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[[ooc: WARNING that threads with
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willowandoak may contain unmarked NSFW. Tread lightly. Blame Sunflowren.]]
willowandoak's Akechi, the one who got the sunflowers. Known as Frog in the VRDR. [original au info]( and then she turns to me with her hand extended )
VRDR confidants
As a Trickster, Goro needs a deal or agreement to begin a confidant with somebody.
phantomlotus (Ren Amamiya) [1], his roommate at Leblanc who he agreed to make coffee for.coolcustomer (Haru Okumura), who agreed to help him take care of his sunflowers.Personas at level 85 (Ren's Palace)
If you should happen to wander into Yongen, and past Leblanc, and if you look through the glass into the shadows, you may notice a figure in a green apron working the counter. Not unusual. But it's ... an Akechi...?
Why not come inside and sit down?
[[ooc: Frog is very busy and important and gaining a sense of purpose from making people coffee. Tags are subject to my eternal hiatus, so please ping me if you'd like to stop by.]]
Why not come inside and sit down?
[[ooc: Frog is very busy and important and gaining a sense of purpose from making people coffee. Tags are subject to my eternal hiatus, so please ping me if you'd like to stop by.]]
memory tapes: for willowandoak
Nov. 21st, 2024 11:27 pm[[ooc: CONTENT WARNINGS for parental abuse.]]
The recording shows a wall with a small window, easing gently up and down in not-quite-steadicam. Nothing particularly exciting is revealed outside, past the shabby curtains and the mounds of mixed-up clothes and pots and pans; perhaps a few flat rooftops. There is nothing to hear, particularly, other than rumbles of pipes, or bursts of muffled voices, or the sound of cars and passersby outside. Atop the jumbled stacks of possessions beneath the window is a pale, faded old bear, so battered and worn you'd think it was made in the Meiji era.
Something big and black darts past the window; a bird? The frame jerks sideways to it, excitedly—then settles back, nervously downward, resting on a book in a small boy's lap. It has bright, manga-style pictures, but it isn't a manga; it's a children's picture book, in kana with the words spaced apart, matching the big plastic gun that's nearby on the unrolled futon. A small child's hand rests on the page. No, Infinibug Zombisqueen! shouted Red Hawk, bravely. I won't forgive you! The Feathermen of Justice will defeat your wicked schemes!...
But whoever's eyes you're seeing through—statistically speaking, it's probably some Akechi or other—turns away from the book, to look up beside him. He looks up quite a long way. A woman is sitting beside him, staring into space—a painfully thin woman, with familiar brown hair, drawn harshly back from her face and needing washing. She seems scarred by some emotion a small boy shouldn't understand; she looks harrowed, uncomprehending, lost. The frame lingers on her for a long moment, but she never looks back.
Back to the book. Back to her. Again, she never once looks at him. The silence—in the room; there is never true silence from the walls and the street outside—stretches, gets longer and longer. The video perspective makes it hard to tell what the boy is thinking, what he's doing—is he biting his lip? clenching a small fist? Eventually, a tiny voice sounds, echoing as if inside a skull. "Mama?"
The woman doesn't move, other than perhaps to frown a little harder. The boy tries again. "Mama? Are you—"
"Don't call me that!" says the woman, in a strange, childlike tone. The angle shifts as the boy flinches from her.
"Mama? Mama, I—"
"I'm not your mother!" she screams, suddenly too close, filling the screen, distorted, terrible; the stuff of nightmares. "I'm not your mother! You're not my son! I don't have a child! Get away from me!"
There's a dull thud as the book and the gun go flying, as the voices outside are cut off. The picture lurches back, out of reach, away from the horror as the audio warps, the sound of a child's world and mind breaking as he bursts into shattering tears. "MamaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—"
The next moment, as the scream drags on, and on, the picture is blotted out as she seizes him; the scream becomes muffled, as the woman sobs in turn. "Goro. Goro-chan, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so—"
The picture fades to black.
