A/N: This chapter is incredibly long, so I shan't inflict extensive responses … but please, rest assured, I adore each and every one of you. You are my strength, the foundation upon which I build.
Devil-urd: In my fiction, HiME's don't need doctors. They regenerate, but need food to accomplish this. The terms I use to describe the characters are from the perception of the active character.
Naked Fish: No more Shiho. You sure did guess right though.
Kiltmandu: Madness achieved. Sign me up for the Entropy fan club – you know I love those black spirals.
Suikun: So good! Love your reviews. Don't apologize, I take the focus of your comments as a great compliment, and, in some ways, prefer dissection of the plot. Helps me keep things in order.
B14ck-r053: I like adding in recognizable 'tag lines'. Glad you liked it.
Fan-rei: Possible, but not probable. Wait and see. ;)
EA Simpson: Smith has officially taken Nagi's place. Long live the traitors!
Johnny: Really enjoyed hearing how much you liked this chapter. Try to keep the Ying with the Yang. Sometimes the Yang gets feisty.
Alida: I think there may be some latent subtext in there too. Good thing Natsuki has Shizuru's heart. Shiz with Nao is too scary to contemplate.
See? Not so bad. This chapter, the red headed stepchild to Chapter 9, continues defining the motives between the factions. Reveals a few behind the scenes characters, brings our favorite sentai fetishist into the fray, and plunges our main characters into their own personal hells. Sup – and should this please, expand upon which dishes lingered on the tongue.
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Chapter 10Nao screamed as the man behind her kicked her in the small of the back, then shoved her down with his steel reinforced sole. Pain flowed through her limbs with nauseating heat; acid welled up in the back of her throat, flooded her mouth, its taste mingled with the coppery flavor of blood. Her eyes closed as she coughed, involuntarily spitting up the vile concoction as she writhed under the soldier's full body weight. He was enjoying himself; she could tell by the vicious way he crushed her into the linoleum – so familiar. She appreciated the sadism for what it was. Revenge.
"Nao-chan!" A voice cried out, immediately silenced. Panic occluded reason; she struggled to disentangle herself in earnest, curling her hand around the bottom of the soldier's foot, the barbs of her Element shredding the thick leather and metal to bury themselves in sensitive skin. Flexing her fingers, she extended the sharp tines into claws, the claws into daggers, and the man howled, falling off her as his foot was impaled on four serrated knives. Her palm twitched, retracting her claws as she tried to focus, tried to get to her knees. Blood plastered her hair to her face, blinding her, and her ears still rang from the rifle butt thrust into her head as the men stormed through their kitchen door.
"Momma!" It was a whine, a pitiful, desperate cry, and she hated the sound of it. Hated being on the receiving end of torment. The men are in the house again. Oh god, oh god. Momma… She slashed the foot trying to sweep her arms out from under her, but this time there was no pleasure in the pain, only cloying fear that left her gasping for breath. Momma, the men! The men broke into the house, and they… and they…
"Don't you dare hurt her! Don't hurt Momma!" Time overlapped, tripped over her ability to grasp events as they transpired. God, my head. My head hurts. Were these the men from before, the ones that butchered her father, violated her mother, left her to die? Too fast, the shutter jammed open with coarse, uncaring fingers – she couldn't slow her perceptions enough to comprehend. The only thing she was sure of was that she couldn't use her Element to collapse the house – her mother would be buried with the rest.
She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, trying to pull her gore sodden bangs out of her eyes, whimpering. Another steel-toed foot caught her in the side, doubled her over as she fell on her side, wheezing. I can't breathe. She curled into a fetal position to protect herself as the blows rained down. Her teeth clamped down on her tongue as another foot slammed into her chin, blood overflowing between her lips, splattering across the floor in an arc, following the line of force. The hum in her ears intensified, deafening her as she howled, a primal sound wrenched from her midsection.
"Grab her hands, you idiot!"
Pain lanced through her body as the shoe closest to her trapped her right hand. Julia! Her mind huddled around the memory of her Child, comforting, bringing a surreal calm that cleared away everything but the will to hurt the men surrounding her. The Child was no longer hers to control, the binding broken when the red star imploded, but she could sense the ethereal, alien presence, wrapping her in a cocoon of shelter. She stopped struggling. These weren't the burglars who'd stolen her childhood from her. They were the soldiers she'd strung up on amusement's whim. She recognized the aftershave her earlier victims had worn. Although, there were more of them then there had been before.
"Get off me," she snarled, removing the arm she'd wrapped over her head to keep it from damage. She stared up at the man standing on her hand, and he slowly lifted his foot, chilled by the waves of murderous intent. I'm going to kill you. Every last one of you.
