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IDN Bleach.
She saw the fall coming,
Their inexorable end,
Stupidly standing there
On the edge of the blade
Hanging over her head.
On the corner of a seedy street in a bloodstained city, there is a fucked up building, foundation cracked and walls barely there. And in this shitty excuse for a building gathers a select group of nightstalkers.
They gather by moonlight, melting in and out of shadow. The great unseen and unforgiven.
They're a mixed bag bunch, each one less like the next. And they stand or sit or lounge without a care for their peers because who gives a fuck what other people think?
Not any of them.
"Who gives a damn one way or the other?" asks the tallest male among them, his eyes lit with fever, grin wide with bloodlust. The tinkle of tiny bells threaded in his hair is at odds with the menacing timbre of his voice. "I'm sick of whacking weak nobodies. So whichever gives me a challenge, goddamit!"
A one-armed woman wearing next to nothing snaps, "Yes, we all know your dick is huge. Too bad your brain can't compete. So, shut the fuck up." Promptly, she abandons her tirade, returning to the issue at hand. "We can kill her ourselves before she talks or we can fight to bring her back. I care nothing for the girl, and sneaking in an assassin would be easier. So, why don't we just kill her?" She throws her lit cigarette into the center of their loose circle. She has nothing more to add. For the moment.
Lifting a hand, flicking the brim of his beret above his dark eyes, the toothy man shakes his blond head. Voice light, thoughts dark, his offers his opinion. "This isn't our call. The 13 has its own way of dealing. Why do I have to be here?"
Silence but for the sound of several feet shuffling. That particular inquiry is stained with bad blood, dividing the individuals called here to make a collective decision.
Chocolate skin and limber body, another woman leaps down from the eaves of the crumbling second floor. Landing in a crouch, she rises slowly, drawing every eye. "The 13 votes to retrieve her, but their motivation is clouded," she says calmly, "The Invalid's soft on the 13. Preserving a single life… Not a variable here."
No one speaks, waiting for her to show her hand.
Though the discussion includes every person in the circle, she directs her words to a man sitting in the corner. "With that in mind, I still believe we must do something. Her capture is a blow, but the information she could give them—she's a risk I won't take." A note of defiance colors her speech leaving no doubt she will act with or without the consent of those gathered here.
"She will not talk," interjects an impassive man with long midnight locks, his tone offering nothing. "They will surely kill her either way. She knows this." Remote gray eyes dare them to argue as he finishes, "Sensitive information is not the issue. She broke the rules, thus we have no obligation to her. We risk too much by intervening."
"Pst," scoffs another man, scratching his chin, his back to the group as he imagines the stars beyond the smog, "What would your wife say?"
The impassive man's shoulders tense, his pride abused by the reproach. With impeccable self control, he does not react to the provocation. The death of his wife is the reason he stands in this circle of misfits. His thirst for revenge supersedes all other concerns. His sister endangered his cause. Her fate is justified.
Turning away from the drab sky, still scratching his whiskered chin, the reproachful man laughs bitterly, "You are not the only one here who has lost someone irreplaceable; I understand your fear. But you're a fucking idiot if you think losing someone else is preferable to breaking your precious rules. Those inane laws to which you cling will not resurrect Hood." The whiskered man smiles, sad and haunted, his hand extending out toward the 'fucking idiot' he understands better than anyone else here. "If you can't let go of the past—those rules you hide behind—It's fine. But my son plans to steal her back, so you can watch." His expression resolves in a wolfish grin, adding, "I'll make popcorn, and if you are a very good little pussy, I'll share."
Most of the others are not inclined to involve themselves in the verbal spar, their feelings on the matter ranging from utter indifference to sinister amusement. Only the lithe woman with dark skin seems the least bit perturbed.
However, it is the last man in the corner who moves swiftly, inserting himself between them, thereby preventing bloodshed. Still, it's a near thing. The perturbed woman instantly relaxes. She has no doubt he will sort the situation.
