Disclaimer: If Rumiko Takahashi EVER finds out that I'm using her dear, sweet characters like this, she would hunt me down, chop my toes off and force me to watch hours on end of Monster Rancher, slowly driving me not only to the brink of madness, but wondering why there must be so many "Gotta catch 'em all!" type anime out there.
Suffice to say, I shall here make a great show of stating that these characters are not mine. ^_^ Well. . . except for the bad guys. . . but NOBODY wants them, trust me. @.@
Rating: I'm telling you right now, the beginning and end of this chapter is DISTURBING. Please keep this in mind when I say this chapter is rated R, okay? ^^
Author's Notes: Hee, well, didn't that last chapter take a hella long time to reach you guys? I'm so, so, SO sorry that it did!! _ I wanted to write, but time and work and vacation (yes, even vacation was against me, dammit!) did not permit me to, and I didn't even write the chapter the way I wanted to. *sigh*
So, here I am at this very moment, typing like mad before I have to go to school. Why? Because I really, really want to get this chapter done quickly. XD So once again, thanks to everyone who's reviewed, I really appreciate it! It makes me write faster, wouldn'tcha know. ^_~
On that lovely note, I bring to you today the one, the only, the ORIGINAL. . .
~*Pandora*~
~*~*~*~*~
It was like a tiny beacon amongst the sea of darkness that pervaded the room; it dangled helplessly on the stark, metal chain, making a show of elegant frailty as it sloshed about the clear, glass container, a rich and thick colour. Yet, despite the fact that it, too, was dark, there was an almost unearthly, pale glow that encompassed it, beautifully entrancing. Ashen fingertips touched the small vial rather reverently; she stroked it gently, her eyes dancing over the glass bottle, memorizing its every feature. Slowly, she brought her object of affection to eye level, suspending it as close to her face as she could manage.
Her blood was truly exquisite - rich, textured, and smooth. Not a drop of it stuck to the sides of the transparent vial, dutifully flowing in whatever direction the woman holding the necklace tipped it; and gods, but it was so seductively smooth. . .
Kurai brought the vial to her lips, softly kissing it, her fangs clicking gently against the glass as she did so. Lifting the chain above her head, she put the necklace on, the cold, stainless steel of the chain resting on her alabaster skin. Eyes fluttering and breath exhaling as if she were mid-coitus, Kurai turned around, her eyes falling on the full-sized mirror that hung on the otherwise bare wall.
It felt. . . it *looked* so right; the weight of it, its position of being cradled between the top of her cleavage, and the savory, intoxicating colour of the liquid within, beautifully matching her eyes and lips.
A piece of her Pretty hung around her neck. And she loved it.
It hadn't been too long since she had last visited her new plaything. Kurai still felt anger in the pit of her stomach, thinking of how those sniveling, spineless larvae under the guise of being men (who weren't terribly better) had been in the cell, had *touched* her Pretty! Such lowly minds could not have hoped to begin to comprehend what they were laying their filthy, weak hands on.
Beauty. Grace. *Innocence*.
Though she couldn't stop her fist from involuntarily clenching by her side, Kurai knew that, at least, they were dead. She had considered - briefly - consuming their fresh remains, but their guts stunk of such masculine stupidity that it churned her stomach, sickening her.
No matter. For when she had seen her Pretty, crying, bleeding, half-naked and so beautiful on the hard floor, she knew that those bastards of guards could not have taken away Pretty's innate. . .
. . . perfection.
She had cried and screamed so desperately in Kurai's embrace, scratching and clawing at any part of her body that could be hurt, Pretty's face as delicate as that of a porcelain doll. Her tears shone like diamonds in the dim light of the cell, if not surpassing said gems in breathtaking beauty and worth.
She had sprawled her Pretty on the floor, naked and broken and heart-wrenchingly gorgeous, watching with quiet fascination as she sobbed, her entire body shaking. Her once strong muscles had been weakened by exhaustion and pain, yet she still fought her, terrified and desperate, not unlike a caged animal. Brown eyes, deep and complex, grew wide with fear when she saw her - what she had done, able to easily see what she *wanted* to do.
Oh. . . the screams. . . the agonizingly beautiful screams. . .
It was enough to make her shiver in delight once more; the mere thought of the young gymnast, so open and so used, brought a sort of wicked, lusting grin to Kurai's face, her lips slightly parted, breathing heavily.
'Yes,' Kurai thought, closing her eyes and clutching the bottle of Kodachi's blood that hung around her neck, 'she is mine.'
From the moment Kurai had seen her in her room, quaking gently in fear under the protective arms of the moonlgith, she knew that her Pretty was. . . different. The ninja woman was certainly not a stranger to her line of work; she had captured countless other young girls in the past, all of them terrified; each were taken, enjoyed, and eventually were tired of and eaten. She had long forgotten who they were and their distinct features, all of them sort of blurring and blending together in Kurai's memory.
