Author's Note: I don't know where this came from . . . I hope everyone
likes it! But I haven't written fanfics in a while so bare with me. I would
greatly appreciate feedback.
"Man in a file"
A young woman was furiously walking down the street. Her long black hair was loosely tied back and swinging behind her. Her thin-rimmed glasses caught the light of the evening sunset and reflected it. In her hand she clutched a spotless, white folder, with a name written neatly in black ink along the tab.
She slipped through the crowds of people with grace, trying to keep her eyes from watering but it was inevitable. She made her way into the park purely by accident. She ran down the smoothly paved walkways. Her vision was blurring from inpending tears and she frankly didn't care who she ran into.
And run into someone she did. She collided with some man, she only noticed his blond hair before she kept on running, not stopping, only saying a choked up apology as she ran.
Finally she stopped running and collapsed onto a random park bench. The girl dropped the file beside her and brought her legs up to her chest. She folded her arms and lay her head in them, trying not to cry.
"Hey."
She looked up, her eyes still dry behind her glasses, "Who are you?" she asked coldly.
A man in perhaps his early forties, though he looked like he was in his twenties, was standing beside her. His blond hair registered in her mind with the vague image of the man she had run into. He was wearing a long coat with stylish leather pants and a snug cotton shirt beneath it.
"Are you okay, Babe?" he asked.
She glared up at him. Her glare wasn't something to be taken lightly. Her eyes were cold, with nothing but hate radiating out towards the man. "Don't you dare call me that again."
He smirked, "I won't if you tell me what has got you so you're running into random people on the street." He spotted the folder.
She quickly grabbed it and cleared a place for him to sit. She lowered her legs and leaned across them, holding the file in her hand. The man sat next to her, sitting in a similar fashion.
"So what is your name?"
"What is yours?" she replied cooly.
"Kudou. Yohji Kudou."
"Vivian. Vivian Crawford."
"So," Yohji said, not reacting to the name, "what is up?"
Vivian sneered off into space. She shoved the folder to Yohji. He took it and opened it. Vivian clenched and unclenched her fists. "That bastard," she murmured, "That bastard. Bastard . . ."
Yohji looked through the documents casually as though he already knew what he said. He closed the folder. "So what makes you hate your father so much? I am assuming he is your father right?"
Vivian snapped towards him. "He was a bastard! He hardly ever spent time with me! He never cared! He-he-he . . ." her arguments were obviously fueled in part by hysterics. "He lied to me! He was a killer! He murdered people! He-he lied to me . . ." her head fell and she tried to hold back the sobs.
Yohji appeared indifferent, "You never met Crawford did you?"
Vivian looked at him. "He was my father, what the fuck do you mean? Of coarse I met him!"
Yohji shook his head, "I mean did you ever know who he was?"
"No," she turned away in disgust. "I should though. It is like an important dream that you can't remember. Apparently," she gestured to the file, "that is all that is left of his existence."
Yohji shook his head again.
Vivian looked at him, "Did . . . did you know him?"
"Know him?" he looked at her, "yeah, you could say I knew him."
"Tell me about him."
Yohji chuckled, "Imagine a man, with compassion for nothing, abilities for something and a life equivalent to hell."
"Why doesn't he just pick a different life?" Vivian asked, she definitely wasn't a naive woman merely one seeking answers, Yohji discovered. This truly was Brad Crawford's offspring in its truest form.
"Because it is the only life he knows, the only life he can and deep down, it is the only life he wants to live." Yohji reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box, "Cigarette?" he offered. To his surprise, she took it, and lit up with her own lighter before he had a chance to put one in his mouth.
So they sat, smoking cigarettes with the setting sun heating the backs of their necks. "So," Vivian began, "did he ever love anyone?"
"Did you ever meet any of his associates?"
"Hm? Sure, I hardly remember though. He told me to call one of them, uncle. That man was very quiet as I remember . . . Now answer my question."
Yohji let the smoke drift out of his mouth and nostrils, preparing his words. "It is really hard to tell what love. Some people can tell right away but, for men in our profession, nearly all emotions have been blocked out except for a select few, selected by ourselves. When that is the case, it is nearly impossible to tell one emotion from the next, including love. But in my personal opinion, yes, I believe Crawford died loving someone. Whether he knew he loved him or not."
Vivian looked at him, "'Men like us?'" she quoted him. "What does that mean?"
Yohji chuckled, shaking his head and standing, "You really are Crawford's daughter." He moved to walked away but her voiced called out to him.
"Wait! Kudou!" he turned back. "Where can I go? For answers I mean . . ."
He took a drag of his cigarette. "Look through that folder and go to his grave next Thursday."
