Difference between revisions of "Logs: Introducing Naomi Suzuno"

Latest revision as of 01:27, 7 October 2012

IC Date: Early June, 2011
Who: Izo Imaizumi, Naomi Suzuno
Location: Ebisu beach.
What: As sane a conversation about crazy things as there ever was.

<Pose Tracker> Naomi Suzuno [DS] has posed.

Typical of Spring, the day ends relatively quickly or not, depending on a person's point of view; the hours have lengthened gradually in homage of the inevitable Summer, while struggling with the stubborn, lingering grasp of the colder months. Only the fourth hour of the afternoon, the sun already appears predisposed to sink, bright, gold-white light deepening into a darker amber fringed with bloody crimson. Some cultures consider red so stark over the horizon to be an ill omen, from what she remembers reading from years prior; especially whenever it taints the surface of the moon. She has never witnessed one herself but considering she's seen an -emerald- moon before, especially lately, she's certain that one ensconced in ruby wouldn't be far behind.

Various families are happily spending Sunday in blissful ignorance of what happened a few nights before - most of Sumaru City's populace wouldn't have any familiarity with just how nefarious the recent and slightly disturbing goings-on truly are. Children trot, walk, or run ahead of their parents in the store-lined boardwalk by Ebisu Beach, a tall, costumed fellow is busily distributing colored balloons for free on the opposite side of the way. A few couples are walking arm in arm (save for the errant pair in the midst of a Serious Discussion that may devolve into a Big Fight any minute now), while a group of fashionable girls, true to the Japanese culture's reverence for the latest trends, giggle as they make their way towards the local coffeeshop, one in particular that has been growing in popularity as of late. The Japanese may have a cultural and ingrained sense of wariness towards foreigners, but it certainly has not stopped them from enjoying wares that have found their inspirations abroad, such as pastries and treats that don't have red bean paste anywhere near them.

This is, at least, a period in which Naomi is able to pull herself out of a constant stream of activity to relax. While the stretch of pristine sand before her is normally packed with bodies through the hotter months, the touch of frost over ambient air discourages others from getting too close to the water, icy temperatures numbing flesh the moment a body part hits the surf. The sands are presently devoid of life, and it is only the moving waves that marr the overall stillness. With the active avenue behind her, and the vacant environ before her, it looks as if the world is split apart in two different states, and unsure as to which one to settle with.

A boot is propped up on the lower rung of the rails that separates the busy boardwalk from the beach, her elbows braced on top of the metal frame and her shoulders hunched forward. Her hands are cradled around a styrofoam cup procured from the aforementioned Paris-influenced coffeeshop....it seems newly purchased, given the trail of steam risiing from the top. For once, there is no serenity present in her features, in fact she looks like she's doing her best to stare at the farthest point of the galaxy from where she stands, as if she could will answers out of it.

<Pose Tracker> Izo Imaizumi [K] has posed.

In later months, Izo will run here: the sand is appropriately punishing, he thinks; the trick will be finding a way to avoid the crush of bodies that will inevitably clog up virtually every patch of now-empty sand.

He didn't come here looking for the beach. He didn't come here intentionally at all, if one wants to be perfectly precise about things; Izo has a powerful drive to wander, stretch his legs and /move/, and rarely has that been more true than over the course of the last month, cooped up with his head down and his heart low in a cramped student apartment near the university. It has been a harrowing ordeal, and not without its toll on him. His days have been full of harried anxiety, torn from his life in Tokyo and transplanted to a new place, worried about his sister, enrolled in university -- which is not without its own unique pressures, particularly for a young man who has no ties in the area, no support system to speak of -- and his nights sleepless or, when sleep comes, plagued with vague nightmares haunted by things he doesn't yet understand or have names for.

Today, he has a great deal to think about. His will be a baptism in fire with regard to all things supernatural, as became only too apparent when an innocent culinary festival turned into some sort of assassination attempt and several other things aside, nefarious plots that he doesn't quite grasp the nature of despite the explanations he was offered. He'll hit the ground running, with no time to lose: he does not entirely belong to himself anymore. That he is here, safe and whole, is due only to the protections extended him by the Yamaguchi-gumi and -- as would surprise no one -- those protections did not come without strings.

The beach is a relief. He found it by accident (though one might argue that to travel in any given direction long enough in Japan is to end the journey with one's feet in the sea), but, having found it, is not in a hurry to abandon it. The only thing he's lacking, strolling along the peaceful denoument of the boardwalk unhurriedly, is

Food and drink, of course. This is /Izo/.

So he leans, and speaks to the only person present when he spies her cup, all Tokyo in his syllables: "Excuse me. Where did you get that drink?"

<Pose Tracker> Naomi Suzuno [DS] has posed.

She senses someone approaching her periphery, but she does not turn around, assuming a passer-by; she senses no ill intent, another gift that Ma'at bestows upon her to compensate her distinct and almost notorious blindness towards resonance. Whether it is by sheer inability or karmic design, she doesn't know, a reality mildly grating for one who prides herself on being able to do something once she learns it - but in many ways, to be able to scratch the surface of other people's machinations, for good or ill, is an effective of an alarm as can be afforded to her. Izo, currently apprehensive of what his transfer has forced him to blunder into, carries no such malevolent intent....and thus, she sees no reason to act.

Until his large shadow falls over her, and asks her where she got her coffee.

When she first turns her head, she does so with every expectation to glimpse the color of one's irises and meet his stare directly, a trait that could be considered too bold for one who looks so gentle, refined and most of all, female and native...were it not for the fact that her eyes are much rounder than the slant Asian roots prefers and hued a dark violet. Instead, defying all of those earlier stated expectations, she finds herself staring at the midpoint of a broad chest, and slowly tilts her head back to look at Izo's face, situated an entire foot over her head.

Recognition ripples over her expression, the delicate lines shifting from its serene facade to something more surprised. "....I think I've seen you before," she says, in lieu of a proper and courteous greeting, well-remembered nuances of etiquette fading away due to her startlement. "With Irie-san....at the festival."

A protector, judging by his build - and certainly slightly older than Masahiko, judging by the presence of stubble....but far from his mid-twenties.

