Post by MASAO TSUYOSHI on Apr 28, 2015 5:20:45 GMT
[attr="class","tablebold"]
[newclass=.tablebold b]color:#823030;[/newclass]MASAO TSUYOSHI
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i am a one hundred twelve (visually twenty nine) year old male (subordinate) vampire. i am currently a second year, tattoo designer. i am pansexual. a lot of people tend to call me tsuyoshi, or tsu. close friends use masao.
PERSONAL
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[ABILITIES]
• superior strength: self-explanatory
• blood regeneration: feeding will now allow the individual to heal faster
• daywalker: no longer severely burned by sunlight, though it is still uncomfortable
[PERSONALITY]
Knowing old age won’t take you to the land of the dead leaves you with a lot of time on your hands. It leaves you restless and bored, gives you more time than you will ever need to learn all there is about yourself and what’s around you whether you like it or not. Everything is true for Masao. Time has given him patience, a virtue as they say, and one many people surely are appreciative of, but in terms of his kind-- compared the master Masao can only assume still resided in Japan --he is young by their standards. One hundred and twelve, a lifetime behind him yet still stuck in his youth. It’s his young age that, while leaves him patient, makes him restless. Boredom is far too close for his liking, just off the periphery of his vision whenever a new task or event is placed before him; so he searches for the next. It’s from this boredom (or fear of) that makes him somewhat of a troublemaker, selfish and nosey. He wants action, an adventure of sorts that will keep his life busy for however long it can, knowing that he will still be alive when its over with who knows how many years still on his tail.
• superior strength: self-explanatory
• blood regeneration: feeding will now allow the individual to heal faster
• daywalker: no longer severely burned by sunlight, though it is still uncomfortable
[PERSONALITY]
Knowing old age won’t take you to the land of the dead leaves you with a lot of time on your hands. It leaves you restless and bored, gives you more time than you will ever need to learn all there is about yourself and what’s around you whether you like it or not. Everything is true for Masao. Time has given him patience, a virtue as they say, and one many people surely are appreciative of, but in terms of his kind-- compared the master Masao can only assume still resided in Japan --he is young by their standards. One hundred and twelve, a lifetime behind him yet still stuck in his youth. It’s his young age that, while leaves him patient, makes him restless. Boredom is far too close for his liking, just off the periphery of his vision whenever a new task or event is placed before him; so he searches for the next. It’s from this boredom (or fear of) that makes him somewhat of a troublemaker, selfish and nosey. He wants action, an adventure of sorts that will keep his life busy for however long it can, knowing that he will still be alive when its over with who knows how many years still on his tail.
The looks
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[APPEARANCE]
Hes come to enjoy the act of body art, indulges in it like he would his hunt for a meal, though with much more patience and grace. Colored designs, pure black shapes and lines litter most of his body, covering his right arm, chest and neck, the left side of his back, and-- though hidden by his hair --the right side of his face. It’s a drug of some sorts (his own at least). One that costs just as much and has the same, addictive feel when the ink sets in the covering can be shed. There are many things that have changed since he ceased aging, the tattoos being the most obvious, but they hide scars of war-- both his own and the one well known to the world --and of the day he turned, when the earth shook and rubble left him battered and bruised. Still, things aren’t too different. He still stands rather tall (six foot one), built up after years of physical labor and training, leaving behind the lanky little country boy he once was. His hair hasn’t been cut, tied back in a ponytail and kept neat, laid against the side of his face hiding a tattoo some don’t realize is there. He’s colder now, still alive for the most part, different but not really. At least not appearance wise if he has any say.
