Post by Dresden Ravenskraft on Jul 10, 2017 23:06:30 GMT -5
It was late afternoon, and the streamlined terminals of Tokyo International Airport glowed orange in the aging sunlight. With a small bag slung over his shoulder, containing a change of clothes and a few personal effects—the current entirety of his life’s belongings—Dresden made his way towards the exit slowly. His pace was unsteady as he was still nauseous and light-headed from the twelve hour flight from Germany. It reminded him once more of why he hated flying so much. He was mainly surprised that he had even been allowed to enter the country. The fake identification that the Order had provided him with, replete with a forged passport, had apparently allowed him to successfully slip through security despite its obvious nature as an afterthought.
Name: Yasuo Bernauer
Age: 32
Ethnicity: German-Japanese
Occupation: Historical researcher
Dresden had balked at the irony. “Historical researcher.” What kind of a living was that? Although he supposed it was accurate enough. More importantly was the fact that he in no way resembled a half-Japanese person. Unless they were counting the dark hair and his ability to speak the language.
“Just tell them you’re more German than Japanese,” had been the unhelpful suggestion. Dresden had sighed and pinched the brow of his nose in consternation. But the passport and birth certificate had already been drawn up. It couldn’t be helped. Shikata ga nai.
Squinting at the sudden flood of kanji around him, Dresden slowly began to re-familiarize himself with a language that he had not used in over seventy years. He allowed the streams of people to direct him, flowing with them down onto a subway platform. The multitude pressed in all around him, building to the breaking point. When a train slid into the tunnel and the doors hissed open, they rushed in like a current to fill the vacuum of space in a tidy, powerful mass
While there were a few other foreigners in the crowd, Dresden generally towered over the people surrounding him. He knew his presence was an oddity, but fortunately no one payed him much attention. Just then, the train emerged from the darkened tunnels of the airport, and there was a silent, collective gasp as mount Fuji loomed into view. The contemplative span of its soft shadow was blurred in a gentle haze, and the skyline of the city shimmered against the darkening horizon. Dresden rubbed his eyes with the pretense of being tired, although in reality he was trying to blink away the hot, blurring images of his past.
He remembered the last time he had seen Fuji. Even now he could taste the bitter salt in the air as the ship pulled away from the shore, immutable distance stretching between him and the life he had chosen to leave behind until, shrinking into the impersonal, cerulean ocean, the shapes of Japan were lost to sight. Was the flutter of white the handkerchief Naoko had been waving, carried in the breeze, or had it only been his imagination? He would never know.
Now, the same mountain greeted him, with the same sense of solemn ponderous. Ageless, indifferent as the world changed around it. For some reason that acknowledgment settled deeply into his core, a heavy weight admit an unwelcome rush of emotion.
Stifling the bittersweet memories that had risen to the surface of his mind, Dresden finally stepped off the train in Karakurachou’s central station. He had made at least a dozen transfers, and feeling a bit disoriented, he approached a young business man who appeared to be waiting for someone at a nearby bench.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for this address. I was wondering if you could point me in the right direction,” he began, halting at first in Japanese but gradually finding that his words came more fluidly. Unfortunately he met with a blank stare.
“What?” the man asked stupidly. Dresden bit back a sigh and tried again, this time a bit slower. “No, no,” the young man shook his head, “I understood what you said it’s just you sound like my grandpa,” he spoke in a rough, presumably urban dialect.
“Oh,” Dresden replied lamely, a bit irritated. The young man nonetheless provided him with a helpful set of directions. After thanking him, Dresden was careful to follow what he had said, and soon found himself on what he assumed to be the correct street. Proceeding slowly, he at came to a stop in front of an unassuming shop. Gadgets, odd jobs, he wasn’t really sure what the store’s main line of sale entailed, and had to check the slip of paper with the scrawled address several times to make sure it was the correct location.
Rick Rogers. Head of the Holy Artifacts department. One of the knights within the Order had recommended Dresden to him, but he wasn’t sure if the other Quincy knew in advance that he was coming or not. Slipping the paper back into his pocket, he steeled himself and took a deep breath. It had taken him months to get here, through the initiation into the Order, the weeks spent “training” with other members, and the time it had taken to prove himself as loyal to the Order’s cause. At last he had arrived at the doorstep of a man who he hoped could help him with his fundamental dilemma. If not, then the trip from Germany would have been a total waste.