Glancing down yet again at her coffee cup, she smiles faintly; sincerely apologetic, coupled with the polite detachment one typically gives to strangers. "Forgive me, I wasn't expecting to run into one of his omnipresent cadre here. I purchased it in the new cafe that just opened, right over there." She nods in that direction. "Have you ever been? I've not tried the food, but word of mouth is promising. It's called Paris Baguette."

<Pose Tracker> Izo Imaizumi [K] has posed.

She saw /him/; he did not see /her/. Maybe he saw her physically, but he didn't /mark/ her; that night, she would have been only one of a myriad of other girls in dresses as culturally exploitative as Japanese festivities are inclined to get, striking that magical balance between 'cute' and 'sex appeal' that seems to be where most of the country's kinks find residence: it's adorable and innocent, so therefore it cannot possibly be depraved!

Regardless, the recognition may not produce the intended result. -san, she says of Irie, implying polite respect. But 'cadre', too -- or at least the language-appropriate equivalent. His is not a face much given to expression, but in this light -- with the day bleeding out in marvelous colors across a soon-to-be-silver sky -- she might have the good fortune to mark a fleeting shadow between his brows, presumably at being so readily lumped-in with Masahiko's muscle. Speech would only solidify that presumption: "Cadre," he repeats, shifting enough to settle in with elbows against the rail, himself, looking at her beyond his shoulder. The tone is dubious, but he doesn't outright dispute the allegation; there isn't really any way to do that in casual conversation with someone one has only just met. "Sorry, you have me at a disadvantage. You are--?"

A beat passes, and then he straightens suddenly, and takes a step backward, thumbing in the direction of the cafe in question. "Actually. I'm going to get something to drink, and something to eat, and then I'm going to sit on the beach and watch the sun go down. Maybe you'll trade me your name and tell me about how you know Irie-san in exchange for..."

And now he has to guess. "...a croissant. No, no -- pumpkin bread." The latter is in English, albeit very heavily-accented English.

<Pose Tracker> Naomi Suzuno [DS] has posed.

Had he entered the maid cafe with someone that wasn't just familiar to her, but also one she has had eloquent but slightly heated disagreements with (and yet somehow manages to maintain a relatively amicable relationship with the Yakuza Prince, if not just an understanding culled from their similar positions in life), she would have lost his face in the crowd. It wasn't as if Izo wasn't physically striking; nothing could be further from the truth - his height would make him an up-and-coming basketball star in Japan very easily, and his uniquely rugged features - far from the typical androgynous ideal fashion typically favors from its Eastern slaves - could easily put him in the forefront of several Japanese dramas and movies. However, it was his connection to Masahiko that enabled her to remember him on top of his height, a lifelong student of what happens in board meetings and social functions where corporate elites mingled, in where mindfulness of people's names, faces and associations were extremely important. As an heiress to a multi-national luxury and real estate conglomerate, and fully expected to grip its reins within her dainty little hand once she has become of age in Japan, she was socially equipped to make the identification.

If his discomfiture, marked by the appearance of the shallow indentation between his brows, brief and fleeting as it were, provokes any manner of apology or bashful awkwardness from her, she doesn't show it. If it were the truth, it will stand, if not, there is a certain expectation that he would correct her, which -would- probably embarrass her enough to make graceful reparations for her quick assumptions. But he does not dispute it; she does detect the dubious tone however, and privately wonders why there was no forthcoming rebuke. However, when he prompts an introduction, she opens her mouth, to respond quickly and rectify this breach of social norms when he offers food.

To one with an incorrigible sweettooth.

"I..." She glances towards the cafe, before she bobs her head, ebon strands spiderwebbing over her cheek at the gesture where the incoming sea-breeze has plastered a curl upon it. "....Pumpkin bread?" Her English is also accented, but in a different way, the distinct undertones inherited from her European father fully present in every syllable. "...well, far be it for me to refuse something that promises to be delicious," she quips, flashing him a more gregarious smile. Stepping back, her palms flatten against her skirt, giving him a shallow bow. "My name is Naomi Suzuno," she introduces. "You are?"

Whenever he starts stepping in that direction, she follows, slender legs working at a quick clip; a feat on its own given her high-heeled boots, expensive but inevitably not the kind of detail that Izo would take notice. "There have been....situations...in which Irie-san and I have been involved in together. They aren't many, but he and I tend to trade information when circumstances allow us to. After all, we both live in Sumaru City and sometimes, collaboration is necessary. I won't lie..." Because she almost never does. "...I typically stay away from him publicly due to his connections, but he and I can and have occasionally talked to one another as people, for the sake of being people, and without mind of the organizational trappings that typically ensconce us."

<Pose Tracker> Izo Imaizumi [K] has posed.

Smiles are a rare thing, fleeting and intense, but this evening he's in a more mellow, content mood than most, something he could readily put down to escaping from the confines of his apartment, and finally having -- in the grasp of broad-palmed and not-inelegant hands that would, it's true, make for a formidable weapon on the basketball court, if he didn't loathe it on principal -- answers to some of the questions that have plagued him since that very dark, very tense night a little over a month ago, when his life turned upside-down.

If he notices her shoes, it isn't their value that he'll remember. As it stands, he doesn't seem to notice much outside of the realms of what a polite young Japanese man ought to notice in the company of an unfamiliar young woman. Granted, he only ever seems like whatever he wants to seem like, in a given moment. Case in point: he doesn't double-take when she gives him her name, though it has been literally only a handful of hours since he heard it for the first time, from the mouth of the very Yakuza princeling in question.

They'll get there -- eventually. A few long, rolling strides bring him across the street to the door of the cafe, and once it's open and he's absorbed everything she's told him, he tacks his own bow on -- formality only marred by the hand that retains the door's position. "Izo Imaizumi." /I am also a danger to your reputation, apparently, and I know more about you right now than you know about me,/ he could say, and doesn't. He wouldn't have to say some of that if she weren't oblivious to resonance; an infant in matters of persona, Izo does not yet have the trick of dampening those signals. Chiming bells, exotic scents, and subtle sensations wreath him, telltale signs for anyone who knows how to look.

Hapless as a fledgeling, he is at greater risk than he knows.

"What he says, despite her detailed answer concerning Masahiko Irie, is this: "Have you /had/ pumpkin bread before?"

<Pose Tracker> Naomi Suzuno [DS] has posed.

