At the beginning: Night again, and with it the usual dreams. When he opens his eyes, he's no longer in the chain-ridden first house but in the previously locked house. As he sits up, quickly spotting the mask left for him and those who have already donned them, he thinks that the spirit of this house must be playful. Twice they've been forcibly brought here, and the reason then and now seem whimsical.
He dons the mask without much hesitation. If it had been left for them, there must be a reason. As soon as it's in place, the white darkens to deep indigo, rimmed with a thin, black ribbon and quickly splitting into six section. The top was a somewhat ostentatious depiction of a lotus flower, pale pink to white in enamel within deep green leaves. Heading clockwise: the next sections featured blood flecks picked out in crimson thread; a black space that yawned like a void; some sort of hazy, eye-twisting material which gave a headache to those who stared too long; a pattern of overlapping scales reminiscent of a snake's; and a tiny caricature of a human foetus. Texturing the background of the right-hand side of the mask is inky black circuitry spidering out from the eye hole.
The rest of the costume follows as time passes. The circuitry continues down the shoulder of his plain, grey garments - almost a shirt, complete with matching trousers - and peters out around his upper arm. The garment itself feels and looks faded, rippling in shades of darker and lighter greys as one looks at it. The only interruption to the seamless, dizzying fabric are the tapered streaks of blood red jagging down his left shoulder, down his sleeves. Like he'd killed someone and their blood was dripping down him from above.
His trousers were spared that treatment, but there were strings of letters and numbers running, Matrix-style, vertically down his legs. They began in legible black near the top of his thigh but faded into obscurity close to his ankle until they were the same shade of grey as the rest of his clothing.
On his wrists and around his neck, a sort of leather collar and bracelets threaded through with a single chain completed his outfit. It was a rather underwhelming costume compared to others', but it would change as the night wore on.
Later: Less than 24 hours later, the shimmery, fluid costume he wore grew ridiculously elaborate. As if it couldn't decide what to settle on and was trying various random personages to see if it would fit its wearer. Colours entered the grey weave, as shimmering and non-present as the original shade had been, like the skin of a fish. Shallow, rounded bumps - reptilian scales - layered over the top of his outfit as the night wore on. Mukuro's trident took on the form of a khakkara just like his other self's.
The chains attaching wrists to throat remained ever present, not quite restricting his movement but exerting their presence enough to remind him that they were there. Things came and went that made little sense, but at least the constant part of it all was his mask. It seemed that the costume was having a hard time pinning down who he was, because how could you describe someone who had been almost everything? Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor. He was a blank slate at each rebirth, and his fate was tied to the Wheel.
Cycle 1, night 33 - costume
Night again, and with it the usual dreams. When he opens his eyes, he's no longer in the chain-ridden first house but in the previously locked house. As he sits up, quickly spotting the mask left for him and those who have already donned them, he thinks that the spirit of this house must be playful. Twice they've been forcibly brought here, and the reason then and now seem whimsical.
He dons the mask without much hesitation. If it had been left for them, there must be a reason. As soon as it's in place, the white darkens to deep indigo, rimmed with a thin, black ribbon and quickly splitting into six section. The top was a somewhat ostentatious depiction of a lotus flower, pale pink to white in enamel within deep green leaves. Heading clockwise: the next sections featured blood flecks picked out in crimson thread; a black space that yawned like a void; some sort of hazy, eye-twisting material which gave a headache to those who stared too long; a pattern of overlapping scales reminiscent of a snake's; and a tiny caricature of a human foetus. Texturing the background of the right-hand side of the mask is inky black circuitry spidering out from the eye hole.
The rest of the costume follows as time passes. The circuitry continues down the shoulder of his plain, grey garments - almost a shirt, complete with matching trousers - and peters out around his upper arm. The garment itself feels and looks faded, rippling in shades of darker and lighter greys as one looks at it. The only interruption to the seamless, dizzying fabric are the tapered streaks of blood red jagging down his left shoulder, down his sleeves. Like he'd killed someone and their blood was dripping down him from above.
His trousers were spared that treatment, but there were strings of letters and numbers running, Matrix-style, vertically down his legs. They began in legible black near the top of his thigh but faded into obscurity close to his ankle until they were the same shade of grey as the rest of his clothing.
On his wrists and around his neck, a sort of leather collar and bracelets threaded through with a single chain completed his outfit. It was a rather underwhelming costume compared to others', but it would change as the night wore on.
Later:
Less than 24 hours later, the shimmery, fluid costume he wore grew ridiculously elaborate. As if it couldn't decide what to settle on and was trying various random personages to see if it would fit its wearer. Colours entered the grey weave, as shimmering and non-present as the original shade had been, like the skin of a fish. Shallow, rounded bumps - reptilian scales - layered over the top of his outfit as the night wore on. Mukuro's trident took on the form of a khakkara just like his other self's.
The chains attaching wrists to throat remained ever present, not quite restricting his movement but exerting their presence enough to remind him that they were there. Things came and went that made little sense, but at least the constant part of it all was his mask. It seemed that the costume was having a hard time pinning down who he was, because how could you describe someone who had been almost everything? Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor. He was a blank slate at each rebirth, and his fate was tied to the Wheel.