Father and Son

~May 17, 2011~

*All text is translated from Japanese.*

The short, two-story house at the top of the hill gleams in the light of the late afternoon. The door slowly slides open and closed, a single figure exiting the house. His short brown hair and dark red glasses catch the waning sunlight, his suit a plain, midnight blue, with a red shirt beneath. He lifts a white-gloved hand to adjust his eyewear, his thumb brushing through the short beard hugging his jawline like the chinstrap of a helmet. The figure blinks, stopping short as he spots a figure waiting outside the home. The older gentleman’s hair is nearly gone, his bald head gleaming in the sun, a halo of white ringing his pale pate. “Isn’t that a little… ostentatious, my son?” The younger figure cracks a small smile, shrugging one shoulder as a dove lands on the other, preening its pinions. “Not to mention, a bit heavy-handed. Especially if he were to poke his head out his window…”

The younger man shakes his head. “He won’t. He’s too busy dealing with his new gifts. It’s his birthday, after all.” His voice lowers, taking a step toward the elder man. “What are you doing here, Dad? Aren’t you supposed to be moving rainclouds away from Mt. Fuji?” Izanagi scoffs, making a face and waving away the assignment, his words dripping with disdain. “Busywork! Speak no more of such things.” His voice lowers in return, leaning closer to his son. “I sensed the power of the items that you gifted young Shinji. Yet another reason to stop wearing that ridiculous getup.” Continue reading


The Open Notebook

Shinjiro has fallen asleep on the kitchen’s center island, his notebook open. The pages, filled with myriad Japanese characters, are written in pen, presumably from Ashura’s pen, but Shinji is sleeping with a pencil in hand. The page that the notebook is open to bears a pencil drawing:

Beneath the drawing, written in pencil, is one word:


Blood and Sorrow, Act I: One Simple Demand

— NOTE: All speech is translated from Japanese, unless otherwise noted. —

Dojima Shinjiro is aware of a brightness, the illumination shining from a massive LED array rigged beneath a gigantic paper lantern mounted on the ceiling of the room. The padding underneath his feet, familiar and firm, yet yielding, signals to him where he is, or where he is supposed to be: a dojo, a training facility. The garb on his shoulders, however, feels wrong for a gi, the familiar cut and weight of his Negotiator’s suit, a perfect match for the attire of a dominus of megadeus, settled on his form. The figure before him is also unfamiliar, but at the same time, his identity is obvious. Disguises and tricks set aside, the man cuts a lean, tall figure, easily six and a half feet tall, his long, dark hair tied neatly into a ponytail, his gi ornamented with the triple-teardrop that is his emblem, a pair of doves roosting on his shoulders. Father, Shinjiro thinks to himself as the man opens his mouth to speak. “It is time, Dojima Shinjiro. It is time for you to face that which you bear.” Continue reading

Shuraba and the Demon, Ashura

Shinjiro stands, stock-still, in the lounge, turning his head away from the door as Kendall makes her exit back toward the rest of the students. The rest of the students that I interrupted. The rest of the students that I -failed-. I ran when I should have walked, skipped ahead instead of waiting patiently for December-sensei to continue her lesson. I was a fool. His hand closes around the cap of the pen in his hand, lifting the cold aluminum body up to his gaze, cast down as it was. On its own, his hand slips the cap from the pen, turning the oblong oval of the writing instrument end-over-end to reverse its position, sliding the cap onto the end of the barrel. The exposed steel nib shines in the light of the lounge’s lamps, taking on a crimson glow all its own, illuminating the boy’s features and flooding through his closed eyelids. She made a fool of me. She lost control, lost her temper. It is shameful. I have been dishonored. I must act. Gripping the pen in his right hand, he lifts his head and the pen, gaze locked on its sanguine body. Words leap to lips in the rusty glow of the room before he stops, gripping the metal even harder. What am I doing? His mind flickers back to a bedroom in a small rural town, what feels like a lifetime ago…

-One Week Earlier-

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