Pushing open the door to the shop, Dresden stepped inside, announcing his presence.
“Is…” he began in German but paused, unsure of what language to proceed in, “Is Roger-san here?” he called out, opting at last for Japanese. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a box of German chocolates and set them on the counter: a gift from the Order. Hopefully it would help smooth over the introductions.
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Name: Yasuo Bernauer
Age: 32
Ethnicity: German-Japanese
Occupation: Historical researcher
Dresden had balked at the irony. “Historical researcher.” What kind of a living was that? Although he supposed it was accurate enough. More importantly was the fact that he in no way resembled a half-Japanese person. Unless they were counting the dark hair and his ability to speak the language.
“Just tell them you’re more German than Japanese,” had been the unhelpful suggestion. Dresden had sighed and pinched the brow of his nose in consternation. But the passport and birth certificate had already been drawn up. It couldn’t be helped. Shikata ga nai.
Squinting at the sudden flood of kanji around him, Dresden slowly began to re-familiarize himself with a language that he had not used in over seventy years. He allowed the streams of people to direct him, flowing with them down onto a subway platform. The multitude pressed in all around him, building to the breaking point. When a train slid into the tunnel and the doors hissed open, they rushed in like a current to fill the vacuum of space in a tidy, powerful mass
While there were a few other foreigners in the crowd, Dresden generally towered over the people surrounding him. He knew his presence was an oddity, but fortunately no one payed him much attention. Just then, the train emerged from the darkened tunnels of the airport, and there was a silent, collective gasp as mount Fuji loomed into view. The contemplative span of its soft shadow was blurred in a gentle haze, and the skyline of the city shimmered against the darkening horizon. Dresden rubbed his eyes with the pretense of being tired, although in reality he was trying to blink away the hot, blurring images of his past.
He remembered the last time he had seen Fuji. Even now he could taste the bitter salt in the air as the ship pulled away from the shore, immutable distance stretching between him and the life he had chosen to leave behind until, shrinking into the impersonal, cerulean ocean, the shapes of Japan were lost to sight. Was the flutter of white the handkerchief Naoko had been waving, carried in the breeze, or had it only been his imagination? He would never know.
Now, the same mountain greeted him, with the same sense of solemn ponderous. Ageless, indifferent as the world changed around it. For some reason that acknowledgment settled deeply into his core, a heavy weight admit an unwelcome rush of emotion.
Stifling the bittersweet memories that had risen to the surface of his mind, Dresden finally stepped off the train in Karakurachou’s central station. He had made at least a dozen transfers, and feeling a bit disoriented, he approached a young business man who appeared to be waiting for someone at a nearby bench.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for this address. I was wondering if you could point me in the right direction,” he began, halting at first in Japanese but gradually finding that his words came more fluidly. Unfortunately he met with a blank stare.
“What?” the man asked stupidly. Dresden bit back a sigh and tried again, this time a bit slower. “No, no,” the young man shook his head, “I understood what you said it’s just you sound like my grandpa,” he spoke in a rough, presumably urban dialect.
“Oh,” Dresden replied lamely, a bit irritated. The young man nonetheless provided him with a helpful set of directions. After thanking him, Dresden was careful to follow what he had said, and soon found himself on what he assumed to be the correct street. Proceeding slowly, he at came to a stop in front of an unassuming shop. Gadgets, odd jobs, he wasn’t really sure what the store’s main line of sale entailed, and had to check the slip of paper with the scrawled address several times to make sure it was the correct location.
Rick Rogers. Head of the Holy Artifacts department. One of the knights within the Order had recommended Dresden to him, but he wasn’t sure if the other Quincy knew in advance that he was coming or not. Slipping the paper back into his pocket, he steeled himself and took a deep breath. It had taken him months to get here, through the initiation into the Order, the weeks spent “training” with other members, and the time it had taken to prove himself as loyal to the Order’s cause. At last he had arrived at the doorstep of a man who he hoped could help him with his fundamental dilemma. If not, then the trip from Germany would have been a total waste.
Pushing open the door to the shop, Dresden stepped inside, announcing his presence.
“Is…” he began in German but paused, unsure of what language to proceed in, “Is Roger-san here?” he called out, opting at last for Japanese. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a box of German chocolates and set them on the counter: a gift from the Order. Hopefully it would help smooth over the introductions.
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