Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.
Title: The Book of Cat With Moon C4: There's No Place Like Nuance
Author: JaganshiKenshin
Genre: General, Action/Adventure
Rating: K+/PG-13
Summary: Kaitou decides to launch a newspaper--and an experiment.
A/N: Certain key elements and scenes from this story will make better sense if you're familiar with the background of Idiot Beloved, and its sequel, Firebird Sweet.
Tokyo is divided into many smaller 'cities' denoted by -shi (Inagi-shi, Komae-shi, etc.), and wards, by -ku (such as Minato-ku and Shibuya-ku.) Much of our action here takes place among Shibuya-ku, Shinjuku and Minato-ku. And once again, we refer here to the YYH manga extra, Two Shots, that chronicled Hiei's first meeting with Kurama.
As always, thanks for reading this. Please review!
"Did you just crack a joke?"
The Book of Cat With Moon(C4: There's No Place Like Nuance)
by
Kenshin
There was laughter coming from inside the house.
Kaitou Yuu paused, one hand lifted to ring the doorbell. Not just laughter, but music.
That itself seemed normal enough, along with the house. But Kaitou could not reconcile this two-story cottage, all flowers and white picket fencing, with the demon who could summon flames. That one would more likely dwell in a cave, surrounded by the skulls of his victims.
On the way there, Kaitou had rehearsed a speech demanding that the fire demon leave him alone. If he said it in front of witnesses, Hiei would have to back down.
The night was clear. Stars wheeled overhead. Somewhere, a dog barked.
As quietly as he could, Kaitou lowered his hand and backed away from the door.
Too late. The door flew open.
Hiei stood there, his eyes ablaze with a wicked spark. "Oh, good, we can start." He reached out and grabbed Kaitou by the elbow, then guided him inside the house.
Kaitou had no choice. This is what a lamb must feel like, led to the slaughter: dazed, yet compliant.
The living room harbored no skulls, instead being decorated in soft pastels reminiscent of a seaside resort, for all that it was in landlocked Shibuya-ku. A sofa lay against the long wall adjacent to the front window. The television blared music and light. Chairs to either side of the sofa faced the television, and the chairs were filled with people.
He knew most of them, too. Minamino Shuuichi, casual in jeans and a sweater, nodding politely. Kuwabara Kazuma, wearing a Megallica t-shirt and waving a hamlike hand. Urameshi Yuusuke, cheerful and tough, grunting, "Yo."
Kaitou recognized one attractive brunette as Yukimura Keiko, and the lanky ginger girl with sleepy eyes, Kuwabara Shizuru.
The little fire-haired American, the one rising from the sofa to greet him, that must be---
"Come sit with us!" Shayla Kidd took his hand, and corralled him onto the sofa, penning the sacrificial lamb with herself on one side and Hiei on the other. She placed on the coffee table a bowl of popcorn and a drink.
Kaitou was too suspicious to take the drink, but it never hurt to sit next to a good-looking girl. He was thankful he hadn't abused her too badly in print---at least under his own name. Hiei might actually challenge him to a duel.
Besides, it would have been a lie, even on Everyman's watch; Shayla Kidd possessed a gifted voice.
Up close, she was even prettier than she appeared onstage, and the other two girls were not exactly cavewomen. Her liquid gray eyes assessed him from beneath feathered bangs, amused. She looked as though she could handle stagecraft and bloodstains alike with equal calm.
Then she patted his knee, like he was all of ten years old. Rather than feeling insulted, he was tickled. "Oh, go on," she purred, gesturing toward his drink. "Nothing's been poisoned."
Kaitou had the grace to blush.
They have kids, don't they? No sign of them. Probably chained in the basement. He glanced at Shayla Kidd again. Of course not. What was I thinking?
Only then did he notice the signs of a family scraping by: the worn sofa, the mis-matched chairs. It bolstered his confidence. You can do this. Now's the time. As he opened his mouth to demand that Hiei back off---
"Man, this movie sucks," Hiei cut in. Kaitou focused on the television, and when he saw what was playing, his eyes widened.
So. He was their object of mockery.
It was a Swedish film. The color was so muted, so drained, so pallid, it almost appeared black and white.
The cast stared at one another, or the camera, the pace grindingly slow as they muttered of rutabagas or bulwarks; it was like Volvo Nights without the Volvo.
Every now and then, the crowd in the living room guffawed, even chorused some lines, as if they knew them by heart.
Kaitou was now certain he was the butt of some cosmic joke, and wondered what role Stig Stigmarsson had played in it.