Hes come to enjoy the act of body art, indulges in it like he would his hunt for a meal, though with much more patience and grace. Colored designs, pure black shapes and lines litter most of his body, covering his right arm, chest and neck, the left side of his back, and-- though hidden by his hair --the right side of his face. It’s a drug of some sorts (his own at least). One that costs just as much and has the same, addictive feel when the ink sets in the covering can be shed. There are many things that have changed since he ceased aging, the tattoos being the most obvious, but they hide scars of war-- both his own and the one well known to the world --and of the day he turned, when the earth shook and rubble left him battered and bruised. Still, things aren’t too different. He still stands rather tall (six foot one), built up after years of physical labor and training, leaving behind the lanky little country boy he once was. His hair hasn’t been cut, tied back in a ponytail and kept neat, laid against the side of his face hiding a tattoo some don’t realize is there. He’s colder now, still alive for the most part, different but not really. At least not appearance wise if he has any say.
THE PAST
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[HISTORY]
There’s a small home a mile and a half from the sea coast, hushed away by trees that span a quarter of a mile before reaching another identical building. It’s small and quiet, picturesque but normal for the current year. He’s born the only son to a married couple, brought up through the years to work in the rice fields around his home as his father and uncle did. It’s hard but simple work, repetitive at most with rewards of food and trade to the neighboring residents and small families for similar goods. He-- Masao Tsuyoshi --is fine with a life like this, brought up to work with his hands and think like a farmer; and for eighteen years there is not one complaint or thought of anything different than what he has been given.
His father's oldest brother, second uncle of Masao, who had for the majority of his youth been living in Tokyo, visits the small home -- bringing an uproar of family dispute for three days straight. The boy nearing his nineteenth year of age some months in the future is sent to tend to the fields for the majority of those disputes, too young to be giving any say in matters not concerning him. Hidden behind closed doors and miles from them are matters that do concern the young boy, unknowing of many things happening within his home -- or forgotten as soon as they come to light by assumption only -- and left in knee deep water.
A second son, a ride out of the country side where the sea meets his nose every dark morning when he gets ready and a small bag of the belongings his father gives him for his trip. His mother is pregnant again, a brother of whom he is told he will meet years later when his uncle comes to bring him back to visit. A new life awaits him in Tokyo, where he will study under him in the fields of engineering -- a subject Masao knows nothing of but is told will get the hang of it when they arrive. “There is a need for this knowledge” his uncle says, “and a first born son of all things deserves better than rice fields”. He thinks his uncle is talking through him but says nothing, knows those thoughts are inappropriate and chooses to let them go as the last views of the seaside pass by.
He feels like an outcast during his travel through a prefecture he has never seen outside of the fields near his home (or former, now that things have changed). The first weeks of the trip the nights are beautiful, and the air from the sea hits his senses enough for him to forget his departure from everything he knows. Stars are never brighter, shining above his head where he looks away from closed books his uncle says he must read during the travel. They leave him smiling and, for lack of better words, happy; enough to when he returns to the confusing text in the morning the headache that comes from his learning curve is mild for much longer. But that lasts only so long, and soon the sea doesn’t meet his eyes or nose, the stars dull and remind him of what is to come when he awakes.
When he can his uncle shows him what each word means, teaches him from the ground up how to read because for a boy whose father wished him to only work in the field, reading things such as this were never needed. There was no time for it, not when he needed to be taught when the food must be planted, picked -- what to look out for or which weather was best for what. Reading didn’t compare to the rewards of hard work; reading didn’t help put food on the table.
His lessons are proving harder than his uncle had once thought, and he lets it slip more than once each day that he fears his decision might have been in vain. While the first born of his brothers family his uncle begins to believe that he had waited a few years too long to bring Masao out of his rural life and into one with a promising future like himself. It’s the man's stubbornness that keeps him pushing through, dragging the uneducated boy with him miles out of the Chiba Prefecture and into the outer neighborhoods of Tokyo. It’s also the reason Masao keeps his face in those books he is-- albeit slowly --starting to figure out. His reading has grown since his first assignments but are far from the engineering field his uncle tells him about.
“You’ll make an alright worker,” his uncle says one day, after a half a mile into a failed attempt to teach a boy how to properly read a section of a book. “They’ll need men to build the planes, and you won’t need to read doing that.”
