Gundara Storage Vault

[VF fic] A Kiss to Build a Dream On - Chapter Two (IIa)

2007-06-16T15:27:42Z

Due to the overall length of the chapter, I have been forced by LJ to break this into two parts. Please continue to enjoy.

Irate, Feilong bought his knee up swiftly and grinned savagely as it crunched against bone. Mikhail grunted at the stab of pain in his side and grabbed hold of the leg, hooking it under his arm. It tossed Feilong off balance and he easily captured the other leg and jerked Feilong towards him, spreading him wide. Chuckling all the way, he positioned himself and nudged the small puckered opening.

Alarmed, Feilong fought to rise onto his elbows. Fool, you haven’t –

His vision whited-out for a good three seconds after Mikhail speared into him all the way to the hilt. His insides were set alight at the sensation of being torn apart and his body froze from the shock. Even the scream of pain was locked in his throat.

Feilong willed his eyes to remain dry. Anger, rage and eventually hate corroded his veins like acid. He felt like the world’s greatest fool. There he was, his loyal tea-boy kidnapped, and instead of bringing fifty men to storm the Arbatov villa to exact revenge, he came alone to be fucked and ended up pinned to the ground, violated and humiliated.

“Fei?” there was a twinge of panic in Mikhail’s voice.

“Take it out and get off,” he said woodenly, eyes scouring the floor to see where his clothes were.

“Fei, why on god’s earth are you this tight?”

“I said take it out. I’m going home.”

He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t want to know where he was or how shameful he looked at the moment. If there was a hole, he’d crawl into it and never come out because it was entirely his own fault he was in this stupid predicament.

Good one, Feilong. This is your idea of buying time for your men: by offering yourself to your rival like a whore. Dad’s spinning so fast in his grave he’s got whiplash.

He muted his sigh of relief when he felt Mikhail withdraw and the unbearable pressure inside disappeared. He immediately sat up, clenching his teeth as pain lanced through him, sapping his limbs of strength, but he wasn’t going to give Mikhail any satisfaction by openly showing it. He recovered his cheongsam and threaded his arm through the torn sleeve, vainly trying to make the apparel fit.

Mikhail stopped him, encircling his arms around him and pulling him up against his chest in another suffocating embrace. “Fei, talk to me. Did I do something wrong?”

“You hurt me, you fucking dipshit.” He wasn’t going to bother about his manners now. There was going to be war, and there was going be blood and violence and it would be messy and all over the place.

Mikhail was pulling every trick out of his book to calm him down. He nuzzled his unresponsive cheek and ran his hands up and down his back to cajole his shallow breathing to even out. “How? What did I do?”

“What did you do?” Feilong repeated in disbelief. “Are you seriously that stupid? You rammed your godawfully huge prick into me without preparation. Let me shove a ten-inch dildo up your ass – your scream will be sweet music to my ears.”

Feilong still couldn’t understand why, or even how Mikhail managed to keep up his act of the wrongly accused. Upset Mikhail couldn’t even understand such a simple concept caused him to mercilessly jab his elbow into the exact same spot where he had kneed him moments ago.

“Ouch! Fei, I thought you wouldn’t need preparation. My informants have been telling me you play with Takaba every night.”

Feilong could just weep. In fact, he almost did. “What idiot master would let his dog mount him, you hopeless moron!” He almost succeeded in breaking Mikhail’s jaw with his next swipe. “My ass was closed for business all year. All year you insensitive jerk!”

Again, Mikhail’s act of guilt and panic surprised him. It was laughable. The Russian was happy to, and invested heavily no doubt, in sending spies to Baishe to steal his property but now he looked ready to do anything for his forgiveness. Too little. Too late. Storming Arbatov’s villa was an option still open to him. All he had to do was pick up the phone and mobilize his troops. Where was his goddamn phone?

“Wait, Fei, don’t go. I’ll make it right. I’ll make you feel better. Promise”

He very much doubted it. The pain as now feeding a number of response options in his mind, relaying automatic reflexes honed through years of rigorous training. The gun in its holster was an arms stretch away and Mikhail hadn’t removed his wrist blades either. He sniffed. If Arbatov wanted to sleep with a tiger, he could take the risk of being mauled after pissing said tiger off.

Feilong didn’t see where Mikhail had gone to but warmth soon returned in the form of muscular arms binding him like bands of steel.

Ah, so he is worried I might just knife him.

But Mikhail always bought out the worst in him with his fierce, fiery kisses. It roused Feilong like a moth to a flame. He knew it was suicidal to melt into the Russian’s warmth. He had already been hurt once tonight, but for those kisses and to partake, for however short, in Mikhail’s seemingly inexhaustible pyre of passion, Feilong could throw all caution to the wind.

Maybe he was actually the bigger fool of the two.

He choked back a sob when hands encircled his cock again, determined to bring the flaccid organ to life. His legs still quivered from the trauma of the pain and mere moments ago he was entertaining thoughts of squeezing several rounds of 0.9m shells into the Arbatov family jewels. But now as he was cradled in Mikhail’s arms and Mikhail earnestly sucked on his bottom lip and pumped him steadily, the horror from moments bygone were rapidly becoming a fading, distant memory.

“Please believe that was an innocent mistake,” the blond murmured. “I honestly had no idea.”

Too much skin contact. The heat was unbearable and had no prospect of subsiding. Opening his eyes to behold Mikhail’s sincere expression took literally all his remaining strength.

“I’ll make you feel better,” Mikhail repeated. He removed his fingers from Feilong’s cock and probed the burning ring around his opening. Feilong bit his lip and closed his eyes, turning away, mentally bracing himself for the worst. He realized his reaction before was childish and dangerous. If Mikhail was any less compassionate, he would have shot his own plan to pieces before he had received the call from Lin that Tao was safe and that his casino deeds were within his possession again. Whatever happened now, whether he was going to be tied up and whipped or branded with hot iron, he was going to last until ten o’clock.

Mikhail nibbled at the creased skin between his eyes in an abortive attempt to erase the frown. “Don’t worry, love. I’m going to be gentle. I’m always gentle.”

Fingers fleetingly left his anus and returned, cold and soothing. Mikhail traced his lubricated fingers along the ridges and rained kisses over Feilong’s eyes to kiss away the invisible tears.

One finger slipped in and began stroking the ravaged walls, encouraging Feilong to relax around the digit. To Feilong, it felt like someone was finally kind enough to apply ice to his stinging burns. He let his head lean on Mikhail’s shoulder and his clawed hands digging into Mikhail’s back subconsciously rubbed the red welts in a tacit acceptance of his apology.

Taking confidence in Feilong’s abating anger, Mikhail added another finger and slowly scissored them, stretching his insides all the while nudging at his prostate again and again.

Sparks burst into his vision; jolts of pleasure left his cock aching. Feilong wound his arms around Mikhail’s neck, twined his leg with Mikhail’s and pulled himself up, relishing in the friction on his cock that was sandwiched between their bodies. He rubbed himself against Mikhail several times before Mikhail untangled his arms and held him still.

Feilong snarled and bared his teeth. It earned him another surprised look.

“Fei, you need to relax and calm down or else you won’t last.”

“How in the nine hells do I calm down when you – anh!”

Mikhail growled and nipped his earlobe. “You see what happens when you neglect me and indulge yourself with untrained brats. You become oversensitized and start behaving like a virgin again.”

“If you don’t shut up and get on with it, I’ll do it myself and ride you.” He blocked out the wonderful feeling of the three fingers fucking him and summoned all his strength to push Mikhail onto his back.

“I’ll be over in under five minutes if I let you do that.” Mikhail lifted Feilong and deposited him onto the mountain of cushions. “And there’ll probably be nothing left on my back either. Thanks to you, I cannot parade around in my swim trunks for the next two weeks – not unless you help me come up with a decent explanation for all the bruises and scratches.”

“You walked into a hungry tiger’s den and tried to play with the kitty.” Feilong’s fingers flexed around Mikhail’s taut butt cheeks, molding them with the palm of his hands and smirked as Mikhail stifled a gasp when their naked erections grounded up against each other.

Mikhail’s stare was serious and intense and burned into him. “You’re one hot bitch in heat tonight, Fei. I thought you disapproved of drugs.”

“The only one drugged around here is Takaba,” Feilong snapped, feeling his cheeks heat and the inference. He might be reacting like a virgin, but he sure as hell wasn’t one and wasn’t going to let a comment like that add to his embarrassment. So in response, he boldly locked his legs around Mikhail’s hips and jerked the bigger man forward. “Come on. I’m ready now. Just stick it in like you did before.”

Mikhail’s smile was a mixture of kindness and amusement. “Then you’ll complain later I was too rough. I don’t trust you to talk sense right now, Fei. I’m going to do things my way. I’m going fuck you slow and deep and hard until you cry.

Feilong’s knees weakened by those words alone and he licked his dry lips in anticipation.

Mikhail entered almost cautiously and crept in inch by inch. Feilong’s eyes closed briefly at the initial sting but the pain was a dull burn this time. Maybe this was a better idea after all, he vaguely thought, although he found himself more fascinated by the deep trench-like lines etched on Mikhail’s forehead as he practiced the ultimate control not to let his lust plow straight into him like before.

He pulled Mikhail’s head down for a kiss, gentle and teasing and felt Mikhail smile against his lips.

“I’m all in.”

There were no white-outs this time, just a great but familiar pressure he had to adjust to. Mikhail patiently waited, kissing, licking, sucking and lapping every inch of skin within reach. Feilong rewarded him with an experimental squeeze.

Mikhail froze. Feilong laughed.

“Gotcha!”

Mikhail’s eyes darkened. “You do that again, and no more Mr. Nice Guy.”

He did it again.

The Russian shook away the bangs obscuring his vision in a frenzy and withdrew nearly all the way to the tip of the head, then relentlessly pushed back in doing as he promised: slow, deep and incredibly intense. Mikhail angled himself to hit the bundle of nerve endings inside him each time and clamped down with a steel grip on Feilong’s hips to exert full control.

Helpless, Feilong spread his arms wide on either side to brace himself against each shove and arched his back each time Mikhail’s balls slapped up against him.

Minutes past. Feilong’s vision became a messy blur of colours and his hair was plastered to his sweaty face. Like his, Mikhail’s body was dewed with perspiration. Droplets flew with each vigorous thrust and he could no longer hold back his gasp and groans as Feilong mercilessly contracted his muscles and attempted to wring him dry.

“Steady, Fei.” Mikhail paused in spite of the wicked contractions rippling down his cock. Feilong tried to buck his hips but Mikhail refused to yield. “Fei! You keep this up and I’m going to lose it for good.”

“Then lose it already! What part of me still looks sane? I’ll rectify it immediately.”

For that quip, Mikhail gave a sharp thrust that had Feilong reeling, and his keening cry drove Mikhail over the edge.

Mikhail fucked him in earnest, his hips working like a piston in overdrive as he pounded into him. Feilong’s whole body was wound tight like a violin string, shuddering with each thrust and his heart hammered against the breastbone as his lungs struggled to keep up. Amidst the babble of cries, moans and gasps were rare words of pleading.

“More, Misha, more…ahh…ahh…”

Now and then, he lost coherence as he tossed his head from side to side trying to shake off the unbearable mounting pleasure. He clung to the heated body on top of him, biting, fervently kissing and sobbing for dear life as his body tingled with the first signs sweet release.

When Mikhail abruptly stopped, tears actually slipped down his cheeks. He felt a roughly padded thumb wipe away the salty droplets but he felt no endearment at the gesture this time, only a savage, irrational sense of deprivation. That only increased when Mikhail resumed the prior, tortuously slow and teasing pace.

“You fucking bastard,” he grated between clenched teeth, trembling on par with a drug addict suffering withdrawal. “This isn’t the time for silly games.”

Indignation flared at another one of Mikhail’s chuckles. Blue eyes curved and twinkled mischievously and were far from repentant. The longer Feilong stared into them, the more he wanted to gouge them out with his bare hands.

“You almost had me there for a moment, Fei, but I’m not going to let you make me eat my words,” Mikhail softly taunted and deliberately jerked his hips forward without warning, wringing another cry from Feilong.

Frustrated, Feilong let out a primal sound that was highly reminiscent of a murderous war cry. At the flick of his right wrist, the sheathed blade slid into his hand and he levered himself up with his left elbow until he could press the flat side of the metal against Mikhail’s exposed throat. The Russian froze.

“I’m in no mood to play. If you don’t give it me hard and fast, this instant, so help me I’ll…unhhh…I’ll…ahh….no…”

“You’ll what, my dear?” Mikhail continued rolling his hips, laughing outright as he did so and easily pulled the knife from his neck and pried it out of Feilong’s boneless fingers. He also caught the other hand that was ineffectually punching him and firmly pinned them down above Feilong’s head.

Feilong wailed softly, once, and fell silent apart from the sob and whimper and hiccup here and there. In the quiet, Feilong heard the steady crackle of the fire from the fireplace accompanied by the wet sounds of sex. He could feel Mikhail push and drag himself in and out of him, allowing him to miss nothing of this primitive ritual of joining.

<>“You’re heavy, Misha,” he murmured when the man lowered himself down completely once again.

“Just wanted to be closer to you, to hear you when I do this.”

Mikhail’s free hand managed to slip in between their bodies to squeeze his sex.

“Misha…”

“I’m very good at hurting others, Fei, but you must know I could never intentionally hurt you.”

“Misha…please….let me come.”

“Will you promise to think of me, and not him?”

Mikhail smothered him in a deep kiss as if afraid to hear his answer. Feilong blinked the sweat and tears out of his eyes. He was so close to the edge his teeth chattered. It was a marvel he could still articulate his words.

“Look at me, Misha. You’ve taken me completely. I have begged and I am at your mercy. What more do you want?”

Mikhail now pumped him in time with his thrusts. Feilong’s mind began to unravel and it grew difficult to catch onto Mikhail’s words.

“I want you to have nothing to do with this Asami. I will hand Takaba back to the Japanese on condition of pain of death he returns to his country and never sticks a foot in Hong Kong.”

“No! Ungh…Misha! You can’t…aah!”

Mikhail ignored his impassioned pleas, driving himself into Feilong at that maddening pace. “I was not there eight years ago and there’s not a day where I don’t regret what happened to you, to us. But I’m here this time. I’m going to take care of you. I’m going to take care of this.”

Things started to become clear again in the haze of lust. “How dare you treat me like a weakling! I won’t stand for it.”

“I very much doubt you’ll be able to stand after I’m done with you. I’ve made my decision. No more talk. Wouldn’t you much rather come?”

The dual stimulation from the unforgiving grip around his erection and the fierce thrusts into him finally allowed Feilong to climax. He cried brokenly as pleasure exploded and the shockwaves reached the tips of his toes and fingers. He felt the semen coat their rubbing abdomens and Mikhail thrust into him a few more times before he froze and gave a particularly harsh growl, burying his face in Feilong’s neck as he came.

They lay there, one atop the other, panting for air. Though Feilong felt a bone deep weariness threatening to claim him, Mikhail still imprisoned him his arms with no intentions of relaxing his grip. The Chinese triad leader didn’t know what to do with himself. The sex was over; they had both orgasmed and so the momentary passions invoked by lust should abate and they should be back to their former cold, impersonal selves.

But Mikhail held on, tried to capture the Feilong’s rare moment of vulnerability and openness and clung on with the archetypal Russian tenacity that saw them through the harshest winters mother nature could throw at them. Did that mean if Feilong was any less cold and cruel than the worst Siberian winter, the Russian would eventually triumph and conquer him?

For a second, Feilong almost let himself buy into the fairytale, but hard lessons in history grounded him back in reality, ugly and harsh though it was. Mikhail sensed his change in mood and worried his earlobe gently between his teeth. Feilong tried to shake him off.

“Aren’t you going to take it out already?” he referred to Mikhail’s member still embedded inside him.

Mikhail playfully suckled on his lips and wound his arms around Feilong tighter still. In an admirable demonstration of strength, he lifted both of them off the ground and sank into the couch. Feilong blushed as he now sat face to face with Mikhail and felt the Russian’s hard member nudge against his prostate. He bit his lip and sought to pull free, but Mikhail’s hands bracketed his hips once more and urged him to stay.

“Surely you’re good for another round? That was just an opening to rid your systems of the madness of having missed me for over a year. Now we can make love properly, now?”

Make love? Odd choice of words, or just words he hadn’t heard in a long time. His cooled cheeks heated again and he tested his own body’s responsiveness by rocking his hips. The heat of arousal instantly pooled, tightening his lower abdomen and was undeniable when Mikhail bucked his hips up in response.

Fatigue retreated in the renewed fires of passion, and Feilong left halfmoon bruises on either side of Mikhail’s shoulders as he gripped on them for leverage to lift himself up. Mikhail helped, although he was more interested in artistically leaving a series of bite marks all across his chest and ran his tongue all along the ridges as if to seal them in permanently.

Feilong found it terribly erotic and subconsciously increased his pace and found himself the perfect angle for his prostate to be repeatedly stroked. His whimpers took on a tone of urgency and Mikhail pulled him close and tilted his head up, demanding to be kissed. Feilong complied and hopelessly wrapped his arms and legs around the Russian and earnestly clamped down along Mikhail’s member.

“This feels good, doesn’t it Fei? This is better than being hurt?”

The truth of that statement was impossible to deny. Feilong remained silent.

“At least tell me you like this.”

“Stop treating me like I’m some damn sensitive woman,” he managed between clenched teeth and his hips slammed down and mechanically rose up to repeat the same. Mikhail wasn’t playing fair if he used sex as a method of extracting a confession out of him. “I wouldn’t be fucking you if it didn’t feel good.”

The Russian pouted, a look that was entirely unnatural and petulant. “The fucking is only good only because I’m kind to you, and I’m kind to you because I like you. I’ve always liked you, Fei, and for all your smarts, you don’t seem to be picking up on this.”

Oh gods, there it was, confessing in the middle of sex, declarations of affection and pledges of commitment. It should feel like being sloshed with a bucket of icy cold water, but for some reason, Feilong was spurred on to drive himself harder and faster up and down Mikhail’s cock.

“I’m going to keep liking you Fei, not because you doll up for my private viewing pleasure, though I appreciate that thought very much. And you’ve got to understand that if I like someone, I’m going to do a lot of things for them.”

Feilong shuddered uncontrollably as Mikhail gripped onto his staff and squeezed in time with the thrusts. He bucked erratically and rocked on Mikhail’s cock so far that the couch groaned at the pressure.

He climaxed and felt a rush of heat inside him as Mikhail stilled.

“I’m going to intervene if the person I like gets hurt,” the Russian obstinately repeated between uneven breaths, and though tired, was determined not to relax his embrace. “You’re not a weak person Fei, but we all have our moments of weakness. You should have someone to rely on; a friend, or a lover.”

“Sop it, Misha. I don’t want to hear it,” Feilong tried to sound commanding, but it came out as a tortured plea.

He felt moisture leaking out of his anus, trickling down his thighs as he remained a messy, panting wreck in Mikhail’s arms. He was only too aware that rational thoughts and decisions could not be made when the mind was soaked in emotions. The high from the hormones, the adrenaline rush would eventually subside, and what then? The proclamations now would be dry and brittle as the dead leaves tossed around by winter’s winds.

Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.

Contact was made again with his lips, now swollen and bruised, and instead of biting down, he leaned in and reveled in Mikhail’s taste until –

Mikhail swore. Feilong’s awareness for his surroundings perked up and he looked around to see where the sound of a ringing mobile phone was coming from. There, slung on the far end of the couch, was his jacket where he had kept his cell phone.

Despite the owner not picking up, the phone insisted on being heard. Feilong blinked, then whipped his head around the room until he located a clock above the fireplace on the mantlepiece.

9:45pm.

Did this mean? Oh, Lin, you’re brilliant. There’ll be medals, a banquet after this mess is over…

Feilong scrabbled out of Mikhail’s lap and dove for the jacket, plunging his hands into the pockets until he found the vibrating device and fended himself from Mikhail’s hands that attempted to reclaim him. “Liu here.”

“Lin reporting.” He knew it! “Tao is back at Baishe HQ. We’ve also got the deed.”

Eyes warily watching Mikhail all the time to make sure the Arbatov didn’t over hear, Feilong concentrated on suppressing his excitement and upholding his blank expression. However, right now, all he wanted to do was laugh aloud, laugh in Asami’s face and force the yakuza to produce other consideration for Akihito’s return; and he was going to name an extremely high price – maybe even Asami’s right hand. “All right, copy that – ”

“Asami knows we’ve taken back the deeds.”

Cold dread speared his heart. This was too fast, too soon. “Where is he now?”

“From what we understand, he’s most likely going to raid Arbatov’s residence. Tonight. He knows you’re trying to dud the Russian by giving Takaba for Tao when you’ve already got your deed back and he’ll have nothing to trade in return for the Japanese boy.”

The world began to crumble as his plans fell apart faster than he could force back the tides of despair. “How did this happen? I told you to – ”

Lin spoke reluctantly, voice dogged by guilt. “Asami was nearby after our mission was accomplished. We…I thought it was too good an opportunity to pass. Our team had a clear shot, but your sharp shooter apparently brags better than he shoots. There was a melee, Asami got away.”

“Confirm his movements,” he barked, now desperately looking around the room for his clothes. He needed to return to Hong Kong straight away if he wanted to preserve what was left of his control. Mikhail sensed his alarm and attempted to close in on him, but he kept backing away, distracted by thoughts of gutting Lin and that sniper in the most painful way. “Order the men to – ”

“Laoban! We’ve intercepted radio communications. Asami will reach Arbatov Villa soon; ETA 7 minutes. I’ll put your pilot on alert. Please think of a way to get out safely.”

The line went dead. Feilong felt stranded. He was four floors away from his only means of escape, and even if he did get into the chopper, Mikhail’s men would bring him down blazing with rocket propelled grenades. Or, he could pretend to agree with the Russian, give Akihito to Mikhail, then act as if there was some emergency back at Headquarters and safely leave. He would have at least two minutes head start and let Asami and Mikhail take each other down, just like he initially planned.

I’m kind to you because I like you.

He shook his head to fling away those bothersome words, words that stirred up pangs of guilt, provoked an undeniable sense of shame for even considering abusing the trust of those few who wanted to be kind to him. His flesh crawled; a feeling of repulsion so strong hit him in the gust and made him retch.

He groped for his silken pants and hastily slipped into them, avoiding Mikhail’s concerned eyes, and kicked the ruined cheongsam out of his way as he pulled his trench coat about him.

“Fei? What happened? Aren’t you going to stay the night? Please, look at me.”

Let Asami and Mikhail take each other down. Stick to the goddamn plan!

“Get dressed!” he snarled, trembling fingers trying to guide the coat buttons into their respective holes. “Get dressed and warn your men.”

Confusion plagued the blond man. He tried to reach out and kiss Feilong, but Feilong reacted violently as if he had been scalded by hot water. Feilong didn’t know what hurt him more: the guilt, or the prospect of Mikhail hating him and never pressing those warm lips against his neck ever again.

“Get dressed!” he almost screamed. Or I’m going to spit on your kindness and repay your warmth by shooting you in the back. “Asami’s coming!”

And as Mikhail got dressed, Feilong’s conscience made him blurt out all that he had connived before coming to Macau.

Mikhail absorbed it all without uttering a word, but various emotions flashed on his face. Anger, cold, unforgiving rage at what Feilong conjured; hurt that Feilong would think about double crossing him; then unshakable conviction to deal with the looming threat.

“Go.”

Feilong blinked. “What?”

“I said, go. Get out. I’ll go along with your plan and handle the Jap, but we’re going to talk when this is over.”

Arbatov made the word ‘talk’ sound like something to dread and look forward to. Feilong bit his lip hard until he drew blood. Now that he was here in Macau, he didn’t feel like running away from the presence of Asami and letting someone else handle his problems.

“No,” he croaked. “I’m not going. I’m staying.”

Mikhail rolled his eyes and tossed his arms up in the air, exasperated. “Are you going to contradict everything I say tonight, Fei? Stop being so goddamn childish. Go up to the roof and – ”

Everything went to hell in a handbasket after the explosion occurred and the glass windows shattered and all the lights went out. Mikhail instinctively grabbed Feilong to shield him with his body as large chunks of plaster broke off and fell from the ceiling and the floor beneath them heaved and shook.

Smoke and fog instantly rose in the room, and no matter how hard Feilong tried to swat away the elusive grey mist, he could hardly make out what was in front of him. Gunshots crackled closely and he pulled Mikhail to the floor, cursing all the way.

“Liu Feilong! You’ve gone too far!”

Asami Ryuichi!

An insane laugh issued from Feilong’s lips. Though he trembled from head to toe and tears from the smoke stung his eyes and openly trickled down his dust caked cheeks, it felt like a reckoning. Here, in this place, this time, his arch nemesis stood but paces from him, and years of aching, pain, loneliness and thoughts of revenge all converged on this instant. He would either break the barbed shackles that bound him to the past or die trying.

“Hurts to have a loved one taken from you, doesn’t it, Asami?” he shouted hysterically in Japanese at the shadows lurking beyond the fog. Though he couldn’t see, he could still hear, and with some accuracy, determine where his attackers lay in wait.

“Fei, get down!” Mikhail tried to hold onto him, but he danced away, both blades out in his hands. He dodged another burst of gunfire, spotted the man spraying the bullets and with astonishing daring and speed ran straight for him and slit his throat.

Warm blood drenched his hands; his grip on the handles of his blades became slippery and wet, but all Feilong could do was laugh and laugh and laugh. The hairs on the back of his neck rose in warning as another one of Asami’s men tried to sneak up behind him. For his pitiful efforts, Feilong spun around and broke the man’s neck with a high roundhouse kick.

Then the lights came back on. Urgent shouts in Russian could be heard from the hallway and the smoke canisters bean to exhaust themselves. Mikhail picked up Feilong’s gun and shot down another one of the intruders in the room then ran for cover as Asami fired in his direction.

“Arbatov,” Asami grated out harshly in English, trying not to choke on the smoke, “this does not concern you. I don’t have the casino deeds any more – we both have nothing each other would want.”

Mikhail laughed humourlessly and took another shot over his shoulder. “You destroy my home and invade it with armed men then tell me to be an observer? Surely you jest!”

More harried shouts from the hallway could be heard – and it was clear that the Russian guards were prevailing over Asami’s remaining men. Asami swore and finally located Akihito sprawled on the ground in a growing pool of his own blood.

“Aki!” he began to run to the unconscious boy.

Then from Asami’s blind side, Feilong emerged from the smoke in a flash of cold steel. Asami’s first reaction was to shoot at point blank, but Feilong’s honed reflexes allowed him to dodge, even at such close distance, and he cut away at Asami’s middle. An incredible high like pure speed was dumped into his veins, his blood, as he saw Asami visibly wince in pain, and he carelessly bought the extended blade back and managed a hairline scar on the fleeing yakuza’s cheek.

Asami Ryuichi, not to be outdone, steadied his hand and fired a shot which grazed Feilong’s shoulder and drew blood. But the Chinese mafia lord kept charging as if nothing happened and continued his pursuit, risking to be shot at again. This time, the blond Russian tackled him from behind with the intention of restraining him.

The two men hit the floor to avoid another succession of bullets from Asami. Feilong took the opportunity and elbowed Mikhail as hard as he could. He heard the Arbatov’s gasp of pain, his hold slackened, and Feilong and rushed at Asami again, knife raised high.

“You can rendezvous with your lover in hell!”

Feilong’s eyes lit with the fey light of triumph as he bought the blade down as fast and as hard as he could. Encumbered by Akihito’s prone form slung across his shoulder, Asami tried to pull back, and by some miracle, the knife tore through skin and rendered muscle and nicked bone but missed his heart.

Gritting his teeth, he kicked out at Feilong and ran towards the open windows where his helicopter came into view, two of his men gesturing to him with their arms outstretched. Feilong watched as Asami leapt from the windowsill with his boy and was pulled into safety. With one last defiant scream, he threw one of his knives and laughed again as it embedded itself all the way to the hilt in someone’s eye and blood splattered all over the shocked yakuza boss.

“Feilong, enough!” Mikhail roared, gaining his feet again and staggered over to Feilong. However, Feilong shouldered him aside and raced out of the room, intending to give chase by air and to complete the routing. Behind him, he heard Mikhail shout for his men to stand down and let him pass.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

“Laoban…”

He awoke, pale and shaking, with a start and glared at the first thing he saw: Zeng’s worried and apologetic expression.