At a commercial break, the girls left for the kitchen. It wasn't long before the kitchen rang with shrieks of feminine laughter. Were they laughing at him?
Minamino yawned and stretched. "I've always wondered what women talk about when men aren't around."
Hiei squinted down the neck of an empty beer bottle. "They're calling me an arrogant, overbearing little snot."
"Just that?" Kuwabara giggled. "Slow day for you, Shorty?"
"Hiei always thinks he's the center of attention," said Yuusuke, rolling his eyes.
"Especially when he is not," added Minamino.
Kaitou had just opened his mouth to request that Hiei cease stalking him, when Minamino made a fatal error. Who would have thought the simple act of extracting a stick of gum---
"Is that GUM?" Pointing dramatically, Hiei shot to his feet, but before Minamino could respond, Hiei flew across the room, tackled him by the throat, and bowled him out of the chair.
Minamino fought back with equal fervor, defending the silver-wrapped stick as though it were his life.
Snarling like wolverines in a sack, they rolled around the floor, somehow missing the furniture. Kaitou was horrified.
But a glance at the other two boys revealed a yawning Yuusuke and an equally bored Kuwabara, apparently unconcerned with the killing spree taking place before them.
Then Minamino pinned Hiei, taunting him with the gum, using his superior height to hold it outside Hiei's reach.
And Yuusuke stood, and the stick of gum appeared in his hand as if by magic. He gave half to Kuwabara.
"Nuts," said Hiei, bucking Minamino off.
"Y'snooze, y'lose," said Yuusuke.
By the time the girls returned from the kitchen, the boys were seated again, arms folded, virtual halos over their heads. Shayla Kidd flicked a glance in their direction, then met Kaitou's eyes. She was not fooled by their performance.
Kaitou, on the other hand, was dazed. He needed out, and fast. "Well," he said, rising. "I must take my leave."
Shayla Kidd saw him to the door. As they exchanged pleasantries, she gave him a wink. "Next time," she said, "it'll go smoother. Trust me."
Then he regained the street, breathing deeply of the velvet-dark air which contained no hint of movie-watching demons.
Though he had failed to tell Hiei off, Kaitou felt he had triumphed over his fear, in however small a way. And he, having witnessed sufficient lunacy in this single night, knew there would be no 'next time.'
0-0-0-0-0
Hiroshi Ukyou opened drawer after drawer, rummaging for the right journal and pen. At least there was a desk to rummage in. Not much of a desk, granted, but a body standing on four legs. A bed would have been convenient but a desk was a desk, and that was the heart of the matter, wasn't it, really?
Chiyo, the office girl, had already gone home. Kaitou had yet to arrive. Alone in the soothing dark of October's first Saturday, Hiroshi sought inspiration.
He selected a palm-sized Moleskine, and a Delamont Millennia fountain pen, a heavy, costly black cylinder. "Young people," he announced to the empty room, "assume that money is everything, and when they get older, they know it."
But Wilde hadn't quite the same impact without an audience.
He began to write about the glories of a Japanese autumn, but what came out instead was a single sentence, over and over: Why did your mother never return?
Hiroshi stopped, read what he had written, but the words sounded in the low and cultured voice of Aunt Sachiko.
He fumbled out his lighter, flicked it to life. Raised journal to fire, watched as flames caressed the pages, dropped the journal in the wastebasket. Smoke filled the room. Hiroshi coughed. His eyes watered.
His father's eyes might have watered so on the day he died. Maybe he should write about eyes instead of seasons.
Since Father's death back in May, Aunt Sachiko had become increasingly reclusive, seldom leaving home. And as Hiroshi could not last long in her presence, home was almost off limits.
Eyes still watering, Hiroshi went to the window and eased it open to let out the smoke. A narrow street crammed with neon-intensive bars and clubs greeted his reddened gaze.
Eight years ago, Aunt Sachiko, the velvet dragon, with a single lift of one expressive eyebrow, had framed her question, not to Hiroshi, but the air. Then as now, there was no answer.
Answers were meaningless anyway.
Hiroshi left the window. Rather than pen and paper, he used the word processor to tap out an essay, turning a deaf ear to the insistent, ghostly voice of his aunt.
Then he printed the story and brought it to Kaitou's desk, slipping it into the pile of submissions.
And heard Aunt Sachiko: Why did your mother never return?
---Because of your weakness. The unspoken conclusion came in his own voice. He shut his eyes, clenched a shaking fist.
In the middle of Kaitou Yuu's desk, a cup trembled, then burst into shards.
