Spoiler: 1 - 22
Keywords: Omi, Ken, Aya, Aya-chan, Yoji, Schulrich and Manx (both a bit
off-character here. ^^;)
Warnings: Heavy swearing, sexual implications and references, angst, slight
off-character (see Notes)
Teaser: Sure, we ALL know that Weiss Kreuz is an effective group - able to
assassinate and fulfill their missions without ever showing human weaknesses. But this one-shot is a four way perspective attempt to explain just exactly how Omi, Ken, Ran and Yoji prepared themselves for a mission.
Insanity of the Everyday -
The hunt, the hunters, the hunted. In his mind, he carefully lined them up, in order of importance. He licked his lips thinking about them. The hunt, the hunters, the hunted. Those were the things in his life that made his heart beat faster and faster with the night's passing. He grew to love the sound of arrows hitting a man straight on in the chest; the sword slicing her head open, gushing blood; wires wrapping, strangling the soft folds of fatty neck; claws sinking into her chest, heart giving one last beat. And what was it like for him, to stand there, someone else's blood, someone else's live taken away by his hands? He felt the need to stand there, alone, praying for the souls his prey killed. He would walk off somewhere, in the corner of his mind and would sit there, thinking about what happened. He would play and replay the moment when the murder, the rapist, the drug dealer, let out his final scream. He didn't know the exact reason why he chose that corner of his mind to escape to. Maybe because no one would be around to see him throw back his head and laugh and laugh.
Those were the things he thought as he straighten up his desk and stood up, the e-mail from Omi he printed, grasped tightly in his hands. Break time, 10 past two. He walked past a soccer ball and thought of Ken. He told Ken countless times to pick up after himself, but of course it was forgotten minutes later. Typical Ken behavior. He took off his apron and hung it slowly on the rack with the other two aprons. Two - wasn't there one missing? He looked around and saw the dark blue one - Yoji's - carelessly thrown in the corner. He remembered he told Yoji to hang it up before he left. Typical Yoji forgetfulness. He sighed, and leaned against the counter. He reached out for a cup of tea, and like a miracle, the mug was there. He was so tired, the thought didn't hit him until he drank a few sips. Who the fuck remembered to brew his favorite herbal and honey tea? He thought for half a second and hunched his shoulders. Typical Omi thoughtfulness.
He remembered a soft field he once played in, delicate pink petals floating in the breeze. Sorta like a scene from one of those old movies he would watch just to annoy Aya out of his normally sane mind. He would run and run just to try to catch one of the petals on the very tip of his fingers. This image would be with him forever. He would keep it in the back of his mind, always thinking and bringing back the image just like how a little child read and reread a favorite page of a book. He remembered laying on his back, thinking nonsense things. The thoughts were laid out like his childhood.
When he was young, he would be thinking of how many worms would fit in his pocket, if the mud would stick to Sister's hair or if the girl next door would stop beating him up. When he was a preteen, he would be thinking of how many kids he could beat in the baseball game, if he could sneak in an apple for his favorite teacher without people making fun of him, or if the girl next door read his note and thought he was cute too. When he was a teenager, he would be thinking, how many periods can he cut before the teachers found out, if Sister would stop bitchin on him when he drove her somewhere, or if the girl next door felt like giving him some sex tomorrow night. But what he remembered most was how he lie down in the field and think, "This is Heaven."
He would bring this to mind every time he was sent on a mission. He would look in the eyes of the man he killed, blood dripping from his hands and he would think to himself, Bastard, I envy you. You're going to Heaven before me. Don't screw it up. Leave it the way it was when I left it. Maybe it was one of those stupid 'sympathy thoughts' that Omi told him about. Or maybe it was a side-affect from 'no woman, no sex toys makes for Ken to be a dull boy' like Yoji rumbled on and on about. Or maybe it was what Ran thought. That it was just a game played in his head. 'A game that you can easily win'. Or yeah, he felt like screaming into that calm no emotion face, What if I told you I was losing?
