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Ten Shades of Gray; B067 Start --- Private Thread
Topic Started: Aug 8 2010, 02:05 PM (9,146 Views)
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[ *  *  * ]
(Mizore Soryu start)

Mizore Soryu was looking for paint.

She hadn’t brought any on the camping trip, because she thought it was rude to paint on trees. The dusty residence she’d been dropped in didn’t have any. And she’d been hoping against hope that the terrorists had included some paint in her bag. They hadn’t. Balls.

Likely she’d have to do whatever she needed to do in reverse-graffiti instead. Which took longer, and wasn’t nearly colorful enough for Mizore’s taste. But it would have to do.

Mizore was pretty sure she was going to die. She was a pacifist, which meant at some point someone with a substantially more beneficial set of core beliefs would kill her, or Danya would blow up her collar. This didn’t really bother her--she had always known she was going to die, this was just a matter of sooner. What did bother her is that she didn't have paint.

Because if Mizore Soryu was going to die doing anything, she was going to die making something look awesome.

I will be remembered.

Mizore Soryu was the half-Japanese face behind Radio Asuka, the mysterious anonymous graffiti artist whose very name had gotten her a full ride into Bennington college. Life On Enceladus--the freegan commune she spent most of her time with--had gotten her onto graffiti arting as a kick, but soon she’d taken it up as a full time job, and then suddenly one day she was famous, a headline in the St. Paul Pioneer Press, WHO IS RADIO ASUKA?, a lit-up picture of her swirling pseudonymous signature, and an investigative piece in the Star-Tribune the next day that called her the “Banksy of St. Paul” (exaggeration, thought Mizore). When she asked the Life On Enceladus people, they told her she’d been mentioned in thumbnails and arty blogs earlier. But she hadn’t thought those meant anything.

So suddenly she was famous. Albeit as a pseudonym. And now she was going to out herself, because, screw it, there were cameras everywhere. And there was no way she wasn’t going to spend her last few days on earth making art.

This would go faster with some paint. Or even a felt-tip pen.

She licked her finger, and attacked the wallpaint on the clapboard with her fingernails. It came off easy, and buried itself in the quick of her skin; this paint was weak and old, near to dust. She opened her bag again, and dug out the caltrops she’d been given as a weapon. No good on an island where everyone was wearing hiking boots, but suitable for scraping paint off a wall.

She needed to remember they were weapons though. After a few tries, her hands were bloody from letting the spikes dig into her palms. She wrapped her left hand in an ace bandage and tried again.

The caltrops looked like origami stars.

Voices outside. They didn’t sound like imminent death. That was good. She ignored them while she finished.

The gray door now had a darkly-carved long-legged teenage girl clinging to the lock, done in Radio Asuka’s signature psychedelic, eerie style. The swirling tag completed it. There. Let the art world weep.

This is how she would be remembered.

She didn’t quite know what to think of that yet.

Outside, now. The people outside were all clustered around something. From their voices, a corpse. Mizore dug the caltrop into her bandaged hand. Somehow, she hadn't expected darkness to fall so soon.

Very well, then.

"Hey," She called to the group. "Does anyone have paint?"

--------


Alice Boucher was a liar.
Liz Polanski played with fire.

And who the hell is Radio Asuka?
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"No. If you haven't noticed, painting is the last thing that people should worry about here!"

Fiona Sparki. Cheerleader. Angry, in denial. Trying to tell her what the priorities should be. Mizore disagreed. They were all going to die in fourteen, fifteen days, right? And Mizore probably sooner. The throat-collar that she refused to touch was a constant reminder: the relevant priority here was not surviving well or respecting the dead, but learning how to die knowing that death would be violent and soon.

And painting was what Mizore had in the way of that particular priority. Making something pretty would keep her from paying attention to the bitter, scared taste under her tongue. She had Radio Asuka's last exhibit to do, with a definite deadline and death as the theme.

More waiting. More talking. Maria Graham dug a grave. Cassidy Wakemore crackled with emotion, talked and trailed off.

Mizore Soryu upended her pack.

She was lucky, and thanked her disorganization for it. In the bottom of her bag was a smashed pack of black wax pencils, wedged under some old receipts and a bag of teryaki beef jerky. With some noise, she took out the most undamaged pencil, the largest receipt, and began to draw.

People were staring at her now.

When Mizore was nervous with wax pencil, she pressed down hard. The lines became blurs, chunky with wax, losing all nuance, fat speechless curves. She didn't do that now. Nervousness comes with lack of focus, and there is nothing that brings focus quite like death, the darkness that licked Mizore's fingers now. She did not know Warren very well, but there were flickers she remembered: green eyes, thoughtful smile. They went on paper. The finished product was light-stroked, nimble, accurate and strange. Portrait of Warren. She put it between two stones, like an ofuda, and laid it on the shallow grave.

"I'm with Jessica on respecting the dead here." Said Mizore. "But it seems like the conventional thing to do."

That sounded...bizarre. Mizore wondered if she should care. She decided not to.

She put on her rucksack and left the grave.

(Mizore Soryu continued elsewhere)
Edited by storyspoiler, Sep 2 2010, 01:29 PM.
--------


Alice Boucher was a liar.
Liz Polanski played with fire.

And who the hell is Radio Asuka?
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