With May, late spring and early summer, came pretty festivals and pretty flowers. Sure, the garden started blooming again when March melted the bits of last snow away, but right now was the time when things truly come to life! At least, that’s how Tohato felt. Warmer weather meant lighter clothes, more tourists, more noise— the pale boy still covered himself head to toe, of course. His shirt was thin, flowy, lacy in some places, like a poet’s shirt, and he still wore high-waisted pants out of nice linen instead of warmer fabrics. He thought of wearing a yukata, given the festival and the time of year, but with festivals and warmer months comes more business, and that means a day full of weaving between the kitchen and the seating area— and Tohato wasn’t too keen on tripping over long fabric while holding hot plates. Ah, too much thinking. Tohato shook his head and focused on the countertop, and then looked over to his dad who was busy pulling some noodles by hand. Someone came through the door. Tohato’s crisp, white hair fell over his face as he looked down to his bare feet, only wearing socks, and to the other person who’d just entered— still with shoes on, how rude! There were tatami mats in the seating area! These floors are historic! It… suddenly got quiet. Why was it quiet? He focused on this rude man, but… it just had one of those drama masks. Things were getting slow, things were getting weird. Why was time acting weird? Was this one of those, uh. Didn’t that therapist say that he disassociated often? Dissociated? ”hey—“ The short albino wanted to greet this strange character, maybe offer some socks, something— ”HEY—“ And said strange character grabbed him by the collar of his shirt, yanked him out of reality like a rag doll and into… what? Time worked normally again. He could move again, but. What the fuck? ”Hey????” What was this place? Why was he in a chair? Why did it feel like time was being weird? Surely it wasn’t him! Maybe it was his own mind being weird again, maybe it was uh… it was time loss, wasn’t it? It… huh? ”Yes, Mae Tohato.” … NOPE! Don’t answer these weird questions! What if this guy wanted to throw him back to the Saeki family? Why did he answer?! How stupid was he?? ”I-I mean, what? What’s going on? What’s… where—?” This whole place was void! The table was springing from it! What is this place, what is this chair and this table and this weird man!
"Hope, beyond any reason—- it’s inherently human, isn’t it? It’s why I hold onto it still. It’s the only thing I feel I have left."
Basic Info
Name
Mae Tohato, formerly Saeki Tohato
Mae is a Korean surname from his adoptive father. Saeki, his surname from birth, consists of the following characters: 冴 - さえ - mental sharpness 基 - きい - foundation His given name, Tohato, consists of the following characters: 柔 - とお - tender, gentleness 鳩 - はと- pigeon
Nickname
Callum, an “easier to pronounce” western alias.
Tohato or MaeHato, by close friends and family.
Little Ghost, by his his adoptive Uncle, Mae Hyeon-Ju, when Hyeon-Ju tried to talk to Tohato while Tohato hid away in the alleyway behind the cafe.
Age
20
Gender
Assigned male at birth, identifies roughly as masculine. He/him pronouns.
Sexuality
Homosexual
Relationship
Single, but has a really big crush on his dormmate, Eli.
Family
Tohato is the youngest of 19 children, all but one of which are twins or triplets. His mother, Saeki Shiori, is the lethal head of an organized crime syndicate that almost entirely runs the underbelly of Japan. Tohato never knew his father— he was a mild-mannered and mellow man, but he was murdered shortly after Tohato’s birth by no less than Tohato’s mother and wife to the poor man. Tohato has a twin, but he didn’t get to know them well because of his mother’s treatment to him specifically. Since escaping his family, he was found by two Korean brothers, Hyeon-Ju and Ha-Nuel, during a snow-storm, cared for, and subsequently adopted by Ha-Nuel. Now, instead of the infamous Saeki name, he goes by Mae, helping his dad and his uncle run a Korean café in one of the busiest tourist areas of neo-Tokyo.
Type
Light — Chaos
Afterimage
Wings upon wings, eyes upon eyes, hands upon hands… an abomination difficult to describe, a being with a shining, porcelain “mask” as its face, an event horizon, that absorbs all light and emits a haunting halo with every color visible to the human eye. Cracks leaking this light, primarily red, line the strange creature where parts of its body peak from a haunting red fabric. What was once a white pigeon, full of light and hope, got corrupted into a cosmic horror by Tohato’s own chaotic mental state. When it is calm, its body is almost translucent, pliable— like wax, if wax could absorb and store light within itself. Iridescent light still swirls around that body, its hands and its wings, and the feathers that fall from its body still shine a gentle white, but not even light can escape such a broken soul. Its eyes glow with all its color and power, but.. somehow, it still looks red, bright, demanding more light to consume.