"Ken-san! Duck! ball's coming your way!"
He had this weird habit of washing his hands. No matter where he was, let it be a restaurant or a store, a crowded bathroom in a movie theater or a lonely hand pump down a country road. He has to pull over and wash his hands. He had to stop what he was doing and wash his hands. Its a weird habit, Ken said over a cup of coffee and overburnt mac'n'cheese. Its more then a weird habit. Its a healthy one. Omi replied as he poured himself a cup of tea. Maybe its just his nature. Aya said quietly before turning back to his newspaper. Nature? Yeah right. He could hear Omi and Ken laughing. But no matter what they said, he had to wash his hands. No matter what he was in the middle of doing, if he glance down at his hands, this feeling of desire to wash them, filled his very soul.
The woman eyed him from the corner of the bar. He smiled at her and slithered his way to her with his tight leather pants and open shirt. She welcomed him by leaning over him, her large breast gazing his arm. She proceeded to slip a red hued finger down her low neckline, revealing just enough for him to know that she wasn't wearing a bra. She whispered, "How would you like to see my most favorite thing to do with my lips?" And he smiled and opened his mouth to say something when she grabbed his hand and gently ran her tongue over his palm and between his fingers. Fuck it - why there? he wanted to scream out loud but the woman couldn't sense his stiffness.
She fixed herself more closely to him, and grabbed for his other hand when thump went his stool and slap went his boots as he mumbled a weak excuse and ran, hands in front of him, into the bathroom. The smoke was so heavy in there, he fumbled around for the faucet, screaming, thinking, Where the fuck is the water? The water burst on high, the water embraced his fingers, purifying hid hand from the sinful licks. He almost breathed a sigh of relief when he looks at his hands and deemed then unworthy.
There, by his right thumbnail, was a trace of blood and once again, here by his left wrist was a thin line of blood strain. Fuck these hands! He cursed. Hands of a murder - my hands. He pumped soap into his hands and thought, Fuck! Why wouldn't it clean off? He ran his hands under the faucet a million times and looked into the mirror. Why won't it clean off? He whispered to himself. The thought sicken him. The blood made him grow teary-eyed and the hands attached to his body frighten him.
Hercules. Omi scribbled the word down in his list of 'Stupid things people say." He then added next to the word, Guy said that in Ancient Chinese literature class. And these where the people who he protected from in the middle of the night.
Sometimes, he thought as he flipped to another page, this time completely empty, he wondered why he tried so damn hard for. "Help me regain my sanity. Who is the protagonist of 'Journey to the West'?" "The monkey king. Sin Ng Kong." Teacher breathed a sigh of relief and he glanced back at his notebook. He sketched a picture of the monkey king knocking down a wall with a brilliant staff. Crack! The wall let out a groan as the monkey pounded harder and harder with his staff. Creak! The wall begged for mercy as the monkey screamed out and hit it one last time. Boom! Wall fell into ruins. And teacher thought I wasn't paying attention, he thought to himself.
He thought of the first time he sliced his hand open accidentally when he was cooking for himself. The blood flowed freely through his open wrist and onto the raw pink chicken. He screamed and grasp his wrist tightly. He ran around, screaming for help. No one came. He sat himself in the corner of his room, wishing for the blood to go away. He thought, if he wished hard enough, it will just evaporate. He sat in a puddle of his own blood for hours on end until someone old, with gentle fingers, washed his wrist and tucked him into bed, telling him that one cut shouldn't stop him from cooking. That old woman was his aunt. Helped him when his own family wasn't around to hear him scream. The same old woman who was killed because a cop fired at the wrong person. Assholes, he thought bitterly to himself. You fucken take live away from someone who loved it only to give it away to someone who takes it for granted.
Bell rang. Girls touched his ass when he bent over to pick up his backpack. One girl, of the decorous sort, ran a hand down his chest before leaving, shaking her ass as she did so. He grimaced, bit his lip and walked out. Another day passed. About a billion, forty million and 28, 000 left.
