Deal with the Trancy - Chapter 3: The Escape

Sorry about the late update. There is no definite schedule for this, so this story will be updated at random periods. As always, please enjoy, and reviews are very much appreciated.

Disclaimer: I do not own Kuroshitsuji.


I was embarking on a stroll—ah, "stroll" seems quite chimerical since, to be more precise, I was darting and zigzagging through corridors, trying to find an exit while at the same time evade getting caught. The place is, in simple terms, immense—presumably, a manor, since I can correlate this particular place to my own at home. It was easy to become lost and befuddled, and hence I came upon a certain door.

In the midst of debating whether or not to take my chances and enter, a hum, characterized with delight, fills the air. Someone is coming.

Reacting quickly, I lunge myself into the room and hastily shut the door behind me. Then, I perch myself near it, waiting for that someone to either pass by or enter. If it is the latter, it is vital that he or she is pinned for interrogation. Keeping my breath low and even, I clench the kitchen knife close in preparation to attack.

A merry voice continues to hum. My eyebrows raise. Surely, this carefree person cannot be harmful in the least. Still, it is hazardous to rush to conclusions, so I maintain my guard.

The door swings open powerfully, and a boy walks in and fails to notice me right behind him, heading towards the direction of the bed. Swiftly, I press the knife against his throat.

"Take another step, and this knife slices off your head," I whisper treacherously.

Got him.

The victim stiffens at the sudden threat that developed against him. For a split second, the thought bubbles in my head that he is going to cave in, but unexpectedly, he begins tolaugh. The strange boy cocks his head forward slightly and chuckles, finding something of utmost humor.

"What is so funny?" I demand, perplexed. Was it something I said? Perhaps, it was my manner of speaking?

The odd boy continues to laugh that grating chuckle, which inflicts a disconcerting effect for some reason. The laugh that he is performing indicates a subtle mockery immersed into the layers of his tone. There is a covert sign that he is snickering at me, as if I'm preposterous and on equal terms to that of a clown. A cloud of warmth seeps into my cheeks as the discomfort kicks in the longer he laughs. He does not find my threat significant enough to be afraid, or at least, to even feign fright.

"What is so funny?" I repeat angrily. "There is nothing funny about a knife pointed at your throat—"

I suck in an abrupt breath of air when his elbow slyly and quickly impacts against the square of my chest. The force causes me to yield a step, which is all he needed to turn around. His knee nudges me back some more until my back is against the wall, and his hand tightly squeezes my palm so that I relent hold on the knife.

The boy then, while in possession of my knife, applies it against my bare neck, with a sardonic smirk plastered on his face. "You're right, dear, there is nothing funny about a knife pointed at your throat, is there?"

"You..." I seethe, my fingers rolling into a fist. I bring it up with the intention of pummeling him into a pulp for manipulating my trick against me. However, he anticipates this move and breezily encloses his palm around my fist to counteract its force.

The queer boy then swats my hand away as if my attempt to overpower him is simply a nuisance, a substandard effort, and nothing else of that would imbue interest. "Now, now, kitty, maybe we need to declaw you." He throws spite into his fake smile.

Kitty.

A rather unconventional nickname unless he is insinuating at something. It requires little to not time for me to associate 'kitty' with a certain aspect: the Cat.

"What do you know about me?" I demand, thrusting forward once again with my fist, but a sharp slash against the side of neck causes me to stop and wince. A warm substance begins to flow from the wound to my clothing, but my pride, or what is left of it, prohibits me from floundering about in distress.

The boy smirks and presses his forehead against mine menacingly. The feeling of the blade against my skin narrows my breathing into a soft huff. I abstain from lashing out in violence and resort to executing a deadly glare into his light-blue eyes, which seem to be dancing with rapture at the thought of being the dominant counterpart.

After noticing my hesitation, he proceeds in a mirthful manner, "Look, kitty, I know all about you. Your mask, your true identity as a thief, I know it all."

