Estacado Shuffle Chapter 1: First Encounter, a Darkness + Witchblade Crossover fanfic

A bit of waffle I created while aching over a keyboard while finishing up the steaming masterpiece I'm also submitting today… Merry Christmas…

Please read this fanfiction carefully, because there are many important parts, even during the songs. If you just skip over parts of this relatively short piece, you will miss a lot. Don't just scan for the juicy bits, assholes; I know you're out there, `cause I've committed this error before. Anyways, enjoy, and remember to laugh your ass off…

I don't own Witchblade or The Darkness. If I did, I would have had Jackie Estacado drop in to kick in Maria's teeth.

"Guh. Tokyo. Okay, guess I'll be paying you now, old timer," the young man grunts.

The boatman looks at him strangely. For the past hour or so, he had to ferry this one man across Tokyo's Graveyard Bay whilst vaguely listening to his "patron" ramble on incoherently about random topics, stopping every soften to swear or mutter to himself, topics ranging from cheese to Russian automobiles making a strong comeback to Brazilian girls and their strange appetites in and out of bed, after having this self same man board the boat from out in the middle of the water and hold him at gunpoint while crabbing off in what he could only assume to be some Western language before suddenly talking in clear, educated Japanese demanding passage with dire consequences upon any kind of contact of authorities or refusal of services. Shortly after a rough agreement was made, the castaway plunks down and rests peacefully (if travel through a nasty body of water with an allegedly wanted man striking up a dodgy almost-one-sided conversation about breasts, alcohol, and how brains splatter in the wind with lots of swearing as the only sign of punctuation can be called peaceful) for the haul to the above "sea"-level remains of Tokyo.

"Really?" the old Japanese ferryman half-states jovially, "I thought you were gonna do away with me when we got near the shore…"

"Don't make me change my mind. I'm getting off, I'll be paying you, and you'll live to see your 200th birthday. Everyone's happy, capisce?"

The tall, dark-dressed 20-something American rises in a smooth, yet somehow herky-jerky fashion. He grins. "We all have to get along in this small world, don't we? Here's some money, `cause I'm outta here…"

The dark man tosses some paper money at the ferryman, then jumps the side of the boat before the gangplank has a chance to be set on the dock.

He glances down at the strange assortment of different colored bills, and picks them up. A vein pulses on his temple.

"Hey! These aren't even in yen, you freeloading jackass," The old man bellows after the retreating form of the strange youngster.

Turning around while running, the stowaway yells back "The amount should be probably 34 rubles, 9 Euros, 25 guineas, 14 shillings, 202 dollars, and 40, exactly, pesos. The amount, with the current economy, is about 17503 yen. Just get to a money exchanger!"

Stunned, the old man blinks down at the paper pieces fluttering in his hands. It was a rather thick wad of "green".

Huffing and puffing in the summer breeze, the Italian-American rogue strafes around corner to come to stop just beyond a nice-looking food stand, the smell of which he'd been tracking across the docks.

Stopping, not to catch his breath, but rather to take in the view, he thinks about what he should order. After finalizing his choices, he steps up to the counter.

"I would like to order a gourd crepe. Heard that they were pretty good in Tokyo…"

The man behind the counter sniffs. "I don't serve crepes here. I'm not a pastry man and you're thinking of Harujuku, over in fucking Shibuya. I serve ramen here, you wastrel, and that's all it's gonna be. Unless you want Korean dumplings, which no one seems to care for anymore?"

He then mutters to himself something about "nasty Western pastries" and the "ruination of Japan".

Without missing a beat, the new patron orders two bowl of seafood ramen with five sides of meat dumplings, startling the ornery cook. "But easy on the salty stuff, it's kinda hard for me to swallow right now…"

Whilst waiting, he pulls out a beat-up, yet rather expensive-looking mp3 player with a polygonal "Z" on the back of it, then produces a clunky pair of studio headphones and jacks those into the black device. He puts on the headgear, then punches the "Play" button. He listens to the infectious poppy tune by a cute UK music star.

