A/N: After a period of creative standstill (I like to call it my sophomore slump of sophomore year) I am back with a new endeavor! I regret to inform you that as of the moment, all of my previous stories are on long-term hiatus. Sorry! Anyhoo, this story shall be a bit darker than stories past, but that's alright! Be gentle, it's my first posting in over a year.
Tokyo nights were notoriously hot, heavy and suffocating. The stench of fresh blood in the air only served to make the darkness even more oppressive. However, one lone shadowed figure didn't seem to notice the heat nor the scent. Among a city filled with the hum of air conditioners and the blare of televisions through open windows (for those without the fortune of possessing a cooling apparatus) a man safely enshrined within the confines of an alley carelessly flicked the blood off of his sword and sheathed it, a slight glint of metal that pierced the twilight being the only indication that he had even moved. He stared impassively down at the dead body at his feet; amber eyes glinting in the darkness. His job was done. It was cleanup's deal from here on out. His lips curved upwards in an empty smile. Not that there was much to cover up. He always made his kills neat. A messy death was so tasteless, and a poor reflection of skill. And skilled he was, indeed. This man was the best.
He darted in and out of shadows, careful to avoid street lamps, which gave off light which led to being seen which led to the kind of recognition that he did not want. The katana and wakizashi he wore were fairly well hidden by his full length black leather duster, but still. A solitary figure attired completely in black, wandering the streets of the roughest part of town at night alone? Bound to raise questions of the undesired sort.
The man reached his car, a tiny black convertible Mazda, relatively quickly, considering the walk. He wasn't quite sure why he liked the convertible so much; perhaps it was the open freedom it provided, or the quick and easy getaway it allowed. However, he didn't debate the issue-he liked it, and left it at that. Tossing the swords into the backseat, he climbed into the car and, after turning on the ignition, drove off. He didn't bother with the radio, preferring the silence of the drive to accompany him.
Now, in the pale wash of the street lights, it was far easier to make out the man in question's face. He was in fact slender, if not downright fragile looking, a lean form oft being misinterpreted as a weak one. Several people had made that fatal assumption. Certainly if they had lived, they would have learned from their mistake. High cheekbones, a narrow face and brilliant crimson hair that reached well past his shoulders (though currently pulled up in a high ponytail) all contributed to the misnomer that he was womanish. In fact, the only two things that belied how dangerous he truly was was a cross shaped scar that took up his left cheek, and a pair of narrow molten amber eyes that were melting into a no less threatening eerie icy blue-violet.
Himura Kenshin was his name, though the person he was recognized as was Hitokiri Battousai, the best assassin the Ishin Shishi, a secret government organization, had. And the Ishin Shishi got the best and deadliest Japan had to offer. So his title was not for naught. Of course, along with being the best, he was certainly the most enigmatic as well. Nobody knew where he came from, and nobody cared to ask, for fear of that frighteningly intense stare pinning them down and reading into their very minds and hearts. Nobody ever said assassins weren't superstitious.
However, none of these things occupied Kenshin's mind as he silently drove towards his apartment, looking forward to a scalding, soul scouring shower and a long nap. He hadn't seen noon for almost seven years. Night was when he lived, lurking in the shadow's just beyond the reach of human touch.
The peaceful reverie was broken by a faint, shrill ring that, had it not been for especially sensitive ears, he wouldn't have caught. Grumbling and fishing around in his pockets, he produced a small black flip phone. Prying it open, the screen flashed 'battery low'. Letting out an exasperated breath, he leaned over, popped the dashboard and searched for the charger/car adaptor. Drawing the cord out and fumbling to plug it in, the phone fell out of its precarious position on his lap and onto the car floor, still merrily tinkling away a somber death march. Someone's idea of a joke, apparently. Kenshin looked down, registering what happened.
"Fuck." He said venomously.
Now he had to bend down and find the phone while attempting to drive. As talented as he may have been, he was NOT a one man circus. The car swerved as he sat up with the device in hand, and several other drivers out at that late (or early) hour honked or offered indecent gestures. He finally plugged the cellular phone in-and it stopped ringing. Stupid piece of crap. Thoughts of murder running continuously through his mind, the phone began ringing again. Flipping it open with a little more force than necessary, Kenshin answered.
