takutomaruki: rosebursts (i am happy for you)
[personal profile] takutomaruki
-----> 23rd may, in maruki's apartment

It was the 23rd of May.

Maruki had been keeping an eye on the dates for weeks now. A small, red circle marked the number neatly on the calendar that sat atop his study desk, drawn in with the same meticulous care he applied to nearly everything else in his life. He’d told himself—promised himself—that he’d come up with something thoughtful for Ichinose’s birthday. Something more than the usual gestures. Something that said he’d been paying attention.

There had been a few complications, of course.

Ichinose said she had arrived in summer, and there was always the chance she’d already celebrated her birthday before meeting them—quietly, or not at all. He had tried watching her closely on the 6th, just in case. But her expression hadn’t shifted. No sign of expectation. No sulking. No joy. Nothing that screamed "this is a day for me."

Maybe he should’ve wished her a happy birthday then and there. But back then, he had been swamped—tangled in his research, consumed by the ever-growing list of patients, papers, the mess of his project. And of course, Morning.

Morning had taken priority.

It hurt him to keep the boy in the dark for so long—the Akira from another universe who was his son inadvertedly, one he never expected to meet. Every instinct told him to protect, to nurture, to give. So that’s what he’d done. The kid had already missed too much. Maruki couldn’t let him miss anything else.

So yes. Life had been full. Bursting, even.

But today was for them.

-----


He had taken Morning along with him to the lab under the pretense of needing help with a light calibration test—some throwaway excuse he knew Morning wouldn’t question too deeply. Ichinose was already there when they arrived, nose-deep in her work, and Maruki only smiled faintly before excusing himself.

“Sorry, I’ve got to run a quick errand. Won’t be long,” he said, grabbing his coat. “Just don’t let Morning fall asleep in my chair again, yeah?”

Then he slipped out, coat flaring slightly behind him, and headed straight to the place where the real work was already underway.

-----


Back at his apartment, the lights were dimmed low to hide the still-in-progress decorations. Modest balloons, two cakes waiting in the fridge. There was even a small hand-made banner hung clumsily above the kitchen archway that read: Happy Birthday!!—with the letters slightly crooked in their tape. Not his best visual work, but it had heart.

Maruki stood near the window now and occasionally peeked through the peephole of the entrance door at every small sound from the hallway, every shuffle of feet. He spotted them just a block away. Not yet. Still a little time.

He turned back into the room, brushing off his hands and checking that the candles were still tucked safely in their packaging.

"Hamu—uh, Hamuko-san?" he called out softly toward the kitchen. "They’re on their way here. Just got the text." He had messaged them that he's out to get groceries.

He moved to adjust one of the streamers that had started drooping again—tape failing, or humidity, he couldn’t tell which.

“I think this might actually work,” he murmured, almost to himself. A faint, nervous smile tugged at his lips as he looked over everything one last time. The table was set. The gifts- to an extent, the food, the soft jazz in the background.

Now all that was left was for the door to open.

And the moment of surprise to land.
satyrscalling: art: xuehuaizi (threatening/locked in)
[personal profile] satyrscalling
TW: mentions of apocalyptic violence. gore. basically the whole list explained in this OPT-OUT post which are topics that I may dive into. Please proceed with caution but i promise he atleast won't bite in the first post dhdhd

-----> PROMPT ONE: reawakening



He wakes up choking on the scent of velvet.

His body feels like scorched iron—like someone left him in a fire to melt and pulled him out too late. There’s pain in his hands, sharp and residual, and his mouth tastes like blood and dirt. The couch beneath him is soft, too soft, and it's wrong. Everything is wrong.

He gasps. Sits upright.

His white winter coat—charred, soot-licked, ruined—clings to him like a funeral shroud. There are black streaks where the fabric burned, and brown-red stains where it didn’t. A pipe clinks against the couch’s side, connected to the bag resting near his foot. The bag’s zipper is partially open, a shotgun muzzle poking through like some final judgment.

And for a long moment, Takuto Maruki just… breathes.

Smoke in his lungs. Blood under his nails. Akira’s face above him, blood-spattered and pale, machete stuck hilt-deep in his chest. I’m sorry too he says just as he sees the face of another young man.

His hope.

Goro. The dead boyfriend.

Dying out just as quickly as it awakened. Like cinders.

He remembers that. His last memory.

The pain blooms slow. His limbs ache from disuse or death—it’s hard to tell. The char at his collarbone crackles when he moves, and when he reaches to rub his neck, his fingers freeze.

There's no bandage over his left eye.

He hisses and leans forward, feeling around his face. His face is aged, grey clinging to brown dark hair with eye circles so deep that they might as well be the burrows of his own grave. He digs a trembling hand into his coat. Pistol. Familiar. He keeps going.

There's...a woman standing before him. He doesn't pull up his gun just yet. She's wearing interesting attire. Blue.

She has an emergency gauze. Small mirror. She has some tools as well but Maruki merely snatches the bandage and sets the mirror on his lap.

He doesn’t call for help. Just starts wrapping the gauze one-handed, clutching the mirror awkwardly in his lap. The wound hasn’t reopened, but it's gorey. Red in all the wrong places. Deep and ugly.

His breathing evens.

The room is quiet. Gentle music plays from nowhere. Everything smells like lavender and old paper. Or not. Where is he? It's shrouded in blue. Somehow, he imagined a less calming afterlife than this and then, and then—

Just as he's properly tying off the bandage on his head- it would whip at the direction of foosteps coming his way.




-----> PROMPT TWO: conspiracy board



Maruki stares at the board like it owes him an apology.

