene. Who could have thought a subway station would evoke those feelings?"

There is no smile. No tight change of expression. He's controlling himself so well.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Slowly, Shiryuu turns to face him. There is a tight, accomodating smile painted across his face; entirely prepared for the moment, and entirely polite.

Also, entirely false.

"I wouldn't call it 'serene,' exactly."

Yes. Bogeymen know dimly of one another. There are some that know much more of what goes on in the dark. But it's not really important, 'what all' is known, right..?

Only one or two little bits of information can turn the tide on everything.

"I have to admit, I've been meaning to talk to you for some time."

His smile is razor sharp.

"Unfortunately, this is not going to be an easy conversation."

His sword slowly rakes from its sheath, drawn with the wrong hand. THe click it makes as it exits the sheathe echoes in all the wrong spaces of the soul. A single black feather glitches between colors as it settles on the cement by his sneaker.

"I'd like to test your power."

'''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.'''

"There is a certain kind of serenity in impending violence, is there not?"

Hiroto doesn't move first. The Ryouhara wants to talk, but this isn't how one talks like a civilized person. This is how one prepares to talk like a beast.

"It never is," Hiroto says with a relaxed tone. For the first time, he moves, but it's neither quick nor hostile, a hand moving to slowly set his watch.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

"That should give us enough time before we get tired."

The sword is unsheathed. Hiroto starts walking forward, but he does not hurry his pace.

"Then I'll see the same. What will be the power of Ryouhara? And... what chains bind him?"

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

No, it really isn't how one talks, is it?

At least, not in the ways of men.

"Mm. Philosophy isn't my strong suit," the onmitsu admits, letting the ferryman set his watch. He is ostensibly civilized enough to give the older man warning, itself likely the reason he specified 'tired' instead of 'dead.' Shiryuu had said as much.

There would have been no such warning, otherwise.

The trickle of a heartbeat fills the ground beneath the soles. But it's not a heartbeat. It picks up speed, and goes far too fast.

210 bpm or more is the goal.

"...Chains," he finally remarks, derisively.

In the next instant, he's inches from Hiroto, airborne with a flying knee to the chest. He'll hit him at least twice more in that instant, rolling that knee into a rolling kick, an attempt to pin the ferryman immediately by the neck underneath the hard line of his shin.

There is no more warning.
170 BPM to start.

''AS: Weapon! Shiryuu Ryouhara has used the Strike skill Ryouhara Ninjutsu on Hiroto Nakamura! 3 Hits!''
''AS: Aggression: Shiryuu Ryouhara gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara's turn has ended.''
''AS: Block Best! Hiroto Nakamura takes 11 Strike damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Ryouhara Ninjutsu.''
''AS: Counter Neutral! Hiroto Nakamura takes 34 Strike damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Ryouhara Ninjutsu. Counter Strike!''
''AS: COUNTER! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 17 Strike damage in return for his attack!''
''AS: Counter Best! Hiroto Nakamura takes 28 Strike damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Ryouhara Ninjutsu. Counter Strike!''
''AS: COUNTER! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 21 Strike damage in return for his attack!''

''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.'''
Hiroto can tell the BPM of that heartbeat, listening carefully. He doesn't know what it is.

The flying knee comes for his chest. In an instant, Hiroto's in stance, both arms rising to block the flying knee, which pushes him back but does not break his stance or knock him off his feet.

This is followed by the next strike being countered with an elbow, and then a forearm blow for the final strike, staggering backwards from the blows but escaping a pin.

"Hm," Hiroto says, as he has no time to make space. Instead, as he pushes Shiryuu back to the ground, he's sweeping a leg up to hit Shiryuu with his own knee, trying to send him back and make distance.

"Certainly a Ryouhara," he remarks.

''AS: Weapon! Hiroto Nakamura has used the Strike skill Leviathan Kick on Shiryuu Ryouhara!''
''AS: Aggression: Hiroto Nakamura gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Hiroto Nakamura regains 3 SP from Invigorate!''
''AS: Hiroto Nakamura's turn has ended.''
''AS: Counter Worst! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 128 Strike damage from Hiroto Nakamura's Leviathan Kick. Counter Strike!''
''AS: COUNTER! Hiroto Nakamura takes 34 Strike damage in return for his attack! ''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

On the other hand, Shiryuu is keeping count.

The movements of the Ferryman are extremely high class as Shiryuu unloads the entirety of his momentum into that crushing knee blow, his arms behind him spread like great wings. The attempt to have Hiroto on the ground instantly is thwarted by Hiroto's arm spear, the breach in tempo forcing the boy out of atari position, and the sweep of the forearm is absorbed in the boy's hip, knocking him to the ground almost immediately, the onmitsu landing hard on his sneakers.

It's just in time to catch the salaryman's response, a brutal knee to the middle that cuts his wind loose and almost disarms him. Almost.

The response is a whirl of the blade, a thrust of the sword he's pulled with his false hand, trying to spear the man in the side with the hilt of his blade before the knee breaks their deadlock, the proverbial grip of four hands.

The boy is almost standing straight up as his sneakers skid him to a stop with a tiny squeal against the concrete when he gains traction. A small chuff, a spit of air.

"As expected," the boy remarks, forcing breath back into his solar plexus while looking at Hiroto through one annoyed eye.

He drops his heel, sending a sharp, hard scratch into the jumping beat, raising the volume and speed of that heartbeat openly into the air. The rickety sound is sickening, sounding a lot like the distended rhythm of being in a speeding car on the freeway with only one door open. It's something that takes root in the inner ear, disrupting equilibrium for just a moment. Just a second.

And then the onmitsu is there, with the long blade of his sword, splitting the second entirely with a viciously fast black bladed cut. There is no room to see him coming, as if distance meant absolutely nothing to him. There is only the space for a single thought.

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara spends Limit on Shock Noise! Spd_Dn applied to Hiroto Nakamura!''
''AS: Weapon! Shiryuu Ryouhara has used the Slash skill Setsuna on Hiroto Nakamura!''
''AS: Aggression: Shiryuu Ryouhara gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara's turn has ended.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.'''

The whirling blade hint comes in, smashing Hiroto in the side and breaking them apart simultaneously with his knee. As he falls to his feet, winded, taking a breath...

The clock keeps ticking. The sword comes in, in the blink of a second, as that heartbeat hits him. He doesn't outwardly react, but it is sickening, forced to keep his balance manually instead of automatically.

The cut comes forth, and Hiroto can only have one thought.

'Kill.'

The blade gashes straight into Hiroto, cutting his suit and spilling blood on his arm where it has been blocked. It's a bad wound - he'll probably need medical attention of some stripe. His other hand gashes against Shiryuu's skin, trying to claw him with sharp nails.

Hiroto then kicks himself backwards through the air like a wuxia guy would, using his Persona-enhanced strength for just a second. There's an icky, sickly feeling as a flash of red soon surges over him...

"Charon."

And a giant bronze obol appears, a wolf on one side, a ferryman on the other.

"Have you ever drowned under the weight of your chains? Your burdens?" A pause.

Then, he's rushing forward, as the coin empowers him with a black-and-blue aura.

"Do you want to?"

Suddenly, he's behind Shiryuu in an inky blur, as if he literally flowed like water. The first strike is a kick to the back of his leg, trying to hobble it.

Then, he's to Shiryuu's side, a Bajiquan elbow blow to the ribs whether the kick works or not.

"Drown under the weight of life, Ryouhara."

His hand moves up, a single strike straight to Shiryuu's lungs, trying to make him feel like he's drowning under the sheer liquid force of the blow.

''AS: Hiroto Nakamura spends Limit on Psych!''
''AS: Tandem! Hiroto Nakamura has used the Water skill Flow Like Water on Shiryuu Ryouhara! 3 Hits!''
''AS: Aggression: Hiroto Nakamura gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Hiroto Nakamura: Psych removed!''
''AS: Hiroto Nakamura regains 3 SP from Invigorate!''
''AS: Hiroto Nakamura's turn has ended.''
''AS: Avoid Neutral! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 67 Water damage from Hiroto Nakamura's Flow Like Water. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 87 Water damage from Hiroto Nakamura's Flow Like Water.''
''AS: Avoid Neutral! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 67 Water damage from Hiroto Nakamura's Flow Like Water. Critical Hit!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

It's actually impressive, to even find a spot to cut Shiryuu with one's bare hands, as swathed as the boy is in silk and wool. But when Hiroto kicks away and the boy's false hand drops to his side, there it is -- blood, trickling down his hand.

The young man pays no attention to it until he lifts his hand, to taste the copper from his knuckles with a touch of the tongue before it can sully the wrappings of his sword hilt, before it can soak into the wool of his sleeve under his white coat.

The onmitsu regards the ferryman grimly as he summons that massive spinning coin behind him, recognizing it instinctively for a Persona, as anyone might.. Wordlessly, soundlessly, the wind stirs, and his own Persona alights behind him on a single foot, a mechanical kami, dressed in the garbs of a kannushi Shinto priest, with an old wood staff whose length easily spans the height of that boy's entire body and then some, a long trail of lightning paper shide trickling from its shaped and capped end. The light tinny -cloc- sound of its landing is in time to the rhythm, causing the beat to vibrate beneath his shoes, crazing the BPM even as the volume sways and dips, seeming to force the ground to pitch and roll with it like waves that simply aren't.

"...I thought it was two coins the boatman was owed," the boy thinks aloud. Whose coin would it be, then?

He doesn't get much of a chance to answer any further. He is grimly impressed with the way the salaryman moves, eating up the seconds in a red and black blur that seems to defy all moors of gravity and tension. It is almost unreasonable to evade, and it takes all of Shiryuu's formidable speed to even try, his eyes widening as the man slips into fluid water itself to appear behind him. The boy's movements are blurred, stepping to the side quickly to absorb the kick to his hip instead of having his knee kicked in. But the flow of that man spills around him, and the elbow to his ribs goes off like cannonfire, leaving him stunned for just long enough that he can't turn -- not fully -- to prevent being struck through the lungs with the broad side of a fist.

The force rockets him back, leaving the boy silent, back arched. A rivulet of water trickles down his jawline, until it soaks into the linen of his bandages. A shaking hand raises to his chest before suddenly the boy pitches forward, water ejecting violently from his throat and lungs, splashing on the ground for far longer than it should. Far more unreasonably long. He moves, jumping back, to one side, then the next, not presenting an easy target even while his head grows faint from the exertion.

By the time he stops convulsing, the boy is breathing hard, a puddle of water at his feet. In the Dark Hour, the pool is indistinguishable from his blood.

A tinge of red is wiped off his lips, and the boy smiles. The point of his sword touches the ground briefly.

"'Umie Akabane.'" He starts.

"This pain .. is owed to her. It belongs to me ... and is my gift..."

The boy stands slowly, putting his feet underneath him. Slowly, he swaps his blade's hilt from one hand to the other. The right hand. "There's nothing of 'life' in the Crows over Shinano, boatman," he reminds him coldly. "Only ghosts of a bygone past."

"As the Shirogarasu of Ryouhara, I've staked my claim. ....she's mine to tear to pieces, and I'll share with you this ache, that you remember it well."

His free hand opens, as black sakura petals begin to fall around him. There is the sound of chain. It's the salaryman's only warning of Juurishojin.

The blade -- or blades -- linked by the whip of a viciously thin chain cross the space between them in a heartbeat, unfurling from the boy's wrist and guided with eerie precision through the sudden cut of wind spawned by his Persona. It stirs those petals into a storm, reducing the boy to just a silhouette, the racked blades to merely 'some' of many.

He'll pierce through the man, if he's not fast. He'll have his breath to think, his skills to thank, if he can escape that piercing point. Whether or not he does matters very little to the shinobi.

The black sakura he spawns surge through the platform, obscuring everything. Either Shiryuu will drag him bodily into the heart of them...

...or he'll hunt them down inside them.
What happens next is between that man and Shiryuu's sword.

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara spends Limit on Exploit! Shiryuu Ryouhara can use another Weak skill this round!''
''AS: Tandem! Shiryuu Ryouhara has used the Slash skill Magatama Cipher on Hiroto Nakamura!''
''AS: Aggression: Shiryuu Ryouhara gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Tandem! Shiryuu Ryouhara has used the Slash skill Yozakura Revival on Hiroto Nakamura!''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara's turn has ended.''
''AS: Counter Worst! Hiroto Nakamura takes 163 Slash damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Magatama Cipher. Critical Hit!''
''AS: COUNTER! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 39 Slash damage in return for his attack! ''
''AS: Block Neutral! Hiroto Nakamura takes 46 Slash damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Yozakura Revival.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Hiroto Nakamura has posed.'''

"Six mon, locally," Hiroto educates Shiryuu. "One obol in the mouth, for the Greeks."

As Shiryuu smiles, having survived the attack, Hiroto hears the name he says. "Ah."

"She's yours, is that so?"

The black sakura petals fall, but the chain is heard. As the whip chain comes forth, there's the feeling of a hit. It all happens so fast, as Hiroto, too, disappears in those petals...

The next moment, he's rushing on Shiryuu, jabbing his hand - with the blades embedded in it - straight into Shiryuu to dislodge them and cut him with them. His arm moves to counter the sword, diffusing force even as he continues to bleed, as he feels himself nearly lose the arm if he had guarded at the wrong position.

Hiroto eventually breaks off in the petals. Shiryuu might see it then. A grin - not a human's grin, one of cheer or joy or excitement.

The feral grin of a beast. One who could have been run down, and is not thanks both to his skill and his sheer willingness to get hurt.

"You claim her. You test me because of, what, a childish attachment to a target? You may be a Ryouhara..."

The wolf bears its teeth.

"But know your place. We are chained under another's grasp. As long as you think yourself a player and not a pawn..."

Hiroto raises a hand. "You'll never be free."

And with a snap of his fingers, Charon reappears, a crackling white ray of almighty energy falling straight on Shiryuu, possibly obliterating the petals in its path.

'''AS: Persona! Hiroto Nakamura has used the Almighty skill Megido on Shiryuu Ryouhara!'''
'''AS: Hiroto Nakamura regains 3 SP from Invigorate!'''
'''AS: Hiroto Nakamura's turn has ended.'''
'''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara spends Limit on Brace!'''
'''AS: Avoid Worst! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 157 Almighty damage from Hiroto Nakamura's Megido.'''
'''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara is unable to continue fighting!'''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"Oh... my apologies," Shiryuu replies politely to being corrected. Like he said. It's really not his strong suit.

This is: The next whirling, spinning moment passes in eyeblinks.

Vertigo sets in, as he holds onto the chain, as Hiroto chases him while pinned on it. They run, the chain of the ninkou Juurishojin kept tight as it spins over all points of the clock, the twin suicide grip held fast as the white crow runs with the black wolf, stampeding around the same five by five circle of space.

The whirlwind breaks as Hiroto falls on the onmitsu, and the onmitsu tries to pull him apart for the effort, flipping his sword false to account for the close quarters, to cut through the man's arm and take it as recompense for his transgressions.

But no limb ever flies, and the night sakura swirl as Hiroto bursts out of the cloud, leaving only Shiryuu to take a chasing step forward. He's not paying attention to the blood soaking through the wool in his middle, only the flip of his sword in his hand and the twisting steps he takes to djust his stance towards him.

Shiryuu's eyes narrow. "Childish?" Ryouhara's mouth pulls into a disdainful expression, a light twitch sticking in his eye.

The rest, Shiryuu has no response for, his empyrean mien not budging an inch in the face of the savage animal the ferryman presents them.

The blast is catastrophic, snuffing out the night around them, and Ryouhara has comparably few defenses against it as he's bleached to all one color in the nigh blinding light.

A black petal flows past Hiroto's dress shoe, glitching as it flickers against his heel, turning to dust as it blows past.

... but the wind is punctuated by the placement of Ryouhara's sword point against the concrete.

He doesn't fall, and when the light fades, he's still there. The boy's arm is limp against his side, the fabric of his coat draping across him like a broken wing. His hand tightens on his sword's hilt, and the staff of Sarutahiko Okami is planted firmly in the ground at his side, like a signpost in the dark.

"Speak my family name with due wonder, wolf. I am the ruler of the steel dark, and the thousand blades of ninkougakujutsu exist under and above the moon at my pleasure."

Blood spatters the ground at his feet, and he takes a step forward, the black blade of Bankasoujin clattering as he moves.

"Even in the endless black, the word of the shihaisha is bound in blood and bone, iron and steel. You can consider yourself chained if you like. But my only bond is 'the word of Shirogarasu.'"

One mad eye lifts. It seems that Hiroto struck a nerve.

"I've tested you, as is my right. I've not found you wanting."

That eye narrows dangerously.

"...But don't misunderstand. Every heartbeat before me beats on only at my suffering. ... My will is consecrate, and I've given it to you. Defy it in any way ... and I'll come before you with my right hand, to better guide the moon through the back of your skull."

He lifts a hand, and cuts through the air. The sudden stir of wind heralds his exit, and the boy leaves no trace of his movement at all.

</poem>

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2026-01-18: Security for Two

2026-01-21T06:36:02Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Log: Security for Two''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara, Umie Akabane *'''Where:''' Shibuya, Tokyo *'''OOC Date:''' 2026-01-18 *'''IC Date:''' Sep 13 2012 *'''Summary''': ''After the battle with the mad artist, Shiryuu returns to Shibuya, ostensibly to give a warning. However, it turns out that Umie Akabane is just as hurt and restless as he.'' ---- <poem> '''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.''' >> can't come in, srry, friend got sick >>..."

2026-01-17: One's Artistic Vision

2026-01-19T04:21:54Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Log: One's Artistic Vision''' *'''Cast:''' Self-Criticism, Remi Ryuuja, Yua Ijuuin, Moriko Kumamoto, Fuuka Yamagishi, Shiryuu Ryouhara, Umie Akabane, Aigis, Hyousuke Suzuki *'''Where:''' Tartarus, Sumaru *'''OOC Date:''' 2026-01-17 *'''IC Date:''' Sep 12 2012 *'''Summary''': ''A new shadowy beast has been spotted roaming the tower of Tartarus. It is truly a threat for any that may cross its path. It also has a resonan..."

*'''Log: One's Artistic Vision'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Tatsuya Sudou|Self-Criticism]], [[Remi Ryuuja]], [[Yua Ijuuin]], [[Moriko Kumamoto]], [[Fuuka Yamagishi]], [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], [[Umie Akabane]], [[Aigis]], [[Hyousuke Suzuki]]
*'''Where:''' Tartarus, Sumaru
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-01-17
*'''IC Date:''' Sep 12 2012
*'''Summary''': ''A new shadowy beast has been spotted roaming the tower of Tartarus. It is truly a threat for any that may cross its path. It also has a resonance that feels a tad like the Joker Killer's....''

----
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Self-Criticism has posed.'''

The tower has felt weird for the last week or so, a resonance echoes through the floors of the tower and has been located on floor 19 of the tower, and workings it way lower by the moment. The resonance echoes the feeling of a recent visitor to the SEES dorm room, it feels like the resonance of the Joker Killer. Other shadows have been fleeing from this presence, and the ecology of the tower is truly disrupted.

Upon locating the presence though, one would know this is not the Joker Killer. Instead what stands (?) before them is a large squid-like monster that fills the hall of this floor. On the back of the creature is a portrait of the Joker Killer, he even appears to be giving a wave, and his eyes follow you wherever you move to. Not just an artistic trick, they actually move. The rest of the squid creature's body is marked in intricate tattoos, ones that look like 'The Mark' . At the top of the shadow is a see-through dome with a person in it.

The man has long hair, an uncouth beard, an artist smock covered in splotches of black ink, and bags deep enough under their eyes it is impossible to say when they last slept. The man is mumbling to himself and likely isn't concerned about anything happening outside the dome as he is making brush strokes in thin air as if he is painting something in his dome.

The creature itself when analyzed comes up with a name, 'Self-Criticism.'

'''<Pose Tracker> Yua Ijuuin has posed.'''

The Bride, Yumi, is dressed in a grey wedding gown with a /bulletproof vest/ slung over it, complete with pouches at its belt... and a half-dozen veils and fascinators, shrouding her face.

Of course, the New World Order is aware of these strange readings. But why is Yumi here...?

... it's because her Groom has particular interests in keeping tabs on this man's work.

She and Tsurugi seem to appear from nowhere, on this low floor of Tartarus, as they approach the beast. "We have come to observe his works," Yumi announces, "and to test them hence... today we do not climb this accursed tower to assault you. Test us not."

Taking her heavy, revolver-esque Evoker, she presses it to her eye, beneath those veils. "Gretchen," she invokes, as she fires, and her left eye erupts in red flame as a massive white woman appears behind her, jail bars driven through her arms like wings.

"Tell me the truth," she says, to the maddening creature, though taking /this/ beast into herself and experiencing the way it operates is surely perilous...

... at which point, alongside her statistical analysis, she reports to heroes and nemeses alike: "This creature is dubbed 'Self-Criticism.'"

''AS: Persona! Yua Ijuuin has used the Almighty skill Possession on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Yua Ijuuin takes 45 damage from Stress!''
''AS: Ruin: Yua Ijuuin gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Yua Ijuuin's turn has ended.''
''AS: Take! Self-Criticism takes 0 Almighty damage from Yua Ijuuin's Possession.''
''AS: Yua Ijuuin's Strength Scan! Self-Criticism resists Dark!''
''AS: Yua Ijuuin's Weakness Scan! Self-Criticism is weak against Light!''
''AS: Yua Ijuuin's Support Scan! Self-Criticism has passive skills Avoid Water, Dark Amp, Dark Boost, Firm Stance, and Heavy Weapon!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

Looking up at the TV as she finishes painting her newest mask, Umie's eyebrows raise.

Umie sees you, Suspicious Incident At Port Island.

Setting her mask up on a dangling hook above her to dry, the blonde rubs her nose, accidentally leaving a small smear of ultramarine blue on the tip.

"Well, I suppose I owe SEES a little..."

----NOW----

"How about you come on out of that bubble? I won't bite." The blue mask, speckled with white paint to be reminiscent of stars, is playing the role of supporting Umie's cognitive identity shield tonight, standing out against the light grey of the short girl's hooded jacket. Black half gloves cover the lower half of her own arms, covering the existence of a similar such Mark on Umie's own skin.

"I admit, I was expecting someone different. How about I lead you out?" Umie gestures back behind her with the blade of her kyoketsu shoge. "I'm not talking no for an answer."

Shoot first, ask questions later. It took a lot to even *get* this far; Umie likely depended on the fellow SEES members here to even be present.

She can figure out how the Joker Killer is involved later; for now--

"Stay out of this," Umie growls at the arriving Bride and Tsurugi, not realizing the true identity of either. "_This is being taken care of_."

WIth Umie's anger comes the Badb, the clothed dark grey of her shawl spreading out like the flapping of feathered wings in smoke. Red lips smile at a coy angle towards the artist, attempting to lure him in.

''AS: Persona! Umie Akabane has used the Almighty skill Hooded Smile on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Ruin: Umie Akabane gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Umie Akabane regains 3 SP from Invigorate!''
''AS: Umie Akabane's turn has ended.''
''AS: Take! Self-Criticism takes 0 Almighty damage from Umie Akabane's Hooded Smile.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Remi Ryuuja has posed.'''

The reason why Tsurugi here is fairly simple--she is here because Yumi is here. Dressed in an all-black fencing suit (including a black fencing mask), with a rapier on one him and a dark gray revolver-style on the opposite leg.

She appears as Yumi does, protected by her concealment. She offers no additional words to her claim that they were nly here to observe. But she has her Evoker and her rapier close at hand, regardless.

She glannces at Umie as she tells them to back off. In that low, toneless stoic way of hers, she says, "... we have our own interest in this matter. We have no quarrel with you this night."

She draws her own Evoker but doesn't fire it yet. She's eying the creating, and her turns her head ever so slightly to indicate she's lookingat Yumi. "Yumi, the man within--is he real or artifice?" In other words: do they need to worry about killing an actual human tonight?

She lifts her Evoker and fires. "Persona!" La Maupin rises beside her, wrapped in a red leather straightjacket with the sleeves dangling loose and clutching achipped rapier through one sleeve.

Wordlessly she lifts her rapier up to touch it to La Maupin's, and magical flames surge up the length of one rapier and then down the other. Then, in perfect unison, they both surge forward to take alternating flame-empowered strikes at the lumbering creation.

''AS: Tandem! Remi Ryuuja has used the Fire skill Firebrand on Self-Criticism! 3 Hits!''
''AS: Remi Ryuuja's turn has ended.''
''AS: Block Neutral! Self-Criticism takes 27 Fire damage from Remi Ryuuja's Firebrand. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Block Neutral! Self-Criticism takes 27 Fire damage from Remi Ryuuja's Firebrand. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Block Best! Self-Criticism takes 8 Fire damage from Remi Ryuuja's Firebrand.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Fuuka Yamagishi has posed.'''

Fuuka Yamagishi has been having trouble sleeping. How do you get comfortable, after your residence has been directly attacked...? The message has been received loud and clear... but that doesn't mean she'll /stop/.

She's thankful to have things to focus her mind on - helping Aigis with her repairs, for one, and tonight, investigating the strange presence that she sensed inside Tartarus.

She is, somehow, even /more/ on edge than usual as she directs her party through the halls - though she is grateful for help from familiar faces like Umie.

And then they find it, at the 19th Floor. It /feels/ like the Joker Killer - but when they finally find their target... it isn't him.

No - it's a monster, with a portrait of him, the squid's body lined with tattoos...

...And then there is a dome, with a person inside. Fuuka gasps.

"Sir! Sir, can you hear us? Please, you have to stop this!" Fuuka calls out to the man. She can't see his face just yet, but she gets a vague feeling of recognition...

...And she recognizes other faces here, too. ...Well, 'faces' - it's a familiar veil, and a familiar Persona.

"It's you...!" Fuuka gasps, and then looks toward Umie as she tells them to stay out of this. She looks back at Yumi. "...We're... not here to fight you."

She's... not ready to fight another person again so soon. There's a man on the creature - but at least she focus on the monstrous body. Speaking of...

Fuuka draws her Evoker and Lucia is summoned, encasing her in her protective globe.

"I'll analyze its defenses... get ready to take action." Fuuka announces to her party, and those others gathered. She scans the target - "'Self-Criticism'... Yes, that's right." Fuuka echoes Yumi, to provide confirmation in case anyone doubted her words - studying its defenses and relaying that information to everyone so they can decide their best route of attack.

''AS: Persona! Fuuka Yamagishi has used the Almighty skill Perception on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Insight: Fuuka Yamagishi gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Fuuka Yamagishi's turn has ended.''
''AS: Take! Self-Criticism takes 0 Almighty damage from Fuuka Yamagishi's Perception.''
''AS: Def_Dn added!''
''AS: Fuuka Yamagishi's Strength Scan! Self-Criticism resists Dark!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

A critical brown eye focuses on the speared woman, Gretchen, as she materializes into view behind her owner.

Ryouhara had developed intel about the disturbance in Tartarus and had thus far elected to supervise the new shadow's descent through the floors of Tartarus personally. It's actually not supremely difficult for him to not disturb the creature -- or really, anyone else at all, existing just as a flicker on the periphery, a figure high up in the hall in an inky haze just on the wrong side of the artist.

He had ordered Kouhei and Shuuhei to stand down, in recognition of their bereavement. It had not been received well. But it was also only part of the equation..

He's not earing a disguise, but he arguably doesn't need to. The shinobi is crouched in the inky, indistinct mist on an old rope bridge, separated from the Order and SEES groupings. An old mechanical kami is floating with him impassively in the haze. He's split off by the rolling mass of abominable tentacles piloted by... who is it, in the dome? It's not the Joker Killer, despite the concerns. That honor belongs to a weird portrait on the thing's back -- that's currently eyeing him, or at the very least the haze surrounding him.

Shiryuu grimaces. He's been being subjected to that baghead's ugly painted and papered mug staring at him for awhile and it's starting to get weird. Especially with the tinny sounds of a familiar person making a theatrical declaration -- and the voice of another, even more familiar person immediately starting a fight with that first person.

"Oh god." Shiryuu's grimace. It got worse. He hates being right.
He's not going to be able to figure out where he left his juice at this point.

The onmitsu assembles and nocks an arrow to a paper bow that didn't exist a few seconds prior, balancing the flat of his sword on a thigh. A long, deep sigh threads through the shinobi's lips. A visualizer sprays out radially from the arrowhead as he draws the line taut, aiming. A muted beat surges through the arrowshaft, pure rhythm focused all the way down to a razor point, as the stabs of pure Hz slowly focus. This is going to break his stealth. He really just wanted to supervise today...

"I suppose it's a good thing I like it loud."

He aims to put an arrow in the eye of that damn portrait.

''AS: Weapon! Shiryuu Ryouhara has used the Pierce skill Hishinmeisen on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Aggression: Shiryuu Ryouhara gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara's turn has ended.''
''AS: Block Best! Self-Criticism takes 27 Pierce damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Hishinmeisen. Critical Hit!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Hyousuke Suzuki has posed.'''

Despite Shinjiro's and Tamaki's warnings, Hyousuke showed up to Tartarus by himself. Working under the impression that it was just another mission, he seemed to think nothing of the fact that he had elected to wander into the proverbial lion's den with no backup - or he knew the risks, and simply did not care. It mattered little, in the end. His mind was set on hunting down that creature and scoring another payday. Would it be a more difficult one than the others he'd faced? Most likely. Would it be worth it? If stronger enemies meant better rewards, as they had so often before, almost certainly.

He stepped in, disguise on and guard up. Behind that mirrored, golden visor strapped against his face, his keen eyes darted from detail to detail, scanning every patch of darkness in the hopes of finding the one thing he wanted to hunt down. He stepped quietly, not wanting to alert the 'locals' - much as he spoiled for a fight, Hyousuke at least had the restraint to save his strength for the main target. Anything he had left by the end of the excursion could be spent cleaning up any small fry, and eking out whatever other rewards he could find.

Then, he stopped.

His stomach lurched, and his blood ran cold, chilling his veins and seizing his muscles as an all too familiar sensation gripped his mind. Like shards of ice, they sank into him, causing him to seize on the spot and swivel his head around in some maddened attempt at finding the source. But, above the shudder that wracked his spine, above the knots in his stomach, even above the adrenaline that began to creep into his veins, Hyousuke felt one thing - he felt that everything was *wrong.* He could not say why, and he could not begin to articulate just what that 'wrongness' felt like, but he knew just who it stemmed from.

"No... No, no, no, he's not... How is he...?"
Hyousuke's voice was caught halfway between mounting panic and visceral rage. *He* was here. The man that had set the exhibition ablaze. The man that had hurt one friend, almost killed another, and murdered a slew of strangers. The Joker Killer was there, and Hyousuke could feel his presence like a sledgehammer to his gut. Whatever notions he had about a payday or a mission were forgotten - swept away by a crashing wave of anger born of a need for vengeance.

What Hyousuke saw was not the Joker Killer. It bore his presence, but not his form. Not even the man trapped within that dome was familiar. But this did not calm Hyousuke. It only angered him further, confusion stoking the fires that fuelled him, driving him into the fray like a beast on the hunt.
"Who the fuck're you?!" He bellowed, stamping forward a step to make his presence known. He made no attempt to hide his rage - he only restrained it in an attempt to make his speech coherent. "Are you working with that piece of shi-"

Hyousuke's eyes caught on someone else. He only vaguely recognized Tsurugi - they'd been there at the accursed warehouse, but his focus then had been elsewhere. The Bride, however? He had met her only once, but once had been enough to engrave the sight of her into his mind. He turned his gaze to her, and though the mask shrouded his features, the shifting of it hinted at his expression changing. It would take sharp eyes indeed to notice that it was only his snarl deepening, however, or his jaw shifting as his clenched teeth ground against each other.

"And you!" Hyousuke called out, his focus momentarily on the Bride. "If you and your friend've got anything to do with him, I'm coming for you next!"
He knew exceedingly little of the New World Order and the Joker Killer, and Strega was a name wholly unfamiliar to him. Whatever relationship any of the organisations and individuals had - or, rather, did not have - he was ignorant of it. All that mattered to him was the hunt. He was as a hound, eyes locked onto the prey, his voice lending a growl to every word that fell from his lips. But unlike a hound, he had no master. The only orders he needed to obey that night were his own.

"Achilles!" Hyousuke roared, and in an instant, the air was thick with the sound of grinding bronze. A great figure clad in armour rose from behind him, shield raised to defend, spear poised to savage his enemies. "Tear 'em apart!" His Persona needed no further invitation. Achilles stampeded forward, a soldier charging into the fray, shield up as he closed the distance between himself and the ghastly thing. But, rather than strike with his spear, he heaved a razor-keen blade struck into the beast instead, and aimed to rend the beast's flesh from its very body.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed others. He didn't know their names, nor their affiliations, but they were fighting the same target as him. For now, that had to be good enough.
"You two!" He called out, not looking to Fuuka or Umie, but addressing them nonetheless. His voice carried no authority, and he gave no orders. But there was no mistaking the determination laden in every word, or the anger with which he spat them. "Any idea what the hell that thing is?!" He'd felt Shadows before, and fought demons enough times in pursuit of their bounty. This... thing? It felt, to him, like neither.

''AS: Persona! Hyousuke Suzuki has used the Slash skill Savage Rend on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Pressure: Hyousuke Suzuki gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Hyousuke Suzuki regains 15 HP from Regenerate!''
''AS: Hyousuke Suzuki's turn has ended.''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Self-Criticism takes 151 Slash damage from Hyousuke Suzuki's Savage Rend. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Crt_Dn added!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Moriko Kumamoto has posed.'''

Moriko had admittedly not been around when the attack happened. If you've ever had to bleed the air from a brakeline you'd know why. However, with things being the way they are, she's on the back foot with trying to catch up. Arriving with a couple of other SEES members.

Repairs and the like can come after. The other kind of repairs. She can help with both really.

Besides, this was sort of an important thing to chase down, so she's doing just that.

A glance back at Fuuka's comment shows pure confusion. "You know the takoyaki?" Which was a pretty obvious attempt to keep her own mind off the whole giant monster thing.

She clamps her mouth shut in a hurry after. There's not much useful to be said when you're out of the loop. Turning to face the problem like she usually does. You know. Head on.

Still, the evoker is drawn and after she adjusts her gloves. Barrel held under her jaw, "Otohime Gitsune" head jerking to the side with the shattered glass sound associated with the trigger pull. The fox manifesting behind her in regal robes. Watching the figure in almost the same manner as Moriko herself. Watching it's angles of attack. The picture on the back. The guy in the dome. Mouthing the words similar to 'Damn' and 'Who's that.' but trying to maintain the quiet for Fuuka to focus.

''AS: Persona! Moriko Kumamoto has used the Almighty skill Tarunda on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Moriko Kumamoto's turn has ended.''
''AS: Take! Self-Criticism takes 0 Almighty damage from Moriko Kumamoto's Tarunda.''
''AS: Atk_Dn added!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Aigis has posed.'''

The thing with machines is that they're not flesh and blood. They don't need time for bones to mend or wounds to heal, they just need replacement parts and the expertise to patch them up. (Granted, that still takes time -- just not as /much/ time.) Thankfully, Fuuka has been an immense help in getting Aigis back to working order.

> Initialization complete. Condition Green: all systems nominal! System activation in 3, 2, 1 ...

Not a moment too soon, either, it seems. Fuuka has sensed an abnormal presence in Tartarus. "Thank you, Yamagishi-san, for making me fit for duty once more." Confidence and resolve shine through Aigis' eyes. "And this ... is my duty."

There are a good number of SEES members still shaken up from the recent incursion into the dorms, but Moriko seems available to help as well. Aigis gives her a firm nod as she makes her best attempt at inspiring courage and confidence. "Let us both go serve as the 'muscle' together!"

... her 'best' attempt may not necessarily be a good one just yet.

---

After a relatively short ascent up the stairs of Tartarus, Aigis pauses to take stock of all those present.

Shadow, in plain sight. Designation: imminent threat. She immediately extends one arm towards it, pointing four firearm-like fingers at its center of mass. The particulars of its features -- its tendrils, its tattoos, the portrait which rides it, its strange Resonance -- they escape her notice. All that matters is that it is her designated adversary. Aigis nods at Fuuka. "I comprehend. Assessing otpimal course of action."

Others are present aside from SEES. That is unexpected, and given the events of the other day, Aigis cannot immediately discern their intentions.

Umie tagged along, likely to repay them for their earlier assistance. That's a welcome enough sight, though she is obligated to caution Umie, "Please take care while within Tartarus."

Shiryuu makes his presence known with that arrow. Curious, he had evaded even Aigis' sensors.

Hyousuke shouts in their direction, as well. Aigis nods to Fuuka. "I only know that it is a Shadow which apparently has the designation of 'Self-Criticism'. She may be able to tell you more." An unfamiliar face, but he seems to be a friendly one. (How he'll react to her nature as a robot remains to be seen.)

Before she can tentatively raise her other arm to dissuade hostilities, Yumi tells them that she and Tsurugi do not oppose them tonight. "... Understood," Aigis cautiously responds, and she moves her other arm so that both point in the Self-Criticism's direction. She'll have to ask Fuuka where she recognizes them from, but later.

... Sensors indicate another human, the one within that dome. That ... complicates things. That gives her pause. This is a new conundrum for her, surely -- no. No? She has an answer already, even though she has not encountered a situation like this before. Nothing in her memory archives suggests this.

Regardless of her confusion about its source, she /has an answer/ already: attempt to ensure the man's safety, but the higher priority is to eliminate the Shadow before her. If push comes to shove ...

A click, a whirr, a flash of blue, and an invocation: "Persona, actualize!" The statuesque form of Palladion manifests and lands with a slightly audible 'thud.'

Painting, meet sculpture.

Alternating waves of red and blue emanate from its form and imbue the SEES members and Umie with strength and protection both.

''AS: Persona! Aigis has used the Recovery skill Spear and Shield on Aigis, Fuuka Yamagishi, Moriko Kumamoto, and Umie Akabane!
''AS: Pressure: Aigis gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Aigis regains 3 SP from Invigorate!''
''AS: Aigis's turn has ended.''
''AS: Take! Aigis takes 0 Recovery healing from Aigis's Spear and Shield.''
''AS: Atk_Up and Def_Up added!''
''AS: Take! Fuuka Yamagishi takes 0 Recovery healing from Aigis's Spear and Shield.''
''AS: Atk_Up and Def_Up added!''
''AS: Take! Umie Akabane takes 0 Recovery healing from Aigis's Spear and Shield.''
''AS: Atk_Up and Def_Up added!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Self-Criticism has posed.'''

The creature looks at those who would come forth and stand before it and let it a roar of monstrous anger. How it is roaring without any form of mouth is a question for the scientist, this creature is one of art. One would find that this beast is many things if they tried to understand it's inner depths, created of one's shadow that has become twisted by looking into a void that shouldn't be stared into. Take those twisted features and dip it in an artist's own criticism of one self and that is how the creature came into existence. Glimpses into the psyche of the beast reveal as well that the person the shadow comes from is the man in the dome on top of the creature.

The giant tattoo of the mark pulses in response to the magic of Badb and it does at least attract the attention of the man in the dome. He headtilts at Umie for a moment and at the Bride before he begins to shout at nothing(though muffled by the dome), " You, you've already shown me you, but I need more of you. Show me more, show me all of it. Come out of the shadows and show me everything!" Rapidly he begins to frantically try to paint nothing but does nothing more.

Arrows and fire slashes attack the creature and definitely get it's attention as a tentacle of the creature whips out toward the source of that arrow. Trying to find wherever it came from. The flames also get a tentacle struck towards the source, this time with icy ink flowing from the tip. The ink freezes over as it splatters towards it's target. Any artist or friend of artist in the room, would note that the ink smells awfully like paint.

For those that are looking too deep into the very essence of the monster begins to creep back along the magic. Inflicting doubt upon those that peer into him.

As the creature realizes it is under attack it begins to try to move away from the group, quickly as it's lumberous body can manage. However it is big and slow and should have braced instead as the sword draws the creature's blood, a heavy black blood. The pain causes the beast to let out a cry of pain and begin to swing the tentacles wildly at those around him.

The man inside shouts to them all, "Go, go away. It's not ready yet but soon you shall see it. Soon you shall see something truly divine!" The man then breaks down into a hysterical fit.

''AS: Weapon! Self-Criticism has used the Strike skill Tentacle Whip on Shiryuu Ryouhara!''
''AS: Persona! Self-Criticism has used the Water skill Cyan Paint on Remi Ryuuja!''
''AS: Ruin: Self-Criticism gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Persona! Self-Criticism has used the Almighty skill Doubt on Yua Ijuuin and Fuuka Yamagishi!''
''AS: Persona! Self-Criticism has used the Strike skill Tentatcle Tantrum! on Hyousuke Suzuki, Umie Akabane, and Aigis!''
''AS: Self-Criticism's turn has ended.''
''AS: Block Worst! Aigis takes 46 Strike damage from Self-Criticism's Tentatcle Tantrum!.''
''AS: Sick added!''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Umie Akabane takes 121 Strike damage from Self-Criticism's Tentatcle Tantrum!. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Sick added!''
''AS: Take! Fuuka Yamagishi takes 0 Almighty damage from Self-Criticism's Doubt.''
''AS: Haze and Worry added! Def_Up removed!''
''AS: Nerve Up! Yua Ijuuin's SP +8!''
''AS: Mind Up! Yua Ijuuin's SP +8!''
''AS: Take! Yua Ijuuin takes 0 Almighty damage from Self-Criticism's Doubt.''
''AS: Haze, Worry, and Spd_Dn added!''
''AS: Block Neutral! Hyousuke Suzuki takes 19 Strike damage from Self-Criticism's Tentatcle Tantrum!. Critical Hit! Resist!''
''AS: Avoid Neutral! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 69 Strike damage from Self-Criticism's Tentacle Whip. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Remi Ryuuja takes 75 Water damage from Self-Criticism's Cyan Paint.''
''AS: Bind added!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Yua Ijuuin has posed.'''

"Take care as you will," the Bride assures Umie, in turn. "I would see what effort you must exert." To Fuuka, she offers thin assurance: "We do not demand your blood this night." And to Hyousuke and his demands, it's difficult to say what expression she's wearing -- though her lips draw down. "If you spoke true," she asks, "would I not strike you down in defence of this wretched thing?"

Technically, she hasn't offered him a firm reply -- only conjecture.

The creature, though -- she draws a pained breath in, "aahhhh--", as she experiences the truth of it inside herself, made neighbour to things no mortal should see. She grasps Tsurugi's arm, her breath coming heavily, before she lifts her voice to tell everyone present: "This creature -- fears the light of heaven -- and welcomes the darkest depths -- with such strength and ferocity to its shadows! Claws that catch, jaws that bite, they are more grievous still... and its capacity to endure, to blockade, a peerless thing! It flees the water aptly, it... oh... the man, the beast, one feeds the other! Turn your face, turn your face..."

Tsurugi's question grits her teeth, though it's impossible to see what her brow's doing. (Furrowing, for the record.) "Blood tracks through the highways of his soul," she assures her, "wound around the branches of his bones. Heaven fills him, and as he exhales is his character brought to the ears of all God's attendants. Pierce him, and his soul escapes through the hole as all that blood diverts to broken dam."

Which is to say: he's human? He can die?

That's probably what she said.

... maybe it's an answer that will help Moriko, too.

She looks up, though, at the arrow -- and steps forward, to place a hand on Tsurugi's arm. "That man," she points, to the shadows, where she's sensed him. "He has sworn to protect me and mine. Pray, do him no harm."

And yet... there is a robot, here...? Perhaps Aigis will feel Yumi's literally-burning stare on her, though her face is still very veiled.

"Gretchen," Yumi cries, as she straightens, "grant them endurance of the psyche!" Thusly will Shiryuu, Hyousuke, Tsurugi and Yumi enjoy something people see from her /less/...

... /enhancements/ rather than her endless stream of ailments.

''AS: Persona! Yua Ijuuin has used the Recovery skill Rousing Wave on Shiryuu Ryouhara, Remi Ryuuja, Yua Ijuuin, and Hyousuke Suzuki!''
''AS: Yua Ijuuin's turn has ended.''
''AS: Take! Yua Ijuuin takes 0 Recovery healing from Yua Ijuuin's Rousing Wave.''
''AS: Atk_Up added!''
''AS: Take! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 0 Recovery healing from Yua Ijuuin's Rousing Wave.''
''AS: Atk_Up added!''
''AS: Take! Hyousuke Suzuki takes 0 Recovery healing from Yua Ijuuin's Rousing Wave.''
''AS: Def_Up added!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Remi Ryuuja has posed.'''

Tsurugi spares a glance for Hyousuke as he recognizes Yumi. "Choose your priorities carefully. You can ill afford a battle on two fronts."

But her arm is gripped, and Tsurugi allows this from her and surely not many others--as she listens to the warnings. Strengths and weaknesses... And the answer to /her/ question is given, as well. Cryptic though it may be, Tsurugi listens to it all... and then gives a nod and simple, "Acknowledged. I will only target the body."

She's had three and a half years to learn how to speak Yumi, after all.

But the last warning... There is the barest hint of a scowl in her voice but then she nods. "Understood." She will accept the gift of an enhancement, as well, feeling the stgrenght flow through her. Yumi gets a short nod as she takes off.

But soon the battle is engaged, and Tsurugi and La Maupin work effectively--but the beast is a strange, unique thing that Tsurugi hasn't fought before, and she is struck by frigid cyan paint and momentarily stuck. She shivers, once, barely perceptible underneath the black suit. She smashes her rapier at the ice to free herself, but her movements are still stiff.

But given Yumi's warning, she pauses, removing something from a small pouch on her hip. "Loading Makouha skill cartridge," she announces, slipping something into one of the chambers of her Evoker. She raises it to her head and fires.

La Maupin surges in intensity, and as they raise their rapier, arrows of light are summoned to spear into the body of Self-Criticism, avoiding the man as best as possible.

''AS: Persona! Remi Ryuuja has used the Light skill Makouha on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Remi Ryuuja's turn has ended.''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Self-Criticism takes 101 Light damage from Remi Ryuuja's Makouha. Weak!''
''AS: Haze added!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Fuuka Yamagishi has posed.'''

"You're welcome, Aigis-san." Fuuka had replied. Seeing that confidence and resolve in her eyes helps, at least... She'll have to borrow some of that for herself, when right now she feels like jumping at every shadow. (But not every Shadow - /those/, at least, she feels she can handle.)

---

Yumi assures her that they don't demand her blood this night. Fuuka nods.

The wording is... worrying, but she feels as if she can trust the /spirit/ behind the words, at least for now. One thing at a time.

...One giant, monstrous thing.

Hyousuke and Moriko ask her what it is, and Aigis defers to her.

"...I don't know. It feels like a Shadow, but... something else, too. Like so many things mixed together into a roiling mass, I..." Fuuka starts and trails off, unsure. She /should/ be able to get a better reading of it... but is it that doubt that creeps into her heart as she peers deeper, that prevents her from claiming anything definitively? She finds herself second-guessing herself...

She draws in a deep breath, shutting her eyes again. It's at this that Aigis calls upon her Persona. Fuuka feels Palladion's strength and protection wash over her. It helps, at least a little.

"Thank you, Aigis-san." Fuuka replies. She turns her attention to the man, then, as he turns his attention onto them. Now that he's addressing them directly... Fuuka's eyes open wide, and she gasps in recognition.

"Wait... aren't you... Dimitri Tachovsky-san? We heard you went missing - we talked about it in Art Club..." Fuuka asks. "You have to stop this!"

...They might have to stop it themselves, though. Yumi says that the creature fears the light - and so, Lucia forms a dagger of light in mid-air in front of her.

"Aigis-san, I'll try to create an opening!" Fuuka calls - and then Lucia hurls the Kouha dagger toward the creature known as Self-Criticism.

''AS: Persona! Fuuka Yamagishi has used the Light skill Kouha on Self-Criticism!
''AS: Fuuka Yamagishi's turn has ended.''
''AS: Fuuka Yamagishi spends Limit on Shift! Aigis can use another Weak skill this round! They both receive 8 SP and 30 HP!''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Self-Criticism takes 183 Light damage from Fuuka Yamagishi's Kouha. Critical Hit! Weak!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Aigis has posed.'''

For a time, Aigis stares back at Yumi, only able to comprehend her auspices at the literal level, and nothing more past that. For once, she is at a loss for words, herself. "Uhhh ..." The words only escape her by rote, this time, and not by truth. "I -- do not have blood, myself, neither tonight nor any other time."

The fact that Tsurugi has an Evoker doesn't escape the notice of Aigis. It isn't just Strega, then.

Aigis regards Fuuka curiously as she describes it more plainly. "Is the 'something else' the human within the dome?" (No, Aigis, it is not.) "You are welcome."

For her inattentiveness, Aigis is soon met with a hard strike from one of the Shadow's tendrils. She tries to bring up her wrists to block it, but she is too slow -- she staggers back as she is struck in the torso, already undoing some of the repairs she had undergone just that morning. What's worse is the erosion which seems to be degrading her systems even further.

She must plan her actions carefully. She has no desire to harm the domed human.

"Acknowledged!" Fuuka's opening gives Aigis enough precious seconds to will Palladion's cannon to point an array of lasers which search and probe for vulnerable spots on the Shadow. Red dots first scatter, then converge.

"Target painted," she calmly announces. "-- Again, that is." (The Chairman would likely be proud of her joke.)

Then, Aigis steadies her wrist with a hand and points her index finger in the direction of Self-Criticism. She takes aim at the base of one of its tentacles, then fires a single shot where Palladion's sights have determined it will inflict maximum damage.

''AS: Persona! Aigis has used the Almighty skill Pierce Break on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Pressure: Aigis gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Weapon! Aigis has used the Pierce skill Precision Shot on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Aigis: Loses 8 SP and TP from Sick! Fast Heal! Sick removed!''
''AS: Aigis regains 3 SP from Invigorate!''
''AS: Aigis's turn has ended.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

While some of Umie's senses are more developed, people like Fuuka (and Yua, though Umie doesn't realize it) are grades above hers. While her persona's masking abilities can be easily pierced with the right knowledge, previous experience, familiarity, or Navigator ability, Umie hoists the whole of it off with a simple sentence for Aigis: ".... thank you for your help, the other day." After that, it's just a mask, should Aigis put two and two together.

But now is the time for Umie to put her weight behind her promise to be careful. Even if something inside her wants to scramble away and <hide> in fear the longer she stares at it, she leans on her anger as a shield instead.

However, if there's ever an easier way to get Umie to calm down, though, it's the presense of someone much more angry that Umie perceives as being younger than her.

She can't turn that instinct off. "First off: breathe, will you?" Umie says to Hyousuke, with a more gentle tone, over her shoulder. "Second, did you just run up all those steps by your lonesome?" Her eyebrows rise, almost cresting above the top of her mask. "Holy cow, that's impressive." Pointing to Tsurugi and Yumi, Umie continues, "Third: I don't like those two either, but Bride-san's correct. I'll go one step further and say they're not in league with the Old Maid. Or, well, Joker Killer. Lastly: we'll figure it out."

Well, she will, but she's keeping her observations to herself, for now.

The disturbing taint that infects the artist(?) is undoubtedly the Mark, or something meant to resemble it at the very least. Perhaps a cognitive 'tell' of the Persona's reflection of the person, or however Sudou factors into this. That look to her and Yumi, also, is not missed: he can sense it on them.

This is bad.... but in what way? "Yamagishi-san, don't look too far into it." Concern coats her words briefly; she lets her hand show just a little more, if not literally. "That's not a normal Persona; protect your senses."

The release of an arrow draws Umie's attention back towards Shiryuu. Brown eyes briefly widen behind the starry mask, but she's not given much time to react.

Aigis's defense comes in handy, as the creature (Persona?) attacks. Something in the black splatter of blood and the lashing of those tentacles twists something like a knife in Umie's belly.

Fear, like an ephemeral spring blossom, blooms on the lower half of Umie's face just before the tentacle hits, tossing her back like a cloth doll.

Her body rolling to a stop, Umie slowly hefts herself onto the palms of her hands, taking a breath before lifting herself the rest of the way. Yumi's well-meaning words make the sting that much more; she may be the only other person in this room who could understand, possibly, and Umie _hates_ it.

".... Keep your wishes to yourself. ... I'm just getting *started*..."

She'll burn a hole in that *thing* and then it'll *feel* what she has to give it. "Badb!" Umie yells, summoning the crow goddess again, and directing it towards the creature. "_Break it open_."

The first part, if it hits, will not produce anything but a dark crack over the being, while the second, if it hits, will insert what's to come: a dark shard that will tick down to an inevitable fate.

''AS: Umie Akabane spends Limit on Exploit! Umie Akabane can use another Weak skill this round!''
''AS: Persona! Umie Akabane has used the Almighty skill Dark Break on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Ruin: Umie Akabane gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Persona! Umie Akabane has used the Dark skill Bad Moon Rising on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Umie Akabane takes 45 damage from Stress!''
''AS: Umie Akabane: Loses 8 SP and TP from Sick!''
''AS: Umie Akabane regains 3 SP from Invigorate!''
''AS: Umie Akabane's turn has ended.''
''AS: Take! Self-Criticism takes 0 Almighty damage from Aigis's Pierce Break.''
''AS: Pierce_Break added!''
''AS: Block Worst! Self-Criticism takes 89 Pierce damage from Aigis's Precision Shot.''
''AS: Take! Self-Criticism takes 0 Almighty damage from Umie Akabane's Dark Break.
''AS: Dark_Break added!''
''AS: Take! Self-Criticism takes 0 Dark damage from Umie Akabane's Bad Moon Rising. Resist!''
''AS: Omen added!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"Ugh.." He dusts himself off.

A second earlier, Shiryuu landed on the ground. Hard. It turns out shooting Shadows from the cover of darkness is a great way to hit your mark, but a poor way to avoid notice. He draws attention to himself as he stands, as he takes up the black-bladed sword in hand, as the domed beast rolls in search of ... retreat?

Moments earlier than that, Shiryuu from his crow's nest spied a _very_ loud student threatening the Bride, right before running a soldier-class Persona right into the beast to put a sword into it. He knows something personal when he hears it. This, plus the landing of familiar Palladion earns a more severe expression from the onmitsu. He makes a sound with his mouth, sucking the back of his teeth in annoyance. "Come on..."

