Description: [Personnel] Lit by the fantastic cityscape below, Ryouhara visits a young woman with grand dreams in her abode. How far would such a woman go to become a queen? Can she sacrifice all that is necessary for her own sake? Some of us are not satisfied with one goal. Some of us want.. everything.
With the day passed, night inevitably begins to descend upon Southtown, blanketing the city in a veil of darkness. And with the encroaching darkness, the city begins to crawl to life, the weekend bringing out more night owls than usual into the city streets. A buzz hums across Southtown, vehicles and pedestrians alike adding to the cacophony that gives the city its pulse of life.
But not everyone opts for precisely that. There are some who, rather than enjoy what odd delights the evening draws out of the veins of Southtown, choose instead to stay indoors and simply enjoy the night that swallows the light of day.
It is perhaps odd that someone such as Shihong Mao does precisely that. A woman who has made a name of sorts for herself in various circles, both underground and in plain sight, staying indoors to enjoy a quiet evening is indeed a deviation from the usual norm.
Her idea of a quiet evening is quite simple, really. In a luxurious penthouse apartment high above the city in a well-to-do end of downtown, the woman currently occupies herself in the kitchenette, a tea kettle quietly set upon the sleek glass top stove before a small bag of green tea is idly deposited within before the lid is set atop. Carelessly, the Chinese woman leaves the kitchen in favor of the adjacent living room area.
She lives a life of luxury. The apartment is spacious and sparsely decorated; the colors of choice blacks and whites, with only the faintest hints of red to give it some semblance of color. What furnishes of the flora and fauna kind are present bloom only in red. Naturally, her living area--and much of the apartment at that--is adorned with finest and most expensive of electronics. The wall-bound television is massive; it's a miracle it doesn't fall from its mount.
But the woman seems blissfully ignorant of her posh habits. Instead, the woman eases herself onto her sofa and sets herself up before a coffee table, where a small, sleek black laptop sits. Opening the device, she offers a tiny grin to herself as it begins to boot up. Contented and pleased, she gets up once more, adjusting the light weather black sweater jacket she wears as the kettle whistles, moving for the kitchen to tend to it.
Another nice, quiet evening with her tea and the internet. What could possibly go wrong?
Naturally. Life is ephemeral. We are only ourselves; everything else, no matter how well protected, well hidden, can be removed by the hand of a God as long as it exists under his eye. An earthquake, just now, could take every element, every last scrap of crushed velvet and silk, every last bit of porcelain, away. Fortunately for Shihong Mao, fate smiles, and she is not entirely a chaste maiden.
A penthouse, full paid through the month. All of the spacious creature comforts that we as humans could enjoy. The air, crisp and regulated, warm like a Christmas morning spent inside. Despite the obliviousness of some to the idolatry of modern living this lovely world represents, there are some, whom lurk in the darkest spaces beyond the reach and beyond the eye of even God, who can appreciate it.
The kettle slides from the black circle indicating the burner.
Despite being one of those men, Ryouhara Seishirou..cannot.
With a noise that cannot be missed once actually heard, the large throne-like wheelchair esconces the shinobi in technology not of a dollar's surmise, but his own mind. The kettle, once it calls for its owner, it would only be prudent out of the respect for this young charge's living space that he at least... mind the tea.
All the same, Seishirou is here, with not a undone latch, nor a forced door to indicate any particular entrance he has made. Especially in the godawful contraption he calls a conveyance. When Shihong comes for her tea, it is with some sort of eerie precognizance that he has already laid the saucers and set cups into them. Her own, it should be said, but not detectably from any just-disturbed cupboard or mantle.
He acts as if he's been here all along.
"Good evening," he greets, quietly.
Bare feet move quietly across plush white carpet, the tiniest of grins haunting red lips. She has no care in the world, as she heeds the shrill cry of her tea kettle and the tea waiting for her. The laptop can wait--for now, she needs to pour a glass and ready to settle in for a nice, comfortable and care-free evening.
...if only it were that simple.
The moment her bare feet touch down on cold tile flooring, there's an odd expression that finds itself sliding over her pale face. A distance sound draws her attention, a noise with which she is far from familiar with. Her brow rises slowly, thoughtfully...
