Akira stood outside the police station, the morning still struggling to catch up with his own, rushed pace. He was in his puffy, blue jacket, the grey hood slung over his head like an unwelcome present, and his hands were shoved in his pockets. A black scarf wrapped around his throat, and his jeans rubbed uncomfortably against his legs. There were still so few people walking behind him, some talking about the latest news, others buried in their own problems, and still others who are worrying for others, as he should be doing, though his adolescent hyperactivity prevented him from doing so.
He took a deep breath. Mr. Saito was a hero. Of everyone here, he wasn't supposed to die. He didn't deserve to die. It just wasn't fair.
He clenched his fists, and slowly walked into the warm office.
He found himself amidst an array of desks, all neatly lined in straight rows, all uniform with no praises or congratulations for their unique attire. Flickering fluorescent lights gave way to a mesmerizing, boring sequence, one he wouldn't actually mind staring at all day, if his patience allowed for it. Cobwebs adorned the abandoned, rustic corners of the office, the smell of udon and ramen attracting every little desperate insect that came with finding such warmth. There was a small group of police officers in the back, but they were so engrossed with the latest of their branch's screw up they never bothered about the young boy, who was wandering around, his grey eyes peeking around the surrounding shadows.
Akira narrowed his eyes. Hopefully, they didn't believe that crap on the news. Mr. Saito would never do something like that, even if he did have a few problems. Someone has to know what's been happening. At the very least they should be able to tell him if they've made any progress in the investigation yet.
So he took off his coat, tugged away the scarf, and waited. He would walk from one desk to another, peer down the dark hallways which housed the interrogation rooms, stare at the group of men once or twice. Every time he looked back, they remained oblivious to his presence. He bit his lip and stormed up to one of the officers. "Hey!"
No one, it seems, heard him.
"HEY!"
One of them did turn around then.
The boy straightened and prepared himself, ready to take on whoever stood in the way of his curiosity, to attack the obstacle that stood in his path. A dreamlike image of his own persona came to mind, and suddenly, he was wearing a cape. He had a cool looking mask on like the heroes in Super Sentai World, as well as muscles that were barely contained under his clothes. From his own standpoint, he was invincible, untouchable, rescuing those who needed him, jerking around those who envied him. That little kid from Sotoba was no longer there. Rather, something stronger carried him, something that wasn't held down by the griefs the okiagari gave him, the frustrations his sister embedded into him. There were no haunting memories within his frame, no cursed nightmares that kept him up every night. He was confident, carefree, and happy; the ideal hero that could outwit any foe, fight any enemy, get all the girls he could possibly ever want, if only to keep his loved ones safe.
That pride faded from the moment he saw the officer.
The man was tall, rough-looking, his hair sticking out from all sides of his face. Dark shadows covered his pale skin, with bruises that emphasized the ruinous condition of his flesh. Burn marks were scorched all over his face, and his black business suite did nothing to make the him seem any less demonic. There was an irritated frown plastered on his face, and it wasn't until a second later did Akira realize he'd have to take a step back, else his rancid breath wash over the boy like an unpleasant wave.
He put his arms on his hips and tried imitating that delusion tap dancing in his brain, only to fail horribly. "I have a request," he barely squeaked.
"What the hell are you doing here kid?" he growled. "Who let you in?"
"I uh…I-!"
"Dude, stop it," one of them chided. "You're scaring him. And besides, it's not like Tsukiyama ever does shit around here."
"Shut it," the demon hissed, before turning back to Akira. "Well? Out with it."
"Um…" Akira began. "Mr. Saito…"
"What's that douche gotta do with you? You his damn fanboy or something?"
Akira bit the inside of his lips, and glared at the man. "He's the bravest man in the world. Don't badmouth him like he's another one of your bitches."
The guy behind him suddenly laughed then, hiding his conspicuous mocking through an emaciated hand. "Damn dude. Kid's got spunk, I'll give him that."
