Guardian Angel
By Tasogare Ookami Konyo
Author's Notes: Yay! Another chapter! My Mimiru/Sora fic should be updated soon, someday... In the meantime, rejoice in my obsession to write romantic fanfiction about people who are more then 4 years apart. I should be killed. Honestly, I don't know a lot about the .hack games. Brownie points to anyone who can guess why and still not hurt me for writing fanfiction. ^_^ Heh... I don't own .hack games, by the way... Sigh.
Filler chapter.
Did you know Balmung's eyes change colors? ;_; The concept art and the official art says so; in one official (2-d) pic, his eyes are a dull kind of lavender, but a conceptual piece (3-d) they're green.
^*^
The waiting room was humming with activity and the occasional ring of the telephone followed by the practiced greetings of the secretaries. Balmung of the Azure Sky lingered in one of the plush chairs, getting rather uncomfortable. It was 5. He had visited sporadically over the course of the day, as she had not specified a time. Kids these days--don't know the meaning of "schedule"...
Good grief, he was getting old. He was only twenty-three and already he referred to teenagers as "kids".
"Sorry I'm late, Balmung." A chipper voice resounded somewhere above him, and he almost bolted out and off of his seat. He stood up and whirled around to face offender--and lo and behold, Akira Hayami, with new pale pink streaks in her hair. His eyes lingered on the colorful abnormalities, and she blinked before tugging on one. "Cute, huh? Cheap hair dye, though. Too much money to get it professionally done." She was clad in a white polo shirt, the sleeves and collar a shade of indigo; the skirt was fashioned similarly. In her hand was a tennis racket in its leather vessel, and a visor was plunked onto her head.
"You're late," he seethed, grinding his pearly whites together.
"It's not like I gave you an exact time or anything. Sorry," she said sheepishly. "Well, come on," Akira said, catching hold of his arm and dragging him to the exit. He trailed along helplessly, though his quizzical stare did elicit a response. She held up the racket-- "See this? Tennis racket. Me. Practice."
"What the hell? I'm not your chaperone."
"Damn right you're not, 'cause I don't need one. Don't worry! It's a secluded court, and I'm practicing against one of those machine thingies, so no one's gonna bother you. And we can still talk there, so don't complain!" Despite his protests, he could not wrench his arm from her death-grip, and by doing so relinquished most of his day to...a kid.
With pink highlights.
Sigh.
Akira released her grip on his arm and plopped down on a bench, presumably to await the bus. In doing so, she occupied...the remainder of the bench (which hoisted three other people). So he was forced to stand, and he was slowly losing sight of whatever charm Akira had the other day.
"Hey Balmung," she said suddenly, tone hushed so as not to attract attention. "What's your name? Or do you want me to scream 'BALMUNG OF THE AZURE SKY' into a crowd and watch heads turn?" Her grin was festering with warmth; the proverbial ray of sunshine, blindingly overwhelming and an assurance that, yes, all was well in the world. He almost averted his gaze from its brightness--how could someone so annoying be so untainted by society?
"Not. Funny." When she offered no commentary, he deadpanned (defeated), "Sato Daisuke. And I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't call me Balmung in public." More people played The World then you knew; a person who did not even acknowledge your existence could be your best friend on the internet--or your worst enemy.
"Right, whatever."
The bus pulled to the stop with a screeching halt, exhuming fumes every few seconds; the doors retracted like claws, permitting passage. Akira and Daisuke clambered onto the bus, offering separate fares and plopping into identical seats. If anything, they appeared to be bored strangers.
^*^
*Smack*
A fervent rhythm of sound effects and clunking, running with relentless speed that only seemed to increase as the seconds ticked by, until there was less then four seconds' pause between the grated touch of the tennis racket and the fuzzy lime-colored tennis balls that shot out of the...whatever it was (a piece of machinery, black like gunmetal and smelling faintly of nickel). Balmung, or Daisuke as he preferred out here (where strength was measured not by computerized figures, but the ability to control such factors), had long before allowed the blackness at the back of his eyelids flood his vision.
"So," he called out, too lethargic to open his eyes, "how do you know Orca? You one of his newbie followers?" A feathery weight darted about the verdant court floors in a sort of desperate dance. She's quick. The machine's automatic prowess would indubitably mean very little to her in the future.
"One of my friends"--light panting, a swallow of a breath as the cool dusk mist filled her lungs--"knows him in real life." Akira sighed, swallowing the dryness that coated much of her throat. Exercise did that to her, and suddenly, she desired water. "In fact..." A pause, brief, but he caught it, and the ensuing short remark that followed amplified his suspicion-- "Never mind."