"Pick her up." The voice floated from the back of the room from a blond haired man wearing a long coat. It triggered a chord of remembrance, but she couldn't get a good look at him; he turned his back on her before she could blink the crimson tinged tears from her eyes.
Two men lifted her between them with her wrists held painfully behind her back. Anxiety resurfaced, and she scanned the surrounding faces, searching frantically for her mother. There, cradled between the men who restrained her: one of the men had his hand over her mouth, leaving only the upper half of her face visible, beryl-green eyes fever-bright with unspoken terror. Nao thought of the glassy, lifeless stare of a stuffed animal, and she pulled her wrists free, twisted her torso just enough to get a grip on the soldier's shirt. Breathing hard, she heaved him with an over-arm toss into the throng in front of her. The men fell like dominos, her projectile burying himself in the cabinets splintering around him.
The remaining men raised their weapons, and she grinned, extending her Element in a supple striptease; the filaments wrapped themselves around the gun barrels, searing through the metal as she casually tugged her fingers.
"I have no idea what you're doing here, but if you don't leave, I'm going to make each of you regret your stupidity." Now that she could stand on her own facing the enemy, see their fright as they clustered closer together, they once again became what all men were. Nuisances.
The blond man kept his face averted as he unholstered his sidearm, pressing it into the back of her mother's skull. He pulled back the hammer and waited. "This isn't what I want, Yuuki-san, but if you force my hand, I'll pull the trigger. Not even you are fast enough to beat a bullet at this range."
The redhead's eyes narrowed, a venomous, spiteful expression briefly surfacing before it submerged under affected blasé. "Looks like some of the soldier-boys have done their homework, but I don't think you're so eager to die. This is just your crude way of asking for something. We're at a standoff, ne? What do you want?"
"Your cooperation. The government has decided your kind are too dangerous to wander around without someone to look after you."
Nao laughed bitterly. "That sounds familiar. Why don't you say what you really mean? HiMEs make better weapons than citizens. That's what we are – tools." She crossed her arms in front of her chest, turning her face away. "I'm not interested in your petty squabbles, errand-boy." Better your tool than someone else's. Idiots.
She heard a smile in his voice as he answered. "I'm not asking, Yuuki-san. I'm telling. You have the trust of two of the more difficult HiME: Fujino-san and Kuga-san. You will use that trust to persuade them to join District, or we will destroy your life, starting with your mother." The blond man paused, sighing. "I don't like taking hostages, but the power of the HiMEs is too destructive, too easily manipulated. HiMEs are dangerous. Your freedom is expensive; the price is much too high."
Easily manipulated like what you're doing? Men are such hypocrites – such beggars, such bullies. The man's head was lowered, the heel of his free palm pressed into his forehead. The redhead inched forward as his attention faltered, hoping to get closer before he noticed, but his finger was already tightening on the trigger; she stopped midstep.
His voice was unsteady, thickly accented with some emotion she couldn't quite grasp. "Don't try my patience, Nao-chan. I have no reason not to kill you both if you won't do what's necessary."
Nao grunted. Necessary, huh? A true believer. The vexing certainty he was someone she'd met before skittered about her thoughts, taunting, elusive. She'd remember soon, she just hoped it was soon enough to be of use. "Whatever. You'd have better luck trying to convince them yourselves, though. I'm not high on their guest list." She waved her hand dismissively.
"Unfortunately, that's not an option. One of them is mentally unstable, and the other has uncertain loyalties. There's no suitable leverage to control them with but each other. And unlike you, we haven't been able to catch them by surprise."
Her lips pulled back in a grimace of fury. She lowered her hands to her sides, her fingers straightening as the metallic gloves encasing them sprang to life, extending to their full length. The man ignored this bravado, but must have realized he was treading carelessly through the minefield, pushing too many buttons at once. Even a trained dog will bite the hand that beats it. "Your mother will be a guest of the state until you've finished this task, and then she'll be released. I would suggest starting with Fujino-san, but that's completely up to you."
"Why do you even want Kuga? She can't use her Element," she shouted. She studied the man's posture – he seemed surprised by this revelation, and she smiled humorlessly. She had no compunctions about betraying Shizuru's whore, if it would alter the situation in her favor.
The blond man chose to ignore her comment entirely. "Fujino will make a powerful ally if she can be convinced. Even so, District needs some countermeasure to secure her consistency. Surely, even you realize they are a matched set. The ties that bind… bind more than affection. They bind the soul." He cleared his throat, motioning the men to escort Nao's mother out of the house.
