The Mizuharas are well known for being one of the largest organizations for arms dealing since the turn of the twentieth century. The family is highly regarded for quality product and service, the bulk of their dealings being a number of militaries throughout the world, as well as independent organizations within South-East Asia. This, in turn, earned them diplomatic immunity in close to seventy-five countries including Papua New Guinea.
What the general public does not know, however, is that corroboration doesnât always mean truth. Or well it depends. Are half-truths still considered the truth? The Mizuharas arenât the Yakuza, no. In fact, Kikoâs father has a particular distaste for them. He likes to repeatedly reiterate that they are in fact scoundrels, terribly disorganized and undeserving of respect. She never really bothered to ask how exactly he would know such a thing- but that matter is trivial and of the past.
Anyone outside The Mizuhara family would say theyâre well-mannered and mysterious, always putting on less than they truly know. Within the family is a different story altogether of course. Born and raised in South Korea, Kiko remembers being so close to her parents, knowing them as nothing but unconditionally loving. But she also knew, they were terribly good at their jobs alongside being parents. The Mizuharas, so well known for arms dealing, were also well known among the rich and powerful, as the Clean Sweep. They never kept the fact from her, nor did they boast about it in front of her. They simply, didnât cover up their actions. Kiko was never sure how she shouldâve felt about that. Still, every night her father would tuck her in with a kiss on her forehead, reminding her that he loved her more than anything.
Sometime when she was six, after her father put away a well-thumbed copy of Ferdinand The Bull, he leans over to pull the covers up to her chin, kissing her on the forehead. It was the first time a flurry of vivid imagery, loud thoughts and complex emotions engulfed her being. She was quite literally blinded for a good minute, paralysed by the intensity of the vision. Vision? She did not see herself in said vision. Instead, she was sat behind a large Mahogany desk, littered with parchment and folders, a gruff voice that wasnât her own, muttering vulgarities under his breath as she looked up to watch Kazuya - her fatherâs right-hand man - put a bullet between someoneâs eyes. She lay awake until the sun peeked just over the horizon.Â
The second time it happens, her sister has her arms full of mangoes. âHelp me,â she says, and Kiko skips up to her, taking three large ripe ones from her. As her fingertips brush her sisterâs, the mango slips from her hand, tumbling down the stone steps, squashed at the base. Their large Alaskan Malamute, Joue, doesnât seem to mind. The images flit before her, wind blowing in her face, the sound of distant murmuring and clinking of glasses as she peers through a long metal scope, watching the garden from her perch. This time sheâs sure it isnât a vision - because she sees herself throwing one of the large mangoes into the air, and whoever she is now, has a hand on the rifle, index finger brushing against the worn trigger before she fires, the recoil against her shoulder reminding her that she shouldâve worn padding today. The fruit explodes, and Kiko is crouched to the side, small arms shielding herself. A soft chuckle emits from her Vision-self, reaching for the walkie-talkie before she speaks clearly into it, âGood throw, ma petite.âÂ
And then Kiko is back, blinking up at a slightly worried looking sister with her hand waving in front of her face, her voice finally drifting to her ears. The vision wasnât a vision, it was a memory.
Her eldest sister was the best long-range sniper she knew. Her childhood games included Target Practice: In which she stood at the gates of their holiday mansion grounds (headquarters) in Cote DâAzur, as her sister told her to throw a ripe Australian mango into the air. Kiko, with her easy affinity for precision, managed to throw it two feet straight up into the air before diving to the side. Her sister, wherever she was, sent it exploding on its descent at the one-foot mark, from wherever sheâd been camping. The remembers looking at the radio in her hand is it crackled with a gleeful, âgood throw, ma petite.â
The third time it happens, sheâs out and about at the markets with her elder brother. He buys her a pretty bracelet, but sheâs excited to pay for it herself. He stuffs a few dollar bills in her small uncalloused hands and she hands them to the old merchant excitedly. The old lady smiles, taking the money from her. The touch doesnât send her into momentary paralysis, and it surprises her. But of course, she thinks it too soon. When the lady offers to put the bracelet on for her, scratch pads of her fingers lingering over the skin of her wrist, she stares unblinking, as the familiar hustle and bustle of the weekend markets ring in her ears, her view this time from the opposite side of the tables, under the cover of the tented booth. She looks down at her hands, aged and rough, laying out the trinkets on her table as the rest of the street does the same, opening their booths for the day. Sheâs startled out of the memory as her brother yanks her away from the booth, eyes concerned as the old lady eyes her with disdain. Kiko blinks back at her, murmuring a quick merci, before she follows after her brother, his grip firm around her hand. She doesnât say a word.Â
And it seems that she doesnât have to. As her father puts down their now yellowing copy of Ferdinand The Bull that night, she notices he doesnât kiss her on the forehead. The tinge of sadness she feels then, only multiples as he pats her head before leaving the room. The sound of the door shutting was louder than ever that night. She didnât say a word.Â
When she turned sixteen, it was a peculiar ordeal. Maybe peculiar isnât the right word. Her birthday was some twisted kind of bar mitzvah. They call it The Christening. Her mother was always suspiciously missing during those times. At the ripe age, the children of the Mizuhara household were required to pledge themselves in honour. She recalled her cousinsâ screams before her, so loud they could barely speak for a week. The eldest fainted from the pain of it. But Kiko, eyes squeezed shut in her seat, forehead pressed against the backrest of the chair. Her aunt swallowed hard as she rolled up her sleeves, wrought iron glowing red in her gloved hands. She wondered why her father, the usual head of the event, didnât host this time. âIâm sorry,â sheâd uttered quietly, before white heat could be felt searing into her nape, successfully branding the Mizuhara insignia into her skin. She gasped, eyes prickling with tears as her body shuddered involuntarily, knuckles white against the hard Beech of the seat, breathing shallow as she forced her mind to focus on one thing only: For Familia.
