letsplaysurgeon: (Finds this quite amusing)
[Due to the recent disclosure from the last experiment, Muraki no longer feels the need to hide his voice--even from the ones who know about him. His tone is warm and casual, as if he didn't realize there isn’t a filter over his post. Or that he was the type of gent who didn't need a filter because he was a good banana, through and through.]

It's difficult not to notice the recent stream of newcomers over the journal system and in the village. Salutations are in order, as you will be staying here for quite some time. And don't be offended if I don't refer to you collectively as "New Feathers." [As it sounds like something a four-year old came up with.] ...But I will welcome you. I'm Muraki Kazutaka, a doctor that has settled into the local clinic. It is always open if you ever need anything. And of course I offer my own services in any way that I can.

[He stops for a moment, and noise can be heard in the background: a sharp metallic click, and then a steady release of breath. He lights a cigarette and proceeds to smoke while he talks.] If this place has anything going for it, it's the variety of medicine that different people bring with them. I've seen practices similar to my own, and some that my colleagues back home would consider crude, if not primitive.

I have to wonder, with this irrefutable evidence of other universes, if perhaps there is a world where medicine has advanced to the level that I had always dreamed of: one that is past sickness and death. [A offhanded chuckle.] Or perhaps that would only cause sickness to evolve the way a mouse finds a way to outsmart the updated mouse trap.

[Despite the nature of his journal entry, Muraki spends very little time at the clinic that day. He leaves after a few hours and goes by the flower shop, picking up a bouquet of light pink roses and brings them back to his apartment. They are arranged with care in a vase next to his bed, on the side that he rarely sleeps on.

He doesn't care much for the heat wave, or the sensation of his clothes sticking to his skin like an envelope. He stays inside until the late evening, when it cools--and it's more likely he'll run into the one he is most interested in seeing. 

Muraki was more of a night owl, anyway.]
letsplaysurgeon: (Someone needs to clean that wall)
[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.]

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Muraki Kazutaka

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