Whatever her current accent and wardrobe, Sato remained a devotee of the Japanese aesthetic. She appreciated shadows. She'd been "born", after all, to a world of subdued ambiguity, in'ei, meaning both shade and shadow, the dying aesthetic meant to compliment the yielding textures of tatami and shoji. Such a thing was a forsaken entity in modern Japan.
Not unlike Sato herself.
Ah, well. No point--or profit--in weeping for lost sanctity. The tranquil dark of her youth was extinct, but she was adept enough to make do with its heirs: custom lighting, designer space, specially formulated paint. Masque was a repository of tricks. From the artful profusion of flowers to the textured carpeting to the carefully "awry" arrangement of tables, the restaurant houses a thousand and one tricks to maintains its illusions. And the best of those tricks, the most secret risk and delight, was currently out on display.
No figure was clearly visible. The details of their faces wavered like light on water. Cuffs and zippers and pearls curved dimly against the greater dark. There were frocks and feathers and jeans and saris, and sandals and boots and heels and hooves, and fur and teeth and horns and cloaks. Here, fingernails pierced with tiny, melodious rings. Here, a braid of hair twined about a long, long neck. Here, black lips turned to the curve of a pointed ear. The crowd seemed to extend beyond the filled seats, into the painted walls--which were alive with motion. A silent breeze tickled the painted flowers; bright eyes surfaced and sunk amidst the fantastic fauna.
Whispers slithered through the room.
...young, so young, can you see it...
...like the other, the little mad one, remember...
...can he hear--oh...
...a god...a god...god god god...
A sinuous smoke-vague shape flowed out of the dark, solidifying as it approached. As jaguar silently stalked past them Sato lowered her hand, fingertips passing through the fur as if through water. The phantasm momentarily froze to stare at Marijuana with scared, human eyes.
They watched Marijuana with awe and curiosity, and caution. Sato they watched with fear.
Uncharacteristically, Sato said nothing as they walked through the room to the single lit table. Two glasses and a ruby-black bottle sat on the tablecloth. A pretty basket of fruit sat near making the whole arrangement pleasant as a French print. "Please," Sato said, nodding at the table. She took her own seat without any discomfort and picked up a fruit knife. The little blade flashed merrily before sinking under an apple's skin.
"They're not much for conversation," the Baku said, eyes on the knife and fruit. "All this modern physic about dreams being communication--well, it's nothing new, actually, but they're attaching far too many bells and whistles to the matter. Makes it sound so...public. Open. It's almost insulting." She smiled, glancing up. "Dreams are secret. It's what makes them wanted, even the nightmares. It's what makes them worth believing in."
"She'll waste the whole night like that." Light, cynical laughter edged the dark. "If you let her."
Sato's knife paused half way through a cut. For a moment, the corner of her mouth wrinkled in irritation, or maybe frustration, or maybe exasperation, or maybe all three.
Another figure stepped out of the gloom, but there was nothing vague or ambiguous about this one. He was as present and defined as the others were soft and dim. Everything about the man was clear, strong, present.