No, not her Pretty, though. Skin as smooth as cream, her long raven locks a sea of black that glistened in the light of the moon, a delicate face with classically beautiful features, and blood so indescribably exquisite that it had become an addiction of sorts for Kurai. Her Pretty was even so chaste and perfect that those idiotic, pathetic guards, who had managed to penetrate her first, could not take from her the distinct taste of a virgin - so sweet, so torturously pure.
For once, Kurai didn't want to kill her plaything after she was finished with the playing. Pretty was far too beautiful, and much too flawless.
She couldn't help but wonder, as she fingered the new treasure hanging around her neck, what she would do when Naomi told her to execute one of two plans: give her Pretty back, or kill her. Pretty was, as Naomi had put it, simply a means to an end, and it was *she* who was expendable, *not* their target. They had all worked hard to come this close to achieving their goal, and yet their main objective was so weak, and so *generic*.
That boy could not even begin to understand the depths of his fledgling power, his gracious gift; both she and Naomi knew this. If he did, they would certainly be much less sloppy in the way they were doing things.
Kurai herself had suggested getting to their target through his sister, despite the fact she knew they would have had little trouble abducting him on their own. Of course, that wouldn't have been nearly half as fun.
The black haired ninja continued with her thoughts as she breezed past her impressive collection of weapons, displayed on various racks and hooks beside her bedroll; although Kurai was well aware of her prowess in bare-fisted martial arts, sleep *is* sleep. If all she had to do to defeat her attacker was reach out for a katana and slice their head clean off, so be it; she did not like to be interrupted, and sleep was certainly no exception.
Out the door she went, her bare feet padding soundlessly down the sterile, metal hallway - one of the many in the labyrinth that made up Pandora's Underground. Each passageway was bland and identical in order not to only confuse and trap possible invaders, but to test new employees; when one joined Pandora, they had to be able to aptly use their other senses and their instincts. Otherwise, they were dead. Also, it was rather entertaining to see the new recruits wander the same hallway two, three, maybe ten times in an hour, very much confused and lost. It was like a spectator sport. Kurai, however, knew exactly where she was going, and where her destination was lying in wait.
She strode through the hallways carved of raw steal, greatly rewarded with quick glances of fear and, in some brave cases, disgust; Kurai had always loved being able to intimidate those surrounding her, for the sense of power was a rush all on its own. Inwardly, she smirked, her path cleared simply by her natural aura of nigh-psychotic calm, filling each hallway she darkened with a tense, scared ambience.
Another turn. Another staircase. Yet more turns. Minutes passed as she silently stalked down the many corridors of the corporation, the only sound to be heard the nearly silent slap of feat on unforgiving metal.
Finally, the statuesque woman came to a halt in front of a set of enormous, severe-looking steel doors. In bold, black letters, it read above it "CELL BLOCK 1-D", proud and large. This particular set of cells were specifically tailored to Kurai's tastes and fetishes. Stepping up to them, the doors opened automatically.
The stench of blood was like a tidal wave that washed over her, covering her body entirely. Kurai inhaled deeply, closing her eyes; it smelled marvelous, the scent already beginning to have its desired effect on the fanged woman.
Slap, slap, slap.
She took each step slowly and deliberately, pausing a few times to simply revel in the odor of the place, fear and anguish nearly palatable in the metal hall that stretched before Kurai. The cells obediently lined each side of her, all the same on the outside, but deliciously different within. Blood red eyes looked up to her right, following the numbers above each cell.
210. . . 211. . . 212. . . 213. . . 214. . .
The slap of her feet came to a stop in front of one particular chamber, the number 215 etched above it; a tiny window with a sliding panel was the only visual access to the inside of it, and currently, the panel was closed shut. However, Kurai did not have to be able to see inside the prison to know what was guarded so carefully within.
Her violated little angel. Her Pretty.
The stink of blood and sex was easy to smell, even through the thick, metal door that separated stark reality with lustful fantasy for the woman before it. She pressed her ear to the door, and was awarded with a sound that made her entire body tingle.
It was faint, but there; her plaything's ragged, hitched breathing, and the positively audible picture of tears trickling down the captured girl's face. So softly she was crying, so remarkably, beautifully sad. . .
Shivering in anticipation, she quickly dug out of her obi a relatively nondescript key, save for the number 251 embossed on its head. It slid into the lock easily; with a deft turn of her hand and the unmistakable metallic hiss and click that followed, Kurai unlocked the steel mammoth of a door. She pushed on it, the well-oiled hinges resisting, but just barely.
