Motoko Kusanagi (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
megatechbody) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
recolle2018-08-23 01:44 am
megatechbody) wrote in recolle2018-08-23 01:44 am
(OPEN) Because I danced...
WHO: Mariko and YOU
WHERE: Her various dreamscapes
WHEN: Backdated to August 21 because I'm bad at this.
WHAT: Mariko has to work through some STUFF, y'all
WARNINGS: Either mentioned or will possibly come up: parent death, car accidents and grisly/bloody joint injury.
[HOO BOY this is late, but I hope you enjoy. Mariko is going to half-fail in her recovery, so if you want to chat about that or if you have any questions either inbox me here or![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
wingedbeastie .]
The room you wake up in is dark, save for the eerily glowing path leading through the room. If you strain your eyes, you can see desks and chairs, the far wall covered in monitors - lit with with matrix green writing as code flickers through the screens. Underfoot, a mass of bubbles races by as if drawn to another destination by gravity.
Before you the closest monitor on the closest desk flickers with a textbox.
Loading...
10 percent loaded - The night bird calls out in sadness [CW: Eventual mention, description and effects of a car accident, parent death]
It’s summer, humid and uncomfortable.
Fortunately, the japanese countryside is beautiful and despite the heat, it’s easy to get lost in the view of the hillside. Sunset is kind to the hills and fields, washing everything in a haze of fiery red-orange light and leaves a golden cast on the nearby river.
As the incline evens out, there is something of a pronounced riverbank and there a girl walks - her brown hair is up in a ponytail, hair short enough that it poofs an inch or two past the elastic. She’s still young, the beginnings of a growth spurt showing in not quite gawky limbs. She’s dressed simply - a tank top riddled with music notes, shorts and carries sneakers as she walks barefoot. Everything about her manner says the heat has has gotten to her - the way the heels of the sneakers dangle on her first two fingers, the lazy way turns stones over with her feet as she assesses them.
When she finds a suitable stone, she reaches down and grabs it. There’s no excited or joyful noise, her eyes move straight to the water and she uses her fingers to assess the rock further. Sometimes, she drops the rock with a bitter sounding huff and goes back to her lackadaisical search. Most of the time, she turns the stone in her hand to make sure the curve settles just right in her grip just like Ma-
Just like she was taught. She throws hard, far too hard for it to be a game and when it’s right - she watches the stone skip clear to the other side of the river. When the rock doesn’t make it past a skip or two, or even worse when it lands in the water with an abortive ‘plunk’, the scowl returns even darker; that’s the face you recognize.
Mariko, age twelve.
60 percent loaded - The Moon fails to shine down on either day or night. [CW: Description of gore]
It’s a wedding. An actual wedding.
Mariko walks down the aisle, gentle looking and not a hair out of place in the white kimono and headress. Each side of the aisle is full, each seat occupied with family, friends and strangers. It’s where you find yourself as she continues the procession, expression carefully neutral. In the front rows, Derek and Togusa’’s distinctive hair can be seen, but the men next to Togusa - the six of them seem out of focus, some more than others. There are two women similarly unclear, but suddenly focus is drawn to the officiant and the man before him.
The man is non-descript, Japanese by appearance and the traditional black kimono, so blank it feels easy to put another face to his body. Still he seems pleased to be here. Not happy - just pleased. Then Mariko takes a slow shuddering breath that feels like it echoes in the skull of anyone who can hear it. The guests don’t seem phased and there is a compulsion to look back at Mariko.
She’s in a splendid white gown, veil ending tastefully at where her bob would usually sit. At the altar stands Matthew Murdock, red and white cane in hand, red-tinted sunglasses ever present. He smiles, turning the cane restlessly in hands as he waits for her, faithfully. Mariko chuckles, uneasy but entertained and it feels like it should draw attention to her.
She’s in a simple pale purple dress, hair just like always and she’s pressing her lips together because this is kind of ridiculous. Next to the officiant stands Tatsuo, hair a mess as always. The suit he has isn’t the fanciest, but he seems breathless like he was just dragged in on a whirlwind.
