Description

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M I Y O S H IxxK A Z E T A N Ixxxx#cc9999xx
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27 (APRIL 29, 1914)xxxMxxx 【 EAST WIND / JAPAN 】

HT / 173 CM x WT / 68 KGx LITHE
HAIR / DARK BROWNx SKIN / PEACHx EYES / DARK BROWN

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ESPIONAGE
XXXXXKNOWLEDGE |x ◆◆◆◆◆xxxx■ Rank-A:xxxx7 YEARS
XUNDERSTANDING |x ◆◆◆◆◆
XXXXXXXXXCHARM |x ◆◆◆◆◆xxxx■ Artifact 1:xxxHIGEKIRI (C)
XXXXXXXXCOMBAT |x ◆◆◆◆◆xxxx■ Artifact 2:xxxKIMURA ASAGI (S)

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i. S A N I W Axxxxxxii. A R T I F A C T (1)xxxxxxiii. A R T I F A C T (2)xxxxxxiv. F A C T I O NxxW O R K Sxxxxxxv. R E L A T I O N S H I P S

MISSIONS COMPLETED: 21 / MISSION SUCCESS RATE: 100%

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i. Religion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Shinto.
ii. Birthplace . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kyoto, Japan.
iii. Occupation . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kazetani Diplomat, IJA Spy.
iv. Morality Alignment . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . True Neutral.

Identifying Trait: Doesn't take tea with milk nor sugar.

I. SANIWA

THE WAYWARD SON, A LONE CAMELLIA TREE.

xxxAs a product of contemporary circumstances, Miyoshi Kazetani (風谷三好)’s life mirrors Japan’s Meiji Restoration and the industrial growth of the period. He was born of an audacious union between Head Priest, Viscount Yuuki Kazetani, and an influential ex-geisha. An unhappy adolescence, including a period spent in Europe, and the realization that he could never be his own person, left indelible marks on his psychology. Through it all, the Kazetani maintains a tasteful mask that evokes an unhurried Victorian past. Of a polished disposition, Miyoshi wears Douro Cologne Eau de Portugal close to his skin, projecting an air of intoxicating charisma.

xxxMiyoshi Kazetani grew up in Kyoto, Japan: a waking beast fueled by the roar of consumerism and industrial rationalization. It’s a paradoxical city embracing the western frontier while simultaneously fostering nationalist sentiments. Very quickly, Japanese society (and by extension, Japanese Saniwa society), became defined by “modern and traditional” and “Western and Japanese.” Within the East Wind, a revolution was strongly unwelcome; it was forbidden to openly acknowledge western policy changes. Never referred to as kakumei (revolution), these transformations were referred to with terms like kaizen, kairyo, and kaizo (improvement, reform, transformation).

xxxMiyoshi was often caught in the crossfire between his father’s progressive politics and his clan’s staunch traditions. Yuuki daringly implemented policies without resistance, dressing in western style clothing and intimately collaborated with the North and West Winds. Yuuki thought such moves were necessary for the Kazetani to become part of the modern, Saniwa world—but many of his clansmen were concerned that they would lose their own traditions. The Kazetani camellia mon stands for many things, namely: samurai loyalty, Saniwa faith, and social harmony--but neither Yuuki nor his son were known for their family values. Both are notorious for being particularly rebellious and opinionated: an unusual combination in Kazetani men.

xxxCynical, pretentious, and competitive, Miyoshi comes from the same mold as his father. Nevertheless, he has none of Yuuki's self-awareness, and all of his more intense qualities. Miyoshi outwardly projects narcissism while internally carrying a distrust in people, and identifies with some feelings of loneliness. He has no issue with solitude as long as it’s on his own terms. Fortunately, as a privileged Kazetani, he’s received enough training to moderate his unattractive qualities. His adaptable, wily, and tactful capacities mask what his comeliness cannot.

xxxMiyoshi’s troubled disposition stems from his atypical upbringing. Being the son of an avant-garde Saniwa complicates the entirety of Miyoshi’s life. His father’s new age policies were a bigger source of his apprehension; ghosts were always the least of his concerns. As Yuuki’s successor, Miyoshi was born with high spiritual potential and confined by liberal policies. Growing up, Miyoshi felt like less of a person and more of a pawn; his father groomed him to become a Spiritualist heir to his title. Although entirely human, Yuuki assumed a mythic stature in his son’s imagination. Miyoshi continually measured himself against the standards of his father’s respectability and self-possession while at the same time learning to hate his father for his selfishness, emotional distance, and imperious attitude. In an act of passive rebellion, Miyoshi began running towards death. His ruin comes from being unable to find a balance between social responsibility and personal freedom.

xxxAside from his suicidal philosophies, few of his beliefs are currently his own. The majority of his ideals were shaped by his estranged father.

xxxYuuki’s occupation as East Wind head priest and Japanese ambassador to the United Kingdom made him absent from family life. In his earlier years, Miyoshi took pride in his father's role in the League of Nations, and hoped to live up to his father's fanfare. Sheltered and naive, young Miyoshi wasn’t yet affected by his father's lack of presence. Instead, Miyoshi spent the majority of his childhood in his mother’s okiya, and studied abroad during his adolescence. His formative years in the geisha house had given him the ability to speak with adults at a young age, but deprived him of normal friendships. There, Miyoshi gained insight on grace and charisma, but wasn’t interested in applying such skills to widen his social connections. He saw other children as potential resources rather than playmates, and preferred discussion with adults versus spending time with his peer group. Aside from few okiya staff members, his inner circle consisted solely of his mother, the revered ex-geisha and Shirotama okami-san, Tsubaki Kazetani. Inspiring, thoughtful, and austere--Tsubaki was Miyoshi’s mentor and idol. It was Tsubaki who chose his food, books, presents, activities; and it was she who regulated the organization of the day with her uncompromising tone and manner. He clung to his mother, which raised the ire of his father, who decided to remove him from the okiya.

xxxIn 1928, Miyoshi turned 14, marking his transition into adolescence. In line with his Western views, Yuuki Kazetani persuaded the North Wind’s ruling family, the Laforets, to host and sponsor Miyoshi’s foreign education. Miyoshi studied five years in the United Kingdom; he spent his summers at the Laforet’s estate in Russia, and made brief returns to Japan during spring. He was accompanied by his East Wind Spiritualist mentors and a plethora of dedicated, western tutors. To ensure that he wouldn’t be traveling without a companion, he was escorted by Odagiri, his branch family cousin, who would later come closest to being his best friend and rival.

xxxOdagiri was perhaps the first person that Miyoshi could deeply connect with. Miyoshi heard of his cousin’s high spiritual aptitude and more favorable personality, but was never acquainted with him until their study abroad. The two mutually sympathized with each other’s onerous Kazetani obligations, and identified each other as worthy competitors. Unlike Miyoshi, Odagiri’s charm was completely inborn. Gregarious, self-reliant, and self-knowledgeable—Odagiri, was, in many ways, Miyoshi’s antithesis. Fortunately for Miyoshi, Odagiri registered his cousin’s enigmatic nature as a worthy challenge, and made a large effort to grow friendly with him. Odagiri’s natural confidence and charisma allowed their European acquaintances to see past his orientalism, and be enthralled by his fascinating worldview. An admirer of Odagiri, Miyoshi was inspired to surpass Odagiri in the social arena.

xxxAside from his growing friendship (and rivalry) with Odagiri, Miyoshi also developed taste in world cinema, literature, and music while abroad. The European social scene exposed him to a litany of cultural and social encounters that were lacking in Japan. Being a part of the “Lost Generation” pleasantly challenged his introverted nature, and brought out the best of his more charismatic traits. Together with their Laforet hosts, Miyoshi and Odagiri ran wild through country house parties, dances, and motor races. Still, his stay did not come unaccompanied by racial prejudice. On occasion, the ruling, London elite saw Miyoshi as one of them--a depraved and debauched young person simply having a wonderful time. Mostly, he was seen as the philosophical “Oriental” with cynical but entertaining qualities. While he did his best to fit in, he also knew that he would never become “truly” British, in the same way he could never return to being “truly” Japanese. His cousin felt similarly, but dealt with the cultural conflict differently. Whereas Miyoshi was content internalizing his fragmented identity, Odagiri externalized it. Odagiri would continue the rest of his life traveling between England and Japan, while Miyoshi returned home jaded by his “otherness.” He abandoned all hopes of ever coming into his own, and instead threw himself headlong into Kazetani obligations. The latter declared himself a Spiritualist, and incarnated Higekiri as part of his coming of age ceremony. Through Higekiri’s birth and his worldly education, Miyoshi should have been the ideal product of his father’s edicts.

xxxYuuki Kazetani falsely assumed that his son’s sophistication would make him the perfect socialite and diplomat. The elder Kazetani was only half-right; reality was much more complicated.

xxxMiyoshi’s years spent in Europe made him sensitive to politics, social psychology, and the importance of being adaptable. It did not, however, make him feel more at one with the universe. It was clear to his Japanese peers that Miyoshi's European influences made him a more genuine embodiment of western culture. Japanese society has an insider/outsider culture that enforced a strong Japanese identity and a clear perception of the foreign, this much, Miyoshi always knew. He was always recognized as a foreigner both in his own country and abroad. For the most part, he is complacent about his lack of central identity. Miyoshi has learned to see his “otherness” as an advantage. As a living, cultural transgression, Miyoshi has social flexibility, and the capacity to think outside his own cultural framework. Although he didn’t know it then, his European experiences would later give him powerful espionage skills and qualifications to assume his father’s duties.

xxxIn 1934, after Miyoshi turned 20, he put his skills to use acting as his father’s substitute in Kazetani affairs. Yuuki’s political duties as the new Japanese ambassador to Italy decreased his visits home. For once, Yuuki’s absence had a positive effect on his son. For Miyoshi, carrying his father's mantle was, for awhile, the culmination of his aspirations. Miyoshi had always hoped that his father’s position would grant him more agency, or at least, a change in perspective. He re-entered Japanese society with greater confidence, and took pride in his numerous engagements. Fresh-faced, well-groomed, and more compromising than his father, Miyoshi was a welcome change to the East Wind’s traditional society. Despite his success in the role, he had doubts about the true reality of his situation. Around the same time, Tsubaki fell victim to tuberculosis. Kazetani healers barred Miyoshi from visiting his mother, in fear that he would catch the disease. Miyoshi wrote multiple letters to his father about his mother’s condition which were never returned.

xxxUnbeknownst to Miyoshi, the Kazetani elders had dispatched espionage agents to intercept Miyoshi’s messages. The Kazetani never approved of Yuuki’s marriage to a geisha, and hoped that Tsubaki’s eventual death would push Yuuki to remarry. Without a Saniwa noble background, Tsubaki had never been truly accepted as a part of her husband’s clan. On April 15, 1934, Tsubaki died alone, without the company of her son nor her husband. At her funeral, the Kazetani refused Tsubaki the same special honors that would normally go to Kazetani noblewomen. Yuuki only learned of his wife’s death upon his return to Japan in 1940; Kazetani family relations have been turbulent ever since.

xxxMiyoshi never received closure and that drove him off his previous path. He disapproves of his father’s absence during his mother’s illness, and blames his father for his mother’s emotional frailty in her final days. Following her death, he abandoned Spiritualist training and followed his mother’s footsteps in espionage. Miyoshi’s clandestine incarnation of Kimura Asagi impressed IJA spymaster Yakumo Kyoya who offered to take him under his wing. In his single act of ultimate rebellion--Miyoshi accepted entrance into the Imperial Japanese Army, and trained under the kempeitai for a year. The act infuriated his father, for as a Kazetani representative--he was expected never to sway from political neutrality. As another esteemed (face time) Spiritualist, Kyoya influenced young Miyoshi’s career choice; Miyoshi became an (Unseen) Espionage agent while maintaining a spiritual front. Kyoya’s severity did not lighten Miyoshi’s deep-rooted depression, and if anything, encouraged it to grow. As Kyoya would say, “No one asked you to be happy. Get to work.” Under Kyoya’s mentorship, Miyoshi was introduced to pragmatic, pessimistic philosophies.

xxxIn walking Tsubaki’s path, Miyoshi felt discontent, apathy, and deep, unspeakable sadness. He thought of killing himself constantly, and questioned his Kazetani ties more deeply. He learned to cope with his mother’s death through soul tablet abuse and overextending Kimura Asagi’s Skill Manifest, it marked his own physical decline and potential death. As an espionage agent, Miyoshi often required using Kimura Asagi’s skill to cloak his appearance, oftentimes transforming into an Englishman in order to travel in the ever stringent immigration climate in Europe.

xxxIn addition to his (Unseen) Espionage duties, Miyoshi also holds the position of Kazetani diplomat. As a respectable emissary, he meets petty hazards of the day with measured grace, placid smiles, and carefully formed opinions. Through it all he relies on his appearances and an ingrained bitterness. He has not once felt sorry for himself, and would rather avoid self-reflection to deny himself the chance of realizing his grief. Echoing Kyoya’s philosophy, Miyoshi believes there is something excessive about prolonged suffering.

xxxCharacteristic of an espionage agent, Miyoshi presents many faces to the world. To Saniwa society, Miyoshi comes off as a charismatic and dependable extension of his father. To Yuuki Kazetani, Miyoshi is a living reminder of his own inability to achieve (and maintain) all his aims. Miyoshi, however, prefers seeing himself separate from his surrounding world. Though he considers himself a Kazetani, he doesn’t uphold the same values that his family camellia crest stands for.

xxxHe wryly describes himself as “...a lone camellia tree in the shade of a thicket.”