Feilong studied his surroundings for a moment and listened to the sounds of traffic foreign to his ears. Then he remembers. “Oh…the meeting. Right.”

“Are you all right, Laban? We can postpone – ”

“We will postpone nothing. Let’s go.”

His head of security did not argue and immediately bowed his head in acquiescence. Only when they reached the door and were about to leave the privacy of the presidential suite did Feilong hesitate to ask, “Zeng, did I…say anything in my sleep?”

“Laoban…muttered something in Russian. My Russian’s rusty; I couldn’t understand,” Zeng quickly reassured.

Feilong nodded, composed once again, and veered his mind from the past to the present.

( Return to Chapter Index )

[VF fic] A Kiss to Build a Dream On - Chapter Two (IIa)

2007-06-16T15:18:03Z

A KISS TO BUILD A DREAM ON

Fandom: Viewfinder

Chapter: Chapter 2 (part II)
Characters: MikhailxFeilong, AsamixTakaba
Rating: R (overall)
Summary: Set after the 'Naked Truth' arc, speculating on how each of the characters will deal with the conclusion of Takaba's kidnapping and exploring the changing dynamics of their relationships.
Disclaimer: This fanfic is a non profit workand all characters portrayed within are property of Yamane Ayano unless stated otherwise. The title is also borrowed from one of Louis Armstrong's songs.

( Index of previous chapters )

The helicopter touched down in Macau on the roof of a villa by the seaside at approximately eight thirty. It was one of Mikhail’s many privately owned estates and was built to his every whim and wish. Though it was dark, Feilong was still able see the clear plate glass ceiling of the indoor pool and softly snorted. He didn’t understand the need for an indoor swimming pool when the sands of the beach lay right at Mikhail’s feet.

Security was always at a maximum. Along the outer walls, big burly men with night vision goggles kept a constant lookout. On the rooftop, Feilong counted six men with semi-automatics held at the ready as the helicopter descended.

He pulled his trench coat about him tighter, suddenly feeling the bitter chill of the evening wind, and tried to swallow the unfamiliar lump of nervousness lodged in his throat. He couldn’t remember when he last trembled like the last leaf to fall in autumn. His hands were wet and clammy and blood was rushing too fast to his head.

The bump seemed to be exceptionally rough as the chopper landed, or maybe it was just his bundle of raw, rattled nerves all coming apart. For a split second, Feilong wanted to order the pilot to immediately take off and get the hell out.

“Move,” he ordered through gritted teeth. Takaba obediently acquiesced. Zeng had done a good job doping him to the eyeballs. His gaze was hollow, vacuous and his expression was devoid of personality. The shackles around his hands and feet, the collar and leash seemed to be overkill, but all precautions had to be taken. Everything was going to go by his plan tonight.

He recognized the person who led him from the rooftop and into the mansion. Tall, combed back hair and narrow eyes left a distinctive impression of distrust the first time they met five years ago. Yuri had none of Mikhail’s easygoing charm and never bothered hiding his dislike for him. Right now, his look said ‘I’d splatter your brains on the floor in a heartbeat’ to which Feilong responded by pretending he didn’t exist and instead wondered where Mikhail would choose to see him; the state living room, the study or…

He mentally braced himself against all possibilities. Whatever happened, he had his part to play, and that’s why he was in Macau, dressed fancier than a peacock and a blind eye turned to his protesting dignity. The window of opportunity to take advantage of Tao’s kidnapping was small but the gains would be rich. If Lin couldn’t accomplish the missions on or before ten o’clock, Asami would have caught wind of Tao’s kidnapping and set his own plans into motion, ones he had no hope of controlling. And this time, he might just lose everything.

He heard the giggles the moment the elevator doors slid open and a shadow immediately fell across his face. Without turning around to face Yuri, he could feel a smug grin spread across the man’s face.

“Ah, Maria and Natasya have been here since this afternoon with Mikhail and will most likely stay the night,” Yuri said somewhat breezily. “You might have to wait a while before you’ll get an audience with…”

“Akihito-kun,” Feilong called out sweetly to the doped-up young man in Russian, “can you hear a mad dog barking?”

Silently congratulating himself on the victory in this little verbal spar, Feilong was able to deal with his growing sense of unease without Yuri’s petty bickering in the background. He had assumed Mikhail would be eager to see him. Alone. After all, wasn’t this the whole point of stealing Tao away from him? To get his attention? And now that he was in Macau, in Arbatov’s very house, the Russian suddenly had no time for him?

Forcing me to come to you, huh? He darkly noted. A sinking feeling of dread twisted his insides and he almost faltered a step as it just occurred to him that not all things were hapless pawns he could manipulate on his chessboard.

Yuri stopped in front of a set of elaborately carved double doors, ruined, in Feilong’s opinion, by a thick coat of glossy white paint. The sounds of laughter, shrieks of delight and honeyed words of doting stung his ears, fouled his mood. Yuri’s knocks was lost in the midst of indulgent coos and moans of ecstasy.

“Like I said, guess you’ll have to wait.”

“Wait?” Feilong replied sharply, not caring if Yuri got a sense of satisfaction for successfully provoking him. “You’re sorely mistaken if you think I’ll be at Arbatov’s beck and call.”

The tall Russian man tried to stare him down, the effect negligible since Feilong’s indignation flared brightly around him. “If you had any manners, you’d understand it’s only polite to enter when permission is given.”

Feilong felt like laughing aloud at the sheer hypocrisy. His voice became laced with undiluted venom, likewise his gaze. Yuri balked. “I am most amazed you insist on politeness when you thieves cheat and steal. Out of my way. I’m not here to waste my breath on meaningless slander.”

And tossing his hair in Yuri’s face as a last gesture of insult, Feilong pushed the doors open and barged in, dragging Akihito behind him. His confidence staggered as his eyes were hit by bright, white light from the twenty odd lightbulbs of the massive crystal chandelier looming above the three-meter long dining table. It took a moment to adjust, although he wasn’t pleased by what his cleared vision revealed.

Plates of rich, decadent deserts lay on the table and Mikhail sat at the far end with two women hanging onto the back of his high chair, vying for his attention. The lady on his left was a blonde like him, hazel eyed, high cheekboned and had a wide, generous mouth made for kissing. The other had thick, wavy hair the colour of mahogany and dark eyes beneath long, thick lashes. They both wore unblemished white satin in the style and fashion of Greek nymphs who were adoring and worshiping their Adonis.

“Arbatov,” his flat, unimpressed tone cut through the happy babble. Maria and Natasya warily gazed at him and quieted down, though the elevator action of their eyes gave away their true thoughts. Is he more attractive than them in Mikhail’s eyes? Is he going to take Mikhail away from them?

Calmly, almost nonchalantly, Feilong undid his overcoat. His vermilion cheongsam was a distinctive splash of colour against their white, and he draped it on the back of a chair that had been placed further back from the table than the others and was obviously meant for him. He paused only for a second to let Mikhail’s eyes flicker over his profile before he took a seat.

Mikhail gave an exaggerated sigh. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me in an inopportune time. As you can see, I haven’t finished dinner, but please help yourself to whatever humble food I have to offer and we can talk later.”

That was the signal for things to return as they were before he entered the room. The Russian trio forgot he existed and the women resumed their pampering of the mafia boss. Feilong honestly thought Mikhail was kidding, but all assumptions of his were dashed when Mikhail pulled the blonde onto his lap and fed her a strawberry with his mouth. Not to be outdone, the brunette spooned a generous serve of pudding topped with cream then held it out to Mikhail.

“Say ahh, Misha, ahh – ”

Feilong repressed a shudder as Mikhail accepted the offering and the brunette and blonde both leaned in and sensuously licked the traces of cream off around his lips before it turned into a three-way kiss.

It was sheer force of will that he maintained his outward expressionless façade through the sickly wet sounds of slurping and smooching. There was a genuine light of pity in his eyes as they lay upon the women. If anything, it was clear they were working hard to surpass the other in order to cling to Mikhail’s fickle attention, which flittered between them like a butterfly. They smiled, laughed, giggled, but they weren’t happy. They would never be happy if they were the ones who had to keep chasing the man.

And Feilong pitied them because they tried but hopelessly failed at seduction. To seduce someone wasn’t to reveal flesh or spread one’s legs. To seduce was to be sought after and desired. Attention was a funny thing. You don’t work to get it; you ignore it and it comes to you. Yanztui had taunted him since he was fourteen that he was girly looking. That translated as pretty, and as Feilong grew older, he became beautiful. Beauty was attractive, and the most attractive beauty is that which is unobtainable, untouchable. He wasn’t a piece of meat for anyone’s indulgence. He was an object of desire, and to be desired meant having people come to you rather you to them.

So he sat, a good three feet away from the writhing mass of semi-naked bodies, calm and impassive and Mikhail’s eyes fell on him more times than he could help. Perhaps the Russian was confused, unsettled that Feilong wasn’t agitated and spitting like an angry alley cat, demanding the return of his tea boy. Now and then, Feilong took a small sip of black tea and nibbled on a baked lemon cheesecake, or his hand casually ruffled Takaba’s hair, who crouched next to his chair like an obedient dog.

Mikhail caught sight of that and smirked. Though to Feilong, it resembled more of a sneer.

“You look lonely. Want to join in, Fei?”

Feilong smiled coyly in return. “Maybe later. I am looking forward to settling some business first.”

“There’s always time for business tomorrow, Fei. Here, take a pick. This is my darling Maria,” Mikhail turned and nuzzled the brunette’s neck, drawing more giggles, “and this is the ever delightful Natasya.” The blonde one did a small, graceful curtsey. “Who do you want?”

“I want Tao home, safe, and tucked in because it’s soon his bed time. In case your spies hadn’t provided you with picture identification, this,” he grabbed a fistful of Takaba’s hair and roughly jerked the head back so Mikhail could see, “is Takaba Akihito.”

For a moment, the playfulness left Mikhail and he sobered up. Ice blue eyes coldly assessed the young man on the floor who, in his drugged state, was counting the number of crystals in the chandelier and flinching every so often as the light stung his eyes.

“You’re ready to deal?”

“Actually, I was hoping we might come to some agreement and exchange Tao for something else.”

From harmless harem girls emerged vicious, selfish women determined to cling onto their lover. An imperceptible nod between the two girls led Natasya to saunter over to Fei, blocking Mikhail’s view of the Chinese man, and play with the fabric buttons on his cheongsam, rolling them sensuously between her fingers with an inviting look in her eye. Under normal circumstances, Fei would have taken up her offer without hesitation. Right now, she was merely an annoyance that he wanted to swat aside.

Natasya ignored his displeased frown and leaned forward, lowering her chest, another cheap trick which might work on someone like Mikhail, but was too blatant and classless for his taste.

“Do you like my perfume? Misha bought it for me. Here – ” She bought her bosom closer to him still, nearly burying his nose between her breasts. Feilong started, almost violently leaping out of his chair and fled from the room, one hand harshly jerking on Akihito’s leash and dragging the boy behind him.

Outside in the corridor, a little way down, Feilong doubled over into dry, hacking coughs that knew no end. Idiotic woman! Of all fragrances, it had to be lavender! His nose was already beginning run and his eyes stung, then watered. His trembling body was forced to lean against the wall for balance until the coughing fit began to subside. Stumbling, he blindly clutched onto the carvings along the wall and, on unsteady feet, lurched forward to find a room, and then perhaps a chair, to sink into and pass out from the onsetting migrane.

Pitter patter and the clink of chains followed him, reminding him that Akihito was trailing behind him, doped, unable to fend for himself whilst the mere scent of lavender had crippled Feilong. If Arbatov was any wiser, he should strike when Feilong was now vulnerable, take Akihito and force other demands on Feilong for the return of Tao.

His fingers wrapped around cold metal, a door handle, which flooded Feilong with relief. He pushed against the door with the entire weight of his body and nearly fell in. Through blurred vision comprised of smeared colours, he made out the shape of a brown leather sofa and immediately threw himself on it.

Feilong squeezed his eyes shut and wondered which hurt more, the rawness in his throat or the pounding on the sides of his temple, and which was more irritating, the sniffles or the incessant need to scrub his eyes dry. Unbeknowst to him, he dozed off so as to escape the devastating symptoms of allergy.

“Fei…Fei…”

Very far away in the distance, someone was calling his name to pierce through the fog of sleep in his addled mind. Slowly, he roused to a waning headache and a gentle stroking up and down his back. He heard a purr, a sound of pure content, and when something warm, wet, captured his lips and lightly suckled, the purr became louder.

To his horror, it came from him.

His eyes snapped open and he tried to disentangle himself from whoever was molesting him in his sleep.

“Ah, Fei, alive and kicking again,” Mikhail joked, easily overpowering his resistance and bringing him closer into a crushing embrace and buried his face into the crook of Fei’s neck. Feilong gasped as a hot tongue laved at the exposed skin, which was followed by a short series of stings along his collarbone.

Feilong grimaced. “It’s all your fault.”

“And how is it my fault?” Mikhail grinned, doing the same to the other side of Feilong’s neck, impervious to the pain of fingers pulling at his hair. “If I recall, you were the one who chose to run away from a Russian beauty.”

“Run away? I – it was the bloody perfume. Your perfume, that you gave – oh – ”

In contrast, Mikhail’s fingers in his hair were tracing firm but gentle circles in his scalp. The pins lay scattered on the lamp stand behind Feilong and Mikhail was massaging the headache away - so effectively that Feilong was melting into a boneless heap and unwittingly sighing in pleasure.

Hang on. This isn’t how it’s supposed to go, the dwindling reason in his mind protested, and Feilong agreed. Wasn’t Mikhail taking advantage of him, essentially directing the turn of events when it was supposed to be the other way around?

His fingernails dug into Mikhail’s scalp in warning. “Who gave you permission to take me?”

“Why, you did.”

“I don’t recall saying yes.”

“You obviously intended to come and bed me tonight, no? Otherwise why would you wear this cheongsam to see me? I very much appreciate it by the way.” The busy lips moved down to his nipples and reverently kissed and nibbled.

Feilong’s blood stirred and his heated skin took on a tinge of pink. Even if he did intend to seduce Mikhail tonight, there were conditions, strings attached. If the mighty Liu Feilong was going to degrade himself into a whore tonight, he expected an extremely high price to it.

“Tao…” he forced out between gasping breaths, turning to his side in a desperate attempt to shield his body from Mikhail’s eager onslaught. “What else can I give you for Tao besides Takaba?”

The Russian stopped dead. The playfulness and goodwill evaporated in an instance to be replaced by a contortion of jealousy and anger.

“Even now, you’re still thinking about that? We haven’t had a good tumble for a year and you still can’t stop thinking about some stinking Japanese man?” The tender strokes against his skin now became an unyielding possessive grip and warm, inviting kisses became coldly dominating. It helped Feilong return to his senses and he stopped responding, much to Mikhail’s growing displeasure. Feilong even renewed his struggles to pry away Mikhail’s fingers, but the ensuing wrestle took both of them gracelessly to the floor and onto the thick piled carpet in front of a crackling fireplace.

In one dramatic gesture, Mikhail ripped the cheongsam clear of Feilong’s shoulders, leaving his upper body naked, and impatiently tugged to pull the cloth belt free. “What terrible spell has he cast over you to have you so beholden? I’ve been there for you all these years, Fei, so why can’t you look at me for once?”

The belt came undone and the white silken pants quickly followed. Mikhail’s frown darkened as he tore away the gun and the holster around Feilong’s thigh and bought the unblemished muscle to his face before biting down on the sensitive inner thigh. Unresisting, Feilong lay on the ground and winced, though his eyes were unnaturally deadened.

“That’s it, Arbatov, you’re on the right track. Betray me, hurt me enough and destroy what means the most to me, and maybe that’ll give me a reason to hunt you down to the ends of the earth and beyond.” Feilong sat up so he could cup Mikhail’s face in his hands, and his lips twisted into the bitterest of smiles. “You’ll have my full attention then. I guarantee it.”

Those few words, near inaudible, had the Russian stranded in helplessness and defeat. Blond hair swayed as Mikhail shook his head and took one of Feilong’s hands in his own so he could twine their fingers together. They shared another kiss, this one filled with warmth and tenderness and passion. His tongue glided over Feilong’s lips until they gave way and he entered, probing around his mouth, brushing the palate before their tongues swirled around each other. With his free hand, Mikhail ran his hands up and down Feilong’s back, stroking, massaging, as if he was trying to coax his way back into Feilong’s favour.

Caught out by the unexpected change in mood, Feilong suppressed a shudder. Electricity tingled up and down his spine and skin heated where the Russian had touched. He had to use all his strength to push the blond man away, but it was not enough to extricate himself from the bear hug. He felt his cheeks flush, a colour now most likely deeper than his shade of rouge, and silently gasped for air.

Mikhail was not done. He took advantage of his momentary weakness and leaned forward until he had Feilong comfortably trapped beneath him on the carpet. Cushioning Feilong’s head with the back of his left hand, he tilted Feilong’s face up at an angle perfect for him to firmly plant his on and look straight into Fei’s eyes as they kissed so he missed nothing. His other hand worked to unbutton his own shirt then lowered himself completely down onto Feilong so they were connected from shoulder to hip.

Feilong was unaware just how long and satisfied the groan that rumbled at the base of his throat was. Mikhail’s body was like the sun, enveloping him in heat. He dug his fingers into Mikhail’s flexing back muscles so he could press their bodies closer still, grinding their hips until it almost hurt, whimpering, madly hoping to be consumed whole. Sex with Takaba in the past few weeks had been methodical, if not brutal. There was no care, no intimacy, and he had always been clothed during the act whereas Mikhail always insisted on not having a thread of cotton between them.

He mewed in delight and rolled his eyes into the back of his head as Mikhail’s tongue worked at the inner shell of his ear, then progressively inched lower down the curve of his long neck pressing hot, searing kisses along the way before reclaiming his lips.

“What if I don’t want to hurt you, Fei? What if I want to pleasure you instead? Don’t you think it’s a less painful way to remember someone by?”

Feilong knew he was being deliberately driven into delirium. He was going to be the first man to go mad from pleasure because everything Mikhail did all went straight to his head in an unstoppable rush, sweeping away his cold rationality in pathetic ease. Heat, ecstasy and lust rolled thickly in his veins. It wasn’t fair. Mikhail always used this tactic against him. Weaken him first with kisses, then make his body succumb by taming it with damnably tender touches. He left a blazing trail of need wherever he touched, making him crave for more until he moaned and cried out when he should have been fending the man off with kicks and punches to uphold his reputation and dignity.

“I don’t need to go to the opera when I can hear you sing for me instead,” he distantly heard Mikhail mutter before swallowing the rest of his cries with his mouth in yet another deep, penetrating kiss that sought to make him yield completely.

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. He did his best to mount some defense but found himself clinging all the more desperately to Mikhail as the latter’s tongue pushed his back and fully invaded his mouth. Multiple distractions left his heady dizzy from the lack of air. Any effort to mount a challenge or retaliate against the Russian’s possessiveness scattered when Mikhail teased his nipples, rolling them between his fingers, pinching and pulling lightly to elicit more sounds of unquenched lust. A thin film of sweat covered both their bodies and his ragged, hitched panting left his mouth open to more attacks by Mikhail. If he could see what Mikhail saw, it would be a picture of the perfect expression of desire and vulnerability delectably combined that only fed Mikhail’s hunger to dominate.

Mikhail pushed down his underwear way past his knees, exposing him fully, then firmly gripped his semi-erect shaft. Feilong tensed, gasping out loud and immediately whimpered at the onslaught of sensations. Automatically, he bucked into the hand and didn’t think twice about resisting. The blond made a surprised sound.

“My memory tells me you’ve always been sensitive, but not this sensitive.”

Though his eyes were closed, he could nonetheless hear Mikhail’s smug smile. Bastard. Jerk.

“Could it be that your pet is inadequate and cannot please his master?”

Mikhail gripped his hips, forcing it to a standstill and left his erection straining at air. Feilong writhed and growled low in frustration. As his own hand reached out to relieve himself, Mikhail caught both his wrists and pinned them above his head.

“Finish it. I’m close,” he demanded, testing the strength behind the Russian’s restraints.

Mikhail stroked him long and slow a few times and watched in amazement as Feilong threw his head back, muffled his groans against the side of his arm and dug his heels into the carpet to gain more leverage. Without warning once again, Mikhail held his hips down.

“Misha!”

“You’re exhibiting signs of sexual repression, yet my informants tell me the little whore has been called to in your private chambers almost every night since you acquired him.”

“It’s because his he can’t do with his mouth what you can do with your hands alone,” he snapped and uselessly kicked out, thrashing in a vain attempt to throw Misha’s weight off him so he could finish the job himself.

Feilong suddenly stilled and blinked. His mouth went dry and he got that dreaded feeling that he might have just said something he shouldn’t. The wicked gleam in Mikhail’s eyes confirmed it.

Mikhail’s smile was broad and triumphant. He lovingly pushed aside stray strands of hair that had become matted to Feilong’s sweaty forehead before he resumed fisting Feilong’s cock at a leisurely pace, looking mighty pleased with himself.

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all night. And I will admit that I find myself in very similar circumstances. No one can set my pulse racing like you do, Fei. No one particularly calls out my name like you do either. Dreams can be such pale imitations of the real thing.”

Feilong could have rolled his eyes. “Just hurry up!”

“Oh no, Fei, I won’t be rushing anything tonight. I’m going to make this last and give you someone else to think about.” Mikhail undid his own belt and lowered his pants before he loomed over his lover again. He pressed his own taut erection against Feilong’s throbbing cock, slick and wet with precome, and began to slowly rock his hips.

Moans were interspersed between gasping pants. There were a number of dirty, degrading things that Feilong’s lust-crazed mind would have allowed himself to say, but for what remained of his dignity, he settled on the next safest thing and bit down hard on Mikhail’s shoulder when self-control threatened to become a distant thing of the past.

“You’re crying my name anyway, so you might as well open your eyes and look at me,” he heard Mikhail’s voice next to his ear, coaxing.

Without questioning the request, Feilong instinctively turned to face him and blearily opened misted eyes clouded with passion. Mikhail’s blond hair glinted like heated gold in the firelight, a bright beacon to follow in the dark. Dazed, his hand shook as it reached out to catch the fine prize. Mikhail kissed his palm and flashed a crooked smile.

“You find me handsome, yes?”

Feilong frowned, hardly able to process the words. His gaze travelled down from Mikhail’s face, past his broad torso and sculpted abdomen and stopped at his weeping cock.

His eyes widened. He frowned.

“That’s not going to fit,” he blurted out.

Feilong renewed his struggles to be free. This was a big factor that he had not accounted for in his plans and calculations. He had been obsessed with hurting Asami for the past year and hadn’t bedded Mikhail for too long. Furthermore, he had always been on top with Takaba. Apparently, he had forgotten about Mikhail’s exceptionally large tool. Fear began to dampen his excitement.

Mikhail’s body rumbled with the vibrations of his laughter. “Why play with inexperienced boys and lower your standards and expectations when you have a real man here who is more than willing to take you?”

( Chapter 2 - part IIb )

[VF fic] A Kiss to Build a Dream On - Chapter Two (I)

2007-04-09T06:07:50Z

A KISS TO BUILD A DREAM ON

Chapter: 2 (Part I)
Characters: MikhailxFeilong, AsamixTakaba
Rating: R (overall)
Summary: Set after the 'Naked Truth' arc, speculating on how each of the characters will deal with the conclusion of Takaba's kidnapping and exploring the changing dynamics of their relationships.
Disclaimer: This fanfic is a non profit workand all characters portrayed within are property of Yamane Ayano unless stated otherwise. The title is also borrowed from one of Louis Armstrong's songs.

( Prologue )
( Chapter One )

CHAPTER TWO - OVERNIGHT SUCCESS

Feilong critically studied his image in the mirror. He never considered himself an overly vain person, but he knew that appearances contributed to roughly 80% of one’s first impression and he wanted to be emblazoned into Master Lin’s mind for a good long time.

The red marks Mikhail left along the ridges of his collar bone disappeared within a week after they had been given. The indentations of the teeth disappeared and bruises where Mikhail had been a little too enthusiastic had faded days ago.

So why could he still feel each mark as if searing hot kisses were being planted one by one on his skin?

Frustrated, he swiftly undid the buttons of the shirt he was going to wear beneath a black jacket which had been tailored made with a sharp cut to enhance his height and slender build. A western suit was modern, impersonal and all-business. He wanted Master Lin to view him as the progressive type of triad leader who carried on a legitimate business front, was accepted in the elite social circles and wooed by the movers and shakers.

He certainly wasn’t going to be able to portray this image if he was self-conscious, paraonid of people staring at his neck and open collar and see the invisible love-bites.

That left the navy cheongsam he had bought along to Guangzhou. He sighed. An old-fashioned garment suggested he was, likewise, old-fashioned and everything else associated with the Shanghai gangsters of the 1930s. Would Master Lin entrust one of his children to a triad boss who he perceived to be stuck in the old world?

“No one’s going to look down on Liu Feilong, wearing cheongsam or not,” he muttered to himself and stepped into his clothes without hesitation. “And it’s Lin who’s asking for the favours here, not me. Let him bow to me regardless of what he thinks.”

There. He still was an imposing figure despite the soft flowing fabric fluttering elegantly around his ankles and wrists. And if they thought he was as delicate as the pink blossoms sewn in across his chest and failed to recognize the steel beneath, the advantage was all the more his.

His mobile phone rang. Right on schedule.

“Yes, Zeng?”

“Everything is going according to plan, Laoban. The local police have been taken care of. They promise they will not interfere but...”

Feilong sensed hesitation. He frowned. “What is it?”

He heard Zeng take a deep breath. “Master Qian is aware you are in the neighbourhood and has tried to set up an appointment to see you.”

“Ah, that does complicate matters a little, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, Laoban. It’s safe to assume Qian thinks we’re here to help the Lins oust him from his territory.”

Feilong laughed, one empty of humour. “Not even if he had an extra 500 men would we be successful. Send Master Qian a big hamper. Add a note that we regret we cannot pay him proper respects whilst we are in town, but we are here just to settle some business with an old friend of the late Liu daren and must be back in Hong Kong in two days’ time. That should keep Qian out of our hair.”

“We’ll be tailed by Qian’s men wherever we go.” Zeng seemed to be trying to smother the tone of disappointment in his reply. Feilong smiled tiredly. Perhaps if it hadn’t only been just a little over a fortnight since Takaba returned to Japan, he might have had enough interest and strength to gain a foothold in Guangzhou by eliminating Qian and installing Lin as his vassal.

“As long as they don’t stick their nose into our business, Qian Da Sheng can waste as much manpower as he wants following us. Unless Master Lin is prepared to rise up against Qian himself, we have no authority to dictate the turn of events here. And with Qian’s extensive list of contacts, I really don’t feel like getting into his Black Lists just yet.”

“Understood sir. I’ll be at the hotel to pick you up in an hour’s time.”

The tension in his body automatically dissipated as soon as the line went dead and he was once again alone in his presidential suite listening to the seconds steadily ticking away. It was hypnotic; his eyes blinked and lids gradually drooped in time. A big, fluffed up pillow propped against the headboard of his king-sized bed was tempting. He eased his back up against it, testing the support before laying his full weight down.

“I’m tired,” his body immediately relayed the signals to his brain. Ah, now there was an interesting tale you wouldn’t believe. His body had been trying to send that message of fatigue through for the past fortnight, but his mind was preoccupied by more pressing items on the agenda - such as how to flush out his spies, how to weed out Asami's assassins and essentially how to stay alive. So his brain ignored anything related to rest and spurred Feilong to tie up the loose ends left after Takaba left Hong Kong.

An unwittingly, his mind would constantly replay his memories of the night that still had him grappling with the outcome. Outsiders put him on a pedestal, said he beat the Japs and outwitted the Russians. His own men carried a new glint of awe and respect in their eyes and encouraged the rumours to spread. Baishe tricked the Arbatovs into fighting the Japs; Laoban lured the Japs to Macau by exploiting their leader’s weakness; Laoban truly has the cunning and intelligence to be the leader of all Hong Kong triads.

Feilong however, recalled something distinctly different. It all happened on the night he was still feeling sorry for himself, which wasn’t conducive to figuring out how to regain his casino’s title deeds from Asami without losing face in front of his organization. He was languishing in his bedroom after the substitute tea boy took away his half-eaten dinner when something unexpected happened and even he surprised himself with his determination not to be beaten by taking everything into his stride.

o-o-o-o-o

“Liu Laoban, Tao’s missing! Staff at the hospital say that he was taken away by a group of gwailo.”

