Little Slice of Nostalgia [Tomie | Closed]

She had stopped counting the days of when she had arrived in the middle of a bustling crossroad lined out by white stripes, foreign noises surrounding her every direction. She had been so lost, so confused, overstimulated by metallic creatures zoomed past her at incredible speeds and illuminated trees of massive proportions, seemingly also composed of various metals, looming above.

She had wondered if this truly was the "home" she had sorely longed to visit, to reflect and spend time alone after demolishing the life she had built back where ghosts reign. Only vague clues of a culture proud and distinct remained in the landscape before her in the form of text and traditional items placed here and there. Some of what she had briefly observed before the panic of hustle and bustle set in included quite a bit of nonsense and corruption denoting outside influence. Had her once proud homeland bent under the will of outside influence?

But she didn't take the time to ponder.

No, instead, to escape the bickering, chatting crowds and strange contraptions surrounding her, the woman of times archaic had fled as fast as her feet could carry her, clumsily speeding past people who could neither see nor sense her. As a matter of fact, in the moment she was certain that she could just as well pass through them, given how she was practically gliding into an ocean of humans.

She didn't know how long she had been trying to escape or exactly what transpired, but in the end, she had found herself in an area that was not a far cry from what she had observed in Soul Society's upper districts. The journey had left her completely out of breath. So she closed her eyes, resting against a limestone building and fell sound asleep.

Upon waking up, she had promptly summoned the being that brought her into this strange new, yet old world, her figurative mother in a sense. But the corvid seemed none too tickled when she kept asking it to take her home, merely blinking and eyeing her from various angles as it tilted its head and cawed. To think that she uses such a variety of ways for her to inquire the bird to take her back from whence she came, for this is a terrible mistake, that her imagination becomes exhausted, makes it all feel fruitless.

Yatagarasu still had only pecked all too giddily at the ground like the simpleton he is until she had attempted to strangle him. Then he had simply slipped through her fingers like a gaseous blob of darkness, flapping its wings in exasperation before slinking back into the shadows.

Only then did it truly occur to her that she was stranded.

And still is stranded.

She might have stopped counting, but this doesn't change her situation. Tomie Magahara is a little less lost than when she had first arrived, given how she has acquainted herself with the area that comprises Higashiyama, a little less clean than when she had first arrived, with tendrils of hair falling out of her shimada and wearing a stained kimono, and a little lighter than she had arrived, given the diet of fruit and vegetables fueled by magic, but ultimately still forsaken.

And alone.

Maybe the loneliness associated with this place wouldn't be so crippling if she truly had been alone all the time. But as she can so clearly observe during the day, this particular part of Kyoto--the name of this city as stated by various individuals present--attracts troves of visitors; none of which are able to observe her. She has tried shouting at them, interfering in their activities and other miscellaneous activities of interruption, but to no avail. Once, she even considered using magic to see if the denizens of the realm could be affected by it, but knowing the potential consequences, she has abstained. For now.

In midst of all this commotion, she has made a simple routine of sorts to adhere to. The days will always start inside a particular house on a cozy bedding contraption of sorts, where she would clean herself, get dressed and fix her hair as best she can before heading out to the outskirts of the district, towards the grove of trees. There she will tend to the plants she has constructed, edible and not, cooing to them as if they are company, while simultaneously scolding Yatagarasu passive-aggressively, as it is likely he has joined her at this point.

After this and breakfast, she would go back to the districts and indulge in people watching for the rest of the day, bantering with the crow as if it could respond to her inquiries. Unless there is a distinct overabundance of foreigners whose tongues she can't even comprehend. Then she treks to a back alley and into less populated areas where she could think in peace.

Today is such a day. Since no one can observe her presence, she waltzes carelessly around the marketplace, muttering stray observations under her breath. While it's not uncommon for her to miss the life she led, wallow in regret and drown in depravity, today is an especially bad day. Just last night she dreamed about Fuuyuko, clinging to the handle of her parasol, sniveling and shaking while trying to fall asleep. She wanted to comfort the girl with harsh words, reminders that she is still there, still alive. But she couldn't even touch the girl; her bony limbs merely passed through the hair when she tried to caress it.

As it is, she doesn't even know if Fuuyuko is alive and well, if she survived the kerfuffle, even though Tomie did her best to have her thrown out of harm's way. She doesn't know if she is safe in case of a miraculous survival.

The entire thing... It didn't feel like a dream. It felt as if she was there, next to Fuuyuko, observing the girl in her ailing rest.

A strangely clear voice eviscerates these fleeting thoughts, like a knife through a pastry, deafening. Where did it come from? Behind her?

There is a man in a bizarre attire, hands raised, smiles aplenty. She can tell from this distance that he is shorter than her, less impressive in stature than some other men. Looks distinguished in terms of age too. But who is he addressing? Her head flits around, looking for anyone he might be talking to; she finds no one. They are virtually alone.

