Title: A Matter of Fiction (working title)
By: Remalna Marguerite
Notes: X is the creative property of CLAMP. No profit is being made
here.
*mumbles
something about white-haired sexy yumeni.* The story is set sometime before
1999—if that's not ambiguous enough for you.^^
Enjoy!
***
CH.1
Rush
hour traffic in Tokyo was always bad, but on that day, it seemed worse than
usual.
I
checked my watch again. Quarter to six. I was going to be late. Damn,
annoyance suddenly burst forth and I jerked the steering wheel to the far left,
knowing full well that I deserved to be arrested for cutting off the over-sized
blue truck, speeding past the lump of a school bus and finally jamming my own
piece of metallic garbage in front of the fancy red convertible. Three
perfect strangers that I just stepped on to save a few minuets; it's really
starting to form a pattern, I mused.
So,
feeling not at all chagrined, I waved "apologetically" to my rear-view
mirror...and took the opportunity to check my appearance.
Seems
alright, I thought. I was about to glance away when something made me take a
closer look at my visage. Slightly glassy, murky brown eyes reflected back to
me; its gaze even and forward. A practical fall of short, non-descript brown
hair--carefully styled and arranged in a valiant effort to counter-balance the
poor texture of the hair--framed a narrow, angular face showing all the signs
of much caffeine, haphazard diet and too little sleep: lips, bare, pinched,
pale. I suddenly realized with a grimace that I looked five years older than
was natural.
Nothing
serious...nothing a little make-up won't cover up.
Yeah,
right.
Moments
later, any thoughts or doubts I had about my physical appearance evicted from
my mind as I nabbed a semi-legal parking slot. I had arrived. With exactly one
minute, thirty-six seconds to spare.
Black,
leather pumps hit the solid pavement, both at the same time. A black leather
purse--too oversized to be considered fashionable-was swung briskly onto my
shoulder. I had my notepad, my pens, my recording equipment, my camera and two
extra rolls of high quality film.
I
was ready.
***
The
black-suited man (body-guard or guard?) scanned my ID card slowly. His face was
impassive, showing about as much emotion as a death-mask. I couldn't see his
eyes from behind those dark-tinted glasses, but I could feel his gaze shifting
to my face. Being examined under the microscope wasn't exactly a favourite
past-time of mine.
"Look,"
I broke the heavy silence and made a show of glancing at my watch, "I have an
important interview happening in less than fifty seconds. I'd hate to be late."
Silence.
A
nerve in the back of my jaw ticked, I was growing impatient. It was true
though, I made it a personal policy of never being late for an interview; it
was one of the few rules, codes of conduct, that I actually make an effort to
uphold.
"Are
you going to let me through or not?" I asked sharply.
Silence.
Shit,
I nearly ran over a dozen vehicles to get here on the dot, only to have this
stupid oaf--
A
quietly commanding voice interrupted my thoughts.
"It's
alright. Let her pass." The speaker said somewhere inside the apartment.
Without
breaking his silence, security cleared the entrance and allowed me to pass.
Before I could say anything, he had shut the door with a loud click that
sounded somewhat ominous to my ears. At least he hadn't locked the door.
I'm
sure you'll understand when I say that even though I'm perfectly able to take
of myself against common creeps of the streets, I was feeling a little anxious
then. After all, I had never met, or talked to the man before that moment. And
if it wasn't for my editor's threats-turned-bribes, I would never have
considered undertaking this job, usually reserved for the junior staff.
"He
asked for you." My editor had replied when I tersely asked to know why I had to
take on the interview. I neatly decapitated my champignon a la crème with a
stab of my knife. Had he been animated, he would have sweat-dropped, I was
sure.
"So?"
I shot back, "you don't have to say yes to every guy that makes a demand."
"Ha,"
He took a sip of his water, "this man isn't like the 'every' guy ."
I
frowned, "what do you mean? Who is he anyway? Is he blackmailing you? Are you
gaming again? I'm not helping you out this time--"
"No!
Not at all! And for heaven's sake, lower your voice!"
"Oh.
Sorry. Well?"
"I…I'm
not allowed to tell you much, except that he's a Very Important Person."
"Get
your mistress to do the social scene. It's not my territory." I stood up,
unimpressed by the offer.
"You're
leaving? Wait--alright. Alright."
I
paused.
"This
guy was connected to the government, to the highest levels of the
government."
"Ah."
"He's
out of the loop now, of course, they'd never let him talk if he was still in,
but he still swings some influence around these parts. Yesterday, he contacted
me about wanting to do an interview with my star reporter. You." A well
manicured finger brushed off a lock of hair that had fallen onto his forehead
during his speech. His eyes looked dolefully at me. I smiled, "you're paying
for lunch."
He
sighed, relieved.
And
don't you think I pleased him for friendship's sake, though my editor--flawed
individual he may be--was indeed a friend. No, I agreed because I sensed a
story in this retired agent, whoever he was. Since he was so willing to tell
all, I might as well be there to net the goods.
"You
may put your coat and shoes in the closet on your right." My mysterious host's
soft voice drifted towards me, once more cutting off my thoughts. I quickly
removed my winter coat and slipped into a pair of slippers.
"Come
into the living room. It is behind the screen."
