#3 Broadcast Mind [Inner World]
The video blinks on to a view that most certainly does not belong to Anatole - a hazy, sun-warmed meadow bright with the clashing colours and mingled scents of a thousand flowers, all nodding languidly under a cloudless sky. In the near distance there's the soft sound of bubbling water - though its source is not apparent from your angle of view.
On the surface, the whole scene brings with it a deep sense of peace and contentment; of a tranquil summer afternoon in a paradise of your own construction... unless, that is, you are of the mind to take note of the absences.
There is no birdsong here; no drone of insects that should, in any world, be darting busily among the nectar-rich blooms. In fact, there is no other sight or sound of life at all save for your own breathing, and that remains slow and even, apparently undisturbed by any creeping sense of foreboding or instinct to flee.
To the contrary, you're reclining languidly in the heat - one knee bent and hands tucked comfortably behind your neck; shoulders and back propped against the roots of the ancient cherry tree which looms above, casting its dappled shade across your bared skin. It's still in full blossom, despite the season, and occasionally a petal drifts lazily down, settling on you and mingling into the robe of flowers that twines around your body and into your hair.
The woman kneeling beside you is as silent as the grave, her face half in shadow - blurred - as if smudged with ink. She's beautiful even so - blood red lips and paper white skin; dark eyes and black hair braided and pinned into an intricate arrangement secured by a single, indigo rose. Out of the corner of your eye you watch her extract two small, carved bowls from the sleeves of her furisode, absently noting the contrast of their whiteness against the blue silk and the precise way she pours the sake into one, holding it out for you to take. It almost reminds you of someone else, and that prompts a deep sigh as you inhale the perfumed breeze that drifts across the meadow.
She doesn't pull back her hand immediately when you take the offered drink, instead trailing the back of her fingers along your cheek and down to trace the line of your jaw. Her skin is as pale and cold as death - cold enough to make you shudder, though there's an underlying shiver of arousal that you know is entirely intentional on her part, and you close your eyes as it crawls across your skin like an icy fire.
When it passes, you chuckle softly and catch her hand in yours, brushing your lips against the bone-smoothness of her knuckles before releasing it completely.
"That's enough, beautiful. People will talk."
"There is no-one to see. And even if there were, people have always talked. You have never cared."
To anyone else, her voice would sound strange, as if two people were speaking in unison, their pitch and tone perfectly matched. But to you it's as normal as the sun rising and falling, or the distant feeling of the others - Ukitake, Yachiru, Byakuya, Rukia, Ishida, Hisana, Renji, Gin.... Aizen - brushing up against the edges of your senses.
Another rumble of laughter, and this time you reach up to brush a tendril of hair away from her temple, tucking it neatly behind her ear with your forefinger.
"Well met, aijin. But people have different powers in this world, and I didn't come here to cause a scandal."
She doesn't smile or even acknowledge the gesture, but there's a hint of dark amusement in her eyes - just for a moment.
"Then why did you come here? To escape from work?"
You don't answer immediately, instead taking a long drink of the sake before resting the dish in a fork of tree roots at your side. Taking the flask, you lean over to pour a careful measure into the second bowl where it nestles in her lap. She smells of damp earth and plum blossom, and the flowers in your hair brush softly against her cheek, releasing more of their scents into the air around you.
"Isn't it enough to want to spend time with my lovely sword?"
"A pity then, that you only flatter me when you want my help. How is that girl at the inn? The one with the hair like fire and eyes greener than grass after a rainstorm?"
There's an echo of teasing mimicry in her voice, and you make a wry face in response.
"Now you sound like Ukitake.
"She has a husband who does not appreciate poetry as much as his wife. And I might ask you the same, koishii - how is Senbonzakura?"
"As repressed as ever."
"But twice as handsome?"
"Baka."
A pause then, and she lifts the dish of sake to her lips, though it doesn't do much to disguise the smile that curves them or the abrupt glint in her eyes when they meet yours. In the silence you smile back - a wolfish grin that is more conspiratorial than tender. Idly, she reaches out to touch a lock of your hair, pulling it straight and smooth through her finger and thumb until they reach the ends and it springs back into a curl.
"She is different."
You nod, your own drink abandoned in favour of a fresh grass stalk that you chew on thoughtfully for a while, before closing your eyes with a quiet sigh.
"I know. But I don't know what to do about it."
"Then do nothing, as usual."
The rejoinder is acidic, but you don't react, save for with a sideways glance at your companion from under heavy lids.
"If that is what you came here for, then I cannot answer."
"Can not, or will not?"
"He will not talk, and it is too young, yet."
Another silence, and you push yourself to your feet, stretching out your arms to loosen the muscles in your back. You don't look back, but nor do you move, humming softly to yourself as you look out across the perfumed meadow; beyond it to the place where the trees begin and the grass becomes earth.
"What do you think?"
"I think that you should be careful, aruji. The Mirrored One is not as blind as you are stupid."