And he opens the door for her, like a proper gentleman should - behavior that she is accustomed to, despite the notorious company she keeps...delinquents, and not just from Sumaru City but from Inaba and Port Island as well. It was a state of affairs that generally couldn't be helped, when gentler folk are more comfortable sitting in the shadows and leave the more volatile and direct confrontations to those who have absolutely no qualms making them. And yet, they all manage to give her proper regard; at least when it comes to opening doors, or pulling out chairs. That earlier smile softens on the corners in appreciation - the gesture is not lost on her.

"Well met." She acknowledges his own name simply, but also briefly - not when they clearly have more in common than initially thought, at least in terms of those ephemeral strains that bind human beings to their fellows. "I've not seen you around before, and your diction is distinct. ....Tokyo?" She hazards a guess; she is hardly a linguist, despite being conversant in a few languages aside from English and Japanese and is in the process of learning more. But the company's local headquarters was located in Tokyo, not Sumaru, and is a city that she visits often.

When asked about pumpkin bread, she laughs - it's light and made freely, devoid of the usual demure gesture of hiding it behind a hand. "Yes. A few times, but not from this place," she replies readily, just as able to abandon subjects of a more serious nature as she is in bringing them up. "You can say I'm a bit of a gourmand when it comes to sweet things, though I try to be careful." She winks at him impishly. "A woman needs to be able to fit in the clothes she likes wearing, after all." And that is truthful as well, Naomi is charitable by nature, but she is hardly a saint. Vanity is one of her foremost sins, unrepentant in her indulgence of her daily regime in front of a mirror, or within her enormous bathtub, or inside her walk-in closets.

The line is considerable, but it dwindles in short order, Paris Baguette's efficient staff taking orders, making coffee, accepting payment and ushering customers to tables. However, Izo had mentioned sitting outside, and the colors without are too beautiful and too tempting for her fondness for aesthetics to resist. Whenever they reach the counter, she patiently waits by him, much to the envy of the young woman manning the cashier, who practically goggles at seeing Izo being just so very tall.

<Pose Tracker> Izo Imaizumi [K] has posed.

"Shinjuku," Izo says, narrowing down the scope of his origins considerably, but not so considerably as to affix him to any particular subculture -- Shinjuku is, after all, the capital of the prefecture, and arguably one of the busiest cities on earth.

Everything else that she says he listens to without any apparent impatience, regardless of the contrast that the subject matter cuts against his slightly rough-around-the-edges appearance -- which is itself a certain kind of artifice; all of his laissez-faire nuances, from stubble to slightly slouched jeans, are calculated ones (and while there isn't anything remarkable about his attire by way of brand, there's a bracelet mixed in with the others around his wrist that's distinctly Cartier, glinting like some sort of careless incongruity amidst the prayer beads and other visual hodge-podge when he extends his hand to pay for what he orders -- pumpkin bread for her, a danish and a hot tea for himself).

Baked goods in hand, he turns back toward the door. Mission accomplished. Edibles leave him freed to consider her more fully, slanting his gaze that way now and again while they walk -- at a much less hurried pace. If anyone ever needed to light a fire under his narrow ass, dangling food at the end of a long day would probably be the best way to do it. "I'll remember that. About the sweet things. Actually, if you want the truth, I've only known Irie-san for less than a week. Today was the third time I've ever seen him."

<Pose Tracker> Naomi Suzuno [DS] has posed.

The Cartier bracelet, she notices instantly about his attire, not one to miss those little details in another person's appearance - but its presence does not give her any answers and only generates more questions, when it contrasts so sharply (at least to her discerning, fashion-conscious eye) with the rest of him. Still, she doesn't inquire - it would be rude, and they've only just met. It is the fact that he is a newcomer to the city that enables her conscience to allow herself to remain by him, at least up until her pumpkin bread is finished and their conversation was over, instead of shortening this encounter before she could be spotted by anyone familiar with her and armed with a wagging tongue. It was nothing personal, Izo has done nothing but demonstrate the most exemplary of first impressions thus far and there was something about him that was almost comforting due to the easy facade he exhibits in his mannerisms and choice of clothing, but she has her place to consider, and she has plans - far reaching ones.

She follows him after thanking him for his treat, leaving the establishment and content to trail after his imposing shadow. She takes a brief nibble of the pumpkin bread, taken fresh from the oven and the exuded warmth a comforting thing, seeping through the paper sheath it is wrapped in and the scent mingling with her delicately spiced coffee. "It's good," she says. "Would you like to try some?" The thing, after all, was technically his.

She does want the truth - she always does, no matter how difficult it is to hear. Ma'at once again remains silent, and she has long interpreted the lack of her whispers to be a good thing, usually, especially when in the company of strangers. "I'll hold you to that, should we see each other again," she tells him agreeably. "And you're newly employed, then? Truthfully, in turn, I had readily assumed that you were family." Not Yakuza-family, but rather bonds forged in either blood or marriage. "When I saw the two of you together, you acted more like acquaintances than employer-employee. I thought that you may be a cousin, perhaps, or some other relation. The two of you don't appear to be separated by too many years either."

<Pose Tracker> Izo Imaizumi [K] has posed.

"I'm....not an employee, precisely. And no, we're not related." As he speaks, he reaches across to break a piece of the slice of bread off and tuck it into his mouth, offering the still-wrapped danish out in fair and equal exchange -- only the end of it protrudes above the waxed paper sacking in which it was deposited. That's one of the advantages of being his size: his hands are large enough to hold drink and danish together.

The closer they get to the beach, the less fixed his gaze is on his company. The sheer relief of being outdoors and at proximity to the ocean -- which, like most of his heritage, he innately finds comforting -- radiates off of him in palpable waves that one hardly needs a goddess of justice and truth to discern. It's in subtle cues: the slight narrowing of his eyes, the relaxation of his brow, the hang of arms from squared shoulders, and the slowness of the rise and fall of that shallow dip in his chest, behind which his lungs feed the engine of a remarkably prodigious metabolism.

One that needs constant fueling, apparently. Accept or decline a piece of the pastry as she prefers, he'll tuck the ragged remaining edge into his mouth afterward, and -- chewing -- take the curb of the boardwalk in a lazy stride.

