Angra Mainyu
Arc Two - Supremacy - Part One
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Waking up in the early morning hours, Tsuzuki blinked storm cloud eyes at the ceiling, the recollections of earlier resurfacing. After receiving their orders, he and his partner went to the Koneko to speak to the four new Shinigami about what had happened to them and what they had become. Being himself, the older Shinigami had been side tracked by the tantalizing sweet haven of an all-night candy store, buying himself some goodies from his own threadbare pockets so that Tatsumi would not be too mad at him for his overindulging sweet tooth. Which caused him to be late. Which was why Muraki had come upon him so unaware.
That encounter set the mood for their evening as the four new Shinigami first showed their disbeliefs until the memories resurfaced, sending his young partner into a trance with the violent deaths they all faced. The meeting was then adjourned, the four to digest their deaths and the two older Shinigami to rest before they set out to investigate the demon summoning that was the second of their tasks. After seeing the memories of the new Shinigami, Hisoka had to get away for a little while, to clear his head and re-establish the barriers around his gift.
Letting Hisoka go was partly selfish. Tsuzuki had been putting off his own journey into the flames of his subconscious, preferring not to face the demons inside of him that held him paralyzed since Kyoto. Not that it was noticeable; the smiling idiot's mask had been covering the pain inside of him for a very long time, and it rose to cover the vulnerability that he still felt. The frantic rhythm of his heart beat when Muraki was so close to him, and the scent of his pleasure at that weakness brought the need to head. He had to step into the flames again.
Sitting upright, the couch he was stretched out on dipping slightly at the shifting of his weight, the sable haired male glanced around the room, seeing the dark lumps of furniture, tasting the still air thick with promise. The dull brown cloth of his trench coat pooled around his waist, the pockets emptied of the smooth sugar treats before he pulled it around his shoulders as a makeshift blanket. Wiggling his toes sticking out from underneath the edge of the coat, Tsuzuki stretched out, hands curling to fists as he held them over his head, bones sliding back into place after being jarred by the uncomfortable makeshift bed. Nose wrinkling at the bitter taste in his mouth, the older Shinigami stood up, letting his trench coat slide to the floor. He picked up his glass of water from the coffee table, violet eyes staring at the clear liquid before he brought the glass to his lips and drank the stale water. He placed the glass back onto the table and bent down to retrieve his coat, tossing it onto the couch to be followed by his simple dull blue tie and plain white shirt. Twisting to work out the remaining kinks in his back, Tsuzuki glanced around the room again, his lips curling in a faintly bitter, pleased expression. Hisoka was still gone, most likely investigating on his own as he normally did, and the other Shinigami had yet to fully waken. He doubted he would find a better moment than that moment to break his fiery chains.
Pushing the table to one side, he sat on the floor, his legs crossed in the lotus position, hands resting palm up on his knees, an ofuda resting on the palm of one elegant hand. Closing his eyes, Tsuzuki slowly breathed the thick air, holding the breath in then letting it out just as slow. He could visit the Shikigami in dreams, but there would be little focus while in that state. Instead it would be far safer for those around him as well as the Shikigami to approach this matter controlled and collected. Clearing all thoughts all temptations from his surface thoughts, Tsuzuki fell into a trance, his deep brown hair stirring from an unseen heat, the characters on the surface of the ofuda flaring bright, the paper curling, turning to ash. And still deeper he went.
Past the burnt sufferings of childhood, the dank feelings of unease, the bitter taste of unrest, of not knowing who he was or even if he was truly worthy of being alive. Past the crimson soak time of death and betrayal, the stains still on his hands all these years long past. Deeper past the chaos of his insanity, the denial of his humanity, of foodless days and sleepless nights, of a need for death so desperate that his skin bore the marks still. Deep until the echoes of his spirit shape echoed through darkness more tangible than night pressed around him. Darkness that was older than the first beginnings of humanity's struggles, darkness that still brought childish trembling to those that dared to stir it awake. In this stag mired air, Tsuzuki glowed, the twilight violet rippling against the dark, barely holding it at bay.
Then the darkness was in flames.
Fiery oranges and reds and yellows devoured the black ink, tendrils caressing the bared skin of the Shinigami, sending sable locks to dancing in the churning heated air. The clothing Tsuzuki's spirit wore fell into ash, teased away, leaving his lean form unprotected from the rising waves of flames. In the room, the heat rose another notch, the tranced Shinigami's hair, stirring and rising in the circling power contained inside his form. Only if the spirit failed would the power find release, the flames claiming the Shinigami fully as was promised months before.
Stepping without fear into the flames, Tsuzuki reached out with his hands, smelling the scorched skin even as he called out a name.
