Sleeper Cell
Greed
He moved too much, and that was forcefully apparent when the stove hissed like a malevolent cat. Taking that as a divine sign, he set the large spoon down and let the noodles soften on its own.
The young man glanced disdainfully at the unfamiliar kitchen as he left to occupy himself in some other way. It was simply too plain for him. Now if only the walls had posters of movie stars, or at least something unique to mark itself as being its own individual. He realized a moment later that they were simply walls.
He sat on the couch in the living room. It was small, but he didn't expect much more from a cheap apartment, and, just like the kitchen, it was dull. As if it were trying to repent for the lack of grandeur, the couch was shockingly comfortable. However, a single glance at the brown, cigarette burned cushions reminded him why he had hated it so much when he first entered.
With a dispassionate sigh, he decided that his ramen must have become soft by now. As he rose from that deceptive couch, his foot hit against something with substance, and when it fell over, liquid sloshed against the sides like an artificial beach. The blonde plunderer, looked at the fallen spray bottle. Make that an artificial beach of chemicals.
He remembered the bottle of Windex; after all, he was the one who had left it there. The window was streaked from when he had wiped it with a paper towel, but at least it wasn't from the blood that was there. Another mishap to add to his list of failures in his entire unorthodox career, and he knew, regrettably, that there would be many, many more.
Without a further thought of that boring, reminiscent room, he answered the call of the bubbling and hissing stove. He sprinted simply because he didn't want to make his ramen wait any longer, and as he abruptly halted, his shoeless feet slid on the plain linoleum floor.
"That," he paused. "Was… so… cool!"
He was about to do it again–there was something so fascinating about sliding in that simple kitchen. It was as if that was its redeeming quality–a special function that can only be performed in its mundane embrace, but he did recall why he had come into this atrociously unoriginal room. Ramen.
His perfectly formed blue eyes sharply made their way to the overflowing pot. Each time it gurgled, a miniscule stream fell over the pot's boundaries and landed on the guard. It hissed. It steamed. That is, until he turned off the stove.
As he grasped the sleek black handle, he scorched his hand from its intense heat. In all honesty, he was surprised nothing had become molten by this point. He cradled the injured hand against his chest and barely contained a whimper. Could this be divine justice for the murder of the man who lived here, he had to wonder, but then it struck him, since when was he religious?
He settled with using a cloth to shield his other hand from that burning touch, and poured the plain noodles and scalding water into a large, pristine bowl. To his disdain, there were no chopsticks…
Then a slightly bent fork will have to do!
He doused the center of the bowl with the artificial flavoring; it was like a mountain of wonderful scents. However, he soon used the aforementioned utensil to stir the epitome of his love, though in his words: ramen.
Soon, ever so soon, it transformed from that plain shade of noodle and the lucid texture of liquid into something more. The noodles became one with the powder, and the water became murky with rich–he looked at the package–chicken flavoring!
Somehow impervious to the torrid ramen, he consumed it with haste, and loved every slurp, every whip of the wet noodles, and every drop of it that went down his throat. As an afterthought, he realized that it didn't taste a thing like chicken. He could forgive that, however, ramen was his love.
He simply placed the empty bowl into the sink. It wasn't as if crime was uncommon in this area, and the people living here were not important so no one ever really cared what befell them. The small boy felt a twang of guilt but only that.
To each his own.
But now was the time for him to leave. There was nothing else useful for him in this barren world of a dead man.
He walked down the solitary hall, though he didn't think "hall" was a proper term. It was barely a foot and a half long with a bathroom in the middle and a single bedroom at the end. He paused before the bathroom door. The stench of decay entered his nostrils, causing him to flinch. Had he been here long enough for the body to decompose already?
He took a step forward. A breeze, suddenly, came from the small room to his right. It wasn't very strong, but it was tangible. In any case, it sparked enough interest in the fair-haired individual for him to gaze into the said bathroom.
It lingered on an open window just large enough for his small frame to fit through…
---
His eyes were narrowed now, unlike a moment before. They had been pallid, baleful–in her opinion–beacons staring blankly ahead, until that little red light blinked. He had closed them only to place the large headphones over his ears. Then they had opened once more, but they were not the same….
His eyes were narrowed now. She could not be sure whether it was sorrow or determination, but given the situation, her common sense told her it was the latter.
She had been taught from her seasoned grandmother, that one could see the soul of a person by means of their eyes, but this man's eyes appeared to be soulless to her. However, she did mean to judge him, after all, she has only known the man for several days (and was quite thankful that he accepted her so quickly).
As he removed the headphones–after speaking a word of confirmation into a sleek microphone–his mysterious empty eyes closed for that expected, fleeting moment.
"Neji…," she allowed the question to linger in the cramped air of the car.
"You do as I say, student," he addressed her in his deep monotone voice. She knew what he meant underneath those words. He had authority over her, and he could ruin her chances at forming a career in this field if he put an effort.
He knew she knew he knew.
"Hyuga, sir, what has turned up?"
Yeah, he definitely knew. And she certainly knew it too.
"There might be some trouble," was all that he said.
She wasn't going to judge him Haruno Sakura had to reaffirm.
He pulled up the nondescript car into the guest spot accommodated by the domineering apartment complex. To her, it seemed bigger than most and rather run down. She began to muse if it could twist and contort in the breezes of the warm night.
It stood firm, in a beat up sort of way that was uniquely its own.
She was glad it hadn't rained for a while since she thought feet would be very prone to slipping of the smooth stone of the stairs. Nonetheless, she ascended and, for the first time, was quite thankful to be in the throes of a dry spell.
The detective halted in front of a simple brown door labeled "223" in thick, golden paint, and she honestly didn't think the colors went well together. Since the mediocre police decided to not stick around, the pair had to do the basic investigation on their own. How reliable.
He tested the door to see if it was locked, but, as the squeamish manager had said, the lock was busted and the door slid open with ominous creaking.
She flicked the lights on after fumbling for the switch. It seemed like a normal apartment–drab–but normal. Well, there was a bottle of Windex left out, but that wouldn't have been too peculiar.
It wouldn't have been too important if this were not a crime scene.
An unkind scent wafted through the air. The detective hurried down the only hall into the house, and she could have sworn she saw veins ready to rupture from the corner of his eyes. Could it be from agitation? If so, what was the cause?
She shrugged off the thought and followed suit.
He paused by what seemed to be the entrance of the bathroom, but she passed him with only a moment's hesitation. Her gloved hand opened the doorknob in parody of shimmering gold. It took a cursory glance to confirm what they already knew. "There's a body."
"And here's a culprit," he said from within the bathroom. The intern came in quickly after that statement. He knew he had seen something so miniscule from the corner of he eye, and, not shocking to him, he was correct. It was a small orange cloth caught within the clutches of a broken window frame. He picked it out with his own gloved hand, and showed it to the student.
The veins were not there, she confirmed. It must have all been in her head.
"What shall we do now," she indulged. If he understood the truth beneath those very words, which she was positive he did, she was treading on thin ice. Her desire to see if she could be regarded as a companion, a teammate seemed to outweigh her common sense. As she stared into those large, feral, and pupil less eyes, she could not find any fragment of emotion or soul.
He closed them, and she wasn't sure if he was thinking carefully about his response or not.
She knew he knew she new–the actual meaning of her very words.
He turned on heel to look out the window, perhaps? And she heard the faint sucking of him drawing in breath.
He was going to respond.
She definitely knew he knew…