Things are already bad enough, with the grody stench of annoyingly polite Kirijo technology all over the place. Don't let some dumb kid throw his life away trying to fight someone underneath his protective order...

She gets his attention for one split second, the onmitsu's eyes snapping up, his focus sharpened past the artist and his lashing beast to the brutal wash of ink and hydrostatic squirming muscle it unleashed. Akabane disappears beneath a wall of flesh. For a moment, Shiryuu was legitimately distracted.

That was exactly when a tentacle slammed into the space between the boards of his bridge, and scattered it to splinters before smashing him into the ground.

"Guh..." a hand slides over to the hilt of his sword, using the guard as a brace to put a sneaker under him, to stand up and right himself, as the beast puts some distance between them.

"Wh..where's..." He's vaguely aware of the artist's chatter up in that dome, muffled by the ring in his ears, along with the Bride explaining exactly what's going on in words he absolutely cannot decipher after taking what must have been a hundred pounds of cold wet flesh to the head. In fact, all he can focus on is the throbbing beat of rhythm in his ears. Somewhere in the monster, a part of his arrow is still in there.

He's really only aware of the peace that stills his sword, calms his breathing, focuses him. He may not in fact be aware of its real source. He can hear Akabane in the distance. Hear the Bride. He can't hear what they say, not this far, not with a raving artist between them. It's going to be..

Focus, Shiryuu. The tentacles right now are the problem. Right?

The boy tests his ball of his shoes against the ground for traction. How many are there? One tap of the toe. Two. His eye begins to shine blue. Then he lifts his sword, and splits the beat.

Shiryuu moves like the wind, aiming a path between the black, between the curtains of fire, against the waves of paint. He's only visible for split seconds, for the ink flash of steel, moving in dead silence. The onmitsu is aiming to slash every one of those tentacles. In the same breath.

One way or another, he's going to hit the ground running, somewhere between the SEES group and the Order group, kicking up twin plumes of dust off of his sneakers in a -much- louder landing.

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara spends Limit on Psych!''
''AS: Weapon! Shiryuu Ryouhara has used the Slash skill Mugen Setsuna: Lightning Reaper War on Self-Criticism! 3 Hits!''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 45 damage from Stress!''
''AS: Aggression: Shiryuu Ryouhara gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara: Psych removed!''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara's turn has ended.''
''AS: Block Neutral! Self-Criticism takes 81 Slash damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Mugen Setsuna: Lightning Reaper War. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Block Neutral! Self-Criticism takes 66 Slash damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Mugen Setsuna: Lightning Reaper War.''
''AS: Block Worst! Self-Criticism takes 94 Slash damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Mugen Setsuna: Lightning Reaper War.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Hyousuke Suzuki has posed.'''

The flailing appendage struck down against Hyousuke, but to little avail. Achilles caught the thing upon his shield, and though Hyousuke took a glancing blow from it, the damage was hardly worth remarking on. The bronze-wreathed general threw the tentacle aside and stood guard once more, giving Hyousuke some scant few moments to address the people fighting with him. It was a dangerous thing, to chat in the middle of a battle, but there were faces familiar, helpful, and both surrounding him - to let them go unaddressed would likely cause more problems than it solved.

The Bride was the first to be addressed, as was her companion. Scorn was writ on his face, and though it was obscured, bile singed his tongue whenever he spoke to them. It was not hard to gauge his feelings on the pair.
"...I'm gonna get answers from *both of you.*" He spoke no threat, but his tone was the furthest from cordial as one could possibly get. He'd only held back his rage against the both of them because of the *thing* that threatened to tear apart all gathered in Tartarus. "But we've got bigger problems right now." He felt the Bride's fortifying magic sink into his skin, but the most he offered by way of gratitude was a cut nod of acknowledgement. He did not trust her - he only trusted that they were both targets of that flailing monstrosity.

Umie's - another person he did not recognize - mix of admonishment and praise (what he believed to be praise, at least) had Hyousuke wondering what exactly he was supposed to offer for a response, but eventually, he settled upon a dissatisfied grunt. He had no love for the Bride, and less so for Remi. But Umie made a good point, and he didn't have time to mull over the finer points of it.
"One, I'm breathing plenty fine! Let's just focus on making sure that thing *don't!" It was less of a rebuttal, more of an affirmation. They were both there to kick squid ass (tentacle?), regardless of their present company. "Two, it ain't that far!" He had Muto-sensei as his martial arts instructor. Stairs were *far* from the worst thing he'd had to build cardio and leg strength on. "Three... fine. But I don't like it. We'll figure out what *they're* doing here later."

As if his dislike of them had not been immediately obvious.

Then his attention turned to Moriko, and his manner grew markedly less hostile. Instead, it turned back to alert and on edge, dialed up just a little more than it had been before. The obvious causes were that something still wanted to kill them, and he did not trust that the Bride nor Remi were there purely to put the thing out of everyone's collective misery. But he'd never seen Moriko on the field of battle before. Her presence alone had been a shock, and her Persona even more so. The Evoker, not so much - that, at the very least, he knew was not a real firearm.

Hyousuke shook off his shock and pushed it aside. Like so many other things in his life, he resolved to address it later - though that time, he actually meant it. For the time being, however, the betentacled beast had to take priority.
"Kit-san! Good to have you!" The greeting was a little strained, but no less genuine for it. The fact that he'd used his nickname for her went ignored as his focus shifted to other matters, though. "These your friends?" Dense though he was, Hyousuke at least managed to gather that much. At the very least, they seemed to be allies.

He spared a moment to look over Aigis, entirely unsure of what to make of her. She was a robot. Humanoid, of that there could be no doubt. If the more obvious signs were covered up - by, say, a school uniform - he supposed there'd be no way of knowing without studying her mannerisms. But her nature as an artificial being was immediately obvious, and he could do nothing but stare from behind that visor. He was glad of it, for even he was unsure of what kind of expression he'd made upon realizing what she was, and had no intention of cluing her in on it.
"Understood!" Hyousuke barked, his head snapping towards Fuuka after acknowledging Aigis' deference.

Hyousuke listened intently to her explanation. His eyes honed in on the dome and the Shadow - or what appeared to be one, at least - but his ears were very much on her.
"Doesn't matter what that thing is..." He growled, while willing Achilles to ready for another attack. "...It's bleeding. That means we can cut it open, and get that guy out of there." He didn't bother to try and pronounce the man's full name. Even part of it seemed quite daunting for someone that barely managed to speak their mother tongue. "And maybe they we can get some goddamn answers about why it feels like the fucking Joker Killer's here!"

A loud, guttural, cry ripped itself from Hyousuke's throat.
"Achilles! Now!" He shouted, and bronze streaked forward in response. He lunged in with his spear, striking forward as precise as a surgeon's scalpel, yet with strength befitting a legendary warrior.

''AS: Persona! Hyousuke Suzuki has used the Pierce skill Pelian Spear Strike on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Pressure: Hyousuke Suzuki gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Hyousuke Suzuki regains 15 HP from Regenerate!''
''AS: Hyousuke Suzuki's turn has ended.''
''AS: Block Best! Self-Criticism takes 33 Pierce damage from Hyousuke Suzuki's Pelian Spear Strike. Critical Hit!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Moriko Kumamoto has posed.'''

Moriko's got a serious look on her face! Deep in thought as she listens to Yua, focused away briefly from the monster. It's interrupted though, turning her head to Hyousuke.

"The hell are you doing here?" Completely baffled for a moment.

Fuuka is trying to explain things too though, the same vein as Yua. "An amalgam? Or is it something else?" Maybe a facade? She's not sure, the descriptions make sense. And you know, don't. She did get the hint from Yua though.

Aigis's maybe joke is given a look. "Not you too."

Back to Hyousuke though, and you know. The others. Briefly. Then back again, "I've missed a step." She mutters. Then shakes her head and hefts the Evoker again, "Yeah." Gesturing back with her free hand, "They are." A hint of a smile there. Even if it probably isn't the friendliest of them. "Introductions later?" She's not sure if they've all met or not. She glances back at that, like she's seeing if they agree before her brain catches up and she calls out, "Persona!" The fox appearing long enough to appear behind her before lunging forward and fading away while trailing motes of light that jitter and streak towards the creature.

"Even here?" She asks after, regarding the nickname. She doesn't sound upset though! "Just- stay safe." That's to everyone. She's definitely trying to mentally catch up!

''AS: Persona! Moriko Kumamoto has used the Light skill Kouha on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Moriko Kumamoto's turn has ended.''
''AS: Avoid Best! Self-Criticism takes 63 Light damage from Moriko Kumamoto's Kouha. Weak!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Self-Criticism has posed.'''

The creature's weakness is revealed and the light shines in. Whether that is a dagger of light, or arrows of light, or even motes summoned by a fox. Either way the creature tries to run from the light. It is an animalistic representation after all and tries to move away from that which it hates. Still that doesn't mean he runs from it all. Swords and spears take the pound of flesh, bullets dig deeper than intended. Then of course there is an omen of what to come but what does a tentacle monster have to say about an omen.

Dimitri shouts, "Go, the paper man says he will mark all. Go get your mark , lay your eyes upon my art and get your mark. Coming soon to an art show near you!" Another moment of hysterical laughter as the artist goes back to what he is doing before twitching and laughing. "Need more colors, need more colors that clash. " This is said as he stomps his foot

The creature seems to respond to the request for the paint as more tentacles come from it's body. A tentacle for each person, dripping with the paint like eat and then in a flurry of tentacles they lash out, paint like ink flying of variety for color.

Black ink, with the very darkness decaying what it touches trying to stain Umie. A white paint whipped toward Shiryuu shining brightly. Hyousuke has bright red paint slashed at him as it burst into flames. Fuuka gets a dark blue, that has consistently water, and perhaps that is all it really that paint is highly pressurized and can easily hurt.

The tentacles don't stop either, a lighter blue towards Aigis freezing whatever it touches on impact. To the brides companion the green ink carries with it a strong wind. The Bride herself would find the yellow ink, shocking to say the least. As for Moriko the brown ink is thick and hard, as if a rock itself.

''AS: Persona! Self-Criticism has used the Dark skill Black Paint on Umie Akabane!''
''AS: Ruin: Self-Criticism gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Persona! Self-Criticism has used the Light skill White Paint on Shiryuu Ryouhara!''
''AS: Persona! Self-Criticism has used the Fire skill Red Paint on Hyousuke Suzuki!''
''AS: Persona! Self-Criticism has used the Water skill Blue Paint on Fuuka Yamagishi!''
''AS: Persona! Self-Criticism has used the Water skill Cyan Paint on Aigis!''
''AS: Persona! Self-Criticism has used the Wind skill Green Paint on Remi Ryuuja!''
''AS: Avoid Neutral! Umie Akabane takes 38 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Black Paint. Resist!''
''AS: Blast added!''
''AS: Persona! Self-Criticism has used the Elec skill Yellow Paint on Yua Ijuuin!''
''AS: Block Best! Fuuka Yamagishi takes 22 Water damage from Self-Criticism's Blue Paint.''
''AS: Paralyze added!''
''AS: Persona! Self-Criticism has used the Earth skill Brown Paint on Moriko Kumamoto!''
''AS: Self-Criticism's turn has ended.''
''AS: Block Worst! Aigis takes 77 Water damage from Self-Criticism's Cyan Paint. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Bind added!''
''AS: Avoid Best! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 18 Light damage from Self-Criticism's White Paint. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Nerve Up! Yua Ijuuin's SP +8!''
''AS: Block Worst! Yua Ijuuin takes 73 Elec damage from Self-Criticism's Yellow Paint. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Paralyze added!''
''AS: Avoid Neutral! Hyousuke Suzuki takes 70 Fire damage from Self-Criticism's Red Paint. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Avoid Neutral! Remi Ryuuja takes 85 Wind damage from Self-Criticism's Green Paint. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Haze added! Bind removed! Explosion! 75 damage!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Yua Ijuuin has posed.'''

It's best when Yumi has a translator on hand. She can get quite... difficult to understand, on her own. And /particularly/ now -- after the attacks of this beast. She's worse than she could be.

She should warn Fuuka against taking this thing into herself, shouldn't she...? And yet -- the Joker Killer has crafted it to a purpose, and how is she to /observe/ that purpose if she does not let it run its course? She does not call out; she does not ward her away. Neither, though, does she speak against Umie when /she/ warns Fuuka away instead; rather, this, too, she notes inside herself.

They can tell...

(Neither does she speak against Umie when she speaks in /support/ of them.)

Aigis insists she does not have blood, though, and Yumi turns to her again. "You," she says, "are a mechanical girl, are you not? Be this as it may, the man thus encircled is not, and his blood lies at issue."

But Umie denies her, and the Bride lifts her free palm, in a vague gesture. "As you will." She will not aid her; she can offer her this much succour.

She is... concerned, for Shiryuu, as she sees him. "The wyrd takes you as surely," is how she puts it; perhaps her /tone/ will have to carry her concern. "Pray, find the centre of the spiral and seek its balance!"

Is she in any fit state to /give/ answers to Hyousuke, right now...? Perhaps her strangeness is its own honesty; he is right to mistrust her, even if she isn't hurting him right /now./ "The feeling, the feeling -- how strong the feeling! To spread, to embrace? What heresy this?" This, too, she speaks with curiosity.

But introductions! Introductions! She recognises this wish of Moriko's, at least. "I am called Yumi, the Doomed Bride, and to you I am no ally. Yet to this beast I lay curiosity at its feet, and where it steps finds itself a carpet of sorrows. To its ends I will see, and so much do I see..."

More tentacles emerge, and the Bride cries: "Beware!", as she takes a graceful step back, another -- back against Gretchen's voluminous skirts. Her Persona closes her arms around her, locking her in the jail of her arms, just in time for that tentacle to lash yellow ink towards her. They splatter against Gretchen's cell bars; her dress flutters, behind her, with the force of it, and Yumi stumbles backwards.

"L--... loading Kouha cartridge," she takes a breath, as she takes her revolver-type Evoker and draws something /like/ a bullet from the pouch on her combat vest, loading it into the Evoker and snapping it shut. She takes aim at her eye, again, and fires.

Holy light reflects in Gretchen's jewels, as a ray of light shines down onto the tentacles of the beast.

"Tsurugi," she calls, "let us see how it handles a ferocious assault!"

Yumi's believing in her... there's power in that, too.

''AS: Persona! Yua Ijuuin has used the Light skill Kouha on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Ruin: Yua Ijuuin gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Yua Ijuuin: Haze removed!''
''AS: Yua Ijuuin's turn has ended.''
''AS: Yua Ijuuin spends Limit on Shift! Remi Ryuuja can use another Weak skill'' this round!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Fuuka Yamagishi has posed.'''

"No, it's... Hard to describe." Fuuka replies to Aigis, with a shake of her head. She wants to peer deeper, to try and see it, to /understand/ it... but Umie warns her not to look too far into it. Fuuka hesitates - but nods. She can hear the concern in her words - does she know something about this...? Seeing and understanding is her specialty... but there are some things that shouldn't be seen. "...Alright."

Aigis acknowledges her, and announces - wait, did she make a joke?? That was actually a good one... Fuuka has to try and suppress a small laugh.

"I'm not sure..." Fuuka admits to Moriko.

Her attention turns back to Self-Criticism - and Dimitri, within it. An art show...? Does he want to unleash this on people, or... is he just in his own world right now?

"Tachovsky-san, you can't... People will get hurt." Fuuka warns.

The creature unleashes a spray of highly-pressurized blue paint. Fuuka braces herself as it sprays across Lucia's barrier, feeling the impact through it.

"This creature is dangerous... it seems like it can use its paint to attack with a wide variety of elements. Be careful, everyone!" Fuuka warns.

She assesses everyone, then, taking inventory of how everyone is faring.

"Lucia, ease our wounds..." Fuuka requests. With a gesture, Lucia emits healing light, a rejuvenating wave washing over the others to undo harm.

"Kumamoto-san, I think that was effective. There's an opening - see if you can take advantage of it!" Fuuka advises to Moriko.

''AS: Persona! Fuuka Yamagishi has used the Recovery skill Healing Wave on Remi Ryuuja, Aigis, Umie Akabane, and Hyousuke Suzuki!''
''AS: Insight: Fuuka Yamagishi gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Fuuka Yamagishi: Haze removed!''
''AS: Fuuka Yamagishi's turn has ended.''
''AS: Fuuka Yamagishi spends Limit on Shift! Moriko Kumamoto can use another Weak skill this round! They both receive 8 SP and 30 HP!''
''AS: Take! Aigis takes 0 Recovery healing from Fuuka Yamagishi's Healing Wave.''
''AS: Regen added!''
''AS: Avoid Best! Self-Criticism takes 93 Light damage from Yua Ijuuin's Kouha. Critical Hit! Weak!''
''AS: Take! Remi Ryuuja takes 0 Recovery healing from Fuuka Yamagishi's Healing Wave.''
''AS: Regen added!''
''AS: Take! Umie Akabane takes 0 Recovery healing from Fuuka Yamagishi's Healing Wave.''
''AS: Regen added!''
''AS: Take! Hyousuke Suzuki takes 0 Recovery healing from Fuuka Yamagishi's Healing Wave.''
''AS: Regen added!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Remi Ryuuja has posed.'''

As Aigis notices Tsurugi's Evoker... so too does Tsurugi notice Aigis' fingergun. Curious... but not a matter she can worry about at this moment.

Umie takes that step further, and Tsurugi lets that matter stand--Yumi already made the point, after all: if they were in league with the Joker Killer, they would be defending this monstrosity.

Hyousuke says he will demands answers from Yumi. There is a sharp glance in his direction. Yumi doesn't speak, but Tsurugi does. "You will not receive them," she says sharply.

If Tsurugi has any reaction to the trapped artist calling for people to get their marks, she does not speak it aloud. She sends a private thought her way: /We cannot permit this thing to spread./

But the tentacle comes, and with it paint and wind--Tsurugi brings her blade up to slice through the paint, but the magic of the wind interacts with the lingering ice, and she is blasted back to slam against the wall. She lets out a quiet grunt but then sumps forward, catching herself with a foot.

She breathes hard for a moment, but it doesn't seem like that really /hurt/ all that much. It doesn't take her long to straighten up.

Yua sees fit to offer an introduction, at Moriko's request. Moriko and Tsurugi fought in that accursed warehouse, but whether Tsurugi gave her name or not... but for the benefit of the others she says, "I am Tsurugi." There is no title given.

She is a sword--a weapon. There is nothing else to be said.

Yumi believes in her though, and Tsurugi nods to her.

Fuuka offers support with a healing wave, and Tsurugi nods to her as well. "Thank you, Navigator."

Tsurugi just holds an open hand out, a silent signal to La Maupin, who gestures with her swrood to bring a fierce, cutting gale of wind forth for the creature. A moment later winds erupt from Tsurugi's feet and wrap up around her, and her movemetns seem to quicken.

''AS: Persona! Remi Ryuuja has used the Wind skill Garula on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Persona! Remi Ryuuja has used the Almighty skill Sukukaja on Remi Ryuuja!''
''AS: Remi Ryuuja: Gains 67 HP from Regen!''
''AS: Remi Ryuuja's turn has ended.''
''AS: Take! Remi Ryuuja takes 0 Almighty damage from Remi Ryuuja's Sukukaja.''
''AS: Spd_Up added!''
''AS: Block Neutral! Self-Criticism takes 80 Wind damage from Remi Ryuuja's Garula.
''AS: Haze added!

'''<Pose Tracker> Aigis has posed.'''

In reply to Umie's expressed thanks, Aigis briefly tilts her head in confusion, but nods at her, not wanting to seem impolite. "If you are the same person from before merely under a different mask today, you are welcome." Her expression falls slightly. "Your assailant on that night was among those who attacked the dormitory."

"That is correct," Aigis replies to Yumi. She briefly flits her gaze to the Shadow before returning it to the bride, then adds, "Thank you for the clarification." She has enough trouble understanding everyday people, let alone this unusual manner of speech.

The commentary between various people about this Shadow not being a 'normal Persona' does not seem to cause any reaction in Aigis. In her perception, there is no contradiction: eliminating the creature is an action which aligns with her mission.

Aigis tilts her head curiously at Moriko, as if she's unaware that what she had said was a joke. "I had simply meant to disambiguate ... 'painting' has multiple relevant definitions." And yet, why does her behavioral programming reward such diction?

Just as soon as her self-repair systems halt the advance of the corrosion eating away at her circuitry, light-blue paint hits the ground near her and saps the area of heat. Frost crawls up her legs, limiting her mobility. "Maneuvering is hindered. Still operating within acceptable parameters."

"Thank you, Yamagishi-san," Aigis says as Lucia fulfills Fuuka's request.

Babd cracks open the Shadow. Aigis spots an opportunity, a time to strike when it's most vulnerable.

Just as Remi is a weapon, so too is Aigis, implements wielded by others. This, they have in common. Soon, that nature is put into harsh focus, and the sheer destructive purpose of the craftsmanship which shaped Aigis is made clearly apparent: Two more extended rods emerge from hidden compartments installed in Palladion, and two more sizable guns spring out of Aigis' elbow and the back of her shoulder.

Aigis calmly announces, "Removing limiters. Output set to maximum." Soon after, a high-pitched keening sound fills the air as Aigis and Palladion charge their shots. "All weapons -- fire!"

With an array of weaponry just as colorful and varied as the swatches on Dimitri's palette, Aigis and Palladion unload all they've got at the Shadow.

''AS: Aigis spends Limit on Exploit! Aigis can use another Weak skill this round!''
''AS: Aigis spends Limit on Psych!''
''AS: Persona! Aigis has used the Almighty skill Rebellion on Aigis!''
''AS: Pressure: Aigis gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Take! Aigis takes 0 Almighty damage from Aigis's Rebellion.''
''AS: Crt_Up added!''
''AS: Tandem! Aigis has used the Pierce skill Six Shot on Self-Criticism! 3 Hits!''
''AS: Aigis: Gains 72 HP from Regen! Fast Heal! Psych removed!''
''AS: Aigis regains 3 SP from Invigorate!''
''AS: Aigis's turn has ended.''
''AS: Avoid Neutral! Self-Criticism takes 93 Pierce damage from Aigis's Six Shot.''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Self-Criticism takes 175 Pierce damage from Aigis's Six Shot. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Avoid Neutral! Self-Criticism takes 93 Pierce damage from Aigis's Six Shot.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

'And maybe they we can get some goddamn answers about why it feels like the fucking Joker Killer's here!'

Umie's face betrays nothing, but it's that blankness that may offer an answer to those who wonder what her connection is: that strict neutrality, like a wall thrust up to hide whatever may be going beyond it.

Inside, she's grimacing. It's true: there's something inside her that would activate the anger of people like Hyousuke, and rightfully so. The sins of the Joker Killer are his own, but whatever flavor of chaos lurks within the Mark is in all of those who bear the same curse. Perhaps, people like Sudou and this man are one possibility of those who embrace the potential power it brings.

She embraced another part of it, again and again, with her loneliness, breaking and then coming back.

Darkness comes, black like the black paint she used this morning, in order to punch up the subtle vivid blue of the ultramarine blue. Black cannot be used to truly darken a color without sacrificing saturation in turn. Just as red will overwhelm another color with itself.

They are both tools to use, and the different dark in Umie's soul resists the like of the dark in the Creature's attack, leaving only the burn of something extra wicked within the allegorical pigment being used.

Her eyes narrow slightly, keeping her emotions held back as she feels Fuuka's healing. ".... Thank you," she murmurs, under her breath.

They'll all resolve this, and she'll take her answers with her, working towards the cause of solving the question of the Mark.

In fact, if there's a way to do it, she'll handle it all herself. She doesn't *need* anyone to come help her. It's easier to do things this way.

She sprints past Shiryuu, the back of her jacket brushing by him, the blade of her weapon ready to slash.

(... but is it really.... something she wants to do alone...?)

There's a brief glance back towards the shinobi, as the metaphorical mask drops for just a moment.

WIth her eyes alone, she asks a question.

'Can you help me?'

''AS: Umie Akabane has initiated a fusion spell! The spell still requires 1 Strong attacks, -1 Limit, and Slash! Anyone can join!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

His momentum bleeds off through the soles of his shoes, warming them from the exertion of punching through the void, but also putting him on the same side as the others here.

A red tear trails from his eye. It's rubbed away quickly, a breath halted in his chest as some part of him flinches.

The shihaisha straightens, at first keeping his eyes locked on the tentacled beast. Based on what he can hear from the group around, that silhouette is a person... There's a part of him, clinical, detached, that wonders exactly how hard it would be to pierce that dome and dispatch the person inside.

His head tilts, as the Doomed Bride calls out to his attention with ... "...iih?" the boy looks briefly flummoxed and disconcerted, his eyebrows lowering as he reads into her tone. His blue eye twitches, spraying a circuit of surging red lines through white sclera before he clamps the eye shut. Ignoring the hot knife of pain in his skull, he fixes her with a wary, weathered glance, giving her a once-over with his one good eye for any obvious injuries.

"....Please take care of your body," the shihaisha tells her in no uncertain terms, before -- "!!"

In the next instant, Shiryuu is cut in half by a beam of pure shimmering white paint, the stream arcing through him. For an instant, that appears to be it for him, before the afterimage flickers out of existence, the boy skidding back further down the hall from the creature as it recovers more tentacles to replace the ones he cut. Instead of cutting him in half, the monster seems intent on turning the entire area into a wet, sticky kaleidoscope of oily pigment.

His shoes drip, doused in brightly shining titanium white, as he lifts one gingerly. "..." He sighs.

There is a moment that the bride might notice that Shiryuu is actually paying attention to something else. There is something twisted up tight in him, a knot that can't quite be untied, something that simply wasn't there in prior fights. It's something barely detectable with the long, corvid tilt of the boy's head, off to his opposite side, as his one eyed glance tracks across the battlefield.

A woman flies past him, snapping his haori about his body, with an uneasy breath sliding from the shinobi. He flips his sword false in his hand.

"...yeah," he finally agrees.

He won't be able to use his ninkou for another few minutes. And by then.. it'll be too late. Instead, the onmitsu flips his blade end over end. A low, distinct twirl, churning the mechanical kami behind him to life.

"...make it history, Sarutahiko Okami."

While the boy twirls his blade, the puddles of paint on the floor stick to falling motes of black. The battlefield around the tentacled monster flows sharply with a sudden, brisk wind filling the undersides of Akabane's charge. Like a darting breeze, black petals cut from shadow collude to hide the old, ancient wood stabbing beneath her feet. She disappears ... entirely from view, in an uncoming blast of a sheer wall of black sakura.

Ryouhara's hand raises, his face dispassionate, despite the tiny tremor.
He will aim her on a path right through, trailed by a hundred cuts.

''AS: Bid acceptable!''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara has joined Umie Akabane's fusion spell! The spell is ready!''
''AS: Persona! Umie Akabane and Shiryuu Ryouhara has used the Slash skill Blade of Legend on Self-Criticism! 2 Hits!''
''AS: Umie Akabane: Loses 8 SP and TP from Sick! Gains 66 HP from Regen! Sick removed!''
''AS: Umie Akabane regains 3 SP from Invigorate!''
''AS: Umie Akabane's turn has ended.''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara: Loses 8 SP and TP from Sick!''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara's turn has ended.''
''AS: Block Worst! Self-Criticism takes 79 Slash damage from Umie Akabane's Blade of Legend.''
''AS: Avoid Neutral! Self-Criticism takes 108 Slash damage from Umie Akabane's Blade of Legend. Critical Hit!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Hyousuke Suzuki has posed.'''

The paint surged towards him, a torrent of liquid crimson seeking to splatter him upon the floor. Achilles was too far forward to be recalled and made to guard in time, and Hyousuke himself was too far away to parry or counter in any meaningful way. All he could think to do, in that moment, was dodge. But he was a moment too late, or perhaps a hair too slow. The jet of paint roared into a gout of flame, and Hyousuke cried out in both pain and surprise as it engulfed him in his entirety.

The flames died out quickly, smothered or patted or allowed to peter away. But the damage had been done. Skin and costume both had been singed black in spots, standing as evidence of the attack once the fire had left him. He could feel the pain demanding his attention, but he did not give it that dignity. He had more important matters to attend to. Yet, before he could issue the order to attack, and once more have the general carve his way towards the beast's heart, he noticed his allies out of the corner of his eye.

Moriko got his attention first. Besides her being the only one amongst his allies he actually knew, she'd addressed him directly.
"I'm here for the same reason as you! Probably!" He canted his head towards the writhing mass of paint and tentacles that threatened to lay waste to them all. "To kick squid ass!" Again, he wondered if tentacles would be a more appropriate thing to kick. Did squids even have asses? It was a question for another time. "You can introduce me to 'em later, Kit-san, we've got work to do!"

Yes, even there. He'd expended all one of his brain cells on thinking that nickname, and he refused to let it go.

The bride was not a friend, but she was - for the moment - an ally. Just the thought of it was enough to wrap his stomach in a knot, but the beast had proved to be a stubborn opponent, and having some extra bodies to throw at it didn't seem like a bad idea. For the time being, he could at least give her the courtesy of a vaguely polite response.

"...Got no idea what the hell any of that means." He confessed. It was something to ruminate on later, though he was fairly certain it could be nothing good. If the 'feeling' was anything to do with that ominous presence he sensed from certain individuals, there was no way it could be *good* news. "Save the riddles for someone that's got the patience to figure 'em out." His ire was then levelled at Remi, intensifying just from the memory of the warehouse. It took him a moment to speak, and half of that was him trying to pry his lips and teeth apart while they were stuck in that jaw-clenched snarl. "And you... I *am* gonna have them. Even if I don't get to wring them out of you."

What little politeness he'd managed to scrounge together for them both seemed to have vanished before long. At least he'd tried.

Fuuka's healing wave drew his attention to her after that outburst, and he gave her a firm nod of appreciation before he took time to speak.
"Thanks. Let me return the favour!" Achilles manifested again, but not to strike out, or shield his user. Instead, he called upon the general's leadership - upon his ability to inspire. A rallying cry rang out through the room, suffused with the courage and honour and inspiration to stand against the enemy before them. With the cleansing done, Hyousuke and Achilles both turned to face the monstrous mass that stood against them, and clenched his fists tight.

"As for you..." Hyousuke shot a furious glare to the monster. "I don't know what the hell kind of 'show' you got planned, but I'm cutting it short!" He hadn't the smarts to figure out what it was that the man inside the thing was talking about, nor what any of this had to do with that feeling that choked his very senses, and gnawed at the corners of his mind. But what he had in abundance was aggression, and the unshakable need to claim vengeance. The Joker Killer was not there, however, so his pet Shadow would have to do.

The bronze titan rose, held its shield before him, leveled his spear beside it, and manifested Hyousuke's snarling aggression into empowering energy.

''AS: Hyousuke Suzuki spends Limit on Exploit! Hyousuke Suzuki can use another Weak skill this round!''
''AS: Persona! Hyousuke Suzuki has used the Recovery skill Rallying Cry on Fuuka Yamagishi!''
''AS: Pressure: Hyousuke Suzuki gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Take! Fuuka Yamagishi takes 0 Recovery healing from Hyousuke Suzuki's Rallying Cry.''
''AS: Paralyze removed!''
''AS: Persona! Hyousuke Suzuki has used the Recovery skill Phalanx on Hyousuke Suzuki, Moriko Kumamoto, and Aigis!''
''AS: Hyousuke Suzuki: Gains 70 HP from Regen!''
''AS: Hyousuke Suzuki regains 15 HP from Regenerate!''
''AS: Hyousuke Suzuki's turn has ended.''
''AS: Take! Hyousuke Suzuki takes 0 Recovery healing from Hyousuke Suzuki's Phalanx.''
''AS: Atk_Up and Crt_Up added!''
''AS: Take! Aigis takes 0 Recovery healing from Hyousuke Suzuki's Phalanx.''
''AS: Atk_Up and Crt_Up added! Bind, Crt_Up, Def_Up, and Regen removed!''
''AS: Take! Moriko Kumamoto takes 0 Recovery healing from Hyousuke Suzuki's Phalanx.''
''AS: Atk_Up and Crt_Up added! Def_Up and Paralyze removed!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Moriko Kumamoto has posed.'''

Moriko looks.. briefly confused when the others react to her comment to Hyousuke and she admits, "I meant uh-" She gestures to the other SEES members. "The people I live with?" She pauses. "I am willing to talk after." That came out a bit awkwardly.

"Except you-" she nods to Yua, "Since you said you're not an ally and all." It's said somewhat jokingly? She's not sure how serious to take it and it's a bit unsettling, all told.

She wants to be nice!

As for the warnings, they went right on past her, mostly. Sort of? She's not looking too far into the critter anyway. That's for later. She tightens her grip on the evoker. "Fear." She suggests. Maybe? Looking back to Fuuka again. "Especially if it was an art show?"

She's getting distracted. She focuses like she's about to start a ride. Shifting her stance, the lash of brown ink streaks out towards her and as she leans away, the fox briefly appears. Protecting her from the worst of it. Streaking past, almost entirely evaded. The ephemeral creature disappears briefly. "Maybe a color wheel would help?" Not, really. In this case. It was a neutral color anyway.

"Got it." She calls back to Fuuka, "Getting a better look." That joke is equally terrible. It's fine.

A hint of a grimace at the memory with Tsurugi. That's also a later problem.

"It's fine it's fine." She waves her hand to Aigis, "I just was reminded of- later. Later later. Humor's a good angle though."

"Do they have one? I thought it was more of an octopus." Hence the joke earlier. It's fine. "Yeah, later." She hooks her thumb back. "Thanks!" She tells him, a little more animated from the help! Probably in more ways than one at least.

Still, this thing's flailing around and being a threat and all and that's a much more important manner. "Otohime!" She calls out, trigger pulled again, eyes watching for movement rather than the creature itself. Ready to try and dodge again.

Her resident fuzzy persona lets out a silent bark, twisting around her briefly before, those lights drifting around both the fox and the squidopus painter flare up, bringing more light to the situation.

"I uh, don't have a tone of tricks." She admits, though she's at least ramping things up!

''AS: Persona! Moriko Kumamoto has used the Light skill Hama on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Persona! Moriko Kumamoto has used the Light skill Kouha on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Moriko Kumamoto's turn has ended.''
''AS: Avoid Best! Self-Criticism takes 129 Light damage from Moriko Kumamoto's Hama. Critical Hit! Weak!''
''AS: Exhaust added!''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Self-Criticism takes 167 Light damage from Moriko Kumamoto's Kouha. Critical Hit! Weak!''
''AS: Haze added!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Self-Criticism has posed.'''

The light continues to drive the creature back, trying to back away from the attackers. The light of the Bride burns across it's skin, which puts it in the way of the wind of Tsurugi that chops away a tentacle.

Moriko's light rains down and burns and scars, the tattoo'd marking running from the light across the body of the squid, reforming in other spots. Briefly though the tattoos had ran just in the right direction to form a bullseye and Aigis hits the mark. The bullets drive deep and the creature cries in pain.

The black sakura's cut across the body of the creature, carving a large slash across the portrait of The Joker Killer, and just like that as the picture is damaged the presence of the Joker Killer is gone. All that remains is the evil twisted distortion of the shadow creature in front of them. It would appear that somehow that picture had been so powerful, it echo'd the very essence of that which had been captured by the art.

Dimitri looks and cries at the destruction of one of his portraits, "NO! My art!" With a cry of anger he lashes at the dome beating on it before shaking his head. "Fine, fine, just practice. Not the real one. The real client. The real client will be pleased when people see it. Truly a divine experience. That was a failure, a horrible failure, best destroyed, deserved it." The creature cries out echoing Dimitri's sentiment.

The creature that represents the monster that all artists must face, the worst art critique they will ever face. The creature's tentacles turn to a dark shadow as they lash out, one set of tentacles chasing down those that felt doubt and those that shot light and wind. What does self-criticism blame one for, for failure of course. As the other tentacles lash out imparting just what it means to experience failure and the pain that goes with it, failure for those that carved across his skin and stabbed him with spears and bullets.

''AS: Tandem! Self-Criticism has used the Dark skill Blame! on Moriko Kumamoto, Yua Ijuuin, Fuuka Yamagishi, and Remi Ryuuja!''
''AS: Self-Criticism takes 90 damage from Exhaust!''
''AS: Persona! Self-Criticism has used the Almighty skill Failure! on Aigis, Umie Akabane, Shiryuu Ryouhara, and Hyousuke Suzuki!''
''AS: Self-Criticism: Exhaust, Atk_Dn, Crt_Dn, Def_Dn, Haze, and Omen removed! Omen: 120 damage!''
''AS: Self-Criticism's turn has ended.''
''AS: Block Neutral! Aigis takes 83 Almighty damage from Self-Criticism's Failure!.''
''AS: Block Worst! Fuuka Yamagishi takes 233 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Blame!. Critical Hit! Weak!''
''AS: Block Worst! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 170 Almighty damage from Self-Criticism's Failure!.''
''AS: Avoid Best! Umie Akabane takes 56 Almighty damage from Self-Criticism's Failure!.''
''AS: Block Neutral! Yua Ijuuin takes 86 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Blame!.''
''AS: Block Best! Hyousuke Suzuki takes 51 Almighty damage from Self-Criticism's Failure!.''
''AS: Avoid Best! Remi Ryuuja takes 28 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Blame!. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Moriko Kumamoto takes 223 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Blame!. Critical Hit!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Remi Ryuuja has posed.'''

Tsurugi glances sidelong to Hyousuke. "Take care you do not seek answers you are not yet ready for." She's more riddle-lite than Yumi, at least.

Tsurugi is used to deciphering Yumi's speech, but less so this artist. Still, when the tentacles lash out again, Tsurugi, empowered by her Persona, moves with fleeting motions as she ducks and weves through the lashing strikes.

But she doesn't avoid all of the strikes, and she tenses up as the pain of failure gives her momentary pause.

There is one great failure that consumes her. Four years ago she set out to find a missing friend and help rescue her.

She didn't succeed.

And what's worse, she herself became ensnared as well. And even though Yua and Remi are free to walk the streets... they are not free to live their lives.

Behind her mask, Remi closes her eyes, for just a moment. There is nothing this creature can inflict on her that she hasn't inflicted on herself.

Her eyes snap open. The power of this thing is... concerning. Tsurugi is not /afraid/, because fear is a luxury no longer afforded her. But she does not need fear to act--only to know the consequences, and the certainty with which she takes action. She stands, reaching her blade to the side. Silently, La Maupin reaches their own blade out, and the two of them cross.

"Yumi, I require the power of the firmament," she declares.

''AS: Remi Ryuuja has initiated a fusion spell! The spell still requires 1 Strong attacks and Earth! Anyone can join!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Yua Ijuuin has posed.'''

"Sense is an unknown unknown to him, held in madness' embrace," Yumi advises Fuuka, though she's making little sense /herself./ "Yet is it our task to describe the indescribable, for what lies at the heart of Man but the maze which traps his desires? Where a thing is misshaped, describe then the silhouette of it, the character of its occupation in space, the demands it makes of existence." And there's actually good /advice/ for a Navigator, in there, buried beneath the overly-referential, rambling, loose speech: when at a loss for words, an approximate word will do just fine.

She admires Tsurugi's violence, though. Sword she may be; but she is /sharp./ And she sees the way the passages rhyme, between Tsurugi and Aigis, though her own commonality may well be shrouded beneath her veils and her obsfuscating speech.

The Mark, the Mark -- a question redoubled and doubled over again. Yumi is as silent as Umie on the why and the wherefor; she has not invoked hers, and sees the energy from the /creature,/ regardless.

Yumi is well-armoured, and seems physically well -- if mentally /distressed/ -- shadowed by her Persona, as Gretchen stands behind her, ready to shield her at a moment's notice. "Gretchen will ensure I come to no harm," she assures him, "and Tsurugi will ensure I am safe, as well. The fighting, only, it is difficult to me... above us, a floor swarms with strong Shadows, as below do they seep back into the holes the boy left in the halls. The walls seethe, and churn, and shift... are you not driven to distraction, even to think of the shadow stalking the briefcase at the end of this next hall, the way it hides three foes in its amorphous mass?" Fuuka, at least, might recognise something in her rambling: that's a /lot/ of information for someone to get all at once.

"Forgive me," she says, to Hyousuke, and her tone at least is sincere. "For here I hold the universe in my heart, and this creature's universe is a thing which cannot be seen, an anathema to existence. I am... trying to be heard. Of your answers, in other voices, seek them."

She nods, to Moriko. "This is so," she confirms, of not being an ally. "Later, we will not speak. We will leave this place, and you will not follow. ... for this your tricks of Light are well, to strike where it fears to be struck."

But the portrait is slashed by Shiryuu's expert petals -- a thing that woman who hates her so beseeches -- and so the feeling fades. "Ceci n'est pas une pipe!" She exclaims, and her French pronunciation is quite /good,/ actually. "Yet the image of the thing becomes the thing, a copy in a copy in a copy, and this--? For this purpose, the artist was chosen? In his crucible is the thing recreated, but it is not a pipe..."

She is caught in her fascination -- Shiryuu and Tsurugi may note the way it's /Gretchen/ who closes her arms around her, again, as that tentacle lashes out. "Oh--!!" She exclaims, as she covers her face with her hands; she is a dancer, and knows well the sting of critique.

"Oh, but he is right... how can I stand here?! My duty to guard! Only -- only, I wished to aid her -- but I cannot do as I please so heedlessly! What if Gretchen grew too angry with me?! What if I poison his blood?! More the fool, I--!"

She grieves, and grieves, and grieves; and perhaps the only thing that could call her from it was Tsurugi's need, at this Hour.

"Ah... yes, chthonic force! Gretchen, aid her...!!" Yua calls, as Gretchen sways, the power of the Earth itself gathering around Tsurugi.

Its strength is crushing.

''AS: Yua Ijuuin has joined Remi Ryuuja's fusion spell! The spell is ready!''
''AS: Yua Ijuuin spends Limit on Shift! Shiryuu Ryouhara can use another Weak skill this round!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Remi Ryuuja has posed.'''

Tsurugi will forever be there to protect Yumi. What is a weapon--or a knight--to do otherwise? (She /does/ note how Gretchen protects Yumi--she is always on her vigil, especially now that her vigil is for /two/...)

Both blades thrum with gravitic energy as the power is lent. They let out a faint, teasing hum as the air around them both seems to ripple gently with the borrowed power. As one, La Maupin and Tsurugi raise both of their blades and then draw them back into a striking position. In tandem they charge forward, spitting apart and then converging.

And it is /here/ she breaks her silence. While their movements are swift and well-practiced, Tsurugi lets out an angry yell as she slams her blade home, the two blades slamming down hard to invoke the weight of the earth's mantle.
''AS: Persona! Yua Ijuuin and Remi Ryuuja has used the Earth skill Gravitic Fury on Self-Criticism! 2 Hits!''
''AS: Yua Ijuuin: Paralyze, Spd_Dn, and Worry removed!''
''AS: Yua Ijuuin's turn has ended.''
''AS: Remi Ryuuja: Gains 72 HP from Regen! Atk_Up and Haze removed!''
''AS: Remi Ryuuja's turn has ended.''
''AS: Avoid Best! Self-Criticism takes 25 Earth damage from Remi Ryuuja's Gravitic Fury.''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Self-Criticism takes 148 Earth damage from Remi Ryuuja's Gravitic Fury. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Remi Ryuuja spends Limit on Shift! Hyousuke Suzuki can use another Weak skill this round!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Aigis has posed.'''

/Reminded of what?/ Aigis almost asks Moriko, but given that she says 'later,' she acquiesces. "I will bear this in mind for the future."

Just as she felt Palladion's boons begin to wane, Hyousuke renews them via Achilles. "Thank you, um ... I do not believe I have your name." Oddly, Palladion briefly dips its cannon lower as if to nod to express its own appreciation.

Shiryuu's shoes have fallen. Shoeryuu ... past that, Aigis beholds the cooperation between the pair of Shiryuu and Umie. She did recently speak about how she felt that while she is accustomed to solo missions, Palladion was truly meant to aid others, and new possibilities begin to form in her mind. Likewise, for Yumi and Tsurugi.

Aigis' eyes widen with concern when she sees Fuuka badly hurt by one of the tentacles. "Yamagishi-san!" She rushes in to try and intercede against further attacks aimed in Fuuka's direction, which another tendril is all too happy to oblige.

Mission failure.

The two words which Aigis most dreads. It's a stinging sensation which she knows all too well. If it hadn't been for her failure, then ... maybe none of them would be in this mess.

She had the opportunity to avert /so much/ devastation, and she blew it. Everything. /Everything!/ The sheer magnitude of the consequences is /unthinkable/, and it falls squarely on her shoulders! And here, she is made keenly aware of it once more as this Shadow has brought it back to the forefront of her consciousness.

It isn't the physical strike which brings Aigis to her knees, but the bitter aftertaste left by it. She reels and holds one hand to her temple.

One eye of hers snaps open. Her past mistake makes it all the more vital that she succeeds /this/ time around. It goes this far, but no further. She will push through -- she must.

It is her only way to atone.

Through one eye still shut with pain and through grit teeth, she tries to aim her hand towards the Self-Criticism. More feebly this time, she and Palladion open fire.

''AS: Tandem! Aigis has used the Pierce skill Dual Thrust on Self-Criticism! 2 Hits!''
''AS: Pressure: Aigis gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Aigis: Gains 70 HP from Regen!''
''AS: Aigis regains 3 SP from Invigorate!''
''AS: Aigis's turn has ended.''
''AS: Block Best! Self-Criticism takes 32 Pierce damage from Aigis's Dual Thrust.''
''AS: Avoid Best! Self-Criticism takes 52 Pierce damage from Aigis's Dual Thrust. Critical Hit!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Fuuka Yamagishi has posed.'''

"It's alright. Anything you can offer is helpful." Fuuka assures, as Moriko admits that she doesn't have a ton of tricks. "We appreciate that you're here, Kumamoto-san."

Her help is appreciated and Fuuka nods at the thanks that comes in - and Hyousuke returns the favor. A rallying cry sounds - and with it, Fuuka feels just a little more steady on her feet.

"Thank you..." She replies earnestly.

Yumi has advice. It takes Fuuka a moment to sort through her words... but ultimately, the advice is quite helpful - if she's up against something that shouldn't be looked at, look around it and use that information to determine what it can do.

"Thank you, Yumi-san... I'll keep that in mind." Fuuka replies with a polite nod. She's giving her advice, even though they'll just as likely be enemies again the next time they meet... She did that the first time they encountered each other, too.

She doesn't mean to eavesdrop, but her senses allow her to perceive so much. She hears how Yumi describes everything she perceives.

"That's... so much to see..." Fuuka murmurs. She can sympathise. The sheer amount of information... it must be overwhelming.

The foe is struck, and the portrait of the Joker Killer is damaged - and with that, the presence disappears, as well.

"That resonance is gone...! Was it the portrait?" Fuuka gasps, surprised. Dimitri doesn't take it well, however. The creature's tentacles turn dark - and the shadow it represents crashes against Lucia's globe with enough force to send Fuuka toppling back against the other side of it.

She hears Aigis calling out for her in concern, sees her moving in to defend her, as she picks herself back up with some effort.

"I-I'm alright." She assures. "It's... lashing out. Be careful, everyone..."

She takes a moment to steady herself. Is it embodying Dimitri's feelings, now, as it lashes out...?

...Maybe the kindest thing they can do right now is wash it away.

Between her hands, Lucia begins to form an Aqua spell, water swirling and converging. She casts it forward, where it erupts in a great splash the moment it makes contact.

''AS: Persona! Fuuka Yamagishi has used the Water skill Aqua on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Fuuka Yamagishi: Atk_Up and Worry removed!''
''AS: Fuuka Yamagishi's turn has ended.''
''AS: Block Best! Self-Criticism takes 33 Water damage from Fuuka Yamagishi's Aqua.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Hyousuke Suzuki has posed.'''

Neither Remi nor the Bride gave Hyousuke much to work with, but at the very least, Remi's vague warnings - ones he was inclined to believe were thinly-veiled threats - were clear enough to interpret with a bit of thinking. The Bride's, however? He would unfortunately need to find someone smarter than him to help untangle them. Quite who that someone was supposed to be, he could not say, but he was sure that there was at least *one* Persona user he was friendly with that could decipher the Bride's ridiculous riddles.

"Hyousuke Suzuki!" He called back to Aigis, before snapping his head back around to Moriko. He was more than happy to echo Fuuka's sentiments - and glad to see that the target of Achilles' warcry was back on her feet. "And don't sweat it! Just keep putting the hurt on it!" His grin deepened at the destruction of the portrait, once he saw it reduced to tattered shreds. He shouldn't have felt joy at an artist's work being torn to ribbons - Hyousuke knew that. To feel that kind of satisfaction at someone's hard and honest work being rendered into worthless scraps should have been heartbreaking. But the man inside the beast was not in his right mind - at least, Hyousuke hoped he wasn't - and the painting was not a treasured piece that should have been treated with love, care, and respect. Nothing cemented that idea in his head more than the feeling lifting from his mind as the canvas was obliterated. He breathed once it was destroyed, and far more easily than he ever had throughout the rest of the battle. The presence of that man - that sick and twisted man that had sought to kill the people he cared about - vanished like smoke in the wind.

The threats yet remained, however. Lashing tentacles, a raving man, two individuals that seemed intent on speaking in riddles of dubious veracity... There was a lot to handle. Before he could so much as think about tackling them, something slammed into him, hitting like a freight train against him. Achilles took the brunt of the attack, but even his shield faltered under the sheer force that the creature exerted. He staggered, pushed away, and the appendage sank into Hyousuke. It was a hammer blow to his chest, sending him staggering back as well, barely able to stay upright - keeping on one knee was the most he could manage.

It was not the physical pain that wounded him so deeply. Adrenaline and willpower were a potent cocktail, and strong enough to keep him from succumbing to that level of pain. It was the wounds in his mind that ached, their scars pried open so that the memories could drown his mind. They surged over him, each memory begging that he pay them attention. The begging became demanding, and the demanding again shifted into a maelstrom of shouting and screaming. They pounded at his mind, at his skull, at the core of his very being, until all he could do was freeze and wait.

The memories spoke of his parents, and the admonishments they levelled at him for an ideal he could never live up to. They spoke of a different general in a different life, whose blade marked him for the failure of being consumed by anger. They spoke of a punishment he had been too slow to escape, and how he was spared from it only by the grace of another. They forced upon him the recollection of villains he'd failed to ensnare. They brought before him the visages of the friends he'd failed to protect - the friends he swore he would sacrifice body and soul to keep safe - and mocked him for his inadequacy. Then, they whispered in his ear, their murmurs conjuring the image of sanguine red and scattered fragments of bone white, staining a pillar reaching high above.

Failure. It forced him to relive every failure he had suffered through.

The grin fell back into a bare-toothed snarl, savage as any slavering warhound's. His body, frozen by pain and fear and shock, creaked into life once more. His fingers curled into white-knuckled fists, the fabric creaking beneath his vice-like grip and threatening to fray beneath the sheer force of it. The creature's assault did not paralyse him beneath the weight of his failures. The shock of it all, the sadness that threatened to tie him down like iron shackles, they were both burnt away by the emotion Hyousuke wielded as his blazing sword.

RAGE.

"NO MORE!" Hyousuke bellowed, his voice a bestial roar. "I'M ENDING THIS NOW!" Achilles appeared by his side, the red beneath his helm no longer a mere glow, but a glaring sun of sanguine red amidst a black, yawning, void. "AND I'M ENDING *YOU!*" Achilles held his spear aloft, the end pointing skyward as energy flowed into it as though he bore a lightning rod in his palm. The weapon strengthened with every mote of divine magic that gathered to it, tinged a bloody crimson by the searing, blazing, rage that flowed through user and Persona both. Anger, grief, hatred... all of it coalesced into the spear, until it threatened to shake apart in his hand.

Hyousuke said nothing as he sent Achilles surging forth like bloody lightning. When his jaw hung open, all that emerged was a base, animalistic, ROAR. With force born of unchained rage, that ancient warrior struck at his enemy's heart, and a great burst of scarlet filled the air.

''AS: Hyousuke Suzuki spends Limit on Psych!''
''AS: Persona! Theurgy! Hyousuke Suzuki has used the Pierce skill Princeslayer on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Pressure: Hyousuke Suzuki gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Hyousuke Suzuki: Gains 74 HP from Regen! Def_Up and Psych removed!''
''AS: Hyousuke Suzuki regains 15 HP from Regenerate!''
''AS: Hyousuke Suzuki's turn has ended.''
''AS: Block Best! Self-Criticism takes 114 Pierce damage from Hyousuke Suzuki's Princeslayer.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

It'd be easier if Shiryuu didn't answer, or be distracted by that lapse of weakness from Umie; he's done enough as it is, entering a battle for the sake of two people present.

Those little moments of closeness she spends with people are like jewels in her mind; reaffirming her humanity in spite of whatever whispers she catches from the Mark, her own heart, or her own regrets. Instead of being the person pretending to be the same as everyone else, she is just able to be a person who also has a Persona, and sometimes, someone with the Mark, who is Umie. A wealth of information, a person who won't shut up, someone who can be selfish and cruel and rude, but also, full of kindness to a hypocritical degree.

Yumi (and Tsurugi, to a certain extent), trying to reach out to Umie in good faith, is rebuffed, clad as she is in the uniform of the NWO, obscuring the identity she has as the civilian Yua. Yet, Umie will look to Shiryuu, someone who has actively tried to kill her, and ask for his help.

Like he did with Yua, Shiryuu answers.

The red trailing from Shiryuu's eye is finally noticed by Umie in that moment of connection.

Ah, Umie, she thinks. You better make this count.

----

Red sneakers land on the magenta flooring; Umie turns, her hood now down, her blonde side bangs now free to swing with the movement of her head. A length of rope is stretched between two tensed fists, the left holding the remainder of the length of rope as well as the ring, while the handle of the bifurcated blade is gripped in the other.

The artist cries at the destruction of one of his portraits, proclaiming he'll paint another.

Truly, artistic passion is truly a terror to behold.

Doubt and failure fuel the tenacles that come towards them all; Umie's light on her feet.

She rejects it, because she has no choice. She chose the Mark, she allowed it into her heart. She chose to open that coffin that night, and a family never saw that smiling father again. She chose to hide afterwards, never pushing herself, cloaking herself in shadows away from prying eyes, even from the very people that may have understood her, if she had allowed herself to trust another person.