"What do you want?" I growl through gritted teeth. "Money? Well, lemme tell ya, I have none—"

He laughs loudly to drown my voice. "No, my dear. There is something... much more precious than gold..." My skin tingles with the sensation of the knife pricking against it, chipping away the first layers of it smoothly, without entailing blood to be exposed. It is odd to acknowledge that I'm vulnerable like this, as if I am an animal to be toyed with.

"Which is?" I ask warily. My eyes dart toward an opening: his stomach, although this action was implemented with utmost clandestine so that he wouldn't notice. As long as the conversation is prolonged, his defense will eventually subside, and that is when I kick him until he flies to the wall.

Sounds like a plan.

The boy pretends to contemplate long and hard, emitting lengthy breaths and tapping a finger onto his chin thoughtfully as if he is engrossed and preoccupied. "Hm, should I tell you?"

"It's money, isn't it? Even if I don't have money, you will trade me in and receive an abundant amount, nevertheless. Tell me, what's the bounty placed on me by the Yard, eh?"

The boy is silent for a while, his nose wrinkling ever so slightly. "I actually don't know," he finally replies, and amazingly, he sounds sincere. "I couldn't care less about those shit." He seems to dislike being clueless for so long, and the cynical sneer returns on his lips. "What I—"

"Where's my mask?" I question harshly, fulfilling the tenacious thought in the back of my mind that urges me to question about my valuable mask's whereabouts.

The sneer on his face appears to struggle in order to sustain, as indicated by the way it twitches with annoyance. The knife against my throat presses deeper until it draws a minor line of blood. "Don't interrupt me, dear. And do you mean the kitty cat one?"

"No, the one that looks like a cow. Yes, the cat one! Where is it?"

"Claude is gonna fix it."

"Fix it?" I echo with disbelief. "So it was broken? What have you done?"

His shoulders lift with nonchalance. "It was like that when I saw it. Who cares though?"

Fuming, I raise my voice to present a speech, "Who cares? What an utterly ignorant statement! Allow me to elucidate you on the value of my beloved mask! Oh, what can I do without the symbolic mask that represents the very core of my being? One can even estimate that it has sustained and preserved the last part of me that can be portrayed realistically. Without that very sustainability, it is as if I am stripped of my own soul, as if I am torn to shreds! Debilitated I am in the absence of my dear mask! And for you to have so cruelly witnessed its demise, and yet you merely shrug your shoulders—as if the death of my mask is commonplace. Mundane, as you may say, but I shall correct you of how wrong you are! How terribly fallacious you appear!"

The boy hastily clamps his palm against my mouth. "You talk too much."

He removes his encumbering hand, and I shrug curtly to express my indifference, adding a narrow of my eyes to enhance my bitterness. "Are you certain that that Claude friend of yours will be able to repair my mask?"

"If it will save you from prattling on and on about how precious it is, then yes, kitty."

"And where's my vase?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Liar!" The screech was sadly irrepressible. I press my forehead against his with as much strength as I can gather in order to get him to waver, and the recipient of the force scowls at the ache that probably blossomed. "Did you sell it for money? People would do that. People I know would definitely do that."

"You seem like a smart girl, kitty," he declares strongly and audibly to cut me off. Uneasiness oozes into me when his expression darkened, despite the fact that he speaks in a, more or less, cheerful tone. "But you're mistaken about one thing. I'm already filthy rich, honey. I don't need to sell the invisible vase of yours to get a few measly coins."

An observation of his room is performed then, and it is palpable how extravagantly furbished it is. Not to mention, how his clothes itself appear to have been made from an elegant fabric, that is soft to the touch. "Are you a noble?"

He rolls his eyes as if it should have been too obvious to even be stated aloud. "I'll let you figure that one out, kitty cat."

"So you are," I conclude with a slight growl to my tone to showcase my exasperation toward how contemptuous he can sound. "What's your name?"

The boy smiles. "Tell me yours."

"I asked you first."

"And if I refuse to answer?"

"Then I will refuse as well."

"In all due fairness, I believe you weren't planning to tell me your real name anyway, kitty."