Feilong’s heart skipped a beat, the contents in his stomach churned uncomfortably and he struggled to remain steady on his feet.

“Liu Laoban,” his subordinate hesitantly continued, meanwhile fishing out a white envelope from his jacket’s inner pocket. “This is addressed to you. It was found on Tao’s pillow. We haven’t opened – ”

He hardly heard the man. He was still dumbstruck by the impossibility of the situation. No, this couldn’t be happening, it shouldn’t be happening now when he had just made up his mind to return Takaba back to Tokyo in return for the casino deed his father later left to him.

“Leave it to me and get out and await my instructions,” he managed to snap. Retaining his appearances was the least he could do.

He waved his men off with a negligent gesture and let the full brunt of his concentration fall on the letter. It was a ransom note – no mistake about it. Though sealed in envelope, he could tell who sent it and what the demands were.

“Tao in exchange for Takaba. Yours truly, Arbatov.”

He had known the man for a long time, but apparently not long enough to anticipate, no, believe he would be so unscrupulous to make a bid for the casino deed under these circumstances.

And speaking of underestimating his rivals’ lack of chivalry and whichever relevant moral code, he began to re-evaluate the naïvety in his assumptions that Asami would quietly return to Japan once Takaba was safely in his arms. His plans smacked of optimism rather than realism.

Thinking hard, if he were Asami, having Akihito back wouldn’t be enough to sate his thirst for revenge. Afterall, he had killed Chou right under Asami’s very nose in Japan, raped Takaba, shot Asami twice, then raped Takaba some more and boasted about it over the phone to his owner.

Truth was a cold and bitter pill to swallow. He could no longer hide the fact that the obsession and hatred he harboured for Asami egged him onto suicidal behaviour – and he had ultimately allowed, if not looked forward to it. Hadn’t someone once said he was acting like a scorned lover? No – he was acting like a lover who couldn’t bring himself to genuinely hate and exact revenge on the person who killed his father.

He hated himself for that far more than he hated his parent’s murderer. And the hate and anger he directed at himself, along with the guilt that only grew with each failed attempt on Asami’s life, was enough to drive him to seek escape in that endless sleep known as death.

However, his own problems seemed trivial when Tao’s life was endangered. It was one thing for death to claim him; it was totally unacceptable for someone as young and blameless as Tao to be caught up in the struggle. Tao was pure and clean. His future was going to be bright and limitless, something worth protecting at all costs. He failed his father and he wasn’t going to be a failure to his people.

“How dare he!” Feilong finally burst out, unable to hold the anger in. He looked up the mirror on his vanity and saw his face contorted into an expression of unforgiving rage. After that, he let loose a string of curses in Russian and palmed the top of his vanity drawer, hard.

“Feilong, what’s wrong? What did your men just say?”

He glanced at Akihito as he tentatively approached. Takaba Akihito was another sacrificial goat in this now perverted three way game. If he gave Takaba to Arbatov, Asami would relish handing the casino deed over to the Russian in exchange for Takaba, which would leave Feilong the ultimate loser in this battle. But if he didn’t give Takaba in exchange for Tao, another person he cherished in his heart would be taken away.

So you think you’ve caught me between a rock and a hard place, Mikhail? Feilong viciously thought, putting the aggregate of his cunning and intelligence to work. And you, Asami, I’m not going to let you emerge from this with anything more than your little boy toy.

“Tao’s been kidnapped,” he said coldly in Japanese to the boy, gathering himself to his full height and staring down imposingly on him. Whatever promise he had made to Takaba about returning him to Asami had to be abandoned. Tao and Baishe were infinitely more important than a foreign boy who’d spread his legs if you jacked him off the right way.

Perhaps that opinion of Takaba was a trifle harsh. The boy had comforted him somewhat in Tao’s absence, even shed tears for him – that should count for something.

Feilong made up his mind. The least he could do for Akihito if everything went to hell in a handbasket was to put a bullet through the young man’s head and spare him a painful death.

“Who’d do a thing like that?!” Takaba fumed, anger rising to fire his eyes already.

“The kidnappers want you. I won’t be releasing you to Asami.”

Takaba opened and closed his mouth a few times. The catch twenty two hit home and, agitated, he began pacing. “There’s got to be some way out of this.”

A cruel smile pulled at Feilong’s lips. “There always is a way. It just depends on whether you’re able to commit yourself to it. This turn of events should be a godsend to you, Takaba. If I give you to Arbatov, Asami will deal with him and give my casino to him instead. You’ll be back by Asami’s side in no time have your happily ever after.”

“But your father left that casino to you!”

“Dear Takaba, how can you feel sympathetic to your enemy who has readily broken his agreement with you and will hand you over to the Russian mob?”

“Wha – you?! Hang on a minute!” Akihito protested, breathing uneven. He grabbed a handful of Feilong’s front shirt and shook with all his might, ineffectual though it was. “What have you got to gain by doing that, other than Tao’s safety. Don’t you want your title deeds back as well?”

Feilong effortlessly pried the fingers off and laughed, a thin, emotionless sound. “I’m going to give you to Mikhail and I will claim back all that is mine. Now stop bawling like a child and help me get dressed. Take that red cheongsam out of the wardrobe and then help me with my hair.”

“Get dressed?” Feilong frowned at Takaba’s newfound habit of repeating everything he said in his panic. “You are in the mood to worry about your goddamn perfect hair when the things you hold dear are being threatened by badasses?!”

“I will not repeat myself. Do as I say, or I’ll kill you now and think of another way to get Tao back.”

He sat at the vanity and took out his wooden comb, then applied long, consistent strokes through the ebony mane with steady hands. He had kept his head cool in order to thrash out the rest of the details of the plan in his mind. Akihito’s grumblings about his chores in the background were distracting. In the mirror’s reflection, he saw the Japanese pull out the wrong outfit.

“Not that red, silly. The vermilion one with the black velvet trim in the plastic wrapping.”

“Is this your dinner suit or something?” Akihito muttered. The plastic noisily crunched as if in admonition at the rough way he handled the garment.

“No, I only wear that on a few occasions each year for a certain person. Here, you better just leave that on the bed and help hold my hair up.”

There were six bobby pins pressed between his lips and his hands had already lifted a substantial portion of his hair into the air. “Well, come on,” he mumbled, “I don’t have all night.”

Grudgingly, Takaba did as he was told, allowing Feilong to fix in pin after pin until there was an elaborate bun piled on the top of his head with tendrils carelessly falling down and framing his face, smudging the hard, masculine edges. He allowed himself a little smirk as he noticed Takaba’s freely swinging jaw. This was only half of it. He retrieved a carved wooden box from a spring-loaded drawer and curiosity drove Takaba to huddle closer to Feilong and see what was inside.

There was a single golden hairpin supporting a peony made completely of jade leaves and petals of golden wires threaded with seeded rubies that twinkled darkly in the dim light. Feilong gently eased in the pin into the bun and disguised a chuckle as a cough as he saw Akihito’s spellbound expression again in the mirror.

“Like what you see?”

“Christ!” Takaba exclaimed, still unable to tear the gaze away from the vision. “Who wouldn’t?” He shook himself out of the stupor. His eyes narrowed. “You’re going to seduce this Arbatov guy into giving Tao back?”

Nodding in approval at the rate Akihito was catching on, Fei took out the makeup box and stared at the contents for a while, pondering on which products to use. “Sex is a legitimate weapon. Those who are weak and succumb to it have only themselves to blame. The Greeks had their Helen of Troy. We have our Diao Chan. Some of the best men and kings in Chinese history have fallen victim of the ‘mei ren ji’. Surprising how tactics thousands of years old are still applicable in this day and age. It just goes to show men will always be men.”

He selected a light blush powder dabbed trace amounts along his cheekbones. Next, he pulled out a small square of crimson paper and delicately rolled his lips on it until they puckered a deep red. The end result had Takaba grasping onto the edge of the vanity desk for support. Feilong laughed outright this time, giving the young man no time to cover up his embarrassment.

“It’s a privilege for you to see me dressed up like this, Takaba-kun. Now be a good boy and stand in the corner whilst I get changed.”

Feilong had to give the zip on the covering a few tugs before it gave in and jerked free. He bent down to closely examine the metal and frowned at the specks of rust that had begun to form on the exposed iron. His fingertips also came away coated in dust where they had touched the plastic. How long had it been since he last donned on this cheongsam? Eight, ten months?

There were more soft mutterings of self-reprimand coming from Akihito. It was really quite cute to see him flush and deliberately avert his eyes though failing because Feilong always felt him stealing glances. Not that Feilong could blame him. The cheongsam was designed to hug him around the waist more tightly than usual to accentuate the curves of his hips and the dress tapered in instead of fanning out as it reached the ground to enhance the illusion of someone tall, slender and dainty. Had he not worn white silken pants underneath, the generous amount of naked leg alone would almost warrant arrest for indecent exposure.

He sat on the bed and meticulously strapped on his wrist blades and holster around his thigh as he called his head of security.

“Zeng, I want a secure line to Arbatov. Prepare the chopper as well – I’m heading off to Macau tonight. And have Lin in my study in ten minutes.”

He was put on hold for a few tense seconds before the line was connected through. Mikhail picked up on the third ring.

“Pretty fast, Fei,” mocked a smooth tenor voice.

“Son of a bitch,” he grated out in Russian, drawing puzzled stares from Akihito. “Stooping so low as to kidnap a child? To think I thought you were better than this.”

The person on the other line laughed, brushing aside the insult. “Is the pot calling the kettle black? Come now, blackmail is one of our most beloved methods – we Russians have perfected this technique. And look, it’s worked so well! At last, you’ve called.”

“Oh, I will do more than give you a call for what you’ve done this time.”

“Looking forward to it,” Mikhail leered.

Feilong forced a long, deep breath. He almost heard the handset cracking in his grip but he was not going to lose this fight. “I’m coming to see you tonight to take Tao back. God knows you barbarians know nothing handling children, let alone an injured one. I’ll bring Takaba along.”

Akihito was chewing on his bottom lip looking more and more confused as his name came up in the jumble of foreign words he didn’t understand. Feilong wasn’t really reassuring him either with critical, apprising eyes that rooted him to the spot.

“This is really for the best,” Mikhail responded in a somewhat conciliatory tone. “That male slave you have there isn’t doing any favours for your health – ”

“We’ll talk in person.”

Feilong abruptly hung up, jabbing the button a little too hard. Fury momentarily lit up inside him at Mikhail’s gall, lecturing him on whom he should or should not be associating with. Asami was his enemy, and a man doesn’t leave his revenge for another to carry out on his behalf.

There was a sharp knock. He recovered his former composure, shrugged into a long black trench coat and buttoned it up before he went to open the door. Zeng stared at face for a good three seconds then managed to stutter what he could remember of his message.

“Lin has been summoned and awaits you in your study, laoban. The helicopter is on the launch pad and ready for take off.”

“Excellent. Drug the boy and take him to the helicopter,” he instructed in Chinese. “Tell the pilot we are headed to Macau in half an hour.”

“Yes sir.”

Akihito still had no idea what had just transpired. He hadn’t managed to pick up any words during the weeks he had spent in Hong Kong so far and he backed up against the wall like a cornered rat as Zeng closed in on him, bodily hauling him out of his bedchambers.

Feilong watched Zeng go with Takaba, unperturbed by young boy insistent struggles, and reassured himself that he was on schedule. Akihito was one thing taken care of. Next came the second part of his plan to rescue Tao.

As he headed over to his study, his mind made a mental note of the muted gasp of surprise when he requested Lin for the upcoming briefing. These days, people took for granted that Yoh carried out all his important commands, but he discovered no one inside Baishe could currently be trusted. Asami had uncovered his weakness and exploited it too easily that it reeked of an insider leak. He’d ascertain Yoh’s allegiance when the dust to this affair had settled, and until then, he’d have to rely on outsiders.

Lin sat in one of the antique leather armchairs in his study. The room was encased in pitch darkness, and despite not being able to see the figure, Feilong could already feel the happiness and excitement that was exuding from the head of his new contingent of secret security staff who was instructed to masquerade as a probationary recruit. Light flooded into all corners of the room as he flicked the switch, and he headed straight to the wine cabinet to pour a small glass of bourbon to steady his nerves.

“I heard about Master Tao’s kidnapping,” Lin boldly plunged straight into the issue, demonstrating acute awareness of all Baishe’s security issues.

There was no point in denying reality. “The Russians want Takaba,” he admitted, “but I can only get my title deeds back from Asami using Takaba. I trust you understand where this is going?”

Lin cheerfully nodded. “If you lose Takaba, you lose your title deeds. Worse, the Russians will have the casino and Asami Ryuichi will have a new friend in Mikhail Arbatov. In terms of Baishe’s interests, that is unacceptable.”

“Correct.” His voice was now as hard and merciless as his resolve. “Your task is to search and seize those documents back.”

Lin was actually taken aback. “I won’t be part of the rescue mission? Need I remind Liu-daren that one of my specialties is hostage recovery?”

“I can leave that to Yoh, but I can’t trust him to this task. I’ve had too many leaks in these past few months. I’m sick of questioning my men. Do as I say, Lin, and lead an assault team to get me back my title deeds. This must be done with lightening speed, before Asami catches wind that I’m going to lose my leverage over him.”

“But Liu-daren,” said Lin obstinately, “if I get back the deeds and you still have Mr. Takaba, Mr. Takaba will be worthless in Arbatov’s eyes and won’t be interested in exchanging him Tao. Other than the casino deeds, what are you going to use to bargain with for Tao’s release? Unless you plan on declaring war on two mafias tonight?”

“Oh, there’s absolutely no need for that when they’ll destroy each other. What if,” Feilong took a long draught of bourbon and caressed the rim of his glass, “Arbatov is unaware that we’re going to reclaim my deeds tonight and continues to think that he can deal with Asami?”

Lin took a few moments to compute the meaning, eyes narrowed beneath a heavy frown. The pieces of Feilong’s puzzle seemed to gradually fall into place in Lin’s mind; there was a ferocious grin as understanding dawned. “So Arbatov will accept the trade tonight – Tao for the Japanese boy. Then when Asami realizes he has nothing to give to Arbatov in exchange for the Japanese boy, he’ll have to resort to force. But Liu-daren, what is the likelihood of the Russians responding in kind?”

Feilong smiled, one filled with cruelty and sadistic pleasure. “High,” he said shortly. “Arbatovs have their pride. If Asami doesn’t have the deeds, they’ll want a high price for Takaba and I’m banking that Asami’s going to reject the extortionist price and go for the blow.”

“I look forward to this mission. I believe timing will be of the essence. I obviously cannot seize the documents until Master Tao is safe, but I must take them before Asami Ryuichi is aware that Master Tao is no longer in the Arbatov’s hands because he’ll know you have no reason to give Mr. Takaba to the Russians.”

“That’s right.” Feilong’s insides warmed in excitement. He swelled with the pride of a General. “This also means that both missions must be conducted with utter confidentiality so that the Japanese and the Russians have no idea what we’re planning. On the surface, I’ll play the part of someone whose got no options left to him. Asami will believe it – he’s always thought me weak and impulsive. It’s currently eight o’clock. I can buy you two hours at most to track down Tao and where Asami has stashed my documents, but I want Tao back in Hong Kong by ten thirty. I’ll leave you to co-ordinate the details with Yoh.”

“Yes sir.”

“And Lin,” he added as a cold-blooded afterthought, “make sure no one makes any calls out between now and midnight. Anyone who does, and you have my authority to shoot on sight.”

Lin’s smile became impossibly wider.

[VF fic] A Kiss to Build a Dream On - Chapter One

2007-03-16T13:33:51Z

A KISS TO BUILD A DREAM ON

Fandom: Viewfinder
Chapter: 1
Characters: MikhailxFeilong, AsamixTakaba
Rating: R (overall)
Summary: Set after the 'Naked Truth' arc, speculating on how each of the characters will deal with the conclusion of Takaba's kidnapping and exploring the changing dynamics of their relationships.
Disclaimer: This fanfic is a non profit workand all characters portrayed within are property of Yamane Ayano unless stated otherwise. The title is also borrowed from one of Louis Armstrong's songs.

( Prologue )

CHAPTER ONE - RECOLLECTIONS

“Mr. Takaba, please! You mustn’t!”

A piercing clatter of glass shattering on a relentlessly hard floor followed by a grunt of frustration wafted down the corridor. It was mixed in with a poignant wail.

“I insist you…no, you cannot get up!”

“Damnit, I’ve been hearing that for the past six weeks! If I don’t get up now, I know I’m going to lose my ability to ever walk again.”

“That’s just your fear talking, and perfectly understandable after what you’ve been through, but the doctors have promised a full recovery if you – ”

“Promises, promises,” Akihito snarled, slapping away the hands trying to push him back down. “I know everything about promises. Let me tell you what promises are – words. Mere words. Words that a three year old can say – that’s about the amount of value I assign to your promises.”

“Mr. Takaba, if the doctor on duty sees you carrying on like this, I’m afraid he’s going to give you another shot of sedatives.”

That threat spurred on the youngster’s determination. His snarl was animalistic. “I have human rights you know, and I can refuse treatment. If you so much as point a needle – ”

“Ten o’clock in the morning and so rambunctious already?” a deep voice lazily drawled from the doorway, heavy with amusement. Akihito immediately snapped to attention and swung his deadliest glare towards the source. He reclined against the door frame with casual grace, a lit cigarette hanging off his bottom lip despite the numerous blaring red ‘no smoking’ signs plastered all around the walls and corridor.

“Ten o’clock in the morning and such a bastard already?” Akihito threw back in Asami’s face without skipping a beat, earning him another deep chuckle. Asami quickly closed the distance between them, an arrogant swagger in his steps, and gave him a near violent shove that the nurse didn’t have the heart to perform herself. His body slammed back into the mattress faster than he could gasp. Pain lanced through his lower back. His fingers reflexively clutched onto the bed sheets until his knuckles were a frosty white. The only thing he could think of in his mind was to curse Asami to Uranus and back.

“Mr. Asami!” the nurse gasped on his behalf. It looked like her pool of outrage was overflowing today. “You can’t do that. He’s injured!”

Akihito felt the edge of the mattress depress and heard Asami’s speaking directly above him. “Well, Akihito-kun here doesn’t seem to think much of his injuries, so why treat him like a patient?” And to nail his point home, he blew a cloud of cigarette smoke into Akihito’s face and wickedly grinned as his young lover wheezed for breath.

“All right, all right, I’ll stay in bed!” He snatched his bed covers and pulled them up to his chest whilst the nurse helped ease him onto large fluffed pillows so he maintained a somewhat upright position. He properly thanked her as she left, then swiped the cigarette off Asami’s mouth, punching the stub into the ashtray by his bed and celebrated a small victory at the brief look of shock that momentarily flashed on the yakuza’s face.

“So, what does the devil want from me this morning? Can he not make it through his day without basking in the suffering and misery of others?”

Asami’s grin darkened. “Perhaps the nurse was right to call for another dose of sedatives. That would certainly addle your mind a bit, particularly in the ‘nasty’ and ‘ungrateful’ sections.”

“Ungrateful?” Akihito jolted upright, this time ignoring the pain altogether. His fingers dug into the sheets until the muscles ached. “You do realize I was repeatedly raped, my arm broken and had a bullet lodged in my spine was all because of you.” He stiffened when Asami averted his gaze for an instant in something that was a pale shade of guilt, not that the mob boss even knew how to spell that goddamn word. “What is it?” he asked coldly, watching closely for any other giveaways.

Asami coughed to clear his throat. “The ballistics report came back from the bullet that the doctors extracted from you. It was from my gun.”

A heavy white pillow smacked Asami in the face. Akihito whirled his headrest in the air like the blades of a helicopter to gain momentum and landed another satisfying blow. “I knew it!” he fumed, winding up for a third strike. “I knew it was you! If you want me to be your obedient little plaything, aim two millimeters more to the left next time, ok? Then I’ll always be home waiting for your return because I wouldn’t even be able to walk to leave the house.”

Asami put his face right in front of Akihito. There was no trace of the previous amusement or tease, only a deadly seriousness that immediately doused out Akihito’s rage.

“It was ricochet, all right? I recall aiming for Feilong’s head, or maybe it was Arbatov’s, I can’t really say for certain. That tends to happen when it’s two against one and you’re also trying to rescue a stoned idiot who got himself kidnapped in the first place.”

The raw intensity had Akihito gulping. He tried to shy away, but Asami caught his wrists and pulled him closer still. There was the bitter whiff of tobacco in his breath, mingled with the fragrance of his cologne and…something repulsively familiar. Akihito lowered his eyes and cautiously studied the front of Asami’s shirt, then flinched. Bright spots of red stained the white shirt and were spreading.

Asami looked down as well and swore under his breath. He attempted to button up his jacket but Akihito fought him, trying to keep it open to inspect the wounds. He yanked the jacket down Asami’s shoulders and tore at the buttons on the shirt in frenzy, his breathing all of a sudden shallow and quick.

A tired chuckle issued from Asami. “Now if only you were ever this honest in bed…”

“Shut up,” Akihito sniffed. The tears that were welled in his eyes spilled down his cheeks. He peeled away the blood-soaked material and leaned his forehead against Asami’s collarbone. Large hands affectionately ruffled his flaxen hair, but it wasn’t enough to stop the sobs muffled against Asami’s chest.

“It’s ok, kid,” Asami did his best to sound indifferent and make light of the situation. “The stitches came out a few days ago, and the doctors say that the scar tissue will soon hold. I just have to avoid working myself up in the meantime.”

“I’m sorry.” Genuinely remorseful, Akihito traced his fingertips lightly over the two ugly criss-crossed scars that now vandalized Asami’s once flawless expanse of torso. The pink swollen scar tissue radiated malice and hate. “These were done by Feilong, weren’t they? I remember he put on wrist blades.”

“This one,” Asami pointed to the longer cut that ran a diagonal curve across his chest, “was an strike from bottom up. Luckily the smoke ruined Feilong’s perception of distance, otherwise I would have tripped over my own intestines.”

Akihito, shivering slightly, pressed his lips tenderly against the scar, hoping to soothe away the pain. Again, Asami looked at him with an intensely dark gaze that shook Akihito to the very depths of his soul.

“And this,” he whispered, indicating to the deeper, more jagged scar that ran vertical from his collar bone down to his hip, “was intended to stab my black and rotten heart. I didn’t react fast enough, but Arbatov pulled Feilong back at the last minute.”

Akihito closed his eyes, unable to endure the sight of the wounds, wounds he was largely responsible for, and fell into troubled silence. Asami wasn’t the type of person who needed or accepted consolation. Such things had lost all meaning when it was lavished and heaped upon him on a nightly basis by the simpering VIP guests at his clubs.

Guilt hurt deeper than his broken leg and near-shattered spinal cord. How do you thank someone who had taken two bullets and two near-fatal knife attacks for him?

He reached and hooked his arms around Asami’s neck to draw the older man down into a slow, sensuous kiss filled with anguish and remorse he otherwise didn’t have the courage to articulate.

“Easy there.” Asami gently gripped him by the shoulders and, with much reluctance, pulled him away. “You turn me on any more and I’m going to take you here and now and do real permanent damage. Can’t you at least wait until you’ve recovered?”

Akihito finally sobbed out loud, clutching at Asami’s shirt and shuddering at the sensation of cold blood drying between the cracks of his fingers. “You jerk. I’m trying to express my feelings here and you ruin the moment by treating me like some horny schoolboy.”

“I didn’t get to where I am now by being sensitive,” Asami proudly declared.

Takaba landed a weak punch on the broad shoulder. “And if you had been a little more sensitive, you might have noticed the Russian’s real motives and saved yourself the trouble of going to Macau to rescue me.”

The fun and teasing was over. It was back to business for Asami. Over the past fortnight, Asami had come frequently to visit him and the purpose of his visit was more than to enquire about his progress. Each time Asami came, it was also a clandestine attempt to elicit more information from him. Everyone, from the Russian mafia to the Japanese yakuza, were still wondering how Feilong managed to become all Hong Kong Triad’s most celebrated hero who outwitted both the Japanese and Russians, trumping them in the space of one evening.

Akihito was the only one who was with Feilong from start to finish, the only person capable of solving this enigma, but his amnesia was temperamental as it was capricious.

However, over the weeks of reinforced rest at the hospital and the few visits from his mates, images, snatches of conversation, stills of images began to resurface in his mind and he tried his best to recount them to Asami. It was his only way of paying him back for all the blood that had been spilt on his behalf.

“Arbatov never hid the fact he wanted Feilong’s casino in Macau, and maybe a little more.” Asami began, but paused to choose his next words carefully. “I can understand why Mikhail could find Feilong to be an attractive man, but I didn’t think this lust would compel him to act in any way that would be detrimental or not of benefit to his own organization.”

Akihito shook his head. “I think Feilong and that Russian guy have history. I…they were speaking in another language but I heard the Russian say your name, and my name and then it sounded like they argued.”

He knew Asami’s attention would be aroused by this piece of information. “Good, good. And when did this happen?”

Takaba quickly looked away, a fierce blush instantly spreading over his cheeks as very real, very graphic images of naked bodies and sounds of moaning bombarded his mind.

“Akihito?” Asami sounded distant as he laid a hand on his shoulder and gave it a small squeeze.

“When they were having sex,” he said curtly, then seeing Asami’s eyebrows perk in interest quickly added, “and no, I’m not going to give a pervert like you any more details so don’t even bother asking.”

Asami hid a chuckle behind the pretense of clearing his throat. “I was actually going to ask how you came about this information…unless you were there in bed with them?”

“No!” he tried to push Asami away in outrage, miserably failing. “I had been drugged by that oaf, Feilong’s security guy called Zeng. Feilong had taken me into the state living room you found me in and – ”

“You mean they were romping around on the ground?” Asami asked, a touch incredulous.

Akihito didn’t need a mirror to know his face was beet red. “I said I wasn’t going to give you that kind of detail!” he growled, showing now mercy as he jabbed his finger on Asami’s bleeding chest. “The point of this is you are supposed to concentrate on how normal humans behave for once. Arbatov kidnapped Tao in exchange for me so he could cut Feilong out of the whole transfer altogether. He was jealous, you thick idiot. He obviously didn’t want Feilong to see you and was going to end the debacle himself.”

Asami’s astonishment wasn’t sarcastic. “You mean to tell me you got all that just because you remembered them fucking?”

The mob boss could be really blunt if he wanted to, in a way that left his audience cringing and generally feeling dirty overall. Takaba gritted his teeth and found the exposed skin on Asami’s neck a tempting target to bite. Hard.

“I mean I got all that from my overall observations from my stay in Baishe and they way Feilong interacted with that blond guy.”

Akihito took a deep breath and gathered his thoughts in an order that would make sense to Asami. “Did your informants never report back to you about how that Russian guy would just…waltz into Baishe like he owned the place? Feilong’s guys made a lot of noise, drew their guns, but Arbatov always walked in and out unharmed.”

“Which implied regularity.”

“Yeah, and then he goes and kidnaps Tao. He knows how much Tao means to Feilong, and how he might even consider giving up his casino for the boy.

“That implies familiarity.”

Light was beginning to dawn in the dark hopelessness that was Asami’s grasp of normal human emotions, giving Akihito much hope that his efforts had not been in vain. “If Arbatov already knew the casino deeds were in your hands, why didn’t he take it off you by force? I mean, you were in Hong Kong by yourself and just a handful of guys, whereas he has his whole private army in Macau, just an hour by boat away. He just chose not to overrun you when you were vulnerable.”

“So from that, you inferred ulterior motives.” Asami ruffled his hair again, like a master rewarding his pet. “But isn’t it a big leap to then say that he was jealous and wanted to exclude Feilong from the deal altogether?”

Logically speaking, if Takaba hadn’t seen the way Mikhail stared longingly at Feilong and undressed him with his eyes all the time, he would have accepted Asami’s question was wholly reasonable.

“You didn’t see him – ” Takaba bit his tongue. No, he had no right to give away something so private. But it was too late. Asami had acutely caught onto the undertones and deliberately prodded him for more information.

“See him what, Takaba-kun? What did you see?”

Akihito shrugged off the hand that came on his shoulder once again and crossed his arms in a subconscious gesture of defence. “I already said you weren’t going to get any of that detail.”

“Oh, but Takaba dear, if you don’t tell me what you saw, I’m going to have a very hard time accepting that Mikhail Arbatov’s motives were spurred on by jealousy as opposed to foolish pig-headedness.” Those calculating, and oftimes cruel eyes, narrowed. “If I’m not aware of any alliance between the Arbatovs and Baishe, I can guarantee you it won’t just be two scars next time.”

