Description: Following her defeat by Grant, and her kidnapping from Southtown Regional Hospital, Nagase awakens to a foreign place and finds herself in the company of the very man she sought out. This meeting in the shadows is as confusing as it is rewarding, defying all of her expectations and stoking a fire in her heart that she had imagined long since snuffed out by crushing expectations...
You'll awake underwater.
A giant ninkou tank in the belly of a giant bronze Buddha statue boils and brews with translucent and cool liquids--too viscous to be water, but failing to cling to the skin regardless. Tubes--countless ones--run from the back of the statue and through the impact glass and attach to a mask currently strapped to your face. The sound of a steady pump can be heard somewhere underneath the statue, churning out a stream of air through the mask. Floating there, the skin tingles, as if there was some sort of anesthetic suspended in it. It's some style of support chamber, one that aids healing for fighters in subtle and obscure ways that simple hospital care cannot. Cables run off of leads tapped into the myriad implants in Nagase's body, providing some ample degree of power, though none that would be sourced to anywhere near the power grid. Chi is feeding her, and an interpretation device is reading off data to only one of a multitude of screens that look like they were salvaged from a junkyard surrounding the kiosk.
The rest are idle, showing only the Ryouhara symbol across their screens.
The rest of the room is dark and mostly featureless, with only a set of tools set across a sprawling desk lining the far wall. It has the specific gravity of something you'd imagine to be underground; windowless and poorly lit. Machinery, some old and some new, is strewn across one side of the room. But surrounded by clockwork on one end, a young man--impossibly young for his accomplishments, twists ratcheting mechanisms on an unfolded puzzlebox before him with a small screwdriver.
He seems to be resetting it.
By all rights, she should have been dead. It was a miracle that someone had managed to come along in time to find the body, and even more of a miracle the hospital had made as much headway as they did in stabilizing her. How, exactly, does one apply conventional medical science to a creature that is neither human nor machine?
It was probably her being part-machine that had saved her, in all actuality. Her body had been so damaged she fell into a stasis state, a state of being having the appearance of a coma, yet far more advanced. A minimalistic state of being require very little biochemical energy to sustain, allowing her to lie there potentially until she recovered by way of her body's natural healing or... fully bled out. But even so, with her wounds being what they were... it was only a matter of time until she completely bled out.
The first inkling of consciousness comes in the form of sensation. Her body initially felt akin to a vague mass, immersed in a tingling sensation that seemed to be suffused throughout ever part of her being. Then, the at-first barely audible sounds of liquid churning, and bubbling, approach swiftly along with the sound of the pump's activity somewhere beneath the void she felt she were floating in. It's at this point, her semi-lucid 'brain' begins to sort out all of the new incoming information and the full weight of the sensations and sounds being generated from within, and without, the chamber hits her.
Suddenly she could feel it: the energy being fed directly into her body, the chi, the viscous liquid she were suspended in... all of it. And her first thought: is this the Laboratory? No... something was wrong. The Laboratory she were 'born' in had no equipment like this... this was a foreign place...
...And her sanguine eyes open for the first time in what seems like an eternity. And immediately the invasive liquid that enters her eyes coupled with the realization she was contained by a foreign construct induces a minor panic. Her body begins to twist violently within the liquid as she attempts to struggle against what felt like restraints - in actuality the cables she was connected to. Air begins to leak out from the mask worn upon her face into the surrounding liquid, due to her struggles, generating streams of gas bubbles that seem to increase in number with the steadily building panic. Her smallish hands are raised to pound against the structure just within reach. It's very weak, not her usual strength, but it may generate sound outside the tank. And whatever manner of machine is interpreting the data being extracted from her body may, if it were designed to, alert the engineer working within the room his captive has awoken...
He is familiar with things left in the gutter to rust.
He had assigned an agent to keep an eye on her, and her run in with Grant was nothing less than legendary. He had almost written her off at that point, as a passing curiosity who'd befallen some very ill luck in her time. A potential cut short, never seeing the end of her journey. At least, that was his instinct, until it was reported to him that she still had a pulse underneath all of that ruined meat.
He had allowed the nurses and the doctors to do with her as they would, trusting them to the more vital components of triage and recovery, stabilizing her condition. But it became necessary to withdraw her. And there is nothing he is if he is not thurough. He and his host are exhaustive--the limited data the hospital gathered had filled his coffers, and there was no evidence that she had ever existed there. Fortunately, he felt it unnecessary to make the staff that had attended her disappear as well. It was within his abilities, and within his capacities. But sentiment binds him, as always, to the path he walks.
The ninkougakusha is screwing an element of the puzzlebox's casing back together when he is alerted to a differing light in his sanctum. Several of the monitors wink on at the sudden change in the tank's pressurization, reading off various structural status conditions in the arcane kind of terminology and symbols that only an engineer's eye can parse out.
It is a personal ninkou of his, not meant for general use. The healing effect it has on the body does have minor roots in NESTS technology, but the differences between normal technology and ninkougakujutsu are apples and oranges, at best. Gears and rods protrude from the back of the Buddha, and lightning arcs on occasion between the poles. The tank is split into sections, with strips of galvanized steel evenly spaced, kanji engraved into either side. Sealing jutsu.
The technology she fights does not give to a kitten's writhing.
"The night heron wakes," he notes to the cold air.
It isn't quite a greeting, but his voice is resonatingly familiar. The same as the simulation she encountered some time ago. Interestingly, it has the same deliberate quality as the copy he'd made, the same youth and impression that he did not take habit in saying a single word that wasn't planned. But his is more naturalized. He is calm, as opposed to sterile, and there is a certain heat in his voice. It is as if his chest had a fire in it that warms an otherwise lethally cold disposition.
He isn't much for conversation, it seems. He never turns to face her. She is free to do as she will inside the tank, but he doesn't make an immediate move to soothe her nerves, instead plying his attentions with the configuration of the puzzlebox before him. It is, in some ways, a test.
Ever the researcher. Seishirou Ryouhara is curious to see what the Iga kunoichi will do.
