Tatarimokke Aesthetic Chart

The impact still rings in your ears, even hours later. You can scarcely remember who you are, much less how you came to be here, but as the concrete wall behind you meets the back of your skull with a wet slap you fear you won't be here much longer. A new figure enters the dimly lit room, a sparsely decorated basement by its looks, and the masked men you thought were fellow partygoers move from his path with elegant haste as his voice rings out.

"His face is unharmed. Good. Those eyes may be worth more than your own lives, you know."

He chuckles slightly, turning to the man on his right.

"Certainly worth more than yours."

His underling twitches in response, and you hear his breathing grow unsteady as he and his peers are gestured out of the room, before those leering pupils return focus to your own.

"Shocking that some degenerate mutant like you could be blessed with such deep, wonderous eyes- I could find myself lost in them, if they weren't etched into a thing like you. Don't worry, they'll be put to better use soon. On a face more deserving.

His boot heels click in rhythm with the music still playing upstairs as he steps to the side, reaching for a chair leaned against the wall.

"You have some time left, however. You see, I have something of a habit. When I handle someone truly hideous, it provokes something deep within me. Leaves me feeling..."

He pauses for a moment, and your mouth moves numbly, fumbling out a wheezing hack, before a scream forces up through your throat.

"Introspective."

And with a single word, your salvation crackles and burns away, mere inches from your mouth.

"I like to talk about my feelings when I do this."

Leaning forward, he runs a manicured talon across your cheek, the sharpened point facing away from your patchy, jaundiced skin.

"And the only true confidante among one's fellow man is a dead man."

Then withdrawing, he reclines in his own chair with all the self-satisfaction of a well-pampered house cat.

"Now, let me tell you of my peers."

Night Parade
Sebastian Needle VN Plant Whispering Gangster: Greenfinger (Night Parade)

"His apparel is... satisfactory. I'll offer no further compliment on it, for that is all it manages to be."

Tutting to himself, he shakes his head derisively.

"The monochrome two-piece finds itself truly comfortable only in the wardrobe of salesmen and politicians... both of which I suppose he could be considered, in a certain sense. His exaggerated notch lapel is a step in the right direction, evoking imagery of a Noir's burly detective without going so far as a proper trench coat. But it's hardly enough."

He blinks twice in quick succession, readjusting his wide shawl.

"What he truly needs are bold, brighter colors. Even just a few lines across its edges, just a few threads, to help define his figure. That-"

His beak drums once in a rapid motion, as his eyes narrow.

"Not a pinstripe. If he is ever to walk beside me wearing a pinstripe suit I shall walk several paces ahead, such that onlookers would not associate him with me. I've suffered an occasional slight from him only for knowing our shared difference to the King, but I shall not endure grace insult. Not under any condition."

Cammy Link VN Karma (Night Parade)

"Her boots are... upsetting. Their padded shins hide any definition, denying the proportion so essential to the archetypal core of a cat burglar's aesthetic. But worse are the rings. You'd notice them the moment you saw her..."

Scoffing sharply, he raises a hand to his face.

"Well, no. I suppose you wouldn't notice them, but they're incorrigible. Hanging off her high waist belt and doing absolutely nothing. One would assume they were a sort of bastardized garter belt for her boots, but one would be as shortsighted as ever."

Your chest tightens as his fingers curl into a fist, his voice abruptly rising as he spoke.

"Because they hang down. They hang down, you trollop. With a leather sheaf around the straps, they aren't meant to go up and hook back in with their mirroring rings, they both just hang down uselessly like-"

Your face had gone white, your blood fleeing his twitching ramble, and your dread mounting as it suddenly cut off.

"Calm down. Such a pale and bloated face, you look like a clown..."

He stops again, before reaching down to gently cup your cheek, speaking with all the tender gentleness of a father meeting his newborn son.

"Dear."

The cusp becomes a pat before he leans back and draws up his leg, aiming for the center of your chest.

"I'm going to hit you now. If you start to cry, I won't bury you when I'm done."

The pain rings through you, like a coal rake crashing against the side of a fireplace. It sends your heart leaping up your throat, and by the time you've collected your wits, he's already resumed speaking.

Okane King VN Midas (Night Parade)

"Urban aesthetics are terribly gaudy at the best of times, but the King's stylizations are particularly appalling. His quirk is no excuse for this, I won't hear it. If it were a matter of carrying around material for combat we could just pay someone to do it, or fashion a gilded overcoat. With engravings to match the symbols already adorning him, that could suit him quite well. And such a striking visual it could be, to throw one's coat to the side and send it darting out at the enemy."

He sighed, pacing in circles around his own seat.

"It wouldn't be so frustrating if I hadn't seen him in true elegance. He's perfectly capable of it when he strives for it, with a casual ease, even, as his wardrobe under the fineries demonstrates, but he chooses to dress as he does. His is a beauty that allows itself to be made ugly, and for that I both love and abhor him."

His eyes focus and he stops, never moving in their sockets but heralding the weight of his regathered attention all the same.

"My words will never reach his ears, even should they seek him in a time after his passing. Believe me when I assure you of this, if I thought you might reach the same afterlife as he, I would never have spoken of him."

"Speaking of the devil..." Moving from you, he faces down to check his watch.

"Hmph. It's almost insulting how quickly time moves when you're preparing for something. Well, I'm sure you'll cherish my words on the other side."

A cruel glint fills his eye.

"There's one more thing I can give you before that last voyage, however. I'll handle this 'procedure' myself. My face will be the last thing you ever see."

His hand withdraws to the recesses of his overcoat, retrieving a scalpel and a discrete glass jar, filled with fluid.

"This is a delicate procedure in theory, but only under the assumption one values the rest of the subjects face. And frankly dear, I don't think I could make you look worse if I wanted to."