She watched helplessly; they were careful. The guns never wavered from their target as they retreated, en masse, through the door they'd entered. The blond man halted a few steps outside the demolished kitchen. "You would make a powerful ally too, Yuuki-san. When the war starts, it's better to be on the right side. Think about it."
The redhead stood calmly with her arms folded over her stomach, memorizing every face she saw. The one in charge, he walked with slow, deliberate steps, favoring his left leg as if it pained him, dragging the foot through the grass. She remained in this pose until the last of their armored convoy rumbled away, then sank to the floor, crying. The nightmare never ended, never left her in peace. Once more, she was the broken toy of spiteful, malicious events ordering themselves beyond her control. The only difference between then and now was her desperation. She'd never been so scared in her life.
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"Kanzaki-san, I didn't realize you'd returned to the Acadamy." The brown haired woman's voice reflected her surprise as the man standing in the doorway stepped further into the light.
"Minagi," he corrected politely, and she smiled. His manners hadn't changed – still gracious and flatteringly soft spoken. Youko swore she could hear females fainting all across the campus. He stepped a bit closer, extending his hand; she glanced from the extended hand to his embarrassingly charming smile and back again, declining the invitation. He lowered the hand without seeming to notice. I wonder if he's still trying to seduce me, even after being away for so long? It was amusing, to be sure, but she'd always been immune to his charisma. Something she suspected constantly irked the young man.
"Minagi-san. What brings you back here? You've been away for a while now." Seven months to be exact, but she felt it impolite to bring this up, considering that the deaths of his sister and the others had occurred in the interim. She'd been concerned for the playboy when he didn't attend the funeral services.
"Ahh, well. After Mai-san made her choice of affections clear between Tate-kun and I, I thought it best to leave them the space they needed." He gave her another of his heart-warming smiles, and the nurse chuckled. Tate-kun, hmmm? Apparently old grudges still applied, even after all that'd happened. "I decided to travel a bit, introspect on what I wanted to do with my time." Sulk in private. "And now I'm back."
Reito paused, as if he were considering something he wasn't sure was proper. "Actually, I was wondering if I could ask a favor?" He glanced at the dark haired woman expectantly, and she briefly wondered if he were about to invite her on a date. She wouldn't put it past him. "I've been wandering around the campus looking for my sister, but she will most likely be in Mai-san's company. I was wondering if you'd call their room, perhaps ask Mikoto-chan if she'd like to meet me for lunch?"
Youko blinked several times, not quite sure she'd heard him correctly. Her mouth opened to remind him the pair was quite impossible to call, seeing as they were both deceased and thought better of it. However impossible it might seem, he might not have been informed they died, if he'd been traveling constantly. The smile fell from her lips as she considered how to broach the subject tactfully. "Reito, did you overhear the conversation with Akira-kun?"
The insufferably benign curve of his lips reveled nothing, and she resisted the urge to smack him. "I'm not sure what you mean, Youko-sensei."
"When you came in, you said – that's probably for the best. I thought maybe you'd been listening."
He lowered his eyes pleasantly before answering. "I have great faith in Okuzaki-kun's abilities. I was voicing my support as a greeting." The tone was casual, almost offhand, and she sighed. She could never tell whether or not he was lying, deliberately being obtuse. Probably in retaliation for not swooning under his attention, she thought sourly. She wouldn't put that past him either. Aristocracy had its own flavor of punishment, waited until one's back was turned before ripping into the flesh with dainty precision. If it was a deliberate feint, a redirection of genteel animosity, he wasn't going to give her a convenient path to retreat.
She decided it wasn't worth fretting over. "Ano, Minagi-san. Your sister and Mai are both dead. They died in a dormitory fire six months ago, along with Minakata-chan." She hesitated, not wanting to hurt him. "I'm very sorry. I assumed you would have been notified. I should have thought to contact you myself, when I didn't see you at the funeral. I just thought… perhaps you'd chosen to stay away out of grief."
The brown haired woman studied his expression, resigning herself to comfort the striking dark haired boy if he felt the need to cry. Her head tipped to one side. He'd stopped moving entirely, his face a blank mask, clay lacking animation or function. He held himself in this rigid pose for an uncomfortable length of time, and she shivered – backing into her desk. An inner voice of caution screamed at her to flee before life breathed itself back into his body, run away screaming before terrible things happened. It was disconcerting and she marveled, removed from herself as she was, at this completely ludicrous response.
