an indie chousokabe motochika.
The first thing he noticed was a low rumbling, more felt than heard. It was gentle, as though far away. It began to tug him coercively from the sanctuary of unconsciousness, and would brook no resistance.
The second thing he noticed, sometime between falling and waking, was a thick, corrosive smell that choked him and almost threatened to pull him back under, waves of a sharp, vaguely alcoholic scent slammed his nostrils harder with every step he took towards awareness.
It was then that Mouri Motonari’s eyelids hastily bid one another farewell as they parted, a race to reveal nothing to him at all. Everything was white, and it wasn’t the mark of cleanliness or purity. It whispered hushed tones of treachery and sickening dread. Despite the pronounced ache in every stretch of his body, he slowly sat up; after a moment, that position was switched to one of standing. There was nothing to see here— the decoration was curiously bland. Where in the world had he ended up?
As if on cue, the television activated, revealing a strange man. As the situation was explained in a disgustingly sugar-coated tone, it was all Motonari could do to pay attention. He noticed the blood stains along the “surgeon’s" figure and memorialized the sight in scorn. He could at least make himself look presentable if he wanted to be taken seriously. It might have been an intimidation tactic, but the Child of the Sun was unfazed. He did recognize something, however, that stood out even more than the crimson streaks or the empty words of welcome.
Despite his cheerful presentation, this man couldn’t care less about Mouri personally. He knew; his own eyes were tinted with the same superior lenses. He wouldn’t let that bother him, though— not yet. Quite obviously, he would need to prove himself in this— as he was to understand, new world. So be it. He was intimidated by the ideas being drilled into his mind, but he’d be damned if he would show it. The man disappeared from the screen— and Motonari made a point not to remember his name— which left no choice but to do as he was told and exit the room. There wasn’t any way to reactivate a mechanism that not only wasn’t in the room, but was most likely far beyond his capability to decipher in the mere minutes he would have before he would be accosted for such an action.
The minute he set foot outside, however, he was tempted to spin on his heel and retreat back into the extremely uncomfortable achromatic box he had just escaped. Everything was massive, lit up, moving and moving and moving and alive, a dark, sensory-overloaded world of things he wouldn’t glance sideways at, worthless people making obnoxious noise, paved roads to take him nowhere but anywhere, and nothing at all familiar but his own moving circle of suffering indignation and conceit. Where was that cursed board that had been spoken of? He needed to find his new residence, quickly— he needed to grasp at something tangible and his, all his. The looming buildings suffocated him— he couldn’t see the sun from here, so how was he meant to participate in anything? How was anyone even expected to live in such a crowded, overpacked circus? He didn’t even treat his pawns with such disdain; they at least had space and peace.
He frantically stripped the information he needed, making fair work of a map next to the list of housing arrangements. Perfect— he had a destination and a way to reach it. Things were looking up already. However, the moment he stepped into the part of the city his place was designated, he slowed his determined stride. There were signs of despair, of oppression and fear and death, air filled with lamentation and hatred and desire. His expression retained the same controlled disgust it had since the very beginning, but there was a more cautious way to his movements as his own threads wove into the quiltwork of footsteps that had fallen in this dejected, pitiful world.
When he arrived at his destination, he examined everything surrounding it over and over and over. This was a mistake. This wasn’t even a proper building, let alone something he could live in. He was far too above this— and this was all very quickly becoming far too much for him. Oh, no— he wasn’t going to simply accept it though. He turned from the pathetic sight in righteous horror and left in the same direction he had come from. This was not the way he would be treated. Social experiment, indeed.
He’d find some other sector to suffer in. Anything but this pit of aggressive misery.
Have a pirate. A lost pirate.
Where’s yer’ sense of direction?
You’re the Demon of the Western SEAS, this shit should come naturally to you, and y'have no idea where you’re god damn goin’.
Use the map– oh wait, never mind. There was never one to begin with. Let’s forget that yer’ photographic memory is just as terrible.
With the amount of information given and what exactly it had been about, for a guy with a small temper gauge, you’d think he’d be taking this a little less lightly? Oh, he was by no means happy with what he was told, or where he had been currently, but perhaps his self proclaimed cleverness had given him the impression there was someway out of this forced predicament?
Now… when you switch from an accommodation that’s paler than the pearly sea atop your own head, to an environment that shares absolutely none of the same characteristics– well, you could say he very much felt like a fish out of water.
And that was just the thing… the scent of salt water had vanished, completely. You tell me how a guy, who has relied on that specific scent his whole life, is going to find his way around a place like this? He’s not– and this type of scenery wasn’t helping in the slightest. If anything, he was fighting the thought, the doubt that he wasn’t lost, that he wouldn’t be finding a way home anytime soon.
But during his panicky, but not so panicky wandering, he could have sworn he had been watching where he was going, however to his surprise… well, who he had bumped into wasn’t the first person he was expecting. That shade of green was automatically noted, and perhaps that height too…
Of course, though… he made no effort to move. He was stocked, relieved, that all he could do was stare.
“Mouri…”