Skills:xCryptology, memory retention, forensics, lip reading, diplomacy/negotiation, piano (17 years), exorcism, ghost identification, seduction.
Known Languages:x Japanese (fluent), Mandarin Chinese (conversational), German (conversational), Russian (limited), Italian (limited), English (fluent, Received Pronunciation accent).

Likes/Interests:x Risk, travel, the arts, philosophy, people watching, Go, Pool & Billiards, hunting, birdwatching, cats, confections.
Dislikes:x Lack of challenge, personal questions, extreme weather, self-reflection, his father, hanafuda.

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Faceclaim: Miyoshi (Joker Game).
Image Sources: Joker Game (Production I.G.) Episode 1, Miwa Shirow concept art, OST cover art.

i. S A N I W Axxxxxxii. A R T I F A C T (1)xxxxxxiii. A R T I F A C T (2)xxxxxxiv. F A C T I O NxxW O R K Sxxxxxxv. R E L A T I O N S H I P S

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HT / 184 CM
WT / 59 KG
TYPE / COMBAT
AGE / 7 YEARS OLD
#D4C098 / ♫

AWAKENED SKILL / "TOMIKIRI"
Can cut through anything but only for a certain length (correlated to the amount of spirit his Saniwa provides).

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxSURVIVAL [HP] x◆◆◆◆◆XXLEADERSHIP [DEF]x ◆◆◆◆◆XXIMPULSE [ATTK]x◆◆◆◆◆XXMOBILITY [SPD]x◆◆◆◆◆XXSPIRIT x ◆◆◆◆◆

II. RARE ARTIFACT (C)

HIGEKIRI, THE EQUAL-CUTTER.

xxxAs a rare Artifact, Higekiri’s underlying competitiveness, willingness to please, and ruthlessness stem from his Heian roots. Higekiri was born of competition between the famous swordsmiths Mōfusa of Ōshū and Kokaji Munechika of Kyoto. Higekiri and its “brother,” Hizamaru, were gifted to the Japanese Emperor as matching pair of tachi made from the same naginata. At the day of presentation, Mōfusa’s blade measured three-shaku long, while Munechika’s was noticeably shorter--resulting in the imprisonment of the latter due to cheating and suspected iron theft. Mōfusa’s blade was therefore honored and named “Makuragami” (lit. “above the pillow”) while its competition was scornfully titled “Sun-Nashi” (lit. "missing sun.” Here, ‘sun’ refers to an archaic Japanese measurement unit, approximately 3.03 centimeters long). It was said that Munechika’s prayers to the gods to support his honor spurred the two katana to parry, resulting in Munechika’s severing its competition, making them of equal length. This event caused Higekiri to receive its first epithet, “Tomokiri,” “equal cutter” or in other readings, “friend-cutter.”

xxxHigekiri earned its current name when Minamoto no Mitsunaka tested its sharpness by beheading criminals, prompting the name “Higekiri” (lit. “beard-slasher”) due to smoothly cutting a bearded victim’s neck. Since then, Higekiri and Hizamaru passed through several name changes and masters, eventually becoming treasures of the Genji bloodline--and by extension, the Kazetani. The swords were not always owned together, however. Higekiri and Hizamaru commonly fought each other in the hands of opposing clans and even family members, Minamoto no Yoritomo and Minamoto no Yoshitsune being notable examples. In general, Higekiri was no stranger to corruption and betrayal. During the Boshin War, Higekiri and Hizamaru were stolen from Ito Kazetani by his brother, Sano Kazetani. Immediately following the latter’s death, Higekiri and Hizamaru were taken by the Honoji, a rival Saniwa clan. The Kazetani finally reclaimed the swords in 1914, when Yuuki’s espionage agency forcefully retrieved them.

xxxHigekiri and Hizamaru’s reclamation occurred the same year Miyoshi and his branch family cousin, Odagiri, were born. It was then decided that Higekiri and Hizamaru would only be incarnated in the form of friendly competition between the Kazetani main and branch heirs. This incarnation competition was intended to pay tribute to the original swordsmiths and the Kazetani’s Genji ties. It was to take place on January 15, 1934, when Miyoshi and Odagiri reached 20, and would be performed as part of their Coming of Age ceremony (元服 genpuku*).

xxxThe Coming of Age ceremony itself involved liminal costume-wearing, speeches by public officials, and religious reflection. For the entirety of the event, Miyoshi and Odagiri wore hakamashita bearing the Kazetani crest and colors. The first half of the ceremony began at 11:30am, first at the Kyoto local city office, where Miyoshi and Odagiri joined the rest of their peers that had also come of age. The actual incarnation portion of the ceremony did not begin until much later at night at Kyoto’s East Wind spiritual pavilion, witnessed by Spiritualists that had also come of age. Miyoshi and Odagiri performed their rare Artifact incarnations as the closing religious reflection part of the ceremony, and the East Wind Spiritualist faction leader, Aoi Tsukiyama, honored the superior incarnation.

xxxMiyoshi performed a modified excerpt of the Shinto Shishi kagura (獅子神楽 lion god-entertainment) theatrical dance for his incarnation paradigm. He based his incarnation concept on Higekiri’s nickname, “Shishi-no-k o” (獅子ノ子 lion cub); to Miyoshi, incarnating Higekiri marked climbing the precipice from cub to lion. Since Miyoshi’s boyhood, Higekiri symbolized manhood, honor, achievement, and political advancement. Miyoshi's personal sentiments strongly complimented those of the culture behind the katana, allowing him to maximize its full potential. As a result, Higekiri manifested with a plethora of decorative, gold motifs riddled with the Emperor’s symbols. Higekiri’s physical appearance is considered otherworldly, with oni-like fangs even, as a product of Miyoshi’s own then-ferocious ambition.

xxxOdagiri, on the contrary, used a modified Shinto Setsubun (New Year’s Exorcism) for Hizamaru. Unlike his cousin, Odagiri fueled his incarnation through embracing fear of the unknown; He based his conceptual paradigm off Hizamaru’s more uncanny, demonic attributes. Hizamaru’s own, oni-like qualities were therefore more prominent than Higekiri’s, almost overpowering physical traits derived from the artifact’s cultural sentiment.

xxxThe East Wind Spiritualist faction leader praised both Miyoshi and Odagiri for their incarnations, but ultimately chose Higekiri for exemplifying total balance between the Artifact’s personal and cultural sentiments.

xxxAs an Artifact, Higekiri’s more violent qualities are only displayed when he’s challenged or feels attacked. In general, he carries an amiable yet firm demeanor not unlike Minamoto no Yoritomo, one of his past owners that Miyoshi strongly admired. As a combat-oriented Artifact, he's knowledgable in many sword fighting styles of his past, and acts as his master’s de-facto bodyguard. Unbeknownst to him, his presence provides his Saniwa great comfort. In some ways, Higekiri’s personality reminds Miyoshi of his cousin, Odagiri. Naturally, Higekiri and Miyoshi share a similar dynamic of mutual respect and intellectual competition.

*Note: A credible source claims that the Coming of Age day was only changed from being called ‘genpuku’ to ‘Seijin no Hi’ after World War II, while other articles mentioned nothing about this transition. I’m sticking by 'genpuku' for the time being, and will continue investigating this matter.

__________

Faceclaim: Higekiri (Touken Ranbu -ONLINE-).
Image Sources: Touken Ranbu -ONLINE-, 祸津属シラノ.

i. S A N I W Axxxxxxii. A R T I F A C T (1)xxxxxxiii. A R T I F A C T (2)xxxxxxiv. F A C T I O NxxW O R K Sxxxxxxv. R E L A T I O N S H I P S

HT / 177 CM
WT / 54 KG
TYPE / SUPPORT
AGE / 7 YEARS OLD
#F7A398 / ♫

AWAKENED SKILL / "YAMAZAKURA MATSU WA BUHATTE TACHI NI KERI."
Creates illusions by emanating a sakura aroma. The more pungent the aroma, the stronger the illusion. The illusion's distance and time limit correlates to the amount of spirit his Saniwa provides.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxSURVIVAL [HP] x◆◆◆◆◆XXLEADERSHIP [DEF]x ◆◆◆◆◆XXIMPULSE [ATTK]x◆◆◆◆◆XXMOBILITY [SPD]x◆◆◆◆◆XXSPIRIT x ◆◆◆◆◆

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III. ARTIFACT (S)

KIMURA ASAGI, THE TRANSIENCE OF LIFE.

xxxKimura Asagi’s incarnation was performed in secret using Tsubaki Kazetani’s Shinto funeral as an incarnation paradigm. Despite the ceremony’s clandestine nature, it still met all the incarnation ceremony requirements.

xxxTsubaki’s funeral took place over a course of 49 days, in 20 incremental steps. Each stage needed to be precisely performed, according to century-old protocols. As a part of Kazetani tradition, all Spiritualist Saniwa were required to attend the event. As the eldest (and only) son, Miyoshi made the funeral arrangements, and began the funeral in September of 1939. Grief stricken, those who attended Tsubaki's funeral focused on her wake, leaving the Jamonsakura root in his breast pocket unnoticed. Like a seed planted in the grove, Miyoshi grew the sentiment as the funeral progressed. As both a Spiritualist and his mother's son, the depression only increased as the officiating priest continued the ceremony to lay Tsubaki to rest; that gave him the sentiment necessary to incarnate.

xxxA process of purification was needed in order to ready Tsubaki’s spirit for the afterlife. As part of the process, Miyoshi purified the Kazetani home to remove the contamination of death. Kimura Asagi’s incarnation took place during the Kichu-Fuda step, or the day of intense, 24-hour mourning. During this period, Miyoshi wore solid black like the rest of the mourners, and incarnated Kimura Asagi towards the end of Kichu-Fuda.

xxxPrior to the funeral, Miyoshi had delayed processing the reality of his mother’s death. Kichu-Fuda allowed Miyoshi to deeply feel the loss of his mother, the loss of his innocence, and the loss of his identity. Incarnating Kimura Asagi was therefore the ultimate gesture of mourning and the beginning of acceptance. To Miyoshi, Jamonsakura, and by extension--Kimura Asagi, exists as an embodiment of the transience of life and the end of youth. Miyoshi’s strong Understanding allowed him to incarnate Kimura Asagi as an otherwordly, nymph-like being that occupied neither the space of the living nor of the dead. He wanted an Artifact that could metaphorically spirit him away, and cloak his own reality, if only temporarily.

xxxThe incarnation acted as a second genpuku*, but unlike the feelings of happiness associated, Kimura-Asagi marked severance. Miyoshi not only rejected his father's path both as a Spiritualist and another inheritor of Saito. By incarnating Kimura Asagi, Miyoshi made it so that he wouldn’t be able to inherit his clan’s heirloom Artifact, and assume future responsibilities as the head of the East Wind.

. . . . .

xxxKimura Asagi acts as Higekiri’s stoic, more serious counterpart. Coming from the more critical part of Miyoshi's personality--Kimura Asagi carries a somewhat negative disposition. He’s considerably more introverted than his Artifact senior, and often appears lost in his own world. Sleepy-eyed and soft-spoken, he carries the appearance of someone who might fall asleep at any moment. He has a tendency to speak in riddles, and often gives his master more questions than answers. He occasionally has moments of lucidity, and makes profound remarks when Higekiri and Miyoshi least expect it. Unlike Higekiri, Kimura Asagi doesn’t particularly care for challenges, and prefers spectating as opposed to participating. If Higekiri is Miyoshi's sword, then Kimura Asagi is his tome. When off-duty, he enrolls in multiple studies from the arts to engineering in order to enhance his usefulness to his Saniwa. Like Higekiri, Kimura Asagi harbors an intense devotion to his master.