He would never hurt her. He wasn't a creature of violence; he was a bon vivant, a rather foppish, spoiled person who dabbled in the art of bewitching those around him. But something flickered in the depths of his dark eyes, a luminous, golden-eyed presence, lithe and deadly, whose breath blew across her skin in arctic waves as it crouched, panting in the tall dun grass. She shivered, rubbing her hands over her arms to settle the fear prickled flesh back in place.
"Sagisawa-sensei has a very peculiar sense of humor," he whispered, taking a step closer on velvet paws. The image was so clearly defined in her mind – her former student transformed into some unnatural predator, muscles gliding smoothly beneath ebony fur as it menaced closer. She lifted her hand nervously to her mouth as if waiting to stifle unwary sound, not wanting to draw attention to herself. The young man smiled, displacing her imagined threat, and she felt foolish for her reactions, blushing slightly.
"I apologize, I must have misheard you. That's not possible; she invited me here herself a few days ago. She seemed very excited, and I wanted to share in that excitement."
The nurse extended her hand towards him as he turned to leave. "Ano, Minagi-san –"
"Please excuse me. I have some business to attend to. It was a pleasure to see you again, Youko-san. Your beauty never fails to surprise me." He smiled at her warmly, pausing in the doorway, offering her a bow from the waist. "Have a good evening, Sensei."
"Reito-san, wait!" She found herself talking to the echoes of his footsteps as he walked away, and she sighed. Infuriating man.
She'd recovered from her hallucination, and resumed her seat, thoughtfully nibbling on the inside of her cheek. It was so strange, how oddly people were acting. First Takumi, coming to her few days ago, bashfully admitting to faint, lingering pains in his chest, shortness of breath. Similar side effects to his weakened heart condition before he'd had his operation, but after a through examination, both in her office and at the hospital, he was pronounced completely healthy. She assumed it was traumatic stress, as if he were consciously clinging to embedded patterns of physical discomfort. He'd been obsessing about Mai more and more as the months drifted by; perhaps he needed this psychological crutch to help him cope. She didn't know.
And then Akira-kun somehow managing to steal the medical examiner's reports God knows how, asking Sagisawa to search them for an aberration, as if the boy were looking to prove some sort of conspiracy. And now the black-rose prince had returned to the school, claiming Mikoto had invited him here. Not to mention her own completely incomprehensible fantasy to what was obviously denial of her assertion that his only remaining biological family and the unrequited love of his life were deceased. Where the hell did I get that image from? There's no such thing as a black lion.
She tapped her fingernail on the desk for a few moments, lost in her thoughts. She glanced at her watch. Not too late yet. She dialed the number from memory, listened to the far away electronic hiss of over-sea connections being made, as the signal bounced between continents.
"Yo, Youko." She smiled in spite of herself – the unfailingly chipper tones had a tonic-like effect on nearly everyone her flame haired friend talked to. "If you're calling about that forty you think I owe you, I'm going to remind you – you were perfectly sober when you made the bet. I have witnesses."
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Midori set her phone down on the table, snatching up the water bottle she'd knocked over in the process, the pensive expression shifting to consternation as she brushed the stray water droplets from the speech she'd been preparing for tomorrow's lecture. The letters smeared across the page as the ink melted under her fingertips and she sighed, crumpling the page in her hand before sitting back in her chair and tossing it into the dustbin. So much for being prepared. She shook her head in amusement, crossing her arms to cushion her head as she tipped her head back to stare at the textured patterns on the ceiling.
America was so strange. The people here were difficult to understand, their myriad accents a constant source of confusion. And although the administrators honored tradition, the students themselves had no communal sense of purpose, flowed as restlessly as the ocean in a constant tide of individualistic conformity. At times, she wondered if it had been wise to accompany her professor as he started his lecture tour, but then she'd remember the seriousness of his expression as he thanked her, time and time again, for her peerless organizational skills; for keeping his life on schedule. And now she found herself at Berkeley, somewhere on the west coast, surrounded by a sea of lunatics.
Fuuka. Funny, I haven't thought about that place in a long time. And it was strange; she'd never finished her thesis, never felt inclined to complete her research. Of course, that probably had more to do with deliberately dragging her academic feet. She was in no rush to earn her degree – she enjoyed being the professor's graduate student assistant, learned more from following after him as he traveled to points of archeological interest. Having his undivided attention isn't bad either. She smiled, following the patterns of shadow dappling the roof. Still… Why had she abandoned her own project? She wasn't quite sure; it just didn't seem so important, what with the Carnival having sung itself hoarse. That part of her life faded into the background of memory, as did people she'd once initiated into the HiME Rangers.