The recording shows a wall with a small window, easing gently up and down in not-quite-steadicam. Nothing particularly exciting is revealed outside, past the shabby curtains and the mounds of mixed-up clothes and pots and pans; perhaps a few flat rooftops. There is nothing to hear, particularly, other than rumbles of pipes, or bursts of muffled voices, or the sound of cars and passersby outside. Atop the jumbled stacks of possessions beneath the window is a pale, faded old bear, so battered and worn you'd think it was made in the Meiji era.
Something big and black darts past the window; a bird? The frame jerks sideways to it, excitedly—then settles back, nervously downward, resting on a book in a small boy's lap. It has bright, manga-style pictures, but it isn't a manga; it's a children's picture book, in kana with the words spaced apart, matching the big plastic gun that's nearby on the unrolled futon. A small child's hand rests on the page. No, Infinibug Zombisqueen! shouted Red Hawk, bravely. I won't forgive you! The Feathermen of Justice will defeat your wicked schemes!...
But whoever's eyes you're seeing through—statistically speaking, it's probably some Akechi or other—turns away from the book, to look up beside him. He looks up quite a long way. A woman is sitting beside him, staring into space—a painfully thin woman, with familiar brown hair, drawn harshly back from her face and needing washing. She seems scarred by some emotion a small boy shouldn't understand; she looks harrowed, uncomprehending, lost. The frame lingers on her for a long moment, but she never looks back.
Back to the book. Back to her. Again, she never once looks at him. The silence—in the room; there is never true silence from the walls and the street outside—stretches, gets longer and longer. The video perspective makes it hard to tell what the boy is thinking, what he's doing—is he biting his lip? clenching a small fist? Eventually, a tiny voice sounds, echoing as if inside a skull. "Mama?"
The woman doesn't move, other than perhaps to frown a little harder. The boy tries again. "Mama? Are you—"
"Don't call me that!" says the woman, in a strange, childlike tone. The angle shifts as the boy flinches from her.
"Mama? Mama, I—"
"I'm not your mother!" she screams, suddenly too close, filling the screen, distorted, terrible; the stuff of nightmares. "I'm not your mother! You're not my son! I don't have a child! Get away from me!"
There's a dull thud as the book and the gun go flying, as the voices outside are cut off. The picture lurches back, out of reach, away from the horror as the audio warps, the sound of a child's world and mind breaking as he bursts into shattering tears. "MamaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—"
The next moment, as the scream drags on, and on, the picture is blotted out as she seizes him; the scream becomes muffled, as the woman sobs in turn. "Goro. Goro-chan, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I'm so—"
The picture fades to black.
[ic] i'll bring you to your birthright
Apr. 30th, 2024 04:52 amGoro has never known a Palace as intractable as this one, nor had one he cared about more. All through the day and through much of the night, in stretches of dead time that he'd once have used to scroll or plan or daydream, he pulls out his phone and he tries keywords.
At the counter in Leblanc. On the trains before they launch into their less-than-mayfly trips. In the aisle at the supermarket, as he picks out fish, or vegetables, or pads this new Leblanc's still-limited store cupboard; and back in the small kitchen as he brings it all together—though never under new Ren's owlish gaze. He stares at the Meta-Nav and dares it to defy him, and he murmurs to it with iron determination. Ren Amamiya. My Ren Amamiya. Crossroads Bar. The Velvet Room. The moon.
He hears the Nav's arrant no match found in his sleep; he dreams its perky little chime. He needs the others more than air—needs his team beside him, their rapport and their experience, their skills, their wit and their support. He needs those he depends on most of all, and instead he's left with strangers—unknown, untried strangers. To save this one he's determined to save above all others.