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Faceclaim: Kimura Asagi (Ayakashi Gohan).
Image Sources: Ayakashi Gohan, Honeybee-CD, Kazuaki.

i. S A N I W Axxxxxxii. A R T I F A C T (1)xxxxxxiii. A R T I F A C T (2)xxxxxxiv. F A C T I O NxxW O R K Sxxxxxxv. R E L A T I O N S H I P S

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IV. FACTION WORKS
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The Equal-Cutter (友切)
The Funeral of Tsubaki Kazetani (風谷椿の葬儀)
Operation We (WE作戦)
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i. S A N I W Axxxxxxii. A R T I F A C T (1)xxxxxxiii. A R T I F A C T (2)xxxxxxiv. F A C T I O NxxW O R K Sxxxxxxv. R E L A T I O N S H I P S

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V. RELATIONSHIPS

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Statusxxxxxxxxx.Miyoshi Kazetani.

●●●●●●xxRESPECT
●●●●●●xxFONDNESS
●●●●●●xxRIVALRY
●●●●●●xxDISLIKE
●●●●●●xxROMANCE
TWoS

“But it is not grief. Perhaps I cannot feel grief... Perhaps I never shall. And yet--I would like to grieve for myself.” | Having gone through so many identity changes, Miyoshi frightens himself. He's under the impression that he's a special breed of human condemned to live in fragments. Under normal conditions, he might have lived a gratifying life. Terminally depressed and troubled, he feels none of the emotions he exudes. Like the first whiff of burning incense, or like the taste of one's first cup of saké, there is in love that moment when he'll acknowledge his grief.

Statusxxxxxxxxx.Odagiri Kazetani.

●●●●●●xxRESPECT
●●●●●●xxFONDNESS
●●●●●●xxRIVALRY
●●●●●●xxDISLIKE
●●●●●●xxROMANCE
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"Odagiri has always been sorry for me. Yes, I've always known that." | Miyoshi's close friendship with his cousin is complicated. There's an unspoken sense of understanding between the two that causes Miyoshi mixed feelings. For the most part, Miyoshi sees his cousin as rival in social affairs. Being understood so intimately by a rival infringes upon Miyoshi's pride and privacy. Yet, he can't help but appreciate the solidarity Odagiri brings.
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Statusxxxxxxxxx.Yuuki Kazetani.

●●●●●●xxRESPECT
●●●●●●xxFONDNESS
●●●●●●xxRIVALRY
●●●●●●xxDISLIKE
●●●●●●xxROMANCE
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“My father has a myopia when it comes to anyone else’s point of view.” | Miyoshi shares an estranged relationship with his father. It's entirely accurate to say that Yuuki's adamant, avant-garde policies ruined Miyoshi's life. For all their conflict, Miyoshi knows that Yuuki deeply wants his forgiveness despite being too proud to ask for it. For this reason, Miyoshi battles pride with pride. Vengeful and internally troubled, Miyoshi detaches himself from his father's deeper needs.

Statusxxxxxxxxx.Claire Stanfield.

●●●●●●xxRESPECT
●●●●●●xxFONDNESS
●●●●●●xxRIVALRY
●●●●●●xxDISLIKE
●●●●●●xxROMANCE
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"What a funny little man." | Although he first had his personal reservations, Miyoshi came to define Claire as a special breed of American. He finds Claire's offbeat sense of humor refreshing in comparison to his clansmen's own fatalistic dispositions. The two bonded over Operation We, and have kept loose contact since. Claire's openness is contagious and disarming; Miyoshi pegs Claire as someone who brings out the boy in him, and while he'd never publicly admit it, he's thankful towards Claire for doing so.

Statusxxxxxxxxx.Hélène Köhler.

●●●●●●xxRESPECT
●●●●●●xxFONDNESS
●●●●●●xxRIVALRY
●●●●●●xxDISLIKE
●●●●●●xxROMANCE
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"Thank goodness she's a human being and not a saint. There is some danger in how honestly she presents herself." | When Miyoshi first met Hélène, he had been prepared for glamour, artificiality, and even possibly bad taste. Instead, he was met with a Candid with no overdone feminine charm. She gives him the vibes of an exceedingly good-looking and expensively dressed woman who cannot wear a mask. For all his doubts, he still respects her Candid Espionage resume. He associates her singing voice with Germany's people and its beauty.

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So begins...

Miyoshi Kazetani's Story

Seen 30 Times • Page 2 of 2 • 1, 2

Setting

The Joffre

Characters Present

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

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#2016-12-27 02:36:55, as written by bethelit

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“Feeling better already, I assume?” Hélène bristles, though Miyoshi hardly flinches. Hélène Köhler is still a woman after all, he thinks, amused. She is an aroused and angry woman, and an angry woman, as the Kazetani heir is well aware, is a victim to her own devices, and is a source of profit to a level-headed gentleman who keeps his cool.

“Much better,” Miyoshi assures. He speaks placidly than indignantly, knowing that he would thus provoke her further. Her well-known perfume assails his nostrils, and he wonders if she powders her skin with the same fragrance. With an insolent smile, he makes a note to find out eventually.

He looks at her, at her fierce gaze and steady hands, and suddenly an odd memory leaps to his mind: receiving Higekiri at the height of his boyhood. Like the katana and other historic trifles--Helene’s reactions are also his to appraise and elevate.

Wealthy men often commissioned sculptures and paintings of beautiful women, but Miyoshi finds that lush lips and graceful bones are best in the flesh. He could use them, weaponize them, and fashion them to suit his own needs--and the German woman is but a pearl on his string. His escort’s usefulness, however. . .

His eyes fall to Claire’s waistcoat, its muted greys now the same scarlet as his clansmen’s camellia. Noting Claire’s wounds mechanically--the Kazetani assumes that whatever could disappear in a few month’s time could hardly be counted as violence. He corrects his last impression rapidly, as Claire’s wound slightly re-opens, leaving the taller man bashfully aware of his own vulnerabilities.

Miyoshi thinks: we were completely overwhelmed.

What the two men must look like to their female companions. The Spiritualist frowns. His mind shapes itself around his reality.

Despite hiring a bodyguard, spending thousands of francs, and making effort to appease Imperial war machines, Miyoshi is never able to assign worth to his House endeavors. He tries picturing himself in uniform, with a Guntō at his hip, but the picture seems absurd. Through his military training, he carried thoughts like Holy Shield for the Emperor, deep honour, and prideful Kusunoki, though his heart feels no sharper for them. There are many hours when he’s bleeding through his throat again, and it suddenly occurs to him that his suicidal ambitions might be frightfully obscene. The current moment is no exception.

Wordlessly, Miyoshi gestures Claire to follow as he makes a start to leave.

“Thank you for the way you’ve looked after us,” Miyoshi politely says to Amelia and Hélène. “Please join me for breakfast, I’ll reserve us a private table. I’m sure we can discuss the…the events of tonight in the morning. Until then, goodbye, Ms. Renard.” and with a tilt of his head, “And of course, Ms.Kohler.”

Miyoshi leans in to whisper a good night, lingering a moment longer to ensure that his own Douro Cologne Eau de Portugal would be remembered. Underpinned with labdanum, his scent is rather intense--engulfing Helene’s light florals in musk and leather. He seizes the opportunity manfully, as exordium to more exciting pleasures for a later time.

Amelia clears her throat, throwing Miyoshi and Hélène both a pointed look. She motions towards the door with a slight nod.

He entertains the Frenchwoman’s signal, and stirs from his place.

Finally strong enough to support himself, the Japanese man stands staring at Hélène's door, which is adorned with a lurid, painted handle. He pulls it with minor force, satisfied at the return of his motor skills. With Claire at his side, they take their departure, closing the door behind them.

Once again, they return to the familiar boundaries of a hallway of shadows. Underneath their feet, the train shifts, shrugs, and pulls.

. . . .

Within the hallway, the memory of Drusilla remains. Miyoshi’s blood swarms where she touched him, though his body, tempered by Kazetani training, will soothe it in time. With a tired feeling in his shoulders and eyelids slipping heavily over his eyes--the Spiritualist recedes into himself. Fifteen paces to their room, fifteen back, Miyoshi thinks, noting the distance it would take to efficiently return to their room from the opposite end of the hall.

The two Saniwa move carefully towards their chambers, with the American ensuring that they are not being followed. For the rest of the journey, the only sound is of men walking with minimal echoes. Their travel is marked by the sporadic and muted lights passing and receding, and Claire’s dogged breathing.

Upon reaching their destination, the Japanese man grips the doorknob.

With a soft tug, their carriage door clicks open, and he flicks on the light.

Miyoshi pauses.

Inside, Kimura Asagi had been lying on his bed and looking at the ceiling, trying to guess when his master would return. At the sound of Miyoshi’s footsteps, the Artifact starts, and gazes back at his master with some fixed and patient concern.

“Master,” he breathes.

There is a pause, shorter than the first. “Kimura,” Miyoshi responds, giving him a curt nod, before striding over to a suitcase hidden behind the bed, producing a gramophone, and setting “Träumerei” into a quiet spin. Then, looking up from Schumann, he surveys his new environment.

It isn’t much, Kimura criticizes, and gestures vaguely to the room.

They weren’t much either, Miyoshi mentally shrugs, referring to their German hosts. But this place is adequate.

I hate it.

You musn’t be like that, Kimura. They are but ever dutiful pawns. The room says as much. Bugs?

None. No devices. They are rude, but not suspicious too much.

See? Adequate.

His own room is as ugly as Hélène’s, though slightly roomier, and as consequence was much in demand; as a trade-off there is an ill-lit ceiling and minimalist fixtures that make the Joffre appear archaic. It might have been beautiful before the war, but it is currently an atrocious mix of styles, upholstery, and ill-colored woods. A cheerless electric spotlight bathes their ceiling in an otherworldly glare. Claire doesn’t seem to mind his carriage as much. Miyoshi, like his Artifact, is too exhausted to complain.

He seems tired enough, calm but tired, and his Artifact moves quickly to assist his needs. Kimura Asagi, who had been in the room for longer than his Saniwa, appears to be familiar with where amenities are stored. A minor search reveals that the Germans had neither prepared them coffee nor tea. With some frustration, Kimura remedies this by producing a handsome tea kit and brewing his master creature comforts. After passing tea to Miyoshi, the Artifact moves to his bedside. He opens his notebook, and begins coding messages to Rosalind and Yuuki, much to his Saniwa’s approval.

With Schumann playing lightly in the background and china hooked between his fingers, Miyoshi turns to Claire, and seats himself on his bed. A tin of Huntley & Palmers lie in his lap. He eats the biscuits one after another, all the ones shaped like pretzels, then the checkered ones, and finally the fig-filled ones.

“Claire,” the Kazetani commands, after nibbling the last of his confections.

“Huh.”

“Let me guide you through treating the corruption.”

Miyoshi looks dispirited, and his voice lacks its usual theatrical edge. He gives a quick flick of his head, gesturing for Claire to kneel. The latter succumbs with some reluctance.

The bodyguard sighs, and reaches into his breast pocket to produce a bottle of oil and a cigarette box. Mumbling beneath his breath, he slots a cigarette between his lips, lights it, and prepares the holy water next. The Irishman rubs the oil on his wounds, and presses his hands together in an act of atonement.

Then, Miyoshi, quite sensibly, begins speaking to Claire as he would a Catholic priest, no doubt part of his worldly Spiritualist training.

“Through this holy anointing may the Lord in his love and mercy, help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit,” the Spiritualist recites, dabbing a spot of oil on his bodyguard’s forehead.

"You never answered me Mouse," Claire states, distracted and eying the man's abdomen, "how badly did she hurt you?"

“Pay attention,” the Spiritualist says crossly. “I am fine. My body can heal its own.” It isn’t the truth, but he doesn’t feel like explaining.

Perhaps Claire thought that he looked at Miyoshi casually enough, but evidently, his own features informed the Spiritualist otherwise. The latter’s own patience slipping, he stares at Claire for a long time, speaking only when guiding counsel. Through it all, he maintains an air of tranquil assumption, ignoring Claire’s furtive looks of concern. Seated, Claire appears rather childlike, hunched below the Spiritualist’s lithe frame. He looks up at his friend with his signature brand of innocent, frank curiosity that Miyoshi finds absolutely frustrating, but difficult to abhor. Frankly, the Spiritualist is simply uncomfortable with sincere, emotional openness, and seems wholeheartedly focused on ridding his subject of spiritual corruption. His own eyes are firmly planted over the anointed spot on Claire’s forehead.