The smell of blood intensified, wafting about the stuffy, windowless cell like invisible smoke from a very symbolic sort of fire. A lonely, bare lightbulb hung steadfastly in the centre of the place, its low wattage barely illuminating the various puddles of drying blood, the thicker splotches glistening softly, reflecting the dark room in its sinister mirror.
And there, huddling in the far corner of the cell, almost entirely covered in shadow, was her Pretty.
Kodachi's body was now devoid of any sort of clothing, her only protection being the relievingly dark
embrace of the jail's shadows. Her brown eyes were wide and unseeing, curled up in the fetal position
against the wall, rocking back and forth, trembling with fear, disgust, and most certainly cold. Her dry,
harsh sobs were interspersed with shaky mumbling under her breath, tears choking her quiet words.
Obviously, her Pretty had not realized that her captor had entered the tiny cell, much too preoccupied
in the dark corner of both the room and her mind, trying to desperately merge with the darkness and
fade into nothingness. Kurai watched this; ruby lips twisted up into what could be considered a smile
of sorts - Pretty must have been in such pain, such mental anguish and shame. If she strained her ears,
Kurai swore she could hear each individual nerve ending of her toy screaming in agony, begging for
all of it to stop, just to go back home.
Maybe it was just her imagination, though.
Kurai stepped forward, her feet expertly making no sound as she crossed the mats; oh ho, what was
this scratching sound she heard? Her attention successfully caught, the cannibal stared intently at
Kodachi; the young girl's hand was raised, her fingers a pathetic imitation of claws as she scratched
weakly at the wall beside her, sobbing loudly. She leaned forward in her corner, trying to force more
weight into her deliciously feeble attempts at escape.
Whether it was from blood loss, pain, shock, or a delightful combination of said variables, Kodachi's
hand slipped on the metal wall, causing her to lose balance. Frantically, she scrabbled for a hold on
the smooth, metal surface, but in vain; she hit the ground hard, eliciting from her a cracked cry of
pain, fresh tears welling up in her eyes.
Now fully exposed in the waning light of the cell, Kurai allowed her eyes to wander over her Pretty's
pale, bare flesh, made even more perfect with the dry and wet blood that splattered her form. Seeing
her like this, so weak, created a fluttering sensation in her lower stomach, and she found herself
unable to stop a low, lustful moan from escaping her lips.
Her entire body quivering, Kodachi froze instantly when she heard the unmistakable sound of the
woman's voice, feeling a shadow dwarf her shaking frame. With trepidation, the scared girl slowly
opened her tear-filled eyes, turning them upwards at the figure above her. Eyes resting on the woman's
white, severe face, she opened her mouth, trying to scream but unable to find the power to do so.
Kurai smiled wickedly back.
*=*=*
Yes, they were definitely footsteps that Ranma heard up on the roof; quickly, and as a way to distract herself from the messy situation at hand that she felt (partially) responsible for, she ran through her mind a mental list of who it could be. Mr. Tendo? No, she remembered seeing him with Kasumi in the living room; her own father had assumed panda form, as he normally did when pressing matters arose, so he was probably asleep at the very moment.
She closed her eyes, clenching and unclenching her fists, the unsteady sounds of Kuno's hitched breathing affecting her more than she really wanted; in the back of her mind, the boy turned girl was slowly beginning to think that maybe, just maybe, she *wasn't* right after all.
No! No. . . it all made too much sense for her NOT to be right! She shook her head; she would think of this later, once she had everything sorted out. For now, the question of who was on the roof was bugging the hell out of her. She turned to Ryoga; he was looking at the wall, yet his eyes betrayed the fact that he was in deep thought about something, judging from their somewhat glazed appearance.
"Ryoga?" she asked, biting her lip. Jogged out of whatever thought he was musing over, Ryoga flinched, looking up at Ranma with the expression of someone who had just been slapped in the face. He expelled his breath gently, his gaze locking with Ranma's for a scant moment before turning it to the ground, traces of anger twisting onto his features.
Great, just what she always wanted to do - deal with a pissed off and confused Ryoga. Ranma sighed irately, running a hand through her now crimson hair; she decided to risk bodily injury that she may or may not have been able to defend herself against by stepping up closer to the fanged boy, nudging him a bit.
"Hey," she said quietly, "do you hear that on the roof?"
He looked skeptical at her tone, as the lost boy usually did whenever she talked to him. His glance was narrow and sharp, suspicion evident in his body language as Ryoga crossed his arms over his chest, in a sort of 'what-the-hell-are-you-trying-to-pull-now?' stance that made Ranma what to throttle his neck and apologize at the same time. The pigtailed girl closed her eyes, determined to get through to him; yeah, sure, it was only about footsteps on a roof, but it was a small victory. Besides, she was absolutely determined *not* to focus on what was now happening behind her, with Kuno and Nabiki.
