Adult-FanFiction.org : Anime

Prodigal Daughter	By : Saoirse Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 1214 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Kapitel 1: A Deeper Shade of Night
- 2-Profil
- 1
- 2
My third WK fic is classified AU because what takes place
after “Mission 8: Raubtier“ toss it out the window! This fic contains an
OC and has hetero hentai (ware! As much as I wave the yaoi/yuri flag, it just
gets a tad redundant in every WK fic archive I hit up), so non-yaoi
bashers, minors, and any Takatori relations VERBOTEN!! Save for my OCs all is
licensed by Koyasu Takehito-sama, Project Weiß , and Tsuchiya Kyoko. References
to any and all pyrokinetic activity can be accredited to Miyabe Miyuki’s novel
and the film adaptation Kaneko Shusuke’s Cross Fire.

Prodigal Daughter

By Saoirse The Irish Colleen

Kapitel 1: A Deeper Shade of Night
Have you ever
wondered if there was a deeper shade of night? A complete color void? I have.
Things like that enter the mind when you’re clinging to a root- for your life
that is. Even after their smiling faces dragged me out of that smoldering hole
in the middle of a burning nowhere, all I kept seeing was that bottomless night
right under ready to swallow me whole. I knew whatever it was coiled directly
to hell, exactly where I belonged. Coming back to Tokyo, I asked myself that
question again until I saw that there was. Schwarz. Black.
Looking into
all of my nightmares there was only one way to beat the night, because even in
the distance burning light can safely lead the way to shore. I remember almost
nothing of my mother- my real mother. But this I recall easily, she said once
that the fishing fires that glimmer off the coast aren't only for attracting
fish. In ancient times, our ancestors secretly rowed out alone at night to
release their hatred and anger and spread throughout the world. Later it became
known as legend of the Sea Fire. She warned me that wrath could grow in your
heart like fire. Once the flame of wrath starts to burn, you can't stop it. It
will burn until it consumes you as well...

* * *
“Odyou-sama!” The rapid
thudding of stockinged feet pounding smooth wood forced her to turn round. The
glass shoji rattled as he approached and violently tore them apart.
“Odyou-sama!”
“Hai?” She
answered placidly as she had been for the last hour on the veranda. Toru gulped
air greedily; his head hanging and midnight blue strands sticking to his rosy
cheeks. “Nani ka doushite?”
“Odyou-sama… there
is… emergency,” she turned back facing the decaying coppice. “I’m afraid they
need you back at the hospital.” Her elbows on the varnished oak railing, hands
one atop the other. She breathed in mist kissing the grass.
“Wakatta.” Toru
stood to one side to let the mistress pass.
“I already parked
your car round front.” She nodded appreciatively and both went inside.

* * *
~The Magic Bus
Hospital…~
The
automatic doors were promptly sealed and three guards posted, their attempts
failing at blocking the swarming paparazzi and gaggle of reporters from gaining
the attention of the three people who sat in the emergency room’s lobby.
Miyamoto Masako didn’t bother wiping the mascara drizzling down her face
falling to the crisp cream silk, blotchy violet-blue stains on her cuffs and collar.
She sat rocking hypnotically eyes never leaving the wallet-sized photo in her
hands, her daughter Kiyome slid Yen coins into the vending machine’s slot
counting the transparent keys repeatedly waiting for her selection to come
tumbling out. Miyamoto Junichi down at the end of the corridor paced barking
into his mobile enraged at the white curtain obstructing his view. One of his
associates, a post-grad intern in his older brother’s brown suit jogged over to
him and whispered in his ear.
“NANI!!” Masako
snapped her head up and looked in her husband’s direction.
“I’m sorry, sir,”
the intern quailed at the thought of the burly 53-year-old politician’s fists
rather than unemployment. “The detectives would like to speak with you now…
they don’t believe this is an accident.” Junichi’s mouth struggled to
form words, but his stuttering agitated him further.
“I don’t even know
what the fuck happed!” He gestured to the curtain. “All I know is that I was
pulled from my office when they said my son-” The swinging doors creaked and
the surgeon stepped out. Her pea-green scrubs were smeared with blood; it was
difficult to read her face since the sterile white mask concealed all but her
russet eyes. The clicking of Masako’s snakeskin pumps and Kiyome’s Mary Janes bounced
off the fading chalky concrete walls as they clambered to Junichi’s side,
apprehensive and hungry. “Well, doctor?” The surgeon pulled her lips tight,
stripping off her gloves making the latex snap like a whiplash, just as the
news they were about to receive was going to feel. Pulling down her cap and
mask she felt it appropriate for her to do this if they heard it from a person,
not just a pair of eyes that were more acquainted with death than most thought.
She took a deep breath and a step back to get the entire family in view.
“Miyamoto-san…”
But she failed once again and just shook her head. Junichi was expressionless
and Kiyome raised her small fists to her mouth.
“Onii-chan!” She
tried to run into the OR when the intern restrained her.
“Dame! Kiyome-chan!”
Masako’s arms fell the way leaves off a flower stem do when sheared. Slumping
to the floor she threw her head back and shrieked.
“TATSUYA!!!!”
Hands on either side of her head her grip slipped and she bawled. Junichi fell
to his wife’s side, but his efforts to console her proved futile, the doctor
out of place but unable to leave concentrated on the checkerboard tiling when
she saw what fluttered from Masako’s hand earlier. Picking up the photo she
pushed the door slightly to see the medics reassemble the crash cart, mop spilt
blood from the floor, and roll away soiled surgical tools and monitors. Behind
the curtain elongated silhouettes of the nurses pulling the sheet over the
body, shadows taking Tatsuya down the river. Looking down at the smiling
handsome 17-year-old’s headshot, the doctor thought he looked nothing like the
thing laying on the table broken and ripped apart.

