Nagi stared at the door as it closed, taking with it the last hope,
however faint, of an explanation. He looked around him a little nervously,
still not quite convinced that nothing would be bursting out of the corner
to kill him. The room was as vague as everything about this place. It was
fairly simple, in a comfortable way. The floor was, of course, covered with
the thick plush carpet that had given him the first clue that he was not in
his room. Now that the light was on, he could see that it was the peculiar
not-quite-white color that was so popular in hotels and such. There was a
bed on one corner, the sheets still hopelessly tangled from his frenzied
sleeping. The rest of the furniture was simple enough—a straight-backed
wooden chair in front of a simple desk, a dresser, and a bookcase. There
was a nightstand by the bed, though no clock adorned its smooth white
surface.
The only thing that really stood out about the entire room was the fact that there was nothing to stand out. The furniture was neither cheap nor expensive. Everything was the same nondescript whitish color. And, oddly enough, there were no personal touches whatsoever. No paintings on the walls, no knickknacks scattered idly about, nothing to set anything apart. On closer inspection, Nagi saw that there weren't even any books on the bookshelves. He slid open each dresser drawer in turn. All were empty. There wasn't anything in the drawers of the desk, or on the nightstand. It was almost eerie.
Nagi shivered a little. He'd never been in a room that was so completely anonymous. There was absolutely nothing to distinguish it from anything else. It was more like a factory showroom than anything else… he couldn't imagine that anyone might ever have lived in this pristine place. Too quickly, Nagi finished his inspection of the room. He wandered aimlessly towards the bed, marveling a little at the changeability of the human body. He'd gone from complete panic to utter boredom in a matter of… out of habit, he looked towards where the clock should have been. Of course, it wasn't there. Duh, Nagi. Get a hold on yourself.
He flopped down on the bed, noticing idly as he stared upwards that he couldn't even count ceiling tiles or something. The roof, like the rest of the room, was completely smooth and painted that off-white color. It was really starting to irritate him.
Nagi ran over the details he knew. He remembered going to sleep… Schuldich had given him the—he swallowed hard and forced himself to go on thinking logically—memory of Omi… Omi's death. And then, he'd gone to sleep, and… the dream. He remembered it now… it flooded back instantly, as dreams are so fond of doing when you give them the slightest nudge. But, of course, it was only a dream.
His heart still raced, and his palms felt a bit clammy. Just a dream… but a pretty damn freaky dream!
But back on the subject, Nagi. Stop thinking about Omi… don't think about the way he walks. The way he makes even killing seem beautiful, the age-old dance of predator and prey, bringing down his opponents. They were so weak compared to Omi, so pitifully unequipped to deal with him. He stalked them swiftly, leaping into position, and then letting fly a deadly sharp weapon. They never had a chance. The poison sometimes reached their brains before the nerve impulses bringing news of the pain. They died swiftly. The kill was perfect.
And Omi could make this beautiful. There was no other word for it. It was his art form. The chase, exquisitely brief. The aiming, when the world held its breath and it was impossible to look away from him. Then the flight, the delicious anticipation. And finally the death. Ah, the death… sometimes it was slow, shock registering on the features first, then pain, disbelief, and finally nothing. It was a whirling kaleidoscope of images, a show of the diversity of nature. It was beauty itself, the classic Savage Garden*. Exquisite. Almost delicate. Nothing at all like the rough ways of his teammates. Ken's claws were the worst. Thrusting them straight into the victim's guts, pulling them out with bits of intestines and unnamable body parts trailing from the tips. Yohji's wire, a slow torture. Cutting off the victim's airway and choking him to death. Agonizing. And Aya's katana, almost as bad as the claws. Blood spattering everywhere… in eyes, on clothes, on the walls. All disgusting. There was no beauty, no appreciation of the skill necessary. Of course they were good at it--that was their job. But you couldn't see that. You were too transfixed by the blood flying everywhere, the choking gasps. The beauty was gone, leaving only an ugly stain.