“May the Lord who frees you from sin,” he circles the blessed oil on Claire’s hands, “save you and raise you up.”

The smell of myrrh and tobacco floods the Spiritualist's nostrils, and Claire looks up at him, a new unlit cigarette trembling at his fingertips.

“God our healer in this time of sickness you have come to bless with your grace. Restore him to health and strength, make him graceful and ready to embrace your will. Grant this through Christ our Lord.”

Miyoshi finishes with a final trace over the afflicted area, voice powerful but lacking the exaltation of a true follower.

“That should do it.” he says with a satisfied hum, nonchalantly reaching for his warm beverage.

“Aren’t you still bleeding?” Claire tries again, only to earn him a second frown.

“No harm done,” the Spiritualist says with some sharpness, his British accent growing more prominent with his irritation.

In the midst of Claire, certain common ideas often became inexpressible, only because Claire is wholly opposed to Miyoshi’s fatalistic philosophies, and therefore immune to his reasoning. Yet, Miyoshi has always known that Claire fears for him, much like his own Artifacts. Although the Kazetani heir carries a carefully manicured disposition, Claire senses instability in the shorter man. And some danger that naturally comes with the Kazetani lineage.

“She said,” Claire bravely starts, voice lowering. “Dru called you a ‘weak pillar.’ I never knew her to be a liar, but are you really gonna stay standing after this?”

“What do you mean.” Miyoshi testily says, taking more seriously the very real and persistent menace that is Claire’s unfailing dedication.

“How much longer can you be Kazetani heir if you’re still taking drugs, still doing all of these things that you keep secret,” Claire stands abruptly upright, “nobody outside of the House knew about this mission. Dru. Who is dead. Is after you. Someone raised her, someone powerful has it out for you.”

For a moment, the air around them tenses, though Miyoshi efficiently dispels the feeling.

“Goodness,” Miyoshi says, eyes closing with some relief and a carefully placed chuckle. “Is this what it’s about? Be a dear Claire. Many people have it out for me. You of all people should know.”

“You’re avoiding the answer Mouse,” Claire retorts, “it’s not Joe Schmoe trying to kill the great Miyoshi Kazetani. This is someone who specifically knew you were here and I want answers. Either it’s someone in the House trying to off you or we’re facing an even greater threat. Why kill you and not me huh? Or Rosalind?”

His own calm is wearing thin, and Miyoshi finds himself becoming increasingly more pointed and unpleasant. Though he’d once made his own subtle but unmistakable passes at Claire’s naivete--the Irishman had been the only one to snare him this evening, and the Spiritualist knows that gratuitous cruelty would make for a magnanimous escape. He changes his strategy, and meets Claire’s eyes in the same way that a schoolteacher would placate a small child.

“Bully for that. Perhaps it is my own father? With this kind of thing, you can never tell, you know.” Miyoshi says. It is a baroque suggestion, but there is nothing objectionable about it. It is on this occasion, he is sure, that the elder Kazetani's "well connectedness" could effectively be used against him. A known rebel--Miyoshi, despite his heritage, is not above being assassinated by his own father.

His words strike a chord.

The air stretches tight, and Claire's jaw trembles. At the sight of Claire's response, Miyoshi fights to keep his aristocratic face from gleaming with pleasure. The Irishman stops again, unable to form words. The latter's eyes continue looking for other places in the room to steady himself on (including Kimura Asagi who proves to be no help) before he finally settles on the floor.

“Maybe your father has his reasons,” he finally replies, turning toward his bed.

“So you agree then,” Miyoshi slowly says, his face carefully impassive. He does not make himself an easy opponent.

“I almost died for you, Mouse,” he says, whirling around, bewildered at how little effect any of his previous words had on his friend. His body goes numb, however, at the sight of the Spiritualist’s lack of expression. The latter’s lips are sealed in a thin line, his posture uncharacteristically rigid. Miyoshi isn’t the type to yell or shout when angered; instead, he chills.

When Miyoshi finally speaks, his words cut like Higekiri, with absolute ruthlessness and precision.

“You almost died for Luck Gandor as well--more often too.” he coolly says. “You don’t owe me anything. As I am no true agent of my father, you are not beholden to my life. You can leave me dead if you wish.”

He sets down his tea with a loud clink before rising altogether, gathering friction at his heels.

“Good night. I am so sorry to have disturbed you.” he manages, his voice poisonous but tightly controlled. He does not sound sorry, but both men know that Miyoshi Kazetani’s apologies, truthful or not, are hard-earned. Regardless, the espionage agent makes no attempt to hide his hostility towards the Irishman, and retires to his side of the room without so much of another word. With deft movements of his fingers, Schumann is silenced, the song fades, and the room is grotesque once more. Miyoshi sheds his immaculate suit. His expression is completely closed off.

Fighting Claire was a decision he strategically made. The argument would make for a more obedient bodyguard later, Miyoshi thinks. He will feel guilty, and he will press less.

With some assistance from Kimura Asagi, he slips into an expensive jinbei. The Artifact acts as if he hadn’t witnessed his master’s tirade, but casts Claire a curt, arctic glance. He knows the truth, however. Intellectually, at least, Kimura understands the purpose behind the battle. There were greater issues to address, namely, the drugs. . .

His eyes travel to Miyoshi's clavicle.

. . .and wounds. The Artifact is careful to avoids touching his master’s skin, but briefly acknowledges where Drusilla had made her mark. The area is a light blue now, fading in thanks to Miyoshi’s spiritual prowess.

Catching his Artifact’s lingering gaze, Miyoshi pulls his jinbei’s collar firmly closed. There is a tightness to the gesture that Kimura recognizes as anger and perhaps annoyance.

“Ah, master, I’m sorry--” Kimura starts, but stops when his Saniwa offers him a haunting, placid smile.

“Goodnight, Kimura,” Miyoshi says with some finality. His eyes are empty. He does not hold his smile for long.

“Good...Goodnight,” the Artifact responds, shaken, his words barely audible.

There is some loneliness in his Saniwa’s gaze that Kimura doesn’t dare dwell on. In some atavistic part of his brain, he knows how his master must feel. An old anxiety swirls in his mind again, and he finds himself at an ancient loss.

Reclining on his bed, he listens to the rise and fall of Miyoshi’s breathing, to the beating of his own heart, and to the silence that reinstalls itself after all life ceases to exist.

. . . .

Miyoshi knows that Kimura Asagi isn’t asleep, and is listening to him. It’s been this way since as long as he can remember. Kimura watching. Waiting. Listening. But it doesn’t matter what Kimura hears. In the morning, he would reprimand his Artifact for a larger grievance, nevermind his own "spat" with Claire.

They were being watched today, or rather, listened to, Miyoshi is certain. There was a man seated behind Hélène, speaking to no one in particular. Although the man had been facing away from them, his body language gave him away. He was gone before the train pulled from the station. Neither Claire nor Kimura seemed to have noticed. Miyoshi curses Kimura Asagi’s loss of focus. In the Artifact’s concern for his Saniwa, he kept track of less. No. This wasn’t Kimura’s fault. It was his own.

Who was the man? Judging by how spooked Hélène looked--something had occurred while he was absent. Did the man return? Had the women seen him? Would Hélène speak? Would Amelia let her? Would he ask Amelia?

No.

The question is--would Amelia trust in him?

He thinks of the knifelike Frenchwoman. Unreadable eyes. A manicured appearance. In his brief moments of meeting her, he recognizes similarities between her psychology and his own. She wouldn’t easily give if it meant that she had nothing to take. The thought that Amelia might try to dominate his authority on the mission would normally have angered him, but he recognizes her manner and ability as helpful to his goals. Truthfully, he is glad she isn’t as transparent as Hélène, lest he’d have to seduce her too to test her predictability. Intellectually, he does not think her beneath him.

No matter. He would work around her. On his own, be it through violating Richter, Neumann, Hélène--or all three of them--he’d get to the bottom of their spy. Whether he and Drusilla are related, he would find out.

There are only three answers, and depending on the course of his interrogations, one would surface to be the truth. It wouldn’t matter for long regardless. The mission ends in Vienna.

From the folds of his jinbei, he palms a small omamori, and sleeps with it close to his skin. Its very smell is like that of a corpse, a tomb, the heavy inertia of soul. Always, he carries it beside him; it is hidden, but ever-present. Unlike most omamori, it promises death.

Gammond would die tomorrow, and Miyoshi is glad.

TWOSTWOS
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xA/N: I was fed some lines by Eva for Claire; she allowed me full control over his character for this scene as well. Therefore, this doesn't count as a collaboration post. Additionally, Alligot also fed me a line for an interaction with Amelia.

Setting

The Joffre

Characters Present

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

#2017-09-25 05:58:19, as written by bethelit

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CHAPTER THREE
The Red-Eyed Man

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At 9.05, Miyoshi steps out from his carriage, with Kimura Asagi gliding behind him. Both Japanese men sport charcoal suits. Noble in their demeanor, they emerge like land gods amidst the morning light. He feels strangely at ease as he steps outside; he feels weightless. They pass a few soldiers, and give cursory nods of gratitude to their hosts. Miyoshi begins speaking in his maiden tongue once they are alone.

“Tell me, Kimura,” Miyoshi says. “Who will be meeting us upon our return to Kyoto? The item that needs to be checked. You remember.”

Kimura Asagi appears slightly startled. Miyoshi hasn’t mentioned “that item” since Operation We. Purposely, of course, so that he could spring it on his Artifact as an oddly misplaced memory. Nevermind Gammond, “that item” is worth more than the The Joffre’s onboard passengers’ lives. Miyoshi’s resurrection of “that item” cannot mean anything pleasant, this much, Kimura is certain.

“Zhanqing Yang,” Kimura Asagi says eventually. The name unnaturally pops out of his mouth. It is one the Artifact worked harder to remember, and to pronounce correctly. “...You...you passed the Artifact to Zhanqing Yang.”

“He has agreed to meet us?”

“Of course,” Kimura Asagi says simply. “Well, as a matter of fact, master, he purchased his tickets separately. But Taiwan is not far from Japan. I can’t tell you when he will arrive. Vienna is not our real goal, I assume? It is Zhanqing Yang.”

A stupid question.

Miyoshi does not respond. Instead, he continues towards the door, tugs it open, and steps out into the dismal air. He pauses on balcony, and peers upwards. Instantly, violent pollution fill his lungs. The smell of burning charcoal cloaks what would have been an otherwise perfectly pleasant cool, gray morning. Away ahead, a million miles in the Pacific, his father was looking at a different sky while condemning him under this one. Yet, the fine press of his collar keeps warmth at his neck.

Finally, without turning to face his companion, he speaks with horrible relish.

“No. Vienna is still our real goal. We are on a German-commandeered train Kimura, not a Japanese steamer. How can a man so skilled with an iron be less deft with his mind? Keep up. Now, you are very confident he will not betray us?”

Kimura Asagi feels humiliation rising in his throat, but he forces himself to swallow it back.

“He does not have the soul of a traitor. Such is the kind of man he is,” the Artifact says thickly.

“We shall see. We have something to look forward to,” the Spiritualist says slowly, denying his Artifact neither a useful nor comforting response. With little time in between, Miyoshi looks at Claire’s silhouette through the opening door ahead.

“Come. Let us go.”

At this, Kimura Asagi says nothing, giving the distinct impression that he disapproves of his Saniwa's initiatives. In truth, things were often this way between them. They were pleasant enough in each other's company, but if one was around the other for too long it becomes obvious that their affections are complex in their mutuality.

Claire is easier, Kimura Asagi thinks. It’s why master likes him more than me.

Kimura Asagi looks away from the scene, but he can hear his Saniwa’s smile when he greets the American.

He hates it.

. . .

“Good morning Claire,” Miyoshi says to his comrade, who appears ruffled by his sudden appearance. Claire lets out a small grunt before slipping a cigarette between his teeth. Nevertheless, Miyoshi keeps his own face carefully unreadable. Calculations are being made behind the shield of Miyoshi’s own gaze, and he speaks easily. Still, their previous spat has imposed a certain coolness on his behavior towards the Irishman, and the Spiritualist pushes it for dramatic effect. It would only be a matter of time before the Combat Saniwa pledged greater commitment as moral compensation.

When they reach their table in the dining room, Miyoshi seats himself beside the window, leaving space for Amelia and Helene. Kimura Asagi reclines in an empty booth behind them. Aside from the three House agents, the rest of the dining car remains empty. Soon, Miyoshi joins Claire on indulging his own smoking habit. He savors his test draw, settling into the byes and byes of tobacco, brass, and cypress.

