"I want to, I want to be someone else or I'll explode
Floating upon the surface for
The birds, the birds, the birds

You want me, well fucking well come and find me
I'll be waiting with a gun and a pack of sandwiches
And nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing"

- Radiohead, 'Talk Show Host'

Kid

"My son, I have something very important to discuss with you."

My honorable father tends not to "discuss" matters with me. Rather, he will inquire about my day, ask about my friends, and continue to comment on how "cute" my Sanzu Lines always look (much to my ire of course). I realized our usual method of conversation was going to diverge today when he dismissed Spirit from the Death Room. This wasn't going to be simple father-son talk, no, this was to be a "discussion".

The last time my father and I engaged in a "discussion", he tried telling me about the manners of sexual intercourse. Needless to say, the awkwardness that ensued caused me to run back to Gallows Manor and rearrange the picture frames in every room until I could forget the way my he pronounced the word for female genitalia.

"If this is about procreation rituals father, please spare-"

"Ho, ho, ho! Of course not! Oh Kid, you never cease to amuse your dear old Dad!"

I relax back in father's golden chair. Well, that's a relief. My father is aware that at nearly sixteen, I am at the peak of my adolescence, and that any more words regarding the nature of sexual activity is now futile thanks to living with the Thompson sisters and having an unfortunate run in with Black Star's "reading" collection. Not that the sexual development of grim reapers are the same as the human species'.

"I am sure you are aware of our two newest students…"

I perk up, now re-interested in conversing with my father. My hands grip themselves tight to the golden armrests. "Yes, Emily and Kenji. They moved into the apartment next to Soul and Maka." I lean forward. "What about them?"

My father turns away from me, clasping his hands behind his cloaked back to analyze his reflection in his grand mirror.

"Well, they are Lady Lilith's heirs. Or didn't you know that, hmm?"

It's a name I am all too accustomed to hearing. It's the name of my father's former prodigy. The portrait of a beautiful woman with red hair piled atop her head, hey eyes painted with an aura of grace and elegance, has hung in the library at Gallow's Manor for as long as I can remember. There is an entire chapter dedicated to Lilith in any book about the great meisters of the world.

Now that I think of it, I'm a fool for not realizing it sooner. There was a reason I found Emily Valentine's appearance so distinctive and breath taking, as she was Lilith's painting reincarnated into flesh and blood. Yes, Lady Lilith Kiddo, who married World War I veteran Robert Valentine and opened SIN Technical School. Father often reminisced about her when he believed I was no longer paying attention.

I still cannot help the sound of surprise that bleeds into my voice as I muttered, "I see…is that all?"

My father turns back to look at me over his shoulder. Behind his mask, I'm positive his ageless face has broken out into a smile. "Well Kid, I would like for you to keep a close eye on Emily." He turns back to his reflection. "She's a little too much like Lilith, in that her soul has too much ambition for her own good. While Kenji seems to be doing a fine job already of balancing her out, I believe it would be a good idea of you to steer her down the correct path!"

Emily Valentine has already taken up a fair sized amount of my thinking time, from the troubling state of her soul to the way her face contorted into that sour pout, she is like no one I've spent more than a single thought dwelling upon.

Excuse me while I pick my jaw up and off of the floor, as my father's request is ironically unusual. Is Lady Lilith's portrait off center? What is it that I was planning to use tar for?

I take a moment to recompose myself. A chance to get close to Emily, huh?

The same urge that tells me to iron the curtains and count the number of books on each shelf in the school library begins to come over me at the thought. However, this urge has a more primal edge that begins a steady course in my body; I don't just feel the need for self satisfaction in this yearning.

Maybe I should have listened better to father's "coming of reaper age" discussions.

But before I take up my father's offer, there is one thing I should ask…

"Father, is there something wrong with her?"

In Shakespeare, it's called "dramatic irony". It's when the audience knows something that the characters on stage are completely ignorant to, which serves to deepen the element of tragedy. I am aware to the existence of this dramatic irony, but I am ignorant to what it is, like the tragic heroes who will not discover it until it is too late. Father is the audience, but the third wall prevents him from spoiling the story.

My father bounces over to me, placing his hands on my shoulders. "Everyone just needs a little guidance now and then," he chirps, all the while wrinkling the lapels on my blazer. "You do have a knack for balancing things!"

So this makes Emily Valentine another painting, candle, eight, and Egyptian pyramid.

Something is clearly amiss; this dramatic irony I can feel wafting through the air I'm breathing. I hope this isn't a Shakespearean tragedy, with a pile of dead bodies and a few conclusive lines of words set in iambic pentameter waiting for me at the end.