"You'll probably get your chance. From the sound of things, we're likely to bump into one another again down the road. If -- how did the Kobayashi girl put it? -- I 'don't die'?" One dark brow ticks upward, then falls. He stops at the edge of the sand, and lowers his head to look at her boots, this time with purpose. "Those don't look very good for dealing with sand."

<Pose Tracker> Naomi Suzuno [DS] has posed.

She blinks slightly at the gesture effortlessly returned; she expected some degree of aloofness or hesitance - Izo can hardly be said to have a face that is prone to overt expression. But with the danish held out to her, she lifts a perfectly manicured hand, breaking off a small piece and grinning faintly, slightly sheepishly, at helping herself to his own food but unable to resist trying something else from the displayed smorgasbord in the coffeehouse. "Thank you," as always unfailing in her attention to social niceties, popping it in her mouth and straying closer to the strip of sand separating the rest of the boardwalk from the ocean. "It's delicious, too - I'm not quite certain what I would prefer, in the end."

The change in his demeanor only becomes more noticeable the closer they get to the beach and water, the young woman unmindful of tracking her boots into the sand. She notices the deep breath, the release of the persistent line his shoulders make, the slight droop that typically accompanies some cessation of tension, although in this case, it's very hard to define due to her unfamilarity with her present companion. It's another curious thing but one that she doesn't remark upon - that, and this is almost typical. Who doesn't like the ocean? Terrorists, that's who!

"If you'll....be accompanying Irie-san for the time being-- " If he's not exactly an employee than what is he? A lover contracted to teach Masahiko the ropes like in the old days (granted, this was unlikely, considering how many times she's seen Masahiko gravitate towards womenfolk in social events in which she was also in attendance)? It was preposterous anyway, what would they be doing in a maid cafe in the first place? As quickly as the possibility enters her mind, she dismisses it completely. "-- then it's most likely, yes. At least when it comes to the stranger events that occur here." She tilts her head upwards, catching the first few stars peeking out from the band of colors sweeping over the horizon. "And I see you've met Thora. She's unique, but extremely capable in a fight. She does not deliver those words lightly."

<Pose Tracker> Izo Imaizumi [K] has posed.

When she doesn't seem too put-off by the prospect of wandering in the sand despite her ill-engineered footwear, Izo tables his observation and simply takes advantage of his good fortune in discovering the only ojou in existence of her kind. He heads onto the sand without hesitation, but not so far down as the water, stopping shy where the sand is still fluffy and silver, and watching the day die in beautiful ways. It'll be pewter and blue before long, but the last half an hour of world-turning will grind a few more heavenly sparks out of the vault of the heavens before plunging them into that ocean of stars in full.

"His grandfather probably saved my life," he says finally, as the solitude of the beach makes disclosure somewhat easier. "Last month. It's a long story. And strange..." A low note belltones in his chest, changing the tension in the cords of muscle that define his throat. "But I guess you'd know about strange, Suzuno-san. I've heard your name before. Today." Chew. Swallow. He ticks his head to the side, and slants eyes that glitter like oilslicks down at her, so different from her own in their nighted uniformity, iris lost in the dim light of the end of day.

Of course it isn't polite, strictly speaking, to be so forward in Japanese culture with one's questions, but Izo asks it nevertheless: "What do you make of him? Irie-san."

<Pose Tracker> Naomi Suzuno [DS] has posed.

It's nothing a good polish job can't fix in the end. She would rather keep them on, than have bits of sand trapped in her toes when it is time to go home, in what promises to be an uncomfortable walk in closed-toe heels that can't be slipped off so easily to dislodge them. She doesn't seem to mind sand on her clothes, either - the wind will take care of that before long, if she is mindful of the water, carefully wrapping up her pumpkin bread to keep sand off it and placing it and her coffee both of an outcropping of rock poking out from the sand. After that, she folds her knees effortlessly underneath her, sinking into the fluffy dune before retaking her drink and pastry.

"It does sound like a long story, but one which I won't insist that you tell. I wondered if it would be a case in where you owed something to the Yamaguchi-gumi, but I didn't expect something as....critical....as that." A grin is tilted ruefully towards him, brows raising in a mildly mischievous angle. "I've watched all the Godfather movies," she tells him in mock seriousness, what with their offers people can't refuse.

Thankfully, Izo manages to pick the sort of ojou who doesn't mind answering questions - at least to the best she's able, if not countered by a preceding obligation - and truthfully at that. Slim shoulders lift up from the ruffled blouse and crisply-tailored light jacket that she wears. "He and I obviously have our differences, but we can live with them amicably," she remarks. "It's often difficult to separate him from his....connections....but you can say I'm uniquely equipped to see past them, sometimes. He has a good heart, Irie-san, and in some ways I hold a certain kinship with him in ways that not many people my age would understand, much less be in." She inclines her head towards him curiously. "And what of you? About all of this....this can't be an easy transition if this was something you didn't choose for yourself."

<Pose Tracker> Izo Imaizumi [K] has posed.

"Nnn. Owe -- yeah. I was with them before then, too," Izo offers, with uncharacteristically candid ease as he takes his seat, feeling the sand beneath him for dampness with one splayed hand before settling directly onto it. "But I had my reasons for that."

As though that made it better somehow. As though that changed what they are, or what they do.

Masahiko. He's had little time to get to know the youth, but that afternoon's conversation revealed several deeper, fundamental truths, and Izo -- as his Arcana requires that he must -- has analyzed them quietly throughout all of his urban wanderings this afternoon and into this early evening, pulling at the threads of said and unsaid things, searching for patterns and comparing them with more private histories. He is deliberate in his scholar's exploration of the world around him, but even in his methodical, careful observation, there are some facts that sift quickly into the light, easy to espy.

"You aren't the only one who views him that way. Corrals him in with the rest of the Grandfather and the Family. He knows --" A pause. "/We/ know," he amends, tone slipping toward something more velvet, edging along the borders of gentle without crossing into it wholly, "that it's difficult to divorce one from the other. There isn't any easy way to separate them. It grates on him, though. He wants to improve things, cooperate with people, and he tells me he's always fighting an uphill battle, because his associations work against him." Sitting back, he screws his drink into the sand and then leans back to plant one hand behind him in a brace, the other still holding his pastry. "If he doesn't gain traction, eventually the Family may be his best route to being effective. Then everything the others worry about may become true."