Akihito’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t believe it. Asami was trying to put emotional blackmail onto him, even when he was in such an injured state. The show of the scars wasn’t about demonstrating the extent of his feelings for him; it was just a reminder of a massive guilt trip and which he would resort to and wring for all it was worth when it best suited him.

You cold-blooded lizard! “All right. They kissed. Or rather, Arbatov kissed Feilong during their love making. A lot. There, satisfied?”

The stare Asami gave him was flat and unimpressed. It was designed to make the recipient feel very small and very stupid. He said slowly, “So you deduced that because Mikhail has a fetish for tongue wrestling, he therefore likes Feilong enough to be jealous of Feilong’s obsessions for me?”

Exasperated, Akihito smacked Asami in the face with his pillow again. “For your information, kisses actually have meaning for a lot of people.” And some things you really have to be there to see to understand. All of a sudden, Akihito found himself staring at Asami’s lips, wondering if they would ever gently lean down on his and seek consent before his tongue was invited into his mouth. He swallowed audibly as he felt his body responding to the fantasy and quickly distracted himself, pouring a glass of water and gulping it down.

Thankfully, Asami had missed his embarrassment. He was on the phone, speaking in a brusque, abrupt manner, reverting back to his old business self. After the call ended, he pinned Akihito with his stare again reminding him that Asami’s playful, caring side was always fleeting and impermanent. And Takaba never took those short-lived instances for granted.

“Despite my ridicule of your theory,” he said heavily, buttoning up his shirt and covering the stains with his vest and jacket, “it is nevertheless consistent with other information that we have recently unearthed on the Arbatov family and Baishe. If you are feeling well enough, there is someone I want you to meet.”

Takaba sat up a little straighter, grunting his thanks when Asami helped prop up his pillows again. “Who is it?”

On cue, a familiar figure with a dour expression and glossy black bangs covering half his face entered his private room, causing Takaba to fearfully clutch onto Asami’s arm.

“Please don’t tell me you kidnapped one of Feilong’s men as payback.” He nervously eyed the newcomer and Asami with a renewed sense of déjà vu and dread. “Haven’t you guys hurt each other enough already? Don’t you learn?”

“There’s been no kidnapping. Yoh has been my man from the start. He was one who told me to go after Feilong’s title deeds for your exchange.”

Akihito stared at Yoh long and hard. The man had lost weight; his gaunt face only appeared sharper and leaner still with the hollows in his cheeks, and defeat dragged his gaze down and stooped his shoulders.

“Yoh’s had a rough few weeks at Baishe,” Asami continued in the same conversational manner. “Feilong stopped trusting anyone except for Zeng in his inner circle, and if Yoh hung around any longer, his true allegiances would have been uncovered sooner or later. So he came back to me, seeking asylum.”

Akihito felt a stab of pain to his heart in the same old wounds that throbbed when he first saw the grief in Feilong’s eyes as they discussed his brutal and tragic past. “So you have abused Feilong’s trust again. Once wasn’t enough. You’ve got to screw him over until he loses any will to open up to people before you’re satisfied, right?”

Asami scowled, lighting up another cigarette. “Any pity I had for Feilong evaporated after what he did to us this time. I’ve issued an SOS order against Feilong if he so much as steps on Japanese soil.”

“SOS?”

“Shoot on sight,” Yoh helpfully informed. “Could I now present my research, Asami-sama?” Receiving a curt nod, Yoh plunged into a long narrative.

“Sources close to Zeng are able to confirm that Baishe first made contact with the Arbatov Family almost two decades ago. The late Liu-daren had a solid working relationship with the head of the Arbatov household, and sent his sons to Siberia for a brief period of time during the tumultuous years of the mid 1970s when Hong Kong triad wars were particularly ruthless and bloody. I believe Feilong would have been around ten, eleven years old when he first met Mikhail Arbatov. Thereafter, Baishe and the Arbatovs continued to have tacit dealings with each other and Feilong and his brother were invited to Russia three or four times each year although the reasons remain unclear.

“Eight years ago, when Asami-sama went to Hong Kong, Mikhail Arbatov and his elder brother, Ivan, had been dispatched to the United States. After Feilong was arrested and briefly incarcerated, Mikhail Arbatov immediately returned to Asia and began to build up his sphere of influence centered in Macau. However, in the past decade, he has never fully contested Baishe’s arms and drugs trade routes, focusing more on production and distribution of pirated goods. Feilong has always been coldly polite to the Arbatov family, but his actions otherwise do not indicate any special relationship. Baishe’s policy in the past eight years has been to avoid conflict with the Russians where possible, and vice versa with the Arbatovs. This behaviour is not consistent with an alliance, but could be characterized as a non-aggression pact.”

Asami absorbed the information without a blink. He exhaled a long plume of grey smoke and crossed his legs, leaning against Takaba’s bundle of pillows. “Yoh, would it surprise you to learn that Mikhail and Feilong are lovers?”

The surprise was real despite Yoh’s attempts to hide it. “I have not obtained sufficient information to establish that, Asami-sama – ”

“But Takaba here has witnessed it. That matters not. Their little tiff is their own business. However, I don’t believe that Mikhail and Feilong were working together that night.” Asami’s voice hardened. His gaze penetrated through Yoh’s expressionless front, making the younger man flinch. “Someone was the master puppeteer who made fools of us all, and if it was Feilong, I want to know how he did it and why you weren’t able to forewarn me before I stormed the villa.”

Yoh nodded. “Of course, Asami-sama. It appears Feilong turned Mikhail’s kidnapping of Tao to his advantage. I had been ordered to take a small group of men to rescue Tao and make sure you didn’t catch wind of it. At the same time, another group was ordered to steal back the casino title deeds from you. You were allowed to learn that Tao had been kidnapped in exchange for Takaba-kun so that you knew Takaba-kun would be at Arbatov’s villa, and later, you were also allowed to know that Feilong had been able to recapture his deeds.”

“They could have taken the deeds back without me noticing, but Feilong’s men chose to let me know the deeds were gone so as to force me to take Akihito back by force because I would know I have nothing to negotiate with. And in the process, I was supposed to kill Mikhail and or be killed by him, thus allowing Feilong to rid himself of two opponents in one swoop.” Asami tapped away the cigarette ash and frowned. “It’s merciless. It’s cunning. I’m surprised Feilong hasn’t renamed his syndicate the ‘White Hydra’.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to warn you of the trap in advance, Asami-sama. I wasn’t entrusted by Feilong to co-ordinate the attacks.”

Asami dismissively shook his head. “I don’t blame you, Yoh. I’m more taken back by the fact that Baishe has the talent able to execute this sort of complex operation on such short notice. Was there anyone outstanding in Feilong’s ranks who we should keep an eye on in the future?”

“He called for this guy called Lin!” Akihito blurted out, desperate to be of help. “I wasn’t drugged yet when I heard him tell Zeng to call this guy named ‘Lin’ into his office.

“Lin?” Yoh repeated sharply. His shoulders squared and the muscles along his jaw tightened. “You sure he asked for Lin?”

Akihito nodded emphatically. “I never saw what Lin looked like, but I remember I was surprised he didn’t ask for you when he learned that Tao had been kidnapped.”

Asami looked back and forth between them, miffed he was left out of the loop. “Is there something I should know about this ‘Lin’?”

“Yes, Asami-sama,” Yoh reverted back to his polite and implacable façade. “I discovered just before I left Baishe that Feilong had taken a particular interest in the Lin family in Guangzhou. All of Lin’s children are in the public service, except one of them who, around three months ago, was dishonourably discharged from Chinese Special Services – one of their counter-terrorism units. They are deemed the best of the best, and I think Feilong went to Guangzhou to help the Lin family out in times of hardship in exchange for the permanent services of one of his sons.”

Asami snorted in disgust. He stood up, brushing away the invisible specks of dust on his jacket, and snuffed out his cigarette in the ashtray, grinding the stub in quite viciously. “No wonder I lost some of my best men that night. Good work, Yoh. Find me more about this Lin character. No doubt he will have replaced you in Baishe by now, and I anticipate he’ll probably carry out most of Feilong’s orders in the future.”

“Yes sir.”

“And get me reports from our crew in Vladivostok. I want to know what attitude the Arbatovs will take towards us. It’s been over a month; enough time for any man to decide whether to pursue this bitter feud to the bloody end or to pretend it never happened.

“Asami – ” Akihito began. He didn’t care about Asami’s goods or what the new hitman Feilong had recruited was like. That meant nothing compared to the faint odour of blood that he could still smell, doggedly pursuing Asami like a bad omen.

“I’m fine. I just need to go home and change a shirt and then send the cleaner’s bill to Feilong.”

“Please tell me you meant that as a joke,” Takaba said in a pained voice, looking up hopefully into Asami’s expression.

The older man was unreadable. His expression spoke neither of retribution or forgiveness, just a depressing ambiguity which would give Takaba no solace or peace of mind. Takaba mutely pulled the covers until it reached his chin and he wiggled back down into a sleeping position. He deliberately avoided meeting Asami’s eyes and stared fixedly out the open window

The mob boss and his underling left without so much as a word of farewell leaving Takaba to wallow in misery. All those troubles, all that danger that Asami went through wasn’t for him; it was some sort of twisted sense of injured male pride. Otherwise what other reason did Asami have for pursuing a vendetta when he was safely back in Japan and constantly tailed by two of Asami’s bodyguards?

“They can all suck eggs,” he muttered to himself and wiped away the last of the tears. He idly reached for the remote control and switched on the television, glad the contrived soap dramas drowned out all the other thoughts and voices in his head.

[VF fic] A Kiss to Build a Dream On - Prologue

2007-01-26T14:27:00Z

A KISS TO BUILD A DREAM ON

Fandom: Viewfinder
Chapter: Prologue
Characters: MikhailxFeilong, AsamixTakaba
Rating: R (overall)
Summary: Set after the 'Naked Truth' arc, speculating on how each of the characters will deal with the conclusion of Takaba's kidnapping and exploring the changing dynamics of their relationships.
Disclaimer: This fanfic is a non profit workand all characters portrayed within are property of Yamane Ayano unless stated otherwise. The title is also borrowed from one of Louis Armstrong's songs.

PROLOGUE: A TRAITOR'S DECISION

He had not been informed. Again.

Yoh surveyed the conference room which was empty of human presence and sound, the only object in motion being the billowing gauze curtain by the open window that caught the early morning breeze.

Liu Feilong had stopped trusting him. He had taken steps to make sure he didn’t know his movement details because there was no other logical explanation for Yoh not having the slightest idea that half the evacuation of Baishe would occur today.

His situation was becoming unstable, dangerous. With this new slight from Feilong, he could now see the rock bottom he was almost scraping and knew he had to take initiative and do something before something happened to him. If he didn’t proceed cautiously, his body would be sent back to Japan in separate boxes, and if he was stupid, he would be alive ten years from now begging for the sweet release of death each day.

Yoh shuddered and tried to momentarily put the morbid thoughts aside, but the tenability of his position, in Baishe as part of Feilong’s inner circle and as Asami’s sting fell apart faster than he could calm down and think of kicking his contingency plans into action. This could rightly be described as ‘worse case scenario’ and he was perilously close to ‘utterly helpless’ as his once well-placed resources and informants were stripped from him and dwindled away into nothing. More and more, he regretted declining Asami’s offer to protect him for life in exchange for pulling out Takaba prior to the exchange of the casino deed.

He dejectedly sank into a vacant seat at the conference table and stared into the large silken embroidery hanging on the opposite wall, unable to appreciate its beauty and elegance as a heavy weight sagged his shoulders and his mind was blank and ready to accept defeat. Despair was always looking for a chance to paralyze him these days, snapping at his heels until he became paranoid of his own shadow and jumped at the slightest noise in terror that Feilong was out to exact revenge against a traitor. Everyone knew how cruel the triad boss could be against those who betrayed his trust.

Yoh cursed under his breath and silently berated himself, again, for not having been more vigilant, on red alert in the days leading up to the exchange. What a disastrous affair that was. As close as he had been to Feilong and Asami, he had never even thought to throw the Arbatov into his calculations and estimate how one blond haired blue eyed playboy with an injured male pride could tear up the path he had so meticulously laid out between Feilong and Asami to avoid unnecessary bloodshed.

It had promised to be a solid plan with potential to produce results amenable to all, thus allowing him to maintain his cover. But no, Mikhail-bloody-Arbatov thought the world revolved around him and he stepped into other people’s private affairs with the same blasé attitude as his unannounced and uninvited visits to the Baishe HQ. Feilong had been prepared to release Akihito in return for the casino deed; the triad boss looked to be close to laying his inner demons to some form of rest and Asami, though he swore retribution, was likely to have dropped the matter in return for Akihito’s safe return.

Yoh raked a hand through his increasingly dishevelled hair, expelling an angry sigh at the same time. It was still hard to accept that Mikhail saw the feud between Feilong and Asami as an opportunity to capitalize on both the personal and business level. The history between the two mob bosses was vicious and convoluted enough as it was – they didn’t need an outsider sticking his nose in and making his own demands. Arbatov just won the prize for being the grand master pourer of oil on the proverbial fire.

“You should be resting.”

Startled, he looked up. Tao lingered by the doorway sucking on his bottom lip as he surveyed the quiet room. One arm was still cradled in a sling and the swelling and puffiness in his left cheek had not subsided. Yoh tried to give a reassuring smile.

“I’m all right. It was only a flesh wound, no big deal.”

“Fei-daren obviously doesn’t think so,” Tao retorted, always giving his master the benefit of the doubt. “He knows you’re injured and doesn’t want you ‘over-exerting’ yourself’.” Feilong must have said that a number of times to the boy because Tao spoke as if he were mimicking his master.

Yoh feigned an amused chuckle. An idea suddenly struck. Sure, his informants had disowned him and he was friendless in this foreign country, but there was still Tao. Tao was the type of child to see only the good in humanity and was blind to all its darkness and evils. His actions were always fueled by a desire to display his good intentions. In short, the child lived to please, and Yoh could definitely help himself to that kind of altruistic service.

Information was vital now that his links had all been severed. Information was going to either salvage his career or at least guarantee safe passage back to Asami’s stronghold in Japan.

“Do you have any idea where Liu laoban has gone today?” He tried to pass it off as an innocent, by-and-by question but intently watched for any reaction signally suspicion or distrust. Tao blinked and was only too happy to fill in the gaps.

“They’ve gone to China again. Fei-daren says the tailors in Guangzhou are really good and he’s going to order some new clothes tailor-made to fit me.” Tao beamed and scratched the back of his head in slight embarrassment. “They’ll all be back in two or three days’ time. I hope they bring lots of souvenirs for everyone else!”

This was bad. His hand was being forced sooner than he dreaded. To suggest that Liu Feilong had travelled all the way to Guangzhou with half his men in order to satiate consumerist cravings was outright ridiculous. Before Yoh plummeted from grace, he was not aware that Baishe had any issues with the Mainland triad branches which would require Feilong himself to personally attend to with half his entourage.

That left one explanation. Feilong was heading north to oversee something extremely important himself. Negotiations of an alliance perhaps, or a hostile takeover to expand his powerbase in the mainland in case Macau fell permanently into Russian hands. Whatever Feilong was doing or planned to do, it had ‘damn important’ plastered all over it.

This was perfect, a golden chance not to be missed. If he could get the scoop on this latest operation and bring it with him back to Japan, Asami might even reward him with some semblance of normal life.

“Ah…Mr. Yoh, are you all right?” Tao perceived his tension and moved towards him. Confusion danced in his eyes.

He forced himself to relax and smile a piteous smile. “Ah, I wish I could have gone with Liu Laoban. Not being by his side makes me even more anxious about his well being.” He manufactured a long suffering sigh and lowered his eyelids a fraction. “And not knowing what Liu Laoban does only gives me more and more worries. Like me, you’ve probably had nights where you couldn’t sleep because you couldn’t stop thinking about those horrible Japanese and Russians and whether they will attack our Fei-daren again.”

That was an act worthy of an Emmy and it also contained a grain of truth. It was all unquestioningly lapped up by Tao who patted him on the shoulder sympathetically.

“I understand. If you want, I could take a quick look into Fei-daren’s diary for you and see what he’s doing today.”

“Oh no! You can’t do that! I couldn’t ask you to do such a dangerous thing.”

“Nah, it’s not dangerous at all. I’m allowed into Fei-daren’s room any time I want and I know where he keeps his time sheets. I’m going in to dust his room at eleven o’clock.”

“Thank you so much,” Yoh replied with all the sincerity he could muster. “I’ll take you out to lunch.”

Tao almost jumped for joy and immediately burst out, “I want McDonalds!”

“McDonalds you will have then. I’ll meet you downstairs in the lobby at noon.”

o-o-o-o-o-o

The wait felt like an eternity. Although he lounged in the air-conditioned lobby where the very surface of the Italian marble floors glistened like large sheets of crystalline ice, Yoh was boiling under the collar. As discreetly as possible, he fidgeted with his tie but was unable to secure the perfect knot that would not look sloppy but would allow him to breathe normally at the same time. And thank goodness for his jacket. He doubted the sight of the sweat patches under his armpits would be very appealing or attractive.

Other Baishe members hardly spared him a second glance. It was expected in big organizations as such. When you were on your way down, people could sniff the acute repugnance of failure around you and steered far away so the stink wouldn’t rub off on them. Some took the time to toss him a sneer or a glare of disdain. Most just pretended he was invisible, which was fine by him. He had made up his mind to leave already; he wasn’t going to miss any of them.

Tao literally skipped to his car in his excitement to leave headquarters for lunch. Feilong was a picky eater with very strict inclinations towards Chinese foods. You’d be hard pressed to find a chef at headquarters who knew much about western cuisine and their preference for the oriental meant that imported fast food chains were frowned upon. But what ten year old boy could deny the addictive allure of fries fresh from the boiling oil and tossed with salt, or the sour tang of pickles in the hamburgers.

“I’ll take us to the McDonalds in Central, the massive one with the playground.”

“Cool! I’ll get to play with the other kids. You’re being too kind to me, Yoh.”

Yoh almost lost control of the wheel when he was swamped by a wave of revulsion. So this was what betraying the trust of an innocent child really felt like. It made him sick to the pits of his stomach and the taste of bile flooded into his mouth. He forcefully swallowed and managed a weak smile. There was a job to be done, and sentimentality was only for those who could afford it.

“And you treat me very well too, Tao, going through Fei-daren’s diary just to keep me out of the dark. I mean it when I say I appreciate your help.”

“Oh, that.” Tao treated the snooping as if it was something so minor he almost forgot about it. “Fei-daren didn’t have much written in his time schedule for today. Um…I made out the words ‘Lin family’ and ‘bail’ and ‘personnel’. Oh gees,” Tao gripped his bare knees and avoided Yoh’s gaze, “I’m sorry, but Fei-daren’s writing gets a bit ‘hua’* and there are still a lot of Chinese characters I don’t know so I couldn’t interpret…”

“Hey, don’t put yourself down like that! You’ve helped set my heart at ease already, and we really should enjoy lunch on a day like this. How about thinking of choosing between the Big Mac and the Quarterpound, and how many Sundaes you can fit in afterwards?”

The grin was instantly back on the child’s face and another shard of guilt stabbed Yoh right into his dying heart. No amount of Happy Meals was going to purchase his atonement, and whatever Tao was going to later receive as punishment for this leak would be yet another irremovable stain on his conscience.

Obliviously happy, Tao ate away and mingled with other children his age in the ball pit and the slides shrieking and whooping with excitement as a game of tag ensured. Yoh kept careful watch over the boy, but his mind was racing ahead trying to process the information Tao provided, and how he could sell it to Asami.

The Lin family of Guangdong were a small semi-legitimate organization. They dabbled in some illegal drug trafficking for profit but mostly helped oil the palms of other higher ranking government officials to turn a blind eye and so pave the way for bigger groups like Baishe to do their business. In fact, Lin Dong Yu was a retired public servant himself and had sent his sons to work in the public sector. But in terms of connections, the Qian family held the bigger network and were more respected in the city. What could Feilong gain by bailing out a small player when he could use the same resources to buy the alliance of the Qian Triad? What did the Lins have that the Qians didn’t?

Personnel….

Was Feilong on a recruiting campaign? Lin didn’t have any men of outstanding repute; the ones with talent would have been bought out by Qian Da Sheng long ago, and it still didn’t make sense. If Feilong was thinking of enlisting people from mainland, why would he need to empty our half of Baishe? Or did Feilong expect Lin to hand over someone important after Baishe rescued the Lin family from whatever woes they were troubled by? Again, that was irrational. For the logistical costs of mobilizing half of Baishe to Guangdong outweighed the costs of employing quality staff by the usual methods.

Yoh rubbed the sides of his temples, frowning hard. A headache was starting to settle, beginning with a buildup of pressure behind his eyes. He swayed on his feet for a moment, then gathered himself together. All his questions would be answered once he did some research, and the sooner he started, the sooner he got out. With Feilong temporarily absent from Hong Kong, his chances of fleeing Hong Kong alive exponentially increased. If he missed the opening now, god knows when a chance like this would stumble across his path again.

“Tao, come on, we better get going.” It clawed at his insides to see Tao’s disappointed face, but then, there was a whole lot of disappointment heading Tao’s way once he began to learn of the ugliness in the deceit and treachery people who he thought he was close to were capable of.

For the pristine tears yet to be shed, Yoh could only say, “I’m sorry.”

==================

*hua – cursive, florid.

( Chapter 1 )

[HxH Fanfic] Macabre Nightmares and Plundered Dreams - 01

2007-01-24T21:01:38Z

MACABRE NIGHTMARES AND PLUNDERED DREAMS

CHAPTER ONE: Capture
Rating: T
Summary: Tracking down Leorio’s kidnappers leads Kurapika into the employ of the Makavoy Family. The shady business behind the Family’s wealth will force Kurapika to reconsider what’s most important to him.
Characters: Kurapika, Illumi, Alluka, Hisoka and a few original characters.
Disclaimer: Hunter x Hunter is copyrighted by Yoshihiro Togashi, Shounen Jump Weekly, Shueisha and Nippon Animation

( Prologue )

It was 3:00am by the time he returned to the Nostrad mansion grounds. All at once, as his feet set upon the raked gravel driveway towards the towering elaborate cast iron gates, an ominous, pensive atmosphere settled on his shoulders like a heavy cloak dark as the night sky. The air was unnaturally quiet, devoid of the chirrup of crickets or the haunting echoes of an owl’s calls. The impassive silence forced him to hear and relive Leorio’s last words in his mind, words that still left his ears stinging.

You’re a bloody fool, Leorio, he thought to himself by way of consolation, to convince himself that he had acted correctly, not irrationally or selfishly, back in the bowels of St. Claires. You’re a bloody fool who thinks he can save and avenge everyone. The garish images of a young, broken body sustained only by the wheezing gasps of a ventilator and gastric tubes barbarously plugged up the nostrils were already beginning to blur. Eventually, thankfully, they would be nothing but an irrelevant footnote in a thesis that described his life, and the identity of the dead child reduced to ‘a boy’.

This isn’t about saving anyone. This is about you wanting to be a hero. Don’t you get enough grateful looks as a doctor? Must you hunt down the villains so you can reach out and drink in the adulation for that as well?

He vigorously shook his head, muttering reprimands to himself. Regardless of Leorio’s actions, the older man’s motivations had always been untouchably sacrosanct, stemming from the needless death of Pietro his childhood friend. It was something beyond mockery and derision. The guards he walked by gave him weird looks, probably thinking that their team leader had finally cracked under the pressure and talked to people who weren’t quite there.

A wave of fatigue rocked his body, nearly toppling him off balance. His arm shot out and grasped onto the railing, and the sight of ghastly white knuckles compared to the ashen grey of his skin made him gasp aloud. The looked like the hands of a man who’d been embalmed and buried for more than a month.

“Kurapika?”

Using the last reserves of his strength, his back stiffened and he straightened himself up, marching up the rest of the stairs that led to the brass gilded main entrance of the mansion where Senritsu waited for him to reach, a look of anxiety painted across her face. Subconsciously, he pulled at his long sleeves and retracted his hands into them, disguising it as a gesture of warding against the chill of the night.

Her voice sustained a note of concern, and it irritated him. “How did it go?”

“How do you think it went?” he growled, immediately regretting the harsh tone. “I’m sorry. I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

“I’ve seen you work for three days and nights without allowing Miss Neon’s incessant tantrums get to you.” She stepped closer to him, as if with the proximity gained, she could better inspect his heartbeat. “Are you troubled by the same thing that is also giving Mr. Leorio worries?”

He stared down at her, his gaze incredibly cold, the same cold that now wrapped around his consciousness and rendered him impervious to all emotion. He needed this, had to be like this, otherwise he was not going to be able to cope the myriad of troubles heaped at his feet.

“Leorio’s worries are his own. They do not matter to me.”

Senritsu pursed her lips and followed him inside, catching the jacket that he carelessly shrugged off, her eyes never leaving his unresponsive back. “You can’t mean that. Leorio’s your friend.”

“Yeah, well, friends can be overrated sometimes,” he said dismissively.

He heard the sounds of her footsteps continue to trail behind him as he sought out the study where Bashou was supposed to be on duty tonight studying the live feed from surveillance cameras. When he pushed aside the door, the room was quiet and empty and the scenes on the luminous flat screens found themselves no audience.

Senritsu’s hesitancy ignited a very short fuse. She audibly gulped. “I was going to tell you outside, but you looked so – ”

His raised hand abruptly cut her off. He couldn’t decide how he felt or who he ought to direct his near murderous rage on: the declining head of the Nostrad family, his stalled search for his clansmen’s eyes, Bashou’s insubordination or Leorio’s conspiracy theories.

“I’ll deal with his notice of resignation tomorrow.”

“But Kurapika, we can’t afford to let any more staff go.”

“A bodyguard whose heart isn’t in the job might as well not be here. And Senritsu, I’d also suggest you also start looking around.”

He could literally taste her disappointment and it left an acrid, sour taste in his mouth. “Even you’d think like this, Kurapika?”

“Everyone should think like this,” he bit out, bitter to the bone. “Let’s be honest. We didn’t enlist with the Nostrads because we thought they were righteous bearers of charity. We chose them because they were aspiring A-class thugs with the means to help us get what we want which we otherwise couldn’t obtain by lawful means.”

He paused, running through the night’s roster in his mind, counting only twenty men spread over a mansion with grounds of up to fifty hectares to patrol. Fifteen armed men and women were concentrated in the house, five on the rooftop, seven down in the bunkers where Light and Neon cowered away through the night and three on ground level covering the entrances to the best of their ability.

For someone with as many enemies as Light Nostrad, a team of twenty guards was a pittance. Understandably, staff were disgruntled; they were being requested to take risks that their pay did not justify, and a mafia boss who didn’t pay his lackeys well soon found him with no lackeys at all. Of late, Bashou had been vocal with his dissatisfaction, grumbling about the amount of hours he had been forced to pull and how the stress was eroding the vitality of the haiku poet within him.

He collapsed into the swivel chair before the monitors, breathing laboured. “To tell you the truth, Senritsu, the Nostrad family were only ever a means to an end for me. I have not invested any emotion in this place. Sentimentality will not hold me back, and I urge you to prioritize your goals. What’s more important? A spoilt teenage girl more useless than a bent spoon and her senile father who thinks his own shadow conspires against him, or your cure, and the destruction of the Devil’s Symphony? Don’t look at me like that. We owe this family nothing. ”

Kurapika had come to accept that he had nearly given up two years of his life to serve the Nostrad family, and apart from the Yorkshin Auction, which was now like a distant, foggy memory, he wasn’t seeing his dedication reap its dividends. The search for the eyes of his kind had ground down to stubborn halt, and it wasn’t up to him, nor did he have the resources and strength, to get the motors running again.

The Nostrad family was in its death throes. It was like a fancy red Ferrari whose polished finish had once been so dazzling it blinded, but was now nothing but a ruined, smoking vehicle that had careered off the highway in the middle of the race and crashed into unforgiving mountain side. Survivors ought walk away from the wreckage, not loiter around and consider how they might salvage the spare parts and make one last buck before they reduced the car into a mangled heap of twisted metal. With the leaking gasoline, all it took was one spark to kill everyone in a twenty meter radius with the explosion and the poisonous fumes.

He spun away from Senritsu and wearily settled curled fingers above the keyboard and mechanically inputted the letters that constituted the Hunter Association’s website address.