0-0-0-0-0
Kaitou Yuu defiantly continued walking the streets at night. It was the first Saturday in October, one week after the awkward Bad Movie scene, and the fire demon hadn't killed him yet.
He had been working at the "Gray Lady." Scene and Sequel next demanded his attention. Hiroshi had probably gone home by now, and he all but lived at the office. Poor guy; even if they let Chiyo go, Scene and Sequel was doomed. They could scrape forward for a month, maybe two, no longer.
To save time, Kaitou had cut through a narrow residential street, devoid of pedestrians. A waning moon rode low in air that was scented with dead leaves.
He was halfway down the block when a flickering gray shadow caught his attention. He froze.
This time, there was no ominous quiver of air, no lightning-flash of paw, no bleeding of color from the world. There was simply a gray form pattering down the street. That dandelion fur could belong to none other than...
The cat from the park! That night of the strange monster, of Hiei's death threats.
He had unconsciously written a haiku.
The cat stopped in the middle of the street. It raised its head, its copper eyes seeking his.
Kaitou and cat regarded one another. Noises faded. Scents died. He felt the beating of his own heart, saw his misted breath, grew oddly lightheaded.
What is this cat?
The cat yawned, its pink tongue curling. Then, as though recalling an appointment, it rose and whisked past him.
Kaitou shook himself. He was overworked, tired. Ah, well, fortune favors the ill-disposed. Whatever that means. It was something Hiroshi Ukyou would say.
Kaitou made it to the office without further incident. He paused at his desk.
Moonlight sifted through half-closed blinds, bathing the room in milky radiance, surrounding Kaitou with a sense of timeless calm. His shoulders relaxed, his fists un-clenched. Despite the unresolved issue of Hiei, and the paper's looming demise, Kaitou felt at peace.
Then the moonlight vanished in the glare of neon. The mood was shattered.
On Kaitou's desk lay a manila folder containing submissions. He eyed it with reluctance. There, among over-the-transom essays and reviews, was bound to be a piece by his friend.
Hiroshi's writing was nothing like Wilde's deft touch, and nothing like Hiroshi's own acerbic persona. That was one reason Kaitou had never asked Hiroshi for a loan. He might then feel obligated to publish one of his 'think pieces.'
I don't want to do this. In fact, I'm sick of it. Sighing, Kaitou got to work. His desk was cluttered; he made a clumsy, half-conscious gesture to sweep it clear, even while his gritty eyes informed him there was a coffee cup atop the mess.
A musical crash announced its fate. Uttering something more colorful than a sigh, Kaitou rose, retrieved the pieces of the cup, and deposited them in the trash.
Some time later, Kaitou Yuu stopped. Something nagged at him. He recalled the sight of his desk.
The cup had been broken before he'd swept it away. He was tired, but not that tired.
0-0-0-0-0
"This movie sucks," announced Hiei. "It sucks with a suckage that goes beyond mere suckitude into total suckdom."
"A stream of deathless prose from Hiei," replied Kaitou. "Wait. I'll get my notebook."
It was nearly November, one month after Kaitou had made his reluctant appearance at Bad Movie Night. Since then, he decided on launching a scientific experiment: Project Hiei.
There was no other way he would subject himself to Mr. Death Threats and his home-made popcorn.
The Happy Wonder Theater boasted of films which other movie houses refused to run, movie houses that expected to make a profit and which had snack and soda concessions and seats not in imminent peril of collapse.
The theater was all but empty; Cowboy Pirates Versus The Space Monsters was being inflicted upon them. The plot was more or less concerned with cowboy pirates battling monsters in space.
An American production, the spoken language English, the subtitles Italian. Kaitou knew enough English to follow the alleged plot, mainly having to do with cowboy pirates battling monsters in space. One of the space pirates was female, and quite pretty.
Hiei warned him not to expect much in the way of subtext. "This isn't Citizen Kane. Basically, what we do with these movies," Hiei nodded at a cowboy riding a dragon that was clearly a plastic toy, "is what you do, only on a lowbrow level."
"And that is---?"
"Dump on 'em."
Kaitou bristled momentarily, but Hiei was right. What else did he and The Heights do in coffeehouses, in museums, in print? He ventured, "How long have you---"
"--- known that you and Everyman were one and the same?" Hiei finished the sentence as though reading Kaitou's mind. "Since 'his' first column appeared."
"Who tipped you off?"
"No one. There's a certain algorithm to any person's written words, as unique as a fingerprint. Kurama figured that out, but I arrived there first."
"How in the---"
"Sheer talent." Hiei shrugged. "Got an eye for that stuff."
"Three of them. Unfair advantage, I'd say."
