Chapter Five
Sagara stood in the shower, wasting his water yet again. He was lucky, he knew, that he had a large income. Otherwise, his love of long showers would seldom be indulged.
He'd decided, however, that he deserved this. On the most practical level, he often needed to wash the blood away. Whether it was his own, or that of a vampire, was another matter, and often one he refused to contemplate.
It had been just six months since he began his work for the administration. Six months of killing every night. And not just killing normal men - killing supernatural monsters that he could hardly believe existed, at times. In the daytime, the a vampire seemed, even to him, an absurd idea. But at night, when he was face-to-face with one, he could not deny that they were all too real.
Sometimes, Sagara wondered how he had survived this long. His training was still rudimentary - Shakku Arai was still missing and presumed dead, although Sawagejo refused to believe it. It was often his experience from life on the street that kept Sagara alive, not his training in the basement of Tokyo Haven's police headquarters.
It was bloody, disgusting work, he had to admit, but it paid well, and allowed him a certain amount of freedom. For the time being, he knew he would not give this up for anything.
Sagara turned up the hot water, and scrubbed soap into his dark, wet hair, closing his eyes. Images of various fights flashed before his eyes, and, as he often did, he tried to reenact his memories, improving his technique. He had made it his rule that every time he remembered his fights with vampires, he had to use them as training material, to sharpen his skills. Because, if he simply thought too long on all the death he had witnessed in the past months, he knew he would probably go crazy.
His hair fanned out around his face like feathers, moving fluidly. Those dark eyes were open wide with terror, mouth pressed tightly shut. He wouldn't last much longer. His face was turning red, and his dull eyes couldn't get any larger . . .
Sohjiro giggled. It was funny how fragile the old man was. He had the look of a hardened criminal about him, but all Sohjiro, who has practically half his size, had to do was push him under the water and, soon enough, his struggling stopped and his body went limp.
This man had killed so many vampires in his day, had facilitated the deaths of so many more. It made Sohjiro happy to think that he was dying so easily. The hand the man had clamped around his wrist with bruising strength was now lax. The dark-haired vampire smiled slowly, noticing that the mortal's eyes were rolled back in his head. His struggle had stopped a while ago, his thrashing subsiding into weak wriggling. Now he was well and dead, but that didn't mean Sohjiro was finished with him.
He pulled the man out of the water, cradling his body in strong, thin arms. The man's brown hair stuck to his waxy, wet forehead, plastered to his skull. Lukewarm water ran down his body, over his neck, out of his hair, dripping from his clothes, soaking through Sohjiro's pants and shirt. With the pads of his slender fingers, Sohjiro swept the man's hair away from his face, out of his eyes, the touch gentle, reminding him of the way his Master would sometimes touch him.
Sohjiro bowed his head over that lean neck, smiling. The skin beneath his lips was a little rough with the beginnings of a beard, the skin a little loose and textured. He, Sohjiro, would never be like this - never be old and unattractive. He would never get old and die. Curling back his smiling lips, Sohjiro tore a deep gouge in the dead man's neck.
Bright blood, already cooling, spilled over his imperfect skin. The dark-haired vampire watched for a moment, and then pressed his mouth to the wound.
There was no taste for Sohjiro - his tongue was gone. But food was food, whether or not he could taste it. The taste of blood wasn't really the main point, in any case, the dark-haired vampire thought as the man's blood ran past Sohjiro's lips and into his mouth. He felt the energy of another creature's life surge through him, warm, strong, complete. The point was power - power over another living thing, power over death. And it was so-
A woman screamed. Sohjiro's head snapped up from the dead man's neck, and he twisted around to look at the figure behind him. Yumi. He sighed and dropped the corpse, because it was bleeding all over him and he didn't like being able to smell what he couldn't have. He refused to eat in front of Yumi, the bitch.
Yumi was standing in the doorway, her eyes wide and angry, her bare shoulders tense. Her black dress swished over the tile floor of the bath as she marched towards him, the clicking of her heels on the tile floor of the bath muffled by layers of cloth.
Her hand closed around the collar of his unfastened straitjacket, and she lifted him to his feet. Once he was standing, she turned him around forcibly and slapped him. What do you think you're doing? she seethed, pretty face twisted in self-righteous anger. Sohjiro growled at her, baring his blood-stained teeth. Yumi slapped him again, and pushed him back. He flailed, and tripped over the man's corpse, falling into the full bath with an angry scream.