Taking a deep breath, he gently closed his eyes and trained his disciplined mind to focus on the task at hand.

One that benefited someone else, and not himself, for once.

“You go get some sleep. I’ll make sure Bashou gets his pay cheque tomorrow morning and prepare his letter of reference. Yours as well,” he added, sparing her one last side glance. “It’ll be a strong letter of recommendation. I’ll say that you were downsized due to the Family’s financial limitations, as opposed to any question over your competence.”

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

“Kurapika! Wait!”

His hurried footsteps were uncharacteristically loud, noisy, graceless. Nearly tripping and hitting his head hard on the floor as he clambered down the veined marble stairs, his heart was racing and he had never been so thoroughly snared by the clutches of panic.

His own breathing sounded harsh and torn to his ears, but the tolling of the death knells for his own mortality were not what frightened him.

You’ve bit off more than you can chew, Leorio, and you might just choke to death this time.

“Hey, Kurapika! What’s happening!”

“No time, Senritsu. I’ve got to run.”

“Then I’m coming with you, and you can tell me along the way.”

He shook his head and didn’t bother to argue, conscious of his mission to head back to Leorio’s hospital and fervently pray to the gods, the angels, the demons, the pixies, the leprechauns and the fairies in the meantime that his friend had not met an ill end.

He climbed into the waiting car and hardly noticed Senritsu crawling into the back seat with him and warily eye the manila folder tucked firmly underneath his arm.

“To the city, St. Claire’s Hospital, and step on it!”

The jet black Lexus’s wheels screeched as the driver floored the accelerator, and with a feral growl from the exhaust, the car sped off down the spiraling paths of the mountain highway.

“I can’t recall another time when your heartbeat was so erratic,” Senritsu spoke up after some time when the engine settled into a steady hum and the ride was smooth. “Are the Nostrads in trouble?”

He rolled his eyes at the ridiculous suggestion and conveyed the file, warm from having been pressed against his body, to her, silently gesturing for her to study the black and white image inside as she turned over the cover. She blinked a few times at a rather bland, undistinguished picture of a small hammered sheet of metal and drew a blank.

“The ‘M’ is the insignia for the Makavoy Family,” Kurapika explained, his detached voice a far cry from his true feelings. He was rather amazed that he was still able to coherently translate his thoughts into speech. “That Family officially exists in rumours and myth. Some Hunters are adamant that Makavoy is just a convenient term whose definition is concomitant with the sum of all the world’s greed, cruelty and inhumanity.”

He deliberately paused to allow Senritsu to absorb the information. Watching her come to grips with the small revelation evoked a sense of pity, for how could a symbol so small, so insignificant that the mind wouldn’t even deign to give it further consideration after a single glance, hold so much weight?

“They are a powerful Family?”

He curtly nodded. “They are what some Black List Hunters refer to as ‘Shadow Organizations’, some so discreet and obscure that they are a shadow of a shadow. You are looking at one of the rarest pictures in the world, Senritsu, something which might be the closest thing the Hunter Association has to ‘proof’ that the Makavoy Family exists.”

Her eyes snapped wide open as she stared at him in astonishment. “Then how did you come by this?”

He couldn’t bring himself to hold onto her gaze as he slowly, but surely, succumbed to the crippling effects of fear. “I was given this.”

Understanding dawned on Senritsu’s face. “Leorio – ”

“Found it on a dying boy.” He fell back into his clinical, unaffected tone, stoically forcing himself to resume eye contact with his co-worker. “Last night, he took me to see him and then told me he suspected the hospital he was working in is engaged in one massive cover-up that is simply too coordinated to be the will and effort of a single man.”

“You mean the entire staff at the hospital are possibly in on this?”

“No, but I suspect a large majority.”

He wanted to say more, but his locked jaw wouldn’t budge. He stared out the dark tinted windows, at row after row of dark verdant conifer trees until he couldn’t stand the bleakness of the lingering shadows merged with the pre-dawn mists and buried his face in his hands.

A feather light touch fell on his shoulder, accompanied by Senritsu’s soothing voice calling his name.

“I basically told Leorio to mind his own business. I…I didn’t try hard enough to make him realize the dangers of interfering with any underworld organization.”

The fleeting touch became a reassuring squeeze and firm pats on his arm. “Leorio might not be in any danger. The spies might think he doesn’t know enough to constitute a threat.”

He sniffed loudly and sat back into his seat, increasing the distance between the deformed woman and himself as he feverishly rubbed away at dry eyes. “Who are we kidding? A Family doesn’t get to become a Shadow Organization by leaving things to chance. I tremble to think about the number of people they must have silenced in the past to achieve this…this frightening feat of being a product of hearsay. We were overheard last night arguing about Leorio’s stupid, stupid decision to unravel the conspiracy and cover up. I’m sure we were being spied on…and…and if they know Leorio’s kept his own records about the boy…”

He may just possibly lose one of his few precious friends.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The music hunter had to forcefully pull him away from the blonde receptionist at the information desk, ducking now and then to avoid a sharp rap to her head by his unforgiving elbows. The stares of other people were of lesser concern.

“How can you…” Kurapika broke up as his attention was momentarily diverted to his struggle with Senritsu and he grunted at the effort that it took to reclaim his overcoat tails. “Just check the rosters again. His name’s Leorio, L-e-o-r-i-o, an intern. He had a shift just last night.”

After much ineffectual typing into the hospital staff database and vacuous looks between the monitor and Kurapika’s contorted features, an apparently very air-headed receptionist blandly shook her head.

“I’m sorry sir, but you must be mistaken. There’s no doctor, nurse, intern or janitor by the name of ‘Leorio’ at St. Claires.”

“Are you kidding me? I. Saw. Him. Here. Last. Night,” the furious Kuruta grated out between clenched teeth, firmly ignoring Senritsu’s pleas to avoid creating a scene amongst a gathering crowd. “Where’s your security footage. I’ll point him out to you.”

And again, Kurapika was met with unyielding pre-recorded lines programmed to be uttered again and again until either the receptionist dropped dead from the fatigue or he threw some chairs against the windows and stormed out of the building. “Sorry sir, but you have no authority to request the surveillance tapes.”

His fists landed down hard onto the information desk and cracks flowered brilliantly on impact across the glossy vinyl surface. “Get me the Attending or Resident responsible for supervising the interns. I’ll have a word with him.”

Acrylic nails resumed their steady typing accompanied by a few thoughtful hums, and then a hollow apologetic look. “There are five doctors who supervise the interns, three of them on the day shift and two on the night shift. The best I can do is give you their names, but you’ll have to speak to them during their free time.”

“Could you at least give me some photographic identification so I may actually recognise them if I bump into them?”

On cue, the receptionist politely winced. “I’m sorry, I cannot disclose that information.”

A few choice oaths flew out of Kurapika’s mouth before he could rein them back, and he snarled at the dirty look the bimbo of a receptionist shot him. He was then urged to a quieter corner of the waiting area and braced himself for Senritsu’s stern reprimand.

“This is highly unbecoming of you, Kurapika! Slow down, keep your voice quiet and think before you speak. Has it occurred to you that Leorio might have finished his shift and gone home? Or that the lady at the front desk just might not know everyone who works here?”

Senritsu’s logic was promptly dismissed. “Interns practically live at the hospital pulling 18 hours shifts. Because that woman is convinced he isn’t employed by St. Claires, she won’t page him. Well, if barging into every crib and rest room is what it will take to find Leorio, then that’s what I’ll do. Come on.”

They had barely taken two steps when two tall and extremely well built security guards decked in intimidating black intercepted them and stared them down from their barrel chests.

One of them, with an ugly scar running down the side of his face, spoke, his voice reminiscent of gravel being crunched. “Excuse me sir, but I hear you’re causing a racket.”

Kurapika calmly eyed him. “Then your ears must be clogged with wax.”

“You are creating a disturbance,” the other security guard insisted, moving in on Senritsu who scuttled back two steps, “so we must ask you to step outside or we will physically remove you from these premises.”

He studied their serious frowns and cast a glance at the blonde receptionist who looked straight ahead into her computer monitor as if she had no idea what was going on. Then it clicked – these staff had already been given the orders. Leorio had been removed from St. Claires, or killed, and every damn soul in the hospital had either been changed or were threatened to deny that a man, a simpleton aspiring to be a pro-bono doctor, had ever existed.

His eyes saw red. The chains wrapped around his wrist rattled in resonance. He wasn’t going to let Leorio get wiped off the face of the earth like that dead little boy without a decent fight.

“You think pretending Leorio never worked here is going to silence this sordid little story?” he said in deathly soft tones that made these hardened criminals, masquerading as guards, visibly shudder. “I’ll make sure word of this gets out, and the next time I come back, you’ll all be begging to be the first to tell me where he is.”

Kurapika stormed out of the hospital building trying desperately hard to think about something constructive other than setting the entire St. Claires alight in one massive bonfire. He marshalled all that was left of his rationality and produced a reassuring conclusion. If Leorio had indeed been kidnapped or killed, there had to be a shred of evidence somewhere, and once he was able to lay his hands on this evidence, he could take his investigation further from there.

“What do you want to do now?”

“Ascertain whether Leorio is dead or alive. I’m going to his apartment and look for any clues he might have left behind for us.”

Senritsu’s sigh was one of relief. “Do you know where he’s staying?”

“No,” he replied in clipped tones. “But with my Hunter License it will be a walk in the park.” Unless they’ve erased his public record already, he morbidly added in afterthought.

Because he was too distracted, pre-occupied and possibly scared witless by the branching possibilities blossoming in his mind with each speculation, Kurapika didn’t sense a new aura in the car until it was too late and the doors were bolted down and secured with an additional layer of nen.

Seated opposite them, with his legs unashamedly spread far too wide for Kurapika’s liking, was a young man sporting an old-fashioned gelled comb-back hairstyle. His attire was a crisp, pressed suit with matching black tie and black shades which all but shouted ‘Mafia’ and invited immediate arrest regardless of how innocently he may have been acting.

Both Kurapika and Senritsu fell back into their seats as the car sped off, presumably by its new driver, and the man opposite them smiled easily, silently entreating them to let down their guard.

Openly, Kurapika didn’t resist and put on a show of complacency, opting to quietly guard against the dangers he could see rather than the threats he could not.

“Your friend has been taken by the Makavoys.”

Kurapika unsuccessfully repressed a sharp intake of breath as his suspicions were confirmed and Senritsu sat up a little straighter, her small hands clutching her knees.

“It always happens without fail to people who know too much.”

“And what did my friend know?” Kurapika responded evenly, refusing to rise to the bait and lose his calm.

The shaded man smiled, full of coldly gleaming white teeth and devoid of humour. “The wrong kinds of things. The types of things that land one into trouble.”

Kurapika snorted and deliberately affected an imperious look of arrogance and mocking. “With all due respect, my friend was a simple intern learning to apply intravenous drips and diagnose the flu and other common conditions.”

The smile on the man abruptly dropped and he gradually warmed to anger. He visibly seethed, nostrils flaring like an enraged bull, and the wrinkles of his frown visible above the impenetrable black lens.

“You think this is a joke, Kuruta?” he hissed, ploughing on and not letting Kurapika a chance to answer. “Do you honestly believe the Makavoys would go to such lengths for no good reason?”

“No, I don’t,” Kurapika replied in equal amounts of seriousness. “But I’d appreciate if you dropped the whole smug façade and start treating my colleague and I with some more respect.”

“Respect,” the stranger sneered, demeanor suddenly a whole lot more aggressive. “What makes you think you’re not to meet the same end as your foolish friend?”

“Because your voice doesn’t hold enough intensity to suggest you really mean to kill,” Senritsu calmly explained and even proffered a small smile one ordinarily bestowed on an obedient child.

“And because I doubt lackeys in the Makavoy employ are unprofessional enough to gloat on the job. There’s also no reason for you to prolong our lives either. If you wanted to know my source of information, you’d kill me, ransack my apartment and get rid of any evidence from there. Interrogating me is futile; I could easily lie and throw you off track, and a Makavoy lackey would, supposedly, be smarter than that.”

The tension in the enclosed space of the body of the car persisted, crackling for a few more moments before it evaporated and the belligerence exuded by the stranger abated, giving way to a genuine, throaty laugh, sounding quite pleased with himself.

“Director Lucien will be pleased to meet the both of you.”

Senritsu blinked, confused. “Director?”

“Of the Investigators of the International Court, often mistaken as Interpol. We saw your friend get nabbed in the early hours of dawn, and the Director is interested in allowing you to participate in our next operation.”

Distrust immediately condensed in the form of a frown on Kurapika’s brow. “Surely Interpol isn’t going to spend its resources rescuing one medical student, who, before yesterday, had never heard of the Makavoys and who probably still doesn’t know the name of his captors.”

“You’re right about that, Kuruta, but we are always looking to increase manpower. Whether you’re interested in working for the IIC is one thing, but since the rescue of your friend, Mr. Leorio, coincides with our objectives, we must work together.”

Kurapika eyed the presumptuous man coldly, for some reason feeling that he had been offered a gold, jewelled chalice that had been coated with poison. “I prefer to work alone.”

There was a slight shake of the head, conveying deep pity. “You misunderstood my words, Kuruta. You have no choice. We’ve been on the trail of the Makavoys for decades and we’re so close to success that we’re not, under any circumstances whatsoever, going to let a couple of outsiders who have their own agendas waltz in and disturb our plans. So either you agree to play along with us, or we order our insiders to have Mr. Leorio terminated so as to stop you from sticking your nose into business that’s really not your own.”

Kurapika’s options, notably lack thereof, were mapped out in his mind. He could continue to interrogate staff at St. Claires until he was blue in the face but he would not be able to extract any information if everyone was terrified of the long, lethal reach of theMakavoys. On the other hand, the International Court had, in their pursuit of the Makavoys over the many years, collected considerable information and had fostered their own group of stings and planted insiders. If he co-operated with them, maybe they would share data and substantially increases his chances of springing Leorio out of whatever dungeon he’d been thrown in.

But how he was repulsed by the idea of working for someone who had just threatened Leorio’s life with such indifferent impunity.

“Let me ask you one more question.”

That damnable smile on those pale elastine cheeks widened. “Shoot.”

“Did your upcoming operation involve the potential death of outsiders, such as my friend?”

It seemed the question was acceptable, and the man reclined back into his seat, at ease as the car continued to speed down a long stretch of highway to an unknown destination. Kurapika was silently counting on Senritsu to keep count of the number of turns.

“So long as Mr. Leorio has no intentions of preventing us from arresting the heads of the family, and he’s smart enough to duck and dodge the cross-fire, the IIC will tolerate your rescue activities.”

“So long as we act within your parameters and not get in your way,” Kurapika qualified, his discomfort translating into a waver in his voice and also the folding of his arms across his chest.

The man nodded amicably sans genuine friendliness. “But of course.”

An hour and a half later, the car stopped and the doors automatically opened. Kurapika got a good whiff of the salty ocean breeze before he was ordered by another mafia-looking drone to apply a blindfold over his eyes and he was herded down into a secret underground base.

It was so ironic that the IIC operated and behaved in a fashion so akin to the same criminals they would capture and shackle.

[HxH Fanfic] Macabre Nightmares and Plundered Dreams - Prologue

2007-01-24T20:49:46Z

MACABRE NIGHTMARES AND PLUNDERED DREAMS

Chapter: Prologue
Characters: Kurapika, Illumi, Alluka, Hisoka and a few original characters.
Rating: T
Summary: Tracking down Leorio’s kidnappers leads Kurapika into the employ of the Makavoy Family. The shady business behind the Family’s wealth will force Kurapika to reconsider what’s most important to him.
Author’s Notes: I’m hoping to wrap this up between 10-15 chapters. There’s going to be a fair amount of violence, torture, yadda yadda yadda, so if you don’t like reading about abused children, please desist from continuing any further. As always, reviews are most welcome.
Disclaimer: Hunter x Hunter is copyrighted by Yoshihiro Togashi, Shounen Jump Weekly, Shueisha and Nippon Animation

“Please come quickly. It’s urgent.”

The message was left on his answering machine, as he had his phone switched off during the debriefing that begun sometime after dinner and lasted well into the night. He had waited until all the men and women had filtered out of the conference room, dragging their feet, fatigued by the long hours of concentration, before he allowed himself to check for missed calls. A familiar number of was displayed, unexpected, because he had been advised a month earlier that the coming year of internship would be busy for him and he’d have hardly any time to find some sleep, let alone make a call.

Leorio’s voice was clipped and the few sparse words were delivered in caliginous tones tainted with desperation. A distress signal could not have been shouted any louder, so concerned, he held Senritsu back and proffered the cellular device to her. Her eyes were closed as she listened to the playback, and her wane smile contained none of the anxieties tormenting Kurapika’s heartbeats.

“He sounds stressed,” she remarked, casual and non-plussed for which he was deeply grateful. “Under extreme pressure even.” His frown returned. She noticed. “But there was certainly no fear. Fear does many things to one’s speech – erratic sforzandos, an accelerando in one’s breath or an altered pitch. I detected none of these things. He seems to be troubled by something aside from himself.”

If the doctor-in-training was in no immediate danger, Kurapika pondered on whether to heed the plea. Confined in a hospital for day and night, his friend may have encountered something, a patient most likely, unique and perplexing. He was touched that Leorio wanted to share his experiences with him, but his own job was equally as important. Planning, organization and execution of all security of the Nostrad family now fell to him, and sometimes, he questioned himself on his capacity to shoulder this burden.

It used to be customary for Light Nostrad to chair these debriefings himself so that he could gain a better understanding of the inner workings of the team of bodyguards who he has entrusted the lives of his family to. However, in the past eighteen months following the Yorkshin incident, Light literally abandoned his outer defences. He liquidated a number of assets, including holiday houses on prime land, mountain retreats, antique cars and a dozen priceless artworks by Scopais, froze all bank accounts and downsized roughly two thirds of his henchmen. It left Kurapika with a skeleton crew to work with, who often found themselves stretched to the limits, and rumour was starting to spread that Light was not going to be able to afford their next pay check.

The possibility of deserting a sinking ship had crossed his mind admittedly more than twice. He’d played the obsequious sycophant to the Light Family, slaughtered his dignity and self-respect at the sacrificial altar in hopes that Neon’s uncommon interest in body parts and her father’s ability to attain them would lead him to restoring his kinsmen‘s eyes. But with Neon’s nen stolen, a constant reminder that Kuroro was much alive, Light was no longer interested in his ambition. He scurried to consolidate what remained of his position and lost the foresight and wisdom to ‘think big’.

Meanwhile, in the devastating aftermath of the Ten Godafathers’ deaths, rats like Zenji clambered their way up the hierarchy, and with a nod of approval from Lady Luck, found himself being lauded by associates who, only months earlier, looked down at his dwarfed height and sniggered in secret at his achievements, or lack thereof. Petty scum like Zenji tended to have long memories, especially against those who had slighted him. A crooked nose that never set properly was all the caveat Zenji needed to keep Kurapika on top of his ‘to bring down’ list. Effectively, Kurapika found himself unemployable by any mafia boss who understood the trappings of underworld politics.

In these times where his handle on the ticket to his kinsmen’s eyes was so precarious, Kurapika was loathed to be distracted by anyone else’s problems. His own were more than enough.

“I think you should go,” Senritsu interrupted, arousing his surprise and consternation. She wasn’t psychic, that much he knew, but he was dismayed she could read him so easily. “Mr. Leorio did not leave an impression on me as the type of man to frivolously seek out his friends over trivial issues.” Really, he wanted to drawl, raising an eyebrow. Senritsu didn’t know Leorio as well as she thought, because she obviously hadn’t been subject to a four hour embellished tirade on Leorio’s amazing heckling session with a mobile phone peddler.

Then came the irrefutable punch-line. “You’re off duty tonight.”

He sighed in defeat. “Yes, I am.”

“Go on, Kurapika, it never hurts to meet old friends again.”

O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O

Leorio had sent him a letter from college around five weeks ago and the sentences almost jumped out at him with the enthusiasm that the doctor-in-training had poured into the words. He had passed the first year exams and after completing another six months’ study, he was selected by the college to undertake his internship at St. Claires Hospital in Gospen, where he remembered Kurapika and the Nostrad family were stationed.

I know you want to, but there will be no time to meet up for drinks after my shifts end – the letter went on to ramble. I will be on call and must resume my duties the moment my pager buzzes so I must ensure there is no alcohol in my system as I work. Unfortunate, yes, cruel even, but as each day passes, I keep telling myself I am one step closer to being a doctor.

A doctor!

Kurapika accordingly cued in the image of Leorio with his one fist clenched, one foot propped up on a stool, and his determined gaze staring into the future with envious clarity.

And after I gain my qualifications, these aspirations of mine, which have continued to taunt me by only existing in dreams, will finally be realized.

There had been jealousy as Kurapika set the letter down onto the flickering amber flame of the candle. He held onto the corner of the paper until the last possible moment where the remains of black and grey flakes of charred paper came to a sullen rest on his tabletop. All correspondence he received were destroyed after its contents were memorized because the pursuit of his own dreams had the potential to threaten the lives of those he cherished and loved. As he studied the ashes, he wondered: if he were to write a letter of a similar nature, would he be able to pen the first sentence, let alone imitate the passion?

Reality settled around him as he entered the hospital and made a beeline towards the free clinic where all interns and first year residents worked to treat people who did not have enough money to afford quality private physicians. Pushing aside swinging double doors that gave way at the slightest touch, the stench of disinfectant assaulted his nostrils.

Drug addicts fresh off the streets, soaked up to their eyeballs in dope, homeless men reeking of unwashed filth and impoverished parents with their malnourished children loitered around the corridors, waiting for their turn. There was a bruised and fading hope in their sullen gaze which Kurapika stoically made himself avoid. As a mafia lackey, being able to block out scenes and turn a blind eye in order to remain neutral were necessary pre-requisites. So how did Leorio fare, being tested every day by unrepentant misery and daunting dejection that could easily clasp shackles to his soul and drag him down to depths shadows could not follow.

A door to his left suddenly swung open, and it was only because Kurapika recognized the owner of the hand that he let himself be dragged in. This kind of greeting, if it could be called such, was boorish, bordering on rude. So without much pretense of friendliness, he jerked his arm back and coaxed the creases in his uniform to straighten out. Leorio must have sensed his agitation as his first words were of apology.

“I’m sorry for calling you out at such short notice.” The civil manners made Kurapika pay attention. “They’ve destroyed a lot of his belongings already, but I managed to take a few photographs for my own records.”

Whilst the sudden change in manners was welcome, Kurapika reluctantly studied the hand beckoning him to follow. Those hands were abnormally calm in contrast to the intensity in Leorio’s voice. The ability to remain still and steady under whatever mental duress was God’s way of telling Kurapika that those hands were made for surgery.

“I refuse to be led around the nose like a bull. Either drop this mystery and tell me what this is about, now, or I’m turning back and leaving.”

Those surgeon’s fingers unintentionally dug into his shoulders and hysteria flared up behind those filtered lens. “No, you can’t leave. I promise to explain, but you must see for yourself first. Quickly, there’s not much time left.”

Leorio took him down into the basement level of the hospital, which consisted of a labyrinth of unused corridors dimly lit by light bulbs swinging on fraying lengths of wire at uneven intervals. The place generated an ambience more suited to torture chambers than a hospital. As they walked, a manila folder was thrust into his hands.

“I’m breaching doctor-patient privilege to give you this, so I hope you understand how big this is.”

In Kurapika’s opinion, Leorio had never been a person for principles in the first place. But with the wretched lines that wereetched in his forehead after he compromised his professionalism and ethics as an intern, Kurapika allowed some exceptions.

Struggling to decipher the text in the dark, the patient’s report read like a standard description of rape: brutal anal tearing also showing scars of previous abuse; multiple fractures along the ribcage and cheekbones told of many beatings taking place as far as three year back. The tendons in the patient’s left leg had been deliberately severed, forcing the patient to forever drag the crippled limb behind him…

“To prevent him from running,” he concluded aloud. Sure, it was a grisly report and he was left feeling violated and coldly angry, but Leorio had turned to the wrong person if he though he was able to do something about it.

Leorio studied his stony expression and sighed disbelievingly. “Kurapika, the poor boy’s not even six years old!”

A quick check of the date of birth confirmed that this was the case. He closed the cover and made to hand the file back to his friend. “There are many poor souls in the world. I guess it’s always upsetting to find one more.” His eyes narrowed in resolution. “But I do believe that it’s neither you nor I who are responsible for seeking justice for this child.”

Leorio did not merely accept the returned file, he snatched it from Kurapika’s hands and his pace increased, forcing Kurapika to break into a light jog to keep up. “Don’t you think I would have gone to the police or informed the special victims unit or something? I would like nothing better than to do everything in my power to save this kid. But – “

Kurapika stiffened. Instinct told him the look of a hunted man on Leorio’s face was not to be lightly regarded.

The doctor-in-training continued, words nearly tripping over each other in their impatience to be heard. “There’s a cover-up of some sort. I can smell it. The kid had this necklace on him, silver, and there was a pendant that looked more like a dog tag with engravings on the back of it. The moment my supervisor saw it…”

Leorio swallowed. Behind his acrimony and impotent rage, an overwhelming terror threatened to consume him whole. It strangled his voice into a hoarse whisper, and Kurapika found himself straining his ears against the pounding silence. “My supervisor saw it and immediately took the boy away. Said not to call police or get any health agencies involved.”

“And you didn’t follow these instructions.” A statement, not a question.

“Are you kidding? A child with this kind of medical history and I’m expected to pretend it never happened?” From the inner folds of his jacket, Leorio withdrew a piece of paper that had been meticulously folded over twice. After another scan of their surroundings with cautious eyes, the older man rapidly unfurled it and near pinned it under Kurapika’s nose.

“The station sergeant took one look at this and kicked me out the front door. I remember people from the Hunter Exam who stood up to Hisoka and didn’t look nearly half as frightened.”

There was nothing unique in the print-out dangling before Kurapika’s eyes. A rather grainy photograph of the dog tag, it was still able to reveal a simple ‘M’ carved in bland Times New Roman font adorned by twisted ivy. A quick search of the Hunter Association’s databases would divulge the owner of this insignia, but of course, wherever there is a need for information, money factored into the equation, and as an intern, Kurapika suspected Leorio didn’t have much of it.

“You recognize it?”

“No, I don’t. But I could find out who it is by tomorrow morning.” Then came the most important question that stirred his anxieties. “What do you plan on doing after I tell you who owns this pendant?”

“Perhaps if you saw what I’ve seen, you won’t be needing to ask.”

He was ushered into a room, pitch black with only shreds of light escaping from the edges of a white curtain that hung from the ceiling and brushed against the floor. Leorio swept the material aside andunveiled a sterilized room behind a large sheet of sound-proofglass. Kurapika squinted, forcing his eyes to adjust to the unexpected white glare, but then immediately wished that he wasn’t audience to the spectacle before him.

Leorio had said that the boy was six years old, but he looked less than four, a limp, lifeless figure weighed down by feather-light starch white covers, and whose chest laboriously rose and fell. A collapsed lung meant that the controlled pumping of the ventilator was all that stood between the boy and an eternity of oblivion. It seemed impossible, intolerable, that such a tiny, vulnerable creature had been subject to the torrent of abuse marked down so impersonally in Leorio’s report.

His nose pressed against the glass, breath intermittently misting the unyielding surface, Kurapika made out thin, brown mousey hair matted to a sweaty forehead. The eyelids and cheeks were grey pieces of skin painstakingly stretched over the bones, and an oxygen mask dominated a good half of the small face, concealing any traces of personality that boy may have had. Kurapika was glad the covers were tucked all the way under the chin so that he couldn’t see the needles from the IV drips break and penetrate skin.

“He’s in a persistent vegetative state. They’re going to turn off the life support tonight,” Leorio remarked, his voice distant.

Poor soul. To die so young, and alone.

“Damn it, Kurapika! Can I get one reaction out of you?” Leorio snapped and rounded on him, giving him a good shake. “Does none of this mean anything to you?

His friend’s voice rebounded around the cramped confines of the observation room, and also his mind. Kurapika deliberately took his time to respond, perhaps a little ashamed that he was able to approach the patient with such indifference. “Leorio,” he began, the tone more admonishing than he had intended for it to sound. “What is it you want of me? To use my dowsing chain and find out who did this to the kid? I am not the police you turn to when the corrupt ones don’t act. I’m just a bodyguard.”

