#fugitive air plot

[utsuroh]

With her stupid pledge made, and after a few quiet days with her sister, Mukuro finally gets around to contacting Chiaki Nanami again. Her opening text isn't as weirdly roundabout as the last time, nor is it subtle.

I've sworn fealty to Tanaka Gundam, she sends calmly. We should get lunch and discuss how this will affect our friendship.

She sends a date, a time, and a link to a cafe she really likes. And then she logs back out of WOW, shuts her computer down, and makes a sandwich. The opening gambits of a siege have never been as exciting to her as the later bits are sure to be.

She hopes Nanami doesn't mind cheap noodles and literal buckets of flavoured ice. She's almost certain Nanami won't mind the free wi-fi.

[atzoatlarchive]

A pale pink flash drive waits on Kiyotaka's desk, for him to find at his own leisure. On it are but two files; an audio file, the recording of the staged conversation between Mukuro Ikusaba and Chiaki Nanami, and the other a detailed transcript of the audio file. They are simply titled 1 and 2.

There’s no method to appear more conspicuous and force him to take note of something amiss; amongst the various shades of gray that adorn his desk like a modern altar to professionalism and second-hand technology, a tiny, pastel smear disrupts his monochrome focus.  Picking it up with pallid fingers and turning both it over, he frowns, before he opens up the drawer with a crooked finger and tosses it amongst whatever odds and ends he’s stored away.  It’s not terribly urgent, he assures himself. 

[atzoatlarchive]

He doesn’t often use his phone.  It sits in his pocket like a weighty reminder that he cannot truly sink into his ideas and passions and hopes like a drowning man into the depthless sea; inevitably, there will always be the bone-scorching sun and annoying seabirds and persistent call and force of the wind, no peace to be found until he is dead and beneath the waves.

He calls people even less than he texts which is even less than he prefers to write letters by hand, elegant characters illustrated on vibrant parchment and sealed with patient fingers and a steady eye.  There is something so frivolous about tapping fingers against a smooth plastic screen and having it instantaneously delivered with no satisfaction to reward your work—his calloused thumbs press flat against an intangible field of fake pixels displaying impersonal and sterile uniform characters picked in his preferred order.  He taps her name in as he taps his foot to the rhythm of the fan humming in the ceiling above him—C-E-L-E-S-T-I-A—each stroke of his finger precisely tapping the correct flat fake box until the name is matched with the numbers and he has her added in his personal phonebook—stark and sparse, like everything else he owns, a minimalistic list of names for professional pursuits rather than Saturday night chit-chat.

It was simple to obtain a number—surprisingly so.  An address, a picture, a signature, it almost makes him feel disgusted to fathom how effortless it would be to take her identity as his own.  Regardless, the dignity he holds in his heart and his virtuous sense of uplifting morals allows his brain to understand the idea without even degrading himself as far as considering such a concept; he practically shivers in disgust thinking of what lowlife plebian could get their filthy, unworthy hands on his identity and toy with it as they pleased. 

The modern world is truly terrifying, he thinks.

He calls her without any further contemplation, the cool plastic pressed against his ear as the dial tone furiously sounds off like an alarmed, buzzing bee.

[atzoatlarchive]

tearsandsyringes:

Mikan pulled in a sharp breath, a gasp at his words. Everything she’d thought of herself, her ‘skills’ all proven true by his words. She fell silent for a few moments, fighting back tears and trying to gather her thoughts. She would not look weaker than she truly was in front of him, would not make him realize how truly pathetic she was. She knew she’d found the right place, the right side now. For if he could see who she really was, how useless, how bland, then he must truly know what was right. Her full loyalty was instantly gained in that moment, and she knew she would give everything she had to become perfect. She’d gathered her thoughts enough to speak, “…I….it is a shame that lives…lives are put into my incapable hands. But, with your teachings, I hope to become able. To become something more t-than scum. To be of use to s-society. To be of use to you.” A slight pause, her head bowing in guilt, “I…it shames me to say that I am as b-bland as I appear. But in my despicable b-blandness there is an ability to change into something b-better…something more of use to your goal.”