Buchiko's statue. All of Nagata-cho. Masayoshi Shido's office, he tries, sweeping fragments of vegetable into his soup bowl with a practiced finger. He tries every ward in Tokyo, one after the next. He looks up every orphanage in Tokyo, past and present, and he tries them one by one. He walks into the Diet like he owns the place, and walks out with a list of several residences registered to Shido; they all fail. He keeps a notebook in his pocket like he's twelve years old again; he writes down everything he tries, seeks every connection, every gap in his thinking that he needs to fill.
Lowlands, he tries, the night of the cinema trip. The world tree. Cult9 in Shinjuku. Kabukicho. Miura Beach. All of Slovenia. All of it futile. He tries individual subway stations, working from a list; he researches the sewer network and underground rivers. Damn it, he thinks, pounding a muffled fist into his pillow late at night, keywords for someone he knows this well should not be this fucking hard!
Maybe that's the problem, Ace, he can hear Morgana saying—his Morgana, the one who slept on his bed at night, not the new one he slips bowls of soup in the mornings. Maybe you don't know him as well as you think you do. You still need to be careful. But faced with this snarl of a problem, Goro tells imaginary Morgana that he'll be careful when he's dead.
It's late on the sixth night when he's lying on his bed, hopeless and alone, tired as hell and refusing to speak another word to the goddamned app, that the Meta-Nav chimes. Shit, Goro thinks, dragging his pillow over his face, I'm hallucinating that sound now?
But the Nav goes on to say three unprecedented little words. "Palace now available."
Goro leans slowly up on one elbow, removing the pillow from his face. He gives the screen a cautious look. "What?"
The Nav chimes again, the chime that's in his blood now, that he'll hear until he dies. "Palace now available."
Rolling suspiciously onto his side, he grabs the phone, feeling fresh determination within him. He doesn't reach for his little black book; everything he needs is at his fingertips, laid out in his mind on infinite planes, engraved in gold. "Ren Amamiya," he says. Match found. "The workshop in Ikebukuro." No match found. He swallows. "All of Shinjuku." No match found. "Shibuya Crossing. Leblanc. Crossroads. Masayoshi Shido's office. The lowlands. The world tree. The Velvet Room. Mementos...."
At the counter in Leblanc. On the trains before they launch into their less-than-mayfly trips. In the aisle at the supermarket, as he picks out fish, or vegetables, or pads this new Leblanc's still-limited store cupboard; and back in the small kitchen as he brings it all together—though never under new Ren's owlish gaze. He stares at the Meta-Nav and dares it to defy him, and he murmurs to it with iron determination. Ren Amamiya. My Ren Amamiya. Crossroads Bar. The Velvet Room. The moon.
He hears the Nav's arrant no match found in his sleep; he dreams its perky little chime. He needs the others more than air—needs his team beside him, their rapport and their experience, their skills, their wit and their support. He needs those he depends on most of all, and instead he's left with strangers—unknown, untried strangers. To save this one he's determined to save above all others.
Buchiko's statue. All of Nagata-cho. Masayoshi Shido's office, he tries, sweeping fragments of vegetable into his soup bowl with a practiced finger. He tries every ward in Tokyo, one after the next. He looks up every orphanage in Tokyo, past and present, and he tries them one by one. He walks into the Diet like he owns the place, and walks out with a list of several residences registered to Shido; they all fail. He keeps a notebook in his pocket like he's twelve years old again; he writes down everything he tries, seeks every connection, every gap in his thinking that he needs to fill.
Lowlands, he tries, the night of the cinema trip. The world tree. Cult9 in Shinjuku. Kabukicho. Miura Beach. All of Slovenia. All of it futile. He tries individual subway stations, working from a list; he researches the sewer network and underground rivers. Damn it, he thinks, pounding a muffled fist into his pillow late at night, keywords for someone he knows this well should not be this fucking hard!
Maybe that's the problem, Ace, he can hear Morgana saying—his Morgana, the one who slept on his bed at night, not the new one he slips bowls of soup in the mornings. Maybe you don't know him as well as you think you do. You still need to be careful. But faced with this snarl of a problem, Goro tells imaginary Morgana that he'll be careful when he's dead.