* * *
~The Jigen Party
Building…~
He fancied
them ants. Looking down at them scurrying in all directions, lugging giant crumbs
on their backs. The corners of his mouth twitched, it was the next best thing
to a laugh from the morose teen. Lounging on the sofa was the German, his
shocking tangerine mane splayed on the headrest amusing himself by poking
Prodigy’s shields. /Otou kei. / Naoe Nagi mentally snarled contrary to
his unchanging outward docility. /Or I swear I’ll lock up your treasured
native brew with Farfarello in the vault, Shulderich! /
/Tch! / Mastermind scoffed. /You’re
no fun Nagi-chan.../ He smirked and lazily looked over to observe the
Berserker aforementioned sitting adjacent of him caressing his Bora. He
retracted and fired the blade in all its lengths with pleasure. Swinging his
leg crossed over his left knee, Shulderich jostled his cyan duster dumped in a
heap on the armchair across from him with his Italian leather white boot,
gliding his catty azure eyes to the desk where their employer sat by the
picture windows. Takatori Reiji scrawled his signature on the last of the pile
of documents, arranged them in the correct order and banged them briskly on his
desk evening them out before enclosing them in a file folder. “Gentlemen,” he
handed the file to Oracle as always standing behind him. “Shall we check out
the local news?” He clicked the remote; a floor panel slid open and up rose the
big screen.
Shulderich lolled
his head from side to side, drumming the cushions. “No movie of the week?”
“Pay attention
Nagi,“ Crawford remarked pushing his glasses up. “Your lessons don’t stop when
the bell rings at three.“ Prodigy turned round and leaned against the glass,
folding his arms sleepily. They had missed the first five minutes, the two
reporters behind the desk chatted with the sports commentator about the Osaka
Dragons stunning victory.
‘…In a late
breaking story it was announced that Miyamoto Tatsuya, son of the Nisei Party’s
Prime Ministerial candidate Miyamoto Junichi was murdered just outside the
gates of the prestigious Jonan Gakuen. It happened late this afternoon, after
4:30 when the 17-year-old track team captain left classes, was cornered and
savagely beaten, stabbed, then shot in the throat.
Investigating
Detective Harada Shun had confirmed that the southwest entrance where
Tatsuya-san was found mangled in a pool of blood is relatively deserted but
according to the medical examiner’s report the given the angle at which the
bullet that entered his body the trajectory suggests that it came from a car.
Those closest to the Miyamoto family and Nisei Party members scream foul play,
that Tatsuya-san’s slaughter was politically motivated. Miyamoto family
spokesperson, Hikawa Yo, stated that funeral services will be held in Harajuku
on Saturday.’ Takatori clicked off the set Crawford smirked expectantly.
“I am a man of few
words,” Takatori said rising from his deep leather chair. “I give neither
praise or criticism.” Shulderich grinned at Takatori’s smooth lie. “But you
will note my approval when you receive your account statements.” Crawford bowed
deeply and Takatori paused with his fist round the doorknob. “I know this is
last minute, but show up early on Saturday. We have a funeral to attend,” he
glared in Mastermind’s direction, “so dress appropriately. Oyasumi nasai
minna-san.”
“Sleep well, Mr.
Takatori.” Nagi went into the closet to retrieve his bag; Crawford locked the
file into his briefcase.
“I love funerals,”
Shulderich sighed flipping his cerulean shirt collar over the duster. “All the
praying that’s done by people that have yet to acknowledge God, but all they’re
concerned about is whether or not there’ll be a buffet at the bereaved’s home.”
“Shulderich
hidoi.” Nagi exited the office with Farfarello silently in tow. Shulderich
looked archly at his field leader watching him polish his lenses with
deliberate torpor, he jammed his hands into his pockets.
/What’s on your
mind, mein Führer? /
Crawford breathed
on his left lens. /Nothing that need concern you. / The German tapped
his iron shields as he did prior with Nagi.
/You can’t lie
to me, Bradley. / Shulderich knew he detested being referred to by his given name,
but it was the only way to scratch the surface of his mental defenses. /Another
vision? You don’t act like this when you have one. /
/You’re right I
don’t. But it doesn’t necessarily mean I had a vision. / Crawford brushed past him
mentally ordering him to help Nagi put Farfarello down for the night when they
got home and that no one was to disturb him whilst in his study.
“Oretachi no
leader, did you schedule in your midlife crisis early? Or is it the fact that
pushing 30 makes you feel more powerless than usual?”

* * *
She heard
his noiseless feet skim his bedroom’s wine plush carpeting long before he
reached the second floor landing. The Old Man supported his weight on the ebony
and silver walking stick, hammering with each step like fists smashing bones.
“Muse!” She sat on
the step in the foyer, elbows on knees her shoes thrown in a corner somewhere.
“What happened today?” She emptied the saké bottle into her tumbler. “Don’t lie
to me. What did you see?” He punctuated his last words jabbing the heavy air
with his stick. Muse tossed back the saké, offering no reply just resting her
forehead on the back on her limp wrist. Her looped ponytail spiraled tightly by
a red ribbon slithered across her black blazer when she faced her master.
“A black Mercedes.”