I really hope Liz is doing whatever I asked her to do earlier..

Emily (Four days later, sun down)

Trying to reestablish yourself back into a system of normalcy is more stress inducing than I care for.

Wake up. Go to school. Listen to a lecture you could give to the class just as well. Engage in awkward conversation with peers. Go home. Do your homework. Go to bed. Lather, rinse, and repeat four times.

I feel like I'm a prisoner of war who's undergoing some serious bouts of culture shock upon returning back to her homeland. I've been stuck in some bamboo cage with assholes poking sticks at me for so long that I've forgetten how certain words are pronounced. Time will tell if I decide to go Rambo on anyone's ass.

By Tuesday morning I was suffering from some serious "weirdness" withdrawal. And to think I'm considering giving up a lifestyle that has me traveling the world kicking evil human ass. Living the life of a normal teenage girl, with nothing to worry about but boys and the next Victoria's Secret sale, would probably kill me. I look like one of those recovering drug addicts the doctors always had to strap down in the hospital because a week without smoking crack was driving them batshit insane in the crazy house. I tended to avoid the withdrawing druggies. The depressed and the self harming were more of my crowd back in there. They told pretty good stories.

Now let me just get this straight; I'm not crazy.

Well, I'm not mentally ill.

So as of lately I'm a bit self loathing and cynical. And yes, I do have many issues to sort out. The problem is that everyone thinks the "incident" turned me into this raving lunatic who claims to see shit that isn't there. I've been exposed to pure, unfiltered madness, that's certain. But I've got something living inside my spine that borrows between the top two notches to make her home. She hasn't talked to me since I was discharged though because she's trying to make me think I really was just mad as a hatter. She's my guilty, black conscious. I've got to live with her now, or at least until I can destroy her source.

That's the only reason I haven't quit.

Now can you understand the frustration I'm dealing with here? No one believed I was anything other than a seriously traumatized young girl. No one believed me when I told them that they had escaped the fire. Nobody believed me when I told them my blood had turned black.

That's the first thing Stein remarked about when I went in for my first session an hour ago. He set us up in this dank back room with a leather sofa to sit on and diagrams of the human brain.

"So, Emily, you know the doctors found nothing wrong in your blood work, correct?" he said, leaning back in his swivel chair, a burning cigarette hanging from his stitched up lips.

I thought to myself, "Why the hell is the guy who tricked me into signing dissection agreement forms trying to convince me that I'm crazy?"

I nodded and told him, "Yeah," and that I also know he tried to remove Black Star's kidney at lunch today. Holy hell, can that kid scream.

I'd have told him that the blood running through my veins was smart, but he started giving me this slasher smile. He's enough of a creepy looking guy, what with all those stitches and that big ass bolt in his head. Also, it's best not to mess with the world's top ranking meister who works as a local mad scientist in his spare time.

Frank Stein. Talk about ironic names. I'll get to why this is only the second best ironic name I've come across in my life.

For most of the half hour long introductory session, Stein asked me how I was feeling and if I was adjusting okay and blah blah blah. He gave me a rundown of all the shrink stuff as well. I hope being a little deranged makes for a better therapist. Maybe he'll just screw me up even more so I've got to be thrown away into a padded room with a pretty straightjacket, smearing my blood all over the place like a chimp.

He had this notebook he kept writing things down in when I talked. I'd say something and his pen would start scribbling on the page. In my head I tried to imagine what he was writing down. Patient is a lying sack of shit who can't drive. I also plan on removing her pancreas tomorrow. I used to be funny, now not so much. Or maybe he was just fucking with me and drawing juvenile doodles of dicks and boobs and farts. That's pretty plausible.

Then he started getting into the real, hard hitting psychological stuff that I didn't expect to go into until a session where I'd be crying in a fetal position.

"Would you like to tell me a little about your relationship with Cain Iscariot?"

That question hit me like a goddamn torpedo. That name, that oh so ironic name, so well given to its owner that it was damn well criminal. That name I regarded as a curse word. I want to erase that name from memory. That name is the center of all my problems, the root of all evil so to say.

I got really uncomfortable and poked a hole with my fingernail through the sofa cushion. Talking about exes is awkward enough. Now try talking about your evil ex boyfriend who you tried to kill. Your evil ex boyfriend who tricked you into helping him and his buddies create a monster. Your evil ex boyfriend who never loved you in the first place, who was really just taking you for a ride the whole time. Your evil ex boyfriend who put your best friend in a coma.

I told Stein, "No, I really don't want to talk about him," and then I started picking the fluff out of the hole I made. I just let him save it for next week, when I wouldn't answer it again so to save it for the following week and so on and so forth.

