1 Muse Pt. II [Private | Sumire] Tue Oct 02, 2018 1:57 am
Arata
D-rank
Sumire notably did not have a taste for sour candies, which caused Arata to smile as he stood at the counter, watching her dump a large amount of cakes and other goodies across it very haphazardly. “That sounds like something some kinda wimp would say..” he would tease her about her opinion on sour candies hurting ones mouth. He would grin, once more, making this the first night he had smiled in months. It never even occurred to him, as immersed as he was in this character of Arata, that he was feeling at ease and happy. All of his invented persona was simply a mechanism of his mind to force him to rationalize being s normal young adult for once rather than brooding. In his unsteady mind he wouldn’t realize this, however. His plans and plots were all some version of the young man buried in Sunagakure’s rubble finding an excuse to come alive. Rōi was not a villain, but Arata was meant to be. If not for that fact this coping mechanism would have been healthy.
Sumire, whom Arata had already dubbed as a bit of a drinker, mentioned the quality of the beer behind the counter was superior and more difficult to find at other locations. “I find it hard to believe any brand of that carbonated piss would taste better than any other. Do you like cinnamon?” he wouldn’t wait for an answer before signaling the clerk to grab a bottle of his favorite cinnamon whiskey from behind the counter as well. The clerk himself seemed to be dead inside, operating like some sort of robot. It was probably not uncommon for such ruckus to unfold at a shop that remained open to all manner of night crawlers like themselves. The bottle was rather heavy and made of a very thick glass. As the cashier punched in all of the different prices and values, Arata would notice a man entering the store, attempting to sling pickup lines at Sumire.
In all of his time in Konoha, there were a few things that still put Arata back to that place in his mind that he liked to stay out of. Memories of an inferno desolating his home and wiping away his family. It wasn’t the things one would suspect though. Loud bangs, flashes of light, intense heat. None of those things really did it to him. Interestingly enough, the thing that took him back to standing atop the ruins of his home was the disruption of his plans. Whatever sort of undiagnosed mental health problems the young man suffered from, post traumatic stress disorder was the most easily identifiable. He couldn’t bear to see a plan go sideways, much like it did that day. The flirtatious banter between Sumire and the sweaty looking degenerate who poked through the shop door would place Arata upon that rubble, staring down the person responsible for everything he had lost.
Arata would move passed Sumire with a quickness. Approaching the man, about equal in height but a bit more muscular toned, with purpose in each step. Aggressive. That’s what would describe the feeling of this entire movement as he came face to face with that figure. Still disassociated to that place within his flashback, he would bring the bottle of cinnamon whiskey hard across the man’s face, the thick glass of the bottle not even breaking despite the force. “You do not belong here. This is not your place.” Arata would state in an angry tone of voice nothing like what he had been using all night. A few teeth seemed to clack to the floor, likely due to the fact that as a trained shinobi Arata possessed more strength than an average civilian. The strike with the resilient bottle had been quite damaging.
The man would retaliate as he grabbed Arata by the front of his shirt and dragged him out into the streets. The cinnamon whiskey bottle rolled across the ground, the clerk looking on at the situation with some amount of concern, then to Sumire for some kind of confirmation that things would be paid for. As the man punched Arata in the face, the frantic shinobi reached into his pouch and a stainless steel scalpel would reflect moonlight directly into Sumire’s eyes, likely alerting her to its lethal potential. Arata had every intention of ending this intruder’s life.
741
Sumire, whom Arata had already dubbed as a bit of a drinker, mentioned the quality of the beer behind the counter was superior and more difficult to find at other locations. “I find it hard to believe any brand of that carbonated piss would taste better than any other. Do you like cinnamon?” he wouldn’t wait for an answer before signaling the clerk to grab a bottle of his favorite cinnamon whiskey from behind the counter as well. The clerk himself seemed to be dead inside, operating like some sort of robot. It was probably not uncommon for such ruckus to unfold at a shop that remained open to all manner of night crawlers like themselves. The bottle was rather heavy and made of a very thick glass. As the cashier punched in all of the different prices and values, Arata would notice a man entering the store, attempting to sling pickup lines at Sumire.
In all of his time in Konoha, there were a few things that still put Arata back to that place in his mind that he liked to stay out of. Memories of an inferno desolating his home and wiping away his family. It wasn’t the things one would suspect though. Loud bangs, flashes of light, intense heat. None of those things really did it to him. Interestingly enough, the thing that took him back to standing atop the ruins of his home was the disruption of his plans. Whatever sort of undiagnosed mental health problems the young man suffered from, post traumatic stress disorder was the most easily identifiable. He couldn’t bear to see a plan go sideways, much like it did that day. The flirtatious banter between Sumire and the sweaty looking degenerate who poked through the shop door would place Arata upon that rubble, staring down the person responsible for everything he had lost.
Arata would move passed Sumire with a quickness. Approaching the man, about equal in height but a bit more muscular toned, with purpose in each step. Aggressive. That’s what would describe the feeling of this entire movement as he came face to face with that figure. Still disassociated to that place within his flashback, he would bring the bottle of cinnamon whiskey hard across the man’s face, the thick glass of the bottle not even breaking despite the force. “You do not belong here. This is not your place.” Arata would state in an angry tone of voice nothing like what he had been using all night. A few teeth seemed to clack to the floor, likely due to the fact that as a trained shinobi Arata possessed more strength than an average civilian. The strike with the resilient bottle had been quite damaging.
The man would retaliate as he grabbed Arata by the front of his shirt and dragged him out into the streets. The cinnamon whiskey bottle rolled across the ground, the clerk looking on at the situation with some amount of concern, then to Sumire for some kind of confirmation that things would be paid for. As the man punched Arata in the face, the frantic shinobi reached into his pouch and a stainless steel scalpel would reflect moonlight directly into Sumire’s eyes, likely alerting her to its lethal potential. Arata had every intention of ending this intruder’s life.
741