He turned to go again but her voice stopped him. "But he wasn't buried. It says so, right here!"
"There are two anonymous graves in the over there," he gestured with his hand back behind them. "Go there." And then he walked away. Leaving Vivian Crawford staring at the spotless white folder, laying beside her.
Vivian sat on a bench in the cemetery on Thursday morning. Her eyes downcast and her bangs falling across her glasses. It was a cloudy day with a breeze no stronger than a whisper. She stubbed out a cigarette and stood again. She picked up the spotless white folder. The pages inside were well- thumbed even if the outside looked untouched. She walked across the grass in a pair clean black pants, a white shirt and leather jacket.
She searched the names on the tombstones with cold eyes, all the while holding the white folder in her hand. Finally, she arrived at two unmarked placks. They were right next to one another. Four thin bouquets of flowers lay on the two. Roses, Cattleyas, Gentians and Freesias. Vivian looked at them for a moment before turning on her heel and walking away. She knew that Kudou-guy had been full of shit.
About half a minute later. She stopped and turned around, back towards the unmarked graves. There was a man standing there that hadn't been there before. All she could make out about him was his distinct Japanese features. She slid her fingers across the folder and opened it. She skimmed through some documents until she found what she was looking for.
"Schwarz," she murmured to herself.
"Brad Crawford, diseased. Schuldig, diseased. Farfello Jei, missing. Naoe Nagi, alive," she looked across the graveyard to the Japanese man still standing by the grave.
Vivian walked across the graveyard. Not with a quick pace, or anything special, she walked with the same casual stride as she had when she was walking away from the grave. "Excuse me," she said, in an emotionless voice. "Are you a Mr. Nagi Naoe?"
The man turned to her, "Yes."
Not even a ghost of a smile appeared on her face, "Do you know who is buried in those graves?"
He looked at her for a moment, as if deciding whether to answer or not. He chose to answer, "An American and a German."
Vivian looked down at the graves and the flowers. "Who where they?"
"Two men completely addicted."
"To what?"
"To chaos, hell, suffering and most of all, eachother."
Nagi looked at her, "Do you know who they were?"
Vivian held the spotless folder out over the plack in front of her. She pulled her lighter out of her pocket and lit the edge of it. As the folder caught on fire she set it down on the stone. "I think I have an idea."
THE END
Author's Note: I am pretty sure that was kinda weird... it was for me too. I appreciate feedback of any kind. But most of all, I appreciate that fact that you read it.
"Man in a file"
A young woman was furiously walking down the street. Her long black hair was loosely tied back and swinging behind her. Her thin-rimmed glasses caught the light of the evening sunset and reflected it. In her hand she clutched a spotless, white folder, with a name written neatly in black ink along the tab.
She slipped through the crowds of people with grace, trying to keep her eyes from watering but it was inevitable. She made her way into the park purely by accident. She ran down the smoothly paved walkways. Her vision was blurring from inpending tears and she frankly didn't care who she ran into.
And run into someone she did. She collided with some man, she only noticed his blond hair before she kept on running, not stopping, only saying a choked up apology as she ran.
Finally she stopped running and collapsed onto a random park bench. The girl dropped the file beside her and brought her legs up to her chest. She folded her arms and lay her head in them, trying not to cry.
"Hey."
She looked up, her eyes still dry behind her glasses, "Who are you?" she asked coldly.
A man in perhaps his early forties, though he looked like he was in his twenties, was standing beside her. His blond hair registered in her mind with the vague image of the man she had run into. He was wearing a long coat with stylish leather pants and a snug cotton shirt beneath it.
"Are you okay, Babe?" he asked.
She glared up at him. Her glare wasn't something to be taken lightly. Her eyes were cold, with nothing but hate radiating out towards the man. "Don't you dare call me that again."
He smirked, "I won't if you tell me what has got you so you're running into random people on the street." He spotted the folder.
She quickly grabbed it and cleared a place for him to sit. She lowered her legs and leaned across them, holding the file in her hand. The man sat next to her, sitting in a similar fashion.
"So what is your name?"
"What is yours?" she replied cooly.
"Kudou. Yohji Kudou."
"Vivian. Vivian Crawford."
"So," Yohji said, not reacting to the name, "what is up?"
Vivian sneered off into space. She shoved the folder to Yohji. He took it and opened it. Vivian clenched and unclenched her fists. "That bastard," she murmured, "That bastard. Bastard . . ."
Yohji looked through the documents casually as though he already knew what he said. He closed the folder. "So what makes you hate your father so much? I am assuming he is your father right?"
Vivian snapped towards him. "He was a bastard! He hardly ever spent time with me! He never cared! He-he-he . . ." her arguments were obviously fueled in part by hysterics. "He lied to me! He was a killer! He murdered people! He-he lied to me . . ." her head fell and she tried to hold back the sobs.