When the woman finally appears at the edge of the kitchen area, where the stove meets a parallel counter area lining the island separating the kitchenette from the den, there is a sight most odd, most curious to greet her black eyes. There is a young man here.
And he's in wheelchair.
In her penthouse.
And she didn't notice him.
Like the slow crawl of shadows in the light of day, a brow lifts gradually up her face, crooking slightly as the woman before him just...stares. Nary a word escapes her lips, nor do black eyes drift aside, to take note of the readied tea politely prepared by the 'terrorist' ninja seated before her. Indeed, this was not expected, nor was this any part of the quiet evening she had in mind for herself.
"Well, hi," the woman ultimately replies.
Almost immediately, her eyes narrow, but not out of spite, or even distrust. Instead, the woman grins.
"You must be Seishirou Ryouhara."
Lifting her arms from her sides, Shihong lets them fold comfortably across her chest, her weight casually shifting from one foot to the other, black eyes mirthful as she regards the chair-bound ninja with an eye of scrutiny.
"I mean this with no offense, so you'll have to forgive me if this SOUNDS a little crass or rude, but...
"This is not how I expected to meet you, mister Ryouhara." She pauses, idly biting at her bottom lip.
"Your condition, that is." A sigh escapes her, black eyes drawing to a thoughtful close.
Seishirou aww
He vocalizes simply. "Saa." From the ease in his voice, he has no concern of Shihong's observation. However crass it may have been presumed to be in polite company. He fills the teacups, fingers still worked into fighting gloves, only the slightest bit calloused. His hands are not worn and scarred from years of fighting like the hands of some, no. It is from years of handling a wrench and driver, not simply a blade. Years of hard work and construction is the tale his hands tell. Contrary, his manner with the tea is as delicate as the porcelain which receives it.
Despite that manner, Shihong Mao does not keep polite company this moment.
"It is a favor I grant those whom believe," he explains of the contraption he rests in, which even now spews obscene sounds at the edge of hearing, whispers of arcane things better left to horror stories. Even so, his words explain nothing. Having prepared it sweetly, the tea he offers Mao will offer answers even fewer, but has the favor of being at the least a scant comfort.
"It is the way of shinobi," he apologizes briefly to go with the tea. "... If you were expecting to meet me at all, that is." It is a question open to his own irreverent interpretation, but instead of any number of hypothesis, he leaves it there, for Shihong to think on.
And regale him.
And as he serves the tea, Shihong Mao merely observes. And as the woman observes, she wonders still how he managed to slip so easily and undetected into her home. How did he invade the privacy of her sanctuary without so much as a single sound? He IS a ninja, but is he really THAT good?
"A favor?" the woman wonders aloud, breaking her silence and offering a tiny, almost demure sort of smile. "For those whom believe?" The noisy contraption goes ignored for the most part, save for a stray, occasional glance or two. Only when the tea is offered to her is she accepting, taking the porcelain glass into her hands. A light sip of its contents is given shortly after without hesitation.
"Admittedly, you're only the second ninja or shinobi I've met," she offers with another grin. "That I'm aware I've met, anyway." She knows not the ways and methods of the ninja. Theirs is a culture otherwise lost to the Chinese Southsynd enforcer. "But, regardless, it's still a pleasure nonetheless, mister Ryouhara."
"As for expecting...well, I had hoped the chance." A long pause follows, a thoughtful sip of her tea taken before she lets the glass pull from her lips, black eyes half-lidding in mild amusement. Regarding Seishirou with another smile, she faintly tips her head.
"You did quite a number on my employer, I must admit. But if memory serves me, there was more to it than what the public was aware of..?" A pensive gaze is directed to the shinobi, the silence which follows waiting, almost begging, for an answer.
Seishirou has long since proven his ability to enter into areas he's not allowed. Despite the paradox of being able to move around undetected in a wheelchair of that size, he is there, regardless. One could guess, from looking at the device, that the wheelchair might in fact itself have something to do with it.
"Exactly," Seishirou responds ambiently, lashes flicking slow as he blinks. "There are some who prefer the facade to the reality," he explains further. "And ... who am I to disappoint?" He raises a hand. "After all. Is that not the function for which even you are so subtly placed? Preserving the illusion, that is." He looks up to the overhead lights, warm as they are.
