Terrible is the price
Of beginning anew, of birth;
For Death has loaded dice.
Men hurry and hide like mice;
But they cannot evade the Earth,
And Life, Death's fancy price.
From The Price by John Davidson
Chapter Three: Evade the Earth
Nagira Syunji was dreaming.
It wasn't one of those dreams. There were no buxom handmaidens attentive to his every desire; no leather clad mistresses eyeing him with exhilarating disapproval. Regretfully, he'd been having fewer dreams like that, lately.
No. It was one of the other dreams. And this one starred two very familiar actors.
They were alive, in his dream. His dream self didn't question it. They were there, they were alive and that was all that mattered.
Robin was sitting on a bed, her arms clasped around her legs, head resting on her knees. She was staring at the wall, waiting, perhaps. Suddenly, she started and jumped up, padding out the door and into a small hallway.
Nagira's view of the dream changed. He was in a kitchen. Robin came in with some bags - Amon right behind her. They spoke for a moment, lips moving soundlessly, until Robin stilled, then smiled.
And then, in that strange way dreams have, they were somewhere else. They were leaving a bench near a teppanyaki stand. Nagira recognized the fountain behind them and wondered at his brother's audacity. So, they were still in Tokyo. They were walking down a street, then past an alley, when a man he didn't know stepped from the shadows. The picture skipped, like a bad film, showing him snatches of what was to come - Robin lying on the ground; the man laughing; and most frightening of all, Amon's face, cold with a killing fury. He took a step forward and -
It was then that the dream disintegrated into an assortment of images, flashing across his bewildered mind. A worn book of poetry; a faded ribbon; the broken dial of an old television; a rusting birdcage with the door missing; a faded photograph of three men; the shattered lens of a pair of glasses; and finally, an ugly grey building.
Nagira woke up. His heart was pounding and he'd been thrashing about in bed, judging by the state of his sheets and comforter.
"Shit," he muttered. Still groggy, he rolled over and sat up, sweat cooling on his bare chest as he reached for a cigarette. Lighting it, he leaned on the headboard, watching the smoke drift up to the ceiling, going over the dream in his mind. He was missing something, he knew, something important from those last few flashes at the end.
The photo, the glasses - ah, he had it. He took a long drag on his cigarette and smiled in the darkness. His brother was a keen one, to be sure - but he was pretty observant, himself. His smile widened at the thought of Mika's reaction to his announcement he'd be visiting friends today.
...and finally, an ugly grey building...with a street sign at the edge of his vision.
There wasn't much for them to do in their tiny apartment. Furtive shopping excursions - usually only made by him - had yielded books and art supplies; primarily for Robin's entertainment. He had his laptop as well as a few other items he'd salvaged from the two heart-pounding trips back to his apartment, before he'd asked Robin to do the honors. They'd left as silently as they'd come, the flames warming their backs as the sirens drew steadily closer.
There was no way they would manage to get Robin's suitcase from Nagira's without alerting his irritatingly perceptive brother to their existence, so shopping it was. It had proven impossible to find anything that even remotely resembled her favored attire anywhere in Tokyo, so she'd had to settle for a variety of long, dark skirts and blouses. Standing at the counter, paying for their purchases, he'd given in to curiosity.
"How do you run?" he asked, accepting his change. She took half the bags, considering.
"I don't have to, most of the time." No, quite right. Amon had come to learn that flames could travel a fair distance. He'd really meant in pursuing a Witch.
"Although," she continued, "I always make sure the skirts are big enough here-" she pulled at the cloth near her knee with her free hand, "so that I can, if need be."
He nodded, as if to signify the end of the conversation. But he took note of sizes and on his next unaccompanied outing, invested in a pair of jeans. One could never know.
So, there wasn't much to do. Amon was particularly edgy, unaccustomed to idle hours with no direction, no motivation apart from the overriding urge to live. They read. They talked. They learned a lot about each other. Each day brought them closer together until one day he realized they worked in synchrony; two parts of a whole, quite possibly inseparable. He didn't want to test the theory.
They watched television. Amon had never had much use for the idiot box before, it existed only to provide background noise, news or the occasional weather report. Now, in their caged existence, it was like an old friend come to join the party, boosting their pairing up to a trio. He still couldn't stomach most programs, but they were becoming quite the little general knowledge aficionados. He was certain they'd seen every quiz show known to man.