"I don't hear anything," he replied dully, defiantly looking away from her form.
"Well listen *harder*, Ryoga, 'cause I know I ain't hearing things," Ranma bit off, too tired and emotionally worn to take any of the bandana'd boy's moody crap; maybe if the guy wasn't so bloody tight-laced, the rod up his ass would ease up a bit. . .
In return, Ryoga clenched his teeth together, glaring at Ranma, ready to say something insulting; however, his eyes seemed to flicker briefly over Ranma's shoulder, to where Kuno was managing to gain some semblance of control over his emotions; the blue colour was dying down, and Nabiki, who seemed to just realize exactly what she was doing, with whom, in the presence of human life forms, and was standing beside the kendoist, not touching him. Ryoga's scowl softened, and he turned his eyes back to Ranma, almost as if to admit defeat.
Rather than say anything more, Ryoga closed his eyes, his ears straining to hear any noise outside of the hallway. He had finely trained senses; from all his time spent in the wilds of Japan's forests and mountains, it was essential that he had fully-functioning and acute senses, in order to be able to detect danger from afar, and eventually find his way back to civilization. It certainly came in handy as his ears perked up, now trained on the sound of what was most definitely feet on the roof.
"Yes, I hear it," he conceded, once more becoming confused, "who is it?"
"I dunno," Ranma answered in an annoyed fashion, "I don't recognize the footsteps. Maybe Mousse or Shampoo?"
"Mousse or Shampoo? No, the sound is much too heavy, like boots," Ryoga supplied, his eyes now turned up towards the roof, where the steady *ker-klunk* could be heard with each step upon the shingles of the Tendo homestead. The pace itself was steady and assured, brimming with confidence for whatever reason; if it *were* Shampoo or Mousse, Shampoo would either be on a bicycle or skippling about happily, and Mousse would be sprinting or tripping over his own feet.
Whoever this person was, they'd never met them before, and it unsettled both Ranma and Ryoga greatly.
The heavy thunking on the roof persisted, drawing closer to the edge, where it stopped in the
backyard. Ranma followed the sound, as did Ryoga; the hallway was eerily silent, apart from the steps
on the rooftop, and the hitched breaths that Kuno was taking in, his nigh-frantic sobbing having
calmed quite a bit. Nabiki, still kneeling by Kuno's side, looked up slightly as well, traces of confusion
and suspicion apparent on her features.
With a bit of hesitance, Nabiki looked over her shoulder at Ranma, the same sort of questioning look
still shown. By now, Kuno had quieted down enough, and he too turned his tear-streaked gaze
upwards.
The rhythm of the feet was steady and frustatingly slow, at something of a languid, strolling pace.
Their heavy shoes - boots? - klunked along, ever walking towards the porch door.
Ranma bit her lip, hearing the quiet shuffle of familiar feet as Ryoga stood beside her; the red haired
girl looked over to the fanged boy, who nodded in return, a serious expression on his face.
Together they walked forward, maneuvering around where Kuno and Nabiki were still crouched;
Ranma did her best to ignore Kuno and not look at the older boy's face, feeling a sense of guilt flood
her system. Biting her lip hard and quelling these feelings, she continued on, hers and Ryoga's steps
much lighter and quicker compared to those of the unknown guest's atop the roof. Ranma looked
determinedly at the closed patio doors, while Ryoga nervously glanced from the ceiling, to the two
people behind him, to Ranma, and to the doors.
The three sets of footsteps fell into something of a euphonous rhythm - where one step fell short, another, perhaps softer, perhaps heavier footfall picked up. In this manner, all three headed for the obstacle and goal of the doors, perfectly in sync.
It was for this reason that the staccato *tap-tap-tap* of socked feet hurrying down the wooden staircase nearby was so easily heard, even in the hallway, disrupting the tense beat of the steps. Akane Tendo hurried down the walkway to the foyer, her face a mixture of concern and deeply rooted annoyance.
"Ranma!" she called, managing to walk right past the joined hall to her left, where her s-named fiancee was presently. "What was all that noise from before about?"
Her concentration destroyed, Ranma whirled her head around at the sound of the far too familiar voice. She watched as Akane backtracked to the hallway in which said commotion had taken place only moments before. Almost immediately, the short-haired girl could sense the nigh-palpable tension within the vicinity of the hallway.
"Ranma, what's-?" she began to ask, her confused gaze switching between the pigtailed martial artist and the rest of those present. By this time, both Nabiki and Kuno had stood up, Nabiki looking her over her shoulder at her little sister.