From somewhere outside the confines of the tank, a familiar voice comes. It is deadened, and distorted, both by the density of the materials composing the containment tank as well as the viscous fluid she was submerged in. But to her, it was very distinct. One does not forget a voice like his, so warm with life yet as chilling as a frozen tundra. That measured manner of speech. It was impossible not to, when that voice would forever be associated in her mind with that encounter with an ursine monstrosity of comical appearance - that hellish Ninkou Panda!
That thing's eyepatch sporting, angrily snarling, visage will forever haunt her nightmares!
As soon as the voice registers, the maddened flailing stops. Momentarily. The external room would likely return, mostly, to its previous degree of relative quiet. She's stopped struggling again entirely for the time being, and any capable monitoring systems would likely report it. She's shut her eyes again, shutting out that intrusive fluid, allowing her body to relax as she draws steadily from the provided air supply...
..But then, she begins to conjure her own personal chi reserves. Drawing out her internal strength in an effort to provide her physically weakened body with the strength to break through. Or so she hopes. And thanks to the rather helpful addition of a steady influx of chi... she's getting plenty. What would come next would possibly demonstrate to the engineer just how determined, or perhaps crazy, she is. She begins to move once more, after a span of roughly twenty seconds has passed, and this time it isn't to flail. She begins attempting to hammer the external hull with tightly curled fists suffused with raw, primal, energy. It isn't the violent bursts of flames she employed against his earlier contrivance, but the heat of the strikes is no less potentially searing. She hammers at the hull again, and again, and again with strikes... each once releasing their energy into the fluid she's immersed in and heating it.
Either she's going to break out of this damn contraption, despite her restraints, or she may well injure herself. As she is likely naked within the tank, if she actually manages to break out, he may soon be getting an eyeful. But that is the absolute last thing on her mind at this point, she's far more inclined to give him an earful!
...If the contraption fails, yet again, to release her... however... she will likely go quiet once more as she attempts to figure out what to do about her predicament.
Ryouhara busies himself with the small contrivance in his hands, tightening down the screw in the casing, and shifting the entire assembly so that the screw can no longer be seen on the exterior of the box. When locked, the mechanisms inside will be sealing to all but the most advanced tampering. Which was, of course, the point. He doesn't pay more than a cursory attention to the tank behind him--he can be just barely made out from beyond the glass, dutifully disregarding its contents while he works.
The fluid inside the tank was cool but not cold. There was really nothing to save for the kunoichi's modesty save his own nature and the seclusion of their current location. He looks up absently, affixing another part to the box, this time one of the sliding bolt assemblies to secure the fascia he just attached. Her body was still quite injured, so he felt no particular need for concern. Ryouhara is, if nothing else, patient. He pauses thoughtfullly, as the noise stops. "...hn." Perhaps she's tired herself out.
A moment later, a dull thud reverberates through Nagase's bronze enclosure. And another. And another. Nagase hammers away at the hull with the assistance of her suspension's own latent energies, churning the fluid into a warm froth, bubbles trailing up crazily with each blow. It's hard going, of course--fighting underwater isn't the same as fighting in the air, and the glass devised by the shinobi seems to hold up well to sustained attack. A short, quiet, shrill alert sounds outside the tank. All things have a breaking point, though. The only question is, which will she reach first? His ninkou's, or her own?
Ironically enough: The steady beating of that drum devoids Ryouhara of his patience well before either result.
The ninkougakusha sets down his tool and his project momentarily, and forms several somatic gestures between his hands--a set of handseals, the cutting hands of ninjutsu derived from complicated Buddhist sutra.
Then he lifts his feet.
Suddenly, seals all over the device glow, and begin rupturing. First, the connective equipment in Nagase's body--cables and tube--violently withdraw from her, some snapping free as if pressurized. Even the mask snaps free, failing to provide any more oxygen, and leaving her suspended free in the tank for several serene and altogether horrifying seconds.
Then the entire tank unseals, and disgorges its entire contents onto the cold floor of the sanctum. The entire room is flooded instantly with the viscous fluid, which only avoids soaking Ryouhara because he's clear over on the other side of the room, with his feet propped up. Floor drains, tactically placed throughout the chamber, begin to lower the fluid level in the room overall. It seems it was engineered specifically to do that in the event of an emergency. Or Seishirou's lack of patience with the kind of noise that would interrupt his tinkering while Nagase heals.
"A night heron, or a wet fish," Seishirou coments wryly, trying to decide.
"You seem to have some penchant for destroying my things. If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were starting to develop an obsession," he notes aloud. You can see the Ryouhara symbol at his back cresting over the low backrest of the chair. He still isn't actually looking in her direction, content with spinning the point of the screwdriver across the surface of the desk. "You're never going to heal completely making trouble for yourself like that."
His manner is plain and matter of fact. He speaks every word as if he didn't have time to lie.
Each strike, powered by heated chi, continues to hammer the interior of the tank - beating it almost rhythmically like a drum. Each, solid, pound rings out dully within and without... accompanied by the gurgling and sloshing of liquid as her activity stirs the contents of the tank violently. With each, and every, pound another swift stream of gas is released from behind the breathing apparatus attached to her face. She's struggling as hard as her body and the resistance of the fluid, and hull, respectively allows for.
Even she didn't know which would give first, especially in her still weakened state. She had first-hand experience with how resilient his designs could be, and after the fourth or fifth strike it is beginning to dawn on her she may not be able to sustain this level of effort for much longer...
...fortunately, she does not have to. Within a moment or so, catching her right in the process of drawing her right arm back again, the cables that were attached to her body violently snap free from every part of her. Then the breathing apparatus, too, violently snaps away and she's left suspended for several seconds far too long without a lifeline. It leaves her to question whether the reward for her struggles might be that she drowns - suspended in that tank...
But then... the tank unseals...