He walked down the street slowly. Placing his hands in his pockets he looked at his shoes and the shoes of the people passing by him. He wondered, where were those shoes going? Were they going to catch up with someone or take a stroll in the park by themselves? Funny little things. He knew those who wore shoes worn down by running, were always late going to or from a place or person. He knew that shows brand new and uncomfortable were people who cared more about their appearances then anything else. His mind was almost vainly happy as he stared at shoes, shoes walking back and forth somewhere, always moving. He was happy - he was so uncomfortable.
He wanted to appear like he didn't really care. He knew he had the vampire look about him with what his pale skin and red hair. He once pleaded for people to be friendly with him, like how they treated his sister. He always labeled himself, "The Beast." And giggling laughing sweet Aya was "The Beauty". He once hoped that someone would see the beauty in him. But no one did. After awhile, he stopped wanting and started to embrace the image his looks gave him.
He walked through the park slowly, thinking about nothing at all. How could he walk into a place like this? So bright and happy, so loving and kind. This place did not welcome intruders like himself. He wanted to pivot on his heels and turn back, out the gate, but then, he noticed that his shirt was caught in the local rose bushes. Funny that he was trapped by red roses, his absolute favorite flowers of all time. Such pretty things - so beautiful but so deadly at the same time.
"Enjoying the flowers, I presume?" Voice echoed about and around his ear before he actually looked up. Schulrich with the fiery orange hair bit back a laugh, and touched one flower. "Now if only there were orange roses, don't you agree?" Schulrich peeled back his lips in a fake smile and he suddenly had the wild urge to tackle him and beat Schulrich's ugly handsome face in, screaming, Don't touch my flowers!
Aya looked up at Schulrich, and gave a slow nod. In one moment, he freed his shirt from the rose bush, gave Schulrich a 'look' and left. Schulrich only laugh and picked the rose. He crushed them, quietly with all his heart. And Schulrich laughed and thought. 'He must have heard that.' Laughed to himself, let the crushed rose slip onto the floor and crushed it with his heel.
Shake it off. He thought to himself. Shake it all off. He wanted so badly to kill Schulrich, cut off his orange hair and burn it. He hated him - for having hair a color as noticeable as his own.
Aya looked up at the hospital and very gently, opened up the door. His face was relaxed and calm as the hospital and its smell of almost-birthing, near death or somewhere in-between waiting, engulf him, wrapping its flimsy baby, pale white or smooth skinned arms around him. And he thought as he tapped his foot impatiently for the elevator,
Hospitals are so damn depressing.
He kicked the ball lightly between his legs. Gotta jog, gotta run, gotta be on the top of my game, he breathed in and out as he ran circles around trees, the ball still juggling between his legs. Gotta be the best, gotta jog, gotta run, gotta be on the top of my game. He pleaded with that nagging voice inside his head that there WAS actually a hope for him after all. He kicked the soccer ball against a tree and dived to catch and balance the ball perfectly on the flat of his right show. See that? He wanted to scream to that bitching voice. See that? I got all the talent I need. Something inside his heart yelled out, What about your future? Do you even have one?
He was running again, ball bouncing up and down, legs pumping up and down as he ran the length of three blocks, dodging late afternoon traffic as he passed by the school yard of Yuujou Middle School. Kids that knew him, screamed out his name, and as a response, he kicked the ball their way. Gave them a little gift to showed he cared. Waved one, waved twice and was once more running about, the shortness of breath and the pounding of his lungs rising him higher and higher above the clouds that covered him.