When we were growing up you always looked like you were having such fun
You always were and you always will be the taller and the prettier one
People seem to love you
They gravitate towards you
That's why I started to hate you so much
And I just completely ignored you

I don't know why I felt the need to keep it up for oh so long
It's all my fault I'm sorry you did absolutely nothing wrong
I don't know why I felt the need to drag it out for all these years
All the pain I've caused you
The constant flow of all the tears
Believe me when I say that I cannot apologise enough
When all you ever wanted from me was a token of my love
And if it's not too late
Could you please find it deep within your heart
To try and go back go back to the start
Go back to the start

He bobs his head to the side with the infectious beat, letting himself unravel…

I've been so evil with my constant invasions
But you made it so easy for me
You always rise to the occasion
I'll always pull you up on every stupid thing that you say
But I found it so entertaining
Messing around with your head

For such a cute tone, the lyrics are rather "real" and mature. It goes with the mood, after all. The cook ladles the meat into the two chipped porcelain bowls and casually tosses them onto the eating counter with some equally ramshackle chopsticks.

"Dig in I'll…" the music volume drowns out a bit of the man's quiet voice in and out. "… -o enjoy. And turn down the music, you… mi-… -our hearing…"

This is not just a song
I intend to put these words into action
I hope that it sums up the way that I feel to your satisfaction

The twenty-something pushes the long ebony locks invading his eating space, disregarding the broth on the ends, and starts shoveling the contents into his piehole.

The song ends. "Guh; Replay," the young man says, and punches the "Back" button once on his ZINE.

The bouncy beat filters into his ears again. "Much better…"

The old man sticks on the counter three servings of dumplings, in oddly well-kept containers. He starts at the vigor with which his customer downs the noodles and pork, exclaiming in audible language "Jesus, are you sure you're not Japanese?"

The younger man glances up, the corners of his mouth quirking, "Definitely." He downs the broth of both bowls and starts on the dumplings, expertly flicking them into his unquenchable maw.

Just as the third container was downed, the later two arrive.

With a quick "Thanks", the long haired man commences flicking the dumplings into his mouth, barely pausing to chew.

Taking his time finishing the last of the admittedly delicious, protein-rich morsels, he thinks back to his purpose for coming here. Almost pitching the last one over his shoulder due to his remembering the factor of time he'd nearly forgotten, he twists his head at a near unthinkable and most certainly unreal speed and snaps it up, downing it with a little tonguework and a swallow.

This is not just a song
I intend to put these words into action
I hope that it sums up the way that I feel to your satisfaction

"Right, then. So how much do I owe you for the meal? By the way, thank you; it was very delicious."

The stunned cook swallows nervously and says "I'm never going against you in a food eating contest," Shaking his head, he continues, "that will cost you about 400 yen. Business is rough, so I can't charge more than the materials used."

The energetic customer grins, "Alright, then."

He dips a hand inside his leather duster coat, producing a rather ancient-looking and large wallet that had very evident bullet holes and even a few bullets stuck in the metal edging. "Four hundred, right? Here," the younger man somehow takes a plump-looking silk purse from the wallet and hands it to the older man. He gets up, and takes off like a shot.

The proprietor of the makeshift draws a breath through his slightly parted lips as the opening of the bag shows a glint of what is undeniably gold. Rushing out from behind the counter, he yells for the strange he got to know in the seven or so minutes that he served him, "This isn't the amount I wanted! Hey! Jackass!"

The strange man calls back over his shoulder "I know!; but your eyes told me you needed more! Smell ya later, old-timer!"

When the youngster's retreating shape totally disappears from sight, the old man finally looks down at the bag and grins. Things were looking up.

The young man walks along the real Tokyo Bay, agitated. Was he off? Oh, Lord!

A pulse of polluted grey energy cuts through his panic.

He grins; maybe not….

His gaze snaps to a distant blue-edged figure, certainly female even at this distance, which jumps and starts traveling across the water. He raises an eyebrow. This is certainly going to be interesting…

He, too jumps to the water, but instead opts against the "Jesus Routine", rather preferring a strong, professional breaststroke, eating up the distance anyways.

A boat in the middle of the Bay stands, anchored. All of a sudden a crash and a yell is heard. A sodden young man starts swearing in the water 1000 yards away.

The blue invader is met by a gunmetal grey and black clad fighter, also a female. The swearing thickens, and the man in the water screams "To Hell with modesty!" and throws something into the air that creates shadows where no shadows should reside.

Somehow climbing upon the surface of the water, the sodden rogue puts forth his hands, and a path of what seems to be upraised clawed hands rises from the suddenly dark waters. Not taking the time to see that the full path is made to the boat, the man starts sprinting at an unbelievable 50 miles per hour, and he bursts with greater speed to close the distance to the boat.

