whether we’re wrong, who’s to say? it’s now or never! a multimuse centered around rgg studio’s like a dragon franchise, by reyes. follows back from @karezaru, so find my rules and such there. fighting crime with: echosdeath.
* fujiko amagi. 34-41 + ciswoman, she/her. fc: satomi ishihara.
survivor of tragedy and underworld intrigue, she is a jack-of-all-trades owner of afterglow, a bustling bar-restaurant that serves as a neutral ground for friends, allies, and information networks alike.
chizuru hase. 22-58 + ciswoman, she/her.
trapped in a torturous marriage within the tōjō, she ended her husband’s life in secret, persevering against the clan’s shockwaves by playing the part of the grieving widow. she now lives freely as the mama of velvet kiss and a follower of gyaru trends.
* reiya ikehara. 19-55 + gender apathetic, she/her.
childhood friend of the sunflower trio, hostess, and contract killer who dug her own grave in 2012, she’s reborn as a covert agent for an organization tied to the nation's political elite.
* nanase tsuji. 36-55 + transnb man, they/he.
a mysterious and ruthlessly efficient presence of unknown origins, rising through the tōjō before reinventing themselves as “the chameleon”, an informant disguised as a florist. for the right price, he can dig up just about anything.
yíjūn shěn. 25-32 + nonbinary woman, she/they.
orphaned and raised in the yokohama liumang, she’s feared and revered in the underworld while also gaining fame online as the enigmatic rei tsukihoshi, balancing gang ties with a growing digital presence.
akie tsuchiya. 24-31 + ciswoman, she/her.
framed for the murder of her best friend who brushed against shadows too dark to survive, 5 years of her life is lost to a system bent by influence and falsified proof. she’s out at 24, focused not on exoneration, but on tearing down those responsible for her imprisonment and the death of someone who meant everything to her.
xuěyīng, asami fuyutsuki, seungtae jo, shigure kisaragi, nao kiyose, ibara kuroyanagi, elena rojas, insu yeo........
༄ REQUEST ONLY.
hana. 27-43 + ciswoman, she/her.
nair. 26-41 + ciswoman, she/her.
kazuya ayabe. 35-42 + gender apathetic, he/him.
daigo dōjima. 30-49 + cisman, he/him.
makoto date. 41-61 + cisman, he/him.
mitsuru kuroiwa. 38-45 + cisman, he/him.
yoshitaka mine. 33-49 + cisman, he/him. with the release of kiwami 3, i won’t be following the canon established there re: mine joining the daidoji + whatever else they decide to do with him from this point forward.
mikiko sadamoto. 37-41 + ciswoman, she/her.
taiga saejima. 45-61 + cisman, he/him.
saori shirosaki. 32-39 + ciswoman, she/her.
kazuki sōma. 34+ + gender apathetic, he/him.
masayoshi tanimura. 29-45 + cisman, he/him. i use the original ps3 model that’s modeled after hiroki narimiya.
today the outside world is still: no wind in the air or clouds in the sky. and shams wants to murder shun akiyama. well, that's a tad bit dramatic, but who can blame her? his place is a mess, as always. and god knows nothing drives her up a wall like an untidy place. if untidy is even a word that can be used for this man's office. her head tilts softly, smile still on her lips, but it's anything but sweet. ❝ is that so? ❞ the words come out slow and she does very little to hide her irritation. ❝ that's too bad, akiyama. i find you deserve to know how special you are. ❞
the thing is, he's always been annoying. she remembers the first time she met him: unsure of what to think, unsure of what he is thinking. in hindsight, she's almost certain it was intentional. they're the same in that manner. matter of fact, they're the same in many ways; it's why their partnership had worked for so long, but that does not negate the fact that he is annoying nonetheless, intentionally or unintentionally. it really is too bad that hana isn't here for this. her hands trace the empty space on his desk as she picks up the first folder in front of her and throws it at his head. bingo. ❝ see, i am sure you're not a hundred percent insane, because to imagine that you think i will be standing here digging through your mess as if i didn't let you know when i was coming is funny. hilarious even. ❞ she steps closer to where he is seated and raises her eyebrow at him before her arms cross and any humor leaves her tone. ❝ get your ass up. ❞
the folder connects. hits akiyama right between the eyes. its contents fly everywhere, and his hands fly up to his face. he hisses, "ow, ow, ow..." and recoils in his chair. "what was that!?" one hand remains clapped dramatically over the site of the injury. "i think you got me." he winces. "no, seriously, i think you got me." a pause. "...am i bleeding?" he checks his fingers. there is, of course, no blood. he gives a wounded look. "you throw a folder, insult my office, insult me, and now you're ordering me around." so... maybe it's on him for forgetting immediately that shams was coming. but she also just doesn't get it. has she ever considered that this organizational system makes perfect sense to him? between his fingers, he looks toward one mountain of papers. that pile's important. the one next to it is extremely important, too. and the one next to that one is... probably important. see? organized.