All of a sudden, Claire jolts upright. Very quickly, he lowers himself to the cushions and floors, and presses his hands against them for bugs. He then steps on the benches, shoes and all, and examines the ceiling above them. Cursing inwardly, Miyoshi begins to speak loudly, masking his companion’s movements.

“Have you heard word from Gandor, Claire?” Miyoshi seethes.

“No, I can’t say I have,” Claire says, his confusion markedly present in its loudness. He continues checking the cabin with the zeal of a schoolboy on a treasure hunt. Oblivious to his carelessness, Claire answers the question with complete honesty, to Miyoshi’s abject horror.

“Is that so? Please give him my regards,” the Spiritualist says, his heart rate soaring. To both of their benefits, Claire finds nothing but Miyoshi is certain that he has lost his patience.

When Claire finally seats himself, he beams at his friend with sheepish pride. He remains oblivious to Miyoshi’s trying spirit (a testament to the latter man’s composure) but settles into a furrowed expression once he readies himself to talk.

“I saw something last night, after I left,” Claire states gravely, smoke billowing from his mouth.

Miyoshi’s eyes flicker for a brief moment, tapping the ash from his cigarette. Something seems to be banking in Miyoshi's silence. He sets his jaw but says nothing. Claire hesitates before producing a rotting, rogue patch of cloth from inside his waistcoat. He passes it under the table, nudging Miyoshi with his foot.

Manicured fingers lift the cloth from calloused hands, and to Claire’s surprise, Miyoshi looks at him as if he’s actually interested. He runs the silk through his fingers before gazing at its torn, decaying edges. Claire speaks before Miyoshi can get in a single word.

“Mary and me, we tracked down the source of Drusilla’s remains down to the cargo carts.” Claire sighs, closing his eyes. “She was too freaked out to continue, said there were other strong ghosts like Dru. I thought they might have been elsewhere on the train but just as I was about to head back to the cabin I saw a red-eyed man.”

“Nothing like your normal guy. White skin, white hair, he didn’t even reply to me,” Claire finished, putting out his cigarette. His mouth remains a half-frown at most, slouching to meet Miyoshi’s eye level despite the back strain.

“Good,” is all Miyoshi has to say, before taking a long pull of his pipe.

Claire’s eyes widen. Before he can question why, Miyoshi speaks.

“I reckon that’s the best news we’ve had in awhile,” Miyoshi says, sighing to mask deeper disappointment. He leans further into the wooden backrest behind him, and closes his hands together.

“But we didn’t find anything,” Claire sputters.

“It’s not what you found that matters,” Miyoshi evenly says, trying to keep his voice low and non-confrontational. “It’s that you found anything at all, despite the circumstances. It is considerate of you to share, Claire.”

“I…” Claire isn’t sure what to say, visibly relieved but caught off guard by the return to their usual form. “Thanks, Mouse.”

“Yes, of course.”

From the other side of the booth, Miyoshi breaks into a smile. Something in Claire’s uncertain expression pleases Miyoshi. Even in the most propitious of circumstances, Miyoshi takes pride in his ability to make Claire nervous. Given the current state of affairs, there is nothing to celebrate, though Miyoshi figures Claire is too stupid to realize otherwise.

If it wasn’t obvious already, it should be obvious now. The Joffre… they were being set up.

“When I was a young boy, I was very interested in art.” Miyoshi relates, breaking the silence. “One day, my father took a large earthenware pot into my room, the one usually reserved for guests, and had me burn my paintings.”

Claire drops the burnt cigar before turning toward Miyoshi.

“Holy shit.” Claire says. “What’s the point?”

“What’s the meaning of it?” Miyoshi raises a brow.

“Sure.”

“Because I was proud of them. It was a teaching moment. Anything can go up in fire, no matter how proud you are of it.”

“Why are you telling me this. Why not open with ‘here’s a plan for how we ah going to take down the killa, Clayuh?’” he asks, pulling off his best Londonian accent (which sounded more Cockney than anything), “what does this have to do with anything?”

Miyoshi’s gaze cools for a moment before his eyes shifts towards the open window. His expression changes entirely, and something about it earns Miyoshi more nervousness from Claire. Never in all their years of friendship had Miyoshi ever brought up elements of his past, let alone his childhood. Something is wrong. The Spiritualist bends forward and folds his arms.

“What I'm saying is, father isn't above sabotage. Not even to a child. Father pulled Rosalind. Clearly he was not impressed by the events of last night.” Miyoshi smirks. ”She was my leverage. Our team would only have access to her abilities if my performance was praiseworthy. Change of plans. Rosalind didn’t write anything. Why, she might not even be on this train anymore.”

“Does this actually surprise you?” Claire sighs, gesturing to the empty air. “He’s never satisfied.”

“Of course not.” Miyoshi drawls. He chews on his pipe for what seems to be an eternity, until his eyes flicker to meet Claire's. ”By the by, we’ve heard nothing from the Australians.”

For some time, neither men speak; tendrils of smoke pool in their silence.

“Well.”

“We’re on our own then.” the redhead crosses his arms before he slides down his seat, “--this is what I wanted anyway: for us to be the big damn heroes.”

“Oh don’t be like that, Claire. We are figures of sizeable importance.” Miyoshi laughs. “We are… ah… as the Germans call us, ‘Unbesonnen.’ People easily seduced by reckless behavior.”

When the door creaks open, his mouth settle into a smile. “Ah, the women are here.”

He exhales a strong odour of tobacco and cypress, before passing a small and cold object from under the table.

TWOSTWOS
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xA/N: I was fed some lines by Eva for Claire; she allowed me full control over his character for this scene. Normally, this wouldn't qualify a collaboration post. However, since the story doesn't demand heavier participation from Claire, Eva's contribution here suffices. This is a special case. In the future, these kinds of posts will be kept to a minimum, or combined with larger collaboration posts to fill everyone's formal quota.

Setting

The Joffre

Characters Present

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

#2018-04-12 06:11:23, as written by bethelit

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The morning and scenery both pass by in a fitful alternation of sturm and drang, the window permitting view of a colorless scene through fogged glass and heavy rain. Crushed raindrops gather and flood the remnants of the French countryside. There’s nothing to be admired beyond the glass, Miyoshi thinks. Its canvas creates no impression that the world can change at all.

He hasn’t told his companions, but a month ago, he’d boarded a commandeered French train not unlike the Joffre. While the train was engineered as a luxury experience, it was not any more beautiful. The food situation was pathetic -- passengers were allowed 1200 calories a day, very little bread, and a suspicious amount of tobacco and wine. All of it to feed the occupying forces, and to reassure the French that they were cared for. The Joffre is hardly dire, but Miyoshi dislikes it equally much. So far, the cohabitation is bearable due to the good discipline of the occupying forces and his own country being allied with Germany. Regardless, all false benevolence comes to an end. After some time, the Germans will become more reluctant and aggressive, and be more vocal of their suspicions. Miyoshi remembers how Neumann looked at them.

Silent and watchful and unblinking.

Yes, he thinks. We must tolerate the Germans for a night longer, although France must endure them for many more.

The door swings open, and the women emerge, snapping him out of his thoughts. There, enhanced by the glow of natural light, Helene settles across from him, Amelia sitting beside her. Even in the bleak morning, Helene’s delicate countenance remains unruffled.

“Well,” the singer starts, some intrigue in her tone. “This is the officer’s table.”

Amelia looks on in mild bemusement while Claire flushes to match his hair. Miyoshi smothers the urge to glower at Claire’s embarrassment. That fool, of course this is all intentional. Instead of answering, Miyoshi pushes the women cigars before leaning into his inhale. It is a slow, oppressive morning, and he expects things to follow suit.

“Well, Herr Kazetani?” Amelia questions, critically examining the cigar, before choosing to light it.

“I didn’t make a reservation.” Miyoshi parries, keeping his aplomb in place. “This conversation is not long enough to warrant one. That is, if Ms. Renard will cooperate.”

At the sound of her name, their eyes meet. The Frenchwoman warily studies him as if to say, Well, go on.

Miyoshi doesn’t mind her scrutiny, and scrutinizes her right back, brown eyes with a touch of frost. In truth, his genteel guise prefers silence, but Amelia’s provocation compels a reply. He breaks the tension and removes his pipe.

“It’s a setup,” says Miyoshi, releasing a rank cloud. “We are three members short and Gammond has yet to be killed. Is this not a strange affair? Were the Australians planted by the enemy? Can we even trust either of you?”

It isn’t unlike the Germans to arrest without apparent reason. In fact, Miyoshi is positive that the Australians had been sent to an unknown destination, or shot without explanation, accused or suspected of being communist collaborators or saboteurs. His own kind would have done the same. There is no room for clemency in the kempeitai.

A hand tensely wraps around his wrist. Claire’s fingers are ice cold.

“Hey Mouse, don’t go around assuming thin-” Claire breaks in, but his companion barely flinches.

“Wrong. We need to assume that anyone could betray us. I need to be sure, is all.” Miyoshi sharply remarks. “For all we know, this could be sabotage.” Every nerve in his body has lost its patience, earlier from Claire’s carelessness, and now from having to repeat his knowledge. However, he’d been taught how to curb his own tells. His pale face betrays a smile, but his eyes and brows cease all activity and become rigid.

“It’s all just given me a great deal to think about,” he says after a moment. “And I’d reckon the two of you know something that I could not. I felt an otherworldly presence at dinner. It was in the room after Claire and I left.” Curiosity wins over his impatience. He keeps his gaze turned towards the women. “And so? Did you see anyone? If you lie, I will know.”

There is a brief silence. Then, a flicker of annoyance crosses Helene’s Aryan features, only to be replaced by a calm tilt of her head. The quieter of the two chooses to speak.

“I hadn’t assumed there was any trust, Kazetani.” Amelia begins. “We cannot sabotage a mission we know nothing about. However, Ms. Kohler did mention seeing a particular gentleman.”

The Frenchwoman’s features remain unreadable, but Miyoshi detects her control. She remains utterly still, and Helene blossoms and animates.

Helene says, “I saw a red-eyed man at supper. Rather peculiar, and only for a moment. He arrived after you left, and departed as soon as he'd come.”

“I saw him late last night,” Claire interrupts, “White hair, fiddling with somethin’. He had Spiritual energy. You wouldn’t have to be a Kazetani to feel it. Those glowin’ red eyes looked straight at me when I asked if he wanted a light. There’s trouble coming.”

He seems to read Miyoshi’s mind, and adds, “The women could take care of him.”

“Yes.” Miyoshi agrees. “In the East Wind, we quite like them, because they have the ability to pass unnoticed where a man would be stopped and suspected. If Claire and I were anywhere near the others, we would be likely be detained. But the two of you are special. You could simply be ‘lost.’”

“You imply that Ms. Kohler, Germany’s darling, would escape notice on this train?”

“Of course not. I’d never have you go fishing without bait. What did you think Ms. Kohler was here for?”

At this, Amelia smiles, but she neither agrees or disagrees.

Why isn’t she proposing her own plan? Why does she continue to divert attention to Ms. Kohler? Miyoshi wonders, watching. Europe is her domain — she should have advanced intelligence on these men. Following the events of last night, we’re hardly in proper shape to be without a plan. We’re inventing a fire, not building it. Did Nikolai put her up to anything? Or was she offered as a rogue element?

No, that he cannot believe. The war had not changed the Head Priest’s conservative proclivities. The people of Moscow responded to the initial German attack with a flood of volunteers to join the North Wind. Volunteers came from the intelligentsia, from factories, and from schools. Most did not have adequate training, and were little worse off than soldiers in the regular army, who were equally poorly equipped and trained. It is in his nature to assign high-ranking Saniwa sparingly, so Amelia and Cyril could be considered generous, and even superfluous. Perhaps then Miyoshi measured Amelia incorrectly. Just what is her purpose?

Helene, on the contrary, seems keenly aware of hers.

“I’ll be of no use to anyone if I can’t be myself. I’ll do it.” Helene curtly says, though Miyoshi isn’t convinced she dislikes the prospect.

“Not a bad idea,” Claire nods. “last night everyone was all over you. I’m for it, Mouse.”

Miyoshi does not have to fake a smile. The words come easily. “Very good, it’s decided then.”

A pause. The blowing of smoke.

“And by the by, were any of you aware that the Australians are missing? Detained, perhaps. Shot, I think.”

The quiet is fretful, unnatural. But created for Helene.

Other than himself and Maria, Amelia would be the first to discover the Australians’ disappearance. But would she tell Helene? He watches the singer for confirmation, and takes pleasure in the fruits of his labor. He sees it in the way the color drains out of her cheeks. The skin around her eyes stretches wide. She’s consumed by the revelation’s gravitas.

