Even corruption can be kind.
darthcourt10
Well worn.
- Joined
- Jun 12, 2018
- Messages
- 8,147
- Likes received
- 33,579
SkyeFire
Even corruption can be kind.
(note: this omake is, as always, optionally canonical. Partly b/c I'm playing with other people's characters, and especially in this case b/c I'm playing in some "grey areas" regarding the full extent of Nameless' amnesia that have not, TTBOMK, been established in-story as yet)
(this takes place sometime fairly early in Nameless' stay at Casa de Muramasa, when she's still struggling to come to grips with her newly reduced condition)
(So, people were asking for more Nameless&Kyoshu cutes. Instead, I found myself writing some Nameless&Akutoku... interactions)
*-*-*-*-*
The Masamune sword who currently went by the nom de guerre of "Nameless" sat in the wheelchair she despised, but could not function without, pulled up closely to her host's dining table. It was fortunate that this table was Western-styled and tall enough to be seated at, unlike the family-room kotetsu-table which she thought she might have enjoyed… had she been capable of using it.
In the hours between midnight and dawn, seeking privacy as she struggled with her shame, she'd covertly crawled into the hated wheelchair and crept out of the room she shared with Kyoshu. In front of her on the table were a neat stack of books in varying languages, an open notebook that combined college-ruled even-numbered pages with engineering grid-ruled odd-numbered pages, several plain yellow pencils, a small sharpener for same, and an eraser.
Sending up a brief prayer that she might find some success this time, to whatever deities might deign to hear, she opened the first book, picked a simple word, and began laboriously attempting to copy it in her notebook.
A full hour and several silent, internal screaming fits of humiliated frustration later, she gave up her final attempt to graphically duplicate just a single letter, using the graph paper, and set the book aside with hands that shook from the blinding desire to throw it, or better yet burn it, or shred it with her steel self (were she still capable of wielding her steel in anything but the most ham-handed fashion). It wasn't the book's fault, after all. And whatever she had forgotten, she remembered that self discipline was one of the virtues of a warrior. She could not remember learning that, when or where or from whom, but the fact remained.
She dully wondered if remembering the learning of that lesson would make it less hard to adhere to, as she opened the next book in the stack.
...drat. A language she could not even identify, much less read. Nameless forced herself to take a deep, cleansing breath, imagining her anger as a toxic vapor in her lungs, expelled into the air to dissipate as she exhaled. No idea where she'd learned that, either, but her body remembered the exercise, so she must have used it often. Before.
This book also set aside, she paused to take stock. Checking her mental notes (as she was, so far, unable to make written ones), she tallied her current score over the past few days of late-night attempts:
Languages she could read: 4 (2 fluently, one with difficulty, one just barely)
Languages she could identify but not read: 5 (mostly those using derivatives of Chinese characters)
Languages she could write or transcribe even a single character in: 0
A good guest, she reminded herself, did not flip over furniture whilst everyone was sleeping, no matter how tempting the cathartic release. There was nothing for it but to continue, thoroughly and methodically. Reading must have been a preferred pastime for her, before, given how pleasant it felt, how eagerly her hands turned pages, the simple delight in fleshing out the scaffolding of printed words into vibrant cathedrals of imagination. At least, when the omnipresent sense of her condition was not poisoning even such simple joys as that damned mage had left to her.
"Nameless" bent her head over the paper, and chose the next book in the pile.
She was nearing the bottom of the stack, hours later (Read: 5, Identified: 7, Written: Zero), when an unexpected "hmm" from beside her ear made her leap-- er, jerk violently.
"Owwww," protested Akutoku, ruefully rubbing the spot where Nameless' reaction had clonked their heads together. Nameless realized she was mirroring the Sword of Corruption's action, and pulled her hands back into her lap, trying to emulate her best guess of what a Proper Masamune's behavior should be since she couldn't remember it.
Then she realized that the Muramasa must have been watching over her shoulder, completely unnoticed, for long enough to recognize Nameless' failing attempts at literacy for what they were, and found herself unable to avoid flushing with shame. She stared down at her lap, wishing the earth would simply open up and swallow her, and her shame, whole.