She felt a moment of guilt. I really should have tried harder to keep in contact, but after Mai died, it all seemed pointless. She may have been the self-proclaimed leader of their patchwork misfits, the zealous protector of Justice, but Mai was the heart, gently orchestrating the beat by which everyone marched. She'd given them all hope. Right up to the end. "Mai." I hope you're happy, wherever you are. No one deserves it more than you.
Her feet had worked themselves between her and the desk as she mused, and she abruptly kicked out and propelled herself across the room. Swiveling the chair, she used her sneaker as a bumper to stop by the filing cabinets. Midori reached into the bottom drawer, pulling out a large, dusty accordion folder, unwinding the string and pulling out the bulging pile of information she'd collected. The remnants of her years-long quest, her obsession. She flipped through the nearly endless newspaper clippings, the financial reports, the web searches, the photocopies of historical documents she'd been able to find as she tried to piece together the puzzle.
What are we? What are HiMEs? She still didn't know – she'd refined her queries as the climax of their tragic play descended upon them, focusing on those things of immediate use. The legend of Ikusahime; dance of the twelve maidens of heaven. The reason, but not the cause. A slip of paper fluttered to the floor, and she bent to pick it up. A random scrap from her self imposed seclusion, mostly free association: Festival, twelve… Her eyes lingered on a hastily scrawled speculation. Fuuka Fuka? She slipped the papers back into the overflowing container and attached the string to close it, scooting the chair back to the desk. Maybe it's time to go back to the beginning.
Midori's hands hovered over the keyboard of her computer as she made flight reservations for the coming morning. She'd explain it to the professor later – he was always saying she should follow her instincts, and these feelings, the memories rushing back to greet her, held warning and promise both in their opened arms. Sometimes it's better to let sleeping gods lie. And sometimes it's better to kick the door down and drag them into the light. She owed it to them, her reluctant rangers, and it was time to pay up. With interest.
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The air was cool, carrying a hint of things not spoken, of what might have been, and may yet be. A breeze played with his hair, ruffled the feathered bangs to either side of his ears, swept the hair along the back of his neck forward, and he smiled at its whimsy, lifting a hand to chase it away. His uniform hadn't changed, still swathed him from head to toe in handsome obsidian lines, drawing the eye away from his face, and perhaps that was the manufactured effect. He wasn't cold, as oblivious to the effects of seasons as he was to the pale, imperfect wraiths inhabiting the accommodations around him while he stalked through their midst – predator to prey, securely wrapped in thoughts that bore no part of himself in their movements.
The excitement of being home, close to the bosom of he who was not himself, carried conflicting emotions, joy tinged regret, sorrow flavored abandon, feeding on one another until his steps faltered, forgetting their accustomed grace. He was tempted to rest on one of the benches, but even this concession, to bow under the burden of images he'd never seen, sounds that hadn't broken the silence in thousands of years, filled him with terror. This place claimed him, body and soul. He pressed on, leaning into the wind a bit more, using it for support. It hadn't always been like this.
"Mai." His voice lanced long festering wounds, and he called himself back from these memories, away from his craving for release. Love ached deeper still; she'd taken the pain away. But that wasn't meant to be; he couldn't bring himself to despise this figment of desire, the passion shared between them, himselves. Acceptance brought release as well. His head turned, following the summons, the thread, the binding between the souls. It was calling to him, but now it was multi-directional, strung across his perceptions in a fan, like the strings of a harp, vibrating accompaniment. Here, he was not himself, he was the cancer, the plague, the carrier of their despair, amplifying their pain with his presence, the focus behind their fraying control. Twelve jewels, shining in the palm of his hand, and he, and his sister, forever entwined; he couldn't change this truth, though he would if he could.
He sighed, stepping into the lee of the wall he followed as a group of girls dashed across the commons, giggling with each other. He didn't want to be observed; he watched the girls pass within a few inches of his hiding place, so close their hair brushed against his skin, and then out of sight. They didn't notice him, he had blended seamlessly with the darkness. His nose sampled the afterimage of perfume, and he closed his eyes, drowning his senses in this banquet, though the wearer held no interest for him. She was less than meaningless – a flawed vessel, her life leaking through the cracks, spilling from her pores as she died, minute by minute, with every beat of her heart. All mortal creatures were viewed thusly, on some level. The human mind wasn't designed to withstand the conception of eternity.