"Suzaku!"
The flames snaked back, curling against each other, forming wings that flickered and stirred with the air. They uncoiled, spreading out to reveal a large body, the head proud and regal, twin burning spheres of light looking down a hooked beak.
"Tsuzuki," sang the crackling flames, the beak parting, and a flicker of heat tousling the Shinigami's hair. "Why?"
Raising his head to look straight into the sun touched orbs, he did not speak, his violent eyes silent. Holding his hand up, he offered silently another way to answer the questions of the firebird, needing to show more than explain why. Suzaku dipped its graceful head, resting its beak in the elegant hand. And Tsuzuki opened the connection between them, showing the Shikigami all. Fears. Worries. His silent shame. His bone deep weariness. He let it all go. And felt the forgiving flames wrap themselves around him like a mother bird comforting her young.
Sleeping on the floor in the lotus position, a tear trailed down the smooth golden cheek, the heated air cooling again in the still morning hours.
--
The false morning bled into true dawn, the sun shining faintly through the protective cloud cover. Watching it rise, a naked ivory-skinned male leaned against the rough brick wall of a balcony, his single amber eye lazily scanning his surroundings. Mornings have always given the impression of a fresh new start, of cleansing away the pains and tolls of the day before, of chasing the shadows of the night back into their corners far away from the average person. Poor mortal fools. All the sunlight did was make the sins all too real for those who still think that the world was an honest place.
It had been a good night for the self-named Irishman. Not in terms of death and blood, but in terms of pain and lust and all the sins of the flesh. There were few that would associate him knowing anything about sex let alone seek such mindless couplings in bars, but there were people that still believed him to be insane. Then again, Farfarello thought such people were complete waste and only fitting for the slaughter. Farfarello was very much aware of how his own forbidden looks were a magnet to certain kinds of people, though he was not as submissive as few thought at first. Then there were others who knew exactly what he was and hungered for what he could give them.
Like the young man still lying asleep in the bed beyond the open balcony doors, the silken sheets draped loosely on his hips, entangled with his long golden limbs. He looked innocent like that, the triangle of his eyes and mouth relaxed in an exhausted sleep. Farfarello knew intimately how that was a lie, that man with his dark violet hair and slender dancers body his steady lover. They had met in a bar a year ago, each looking for just a casual fling, no strings and no attachments. The was nothing more than that, even though Farfarello knew every single taste and sound and feel of the man's body, of how sometimes he liked to be teased until he was in pain or how he liked it to be whipped bloody or simply held. Last night, he wanted it all.
Farfarello had done everything he asked for, wearing the other male out until he slipped into a peaceful sleep, but feeling restless even if he was sated, the Irishman had gone to watch the sunrise from his apartment balcony. His mind was far away from the current happenings, remembering a different sunrise and a happy voice that might have been his own greeting the dawn. Then with a frown, he pushed off the brick wall and slipped back inside, pausing for a moment to trace the face of the sleeping male, the shallow cuts on his skin covered in gauze, lips still swollen and his narrow hands reaching out for something that he would never find. Raising a bare shoulder in a half shrug, Farfarello gathered his clothing together, slipping them on silently. Then with a last look at the sleeping man, he slipped out the door, listening for the sound of the locks engaging before heading for the elevator and out the building. Time for him to return home.
--
Not much had come of his Internet searching. EnmaCho and the Summoner's Office seemed to have no basis in fact. On the other hand, there were a variety of sites that detailed ideas and names similar to the two organizations and their agents. Most of them connected up with a place called Meifu, otherwise known as Hades or simply another dimension, one meant for the dead. It was all really interesting information, save for the fictional side of it. There was no proof, no eyewitness accounts, no evidence to suggest that these Shinigami were truly real, or truly dead. Nothing that Omi could successfully link to the pair that had arrived on their doorstep last night.
Yet he was starting to believe and accept it.
Even with the blank expanse of memories, the young assassin was beginning to think of they all had been told as the reality of their situation, instead of some sort of dream. His memory of death might have been blank, but that hardly blanked it as a possibility. After all, his memory of being kidnapped had once been blank, but it had truly happened. It just took time for the images and sounds of the past to return to him. The others seemed to recall something about it, and parts of what had been said did ring true.
Of course, beyond the vague thoughts, the youth's decision was backed by fact. As expected with the trained assassin, Omi did not just accept things for truth unless he had something proving it to him, or telling him to believe it. In the current case it was the latter, in the form of an email from someone very familiar and trustworthy.
