Fic: Other Masks
Fic Title: Other Masks
Fandom: ATLOK
Characters: Asami, mentions other characters
Summary: Who is Asami, really?
Notes: Having just finished the series, I risk the chance of horrible mistakes, and I will correct said mistakes when I rewatch the series and find them. However, Asami has made a home in my skull, and won't be kicked out until her story is heard, so at the risk of making mistakes, I post this story. This my first ATLOK story, so be gentle if you can.
Other Masks
Warning: Takes place post-series and contains major spoilers.
Asami loved the smell of jasmine perfume and exhaust fumes. It was her personal scent, the scent of carefully applied beauty and wild car chases, the scent of elegance and freedom.
Before her mother was murdered, Asami would watch from the doorway of her parents' room as her mother carefully brushed the long wave of inky hair before carefully choosing the right cosmetics for the day.
When she was caught staring - something that happened more often than not - her mother would smile radiantly, waving her in and then pulling Asami upon her lap, carefully showing Asami how to apply make-up. It wasn't just about covering flaws and calling attention to assets, but about co-ordination and co-operation between each part. The eyeshadow, brushed upon the lid properly, would not only bring out the electric green of the eyes they shared, but would also add to the length of their naturally long eyelashes. The lip colour carefully applied and rubbed in for an even stain would not only add lustre to a smile, but add sorrow to a frown.
It was careful, thoughtful, intricate work. But both Asami and her mother wielded make-up like a weapon, for nothing was better than the look of shock on the faces of others when it was discovered just how wild they actually were.
Sato women were judged demure, expected to be discreet and gentle. They were background characters, forever behind Hiroshi, the steel spokes that kept the tires in place and aligned.
But Mrs Sato had a wild smile, crazy eyes, and a thirst for speed. When everyone thought it was Hiroshi who tested and conscripted new models of the namesake car, they were stunned to see his lithe, innocent-seeming wife slide from the cooling car. After her death, Asami took her place, bringing more stunned and shocked looks.
Sometimes she believed that her mother was in the passenger seat, her head thrown back, crowing in glee and demanding more speed, their voices a chorus of adrenaline.
But now, with her father jailed and the company on the brink of destruction, Asami used both sides of herself to not only keep the company afloat, but to keep her wits about her in the face of the media. She couldn't turn on the radio without hearing about her father's crimes, how deep they went, how far he was in the latticework of the Equalist takeover.
Now, her make-up hid her shame, her disgust, her desperation to repair the Sato name and her bitterness at having to do so. Her emotions were subdued; the majority of her being working hard to keep all feelings from showing upon her perfectly adorned face.
It would only be later, when finally alone, that she could let loose, the racetracks feeling her anger and sorrow upon their faces, the sounds of her anger and sorrow heard only by the cars she drove.
But sometimes, Asami got the feeling of her mother again, sitting beside her as the tires squealed and burned rubber, the wind ripping her hair free from its tidy plait, her tears raining hot upon the steering wheel. Her mother seemed to crow and cheer and become wild, soon infecting Asami with the same spirit, and the tears would dry.
And sometimes, when standing before dozens of microphones, her make-up mask flawless, her hair smoothed of wind and her clothes clean and lacking oils, she would feel her mother standing behind or beside her, also immaculate, supporting her daughter and keeping Asami calm.
In a new world that felt so empty, so alone and so hateful, in which Republic City - once HER Republic City - seemed alien and sinister, there would always be the joy of the drive. The simple act of lying on her back on a rolling board, routinely changing the oils and doctoring the guts of her hotrods, of brushing her own inky curtain into an ocean of shining glory…
She would always have the scent of jasmine and exhaust, first from her mother, then made into something she could continue, something she could own. Something she could be.
And each time she stood up for the shreds that remained of the Sato name, she grew stronger.
Fandom: ATLOK
Characters: Asami, mentions other characters
Summary: Who is Asami, really?
Notes: Having just finished the series, I risk the chance of horrible mistakes, and I will correct said mistakes when I rewatch the series and find them. However, Asami has made a home in my skull, and won't be kicked out until her story is heard, so at the risk of making mistakes, I post this story. This my first ATLOK story, so be gentle if you can.
Other Masks
Warning: Takes place post-series and contains major spoilers.
Asami loved the smell of jasmine perfume and exhaust fumes. It was her personal scent, the scent of carefully applied beauty and wild car chases, the scent of elegance and freedom.
Before her mother was murdered, Asami would watch from the doorway of her parents' room as her mother carefully brushed the long wave of inky hair before carefully choosing the right cosmetics for the day.
When she was caught staring - something that happened more often than not - her mother would smile radiantly, waving her in and then pulling Asami upon her lap, carefully showing Asami how to apply make-up. It wasn't just about covering flaws and calling attention to assets, but about co-ordination and co-operation between each part. The eyeshadow, brushed upon the lid properly, would not only bring out the electric green of the eyes they shared, but would also add to the length of their naturally long eyelashes. The lip colour carefully applied and rubbed in for an even stain would not only add lustre to a smile, but add sorrow to a frown.
It was careful, thoughtful, intricate work. But both Asami and her mother wielded make-up like a weapon, for nothing was better than the look of shock on the faces of others when it was discovered just how wild they actually were.
Sato women were judged demure, expected to be discreet and gentle. They were background characters, forever behind Hiroshi, the steel spokes that kept the tires in place and aligned.
But Mrs Sato had a wild smile, crazy eyes, and a thirst for speed. When everyone thought it was Hiroshi who tested and conscripted new models of the namesake car, they were stunned to see his lithe, innocent-seeming wife slide from the cooling car. After her death, Asami took her place, bringing more stunned and shocked looks.
Sometimes she believed that her mother was in the passenger seat, her head thrown back, crowing in glee and demanding more speed, their voices a chorus of adrenaline.
But now, with her father jailed and the company on the brink of destruction, Asami used both sides of herself to not only keep the company afloat, but to keep her wits about her in the face of the media. She couldn't turn on the radio without hearing about her father's crimes, how deep they went, how far he was in the latticework of the Equalist takeover.
Now, her make-up hid her shame, her disgust, her desperation to repair the Sato name and her bitterness at having to do so. Her emotions were subdued; the majority of her being working hard to keep all feelings from showing upon her perfectly adorned face.
It would only be later, when finally alone, that she could let loose, the racetracks feeling her anger and sorrow upon their faces, the sounds of her anger and sorrow heard only by the cars she drove.
But sometimes, Asami got the feeling of her mother again, sitting beside her as the tires squealed and burned rubber, the wind ripping her hair free from its tidy plait, her tears raining hot upon the steering wheel. Her mother seemed to crow and cheer and become wild, soon infecting Asami with the same spirit, and the tears would dry.
And sometimes, when standing before dozens of microphones, her make-up mask flawless, her hair smoothed of wind and her clothes clean and lacking oils, she would feel her mother standing behind or beside her, also immaculate, supporting her daughter and keeping Asami calm.
In a new world that felt so empty, so alone and so hateful, in which Republic City - once HER Republic City - seemed alien and sinister, there would always be the joy of the drive. The simple act of lying on her back on a rolling board, routinely changing the oils and doctoring the guts of her hotrods, of brushing her own inky curtain into an ocean of shining glory…
She would always have the scent of jasmine and exhaust, first from her mother, then made into something she could continue, something she could own. Something she could be.
And each time she stood up for the shreds that remained of the Sato name, she grew stronger.