"Book, book…. Who's got the book…"
Doujima practically sang the words as the blonde scoured what remained of Kristo's house in the countryside. Somewhere, in the piles and piles of scattered papers, books, magazines, supplies, and blankets, was a small, brown, leatherbound book. Karasuma had seen it, and, so, it had to be there. And there had to be some reason that the empath needed that book so desperately.
Doujima pursed her lips into a mild scowl. "Why exactly do you need this book?"
"I'm not entirely sure," Miho breathed softly, absently.
The blonde threw her arms up. "Then WHY exactly are we hunting for it?"
"I don't know."
xxxx
"So, who wrote this joke?"
Amon didn't answer his former partner as both he and Robin gazed up in awe at the strange sight before them. It was a tall building, painted black all about the exterior. Loud music throbbed from the inside, making the entire structure seem alive with a massive, slamming bass beat, the heartbeat of the club. But, that wasn't what started Robin or Amon. It was the scrawled, purple, neon lighting was the name, The Masquerade. The name wasn't that surprising, but the strange, mechanical gargoyle peering over the "M" remained all too familiar in style and design.
Robin folded her arms across her chest. "You knew we were coming here, Raven?"
"Yup," the runemal replied as the others piled out of the cars, milling about and gathering along the busy Ponce de Leon Avenue.
She darted a mildly annoyed look towards Raven. "Why didn't you say anything?"
"You didn't ask."
Robin shook her head, but Amon fought to control his own smile. Yet the Craft user actually caught the quick flash of humor found in Amon. It had been so very long since he had felt anything. And, yet, in that group, the man found it so relaxing. It felt… freeing to be among them, as if Amon could be exactly who he was and exactly who he was meant to be with no worries.
And, yet, Amon had become the very thing he hated.
A witch.
No. Robin corrected herself. Amon had become one of the Thirteen. The man had ascended from hunter to Warrior, chosen among the chosen. Amon had been born anew, casting off his former life and transforming into something entirely different than both man and witch combined. Robin had seen his wings.
The girl shuddered visibly; Brett furrowed his eyebrows as he approached. "Are you alright, Robin?"
"Yes…" the girl murmured.
But, inside, she wasn't.
xxxx
The rooms felt so vacant and empty.
Miho could still hear the echoes of laughter in the back of her mind. At one point, right after that little band of refugees had fled to Japan, the house had been a home to them, a place where they could just be. The entire group found the place to be relaxing, refreshing. There, they could just calm down and be themselves.
And, now, they were devoid.
Karasuma almost wished they hadn't left. Their absence left an unnatural taint upon the house, dark and sickly. It was if when the witches fled, they had taken every bit of life from the house with them, back to America. The empath could actually almost see them still there, in the house, in shadow images. And every image of them seemed to be so happy and joyous, with only a mild hint of despair lurking beneath the positive exterior.
This was a house of juxtaposition.
On the one hand, there was this happy, shiny surface, filled with happy, shiny people. There was the façade, and, yet, some sliver of truth to it. They were happy, when they were together, all of them, in that house.
But, that was just one facet to the many sided puzzle that was that particular band of witches. Miho had never quite seen anything life them, and the woman doubted she would ever again. They had such courage, such fire and passion. They knew exactly who they were and what they needed to accomplish with life. Or, so, it seemed. They were a mystery, an enigma onto themselves. They were perfect sorrow and perfect love given feet and a will to walk the Earth.
Karasuma moved on from the living room, into a side room. The laundry room. There, piles of laundry remaining to be done lay heaped on the floor. Miho smirked, wondering precisely which pieces of unmentionables belonged to whom. Somehow, the empath couldn't quite picture the Invader Zim boxers belonging to Amon, or any of the other men for that matter. Miho absently prayed they weren't Sakaki's either!
Absently, Miho began to pile the clothes into the washing machine.
"What are you doing?" Doujima asked breathlessly from the doorframe.
Karasuma shook her head. "I don't know." The empath smiled to herself softly. "I just thought they would appreciate clean clothes when they came home."
If they would ever return to the far flung islands of Japan. In truth, Miho hadn't any idea where the band had run off to, carting Robin, Sakaki, and Amon with them. They could have been anywhere, with anyone, doing anything. There were just too many questions, too many variables to the equation.
"That's if they're still alive," Doujima sniffed.
