Post by Nicholas Gray on Aug 5, 2015 0:53:25 GMT -6
(This takes place directly after the events of Strike's Argonauts V, so if you haven't read that you won't understand this. Actually, honestly, you probably won't anyway, but it's a good read.)
Blood was staining the velvet.
Shinji Oshima felt it flowing down his left arm, the blood running from the wound in his shoulder, a sword sticking out from it, his right hand clasped around the handle. The company that had been with him, that had threatened him, stabbed him, tortured him to get what they wanted...those people had already departed, all feeling so good about what they’d done. All smiles at seeing him in pain, at seeing the sight so few ever got to see. Shinji Oshima, the man who could see all things, left confused and shocked at what he had not seen coming.
Too blinded by their enjoyment to realize the mistake they had made. They had given him back the one thing that existed in their world that could do him true harm. The thing he’d desperately scoured the Earth for since it vanished.
Though, truthfully, he didn’t care about the danger it posed to him. He had only wanted it back to fill the hole it’s disappearance had left. To still have one but without the other, the thought always caused a pang of pain in his heart. It was the only thing he wanted in all of existence.
It was the most priceless bargaining chip in the universe.
He’d have done anything to get the sword embedded in his shoulder back. Revealed anything, killed anyone, manipulated any event. He’d have told their entire futures, deleted every enemy that would ever be in their Path, made them Kings.
And all they wanted was the most basic of info, and a tiny man to live again.
He was insulted, really. That those two would come into the possession of the most valuable thing in the world, and would give it up for something so paltry.
Still, he could crack a smile, knowing that they still didn’t know how he fulfilled his end of the bargain regarding the tiny man, the cost it’d take out of him someday. No consequences, did they really believe that? There was always consequences, such is Fate. And did they really think it was just as simple as flipping a tarot card? Was this illusion, this velvet room plucked from the memories of a man too in love with RPGs, that convincing? Even if it wasn’t, they still had no idea of what had really happened.
They didn’t know that as they threatened him to awaken the boy, a duplicate of himself was in the hospital room with him.
Oshima never went anywhere physically, he was almost always confined to this place for his own safety. When people saw him outside of here, it was a projection of himself, a manifest of his will and energy. And while they saw him flipping a tarot card, so much more was happening in that hospital room.
The way time moved in his world, compared to their world outside, was entirely different. The time it takes to accept a demand and flip a tarot card could be so much longer in the “real world,” if he so desired it. So while he flipped the card, his duplicate was forming the connection needed to awaken the boy.
He could feel the “Link” even now, but it was so faint it took so much for him to even feel it.
A pathetic compatibility rate for a pathetic person.
Still, it would be interesting to see what would happen. The words his duplicate left with him, as he teetered on the edge of awakening and eternal sleep...what effect would they have?
It didn’t matter, in the end.
All that mattered was what he had finally regained.
The sword felt as well in his hand as it ever did. The craftsmanship, even after eight thousand years of disuse, was stunning. His eyes were drawn to the crest at the top of the hilt, just before the blade began. It was of the sun and the moon, chasing each other, the sun at the top and the moon at the bottom. Even without faces, they looked...happy.
Looking at that crest, the bond it symbolized, memories began to reawaken.
He could feel them coming back, pushing beyond the wall he’d built to keep them out. He could see it so clearly now, the last time he’d seen this sword, the last time it had been pointed at him.
His grip on the handle suddenly tightened and shoved forward, driving the sword the rest of the way through his own shoulder. He felt it stab through the bone and then out the back of his shoulder, and he screamed, the memories disappearing in the rush of sudden pain. He felt the arm go limp, as more blood begin to pour out of his body. He gulped down several short ragged breaths, before finally pushing himself up from his chair, beginning the process of stumbling over to a table set against the wall.
A voice suddenly spoke out.
??: 8,000 years...and yet you still allow yourself to be made a fool of.
He stopped in his tracks at that female voice. He turned to face it, and was graced with the sight of Her. If asked, he’d never be able to describe her. He had difficulty enough describing normal people, because he saw their Paths before he could see their features. But her...he never could. All he could see was strings. Strings writhing together, running along one another, splitting apart, joining together. Splitting, fraying, stretching, shrinking. Strings that suddenly vanished as they reached their end, only to be replaced with a dozen more new ones, stretching far, some stretching too short. All of them he could see at once in her.
The infinite Paths of Fate.
F: Why did you not strike them down where they stood, Seer? You’re more than capable. A young woman blinded by “feelings” and an aging war machine...they were nothing, even with that weapon.
True. If he had wanted, he could have done away with them. The need to torture him with it, to finally see him in pain, was their mistake. He could have thrown himself forward, driven the sword entirely through his shoulder, like he had just a short time ago. True, he’d lose the use of his left hand, but the one thing that could hurt him would be taken from them. And even with just one hand...
