On The Rooftop: A Meeting

By lianneharmony

An account of Saya Minatsuki's meeting with Train Heartnet

-

After a successful bounty hunting session which paid well, I was happy. Through careful economy I managed to make the most of my money, although I would have to go back sweeping again soon. But that didn't matter. Unlike most people who worked just to get money to survive another day, I was doing it because I loved it. I loved the adrenaline flowing through my blood when I hunted a particularly dangerous criminal, and I loved the calculations and stratagems I adopted in putting them away and bringing them to justice. I was thrilled when I managed to capture them, because it meant an end to their villainous deeds, at least for the time being. Evil people who wandered in the streets should not be able to do so.

Perhaps this self-righteousness was inborn, the last testament that as a child, I suffered from amnesia and was unable to remember the heavy physical abuse I suffered under my parents. My life before the age of ten was not very pleasant, according to my traditional grandmother, who obtained custody of me after I slipped into a coma from which no one was sure I'd ever wake up. It must be; I have always detested the oppressors who strove to hurt and break others, like my parents must have tried to break my body and bend me. According to my grandmother, who tried to obtain custody of me from my abusive parents but had been unable to do so until that unfortunate event, a neighbor found me, running away from home, my clothes soaked all over heavily with blood, and myself barely able to walk, although something must have kept me running. I had fainted, after approaching them and whispering help in a hoarse voice, and the next thing I knew – nearly a year after I slipped into a coma, and myself now ten years of age – I was in a hospital, and the person who the social workers introduced as my grandmother. My parents were taken to prison. I never saw them again, nor can I remember any recollection of them, although many say I looked like my mother.

I was very frail and delicate, and for the longest time I was doomed to stay at home. Grandmother used her savings to get me a private tutor (who would stay with me until my grandmother's death), which did – and still does, I might add – not come cheaply. I had always had a certain thirst for knowledge, be it about science or law, and soon enough I had learnt a prodigious amount of information, especially concerning physics, and I had, for a long time, entertained thoughts of studying physics at one of the local universities. That was until I saw a newspaper clipping.

My grandmother was afraid of a relapse if I was exposed to the terrors of the outside world, for despite my body healing wonderfully so that my physical abilities, while not unbelievable, was still impressive, especially for a girl, she still believed me frail and delicate. But my tutor, truly trusting my abilities, smuggled me a newspaper, and it was in this way I managed to reconnect with the outside world. The headlines depressed my spirits:

Woman raped and left for dead.

Family murdered in a robbery.

Terrorists kidnap noted personality.

Tears came to my eyes as I continued to read the newspaper headlines and their reports. My tutor, alarmed that my grandmother may have been right and she had done me a grievous wrong by providing me with such information (for my face turned pale, my eyes teary and I looked close to fainting), asked me what was the matter. She helped me to my bed and tucked me in, fearful that my knees would give way and I would hurt myself if I were to fall, and brewed me some herbal tea to soothe my senses. Once satisfied that I was comfortably rested, she asked me why I was so disturbed. I showed her the newspaper.

"Isn't there anyone who helps them?" I said, tears in my eyes.

My tutor, worried, hastily excused herself, and returned quickly with my grandmother, whose face was stern. I knew she was displeased with what my tutor had done, but I defended my tutor, telling her that I had importuned her so much she was obliged to let me read a newspaper for her own peace of mind. "I truly am all right, grandmother," I added, pleading earnestly, before putting forth the question I had asked my tutor. "But these people are not. Can no one help them?"

My grandmother hesitated, before answering, "There is the government –"

I turned the newspaper to a page where a headline was blaring, in bold, black letters, that the federal government was corrupted.

"There are the police," she added. "And sweepers," she continued, hesitantly.

I had never heard of sweepers before. Interested, I begged her to tell me about them.

"They're sort of bounty hunters paid by local governments to capture various criminals on the loose – mostly dangerous ones, I might add, although there are different levels attributed to them depending on how dangerous they are. The bounty set on their head, dead or alive, corresponds to how dangerous they are perceived by society in general. Sweepers are very important people, and they help keep the society safe, though they might have less respect than they ought. If there were no sweepers, there'd be more of this," she explained, pointing to the gruesome and saddening headlines of the newspaper.

"So they're like, the protectors of the people," a younger me mused. Yet the knowledge saddened me. "To think so many people are dying –"

"Now, now, Saya," she told me, sternly. "Crying won't do a whole lot of good to anyone. Laugh and the whole world laughs with you, cry and you cry alone. Now don't cry. It grieves my heart when I see you cry, instead of being your normally cheerful, happy, carefree self, which is your natural disposition. When you grow up, you might be able to change the world for the better –"

"I'll become a sweeper," I said, snuggling into the comfortable bed. I was tired out of my wits by then, due to my exertion and the excitation of my nerves, but I meant every word I said, and I lived to become one, although my younger self, not to mention my grandmother and tutor, had no way of knowing at the time. My tutor gave an incredulous look. I knew she thought I was too fragile for that kind of life, but truth be told, I had no idea how grueling the sweeper's life could be, although in my defense I was only ten. However, I must admit that the thought of saving people was more appealing. It was as if something was triggered deep inside me, and all I wanted to do was to follow my heart, which protested against the little cruelty of the world I had seen.