"Hmmm." Akutoku had picked up her notebook and was flipping through the pages with a clinical air, rather unlike what Nameless had observed of the other sword-spirit in their limited interactions too date.
"Well, that explains some things," the Muramasa sighed, dropping into the chair kitty-corner from Nameless. "That damned mage didn't just spike your speech center, he hit the entire symbolic processing hierarchy of your brain. And only on the output side, which is a neat trick."
...dignity be hanged, Nameless decided, this justified a frank, open-jawed stare. Akutoku noticed, and blushed slightly.
"Hey, now, don't mistake me, I'm no brain scientist. But when you're a writer or artist, you usually end up picking up a few things about how the brain interprets stuff. Plus, after Kyoshu, well..." she paused a bit uncomfortably. "The entire family sort of took up reading the latest magazine articles on brains, and memory, as a side line."
Nameless nodded, trying to convey That is perfectly understandable.
"At any rate," Akutoku continued, seeming to warm to her topic, "we know spoken and written language are handled by completely separate parts of the brain. The division between 'input' and 'output' inside those sections are less clearly defined, as I recall, but, well, magic." She made a face that Nameless felt herself involuntarily mirror. "You're obviously still able to read, and more than one language, I'm guessing…?"
Nameless held up five fingers, struggling with the sensation that she was bragging.
"Right. And your comprehension of spoken Japanese, at least, seems undiminished."
Nameless nodded assent.
"So, whatever that bastard did, he wanted you able to understand, but unable to communicate." Akutoku scowled, hands making involuntary neck-wringing motions. "Makes sense, I guess – just taking away your voice wouldn't have stopped you from sending notes, or email if you could get to a computer, or-- hey! Have you tried Morse code?"
A few quick attempts demonstrated that Nameless had probably never known Morse code – Akutoku's pattern of finger-taps on the tabletop didn't seem familiar at all. Akutoku promised to find some books on other, alternative codes, just in case.
"I should have known that would be too easy," Akutoku said glumly, supporting her chin on her hand. Behind her, Nameless could see the first light of dawn starting to lighten the window, and thought to wonder what had roused the notoriously slug-a-bed Muramasa from her bed so early. And also, wonder at this previously-unseen face of the Sword of Corruption – while their interactions had been limited, Akutoko's interactions with the rest of her family had been… hard to miss. She had always seemed, frankly, lazy, perverted, and prone to teasing and arguing with her sisters. These new depths had not even been hinted at.
"Thing is," Akutoku was musing slowly, "language isn't the only way to communicate. I mean, Kyoshu seems to be able to understand you amazingly well, even if she's not the most, er, reliable translator."
Nameless thought of her interactions so far with the Sword of Goldfish Memories, and could only nod ruefully.
"Not that we have any idea how she does it. But there's other ways to get your point across." She opened the notebook to a blank page, seized one of Nameless' pencils, and started sketching in quick, efficient strokes. "Like art. Okay, tell me, what's this?" She spun the page to face Nameless.
The mute Masamune shot the loquacious Muramasa an exasperated look, then looked at the page. It was… well, quite minimal, but it was fairly obviously… she raised one fist, and stroked two fingers of her other hand across it, as if slicing pieces off.
"A potato, right!" Akutoku grinned. "But, context matters. And so does your audience. If I showed this to an astronomer, I bet they'd say it was an asteroid. A geologist would probably say rock."
Nameless blinked, and looked at the sketch again. Yes, she could see the artist's point….
"Now, the thing is, any piece of art is an interactive experience." Akutoku was leaning across the table, eyes gleaming. "It's a collaboration between the artist and the audience. I can't make my readers perceive exactly what I'm trying to convey, because they all bring their own conceptual filters and biases. And drawing is more open to interpretation than words, so it's hard to be precise. But, over the years, mangaka and readers have developed a sort of 'visual shorthand' for simple ways to convey certain complex ideas, that everyone agrees on. You don't have to use that, of course, but it's a preexisting dictionary that you wouldn't have to teach people."