That was their evening ritual - watching game shows, sitting beside each other on the worn sofa. In attempting to answer before the contestants they were fairly evenly matched. Robin was superior in arts and literature, but he was well versed in geography and current affairs. They were usually equal in history. He had a broader reach but she had by far the more agile mind.
And sometimes, it was hard to concentrate.
Robin got surprisingly excited over this battle of skills. She became agitated in "Who am I?" questions when she couldn't think of the answer; and was often aghast at the time it took for befuddled contestants to stammer out a response.
"But Amon, it's so obviously ----," she'd say, unconsciously clasping his arm, wriggling about on the couch cushions in her distress. "It was stated quite plainly in ----."
"Yes," he'd reply noncommittally, forcing himself to focus on the television. Math, he thought. Simple mathematics. The hypotenuse of a triangle is the longest side. One meter equals 100 centimeters. What is the square root of 225? Fifteen. Fifteen. Robin is fifteen. Shit.
Hard to concentrate, indeed.
-
Amon's head hurt. It wasn't the usual aching jumble of apprehension and held back emotion, nor was it the gnawing throb of "will-they-find-us" or "what-will-they-do-to-us?". Instead, it was a tooth-jarring buzz, constantly at the edges of his perception. It was also very annoying.
Which explained why he was lying facedown on the couch when Robin came out to start dinner. He heard the soft whoosh of her door opening, then her steady tread tracing the familiar path to the living room. He would have smiled at how even her feet sounded surprised when she paused upon seeing him "C he would have, but his head hurt too much.
"Amon?"
He grunted. She moved - one, two, three steps - then knelt beside him, placing a comforting hand upon his back. "Are you alright?"
He rolled to one side and rested his cheek on his forearm. Eyes closed, he replied, "My head hurts." The comforting hand moved from his back to his temple, smoothing over the skin there, and he suppressed a ridiculous urge to lean into her touch.
"Do you need paracetamol tablets?" He shook his head and sat up, slowly. It wasn't a headache, per se, it just...hurt. Blinking languidly he took in Robin's worried face before allowing his gaze to roam the room. Now, if I could only get out of here...
And why not? I'd wager being cooped up has something to do with this awful feeling. "Robin." She watched him, waiting. "I think we should eat out tonight." Confusion warred with excitement on her expressive face at the prospect of a rare foray into the outside world. She got to her feet.
"I'll get my coat."
The wing fluttered weakly - once, twice - before stilling as the harsh fumes took effect. Werner Schaden held his breath while he pinned the delicate appendage, then moved on to its mate. Without taking his eyes off the helpless creature, he reached for another pin and casually impaled the tiny torso.
He leant back, surveying his work. No - something was not right. He frowned for a moment, glancing about to see what he'd missed, when his eyes fell upon a little piece of paper. "Ah, klar!" he said, smiling to himself, taking the small card and arranging it under the crucified insect.
"Parnassius mnemosyne - Clouded Apollo," he read aloud. Gently, almost tenderly, he picked up the case and carried it over to the far wall of his study, fixing it to the hook already prepared upon the plaster. He stepped back to admire the view.
Frame upon frame of butterflies lined the wall, their immobile forms and neat labels taking up most of the space. There were more, of course, curiosity cabinets full of them, but these were his favorites - the crowd pleasers, one could say. From below his knee to above his head, the wall was taken up by boxes of Lepidoptera, their preserved forms forever trapped between glass and wax. In fact, the entire wall was now full, save for one single rectangle of free plaster in the centre of his collection.
Schaden straightened. His bodyguard had just entered the room. "Otis," Schaden said, eyes still fixed on that empty spot amidst the sea of cases, "did I ever tell you what I am saving that space on my wall for?" He turned slowly, to find the large man thinking. It looked painful.
"I...do not think you have had." Schaden smiled. Otis was tall, Scandinavian, and thick as a brick. The perfect henchman, really. Good minions were so hard to come across these days.
"Nein? Ah, but it is such a good story! Let me give you the short version. "This-" he indicated the gap "is being saved for the greatest desire of myself. The love of my life, perhaps." He watched the blonde giant carefully; he seemed to be following the tale so far.
"When I was very little my parents had no time for me. They worked a great deal and so I was left alone much of the time. One holidays meine Grossmutter, she took me in at her country home and let me have the run of the manor. After a couple of days I discovered the attic, and the treasures it held. Amidst this collection I found a thin wooden case, perhaps this big." Schaden gestured, holding his hands about a foot apart.
