Title: Of Blunt Pens and Stained Newspapers

Author: Mr. Meenor (Editor: Mr. Ree, xXMerryGoRoundXx)

Rating: T (Language, Violence)

Genre: Action, Romance

Synopsis: Twenty-year-old, alcohol addict Lavi Bookman is measuring his life by whiskey bottles. Considered useless, his life takes a flip when he meets aspiring journalist Lenalee Lee, who is trying to write a story on an underground gang known as "The Exorcists." With nothing to his name, she offers him a deal he can't refuse. . . despite the fact that it might cost him his life. (AU)

I.

Lavi Bookman owned few things: the clothes on his back, the pen in his pocket, the notebook in the other pocket (worn, torn, abused from age), and a wrench he received as a birthday present, but from whom he could not remember. Everything else in the poorly lit, damp basement belonged to his supposed roommate, who never showed his face. The CD's left in the corner, the wrinkled bedsheets on the bed, the posters of bands, the backpack in the corner—those things belonged to Arystar Krory.

Apparently, staying in more hospitable environments suited Krory than staying in a cheap, rundown basement of an old apartment building.

The bowl of water holding leaked drops from pipes grew heavier in volume as whiskey bottles laid at his feet, empty and unwanted. He never liked the taste or whiskey, nor was he fond of drinking, but it took his depression away. At twenty, a high school drop-out, but certifiably a genius, he had nothing left to live for, nothing on his name, and nothing spectacular about him. He worked, when he did work, at a construction company. He had talent and a knack for knowing precise measurements and where things went, be it a pipe or a beam. However, he did not enjoy his job. He lacked enthusiasm.

He always lacked enthusiasm.

Hell, he lacked every emotion. Some classified him as a sociopath. Personally, he classified himself as just an uncaring person who's slightly jaded.

Another drop from the old pipes made him groan. The radio, also Krory's, buzzed the scores of the latest football games. The voice sounded dull, monotonous, and a little old as the scores emanated from the speakers in no apparent order. His brain memorized the scores immediately, despite his request for his mind to stop doing that. It never listened. He did not even care about football, but it beat the loud noise of the dripping water that drove him crazy earlier.

". . . Green Bay Packers, 35, Detroit Lions, 7 . . ." The radio crackled a little as Lavi swung an arm over his face to cover his one working eye. The other was lost a while ago in a construction accident. He reached for another bottle of alcohol, but was disappointed by the emptiness in his palm when he closed his hand around the neck of the imaginary bottle. He moved his arm to see nothing on the table, after all.

Wonderful.

He forced himself to rise off the leather couch, his feet touching the unwelcoming cement. He staggered, almost tripping, as he reached for his work boots. He needed to get something intoxicating before the night was over.

The phone rang, jumping him. No one ever called, period, except for his job. Sighing, he reached for the phone after walking into a bookcase, chock full of encyclopedias and dictionaries in foreign languages that fell on his bare feet. He did not feel much of the weight as he answered the phone, trying to make his voice sound less sluggish. "Hello?"

"Junior, we need your help tomorrow for a large project. We're repaving the highway between Route 1A and Interstate 395." The voice belonged to his boss, Cross Marian. He sounded worse than Lavi did, and that was saying quite a bit. "If you don't mind, come in early around, oh, say, eight in the morning and get the crew ready to go, alright? I'm probably going to be late. And, damn, kid, you sound like you just woke up. Don't you understand the term of an alarm clock?"

"I know what that is," he said, "I own one. Did you say eight?"

"Yes, and if you would pay closer attention, you would know that."

"Mm." He fumbled with the straps of his boots, wishing he didn't get such a complicated pair. "And did you say Route C4 and Interstate... Interstate 7?"

"My God, you're drunk out of your mind. Whatever. Just set your alarm to eight and get here. I'll brief you later."