"Did you now..?" He asks, but soon he finds himself with an answer. "The command of that week's festivities was all a ruse to draw the master out. However, even that in itself is a facade. Were you not told. . . ?"
A thin, white smile.
His chuckle is almost unnerving. Subtle and low, he gestures, setting his own cup in the white fabric folded across his lap. "An open violation of Geese's chain of command.. would have been an excellent reason to purge some of the fat from his payroll.. to find those dissenters... to overall emphasize his command. Would it not?" An audit of personnel. Loyal vs. unloyal. An assassination attempt on Geese could have easily had spawned all this.
"It was unfortunate that I am no longer able to use Saturday Night Fight for my own means. But it was an opportunity that demanded the expense of a resource. However temporary it might be."
He sips.
"Your still being alive would suggest you are trusted within his empire," Seishirou guesses, offhand.
Seishirou has long since proven his ability to enter into areas he's not allowed. Despite the paradox of being able to move around undetected in a wheelchair of that size, he is there, regardless. One could guess, from looking at the device, that the wheelchair might in fact itself have something to do with it.
"Exactly," Seishirou responds ambiently, lashes flicking slow as he blinks. "There are some who prefer the facade to the reality," he explains further. "And ... who am I to disappoint?" He raises a hand. "After all. Is that not the function for which even you are so subtly placed? Preserving the illusion, that is." He looks up to the overhead lights, warm as they are.
"Did you now..?" He asks, but soon he finds himself with an answer. "The command of that week's festivities was all a ruse to draw the master out. However, even that in itself is a facade. Were you not told. . . ?"
A thin, white smile.
His chuckle is almost unnerving. Subtle and low, he gestures, setting his own cup in the white fabric folded across his lap. "An open violation of Geese's chain of command.. would have been an excellent reason to purge some of the fat from his payroll.. to find those dissenters... to overall emphasize his command. Would it not?" An audit of personnel. Loyal vs. unloyal. An assassination attempt on Geese could have easily had spawned all this.
"It was unfortunate that I am no longer able to use Saturday Night Fight for my own means. But it was an opportunity that demanded the expense of a resource. However temporary it might be."
He sips.
"Your still being alive would suggest you are trusted within his empire," Seishirou guesses, offhand.
His words earn him no response--none immediately, at least. Instead the Chinese woman sips her tea lightly, pausing every so often to glance down into the cup and its contents therein. Can she trust a shinobi? A terrorist wanted around the world? And what would a terrorist-shinobi want with a woman such as Mao? A woman in the employ of Howard himself?
A tiny grin edges its way across her red lips.
"Indeed, I am, if that is how you wish to put it," the woman replies, setting the glass down on the countertop. Immediately after black eyes lift, peering intently at the chair-bound man before her. "As for the 'festivities,' yes I am aware of what happened. Howard implied once that things are not as they seem between you two. Or so I am led to believe, at least."
A pause follows as the woman's lips purse, a thin red line drawn over her pale face as long nails tap absently against porcelain. However, at mention of 'open violation' the woman's eyes hood ever so slightly, discreetly as she regards Ryouhara. She does not question her loyalties to Geese.
Ever.
"Of course," the woman replies, a smile crawling over her lips as she regards the chair-bound Ryouhara. "But what is your point, I wonder..?"
His lips move for a moment before he elects to speak.
His hand settles in his lap, the saucer in it. "No. No they are not."
His words vague, but pregnant with the flow of secrecy and meaning. It is not something he'd find reason enough to confirm as yet. There are some deals whose exact meaning even a silken tongued woman like Shihong Mao could ply from the Ryouhara scion. Sharp, his eyes settle against Shihong's own. While she works words to find meaning, only his eyes are needed for the latter. He is an experienced study in body language. Silence is enough for him in this moment.
The absence of words... is telling.
"What is my point? ... you should know, by now..." He settles the cup in the saucer. Delicately balancing the thing in his lap, his hand is now free, brushing strands of silken black out of his field of vision to set at the edge of his jawline. "You are a transporter for the Syndicate," he states, coolly revealing information -- words that only the privileged and the damned know. Seishirou is a little of both. "You move things no one should ever know about."
"Even still... You're a little more than that. Aren't you?"
Ryouhara settles back into the whirring contraption, taking up the cup and saucer again. He seems to change tacks, between sips. His eyes shut as he savors. "... How is servitude in Heaven treating you, these days?"
