Touched

Chapter 01:

"First Contact"

The store smelled like it always did: like cedar, mothballs, paper, wood, and—of course—cloth. Hard wood floors polished to a high luster very nearly reflected a mirror image of underneath my short black skirt as I crossed through the front door and headed to the desk just inside it; a bell clinked above my head, and the air conditioning felt unseasonably intense when compared to the crisp autumn day outside.

"Hello?" I called over the desk, tapping the silver bell next to the old-fashioned cash register a few times. The tinny peal echoed back into the shop, back where I couldn't follow thanks to the wooden gates barring random customers from unwatched entry. Rows of old watches and rings glittered beneath the glass countertop. "Oba-san? It's me!"

I heard a thump from behind the shelves, and then Oba-san came into view. "Oh, Kiji-san," she said, sighing as she walked up on the other side of the counter. Gnarled hands patted down her knitted shawl, pearl necklace, and musty dress. "I was afraid it was one of those people from that new speakeasy down the street and hid behind a case of vases," she explained in her typically crass manner. "They keep trying to give me coupons—can you believe it, a lady like me using coupons?"

I gave her a stern look. "First of all, you'll never get new customers with that attitude, and second, you know me well enough by now to call me by my given name."

"Hina-san, then," she said with a roll of her deep-set eyes. The wrinkles around them crinkled as the old woman smiled. "I keep forgetting how many years we've known each other. You were nothing more than a spratling when you first visited."

I returned her smile as she opened one of the gates and ushered me into the store proper. "Got anything good for me?" I asked.

"Oh yes, yes," she said, guiding me into the maze of cases, racks, and displays holding a myriad of antiques. Oba-san was a high-end dealer who only carried extremely expensive and rare antiques; it was why she didn't let people past the shop's gates without her permission, supervision, and—usually—an appointment set months in advance. For me she made exceptions, though, and I visited her every other Saturday to see what she had gotten in new. We walked (well, I walked and she shuffled) past furniture, jewelry, books, vases, knick knacks, and a case of old firearms until we reached a half-circle of ancient claw-footed armoires. With a key Oba-san took from around her neck we unlocked all of them and pulled the doors open.

To say that I was assailed was an understatement; the scents of mothballs and preservatives were so strong that I had to cover my nose with my hand as I pulled a long blue dress out of the first cupboard.

"If you take off those gloves of yours," Oba-san said with calculated nonchalance, "you could feel the material. I'm sure you'd know more if you took off your gloves."

She's more right than she knows, I thought as I glanced at the black leather encasing my fingers. "I told you, Oba-san," I said, keeping my voice light, "I don't like taking them off. My scars—"

"You've known me long enough to know that I wouldn't faint at the sight of them," said the tough old biddy, humphing a little in offense.

"Oh, I don't know about that," I teased, letting the blue dress drop so I could touch the sleeve of a black brocade coat. "It might be more than you can handle." It felt heavy and thick, with a delicate hemline that sat at odds with the dense cloth… I loved it immediately. "How much for this?" I asked.

She named her price. I grimaced.

"Too much for me, I'm afraid," I said, and I moved on to touch a lacy grey shawl. "And this?"

That one was more in my budget, so I placed it carefully over my arm before perusing the rest of the clothes. I found two more pieces I liked for a good price, and once I picked them out I let Oba-san lead me back to the front desk. I leaned my elbows on the counter as she rung up the price, and as I was counting out bills from my wallet I saw a shopping bag on the floor behind the counter, its warped image looking innocent and totally out of place as I caught sight of it through the two layers of the display counter's glass.

"What's in that?" I asked, jerking my chin toward the sack as Oba-san put my clothes in a linen bag.

Her sagging mouth tightened around the edges. "Someone left it in the alley behind the store," she said with pronounced distaste. "Nothing but torn clothes; stained, too."

"Mind if I take a look?" I joked, and to my surprise she actually picked the bag up and tossed its contents across the counter. I hadn't been expecting her to comply; Oba-san was particular about what she let into her store, and the finicky old woman wasn't one to let her approximation of garbage stain the immaculate interior of her store.

"See?" she said heatedly. "Trash."