A gunshot deafens everyone present, and the guests scatter. The eight who exist here in dubious clarity turn in perfect unison to see Mariko in jeans, a plain shirt and her leather jacket over it, trained on a man who falls out of the sky just far enough away to be unreachable - his ankle a ruined, shattered mess and what could only be his foot leading your eye to where he would likely land.
But Mariko screams and drops the gun and as it clatters away - her three grooms stand shoulder to shoulder, nothing but damnation in their eyes - shining in the holes of oni masks.
The first groom speaks, blue mask rendering his voice neutral, almost computer-like .“You only love my grief. You don’t care about being happy with me.”
“Hideo, that’s not - I…” her voice is weak, tears silencing protest.
The second groom speaks, his mask a red-tinged black - voice frustrated and hoarse from yelling. “I was terrified for us and you just wanted me to enable you!”
“You never fucking listen to me, Matt!” her tears burn slowly down flushed cheeks.
The third groom speaks, in a placid, unremarkable tone through a white mask that looks like it was waved through smoke. “I’m just comfortable, I guess. Easy to keep. Easy to let go.”
“Tatsuo” her sob is short and shocked before she takes an impossibly long breath in and draws herself up to full height.
Mariko, age twentysomething, stands at the beginning of the aisle, her three Oni grooms at the other end and watching.
91 perc -- Data corruption. Please let the dawn be waiting in the Underworld
A mass of wires sits on what can only be described as a tech throne, the cables wind so smoothly into what looks like an intentional weaving. In front of it, as if to block interference, stands Mariko in three incarnations. The child met earlier is on the left, her eyes full of suspicion and heartbreak. One the right is the near-bride, frustrated and exhausted. In the middle stands Mariko as you know here - or not quite. Dressed in riot gear so dark it seems to suck in light, something in the ceiling seems to cast a shadow on her. The shadow obscures her, making her hair and eyes darker in the absence of proper light. She’s the first one to address you, interloper, in a voice that sounds more accustomed to giving orders than conversation.
“For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears...”
Little Mariko speaks next, fearless and clear - the way only kids can manage. “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child.”
Near-Wife Mariko speaks next, tired and wanting this to be over. “When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.”
They stand together, hands clasped and fingers twisted together impossibly but between the gaps of their bodies, the knotted wires on the throne can be seen.
WHERE: Her various dreamscapes
WHEN: Backdated to August 21 because I'm bad at this.
WHAT: Mariko has to work through some STUFF, y'all
WARNINGS: Either mentioned or will possibly come up: parent death, car accidents and grisly/bloody joint injury.
[HOO BOY this is late, but I hope you enjoy. Mariko is going to half-fail in her recovery, so if you want to chat about that or if you have any questions either inbox me here or
The room you wake up in is dark, save for the eerily glowing path leading through the room. If you strain your eyes, you can see desks and chairs, the far wall covered in monitors - lit with with matrix green writing as code flickers through the screens. Underfoot, a mass of bubbles races by as if drawn to another destination by gravity.
Before you the closest monitor on the closest desk flickers with a textbox.
Loading...
10 percent loaded - The night bird calls out in sadness [CW: Eventual mention, description and effects of a car accident, parent death]
It’s summer, humid and uncomfortable.
Fortunately, the japanese countryside is beautiful and despite the heat, it’s easy to get lost in the view of the hillside. Sunset is kind to the hills and fields, washing everything in a haze of fiery red-orange light and leaves a golden cast on the nearby river.
As the incline evens out, there is something of a pronounced riverbank and there a girl walks - her brown hair is up in a ponytail, hair short enough that it poofs an inch or two past the elastic. She’s still young, the beginnings of a growth spurt showing in not quite gawky limbs. She’s dressed simply - a tank top riddled with music notes, shorts and carries sneakers as she walks barefoot. Everything about her manner says the heat has has gotten to her - the way the heels of the sneakers dangle on her first two fingers, the lazy way turns stones over with her feet as she assesses them.