It was not a mistake to walk out of that cage, into shadows of a different kind.

_Failure is not an option for her_.

"Yamagishi-san! Kumamoto-san!" Umie hisses, eyes flying wide as Fuuka and Moriko takes those painful hits, but the rage in her eyes spark in a furious frenzy when her eyes focus in on Shiryuu.

"....!" She never says his name; she focuses on DImitri instead.

".... I'm ending this now." One could see, if glancing in a space beyond the physical, the blood red that soaks Umie's words, carrying with them a weight beyond time and knowing, each word painful and contorted like a mirror that nods vaguely towards Yua's own, if set on a different, frozen trajectory.

"Ash falls through the sky from the frozen shrine,
A mournful cry cut short."

Cognitive barbed rope crosses the field of view, constricting with the sharp cries of blackbirds and sinking like mud underneath tired, battleworn feet.

She raises her fingers in the same sequence as Badb above her, a lavender-nailed finger pointed towards the tormented artist that matches the red lace of the Badb's claws.

And Umie lets go, tension making those wires slice through with inevitable efficacy.

''AS: Umie Akabane spends Limit on Exploit! Umie Akabane can use another Weak skill this round!''
''AS: Tandem! Theurgy! Umie Akabane has used the Dark skill Garden of the Crow on Self-Criticism! 3 Hits!''
''AS: Umie Akabane takes 60 damage from Stress!''
''AS: Ruin: Umie Akabane gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Umie Akabane: Gains 75 HP from Regen! Atk_Up, Blast, and Def_Up removed!''
''AS: Umie Akabane regains 3 SP from Invigorate!''
''AS: Umie Akabane's turn has ended.''
''AS: Block Best! Self-Criticism takes 32 Dark damage from Umie Akabane's Garden of the Crow.''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Self-Criticism takes 121 Dark damage from Umie Akabane's Garden of the Crow. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Block Best! Self-Criticism takes 43 Dark damage from Umie Akabane's Garden of the Crow. Critical Hit!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Moriko Kumamoto has posed.'''

"Least I could do right?" Moriko admits to Fuuka, though she is having some.. decent success with pointing a bunch of divine spotlights at the squid critter.

"Yeah we'll talk about it later!" She adds, quickly to Aigis. "Nothing bad though, promise."

"Had no intentions of following you." There's that look of confusion again, paired with her usual grim look.

"Divine?" She calls out, "It's hidden away. You're not even showing it off." She gestures around. Though she's kind of preaching a bit at this point. She gets it, on some level.

She's slow on getting out of the way of the strike though, letting out a surprised sound as she's knocked from her feet and takes a tumble. Leaving her laying there for a moment with a groan.

A hand goes up and she slowly twists it into a thumbs up for Umie and the others, "I'm. Fine." She doesn't sound like it. That had hurt and knocked the wind out of her. Wheezing, she forces herself to her feet, grabbing the evoker from nearby and stiffly rejoins the others. Once more putting herself out front. "I've crashed worse." She lies. Probably only a little. Crashes suck regardless.

Hyousuke's outburst gets a moment of concern, she's not used to that kind of yelling! She does raise that hand in support though, wry and supportive smile or not.

Getting her breath back, sort of. She straightens up with barely a wince.

There's a look of possible realization on her face. Then she glances back, "He did that creepy thing for a client. He's got t-" She trails off with a grimace, holding the evoker up again. "You guys probably got it." She'd yell it out, but you know. Whacked. "Any work is progress, destroying it before it can be shared and used to improve's a waste." Then she pulls the trigger. Relying on the fox to bring more light forward. "You shouldn't hide it away!" The fox continues it's onslaught, bringing more dancing lights to the party.

''AS: Persona! Moriko Kumamoto has used the Light skill Hama on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Moriko Kumamoto's turn has ended.''
''AS: Avoid Best! Self-Criticism takes 93 Light damage from Moriko Kumamoto's Hama. Weak!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"Hai, Yumi-san." He is soothed by her assertion, though it takes him a full moment to actually comprehend it while shredding the cephalopod-like Shadow underneath a tyranny of black sakura. Directing Akabane's blade across the squirming mass without inadvertently killing her or consigning her to an artist's hell draws the lion's share of his focus, and for once he seems to lock onto something.

Almost. Between blinks, the boy gives Aigis a sharp look. It may just be because she's a product of a terrible clan. Surely he can't hear her pun. Surely. Right?

The tentacle surges through as Ryouhara approaches slowly in the aftermath of that black wind, his hands locking into place, trying to force the bridge to fly to the side, to bend to his will. It's not something he normally does, and as the beast rears up, it takes literally everything the boy has to find her landfall.

He can't move, he can't use Setsuna. The boy grits his teeth, and runs his sword's flat across his arm, dropping to a knee at the last second before --

'Do you even think she would realize it's you?' 'He would never had tried something so cowardly.' 'Better off as Setsuya's empty headed pet.'

'...I wasn't strong enough.'

The wall of flesh is unkind, and Shiryuu disappears beneath its weight. The insane whisper fades from Shiryuu's ears, and the grey-headed boy recovers, the sick feeling in his stomach thick and heavy like a stone weight. The illness was vertigo lacking a physical source, he forces himself to recognize, as ichor spatters the ground at the foot of his blade, used as a cane to keep himself on his feet.

Ijuuin is distressed, he realizes, bloodily. He realizes it, watching Akabane quietly in the distance.

"...it's okay," he tells the bride, trying to calm his aching, jangled, knotted-up nerves as he stands, one eye still closed, now bleeding openly. He's only dimly aware of that noxious resonance's absence, aware enough to have -seen- the portrait and make the connection to the raving Dimitri. What a furious artistic power, that even this...

"You have something to protect.."

His head tilts downward. "... so, my Sarutahiko Okami will open the path." The notion is accompanied by his Persona, a great sweep of shide through the air seeming like a flutter of leaves around him, as he forces his hand up anew.

And takes a step forward, as it begins to rain.

The rainfall is not at all discriminate, and it spatters the ground in his wake, displacing the colorful pigments and oil of a moment before, soaking into his shoes as he goes.

No, the onmitsu is not steeled at all in the wake of that nagging, harsh, vicious feeling. The rain does not soothe him. There is no release for the boy against that miserable sensation. When he raises his hand flat to the ground, and the winds begin to stir, the storm rising, he doesn't think of anything brave at all.

Instead, he watches quietly, as they rage, as the others flit about the passionate beast, wanting to repeat the mistakes he's made over again. What about us, the boy thinks absently, watching the blood curdling red from her.

And then he wills his Persona to shift that wild wind, a gale force to push that black shadow forward. To compel it and the creature-made-man inside into his blade, a long, curving flash of black ink cutting across the way. Push him forward. Into theirs. Wires and swords and the sounds of cannon ...

The onmitsu is dispassionate, truthfully. Unreadably quiet.
It's agonizing, watching nascent doom.

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara spends Limit on Psych!''
''AS: Tandem! Shiryuu Ryouhara has used the Wind skill The Winds and Rain of Akita on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Aggression: Shiryuu Ryouhara gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara spends Limit on Shock Noise! Crt_Dn applied to Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Self-Criticism takes 284 Wind damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's The Winds and Rain of Akita. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Tandem! Shiryuu Ryouhara has used the Wind skill Blastbrand on Self-Criticism! 2 Hits!''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara: Atk_Up and Psych removed!''
''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara's turn has ended.''
''AS: Avoid Neutral! Self-Criticism takes 67 Wind damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Blastbrand.''
''AS: Avoid Best! Self-Criticism takes 54 Wind damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Blastbrand. Critical Hit!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Self-Criticism has posed.'''

The water from Lucia tries to cleanse the ink from the creatures body but instead only leaves the skin bruised and tendered. Tenderized to the point that the creature tries to turn and minimize the damage received from Aigis's bullets for the first time, crying in pain and bleeding more black blood onto the ground.

Achilles' spear stabs the creature, and it digs deep. The pound flesh that was once sought is easily retrieved as a large chunk comes from the creature as it sinks against the floor. It is obvious the creature is on its last leg. Wires come and the creature struggles and tries to flee, but Badb has other plans as it rends away the last few remaining tentacles. The creature has been de-tentacled.

The blade of the protector is used to carve more away, the creature is now all but a mass of flesh and dome on top. It can't run anymore, it can barely make noise.

The swords come from the duo of Tsurugi and Gretchen, the creature raises it's tentacles and tries to protect itself, losing tentacles that can simply be regrown. However a single sword gets through and stabs the dome...

The dome shatters and Dimitri stands there exposed. Exposed to the tower, exposed to the people around, exposed to everything. He stares at the others as if seeing them for the first time. "What have I? Oh...Oh god!" The artist drops to his knees as his hands go into his hair grabbing and pulling at it in panic. "NO!" Tears begin to stream down his face and he sobs and screams as if everything is crashing down on him.

The creature reacts as it to begins to wail. The creature rears up before the final attack of self-criticism comes, lashing out at all. It is the thing that comes to all who are consumed and defeated by such a thing, endless despair. Black ink bleeds from the creatures body and spreads out, thick as tar, trying to engulf and consume all in its path. The creature is dying but it plans to take everyone with it in its endless despair.

''AS: Self-Criticism spends Limit on Exploit! Self-Criticism can use another Weak skill this round!''
''AS: Self-Criticism spends Limit on Exploit! Self-Criticism can use another Weak skill this round!''
''AS: Self-Criticism spends Limit on Broad!''
''AS: Persona! Theurgy! Self-Criticism has used the Dark skill Endless Despair on Yua Ijuuin, Remi Ryuuja, Aigis, and Fuuka Yamagishi! 3 Hits!''
''AS: Block Neutral! Aigis takes 64 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Block Worst! Aigis takes 68 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair.''
''AS: Block Best! Aigis takes 23 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair.''
''AS: Persona! Theurgy! Self-Criticism has used the Dark skill Endless Despair on Hyousuke Suzuki, Umie Akabane, Moriko Kumamoto, and Shiryuu Ryouhara! 3 Hits!''
''AS: Self-Criticism: Broad, Dark_Break, and Pierce_Break removed!''
''AS: Self-Criticism's turn has ended.''
''AS: Fuuka Yamagishi spends Limit on Brace!''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Umie Akabane takes 100 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair.''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Umie Akabane takes 100 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair.''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Moriko Kumamoto takes 110 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair.''
''AS: Block Neutral! Fuuka Yamagishi takes 96 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair. Critical Hit! Weak!''
''AS: Block Worst! Fuuka Yamagishi takes 93 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair. Weak!''
''AS: Block Neutral! Fuuka Yamagishi takes 70 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair. Weak!''
''AS: Avoid Best! Umie Akabane takes 41 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Moriko Kumamoto takes 110 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair.''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Moriko Kumamoto takes 110 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair.''
''AS: Moriko Kumamoto is unable to continue fighting!''
''AS: Block Neutral! Hyousuke Suzuki takes 94 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Block Neutral! Hyousuke Suzuki takes 94 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Block Neutral! Hyousuke Suzuki takes 69 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair.''
''AS: Block Neutral! Yua Ijuuin takes 62 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair.''
''AS: Block Best! Yua Ijuuin takes 54 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Block Worst! Yua Ijuuin takes 115 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Avoid Best! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 31 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair.''
''AS: Avoid Best! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 42 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Block Worst! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 130 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Remi Ryuuja spends Limit on Brace!''
''AS: Avoid Best! Remi Ryuuja takes 15 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Remi Ryuuja takes 86 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair. Critical Hit!''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Remi Ryuuja takes 62 Dark damage from Self-Criticism's Endless Despair.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Remi Ryuuja has posed.'''

Remi doesn't know what has happened to this artist but she can see the shift. Maybe if she can use her speed to snatch the man from this beast--

But no, the monster is threasing, and as a tentacle lashes down, which she avoids by a very narrow margin as her speed carries her--but the thing is too unpredictable and she is smacked, sent flying to crash into a wall before she slides down.

And then the ink washes over her, and her body sags.

Endless despair... Tsurugi is no stranger to it. She has seen what the horizon of despair looks like... and been forcedo to travel past it without relief. To wallow is not a luxury she has, anymore.

Not with how she was remade in that lab. Muscles that do not ache tense as she pushes herself up. She should be in pain but she is not. She should be overwhelemd as she rises to her feet but she is not. She should be unsteady on her feet, and yet she is not.

There are many things she /should/ be. Very few of them are aollowed her now.

Her grip tightens on her rapier. From behind she pulls out another dagger. Her breathing is strained, but she clearly says one word: "Ouragan."

"Raaagh...!" Persona and User fling themselves forward in tandem, kicking up a storm of wind as they circle the monster, hacking at it to try and cut off more and more of those tentacles.

''AS: Tandem! Remi Ryuuja has used the Wind skill Ouragan on Self-Criticism! 3 Hits!''
''AS: Remi Ryuuja: Gains 69 HP from Regen! Regen removed!''
''AS: Remi Ryuuja's turn has ended.''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Self-Criticism takes 71 Wind damage from Remi Ryuuja's Ouragan.''
''AS: Avoid Worst! Self-Criticism takes 71 Wind damage from Remi Ryuuja's Ouragan.''
''AS: Self-Criticism is unable to continue fighting!''
''AS: Avoid Best! Self-Criticism takes 12 Wind damage from Remi Ryuuja's Ouragan.''
''AS: Self-Criticism is unable to continue fighting!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Yua Ijuuin has posed.'''

And Yumi is reassured, hearing Shiryuu, seeing everyone's might. But the man is carved free -- and when the creature falls, she reaches out, to Tsurugi...

... and the mysterious ninja so concerned with her.

"Come to me," she invites them, "and to other places, go."

She's offering to get them out of here before the heroes start asking too many questions.

She takes a moment, at least, to turn to Fuuka, to suggest: "Turn your gaze to the first sinister turn when next you ascend. There will you find peace." ... a teleporter, she means.

With that advice, Gretchen closes her jailed embrace around all who elect to come back with her -- all who were invited, that is -- and they disappear, from Tartarus's halls.

'''<Pose Tracker> Moriko Kumamoto has posed.'''

Moriko's trying to put on a strong face, she's insistent on it. That's just who she is. She's also wheezing audibly and when the dome shatters, she straightens up for a moment. Thinking it might be over and wanting to try and avoid spoiling it.

The flailing begins though, and she's slow to get away from the worst of the waves of darkness manage to overwhelm her.

A nagging voice in the back of her head tells her she should have tried to put up defenses after all.

Flipping head over heels and landing roughly with a pained groan, tumbling along with the wave before sprawling out on the ground. Definitely down for the count.

Anything else she had intended to say will probably be blurted out some time later, if her brain catches up to the scene of the crash.

'''<Pose Tracker> Fuuka Yamagishi has posed.'''

Hyousuke introduces himself to Aigis, at her request - and Fuuka realises she hasn't introduced /herself/.

"Oh... and I'm Fuuka Yamagishi. It's nice to meet you, Suzuki-san." Fuuka greets.

Any further niceties will have to wait. The tentacles are cleaved from Self-Criticism, and the dome atop it shattered... Dimitri is exposed.

"Tachovsky-san!" Fuuka calls to him. "It's alright. It'll be alright... Please try to breathe - ah!"

She gasps as Self-Criticism lashes out at once more - black ink erupting from its body, like a wave of tar threatening to consume everything. It crashes against Lucia's globe, engulfing it - engulfing /her/, for a moment. Fuuka's eyes open wide, her breath quickens. Fear creeps in. She shuts her eyes and tries to take her own advice. Breathe in, and out. It's alright.

The tar is finally repulsed... but Fuuka's feeling worse for wear. She's not sure how much more she can take. But... Moriko has it worse.

"Kumamoto-san!" Fuuka gasps. She's worried - and then, Fuuka meets Yumi's veiled gaze. The first sinister turn... Fuuka closes her eyes - and perhaps only another Navigator will recognize that her sight has turned to the next floor, following her advice. Sure enough...

"...I see it. Thank you, Yumi-san." Fuuka replies. She didn't have to do that... and yet, she did. That'll be helpful in getting Moriko out safely in that condition, at least.

...But there's still the foe ahead of them.

"Lucia... Guide us!" Fuuka murmurs. With the baleful influence of the Joker Killer gone, she turns her eyes onto Self-Criticism once more - to indentify its weaknesses and relay them to the others so that they can finish this properly.

'''<Pose Tracker> Aigis has posed.'''

It may have taken her longer than she would have liked to rally, but Aigis stands fully upright again.

"Suzuki-san. I am Aigis," she offers Hyousuke.

Surely he can't hear her, Shiryuu. Shoerely he can't. Still, that's twice now she and him have met, and twice that they've been on the same side. She looks his way with a disappointed expression. "I do not believe I have caught your name either ... nor hers." She inclines her head towards Umie's direction. (Forgive her, she is following her installed protocols for politeness.)

Umie's 'prophecy' causes Aigis to narrow her eyes at her.

The Shadow's waves of despair emanate towards them all, and while it is no small task for her to do so, having once more found her resolve, Aigis weathers this storm. Shiryuu and Tsurugi's harsh winds finish it off soon after.

Her teammates aren't so lucky. Moriko has collapsed, though Fuuka barely holds on. "Kumamoto-san!" Aigis stoops down to pick her up and carry her. "Escorting fallen teammate to safety."

While the others have treated Yumi and Tsurugi with apprehension, Aigis still rightly has no idea why such is the case. "Thank you for your assistance." At hearing the teleporter's location, she bows, and promptly heads that way to lead the way for SEES' escape.

... If she needs to, she'll double back for Dimitri, too.

'''<Pose Tracker> Hyousuke Suzuki has posed.'''

Rage consumed him like a wildfire. Even after that mighty blow, and even after he had helped to tear that beast apart and free the man trapped within the dome, rage still ate away at whatever it could reach. He wanted more - he wanted to hurt that thing MORE. He wanted to take the man by the neck and demand answers about what had transpired. He wanted to march up to the murdering piece of shit that had no doubt had a hand to play in everything, and beat the answers out of his wretched skull.

His vengeance would have to wait, as would the answers he sought. Ink of stygian black reached out across the floor, consuming all in its path. Neither person nor object was safe - the Shadow's encroaching ink threatened to drown all within its reach. He did not run, for he had not the chance to try. Even if he had, he would not have been fast enough, or have found a space in which the tide would not engulf him. All he could do was brace for impact, and weather the storm as best he could.

As the reaching waters engulfed the room, so too did it threaten to drown Hyousuke in the fathomless, churning, waves of despair. It threatened to drag him under - to swallow all that he was, and to leave nothing but an empty husk behind. But he was no stranger to despair. He had felt its icy grip on his heart. He had felt its cold talons pierce his skin and rend his flesh, and he had fought back against it with that most potent weapon he could bring to bear. His unfaltering, unceasing, rage.

The fire that had once threatened to consume him instead stood as a torch against the dark. It burnt away the despair, sweeping through him as a cleansing flame, letting him stand against the creature's death throes. But, more than that, it was a cauterising heat, searing shut whatever wounds the despair threatened to tear open once more. It was the numbing agent, distracting him from being mired in despair with a single-minded focus on vengeance. Rage was his fuel, and in that battle, it had served him well.

The sight of Moriko collapsing unconscious to the floor succeeded in an instant where the Shadow had failed time and again. Realisation hit like the cold crash of an arctic wave, and for a heartbeat, he stood stock-still with eyes wide. He did not think to move - his legs carried him on instinct. Whether they collapsed beneath him on that same instinct, or simply could not support him from the shock of seeing his friend injured, was harder to say. What *was* patently clear was his panic upon taking in the scope of the situation.

"Hey, no, stay with me..." Hyousuke murmured. Whatever discomfort he had with touch was, in that moment, cast from his mind. He held his arm beneath her, propping her desperately up as he spoke, hoping with every fibre of his being that she could hear him. "Don't- don't you fucking dare, not like this... No, don't- DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE DO THIS TO ME!" The shout was as raw as it was pained. His chest heaved against the confines of his costume, no matter how frantically he tried to steady his breathing. Each drawing in of breath was a ragged and panicked gasp, and every exhale a rattling burst of air - he could barely bring his hand to her neck to feel out a pulse.

But feel her pulse he did. She was injured, yes. How severely, he could not tell, but she was alive. She'd be alright. They just had to get out. But how? He wasn't a navigator. He wasn't smart enough to figure it out on his own. He wasn't strong enough to brute force it. He'd *fail.* Once more, ice crept into his veins and pried his flesh open, quickening his breathing and quietening his voice, until someone cut through it all. Aigis spoke, and in a blink, he was shocked back into a coherent state.

"You have to- you have to get her out of here. Please." Hyousuke said, rising shakily to his feet. He did what he could to at least present the illusion of strength, but there was no denying that he had panicked. "I'll watch your backs. Just get her out of here. GO!" Head on a swivel, and hands curled into white-knuckled fists, he forced himself to keep pace with the others. He had to push it down. He had to suppress his fear. There would be time to process it later - for now, they needed someone strong, and someone capable.

Not the scared hound howling for someone to help.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

Looking to Aigis, Umie hesitates for a moment, then acknowledges her with a nod. "Umie Akabane," she allows, even if she knows it'll break whatever cognitive spell her powers may have otherwise, if anyone else overhears.

Umie Akabane is a young woman with secrets, as well as pearls of wisdom.

Consider: selfishness has its uses. Focus can mean the difference between survival and death. No one can help or save you if you're dead, after all, and heroism can be overrated when the field is littered with heroic acts that go nowhere and save no one.

On the other hand: selflessness can have its disadvantages; give away too much of yourself, and you'll never get it back again. Do it for the wrong reasons, and you'll be filled instead with resentment.

Umie has seen people she's grown attached to be in dire situations. She has been tempted to step in at least once to help Joker (the *real* one, in Umie's mind; _take that Sudou_). However, Joker is a leader; it's been the way he's risen to the challenge that's forced her to consider doing the same.

Tonight may be her moment to see if she's actually the person she wants to be-- what is her experience for, if not to withstand something like this?

She knows despair, failure, and loneliness. She knows isolation, and chaos. She knows separation, and hopelessness.

She's survived them all, and claws back those gems of wisdom back with her.

A snake can't fall to its own poison. The Badb did not come to her and claim her; she *is* the Badb, and darkness *is* her.

Consider this wisdom, never spoken: black is as valid a tool to use as any.

Umie weathers each blast, the newly painted mask barely hanging on her face, one bun coming undone, the other loosened.

"The chaos ends with me," she yells. "_I am your problem_." Schools, teachers, parents, officials, jobs, friends, society: she was considered a problem for one reason or another, never aiming high enough, or perfect enough.

Tonight she owes it.

Dark comes from her name, as if it were a joke; truth is, she's nearly out of powers.

And her focus, as she glances around for a certain person, comes back to a selfish pinpoint.

"_Shiryuu_!" she yells, running around, nearly stumbling across the silver-haired young man.

She's kneeling down besides him, grasping onto a hand in her half-gloved right.

If he doesn't respond, she use her left, clasping him into an awkward, huddled heart-felt embrace.

''AS: Persona! Umie Akabane has used the Dark skill Final Warning on Self-Criticism!''
''AS: Ruin: Umie Akabane gains 1 Limit!''
''AS: Umie Akabane: Gains 67 HP from Regen! Regen removed!''
''AS: Umie Akabane regains 3 SP from Invigorate!''
''AS: Umie Akabane's turn has ended.''
''AS: Avoid Best! Self-Criticism takes 12 Dark damage from Umie Akabane's Final Warning. Critical Hit! Resist!''
''AS: Self-Criticism is unable to continue fighting!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

One cut. Two cuts. Three. The rainfall pounds about him as the onmitsu notices the curling, encroaching wave of black ink power. He watches it for more time than could be considered strictly healthy, one brown eye locked on the wave until the very last.

When he moves, he moves like lightning -- his ninkou, the black-bladed sword Bankasoujin sends waves of black to contend that empty tide, waves of scribe's ink clashing with paint as the creature's awful throes seek to drag him down. One cut, two, Shiryuu successfully, arguably effortlessly evades, as if not even paying attention --

But the drag of hopelessness and self-recrimination strikes a far deeper chord than the onmitsu would care to admit.

The third valley in the black surrounds him, clinging to every edge of him like a funeral shroud, and sends the boy skidding into a nearby gate.

He is on one knee, his sword in a hand. He's still standing, in his own mind. He won't fall. The task is done, he can sense that man's throes of despair now. Even if he weren't as he is -- that acidic doubt and defeat is in every nerve now. But Remi's glare is damning, and the boy is too far in his own mind, black and crimson scattered freely on the ground beneath him, staining the hem of his pristine haori.

He forces it. "...I'm invincible," he tells the bride, for her protection. He forces steel into his voice. "Don't worry... I'll make my own way..."

"...I'm faster than all of you put together."
He never looks up from the ground, even when Akabane skids into view.

It is a moment he's less than prepared for, and he freezes.
Is it that he does squeeze her hand, for just one heartbeat?
"....A.." he sighs, long, sharp, empty.
"...Take care of the rest of them." He can hear the loud one still. "You're ... just getting blood on my haori."

The rain does eventually stop.

'''<Pose Tracker> Self-Criticism has posed.'''

The storm of wind mixes with the darkness of Akabane's final warning destroys the creatures , ripping the last bit of the flesh of the creature to pieces and the body dissolves away. Those who have fought tonight have done something that many in the world never manage to do, they have defeated self-criticism. May they remember this feeling next time it rears its ugly head.

The artist Dimitri is thrown through the air and rolls along the ground after the attack, just laying there, on the ground and he begins to sob trying to shift the blame in between sobs, "He made me do it. He made me paint , that..." More sobbing , before Dimitri adds, "He kept talking about his mommy. How the portrait had to be better than his mommy. I didn't understand but the thing ...the thing I painted...I hope he fails to display it. " Dimitri rolls over and throws up bile before he passes out. Whatever painting he is talking about it was more than the Joker Killer portrait that was destroyed, but what could possibly be worse than that. Eventually this man would be retrieved by SEES with the help of Fuuka and Aigis.

</poem>

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2026-01-15: Annexed Timeshare

2026-01-16T06:20:27Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Log: Annexed Timeshare''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara, Kurou Ryouhara, Umie Akabane *'''Where:''' Shibuya, Tokyo *'''OOC Date:''' 2026-01-15 *'''IC Date:''' Sep 10 2012 *'''Summary''': ''After annexing Kurou's home to warehouse weapons (and repairs) Shiryuu must take the young over to someone's place for safekeeping. Or keep safing. Things go so well it hurts.'' ---- <poem> '''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.''' After a long day of two..."

*'''Log: Annexed Timeshare'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], [[Kurou Ryouhara]], [[Umie Akabane]]
*'''Where:''' Shibuya, Tokyo
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-01-15
*'''IC Date:''' Sep 10 2012
*'''Summary''': ''After annexing Kurou's home to warehouse weapons (and repairs) Shiryuu must take the young over to someone's place for safekeeping. Or keep safing. Things go so well it hurts.''

----
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

After a long day of two shifts, the door to Umie's apartment shifts as she fiddles with the lock, creaking open as she twists the door handle and pushes.

Not a moment is wasted as soon as she gets in; door closed, locks shut, shoes off, hat off, employee uniform off, cloth shorts on, oversized stained t-shirt on. And, like that, her evening is set.

Down the hallway and into the kitchen, Umie looks into the short fridge and grabs a drink, and, drawing out the oyakodon pack she got from her Triple 7 shift, she pops the fridge closed with her butt and puts her dinner into the microwave.

*bip bip bip* Setting the appliance for seven minutes, Umie unceremoniously cracks open the can and drinks it back, sitting the can down on the little bit of counterspace she has in the small kitchen area.

One foot itches the back of her opposite leg as she hums, checking her phone as she waits for the microwave to be done.

Just another day as a normal, boring adult, for Umie Akabane.

Certainly no one else in her apartment to bother her, or watch her as she obliviously just zoomed around without a care in the world.

..... oh right, she needs to turn the fans on, it's hot in here.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Yes, no one's here at all. It's certainly not like anyone broke in or anything while she was gone, then surreptitiously re-locked the door.

Well, to be fair -- it's not exactly untrue. The Shibuya woman's doorlocks were of the quality level that it could hardly be said to be breaking in at all. But at least it's not like the ceiling is caving in or anything, despite any insistence to the contrary. Besides. As long as they were inside they were at least safe from the neighbor, whom Shiryuu is for some reason not eager to meet again.

They were actually in the process of hanging a picture when she stormed in. Or rather, Shiryuu was, with Kurou given explicit instructions to stay quiet while he did so. The picture was, itself, a random spatter of paint across a canvas, with a little 'WHIRLWIND // RHYTHM' print stamped into the texture. The sort of thing that tends to show up at old record stores and booths. Of course, for Shirogarasu, mounting art is no problem at all.

Getting it level on the other hand.

Shiryuu is through his seventh imperceptibly fine adjustment by the time Umie bursts into the tiny space behind them. They are in fact, in the only spot in the place that she won't simply trip over them by walking around. Shiryuu turns, in a muted phase of alarm as the beast stampedes through her natural habitat, and the grey-headed boy looks for all the world like an offended cat as his presence goes entirely missed.

He is honestly doing a good job of blending in with the wall, wearing his white jacket and gloves as he does. It doesn't mean he's any less offended.

Part of a uniform flies past the onmitsu's head to land in a nearby clothes pile. Shiryuu's squinched up face turns into a little muted sigh as the shinobi steps forward, reaching out.

...to cover Kurou's eyes politely. He doesn't uncover them.

"Your situational awareness still needs work, Akabane."

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

Kurou is exceptionally skilled at being quiet.

He is the picture of silence, down to the last micromotion. Not a breath escapes in a way that is audible, and not a motion is made. He watches, admiring the splatter of paint and its color. Idly, he thinks of how much skill it must take to create works of art that appear random while exercising one's organized intent.

...

When Shiryuu said he needed to use Kurou's apartment as a temporary storage facility, not a single question was asked. Kurou simply agreed. Or he had once Shiryuu finished with the nerikiri. There was nothing to be done but be pleased that he had chosen a residence with superior location.

So no he is here, in his silence, and holding his tongue on any thought that hits him concerning what might make adjusting the frame at the perfect angle easier. He only suddenly moves at the /intrusion/... of the home's actual occupant, so hardly an intrusion at all. Oh, it's rude not to greet her, but he's under instruction to keep quiet. The latter wins out, and Kurou only turns his head to look...

... and then sees nothing but the blackness of a gloved hand after an article of clothing goes flying.

While he is sightless, and while Shiryuu is addressing Umie, Kurou reaches out to bump the 'WHIRLWIND // RHYTHM' print with his own imperceptibly gentle movement to set it straighter.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

It's getting to the point that Umie's not even shocked. That, or she's *that* tired.

(It's a little bit of both.)

Umie cranes her neck at Shiryuu, squinting at him, then seeing him cover Kurou's eyes. "Put some notes up or something. Also, I'm decent now! You can stop covering Ryouhara-kun's eyes."

Ah, this'll get confusing fast.

Umie clicks both fans on, directing one towards the two shinobi before moving to the windows. A soft click is heard, and she slides one aside, briefly exposing a view of the apartment building across the way before shutting a curtain over it.

"My situational awareness is on each minute I step outside this door. But I can't be 'on' all the damn time or I'll get a headache."

*beeeeep* Umie moves back and opens the microwave door, taking the oyakodon and nudging the door closed with her elbow. Unsealing the packet on top, she uses some chopsticks to slide the ingredients into the fluffy rice on the bottom, mixing it together.

She looks up, raising both eyebrows, as she stands in the 'living room' portion of the studio apartment.

"... You got me a.... painting?"

She gives the piece a critical look over from her position before popping a bit of rice into her mouth. "... It... looks nice," she admits. "Good energy to it."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Shiryuu is not entirely sure if he should be upset that Akabane isn't even startled anymore. He elects on a shade of nettled laying just between normal and upset, the tiny little rapier-sharp sigh only barely mollified by the fact that there are now two little fans working their absolute best to banish the stifling haze that sets in the room.

"It's the latest in technology," Ryouhara says of the painting, grimly utilitarian and apparently eager to sidestep the idea of a gift at all. Once he's sure Umie won't transform into some sort of inappropriate battle bun form is when he uncovers Kurou's eyes. "Societal mode," he tells the boy as he does so, without actually clarifying what that is.

Shiryuu spends a lot of time thereafter watching Umie mix up the rice and eat it before becoming aware of himself, turning away pointedly. "Anyway, it's the ransom to balance affairs, as I must charge you with a sacred task."

Huh. The painting did not look that straight before. He was dead positive that it still had to be righted by his strongest jutsu. Hm. Quite the mystery. Maybe the painting straightened itself in absolute terror. Shiryuu eyes it grimly. Best not be thinking of defying him later.

"For the time being, you'll harbor this boy, Ryouhara Kurou. I have annexed his property for my own use. So naturally, I will exercise domain over your powers to ally with my agents, and ensure a harmonious transition. A stipend will be provided for your good work. I expect that you'll not impede his activities during this arrangement."

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

Without sight, Kurou becomes high tuned to every other one of his senses. He counts Umie's footsteps, and notes the white noise of the fans. Feeling the against his skin is another erudition. The beep of a microwave. The smell of chicken and eggs. The tone in Shiryuu and Umie's voices as they exchange words.

He blinks three times in rapid succession as his sight is granted back, and with the command for societal mode, Kurou lifts his hand in a wave. "Good evening, Akabane-san."

Kurou allows Shiryuu to explain her new mission, and once he finishes, Kurou immediately folds himself into a deep bow.

"Sorry for disturbing you," Kurou says, the polite phrase having a rehearsed quality to it. He reaches into his school bag (did anyone think he had other bags to shove his meager amount of belongings into? no? good) and procures a small box, complete with pink ribbon, containing a rectangular castella cake.

Of the two Ryouhara that have infiltrated Umie's residence, Kurou is evidently less adverse to being credited with gifts. It is important, after all, to provide a gift to his new host.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

"... Technology." Umie's eyes the painting critically, pointing her chopsticks at it. ".... Is it... painted with that extra special black paint that was in the news a few years ago? If so, I can't have that in my apartment; I'm pretty sure that artist is gonna sue me for damages."

She may no longer be startled, but there's something to see in the subtle changes an Umie can have when she's more comfortable with someone (or someones). Kurou fell in by virtue of being just... Kurou; kicking him out would be kicking a solemn-looking puppy (who can summon a giant skeleton). Shiryuu... well, Umie would be reluctant to admit that it came at a cost to Shiryuu, but it's not like she asked him for shoes and dinner and expensive.... paintings? That use the latest technology?

That is to say: compared to how Umie acted when she and Shiryuu met the second time, and now, is a massive change. For one, her Mark is there, clear as day, right there on her arm, like a massive distracting bruise that likely looks more disturbing in a mundane context that it does when seen outside of it. There's the fine halo of blonde hairs around her head, the relaxed curve of her body, and the way she looks down to her food while balancing on one foot, the other rising to itch at her other calf.

.... Societal mode. Umie's lips dip into a slight halfway frown. Does he need to be commanded to be this way...? Who and what is the real Kurou, then?

"No, no," Umie sighs. "You're welcome here, Ryouhara-kun. Just because Shiryuu-kun was alive after all doesn't mean the door's shut on you."

She only notices, seconds later, her mistake. "Shiryuu Ryouhara-kun," she says, as if to make it seem like there was never a mistake at all, "is the culprit here, and--"

'I have annexed his property for my own use.' "...." Umie looks at Shiryuu, then back to Kurou. "... His place was a wreck, wasn't it," she quietly mumurs, towards Shiryuu.

"Thank you. Though he goes to Kasugayama High, right? Isn't that going to be a long way back and forth? That's going to eat into his sleep schedule for sure..."

Kurou produces a gift, for her. ".... O-oh, you didn't have to..." She sets her bowl down on the nearest available surface, taking the box and undoing the pink ribbon.

"Thank you," she says, smiling softly at the cake. "You're very thoughful, Ryouhara-kun. Maybe we can share some later?"

'I expect that you'll not impede his activities during this arrangement.' "...." Closing and setting the cake box down next to her food, Umie tilts her head. "School activities? Of course. Force him to bring trouble to my doorstep, though, and I'll make sure you know what I feel about that."

She goes to the bookcase now. "I have something for you, Shiryuu... Ryouhara-kun. Don't let me forget to give it to you."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"Yes," the grey-haired onmitsu confirms. "The very latest. However, there is no trace of the inferior vantablack. If that artist comes to bother you, I will consign him to a lightless hell sublunar man has never before tasted..."

There is a strange formality to the onmitsu's candor, an unemotive, sly sort of discretion exercised entirely when around his subordinate. "Kurou understands the disruption to his routine is only temporary."The two, together, are a practice in mimickry, and though there is no part of him that appears disquieted or uncalm, inferring Shiryuu being 'at ease' would be a folly.

There is only the slightest measure of annoyance when he's described as a culprit. Worse yet, that he's referred to as Shiryuu-kun. "!"

The onmitsu's cheeks, a light shade of pink, puff out -ever- so slightly as his lips purse. Nonplussed, the onmitsu forces himself to look at more concrete sins. "Iih," the shihaisha grouses in open, windy objection, "it's not like I'd die so easily.."

He was declared dead completely against his will! There were executions over it!

The ongoing offenses compound, as Shiryuu's face only becomes worse when Umie starts to say something about Kurou's arrangements. "--Iiih!" he remarks under his voice, like a betrayed cat. Kurou's hearing is extremely sharp!! "A-as expected, you misunderstand the situation," he explains, in a low, but slightly less private voice. "Ryouhara Kurou has achieved a privileged position in my inspection program, with the highest possible marks. With my supreme authority, I've taken control of his property to upgrade it for the purposes of a ninkou shipment, th, that's all. It's only natural to place him with you, to make sure you don't get into any more trouble... as if we could bring you any more trouble."

Don't let her win, Shiryuu.

Luckily, Shirogarasu is given a moment to recover, as Umie accepts Kurou's peace offering. Exemplary work, the onmitsu swells with muted pride. Or relief. He seems ready to leave at that point, almost turning before he's distracted. "--eh?" What? Something for him? Shiryuu tries his best to appear uninterested. Instead, the boy produces a card sharply from nowhere at all, holding it up. "If there is a problem, my information," he explains crisply.

It's a blank index card. On it is his phone number, and literally nothing else.

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

A lightless hell for one who would bother Umie over the technology of the painting. Kurou mentally files this away, in case he is the one who is meant to act upon it. He will be the one nearest Umie for near future, and it will fall to him to deliver appropriate punishment.

... But he gets the feelings perhaps he should leave some for Shiryuu, in the event that proves to be necessary.

Societal mode. The instruction acted akin to a switch, but Kurou continues to gaze back at Umie with his traditional blankness. Shiryuu understands him well, and the answer about his routine so fully covers Kurou's own thoughts on any concerns about his schedule, sleep or otherwise, that he feels anything more than the nod he gives would be excessive.

And Kurou prefers not to abide by inefficiency.

Yet something does seem to relax in his shoulders when Umie tells him he is welcome here.

"Thank you, Akabane-san. For your kindness then and for now."

He was meant to protect her, and this proximity will help him better achieve that for the time being as well. But Kurou cannot deny that Umie still provided Kurou with distraction and reassurance during what could have been the beginning of a very rough period of his life.

Even now, she remains concerned for his general well being.

But Kurou's hearing ''is'' extremely sharp. He straightens, just a little, as Umie comments on his place, but Shiryuu is quick to ''correct'' the situation. That is to say: nice save. Any sign of ''startling'', however much Kurou startles beyond the tension he carries in his muscles, eases again. Nothing about Kurou's face changes except the shimmer in his eyes.

The highest possible marks...!

Kurou only falls out of that quiet joy as Umie offers to share the gift he's brought. "... If you would like," he says, tone ever neutral, but eyes flicking toward the box suddenly like a dog that realizes there are snacks afoot. He didn't think he'd get to have any...

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''

"... So the technology is... paint." Umie tilts her head to a generous angle, glancing back towards the painting. "... Was the izakaya stall the latest technology too?"

The shoes... well, those could be too. They're certainly holding up better than her cheap ones.

'A-as expected, you misunderstand the situation.'

It takes a moment, Umie's gaze going from Shiryuu to Kurou, and then back, for the blonde to realize her misstep. Ah. Kurou... must not see it that way, or otherwise see them as his accomplishment, similar to how Umie sees her own.... apartment...

"Ah, my apologies," she quickly asserts, redirecting her attention to Kurou. "Congratulations on your hard work." She bows. "I'm glad Shiryuu Ryouhara-k-... san?" She's looking towards the shihaisha, as if to quietly ask, 'what exactly *do* I call you here?! There's two of you!'

And Shiryuu feels too...

Too.....

(Don't let him win, Umie!!)

"Anytime, Ryouhara-kun," Umie says towards Kurou with a small amount of warmth in her voice. "Maybe you can help paint some masks sometime? I need some new ideas. I can help with any homework, as well. You might as well use my talents to your advantage."

She... won't mind someone getting groceries, either. But where will he sleep? Maybe the couch? Or maybe by the window? Her futon takes up so much room...

And Ryuji's words of warning yesterday carry a certain... sting. She may feel a certain... sisterly feeling towards Kurou, but he's still a teenager. She has to be mindful of that, and how he (and she!!) will be perceived, if the arrangements come up. "We'll have to settle things with the landlord, of course, but that can wait a few days at least."

Besides, there's--!!

The 'gift', at first, seems to simply be Shiryuu's glasses, folded closed with a silk braided cord wrapped around them. The pattern of the cord is subtle, in shades of white that almost seem to shimmer, but this is simply an effect of the patterned weave.

Walking to him, Umie reflexively takes the card with her free hand and turns it over.

His... number. Phone number. Umie struggles to keep her cheeks from turning pink. She'll need to do this quick, or else--!

Reaching up, if Shiryuu doesn't bow away, Umie brushes the hair back from in front of his face and carefully slips the glasses over his eyes. Otherwise, she'd slip them into his hands, the cord simply wrapped around them as if she didn't know how else to justify handing the gift over. "Not sure if I like you better with or without the glasses," she says, with a cheeky little half-grin, seeming pleased with herself in that hesitant pose, despite the pink on her cheeks. "So you'll have to sell me on both."

Then, AS IF NOTHING HAPPENED (unless stopped), she turns to Kurou. "Let me finish my dinner and we'll have cake!"

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"The latest, and strongest technology," Ryouhara confirms a second time. "The izakaya was ..." Shiryuu tries to explain, before trailing off in a slow, uneven little sigh.
He doesn't explain further than that, mysteriously.

"Ryouhara-sama is my appropriate address," he informs Umie in a fit of nettled, imperious pique, not inclined at all to be helpful after being so ruffled. "I am the Shirogarasu, supreme authority of the clan of Ryouhara. As you should know, that lofty, invincible station is referred to as 'shihaisha.' You may use that if you like."

His lips press together tightly, as if fighting every impulse, smoldering in captive annoyance with every point of the compass other than his own sentiment. A full and awkward thirty seconds later, he relents.
".....Shiryuu is fine, for the time being."
A look is shot over to Kurou quickly. "...But she isn't authorized to do as she likes with my address," he grouses. She absolutely is.

Consciously, Shiryuu is folding his arms by the time Kurou and Umie are cleared on some of the critical details of understanding, hands stuffed tightly into the crooks as the matter of the snacks are settled, and he can only calm down in slight, incremental degrees as he's given the opportunity to naturally view how these two will interact with one another independent of his supervision. Mmm. He almost doesn't even notice Akabane when she takes his number. It's such a small matter of --

"Ohh.." Shiryuu rests his eyes on the cord-wrapped frames in Akabane's hands, the trickle of sound vibrant with a particular, peculiar kind of muted delight in curiosity. "I don't recall there being such a fine cord with them bef--"

And then Shiryuu almost leaps out of his skin when she touches him.

Touching the shihaisha without permission is the sort of crime that people pay for with their hands, and it almost seems like that's the case when Ryouhara's hand snaps to, instinctively catching Umie by a wrist as she brushes his hair aside to carefully slide the frames over his temples, past the feathered strands of grey in his eyes. For a single, spinning moment, the shihaisha stands there, in locked position, briskly, painfully aware that his kouhai is watching.

Luckily, he doesn't have his sword with him. One less decision he has to make. Breathing outward seems to take forever. ".....iih.."

Shiryuu's expression calms, subtly resting into the motion and allowing Umie her moment. He never -actually- releases her, the tiny give in his grip only enough for that little, tiny act, and luckily both of his eyes are now hidden behind a sheen of dark glass, otherwise there'd be a context to his eyebrows being buried somewhere at the top of his skull before they settle.

Only when her hand actually drops away does he release it, with a corvid quirk of his head, his earrings shifting position with the motion.

"...hm." He seems pleased at her satisfaction.
"...Thank you," Ryouhara says, raising a hand to his mouth discreetly as to suppress a cough that never comes. "Kurou. This is the most highest quality of sublunar visual protection," he finally explains. "Second only to Nahara's ninkou. Akabane should be celebrated for her grace in retaining them for me.."

As if that was the end of the matter, the boy turns away to hide any further ungraciousness on his part. "Mmm. With the matter settled... I'll leave things in your hands for now. Please enjoy your cake."

He never specifies -who- he's leaving things to.

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

Kurou returns the look Shiryuu gives him, but finds himself at a loss at what it means for Umie to not be authorized with a name she has just been given permission to use. Truly, there are aspects of socialization he still needs to observe and learn.

Even Umie congratulates Kurou for his top apartment scores! He has truly down a good job. He bows to her again. "Thank you. I will put the same efforts into maintaining this space while I am here."

Is it possible some time in her apartment will teach him that his own takes a lot more work to maintain than it ought to? Is this part of Shiryuu's plan? Can Kurou's obstinance be thwarted by such combined finesse and deception?

At the very least, Umie is about to have more fruits and vegetables in her fridge.

She even offers to let him help paint.

"... I would be happy to assist you, Akabane-san." It sounds like it might be a polite agreement on the surface, but perhaps Kurou stating he is happy is one of the few ways he can earnestly express it. His fascination with her masks is not meant to be a secret. "I... do struggle with some subjects, but I will try not to be burdensome."

There's still a student Seki-kun gave him the information of. Kurou ought to contact him, but it's been difficult to find the time now that school has started again. Detainment and execution are of greater priority.

Umie has a gift for Shiryuu...? Kurou watches this exchange in perfect silence. His thoughts draw in this new and strange data. The color dusting Shiryuu and Umie's cheeks. The patterns of their interactions until now. How Shiryuu gives permission for his first name. The close proximity as Umie gives him her gift. How Shiryuu concedes to it. How Shiryuu had made protecting Umie the highest order he had...

"I understand," he says to Shiryuu, almost absently. Yes, the importance of the lenses, but...

...

'... /we'll have cake!/'

Kurou snaps out of his contemplative analysis. Cake...

</poem>

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2026-01-12: Reclaimed Property

2026-01-12T08:33:22Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Log: Reclaimed Property''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara, Kurou Ryouhara *'''Where:''' Hirasaka, Sumaru *'''OOC Date:''' 2026-01-12 *'''IC Date:''' Sep 9 2012 *'''Summary''': ''Shiryuu visits Kurou's residence, as promised. There's no mercy in readiness inspections. Right?'' ---- <poem> '''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.''' Kurou's residence is in Hirasaka Ward. Sensible, given it keeps him in proximity to school, but known to be rough around the..."

*'''Log: Reclaimed Property'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], [[Kurou Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' Hirasaka, Sumaru
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-01-12
*'''IC Date:''' Sep 9 2012
*'''Summary''': ''Shiryuu visits Kurou's residence, as promised. There's no mercy in readiness inspections. Right?''

----
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

Kurou's residence is in Hirasaka Ward. Sensible, given it keeps him in proximity to school, but known to be rough around the edges. Less sensible is that Kurou's residence is part of an apartment building looking rather like it might be crushed between the two taller buildings it's trapped between at any moment. It would be a miracle if there were a half dozen rooms available in such a space. It is the opposite of a miracle to learn there are, in fact, twice that.

There is precisely one inch of yard before reaching the front wall of the building. A few tenacious weeds manage to surprise in that strip of dirt.

His apartment enters from the outside -- or at least, probably his apartment, as it exists between '105' and '107' but only has the numbers '10' followed by a strange smear -- sparing Shiryuu a claustrophobic liminal experience, but requiring him to climb halfway up a narrow, rusted staircase that does not creak so much as it screeches if weight is applied wrong, and the incorrect application is 'any'.

The peeling paint of the door was presumably once intended to be white, but now certainly is not. Whether it's more greenish or yellowish depends on the angle, and in some choice conditions, it becomes a sickly combination of the two that might not have a name yet.

Unfortunately for anyone who now does not want to knock, the button for the buzzer is missing, leaving a hole with frayed wires crawling out.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

It's roughly the promised time. Shiryuu won't deny a bit of shihaisha's prerogative in the matter, but he was off shift at the construction site early today, and without a current studio timetable, he has nothing to do other than to manage his affairs.

Much to his detriment -- though the boy in the massive fur-lined jacket (in September?) had evened out in the last week following his inspection of the Akabane property, his detached mien is still sporting the scars of sleep deprivation, long lines etched underneath his eyes. Even so; there's been enough to do that he's elected to execute a rigorously, brutally efficient schedule, remarkable in the aftermath to all but the most disaffected of the clan.

Namazu no Takeshi had ''laughed.'' Infuriating, as ever.
"'ho hoo hoo,'" Shiryuu mimicks, under his breath. Stupid.

That's when Shiryuu almost trips over exactly 1cm of weed. It's really the only thing keeping the brutally efficient and also brutally distracted shinobi from walking right past the little blip of an apartment building, lost inbetween much bigger cousins. The grey-haired boy pauses, looking up. "....?"

He checks the note card in his jacket pocket again. Looks around. Left. Right. Up again, eyebrows knitting in bold, terrible confusion. Is this it?

He regards the wrought iron staircase as if it were a live viper.

Ryouhara definitely waits until there's nobody nearby to start up that mess. Luckily, Ryouhara ninjutsu aside, Shiryuu has a rather featherlight step. He's not wearing his backpack or sword today, so the three leaves of Ryouhara are openly stylized as geometry, a trio of chevrons at his back today around a three pointed whirling blade. It also means he's considerably lighter still, so doesn't have to worry about the imminent collapse of the stair system.

Much.

Regarding the smear with a tepid glare, Shiryuu's inner proclivities start to show when he sets a knee against the doorframe to rest his weight and -- instead of knocking, attends the box inside the doorbell system and its wiring. Let's see. Hot. Neutral. Is this power live? Short this to that. *ZAP*

"Ow-- son of a--"

Inspection start!

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

The door swiftly pulls open, Kurou there to blink back at Shiryuu and however he chooses to nurse that newly electrocuted finger. In the comfort of his own home, he is not wearing that novelty hoodie vest of his at the moment, instead in a simple, black tank with similarly dark pants.

"Shirogarasu," he greets in realization, bowing very deeply. He rises from it a little taller than before. "Please make yourself comfortable. I will prepare tea."

It is in dark here.

The only window faces the industrial view of a brick wall, and the light switch by the entrance is facing down. The wiring of the naked bulb above is exposed, drooping through torn drywall, and bound in enough electrical tape to resemble the pelt of a reef snake.

Lighting is instead granted by a battery powered lantern dangling from a wall-mounted coat hanger. The shiest outlines of glow-in-the-dark stars speckle the ceiling, but without enough daily light to charge them, only those closest to the lantern could manage any glow.

Kurou's futon is on the far end of the room, which exists five paces away, folded against the wall and neatly covered in grey, fraying sheets and a single, thin pillow. This is topped by a wolfish plush toy, well worn and missing an eye. The futon is squashed by a narrow dresser missing its third drawer and flanked by what seems to be a laboratory classroom table stolen from a school building. It is neatly stacked with textbooks and school work on one side, sectioned off cleanly from the single hotplate (currently with kettle which Kurou attends) and meager collection of mismatched dishware.

Most of the room is currently taken up by a low level table... or the plank of plywood Kurou evidently ''believes'' is a table, lifted up by a pair of plastic crates.

Kurou busies himself with sifting and whisking matcha powder while waiting for the kettle to reach optimal temperature, for this is such an occasion as to call for ''the good stuff''.

Surely, this will help him get a good grade in inspection.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"Noble Ryouhara." It's a formal greeting -- excessively formal, used primarily during a little known period of time in the clan during the Meiji Restoration to bolster clan spirits during their muddiest years.

Shiryuu uses it now primarily to mask the fact that Kurou currently finds him sucking the sting out of the nerves in his index finger, an idle salve that is quickly dissipated with an equally idle hand shaken through the air, before he faces Kurou as something -- remotely -- resembling shihaisha.

"I hope you've made your home ready for my inspection. Akabane's was not so lucky so as to have as much warning..."

Shiryuu trails off, focusing into the dim black void just above the younger shinobi's head, peering past the door into the pitch black beyond. MMnhrh. His face is cool and complacent, but there is a certain gingerness to his step, and the direction of his searching glance for a lightswitch or literal anything is somewhat telling. Slowly, eyes used to intense neon adjust to the dim light cast by the lantern, and the smaller details come clear.

The onmitsu's eyes are as narrow as knives as he looks around silently in Kurou's wake. As according to their training, the kouhai is much more organized than appearances let on, perhaps even moreso than himself. Ah, he's making tea. It should be fine. Uh. Hmm.

"There was a structural problem in the ceiling, so it was necessary to dole out my harshest grades," Shiryuu lies quietly, looking up while Kurou is elsewhere attending the matcha. A fingertip reaches up -- he is just tall enough to reach one of the stars up there, and he is surreptitiously trying to pluck one off while Kurou is mixing, to pocket it before the younger boy notices.

He also notices the brick wall outside the window. He must truly live a charmed existence to have a view in most of the places he stays. Regrettably, Japan seems to be run by the tyrants. 'Asseisha,' Seishirou called them once.

"This location is admirable for its ... stealth," Shiryuu notes, partially as a distraction for his personal skullduggery. He has learned from his previous escapade with the buzzer, and only taps the light bulb of the unanchored lampholder, not the actual wiring. That's just a project right? It's not a table, certainly. It looks like a table.

"How did you come across it..?" Perfectly innocent discussion.

Kurou has to be careful here not to implicate anyone he doesn't want censured.

