Post by gin on Mar 13, 2022 12:39:04 GMT -5
Song of the Yōkai: Project Underground Arc
Season 1
Episode 4
‘Death & Strawberry’
===================
In Master Tonegawa’s rustic old dojo in rural Pennsylvania, one young man stands sentry in the still of the night.
Looking out over the woods which surround the structure on all sides, Gin paces restlessly back and forth, moving between two precise points on the floor as his eyes remain fixed on the wilderness.
Outside, the last remnants of Winter cling stubbornly to the assorted flora of the forest; a long, cold, white death finally starting to give way to the bright, life-giving resurgence of Spring. This year, the frigid season has carried on far longer than it typically does. The darkness of evening still clings long and late into the morning, and the temperatures still hover under freezing during the night time hours.
Even the wind seems more harsh this season that it might usually appear; like some restless spirit whipping back and forth throughout the woods ever-seeking, looking for something - or someone - specific.
Into the cool, shadowy stillness of the Winter night, Gin’s voice - calm, collected, and as cold as the snow that blankets the ground outside - spreads out through the darkness of the unlit dojo.
“Meatball. While I wish there were something more elegant I might call you, I must applaud you all the same. It is rare in this world to find a man who so wholly embraces what he is.”
“You do not pretend to be anything which you are not. You ought to know that it’s a brave thing - noble, in fact - for Project Underground already has too many pretenders.”
“Andrea Cross, pretending to be a warrior despite an injury that will forever keep her rooted in mediocrity.”
“Scar, who pretends to be a king, when he is a mere commoner... at best.”
“Joseph Blaze, who pretends to be a devout man in service to a wise master, but who is nothing more than a fool... albeit a dangerous one, all the same.”
“But not you. You understand you are a brutish, villainous oaf; and you embrace it. Rather than run from what you are, you have ran to meet it.”
“There is a strength in speaking - and acting - plainly, and without subterfuge. Surely the bloody path you have cut through the brand proves this to be true.”
“You can accept the reality of what you are, while others cannot. I wonder what else you can accept?”
“Perhaps even death?”
Letting that question hang in the air, Gin leaves his vantage point staring out over the woods beyond the dojo’s grounds.
Bare feet move soundlessly on the chilly, hard wooden floor as he travels across the large, sparse training area towards a long table set up low to the ground.
Falling into a seated lotus position, he reaches out with one towards a bowl of fruit that sits alone on the table’s surface.
Strawberries.
Bright and red, plump and juicy, they seem anachronistic in this dim, chilly, windy place that Gin finds himself seated in. A relic from some brighter, warmer land, brought to a place in time where they would have no chance of surviving or growing on their own.
Gin had found his appetite improved of late; like the thing growing within him possessed a hunger that mere food could never satisfy. At first, he had tried to smother this appetite with rice, meat, sauces and sake, only to find that it made the cravings worse.
Eventually, Master Tonegawa had imparted his wisdom in this matter. Where he learned so much about what Gin - and his family - had been going through, the young man could not begin to guess. Sensei seemed to possess a great familiarity with the so-called Nogitsune that had attached itself to the Kuromiya bloodline centuries - if not millennia - ago.
‘You must starve the beast’, the older man had said.
And so, Gin did precisely that. Despite the increased appetite that bloomed within him, seemingly in-time with the growth of the kitsune spirit itself, he began to fast for long periods of time. Surviving off of honeyed water and miniscule servings of plain, white rice, Gin did not find himself growing weaker as a result of this starvation diet.
If anything, he felt renewed. Fresher. Stronger and faster than he ever had; and only increasing in power with every day that passed.
How much longer until he could no longer control it?
Rather than waste time pondering - or attempting to reason with - the inevitable, Gin simply pops a strawberry into his mouth, chewing it a few times before swallowing. The sweetness of the fruit coats his mouth as the juice rolls down his throat. Given his spartan diet lately, such a treat is positively decadent to his neglected tastebuds.