Yohji appeared indifferent, "You never met Crawford did you?"
Vivian looked at him. "He was my father, what the fuck do you mean? Of coarse I met him!"
Yohji shook his head, "I mean did you ever know who he was?"
"No," she turned away in disgust. "I should though. It is like an important dream that you can't remember. Apparently," she gestured to the file, "that is all that is left of his existence."
Yohji shook his head again.
Vivian looked at him, "Did . . . did you know him?"
"Know him?" he looked at her, "yeah, you could say I knew him."
"Tell me about him."
Yohji chuckled, "Imagine a man, with compassion for nothing, abilities for something and a life equivalent to hell."
"Why doesn't he just pick a different life?" Vivian asked, she definitely wasn't a naive woman merely one seeking answers, Yohji discovered. This truly was Brad Crawford's offspring in its truest form.
"Because it is the only life he knows, the only life he can and deep down, it is the only life he wants to live." Yohji reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box, "Cigarette?" he offered. To his surprise, she took it, and lit up with her own lighter before he had a chance to put one in his mouth.
So they sat, smoking cigarettes with the setting sun heating the backs of their necks. "So," Vivian began, "did he ever love anyone?"
"Did you ever meet any of his associates?"
"Hm? Sure, I hardly remember though. He told me to call one of them, uncle. That man was very quiet as I remember . . . Now answer my question."
Yohji let the smoke drift out of his mouth and nostrils, preparing his words. "It is really hard to tell what love. Some people can tell right away but, for men in our profession, nearly all emotions have been blocked out except for a select few, selected by ourselves. When that is the case, it is nearly impossible to tell one emotion from the next, including love. But in my personal opinion, yes, I believe Crawford died loving someone. Whether he knew he loved him or not."
Vivian looked at him, "'Men like us?'" she quoted him. "What does that mean?"
Yohji chuckled, shaking his head and standing, "You really are Crawford's daughter." He moved to walked away but her voiced called out to him.
"Wait! Kudou!" he turned back. "Where can I go? For answers I mean . . ."
He took a drag of his cigarette. "Look through that folder and go to his grave next Thursday."
He turned to go again but her voice stopped him. "But he wasn't buried. It says so, right here!"
"There are two anonymous graves in the over there," he gestured with his hand back behind them. "Go there." And then he walked away. Leaving Vivian Crawford staring at the spotless white folder, laying beside her.
Vivian sat on a bench in the cemetery on Thursday morning. Her eyes downcast and her bangs falling across her glasses. It was a cloudy day with a breeze no stronger than a whisper. She stubbed out a cigarette and stood again. She picked up the spotless white folder. The pages inside were well- thumbed even if the outside looked untouched. She walked across the grass in a pair clean black pants, a white shirt and leather jacket.
She searched the names on the tombstones with cold eyes, all the while holding the white folder in her hand. Finally, she arrived at two unmarked placks. They were right next to one another. Four thin bouquets of flowers lay on the two. Roses, Cattleyas, Gentians and Freesias. Vivian looked at them for a moment before turning on her heel and walking away. She knew that Kudou-guy had been full of shit.
About half a minute later. She stopped and turned around, back towards the unmarked graves. There was a man standing there that hadn't been there before. All she could make out about him was his distinct Japanese features. She slid her fingers across the folder and opened it. She skimmed through some documents until she found what she was looking for.
"Schwarz," she murmured to herself.
"Brad Crawford, diseased. Schuldig, diseased. Farfello Jei, missing. Naoe Nagi, alive," she looked across the graveyard to the Japanese man still standing by the grave.
Vivian walked across the graveyard. Not with a quick pace, or anything special, she walked with the same casual stride as she had when she was walking away from the grave. "Excuse me," she said, in an emotionless voice. "Are you a Mr. Nagi Naoe?"
The man turned to her, "Yes."
Not even a ghost of a smile appeared on her face, "Do you know who is buried in those graves?"
He looked at her for a moment, as if deciding whether to answer or not. He chose to answer, "An American and a German."
Vivian looked down at the graves and the flowers. "Who where they?"
"Two men completely addicted."
"To what?"
"To chaos, hell, suffering and most of all, eachother."
Nagi looked at her, "Do you know who they were?"
Vivian held the spotless folder out over the plack in front of her. She pulled her lighter out of her pocket and lit the edge of it. As the folder caught on fire she set it down on the stone. "I think I have an idea."
THE END
Author's Note: I am pretty sure that was kinda weird... it was for me too. I appreciate feedback of any kind. But most of all, I appreciate that fact that you read it.