The two "warriors" clash, and two men quickly make themselves known, firing guns at the blue one. Even with this help, the red-headed one is sent into the water by the time the swarthy young man reaches the boat and makes a momentous leap, surpassing the railing by a clear foot. He lands with a roll between the womanly infidel and one of the defenders, a man with a scar upon his right eye and a strong jaw.

To say that everyone was surprised that some random person came sailing through the air like an Olympic record-breaker right in the middle of a dangerous fight is putting it mildly. Dusting himself off, the pale, yet healthy, unshaven face of the second boarder of the boat appears, mild disgust written across his face.

He glances over at the general area where the other combatant was tossed. "You call it effort; I call it embarrassing."

He looks back at the rather manic (and oddly attractive) female fighter "Alright, Xena, come quietly or there'll be consequences," he bluntly states.

As if he wasn't there, she breathily intones "Takayama… Reiji. The doctor's lover."

Her blue armor splinters, then reforms into a deadlier, yet more brittle structure which indistinctly hums and glows with free-flowing energy. The man fires at her, and she pounces on him.

Or, at least, that would have happened if not for the newest passenger, who takes the chance to yank her out of the air by one of her new form's hair-appendages, tossing her like a rag against the railing. He glances back at the named man, Takayama.

"Get inside the cabin, you fool! That goes for your yes man over there. You know not what whores these Cloneblades be!"

Takayama starts "But—"

"No!" the dirty savior bellows, "Git yer ass outta here! I know what I'm doing, 'Mr. Millennium Man' and I don't need an ignoramus in the ways of a crazy woman! Out, NOW!"

"Wh—"

"NOW, DAMMIT!! Go before I shoot you and put you out of my misery." The younger man punctuates by whipping out a nasty-looking weapon and blasting a scorch mark into the ground near Takayama's feet

The two men concede and rush for safety.

The red-headed combatant from before finally hauls herself out of the water, stating "Keep out of this! This is my fight!"

The ebony-haired man glares at the latest carrier of the Witchblade. "No, it isn't. Your thoughtless fighting almost got your little beau raped by little miss 'worship my superior's footsteps' over there." The woman's eyes widen in shock, gasping.

He grimaces. "Oh, please, you idiot. And YOU, "the sour man spits, "How could you pick such a weak, plain-minded milkmaid of a girl?"

The woman, named Masane, starts "Wha…?"

"Not you," the irritated man grates, "the one who's currently sticking your body like a bad date. Yes you, you disgraceful shit. The lone man grimaces. "I remember from memories past when you'd clothe only the greatest. Pollyanna. Jeanne D'Arc. Helen of Troy. Now look at you; some ditzy fop of a commoner. Not even a thoughtful one, simply some orphan without a practical bone in her body. Honestly, you ingrate."

A scraping, almost whining wail that seems to permeate the area. The two women jump at the sound, whereas the stranger remains totally unfazed, even modestly annoyed at the commotion. "Oh, shut up; I don't want to hear it. I—Not even but, now— Be silent! Go to your room!"

The Witchblade acts up, fully encasing Masane Amaha from head to toe in sheeted dark metal, covering all save for the lightly glowing eyes, and moves her limbs against her will, frogmarching her into the cabin, and disengaging once inside.

Now alone, the man turns to the girl with the Cloneblade, now upright again.

"It's just you… and me… and alll the Adam I can- wait, wrong line. Now, as I said, come peacefully and obligingly, and things will go smoothly. Like shit through a goose, as it were. So don't give me trouble, bitch, I am going to save your life."

The woman murmurs, her voice and tenor slowly gaining in voice and bloodlust. "Rrh. Must take… I feel… There is a… GIVE ME YOUR BLOOD! NyAHH!" She leaps, madness giving her speed.

He sighs. "It is just as well. Come, then."

The Cloneblade bearer slashes in a frenzy, the man dodging the attacks with a calculated, yet tired skill.

"Hahh," she mouths passionately, "I love this aching battle, yes…"

The young rogue raises an eyebrow. "You lack coherency, fraulein," he observes, dodging a thrust at his carotid artery. "I will fix that soon."

She howls lustily, and bites at his collarbone, the strike missing by millimeters. "Hm; maybe you aren't so hopeless."

