Abilities: Sakamoto has no fancy abilities to speak of, no freaky mind powers or neat energy blasts at will. He's human, thus limited to what he and he alone is capable of. Which doesn't mean he's completely useless either. See, Sakamoto Tatsuma is a pilot, his love for ships renowned; there isn't a ship he can't fly without a little time and effort, large-scale or small. He does own and operate his own business fleet, quite a feat in and of itself, and that's not even speaking of the head for commerce he has on his shoulders. He's shrewd, he's diplomatic when it's called for, and he can hold his own in an encounter if he absolutely has to.
Fighting. Sakamoto doesn't seem to do it often, but he's no stranger to the act or the concept. He's a fairly good shot with the gun, but that has nothing on his swordplay. He was once considered to be one of the greatest swordsmen in the years of the Anti-Foreigner war with the Amanto, carrying his own rumours and reputation, dubbed 'monster' in the height of his time. He's put down his sword for now, though, turning instead to a life of business and really bad life choices.
On the flip-side, he's also a fair hand with technology. He's been known to tamper with things, from weapons to ships, and often modifies such for his own use. How many of those modified gadgets work is anyone's guess, and how many he intends as failures is as great a mystery as any. Troubles with firearms? Leave it to Sakamoto to work the kinks out of the system. Maybe.
Besides all that, he has a knack for being an ingratiating salesman. It's saved his bacon at least once so far. His calligraphy isn't too shabby either.
There's also the dubious ability of his being able to consume large quantities of alcohol on frequent occasion without his liver just giving in and exploding on the spot. Let's not forget the massive amounts of damage he can take to his own physical being without just outright expiring.
Third Person: When Mutsu speaks, Sakamoto is always in a state that is half listening, part laughing, and brimming with chagrin the rest of the way. It's her tone, nine tenths of the time, flat and unimpressed, chastising and formal, casual and intense all at once. Easy to listen to, easy to become lost in, easy to drill into his mind until the next time he may choose to 'forget'. Everything she says sticks, recitations of meetings and orders, shipments and deliveries, threats and casual suggestions of violence against his person. He smiles when she talks, and more often than not it earns him an elbow to the ribs or a piercing stare somehow more painful than the elbow alone.
He likes to tease her about that. It always earns him a swift heel to the instep.
It's her voice he remembers most, when he blinks awake, and for a moment, one nice and long moment, he thinks that she's still going over the day's reports and he's just slipped. His geta caught on something, he's prepared to say as he sits up, rubbing his head. Maybe it was the liquor from last night, is the suggestion ready and waiting, and it was his head for tolerance that he tripped up on. Laughter on his lips and in his throat, and he says her name just as he opens his eyes fully and finds his ship replaced with a lawn so picturesque that it could have come straight out of a postcard. It's actually really quite eerie.
It's now that he should panic, he thinks. A perfect and prime time for a brief meltdown, hysteria, inane babbling and nonsense and bewildered disbelief. He has plenty of the latter to go around as it were.
He doesn't.
Her voice in his ears like a fading echo, stern and too calm to be angry. With a grunt, he pushes himself to his feet with a sway that is part theatrical and part not. (Nauseatingly so.) A clatter of geta, knuckle jabbing himself in the brow when he moves to push glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. He hangs his mouth open in a show of wonder, confusion, and a sort of bewilderment that he doesn't really have to feign. When he sweeps a hand through his hair, it's with an air of chagrin and befuddlement, and who could bring swift and dire harm to such a hapless think as a man freshly awoken from his drunken stupor?
For a moment, he really does wonder if it was the shochu. The imprint of the lawnchair on his back suggests otherwise.
"Ah. Now I really know that was a grand time last night." Sakamoto says, with laughter loud and brash, and he turns to take in the house, pristine and tall and so very Western, with the air of a man given his biggest gift yet.
