Alrighty! Here's chapter two! Opening in the fic's 'present moment'—i.e. 1968. Chapter 1 was a flashback, (heed my words, there'll be a bunch of those, each with an underlying 'duty' theme that will run throughout the fic.) Also, please note that this 1960s portrayal is based purely on secondhand info picked up from older NY-ers. I wasn't alive back then, (and from what I've heard, wouldn't want to be). Any mistakes or inaccuracies here are entirely my own.
Also, since this is set pre-Disastrous-Vietnam-Awakening, expect Saya to be grouchy, battle-hardened, and emo (think episode-34, but to the power of ten). And expect Haji to be more talkative. (Then again, since this is Haji, that's not saying much XD)
This story is rated M for angst, violence, adult themes, and appearances by Diva and her family-unfriendly Chevaliers. I also expressedly warn readers about trigger warnings concerning suicide, self-harm and sexual assault. While the three themes aren't particulrly blatant, they are present. Thus, to use the fanfic cliche: Don't like, Don't Read.
I do not own Blood+ and make no profit from this story.
Reviews and critiques are more than welcome!
Freddo: a cold or unfeeling musical style.
New York, 1968.
A chilly December evening.
Disembarking the graffiti-splashed 6-train on Lexington at 86th Street, the first thing that hits him is the stench. A bludgeon to the nose, this pulsing miasma of stress, urine and sweat. The subway is chock-full of it; everyone exudes it in dizzying waves.
Haji hides a grimace, hefting his cello case higher along his shoulder. His other hand moves instinctively to guide out his bleak-faced companion.
Saya's fingers barely brush his before withdrawing. Her eyes, shadowed from their sleepless journey, ping across the refrigerator-tiled platform.
Around them, passengers continue to stream out, weighed down by briefcases and portmanteaus. Odd as she and Haji look—a tall pale-faced man in crisp black formal attire, and a waiflike teenage girl in knee-high boots and a travel-worn black coat flapping at her calves—no one glances their way.
Be it London or Paris, the anonymity of subways suits Haji. Reclusive as he is, he finds something appealing about a secret network webbed beneath a city. People milling everywhere on the hour, their blood and heartbeats mingling into a sound and texture as well as a scent.
This is probably why subways appeal to Chiropterans too.
Despite the New York transit authority's "Program for Action" to renew the subways, in the past decade, they've devolved to infernal dens of squalor; sanctums to disrepair, to the homeless, the crack-addled. For Chiropterans, they may as well be playgrounds. A predator can pick an unsuspecting human from the throng, drag him to a corner, drain him, and leave his corpse for authorities to find, long after fleeing the scene.
All this, without once raising his head above ground.
Playground, nothing. It is a candy store.
With a sudden chill, Haji wonders if the recluse in him fancies subways—or the Chiropteran too.
"He's not here," Saya says suddenly.
"What?"
"Our contact. The Red Shield agent supposed to meet us. He's not here."
"Are you sure?" Among droning voices, skirls of music and clattering footsteps, Haji searches for an obsequious suit-clad figure calling his and Saya's names.
No one there.
"Perhaps there has been a delay," he ventures. "They might have met with an emergency, or—"
"No. They didn't send anyone to fetch us because they expect us to come to them." Saya's voice is cold. In the wan terminus lights, Haji can't help notice how pale her lips are. Bloodless.
She hasn't been feeding properly these few weeks. No insistence on his behalf can convince her to do otherwise. Her hair hangs in two tight braids down her face, framing hollow eyes and cheeks, and her body, under the capacious trenchcoat, is whip-thin. But she still has all her muscle tone. On battlefields, cutting down foes, she moves as if her strength is never in doubt.
Except it is wrath, not sustenance, that fuels her now.
And which Haji fears may get her killed.
He made the mistake, a month ago, of making the opinion known to her. Advising that she should regroup from this endless bloodwork, get some rest. Physical extremism was more weakness than windfall.
Saya's answering punch had splattered blood from his mouth.
I don't need you to tell me how to fight this war! she spat. The only thing I need is for you to do your duty. Nothing more, nothing less. If you can't do that for me, we should go our separate ways right now!
Stunned, one hand pressed to his bleeding mouth, Haji was unable to answer.
Things between them have been so tense since then. Which is, perhaps, a distortion of hindsight. Hasn't everything been tense between them since the disaster at the Zoo?
After that terrible Sunday, he watched her morph into a stranger virtually overnight. This woman he travels with still has all of Saya's expressions, her aromas. But something vital inside her seems broken now, twisted out of shape.