Neither Balmung nor Daisuke liked hearing that. She was hiding something.
"What?" he said, voice forcibly controlled so as not to seem menacing or penetrating as he usually did in his interrogations. Orca and Balmung really did make a good team--good cop, bad cop. Lame euphemism. And now that he had no bar to his frustration...
Damn.
"Nothing--ouch!" Her chirp was cut off by a ball--followed by about five others consecutively. They violently punched her forehead, either shoulder, forearm, and left knee, respectively. "Dammit, ow! Don't distract me!" Picking up her racket as a warrior doggedly retrieves his or her sword, she resumed batting the tennis balls away.
"Clever excuse," Daisuke muttered under his breath. Louder this time, he stated, "You brought me here so you wouldn't have to answer my questions--or at least the ones you don't feel like answering."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Akira replied airily, regaining her sporty grace. "I figured today would be a good day because, besides practice, I got nothing to do."
"It's 5:30. You could've practiced in the morning...!"
She spared him a shifty glance, something flitting across her eyes resembling hesitance and self-assurance, and finally, she beamed at him. It was crude, stating loud and clear, I knew you were gonna do that. He cursed his predictability--although not many knew him, she could already calculate just when he would become...irritable.
She carelessly deflected another ball with a slick motion of her wrist before indicating him, then the machine. "Turn it off."
Daisuke's distaste was expressed merely by an indignant snort as he stood and moved to the backside of the machine, hitting a switch and watching the last ball roll out of the tube.
"Well? Aren't you going to compliment my skills?"
"No."
"You're a dull guy, Balmung... Mr. Sato-san," she corrected herself, irking Daisuke a bit before she walked to the bench and plopped down on it. "Alright! Fire away! I wanna get this over with!" He stood in front of her, looming over her like the last sun-cradled silhouette of a concerned patron before one slips into unconsciousness. Only he wasn't concerned; just anal. Daisuke inhaled.
"Like I asked you...so many times before," he said, a slightly angered emphasis on the word. "How do you know Yasuhiko is Orca?"
"One of my friends knows him in real life. Didn't I already tell you? And if you're gonna ask how I knew you were Balmung...well, you have that same 'holier-than-thou' look plastered on your face."
He snorted. It was funny; he did it more eloquently than others, but nevertheless, a grown man role-playing an angel is not meant to snort like a pig. He became increasingly wary of her. "Who's your friend?" he challenged; a voice, obtrusive and uninvited in his mind, adamantly declared that it was...
She fidgeted in her seat, and secretly, he was struck with a giddy sort of delight. This meant two things: one, she had something to hide, and two, his methods were producing marvelous results. He bit back a smile and resumed leering. She didn't answer.
Only with a steel-sharpened demand. "Would you stop staring at me?" Akira asked distractedly, casting her maroon gaze somewhere to the side after a few breathless moments of reciprocating his staring contest.
"Well? Do you have something to hide?" the Azure Sky pressed.
"No!" she insisted, flinging her arms into the air in frustration. "I'm sure you have all these lovely guesses about what a mean and horrible person I probably am, but jeez, give me a break here!"
Daisuke flinched, but his resolution was unwavering; hers was, though--a candle, once smoldering cheerily, was now bleakly swaying, buffeted by his stiff and callous demeanor. He (in personality) bothered her inexplicably. And he took advantage of the situation. "You said you'd answer my questions," he said stubbornly.
"Fine, fine. But if I do, you better fulfill my list of demands first." One of Daisuke's eyebrows elevated almost to his hairline, mistrust undisguised and crystal-clear in his narrowed eyes. "As in...don't kill me, maim me, torture me, yell at me, kill my friends, maim my friends, torture my friends, yell at my friends..." Dubiousness. Akira quickened her speech, and shot her hand out as she had done that day in the hospital upon introduction. "Come on! Shake on it, Sato!"
Wordlessly, he grasped her hand and jerked it up and down slowly; then he released his grip and beckoned her to continue with a short hand gesture. She rubbed her hand for a moment and then concentrated on ironing out the creases of her skirt with her hands.
"Well, I'm pretty sure you know me," Akira grumped. "And you know my friend, don't you?" She ran her tongue lightly on her lower lip, and his anticipation grew as she stalled. Finally, she said, "Look. Can I skip that question?"
He stared.
"I'd like to get to know you a little better first before telling you," Akira rushed on.
Before you damn me to hell and back just because you know my name.
He faltered slightly, but somehow seemed to grasp the concept. "Alright," he conceded with a heavy sigh.
"Thanks. It's getting late. Same time tomorrow? No practice on Sundays."
"Right..."