They’ve stopped at the home of a family friend-- one his father, mother and uncle back in Chiba know nothing about --and Masao can only assume when his uncle said “family” he had meant only him. The building is bigger, streets that line homes of much larger size than what he was used to out in the country; and his uncle has to snap him out of a staring fit that has taken him over when they’re at the front door. Everything is so close by, there are more people in this small neighborhood than in his village back home (if he can even call it that anymore) and staring seems like the proper response when faced with something he's never seen.
11:55:30 AM
He’s excused by his uncle to leave the home and go explore around the surrounding homes and streets to get acquainted to what he will be expecting to see more of when they go back to traveling to central Tokyo. It gives him the opportunity to step away from the books, from the polite silence he keeps while sitting amongst strangers and be alone-- in some sense --while surrounded by so many people.
11:57:14 AM
His uncle tells him the further they get into Tokyo the more he’ll see of this; of houses that could fit two of his former inside, of neighbors not a quarter mile but a few feet from you. He sticks close to the homes he walks past, away from the street people dart across to small family run stores or homes-- to lives that are normal for them but strange to him.
11:58:44 AM
He remembers feeling out of place, but nothing new to how he has felt since the excitement of travel died down to longing homesickness. He remembers walking until his legs gave out from under him, until he fell to the ground, slamming his head against the front of a house shaking as violently as everything around him. He remembers those four minutes feeling like ten, or if those ten minutes felt like twenty-- he remembers so little but so much of those few minutes that went by both fast but too slow.
When the shaking finally stops Masao is left in a bloom of dust that leaves his lungs stinging, and when his senses come back just enough to register the smell of smoke his body tells him to run. It shouts at him to get up, to move, find his uncle and just run. He stands like a newborn, shaking despite the now eerie stillness of the ground, feels around inside the slowly settling dust for his fading memory of his way back to his uncle and the home he had left him in.
He doesn’t know it but he’s lost, unknown to him that he has walked past the now trampled house once standing tall with the only family he had in this crumbling prefecture. He doesn’t know his uncle is dead, tossed a few feet from the family friend they had come to visit, buried under wooden structure and broken furniture.
He doesn’t know the extent but the life that had awaited him in Tokyo and the one he had left behind in the countryside are gone, swept away by a 7.9 magnitude earthquake that struck the Kanto Plain. There are many people like him who had everything taken away; possessions, family members, friends. He isn’t as alone as he believes in the early morning hours, clutching his arm where pain won’t go away, but when the sound of still crumbling ruble and mild aftershocks are the only thing to greet you he can’t help but feel its only him in the world. Shelter is found that night, nestled some distance from the neighborhood he had been roaming aimlessly that day at the steps of a small shrine now half standing against pillars.
There’s no sleep, no rest, and when a man approaches him from the side he’s too exhausted to notice until he’s a few feet from him. He doesn’t care when the stranger stands near him, doesn’t offer any voice or questioning as to why he’s there; and he’s just too tired to even care. Sudden pressure, the feelings of something against his shoulder blades-- a quick shooting pain that releases a cry from his mouth as his body falls to the steps under the man he had been too dumb to move away from. Then he relaxes, his eyes flutter until they stay closed more times than open. Another shooting pain against his forearm, more pressure-- he smells iron and rust in the midst of succumbing to his exhaustion for the first time that night.
He doesn’t know it but his life has changed completely, stripped away and reworked by the helped of a man who starts the next chain of events.
His uncle was right in some respect, that he’d do good with planes, but not so much the engineer he had envisioned Masao to be, nor the mechanic he had dumbed the dream too. Piloting these death traps proved difficult at first, but with the aid of the man who turned him from human to beast at his side it was a task done enough times to allow him into war. It was a privilege to fight for his country, a mask to hide his masters intentions of war training subordinates and an invitation to leave his recent past of blood lusted killings amongst the dead of the earthquake. This war gave him new tasks besides the hunt, the escape and adventure of this immortal, blood covered life of his. It gave him a new surrounding besides the repairing disarrayed Tokyo, a sight high above the sky over blue seas with bombs at his disposal.