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

Kurou regards Shiryuu's finger with a small twist of his head, but does not verbalize his concern. That comes, instead, in the form of a swiftly and quietly placed bandage and antiseptic set on the corner of his table before he focuses on tea. (His 'table'.)

"You were generous with your warning to me," he replies. "So I had time to acquire the appropriate refreshments."

He moves within his own dark space either from familiar memory or brute forced comfort in the inappropriately low life. In truth, there is probably a bit of both. With enough squinting, one might see the outlines of another door in this space, opposite the window. Hopefully it's not a closet, because otherwise Kurou doesn't have anything that could feasibly be a bathroom.

Ah, but poor Akabane and her ceiling. "My apologies. I failed to recognize that when I was assisting with her provisions."

Shiryuu procures a plastic star, for Kurou is more than sufficiently focused on the critical task of tea brewing. A dot of adhesive putty comes with it.

And then... praise! Of a fashion. Kurou looks toward Shiryuu, and his face is now the brightest thing in the apartment. Given how little Kurou's face shifts, even in such motions, this is a terrible thing to have to be true. "Yes, the location has its advantages."

Unfortunately, Kurou soon proves the table is really meant to be a table when he serves tea in traditional, tall form cups... setting the chipped one on his own side, though Shiryuu can still make out the faint outlines of cracks in the other, mended from whatever accident it once experienced. It is paired alongside a box of maple leaf nerikiri... vivid green and autumn hues existing in harsh contrast to the colorless apartment.

Questioned, Kurou pauses, eyes wandering upward as he searches his memories.

"It was... a newspaper listing." He nods slowly. There were a few attempts at housing back then, but he is fairly confident this is the one that came from the paper. "It is close to the school, and, as you say, an inconspicuous location."

Kurou sets his hands around his own teacup, letting the heat sink in. "... Ultimately, it was your rise to leadership is what allowed me the agency to acquire independent and improved living conditions."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

A thumbnail scrapes the putty off the back of the star. It's gone by the time Kurou is next aware, leaving Shiryuu to appear to be placing a droplet of antiseptic on his fingertip while Kurou attends to affairs. It both gives Shiryuu a reason not to try and fix the overhead light's wiring (plus) and to eventually face facts that he is being presented with a table (minus).

He didn't ask if Umie came here. For his own sanity, that seems like a good policy to continue. "..it's fine," Ryouhara comments, his voice smooth and cavalier in the dark. "I also reviewed her supplies. I can tell she's been being guided to make better choices. The work was within my wishes." There was no rotting food in there this time. "Akabane's health is the priority..."

Shiryuu is mostly making idle conversation, subjects passing with only the lightest brush of his authority as shihaisha -- the expected amount of discretion between shinobi of differing rank, but no more.

It is, perhaps, the only signpost of Shiryuu's respect, affections, or entire lack thereof. He can be quite heavy-handed, when the situation demands.

As demonstrated.

Oh lord. It is a table. The young man is quiet as the tea is set out, and though his two-tone eyes brighten -- a shade -- at the colorful dough snacks set out, Shiryuu is impressively reserved with the delicately mended cup. "Thank you. I will join you," he says formally.

It is, however, with a much more haunted eye that the young man allows the tea's warmth to seep into his fingertips, hands just barely poking out from the sleeves of his jacket as he makes out the mysterious door in the dark. He is spying it for choice moments while Kurou tells him, thankfully not incriminating any specific name so as to the state of this apartment. "And the landlord?" he asks after. "I hope the management is cooperative."

'It was your rise to leadership that allowed him the agency to be here.'

"....Aa," Shiryuu replies politely, his expression never quite changing from that careful cultivation. "Underneath my hand, all Ryouhara must realize their deepest dreams in my synthesis," he says, though something about it is merely reflexive.

There is a pregnant pause, as the shihaisha lifts the tea to his senses to sample its scent, letting the warm steam slide between his thumbtips.

"...Kurou," he looks up, the press of his dull grey eyebrows sharpening by a shade. "...have you been al--" Hm. He pauses, a band of steel slithering into his words.

"... have you spoken with anyone since the events at the village?"

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

Would that Kurou know it was his doorbell (or lack thereof) that is the true offender of this slight. Perhaps he might recognize the flaws of his own residence then.

As it is, he carries himself with a demeanor dangerously tilted toward pride for where he lives.

And does it not allow him to perform satisfactorily in his duties? To hear Akabane-san benefit from his efforts is more affirmation that, despite everything, Kurou's instincts are not so eroded that he has lot all efficiency. Umie is a little better off, now. A little more protected from the world and its various ills. Some of that is surely Shiryuu's own personal influence as well.

"I understand. I will continue to offer her support."

These are bold words for a boy with a line ripped through his ceiling.

The more casual manner are not something Kurou takes for granted. He understands, despite the great secrecy afforded his living arrangements, that it is useful to appear as though they are not conducting constantly business and assessment.

For as horrific as the presumed table is, the tea would be at home in a tea ceremony. Perhaps that makes it worse. It is incredibly doubtful Kurou brewed this with any available tap water given the purity of its flavor, but perhaps this can be taken as a reassurance in some ways.

Kurou takes a long sip and is quiet as it travels through his throat, allowing him this one indulgence before answering Shiryuu. "They are busy people, but my estimation. I have inquired about the lights and the mirror a few times, but it is no matter... I realize these are not critical situations."

They kind of are!!

Reflexive as Shiryuu's words are, they are the kind well engraved on Kurou's heart. His expression turns more thoughtful. Deepest dreams... Yes, he does have the agency for that too, doesn't he...? Well, one step at a time, beginning with a place to sleep and brew his own tea.

In that pause, he sips again, but pauses with Shiryuu's question. Kurou gently lowers the teacup until it is silently set to the table. His brows raise slightly as the only hint of his surprise. At first he wonders if Shiryuu means to verify his silence in what transpired, but...

"I have not."

Should he have?

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"Mmm."

The shihaisha's sound is one of muted approval. The tea is phenomenal, of exemplary quality, recognizable even by someone who doesn't normally drink a lot of tea. The clean grassy notes of the matcha, the smooth feel of filtered water. The technique of that boy is at the highest level.

Exactly why he tasked him to capture three men and drag them before him on a moonlit night.

However, the grey-haired Ryouhara is not at all so final in the matter of landlords as he is with clan lords. "We will have to revisit it with them," Shiryuu replies mildly, as if it didn't matter at all in the slightest. "Though.. hm..." he wonders openly after something Kurou said. Between slender fingers, the onmitsu sets the tea down gently onto the plywood, mindful so as not to damage the cup's repair.

Shiryuu makes a point to duck the exposed hanging wiring as he steps towards that door in the dark, to open it, ostensibly to make use of the amenities and wash his hands, perhaps? Perhaps.

There is an audible click as the doorknob turns a few centimeters too far, helpless in Shiryuu's grip.

The older boy releases the slightest dagger of a sigh. Kurou may recognize that he does this a lot when he's done talking, though in this case he didn't say anything previous. The shihaisha's investigation is ongoing, and a small examination reveals that the privacy lever is broken inside the lock, keeping the doorknob from actually operating the strike. Luckily, the strike is not aligned with the strike plate, and so the door isn't properly latched to start with. It is, however, stuck, and by Shiryuu's estimation, it takes a three degree counterclockwise shift in weight to take the pressure off of the jamb enough to open the door.

The battle is mercifully brief. The door cracks just a little as the onmitsu pauses, his hand at his side. Just a second's hesitation before opening, as the admission that Kurou had not spoken with anyone since the matter hangs like a yellow moon, low, sick and omnipresent in the air.

"....mm. You've done good work for yourself," Shiryuu points out. Is he actually talking about the apartment? "In representing my will. And in representing and erasing the shame borne by the name 'Ryouhara' in the world from our forebears."

"However... in spite of every deserved exalt, the 'name' is not as important as 'we.' Synthesis is something that transcends the boundaries of fame. A rhythm that cannot be achieved alone."

The doors is cast open with a puh, though Shiryuu does not yet look into the dark beyond. Instead, his gaze pivots, sliding across the ground, pensive, as if determining what exactly to say.

"....the order for secrecy is still in effect. Transgressions could still damage the clan. But... you should find a person outside of our moorings. A person who understands your ways. Even if that person is someone who would think to kill me, the highest and noblest of the clan Ryouhara, he who holds the title of 'Shihaisha...'"

"...Know and be safe in knowing that the life I lay down for our shining future is not one that can be so easily taken."

For a shining moment, his voice is clear, bold, and true, an arrow shot from heaven. In the second moment, the storm greys the sky, and the young man finds far more trouble in coloring the course and tone of his words. "And ... should you find such a person, and that person is someone you trust, I will preemptively authorize your judgment in the matter."

The door hits the end of its hinges, and slowly bounces back a few inches before its momentum bleeds away, leaving it ajar. Shiryuu doesn't notice.

"I know there's some things," he begins, before shortly trailing off.
He sighs, brushing a strand of silver from his eyes.

"... Become strong," he starts over. "I will give you my trust as to how."

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

A cup of tea brewed with the same conviction as capturing three men and casting judgment on their crimes... For even Kurou requires more than an empty ceiling to stare at when all is said and done. A warm cup of tea, and a ceiling of glowing stars... Well, one of these was reliable.

Kurou accepts Shiryuu's desire to meet with the landlord without resistance, simply nodding with this assessment. "Very well. Tomorrow will mark two weeks since my last attempt to contact them. I have been led to understand this is the amount of time that should be given to process each request."

They will be expecting his usual attempt at correspondence, which has become an all too comfortable pattern, instinctively, and they will be prepared to ignore it just as unthinkingly. But they will not expect another's involvement.

Then Shiryuu stands to attempt entry into the bathroom. Kurou's mouth starts to open in a quick word of advice on how to handle the contraption he dares call a door before he feels silenced by that sigh. But Shiryuu navigates the situation expertly. As expected of his shihaisha. It is with shame that he ever suspect he should need to intervene.

Yet Shiryuu speaks instead of continuing his investigation. Or washing his hands, which is what a normal person is probably meant to think.

Kurou keeps his cup down, hands squeezes around it, as Shiryuu addresses him. His own small breath escapes, of a small fragment of tension he allowed himself to hold. He does not regret his actions. He does not think he would, or should, have done differently. But he is a simple shinobi, and there is still relief to know Shiryuu does not regret his reliance on Kurou that night.

It is the rest of it that makes Kurou's head start to turn to one side like a dog that doesn't understand a new sound.

"My... ways..." he echoes, beginning as a question before correcting itself out of one. Not Clan Ryouhara's ways. Not the ways of a shinobi, or the ways of their family's future. His own. Even if they were to --

"Ah --" Quiet alarm lights in Kurou's gaze, but he does not protest. No. He should know better by now. Not him, not the Joker Killer, not anyone has yet been able to rip Shiryuu from the mortal coil. The bright clarity in Shiryuu reflects back in Kurou's deadened eyes, giving the illusion of a glimmer of vivacity.

Could Kurou ever trust such a person who would even consider threatening that future he clings onto...? Oh, he realizes the moment the question hits him, that is what Shiryuu's strength seeks to offer, should that be the kind of person who knows Kurou's 'ways'. In order to become strong...

"I will." Kurou speaks with his own force of conviction, as if the order had been one of the highest magnitude. "And I will not squander the confidence you have placed in me."

... This is a bold statement to make while Shiryuu has just opened the door to his bathroom with a sink the size of a soup bowl, a shattered mirror, and a shower that has a maximum capacity of nine tenths of a person.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

It was important.

The broken fragments of the clan, the shattered emotions and cycle of recrimination was in every step he took. It would do the boy behind him no good to understand 'mortality,' or the mortal scar he bore from his ill-fated attempt to remove the Joker Killer from this mortal coil. How would he even explain it? To anyone, really...

How does one explain that half their life is there and gone at once?

It's better this way. The invincible Shirogarasu is much better a name, he thinks. Better than a dead fox. A dragon's hope. .. an empty-headed pet.

There is something he can do for the world, for them, as Shirogarasu.

Fingertips barely visible rub together in idle thought as Kurou replies, as the tea cools regrettably on the makeshift table, as the grey-headed boy thinks of landlords and intervals, and the strange proclivity of everyone around him to be subjected to unconscionable slums.

...forgetting earlier thoughts, the shihaisha's eyes half-lid, and the moment cools to ice. "Mm."

The light from the lantern flows organically (not helpfully, which is a distinction) into the closet-made-bathroom, an affront to the sensibility of anyone like him, and Shiryuu's glance into it reveals the broken mirror, reflecting the distant light like a distress signal from a plane crash. The light barely -- just barely -- catches Shiryuu's reflection as the young man looks up, leaning into the bathroom and peeking up... down... left...

"...Mm. A viable start to one's living arrangements," Shiryuu decides quietly. "For my final evaluation, the selection and seclusion of the property is within standards." He doesn't say 'my standards,' nor does he specify whose standards. Likely, he means Kirijo standards.

"As a result," he continues, "as shihaisha I intend to annex your property for our use. Temporarily, this place will be the storage site for a shipment of ninkou that will flow through Sumaru from Nagano in accordance with business the prior Yongarasu were overseeing. During this time, your home will be underneath my personal securities and control. Once the shipments have concluded, we will return it to you, with the necessary recompense."

Shiryuu shuts the door, and is eager to do so. "In the meantime, I will deliver you to Umie Akabane, with whom you'll stay in the interim. Despite the distance, you will attend to your regular duties, including intelligence gathering at Kasugayama. The proximity to Akabane will make it easier to uphold your other responsibilities."

He points at the maple nerikiri. "I will sample these," he says, "before I hear your answer." Priorities.
</poem>

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2026-01-05: Consequences of Authority

2026-01-08T01:25:29Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Cutscene: Consequences of Authority''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara *'''Where:''' Inokashira Line between Sumaru and Tokyo *'''OOC Date:''' 2026-01-05 *'''IC Date:''' Sep 05 2012 *'''Summary''': ''There is a price for everything.'' *'''Content Warning:''' Psychological abuse and execution by suicide. ---- <poem> "Tsuchigarasu Utahiko. The last hanzaisha of the Ryouhara Yongarasu. As the sole remaining traitor, I discharge you of further responsibiliti..."

*'''Cutscene: Consequences of Authority'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' Inokashira Line between Sumaru and Tokyo
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-01-05
*'''IC Date:''' Sep 05 2012
*'''Summary''': ''There is a price for everything.''
*'''Content Warning:''' Psychological abuse and execution by suicide.

----
<poem>

"Tsuchigarasu Utahiko. The last hanzaisha of the Ryouhara Yongarasu. As the sole remaining traitor, I discharge you of further responsibilities. You have been marked by the ninkou 'Metsumeitou.' Your execution will now commence."

The saltire killing mark of the ninkou was already on the older shinobi's bare chest, sealing his fate. There was said to be another, ko-ryu version of this ninkou that was haunted by the ghost of its previous owner, but this Metsumeitou was gendai-ryu, perfected ironically enough by the late Setsuya Ryouhara. An unfitted tanto whose tang was wrapped in linen, with a loose tail end left dipped in ink. A poison ink, absorbed through the skin over the heart. Living was not possible past forty minutes, and the end was painful delirium.

"And here I thought that boy was broken beyond repair.." In the rumored histories of the original, what one did after being marked by Metsumeitou and how long they were able to resist its pull would define that condemned's honor as a person. The condemned was now free of his chain bindings, given the honor of a white kimono to drape over his battle-worn shozoku. So far, Utahiko was doing admirably against the ravages of a very modern poison.

'''He wouldn't stop howling.''' He could remember the strange twist in his heart as he entered the safe house in Sumaru, the dingy basement, with the sanitarium-lined walls of the cell just beyond, shut snug with a four inch thick batten and iron brackets. The folding spears of the shinobi naturally parted for him, even with his arm in a sling and his middle still bound in linen. Grim, the boy looked to the old man called from Akita personally to overlook the affair. He shook his head at Shirogarasu.

'''"How many did we kill,"''' Kouzou had asked him once, the man now on the other side of that gate.

The silver-haired man had perched on the steps leading up to the higher levels of the pagoda. He kept careful watch on the condemned, his sheathed sword in his lap. It had already killed two people in the night. Unlike the other shinobi, who wore special gloves and helms when handling the marked prisoner to prevent a scuffle from dooming them, Shiryuu wore no such protections. He met Utahiko levelly, eye to eye, a stone's throw away.

While the Tsuchigarasu was armed with Metsumeitou laid ceremonially in his lap, he had no desire to use it. Instead, the man looked up, a grim expression painted across his gnarled face. It was somewhere between bitterness, and satisfaction.

"I imagine you're going to have a time telling the brothers," Utahiko had laughed icily. "Imagine how loyal they'll be to the cause... when you have to give them their father's head in a box.

'''It wasn't a box.''' Shiryuu remembered the folded, bloodied hagoromo in his arm, and the way Kouhei's eyes burned when he turned it over, after the executions, after Utahiko was in the ground. The way Shuuhei wouldn't look him in the face. What is it you say to children who have just lost their entire world?

What was said to him in rainy Akita, when he was old enough to know? He couldn't remember. Would anyone have said anything to him at all?

'''"You may have the right blood, boy, but Tenzen was wrong. You were better off as one of Setsuya's pretty, empty-headed pets."'''

Utahiko was not at all dissuaded by the shihaisha's sudden, sharp glare. "It's true. With the Aomori in bed with the Kirijo, how long will it be before every other shinobi possesses supralunar might? What will you do when even Shingaya and Hatsumi are carrying around those little handgun trinkets? Perhaps even in time, the Hirano will no longer come to fear the name 'Ryouhara...' what was that child's name?"

Then, Shiryuu's attention sharpened, snapping taut like a garotte. "Careful," he warned. He was determined to see this through, but a dying man had no more fear. "Or you'll do what," Utahiko challenged. "Take another night trip to Shibuya? Perhaps you never killed the Mizugarasu either... perhaps you got cold feet, just like you did his son. Perhaps you've hidden Setsuya there? Or is that tawdry little Order blonde still your target?"

Utahiko fixed his hand on Metsumeitou as Shiryuu glared, almost standing up. The actual blade of the ninkou was meant to be given to its target, to end the suffering before delusion set in. It would never kill an enemy, only its user.

"Remember. Ikou's time was an age and a handspan ago, boy." Utahiko's voice was colder, now. "And in our darkest hours, it was not some tensai we turned to. Then, they had turned to Shinmei. Not long ago, we turned to Setsuya.. Yet you..."

"--Shinmei," Shiryuu finally corrected him, with a long, slowly levelled glare, "did not use gendai-ryu." The ko-ryu ninkou, Bankasoujin, was set end-first on the ground, the fittings making an ominous sound inside the case as he set the swordpoint to the step, as if to remind Utahiko.
"And his enemies did not squander the few chances they were given."

There was still iron in the boy's voice. His grip tightened across the hilt of his sword. Utahiko stared at him, in open defiance.

Shiryuu's next words are the last he would speak to Utahiko.
"There is a cost to committing obscenity before the moon."

"A cost, gladly paid," Utahiko seethed.
A moment later, he smiled, eyes closed.
He lifted the unfitted knife to his belly.
"...for the Ryouhara."

The rumble of the car below him slowly drug the grey haired boy's attention to the present, the feel of the tremendous weight of the train as it shot down its track. The entire grisly affair had been settled, leaving Shiryuu alone in that train car with nothing but his thoughts. A hundred of them, all clamoring for attention inside of his skull.

'''"Ah. The boy who never cries,"''' Utahiko had snickered, when he first came to to realize his fate.

It left the onmitsu to run both of his hands through his hair, staring at the empty chair just ahead of him.

</poem>

[[Category:Cutscenes]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2026-01-04: Reprisals

2026-01-08T01:17:57Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Log: Reprisals''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara, Kurou Ryouhara *'''Where:''' Point 23, Nagano *'''OOC Date:''' 2026-01-04 *'''IC Date:''' Sep 05 2012 *'''Summary:''' ''During the period of time the shirogarasu disappeared, the remaining council in the clan chose once again to sanction power over people. Now a difficult choice must be made.'' *'''Content Warning:''' Violence, execution, death. ---- <poem> '''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''..."

*'''Log: Reprisals'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], [[Kurou Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' Point 23, Nagano
*'''OOC Date:''' 2026-01-04
*'''IC Date:''' Sep 05 2012
*'''Summary:''' ''During the period of time the shirogarasu disappeared, the remaining council in the clan chose once again to sanction power over people. Now a difficult choice must be made.''
*'''Content Warning:''' Violence, execution, death.

----
<poem>
'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"Under the cover of the Dark Hour, Infiltrate the the village of steel. Under my supreme orders, the apprehension of the Yongarasu who participated in the tripartite vote for the corruption of Ryouhara Kouzou and the consequent cooperation with external powers in contravention of the order of 'gokuhi' is authorized. Among these Yongarasu, the following names are prioritized: Tsuchigarasu Ryouhara Utahiko, and Kazegarasu Ryouhara Kazuhira. In addition, the Hogarasu, Tenzen Ryouhara's presence is demanded.

"If there is any resistance or objection, the breaking of the Yongarasu's limbs is authorized. If there is any further resistance, the neutralization of hostilities via any alternative means is authorized in this order of priority: Utahiko, Kazuhira, Tenzen.

"You are under explicit orders not to injure other clan members unduly, and where possible, you will travel beneath their notice to the meeting shrine where the Yongarasu gather tonight to carry out your mission. Carried with you will be a scroll of absolute protection; every member of Ryouhara who defies your mission will be in direct contravention of Shirogarasu, and I will shepherd the removal of each hand that interferes in your mission in contravention of my will as shihaisha.

"When it is done, gather each member of the Yongarasu, gagged and bound, to my location underneath the Renge Kouhigoki. There, we, together, will decide the fate of the Yongarasu who think my absence means they may do as they will."

It is not an easy thing Shiryuu Ryouhara charges his kouhai to do. Inside of the Dark Hour, their targets are locked inside of nigh-impenetrable coffins. Outside, they are shinobi arguably just as lethal and more experienced than most of the ninkougakusha in the village. The Yongarasu are ruthless, and their eyes are omnipresent along the way to the village hidden in the sprawling mountain valley not far from the Chikuma River.

Amongst the Yongarasu, it is no hard thing to ascertain why Shiryuu named and prioritized each as he did.

Kazuhira is the Kazegarasu, and uses a form of falconry in conjunction with uncommonly light ninkou weapons. He is the weakest of the Yongarasu, but the father of Shuuhei and Kouhei Ryouhara, survivors of the Kannenka Project, owing to why he is a member of council. He is likely to be one to have voted for the act that blinded Kouzou.

The other likely vote is Utahiko, the Tsuchigarasu. He relies on heavy tethering weapons like the meteor hammer and underground explosive ninkou, the strongest Ryouhara without supralunary power. He has been in direct opposition to the coup that killed Setsuya since day one, but has grudgingly capitulated.

Tenzen, the Hogarasu, is the only one given the grace and option to appear of his own volition. While he is a well known user of firebombs and arson, the reserved politician is known for his conservative stance, and was arguably the greatest supporter of the pure bloodline's claim.

Not that any of that matters.

It has been sometime since the Dark Hour has ended, and a boy perches on the arm of the Renge Kouhigoki, the mechanical ornamental statue at the base of the Ryouhara pagoda. His grey hagoromo haori has been repaired, and his injured arm is now out of its sling. The sheathed Bankasoujin sits across his shoulders, parked lopsided across his shoulder bag. This time, it is no in its ornamental red bag, and the boy's fingers interlace over his knee, testing the new range of motion.

Dark brown eyes of two shades stare at the thirty foot circle drawn in the ground in front of the statue idly. The moon hangs in the sky bright and bold, a fat, waning thumbnail of grey-white accentuating the light of paper lanterns hung over the circle. Even now, after the Dark Hour, in sublunary time, his eye burns.

A slow, even breath steels the young man's cold nerves, as the shihaisha waits to see how many will have to be broken for the justice of heaven.

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

At this words, Kurou listened. And in their finality, he spoke without hesitation: "Understood."

For he did, beyond even a shinobi's loyalty to his Shirogarasu. He understood it, because his blood grew heated and his own bones rattled to hear their names, knowing what they had done the moment the opportunity showed itself. Knowing how they wished to act, their hands only stilled by the fear of another's presence. Cowardice grows where strength should have.

Today, Kurou is less a dog given command and more a dog finally let loose of his collar. Even grim nostalgia cannot retexture his infiltration through the Dark Hour.

Utahiko, Kazuhira, Tenzen.

In that order, precisely. Raw earthen power to be dominated before it knows there is a fight. Swift wind to be run down before it knows it understands the currents are off and flees beyond reach -- and before others can be called to break their bones on Kurou's resolve. Flame will know what is coming by then, and can choose how much of itself to burn out.

Under Renge Kouhigoki, Kurou pulls in his quarry by Soumeiunsatou's chain to the center of the circle, and under light of the moon's judgment. Each is bound and gagged, as instructed, the Tsuchigarasu with chains and forcibly rendered unconscious by venom as much as force from the altercation that occurred within the same second the Dark Hour broke. He lays claim to the majority of the bruises Kurou will soon show even so.

The Kazegarasu's binds are drawn tight enough to bite into the skin, marking it with friction burns, which may well be a match for the scrapes Kurou suffered in his relentless pursuit. The gag is double layered.

Yet the Hogarasu has been gagged with cloth instead of tape. His ropes are firmly knotted, but allow the comfort of fidgeting movement, were one needed for it -- perhaps even the illusion of potential escape, but not the reality. A formal choice was never given, just the wordless one: formalities will be taken. Comply, or the pragmatic will take their place.

Kurou yanks his chain back into his own grip and looks upon the men he has ambushed, assaulted, and detained with cold eyes before stepping from the circle's radius. He circles and stretches his wrists, bones giving a quiet crack in the night before becoming silent with his machinations.

"For the Tsuchigarasu, three," Kurou reports. "One with four broken fingers on one hand, and a broken thumb on the other. Two stood down with fractures and bruising. I request mercy on their behalf. It was a reaction of instinct, with no way to understand the situation until it was well underway."

"The Kazegarasu... six. Three bruised. One, broken arm. Two required broken legs to efficiently prevent pursuit. I have not verified if misinformation plaid a part in their stubbornness."

"... And finally... two. Stood down and uninjured."

Kurou's gaze lifts up toward Shiryuu as he finally, only now, gently rolls up the chain of his weapon and sheathes a sword still hungry for blood. But... there has been enough spilled of Ryouhara. No. For what remains of their clan...

... Kurou will only take the bones as authorized, and as is owed by their debt.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

His eyes seem to glow in the light, the silhouette with the silver hair, back from the dead.

There is a faint scent of smoke on the wind, with no alarm bells. Shuuhei and Kouhei would have been the most dangerous souls to face, the other two boys possessing supralunar power. However they were nowhere near, busy with their commitments in Sumaru to the Order, to the Ijuuin.

Busy with their commitments to Kouzou, who still wailed uncontrollably in a safehouse, plagued by the visions of his own crimes.

Shiryuu's antipathy is plain as the younger boy arrives with the three in tow, on the end of Soumeiunsatou's chain. Truthfully, the feat would have been near impossible for anyone but a supralunar shinobi -- one unconscious and two others drug by force into the conspiring light of the lanterns and the moon. Even then, a boy should not have been able to manage it, or any of the things tonight.

Other boys do not have the 'strength of conviction' that Kurou does.

"Aa." Shiryuu's reply to the sterile report is harsh, a single sound to fill the air. Eleven shinobi to lay down their lives for the Yongarasu. Only nine to suffer the swords of fate.

Shiryuu is absolutely a man of his word. But he can be swayed. A slow blink follows, and the boy stands, putting a sneaker underneath himself to balance nimbly on the arm of the mechanical aragami statue. His hands disappear into his haori's sleeves as they drop at his sides.

"Exemplary work. I have another choice for you to make," the boy tells Kurou, without explaining further, his attention instead shifting to the captives, the council at the head of the Ryouhara clan.

Tenzen, whom complied most readily, seems the most off-put by his bindings, though he is calm and only gives the Shirogarasu a level look below the edge of his brow. Kazuhira is the most animated, looking as if he may take flight at any second were he not so squarely bound, his shoulders wringing in sharp, fast turn. He does not look at Shiryuu, instead bitterly regarding his captor, eyes stabbing up only to scan the treeline. He is unable to whistle, unable to gesture. It is likely the only reason he is not loose yet.

Utahiko, on the other hand, is silent. He is entirely too unconscious, stripped of his ninkou, to even be a consideration. The ground is painted with the trail his body made in the dirt, his blood.

"'Hanzaisha.'" Shiryuu's single word hovers overhead like the sword of Damocles. Sinner, criminal. "What you have done is already known. It is not my interest to demand answers. Explanations. There is none that will satiate me, who have said that no tolerance will be shown to betrayers. Please do not misunderstand."

He is almost kind.
"We are not equals, us and you. You are under our protection. Not the other way around. Today, you are not 'Yongarasu,' cherished shinobi of the clan. But 'Hanzaisha.' And tonight, you are not subject to my protection."

The hiss of a blade exits its sheath as the boy folds the saya into his hand, as he pulls the black blade of Bankasoujin into the wan light. Its color almost causes it to disappear in the night.

"However, it appears that my charge to execute the law of the clan is not within the rule of 'synthesis.' Synchronicity is the only fairness in this world, and as the pure blood, I have walked a blessed existence. I have not faced the Shinigami of the Hollow Hill, nor do I know what it is to let the black take over my body. Therefore, the crime is not one I will sentence. I must rely on ...another."

With that, Shiryuu alights on the ground, a featherlight step. His mien is as cold as ice as he steps over the captives, the razor curve of his sword floating just over the ground, just over their legs. Over Utahiko's prone neck. One glance -- disappointment -- is traded with Tenzen, before the Shirogarasu turns towards Kurou.

"Children should not execute the responsibilities of men," the young man remarks, an edge of regret in the steel of his voice. "...but it is the nature of shinobi to exist in ill luck. Kouhei and Shuuhei are too close to the Kazegarasu, and Kouzou's judgment is unsound. Forgive me. It is you whom I will place the fates of these men's lives in."

His eyes half-lid, sadly.

"...you are the only one who understands what it is to be terrorized by the moon."

The saya jams into the ground, and the young man reaches into his haori, drawing three black feathers. The quill points orient on Kurou, a plain offering.

"It is mine to discharge the obligations of the shihaisha. But you'll decide. For each one you keep, a life will be owed to you. For each one you drop at a man's feet, a head will fly."

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

Kurou was forged from two fronts: that awakened, supralunar power, and the hell that came before it, when it was hours that were not filled with monsters that were the truly unbelievable ones. But... perhaps it truly his his conviction that is uncontested tonight. Kurou regrets to think that it is also his loyalty not just to Shiryuu, but to Ryouhara itself that wins against those who claim to lead it to its brighter future.

Yet to be offered another choice after all of this...

Even Kurou's stoicism does not fully bury the light of surprise in his eyes, which soon follow Shiryuu's as he speaks to the Yongarasu. He trusts in his own work, yet it is always prudent to remain on guard with shinobi. If any should act, Kurou will have to make a judgment that he can only apologize for later.

... Except judgment is exactly what he is asked to give, and it is Shiryuu who apologizes.

Kurou's eyes close as it falls over him. It is a weight nigh unbearable, and he knows it is but an inkling of the burden that has been placed upon Shiryuu himself by weak men such as these. It is not Shiryuu's weakness that hands it over in this case. It is his desire to see what is right done.

The ones who deserve most to judge are no longer here to do it. Even with the Dark Hour ended, Gashadokuro stirs in the sea of Kurou's soul... dozens of lost voices rendered silent. Kurou now holds the scales, weighing feathers instead of bones.

"You offered me mercy for a great crime, Shirogarasu," he begins, tone soft. They both know what mitigating circumstances were involved with such a choice... ones the Yongarasu do not get to claim. But Kurou will, for the sake of his judgment, pretend that is not a factor.

"... The Yongarasu have also experienced your mercy. They have shown what they will do with that mercy. ... But I am not a politician, Shirogarasu, nor am I a leader. It is fortunate for me that the men before us have already demonstrated their idea of what is just... And each has agreed sacrificing Ryouhara blood in the name of clan strength is a righteous act."

Kurou gently pulls a black feather into his grasp.

"Utahiko, the Tsuchigarasu..."

... and drops it.

"Tenzen, the Hogarasu..."

... and drops another.

"Kazuhira, the Kazegarasu..."

Kurou pauses. He rolls the quill between his fingers, then opens his palm, letting the feather lie there. A father of two sons who survived the project... He gains his strength and his title from their suffering, but... was that not the same as his own mother...? Would two shinobi who have already lost too much lose something more...?

A breath escapes past Kurou's lips, slow and soft.

... the feather is released to fall to the ground.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"....."

The saya of Bankasoujin, a curved black length sticking crookedly into the ground, seems more relevant now than ever. Black feathers, three in number, lay around it, curiously having arranged themselves to circle around one another in the shadow of that saya, a gift before a headstone.

There is unrest amongst the group, but the sound of it almost seems too far away. Kazuhira, for his part, thrashes and muffles, yelling muffled behind his doubly-gagged mouth in objection with no discernable words, writhing in his traces to get loose and question this blatantly unfair judgment. Utahiko lay there, blissfully unaware of what has just transpired. And coldly dignifed stands the Hogarasu, Tenzen's brow knit in an ice cold stare from one boy to the next.

A pair of weather eyes, one shade of brown different from the other, passes over them dismissively, dark in the subtle, mad way of the Shirogarasu. He doesn't need to see where the feathers land to know what the judgment of fate would be, but it is his duty. First, he looks at them, the captives, then down to the feathers arrayed at the youngest boy's feet. He looks to the side, to Kurou, searching that child's eyes.

For a moment, he searches the boy, his undefeatable mien cracking nigh imperceptibly. He waits to find a moment of pain, of guilt, of doubt. But not to shirk his task. Not to reverse fate.

He reaches for Kurou's shoulder, hand pressing down soothingly on the boy's shoulder. Synchronicity is the fairest thing of all.

"Do not despair," the young man assures his junior. "...every fault lays with me, and I'll take responsibility."

...the blade of Bankasoujin rises, and Kurou's burden is lifted from him.

There is a tilted, adjunct madness to the moment that Shirogarasu turns away from Kurou, his shoulderbag tilting to one side until the three leaves of Ryouhra shows on the haori at his back. So like the three feathers on the ground, feathers the boy now steps over as the saya is pulled with him as he goes, the lacquered length held in a free hand. The tumult is fueled primarily by the ignored struggles of Kazuhira as Shiryuu strides past him and the unconscious Utahiko. It is Tenzen he strides to, the man who stands before him with leashed, subdued pride. The blackblade slides expertly, beneath the gag, for the silver-haired boy to cut the gag off the man.

And the Hogarasu is refined to the end, his long black hair flicking to a side as he tilts his head just so to avoid being knicked by that blade.

".... so this is how it is to end?" Tenzen's voice just barely rises to heat, a bitter thread tightening. The blade of Bankasoujin lays at his shoulder still, the edge turned inwards towards his throat.
"It seems," the shinobi observes, imperious even in the face of his own death, demurring, "that we will pay for Setsuya's crimes a third time."

"Aa," Shiryuu agrees, coldly.
"There can be no forgiveness."
"You know I was the only vote."
Shiryuu's grip tightens on his hilt. No hesitation.
"... I know."
"...then, I leave it to you--"

Kazuhira's struggles only gain urgency in the violence that follows, the spray of blood with the long step Shiryuu takes in taking Tenzen's life first. The proud leader is executed on the spot, dead before he hits the ground. Shiryuu barely has a chance to turn before Kazuhira lifts himself to his knees, using the tightness of his bindings against the wooden edge of his shoe to snap the tape, and pop free. The Kazegarasu is named so for a reason, and despite his injuries, the man vaults easily to his feet, and bolts away from the statue, whistling an alarm furiously. Shiryuu blinks, looking up and away from Tenzen.

The Kazegarasu is fast. He makes it six, seven paces away from them.
His head makes it twelve, rolling to a stop far away.

The impact skidmarks from Shiryuu's shoes bleed off his momentum, as the boy flicks the spare blood from his blade, spinning the weapon at his side to clear it, before drawing it through his fingertips and sheathing it.

It leaves only Utahiko, still blissfully unconscious, even as the blood creeps around his chained figure. Shiryuu turns back, towards Kurou, towards the last member of Setsuya's Yongarasu. Dispassionately, the boy's lips press, as shinobi -- alerted by Kazuhira -- begin to arrive. Some are still very, very battered by Kurou's initial assault.

They see what has happened. But a raised hand stays them.

"I, shihaisha, consigned these men to the shinigami for their crimes against the clan. But, regrettably, the hanzaisha 'Utahiko' still breathes. I will not execute someone who is unconscious. Take him to the Akayaten. Strip him of every resource, every name, every title. Synchronicity has dictated that he will die by the foul ninkou Metsumeitou at dawn."

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

Gold eyes, like a predatory beast's shining in the night, gaze back at Shiryuu's, unfaltering. Once the last feather was released, the time for regrets had passed like a ghost in the night. There is no guilt,
even with all the Kazegarasu's muffled mewling, nor is there doubt, even with the Hogarasu's bitter acceptance.

But there is pain, for since their own judgments all those years ago, it has been ever present in Kurou's body.

He is lucky that he still feels it where so many others no longer can.

The weight on Kurou's shoulder assures him all the same, and then it lifts away with the burden of what must happen next. He does not look away, though Kazuhira does test commitment to such resolve by challenging the eye's ability to follow. Kurou's still do, choosing body over head when the latter seems, for a moment, intent on escaping his field of view.

Kurou wonders if he put up such resistance when it was Kouhei and Shuuhei who had to face death. He does not wonder it long, because he does not intend to allow any satisfaction to corrupt the necessity of the judgments he has made... even in retrospect. It was not about the deaths that day that brought Kurou to his final judgment.

It was their fickle conviction that threatens to divide clan Ryouhara at any given opportunity.

Utahiko remains. Kurou's attention flick past Shiryuu, and the subtlest movement begins, hand ready to grip Soumeiunsatou. But he is one of the shinobi stayed by that raised hand, and slowly eases back to neutral.

"Understood," he says, in his way, as if the decree were as simple as any of Shiryuu's others on this night of bloodshed.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

The work is good, Shiryuu sees to it.

Tied in chains, the Tsuchigarasu is going nowhere, as the shinobi take him to the pagoda. In the morning, Shiryuu will see to his execution personally. Metsumeitou was an execution ninkou that would ensure the cleanest and most painful death for Utahiko, far from the swift fates met by his co-conspirators.

It was an ignoble way to go for ignoble people, an honorable way to go for the honorable. The pain would tell him which person Utahiko was in the very end. But for now, the young man watches the affair, arms folded, the sheathed katana tucked in the crook of an arm with the volume of his sleeves.

In those gold eyes, there was no hesitation. A loyalty that is beyond question. It was a precious thing, one that Shiryuu would have to be careful not to abuse.

But... by asking him to be 'fate,' was that the correct burden to place upon him? Is it really okay?

None of the question ever makes it to the young man's unapproachable mien, his mouth a thin, flat line as he stands near the bodies, tilting his gaze to one side as other shinobi come to gather them. For their service to the clan, they would still be given a place in their burial grounds, even if only as dishonored criminals. He would have to take the news to Shuuhei and Kouhei personally.

Responsibility is a sacred burden, and he is determined to see it through. But ...

"...Kurou."

Gone is the imperiousness of decree in that single word, the harsh sword of judgment absent in his voice, softened and braced by something a little less than the authority of shihaisha, that smaller mark on his voice trickling in .... a single feeling.

Ah, it is gone fast, like a moth in flame.
"You've done well for the clan," Shiryuu commends him. "Return to Sumaru, while I settle affairs here. I'll return tomorrow night. In five days time, I am going to tour your living arrangement there. Please ensure it is ready for my eye."

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''

The work /is/ good. Kurou can verify it.

His loyalty would not shake if it wasn't, but it is heartened. Where Shiryuu cannot abuse loyalty, Kurou cannot abuse mercy. This world needs mercy in it... and can ill afford those who would erode it. If he must shoulder 'fate' to ensure it, and to protect this clan's future, then it is a burden Kurou will carry without complaint.

Not that such questions are posed to him, nor does Kurou muse on too many more himself. The only change to his face comes when his name is spoken: the slightest softening in his set eyes, and then threatens to soften quite a bit more.

He almost speaks out, to sense that mark but be unable to identify it...

In the end, the moment is gone before Kurou can act. Quick with a blade, but not with his words.

Confusion remains a moment more. He is not one to question and talk back, understanding there are other shinobi to assist with the task. A pang hits his heart again. Is it obedience instead of loyalty to allow Shiryuu to send him away at such a time...?

... Ah, but. To prepare for a guest. This is a high honor indeed, but one Kurou has a generous amount of time to prepare for.

He gives a single, firm nod.

"Yes, Shirogarasu."

There is almost a sparkle in his eye.

... Tonight was grim and bloody. Five days from now will be... a unique kind of difficult for Shiryuu Ryouhara.
</poem>

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2025-12-26: Remixed

2025-12-27T12:21:40Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Cutscene: Remixed''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara *'''Where:''' A Recording Studio in Yumezaki, Sumaru *'''OOC Date:''' 2025-12-26 *'''IC Date:''' Aug 31 2012 *'''Summary''': ''When life gets complicated, go to the studio and mix it out. Or so the saying goes. Was it a saying? Shiryuu doesn't recall. He certainly said it.'' ---- <poem> '''TODAY: APPT. 1PM, STUDIO,''' the mobile's alert helpfully reminded him. There was a certain substructur..."

*'''Cutscene: Remixed'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' A Recording Studio in Yumezaki, Sumaru
*'''OOC Date:''' 2025-12-26
*'''IC Date:''' Aug 31 2012
*'''Summary''': ''When life gets complicated, go to the studio and mix it out. Or so the saying goes. Was it a saying? Shiryuu doesn't recall. He certainly said it.''

----
<poem>

'''TODAY: APPT. 1PM, STUDIO,''' the mobile's alert helpfully reminded him.

There was a certain substructure to his life that was timed in advance to an almost militant extent, if he were to really step back and look at it. Not the entire course of it -- there were quite a few vacuous gaps in his day planning that were specifically marked as events labelled '''UNASSIGNED.''' The actual creation of each event felt passive-aggressive right down to the punctuation, seeming entirely uncalled for and judgmental in the app's tech-friendly, neutral azure font.

He decided to flout the ominous punctuation and look for pear juice in the market on the way to the studio. Alas, no such luck to be had.

It was, he mulled, an entirely pointless observation to make. It was pointless because he was the one who put out all of the itinerary, last month. He specifically remembered himself sprawled out on a couch in the club amidst a sprawling pride of slumbering dancers, tapping events absently into the phone from memory alone. Typing in the course of one's life, one haptic blip at a time. So really, he had no one else but himself to blame, if he didn't like the way his event planning handled his feelings.

Of course, he could hardly had predicted his own death, since then.

He'd decided that following the routine was probably the best way to sort things out. Getting in was the easy part. Enzan Kiritaka was the name on the registration, but all of the time was pre-paid right? Introducing himself as a member of staff with a card and a branded merch jacket got him into the recording booth, ostensibly to gather some of the files from the creator account.

He set his phone down flat on the workspace, to free up his good hand. The account laptop was already plugged into the I/O panel when he entered the booth. The staff didn't play. The sound of the rolling chair made a tiny squeak as the boy sat back, as he rocked, gliding pointlessly along the length of the workstation. It was a space he'd frequented for some time -- less so for the equipment, of which Gin had had a slew of avant-garde preferences -- and more for the acoustic treatments on the walls. The sound from the chair was a high pitched creak that didn't even get past the foam, but lower frequencies needed to be treated a little differently than a lot of the other studios in the area.

He took out the tiny spiral bound notepad from his Harai zipper jacket, flicking open to the page with his notes. Beneath the date, written there were neatly penned details about the Kamaitachi remix, titled Komachi. One of the notes was 'test with killed piano, hype vocals.' On a base level, he knew that it meant that they were planning on getting together with CLERIC today to replace the stock vocals on Kamaitachi. He remembered what, when, where, why, how.

But the memories no longer had any color. Greyed out, as if they had been experienced by someone else entirely. All that was left was clerical observations. Names, dates, times, techniques. Stripped equally of pleasure and suffering, the memories had no context, soaked in irrelevance to him. The only thing he felt about the notes on the page was a pang of distant, detached concern. It was like attending the funeral of a person you only met once.

Of more relevance to him were the three angry, shock-straight lines segregating the page from weeks ago to hours ago. The name 'Kouzou' was written there, along with three other names subordinated to it. Kazuhira. Utahiko. Tenzen. Kazuhira was marked with a question mark. Utahiko's name was cancelled entirely, with another shock-straight line. Upon reading them, the boy's lips pursed in subconscious derision, his sneakers lifted from the floor to brace heels on the chair's casters, his shoulders raised in pensive, wound energy.

His attitude would come to eventually soften in the quiet that followed. Scribbled haphazardly into the cramped page's margins were a set of colorful swatches. Made with oil pencil, the predominant one was a streak of a candy apple red, and next to it was a bloc of several smaller shades between mandarin and peach. At the very bottom of the page were three tightly scrawled, small words: "I had to," with no punctuation.

"''UGH.''" The abrupt sound was like a smothered gunshot in the quiet studio. The notepad was dropped on the table with no small amount of aggression, leading the boy to kick away from it, turning his back in the rolling chair as if the entire notepad were being put on punishment. The hinge squeaked in tinny alarm as he leaned back, his good hand rammed through his grey hair until the feathered cut was savaged, leaving a haphazard mess in his wake.

"Stupid. So stupid. You ''absolute idiot,''" the boy hissed, to no one in particular he cared to admit. "Keep your mouth ''shut,'' if you don't know how to deal with a... ''grrgh.''"

Suddenly, violently eager, the young man unlocked the laptop to boot up the DAW. He tested the range on the hardware, turning knobs with one hand as if it were something he actually had to do, likely alarming the studio staff. A dagger-short, dagger-sharp sigh punched through the air, and he reseated himself in the office chair. Flicking off the phantom power to the condensers in annoyance and setting the transfer tracks, he continued to grouse.

"Skill issue. Why don't you just shut your mouth and ''handle your affairs,'' Ryouhara..."

'''UP SOON: NAGANO,''' his mobile's alert reminded him, helpfully.
</poem>

[[Category:Cutscenes]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2025-12-24: Safety For Two

2025-12-25T21:04:58Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Log: Safety For Two''' *'''Cast:''' Umie Akabane, Shiryuu Ryouhara *'''Where:''' Shibuya, Tokyo *'''OOC Date:''' 2025-12-24 *'''IC Date:''' Aug 30 2012 *'''Summary''': ''"I had to," he would later write.'' ---- <poem> '''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.''' The streets are still slick from a late night rain as the Dark Hour fell, turning the pavement dark red, offset by the reflective mercury vapor green of the sky. One can say 'red su..."

*'''Log: Safety For Two'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Umie Akabane]], [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' Shibuya, Tokyo
*'''OOC Date:''' 2025-12-24
*'''IC Date:''' Aug 30 2012
*'''Summary''': ''"I had to," he would later write.''

----
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''
The streets are still slick from a late night rain as the Dark Hour fell, turning the pavement dark red, offset by the reflective mercury vapor green of the sky.

One can say 'red suits Umie', but here, it just adds to the noise, outright by the supernaturally saturated colors of anything liquid, some of which currently stain the light grey of the rain jacket that draps over the young woman's form as she moves, complete with the 'kintsugi' themed mask.

Hunched low from a recent leap onto a shadow's 'head' (or a facsimile of one), Umie straightens and swings the kyoketsu-shoge around overhead, building momentum before extending the weapon's reach, until she's able to swing the metal hoop against the neck of a more humanoid type previously to her back. The black rope *slaps* against the thick neck and quickly wraps around, letting Umie to jerk it back, slamming her shoe down on the rope to further increase the tension until the shadow is toppled downwards.

The more blob-like shadow crawls in at this moment and is answered by a blast of confusion and dark, cast by the hooded feminine viciously grinning deity that answers her similarly hooded 'host'. It gives Umie enough time to leap on the humanoid shadow, the bladed end of her weapon clutched between two hands as she jabs it down into the head, landing the necessary blow to complete her first kill of the night.

The second will need to wait; the length of the kyoketsu shoge needs to be gathered up, which Umie's quick footwork, strafing back and to the side as she gathers the length of rope up, throwing the shortened length back and then around to slam it against the second blob.

..... It's less effective than she'd like it to be, disappearing into its mass like floss through gelatin. The blade will work instead, Umie's sneakers giving enough traction to keep from slipping outright as she jumps in, blade flashing through the shadow's body. It's enough; the shadow disintegrates into nothingness, leaving the smiling Umie panting.

She straightens and wipes her cheek, leaving a stain of red.

One could say that the streets of Shibuya have been free of shadows, but they'd be lying. Shibuya's a big place, and, as anyone who's tried to hunt for a needle in a haystack knows, the lower the percentage of anything, the harder it is to find.

So yes, Shibuya is not, and never has been Shadow-free, but damn if one person isn't happy to lower the percentage for the sake of a thankless, meaningless, neverending task.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''
It's important to mention that he is not frequently in Shibuya. It's simply not part of the Ryouhara's ranges of influence -- other clans and financial groups hold sway in Tokyo, and the recent incursion of onmitsu in the region has inevitably been noticed.

However, very few of those organizations possess supralunar power.

Whisperings following the mysterious attack (?) at Haruyama Memorial indicated that powerful clans were beginning to make moves in the region, a salacious rumor that is... ugh... simply not dignified with words.

"Everyone has something to say," he grouses.

So, it necessitates that Shiryuu needs to work during the darkest hour of the night to keep out of the 'prying eye.' It's unfortunately taxing. But it was really the only chance he had. He had, to...

Well. She wasn't at her apartment. He'd spent some time napping on a bus before finding his way out to the streets the moment everything turned harsh and cold and still. This will be the third day, but ...

Propriety has its cost. Luckily, being one with the sky has its benefits.

-boom-

It's not a ... traditional explosion. Fingery threads of vibration jostle the waters in quaking curvature, the waves of red shivering with the deep bassy thump. One, at first, then another. The beat redoubles, folds, sheathes into a red and black rhythm, a beat with fangs. At first, it has the muffled discord of an American neighbor who didn't understand the concept of the word. But then, percussion. And sharp little lines of neon light begin to reflect in the edges of windows. in the translucent core of that gelid creature, right before it fades to nothing.

Then something screams, and is caught in folds of old, ancient wooden plank.

The helical twist of bridges spin vertically out of a curve straight down in the street, boards laying shut to be tied with hemp like slamming teeth together, and on the other side -- a third slovenly mass of cream, utterly confused as every step it takes seems to lead back to the same 4 x 4 space. The twist of bridges hangs there in the air for a time, rolling like an old pennant in the breeze as it curves slowly and out of sight in the sky.

"Nitou-ryuu is not simple," he observes plainly, "when the second is a chain instead of a sword. But..."

He arrives as if he'd been there the whole time, wind-blown dust given form as he simply appears on a plank. He's wearing the white haori 'Byakuren Hagoromo' over his street clothes, 3/4 dark and strappy cargos, his new shoes, leading into a customary turtleneck. His sword is tucked into his waistband on the wrong side, as his off-hand is still in a sling, with a hand draped over the pommel.

He doesn't seem to be in any hurry to kill the caught thing. The subject changes slightly. ".. It seems like your actions are gaining attention."

He's about ten feet up in the air, and he leans over, subconsciously annoyed that the colorways of his sneakers are completely useless in the oversaturated hour, but not at all aware of it. He is, admittedly, more than a little distracted. Fragments of thought scatter, to and fro.

A tiny, restrained sigh, hopefully out of earshot.
"......it's been awhile."
Shiryuu seems to have no trouble recognizing her.

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''
Everyone has something to say when you steal private health info from a hospital.

Umie, for better or worse, is not there in her apartment. It has been picked up since he's been there last (at least from the mess he made over Umie's smoke bomb incident), the fridge stocked with some fruits and veggies, courtesy of Kurou. A pair of sneakers and a rain coat are gone, signalling that Umie had gone out for the evening.

Which is exactly what Shiryuu was waiting for.

Part of the reason for Umie's preference for the Dark Hour, at least in comparison to Mementos, is that there's little that can surprise her, anymore! (... At least outside of Port City.)

"_What the hell_?!" Nevermind it being an explosion, this sort of bass-thumping should *not* be a thing right now because of a lack of electricity!

Umie nearly falls over, jerking her hood back in order to try to increase her field of vision. (Unfortunately, a mask complicates things there.)

The bridges are unmistakable. Brown eyes widen as Umie stares, completely and utterly dumbfounded, as Shiryuu seemingly comes back from the dead.

Indeed, Shiryuu'd have no trouble recognizing her. Umie's cloaking abilities are much more transparent than those of someone who has better technology, op-sec, or, has a mask of a different sort. Once someone knows Umie's Persona, or if someone says her name aloud, anyone with a previous knowledge of her will know who she is.

It's that easy.

'It seems like your actions are gaining attention.' "You're the one gaining attention!!" Umie sputters indelicately, pointing an accusatory finger up at the dramatically leaning shinobi. "You!! You!! You.. goddamn bastard, what the hell were you *thinking*?! Get your ass down from that damn pole or I'm going to get up there and clock you across the face for--" For *what*, exactly?

Being alive?

"... Shiryuu Ryouhara-kun!!" Ah, Umie's finally figured out Shiryuu's name.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''
To be fair, he's actually almost sitting, one of his sneakers dangling off the edge of the jutting plank at the shoulder of the double helical winding bridges. There's probably a convoluted name for the technique, but it's not really an important detail, as Ryouhara is relatively sure the shadow he's caught is not going anywhere, at least as long as his sword is clicked from its sheath. Somewhere in the sky, his Persona toils, a mechanical kami with a cloak of windchimes and a long drape of shide suspended from an eight-shaku gohei.

It was much easier to spot the disruption from the air, and having access to bridgework all over the city meant that he had a fairly good chance of tracking her once she left her apartment.

Of course, op-sec and training are not .. entirely .. the reasons he recognizes the girl at a glance.

