The black glass under his feet reflected the boy's figure as he walked. His worn sneakers made no sound although the beating of his heart echoed like a rhythmic drum around him. The boy's eyes wandered. There was nothing here.
But this place was familiar.
Comforting wasn't the right word, though.
The boy swallowed.
Whenever he closed his eyes, there were times his innocent dreams turned to this restlessness. He didn't know why. This space felt like he had to be here. It was a part of him. He looked around, pausing his steps. The soft tap of his shoe sent a ripple on the surface of the glass, rippling it like water. The boy squinted.
Below him, floating, as though asleep, was the figure of a man?
Lupin's brow furrowed.
The man had brown messy hair, his eyes were closed. He wore a black suit and tie. He had bandages on most of his visible body. Bandages covered his right eye and side of his face. The young man looked to be a youth still in his teens as well. Lupin recognized him immediately. This boy was someone Lupin had been envisioning for the past four years since these odd dreams first started.
Dropping to his knees on the rippling glass, he clenched his fists against the black expanse of space though the feeling of nothing in his fingers greeted him. "Who are you?" The boy's voice shook with a pleading tone. "Please tell me!"
The young man beneath the surface said nothing, merely looked like he was sleeping. He began to drift further under the ink black expanse. Lupin's eyes flashed. He found himself beginning to sink through the floor, towards the mysterious other boy. Gritting his teeth, he reached out despite the futility of such a gesture. He knew full well how this would end.
It always ended the same.
With himself feeling as though he was drowning.
Lupin's eyes snapped open and he gasped softly. The sounds of cars distantly outside the window, birds chirping, and familiar silence within his small abode greeted him upon waking. Lupin stared up at the ceiling for a moment, his beating heart pounding. Taking a shaky breath like he'd just been running a long distance, he sat up on the ground.
He was not in his futon like he normally would have been, although he found a blanket from the futon falling from around his shoulders and pool around himself. He blinked with surprise. He had taken just a thin spare blanket, allowing the odd girl from yesterday to have his bed and more comfortable sheets, but to find them draped over his shoulders, he realized she must have done so while he'd been sleeping.
He didn't know whether to be touched or scold himself mentally for letting his guard down in such a fashion. It wasn't like him to not be able to sleep as though poised to wake at any second. But that girl hadn't felt like a threat and for the first time in a long time, Lupin had let his guard down around her. He grimaced. He knew it was silly. It was also one of the oldest dangers in the book of life to let your guard down around a cute girl. He groaned inwardly for being such a heavy sleeper last night of all nights!
His eyes flickered.
Well, whoever that girl was, she wasn't there anymore.
Lupin couldn't help but feel a little downtrodden.
But, he knew whatever she was going through was something for her to work through herself. He offered her an ear the night before, a roof over her head, and food in her belly. As far as he could tell, he'd done all he could in his own limited power. A small part of him worried if it had been enough.
The logical part of his mind warned him about getting too involved in the troubles of someone else he barely knew. The other part of himself however, couldn't help but feel intrigued by this agency the girl appeared to be particularly fond of.
"The Armed Detective Agency…huh?" He mumbled, staring pensively towards the folded sheets of the futon in the corner.
He had limited knowledge on them. He knew they had to be some small name government umbrella agency operating in the city with a legal license to display their ability users. He wondered what it felt like to be a part of a place where you didn't have to hide your ability or fear facing arrest or capture by either side for openly displaying it.
Lupin shook his head.
A detective agency could actually possibly be exactly what Lupin needed. Though he preferred not to drag anything or anyone governmental into his own business, perhaps this place the girl talked about really was different from what one would expect from a typical stuffy brass of legal rigidity.
Of course the girl had mentioned something else.
Lupin got to his feet, stretching. Apparently, some foreign organization called 'The Guild' was wreaking havoc in the city and against both the ADA and The Port Mafia. Lupin knew he had to be careful to not be caught up in that three-way conflict if he could help it. Perhaps that girl leaving had helped Lupin dodge a bullet. But, Lupin found he was still worried about Kyouka Izumi regardless.
He scratched his head.
"Crap…I'm really not great at leaving well enough alone, huh?" He said to no one in particular. He spoke like someone resigned to his own made up mind.
This was not going to plan in any sensible sense.
"Everyone, get off the ship, now!"
A brusque tone yelled into the sound of debris and explosions erupting all around them like fireworks. The ship holding the Guild's frontline operations became littered with lemon bombs going off.
The sour-expressioned man in glasses managed to jump ship alongside his somewhat catty female colleague. Landing on the docks, he turned to gaze at the flames licking one of their main intended bases of operation.
This shrewd man was named Nathaniel Hawthorne.