..and at the end of it all, she's left standing there at the mouth of tank... catching her breath. Several heaving inhalations comes, with the drenched and thoroughly naked girl just standing there with her left hand being used to brace herself against the pull of gravity. She hears his wry comment, but she does not respond immediately. Even whilst she's breathing - delicate, bare shoulders rising and falling subtly - the sanguine eyes of the kunoichi are searching out every place visible to them. They tryto come to terms with where exactly she is, but all she seems to be able to determine is that it's clearly some type of underground quarters. That's the most logical guess, anyway, even given the lack of windows. It would explain why it had been so hard to find him...
The wet sound of soaked bare skin making contact with still wet floor would come shortly after as she descends from the tank. Despite her body's weakness, she manages a bit of irreverence in the face of his comments, even if it mostly consists placing a hand on her hip and staring at the backside of his chair. She would look a bit silly, despite, due to the soaked state of her wine red and black mess of dyed hair. It's unbraided, not even a foxtail now really, just a mop, "...I can't help it if you sic' something nasty like an overgrown bear wearing feudal armor on me like it's some kind of greeting!" Despite her intentions to curse at him for that particular incident, she was still tired and it colored her tone. That, and, a dawning of not so distant memories reminds her that he has apparently saved her life too...
Having said that, she gives the room a once over again with weary eyes. She came all this way to ask for his aid, and yet right now all she felt like doing was sitting. She doesn't seem uncomfortable at all dressed in her 'birthday suit' though, probably too much exposurew to lab culture... "...So, what compelled you to want to bring me here?" Not that she couldn't guess. An engineer not being interested in what amounted to an elaborate Syndicate science project? She still wasn't quite sure how to take that idea yet either...
Time passes in the sanctum in agonizingly slow relief.
Part of it is that nothing really seems to surprise the young engineer, as if everything was part of some plan he'd cooked up some time ago, and that life in that little confined space was just matching some element of some rubric he's hidden away. As if he timed it exactly, his sneakers settle on the slick ground just moments after the fluids flood the small chamber and the waves flow to a relative calm. The sound comensurate to and of a netful of salmon hitting the slick deck of a fishing boat doesn't stir him much from his work--he doesn't seem to be the type to smile.
"You can help it," Seishirou contradicts, relatively quickly.
He sets his tools and his work down at the station before him, taking some moment to arrange them exactly, as surely exactly in his mind as it is on the table. There is the sense that if she disturbs a single piece of the keys, levels, locks and shell pieces on the table before him, he'll know. "We're all responsible for the choices we make. The only reasonable arbiter of fate. Make no mistake, every choice you made, from the moment you decided to seek me onward, has led you...dangerously...but inexorably...here."
Seishirou's chair makes not a sound as he rotates in it to face her.
The first thing she'll notice about him is that he looks exactly like the clone he made, save one important change--his irises are bleaches a shade of pale gold, instead of the cool dark black she'd seen prior. The aspect gives him something of a blind look to his eyes, but the critical glare he fixes Nagase with her cocked hip is anything but. He seems young, but even his glance is reasonlessly sharp. That sterile engineer's glance flicks across the kunoichi's body in inches. She wears nothing but the sheen on her skin and that wet mop of hair that gives her the manner of a drenched cat. By design and by the roaming measure of that sharp eye, Seishirou is necessarily aware of that fact. But he doesn't even blink; his interest seems to lay only in her health and the state of her cybernetic enhancements than any less ..technical.. details.
She asks him why.
"You are here by choice," Seishirou reminds her, "and consequence."
The way he treats it, it is only natural. The natural outcome of seeking that which is beyond society. To ask him why is to ask why one is struck by lightning. "Your alternative was to die," he states in a coldly practical tone. He doesn't really waste words with Nagase; he doesn't feel any need to complete the thought. Instead, she'll notice he's staring at her expectantly, hands calmly folded in his lap and fingers interlaced. He seems to expect her explanation first, has all the patience in the world to watch her while she divines one. He does seem to be thinking, though.
A beat passes.
"Are you cold?"
Ryouhara glances meaningfully at a smoke grey outfit hung from the wall.
It isn't Nagase's own, but it is exactly her size, in every measurable way.
He refuted her assertion about it being his fault that she was aggressed upon by his Ninkou, and her soft, pink, fleshy lips parted to utter an objection. Accompanying the objection was a momentary, subtle, narrowing of the eyes. And yet, no more than a minor exhalation occured before she realized: he was ultimately correct. The dawning of the realization instead saw the kunoichi closing her mouth again and quirking her left brow slowly. Obviously trying to win a game of 'wits and words' with this one was going to prove a challenge - she was going to have to put more thought into her words than her brash nature usually allowed for.
Then he lectured about decisions and 'fate', before swiveling about in his chair in that measured manner, and she got her first real look at him. And it was almost exactly like the replica she had met before, all but those alien eyes. The eyes, though, do not surprise her visibly. Her own were every bit as unreal, some would say monsterous. A tell-tale sign of her inhuman nature.
When those eyes of his began to examine her, she mostly continued to stand there, watching for any telling reactions, with her hip cocked. Her left hand was raised to sweep a mass of wet hair glued to the side of her face, but that was about it. ... His sterile, dull, impassivity thereafter elicited a bit of surprise from the girl but it was almost completely internalized save for a minor turning of the eyes momentarily. That was easily the most unenthusiastic she had ever seen a man be when staring at a naked woman, she thinks to herself...
Then the questions came and she absorbed his replies to them.
...And offered her own. Turning her eyes in the direction of the outfit hanging off the wall, she studied it momentarily before giving a reply, "...Yes, I suppose. Standing around naked in front of a stranger isn't exactly thrilling." Especially not him! Her eyes track back toward him, momentarily, receiving any responses he might make before she proceeds to glide across the still wet floor and reach for that outfit. She then pulls it off the wall and proceeds to get dressed, right there with her back to him. Why not? Any semblance of decorum went out the window a long time ago.
...And then after having done that, and after giving the outfit a once-over to determine it indeed fits, she turns to him again, "...I gather you want an explanation for my searching you out then." Truthfully, she'd already given him one. She suspected he'd heard and seen everything that occured in the warehouse, but she owed him respect enough to heed his earlier wordless prompt. "...My first priority was to find a way to establish an inconspicuous foothold in this city. ... It was an order from the Southtown Syndicate, and I am contractually bound to comply."
