-
-
-
Obsessed Flawed Perfection-
-
-
Summary: A college reunion of Harvard's class of 2030. An insane serial killer on the loose and the subtle copycat. A couple of egomaniacs obsessed with taking over the world. Law enforcers too curious for their own good. A wealthy man who inherited his family business and his adopted sister. And a homeless fortuneteller.
Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach nor do I profess to do so.
The angel stalked the night, feeling the tangible darkness drape over him, pulling him into a warm embrace and the light, aloof arrogance of the illusory night float overhead. He was in tune with his senses, each sight, each sound, each smell highly sensitive, in total connection with nature. He imagined closing his eyes, finding he could hear the tiny wing beats of a fly, see the lights blink out for miles about, and smell the night. He grinned at this. To be in tune with the crisp, cool scent of the air, still compassionate from the day, the moonless sky, coated with a layer of haze, hiding behind crystal clarity. And the bittersweet iron-salt smell that would soon join the night. He almost laughed at the poetry of the scene. A movement caught his new sight's attentions. He smiled, a cold smile reflected in cold eyes. Smiled and followed the figure, anticipating the completion of the night.
***
One would expect insane plots to take over the world to find its origins in the volcanic lab of some evil scientist (or to be politically correct, morality challenged researcher) or conducted in the shadows of an archaic city. If so, then perhaps one has read a few comic books too many. This delightful little plot to gain possession of the world as we know it originates in a post office. An American one to be precise.
Now for those of us unfamiliar with American government, let's clarify. American government is in short, democratic, meaning they give the appearance of power to the people, resulting in avaricious bureaucrats taking what they want anyway, getting discovered, mass outrage and hysteria following, and getting absolutely nothing done except complicating things for the great majority of the population. A wonderful representation is the post office. It is a crowded, busy, complicated, headache-inducing, unattractive place.
Simon Jones stood in such a place, waiting patiently in line. Patience became him, he liked to think as he brooded pensively on rainy days, sipping tea. For an American bred through and through, Simon had an uncanny taste in tea and biscuits. He chewed absently on one, as he quietly read Mein Kampf, waiting for the squat, nasal-sounding lady to call "next". Simon Jones was very, very vain indeed. He spent two hours in the morning, meticulously gelling back his brown hair, keeping in touch with the latest fashion. That was all fine and well now, we must admit, he being only twenty-seven, but it would be of the utmost hilarity to run into a middle aged man on the street wearing his hair as Simon did. He squinted as he read, being too vain to wear his prescription glasses and too averse to sticking a small layer of glass onto his bare eyeball. He read the book secretly; sneaking glances around at the burly fishermen type and the judgmental librarian type, feeling self-conscious of reading such un-American material in a government sponsored building. As he finished the last page, making a mental note to look up the unfamiliar German, he laughed to himself. A brilliant idea had entered his head. He laughed again as the squat woman honked, "next."
The line stared at him, but Simon Jones, age twenty-seven, the young CEO of a prospering company, ignored them all, chuckling to himself as he approached the lady with the package.
***Werner Fuchs leaned back in the deflated chair and sipped the flat soda, absentmindedly. What was he doing here? He looked around the abject apartment, not fit for a rat to live in. Yawning, he propped both feet up onto the table, watching his nervous cousin across from him.
"Y-you don' mind if I put on some music, eh, Wern?" asked the cousin, scratching the shaggy remnants of his beard.
"Define music."
The two of them had not been close as children and it was no small wonder. They were polar opposites, Werner Fuchs and Johannes Muller. The one was so blond his hair was almost silver with ice blue eyes that were empty, no matter the intensity they held. He was slender and of the taller variety, brilliant, well-educated, high paying job. "The perfect Aryan" his classmates had joked nervously when they had studied World War II back in middle school. The other was short and squat, with a beard that never disappeared, always sprouting stubborn sticks of brown. His hair was no different, uncombed, an unattractive mess. He had dull brown eyes, as well as fairly little education. Why had Werner dropped in to visit his poverty-ridden cousin on this Friday night when he could be at a friend's place, drinking and laughing? He wasn't really sure himself.
"Ah," said Johannes. "You know, like the stuff all the guys listen to, you know."
Werner sighed, giving up and drained the soda as the cheap, static-obstructed radio began playing as some moron moaned about his broken heart. "So, shouldn't you be somewhere on this fine Friday night, cousin?"