"How perceptive you are."

"Must you know my name?"

"I'm dying to, yes. I like to make a list of all the people that I would love to beat the crap out of. You might be delighted to know that you're slowly starting to move up the ranks of the people I must murder." I shoot him a saccharine grin, while devising of ways to obliterate him in the most grisly and abominable of ways. The guillotine is not one of my preferences, as it is an expeditious kill. This aggravating boy deserves at least a long and painful death.

The boy allows for a wry smirk to touch his lips for a brief interval before he wags a finger at me mockingly. "Behave, honey. Tell you what. I'll inform you of my name if you ask me sweetly."

My eyebrows pull together in the center. "Sweetly?"

"Yes. If you can woo me even with the sexual appeal you severely lack, I will congratulate you by telling you my name!"

The sexual appeal you severely lack.

A wide smile manifests upon my face, and he looks a bit taken back, but notes of nothing. "Hey... darling...?" I speak.

His sneer evolves into a grin, and his eyes light up with amusement. "Yes, honey?"

"Here's what I think of you..." I smile at him, and he mirrors my seemingly buoyant expression. Then I inhale deeply and melodramatically before releasing a wad of saliva right into his face. "I think you can just go rot in hell!"

His eyes had shut reflexively when I spat on him. There is a moment of silence before he calmly raises his arm to wipe the substance from his face into the sleeve of his coat. His eyelids snap back to reveal anger and resentment lurking in the depths of his turquoise eyes. Yet, he suppresses it with a fraudulent, meek smile.

Before I fully realize what's happening, the knife slashes the side of my neck down to my shoulders, leaving a long, deep and searing cut. Blood immediately follows the excruciating pain.

"Y-you," I gasp, my hand clasping my wound in an incompetent effort to cease the bleeding. The liquid feels warm and frightening against my own skin. The scent of copper is nauseating, and to restrain from gagging is close to impossible. Yes, I have robbed from others and endured through countless of misadventures, but never was I in any true peril—in exception to the cliff incident, but notwithstanding, I survived that, unscathed. There were also times where I was nearly caught by the Scotland Yard, but fear has never subjugated me for an escape from that is to simply burrow my way into my aunt's house and be safe and protected there. If not, I take on the persona of a noble and feign innocence to evade any suspicions that may arise against me.

But now this is different, intimidatingly so. The boy, he's abnormal. In spite of his sheer enthusiasm, there lies a dark, evil side to him. Now evil is usually correlated to villains in fantasy novels who ostentatiously pull unrealistic strategies to battle against the heroes. The term is overused to the point that it no longer holds any excitement to an experienced reader. However, this boy fits with the ancient definition with of 'evil' quite well, and that is evident if one is to peer into his eyes. They hold no reflection of light, no traces of mercy or compassion for humanity. They are hardened as if they have witnessed the most unspeakable horrors. The eyes seem to compel you to fear's cold, iron grip.

It is difficult to move, to look away, no matter how intense my desire is to do so. A scream begins to climb its way up in my throat as I gape speechlessly. Even the need to cry out in pain from my wound vanishes, replaced by raw agitation.

The knife brusquely clatters to the ground, snapping me out of my stupor. The boy appears to have dropped it deliberately, finding it of no use now. I do not know what he's planning, but he reaches out, and I feel his fingers running along my wound. He inspects the blood staining his hand for a while before smearing it against my cheek. Normally, I would have bitten him and ask what the hell is he doing, but this time, paralysis has taken control of my body, causing any premeditated actions to become null and void.

My teeth grate against one another in disapproval. The newfound weakness is foul and disgusting to bear with, but even with that said, I fail to react to his weird actions.

"The color red looks cute on you, kitty!" the boy chimes happily. He pries his finger into my open wound, educing another cringe from me. "Perhaps, you should—"

The door to his room bursts open, and in bustled a woman with lavender-colored hair and a bandaged eye—instantaneously, the feeling of recognition seizes me, and I discern that she was my guard earlier on.