I reached out to touch the yellow jacket without response, my black gloves gliding over the thick fleece interior before spreading the garment out fully. It was a plain item, a mass-produced windbreaker without much soul to set it apart, but I frowned when I saw the tear in the shoulder and the dark brown stain around it.

Blood? I thought, and I set it aside.

The next garment was another jacket, a cream and black letterman that had seen enough wear and tear to merit leather patches on the elbows and some hemming on the cuffs. There was no name on the back, however, making me think it wasn't a school jacket but rather something simply modeled after one. It, like the windbreaker, was also torn, but on the side just below the wearer's ribcage. The lining was stained, also with a suspiciously bloody substance that had long since dried into a crust.

The third garment was of good quality; a name brand coat with immaculate upkeep and stunning lines. This was expensive, I thought as I held it up. Raw silk, chocolate colored… I frowned. No, mauve. It's just so dark of a purple that it looks brown; the dye must have been—

"That one isn't trash," Oba-san admitted, and I took a minute to slip it on over my denim jacket. It was big enough to fit with plenty of wiggle room (I'm petite, after all) and it fell to mid-calf. Belted and tailored, it wouldn't look half bad despite the size…

"I was looking for a nice trench coat," I joked, and as I held the coat open to look at the inside I saw that it was totally untouched. Mint condition, then!

I didn't take the coat off as I reached for the last object: a large ream of black cloth that had no shape to it, just two half-foot slits on either end. I wondered what it was used for until I wrapped it around my body and realized that the slits were in the perfect position for my arms to slip through. The black cloak fell to just above my ankles, and as I looked at it I felt my brow furrow.

"What is this made of, do you think?" I asked, stretching a length of the black fabric between my fists. Oba-san leaned forward, squinting through her circular glasses and down her beaked nose with both curiosity and disdain.

"Cotton or linen, surely," she sniffed.

But I shook my head. "The weave is much too dense for cotton—this is silk level weave, at least a 200-thread-count, but the cloth is much too coarse for silk." I tugged on it. "It has plenty of give but enough tensile strength to resist snagging and tears, and yet it's thick enough to be opaque, too." I let out a hoarse laugh, mostly because I was stunned and a little unsettled and I didn't quite know how to act. "I've never seen anything like it."

She shrugged. "A new blend, then? Rayon and cotton and silk all at once?"

"Maybe." I didn't really believe that, but whatever. "I'll look it up when I get home," I said as I stripped off the cloak and the trench coat and began to fold them. When I was through I put them back in the bag, folded the other coats, and handed them all to Oba-san.

She shoved the bag back at me. "Keep them. I'd just throw them away anyway."

My jaw dropped. "But one of these is a designer label!" I protested.

The woman snorted. "I only deal in designers that are at least as old as I am. That trench is much too young for me. So keep it!" She pinned me with her best glare when I began to talk back. "Really, Hina-chan. Keep it."

I couldn't help but glow. "Thank you, Oba-san!" I said, bowing low from the waist to show my gratitude. "You have been so generous to me!"

"You're my best customer," she sniffed, and then her look turned sly. "Make me a doll for my granddaughter and you can call us even."

I suppressed a grin. "Sneaky, Oba-san."

She waved her hand, shooing me out of the store. "Sneakiness is a part of business, that's all!"

"Yeah, yeah—see you next week!" I said, clutching my finds to my chest as I gave her another bow, and then I trotted off for home.

Mother was waiting for me at the door. When she saw the bags in my hands, her happy expression crumpled into sourness. "Did you really need to buy more for that little hobby of yours?" she asked, lips rising above her straight teeth. "Wasting your allowance is—"

I let her finish her usual lecture—spend less time on hobbies and more time on school; I'm not paying for your education so you can goof off; college is important; entrance exams are soon—before timidly saying: "My last sale paid for this, actually. I spent my allowance on a new textbook, for cram school."

Her look cleared immediately. "Oh. Well, I suppose that's a good a use as any." She turned away and started to head deeper into our house. "Dinner will be ready soon."

"I'll be in my room until then," I said, and I headed up the stairs at a jog. When I reached my room at the top of the stairs—the only upstairs room in our otherwise small home—I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, breathing slow through my nose and fast out my mouth as I tried to calm myself. Even short exchanges with Mother were becoming frustrating these days.