The purple-haired vampire gathered up her skirts in both hand, freeing her legs, and kicked the heavy corpse into the pool. It landed on Sohjiro's legs, perpendicular to him, and, with it, a cloud of blood diffused into the water, turning it all a pale, rosy pink. Sohjiro screamed again, kicking the corpse away from him, thinking that he would kill Yumi - he would kill the miserable bitch and have Shishio to himself!
You weren't supposed to touch him, Sohjiro, Yumi snapped, glaring at the young vampire. The Gentleman's orders. He was supposed to be alive. Again Sohjiro growled, but Yumi seemed unmoved, her eyes hard. Do you think Lord Shishio will be pleased? No, he won't be - Not in the least. Yumi would see the angry, insane gleam in Sohjiro's blue eyes, the hatred for her curling there. He would never be able to say it, but she knew. It was continual and terrible, a serpent biting its own tail, an unspoken threat, the promise that someday, the dam would be opened and he would bring her down. I hope he kills you, she spat, sneering. And she did. She hoped Sohjiro the ugliest sort of death possible, because he was Shishio's. His blood ran in that little degenerate's veins, Shishio had turned him into a vampire, and that was something Yumi could never have.
Now get up, she said. The Gentleman has called a meeting, and Lord Shishio wants us both there. You don't want to displease him further, do you?
Sohjiro rose, his lip curled up in resentful anger, and stepped out of the pool. His straitjacket was stained slightly pink from the man's blood, and even more rosy water fell to the tile floor. He stood stone still, muscles tense, as Yumi yanked his arms back into position and fastened the straitjacket. She clipped a chain leash to the a ring on the collar of the jacket, and dragged him out of the room. They left the corpse behind in the pool, the door slamming behind them.
Yumi maneuvered them through the relative labyrinth of the Gentleman's underground complex. Shishio's private quarters were on the sixth floor down. The seventh has been unoccupied for several years, but had once belonged to Shinsaku Takasugi, the Gentleman's previous second-in-command. Takasugi had been dead for a long time, but the Gentleman held to his ghost like some sort of lifeline.
The purple-haired vampire sneered in disgust. Takasugi had been a fool, and so easily killed, by a mere mortal, at that. And their leader was even more the fool for grieving for him. Yumi hated the Gentleman for his stupidity, and because he lay in the path of her Lord Shishio's ascension. Did Shishio serve the Gentleman? She didn't think so. To her Lord, their leader was little more than the means to and end - and end in which Shishio took the Gentleman's place as supreme ruler of the world.
As they neared the third floor down, where the Gentleman habitually held his audiences, she spotted the very man of whom she'd been thinking. He was standing just outside the large mahogany doors, waiting for them. To Yumi, he was beautiful, although he was deformed in irreparable ways. His skin was uneven, discoloured, lumpy like melted wax, and his right cheekbone looked as though it had caved in. As a result, the entire side of his face sagged, had always sagged, and had been immortalized that way, so that it would always sag.
Where have you been? Shishio asked, his firm, if slightly drooping, mouth set in a scowl.
Sohjiro got himself in trouble again, Yumi say, relinquishing the hold of the leash to her Lord.
Shishio's moods were always surprising. Now, he startled Yumi by issuing a sharp, short laugh as he yanked the slender boy towards him. A sort of dry, dangerous humour shone in his red eyes as he cupped Sohjiro's pale, damp cheek, brushing dark hair away from his skin. Sohjiro leaned against him, the dampness of his straitjacket transferring to the dark cloth of Shishio's waistcoat. What did you do this time, pet?
Sohjiro giggled, smiling up at his Master, and the expression of adoration that crossed Shishio's face made Yumi sick. He killed Shakku Arai, she said, eyes boring holes into Sohjiro's narrow back.
Shishio laughed. Did he? he asked Yumi. She couldn't find a voice to reply. He'd laughed - Shishio had laughed at her. At her silence, he turned to the boy. Did you? Sohjiro nodded, water dripping from his hair. Shishio laughed again. The Gentleman won't like it, he said, his mottled lips turned up in a wide grin. He patted Sohjiro's cheek. But I'm certainly nothing less than pleased.
With a short, frustrated screech, Yumi stormed into the conference room. Shishio and Sohjiro followed shortly, but Yumi did not care at all. They could both go to hell for all she cared at that moment. Both of them.