There is a space in which she is shocked, on the back foot, in which case Ryouhara is quite happy to tilt his chin up, breaking eye contact with her for a moment -- one of his eyes -is- sharply blue, and he doesn't seem to want to say anything that might be mistaken for approval while looking her directly in the Kintsugi. "Eh... you've been training. Your retraction technique is getting top-notch. It's going to be a good battle when we meet earnestly," he remarks idly.

Then, his conversation partner gets loud.

'You're the one gaining attention!!' That gets his _whole_ attention. "--ahh? It's just my cognitive BPM, there's no dan.."
'You!! You!!' "--iih.." He makes a face. She's pointing. This is bad.
'You goddamn bastard!' "Hey, that's not--" he makes another face.
'what the hell were you thinking?!' "There was a shadow that was going to..hey, wai-"
'Get your ass down from that damn pole or--' "--but, it's not a pole, it's my jut--"
'I'm going to get up there and clock you across the face for--' "th, hold on, that's not safe! You'll fall!" Shiryuu is, in a word, alarmed.

'Shiryuu Ryouhara-kun!!' "A--akabane-san?!" At this point, the shinobi is now leaned all the way back onto the curling twist of his bridge, finally looking to the shadow he's trapped. Clearly he's just making sure it's still contained, and is not silently asking it for its opinion, or to chime in in his defense.

The squalling captive is absolutely of no help at all.
Very unsanctioned activity.

"...."

Shiryuu has no choice, here. He complies, leaping down to make a weirdly featherlight landing at the foot of the curving pillar of bridges. One hip nocks sharply as he leans uncomfortably. A fingertip hooks into his turtleneck, and pulls at it furtively while he swallows. "...ih.."

"...this doesn't seem tactically sound for me," Ryouhara objects quietly, finally. Gee, that nail salon sign all the way off to his right is crooked, he notices. Maybe he should just go over there and fix it...

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''
Shiryuu's praise, done while he fails to look her in the eyes (as Umie notes), further catches Umie off-guard. She glances to the side, taking that moment to slowly loop the rope of her weapon around her elbow and palm, hanging the length of it over her blade, now nestled in the pocket of her jacket.

Such praise would be enough to cause Umie to fluff up with smug pride, were it from anyone else. ".... I'm used to situations like this. The shadows further out are easily to corral and manipulate. Demons, though... more unpredictable, and persona users, even more so." She pauses, feeling the awkward tension rise in her chest.

This idiot. This goddamn idiot. Does he even *know* what he's put Kurou through, at the very least??

And she lets it rip out of her, refusing to compromise any small bit of her anger, and only then realizing how he *hates* being pointed at. But what was she supposed to do, gesture at him?

_And why is he concerned about her falling, when he was wanting to fight her_?!

God help her, she's getting angry again.

Shiryuu complies, and stands there, squalling shadow to his back, looking anywhere but at her. "..." Umie looks from Shiryuu's gaze towards the nail salon sign, pausing to regard it for a moment before looking back.

Quietly, she walks forward, the only sound of her coming being the steady, casual footfalls of her shoes against the wet pavement.

"I thought you were *dead*," Umie mumbles, like the last tremor of an earthquake that has since passed. "What were you *thinking*, taking on the Old Maid like that..."

She walks, angling towards the side of Shiryuu, and, if allowed, past him, only then tipping down her bifurcated blade to collect the rope in one hand, allowing her to draw it out and attempt to put the shadow out of its misery.

"Did you think of Kurou Ryouhara-kun's feelings? He looks up to you, you know. You think he'd want to spend the rest of his life watching me putter around?"

It's not about that, of course. Her anger... is so much more personal. To make her cry, even a little bit, and then have the misfortune of coming back?

She pays, for those little weaknesses.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''
"...There were some, in the past, who could control demons," the young man replies. "To bend their power entirely to supralunar will." Though his face has healed the moment she stops pointing, there is still an awkward cadence in his voice, an off-rhythm. She might notice that his balance tends to resonates very exactly with the beats per minute of whatever that sound is that boils seething from the ground. Not so, now. The rolling percussion is free of the powerful slam of the bass, with sliding strings and a trickle of chords tumbling the sound into a straight freefall, and Shiryuu's words do not, in the slightest, seem to align to it.

There is a faraway kind of discomfort in the way he looks away, and he doesn't at all seem to notice the discordance.

Aside. The nail salon sign is actually noticeably crooked, but only by a very small amount, and judging by the rest of the signage, may actually be intentional.

It's only when she approaches that he actually turns to look, his eyes immediately locking onto her footwork. At first, the young man is still as she stalks closer. There is a tiny surge of bravery that allows the onmitsu to stand his ground, only for the lightest brush of proximity to raise the spectre of alarm. His right hand twitches on the side of his sword, raising from the hilt in the moment she passes, the moment she recognizes she's heading towards the caged shadow.

In that moment, he looks along his shoulder. He does, to his merit, reach out. He almost stops her right there, barring her from going further. But...

'I thought you were *dead*.'

... he never quite manages to take her by the arm.

"...." Shiryuu listens quietly, his bleached eye warming as he looks down, his pensive aura swelling. She'll notice he's not wearing his shoulder bag right now, likely a factor of one of his arms being in a sling instead of its sleeve. There's something in the tone of her voice that scalds, and he can't.. quite.. understand it.

"...A person has to have a purpose," Ryouhara says of Kurou, as if it explained too many things at once. "Being without one.. is maddening. The boy is strong. And, for our name... it.."
'a shinobi is someone who protects his people and his ideals alone, putting his life on the line.'

The words die in his throat, right alongside the squealing, milky thing behind him, the victim of a blade through what would pass for an eye. And like that, the squealing stops. Pensive, the grey-haired boy's interest in the ground turns to the side without ever really looking over his shoulder. His back is exposed, and the Ryouhara kamon is clear on the back of his jacket. His hand rests back at his hilt, tightening on it. It makes an audible click, and planks slide from between dissintegrating hemp. The freefall beat remains only for a few moments more, and then it is quiet. He replaces the dead words.

".... I'm sorry."

Shiryuu is still not looking. "I was unable to ... I'll assume responsibility. At the last moment, I couldn't ..."

A slow, smooth, hard sigh, easing him, replacing at least some steel in his regrettably weak voice. It should be easy for him to understand, if he puts it in context around the things she doesn't know. Yes.

"I won't falter again. I won't endanger you a second time."

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''
"If you mean people like me... it's not what it seems to be." Umie commits the sin of assuming, too emotionally invested to play the role of a proper detective. "I'm not sure what you mean by supralunar, though." Supra... super? Lunar... moon? Supermoon?

In the past, though... that's... "But you probably don't mean 'a decade ago'." Umie tries to place herself in the moment, and keep her surroundings in mind. The thrum of those beats, the discordance between it and Shiryuu, as if something was off with his being.

And in one beat, the shadow is stilled, without a bit of wasted movement. (She knows what shadows can possibly spring from, after all.)

"Did you know his place sometimes loses electricity?" Umie murmurs, looking down at where the poor shadow was. "That he came to me with an umbrella that barely covered him from the rain?"

.....

"I guess it's just so alien to me. To do everything for a name... I'd rather it be for someone than for a concept that'll mean nothing, without something to back it up."

'I'm sorry.'

Umie's mouth opens in a relaxed O, letting out an exhale of breath.

The surest way to summon Umie's empathy is a show of weakness, on someone else's part-- especially, the sorts that come unwillingly, from people who normally stomach them all deep inside.

For Joker, it was the way his body seemed to react, when exposed to her Mark, and here, it was hearing Shiryuu's apology.

"Mm..." She reaches out, and places a red-nailed hand on Shiryuu's shoulder. (She had painted her nails since the last time she saw him, it seems.) "I do a fine job of endangering myself."

Umie smirks, her lower eyelids rising to accent a glint of mischief in her eyes. ".... He told me you intended to kill me, and that, if I saw you..."

The hand, if still there, will clench on Shiryuu's shoulder slightly, as she nears, the smirk widening on her lips in a sickle smile. "... That I should finish the job."

Fingers release, and she doesn't move closer. In fact, none of her movements suggest she had the intention to attack at all.

"I, of all people, know better than to listen to someone who is driven entirely by the Mark's whims. Lying, scheming, killing... follow those roads down to their eventual conclusion, and you'll find yourself in a mire of your own making. Which... is probably why the NWO likely just eventually kills people like me."

But Shiryuu, instead...

She's no longer smiling, the shark-like grin replaced with a solemn, almost melancholy, expression. "So why did you decide to do the exact opposite? This goes beyond just buying me shoes, or food."

Her lips quirk, in a slight half-grin. "You can say you refuse to answer, if you like."

Why not pay a Joker's reprieve forward?

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''
He doesn't begrudge her a bit of misunderstanding. The Ryouhara words for things beyond mundane understanding are different from the Order's. The explanation he gives for it is simple. The young man raises his good hand, his arm bent at an angle to indicate the crazed and yellow moon in the sky, pointing at it from the side. It's worth noting he has a ..fairly good impression of where she is, to get the perspective just right despite taking all available pains to not look at her.

He points, finger lowering to the black, sick space below the moon. "Everything a person without Persona can achieve, and all of the mundane wonders of the world. Sublunar."

His gesture rises slowly, pointing to the sky above the moon. Up. And up. And up. "Everything beyond that same person's ability to achieve. Supralunar."

Explaining things keeps him distracted. Focused, he would have said, long enough to draw his attention to his subordinate. The young man's chin lifts, and she almost sees his jawline, the mop of grey hair wagging with the swift inclination. A slow blink sharpens his expression, as the line of his mouth sets, his brow crinkling.

His hand almost goes to his phone before he remembers. Mm.

"...I'll take care of it," Shiryuu notes, his voice softer.
Not soft. But softer.

"...." She lays a hand on him, and his glance tilts to the red tint of her nails, fixing an asymmetrically colored stare at it. She'll notice that her touch sinks deep into layers of wool, silk, and god knows what else before getting anywhere near the feel of the sling looped around his neck, before she cna feel the tense energy in his frame.

Understand: In any other situation, a Ryouhara would have warned her about exactly how bad an idea it is to touch the shihaisha, especially while flanking him.

In this scenario though..
Does that energy, for even the slightest moment, fade when he relaxes?

It's like chasing a dragonfly. Invoking the idea of the Joker Killer is enough to set the onmitsu on wary edge, burning away the idea of 'relaxation' like a moth in flame. Shaded by the cascade of grey strands curtaining his glance, she might catch the way he responds, less to her touch but more to what she says, the blades of his shoulders rising almost imperceptibly as she recounts what, exactly, Old Maid said.

He only settles down when she suggests that she might kill him. "... it's fine."
At the very least, what he said to the killer worked. She might realize that he seems to be much more anxious about her talking to 'that man' at all than stabbing him in the back right this second.

"...I won't allow you to be killed," he says, after a moment. "No matter how much trouble you are." He looks away, strictly -- and he isn't looking at her again. He's not really able to move, not like this...

..which complicates the next question.

"Heh." It starts off easy. "Don't be mistaken, I just want to make sure you're ..."

.. and then he trails off.

"...when he was unconscious," Shiryuu points out, after a moment. "... he summoned his Persona. Or ... something like a Persona. I should have been stronger. I should have used my power, and pierced his heart there and then, to settle the matter. My will is lightning, and there's no one that can defy it," he says, with some heat. It fades. "But ..."

He looks up, now this time inspecting the way the roofing of the buildings line up next to one another, one by one. He can't really think of why it's important, and he's going to forget what he decided about the matter the moment he looks away.

".... I thought that if I died, there and then, I wouldn't get to see you again."

It's almost impossible to recount, and the young man is clearly mystified by the idea. He doesn't know why it's important to him. But it's important to say.

"...go home, Akabane-san." The grey-haired boy smothers the notion at once. "Become strong. Take care of yourself."

"Then... come try and kill me, if you like."

'''<Pose Tracker> Umie Akabane has posed.'''
"....." Umie openly stares at Shiryuu, as he explains, the eyes behind that blue-green and gold mask following his hand's movements. She squints, tilting her head. ".... But why the...." She stops herself, raising a hand. "Forget about it."

She is similarly quiet as she reads the movement of Shiryuu's hand towards his phone, understanding what his impulse was. (How many times does she still do the same?)

Perhaps it's this ignorance that makes this contact different: Umie doesn't really understand, nor care to know what a shihaisha is, or how she should regard one. She's more taken by the fact that her hand sinks *into* his shoulder, rather than sit on top of it, as if to mask the energy that lies underneath. She masks it by tilting her head away when she's able, not wanting to lose control of the image she tries to project at that moment, which is further complicated by him swearing to not allow her to be killed...

... Especially since she wants to laugh at the comment he adds to it. And then, yet another; at least, a comment he *tries* to add.

Instead, he admits a little more of his moment of weakness, or what he feels is.

'My will is lightning, and there's no one that can defy it.' In another situation Umie would have huffed a laugh at that, but she can't, now. It's no different than how she stepped towards Shiryuu with the implication that she was told to 'finish the job', despite having no intention of doing so.

"I tried killing him myself. No matter what you tried, that Persona of his wouldn't let you. It's not like other Persona. I'm not sure why his is different, but. It is. But--"

''As the dragon rises from its slumber,''
''the feast will begin anew.''

Umie's fingers dig into that shoulder again, eyes momentarily going blank behind the holes of that mask.

'.... I thought that if I died, there and then, I wouldn't get to see you again.' The shock of hearing those words brings Umie back; she glances back at Shiryuu, her cheeks betraying a terrible shade of something a shade rosier--

And she turns away, trying to recover, as he turns, as a Ryouhara does, to the topic of killing. (But also going home.)

She takes a breath. Okay. Time to sell this.

"Sorry to disappoint, but..." Umie raises an index finger, eyelids crinkling from a slight smirk that lays underneath. "Someone I respect has a firm opinion on that sort of thing. I'm thinking there may be some wisdom in that, maybe just in trying to hold myself to a higher standard than what--" Umie closes her eyes. "--In what _I_ am compelled to think."

Consign responsibility to something else, and she'll lose to that voice inside her.

"There's nothing wrong, after all," Umie says, raising the hood to cover her head before adjusting her mask, "with choosing not to kill, Ryouhara-kun." The name is shortened here; her decision to not do so earlier born from necessity to distinguish the two Ryouharas. "Don't worry. We'll probably come to blows sooner or later. I wonder if you'll be able to look me in the eye then, mm?"

Umie gathers her hands behind her and begins to walk away, unbothered by the green and red around her--

Until she feels the brush of a child's cold finger against the nape of her neck, as if to say:

'Look at the terrible mess you've made, Umie-chan.'
</poem>

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2025-12-23: Diplomate, Do Not Negotiate

2025-12-25T20:58:18Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Log: Diplomate, No Not Negotiate''' *'''Cast:''' Kurou Ryouhara, Katsuya Suou, Shiryuu Ryouhara *'''Where:''' Kasugayama High, Hirasaka *'''OOC Date:''' 2025-12-23 *'''IC Date:''' Aug 29 2012 *'''Summary''': ''Innocent Kurou is fetched, with extreme diplomacy.'' ---- <poem> '''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.''' Luckily, it's at least -something- approaching after hours. Kasugayama is not a particularly well-funded school. T..."

*'''Log: Diplomate, No Not Negotiate'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Kurou Ryouhara]], [[Katsuya Suou]], [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' Kasugayama High, Hirasaka
*'''OOC Date:''' 2025-12-23
*'''IC Date:''' Aug 29 2012
*'''Summary''': ''Innocent Kurou is fetched, with extreme diplomacy.''

----
<poem>

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''
Luckily, it's at least -something- approaching after hours.

Kasugayama is not a particularly well-funded school. That means that most of the clubs and activities attached to the school's after-hours resources are more popularly entirely student-led and operated, oft by the roughest gangs. Consequently, 'organization' is, to wit, not something that normally enters into the day-to-day of most students, who are by and large left to fend for themselves where the law of the Bosses doesn't extend.
All of this to say that a massive explosion occurring in the school's south wing in the school off-season is likely to be the subject of hot rumor far, far more than direct supervision.

'A ghost blew in the wall!!' someone will say.
'Seen it with my own two eyes!' another will lie.

Well. Someone -did- see. One or two students do, in fact, spot the grey-haired older boy ('is he an upperclassman? some new boss?') as he steps through the smouldering wreckage of a three foot-by-six foot hole cut straight into the south halls of the school, scaring the daylights out of at least one or two students unlucky enough to have been consigned to summer school or meetups for the infamous Lunch Club (you see, Yamazaki-san started it for people who liked to have more than one lunch and..) and sending them scampering down the aisles.

No, it's not really every day one sees some weird samurai-looking person in a -ghost white haori- cave in the wall to your school like it was nothing.

You know, there are easier ways to do this sort of thing... not that it matters, not to him. Not at this moment. Who? Well..
"....he should be close to here," Shiryuu mulls absently to himself.

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''
Kurou Ryouhara /is/ close to here.

He is exceptionally close to here.

Behind that silver haired ghost, who has just splattered rubble across the halls with a new hole in the building, is a different sort of corpse-boy with a darker head of hair. Kurou stares, unblinking, and it is unclear if he was here when it happened, unflinching, or arrived to greet it, equally unfazed.

No, not unfazed. That is a blatant misrepresentation. Kurou is pinned to the earth, for the cries of 'ghost' are for once a grim truth that haunt him with the worst kind of curse... hope.

He dares venture a step forward toward the ghostly demolitionist, and in his shock, he is sloppy enough for his toe to brush against a bit of rubble and audible roll it across the floor in a careful, tumbling set of soft clicks.

Despite every emotion he remembers having seizing hold of his heart, Kurou's lips remain uncurved in either direction. It is his voice that threatens to let anything through the grave dirt caking his heart: a thing so quiet it nearly breaks, not like glass, but like gently ripped paper.

"...Shirogarasu?"

'''<Pose Tracker> Katsuya Suou has posed.'''
The good news is, school isn't back in session until the following Monday, so not very many students were in the building (summer school as always claims its victims).

The bad news is, school isn't in session until the following Monday and it's currently /Wednesday/. And now there's a been an explosion right on the property.

More than likely, emergency services are on their way. Katsuya Suou, however, is a lot closer. Asking some of the passersby including some very excited students who are likely hoping for a return-to-classes date to be postponed gives him some information, but not very much. A 'ghost'?

Someone else tells him they saw someone skirting around the hole blown in the building, though, and that's much more useful information than any suspicion he might have had about one of the local demons that take over the place after hours getting up to some /appreciable/ mischief.

Getting inside the building under these circumstances is a lot easier than the last time had been. He doesn't even have to go through a window. From there (he does have to flash his badge at the custodian who is trying to usher out a few lingering boys who want to investigate) it's a matter of heading to the south side and--

Here, Katsuya stops. He knows this young man's face.
In fact, he realizes, as he glances over at Kurou, he knows both their faces.

Shiryuu gets the bulk of his attention.

"You are... that young man from the beach."

The one who had tried to kill him and Umie.
And, he now recalls, the one that Umie had warned him about.

Ah.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''
"Hmm. It seems I owe the world a lashing for every day that went awry in my absence..."

Three leaves in the wind is the only ymbol that can be seen through the smoke. The boy who stepped through hell is intense and calm, his voice never rising above a smooth tenor. It doesn't take very long for his situational awareness to overcome the sense of vertigo that encompasses his entry, the one absent all reason or restraint. He doesn't seem terribly concerned about the scattered stragglers running off.

Let them talk. He'll come back to kill the ghost or whatever supralunar fallout is inevitably spawned by the dark imaginations following his arrival.

"Aa," he confirms for the only one brave enough to stay standing. "Let every black soul who said that I passed into the next world be thrown to a hell of tigers," Shiryuu replies.

"I've come to gather you."

The boy is wearing a distinctly -different- color of haori than he usually does, the white hood of his jacket bunched back at his shoulders. His nigh-omnipresent knapsack is missing, and a green bag has replaced the bright red one that held his sword, which is now tucked into his belt on the wrong side. New Nike sneakers give way to calf wraps and cargo 3/4s. The three-leaf symbol of the Ryouhara clan is clear to see before the young man turns on a heel. Ah, but his off-hand is not actually in the sleeve of his haori, instead suspended over his waist from his neck. A little bracket holds it in place, though it doesn't seem to actually -be- in a cast. Interesting.

"....." Shiryuu's eyes half-lid as he looks at Kurou. For a time, the young man is quiet, his mouth going from that carefully-storeid neutral mirror of Kurou's own, to the lightest tinge of annoyance.

".... I don't recall sanctioning police with supralunar power to breathe my cherished subordinate's air," he replies, the words flicking right over Kurou's shoulder like a shuriken.

His eyes lower, slightly.
"....you're still walking." He seems disappointed about that.

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''
None of Kurou's attention turns toward Katsuya Suou's initial arrival, as if he were the true ghost in this situation, speaking words to be lost on the wind. Perhaps it is Kurou that has died? Or perhaps, that dangerous kindling of the fragile thing called hope, is not so delirious after all...?

But this ghost speaks.

And he denies death.

Kurou's eyes widen a fraction. There is a glimmer there, sparkling in the light that seeps through the hole Shiryuu's torn into the school building. Is it the brightness of alacrity to receive new instruction, or is that dangerous luster the result of something even more terrible brimming in Kurou's eyes?

Fortunately, no tear falls.

Ah, how foolish he was to ever fear for it. Shiryuu has survived death before and walked away. Why not again?

Kurou breathes in deep, then immediately drops into a boy, "Understood," he says, as if he were planning to become a tiger and start chucking bodies into hell himself. As he rises, he senses Shiryuu's annoyance, and only /then/ does Kurou turn around and finally see...

Oh. It is Suou. Who is, as Shiryuu notes, still walking.

"My apologies. I elected to prioritize your highest instructions during your absence. Allow me to rectify the situation."

Kurou clears his throat and addresses Katsuya.

"Please inform me which leg is your least favorite."

'''<Pose Tracker> Katsuya Suou has posed.'''
It's a strange thing. At first, neither appear to acknowledge his presence at all until that moment he speaks up. It's as if he were in the presence of ghosts -- the 'real' thing, that is, and not the supernatural entities that also wander these halls. ...In theory, th
ere should be no difference between the two categories. In practice, however, Katsuya would argue that there very much in fact /is/ a difference.

He stands there long enough to gather together scraps of what passes between the two of them and stitch together something approaching a truth. The elder boy had died, nearly. Been injured, as Katsuya's sweep of Shiryuu's person with his gaze reports. But where, and when? He doesn't have the information to determine if the accident were mundane or not, and then there's suddenly no room to wonder at all.

He addresses them, after all, and their eyes fall upon him.

He's still walking, Shiryuu notes. His subordinate, Kurou, apologizes for this.

"Wait--" Katsuya starts to say, glancing again between the two of them, "Your continued presence... were you 'shadowing' me?"

Kurou has a very different sort of question for him.

Which leg is his least favorite?

"What...? What sort of question--" Katsuya starts, stops, then shakes his head. "Absolutely not. If you think that I will permit you to," he starts to say, the fingers of his right hand twitching, then easing. No. He's getting ahead of himself. Persona -- Personas? -- or not, he cannot afford to jump to violence so quickly as an officer of the law.

"No," he says, centering himself. "I came here to investigate. I heard an explosion." He glances over at the hole in the wall, then back at the two of them. "What is the meaning of this? Did you cause this?" he says, of the hole.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''
It's usually rather hard to place what the shihaisha is feeling at any given time. No such impediment exists in this circumstance, and the air is different the moment the cool-headed officer shows his face.

It definitely feels like there's cutting to do in this direction...

Shiryuu is jostled out of his thought the moment Kurou interjects. Lips that were formerly screwed into an intense frown part lightly as the younger shinobi steps towards Suou to handle the situation. It would almost be enough to let it go there, but there's something that that boy said that distracts Shiryuu from the arrow of judgment.

".....iya."

The stay is issued with all of the weight of thought that it demanded. Temptation is a heady drug, but... "I've taken control of the health record," he tells Kurou idly, as he steps forward. "I've seen what there is to be seen."

"You've performed meritoriously, taking care of the...things that are most important to me. We have other matters to attend to. From this point, I will handle the scoundrel diplomatically."

Slowly, the onmitsu steps past Kurou, his sleeves drifting in his passage. It is very clear he doesn't mean any harm. Yet. "I did," he explains when Katsuya asks after who made the hole, simply. "The boy isn't to be considered at fault." He's fairly specific about that.

"Don't misunderstand... you're merely in the way," the young man explains further, as he approaches to close that distance slowly. "If we were to follow you, there'd be no way you'd know."

"Suou Katsuya," the boy replies. "It isn't my interest to deal with you right now. I'll give you the opportunity to leave, and in recognition of your good sense, I will act as absolute guarantor of all available safety to you and every student and staff dutiful enough to be here today."

"But..."

The onmitsu contractor stops in the median, squaring stance and putting his body between Kurou and Katsuya. His mouth is a thin, pressed line.

"... even now, even here ... if you test my resolve, my thousand blades of 'ninkougakujutsu' will scatter your scraped bones across the halls of Kasugayama to dry in the moonlight, and educate the next season's students in the anatomy of a fool."

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''
"It is an important question, detective-san," Kurou protests mildly, and disturbingly politely given the context. He does not understand why Katsuya doesn't wish to answer it. The consequences of not answering it could lead to his /favorite/ leg being broken. Even if Katsuya considers himself skilled enough to avoid such a fate, doesn't it make more sense to hedge his bets?

Unless... Oh. He does not trust Kurou to keep his word? Kurou glances down.

It would not be inaccurate to liken his demeanor to that of a kicked puppy.

But all it takes is for Shiryuu to utter one syllable, and Kurou straightens back up again, glancing back with a single, slight nod. But praised so, just a little bit of that glimmer hits Kurou's eyes again.

It takes gathering up all his trained self discipline not to protest when Shiryuu steps ahead of him. Shiryuu is alive. Shiryuu survived. Kurou does not need to reach out and stop him, the way he wondered if he should have back in Mementos.

It will not be a fight. It will be diplomacy.

... So this is how diplomacy works, Kurou realizes. He silently reaches for his spiral notebook. Even the strokes of his pencil are expertly without sound. This does not stop Katsuya from being able to /see/ him taking notes on how to speak to an officer of the law.

It's fine.

Yet when Kurou looks up at that verbal pause, he sees Shiryuu standing between him like a barrier. Now that glimmer in his eye becomes a threatening /waver/. It may not be how a shihaisha should act for a subordination... but how can Kurou not be touched by such kind words?

'''<Pose Tracker> Katsuya Suou has posed.'''
It is, really, an important question. If he has to have one leg broken, is there one he'd rather have done? To be honest, Katsuya wouldn't be able to answer it even if he spent a time thinking it over. Is there one he prefers more than the other? It would be an easier answer if it came down to arms, but--

If he can try to change his fate, he'd honestly like to keep both of his legs functional. It's hard to be a detective with a broken leg.

And then Kurou manages to pull an expression that would be better at home on the face of a kicked puppy or sad kitten, and Katsuya, for some reason, ends up feeling a little bad.
In spite of the fact that it would have been /his leg/!!

But, for better or worse, there's to be none of that now. Rather than violence, the next moment will be diplomacy.
That is, if Katsuya behaves himself.

Shiryuu is the one who broke his way in.

"Property damage, illegal entry," Katsuya murmurs, if mostly to himself: he's already marked how Shiryuu is armed and knows already of what he's capable. Surely the other boy can ascend similar levels, if they're master and protege. The law is the law, but... there's too much at stack locally for him to be wounded or even killed, even if it's in pursuit of a crime.

He shakes his head. "I'm not leaving just yet. What is your intention here? The students have been evacuated, and emergency services are already on their way. That must mean you're after something in the building, and that you already know where it is." But what in the world could be in a high school that someone like him -- or both of them -- would want?

He takes one half-step back, as if to signal as best as he can that he's not about to attempt anything foolish. And it would be foolish. Bravery is all well and good, but... not here. Not over this.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''
"You are toying with the patience of dragons and kitsune, Suou," Shiryuu states evenly. "I did not sanction your interrogation. This much, in addition to your original sins of being a reprobate and scoundrel would, on its own, be enough."

He does -not- like being asked questions by the police, and especially not by Katsuya, of all people. The boy steps forward, leading with one of those impressively maintained sneakers, as if the very idea of it is enough to rile him. His mouth presses. There is a flash of teeth.

..he looks back, to Kurou. An instant. A moment. His subordinate is taking notes.

A sword-long sigh escapes the young man, as two fingertips lift from his sleeve, a hand draped to the knuckles in silk. He touches strands tickling at his brow, to brush wisps of grey hair out of his eyes so he is not quite so overstimulated. Katsuya can notice just as they were before -- his eyes are two slightly different shades of brown, one lighter than the other. And they're currently focused on the step back the police officer takes. That's when Suou can catch a glimpse of the steel in Shiryuu's hand.

"...I am here for..."

He breathes.
"...the living legacy of the clan Ryouhara."

His right hand drops from his head, the sleeve swallowing even the two fingertips. Suou might realize then that Shiryuu has been holding a knife for the last minute, nigh impossible to see in that voluminous outfit, where his sleeves easily overdrape his hand by inches.

"Kurou," Shiryuu says, flicking his glance to the side. "The existing order stands. However, until such time as our affairs are concluded or until he decides to become a problem, we will give the unsanctioned scoundrel Katsuya Suou our grace. From this point forward, please be prepared, and continue gathering information as you have."

Yes, apparently Suou had some kind of hit put out on him without his knowledge.

'''<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.'''
There is much to learn about diplomacy here. Kurou writes out the important gist of it in clean handwriting. So far, the key tenets seem to be:

* state proposal clearly
* appeal to listener's selfhood
* illustrate consequences

And, now:

* diplomate, do not negotiate

(That isn't the verb you think it is, Kurou...!)

Kurou nods to his little notebook slowly. It is difficult to capture such broad subjects briefly, but he trusts himself to recall this moment and meditate on this wisdom. One would have to watch him closely -- while there are far more important and dangerous things to be watching -- for it not to seem his notebook simply disappears with how swiftly and gracefully it finds itself back in Kurou's pocket.

This leaves him prepared to receive Shiryuu's words. Kurou bows swiftly and deeply, rising from the pride he feels swelling in his chest alone.

The future and legacy of Ryouhara... the anxiety Kurou had felt in the past days for its fates fades. He knows where his steel belongs, and what path it shall help carve.

"Understood," he affirms. He then turns to Katsuya for another bow. "In light of this, please do not stress about your answer. But I do look forward to hearing it at a future time."

'''<Pose Tracker> Katsuya Suou has posed.'''
Dragons and... kitsune? And... the way the younger boy is talking to him. It sounds almost as if he's taken a turn somewhere and landed in some made-for-TV 'historical' drama of some extraction. Except, he's still in modern day Japan.

Please excuse Suou if he turns his head ever so slightly to confirm that the city outside the hole in the wall is still the city he'd expect to see!

But even that can fall to one side. "'Reprobate'? What in the world are you talking about?" Katsuya wonders, standing up that much straighter as he trains his gaze on Shiryuu. "I am an officer of the law, as you are aware--"

But if Katsuya tenses, it's because of the 'almosts' in the room. Shiryuu takes one step as if to prepare for a run on Katsuya's person. Katsuya's fingers barely move, a betrayal of what he himself is thinking. In a place like this, Helios' presence is weighty, begging to be pulled forth into the world with but a thought.

Almost, these are things that happen, but--

Nothing, in the end, is what happpens. Katsuya doesn't go for his gun or summon his Persona, and in kind, he doesn't take a knife to his gut or some other less auspicious place.

Oh yes. Shiryuu has a knife. It's almost certainly illegal. In spite of himself, perhaps feeling the weight of 'almost' in this space, Katsuya doesn't comment. The direction of his gaze will do it for him.

His lifts his gaze from that few inches of steel and meets Shiryuu's eyes. Heterochromia, he has to wonder in private.

"Clan Ryouhara?" Katsuya voices at last, breaking the silence he hadn't known he'd maintained. The living legacy.
His gaze falls on Kurou. Him? He's here for the boy? Is this an abduction--

But that impulse is quelled with the information of the last few minutes. Kurou answers to Shiryuu. More than likely, this is... ...

"The existing order? Wait, you don't mean..."

Umie had warned him about something like this, too. He hadn't thought...

"'Unsanctioned... scoundrel'?"

Is that the point that sticks with him?

He gets a moment to consider that. Then, Kurou tells him he needn't worry about an answer now. After all, he can collect an answer later. "About..." It takes Katsuya a few seconds to put two and two together here.

Four /is/ death. Or in this case, a broken leg.

"Now, wait a moment..."

But what, precisely, is there that he can do right now except put himself in a lot of danger for no gain?

In the close distance, there are sirens. The him of a few months ago would have been grateful for backup. Now, he's left to wonder about what happens now. If the lives of other people become involved, then there's no question about it, he'll have to do something dangerous.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''
The blade is tucked away, almost as quickly as it was flashed. It doesn't at all seem to check Shiryuu's imperiousness, only serving as the same sign that Katsuya's half-step was -- the onmitsu is less overtly aggressive.

Apparently there is a part of the boy that really, really wants to put a stop to Katsuya right here and now.

Luckily, the shihaisha has priorities. He spares only the slightest glance to Kurou the moment he politely excuses him, giving him an amount of grace that Shiryuu is almost uncomfortable with. Luckily, the shihaisha is aloof enough for both of them.

"Be still," he says, holding up that hand as Katsuya starts to object, reminding him that he's an officer of the law.

"You know, as much as anyone should... how little that title means."

Shiryuu is perfectly content to leave Katsuya to put together the pieces of what's been said, and the smallest -- a scintilla of concession -- rises as he hears the sound of sirens in the distance.

It's hard to be an absolute guarantor of the safety of everyone present if you need to level a team of first responders in a staredown with a hated enemy. As much as he hates to admit it, Suou has the advantage of time here, so forcing him to leave is out of the question. Shiryuu makes a small, annoyed sound in the back of his throat, turning but never taking his eyes off Suou. He has a gun, after all. It would be a mistake to think Shiryuu is by the slightest stretch of the word dense.

And yet, still the imperious shihaisha.

"Che. Just hope that you behave yourself as well the next time we meet. Don't force me to forget myself. There is an entire mountain of Ryouhara justice awaiting you, Suou..."

One thing about those boys: They move fast.
One hole in the wall, and they're simply gone in the breath between this moment and that.
</poem>

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2025-12-21: Othersuch Affairs of the Blade

2025-12-23T10:42:13Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Log: Othersuch Affairs of the Blade''' *'''Cast:''' Kanae Fuyuki, Shiryuu Ryouhara *'''Where:''' Shinjuku, Tokyo *'''OOC Date:''' 2025-12-21 *'''IC Date:''' Aug 28 2012 *'''Summary''': ''No. None of us are very normal, I think.'' '''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.''' The world is static and still, bent in strange ways not normally physically possible, with a wild, sick moon and fountains that appear all too readily to overflow with bl..."

*'''Log: Othersuch Affairs of the Blade'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Kanae Fuyuki]], [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' Shinjuku, Tokyo
*'''OOC Date:''' 2025-12-21
*'''IC Date:''' Aug 28 2012
*'''Summary''': ''No. None of us are very normal, I think.''
'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

The world is static and still, bent in strange ways not normally physically possible, with a wild, sick moon and fountains that appear all too readily to overflow with blood.

He was unusually tepid tonight, an injured man with a computer folded under his injured arm. He's gotten out of the sling, luckily, due to no longer needing to hold his hand perfectly still, but his hand is still bound in snug white linen as he less handles and more paws the black case to his side, the motion dragging up the edges of his haori until it rests in the crook of his elbow instead of hanging freely.

It didn't take much effort to fore the affair at Haruyama Memorial, even when the charge nurse was of no help to him when he politely asked for the healthcare admission records belonging to Ryouhara Kurou and their cousin, Akabane Umie. Obviously, she was resistant, even when he noted that the delivery of this information was sanctioned by the family patriarch. (He carefully did not note that he was the one who made such sanction, nor several other salient details not needed.)

Of course, she refused. APPI law forbids it.

Unfortunately, the nascent law of shihaisha supersedes the Diet's regulation for sublunary citizen, and he had been careful to make his polite request a half hour before....

...well. At least he didn't make a mess in the server room, nor did he directly steal her thinclient. That would have been pointless, anyway...

The onmitsu is careful. The entire exchange was an attempt to exercise restraint, and to conserve his power. Unfortunately, he had to. And now, further, he has to take the serve to be analyzed for the authentication to access the healthcare database. So, the onmitsu is currently walking down the street, amidst the crimson pools, in an attempt to -not- overdo it in what is supposed to be a leisurely stroll.

Ah, the shadows have a different idea of these things, unfortunately.

The onmitsu's black sword gleams obsidian grey under the stained, mad light; he's already had to cut into one or two to make his way.

'''<Pose Tracker> Kanae Fuyuki has posed.'''

Shinjuku, a district of government and of the semi-legal: Kanae is here tonight, avoiding until the Dark hour the scrutiny of most people around. She was in a movie earlier; now, this late, she sees the coffins of those who would make a victim of her and those like her. Barkers at hostess clubs; representatives of other, less savory jobs. All in their little (big) coffins, and all away for now.

Kanae, instead, is walking the street in her gray hunter's garbs--a mage's robes under a long gray duster, without a hat. Her black hair hangs down her back; her dark skin reflects less of the light than her dark gray clothes.

But her gunblade--a ruby-edged weapon of firearm and sword both--catches the moonlight.

This place is weird. And now--

Kanae sees an injured man...

She lifts her gunblade and /fires/, taking out another of the Shadows in front of him with the ranged portion of her weapon.

"Nice sword. Weird look to be using it."

Ah. A teenager.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Silver hair tilts as the boy catches sight of her, two different tones of brown eye fixing on the girl in the hunter's garb. Limned in an unhealthy haze where normally a red glow would illuminate, the fact that the boy is dominated by a wild, black thing is less of a concern to him than the weapon that blasts the monstrous silhouette into pieces.

A creature notices his presence at the same time as he notices her.

"This is no place to be out alone," he tells her in no uncertain terms. Her ancestry is hard to place. Is she Okinawan?

A winged thing dives for his throat -- and never manages to reach him. He never quite strikes, and never -truly- appears to move. He's just in one place, then is beneath black -- then he's stepping into the next.

"What an interesting weapon, worthy of attention from our 'shokunin,'" Ryohara observes. "Will cognitive wonders never cease.."

The fittings of his sword click lightly as he changes his hand's position, lifting the blackened blade loosely in his hand. "...but. The steelcraft of a realized idea must be twice as strong to match the idea of real steelcraft."

'Weird look to be using it.'

"....Tell me," Shiryuu proposes a question, mildly.

"Do you fancy that that lovely weapon of yours bears greater than the weight of history that rests upon this sword, Bankasoujin?"

He pays the hunting creatures seething in their periphery no real, true sum of his interest, if not his mind.

'''<Pose Tracker> Kanae Fuyuki has posed.'''

She is not Okinawan; looking more closely, there's a foreign cast to some of her features, the product of a mix of heritages. But he may or may not recognized Algerian-French enough to recognize the other half of her features.

But then--

No place to be out alone. "Duh," Kanae answers, but he never... moves. She tilts her head slowly, an eyebrow lifting as her mind tries to comprehend what she is seeing.

Click. "It's a pretty strong weapon," she says. "It's got the bits of a monster that reflected attacks in it."

But Shiryuu proposes a question.

Kanae quirks a smile. "Well, yeah," she says. "Mine's a lot heavier than yours. Look at it. Yours is all cool and sleek and light, and mine has a gun in it."

She seems very pleased with this answer.

She hasn't let go her weapon, though. Maybe it's because of Isabeau, but she feels more comfortable with her weapon out, in the Dark Hour...

"...Cool name," she admits. "Still not as heavy."

If the Shadows aren't attacking anymore, they aren't that important.

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"A superior way of forging a weapon," Ryouhara remarks, a spark of familiarity in his tone when she reflects on the construction of her weapon. Or more appropriately... parts of it.

"Ahab would approve."

The onmitsu's sword is low, and he takes one careful step to the side, testing his new shoes -- brand new Nikes, she might notice -- against the cobble, tapping a toe against the darkened road before that single step. She might notice that the motion keeps him out of the eyeline of the evil shadow that attacked him only a second or two prior, as it turns towards him -- and finds nothing. Infuriatingly, the boy seems to be a dancing thing just barely outside of the peripheral vision, stepping first once, then hopping back as it whirls towards the sound of his voice.

It's not a unique treatment -- the boy doesn't seem to like staying in the center of an eyeline. He has the nature of birds -- always in the periphery of the eye, and only when stared at directly is actually beheld.

"An earnest nature, straightforward and without guile," Shiryuu surmises.

A shake; his sword is dripping black, and the creature hunting him is already dead. He moves fast.

"I have other business to attend to," Shiryuu points out, his eyes half-lidding. "I can't waste my 'power' here, in case it's needed."

"...but..."

Shiryuu does not at all trouble her with any more leadup. His approach is immediate. The next sound, a breath later, is going to be his sword crossing with hers. Or worse. She will see him approach. She will have warning. Just only just so.

A boy who strikes immediately at a thought, without hesitation.

''AS: Block Worst! Kanae Fuyuki takes 86 Slash damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Shurengiri.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Kanae Fuyuki has posed.'''

Superior? "Yeah, it works for me." Pause. Ahab. "What are you, an English class?" She understood that reference.

Kanae /does/ notice his very nice shoes. She also notices that the Shadow that attached him finds... nothing. He continues to be hard to look at, and Kanae's eyes water slightly trying to keep track. Birds..

She is not so sure that she is that straightforward, but he might mean someone else. His sword drips, though. "You should get that checked out," she starts to suggest, wary as he approaches her but still sassing to make herself more comfortable.

But?

His sword comes up, and hers clashes with it. "What the--"

Steel and alloyed stone ring out, and her blade clashes long enough to make what would've been a bloody blow take a chunk of her duster instead of a chunk of her flesh. Just enough warning.

"Hey!" she calls. "That's--"

She narrows her eyes. "That's how you want it?" she says, and jumps back, wrist rolling before she puts both hands on the hilt of her weapon again. "That's how you want it? Then I'm in."

She /rushes/, slashing down for him just like he slashed up for her. "Haah--!"

Her approach is heavier; she doesn't have grace or elegance on her side, but raw power.

''AS: Block Best! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 46 Slash damage from Kanae Fuyuki's Keen Edge. Critical Hit!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

"There's much to be known in the written legends of men about the weapons they dream," he replies easily.

The fittings of Bankasoujin rattle against the composite. Brown eyes rest on the construction of the gunblade as Bonds of Black crosses with it. Steel hisses like a riled viper, and she breaks the bind, leaping back.

Noticeably, the onmitsu is turned very slightly -- the computer he carries is still slung under one of his arms, and it's that side that turns away from Kanae, carefully keeping the equipment away from her. She'll be able to tell that his featherlight landings and the like are more for the computer's benefit than his own.

Even now, when she barrels towards him with that massive blade, the boy lowers himself into a whirling crouch, following the trajectory of her approach with one squealing (with a grimace; fuck, they're still new, that's annoying) sneaker over another to twist him away from the attack, his blade set across his shoulder to bridge and violently catch the oncoming blade, head ducked below the drop to just barely avoid having his head staved in.

A pump of the hilt tilts the black blade, moving the oncoming truck of a sword's momentum from shattering his shoulder and leaving it to slide behind him. A slice, straight down, enforces the space between them as he turns, firing off the quick cut, the flash of the blade trailing a split second laserline of light in an arc between them.

The boy is quick, efficient with that thing. His hand flips, wrist turning so his thumb is pointed out as he takes a step forward. She might realize that it's less the blade she has to worry about, but his position relative to it.

A straight-ended thrust cannons from the boy's shoulder as he follows the line of her gunblade. Is he trying to keep pressure on it to stay out of the firing line? In an instant, he chases down the line of her attack with a straight thrust aimed towards her shoulder.

It's hard to tell. Certainly, like that phoenix in Mementos hose blade was more of an oncoming freight train, this must be cognitive steel. But...

A sword never lies.

''AS: Counter Neutral! Kanae Fuyuki takes 104 Pierce damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Menretsu.''

''AS: COUNTER! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 63 Pierce damage in return for his attack!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Kanae Fuyuki has posed.'''

The written legends of men about the weapons they dream...

Kanae does not have a quip for him this time. The gunblade's construction is smooth, mechanical; the gun mechanism is integrated into the hilt, the barrel parallel to and flush with the blade. The girl holding it should not be as strong as she is, strong enough to clash with him. But the Persona does a great deal. She notices his work with the equipment...

She isn't spiteful enough (yet) to go for it specifically to piss him off, though. Instead, the black blade tilts and the sword slashes past. The space between them is enforced; Kanae slashes down and the asphalt, the ground itself cut by the force of her blade. "Tch," the girl says. He does keep pressure on it--

"Aah--" His blade hits her shoulder, but she /tilts/ her gunblade at just the right time, despite her new injury--

And FIRES straight into the ground, the resultant explosion knocking her backward and giving her space from the boy and his blade.

From there, she hefts up the gunblade, raising it in one hand above her head. "Fine," she says, and then focuses--there is a tink of broken glass as Kanae shifts the face she shows the world.

But this will be the first Persona he sees her summon. "KINNARA!" Kanae calls out, her free hand suddenly holding a vial of golden dust. She /crushes/ it, and it shatters, sending blue light and sparkling gold all through her space. A teal horse-man appears, strumming his harp--

And healing light flashes over her injured shoulder.

"What's with you, anyway?" Kanae finally asks. "Legends? Weapons?"

"You're not just a sword enthusiast, right?"

"...No. You're not 'normal.'"

''GAME: Kanae Fuyuki has assumed form 2, Kinnara!''

''AS: Take! Kanae Fuyuki takes 129 Recovery healing from Kanae Fuyuki's Diarama.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

The exchange is a quick one, of pacing, of speed, of spacing. The grey-haired boy is fast and precise, his curiosity driving his moves more than anything else. The shadows on their periphery are certainly present; but the ones dispatched were the only ones interested. Who would really want to be reduced to little more than a prop between two true blades?

The gunblade drops to the ground, outside of his parry influence in the middle of his ruining thrust. Hand tightens on hilt --

And the explosive answer drives a wedge between them, the shockwave of the gun blast in the tight quarters taking Ryouhara off of his feet. A kick, a flip in the air keeps him from landing on his ass, alighting with a harsh breath on the ground, skidding back with newly built space between them. His lower half bears the scars of that blast, soot and sear rippling across his pants, across his middle. He can feel his wound reopen.

The onmitsu stands as she crushes that vial in the air, channeling her cognitive energy into a Persona focus. Lips press in a thin line as he raises his chin against the aquamarine visage, tilting his eyes up slightly before he returns to her.

"I am the new one, the one charged to be the 'ruler of the steel dark.'"

The blade of Bankasoujin raises slowly, flat of the blade even with the ground. At this distance, with that weapon, she could aggress against him openly, and there wouldn't be much he could do.

'You're not normal.'

"No," he confirms grimly.

"Far from it."

Then Shiryuu slits the throat of the wan light.

That black blade cuts into 'visibility,' and the throes of information are nigh immediate. The air pulses as if convulsing. Ink spills out in a great, grand wave, blooming vast and open into the congealed space. Puddles of crimson near her run cloudy black with ink, and the haunting cackle of birds that don't exist fills the air. The boy cuts into the space of 'everything,' drowning out the concept of background, of noise, of sound, suppressing it all like a black pillow laid down. The moon dies in the sky, replaced by black, and soon, there's not much more than the haunting roll of reflected light from nowhere at all.

It's hard even for a Persona user to see through the haze, to pierce through and find the importance. The only light that appears is the light cast from the self, the impossible reflection of rubies in the dark, the shining light of self. It's the only protection.

The only warning, when Shiryuu drops down on her, a whirling ghost in a grey haori, dropping onto her blade-first.

''AS: Counter Neutral! Kanae Fuyuki takes 143 Slash damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Bankasoujin. Critical Hit!''

''AS: Paralyze added!''

''AS: COUNTER! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 86 Slash damage in return for his attack!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Kanae Fuyuki has posed.'''

Kanae is not slow; she has the reflexes of a tennis player, and more burst force in her muscles than she has a right to possess. She slashes down, and the shadows on the periphery aren't her problem. /He/ is.

And he's off his feet, briefly. Flipping in the air, he lands, and Kanae stands with her Persona. As the boy tilts up his chin, Kanae smiles grimly. "Kinnara," she explains. "A spirit being from Hinduism. He sings praises to the gods."

A beat, "He also heals. He's good at that."

But the boy? He is the new one.

"Do you mean dark steel, or is there a steely darkness, or--"

Kanae /could/ start firing at this distance, and it might be a good idea. But she doesn't. He confirms that he is not normal. And the light dies, not fitfully but all at once.

"Wh--" Kanae feels it. The ink blooming into too-thick space, like the air around her is so much water unlit. There are birds...

Kanae can't see through it. But suddenly--there /is/ light. It is /her/ light.

Blood spatters the ground as Kanae is hit and counterattacks in the same breath, /slashing/ not-quite-blindly upward as his blade tears through her sleeve and gets at the dark flesh beneath.

"GAH!"

Then, there's another /tink/, a hammer against the glass that does not break it, as once more, Kanae shifts the face she presents towards the world. "SILKY!" she calls, and a fairy woman with green skin and hair wearing a beautiful orange dress swirls into existence.

"She cuts things," Kanae explains. "Not her original purpose--I made her this way to /prepare/."

She floats forward--and then /lashes out/, slashing with her sharp nails in a poisonous strike that leaves terrible rents in the air and the ink.

"I'm training for a war. ...I don't think it's against you. But I could be wrong."

''GAME: Kanae Fuyuki has assumed form 3, Silky!''

''AS: Avoid Best! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 11 Slash damage from Kanae Fuyuki's Poison Claw.''

''AS: Poison added!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

The whirling moments slide natural stopgaps into the conversation, the tumult, the moments of graceful, casual, vicious violence that is the testing of one hand against the other.

The natural limitation of Bankasoujin, like many ninkou, is that it cannot quell supralunar illumination -- the light of pure identity is the only beacon that can grant any succor against being completely blinded to cognitive danger, though there is nary a shadow in these lands that can pierce the shadow of the shihaisha.

His resonance was hard to pin down before, a subtle, muted thing. Now, it is nigh impossible. She makes due.

The onmitsu's renge cut is countered, the viciously fast whirling guillotine answered with a violent upswell of might. The boy only just so manages to escape being cut in half by bracing a shoe against the spine of his own blade, using the momentum of that huge response to kick off the edge, a ruby-crusted edge finding his thighline before he can flip away.

When he lands, it's with a light whirl, his haori fluttering to catch the wind before the man almost crashes, knocked onto the back foot before he can recover. It's only when he hears the crack of glass again, and she begins talking anew that the young man looks up away from the black haze to see an entirely different spotlight illuminating his dark. "!"

The flash of deep, almost blood-red pink nails cut through the air. It's too soon, too fast to completely outpace. Not as he is now, not even given the onmitsu's speed. He is almost a blur as the Persona whips her hands at him, instinctively recognizing the danger..!

Even that smallest cut, flashing unbidden through his layers of dense wool, can be deadly. He can feel his blood burn, almost immediately. Cognitive poisons can be the worst is his thinking, as he breathes hard.

A moment, a second passes, as the onmitsu get space between them, as he looks from beneath his brow at the user in the background, and the entire paradigm shift she summons. "Persona... change?" he wonders absently. Persona.. modification? He's heard of exactly one percent of this, and it beggared disbelief then, as it does now.

A sanguine moment passes, as the shihaisha breathes, taking stock of the blood soaking into his pant leg, the crimson shreds in his woolen turtleneck. It would make movement harder. "Che."

Brown eyes turn hard, dispassionate.

"In this, the blackest of dark, it is my burden to lay authority over every ounce of steel," he finally points out, pointing one fingertip from over the hilt of his sword. That blade slowly turns, flipping through his fingers easily as he spins it at his hip, the katana flipping end over end until he catches it by the blade. The spine rolls into the cradle of his fingertips, until he holds his sword just underneath the guard, lifting it up as if he were holding it in the saya still, which still hangs off of the pack at his back. His thumb presses down against the edge.

"Dominion over the forge is the heritage of my clan. I, with purest blood of all, am the only one without sin. Tell me, young one."

He cuts his thumb on the edge, drawing his own blood.

"....what war do you fight?"

His sword has already left the sheath. His Persona has always been here, just waiting his call.

Sarutahiko Okami awakens with the rattle of brass and the snap of paper in the sky, far and distant and away from the two of them, a shining mechanical kami with a staff longer and taller than a tree. A cloud of shide charms follows in that longstaff's wake, and it takes only one jab in the sky to stir the wind to howling. Black and surging through the ink-stained air, ephemeral blades of gale force pull at Shiryuu's jacket, snapping silk in the wind as the air surges through in cutting headwinds. Except the gale he conjures is not normal, not natural. It slices with every motion, every move. And where it cuts, electric music bleeds, jangling bites of flaring, glowing neon light following the stormtrail and incomprehensible bass.

Kanji spray the ground where blades of air carve, and in those scars, the intense amperage of neon-painted power thrives.

''AS: Take! Kanae Fuyuki takes 0 Wind damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Track 4: Arashi-giri Divination. Resist!''

''AS: Poison added!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Kanae Fuyuki has posed.'''

Kanae's hands are not so battle-tested as the boy's, but not wholly clean of monsters, either. She has Hunted, in her time. She will yet hunt again. But resonance is not her best trait; she does not work with other Persona-users habitually, has gone it alone for some time now.

Counter. And those damnable shoes again--still nice. She actually catches /bod/ though, and when he whirls, she seems to surprise him. He recognizes the danger--but he recognizes something else, it would seem. The space between them expands, and Kanae keeps her weapon up, tilted diagonal to herself, both hands on the hilt. "I've got a few surprises in me," Kanae agrees about Persona Change. "Igor calls it the 'Wild Card'."

But the hardening of his eyes is startling itself. The blackest of dark... the Dark Hour. And his steel. He points, turning his sword, and he does a fancy trick with it to her mind; just so...

His blood spills from his hand.

"Tch," Kanae replies first, and the girl hears the Persona in the distance. "?" she vocalizes, and there is /music/. Silky's dominion is over wind, her natural inclinations towards the howling zephyrs. So the wind doesn't hurt. The music intrigues, though. The ninja gets his information. ...For the moment, at least. "Music?" she wonders.