Mirror Artes
Anti-Gravity: Around this strange afterimage, physics may… stop working as it should, due to the nature of chaos. This allows objects around the creature, as well as the creature itself, to float around on command. Objects close in proximity can also float towards the user, or be propelled away.
Stellar Cry: A burst of pure light stemming from soule energy emits from the afterimage akin to the beam of a neutron star, along with an ear-piercing scream. Depending on how close someone is, this Arte can temporarily blind and distract, and serve as a beacon to focus attention to.
Beauty of the Universes: the beauty of the universe is how everything can happen, and in the theory of the multiverse— everything DOES happen. With an extreme and dangerous release of soule energy, the user can force a “new reality” in a situation, akin to how Murphy’s law deems that everything that can happen will, be it for better or for worse.
Abilities & Skills Practical Abilities
Creativity: Tohato went to college on a scholarship because of his art. He has a lot of talent with most forms of visual art, and an extremely creative mind full of new ideas. His artist’s eye sees the beauty of everything, and it lets him think of unconventional solutions to problems and strange but beautiful methods to show a new piece he’s thinking of.
Cooking: ever since he was adopted into his new family, Tohato played an active role in the kitchen. Now, he knows dozens upon dozens of cozy recipes like the back of his hand, and he knows how to stay safe with cooking even the strangest ingredients.
First-Aid: Tohato was the only person making sure he didn’t die in his youth. Thus, he knows a lot about first-aid. He can stitch up wounds, bandage things up, put broken limbs in a splint— he also knows a good amount of traditional medicine for whenever he fell ill.
Reputation: while he’s detached from his birth surname, he still knows the Saeki name is an infamous name associated with heinous crime. Even though he was the hated child, used and sold around by the yakuza only for his body, the fact he even has an association could scare many away from hurting him. That said, those who know a bit more of the Saeki family would see his reputation more like a useless outcast’s, even if he didn’t choose that.
Other Abilities
Hiding: if there were ever a champion for hide and seek, Tohato would be it. He can be quiet as a mouse, still as a statue, and he’d shove himself into the tiniest corner he can just to avoid being perceived.
Singing: one of his hobbies is singing, and he sings fairly decently!
Dissociation: more of an unhealthy coping mechanism than an ability, but the ability to entirely switch off has helped Tohato keep existing in the past and he hasn’t been able to undo that coping mechanism in stressful situations quite yet.
Likes
birds
fluffy blankets
mandu like his dad makes
Dislikes
literally his own skin
being too close to people
any loud noises whatsoever
Strengths
resilient
clever
caring/empathetic
Weaknesses
mobility-impaired
unstable
poor memory
Appearance
The most noticeable thing about Tohato, and what he dislikes the most about himself, is the simple fact he was born with albinism. His eyes are wide and round like lychees, and his irises are a bright pinkish-red like the lychee’s outer shell. His skin is white like fresh snow, but his hair is somehow lighter— like wisps of light or paper brushed out of his pale face. He’s rather short and scrawny, standing at 5’1, and he always slouches slightly, his shoulders tense and his hands tucked close to him. Tohato wears as much clothing as he reasonably can, covering every inch of his body before it makes him look even stranger than he already is, but under the layers of fabric, the young man has layers upon layers of scars on his back along with ink, and deep, old wounds on his legs. His left leg looks a little off, a little weak— old wounds, torn tendons on that leg that he couldn’t fix on his own, gave Tohato a permanent limp. Nowadays, Tohato has a rounder face with “dumpling cheeks” like his dad says, and a body-type he happily calls “squishy” because of his uncle describing it that way. His face, his eyes— he’s quite beautiful, in the way tragic sculptures of death and suffering give the same ethereal air. Even thought he’s not related to his dad by blood, many people say they resemble each other, and it makes him smile.
