Shinjiro Aragaki (荒垣 真次郎) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
themortalhalf) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
compnetwork2012-10-22 06:46 pm
themortalhalf) wrote in compnetwork2012-10-22 06:46 pm
[Accidental Voice/Video ->Text; Backdated to Morning]
[The feed begins with noise.
It's sharp, sudden. No video, just the sound of something being roughly rummaged through, with no apparent concern about being quiet or subtle about the affair, before it's shoved away across some surface—falling. Hitting the floor. A box, maybe, with something in it.
Then, a voice: tense, frustrated, uneven, breathing rapid, shallow, and unsteady, words strained and laced with panic.]
Dammit.
Where did—
[More noise.
Then, abruptly, the video feed flickers to life. There's a glimpse of a hand touching the screen, shaking, before the device is quickly shoved away. It slides along the surface of an apparent desk, catching a brief glimpse of a ceiling as it tumbles onto the floor, landing not far away from a cardboard box and a beat-up looking radio. The room it lies in is one dimly lit—the only light provided is due to the streaks of sunlight peeking in from the gaps in the curtain and blind-covered window. Makes it hard to discern much in the way of detail, but it's enough to make out a bed shoved at an odd, jutting angle—nearly shoved up against the closet—with tangled covers. A sign of some sort in front of the long curtain that's covering (as anyone familiar with the layout of the apartments might deduce) the entrance to the balcony, and then, finally, an obscured half-view of the desk shoved against a door. There's more movement off camera, sounds of a drawer being pulled open and gone through, until, finally, there's a quieter sound—perhaps of a lid popping open and its contents retrieved— followed by a period of silence.
Not long afterward, Shinjiro finally steps into view, crossing the room and sliding slowly down onto his bed.]
Shit. Can't even—
[He looks down then, eyes settling on the COMP on the floor. He stares at it for a few moments, grimacing, before standing up again, movement unsteady, reaching down to swipe it up off the floor. If he notices the feed is still recording, he doesn't show it, and the feed, after a moment, cuts off.
Then, a few minutes later, a message:]
[Failed Filter/Private Message to the P3 cast]
i dont know where you all are but get back home and stay the hell inside
just do it alright
It's sharp, sudden. No video, just the sound of something being roughly rummaged through, with no apparent concern about being quiet or subtle about the affair, before it's shoved away across some surface—falling. Hitting the floor. A box, maybe, with something in it.
Then, a voice: tense, frustrated, uneven, breathing rapid, shallow, and unsteady, words strained and laced with panic.]
Dammit.
Where did—
[More noise.
Then, abruptly, the video feed flickers to life. There's a glimpse of a hand touching the screen, shaking, before the device is quickly shoved away. It slides along the surface of an apparent desk, catching a brief glimpse of a ceiling as it tumbles onto the floor, landing not far away from a cardboard box and a beat-up looking radio. The room it lies in is one dimly lit—the only light provided is due to the streaks of sunlight peeking in from the gaps in the curtain and blind-covered window. Makes it hard to discern much in the way of detail, but it's enough to make out a bed shoved at an odd, jutting angle—nearly shoved up against the closet—with tangled covers. A sign of some sort in front of the long curtain that's covering (as anyone familiar with the layout of the apartments might deduce) the entrance to the balcony, and then, finally, an obscured half-view of the desk shoved against a door. There's more movement off camera, sounds of a drawer being pulled open and gone through, until, finally, there's a quieter sound—perhaps of a lid popping open and its contents retrieved— followed by a period of silence.
Not long afterward, Shinjiro finally steps into view, crossing the room and sliding slowly down onto his bed.]
Shit. Can't even—
[He looks down then, eyes settling on the COMP on the floor. He stares at it for a few moments, grimacing, before standing up again, movement unsteady, reaching down to swipe it up off the floor. If he notices the feed is still recording, he doesn't show it, and the feed, after a moment, cuts off.
Then, a few minutes later, a message:]
[Failed Filter/Private Message to the P3 cast]
i dont know where you all are but get back home and stay the hell inside
just do it alright
no subject
And so will everyone else. They'll do what they've always done. By the time the Dark Hour hits and the new morning comes, he'll start to realize how futile his expectations had been. It was safer to stay inside, to keep locked away, but all his requests were were a coward's invitation. They would never stay inside. If the world was going to go to hell, they'd fight until they got there, and it was wrong to expect any of them to stay when there were when other people out there fighting.
And all he'll be able to do is ask them to come back.]
I know, [he says, breathing in shakily, feeling the air rattle in his lungs, the same air that's letting his heart run at a dead sprint. And he does. He knows that, too. Just as he knows Aki would, and Miki would, just as the reverse was equally true. He knew how they were—or at least was beginning to. It won't change what might happen, but he knows that, because he's surrounded by well-meaning morons that made it damn hard to not care.] ...And you haven't.
no subject
You should try and rest. It'll at least let you stop thinking about things for a little while.
no subject
He tried, and all he got for his efforts was an hour or two of nothing, only to wake up instilled with the kind of blind panic he's only felt a handful of times before, mind scrambling to make up for the time it thought it had lost, foggy and unclear with a very narrow focus: that he had to make sure that it wouldn't happen again, because for a moment, it felt like it was. It isn't something he looks forward to repeating.
He can pretend, at least, as best he can, until the mental itch becomes too harsh to be ignored. Try to avoid the compulsion to check things every hour. Make sure nothing is amiss, double-check that the locks and blockades are where they should be. Hide in his room, caged in, keeping his eyes and ears open for the slightest irregularity in sight or sound, letting his mind fill in the blanks when they find nothing, as it waited impatiently for the first shadow or scream. What didn't happen one moment, after all, might happen the next.]
Feel like talking?
[In the interim. That had helped, once upon a time, in the days leading up to the fourth back home. It had been a distraction then, but as good as any, listening to her talk about nothing in particular (because "nothing" was normal). The only difference here is he still feels like a little kid, surrounded by a goddamn fort that isn't even of his making—and that's apparently still not good enough, so the kid asks for a story to go along with it.]
no subject
Of course. Do you have a topic in mind?
[because she'll just ramble if he lets her.]
no subject
[Whatever she feels like.]
no subject
She talks about anything she can think of, that doesn't have to do with Personas or the situation in the city right now.]
no subject
It does little to alleviate the anxiety he feels or silence the dark, seething whispers in his head, but it does let him concentrate on something else. Put his mind to use instead of letting it wander towards darker things.
The maid thing is new. And he's thrilled. Last thing he wants is a bunch of morons staring at her all day because she's wearing something they get a kick out of. You don't usually go into one of those cafés for the food.]
Knew you were into that sort of thing, [he says, whenever the topic weaves its way into her conversation again. She had to be into it after that one stupid escapade in Tartarus; doesn't know how the idea would even have occurred to her otherwise. And no, he still didn't see the point or why he went along with it in the first place.] Didn't think you'd want to make a job out of it.
no subject
no subject
You don't need to defend working there. You'll go where you want.
[But he's glad she's with her brother, at least.]
no subject
You should stop by sometime. When you need to buy coffee.
[because of course there's no other reason he'd want to come]
no subject
okay then
enjoy the spectators because he's sure they tip well
make them pay for a photograph and watch them go rabid]
Where is it?
[And they better have a decent selection of coffee, because he's clearly not going to visit for the hell of it, drop by like he's on some kind of social crusade. Though maybe knowing that he took away some idiot's so-called parking space would make the experience cathartic somehow.
Of course, there's still a question of if. If there will ever be time, but, for the moment, he'll pretend there is. Just like he'll pretend the fort is impenetrable (even though he knows it's not.)]
no subject