The phone clicked. Lavi held it for a few moments longer, expecting Cross to say something further, but nothing was said. He hung up the phone, shrugging to himself as he finally managed to get the straps on correctly. He put on his coat, a scarf, and a pair of black earmuffs before walking up the wooden, creaking stairs and out the front door.

Snow covered every square inch of the ground, the trees, and the river. No birds chirped, and even if they had he wouldn't have heard them. The park he lived next to, a small memorial with an engraved stone in the center, had no one in it. A gray squirrel sat upon the stone, watching the redheaded adult try to walk without stumbling again. Cars drove by in a hurried fashion. No one else walked the ice-covered sidewalk. The sky, milky and darkening with the setting sun, swirled above him in a flurry of resting snowflakes, sitting on the clouds, waiting for their cue to descend upon the earth.

He waited at the crosswalk, the lights not working in his favor, as he tried not to hiccup or stumble into the middle of the road. His bare hand pressed against the cold metal of the lamppost, trying to keep his balance steady. His hand slipped, too cold to stand the metal much longer, and someone grasped his shoulder before he fell in front of the path of a mach truck.

Mud and snow managed to splatter onto his jeans, much to his annoyance.

"Whoa! That was close. Are you alright?"

He glanced at the stranger. A female, no older than twenty, stared at him with piqued curiosity. Her head tilted as she let go of his shoulder. Her oversized coat, he noticed, hid a small build and covered half of her long skirt. She wore boots for a male and looked out of place in the world, but her eyes, her curious, bright eyes, fascinated him. She snapped her fingers in front of his face. "You're staring. I asked, are you alright? You seem dizzy for whatever reason, and your face is flushed." She inspected a little closer, inhaling before frowning. "You're drunk."

"What?"

She took off his earmuffs. "I said, you're drunk."

"Mm. Yeah, I guess." He reclaimed his earmuffs before walking across the street. He didn't have time to deal with some random girl and have random conversations in the middle of a random sidewalk. Snow started to fall as he remembered the directions to the closest bar, hoping maybe he could pass out there for the night. Walking home at midnight, especially in the snow, would not be his definition of fun.

Fun. Adjective. 1.) A disposition to find (or make) causes for amusement—

"Excuse me, sir, but I don't think it's safe for you to be wandering drunk like that."

This again? He stopped in front of the car garage/bus stop (which, directly across it, was another park known as Cricket Square), standing beneath the light of the lamppost that glinted his red hair with orange, fluorescent highlights. "Look, lady," he said, "I thank you for your concern an' all, but I think I'm just fine wandering around without you telling me what's safe and unsafe, y'know? If you want my gratitude, well, you're shit out of luck. I'm not in a thanking mood right now, y'know?"

The girl frowned. "I'm only saying this because I don't want to write about a stupid drunkard that never learned how to obey street signs getting run over by an eighteen wheeler."

"Sarcastic, aren't you?" He resumed walking, hoping the latched parasite would give up and leave him alone. He loved being alone.

Love. Verb. 1.) A strong, positive emotion of regard and affection.

Well, not exactly "loved", so to speak. He enjoyed being alone, but he didn't "love" it. The footsteps behind him, muffled by the packed snow, hurried a little to catch up with him. He knew then that this was the kind of girl who cared about everything and everyone. People like her got hurt the quickest, got used the easiest, and got lied to the most. He whirled around, scarf whirling with him, and grabbed her by the shoulders.

"Listen," he said, "I'm not sure if I made myself clear, but you seriously need to stop following me."

"I'm not." She folded her arms across her chest, annoyed. "I'm just trying to get home, thank you. Stop being such a narcissist."

She pushed his hands away and scurried through the dark and the streetlights. He stared at his own hands for a moment, puzzled, then shrugged as he walked towards the tavern waiting before him, with its doors opened wide in a warm welcome despite the bitter, winter temperatures outside. It's rare for him to be wrong about something, but there was a first for everything. He walked through the door and glanced through the buzzing tables of the bar. It was filled with its regulars again, including himself.

