[ Despite outward appearances (so calm and collected, so reserved and withdrawn with her carefully rolled sleeves and her bloused slacks tucked into polished boots) Mako has spent much of her life trying to outrun things. First Onibaba (literally), then Onibaba again (figuratively), the taglines of all of the global papers having stuck to her despite efforts otherwise. First Toyko's daughter then Pentecost's project, always being defined by other people's merits and achievements rather than her own. Never once has Mako Mori ever wanted to ride coattails and yet that was the assumption that's dogged her for the past ten years. Trying to escape her past, trying to do right by her family; trying to be her own person but by holding to impossible standards; trying to shake off the trauma of the past despite dyeing it ritually to the tips of her hair.
There had been a moment — brief and beautiful — when Mako had thought she'd put it all behind her. That moment when they'd landed in the stadium of Hong Kong, the shock of impact still ringing in her calves, but a feeling (like laughter) bubbling up from inside her, fogging the glass of her helmet as Raleigh had asked you okay.
That feeling seems so far away now, standing awkwardly across from Chuck Hansen, her gaze lingering on the cut that cuts across the corner of his left eyebrow, the scar that's forming there bald and accusing. She had done that with her bare hand, Mako had. The knuckle of her right hand still bares the evidence of it from where the skin had split over bone, and maybe she'll have her own scar there too. (It seems only right. Fitting, almost, for the two of them.)
Her hand clenches loosely at her side. She has the impulse to touch it, to feel connected to Chuck in so much as she wants to feel connected to anyone in this moment. Ishimura has left her distant and disconnected and while part of her thinks that's okay, drifting with Raleigh has taught her that healing (proper healing) only comes from interconnectedness, not standing apart. ]
You look horrible. [ It doesn't come out concerned. More like fact. ]
( v i : d 3 ) action
There had been a moment — brief and beautiful — when Mako had thought she'd put it all behind her. That moment when they'd landed in the stadium of Hong Kong, the shock of impact still ringing in her calves, but a feeling (like laughter) bubbling up from inside her, fogging the glass of her helmet as Raleigh had asked you okay.
That feeling seems so far away now, standing awkwardly across from Chuck Hansen, her gaze lingering on the cut that cuts across the corner of his left eyebrow, the scar that's forming there bald and accusing. She had done that with her bare hand, Mako had. The knuckle of her right hand still bares the evidence of it from where the skin had split over bone, and maybe she'll have her own scar there too. (It seems only right. Fitting, almost, for the two of them.)
Her hand clenches loosely at her side. She has the impulse to touch it, to feel connected to Chuck in so much as she wants to feel connected to anyone in this moment. Ishimura has left her distant and disconnected and while part of her thinks that's okay, drifting with Raleigh has taught her that healing (proper healing) only comes from interconnectedness, not standing apart. ]
You look horrible. [ It doesn't come out concerned. More like fact. ]