“Nien!” She gasps, posture rigid with distress. She goes on with strained agitation: “But— it’s only been a single night!”

This hardly seems to bother Claire, and he looks inquiringly at Miyoshi, but the latter is preoccupied. Swirling his contraband tea leaves, he’s reminded that duplicity lives everywhere. Good. Amelia does not trust Helene. The women share an empty bond.

Setting down his pipe, he exhales and rests his eyes. Very softly, he speaks without sympathy.

“Well, now you know.”

A worn smile rests around his eyes, but disappears at the sound of Claire’s voice.

“So Helene wasn’t told.” Claire, accustomed to the machinations of spies, pushes his hands through his thick, red hair. “That Ms. Austerlitz is next.”

This interjection gives Miyoshi pause; he reflects on Amelia's vulnerability. If her Australian accessories were detained, she would not be far behind. The winds are favorable, and the Germans are on his side. Surely, Richter would be glad to drive a bullet into her brain. Perhaps the Frenchwoman should fear him most. Miyoshi could expose her. As kempeitai. Or better, as a tool of Japanese foreign policy.

The image of ordinary citizens, hopes crushed like black velvet, lie bare for him to see. His mentor’s voice fills his head. Yakumo’s baton is marked with brutality, his eyes rimmed with an impression of invincibility.

Give them oxygen to burn, Kazetani. Yakumo says. Give them enough oxygen to burn, and they’ll snuff themselves out.

Allowing someone like Amelia to flame unchecked, watched with concern only by that which she was tasked, would be sufficient. If she betrays them, Nikolai would assassinate her, and if she survives the Nazis, she would create her own undoing. He could wait to see what she will not show him.

His fingers dig into his knees.

This is good. This is excellent.

Miyoshi keeps his voice polite. Patiently, as if time is a faraway concept, he pours himself tea.

“Well. Then isn’t there somewhere,” he says. “she needs to be? It’s almost time for our hosts to join us.”

When he finishes, he wipes his mouth. He folds his napkin and places it beside the window. His hands are flat on the table. Neither of the women say anything. Even Claire is silent. No one is smiling now.

Had he expected them to be openly informative?

Of course not.

With the slip of his tongue, Miyoshi rearranges the glyphs of power. A lone camellia doesn’t wait for opportunities to bloom. One might think him frustrated, but his true opponent is time. Now, seconds slip beneath his feet. A vault of darkness hangs overhead; the combined efforts of himself and Kimura must not go wasted. The Germans must be pleased. All light would be snuffed out.

The decade-old knots inside Miyoshi begin to loosen. Some unexpected steel emerges in his voice. “I’ll have Kimura transferred to the Maria Calag.”

He looks up, some gland within him leaking fatalistic abandon.

“I’m sorry?” Claire chokes.

“Yes. I insist. Kimura shall be of better use there. Report nothing to my father.”

He smooths his face into porcelain dispassion.

Each time he faced his father, Miyoshi could not help feeling that the man was a dissimulating demon or a kami efficient in judgement. In the space of time Miyoshi had joined the East Wind, he had of his own accord as good as destroyed half his life. Always, the absence of personal freedom separated him from a life without neurotic suffering. But the past is only a ghost that cannot be exorcised, drifting, wailing, and vulgar when given attention. And so, Miyoshi cannot help but feel as if a stage in his life has ended. A fog has lifted. He will be thrillingly alone.

Tapping the bowl of his pipe, Miyoshi says without hesitation, “Kimura, you’re dismissed.”

“Now? Are you certain?”

Kimura’s surprise comes across perfectly natural. If he dislikes the arrangements at all, he hides it masterfully.

“Yes.” Miyoshi says with iron certainty. ”Postponing the inevitable bores me.” Then transitioning into Japanese, “Issun saki wa yami.”

A pregnant pause fills the air. Kimura looks knowingly at Amelia. Then, he solemnly answers, “Very well.”

The Artifact rises, his defiance well-masked, and begins to shift, stone turning to flesh. He bows gracefully at his Saniwa superiors and briefly pauses before his master. There is a faint glint to the Artifact’s eyes, a ghost-light disappearing as quickly as it appeared. Miyoshi does not look at him. He already knows what Kimura sees. What Kimura feels is always the same: sadness, bitterness, but never resentment. The insolence that Kimura thinks, however, comes as a start.

It’s too early, master. You know this.

Their eyes meet, but Kimura doesn’t linger for long.

The Artifact retreats; the Saniwa mentally paces.

Miyoshi tugs at his collar and tries to swallow. He can feel the lymph nodes on either side of his neck compressing in consequence to Kimura’s distance. He rights his tie. In a few minutes, he is standing.

Saying that he has business to attend to, the Spiritualist curtly makes his leave. A constant stream of officers pass him, nodding as they come. He makes to the empty sleeping car before the first cough erupts.

Wiping his mouth, he thinks, Tonight will be the beginning.

Ikuzo.

A feeling of infernal responsibility stirs inside him. Always, the weight in his soul swings pendulously. Slowly. Impossibly. His heart scrambles to deliver oxygenated blood as he recalls an excerpt from the American Naturalist: Even the heart, which in higher animals, when agitated, pulsates with increasing energy, in a snail, under similar excitement, throbs with a slower motion. . .

But this agitation is preternatural: going beyond nerves and stimuli. It’s the deep rush of a rising concerto, the rills and crescendo of something with an unstoppable desire to burn. If his body is a shrine, his heart is the pale fire of mokurō candles, singed through the wick. The pulsing in his ears resurrects an abyssal feeling he thought was dead. Like a man possessed, he can only breathe, hear, and listen.

Listen to this, Miyoshi thinks. This is me.

The rhythm plays on, blood continues to build within his throat, and the cough that inevitably comes feels like a joyful spring. Seizing his breath, he swells with life. A feverish fit of hacking explodes from inside his chest. His face remains pallid, but there’s a crimson mess on his handkerchief. No, a red camellia. An imperious symbol. One that can be destroyed.

Vengeance begins with expulsion. It’s born from immortal hate, and sponsored by the study of revenge. It flushes a wronged soul with the blood of its bloom and makes him new again. Violently. Obsessively. Makes him whole.

Suddenly, Gammond’s death feels unimportant. Something else has become bigger.

Maybe the diviners were wrong.

He was perhaps more like samurai than priest.

. . . .

Without his conscience, he’s left with only his nerves. But oh, how strange it was to see himself now, standing absolutely rigid before his own death throes.

Before him, the door to his room swings open, the lights blink on, yet he hesitates before stepping in. To ease his headache, he focuses his gaze on an alabaster Madonna -- Claire’s religious aid -- lying idly by the gramophone. Was it there before? Something is off.

Concentrate. Look for clues. What’s different about the room from before we left it? Claire’s belongings have been moved. No. That’s not it. Searched? No. Perhaps. What?

The blood pooling in his veins violently quivers.

Sending Kimura Asagi away prematurely was a poor gamble. He feels a stabbing, paralyzing pain in his skull, and an intense buildup in his throat. The absence of his Artifact feels more significant with each ragged breath. He’s quick to clamp his hand over his mouth. When he peels his hand away, his lips are freckled with blood, and red discharge swings between his tongue and palm.

His hand is now stained with old, congealed blood, and the new signs of the fresh.

It isn’t supposed to be so soon, he thinks. But I have my bodyguard. He will follow.

A large hand presses into the small of his back, catching his fall. The rain outside spills so softly, almost soundlessly, but to Miyoshi, it begins to roar.

When Miyoshi’s vision returns, he finds that his throat is dry, and that he is not alone in his room. A presence unlike any he’d encountered tugs at his soul. Playfully, almost. His blood burns like an open fire.

Looking up from the floor, he sees an unfamiliar shadow. “Where is your companion, Herr Kazetani?” comes a voice that does not belong to Claire. Deeper. With a purr. Thickly accented English. Rain hums loudly against the roof and walls.

Despite his dread, Miyoshi’s blood boils with adrenaline. His facial expression, his eyes, the power concentrated in the depths of his thoughts, everything that fuels him to this point -- fills him with euphoria, and perhaps, savage joy.

Slowly lifting his head, he meets the eyes of a beaming Karl Neumann.

Yes. This could be it. He could kill me here, but would that truly be interesting?

“The bloody hell should I know,” the Kazetani grins, and spits a mouthful of clot and cuor. This time, if he does not reveal his true self, he will not get away at all.

What follows next can only be described as a blur. Five bashes and leaking liquid. Karl Neumann stifles a scream.

Outside, the rain tumbles like laughter, the sun bleeds through, and the clouds fold in rapture.

TWOSTWOS
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xA/N: I was fed some lines by Eva, Alligot, and Sophie; they allowed me moderate control over their characters for this scene. Therefore, this doesn't count as a collaboration post.

Setting

The Joffre

Characters Present

Tag Characters » Add to Arc »

0.00 INK

#2018-04-23 04:52:06, as written by maccotango

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Maria enters the booth later than expected, having taken a brief detour to distract prying eyes. She slips into B2 quietly, but confidently. Anyone watching her might assume she’s simply retreating into her private quarters, but the true owners’ whereabouts are currently unknown. And that troubles her.

She greets the combat Saniwa and his Artifact with a small tired smile, slipping into the seat across them. She says nothing for the moment. Wulf looks expectantly at Maria while Cyril continues to read. Just before she opens her mouth to speak, the door opens to reveal a not quite familiar face.

“Hullo, Ms. Calag.” Kimura Asagi says lamely. If he isn’t content with his transfer, he veils his displeasure well. The Artifact’s gaze is softer than his Saniwa’s. He acknowledges Basilio, Cyril, and Wulfetrud with a polite nod, but doesn’t immediately seat himself. Instead, his eyes are fixed on his shoes.

The Spiritualist waits a heartbeat, but he continues to stand and stare at the floor. She finds herself looking down to see if something is there, but she finds nothing amiss. Understanding finally dawns, and she gathers her skirts then pats the seat next to hers. “You can sit here.”

Meanwhile, Wulf notes the sheepish spirit of the new arrival. In an effort to coax the young man into the car, the girl gives her newsboy cap an amicable tip. She offers a warm, greeting smile to account for Maria’s tired disposition, “Good morning, monsieur! Come on in, we don’t bite! Well… maybe Cyril will.” It is difficult to discern who was Saniwa and Artifact between them.

“Thank you,” Kimura sheepishly says, and sits upright in a manner reminiscent of his master.

As he takes his place, Maria brings out the contents of the small box she’d received. Supplies for the battle ahead. The thought is grim, but she thinks it appropriate all circumstances considered. “Kimura Asagi, you can have these.” The Gandor pistol she hands him looks new, as if it had never been fired. “Both Basilio and I are poor shots.” She says, answering the unspoken question.

She hands the ammo right after. Thin lips harden into a line as she stares at the weapons, reluctant to give up her last means of defense, but acknowledging they’d be better in other hands. Basilio, sensing her distress, picks up their tether.

“Are you sure?”

“And on the likely chance he gets damaged if left unarmed, how do I explain myself to Kazetani? You felt it.” She could still feel the remnants of that presence; the feeling of disgust sits on her gut like lead.

Basilio shifts in his seat, equally uncomfortable with the idea of leaving his Saniwa at such risk. But she had made up her mind; her Artifact knows better than to press. Maria feels him retreat, and she grits her teeth. The last item in the box is a small packet of medicine. She pockets the amphetamine tablet, begrudgingly acknowledging the drug’s advantage.

She looks at Cyril, who’d spent most of the past few minutes reading his book. Irritation colors her voice as she threatens him. “If you keep reading, I’m going to throw that out the window and laugh while doing so.”

This earns her a faltering smile from Kimura, and he peers curiously over at the Belgian boy and his companion.

The agitated words fall flat of their target. As if to spite the petite Saniwa, Cyril’s eyes remain glued onto the pages before him. His gaze then flicks up to his co-worker, stepping out of his sect off mental bubble to regard her existence, and without missing a beat, dives back down into the scripture. “If you did that, we would be at a substantial loss, Maria.” Cyril finally said.

Brown eyes look to him in question, but no sound leaves her lips. Wulf shifts her weight onto her partner’s shoulder and cranes her neck to indulge in the book’s context. She focuses and narrows her eyes in a manner completely identical to the other reader, a habit from an evident source. “Huh. For once, he’s not closing himself off into escapism reading.” She announces with an unsettling level of earnest surprise, reading along through the pictorial passages of the compendium.