feeling her stare boring holes into him, he closes his eyes. it doesn't help, but he continues rubbing the sore spot. "you know, most people would've apologized by now." another pause. "...or cared." and another. he peeks one eye open. she's still boring holes into him. he wilts. and she called him insane. if anyone was, it was her. with all the solemnity of a man receiving a death sentence—- well. perhaps not the best comparison. no... that feels excessive, even by his standards. with a groan befitting a man condemned to hard labor, he finally lets his hand fall away from his forehead.
"fine. fine." he leans down to collect the papers that unceremoniously fell around him, then pushes himself upright. putting the folder she so eagerly chucked at him right back on the pile she'd taken it from, he sweeps a hand toward the disaster that is his desk. "but when you discover some critically important document and accidentally throw it away, i want it on record that this was your idea." he sidesteps her, already making room. "and for the record, i still think 'not entirely insane' was unnecessarily cruel."
as expected, she’s met with a deadpan stare. ❝ are you having fun? ❞ there's a groan she lets out as she places her hand on the counter. this is bad. this is definitely bad. ❝ because it's not funny. this is so embarrassing. i feel like a kid. ❞ she feels like someone she has never allowed herself to be. she shakes her head, firmer this time, like she's not trying to convince chizuru, but rather herself. the issue has never been yagami. really, she always seems to imagine the one thing she can never avoid: his eyes. there's usually a thoughtful look in them when she glances their way. they're soft at the center, melting a light around pupils as dark as the pitch - black tapestry above her— though still sharp with observation and weighty with experiences they share. they cleave her into halves, crush her into pieces. they make her want to do horrifically embarrassing things. things she thought she no longer wanted. but no, there's a deeper issue at hand, and that is exactly when chizuru changes the direction of their conversation. ❝ you know why. i just ... ❞ a pause as she looks down at her lap. ❝ yagami, before anything, is someone i consider important to me. and i'm worried that i just can't be what's expected of me. ❞
she lets out a sigh. there's a look on the other's face, one she knows too well, but she can already feel her mind drifting. anyone who loves her is bound to have expectations. they’ll expect her to smile, want her to bare all that she is. they’ll expect her to give all that she is, and they’ll get angry when what she is is lacking. she believes this without question. relationships are built on give and take. if she isn't willing to give, they’ll call her greedy. if she isn't willing to take, they’ll call her heartless. if she tells them she can’t do either, that she doesn't want to, they’ll call her what she is, which is splintered, rendered out of use. it's not enough to pretend to enjoy it— not enough to half - heartedly give and never receive. she recalls the contempt of a ruined relationship: when she's left with overripe fruit and no way to savor them, no way to do anything but let them splatter on the ground. love, to her, is like that. it's what she's always believed, but when she sits here now, as she has a hundred times before, she imagines a world where he wouldn't expect so from her. yagami is kind, after all, a bright star shining across the water.
it makes her feel hopeless, dangerously so, to believe that he might not want any of these things from her. that, perhaps, he would be content with what she could offer. and then, it all comes crashing down as a wave of reality hits her. her head shakes again. ❝ it's not possible. everyone expects something from everyone. everyone has something they want. ordinary things. natural things. to them, anyway. i think that’s good, too. i mean, if you don’t expect anything at all, anyone would do for you, right? ❞ a pause. ❝ i don't want that to be the case. with him, i mean. it's too much to ask of anyone, really. ❞ her gaze sears through her. she sinks into her seat to get out of speaking. but that never works. ❝ could he be with me, then, if i were to say all of this? or rather, is this something i want him to deal with? is that not just unfair? ❞
as always, chizuru listens. observes. then hums, leaning forward with her cheek resting on a closed fist. “oh, baby...” there’s a fondly exasperated look in her gaze. “i don’t think he’s sittin’ there expectin’ you to be anything different than what you already are.” she doesn’t think, but knows this—- kaito and, surprisingly, higashi were here coaxing the man open some time ago with him in the same spot shams is sitting in currently, slowly, carefully, cornering him into honesty he didn’t trust himself to say outright—- alcohol has its way of doing that, making people less guarded. spill their guts easier. and he was a terrible lightweight. “and i don’t think he’s confused about it. that’s the part yer missin’. he’s not lookin’ for a different version of you. he’s already dealin’ with the one he’s got. and from what i’ve seen...” she chuckles with private knowledge, particularly of the memory of his flushed look. his words. “he’s not exactly sufferin’ for it. and if he was, he’s not complainin’ in the slightest.”
