OOC: Profile & Concrit
A Y A F U J I M I Y A
BORDER LINE,
DEAD INSIDE.
I DON'T MIND,
FALLING TO PIECES.
COUNT ME IN, VIOLENT
LET'S BEGIN, FEEDING THE SICKNESS.
HOW DO I SIMPLIFY,
DISLOCATE - THE ENEMY'S ON THE WAY.
R A N D O M S T U F F
L O G S T U F F
L O G S T U F F
character profile:[link]
reference pictures: [1] [2] [3] [4][5]
voice: Koyasu Takehito
artsy things: [ 1][ 2]
Aya hates Takatori
living arragement: House 42
in-game: He hails from between
Kapitel and Gluhen. His hair is long-ish,
usually held in loose pony tail, or semi-braid.
Arrival, Ken
Closed space, Ken, Itsuki, Sheena
Sena's arrival, duh Sena, Schuldig
Tea & tactics, Caesar
Chibi event, Schuldig & Sena
Tea shop and beyond, Caesar
Coffee & confrontations, Schuldig
Rescuing Ken, Sena, Ken
Caesar loses a wing, Caesar, Stella, Albert
Sena loses his wings.
Caesar on drugs
Schuldig's loss of a wing
Stubborn like a Silverberg
Sena's return
Schuldig's sprouting a new wing
Sparring
Sena's having a nightmare
Greenhouse, Nagi
Library expeditions, Schuldig
Tea time again, Caesar
More of the tea?And something better
Valentines day event, Schuldig
Aya-chan's arrival
Awkward much?
Confession time, Caesar
After the love!event, Schuldig
Dinner time, Aya
Genderbender, Caesar
Genderbender2, Caesar, Albert
Aya's a girl
Ani's as good as dead.
Sena's return
Sena's waking up.
Asking favors from Schuldig
Drinking at the roof
Albert's missing, Caesar
Dying, Sena & Zero
Coming back from the dead, Sena
Feeling useless, Caesar
Talk with Schu
Before meeting with the vampire, Caesar Ken
And finally, meeting Zero
Meeting Kurama
Oh no! Ken left his journal, Daisya
Talk with a hawk!Ken
Kitties! Sena & Caesar
N A R A T O R
The door to his apartment is thin, made of layered wood. It is stained with something; he never bothered to find out what. It wasn't locked when he first visited the building, hanging open sadly like an invitation to vandalism.
The landlord said the apartment belonged to a girl before him. Hard to believe. But there it was; even some of her belongings still were in the closets. She died, the landlord said. Jumped out of the window and directly to the concrete down below. Broke her neck, died later in hospital. He lamented for a moment over the fact that there never was last payment for rent. It gave Aya hope that he'll never be remembered as more than a number in his account books.
After four months, he still hasn't removed her clothes from the closets. His are in the suitcase. He uses an old sofa as a bed, meticulously washing his sheets every third day; part of his daily routine. He never touches the living room windows, dusty and patterned with spider web. But he made a mistake of wiping one of the glass panels in kitchen window a month back. Now he has to do it every week. He finds himself there quite often, behind the herb pots living in the windowsill, and staring out at the city. Every morning, eight am, even if it isn't necessary to wake up that early. It's a tradition, a habit that gives him comfort. Just like the cigarette he smokes after every mission, addiction and bitter memories.
Life is simple, when he is allowed to the luxury.
Next week he is smiling at the customers in an elitist golf club, wearing striped west and shining white sneakers, eagerly polite face and later the blood of his target on a white shirt of his uniform.
Politically challenged businessman, charming superiors with childish arrogance mixed with eagerness to please. A personal trainer, fellow artist, cellmate, driver and a whore - the art of a justified murder. And when he is finally free, he returnes to his three legged kitchen table, perky basil in its clay pot and a city view gray and deep enough to evoke homesickness within. Just to feel something.
Nobody to his neighbors, anybody to his targets.
He misses the door when it is gone, shot through until only the frames are standing. The lady next door explains hysterically how they came from the night, row after row of men in black suits and carrying weapons enough to kill an army. She swears to her life that every one of them had black glasses and would have towered at least a head above him.
"Hn," he tells her and closes the frames of the broken door behind him soundlessly. For a moment he ponders upon plastic bags and tape. But the thought leaves him cold, uninterested. The landlord will get a new one eventually, he muses while sitting down to read his morning paper. His single cup is broken, instant coffee spilled to the floor and table kicked over. Something crunches under his shoes as he tries to seek for a better position in his simple chair.
He looks out over the brim of his paper. At least the city view is still just as silent as before.
May this entry serve as a medium for any of the following:
-Feedback on the way I play the character (Don't be shy, all comments are screened and anon allowed.)
-If you want to contact me about a plot or a log, and I'm not online. My hours may sometimes be very hazard.
-Um, just virtually kick me or sing me a song, yeah.
Quick profile/game start
Relationships meme
Hundred questions meme
Colorquizz
(Uh huh, so behind in thread stalking.)