"...Huh. Never seen that before," she admits. It's kind of cool. But, this is a serious battle, and he asked her a serious question.

"I don't know," she answers first. Then--tink! Once more.

"You really aren't normal," she adds.

"...But I just know it's coming," she says. "I'm told it will consume everything. ...Everything, if it isn't stopped."

"And so..."

Another Persona rises in a shower of blue light, cracking glass, and glittering gold dust. This one is cross-legged, dark wings rising from its back where it sits, a goat's head on feathered shoulders. In its lap is a crown; in its hands is a flame. Baphomet rises.

"I'm gonna be ready. And until then, I'm going to treat /every/ fight like it matters."

She throws forth a hand. "Come forth, power!"

A large ball of flame /erupts/ from her hand, crashing towards Shiryuu, as the shadows themselves rise to drag him down in violet violence.

...She still isn't aiming for the server. She doesn't know him well enough to spite him.

But she knows enough to be trying her best now, despite the way those lingering beats sap her strength...

Not cool, man.

''GAME: Kanae Fuyuki has assumed form 4, Baphomet!''

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara spends Limit on Brace!''

''AS: Avoid Neutral! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 51 Fire damage from Kanae Fuyuki's Dynamic Agilao. Resist!''

''AS: Haze added!''

''AS: Avoid Best! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 43 Dark damage from Kanae Fuyuki's Eiha.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

With a harsh snap, and rap of old, ancient wood, the world sounds like a grand fall of pick-up sticks as boards porcupine into existence, weathered wood stabbing out in great lazy arcs and spires piercing into the dark. At his will, each flattens, old hemp rope creaking as it cinches tight around those boards. Collectively, they form rope bridges swaying in the breeze generated by the whirlwind storm, a tumbling bassline forcing the weather into higher inclement.

HE flips his blade's hilt back into his hand. The onmitsu contractor watches her move impassively as she recovers, as his neon-painted universe threads into her every bone. His eyes, cold and brown, lower to the kanji sprayed about the girl. It would be almost impossible for anyone else to really read them -- to actually understand what it is they're saying, to keep track of the neon visualizations long enough to perceive them. But Shiryuu can, when they shift, when they move... when they change.

"Igor," Shiryuu echoes flatly, as if speaking the name of an old acquaintance he hasn't seen in ages. A Wild Card, hm..

His eyes trail down slowly, as threads of night erupt from the black to capture him, as a new Persona inspires her to launch pure flame at him. He blinks, as the threads cinch tight around his legs, as the flame descends. "..... hm."

His eye flares blue, in that last moment.

"Then... you shouldn't throw your life away so needlessly."

She can feel the heat from her own fireball. He's only by her for an instant, flanking the hunter in the space of an eyeblink, with no indicator that he'd ever moved at all, a featherlight motion leaving him to take a tiny, single leap up onto a nearby bridge, surmounting the battlefield, and its tattered shreds of black.

A still-injured hand cradles the server as the shihaisha sways on that bridge slowly, the sound of creaking rope flanging and chopping into discrete breakpoints, trickling away into a remixed sound aligning to the steady 143 BPM tempo surging through the neon underglow.

"...." A Nike raises, setting into a board on the swaying bridge as he feels the rhythm underneath him, locking in idly. The mechanical kami circles in the distance. The boy slowly raises his sword, black blade shimmering, the ink effect widening... before a sharp pang of pain registers in his off hand, the weight of that server at his hip. The boy's mouth sets in a grim line.

It's quiet, for one vertiginous moment. "....no."

He lifts his teeth to his sleeve, and plucks loose the shimmering cardboard of a card. It seems to react with a similar silhouette near the base of his kami's staff. The gohei is positioned straight in the air, as the card Shiryuu holds breaks apart into pieces. And when he spins his sword, the bass... drops.

Like cracked glass, the path before her kaleidoscopes, neon bleeding from every bassline beat as a flutter of -- feathers? -- spread through the ground beneath her. Harsh, sharp cawing breaks into the space between 'there' and 'here,' and it slowly becomes clear from the vertigo-inducing neon sound, the bridges, and the crippling black how -much- of the area the onmitsu is currently painting in his color entirely. It's starting to get hard to determine what direction is up.

"You've done well... but ... you're not my target today," Shiryuu tells her in no uncertain terms. "There are important people at the end of my path, instead." Before her, a bridge offers a slow ascent into the sky. Another leads to him, and his. There is no physical rhyme or reason to these bridges, and may simply go upside-down, for all of the rational sense they make.

"Walk away freely, with the steel that I hold in my responsibility. Practice that magnificent power of yours. And hope, one day, that you don't find that I'm your enemy.."

''AS: Take! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 0 Recovery healing from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Track 5: Bridge of Shinra.''

''AS: Eclipse and Regen added!''

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara spends Limit on Shock Noise! Def_Dn applied to Kanae Fuyuki!''

''AS: Take! Kanae Fuyuki takes 0 Almighty damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Illuzone.''

''AS: Charm and Rage added!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Kanae Fuyuki has posed.'''

Rope bridges swaying in the breeze... Kanae doesn't really know what this is. She knows that she's seeing and hearing strange things. The kanji change, and she doesn't look back at them. Instead, she hears Shiryuu speak of Igor, too. And when his eye flashes blue--

"Yeah," Kanae answers about her life, "I feel the same w--"

An instant, he's by her without having moved, and then he leaps up, up, up. Or is it up? Is it down? Is it sideways? She can't... /tell/.

But rope creaks, and the sound keeps pumping. Kanae turns towards the boy, tilting her head in confusion. "No?" she starts.

Her mind races; she can't match his weirdness, but if she heals herself again, she might be able to wear him down. But then it is /quiet/, and...

Hm.

The bass drops. Feathers and paths move, move, move. She can't really tell what is where...

But he has offered her a way out. "Uh..."

Done well. "...Fair enough," Kanae says of not being his target. "You're not mine, either. "

In his responsibility? "Well, if you're gonna look out for my sword, I guess I'll make sure I do something interesting with it. But one thing..." She puts a foot on the path 'away', and turns towards... wherever he is.

"'Pure blood' doesn't impress me. It's never been anything but used against me."

"...But your music's cool. Later, stranger."

She'll walk the path offered to her, this time.

But maybe, one day again...

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

The bridge is long, but as long as she enjoys Shiryuu's protection, it's safe. There, at the far side, the shihaisha watches her go, a picture of silence. There is a thousand layers of lies between the two, but enough of the real remains that her words can carry.

Certainly, the one so grandly calling himself the 'ruler of the steel dark' would have something more to say? No... not at all. He just shifts the bundle underneath his arm, still safe. If he'd overdone it..

The boy's face screws up, after the girl is gone. His music is cool. "Thanks... I think," he remarks to no one in particular.

But that last little note, about pure blood being used as a weapon, sticks in the back of the onmitsu contractor's mind.

The curve of Bankasoujin rests in the crook of his arm as he presses a hand to his face, rubbing it. He really does have a deathgrip on that server. 'It's never been anything but used against me.'

"...yeah," he says, still talking to no one.

"Me too.."
----

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2025-12-16: A Wreckage

2025-12-17T03:32:26Z

Strangehat:

*'''Cutscene: A Wreckage'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' A Basement in Hirasaka
*'''OOC Date:''' Dec 16 2025
*'''IC Date:''' Aug 26 2012
*'''Summary''': ''A young man copes with his limitations. Meanwhile...''

'''"The shirogarasu has disappeared...."'''

'''"Suspected dead. As expected of a foolhardy child."'''

'''"Be careful."'''

'''"The supernatural killer is no inferior foe."'''

'''"Even supralunar power is not enough."'''

'''"Even so --"'''

'''"-- Yes. A body has not been recovered.."'''

'''"We have spies on site, no one could have survived..."'''

<nowiki/>******

The light fixture flickered, a bare socket with a bare bulb in it, filling the air with a harsh, septic buzz, the only sound in the room. It was attached to an old, ancient beam supporting an unfinished ceiling in the claustrophobic ten by ten room.

The frequency of the light hurt his eyes when he opened them, so he elected to do so as rarely as possible. He was supposed to be meditating anyway.

The boy was still wearing the same ridiculous five yen clown-pun t-shirt the card dealer gave him, but even in August it was much colder underground in a damp basement. Luckily, he was able to find a set of longer, warmer pants in the cardboard box sitting on top of an old, unplugged TV. Less luckily, they were a set of eye-wateringly electric blue fleece cargo joggers, with a thoroughly insufficient drawstring closure. The entire affair made him seem like he lost more weight than he'd had, and every time he looked in the mirror, the clown on his shirt seemed to judge him more harshly.

So, he elected not to look. To rest, as he'd said he would. To leave everything in the charge of his people. That would be the easy route, wouldn't it?

The harsh, vivid buzz left no space for any other white noise. It filled his skull with reedy 100 Hz droning, crowding out any attempt at any other thought. Any other attempt at peace.

Soft, aggravated sigh raking the air, the boy shot from the stained cot in exasperation. He padded barefoot past the three-legged table, upon which his effects had been haphazardly stuffed into a knapsack next to a wooden bowl of fruit, the only splash of color in the room aside from him. Getting all the way into his tiptoes, he tried to tap the bulb harshly with his index finger, causing him to be poradically dipped in pitch black as the lightbulb rebels against him openly. It was only until he felt his middle begin to ache that he dropped back onto his heels, defeated.

The sound was almost more maddening than the pain. It kept him from making sense of anything, from reasoning anything. A hand lowered to his hip, absently tugging at his drawstring. It kept him from ...

Kept him from...

The boy caught sight of himself in a mirror, a threadbare, skinny thing, trussed up in clothes two sizes too big and an inch too short, tied at the waist in bandaging, left arm in a sling to immobilize his hand, wrapped loosely around a metal grip.

Kept him from acknowledging the massive hole in his memory where the grandest aspect of his self-identity used to lay. It was almost like looking at someone else entirely. In his place was someone else. "A coward..."

That's what he said.

The boy's mouth set in a thin, pressed line. He turned away from the mirror, palm resting flat on the table. His phone was somewhere in the knapsack. If it wasn't damaged, a few phone calls would settle matters. It would be easy. But...

The boy looks just past the knapsack, just past the wrapped length of his sword, contemplating the fruit bowl all the while. He stared at it. Longer than should have been comfortable. Two tones of brown eyes regard the colors, the shapes. And settle on a single one.

"...!"

The boy moves. Not for his phone. His sword drags across the wood, temporarily drowning out that obnoxious buzz as he gathers his knapsack. House shoes slipped on like a shot, the boy was up the stairs and pushing the bolt on the door open with the hilt of his sword in an eyeblink.

The young man takes his leave in haste, taking the house shoes with him and that gaudy outfit. He leaves only the fruit on the table, a single apricot sitting out of place atop of the group.

<nowiki/>******

'''"...You know the boy possesses the power of 'that eye'."'''

'''"He could be anywhere.."'''

'''"Even irrespective of that, we must move as if he is gone."'''

'''"You don't mean to enact --"'''

'''"It is the only sane way to proceed."'''

'''"The shirogarasu has not yet approved..."'''

'''"Neither has the sunrise. And yet, we do not heed that even when we can clearly see the morning come."'''

'''"...."'''

'''"Do not fret. We will seize the future, by any means...!"'''
----

[[Category:Cutscenes]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2025-12-16: A Wreckage

2025-12-17T03:31:59Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Cutscene: A Wreckage''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara *'''Where:''' A Basement in Hirasaka *'''OOC Date:''' Dec 16 2025 *'''IC Date:''' Aug 26 2012 *'''Summary''': ''<A young man copes with his limitations. Meanwhile...'' '''"The shirogarasu has disappeared...."''' '''"Suspected dead. As expected of a foolhardy child."''' '''"Be careful."''' '''"The supernatural killer is no inferior foe."''' '''"Even supralunar power is not enough."''' '''"Even so --"'''..."

*'''Cutscene: A Wreckage'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' A Basement in Hirasaka
*'''OOC Date:''' Dec 16 2025
*'''IC Date:''' Aug 26 2012
*'''Summary''': ''<A young man copes with his limitations. Meanwhile...''

'''"The shirogarasu has disappeared...."'''

'''"Suspected dead. As expected of a foolhardy child."'''

'''"Be careful."'''

'''"The supernatural killer is no inferior foe."'''

'''"Even supralunar power is not enough."'''

'''"Even so --"'''

'''"-- Yes. A body has not been recovered.."'''

'''"We have spies on site, no one could have survived..."'''

<nowiki/>******

The light fixture flickered, a bare socket with a bare bulb in it, filling the air with a harsh, septic buzz, the only sound in the room. It was attached to an old, ancient beam supporting an unfinished ceiling in the claustrophobic ten by ten room.

The frequency of the light hurt his eyes when he opened them, so he elected to do so as rarely as possible. He was supposed to be meditating anyway.

The boy was still wearing the same ridiculous five yen clown-pun t-shirt the card dealer gave him, but even in August it was much colder underground in a damp basement. Luckily, he was able to find a set of longer, warmer pants in the cardboard box sitting on top of an old, unplugged TV. Less luckily, they were a set of eye-wateringly electric blue fleece cargo joggers, with a thoroughly insufficient drawstring closure. The entire affair made him seem like he lost more weight than he'd had, and every time he looked in the mirror, the clown on his shirt seemed to judge him more harshly.

So, he elected not to look. To rest, as he'd said he would. To leave everything in the charge of his people. That would be the easy route, wouldn't it?

The harsh, vivid buzz left no space for any other white noise. It filled his skull with reedy 100 Hz droning, crowding out any attempt at any other thought. Any other attempt at peace.

Soft, aggravated sigh raking the air, the boy shot from the stained cot in exasperation. He padded barefoot past the three-legged table, upon which his effects had been haphazardly stuffed into a knapsack next to a wooden bowl of fruit, the only splash of color in the room aside from him. Getting all the way into his tiptoes, he tried to tap the bulb harshly with his index finger, causing him to be poradically dipped in pitch black as the lightbulb rebels against him openly. It was only until he felt his middle begin to ache that he dropped back onto his heels, defeated.

The sound was almost more maddening than the pain. It kept him from making sense of anything, from reasoning anything. A hand lowered to his hip, absently tugging at his drawstring. It kept him from ...

Kept him from...

The boy caught sight of himself in a mirror, a threadbare, skinny thing, trussed up in clothes two sizes too big and an inch too short, tied at the waist in bandaging, left arm in a sling to immobilize his hand, wrapped loosely around a metal grip.

Kept him from acknowledging the massive hole in his memory where the grandest aspect of his self-identity used to lay. It was almost like looking at someone else entirely. In his place was someone else. "A coward..."

That's what he said.

The boy's mouth set in a thin, pressed line. He turned away from the mirror, palm resting flat on the table. His phone was somewhere in the knapsack. If it wasn't damaged, a few phone calls would settle matters. It would be easy. But...

The boy looks just past the knapsack, just past the wrapped length of his sword, contemplating the fruit bowl all the while. He stared at it. Longer than should have been comfortable. Two tones of brown eyes regard the colors, the shapes. And settle on a single one.

"...!"

The boy moves. Not for his phone. His sword drags across the wood, temporarily drowning out that obnoxious buzz as he gathers his knapsack. House shoes slipped on like a shot, the boy was up the stairs and pushing the bolt on the door open with the hilt of his sword in an eyeblink.

The young man takes his leave in haste, taking the house shoes with him and that gaudy outfit. He leaves only the fruit on the table, a single apricot sitting out of place atop of the group.

<nowiki/>******

'''"...You know the boy possesses the power of 'that eye'."'''

'''"He could be anywhere.."'''

'''"Even irrespective of that, we must move as if he is gone."'''

'''"You don't mean to enact --"'''

'''"It is the only sane way to proceed."'''

'''"The shirogarasu has not yet approved..."'''

'''"Neither has the sunrise. And yet, we do not heed that even when we can clearly see the morning come."'''

'''"...."'''

'''"Do not fret. We will seize the future, by any means...!"'''
----

[[Category:Cutscenes]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2025-12-11: Duct Tape

2025-12-12T20:07:53Z

Strangehat: Blanked the page

2025-12-11: Duct Tape

2025-12-12T19:55:10Z

Strangehat:

*'''Log: Duct Tape'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Myunghon Yeo]], [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' Cardboard Dragon, Hirasaka
*'''OOC Date:''' 2025-12-11
*'''IC Date:''' Aug 23 2012
*'''Summary''': ''"But doctor," the man said, "We're both Pagliacci."''
*'''Trigger Warnings''': TW for themes of self-harm.
<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

He almost died, several times.

The smoke, toxic to anyone who breathed it. The steel beams and catwalks, shorn molten and piled atop him like jackstraws. They precluded any effort to wriggle loose no matter how much he paid attention to his escape lessons.

Not to mention the gaping sword hole through his middle. Among other things.

Escape was a matter of desperation. A matter of fast thinking. He had, in certain ways, been prepared for it. He'd been training to trace the contous of the zones, to pay attention to the feeling in his 'eye' with the shift of the ghostly world's heartbeat. To follow where they had left. To find the last vestige of that darkness that consumed his club, somewhere in the curling fire and the snickering laughter of devils. To aim, to lift a beam so that he could see -- and force himself through.

.... but that's not really important right now, is it?

Survival is a matter of degrees. Clawing himself loose of the fire with only one functional hand was an uphill fight. Getting clear of the club before his agents swarmed it was moreso. Shiryuu -- injured so and only a year's shy of a civil war in his clan -- is no fool.

Pigeon-toed steps made on melted soles in shoes with ripped laces, it was impossible to know how far he'd walked. A makeshift binding from his haori and cinched tight with a ratcheting cord to keep from leaving a trail, the silks already turning foul. A hand wrapped in gaffer tape. Holding onto his pack as a struggle. His sword, absent its saya, jammed through the pack entirely and wrapped in a torn sleeve in absence of a proper scabbard. He only needed to make it... a few more miles.

That was when he fell face-first into a brackish puddle, bloodstained hair haphazardly sprayed across the damp, filthy pool in the back alley. One eye frozen blue and bleeding, one eye brown and dim.

A small, cheap flip-phone lays by him, open and shining a pale light on his face. The fingertips of his good hand lay nearby, impotent.

On the screen, the messages app is open. A few numbers, broken coordinates that could either be down the street from the burning club or somewhere in the middle of nowhere in the sea off the coast of Shandong, China. And a single cat emoji. The cat is sad.

<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.

At some point, in his diminished sense of wherewithal, someone is very vainly trying to move him and finding it incredibly difficult given their utter lack of arm strength and the fact that they've got to go up a whole flight of stairs, but it is /done/ anyway -- especially as a surge of Blue assists them in the matter once they've crossed the threshold and the assassin finds himself spirited away on something more efficient and masterful than some nobody trying to use FLESH and BONE and can instead use MAGIC SILK--

It might be quite a while before Shiryuu wakes up, but by the time he does, it's to the scent of tea and, less favourably, bleach in the background, in the... one could say dismal, but perhaps comforting? second floor of the Cardboard Dragon, which at the very least is Clean unlike the nightmare third floor he's been through. Whoever's been taking care of him has done the needful of doing first aid and emergency stapling of wounds to make sure that Sword Hole doesn't become a cause of death, like they have some experience with sealing sword wounds shut themself.

He finds himself with a lot more bandages and his clothes replaced. They ARE clean, but they might be a far cry from the fashionable threads that he's used to, though he does find his shredded, battered clothes and melted shoes in a reasonably neat -- if bloodied -- pile on the coffee table, along with his sword, which at least has been carefully placed so the blade isn't going to horribly grind against coffee table glass or anything.

His clothes?

Shorts, and an oversize t-shirt of a goofy clown with giant shoes with a sad face and the text:

IT'S NO SMALL FEET, BEING A CLOWN... :(

And across from him? Myunghon Yeo, who looks just about as deathly, face pale and a little blue with the bags under their one eye even more evident and heavy. They, too, have a really lame shirt with an anthropomorphic bicycle proclaiming it's TWO-TIRED to go. They have a white skirt and leggings on.

The rumourmonger has a cup of tea in their hand, trembling, and their Cognitive Coat is draped over them like they're certain someone else is going to come finish the job on Shiryuu, so they've been on watch.

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

Even fitful, he sleeps like a prince. The young man rests mostly where bidden, though through either illness or sheer wont he doesn't appear to be the type to curl up, even with staples in his middle and a wrapped hand.

Truthfully, the matter of attending to him is as much a mechanical process as it is a physical one. Even absent the obvious logistical effort of moving him, most of the devices on him seemed to be of entirely alien, or warlike purpose. Among the knives, bombs, and papercraft he carries, there is also wires, and a little control surface for operating a synthesizer. The red cord around his middle was some sort of autotourniquet (?) device that needed to be broken to strip the silk from his middle, and it matches one from the emaining sleeve of his haori. It is very, very clear from the context that he's been run through, burned, and cut his hand open on a sword.

Of course, no amount of attention seems to stop his eye from bleeding randomly, weeping from beneath his eyelid, apparently following its own will. At least he doesn't seem to be very sensitive to pain.

The boy, for all of the unhidden pride with which he sleeps does not himself have peace. His brow is set harshly throughout the time, exactly as he was found, and his breathing is slightly faster than the norm. The young man shifts in short, small bursts. Tiny little murmurs, sotto voce, pepper the intensity of his voice. "revenant." "sharper." "faster." "better." "shinigami." "save her." "no!" "just a skill issue--" "have to follow him..."

"coward."

"k--!!" His bandaged hand twitches as he flinches. An instant later, the boy snaps awake with a start, borderline startling his clown motif as his eyes shoot open. By this time, both of his eyes are brown again, but one would be given to think his eyes shot fire, the way he behaves, glance snapping around him like a caged animal, his right hand fisted.

It dawns on him a moment later where he's at.

The locked bracelet on his bad hand has opened, spilling a chain-linked line of microblade sections from the bracelet in a circuit to the ground, the tail gleaming where it hasn't been burned. It does no good -- it belongs to an injured hand, clutching the whip lamely.

....The grey-haired boy finally notices Merry, watching him. The whip dangles, impotent and comical for a very, very long and awkward second.

"...um."

Shiryuu, despite all appearances to the contrary, is not accustomed to words by nature.

<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.

The thing about Myunghon is that no matter how involved they are in crime, they still aren't... terribly used to weapons, and this is by design. They don't want to get so desensitised that they're used to a gun, still remembering well the day they took the gun So-young bought on a lark when they were pushed beyond their mental and emotional limits to try to erase someone -- and themself, and had to be coaxed out of a sin they already felt like they'd already committed.

So it's with care that Myunghon puts the various devices down, unsure if they're going to kill them just by virtue of being touched. They're still here, though, so...

<nowiki>''Shinigami.''</nowiki>

There is someone, in that past. A woman. A reason. And... it's clear, what happened to him.

Burns. Sword slashes.

There's one hot topic of a sequence killer in Sumaru that fits the mark. But Shiryuu leaps to attention, drawing a whip that Myunghon can't even BEGIN to pretend they know would've been here -- and it's tiredness that prevents them from having a particularly startled reaction.

"... good morning, Ryouhara-kun," Myunghon says weakly. It's dark, but it must be in the wee hours of the morning. "I took the liberty of putting you back together as best I could," they murmur, voice a little hoarse from how damaged and painful their throat feels.

"I take it that you made good on your promise to summon the Joker Killer," Myunghon remarks fatiguedly, looking to their laptop where -- Shiryuu can see the article on the club fire. Looks like they've pieced some things together too.

"... I have some pear juice, if you'd like."

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

To be honest, he hadn't intended on calling them.

Taking care of things himself was his preference, came easily the reasoning. Piecing together what collusion of events must have transpired to end up here -- mercifully, here -- of all places was a matter of observing the evidence. His clothes, Myunghon's -- so stripped of that grandiose whimsy known as Merry -- the haggard draw in their voice, the tremor in their hands. These are details that, once his pupils actually focus enough to tell, he won't miss.

But for the moment, there is unfocused, raw uncertainty, confusion, and awkwardness. For a moment, the shihaisha is not at all the leader to which he is accustomed, gingerly realizing that perhaps cutting down the person responsible for your continued living is not the appropriate response to being greeted. What time is it?

"Uh," he repeats, because it feels better than saying nothing. A bandaged hand mitten-paws helplessly at the flexible microblade of Juurishojin, snapping it back up. A click, a rattle, and a winding retracts the blade into lock, seaming against the metal of what appeared only a few moments ago to be an ornamental bangle.

"....sorry," he apologizes. The first whole thought that entered his mind. He doesn't say what he's apologizing for.

The Joker Killer. Invoking the name seems to drive the young man into a quiet piece of obsession, balling the fabric of his shorts into his one good hand, the tightening fist worrying the out of place khaki tightly. For a time, he is silent, brooding and sullen, until his eyes brighten at the prospect of p--

A wave of nausea hits Shiryuu like a hammer. Suddenly, the boy doubles over, clamping his bad hand over his mouth, stifling a dry heave. "Urrp--!!"

The pain in his middle brings tears to at least one of his eyes.

"Hh-- I'm -- I'll be fine," he assures Yeo. "I need to --" Instead, he turns a quarter, thinking to slide out onto his bare feet, immediately noticing the pile of his effects in the middle distance. Suddenly, that seems to be that -- Shiryuu's made up his mind, and is likely about to fall face-first onto the floor again.

...at least, until he notices Myunghon's ghastly state. Just like before... but now..

"....aa," the shihaisha relents. "I think so." He is very authoritative in his clown shirt and shorts, confirming for Myunghon what may have been obvious. His head dips, gripping onto the one resolve he has, his mouth a thin, pressed, flat line.

"...but you're safe with me. He won't come, not now."

The notion carries more meaning than one, the boy's haphazard mess of hair falling over his eyes briefly. "....what happened here," he asks, finally.

He can intuit some things, but the cast and pallor of Myunghon's voice sticks in his mind.

<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.

Myunghon allows the grace to let Shiryuu rewind his micro-weapon, thinking, perhaps, what kind of life they would be living if their own personal pipeline to professional murder involved knives, bombs, katana, and microfilament whips, instead of corporate buzzspeak, high-class parties where everyone is smiling but no one is happy and doesn't mean a single word they're saying, and the singular, focused hatred of taking everything away from poor people so that they, as the oh-point-oh oh oh oh oh one percent can be unnoticably richer at the expense of another's life.

To kill someone with Juurishojin, in their mind, must feel better than deleting someone's existence by pressing 'Send' on an e-mail.

"No, no need..." Myunghon does attempt to reassure, before alarm does ring in their eye as they rise at Shiryuu's nausea, getting up and saying, "Don't make any sudden moves for now. I stitched you back together, but you'll need proper treatment. I do know a doctor that won't ask questions." Hello, Tae Takemi, you're now involved with stitching up an assassin back together. Isn't life wonderful?

They hand some pills in a small film canister over. "Painkillers." And water. The good stuff, too. They're about to coax him to not get up, but it seems like Shiryuu's decided something on his own. Myunghon doesn't look particularly more lavish either, the coat clashing bad against their own punny t-shirt.

"I could ask that of yourself... but..."

Myunghon glances to where Shiryuu can follow the trail to where even now, the powerful stench of bleach is accompanied by a whole pile of-- used duct-tape? The pallor brings to mind poisoning, and other more subtle aspects on their body lines up. Bleach is of course already a corrosive, but it doesn't take much to make a poisonous gas even with common goods. The duct tape, also a way to hermetically seal a space with even common goods.

A pause, and as if knowing Shiryuu will intuit it already:

"... you could call it a coward's act. A lot of people do," they admit, suddenly sounding a lot more sorrowful than before. Then they get up to go to the fridge, to bring him that pear juice.

"Here you go, it's on the house."

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

There are, not too far from one another, two forms of killings in the room. One are the tools of the contractor, the garrottes, blades and grenades of the cold blooded. Then there are ... just like that send button, far less overt means.

"So... it's you I have to thank for my life," Shiryuu remarks sullenly, accepting the illicit container thoughtfully. A moment of self-evaluation reminds him that being run through is not an easily managed state. A spray of thoughts paint the back of his skull -- and Myunghon can see exactly where the boy hesitates, where he frowns. There is no suspicion, but ...

Almost as if run out of objections before he ever raised them, Shiryuu splits the difference. The lid comes off of the canister, a single pill examined. Swallowed dry, then chased with water, each in one hand. The rest are set aside him. "I owe debt already," when the idea of a doctor is brought up.

Now two dissimilarly brown eyes peek from beneath silver strands, conspiratorially following Myunghon's glance from one method to the other. Ryouhara has, unfortunately, been made all too aware of many of the finer points of ninkou-kagaku. A single bottle of bleach can do a lot of damage even when the means aren't meant. The vicious, acrid scent gets a lot of context in the shadow of that haphazard ball of duct tape.

"...." The boy's eyes narrow suddenly in a stab of shock at that word. There is no hardening of his mien, nor does he respond with the same abject warmth of worry one might ascribe to someone of a modern sensibility. Instead, the young man grows uncommonly distant, letting the subject fade before accepting the bottle of juice from his caretaker. He holds the juice sealed in his right hand, contemplating tersely. A moment's decision, and he nods lightly, pressing the cool surface to his cheek with a long, low sigh unsheathing from his chest.

"..no, it's..."

He starts to say something. Something strong, powerful and brave. Then the boy just doesn't, trailing off. It takes him a long time to start again.

"... when I fought that man," Shiryuu begins, a little lost in the sense of things. "...he said I was a coward as well."

The admission hurts. There is a morose thread of intensity from the young shihaisha in that moment. Almost as if the word itself hits closer to a guilt than he would like.

A moment, dark and sullen and shadowed, passes in silence. And then the boy adopts a screwed-on smile, a mild uptilt of sudden recognition. He still has the pear juice pressed to his cheek. Yeo will notice it's on the side of his face that was bleeding from the eye earlier.

"Now look at us," the boy points out, cavalier.

"Where did these getups even come from?"

Nobody dresses like this for real. Right? ...right??

<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.

It may be a romanticised view, but Myunghon thinks a garrotte, a blade, a grenade is honest -- an act of violence that can't be misconstrued. A detached, cold e-mail of denial, a 'peer review' process that can't be construed as anything but malicious, but all legal -- lauded, even, because the process in which it has been shaped has become so ingrained into the rot in society...

<nowiki>''Am I the only one who kills people? You, you don't use your swords. You kill people with your power, your money. Sometimes you kill them on the pretext of working for their good. It's true they don't bleed. They are in the best of health, but all the same you've killed them. It's hard to say who is a greater sinner, you or me.''</nowiki>

That quote of Akutagawa's rings in Myunghon's head often.

"We can worry about debt and payment when I am certain you will pull through," Myunghon murmurs, not having any of that grandiose vivaciousness when they are wearing the mask of 'Merry'. It's hard to tell whether that makes them more or less human. They think a little, looking at those brown eyes, the way that Shiryuu's eyes bled earlier when they were trying to care for him. The 'blue' eyes that people talked about...

But Shiryuu shares something unexpected. That when he fought Sudou, he called him a coward too.

"Do you know why...?"

Myunghon does notice, the way he presses the coldness against the eye that was bleeding. Worry starts to return to their heart. Shiryuu's eye was clearly injured, but they have no idea how to treat an eye injury. "I can-- call them now. They can be here within the hour," they advise. "And..."

A pause, as they think to do this now before they forget, moving to their shop counter and returning with a key -- and a piece of paper. "A safehouse, some six blocks from here, when we can move you safely. This one is not compromised by the police."

But look at them. Two cowards, with their silly shirts. That sad smile is still on the rumourmonger's face.

"Omoroi Tees dot co dot jp, for 200 yen for a box of forty shirts, when they ran out of business."

Can you withstand it, Shiryuu? The indignity of wearing a t-shirt that cost them FIVE YEN?

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

His arm folds over his middle. His injured hand absently fingers the shirt, right where the clown's big comically oversized shoe is making a big comically oversized step. Coincidentally, over the bandages in his middle. No, the painkillers haven't kicked in yet, so it's a bit like teasing a dragon fully intent on eating you whole. Each little touch takes a conscious amount of thought, his fingertips shifting and moving out of sync, as if pulled by strings, as if pulled by an amateur puppeteer. Press. Press. Shiryuu is definitely the type not to leave well enough alone. "I'll survive," he tells Yeo, in no uncertain terms and accompanied by a very instinctive gilded edge of impatience. Like most people his age, he is very quick to dismiss the idea of his own mortality.

A mortality that only hits him a minute or so later.

The vertigo of the mortal coil levels the boy's bubble right back where it was, where it sat, where he's currently missing a significant amount of blood, and can't move from one end of the shop to the other without collapsing. Well. He hasn't tried yet, right?

As if annoyed, the boy does seem like he's testing how the floor feels beneath his bare feet, the ball of one brushing the floor in sullen defiance of being bedridden.

There is a strange pallor to one of the boy's eyes when he looks back at Yeo, at the person behind that Merry. If he weren't so very lacking in a favored side, it would be easy to think that he's blind on one eye, the shade of brown subtly different in one eye from the other. It's nothing he's paying attention to, the press of cool juice against his face more of an absent self-soothing than anything else, an idea that dies with the question posed. He lowers the juice to his lap, and occupies himself with trying to pick the foil under the cap open with failing fingers. It's a serving distraction for him. A reason not to have to look Myung in their eyes anymore.

"....The cops don't have Persona, do they," he remarks, as grudging as he is sullen. Watching Yeo move about, he's seemingly happy to skate entirely past the idea of 'that question'. "I'll... I'll go as needed," he relents. "I'll only be a few days. I need... I need to meditate."

He doesn't explain literally any of that. Instead, he shoots Myunghon a nettled look -- he's wearing what? For how much? It's a welcome distraction. "Mm."

....until it doesn't distract him anymore.

"... it's because ..." Shiryuu starts in complete non sequitur, his gaze suddenly hard. The very secure juice pays dearly for its insolence. Poke. Pick. Poke. Smack. The shihaisha's mouth sets in a hard, grim line as he focuses entirely on the bottle.

"... I wasn't strong enough."

<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.

Another.

Here's another youth who's so quick to dismiss their well-being -- there's so many of those these days, that, in one way or another, society doesn't care about. It might not be so readily evident, but that Shiryuu's clad as an assassin for contract already speaks volumes as to what his childhood isn't, and what his designed purpose in life is, now is it?

But they can't say anything about that without feeling like a hypocrite.

The soft gentleness of Myunghon Yeo is rather a stark contrast, perhaps. Merry is a bombastic figure designed to not be a flesh and blood creature. A designed, purpose-built mask in which they can interface with to the world's woes with aplomb. But Rumourmonger Merry wasn't the one who haphazardly attempted to treat him all night. That isn't their role. For the revolution, Rumourmonger Merry by design must shed blood...

"... the ones who treat me the worst do not, fortunately," Myunghon murmurs, shriveling into themself for even thinking of the violence again. "But there is one that does... and I do daresay he might be quick testing his luck on how long he continues to be a cop."

There's a deep frown as Shiryuu relents on going, however. "I would have you rest now. I will arrange things in the next hour -- it is still only four in the morning, we can still move you under cover of night," they say in no uncertain terms, because they think that Shiryuu's someone who can probably appreciate details.

But Shiryuu shares that the Joker Killer called him a coward because... he wasn't strong enough.

"..."

Myunghon frowns deeper, saying, "We are not strangers to skirmishes with that man by now, Ryouhara-kun, and every single time, he's eluded capture or defeat. That wound you have -- I have a near-identical one on my own torso. This is not... an opponent you defeat alone, and it is not a matter of skill or pride."

That frown creases deeper still. "He has many... dark blessings. Perhaps even ones we still don't know the true form of yet.

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

"It's not fair play for the police to have supralunar power," Shiryuu breathes in controlled exasperation, both colors of his eyes flicking about as he looks from left to right, the little saccade stabs of motion gifting him a quietly manic air.

"Give me a list of the ones bothering you, and I'll take care of it." He doesn't even seem to think about it. He's already authorized the breaking of one leg, he will simply give the list to Zakuro.

But the notion dwindles as Shiryuu thinks, his mind latching onto fine details as he rolls on, a cart laden and rolling downhill without stop. "....Iie," he breathes, flatly rejecting the notion, his mouth tight, his lips pressed together. The notion of dark power does not mollify him in the slightest.

"There is 'a power' backing him. But ... I saw. I was right there. I had him. He wasn't moving anymore. I just had to focus. Bankasoujin was in my hand." What? "I could have. There was a way. There had to have been. I just had to do it. I just needed to ..."

The boy's eyes rail against the walls. Coming to grips with the moment is a fast, brutal affair, and the lump in his throat feels like an iron ball. He blinks, hard, and his eyes come back wet, his lips pursed tightly. There is a tiny -pop- and pear juice shoots a full foot or two across the boy's lap as he finally plucks the foil loose of the bottle's mouth. "!"

He drips, quietly.

"...what use am I to her if I can't--" his mouth presses in a dark, annoyed line. The pear juice is now being coddled in his bad hand, the boy raising a single finger of his good hand, as if to pin down his own thoughts.

"It is my station in life to decide," he repeats. It's familiar to him, and there is nary a ghost of the manic energy that existed a moment prior. He's no longer having to choose his words, as if they were something written on the back of his hand. "I won't ask anyone else to endanger themselves if 'my life' is what will solve it."

He roots himself in place, his hand lowering to strangle the life from his juice bottle. He looks down at it, annoyed. Then he offers it back to Merry, suddenly both hands thrusted out.

"Drink," he tells them, in no uncertain terms. "Become strong. I will rest. Take care of your body. As shihaisha, I will tell you now that there won't be any forgiveness if you bring any harm to yourself before I've reached full power and we can talk again under my full authority."

Pause.

"Also, you are very frugal."

<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.

"... no," Myunghon does seem a bit firmer on the topic of giving the names of the cops harassing them. "I already told someone who offered that I don't wish to become someone who can only be comfortable when I've only condemned all my assa--" the voice hitches a bit, "... all my enemies to death."

A pause, and then they say, "I have a plan... to protect myself and those around me from them, regardless."

But Shiryuu describes the moment. He was there, dead to rights, his weapon in hand. He could've... could he? Now, the account seems more vague. It's unclear, Myunghon thinks, whether he was gripped by a crisis of conscience of some kind, or whether he encountered some other supernatural outcome that he wasn't expecting...

-pop-!

Pear juice is not going to be denied anymore.

Myunghon quietly hands a napkin his way, but then places it beside him instead as he laments on not being of use to 'her'. Myunghon isn't certain whether they should probe. This 'her'...

"Someone quite dear, no doubt..." Someone you need to avenge, comes the other side of that coin, that Myunghon doesn't voice. They want Shiryuu to have a deniable out.

But the next few words have him rising to something more imperious -- as the shihaisha, the one who decides. The Ruler. Myunghon deeply frowns as they don't quite reach for the pear juice yet. "You sound just like him," they murmur, not clarifying on who. "Why do I know so many people who have such a self-sacrificing nature... 'it's all right if it's /my/ life', they always say..."

A despondent noise. "Don't speak with such authority to me of what I shouldn't do to myself when you've mired yourself in much the same pool of thought," they ruefully murmur -- not quite... angry, but... yes, despondent is the word for it. "I'm certain you think it noble. He does too. But there is something satisfying, deep down, about the fact that you won't have to face all the people concerned about you, isn't there...?"

Their face wrenches, agonized because they're just describing themself. They quietly accept the pear juice. It's going to taste like ashes, but they don't mind. They can share some pear juice.

"It's not a small feat indeed to be a clown..." they whisper.

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

It is a measurable self sacrifice to give away pear juice, for the record.

Eyebrows shooting up with quickness, Ryouhara briefly shows a shade of alarm when Myunghon wonders aloud what he was talking about. The response i immediate: the boy's mouth preses shut, his right eye closing, leaving the russet left to fix on the equally-Omoroi dealer. A moment passes, and the young man roughly flings himself back into the couch cushions, with a quiet -paf-.

"I don't know what you're getting at," Shiryuu points out, matter-of-factly. "Just some unfinished business with someone.."

An unspoken concern knits his eyebrows for a moment or two after that, but he seems very eager not to say more on it.

The young man grimaces as he adjusts, lifting both of his arms over the armrest to fold his hands behind his head. The painkillers are starting to kick in; he can do this now without feeling lightheaded. And for a bit, that seems to be the long and short of it, the boy transparent to the rebuke as he makes a good show of evaluating the ceiling.

"...it's not like that," he points out.

"We live our lives in this world with our roles dictated to us by that world. We might think for a time that we're 'someone different' or 'something else entirely,' but in time, we achieve a 'synchronicity' with our ultimate fate and role. Some of us are meant to toil in the dark. And some of us are meant to be beautiful."

A glance, absent, at the curling form of that Cognitive Coat.

"You're probably one of the ones meant to be beautiful, I think."

"Anyway." Shiryuu's eyes return up ahead to the ceiling above, letting Myunghon drink. "Self sacrifice is something different than nobility... it's the same for your person, too, I bet. It is a choice. Not.. noble. If they had the opportunity to see 'that person' again..."

Shiryuu drifts off into uncomfortable silence, the former sureness of the shihaisha fading away. He breathes out.

..... "Honk," he remarks, defeated.

The shihaisha smirks, suddenly wry and mischievous. A whip-lean smile edges his lips in sharp white. Satisfaction is a heady drug.

----

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2025-12-11: Duct Tape

2025-12-12T19:43:22Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Log: Duct Tape''' *'''Cast:''' Myunghon Yeo Shiryuu Ryouhara *'''Where:''' Cardboard Dragon, Hirasaka *'''OOC Date:''' 2025-12-11 *'''IC Date:''' Aug 23 2012 *'''Summary''': ''"But doctor," the man said, "We're both Pagliacci."'' *'''Trigger Warnings''': TW for themes of self-harm. ---- Category:Logs Category:Season 1 Category:Season 1, Episode 1"

*'''Log: Duct Tape'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Myunghon Yeo]] [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' Cardboard Dragon, Hirasaka
*'''OOC Date:''' 2025-12-11
*'''IC Date:''' Aug 23 2012
*'''Summary''': ''"But doctor," the man said, "We're both Pagliacci."''
*'''Trigger Warnings''': TW for themes of self-harm.

----

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2025-12-07: The Flame, The Sword

2025-12-09T03:25:38Z

Strangehat:

*'''Log: 2025-12-07: The Flame, The Sword'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Tatsuya Sudou]], [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' Club Harai, Sumaru
*'''OOC Date:''' Dec 7, 2025
*'''IC Date:''' Aug 22, 2012
*'''Summary''': ''Did you think this was going to be your triumph? It's not even Tuesday..''
'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

'To seize 'opportunity' for myself... 'Gingitsune' must die.'

A famous underground DJ operating out of Club Harai. The pulse-pounding beat of the club has been vicious these last few days, or so the patrons have said. Club Harai is actually a sprawling music scene heavily converted from what appears to be an old warehouse, an industrial shrine to breakbeats filling three sprawling floors with pulsing laserlight and ancient, obscure fabrication machines.

Crates of old grease and reels of wire are vandalized haphazardly with fluorescent paint, some as fresh as 'today' as the club pulses with seething inner life. Lights from the overhead rig sweep the main dancefloors below with vividly colorful light as the synthesizers rave, hallowed ancient instruments used in razor-sharp digital sampling in intensely oscillating waves.

Everything was more aggressive, they said, as if he had something to prove.

The man on high, the silver fox in the booth at the distal end, flanked on either side by vast monitors on mechanical arms, separated from the crowd by sprawling catwalks and bridges. He's been here every night, they say, and doesn't go anywhere else. Part of the floor has been shut down for a remodel, forklifts parked on the floor and wrapped with dangerous-looking string lights.

Ravers have climbed it, and are currently using the cage to dance. Not very OSHA approved. But then, nothing really is, in a place like this.

'''<Pose Tracker> Tatsuya Sudou has posed.'''

The Ravers rave.

The Dancers dance.

The music plays on.

Nothing changes, except that one moment he wasn't in the crowd and one moment he was.

One moment all the dancers had features, the next they were nothing more then shadowy figures. The ever delicate taste of the supernatural hangs in the air.

t The Joker Killer glides through the crowd until he is standing in front of the booth, the spotlight finding him. The shadows still dancing, warped faces with smiles and eyes visible despite the shadowy forms they've taken.

The Joker killer pulls forth a white fedora and places it on the paper bag, before performing a decent 20 second rendition of Michael's Smooth Criminal dance before pointing at the DJ Box.

The Joker killer's voice echo's over the music as if he stole a microphone from somewhere, while holding the pointing pose "I am here to solve a fox problem. So come on out and you can die among your peers."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

And then, everything crawls to a standstill.

The light burns, instead of glows. Warped, harsh, vicious. It takes only an eyeblink, he marvels, for the world to turn upside down. The fox looks up through the crowd, to the single beast ascending the stairs. Past rows of black silhouettes, past the mundane things meant to stop and control the crowd. Until he's there. Right there.

The fox watches the display impassively, as the music writhes like a stuck insect on a pin. Silent, wordless -- aside from the words in his songs, the DJ has never been known to actually speak, as eerily quiet as the grave. The mundane faders and equalizers at his fingertips no longer hold any control over the beat.

But then.. they never have.

The mask tilts downward, dark as the Killer cuts a rug right in front of his booth. And Gingitsune's hands raise slowly, an inch above the controls. It takes everything he has, but the tremor in his hands vanishes.

It's a small, hallowed trickle, but the music flanges hard, as if a throat swallows. The lowpass filter causing the distortion to the rhythm is strangled in place.

[ it's like blood, count every drop -- ]

"....so." the sound ripples, his vocal track clicking into unseen place. Lights are still running, though they no longer have any telltale source.

"...you're the one they called 'Old Maid.'"

He steps away from the booth, onto the catwalk across. Deadly, anonymous. An expert, exquisitely crafted mask turns to face .. paper, and pure nothing.

Chilling. ".... I've been waiting."

'''<Pose Tracker> Tatsuya Sudou has posed.'''

Joker killer visibly winces at that term, the old maid. Looking off into the crowd he shouts to No One, "YOU SEE! I tried to go with boogie man , baba yaga, the crazy murder, I almost have it with the Joker Killer. Can't you just make that one name go away. I swear people think I am here to sew them a quilt or something."

With a heavy sigh The Joker Killer turns back towards the fox and rubs his face through the bag, the fedora somehow staying in one place, " Listen here grey fox, I have come to kill you and...wait? Waiting for me?" The head tilts and a question comes forth, "What do you mean waiting for me? Unless...is this a trap?! Are you the grey bait?"

The Joker Killer chuckles as he then looks around, "Ok Akabane-san, Suou-kun! Fake joker! All of you bring it on!" A sword is drawn from the trench coat, in a way that the sword shaped object would never fit within the trench coat and Sudou holds it ready for combat.

All he gets is crickets of course as none of them are here that Sudou is aware of.

Turning back to the target The Joker Killer speaks up, "Just curious? If this is a trap, where's the ambush because if there is no ambush, well this is just a very cowardly move."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Oh. He doesn't like that name.

"...apologies."

The silver fox seems uncomfortable, as if caught in some strange faux pas. A hand raises to his mask, the muzzle of the smooth wood dipping to touch his fingertips. For a moment, it's an eerily genuine gesture from the overdressed fox. At least, until he pauses.

"...wait." What is he saying?

The young man steps forward, and is about to say something until JK turns, talking to the darkness. "Iih--" .... the man in the mask sighs, waiting for him to finish. It's not hard to see the offense he takes when the killer starts rattling off names. One in particular.

"....Forget the name 'Akabane,'" he starts anew.

"If that name becomes nothing to you, nothing else today will matter."

"...I'm the only one here. The only one you have to worry about."

A steel blade uncoils from his sleeve, flexible, and in sections, a long razor chain clicking loose one link at a time. "...I will erase every one of your names, one by one, until you submit."

A wind ripples through, as he starts to swing the weapon in a low, skipping circle, sending little sparks ripping from the catwalk. "You see..."

"....I've been waiting to kill you."

A chime rings out, loud, straight and pure when he reaches to his back and unshoulders the red bag laid across his shoulders, revealing the hilt of a sword. A whirling halo of black feathers ripples around him with a gunshot of steel clicking loose.

And then he cuts right through it, with a chain microblade aimed with eerie precision, shooting through a gust of wind right for the Joker Killer's center of mass.

''AS: Block Best! Tatsuya Sudou takes 61 Slash damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Magatama Cipher.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Tatsuya Sudou has posed.'''

The Joker Killer doesn't raise his sword, instead he raises his hand and lets the blade pierce his hand. A smile is given as he looks at the part of the sword that is through his hand as if he is examining the weapon as a hand ornament. He even tilts his hand left and right, "I think it clashes with my nails. " A gasp is given before he pulls his hand back from the blade, and now looks at the hole for a moment. If he wasn't wearing a paper bag he might even lick the wound.

The Joker Killer looks up from his hand, remembering what he is here for. "Huh? Oh do you know Umie-chan? Telling me to forget about her? Is that perhaps out of jealousy?" Sudou chuckles as he takes his bleeding hand and runs it along his sword, smearing blood along his own blade. " She doesn't know you did this does she? Tsk tsk tsk." The Joker killer chuckles as he examines the mess on his sword.

The Joker Killer looks back at Silver Fox, " I could call her right now. Let her know. Hey is it cool if I kill your boy toy? Do you think she would even realize it's you? She might let you die for your own stupidity."

A swipe in the air is given and the sword bursts into flames, Sudou grasping the flaming sword with the bleeding hand. " They have sent armies after me, and you think you can do it yourself." Shaking his bag no he adds, "Well fortunately you won't have to live with this mistake long."%

The Joker Killer's movements are both aggressive and not, the action is aggressive, the killer's body moves forward, the killer's flaming sword is brought down in a diagonal slash, but there is no aggression behind it. It is the same as if some clerk was welcoming someone to their shop, Sudou is simply going through the motions.

''AS: Avoid Best! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 21 Fire damage from Tatsuya Sudou's Burning Slash. Resist!''

''AS: Poison added!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

His wrist turns, tension tightening the blade of Juurishojin in the mad killer's flesh. Temporarily bound in place, that fox hauls tightly on the line of the whip-like microblade, reaching around to grab the sectional chain between cutting sections to keep control over it, to keep rein against the killer on the other side of it.

Stupid. It was foolish to think he could negotiate a swift end to this. Resolve steels the boy, an impassive mask of restrained annoyance against the Joker Killer's taunts.

It only shows in his voice, when he replies.

She doesn't know, does she? "....yeah." That's about the shape of it. He's going to die here. "....maybe."

"But I'm not anyone important.."

KUH--! The boy whips fast on his knees, whirling away in stance-switching steps the moment his blade is loosed, sneakers skipping over the wire of the catwalk. The chainblade snaps and sparks as it whirls, skating across the steel support structure as the killer comes down with an immolation blade. "!!" It's hard to get clear, and the blast of fire ignites his clothes almost immediately as the boy whirls. It burns the jacket away from his sword, the red bag igniting like so much flash paper. A quick grip saves his hand, catching the sword by the hilt as his scabbard burns, as wooden boards start to form around them.

He flips, stepping off the catwalk only to catch some sort of ancient wood bridge sitting at a physically impossible angle, purely for the purposes of walking -up- it. The catwalk extends via these ancient bridges, stabbing through the club in abstract angles as he slips his sword out of the flaming sheath, as he whirls, wind and the whip of blades mitigating the lick of fire at the back of his neck.

"...I'm no friend. No soldier--"

The black blade of Bankosoujin rises as he rolls back into the killer's space, sparks snapping off of a lighting fixture overhead as his whirling blade on the opposite hand continues. Sparks rip through the substructure, catching hidden wicks aflame with that trail of fire. Wait. Eh?

The DJ doesn't say anything else, as the beat shreds hard. As he tries to cut the madman open with a katana with a blade black as night, ink flowing from it. It'll blot out the light. Just enough.

The light from the explosions that start to go off, one after the other, ripping the club apart. The boy doesn't say anything else.

He doesn't have any time to think up anything appropriate. He's busy.

''AS: Counter Worst! Tatsuya Sudou takes 124 Slash damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Bankasoujin. Critical Hit!''

''AS: COUNTER! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 62 Slash damage in return for his attack!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Tatsuya Sudou has posed.'''

The black blade swings and hits it's mark. The Joker Killer doesn't even try to stop the blade, instead he lets the black blade sink into his shoulder as the paper bag's smilie face stares at the attacker. " Just a poor love struck kid, trying to be the hero for the damsel." Sudou tilts his head and flexes his shoulder, making sure the Silver fox's sword can't go anywhere before he raises his own sword and stabs it toward the gut of his target.

The stab is given, Shiryuu's blade is freed and Sudou ducks away from the blade and backs up. He is about to charge forward when the explosions begin. "I hate to break it to you kid. You are not the hero meant to kill me. No, you pale in comparison of that kid. He would never of tried something so cowardly. "

Sudou doesn't charge forward, instead he continues to back up until an explosion goes off again. This explosiobn encompasses Sudou, and depending how aware of the battlefield Shiryuu is, he'd realize he didn't set that explosion.

From the fire laughter can be heard as Sudou walks out, any bleeding having stopped. "Round 2. Fight!"

''AS: Take! Tatsuya Sudou takes 77 Recovery healing from Tatsuya Sudou's Burning Spirit.''

''AS: Atk_Up added!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

For a spinning instant, one scintilla of time, a wooden fox mask is inches from a scrawled smile.

The steel is hot, a snakebite in his gut. Committed to striking the madman down, there's not a lot the silver fox can do to stop the killer from simply binding the sword in his body and running him through with his own. As explosions ripple around them, blood spatters across old wood and old steel as Gingitsune is speared with the flame. Fire crawls from him as he ragdolls away from the madman, a sudden, -violent- burst of red erupting from behind his mask as he barely manages to fall back.

He lands on his back heel hard, losing balance and bouncing across the catwalk haphazardly, chaotically, before the explosions rip through Club Harai. Fire unzippers the entire roof to the open air in an ear-bleeding string of explosions. He's dimly aware that the explosions didn't kill the killer.

To the contrary, he seems to add to them.

A few moments later, the fox comes to. A soft groan as the boy takes a long time to get to his feet, as the Joker Killer steps out of the flame. What kid? "ugh.." the fox groans. "Who are you even talking about.."

It's so hard to focus on his words. "...."