"Shh," Nabiki said quietly, raising her index finger first to her lips, then to the roof. As such, Akane's stare was directed up to the ceiling, where the steady thunking of feet made itself apparent to the newest occupant of the hallway. Her eyebrows creased in questioning, and again she looked at her sister for an answer. In return, Nabiki shrugged her shoulders and slightly raised her hands, showing she knew just as much as her younger sister did about the situation.
Ranma sighed, getting her mind back on track; turning around, Ranma and Ryoga continued to the sliding paper doors that led to the backyard porch. They - aforementioned unnamed footsteps included - were nearly there.
After what seemed to be an eternity, Ranma finally found herself within arm's length of the door's handle, feeling the tension mounting in the hallway, nearly electric in its intensity; deafening silence allowed her to hear her heartbeat in her ears. She reached out, her hand grasping onto the jutted, wooden panel of the door - the moment she did this, the footfalls on the roof stopped. Ranma paused for a very brief moment; the red-haired girl looked up at the bandana'd boy who, after glancing back at Akane and blushing a small bit, caught Ranma's stare, blue eyes locking with brown. Biting his lip, he nodded.
With determination and morbid curiosity fastened onto her brain like a straightjacket, Ranma quickly opened the door, her heart a jackhammer in her chest. With a hard 'thunk', the door slammed into its slot in the wall, presenting Ranma with. . .
. . . nothing. Absolutely nothing. Not a damned thing.
Feeling as if she had been greatly let down, Ranma furrowed her eyebrows, glancing slightly to her left at Ryoga, who bore an expression similar to that of a child who had recently found out Santa Clause wasn't real. Sighing, Ranma took a step forward, cool air enveloping her body as she did so.
The pigtailed girl looked around, even upwards; nothing to be seen on the deck, the backyard, or the rooftop, from her perspective. Listening closely, she could hear no evidence of a person; the footsteps had ceased completely, and the night was as quiet as a tomb. She allowed her eyes to scan the distance slowly; the far-off stars and moon, the grass, the koi pond.
The face that suddenly appeared millimeters from her nose.
With a cry of surprise, Ranma jumped and stumbled back, feeling adrenaline course freely through her veins. The face simply smiled.
"Guten Tag!" he greeted cheerily enough, continuing to look at Ranma through dusky grey eyes, his pale skin standing out against the dark of the night.
All present in the hallway stared at the man standing on the porch of the Tendo backyard, the sound of his lightly-accented voice filtering through the air. He didn't move, his body clad entirely in black; black, loose pants, black, contrastingly form-fitted shirt with a collar that covered half his neck, black, leather boots that looked rather heavy yet stylishly affordable, and a dramatic, black trench coat. It billowed slightly in the wind, however the top part of it seemed to be weighted down by something (perhaps more than one something) inside. He took a step forward, muscles rippling under the demi-tight shirt he wore; he raised his hand in a show of peace, still smiling. Moonlight glinted off the mop of brown hair that sat atop his head as he did so.
"I hope I am not interrupting anything important," he said, glancing around the hallway and at the people inside it, "and I certainly hope I did not scare anyone." He looked rather meaningfully at Ranma with his last remark, which bristled the boy-turned-girl something fierce.
"You didn't scare me, whoever the hell you are," Ranma stated, crossing her arms over her chest. There was something decidedly not right about the German man who had just entered the Tendo abode quite unexpectedly - the fact that Ranma couldn't detect him outside was, in and of itself, something of a significant threat.
"You are right fraülein, how very rude of me," the rather handsome man said, laughing good naturedly and patting Ranma on the head, which pissed her right off. Taking another step towards the group of people and completely ignoring the growling sound that had issued from Ranma's throat, everyone in turn stepped back - except, of course, for Ranma. Now fully inside Chez Tendo, the German man smiled once more, which was at once unsettling and strangely captivating, much in the sense a car wreck is.
"My name is Marc Sänger, and I am looking for someone," the man, now known to the rest of them as Marc, said. He bowed slightly.
"Who is it you're looking for?" Ryoga asked warily, really not liking the disturbing sort of aura he exhumed within the hallway; glancing over, the lost boy saw Ranma herself stepping back slightly as well, scrutinizing him. Something was really not right about him. . .
The man was currently digging in his trench coat, cursing in German under his breath. After a few moments of searching, he looked quite proud with himself when he took a small piece of paper out of his black coat, holding it in his hand. Unfolding it, Marc squinted at the name scribbled onto it.
"One Tatewaki Kuno, I believe," he said, looking up at the group expectantly. Ranma blinked, turning her head around to face where Kuno was looking at the man, his eyes widened slightly. Nobody said a word, and Marc's face fell somewhat.