Red thread. Maps, maybe. Diagrams with scribbled arrows and underlines and huge, frantic circles. But none of it—not a single word—makes sense.

He doesn’t speak Japanese.

He never needed to. Born and raised in Colorado. PhD in psychology from Yale. Worked at a private institute in California before the world ended. And after that, well—after that there wasn’t much room for language classes. He speaks English and sign, knows some psych jargon in German and Latin—not whatever this is.

But for all that, he knows that most of this is written in Japanese. He can read them anyway.

He glances around the room like someone might explain it to him. They don’t.

"...Right," he mutters under his breath, rubbing the bridge of his nose. His body still aches. His eye burns beneath the makeshift gauze as if that was the only answer he deserved. “Real helpful. Thanks, universe.”

There's a picture of...a bird. A demon bird there. He has brown hair and stark dark eyes, close to crimson- like Goro from the fire.

That..doesn't make sense. He's so sure he's alive. Somehow. Well right after his death. Then again. he's also dead. It's easy to memorize the face by heart, especially when he's sure it will haunt him when he comes across a creature like him.

There is English, though. Bits of it. Scattered. Not helpful.

"I propose a compromise: Cap
can be short for Captain or Capsize. or Capacitor!"


Codenames.

Another one:

"PLEASE DON'T FLOOD THIS BOARD WITH BICKERING."


Maruki exhales, dragging a hand through his hair.
Okay, Akira. Turns out you become a captain. During the victorian era. The thought of it makes warmth flood in his chest which he quickly quells when he observes the rest of the details. He tried not to get caught off guard by things but really- he shouldn't be alive or this aware right now. Especially after death so maybe he doesn't have much to judge things for.
"And I still have no idea where the hell I am.”

He glances at the board again, desperate for context. For clarity. For anything.

"... Am I on Tumblr?" he murmurs.

"Crow believes it may have something to do with 'dumbass energy.'"
He lets out a small breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh.

That’s... familiar. Too familiar. He doesn’t know these people in a way he would have liked in a different context, but he knows this energy. Knows what it's like to build understanding from scraps. To put names to patterns that no one else even sees yet. To stitch your world back together with colored thread and hope.

He reads the next note.

Yu vs. Souji.

And then:
Vampires are real.
Demons, too.


And then:
Why is it mostly us?

He feels his stomach turn.

He hasn’t breathed in a while.

The threads spiral in every direction. Names, codenames, timelines, versions—fractals of people. Stacked realities. Layered lies. His eyes dart from corner to corner of the board, trying to take it in all at once.

He's seen something like this before. On a wall made of concrete and rot. Written in blood and nail scratches. But this? This is almost clean. Curated. A museum of fractured identities.

How quaint.




-----> PROMPT THREE: downtown shibuya



It’s too quiet.

No screams. No sirens. No gunfire in the distance. No helicopters buzzing overhead. No static bleeding from busted radios. The lights are on. It's...not as cold as it should be. It's pleasant. Everywhere.

Takuto walks slowly down the street, trying not to stagger. His boots feel wrong on the pavement—clean pavement, without dust or ash caked into every crack. Shibuya gleams around him like something from a dream he used to have. A place he only knew through half-watched anime and tourist blogs, back when he still had a mom or family to talk about those things with. Before everything fell apart.

It's cleaner than anything he’s ever seen. Too clean. Like the whole city’s a set someone forgot to tear down. Or a simulation running just a beat too smoothly. He remembered when he saw most of the major cities in his world were up in flames to prevent the outbreak and god, that time he was so naive. Thinking that he and his family could survive through the worst of it.

The monsters would all go away.

...

He passes a convenience store—some narrow place lit up like a spaceship—and flinches when the door chime goes off. He startles again at the whirr of a vending machine kicking to life. Every person who brushes past him makes him twitch. He keeps his head down, glasses slightly fogged, the way they always get when the cold air kisses skin still warm from adrenaline.

He can’t read the signs. He catches glimpses—ファミリーマート, ホットスナック, 新発売!—but it’s all a blur of symbols he never got around to learning. Just decorations that somehow make the vaguest sense. Even the people—sharp suits, glossy bags, laughter drifting past like perfume—feel like part of the backdrop.

When he reaches a trash bin, he doesn’t hesitate.

The white coat—scorched, riddled with holes, soaked with things he doesn’t want to think about—goes in with a heavy, wet thump. It hits like a body. Slumps like one too. There's no ceremony to it. It just... leaves him.

The pistol stays. Tucked into the back waistband of his rough jeans, hidden under a sagging gray sweater two sizes too big for him- scavenged from other survivors. He hasn’t decided whether he’s ready to let that go. It’s the only thing here that makes sense.

His hair’s still matted. His face is a wreck—half-healed burns, dirt he couldn’t scrub out, shadows that make his skin look bruised even when it’s not.

Nobody looks at him.

Or so he thinks.


Nobody sees him.

No one’s asked his name. No one’s screamed. No one’s tried to shoot him, or eat him, or take the watch off his wrist or the shoes off his feet while he sleeps.

He finds a pedestrian bridge and grips the railing, hard enough to steady the tremble in his arms. Below him, hundreds of people move in all directions, smooth and fast and alive. Their voices rise in a low hum, constant and harmless.

He needs a phone.

Safety. He needs safety.


He stares at them like they’re an alien species. Maybe he’s the alien. Some stowaway from another world, dropped into this one without a map or purpose. Like limbo.

He doesn’t understand.

And he hates how warm it feels.

The ache sneaks in beneath his ribs, small and sharp. A tiny, fractured thing, not dead but not whole, either. It stirs in the silence. In the safety. In the normal.