* * *
~Koneko no Sumu
Ie, the following Saturday...~
Tsukiyono
Omi cursed hurling the wire clippers nursing his bleeding index finger.
“Chikushou!” Ken tutted him.
“Oy Omi, don’t
rush or you’ll lop it off completely. Yoji!” The playboy hunkered over a white
porcelain pot of glittering lilies.
“Nan da, Ken?!”
His patience was thinning as the black ribbon refused to agree with the knot he
was pulling round the stems.
“Get the kit, Omi
cut himself.”
“‘Taku! I’m busy
here, get it yourself.” The former soccer star was about to engage him in
another verbal spar when Aya walked in from loading the van.
“Hurry it up, we
have to have these ready by one.” He tossed an envelope on the table where Yoji
sat atop his newspaper. Omi returned from the back room, his finger swathed in
an antibacterial salve and a bit of gauze with no help from his bickering
teammates.
“No matter how
long I’ve been at this,” he went back to the black and white carnation wreath
up against the wall he was arranging, “funerals depress me.” Yoji lit a
cigarette.
“Depends on which
shift we’re on you’re referring to, Omi.” He opened up the envelope that
contained the name and message tags and shuffled them briefly. In Loving
Memory, Miyamoto Tatsuya. “Miyamoto… Tatsuya!” Wildly he pushed aside
the pot, crinkling through the newspaper, pissed that Ken had it folded to the
funnies. “ORA!” The three other members of Weiß startled by Yoji’s outburst
couldn’t help but crowd round him.
“Nani yo,
Yoji-kun!” Omi huffed, arms akimbo. Kudou gnawed on the Marlboro studying
the front page.
“You know that
funeral we’re doing today,” he threw the paper down, “looks like we might have
to stop and pose for the cameras.” A black and white blown up shot of Tatsuya
in his track team uniform doctored to look streaked in blood with crosshairs
superimposed on his face, the headline read: ’A POLITICAL MACHINE’S LATEST
TARGET’.
Ken gasped sharply
and picked up the paper. “You don’t think-”
“Ohayou
gozaimasu!” A familiar redhead in a matching miniskirt suit slunk in.
“Manx.” Aya nodded
in greeting.
“That answered my
question,” Ken was deflated. Weiß and Manx gathered in the basement, Omi busied
himself pouring the coffee.
“Well beautiful,”
Yoji drawled hooking a leanly muscled arm round Persia’s secretary, “come for
breakfast in bed?” She grinned and balanced his Ray Bans atop his bangs.
“Maybe next time,”
she quipped fingering the tip of his nose. Aya spotted her only carrying her
clutch bag, noting the absence of a video.
“Mission da?” Aya
asked. Manx shook her head, boisterous curls swaying.
“Not exactly. The
word from Persia is this: we might be speeding things up as of this afternoon.”
She tapped the newspaper with a scarlet nail and relaxed into the sofa. “You’re
on surveillance today, so keep out of sight.”
“Manx, what kind
of muscle are we looking at?” Ken looked dubious.
“You’ll see when
you get there. Mostly private personnel, on duty police officers, and the
investigation team will be present.” She got up and snatched her purse from the
desk and sighed. “Come armed,” Weiß followed her up the spiral staircase but
stopped short when she lingered at the door. “You’ll know why.”
“Manx…” Omi
whispered.