"Tatewaki Kuno? Damn, did I get the wrong house? I was given this address," he explained, holding up the piece of paper as if a testament to the fact it was not his mistake. Snapped out of whatever sort of shocked state he was in, Kuno cleared his throat.
"I am Tatewaki Kuno," the kendoist said, staring at Marc, confused as to why a strange German man wearing all black would have anything to do with him. Immediately, Marc's smile returned to his face, and he let out a short laugh.
"Good, I was getting worried that I would have to shoot everybody in case I was wrong. Witnesses, you see," he explained, walking towards Kuno, his trench coat swishing with his movements, breezing right passed a shocked looking Ranma and Ryoga. Feeling unnerved with every step closer that the black-clad man took towards him, Kuno found his breath catching in his throat as a distinct aura of coldness radiated off of Marc, becoming more overwhelming the closer he came.
Before Kuno could even blink, there the man was, right in front of him; his smile from before was gone, replaced with an almost smug grin, staring at him, cold, steel eyes against frightened cobalt.
"We have your sister."
Immediately Kuno's eyes widened, gaping incredulously at the man, standing so calmly before him. He felt many emotions filter through his being, the most prevalent being *anger*. The man, smiling so casually in front of him, had hurt his Kocchi. . . he had taken her away, leaving nothing behind but broken furniture and bloodstains on everything, making him feel sick to his stomach! Kuno felt his hands clench beside him, his face contorting into a visage of righteous anger, a growl welling up in the back of his throat. Marc began to speak once more, looking as if he was enjoying the torrid of emotions playing across the boy's face.
"Now, listen to me carefully, and-"
"You BASTARD!" Tatewaki cried out, beginning to charge forward, his fists balled and ready to strike his face. This was when Marc, who had been standing quite languidly in front of him, moved in what looked to be a veritable blur. Before Kuno could even figure out what was happening, he heard a yelp from beside him; quickly he turned his body to face where the sound was coming from, unable to understand where Marc had gone so quickly.
His answer was now in front of him. There was Marc, still with the smile on his face; however, now he held Nabiki in a tight choke-hold with his left arm, squeezing her neck slightly, her body directly in front of his. Marc's other hand held a large, silver gun, which was resting against the side of Nabiki's head. Everyone in the hallway made similar sounds of gasped shock upon seeing this.
"Nabiki!" Akane cried out, her hands immediately moving over her mouth, eyes wide with surprise and most likely fear. Ranma and Ryoga ran towards where Nabiki and Marc were, both bearing expressions of alarm on their faces. Kuno stood in front of the both of them, drinking in the situation and not liking the taste one bit; he looked at Nabiki, whose lips were parted slightly in shock, gasping for air as Marc's hold on her neck became much too tight.
"Really now," Marc said, tsk tsk-ing at Kuno, his smirk deadly, "how very impudent of you. I must say that I do not like impudence."
"Let her go!!" Kuno demanded, his eyes wide with obvious terror, which wasn't terribly comforting to Nabiki. Marc simply clicked the safety off the gun.
"I do not want to," he stated, "and besides, now I have your attention, ja? Much easier on me." Nabiki, whose hands hand gone up to Marc's arm around her neck, was trying to pry it off, struggling for air, her face turning a disconcerting shade of blue. Ranma, deciding that this was quite enough, tensed her body to spring forward, already in a battle stance. It was one thing to sneak past her detection, but to come in and threaten somebody's life like that?! Gritting her teeth in determination and tightening her muscles to spring forward, Ranma suddenly heard a metal click, followed by a horrendous boom that sounded like thunder. She felt a quick burst of air fly by her cheek, accompanied by an intense stinging sensation on her cheek.
Looking up, Ranma saw Marc replacing a now-smoking gun against Nabiki's head. Ranma's fingers found their way to her stinging cheek, feeling wetness on them; bringing her fingers back in front of her face to inspect them, she saw blood dripping down them. Behind her was a bullet hole in the wall.
"Fraülein, that hole will be in your forehead if you attempt something like that again," Marc stated, his eyes now having hardened considerably. Quickly, he shifted his gaze back to Kuno.
"Now. Listen to me carefully, or you shall force me to shoot this rather pretty girl here. I have no immediate desire to, but I will if you attempt something stupid." Kuno's muscles immediately froze up, his breathing becoming shallow and quick; all other eyes in the room had their attention on Marc, who looked rather pleased with himself.
"Good, then. As I said Tatewaki Kuno, we have your sister. Now, normally we are not as careful as this in making sure the message is delivered - we had to make sure to tell you in person, in this case, for fear of the message somehow not being received on your end. However, yours is a rather special circumstance." Kuno grit his teeth, wanting to throttle the German man's neck for having such a damned light tone in his voice.