His partner, Margaret Mitchell stood gaping now by his side, at the destruction caused by the unexpected ambush by the Port Mafia, outlined in a childishly penned letter. "One person took out our base of operations so easily? Impossible," Mitchell stammered.
It was rare for someone with her chatty mouth to be rendered speechless and if the situation were not dire, perhaps Hawthorne would have praised the Port Mafia for doing the one thing he'd been unable to accomplish in all of his time being stuck with Mitchell—finding her 'off' switch.
"The letter was not a prank. And undoubtedly, there are still two targets left," Hawthorne spoke, turning away from the wreckage. Not one to dwell, but a man of action, he was already thinking ahead to their next steps. Head level as was expected of someone who belonged to such a prestigious overseas group of North America, he continued. "Let's proceed to use the emergency escape route. The enemy will send in reinforcements, so we must leave while we can and evade further confrontation," he spoke.
Mitchell followed him as he led the way to their rehearsed escape route.
Hawthorne knew that this attack was inevitable. But he hadn't expected even The Port Mafia to organize such a calculated attack so soon after they'd taken a beat down previously alongside the ADA not that long ago. No, this enemy was not one to underestimate.
The ADA was honestly laughable in comparison to The Port Mafia as a threat. The only thing that made the ADA valuable was the fact they had someone their boss was targeting, the man tiger—Atsushi Nakajima.
The one who bombed the ship no doubt escaped unscathed. What an annoying cumbersome gnat, Hawthorne fumed to himself. He honestly wished he'd just killed the sinning waste of lemon juice when he had the chance. As a man of faith however, he preferred to resort to killing as a last resort. His job was to pass God's Judgment, but to take life wasn't a small matter for Hawthorne. He took his role in the Church seriously.
Even if Mitchell complained incessantly about him and his way of life.
She even used her ability "Gone With the Wind" to be petty and ruin the book he'd been reading earlier before the attack. Honestly, she was so insufferable. Hawthorne inwardly disgruntled pouted to himself.
However, he sensed something wrong when he heard Mitchell speak again.
"Hey, you're that secretary! I thought you were killed by the mafia!" As she stepped closer, Hawthorne's eyes flashed with alarm and horror.
The man at the foot of the stairs was quiet as death. And that's because Hawthorne realized immediately he was already dead. "Mitchell!" He exclaimed, the only time he expressed concern for her, honestly.
Lemon bombs fell out of the secretary's corpse in a haunting fashion, and as the explosions erupted, Mitchell shielded her face with her gloved hands instinctively. Her eyes were wide. Glowing scarlet letters emulating the Word of God erupted in a wall between her and the bombs. She stepped back, quivering lightly.
Hawthorne grit his teeth. His hand was in pain but he squeezed the cross in it regardless. Mitchell knew immediately that Hawthorne had cut his hand in order to protect her. There was no real pretense at the Guild to actually care about one another. Everyone was paid a handsome salary to carry out orders mostly and that was their only tie to one another. But, regardless, Hawthorne had just protected Mitchell.
And Mitchell didn't know how to express that she perhaps had a shred of gratitude in her otherwise cold and selfish heart. Was Mitchell a naturally selfish person to begin with? It is hard to say, but working for the Guild under their current leader, Scott Fitzgerald certainly didn't help her character development, any.
"My ability, 'Scarlet Letter,' the promise language of atonement, Blessed unto me by God," Hawthorne strained, gripping the cross between his fingers, brow and jaw equally taut on his features.
"Mr. Hawthorne!" someone shouted moments later.
As the rubble died down like the frantic beating of their hearts, both Mitchell and Hawthorne turned to look at the remaining stragglers of their once fine crew. "Ah, survivors?" Hawthorne sounded modestly surprised but not unhappy about this outcome.
"The enemy has blocked off our escape routes! If we stay, we're sitting ducks at this point!" the men expressed, agitated to him.
What he said next certainly was the last thing anyone was expecting, including Mitchell. "We will engage the enemy right here."
The men and Mitchell looked at Hawthorne like he was mental. To go up against the Port Mafia after all that? What was this lunatic thinking?; was what everyone didn't voice but the question sweltered on their tongues regardless. No one wanted to die. Certainly not the men who were hired to just do their simple mundane jobs.
Mitchell's reasoning had to do mostly with feeling inconvenienced. But she always felt that way so it was nothing new. However, Hawthorne continued to speak, as though understanding without any exchange just what the others were thinking. Adjusting his glasses ever so delicately, he spoke. "As long as we contain our ground here, then no one will be a match for me, regardless of their number or capability," he declared.
The confidence actually made the other men slightly less motivated to run away. Though Hawthorne looked rather tall, scrawny, and was not a man of outward close-hand combat, his words and air certainly made him exude the qualities that made one flock to him, like mindless sheep to an authoritative shepherd.