He speaks simple words, but they are enough to draw a razor-thin smile over red lips.
Of course they aren't. Ryouhara is as secretive a man as Howard, however different their ambitions and methods of secrecy may be. But that's what makes everything so delightfully interesting. Delicate hands hold onto the teacup, as she draws it gently to her lips. A soft sip follows, as black eyes meet the cold, sharp gaze of Ryouhara.
Will he humor her with a response? Or will he remain the silent, mysterious invader?
Fortunately for the Syndicate enforcer, he chooses to reply. As he speaks she listens closely, her dark gaze fixed still on the wheelchair-bound shinobi. He pegs her as she is: a Syndicate transporter. "Yes, I am," she replies. "And yes, I do." It's a living--one she finds herself enjoying. But what of such easily-obtained knowledge of Shihong Mao..?
She's a little more than that though, isn't she?
His words draw a brow lightly over a solitary black eye, a dull flicker of red haunting her gaze as she observes the odd shinobi. Of course she is, in belief of herself, as well as reality. Someday she'll reach that top. She has the talent to do so...
Her thoughts are distracted as Ryouhara siderails.
"It serves me well. I cannot really complain about my station in life at this time," she offers, her teacup lingering at her lips. Her eyes draw shut as she holds it there.
"The shadows seem to serve you well, Ryouhara." The Chinese woman takes a sip of her tea. "Are those shadows what brought you here..?" Another pause follows as black eyes slowly open, regarding the terrorist-shinobi.
"You...do not seem the sort to do things--anything--without some purpose. What would interest would you have in a lowly Syndicate member such as myself, anyway?"
The confirmation of his recant is only met with the droll glance of a young boy being told things he already knows. Though Seishirou is a young man by every measure of the term, at the median of life, his face is a curious study of contrasts. The age of someone who has understood things far earlier than he should have often knits his brow, but today, Ryouhara seems but a young thing for moments, nodding idly at her words.
It is only til she asks after his purpose that any light at all lifts the boy's lids.
A chill thing, his curiosity. Often clinical, but as he taps the saucer at his lap it seems almost a nervous thing, wound tight with energy that belies the lazing shinobi in his chair. For a moment, he is engaged, and Shihong is treated to the full basking glow of his capriciousness.
"The interest I have is of your strength... Mao."
He says it in plain words, as if it is the simplest thing in the world.
"Potential is a difficult thing to find in today's decadent age... people become self assured of the superiority of their own way. And few become mentally engaged any further than that. They stagnate. And then they die. It is the curse of a safe and secure world. Would you agree?"
"'Shihong Mao' is the name in a scroll of mine. A requisite person whom I have studied. Requisite for the simplest of tasks. I would ask her to leave that safe and secure world which treats her so richly. To delve into those.. shadows."
He grins. He says nothing of recompense. It is as if he seeks to find Shihong's limit. To present her with a thought that would shake the dreams of any man or woman he presented it to. No sane person would find that much a simple question. For him, that wretched place of waken nightmare is a beauty. Revelling in places where the light does not reach, he asks Shihong simply that: come with him.
He asks merely to see if she will say yes.
For some, that age is a median.
But for a blessed few, it is much farther.
For as young as Ryouhara appears, he is far more than he seems.
But anyone who knows of his exploits would know that. He is notorious the world over, after all. The things he has done are not the things one would expect from a man his age. But he has done them, his reputation well-earned. Shihong Mao recognizes this, not only because her employer also recognizes this, but because it is truly impressive.
Holding fast to her cup of tea, the pale-faced woman offers little more than a raise of her brows as he speaks. He is interested in her strength, he says. It is as she figured, since her meeting with the equally-mysterious meeting with the terrorist-shinobi's inline-skate wearing companion in that rainy alley.
Lifting the glass, the woman takes a sip as the shinobi speaks. Carefully she considers his words, black eyes looking beyond the gaze of Ryouhara as he explains his motives to the enforcer. Certain his words are true. How can she get faster, better and stronger if she stays where she is, comfortably numb to potential?
She had no intentions of stagnating, but it's a very real threat, she decides.
