http://x_sanfuaiyaa.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
x-sanfuaiyaa.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
xp_logs2006-07-20 04:19 pm
x-sanfuaiyaa.livejournal.com) wrote in xp_logs2006-07-20 04:19 pm
Entry tags:
Kick It Up: the Bamboo Prison
Shiro makes a life-altering decision. For the better, he hopes.
Shiro was about to wear out the left button on his mouse. He’d clicked the play button on the media player on his computer at least ten thousand times in the last hour and a half, watching the footage Forge found of his actions at San Diego. There wasn’t much, only a brief flash of gold and white. He’d done that. He’d done some spectacular things before, he’d admit to himself, but this? He brought Heaven down to Earth. By all accounts, this made him kami. He was a being of nature, powerful and awe-inspiring. Shiro would never have the audacity to put himself at the level of the actual gods of Japan or even the Emperor, but this still set him aside from other people.
But this wasn’t all his power, was it? He didn’t possess the raw strength that Storm and Iceman did to avert the smaller tidal waves unassisted, much less the seemingly infinite pool that Phoenix, Cable, and David Haller drew from to blatantly defy nature itself. Shiro had been chemically enhanced. He still didn’t know the cost. Though he’d made a miracle in California, and stopped what could have been dangerous criminals in Georgia, there was no telling what the future held for him. Especially when the only other person he knew who had experienced this now lied in a hospital bed in Manhattan.
Shiro’s cell phone rang, though he didn’t recognize the number. “Moshi moshi,” he answered, not realizing that he’d slipped into Japanese. But it didn’t matter, as the person calling him replied in the same language. It was Satou Yoshi’s mother. He was awake, she said, and already showed tentative signs of improvement. Yoshi had asked her to call and thank him. He saved Shiro’s life.
Hanging up the phone, Shiro replayed the footage one more time. Yoshi’s problem was that he hadn’t Kicked properly. He’d just wanted a thrill, but that’s not what it’s for.
It’s a short flight from Salem Center to New York City, even to the Lower East Side at the south of Manhattan. Shiro steadfastly ignored the inquisitive and sometimes hostile gazes at the lone Japanese person in a sea of Koreans. He was in search of one particular person, and even his limited knowledge of organized crime set-ups led him to said deli.
“I need to speak with Chung Sheng Ho,” he told the hostess as the deli. “I require his services.”
Shiro was about to wear out the left button on his mouse. He’d clicked the play button on the media player on his computer at least ten thousand times in the last hour and a half, watching the footage Forge found of his actions at San Diego. There wasn’t much, only a brief flash of gold and white. He’d done that. He’d done some spectacular things before, he’d admit to himself, but this? He brought Heaven down to Earth. By all accounts, this made him kami. He was a being of nature, powerful and awe-inspiring. Shiro would never have the audacity to put himself at the level of the actual gods of Japan or even the Emperor, but this still set him aside from other people.
But this wasn’t all his power, was it? He didn’t possess the raw strength that Storm and Iceman did to avert the smaller tidal waves unassisted, much less the seemingly infinite pool that Phoenix, Cable, and David Haller drew from to blatantly defy nature itself. Shiro had been chemically enhanced. He still didn’t know the cost. Though he’d made a miracle in California, and stopped what could have been dangerous criminals in Georgia, there was no telling what the future held for him. Especially when the only other person he knew who had experienced this now lied in a hospital bed in Manhattan.
Shiro’s cell phone rang, though he didn’t recognize the number. “Moshi moshi,” he answered, not realizing that he’d slipped into Japanese. But it didn’t matter, as the person calling him replied in the same language. It was Satou Yoshi’s mother. He was awake, she said, and already showed tentative signs of improvement. Yoshi had asked her to call and thank him. He saved Shiro’s life.
Hanging up the phone, Shiro replayed the footage one more time. Yoshi’s problem was that he hadn’t Kicked properly. He’d just wanted a thrill, but that’s not what it’s for.
It’s a short flight from Salem Center to New York City, even to the Lower East Side at the south of Manhattan. Shiro steadfastly ignored the inquisitive and sometimes hostile gazes at the lone Japanese person in a sea of Koreans. He was in search of one particular person, and even his limited knowledge of organized crime set-ups led him to said deli.
“I need to speak with Chung Sheng Ho,” he told the hostess as the deli. “I require his services.”