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Darkness Within; Morning of Day 2
Topic Started: Sep 19 2010, 12:25 AM (1,698 Views)
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[ *  *  * ]
(Mizore Soryu continued from The Quiet Lives Of Baron Saturday)

"A nobler purpose like what? Saving your own life?"

Mizore's voice was harsh. She hadn't meant it to come out that way. She was looking for paint. She was trying to survive. And yet she had heard a player's confession to a video camera, and here she was trying to talk to the woman.

Well, she had talked to a player once, and gotten away with it. Maybe she could get away with it again.

Plus, from the looks of it, this woman only had a hockey stick. And Mizore could book it over rough terrain faster than almost anyone outside of cross-country sprinting, if it came to that.

The woman was looking for the source of the voice. Mizore stepped out from behind the tree cover. In her rainbow boots, blue jacket, opaque tights and ribboned hair, she was bright.

"I'm Mizore Soryu," She said. "I'm not playing."

What else to say?

"I know you're playing. I'm not coming closer to you, because I want to last a little longer than this. If you're looking for me, in the final four or whatever, I'll be drawing somewhere that's not a danger zone."

Mizore raised an eyebrow and cracked a wry smile. "You can have my death then, if you can catch me. I hope you'll have a kinder weapon."

"Basically, right now I'm looking for paint. Do you know where I can find some?"
--------


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

And who the hell is Radio Asuka?
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[ *  *  * ]
A plot to get revenge on Danya?

Mizore stood by politely while the girl put on her clothes. She felt a bit odd talking to someone in her underwear; killer or no, it felt like Mizore had some sort of unfair psychological advantage here. Moreover, Mizore's mind was spinning. A plot to get revenge on Danya? Did this woman know anything about Danya? Enough to get revenge? Even Mizore knew Danya's base and origins were unknown, mysterious.

Did this woman know something the rest of the world didn't?

Mizore's mind spun out of control. What if they could strike at Danya? What would Mizore Soryu, freegan vegan anarchist pacifist, do then?

Would you hurt him?

The answer was immediate.

Yes.

And as hard as Mizore tried, she couldn't think of a reason not to.

There is no reason not to hurt him after he hurt so many. No reason not to murder him. Neutralize him. Take him out of this life. Send him to hell.

She was squeezing the sleeve of the blue jacket.

Raidon.

I swore to you I wouldn't break.

But if this woman knows how to hurt Danya…

There was no snapping or breaking in her mind. Nothing inevitable. Just a conscious decision, a conscious realization that, for the first time in her short life, she could find herself capable of killing another human being.

I'd do it. He deserves it.

Almost undoubtably true. But not relevant. Mizore wasn't God, or a servant thereof. It wasn't her job to judge.

The voice in the announcements, laughing, far away.

I'm doing it so the villains don't win.

But this was not a movie. And Mizore fought her villains with pickets and graffiti and civil disobedience, not cold-blooded murder. A difference of degree was not a difference of fact--right?

And she felt, phantom, under her fingers, Raidon's inked, scarred skin. He had had ghosts in his eyes, and a gun in his hand, and violence all through his body, and she had never wanted to let him go.

An odd coolness was resting under her skin.

I'm doing it for you.

But no. She pushed that away. Raidon wasn't here now. She had spent half a night with him. She couldn't know his desires. And she had never pledged herself as his instrument anyway. What he wanted wasn't relevant. Her decision now was hers alone.

And Hellmurder Island seemed a bad place to start conning her conscience.

I'm doing it for myself.

And that was the truth.

The girl finished dressing, picked up her hockey stick, and turned back to Mizore. And Mizore asked the question:

"What do you know about Danya?"
--------


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

And who the hell is Radio Asuka?
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[ *  *  * ]
"Do you know how to hack into the local area network?" Mizore asked sharply. Perhaps more sharply than she had intended. But she wanted to know. "Do you know what materials we need?"

Then a stick cracked, and the woman dropped to the ground, rolled to her knees, crouching with the hockey stick. Mizore, with less keen survival instincts, merely put her hands to her face.

They looked around a moment. Silence. Mizore picked up a tense hum in her ears. Her shoulders felt weighted. She and the woman looked at each other, and then to the woods again.

Mizore lowered her arms, finally, and took a step backwards.

There was a girl. Lucy Ashmore; Mizore remembered the name. Tiny, gaunt, quiet, meek. Mizore had sketched her once, during band practice, the terrible year she had played piano for the school.

Lucy looked at her. She looked, frankly, terrified. Mizore held up her hands to show, again, that she was not armed.

Her peripheral vision showed movement. The woman looked to be lurching up again.

"You should run." Mizore said. Then, for good measure, "Now."
--------


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

And who the hell is Radio Asuka?
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[ *  *  * ]
And Mizore was alone again.

At least it was pretty. Sunlight dappled from the trees. Spanish moss on the branches. Mizore had never liked the classic landscape paintings, but as she lay down, the world whirled, and the netted branches patterned surreal enough to take her fancy.

She reached into her bag for some bread, a baguette. Her body felt slow, sedentary. The desire to kill was still sour in her mind, an ugly elixir of vengeance, desperation, clawing despair, misguided protectionism (Raidon. Raidon.) and a tiny voice in her head saying it's not fair! It's not fair! She tried to overlay that thought with it's impossible. It would become easier with time.

Janet doesn't know a thing about Danya.

She was Radio Asuka. She was on SOTF. She would be a pacifist, a painter, an idealist. Not a child bent on cockeyed revenge.

Your public perception means so much to you, Radio.

And her private perception too. She was going to die. She was going to die making something fucking beautiful. She was not going to die wanting revenge.

She was not going to die wanting revenge.

Raidon.

She ate her baguette lying down, like a French picnic. It was a beautiful island, really. The moss was soft under her head.

Yes. It was so much easier to die on this island when she didn't have to think about the thin Japanese boy.

Mizore swallowed the last of her bread, closed her eyes, and began to meditate.

It was one of the unabashedly Buddhist things about her commune, the fact that so many of them practiced meditation. They were a motley crew, full of nightmares and paranoia and slightly hallucinogenic paint, and meditation worked for a lot of them. For Mizore, it stopped her from obsessing. It blew her thoughts away.

The trees rustled above her. There were birds here, irregularly cheeping and wailing. Noises. Smells of moss, grass, thick sap. Everything became clearer when she closed her eyes.

Someone could plow her down right now. And she didn't really care.

The revenge was in her mind, clinging to desperation, posing as hope. Fear of her own death--what dreams will come? Fear, more tenacious, of Raidon's death. Of attachment. Of I can't save him, why have I crippled myself?

She imagined it as something feathered, and let it blow away.

After a while, she got up. The sun had moved in the sky. She studied her map. She was going to the Groundskeeper's hut to get some paint.

Danya, Danya, I will not die bitter. This is one victory I will deny you.

(Mizore Soryu continued in instinct*algorithm)
--------


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

And who the hell is Radio Asuka?
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