The Sword of Corruption's hands were making wide, sweeping gestures – Nameless had the sudden certainty that Akutoku honestly enjoyed this subject, and didn't get to talk about it often. At least, not to anyone who would listen.
"And of course, speaking is usually faster than drawing, but again, the 'visual shorthand' in manga is a way to convey a lot with as few lines as possible." Her expression turned wry. "There's nothing like a life of deadlines to motivate people to find ways to convey as much as possible as efficiently as possible. And, again, the visual 'language' of manga is one that almost everyone already knows. So you can use that as a starting point."
Nameless blinked. On the one hand… manga? The word reflected back from the walled-off parts of her mind with connotations of "childish, immature, pornographic," and other unflattering terms. And yet… the idea of having a voice again, even such a limited one….
She didn't notice she had snatched back the notebook until her pencil met paper… and froze.
...she had no idea what to do next. When she attempted to write, there was at least the ghost of a memory, the knowledge that she had known once how to do it. But drawing? There was nothing.
Akutoku had been watching her face, and spoke up hastily. "Hey, now, it's too early to get discouraged! You don't exactly have to be Hasegawa Tohaku to make this work. Hell, you should see what I turned out, back when I was just starting – it took me years to learn how to do anything better than stick figures!"
She blushed slightly in response to Nameless' quizzical eyebrow. "Well, I didn't even start until a few decades ago. Turned out it was not something that came naturally. Took a lot of work."
Nameless cocked her head inquiringly. Akutoku seemed to shrink a bit, and glanced around the room as if afraid of being overheard. "Well, it's… that is..." She took a deep breath, looking embarrassed. "The whole 'Crazy Muramasa Sword' gig got… old, after a while. After the Sengoku Jidai, then the Meiji Restoration and Boshin War, we'd all… well, most of us… started to get our fill of blood and killing. Was sort of a 'midlife crisis,' you know? Not all at once, but… after a while, you start wondering if this is all there is to your life. If you could be… more. And it didn't help that, even with all our special abilities, technology was making us less and less relevant." Her eyes grew troubled. "Inspiring an entire battalion into a frenzied howling-for-blood charge doesn't account for much, when the other side has machine guns and artillery."
She slapped the table, as if trying to dispell the sudden feeling of ghosts crowding around them. "Anyway! Problem was, we were still "crazy Muramasas," and 'dear ol' Dad' had saddled us with a lot of… let's call 'em 'personality quirks'." Couldn't get rid of 'em, so we needed to find some sort of coping mechanism. Chi went all Zen Buddhist, Juuchi apparently went all tsundere for that British family whose brains she couldn't scramble, Umi… well, Umi was always a bossy mother-hen… and me?" Akutoku grinned a bit sheepishly. "Well, 'Sword of Corruption,' yeah? Drawing eroge and H actually pays, and gives me an outlet for my… proclivities… that doesn't hurt anyone. It's..." she looked away suddenly, swallowing. "It's better than what I did in the old days."
Nameless found herself doing something she never would have imagined: reaching out and patting the Muramasa's hand comfortingly. Akutoku stared at their hands and whispered "thanks", before plastering on a Kagotsuruhe-style grin and standing up. "Anyways! I have a lot of beginner manga books, and more 'artsy' training books too. Lemme go grab a few to start you off with!"
Thus began an impromptu drawing lesson that continued as the sun came up. Kyoshu came wandering in at some point, in her pajamas and dragging her blanket like a toddler, muttering something about being cold. Umitsubame came in to start on breakfast some time later, only to find their wheelchair-bound guest bookended by Kyoshu (sleeping on Nameless' shoulder, with a blanket wrapped around them both) on one side, and Akutoku on the other, both wakeful swords bent over various books and papers together.
Umi's not-completely-awake mind split into several parallel tracks at this sight.
Awww, that's so cute, my teeth hurt.
WTF am I seeing? I wasn't working on any hallucinogenic potions yesterday.
Akutoku is sounding like an actual, professional teacher? What is this, Invasion of the Body Snatchers?
