001 | video.

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[ when the feed flicks on, it’s to the simple image of a sharply dressed man adjusting his glasses upon the bridge of his nose. or rather, it’s the lens glare that strikes the view first, a flash of blue that obscures the friendly(?) way he eyes the viewer, the practiced way he smiles. ]

My apologies. [ the tone, too, is terribly kept, composed and precise. ] If I may, I kindly request that you lend me your brief attention for but a few minutes of your time.

First, allow me to introduce myself: I am Munakata Reishi. You will have to forgive me, I’m afraid, as my recent arrival will mean my lines of inquiry will run along the road of repetition.

[ it’s formality and ease in idle, clear-cut motions; he laces his fingers together and rests them neatly on the table set before him. his smile hasn’t moved. ]

There is, I understand, a . . . certain freedom to living in the time before we are called to action. Training is -- was mandatory, was it not? I don't suppose all of you have been keeping up with your weekly regimen during this temporary state of confusion.

But I digress.

Let me cut straight to the chase, then.

Certain concerns come to mind. Minimal organization though we may have, I admit I’m rather lost. [ there’s a breath of laughter, possibly meant to curb the tension… not to create it. ] With so many people in a state of little to no enforcement, is it safe there on Earth, I wonder?

. . . And what kind of activities, pray tell, have you found to be the most beneficial use of your undoubtedly limitless spare time?


PRIVATE; TO SARUHIKO FUSHIMI

[ it's a text, simple and innocuous. ]

I trust I find you well.

Comments

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[ there's a moment then -- where he weighs the pause and cants his head; the smile, at last, is gone. ] I'm afraid I don't follow.

Is that a threat?

[ it's offered sweetly, low in pitch and a terrible parody of something that might just be sympathy for something not quite human. ]

Or hope?

[clansman]

Doesn't matter, right. . . ?

As long as it's true.

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[ he's not quite sure when it stopped being so black and white (but that's a lie -- it's a recent change, he knows, a reminder that speaks to him plainly, in tones of an old king, so you were the one who stopped him); he knows he's inviting trouble, even for something as harmless as this when he answers with not a yes, not a no, but a - ]

Perhaps.

[ but there is nothing to gain in asking what's enough, and so he doesn't bother. his chin tucks, he eyes the screen as the snow in the feed shines the light over his glasses. ]

Show me.

[clansman]

Show you—?

[permit]

Show me.

Your Sword of Damocles.

[ too terse and too cold and much too serious. ]

Or [ and his fingers lift, knuckles propping almost idly against the line of his jaw. ] Did you forget how?

[clansman]

[ a moment's thought --

but it doesn't deter his laugh. ]

You're not gonna see much in there.

[ hell if he's going through the motions of propping up the tablet and walking the adequate distance to record the full regalia of it. ]

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Would you prefer it, then, were I to come see it in person?

[ there's a bit of a smile, because if suoh's going to be difficult, then all of this is simply fair play. but then laziness is what this very well might be, could be, should be -- and that, by far, is the better alternative to picking a fight. ]

You can stand where you are and I will see enough.

[ he's well aware of where that'd put him, if the tablet sits in the snowy space just before suoh's boots, with the camera facing the dark sky. looking up is quite possibly the last thing he wants to do to this man, but sometimes there's simply no helping it -

... although. ] Unless you think that a simple display is your limit at this point.

[clansman]

[ another beat; he doesn't move. silence ebbs through in handfuls.

then, without a word, mikoto withdraws. his shadow twists; a few crumbs of snow scatter across the screen as he gets to his feet --

and then they evaporate.

it's red all at once, baleful and bright, opening simple as an exhale. red chases out the dark, blurs the stars and leaves the snow a sinking haze beneath the tablet. above them, the last piece crackles into place: the blunted, hanging point of a sword still still real, still heavy and nearly whole.

he doesn't bother looking down. ]

Guess I've still got some time.