* * *
~Funakoshi Funeral
Parlor…~
3:15 P.M. She slid
the sleeve of her black bolero over her watch and caught her breath. Flushed,
Muse ran all the way from the metro and stood across the street from the
funeral home, hesitant, realizing what danger she was in because she wasn’t
just taking orders by coming here. White press tents were pitched flanking the
main entrance, wooden barricades erected to prevent reporters and onlookers
from intrusion. A black and white overhang flew banners of the Miyamoto family,
floral tributes festooned the walk, a good many of them from Jonan Gakuen,
students and faculty alike. Chuo Gakuen, where Kiyome presently attended sent
their floral commiseration was just being delivered. Some were arranged outside
and others the funerary attendants took into the viewing room and lobby.
Muse dashed to the
corner to join with the throngs of mourners lining the pavement awaiting
access. From a distance she heard TV cameras whir and flashbulbs burst,
grateful she was bringing up the rear. Peering over a middle-aged man’s
shoulder Muse squinted just able to make out something sailing down the street.
A burgundy Lincoln Towncar parked in front of the entrance,
simultaneously all four doors opened. From the rear surfaced Farfarello and
Nagi. Prodigy came across almost normal dressed in white khakis, a black zipper
shirt and black sports jacket. An onyx stick pendant dangled from his silver
chain. The Berserker was in his usual attire. From the driver’s side, Oracle
buttoned his blazer, a black three-piece suit and royal blue dress shirt.
Replacing his spectacles were prescription sunglasses. Mastermind made his
appearance from the passenger side, lazily stretching like a tabby under the
high noon sun. His red tinted shades over his yellow headband, he smirked when
cameras aimed in their direction. Shulderich wiggled his fingers at them,
posing for the photographers. Muse glowered, Shulderich, ever the
attention-seeker shining in the most morbid venues. Farfarello stepped out of
the way to let Takatori Reiji out of the vehicle and all hell broke loose.
Takatori-san!
Takatori-san! Takatori-san! A tidal wave of reporters tried to crash
through security, their shouts nonsensical because their requests for comments
and questions came all at once. The seasoned politician surrounded by Schwarz
floated into the lobby. Muse’s fists tensed round her handbag straps, her
pearline nails cutting her palms. The cool clacking of her jade prayer beads
provided little comfort and the line began to move. When she got inside Muse
took a seat on the sofa farthest from the viewing room giving her a fair
vantage point, Takatori or Schwarz were nowhere in sight. Scuttling through the
assembly of mourners was the intern that Muse had seen with Miyamoto Junichi
before she broke the news amble into the viewing room. Miyamoto shot up from
beside his wife roughly grasping the intern by the crook of his left arm and
led him up the aisle intentionally distancing themselves from the rest of the
family.
“What do you mean he
is here?” Miyamoto hissed. The intern’s chin trembled before deciding
what was wise enough to answer him.
“S-suimasen,” he
bowed, “but Takatori-san just simply said he would like to express his
condolences- sir.” Junichi looked off into the middle distance doubtless that
the press conference he held Thursday influenced this. He loosed his intern.
“Show them in.”
And he walked back to his family. Visibly shaken, the intern adjusted his tie
and nodded to the funeral director who, with his wife, showed Takatori and
Schwarz inside. Muse pushed herself deeper into the sofa’s backrest obstructing
herself behind the ficus, but in mid step Shulderich stopped, turned and
scanned the lobby.
“Doushite no?”
Nagi queried.
The telepath shook
his head. “It’s nothing… probably,” he trailed off. Muse blanched and forced
herself to breathe. If she were discovered now…
Kiyome had slept a
total of ten hours the entire week attributed to the moaning coming from her
mother’s bedroom, her father spinelessly secluded in the library with a bottle
of scotch. She hung her head lower acutely aware of the orange-haired man
ogling her.
/Cut it out, Shulderich.
/
/Let me ask you
something Crawford, do you have anything between your legs? / The American cracked his
knuckles in his lap. /She’s cute. /
/She’s fifteen.
/
/Your point? / Takatori bowed to the
Miyamotos, only Junichi returned the gesture.
“I must admit
Reiji-san, I did not expect any of my former opponents to be in attendance.”
Takatori squared
his shoulders to keep up his front of control; he couldn’t be more desperate
for Shulderich at the moment unsure at how to take his one-time classmate’s
response. “I’m also a family man, Junichi-kun. I have a little experience with
loss myself.” Junichi’s brow creased and briefly backtracked to Kikuno-san’s
memorial. He bowed his head.
“I am sorry.”
Takatori shook his
head. “It doesn’t matter, I must commend you for what you did on Thursday. A
lesser man would have would’ve continued with ‘business as usual’.”
“My family needs
me right now.”
“We’ll talk more
at the house.” Takatori clapped Junichi on the shoulder. Masako lifted her
head, her eyes glassy. What right did that monster have?! She brought
her forehead to her clinched hands once again. Draped in saffron and red muslin
the priest sidled in and commenced the sutras.
“Na-Mu-Ami-Da-Butsu…
Na-Mu-Ami-Da-Butsu…Na-Mu-Ami-Da-Butsu….”
Guests were let in
a few at a time, Muse made it past the threshold when she stopped dead seeing
the third row on the left. Takatori sat between Crawford and Shulderich,
Crawford taking the aisle seat. Shulderich was dozing, Nagi studied his
fingernails and Farfarello on the end stared ahead.
“Excuse me miss,”
grunted an irate voice from behind, “you’re holding up the line.”
“Suimasen,” Muse
murmured and proceeded down the aisle. Pushing one foot in front of the other,
she strode like a dancer in delayed strokes; she slowed her pace since there
were several others in front of her paying their respects. Esumi and Sawada,
two of the investigators sat on a long wooden bench against the wall with the
uniformed officers
“Oy,” Sawada
nudged Esumi.
“Nan da?”
“Don’t say
anything but…” Esumi leaned his shoulder towards his partner.
“But what?” Sawada
folded his arms and kept his eyes down.
“They’re going to
shut down the investigation on Monday,” he whooshed. Muse stopped moving. Esumi
clamped his hands around his knees stupefied.
“What the hell
for? How did you find out?”
Sawada shook his
head. “Y’know Chief Shimizu’s new secretary, Makiko?” The left side of Esumi’s
face tweaked forming a momentary sneer.
“It figures…”
“A messenger
showed up last night just as she was swiping out. The orders came from the
top.” An elderly couple stopped to exchange sympathies with Junichi so the line
halted again, Muse surreptitiously stepped closer to the two detectives. “The
legalese mumbo-jumbo the judge put down is a shitty smokescreen. If the department
pressed the Miyamoto case, there’d be a huge political stink.” Sawada gestured
in Takatori’s direction with his eyes, Muse exhaled unevenly and the room
shrank.
“They say that
justice is insanity,” Esumi sighed. The room temperature jumped fifteen degrees
unexpectedly and the guests began to squirm in their seats, fanning themselves,
pulling at collars and loosening ties.
“Chotto, it’s
getting a little hot in here.” Sawada swabbed his receding hairline.
“Ah,” Esumi opened
his jacket. Muse couldn’t stifle a low gasp and turned in her toes. Crawford
was forced to take off his sunglasses, the sweat hazed his vision but refused
go any further, his teammates were not faring as well as he’d hoped. Nagi had
dropped his jacket over the back of his seat and pulled the zipper on his shirt
lower, Farfarello’s bare arms and face glossed with sweat, and Shulderich
reluctantly tied back his hair with contracting fingers, aching for his gun.
Takatori dabbed his forehead with his handkerchief.
“What the hell is
up with his place?“ Takatori groused. Muse bent her head lower concealing her
face with her hair daring to take passing glances at Crawford’s stony profile
as she walked by.
“Oy, oy,”
Shulderich growled catching the attention of a funerary attendant. “If you
haven’t looked at the calendar lately, it’s May. So why don’t you turn off the
heat and put on the fucking A.C.!” The attendant blubbered some indistinct
apology and squirreled away. Kiyome drew her fingers down the silky white
tassels hanging from her beads rapt with the dusty, dull green carpet.
“Such pretty
shoes…”she whispered. Silver buckles glinted on a pair of black loafers. Kiyome
knit her brows when she looked up and saw the doctor from the Magic Bus
Hospital coming up to her. “Sensei,” Kiyome shied when she felt her Aunt Shoko,
shoot lasers into the back of her head. On the worst day of her life, Kiyome
allowed herself to be enchanted by the beautiful woman who did everything
humanly possible to save her brother. Muse approached the Miyamotos and bowed.
Kiyome looked dead herself but nevertheless grinned bravely. A stricken Masako
could not stand meeting eyes with anyone, and Junichi’s expression softened.
Muse bowed to the altar, the perfume of carnations and incense was consuming
though she did not want to shame herself by gagging. She also knew it was not
the display alone that was making her ill. Lovingly swaddled in white satin
were Tatsuya’s ashes in a black lacquer box. A black marble tablet bore
Tatsuya’s name in gold, bowls of fruit and Tatsuya’s favourite snacks provided
by friends were laid out as offerings.
Shulderich kicked
back basking in the icy breath from the A.C. duct above. He was enjoying
himself riding on the merry-go-round that was Masako’s mind. ~Who killed my
son? Who killed my son? Who killed my son? Who killed my son?
~
/Why, we did.
And we’re not even fifty feet away from you. I feel sorry for you Masako-san,
not because I shot your son it’s because you actually believe-/ The telepath’s chest seized
when unfamiliar images pounded his fragile psyche, a thousand frames a second,
a million voices converged.
~This power you
have…~
FLASH!
~…it can’t help
anyone.~
FLASH!
FLASH!
~Okaa-san,
atashi nigen ja nai no? ~
FLASH!
FLASH!
FLASH!
FLASH!
FLASH!
Oxygen was
sucked from a black whirlpool birthing an inferno… a child screamed and a
blood-soaked branding iron turned to ash before hitting the ground… a woman’s
hand scraping down a cracked, steamy mirror, the finger trails dripped blood…
the lid of a gold pocket watch glowed red drenched in flames then liquefied in
the blazing coals…
Nagi turned to
Shulderich sitting rigidly, fists balled on his thighs. “Shulderich….”
Farfarello rolled one amber eye in his direction. Muse took her time at the
altar, the color photo of a smiling Tatsuya in his Jonan Gakuen uniform draped
with black and white bunting on the upper right and left hand corners placed in
front of the urn which contained his ashes.
/Kisama! Where
are you? Who are you?!/
In the corner of
his eye, Crawford saw the bulging vein in Shulderich’s forehead. /Mastermind!
Nani yo suru?!/ Muse bowed to the altar then went to do so again to the
Miyamotos when she felt a snap and the flames flickering atop the pair of white
candles on either side of Tatsuya’s photo blazed a foot into the air, wax
melted down with stomach-wrenching splutters sliming the floor. There was
chaos. Guests fled running each other over for the exits, the priest switched
from the sutras to an anti-evil incantation. Police were dispatched and vacated
the premises forming a perimeter, Shulderich regained his senses, launching
from his seat throwing it to the side. He and Crawford had their side arms
drawn, Farfarello lifted his Bora the shadow falling on his face splitting it
in two, Nagi spread his hands out at his sides channeling energy….
Masako fell to the
carpet, pulling her hair screaming for her son, and Muse made her escape
through a side exit in the scuffle. “Sensei! Sensei!” Kiyome ran from her
father.
“Kiyome!”