"Ah," repeated the older cousin. "You see, Wern, I'm in a bit of trouble. I got fired last week…"
"No doubt the worst sin committed against humanity since the invention of cheap romance paperbacks."
"…and the rent's due in a couple of days. You have to believe me, I've already been looking for jobs, but they're just not to be found and…"
"I mean seriously, does anyone read this junk?" Werner picked up a bright magenta paperback book from Johannes' pile of random debris. "It has no plot…"
"…I'm a little out of money, so…"
"…no interesting characters, just two lovesick morons. How can you read this?"
"…I heard how you're some big shot at some company now, so I was wondering, um, Wern? Wern?"
"Yeah. I'm listening. And even the author looks superficial."
"Can I borrow some money? I'll pay it back. I will. I just need this month's rent and that's all."
"Didn't I just loan you money three months ago?"
"Yeah, but…"
Werner sighed again, zoning out of his cousin's story. Why had he come here again?
***The young mortician leaned back on his chair stretching as he regarded the pile of paperwork before him and groaned in frustration and discouragement. Elementary school, middle school, high school, college, medical school, all survived and lived through and what? To end up being a junior mortician at the FBI, meaning being stuck in a small cramped office, completing paperwork. Honestly, why had he gone to Harvard, Harvard for crying out loud, if he was going to live the rest of his days in a little office, withering away? The other guy in his class, the one that stopped at college and went into the rat race, he was employed in the FBI, too. Whether by a curious twist of fate or mere coincidence, the two had both winded up appointed to the Boston HQ. From what he had heard, that guy was doing fieldwork, not stuck 24/7 in some dusty little office. On top of that, he had a partner who was, ah, much talked about by the male population of not only the Bureau but also several social circles.
Quentin Wisconsin slid back a few feet. At least he was allowed a swivel chair and not the sort that were nailed down to the floor (he suspected these were left over from when they built the interrogation rooms). "Coffee!" he yelled down the hall to no one in particular.
So he was a junior mortician. That didn't quench the indomitable pride he carried through his childhood and into his adulthood, his secure belief that there would always be those eager to assist him in whatever he fancied. Most days, these random, unpredictable calls were answered by silence or the snide remark of some tired agent, but sometimes, some new recruit, or some newly transferred guy would mistake him for a person of authority and actually bring him coffee. Always black, never sweet enough.
To Wisconsin's surprise, a blond head poked in from the doorway, an unruly blond that looked almost silver and blue eyes swept around the room. "Quentin Wisconsin?"
The addressed laughed. "How great it is to see you, Bart Fuchs!"
The young agent, who was only two years younger than Wisconsin himself, though his unusually short stature mislead this, frowned at the nickname. It was an old name, given to him since their freshman year in college by the student body, because "Bartholomew" was simply too long and complicated to scream across the school yard and because of his uncanny resemblance to Werner Fuchs, the other kid in their class who jumped ahead a few years back in elementary school. Much to the amusement of their fellow classmates, Fuchs, who was only about three months older than Bartholomew (his actual surname was Miller) was a good five inches taller than the unfortunate kid. Hence the nickname Bart Fuchs, a title the named fought with all he had.
"It's either Bartholomew or Special Agent Miller," he snapped. "Has my partner been through?"
"Nope," responded Wisconsin. "I haven't even met her yet. What's her name again? Some flower…"
"Poppy Anners." The answer came quickly, snappishly, irritated. "Special Agent Poppy Anners. Tell me if you see her. The reunion's tomorrow night… Look, keep an eye open, okay?"
"The reunion. Yeah, it's tomorrow, but why does that…" Wisconsin's face erupted into a wide grin. "Bart, old buddy! You finally got a girlfriend? Isn't she older than you though? Are you both going to the reunion? I'll be there. We can all get acquainted…"
"It's not like that!" snapped Miller, turning a very impressive shade of red. "My fiancé's overseas on business and she, that is, my fiancé, not Anners, thought we should go. As colleagues."
"You have a fiancé?" cried Wisconsin, nearly falling out of his chair. "Since when? But you were always…"
"Look, just tell me if you see her," snapped Miller, turning and exiting with the pomp and grandeur as only a FBI agent knew how.
What do you think? Review, the more the better. Criticism is okay too. By the way, in case you haven't guessed, the characters are as follows:
Simon Jones—Aizen Sosuke
Werner Fuchs--Ichimaru Gin
Quentin Wisconsin—Urahara Kisuke
Bartholomew Miller—Hitsugaya Toshiro
Poppy Anners—Matsumoto Rangiku