"What is it you want, then?" the kendoist asked, slowly and deliberately, glaring daggers at Marc, feeling powerless. In turn, Marc tilted his head slightly, smiling at Kuno.
"You, of course."
He stared at the man in front of him, his face a visage of barely registered shock. With his lips slightly parted, and his unblinking eyes widening, staring at the armed man's smirking face, Kuno could find no words in his immediate syntax that would at once wrap around his feelings and the growing intensity in the room. He managed to move his mouth somewhat, however all he was able to utter was an unidentifiable noise of question and shock, something like a hybrid between "ah!" and "uh?".
"A cunning response if there ever was one," Marc stated dryly, the blasted smile still present on his pale features. He then went on to laugh slightly, looking appraisingly at Kuno's form, hugging a bit tighter onto Nabiki's neck, the cool barrel of the gun still pressed firmly against her head.
"Well, if this is all that we can hope to expect from you, then I must say that our investments were quite for naught. Of course, this is my opinion," Marc said, pausing for a moment in his sentence, a touch of mania tainting his smirk. "Then again, I *am* the man holding the gun, so I suppose it counts for more, ja?" He laughed in the way that a polite businessman would at a horrible joke his boss just told. It took all that Kuno had to stop himself from attempting to tear that wicked grin off his face, and risk harming everyone, and potentially killing Nabiki. Swallowing hard, the kendoist shook himself from his stupor, glaring at Marc.
"What do you want me for?" he ground out, his eyes flashing over to Nabiki's face, which was uncharacteristically frightened. Their eyes locked for a moment, and Kuno desperately tried to communicate to Nabiki with his thoughts that everything was going to be alright. This certainly did not go unnoticed by Marc, who clicked his tongue on the roof of his mouth.
"Is that really such an important question?" he asked Kuno, his tone obviously that of mockery, "Think about it for a second. We have kidnaped your sister, and it is really not a pleasant experience for her; currently, I have a loaded gun pressed against this lovely little thing's temple - and you want to know *why*? Would you not rather know *how* to get your sister back, and *how* to stop me from pulling the trigger here and splattering this girl's blood all over the wall? Really, you must straighten out your priorities."
Kuno balled his fists by his sides, hating the fact that Marc was outright taunting him, knowing full well there was absolutely nothing he could do - Kuno refused to let his own stupid pride take someone's life. Biting down on his tongue to quell the slew of insults that threatened to rise from his throat, the brown haired boy looked steadily at the German man, still holding the gun firmly against Nabiki's head. Marc arched an eyebrow.
"Well? Do you wish to know, or shall I just kill her now?" His thumb moved over the hammer of the gun, pulling it back, clicking audibly in the hallway.
"No!" Kuno exclaimed, reaching his hand out, his palm open, eyes wide with fear, "No. Tell me how." His voice was as steady as he could make it, his breath shallow. Marc continued to smile, letting out a short laugh.
"Good, we're getting somewhere. Now maybe I will be back in time for Oprah - I believe Dr. Phil is on tonight, miracle workers that they are. Have you ever watched that show? I adore her book club, shame it ended," Marc said, still smiling away as if it was okay to be discussing the wonders of the Oprah Winfrey show whilst pressing a colt magnum against the temple of a relatively helpless teenaged girl.
"What was that about straightening out priorities?" Kuno muttered, looking darkly at the trench-coated man, severely not appreciating the fact that he was rambling on about some foreign show he had vaguely heard of. In turn, Marc's smile turned into something that could be considered genuine contentment.
"A sharp wit. Perhaps you are salvageable after all," he commented, tilting his head slightly, the analyzing look back in his steel-grey eyes. "Alright then. I shall tell you how to straighten out this mess that you are in, ja?" Tatewaki simply nodded in return, keeping his face cautiously expressionless.
"You have four days; do with them as you like, for it is precious little time. At the end of the allotted duration, you will have had to come to the decision of whether or not your sister's life is worthy of yours."
"What do you mean?" Kuno asked, a touch of fury squeezing through the confines of his mind and into the intonation of his voice. Rather than being angered by this, Marc looked at Kuno in a not too dissimilar manner a father would look at his child - that would be condescending and smug.
"I mean that, kleiner junge, you shall come with us, or she will die. It is not a hard concept to understand." Once again, the kendoist's eyes widened in mute shock and horror, forcing himself to look steadfastly at Marc, feeling sick in the pit of his stomach. Marc smiled again.
"The meeting place shall be at the vacant lot, nearest your high school, and I do hope for your sake that you know where it is. Be there for 11 p.m. sharp, and come alone," he instructed Kuno, looking over meaningfully at girl-type Ranma, who glared at him in return. Quickly brushing her aside, the man with the gun looked back over to Kuno, his unremitting smile on his face.