"You can see me?" She blurts these words out while blinking profusely, equal parts tempted to approach and back off simultaneously. Thoughts of horror manifest. "Are you a Shinigami?" Defensive stance, hands folded closer to her chest. Had they caught wind of what happened at Moyamoyasumi? "You don't... You don't look like one. Your attire..." Letting the sentence trail off while pointing, Tomie eyes him from head to toe, filled with the ecstasy of adrenaline.

There’s something that you don’t see every day: A tall cutie in a fine historical dress. Though Irvine wonders if she one of those actors that meant to blend with the historic building, something to enhance immersion for the tourists but why so far away from the tribe? He smiled, and waved. Careful with his approach – you never know if a woman would scorn or commit to something that drops him into deep water. He paused, giving her the five paces of space between and lowered his arms. Any longer and the wave would turn into a surrender and he can’t have that, the rugged wrestler thought to himself.


He began to wonder if she’s warm, even with his trusty black parka coat, showing his discreet pride of Canada, his country of birth, but never his home – Japan takes that mantle. With his hands dug inside the pocket he began to exhale, the faint mist escapes from his mouth. It was cold; she must be feeling the chill. Just as he was about to speak, mouth parted slightly to prepare but the visible air masked it. However, she blurted...

“You can see me?”


Irvine was taken back. The pretty tall doll, a figure reserved for admiration for her attire and dedication to her craft asked if he can see her. The look on her face changed from confusion to defensive. ‘Well hell’, he mused to himself, rubbing his right, rugged cheek briefly before his hand slip back into the sanctuary of warmth that is his pocket. Puzzled from her words but he couldn’t help but wonder.

Her next question confirmed his fear.


She’s not alive. Well, she’s alive but not alive like Irvine – poor example. He couldn’t help but lightly chuckle from it. He had heard of the Shinigami before. Black clothed fancy looking people that go around killing those black Luchadores looking beasts. Never spoken to one and he aims not to. He’d think it would drop him into a complicated business. Once she finally concluded the fact that he’s not a Shinigami, her voice trails off, processing her thoughts into place. A perfect opportunity for the one time champion wrestler to respond to her – after all, it’s rude to interrupt a woman dialogue unless it is malicious and downright cruel.


“Well… judging from what you said and your expressions. I say you’re not from this world. I saw a couple of those black cladded hooligans then and there, but not here. At least that I had figured,” his tired baritone voice oozes out like warm maple syrup out of the tub. He was sympathetic and sincere, there’s little need to complicate things. The woman asked a question and he responded. That felt a little good, there’s always a time for making a good deed.


He felt the occasional chill trying to reach the back of his neck leaving him with unease. He looked away rubbing the back of his neck before fiddling with his hoodie to blanket the exposed skin at the back of his neck. Of course, when he looks away from the eyes of real history, he dropped his smile. Smiling was tiring, but he damn sure he never let anyone saw him with a frown. Even with a neutral expression was enough to scold him for being a sad sack of shit. He hates thinking that he had the right to feel sad because he really doesn’t. He had a good life, and while the money is running thin, he still got enough to tide him over till his eventual passing.


“You’re safe, lady,” He assured her. He looks back to the mysterious lady; he couldn’t help but light up a tune in his mind. That David Bowie song, China Girl, but he couldn’t help but wonder why he’s striking up a tune such as that. Bowie always liked to pop up when he least expected, “I can’t guarantee that the Shinigami may be lurking around here, but don’t you worry. The World is pretty big enough for one person to hide.”


He glanced back to the small road trailing towards the main street, the same road that he came from before looking back, “If you’d like, I can hang around. I got all the time in the world,” a lie, but it was small, even could just be considered a half truth. The one of two problems he feared is that someone might pop by, wondering if the mildly famous wrestler had finally lost his marbles, talking to himself. That and she may have noticed the slight crevice of desperation hidden in the cracks of his smile.

Judging by the hooligan's body language, he is no fine upper class gentleman at all. His wide stance, unkempt hair and a rather bohemian attire serves only to further what can only be telltale signs of a commoner. He is not exactly dressed in the fine materials some of these visitors seem to have an affinity for. Even though their form is distasteful, she can recognize the fabric they have used is quite exquisite and likely expensive. The few who wear traditional garbs seem to be mostly actors and actresses of some variety, given how they sprout the same rehearsed lines over and over until monotony, while still receiving ample amounts of monetary compensation for a whole lot of nothing. Is this what her culture has been delegated to? A novelty?

Why is the man laughing? What is funny about her situation?

Grim eyes seize up the puny creature before her as he fumbles and bumbles like the buffoon he is, trying to come up with some sort of conversation after she expressed surprise at his ability to visualize her. This is not the sort of undisciplined behavior she would expect from a member of a military organization.