Personality
Tohato is a very timid and quiet person, like those toeless pigeons avoiding the people who wander about the streets. His eyes are bright, beautiful, but often distant and glassy— vacant. As much as he tries to hide or deny the past that gnaws on him, he still knows the disgusting void the underbelly of the world has. He isn’t a very organized person, unaware of how he can put life in a neat and fancy order like other people do, but maybe it’s not a bad thing! He’s got the, uh.. “eccentric artist” energy, apparently. His memory has voids upon voids— he may often ask questions multiple times, forgetting the names of people he just met, lose hours of time and ask something like “we were just at the cafe a bit ago, and it’s night now, what happened?” He’s often acted different, too— very slightly. Sometimes he’s even more scared “than usual.” Sometimes his timidness becomes snappy and full of rage. Sometimes, even, it appears he regresses to not trusting any people and seeing hiding as the only option. He’s not quite aware of all that, though. It seems he’s in denial most of the time, actually. He assures people, and himself, that he’s just fine, or that he just needs a minute, and that he’s perfectly healthy and level and what-have-you. Beyond that, Tohato is a caring, kind person. He checks up on everyone, almost anxiously, saying strange things like “just wanted to make sure you were still alive” or “just needed to see if you were still you, sorry!” He worries, cares, and yearns for connections with others, but he’s also just absolutely full of fear, of anxiety that he’s too strange, or that he’s doing something wrong, or that the world around him is wrong.
Background
WARNING!!! Tohato’s backstory is one full of trauma and pain. There are mentions of severe and criminal child abuse, neglect, and suffering. TL/DR: Tohato’s mother, a yakuza matriarch, hated him for being albino and hurt him for it. He eventually ran away and found temporary relief with some other street urchins who also ran from their families, until that little band of street urchins got dissolved due to police arresting many of the older members of that found family. Tohato spends a bit more time on the streets, finding refuge in an alleyway behind a cafe and meeting two brothers who tried to help him. A snowstorm hit, and Tohato almost succumbed to frostbite but was saved and later adopted by these brothers. Now, he goes to university to study the arts.
Since the moment Tohato first drew breath, he was absolutely hated. His mother looked at him, at those snow-white wisps of hair and that hauntingly pale skin, and then at his healthy, larger, dark-haired and peach-toned twin. She knew right away that this child had something wrong with him. “It,” she’d prefer to use. Out of 17 previous kids, this being her 8th or so birth, she knew something strange would happen eventually. She just didn’t know just how much she’d hate seeing the inevitable in her arms. Saeki Shiori, the matriarch of an infamous Yakuza running the underbelly of almost all of Japan, couldn’t have some weak runt clutching at her chest! All of her children were strong, healthy, vicious, perfect for keeping the family business alive and well. Just what the hell was this?! What the hell was Tohato?! An albino, useless and strange and other, something to be hidden away lest it would taint the rest of her beautiful children. Shiori would go so far as to kill her husband for daring to produce such a creature with her. This thing, it wasn’t her child. Even as those wide, red eyes gazed up at her, even as they pleaded for a mother’s love, she rejected Tohato and quite literally locked him away. Somehow, Tohato was still alive by the time he could walk. Thin, small, but alive. In that dingy library he was trapped in, all he could do was wait by the door for his mother to perceive him or one of his siblings to take pity on him. One day, as Shiori glared at the corridor leading to that library, eating a feast with her real children and doting on Tohato’s twin, she realized something: Tohato was a freak. People like to see freaks. People like to use freaks. Maybe the waste of breath could actually be of use, maybe it could actually contribute to the family. That was when Tohato learned his body didn’t belong to him. His voice didn’t belong to him. His thoughts— he wasn’t allowed to have them, he just had to endure. The more people he saw that day, the less he’d be forgotten. The more people he saw that day, the more food he might get, the more attention he might get— maybe, just maybe, he’d even get praise. As he grew, he slowly realized that each scar he gained from “pleasing” another customer, each bruise, each bitemark… his mother hated him all the same. His mother didn’t see him as human. His mother barely saw him as an animal to keep alive. He just made enough supplemental money for his mother to justify him continuing to live— His life wasn’t even his own. That was when he decided dying on the streets, in control of his own existence, would be better than dying