Taking a moment to savour it, he inhales deeply before letting out a sigh that drops his shoulders.
With that, his breathing becomes short, controlled, patient... as he begins to meditate on his family’s past.
In his mind’s eye, he sees relatives from long ago. A man wielding a katana, cutting his way into a palace like a whirling dervish. The guards slice at him, ripping long tears in his clothing as dark-purple blood sprays through the air from the man’s wounds. His eyes glow bright and red, as he continues to charge towards the Shogun seated on a throne in the near-distance.
Eventually, his pace falters, the combined slashes inflicted upon his supernaturally resilient body eventually too much to ignore. The man collapses, katana clattering on the floor, as the light slowly leaves his eyes.
“So many in this country refuse to accept its inevitability; the one thing that you can truly rely on, and they flee from it.”
“Cut off from their spirituality, consumed by the material world, told that only they - and their pathetic, fleeting lives - matter. Only the pursuit of pleasure and wealth is worthwhile to the denizens of this cursed place.”
“I wonder if this sounds familiar to my next opponent?”
“And so, they give in to fear. Fear of the inevitable. A fear that is destined to consume them in their last days.”
“Such is not the case in my ancestral lands. We understand that life is not meant to be infinite. We remain rooted in tradition; we understand where we come from, and where we are destined to return to.”
This time, a man laying sick in bed, surrounded by the male members of his family as the women work elsewhere. His breath is harsh and ragged, rattling with every inhale and exhale, until even that leaves him, and he is left still and cold. What appears to be the man’s eldest son lets out a sigh, before covering his face with a sheet; knowing it is his time to suffering this curse next.
“Death is not the end, though you Americans - living without a belief in anything other than what you can see with your eyes - seem to believe it to be so.”
“This fear, this terror, only weakens you in battle. A man like me might rush to death, seeing it as the salvation that it truly is... while someone like Meatball, or Virgil Barrick, or Joseph Blaze, hides from something which cannot be avoided.”
“They expend so much energy, so much strength, trying to outsmart the reaper, that they do not think to defend themselves against the threats that stand directly in front of them.”
The last vision, a man clad in ornate Japanese armour, sitting atop a horse as he marshals his troops. Vast numbers of samurai, archers, and foot soldiers are arrayed in perfect formation in front of him... many of them holding large, flapping flags emblazoned with a familiar symbol:
The Nine-Tailed Fox; the sign of the creature that haunts the Kuromiya family.
“Andrea Cross was weak. Fate had broken her long before I had the opportunity to do so.”
“But you, Meatball? Your strength is apparent; mentally, and physically.”
“I welcome a worthy opponent, and I do not doubt you have the power to batter this human form of mine.”
“But my spirit? You will find it is made of sterner stuff than blood and bone.”
“What will happen to your reckless self-confidence when you realize that I welcome your worst, when you realize that destruction is the very thing I want you to visit upon this body?”
“When you realize that mere strength is not enough to finish the job; not when you do battle with a Yokai’s host.”
“Strength without speed. Size without finesse. Power without the ability to harness it properly.”
“You - more than most - exemplify the weakness of this very nation.”
“Grown so comfortable, so gluttonous off the fat of this land, that you have neglected to consider your own weaknesses, the flaws that might
enable a man of my size to bring you down.”
"But you won't need to take my word for it; for soon, your weakness - hidden behind layers of fat and muscle and blind hate - shall be revealed, for all to see."
"So too shall the audience witness the rise of the Kuromiya clan."
"Soon, I shall stand at the pinnacle of this brand..."
"...and then this company..."
"...and one day... this world..."
Opening his eyes with a sigh, Gin feels a wave of nausea roll through his diminutive, lean body. Inside him, the demon grows ever more restless, unsatisfied with the challenges presented to it of late.
It seems his time spent away from Project Underground - recovering from the use of his poisonous mist - has only hastened the awakening of that parasitic spirit within him. Perhaps being given a warrior of Meatball’s caliber will serve to sate its hunger, at least temporarily.