But there was a small chance, even then, that his existence would finally end. 8 millennia of existence, snuffed out. And he’d never allow that to happen.
Shinji Oshima: Because they’re needed, even if they’re gnats.
An avoidance of the truth, and She knew it. But he didn’t feel like admitting it, even to one who already knew.
Shinji Oshima: So, would you be willing to share where they found it?
F: No. It’s unimportant, it has no bearing on any Path.
Shinji Oshima: Just mine.
She smiled.
F: You have no Path.
Oshima let out a sigh as he finally reached the table. He pulled open a drawer and retrieved his goal. A long, thin glass tube, filled with a green liquid. He set it on the table before reaching up to his shoulder and finally yanking the sword out. More blood sprayed now, but he didn’t mind for the moment. For a moment, his attention was on what he held. Looking at it again, after so long. The crest on the hilt, he ran his finger over. The smile that comes to his face isn’t a happy one. He sets the sword down, gingerly, on top of the table before picking up the vial again. He raised it up and tapped the end of it on the edge of the table. The top immediately cracked away, and the liquid ignited on contact with air, the top of the vial now producing a bright green flame.
He gritted his teeth before pressing the flame against the far edge of the front of his wound. The pain was quite unimaginable, feeling like flickers of the flame were actually grabbing the edges of his skin and forcing them together before burning the flesh. He dragged it across the wound, slowly burning it shut. When he pulled the vial away, what was once a bleeding sword wound was now an angry burn mark slashed across his shoulder. It would never fade away, a “feature” of the flame. It would remain as a reminder, long after any other sign of it was gone. He wanted the reminder.
He then pressed it against the wound at the back of his shoulder, replicating the process, finishing the seal just as the liquid ran out, and the fire died. He dropped the vial to the ground, where it broke apart worthlessly. He then worked to undo his jacket, managing to shrug it off easily, though he had to resort to essentially tearing his dress shirt away, which was fine. He needed it to make a makeshift sling for his arm anyway. Doing it one-handed was, of course, quite difficult, but he didn’t expect any help from Her. It wasn’t a particularly strong sling, but it would do until he could go and get himself a real one. WIth that done he couldn’t help but trace a finger along the new scar on his shoulder. Seeing scars on his flesh always fascinated him, the sight of skin he could still so freshly remember as unblemished now forever marked with the memory of what had happened. Really, though, it was surprising he still was fascinated by the sight of scars, considering how many he had.
Anyone who looked at him now would be in for a shock, seeing his body. His torso, his arms, his back, all of him that was normally covered by clothing was covered in scars. Knives, swords, burns, gunshots...the evidence of so many kinds of pain darted his body. And perhaps it was a good thing no one was there to see this, because if there was, they might realize what was so familiar about those scars…
He looked at some of the scars on his body, remembering what caused them, before looking back at Her.
Shinji Oshima: I don’t suppose what happened to my shoulder is enough?
She shook her head.
F: Absolutely not. You revealed too much to them, so bear the consequences.
It felt like a blade was pushing into the flesh in his back. He gritted his teeth as it dragged down, cutting along his back. To anyone watching, it would seem like the air itself was cutting him.
Shinji Oshima: And I’d have told them more…
F: What?
It suddenly slashed across his back, Oshima letting out a yell as he fell to one knee.
Shinji Oshima: If they had simply come in...seeking a deal for the sword...I’d have told them everything. The name of the father trying to steal the power of Libra...the truth of Reika Seragaki….
He laughed.
Shinji Oshima: Anything to get it back...but the idiots just had to put me through an interrogation...and didn’t bother to ask the right questions….
For a moment the pain seemed to pull away...and then suddenly it felt like the point of a blade being driven into his back, tapping against his spine. He screamed and fell to his side, writhing in pain.
F: Remember your place, Seer.
Shinji Oshima: I remember, I remember...a slave never forgets their status...
F: Good. It would be such a shame to activate your replacement…
The look on his face at that made her smile.
F: Do what you’re told, if you wish to avoid him suffering that Fate. Now then, what will you do to remedy this?
Shinji Oshima: Hehe...isn’t it obvious?
He pushed himself up on his good arm, looking at her as a grin comes to his face.
Shinji Oshima: I can’t do anything myself...but he can. It’s time to reawaken him, oh yes. The Grim Reaper.
She said nothing, allowing him to continue on.
Shinji Oshima: It’d be cruel...to let the tale of the bloodlines die out without him there to see it.
And, he couldn’t lie, it would be so amazing to see the look on his face when he saw the face of the Reaper…
F still said nothing, and Oshima took it as an agreement. Why would he not? Bringing him back from his long sleep was the way of one of the Paths things could take, and it certainly fit with what she wanted in the end.