"The shadows, you say," the woman replies quietly, the grin on his face carefully noted. Slowly her eyes begin to lid, drawing to a patient close as that cup rests against her rouge-colored lips. Out of the light and into the shadows, from comfort into the unknown. But there she can get stronger...
"An interesting prospect, mister Ryouhara. But what could I bring into the shadows..? What would you ask of me?"
Ryouhara is in middraught as Shihong speaks, the Chinese woman's words reaching him as he savors the delicate flavors and aromatics. The sip is forsaken in light of that gentle pull of flow past his lips. One eye remains ever open, thick lashes revealing only a sliver of white broken with the dark pool of his black eye holding Mao in regard. It is not a matter of distrust, not that and by a sight and a forth not hardly.
No, Mao's train of thought interests him.
She does not rebuke him. Subtlety is something she understands well, it would seem. Her lack of distress, her lack of fear at the unrequited nightmare he presents.. is magnificent.
The tea settles in his lap, supported beneath both hands this time, as he has noted it cools faster if he allows it merely to sit and nothing more. "It has been so long since I have enjoyed tea with such a woman," he comments. Nonsequiteur to the conversation, it seems only a vanity of Ryouhara's memory, intent for him and his interest, no one else.
"Your loyalty," is all Ryouhara states of that much.
"I intend to build a new country. One that spans every border, every sea. For that, I require people who will transcend the banal class of 'enforcer.' .. People who will be agents. Soldiers of that new world." He settles back into the contraption. "For such a transition, a certain level of patriotism is required. Loyalty to the new world's goals, and respect for her boundaries. That is the price for the world that I will give to you."
"What will I ask of you?" he repeats idly, his glance on his cup.
The tea within begins to simmer anew in his grasp.
"That much is simple. I will ask everything of you. Nothing more."
As Shihong interests the infamous Ryouhara, the wanted shinobi interests her in kind.
Tipping her head slightly, the woman lets the glass hover near her lips, long pale fingers gently wound around the porcelain grip. Can she trust someone like the mysterious Seishirou Ryouhara not with her life, or her well being, but her strength? To consider following him into the shadows he inhabits? Can something like talent, skill and strength--power--really blossom in darkness?
This shinobi before her surely has. But she isn't Seishirou...
When he speaks, the woman offers a breathy laugh, her head bowing gently toward her glass in hand. "And this is the first time I've enjoyed tea with a wanted man like yourself, mister Ryouhara." The glass tips, a silence following as she enjoys the warmth of her drink. He elaborates, as the woman sips her tea.
He speaks big words. Loyalty. Dreams of a new world. Patriotism. Respect.
For the longest, Shihong Mao is silent--but hers is far from an empty silence. Instead, the air is rife with thought, curiosity brewing, the air thick as she stands with closed eyes and tea in hand, her head bowed a touch forward.
"In China, they say that the sly rabbit will have three openings to her den." A pause follows.
"To succeed in life, one must have several alternatives." Black eyes open, shifting toward the chair-bound shinobi. "In truth, I mind not my station as 'enforcer' with the Syndicate. It has been kind to me, being in the employ of Howard. But..." But.
"The room for potential to grow is difficult." A coy grin edges over her lips. The glass of tea is lifted, another sip taken before she sets the now-empty glass down on the cabinet nearby.
"I can offer much to you, I know that much. Certainly I do; you've come to seek me out personally. For this I am flattered, mister Ryouhara." A bow of her head is briefly offered before she resumes, a smile lingering on red lips. "I can respect strength, and I do. I respect others' dreams, their ambitions and desires, so long as they do not step on mine or my personal progress." Another pause.
"If I can benefit from others' dreams, and if they want me to, I will gladly do so. You offer much to me, with your ambitions. I can grow stronger, more skillful. I won't lie, mister Ryouhara. My desire is to become strong. To make something of myself and that skill. To reap the benefits that those who are strong in this day and age. I want to be like them. Power, respect, honor and," A coy, almost playful smirk edges over her lips.
"Wealth."
Shifting her weight, the woman walks past the chair-bound terrorist, toward a wide, expansive window overlooking the city. It's a far cry from the view one has from atop Geese Tower, sure. But it's a start. There does the woman pause, her back exposed fearlessly to the sly man behind her.
"As I said, a sly rabbit has three openings to her den. Currently, I am in Howard's employ. I enjoy it, and I feel that to abandon that is the wrong path. However, since you and mister Howard have a sort-of alliance...well,"
A glance is spared over her shoulder as she smiles.