He remembers crashing against the sea, shattering the plane he had been thrown from-- drowning against currents of salt water too dark from the night sky to see what lurked underneath. Losing contact with the rest of the fleet left him in the dark, quite literally when nightfall came and the rest was an unfortunate turn of events from there. It takes a day for him to reach shore, on an island he knows nothing of but one that gives him cover, one that hides people he soon hunts when local wildlife doesn’t quench his thirst like human blood does. He’s a terror, hidden in the valleys when close calls are brought by prideful arrogance, only to return again and steal away a poor soul or two to consume until next time.
Time is becoming irrelevant to him, and without the man he has gotten so used to being beside and guided by Masao has to learn to think for himself and plan ahead without any insight. It’s troublesome at first, nearing anxiety provoking when he gets too restless or gone from his hunger-- but time is now limitless, his youth just at the heels of his feet where it will forever stay --and soon things get easier. He monitors his feeding, the days without blood in his system; creates patterns for himself to keep, loses his pride during the hunt to come out with fewer mistakes. His master would be proud, he thinks.
He picks up somewhat on the language spoken on Ni'ihau, enough to aid him before killing off another family member and child, but when he is given a chance to leave the dreaded forbidden isle he takes it. From there its to another island, one more cultivated-- one that files him a immigrant, brought over solely to work the fields with others of his kind that speak a language mixed with others. It’s ironic really, to have been taken from a life like this only to be brought back, and the short handed Japanese dialects being spoken by some works sturs enough inside him to stay.
Talk of citizenship into the US is talked about during work, spoken in broken English, mixes of Filipino and Japanese, of other languages Masao doesn’t know of that help make this speech something of its own. He learns it only to let the day move faster, to push away his ignorance enough so he isn’t completely blind in this place. By 1954 he is given US citizenship under the idea that he, much like many of the Japanese workers, was born in the territory prior to statehood. He has no complaints, says nothing and plays the part that as presented himself-- and before long he isn’t working the fields, disappearing into the blooming tourism and modernized construction sweeping the island chain.
Tourism covers many things. It hides his identity amongst the hundreds of newcomers arriving to the isles in hope of new starts and fun times, it covers the bloodied and bruised amongst the untamed valley and deep seas. Accidents happen, hikers go missing or party goers have too much to drink. Cars aid with accidents, liquor tells the story. A face that is only used to market people from overseas hide the gruesome stories of his feeding when he indulges too much in the chase than he should. It does everything for Masao, and he understands why Hawaii is called paradise. For him, at least, it’s the greatest feeding ground; fish stuck in barrels where he’s allowed to play with his food.
But when things are too easy people get bored, even the immortal damnations such as himself. Tourism helped him live and soon it helps him leave, taken from the 50th state to the rest-- and from there its like when he first turned, minus one. It’s a hunt every night, a dance or two before and after. The world opens up to him like before, not only when pain plagued him to this disease ridden excuse of a human being but when he was taken from Chiba to Tokyo those many years ago.
He guesses it’s boredom that brought him to the school, the idea that knowledge is in reach and no harm could really be done. There’s too much time on his hands anyway, another hobby and skill to be found out. It’s another hunt, through under rules and buildings, another dance, at least when planned. The game’s always the same, just the setting is different.
TL;DR
• born 1903/ chiba prefecture, kanto jp
• turned 1923 around the time of the 1923 earthquake
• world war 2, joined military forces - sent out in 1941 to the pacific
• downed fighter pilot, reported to have died "lost at sea"
• made it to shore off the coast of niihau
• fed off the residents of the island and hid in the valleys until 1950
• found his way to kauai, acted as an japanese immigrant brought in to work at the sugar plantation
• around 1954 was given us citizenship under false pretenses that he was a us territory born citizen
• continued to live within hawaii during the growth of tourism and modernization, hopping around the islands when he could find a way to slip through
• around the 1980s moved from hawaii to the us --
• present day, school and yeah.