After all, what can cursed bloodlines do….
Against that which is MADE IN HEAVEN?
Blood was staining the velvet.
Shinji Oshima felt it flowing down his left arm, the blood running from the wound in his shoulder, a sword sticking out from it, his right hand clasped around the handle. The company that had been with him, that had threatened him, stabbed him, tortured him to get what they wanted...those people had already departed, all feeling so good about what they’d done. All smiles at seeing him in pain, at seeing the sight so few ever got to see. Shinji Oshima, the man who could see all things, left confused and shocked at what he had not seen coming.
Too blinded by their enjoyment to realize the mistake they had made. They had given him back the one thing that existed in their world that could do him true harm. The thing he’d desperately scoured the Earth for since it vanished.
Though, truthfully, he didn’t care about the danger it posed to him. He had only wanted it back to fill the hole it’s disappearance had left. To still have one but without the other, the thought always caused a pang of pain in his heart. It was the only thing he wanted in all of existence.
It was the most priceless bargaining chip in the universe.
He’d have done anything to get the sword embedded in his shoulder back. Revealed anything, killed anyone, manipulated any event. He’d have told their entire futures, deleted every enemy that would ever be in their Path, made them Kings.
And all they wanted was the most basic of info, and a tiny man to live again.
He was insulted, really. That those two would come into the possession of the most valuable thing in the world, and would give it up for something so paltry.
Still, he could crack a smile, knowing that they still didn’t know how he fulfilled his end of the bargain regarding the tiny man, the cost it’d take out of him someday. No consequences, did they really believe that? There was always consequences, such is Fate. And did they really think it was just as simple as flipping a tarot card? Was this illusion, this velvet room plucked from the memories of a man too in love with RPGs, that convincing? Even if it wasn’t, they still had no idea of what had really happened.
They didn’t know that as they threatened him to awaken the boy, a duplicate of himself was in the hospital room with him.
Oshima never went anywhere physically, he was almost always confined to this place for his own safety. When people saw him outside of here, it was a projection of himself, a manifest of his will and energy. And while they saw him flipping a tarot card, so much more was happening in that hospital room.
The way time moved in his world, compared to their world outside, was entirely different. The time it takes to accept a demand and flip a tarot card could be so much longer in the “real world,” if he so desired it. So while he flipped the card, his duplicate was forming the connection needed to awaken the boy.
He could feel the “Link” even now, but it was so faint it took so much for him to even feel it.
A pathetic compatibility rate for a pathetic person.
Still, it would be interesting to see what would happen. The words his duplicate left with him, as he teetered on the edge of awakening and eternal sleep...what effect would they have?
It didn’t matter, in the end.
All that mattered was what he had finally regained.
The sword felt as well in his hand as it ever did. The craftsmanship, even after eight thousand years of disuse, was stunning. His eyes were drawn to the crest at the top of the hilt, just before the blade began. It was of the sun and the moon, chasing each other, the sun at the top and the moon at the bottom. Even without faces, they looked...happy.
Looking at that crest, the bond it symbolized, memories began to reawaken.
He could feel them coming back, pushing beyond the wall he’d built to keep them out. He could see it so clearly now, the last time he’d seen this sword, the last time it had been pointed at him.
His grip on the handle suddenly tightened and shoved forward, driving the sword the rest of the way through his own shoulder. He felt it stab through the bone and then out the back of his shoulder, and he screamed, the memories disappearing in the rush of sudden pain. He felt the arm go limp, as more blood begin to pour out of his body. He gulped down several short ragged breaths, before finally pushing himself up from his chair, beginning the process of stumbling over to a table set against the wall.
A voice suddenly spoke out.
??: 8,000 years...and yet you still allow yourself to be made a fool of.
He stopped in his tracks at that female voice. He turned to face it, and was graced with the sight of Her. If asked, he’d never be able to describe her. He had difficulty enough describing normal people, because he saw their Paths before he could see their features. But her...he never could. All he could see was strings. Strings writhing together, running along one another, splitting apart, joining together. Splitting, fraying, stretching, shrinking. Strings that suddenly vanished as they reached their end, only to be replaced with a dozen more new ones, stretching far, some stretching too short. All of them he could see at once in her.
The infinite Paths of Fate.
F: Why did you not strike them down where they stood, Seer? You’re more than capable. A young woman blinded by “feelings” and an aging war machine...they were nothing, even with that weapon.
True. If he had wanted, he could have done away with them. The need to torture him with it, to finally see him in pain, was their mistake. He could have thrown himself forward, driven the sword entirely through his shoulder, like he had just a short time ago. True, he’d lose the use of his left hand, but the one thing that could hurt him would be taken from them. And even with just one hand...