So glad to see you could join us, the Gentleman said, a little smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He was seated on his throne on the dais, his heavy, black cloak spilling down and spreading over the floor like an oil spill.
Shishio bit back a snarl and took his seat in the first row of the congregation. Behind him, the mob of vampires shifted uneasily, ready for the speech to commence.
The Gentleman's left hand rested atop the his whore's head, fingers sliding through her black hair. She was strikingly beautiful, and smelled so much of life that every vampire in the huge ballroom looked at her hungrily whenever she shifted. She sat at the Gentleman's feet, quiet, respectful, but still proud, bearing up under the myriad stares. She was, after all, the only human who was allowed free reign of the passages of the Gentleman's layer. All the others were locked in the dungeons, for eventual consumption, but she was the Gentleman's. He and only he controlled her, and it was by his power that she was allowed to wander in the basement structure.
To his right, curled like a true faithful dog, was the brat. The sight of him, with his red head bowed, his eyes searching the crowd through thick, dark lashes, disgusted Shishio. The redhead was the Gentleman's other whore, the one who would never die. He makes himself out to be so humble, Shishio thought contemptuously, but there is not a modest bone in his body. And it was the truth. The brat had absolutely no modesty, displaying his perfect body shamelessly amidst legions of deformed creatures. Someone, Shishio vehemently believed, should teach that brat a lesson.
Kenshin watched as Shishio sat down in his heavy, wing-backed chair, with Yumi standing at his side, mute Sohjiro curled up at his feet. He watched the rage in Shishio's bright eyes, directed first at his Master, then at dear, frail Ikumatsu, and then at he, himself. Kenshin knew Shishio hated him virulently. He could feel Shishio's disgust for him in his own veins, sometimes, it was so strong. But he did not concern himself with it. It was more Ikumatsu that worried him. She, too, knew that her Lord's second-in-command had a great hatred for her. And Kenshin felt it bear down heavily on her, like the other vampires' blood lust weighed down on her. It frightened her, weakened her day by day. The most distressing thing, however, was his Master's oblivion to the matter. Not only did he refuse to believe that Shishio hated his two lovers, but he did not see Shishio's hatred for him, himself. Katsura continued to believe that Shishio was as loyal as he had even been, while Kenshin, himself, had doubts that Shishio's intentions had ever been entirely honest.
He felt, rather than saw, his lover, the Gentleman, rise. He felt it in the bond they had, one that comes from sharing much blood and many years. Then he felt the cloak, long and heavy like the dark of night, shift and slip as Katsura stood.
Fellow heroes, he said, his deep voice ringing out, clear and commanding, over the ball room, we have gathered here as only a small fraction of our true force. We are stronger than the humans could ever imagine - stronger, smarter, with an intricate web of power that reaches further than they can comprehend. Even their precious administration is not as well connected as our network.
Katsura smiled slightly, looking out at the sea of twisted, deformed faces. None of this should surprise you. As the superior creatures, it should be no great shock that we have left the humans behind in the dust. So, now, let me tell you the real story.
He took a step forward, the cloak, which was pinned to the shoulders of his black jacket with two huge, silver snake brooches, slithered over the smooth, marble floor of the dais. His self-satisfied smile was reflected in his dark eyes.
We live in an imperfect world. This was met with a swell of noise as the crowd muttered their begrudging agreement. Katsura held up a hand, and waited until it was stone-silent before continuing. He did not have to wait long.
This age is a brutal one, where the members of the Pacifist World Administration are no less murderers than convicted criminals. What else could an organization be, besides a coven of murderers, that authorizes the execution of millions of people ever year? They are monsters, more so than any of us, because they claim to be righteous.
Long, long ago, a group of men conspired to end the world. They did not succeed, but they did decimate vast portions of the globe. The violence they perpetrated left the world in shambles. Instead of shunning those villains, I thank them, for they have set the stage for our rise to power.
The mob erupted, cheering, stamping their feet, whistling. The noise ruled until it became evident that the Gentleman had more to say. The silence that followed was absolute.
In the wake of such global destruction, a group of leaders - pacifists' - rose up, and led the survivors into a new era. An era that the people of earth believed would be peaceful to the extreme. Actions were taken to eliminate the use of weapons of mass destruction, to increase lifespan, rid the human race of disease.