• turned 1923 around the time of the 1923 earthquake
• world war 2, joined military forces - sent out in 1941 to the pacific
• downed fighter pilot, reported to have died "lost at sea"
• made it to shore off the coast of niihau
• fed off the residents of the island and hid in the valleys until 1950
• found his way to kauai, acted as an japanese immigrant brought in to work at the sugar plantation
• around 1954 was given us citizenship under false pretenses that he was a us territory born citizen
• continued to live within hawaii during the growth of tourism and modernization, hopping around the islands when he could find a way to slip through
• around the 1980s moved from hawaii to the us --
• present day, school and yeah.
CHIBA PREFECTURE, KANTO JAPAN --- 1900s
There’s a small home a mile and a half from the sea coast, hushed away by trees that span a quarter of a mile before reaching another identical building. It’s small and quiet, picturesque but normal for the current year. He’s born the only son to a married couple, brought up through the years to work in the rice fields around his home as his father and uncle did. It’s hard but simple work, repetitive at most with rewards of food and trade to the neighboring residents and small families for similar goods. He-- Masao Tsuyoshi --is fine with a life like this, brought up to work with his hands and think like a farmer; and for eighteen years there is not one complaint or thought of anything different than what he has been given.
His father's oldest brother, second uncle of Masao, who had for the majority of his youth been living in Tokyo, visits the small home -- bringing an uproar of family dispute for three days straight. The boy nearing his nineteenth year of age some months in the future is sent to tend to the fields for the majority of those disputes, too young to be giving any say in matters not concerning him. Hidden behind closed doors and miles from them are matters that do concern the young boy, unknowing of many things happening within his home -- or forgotten as soon as they come to light by assumption only -- and left in knee deep water.
A second son, a ride out of the country side where the sea meets his nose every dark morning when he gets ready and a small bag of the belongings his father gives him for his trip. His mother is pregnant again, a brother of whom he is told he will meet years later when his uncle comes to bring him back to visit. A new life awaits him in Tokyo, where he will study under him in the fields of engineering -- a subject Masao knows nothing of but is told will get the hang of it when they arrive. “There is a need for this knowledge” his uncle says, “and a first born son of all things deserves better than rice fields”. He thinks his uncle is talking through him but says nothing, knows those thoughts are inappropriate and chooses to let them go as the last views of the seaside pass by.
BORDER BETWEEN THE CHIBA PREFECTURE AND TOKYO -- 1923
He feels like an outcast during his travel through a prefecture he has never seen outside of the fields near his home (or former, now that things have changed). The first weeks of the trip the nights are beautiful, and the air from the sea hits his senses enough for him to forget his departure from everything he knows. Stars are never brighter, shining above his head where he looks away from closed books his uncle says he must read during the travel. They leave him smiling and, for lack of better words, happy; enough to when he returns to the confusing text in the morning the headache that comes from his learning curve is mild for much longer. But that lasts only so long, and soon the sea doesn’t meet his eyes or nose, the stars dull and remind him of what is to come when he awakes.
When he can his uncle shows him what each word means, teaches him from the ground up how to read because for a boy whose father wished him to only work in the field, reading things such as this were never needed. There was no time for it, not when he needed to be taught when the food must be planted, picked -- what to look out for or which weather was best for what. Reading didn’t compare to the rewards of hard work; reading didn’t help put food on the table.
His lessons are proving harder than his uncle had once thought, and he lets it slip more than once each day that he fears his decision might have been in vain. While the first born of his brothers family his uncle begins to believe that he had waited a few years too long to bring Masao out of his rural life and into one with a promising future like himself. It’s the man's stubbornness that keeps him pushing through, dragging the uneducated boy with him miles out of the Chiba Prefecture and into the outer neighborhoods of Tokyo. It’s also the reason Masao keeps his face in those books he is-- albeit slowly --starting to figure out. His reading has grown since his first assignments but are far from the engineering field his uncle tells him about.
“You’ll make an alright worker,” his uncle says one day, after a half a mile into a failed attempt to teach a boy how to properly read a section of a book. “They’ll need men to build the planes, and you won’t need to read doing that.”
