Kenji Sato | Ultraman

72 hours without a kaiju spotting. This was good. Hell, it was great. This window afforded Ken time to focus on what he actually cared about; baseball. Well, not exactly. It wasn't exactly that he didn't care about being Ultraman, it just wasn't something he overly wanted to do. A classic case of being born great vs having greatness thrust upon oneself.

Ken fears he's a victim of both.

His shoulders roll, and he audible groans at the pain that ripples from his shoulder down to the tips of his fingers. Mina had told him about the torn rotator cuff, which he had mostly ignored. Injury, schmenjury; Ken didn't get hurt. God dammit, he was invincible! He wouldn't lie, though; that fight with Nerogna had fucked him up. Maybe he'd actually listen to the supercomputer and see a sports therapist. Get a massage or something. He didn't have time to become the next new-era legend, with a career-ending all too soon due to a lack of preventative care.

Violet eyes peer curiously around the soba shop he finds himself in. In a way, Tokyo still felt like home, yet alien at the same time. A dual citizen. As Japanese as he was, he was American through and through; it felt like being the last kid picked for dodgeball. Less of that feeling.

One thing Kenji does appreciate is the common courtesy held by many in his native country. Being a celebrity, he guesses, in Japan meant far fewer encounters with crazed fans and even crazier reporters. Even with this knowledge, he can't shake the notion of being watched almost constantly. Like some unknown person, some unseen force, knew a secret about him and held it over his head.

At least dear old dad didn't have the fame when he was Ultraman. Bullshit.

Throwing back the rest of his drink, Ken fishes a few bills out of his wallet, leaving them on the bar top. From here, he'd return to the base for an ice bath. Maybe an ice cap, have Mina play some old films for him; an idyllic Friday night.

Yet, he's haunted, again, by the nagging sensation of being watched. God, it was fucking weird. Surveying the shop, he spots them. They think they're slick; they quickly divert their gaze to the side of him. As if Ken didn't just catch them staring at the back of his head. Didn't seem like a reporter, unsure if they were a fan of his. One thing about Kenji? He wasn't shy. At least when he didn't want to be, anyways.

"Take a picture, it'll last you longer." he says across the shop, turning in his chair. He throws one arm over the back of the seat, lips curling into a sly grin as he reclines. "Better yet, take a picture with me. I promise you'll go viral for it."