Omi couldn't see this, of course. To him, there was no beauty. He only saw the end result. That was probably his one fault. He didn't appreciate himself enough. Nagi had tried to teach him, to show him the beauty in the process. But he couldn't get past the death. At least, that's what he claimed after it was done. But Nagi knew that Omi enjoyed it while it was happening. Of course he did. He couldn't help it! There was something… fundamental about it. There was nothing but you and the target. You were alone, in a battle that was, clichéd as it may be, to the death. And you won. You always won. You won so often that it was your job to win. You were paid for it.
But of course, it wasn't the money that he did it for. Omi always maintained that he did it for his ideals. He was helping to rid the world of evil and make it safe for the children. He always had been big on the children…
But Nagi knew that Omi was lying. Not consciously, of course. He'd go to his grave… Nagi swallowed and forced himself to hold back the tears that shimmered in front of his eyes. He DID go to his grave swearing that he did it for justice, and for The Good Of The Children. But he was lying, to himself and to everyone else. Only Nagi knew the truth. When you got down to it, Omi enjoyed the killing. He couldn't help but enjoy the killing. It was the ultimate struggle. You could explain it a thousand ways.
The evolutionary perspective—Omi was built to survive, to perpetuate his genes. The thrill of winning the battle was intrinsic. Or the psychological perspective—Freud's concept of thanatos, the innate aggression in all of us. Innumerable justifications. Remarkable how many ways humankind managed to rationalize behaviors they found unacceptable.
Omi, his beautiful Omi. So perfect. His Omi was one of those people who are completely gorgeous. His outer beauty—perfectly creamy skin, crystalline blue eyes, silky sunlight hair. But unlike so many of the blue-eyed blonds, Omi was perfect far below the surface. Those perfect lips seemed always to spill forth a fountain of wit and charm. Omi was usually so happy… he always seemed to be dancing as he moved. He just wasn't like anyone else. Nagi couldn't see why anyone at all would prefer Yohji's oozingly suggestive saunter or Ken's overconfident athletic stride, much less Aya's quick, crisp, and utterly uninviting motions. They were nothing compared to his Omi's movements.
Nagi simply couldn't understand why any of the rabid schoolgirls preferred anyone to his Omi. It was almost insulting, that they should think anyone might compare to him. Of course, it was just as well for the last year or so, because Omi had been his. And Nagi did not like to share…
Yes, Omi had been his. His ever since that fateful day that was the last memory in Omi's mind as he lay there dying on floor that was shiny and slippery with his blood. Nagi remembered that day so well… it had been, as the cliché described so aptly, the first day of the rest of his life.
Gone were the days of aching bitterness, of loneliness and hate. And in their place were sweet kisses and softly whispered words.
Perfection. It was the only way to describe that year. Perfection. Each day had seemed to last an eternity. It had been like heaven.
But that was over. It had been taken from him, snatched away by the smoking barrel of Bradley Crawford's pistol. He could never have that time back.
Looking back at it, Nagi reflected that really, that was the only part of his life that had been worth the title was that one year. He slipped gently under the covers and turned to face the wall. Breathing slowly and evenly, he realized that Brad had killed Naoe Nagi with that gun. Maybe he was still breathing, maybe his heart was still beating. But he was dead, nonetheless.
Nagi let his eyes slide closed, replacing the monotonous off-white with monotonous gray-black. Somewhat remotely, he wondered if he would ever wake up. It didn't seem to matter anymore…
* I am referring to the Savage Garden described in Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles, not the band (though the band name came from Anne Rice, so I guess I kind of am… confused!) Anyways, I need to meet more Anne Rice fans, so… the first person that reviews and tells me they recognize the reference gets virtual pocky, k?
A/N: o,o Nagi's really starting to scare me now! Eep!
