(no subject)
[name]: ruxi
[eljay]: [info]ruxi
[e-mail]: ruxi_hehe@yahoo.com or ruxi06@gmail.com
[im]: ruxihehe
[characters played at discedo]: n/a
[character name]: Misora Naomi
[series]: Death Note
[timeline]: during her conversation with Yagami Light, towards the end, but right before the Death Note command kicks in. While the characterization is in its majority derived from the Death Note manga, references might be made to the Another Note prequel novel (accepted canon) throughout gameplay.
[canon resource link]: SUP, Wiki :D Ummmmm if that doesn’t work, I can write up something?
[what your character can offer]: …a brain which is very uncommon in females of the Death Note persuasion. Naomi’s allegedly pretty damn intelligent, with superior deductive and analytical skills.
She was a first class FBI agent, who seemed to know her way with martial arts. However, I’m hesitant to assume proficiency in either, because while these abilities are stated, they’re not very emphasized in canon; so I think it’s fair to say that Naomi can hold her ground in one-on-one, but she’s not exactly the next Hulk Hogan. She also has a sensible grasp of the good ol’ stiff upper lip, in that she can control her body language pretty well (FBI 101) - but once again, nothing very extravagant.
Her greatest attribute is by far her intellectual prowess.
[what items will they be bringing with them?]: the coolest leather jacket ever seen, no lie. That, and a motorcycle permit.
[third-person sample]:
Note: sample set in the time between Raye’s death, and her talk with Light (which, while exposing a fair bit of her personality, did not produce any character development for her per se.) If that’s inconvenient, ummmmm, I’d be happy to write up a new one? /o.
You have - 14 voice messages.
Thursday, 22:17 : Naomi, did we get the wrong day? I thought you said you'd bring Raye by here at eight, and - Is he scared? Naomi, tell him we don't eat people! Call me immediately!
Seventy-seven.
Seventy-eight.
Seventy-five.
Eighty.
Seventy-nine.
She's measuring the bloody beats of her heart, regular, distilled, surprised, there, although really (really), that shouldn't be the case (number 6A-7572, no DA signature, though the murder's apparent; we don't go there, we never feed the press about.)
Anatomically - and twelve biology books on her desk, all open, all searched, she knows this - the heartbeat’s a background sound, and the solid intent of it doesn’t register.
It’s chit-chatter for the overhyped body, lingo; and Raye, but you never talked much, can’t you have listened, dear? Can’t you? No, Raye never sensed his heart when he still owned it.
The organ obsesses her with the near religious fanaticism that she avoided in childhood, ridiculed in adolescence and ignored in maturity. On her desk are sketches of it: prints, scans, personal (twenty-eight); the adult heart, the anomalies, the exceptions. She customized a clay model to her own perceptions: thinner membranes, in part (she did tell Raye, all the cholesterol…), thicker in others (he exercised, they both did).
“Standard procedure, Ma’am, agent went down during a mission.” - and for all that he cut and has cut and will cut and sever and throw and tear, the morgue specialist flinched when she asked for the autopsy pictures.
She wants to see Raye’s heart. To feel it. To know it once functioned comprehensively, in a mathematical form that scientists observe and Kira eluded.
The human heart. It goes. It goes. And where it stops…? Kira knows.
Raye's work files never looked more inviting.
Thursday, 23:45 : Naomi! Why aren't you picking up?! Your father's very concerned with how long you two have delayed this! He won't settle with his daughter marrying someone he doesn't know by face!
She got him a funeral crown, lovely and thick and roses. Her bride's bouquet, ridiculously overpriced for an early delivery, because the wedding's just a mite off, and down that lovely path to hell, but darling, Corpses only suffer proper embalming during the first forty-eight hours. She wants that bouquet buried with him. He'd liked it, the white of flowers a solid paper for the shy scribbling of their 3.2 children and the half-bitted paw of their 1.8 dogs (Not now; not really; not quite).
In the realm of statistics, Naomi Misora should have been on her way to the altar in three days.
In the real word, Kira is a bloody bastard who's crossed that one line between vigilante and, Don't mess with me, you fucking idiot, because there are things you do, and things you don't, and you don't kill a professional of the justice line, you don't kill someone that young, and you don't kill Raye.
(And she wants to say, you don't kill, but if she had the gun, and the man before him, she’d kill Kira between the next seventy-six and eighty.)
Friday: 01:04 : …we… Naomi… we just got a call from… these people, they're saying… they didn't know how to contact you, you're not answering, they thought we might know - they - Naomi, Raye's… ?
Misconception. Error. Slight. Contradiction.