“The least you could do,” Leorio hissed, a fire of unholy anger burning brightly in his eyes, “is to use your mafia links and get me the name of that family or business or organization or god-knows-what this insignia belongs to ASAP.”

“And then?”

The intern snarled, straightening his jacket. “What do you care? This is none of your business. You’re just a bodyguard,” he mimicked scathingly.

Kurapika felt his cheeks heat and his breath quicken. “You’re going to go after them, aren’t you?” Determinedly, he reached out and jerked Leorio back to face him, stunning the man for a moment with the terrible fury that contorted his elegant features. “Are you crazy? Going after what is clearly an organized crime ring powerful and rich enough to pay off an entire police station to look the other way?”

From scathing Leorio shifted to ridicule. “That didn’t seem to slow you down any when you went after the Genei Ryodan.”

Infuriated, Kurapika bit his lip until the coppery tang of blood seeped into his mouth. What Leorio was implicitly proposing to do was the most ludicrous thing he’d heard in a long time.

“That was personal.”

“And so is this,” the older man sharply retorted. Kurapika withstood the accusatory glare, determined not to be disgraced into shying away.

“How many of these personal cases do you have to take on? Will you go out and avenge each abused child who is wheeled in through those swinging double doors? Be reasonable.” He neutered his voice of its previous chagrin. “You’ve done your best to save this child’s life. There’s not much else you can do.”

Kurapika couldn’t identify the look Leorio gave him. It wasn’t because of the reflection on the taller man’s glasses that obscured his eyes, or the way those lips were pressed into an unremarkable straight line, but he fancied it could have been a cross between incredulity and disgust.

Then came a laugh; a bitter, scornful laugh, its derisive edge keen enough to scrape flesh off bone. “Because I’m not the almighty Kurapika? Because I don’t have your brains? Or your Kuruta heritage?”

Those words stung more than Ubogin’s crushing blow to his forearm had hurt. “Because you can’t save them all!” he bellowed, hoping to drown out that taunting voice.

Leorio opened his mouth, a quick, merciless riposte on the tip of his tongue, but the slamming door at the end of the corridor made both of them jump. Kurapika reacted first, racing to the doorway and poking his head out into the hallway just to catch a glimpse of the tail of a white before it disappeared into the darkness.

“Someone was eavesdropping.”

“Shit.” Leorio barged through the doorway, glaring at either ends of the corridor. “Did you see what he looked like?

The genuine anxiety in Leorio’s strained voice provoked sympathy for the man’s vain plight. “I saw the corner of a white jacket and a shoe.”

“It’s a doctor then,” Leorio deduced, gnawing away at his thumbnail. “And what was the colour of the shoe?”

Kurapika thought hard. In the brief blink of an eye, he had caught a distinct streak of black and red, bright and ominous.

Leorio all but froze when he heard his reply, leaving his face as pale as the dying boy. “Doctor Kelborne. Shit! We’ve got to get out of here.”

Confused, Kurapika refused to budge. “Who’s Doctor Kelborne?”

“Oh,” Leorio said with ostentatiously careless airs, “no one other than the Chief Attending who gives all the orders around here, and who also happens to be the one that signed off the papers to turn off those life support machines and after tonight will have destroyed every shred of evidence that the boy existed.”

Kurapika looked at his arm, the one that had uselessly grasped onto the older man’s sleeve, tugging as if he had the strength to pull the intern away from his reckless quest for justice. His own voice sounded oddly disembodied to his own ears. “If this Kelborne heard our conversation, you’ve got to run, get out of this hospital. You are no longer safe.”

And all at once, any traces of hysteria and panic ceased as if Leorio found the strength to triumph over his fears or had prioritized his concerns. His breathing calm and his eyes too clear and steady for Kurapika’s liking, he muttered, “Just give me the name, and you can go back to being your bodyguard and forget everything that happened tonight.”

( Chapter 01 )

[HxH Fanfic] A Wayward Journey - Chapter 2

2007-01-23T01:33:53Z

A WAYWARD JOURNEY - 02

Fandom: Hunter x Hunter
Characters: Illumi, Machi
Rating: T
Themes: 14 (Fantasy/Fairy Tale) & 24 (locked in/stuck in the middle of nowhere)
Chapter: 2 of 2
Author’s Notes: Never tried my hand at these 30 themes before. I picked up the themes from 30_originals at the LJ.
Summary: Interested in the works and creation of a mad scientist, whom Illumi has been hired to assassinate, Machi is under Dancho’s orders to collaborate with the Zoldick. During the operation, chaos, hysteria and a dash of intimacy ensues.

( Chapter 1 )

She was not used to this type of unconditional warmth from another human being’s body. Even compared to a feather down doona and a cup of hot chocolate, it could not match this simple bliss. There was no bottom to this well of goodness, gently rising and falling. If she allowed herself to elope with her imagination, this might be what kindness, or compassion, even love, felt like.

Meteor Street was a hard and unforgiving place to grow up in. The only family she had was the other kids around her age who shared the same sad old plight that became routine and common such that they had no sympathy for each other. The only goal they strove towards, which was the only thing they ever acted in co-operation upon, was a promise to survive in a land where law and order was as fickle as a dandelion in strong gust of wind. Children were the most vulnerable prey, and they learned to stop being children very quickly. And as soon as they left their childhood behind, they had no more room for weakness, insecurity and dependence. Once you stopped being a child, there was no turning back and no chance to ever entertain, even for the most infinitesimal of moments, the idea that you could be helpless, that you could need someone to hold onto when the world is dim, and have someone who would stand by you until the end of time.

“Which direction do you think we should go?”

She broke out of the reverie, shook aside the fleeting comfort of safety and reprimanded her arms until they were back by her side. Her face was burning in humiliation. If any of the Ryodan members caught wind of this, she was never going to hear the end of it.

A quick sneak peek up at the Zoldick, and she discovered that he wasn’t even bothered by her peculiar behaviour. In fact, he wasn’t looking down at her; his large, feline eyes were only ever vigilantly surveying the grassy fields around them. Relief flooded through her veins and lifted the pressure that had clamped around her chest. Unlike Hisoka, curse his miserable existence, the assassin didn’t appear to be the type to gloat about these sorts of close encounters to his friends.

That’s right – assassins didn’t have friends, so this little shameful secret of hers would be safe.

She cloaked her discomfort beneath a series of coughs, pretending to clear her throat. “Why ask me?”

“Because Hisoka said you have a reliable sixth sense.”

She blinked. The Zoldick didn’t come across to her as a stupid man and must have fully appreciated the magnitude and depth of Hisoka’s unreliability, or the magician’s habit of fudging the truth. The day she accepted Hisoka’s words at face value was the day she married him at the altar and believed his “I do”.

Instinctively, she raised her arm, careless of the direction and said, “That way,” just to test the assassin’s gullibility.

Illumi didn’t question her decision before he turned away and began to head down the shallow slope of the hill, dusting his pants free of the yellow pollen from the sunflower that stubbornly clung to the fibres of cloth. She quashed the rising panic of being left alone in a dimension where even a blade of blue-black grass unnerved her and the rustle of the flower stalks, soft metallic clangs, made her jump.

“Illumi…” the name came, timid and unbidden. He paused mid stepped and finally acknowledged she was still there. A swirling current of wind caught his hair and lifted the heavy mass off his shoulders. Like a brocade of black satin, it merged and became lost in the backdrop of the inky black night.

There he stood, a slender grim reaper whose pale, near translucent skin glowed a wane ivory in the fey light, and she was rendered motionless by the enticing aura of magnificent confidence that reminded her so much of Dancho.

His hand was held out to her. She stared.

“Come,” his soft voice called to her again, massaging away her resistance with laughable ease. Damn. Damn he was dangerous.

Damn, his hands were warm and dry as she held on.

“What you’re feeling right now is not uncommon. Gravity in here is a little greater than usual. The fact I can see everything so clearly despite the night sky is also unsettling. But there’s no need to be afraid. Let’s go.”

How did he do it? How did he pass through the gateway and plough on in a place where the air had a faintly pungent smell of rot and decay, and a persistent ringing in her ears was starting to sound lot the wails of the tormented dead?

The experience was almost surreal and time stopped to suspend her in this dazed state of mild terror. Little tiny pinpricks began to numb her bottom lip and she had to bite down with her teeth to quell the trembling.

“Wait…Illumi…” It was getting difficult to talk. A dry, parched throat and an uncooperative tongue attempted to thwart her will. Her eyes were still keen though, and everywhere around her, that little knoll was nowhere to be seen, and she knew they hadn’t been moving long enough for that landmark to completely vanish from sight. “The portal is gone and we’re stuck in the middle of nowhere.” Those words were articulated more firmly as warmth began to gather.

The Zoldick’s countenance was unforgivingly stern. “You’re starting to sound hysterical, Machi. Yes, the gateway’s disappeared, but we’re going to find Dr. Murilied, are we not? So,” Illumi eased his voice back into its former gentility, coaxing Machi out of her panic-stricken fright, “We’re going to extract the secret to leaving this place before I kill him.”

In that moment, Illumi sounded both very sensible and very thuggish. Machi welcomed the thug in him – it was what she would have done as well and she could relate to that type of thinking. Back on familiar ground, she breathed easier again and took her place by the assassin’s side, no longer content to trail behind in his flickering shadow.

But she couldn’t let go of his hand just yet. Her confidence still needed time to mend.

And the warmth was nice.

O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O

Illumi Zoldick must have a clock in his mind, she concluded after he announced that two hours had passed since they had arrived, and that clock held the time more accurately than atomic clocks installed in rockets. Her watch stopped ticking the moment her sandals trampled on grass, and her mobile phone spazzed out, short circuited and promptly blew up in a puff of grey smoke when she tried to dial out to report her safety.

“Hisoka’s right after all.” The Zoldick gave her hand a small squeeze and steered her attention towards the western horizon where something was coming towards them at high speeds. On the air was the steady hum of distant rolling thunder, malevolently approaching. They turned out to be the frenzied striking of horses’ hooves, tearing up clods of earth in their wake, as a gold gilded chariot careered towards them. “Imagine if we had walked in any other direction and missed our guide.”

“Trapped for all eternity,” she mumbled, secretly astonished that randomly selecting a direction could net them such a gain. “But how do you know the guy driving the prehistoric car is a guide? If he doesn’t hit the brakes soon, he’s going to try and mow us down.”

Despite herself, she shivered as the two horses drawing the chariot shrieked. They sent specks of white froth sailing into the air as they wildly shook their heads, and Machi stared into their wide, unblinking bloodshot eyes and arrived at one undeniable conclusion.

They were stark raving mad.

Inhuman hands must have wrestled with the reins. The chariot came to a skidding halt two inches before them and when the front hooves of the horses pawed the air and threatened to cave their heads in, a sharp yank subdued the beasts who had to be content snorting puff after puff of misty fog into the air.

Illumi stiffened beside her. The horses towering above her obscured her view, but she was sure the assassin had responded to the driver. Was it someone he knew?

Darn it, she mentally swore, reluctantly relinquishing her hold of Illumi’s hand so she could move around to his other side and see what or who was making him sweat.

Nothing, no amount of preparation could prepare her for this. “Hisoka? What the bloody hell are you doing here!”

Her hells screech shook Illumi out of his daze, and he did something quite unexpected and chivalrous. He stepped in front of her and partly shielded her with his body.

“Who are you really?”” He was convinced the man he saw was an imposter. Although the hair was expertly gelled and upright, and the levels of lechery emanating from the grin made his skin crawl, this man could not be Hisoka.

A throaty laugh emerged from those fabricated lips. “Anyone I want to be, dear boy, but I usually take the form of a person you’re acquainted and comfortable with.”

“I’m not comfortable with Hisoka!” the assassin and spider snapped simultaneously.

“All right, all right,” the driver held up his open palms in a defensive and conciliatory gesture, conceding: “whoever this ‘Hisoka’ guy be, he isn’t on top of your ‘friends’ list.”

Illumi’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know Hisoka’s on our ‘list’ in the first place?”

The side door swung open and the Hisoka-doppelganger stepped back in invitation. Machi almost laughed out loud at the sheer audacity.

“No way, punk. I’m not getting into any wagon when some guy in some dimension can take images from my mind and mimic people I konw.”

Hisoka’s double threw a cheeky wink at Illumi and tsked, waving a finger in front of his face before tapping him once on the nose. The fact that Illumi had no time to dodge such a simple gesture disturbed her more than the implied affection in the action itself. Illumi’s brows dipped a fraction of a centimeter, and his displeasure ruined the gentility in his aura that Machi had come to adore.

“You have a feisty girlfriend. Come on, Doctor Murilied knows about you intruders and has sent me, poor me, to pick you up. As if I’m not busy enough, as if I have the time to indulge in ungrateful people who mistrust me because of my appearance….oh, why do I even bother?”

Seeing a grown man, who looked exactly like the detestable magician, dab a tissue to his eyes and sniffle made Machi’s jaw drop. Illumi held rigidly still, retaining all the dignity of a professional assassin, but though his expression hardly changed, his incredulity and disbelief was near suffocating. He eyes met hers, and something flickered inside – a self-doubt seeking her reassurance.

Oh, he was relying on her intuition once again.

Her cheeks started to heat. No time to be touched by his trust, the scolding went rebounding in her mind, threatening to distract her from seeking the opinion of her gut. The idiot-imposter had run out of bogus tears and was now throwing more suggestive winks and blew loud, slurpy kisses at an assassin who was calling to him every skill he had in his armoury to remain impassive lest he cave that mimick’s skull in with his bare fists.

“Illumi, we’ve got no choice. We could be wandering here, lost, in this bizarre dimension for the rest of our lives. This…thing…claims to be acting under the orders of the doctor and will take us there. I’m prepared to accept that much of what he’s saying.”

Although her choice must have been painful for Illumi, who carefully watched for what the Hisoka-look-alike did with his hands, namely that they did not stray within an inch of his behind, Machi easily hopped on and reasserted her calm by seating herself without invitation and looked expectantly at the chauffeur to escort them to their destination.

Her actions caught the guide off-guard. He tilted his head and in an unmistakably Hisoka-esque style and quieted down, to the point where he resembled a dejected child just admonished by his mother, and shook the reins, urging the horses into a canter. Illumi’s shoulders slumped a fraction and he nearly slouched in his chair.

After gently massaging the muscle on bridge of his nose, Illumi stared thoughtfully at the back of the driver and formulated a question, that, unknown to Machi, was the product of several chains of reasoning and hypotheticals.

“So, what are you exactly? A creation of Dr. Murilied?”

There was a rude snort and a furious shake of the reins. Hisoka’s voice was tainted by outrage. “Creation? By pathetic human hands? No dear boy, I was created by no one and I will endure eternally as I watch you wither away.”

Machi produced a miffed noise of her own, steeling herself the seat as the ride became increasingly bumpy and rickety through no fault of the even ground. “Then why are you at the beck and call of the Doctor, performing demeaning tasks such as providing this escort service?”

From thin air, a barbed whip materialized in Hisoka’s hand. For a moment, Machi thought the blows would be intended for her, but the driver mercilessly rained down slash after slash onto the bare hides of the horses. Although having been present to a number of Feitan’s gruesome interrogation sessions, the petty cruelty inflicted on the innocent animals stirred Machi’s cold rage and she couldn’t tear her eyes away from the blood that steadily licked out from the ugly lacerations. The frenzied whipping sent droplets of blood flying into the air, and some spattered onto Illumi’s clothing, eliciting the barest of grimaces.

“Are you familiar with this place?” Illumi asked, voice adjusted at perfect neutrality.

“Familiar?” Hisoka repeated at two octaves higher than Illumi. “Of course I’m damn ‘familiar’. I am this place.”

Machi nudged Illumi with her elbows, a soft jab straight to his ribs, her perked eyebrows begging the question, what are you doing? The assassin’s eyes never left the back of Hisoka, but his hand guilelessly moved towards one of her hands which were pressed flat against her thighs, and patted it as one might try to placate a tiny creature. No inappropriate lingering – just two touches enough for her breath to hitch and face to warm.

“It would seem that the doctor has some leverage over you. I propose a deal.”

In a puff of bitter black smoke, the whip vanished and the wheels of the chariot sailed smoothly over the ground.

“I like to prepare my contingencies. In the event that, even upon the pain of death, the doctor does not give up the secret to leaving this place, I would like to secure a passage back to my dimension.”

Machi found herself holding her breath as she stared openly at the Zoldick. Indifferent calm, placid poise, implacable exterior oh so beautiful and warm yet so elusive to grasp. Her heart was wrenched with pain and tears threatened to well up in her eyes.

To gaze upon perfection and feel hopelessly inferior was normal, wasn’t it?

Illumi easily continued, as if he already knew that his offer was irresistible. “In exchange for your assistance in leaving this dimension, we will exterminate the doctor and free you from his bonds. We both have an itch to scratch – let’s co-operate.”

A snide, sinister laugh slipped into their minds, hollow and filthy as the stench of a rotting corpse, leaving an unwashable stain on their souls. Machi glared harder at the driver’s back and refused to submit to fear, and a small, near imperceptible nod of approval from Illumi exponentially strengthened her resolve.

She knew defiance so well, yet with the assassin, she had a feeling she would gladly throw herself into his overwhelming darkness without an iota’s hesitation.

Damn, he was dangerous.

O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O

In the horizon, they appeared to be tiny glowing tawny dots that shuddered with each gust of air. There were millions upon millions of them, planted in the blue-black hills that rolled on endlessly as far as their eyes could see under the perpetual night sky.

Machi’s breath was stolen away. “I’ve read about a fairy tale like this when I was a child.”

Even the Zoldick shifted from his seat and leaned forward for a closer look. “The span of one human’s life, represented by the candle and the flame. I never thought we were meant to take ‘snuffing out someone’s life’ literally.”

“The doctor didn’t create this.” Machi clung onto the railing and even sided up to Hisoka to study the landscape before her. “He just found the way in, didn’t he? Then usurped your position as Grim Reaper. There’s no weapon of mass murder to be found here or the panacea to all of humanity’s ills. This is…”

Her mind was blank. No words could describe the wonder and terror inside her, making her stomach do flips. She sucked in one deep breath after another, but her heart refused to decrease its accelerated beating.

“This is a mockery of my work,” Illumi said with atypical flatness, eyes narrowed in part distrust and part disapproval. He sat back down again in stony silence and was no longer swept away by the excitement and thrill of discovery.

“How is it a mockery, dear boy?” the grim reaper asked playfully, smirking at the irritated black-haired mortal. As the chariot became immersed in the sea of lit candles, he set the horses into a trot and loosened his grip on the reins.

“Assassination is not just plain murder. It requires skill, and the process of eliminating a target is an art. If people were to have access to this place…”

He probably didn’t intend for it to be a joke, but she found it funny and laughed, a pure, silver sound in the unnatural quiet of the dimension. “You’d be out of business, and all that training of yours would be meaningless. It’d only take a thumb and a forefinger to extinguish a flame around here, and no number of money and bodyguards can make you any safer. It won’t even cost ten jenis to end a life.”

Illumi just looked at her, and she laughed some more.

“Hush! We’re approaching the source of power that is sustaining this place. Doctor Murilied has not strayed an inch from there since he arrived. If he catches whiff of your hostile intentions, that’s your problem and I won’t be able to interfere.”

Machi noticed no two candles were identical. The tall ones belonged to children, and the short ones with dim, flickering flames were of old men and women facing twilight. But every candle was unmarked save for the discoloured yellowish blemish that ran down in jagged streaks in the ivory grey wax. “Hold on a minute! How do I know which person corresponds to which candle?”

Hisoka’s grin was smug. Wrapped up in his conceit, he sneered, “You don’t. Only I can pair the candle to the human.”

“Out of four billion?” Wonder crept into Illumi’s voice.

“Yup.”

“And how long does it take for you to locate the right candle?”

“That’s a secret.”

“And what if my candle, for example, is two hundred miles away from here? Will you have to physically travel to my candle to collect it?”

“That’s a secret too.”

Illumi gracefully rose to his feet and stood so close to the driver that his chest brushed up against Hisoka’s back and his head was tilted back so his lips were a hair’s breadth away from seductively caressing the reaper’s ear. Machi gulped.

Was the Zoldick courting Death?

“So the doctor cannot kill me if he does not know which candle is mine. One in four billion – I like those chances. But if the doctor begins to pressure you, how long can you credibly stall?”

Hisoka turned his face just slightly, enough to lean his body against the assassin’s and allow those warm lips to brush against his cheekbone in a sordid imitation of a kiss.

How long will it take you to eliminate the doctor, oh great artist?

For the first time, Illumi smiled.

O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O

Murilied had an ordinary appearance. He defied the fancied stereotype scientist with unkempt white hair who donned a lab coat he had worn since his days as a science student. He was probably in his mid sixties, but he had kept his figure well since his back was stiff and straight, his face was full and healthy with colour and when he greeted them with a glacial cold smile, he displayed two rows of perfect white teeth.

Behind him was a spectacular pillar of white light that reached to the heavens and pierced the darkness. Iridescent lines unceasingly spiralled up and down, trailing off to dimensions their eyes couldn’t possibly hope to follow. According to the Hisoka-imposter, this column of light was the centre of the dimension and the source of all power upholding the place. And at the base surrounding the pillar, where the light erupted up from the ground, were alien contraptions, wrought with pulsing wires and protruding with a million stick-like tentacles. Whatever the abominable machine was, the Grim Reaper feared what it could do.

Just looking at it made Machi’s skin crawl.

Murilied gave a small, florid bow. “Welcome to my domain. I knew word of my discovery would soon spread. What kind of opportunistic scum are you?”

They were not interested in the doctor’s vindictively affable demeanor. Instead, their attention attacked things such as whether the doctor knew nen, had set up any other defensive perimeter or had on his persons any other weapon or offensive utility.

One cough from Machi signalled that the doctor was just an ordinary human being with an exceptionally twisted mind.

One disdainful sniff from Hisoka indicated that the doctor hadn’t laid out any booby traps.

Illumi’s folded arms meant that the doctor was most likely unarmed.

There was only one outstanding question: was the doctor so assured in his safety that he had abandoned all common sense?

Boldly, Illumi advanced, displaying the same apathy to danger as the doctor had and stopped within two meters of the man who had unlocked the keys to the land of life and death. “I have been given instructions to terminate your research.”

“Have you any idea how close I am to becoming God, young man? If I can decrypt the gateway to this place, I can devise a way to find which flame belongs to which person. Safe, here, where no one may follow me, I will determine who lives and dies!”

A look of pain flashed through Hisoka’s face as the doctor stuck his hand into the column of light, disrupting the flow of the multi-coloured filaments. “These,” announced the doctor, a wide, crazed grin on his face, “these strands of rainbow-coloured threads are in fact in fact little crystals, the size of a grain of sand, strung together, and each crystal is like a little databank giving me the names and location of each person here. Just a few more adjustments, and I will be able to instantaneously locate the candle of whoever I want!”

Madder than the mad a hatter, Machi bleakly thought to herself, and took up her position, releasing her nen threads under the cover of ‘in’.

Illumi, meanwhile, continued to provide the necessary distraction. “Aren’t you concerned that if we could enter, others can also invade your domain?”

Murilied waved a hand in a negligent, dismissive gesture, and leaned casually back against the whirring machine, his fingers idly caressing the cold, metallic surface. “Most people’s brains would dribble out of their ears before they even stepped foot in here. You on the other hand…to be able to arrive here, sane, is quite a feat which I do not expect others to be able to emulate. Like I said, it won’t matter if people can invade this dimension. Only I can operate this machine, and soon, I will transcend!”

The signal Machi had been waiting for was Illumi’s exaggerated sigh. The moment the breath of air escaped his lungs, she curled her fingers into a tight fist and yanked at the invisible nen-wire.

Murilied gasped as his entire body stiffened and he was suddenly robbed of control. The wire cut past his suit and broke his skin the harder he struggled, and as he knelt on the ground, bleeding from a dozen wounds, wide-eyed, he frantically looked back and forth between Illumi and Machi.

“Reaper! Help me!”

Hisoka buffed his nails on the front of his shirt, magnificently ignoring the order. But Murilied was determined to have the last laugh. “You’ll betray me, Reaper? But do you think with me gone, you can just rip apart this machine and you’ll be free?” A harsh, guttural sound, presumably a laugh, rumbled in the base of the doctor’s throat. “If you do not properly deactivate the machine, it will self destruct and bring this entire dimension along with it!”

That got the shape-shifter’s attention and he tensed, one foot lifted and about to turn towards Machi, but Illumi held him back and whispered more words into the Reaper’s ear. The assassin knelt down on one knee and held the sweat-drenched face of Murilied between his pale, fine hands, staring deep into those hysterical eyes. “I am only ordered to stop your research. Turn the machine off, and I’ll let you live.”

“This place is mine! I found it! And I will die rather than give it up!” Murilied spat into the assassin’s face. “You’ve got a killer’s inhumanity in your eyes. Go on, kill me, and you will never leave here alive!”

Machi’s pulled harder, and the wires worried its way deeper into his skin, causing the doctor to howl in pain. He crumpled onto his side, one boneless heap sweating and shivering, and Illumi repeated his proposition.

“Never…” the doctor whispered, defiant to his last breath. He was on the verge of unconsciousness.

“Don’t apply anymore pressure, Machi. There are other ways to make him talk.”

“Damnit! He’s almost blacked out, and the only person I know who could interrogate a man when he’s out cold is Feitan, and I don’t see that scrawny little bastard here. Do you?”

She guessed she shouldn’t have said that – it did nothing constructive for their situation, and Illumi studied her for some time, perhaps a little amused. If he had been Hisoka, she would have been thankful to settle for an arrogant reproach and even a short rant on the magician’s invincibility, but the assassin preserved the calm and acknowledged the unspoken apology, once again passing no judgment on her outbursts. Two slender silver needles six inches long materialized in Illumi’s hands and he motioned for Hisoka to pull the doctor into an upright position.

“The brain is one massive database as well, my good doctor.” That said, Illumi cut the skin, peeled the bloody folds aside as if he were dealing with an overripetomato, andunveiled the skull, wet and glistening with blood. Whilst a surgeon had an electric powered saw to pry open the cranium, Illumi performed the task with his bare hands. With one accurate blow, the top half of the skull cleanly split and was gently removed to reveal the goey soft pink of brain beneath. Not long after, the doctor’s exposed brain became a pin cushion for a dozen silver needles, and Illumi twisted the needles, adjusting the depth of penetration as delicately as a radio operator trying to find his frequency channel.

“Now tell me, doctor, how do you deactivate your machine?”

Murilied slowly blinked, pupils widely dilated. His mouth fell open and drool leaked from the corners, falling onto his blood-soaked shirt. Illumi frowned and gave one of the needles a small tap, and the mouth snapped shut again.

“Panel Eight…code….Blue, Seven…Six…Two…Two.”

“And how do you override the self-destruct mechanism?” Illumi asked, playing with a few more needles.

The doctor’s body spasmed like a man being electrocuted by a million volts. Machi was about to tighten her nen-threads again, but the assassin snapped his fingers and a round headed pin appeared in his fingers, which was then plunged it down the man’s throat. The doctor immediately went limp. “Panel…code…correct….will not….explode. Manual self…destruct override…panel twelve…green, four…nine…seven…three…four.”

Illumi gave the Grim Reaper the nod to punch in the first set of numbers into the system. Everyone tensed during the moments when the sound of the machine’s whirrs were gradually dying down, but even when it was completely still and quiet, none of them dared to move.

Machi ventured to be the first to break the silence. Gulping down her apprehension, she muttered, “Is…it over?”

Hisoka the Reaper struck the heel of his shoe into the ground a few times, then a broad smile slowly spread across the good lower half of his face and his eyes twinkled in exultation. His howl of joy made the tiny hairs on the back of both Illumi and Machi’s neck stand on end, and all of a sudden, they wondered whether the creature would keep its promise.

Afterall, absolute power over life and death must corrupt absolutely.

Murilied’s head was neatly severed from the body, Illumi’s hand having sliced clean through the neck with a precision and force that Nobunaga’s sword could only dream of. She quickly darned up the gaping wound in a matter of seconds so the assassin’s fingers could wind its way through the hair for a more secure grip.

“A promise is a promise, dear boy.” Hisoka eagerly tore into the metal and wires. His body began to radiate with energy as he reclaimed his source of power and the outline of his human hands became a fading blur. Even after rubbing her eyes, Machi swore that the Grim Reaper’s disguise was being ditched, piece by piece, and soon, they would be afforded a glimpse of his true form.

