Hero Time

Part one :: Hook

Chapter One :: Casting Off.

March 18 :: 15.32

Matthew Williams has been stuck up here for three days. He closes the curtains and helps himself to another Maruchan cup. He briefly, and with no small amount of sarcasm, wonders how long it will be until he has to ration food.

Four days. That's exactly how long. And a whole six hours is how long it will take for Safeway to deliver his delivery taxes are a drag and he can't wait to get his new roommate. His stomach grumbles and he wonders if he's being ridiculous, if there's nothing but nothing for him to worry about. He opens the window. There's' a black van out front and across the street from his apartment complex, sitting surreptitiously like it has been for the past week. Worst of all, he swears that there was a flash of flesh toned color before black curtains swooshed over the van's window.

Matthew Williams now fears that his fears are perfectly justified. Because something doesn't fit. His mother always told him to listen to his gut. He closes his own curtains and sits down with a stack of pancakes to finish his book and listen to the radio. His face blanches when he hears the happy-go-lucky voice speaking.

He blames himself for this.

March 22 :: 6.12

Alfred F. Jones has not been stuck in a tiny apartment for 7 days and six hours. Alfred F. Jones has been partying for 6 hours. He's seen more losses in beer pong battle today than veterans have seen losses in Vietnam. He's also probably high. Some Asian gal brought brownies that were spiked with something that makes his world feel lucid and hella smooth. But who cares? It's spring break and he's in college and everything's good in life. For now. In the morning, he's probably going to wake up hurling over some chick's tits.

He didn't. It was a girl's backside. That was ok too, because Al's more of an ass guy anyway. It stopped being ok when the pretty gal had the gall to be a guy. A really fuckin' pretty one. But in his defense, whatever happened last night, happened under the influence of beer goggles. Intense ones. He shoves himself off of her and onto a spare cushion on the floor and presses is face in closer- his face is sticky. He sits up lightning quick and wipes at his face and oh god, no no no don't let it be that- its white and smelly. He hurls again.

Fast-forward three hours and Alfred is banging on the door of his history Professor. Unprofessional, he knows, but he's tired and high, and his mom is going to kill him if he comes home like this and he's not safe enough to drive and all his friends are gone and holy shi- he vomits off the stairwell. He collapses against the doorway, whacking his head on the door in a mixture of lazy knocking and punishing himself because last time he got this fucked up he swore to God almighty that he never would again. He's been sitting there for about 23 head-bashing knocks when he hears 'click, swip, click, clank, clock, swip, click, click' It takes him a second to realize that those must have been fucking locks on the door. He never pegged his Professor to be the type. He tries to hold himself up on his own when the door opens, but he's not quite on time enough to do it and collapses into the door way.

"Hhhnghmph,"

Alfred F. Jones wants to say that he'll never do this again, but he's 21, it's spring break and he's a college student. As he's hauled by the collar into the house, he figures it'd just be best for life to take it's course, and for him to follow.

March 22 :: 7.25

Lovino Vargas has been listening to this damn radio show all semester. He hates it, but every morning when he drives to the library, his hands magically move to the radio and his fingers automatically click to the right channel. It's not his fault. Really. He does have to admire that boy's spunk though. It's either that or that kid just genuinely does not giveone single solitary fuck for what might happen. Lovino awaits the day that he opens up the paper behind the library counter to find an article titled-

'College Student Found Dead From Two Shotgun Wounds to Cranium - Suicide Suspected'

It's wrong, he knows, but really? Does he expect to ever get anywhere with talk like that? Lovino Vargas' father taught him one thing. If something doesn't fit, don't say a mother fucking word. Mafia policy. Really, the first thing that anybody learned when they were talking about shit like that (or any sensitive information, for that matter) was not to blab to strangers. And this kid wasn't just blabbing either. He was broadcasting across the state. Giving sources and sites and books to look up all the right information. Eventually, someone was going to shut him up. It was inevitable. He clicks off the radio.

He pulls up into the parking lot. Something doesn't fit. There's a black van in the front. With a man looking at him from behind the window. Lovino slides his Gucci sunglasses over his eyes and doesn't say a mother fucking word.