* * *
~The Plaza…. ~
Parked in the
alley behind the defunct Uehara Bank were Yoji’s Super 7 and Ken’s Kawasaki
GPZ. Taking a pull off his cigarette finishing off the pack, Yoji studied
the monitor perched on the grimy mold discolored counter.
“Kuso!” Ken
crouched under a greasy window readjusting the ocular setting on his binoculars
again. “They’re running out like rats from a sinking ship! What the fuck is
going in there?” Beating his first two fingers on the laptop’s keyboard Yoji
punched the left arrow button and the image on the screen flipped and zoomed
into the walkway of the funeral home. He magnified it stretching his view into
the lobby where he could make out the front desk, but the pixels fragmented
everything. On his moped, Omi sped into Harajuku earlier than the others and
hacked his patented Weiß computerized surveillance system into the few
remaining security cameras once owned by the bank that were in working order
instead of making the delivery. “Oy, Yoji,” Ken said hauling himself to his
feet, “what have you got on the monitor?”
“Omoshiroi…” Balinese
said more to himself than his teammate.
“Yoji!” Siberian
flew to Yoji’s side and jostled him to get a better look. The camera panned out
displaying Muse bursting out of a fire exit, weakly propping herself on the
steel door before flouncing up the street. Ken pushed down the rage he was
about to fly into when he saw Yoji’s expression, one that wasn’t lust while
concentrating on the woman. “Anou onna?”
“’Dunno. But
something tells me that we shouldn’t forget her face.” Ken looked to the dead
chandeliers and wished he could have taken a crack at the power box. It was
better than enduring the monotony of this Kritiker stakeout hell. Aya was
against any lighting or air conditioning; it ran the chance of blowing their
cover and ordered them to refrain from doing anything outside of surveillance.
Omi, Yoji, and Ken were impressed and dumbfounded at their field leader’s
repose despite having seen Takatori and Schwarz enter the building. Ken began
to whirl and twist his body performing spin kicks, thrusts, jabbing the air
with a gloved fist faking out his invisible opponent and sliced the air in a
fury with his bugnuk delivering the death strike. His wanton hope of engaging
Farfarello was trampled. Ken took one last swipe at the air watching the dust
particles swim then decided to check in. “Siberian to Bombay,” he tapped the
transmitter in his ear. “Siberian to Bombay, do you read?”
“Loud and clear,
Siberian!” Omi’s voice chirped. Omi and Aya were stationed at a
semi-constructed high-rise setting up shop in one of the completed apartments.
The workers had off on weekends, so they moved about more comfortably.
“Anything
unusual?” Omi turned quickly in Aya’s direction where he was preoccupied on the
other computer monitoring the wiretaps.
“Just a stampede
of people running like bats out of hell-”
“Har har.”
“-but if you mean
Schwarz, they have yet to make their grand entrance.” Omi lazily flicked a
poison dart in the air giving Nagi a passing thought. “Abyssinian,” Aya cocked
his head, “have we got anything from the inside?” The redhead’s virulent violet
eyes trained on the stroboscopic line that bounced and jumped depicting every
sound taking place in the parlor. The digital recorder was activated so no
matter how insignificant the chatter Weiß picked up, it would still have to be
collected by Manx for Kritiker’s analysis.
“Nothing here.
Just a lot of shouting, but no weapons firing.” Omi stripped off his headset,
he normally wouldn’t want to classify any mission as pointless but this was
beginning to work his last nerve. What went through Persia’s head?! Given
Takatori’s relationships with Sukaruku, Riot, the Creepers, and Krankenhaus,
the chances of him behind Tatsuya’s death were good. Omi pulled up the latest
poll results and according to the majority, Miyamoto thrived on the popular
vote. Charismatic and a successful district attorney, he could win over public
opinion had he stayed in the race for their first televised debate. But the
seats in the Diet were occupied with pro-right Takatori yes men, not all agreed
with his Draconian proposals that were centered on the JSSDF and public
security measures that could possibly lynch personal freedoms; they herded like
cattle out of fear and lucrative gain. But there was something in the air, he
felt it riding his moped like heat glaring on his face when one looked directly
at the sun catching something redolent like incense and red earth. And if he
stood still and watched himself escape into the underpass- his little hand in
Persia’s- as he did almost nightly, he detected something underlying woven into
the dirty, wet asphalt… fire.
“What the hell
is going on?”