They had found her; not with her parents, so they’d paged instead. Long hours, long waiting. Retired from service though she may be, they have her information; they know where to call. And her hands all open wounds and that one stitch laid bare, no suicide theatrics, none of that - enough - because she's Police, Special Investigative Task Force, and if she wants to kill herself, she'll oversee the task scrupulously and efficiently and stylized will on a clean-clean desk, and no parting letter (she hasn't given this thought, but it’d be Xanax, 800 mg, no dinner).
She has nothing to lose, ethics and morals and discipline - loose change in that one looser pocket. Irrelevant.
Unlike Raye’s open investigation files before her.
Impressionism was invented for the wandering detective: remove yourself from the picture, connect the dots. Of course this is now not her job, but her privilege, of course Raye had preferred her a domestic (But then Raye, why leave her a Monet?). There are things you give up for a man, but your mind is your own. She sees the file, and reads it. And she thinks.
Friday: 01:59 : NAOMI, PICK UP. We can't come down for the storm, little love, please pick up, I want to know you're well, we want to know you didn't - haven't - Naomi…
She has clues, now. Hints. Ideas. Some - but enough.
And she knows who to see, what to do, how to die, and she doesn't care, because someone can solve this - only one person - and she will not be the one to acclaim his divinity, his worth and his wit. Truth is self-encompassing; there is no need.
The not-name’s half strong and dry and bitter like the last cigarette, warring with her throat and her tongue, choking on it. She mouths it to her mirror (a secret), to the files (an amnesty), to monster’s image she reserves for Kira (an ablution):
…L.
[first-person sample]: working under the assumption that all strikes would be reflective / serve as an ooc reference to her thought process.
Hello…?
Meeting him like that, handing over my information - remembering nothing after, especially getting here - wherever here is, to have done that without -
Calm. Think.
What are the possibilities?
Amnesia can be the result of: A. physical damage, B. chemical intrusion, or C. psychological trauma.
Raye… Raye and I recently had to undergo medical examination in order to fill out the papers for our marriage certificate. There was no indication of my impaired physical condition - and there is no sensible wound on my head area. Option A falls.
Option C implies that the last “safe” memory this body endured was talking with Yagami-kun, and that every event after was too traumatic to recall. There is only one reality that could further damage the psyche of Naomi Misora, namely that Raye’s killer cannot be caught.
L is still alive, which renders that alternative impossible. C falls also.
Thus, the only one that still stands is Option B.
If Light Yagami drugged me through whatever means (note: to be evaluated later), two options open themselves:
1. Yagami Light did not want me to communicate with the Task Force.
2. This is part of the standard procedure of trying to infiltrate the Task Force. A test, if you will.
Option 1: Yagami Light is a university student with what is probably limited access to the case. Even if he is Chief Inspector Yagami’s son, they would not have entrusted all of the investigation files to an uncertified officer. Task Force members would know if he presented conclusions that could only be reached if someone had read a copy of the full file - like the one Raye had.
If he has been admitted to the Task Force in whatever capacity, I must assume that Yagami Light is impressively intelligent. Therefore, he would realize that trying to pass over my conclusions as his would not go well. Thus, it cannot be that Yagami Light drugged me in order to pass my information as his and gain status.
The only other reason why Yagami Light would stop me from contacting me the Task Force is if he were affiliated with Kira. However, to assume that Chief Inspector Yagami’s own son would be involved with Kira is to also assume that the whole Task Force - and L - would not realize such a danger sitting right before them.
L would never commit such an error.
So situation 1 falls completely.
Yagami-kun, talking with you, like talking to L… I won’t fail either of you. Please forgive me for having even presumed to think that.
Then I am in situation 2: this is the rite of passage to reaching the Task Force. A test of some sorts, through relocation. Trying to see if I’ll break down, perhaps? To assess my skills? Of course, ever Task Force member would have to be tested…
This theory gains more support because wherever this is, it does not resemble any immediately recognizable area of Tokyo. Yagami Light must have had accomplices to transport me here. Group action goes against Kira’s sketched psychological stereotype.
Yagami Light, college student, first year. What do I know about you? Other than references and a moment’s enthusiasm… for you to have abandoned me like this, whatever the reasons - I can only assume it’s because L’s orders take precedence over your own. I must hence keep in mind that your authority is very limited. In the end, you’re just an innocent boy.
I’ll be the one to prove myself here, then. Calm. Assume an amiable, sociable persona. Be timid, endearing. If the point of the assignment is penetrating a group, there’s no excuse to fail. Raye was always sociable.
Hello? Is anyone here?
I’m sorry to bother you, I think I’m a little lost. There was a young man with me: tall, slender, brown hair, fairly handsome. His name was Yagami. Yagami Light.
If you could help me find him, or at least tell him I’m looking for him? My name is Shoko Maki - that’s ‘sho’, with the kanji for ‘shine’, and ‘ko’, for ‘child’. And Maki… the kanji for ‘between’ and ‘tree’.
Shoko Maki.