Author's Notes: A drabbled oneshot—a teaser, of sorts—from Saligiare, an AU chapter fic that is a lesser priority than Existentialism, but may get written after the other is completed. This scene wouldn't leave me alone, so I wrote it. I've deemed it spoilerless, in case I do get around to writing Saligiare in its entirety. Figured I might as well post it here, too—it's been ages since my last post.
An event in Saligiare!Riku's past. Rated for violence, considering he's an assassin.
Side note: And yes, the idea of justice killers is taken from Weiss Kreuz (which I dearly love), but hopefully the final version that comes out in Saligiare is different/original enough to stand on its own.
LAWL I want an angsty dark chapter story, toooooo!
Honestly, I had a hard time writing this.
"Shiho"
by: Rosalyn Angel
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The man scrambles back, knocking over a lamp and stumbling over the edge of a rug, his previously gelled hair loose and hanging in his aging face. He comes to rest against a desk, his hands flailing behind him for anything to grab and use, never turning away from the sight of a dark figure slowly walking toward him. Papers are spread across the desk by his panicked search, piles tipping over and fluttering to the carpet at his feet. One hand finds purchase: a heavy paperweight that he flings toward the intruder. The figure only calmly tilts its head to the side, hair brightly catching in the moonlight from a high window, and lets the paperweight smash into the far wall.
"Who are you?" he demands. "Stay away!"
The figure doesn't answer, only takes another step closer, into the light that falls like a beam: a young man dressed entirely in black, his hand poised inside of his open coat, holding onto the handle of a sheathed short sword.
"You've come for me, have you?" he says, an edge and a quaver in his voice. He laughs, almost hysterically; he doesn't know this man—this boy, really—but he knows what that sword stands for and where it will end up. "Years I've gotten away with it, years, and now you've come!" he shouts, scampering to the side of the desk and fumbling to stand behind it: something to put between him and the boy. "Too little, too late for all those women, you know," he says lowly, hand journeying down to the lower right drawer.
Finally, the boy speaks: "You admit your sins, then."
"Sins," he spits out, a chuckle bubbling up, fueled by blind panic and an attempt at control. "They were just nameless whores."
The sword is unsheathed; a whisper of steel, a curved blade with a practiced edge, Japanese in origin. Its hilt is ivory. It matches the boy's shimmering hair. "Repent," the boy says quietly: one last warning.
The man laughs again, shrill and high-pitched with fear. "You should take your own advice."
The next few seconds happen too quickly. The man is raising his hand from the drawer he opened; there's a metallic glint and the sound of a cocking gun. The boy has already moved, startlingly fast and sword pointed forward. By the time the gun is aimed, it's already falling from trembling fingers, landing with a heavy clatter to the desk. The man is pushed into the bookshelf behind him, its contents shaking, jarred by the impact. His hands are stretched out, reaching, making little butterfly flaps around the form that pins him. His face slackens, lips trembling, trying to work, as little wheezes and whistles come out of the new hole in his throat.
The short sword has pierced cleanly, angled up through the jaw and toward the brain, dark red blood sliding down it to rest on the hilt guard. It wells out from the man's mouth as well, a trickling waterfall that stains the front of his pressed suit.
The boy is standing stoically before him, one gloved hand on his shoulder, the other hand holding the sword in. He's pressed close, only allowing enough room to keep the blade between them.
Silver hair, the man sees up close, right before the sword is given one final push to be driven into his brain.
Riku waits before he slides his sword out, giving it a small twist inside to ensure death. The blood, its path now entirely open, quickly overtakes the man's chest, coating suit and shirt, sometimes spilling onto Riku's own.
He steps away quickly, releasing his hold on the now-corpse. The dead man crumbles, eyes still open, hitting his head on the edge of the desk with a crack as he tips forward before finally resting on the carpet, neck awkwardly bent against the lower drawers and arms akimbo. Riku walks away from the darkening flood on the floor after wiping the blade clean on the man's pant leg. He already has his coat to wash; it wouldn't do to have his boots, too.
He stops. In the door that leads into the lit hallway is another person: a small thin person, silhouetted, wide eyes staring at him, barely tall enough to reach his mid-thigh.
A child, Riku thinks detachedly. A little girl.
"Daddy?" she calls tentatively. "I heard noises."
The desk blocks any view of the body. By the curious, slightly fearful look on her face, she didn't see the kill. Small miracles, Riku supposes.
"Who are you?" she asks. "Are… Are you one of Daddy's friends?"
An amateur mistake, being seen by a child. He still has so much to learn.
"No," he says quietly. "Just a visitor. What's your name?"
"S-Shiho," she stammers, expression so open and easily read, her brow knitting as she looks up at him. "Do you know where Daddy is?"
Shiho has dark brown hair pulled into a messy little braid. Her bangs are cut straight and even across her forehead. Cute yellow dress with ruffles on the bottom. Big eyes—blue, Riku thinks they might be, but he can't tell until he walks closer. Yes, they're blue.
"Why do you have a sword?" she's asking. "Why…"
He sets the sword down as he kneels in front of her. It shines beautifully in the light from the hall.
She's peering at the dark spots on his coat now. "Are you hurt?" she squeaks.
"No," he says. "I'm fine. How old are you, Shiho?"
"Four," she chirps, holding up the right number of tiny, short fingers: an automatic response formed by a question so often asked. "I'm four."
"Four," he repeats; an echo, a reminder. "Just four?"
"I'm a big girl," she defends, frowning.
"Yes," he says, and there's something in his expressionless face that shifts, something heavy settling into his eyes. "Big enough to remember," he whispers.
Shiho stares at him curiously, a little dimple in her forehead between furrowed eyebrows. She sniffs loudly. "It smells funny in here," she declares. "I'm gonna leave and find Daddy."
He catches her arm before she can leave. "Shiho," he starts, "what's one of your favorite things in the whole world?"
Immediately her face lights up, blue eyes brightening and a wide smile breaking out. "Horses!" she squeals. "Horses, horses!"
Riku smiles back at her. His is so much smaller than hers: the briefest upturn of his mouth, sad and ghostly. "Can you turn around and think of horses for me, Shiho? Can you tell me about them?"
"Why do I need to turn…" she starts, but he just nudges her, saying "please," before she does, facing away from the desk, away from Riku, and toward the light.
"Tell me about horses, Shiho," he says, voice low in a whisper. One hand is on her tiny, bony shoulder, the other reaching into his boot.
"White ones are the best," she claims. "With lots of hair to play with. And they need to have space to run around really fast."
"In the grass?" he asks quietly. A long, thin needle is pulled out, a small handle at its end.
"Yes!" she says, and he can practically hear her smile. "Lots of grass, with no trees, and a big sun."
Riku finds the place directly behind her earlobe, the little indention where the jaw meets it, careful not to touch her besides the hand on her shoulder. The needle is held between his middle- and forefinger.
"I love horses," she says dreamily.
It's wrong that the needle slid in so easily, he thinks.
There's no sound, not even a gasp. It happened too quickly. The needle is pulled out, blood trickling down her pale, skinny neck into the collar of her dress. Riku lays her down and carefully folds her hands over her stomach. He reaches forward to shut her eyes, and the moment before he does, he thinks he can see her horses, running wild and free through her mind.
-fin