Once calm, I walked into my room and stood in the middle of it, reveling in the familiarity and comfort of the space. There was my small bed in one corner, my school desk in another, and my other desk—the one I used to pursue my 'stupid hobby'—in the third. But it was to the fourth corner I walked right then, the one that held the mannequin specifically tailored to my body shape and the armoire that held all my clothes-making paraphernalia.

I don't wear clothes from the store. All of mine are made by hand, with the fabrics I choose and with all of the uniqueness my fingers can translate into lines of fabric and the drape of cloth on skin. I don't use patterns because I have long since become good enough with a needle and thread to draw them up myself; all my designs are personal and original and unseen anywhere but on me.

Seamstressing, however, is not my passion.

The dolls lining the shelves hung over every available foot of wall space attest to my true love.

The mauve trench coat from Oba-san's mystery bag looked comically huge on my personal mannequin, hem falling to puddle on the floor as the sleeves very much eclipsed my mannequin's detachable arms. I pinned the garment up appropriately with some silver-headed needles and took it in at the waist and shoulders; working wiped all the stress and worries from my mind, and it wasn't until the coat was completely tailored to my body shape that I stood back, looked at my efforts, and remarked to my glass-eyed audience: "Not too shabby, even for a stupid store-bought."

The dolls stared back, some of them smiling and some of them staring without expression. All of them, however, were beautiful, and I crossed to touch one of my favorites—a young girl with rosy cheeks, blue eyes, and porcelain skin dressed in Victorian fashion I had sewed myself—on her cool hand.

"Maybe I'll make you another dress?" I said lightly, touching her curls with my gloved fingers. "Or a new wig—how would you like that?"

"Talking to your dolls again?"

I jumped when Mother opened the door and stepped inside, arms folded over her chest as she looked at the two hundred or so creations on the shelves. My hand jerked back on reflex, joining my other hand as they wrung together just below my ribs. I tended to wring my hands in that position when I was nervous.

"It's creepy to hear you talk to them," she said sullenly, and shivered. "How can you sleep when they all stare like that?"

"Well, I made them all," I said, smiling with a large amount of hesitance. "I look at them as my… my children?"

Mother rolled her eyes as she turned away. "Just be ready to put 'your children' away when you go off to college in the spring," she said.

"But—" I blurted, and I bit the words back when Mother shot me a look that said go on, I dare you to keep speaking, but speak I did because for once I felt a little bit of courage loosen up my otherwise quiet tongue.

"But Mother," I said, keeping my head down so I didn't seem confrontational. "My dolls, they're selling really well. My last one paid for the costs of, of at least three new ones, ones that will be even better and be worth a lot more." I rolled my lips together as I nervously met her incredulous eyes. "Given how much I can make on them, I think I could put myself through school with the money. If I keep making dolls—"

"It's a child's hobby and you're not a child anymore," she said without a single ounce of pity. "I shouldn't have ever encouraged it in the first place. It's the worst parenting mistake I ever made."

Tears pricked my eyes in a rush of painful salt, but Mother saw them and scowled. She hated tears almost as much as she hated my dolls.

"Put your dolls away and forget about them," she said. Again she turned toward the door and the stairs beyond it, but this time her look softened as she addressed me over her shoulder. "I'm only looking out for your best interests, Hina," she said, smiling a little with narrow brown eyes. I had her auburn hair and rounded chin, but I had Dad's wide black eyes and button nose. "Trust me. Nothing good can ever come from following your dreams. Being practical—that's what'll get you far in life."

My throat felt thick when I said: "Yes ma'am."

"Dinner will be done in a few minutes," she said.

I let the tears fall when she shut the door behind her, but quietly.

In my house, all I could do was keep quiet.

We ate dinner in silence until Mother started talking about the person who kept stealing her lunch at work, and how she had swapped her normal chicken salad sandwich for one filled with catfood.

"The jerk took the bait," she said with glee as I washed dishes, "and it serves 'em right!"

"Is catfood bad for you?" I said to myself, eyebrows knitting together as I thought about how sick the person must be feeling. I felt sorry for them; maybe they stole lunches because they couldn't afford one of their own. Maybe they were a really low ranking worker—lower than Mother, even—and…

"The badder the better," Mother quipped, and I excused myself and went back to my room.