Her tone speaks more of boredom than concern and this time you do look back, your smile deliberately teasing.
"Oya. Your lack of faith tears me up inside."
Then you take a step forward and the scene fades to black.
On the surface, the whole scene brings with it a deep sense of peace and contentment; of a tranquil summer afternoon in a paradise of your own construction... unless, that is, you are of the mind to take note of the absences.
There is no birdsong here; no drone of insects that should, in any world, be darting busily among the nectar-rich blooms. In fact, there is no other sight or sound of life at all save for your own breathing, and that remains slow and even, apparently undisturbed by any creeping sense of foreboding or instinct to flee.
To the contrary, you're reclining languidly in the heat - one knee bent and hands tucked comfortably behind your neck; shoulders and back propped against the roots of the ancient cherry tree which looms above, casting its dappled shade across your bared skin. It's still in full blossom, despite the season, and occasionally a petal drifts lazily down, settling on you and mingling into the robe of flowers that twines around your body and into your hair.
The woman kneeling beside you is as silent as the grave, her face half in shadow - blurred - as if smudged with ink. She's beautiful even so - blood red lips and paper white skin; dark eyes and black hair braided and pinned into an intricate arrangement secured by a single, indigo rose. Out of the corner of your eye you watch her extract two small, carved bowls from the sleeves of her furisode, absently noting the contrast of their whiteness against the blue silk and the precise way she pours the sake into one, holding it out for you to take. It almost reminds you of someone else, and that prompts a deep sigh as you inhale the perfumed breeze that drifts across the meadow.
She doesn't pull back her hand immediately when you take the offered drink, instead trailing the back of her fingers along your cheek and down to trace the line of your jaw. Her skin is as pale and cold as death - cold enough to make you shudder, though there's an underlying shiver of arousal that you know is entirely intentional on her part, and you close your eyes as it crawls across your skin like an icy fire.
When it passes, you chuckle softly and catch her hand in yours, brushing your lips against the bone-smoothness of her knuckles before releasing it completely.
"That's enough, beautiful. People will talk."
"There is no-one to see. And even if there were, people have always talked. You have never cared."
To anyone else, her voice would sound strange, as if two people were speaking in unison, their pitch and tone perfectly matched. But to you it's as normal as the sun rising and falling, or the distant feeling of the others - Ukitake, Yachiru, Byakuya, Rukia, Ishida, Hisana, Renji, Gin.... Aizen - brushing up against the edges of your senses.
Another rumble of laughter, and this time you reach up to brush a tendril of hair away from her temple, tucking it neatly behind her ear with your forefinger.
"Well met, aijin. But people have different powers in this world, and I didn't come here to cause a scandal."
She doesn't smile or even acknowledge the gesture, but there's a hint of dark amusement in her eyes - just for a moment.
"Then why did you come here? To escape from work?"
You don't answer immediately, instead taking a long drink of the sake before resting the dish in a fork of tree roots at your side. Taking the flask, you lean over to pour a careful measure into the second bowl where it nestles in her lap. She smells of damp earth and plum blossom, and the flowers in your hair brush softly against her cheek, releasing more of their scents into the air around you.
"Isn't it enough to want to spend time with my lovely sword?"
"A pity then, that you only flatter me when you want my help. How is that girl at the inn? The one with the hair like fire and eyes greener than grass after a rainstorm?"
There's an echo of teasing mimicry in her voice, and you make a wry face in response.
"Now you sound like Ukitake.
"She has a husband who does not appreciate poetry as much as his wife. And I might ask you the same, koishii - how is Senbonzakura?"
"As repressed as ever."
"But twice as handsome?"
"Baka."
A pause then, and she lifts the dish of sake to her lips, though it doesn't do much to disguise the smile that curves them or the abrupt glint in her eyes when they meet yours. In the silence you smile back - a wolfish grin that is more conspiratorial than tender. Idly, she reaches out to touch a lock of your hair, pulling it straight and smooth through her finger and thumb until they reach the ends and it springs back into a curl.
"She is different."
You nod, your own drink abandoned in favour of a fresh grass stalk that you chew on thoughtfully for a while, before closing your eyes with a quiet sigh.
"I know. But I don't know what to do about it."
"Then do nothing, as usual."
The rejoinder is acidic, but you don't react, save for with a sideways glance at your companion from under heavy lids.
"If that is what you came here for, then I cannot answer."
"Can not, or will not?"
"He will not talk, and it is too young, yet."
Another silence, and you push yourself to your feet, stretching out your arms to loosen the muscles in your back. You don't look back, but nor do you move, humming softly to yourself as you look out across the perfumed meadow; beyond it to the place where the trees begin and the grass becomes earth.
"What do you think?"
"I think that you should be careful, aruji. The Mirrored One is not as blind as you are stupid."
Her tone speaks more of boredom than concern and this time you do look back, your smile deliberately teasing.
"Oya. Your lack of faith tears me up inside."
Then you take a step forward and the scene fades to black.