"M-Master!" the woman cries with anxiety readily stricken on her face. "The girl! She disappeared from her bedroom! She..." Her announcement gradually disintegrates into a meaningful exhale of breath when her eyes, at last, reach me.

"Oh, my God, Hannah, no fucking way," the boy, addressed as 'Master', replies in a deadpanned voice, highlighting his sarcasm.

The woman, identified as Hannah, falters tentatively, while the boy removes his hand from my wound. With one vigorous shove, he pushes me to Hannah.

"Be useful for once and get this bitch out of my sight," the boy orders and looks at my direction with a depreciating gaze. "She talks too damn much for her own good."

"W-wait!" Hannah grips me by the arms and begin to lead me out of his room. Despite my wild struggles, she holds portentous strength—which could have fooled me judging by how she has given me the impression of a weak, introverted and reserved woman.

She drags me along the hallway, and there we encounter three triplets, all of them sharing the same, extraordinary traits such as violet hair and red eyes. I am mistaken to believe that they would at least do something to stop this horrendous scene that consists of me being pulled along against my will; they merely blink at us and whisper among themselves.

Soon after, we reach the room I had resided in, and Hannah tosses me in. I was ready to take her on, but then she gently sits me down and tends to the wound the queer boy inflicted.

The silence is definitely a burden, and so, I try to interrogate her, but she is swift to finish aiding me and departs from my room. My hope to escape is crushed when I hear the lock to the door click in place.


After a few listless hours, I have been inspecting the room with close scrutiny, and I concluded that my sole chance to escape, no matter how slim, is, of course, the window.

However, the window has a latch that locked it from the outside—only God can answer why someone would install a lock there and not inside the room. Still, I can formulate a sound hypothesis of why that is so; these people are not commonplace—they may have a secret motive to kidnap me for ransom or whatnot.

Either way it will be detrimental to trust them, especially that blond boy.

Looking around, I discover a clutter of stones in a flowerpot, and stealing one, I tap the stone against the glass window experimentally. After several taps to test its rigidity, I am able to deduce that it's quite brittle.

Good.

My taps increase in strength, and I am cautious to apply pressure against the same surface, that is the bottom right corner of the window. Eventually, a crack manifests, marring the smoothness of it. I then draw back my fist and punch at it, resulting for the crack to widen into a small hole. Inserting my arm through it, my hand snakes around until it captures hold of the latch. With a mere twist of it, I am able to unlock the window.

Now the only thing that is left is to leave. But, of course, I cannot just depart without a dramatic exit. Perhaps, I should leave a note to tease him and his fellow servants.

But before I can go into the details, the door swings open, and Hannah trails in. Hastily, I place the flowerpot on the windowsill to conceal the hole, and I whirl around to face her.

"Ahem, yes?"

Hannah's gaze is cast toward the ground as she speaks softly, "...My master requests for your company for dinner."

I let out a loud, derisive snort to indicate how stupid this is. How can he expect me to yield to him and his absurd food? "Well, you can tell him that—" My stomach emits a low growl. "...I will be there shortly."

The maid nods and shuffles out of the room. I pause to pat the flowerpot. "Wait for me, Peggy. Imma come home soon."


"Don't you look adorable in a maid's outfit, kitty!" the boy calls exuberantly, waving his fork 'hello', when I assembled onto the seat directly across from him on the dining table. "I did not notice that you were wearing that whore's clothing before. Normally, I'd tell you to burn it, but you look great!"

I grimace. "Compliments from you make me gag."

"Aw, that's not very cute, kitty," he says with an exaggerated pout. "Let me guess, you have never gotten a guy to kiss you. You can't possibly have gotten a kiss with that attitude."

"Well, you're wrong!" I lie indignantly, slamming my palms on the tables, although I swear that my cheeks are boiling in mortification.

He sneers, "Kitty's papa's peck on the forehead doesn't count, honey."

I scoff. "As if you gotten a girl to kiss you, jackass."

