Yoko Jackson is an energetic young woman who dares to dream, but even she can’t downplay the monumental effect the countrywide quarantine has had on her. From her first steps in Portland, she looked up to dreams woven in the harp-blue skies and mortared along the red brick walls, a child’s wonder gripping her soul for years to come. An art student’s lasting affection for the capital of pioneers inversely built itself into an extreme dislike for the gangs that lurk throughout the city’s populated streets.
When the riotous cogs of the inevitable drug machine become more public in their smog-churning operation than is typical, Yoko’s keen wit is aggravated. Compounded with a stalker’s surveillance, the danger becomes immiscible with the falling skies called home.
A mysterious boy, too young to have rightfully been consumed within the maw of this narrative. Face mask, nondescript cap, baggy clothes and unkempt bangs are all the makings of a proper recluse, reserved and removed in just about every possible. Unfortunately for this wayward, walking wonder, it’s not up to any such endearing thing as fate nor coincidence that he must be enveloped. There is a very real, active presence looming.
Oshiro: Referred to by his surname in most cases, a foreigner without way. This well-built young man hails from Japan, sifting beyond the murk of distance, language, and cultural barriers so as to sift further for a discovery of untold proportions in Oregon. The search, unknown to the wayfarer, is doomed to churn up danger at every corner.
Oshiro is new in the ranks of adult society, apathetic in all ideas and happenstance beyond what immediately pulls him by his interest and into its winds. Fate has decided to forcefully grab said interest so that Oshiro holds no choice in the matter, except to continue along the path.