She wasn’t sure if she was looking forward to that. While masquerading as the deranged clown, there was still some semblance of restraint and control about him, as if adopting the visage of Hisoka meant that he had also inherited the personality, and sanity, of a human being. However, witnessing the sheer savagery in which the Reaper attacked the machine, the look of a man possessed, the Guardian of the Dimension may be an awful creature indeed.

On the ground around her, lines of hot, white light rapidly flared up in a succession of rings, immediately bringing one thing to mind. Before she could leap out of the portal to save herself, she screamed at the top of her lungs in pain as her eyes felt like they were about to burst from their sockets and her consciousness was being ripped apart to accommodate the gateway.

Her one last thought was to strangle that Grim Reaper until he was but another carcass hanging off a beam in a derelict barn. Fat beads of blood trickled from her eyes, and she wondered which candle flame to perish next would belong to her.

O-O-O-O-O-O-O-O

Shal tapped an impatient foot on the floor despite the tightly drawn line of his Dancho’s lips or the disgruntled look Hisoka pinned on him as his tower of cards collapsed from the vibrations of the ground.

“This is warehouse 14, isn’t it?” he asked aloud for the umpteenth time, setting everyone’s teeth on edge.

“Phone-boy, if you don’t stop pacing around, I’ll relieve you of your legs.”

Shalnark didn’t take too kindly to the blatant threat, and his hands slid from his hips to form fists by his side. “Come to think of it, this was your stupid idea. I can’t believe I even thought it was remotely ok for Machi to be working with anyone who was recommended by you.”

“It’s Illumi Zoldick,” Hisoka growled, carelessly flinging several cards at the boy’s feet with no intention of hitting its mark. “He’s reliable.”

Shal was fingering the spare antennae that he always hid up his sleeve, in cases of emergency, or in this instance, when he felt like fighting dirty. He just needed Hisoka to be caught off guard for a fraction of a second to plant the antenna spike into the magician, and he could have the clown doing ‘Madonna on the Dancefloor’ in front of a camera to be later uploaded and distributed all over the internet.

“He helped kill Paku!”

“He did it for money!” Hisoka retorted. He gave up on his card tower. “Blame yourselves for not paying him off to stay out of your business.”

“That’s it, you’re going down – ”

As Shal prepared to feint a lunge, and Kuroro had his book, ready to teleport Shal to the farthest corner of the room to avert a fight, the warehouse erupted with a blinding light. Everybody raised their arms and flinched, cringing as the light was accompanied by the sound of a dozen grenades detonating right at the centre of the warehouse. Both Hisoka and Kuroro released their ‘en’ to keep tabs on all and any movement within the warehouse until their eyes were cleared of blurry vision.

They detected two new presences in front of them, huddled quite up close and immobile. Kuroro frowned and flipped through his book for that one ability to dissipate the fog that had consequently developed around him.

“That…bastard!” an extremely familiar voice croaked. Kuroro recognized it as Machi, and the frown on his face darkened. She sounded like she was injured and in great pain.

“Infernal smoke. I can’t see a damn thing!” Shal complained. “Bugger it. Brace yourselves!”

The young Hunter struck the far wall as hard as he could with his kou reinforced fist. His aim to create the biggest explosion he could concoct and allow the wind to break up the smoke.

His plan worked like clockwork, and he articulated a cry of distress to see a long black-haired figure crouched on the ground protectively cradling Machi in his arms.

Kuroro tentatively reached out and put his hand on the assassin’s shoulder. Illumi’s eyes were squeezed shut, reminding the Dancho of a little boy desperately wishing for a nightmare to end. And just as tentatively, Illumi responded to the touch and warily opened his eyes to his new surroundings.

The relief in his expression was visible as he recognized the tin roof and the bare, water-stained concrete walls. It took him a little longer to register that the Dancho of the Genei Ryodan himself, as in the man he betrayed to Hisoka, was down on one knee by his side genuinely concerned about his welfare.

“I’m…going to kill that freak!” Machi moaned.

Looking slightly bashful and apologetic, Illumi returned the petite woman to her leader and quickly checked to see that the evidence of his kill was still in his possession. He tossed up Murilied’s decapitated head like a child playing with his football, and then with monumental effort, propelled himself onto weak, trembling legs.

“I…think she’ll be ok.” Goodness, his head hurt. A lot. He could hardly see straight. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Kuroro gently propped Machi into a sitting position, thumbing away the flakes of dried blood that had begun to crust on her cheeks. “If I had known Dr. Murilied’s research was so dangerous, I wouldn’t have let Machi do this on her own.”

Illumi stumbled two steps. He wanted to get to the door. The door, damnit. “I got paid...very well though. Hisoka, can you please get out of the way?”

There was a very cold, very furious anger on Hisoka’s unusually severe expression. If Illumi’s headache had been less painful and his rationality more lucid, he would have been afraid. However, the assassin blankly regarded the magician before him and for once, had no fricking idea what was the problem.

“You’re trying to steal my girl, aren’t you?”

Saywhat?

Illumi blinked and tried to laugh and groan simultaneously. “I…don’t have time for this. I’ve just been to hell and back. I bought your girl from hell and back and…and…”

His head was alarmingly light and darkness began to fudge the edges around his vision. He sank down onto his haunches and coaxed his lungs to keep breathing. He winced as sporadic pangs of pain speared either side of his temple and left him trembling all the way to his fingertips.

“Don’t play meek.” Hisoka gripped the front of his shirt and remorselessly hauled him back up onto his feet despite his weakened, and dare he say ‘pitiable’, condition. His stomach churned at the abrupt change in altitude. He wanted to hurl, and doing it messily and all over Hisoka didn’t seem like such a bad idea. “Machi doesn’t let anyone glomp her like that.”

This was getting ridiculous. He’d just been to the land where lives were fickle flames atop a wax stick, naught but a twinkle, a needle-point speck in the distance. He’d met an alien creature able to sponge memories from their minds and shape-change at will. Then he’d gone through some mathematically-epileptic gate designed to short-circuit brains. Twice. Even a Zoldick had his limits.

“Fuck you. Honestly. Fuck. You. Machi is half dead, but you’re more concerned about your injured male pride. Fuck you, fuck you, and fuck you.”

Due to Illumi’s weakened state, Hisoka did not suspect the assassin could retract a needle hidden in his right ulna and stab it into that spot on his body which left him a paralyzed statue cut off from accessing his nen. Flabbergasted, he spluttered out Illumi’s name repeatedly and demanded to be released.

But the assassin had already left the building, leaving behind one response that echoed and lingered in air of the cavernous warehouse. “Fuck you.”

Shal circled the motionless magician, a wicked smile on his lips, and even more wicked ideas spinning around inside his head. Kuroro understood the look and sighed.

“Forget about Hisoka. We’ve got to get Machi to a healer.”

“Aw…” Shal wistfully looked down at the antenna in his hand, but quickly pocketed it away. Orders were orders, and Machi was more important that the traitor’s humiliation.

Machi had one last thing to do however. She staggered across the room until she was in front of Hisoka and let the golden fires burn fiercely in her eyes.

She kneed the magician in the groin with all her remaining strength.

Kuroro bit down hard on his bottom lip as Hisoka’s eyes nearly popped out, and Machi collapsed back into his arms, a satisfied smile on her weary face.

“That’s….better.”

“We have to ask Machi what the hell happened once she comes to,” Shalnark said blithely as he and Kuroro left the warehouse with Machi comfortably nestled in the Dancho’s arms.

[HxH Fanfic] A Wayward Journey - Chapter 1

2007-01-23T00:22:50Z

A WAYWARD JOURNEY - 01

Fandom: Hunter x Hunter
Characters: Illumi, Machi
Rating: T
Themes: 14 (Fantasy/Fairy Tale) & 24 (locked in/stuck in the middle of nowhere)
Chapter: 1 of 2
Author’s Notes: Never tried my hand at these 30 themes before. I picked up the themes from 30_originals at the LJ.
Summary: Interested in the works and creation of a mad scientist, whom Illumi has been hired to assassinate, Machi is under Dancho’s orders to collaborate with the Zoldick. During the operation, chaos, hysteria and a dash of intimacy ensues.

They were hell bent in making sure he couldn’t hear their discussions. Not that he was interested. They didn’t need to give him reason, justification or even a moving speech. He only wanted the name, and how much they were willing to pay to eliminate the person attached to it.

Assassination contracts were simple.

It was complicated for those who struggled with making the order. They weighed their conscience and grappled with fear of being caught for having issued the directive.

That was their problem.

“If I charged by the hour, you’d have been billed for 10,000 jenis by now,” he not-so-politely interrupted. Middle-aged men with exploding waste lines waving their sweaty paws around and bickering like panicked geese was not why had had learned to endure torture as a child. They warily eyed him with degrees of uncertainty and mistrust under an overriding fear that attacked their breaths with shudders.

He knew his vacuous eyes and hollow look had that effect on people, not long after strangers, and then family, ceased to allow their gaze to linger on his undeniably handsome and refined features. That was why he was staring at them like an expressionless mannequin and causing havoc to reign in their frightened fantasies about the infamous Zoldick killing machine.

“Mr. Zoldick, this is a delicate situation.”

For you, not me, his unwavering stare communicated, and one of them clutched an area on his chest directly above where the heart should have been beating.

The leader persisted in giving an explanation which he thought was entirely asinine in its irrelevance. “Should Dr. Murilied complete his research, its benefit to humanity is incalculable, but at the same time, it could plunge us into war and wipe two nations off the map. The fate of a country should not be left in the hands of a mad man. We must have control of it.”

Or no one else will, he placidly completed the unspoken clause in his mind. Politicians were hypocrisy in its pure and undiluted form, never failing to repulse those exposed to the sickly aura for an extended period of time. He felt that he was reaching the limits of this ‘extended’ period of time because his frustrated sighs were now becoming audible and on its own accord, slender fingertips drummed against the table top.

“Mr. Zoldick, do you have absolutely any idea what Dr. Murilied’s invention is capable of doing? If we destroy his research, we eliminate the threat of war, as well as one of the rarest jewels humans have not seen since fire.”

He abruptly stood up, and a number of them clumsily reached for their guns hidden inside their blazers, although they froze into statues after a dozen pins were embedded into the rotting wood of the table in warning. “Then call me when you’ve made your decision.”

After those curt words, he vacated the room under the heavy blanket of ominous silence.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

He supposed he could have lobbied harder to get the contract. Who said no to good, hard cash waiting to be adopted if only you’d sink one of your lethal musle-altering pins into the vulnerable body of an anemic scientist who hadn’t seen the sun in the last five years?

Rolling his eyes at the wasted opportunity, he sought to escape the bite of the chilly evening wind and veered into the first respectable restaurant where succulent aromas of steak wafted onto the streets each time its front doors were swung open by a patron. The interior was dim and the singer of a live jazz band crooned away in an insolated corner, out of everyone’s way.

He was thankful for the warm, cushioned seat, and once he shed his jacket, he ordered a long black and immediately picked up the glossy laminated menu and scanned its offerings.

“Illu!”

A shiver ran up and down his spine several times, rendering him motionless for a good two seconds. There was only one person in the world who purred that truncated form of his decent name in such disturbing and lecherous tones. Gritting his teeth, he made himself draw in a deep breath before turning in the direction where the voice had come from.

He had only ever seen him with white paint smeared all over his face and a coloured star and tear beneath his eyes, so that was the only explanation he could give for not noticing him when he stepped in looking like the average human being. And calmly seated opposite the deranged lunatic was a petite female figure whose piercing golden glare probed around his immaculate façade.

A hand that normally toyed with a deck of cards invited him to approach, and a smug, all confident grin dominated Hisoka’s face. One pencil thin eyebrows sprang up, as if unleashed from its restraints, and he returned to study the menu, scorning the invitation.

“Don’t be so cold-hearted, Illu,” the magician playfully complained. As footsteps, two sets of them, headed determinedly towards him, an ache began to build up on the sides of his temples. “He’s not normally like this, Machi. I think he’s jealous of seeing you with me.”

“Don’t give yourself so much credit, clown.” the blue-haired girl, Machi, coldly snapped back. “This is your informant?”

He mentally rolled his eyes. He was nobody’s informant. Or if he was, he expected to be paid upfront in full and in advance, then he’d send Karuto off to do his merry work and give him a 30 cut of the pay cheque.

They seated themselves on his table without asking and looked at him as if answers, which he didn’t have, would miraculously tumble out free of charge. He really should ask them why they felt like interposing on him during dinner time. Didn’t they know he’d had a bad day and had let a twelve-figure sum walk right past without even attempting to seduce it?

Hisoka wouldn’t care. Hisoka only cared for himself. That was all they had in common.

“Ah, patience dear Machi. Illumi denies it, but you pretty much have to coax him into co-operating. Illu - ”

There it was again, that despised leer, a slander and mockery of his decent name, delivered as if it were a term of affection or a private joke that they did not share.

“ – Machi, beside me here, is interested in some information you may have.”

“And it is the only reason why I agreed to – “

“ – come out on a date – “ smiled Hisoka.

“ attend this restaurant in the company of Hisoka,” Machi defensively corrected and finished with another glare colder than the elements outside the restaurant.

It was like listening to his siblings bicker at the dinner table over the last drumstick or chicken wing, or the politicians earlier, arguing amongst themselves until their faces were flushed an ugly red. The urge to rip out their jugulars was almost becoming irresistible and in response to the thought, blood rushed to his fingertips, awaiting for the order to transform normal delicate appendages into merciless tools of murder. For assuming that he would even help out just because they were acquainted, Hisoka deserved nothing less than to be beaten to death with the sugar spoon.

“What information could I possibly have that the Ryodan couldn’t obtain for themselves?” If he could quickly kill their enthusiasm for interrogating him, he would be able to enjoy dinner and tuck himself into a nice, warm cocoon of a doona before midnight. The headache wasn’t doing any favours for his temper either.

“Murilied,” Machi instantly got to the point and superbly ignored all of Hisoka’s self-congratulatory purrs. “Dancho and Shal have heard rumors that the mad doctor has made some quite spectacular discoveries that Dancho has taken a personal interest in. We want to know where this good doctor is, and what, if any, his defences are like around his guarded compound. You only want the man. We want his research.”

He waved a dismissive hand and irritably raked the other through his long mass of ebony hair, too absorbed by his irritation to notice Hisoka’s restrained but longing stare, envying the hand that was freely allowed to touch the mane of black silk. “I know nothing. My clients haven’t made up their mind as to whether they want me to exterminate with extreme prejudice or not. You wouldn’t believe what my brother charges these days for information. I’m not going to ask Millu to dig until I have a 50 deposit in hand.”

The Ryodan member was clearly disappointed. She bit her bottom lip in thought and cast him a doubtful look, trying to ascertain whether he was telling the truth. Did she think he was hoarding information because he wanted to claim the miraculous research for himself after he killed the doctor?

He didn’t know what gave his thinking away, but Machi somehow sensed his curiosity. Hisoka had commented sometime in the past that the woman had a sixth sense. Illumi was more of a seeing-is-believing person, but he would reconsider the merits of this attitude another day when he wasn’t feeling so cranky.

“Some say Dr. Murilied has found the key to immortality; others say he has in his hands a devastating weapon of mass murder. In any event, Dancho wants to have a good look at it and the doctor has done surprisingly well hiding himself from the eyes of the rest of the world.”

Nodding in sarcastic keenness, the effects of which drew dark shadows across Machi’s face, he said in artificial brightness, “Well, happy treasure hunting to you. Just don’t expect me to be involved. Money appeals to me more.”

That said, his mobile phone rang and he glanced at the identity of the incoming caller. Luck smiled upon him and graced him with a second chance to seduce that twelve-figure.

“I care nothing for the research,” he declared as he pushed his chair out and stood up, shrugging into his jacket. “Two hundred million jenis is my price if you want to tag along. Take it or leave it. I leave the Hotel Damakrilos tomorrow afternoon and I’m not doing any more talking unless I see the credit.”

The last he saw of Machi was the young woman pinching the bridge of her nose in resignation as Hisoka wriggled deeper into the chair, making himself comfortable, and ordered the set dinner for couples, the smile of victory never wavering.

Apart from their selfishness, they had nothing else in common.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The satisfaction of seeing his account bloat by a sizeable sum made him feel all warm and fuzzy inside. His lax facial muscles, accounting for his usual lack of outward expression, tingled, warming his cheeks and almost wheedled a genuine smile from his lips. Milluki took a twenty five percent cut for the intelligence report, and he got to pocket the rest. There was no easier way than this to earn money.

They stood out in the open streets, numbly watching traffic past as the sun inched to its zenith, and the people deliberately side-stepped the mismatched pair, giving them wide berth. Exhaust from cars made it increasingly difficult to breathe and the din of midday traffic began to grate on their eardrums.

After half an hour, Machi finally broke the silence.

“So, Illumi.” He sensed her hesitation in pronouncing his name, distressed or uncomfortable about the illusion of familiarity created by the use of his first name, but reluctant to resort to overt formalism with use of his surname. “What’s your plan?”

He had many. Some that parents didn’t even know about. “Be specific.”

Her eyebrows lowered a fraction and her voice gained an edge. “How do you intend to carry out your job this time?”

Oh, that. Boring. “According to my brother, Dr. Murilied no longer exists on the face of the earth.”

“What?”

Illumi raised his head and squinted as he directly stared into the sun, lost for a moment in the shifting swirls and colours of the ultra violet rays burning into his retina. “It’s about time. Follow.”

The shabby warehouse he took the woman to squatted opposite the docks and looked as if it was hastily patched up with splintered planks of wood after a two tonne truck tore a highway right through it in the middle of the night. With three seagulls aimlessly drifting on the wind currents above, there was nothing overtly suspicious about the dilapidated structure, which was exactly the reason why both man and woman proceeded ahead with gyo flaring in their eyes, and for Illumi, his en stretched to a hundred meter radius, drawing a bewildered expression from Machi that was rapidly concealed beneath another mask of calm and a change of topic.

“I thought Dr. Murilied’s defences would be better than this,” Machi muttered under her breath in disgust, secretly fuming for the amount of money the Ryodan paid the professional assassin to lead them to such a run-down building. As far as her eyes could see, it was an empty, abandoned warehouse with paint peeling off four bare walls and dust gathering on the ground. No one had been here for weeks.

Illumi gave her a thoughtful look and the admonishment was in the timbre of his voice. “I already told you he’s not on the face of the earth, so why then would he need physical security measures?”

Fists clenched by her side. “That’s the part you haven’t explained,” she bit out.

The slender assassin moved away from her side, his light footfalls leaving no mark on the ground and never once did he disturb a single molecule of dirt. Wide-eyed and astonished, Machi found herself captivated and devoting her entire attention to his visage. His voice flooded into her senses, embracing her whole and every word was branded into her mind.

“In my entire career, I have come across…two…people who had the ability to generate a dimension which they can freely enter and exit – ”

Like Shizuku’s deme-chan!

“ – and aware that his research was in its final stages, the doctor left ‘earth’ all together, away from the hand-rubbing of ambitious men. It is what any logical person would have done.”

“So the doctor is a nen-user?”

A brusque nod. “Or he hired someone to make him a dimension to hide in. One assumes that a nen-user must be inside or near his dimension to maintain it, If we factor in the doctor’s paranoia at this stage, he would like to work in total secrecy and will not tolerate company. So that means there should be a nen-user around.”

“Negative,” Machi immediately confirmed, although her eyes darted around the gloom, especially around the corners to which the shadows and darkness so desperately clung. “So Murilied’s created his own dimension to work in. Great – how do we proceed?”

The assassin had crouched down onto the ground, and his long fine fingers acted as a feather duster, gently parting the dirt to locate some invisible clues only he could apparently see. “I doubt the doctor could exert his nen to create a dimension and concentrate on finalizing his research at the same time. If he’s not a nen user, and if there is no one in a hundred-meter radius upholding the dimension, what do you think that means?”

Aside from the ghostly light scraping of Illumi’s hand on the ground, silence loudly resonated around Machi, tampering with her ability to think. For an instant, she resented the Zoldick’s calm exterior and how the enigma did nothing to ruffle his proverbial feathers.

“You already have an answer.” It was an accusation more than a statement, and Illumi admitted by lowering his head in another small, patient nod.

“The highest possibility which remains is that Dr. Murilied’s research involves another dimension. Here, have a look.”

Almost grudgingly, Machi willed her body to move and studied the patch of ground in front of Illumi’s booted toe. She blinked, once, twice, then saw faint, hairline cracks. With a sweep of his hand, sending a cloud of dust into the air and a suppressed cough on Machi’s behalf, more lines appeared in the ground and glittered like a gossamer web stretching on endlessly in all directions.

“Don’t stare too hard.” The warning in Illumi’s voice was genuine and real, and his alarm was no illusion either. “Our minds are truly not vast enough to comprehend what the doctor has created. I think I’m starting to understand now…no, I can’t understand, I can only appreciate, the enormity of his project.”

She refused to be daunted, crossing her arms and gave a soft snort. “Don’t be silly. The worst these lines can do is give me a headache, migraine even. Has our resident assassin lost his nerve?”

“Milluki said to find the locks on the portal as they will become weakest when the sun is directly aligned above the gateway,” Illumi continued, giving no indication he heard Machi’s insult, or if he did, was not affected by it. “This is the gateway, the lock. We activate this, and we’ll find the doctor.”

“Just hold on a minute.” Machi reached into her white gi and retrieved her phone, nimble fingers already finished with the speed dial. “Hello, Shal? Yep, I’ve kind of found the location – Warehouse 14 on Venor Port. The Zoldick and I are probably going to make contact with the doctor. Is there anything in particular that I should be on the lookout for? Mmmhmm….I’ve got the USB flash stick with me…no, I cannot bring the scientist back alive….all right, I’ll call you when I can.”

He remained crouched on the ground as Machi made the call, idle musings about her telephone conversation with ‘Shal’ provoking questions and conclusions he’d never considered before. When had he ever called any one before his assignments? Who would he call and what was the point of calling anyway? To ensure someone always knew his last known whereabouts in case he vanished without a trace? Then that meant the ‘someone’ would have to be a person who ‘cared’ about his movements and ‘cared’ more still whether he was going to return from a mission. Ever since he became an unnamed partner in the Zoldick family business, he stopped reporting, and no one cared enough to ask.

Fascinating, Illumi wryly thought as he watched Machi slip the cellphone back into the folds of her gi. Even class A felons still knew how to care for each other after all. How on earth did Karuto work alongside people from such a different world to theirs?

“Let’s do it,” Machi said, albeit too roughly. He suspected she was trying to hide the quaver of fear that shook her voice.

“Place your hands here and engage the gateway with your hatsu,” Illumi instructed, his detached demeanor giving the young woman no notice of what to expect.

Blithely doing as she was told, Machi palmed the ground and let her nen be expelled from her hands. The moment her nen caressed the gateway, a million luminescent threads lashed out and assaulted her mind, trying to bend it into the shape of the gateway. It stretched beyond three dimensions, reaching backwards and forwards in time at dizzying speeds and threatened to tear her mind apart to make it keep up.

She emitted one short shriek as a blast of brilliant white light enveloped her whole consciousness whole. And then everything was still.

After what seemed like hours, she felt something tap against her cheek repeatedly, alternating on either side.

“Machi….Machi…” someone’s voice was vaguely calling to her. The Zoldick’s tranquil, alto tones full of a mother’s worry. A tear slipped from her eye.

“Bastard,” she croaked past a parched throat and sluggish tongue. “Why didn’t you warn me?”

“No time to argue. The gateway’s almost about to close. Can you sit up?”

“I can’t even visualize the bloody gateway,” she moaned, consenting to firm hands urging her into a sitting position. Surprisingly, her skin didn’t immediately form gooseflesh when bare hands grasped onto her naked arms. For some reason, she found herself picturing how she’d instantly lash out with fists, feet and teeth had it been Hisoka who currently held her thus. Pushing the irrelevance to one side, she focused on the problem at hand. “How can I even pass through if I’m going to lose my sanity just trying to hold the door handle?”

Illumi’s sigh tickled her bare neck. “I guess I could go on myself and leave you here. But you have paid, and a Zoldick never reneges on a deal after he’s received commission.” Another long sigh. “Very well. If it won’t bother you too much, wrap your arms around me and, quite literally, cling on.”

Her arms wound themselves around the man’s incredibly slender waist and she cautiously rested her cheek against his back. She’d heard Karuto speak of his eldest brother before, depicting him as an untouchable god of death, graceful in his brutality, alluring in his merciless attacks and docile with his violence. The boy was right. His brother had evolved to the stage where the intent to kill was as natural as breathing or walking to him and so he passed off as a normal man with a demure countenance.

How frightening and comforting.

She was untouched by panic as reality once again warped around them, because the Zoldick’s heart never once skipped a beat, and she felt safe enough to close her eyes.

When she opened them again, they stood on a grassy knoll and up above them, an unending inky black night sky twinkling the lights of a million stars.

( Chapter 2 )

[HxH Fanfic] An Unmarked Grave

2007-01-21T06:37:27Z

AN UNMARKED GRAVE

Fandom: Hunter x Hunter
Summary: Killua returns home to attend the funeral of Illumi and discovers that, despite his familiarity with death, he still has much to learn.
Rating: T
Characters: Illumi, Killua.
Disclaimer: Hunter x Hunter is copyrighted by Yoshihiro Togashi, Shounen Jump Weekly, Shueisha and Nippon Animation
Author’s Notes: I haven’t written a pure angst-fic before. Reviews will be kindly appreciated. Tell me whether you were struck by unimaginable boredom, or that I did manage to elicit the smallest of sniffles.

It was considered an honour by Kikyou already, but she snubbed the informal funerary rite citing she was allergic to products of failure.

Around a seven-by-three patch of recently disturbed earth, impressible to heavy rain drops and forming innumerable shallow craters, a handful of people stood and bowed their heads.

Karuto’s eyes were overshadowed by his ebony bangs. His bright embroidered orange kimono was drenched from long hours of standing under an unrelenting downpour and clung limply to his slender frame, its gold-stitched ends left to wallow in the puddles of muddy water. Immobile as a statue, the youngster delivered a silent message to an older brother who would always reply in silence evermore.

Killua’s eyes were wide, hollow and unblinking. He stared down into the ground and beyond the damp soil to a point where only he could see. Since arriving, a single word had not escaped past his locked jaw, and his rigid, graceless movements were unbearable for Gon to watch. Every now and then, something akin to a strangled whimper, as if from an injured animal in distress, reached Gon’s ears above the steady pitter-patter of rain. He stole a look of worry at his white-haired friend, and inevitably turned to his mentor for help.

“Biscuit,” he voicelessly mouthed the words. The muscles around his temples began to ache – he normally didn’t frown this much, or this hard. But he scoffed aside the uncomfortable sensations, certain that it was nothing compared to what was going on inside Killua’s head. “What can I do?”

She shook her head and delicately bit her lip. There was no red lipstick today; it was her sign of respect to appear solemn at the last farewell to a man she never met in person. A person who, by all accounts, deserved the least respect.

She mentally ran through a list of things she had earlier prepared. Whilst a moving eulogy didn’t make it onto the list, the despondent expression on Killua made her scrap the majority of reminders of how the eldest Zoldick sibling had tormented and manipulated his younger brother for so many years.

It wouldn’t do anyone a single iota of good to slander a dead man who couldn’t speak for himself.

“I don’t understand.”

Those were his first words since Goto delivered news of Illumi Zoldick’s death. They came out hoarse and scratched, as if the young assassin had already screamed until his throat was raw.

“I don’t understand,” his mumblings became more articulate in repetition. “I don’t understand it. I don’t understand it!”

Gon reached out and gave his friend’s hand a reassuring squeeze, but Killua jerked away violently, his eyes wide in terror.

“This can’t be happening! I’m supposed to hate him!”

Quiet on the sidelines, Karuto spared his hysterical brother one last glance before soundlessly taking his leave, letting his kimono drag behind him as he trekked down the winding path towards the Zoldick mansion. In a week’s time, weeds will have overtaken the freshly turned earth and nothing particular will remain to signify that six feet beneath the surface lay Illumi Zoldick.

“Please don’t.” Gon’s voice was laced with pain. He grasped tightly onto Killua’s shoulders and was determined not to let go. “It’s all right to be sad.”

“It’s not all right!” the assassin hissed back, fighting, to break away, to banish that miserable feeling which had its cold fist tightly clamped around his stomach.

