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3ofswordsWHO: Kira Akiyama
WHERE: Throughout the 6I village; one starter in the treehouse village to the southwest
WHEN: August 19-26
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Drug use mention in the second section; Kira as a character is likely to mention it in narration or dialogue. Existential angst and physical peril in the final section.
WHERE: Throughout the 6I village; one starter in the treehouse village to the southwest
WHEN: August 19-26
OPEN TO: All
WARNINGS: Drug use mention in the second section; Kira as a character is likely to mention it in narration or dialogue. Existential angst and physical peril in the final section.
DROPS A MARBLE FROM THE SKY
OPEN TO THREE; 6I VILLAGE
Today, Kira's going to be a little hard to find.
It starts closer to noon--he's late for a shift in the kitchen, rounding up lunch for an increasing number of people. Would that the Observer caterers would share some of their fucking secrets. He's on his way back with a fresh bucket of peaches, getting what he can while the late summer stretches on, when his comeuppance from the last month arrives. A dozen little deer growling out of the brush, fangs showing. Two legs can't kick twelve deer, even with a bucket to swing--
But the flight response is a lot more literal than usual.
For the first hour, he isn't quite sure what's happened--a few sweeps of the lakeside village lets him know he hasn't been fucking swapped into a passing bird. There's no Kira dead on the path, covered in vengeful ungulates. Or worse--no bird-brained Kira eating ants off a log. Thank fucking Christ.
Which just leaves absurdity, beyond the pale of any he's known before. Beyond what he wheels and deals when trapped in conversation, the kettle trying not to boil over. Clones, magic, he thinks what he thinks, but he doesn't know anything anymore, except that he's either flatlining on a table and he hopes they're getting a good show out of whatever these final neurons are firing--or he's a bird. He's flying.
In the space where Kira should have been--the missed shift at the kitchen, the empty house with lonely dog and crow--there's a magpie flitting black and blue and white, diving between houses, coming in windows. When sighted, it tends to grab what it can from dressers and tables, blustering back out the way it came and leading any takers in a chase back to the porch he shares with Mark.
He'll figure out how to get back at some point; in the meantime, why not have some fun, trying to get someone to let him into his fucking house?
DON'T LET THIS FADING SUMMER PASS YOU BY
OPEN TO THREE; 6I INN ENTRANCE
( See post warnings )
YOU THOUGHT THAT YOU COULD OUTRUN SORROW
OPEN TO FRANK + TWO; SOUTHWEST TREEHOUSES
There are only so many days Kira can devote to bird-related pranks before the practical use of flight begs to be applied. With no clear sign of the abilty wearing off, the possible deadline weighs against concerns: could he lose it mid-air and fall to his death, is he wasting an opportunity that won't come again? He cares about one far more than the other, and it isn't dying.
Been there, done that, got several shitty black t-shirts with matching pants.
The rain and ensuing discovery of the terrible deer had driven him off from the treehouses, back to the village and its own disasters. Short of being teleported back on a whim, he wasn't going to get a better way to explore them: light weight, capable of flight. He doesn't even change back, for the first few houses--while his eyes might not be suited to reading, he could recognize objects well enough. There was always only one reason to come back.
Some sign of life. Some sign of identity to that life.
Kira glides from house to house, between the laden treetops. He pokes and prods through their contents, returning to form only to careful pull at drawers, open doors and shutters. He looks for books, journals, pieces of clothing. Old watches, jewelry, that stupid flame insignia on a cap or a pack.
It's in the fifth house that he finds it, hours later. Back to the one he'd been in at the start, one of the planks still split from his foot. If he had spent more time here, if he had been in a mind to look--
As a magpie, he lights on the dusty table, the shining item dulled by time and half-hidden by scattered leaves. Uncovering it with his beak, he leaps up, wings flapping, scattering more leaves from the desk. He has to move back, has to sit on the floor and think. He knows how this works, now, and it takes a moment, to want to turn back. To stand up and confirm what he's seen.
The lighter is familiar in its engraving, its signs of wear. As Kira stands there in the old parka, black feathers dropping from the hood, he traces the pattern with his finger, just like he had as a child. His father's lighter, sitting in an abandoned house.
Had it been his father's, or just--another Kira, struggling to survive this far above the ground?
As his hand tightens around it to the point of discomfort, patterned edges biting--the floor creaks, and Kira whirls to track the sound--
[ If your character has means and reason to have made the climb into the decaying tree houses, feel free to put them in the room; if they would be on the ground, feel free to have them wander below. Kira will be falling through the floor in either a few or in the immediate tag after, depending on where your character is! ]