Then Stein reminded me what everyone, even Kenji, has been telling me for the last month since SIN burned down; "They pulled three bodies out of the building Emily."

Yeah, but they sure as hell weren't their bodies. They're smarter than that. They went soul robbing the week before, did a little post-mortem plastic surgery, and ta-dah!, you've got yourself three toasted stooges.

I needed to convince the guy I'm not crazy, so I had no choice but to acknowledge that, yeah, three charred up bodies with matching dental work to the accused was pretty solid.

I pled the fifth for the most part though.

I didn't want to talk about Lucy either, or the way Thurston looked at me all covered in her blood as the ambulance took her away from the scene.

So Stein just wrote me a prescription for antidepressants and told me we'd meet next week at the same time. I swiped his pack of cigarettes from his desk on my way out the door, just like the candy at the local convenience store as a kid.

I picked up smoking in the hospital from this girl we called Twiggy because she was anorexic and thought seventy five pounds was the perfect weight. After one of our daily group therapy sessions, she offered me a light and the desperate emotional wreck I am took it. She had a guy on the outside sneaking her in diet pills and Marlboros, so I was basically smoking myself silly in there. One day Twiggy's guy snuck in some pot. That was a good day.

So here I am, smoking a cigarette on one of DWMA's glorious balconies that overlooks all of Death City, the wind blowing in my hair and smoke filling my lungs. My hands were shaking when I lit the first cigarette twenty minutes ago. This is my third. Nicotine and caffeine are the only chemicals that get me to stop thinking about the past.

Inhale and exhale. I have to breathe manually these days. If I think too much I stop breathing. I'm so paranoid that the voice is going to start talking in it's shriveled up little girl's voice. Next thing I know I'll be at the Overlook Hotel attending great parties and chasing my spouse and kid around with Kenji in his weapon form, screaming, "HEEEEEEERRRRRREEEEEEEEE'S JOHNNY!"

Like I said, I used to be funny. That joke about The Shining got zero laughs I bet.

So I slowly give myself cancer to avoid thinking about the fucked up life I lead. The smoke fills my lungs, filters into my sinuses and up into my brain, and for a speck of a second I feel invincible. In that brief elapse of time, there's a chorus of voices in my head urging me to prop one leg over the balcony fencing, then the other, and then let go all together. The sensation of free falling would be worth it until I splatter all over the ground, my guts flying everywhere and my blood staining the cobblestones black or red or whatever fucking color it is now. They'd have to close the school down for a week to scrape little pieces of me off of everything. Just when they'd think they're done cleaning up the mess I made they'd find one of my fingers chilling on one of the big ass candles or my nipple still stuck to the side of the building crawling with maggots. But then the invincible feeling fades and I'm left feeling empty again, trying to chase a high I know I'm never going to catch.

I told Kenji I'd be home at sundown. It's already sundown. He still hasn't gone food shopping. We can't keep living off of PopTarts and take out. I'm sure Maka and Soul have made two plates of dinner for us, as usual. Nice neighbors, but they argue until midnight. And they have a weird fucking cat who's constantly in heat. I suppose delivery pizza won't kill us for one more night.

The sunsets in Boston didn't look this depressing.

"You do realize smoking is a terrible habit?"

Oh fucking fabulous. It's him.

He's been haunting me like a ghost for the past three days. I don't know what his deal is, aside from the crippling case of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I only told him not to dye his hair with the stuff you pave streets with and now he's practically stalking me. I always end up sitting next to him in class and I can feel him staring at me with those gold eyes of his. While I was running the track with Maka the other day I saw a flash of striped hair peeping out of the bushes. Today at lunch he tried talking to me about the lack of symmetrical bento boxes the cafeteria sold. I excused myself to go to the bathroom and sure enough he was there waiting for me outside the door to pick up his one sided conversation.

Death the Kid is an okay guy, or reaper, or whatever. But God is he a pain in the ass.

Yup, it's him, as confirmed by a quick look over my shoulder, standing straight like he wants to sell me a car or tell me about the word of our Lord and savior.

I flick ash off the end of the cigarette and take a quick drag. "Don't not it 'til you try it." He's the last person on the face of this planet who should be scolding me about bad habits. Isn't that just ironic?

I exhale and watch the smoke get carried off by the fresh gust of early October wind. It still feels like spring here. The seasons don't change in the desert like they do in Massachusetts. It's all heat and wind; no chilly windbreaker fall days or Christmas snow, just wind and heat in a never ending cycle of desert weather.

Kid walks over to my side, eyeing my cigarette with distaste but overall seeming tolerant towards it. He leans back against the balcony fence, crossing his arms across his chest and looking at me out of the corners of his eyes.