Whilst she says this, she glides across the floor of the dimly lit room and attempts to find some place to sit. She eventually does, even if it isn't a conventional chair. "I had some options for going about this. But for whatever reason, Iga leadership decided I should try to search you out and filled me in with what little information they had. They even helped me isolate your most likely location to here: Southtown." She turns her eyes in his general direction, before crossing her legs and lacing her fingers together, placing her hands upon her knee, and leaning forward a touch.
"...But incomplete secrets are a tease to a curious mind. Having heard about the mysterious Ryouhara..." She omits the 'last' bit, unlike last time, to show a bit of respect. "...I was convinced I needed to see you for myself. ... If, you were even still alive. There was always a doubt, some of the rumors made it seem like it'd be a fruitless search but..." And she pauses on that for a moment, thumbs fidgeting with one another. "...some things like that turn out to be worth searching for." And it was. If she got nothing else out of him from here on, she'd still have her life... and the curious experience this has been.
If Seishirou really had the ability to appreciate Nagase in any more interesting fashion, he either didn't bother to or had given up those types of bonds and relations a long, long time ago. It was very, very plain that simple seduction was something that the heir to the Ryouhara clan had advanced beyond some time ago. It would make sense for the secluded Ryouhara clan, whose isolationist members occasionally related better to machines than to people, but he is something wholly different. A man, no matter how well trained, never really gains that level of control over physiological responses. He either genuinely doesn't feel anything at all--that his interests lay somewhere else... or something very unfortunate happened to his heart.
In any respect, when Seishirou looks her over, it is completely without the ambition attributed to more impassioned boys, and is replaced with something entirely more controlled. It's not even that she is found wanting--there is no expression of distaste that crosses his lip. He is not bored, as he is entirely too thoughtful of every detail and every last pore his eyes examine. It is not the sort of interest she looks for when she watches him. That respect is disregarded, and overlooked entirely. But it is not the only one.
Without embarassment, he passively watches her slip into proffered outfit, watching her for tells in the ways she walks and moves. If she is still feeling a measure of pain, his eyes will not miss it.
There is always a certain dark interest about the young man.
Slim, strong fingers slowly uncross as Nagase explains herself--respectfully, she explains every detail to him, leaving nothing of her mission hidden from his study. She mentions the Syndicate, and the shinobi frowns thinly, detectibly bellicose. One of the more obscure incidents occurring years ago is when Ryouhara publically tried to kill Geese Howard on live TV. He and the Syndicate have not been known to get along well.
Of course, Ryouhara's not been known to get along well with much of anyone.
There is a certain imperturbably relaxed way the shinobi regards Nagase, reclining across his chair with the corvid manner of a blackbird sitting high out of reach. There is, of course, always the possibility that he's yet another copy created by the shinobi to interact with Nagase. But here, in this controlled area, one would think that almost a little paranoid, wouldn't it? There always lay the promise that perhaps somewhere, there is a more expressive and more 'real' version of Seishirou Ryouhara to meet and discuss matters with. A promise that secrets can always be answered. But today, all there is is the boy sitting across the way from her. She seats herself in another seat on the other wall of his current workstation, the only other seat in the room. He raises no alarm and brooks no issue with her making herself comfortable.
He blinks, slowly. It will be the first time in recent memory that she's seen him do it.
"There are cracks and crevices all over Southtown where the light does not reach," he says finally. "The Iga form an ancient ancestry of the Ryouhara clan, and so I am compelled." To do what, he doesn't say. It's simple business, the resolution of concerns between ninja families, and the politics that write them. Seishirou seems to accept what she says as truth. But there is a certain dismissal in his tone, as if the outcome of that particular trade simply failed to interest him. Instead, Nagase will find his dull gold eyes set onto her own again. He is watching her.
And his attentions are far, far more weighty now than they were a time ago.
"And are you?" he asks.
"Teased," he explains a moment later.
"You've fought through my preparations valiantly," he states coolly. "You have the ear of the Iga, and the strength to be any number of things that you desire. You've come to this place to fulfill your ..contract, with the Syndicate." To which you are beholden, he implies. He looks at her much in the same way she was looking at him some time ago, watching her for even the slightest tell. "You're going to live your life that way, you know," he asides. "Under obligation and rule." He mentions this as if it were simply a matter of fact. He doesn't suggest anything more. Only that it is currently her fate. "Is satisfying a rogue curiosity enough for you?"
"After all, you're about to create another war in Southtown," Seishirou notes, distinct and mindful. His fingertips tap together once. "And when the smoke clears.... what would you have happen to the people of the city?"
"You've looked into the darkest and most forgotten corners of the city to seek me out. Tell me what you want."
It's a much different question than her mission, what she's here for.
It was not an unknown to her that he had attempted to kill Geese not so very long ago. Many people had, he was after all Geese Howard - one of the world's most dangerous and infamous men. And she was one of his few confidantes. ... So it is that when she sees the Ryouhara frown, her eyes dropped momentarily... a question arising in the back of her mind as to whether or not she wanted to continue to ask for his aid after that. It wasn't vocalized, but he may have picked up on a hint of apprehension in her demeanor. Especially in the way her slowly fidgeting thumbs seemed to become just a bit more restless.
After having provided him with the basic details of /why/ she was here, she sat across the way from him quietly... watching him as he sat there in silence... presumably mulling over the information he'd been provided with. It was as she did so that she noticed a peculiarity intrinsic to his character that she had failed to notice before. Perhaps she nelected to notice out of being so entangled in the danger, intrigue, and mystery that made up her entire experience with him so far. ... He was a rather /pretty/ guy, pretty in that somewhat feminine way a lot of girls tended to appreciate. Nagase, however, often made known her distaste for youthful-looking, effeminate, men. It often showed in the vitriol she'd spew at them from across the way. But... he did not bother her that way. Perhaps, she thought to herself, it was because his mental age seemed to far exceed his appearances...