"Oi, Lavi. Mind closing the door, will you?"

He closed the door and walked down the ramp before taking a seat at the counter. The bartender looked at him for a moment, drying a pint-size glass with a white towel. Behind him, a television flickered a football game. Most of the men stared at it as Lavi fixated his eyes on the scrubbed, polished wood of the counter. The bartender once told him it was made from maple. Observing it closely, he could tell that it was made of oak, not maple.

"Somethin' on your mind, boy?"

He hated it when people called him "boy." He shook his head. "No. I just got work tomorrow."

"Ah, yes. Tedious, work is." The bartender placed the glass in front of him, sliding it across the table to Lavi. "What will it be tonight? Same old?"

"Same old."

"Comin' right up."

A wave of groans and "Oh, damn it all!"'s rushed through the crowd. Lavi felt his consciousness slip away from him ever-so-slowly, edging its way to the brink of sleep. He forced his eye open as his drink appeared before him, bubbling and staring back. His fingers brushed against the cool glass before taking a sip. Then, without further concern for his well-being, he chugged the whole glass.

He woke up the next morning somewhere unfamiliar and a throbbing headache.

White plaster walls greeted him as bed covers draped over his body, presumably naked. Breathing beside him told him he wasn't alone. Adjusting to the morning light pouring through the bare glass of the window, he noticed his clothes scattered on the trash-covered floor. The room itself was small, with a closet and a desk. No bookcases reached his line of vision. He targeted—or got targeted—by another hopeless girl who couldn't do anything but have sex with every male she knew.

Carefully, he moved the blankets off him as he gathered up his clothes, putting them on before trying to find his boots. In the midst of his search, he caught a glimpse of the time off the alarm clock in the corner of the room—7:23.

"Shit!" he whispered, finding his boots and strapping them on. The headache worsened as he jotted down a note with a fake name scribbled at the bottom, along with a fake number, before rushing down the stairs—just where in the hell was he? He paused, trying to familiarize himself with his surroundings before realizing he was still in the downtown district. The bus left towards his job in less than two minutes. He decided to sprint.

Buildings of local shops blurred by. People, too, and their faces. He realized one moment that his shirt was inside-out. It got replaced the next second by the sight of the bus rolling away from the bus station, driving down the road and riding towards Main Street. His footing slipped on a patch of ice, colliding his forehead to the bricks of the sidewalk. He moaned, head throbbing more, as he sat up. The bus was gone.

"Damn," he said. "All that effort just to get a worse headache."

His eye wandered over to Cricket Square, more commonly referred to as just "The Square." The trees surrounding the edges of the park had strings of lights wrapping the branches in celebration of the upcoming holidays. The center of the Square converted into a ice-skating rink, something that the city did for the sake of activities. A few people skated around (a little child used her pink boots as a set of blades) as he dug out his cellphone, knowing he was undoubtedly going to get hell for missing the bus.

The phone rang twice.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Cross." He rubbed his forehead, trying to ignore the glare reflecting off the man-made ice. "I kind of missed my ride in to work. Is it alright if I show up a little la—"

"Again? You missed your ride again? Fuck, Junior, I thought you were better than that! What is this, your twelfth fucking time that you've done this?"

"Eighth, actually. Two were legitimate excuses."

One of which, he recalled, was because he was in the hospital for his eye injury. The other, he remembered, was the death of his grandfather, Bookman. Died of a cardiac arrest. He assumed it was because of all the cigarettes he went through in the course of one day.

"And the other six?"

"My own shortcomings. Look, if I can get a ride in—"

"Don't bother. You're not needed here."

A pause. "You're firing me?"

"Correcto-mondo, retard. Find an employer who's willing to put up with your antics."

The phone clicked. He stared absentmindedly at the glare of the ice before hanging up himself. Sighing, he wanted to trip again and knock himself out permanently. However, he did not believe in committing suicide, so he ruled out that option. He buttoned another button of his jacket, feeling the windchill wrack through the ice-encrusted branches, and walked towards Cricket Square. It wasn't as if he had anything else to do. He was officially unemployed.