There
was only one screen, set between two smooth, beige-painted walls devoid of any
ornamentation. I approached it warily and slowly slid it open. The blinds had
been drawn, and heavy curtains too, casting the sparsely furnished room in dark
pockets of shadow.
"Please,
come closer."
I
could just make out his form, reclined on a chaise longue. His back was to me;
I couldn't see his face.
I
approached him and took the seat he had gestured to.
The
first thing that struck me about him were his hands. He had elegant hands; long
, slender, fingers that any musician would have envied. They did not look like
the hands of a government agent, that was for sure.
His
face, too, was elegant. Beautiful, in fact. Delicate, finely sculpted high
cheekbones set to dramatically display a pair of golden eyes. Long, perfectly
shaped, darkly lashed eyes that seemed to hold the pain of the world in their
molten depths. His hair was unusual too: it was pure white and it fells in
whimsical, nostalgic locks around his shoulders. But he wasn't old, not much
older than I surely, but nevertheless, there was something oddly…aged…about his
expression and his mannerism.
I
forced my mind to function again. I drew out my tape and hit "play" on the
recording machine.
"Shall
we get on with the interview then?" My voice was modulated and professional. I
felt his gaze on me and I met it evenly with my own. Forward behaviour, for a
Japanese girl.
"You
are not afraid of me?" He suddenly asked.
"No."
It wasn't a complete lie. "Why should I be?"
"You
have nothing to fear from me."
"You
didn't answer my question."
I
had won the first round of our linguistic match: prod, parry, retreat, prod. I
smiled, not from smugness--what was there to be proud of?--but because I wanted
to make sure that he understood I meant to keep the atmosphere friendly.
His
eyes drifted closed. I didn't speak. Was he asleep? I wondered with
dawning exasperation.
"I'm
not asleep." He replied calmly, still with his eyes closed. I started. An
eerie, uncomfortable feeling crawled up my spine. He had replied to my thought
as easily as if it had been spoken aloud.
He
sighed, "she used to tease me about…how I sometimes drift off during
conversations."
My
brows drew together, "'she'?"
"You
remind me of her. If only a little." His head drooped, tiredly, and a fine
curtain of ivory hair masked his features from my eyes. "If only a little." He
repeated softly.
I
shifted gears, and became instantly sympathetic--going along with my gut
instincts, you see.
"She
was dear to you." I murmured quietly, wondering privately if he was speaking of
his sister, mother or girlfriend. His head nodded once.
"She
was…everything…to me. She made me happy."
A
girlfriend then.
"What
was her name?" I asked softly. Where is this leading to?
"Sumeragi…Sumeragi
Hokuto."
The
name was familiar, I was sure I'd heard of it somehow, sometime. I would check
up on her profile when I returned to the office.
"How
do I remind you of her?" I asked, curious.
"She
was very candid with her speech, as you are."
I
grinned; such old-fashioned politeness! Most of the men I interviewed thought I
was scandalously bitchy. Too direct. Asked too many hard questions. Not cute
enough. Ill-bred. Why couldn't I leave reporting for the men to do?
"And,"
he continued, lost in the memories, "her eyes were filled with life, just like
yours."
Ha.
That was the first time a man had said that about my eyes.
Suddenly,
his head snapped backwards violently that I immediately, erroneously, believed
him to be going into some sort of epileptic shock.
But
he wasn't having a medical seizure. He was in a fit of emotional, psychological
pain. Even I, who was not known for being a sensitive person, could see that.
The knuckles on his hands were white as his fingers clutched the arms of his
chair with more strength than I had credited him to have.
"Why
did he have to take her?" His voice was no more than a raw whisper. I shifted
uncomfortably in my seat.
"Why
did she have to go to him!" His eyes, closed during our entire exchange,
suddenly flew open. There was a wildness to them that made me nervous.
"Why
did I have to see her die!" With a broken cry, he clamped his hands over the
sides of his faces as if trying to block out something painful. It had been so
sudden, I could only gape in surprise. One moment, he had been perfectly lucid,
even tempered, and then the next, he could have belonged to a sanatorium.
I
stood up so quickly that my chair flew backwards, scraping the floor viciously.
The chair did not crash to the floor, but the screen did crash open as the
body-guard appeared, seemingly from thin air.
"Miss,
the interview is over. I have to ask you to leave now."
I
didn't need to be asked that twice and quickly gathered my equipment, crushing
them indiscriminately into my bag.
I
intended to bid a farewell to him, but the guard kept pushing me out. I barely
had time to collect my coat and grab my shoes when the door slammed shut after
me.
There
were so many questions I wanted to ask him. His last words were like
disconnected pieces of a puzzle. Each phrase spoke of the larger picture, but
by themselves they were a riddle. I hated riddles, always have, even as a
child.
I
preferred things--my work, my obligations--to be straight-forward. Direct and
certain. I liked to have control over what happened to me, and those around me.
Slowly,
I walked back to my car, and moodily started the engine. I had a feeling that
my life was about to get a whole lot more complicated.
Damn.
***
Omake:
So….who's
the journalist? Who knows? Her identity isn't essential to the story, but
rather, who she represents: she's your typically over-ambitious, under-paid, over-worked, competitive
Generation-er. Ah…music to mine ears^^// Oh…btw, I know it's a stupid title,
but I couldn't think of a better one. It'll hit me someday, I think. *ahem*