...Whatever the case may be, that cool, measured, tone of his draws her up out of her thoughts and brings her focus back upon his words. ... Compelled...? Her left brow quirked at that, just a touch, and curiousity distorted her features a bit. She notes the dismissal however... and it just made her that much more curious. What was going through his head...?
She doesn't have time to ask, though, as yet another question comes. And his eyes are upon her with a focus she's not yet seen from him. Was she... teased? Certainly, he intrigued her far more than few men ever did. It was pretty rare for anyone to hold Nagase's rapt attention for this long, or inspire her to do so much to arrive at a destination. Certainly, she had her mission... but she stated it herself: they had other options. That irksome chinese gangster for one. She could have given up this game of chase after the first enounter, yet... had Heinlein's right hand not stopped her... she would followed that scroll to wherever he led her. Perhaps there were more to her being here than simple curiousity...
...After he is through speaking, and through asking some very pointed questions, the silence between them indicates it is her turn to speak. And she does, slowly, addressing his question about rogue curiousity firstly, "...I am, indeed, teased..." There's a slight pause for a breath, and she continues, "...I admit that you have satisfied my curiousity far more than I ever expected." It's left unsaid that she is /still/ curious.
That is left behind, however, as she moves on to the question about the people of the city, "...I am of the opinion only a fool believes he or she can save the world." She leans back in her chair a bit with this, her tone is somewhat somber yet her face reflects little to no remorse, "This city is like a roach infested apartment building. It's so infested you can never hope for it to be anything else, crime owns almost everything in this city. And what it does not probably will not remain so. ... In my opinion, it's better off burning to the ground."
"...As to my job..." She lifts her eyes from him finally to stare at the ceiling... or perhaps through it... as she were looking off some place very far away. "...I'll be level with you. I couldn't care less whether the Syndicate succeeds or fails. Their greed and ambition is none of my concern, I just do what I am told to..." A simple shrug comes, and she repeats a mantra that may be familiar to him, "...for the sake of lord, family, and personal honor." and she lowers her eyes toward him again, "And I live pretty good for it, but..."
...And she trails off for a moment, eyes going slightly askance as she questions herself... as she she's done so many times before. It would be a pretty visible indicator she is not quite happy about the eternally beholden part. It's at this point she lifts her hands from her knees, unlacing her fingers, and crossing her arms whilst continuing to look away. It's a bit of a defensive posture. "...well, you know, I just... really don't care." She was actually rather aimless at this point in her life, and so she clung to the reins that were placed upon her because that's the only direction she knows. That's the probable answer.
There is the sense that if Seishirou held any particular grievance with Nagase, that he would have little compulsion against making sure she remained crippled for a very, very long time, if not eliminating her entirely. The world of shinobi is rife with interactions like that, where a political disagreement amongst high ranking members is settled in the lightless spaces beyond their eyes and words, with the blood of those far underneath them. Though the shinobi have long since persisted past their own twilight, the old ways never die.
Especially in the boy sitting across from Nagase.
He has the way of old shinobi about him, speaking as a clan leader might. Given he is the last of his clan, he technically effectively is. There are rumors of a network of agents underneath him, people with bizarre abilities, and even a genuine student to his art. But alone in the room with Nagase like this, none of it seems as important as the familiarity of the old and ancient shinobi, and those who best understood the way that world works. Nagase, if she is anything like her handlers, is justified perfectly in showing the slightest hint of trepidation.
Someone like Seishirou is not above eradicating the Syndicate from beneath.
But there was no record of his involvement in the events that led to the exile of Geese from Southtown, and certainly no connection to Kain, aside from Kain becoming mixed up in the Taizhou Incident. Most importantly, he seems detached from the incident entirely, and even as he speaks of war, he speaks of it as if it were an everyday thing. It is an easy element for the kunoichi to miss--for shinobi, war is in fact a matter of the banal. The only response at first to Nagase's admission of being satisfied is a slow, cat-like blink.
It is unclear if Seishirou believes or is even interested in the statement, of there being more.
"You take the practical thought of the everyday. One person cannot change things," he observes, nebulous and neither placid nor aroused. "And you do because it is your obligation... an arrow loosed from the crossbow."
He is quiet for a time. There is no evidence present that he is disapproving of Nagase's reasons or will, only that it is reason for thought. The silence that pervades for moments thereafter doesn't seem to ask any particular answer of Nagase--she is subject to Ryouhara's piercing look, but his lashes fall slowly as his gaze dims, half-lidded as he thinks in every fashion but 'aloud.' It is as if he's attempting to reason through her as if she were a puzzle, or another piece of machinery on the workstation. It is only after a few moments of that measured study that Nagase might get the impression that he's interested in what she said at all. That in itself is worth stating. She had said only a moment ago that one person couldn't change things.
"Geese Howard is only one man." It is a simple statement.
"A person cannot change things," he reasons again, at least temporarily agreeable. "Because a person is not anything more than a person." His sidewinding logic becomes more interwoven, denser to behold. The dimness in his gaze widens, focusing until it is as discerning as the edge of a katana. "It is only when they decide to be more that they realize that their decisions have impossible weight. A goal, a drive, a will..." Brows lift in half-measures. It is impossible, at least in this respect, for Ryouhara to be truly intense.
"An 'ideal.'"
But some fires burn cold.
He stands, his movements smooth and calculated. "To live, you only need to do as you're told. It is a simple life to live, but not one that seeks more.." He doesn't seem dismissive in the way he speaks, nor scorning. His words are purely descriptive, analytical. He is extrapolating from her explanation. After all, a crow can mimic many sounds. He continues speaking as he approaches.
"Tell me. If you will go that far to satisfy a rogue curiosity... when you say to me, that a city is so corrupt that it should be burned down.. is that a wish of yours? Please hold still."
His skin is cool to the touch.