My grandmother, however, only gave a curious smile. "Perhaps, Saya. The world is your oyster. You can forge your own destiny, live free, like a stray cat, free to determine your destination. Your life will hold out many choices; you alone can make your decisions. But now you must rest. I am fearful for your well-being. Sleep now," she said, before singing a song, a traditional song which I would sing whenever I was lonely and thought of her, my good, dear, kind grandmother, after her death. It comforted me, for there was great wisdom in her song.

I was feverish when I awoke the next day, but I recovered quickly, thankfully. My grandmother introduced me to a woman about my parents' age who I had never met before. She was called Annette, and she worked in a sweeper's pub relatively far away, called Cait Sith, which was on the other suburbs in the other direction of the city (I later mused on how well-connected my grandmother was). Delighted, I bombarded her with so very many questions. In an expressionless, toneless manner, she replied calmly to my questions. When she left, she told me that if I was to become a worthy sweeper, I must practice every day. I agreed, but my face fell as I realized I had no gun. That was no problem, though; I scoured the neighborhood and finally I came across a gun shooting centre, where I honed my shooting skills (although this was done without my grandmother's knowledge) until I could hit a bull's eye each time I shot. I began to prefer a Beretta 39R to other guns, and as soon as I had the means, I bought my first Beretta 39R, and I have always used it ever since when I was to make a shot. I developed several techniques, one being a neat trick that I called the Reflect Shot where I was able to ricochet bullets off hard substances so that they were reflected at various different angles; a technique I was particularly proud of, as it combined shooting and physics, two of my greatest loves.

The years passed, tumultuous. For myself, there were changes in my body signifying the arrival of womanhood, and the beginning of my proud grandmother's succumbing to old age. I read the news, and as depressing as it was, tried to maintain my cheerful outlook on life, even though the reports of the destruction caused by the Taoshi Wars in lands far away from where I lived would have driven happiness away.

However, my grandmother was soon to pass away of old age after my secondary school education, and became another source of tragedy. She also died penniless as she had spent all her savings to care for me. My tutor was no longer able to stay with me, so she too, left for another source of income, so that I was now quite alone in the world. I was tempted to cry, but I remembered my beloved grandmother's words:

"Crying won't do a whole lot of good to anyone. Laugh and the whole world laughs with you, cry and you cry alone. Now don't cry. It grieves my heart when I see you cry, instead of being your normally cheerful, happy, carefree self, which is your natural disposition –"

I choked on my tears and began singing my grandmother's lullaby, to ward off the loneliness, which enveloped me long after her death. It became my song, the song that was my life. I rented out the rather large house we had lived in for a small amount of money and moved to the other parts of the city, near Cait Sith, where I reunited with Annette. We didn't talk much, and though I felt she did not remember me at times, I knew otherwise. I became an accomplished sweeper, and I always captured criminals alive, never dead. For one thing, I did not want to stoop to their level, for another, my conscience forbade me to. Besides, despite being criminals, they were still human beings, and had relatives and friends. If I were to kill them it would only break innocent families' hearts, even if the criminals were perfectly reprehensible characters to begin with.

Besides, I was not an assassin. I did not kill for no reason. If so, I could just join the Chronos numbers, an organization I looked at with some repugnance, as they killed mercilessly and – it seemed to me – for no reason, even as I listened with awe to the stories of their excellent fighting, especially that of the infamous Number XIII, who shared the same weapon as I did. No one knew for sure what his identity was, but he killed and 'delivered bad luck'. I began to wonder who was it behind the figure, the one prompted to kill so often and mercilessly. His (or her) life was such a stark contrast to mine. Yet I was happy in my choice of work: free and liberated, like a stray cat –

And tonight, after the successful bounty hunting, I felt freer and more liberated than ever – carefree, even. I was standing on the rooftops, which provided me a view of the city – a more peaceful city than I remembered for ages; the city I had helped to protect. I remembered what my grandmother said:

"The world is your oyster. You can forge your own destiny, live free, like a stray cat, free to determine your destination. Your life will hold out many choices; you alone can make your decisions."

The words to my song – my grandmother's lullaby – came pouring forth, and I began to sing in happiness, in a clear, soprano voice. It was only after the song ended that I felt a presence nearby. I did not know what I expected, but my eyes soon ascertained the presence: a handsome, chocolate-haired man, with catlike eyes of amber, looking at me, from where he was partially hidden in the shadows of a rooftop adjacent to the rooftop I was standing, and dressed in black. His eyes were lifeless, but I knew instinctively that – like me, until I became a sweeper – he was lonely. He wielded an impressive looking gun, with the marks 'XIII' on it, and it seemed to be made of an almost indestructible metal called Orihalcum. I was drawn to his sullen figure, and I gave a wider smile, which was not returned. Curiosity encouraged me to approach him, and it seemed that he would be unresponsive to my friendly advances.

He seemed entranced by the song I sang. I smiled as I approached him. Already he seemed more human, as I spoke to him, and perhaps we might become good friends.

-

Fin

-

Author's Note:

So, I'm so so sorry I haven't updated Strange Circumstances! I have been Iran for the past few weeks. So as an apology, I wrote this story for all you Train/Saya shippers out there (including myself). :P

Anyway, enjoy, read and review! Review makes me update more!

Oh wait, this is a one-shot. You should still review and make me happy anyway. :D