Of the Nameless
Chapter One: Naomi
She had always seen him as strong. Glaring red eyes, slicing through the weaker wills around them. Effortlessly. And she had always admired this about him. But, although he had strength, he had yet to gain tact, ears to pick up rhythm, to pick up rhyme that other people, that their environment, that everything carried.
People had always been fascinating to her. Since she was small, she longed to pick them apart. What made them tick, she would ask herself?
It was easy to see what made Xanxus tick, when every little thing seemed to irritate him. But the calm after the rage, somehow, someway, that seemed to hold more beauty than the rage that flamed so beautifully.
She had always been a curious child, and so she did as observers do. She stayed and watched when her interest piqued, and had remained by his side for years since (even those years she thought he had changed, and had been burned in retribution when he reminded her he had not).
The one-armed girl and the boy with red eyes.
What a lovely fucking pair they made.
She lay on the river bank, the wound on her arm - no. What remained of her arm (the only one she had been born with), bleeding freely. Sand crunched beneath her skull as she shifted it, looking at what remained.
But she did not cry. Simply, she was not the type.
But when she turned her head to face the sky (feeling a pang when doing so, and dearly she wanted arms, just to let them hover on the space below her stomach), curiously, she met of a pair of softened, elderly eyes.
And she closed her eyes, and she was home.
Ileana had never been a mother to her. There was no use in lying, fibbing some sob story of why she should care. But the woman was Xanxus's mother. And she cared about Xanxus, and Xanxus cared for his mother and what little sanity she had left.
And so, through this logic, she helped care for Ileana. And through stealing medicine for Xanxus's mother, her job being to knock the power out while Xanxus took what he needed in that time of confusion, she first discovered her love of mechanics, machinery, and the very thing that powered it;
When electricity first raced momentarily through her hand, via the uncovered wires of the dismayed utility box, she knew, she knew, she knew. She stared at her only hand in amazement as this pain faded ever so quickly, and it was that moment that her addiction began.
And even then, ideas whirled in her mind, of intermingling her wonder of electricity and her interest in the human body together.
She supposed she had Ileana to thank for this.
Luana had always been kind to her, having found the sixteen year old nearly dying (with no arms, one stump bleeding out) on the bank of a river. Although having no children herself, she had considered herself a mother, always.
But having no ties, she was a traveler, a wanderer by her own definition. But looking at this young girl, eyes darting and suspicious, even glaring at the elderly woman who saved her from death,
perhaps now Luana had a reason to settle.
"Yo, yo, yo, Baby, where we getting on that info, huh?"
"Told you not to call me Baby, Satoshi," the girl clicked her tongue, eyes not turning from the multiple screens in front of her. He laughed in response, throwing his head back, causing his afro to bounce lightly. He approached, putting an arm on the back of her chair and leaning forward.
"You got the stuff, Hot Mama?"
Her eyes snapped to his, cutting coldly.
"Worse." Another laugh, and he continued, muttering a quick,
"Accurate though," before continuing, "But come on, girl, I didn't hire you to sit around and look pretty."
"Didn't you though," she said smoothly, reaching to grab the paper that just printed (still warm) from the machine next to her, "Or am I not the best damn thing with computers in the area?"
"In the world, Baby," Satoshi called with a grin, taking the information, landing a kiss on the top of her head, and then exiting the room all in a few swift movements.
The girl scoffed, being left alone. Another scoff for good measure, and she turned her mechanical arms back to the project at hand:
engineering herself new arms.
(These were far too unresponsive for her taste, and nowhere as efficient as her own design could be)
The woman let out ragged breaths, reaching forward to pull herself from the rubble both her legs were caught - no, both her legs were crushed under. Truly, they would be of no use, even if she did manage to pull herself out of this.
But wasn't it just human nature, to persist in hopelessness?
Ayize screamed out again, and fell forward completely. In this moment of calm after pain, her lips met the dirt, as if kissing it. Another ragged breath, and she looked up, finding a pair of heels in her line of sight. Trembling, she followed the smooth legs up,
seeing a beautiful woman, put together flawlessly. Strangely, even in the aftermath of battle and in the midst of destruction (so freshly done), she wore an evening gown, pristine and fitting, with a large fur coat draped across her shoulders. Long tresses of platinum pink hair waterfalled from her head, and it shifted as she titled it, the woman looking down at her in cold amusement, curiosity untouched by emotion or empathy.
Still with both arms crossed, the stranger talked down to Ayize (still with her legs trapped under rubble, the ringing of war still in her ears).
"You interested," the woman said, her voice smooth and yet mechanical somehow, "in getting new legs?"
(Later, Alize would view this woman as an angel, even with the awareness that Lucifer was once in heaven as well)
She stood, breathing heavily, and spattered in blood. Adorned in lingerie, seen openly with the choice of wearing a large fur coat only on her shoulders (that too, splattered with the blood of the men she now stood above, elevated in stilettos), she held two guns, still seemingly steaming from the onslaught that had occurred moments before they entered the room.
Her hair was long now, and dyed a pastel pink, billowing past her shoulders. Her skin, a mixture of darks and browns, but it was hard to pick a hue when it was covered in red.
But her smile was seamless when she saw him, his second in command right at his heals. Red eyes took in all these components in seconds and yet the first thing he asked was:
"Since when do you have two fucking arms, huh?"
And her grin barely tightened and then relaxed into a hum. She dropped the guns to the ground effortlessly, carelessly (as if she didn't even need them), and her footsteps clicked as she made her way to the liquor cabinet and then the desk. She lifted the only bottle she grabbed to her lips, taking a drink that lasted exactly seven seconds (he made sure to count), before separating glass from her lips with a sigh, and placing the bottle down with a clink.
"Well fuck," she breathed out, meeting his eyes once more, "me gently, after eight fucking years and that's all I get. I have two arms because you made me lose the only one I was fucking born with. Now fuck off and sit your ass down. We," she said, her eyes never leaving Xanxus's,
"Have a lot to catch up on."
AN:
I'm not going to get into the whole "I shouldn't be doing this spill". But as of now, my other docs are on another computer, and I wanted to get this out to test the waters.
I'm definitely going to messing with timelines of things in this, so this chapter is definitely supposed to be confusing. I want to set this up looking through the Main Character's eyes (who will remain nameless throughout the story), and apply their fractured view to the narrative. I want to say that this won't be that long, but that's what I said with WHMTH.
For now, I'm referring to the main character as Baby. Kind of a dirty dancing reference if you will.
If you enjoyed my fic What Her Mother Taught Her, then you'll probably enjoy this one as well. And if you enjoy this kind of writing (a darker take on the KHR world and such), then you should check out What Her Mother Taught Her!
Remember to review and let me know what you guys think!