As for himself? He chews, watches the sunlight die, reflecting on his feelings with that same raw honesty. "No, it's not. I hurt a lot of people accidentally, though they wouldn't have hesitated to hurt me. I put people that I care about at risk. And I'm alone here, save for the Family; they make excellent colleagues, and poor **confidantes**."

<Pose Tracker> Naomi Suzuno [DS] has posed.

Whatever his reasons are, Naomi doesn't pry; nuances of etiquette and social niceties as a whole are part and parcel of the nature of her world at large. Instead, she watches him move, how the lines shift on his expression as he speaks. He moves easily, for one so tall and broad of shoulder; sand hardly looks cumbersome the way it is when he maneuvers and arranges himself the way he does. The heiress says little else, pausing from her study to absently pick at a crystalline granule left on the fabric of her skirt, her cup of coffee on one hand and the paper sheath cradling her pumpkin bread on her lap. At the moment, eveything about her appears orderly, all details in their proper places.

She listens attentively, however, when Izo starts to opine on Masahiko; not just his nature but rather how the family sees its leader-to-be. There's a slight nod, though it doesn't appear to be attached to a specific thought; no indication as to what parts of his statement she is actually agreeing with. And when his litany of the Yakuza Prince's frustrations, and whatever bits of his character that Izo has managed to glean within their days-long acquaintanceship, the young woman lifts her cardboard cup to take a quiet sip from it. The gesture is thoughtful and deliberate, but her stare falls upon her current companion again, always the sort to meet her conversation partner's eyes whenever she speaks.

"I know," she replies, finally. It isn't meant to be reassuring, but it is the truth as she sees it. "For all of my wariness I'm not blind towards what Irie-san intends to do with the resources he has. I know for a fact, however, that the circles I share with him typically find him to be fair and agreeable, though he does have his...." There is a pause, remembering the pole dancing incident, and the faintest hint of amusement tickles the corner of her cherry lips. "....quirks. I agree that for him it is an uphill battle, but one that is yielding fruit slowly, but surely. It's just...difficult....to look past what you already know are the most obvious but resistant hurdles. You're right, however..." Her tone shifts at that, something quieter, but elusive creeping on the fringes. "...if he's never encouraged, he'll only be driven back to using the Family for his ends."

She is somewhat surprised that Izo is being as candid as he was, but this is something she appreciates - very few hold to the young woman's standards with respect to honesty, however she rarely expects it from someone who just met, speaking of the things they are. It would be more of the norm to hedge one's responses to such an inquiry - one that touches upon something personal and less fitting a first conversation. It shows, the slight flicker of it passing those expressive irises and the way the pliant line of her mouth changes. She's left to watch him in silence, remembering those that made up her innermost circles and how often it felt like -pulling teeth- just to get a straight answer out of most of them.

"Believe it or not you're not the first person I've heard that from," she begins. "I know some who have had to retreat due to hurting many by accident - self-defense or not, it leaves scars. Some of them choose to be alone, to prevent it from happening again. I always say that's generally not the way to fix a problem....avoidance can only go so far. I take it you don't prefer to be, however....otherwise we wouldn't be here."

She plucks off a piece of her pumpkin bread, popping it in her mouth. "I am sorry...that you had to leave people you care about behind. If I were in your position, I would be worrying every day. It gets easier, however...not immediately, of course, but it does."

<Pose Tracker> Izo Imaizumi [K] has posed.

"No. Being here, away from them--" /Is not my choice/, Izo is about to say, and then stops short. He's said that already; he might say something else -- about how complicated it is; about how he isn't even sure what has happened to him or why or how or what it means for the future, which is a subject that he does not devote an immense amount of time to considering with regards to /himself/, strangely enough, for a man who thinks about the eventualities of nearly everything else.

He could say it, but he doesn't. Naomi is a part of the world into which he's been rudely thrust -- upon the point of a knife blade in a dark alley, no less -- and, as such, he can only assume that some things do not need saying.

Protocol is not an unheard-of part of Yakuza life. Their argot, an archaic assembly of words striped from earlier eras during which Samurai honor drew hard lines in the sand, reflects that eye to formality and due course -- even as the men who embrace it and speak it buck so many of the other traditional norms of their island nation. Izo reflects this duality with perfect ease; he is polite, but cares little for circumspect speech when it would serve no purpose -- no taste for polite fictions when substance might be discussed in its place. They are not appropriate topics for two just-met Japanese youths, but he would sooner be silent than small-talk.

Though she turns her gaze on him, he doesn't look back her way until her reassurance, at which point he lifts his hand, displaying another of those archaic notions: that one does not burden strangers with one's own concerns, by placing them into a position in which they experience any sympathetic feelings. "Bad things happen to people. It might have been anything else. It might have been worse. At least I have the opportunity to put things to rights -- and learn a few things. I'd like to start with 'whose hand has the knife in it.'" The colloquialism is a vague one, but means essentially this: he knows that his new situation is dangerous, but doesn't yet know from what quarter to anticipate that aggression.

Half in humor, half in earnest, he slants his gaze her way and inquires after a beat, eyes lidded, "It isn't yours, is it?"

<Pose Tracker> Naomi Suzuno [DS] has posed.

He doesn't continue the statement, but Naomi comprehends it well enough and much like she has said earlier, she is unwilling to pry, willing to let the half-finished thought stand as is when she starts nibbling into her pumpkin bread in earnest, rolling the spiced-and-sugared fluff in her tongue and savoring it. It was good, but clearly one of those that is always best served warm.

The art of conversation is one that had been part of her schooling for as long as she can remember. The heiress is as equally capable of small-talk as she is when discussing matters of more significance than the typical nuggets often dropped by the high-school-to-college grapevine, however it is that learned adaptability that enables her to carry on a conversation with all sorts; never has she balked from anything he has said, nor has she shied away from his candidness or even the way his long fingers wave back and forth as a nonverbal substitute of communicating that she shouldn't worry about it, or burden herself with the responsibility of making him feel better. He would find that a more difficult endeavor, her first instincts always lean towards nurture and care.

"Things could always be worse," she tells him. "But it's ideal to learn from those situations, it's a philosophy I've adopted myself. Considering how dangerous these days are, it can't hurt to have a few more things in one's personal arsenal."