It's late on the sixth night when he's lying on his bed, hopeless and alone, tired as hell and refusing to speak another word to the goddamned app, that the Meta-Nav chimes. Shit, Goro thinks, dragging his pillow over his face, I'm hallucinating that sound now?
But the Nav goes on to say three unprecedented little words. "Palace now available."
Goro leans slowly up on one elbow, removing the pillow from his face. He gives the screen a cautious look. "What?"
The Nav chimes again, the chime that's in his blood now, that he'll hear until he dies. "Palace now available."
Rolling suspiciously onto his side, he grabs the phone, feeling fresh determination within him. He doesn't reach for his little black book; everything he needs is at his fingertips, laid out in his mind on infinite planes, engraved in gold. "Ren Amamiya," he says. Match found. "The workshop in Ikebukuro." No match found. He swallows. "All of Shinjuku." No match found. "Shibuya Crossing. Leblanc. Crossroads. Masayoshi Shido's office. The lowlands. The world tree. The Velvet Room. Mementos...."
Finally alone in Leblanc, or at least in a facsimile of Leblanc devoid of people, Goro trails down the stairs and starts—what else?—making coffee. Crystal Mountain, he thinks; not that he's not in the mood for something more challenging, but after the day he's had... maybe a little comfort isn't too much to ask. He's already changed down, into a green overshirt of his own with a collared shirt beneath it, clothes of his own that were waiting upstairs for him like the pot of sunflowers.
Every minute or so, he finds himself looking around for Morgana. Every time, his heart sinks. Because this Leblanc isn't like the street outside, polished and plastic. No, for two pins, he could be unwinding in the dusty twilight back home. He'd give a lot, right now, to be able to snap at Mona to take his paws off the counter.
Wait, did he just see movement outside the door? His hands freeze, and he lifts the kettle to stop it pouring.
Every minute or so, he finds himself looking around for Morgana. Every time, his heart sinks. Because this Leblanc isn't like the street outside, polished and plastic. No, for two pins, he could be unwinding in the dusty twilight back home. He'd give a lot, right now, to be able to snap at Mona to take his paws off the counter.
Wait, did he just see movement outside the door? His hands freeze, and he lifts the kettle to stop it pouring.
[ic] a silence more eloquent
Apr. 21st, 2024 03:33 amAll right, the jerk of the train that apparently conveys him from one place to the next was no more welcome the second time. That's going to take some getting used to.
As is the fact that Yongen looks clean. Like someone polished the alleys and the bricks, or nudged them ever-so-slightly out of focus. Goro's not entirely paying attention, though. What the hell is he going to do about Ren?
As is the fact that Yongen looks clean. Like someone polished the alleys and the bricks, or nudged them ever-so-slightly out of focus. Goro's not entirely paying attention, though. What the hell is he going to do about Ren?
[ic] the sand will sting my feet
Apr. 19th, 2024 03:42 amAnother day, another Akechi in the Velvet Room. Usually they're heading out of indeterminate doors, or staring at the conspiracy board, but not this one. No, this one's propped both hands on Igor's desk, and is leaning down, bringing his best cutting tone and a glare that could freeze the sun. "What are you talking about, exploring? What are you doing, branching out? This is the first time I've been here that you didn't lock me in a cage."
He's honestly never been brought here like this before. Not waking. And it's probably the worst time for something like this—"probably" since, of course, things can always get so much worse.
Also, he's wearing a Shujin uniform with a black turtleneck. The hands propped backwards on Igor's desk are quite bare.
He's honestly never been brought here like this before. Not waking. And it's probably the worst time for something like this—"probably" since, of course, things can always get so much worse.
Also, he's wearing a Shujin uniform with a black turtleneck. The hands propped backwards on Igor's desk are quite bare.
