Yagami's Little Girl - Blue
Written by RinoaDestiny
King of Fighters and Iori Yagami belong to SNK Playmore
"Yagami-san, follow me, please." Iori's hackles arose as he followed the telltale white physician's coat; sterile walls and antiseptic smells assaulting his senses. He smelled medicines but also life and death and that stench was never one he'd particularly liked.
He'd never been in a hospital before, not even after several severe beatings during many of the tournaments he'd participated in. Goenitz was a pain in the ass – goddamn wind powers – and Orochi had put him through hell. Riot of Blood incidents that pissed him off, put him out of his mind, and cut his life even shorter. It was satisfying to turn the tables on the smug bastard at the very end, even if it took getting Kyo's Kusanagi sword's spiritual energy right in the back. Then Ash fucking Crimson came prancing along, robbed him of his magatama, and left him flameless and enraged. Ripping off his face was the only response he'd had when facing the dark version of the French fop and even then, he'd been beaten to within an inch of his life.
"This way, please."
The maternity ward was covered with cute murals, too much for Iori but he kept his silence and stepped into the room he'd been in before. The doctor stepped aside, flipping through his charts and a nurse whispered into his ear. Turning aside his glance, the young fighter pulled over a bright yellow chair across from the woman on the bed. She looked wan and exhausted but Iori knew better.
"Where is she?" A faint voice but also melodious.
"I have a daughter?" That took him by surprise. "Does it hurt, Michiru?" Gentleness didn't come easily to him; he'd had it once before as a younger boy. Before the training and the blood feud.
"Yes, Iorin." A nickname he'd never understood but it didn't matter. "You didn't want to know, remember?" Michiru smiled at him, lines of pain in her slender face. Her dark hair was damp, sweat beading at the roots. He still recalled when and how he'd met her. Darkness and drinks and the bluesy strains of jazz in that midnight air, saxophone notes marking their first encounter. One of the many.
Not many left now. Minutes ticking down. Where was his daughter?
"Iorin, they're cleaning her up. Don't get impatient."
"You don't have much time left."
"I know." Another smile, like the last blush on a rose. "Don't glare at the doctor, Iorin. He can't do anything about it."
"I know that," he gritted back, scowling. "Was it worth it, Michiru?"
"Yes."
He wondered how his father took the news of his wife's death. Did old man Yagami look at her, ask how she was, or did he say something about his heir – him – and then have them remove his son from his sight? He wouldn't expect any less from the bastard who made his childhood a living nightmare – a nightmare about fighting and Kusanagi and brutal conditioning – and he didn't want to emulate his old man.
"Avoiding fourth floors? Not much help here."
"You sound bitter, Iorin."
He wasn't. He was. So much for superstition.
"Fujisaka-san?" A fresh-faced nurse walked over, arms full of pink Hello Kitty blanket. "Here's your daughter." Curious, he pulled the chair a bit closer as the pink bundle was deposited into his wife's arms. It wriggled, briefly, and then subsided into babyish gurgles.
"Oh, Iori..." He winced, knowing what was to come. "Isn't she beautiful?"
"Michiru..." His daughter had her mother's eyes.
"She has your hair." A delicate, fading smile. "She'll be so pretty, won't she, Iori?"
Twice now. His heart clenched and it was getting harder to keep his nonchalant mask intact. He had to, though. Iori Yagami never cried. "What name..." He couldn't finish the question.
"Aoi."
Blue. A name that evoked sky and beauty and tenderness. It wasn't a name for a girl born to a fighter's legacy, to a clan seething with hatred and violence. It fit, though – too well – and he couldn't find a better name. His wife's last gift. Her willingness to stick by him, to have his child – knowing of her imminent death – and now, his daughter had a normal name.
"Michiru." He touched her cheek. Forced himself to say the words. "Thank you."
"Iori." He saw the light in her eyes fade. Watched as she died. The last word on her lips being his name. Maybe his mother named him with her last breath. He'd like to think so. Gently, he took Aoi from her mother's limp arms, cradling the fragile body against his own. Looking down into wide dark eyes and the tiniest fuzz of soft baby hair, already tinged scarlet.
If he wasn't a Yagami, he'd permit himself to cry.
"Yagami-san," the doctor said, touching his shoulder. He glanced up and the doctor's expression softened. "I'm sorry. We couldn't stop the bleeding."
He nodded, returning his gaze to his daughter.
He was twenty-two years old and had finally beaten Kyo in something. He'd never thought he'd have an heir before Kyo Kusanagi. Yet, here he was: his daughter in his arms and she wasn't afraid of him.
"Yagami-san?" The nurse again, with one of those colored plastic baby bracelets. "What will her name be?"
"Aoi." She gurgled against his shoulder and he made a sudden decision. "Aoi Fujisaka."
"Not Yagami?"
"No."
A few scribbled characters later and Aoi Fujisaka wore her tiny name bracelet, soft pink against her chubby wrist. Iori was sick of pink. It seemed to be everywhere, bubblegum color against sterilized white and cute stylized rabbits and butterflies. He liked the Hello Kitty patterns on his daughter's borrowed blanket, though. He'd always been fond of cats.
"Aoi," he said, drawing his daughter's attention to him. "Hello, Aoi."
Aoi Fujisaka was his child. He'd made his choice when he named her. She was his – his and Michiru's – and he didn't want his daughter to live his life. To go through all the bloodlust, vengeance, violence, and hatred. To grow up as a tool against the Kusanagi clan. That was his life – he'll deal with Kyo. That was his lot. He was used to it. That was okay.
But his daughter's life was her own. Not the Yagami, not his, and not Orochi's.
The Yagami clan was never going to get her.
Notes: According to Japanese superstition, the number four (shi) sounds way too similar to death (shi). Many Asian hospitals, including Japan's, do not have a named fourth floor and maternity wards are never located on anything dealing with the number four. I believe they even bypass having a room #4, considering that becomes the 'death room', so to speak.
"Iorin" is a nickname that Iori is called by his female fans in some of SNKP's dating sim games. The funny thing about this nickname is that it is a very feminine form of address. Iori in the dating sim games, however, didn't seem to mind.
Iori in this fic is 22 yrs. old, going off of the King of Fighters XIII's bizarre age change. He is listed as 20 yrs. old on his KoFXIII bio, so this takes place two years after the events of KoFXIII's tournament.