"You punk ass little…!" The man grabbed Akira's collar then, forcing the boy. His knuckles embedded themselves into his throat, and he yelped in surprise at the attack. Both his hands gripped the man's beefy wrist, as he struggled to regain his balance, though obviously not deterred from the immediate threat. "Son of a damn bitch!"
"Hey, he's just a kid. Put him down."
"Screw that, damn fucking-!"
"You wanna finish that sentence?"
And then he stopped.
Slowly, Akira felt himself lowered to the ground, his collar loosened from his monstrous grip. The boy heaved heavily, but he never gave ground, as he continued glaring daggers at the monster. All the while, the man rubbed his neck awkwardly, quietly backing down from his superior, as he returned to his corner. Curses still flourished from his lips, all the while looking away from Akira, who now triumphantly stared at the ape, his heroic image returning to his mind.
"You okay?"
Akira swirled around to the sound of the voice, shocked by the boy behind him. He was taller than he was, that boy, with a calm, delicate smile on his face, an aspect Akira could never understand. Black hair fell from his shoulders, and along with it black orbs that drew Akira in, never letting him out of his sight. He was wearing a high school uniform, a grey blazer with black pants underneath. Did he go to Kaori's school?
Like the ape, his skin was pale, though it wasn't as sickly as the okiagari Akira had to deal with. Looks like he's got a pulse too. The guy's safe.
He shot the boy a haughty smile. "You know, you didn't have to do that. I could've handled that monster."
"Really?" he replied sarcastically. "I highly doubt that."
"It's true!"
"Then I'll take your word for it," he says, his amiable gaze sliding up to the group of men behind Akira, all of whom were now submissive, obedient, murmuring tiny words of apologetic praise to the ones they've wronged. "But I'd be lying if I told you I wasn't interested. You knew Saito-san?"
Akira blinked, unable to conceal the relief from his expression. "Yeah! My sister and I were friends with him!"
"Former chief of police, right?"
"That's right!" Akira confirmed vehenemently. "I just wanted to know if there've been anything…"
"Perhaps," the boy answered then. "What's your name?"
"Akira!" he stated proudly. "Akira Tanaka."
"So…you're Kaori's little brother?"
He blinked. "You know her?"
"Well…yeah." The boy laughed awkwardly. "I go to the same school with her. I've seen her in the halls, but I've never actually gotten to talk with her. I heard she had a brother," he tousled the boy's hair, "but I didn't think he'd be this brave. Either that or you're just really stupid."
"Brave," he affirmed.
"Brave then. I'm Toma by the way," he continues, extending his hand then. "My last name's a little embarrassing, so I don't use it."
"Huh…so anyway. About Mr. Saito-"
"Ah. Right, Saito-san always did talk about you. Never could shut up about the Tanaka siblings." A nostalgic grin was planted his face then, the once chilling atmosphere now breaking down. "Never got a chance to go to the guy's funeral. Biggest mistake of my life."
"Y-yeah." Akira remembered that day. He kept crying and crying and crying, while Kaori stood there, watching stoically as the mourners wished their beloved a final farewell. It was sad, depressive, but in the end, it was what made Akira more active, more mature, even if he never showed it. Yet at the same time, the scene felt all too familiar, familiar etchings of sorrow fulfilling the corners of his mind. He'd lost count how many times he thanked someone, anyone, Death perhaps, for sparing Mr. Yuuki.
Toma nodded solemnly. "To tell you the truth, the investigation is in a bit of a standstill."
Akira's ears suddenly perk up. "What?"
"Honest. The police think it has something to do with that village hidden in the mountainside. I mean, it was pretty terrifying. It was so gruesome it's a mystery why we even buy the crap in horror books."
He narrows his eyes. "Sotobamura? Is that the village?"
Toma looked up. "Yeah. Why?"
"What was Mr. Saito looking into?"
"Occult stuff. A lot of serious shit went down in that place. To be perfectly honest, I'm not even sure that's kind of stuff is for police to be digging around. A couple of officers have already gone missing…"
Akira bit his lip. So it's true. Something did follow he and Kaori, something really really bad.
