-This is a work of fiction based on characters created by Monkey Punch (Kazuhiko Kato). It is an angst/drama PARODY, with a twist of lemon. Rated T for language, violence, and sexual situations. Jigen is © Monkey Punch, and is used without permission. The song 'I'm Not That Girl' is © Stephen Schwartz, and is used without permission. This work is written purely for entertainment value. Please don't sue me.-
-This story was inspired by the song 'Hello Nurse' (from the cartoon Animaniacs). The main character, Rayne Anderson, scores a whopping 185 on the Mary-Sue Litmus Test. Ph34r my l33t Mary-Sue ski77z. If this story doesn't make you want to rip out your brain and wash it with industrial-strength cleaning solvent, then please let me know, and I'll do my best to make it even more painful to read.-
-Once again, this is a parody. Please bear this in mind before flaming me, 'k?-
Her name is Rayne Anderson.
She is sitting in a piano bar, drinking a New York Sunset, a drink she invented when she started working at The Big Easy. She had to teach the bartender how to make it, and he never gets it quite right.
At eighteen, Rayne is the youngest employee of the club. She plays piano under the name of Autumn Skye. No one knows her real name; not even the owner. She was too careful for that. The passport and driver's license in her purse are her own work. They've been looked at by banks, airport staff, the cops, and even gangsters. So far, no one's been able to tell that they're forgeries.
Her license says she's twenty-two, but that's the only thing she lied about. Her hair really is black, with a natural streak of white at the temple. Her eyes really are emerald green, although they change colour with her mood. And she really is five foot five. Technically, she is two inches too short to be a model, but the Ford agency won't stop calling. Her looks are a curse: Rayne feels that no one takes her seriously because of her beauty.
Her distinguishing marks are not common knowledge, but under her long green dress, on her left shoulder blade, is a tattoo of a single, perfect rosebud. It matches the one worn by her first love ... but she refuses to think of him. Not now. Not at work, where people might see her tears.
Rayne is taking a break. The grand piano is silent; instead, canned Big Band music filters in from hidden speakers, filling the cozy bar with the soulful sounds of Michael Bublé. Rayne closes her eyes briefly, remembering. She sang with him once, when he came into the bar, their voices blending perfectly as they performed together. She declined his offer to take her on tour with him, though. She has unfinished business in Chicago.
She is waiting for him to appear. Rayne knows that eventually, everyone comes into The Big Easy. It is Chicago's hottest lounge. The rich and famous come here for one reason: the music. Rayne is the best pianist in the state of Illinois; possibly the best in the country, and definitely the best in the city. Her singing voice is legendary, and she has a reputation for being professional, though slightly aloof, as if some tragedy lingered in her past: a tragedy that keeps her from getting too close.
Rayne runs the tip of one finger around the rim of her glass as her eyes search the room. Two Asian men sit down beside her at the bar. One of them speaks to the other in Japanese. It's an obscure dialect, but Rayne has no trouble understanding them. The short one says something about her tits. The fat one says that she has an ass to die for. They leer at her until she turns to them.
"Fuck off, you disgusting perverts," she says. Her Japanese is flawless. The men stare at her, fumble to pick up their drinks, and move off towards the back of the club. Rayne snorts softly. She may be young, but she's no fool. James, the bartender, finds a free moment and comes over to her.
"Hey, Autumn." James is good-looking in a GQ sort of way. He's been hitting on her regularly for the last six months, but she constantly rebuffs him. Rayne prefers her men a little darker, and a lot older. She nods slightly in acknowledgement.
"James." It's obvious, even when she speaks, that Rayne has the voice of an angel. She rarely laughs, but when she does, it is musical, lilting, sensual, and innocent, all at once. "Time to get back to it, huh?" She finishes her drink and sets the glass on the bar.
James nods at her. "Good luck."
Rayne smiles drily. "Luck has nothing to do with it."
Sitting down at the piano, she waits for the canned music to end. When it finally does, Rayne plays the opening notes of a popular Broadway tune. Her beautiful voice fills the room as she sings:
"Hands touch, eyes meet
Sudden silence, sudden heat
Hearts leap in a giddy whirl
He could be that boy
But I'm not that girl."
Rayne looks around the room covertly. She knows it will be tonight. She can feel it in her heart; in her bones. Tonight, she will see him at last; and he will come to her.
"Don't dream too far
Don't lose sight of who you are
Don't remember that rush of joy
He could be that boy
I'm not that girl."
The door opens, and in walks a man with a lean and hungry look. He is slender in the extreme, with a rough beard, and a cigarette dangling from his lips. His black fedora is pulled low over his eyes, and his rich Italian suit fits his body as though he were born in it.
Rayne adjusts the pace of her playing, segueing into the bridge:
"Ev'ry so often we long to steal
To the land of what-might-have-been
But that doesn't soften the ache we feel
When reality sets back in."
The man in the black fedora is packing heat; Rayne can tell by the way he walks, the way he moves. He glances around the room, lingering on every dark spot and corner. He lifts the brim of his hat and looks straight at Rayne. She meets his gaze unflinchingly and continues the song.
"Blithe smile, lithe limb
She who's winsome, she wins him
Gold hair with a gentle curl
That's the girl he chose
And Heaven knows
I'm not that girl."
The man studies her for a long moment, taking in her dark hair, her perfect curves, the glittering green cocktail dress she wears with such grace. He plucks the smouldering cigarette from his lips and crushes it in a nearby ashtray without taking his eyes off her. Rayne feels the electricity, the passion, the desire in his gaze. She sings the last verse directly to him.
"Don't wish, don't start
Wishing only wounds the heart
I wasn't born for the rose and the pearl
There's a girl I know
He loves her so
I'm not that girl."
Rayne finishes her song, bringing it to a mournful close. For the space of three heartbeats, she watches the man in the black fedora. Finally, he turns away and heads for the door. Rayne holds her breath, waiting. But he does not leave. Instead, he beckons to someone on the other side.
The door to the club opens a little wider and suddenly, Rayne's patience pays off. The bearded man ushers his companion into the club, to a booth in a secluded corner. The air, hazy with cigarette smoke and tinted red by the dim lighting, is just thick enough to conceal most of his features, but Rayne knows who it is. There is no question.
An hour later, Rayne finishes her set. She sits at the bar and orders a New York Sunset. It is mixed badly, as always, but she is too preoccupied to notice. She idly glances around the room, careful not to appear as though she is actually looking at the table in the corner, a table at which two men sit: the bearded man with the black fedora, and Antonio Scarpetti...
...her parents' murderer.