I don't own Black Cat and I don't claim to, either.
I always felt like Saya dying had a giant effect on Train, enough that it changed his attitude for the entirety of the anime. These are little snapshots, flashes and moments in time that are meant to show grief and the way it drags a person down.
Hope you like it! Please review :)
Train's feet pounded hard on the pavement, sending jolts of pain up his legs. His breath gasped in his throat, lungs heaving, but he couldn't seem to pull in enough oxygen. He couldn't stop. Not now.
His fist was still clenched tight around the letter; paper crinkling in his palm, tearing up the elegant script, the words he loathed to think about. He couldn't let this happen.
He couldn't let this happen. Not to her. Not to Saya.
. . .
The silhouette of a girl in a fancy kimono, moonlight framing her slender form. Her gentle voice sang out through the city, soft and lilting and familiar, somehow. Short dark hair spilled over her tiny shoulders as she turned, sandals scuffing on the concrete of the roof. Her eyes fixed on his—blue-green, like the ocean.
Train wondered what her name was.
. . .
He finally skidded to a halt at the opening of an alleyway, and the first thing he saw was red—no, no, she doesn't deserve this, she doesn't—
Saya lay crumpled in a puddle of crimson, smaller than Train had ever seen her, hair all tangled in her face. Creed stood over her with an empty sword hilt in his hand, an arrogant grin spread across his lips. Train's fingers twitched spastically on his gun, and hot anger filled the pit of his stomach.
He screamed blood-vengeance, and charged.
. . .
All he saw at first was a blur of pink-and-white cloth, and then there she was next to him. Eyes sparkling and hair flowing in the wind—she was fast, fast enough to rival his speed. No one else had ever been able to catch up with him, before Saya.
. . .
Her hands were cold and shaking badly as she pressed the gun into his palms. This damn gun that always managed to find its way back to him, no matter how many times he tried to throw it away—Train hated it, hated Cronos, hated himself.
"I just wanted my ramune," Saya whispered, voice barely making it past her lips, quiet and trembling and this wasn't fair. "That's all."
He choked on his own breath, guilt strangling his throat and threatening to suffocate him, because—because all of this was his fault.
. . .
Saya's reflection in the glass bottle, her lips curled up slightly in a small smile as she chugged down the last of her milk. Train swallowed tightly in his throat and wondered (not for the first time) what the hell he was doing, allowing this girl in his apartment.
But still, her song had saved him from both the Taoist and Sephiria—he had heard it, soothing in his ears as the pressure of the insect pincers on his sides was released. So he listened to her bossy demands and half-heartedly agreed to buy her a ramune, because he hated owing people. Or, that was what he told himself, but it wasn't the truth.
The truth—the truth was too hard to face, just then.
. . .
Colors blossomed above him, lights blooming in the sky. Saya's eyes glittered with tears, and Train felt the life draining out of her, but there was nothing he could do to stop it.
He heard the boom and then the crackle of the rockets far above the city, and held tight to his first friend as she died in his arms. There were sobs rising in his chest, but Train clamped them down. Saya didn't need to see him cry.
Her hand slipped from his and fell onto the pavement of the street, eyes closing, her lashes dark and wet against her pale skin.
All he could think was that Saya died in an explosion of fireworks.
. . .
He fought Creed recklessly, desperately, tears in his eyes and rage flooding his head. There was no control, no restraint, only you killed Saya, you killed her, you—
And then everything was black.
. . .
Train woke in an unfamiliar bed, where a blonde-girl bioweapon and an eyepatched sweeper looked after him. It wasn't right. It was better than Cronos, but it wasn't where he was supposed to be, either. They fed him, gave him information, never treated him badly, but a distinct wrongness lingered around the edges of his mind.
This wasn't a place where the Black Cat belonged.
. . .
Saya followed him in his dreams.
Sometimes, they were good dreams, where a giggling girl in a kimono raced him through the city, plastered with sweat and hair all askew—the most beautiful thing in the world. He would wake up knowing they were false, but the guilt wasn't so suffocating, then.
Other times, they were nightmares. She screamed his name as Creed ran her through with an invisible blade, blood staining her pale skin, and she collapsed to the ground, still and cold.
Every night, Train woke up with her name on his lips.
. . .
Train's wounds healed slowly, and he went out of his mind trapped in this room, the walls closing in. It meant he was left alone to drown in the memories and the visions and the guilt.
His hands gripped the bedsheets tightly, teeth grinding together painfully, body held rigid.
He closed his eyes and thought of fireworks and ramune and laughing blue-green eyes and how cats were supposed to be the lucky animals, but the entire world seemed to be pressing down on his shoulders.
Train thought of Saya, and continued to slip away.