After that, it was easy enough. She had a permanent signature of the empire she belonged to. And she knew that her family were mercenaries for hire, whether or not they preferred to glorify the title by saying they only assassinated rich oppressors.Â
Her first kill was a Chinese dignitary; A man whoâd done unspeakable things to his underlings, as well as women, and extorted a huge sum from some government or other. Sheâll never forget how the light left his eyes, his expression frozen for a second before he collapsed to the ground, muscles relaxing in an instant. âAh, a Kodak moment,â she says to the quiet room, the barrel of her Glock 17 TB still smoking, the hole in his head clean, though off centre - which agitated her quite a bit. Morbid humour aided her with the realization that she did, in fact, kill a man in cold blood with no remorse whatsoever. Was it a result of her upbringing? She couldnât be sure. That being said, from the foreign memory that played over in her mind upon the kill, she knew he was a loving father, just like her own. Kiko made sure the suitcase full of gifts heâd bought for his daughter was safely delivered.
As much of a cold-blooded killer and a filial daughter to the family cause she seemed to be, Kiko was still a teenager, lost and stumbling her way through, hoping to find some sort of fulfilment with her life choices. She had no attachment to her work whatsoever, nor did she particularly care for being able to wield knives, hold a gun or even fire a crossbow, regardless of how good she was at them. The only asset she enjoyed was her ability to manipulate memories.Â
With her roots being a harsh reminder of what the world was up to when no one was looking, and her powers always giving her the honest truth about well everything, she was always questioning who the fuck she was even fighting for. She only took up the opportunities that came to her because she could practice what she knew best. And she wasnât sure it was what she wanted at all. She enjoyed the challenge yes, but still that sense of fulfilment wasnât quite there. With that in mind, using the advantage of being her fatherâs favourite, she made her case: that she wanted to experience more than what the family could offer. Though the elders were outraged, her father and grandfather being the head and mentor of the organization, had no issue with her wanting to explore. She was eighteen and a free spirit after all.
Of course, that wasn't all of it. Standing before them she focuses her mind, stretching her consciousness to touch her fatherâs, easily tapping into his memories whilst staying acutely aware of the situation before her. She sees the murmuring before she hears it, tension in her fatherâs shoulders as the elders discuss the possibility of a mutant in their ranks. Her father speaks up, voice harsh among the murmurs in the room. âDoes it matter?â his voice seems to echo. To which an elder she doesnât remember, speaks up.
âOf course it matters. It sullies our name. The Mizuharas are not mutants,â he spits angrily, and her fatherâs nostrils flare. âThe Mizuharas are purebloods. I say, Kill the mutant.â The elders call their agreements, and she doesnât know if itâs her or her father who swallows. Her father seems to consider them, hesitating before he speaks clearly, âSo be it.â
Kiko stares at her father unblinkingly, and her father hands her the copy of Ferdinand The Bull, an envelope of money stashed between the pages. Sheâs sure heâs only allowing her this because he has eyes everywhere, always. But now sheâs struck with the fear that her father will come to kill her one of these days. Will she be kneeling in his office as Kazuya holds a gun to her head too? She shivers then, but her father clasps her hands in his. There is no memory. But a sense of calm that washes over her instead, eyes knowing.