The man Chinese splits, hooks a leg around her foremost ankle, and swipes her off her feet, spinning and swiping his other leg counterclockwise just to be sure. Then, he mounts her fallen form, sitting on her abdomen, brings his left forearm under her chin and reaches for her own left wrist. He studies the blue jewel planted there, watery in quality, and takes in the multitude and depth of the chinks and cracks in her armor. The Cloneblade bearer struggles against her opponent's grip.

He begins a shadowy cant. "Ich verbanne Ihren Aufruhr, und fordere Ihren Dienst zu sich selbst, o elender Stahl heraus--"

The blue assailant gets in a good shot and throws off her oppressor. The swarthy man grins. "Not as exceptionally bright as the first child, but certainly more obedient and thoughtful. Sadly, the spite is almost incredible. This Edge needs some sharpening…"

As before, a keening is heard, but on a lower octave, and with a smoother warbling quality. She blinks, and then rushes the tormentor. "BLEED! GUSH!"

"Έχετε καταδικαστεί με την άγνοιά σας! Ελάτε, και θα είστε καθαροί." The dark man utters. The Blademaiden hooks up with the edges on her arms in a deadly improvised uppercut.

He dodges, and then whispers to Cloneblade itself "Nie przemieszczają. Ja tylko chcą leczyć was."

The armor shudders, then glows brighter and changes form, becoming a bonelike structure. The spry vagrant grins. "Bingo."

"Die!" She screams, and the Cloneblade sister charges him.

This time, he's totally prepared, and so makes a move, getting inside her defense and again sends her to the ground. The strange man straddles her like before, but instead simply grips her left arm, staring intently at the nexus of power and the seat of the soul of the Cloneblade. "Born sick and made sicker. You should be treated better. At least the bearer suits you, even if she is mentally insufficient. Now open, little bud."

The girl shrieks, clawing with her free hand, cloying at her tormentor's face. The keening again resumes, but more frank and succinct in tone.

"Yes, she is silly, isn't she? I wanted to keep from doing this," The man begins, re-grasping the left hand, outstretching the sharp index blade. "But…" He purposefully slices his thumb at the tip, making a small, clean cut that near instantly welled with deep dark green blood, reddish wisps within the black. "…It must and should be done…"

Outstretching his bleeding digit, he holds it above the forcibly prostrate Sister's snarling mouth, and a single, perfect drop falls from it, a sinister black orb. The blood lands perfectly in the center of the girl's writhing tongue, and is unwillingly swallowed. The writhing of the Cloneblade bearer stills almost instantly, giving way to shallow, gusty breathing (which is attractive, but that is off-subject) and a desirous calm.

"Now, then," the dark man says, "sit still like a good girl. I will heal your weapon."

With heavy-lidded eyes, he tends to the wounds deep within the juncture where the woman and her personal arsenal join. Cursing silently at the clumsiness of the union, he sets about fixing the mistake of Man.

He begins the Renewal, muttering the mantra set for the process, and shields the effected area from the light, and thus commences the healing.

Oddly, the mantras bring a song to mind.

"Your favorite, Jackie…" an inner voice observes

'You mean yours, you old reptile. I like German, but you're the sucker for that Gregorian crap… not to mention thrash music. Jeez…'

Aenigma depravatio est.

Aenigma crudelitas est.

The mantras roll off his teeth in waves, the dark powers at work stitching closed the soul-wounding fissures. The girl moans is sustained ecstasy ("Hold still, dammit.").

Aenigma.

Aenigma depravatio est.

Aenigma crudelitas est.

Herr, hilf mir mein Schicksal tragen.

Warum sehe ich all Plagen?

Diese Last die Kräfte bricht.

Tag und Nacht.

Die Bilder Thronen in den Augen der Visionen.

Jedoch helfen kann ich nicht.

Ich bin Der Prophet.

"Alright, we're making some headway…" the unkempt wastrel observes, shifting to keep the sunlight from rupturing the Dark Threads.

Aenigma depravatio est.

Aenigma crudelitas est.

Aenigma depravatio est.

Aenigma crudelitas est.

Conspiratio obscura est.

Conspiratio letiefera

Conspiratio obscura est.

Conspiratio letiefera

He spreads a rather unassuming crack in the skin, exposing a string of angry blue-white blisters, resplendent in their cancerous cruelty. More curses, and the man sets about expunging the unholy pustules, funneling enough energy into them to pop a snow tire.