And they never told anyone about it.
Akira grabbed Toma's wrist. "I know what happened!" he shouted.
Toma blinked. "You know what happened…?"
"I'm from Sotoba!"
"Look, you're a nice kid-"
"Let me help," Akira said, the perseverance sparking in his eyes. No, not again. He wasn't going to let another death happen because of him, or his sister. That was what they owed everyone in the village, what they owed their parents, what they owed Natsuno. His grip tightened, the desperation showing from ever line in his face. "Please." he asked finally.
Toma stared at him for a moment, as if contemplating on whether or not to take the boy seriously. Finally, he relented. "Come into the interrogation room. I'll be a few minutes."
Natsuno drummed his fingers patiently from inside the cafe, with a blueberry muffin sitting in front of him, as he watched the outside go on by, the seconds bypassing him eagerly, and without mercy. Dark, soulless eyes glanced by at each person, imagining the stories they might've told had not they been enveloped in a blissful, light innocence, ones that he could barely look at without being utterly repulsed. An isolated air enveloped the melancholic silence, and within those quiet thoughts he began shifting forgotten feelings through his mind, one after the other. He then goes on with the seemingly dull activity, never bothering to look up at the significant absence before him. A child's lullaby drifts tonelessly throughout the enraged light, a colorful balloon dancing here and there over the edge of day, a content hum teetering off the edge of someone's lips. And it seems Shimizu was getting more and more popular everyday, her subtle tastes appearing throughout the torrential streams of bodies beside him.
A velvet shade of dark amethyst covered his face, along with a pale that caressed every movement he endeavored, tragic or dramatic otherwise. A torn, black checkered jacket adorned his torso this time, his previous old cloth now losing its worth, and underneath the fabric was a dark grey shirt that kept absorbing whatever color was left in the realities surrounding him, an age old pattern of skeletal wings and rustic clockwork making the jinrou older than he really was. He was wearing black jeans, and an old pair of dress shoes his father bought him once for school. Cold peeked through the fabric though, and even in a place as warm as this he felt the frosty blizzard from just a week ago, inching closer and closer to a heart that had already stopped beating.
Or perhaps not. After all, a pulse was a pulse, wasn't it? In the midst of a world as bloodstained and wretched as this, Natsuno supposed people never actually had time to consider what a heart meant, aside from what was necessarily the accepted norm. No one ever had to face their guilt conscience, never had to take blame as long as they believed it was alright, as long as they showed they regretted it, classifying it as some stupid mistake that should be buried in the past and kept there, long after the world rots away. It was a thought that kept recurring from within his corrupted mind, and these days it was all he could ever think about.
He often wondered how people like that were. He kept pondering on how they dealt with their remorse, other than apologizing, or solitude, or sacrificing their own futures for an unforgiving audience with no hope of escape. Jail seemed to harsh, prison seemed to meager, and what of that in-between? Those were the emotions he had wrapped inside himself, and more than once did he catch himself thinking of how regular people would handle something as small as a murder, as large as a massacre. Would they keep those same standards, biasing themselves to the point where only the outcome mattered? Would they pursue the cruelest punishment possible, even if they themselves abandoned something as trivial as law for the sake of their own enjoyment? Would they have stayed in that jury then, forcing the judge to pick whatever outcome they deemed best, without a thought of whether or not they kept on with appearances?
What would it be like then, to face the villagers one last time? Would Shimizu be there, standing before him, a victim masquerading as a judge? Or would she be with him, covered in bruises and scars, chains adorning her body with a quiet flow of blood following her to the stand? Would she be his fellow sinner, in the chaos of it all, wrapped in those same, guilty tendrils that claimed them both so easily? What were they charged with? What could have possibly constituted as justice in the eyes of those shadows?
He had no idea.
And it consumed him. It engrossed him, to the point where he couldn't even look at Shimizu anymore, or anyone else, for that matter. He didn't know what to do, didn't know what to say to ease the pain. Then again, it's not like Tooru would have a say in it either. He was dead, after all.