For if it doesn’t, Gin truly does not know if he is strong enough to continue fighting it.
In Master Tonegawa’s rustic old dojo in rural Pennsylvania, one young man stands sentry in the still of the night.
Looking out over the woods which surround the structure on all sides, Gin paces restlessly back and forth, moving between two precise points on the floor as his eyes remain fixed on the wilderness.
Outside, the last remnants of Winter cling stubbornly to the assorted flora of the forest; a long, cold, white death finally starting to give way to the bright, life-giving resurgence of Spring. This year, the frigid season has carried on far longer than it typically does. The darkness of evening still clings long and late into the morning, and the temperatures still hover under freezing during the night time hours.
Even the wind seems more harsh this season that it might usually appear; like some restless spirit whipping back and forth throughout the woods ever-seeking, looking for something - or someone - specific.
Into the cool, shadowy stillness of the Winter night, Gin’s voice - calm, collected, and as cold as the snow that blankets the ground outside - spreads out through the darkness of the unlit dojo.
“Meatball. While I wish there were something more elegant I might call you, I must applaud you all the same. It is rare in this world to find a man who so wholly embraces what he is.”
“You do not pretend to be anything which you are not. You ought to know that it’s a brave thing - noble, in fact - for Project Underground already has too many pretenders.”
“Andrea Cross, pretending to be a warrior despite an injury that will forever keep her rooted in mediocrity.”
“Scar, who pretends to be a king, when he is a mere commoner... at best.”
“Joseph Blaze, who pretends to be a devout man in service to a wise master, but who is nothing more than a fool... albeit a dangerous one, all the same.”
“But not you. You understand you are a brutish, villainous oaf; and you embrace it. Rather than run from what you are, you have ran to meet it.”
“There is a strength in speaking - and acting - plainly, and without subterfuge. Surely the bloody path you have cut through the brand proves this to be true.”
“You can accept the reality of what you are, while others cannot. I wonder what else you can accept?”
“Perhaps even death?”
Letting that question hang in the air, Gin leaves his vantage point staring out over the woods beyond the dojo’s grounds.
Bare feet move soundlessly on the chilly, hard wooden floor as he travels across the large, sparse training area towards a long table set up low to the ground.
Falling into a seated lotus position, he reaches out with one towards a bowl of fruit that sits alone on the table’s surface.
Strawberries.
Bright and red, plump and juicy, they seem anachronistic in this dim, chilly, windy place that Gin finds himself seated in. A relic from some brighter, warmer land, brought to a place in time where they would have no chance of surviving or growing on their own.
Gin had found his appetite improved of late; like the thing growing within him possessed a hunger that mere food could never satisfy. At first, he had tried to smother this appetite with rice, meat, sauces and sake, only to find that it made the cravings worse.
Eventually, Master Tonegawa had imparted his wisdom in this matter. Where he learned so much about what Gin - and his family - had been going through, the young man could not begin to guess. Sensei seemed to possess a great familiarity with the so-called Nogitsune that had attached itself to the Kuromiya bloodline centuries - if not millennia - ago.
‘You must starve the beast’, the older man had said.
And so, Gin did precisely that. Despite the increased appetite that bloomed within him, seemingly in-time with the growth of the kitsune spirit itself, he began to fast for long periods of time. Surviving off of honeyed water and miniscule servings of plain, white rice, Gin did not find himself growing weaker as a result of this starvation diet.
If anything, he felt renewed. Fresher. Stronger and faster than he ever had; and only increasing in power with every day that passed.
How much longer until he could no longer control it?
Rather than waste time pondering - or attempting to reason with - the inevitable, Gin simply pops a strawberry into his mouth, chewing it a few times before swallowing. The sweetness of the fruit coats his mouth as the juice rolls down his throat. Given his spartan diet lately, such a treat is positively decadent to his neglected tastebuds.
Taking a moment to savour it, he inhales deeply before letting out a sigh that drops his shoulders.