"A curious child, I opened it. And inside was the largest butterfly I had ever seen! At first, I thought it was perhaps a strange bird, but it had a little card - Ornithoptera alexandrae - Queen Alexandra's Birdwing. That, Otis, is the rarest of all the butterflies in the world, at this time. Many species become extinct, every day, but in the far reaches of Papua New Guinea there are still some of that particular breed to be found. I do not know how long I stared at the beautiful creature, but I still remember every single tracing on its body, every dust mote upon its wings."
"We went for a walk, that afternoon, meine Grossmutter and myself, and on our way back we saw smoke. The house was in flames. They could never tell us how it started but everything was destroyed. That beautiful, majestic creature was no more." Schaden returned from his reverie. His bodyguard was looking at him, slack jawed, but he couldn't tell if Otis had been caught up in the story or was simply maintaining his usual appearance.
"I changed, that day, Otis. Three things happened to me at that time. Firstly, I fell in love with collecting these exquisite beings, hoping that one day; I would have the pleasure of capturing and pinning my very own Queen Alexandra's Birdwing. Secondly, I swore that should I ever have children, I would be a good father to them, and not neglect them, ever. I loved meine Grossmutter, God rest her soul, but I longed for my parents to spend more time with me. Finally, Otis, I feared. Nothing had frightened me, truly, before that day, but coming back to find the house in flames - well. It instilled in me a deep and abiding hatred of fire."
He was silent for a moment longer, before smiling widely at his henchman. "But surely you did not come in here to listen to my ravings! Why did you seek me out?"
Otis nodded, and apparently unconsciously, straightened under the benevolent eye of his employer. "A message is arrived for you, sir." He pulled a note from the pocket of his dark suit, handed it over, then retreated to his lurking post out the study door. Schaden watched him go, then opened the envelope.
Windless sails. Some resistance. The hidden phoenix shall arise from the ashes.
"Viel Gluck," he thought, methodically shredding the paper, letting the strips litter the floor unheeded. "Let us see how the little bird fares."
Miho didn't like him. She was reasonably certain none of the other team members liked him, either. She didn't know why she felt this way about him - she couldn't put her finger on it. But there was something about him, something about this Jabez -
He frightened her.
Oh, he'd done nothing untoward. He'd been with the STN-J for nearly a fortnight and he'd settled in as best one could, in that place. He'd even gone on a hunt the night after he arrived.
"I see him, Michael," she said into her earpiece, readying her gun, struck by that same sense of weightiness she got every time she pulled out her regular old pistol. Lead, it appeared, was heavier than Orbo. She was about to run after the Witch when a strong arm had clapped down upon her shoulder. Stifling an exclamation, she looked up into the cold eyes of the new Hunter.
Miho hated his eyes. They were twin reminders of the girl who'd touched them all so deeply, then been torn from them in a cruel wrench of fate. It didn't help that the rest of Jabez just screamed Amon!
And she couldn't figure him out. This replacement was a tough one. He didn't show his emotions at all, and they still didn't know what, if any, Craft he possessed. In fact, they'd barely exchanged words in the entire time he'd been there.
Her Craft was failing. She'd tried to read him that very first time, when the Chief had brought him to the office. Nothing. Not even a stray reaction to his lunch that day. She'd held off for another week, then tried again. Nothing.
Just remembering that silence - that complete and utter lack of feeling - made her panic. She could feel that familiar other that was her Craft slipping away from her. As much as she'd resented it when she was younger, as much as she'd feared it more recently, she couldn't bear to think of what the loss of it would do to her. For if she didn't have her Craft, what did she have?
"Karasuma." The voice. So like Amon's. It worked as Amon's would have, comforting and solid, pulling her from her reverie. She'd been staring into his eyes. He reached over and plucked her gun from suddenly nerveless fingers.
"We will not be killing the Witch," Jabez told her, pocketing the weapon and subsequently withdrawing a gun of his own. Instead of regular bullets like hers held, this one was stocked with tranquilizer slugs, guaranteed to knock out any living person, human or Witch, in a matter of seconds.
She knew this because he'd explained the new methods to them the day he'd arrived. She knew, and still she had reached for her own gun. She didn't know why.
The Witch was still in her sights, skulking in the alley before them. Jabez glided forward, soundless in the shadows - then his gun clicked, cocking. Two pfft noises and the Witch crumpled.
"We have him, Michael." Miho found her voice and followed the other Hunter over to their quarry.