But there was a small chance, even then, that his existence would finally end. 8 millennia of existence, snuffed out. And he’d never allow that to happen.
Shinji Oshima: Because they’re needed, even if they’re gnats.
An avoidance of the truth, and She knew it. But he didn’t feel like admitting it, even to one who already knew.
Shinji Oshima: So, would you be willing to share where they found it?
F: No. It’s unimportant, it has no bearing on any Path.
Shinji Oshima: Just mine.
She smiled.
F: You have no Path.
Oshima let out a sigh as he finally reached the table. He pulled open a drawer and retrieved his goal. A long, thin glass tube, filled with a green liquid. He set it on the table before reaching up to his shoulder and finally yanking the sword out. More blood sprayed now, but he didn’t mind for the moment. For a moment, his attention was on what he held. Looking at it again, after so long. The crest on the hilt, he ran his finger over. The smile that comes to his face isn’t a happy one. He sets the sword down, gingerly, on top of the table before picking up the vial again. He raised it up and tapped the end of it on the edge of the table. The top immediately cracked away, and the liquid ignited on contact with air, the top of the vial now producing a bright green flame.
He gritted his teeth before pressing the flame against the far edge of the front of his wound. The pain was quite unimaginable, feeling like flickers of the flame were actually grabbing the edges of his skin and forcing them together before burning the flesh. He dragged it across the wound, slowly burning it shut. When he pulled the vial away, what was once a bleeding sword wound was now an angry burn mark slashed across his shoulder. It would never fade away, a “feature” of the flame. It would remain as a reminder, long after any other sign of it was gone. He wanted the reminder.
He then pressed it against the wound at the back of his shoulder, replicating the process, finishing the seal just as the liquid ran out, and the fire died. He dropped the vial to the ground, where it broke apart worthlessly. He then worked to undo his jacket, managing to shrug it off easily, though he had to resort to essentially tearing his dress shirt away, which was fine. He needed it to make a makeshift sling for his arm anyway. Doing it one-handed was, of course, quite difficult, but he didn’t expect any help from Her. It wasn’t a particularly strong sling, but it would do until he could go and get himself a real one. WIth that done he couldn’t help but trace a finger along the new scar on his shoulder. Seeing scars on his flesh always fascinated him, the sight of skin he could still so freshly remember as unblemished now forever marked with the memory of what had happened. Really, though, it was surprising he still was fascinated by the sight of scars, considering how many he had.
Anyone who looked at him now would be in for a shock, seeing his body. His torso, his arms, his back, all of him that was normally covered by clothing was covered in scars. Knives, swords, burns, gunshots...the evidence of so many kinds of pain darted his body. And perhaps it was a good thing no one was there to see this, because if there was, they might realize what was so familiar about those scars…
He looked at some of the scars on his body, remembering what caused them, before looking back at Her.
Shinji Oshima: I don’t suppose what happened to my shoulder is enough?
She shook her head.
F: Absolutely not. You revealed too much to them, so bear the consequences.
It felt like a blade was pushing into the flesh in his back. He gritted his teeth as it dragged down, cutting along his back. To anyone watching, it would seem like the air itself was cutting him.
Shinji Oshima: And I’d have told them more…
F: What?
It suddenly slashed across his back, Oshima letting out a yell as he fell to one knee.
Shinji Oshima: If they had simply come in...seeking a deal for the sword...I’d have told them everything. The name of the father trying to steal the power of Libra...the truth of Reika Seragaki….
He laughed.
Shinji Oshima: Anything to get it back...but the idiots just had to put me through an interrogation...and didn’t bother to ask the right questions….
For a moment the pain seemed to pull away...and then suddenly it felt like the point of a blade being driven into his back, tapping against his spine. He screamed and fell to his side, writhing in pain.
F: Remember your place, Seer.
Shinji Oshima: I remember, I remember...a slave never forgets their status...
F: Good. It would be such a shame to activate your replacement…
The look on his face at that made her smile.
F: Do what you’re told, if you wish to avoid him suffering that Fate. Now then, what will you do to remedy this?
Shinji Oshima: Hehe...isn’t it obvious?
He pushed himself up on his good arm, looking at her as a grin comes to his face.
Shinji Oshima: I can’t do anything myself...but he can. It’s time to reawaken him, oh yes. The Grim Reaper.
She said nothing, allowing him to continue on.
Shinji Oshima: It’d be cruel...to let the tale of the bloodlines die out without him there to see it.
And, he couldn’t lie, it would be so amazing to see the look on his face when he saw the face of the Reaper…
F still said nothing, and Oshima took it as an agreement. Why would he not? Bringing him back from his long sleep was the way of one of the Paths things could take, and it certainly fit with what she wanted in the end.
After all, what can cursed bloodlines do….
Against that which is MADE IN HEAVEN?