she extends her free hand to flick shams on the forehead. “before you keep overthinkin’ yerself into knots, though—- no, i’m not sayin’ he doesn’t understand what he’s doin’. he’s annoyingly aware. like... painfully aware.” the pads of her fingers then drift to her glass, drawing lazy circles along the rim. “just selective. about what he lets himself act on. same habit—- or well, problem—- you’ve got. different flavor. you both do this thing where you decide what the other person can handle. and then act like you’re bein’ considerate by not testin’ it. not givin’ ‘em a chance to prove you wrong.” a sigh. “exhaustin’.” absently, she wonders what majima would think of this conversation if he were here. not that she would let him, much less the other two, have a say in anything, batshit crazy and ultimately unhelpful as they all are, but she knows the one-eyed fool’d have a heart attack all the same. or a conniption. possibly both. most likely take the next train over and hunt yagami for sport. see if he’s worthy of the girl he sees as his own blood. she can already picture it, like in 2005 with kiryū; the edges of her glossy mouth twitch as she contains herself.
she glances at her phone beside her. maybe she shouldn’t divulge what’s transpiring next time they talk. “but truth is, darlin’...” chizuru takes another handful of kaki-pi. mid-chew, “yer both so used t’bein the one holdin’ things together that neither of ya knows what t’do when somebody looks at you and decides they wanna stay anyway. and god, ya’ll make it everybody else’s problem without even meanin’ to.” another crunch of kaki-pi. “he does that other thing you do, too. acts like if he keeps enough of himself tucked away, then nobody’ll end up disappointed when they finally realize he’s just a person.” she snorts, tilting her head opposite of her closed fist as it unfurls to vaguely gesture. “real funny mindset for somebody who also spends half his life seein’ through everybody else.” then, a small shrug. “and then there’s you, practically writin’ rejection speeches for other people before they even open their mouths.” she clicks her tongue. “he’s not lookin’ at you like somebody he’s still decidin’ whether he can handle. you were already there. like it was never up for debate.” a pause. her shoulders loosen as she leans back into her seat. “i’m not sayin’ this whole thing’s simple. people like you two don’t do simple. frankly, if life handed either of ya somethin’ easy, you’d probably stare at it suspiciously for however long before decidin’ it’s a trap.” another snort. “but yer askin’ the wrong questions.”
“‘would it be unfair?’ ‘would he still want me?’” she tilts her head again. “how ‘bout whether you’d actually be happy?” the question settles softer than the rest. and in that softness, chizuru eyes shams in the low amber-and-pink light of the bar, and sees, as she always does, the way she sinks and folds inward around tenderness, like it’s lined with thorns—- something you don’t hold too long unless you're prepared to bleed for it. “because from where i’m sittin’? he already looks at ya like somebody important too.” she hums. “real tragic pair, the two of ya. just circlin’ the same thing over and over like it’s gonna bite.” then, warmer—- “looks more like two idiots halfway t’each other already, just arguin’ about whether they’re allowed t’call it what it is.”
“are y’sure?” she takes a bite of kaki-pi. because of matsugane, his clan, and yaeko’s girl, she’s come to know yagami too. over twenty years, she’s watched him stumble, rebuild himself, and keep going anyway. much like she has with @echosdeath. “i mean, tābō’s quite the charmer... and not exactly subtle. neither are you.” and if either of them had the courage to confront what was already obvious—- to themselves, let alone each other—- it would’ve saved them—- and everyone else—- a lot of trouble. “it’s kinda cute. embarrassin’, but cute.” and if they had eyes, too, maybe it wouldn’t have taken this long. so much for perceptive types.