"I hate this damn thing," he growled as a greeting. A voice over the crackly wireless connection chuckled.
"Has anyone ever told you your social skills bite, Himura?"
"A few. The last one is only now regaining feeling in his legs. Want to join him in physical therapy?" the redhead asked menacingly.
"As tempting as the offer is, I'll have to decline," the man said dryly. "The body next to Mr. Yoshimosho's Sexcapades is your doing, right?"
"Correct."
"Hn, interesting choice." The man sounded quite amused. "Did you fancy a stop in, Himura?"
"Fuck you," Kenshin stated flatly.
"Are you really THAT desperate?" The voice over the phone chuckled. "I'm sorry, but I prefer tall blondes of the female type. I'm sure Shigure would be up for it, though. He'd have sex with anything that could procreate." He was clearly cracking himself up.
"Iizuka!" The warning note in Kenshin's snarl, the one that meant he had been pushed too far, was one even Iizuka heeded, brash though the head of the clean-up crew was. He instantly quieted.
"Okay, okay. You're lucky you didn't run into a pair of impassioned lovers not patient enough to go home before trying their new toys," he mused. "There's a reason the shop is next to an alley."
"Get to the point, Iizuka."
"Right. Well, you know, I'm always amazed at how little gore there is to clean up after one of you're kills. NO parts to run around and collect, no guts to clear up-nice and neat. Just a little blood sweep, a body collection, and we're done. Makes my job so much easier." Iizuka was definitely trying to warm Kenshin to what he was about to say. A smart, but vain effort. The redheaded assassing would have none of that.
"I highly doubt that you're calling to nominate me for Martha Stewart's Deathkeeper of the Year award, so for your sake, spit it out," Kenshin said a touch edgily. The nervous gulp over the other line was audible.
"Katsura needs you back at headquarters. Tonight."
"What for?" Kenshin asked coldly.
"He wouldn't say." The redhead pulled into a parking lot, turned around, and began driving in the direction opposite what he had been.
"That's promising."
"Maybe it's a hit gone wrong?" Iizuka suggested. Kenshin laughed humorlessly.
"A hit? What the hell are we, some kind of mafia?"
"We might as well be," Iizuka said glumly. "We're barely legal as it is. A few more years, there might not be an Ishin Shishi."
"And wouldn't THAT be a world class tragedy," the assassin muttered. "Is there anything else that's terribly important, or can I hang up on you in frigid fashion now?" He didn't wait for an answer, shutting the phone off and pulling out the charger. Kenshin really didn't want anymore unwelcome phone calls
The truth of the matter was, Kenshin hated his job. Utterly loathed it. Certainly he was good at it, and feigned complete and utter indifference when carrying out an assassination, but the taking of another human life bothered him quite a lot. Nightmares of recent kills would haunt him in sleep, and of late he had begun seeing victims in his waking hours as well. Whether they would stand at the street corner or be sitting casually in a coffee shop; they would always be staring at him accusingly, and they would always be afflicted with the wounds that killed them. Sometimes they would be carrying their own heads, more often than not their shirts would be soaked with blood from a mortal chest wound. After he did a double take, they would be gone, and in their stead an ordinary person (who might be looking at him strangely because he was staring) was there. He remembered every face. Every. Single. Face. And that was a lot of faces.
One might pose the question 'if he hates it so much, why doesn't he quit?' But (during one of his rare, introspective moments) Iizuka was right, in a fashion. The Ishin Shishi WAS like a mafia. Which made up and leaving near to impossible. Not that there were those who didn't try. They were just never heard from again. Oh, he was certain he could escape if he passionately wanted to, but the thing was, Kenshin didn't feel much passion for anything. What was the point? He was going to hell already, anyways.
A/N: Whoa. That is what we call working through a frappuccino. But I put beaucoup (I may have spelled that wrong, my French has become rusty over summer break and a semester without it) effort into it, and am altogether rather satisfied with how it turned out. Events in the story are going to be jumbled a bit (there will be one event that will be MAJORLY reversed) and it WON'T be Kenshin/Kaoru. (I'll probably be burned at the stake for that one). And that in itself should be a major hint as to event switching.