"If you do not mind me serving two lords, then I will gladly offer you my services, as a soldier...should you truly desire it."
Wealth is a heady power. A thing even kings desire. In the tawdry world of economy and wealth, a number assigned to a name is the closest thing the weak have to being strong. Cash is a thing necessary even for Ryouhara, who has countless millions squirrelled away as part of his engine of revolution. For costs .. gladly paid.
"...."
She speaks, and the young man hears her--she moves past him to witness the expanse of Southtown, but it is not an image Ryouhara elects to sample as willingly as she, darkness veiling his face beneath chin-length waves of black.
Wealth.. is a lofty goal. But Mao wants not just that, but to enjoy everything the world can give her. A hedonism at its best. Some of us aspire to be meritorious beings to fit in with the world's perception of goodwill and chastity. Others aspire to become wretched to reflect the world's judgment upon them. Some of us seek the night.. because it entices them. But then, some climb. Ever higher.
Sipping some of the last rudiments of his tea, the ninkou priest's brow doesn't even hitch when she explains her needs and the allowance begged of him. The calm set of his lip. The slow, calculated hood of his lash, a glance to his side halfly--not to her, but to the finery of the teapot. In that moment, a bargain is made.
"No." The everpresent sway of the negative. "No such thing."
"It is not a trouble for me. You will have no conflict from that which does not exist. The only command that exists for you is the ideal of the new world. It is not a thing that you can necessarily have love for as I... but it is what will command your loyalty. Not I. But even a rising sun has need of flawless service. Allegiance is no less vital to it, for it is a precious thing to me. That is the requirement. Tread not on that dream of a new country.."
He finishes his tea, hot as it is, in one final draught.
For Ryouhara, wealth... is only another weapon.
"..I will execute without thought if she is risked by treason."
A bargain is made, but with the ninja accept her offer?
Yes, she will give him an able and more than capable body for his 'army,' his force that will someday shape and create the new world and vision he sees--his revolution. She can offer him something of worth, and he too offers something of relative worth. But there's a catch; isn't there always a catch?
A black eye flickers red, like a dying coal finding its last breath in a smoldering fire. The terrorist-shinobi is observed in that fateful moment. Her request was bold, to ask a man offering her much for just a little bit more than that. A distant part of her expects to hear him say no. To decline. Would he resort to violence?
She doesn't think he'd waste his time.
But his response...is perhaps unanticipated. Discreet is the look of surprise in her gaze, but it is quickly smothered in favor of a tiny and demure smile, eyes--now again black--half-lidded as she regards the much-wanted and desired ninja. It's precisely what she had hoped to hear, and it alone makes her smile grow a fraction.
"Understood then, mister Ryouhara. Your dream and your ideals will not be tread upon. I will offer my services to you--to that ideal--as necessary. Consider me allied to you and that dream, despite my loyalties invested in the Syndicate. I do not fear that either will get in the way of the other."
His threat, however, gives the woman reason to pause, her breath still as her black eyes regard the man seated across from her. She does not immediately respond or react; instead, she lifts her arms, folding them delicately over her chest as her eyes shift back onto the window, to the expansive view of Southtown before her. It glows like a king's most precious riches.
"Understood," is her reply, her tone unwavering, nor deceptive or fearful. She speaks plainly.
"Your precious dream is safe, mister Ryouhara..."
"Then.." Ryouhara starts, his lips without pretense putting voice to that which had prior been unspake.
"Serve her well. And you will be a cherished one of the new world. As someone who walked from the path to find one anew, people whom have never known you will celebrate your name, thoughts of you in their heart as they draw blade."
Slowly, the shinobi regards the opulence about him with a measure of contempt.
"To serve in the light is pointless.."
They were in some ways, very different creatures.
But Mao and Ryouhara could raise glass to one thing.
"Reigning in the darkness is beautiful."
By the time Shihong looks next away from the window, Seishirou is gone. There is no sound of that odd chair he rode. The only evidence of his passing is that porcelain cup, set with delicacy in its saucer as if it never had any use at all on the counter.
Log created on 23:21:46 04/19/2008 by Seishirou, and last modified on 18:50:23 08/03/2008.