"...you're wrong," he manages, barely. Some of his clothes are still smouldering, he's dimly aware. Something in the fire he can't extinguish with normal jutsu, must be. The blade of Bonds of Black skips across the lines of steel as he gathers his feet beneath him. An icy thread of defiance slides into the back of his voice, as a powerful surging beat trickles into the sky. Club Harai lays open like a wound, and music bleeds from it openly. Though the speakers burn, the show still goes on.

"I wouldn't know anything about 'love.'" Derision drips from his jaw, as openly as the blood, as he forces each word around the hole in his gut.

He's already moving. The effort to speak is monumental.

"It's just my right to crush that girl before anyone--!!"

Round 2. The silver fox is first in one position, and then his knee is where his mask once was -- an inch in front of the Joker Killer's face. A knee thrust, shot off like a cannon. The DJ moves exactly as fast as the beat. An instant passes, and he's tried to hit the man in his face. Kick his leg out from underneath him. And then whirl around, gripping the raw edge of his blade to slam the spine of it across the Joker's neck.

Blood rips down the boy's palm, as he gets a deathgrip on his own swordblade. He means to strangle the killer there. Get behind him. hold him in place long enough. Maybe he can flip his blade, and cut JK's throat by pulling with both hands. That's the plan. An option, anyway.

If fire won't kill him, if that man doesn't seem to notice stabbing, then sawing through his neck should work in a pinch. Let's see how that goes.

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara spends Limit on Exploit! Shiryuu Ryouhara can use another Weak skill this round!''

''AS: Take! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 0 Recovery healing from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Track 3: Lock TF In.''

''AS: Atk_Up, Rage, and Regen added!''

''AS: Block Worst! Tatsuya Sudou takes 59 Strike damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Ryouhara Ninjutsu. Critical Hit!''

''AS: Block Worst! Tatsuya Sudou takes 59 Strike damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Ryouhara Ninjutsu. Critical Hit!''

''AS: Block Worst! Tatsuya Sudou takes 44 Strike damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Ryouhara Ninjutsu.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Tatsuya Sudou has posed.'''

The Joker Killer clenches up as the fox on his back will not just let up. His hand goes up and blocks the blade from his neck, and more importantly to protect his paper bag. "Are you serious?! "

Tatsuya Sudou is grumpy, this guy isn't even a good guy. He wants to... just... "DAMN YOU! Have some fuckin' class." A tighter grip is given to give himself room to breathe for a moment as the paper bag rises off his head.

From beneath the bag the Joker Persona rises up and while the persona is also wearing the paper bag, it means that beneath the paper bag is....another paper bag.

"You come off as a creepy stalker like all that, not even a classy one." The Joker Killer shouts as he gets angry, the Joker Persona is shuffling cards. Then it leans forward and places the Joker card between the two. The joker on the card winks at the Silver Fox before it blows up seperating the two.

Before the smoke even clears The Joker Killer is charging toward the Silver Fox, trying to slug him. "How dare you make me the hero of this story!"

''AS: Tatsuya Sudou spends Limit on Exploit! Tatsuya Sudou can use another Weak skill this round!''

''AS: Avoid Best! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 169 Almighty damage from Tatsuya Sudou's Joker Wild.''

''AS: Avoid Worst! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 98 Strike damage from Tatsuya Sudou's Sonic Punch.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

A flaming support beam drops through the air, tumbling down into the club below. The sounds of all-out fighting fill the air, the huff of breath, and the ring of steel. The fox is glued to the madman, trying to strangle the life from him. It crumples that bag as he tries to hook the blunt side of the blade under the man's jaw, to pull it tight. But the larger man is fast, and a hand is locked onto that black blade, leaving them in a grip of four hands.

"Get... over yourself..urgh..!!"

The boy's bloodsoaked grunt is thick and wet with exertion as he hauls hard on the blade, pressing a knee into the madman's back in a blatant attempt to break the man's fingers. Alas, the madman is stronger, and it's not to be.

Admittedly, curiosity is what killed the cat, and the slow, chaotic rip of that bag off of the man's head gave the fox just enough pause to get his stranglehold broken. Not by mortal means, but by the haunting visage of supralunary power, a bemused ghost giving a sly wink before dropping a guillotine of cards between them. Though the boy is able to break the hold in time enough to avoid being blown to pieces, the subsequent explosion launches him end-over-end to crash roughly through the aged, ancient wood of a bridge intersecting the catwalk. The crash arrests his momentum, leaving the boy bleeding and stunned on his knees, his hand struggling to correct his grip on the sword on the ground beneath him. Blood spatters the catwalk, spatters along his blade. The mask is charred, black, the delicate painting warped and bubbling from the heat.

He manages to get up just long enough to get punched square in the middle, right over the previously-healing gut shot. It comes too fast, and the line of Bonds of Black swiping through the air is clearly meant to enforce distance, to arrest momentum, and to give him just a second.

"Urgh---" this .. isn't going well.

But then.. really...

'How dare you!' "... life isn't fair, is it," the silver fox observes coldly, grim behind his mask.

A single skill card is flicked into the air, glowing cerulean blue before it disappears in a shimmering mist.

The jangle of ancient chimes stirs the wind, held by a mechanical ghost dancing somewhere just beyond the bridges. A single stroke of a staff longer than many are tall churns that wind into a storm. A rolling storm, that cuts into the space between them, and into the mist. Once the wind twists, a rare sheen of glittering ice spills into view, tendrils of crystalline rime forming vicious points as the conjured, alien spell chases down the Joker Killer, forming hissing points in the dark, and cutting the sightline between he and the Silver Fox. Just one blink, the DJ is out of sight.

It's enough. The wind twists, and turns, labyrinthine and whimsical in its way. And then the boy appears, having skipped the entirety of the space between them. He moves in an eyeblink, circumventing physics as if 'space' didn't mean anything at all, to get behind the killer. A deeply unfair pincer attack, sandwiching the Joker Killer between the wild, ink slash of his blade, and a chasing spear of impassive, encroaching ice.

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara spends Limit on Shock Noise! Recovery_Wall applied to Tatsuya Sudou!''

''AS: Block Worst! Tatsuya Sudou takes 169 Slash damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Setsuna.''

''AS: Tatsuya Sudou is unable to continue fighting!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Tatsuya Sudou has posed.'''

The Joker killer is caught between ice and a creepy brat. He didn't try to run from it, he simply embraced what was going to happen and did his best to soak what he could. The blade slash, the icicles embed, and blood turns that nice beige trenchcoat red.

The killer stands there unmoving for a moment. He doesn't fall or move he doesn't waver. The Joker persona doesn't fade either. Then the Persona speaks, "You lazy bastard. You fell asleep again didn't you?!" The Joker whacks Sudou's head who groans a little that doesn't move.

The Joker Persona cracks it's fingers and draws for puppet strings and begins to puppet Sudou. The Joker Killer body twists and turns in inhumane ways as it looms before Gingitsune. Through Joker Killer's body a voice that is not his nor the persona's is heard. "He who tries to twist the rules and destroy my vessel , I shall punish you today."

The body crouches and pulls forth from the ground a giant gnarly Claymore, pulsing with black flames, that looks like it should not be wieldable by even the large man behind the paper bag. The body of the Joker Killer raises it over his head and the Joker persona reaches out to touch it but stops and imitates having cut itself on the blade. The Joker Persona then waves at the Silver Fox.

The blade is brought down in a single swipe towards Gingitsune, the black flames spreading and being thrown everywhere.

The slash cuts through the club.

The slash cuts through the fire

The slash cuts through shadows

The slash cuts through the identity of Gingitsune.

Finally, the slash cuts through the supernatural space itself, the black flame burning it away and the one who use to be known as Gingitsune is left standing in the club where this all started.

The Joker Killer is no where to be found.

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara: Loses 52 HP from Poison! Gains 48 HP from Regen! Atk_Up and Regen removed!''

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara's turn has ended.''

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara: Loses 47 HP from Poison! Poison removed!''

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara's turn has ended.''

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara is unable to continue fighting!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

There. The critical point is right there. The boy behind the mask can taste it, the iron haze in the air. It really shouldn't take much more. It can't, can it? His eye aches. Every limb feels like a sinking ship, his hands are numb, and the hilt of his sword feels like a lump of ice in his hands.

He's weak! Through the chest, the boy reminds himself, bracing the cap of his hilt against his shoulder, in an attempt to get just that slight extra push, until -- "!!"

Suddenly, it's all gone, and the fox looks up to a grand and vicious jester, no longer at all being controlled by the person below. Instead, it's the opposite, and strings run tight, driving the boy back as the lurching, zombie-like creature his target's become turns on him, producing more dark, warped steel from the pit. Eyes behind that mask widen, as he tries to force iron into his hands, iron into his bones, iron into his will. No matter whee he goes. Follow him. Kill him.

He finds only blood and pain, and nerveless nothing.

'what if,' a mind suddenly preoccupied with awful ideas is forced to think, 'he was never alive?'

Gingitsune steps back, gutted in awe and by steel.

"What the f..."

And then everything else follows.

It's minutes later when the tinge of kegare leaves the air. When the skies open up, the madman is nowhere to be seen. The sky is dark, impassive, uncaring of the smouldering, gutted heap the club has become. Blood sprays across the catwalks, collapsed and wretched, ssteel struts reaching up into the sky like a dead spider's legs.

The sky doesn't care. Slowly, it begins to rain. Patters of water, at first, causing the industrial grime to run filmy down the stretch of crossmembers. Then, harder, pattering across the concrete, and stifling the curling dust and smoke.

Rainfall soaks into burned and scorched fur, diluting the blood on the ground. A boy, one amongst many, lays there, somewhere underneath fallen iron and steel.
----

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2025-12-07: The Flame, The Sword

2025-12-08T20:56:25Z

Strangehat:

*'''Log: 2025-12-07: The Flame, The Sword'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Tatsuya Sudou]], [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' <The location(s) the log occurs in.>
*'''OOC Date:''' Dec 7, 2025
*'''IC Date:''' Aug 22, 2012
*'''Summary''': ''Did you think this was going to be your triumph? It's not even Tuesday..''
'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

'To seize 'opportunity' for myself... 'Gingitsune' must die.'

A famous underground DJ operating out of Club Harai. The pulse-pounding beat of the club has been vicious these last few days, or so the patrons have said. Club Harai is actually a sprawling music scene heavily converted from what appears to be an old warehouse, an industrial shrine to breakbeats filling three sprawling floors with pulsing laserlight and ancient, obscure fabrication machines.

Crates of old grease and reels of wire are vandalized haphazardly with fluorescent paint, some as fresh as 'today' as the club pulses with seething inner life. Lights from the overhead rig sweep the main dancefloors below with vividly colorful light as the synthesizers rave, hallowed ancient instruments used in razor-sharp digital sampling in intensely oscillating waves.

Everything was more aggressive, they said, as if he had something to prove.

The man on high, the silver fox in the booth at the distal end, flanked on either side by vast monitors on mechanical arms, separated from the crowd by sprawling catwalks and bridges. He's been here every night, they say, and doesn't go anywhere else. Part of the floor has been shut down for a remodel, forklifts parked on the floor and wrapped with dangerous-looking string lights.

Ravers have climbed it, and are currently using the cage to dance. Not very OSHA approved. But then, nothing really is, in a place like this.

'''<Pose Tracker> Tatsuya Sudou has posed.'''

The Ravers rave.

The Dancers dance.

The music plays on.

Nothing changes, except that one moment he wasn't in the crowd and one moment he was.

One moment all the dancers had features, the next they were nothing more then shadowy figures. The ever delicate taste of the supernatural hangs in the air.

t The Joker Killer glides through the crowd until he is standing in front of the booth, the spotlight finding him. The shadows still dancing, warped faces with smiles and eyes visible despite the shadowy forms they've taken.

The Joker killer pulls forth a white fedora and places it on the paper bag, before performing a decent 20 second rendition of Michael's Smooth Criminal dance before pointing at the DJ Box.

The Joker killer's voice echo's over the music as if he stole a microphone from somewhere, while holding the pointing pose "I am here to solve a fox problem. So come on out and you can die among your peers."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

And then, everything crawls to a standstill.

The light burns, instead of glows. Warped, harsh, vicious. It takes only an eyeblink, he marvels, for the world to turn upside down. The fox looks up through the crowd, to the single beast ascending the stairs. Past rows of black silhouettes, past the mundane things meant to stop and control the crowd. Until he's there. Right there.

The fox watches the display impassively, as the music writhes like a stuck insect on a pin. Silent, wordless -- aside from the words in his songs, the DJ has never been known to actually speak, as eerily quiet as the grave. The mundane faders and equalizers at his fingertips no longer hold any control over the beat.

But then.. they never have.

The mask tilts downward, dark as the Killer cuts a rug right in front of his booth. And Gingitsune's hands raise slowly, an inch above the controls. It takes everything he has, but the tremor in his hands vanishes.

It's a small, hallowed trickle, but the music flanges hard, as if a throat swallows. The lowpass filter causing the distortion to the rhythm is strangled in place.

[ it's like blood, count every drop -- ]

"....so." the sound ripples, his vocal track clicking into unseen place. Lights are still running, though they no longer have any telltale source.

"...you're the one they called 'Old Maid.'"

He steps away from the booth, onto the catwalk across. Deadly, anonymous. An expert, exquisitely crafted mask turns to face .. paper, and pure nothing.

Chilling. ".... I've been waiting."

'''<Pose Tracker> Tatsuya Sudou has posed.'''

Joker killer visibly winces at that term, the old maid. Looking off into the crowd he shouts to No One, "YOU SEE! I tried to go with boogie man , baba yaga, the crazy murder, I almost have it with the Joker Killer. Can't you just make that one name go away. I swear people think I am here to sew them a quilt or something."

With a heavy sigh The Joker Killer turns back towards the fox and rubs his face through the bag, the fedora somehow staying in one place, " Listen here grey fox, I have come to kill you and...wait? Waiting for me?" The head tilts and a question comes forth, "What do you mean waiting for me? Unless...is this a trap?! Are you the grey bait?"

The Joker Killer chuckles as he then looks around, "Ok Akabane-san, Suou-kun! Fake joker! All of you bring it on!" A sword is drawn from the trench coat, in a way that the sword shaped object would never fit within the trench coat and Sudou holds it ready for combat.

All he gets is crickets of course as none of them are here that Sudou is aware of.

Turning back to the target The Joker Killer speaks up, "Just curious? If this is a trap, where's the ambush because if there is no ambush, well this is just a very cowardly move."

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

Oh. He doesn't like that name.

"...apologies."

The silver fox seems uncomfortable, as if caught in some strange faux pas. A hand raises to his mask, the muzzle of the smooth wood dipping to touch his fingertips. For a moment, it's an eerily genuine gesture from the overdressed fox. At least, until he pauses.

"...wait." What is he saying?

The young man steps forward, and is about to say something until JK turns, talking to the darkness. "Iih--" .... the man in the mask sighs, waiting for him to finish. It's not hard to see the offense he takes when the killer starts rattling off names. One in particular.

"....Forget the name 'Akabane,'" he starts anew.

"If that name becomes nothing to you, nothing else today will matter."

"...I'm the only one here. The only one you have to worry about."

A steel blade uncoils from his sleeve, flexible, and in sections, a long razor chain clicking loose one link at a time. "...I will erase every one of your names, one by one, until you submit."

A wind ripples through, as he starts to swing the weapon in a low, skipping circle, sending little sparks ripping from the catwalk. "You see..."

"....I've been waiting to kill you."

A chime rings out, loud, straight and pure when he reaches to his back and unshoulders the red bag laid across his shoulders, revealing the hilt of a sword. A whirling halo of black feathers ripples around him with a gunshot of steel clicking loose.

And then he cuts right through it, with a chain microblade aimed with eerie precision, shooting through a gust of wind right for the Joker Killer's center of mass.

''AS: Block Best! Tatsuya Sudou takes 61 Slash damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Magatama Cipher.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Tatsuya Sudou has posed.'''

The Joker Killer doesn't raise his sword, instead he raises his hand and lets the blade pierce his hand. A smile is given as he looks at the part of the sword that is through his hand as if he is examining the weapon as a hand ornament. He even tilts his hand left and right, "I think it clashes with my nails. " A gasp is given before he pulls his hand back from the blade, and now looks at the hole for a moment. If he wasn't wearing a paper bag he might even lick the wound.

The Joker Killer looks up from his hand, remembering what he is here for. "Huh? Oh do you know Umie-chan? Telling me to forget about her? Is that perhaps out of jealousy?" Sudou chuckles as he takes his bleeding hand and runs it along his sword, smearing blood along his own blade. " She doesn't know you did this does she? Tsk tsk tsk." The Joker killer chuckles as he examines the mess on his sword.

The Joker Killer looks back at Silver Fox, " I could call her right now. Let her know. Hey is it cool if I kill your boy toy? Do you think she would even realize it's you? She might let you die for your own stupidity."

A swipe in the air is given and the sword bursts into flames, Sudou grasping the flaming sword with the bleeding hand. " They have sent armies after me, and you think you can do it yourself." Shaking his bag no he adds, "Well fortunately you won't have to live with this mistake long."%

The Joker Killer's movements are both aggressive and not, the action is aggressive, the killer's body moves forward, the killer's flaming sword is brought down in a diagonal slash, but there is no aggression behind it. It is the same as if some clerk was welcoming someone to their shop, Sudou is simply going through the motions.

''AS: Avoid Best! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 21 Fire damage from Tatsuya Sudou's Burning Slash. Resist!''

''AS: Poison added!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

His wrist turns, tension tightening the blade of Juurishojin in the mad killer's flesh. Temporarily bound in place, that fox hauls tightly on the line of the whip-like microblade, reaching around to grab the sectional chain between cutting sections to keep control over it, to keep rein against the killer on the other side of it.

Stupid. It was foolish to think he could negotiate a swift end to this. Resolve steels the boy, an impassive mask of restrained annoyance against the Joker Killer's taunts.

It only shows in his voice, when he replies.

She doesn't know, does she? "....yeah." That's about the shape of it. He's going to die here. "....maybe."

"But I'm not anyone important.."

KUH--! The boy whips fast on his knees, whirling away in stance-switching steps the moment his blade is loosed, sneakers skipping over the wire of the catwalk. The chainblade snaps and sparks as it whirls, skating across the steel support structure as the killer comes down with an immolation blade. "!!" It's hard to get clear, and the blast of fire ignites his clothes almost immediately as the boy whirls. It burns the jacket away from his sword, the red bag igniting like so much flash paper. A quick grip saves his hand, catching the sword by the hilt as his scabbard burns, as wooden boards start to form around them.

He flips, stepping off the catwalk only to catch some sort of ancient wood bridge sitting at a physically impossible angle, purely for the purposes of walking -up- it. The catwalk extends via these ancient bridges, stabbing through the club in abstract angles as he slips his sword out of the flaming sheath, as he whirls, wind and the whip of blades mitigating the lick of fire at the back of his neck.

"...I'm no friend. No soldier--"

The black blade of Bankosoujin rises as he rolls back into the killer's space, sparks snapping off of a lighting fixture overhead as his whirling blade on the opposite hand continues. Sparks rip through the substructure, catching hidden wicks aflame with that trail of fire. Wait. Eh?

The DJ doesn't say anything else, as the beat shreds hard. As he tries to cut the madman open with a katana with a blade black as night, ink flowing from it. It'll blot out the light. Just enough.

The light from the explosions that start to go off, one after the other, ripping the club apart. The boy doesn't say anything else.

He doesn't have any time to think up anything appropriate. He's busy.

''AS: Counter Worst! Tatsuya Sudou takes 124 Slash damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Bankasoujin. Critical Hit!''

''AS: COUNTER! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 62 Slash damage in return for his attack!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Tatsuya Sudou has posed.'''

The black blade swings and hits it's mark. The Joker Killer doesn't even try to stop the blade, instead he lets the black blade sink into his shoulder as the paper bag's smilie face stares at the attacker. " Just a poor love struck kid, trying to be the hero for the damsel." Sudou tilts his head and flexes his shoulder, making sure the Silver fox's sword can't go anywhere before he raises his own sword and stabs it toward the gut of his target.

The stab is given, Shiryuu's blade is freed and Sudou ducks away from the blade and backs up. He is about to charge forward when the explosions begin. "I hate to break it to you kid. You are not the hero meant to kill me. No, you pale in comparison of that kid. He would never of tried something so cowardly. "

Sudou doesn't charge forward, instead he continues to back up until an explosion goes off again. This explosiobn encompasses Sudou, and depending how aware of the battlefield Shiryuu is, he'd realize he didn't set that explosion.

From the fire laughter can be heard as Sudou walks out, any bleeding having stopped. "Round 2. Fight!"

''AS: Take! Tatsuya Sudou takes 77 Recovery healing from Tatsuya Sudou's Burning Spirit.''

''AS: Atk_Up added!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

For a spinning instant, one scintilla of time, a wooden fox mask is inches from a scrawled smile.

The steel is hot, a snakebite in his gut. Committed to striking the madman down, there's not a lot the silver fox can do to stop the killer from simply binding the sword in his body and running him through with his own. As explosions ripple around them, blood spatters across old wood and old steel as Gingitsune is speared with the flame. Fire crawls from him as he ragdolls away from the madman, a sudden, -violent- burst of red erupting from behind his mask as he barely manages to fall back.

He lands on his back heel hard, losing balance and bouncing across the catwalk haphazardly, chaotically, before the explosions rip through Club Harai. Fire unzippers the entire roof to the open air in an ear-bleeding string of explosions. He's dimly aware that the explosions didn't kill the killer.

To the contrary, he seems to add to them.

A few moments later, the fox comes to. A soft groan as the boy takes a long time to get to his feet, as the Joker Killer steps out of the flame. What kid? "ugh.." the fox groans. "Who are you even talking about.."

It's so hard to focus on his words. "...."

"...you're wrong," he manages, barely. Some of his clothes are still smouldering, he's dimly aware. Something in the fire he can't extinguish with normal jutsu, must be. The blade of Bonds of Black skips across the lines of steel as he gathers his feet beneath him. An icy thread of defiance slides into the back of his voice, as a powerful surging beat trickles into the sky. Club Harai lays open like a wound, and music bleeds from it openly. Though the speakers burn, the show still goes on.

"I wouldn't know anything about 'love.'" Derision drips from his jaw, as openly as the blood, as he forces each word around the hole in his gut.

He's already moving. The effort to speak is monumental.

"It's just my right to crush that girl before anyone--!!"

Round 2. The silver fox is first in one position, and then his knee is where his mask once was -- an inch in front of the Joker Killer's face. A knee thrust, shot off like a cannon. The DJ moves exactly as fast as the beat. An instant passes, and he's tried to hit the man in his face. Kick his leg out from underneath him. And then whirl around, gripping the raw edge of his blade to slam the spine of it across the Joker's neck.

Blood rips down the boy's palm, as he gets a deathgrip on his own swordblade. He means to strangle the killer there. Get behind him. hold him in place long enough. Maybe he can flip his blade, and cut JK's throat by pulling with both hands. That's the plan. An option, anyway.

If fire won't kill him, if that man doesn't seem to notice stabbing, then sawing through his neck should work in a pinch. Let's see how that goes.

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara spends Limit on Exploit! Shiryuu Ryouhara can use another Weak skill this round!''

''AS: Take! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 0 Recovery healing from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Track 3: Lock TF In.''

''AS: Atk_Up, Rage, and Regen added!''

''AS: Block Worst! Tatsuya Sudou takes 59 Strike damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Ryouhara Ninjutsu. Critical Hit!''

''AS: Block Worst! Tatsuya Sudou takes 59 Strike damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Ryouhara Ninjutsu. Critical Hit!''

''AS: Block Worst! Tatsuya Sudou takes 44 Strike damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Ryouhara Ninjutsu.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Tatsuya Sudou has posed.'''

The Joker Killer clenches up as the fox on his back will not just let up. His hand goes up and blocks the blade from his neck, and more importantly to protect his paper bag. "Are you serious?! "

Tatsuya Sudou is grumpy, this guy isn't even a good guy. He wants to... just... "DAMN YOU! Have some fuckin' class." A tighter grip is given to give himself room to breathe for a moment as the paper bag rises off his head.

From beneath the bag the Joker Persona rises up and while the persona is also wearing the paper bag, it means that beneath the paper bag is....another paper bag.

"You come off as a creepy stalker like all that, not even a classy one." The Joker Killer shouts as he gets angry, the Joker Persona is shuffling cards. Then it leans forward and places the Joker card between the two. The joker on the card winks at the Silver Fox before it blows up seperating the two.

Before the smoke even clears The Joker Killer is charging toward the Silver Fox, trying to slug him. "How dare you make me the hero of this story!"

''AS: Tatsuya Sudou spends Limit on Exploit! Tatsuya Sudou can use another Weak skill this round!''

''AS: Avoid Best! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 169 Almighty damage from Tatsuya Sudou's Joker Wild.''

''AS: Avoid Worst! Shiryuu Ryouhara takes 98 Strike damage from Tatsuya Sudou's Sonic Punch.''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

A flaming support beam drops through the air, tumbling down into the club below. The sounds of all-out fighting fill the air, the huff of breath, and the ring of steel. The fox is glued to the madman, trying to strangle the life from him. It crumples that bag as he tries to hook the blunt side of the blade under the man's jaw, to pull it tight. But the larger man is fast, and a hand is locked onto that black blade, leaving them in a grip of four hands.

"Get... over yourself..urgh..!!"

The boy's bloodsoaked grunt is thick and wet with exertion as he hauls hard on the blade, pressing a knee into the madman's back in a blatant attempt to break the man's fingers. Alas, the madman is stronger, and it's not to be.

Admittedly, curiosity is what killed the cat, and the slow, chaotic rip of that bag off of the man's head gave the fox just enough pause to get his stranglehold broken. Not by mortal means, but by the haunting visage of supralunary power, a bemused ghost giving a sly wink before dropping a guillotine of cards between them. Though the boy is able to break the hold in time enough to avoid being blown to pieces, the subsequent explosion launches him end-over-end to crash roughly through the aged, ancient wood of a bridge intersecting the catwalk. The crash arrests his momentum, leaving the boy bleeding and stunned on his knees, his hand struggling to correct his grip on the sword on the ground beneath him. Blood spatters the catwalk, spatters along his blade. The mask is charred, black, the delicate painting warped and bubbling from the heat.

He manages to get up just long enough to get punched square in the middle, right over the previously-healing gut shot. It comes too fast, and the line of Bonds of Black swiping through the air is clearly meant to enforce distance, to arrest momentum, and to give him just a second.

"Urgh---" this .. isn't going well.

But then.. really...

'How dare you!' "... life isn't fair, is it," the silver fox observes coldly, grim behind his mask.

A single skill card is flicked into the air, glowing cerulean blue before it disappears in a shimmering mist.

The jangle of ancient chimes stirs the wind, held by a mechanical ghost dancing somewhere just beyond the bridges. A single stroke of a staff longer than many are tall churns that wind into a storm. A rolling storm, that cuts into the space between them, and into the mist. Once the wind twists, a rare sheen of glittering ice spills into view, tendrils of crystalline rime forming vicious points as the conjured, alien spell chases down the Joker Killer, forming hissing points in the dark, and cutting the sightline between he and the Silver Fox. Just one blink, the DJ is out of sight.

It's enough. The wind twists, and turns, labyrinthine and whimsical in its way. And then the boy appears, having skipped the entirety of the space between them. He moves in an eyeblink, circumventing physics as if 'space' didn't mean anything at all, to get behind the killer. A deeply unfair pincer attack, sandwiching the Joker Killer between the wild, ink slash of his blade, and a chasing spear of impassive, encroaching ice.

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara spends Limit on Shock Noise! Recovery_Wall applied to Tatsuya Sudou!''

''AS: Block Worst! Tatsuya Sudou takes 169 Slash damage from Shiryuu Ryouhara's Setsuna.''

''AS: Tatsuya Sudou is unable to continue fighting!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Tatsuya Sudou has posed.'''

The Joker killer is caught between ice and a creepy brat. He didn't try to run from it, he simply embraced what was going to happen and did his best to soak what he could. The blade slash, the icicles embed, and blood turns that nice beige trenchcoat red.

The killer stands there unmoving for a moment. He doesn't fall or move he doesn't waver. The Joker persona doesn't fade either. Then the Persona speaks, "You lazy bastard. You fell asleep again didn't you?!" The Joker whacks Sudou's head who groans a little that doesn't move.

The Joker Persona cracks it's fingers and draws for puppet strings and begins to puppet Sudou. The Joker Killer body twists and turns in inhumane ways as it looms before Gingitsune. Through Joker Killer's body a voice that is not his nor the persona's is heard. "He who tries to twist the rules and destroy my vessel , I shall punish you today."

The body crouches and pulls forth from the ground a giant gnarly Claymore, pulsing with black flames, that looks like it should not be wieldable by even the large man behind the paper bag. The body of the Joker Killer raises it over his head and the Joker persona reaches out to touch it but stops and imitates having cut itself on the blade. The Joker Persona then waves at the Silver Fox.

The blade is brought down in a single swipe towards Gingitsune, the black flames spreading and being thrown everywhere.

The slash cuts through the club.

The slash cuts through the fire

The slash cuts through shadows

The slash cuts through the identity of Gingitsune.

Finally, the slash cuts through the supernatural space itself, the black flame burning it away and the one who use to be known as Gingitsune is left standing in the club where this all started.

The Joker Killer is no where to be found.

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara: Loses 52 HP from Poison! Gains 48 HP from Regen! Atk_Up and Regen removed!''

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara's turn has ended.''

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara: Loses 47 HP from Poison! Poison removed!''

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara's turn has ended.''

''AS: Shiryuu Ryouhara is unable to continue fighting!''

'''<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.'''

There. The critical point is right there. The boy behind the mask can taste it, the iron haze in the air. It really shouldn't take much more. It can't, can it? His eye aches. Every limb feels like a sinking ship, his hands are numb, and the hilt of his sword feels like a lump of ice in his hands.

He's weak! Through the chest, the boy reminds himself, bracing the cap of his hilt against his shoulder, in an attempt to get just that slight extra push, until -- "!!"

Suddenly, it's all gone, and the fox looks up to a grand and vicious jester, no longer at all being controlled by the person below. Instead, it's the opposite, and strings run tight, driving the boy back as the lurching, zombie-like creature his target's become turns on him, producing more dark, warped steel from the pit. Eyes behind that mask widen, as he tries to force iron into his hands, iron into his bones, iron into his will. No matter whee he goes. Follow him. Kill him.

He finds only blood and pain, and nerveless nothing.

'what if,' a mind suddenly preoccupied with awful ideas is forced to think, 'he was never alive?'

Gingitsune steps back, gutted in awe and by steel.

"What the f..."

And then everything else follows.

It's minutes later when the tinge of kegare leaves the air. When the skies open up, the madman is nowhere to be seen. The sky is dark, impassive, uncaring of the smouldering, gutted heap the club has become. Blood sprays across the catwalks, collapsed and wretched, ssteel struts reaching up into the sky like a dead spider's legs.

The sky doesn't care. Slowly, it begins to rain. Patters of water, at first, causing the industrial grime to run filmy down the stretch of crossmembers. Then, harder, pattering across the concrete, and stifling the curling dust and smoke.

Rainfall soaks into burned and scorched fur, diluting the blood on the ground. A boy, one amongst many, lays there, somewhere underneath fallen iron and steel.
----

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2025-12-07: The Flame, The Sword

2025-12-08T20:45:09Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Log: 2025-12-07: The Flame, The Sword''' *'''Cast:''' Tatsuya Sudou, Shiryuu Ryouhara *'''Where:''' <The location(s) the log occurs in.> *'''OOC Date:''' Dec 7, 2025 *'''IC Date:''' Aug 22, 2012 *'''Summary''': ''Did you think this was going to be your triumph? It's not even Tuesday..'' ---- Category:Logs Category:Season 1 Category:Season 1, Episode 1"

2025-12-06: Lock

2025-12-07T22:14:51Z

Strangehat:

*'''Cutscene: Lock'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' Club Harai
*'''OOC Date:''' Dec 06 2025
*'''IC Date:''' Aug 22 2025
*'''Summary''': ''One last song before the storm.''
*'''TW for language'''

'''''"Those names are not so dissimilar as you think."'''''

'''what's the matter? you can't LOCK IN?''' The heavily synthesized voice taunted the crowd below to the rhythm. Somewhere far above, a young man jostled from his dissociative trance. In front of him, the waveform wobbled intermittently in time to the music on a visualizer. The pulse of the rhythm shot levels upward in colors spanning cerulean blue to burning orange, stabbing the peak bars high into the top end of the display, a demented LED circus.

The grey-haired boy blinked once, to banish the reverie. He was wearing a massive fur-lined coat, a monstrosity of a thing wound through with glowing bright reflective striping and symbols. At a glance in the day the patterns would be nigh invisible, but the ultraviolet light spraying across him illuminates the whole of the design, appearing in kanji made of neon paint graffiti, dried dripping over his coat. There is a theme to the kanji scrawl. ''RESIST. RISE. FAIR. FIGHT.''

'''''"I'm not going back to that cell I built for myself."'''''

'''what did I say? you'd better LOCK IN.''' Inside the booth and behind the screen, he was little more than a black silhouette in the sky, the camera trained on his hands, on his coat, on his chest. His face was never important to the revolution. His mask lay off in a tantalizing corner of the camera's view, on the side of the control station.

The mix cantered off like a stallion at gallop. The track is a revolving beat, a cyclical rhythm that takes harsh and angry root deep in the spine.

'''''"Life comes from death."'''''

'''get lost loser, if you can't LOCK IN.''' "The crows won't be happy with you," she noted whimsically. He was reminded Kiria was here tonight, the kunoichi folded against the entry as if having appeared out of nowhere. Almost immediately, the young man starts, stabbing a button with a finger on reflex. A pre-organized filter applies over the video stream piping the booth to the floor below, flooding it with static. Rolling sprays of news footage overruns the stream, vandalized with more symbolism, in dripping stylized text, in English. ''CORRUPT. UNJUST. RESIST.'' The derisive glare Kiria gets in response from the Shirogarasu elicits a scandalous titter. "Jus' saying."

"They'd be less so if they tried to stop me," Shiryuu murmured darkly, a notion to which Kiria tilted her chin up at him, taking the route of the imperious.

"Mmm," she acknowledges. "But if you couldn't defeat Ijuuin and Ooshiro, what makes you think someone like 'him' is going to be within your ability? Just because you killed a few shinobi, doesn't mean..."

".... watch what you say to me," Shiryuu interjects, his voice trickling down to a dangerous level. "Remember what the dawn of Akita represents..."

She smiles behind her hand, amusement dancing in her eyes as she watches him, closely. The notion distracts him, as she unshoulders the bag she carries. "Well, then." The closure on the bag sags open, revealing stacked cases. 'CAUTION: HIGH EXPLOSIVE,' they're stamped. "You'll make a cute corpse, at least~"

The young man frowns, looking back in annoyance. His lips part.

"-- Gin-sama," he's interrupted. "The track audio endpoint is soon."

The tinny reminder echoed over his in-ear monitor. It was recorded by one of his assistants at least a year or so ago by now, cueing his attention when easily distracted. A harsh scythe of rhythm cut through the meandering cycle like hapless wheat, fractally cutting one cycle into another. For one sick, vertiginal moment, everyone was at the table, waiting for him to serve. And despite everything, he looks away from Kiria, from the bag, looks down.

His hand is shaking. His eyes narrow.

'''''"I'll rely on you from now on, okay?"'''''

"Aa," he confirms, his voice ice cold.

'''BITCH. I SAID...'''

His fingertips still, returning to a deadly calm.

"Put it down," he tells her. "... get to the floor."

He turns away. "The next song is coming up.."

He sets the crossfader, turns the camera filter off, and picks up the phone.
----

[[Category:Cutscenes]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2025-12-06: Lock

2025-12-07T22:14:18Z

Strangehat:

*'''Cutscene: Lock'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' Club Harai
*'''OOC Date:''' Dec 06 2025
*'''IC Date:''' Aug 22 2025
*'''Summary''': ''One last song before the storm.''
*'''TW for language'''

'''''"Those names are not so dissimilar as you think."'''''

'''what's the matter? you can't LOCK IN?''' The heavily synthesized voice taunted the crowd below to the rhythm. Somewhere far above, a young man jostled from his dissociative trance. In front of him, the waveform wobbled intermittently in time to the music on a visualizer. The pulse of the rhythm shot levels upward in colors spanning cerulean blue to burning orange, stabbing the peak bars high into the top end of the display, a demented LED circus.

The grey-haired boy blinked once, to banish the reverie. He was wearing a massive fur-lined coat, a monstrosity of a thing wound through with glowing bright reflective striping and symbols. At a glance in the day the patterns would be nigh invisible, but the ultraviolet light spraying across him illuminates the whole of the design, appearing in kanji made of neon paint graffiti, dried dripping over his coat. There is a theme to the kanji scrawl. ''RESIST. RISE. FAIR. FIGHT.''

'''''"I'm not going back to that cell I built for myself."'''''

'''what did I say? you'd better LOCK IN.''' Inside the booth and behind the screen, he was little more than a black silhouette in the sky, the camera trained on his hands, on his coat, on his chest. His face was never important to the revolution. His mask lay off in a tantalizing corner of the camera's view, on the side of the control station.

The mix cantered off like a stallion at gallop. The track is a revolving beat, a cyclical rhythm that takes harsh and angry root deep in the spine.

'''''"Life comes from death."'''''

'''get lost loser, if you can't LOCK IN.''' "The crows won't be happy with you," she noted whimsically. He was reminded Kiria was here tonight, the kunoichi folded against the entry as if having appeared out of nowhere. Almost immediately, the young man starts, stabbing a button with a finger on reflex. A pre-organized filter applies over the video stream piping the booth to the floor below, flooding it with static. Rolling sprays of news footage overruns the stream, vandalized with more symbolism, in dripping stylized text, in English. ''CORRUPT. UNJUST. RESIST.'' The derisive glare Kiria gets in response from the Shirogarasu elicits a scandalous titter. "Jus' saying."

"They'd be less so if they tried to stop me," Shiryuu murmured darkly, a notion to which Kiria tilted her chin up at him, taking the route of the imperious.

"Mmm," she acknowledges. "But if you couldn't defeat Ijuuin and Ooshiro, what makes you think someone like 'him' is going to be within your ability? Just because you killed a few shinobi, doesn't mean..."

".... watch what you say to me," Shiryuu interjects, his voice trickling down to a dangerous level. "Remember what the dawn of Akita represents..."

She smiles behind her hand, amusement dancing in her eyes as she watches him, closely. The notion distracts him, as she unshoulders the bag she carries. "Well, then." The closure on the bag sags open, revealing stacked cases. 'CAUTION: HIGH EXPLOSIVE,' they're stamped. "You'll make a cute corpse, at least~"

The young man frowns, looking back in annoyance. His lips part.

"-- Gin-sama," he's interrupted. "The track audio endpoint is soon."

The tinny reminder echoed over his in-ear monitor. It was recorded by one of his assistants at least a year or so ago by now, cueing his attention when easily distracted. A harsh scythe of rhythm cut through the meandering cycle like hapless wheat, fractally cutting one cycle into another. For one sick, vertiginal moment, everyone was at the table, waiting for him to serve. And despite everything, he looks away from Kiria, from the bag, looks down.

His hand is shaking. His eyes narrow.

'''''"I'll rely on you from now on, okay?"'''''
"Aa," he confirms, his voice ice cold.

'''BITCH. I SAID...'''

His fingertips still, returning to a deadly calm.

"Put it down," he tells her. "... get to the floor."

He turns away. "The next song is coming up.."

He sets the crossfader, turns the camera filter off, and picks up the phone.
----

[[Category:Cutscenes]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2025-12-06: Lock

2025-12-07T22:12:39Z

Strangehat:

*'''Cutscene: Lock'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' Club Harai
*'''OOC Date:''' Dec 06 2025
*'''IC Date:''' Aug 22 2025
*'''Summary''': ''One last song before the storm.''
*'''TW for language'''

'''''"Those names are not so dissimilar as you think."'''''

'''what's the matter? you can't LOCK IN?''' The heavily synthesized voice taunted the crowd below to the rhythm. Somewhere far above, a young man jostled from his dissociative trance. In front of him, the waveform wobbled intermittently in time to the music on a visualizer. The pulse of the rhythm shot levels upward in colors spanning cerulean blue to burning orange, stabbing the peak bars high into the top end of the display, a demented LED circus.

The grey-haired boy blinked once, to banish the reverie. He was wearing a massive fur-lined coat, a monstrosity of a thing wound through with glowing bright reflective striping and symbols. At a glance in the day the patterns would be nigh invisible, but the ultraviolet light spraying across him illuminates the whole of the design, appearing in kanji made of neon paint graffiti, dried dripping over his coat. There is a theme to the kanji scrawl. ''RESIST. RISE. FAIR. FIGHT.''

'''''"I'm not going back to that cell I built for myself."'''''

'''what did I say? you'd better LOCK IN.''' Inside the booth and behind the screen, he was little more than a black silhouette in the sky, the camera trained on his hands, on his coat, on his chest. His face was never important to the revolution. His mask lay off in a tantalizing corner of the camera's view, on the side of the control station.

The mix cantered off like a stallion at gallop. The track is a revolving beat, a cyclical rhythm that takes harsh and angry root deep in the spine.

'''''"Life comes from death."'''''

'''get lost loser, if you can't LOCK IN.''' "The crows won't be happy with you," she noted whimsically. He was reminded Kiria was here tonight, the kunoichi folded against the entry as if having appeared out of nowhere. Almost immediately, the young man starts, stabbing a button with a finger on reflex. A pre-organized filter applies over the video stream piping the booth to the floor below, flooding it with static. Rolling sprays of news footage overruns the stream, vandalized with more symbolism, in dripping stylized text, in English. ''CORRUPT. UNJUST. RESIST.'' The derisive glare Kiria gets in response from the Shirogarasu elicits a scandalous titter. "Jus' saying."

"They'd be less so if they tried to stop me," Shiryuu murmured darkly, a notion to which Kiria tilted her chin up at him, taking the route of the imperious.

"Mmm," she acknowledges. "But if you couldn't defeat Ijuuin and Ooshiro, what makes you think someone like 'him' is going to be within your ability? Just because you killed a few shinobi, doesn't mean..."

".... watch what you say to me," Shiryuu interjects, his voice trickling down to a dangerous level. "Remember what the dawn of Akita represents..."

She smiles behind her hand, amusement dancing in her eyes as she watches him, closely. The notion distracts him, as she unshoulders the bag she carries. "Well, then." The closure on the bag sags open, revealing stacked cases. 'CAUTION: HIGH EXPLOSIVE,' they're stamped. "You'll make a cute corpse, at least~"

The young man frowns, looking back in annoyance. His lips part. "-- Gin-sama," he's interrupted. "The track audio endpoint is soon."

The tinny reminder echoed over his in-ear monitor. It was recorded by one of his assistants at least a year or so ago by now, cueing his attention when easily distracted. A harsh scythe of rhythm cut through the meandering cycle like hapless wheat, fractally cutting one cycle into another. For one sick, vertiginal moment, everyone was at the table, waiting for him to serve. And despite everything, he looks away from Kiria, from the bag, looks down.

His hand is shaking. His eyes narrow.

'''''"I'll rely on you from now on, okay?"'''''

"Aa," he confirms, his voice ice cold.

'''BITCH. I SAID...'''

His fingertips still, returning to a deadly calm.

"Put it down," he tells her. "... get to the floor."

He turns away. "The next song is coming up.."

He sets the crossfader, turns the camera filter off, and picks up the phone.
----

[[Category:Cutscenes]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2025-12-06: Lock

2025-12-07T22:01:10Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Cutscene: Lock''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara *'''Where:''' Club Harai *'''OOC Date:''' Dec 06 2025 *'''IC Date:''' Aug 22 2025 *'''Summary''': ''One last song before the storm.'' ---- Category:Cutscenes Category:Season 1 Category:Season 1, Episode 1"

2025-12-01: Bleach

2025-12-02T08:17:38Z

Strangehat:

*'''Log: Bleach'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], [[Myunghon Yeo]]
*'''Where:''' The Cardboard Dragon
*'''OOC Date:''' Dec 01 2025
*'''IC Date:''' Aug 19 2012
*'''Summary''': ''What is the weight of a name stained with blood?''
<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.

It's a quiet night at the Cardboard Dragon and Myunghon Yeo is, quite frankly, exhausted. The trip to Eiji's Palace was quite mortifying, and they've found themself relying on the mask of Merry harder and harder that it their thoughts are becoming more and more of a blur lately. Perhaps it really was, as So-young would put, time for a break. They're pretty terrible at taking a break, though, and 'taking a break' ultimately involves vigorously chipping away at the leads from the documents they received from the Palace to set various events and agents in motion...

They've changed to one of their button-down ruffle blouses, though the ribbon tie is loosened and slack over their neck, with a matching inverted pleat skirt and leggings underneath. They just have one Koala slipper half-slipped on and the other has dropped somewhere under the coffee table, and they have a cup of cold tea that they've long forgotten and a somewhat sizeable stack of Koala March crackers.

The black Cognitive Coat is hung a ways away, on a coat rack.

Now for Shiryuu, the Cardboard Dragon is a three-storey old building from the late 70s that looks like it hasn't received much love at all. The ground floor is a nice diner called SUNNY DAY, and unrelated to his interests -- and the Cardboard Dragon itself starts on the second floor in what looks like a repurposed office, though the front door is inconveniently barred by a large cactus (Johnny-kun), so one has to go around the back into an alleyway and up the fire escape where they find it...

Locked!!

It is past store hours and they don't expect customers, after all. There's another method of egress above at the balcony, but it involves going through the mouldy, dilapidated third floor of a Hell Nightmare that Myunghon Yeo calls a home.

... but. Y'know. The light is on, so.

Maybe one could knock?!

Take the Cardboard Dragon into another bridge realm?!

Brave the dangers of the Nightmare Hell Bedroom?!

Decide, shinobi!

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

Shiryuu spends a lot of time with his arms folded in front of Johnny-kun. The cactus should, theoretically, not pose a meaningful impediment at all to a trained onmitsu, whose skills at infiltration are with few parallel, even amongst shinobi. The Ryouhara clan are ninja mechanists -- it is fairly safe to say that most mundane locks don't pose any resistance at all to them.

But the front door is not barred by a mundane lock.

Honestly, there's something about the size of this spiny not-bush that really bothers Shiryuu Ryouhara. And to his merit, the young man does try to circumvent it, but there's simply no negotiating with the vibe. The boy tersely decides, in his wisdom as shihaisha, that he wants nothing to do with the weird succulent thing, and leaves.

That would have been the end of it, were it not vitally important that he get ahold of the proprietor. What limited intel he had access to (that's the _point_ of contracting a Rumormonger, after all..) points here, and it took some time to find the place to where he could reasonably expect that Merry to be in and everyone else to be out.

That's how you get the gentle stir of wind as Ryouhara alights on the fire escape, landing on a lower railing, only to 'hup' and catch a higher rail in one hand, otherwise soundlessly flicking himself up one more level. The blade of a knife slides between sill and sash, shimming with a near-silent hiss of metal.

No, it's important that his arrival not be suspected by anyone else who could overhear. Going through the living spaces, anyway, allows him to start the conversation off from a place of strength and further intelligence.

Or such was the onmitsu's rationale.

He's actually probably just still annoyed because there was a cactus in his way at the front door. The time for knocking on doors politely is long since over.

<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.

Johnny-kun is in fact a perfectly inert, unmoving plant. You could even move Johnny-kun's base, it's not like anyone's stopping you, but... ... it's the vibe. It's the guardian of the Cardboard Dragon. (Also the front door's actual lock is so totally mundane it probably counts as insulting to Shiryuu, but, y'know, Johnny.)

Shiryuu effortlessly rises through the fire escape ranks, and reaches the third floor where... where...

Where do we even begin with this. First of all, this isn't even a residental place. It's clearly just another office floor that's been repurposed into something... like a home. Look, that's a men's bathroom there!! There's like, a urinal and all!!

Also the walls are dilapidated and ghastly, with black mould growing all over it -- there's been attempts to wash it off with bleach and detergent, but that's just given the place more of a uniquely unpleasant stench of /both/ bleach and mold. It's like how one vampire killer isn't enough to fight off a hundred, or... something like that.

If that wasn't enough, something is dripping from above where a brave plastic bucket is still tanking the leak. That corner of the building's ceiling is so shocking that it should've collapsed last rainy season, but somehow hasn't, but clearly doesn't have left to live. The ceiling tiles are rotting and soggy.

And ontop of that?! The actual living situation is so... sad. There's a hard, lumpy futon in the middle, and a small minifridge just plugged to the wall sitting on the floor. There's not so much 'furniture' as 'a big stack of boxes like someone just hasn't bothered to actually decorate or take their things out', with only a sad plastic rack you could get at Daiso hanging some of their clothes up. The familiar white and black suits and suit-pants of Rumourmonger Merry.

It's so... desolate. Who lives like this. Are they even living? Are they alive?

The knocked-over bottle of disinfectant dripping slowly onto the worn tile floors is a statement. There's like a pile of box cutters just scattered around with a whole bunch of bandages nearby, and a whole lotta duct tape.

Mercifully, the way down into the Cardboard Dragon itself is open.

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

His eye is burning and for once, it has nothing to do with his kegare level.

Well, you wanted more intel right? This is what it looks like. To be fair, there are a whole range of emotions Shiryuu goes through as he slips through the window and puts his Converse collab -right- down in a puddle of moldy(?) disinfectant.

It's at that point Shiryuu grimaces, at ground zero of a very subdued and quiet crash out. Honestly, the cactus was entirely bad enough, but the unguided tour of the upstairs premises is grounds for outright rancor. Shaking off the sole of his sneaker with sharp, balanced kicks, the young man looks around. Subconsciously, he unshoulders and unbags his sword, the dark sheathed length of Bonds of Black held idly in one hand.

He stares at the fridge in the middle of the -- is it an office? Is it a living space? Why is there a couch -and- a bathroom with a urinal? It better be clean. He moves to investigate further --

squeek.

Shiryuu pauses, mid-step. Though it is near impossible to otherwise hear or feel him, his wet sneaker squeaks sharply on the tile floor the moment he gets closer to the middle, like a gunshot in the dark. Shiryuu tests the floor again. squeek.

...he sighs, in a Sisphyean effort to be quiet.

"....yeah, makes sense."

"...Do you have a Mafreila card," Shiryuu asks politely, nonsequitur of a few minutes after that.

A set of very rare, well-maintained Converse Weapon x SAMURAI collaborative editions drop to the floor of the Cardboard Dragon, unceremonious and loud. The young man is almost barefoot, just wearing truncated no-show socks by the time he strides into the second level of the aging building. But shoes or no, he is still extremely armed.

<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.

The minifridge is completely empty save for some medications that have to be refrigerated. It's really, really sad, actually.

Shiryuu can hear a gasp from downstairs, and soon, the squeaks do bring a jumpy Myunghon up the stairs in Koala slippers with a look of terror in their face holding... holding... well, their laptop which they look like they're ready to use as a whapping instrument to smack him in the face with.

Which, at least Shiryuu has as a small victory over the Rumourmonger -- but then they sigh and place their hand over their face, and replace it with a rather vivacious smile as Merry says, "I've had something of a ninja infestation on my bedroom as of late. Should I start to expect more visits like this, hmm?"

They gesture as Shiryuu makes their demand and leads them down towards the Cardboard Dragon itself, which is actually kinda comfortable and cozy and very clean. ... which might make no sense, but, well, this is the commercial front where people are welcome and that space is only for they themself. Which does speak volumes about their sense of well-being.

"It has been a while! I have made progress on your request, but I would like to make some items more certain before I present them," Merry dramatically declares as they guide Shiryuu, no trace of that terrified-looking person left on the surface of their face. "Would you like some tea? It is quite late, but we night-dwellers keep odd hours, I do understand."

And the request isn't forgotten either, as they move towards a certain binder that even Shiryuu from this distance can feel has cognitive power, humming as they draw one particular requested card out. "I do, in fact, have one copy. This is quite rare, however. Shall we negotiate...?"

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

"Mmm." Yeah, he had to take his shoes off to avoid making noise, but the damage is already done. He will admit, it's a bit of an awkward situation to be caught in, going through an ally's things in the dark. Little more than a dark silhouette across the office floor, the boy changes his grip on his sword, taking it by the hilt and bracing the spine-side of the saya on his shoulder. His shoes dangle suspended from the fingertips of his free hand as he gives Merry and their weapon a withering look.

"... you'll need a bigger laptop, for that sort of thing."

Luckily, the situation is mostly sorted out due to the facts that Shiryuu has less than zero impulse to fight in these sorts of conditions, and Merry's star power is enough to light the dim little space all on its own. Not to mention the lead-in. "I didn't sanction any of that," he tells them of ninjas in their bedroom. Which sounds an awful lot like a PopCap game, the boy muses. The lead downstairs is mostly uneventful, aside.

"...like night and day," the boy muses, mostly to himself as Merry leads him through his paces with stunning ease. Temporarily forgetting the problem of replacement socks, the boy pads onto the floor of the shop, fast eyes flicking this way and that. His discomfort is tepid, still, and he peers at Merry's flourish as they note the investigation. The prospect of details evokes a tiny, subvocal sound in the back of his throat.

There's still a lot left to do. Get it together, Ryouhara. Why -are- you even doing ... this? Why, of all things, does this matter to you?

The notion seems to temporarily unman the boy, his gaze focused on the middle distance to the point where he only seems to distantly be aware of the concept of words. "....aa," Ryouhara shakes his head. No tea. "Do you have any pear juice," he asks, idly.

The power of the card draws his attention, causing the onmitsu to look up, broken of whatever spell held him. "...hold it for me for now," Ryouhara replies, evenly. "It'll be worth your while."

The sheathed sword lowers, the tip of the saya resting close to his shoes. "I know it's a little baroque to ask.. but I need to ask you some questions, and they can't be repeated. I'm guessing we'll need to barter for that, first."

<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.

The brief glance of Myunghon holding their laptop looking like they're about to scream is, perhaps, the most honest glance Shiryuu's received into Rumourmonger Merry's personality, but they've already sidled into their so-called role as a Rumourmonger now in their presence, seemingly vivacious and -- invincible, their black coat draped over their shoulders as they hum as the request of pear juice and move to the minifridge.