*rubs eyes* sorry about how long it took, I know! It was even worse than usual! *sniffles* but I have finals and lots of stuff! I'm rather stressed right now… *pouts* I need a hug! v_v
But… have no fear, 'tis nearly summer! Yaaay! I'll write more then, I promise! (except for the two week vacation I'm going on, but… )
R&R like always, please! I live on ramen, long phone conversations, and reviews! (not necessarily in that order)
The only thing that really stood out about the entire room was the fact that there was nothing to stand out. The furniture was neither cheap nor expensive. Everything was the same nondescript whitish color. And, oddly enough, there were no personal touches whatsoever. No paintings on the walls, no knickknacks scattered idly about, nothing to set anything apart. On closer inspection, Nagi saw that there weren't even any books on the bookshelves. He slid open each dresser drawer in turn. All were empty. There wasn't anything in the drawers of the desk, or on the nightstand. It was almost eerie.
Nagi shivered a little. He'd never been in a room that was so completely anonymous. There was absolutely nothing to distinguish it from anything else. It was more like a factory showroom than anything else… he couldn't imagine that anyone might ever have lived in this pristine place. Too quickly, Nagi finished his inspection of the room. He wandered aimlessly towards the bed, marveling a little at the changeability of the human body. He'd gone from complete panic to utter boredom in a matter of… out of habit, he looked towards where the clock should have been. Of course, it wasn't there. Duh, Nagi. Get a hold on yourself.
He flopped down on the bed, noticing idly as he stared upwards that he couldn't even count ceiling tiles or something. The roof, like the rest of the room, was completely smooth and painted that off-white color. It was really starting to irritate him.
Nagi ran over the details he knew. He remembered going to sleep… Schuldich had given him the—he swallowed hard and forced himself to go on thinking logically—memory of Omi… Omi's death. And then, he'd gone to sleep, and… the dream. He remembered it now… it flooded back instantly, as dreams are so fond of doing when you give them the slightest nudge. But, of course, it was only a dream.
His heart still raced, and his palms felt a bit clammy. Just a dream… but a pretty damn freaky dream!
But back on the subject, Nagi. Stop thinking about Omi… don't think about the way he walks. The way he makes even killing seem beautiful, the age-old dance of predator and prey, bringing down his opponents. They were so weak compared to Omi, so pitifully unequipped to deal with him. He stalked them swiftly, leaping into position, and then letting fly a deadly sharp weapon. They never had a chance. The poison sometimes reached their brains before the nerve impulses bringing news of the pain. They died swiftly. The kill was perfect.
And Omi could make this beautiful. There was no other word for it. It was his art form. The chase, exquisitely brief. The aiming, when the world held its breath and it was impossible to look away from him. Then the flight, the delicious anticipation. And finally the death. Ah, the death… sometimes it was slow, shock registering on the features first, then pain, disbelief, and finally nothing. It was a whirling kaleidoscope of images, a show of the diversity of nature. It was beauty itself, the classic Savage Garden*. Exquisite. Almost delicate. Nothing at all like the rough ways of his teammates. Ken's claws were the worst. Thrusting them straight into the victim's guts, pulling them out with bits of intestines and unnamable body parts trailing from the tips. Yohji's wire, a slow torture. Cutting off the victim's airway and choking him to death. Agonizing. And Aya's katana, almost as bad as the claws. Blood spattering everywhere… in eyes, on clothes, on the walls. All disgusting. There was no beauty, no appreciation of the skill necessary. Of course they were good at it--that was their job. But you couldn't see that. You were too transfixed by the blood flying everywhere, the choking gasps. The beauty was gone, leaving only an ugly stain.
Omi couldn't see this, of course. To him, there was no beauty. He only saw the end result. That was probably his one fault. He didn't appreciate himself enough. Nagi had tried to teach him, to show him the beauty in the process. But he couldn't get past the death. At least, that's what he claimed after it was done. But Nagi knew that Omi enjoyed it while it was happening. Of course he did. He couldn't help it! There was something… fundamental about it. There was nothing but you and the target. You were alone, in a battle that was, clichéd as it may be, to the death. And you won. You always won. You won so often that it was your job to win. You were paid for it.