"Have you inserted the chip yet?" Michael's voice sounded in her ear, causing her to jump. I'm edgy, she thought.
"No. He- we're about to."
"Okay." The hacker sounded distracted. "Call me when its done." Her earpiece fizzled and she knew Michael had moved on to other matters.
When she caught up to Jabez she found him busy with the shiny apparatus that seemingly signified the future of Witch hunting. It reminded Miho of a garlic press. It had the same squeeze mechanism, but the top was modified, somehow. Jabez tore open the plastic wrapper that housed the small chip and inserted it into the holding clip. He wiped over the unconscious Witch's neck with an alcohol swab, then pressed the blade against the skin and squeezed.
It was a quick and no doubt painless maneuver that nevertheless caused Miho to wince. It was a two part process. First the bladed section of the "squeezer" cut a thin, precise line in the Witch's skin. The blade remained under the dermal layer while the second part took place. The chip was thrust under the skin, then the machine was removed and the skin flap held down. Jabez rummaged in his pockets and pulled out a small bottle. Withdrawing what looked like a nail polish brush, he carefully spread some over the tiny cut. He recapped the bottle, gathered his things, and stood up, surveying the Witch's prone form impassively.
"Michael." His voice cut through the silence. "The chip is in place."
"Right." Miho heard the reply in her own headset. "Now let me just - aha! It's in the database. Okay- heart rate normal. Craft use at zero. Great! All the info is in the system."
Disturbed, Miho turned and left the alley, wanting nothing more than a nice warm bath. She left Jabez crouching once more over the drugged Witch, turning the spent tranquilizers over in his gloved hand.
-
She was just pulling out of the parking lot at Raven's Flat when her communicator sounded. Keeping one eye on the traffic she reached over and connected.
"Yes?"
Michael's voice came over the line. "Remember that Witch you tagged on your first Hunt with Jabez?"
How could she forget? "Yes, of course. What is it, Michael?"
"He's on the move. And it looks like he's got a partner." Despite herself, Miho was curious.
"What was the Witch's power?" She could hear tapping.
"Ah, an unusual one, to be sure. Yori Nanashi's only ability is to completely shield himself. He can render himself invisible and becomes impervious to detection by Craft. Gee, guess we just got him at a bad moment."
"He was completely visible. Yet it seems unlikely we would have caught him off guard...what of his partner?"
"No information on him. I only found out by going through the police files."
She sighed, and spotting a break in the line of cars, slipped out onto the road. Steering with one hand, she allowed herself a quick glance down at the communicator. "Do you have Yori's location, Michael?"
"Yeah -"
"I'm on my way."
It was dusk when they left the apartment. Amon was not overly hungry - even though ostensibly they'd gone out for a meal - so they walked down side streets, taking in the shops that were still open. The buzzing in his head had numbed that part that made him innately watchful and suspicious, so he was less aware than he usually was. Which should have made him more alert.
As it was, he felt almost relaxed, lingering over displays with Robin. Sure, he'd feel a whole lot better without the static in his head, but other than that, Amon was oddly peaceful in this domestic setting. Amon, Robin, shopping. It didn't clang, as he'd thought it might.
He hadn't been paying much attention to where they were going, and he was somewhat surprised to find they'd wandered into a music store. Robin was in the aisle next to him, lovingly stroking a violin.
Amon started. Lucky violin. He scowled and walked over to her, nodding at the instrument. "I was unaware you played." He knew she could play the organ, but had assumed that was the extent of her musical abilities.
She nodded. "I learnt from when I was very young. I haven't played for a while though." Her hand stilled on the violin and he found himself staring at the pale skin, stark against the warm gloss of the wood, then he was stepping forward of his own volition, closing the gap between them -
"Can I help you?" Amon's eyes narrowed. I hate shop assistants.
"Yes," he said, keeping the fury from his voice with great effort, "you can. I'd like to purchase this instrument."
Robin's mouth fell open in a graceless 'o' of astonishment. He felt perversely satisfied for provoking such a reaction. "Amon, you can't -"
He silenced her with a wave of his hand, dismissing her protests. The clerk dimpled.
"What a lovely uncle you have," she said to Robin, leading her to the counter.
I really hate shop assistants.
-
Before Amon knew it, night had fallen. They discussed dinner and Robin expressed a desire to have teppanyaki, a style of cooking she'd become rather taken with. He'd inwardly balked at the idea of being trapped in a restaurant, but as usual, as if sensing his discomfort, she'd softly suggested a safe alternative.