I give the moment of awkward silence a minute to linger, pressing to see which one of us will break and speak up first. It's uncomfortable, but I really like the way he starts squirming in that pristine suit as if he's trying to ignore an amputee begging for change on the street. The wind carries a scent other than tobacco smoke into my face. It's Kid's cologne, or his natural Shinigami scent, if there's such a thing as it. It smells nice, like burning wood and morning dew.

"What are you doing here, besides underage smoking?" Kid finally asks.

I give the filter of my cigarette a quick look. It's got my lipstick imprint on it. "Had to see Professor Stein about extracurricular assignments. Then I wanted some time to myself, but that's clearly too much to ask for."

Kid shifts uncomfortably. He's probably holding himself back from snatching the cigarette from between my fingers and stomping it out with his loafer. He'll probably freak out over the mess of ash it'll l eave behind.

"So, why are you following me?" I narrow my eyes into the distance. Flick, inhale, hold, and exhale.

Poor boy's just realizing how deep he's dug his own hole. He shoves his fists into the pockets of his pants, the way he's contorting his face telling me he's trying to think of an excuse. "I like to keep an eye out on new students and make sure they're getting along alright."

"Well it's pretty fucking creepy." I'm not even going to bother calling him out on his terrible lie. I can lie my way through interrogations and not break a sweat. Kid's clearly the type of filthy stinking rich boy who never had to lie to get what he wanted. "I'm not really fond of people watching me from behind corners and bushes."

"I apologize," Kid quickly delivers, reigning back in his wealthy composure like he never lost it a minute ago. "In all honesty I find you interesting. You are Lady Lilith's heiress, correct?"

I don't choke on my cigarette smoke or let my eyes grow wide as dinner plates. Instead, I look at Kid in the kind of way you'd look at the idiot who asked about homework two seconds before the bell rings. What, so he's obsessed with me because I've got prodigious genes or something? Like I'm some rare butterfly he wants to capture and pin in a glass case?

"Yeah, aren't I just fascinating?" It comes out sounding bitter. I top it off with a sarcastic laugh, "I picked up smoking because it's just oh so hard to live up to people's expectations. It's killing my chi." Kid just stands there and winces. "Glad you chose not to dye your hair with tar by the way."

"It's not about your lineage," he exhales. Okay, maybe I coughed a little at that. "I just find you interesting, that's all."

Interesting, huh? Interesting how? Like, midget porn interesting or school bus fire extreme pile up interesting? Like, weird high school goth interesting or Miss Death America interesting?

"I suppose this is a very strange and unusual time in your life right now," Kid says, picking himself up and out of the direction of my cigarette smoke.

And boy, does he have that right. I hope he doesn't know his father signed me up for shrink sessions with the mad scientist. Maybe it's that obvious just by looking at me that everything is a little tainted to me at the moment. He's probably just referring to moving across the country after my great great grandmother's school burnt to the ground. It's an ambiguous statement.

"Well suppose I'm already strange and unusual?" This cigarette has only two more decent drags left on it. This small talk is starting to gnaw at my brainstem.

"That makes two of us then."

And Kid's smiling as a gust of wind blows through his hair, which he promptly fixes back into place.

I'll say this again; Kid's an okay guy. He's annoying but he's an okay guy.

The sun is setting past what would be considered daylight now. Good, because I hate the way the sun looks here.

I stand up from leaning against the railing, giving my cigarette one last puff. Kid is still keeps looking at it with distaste, but I know he won't say anything more about it. It's a free country. As long as I'm doing things symmetrically he won't have a hernia.

But I haven't fulfilled my mischief quota for today.

So I flick my cigarette off the balcony, where it lands on one of the large candles.

Kid's face drops like he's just seen that interesting midget porn and wails, "WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR?"

I doubt I'll ever understand his grip with symmetry. Everyone has their quirks and faults. And it is here that I make my exit, a wayward grin creeping onto my face. I've been lacking in the laugh department for quite awhile now. This is just my attempt to amuse myself, no harm no foul.

As I walk out the balcony door, I see Kid jump off the railing and onto the candle to retrieve my cigarette. "YOU'VE DESECRATED THE SYMMMETRY WITH YOUR CIGARETTE!"

This is the first real laugh I've had in a long time. It's pretty worth it.

Somewhere along the Texas-Mexico border

"So, what's the plan?"

"You always ask such stupid questions…"

"NO ONE ASKED YOU CAIN!"

"Whatever."

"Noah-sama, we've taken in two new members now. The plan is progressing more rapidly than we anticipated. At this rate, she's going to be ready to unleash by the end of next month if not sooner."