It doesn’t know what to do with any of this.

Not with clean streets. Not with neon signs. Not with vending machines that work or children who aren’t starving or trash bins that aren’t overflowing with charred memories.
takutomaruki: (skeptical)
[personal profile] takutomaruki
Alright, let’s address the elephant in the room. About Akira Maruki who goes by the codename- Morning.

Yes, I’m Morning’s biological father. In another world.

We took a paternity test, and I’ve pinned the results to the conspiracy board for anyone who wants to cross-reference them. If that’s still not enough to convince you, I’m open to being proven wrong—scientifically, of course. Because let’s be honest, the idea of suddenly being a father to someone I only knew as a fellow student or a close confidant? That’s… borderline ridiculous I will be honest.

But that’s not all there is to it.

There’s actualization involved. I can sense it. Reality has been tampered with—most likely by the version of me from Morning’s world. I’m still trying to grasp the full extent of what’s happened, but until then…

Please be kind to him. Help him heal. Be his friend. If you’d like to reach out, I can extend his number to you.

And one last thing—don’t treat him like Midnight. Don’t treat any of them harshly.

No one deserves that.

P.S. If your mom’s birth name is Karin Ikeda, please… for the sake of my remaining sanity, get a paternity test. Please. Before I get more gray hairs.
takutomaruki: (confronting)
[personal profile] takutomaruki

New years has been in many ways fleeting and ever-changing. New developments that occured past what have been some of the most active months after his first arrival here. He does miss the bliss of the new year's party but really as Maruki's life were. Good things always came to an end.

Now were they replaced with better things?

...




A. Tranquil delights [locked to Toshiro for now]

The New Year’s party had been a success, at least on paper. The hotel was lavish, the food abundant, the atmosphere carefully curated to exude warmth and celebration. Maruki had planned it all with meticulous care—the small handful of adults and older residents deserved something to look forward to, even in this strange place.

But now, as the late hours stretched into the quiet of the night, Maruki found himself on the balcony, separate from the lively remnants of the gathering.

The cool night air pressed against him, carrying the faint sounds of laughter and conversation from inside. He barely registered it. His fingers rested lightly on the railing as his gaze drifted, unfocused, toward the distant skyline.

He was dressed in a yukata, a traditional choice for the occasion—gold, with elegant green and black accents woven subtly into the fabric. It was a rich color, warm against the lantern-lit backdrop, but the man wearing it looked strangely out of place.

Awkward. Unsure.

His thoughts, traitorous as ever, had carried him elsewhere.

"Shibusawa…"

Maruki exhaled slowly, the name lingering unspoken in his chest.

It was almost funny—the way memories could shift in hindsight, how the mind could so easily reshape them into something more tolerable. He had just been recalling their usual back-and-forth to Midnight just a few days ago, the way Shibusawa had practically dragged him to a Christmas Eve get-together on that fateful day. How they had argued over his research. How Maruki had left early after another disagreement.

That was the story he told himself.

Except…

Except the memory was wrong. It was softer than the truth.

The truth was that they had fought, really fought. Words sharp enough to cut. A tension so thick it had nearly suffocated them both. And then—

A fist. A sharp, jarring impact. The dull ache that had followed, not just in his face, but deep in his ribs, in the parts of himself that couldn't simply heal as he had fought back.

He had left in a haze, not just of anger but of something else. Something messier, something he hadn't wanted to acknowledge.

Now, standing here beneath the quiet glow of the night, Maruki found himself wondering.

What is he doing now?

Did he still think of that night? Did he regret it?

Regret.

Maruki's smile curled. That didn't even matter anymore, did it?





B. The laboratory [Locked to morning]

[Moon-> Current CR: 1]
Dated: Second last Monday of January.

The morning air was sharp with winter’s bite, but Maruki had come prepared. His usual brown jacket shielded him from most of the cold, and underneath it, a black turtleneck offered an extra layer of warmth. As he adjusted his sleeves, he turned to Morning with a small, reassuring nod.

“Just follow my lead,” he instructed simply. “It’s… easy to get lost in here.”

The lab in Odaiba was massive. It loomed ahead of them, sleek and modern, its sheer size enough to make it feel almost intimidating. There were few places like it, and in a way, it felt like a world of its own—detached from the usual rhythm of the city.

As they walked, the chill lingered in the air, breath forming in soft puffs before them. A few passing cognitions took notice of Maruki, offering polite nods and words of well-wishing as they went. He acknowledged them in turn, his replies courteous but brief. He didn’t linger, though; his focus remained ahead.

At the front of the lab, a set of immense, regal gates stood before them, their surface polished yet old with an air of grandeur. As they approached, a deep, mechanical groan echoed through the quiet as the gates slowly creaked open, revealing a sort of pathway with flowers etched on the sides and expanding further down the east wing of the building where they flourished like a grand garden.

A butterfly flew before Morning's face.

Maruki didn't remember the last time he had maintained the garden after designing it.




C. Setsuban. [Locked to Trickster for now]

Dated: Evening, 2nd of February

It was quiet inside.

Maruki stood at the entrance of Leblanc, the dim glow of the streetlights outside casting long, slanted shadows through the café’s windows. His breath was slow, measured, as a single inky tentacle hesitated at the doorway, curling inward to check for any sign of life before withdrawing. No one was here.

Good.

He stepped inside. The faint aroma of coffee still clung to the air, even if this place—this version of it—was merely a cognition. The warmth of memory seeped into him, but the weight in his chest never lifted.

"You're awfully quiet today."