A wry smile tugs the corners of her mouth upwards. Her fingers leave the paper sheath, lifting her hand and turning her palm towards him for his inspection. "You can assess for yourself whether my hand is the sort that would hold such a weapon with any degree of martial prowess expected to fell someone of your size and stature," she says, laughter implied but not expended. "Besides...it's not my way. I infinitely prefer resolving a situation before it gets to where pointy objects are involved."

There is a pause, before her lashes hood her eyes partway, openly mimicking his half-lidded expression. "That doesn't mean I'm wholly adverse to those measures, however," she remarks, mock-seriously. "You can take that as an advance warning."

<Pose Tracker> Izo Imaizumi [K] has posed.

Her hand gets a glance, but it's passing, fleeting, dismissive.

"If you know what I know, then we both know that your hands -- and your size, and your stature -- have nothing to do with how dangerous you are, or aren't," Izo observes, Japanese threaded into a smooth silk thread, quieter than the rest. "Maybe that would have been true before the world turned sideways. It isn't true now." He turns his attention away from her to locate his cup, and returns it when he brings the cup to his mouth, one dark brow angling slightly upward on his tawny crown, braclets winking where they circle prominent wristbones and disappear beneath the terminus of a long sleeve. "If I die, it won't be the result of underestimating you or anyone else." He takes a long sip from the cup, lowers it, and leans forward to brace his arms loosely on his lifted knees, head tipped forward and angled to the side to regard her, one eye slightly squinted as the arc-sodium street lamp cuts on in answer to the waning of ambient daylight. Moths will gather there soon, to pinwheel about the flourescing glass, occasionally catch fire, and fall as cinders to the pavement below. For a Hermit there are messages everywhere, parallels to be ignored. Light winks on the slim chain about his neck; the one that dips into round T-shirt collars and disappears, silver reflections pulsing in time with the beat of his heart.

"They are nice hands though," he adds, because he can. On the score of her size or stature he remains silent -- also because he can.

And because he finds it entertaining to leave unsaid things unsaid and then trample all over them with fresh remarks before someone can chide him for being wry, he looks out at the water and says, "Did you know that he collects hamsters?"

<Pose Tracker> Naomi Suzuno [DS] has posed.

He knows.

If Naomi had any doubts as to whether Izo knew about the phenomenon, he just confirmed it...with the distinct inference that he was also equipped by it. The slender hand lowers back onto her lap, returning to its light drift over the porous surface of her pastry. "A few of my questions would have been answered immediately were I more equipped in sensing resonance. Otherwise I wouldn't be second-guessing myself as to just how much to say about the subject. I know for a fact that the Family is familiar with Irie-san's true nature, but you don't just know, do you? You have one. And you don't just have one, but Irie-san told you about me. It's expected, I suppose...I don't overestimate my importance in his radar, but it wouldn't be like him not to inform you about what truly goes on here....his desire to protect others extends past an ordinary good samaritan's."

She looks down on her hand, wiggling her fingers slightly. "Pity, though..." she sighs. "I was hoping you would humor me by telling me how deadly a french manicure looks, but I suppose I can accept 'nice.' " The last is punctuated by a quick grin, the pearlined edges of her teeth visible for just a moment.

He turns back to the water, erego missing her expression; brows slightly furrowed and her grin fading slightly, looking more befuddled than humored. "....hamsters?" she repeats. "...I honestly never thought he'd be the sort to keep a pet, much less any. And even if I did, I would've expected him to be more of a dog person. Not a hamster person. Besides, I didn't think he needed to actually collect them - don't you just need two and by the end of the week, you would have sixty?"

<Pose Tracker> Izo Imaizumi [K] has posed.

"Suzuno-ojou," he says, both brows arching a touch as he flicks one of those nighted glances at her hands, "you scandalize me. I barely know you. The lethality of a woman's nails is hardly polite conversation between strangers."

Adhering to that vein of levity -- possibly because he spends all of his time now treading between sharp constrasts between dark and light, tragedy and comedy, with so little of the latter of both -- Izo chooses to respond to the matter of hamsters first, preserving the easy air that comes with teasing. "He has a definite fascination with /Mesocricetus auratus/. You wouldn't want to wind up with sixty from two. They'd be stupid hamsters." He pauses. Rethinks what he's just said. "...I guess it wouldn't matter," he admits, finally, because

OBLIGATORY FLASHBACK

Masahiko is in a cot from the thrashing he received from the NWO girls, and Izo is bringing a gift, wandering around Irie-sama's house curiously when he suddenly comes upon a hamster, which is to say it rolls in front of his feet and he doesn't see it from his lofty vantage and

PUNT

he accidentally sends the little plastic bubble into the wall, and after a) holding it up to eye level to determine what in god's name it is and b) checking to see whether or not the little thing is okay and c) putting the bubble down with great, deliberate care, the hamster begins wandering around again and

THUNK

runs into the wall of its own accord.

Obviously hamsters are stupid.

"When I went to visit him it was rolling around the livingroom floor in a--" He gestures, with his hands, denoting the size, "--plastic ball. It was white. He named it 'Honor Glory Snowy <<Shasta McBane>>.'"

Izo's English is textbook -- which is to say, he knows it fluently, but only speech patterns that one might find in a classroom or a textbook. The result is that his accent is /attrociously/ heavy, and 'Shasta McBane' sounds more like 'Shaazta Meekubaahna,' each syllable carefully enunciated with exaggerated care.

Once he says it, he shakes his head slowly: whatever similarities he and Masahiko may share, a love of hamsters is /not/ one of them.

They /do/ share some things, though, and he fords back into deeper waters when he says, "If Irie-san didn't have one, I would probably be dead right now. It's why they took an interest in--" Protecting me, holding my sister as collateral, covering up my crime, "--helping me. If it makes you feel any better, he told me about a lot of people -- not just you."

<Pose Tracker> Naomi Suzuno [DS] has posed.

She laughs at that - she can't help it, the quip so unexpected from the semi-stoic college student that it could have been yanked out of her by surprise alone. "Well, I suppose that makes you a cut above the rest, wouldn't it, when you're correcting an ojou about politeness in mixed company. My apologies. I'm afraid I may have skipped the chapter about manicures and conversation. You'll forgive me, won't you?"