TOKYO PREFECTURE -- SATURDAY, 11:21:02 AM SEPT 1ST 1923
They’ve stopped at the home of a family friend-- one his father, mother and uncle back in Chiba know nothing about --and Masao can only assume when his uncle said “family” he had meant only him. The building is bigger, streets that line homes of much larger size than what he was used to out in the country; and his uncle has to snap him out of a staring fit that has taken him over when they’re at the front door. Everything is so close by, there are more people in this small neighborhood than in his village back home (if he can even call it that anymore) and staring seems like the proper response when faced with something he's never seen.
11:55:30 AM
He’s excused by his uncle to leave the home and go explore around the surrounding homes and streets to get acquainted to what he will be expecting to see more of when they go back to traveling to central Tokyo. It gives him the opportunity to step away from the books, from the polite silence he keeps while sitting amongst strangers and be alone-- in some sense --while surrounded by so many people.
11:57:14 AM
His uncle tells him the further they get into Tokyo the more he’ll see of this; of houses that could fit two of his former inside, of neighbors not a quarter mile but a few feet from you. He sticks close to the homes he walks past, away from the street people dart across to small family run stores or homes-- to lives that are normal for them but strange to him.
11:58:44 AM
He remembers feeling out of place, but nothing new to how he has felt since the excitement of travel died down to longing homesickness. He remembers walking until his legs gave out from under him, until he fell to the ground, slamming his head against the front of a house shaking as violently as everything around him. He remembers those four minutes feeling like ten, or if those ten minutes felt like twenty-- he remembers so little but so much of those few minutes that went by both fast but too slow.
When the shaking finally stops Masao is left in a bloom of dust that leaves his lungs stinging, and when his senses come back just enough to register the smell of smoke his body tells him to run. It shouts at him to get up, to move, find his uncle and just run. He stands like a newborn, shaking despite the now eerie stillness of the ground, feels around inside the slowly settling dust for his fading memory of his way back to his uncle and the home he had left him in.
He doesn’t know it but he’s lost, unknown to him that he has walked past the now trampled house once standing tall with the only family he had in this crumbling prefecture. He doesn’t know his uncle is dead, tossed a few feet from the family friend they had come to visit, buried under wooden structure and broken furniture.
TOKYO PREFECTURE -- SUNDAY, 1:07 AM SEPT 2ND 1923
He doesn’t know the extent but the life that had awaited him in Tokyo and the one he had left behind in the countryside are gone, swept away by a 7.9 magnitude earthquake that struck the Kanto Plain. There are many people like him who had everything taken away; possessions, family members, friends. He isn’t as alone as he believes in the early morning hours, clutching his arm where pain won’t go away, but when the sound of still crumbling ruble and mild aftershocks are the only thing to greet you he can’t help but feel its only him in the world. Shelter is found that night, nestled some distance from the neighborhood he had been roaming aimlessly that day at the steps of a small shrine now half standing against pillars.
There’s no sleep, no rest, and when a man approaches him from the side he’s too exhausted to notice until he’s a few feet from him. He doesn’t care when the stranger stands near him, doesn’t offer any voice or questioning as to why he’s there; and he’s just too tired to even care. Sudden pressure, the feelings of something against his shoulder blades-- a quick shooting pain that releases a cry from his mouth as his body falls to the steps under the man he had been too dumb to move away from. Then he relaxes, his eyes flutter until they stay closed more times than open. Another shooting pain against his forearm, more pressure-- he smells iron and rust in the midst of succumbing to his exhaustion for the first time that night.
He doesn’t know it but his life has changed completely, stripped away and reworked by the helped of a man who starts the next chain of events.
OVER THE PACIFIC, WORLD WAR II --1941
His uncle was right in some respect, that he’d do good with planes, but not so much the engineer he had envisioned Masao to be, nor the mechanic he had dumbed the dream too. Piloting these death traps proved difficult at first, but with the aid of the man who turned him from human to beast at his side it was a task done enough times to allow him into war. It was a privilege to fight for his country, a mask to hide his masters intentions of war training subordinates and an invitation to leave his recent past of blood lusted killings amongst the dead of the earthquake. This war gave him new tasks besides the hunt, the escape and adventure of this immortal, blood covered life of his. It gave him a new surrounding besides the repairing disarrayed Tokyo, a sight high above the sky over blue seas with bombs at his disposal.