from his family burying him alive or snapping his neck and “putting him out of his misery.” He was lucky enough to escape shortly after he figured out that plan, with an idiot who rented him for the hour not accounting for the windows of a living room being able to open. What now? Tohato was lucky enough to hide away with some kids like him, living on the city streets in who-knows-where and looking out for each other. Of course, Tohato couldn’t trust any of them— every person he knew had hurt him— he just knew he had to be there, or else he’d probably die. How else would he get food? How else would he get shelter? How would he keep warm when winter struck? He just had to endure. Tohato would count the days, now that he had light to work with. The sun hurt his eyes and his skin, but he was happy enough to see it, to feel it whenever he pleased. He knew he was around 15 years old when he escaped, and now he knew 195 days had passed since he first joined that little gang of street urchins when police found their hideout and arrested half of the older “big siblings” for being involved in crime. Tohato felt deep sadness, some deep and hollow feeling in his chest, to see the first home he knew suddenly shattered— that was where he learned to read and write. That was where he learned math with his younger “siblings.” That abandoned shack, those dozen or so kids like him, all of that was his new life that he cherished so much, and the rocks that fed and protected them all as they huddled up and kept each other safe had been thrown into cars with loud sirens. Living on his own would be much harder, Tohato knew, but he couldn’t bear people leaving him again. He just had to endure, just a little more. He couldn’t bear the wee-woo of the sirens or boom of loud voices, he couldn’t bear the bang sound and acrid smell of guns or the sight of everyone scrambling and him being stuck hiding from strangers who took everything away. He wandered, as much as his tiny, scarred body could. This is why he was barely outside on money-making duties— he limped and stumbled around, his scars and old wounds tightening his movements on his back and legs. Three days. It took three days to find a place Tohato felt like he could live on his own in. An alleyway behind a cafe— there was running water from a faucet that didn’t make him sick, overhangs that could shelter him, warmth radiating from the walls, edible things in the trash— if he just hid well enough, he could stay here. Five days passed before Tohato noticed a hot meal in front of the trash, meticulously wrapped in a little cloth. He couldn’t read all of the words in the paper attached to the cloth, but… they called him a little ghost, and told him to keep warm with this food while autumn gave way into winter. The next day, a man with a warm smile sat by the door. Even though Tohato stayed as quiet and still as he could, the man had that wrapped food in one hand and waved him over with another. Tohato wondered why this stranger was being so nice to him, why he wasn’t disgusted or afraid or tried to shoo him off— he couldn’t refuse the food, it was more than his mother gave him in a week and more than the generous scraps in the little gang of children he was in, but he kept his distance just in case. Fourteen days later, and this stranger gently offered a blanket with the food. “I think you’ll want this, little ghost,” the man said. “Our door is open if you need it, okay..?” Tohato glanced over to the other man, the older one with smile lines on his face, the one that always tried to give Tohato space. He could hear the two— he figured out they were two brothers running this cafe— talking about him whenever they thought he wasn’t around. They didn’t talk about him with disgust, and it surprised Tohato. Instead, he heard things like “should we try to bring him in?” “He’ll trust us in his own time, he’s clearly scared” “he has a limp, what if he can’t make it to another shelter when a winter storm hits?” “I just don’t want to scare him away” “We need to keep an eye on him and make sure he’s okay, even if he doesn’t trust us.” 33 days passed, each day getting colder and each look from the brother who sat with Tohato became more and more concerned. Each day, Tohato himself felt like he was shivering a bit more, sneezing, passing out— that brother that sat with him offered him tea. That tea tasted bitter, but it was warm, and the warmth of the food and the warmth of the wall and the warmth of the man’s smile helped Tohato just a bit more than he thought it would. The storm hit the next day. Tohato huddled in the blanket, but he was still cold, cold cold. He felt so tired, he felt like every snowflake that blew into his hair and face weighed 20 pounds— as much as he hid away in the corner of the alleyway, as much as he huddled under the overhang with the warmth of the pipes, inches upon inches of snow piled up on his feet and soaked through his torn-up shoes. He decided to just sit by the doorway, and wait for the brothers, the strangers who cared about him and gave him food