I had done my homework before I visited Oba-san's shop, and since I had finished tailoring the trench coat I decided to do a more thorough investigation of the other pieces. I sat at my hobby desk—the one that had drawers full of tubs of spare doll parts according to size and type, jars of paints and brushes, and much more—and spread the yellow windbreaker out across the paint and glue stained table. I flipped on my desk lamp so I could see it better, too, and I lifted the ripped shoulder to my nose and tentatively inhaled.

Copper, salt… definitely blood, I thought as I looked at the dark stain. My stomach lurched. What if these are murder clues or something? What if I'm helping the killer—

I glanced at the trench coat on my mannequin.

—what if I'm helping my exceptionally well-dressed killer get away with his crimes?

My natural curiosity, of course, made more prudent thinking…. Well, boring. I took out the letterman and examined its rip as well, once again ascertaining that the material on the side was bloodstained.

Then I took out the mysterious black fabric.

What the heck is this? I thought as I ran it between my leathered fingers. Too coarse for silk, too fine for cotton, much too durable to be rayon… I glanced at my study desk and the laptop sitting on it. Maybe a Google search would help?

A twenty-minute search didn't do me any good, however, so I just made due with writing out a question on my favorite dollmaker's forum, where I was pretty popular and had enough friends to know I'd get a quick response.

Someone should know, I thought as I powered down my laptop and headed back to my hobby desk. I picked the cloak up and looked at it for a long time. It was thick enough to be totally opaque, but it was also light, airy, and breathable. Despite how much I knew about cloth, this piece challenged my perceptions completely.

"It looks soft," I mused, and I quickly shut my mouth before looking at my dolls. "I really, really want to touch this," I told them softly.

Was it just me, or did their eyes seem a bit… encouraging?

"Well, if you guys really want me to," I said, sighing, and I laid the black fabric out across my bed. I glanced at my curtained windows (closed, thankfully) before walking to my door and locking it. Then I leaned on the door and stared at the black cloth, breathing deep as I held my hands out in front of me and slowly—excruciatingly slowly—began to peel off my gloves.

What I had said to Oba-san about my scars was true, of course. I had them. They were brutal. Whorls and lines of burned flesh made my skin look perpetually gnarled and aflame, like burning tree bark that had never quite cooled. They didn't hurt anymore, of course, but looking at those dark pink stains still made me wince because the emotional pain connected with the scars—the scars that covered the backs of my hands like a second, scaly skin and spilled onto the backs of my wrists—was more intense than the months of therapy required to heal the flesh itself. Time had been able to dull that pain until it was bearable, but neither Mother nor I could stand the sight of my burned flesh for too long.

But none of that was what really prompted me to wear those gloves. Not even Mother knew the true reason.

I tried not to look at my hands as I crossed to the bed, staring at the black fabric like it would tell me not to do this, to reconsider, don't do it, Hina! But it said nothing; it said even less than my dolls considering how I didn't know anything about its true nature and I knew the dolls inside and out.

I took a deep breath before holding out my hands and turning them so my palms faced the ceiling.

My palms were unmarked. The burns stopped short on the tops of my fingers and the backs of my hands.

"Please don't be a murderer," I whispered to the cloth, and before I could lose my nerve I flipped my hands back over and slapped them sharply atop the mound of fabric.

My world went black, the cloth seeming to surge upward to coat the room from floor to ceiling, and then out of the blackness came a rushing glow of scarlet and violet, two points below and one point above: a triangle with a base of fire and a crown of night. The lights coalesced into eyes a second later, ones that winged upward to the man's temples and stared, stared, stared into my own like they could see to the very chasm of my soul. A small nose and small lips and a strong jaw joined the eyes in a burst, and then skin crept out of the dark and covered the delicate bones that didn't match the utter ferocity boiling in the depths of those red eyes.