...my blood-coffee levels are too low for dealing with this shit.
Even corruption can be kind.
(note: this omake is, as always, optionally canonical. Partly b/c I'm playing with other people's characters, and especially in this case b/c I'm playing in some "grey areas" regarding the full extent of Nameless' amnesia that have not, TTBOMK, been established in-story as yet)
(this takes place sometime fairly early in Nameless' stay at Casa de Muramasa, when she's still struggling to come to grips with her newly reduced condition)
(So, people were asking for more Nameless&Kyoshu cutes. Instead, I found myself writing some Nameless&Akutoku... interactions)
*-*-*-*-*
The Masamune sword who currently went by the nom de guerre of "Nameless" sat in the wheelchair she despised, but could not function without, pulled up closely to her host's dining table. It was fortunate that this table was Western-styled and tall enough to be seated at, unlike the family-room kotetsu-table which she thought she might have enjoyed… had she been capable of using it.
In the hours between midnight and dawn, seeking privacy as she struggled with her shame, she'd covertly crawled into the hated wheelchair and crept out of the room she shared with Kyoshu. In front of her on the table were a neat stack of books in varying languages, an open notebook that combined college-ruled even-numbered pages with engineering grid-ruled odd-numbered pages, several plain yellow pencils, a small sharpener for same, and an eraser.
Sending up a brief prayer that she might find some success this time, to whatever deities might deign to hear, she opened the first book, picked a simple word, and began laboriously attempting to copy it in her notebook.
A full hour and several silent, internal screaming fits of humiliated frustration later, she gave up her final attempt to graphically duplicate just a single letter, using the graph paper, and set the book aside with hands that shook from the blinding desire to throw it, or better yet burn it, or shred it with her steel self (were she still capable of wielding her steel in anything but the most ham-handed fashion). It wasn't the book's fault, after all. And whatever she had forgotten, she remembered that self discipline was one of the virtues of a warrior. She could not remember learning that, when or where or from whom, but the fact remained.
She dully wondered if remembering the learning of that lesson would make it less hard to adhere to, as she opened the next book in the stack.
...drat. A language she could not even identify, much less read. Nameless forced herself to take a deep, cleansing breath, imagining her anger as a toxic vapor in her lungs, expelled into the air to dissipate as she exhaled. No idea where she'd learned that, either, but her body remembered the exercise, so she must have used it often. Before.
This book also set aside, she paused to take stock. Checking her mental notes (as she was, so far, unable to make written ones), she tallied her current score over the past few days of late-night attempts:
Languages she could read: 4 (2 fluently, one with difficulty, one just barely)
Languages she could identify but not read: 5 (mostly those using derivatives of Chinese characters)
Languages she could write or transcribe even a single character in: 0
A good guest, she reminded herself, did not flip over furniture whilst everyone was sleeping, no matter how tempting the cathartic release. There was nothing for it but to continue, thoroughly and methodically. Reading must have been a preferred pastime for her, before, given how pleasant it felt, how eagerly her hands turned pages, the simple delight in fleshing out the scaffolding of printed words into vibrant cathedrals of imagination. At least, when the omnipresent sense of her condition was not poisoning even such simple joys as that damned mage had left to her.
"Nameless" bent her head over the paper, and chose the next book in the pile.
She was nearing the bottom of the stack, hours later (Read: 5, Identified: 7, Written: Zero), when an unexpected "hmm" from beside her ear made her leap-- er, jerk violently.
"Owwww," protested Akutoku, ruefully rubbing the spot where Nameless' reaction had clonked their heads together. Nameless realized she was mirroring the Sword of Corruption's action, and pulled her hands back into her lap, trying to emulate her best guess of what a Proper Masamune's behavior should be since she couldn't remember it.
Then she realized that the Muramasa must have been watching over her shoulder, completely unnoticed, for long enough to recognize Nameless' failing attempts at literacy for what they were, and found herself unable to avoid flushing with shame. She stared down at her lap, wishing the earth would simply open up and swallow her, and her shame, whole.