Azathoth’s voice slithered into his thoughts, its amusement as heavy as the suffocating silence in the room.

Maruki barely acknowledged it. Instead, his fingers trailed absently along the counter as he walked, his eyes searching—*for what?* He wasn’t even sure. His mind felt like a frayed thread, pulled too taut, slipping through his grasp the more he tried to hold on.

"You don’t even recognize the significance of this day, do you?"

A slow inhale. His grip tightened slightly on the wood.

"You fought for this. You bled for this."

Maruki exhaled through his nose, turning slightly toward one of the booths as if the answer might be waiting there for him.

"And yet, here you are, wandering in the haze of it all. Do you even remember what you were willing to destroy for your ideals?"

A flicker—just a flicker. A cold February night. The glow of golden cracks in the air. Desperation clinging to his words.

His brow furrowed as he pressed his palm lightly against his temple.

"...I was here," he murmured, half to himself. "But—what was it?"

His memory felt like a shattered mirror, the pieces there but just out of order, just out of reach. He had fought. He had pleaded. But the details—his reasons—his conviction—were slipping between his fingers like sand.

And it frustrated him.

spectralcorsair: @Mega (sadgeboy)
[personal profile] spectralcorsair
TW: eye injury, self-loathing.

Akechi's shaking fingers reached over to his face- feeling the distinct leather against the pad of his fingers when they made their way to his left eye. Concealed away from the rest of the world, the wound remained hollow as he gulped down. It was audible enough, more so than the storm brewing in his pysche as he considered the man before him. Igor. Grinning ear to ear as he's lead adrift by a myriad of words that remained partially recognizable to downright nonsensical.

"Why Akechi-san?" The man would continue- amusement in each syllable. "Surely the concept of demons and shadows shouldn't be as surprising to you of all people."

The weight of his weathered glove laid heavy in his pocket.

This is...where he passed to? In a room doned in blue with a mysterious feminine voice drawing him, like a siren pulling a poor pirate to his fate?
What utter nonsense.

"I have had enough of your bullshit," he answers crisply as he gets up, fists clenching. "Some master you are," he grumbles and has half the urge to tear apart this plush sofa yet all he can really do is look on ahead. Keep moving forward. He's alive in the sense where every breath feels like an anamoly. Keep moving forward. A contradiction. He wants to rip apart his eye patch and see himself in the mirror, just to prove to himself once more that a man like him will never find refuge in someone's loving embrace, someone's bosom or in someone's heart. That he's doomed to his own devices, doomed to remain a piece of a ship that he pranced around like the bastard he is.

His fingers jitter as he pulls himself together and crosses his arms to his chest, staring ahead at the large conspiracy board mounted at the side. A single carmine eye drifts over the details. He sees names, most of them being him. Or Akira. What...? His eye narrow down on a certain line.

They seem like matched sets. Like white and black pieces on a chessboard in some respects.


Maybe this is hell.

For the first time in a while, everything simply flies over his head; denying any semblance of logic that he desperately craved for. A way to catch himself before everything falls apart.

𝓜𝔂 𝓮𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓮𝓶𝓮𝓭 𝓯𝓮𝓵𝓵𝓸𝔀 𝓚𝓾𝓻𝓾𝓼𝓾𝓼 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓐𝓶𝓪𝓶𝓲𝔂𝓪𝓼,

𝓗𝓪𝓿𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓰𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓷 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓼𝓾𝓫𝓳𝓮𝓬𝓽 𝓸𝓯 𝓪 𝓬𝓸𝓭𝓮𝓷𝓪𝓶𝓮 𝓭𝓾𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱𝓽, 𝓘 𝓫𝓮𝓵𝓲𝓮𝓿𝓮 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓶𝓸𝓼𝓽 𝓮𝔁𝓹𝓮𝓭𝓲𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓸𝓷𝓮 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓶𝓮 𝔀𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓫𝓮 "𝓒𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷." 𝓗𝓸𝔀𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻, 𝓼𝓱𝓸𝓾𝓵𝓭 𝓪𝓷𝔂 𝓸𝓯 𝔂𝓸𝓾 𝓯𝓮𝓮𝓵 𝓭𝓲𝓯𝓯𝓮𝓻𝓮𝓷𝓽𝓵𝔂, 𝓘'𝓵𝓵 𝓭𝓮𝓯𝓮𝓻 𝓽𝓸 𝔂𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓬𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓬𝓽𝓲𝓿𝓮 𝓳𝓾𝓭𝓰𝓶𝓮𝓷𝓽 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓪𝓷𝓼𝔀𝓮𝓻 𝓽𝓸 𝔀𝓱𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓿𝓮𝓻 𝓽𝓱𝓮 𝓰𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓹 𝓭𝓮𝓬𝓲𝓭𝓮𝓼.

𝓨𝓸𝓾𝓻 𝓬𝓸𝓵𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓰𝓾𝓮,
𝓒𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝓚𝓾𝓻𝓾𝓼𝓾


Captain Kurusu.

That handwriting is unmistakable of course. Even if this were some imposter or an unruly creature from another eldritch world- only his captain would don the very mask as others see fit.


"Perhaps your poor blacksmith may still need an apprentice."

"You can ask him. Mr. Iwai's forge is on the north side of the city, just off of Central Street."

"Which city?"



He looks ahead- staring at the five doors. Mikage-cho, Sumaru, Tatsumi Port Island, Inaba... places that didn't matter to him right now except for one.

Tokyo.




Untouchable.