If the comment had irritated him, Cyril gives no explicit sign of it. Then again, he has definitely grown used to such playful jabs. “I am trying to find spirits that are related to Dames Blanches and have an affinity for manipulating entities,” He states coolly. While his voice gave no hint at his progress, his body language spoke volumes. With a posture shittier than usual and a few rustled blond locks, it was clear that Cyril had made little headway. One could go so far as to say that he was stumped, but his internalized pride would never allow him to say it.

“One thing is for certain, we’re definitely dealing with a B, perhaps even A class spirit here. To boot, we’re also down a couple heads.” Cyril scans over faces of the other unofficial denizens of B2, taking in their individual reactions to the crossroads before them.

At this, Kimura frowns, and looks sharply at Cyril.

“I should say, Mr. Noel, when you mention ‘down a couple heads,’ do you mean that you know what happened to the Australians?” He pauses for an instant. For a moment, he seems to vacillate about whether to press for more information. Then he turns to Maria, looking somewhat pliant, and adds, “My apologies for being so forward. But if either of you know anything, please tell me.”

As soon as he asks his question, he appears to regret it. Although Kimura carries himself with cool efficacy, he seems like a child who spoke out of turn. Ironically, Miyoshi’s absence gives the Artifact an impression of lost agency. In the short time that he became acquainted with Maria, Cyril, and their Artifacts, he displayed a surprising amount of hesitation. Kimura’s behavior is unexpectedly old-fashioned and obligation-bound, and he assumes none of his master’s contemporary flair. The old-world element to Kimura’s conduct feels natural yet his self-sufficient demeanor is mechanical. Very rapidly, he appears increasingly aware of his position, and finds the mettle to remark about the killer at large.

“Someone had already attempted to kill my master last night by sending a Revenant; that someone has not been found. My master believes we are being set up. We are at a loss, I suppose.”

He looks down at his hands gravely; his glance is not untinged with concern. While Artifacts are incapable of fatigue, Kimura seems to be suffering from the exhaustion of mind and spirit, no doubt an extension of his master’s own. The Saniwa beside him studies Kimura quietly, thin lips pressing into a hard line at both the news and his current state. It explains much, yet more questions open at the supposition.

After processing the display ranging from fraught inquisition to internalized despair, all Cyril and Wulf can visibly respond with is a few blinks.

“I don’t know whether to dogeza or seppuku.”

“Cyriiiiil, I feel like a samurai is going to bust through the door at any moment! This is the forties, right.”

Cyril clears his throat to detract himself from the mental exchange and get his mind back on the Joffre’s track. The Saniwa takes in Kazetani Junior’s familiar in an effort to determine the most pragmatic manner to proceed. The guy was without a doubt more polite than his master, lacking his shrewd outlook on reality, but seems to be substantially bound to his master’s side.

He pauses and earnestly fixates his vision on the new arrival, “Right. Neither of them can be located, and they were absent from their quarters last night,” Yet the news of a setup was rather confounding, even to somebody such as Cyril, who typically has a glass half-empty perspective of people, “Due to this revelation, we can assume that our comrades were either captured, fled, or worse…”

The Belgian’s words trickle off his tongue, like a faucet running dry, as he recedes into a momentary muse. Even Cyril feels a ping of remorse, especially after the fact that he had hoped to garner even a few iotas of advice from his senior, especially one with a comparatively decorated career. This mission was, much like for a number of his teammates, their first endeavor that carried such gravity to it. A loss on the first night, in conjunction with a supposed setup, only leaves a bad taste.

“Well, we encountered a Dame - <a Baguette Blanche> - yes, a Baguette Blanc-” Cyril narrows his eyes at his fiendish partner and deeply exhales, “We exorcised a Dames Blanche last night that could have potentially been connected to Gammond. While this observation bears some weight, what is truly of a greater importance is the spirit’s passing words,” He spoke sternly as he recounted the previous night’s events, his spine still chill to the bone after the experience, “The Pissed Former Housewife alluded to a master behind her efforts, and that this soundly moving train is doomed to burn, under the ‘weight of soul.’ Disconcerting, no?” Whether the wry comment was necessary is up in the air, but for certain, both groups experienced encounters involving a mastermind. “Does that suffice, Kimura? I am certain Maria can fill in the gaps, as I was a bit preoccupied with being thrashed around.” Visibly tired from expending the effort to divulge the information, Cyril returns to the compendium.

“Your explanation of events was adequate, though not said in the words I would have used.” Maria turns to her left, where the Artifact absorbs the information provided to him. She awaits his reaction, curious to see how much of the Kazetani is in the bashful man beside her.

“That’s quite alright, if not concerning.” Kimura murmurs, paling slightly. “But the poltergeist identified Mr.Gammond by name. It’s all so queer.”

He interlaces his slender fingers, blinking. Then, realization dawns upon him, and his breath hitches with a start. Turning to Cyril and Wulfetrud, he confides his fears. “Whoever installed that spirit means to mark us. Choosing the...Baguette—“ he pauses, coloring slightly. “...the Dames Blanche was intentional. They all speak, you see. Every Dames Blanche has two goals — to be heard and to be pleased. She’s the first messenger, and I’ve no doubt there will be more.”

He shakes his head — gently pained. “Ms. Calag. Do you have anything you wish to add?”

“Yes. Let me collect my thoughts a moment.” Though distress clearly reflects in her eyes, the Spiritualist manages to keep it out of her voice. She understands that much of the decision-making falls on her now. While not usually uncomfortable in a position of leadership, she understands the gravity of the situation. She meets their eyes one by one, though Cyril firmly decides not to meet hers while he peruses the compendium. For once, she lets him be, knowing any information he might find could be beneficial to their rather dire straits.

With her second of reprieve done, she speaks. “If she means to mark us, then Cyril, Wulf and I have long been identified as members of the House. Suffice to say our covers our blown to whoever sent her.” Maria scans the window, as if expecting to see another Blanche. “In addition to all you’ve shared, there is one last thing.”

She bites the inside of her cheek, uncertain of how to deliver the news. Straightforward would be better, she thinks. The Spiritualist straightens in her seat and closes her eyes, trying to recreate what she’d felt as she spoke. “Something’s at the back of the train, towards the tanks.” An expression of disgust tinged with trepidation forms on her face without her awareness. “I think sending Wulf and myself would be best.”

She slumps, and speaks honestly. “It scares me; the fact that it does means it should be investigated with caution. If it’s our…” Maria pauses, reluctant to say murderer. “Our target, then we have no choice but to leave it alone and follow the trail. But if it’s another party, we have to stop them from interfering.” Again, the thought of leaving Gammond to die makes her sick, but she breathes deeply to force herself to calm.

Weary from the night and the news of the set-up, she turns to Kimura once again. “I assume you weren’t just sent here to act as messenger though.” Kazetani wouldn’t send his Artifact for something so simple, and she berates herself for not realizing it earlier. “Does he need something that he thinks would require assistance?”

“Your insight is as good as Rani says. On the contrary, my master sent me here for my protection.” Kimura says easily. “Sometimes the eye of a hurricane is the best safe harbor.”

While it might not be the truth, Kimura makes a convincing display of it.

Maria’s expression speaks volumes of what she thinks of that statement. If the Artifact had been Cyril, she’d have left it at that and he’d explain himself soon enough. But this was Kimura Asagi, not the Combat Saniwa across them.

“You have more of your Saniwa in you than I thought.” The fact both irritates and amuses her, though more of the former than the latter at the moment. “But if we’re the eye, that means the wall is nearby. Kimura Asagi, what does your master want?”

“Truthfully, I wish I knew.” Kimura replies. This time, he doesn’t seem to be lying.

That earns him a wry smile from the Southern Saniwa. She pats his arm—a rare gesture of comfort and solidarity. “If he’s sent you here, I assume he expects something to happen. With that in mind,” Her tone becomes brisk. She looks to the pair in front of her, looking to Wulf in particular. “As said earlier, Wulf and I will investigate. I think it’d be best if Samael and Kimura stand as guard.”

Her thoughts stray to her own Artifact. “Basilio’s ability to discern spiritual energy exceeds my own if activated. I can send him to make rounds and see if anything is out of place.” She speaks nothing of the strain it will leave on her. If anyone thinks of it, her steely gaze is enough to stop the comment.

“For Cyril,” He does not even look up from the compendium. “He’ll remain on standby should Wulf and I require assistance. In the meanwhile, he can continue his search for information.”

The plan gives her some semblance of control of the situation; Maria grabs onto it like a lifeline. It reassures her, even if the unknowns and uncertainties continue to outnumber what they could manage. “I believe that’s it. Cyril, Kimura, what do you think?”

“It’s sensible,” says Kimura. Some surprise colors his features, but his tone conveys relief. He turns to the Belgian boy seated across from him, waiting expectantly.

Before even a flicker of awareness lights up in Cyril, another present soul takes the initiative. Wulf, who had been quietly digesting the discourse between the missing link between Saniwa and Artifact and their team leader, finally breaks from the hushed composure identical to her partner’s and pipes up, “While it is a pragmatic decision to have Basilio as insurance, I do not doubt for even a moment that someone with veterancy such as your own isn’t aware of the drain such extensive deployment would have on the mind and soul,” The girl meets the Saniwa’s gaze and reveals a warm smile befitting of a former abbess, “And if you’re going to have my back, I need both of those in one piece.”

She sounded like a nun offering advice on how to reach His grace, but that’s just the kind of sheepish yet doting combatant Wulfetrud was. Following up from this advisory, Cyril merely nods in affirmation, equally with the plan as with his Artifact’s words. It was evident that he was by far more engrossed with the scripture before him- in fact, the air around him felt charged, almost as if he was… stumped. But refusing to even budge, the designated reader read on, yet presents the self-control to shove an extra magazine Wulf’s way.

“Keep her safe.” Cyril brusquely says before delving back into the literature.

Setting

The Joffre

Characters Present

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#2018-04-25 04:24:20, as written by ༼ つ ◕_◕ ༽つ

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The rain had subsided. The sun shines bleakly through the thin curtains, beaming slits of sunlight when Claire swings the door to their room open. It surrenders easily, the knob colliding softly with the wall. The bland decor and clashing fabrics are a welcomed sight for once, giving the Irishman ample time to decompress from his earlier engagements.

What ought to have been an easy trip proved to be more of a petting zoo as Claire navigated the dining halls of the upper class car. Matches were in short supply and a source of community for smokers of any nationality and even he had to concede that they (the “they” referring to every European) were treating him better than the first night. Maybe they finally know who they’re dealing with a small part of him thought, or perhaps they merely wanted to practice their English.

Every “hallo, American man!” was met with a gruff “hey”, but the few women were met a more cheeky “what’s buzzin’, cousin?” Well, the brunette ones anyway. His own car consists mostly of men and it seems that the few women who are there are either maids, rich debutantes, or the blonde duo. Not too many interest him, but a breakfast of awkwardly conversing with the Germans (the few that weren't patrolling the cart) has helped him acclimate to showing off his humorous side.

Nonetheless it did not prepare him for what lay directly under his eyeline--a body by the name Neumann.

“Mouse what the fff-” he silences himself before turning over and closing the door.

He scurries toward Miyoshi, his hand cupping around his own mouth.

“Mouse what the fuck happened?” Claire whispers harshly as he points an open hand at the unconscious body, “don’t you think there was another way to handle...this.”

“No,” Miyoshi says, without looking up. He licks his teeth.

Claire squats down to observe the body, grabbing Neumann’s right hand.

“We’re going to have to get rid of this,” he asks, raising it to inspect the damage, “they can’t know he was here.”

“Very good. Ave Maria, I suppose.” comes Miyoshi’s lackadaisical reply. He tosses the Madonna in a single dispassionate movement.

I leave you alone for ten minutes and you knock this Nazi out cold, Claire thinks, though he can’t deny a twinkle of pride when he sees the statue tossed away in his peripheral vision.

If Miyoshi was telling the truth then they would need to act quickly to prevent themselves from being discovered or worse, having the Germans turn on them. He brushes his fingers over the broken knuckles with some curiosity as he tries to formulate what plausible explanation he might have to drum up should anyone be on the other side of the door, but finds himself at a loss. Maybe they dropped a piece of furniture on his hand while they were rearranging the room? No, the better course of action is preventing any further slip ups.

Claire chews on his lip before standing up and reaching into his pocket to pull out the compact from the previous night.

“Big Brother, you’re awfully early toda-!”

This time Claire has the foresight to preemptively clamp his hand around Mary’s mouth before whispering slowly in her ear.

“Mary I’m going to need you not to scream because there is a bad man passed out and we’re going to need you to shield this room. Now are you not going to scream when I let you go?”