The jinrou's gaze slowly make their way toward the empty seating sitting across from him.
That was strange. Haru didn't come today either.
Megumi was in that tiny room once again, carefully tracing the scribbled on lines, her stare weaving together messages of bliss and ignorance. She stepped around corners softly, her legs bringing her from one end to the next, picking up neither inspiration nor awe as Mr. Murakami suggested it would. She sighed disappointedly, but continued on with her excursion, knowing full well his camera was trained on the door in the event she decided to sneak out. She still had six hours left, and he couldn't imagine allowing his "star designer" to leave so quickly.
The obsession was creepy, to say the least, but of course, perhaps that was how all businessmen acted; either that or they had a different way of thinking than everyone else. No, not businessmen; rather, children. Mr. Murakami was an adult who had the mind of a child, carrying a small fragment of dream within this nightmarish life. Megumi could certainly understand why the man would want to distance himself from something like that. The fine arts were supposedly a fairytale world where everyone kept struggling for their happy end, no matter how pathetic they were, or how pointless it seemed.
And it was by that logic she continued searching. Black met red, then purple, then green, then orange, then any other color the child seemingly came up with. Gibberish combined with scribbles, and symbols she thought she could make out ended up a kaleidoscopic blur of nothingness in the end. Whatever philosophical hope she had of ever solving this puzzle grew silent before she could ever even analyze anything.
But two hours later, she simply stood there, depressed and confused. She didn't know what Mr. Murakami saw in this, and even if there was some deeper meaning to it, Megumi simply wasn't interested in finding it. There was nothing at all that could grab her attention; the activity was just a waste of time.
And to add insult to injury, just yesterday, when she called in to ask about the mannequins, the man told her that it was alright, that she didn't need to worry about them anymore. Apparently, there was a really good company in America that was happy to take on a mundane task as that. After a few tense moments, Mr. Murakami then added, quite insultingly, "Don't call me about something like this again."
She really did want to strangle him then.
She suddenly heard a soft knock on the door. From the crack, Ms. Osaka appeared, ready and dressed for the winter. "Dearie, you can go home now, if you want…"
The shiki smiled. "Are the cameras still on?"
The old woman sighed, an edge of misery embedded in that kind heart of hers. "Better stay put then. Let me know when you're finished-"
Megumi shook her head. "I'll be fine. Your son's birthday's today, right?"
She narrowed her eyes. "Are you sure you'll be alright? You've heard the news, didn't you?"
"About the serial killer? Yeah. You be careful too, okay?"
Ms. Osaka gave her one last, lingering smile, before resigning to Megumi's request, and leaving the vampire there in the darkness. When she heard the old woman's footsteps resounding through the corridors, along with a few stray whispers from the staircase next to her, she returned to the predicament at hand, unsure of whatever meaning the somewhat unattractive mural carried.
It was around yesterday morning when police discovered the body of Virgil Fawn, in a company building where that monster had attacked her. A clean bullet was found lodged in his brain, and with the amount of destruction the structure suffered, it seemed the attack was anything short of malicious, calculated, well-planned, words that couldn't hope to comprehend the dark, twisted delusion the sins kept so carefully guarded in that place. Swarms of reporters gathered near the yellow tape, holding out their cameras with bright flashes going on and off all the time. A few of the officers had to keep them back, while others kept on with their own little mayhem, trying to calm themselves while asking supposed witnesses what exactly happened there. Not surprisingly, the employees didn't know either, but as of late, a majority of Fawn's rivals were labeled in suspect; not one of them was free from scrutiny.
Her neck was still healing at tat time, and though she could move her head, for some reason her legs remained paralyzed, so Yuuki had to carry her out. He managed to wrap his jacket around her abdomen, and since the sun was very much asleep asleep, they both snuck out without any problems. In fact, it was so abnormal, how they managed to just get away so easily.