However, the sound of shocked yelling made room for pause for the clergyman, as his eyes widened with genuine shock.
Somewhere in the heart of the city, a view of the fairgrounds in the distance from his high tower, sat the instigator in question on his throne of deception, with his doll-a young girl with blue eyes and blonde hair in a little red dress and Mary Janes-representing grace and purity, doodling on the ground and walls. A man with greasy hair and a greasier mind.
Mori Ougai; a man whose widow peak was about as split as his morality.
"Ah, they must be thinking about their next move, where to go from here…" he spoke like a narrator on a children's show. Calming, mature, perhaps even a bit like a Sage.
However this man was no Saint.
With a sinister leer, he gazed at his chessboard, rubbing a gloved hand on his freshly shaved chin. The chessboard was mostly bare, save for a few pieces, and one was a prominent castle: the Rook.
He picked it up in his hands.
"The Guild sure has formidable foes," he lamented, "Even our own best would have a difficult time handling them," he stroked his chin as he twirled the piece in his fingers. Finally, he moved it forwards, the shadows on his face casting over the innocent board itself like a menacing cloak of his own dark resolve. "But that's why I've sent in the one aching to see some action…my most spirited piece," he crooned.
"Cough, cough…" The spirited piece in question, found himself slamming into the wall of existing rubble from an unexpected blur ramming into his abdomen.
Hawthorne remained frozen for a moment, staring with Mitchell and the others, as the dust cleared, and a rather short addition joined the fray. The boy looked to be no taller than five foot at most, his hood falling around his shoulders, revealing tousled messy burgundy dark hair. Fierce grey-green eyes peered from over his face covering mask. Wearing dark gloves on his hands, the boy straightened up, before turning to look immediately at Mitchell and Hawthorne.
"What are you standing there for? Run!" The boy yelled.
The sudden command from one so young, with the raw concern in his voice, jolted Mitchell and Hawthorne to their very nerves. This boy was clearly Japanese but why was he bothering to help them? A couple of outsiders? If he was from the Port Mafia himself, why would he attack his own? To garner trust? Was this a trick by the Port Mafia? No, the way the other one was looking at him with nothing but bloodlust made it clear to them both that these two were not well acquainted at all.
The other young man grit his teeth, eyes flashing. With a snarl, red tendrils shot out from his frilly clothing aimed now on the boy.
Before Hawthorne or Mitchell could properly react, the boy lightly dodged every attack the angry boy with ashen silver tipped hair thrust his way in angry determination. "Why can't I hit you? Stay still, you little wretch!" the young man snarled, as he staggered to his feet.
Hawthorne glanced at Mitchell.
Whatever power the older boy was wielding, it was a dangerous one. If that boy hadn't interfered Hawthorne was painfully aware that things would have gone horribly different. Not going to look this gift horse in the mouth, he gestured to Mitchell to leave the fight to the outlier in the equation. It would be best for her to evacuate. The other men he already dismissed with his eyes and they ran in utter terror away.
"I won't run from a fight," Mitchell haughtily scoffed, trotting over to Hawthorne. "Are we really going to let some brat show us up?"
Hawthorne glared at Mitchell.
Mitchell glared back.
Already readying her defenses, he spoke first before she could fire her well aimed next verbal haught shot. "Who said I was going to run?"
Mitchell paused.
Then she actually smirked.
Meanwhile, Lupin was doing his best to dodge the madman's blows. He vaguely knew who this person was. After all, he and Kyouka had talked a little bit last night. She hadn't expounded too much but she had told him about this person. The way she spoke about him, Lupin knew he was not your average Port Mafia assassin.
"You must know about the Port Mafia since you are well-informed on what happens in this city," Kyouka said softly, stirring her bowl with her spoon.
The lamp lights flickered, but the room was cast into a warm comforting glow. Lupin furrowed his brow, having already finished his second bowl. He was hilariously still hungry, but he wanted to save what was left for her if she wanted more. She hadn't finished her first bowl yet.
"I do know a bit," he admitted. He scratched his head, sheepishly, "But I'd be lying if I said I knew a whole lot. I just know that you don't wanna get mixed up with those guys if you know what's good for you…"
"If there is one person to avoid in all of The Mafia, it is a person named Akutagawa," she stressed, somber.
"Akutagawa…?" the young boy tilted his head, staring at his empty bowl, thoughtful. "I see, while I've mostly avoided any conflicts with the Port Mafia, I admit even I have heard of that name thrown around. He's considered to be extremely dangerous, killing foes and innocent alike, if I'm not mistaken?"