"Hmmm." Akutoku had picked up her notebook and was flipping through the pages with a clinical air, rather unlike what Nameless had observed of the other sword-spirit in their limited interactions too date.
"Well, that explains some things," the Muramasa sighed, dropping into the chair kitty-corner from Nameless. "That damned mage didn't just spike your speech center, he hit the entire symbolic processing hierarchy of your brain. And only on the output side, which is a neat trick."
...dignity be hanged, Nameless decided, this justified a frank, open-jawed stare. Akutoku noticed, and blushed slightly.
"Hey, now, don't mistake me, I'm no brain scientist. But when you're a writer or artist, you usually end up picking up a few things about how the brain interprets stuff. Plus, after Kyoshu, well..." she paused a bit uncomfortably. "The entire family sort of took up reading the latest magazine articles on brains, and memory, as a side line."
Nameless nodded, trying to convey That is perfectly understandable.
"At any rate," Akutoku continued, seeming to warm to her topic, "we know spoken and written language are handled by completely separate parts of the brain. The division between 'input' and 'output' inside those sections are less clearly defined, as I recall, but, well, magic." She made a face that Nameless felt herself involuntarily mirror. "You're obviously still able to read, and more than one language, I'm guessing…?"
Nameless held up five fingers, struggling with the sensation that she was bragging.
"Right. And your comprehension of spoken Japanese, at least, seems undiminished."
Nameless nodded assent.
"So, whatever that bastard did, he wanted you able to understand, but unable to communicate." Akutoku scowled, hands making involuntary neck-wringing motions. "Makes sense, I guess – just taking away your voice wouldn't have stopped you from sending notes, or email if you could get to a computer, or-- hey! Have you tried Morse code?"
A few quick attempts demonstrated that Nameless had probably never known Morse code – Akutoku's pattern of finger-taps on the tabletop didn't seem familiar at all. Akutoku promised to find some books on other, alternative codes, just in case.
"I should have known that would be too easy," Akutoku said glumly, supporting her chin on her hand. Behind her, Nameless could see the first light of dawn starting to lighten the window, and thought to wonder what had roused the notoriously slug-a-bed Muramasa from her bed so early. And also, wonder at this previously-unseen face of the Sword of Corruption – while their interactions had been limited, Akutoko's interactions with the rest of her family had been… hard to miss. She had always seemed, frankly, lazy, perverted, and prone to teasing and arguing with her sisters. These new depths had not even been hinted at.
"Thing is," Akutoku was musing slowly, "language isn't the only way to communicate. I mean, Kyoshu seems to be able to understand you amazingly well, even if she's not the most, er, reliable translator."
Nameless thought of her interactions so far with the Sword of Goldfish Memories, and could only nod ruefully.
"Not that we have any idea how she does it. But there's other ways to get your point across." She opened the notebook to a blank page, seized one of Nameless' pencils, and started sketching in quick, efficient strokes. "Like art. Okay, tell me, what's this?" She spun the page to face Nameless.
The mute Masamune shot the loquacious Muramasa an exasperated look, then looked at the page. It was… well, quite minimal, but it was fairly obviously… she raised one fist, and stroked two fingers of her other hand across it, as if slicing pieces off.
"A potato, right!" Akutoku grinned. "But, context matters. And so does your audience. If I showed this to an astronomer, I bet they'd say it was an asteroid. A geologist would probably say rock."
Nameless blinked, and looked at the sketch again. Yes, she could see the artist's point….
"Now, the thing is, any piece of art is an interactive experience." Akutoku was leaning across the table, eyes gleaming. "It's a collaboration between the artist and the audience. I can't make my readers perceive exactly what I'm trying to convey, because they all bring their own conceptual filters and biases. And drawing is more open to interpretation than words, so it's hard to be precise. But, over the years, mangaka and readers have developed a sort of 'visual shorthand' for simple ways to convey certain complex ideas, that everyone agrees on. You don't have to use that, of course, but it's a preexisting dictionary that you wouldn't have to teach people."