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Tatsuma Sakamoto | Gintama | RESERVED iii
Sakamoto has no fancy abilities to speak of, no freaky mind powers or neat energy blasts at will. He's human, thus limited to what he and he alone is capable of. Which doesn't mean he's completely useless either. See, Sakamoto Tatsuma is a pilot, his love for ships renowned; there isn't a ship he can't fly without a little time and effort, large-scale or small. He does own and operate his own business fleet, quite a feat in and of itself, and that's not even speaking of the head for commerce he has on his shoulders. He's shrewd, he's diplomatic when it's called for, and he can hold his own in an encounter if he absolutely has to.
Fighting. Sakamoto doesn't seem to do it often, but he's no stranger to the act or the concept. He's a fairly good shot with the gun, but that has nothing on his swordplay. He was once considered to be one of the greatest swordsmen in the years of the Anti-Foreigner war with the Amanto, carrying his own rumours and reputation, dubbed 'monster' in the height of his time. He's put down his sword for now, though, turning instead to a life of business and really bad life choices.
On the flip-side, he's also a fair hand with technology. He's been known to tamper with things, from weapons to ships, and often modifies such for his own use. How many of those modified gadgets work is anyone's guess, and how many he intends as failures is as great a mystery as any. Troubles with firearms? Leave it to Sakamoto to work the kinks out of the system. Maybe.
Besides all that, he has a knack for being an ingratiating salesman. It's saved his bacon at least once so far. His calligraphy isn't too shabby either.
There's also the dubious ability of his being able to consume large quantities of alcohol on frequent occasion without his liver just giving in and exploding on the spot. Let's not forget the massive amounts of damage he can take to his own physical being without just outright expiring.
Other:
Balls of steelNatural Perm MK IISAMPLES
First Person:
From Dear Mun; a post.
Third Person:
When Mutsu speaks, Sakamoto is always in a state that is half listening, part laughing, and brimming with chagrin the rest of the way. It's her tone, nine tenths of the time, flat and unimpressed, chastising and formal, casual and intense all at once. Easy to listen to, easy to become lost in, easy to drill into his mind until the next time he may choose to 'forget'. Everything she says sticks, recitations of meetings and orders, shipments and deliveries, threats and casual suggestions of violence against his person. He smiles when she talks, and more often than not it earns him an elbow to the ribs or a piercing stare somehow more painful than the elbow alone.
He likes to tease her about that. It always earns him a swift heel to the instep.
It's her voice he remembers most, when he blinks awake, and for a moment, one nice and long moment, he thinks that she's still going over the day's reports and he's just slipped. His geta caught on something, he's prepared to say as he sits up, rubbing his head. Maybe it was the liquor from last night, is the suggestion ready and waiting, and it was his head for tolerance that he tripped up on. Laughter on his lips and in his throat, and he says her name just as he opens his eyes fully and finds his ship replaced with a lawn so picturesque that it could have come straight out of a postcard. It's actually really quite eerie.
It's now that he should panic, he thinks. A perfect and prime time for a brief meltdown, hysteria, inane babbling and nonsense and bewildered disbelief. He has plenty of the latter to go around as it were.
He doesn't.
Her voice in his ears like a fading echo, stern and too calm to be angry. With a grunt, he pushes himself to his feet with a sway that is part theatrical and part not. (Nauseatingly so.) A clatter of geta, knuckle jabbing himself in the brow when he moves to push glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. He hangs his mouth open in a show of wonder, confusion, and a sort of bewilderment that he doesn't really have to feign. When he sweeps a hand through his hair, it's with an air of chagrin and befuddlement, and who could bring swift and dire harm to such a hapless think as a man freshly awoken from his drunken stupor?
For a moment, he really does wonder if it was the shochu. The imprint of the lawnchair on his back suggests otherwise.
"Ah. Now I really know that was a grand time last night." Sakamoto says, with laughter loud and brash, and he turns to take in the house, pristine and tall and so very Western, with the air of a man given his biggest gift yet.