@foolishwinds liked for a starter!
   The sea of souls is ever moving. It tosses those caught upon it like the tide of the earthâs ocean tosses a boat in a storm. He has drifted this sea for a long time now, and sometimes still, it knocks the breath from his lungs, the air from his frail butterflyâs wings.
Just as he thinks he may give in, and sink back into the endlessness of it, to rest for just a while, the sea parts; the veil is lifted, and he emerges from dream to reality; mind, back to matter. He is still small, still fluttering blue wings with a soft and hollow glow. But that is alright.
...There is a pull here, a power he recognizes through his own sea and the voices within it.
Wildcard Messiah whispers. Zero. Twenty-Two. That which is First. That which is Last.
One moment, the butterfly, the next; the boy. It seems no one who may be around has even noticed the change, it is as if he has always been this.
He is seated upon a bench, one ankle crossed neatly over the other; his hands folded delicately in his lap, they seem pale against the black denim.Â
   Slowly, his eyes find the boy Messiah had cried wildcard of. He is significantly taller than Minato himself is, but this is not so unusual of anyone. Looks were often deceptive in any case, though he observes the man still, head tilting ever so slightly to the left, sending a few stray strands of hair the colour of star-speckled sea across his face.
Has he perhaps been staring for too long?
He is not sure; time is strange to him still, sometimes, it drags on forever, sometimes, it passes so swiftly he can hardly catch his breath in the whirlwind it creates.
He inhales, slow, chest rising beneath white button up; behind sparkling blue ribbon.
And then he exhales, and it feels to him as if all the sea in all the world has lifted from his lungs.
Being in human form again...
It feels strange. So long has it been.
A hand raises, pushes his hair back once again, and at last his eyes lift to the wildcard strangerâs face, and he rises from the bench with the slow grace of a boy who is lighter on his feet than the existence of his solid form may lead one to believe.
   He does not approach, merely stands, and keeps his gaze pinned upon Yosukeâs face.
He is not shy by nature; but neither is he particularly outgoing.
If he comes to me.
  What will be will be.
A hand raises in a pleasant greeting, soft, as if he has known the other all his life despite their being strangers; Do their powers not emerge, after all, from the same sea?