The Sword of Corruption's hands were making wide, sweeping gestures – Nameless had the sudden certainty that Akutoku honestly enjoyed this subject, and didn't get to talk about it often. At least, not to anyone who would listen.
"And of course, speaking is usually faster than drawing, but again, the 'visual shorthand' in manga is a way to convey a lot with as few lines as possible." Her expression turned wry. "There's nothing like a life of deadlines to motivate people to find ways to convey as much as possible as efficiently as possible. And, again, the visual 'language' of manga is one that almost everyone already knows. So you can use that as a starting point."
Nameless blinked. On the one hand… manga? The word reflected back from the walled-off parts of her mind with connotations of "childish, immature, pornographic," and other unflattering terms. And yet… the idea of having a voice again, even such a limited one….
She didn't notice she had snatched back the notebook until her pencil met paper… and froze.
...she had no idea what to do next. When she attempted to write, there was at least the ghost of a memory, the knowledge that she had known once how to do it. But drawing? There was nothing.
Akutoku had been watching her face, and spoke up hastily. "Hey, now, it's too early to get discouraged! You don't exactly have to be Hasegawa Tohaku to make this work. Hell, you should see what I turned out, back when I was just starting – it took me years to learn how to do anything better than stick figures!"
She blushed slightly in response to Nameless' quizzical eyebrow. "Well, I didn't even start until a few decades ago. Turned out it was not something that came naturally. Took a lot of work."
Nameless cocked her head inquiringly. Akutoku seemed to shrink a bit, and glanced around the room as if afraid of being overheard. "Well, it's… that is..." She took a deep breath, looking embarrassed. "The whole 'Crazy Muramasa Sword' gig got… old, after a while. After the Sengoku Jidai, then the Meiji Restoration and Boshin War, we'd all… well, most of us… started to get our fill of blood and killing. Was sort of a 'midlife crisis,' you know? Not all at once, but… after a while, you start wondering if this is all there is to your life. If you could be… more. And it didn't help that, even with all our special abilities, technology was making us less and less relevant." Her eyes grew troubled. "Inspiring an entire battalion into a frenzied howling-for-blood charge doesn't account for much, when the other side has machine guns and artillery."
She slapped the table, as if trying to dispell the sudden feeling of ghosts crowding around them. "Anyway! Problem was, we were still "crazy Muramasas," and 'dear ol' Dad' had saddled us with a lot of… let's call 'em 'personality quirks'." Couldn't get rid of 'em, so we needed to find some sort of coping mechanism. Chi went all Zen Buddhist, Juuchi apparently went all tsundere for that British family whose brains she couldn't scramble, Umi… well, Umi was always a bossy mother-hen… and me?" Akutoku grinned a bit sheepishly. "Well, 'Sword of Corruption,' yeah? Drawing eroge and H actually pays, and gives me an outlet for my… proclivities… that doesn't hurt anyone. It's..." she looked away suddenly, swallowing. "It's better than what I did in the old days."
Nameless found herself doing something she never would have imagined: reaching out and patting the Muramasa's hand comfortingly. Akutoku stared at their hands and whispered "thanks", before plastering on a Kagotsuruhe-style grin and standing up. "Anyways! I have a lot of beginner manga books, and more 'artsy' training books too. Lemme go grab a few to start you off with!"
Thus began an impromptu drawing lesson that continued as the sun came up. Kyoshu came wandering in at some point, in her pajamas and dragging her blanket like a toddler, muttering something about being cold. Umitsubame came in to start on breakfast some time later, only to find their wheelchair-bound guest bookended by Kyoshu (sleeping on Nameless' shoulder, with a blanket wrapped around them both) on one side, and Akutoku on the other, both wakeful swords bent over various books and papers together.
Umi's not-completely-awake mind split into several parallel tracks at this sight.
Awww, that's so cute, my teeth hurt.
WTF am I seeing? I wasn't working on any hallucinogenic potions yesterday.
Akutoku is sounding like an actual, professional teacher? What is this, Invasion of the Body Snatchers?
...my blood-coffee levels are too low for dealing with this shit.