If Nagase doesn't retreat from him, Seishirou will lift the tip of her chin in work-rough hands to tilt her head up and to one side. A brief examination. He'll slip behind her--he's much faster than his deliberate mannerisms suggest--and, running his hands through her hair to straighten it, will begin to put her braids back in with smooth, quick movements. It's the dexterity of someone used to working with their hands. His manner is the same as a doctor's, setting some imagined bone back from the brink of injury. There is no indication as to why he would do this, and it may not even become apparent what he's even doing for several moments.
He is quiet while he works. The way he spoke of 'wish,' it's clear that it was a loaded word. He took over a city once already. There is the distinct sense that making a wish to Seishirou of a city burning is the quickest way to see it realized. He is unpredictable enough that he may do so simply on whim. It is hard to measure what a human life is to him, and his line of questioning seems to seek less what the Syndicate wants and what she--herself--actually prefers. His curiosity seems innocent, sedate.
But the shinobi's capabilities are anything but.
The more time she spent in this underground facility with this mysterious, deceptively old, shinobi the more she was beginning to realize just how limited her perspective was and just how little she knew. Especially about herself. What did she want? It was a confounding question, precisely because she's been practicing the shinobi ideal that service is life for as long as she could remember. You do not want or think beyond what you are allowed and that is decided upon entirely by your employer's whims. That is the /way/.
But that was definitely not the way she wanted it.
So it was that, when he echoes her thoughts about the nature of her circumstances with a simple observation, her eyes were drawn toward him again slowly. Yes, she was every bit akin to an arrow loosed from a crossbow - a mindless, indicriminate, implement by which to destroy. ... When he fell silent, she was left alone to her thoughts once more and she was finding her own mind had suddenly become a hostile place to her. She wasn't comfortable with it anymore, but she wasn't certain if it were because she felt utterly lost for the first time in a long time or... if her mind was betraying her.
Her discomfort would be plainly visible in her body language. For the first time since the conversation began, she visibly uncrossed an recrossed her legs. She shifted her rear in her seat not once but twice, audibly, and a deep inhale came. The forward leg even began swing somewhat anxiously. But, fortunately, he stirred from his quiet contemplation shortly after... giving her a momentary reprieve from her own private thoughts.
...Only to add more nails to the proverbial coffin for her previously comfortably numb state of mind. His observations were keen and irrefutable. Geese Howard was but one man, and a very driven man at that. He played no small part in making this city the corrupt place it is. He may well have had people helping him, people like her, but it was his drive that made him so successful. She knew this, she saw it first hand...
Her head pitched... eyes following the Ninkougakusha as he stood. Her arms slowly began uncrossing again as he came forward, her body reacting instinctively to an action that was not understood. She visibly placed her hands down beside her, as if to brace against the seat cushion and use it as a launching point should he attack. It's a relaxed-looking gesture, and it is anything but. It was mostly instinct, not entirely intentional but... it was weighing heavily on her mind that when he asked if it was her wish that the city should burn... it may have been a forewarning that she had crossed a line.
..And then he touches her face, gently, and whether it is the temperature of his hands or the unexpectedness of the maneuver... it stuns her momentarily. Which makes it all that much more simple an affair to shift her head about and examine her. She stares, unblinkingly, at the monitors in the backdrop as her head is tilted away from him. It takes a full three or four seconds for her to snap out of her confusion, lips parting to utter something, and by that time he has already begun to slip behind her.
Then she feels his hands in her hair, and the question finally comes, "..What are you doing?" ... But he remains silent throughout. The answer, however, swiftly comes as she feels her hair being pulled and twisted in to familiar knots. ... Was he... braiding her hair? ... The idea would've been cause for a giggle. Though it is probably a perfectly innocuous thing to him, it were as if he were simply restoring her to her natural state of being... like one of his machines. For a woman it was normally an extremely intimate thing to do. And it weighs on her mind that he probably wouldn't understand that. From the looks of it, he probably spends much of his time alone in places far out of the reach of people... like here.
For while, she seems content to let him braid her hair while she sorts out her own thoughts. She just sits there, unmoving, attempting to make his work easier. But towards the end of it, she reaches out to place her hand on the nearby workbench... idly running her fingers over it yet careful not to disturb anything that may be there. And she gives him his answer, "...Maybe it's better off burning to the ground." If the Syndicate and Kain perished as plagues upon the world, she thought to herself, a city was a small sacrifice. That would effectively eliminate her eternal bondage as well...
When he's done, she attempts to turn and gaze at him if he would allow her to. She would stare at him for a few moments contemplating if, perhaps, he had intended for her to say that all along. After all, he had once tried to destroy the Syndicate... why wouldn't he do so again? But, if so, she doesn't seem to begrudge him for the steering... instead she smiles at him softly... and then averts her gaze slightly as she feels around at the back of her head to inspect his handiwork. Whilst she's doing that, she adds, "..Thanks for doing that."
And then attempts to stand up herself, suddenly not content to sit, pacing across the floor a few feet and then back again before coming to a stop and looking around. Nervous energy perhaps. "...So, dare I ask... do you ever leave this place?" He had to surely, but it was beginning to seem like to her it might not be often enough...
It is something tied to blood. Seishirou has never been a particularly subservient boy, living alone from a young age, hailing from a clan known, if not for their devices and contrivances, for their civil war against their own masters. He has root in the old ways, his hands entwining through the foxtail hair of the kunoichi with all of the metered precision and patience of a clock-wright. He is one of the few martial artists at his age that do. Even so, his mentality is often regarded as dangerous, his thoughts bordering on insanity from any number of people who know of him, most of all other shinobi.
It is a wonder that he's even still alive.
He is not lazy or overcomfortable in any way with her--lacing and layering as he might a handmade rope. His work is just that--it is unlikely he has ever braided another person's hair, and his skill and talent with doing so likely has much to do as an extrapolation from weaving rope capable of suspending weight that would allow ninkou like his panda engine to throw battletanks at enemies. He is efficient, extremely exact to specification and detail, and any particular brush of skin between his hands and the nape of Nagase's neck is purely incidental.