With every kill, she sinks deeper into herself, grows more remote. Alertness is consumed by misanthropy; she always watches other people, always looks over her shoulder. At night, guarding her door like a watchdog, Haji knows she rarely sleeps. She's shut off all rudiments, her heart calloused by duty, by the memory of atrocities she'll not discuss. If he ever reaches to touch her hand, or brush the hair from her face, she jerks as if singed, and falters only at his pained look in response.
It chills Haji sometimes, looking at her eyes. As if he's watching a departing visage on one of these subway trains.
Or worse, looking at a mannequin wearing his best friend's face.
Aloud, he asks, "You believe Red Shield refused to send an operative here out of spite?"
"It's not about spite. It's about control."
"Control?"
"They want to put us in our places. Remind us that we work for them. Not the other way around."
He purses his lips.
She's right. It was the same thing when they separated in London earlier this month. Red Shield had expected them to play sleuths as well as exterminators. The idea that Saya or he might refuse hadn't even crossed their minds.
"These men don't understand anything about the frontline," Saya bites off. "Don't they realize that the more time they waste in mindgames, the more chance Diva has of escaping us again?"
"You could discuss this with the current Joel. I believe he and his team are present in New York."
"There's nothing to discuss." Saya's tone is bleak as a freddo note. All her 'negotiations' with Red Shield distort into one ugly clash of wills after another. These men, firmly settled in their plush offices and their preconceived notions of Saya, see her as little more than a tool in the war. What liberation she wrests for herself during one Awakening is promptly snatched away in the next.
Sometimes, Haji wonders if things between Saya and Red Shield will grow so strained that she'll detach from them altogether.
Isn't sure, if she does, that he'll protest.
She already has enough problems weighing her down.
She doesn't need them adding more.
"Would you prefer to meet with Red Shield right away?" he asks. "Or should we find a place to rest first? It has been a long journey."
Saya hesitates. Haji takes heart in that simple faltering, as if her human desire for rest indicates that she hasn't sunk into total absence yet.
Until she shakes her head, "We'll meet Red Shield. They had news on where Diva was hiding. Where is their meeting being held?"
"A residence a block away from the Metropolitan Museum. I have the address in my coat."
"Then let's get moving. The sooner this is over with, the sooner we can—" She breaks off, blinking at something ahead.
Haji follows her gaze, wondering if she's spotted a Chiropteran. (With this fetid stench hanging in the air, sniffing them out is impossible.)
Instead his gaze alights on a rough-looking man slouched at a corner, bits of metal stuck to his face and over his tatty leather jacket.
Catching their eyes, the man rubs his crotch and lasciviously waggles his tongue.
More disturbing, his gaze is on Haji rather than Saya.
The two companions stare, unnerved. Without a word, they quit the scene.
Clearly, Haji thinks, as he and Saya clump up the stairs of the station entrance, the New York subways aren't, as these Americans put it, 'All they're cracked up to be.'
A brisk walk west and south leads them down busy cross-streets, past the façade of pricey stores lining Madison Avenue, and into a neighborhood where they stop at one of a row of four elegant five-story townhouses.
In the glow of streetlamps, the vicinity is supernaturally quiet. Haji wonders, as he trails after Saya up the marble steps, if there are any residents here at all. Perhaps in New York, as in Victorian London, the wealthy flee upstate during late December to celebrate Christmas in more sedate surroundings.
Christmas.
He glances at Saya with a sharp pang.
At the Zoo, Christmas was Saya's favorite time of the year. For Spoilt Little Birds, it always was. She'd loved it for the presents as much as the food. Liked to pad barefoot into his room at dawn, shake him awake so that they could go downstairs and open the parcels together. Haji still remembers her mischievous smile; still hears her pretty laughter as she prattles about her latest scheme.
He'd give anything to hear that laugh again.
Knocking on the door, they are ushered by a butler past a wood-paneled entrée, and into a warm parlor that bears the subtle aroma of strawberries. Studying the lavish surroundings, from the crystalline chandelier to the plush Asian carpet, Haji surmises that this residence is, if not on the Social Register, then probably nearabout.
Over the mantelpiece, Saya pauses to stare at a framed artwork. Haji realizes it's an imitation—a good one—of the interior panel of Hieronymus Bosch's 'Garden of Earthly Delights'. His eyes take in the erotic nudes prancing in the lush gardens of Heaven, and the grotesqueries of flame and torture illustrated in Hell.