And since the economy was in such a horrid state, the chances of him finding a job again was slim to none.

How was he going to pay the rent now?

Laughter of children interrupted his thoughts as he sat down on one of the benches, staring with no intention in mind. Sometimes, he just liked to stare about, finding new and interesting things to catch his attention. Today, however, it seemed nothing caught his eye, so he gave up and pulled out his worn-out notebook and his blunt pen. The tip, rusting from use, never broke, and since he had no money, he kept using it. He had the pen for six years now. It was one of the two last gifts he received from Bookman, who was a Scrooge. Speaking of holidays, he had yet to get a present for Krory.

He groaned. He didn't want to think about Christmas now. Instead, he flipped through the few remaining pages and started to write. He never had any worthwhile notes, but it got the job done. Sometimes he wrote poetry; other times, he wrote down odd observations ("Heard a boy shout 'I love indigo oranges!' I'm pretty sure he was high or tripping on acid, but he had a nice fedora"). Once in a long while he wrote down a personal rant, which usually involved the incompetence of the human race.

He can't be bothered to actually do something about it, however.

He never can.

More skaters spun in gliding circles on the ice, a few people falling and laughing. He observed a peculiar couple dance to a song that only they could hear. He tried to do something like that once. Fall in love, dance with someone, try to care, try to smile. It didn't work. He got slapped that evening, way back in high school before he got his G.E.D..

He found himself staring at someone else who entered the winter wonderland. He couldn't put his finger on it, but he knew he saw the girl from somewhere. He watched as she sat at an unoccupied bench, flipping through the pages of a newspaper. Beside her, a cup of coffee (still hot, judging by the steam) sat motionless as she turned page after page, looking disappointed. He then found himself gravitating towards her, as in getting off his lazy ass and walking across the square. Absentmindedly, he wandered onto a patch of the makeshift ice rink and slipped, the back of his head connecting with the frozen molecules of water.

The girl looked up and laughed.

He grimaced as he stood up, trying to find a decent balance, before attempting to conquer the ice yet again. His arms flailing, he fell again, grimacing. People stared at him as he tried once more, this time making sure his feet felt comfortable. Inhaling deeply, he forced one foot in front of the other, making it to the edge of the rink. The girl applauded. "Bravo! You managed to get a one out of a ten for determination. That's what counts, right?"

He rolled his eye before looking her up and down. "I'm sorry," he said, "but you look so familiar I can't seem to shake it off. Did we meet?"

"Hah, yeah." She closed her newspaper and moved the cup of coffee. "Have a seat. Surprised I didn't have to write that story about a bumbling drunk, after all."

"What?"

"Oh, you probably don't remember. Long of the short, you met a mach truck, but I cut the meeting short. Get my drift?" She took a sip of her coffee, staring out into the filled vacant space. Her eyes, a dark shade of brown with tints of—well, what looked to be purple—wandered until they landed back onto him. "You stick out like a sore thumb. Is that hair natural?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah."

"You look festive for the season."

"I get that a lot."

She held out a hand. "My name is Lenalee Lee, a journalist for a... well, a popular newspaper. What's your name?"

"Uhm." He looked at her hand, then back to the girl named Lenalee, then at her hand again. He didn't quite comprehend basic gestures like hugging and shaking hands. He tried them once, like trying to care, but it didn't work. Her hand dropped after the elongated pause and awaited his answer, but he didn't say anything about himself. Instead, he said, "A week from today is Christmas."

"Hm? Oh, yeah." She took another sip. "I finished my shopping yesterday. I got my older brother this really nice coffee cup. He works for this large science lab. I was going to go into science, but I ultimately decided against it and became a journalist. Luckily enough, I got hired right away—a journalist for my newspaper retired. It's funny how life works, you know? Oh!" She rummaged through her bag, pulling out some important-looking documents. "That reminds me. Do you happen to know anything about the local gang entitled 'The Exorcists'?"