At any rate, he never responds to her line of questioning, intent on the work, and otherwise seems completely unaware or uncaring of any social stigma that would otherwise shield her from his attention. It is an elemental force of practicality that drives him to maintain her as he might any other device that comes across his attentions. There aren't many barriers that Ryouhara has ever acknowledged.
But those details are the only that he may miss. There is not much that slips past his golden eyes, and it's plainly visible in the way he studies her, even beyond the bounds of the work beneath his hands. His attention is a multiplex thing, and her discomfort at the silence pervading his ideas is not unknown to him. Though every thought of his is laced with a certain dire gravity, this idea--the concept of an 'idealism,' is presented in much more of a cavalier fashion, a bird in flight, to recede quickly from the consciousness if never caught.
"An ideal cannot be quantified or contained. Held in a skilled spirit, it is a sword that never dulls."
The confident thought comes meandering at the tail of the kunoichi's own, following a golden-eyed glance to the anchoring touch she places upon his workbench. One would have to move far out of their way to misalign his assorted collection--the individual pieces are thoughtfully placed far out of reach of the initial placement of the second chair, as if he'd known all along that she'd find her way to it. Even so, the surface of the work area is made of finished woodwork, kept in immaculate condition. Smooth and cool to the touch; if Ryouhara uses this layout much at all, he is doggedly persistent in its maintenance, and it's free of stray tooling marks.
"Used properly," he continues, "an ideal can be a galvanizing force. Used improperly, it is damning." He finishes just as unobtrusively as he began, checking over his work with touch alone. He steps away from Nagase, recreating the chasm of distance between them. He slides his hands into pockets in the dark lengths of his pants, offering no objection to Nagase's fit of idle energy. Instead of directly replying to her thanks, he tilts his head briefly, in the fashion of one who finds such recognition curious. Like it was simply expected of him. Standing, he is as still as he is when he's reclining. She might notice, once both of them are standing, that he wears much the same sort of outfit she does. It's not exactly combat attire. The glance he tranfixes on her is one of degrees, details, and the penetrating exploration of the merciless specific.
"But I didn't ask you if the city would be better off if it burned." His tone is not accusatory. Only observant.
"I asked you if you wished to burn it."
If she has a dark thought in her mind, Ryouhara seems intent to bring it to the fore.
She asks him if he ever leaves, and he stares at her a moment, as if attempting to decide whether to answer. He shifts his right hand, rolling it inside his pocket, before withdrawing a length of black length of fabric. The kerchief that was around her neck when she was attacked. It's been cleaned, fastidiously, by some process or another.
"Do I leave the darkness?" he asks quietly.
Slowly, he offers her her kerchief back. The expanse between him and everything else grows with the faintly haunted gesture.
"No. I never leave the dark. People like me aren't meant to."
The speech about ideals should not be overly curious to her by now. His enthusiasm for philosophy has, thus far, shone through in practically everything he did and said thus far. Not the least of which was that scroll.
It is for this reason, she does not comment. She has never been a philosopher herself, that sort of thinking could get one killed in her line of work. Besides that fact, in sharp contrast to the cooly calculating and emotionally reserved Ryouhara, she could be rather impulsive and emotionally exciteable. This made the pair of them opposites in many ways, like oil and water. They were akin to two fluids that might normally never blend, brought together by a circumstanstial emulsifier: the Syndicate's efforts on Southtown.
When his hand dips into his pocket, momentarily, she ceases her pacing... hands dropping softly to her sides as she continues to watch his face. Then her large, almond-shaped, blood-colored eyes drop toward the hand that once again emerges. When her kerchief is offered back to her, a slow batting of eyelashes comes... the kunoichi blinking a few times as she stares at it quietly in thought. Did she lose that during the fight with Grant? She isn't sure, but she realizes that if she did... the implication here might be that he was watching her more closely than she knew.
...Despite this insight, she readily moves toward him and extends a delicate hand to take it back. There's a brief touching of soft fingers against his more work-hardened ones, and then the kerchief is pulled free if he allows it to be. From there, she bows to him respectfully and wordless, placing her delicate hands upon her legs as she does so.
Then she straightens again, pulling the fabric taut and wrapping it about her neck again so that it hangs to her lower back. And she replies to his question much less ambiguously this time, "...Yes. I do wish to see it burn. ... Not that I wish any ill of the people in it, ..." Most of them anyway. She says this whilst resuming her pacing, it's a slow, measured, pacing now... she's thinking, "...but it might well be the only way to end the ambitions of both crime syndicates. I think it would be for the best if, however, they were made to do it themselves..."
Her hands go up, briefly, as she nears his workbench again... where she stops. Her hands extend idly to both sides of her as she turns, again, back toward him... before dropping to her sides and audibly making forceful contact with her smoke gray attire. As though they were illustrating a collapse. "...like a Daimyo burning down his own palace in an attempt to rid himself of an assassin. ... Only to die for his own folly. A fitting end to their greedy pursuits... and..." She stares in his direction, but for the moment she seems to be staring more into darkness... still thinking.
"...And end to my reasons for caring. My clan leaders will not be pleased, but I don't thin I care any longer." Between nearly losing her life in a futile battle with Grant, and meeting the Ryouhara, she had far too many reasons not to...
Everything about him is an ongoing challenge. Working with the shinobi is... difficult, to say the least, for that habit. He is always watching, always observing, always planning. When he speaks of idealism and more importantly, the concept of an ideal, he grows more lucid, clearer, less obscure. Even if his language is never close to relatable, even if his distance is crushing and his mannerisms cryptic, a fact is plainly obvious. A fact that tells of him, and that his relationship with ideas will be far more intimate than any other he might have experienced. That certain ideas are ignitable to him, and that the great conflagration of his mind subsists on certain core underpinnings and ideas that make up everything about him.
She is part of that ignition. A will that managed to penetrate through his haze of illusion and subterfuge, skill and talent not often gained in today's day and age. He seems to look at her experimentally. His exact measure of her value is always in question--he never really treats her with any particular specialty, at least he treats her with no more attention than he would any failing device in his purview. But for chance moments, his hand slips away when they meet to exchange the soft cloth of her kerchief. In that ghosting moment, there is the idea that if it had been any other of the Syndicate's agents sent to find him, the only thing they ever would have found is a munitions stockpile nd a blast that would have levelled half od the surrounding city block.