That's what the sign said in a shade of green that stood out in its...stylish band of words outlined in blacks and whites. Almost as bright as a patch of grass when sunlight fell but then again- it shouldn't be so surprising. He just saw people moving in quick motions inside a large box riddled with dots, like some sort of puppet show with an invisble curtain drawn on them. He would have stayed behind to take it all in if he could.

But that didn't matter.

A heavy breath broke from his lips as he felt it all rushing in. Excitement? Anguish? Guilt? Relief? —all of them twisting in his chest like knives. The agony of it all making him blink almost too wide, a single pupil constricting as his hands feel too bare. His heart pounded, each beat reminding him he was alive—but barely.

He doesn't have to be here.

But its a place to start from.

He reached for the door, a tremor running through his fingers as they grasped the handle. This was it. No turning back.
takutomaruki: art: weiss__ming (Default)
[personal profile] takutomaruki
The christmas cheer and the overall holiday season was yet to completely distract Takuto Maruki, a disshelved cognitive presearcher residing in the depths of his own palace. He occasionally found himself at home as well, cooking different recipes or simply studying a different field for a change- Experimental Pyschology. It had become his way of coping with the overall chaos festering over the jolly tunes and the cold.
Clearly, theoretical pyschology wasn't the way to go for him and now, clinical psychology- one where he might truly begin to understand the extent to how Azathoth functions by using his innate knowledge of cognitive pscience and fill in the gaps in a more...constricted way could be beneficial. He doesn't know where he was going with this but he meant it when he said he was going to make Igor pay.

Which meant only one particular thing. He will make Rumi real. Somehow. He doesn't need a long-nosed man's help anyway.

Option A: An unsual patient.

Deep in the winding corridors of Mementos, where the usual chaos of the cognitive world is temporarily replaced by a surprisingly calm, almost surreal space. Maruki stands in a cozy little bubble of tranquility, manifested out of his own calm demeanor. The walls and the floors are still the usual dark tracks, but within this strange pocket, there are two armchairs, a small coffee table, and an odd aura of quiet. In front of him sits a Jack Frost, wearing his iconic grin and sporting his signature icy appearance, but with an air of confusion that suggests this isn’t your usual Shadow encounter.

Now dressed in a nearly all-grey suit with a white tie and a black shirt, Maruki looked different—far more relaxed than he had in his former Metaverse attire. His smile was still the same warm, reassuring one he always wore, but the sleek, pristine look from before was replaced by a more practical, yet still formal, appearance.

Beside him, the air shimmered briefly, and a pair of plush armchairs materialized, along with a small coffee table. On the table were a selection of snacks—Pocky sticks, biscuits, and a few other bite-sized treats. Maruki sat down in one of the chairs, resting his hands in his lap as he glanced across the table.

Opposite him sat Jack Frost, his small, round figure perched in the other armchair. Jack was nibbling on a Pocky stick, his wide eyes flicking up at Maruki before taking another enthusiastic bite.

“Alright, Jack,” Maruki said, his voice soft and calm, “Let’s talk a bit more. I know it can be overwhelming here in Mementos, but I want to help you work through this. Whenever you are ready.”

Jack Frost blinked, crumbs falling from his mouth as he chewed. His usual cheerful demeanor was tinged with something else today—a hint of hesitation. He set the Pocky down on the table for a moment, his tiny hands folded in his lap. “Ho-ho, yeah, I guess I’ve been stuck here for a while. Can’t find my way outta the storm. Hee-ho, it’s like... I’m just frozen in place, y’know?”

Maruki leaned back slightly, his expression thoughtful as he gently picked up a biscuit. “I understand. Sometimes it feels like we’re stuck in one place for too long, doesn’t it? Everything spinning around us, but no clear way forward.”

Jack Frost nodded slowly, eyes wandering to the snacks as he fiddled with a biscuit on the table. “Hee-ho, it’s like I’m all cold inside, too, just like the world around me... can’t get warm or see the way outta here.”

Maruki smiled, his tone encouraging yet gentle. “It’s completely okay to feel that way, Jack. Sometimes the world can be overwhelming, and it’s hard to know what to do. But you don’t have to have everything figured out all at once. Sometimes, taking it step by step, even just enjoying a snack, can help clear your mind. One little thing at a time.”

Jack Frost’s eyes brightened, a little laugh escaping him. “Ho-ho, that’s... that’s a pretty good way to think about it. Hee-ho, I’ve been way too stuck on the storm instead of enjoying the little things. I guess these snacks aren’t so bad, huh?”

Maruki chuckled softly, his smile widening as he offered Jack Frost another biscuit. “Exactly. It’s all about taking a breather when you can. The storm might still be there, but we can take moments of peace, even in the chaos.”




Option B: Battling Trauma- one ball at a time. (Locked to BMSumi)

If he isn't giving therapy to shadows or covering the assignments from the online college course- he does other things. He knows he has ample of time to make up for it. He could easily cover the entire term in a span of a few months; depending on how long he's going to have to stay here or live with Azathoth's words still murmuring in his head when he finds his guard lowered- today is one of those days where he just wants to relax and not thing about the gruelling implications of this place and his fate if he doesn't understand himself. Fast.

THUD!

The ball hits the far wall before rolling away into the distance. "Damn it," he shakes his head as he prepares his stance again. His feet might have been too wide or his knees were bent too much. He releases another sigh, lowers the baseball bat and decides to pull out his phone again. Might as well take a look at a video or something, its not as if there's anyone here. Good for him.




Option C: NETWORK (locked to katsuya, toshiro, mamakechi, zenkichi, phoenix and others who want to join in and test their adult muses [check ooc])

Hello, everyone!