He's a reader, she concludes, by his usage of latin - a proclivity that she hasn't been able to wholly escape. Either that or someone who harbors some fascination with veterinary medicine or zoology. However, at the topic of inbreeding, her mouth parts, perhaps to say the very same thing in which he appends his statement, and she's resorted to laughing again, shaking her head. "No," she tells him agreeably, her smile so broad that errant dimple on her left cheek creases visibly on the creamy arch. "I don't believe maintaining any modicum of intellect is a particular concern of theirs, but you never know these days. Maybe a scientist somewhere has managed to breed a veritable army of super-genius hamsters. They've made -movies- about the subject after all and as you know, Hollywood is never wrong."

The line of her vision traverses downward to his large hands molding the imaginary shape of a ball. "Ah....I've seen those, granted I've never owned one. I'm afraid my life doesn't leave room for many pets. Another one of my greatest personal regrets. I always wanted a puppy." The ridiculous name earns Izo a skeptical look. "....are you serious?" Of course he's serious, and this is -Masahiko-. "Well, it's certainly something I didn't know about Irie-san before. The hamsters and the fact that he's actually familiar with Shasta McBane." Unlike his own inflection, the gaijin name rolls easily from Naomi's tongue, colored faintly by the British accent she inherited from her father.

"I see. You'll find a few of them around..." she murmurs, and now it is her turn to look out towards the water, her predominantly cheerful expression fading due to whatever remembrances have surfaced within her stellar memory, set afloat by her companion's earlier words. "Civilians who are interested in Persona users. Unfortunately those I've encountered myself are not so benign." The fingers holding her coffee cup give a faint twitch, subtle, but enough to score tiny crescents upon its surface from her nails. "But like I said, I'm no surprised to hear that Irie-san has tried his best to prepare you now that you're here....including naming those who he knows about. Chances are, you'll be running into all of those names, sooner or later."

<Pose Tracker> Izo Imaizumi [K] has posed.

Mutant intelligent hamsters. Izo entertains himself with the thought, and then lets it go; he gives her only a wry look and an undecided tilt of the head, eyes wandering away from her, skyward, as though he were about to quibble and not ready to commit to any answer for certain. The movement is followed by the merest /trace/ of a change to the shape of his mouth -- one that seems like a portent of some great and nuclear force beyond whatever walls, veils, and fogs conceal it, rare in the parting, and likely for good reason. It disappears without further rumor of the existence of a smile, though only in favor of the comfortable neutral that so often seems to be his default in that aforementioned mixed company.

He's more interested in two other things that she says.

First, that Shasta McBane is actually a name, of an actual person, and the fact that he doesn't know who they are; he wants to ask, but is unreasonably sensitive on the matter of his own ignorance. It's rare for him to be caught unarmed with common knowledge, and he finds it an uncomfortable sensation. To be caught out without common knowledge in the presence of an attractive girl is twice as unpleasant. He keeps his question to himself.

He can ask about the rest, though: "I don't know any, but there are a lot more of us around here than I expected. Iriesama explained to me that there would be more, but I didn't understand what he meant until we took a little trip to Port Island in the middle of the night, recently. That guy with the eyepatch tried to set me on fire, and there was a lot of--" Bitching, he wants to say, and stops himself. "--monologuing on all sides. I don't like feeling as though I don't know who might be out for my blood. I don't like not knowing who the Bad Guys are."

<Pose Tracker> Naomi Suzuno [DS] has posed.

His smile may be a microscopic thing - barely there and practically imagined. Any demure female would leave him be at that, to smile in turn and go back to looking at the waves together, the roll of foam washing over the coastline and pulling sand back into the depths. Instead, the young woman braces a palm on the malleable ground below her, leaning forward and tilting her head sideways in an effort to inspect his profile further. "Oh, is that a smile? It's a smile isn't it? You know there's no harm admitting it. I won't tell anyone, I promise."

Oblivious to whatever questions he may have about absurdly named hamsters, Naomi sets her empty cup to the side, crumpling her spent paper sheath in one hand and leaning back, braced upwards by her palms as she finally joins him; tilting her head back to turn her gaze directly upwards to the slowly darkening expanses above them and picking out the earliest glimpses of tiny pinpricks of light flickering into existence one by one. "There are quite a few, and they move freely between cities," the heiress offers him. "Compared to the population of Sumaru City, our community is small...circles typically overlap and chances are, other Persona users are connected to one another by four degrees or less."

The idea of hearing villains monologuing fails to cull any semblance of amusement from her, but largely due to his description of the person who tried to set him on fire. "Tatsuya Sudou," she identifies unfailingly. "I don't know if Irie-san has told you about him....I would think that he would be one of the first ones he would mention when he was briefing you. He's the only known son of the country's Foreign Minister, Tatsuzou Sudou. He's unstable. He believes he hears prophetic voices."

After a pause, her eyes narrow, the beginnings of a frown pulling down the corners of her mouth. "He's dangerous - I know that I'm not telling you anything that you've not determined for yourself already, but even moreso given his connections and his resources."

<Pose Tracker> Izo Imaizumi [K] has posed.

Her unexpected persistence in peering his way draws his brow upward and actually turns his head her way just a touch; the flicker of humor threatens for a second time, and in the moment before he turns his head the other way -- in time to conceal the grin that /must/ follow, given that the contours of his face change so radically, the flat, hard angle of his cheek gaining a slight curve -- those pitch-black eyes sparkle with constellations of humor and improvised galaxies of pinprick light, reflecting back at her her own distended, leaning image and the rows of false stars created by boardwalk lamps and glowing shopfronts.

By the time he looks back at her, she's talking about the man who attacked him -- and it's something which calls for some measure of solemnity. Humor does not entirely abate, however; his first response is a dry one, gilded with something arch: "He tried to set me on /fire/," he says, of Tatsuya Sudou and whether or not he is dangerous. "It makes an impression." A breath later, he bends his arms where they rest on his knees and cuffs his left wrist in his write hand, nodding a little. "But I take your point, anyway."

The waves rumble, splash and hiss as they come in and roll out with the swelling tide, bringing with them the scent of deeper, colder saltwater depths: a scent that scrubs the air, cleansing it of the miasma of urban life. He draws a breath that hopes to, but cannot, scour his thoughts with the same ease, and as he exhales slowly his eyes narrow.