There was a singular moment of astonishment gracing his features; the queued sort of practiced rhetoric prepared like a remedy rolled off the tip of his tongue and down his hollow throat, his thin lips tightening into a fine, white line.  Her willingness was an unexpected variable--well aware of the lack of resolve that left a gaping hole in every member of the unenlightened class resembling a hungry maw waiting to be fed, perhaps years of being hardened by the tenacious and the unyielding had made him apt to overprepare any sort of proposition.  Still, the lack of a fight placed against him made him feel null and void, his bones practically creaking as he straightened his back and squared his shoulders, looking down at the square toes of his boots while his brow furrowed in thought.  An overabundance of charisma, or perhaps she was a shitty actress--he grimaced in trepidation before he lifted his head once more. 

"I have seen the moment of your greatness flicker before me," he supplied, rigid, "and am aware of what you can do given proper guidance.  Your loyalty is truly the only thing between you, the last thread to finally mend the fraying thread proposed as linkage between you, the debased, and me, the enlightened--" and so he continued, like a preacher to the choir.   Distracted, mechanical, he stammered through his canned diatribe like he was wading through water--he paused, at the very end, eying her contemptuously with a sliver of hope that she was still listening.  What sort of loyalty was there to be found in the likes of her?

"Above all, your unquestioning obedience is desired--loyalty forged in your blood, clear understanding that I don't tolerate disobedience..." he scowled.  She looked dreamlike, lilac eyes burrowing holes in the air around him but shying away from the flesh and blood itself.  "You're hopelessly spineless."

[atzoatlarchive]

shsl-spookynekomaru:

Nidai half-turned at the question, pausing from the training he’d been almost fully absorbed in. The query gave him pause. Of course he had, he wanted to say. All the teams that he’d trained with and run errands for had almost instantly come to mind. But he couldn’t quite start to sound the first syllable before an alarm bell rang in his mind."….."Was that really for their sake? Did he honestly believe he bent his back in effort to train the people he had for their sake?

Or was it for his own, to vicariously experience the victories he never could through their excellence? Finally, eyes the color of molten gold met Ishimaru’s, the emotion behind their gaze somewhere between surprise and anger, and disgust - but not at their target, instead at their owner."You say you will never tolerate vanity. Do you instead demonstrate the proper way of things to those around you…?"

He faces him with a look of disgust; lip curling back in a grimace, he rolls his eyes at the sheer audacity and preposterousness of the inquiry—it seems so evident, so vividly obvious, but he supposes not everyone is accustomed to their messiahs leading by example. His visage melts back into a stern smile, forced but undeniably present, and he lifts his hand like a God gracing a sinner and hefting him from the filth he festers in, palm towards Nidai with his ring finger bent forward. 

Tripataka Hasta—the symbol of Vishnu, manifestation of divine preservation, performed by the leader of the Darwinist revolution, adorning a hand stained with blood.  He does not stop smiling, but has the decency to lower his hand and cross his arms over his chest.  His voice, as he begins, is low and quiet, but distinctly chastising, patient and astringent, “I am a leader, not a dictator: I represent the bare standard, lifting my disciples onto my shoulders and doing so with the hope that they shall rise above who they were once before and—if my methods are correct—far beyond me.  A prefect cares for his students!” he declares, and he makes a wild gesticulation, emphasizing how much his cruel words and hateful degradation was only performed with the intent of betterment, “And a good leader is little more than a guiding hand to the lost and a raft for the drowning: I am not here to command, but here to encourage.  Do I seem like a man of cruelty?” he asks, tone spiteful and direct, a snap of derision.  His scowl never lasts for more than a second, his default expression one of divine aloofness or simply a lack of caring; this is all rehearsed, all regurgitated.  Words are words, but actions are truly what his passion is.  The art of doing, not the art of speaking—so provides the reason why Tanaka is so apt at collecting faithful apostles.  Ishimaru does not use his voice unless to admonish. 

“You have the aptitude, unlike the majority, and should I really let you lose this potential to be wasted on the mindless drones you struggle to train?”  His voice leaks a bit of sympathy, and he shakes his head to answer his own question.  “Servitude is for the weak, and you are not weak.  I could use your leadership—punish the unworthy and reward those who are deserving, and I’d say, you’re surpassing that mark!”

[atzoatlarchive]

mushakogo:

She finds it in her heart that she has no real reason to answer him at all. It is considered, for a few brief seconds, to spit this in his face— how dare you, you have no right…

But it is not her place, she resolves with contempt reason.

"It is simply how I was raised." Her voice does not waver and neither does her stature. A lesser woman may have been intimidated, but Peko is not phased, and it shows.

"I was born to be the tool of the Young Master. It is all I have ever known." 

Rehearsed lines, a prepared speech. Peko is almost growing tired of this. Her eyes narrow as she answers his second inquiry.