The boy laughs as if it is the most humorous thing ever stated. He then leans over the table with a smirk. "I should get a kiss from a certain kitty by tonight."

"Gag. I'm trying to eat here." To emphasize, I stab my fork into my steak and stuff a piece into my mouth before chewing ravenously. "Oh, gosh, this is good! I am starving and tired. Sometimes falling down a cliff only to be slashed by a knife held by some demented boy later can really take a toll for your energy."

"How is that even when you eat, you don't close your mouth? You talk so damn much."

"Talking helps me cope with weird situations," I inform wisely and cram another piece into my mouth. "Don't you know that just by babbling it takes a load off the stress?"

"Babbling also takes a load off of what should stay in your mouth to land back onto the plate," he points out, ogling at the portion of steak that I had accidentally spat out while prattling.

"Oops, my bad." I nudge the piece along with my fork until it falls onto my napkin, in which I quickly fold.

"So, kitty, what's your name anyway?"

"Like I'd tell you."

"So you prefer to stick with 'kitty'? Fine with me."

I snort and gobble down the rest of the nutritious food that is on the plate. After doing so, I ingest my cup of tea in a few chugs, and then a sigh of satisfaction issues from me as I pat my well-fed stomach. Reclining my neck back against the chair until my gaze is directed at the ceiling, I moan, "Man, I haven't felt that good in a looong time."

Suddenly, I hear his voice whispering into my ear, "You sound so naughty, kitty."

"What the—" I jump, startled, to see that the boy is right next to me. I glance back and forth from the chair he has deserted and he who is positioned beside me. "How did you..."

The boy rolls his eyes. "You weren't paying attention." A grin fills his lips, and to my astonishment, I feel the cold contact of his hand winding its way under my shirt. "You were too busy being naughty."

"Y-you..."

Before I can kick him to outer space, his hand reaches to my chest, eliciting an embarrassing whimper from me as he twiddles with my sensitive spot. "God... You are flat."

"Die, bastard!" I swipe at his intrusive hand and kick at him furiously, but he nimbly jumps behind me to evade the attack.

"You seemed to enjoy it." With that, he mischievously plants a kiss on my forehead.

"Get off!" I push my chair back to hit him in the shins and then I whirl around to smack him in the face with my fist. "You damn pervert!" Wiping my forehead with the back of my hand, I scowl at him and begin to thunder up the stairs.

"You're red," he declares provokingly, and I pause at my tracks to remove one of my shoes. Then, I retract my arm to gain momentum and hurl it at him. He manages to catch it successfully, much to my chagrin. I storm into my room, shutting the door behind me.

There is no friggin' way that I'm staying in this hell for another minute! I hate this place, and I particularly loathe that corrupted boy who appears to possess absolutely no sensitivity at all.

I groan while rubbing my forehead disdainfully. "I can't believe it... The first boy to ever kiss me just had to be him." My stupid head keeps visualizing the moment when his lips has pressed against my skin, and a shudder erupts along my shoulders.

I begin cursing under my breath and kicking the bed. Normally, I wouldn't lose my composure like this, but at this point I am shaken. No one has ever dared to lay a finger on me. And now...

"I've been cursed!" I shout to myself, in basic terms. "That wretched kiss from his vile lips has defiled me to an extent unrecognizable! It is likened to a miracle if I can once again gaze into the mirror at my tainted reflection. I can no longer bear the burden of treading under this damn roof."

After the pointless speech, I remove the flowerpot and pull open the window. Grinning as the cool night air flows in to caress my skin, I lunge out and land on the ground below. Not sparing one last glance at the manor, I perform a somersault against the grass and take off.


Alois along with Claude observe as the Cat dashes across the field and into the depths of darkness.

"Will you allow for her escape?" his stoic butler inquires. Surely, not even Alois would be asinine enough to let such a precious opportunity slip away from their grasp?

His master merely smirks at this and playfully twirls the cat mask in his hand. He then proclaims with such explicitness that rarely anyone will hold a doubt against him, "Don't worry. She'll be back."