"Do you think that he does?" A beat. "Hear prophetic voices. Given everything else that's true, everything we probably would have refused to believe until we had no choice, is there room anymore for that kind of quick doubt?" The question is absolutely /not/ rhetorical. She has more experience in these matters than he does, and he is soliciting her sincere opinion.

<Pose Tracker> Naomi Suzuno [DS] has posed.

And when he looks back at her, he'd find a very feline, very satisfied look, the delicate lines of her elfin mien arranged in such a way that was practically self-indulgent. Deep violet eyes dance with mirth, so pleased with herself. 'You're not fooling -me-,' they seem to say, and in that, there was no need for her to say anything more. Clearly, one of those instances in where nothing needs to be said or done any further.

A small smirk traces over the seam of her mouth. "His inclinations lean strongly towards pyromania, it's true. I've cause to believe he spent his early youth setting various properties on fire in this city." Someone as observant as Izo may catch a hint, perhaps the way she replies, a certain inflection in her tone, that suggests that it's more than just a theory on her part as well as the not incorrect presumption that she knows more about the subject than she is saying. Unlike the earlier parts of their discussion, however, there are many good reasons for the heiress not to be wholly forthcoming when it comes to Tatsuya Sudou. Not at the moment anyway.

Exhaling quietly, she doesn't respond right away to the query as to whether she believes, herself, that he hears prophetic voices. She takes a few minutes to ruminate upon it, her lips pursing faintly, the sheen of moisture from her lush lower lip glinting faintly by the way the dying light plays upon it. When she finally deigns to speak again, it is hesitant. "....truthfully? I'm not certain. I lean towards the belief that he is genuinely mad," she says, turning her head so she could meet his eyes more fully. "He's done several atrocious things in the past due to those voices. At the same time, his understanding of some very esoteric concepts that are in effect around here exceeds my own a great deal, so much so that I'm wary about opining on his insanity so conclusively. Ever since moving here, I've seen and experienced some very unusual circumstances. Distressingly enough, by comparison, experiencing visions and hearing voices are almost mundane."

<Pose Tracker> Izo Imaizumi [K] has posed.

He waits throughout the silence, for the most part allowing her to think without the weight of his regard to intrude upon her deliberations. When she does begin to speak he's regained all of that rippled composure and his expression is once again as smooth as glass, his thoughts held in reserve behind eyes that are well-schooled in safeguarding them as necessary.

The opinion she gives is no more and no less than he might have expected, and no more and no less than he thinks reasonable or likely, given the outlandish events of the last month of his life: how can anyone know anything for sure, when the curtain is pulled back and what you believed to be the whole of the known world is revealed to be little more than dressing for a much more elaborate play?

"His views are without compassion, as I understand them, but not without logic. Any student of Darwin--" (of course it sounds ridiculous when Izo says it, 'Dah-ru-een', but he's not presently trying to be amusing) "--could tell you that those precepts are evolutionarily sound. I don't think that he needs to be crazy to believe them -- only heartless." Unbinding his wrist, he reaches for his drink and takes a long sip of the cooling contents, one of his legs sliding outward to straighten in front of him, pushing a dune of sand ahead of it through the weight of his heel. "Being both of those things would definitely hurry the process along. If that's what we -- Irie-san and myself, Akio Touma -- are up against, Irie-san needs to solidify those alliances. To be honest, I don't understand why they don't exist already."

<Pose Tracker> Naomi Suzuno [DS] has posed.

"Principles," Naomi offers up the word simply, closing her eyes, her ebon lashes kissing the tops of her cheeks as they flutter downwards. "Mitsuru Kirijo, the leader of SEES, has very good reasons not to connect herself with organized crime elements within the Five Cities area, and while I've already brought up the subject with those who I closely associate with, they are resistant for reasons I can't divulge to you out of respect for their privacy. For all of my clout and whatever esteem I hold in these circles, the final decisions with respect to my group aren't mine to make....that falls to Tatsuya Suou, and despite popular opinion, he does not always listen to me. Especially with regard to this issue. However, the responsibility of passing on and the exchange of information generally falls to me....and I am careful to send what I know along to Irie-san. I hope you understand, Imaizumi-san, that I am apprehensive in dealing with the Family directly and if you'll give me room to be candid, I don't much like it for reasons of my own. But I'm not without a certain sense of pragmatism or ruthlessness; traits that I am -required- to have for the kind of position I'm being groomed for in the future....and those enable me to recognize the fact that we'd be able to keep Sudou-san and those like him at bay if some manner of cooperation is agreed upon, so I do what I can with what I'm able. I've explained this to Irie-san already....he doesn't like it, but he understands."

She smiles faintly. "I told you that we had our differences, but that we can deal with one another agreeably, especially when we must."

With that, she slowly rises from the sand, brushing her fingertips down her skirt to dislodge stray bits of stone and mineral from the fabric. "Seeking more information regarding an established threat is something I can appreciate....it's something that I do very often. I'm not an idle creature, by nature. If you feel that I can fill you in on....anything you might be able to think of, I live at the Peninsula Sumaru Hotel, the penthouse suites of the western tower." A luxury hotel and the finest in the city, where most visiting dignitaries and executives from foreign companies typically stay. "I would be willing to stay longer under other circumstances and avail myself to answering whatever questions you may have to the best of my ability, but I'm afraid I've a dinner date to attend. My father is expecting me."

<Pose Tracker> Izo Imaizumi [K] has posed.

She rises, and so does he. It is, after all, polite, even if in standing he has to brush sand from the seat of his jeans. It will inevitably find its way into his back pockets, nevertheless; a bit of a baptism by beach, for a man not long in his new home.

He was going to have to get dirty one of these days. There are worse ways that he could have gone about it.

There are doubtless things he would say about allegiances. Allies. About his own precarious position; about whether or not he considers himself ruthless; about the strange politics of this new world, with all of its unknowns, and what he surmises his place in it ought to be, or could be, if he's far enough along to have surmised anything of the kind.

Instead, what he says is, "That's a very kind offer. I may take you up on it. You've been more willing to talk than some of the others I've met, and I...never turn down the opportunity to educate myself."

If he'd been wearing his glasses, he probably would've pushed them up toward the bridge of his nose. And yes -- he /does/ wear them. When he reads.

"Have a good night, Suzuno-ojou. My apologies to your father if I've kept him waiting."