"My job here is now done. I shall be off for now, but I do look forward to seeing you in four days' time, Tatewaki." He removed the gun from Nabiki's head, beginning to loosen his grip. He bent his head down slightly, his arm still around her neck, speaking softly into her ear.
"Danke, fraülein, for being so very good about all this. I am proud of you, you did not even cry. Much better than other girls I have dealt with," he said. Nabiki couldn't stop herself from shuddering involuntarily as the words passed from his lips to her ear. Somewhere, in the back of her somewhat numbed mind, she realized something.
He wasn't breathing when he spoke the words to her.
By the time Marc had let go of her neck, Nabiki barely had time to watch as the man who had previously held her at gunpoint was gone, merely a blur to the eyes. Quick as lightning and quiet as a mouse, the door to the patio was opened, chilly night air gusting into the hallway.
He was gone within the blink of an eye. Registering all this, Nabiki couldn't help herself from sinking to the floor in complete and utter shock.
*=*=*
She cradled her in her arms, rocking her back and forth; the rough mats of the floor and the warm blood spilled on it caressed her legs as she held the girl in her arms, with one hand stroking her hair with long, red fingernails. Her other hand scratched along the girl's back, leaving four long, red streaks in the wake of her fingers on her flesh, digging into the soft tissue of her skin. She could feel that she was far too weak to be able to resist anything she had done, was doing, and was no doubt soon to do, and it pleased the woman holding her greatly.
Her Pretty was such a lovely, perfect toy, and now she was holding her close, breathing in her distinct scent. The hand petting her black, beautiful hair now pushed it off her shoulder, where it had been drenched in blood. Crimson stood out brightly against the younger girl's pale skin; it covered her neck and shoulder, running down her bare arms and chest; enticed by this, Kurai lowered her face to it, beginning to suck on the existing blood and bite into the flesh of her neck, sucking out more of it, much like a vampire. Kodachi emitted a small whimper, her vocal chords hoarse from all the screaming she had been doing. Kurai's hands wandered, feeling on her Pretty the cuts, lacerations, and various bruises that littered her body; her eyes were half open in numb shock, unable to fight back any more, her body in far too much pain to function properly.
Kurai loved it. She loved playtime with her Pretty. She loved how she looked; so beaten and used on the floor; she loved how she smelled, fear mixed with blood and pure innocence; she loved how she felt, so satiny and virgin against her needy fingers; she loved how she sounded, her screams, whimpers, and pleas loud in the small box of her cell. But most of all, she loved how she *tasted*. Gods, her blood was so intoxicating and rich, and it was something of a drug to the ninja woman; she was addicted to how her Pretty tasted, and the young girl was all hers. It sent shivers up her spine, and she clutched her tighter.
She knew that Pretty's time with her would soon be up. Naomi had sent that lapdog Marc of hers out to inform Alpha Pandora of how he was supposed to retrieve the perfection that was so harshly cradled in Kurai's arms. She didn't want to give her Pretty back to him; no, she had taken her, she was *hers*, and no one else's now. Pretty rightfully belonged to her. She removed her fangs from Kodachi's neck, licking and kissing upwards to her ear, and then across her bloodstained cheek.
"I will not let you go, Pretty," Kurai whispered to the girl who shook uncontrollably in her arms, tears freely coursing down her cheeks, though she had not the energy to move or say anything otherwise to her captor. Moving her one hand up to Kodachi's chin, she forced it to tilt upwards, Kurai pulling back to look into her Pretty's eyes. She knew Pretty could see her very well. She knew it.
"You are mine."
Bowing her head down to her Pretty's, Kurai desperately pressed her lips against Kodachi's, her fangs sinking into her bottom lip, blood trickling down her Pretty's chin and neck, splashing against Kurai's chest. Tears coursed of Kodachi's eyes, falling uselessly down her cheeks as Kurai began the process of violating her body once more.
Closing her eyes, Kurai sighed into her Pretty's mouth, pushing her lips against Kodachi's harder. This was what Kurai wanted. This was what she was going to have. Her Pretty belonged to her, and her alone. No one would take her away.
No one.
~*~*~*~*~
Whee, chapter shortness once again. ^^; Forgiveness for that. I'm tired, and I really did wish to finish this. You can't blame me.
WHOO! EXAMS ARE DONE!! *does a merry jig*
. . . anyhoo, I wrote this chapter damn fast, didn't I? Oh yeah. Kick ass. I've been stepping up on writing production recently, and I hope the result is up to par with what you've come to know of Pandora, in all its angsty and bloody glory. Fun, ain't it?
Welp, reviews appreciated and encouraged as always. Ooh, lucky number 13 is up next! ^_~
~Chibikat