* * *
The
escalators were just in sight; Muse mentally battered herself for her gross
incompetence. Mastermind, a telepath of his level, could have picked up her
projections that easily. She stopped at the metal platform and weighed the
outcome; strategically she had the upper hand because the likelihood of him
knowing her identity was small since he was so caught up with Masako’s misery.
Getting sidetracked the sensations of the firm fingers cuffing her wrist didn’t
register until the last second. Her hand dipped into her purse...
“Sensei!” Muse
snapped back and saw the Miyamoto girl holding her hand.
“Kiyome!”
“Anou, Kawamata
Reika-sensei desu ka?”
“Kiyome-chan, what
are you doing here?” Kiyome bowed low enough to kiss her knees.
“Gomen. But I had
to leave, you understand…” Reika handed her a coke can while resting on a bench
taking long draughts when Kiyome pulled back first. “Ne, whatever happened back
there was pretty damn freaky.”
“Ah.” Kiyome
loosed the aluminum pull-tab slowly before freeing it completely from the can;
she held it up watching the sun trace its edges gleaming like a knife.
“Sensei… would you
mind coming to the house? I mean, others will be there so you don’t-”
“Mouchiron desu.”
Kiyome dropped the pull-tab and looked at the doctor squarely. Reika wasn’t
sure why she accepted the invitation, her assignment required her only to
attend the funeral and observe Takatori’s movements. Kiyome’s involvement with
her was to a lesser extent dangerous, as opposed to Reika’s poor judgment into
allowing their interaction to take place. But this little girl, mint green hair
wound in a tight bun in high school uniform could have been herself a few years
back. So why dwell on the negative? Reika did look forward to doing a bit of
eavesdropping on a pair of former Rosenkreuz classmates of hers.

* * *
~The Miyamoto
Residence…~
Reika
declined Kiyome’s offer to ride with the family back to the house because of
Masako’s state, but she did promise her that she would give her mother an
examination when she arrived. The doctor took the metro once more and walked
the rest of the way; a maid in a crisp pearl-grey summer uniform greeted her
warmly at the door, took her jacket and exchanged her shoes for guest slippers.
A number of cars lined either side of the street Reika saw and to her surprise
there were twice as many guests than she expected. In the master bedroom Masako
lie on her king-sized bed drowsy, but without the energy to speak or move much.
Junichi and Kiyome looked on helplessly. Reika took Junichi to the side leaving
his wife and daughter together. “It’s just exhaustion.” Fishing a bottle of
clear blue capsules from her medical bag she continued, “These are just light
sedatives. I’ve given her something now, but whenever she needs them just give
her two of these.”
“And call you in
the morning?” Reika had to fight to keep from laughing she simply bowed and
left. No surprise that Kiyome was right behind.
“She’ll be
alright, ne?” Reika grinned and squeezed Kiyome’s shoulder. The girl’s ears
perked and looked at Reika as though she forgot something. “Ah! You must be
starving.” Reika let herself be pulled by the girl down the steps and into
another corridor. “Chotto matte,” Kiyome winked, “I’ll go grab something from
the kitchen. My room is right there,” she pointed to the nearest open door.
“Better hang out up here, or all the old people downstairs will pin you to the
wall begging for your vote!” She flashed Reika the victory sign and was gone.
Reika sighed jovially, Kiyome’s smile and brave front was something to be truly
admired. Reika had her hand on Kiyome’s doorknob when she saw something move at
the end of the corridor.
“Hello? Dare ka?”
She stepped back to get a better look. “Koko wa dare?”
“Sensei?” Reika
spun round searching for the voice’s owner. The voice… it was male, too young
to be Junichi’s and too deep to be Masako’s. “Sensei?” At the end of the
corridor stood Tatsuya wearing his Jonan Gakuen uniform, head bowed.
“Tatsuya…” She
started for the apparition, but just as he came he vanished.
“Omakasete!” Reika
jumped a foot in the air with a shout, clutching her chest. “Gomen nasai,”
Kiyome pouted. “Daijoubu sensei?” The doctor shook her head violently and
grabbed the girl’s arm.
“Kiyome-chan… do
us a little favor and give fair warning before you do that.” Kiyome nodded
contritely, she wanted Kawamata-sensei to feel welcome after all she did. The
contents on the tray she carried began to rattle. She couldn’t save Tatsuya, no
one could and the only ones that should be blamed were his murderers. “So
what’s to eat around here?” Kiyome beamed.