I hope you're all doing well amidst this whole...multiversal jargoan that seems to surround us. The new year is upon us, and I thought it might be nice to do something a little more... traditional to celebrate. After all, it's important to have some moments of peace and joy, even here, right? Outside of scrutiny.

So, I’d like to extend an open invitation for a New Year's gathering. I’m planning to book out a hotel and give the place a little makeover to fit the occasion—decorations, good food, and maybe even a few games! It’ll be a relaxed event, no pressure, just a chance for us adults (mostly) to unwind and spend some time together.

I’m still sorting out the details, but if you’re interested, feel free to reach out! I’d love to hear what kind of things you’d like to have at the party. Whether it's music, games, or something else entirely, I’m happy to accommodate as best I can.

Given everything that’s been going on, I’m thinking of keeping this event a bit more private—so I’d prefer if it’s just for the adults at the moment. I hope that’s okay, but please understand that this is more of a personal gathering than a public event.

Let me know if you’re interested, and I’ll get everything set up as soon as possible.

Looking forward to hearing from you all!



[OOC: anyone can join in though maruki will be wary if you are someone he could have a negative cr with. no below 15s tho- unless you have someone looking after you. most if not all adults are welcome! Unless you are a shido pst pst. This post is locked from Phren, pheasant, bmtaba, drake, frog, corvus and others maruki may have unfortunate run ins with. the locked portion will be edited so if you want to express interest with your muse- they can have a chat with maruki seperately here or in his inbox]





Option D: A meeting out of place. (locked to Pheasant)

Dr. Maruki, clad in his white hoodie complete with stitched cat ears, faded jeans, and unmistakable pink heart-shaped sunglasses, squints up at the tree where an orange tabby cat perches precariously on a branch. The cat hisses at his every attempt to coax it down, its fur puffed in full defensive mode.

Maruki sighs, resting his hands on his hips. “Now, now, let’s not make this more complicated than it needs to be, okay?” He glances around, hoping for someone—anyone—to offer help, but the crowd moves past him, utterly indifferent to the scene. With a resigned groan, he rolls up his sleeves. “Fine. Guess it’s up to me.”

Moments later, he’s halfway up the tree, awkwardly maneuvering his lanky frame through the branches. His ridiculous attire catches on the bark more than once, the cat ears flopping around comically. Finally, he reaches the cat, who glares at him with eyes full of suspicion.

“There, there. See? I’m here to help.” He extends a hand toward it, voice soft and coaxing. “Just a little scratchy fluffball, aren’t you?”

The cat has other ideas. With a loud hiss, it swipes at him, claws grazing his hand. Maruki winces but doesn’t pull back, instead managing to gently scoop up the agitated feline.

“There we go. See? That wasn’t so—AHHH!”

The branch beneath him gives a disheartening crack, and before he can react, Maruki is left dangling with one hand gripping the branch for dear life. The cat, now securely in his other arm, seems entirely unimpressed with the unfolding drama.

“Great,” he mutters, wincing as the branch creaks ominously under his weight. “This is...fine. Totally fine. No big deal.”

The cat finally stops hissing, its wide-eyed gaze fixed on him as if to say, What’s the plan, genius? Below, the indifferent crowd continues to ignore the scene entirely.

Great this is just...great.
unit_8910_wolf: (observing)
[personal profile] unit_8910_wolf

This place was...peculiar.

And that said a lot when Wolf was sure that he would never have to deal with absurdity again. A world enveloped by the shadows, riddled in the corpses of humanity itself where each day felt like their last. If it weren't for the chrome running underneath his skin, he isn't sure he would have lived more than a day breathing in the morning air without a gas mask and a gun because you never know when you can make eye contact with a shadow waiting to cannabalize away your very existence.

The worst part? That shadow could have worn the face of someone you lost in tragedy and more often than not- the tragic ones always stayed behind. Groaning within the lumps of black that crawled the abandoned earth.

Zenkichi didn't choose this.

And yet. Yet he had to live with it.


"There is an over-abundance of wildcards here. We need to get out of here so I can tamper with the network and narrow them down."


"Interesting," he raises a brow as he looks ahead at Igor. "Sure. This place isn't defined by time or matter. Makes sense. Reminds me of my service with PubSec." He scoffs as he gets up from the sofa and takes a look at the board.

"Unit #8910: we need to get to work. Stop loitering around ugh-"


"...someone took wolf."




Choice A: Going out In a Bang

It was business as usual at Big Bang Burger that nestled in the busy corners of Central Street. A faint hum of cheery but repetitive background music plays over the speakers, filling the air alongside the subtle sizzle of patties on the grill and the hiss of soda machines.

A small group of high school students in uniforms sits at one of the tables near the window. They chatter loudly about upcoming exams, one of them stabbing at the pile of fries on his tray absentmindedly. Nearby, an office worker in a wrinkled suit hunches over a single coffee, scrolling through his phone with tired eyes. He barely touches his half-eaten burger.

Zenkichi Hasegawa—Wolf—stood in the entryway, a man out of time and place. His long, tattered tailcoat swayed faintly as the overenthusiastic air conditioning washed over him, kicking up a faint ripple of dust from the folds. He adjusted the black tassels of his sleeves absentmindedly, but his gait faltered as his visor-like console headset flickered with low hums of static—clearly straining to process the normalcy of this environment.

His sharp, calculating gaze swept over the patrons, lingering a beat too long. It was the sheer volume of people that unsettled him. Teenagers laughing. Workers existing. No one was screaming, no one was running for their lives. There weren’t any shadows hunched in the corners, whispering, or disfigured corpses left as grim reminders of what was lost. For someone who had spent years surviving in a wasteland where every movement could mean death, the packed yet blissfully mundane Big Bang Burger felt... claustrophobic.