âBe safe,â he murmurs, and this time, he kisses her on the forehead before they part.Â
//
It has been eight years since Kiko has left home, and sheâs made a living for herself as an artist come art supply store owner by day, mercenary for hire by night. The merc job she keeps mostly to keep the elders happy. Sometimes they ask questions, and she'll be damned if she has to have her father protect her. Thought she will not lie, she doesn't mind it all that much. It pays well. And if the price is right, she's willing to do almost anything.
Sometimes she goes by the name Kiko, sometimes T'Soni. Mostly though, when sheâs doing what she loves - sculpting and importing international art supplies, she introduces herself as Audrie.
A u d r i e - The Korean-born Japanese Dignitary she desperately wants to forget, and the bright-eyed twenty-six-year-old Artist she wants to be.
Yes itâs a simple job with zero to no hype. But the challenge of keeping creative and the peace of solitude is there to keep her company, always. She finds that sheâs a lot less stressed in such a calming environment. But she also knows it's always only temporary.
The reality of the situation is that she cannot escape her roots no matter how hard she might try, the fact that her family knows sheâs a mutant, that sheâs the only one among them who has powers. That she is as invaluable as ever, and at the same time a liability.
So sheâs content keeping her distance, keeping her comfortable lifestyle and living as she pleases. Whatever fulfilment she may have been looking for, she has found in merely living for herself.
Eidetic memory The ability to recall images with vividness bordering on actual visual perception; total recall
Memory collection The ability to not only see and feel, but to relive and collect oneâs memories.
The stronger the emotional connection with the person, the easier it is to tap into their memories
This allows her to adopt muscle memory and knowledge from people around her for a limited time periodÂ
She can also search their memories (conscious and subconscious) to locate particular bits of information, as well as help one restore their memory in true detail, if broken or forgotten.Â
Memory projection The ability to create a holographic projection of oneâs memories in order to be visually seen or manifested into reality for a limitd time period (usually a minute at most)
Bonus
Alternate future display The ability to forsee all possible outcomes of a decision one makes, before they make it.Â
By tapping into oneâs memories of the recent past, she can foresee the immediate future, limited to the consequences of a decision they are about to make.Â
This ability is of course dependant on their actions and hence the future that is seen is not always accurate.
The butterfly effect exists to ensure that her ability doesnât alter time and events, as showing a person the outcome of a decision they have yet to make, in itself alters their course and the outcome that she has foreseen from the same decision.Â
Limitations
Sensory overload
It can be difficult for her to differentiate memories that are her own and memories that she has collected from others if the memories have been stored for a long period of time and/or are collected from someone she is emotionally connected to.Â
If her powers are overused and her mind is stretched too much, she blacks out. In severe cases, she can experience cluster headaches and/or the loss of stored memories.
The act of manifesting memories into reality exhausts her quickly. Hence only allowing her to do so sparingly.Â
Inability to control when she collects and sees oneâs memory
She can read memories through skin-to-skin contact. For example, every time she shakes a personâs hand, she will relive their most recently pondered memory.Â
Though it doesnât happen every time she comes into contact with someone, it usually always happens when particularly their hands touch.
Inability to forget unconsciously
She is still learning how to forget memories she has collected, as doing so takes a physical toll on her body. With the memories she collects, come peopleâs emotions that heavily affect her mental and physical state.
Hence the more memories that originate from those she is emotionally connected to, the more crippling the pain she experiences.Â
Sexual Orientation Demiromantic Pansexual (Versatile)
DOBÂ 15 Oct 1990 / 26 y/o
Ethnicity KoreanÂ
Nationality Japanese (Zainichi)
Place of Birth Cote D'AzurÂ
Hometown Busan, South Korea
Occupation Artist by day, merc for hire by night
Species Mutant
Ability Memory manipulationÂ
Languages Korean (Native), Japanese (Fluent), French (Proficient), English (Proficient)
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Eyes Chocolate brown
Hair Jet black
Appearance here
Height 5â 6" / 168 cmÂ
Weight 105 lbs / 48 kg
Piercings One on each ear, barbell on each nipple
Tattoos Linework of a daisy on her left side, roughly 4" / 10 cmÂ
Scars Mizuhara insignia on her nape
Two bullet wounds on her left side, mostly covered up by her tattoo
Handful of thin white lines on her nape and above her hairline on the right side of her headÂ
Disorders/Illnesses Anxiety, Cluster headaches
chorus
MBTI ISFP-A (The Adventurer)
Temperament Phlegmatic-Sanguine
Enneagram One (The Reformer)
Moral alignment True Neutral
+ ves
Adaptable, meticulous, dedicated, alluring, independent, level-headed, mysterious, good listener
- ves
Overcritical, easily bored, aloof, distrustful, indifferent, possessive, prefers to work alone, does not share more than necessary, can be a flirt when it comes to girls