[permit]

[ these are all things made of a shocking kind of brightness.

meltwater isn't a concern, despite the snow that briefly obscures his view -- there's no need to worry for a flood than for this fire, and the tablet, he knows, will have to stand the heat if not the water.

but that's a simpler unease.

the view is not completely unfamiliar; it's a slightly different make, but still the same sword -- a different color (a sharp and angry red), but still the same bright warning of danger, the same daunting threat of a blade floating above their heads. and still, he examines the screen with all the careful air of someone inexperienced, of someone new (of someone who never bothered to lift his head when he was standing directly underneath it not hours ago).

his expression doesn't move. ]

. . . Is there a difference? [ nearly whole. is the glass half full and not half empty this time, or is that a trick of the light? ] In how you're feeling, that is.

[clansman]

[ breathing.

he's breathing, eyes open, coat slack across his shoulders, ice dripping from his fingernails, and awake, he thinks, is the only word for it. waking to air warm as fever and the sword an anchor above. snow furls to slush unravels to air, a slow white withering that leaves him gently sinking under his own weight.

days and days without even lighting a damn cigarette by aura. he could almost laugh. ]

. . . Nah. Can't remember anything special.

[ languid and deliberate, with a glance back down - ]

Sure you're getting enough?

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[ alive, by a little more than just barely.

who'd have thought. ]

That's right. [ he closes his eyes, and he does laugh -- or at least, he breathes and it could be called laughter, could be called a long time coming or a gasp for fresh air in a smog too toxic. ] You missed out on that fight.

Didn't you.

[ but that'd be telling. he opens his eyes, fixes his lidded gaze on a spot just above suoh's shoulder -- somewhere, anywhere away from his sword. ]

You will sink, [ patiently, matter-of-factly ] if you exercise your Aura any further.

[clansman]

[ he's heard that before.

briefly his gaze lingers, thin and fixed. then, with a sigh, he bends to pull the tablet out of the dissolving slush. ]

You. . . really don't change, huh.

[ the words almost starkly aware of their own irony. but there goes the sword in a tilting corner of the screen, shivering up in vanishing sparks, and moments after the red begins to recede around him. ]

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Which part?

[ said, with a smile so indulgent, it's almost warm. ]

I suppose you would be the resident authority. [ with his fingers still propped against his cheek, one lifting to adjust the arm of his glasses against his temple. ] On never changing.

[clansman]

[ just a scoff, pale through shadow. ]

Suits you better.

[permit]

You seem so sure of what I am like.

[ and then he eyes the screen, stern and certain. ]

You wanted me to take a break. Was it?

[clansman]

Nah. Just what's not gonna work for you.

[ but the moment's gravity slightly spoiled by the fact that he's letting the tablet swing idly from a hand as he walks. ]

Are you?

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[ undeterred, really, by the moving image of the forest that makes suoh's surroundings.

... his job is made reasonably more difficult when there aren't any notable landmarks to keep track of. ]

Are you?

[clansman]

[ yeah, he doesn't seem to be heading towards civilisation, either. ]

Gonna take a break.

[ fuck full sentences. ]

[permit]

[ don't you creatures mark trees out in the wild for territory or something. ]

I know.

[ calm, restrained, poised. ] It was a rhetorical question.

As in... are you taking a break, too.

[clansman]

[ and meanwhile in civilisation, the trend's for circumvention and wasted breath, how much more useful. ]

A war's gotta be simpler to handle, right?

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[ another pause -- if it's a tic, at least it's a small one -- and when he speaks, it's quiet, in the voice of a friendly reminder. ]

You're planning on contributing.

[clansman]

[ just. laughs. ]

Think I can't throw a rock now. . . ?

1/2

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[ there's a scoff before he can think to help it. ]

If you'd stuck to throwing rocks, then, you wouldn't be in this position.

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[ . . . ]

You really want to? When you have plenty of reasons not to.

[clansman]

Yeah? Which one of 'em's supposed to make a difference?