In mid-step, he pulled out a printed e-mail from Omi. Read the name once, twice, thinking, Sekiou Matsumoto. Doesn't sound like the name of a killer. His heart along with his mind yelled out, Are you fucking insane? He's a killer all right. And he thought, if he's a killer, it justifies my right to kill him, right? His heart screamed out, No shit! And then he said, So what will happen if someone justifies that they can kill me? His brain went numb and he felt it. Thumped his chest and asked his heart, So what the hell do YOU say now? His heart thumped once, twice in reply and said,
The woman twirled her stroller out of his way as he flashed her sheepishly smile. "Sorry." His lips flattered when he said it and damn it, he bet the woman heard. But even if she did hear, she didn't say anything. She smiled, and walked on as he stood there watching her. Maybe things aren't as bad as they seem.
He remembered a legend he once heard when he was young. About how this sick princess needed a magic potion that could only be produced with the blood of the very last Phoenix. Her lover said that there were too many Phoenixes, which one was the last one? And the princess grew sick and sicker until one day, the lover arrange an army to capture a baby Phoenix. When it was done, he then preceded to kill every other Phoenix in the country. He kept and kept with his one cause and before long, his baby Phoenix truly was the last on Earth. The lover killed that Phoenix and gave its blood to his lover. The princess and him soon became happy and the wife become pageant.
He remembered how the story was told, to give credit to the lover and his faithfulness but at the end, all he could think about was, Poor little birds.
He ran into the flower shop, unlocked it doors and put on his apron. Hummed a little tune to him, "Midnight Crow" playing on the radio as he looked at the orders that Aya kept by the register and thought to himself, Damn it, Hidaka. You're a softie. Damn it to hell. He kneeled on his knees as a breeze blew in through the open window. Some stray plum blossom petals floated on the breeze and he opened up his palm to catch one of them and looked at it, his eyes happy. So the Phoenix is happy wherever it is. He switched his tune and his thoughts as he let go of the petal and buried himself in his work, thinking of nothing and everything as he arranged a deathbed for the last Phoenix on Earth, Sekiou Matsumoto.
Funny how sunlight makes his eyes twitch. Was it because it shone too brightly or because he was used to the darkness? Cause that's what he was surrounded in. Bars covered in darkness, sex sweeten by darkness, wine and cigarettes twisted by darkness and friends hiding in darkness. He shouldn't complain, he thought as he scrambled throughout her - oh what was her name? he cursed to himself - apartment looking for his pants. I just finished fucking a gorgeous babe. I should be happy.
He lowered himself onto his belly and looked at underneath the bed for his pants. Where did she put them? he thought as he looked around. And why the hell can't I remember her name?
The woman stirred and he stood still as a feather as she groaned and went back to sleep. That's it! he thought happily, Matsumi's her name. She was pretty damn good too. He looked around and around and at last! His pants were buried underneath her shirt and the bra he bit off. He put them on and found his shirt stuffed inside her crumpled skirt. He pulled them on and waved bye bye to Matsumi. Thinking twice, he grabbed her panties and wrote down his number and kissed it and was out the door before the clock had a chance to strike three.
He drove as fast as he could away from Matsumi's apartment, stepping on the gas petal for dear life. He could only think of the great mind and penis blowing nameless fucking he just with Matsumi. His erection lasted longer then their conversation did. But he did it. That's good ole Kodou Yoji for you. he thought blithely, Just some numb dull ole sexhound. Talk to me for an hour and I'll fuck with you for three. He figured out that this was just too much for him and reached inside his pocket for a cigarette. He pulled out instead a printed e-mail from Omi. Three lines.
Mission tonight - Sekiou Matsumoto.
Details later, come to store at four.
Four. He thought. Four lines if you count Omi's name. And Omi's name DID deserve to be counted. The poor kid deserves something. He bit his cigarette gently between his lips and thought. Wonder what the fuck he did. Wondered if he wasn't just a regular guy, who loved fucking and drinking and fucking two at a time and drinking three at a time like he did. He bared his teeth as he turned the name over and over in his head. Sekiou Matsumoto. Sekiou Matsumoto. Never heard of him. He very calmly fixed his rearview mirror and thought of Matsumi sucking him. Killing a guy I don't have a grudge on is a bitch, he nodded in agreement.