NI'IHAU, HAWAII -- 1941 THROUGH 1950S
He remembers crashing against the sea, shattering the plane he had been thrown from-- drowning against currents of salt water too dark from the night sky to see what lurked underneath. Losing contact with the rest of the fleet left him in the dark, quite literally when nightfall came and the rest was an unfortunate turn of events from there. It takes a day for him to reach shore, on an island he knows nothing of but one that gives him cover, one that hides people he soon hunts when local wildlife doesn’t quench his thirst like human blood does. He’s a terror, hidden in the valleys when close calls are brought by prideful arrogance, only to return again and steal away a poor soul or two to consume until next time.
KAUAI, HAWAII -- 1954 THROUGH LATE 1970S
Time is becoming irrelevant to him, and without the man he has gotten so used to being beside and guided by Masao has to learn to think for himself and plan ahead without any insight. It’s troublesome at first, nearing anxiety provoking when he gets too restless or gone from his hunger-- but time is now limitless, his youth just at the heels of his feet where it will forever stay --and soon things get easier. He monitors his feeding, the days without blood in his system; creates patterns for himself to keep, loses his pride during the hunt to come out with fewer mistakes. His master would be proud, he thinks.
He picks up somewhat on the language spoken on Ni'ihau, enough to aid him before killing off another family member and child, but when he is given a chance to leave the dreaded forbidden isle he takes it. From there its to another island, one more cultivated-- one that files him a immigrant, brought over solely to work the fields with others of his kind that speak a language mixed with others. It’s ironic really, to have been taken from a life like this only to be brought back, and the short handed Japanese dialects being spoken by some works sturs enough inside him to stay.
Talk of citizenship into the US is talked about during work, spoken in broken English, mixes of Filipino and Japanese, of other languages Masao doesn’t know of that help make this speech something of its own. He learns it only to let the day move faster, to push away his ignorance enough so he isn’t completely blind in this place. By 1954 he is given US citizenship under the idea that he, much like many of the Japanese workers, was born in the territory prior to statehood. He has no complaints, says nothing and plays the part that as presented himself-- and before long he isn’t working the fields, disappearing into the blooming tourism and modernized construction sweeping the island chain.
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK -- 1980S THROUGH PRESENT DAY
Tourism covers many things. It hides his identity amongst the hundreds of newcomers arriving to the isles in hope of new starts and fun times, it covers the bloodied and bruised amongst the untamed valley and deep seas. Accidents happen, hikers go missing or party goers have too much to drink. Cars aid with accidents, liquor tells the story. A face that is only used to market people from overseas hide the gruesome stories of his feeding when he indulges too much in the chase than he should. It does everything for Masao, and he understands why Hawaii is called paradise. For him, at least, it’s the greatest feeding ground; fish stuck in barrels where he’s allowed to play with his food.
But when things are too easy people get bored, even the immortal damnations such as himself. Tourism helped him live and soon it helps him leave, taken from the 50th state to the rest-- and from there its like when he first turned, minus one. It’s a hunt every night, a dance or two before and after. The world opens up to him like before, not only when pain plagued him to this disease ridden excuse of a human being but when he was taken from Chiba to Tokyo those many years ago.
He guesses it’s boredom that brought him to the school, the idea that knowledge is in reach and no harm could really be done. There’s too much time on his hands anyway, another hobby and skill to be found out. It’s another hunt, through under rules and buildings, another dance, at least when planned. The game’s always the same, just the setting is different.
Extra
▼
[YOUR ALIAS]
ryn
[CHARACTERS]
nooooope!
[FACE CLAIM]
ryn
[CHARACTERS]
nooooope!
[FACE CLAIM]
[b]DRAMATICAL MURDER[/b], koujaku as @ryn