When they got back to the apartment, however, Yuuki stayed silent, if only for a few hours. Though fatigue clouded Megumi's mind, and the painful sensation of bones and veins were snapping back into place, she couldn't help but grow a bit curious as to what he found there, or what the monster that attacked her was, or if Toma was behind all of this. That same curiosity flickered in Yuuki's eyes, but neither of them could say it. The words were dancing on her tongue, but bile built up in her throat, rendering her speechless for the remainder of the moments. Hunger was also a very troublesome burden, considering how parched she was, and from a glance, she could tell he was too.
And they both left it at that, with no other thought given to the predicament, for which both their madness stemmed.
Megumi bit her lip, the remnants of Yuuki's odd behavior still pressing her mind. She crouched down to examine yet another meaningless drawing, her arms folded in neatly, as she kept aimlessly watching the circles passing through white. Could they really afford to keep secrets from each other, especially something as important as this? She had no idea what was going on, no clue what was about to happen, and all Yuuki could do was make small talk. She was hurt, if not outright enraged by his utter lack of cooperation. What's more, the distance that once faded from her mind, as well as the trust she enjoyed, was now shattered, gone from her decadent wishes.
What was it? What was he hiding? Did it involve Kaori, or Haru, or Toma? Did it involve Bethlehem Hospital, or the syndicates, or even her company? Was it nothing at all? No, it couldn't be; Yuuki wouldn't be so tense if everything was solved at the drop of a hat. And what of Amber Fawn? Why was she so important in all of this?
What about Amber Fawn?
Megumi stood then, and went to another wall, her fingernails lingering near the crumbling walls. She remembered her files, all of which were still sitting in the apartment somewhere, probably getting ready to be tossed away one way or the other. She was the daughter of an American tourist. She had a very bad blood disease that limited her enjoyment, if not ruined it, and somehow, it grew deadlier and deadlier, until the girl reached her breaking point. After that, she went missing.
There were cages in the Hospital. There were cages when she woke up. There were people in those cages. No, they weren't experiments. But they weren't patients either. They were food, livestock, an inevitable chain of survival in which not even Yuuki was exempt. She was in there to put a stop to the syndicates. She was there when the Hospital burned down, as did the tunnels. She killed them. She killed human and shiki alike.
But what was Yuuki, of all people, doing there?
She stopped when she came to a certain drawing on the wall. Unlike the others, this one was actually good. The edges were still a bit rough, but the details were so exquisite and detailed that she couldn't help but wonder if this was the same artist. It was, she realized, but it appears they've aged quite a bit, the mature sadness showing even from the faded crayons and markers. Some paint was used, which might've added to the contrast.
It was a small, tiny bouquet of flowers set in the middle of the walls, the colors blending so well together in all its significance. The light brown reminded Megumi of that stupid little basket Kaori would always take with her when they were young, spring arriving within the blink of an eye. Light green vines entwined with the thin handle, with small spiders dangling from the hem. A few of the bugs were holding desperately to the craft, too afraid to deal with what may lie below, while others simply lay off to the side, unwilling to deal with the newest interruption. Soft petals descended from the basket, carrying along with them grey spider webs, hindering their travels with each second passed.
Inside the basket were pink and purple flowers, all of which carried a magnificent radiance nothing else in the room held. Dark, abysmal strokes mirrored the reflections for which the flowers were supposed to hold. Light carried away from the tenebrous shadows seemingly waiting for the another failed drawing to come before it. It was impossible for the other creations to compete with it, and even as she turned, staring at the other trash, she felt drawn to the room at an instant. She forgot about her initial boredom.
The back of her fingers carefully caressed the lone blossoms. The style was hopeful, happy, thoughtlessly reckless in every possible way. Though the lines were neat, within the shades she saw something different, something that didn't at all fit with what she wanted to believe. It was cold, cruel, and when she squinted, she saw a flurry of disorganized lines flying away from the peaceful, golden cores, and even when she attempted to block out the frustrated, agonizing sketches, they were still there, ready and waiting to be noticed once again.
Megumi stood there and stared at it for a while.
For one reason or another, the display reminded her of Haru, who never even visited her once, in the midst of this mess.