* * *
Schwarz kept
to themselves in a corner of the congested drawing room, Takatori had a
sizeable crowd he was sermonizing to. Shulderich had not breathed a word about
his experience during the funeral but judging by the sidelong glances Crawford
was giving him, he expected his field leader to interrogate him when they
returned to the safe house. Nagi, who was seated on a folding chair sipping
punch, contemplated the morning’s events. The psychokinetic knew from firsthand
experience whoever pulled that stunt had to possess a great power source, but
not a whole lot of emotional or mental control over it. Thus was the nature of
his talents as well, it had gotten him into a few rough spots and disciplinary
actions, but all of that was incidental. He signaled a maid to refill his glass
and for some fried tofu, as he waited Nagi did a quick mental search around the
house… it was there, and Schwarz knew.
He brought the
porcelain up to his thin lips enjoying the rich, black Blue Mountain blend.
Crawford set the cup down on its saucer and idly examined it, periwinkles and
gold Greek key patterns. Quaint. “I want a full sweep of the second and third
floors,” he announced. Then turned to Farfarello slouched against the warm
brick of the fireplace, “And the yard. Do it.” Schwarz dispersed leaving their
leader tending to Takatori.

* * *
Reika
pressed down her fingertips to pick up whatever crumbs were left over from
their sandwiches. All that remained were a couple of bean buns and half a
pitcher of a citrus-aloe juice. Kiyome was giggling at something she pointed at
in her album, the doctor smoothed out nonexistent wrinkles on the black cotton
that shrouded her thighs.
“Ne?” Kiyome said.
“Hmm?”
“Can I braid your
hair?” Reika was hesitant. “Onegai shimassu?” Kiyome folded her hands, touching
the sides of her index fingers to her pouty lips.
“Mmm…” Reika shook
her head. “Okay.” Kiyome applauded triumphantly. Arranging her black tank
dress, Reika sat on Kiyome’s short vanity stool and whipped out the red ribbon
from her ponytail in one tug. Her auburn hair rolled to the floor. The girl
gasped fingering the thick tresses that made up the lustrous spill; she looked
at her silver brush almost guilty she had to use it.
“Used to do this
with my mom when I first learned how. But she cut her hair a couple of years
ago, I kinda miss it.” Kiyome was careful with her brush strokes parting the
hair into sections watching it get sleeker. “I‘ve been thinking about going to
college overseas.”
Reika tilted her
head. “Any reason why?”
“I‘ve always
wanted to read Shakespeare in the original text. Our class play before the
Christmas holidays was Romeo and Juliet. I played the nurse!” Reika
nodded.
“Congratulations.”
“Sou ja nai! I
thought I was terrible. The way I portrayed her was more like a hen than
willing accomplice.” Kiyome quieted for a few minutes. “Do you speak any
English?”
“’To be or not
to be? That is the question‘.” Reika answered in unaccented English.
“‘That is the
question.’” Kiyome parroted in Japanese.
“I remember a time
when I wanted to die in the water like Ophelia,” Reika reminisced.
Kiyome roughly grasped her shoulders bending over to look into her eyes.
“But not anymore
right?”
Reika shook her
head confidently. “I was quite the drama queen at your age.”
Kiyome calmed,
satisfied with the doctor‘s answer. “I bet you have a lot of boyfriends.”
Reika hooted.
“Baka iie! That’s the silliest thing I’ve heard to date. I have 35 hour
workdays, having a social life- let alone romance- doesn’t fit in the ER.”
“Uso!” Kiyome
exclaimed.
“Uso ja nai.”
Reika’s tone was matter-of-factly, but Kiyome in all of her schoolgirl naiveté
refused to back down.
“But you do have… experience.”
She raised her brows suggestively; Reika goggled and whirled away from Kiyome.
“We shouldn’t
discuss these things!” Kiyome erupted into peals of laughter, embraced the
brush to her breasts and twirled around until she crash-landed atop her bed.
“’Hair fanned
out all about her, like black angel wings. The elegance of her nudity, he
thought, was the only garment suited for her.’” Nagi lurked the empty
corridors, wandering into every empty room checking closets and bathrooms. He
padded on silent feet certain he had missed something until he heard
soft bantering from the only room on that floor that had its door shut. A pink
ceramic plate hanging from a peg read in looping, cartoony English ’KIYOME’.
“Ki-yo-me.“ Nagi drew
his finger left to right along the placard. Squatting until he was eye level
with the keyhole Nagi saw the room’s resident pacing by her bay window picking
at her fingernails.
“Demo ii, there
must be something you can tell me,” she whined to the bathroom door.
“I can image how
many of those books you keep under your bed.” Reika snickered.
“Too many.”
“Then take some
good advice: stick to ’em!”
Kiyome stomped
like a toddler after being ordered to the time out corner. “Sensei!”
“I should be
ignoring you… what would your mother think?”
She leaned against
the door rolling her eyes. “’Kaa-san lives in the Showa Era. A mention of
the s-word, she’d have a heart attack!” Reika stood in front of the girl’s
light bulb bordered mirror toying with the braid she did and sighed; Kiyome
knew how to play the game.
“It’s overrated.”
The stars and stripes briefly flitted in her mind. She heard Kiyome’s whoop
from the other side of the room.
“Everybody says
that Sensei. Care to elucidate?” Nagi crept closer intrigued to hear her
friend’s reply.
“It is… exquisite
brutality.” Kiyome’s jaw dropped, Nagi felt the oncoming of a nosebleed.
/Cheating on
Nanami-chan? / The youngest Schwarz stood up and resisted the temptation of
flinging the Rodin sculpture sitting on a three-legged glass table at the
opposite end of the hall at the telepath.
“Fuck off
Shulderich.”
“Naughty, naughty
Nagi-chan.” He shoved Nagi aside and took his place at the keyhole.
“Ara-ra-ra-ra-ra, what do we have here?” A silent Kiyome flopped back on her
bed facing the door, giving Shulderich a prime view of her panties. He
fantasized tracing the edge of his hunting knife in those damp little kiss
curls. “Our fearless leader wants a report,” he circled his thumb round the
doorknob. “Ikzou.” Reika exited the bathroom, refreshed when someone knocked.
“Hai?” Kiyome said
not bothering with getting up. A maid opened her door.
“Shitsurei
shimassu. Anou, Kiyome-sama your aunts are looking for you.” Kiyome bolstered
herself on both elbows.
“Eh?!”
“Suimasen.” The
maid bowed and Reika smiled.
Kiyome fell back.
“Wakatta.” The maid bowed once more and shut the door behind her. Sliding her
feet into slippers, Kiyome went to her desk chair and pulled on her peppermint
blue Chuo blazer. “This won’t take long. They probably want to take turns
railing on me for running out on the service.” She was halfway out the door
when she stopped. “I’m not a bad person,” Kiyome stated quite soberly. “But
here I am giggling and taking about sex at my brother’s funeral…”
“We all have
different ways handling grief, Kiyome-chan.” Reika offered Kiyome nodded. Reika
waited a few minutes until Kiyome’s footfalls faded completely and she went
back down the corridor. Rubbing her knuckles together the doctor tentatively
approached the last room and noting the lack of ruffles and dolls, she assumed
it belonged to Tatsuya. “All right Tatsuya-kun, what did you want to show me?”
Track stars, Le Arc en Ciel, and Legolgel posters occupied every
inch of wall space. His bed was made, there were Post-Its on his Compaq
monitor, a shelf reaching almost to the ceiling housed CDs, CD-ROMs,
videos, and DVDs. His textbooks were on his right end table, manga and book
collection in shimmering steel crates. A Beyblade alarm clock was on his
left end table and a framed photo of his track team in their red and white
uniforms. They hoisted a trophy while he had his arm round a spunky,
shorthaired brunette. “So this was your girlfriend?”
Something clumped
to the carpet behind her. Reika put back the photo and saw one of Tatsuya’s CDs
lying there. She opened up the jewel case to find it empty she then skimmed
through the booklet. It was a German punk group she was unfamiliar with, having
no trouble with the language she read a few lyrics but was ready to give up.
But her attention was diverted to a low-pitched racket coming from the bed.
Abandoning the CD she saw Tatsuya’s silver Discman by his pillow and
tucked the earbuds in.
^…Ich kann es
sehn:
Vor
siebenhundertdreizehn Jahren
war ich ein
Prinz in Agadir.
Ich kann es
sehn,
daß wir da
schon zusammen waren,
du warst die
schönste Sklavin neben mir.
Alles schwarz -
so schwarz wie meine Wände,
Alles schwarz -
wir reichen uns die Hände,
Alles schwarz -
nur Kerzenlicht,
Alles schwarz -
wenn das Orakel spricht:..^