He was not sure what to make of this Lenalee Lee. She seemed nice. She liked to chat with strangers, sometimes easily distracted, yet kind at heart. Her eyes alone told him that much. Her curious, perceiving eyes. He saw those eyes once before in Bookman, but they had unbiased judgments about everything. She seemed biased in some things. He doubted she was a great journalist, but nonetheless, he supposed he was happy for her. The pen in her hand clicked.

"You don't talk to people much, do you?"

"What?"

"I said, you don't socialize."

"Don't see a point in it. I prefer reading. And sleeping." He yawned. "Wait, what did you ask me again?"

"The Exorcists?"

"The who—?" He stopped. "Oh, you mean that group accused of most of the graffiti around here? I have heard of them. Never seen one, though, or at least paid attention to notice them."

"Oh." She clicked her pen and put it back into her bag. "You see, I'm doing a large story about the hidden crime in this neighborhood. I've got some tips from some good people, but that's about it, and this assignment is due in about six months." She nodded when he raised an eyebrow. "My boss thinks there is something else in the streets, something dangerous, so he gave me six months to uncover it. I'm no expert, but I feel it, too."

"Oh."

His headache began to leave, giving him a respite. His eye closed as he sighed, feeling tired. Whatever he did the previous night, he doubted sleeping for eight hours was beaming on the list. The girl named Lenalee cracked her knuckles, which hurt to hear, let alone feel. She finished her cup of coffee and tossed it into the trash can near the two. "But, really," she said. "What is your name?"

"Lavi. Lavi Bookman. Unemployed," he added to play off her own introduction. "Unemployed as of this morning."

"Really? I'm sorry to hear that."

"If you were truly sorry, you'd get me a job." He laughed unpleasantly as he rose from his seat, his bare fingers starting to freeze. "But whatever. It was nice to meet you—"

"I have a job for you."

"—you—what?" He turned around to see the girl named Lenalee get up as well, brushing the imaginary dirt off her long skirt.

"I said, I have a job for you." She handed him a card. "That's my number. The job itself is to help me find this Exorcist gang. Then, when we do, we need to go undercover to find out as much as possible about them. Their way of life, the way they talk, their mannerisms—everything. If you do, I'll give you half of my paycheck for this story. Deal?"

He waged the risks in his head. Finding information of the Exorcist gang was simple. All they had to do was ask around, ask local drug dealers, ask homeless people—basically, people who knew the streets and their secrets. But the actual being a part of a gang? The average lifespan of people who are involved in gangs live until about twenty-three, at best. Causes of death involved gunshots, poison, group attacks against chain links, dismemberment, vivisection (being dissected alive), and many, many other ways he could list but didn't want to.

Especially for a girl. Girls had so much worse to live with if they wound up in a gang. They were "jail-bait." And yet she still seemed all for it. He, on the other hand, would just wind up dead if they found out they were undercover and reporting on them, possibly trying to get them in jail. His fingers twitched by his side. "I don't know. How much are we talking here?"

"I'll get about one hundred thousand dollars for this. I'll give you fifty percent."

"One hundred..."

"Yes. One hundred thousand dollars. Now, are you in or not?"

He weighed the options. "I suppose so. I've got nothing else to do."

"Great." She smiled at him. Her teeth sparkled in the sun. He doubted she had cavities. "See you tomorrow, then? We'll talk more about our plans later, okay?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow."

"Cool. See you later, Lavi!"

"Yeah. Later."

She dashed off out of the park, hurrying to wherever her next destination was. He started to walk home, wondering vaguely what the hell he got himself into.

Well, he considered, at least it wasn't as boring as construction work.

I

End of first chapter. Leave a review, if you wish. Reviews are a sign of love, you know, only in literary form. What? Don't look at me like that. I'm not a psycho. Honest.