Ken Hidaka (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
whereyoulead) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
thenearshore2017-02-08 11:49 pm
whereyoulead) wrote in thenearshore2017-02-08 11:49 pm
open
Who: Ken, open
What: He preferred having no memories at all, thanks. Also he doesn't feel at all bad about stealing some asshole's motorcycle.
Where: Starting at Antheia's temple, in town, then up around the mountains in the Far Shore. Feel free to encounter him at any point.
When: June 13
Warnings: Violence, flashing back to violent murderthe guy totally deserved it, brief domestic abuse, parental advisory for crude language :(
[The memory rose up from nothingness, very nearly crystal clear and echoing--as if underground, surrounded by thick walls and monitors as they are.
There are no faces that got caught up in the memory, besides his own in the glare of the monitor. Everyone else is nothing but hazy impressions of what might be people, no discerning characteristics to them, as if they're ghosts.
Even the man in front of him, he can't see his eyes, his hair is only a vague impression, he might be wearing a military uniform, but it's nothing solid. All Ken can tell is that his expression is pained, bloodspattered, and he's crying the desperate tears of someone who knows perfectly well he's about to die horribly. He's pinned, like an insect to a board, arrows through his arms and legs and hopelessly tangled in the web of bloody razor-sharp wire digging into his flesh. The air reeks of blood and his fear.
That's not what's about to kill him.
What's about to kill him is the sawed-off shotgun Ken has shoved practically down his throat, so far he's drooling around it uncontrollably, muffling his pleas for mercy into something garbled and unintelligible.
'Akira. This is your revenge.'
Who Akira is, he doesn't recall. He just knows, viscerally, with absolute certainty, that this person whose name or face he doesn't recall deserves every single ounce of the buckshot Ken's about to empty into his skull.
He feels his lips curling upward, baring teeth in a razor-sharp smile as his finger tightens on the trigger. The roar of the gun in his ears is almost deafening, the smell of gunpowder, lead, and blood overwhelming from so close.
He can remember the blood and fragments of bone and brain matter splattering his face, the weight of the shotgun as his arm falls to the side, the terrified shrieking of a young girl somewhere behind him.
What he doesn't remember is feeling a single shred of guilt about it.]
------
[He still doesn't feel guilty when he wakes up, the memory clearly and undeniably etched into his mind, so deeply he knows it's true.
He doesn't know why he made some fucker deepthroat a shotgun, but hey, if his memory's to be trusted he deserved it. So, Ken doesn't feel bad. At all.
But he needs time to parse it nonetheless. He'd already figured whatever he'd done in life, it had been violent, after all he knew how to fight, where to strike the human body to cause the most damage with his bare fists. He was pretty sure he knew how to work a gun, and well...he'd just gotten proof of that.
But he was the shinki of the goddess of god damn flower crowns, not the patron god of violent homicide.
So, he goes to the city. He finds some drunk fuck with a nice motorcycle parked in the alley about ready to lay into his girlfriend and descends on them like the wrath of god, and he doesn't even feel bad about that. He'd been about to hit her, she'd been crying, begging him to stop, no one else paying attention--what else was he around for?
She had run the second Ken had dropped her shitty boyfriend, heels discarded so she could get away, and hopefully she wouldn't come crawling back to him.]
First off, you shouldn't hit your girl, and second, you shouldn't fucking drive drunk you piece of shit. You're gonna fucking kill someone.
[Ken punctuates his last word with a kick to the guy's kidney, not that he's conscious to hear it, and steals his jacket, wallet, helmet, and the keys to his bike.
An hour later he's outside of town, opening up the engine as fast as he can push it up into the mountains, until he finds a clearing of wildflowers overlooking the road below and makes a sudden decision to stop.]
What: He preferred having no memories at all, thanks. Also he doesn't feel at all bad about stealing some asshole's motorcycle.
Where: Starting at Antheia's temple, in town, then up around the mountains in the Far Shore. Feel free to encounter him at any point.
When: June 13
Warnings: Violence, flashing back to violent murder
[The memory rose up from nothingness, very nearly crystal clear and echoing--as if underground, surrounded by thick walls and monitors as they are.
There are no faces that got caught up in the memory, besides his own in the glare of the monitor. Everyone else is nothing but hazy impressions of what might be people, no discerning characteristics to them, as if they're ghosts.