Saya, he notices, is staring at the latter as if she can't tear her eyes away.
Does she imagine this is where we will go once we've defeated Diva?
He knows better than to ask.
"Be seated, please," intones the butler. He is one of those Edwardian types, dour, bland-faced, in a neat black suit-uniform and severely cropped hair. He reminds Haji powerfully of the butler who used to attend to them back at the Zoo—and he represses the urge to smirk. "Before you may see Mr. Goldschmidt, I must first trouble you with a request."
"What request?" Saya asks, in her perfect accentless English.
"You must please relinquish all weapons into my possession."
"Weapons?"
"Yes. Only until the meeting is concluded. As a safety precaution."
"We aren't here to attack anyone." Saya is clearly trying to keep her voice neutral. Or, at least, non-threatening.
"Nonetheless, Miss. These are my employer's orders. I cannot allow you to step further into this residence if armed."
Confused, Haji and Saya exchange looks. To them, venturing unarmed into unfamiliar territory is tantamount to parading outdoors in the nude. It is simply not done.
But, after a heartbeat, Saya nods.
The butler, despite his efforts at impassivity, goes wide-eyed when she hands over her tight-sheathed katana, whipping out the knife she keeps in one boot, dislodging the pair of embossed shivs in the other. Haji is next. By the time he's disclosed his set of sixteen stiletto-daggers, secreted on his belt, the inner-pockets of his coat, in spring-loaded sheaths under both sleeves, and handed over the piano-wire garrote tucked under his collar, as well as two wooden handles meant to be attached onto hooks on either side of the wire, the butler's eyes are the size of hubcaps.
Out of politesse, or perhaps ignorance, he does not ask Haji to remove his belt—another vital weapon. Nor does he stoop to check Saya's or Haji's shoes, whose insides are solid metal, the interiors lined in sheep-fleece for comfort.
A lifestyle of daily combat takes its toll. Even the smallest item becomes a tool of carnage.
Gathering the small arsenal in his arms, the flustered butler trails away, leaving Saya and Haji to wait. Ten minutes later, a door at the corner opens, light spilling into the darkened parlor.
The man holding a hand out to them is little more than a silhouette.
"Saya, Haji. We've been expecting you."
He looks nothing like their Joel.
This Joel is burly and pot-bellied, with a craggy reddish face and a thick drooping moustache meant to call attention away from a rather shapeless chin. The room he ushers them into resembles the library of a gentlemen's club—capacious armchairs, a vast sweeping oak table, volumes of books stored on gleaming shelves.
Present in the room are seven or eight men, ranging from mid-forties to early seventies. All immaculately dressed, with a hungry intensity in their eyes. Descendants of Red Shield's original founders, the fiery ideals of their forefathers cooled to calculating ice.
Joel introduces them, and although Haji shelves their names away for future use, he's equally sure Saya makes no effort to remember any of them.
Joel seats Saya at one end of the table, and takes his place at the other, face to face. The men on either side of the table fix her with gimlet gazes. Standing beside her, Haji feels as if he's facing a continuum of daggers.
He wonders if the seating pattern is deliberate—to intimidate the guest as much as possible.
But Saya doesn't look intimidated. She sits straight-backed in her seat, bringing with her into the stuffy room the cold stillness of the outside air.
"You're late," Joel says without preamble. "You were ordered to arrive sooner."
"Then you should have sent an operative to receive us at the station," Saya says flatly.
Joel waves an unapologetic hand. "We were shortstaffed at the time. Surely it makes no difference. You reached here fine on your own—so it obviously wasn't a bother."
"No," Saya agrees, toneless. "Obviously."
A dark-haired young man—the youngest in the room, discounting Saya and Haji in terms of appearance—speaks up politely. "I understand you were in London recently. Keeping a lid on the Chiropteran situation there?"
"We were. Then we received your word about Diva's presence in New York. That's why we're here."
"And it is extremely fortuitous that you are," a gnomelike man at the corner cuts in. "You will fulfill your duty by decontaminating the Chiropteran hordes that have sprung up in the city."
Saya's eyes narrow. "I thought we were summoned here to kill Diva."
Joel nods. "Our lookouts are narrowing out her location as we speak. In the meantime your services are needed elsewhere."
"But your message stated that you found her location."
"We had, at the time. But complications arose."
Which, to Haji, sounds rather like, 'We wrote what we had to, in order to get you here.'
His brow lifts, imperceptible. Beside him, Saya stiffens. "What complications?"