"Honestly," says the man-in-the-middle, vaguely conciliatory, "if I didn't know you two better, I would think you didn't like each other at all. But that's simply untrue. We are on the same side." From under his bucket hat, the conciliatory man's cobalt eyes flit from one face to the next, impressing upon them to seriousness of this matter. "Now, I say we vote and be done with it. Each of us has another place we would rather be." His gaze lingers on the dark skinned woman, silently communicating some ulterior motive. Clearing his throat, he speaks coyly, "Save or sacrifice, eh? I say save," his smile concealing his thoughts, the plans he has already set in motion.
Raising his cane to point at each in turn, the secretly smiling man calls the role, "Black Cat?"
Gold eyes guarded, the lithe woman with a chocolate complexion votes, "Save," surprising most of the others.
"Jester?" asks the man with the cane, smile becoming a smirk.
"Which gives me things to kill?" replies the bloodlusting tall man with a small brain and big dick. The tiny bells in his hair seem to chime with glee at the prospect.
Rolling his cobalt eyes under his bucket hat, irritated and entertained in equal measure, the pollster swivels his cane, skipping to the next person. "Firecracker?"
The one-armed woman breathes, "Sacrifice," staring blindly into the space before her, trapped in twisted memories. No one is surprised.
The cane shifts to the toothy man in his omnipresent beret leaning against the lip of a long forgotten bathtub. "Jazzman?"
The blond yawns, eyes closed, giving the impression of one unfettered. But behind the mask of disinterest, he weathers a tug-a-war between emotion and instinct.
Jazzman has been fucked over and fucked over again and, just for kicks and giggles, fucked over one more time. The Voids—more like his family than his crew—is the only thing that matters to him in this shitty world where nothing matters. They are the only people who are 'real.'
Hence, Jazzman is torn between sympathy for the 13 and the interest of his Voids. "What's this girl like?" he asks thoughtfully. Before anyone can answer, he changes his mind, firming his resolve, "Never mind. It doesn't matter. Save her."
One eye slipping open, Jazzman qualifies, "But don't expect us, Voids, to help. We have other shit to do. We'll make our move when the time is right." Smile wry and broken, he slides off the lip of the tub, ass falling to the damp floor and legs out straight, smacking his head against the cracked porcelain. "Dramatic entrance and all that."
Nodding, the man tallying the votes turns his cane on the next member of their group, biting the inside of his cheek in a formidable effort not to laugh.
"Doc?"
"Save, definitely, save," answers Doc confidently, scratching his chin again, "Can't let the mother of my future grandchildren die, you know?" He throws his impassive counterpart a wide grin, expanding, "That'll really make your day, eh? Yours and mine are going to be one big, happy family! She'll be a Kurosaki one day."
"Names!" hisses the Black Cat, hostile warning evident in her leer, "Stick to the goddamn program. No names. Not ever."
"Right," replies Doc sheepishly, "Forgot. I'm just excited about it."
"If you think I will let my sister marry your son," injects the impassive brother coolly, "your sense of reality has abandoned you. Over my dead body would I endorse such a regnant match."
Doc laughs good-naturedly, "According to you, she'll be dead, so the issue's moot. As for the rest—'your dead body'… I'm not opposed to the idea. Dead on the inside; dead on the outside. Not much of a stretch."
"Keep familial squabbles for after hours," complains the bucket hat man, his cane wiping between them, "We're at work right now. Bitch later." Focusing on the impassive brother, he asks, "What say you, Blossom? Still all for letting her die?"
Looking away fixedly, Blossom—who hates his code name—replies, "I vote sacrifice," with no inflection whatsoever.
"Well, that's it then," concludes the bucket hat wearing vote counter, his cane finally at rest, "Vote is four to two: the Butterfly is saved." With a flourish, he bows to his distinguished cohorts.
"Black Cat, remind me why you fuck this son of a bitch," remarks Firecracker, lighting up another cigarette. "Pst. The goddamn King of Hearts. I should have killed him when we were kids."
So swiftly down, they fall. On her head and off the edge.
This is a new project I'm playing with. AU.
It's dirt, grit, hate, gore, and sex. Hope you like it.
~Mare~