When Gon suddenly let go, afraid he would crush his friend’s bones if he applied further pressure, Killua’s knees buckled. His trembling legs folded and he collapsed onto his knees, which instantly sank two inches into the mud with an audible squelch. Killua doubled over and dry retched and heaved until bile rushed up his throat and burned his innards, and a part of him was grateful that the overhead clap of thunder drowned out his guilty sobs.

A starched white handkerchief appeared in his vision, proffered by delicate white gloved hands. “He’s gone,” she said simply, and instructed Gon to help him back up. But seized by a moment of anger, he shied away from Gon’s touch and glared at the pair of them while pointing a finger accusingly at the ground.

“I always wished he was dead. Can anyone tell me why I’m not out celebrating by sticking my head under a chocolate fountain?”

Gon attempted to respond, his big eyes brimming with earnestness. “You cared for him, so – ”

“No, I did not!” Killua vehemently rejected and he irrationally shifted his demands onto the petite woman to solve his personal mystery.

She stared at him for some time, and as an arc of lightening lit up the sky, Killua saw his pitiful reflection in her glassy eyes. His eye-bags stood our prominently like fresh bruises, his hair was plastered to the sides of his face, and his lips were a slack, lifeless line. He didn’t realize his fists were clenched and he was gritting his teeth to stop them from chattering. In everyone’s eyes, he must have been a pathetic wounded creature near paralyzed by fear and striking out at his own shadow.

“He cared for you.” Simple words tumbled forth and eased into his mind, threatening to unlock another tidal wave of foreign emotions. “You may not have liked him or appreciated his efforts, but you could never deny he cared. Most of what you know was taught to you by your brother. He’s gone now, and suddenly, you realize his departure has left a big gap for you to fill. It’ll take some time, but you won’t hurt forever. We’ll always be here for you.”

He heard a click in his mind and the agonized squeal of rusty hinges. As the doors were pushed apart and he wandered down an uncharted track, he chanced upon something shimmering in the oppressive dark – the immaculate truth – and as he set his eyes upon it and lovingly caressed it, his soul froze in terror.

O-O-O-O-O-O-O

They were supposed to gather in the main hall for the reading of Illumi’s will, and Killua took his friend and mentor down a long, near-forgotten corridor that brought back a flood of memories tainted by nostalgia.

“You…trained here?” Gon studied the confined surroundings of the tunnel, now and then echoing with the drip of water above the ringing of their footsteps. The only remarkable feature down the twisting passage were brightly coloured doors spaced at even intervals.

“There are eight rooms, each representing a particular lesson that Illumi taught me,” Killua explained, warming to the idea of sharing his childhood with Gon and Biscuit.

The White Door, Lesson One – Endurance. Inside was a variety of ordinary apparatuses of exercise: weights, treadmills, bench press, parallel bars. If memory served correctly, he ate, slept and trained in this room and didn’t see the light of sun for a good six months.

The Blue Door, Lesson Two – Technique. There were four steps to that training: watch, learn, imitate and develop. The room was studded from roof to floor with a hundred flat-screens simultaneously broadcasting fighting styles from a hundred nations, vying for the title of “the strongest”.

The Black Door, Lesson Three – Tolerance to Pain. Inflicting and receiving pain was a cold, calculated process. Each lashing, each blow and each intentional act to cause harm was entirely clinical and devoid of personal feeling. In the end, he discovered that the only way to conquer pain was to treat it with magnanimous impersonality.

The Green Door, Lesson Four – Tolerance to Poisons. Pipes lined the edges of the ceiling, spiked with holes and fitted with needle sharp nozzles. The room was designed to be airtight so that any gasses released within could not escape. In the centre of the barren chamber, bolted to the ground, was a single high backed chair where Killua had to sit for days on end. There were stains on the ground nearby that never properly washed out, stains from vomit, sweat, saliva and the acrid acids from his stomach.

The Yellow Door, Lesson Five – Tolerance to Electricity. Huge monstrous machines of glossy black were tightly packed into the cramped spaces and lit up like a Christmas tree when activated. Shackles hung from long, rusted chains and faded screams of an abusive history still lingered in the musty air.

The Red Door, Lesson Six – Torture and Interrogation. The human body was dissected in front of his eyes with excruciating detail, and the victims were often alive than dead as Illumi pulled them apart. After learning of pressure points and nervous systems, Killua was showed how a length of wire stretched out from a paper clip, and fashioned with a simple hook, could be inserted into the body to pluck at threads of nerves, maximising pain before reward. He was taught about conditioning, psychological assault and he passed the lesson after demonstrating the ability to project nightmares without lifting a finger.

The Brown Door, Lesson Seven – Cat and Mouse. There was no room behind the door, just another long tunnel that finished at the base of the extinct volcano. In the heart of the forest, Killua was taught to resist and evade, locate and strike. When he was six years old, after three days and nights in the forest, he tracked down his target and found no satisfaction as he casually tore out the heart. Headlights suddenly flared up and the silhouette of three figures spilled over him. Through slitted pupils and narrowed eyes, he made out the approving gazes of all the Zoldick elders above him.

Biscuit curiously stood before the Eighth door and was more captivated by its design than her reflection, trying to discern whether the door was carved from a single semi-precious stone or rare gem. She pressed both palms against the glittering surface and emitted a sharp hiss as spears of cold lanced up her forearms. Slowly retracting her chilled hands, flexing her fingers to encourage blood circulation, she asked, “What lies behind this door?”

Killua shrugged, hardly deigning to recognize it even existed. “Probably Nen. Dad interfered with Illumi’s training and sent me to the Celestial Tower by the time I was ready to start the next Lesson. It probably pissed my dear big brother off to no end that he didn’t have a chance to initiate me with the Hazing.”

Reluctantly, Biscuit left the enigmatic door behind to catch up with the two teenagers who had almost disappeared from view, although in the back of her mind, she knew lesson number eight could not have been so simple.

O-O-O-O-O-O-O

“In accordance with family tradition, I bequeath half of my entire estate to the Zoldick family trust,” Silva read out. He was seated comfortably adjacent to the fireplace where logs of wood crackled and a few hot golden sparks flew dangerously close to igniting Silva’s hair.

Kikyou studied her nails in abject boredom, loudly sighing at the end of Silva’s every sentence. She was silently admonished now and then by Zeno, although the old man did not appear to pleased to attend the reading either. In fact, the only person who outwardly appeared interested was Milluki. He hung onto every word, thrusting fistful after fistful of oily crisps into his bloated face, and eagerly waited to see what had been left for him.

“And for all my four brothers, I leave to them equal portions of the remainder of my estate. Specifically, Alluka will have my chain of apartments, Milluki will inherit all favours owed to me by my clients and Karuto can take all my clients.”

Milluki pumped the air with his fist, screeching “Yes!” as he shuffled out of the hall, spurring on his stumpy legs to carry him as fast as they could, ebullient over his share of Illumi’s belongings.

“Killua shall have the key that I have left in Goto’s possession. Finally, someone can tell Hisoka that I release him from all of his debts to me.”

Silva rolled up the parchment and tossed it into the fire, clapping his hands free of the chore. Killua stared past the figure of his father and felt an irrational compulsion to reach into the blazing fire to retrieve the paper that was already curling black at its flaking edges. His face crumpled into dismay, and he knew his father was studying his every reaction.

When Silva beckoned, he hesitated and threw a look back at his companions.

“They will not be mistreated. Come, Killua, I would like to have a talk with you.”

So the teenager followed his father’s heels and into another room, Silva’s personal chambers, and found the three-legged stool placed directly in front of Silva’s divan. A large hand ruffled his fine white hair as his father walked past and sank himself into the silken cushions, cross-legged, expression contemplative.

“Something on your mind?”

“Yeah.” He lowered himself onto the seat, hands between his parted legs and nervously clutching the rim. “Feel like crap.”

“You can always talk to me about it.”

He gave a frustrated sigh and snorted. “I don’t even know how to talk about it. It’s like…there’s suddenly so many things to think about and I don’t know how to sort it all out.”

“You look terrible. I haven’t seen you this pale since Illumi zapped you with your first electrical current. What is it that you fear?”

How his father had the uncanny ability to pierce the clutter of confusion and stare directly into his heart. Killua briefly closed his eyes, and images of that seven-by-three rectangle of neatly raked soil peppered by raindrops and bordered by mangled, prickly weeds bombarded his mind. His own clammy hand clapped around his mouth before he realized he wanted to hurl.

Raising eyes dulled by despair, he asked, “Is this all we’re worth?”

One rough eyebrow sprang up in query. Killua clenched down on his esophagus and steeled himself against the wave of nausea. His sharp fingernails bit into the wood.

“Is that all we’re worth?” he repeated, this time anger causing his voice to waver. “No matter how hard we work and train to be the best, to be useful, to be helpful…are we all just going to end up in the ground like that?”

Silva sighed. “It is death.”

“It is pathetic!”

But his father shook his head. “It is not death you fear. It is its consequences.”

The question did not register. “Consequences?”

“Of course,” said Silva matter-of-factly. He grunted softly as he lifted his knee so he could lean his elbow and body weight against it, but his keen, penetrating gaze never left his distraught son. “You fear the possibility that the person in the ground one day might be your close friend, one whom you’d sorely miss. You fear that after death, they will dwindle into obscurity, when, in your eyes, they are worthy of so much more.”

He swallowed a treacherous sob.

“But most of all, you fear that feeling of emptiness. You and Illumi never got along, but you spent all your childhood under his vigilant watch. Now that he’s gone, you’re upset like you’ve never been upset before. And you realize that you cannot even possibly begin to imagine how many more times terrible this wretched feeling can become if it was someone, like Gon, whose grave you had to tend to.”

Killua buried his face in his hands and wept dry tears. A warmth embraced him across the shoulders, gathering him close, and he fell into it, immensely glad for the comforting strokes down his hunched back that soothed away the sickness corroding away his soul.

His worked his fingers free from the scarred wood and tentatively grasped onto Silva’s clothing and resting his forehead against the open chest and heard the steady, dependable beat of his father’s heart. “I can’t face them, dad.”

“The choice is ultimately yours to make. If you need some time by yourself to think, you’re always welcome to stay.”

“Time by myself…” Killua mumbled. He was ready to take up his father’s offer when they were interrupted by a sharp rap on the door.

The warmth vanished. Silva was seated in his divan, surrounded by cushions again, and Goto entered the door, unapologetic in spite of his low bow.

“I have retrieved the key, sir.”

Killua shook his head, as if he was awaking himself from a daze. Inside Goto’s hands was a small wooden varnished case, minimalist in its decorations. It triggered his inquisitiveness and he was Pandora lured to the box.

“Can I check it out now, dad?”

“Of course. Dinner’s served at seven tonight. Don’t be late.”

But Killua was too absorbed by the only item that Illumi left behind he barely heard the notice.

O-O-O-O-O-O-O

All three of them peered at the simple container that rested in Killua’s outstretched hand, none daring to anticipate what would follow if they opened it.

“Bugger that,” Biscuit finally retorted and nearly ripped the damn thing from the young assassin. She drew a shrill cry from him as her strength caved in around the box and it collapsed into a countless jagged shards under the pressure.

The key was no ordinary key. It blazed like heated platinum, making them all squint as they first beheld it, and it pulsed with nen frosty and unforgiving.

“I know where this key goes,” Biscuit calmly announced. “It seems that even though your brother is dead, he still wants you to finish off his final lesson.” She conveyed the key so that it was directly in his line of vision. “What will you do?”

He wrenched it from her grasp and set his brows in determination. Taking a deep breath, he stormed out of the main hall and headed straight back down the corridor where they had previously come from. He was older now, and had trained with a variety of people since he left home. He was going to best Illumi’s final lesson, if that was the last thing he was going to do.

The key fitted perfectly into the lock. Gon nodded in encouragement and prompted Killua to twist the key. Cold vapours fled from behind the door, kissed their ankles and left condensation on their shoes. Gyo steady and body tense for action, Killua took the first step and never looked behind him again.

Like the Brown Door, there was no training room but another tunnel that was devoid of even a glint of light. The passage became so narrow at one point that they were forced to walk in single file. And as the path meandered, twisting and turning without warning or direction, Killua wondered how he was being tested. He was not afraid of the dark – part of the training in Torture had forced him to endure the pitch black for days on end with nary a sound to inform him of the amount of time passed. There was no oppressive nen barring their way forward, and Gon’s keen ears detected no other presence in the tunnel, so no one was waiting around the bend to gut him in the dark.

After what seemed like hours, they finally emerged on the surface and were bathed in the orange light of the sunset and a soft drizzle on their cheeks. It took a few seconds for Killua to realize they were no longer on Zoldick grounds, seeing that the Gate of Trials was an indiscernible speck in the horizon.

And just twenty meters away, there was Goto with his umbrella, dutifully waiting for him.

“Hey, what the hell was that!” Killua exclaimed in outrage.

“That was Master Illumi’s last lesson to you, Master Killua.”

“I know that, but what is the lesson? We just walked through a long, squishy tunnel. Big deal! I learnt nothing!”

Goto dropped his voice to even lower, more sombre tones. “Master Killua, the last lesson is called Courage.”

Killua looked at him as if the chief house-keeper had been hit on the head too many times. “I could have done that when I was two years old! Why did Illumi make it the last lesson to teach me?”

“Hey Killua, you’re not giving Goto a chance to speak,” Gon reined him back before he lunged and tried to throttle the answer out of the older man.

“Master Killua, answer me this. Will you stay or leave?”

There was a heavy silence.

“You overheard?”

“No, Master Killua, I would not stoop so low as to eavesdrop, but this was predicted by Master Illumi.”

“You’re not making any damn sense! What’s there to predict? I’ve already been away from home for four years!”

“Master Illumi may not have been able to teach you love or friendship, but he foresaw that one day, you might just be saddened by his death. And if you were to realize that one day, you may be even more saddened by the death of your friends, you will leave them, to avoid being hurt. Was Master Illumi correct?”

Killua bowed his head in utter defeat. “Yes,” he grated.

“And so now you understand the meaning behind the Eighth Door? Master Illumi was afraid that you couldn’t withstand the pain of losing a loved one. That’s why he tried to teach you to be emotionless. But in the event that was not possible, you had to attempt the last lesson. You must not be allowed to run home to hide. You must be brave and accept that just because one day, it is very possible you will have to bury Gon, or Ms. Biscuit, with your own hands, you will not give up give up your life and happiness because of such possibilities.”

The white-haired assassin scrubbed his eyes with the back of his sleeve until his eyelids were red and tender.

The Colourless Door, Lesson Eight – Courage to accept uncertainty.

“But that door was built when I was five years old. He couldn’t have predicted that I would…turn out like this.”

Goto smiled down kindly on the heir. “Master Illumi saw that you wanted to play with Kanalia one day, and suspected that assassination will not bring you happiness. You brother only ever had your happiness in mind.”

Blowing away the last of his sniffles, Killua stood up a little straighter. “I see. That bastard planned it all from the start.”

“So will you return to Kukuru Mountain then, Master Killua?”

Killua pounced on an unwary Gon and tackled him into a friendly headlock. “No way! I’ve got to track down Hisoka and deliver big bro’s last words. And after that…who cares, we’ll probably accidentally get involved in something big and I’ll be too busy to even remember to send Christmas cards.”

“Do call sometimes,” Goto said patiently, and extended the umbrella to the young man, his eyes hidden behind the reflection of his glasses.

“Don’t need it. The rain doesn’t bother me. When dad finds out I’m not staying home for dinner, just say….what the hell, say what you want, that Mike went mad and gobbled me for dessert – ”

“ – he’ll find that difficult to believe – ”

“Whatever! We’re going to have to run if we want to make it back to town by nightfall and find a hotel to stay in. Laters Goto! You have my number!”

“All right boys! Last one back to town has to give me six thousand one-handed pushups!”

A cloud of dust, a stampeded of feet, and three figures rapidly became blurry figures zooming down the highway.

The rain would cease during the night and the sun will shine gloriously in the morning. Goto adjusted his glasses, wiping them clean, his attention drawn towards the sky and its magnificent, limitless expanse, and he imagined that a familiar long-haired figure was waving his last goodbye in a very boyish, childlike fashion.

“Master Illumi, please go in peace. Master Killua passed his last lesson with flying colours.”

[HxH Fanfic] Bona Fide

2007-01-20T23:00:18Z

BONA FIDE

Fandom: Hunter x Hunter
Summary: Illumi tells readers how to spot a true assassin.
Rating: T
Characters: Illumi
Disclaimer: Hunter x Hunter is copyrighted by Yoshihiro Togashi, Shounen Jump Weekly, Shueisha and Nippon Animation
Author’s Notes (edited): I felt guilty not placing the one-shot into some sort of proper context. I therefore revised it and gave it some semblance of structure along with a setting. It’s a small crossover with Weiss Kruez and Freesia, but if you don’t know the characters, it doesn’t really matter.

Sigh.

Make that double and put them in italics.

I hate group assignments. Mother and Father didn’t raise me up to be a ‘team player’. I freely confess I wouldn’t recognize leadership even if it bit me and took a great chunk out of my ass and I sure as hell was never taught to look out for others.

Corporate clients always seem to be able to convince themselves there’s security in numbers and lump a number of infamous assassins together for the big game. Last time Grandpa and Father had been involved in a group assignment, it ended up disastrously. Half the people flocked together like frightened sheep and the other half went off to do their own stuff. Everyone but Grandpa and Father got killed, which just goes to prove it’s not how many assassins you hire to get the job done, it’s who you hire.

And speaking of which, I’m working with amateurs and charlatans today, and to be treated as if I’m one of their ilk almost makes me want to ditch this job and head off to a remote island to sleep off the headache intent on hammering my skull to pieces. It’s surprising how much contempt and despise I can work up when I put my mind to it.

“We’re going to put a stop to this child trafficking organization!” a short blond haired man called Omi passionately declares, nodding at his three other associates at the same time.

The urge to roll my eyes is overwhelming, as is my gag reflex. Holding myself rigidly still on the sofa, I do my best to inconspicuously tune out so as to avoid appearing rude. Honestly though, what does our target’s profession or occupation have to do with anything? And Omi’s still raving, no, it’s his brunette buddy flexing his retractable steel claws like a wannabe wolverine, boasting or something or rather, looking mighty full of himself as he goes about it.

I discreetly avert my gaze because my eyes were going to burn and explode out of its sockets if I kept staring at that quartet any longer. What I saw next made me inwardly grimace. Mister Foureyes was quiet, diminutive and hardly spoke a word during the conference. He said a few words if you directly asked him for his opinion, and even then, his opinion wasn’t very insightful. Fifteen minutes after the start of the meeting, he picked up his cup of tea, pinky perfectly crooked, and was captivated by something in the liquid. That must be some special tea he’s got there, because he’s been frozen stiff as a statue and holding that cup three inches from his slightly parted lips for the past forty-five minutes, still staring.

When the hell did they start making unstable, traumatized bastards assassins? You can’t even point him in the right direction and set him off after the target without worrying that he’ll forget why he’s here in the first place, leave the building and ask for directions to a nearby Starbucks for a chocolate milkshake.

I’m so tempted to leave the room under the pretense of a call of nature and never return. My bum almost leaves the seat as the only female assassin, Demona, throws the fifth wink at me this morning and runs her tongue over her upper and bottom lip like an out-of-control fan. She had been impressing everyone with her dexterity, incessantly flipping open and shut a butterfly knife during the meeting. I just want to cut her hand off to make her stop the infernal noise, but then, I’d be playing straight into her hands. With an attention-seeking pseudonym like ‘Demona’, you know she’s the crazy type looking for a chance, any chance, to spill blood, hers or not.

Amateurs. All of them are bloody pirated versions of the genuine goods.

I’m a real assassin. There aren’t many of us out there these days and it’s difficult to find us amongst all the pretenders to the title. I’ve met a fair few in my career and trust me, they are a disgrace to the profession and a blight to the art.

Let’s agree at least on what defines an assassin – we’re killing machines, not the mentally ill, homicidal maniacs or crusading vigilantes with our own brand of justice. We exterminate our targets dispassionately, and it is demanded we do so with cold calculation and unfailing accuracy.

A real assassin such as myself would not pounce into the fray frothing at the mouth screaming for bloody violence and mayhem. Nor is it attractive or helpful in anyway to get carried away by laughing at twisted expressions of pain. For an assassin, killing is an act which is not to be enjoyed, but rather a necessary act which must be committed in order to satisfy our part of the bargain. If you enjoy chasing down people to savour the thrill of the hunt and like to intoxicate yourself on the scent of fear, you don’t need assassination; you need to go home and find the number of your local psychiatrist in the phone book. It’s probably discrimination to say this – but what do I care? – you’re not an assassin, you’re just a bloody fruit-loop.

We also don’t bother to arouse our minds to the consequences or our assignments. We don’t judge – we merely take orders and kill like the dependable killing machines we should be. We follow no politics, have no creed and thus are not dictated by nor subscribe to any set of morals. In fact, you could say the only thing we recognize and act upon is money and its proportionality to the risks involved in eliminating a target. I’m a money-loving son-of-a-bitch, no doubt about it. For the right price, anyone is fair game. You could be the harbinger of world peace, the second coming, for all I care, but because I don’t, I could, and will, knock you off if quid pro quo is met.

Of course, all of this means is that if you piss someone off enough to make them pay exorbitant amounts of money to have your life snuffed out, you’re a dead man walking and there’s not much you can do about it. You can’t appeal to our compassion or sympathy – it was never part of the equation to begin with – and what bodyguards you retain merely means we up the price on our end. And if I so happen to take the commission, you have no future because I only take commission for assignments I know I will complete. And don’t bother with running; with my resources and mad genius of a brother on my side, there’s no place on the face of the earth where you can establish shelter.

If you know you’re dealing with a real assassin, there’s one surefire way to stop them. Come on, think! What have I been ranting about all this time? If a real assassin ordinarily does not kill for pleasure or ideology or delusion and only acts for money, the answer’s beautifully simple. No, don’t offer me twice my commission when you’re on your knees sniveling and begging after I’ve killed your guards and have you cornered. A breach of contract is not only unprofessional, it’s also a stain on my reputation – I’d like to keep that pristine, thank you very much. If you were smart, you’d have hired another assassin to kill my client before I reach you. I stop functioning once party to the assassination contract dies.

Don’t pull out the champagne to celebrate yet though. If my deceased client just so happened to set aside my commission in his estate – because some clients can be particularly vindictive bastards with the ‘I’ll-take-you-down-with-me’ attitude – put pen to paper and start writing your will. Illumi Zoldick is coming for you, and he’s never failed.

o-o-o-o

It’s late in the night when I close in on the target. The carpet is soaked in blood, ruining my shoes, and it’s because that bloody red-haired idiot chooses to swing his katana like it’s some sort of party streamer and the moron with the retractable claws doesn’t understand the meaning of ‘quiet’ and ‘subtle’. Great – so much for my plan of stealthily catching the rest of the bodyguards by surprise.

If they were real assassins, they’d appreciate the rewards of a quick, soundless kill.

Mister Foureyes took out a few bodyguards in the first hour – he was a real impeccable shooter and had and an innate zetsu that was so perfect it could bring tears to your eyes. But as expected, he lost the plot halfway through. The last I saw of him before I breached the second level of the mansion, he was talking to the wall and might have chased a cat out into the forests.

Demona died trying to flee. I was wrapped in shadows at the time, and because Mother and Father never taught me to be a team player, I just stood by and watched her die. In the presence of a more accomplished hunter, she became pathetic, struggling prey trapped and hindered by the unfamiliar sensations of terror. It’s quite interesting, really, and also a good revision lesson for myself never to overestimate my own abilities in any calculation. In death, Demona’s eyes still bulged in fear and her mouth was open, continuing that silent scream she’s no doubt orgasmed to in the past.

I hope she enjoyed her own blood and gore.

According to the floor plans Milluki provided me, I should be in the dining room right now, and a tilt of the candleholder fixed to the wall just to the side of the mantelpiece will reveal a hidden stairwell and direct to the panic room where the target ought to be hiding out.

Footsteps, four pairs of them, congregate towards me and in the dim light of the moon, I make out concerned, ye gods no, hesitant expressions.

No, please don’t talk to me. Please don’t talk to me because I want to have nothing to do with you.

“Um…it’s Illumi isn’t it?” says the shortest of them all.

It’s just not my day and my headache begins to creep back. I swallow a momentary, but now quelled, eruption of annoyance and politely incline my head.

“We think something’s wrong.”

My interest is perked. If Milluki’s given me bogus or faulty information, I’m not going to pay him a single cent. In fact, I’ll demand a refund and promise excruciating pain if he reneges. I try to clarify the situation. “My sources tell me that we’re in the right place.”

The wire-user, tallest of them all, ventures a hypothesis. “No, we think this Jose Darringas might not be who our client says he is.”

I don’t bother to hide my confusion. Where on earth did they suddenly decide to come up with this idea? And again, how does this affect anything?

“Omi went through their computers and records. These guys appear to be investigating the human trafficking and passing on the information to pol – ”

I could just scream. I could scream and pull my hair out and stamp my feet complaining how unfair the world is, how I have to deal with all sorts of posers in my line of business and how I just want to finish the job and soak in a jacuzzi for a good hour before I get some well-deserved beauty sleep. The sudden stabbing pain in the sides of my temples actually makes me flinch and I realize that my tolerance has hit breaking point.

According to plan and schedule, I head towards the lever and give it a good tug as indicated in Milluki’s instructions. The wall next to the fireplace partitions and a panel of the plaster easily lifts itself up and smoothly slides across, revealing an unlit passage resembling a winding stairwell.

“Hey, Illumi, aren’t you listening?”

I inhale a deep breath. It appears that if I ignore them and pretend they don’t exist, they won’t magically go away. Darn it. Must I hold these children’s hands and walk them through the dark arts of assassination?

I use my most patient voice on them. “I heard what you said. However, I don’t think it’s relevant. I am being paid to kill Darringas, and that is all.”

They all look at me with varying degrees of disgust, incredulity, as if I am something so repulsive they must distance themselves away from. Irony doesn’t get any more classic than this. Vintage, even. Here we five are, all with track-record of kills too many than we can care to remember yet if I am spurred on by another nine-digit figure, it’s like ‘whoa, dude, that’s sick’.

No, I’m not sick, just brutally honest and obedient. If I take a commission, I see it through to the end. Does the pizza delivery guy boycott his job just because he objects to anchovies or because he believes obese people are not entitled to takeaway? No, he just takes his orders and delivers the pizza like he’s told to.

No opinions. No judgements. No ulterior motives other than the fact he’s being paid 12 bucks an hour plus tips.

Yeah, you heard me right. It’s the point I’ve been trying to make all along. I attach no significance to kills, just as the McDonalds chick asks “would you like fries with that” not because she delights in the sound of her own voice, but because it’s part of her job requirement.

I finish the job and make my way out of the mansion, throbbing pain in my head waning in the reality that I am 200 million jenis richer. The four morons calling themselves Weiss have gone; they’ve probably returned back to headquarters to wreak some personal justice on my client. Thankfully the money’s already in my account – so they can do whatever they want, but personally, I think it’s stupid of them to work themselves up into a sweat and not make any tangible gains. Really, satisfaction and vindication doesn’t pay for a six star hotel or a buffet breakfast.

Out of the corner of my eyes, I see Mister Foureyes sitting huddled against a tree trunk. For some reason, I take a moment’s pity on that guy and call out his name.

“Hey…Kano was it? Want to head back to the hotel and get room service? I could use a midnight snack.”

“Could you please be a little quieter? My memories are a little fragmented at the moment and I’m trying to remember where I am.”

This guy’s hilarious. He kills like a pro but his mind’s a total mess. Perhaps the business of assassination was thrust upon the unwitting he and he couldn’t hack it. I can imagine him as a discharged soldier, though he doesn’t look old enough to even be a veteran.

Shrugging aside his answer, I haul him up onto his feet and steer him away. I consider it my treat – after all, he did get rid of some guards, lessening my workload. He follows, compliant and submissive, and I find myself shaking my head as if I have just picked up a stray, starved mutt.

Assassination isn’t really that hard. You train your body to give you the necessary skills and enough intelligence to plan and adjust. But perhaps the simpler things are hardest to master. It’s not Einstein, though maybe others don’t realize, try too hard and as a result stuff it all up.

“Fishballs and ramen sound good to you?”

“…yeah.”

Where Credit's Due

2007-01-19T03:13:44Z

There are a number of icon artists who I need to accredit for use of their icons. In no particular order, they are:

Thanks once again to the LJ communities dedicated to showcasing Icon art and allowing talentless graphics bums like myself to leech.