Joel's reply is oblique. "As I said earlier, we're shortstaffed. A majority of our members have been assigned to Vietnam. They're helping American soldiers combat a sudden rash of Chiropteran attacks in Saigon. In exchange for our services, the US government has allowed us to roost in New York. If all goes well, Red Shield could form an alliance with the United States. It would be beneficial for our organization, in terms of manpower and resource."
A beak-nosed man at the left takes up the tale. "Unfortunately, the situation in New York is equally dire. Chiropteran-related killings have skyrocketed since last month. New victims are discovered every day, their bodies drained of blood. Corpses found in alleyways; entire families slaughtered nightly."
"This could simply be the work of local criminals," Haji intrudes quietly. "As I understand, there are at least three murders, if not more, reported daily in this city."
The small man in the corner shakes his head. "These are Chiropteran killings. We have enough eyewitnesses to confirm that. And it is imperative to stop them. If the US government discovers that our subjects are roaming their streets—"
"Our 'subjects'?" Saya frowns. "What do you mean?"
A thunderous silence. The men exchange looks, perturbed.
Joel clears his throat, "These Chiropterans… escaped from a lab that the US allowed Red Shield to establish here. There were sixteen creatures in all. They killed the scientists at the facility, and fled into the city. We keep sending teams to retrieve them. But all we get back are corpses. Which is why we expect you to—"
Saya puts two and two together fast. "Wait. You only called me here to clean up this mess before the US government discovers it. Because if they do, they'll blame you for the victims' deaths. And cut off ties with you."
Joel's lips flatten. "Remember this, Saya. It is your duty as Red Shield's main weapon to eliminate the Chiropteran threat—"
"I was doing that already in London, before you summoned me to handle a problem under your jurisdiction."
"If you don't eliminate these Chiropterans on time, it will damage our ties with the US. Putting a greater impediment on our chance to locate Diva!"
The anger that is never too far from Saya's surface flares up. "So you haven't even found her yet!"
"Found her yet or not, refusing to hunt these Chiropterans is not your choice to make! You work for us, and are bound by your duty—"
Saya shoots so abruptly to her feet half the men at the table jerk back. Her face is frigid with disgust. "Don't speak to me about duty when you can't even fulfill your own. These Chiropterans escaped from your labs. Under your charge. And while you're sending me to hunt them down, god knows what Diva and her Chevaliers might be upto!"
Joel's face reddens. "If you do not find these Chiropterans, we will be unable to locate Diva at all. Think in terms of business, not—"
"Locating Diva is my business. And the reason Red Shield exists at all. Or, in your faithless distortion of the word duty, have you forgotten that?"
Incited by her raw fury, Joel allows his own blunt audacity to confront her. "Red Shield is not a toy subject to your whims, Saya! Only trained dogs are faithful. Remember, you are a weapon in this war. Nothing more. You will do as ordered. To keep our organization strong, we must swim with the current. Our forefathers would have understood that, even if you cannot!"
"Understood what? That their sons are hypocrites who ignore the mission in favor of personal politics?"
Now Joel rises to his full height, his small bright eyes fierce. "Don't presume to dictate to us, Saya. Remember what you are—and remember your place!"
Saya's eyes flash, and Haji feels his own narrow. He almost wants to tell Joel to shut his mouth. But Saya raises a detaining hand as if sensing the nature of his words. He feels the potent anger buzzing off her frame.
Without a word, she shoves her chair aside and strides out of the room.
Joel blinks. "Where the devil are you going?"
"To find a place to stay for tonight," Saya says coldly. "It's a little stuffy in here."
She sweeps past the door, Haji trailing silently after. At the doorjamb, he spares a final glance at the men.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
And shuts the door on their scandalized faces.
But, following Saya out, he knows she'll have to hunt these Chiropterans as ordered. What choice does she have? Red Shield knows that too. That's why none of them are stopping her from leaving.
She is their only weapon in the war—and they'll use that excuse to make her jump through hoops for them for a penny and a promise.
Again. Again. And again.
Repassing Bosch's painting on their way to reclaim their confiscated weapons, Haji glances again at the artist's depiction of Hell. It occurs to him, that Saya wasn't studying it because this is where she imagined her mission would end.
She was studying it because, in many ways, she is already there.
Any OOC moments? Any glitches you wished were addressed? Don't hesitate to share!
Also, my Real Life timetable is a bitch, so keeping said bitchiness in mind, updates will fall every two weeks. Unless my boss disappears or my uni is bombed. Then we're home free XP
Anyhow, hope you enjoyed, and review, pretty please!