He disengaged himself from this distraction, gathered the only tangible thread between his fingers as he walked through the world of cobwebs. Akira wasn't in the dormitory he remembered, but he could find her so long as they were both in Fuuka. If there was any other way, I wouldn't… I'd leave, and let them rest. But there wasn't. His sister needed him; her thread was nearly transparent under the tensile strain, humming with misery. If the thread snapped, if she disappeared, he'd have nothing left, no hope of rewriting the wrongs, no penance for his blame, and as fitting a punishment as this may seem, he couldn't allow it. He'd known as soon as his foot touched the soil of his homeland Mikoto hadn't been the one to write him the letter. It changed nothing. He'd wait for his invitation.
In the meantime, there were things to deal with, and much as he regretted gathering the jewels together for his own purposes once more, it couldn't be helped. Okusaki's room was just ahead, through the dust colored doors and up two flights of stairs, but Reito paused, turning his head to the side. His body followed, until he was facing into the wind, swallowing the kinaesthetic glut of emotion. His nose flared, taking in the heady reek of gasoline – it was everywhere, his skin coated in the phantoms of its fluid, burning his eyes, flowing down his throat. He coughed, leaning his hand against the door for support, blinded by tears. No… please… A thread tightened around his throat, choking him as it flared brightly behind his eyelids, parted from itself, severing the connection.
Infinitely miserable man.
He clutched his chest, struggling to breathe. He hadn't been in time. He sagged, filled with regret, wondering if this, too, was his doing, or if fate was simply too inflexible to be moved. I'm sorry. Another of his maidens had fallen; he collected what remained, held it close to his heart, beside her sister. Yukariko, I'm sorry. He opened the door and ascended the stairs, knowing the same fate may claim them all, but he had to try. Ten maidens left, all in a row. The dance was over, but the music… the music wouldn't end.
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Natsuki knocked on the door with the hand holding the box, glancing around nervously – if they had been waiting for her at the apartment, they might be waiting for her here as well. The night was peaceful and still; she relaxed her grip on the gun behind her back, though she didn't take her hand away entirely. Shadows scattered as the door opened, and she eyed her contact warily, taking in the disheveled appearance. His khaki hat was pulled low over his face, but did little to mask the weariness he radiated. He stared at her for a second before stepping away from the portal, leaving the door open for her as he walked away.
Yamada grunted as she closed the door behind her. "You're alive."
She smiled with wry amusement. "Yeah. I guess I am." Her contact crossed his arms over his chest, leaning on the wall as he jerked his chin in the direction of his police scanner.
"Lots of people wondering where you are." He paused. "Fujino called the police. They checked the apartment after someone called in the license plate on her car. Stupid to go back there." He waited for a response, peering at the raven haired woman over the rim of his glasses. She shrugged. "You find what you were looking for?"
Natsuki fiddled with the box for a moment before holding it out to the khaki clad man. "Maybe. Maybe not. Smith sent his mechanical dog to fetch me, and we had a talk. He left me this." Yamada opened the box without asking if she'd looked inside; it was obvious she hadn't. He studied the contents without comment, his fingers tracing over a picture of a smiling woman standing in front of a business sign. Iwasaka Pharmaceutical. He lifted the picture out of the way, his expression giving Natsuki no hints as he continued to sift through the contents. An ID badge, a bank statement with a check stub stapled to it, a disk.
He handed Natsuki the picture, watching her reactions. "Looks a lot like you."
Natsuki's throat constricted as she re-memorized the face. The woman wore a white lab coat over her rose turtleneck, one hand raised as if in greeting. The camera caught her mid-turn, and her skirt swirled around her legs, blurring the movement. Her glasses had slipped down her nose, her emerald eyes sparkling with some unspoken merriment as she smiled. "Okasan." She blinked a few times to clear away the moisture obscuring her vision, letting the loneliness settle into its accustomed ache below her chest. Her eyes traveled to the sign, wondering what her mother had been doing there.
Her lips thinned. Selling me to the highest bidder, that's what she was doing. Natsuki brushed the back of her arm over her face and slipped the photo into her pocket, trying to control her breathing. "Was there anything else?"
Yamada removed the disk and handed her the box, leaving her to her thoughts as he walked to the living room and slipped the disk into his computer.
She studied the ID card. The woman was the same, but the corporation associated with it wasn't. Iwasaka? Her mother had worked for First District. Natsuki flipped the card over. The activation date stamped just below the magnetic strip was the day after they were forced off the road, the day after District killed her. 'Dr. Kuga tried to sell you to us as a research sample. However, her conspiracy was discovered…' What was Smith trying to tell her? 'The emotions you relied on…'
Natsuki unfolded the bank statement. Her mother had been receiving payment from the pharmaceutical company for several years. She rubbed the middle of her forehead anxiously. The account number matched the number she'd discovered on her stuffed animal; the final deposit an obscenely large amount of money. Her mother was going to start working for another company just before she was purged murdered. 'An unfortunate byproduct… The memory of your mother wasn't strong enough for you to accomplish this. We removed it.'