I think I cried out when black hair crested his head, and then white streaks swam out of the dark as I saw strong bones bleach out the blackness like macabre candles. Muscle came next, lithe muscles that seemed as hard as diamond—it formed with proportions that were as perfect as they were frightening, skin whispering over each dip and plain in a tanned wave, and then his strong hands came into being and from the back of his right sprouted a black shape, one that writhed and burst from his skin before clinging to it in a spiral that was clearly a tattoo, one of a black Chinese dragon that caressed his wrist and arm and hand like a lover. Scars erupted all over him next; my eye caught on a particularly ropey line crossing his left arm halfway between the elbow and wrist and another just below his ribs. Many more small lines crisscrossed him like an insane surgeon's handiwork, evidence of his long, hard life and the horrors he had seen during it…

And yet his face was just so young despite the scars, the glare, the muscle…

I know I cried out when a small pinpoint of pale blue light surged into being in the center of his chest. Two brown lines flowed upward from the jewel, showing me a vision of a circular pendant hanging from a leather chord that was quickly covered by the existence of his clothing: black pants, black boots, a white scarf, and that unmistakable black cloak that was as mysterious as it was suitable for those eyes, that hair, that warrior's body, and the bandages that snaked around to cover the jagged black tattoo on his skin…

As soon as the vision crystallized into a picture so sharp it could cut, I began to fade. I was vaguely aware of my body as it fell to its knees and lost grip on the cloak; I toppled sideways, that face hovering before my eyes as my mind began to drift into a buzzing haze, and I lost consciousness.

From the dark of my dreams, a harsh voice whispered: Hiei.

I was lucky that the next day was Sunday, because when I woke up it was about four in the morning and I felt exhausted. My gloves were still off and the black cloak was still on my bed, but instead of thinking about what the hell had happened a few hours before I just walked over to the coat hanging on my mannequin and buried my hands in the mauve silk.

Green eyes brighter than any gem I had ever seen popped into being, stinging and soothing all at once as I fell to my knees beneath their power. But these eyes, unlike Hiei's, were as soothing as a mountain stream and as open as a book. They bore me up and gave me strength as they softened, full lips smiling into existence as his—yes, his despite the crippling beauty—pointed chin drove a knife into my heart. He looked like a living doll with his straight nose and perfect porcelain skin and high cheekbones, those full lips and those sinfully wide eyes that reflected more wisdom and experience than their youth proclaimed. Old eyes, ancient eyes—those eyes could see the things my own limited scope couldn't even begin to imagine.

Red hair flowed from a milky pale scalp to brush strong shoulders. Bones flew out of the dark and formed a tall, lean body that soon coated itself in ripe muscle, more porcelain skin, and few scars—surely with those eyes, though, he had scars.

Didn't he?

Yes, a voice whispered, there are scars.

His hands were calloused but beautiful, lean and long and strong as they hung ready at his sides. Clothes creeped upon his perfect, capable, and beautiful body until I saw a mauve silk trench coat over a crisp white shirt, black pants of excellent fit, and shined black shoes. He was a fashionable vision, a man among men most likely envied by all for his heart stopping face and kind demeanor.

And then behind the green eyed man's back there came a new shape, a taller man with eyes that knew even more than the green ones did. Their gold color was as cold as a knife in winter as the bones and muscle shaped him from nothing and into fullness, and strands of purest silver burst from his head like the birth of a thousand stars. Ears more fitting on a cat twitched amid the hair, and then that silver hair clouded around the green eyed, redheaded man until the pair of them seemed inseparably intertwined.

We, said a pair of thrumming voices, are Kurama.

The letterman came next, and I saw his bones form first. He was a big man, one with wide shoulders and narrow hips and hands and feet so large it was a wonder he didn't look clumsy as he stood before me, hardly formed but more real than either of the fantastically unbelievable other two. Something about this one spoke to me before I even saw his face; maybe he was just more plausible, given the imperfections that made him so very, very human and so very, very much like me.

Then muscle padded him like a tank, making his biceps bulge and his chest ripple in ways neither Hiei nor Kurama could match.

I, his body seemed to say, am strong. Strength is my maker and I will keep you safe. I swear that.

His face came into being after his body and his bones, all hard lines and harsh angles that showed earnestness, kindness, and a cultivated bravado that covered it all with shouted challenges and protests. Rusty hair crowned his brow in a style suited to a common street thug, but his thin lips easily gave way to smiles and his narrow black eyes glittered with ill-concealed good humor. I could see so much bravery there, so much selflessness, and a desire for friendship I was not used to having aimed in my direction.

