[Quiet, he absorbs this new information. Sharingan. Rinnegan. Dōjutsu. Despite his current duress, Stiles remains fascinated by these abilities—and even begins searching for a notebook in order to record the details. But Sasuke continues speaking. Stiles finally locates a journal, binding so tight as to suggest it may be brand new, only for the teen to freeze as he’s picking it up. After a moment, it slips from nerveless fingers back to the floor. Thoughts of shinobi dōjutsu scatter like snow in a whiteout.]
Oh.
[It’s happening again, isn’t it? A sharp noise snaps out of Stiles—a bark of semi-hysterical laughter that only manages a few notes before its swallowed ruthlessly into stilted silence. Almost unconsciously, the boy practices deep breathing in an effort to thwart any potential panic attacks. And as he draws each pocket of stale air into his lungs, Stiles counts each digit of each hand, hoping desperately for proof that he’s dreaming.]
That’s a problem, [he says, voice too steady, and then there’s a whirlwind of movement as he all but throws himself off the bed again, tearing the shoebox out from under the mattress and throwing the lid over his shoulder.] This place plays tricks too, though. So who can say…?
[Seizing the mirror in a white-fisted grip, he tries to angle it so he can check the resort’s tattoo on the side of his neck. Unfortunately, the mirror’s smaller size makes it impossible.]
Sasuke. [Again, with that misleadingly calm voice—belied by the frantic look rounding out his eyes until color is devoured by white sclerae.] The mark on my neck. With my suit. Is the kanji for “onore” still there?
[Indeed it is, with the inking of the tattoo darker now than it should have been if totally inactive.]
no subject
Oh.
[It’s happening again, isn’t it? A sharp noise snaps out of Stiles—a bark of semi-hysterical laughter that only manages a few notes before its swallowed ruthlessly into stilted silence. Almost unconsciously, the boy practices deep breathing in an effort to thwart any potential panic attacks. And as he draws each pocket of stale air into his lungs, Stiles counts each digit of each hand, hoping desperately for proof that he’s dreaming.]
That’s a problem, [he says, voice too steady, and then there’s a whirlwind of movement as he all but throws himself off the bed again, tearing the shoebox out from under the mattress and throwing the lid over his shoulder.] This place plays tricks too, though. So who can say…?
[Seizing the mirror in a white-fisted grip, he tries to angle it so he can check the resort’s tattoo on the side of his neck. Unfortunately, the mirror’s smaller size makes it impossible.]
Sasuke. [Again, with that misleadingly calm voice—belied by the frantic look rounding out his eyes until color is devoured by white sclerae.] The mark on my neck. With my suit. Is the kanji for “onore” still there?
[Indeed it is, with the inking of the tattoo darker now than it should have been if totally inactive.]