* * *
On the
portico Crawford sat on a white wicker chair, his index fingers pressed
together. Farfarello hopped on the first step. “Well?” The psycho shook his
head and resumed slouching on the supporting beam. Shulderich and Nagi joined
them. “What took you so long?”
“We’re having a
nice time too, thank you.” Shulderich said.
“We found
nothing,” Nagi declared.
Shulderich
snorted. “Speak for yourself.”
“Hmm?” Crawford
thinned his eyes.
The telepath put
his arm around Nagi’s shoulders. “I’m afraid something will have to be done
about Nagi-chan.”
“Nani?!” Nagi
choked.
“Not only is he a
two-timer, but a peeping tom as well- ITAI!” One of the psychokinetic’s
invisible fists cuffed Shulderich on the back of the head. “Kono….” He struck
an attack stance while Nagi just stared him down silently. Farfarello watched
his two teammates with a mocking blood thirst.
“Enough.” Crawford
commanded and regarded Nagi. “Why did you waste your time at the girl’s door?”
Nagi shrugged. “I
heard voices. Kiyome was talking with her friend.”
“Did you see who
it was?”
“No, the friend
was in the bathroom.”
“Did you catch
what they were talking about?”
Nagi grunted
vaguely, “Shira nai. Whatever women talk about, nonsense I guess.”
“I believe,”
Shulderich interpolated smugly, “I heard something along the lines of
’exquisite brutality’.” A violent pink shade smudged the bridge of Nagi’s nose.
“I’m going to get
something to eat.”
“You do that,” the
telepath replied. Nagi began to remove his loafers when a smashing sound in the
distance silenced the assassination team. With Shulderich leading, Schwarz ran
round back to the southwest wing, looking up they focused on a second floor
window.
“You said you
found nothing except the Miaymoto girl and her friend,” Crawford pulled out his
.9 mm addressing Nagi and Shulderich.
“Sou! That’s when
Mastermind came to get me and I went downstairs.” Crawford cocked the gun.
“Something isn’t
adding up, care to share Shulderich?” The German loaded a fresh mag into his
nickel-plated automatic and backtracked.
“A maid came up
the other stairway to get the girl and-” he froze. Predictably lust cloyed
Shulderich’s thought processes; he was so immersed in drooling to see that
Kiyome was the only one to leave the room. “She walked out alone.”
Nagi’s attention
was on Farfarello, whose eye was glittering, staring at the window.
“Kami-sama,”
Berserker said in a monotone, “has sent forth His angels. That is the boy’s
room.”

* * *
The Discman crackled,
the lid snapped in two and its body split apart exposing the wiring and green
boards. The CD was intact. Cradling her head, Reika was angry with herself for
reacting this way. Why was she shocked? They were only taught to take orders,
damn the world. They had no qualms about executing a high school kid all
because his father politically threatened their employer. She spent her life
rationalizing that those she sacrificed stood in the way of the perfect world. Because
they were human? If the organization learned that she were here, they would
reprimand then suspend her. But they were in the Old Man’s debt. She was not to
interfere, per se, but it was a unanimous decision that the situation in
Japan was becoming unstable at a rate that went against the timetable.
~The last week
of August is the deadline. ~
There was movement
in the corridor. Getting to her feet Reika searched this way and that for her
weapon, when she recalled that her purse was downstairs. Schwarz was in
position…

TSUZUKU
- 1
- 2
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Prodigal Daughter