and worried about him when he wasn’t there. The door opened right when he stopped shivering, when his hands were blue and clammy and his eyes were glazed over like layers of ice had settled on them. The soup that the brother held spilled, and he heard yelling for someone named “Ha-Nuel” as he felt the warmth of a person’s hug. Tohato woke up on a floor that felt like tile, with the weight of maybe three blankets on him and the crackle of fire in the distance. He wasn’t dead. He didn’t die on the streets. That brother who sat with him and handed him the warm food was frantically on the phone talking about some ambulance and some kid needing emergency care, and the brother with smile lines sat on the floor next to him with crinkled brows. He decided to stop counting days the second that brother with smile lines cried from happiness at seeing Tohato’s red eyes gazing up at him. The inside of the cafe was cozy, welcoming, clean— and, the upstairs had an apartment the brothers lived in, along with a spare room. It took Tohato maybe a week to understand that this little spare room with a closet and a bookshelf and a bed was safe, and his. The first conversation with the older brother went like this: “Hey, little ghost— can you talk? What’s your name?” Tohato, at that moment, was huddled away in a corner of the room with the fluffy blankets that made him feel safe. The brother with smile lines was on the opposite side of the room, close to the door. Tohato wasn’t used to his voice being his own, or his skin being his own, or his breath being his own— was his name his own? It was now. “… to…. Tohato.” And the older brother nodded, and then said "What a wonderful name, and I'm sure it holds great meaning. May we know your age? I would guess ten or eleven, but I don't much like making assumptions..." “… sixteen.” He still remembers the shock in the man’s eyes, followed by questions and questions and more questions that didn’t register in Tohato’s head. That man was Ha-Nuel. That man, with his brother, Hyeon-Ju, would make sure he knew what a happy life was like. Tohato saw Ha-Nuel as a father since that day in a doctor’s office where Ha-Nuel wouldn’t leave his side, and told the doctors off whenever they gawked at him or questioned how he was still alive. The cafe and the upstairs apartment felt a little emptier when Hyeon-Ju, the brother with the warm smile who sat and talked to him that time ago, had to serve in the Korean military for a year and a half. but, this time, Tohato knew that his uncle with the warm smile would return, and he also knew he’d definitely be alive to hug him again. Tohato was a year older when Hyeon-Ju returned— and it worried Tohato, because his dad said Hyeon-Ju would probably be back after two years. It turned out that Hyeon-Ju came back without one of his legs— but, Tohato smiled at him and said they could go to the doctor together! Tohato swore he’d drown the past. He already knew his memory was like a tapestry slashed through by lion claws— torn, unsightly, horrific. He wanted to pretend life with his dad, the dumplings they folded together, the jokes uncle said every time a plate shattered, the sounds of the diner, were what he had all his life. He wanted to pretend he was normal, that his memory worked beyond stupid, unsightly flashes and pain, that his hair and eyes and skin weren’t something he wanted to escape and that his body didn’t hurt and creak from the years of abuse. Another year, and he got his general education fully sorted with his family and with that tutor that was kind and gentle and patient. Tohato stopped counting his birthday by when he noticed the seasons cycling back into spring, and instead chose the day his family brought him in— January 8th. Now, he was 20. He was Mae Tohato, and he was drawing like he loved to do, this time for grades in college, to be judged my strangers. He’s happy that his family is close enough to him, now. He refuses to be anything but happy. He didn’t get to feel happiness until, what, four years ago? He refused to see his past, what he remembered of it. He still doesn’t look at himself in the mirror. But, oh. That art, those surreal brush strokes and chaotic lines, is beautiful, eye-catching enough to give him a scholarship to a great university. He was Mae Tohato. He had endured enough, he wasn’t an abomination, he didn’t need a stranger to talk to, he wasn’t hurt, he wasn’t forgetting things left and right, he wasn’t fearful of everything— he told himself all that. He wanted this new life to be everything. It was his only option, it was all he had left. He survived. He still survives. He will keep surviving.
Tohato is severely mentally ill and his father is in the middle of getting him treatment and diagnoses for his issues. The only thing is, Tohato doesn’t want to talk to strangers about his past and he doesn’t want to be told how different and wrong he is all over again. Trauma is a beast, engorged and fatty on Tohato’s lifetime of pain, and that is a beast that Tohato doesn’t want to slay or even acknowledge just yet.