His fingers twitched at his side. His weaponized arm was so used to pulling triggers that, for a moment, he almost scanned the room for hostiles.

“—No threats detected.”

The voice crackled softly in his ear, artificial and sweet. Akane’s voice—or, at least, the AI approximation of it. Damn Kirijo Group.

“Dad. Stop staring. You look like you’re about to vaporize a middle-schooler.”


Zenkichi blinked and scowled, tearing his gaze away from a startled teenage girl who was gripping her milkshake a little too tightly. He adjusted his collar in a gruff, performative way that didn’t fool anyone.

“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered under his breath. “Not my fault. I haven’t seen this many people in one place who aren’t trying to eat me alive.”

Slowly, cautiously, Zenkichi made his way to the counter. His steps were deliberate, too heavy, the clink of reinforced plating under his boots far too ominous for a place that offered combo deals. As he approached, he realized something bizarre: the crowd was... moving for him.

What the hell? Was he that intimidating? Patrons shifted nervously, parting like the Red Sea to let him through, avoiding eye contact as if he might detonate on sight. He tilted his head in confusion, throwing a hesitant glance over his shoulder.

“You, uh...” Zenkichi cleared his throat awkwardly. “No, you can go ahead. Don’t mind me.”

A young man in a suit and tie froze mid-step, locking eyes with him like a deer caught in headlights before shaking his head vigorously and darting back to his seat.

Zenkichi sighed. Great. Even in a world of synthetic peace, he was still the guy no one wanted to stand near.

“Oh my god, fine—fine, I’ll go ahead!” he grumbled loudly, throwing his hands up in mock surrender. “More burgers for me.”

His attempt at casual bravado was undercut by the sheer awkwardness of the moment, but he pushed forward, squinting at the glowing digital menu above the counter. Rows of pixelated burgers, fries, and soda flashed in neon brilliance, the cheerful cartoon mascot cheerily suggesting combo upgrades.

Zenkichi stared.

And stared.

And stared.




Choice B:

Tatsumi Port Island

The iconic architecture of Tatsumi Port Island felt pristine yet desolate, as if frozen just after a day’s end. Zenkichi wandered the eerily clean streets where not a single person remained—save for the massive Ferris wheel at the harbor, its lights flashing on and off, turning slowly despite the lack of power. He stood at its base, hands on his hips. “Yup. Definitely haunted,” he muttered before Akane’s voice chirped in his ear:

“Wild energy spike, Dad. Try the school grounds.”


He sighed loudly, trudging off. “High schools again? That’s where we’re looking for saviors of humanity? At least back in my day, kids weren’t summoning gods between exams.”

Still...this place was the basis of his company, wasn't it?




Choice C: NETWORK

Hello everyone,

I’m the 47th Generation Anti-Shadow Suppression Weapon, model "Unhuman." My unit's designation is #8910-Wolf, but if you want a nickname, you can just call me Wolf. Though, don't get too excited. Someone else already took that one. So, just to keep it simple, you can call me Zenkichi Hasegawa.

Now, judging from the looks of things, I wouldn't be surprised if there are other versions of me running around here. Not that I’m thrilled about it, but you never know with these kinds of situations. Used to work as a cop in the Public Safety Bureau... but not anymore, so don't go looking for some kind of badge-wielding vigilante. I read another guy getting butchered for exactly that so- let’s keep things civil, alright?

As for this place... I’ll be blunt: I’m still wrapping my head around just how bizarre this all is. It’s not exactly normal, and while I get why some of you might not be thrilled with my presence here, I’m not here to stir up trouble. So long as you don’t provoke me, I won’t be doing the same.

But listen up—the number of teenagers with multiple Personas running around? Yeah, I’m seriously concerned about that. It's one thing to be a kid, but to have this much power at that age? Wildcards in our world were people who had been trained years on end to perfect their personas and we have rare instances of them in my world. It makes me nervous. Not gonna lie.

One more thing: if anyone here has that EMMA app, do yourselves a favor and delete it. Trust me on this one. Where I’m from, that thing led to some serious hell for humanity. It’s part of why we ended up where we did, and I'm not about to let it happen again. Just... delete it, alright?

Anyway, I’ll leave it at that. Just don’t expect me to be a walking charity, but I’m not looking to start fights either.

Unit #8910: Zenkichi Hasegawa

linkclickakira: (Default)
[personal profile] linkclickakira

"Second death"


TW: death, gore, damaged flesh, suicide, possible panic attack in the threads

Ask first in DMs before rping.













Akira knew what he was doing.

This had happened before. A gun against his head and a trigger being pulled. Such simple actions, isn't it? Humanity had made it their sole birthright to use their intelligence in uprooting each other from their very bones and flesh as if their words and small actions weren't enough. Letting something wager someone's death on its other end- the sole duty of a gun and Akira had callously thrown away his life with it. As he always does. When Goro stood on the other side of the table, telling him things didn't have to turn this way if he just stayed away the moment he told him to. When he watched behind the door at the young grieving girl who blamed herself for her mother's death.

When he killed him. In anger. In frustration. In sheer fucking betrayal.

Except something was wrong.

He felt wrong.

He should have awakened to his previous picture amongst the crowds in his own world. He had a plan. He would be away from this otherworldly hell-hole and once again savour the one year he has in order to save everyone he cares about.

But then...what was this? He couldn't move. He was floating somewhere, his face facing a large gaping abyss. A sea of sorts, his chest heavy as he finds himself floating like the very particles of sand in an hourglass. His fingers weren't responding to him. He couldn't speak. He couldn't scream. What the hell went wrong here? Where is he?!