District was trying to kill her to keep her from finding something, something about her past. 'You're a lost sheep, and we want to bring you home.' She ground her teeth together, crumpled the papers around the ID and stuffed the bundle beside the picture of her mother, joining her contact as he studied the monitor. "Oi, is there a connection between Iwasaka and Searrs?" He sat back from the computer, staring at her.
"Searrs owns Iwasaka Pharmaceutical." He pointed to the computer. "Searrs became a majority stockholder when the company went public, and bought it outright ten years ago."
"Okasan was working for…"
"Iwasaka Pharmaceutical. But her research was for Searrs." The man in khaki pressed a button on the computer, and the Searrs logo appeared on the screen Searrs, for the Golden Millennium, fading into a slow pan over a skeletal chassis. The gentle, remembered voice filtered through the speakers, bringing tears to her eyes, but her mind had gone completely blank.
"… Multiple Intelligential Yggdrasil Unit. Structure modified to house a wide array of weapons, from single target combat to anti-tank capabilities. Prototype testing confirms primary weapons disrupt higher order matter, and may even inhibit the flow of energy used to manifest this ability ..."
"Stop it," she screamed and bolted for her motorcycle, the universal symbol for her escape, almost tearing the door off its hinges as she ran.
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She shivered, shedding her clothing in a daze; her feet carried her towards the bathroom, stumbling every few steps, and she would pause, head half turned over her shoulder, as if she were listening for something behind her, anticipating the arrival of someone long overdue, and she would wait in this pose for a moment before her body moved her forward again. Her discarded clothing littered the hallway, trailing from senseless fingers before they dropped to the carpet, forgotten necessity of a forgotten time. Her toes touched the chilly bathroom tiles and this almost registered. Her expression shifted from vacant apathy to confusion, to ragged hitching breaths. She slumped to the floor, tears flowing down her cheeks as she sobbed.
Failed. Failed Natsuki…Her rust shaded eyes lingered on the unopened package of straight razors perched on the lip of the sink, her fingers curling and relaxing rhythmically. Her breathing accelerated, face flushed, her lips parting as she leaned towards the package, her face reflecting the ardent yearning of one denied a lover's touch. She paused a second time, her motions disjointed, as if her limbs were unsure which master's wishes to listen to, and her legs drew themselves up to her chest; she trapped them, pressed them painfully close, hiding herself, only the crimson gleam of her eyes visible beyond her sanctuary.
She buried her head in her knees, oblivions to the breathless whimpers vibrating across her lips. No one was here to criticize her for this loss of control. She didn't know where Natsuki was, had no proof either way. Her lone wolf might be hiding anywhere, licking her wounds; she might return if Shizuru were patient. The scream. She snarled, her fingers pressing themselves into her calves with murderous strength as she replayed the images from the stolen surveillance feed. The muzzle flash as the man crouching behind the garage door fired, the bullet driving the dark haired woman to the oil slicked pavement as she cried out in pain, her foot tangling in the handlebars of her motorcycle.
Shizuru's mouth twitched, her mind filled with the need for revenge. But she hadn't, had she? She'd waited, remained still, forced the calm to keep her stationary, ignored her responsibility to take care of Natsuki because that's what her precious one would have wanted. So stubborn. And in her conflicted desires, she'd allowed the younger girl to be hurt, wounded to the point her recovery was questionable. The older woman hadn't mentioned the precariousness of Natsuki's well being when she awakened, how tenuous her beloved's hold on life had been, how easily it could have shifted from life to death as Shizuru frantically nursed her back to health. It hadn't seemed worthwhile; wouldn't have changed the result, but the honey-haired woman knew just how close the angel's wings had brushed.
And knowing this, knowing her inaction had led to suffering, she was still clinging to the hope everything would be ok if she held very still. She stood, staring at her reflection in the mirror, her lips drawn into a grimace of self-loathing, studying her face with rabid disgust. The calculating part of her, controlling her actions at this moment, dutifully reminded her Natsuki didn't want her help, even if Shizuru knew she could have killed the men before the dark haired woman arrived. She could have been spared the pain, if.. if… There's no proof on that disk that Natsuki is in District's custody. She glared at her reflection. And if she dies? No proof. If you stand there, and do nothing, she will.