But of course, it wasn't the money that he did it for. Omi always maintained that he did it for his ideals. He was helping to rid the world of evil and make it safe for the children. He always had been big on the children…
But Nagi knew that Omi was lying. Not consciously, of course. He'd go to his grave… Nagi swallowed and forced himself to hold back the tears that shimmered in front of his eyes. He DID go to his grave swearing that he did it for justice, and for The Good Of The Children. But he was lying, to himself and to everyone else. Only Nagi knew the truth. When you got down to it, Omi enjoyed the killing. He couldn't help but enjoy the killing. It was the ultimate struggle. You could explain it a thousand ways.
The evolutionary perspective—Omi was built to survive, to perpetuate his genes. The thrill of winning the battle was intrinsic. Or the psychological perspective—Freud's concept of thanatos, the innate aggression in all of us. Innumerable justifications. Remarkable how many ways humankind managed to rationalize behaviors they found unacceptable.
Omi, his beautiful Omi. So perfect. His Omi was one of those people who are completely gorgeous. His outer beauty—perfectly creamy skin, crystalline blue eyes, silky sunlight hair. But unlike so many of the blue-eyed blonds, Omi was perfect far below the surface. Those perfect lips seemed always to spill forth a fountain of wit and charm. Omi was usually so happy… he always seemed to be dancing as he moved. He just wasn't like anyone else. Nagi couldn't see why anyone at all would prefer Yohji's oozingly suggestive saunter or Ken's overconfident athletic stride, much less Aya's quick, crisp, and utterly uninviting motions. They were nothing compared to his Omi's movements.
Nagi simply couldn't understand why any of the rabid schoolgirls preferred anyone to his Omi. It was almost insulting, that they should think anyone might compare to him. Of course, it was just as well for the last year or so, because Omi had been his. And Nagi did not like to share…
Yes, Omi had been his. His ever since that fateful day that was the last memory in Omi's mind as he lay there dying on floor that was shiny and slippery with his blood. Nagi remembered that day so well… it had been, as the cliché described so aptly, the first day of the rest of his life.
Gone were the days of aching bitterness, of loneliness and hate. And in their place were sweet kisses and softly whispered words.
Perfection. It was the only way to describe that year. Perfection. Each day had seemed to last an eternity. It had been like heaven.
But that was over. It had been taken from him, snatched away by the smoking barrel of Bradley Crawford's pistol. He could never have that time back.
Looking back at it, Nagi reflected that really, that was the only part of his life that had been worth the title was that one year. He slipped gently under the covers and turned to face the wall. Breathing slowly and evenly, he realized that Brad had killed Naoe Nagi with that gun. Maybe he was still breathing, maybe his heart was still beating. But he was dead, nonetheless.
Nagi let his eyes slide closed, replacing the monotonous off-white with monotonous gray-black. Somewhat remotely, he wondered if he would ever wake up. It didn't seem to matter anymore…
* I am referring to the Savage Garden described in Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles, not the band (though the band name came from Anne Rice, so I guess I kind of am… confused!) Anyways, I need to meet more Anne Rice fans, so… the first person that reviews and tells me they recognize the reference gets virtual pocky, k?
A/N: o,o Nagi's really starting to scare me now! Eep!
*rubs eyes* sorry about how long it took, I know! It was even worse than usual! *sniffles* but I have finals and lots of stuff! I'm rather stressed right now… *pouts* I need a hug! v_v
But… have no fear, 'tis nearly summer! Yaaay! I'll write more then, I promise! (except for the two week vacation I'm going on, but… )
R&R like always, please! I live on ramen, long phone conversations, and reviews! (not necessarily in that order)