she exhales softly. taps her manicured nails on the table. “and the way ya talk about him...” a laugh. “honestly, i’m startin’ t’wonder which one of ya’s actually foolin’ themselves worse.” her eyes crinkle deviously, pausing her tapping to point at shams. “like yer face... it does this... thing whenever he comes up. y’know? real annoyin’. makes it hard t’take ya seriously.” when shams makes an expression opposite of what she’s describing and sinks her head onto the counter, chizuru smiles to herself. cards fingers through dark waves of her daughter’s hair, listening to the bar’s music. [what about this dream again, i wonder? is there still love to be found? in the moment our hands touch, all the feelings i’ve held back rise up...] “no, but really, listen.” she often hears stories about other people in love, people falling out of it, or people simply talking about it, what with her bar attracting the hopeless romantics, hopeful fools and every cynic in-between. “ya don’t survive what we survived without gettin’ good at buryin’ things.” it’s been years since she’s let herself call anything love. that’s what she thinks, at least. maybe if the fates were kind, her boys down in sōtenbori—- and yasuko, too, if she were alive—- would poke and prod at her the same way she’s doing with shams now. ...two outta three, anyway.
“but feelings? they don’t stay buried just ‘cause we ask nicely.” she gently forces shams to look back up at her, thumb and forefinger holding her by the chin. “the world already takes enough from ya, sweetheart.” don’t start takin’ more from yerself too. “maybe stop askin’ permission from yerself before wantin’ somethin’.” she lets go, then immediately dons a teasing curl to her lips. “and if ya keep insistin’ this is ‘outta the question’, life’s usually the one that decides otherwise anyway.” a pause, then, “i just don’t want ya pullin’ away from somethin’ kind right when it’s finally here. y’know?”
for the better part of their meeting, arranged by sugiura—- who akie wishes was here, before remembering again that he isn’t, that he’s off with that lawyer—- well, private eye now, she supposes—- like he always is, like this is normal, like this, what’s happening here, isn’t—- shouldn’t feel like—- something like this—- she gives the cold shoulder.
avoids eye contact, keeps her eyes on her hands. communication is supposed to happen here. something reciprocal. something that closes the distance instead of defining it. she’s still learning how to do that, how to answer, how to meet speech with speech, after years where silence became the only fluent thing she had, where it became easier than translation. there’s a point where the conversation should require her to respond. should catch up to her, arrive in time to be met, become something she can step into instead of fall behind.
it doesn’t. at least, until @echosdeath says, “it’s not my fault, but it’s my problem.”
but it’s my problem... akie’s bitten-down nails worry at the skin around them, before pressing down into the soft, tender flesh, too hard, too far, until it hurt. pinpricks of blood well up on her thumb. shams, who’s been more-or-less enduring the lopsided exchange, reaches over to stop her, an attempt to calm akie’s nerves, but her hands dart away and retreat into sugiura’s jacket instead—- hers now, in the way things become hers when no one is actively using them anymore.
“i d-don’t...” her voice comes out rough, scratchy, shaky. she hates how small it sounds. “i, um... d-don’t need you making it your problem.” with skin-picking off the table, akie curls further into herself on the couch, and focuses elsewhere in sugiura’s apartment. “i don’t n-need that.” she decides on his shelf, sparse except for a singular picture frame: him and his sister. emi terasawa looks back at her. she wishes she had a picture of shiori still.
all she has is the memory of her, her sunburst smile, her laugh; her dying, cooling, rotting body in shangri-la. “that’s not—- that’s not what this is s-supposed to b-be.”
let’s pretend for the moment that you’re not entirely insane.
god, @echosdeath is ruthless. does she say this to all her business partners too? good afternoon, thanks for meeting with me. by the way, you seem mentally unstable! “‘not entirely insane’...” akiyama repeats it back to her, visibly pouting harder as she plucks the magazine off his face. “see, the ‘not entirely’ part somehow makes it worse. if you’d just called me insane outright, i could’ve worked with that. but this?” he presses a hand to his chest. “this feels targeted.”
he glances over at hana’s desk for help, support, divine intervention—- anything, really—- only to find it abandoned. right... still out on that errand. not that she would’ve helped him over shams anyway. she’d sooner watch him suffer than intervene. “you really know how to make a man feel special, y’know that, shams? you’re so mean to me. genuinely.” he sinks further in his chair. she’s flitting through the mess of his desk, and arches her brow at him. he points to another pile next to her. “do you enjoy watching me suffer? because i need you to know you’ve wounded me. deeply.” another dramatic hand-to-heart. “right here.” he lets out a long, suffering sigh. “ahh, i’m devastated. completely devastated.”