She reached over, spun the handle of the shower, stepped into the scalding stream, dipping her hair into the painful heat. Her mind vindictively conjured images of Natsuki bleeding to death, wracked with agony as she pressed her hand to the fatal wound, too weak to rise – the emerald eyes overflowing with despaired betrayal. You promised. You promised to protect me. Her head sagged between her shoulders, tears mingling with the water as it sluiced over her body, gurgling accusations as the drain's throat swallowed her indecision.
Her mind weakly countered with the endless deluge of rebuke Natsuki scorned her with in reprisal for previous assistance, the harsh words as she cast aside motive for result – she didn't need Shizuru, didn't need to be rescued, she could handle it on her own, dammit. Rejection hurt so much, tore at the necessity to defend what she loved. Going to let her die. Doesn't need me. Watch and do nothing. Worthless. Protect what's mine. Completely worthless. Get out of my life!
She curled her fingers over her ears, trembling so violently she nearly fell, pushed to the limits of her ability to endure. Her chest constricted, unable to hold the sound in any longer; the howl ripped up from the pit of her stomach, scalding her lungs, bruising her throat as it escaped through her clenched teeth, continuing until she was too exhausted to cry. She pressed her face into the wall, gasping for breath, calming by degrees – only the furnace of her fury remained. In the end, it didn't matter: if Natsuki was in danger and she did nothing, she would have failed her beloved again; if Natsuki wasn't in danger, she would still fulfill her promise. If she fell in the attempt, it was no matter – Natsuki was all mine her life.
Remaining still gained her nothing, and she needed no preparation other than consensus between emotion and logic; the other information on the disk had been unimportant: names, faces, a handful of locations. She'd already gotten what she needed, used the base materials Smith provided to find blueprints, building layouts, personnel rotation. She wasn't interested in the details, but she'd memorized them just the same. A single grain of rice…
She smiled, laughing quietly as she rinsed her thoughts away, one at a time forgive me. She turned off the shower, padding down the hallway, naked and dripping, to her bedroom. She knelt, seiza style, in front of her closet, opening the door with graceful economy, her fingers exploring the shadows until she felt the fabric of her kimono. She traced the outlines of the garment, a shade darker than the one ruined in the Carnival – deep burgundy, the color of her eyes, ritually folding the robe over her body. She watched her silhouette as she dressed, her fingers fastening the obi around her waist. Natsuki, hang in there for me. I'll be there soon.
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The man sat up as a figure separated itself from the night, walking towards the truck. He nudged his partner awake and together the opened their doors, surrounding the woman as she lowered her head submissively. This was the girl they'd been sent to observe, a HiME, but he hadn't been told anything else. One of the men searched her for weapons, surprised there was no difference in texture as his hands slid along her sides – she wasn't wearing anything underneath the kimono. His breath caught, his hands lingering under her arms, thinking she was very beautiful. Shizuru laughed and he removed his touch guiltily, grabbing her arms and escorting her behind the truck.
She didn't speak, not once, and it was creeping them out. The man holding her arms assisted her as she leapt lightly into the back of their vehicle. She was cloaked in an aura of benevolent placidity, majestic and intimidating; neither was quite bold enough to shove her forward. It would be disrespectful. They watched her lower herself, resting her body on her heels. She folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes, waiting, and both men briefly entertained the idea the girl was being delivered to her execution, and she accepted this as inevitable. She wouldn't try to escape, she was resigned to her fate, whatever it may be. They shrugged, almost in unison, and returned to the cab of the truck.
Shizuru let the hum of their conversation lull her as the truck bounced over the rough road leading to the military installation. They were getting close, the far off twinkle had grown into discernable clusters of light, encompassing the parameter in a ring of illumination. She lifted her thumb to her mouth, bit down until blood splashed over her tongue. Come to me one more time. She spat the blood through the gap in the canvas covering the bed of the truck, holding her thumb out in front of her, fingers curled, watching the droplets splatter as they rolled down her wrist. One more time. She offered herself as the symbolic sacrifice for her summons. It was a means to an end; there was no guarantee it would be answered, and she tensed, held rigid until the sibilant presence embraced her, whispered its compliance.
The truck shuddered as the red blade slashed through the rear axle, sparks igniting between the tires as the weapon's motion continued, effectively cutting the vehicle in half. The men screamed as both halves separated from one another with a final earsplitting squeal, each traveling at different speeds as they toppled to the ground. Shizuru walked through the litter of twisted metal, following the heat of their terror, shifting the naginata in her grip. She stood over the man who'd let his hands roam over her body, smiling to herself.
"Kiyohime."