Hana "Hannah" Sato (night_yen) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-05-15 23:06:00 |
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Entry tags: | athena, bonnie parker, coyote, divorce, gluttony, jesse james, punk, rave, raven, sato |
Measure twice, cut once.
Who: Sato, Jesse, Coyote, Bonnie, munchkin NPCs, Divorce (Desmond), Raven, Rave, Punk, Gluttony, Athena--OPEN. Posting order and some such to be determined here
What: Sword exhibition, immortal socializing, and a friendly robbery
When: Friday early evening onto later.
Where: Murasaki Gallery
Murasaki was larger than most galleries. Then again, Murasaki was also older, doggedly prosperous, and owned by someone who didn’t tolerate mediocrity readily. It had taken months to find suitable space for the New York office and an obscene amount of funding to remodel that place according to the owner’s demands.
The result was worth every penny.
Two floors. A private, luscious auction room. Automatically regulated skylights. Imported paneling. The epicenter of the building opened straight to the ceiling, creating a wondrous illusion of space. The gallery signature emblem—a stylized wisteria—twined subtly throughout the fixtures. For the purposes of the exhibition the hall had been cleared, the paintings rearranged to better emphasize the blades.
Oh, the blades…
There were no glass cases. Sato had been very specific about that: Murasaki was a gallery, not a museum. Let history fuss about handling protocol when on its own dime. The majority of the collection was Japanese: katanas, tantos, tatchi, wakizashi, even a few exemplary shinken. Rapiers were the runners up, the assortment varied enough to be intriguing. The waved-bladed flamberge, for example, Sato had high hopes for. Scattered among the lot were other unexpected pieces: a pair of bullfighting swords, a Civil War saber, an 18th century “court-sword”, a beautifully curved badelair. Murasaki had embellished the display by volunteering two suits of armor, that of a 16th century knight suit and a 18th century samurai. Sato had paused briefly to stare into the latter’s empty eyes. She’d known the owner of the armor once upon a time. What would he make her now, the fairy tale monster, in her molten dress and glossy lipstick.
Sato had one of the katanas in her hand when she heard the soft, unsure footsteps behind her. She didn’t turn. “Do you know the term tsujigiri, Ida-kun?”
“No.” He hesitated, but continued like the brave, doomed man he was. “It’s not a kendo term.”
“No,” Sato agreed. “It means to try out a new sword on a chance passerby. Interesting don’t you think?”
She glanced over her shoulder, letting him glimpse the idea in her eyes.
Osamu Ida was not a particularly handsome man, but he was excellently groomed. He was also an excellent lawyer. That, along with his unfailing sense of resolution and sincere manner had once endeared the man to Sato. He’d been something very much like a friend.
Until the fickle bastard screwed her over by screwing her adopted nephew. The boy had been a prime candidate for inheriting her dealings and maintaining the family name needed to sustain the Baku’s identity. She’d had plans for that name, good quality, profitable plans—which did not include the public declaration of an overseas elopement.
Sato had made her displeasure glaringly known by immediately disinheriting the boy. There’d been no complaints from the family; it was not within their right. The century old contract forged between an ancestor and the being calling herself Hana Sato allowed many privileges and leeway…but not without due price.
The fact that she’d paid for the wedding and backed the pair’s first major business loan together was—well. It just was.
Sato rotated her wrist, turning with the arc of the blade. The katana’s shining edge paused a breath’s length away from Ida’s neck. Sato’s grip on the sword was absolutely sure.
“Well?” she asked. “I asked you what you thought.”
“I think,” he said slowly, eyes never leaving hers, “that this is not a new sword, Baku-dono.”
A pause, long and heavy, and then Sato lowered the sword. She laid the blade flat against her palm, sighing. “I do wish Hideki had kept some family secrets secret.”
“I am honored to be trusted with the information.”
“Why? It just means I'll kill you if you tell.” Sato put the sword back on its appointed stand. “Everything’s in place? The children will be here soon, as well as the rest of invitees.” An odd look tried to sneak across Ida’s face unnoticed. “What?”
“Nothing—”
“What, Ida?”
Damn the man, he was smiling. “I find it odd that you would open the exhibition first to children. Children which you are teaching.” Yes, definitely smiling. “Hideki said you were his teacher once.”
“Because I was the only one he didn’t dare lie to about practicing. And I taught him cooking not swordplay. You’re turning nauseatingly sentimental in your old age.”
“I did not mean to imply—” She held up her hand.
“Enough.” Sato lowered the hand, loose fingers half-curling around the vanished weight of the sword. “Go…be pleasant somewhere else. Answer questions. Nibble canapés. Something.”
She turned her back without waiting for him to obey, knowing he would. He did. Something in her own gut relaxed a little at the retreat. Hideki was a…miscalculation. One Sato didn’t care to dwell on.
“It wasn’t fear.”
Sato didn’t turn.
“It was—he said you were kind. He didn’t expect that, that you would be…kind. They hadn’t told him.”
I'm not kind, Sato thought, half an hour later, nodding and smiling through the throng of guests. One of her fencing student—Brian—asked a question and she answered with the same unswerving aplomb she used to explain a fleche or counter-parry in sixte. I'm not kind, I'm of a kind. One of a kind.
What was it inside humans that made them want to turn everything into a story? Sato didn’t mind the tendency in dreams, but in the waking world it was a disturbing leaning. A monster was either wicked or saved, its motives tortured to the point of romance or psychoanalysis. Nobody ever seemed to consider the possibility that it wasn’t evil or goodness—it was just work. Masque, Murasaki, this exhibition and its agenda, the mass of curious children, Jesse James and the money, the invitations: work.
The curious Brian tugged her hand—modern children were grabby, especially Americans—and asked if a samurai could “beat the stuffing” out of a ninja. Sato made a mental note to steer Brian away from the bigger swords.
Still, it wasn’t too bad. And with a little luck, she’s make out like—“What’s so funny, Miss Hannah?”—a bandit.