With that, his breathing becomes short, controlled, patient... as he begins to meditate on his family’s past.
In his mind’s eye, he sees relatives from long ago. A man wielding a katana, cutting his way into a palace like a whirling dervish. The guards slice at him, ripping long tears in his clothing as dark-purple blood sprays through the air from the man’s wounds. His eyes glow bright and red, as he continues to charge towards the Shogun seated on a throne in the near-distance.
Eventually, his pace falters, the combined slashes inflicted upon his supernaturally resilient body eventually too much to ignore. The man collapses, katana clattering on the floor, as the light slowly leaves his eyes.
“So many in this country refuse to accept its inevitability; the one thing that you can truly rely on, and they flee from it.”
“Cut off from their spirituality, consumed by the material world, told that only they - and their pathetic, fleeting lives - matter. Only the pursuit of pleasure and wealth is worthwhile to the denizens of this cursed place.”
“I wonder if this sounds familiar to my next opponent?”
“And so, they give in to fear. Fear of the inevitable. A fear that is destined to consume them in their last days.”
“Such is not the case in my ancestral lands. We understand that life is not meant to be infinite. We remain rooted in tradition; we understand where we come from, and where we are destined to return to.”
This time, a man laying sick in bed, surrounded by the male members of his family as the women work elsewhere. His breath is harsh and ragged, rattling with every inhale and exhale, until even that leaves him, and he is left still and cold. What appears to be the man’s eldest son lets out a sigh, before covering his face with a sheet; knowing it is his time to suffering this curse next.
“Death is not the end, though you Americans - living without a belief in anything other than what you can see with your eyes - seem to believe it to be so.”
“This fear, this terror, only weakens you in battle. A man like me might rush to death, seeing it as the salvation that it truly is... while someone like Meatball, or Virgil Barrick, or Joseph Blaze, hides from something which cannot be avoided.”
“They expend so much energy, so much strength, trying to outsmart the reaper, that they do not think to defend themselves against the threats that stand directly in front of them.”
The last vision, a man clad in ornate Japanese armour, sitting atop a horse as he marshals his troops. Vast numbers of samurai, archers, and foot soldiers are arrayed in perfect formation in front of him... many of them holding large, flapping flags emblazoned with a familiar symbol:
The Nine-Tailed Fox; the sign of the creature that haunts the Kuromiya family.
“Andrea Cross was weak. Fate had broken her long before I had the opportunity to do so.”
“But you, Meatball? Your strength is apparent; mentally, and physically.”
“I welcome a worthy opponent, and I do not doubt you have the power to batter this human form of mine.”
“But my spirit? You will find it is made of sterner stuff than blood and bone.”
“What will happen to your reckless self-confidence when you realize that I welcome your worst, when you realize that destruction is the very thing I want you to visit upon this body?”
“When you realize that mere strength is not enough to finish the job; not when you do battle with a Yokai’s host.”
“Strength without speed. Size without finesse. Power without the ability to harness it properly.”
“You - more than most - exemplify the weakness of this very nation.”
“Grown so comfortable, so gluttonous off the fat of this land, that you have neglected to consider your own weaknesses, the flaws that might
enable a man of my size to bring you down.”
"But you won't need to take my word for it; for soon, your weakness - hidden behind layers of fat and muscle and blind hate - shall be revealed, for all to see."
"So too shall the audience witness the rise of the Kuromiya clan."
"Soon, I shall stand at the pinnacle of this brand..."
"...and then this company..."
"...and one day... this world..."
Opening his eyes with a sigh, Gin feels a wave of nausea roll through his diminutive, lean body. Inside him, the demon grows ever more restless, unsatisfied with the challenges presented to it of late.
It seems his time spent away from Project Underground - recovering from the use of his poisonous mist - has only hastened the awakening of that parasitic spirit within him. Perhaps being given a warrior of Meatball’s caliber will serve to sate its hunger, at least temporarily.
For if it doesn’t, Gin truly does not know if he is strong enough to continue fighting it.