"Jealous?"
Kaitou surprised himself by laughing.
Onscreen, monsters hurled bad special effects at the heroes, forcing them to retreat inside a clear, round shield that had surely begun its existence as part of a hamster Habitrail.
"Get a load of that pathetic defense." Hiei look was accusing. "And you have the ultimate shield but won't use it."
Casting his Territory chewed up energy on a par with an all-out run, often left him jittery, weak, with a ringing headache. But all he said was that Genkai had warned against it. She'd also warned that his Ability set him apart from others, and he was not sure that gap should widen, but he did not mention this.
Again Hiei indicated the movie. "I can fuse my aura with my sword to form a temporary shield, sort of like that hamster toy. Can't hold it for long, and while I'm in it, I can't attack, and I'm all about attack."
Onscreen, the hamster toy shattered, leaving the good guys wide open.
Pushing his glasses up his nose, Kaitou thought, Might as well go for broke myself. "Ever hear of Stig Stigmarsson?"
"Wasn't he the fifth Beatle?"
"Skip it."
Hiei shoved the bag of popcorn at Kaitou. Kaitou hesitated, recalling the Gum Incident, and not wishing to be throttled on the grimy theater floor.
"Go ahead," Hiei assured him. "But hurry. Another ten minutes of this movie and I'll need something to puke into."
"Not if I puke into it first."
"I think you just cracked a joke. Do you need to lie down?"
"Not yet. I want to see how the lady pirate fares against the giant space gorilla."
0-0-0-0-0
To his own surprise, Kaitou Yuu was beginning to like Hiei.
Scene and Sequel had tanked, but Kaitou defiantly scraped up enough money to launch a second paper, its tiny office located close to home in Shinjuku. nuance, as he named it, was devoted to reviewing the more obscure arts, and refused advertising revenue. Hiei, immediately re-dubbing it nuisance, informed him it would fold within a week, but his cautions fell on deaf ears.
0-0-0-0-0
"The first time I encountered Hiei," Minamino Shuuichi said, "he tried to kill me."
Kaitou was struck speechless. Here he'd been seeking reassurances. Moreover, the Silver Moon cafe seemed far too public for such a shocking disclosure.
The year drew to a close. Kaitou still sought to expand his empire. Knowing Hiei had performed on Lott Wingard's comeback video, he devised a ruse to investigate the fire demon. Why he should need a ruse at all somewhat puzzled him, but he let it slide. Being a fan, his excuse had been handed him on a platter.
British pop diva Wingard possessed an otherworldly beauty and a voice to match---one that conjured slightly mad visions of love. The video of The Swooning combined her discordant melody, Hiei's swordsmanship-cum-dancing, and Wingard against a field of stars. It left Kaitou with a scalp-tingling sense of unease.
As for the lyrics---heard one way, they were innocent. Heard another, blasphemous.
As Kaitou set out on a December afternoon, he could not help contrasting Wingard with Shayla Kidd. Kidd: more mezzo, less coloratura, though not one whit less powerful, her stage persona glamour-girl-next-door as opposed to faery-queen-from-another-planet. Kidd's lyrics also had subtext: upbeat love songs masking melancholy and lament.
First on Kaitou's list: Kuwabara and Yuusuke. Neither had heard of Wingard, but Kuwabara stated Hiei was 'a pain in the ass;' Yuusuke concurred, adding that he was 'useful in a fight.'
Minamino was certain to prove more articulate. Just, Kaitou thought, not this brutally candid.
It was now late afternoon; long slats of sun splashed the cafe's tables, warming the interior. Minamino's red mane had been pulled into a mis-shapen tail, as if he lacked the time to properly fasten it. That may well have been the case. He was doubling up on classes, and working for Dr. Smith. Nevertheless he managed to look self-possessed in a chambray shirt, with tie of burgundy silk, a gray sports jacket draped over his chair.
Coffee on Kaitou's side, green tea on Minamino's. A plate of almond croissants between them. Kaitou had out his reporter's notebook, but did not take down Minamino's statement. Instead he glanced around to see whether anyone had overheard.
"Of course," Minamino went on, "back then, Hiei thought I had a hand in abducting his sister."
"Yukina?" Kaitou picked up a croissant.
Minamino nodded. "A year later, Hiei repeated the assault."
"I c-can't write about that."
Minamino raised an I-know-what-you're-up-to eyebrow.
"But in retrospect," Kaitou added hastily, "Hiei does seem to make a habit of---"
"Oh, that was only because he was trying to kill Yuusuke, and I got in between them," the boy replied. "He's changed a bit since then."