"It seems you are not enjoying the amenities of this world to the fullest, trickster," he hears a familiar voice speak but fuck it's everywhere. It's wiggling in his ears, itching into his eardrums; it's blaring through his whole body, shaking him to the very core. "I was hoping the first death would have been our last but- it certainly doesn't seem like it now."

The long-nosed man's uncanny grin looks up at the suspended floating body of Kira. A clear bullet hole at the centre of his forehead with blue gleaming from the injury's core- as if healing him from within. Regenerating back as if nothing had happened in the first place.

"What a shame."
linkclickakira: (observing)
[personal profile] linkclickakira

Intro RP Post


TW: death, gunshot, suicidal attempt (only referenced!!)

Further info about him here (POWERS updated)!











Akira had thought he had gotten used to the concept of multiple timelines.
After all, he had been wrapped up in his own little cobwebs of grief and lies; circulating into themselves as the boy felt like he was trapped under the very sands of an hourglass- breathless for another chance. Another photo. Not like it mattered after some point where he moved from-
-preventing that gunshot to go off at the interrogation table
-killing the corrupt politician when he crossed paths with him the third time-
-watching his bright eyed detective smile at him as he pulls the trigger of the barrel resting on his head-


Stop.

He shouldn't think about all of that right now. There's a reason why he did all of this. From the lies, the torture, the grief and the murders attached to it. "The ends would justify the means" was his mantra like it was that very detective's mantra as he dragged him to a rabbit hole he couldn't escape from. Tch, who was he kidding- he couldn't blame him for his problems. He chose to do this and now his foot was already halfway and out of the fucking door.

His own grave.




Option 1: Say Cheese!

One would think with how the very aspect of photographs acted like metaphorical chains for the young man, he would learn his ways and attempt to stay away from them if only to allay his own anxiety but for him- photography was one of his many hobbies when he was a kid. The little blue butterflies fluttering in the parks to the grassy paddy fields that stretched for acres- in those little innocent moments Akira didn't have this accursed power and even now, as he briefly clings to the camera- those memories kept him grounded. The weight of his camera with its polished dark red strap around his neck remained ever so obvious as he walked down the streets of Shibuya, unsure of what to do now that the long-nosed man had told him he was stuck here. He was convinced it had something to do with...everything he did but really adding him into a place like this is asking for trouble. Not that he would listen to him.

Don't worry. You will come to realize that bonds and happiness can be accomplished without breaking your timeline.

Whatever that meant, Igor.

He rolls his eyes and adjusts the lens of his camera before holding it up and aiming it at the busy streets of Shibuya Square, watching the crowd pass by.

CLICK!

Oh, he wasn't expecting the sudden turn back from the stranger while he still has his camera aimed at them, assuming they would just ignore him as the rest of the other...cognitions here. Whatever that means. With everything he's done he's a bit glad he can just do what he wants without consequence. "Oh um," he lowers his camera. "...Did you see me do that?"

He had asked that question at another cognition before when they turned to look at him as he took a picture of their outfit. They just tilted their head at him then denied him with a laugh before continuing forward. He was expecting this interaction to go like that.







Option 2: How does all of this work?

Akira finds himself at the backalleys of Central Street this time, more specifically leaving a specific shop with a bright green neon sign and the words Untouchable etched on it. There's a gun in his hands as he flips it over- staring down at its model. Surprisingly enough, the usual owner who was very upset with him in multiple timelines isn't present here but if he learned enough about cognitions from the supposed future forseer of his world- he could probably make cognition percieve it to be a real gun, right?

He aims the gun at one of the policemen standing on the other side of the street rather callously, chin tilting as he regards the recoil he might endure if he actually fired a shot. The good thing was if he pushed his limits too much, he could just go back in time to the square again where he took the photo. As long as no real person is involved, it should be fine, right?


takutomaruki: art: weiss__ming (Default)
[personal profile] takutomaruki





Location: Shibuya Square, Tokyo
Interaction: Engaged with Dove and SwapSumi (closed)
Next Interaction: P4!Sumi and the aftermath (for now closed)





His memory was failing him.

Something wasn't right here. All he remembered was being berated by his senior when he stepped forward with obvious proof about his cognitive pscience research yet he was here now in his counselling uniform. White coat, striped shirt and beige trousers...it brought memories of the school he had grown so attached to or to the ideals of a certain young man who changed society for the better.

Maruki wished to do the same.

But then why was he here?



The disturbing memory of a long-nosed man flashes in his eyes. Is he going insane?

"Hey, er- I apologize could you tell me-" And there the police officer went about his day- not even listening to his question as he watched the man offer him a quick smile before turning the other way. "Great." He scratched behind his ear in minute frustration before steeling his nerves and continuing on his search to find a person conscious enough to answer why did everything seem so normal yet so...empty?

"The time is at hand...I am the other you, dwelling in the realm of mankind's hearts."

That's right, he thought as he finally decided to take a break by leaning against the very pole that stood at one end of the main Shibuya crossing. Passerbys didn't even question the look of surreal confusion in the man's eyes as he stayed at that very position.The sky had become red that time and then...I came across that strange monster before me.

"ACK-!"

"Now- the time for your unjustly persecuted ideology is at hand!"

Pain pierced through his skull as he hunched over, fingers burying into his scalp before his knees gave out. Something was...scratching inside him! The ground melted beneath his legs, giving way to ripples as he shook his head. Alright. He might be going insane at this very moment.

He needed someone to talk to. Right now.

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