All of us gathered here were once human. Isn't that a beautiful vision? Peace, security, food, health, freedom, happiness? Isn't that a dream come true? The tall man paused, studying the faces of his rapt audience. Isn't it too bad, he continued, that such a vision is nothing more than wishful thinking?
An overwhelming chorus of, echoed through the ballroom, making the crystal chandelier tremble slightly.
This age that we live in is a brutal one - far from the peaceful ideal the regime wishes to embody. Under the Pacifist World Administration's governance, the elect live in comfort while those who cannot live up to the official standards are killed.
These are pacifists,' my friends. These are men who claim to want the best for every soul on this planet.
No! These are men who have implemented laws that discriminate against the ill and the deformed, against the weak and the innocent. With the interests of society at large in mind, the administration has created a physical exam that condemns ten to fifteen percent of the global population to death. How? If I am a fifteen-year-old boy, and I do not score a ninety-seven percent or above on my medical examination, I am exterminated. Ten to fifteen percent of fifteen-year-olds are exterminated every year, because the administration considers them an official health risk.
How many good people have been murdered by these monsters? Over the past centuries? Innumerable innocents have died at the government's hands. Far more, in fact, than we have killed. Can you believe it, friends? Vampires, the creatures of the dark, do not kill as many humans as the administration.
Kenshin watched Katsura, his proud expression, the fervent love for his cause that burned in his eyes. But do not be fooled, the handsome leader warned the feverish mob. Just as they are not truly righteous, nor are we. But we have one stark distinction.
We are superior. My fellows, we have found the answer to every question the mortals ask. We have eliminated the threat of disease, and made the chance of death a mere joke. We are faster, stronger, smarter, than the humans could ever hope to be - medical engineering or no.
It was once said that the weak would inherit the earth, and here we are - The weak, the outnumbered, the hunted and hated, made strong, lifted out of subjugation. And it is finally time we fulfilled that prophecy!
The noise in the great ballroom was building. The excitement was almost a taste in Kenshin's mouth, almost a scent rising like the strongest perfume. It was intoxicating and almost frightening in its sheer power.
It is time for us to rise up and take our rightful place at the top of the world's hierarchy! Our day is coming, my friends, and you will all be party to its glory! Wear your badges with pride and do not turn from the darkness - Because we are the darkness, of the same mysterious origins as the great prophecy that will allow our ascension!
Listen for my word, you heroes of the night! Watch for the sign that the true revolution will begin!
For a moment, the hall was silent, Katsura's words echoing and dissipated in the air. And then, a scream rose in every throat in that crowd, filling the ballroom with the unholy sound of hundreds of vampires' joy. They applauded, screamed for their leader, bared their souls for the cause in that moment.
Kenshin smiled, and rose, slipping away from the dais in the midst of the jubilant chaos. Katsura had put his legions in the mindset for battle, but before they could fight, the final arrangements had to be made.
Kenshin and Katsura knew that there was one, final warrior left who had yet to join the darkness. It was Kenshin's job, they had determined, to win him to their side. With that in mind, Kenshin exited the ballroom, making his way to his private chambers. He had a phone call to make.
Notes!
OK - I think there might be a couple quickie-type notes here . . .
Fitz - I hope this cleared up some of your confusion. FarStrider - Make any more sense now? (What does it say about my crappy writing that all my notes are, like, Hey, sorry this doesn't make any sense!?) Oryo - Hi! ::Giggle.:: Clarus - Thank you for the fabulous beta-job! I love and worship your coolness.
::Sways back and forth.:: Katsuuuura is a psyyyyychoooo! ::Giggle.:: Yep. They're all crazy. Sohjiro's batty (Oh, wait, you didn't get? My bad!), Shishio's a megalomaniacal freak, Katsura's just plain crazy, Okita's a nympho, Sagara's gonna be driven mad with all this death and destruction (Well, that's how it looks right now, at least!), Saito's a bit bonkers, Yumi is a jealous, obsessive bitch and - Who am I missing? Oh. Kenshin. Well, Kenshin's a bit of a nympho, a bit of a freak - Gosh, Kenshin's just all-around weird, no matter how you look at it.
Coming soon:
Aoshi, Misao, a vampire club, some real interaction between the two leads, and, if you couldn't guess, more yaoi.
Pleeeeaaaase review!
I love you all!
SnM