When he'd sent an email to Kritiker, Omi had hardly expected a response to come from Manx, someone who had left her duties with the organization once Persia had died. But sitting in his inbox was just that, with a file attached detailing some key information that held important relevance to their situation. The note and email address were genuine, tracked as only a hacker of Kritiker would know how, and there was no virus or suggestion that anything was false about it.
Tapping a handful of paper against his palm, the printed out version of the file, Omi rolled back from his computer and considered the matter. The information had been nothing more than confirmation of the Summoner's Office's existence and goals, along with details of that organization aligning itself with Kritiker and making a deal to work together on a series of important cases. Weiß was instructed to work with and get to know the agents sent until the first allied mission was readied. In short, it was everything they needed to understand that these Shinigami were real, in their own sense.
The others needed to see it; then Weiß could consider what it meant.
Getting to his feet, the youth walked softly towards his room door, socked feet making little sound on the carpet. A quick glance to the hallway showed it as empty; curious, but not unusual for the hour. Stepping into the hall, Omi made his way to Ken's room, knocking lightly on the door. The papers still rested in his hands, the intent to show his friend the information and perhaps use that as a base for discussing what was happening - and what had already happened - to their lives.
Despite his penchant for sleeping late, Youji was actually a very light sleeper. With so many different bed partners it was difficult to settle into a nightly routine with any sort of consistency, so as a result the littlest things usually woke him. And this time it had been the gentle knock on Ken's door.
He'd spent the entire night curled up in Ken's recliner after he'd put the younger assassin to bed. Ken had been more traumatized at being dead than he let on to the others. At least once the initial anger had abated. They'd talked a bit about how he'd already known what it was like to die, and that he'd always expected it... but somehow Ken had always felt invincible or immune to death. He'd been raised to believe to go to Heaven and despite his profession, he believed that he'd atoned through his various charitable works, and prayer, that God would have forgiven him.
Youji had never realized how Catholic Ken was. It was cute and Youji had really hadn't been surprised. It seemed to match Ken. It explained Ken just a little bit more, how he was just so forgiving and ready to trust people even if they hadn't earned it.
Stretching out of his thoughts, Youji uncurled himself from the chair letting the blanket fall away. He scratched lightly at his chest and pulled up the pajama bottoms he wore. He walked toward the door as he ran his fingers through his hair, trying to tame the wavy locks when he slowly opened the door. "Hey, Chu. What brings you here?"
--
Not in the mood for a repeat of the previous evening's performance, Schuldig had, not long after Aya had left the penthouse, slunk out to prowl the streets. Boredom and the redhead did not mix. The results often times disastrous for the unwary minds around him.
Like the poor woman on the second floor. Before leaving, Schuldig had checked in on the guards' progress in their strip search for drugs. They had enjoyed themselves -very- much. That had put a smirk on his face. Apparently the woman had enjoyed it just as much. Who knew she enjoyed pain?
The German certainly didn't.
Who in the hell gave the sun permission to shine directly in his face so fucking early in the morning? Or better yet... why was he up -so- early in the morning?
Groaning, Schuldig rolled over to curl back up around his bed partner from the night before. Seeking hands encountered nothing but a warm, empty space beside him. Oi. He cracked one bloodshot eye open to confirm what his body already knew. The redhead was alone, the blond gone.
That really sucked. The note explaining that he had to go to work did nothing to brighten his mood.
Oh yeah. Sitting up had -not- been the smartest of things to do. The room spun and his stomach did this fantastic flip-flop. Well, the trip down memory lane certainly proved that, yes, he could still get drunk... and hung over. He would have tested his theory on drugs too, but Crawford would definitely find a way to kill him for that. And Crawford just didn't need to know that, since he couldn't have the Bombay kitty, what with them being enemies and all, he'd gone and found a suitable look alike to fuck from time to time. The American already thought he was unstable as it was. He would feed the telepath to Aya, who had been eyeing him like he was a nice, tasty snack the night before, for certain after finding that out.
Schuldig shuddered and forced his lazy ass to get out of the bed. Time to be getting back to the Schwarz house after a quick shower and a bite to eat.
-tbc-
Footnotes:
Some ask why the Angra Mainyu stories are not posted under crossovers. The reason to this is simple: Angra Mainyu actually revolves more around the Weiß side of the mixture, so it simply fits better to post it in the WK section of ff.net
In regards to ff.net's changes and this account/storyline/group of writers: We will remaining archiving on ff.net for the time being. If that changes, there will be a notice posted in our bio, and put in the Footnotes of new parts as they are uploaded.
Kudos to Ana for helping with the arc title. ie - She named it when I asked for a name.
Read our ff.net profile for information about who we are and what AM is.