So they bought their food from a small stand in the park, and eaten it on a bench next to a fountain. The rhythmic splashing soothed his buzzing head, and he was feeling quite calm by the time he scraped the last piece of fish from his plastic container. Robin had already finished hers and was watching the people around them - couples walking close together; friends joking and laughing; parents lovingly scolding their children. She hugged the violin case to her thin chest, gazing wistfully out at these paragons of normalcy.
"Amon?" she asked, jolting him from his stupor. He'd been staring at her. Again. He hurriedly schooled his face into an expression of disinterest.
"Yes?" he replied, looking out into the distance, as if scanning for possible threats.
"Will life always be like this?"
He'd wondered that as well. They'd spoken of what they should do after fleeing Factory, and had come to the conclusion that waiting a year to leave the country was probably the best option. Amon wasn't a frivolous man - he'd saved the majority of his STN-J earnings. He was also something of a shrewd investor - a skill Nagira, of all people, had helped him cultivate - so they were pretty much guaranteed enough money to last them the 12 months of laying low. When he'd worked out the logistics of going into hiding, however, he'd neglected to consider just how boring captivity could get.
Although, if he had to admit it, there was no one else he would have even contemplated sharing forced confinement with. Robin was, although quiet, an excellent conversationalist, able to discuss many varied topics. She was tidy, spending part of each day cleaning their living quarters. She could even cook.
He struggled to find an answer to her question, but the more he thought about it, the more he had to admit that he had no idea. "I don't know, Robin," he said, bowing his head, willing himself not to look at her.
He felt her nod, then stand up. "Come, Amon," she said, grasping his hand, and despite his earlier inner protests, his startled eyes flew up to meet her own. She was smiling, a rueful twist of her lips. Amon let her pull him to his feet and they trudged off together, disposing of their rubbish, merging seamlessly with the oblivious swirl of humanity.
-
They walked the usual way home. This part of town was not as well lit as the park area. It seemed almost ominous, even to Amon's malfunctioning senses, fuzzed as they were by the static in his head. He was ignoring the feeling, telling himself he was just paranoid, when a quiet scuffling behind him cleared his head completely.
Amon's mind trickled. He was turning, moving his body to see what Robin was doing behind him, but time seemed to be moving against him. Inexplicably, the image of a plum filled his head. The skin of the fruit in his brain tore, and juice dribbled out. But I'm not a plum, Amon thought stupidly as he moved through the syrupy air -
to find Robin lying on the ground, bright blood stark on her pale face. Her green eyes - usually so vibrant - were hidden. Incongruously, one white arm was slung over the violin case, protecting his gift even while unconscious. He hoped she was only unconscious.
He could see, out of the corner of his eye, a man standing in the alley, perhaps twenty paces ahead of him. The man was laughing, obviously amused at Robin's expense. But there was another one, there had to be, this man, this human couldn't have attacked her. And then he felt it. The rustle in the air. The warmth nearby. The presence that proved there was someone - something - that he couldn't see and it had hurt Robin.
Fury bubbled within, a great soundless scream ripping through his mind. The fuzzy feeling that had haunted him all day dissipated instantly at the sight of Robin, crumpled at his feet. He didn't stop to think that someone with the power to incapacitate the Eve of Witches would make light work of himself - he only knew that he was angry and afraid and now that he'd thought of it he couldn't seem to rid himself of the plum idea. In his mind the skin of the plum was being pulled right off and the flesh and juice were spewing out and he knew with certainty that something was about to happen.
Without warning, the pressure in his head popped and he felt his mind lift from the confines of his skull. Before he knew it the floating, reaching otherness of his mind had locked onto an othermind and then he was falling, falling into a dark space of memories and emotions. They were not his own, and he knew - without knowing - that this was his gift, his curse, his Craft. He snapped back to his own mind, stumbling with the force of the recoil.
Amon watched with detached astonishment as he faced the Witch and the friend in the black world of his own creation, trying to come to terms with the duality of his body here and the flesh form he'd left behind in the alley, still slouched next to the silent form of Robin.
I'm not human.
I'm 'other'.
I'm a Witch.
Some German words:
Klar - of course
Nein - no
meine Grossmutter - my grandmother
Viel Gluck - good luck
A/N Thank you to everyone who took the time to read my story. Much gratitude especially to DarkenedSakura and Manny PenPen, who beta-ed for me. You've helped more than you know. Thanks, I really appreciate it!