Muraki Kazutaka (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
letsplaysurgeon) wrote2011-01-24 11:35 pm
letsplaysurgeon) wrote2011-01-24 11:35 pm
Case 001 [Action/Written] (Backdated before the event)
[This wasn’t happening.
This wasn’t happening because it wasn’t what he planned. He was only supposed to be “dead” for a short period of time, hibernating while the pieces clicked into place for Tsuzuki and the boy. Not long enough for the Queen Camellia to dock and allow someone to throw his body out. And no one had the audacity. Perhaps the shinigami, but he couldn’t have been unconscious long enough for the Queen Camellia to dock.
…It also didn’t begin to explain why he was standing barefoot and freezing in a foot of snow in early July. Or the wings. Yes, he found the wings.
The only thing that leveled his disapproving gaze from his new back ornaments was the flicker of something unfamiliar in his peripheral vision. A short distance from where he woke up, half-buried in the snow was a book. He blinks a couple times in sequence, as though double-checking his vision. Someone redressed him, dumped his body in the woods with a pair of tacky wings, but was kind enough to leave him with some reading material. All right then.
He doesn’t know what possesses him to approach the book, let alone pick it up and open it, other than the grim humor that clung to him like a viscous tree sap. And he has a message for the one responsible for this, should they return to the scene of the crime.]
To whom it may concern:
Thank you so much for the relocation: it was a bit stuffy in my room. How considerate of you to give me a breath of fresh air.
I can only assume that this is a joke, or an attempt to stop me, either way it’s pathetic. I will be leaving now. [Never mind how he was going to make it back to the ship from wherever he was.] And you had better hope that your diversion hasn’t wasted my time.
In the meantime, I strongly recommend that you invest in finer clothing. It’s offensive to be thrown about in these cheap pants.
[And he drops the book like a hallucinating surgeon drops the pancreas that they believe is a purple tentacle monster with the ability to spit corrosive acid. The book lands on its spine and flutters open at his feet, but he’s forgotten all about it. He lifts his arm to reach around his abdomen and tug at the first feather he could reach, and the resulting pain makes his head rush, like it was wrapped in nerves. But his brain cannot—no, he refuses to process that the stupid thing was a part of him. He clenches his teeth, and the more he tries to ignore it, the more his vision stabs and his grip trembles, and he has to make a choice between his bad mood and his threshold for pain.
Finally he lets go: undeterred, just twice as agitated. He still hadn’t recovered completely from the strychnine. He was just going to have to try again after he regained his strength—and acquired the proper medical tools.]
This wasn’t happening because it wasn’t what he planned. He was only supposed to be “dead” for a short period of time, hibernating while the pieces clicked into place for Tsuzuki and the boy. Not long enough for the Queen Camellia to dock and allow someone to throw his body out. And no one had the audacity. Perhaps the shinigami, but he couldn’t have been unconscious long enough for the Queen Camellia to dock.
…It also didn’t begin to explain why he was standing barefoot and freezing in a foot of snow in early July. Or the wings. Yes, he found the wings.
The only thing that leveled his disapproving gaze from his new back ornaments was the flicker of something unfamiliar in his peripheral vision. A short distance from where he woke up, half-buried in the snow was a book. He blinks a couple times in sequence, as though double-checking his vision. Someone redressed him, dumped his body in the woods with a pair of tacky wings, but was kind enough to leave him with some reading material. All right then.
He doesn’t know what possesses him to approach the book, let alone pick it up and open it, other than the grim humor that clung to him like a viscous tree sap. And he has a message for the one responsible for this, should they return to the scene of the crime.]
To whom it may concern:
Thank you so much for the relocation: it was a bit stuffy in my room. How considerate of you to give me a breath of fresh air.
I can only assume that this is a joke, or an attempt to stop me, either way it’s pathetic. I will be leaving now. [Never mind how he was going to make it back to the ship from wherever he was.] And you had better hope that your diversion hasn’t wasted my time.
In the meantime, I strongly recommend that you invest in finer clothing. It’s offensive to be thrown about in these cheap pants.
[And he drops the book like a hallucinating surgeon drops the pancreas that they believe is a purple tentacle monster with the ability to spit corrosive acid. The book lands on its spine and flutters open at his feet, but he’s forgotten all about it. He lifts his arm to reach around his abdomen and tug at the first feather he could reach, and the resulting pain makes his head rush, like it was wrapped in nerves. But his brain cannot—no, he refuses to process that the stupid thing was a part of him. He clenches his teeth, and the more he tries to ignore it, the more his vision stabs and his grip trembles, and he has to make a choice between his bad mood and his threshold for pain.
Finally he lets go: undeterred, just twice as agitated. He still hadn’t recovered completely from the strychnine. He was just going to have to try again after he regained his strength—and acquired the proper medical tools.]
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