Karasuma shrugged. "Michael just spoke with Amon recently. Something about decoding a bunch of files." She grabbed another bunch of clothes to shove into the washer. "And you know Amon. He wouldn't let them do anything too terribly risky."
"How improper."
Karasuma raised an eyebrow, but when on with the simple, mindless task. It was most impolite of the woman to be pawed through their dirty linens, particularly, their whites, but Miho had just felt the urge. She tried to finish without a second thought, but a strange texture caught her fingertips. It was smooth, warm, and welcoming. Leather.
"The book…."
xxxx
She hated him.
Oh god, she hated him.
She hated him with every breath of the world, with the passion of a thousand burning suns, with, with…. With every fiber of her being…. Her being?
She was loosing herself.
The world fell away, lost in a sea of confusion, trickling away with every last shred of her being and her consciousness. They took the last remnants of her sanity. And her emotions. The girl struggled to hold tight to her emotions, to feel them again, to remember what it felt life to feel. Utterly redundant, it seemed, but the girl had to remember, hold herself together.
But…. Her name….
It remained.
No.
No, that was gone, too.
NO!
She had to fight it, fight the will to submit. The girl had to summon every last bit of her strength to remember who she was, what she was. The girl had to keep it together, to recall her name and know what she needed to do. She already knew one thing; the girl hated HIM.
…. Who was he again?
The girl blinked, looking up into those eyes of his.
She was supposed to feel something about him.
That is to say, if she would feel anything ever again.
"Do you know who you are?"
No, she couldn't.
xxxx
They stalked in, entering The Masquerade like wolves on the prowl. They moved together, a dark wave passing through the great doors to what has once been a booming textile factory. The smell of age, of decades of sweat, and the lingering must of long rotten cotton hung on the air, drifting between the ancient, wood timbers that held the former factory together.
Robin immediately hated the place.
Sakaki, on the other hand, felt immediately at home. He had never been to The Masquerade, but the former hunter had spent so long among the witches before Robin and Amon showed up. Nocturne had become like a home to Sakaki, a safe haven, away from the STN and the prying eyes of Miho Karasuma and Doujima. It was the only place Sakaki had felt safe to just be himself after the man awoke to his Craft. And The Masquerade seemed to be perfectly modeled after Nocturne. As they entered, towering doors to the right led into Heaven, a 21 and up bar. Crumbling, decaying stairs led up, into the main part of the club. Sakaki following, passing by the red lit Hell and the bands playing for the quieter, somber atmosphere of Purgatory, along with the group.
Robin folded her arms across her chest. "Why is Nocturne in Atlanta?"
"Well…" Nycole scratched the back of her head, searching for a good way to put it.
Geoff smirked. "We're not really as creative as we seemed like?"
It was a better answer; it was the truth.
At any other time, even Kristo would probably have chuckled at the thought. In truth, after moving to Japan, it took a long time for them to finally get the club open. And, when did they, the witches modeled it after The Masquerade. A little slice of home; at least, the witches found it to be so.
But, no, at that moment, Kristo focused in on one person along.
Behind the bar, the tender gave the group a slight nod. He was a tall, lanky fellow, with long, straight hair. Robin sniffed at just home many men in the group didn't seem to quite understand what scissors were for. But this one, with the almost anemically pale skin, and huge, green eyes, his hair seemed a tad bit neatly. Perhaps it was how thing the hair was, or the fact that this man braided it back. And he recognized them.
Kristo took a seat before him. "Evening."
"Evening," the tender sounded curt, forcing the reply. "What can I get you?"
"How about the fastest shot in all of Georgia- well, second fastest." The offer lay on the table, bare and naked, for all to see.
The tender leaned close. "I don't do that anymore."
"You have to, Jonas. Kathain needs you."
The bartender's face fell. Sorrow flashed behind his eyes, mingled with surprise and fear. Terror, perhaps. It was as if this Jonas had been expecting this day to come, but dreaded it the entire time. Jonas had known but never prepared for it.
"Give me five."
xxxx
So, there you have it. The secret's out. Nocturne is an homage to Atlanta's The Masquerade. Sorrow. I had to do it. But, I also embellished the Masquerade just a smidge. It's actually a fun club to go to, on the right night. Too bad our guys just can't seem to pick the right night to do anything.