Mac fought tooth and nail to get the life he has now. Maybe, physically he was weak, a new sickness hitting him maybe once a month, but he’s cunning enough to make up for it. He survived just about everything— for fuck’s sake, he had to grow up in an environment where his father led a gang. The sickly, floral smell of rotting bodies and the iron of blood and organs and the chemicals from whatever was being made in the underground labs still haunts the back of his head, and that wasn’t even the worst of it. He won’t talk about what “the worst of it” is, but everyone around him knew he used to talk constantly, with a passionate and fiery personality, happy to spit fire and hatred to those who block his path. While now he’s entirely mute and a gnarly scar stretches across his neck, he still will spit fire with sign language. He’s a survivor, alright, through and through. He finally has peace— a house, a husband, half-siblings he only barely learned about— yes, they have ups and downs, but he clawed his way for the ups and downs he gets to have now. He’ll do anything to keep it.
• • •
{ STR -- 5 } || { DEX -- 13 } || { CON -- 11 } ─── { INT -- 10} || { WIS -- 16 } || { CHA -- 15 }
Ipomoea sighed. Another late night, another graveyard shift. Though— since Ipomoea started working at the Quarter-Moon cafe, he noticed the graveyard shift become quite lively. He played with that thought in his head as he meticulously wiped down the counter, thinking of how if this time was a graveyard then everyone must be undead. Maybe that would make him the most normal one there, in the small cafe full of curtains and crystals and candles and whatever else the owners thought to decorate this place with. Ipomoea knew that most of the nick-knacks in there were fake, of course. His golden eyes scanned over the flimsy tarot cards on display with half the minor arcana missing, then to the sets of quartz and random assorted “minerals” that were actually plastic with no energy to their name. Even the magic books on the shelves were entirely absent of any words whatsoever, just printed cardboard blanks glued into a cheap bookshelf. As much as an enchantment to let in the vast night sky would be a beautiful thing, the ceiling was instead covered edge to edge with tacky glow-in-the-dark star and moon decals. He let his gaze land on the draped curtains of “enchanted silk” or what-have-you at the door, which was actually just a translucent polyester. Of course, Ipomoea started fifteen minutes early, just to tidy up this cafe— he was alone, after all, and if he started cleaning at Eight pm, he would easily have been overwhelmed balancing orders and housekeeping. Eight was when the evening crowd started to pour in, he knew, and then there would be maybe three or four people still seated by the time it was 3 am and time to close for more cleaning. Two minutes before Eight. Ipomoea stepped away from the freshly-ground coffee he sorted into bags and then passed over that television mounted to the ceiling, causing it to crackle and glitch for a few seconds until Ipomoea stood at the window. Fortehaven was sure a strange place, not as much of a big, sinful city like those he was given in stories, but it was the closest city he could get, and he was grateful for the honking of horns and the small but functional square he called home and the smell of asphalt and smoke. He could still hear the bustle of night life from the window, and he could still look up to see light pollution and smog instead of clear stars. The espresso machine was already pulling two shots for a certain regular Ipomoea knew would arrive at eight. When the gaudy owl clock finally struck and hooed eight times, however, some… figure sucked the light and sound out of the outside as they walked in.
The first thing everyone notices about the barista taking the night shift is his bright yellow eyes, the golden color reflecting off the dim lights and candles in the kitchsy cafe he works at like a cat’s. Ipomoea shares little about his background, but with his pitiful lack of knowledge on the society around him and the way he’s memorized every religious text from cover to cover, it’s obvious this man grew up in some sort of cult. He’s stated before, while wiping down tables and picking up leftover coffee cups, that he technically has no surname— he only chose Morning-glory because that’s what his name meant, and when no one could pronounce “Ipomoea” he settled for the nickname “Glory.” Now, this specific cafe, Quarter-Moon Cafe, has the strange, tanned barista as a sort of attraction. Among all the witchy paraphernalia, Ipomoea fit perfectly— not just with his bright yellow eyes, but with his extensive knowledge of magick and religious practices, his kind but blunt way of speaking, and his great late-night coffee. He’s been working there since he first popped up into town a few years ago, still ringing in every customer with an old-timey cash register as the tablets seem to short-circuit every time he taps them. Now, though, Ipomoea looked forward to a certain regular with beautiful blue eyes, a young man who always waited for him to finish cleaning machines and countertops just to spend a bit more time together. It was the first time in a long time Ipomoea felt like he had a future, being in that cafe, making friends, talking to people— it was as if his yellow eyes glowed brighter with each reason he had to smile. Alas, fate is cruel.
Creative Chaos
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