(This minifridge is for the customers, so it's actually stocked with beverages.)

"You are in luck!" Merry pulls a can out, and the Coat actually slithers out with a ribbon to pass the beverage to Shiryuu from a far distance. "I didn't believe it would be popular, but what did I know?"

They're still playing with that Mafreila card with deft skill, rather comfortable with sleight of hand tricks, as they move back towards the couch and coffee table. "Hm. What a curious request. Very well! I look forward to seeing how this fits into your plans," Merry remarks with interest, their eye glancing towards that sword as he lowers it. It's a gesture, much like their use of the Coat, perhaps.

<nowiki>''I didn't sanction it,'' was the comment Shiryuu made earlier, which sounds like a joke in and out of itself, but it does imply... /leadership/, doesn'</nowiki>t it.

They file that little snippet away, a happy little accident given that Myunghon's joke is that /Umie/ has been in their bedroom. Perhaps Shiryuu would be offended. "You've come to the right place for information, but yes, the right kind of information in turn shall see you far... Shiryuu Ryouhara-kun."

The Rumourmonger lets themself fall back as if they were going to collapse onto the floor, but then their coat stiffens and forms something like a Dracula Throne made of fabric that they cross their legs on. This... would be really dramatic if they weren't still wearing their cute Koala slippers. Maybe Draculas have bedtime clothes too.

"You /are/ a very fascinating individual to me, and I look forward to what it is you have need of."

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

Luckily, Shiryuu is busy thinking of clans such as the Aomori when it comes to 'people in Merry's bedroom,' and not Umie. Certainly, those no-accounts would explain the mold, or the mold would explain the presence of the no-accounts. Even so, it's hard to shake off that one single frame of their eyes.. the shock there, and the wariness. It was almost like...

'You are in luck!' "!" Shiryuu is struck from his thoughts by catching the bottle out of the air as that cognitive coat starts slithering all over the place. "...." Is that a look of satisfaction? "...thanks," Shiryuu replies, using the end of his sword to slide his shoes over to the first step of the stairs, one at a time. The exercise is efficient, but nothing compared to the flourish of the Rumormonger. Comparably, Shiryuu is noticeably more subtle.

Even when the deft Merry points out in no uncertain terms that they've been studying up. "..."

Slowly, the onmitsu is forced to look up incrementally, the folds and curves of fabric forming the boards and legs of a grand throne indeed, putting Shiryuu at a noticeable, if slight, height disadvantage.

"....The skirt looks nice," Ryouhara remarks haltingly. "I could put you in touch with my guy, if you wanted Nike," he says of the saccharine koalas. "Or Hello Kitty, I guess..."

He appears to be completely serious about that.

The young man sits on that note, cracking the juice with a tiny hiss. Mitsuya. Nice. He tilts back, not wasting more time, and his throat is visible as he drinks. AAaa. Wet lips and a visibly more relaxed onmitsu a moment later. "Well," he points out, not at all appearing to mind that sitting means now he is simply -beneath- Merry in most of the ways that's important.

"..I can give you two pieces of information. Normally, it wouldn't go this far... but the first piece of information is related. I'm going to ask you what you know about the Joker Killer."

The sheathed blade lays back, across his shoulder as he holds his bottle in both hands, looking up without tilting his head, a pair of dark brown eyes sharp and cold beneath a silvery spray of bangs.

The implication is clear. He wouldn't be telling under normal circumstances.

"...because it's my intention to summon him, and kill him."

<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.

Myunghon hasn't had Reiya Aomori crash into their bedroom yet. Mitsuru got to them first, but that's not to say they won't land the Phantom Triple Crown of Three Ninjas Kick Back now that they've secured visits from Shiryuu and Akabane and the Phantom Thieves if they piss off the Kirijo heir for some reason. Can they do it? They're in the lead! This is their season to lose now!

They don't particularly budge as Shiryuu does the gymnastics of moving his shoes across without -- perhaps -- touching anything else that might sully it in here. But they do react when Shiryuu comments on their skirt, their expression growing a touch more complicated. It is true that Myunghon was dressed in their suit the last time, and this time, they're noticeably more femme.

"You do seem the guy I should ask if I wanted sports footwear," Merry does observe, their eye still wide and appraising. "Are Koalas not wonderful? You should listen, sometime, to the whispers the glucose can provide to us--"

A pause.

"They seem to approve of you too, the Koalas. So as they are, so they shall be, from even before sugar was granted names by those who practice al-kimiya, or even further before."

There's a hum as they get to business, with Shiryuu seeming to approve of the pear juice. They'll have to keep in mind to stock more. "Hm. Two pieces of information... but you wish to know of the Joker Killer, hmm?"

The smile only grows ever wider. Now this is even more fascinating. They thought them to run parallel or perhaps perpendicular to the NWO, with how they'd interacted with Yua -- they haven't forgotten about the strangulation, yet there's more here to uncover... but now they want to summon and kill him?

"I imagine you have heard by now that the simplest way, of course, is to call your own cell phone number and state your own name," Merry points out. "This is an old rumour -- the very start of the Joker Killings. As for the man himself...? You've seen his gruesome videos online, his call-outs... some friends of mine have been targetted."

A longer pause, and they lean forward. "They've even been here, to threaten me indirectly."

Merry looks rather too excited at that, not unlike when they first met Shiryuu and they broke into violence. "They possess a strong command over flame, and subsequently do not do well against frost or cold. Their blade is deadly even at a distance, and they can summon Demons as backup -- though they prefer to use them as distractions, not a killing method. And they are very elusive, as they have the ability to simply teleport away."

There's another hum of delight, and they say, "There is more, such as 'who is he, really?' but... I'd like to hear from you first, now that I've laid the first set of cards out."

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

Shiryuu drops his gaze incrementally, to the koalas. It's worth noting that the young man doesn't really seem to clock that Merry was wearing a suit before, and is wearing a different code entirely now. Masks are the nature of this world they live in, and for those who walk in the neon-lit dark...

....well, it's only important to Shiryuu that it looks good.

The young man seems to listen in earnest for a moment, slowly lifting the juice bottle to his lip as he considers the proprietor's obvious delight. Well, it's true enough -- the young man, despite all but swimming in all of the layers of clothes he wears, each article he wears is just two shades shy of custom, if not entirely personalized to him. It would make the lack of fit strange if Merry didn't look very closely, to tell where his clothes are tied in place, where they shift, how they move.

Some creatures are loose in their hides, making it very hard to get an effective bite.

Shiryuu doesn't hear anything, but the onmitsu is not known for making comments where they do not need to be made.

"... I wouldn't know," he instead decides, in the most pensive way. The idea of koalas whispering secrets about him is an uncomfortable notion, especially coming from someone whose coat is closer in relation to octopus than outerwear.

"I'm not going to have to have to pick up his slack, am I.." Ryouhara wonders, without actually asking. Their last battle -- and the look in their eye -- confirmed for Shiryuu that Merry was quite enamored with the cognitive arts, and a battle where life and death are on the line. He pointedly does not frame his thinking as a benefit for Merry, then. But...

There are the smaller details, the small factors, and the fact that the killer can disappear at will. It's interesting. But..

"... if I can track him," Ryouhara points out, "he won't outrun me."

No one really can.

Shiryuu sets the pear juice down at his side on the step, sliding his shoes into play anew. He's going to have to wash them later, he decides, because he slides his feet back into the shoes one at a time, snugging the shoelaces around the dark fabric and against the grommets as he laces and ties with quick, sharp movements.

"I'm told," he says, to make it clear, "That you can give the killer any name after he answers, and that he will come and kill that person." The sound of his shoelaces being cinched fills the air for a few moments. "I intend to give him a name."

"The name that belongs to me."

<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.

On the front of quality, at the very least, Merry's girlclothes are of nice quality -- the kind that's tailored for them and has a lot of nostalgia, not sent off the press and mass produced. (Arguably their suits are much cheaper. But they do care for them well, and perhaps that counts for a lot. Tsumugi's coat, however, is of resplendent quality...)

It's much the same, perhaps, for them as it is for Shiryuu, in the way they pick and choose which articles are custom, and where others are not, the way they seem to blend from one outfit to another in their quest to be between genders and what that means.

Will Shiryuu have to pick up his slack? "Ara," Merry pips up in surprise with a smile. "No, you have not come for battle tonight. You yourself must know that there is a time and a place for it to be truly meaningful, and I myself think we have much more fascinating topics at present."

It's quite true that Merry finds Shiryuu fascinating -- not just his powers, but his seeming demeanor and what lies underneath, and what he quests for as well... it's not everyday you come across someone like that.

Shiryuu has an interesting affirmation -- if he can track him... he won't outrun him.

Merry's seen that firsthand.

"There is a sink on the kitchenette, if it pleases," Merry does offer, gesturing towards another part of the shop. But they assume that such shoes can't just be rinsed -- perhaps he has a special ritual for cleaning them, at least to soothe himself, if not strictly necessary.

But Shiryuu's plan is one that Merry's heard before -- and there's a pause even as their smile turns a bit rigid. "You can. I've had to convince some other foolhardy people from doing so, and I know for a fact that that does work..."

A pause. "But I'd advise against it. There is /something/ in the conspiracy that makes the Joker Killings work that we do not see, Ryouhara-kun, and we know there is one -- the police, the government, the media... even the very telecoms infrastructure that enables these calls. I don't believe that their plot begins and ends with just the Joker Killer..."

Myunghon bobs their head, looking softer -- perhaps even concerned for him -- then decides to throw Shiryuu a freebie. "... because I know how my father's mind works, and I know him to be high involved in this conspiracy. To play into their hand is to sacrifice."

Something about the way Shiryuu says it is fascinating, though -- 'the name that belongs to me'. Not just 'me', or 'my name'. Why the distinction?

Merry's back, that vivacious smile that looks like they can revolutionise the world, a moment later. "Here's my number, Ryouhara-kun. I'll keep you updated on the Joker Killer's movements, if you give me one in turn -- a burner account, it matters not to me."

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

"It's fine, for now," Shiryuu comments absently, smoothing out the wrinkles in the heavy nylon upper of the Poorman Weapons. He's very particular with them, almost as much as he is with the way he pulls a small kerchief from his obi and draws the saya of his sheathed sword with it next, restoring the lacquer to it matte gleam. Red bag undone from his bag, and tugged down the length of the blade, until it can be tied shut. The latter at least is a concession to legality over style -- very few police officers in Japan will allow you to open carry a sword in public. Even so, the sword bag mantles his pack exactly, secured in place for the draw. "I'll clean up when I get back."

Notably, he doesn't use the word 'home.'

The shinobi is listening, and it's entirely likely he's avoiding the subject, or rather, the notion of having to reply to a warning. As he works, they will notice the way his attention catches on certain things. A foolhardy plan -- that is known to work? So it's been tried before..

But the world moves in ways that are far deeper than the Joker Killer, they point out. They know, from a source that's closer to heart than one would think. "....your father," the boy notes evenly.

"It seems like we are all paying the price for the sins of those that came before... 'Rumormonger Merry.'

The boy's fingers interlock, his gaze focused tightly. Pensive, intense, as his attention wanders away from the immediacy of the moment, as he locks into some other rhythm entirely. His energy, this close, is like a hole in space.

Rumormonger Merry. "A name that belongs to someone that 'knows.' Someone wise, someone who can change the world with a word. That was ... not the name I was given."

There is a sensation of the boy clinging to a notion tightly, no matter how the beat jostles it on the wave. "I was given the name that decides. The name that carries the blood of fate. The name that is cursed to exist only in the dark. It is the name of sacrifice for 'the ultimate good,' and the will to find out which is which."

His breath is sword-long as he sighs. If they're paying attention, Merry would be able to feel the slightest oscillation in his tone. A tiny, searing doubt, that burns as fast as a moth in candleflame. "This killer threatened a person ..." he blinks slowly, deliberately, as the words die casually, killed before they're spoken. "... and I, whom decides everything, won't abide it. That's why, against every warning, I will find that man, and put a blade through his heart. It is the nature of 'shinobi' to sacrifice. And I, above all and before any child, am the first to lay down."

Another blink. Faster now, as if stumbling out of a fever dream, as if becoming suddenly self-conscious. ".... at least, I suppose they're pretty enough words to say." He nods, quickly, to the proffered number, accepting it. Ostensibly, he'll reply in kind. However, the number is not returned immediately, the young man currently into downing the rest of the juice, throwing his head back as if eager to end the conversation there.

".....thank you," he says, without explaining what. "I will give you the second piece of information now."

<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.

Merry's had the chance to observe Shiryuu twice now. And there is a certain fastidiousness in him -- a sense of /order/ -- to how he cares for both his shoes and his swords, the way he turns his nose at certain things and favours others, that convey a sense of how he carries his life. It's rigid, but there's a certain kind of logic to it. ... it kind of reminds them of how they used to be.

It isn't home. When he gets back.

As if he were always on the job. The mission. Duty.

"Seiichirou Yukichi," they freely share, no love lost there, clearly. The CEO of a health and pharmaceutical company that was embroiled in scandal some two years ago. 'Yukichi' and 'Yeo', though, are a gulf apart, not just in name, but nationality. "I know that he is still involved in their schemes. Indeed..."

Does Shiryuu include himself in that? His own parents?

Perhaps that's what leads their interest in him. He makes analogies to what Rumourmonger Merry might mean. Someone who knows. Someone wise... who can change the world with a word, a command. ... but that wasn't his.

His name is the one that decides -- a cursed, bloody name, rife with fate and sacrifice. It's a very... Japanese concept, isn't it -- that's the first thing Merry thinks of, anyway, perhaps already drawing the traditional image of shinobi even before Shiryuu says it. Those who lurk in the dark, who must fall swords and also fall upon swords should it be required.

"Those names are not so dissimilar as you think," is what Merry shares, after he shares the weight of his name.

There's blood on this side too...

But there's also something else fascinating with the way Shiryuu speaks -- his tone shifted... it's small, and they won't draw attention to it, but for those like he and them, who portray such masks, the slightest deviation can be critical. Much like how they presented the vulnerable 'Myunghon' earlier, so much more a human being who bleeds and sheds tears, as opposed to Rumourmonger Merry, the revolutionary who must become greater than flesh and bone.

The threat to a person. ... so it's personal? Someone of some affection, perhaps great, was threatened by the Joker Killer. And this is a slight -- a personal one.

"They're heavy words, and I don't doubt you're very familiar with their weight," Merry offers in turn. "What I'm offering you -- is efficiency. A word can change the world, it is true -- but a single shadow is but blotted within the light."

Their coat slithers on the ground, as if to illustrate this point, growing and growing further until it feels like a good few feet out from where they're seated can all be consumed in shadows, much like that time it feels as if they could swallow Shiryuu into another dimension.

"But a shadow in darkness is limitless in reach. It is like how distance holds no meaning in your world," Merry points out.

They don't press on what Shiryuu means for 'thank you' -- Merry's number is given and that's their way of reaching out. It's on his own time he can return it -- or not. And now... a second piece of information!

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

"A name..." he wonders aloud, briefly.

Just like that, the steel, the doubt, the words -- they're all gone, dissipated like mist stirred by the wind. Shiryuu is not by nature extremely talkative, so as he finishes that godsend of a bottle, the boy politely suppresses a sound with a fist over his lips, aftereffects of the carbonation taking the place of a real response as he listens, cautiously avoiding giving away too much more to his far wiser compatriot.

It is worth noting that Shiryuu places high value on the concept of 'wisdom,' and equates it readily to Merry specifically, if not the rumormongers as a whole. It is not the same type of intelligence he attributes to himself. There is a distinction. The burden to decide vs. the ability to know what to decide. It's why the boy doesn't flinch when the tendrils of darkness seethe and grow around the bright spot of light in the room, fingery rays of fabric melting into a tenebrous grip on a certain corona of space around them.

Some part of Shiryuu spurs his head to tilt slightly as he looks at the display. Some part of him, an eternally alert thread going straight to his mind and bones, wonders about it. Absently, does it mean that it's the limit of their powers in this context? No... he knows for a fact that the veil of that coat can spread further. But the moonburst from that throne has a meaning, and his mind instinctively latches onto it, until he can turn it back to the name of the father. It's a thought he keeps coming back to. There were so many of those names, now. Perhaps they are...

"...mm."

The boy, nominally unreadable, is very transparently in thought as he takes a long time to tuck the bottle into the webbing of his shoulder pack. He's very much the 'take trash with him' sort.

What I am offering is efficiency. "Iih," Shiryuu vocalizes, pressing his open hands to his knees to stand. "You've already given me a lot. Haa... what kind of contractor would I be, to fall so deeply into the debt of a rumormonger..."

It's not really a question. "Besides.."

His closest hand goes to his shoulder strap, tightening as he thoughtfully holds onto it. "If another person were to be killed because I waited to make a decision... I c--"

"...." His mouth pulls into that tight frown.

"...it's an unacceptable situation we find ourselves in."

Two fingers are held up briskly, though his body language is relaxed. The second piece of information. "In the mean time. I've issued an unbreakable order to all of the blades and eyes of the crows over Shinano. A no-limits protection decree for the Ijuuin clan, and all of their family. It should be known to those who want to avoid the peerless judgment of exquisite steel: Endangering those who carry the Ijuuin kamon will be considered one and the same as offending the darkest night itself..."

The young man is already stepping away.

"As part of my gratitude, use it for your own purposes..."

<Pose Tracker> Myunghon Yeo has posed.

A part of Myunghon does bleed, as they inevitably bleed for the youths around them; they can't know the full extent of Shiryuu's circumstance, but in them they see a similar youth with an impossible burden placed on their shoulders, much like one was placed on them from an early age. They superficially bear no resemblance -- one fated to the cursed shadows, to deal in blood and sacrifice, the other the meteoric heights of corporate loftiness, to play amongst the sinful garden of those most privileged...

... and yet, ultimately, Myorei Yukichi was a trained killer. She just killed with spreadsheets, not katana.

Perhaps that is still the difference Shiryuu draws -- the ability to know what to decide. They are free, after all, are they not? With their body frail and in bandages, but free nonetheless.

There's a quiet little smile as Shiryuu makes the gesture of taking his trash with him. It's such a small gesture, but it speaks much to his sense of responsibility and manners. "A contractor must deal in contracts, hmm? As a Rumourmonger inevitably must deal in rumours."

But the decision hangs low over him -- if another one were to be killed because he wanted, then...

...

That would be a dereliction of duty, would it not.

But Shiryuu provides a rather strong piece of information -- not just the meat of the topic, that a protection decree is in place over the Ijuuin clan (and Myunghon instantly knows what that means, beyond just Miho -- having been drawn publicly through Kimitake, that would apply to Yua too, when her marriage is officiated) -- 'the crows over Shinano'. What a wonderful phrase, hearkening back to a different time period of this land... and also it confers a lot of information over just /what/ kind of forces Shiryuu has command over.

"... until later, then, Ryouhara-kun. I look forward to unciphering this riddle of yours."

Merry continues to be seated on their throne, imperious in demeanor, until Shiryuu leaves. They give it a minute, and then... the throne is dispelled, and then--

Myunghon flops bonelessly to the ground and tucks into themself and finally allows themself a good and ugly cry from the fright of the thought of once again being threatened and assaulted in their own home by an assailant.
----

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2025-12-01: Bleach

2025-12-02T08:08:00Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Log: Bleach''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara, Myunghon Yeo *'''Where:''' The Cardboard Dragon *'''OOC Date:''' Dec 01 2025 *'''IC Date:''' Aug 19 2012 *'''Summary''': ''What is the weight of a name stained with blood?'' ---- Category:Logs Category:Season 1 Category:Season 1, Episode 1"

*'''Log: Bleach'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], [[Myunghon Yeo]]
*'''Where:''' The Cardboard Dragon
*'''OOC Date:''' Dec 01 2025
*'''IC Date:''' Aug 19 2012
*'''Summary''': ''What is the weight of a name stained with blood?''

----

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2025-11-30: A Road Wrong or Right

2025-12-01T04:58:03Z

Strangehat:

*'''Log: A Road Wrong or Right'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]], [[Kurou Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' Mementos
*'''OOC Date:''' Nov 30 2025
*'''IC Date:''' Aug 18 2012
*'''Summary''': ''The head of the Ryouhara clan issues important orders to one of the clan's most loyal.''

----

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

It was a little further down than most dared go alone in the twisted prisonscape.

The haunted, ghostly trains churn past, filling the wooden tracks with the sound of rattling metal and weight. Many go further into the labyrinthine depths, and as a result only a select few even stop to wait for passengers before moving onward.

There was a reason this was the location he sent the summons. The clan's council had flatly rebuked him for his ambitions, earning them the ire of Shirogarasu. For a shining moment, they believed themselves to be in charge.

Unacceptable for Shiryuu of Akita.

The grey-haired man stands past the benches and at a platform next to a tilted spray of prison bars, organized in a chaotic radial of spokes that spins in some childish, chaotic rendition of the golden ratio loop. Through the gaps between the bars, he can be seen shouldering his bag, adjusting the strap with an idle hand.

Kiria will no doubt had intercepted the message he'd sent by the school. She will scold him later, no doubt. For cicumventing the other Yongarasu entirely. For summoning Kurou to a place that she, nor they, can hope to eavesdrop.

<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.

It's different now... In the Dark Hour. In Mementos. His memory of 'before' is corrupted with a weighty fog, blurring out broken pieces of history. Now it is 'after'. Now he has a Persona, and the quickest path is, in theory, a straight line... one he can carve through Shadows or demons if need be.

But the body remembers, and 'before' -- before Gashadokuro, before Soumeiunsatou -- still clings like a scar.

There's a rhythm to everything. The thrum of the train. The way the maze fits together, chaotic as it is, and constantly as it changes. He moves only when Mementos' own tempo covers the sound, and with the decisive precision of someone who expects a single wrong footfall to kill him.

Once, it would have. That he can defend himself now is no excuse to be sloppy.

There is no one before the train passes... and then there is Kurou once it does. He is knelt as a sign of respect, but soon rises to his feet. Though no emotion twitches on his face, and the attention of his eyes stay upon Shiryuu, there's a quickness to that suggesting some degree of unease.

Kurou considers it vigilance, and a small price to pay for privacy.

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

There are very few creatures, living or neverwere, who could catch Shirogarasu. The powers of his eye allow him to designate a space at will; but it is raw skill, not ninkougakujutsu, that brings Kurou here. As such, it's only respectful to make sure the path was at all traversible.

The drape of his haori hides his remaining hand, shutters most of his movement, as the dark-haired shinobi almost melts out the dark. The man breathes slowly, mentally adjusting a knob as he alights on that rhythm.

The world and every sound in it grows closer, seeming to move with ever so slightly increased urgency. The grey-haired man nods; satisfied.

"Shuuhei and Kouhei are not coming," Shiryuu points out, as if it would explain everything else that followed. "I'll take care of them later."

For some reason, Shiryuu appears to want to deal with them separately.

"In the meantime, you exist 'under the protection of my ability,' and are ordered to escape if we are to be interrupted."

The shinobi's head tilts slightly with the perogative. Normally, affairs tend to operate in the inverse, with every blade of Ryouhara charged with the personal protection of the pure bloodline. In this circumstance, however...

"First, tell me what you've found out."

<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.

Kurou's gaze sharpens with the mention of Shuuhei and Kouhei. In the darkness of Mementos, his golden eyes have a sharper sheen again what little light reaches them.

For all his dog-like obedience, Kurou's loyalty is not without question. It's just he doesn't have that many questions. Only with an instruction to prioritize escape does he now give an uncertain pause as the idea settles at first with great discomfort. But... Shiryuu is the one with a powerful veil, and it would be an insult to his strength to argue. Kurou's nod finally comes, if much more slowly.

"... Understood."

His gaze slides to one side briefly, as if to expect such interruption. But it will have to be his ears that do most of the work... his ears and the soles of his feet, glued to the earth and feeling that constant rhythm of the world around them.

When asked to report, he takes in a deeper breath, controlled, but still like a diver resurfacing for air. Even breathing, after all, must be silenced.

"I have rendezvoused with both targets of interest. Akabane-san has been instructed on the proper care of her blade, and I have advised her toward cooperation. Regrettably, Hirano-san has already made contact with a member of the police force, who sees fit to shadow her."

Kurou closes his eyes, as if he is about to deliver terribly grim tidings.

"It is Suou."

He allows a moment to process before continuing. "But she now considers me a friend, which will simplify future reconnaissance and protection efforts."

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

That shinobi's discipline is without question, Shiryuu observes passively. Where the natural rhythm settles over him like a cloak, the boy before him is everything else winnowed down to a razor point. It's something to think on. Innocence was the cost of the Project, and..

The Shirogarasu's expression does not change. He cannot help but hold a slight grudge against those under Nagano. But in Kurou's case, in specific, the youth...

"I could tell," he confirms for Kurou, after a moment's pause that may in fact be mistaken for the grim sort of awkwardness inherent to the Ryouhara. Akabane's blade was certainly sharp enough that he could tell. Mouth suddenly dry, the young man presses his lips together, wetting them thoughtfully for a spell. Suou's involvement invokes the lightest grunt.

"The police have no business meddling in affairs exclusive to the clan," Shiryuu states flatly. "If he gets in the way of our goals, or in any way endangers the girl, I'm authorizing the breaking of his.." pause. Nmnh. The order catches on something he wasn't aware was there before. "...as shihaisha, I will authorize the breaking of one of his legs, whichever he favors least. If it won't jeopardize your intelligence gathering in the schools. Concerning them, the priority will be finding out more about the Thorn Boss of Kasugayama."

To the latter, Shiryuu seems to nod, as if that were all.

"Secondly, matters with the Ijuuin clan should be considered settled." The little concerns of open war between Ijuuin and Ryouhara had sparked up as quickly as a weed amongst the upper ranking clansmen. "As it happens, I'm issuing an open order... until rescinded, active protection for the Ijuuin clan and their relations. In exchange, the principal Ooshiro Yua will lend us aid with her 'ability' at a time of our choosing. That is the agreement, and we will maintain the peace in doing so."

However, the onmitsu has not raised his head yet.
"There is one more thing."

<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.

In Kurou's case... that razor's point, that sharpened edge... The Nagano wanted to forge weapons out of souls. Kurou was a failure. Perhaps it's only proper to show them what success looks like... from the blade, not from the hilt.

There is the slightest glimmer in Kurou's eye to hear the suggestion Umie has been following the advice he had given to her. Then his manual was effective...! "I see," he says. "Then if you deem it satisfactory, she shall be rewarded for her upkeep.... for positive reinforcement."

Stickers. He's almost certainly talking about stickers.

Kurou is silent while he ways for Shiryuu to detail what he is about to get authorization to do, yet his attention is focused and honed in. Patience is critical for a shinobi like Kurou, but it threatens to fracture. A promise of /breaking/.

"... His least favorite leg," Kurou echoes to confirm his own understanding. There's a slightly squint. He looks to his legs, and wonders if having a least favorite is common. Hm. He will have to ask.

"Ichika Kawase," Kurou notes. Even without an official investigation, he's still a Kasugayama student. If they're not aware of who the Bosses are, they'll be made to be before long. "I do not yet 'run with' a boss. Do you want me to attempt full infiltration?"

It's probably smarter to let Kurou do it without attempting to actually socialize like a normal student. Kurou does not have enough self awareness to realize that.

But of Ijuuin matters, Kurou's head gives a small tilt before righting itself. Not only is it settled, but a protection order... Ah, for a favor. This is reasonable, not that it's Kurou's place to determine value. Whatever confusion he has, he washes away. "Very well."

There is one more thing, and Kurou gives Shiryuu his full attention, returning from any wandering thoughts.

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

Shiryuu has, honestly, already forgotten about the stickers. He is absolutely sure he doesn't know what 'positive reinforcement' means for Nagano's glitch-hound. "Hmrn," the man thinks aloud, taking a second to brush strands of hair from his eyes. It would be far smarter and shrewder to play cards much closer to the chest, and deny the suggestion.

".... I'll sanction it," Shiryuu decides, to the contrary.

"However." There is a bit of pensive energy, laid-in like a slumbering owl about the older shinobi. "When it comes to the Thorn Boss, keep her gang at arm's reach. A commitment out of turn could expose our goals. It's more important to be neutral and gain 'a sense of awareness.'"

But the man lowers his hand to his mouth, candidly.
"...however, all of this is secondary."

The implication that there is a reason that Kurou was the only one summoned out this far into Mementos is stiflingly apparent, though subtext is so easily missed by the more honest calculations of the crossbones shinobi.

He shapes the next words very slowly, the rhythm falling off a cliff.

"It's come to my attention that the rumor surrounding the supernatural killer, 'Old Maid,' is real."

His hand drops to his hip, the sleeves of his haori finally falling over both of his hands until they can no longer be seen. Kurou can see the red ribbons of the ninkou Kousekisaku threaded through the sleeves, the weight and hang of the haori sleeves different from natural fabric in ways only someone who knew about the weapons would be able to tell. The man's energy picks up slow, his rhythm building back up, bit by bit.

"It's against the will of Yongarasu, but it is my intention to do my duty as Akita no Shirogarasu, and take it upon myself to lure out the Joker Killer, to stab him through the chest."

The words come out more easily than most, steeled resolve from creatures on the edge of life and death. The rest, however, are the details. The ugly parts.

"Irrespective of success or fail, It is my intent to issue a 'run on sight' order for the killer. The clan is not to interfere in this matter, nor are they to endanger themselves for my sake. This is the nature of the highest of Ryouhara." ... ".. however."

The least comfortable part draws Shiryuu's glance to Kurou's own, dark eyes lifting. Unlike the younger Ryouhara's, Shiryuu's eyes are mostly normal, until you look very closely. Therein, one can see the lens of the ocular ninkou Kyotosaigan, and the bloodshot flecks in that eye.

"For one exception alone, I will ask you differently. In the event that I am not successful in killing that man, I will ask you to give that person, 'Akabane Umie,' my protection."

Being stared at by Shiryuu's cold, dead eye is a terrible sensation for most, who wouldn't understand why. "If it is considered my final order as shihaisha, so be it. The consideration for her life should be considered the same as and equal to your own. Do not die and squander your years pointlessly, shinobi no mono. However..."

He blinks, and it's hard to think of when he did last. This is obviously why Kurou is here, away from every other eavesdropping ear. "This mission should be considered S-rank, the highest secret from even our own blood. If you succeed.. I will consider the debt that exists between us ... settled. Do you understand?"

<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.

Stickers sanctioned. Kurou bows to Shiryuu with formality and gravity ill suited to whatever the hell he's actually thinking. "It will be done."

Wisely, Kurou is steered away from trying to join the Thorn Boss' gang, which would have undoubtedly resulted in about two poses worth of interaction before the proverbial and literal door was quietly and awkwardly shut on Kurou's face. But come to think of it, hasn't he met one of her gang already...?

"Arm's length," Kurou confirms, mentally painting out the lines where big moves might be needed, but subtlety remains a priority. He's mentally filtering everything in his mind when --

It's secondary.

Kurou startles as much as Kurou is capable of startling, which is to say, his brows lift briefly, and his eyes widen by a fraction. A new weight builds in Shiryuu's words. He is here alone, to hear words only for his ears. Words that he must carry with care and efficiency. It is not Kurou's place to suspect what could be so important.

But it was also not within Kurou's /imagination/ to guess what it ends up being.

"...Shirogarasu?"

Not an objection -- not quite, but threatening to be one. To want a kill for himself, Kurou can understand. Even to desire it beyond his own risk of survival, Kurou can understand. But where Kurou expects to be asked to finish the job at the same cost, if necessary, he is given a different instruction.

Protect Akabane-san.

Kurou meets that cold, dead eyed stare. His resolve could match it, if he needed to, but instead he is pinned by it. Not even to die doing it, but an elevation of his own standing.

"I --" He begins, stumbling over the syllable. His debt. A half dozen questions die under that firm and undeniable reminder.

"... I... understand," he says, voice quieter. Kurou's gaze dips with a weight in his heart he does not know how to place. By will alone he lifts it again. "I will not fail you."

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

The false, lighter brown of that ninkou eye reflects Kurou's silhouette, even in the muted light of that demented train platform. For a moment, a second more, searching the younger shinobi for any remaining scintilla that may be cause for doubt, cause for concern. He only finds sharp will.

The grim line-set of Shiryuu's mien softens incrementally.

"Sacrifice is inevitable," that white crow tells him. "It is the nature of the thing itself."

"But... every child of Ryouhara should have been given the choice to live a full, whole life."

It's not something he's ever said before, really, and definitely not to Kurou. But whatever his reason is for saying it, the opportunity for explanation vanishes like moth-dust in candleflame. That delineation occurs with the slightest nod of crow to crow; a mild respect of resolve that does not, itself, demand accolades or celebration. A ninja requires neither.

Instead, Shiryuu turns, untying the red bag at his shoulderline, before gripping the hilt of the sword within. Black feathers trickle out of the saya as he clicks it open, and draws a midnight blade loose. It only takes one stroke. Bonds of Black and its blade cut through the 'sight' of things, spilling ink like a river into into the train world like a second sunset, blotching out the far distance, then the middle ground, then everything else. The haunting dirge of crows is muffled as the air itself struggles, the drifting aftermath halo causing stabs of visual artifacts in the air, dreaming blooms of sharp-angled geometry into the omnipresent haze.

Shadows can't see, sound can't break through. The man lowers the black blade to his side.

A low, self-soothing sigh rakes through the man's nominally steel voice. He shoves his free hand through the grey mop of hair at his head, sniffing once before gathering himself.

"I've made the path clear for you out of the dangerous radius," Shiryuu explains, without lifting his blade again.

His back faces the shinobi still. "... now, let me be," he says.
"I wish to not exist for awhile."

<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.

It is to Kurou's credit that he does not shy from the search. To try and escape judgment would be to be found wanting before it ever began. Yet it is the softening that grips with a colder fear.

So strange that obeying orders haunts him with a sense of disloyalty.

"... Life comes from death," Kurou agrees, in his own way, and in his own words, quieter as they become. He isn't one to speak like it's meant to be a conversation. This may be a form of self-soothing... a type of mantra to reminder himself that gloom has no part in his duty. Why the threat of it exists in the first place is a question much too advanced for Kurou to unravel.

But Shiryuu's next words are almost rattling enough to shake the grave dirt from Kurou's deadened composure. That he stares back in frozen silence is testament to how much was taken from him that night his choice was ripped from him. It's a pathetic thing, Kurou notes dully, to blink and realize his own arms are around himself, trying to hold his bones in.

His arms lower to his side with a slow breath out. It is not painless.

Ink spills into reality, black and soundless, in a strange and inviting beauty. Kurou regards Shiryuu a few seconds far too long before he wills himself to step forward.

"My thanks, Shirogarasu," he says with a bow, automatic and blank. They're the wrong words, he thinks. Precious seconds are dwindling before the window of 'goodbye' fades, and any further speech becomes more and more unwelcome. He starts forward, only to pause at the last inch of the threshold with the sentiment finding a way to escape his throat.

"...and... child of Ryouhara."

For Shiryuu is not much older than Kurou, is he? But there's nothing for it, Kurou knows, as he disappears beyond the path the blade has carved for him.

They aren't getting their choice back.

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2025-11-30: A Road Wrong or Right

2025-12-01T04:57:43Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Log: A Road Wrong or Right''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara Kurou Ryouhara *'''Where:''' Mementos *'''OOC Date:''' Nov 30 2025 *'''IC Date:''' Aug 18 2012 *'''Summary''': ''The head of the Ryouhara clan issues important orders to one of the clan's most loyal.'' ---- <Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed. It was a little further down than most dared go alone in the twisted prisonscape. The haunted, ghostly trains churn past, filling the wooden tra..."

*'''Log: A Road Wrong or Right'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]] [[Kurou Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' Mementos
*'''OOC Date:''' Nov 30 2025
*'''IC Date:''' Aug 18 2012
*'''Summary''': ''The head of the Ryouhara clan issues important orders to one of the clan's most loyal.''

----

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

It was a little further down than most dared go alone in the twisted prisonscape.

The haunted, ghostly trains churn past, filling the wooden tracks with the sound of rattling metal and weight. Many go further into the labyrinthine depths, and as a result only a select few even stop to wait for passengers before moving onward.

There was a reason this was the location he sent the summons. The clan's council had flatly rebuked him for his ambitions, earning them the ire of Shirogarasu. For a shining moment, they believed themselves to be in charge.

Unacceptable for Shiryuu of Akita.

The grey-haired man stands past the benches and at a platform next to a tilted spray of prison bars, organized in a chaotic radial of spokes that spins in some childish, chaotic rendition of the golden ratio loop. Through the gaps between the bars, he can be seen shouldering his bag, adjusting the strap with an idle hand.

Kiria will no doubt had intercepted the message he'd sent by the school. She will scold him later, no doubt. For cicumventing the other Yongarasu entirely. For summoning Kurou to a place that she, nor they, can hope to eavesdrop.

<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.

It's different now... In the Dark Hour. In Mementos. His memory of 'before' is corrupted with a weighty fog, blurring out broken pieces of history. Now it is 'after'. Now he has a Persona, and the quickest path is, in theory, a straight line... one he can carve through Shadows or demons if need be.

But the body remembers, and 'before' -- before Gashadokuro, before Soumeiunsatou -- still clings like a scar.

There's a rhythm to everything. The thrum of the train. The way the maze fits together, chaotic as it is, and constantly as it changes. He moves only when Mementos' own tempo covers the sound, and with the decisive precision of someone who expects a single wrong footfall to kill him.

Once, it would have. That he can defend himself now is no excuse to be sloppy.

There is no one before the train passes... and then there is Kurou once it does. He is knelt as a sign of respect, but soon rises to his feet. Though no emotion twitches on his face, and the attention of his eyes stay upon Shiryuu, there's a quickness to that suggesting some degree of unease.

Kurou considers it vigilance, and a small price to pay for privacy.

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

There are very few creatures, living or neverwere, who could catch Shirogarasu. The powers of his eye allow him to designate a space at will; but it is raw skill, not ninkougakujutsu, that brings Kurou here. As such, it's only respectful to make sure the path was at all traversible.

The drape of his haori hides his remaining hand, shutters most of his movement, as the dark-haired shinobi almost melts out the dark. The man breathes slowly, mentally adjusting a knob as he alights on that rhythm.

The world and every sound in it grows closer, seeming to move with ever so slightly increased urgency. The grey-haired man nods; satisfied.

"Shuuhei and Kouhei are not coming," Shiryuu points out, as if it would explain everything else that followed. "I'll take care of them later."

For some reason, Shiryuu appears to want to deal with them separately.

"In the meantime, you exist 'under the protection of my ability,' and are ordered to escape if we are to be interrupted."

The shinobi's head tilts slightly with the perogative. Normally, affairs tend to operate in the inverse, with every blade of Ryouhara charged with the personal protection of the pure bloodline. In this circumstance, however...

"First, tell me what you've found out."

<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.

Kurou's gaze sharpens with the mention of Shuuhei and Kouhei. In the darkness of Mementos, his golden eyes have a sharper sheen again what little light reaches them.

For all his dog-like obedience, Kurou's loyalty is not without question. It's just he doesn't have that many questions. Only with an instruction to prioritize escape does he now give an uncertain pause as the idea settles at first with great discomfort. But... Shiryuu is the one with a powerful veil, and it would be an insult to his strength to argue. Kurou's nod finally comes, if much more slowly.

"... Understood."

His gaze slides to one side briefly, as if to expect such interruption. But it will have to be his ears that do most of the work... his ears and the soles of his feet, glued to the earth and feeling that constant rhythm of the world around them.

When asked to report, he takes in a deeper breath, controlled, but still like a diver resurfacing for air. Even breathing, after all, must be silenced.

"I have rendezvoused with both targets of interest. Akabane-san has been instructed on the proper care of her blade, and I have advised her toward cooperation. Regrettably, Hirano-san has already made contact with a member of the police force, who sees fit to shadow her."

Kurou closes his eyes, as if he is about to deliver terribly grim tidings.

"It is Suou."

He allows a moment to process before continuing. "But she now considers me a friend, which will simplify future reconnaissance and protection efforts."

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

That shinobi's discipline is without question, Shiryuu observes passively. Where the natural rhythm settles over him like a cloak, the boy before him is everything else winnowed down to a razor point. It's something to think on. Innocence was the cost of the Project, and..

The Shirogarasu's expression does not change. He cannot help but hold a slight grudge against those under Nagano. But in Kurou's case, in specific, the youth...

"I could tell," he confirms for Kurou, after a moment's pause that may in fact be mistaken for the grim sort of awkwardness inherent to the Ryouhara. Akabane's blade was certainly sharp enough that he could tell. Mouth suddenly dry, the young man presses his lips together, wetting them thoughtfully for a spell. Suou's involvement invokes the lightest grunt.

"The police have no business meddling in affairs exclusive to the clan," Shiryuu states flatly. "If he gets in the way of our goals, or in any way endangers the girl, I'm authorizing the breaking of his.." pause. Nmnh. The order catches on something he wasn't aware was there before. "...as shihaisha, I will authorize the breaking of one of his legs, whichever he favors least. If it won't jeopardize your intelligence gathering in the schools. Concerning them, the priority will be finding out more about the Thorn Boss of Kasugayama."

To the latter, Shiryuu seems to nod, as if that were all.

"Secondly, matters with the Ijuuin clan should be considered settled." The little concerns of open war between Ijuuin and Ryouhara had sparked up as quickly as a weed amongst the upper ranking clansmen. "As it happens, I'm issuing an open order... until rescinded, active protection for the Ijuuin clan and their relations. In exchange, the principal Ooshiro Yua will lend us aid with her 'ability' at a time of our choosing. That is the agreement, and we will maintain the peace in doing so."

However, the onmitsu has not raised his head yet.
"There is one more thing."

<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.

In Kurou's case... that razor's point, that sharpened edge... The Nagano wanted to forge weapons out of souls. Kurou was a failure. Perhaps it's only proper to show them what success looks like... from the blade, not from the hilt.

There is the slightest glimmer in Kurou's eye to hear the suggestion Umie has been following the advice he had given to her. Then his manual was effective...! "I see," he says. "Then if you deem it satisfactory, she shall be rewarded for her upkeep.... for positive reinforcement."

Stickers. He's almost certainly talking about stickers.

Kurou is silent while he ways for Shiryuu to detail what he is about to get authorization to do, yet his attention is focused and honed in. Patience is critical for a shinobi like Kurou, but it threatens to fracture. A promise of /breaking/.

"... His least favorite leg," Kurou echoes to confirm his own understanding. There's a slightly squint. He looks to his legs, and wonders if having a least favorite is common. Hm. He will have to ask.

"Ichika Kawase," Kurou notes. Even without an official investigation, he's still a Kasugayama student. If they're not aware of who the Bosses are, they'll be made to be before long. "I do not yet 'run with' a boss. Do you want me to attempt full infiltration?"

It's probably smarter to let Kurou do it without attempting to actually socialize like a normal student. Kurou does not have enough self awareness to realize that.

But of Ijuuin matters, Kurou's head gives a small tilt before righting itself. Not only is it settled, but a protection order... Ah, for a favor. This is reasonable, not that it's Kurou's place to determine value. Whatever confusion he has, he washes away. "Very well."

There is one more thing, and Kurou gives Shiryuu his full attention, returning from any wandering thoughts.

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

Shiryuu has, honestly, already forgotten about the stickers. He is absolutely sure he doesn't know what 'positive reinforcement' means for Nagano's glitch-hound. "Hmrn," the man thinks aloud, taking a second to brush strands of hair from his eyes. It would be far smarter and shrewder to play cards much closer to the chest, and deny the suggestion.

".... I'll sanction it," Shiryuu decides, to the contrary.

"However." There is a bit of pensive energy, laid-in like a slumbering owl about the older shinobi. "When it comes to the Thorn Boss, keep her gang at arm's reach. A commitment out of turn could expose our goals. It's more important to be neutral and gain 'a sense of awareness.'"

But the man lowers his hand to his mouth, candidly.
"...however, all of this is secondary."

The implication that there is a reason that Kurou was the only one summoned out this far into Mementos is stiflingly apparent, though subtext is so easily missed by the more honest calculations of the crossbones shinobi.

He shapes the next words very slowly, the rhythm falling off a cliff.

"It's come to my attention that the rumor surrounding the supernatural killer, 'Old Maid,' is real."

His hand drops to his hip, the sleeves of his haori finally falling over both of his hands until they can no longer be seen. Kurou can see the red ribbons of the ninkou Kousekisaku threaded through the sleeves, the weight and hang of the haori sleeves different from natural fabric in ways only someone who knew about the weapons would be able to tell. The man's energy picks up slow, his rhythm building back up, bit by bit.

"It's against the will of Yongarasu, but it is my intention to do my duty as Akita no Shirogarasu, and take it upon myself to lure out the Joker Killer, to stab him through the chest."

The words come out more easily than most, steeled resolve from creatures on the edge of life and death. The rest, however, are the details. The ugly parts.

"Irrespective of success or fail, It is my intent to issue a 'run on sight' order for the killer. The clan is not to interfere in this matter, nor are they to endanger themselves for my sake. This is the nature of the highest of Ryouhara." ... ".. however."

The least comfortable part draws Shiryuu's glance to Kurou's own, dark eyes lifting. Unlike the younger Ryouhara's, Shiryuu's eyes are mostly normal, until you look very closely. Therein, one can see the lens of the ocular ninkou Kyotosaigan, and the bloodshot flecks in that eye.

"For one exception alone, I will ask you differently. In the event that I am not successful in killing that man, I will ask you to give that person, 'Akabane Umie,' my protection."

Being stared at by Shiryuu's cold, dead eye is a terrible sensation for most, who wouldn't understand why. "If it is considered my final order as shihaisha, so be it. The consideration for her life should be considered the same as and equal to your own. Do not die and squander your years pointlessly, shinobi no mono. However..."

He blinks, and it's hard to think of when he did last. This is obviously why Kurou is here, away from every other eavesdropping ear. "This mission should be considered S-rank, the highest secret from even our own blood. If you succeed.. I will consider the debt that exists between us ... settled. Do you understand?"

<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.

Stickers sanctioned. Kurou bows to Shiryuu with formality and gravity ill suited to whatever the hell he's actually thinking. "It will be done."

Wisely, Kurou is steered away from trying to join the Thorn Boss' gang, which would have undoubtedly resulted in about two poses worth of interaction before the proverbial and literal door was quietly and awkwardly shut on Kurou's face. But come to think of it, hasn't he met one of her gang already...?

"Arm's length," Kurou confirms, mentally painting out the lines where big moves might be needed, but subtlety remains a priority. He's mentally filtering everything in his mind when --

It's secondary.

Kurou startles as much as Kurou is capable of startling, which is to say, his brows lift briefly, and his eyes widen by a fraction. A new weight builds in Shiryuu's words. He is here alone, to hear words only for his ears. Words that he must carry with care and efficiency. It is not Kurou's place to suspect what could be so important.

But it was also not within Kurou's /imagination/ to guess what it ends up being.

"...Shirogarasu?"

Not an objection -- not quite, but threatening to be one. To want a kill for himself, Kurou can understand. Even to desire it beyond his own risk of survival, Kurou can understand. But where Kurou expects to be asked to finish the job at the same cost, if necessary, he is given a different instruction.

Protect Akabane-san.

Kurou meets that cold, dead eyed stare. His resolve could match it, if he needed to, but instead he is pinned by it. Not even to die doing it, but an elevation of his own standing.

"I --" He begins, stumbling over the syllable. His debt. A half dozen questions die under that firm and undeniable reminder.

"... I... understand," he says, voice quieter. Kurou's gaze dips with a weight in his heart he does not know how to place. By will alone he lifts it again. "I will not fail you."

<Pose Tracker> Shiryuu Ryouhara has posed.

The false, lighter brown of that ninkou eye reflects Kurou's silhouette, even in the muted light of that demented train platform. For a moment, a second more, searching the younger shinobi for any remaining scintilla that may be cause for doubt, cause for concern. He only finds sharp will.

The grim line-set of Shiryuu's mien softens incrementally.

"Sacrifice is inevitable," that white crow tells him. "It is the nature of the thing itself."

"But... every child of Ryouhara should have been given the choice to live a full, whole life."

It's not something he's ever said before, really, and definitely not to Kurou. But whatever his reason is for saying it, the opportunity for explanation vanishes like moth-dust in candleflame. That delineation occurs with the slightest nod of crow to crow; a mild respect of resolve that does not, itself, demand accolades or celebration. A ninja requires neither.

Instead, Shiryuu turns, untying the red bag at his shoulderline, before gripping the hilt of the sword within. Black feathers trickle out of the saya as he clicks it open, and draws a midnight blade loose. It only takes one stroke. Bonds of Black and its blade cut through the 'sight' of things, spilling ink like a river into into the train world like a second sunset, blotching out the far distance, then the middle ground, then everything else. The haunting dirge of crows is muffled as the air itself struggles, the drifting aftermath halo causing stabs of visual artifacts in the air, dreaming blooms of sharp-angled geometry into the omnipresent haze.

Shadows can't see, sound can't break through. The man lowers the black blade to his side.

A low, self-soothing sigh rakes through the man's nominally steel voice. He shoves his free hand through the grey mop of hair at his head, sniffing once before gathering himself.

"I've made the path clear for you out of the dangerous radius," Shiryuu explains, without lifting his blade again.

His back faces the shinobi still. "... now, let me be," he says.
"I wish to not exist for awhile."

<Pose Tracker> Kurou Ryouhara has posed.

It is to Kurou's credit that he does not shy from the search. To try and escape judgment would be to be found wanting before it ever began. Yet it is the softening that grips with a colder fear.

So strange that obeying orders haunts him with a sense of disloyalty.

"... Life comes from death," Kurou agrees, in his own way, and in his own words, quieter as they become. He isn't one to speak like it's meant to be a conversation. This may be a form of self-soothing... a type of mantra to reminder himself that gloom has no part in his duty. Why the threat of it exists in the first place is a question much too advanced for Kurou to unravel.

But Shiryuu's next words are almost rattling enough to shake the grave dirt from Kurou's deadened composure. That he stares back in frozen silence is testament to how much was taken from him that night his choice was ripped from him. It's a pathetic thing, Kurou notes dully, to blink and realize his own arms are around himself, trying to hold his bones in.

His arms lower to his side with a slow breath out. It is not painless.

Ink spills into reality, black and soundless, in a strange and inviting beauty. Kurou regards Shiryuu a few seconds far too long before he wills himself to step forward.

"My thanks, Shirogarasu," he says with a bow, automatic and blank. They're the wrong words, he thinks. Precious seconds are dwindling before the window of 'goodbye' fades, and any further speech becomes more and more unwelcome. He starts forward, only to pause at the last inch of the threshold with the sentiment finding a way to escape his throat.

"...and... child of Ryouhara."

For Shiryuu is not much older than Kurou, is he? But there's nothing for it, Kurou knows, as he disappears beyond the path the blade has carved for him.

They aren't getting their choice back.

[[Category:Logs]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]

2025-11-27: 3 AM and Going Nowhere Fast

2025-11-28T05:40:59Z

Strangehat: Created page with "*'''Cutscene: 3 AM and Going Nowhere Fast''' *'''Cast:''' Shiryuu Ryouhara *'''Where:''' Somewhere in the City Nightlife *'''OOC Date:''' November 27, 2025 *'''IC Date:''' August 17, 2012 *'''Summary''': ''The clan head is called to task for his overt actions. But...'' ---- "Quarrelling with the Ijuuin clan was not what we had in mind when we sought to lay the roots of the clan's future..." "It's not necessary to test ko-ryu power against every adversary.."..."

*'''Cutscene: 3 AM and Going Nowhere Fast'''
*'''Cast:''' [[Shiryuu Ryouhara]]
*'''Where:''' Somewhere in the City Nightlife
*'''OOC Date:''' November 27, 2025
*'''IC Date:''' August 17, 2012
*'''Summary''': ''The clan head is called to task for his overt actions. But...''

----

"Quarrelling with the Ijuuin clan was not what we had in mind when we sought to lay the roots of the clan's future..."

"It's not necessary to test ko-ryu power against every adversary.."

"Yes. There are questions to be asked of the risk.."

"And now, with Kiria's reports of your interest in these so-called supernatural killers. Is it your wish to follow the Mizugarasu?"

The young man stood still, at the center of the shadows and the questions surrounding him. The white hood he wore eclipsed his eyes, but he wore an unimpressed, cold frown like a battle standard. He only really needed to reply in one fashion. "... Do I understand you all correctly," he began, "when I hear you opposing me ..."

A beat of silence passes before the inevitable. "Don't misunderstand ... we mean only to be the safe harbor of the pure bloodline."

"It is not our goal to oppose out of turn ... Shirogarasu."

"But it does not change facts. The unique nature of your ninkoujutsu creates a danger to you. Carrying the aspect of the first, You must be more cautious with your body."

"Yes. He is right. It is no opposition to say to you, you risk having your story snuffed out before it has even begun."

You will burn.

The world is just a string of conversations in the dark. It was hard to tell where reality ended and the night began. The young man awoke with a start, a long, dark silhouette shot from his sheets into that night like an arrow.

It took him a moment to relax, to settle back on his palms behind him, his weight shifting over his collarline. His rebellious eye felt cold and dead inside his skull, as it had of late.

That eye was flaring bright blue in the near-black. It was the same shade as the neon blue line that swept across the sprawling bedroom, cast from a projector lamp on the dresser in the corner. The neon laser crawled up his waist on its way across the room. A glowing line of light outlined the contours of his frame in real time, and the fight for at least one steady breath to fill his chest.

The room was near empty, barely lived in. A window let light in from the streets below. The dimmed screen of a laptop on the desk showed a few videos loaded. Pictures of fires, videos of someone wearing a paper bag. Somewhere below, the intense beat of music drummed beneath the floor, but the onmitsu didn't even seem to hear it. The pensive energy was like an infection that made his teeth grit, souring his relaxed mien.

He caught a glimpse of his phone, laying flat across its charger on the nightstand. He stared at it for a long time.

"...It's going to take more than that," the young man whispered, somewhere between malaise and acceptance. Falling flat on his back into the blankets, the young man stared up at the laser line blankly, while it filled the room with its muted glow. A sword long sound escaped his restlessness.

"...yeah," the grey-haired kid sighed. "Gonna take a lot more than that.."

[[Category:Cutscenes]]
[[Category:Season 1]]
[[Category:Season 1, Episode 1]]