"Enough to work with Miss Wingard?" Kaitou prompted, though he was certain Minamino saw through his tissue-thin excuse.
Minamino sighed. "If you'd asked about any other shoot---"
"Why? What's wrong?"
"I was there."
Kaitou dropped his croissant. "You were? I mean, that will certainly provide some color. For the article."
Minamino swirled his cup, as though divining something from the tea leaves, but as the Silver Moon served a well-filtered brew, he was probably not getting much data.
Choosing his words with care, Minamino said, "Have you ever seen Hiei perform?"
"You read Everyman's Burden, and have to ask?"
"Not as part of Romantic Soldier. As a dancer."
"Does watching videos count?"
"I used to accompany Hiei on those jobs as a sort of medic." Minamino pushed the cup away, gave Kaitou a measuring look. "Music does something to Hiei. It plays him."
Kaitou bit off a hunk of croissant, barely tasting the almond filling. "Isn't that the other way round?"
"Not with Hiei. We joke about him being nothing more than a wind-up toy, but music controls him, or seems to, on some elemental level. Rather spooky, when you think of it."
"Spooky. I'll go with that. What's Miss Wingard like?"
"No idea. She wasn't on-set, nor probably even in Japan."
"And?" Kaitou's pen poised, eagerness only half-feigned.
"It's a strange enough tale. There was the crew, and the director Alasdair Cromwell, a stylish fellow with sable-brown hair, a white goatee, and eyes like a cobra's. He was the one who'd specifically asked for Hiei."
Kaitou scribbled on his pad. "What's strange about that?"
"Hiei may be considered a one-take wonder, but he got this call at the last possible moment. There was no rehearsal, barely any time to listen to the recording. They handed him a prop sword on a minimalist set---just a black backdrop."
"No expense spared," Kaitou said.
Minamino beckoned the waitress over for refills, waiting until she had served them and whisked herself away again. "That day, Hiei's knees were causing him pain---a previous injury. Yet he nailed the performance in one take. Or so everyone thought. But Cromwell asked him to do it again."
"This is unusual?"
"No. Asking for retakes isn't unheard of, even with Hiei---there are always technical difficulties with cameras or lighting. So when Cromwell asked, Hiei complied."
Kaitou was growing impatient. "What's odd about that?"
"Hiei danced the number as before. Without a single step of variation, he re-created his unrehearsed performance."
"Okay, I'll admit that's impressive."
"Cromwell asked for a third take. Then another. Then a fifth. The crew became uneasy. Each time, Hiei re-created the performance, down to the last nuance."
Kaitou blinked.
"It scared me, frankly."
"Why?" Kaitou abandoned even the pretense of taking notes.
"Oh, not because of Hiei's machine-like precision, though I never saw anything like it before or since. No, it scared me because this was a battle. A battle, on the spiritual plane."
Kaitou's mouth had gone dry. The song itself had been disquieting enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. Now this revelation. "Is everything a battle for this guy?"
"That it was a battle, I sensed as clearly as I see you now." Minamino lowered his voice. "Even the crew seemed to have an idea. Though what, or who, Hiei battled, I cannot say, nor did he ever tell me. Whether it was a force unseen, someone on-set, or even the music itself---" He shook himself. "Seven times in all he performed that dance. He was tired, in pain; I knew it, the crew knew it. Cromwell in particular knew it. But Hiei battled on. It ended only when his left knee gave out on a strenuous leap, and he literally could no longer stand. Even so it was I who called a halt, and he gave me plenty of---grief."
Kaitou wasn't sure he wanted to know, but had to ask.
"Hiei demanded I tape his knee and send him out again. I refused." Minamino's lips twitched. "He threatened to gut me like an eel."
Kaitou's coffee was cold. He gulped it anyway. It eased the dryness in his throat, born of a sudden conviction that, in spite of the rapport they had established, Hiei was still a bloodthirsty, sword-slinging demon, not to be controlled, not to be taken lightly, perhaps not to be trusted.
"Well." He fumbled for his notebook, slid it into a pocket. "Guess I'll just have to write around it."
The angle of the sun had slid; the warming bars of light gone, taking all cheer with them. Minamino rose, slinging his jacket over one shoulder. He looked down at Kaitou, his eyes glinting like leaves under ice. "If you understand nothing else, understand this: once he has a goal, Hiei would have to be dismembered and three days in the grave before giving up."
As he watched Minamino depart, Kaitou envisioned the Persian cat, its lightning-strike footsteps counting out the final seconds of his life.
-30-
(To Be Continued: The hammer falls!)