"Terrible, indeed. Is that a threat, Kiyotaka?”

She doesn’t know if it’s her will or her reflexes talking.

He regards the words like he'd regard a portrait, nodding his head in time to the barely present fluctuation in her voice (how brave not to show fear in the face of God Himself--brave, but undeniably disrespectful and worthy of punishment had this been any other scenario); the smile he graces her with afterwards is blank and hollow just like the justification he plans to later present, the corners of his lips quirking upwards as he lifts his hands to begin his soliloquy like a great actor--he doesn't possess the same sort of charisma or magnetism as Tanaka, and an ex-prefect is certainly not to be regarded on the same scale as some seraphic preacher doused in a radiant halo of venerable light, but his ethos is as solid as her stony gaze.  There’s nothing to fear in this woman before him: some maternal Demeter who only wishes to protect her coveted master isn’t the thing of his nightmares.  

He presses calloused fingertips over a fold in his uniform, occupying his gaze with a wrinkle on his lapel (lying is in the eyes, not the voice; your gaze gives it away--the only advice Tanaka gave him that he'll ever consider useful passes through his conscience momentarily before he waves it away like an annoying fog), and states blandly, "You needn't get so riled up by something as simple as threats--a word or two never killed anyone."  

Heels click in the steady rhythm of his droning voice, a soft-spoken hypnosis: it sounds convincing but reads as a half-hearted fallacy.  His hands, pallid and veined and adorned with callouses and scratches instead of rings, occupy his vision, leaving Peko to emote as she pleases.  He imagines her expressions: shocked, appalled, before a great, crashing wave of relief sweeps her off her feet and carries her to shore like a Saint lifting her, drowning, out of the ocean, inspired by his great oration to prostrate herself before his feet: “I’m at your disposal!”  When her voice yields nothing more than an impatient cough, he drags himself back to reality and reels in whatever formalities he was haranguing out of the realm of tangents and back into the pressing situation at hand. 

"But my words still stand: a word of warning, perhaps you should note, instead of a threat!  Assuming is often a source of trouble, born of laziness to simply investigate and source information yourself…assume a deadline was a certain date, assume that no one else would plan something a day you needed them dearly, assume that someone as righteous as a prefect would do something as petty as threaten an innocent bystander--” he shrugs his shoulders wildly like he can’t fathom why such an audacious, corrupt thought could ever be conjured, “—but I am known to possess quite a head on these shoulders, one apt to forgive and generously provide sensible clemency!”  He reaches the end of his row and marches back in the opposite direction, pacing in front of her like a lecturing teacher, hands clasped behind his back as he looks at the placement of his foot, heel to toe, heel to toe.  “Be warned: the assets that your young master is attached to make him useful for goals that you and I, practical and prudent citizens and functional members of society, would even shudder at the thought of conceiving!  There are those that wish to harm him, and I know one in particular.”  He grins, proud and preened, and he stops directly in front of her. 

"I’m certain this information would interest you.  After all, I have your interests in my extensive list of priorities, among them the safety of those you hold near and dear to your heart.  I’m here to offer what little protection I can extend to my comrades—nay, don’t consider this a favor meant to be repaid, charity is a pillar of my faith.”  His voice practically tips its hat to her, polite and polished, but he stares at the void above her shoulder rather than her piercing pupils, instead.  When he notes she does not seem sufficiently convinced, he heaves a labored sigh and covers his mouth with his hand, discreetly speaking through his fingers, “of course, I have my own personal vendetta against this threat, and I only wish to provide something for a fair exchange.   Not repayment, simply an interesting offer that perhaps brightens my proposal a little more—your loyalty for his safety.”  He cocks his head, and draws an X over his heart.

"My word is my law.  Consider it an inquiry—do you accept, Jingu Peko?”

[hopefulforthefuturefoundation]

vigilum replied to your post: “You, Makoto.. Are you with Tanaka or Kiyotaka. Answer properly and correctly.”:

Because. I'm asking. Unless-- You're on a neutral side.

"I don't have to answer to you.."

[atzoatlarchive]

I'd like to speak with you privately in the near future. I think I have something you'll like.

Finally, a bit of commendable action!  Perhaps the effort I expended will finally yield something worth my troubles.  I’d hate to think that you were a waste, after all; I didn’t see potential as much as I saw…something.  I’ll explain it to you when you’ve got an hour or so to spare for a lecture!

I don’t have time to speak to you.  Unless it’s paramount, send it to my phone.