Erde, Wasser, Luft und Feuer.

Angst und Schrecken, Fegefeuer.

Stellen sich, mir in der Weg.

Schwarze Rosen, Todesstacheln der Dämonen siegeslachen.

Tief ins Herz hinein gesät.

Ich bin der Prophet.

The infectious tissues fester and bleed, and are cleansed by the shadows commanded by the vagrant. He pulls out an obsidian knife, and digs out the pits left by the sores, eliciting a shockingly elaborate sequence of oaths in Polish from the girl, before a lapse back into moans in Japanese as the bleeding stops and the wounds begin to become shallower.

Aenigma depravatio est.

Aenigma crudelitas est.

"Almost donnnnnnnnne…." The man says to himself. The cabin door cracks open, and he looks up. "Couldn't wait, eh, Chief?"

Further opening the door and stepping out, Takayama stands in badly concealed nervous anticipation. "No, I can't say I would have stood it for much longer.'

"Hold on, I'm almost through this…" The unkempt stranger grins, eyes glowing yellow.

Reiji starts, taking a quick step back. "You're not human!"

The vagrant smiles wider. "You could say that." He bows his head and continues his work.

A bead of sweat travels down the back of Takayama's neck.

Ich bin der Prophet.

Der, der die Zeichen versteckt...

Ich bin der Prophet.

Der, der den Schrecken sät...

The mantras rattle and peter out, and the man nearly flops over, tired enough to sleep for an age. Bearing it, he lifts himself up onto his own two feet, satisfied with his work.

Takayama is close to fainting from the display before him. "Who are you?... What- what are you?"

The dark man smiles grimly, meeting the Bureau Chief of DGI's gaze through heavy lidded eyes "I… am Jackie Estacado, Jackie for short, Jack if you're an asshole… and call me Sasuke if you can't manage 'Engrish', and I am… the host to the world's oldest evil…"

The recently healed Tsuzuki Shiori, still not having come down from her erotic high from Jackie's sweet, sweet blood, throws dignity and personal preferences to the wind, activating her Cloneblade (now in regular form) and pouncing the weary man, intent on fucking his brains out.

Yeah, this is some moderate fantasy that's been running through my mind for a few months now. Took me about eight hours total to write, broken up with bathroom breaks, eating, cleaning dishes the medieval way, and general spazzing-out to Lily Allen, Al Yankovic, and En Nomine.

The only thing that really hitched in the process was the verbatim reproduction of the lyrics on paper. I copied it down from a website with the lyrics, but then I had to go and reconfigure the lyrics to how the song really goes, seeing as even the fan website is filled with raging assholes who can't think to be helpful and put it down like a goddam script so we can sing along to the epic song. Bastards, I swear.

Next crappiest part was the different languages. I did this in other fics because, hey, regular English sucks and just saying "and he spoke the following in Greek" is pretty damn gay and tired, in my own opinion. The big kicker with this is that I had to make sure the words translated back the way they were put down, so this ate up a few hours, even with my fantastically heavenly bandwidth…

Remember: this is a drabble, very easy to write, and I'll willingly continue this for any kind of reviews and/or money. Not that I'm gonna get paid for my amateur crap, but a guy can dream.

I hope I got the tone right, seeing as I was trying to keep it somewhat upbeat, and yet at the same time some kind of literacy for the grammar fiends out there…

I know that my recent fics have sucked ass, so I'm not expecting much. They can't all be like Pariah's Wasteland (Which has the lowest rejection ratio of all my fics, which is good for my ego)…

Anyways, enjoy. If you guys love this, check out Gore and Cigars, another The Darkness crossover of mine. It's crossed-over with Naruto, and has a different flavor than this, for the most part, so go and enjoy it.

Keep in mind that GaC is one of my older fics, so it's different from this (action-scripting, crappy dialogue)…

The songs used in this fic were (are):

Lily Allen's Back to the Start

En Nomine's Der Prophet (The Prophet)

Please play the songs whilst reading this. Music tends to flavor everything when it's on…

Please review, I don't care about the quality of it. Be sure to be as enthusiastic as you want to, seeing as it's all fun and games.

I love anonymous reviewers, so feel free to press the button and give me your opinion…

And here is a challenge to the readers!: find two or more of the culture references made in this fic. The songs and the Zune don't count, so look hard, and look well…