OOC: Memory #2 - We Are The Nobodies
May. 9th, 2011 12:50 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
kisameisafishMemory Reference: This is a long overdue sight and touch memory crystal. This is pure canon-implied invention from this Kisame's AU - I just wanted him to get a vague idea of ninjutsu in a a non plot-related scenario really, and he fails at inconsequental moments in canon. The jutsu Itachi is practising here is the same one that he later uses on Kakashi in their visit to Konoha.
====
The first thing he’s aware of is the warmth of the sun on his back; the sparkle of light on water where his fingers shatter the mirror-cool surface. He's laying on the ground looking down into a river, right hand trailing in the water. The grass under his body is cool against bare skin - damp even, as if it were morning - though the shadow he casts on the water is long enough to inform him that it must be past midday in whatever place this is.
He glances up, though if in response to a sound, he can not tell. Where there should be the sound of water, or birdsong, there is nothing but silence - dead air. And where there should be the scent of damp greenery and the freshness of air that comes with fast-moving water, he can smell nothing. And yet there’s no rush of adrenaline at the absence of the two senses he relies on the most. When he looks up - perhaps in response to a sound he can’t hear - he can feel himself smirk, though whether at a joke or just in response to the view, he doesn’t know.
The banks curves back on either side of him in a lazy arc, and the kid - Crow - Itachi - is at the other side of the wide bend, where the flow of the water is faster - stronger - the silent rapids carrying dead fish and broken brances and discarded clothing - the flotsam and jetsam of whatever destruction has occurred upstream. Even at this distance, he can tell that this Crow is younger than the one he knew in Edensphere - shorter; less scrawny. He’s not troubled by either the water or its debris - his feet planted several inches above the surface, just as they had been when he’d shown Samehada that same trick in the rocky pool at the dojo.
As he watches, the kid does something with his hands - a sequence of gestures that almost looks like some kind of prayer - and at his feet, a twisting spike of water raises itself out of the river. It gathers momentum as it grows - stabilises - spiralling up until it towers over Itachi.
Samehada feels his lips curve in another smirk and his left hand move closer to his face; feels his lips moving even though he can't hear his own voice or make out the words. But there's no mistaking the surge of power that fills his body, building up like water behind a dam and echoed by someone - or something - else nearby. Not the kid, he's sure of that - this is more like the sense he’d had in his birth dream - when he’d felt the crackle of power through the sword in his hands, like a current connecting them.
But if the sword is here, he can’t see it, and his memory-self makes no effort to reach for it, instead absorbing the additional energy into his own, until the pressure is great enough that it bursts through his fingers and into the water.
At the other side of the river, a geyser explodes into the air, colliding with the column that the kid had made, dwarfing it and shattering its perfect form, soaking them both with a cascade of water.
He laughs, though he doesn’t hear it - just the feel of it through his body - and as he laughs he rolls, fast, coming to rest a few feet away on his back. When he turns his head there's a scorched patch of grass where he had been lying a moment before - a few blades still smouldering, blackened and bent.
More laughter, and he makes no further effort to move. The last thing he sees before the scene fades into darkness is a curtain of leaves above his head and a bright blue sky that stretches far beyond the confines of any glass.
====
The first thing he’s aware of is the warmth of the sun on his back; the sparkle of light on water where his fingers shatter the mirror-cool surface. He's laying on the ground looking down into a river, right hand trailing in the water. The grass under his body is cool against bare skin - damp even, as if it were morning - though the shadow he casts on the water is long enough to inform him that it must be past midday in whatever place this is.
He glances up, though if in response to a sound, he can not tell. Where there should be the sound of water, or birdsong, there is nothing but silence - dead air. And where there should be the scent of damp greenery and the freshness of air that comes with fast-moving water, he can smell nothing. And yet there’s no rush of adrenaline at the absence of the two senses he relies on the most. When he looks up - perhaps in response to a sound he can’t hear - he can feel himself smirk, though whether at a joke or just in response to the view, he doesn’t know.
The banks curves back on either side of him in a lazy arc, and the kid - Crow - Itachi - is at the other side of the wide bend, where the flow of the water is faster - stronger - the silent rapids carrying dead fish and broken brances and discarded clothing - the flotsam and jetsam of whatever destruction has occurred upstream. Even at this distance, he can tell that this Crow is younger than the one he knew in Edensphere - shorter; less scrawny. He’s not troubled by either the water or its debris - his feet planted several inches above the surface, just as they had been when he’d shown Samehada that same trick in the rocky pool at the dojo.
As he watches, the kid does something with his hands - a sequence of gestures that almost looks like some kind of prayer - and at his feet, a twisting spike of water raises itself out of the river. It gathers momentum as it grows - stabilises - spiralling up until it towers over Itachi.
Samehada feels his lips curve in another smirk and his left hand move closer to his face; feels his lips moving even though he can't hear his own voice or make out the words. But there's no mistaking the surge of power that fills his body, building up like water behind a dam and echoed by someone - or something - else nearby. Not the kid, he's sure of that - this is more like the sense he’d had in his birth dream - when he’d felt the crackle of power through the sword in his hands, like a current connecting them.
But if the sword is here, he can’t see it, and his memory-self makes no effort to reach for it, instead absorbing the additional energy into his own, until the pressure is great enough that it bursts through his fingers and into the water.
At the other side of the river, a geyser explodes into the air, colliding with the column that the kid had made, dwarfing it and shattering its perfect form, soaking them both with a cascade of water.
He laughs, though he doesn’t hear it - just the feel of it through his body - and as he laughs he rolls, fast, coming to rest a few feet away on his back. When he turns his head there's a scorched patch of grass where he had been lying a moment before - a few blades still smouldering, blackened and bent.
More laughter, and he makes no further effort to move. The last thing he sees before the scene fades into darkness is a curtain of leaves above his head and a bright blue sky that stretches far beyond the confines of any glass.
