This was supposed to be a drabble, but as I learned too late after writing it, apparently drabbles aren't 1000+ words long. Damn me and my long-windedness. Anyhow, this is from the AyaOmi post-Gluhen plotbunny I've been playing around with lately, but there isn't any AyaOmi in it.
And yes, I am well aware of who Persia is in Gluhen. It helps if you know before reading this ficlet, though, else it probably won't make a whole lot of sense.
The stack of papers loomed ominously on his desk, casting a jagged shadow across his workspace as the late afternoon sun filtered through the blinds. Persia blinked once, rubbed his eyes, and reached for the next document.
The Greater Tokyo Good Samaritan Hospital. The words blurred across the top of the page, a jumble of alphabet soup. His brow furrowed as the staccato pounding at the top of his neck traversed the length of his skull, settling in his forehead with a renewed intensity. A hand reached out blindly to root through his desk; when he was in this state, he was unable to even distinguish which appendage he had commanded to act on his behalf.
The letters danced in front of his eyes, separating and reforming new words as he felt his eyes cross from dizziness. Lukewarm tea chased two dry pills down his throat; it was only a matter of time now before his mind cleared, and he could concentrate once again on his work. Wearily he surveyed the mounting stack of printouts crowding his inbox; was there really any point to continuing this exercise, this façade?
Perhaps Rex would come in, he mused in quiet agony, and suggest he take a quick break. The thought was enough to generate a weak laugh. How could he rest, when the streets of Japan were unsafe for its own citizens to walk? How could he sleep at night, when corrupt politicians controlled the future of this country - a war fought beneath the radar of the public, on the streets and in the shady back rooms of society's elite?
But then, who was he to judge? Who was he to stop them - having given up all claims to rightful vengeance, was he not just another one of the dark beasts, his fangs better concealed by a bright smile?
Who was the man that hid behind the name Mamoru Takatori?
A small rumbling shook the building, and for a moment Persia feared the worst and prepared himself for another terrorist attack. His hands reached instinctually for the poison darts lining the inside pocket of his sports jacket, quickly splaying them between his fingers, right hand at the ready for anyone foolish enough to attempt to take him down.
When the shaking subsided a bare ten seconds later, he relaxed and replaced the darts. It was just another small earthquake; not enough to cause property damage, but probably enough to jostle a few personal effects out of place. He surveyed his desk, the throbbing in his forehead only now beginning to abate.
Papers lay scattered half-hazardly across his workspace, documents and forms from his inbox strewn across the expanse of his desk and blanketing a portion of the surrounding floor. As he reached forward to gather them together for sorting, his finger caught on something sharp, a flash of pain transmitting to his head acute enough to force him to halt in place and catch his breath. Much more carefully, he shifted the camouflaging papers off to the side to reveal the culprit.
A small picture frame lay facedown on the corner of his desk. Ignoring the rivulet of crimson trailing down his finger, he reached down and reverently lifted the picture frame, replacing it upright from the corner to the center of his desk. Four pairs of smiling eyes stared back, a stern reminder of his duty, and a damnation itself for his choice.
One hesitant finger stroked the edge of the frame absently. But really, what choice had he had? His grandfather's terms had been quite clear from the start, and he had made his sacrifice in full, willing knowledge of the consequences he would bear for the remainder of his life. In killing Weiss, he had found the only way to give back the lives that had been stolen from them by Kritiker so long ago.
The price of Mamoru Takatori's soul was really a pittance in return, all things considered.
He clasped his fingers tightly around the warped corner of the picture frame, the uneven edge already cutting jaggedly into his soft palm. He squeezed tighter; what was a little blood shed between friends? The cold and the numb that had possessed him for so long ebbed away; the pain was comfort, and the blood, warmth - tangible reminders of the life that still flowed through his veins. How many times had he muttered that mantra under his breath as they had flown from the scene of a mission, one or all of them leaking red all over the upholstery, the mute chill of shock rendering the world in dim watercolors?
Four pairs of eyes stared at him, curious. The youngest - the one with the bright blue guileless eyes - seemed to reach out through the picture, his earnestness more urgent, more painful, somehow.
Who are you, Mamoru Takatori?
The words echoed silently in his mind as his doppelganger smiled back at him with a look of peace on his face Persia secretly envied.
Who are you, Mamoru?
And why did you let me die?
A loud crack resounded through the room as the frame collided with the surface of the desk.
He was shaking. No, it was not the meds, not the lingering after-effects of the medication; he was just cold, just shaking, just a chill, nothing more. The sort of emptiness a man who had just lost his family would understand.
A man who had just killed his family would understand better.
Papers, papers, papers - Mamoru Takatori would never be able to protect Japan by just signing documents. No, Persia realized, there was only one person who could truly protect Japan - but he needed to get Mamoru out of the way first. Shakily, he pulled the small black cell phone out of his pocket and dialed the phone number of an old acquaintance.
"Abyssinian?" Light breathing on the other end of the line confirmed the identity. No words were necessary; not when he called from this number. "The time is nigh."
A loud click severed the connection unceremoniously. No questions, no demands, no breathless exaltations. By this time tomorrow, Abyssinian would have arrived in Tokyo, set to complete the pact he had formed with Omi Tsukiyono a year before.
By this time tomorrow, Mamoru Takatori would be dead.
Persia surveyed his office one final time, a grim smile ghosting across his lips. Twenty-four hours was too short a time to spend signing documents. Picking up the cracked frame with one hand, he gingerly placed it in the inside pocket of his sports coat next to his darts, and reached across the desk to shut off his computer.
There were still some final preparations to be done, and Persia hated dying with unfinished business. He hoped that this time when he reawakened, that Omi would understand the price of his reincarnation; otherwise, he might as well destroy the shell he resided in now and save Abyssinian the trouble.
Persia shut off the lights and locked the door to his office for the last time.
The time was nigh, indeed.
Tomorrow the phoenix would rise again.