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Likes
Deep conversations, art, sculpting, eating home cooked food (not actually cooking herself), animals, spring, girls, coffee, open spaces, roadtrips, scifi, film, book pressed flowers
Dislikes
Small talk, poor hygiene, flying insects, misogynists, politics, drama, noise, crowds, bras, having to pay for tampons
Tidbits
Sheâs
AmbidextrousÂ
A happy, touchy/clingy drunk
Owns a cat named Boss
Quite adventurous in the bedroom, enjoys versatility
Audrie slouches comfortably in the back of a sticky midnight cab, fiddling with the flip-top cap of her brass lighter. She can feel the eyes of her cabbie on her through his rear view mirror, and she exhales disinterestedly, noting that the neckline of her dress had slipped a little lower than she meant it to. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she crosses her legs, the slit in her soft satin ensemble exposing an expanse of pale thigh, a thick black double strap evident with her go-to Glock 19 sheathed within it. The car swerves a little then, and Audrie catches his frantic eyes, lips forming a smirk as she looks back out the window.Â
Instead of spending her evening indoors, listening to Gallant and inhaling a pint of Ben & Jerryâs, sheâs following through with a mission that went off course. A target of hers - a three-timing diplomat, had gone missing two days prior. It was meant to be an easy job, having planned to catch him inside his apartment when he returned home from his 2am rendezvous. She was timely, as always, but he didnât show. He hadnât even made it out of his office. Strange.Â
After a little bit of digging and pulling a few strings, she found that the last person heâd gone to see was a man with dubious status who went by the name T.O.P. Apparently, he was the leader of a heinous band of criminals. Her target was a pig, but he wasnât the type to dabble in drugs or the like. Whatever it was, she just needed to know where her target was so she could finish him off quickly. This was dragging out longer than strictly necessary and time is money after all.Â
As the cab came to halt outside a large establishment with a number of questionable looking people and a line of scantily clad women, she shoves the required fee into her cab driverâs hand, stepping out onto the curb. She doesnât have much trouble with the bouncer, tilting her head just the right way, lashes lowered, letting her Japanese accent slip into broken Korean. She smacks her lips once, and itâs decidedly enough, with the way he lifts the barrier and nods his head toward the club entrance. She tosses him a cheeky smile, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as he lets her pass, sashaying her way onto the dimly lit floor. The lingering scent of flavoured smoke fills her lungs first, booming bass reverberating loud in her ears as she looks around the joint. Itâs somewhat a nostalgic feeling, which only reminds her of how long she has been away from such a scene. She doesnât spot him, so itâs time to mingle. Stepping over something that looked much like a dead body, she approaches the bar, easily catching the attention of the first bartender.Â
Sheâs used to the games useless unsuspecting men play, flashing a smile freely as she lets the bartender offer her a gin and tonic on the house. She takes it gratefully, swirling the glass as she asks seemingly innocent questions about the place, before she drops an easy, âI bet your Boss doesnât hang out around his own place, too busy opening shop elsewhere, right?â she takes a sip, and the bartender smiles, nodding his head in the direction of what was supposedly the VIP section.Â
âNah, heâs probably hanging out back. He actually likes it here. Probably,â he shrugs, and Audrie smiles gratefully.Â
âI suppose I should try my luck now shouldnât I?â she winks at him, raising her glass in thanks as she slips away swiftly, making her way further into the establishment.Â
The bouncer there looks her up and down, eyes lingering before he speaks, Â âThis area is off limits, sweet cheeks,â he slurs, and Audrie resists the urge to grind her teeth. Her eyes are locked on her current target - the man is impeccably dressed, looking very at ease as he reclines in his seat, swirling a glass of dark liquid in his hand.Â
âI believe I have an appointment with your boss,â she responds matter-of-factly, raising an eyebrow at him to get a move on. When the bouncer looks back at the man, Audrie follows his gaze to find dark eyes already on her.Â
âą - for my muse to become jealous of the attention your muse is giving someone else
â - for my muse to respond to praise from yours
â - for my muse to respond to being scolded or punished by yours
â - for my muse to forcibly restrain yours
âą - for my muse to introduce yours to a family member
â - for my muse to submit to or obey your museâs orders
Ò° - for my muse to comfort yours after witnessing an emotional meltdown
âș - for my muse to help yours get through a frightening situation
†- for my muse to wake yours from a nightmare
â - for my muse to talk about somebodyâs death
â - for my muse to write a letter/send an email to yours
â - for my muse to rescue yours from danger
Âż - for my muse to ask yours a personal or uncomfortable question
â„ - for my muse to express physical affection to yours
አ- for my muse to express verbal affection for yours
⏠- for my muse to hum or sing to calm yours down
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