When she finds a suitable stone, she reaches down and grabs it. There’s no excited or joyful noise, her eyes move straight to the water and she uses her fingers to assess the rock further. Sometimes, she drops the rock with a bitter sounding huff and goes back to her lackadaisical search. Most of the time, she turns the stone in her hand to make sure the curve settles just right in her grip just like Ma-
Just like she was taught. She throws hard, far too hard for it to be a game and when it’s right - she watches the stone skip clear to the other side of the river. When the rock doesn’t make it past a skip or two, or even worse when it lands in the water with an abortive ‘plunk’, the scowl returns even darker; that’s the face you recognize.
Mariko, age twelve.
60 percent loaded - The Moon fails to shine down on either day or night. [CW: Description of gore]
It’s a wedding. An actual wedding.
Mariko walks down the aisle, gentle looking and not a hair out of place in the white kimono and headress. Each side of the aisle is full, each seat occupied with family, friends and strangers. It’s where you find yourself as she continues the procession, expression carefully neutral. In the front rows, Derek and Togusa’’s distinctive hair can be seen, but the men next to Togusa - the six of them seem out of focus, some more than others. There are two women similarly unclear, but suddenly focus is drawn to the officiant and the man before him.
The man is non-descript, Japanese by appearance and the traditional black kimono, so blank it feels easy to put another face to his body. Still he seems pleased to be here. Not happy - just pleased. Then Mariko takes a slow shuddering breath that feels like it echoes in the skull of anyone who can hear it. The guests don’t seem phased and there is a compulsion to look back at Mariko.
She’s in a splendid white gown, veil ending tastefully at where her bob would usually sit. At the altar stands Matthew Murdock, red and white cane in hand, red-tinted sunglasses ever present. He smiles, turning the cane restlessly in hands as he waits for her, faithfully. Mariko chuckles, uneasy but entertained and it feels like it should draw attention to her.
She’s in a simple pale purple dress, hair just like always and she’s pressing her lips together because this is kind of ridiculous. Next to the officiant stands Tatsuo, hair a mess as always. The suit he has isn’t the fanciest, but he seems breathless like he was just dragged in on a whirlwind.
A gunshot deafens everyone present, and the guests scatter. The eight who exist here in dubious clarity turn in perfect unison to see Mariko in jeans, a plain shirt and her leather jacket over it, trained on a man who falls out of the sky just far enough away to be unreachable - his ankle a ruined, shattered mess and what could only be his foot leading your eye to where he would likely land.
But Mariko screams and drops the gun and as it clatters away - her three grooms stand shoulder to shoulder, nothing but damnation in their eyes - shining in the holes of oni masks.
The first groom speaks, blue mask rendering his voice neutral, almost computer-like .“You only love my grief. You don’t care about being happy with me.”
“Hideo, that’s not - I…” her voice is weak, tears silencing protest.
The second groom speaks, his mask a red-tinged black - voice frustrated and hoarse from yelling. “I was terrified for us and you just wanted me to enable you!”
“You never fucking listen to me, Matt!” her tears burn slowly down flushed cheeks.
The third groom speaks, in a placid, unremarkable tone through a white mask that looks like it was waved through smoke. “I’m just comfortable, I guess. Easy to keep. Easy to let go.”
“Tatsuo” her sob is short and shocked before she takes an impossibly long breath in and draws herself up to full height.
Mariko, age twentysomething, stands at the beginning of the aisle, her three Oni grooms at the other end and watching.
91 perc -- Data corruption. Please let the dawn be waiting in the Underworld
A mass of wires sits on what can only be described as a tech throne, the cables wind so smoothly into what looks like an intentional weaving. In front of it, as if to block interference, stands Mariko in three incarnations. The child met earlier is on the left, her eyes full of suspicion and heartbreak. One the right is the near-bride, frustrated and exhausted. In the middle stands Mariko as you know here - or not quite. Dressed in riot gear so dark it seems to suck in light, something in the ceiling seems to cast a shadow on her. The shadow obscures her, making her hair and eyes darker in the absence of proper light. She’s the first one to address you, interloper, in a voice that sounds more accustomed to giving orders than conversation.
“For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears...”
Little Mariko speaks next, fearless and clear - the way only kids can manage. “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child.”
Near-Wife Mariko speaks next, tired and wanting this to be over. “When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me.”
They stand together, hands clasped and fingers twisted together impossibly but between the gaps of their bodies, the knotted wires on the throne can be seen.