His mind was troubled so he cut off a red truck and delighted himself as the driver gesticulated at him with angry eyes and a loud, "SCREW YOU BITCH!" Wait, wait. His brain started to race as he thought and thought, lip bitten back in thought. Sekiou Matsumoto. I know him! He was that guy Matsumi was talking about. He wanted her to fuck him. Thought that Matsumi was a hooker, didn't ya, Matsumoto?
He glared at the mirror and envision a large, fatty man who attempted to make Matsumi sit on his lap. My poor Matsumi! he screamed in his head. That bitch will pay! Shit, I'll make him pay!
He wrapped one hand around the wheel and honked one long continuos beep as he screamed happily, Sekiou Matsumoto! You're fucking history!
He waited patiently at the street corner, his hand still clutching tightly to his backpack as he watched some leaves and petals and candy wrappers flutter by. He wondered what exactly he was doing here, walking home
- home? He scoffed as he kicked his right foot in thought. Don't know what that word means. He kicked a pebble out of his way as he pivoted around and around, lost in thought. Some girls passed by, and a bus thundered its way towards him, waiting patiently at the street corner. He looked up and saw the passing clouds. They were a sky blue and picture perfect - so perfect they made him sick. He stuck his hands into his pockets and something inside it burned his hand. Fuck! He pulled out his hand and out floated a small slip of paper, landing on the ground. He bent down to pick it up and read
The paper burned itself to a small fire on his fingertips and in pain, he let the paper fly off into the wind. Half of him wanted to run after it, just in case some stranger might pick it up, somehow make the connections and boom! Weiss will be discovered. His heart trembled in fear. But the other half of him wanted to beat the crap out of the cowardly half. What the hell? If a strolling stranger may fucking decide to pick up that scrap of paper, they'll see just a name. Nothing more, nothing less.
But its a name that I'm going to kill.
He pleaded to himself silently as he stood straighter, walking down the crowded street, eyes open and observant to every movement that occur around him. He bit back his tongue and his hands started to move, picking at his jacket, fixing his cuffs, running through his hair. Stop it! He wanted to scream to his nervous hands. Stop it! He watched as his hands dragged on the brick wall he walked past, drawing imaginary designs. Do you want me to look like a fool? He glared at his hands and saw how they wrote the names Omi Tsukiyono, Tsukiyono Omi, Matsumoto Sekiou and Sekiou Matsumoto over and over again on the wall. His own hands! Making him a murderer! I hate you, are you happy now? His hands seem to nod, and sought the warm comfort of his pockets once more. Damn it. He wanted to wipe away what his hands did - on the wall anyway - before someone came and accused him of conducting graffiti on the wall but couldn't, no matter how hard he wiped at the wall.
Shrugged his shoulders, switch his backpack to the other shoulder and walked away, his lips attempting to whistle a tune or two. The clouds seemed to grow gray, and something inside him screamed, Yes! Yes! Turn gray! Turn into something that I can associate with! The rain fell first, before he had a chance to let out a yell of delight. Cover this world with my tears! He rejoiced inside and started running, throwing his arms in the air. His hair caught the rain and matted to his forehead. A few raindrops streaked his face as he glance up and up, towards the black skies. My tears! Do you see them? Do you taste them? I'm crying! I'm crying!
He looked around him and saw so many nameless faces pressing up against the window, watching him. He didn't care anymore. He tore off his jacket and felt the rain pressing into his jacket, pressing into his skin. The rain embraced and caressed him. He felt raindrops pounding softly against his heart, trying to get in.
Happily, he opened the door and once more, let out a prayer of happiness. He ran through the rain, happily, screaming, thinking, crying, laughing. You see that, Sekiou Matsumoto? I'm crying! My tears are everywhere, my tears are in front of you. I'm crying. He washed his face in the rain, in his sadness, in his joy. Feel that, Matsu-san? My tears are falling, covering all of Japan. Now you can't say that no one cried for you.