He knows exactly what brought them here. He opens the library door shuts all of the blinds and immediately rushes behind his desk, clicking through security tapes to find what he needs. He pauses the tape. Grabs the phone. 011398154211213. It's a long number, but he taps it in the corded wall phone with rhythmic ease. He does it often.

"Gevanni, quanto tempo necessario per trovare qualcuno?"

March 21 :: 7.20

Elizaveta Herdervary has run a maid café called Dolce for two years and nine months. It is the ultimate maid café. She's been all over Japan and hasn't seen one that tops it. They have an amazing French pastry chef, a cute Italian dojikko barista, and maids of every gender and rampant yaoi and yuri potential. But it comes at a cost. She adores running it, really she does, but she's always forced to be moving. She's got to greet customers, repair uniforms, make menus, create specials, do finances, help clean up, teach the maids the art of Maid-Fu (also known as defending yourself against sexual predators) and help out with serving herself. It leaves very little time to do what she actually went to college for. Journalism. And it's a terrible tragedy because she was the best in her class. Now she only gets a story in about once a month.

But it could be worse. She can still pay the bills. A few years ago, she couldn't even say that. She runs an order for café au lait and a sweet roll to table three. The man is quiet, and gives her the most endearing look of total enchantment. Elizaveta can see him take in every ounce of her. The ruffles on her cap, the boots that she wears (because proper maids aren't supposed to wear those harlot-heels) and her perfectly ironed apron. She's perfect, and she knows that he knows that she knows it. She cocks her head in a well practiced manner, making sure her brown curls bounce just so.

"Is there something on my face, Shujin-sama?"

It's funny to see his face go so red and Eliza remembers why she loves her job again. He nods no, and watches her bow before she flounces off to her office. She could use a break. She opens up word and consults her notes before she starts again.

That boy on the radio made interesting points and even if this was probably never going to see the light of day except for some forums, Elizaveta Herdervary could have fun writing it.

March 21 :: 7.20

Kiku Honda is on leave for eight days not counting today. If he had a little longer, he might have been able to fall in love. She was perfect in every way. Perfect posture, polite, quiet, respectful, and oh so beautiful. And the fire in her eyes made Kiku want to... well he didn't know quite yet. And he wasn't going to. Because Kiku Hondas aren't supposed to fall in love. They're supposed to go to lunch, stay in town for a few days, and then leave again on deployment. Being him is a sad lifestyle. He chews his meal and respectfully pays and goes. He notices a van has very cruelly parallel parked him (which is illegal, he should call the police) and briefly debates exactly how long it would take for the owner to come back out. He doesn't want to have to go back into the shop to find whoever owns the black van, because if he does, he might be tempted to ask the-never-going-to-but-could-have-been love of his life out to dinner. And that would end in tears for him. He shifts anxiously from side to side, glancing at the door for a period of time. There's a thump. It's coming from the van. Kiku isn't sure if he should be relived that he doesn't have to go inside, or miffed because the person didn't even bother to un-park himself so that Kiku could leave, even though he was right there. It doesn't matter though, because he's already knocking and the window is being rolled down. He can see all of the whirring machines and boards of buttons and glowing screens and the heads of three other people inside.

And suddenly, Kiku Honda doesn't care about his car anymore. He needs to get the out of here. Now.

He sprints down the road with all of the speed of a man whose been through a marine's basic training and he doesn't stop 'till he's halfway to the highway and there isn't a single black car let alone van. And then he laughs. After three years he should have known he got off scot free. He goes back to the shop after the lights go out and the black van pulls away, following after a beat up Prius. He clicks on the radio and revs up his Audi.

Now that's certainly a voice he hasn't heard in a while. Kiku Honda only has eight days of leave, but he thinks that he can spare a day or two to visit a friend.

What do all parties have in common?

Hero Time.

AN ::

"Gevanni, quanto tempo necessario per trovare qualcuno?"

"Gevanni, how long will it take you to find someone?"

Dojikko are a clumsy type of girl.