Even the man in front of him, he can't see his eyes, his hair is only a vague impression, he might be wearing a military uniform, but it's nothing solid. All Ken can tell is that his expression is pained, bloodspattered, and he's crying the desperate tears of someone who knows perfectly well he's about to die horribly. He's pinned, like an insect to a board, arrows through his arms and legs and hopelessly tangled in the web of bloody razor-sharp wire digging into his flesh. The air reeks of blood and his fear.
That's not what's about to kill him.
What's about to kill him is the sawed-off shotgun Ken has shoved practically down his throat, so far he's drooling around it uncontrollably, muffling his pleas for mercy into something garbled and unintelligible.
'Akira. This is your revenge.'
Who Akira is, he doesn't recall. He just knows, viscerally, with absolute certainty, that this person whose name or face he doesn't recall deserves every single ounce of the buckshot Ken's about to empty into his skull.
He feels his lips curling upward, baring teeth in a razor-sharp smile as his finger tightens on the trigger. The roar of the gun in his ears is almost deafening, the smell of gunpowder, lead, and blood overwhelming from so close.
He can remember the blood and fragments of bone and brain matter splattering his face, the weight of the shotgun as his arm falls to the side, the terrified shrieking of a young girl somewhere behind him.
What he doesn't remember is feeling a single shred of guilt about it.]
------
[He still doesn't feel guilty when he wakes up, the memory clearly and undeniably etched into his mind, so deeply he knows it's true.
He doesn't know why he made some fucker deepthroat a shotgun, but hey, if his memory's to be trusted he deserved it. So, Ken doesn't feel bad. At all.
But he needs time to parse it nonetheless. He'd already figured whatever he'd done in life, it had been violent, after all he knew how to fight, where to strike the human body to cause the most damage with his bare fists. He was pretty sure he knew how to work a gun, and well...he'd just gotten proof of that.
But he was the shinki of the goddess of god damn flower crowns, not the patron god of violent homicide.
So, he goes to the city. He finds some drunk fuck with a nice motorcycle parked in the alley about ready to lay into his girlfriend and descends on them like the wrath of god, and he doesn't even feel bad about that. He'd been about to hit her, she'd been crying, begging him to stop, no one else paying attention--what else was he around for?
She had run the second Ken had dropped her shitty boyfriend, heels discarded so she could get away, and hopefully she wouldn't come crawling back to him.]
First off, you shouldn't hit your girl, and second, you shouldn't fucking drive drunk you piece of shit. You're gonna fucking kill someone.
[Ken punctuates his last word with a kick to the guy's kidney, not that he's conscious to hear it, and steals his jacket, wallet, helmet, and the keys to his bike.
An hour later he's outside of town, opening up the engine as fast as he can push it up into the mountains, until he finds a clearing of wildflowers overlooking the road below and makes a sudden decision to stop.]
no subject
I dunno. We're not limited to Japan or anything, are we? Australia might be nice.
[Just. Tossin' that one out there.]
no subject
Omi is struck by that suggestion for three seconds. Australia. That was where that girl he liked had invited him to go, right? Omi remembers talking with him about it after the fact. And that makes his chest hurt a little because it's a reminder of how close they used to be. And how they're not anymore because Ken doesn't remember him.
That isn't going to do. Cheery face on. After all, there's nothing to do but focus on being friends here and now instead, right?]
Australia...! Wow, that does sound interesting. I bet the landscape is completely different! Yeah, I think we can do that! I've teleported to America before for a prayer. Australia shouldn't be different.
[Maybe if he tries hard enough, Ken will find the smile that reaches his eyes again.]
no subject
Ken has his head tilted when Omi looks back at him, even with his cheerful smile Firmly In Place, Ken's still somewhat confused.]
Yeah, dunno, I've seen some pictures I guess and it looks a lot different. Not as many mountains. Lots of flat space, good for racing, right?
no subject
I'm not sure; I've not seen many pictures. But flat space would be good for racing! I can imagine large stretches of land with no sign of people but the road.
no subject
But...]
Yeah, there's the desert or something. And we don't have to wrry about not having enough water, we can always just go back home.
no subject
[Don't mind Omi and his sense of duty talking.]
no subject
[Divine intervention! He's a guardian angel, practically a patron saint for stupid people!]
no subject
Yeah, but I doubt he'll be the same person we rent bikes from in Australia.