Jun. 26th, 2013

siafukira: ([ we couldn't wait to get outside)
The room is a meadow.

The grass is deep and green, springlike. It slopes downwards, one hillock curving gently into the next. There are flowers here and there; the yellow and red of poppies, especially, stand out. Poppies are native to Kamchatka: spots of red and yellow on the western fields and on the slopes of the volcanoes. Light knows them well; it's part of his job. The hospital cultivates them.

The room is empty, and that's lucky, because Light would be hard to miss. He's moving through a sequence of positions, repeatedly. Each starts from a still position, before he draws his sword, cuts quickly to one side or both, and resheathes it, coming to rest again. Sometimes he spins to block attacks from behind. Sometimes he parries an invisible opponent.

His weight is healthier than it's been in the past, but the effect is rather like one of those poppies spinning in the wind, and always coming back to rest.

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siafukira

June 2013

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