A vigorous nod allows the redhead to let go before Mary darts around the room, flailing in a mixture of frustration and shock as she sees the unconscious soldier.

“That’s the bad person!” Mary hisses before covering her mouth again, “what did he do?!”

“That is what we are trying to find out,” Claire sighs, rubbing his temple, “I need you to cover this room and make sure that nobody can see or hear us. I don’t want anyone else getting hurt okay? It will be just like all those other times.”

Mary pauses for a moment, turning back at her redheaded companion. “You aren’t going to kill him are you? He’s just a human after all.”

“Don’t worry,” Claire smiles reassuringly, gesturing for the ethereal girl to float down to his level, “he will be fine. We just need to scare him a little.”

“Oh well I can do that!” Mary grins before holding her hands up like claws, “boo!”

Claire can’t hold back a chuckle. “I know you can and you are real scary but we don’t know how much he knows about us so we can’t risk him runnin’ around screaming about a ghost on the train. Next time okay?”

“Fine.” Mary folds her arms and turns away, “But just because he’s knocked out already.”

As opaque fog covers the walls of the room Claire shoves Neumann onto the nearest chair and binds the German’s hands together with his belt. Like all supplies, they were, unfortunately, in short supply of either rope or Artifact.

Don’t worry he’s a Nazi just like all the rest of ‘em. He’s more dangerous to us if he escapes,, Claire thinks to himself as he pushes the Nazi to the center of the room. He does not want to break the man’s foot, Nazi or otherwise.

He knows nothing about enacting interrogation nor does he want to. Hearing one of his former mentors talk about the mythical “third degree” of interrogation was enough to turn him off from such missions, along with the subsequent resistance training that followed his Rank A promotion.

Though his experiences with water curing, sleep deprivation, suspension and ice showers never left any scars they validated his decision to never enter the world of espionage.

The West Wind is clever like that, showing easily you can break a guy without even leaving trace, he thinks before frowning at Neumann’s broken hand.

They are far past that point now.

“Hey wake up,” Claire grunts as he lightly slaps Neumann awake.

“Herr Kazetani!” the German jolts awake only to be met with a grab.

“Hey you aren’t talkin’ to him. You’re talking to me!” Claire warns, jerking the German’s head to him, “what do you know about the contents of this train?”

From the corner of his eye, the Irishman sees Miyoshi approaching and crouching beside him, eyes glinting with a wicked curiosity.

“They are German supplies and armaments,” Neumann replies evenly, “was this not what we discussed at dinner?”

“Then...” Claire pauses for a second before standing to his full height, “let me rephrase that. What sort of people are on the train, besides the civvies, the us, the staff? Is there anyone or anything important that you Germans are holding onto?”

“There are at least fifty people on this train Herr Stanfield. I cannot be expected to know everyone’s name,” Neumann responds, “was this not what we discussed at dinner?”

“Answer the question!” Claire punches the Nazi’s stomach, “where were you after dinner ended? Did you see anyone?”

“I-“ Neumann lets out a large series of coughs before doubling over. Heavy breaths leave his mouth as he gasps for air, unable to contain himself before Claire delivers another to his jaw.

He hears a subdued shriek from the corner and internally winces but keeps his face steeled.

“I was reading Volk ohne Raum in my room. I can show you if you doubt me,” the German wheezes.

Claire narrows his eyes before pulling out a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it, taking a long drag. Clearly, a direct line of questioning is not going to work.

He isn’t creative either, not like Miyoshi.

Glancing back, the Japanese Saniwa gives Claire an expectant nod towards the chair before stepping back towards the door.

If he’s going to let me be, I’ll need to let him be, the American shivers, closing his eyes for a second. He hates that look, but he is sure he hates Neumann more.

“So you were in your room the entire time? No bathroom breaks? No late night cigars?” Claire asks, smoke billowing from the corners of his mouth.

“What-” Neumann huffs before taking another breath, “-do you want me to say? I am a lark,”

“That’s fair, I used to be an earlier riser too,” Claire admits, “how early would you say you slept? Nine? Ten?”

Neumann glances up for a second, licking the blood from his lips. He mimics his interrogator’s grim expression.

“It’s hard to remember. I only read a few pages before sleeping,”

“It must not be a good book then. Do you remember anything else about last night?” Claire inquires, leaning closer to him.

“You seem irritated, Herr Stanfield,” Neumann raises a brow, “Are you looking for something?”

In an instant, Claire pulls the cigarette from his mouth and drives it into the Nazi’s neck before it drops to the ground.

“Don’t get smart with me,” he hisses through gritted teeth, “what did you hear last night? What did you see?”

“I told you I was reading, I could hardly hear anything besides the rumbling!” Neumann exclaims, wincing from the red ring forming on his neck.

“So you heard rumbling?” Claire calms, “can you describe the rumbling?”

Neumann knits his brow, his lips in a thin line.

“There was a fair amount of thudding but I assumed they were nothing more than raucous passengers.”

“Did you hear any names?” Claire inquires, “I’m more of a faces guy so you will have to forgive me.”

“Where are you leading me Herr Stanfield?” Neumann deflects, “as I told you before I have no inkling of when I fell asleep. It could have been at any time.”

“Well do your best to remember because your next answer is going to be mighty important if you don’t want that burn on your neck to have a friend.” Claire replies as he grabs Neumann by the hair.

“I give you my word,” Neumann sighs, rolling his wrists against his bindings.

“Try feeding him a tab,” Miyoshi smirks. “Just my guess.”

Claire raises a brow before his face lights up in realization. He lets go and reaches a hand into his overcoat pocket. Pulling out a tin box, he pops the cover to reveal several white tablets.

“Have you seen these before Neumann?” Claire asks, holding up one of Miyoshi’s pills to Neumann’s line of sight.

“This is your big question? I thought you had something more important in mind Stanfield,” Neumann responds before narrowing his eyes, “I am not one for foreign med-. ”

“If you want to keep breathing you’ll do your best to swallow,” Claire snaps, shoving the pill into the soldier’s mouth and clamping his jaw shut.

With his other hand pinching Neumann’s nostrils Claire’s hands remain taut as his eyes move toward the tied man’s throat. Miyoshi watches his partner with a bizarre sense of adoration, keeping his eyes fastened on Claire’s moving fingers.

As a lump slides down his throat, the Irishman forces the German’s mouth open.

“Tongue up,” Claire orders, inspecting Neumann’s mouth for any traces of white.

Were it not for Claire’s fingers in the German’s mouth he likely would have heard Neumann saying “I told you I would keep my word”, but instead both of them settle for waiting until the redhead slinks his away out of Neumann.

For once he keeps silent, crossing his arms as he watches Neumann for any movement.

I hope he is right about this, Claire thinks as he glances at his partner, he can’t keep doing this.

As much as he despises Miyoshi’s usage of the soul tablets he knows that now is not the time to be glad he is one step closer to depletion, especially when they are still in danger.

Turning back to Neumann, low breathing turns to deep gasps of air as he beings shaking against his bindings. As his shoulders popped and legs trembled as small movements turned into large, jerking convulsions.

A cry of pain erupts as the Nazi topples over, curling and unfurling at the stomach.

“What did you-”

“Karl Neumann!” Claire exclaims, as if to drown out the sobbing in the background, “Nazi soldier, German, and judging by your reaction a Saniwa.”

A fit of coughs only seems to confirm his, truly Miyoshi’s theory as Claire walks over to the prone soldier and gives him two kicks to the abdomen.

“How many corpses are in the cargo hold Neumann?” he yells as pulls the chair upright, “we know that there are revenants on this train!”

Neumann suppresses another cough, drool pooling down his uniform. “That has nothing to do with me. I am here strictly on military act-!”

Before he can finish, a cry of pain escapes his lips as another punch hits his stomach.

“Don’t lie to me,” Claire commands as he takes hold of the Nazi soldier’s collar, “Miyoshi may have broken one hand but you still a whole body.”

Neumann hitches his breath.

“If you were just here on orders you wouldn’t have popped into our room and my partner wouldn’t have had to defend himself now would he?” Claire asks, hitting Neumann square in the jaw.

“I…” the German grits his teeth, head swaying from a mixture of the drug and the swirling in his stomach.

“Who is reanimating those corpses Neumann?”

“I-” He holds his breath but is unable to stop the flood that exits his mouth. The smell of blood and acid fills the air as Neumann retches across his lap. As the color drains from his face, his body slumps over, intoxicated by the strain and the bruises blooming across his body.

“Son of a bitch!” Claire curses, recoiling to avoid the mess. He kicks the chair down, knocking Neumann to the floor before delivering a swift kick to the top of the German’s bowed head.

First he deflects, then he lies, and now he has the audacity to vomit all over him?

“Get. Back Here. And. Answer. The. Question!” Claire huffs, kicking the Nazi harder with each word.

You have to be kidding me, we were so close! Claire groans, his hands balling and unfurling.

He turns around for a brief second but finds no reprieve in the calm Miyoshi whose smarmy grin only widened.

If there were a way for him to punch Neumann back to consciousness he would be all for it. Unfortunately, those unaccustomed to soul tablets are not so lucky and most certainly (Claire bites his lip) he had gone too far in driving the answer out of Neumann.

Perhaps today is just another day for the Spiritualist and IJA member but his throbbing knuckles and acrid arm are no more glorious than Drusilla or even the Nazi he beat senseless only moments before. To what end did he need to keep kicking him when a single soul tablet ultimately gave them their answer?

He glances back to find Mary’s fog still present yet her figure is nowhere to be seen nor her voice despite the earlier attempts to block it out.

“Mary are you still here?” Claire whispers, only to be met with silence.

“Mary we’ve got everything we need. You don’t need to keep shielding the room,” he tries once more.

“Why, Big Brother?” the young ghost squeaks out, “you never told me what he did.”

“I told you he’s a bad man.” Claire as he reaches for the ghost’s compact. “He isn’t one of us. I was trying to-”

“You were being a bully!” Mary yells, finally reappearing, “you said he was a Saniwa too like you and Uncle Miyoshi!”

“That doesn’t mean he’s on our side!” Claire presses his lips together before producing a weak smile, “Please, everything is over now so you can rest easy.”

He opens the small, pink compact only for Mary to float into the leftmost corner of the room.

“No! I don’t want to go back with you! You killed the revenant and now you killed him too!” Mary sobs.

“Neumann isn’t dead Mary, he’s...” Claire trails off, opting to to open the mirror and setting it away from him, “you don’t need to come with me but I do need you to go back inside. We still don’t know who else is on this train and I don’t want you to get hurt. I swear it’s for your own good..”

“How can I trust you?” she shrieks, “how do I know that you won’t just smash it like you did to him?”

“You’re right,” Claire sighs, “I’m not trustworthy, but I would never do something like that. You are a sister to me. Everything I’ve done I’ve done to protect you...because I care about you. I promise I won’t ask for anything else I won’t even touch you. You’ll stay in here until the mission is over and I will hand you over to someone...who isn’t a bully. Someone better.”

Not waiting for an answer, he walks to the opposite edge of the room before turning around and holding his hands up. For what feels like an eternity he hears nothing until a chills whip past his neck and the temperature undulates through the room.

Perhaps he ought to have let Mary take the reins on this mission.

After Claire hears the compact snap shut, he moves to pick it up and drops it on his bed before approaching Neumann’s drenched form.

Despite the shallow breaths indicating signs of life, Claire hardly feels any less remorse or disgust while digging through the unconscious, odious man’s pockets. Cigarettes, wet matches, a gun, a deck of cards, all standard fare for a soldier.

Laying the items out on the desk, he frowns and spreads the deck apart, fingers moving from card to card before finally pushing out a King of Hearts that appeared a bit thicker than the rest.

At first glance it appears to be a defect yet the rip in the corner tells him otherwise. Peeling away at the back of the card, Claire finally lets out a gasp as he pulls out a small red card with a black border.

“Hey Mouse, what does this mean to you?” the redhead asks, holding the card up to full view.

Two chrysanthemums and a purple ribbon across the center.

At first, the Japanese man does not speak. Claire sees Miyoshi’s fist curl and unfurl.

“Hanafuda group,” Miyoshi says, voice thick with something other than blood and bile. “They are here. We are not the only Saniwa organization aboard this train.”

At this, Miyoshi falls into his usual muffled, breathy laughter. He’s shaking, and for all their years of friendship, Claire cannot fathom if the laughter stems from insanity or mirth.

“See,” the Spiritualist finishes, wiping a palm across his mouth. “We’ve captured one.”

Seen 30 Times • Page 2 of 2 • 1, 2