Such is the difference in 'importance' for people like him.
She explains to him that perhaps the best route to ridding the city of its greed and corruptive elements would be to burn it down. Seishirou stands there watching the wine-eyed kunoichi for long moments, allowing her every availing moment to think before she chooses her words for more clarity. He doesn't seem surprised, but nor does he seem particularly revived by her sentiments. Of course, it brings to mind the question of whether anything at all would revive him in a desirable way. It must surely be possible.
"A fire burns without care or concern to faction or morality," Ryouhara responds, returning his hand to his pocket as Nagase re-ties her kerchief about her neck. "And it would take a very large fire to burn the city to ash." He sounds as if he knows from experience.
She sounds as if an idea has become cemented in her head. It leaves only the praxis of her motivations--or lack thereof--to assist this cause. To that end, Ryouhara looks at her for a long time, before turning and stepping away, past her and his workbench. Though his skin had been cool to the touch, his proximity itself is almost discomfortingly warm, as if a fire had passed. Or perhaps some fire had just now ignited.
The shinobi moves to the far end of the sanctum, until his footwear disturbs the still draining remnant pools of the fluid that was once Nagase's suspension for an undetermined length of time. Looking up at the tank's adornment, he seems to focus on the Buddha's expression, trying to divine if he is truly smiling. Hands never leaving his pockets, he abruptly changes the subject.
"I have many dark sites the world over. It would be trivial to give you what you seek. An abandoned nightclub near the docks has my family's sigil on it. Destroy the sigil, and disable the munitions, and it will serve as able staging area for your war. As I said. I'm compelled."
It's simple, cold, efficient logic--to hear him tell it, his assistance was assured from near the start, the moment the Iga chose to send Nagase to find him. "The exit is in the next room," he continues explaining, "along with a case containing what's left of what the hospital found on you. You should be healthy enough to travel on your own now. I've already made all of the immediately necessary mechanical repairs."
He doesn't look at her, doesn't move from that spot, and for a moment, it might seem like he's done with her. It might seem as if she's done something wrong. But it takes only a few moments before he calls out.
"Hattori-san."
"...Well, there's a pretty big fire coming... that much I know." she eluded to the coming siege being shipped here by boat soon, which he may or may not have the means to know about, somewhat cryptically. It was a shipment she helped Duke secure, and the unexpected surprise it came with nearly cost her dearly. Having said this, she reached for her neckerchief gingerly... plucking the rim of it with dainty, feminine, fingers as she mulled momentarily over ways to stoke that fire a bit. Her lips pursed, as she stared into the darkness thoughtfully...
Between the retribution being brought by that mysterious cult, Duke's own modest armies of thugs and bribed fighters, and Kain's organization... things would be getting hot indeed. And the presence of M. Bison might well suggest even Shadaloo is stirring the pot. Perhaps a bit of traitorous intelligence sharing ad disinformation would be in order.
For a goodly amount of time, neither party says anything more to the other. Both of them were deeply lost to their own private musings. But... as Seishirou passes, burning hot with a sudden intensity... he draws her out from her inner sanctum. Her blood-colored eyes turn, slowly, and her body follows, as she watches him approach the Buddha with quiet curiousity. She says nothing, as he steps over the threshold of darkness and into the light of the nearby monitors, and simply continues to finger that kerchief of hers... eye lashes batting slowly.
Then, he speaks: informing her that he will provide the aid she sought, where to find it, and letting her know of the remnants of her initial equipment he managed to salvage before politely showing her the proverbial door. And the real door as well. It's a bit of a cold manner of speech he employs, but it is not unusual for him. Still, modestly disappointing to her on some minor level she'd never admit to.
When the silence of a few moments comes, she bows in his direction again respectfully and turns to depart, eyes falling on the barely distinct doorway nestled in the shadows across the room. ... And then, he says her name. And it draws her eyes over her right shoulder, a small smile touching her lips, "...Thank you, Ryouara-san." And it is spoken with a telling warmth entirely opposite to hs ordinarily chill tone. Telling of what...? It's hard to say, and it would be even harder for her to define. But one thing is for certain: she appreciates him.
Provided he has nothing to add, she will then head toward the door and begin the process of leaving. To return to her master, a different woman than the one who left...
"Hattori-san."
The words are halting, rousing attention more than bidding farewell. The shinobi looks over a shoulder, inky black bangs curtaining and hiding away the penetrating glare of his full attention in dull gold eyes. He is never seen directly moving--by the time he speaks, he's already looking. He makes it transparent that he means to stop her.
A gear-strung and engine-driven moment passes, the shinobi taking some time to think on exactly what he would like to say. Though she appears deceptively fragile, the sort that shouldn't be involved in matters of the citywide inferno of civil war, the judicious glare in the barely visible flash of his gaze shows no consideration. He has already seen her capabilities, and her potential is bared before those eyes of his. It affects a certain necessary gravity on his tone. Unlike all discourse prior, there is an element of active stimulus in his words, a reminding catalyst that is potentially the only direct guidance that the shinobi will ever provide a conversation partner.
"Don't underestimate your own ability. A ninja's worth is in her ability to see and do what should be done, without hesitation. The axis on which the world turns rests on the principles of each proleteriat. A single person has more value than you think."
An idea, presented in direct terms of worth. Someone who disregards the value of a person cannot be counted on to have value themselves, he seems to say. The young man looks away again, cold and insensible to further conversation. He seems intent on scrying the details of his ninkou. It would be a vain act, until one considers that it was connected directly to Nagase's biology only minutes ago. It is only one last rogue thought that drives him from his analysis.
"And.. you're welcome," he acquiesces.
It is the warmest thing he's said thus far.
Log created on 02:56:45 06/17/2013 by Nagase, and last modified on 12:02:53 06/21/2013.