"Simple Gopher, we use the book to our advantage. Cain, how is her blood responding to the modified human souls?"

"She's looking good boss, real nice and pretty. She seemed to like the redheaded souls the most."

"I'm sure that's the influence of your genes."

"Speaking of redheads Noah-sama, what are we going to do about Valentine? And Wallace for that matter?"

"Wallace won't be going anywhere for the time being. We'll take care of her soon enough. You can finish that job Gopher. As for Valentine, Cain, you should know that your little girlfriend has just enrolled at DWMA with her weapon."

"I'd love to pay a visit to my girl boss…"

"No need. She's no more of a threat to us than a dream. As long as our pet project lives, we'll always have a connection to her. We'll strike when we feel like it. For now, we'll allow her some false sense of peace."

"You really think Valentine is going to make out with your stinkin' face now?"

…

"NOAH-SAMA HE JUST PUNCHED ME!"

"Cain…"

"My hand slipped. No, Gopher, Emily won't be able to make out with me once I shoot a bullet between those pretty eyes of her. But I do miss my sweet cherry doll."

"You're a real psychopath aren't you?"

"That's why I'm so good at my job."

Emily (The next morning at DWMA)

Kenji wants me to start getting myself back in the game as soon as possible. So here we are, standing in front of the Mission Bulletin, looking over the list of missions we can take on this weekend. I guess I'm not going to be curling up with Ben & Jerry's for a True Blood marathon this Saturday night.

"Investigate voodoo in Uganda…"

"Next." Africa makes me sad. Too many starving children and crazy dictators. I was also caught in an elephant stampede last time I visited. No thank you.

"Hunt down evil human in Detroit…"

"Last time we went to Detroit someone stole your shoes."

"I know," Kenji says sadly and folds in on himself, remembering the memories of his beautiful purple Nike's. May they rest in peace. "And they were limited edition too."

"Next."

Kenji's finger lands on a different note card. "Investigate abandoned hospital in Texas."

He looks at me for my ruling. Honestly, I don't feel like hunting for evil souls right off the bat. That's something I'll have to ease myself back into. But investigating creepy abandoned places was always my forte.

I twist the studs in my lip with my tongue in brief contemplation. "I guess we'll go to Texas then."

"Don't wear your 'Legalize Gay' shirt Em."

We walk over to the receptionist's counter. The lady behind the desk takes a quick break from filing her nails to take the note card from Kenji's fingers. "Wasn't planning on it. Really red states give me the heeby jeebies." The receptionist types our ID numbers into the computer to put us on the mission confirmation receipt, all the while loudly chewing her Stride gum like cud.

"Isn't Nevada a red state…?"

"We're post Bush blue-"

The twang of a think Jersey accent barges in. "Uh…yeah…I'm being told by Lord Death that this is a joint mission." The receptionist loudly pops her gum. "You'll be taking this mission on with another team who has been pre-assigned this."

God her blonde highlights look like a four year old did them. "Ok, who's the other team?" I question, trying hard not to imitate her awful Jersey accent.

The receptionist turns back to type a few more things into the computer. You know, that's really funny, because the note card would've said it was a two team mission.

The woman turns back, twirling a piece of hair around her manicured finger and says, "Death the Kid and the Thompson Sisters."

Oh.

"Can we choose another mission?"

"EMILY!"

"No, your names are already on the receipt. So, you leave at eight tomorrow morning. Got it? Have a nice day." The trailer trashy receptionist goes back to filing her cheap manicured fingers and smacking her gum loud enough for the entire school to hear.

Kenji is all too pleased with himself, because this mission will let him get nice and cozy with Liz Thompson.

I really don't want to spend my Saturday listening to ramblings about symmetry. Someone help me.

Author's Notes:

I cranked this out early, since I've got new reviewers (Thank you anon, rinpup14, and as always, A Fury of Blue!)

With Christmas break coming up on Friday, I'll have more time to write this. Chapter five should be out before Santa comes. I'll also be recovering from wisdom tooth surgery so I'll have plenty of time to do nothing but write and eat food that isn't solid. Yay.

Cain Iscariot. What can I say about Cain Iscariot. His name is too well fitting, that's for one. I've based his character a lot on Billy Loomis, from Scream. And he's the antagonist. That's all the background I'll give you for now.

I've got a treat for you guys. I've drawn this story's OCs. Go to my profile to see!

And here's the playlist:

Flickers by Son Lux

Talk Show Host by Radiohead

Fuck the People by The Kills

If I Had a Heart by Fever Ray

Tainted Love by Hannah Peel

Reviews are lovely! Hopefully this doesn't bite!

Nicole