But then again, she has seem some seriously questionable behavior from even figures belonging to the rank of officer during her time in the Rukongai and wouldn't put it past him to be a sleeper agent sent to escort her back to Seireitei for her crimes or even dispose of her here. The foreign clothes could very well be a disguise of sorts.

Yet, if they deem her a low priority target, Tomie is confident enough that she'll be able to dispose of the assailant sent to take her out. Even if they are in plural.

Maybe they don't even know she managed to flee to Earth. A valid reason as to why no Shinigami have ever approached her since she got stranded here.

Regardless of what the nature of this peculiar fellow observing her is, she cannot deny that a twinge of adrenaline surging through her veins not due to fear, but something else: excitement. This is the first person who has been able to see her in a long time. The first time she has gotten to interact with something that isn't a crow that just pecks at the ground or a mute tree, welded by her own hands.

He claims no Shinigami are around, but she somehow doubts him, maintaining a cautious stance while listening attentively to what little the man has to say. His assurance that she is safe where with him only make her more wary; why would he think she is not safe when engaging with a Shinigami in the first place?

The lost soul wants to and intends to talk to him. But how much she is going to unveil about her circumstances to him? Puzzling, puzzling, she muses, having to resort to a manner of tact for the first time in what is possibly multiple months. It fills her with a sense of purpose, satisfaction even.

She cannot let him know she still feels threatened by his sudden presence.

"That's a relief," she says, replying to the second statement he had made, inferring to her safety. To illustrate she means this, she consciously lowers her shoulders and arms, placing them in resting positions once more. Her eyes are still intently plastered on the man. "I wouldn't mind some company. It's been quite lonely ever since I got here."

Only now does she look away, staring at the skies, pondering if they are the same she used to gaze at back in Soul Society. Are the glittering stars but faint artificial glimmers placed upon a canvas to deceive the stargazers? Are they but a replica of the true stars in life beyond Earth? A part of her vaguely expects tainted text to pop up in her retinas, retorts of times bygone, but ever since she had been separated from her blade, there has been nothing. Perhaps interaction with someone else had left her expectant again.

"I wouldn't mind going someplace more remote if you care to talk." Fingers point at the various silhouettes traversing in the background, accompanied by blitzing light, laughter and wild gestures. "You're the only one who can see me among those present. Wouldn't want you to lose face." Placid smile, understanding even, as she pats her own arm.

"There should be a grove down the road with some comfortable stumps and pleasant aroma. No one else seems to go there. Or do you have someplace else in mind?" She tilts her head, careful not to be too suggestive in her proposition. Whatever happens, Tomie cannot afford to scare him away; his presence is too valuable for her sanity to risk that.

"And what is the name you go by?"

‘Oh dear, she’s looking at me all wrong,’ now he sussed what she was: a soul who escaped from another world who died at some point far back in the history. Probably some era that he couldn’t recall, or rather never taught and has no intention to delve into that era. He got himself thinking about history, maybe he should spend one night looking up on things in the World Wide Web with a blanket and a cup of tea.


Thinking that out loud made him feel old, couldn’t help but let out a chuckle there.


He couldn’t blame her being cautious. The world changes quickly or slowly depending on speed of humanity’s progression. It was thirty years ago when his ears ringing from the fabled lines uttered from the American dream. He couldn’t help but recite a small snippet quietly to himself:


“There are two bad people … One was John Wayne and he’s dead brother,” that’s right? If she dead then maybe she know how he’s doing, granted if the Duke still out there doing this thing?


‘She said she’s fine. That’s good to hear!’ her words bring comfort to the grizzled wrestling veteran feeble mind and ‘she wanted some company, well hell, that’s even better!’ It brings him to smile warmly. It’s not every day that a beautiful woman likes to talk to you.


“It’d be a pleasure to talk to you,” He wasn’t sure how to respond to her, so with a polite bow he warded off any misfortune that may befall him, not that it worries him, “and there’s little worry about me losing face. I don’t have to…” He bit his tongue, realising what he was about to say. His careless with his words or maybe excited that he finally gets to talk to someone in Kyoto, he covered his mouth as she made him an offer. He felt relived from her suggestions, like a weigh been pressing against him, his knees wobbled, enough for him to take a few step to sit beside her. He kept her distance and made sure his hands are where it should be, he’s a good man, Irvine Bradford. He looks up to the mysterious lady with a pale, weak look on his face. The edge of his lip curled slightly as he spoke, “Sorry, I my knees isn’t what it used to be. My name is Irvine.”


Now he began to wonder, “Say, wouldn’t you know anyone named Marion Mitchell Morrison up there?” Silly, it’s possible that he wouldn’t use his real name. With a heavy heated air, he tries once more, with a curious glint in his eye, “do you know John Wayne?”