He stopped in front of the flower shop, breath coming in short pants. The rain let up so that only tiny droplets hugged his cold fingers. Placed a wet, dripping hand on the door handle and thought, And now that I'm done crying, I can kill you.
He read the name slowly out loud. Turned each word over and over with his tongue, getting the feel of the name. Sekiou Matsumoto. Beautiful name, isn't it, Aya? He turned to her and watched as she smiled. Let me take a look at it. He gratefully handed her the paper and she proceeded to look at it, 'tsk-tsking' with her tongue. What do you think? He was a fool to ask her because Aya looked up at him and said between her teeth. Bad name. The character for Kio does not balance the character for Moto. I see that he must have done -
It was here where he jumped in eagerly. Did a lot of bad things? Aya's eyes darkened and a smile ascended her lips - darkened for agreement, and smiled for joy that her brother caught on so quickly. And she said quietly, Unforgivable things. You must kill him before he does more. He nodded and was almost out the door before he turned and said, But who will pray for him?
Thud went the legs of Aya's chair and there she went, pushing him out the door. I will, I will! she laughed as she handed him back the name. I will pray for him while I'm asleep. You needn't worry.
"Thank you, Aya."
He whispered as he slowly unclasped his hand from her own. He stood up slowly, and strolled over to the window. Stretched his arms and looked out. Beautiful day. He thought as he put on his leather jacket. Stopped by Aya's bed and bent down to kiss her forehead. "Thank you." He smiled at her and walked out the room, closing the door quietly after him.
They meet one another out at the parking lot, masked in darkness, covered in black. They nodded and waited as Omi unlocked the security system and cut off all electricity. They pretended that they didn't know each other as they spilt into two teams. Omi and Ken sprinted up the steps of the business office and Yoji and Aya taking the back route. Arrows were shot, hearts were slashed as Omi and Ken made their way through the darkened building. Aya and Yoji breaking into the vent pipes, creeping to their prey. They cornered him and even through he screamed for his guards, no one came. Somewhere overhead a crow screeched and blood dripped on the office's floor.
The phone rang and wearily, Aya placed it on speakerphone mode. "Hey guys!" Manx's voice rang loud and clear over the flower shop. "You guys did a great job as always!" Ken let out a groan as he gently pushed a sleeping Omi off his shoulder and rose to pour himself a cup of coffee. "I'm proud of you! Taking on a mission on such short notice." Yoji only grunted as he kicked off his shoes and tore off his shirt before sprawling on the couch. "There's another one lined up for tomorrow night! You guys ready?" Aya only crossed his arms as he leaned back in his armchair, eyes a bit groggy as Ken handed him a mug. "Well there's this businessman named Cheung Chor Lai. He's a Hong Kong businessman who came to Tokyo for -"
"I'm late!" Omi slid down the halls with shoes in hands and caught the toast Ken threw at him with an open mouth. "Want a ride?" Yoji asked as Omi grabbed his jacket and wallet. "No, I'm safer walking." A good-bye, a "Ken-kun can you pick up my bike at the mechanic's today?" and slam! Omi was out the door.
Two hours passed and Ken threw his hands up in self-refusal. "Break! I have to start jogging now or my whole workout is screwed!" Yoji grunted and Aya turned his back as Ken hung up his apron, jumped into his sneakers and ran out the door before the clock clicked away another minute.
One and a half hours later, Yoji checked himself out in the mirror. Satisfied at what he saw, he put on his jacket and sucked exquisitely on a cigarette. "Aya! Leaving, Ken's gonna fill in for me." Yoji waited until a muffled "Humph" came from the front of the store before Yoji left.
Aya looked at the e-mail that Omi sent him. Cheung Chor Lai. He turned the name over and over with his tongue, making sure that the name burned inside his mind. Cheung Chor Lai. Clock strike ten past two and Aya started to close the shop. And he thought as he straighten up his desk and put away the orders, neatly by the cash register -
The hunt, the hunters, the hunted.
* * *