Acceptance, his plain—plain but perfect in its own way—face seemed to scream. I will accept you whether you want me to or not, and my name is Kuwabara Kazuma.

I did not faint after meeting Kurama or Kuwabara, and even though the effort of 'seeing' them made my knees turn to water and my shoulders turn to tense concrete, I touched the yellow windbreaker because I felt it must be done.

He was smaller than Kurama and bigger than Hiei, with a wiry build that looked like it could run a mile in a minute and yet smash a hole in a brick wall, too. His bones thrashed with pent-up energy, twitching and moving even as they lay free of muscle or skin or other trappings. When they did coat themselves in muscle that rippled and surged like a lashing ocean tide, the image of this boy fair danced in my mind's eye, leaping with a joy in movement the others did not possess. He wanted to run and jump and leap and fight—he was a fighter through and through, I realized, with knuckle bones worn down from thousands of punches and heels ground smooth from kicks.

Unlike the others, his face appeared with a grin and a twinkle in the eye, sizing me up even as he tried to back me down with playfully insidious glee. Those wide brown eyes were almost innocent, in a way, possessing a purity that I was sure came from a wholehearted love of something he could never articulate aloud. He wore his coal-dark hair like a punk and swaggered like a gangster, but there was no evil in him despite the feral grin.

Just… odd innocence. A dark love. An enraptured punch.

Damn right, he told me as his face faded. I'm Urameshi Yusuke!

I did pass out after meeting Yusuke. I woke up sitting at my desk, hands in my lap with the windbreaker lying sprawled across my work table, and when I pushed my hair out of my face and felt the soft strands twine through my fingers—well, everything hit me with a flash and I scrambled for my gloves, tugging them on until I felt safe, warm, and secure within their false skin. I sat on the floor with my knees pulled to my chest, wondering who those boys—Hiei, Kurama, Yusuke, and Kazuma—were supposed to be. None of them felt real, really: or maybe they were too real, so real it made me feel two-dimensional, and maybe my mind rejected that and labeled them as fictional as a means to cope with feeling like a background character in my own life story.

But they weren't fictional.

My hands never lied.

"Oh boy," I murmured, lying back on the carpet to stare at the water-stained ceiling. "Oh, oh boy."

Not quite knowing what I was supposed to do after that, I just got up and packed all of the clothes back into their bag and shoved them into the recesses of my closet. Then I sat at my desk and pulled out a box of ball-joint doll torsos and heads, fitting them idly together as I mulled over what I'd learned from the mystery garments. Joints snapped into place beneath my fingers, a medium-sized male torso sprouting legs and arms and hands and a head before I even noticed how fervently I was working.

When I realized that what I'd been working on was almost complete, I looked down at my handiwork. My eyes widened when I saw it, and then my hands began to shake. I dropped the doll's unfinished body to the desk and pushed away from it, staring down at my creation like it was about to bite me.

Proportionally speaking, the doll I had begun to make looked an awful lot like Yusuke.

NOTES:

I realize that starting yet another story probably isn't a good idea, but I was looking at Airpwane's deviantART account last night and had a MAJOR BURST of inspiration. She has a doll that looks like Yoko Kurama's OC sister, you see, and for some reason I just started getting these ideas for a story, and… Well, this story popped into being in about five seconds. The main OC, the plot, everything. It just… was. And I felt like if I didn't write it all down, I'd lose it. So: THANKS, AIRPWANE, for the inspiration!

Luckily for me I'm on a break from school until January, so I think I'll be able to update pretty much all of the stories I've started over the next few weeks, this one included. YAY!

Hina has a back story explaining her burns and her psychic "touch-know" abilities, which we will eventually learn more of. It ties directly in to her hobby as a dollmaker, actually, so even that will get some explaining soon. ^^

Anyway, thanks for putting up with my craziness and weird ideas. I appreciate it, and thanks so much for reading! We see more of the actual plot next chapter and the dolls are at the center of it. The boys, as you may imagine, are not going to like what I have planned for them one bit…

Hina's name, for the record, means "doll," and her last name ("Kiji") means "cloth." The fact that she shares her name with Hiei's mother will not be overlooked. ^^