Kyouka nodded, appearing relieved that the boy was proving to be continuously well informed. "Yes. He is heartless, calculating, and shows no mercy," she said, in almost a whisper. Lupin gazed at her. Whatever third party reports he'd gathered on that dangerous individual paled in comparison to the raw emotion with which Kyouka spoke, as though from personal experience.
Gazing now at the incensed young man in frills, dodging his tendrils, Lupin narrowed his own eyes at the dangerous mafioso. "So, you're the Hellhound of the Underground?" he said.
"Hellhound of the Underground, huh?" Akutagawa blinked, pausing for just a moment. He coughed again into his hand. "Has a nice ring to it…I'll admit I haven't heard that phrasing before," he admitted.
Lupin paused for a moment, taking the advantage of Akutagawa momentarily pausing his own furious attack. "I came up with it myself," Lupin cheekily replied.
"Huh, shame I have to kill you," Akutagawa sighed, "...I think I would have actually liked to recruit you."
"I'm not interested," Lupin flatly rejected Akutagawa's musing offer.
"Pity, then your only use now is to die," Akutagawa sneered.
"You know, you could totally still not kill me," Lupin quipped, holding up his hands, innocently.
"Perhaps in a more fair world, I would have that choice," Akutagawa held out his arms.
"You always have a choice," Lupin started. Suddenly, Lupin's eyes flashed. "Shit!"
Before Akutagawa could react, Lupin barrelled into Akutagawa, twisting around his tendrils as though they weren't there. In a sense, although Akutagawa and the Guild members didn't immediately draw the conclusion, it was apparent that the boy was reacting as though preemptively every time an attack was launched against him. Why did this feel like a horrible terrible sense of deja vu for the discombobulated Akutagawa?
"You!-" Akutagawa hissed as Lupin twisted, slamming Akutagawa over the rubble and behind a wall.
Before Akutagawa could openly protest and continue his favorite 'shish-kabob' technique, wind blasted into an opposing pile of rubble, beginning to disintegrate even it to dust. Akutagawa's heart thudded.
It was the spot he had been standing moments before.
His eyes widened, confused, genuinely.
They darted to the boy, who breathed hard, gripping his sleeve.
That's when Akutagawa realized.
The boy had just saved him.
…
But why?
Hadn't the boy just protected those two irksome Guild pests? Why then, did he choose to turn on his heel and save Akutagawa next? What a weird person. Akutagawa glared at the burgundy haired boy with the seafoam eyes.
Now was his time to strike the boy.
The boy was close and it looked like he hadn't escaped the full brunt of Mitchell's attack. His sleeve and elbow looked slightly ashen, like a mere poke would be enough to make both fabric and flesh fall apart, disintegrate, revealing the muscle tissue underneath his marked skin. His delicate paper skin, under the dissolving fabric of his jacket sleeve, was already peeling from beneath his small fingers.
Lupin breathed hard, feeling pain shooting up and down his arm. "You say you 'don't have a choice'? That's just an excuse of the living," Lupin spoke, voice shaky, as he gazed at Akutagawa, knowing he was most likely about to get a beat down no matter which side he chose to protect. "The dead are the only ones who no longer have a choice."
Akutagawa's eyes narrowed.
"I don't need a lecture from some brat," he said stiffly, and raised his arm. This boy's demeanor reminded him of a certain troublesome were-tiger and frankly, Akutagawa didn't need any more cats grabbing his tongue.*
Lupin's heart pounded.
His eyes widened as red scarlet letters suddenly bound themselves around Akutagawa's thin waist, and like a snake, tightened on his body, sizzling.
"Boy, your gallantry is noted, however," Hawthorne spoke, eyes narrowed, now standing behind Akutagawa with Mitchell by his side. "It is not smart to jump from side to side so haphazardly. You cannot win if you don't even have a clear reason for your own actions."
"I'm not here to win," Lupin bluntly countered, wincing. "I'm here to prevent an escalation that could result in either side losing lives."
"Then it is in your own best interest to leave, as I won't be so lenient about you aiding the enemy again," Hawthorne said, coldly, his gaze shifting to the boy now. "I find it distasteful to get children involved in adult conflicts any more than is necessary as it is." He added as though it was inconvenient to his own personal agenda and not the wellbeing of children themselves.
Lupin grit his teeth. "Your 'adult' conflicts have already involved children! All adults ever do is get children involved in their conflicts!" he said loudly, actually irritated. "You are the ones who come to this country and treat the people here like trash. How can you not see that this is wrong? There has to be a better way to resolve this conflict between your opposing organizations without resorting to senseless violence!"
His sudden outburst made Mitchell's eye twitch. "God, he's just as annoying as you are, may I kill him now?" she asked, glaring at Hawthorne.
"You certainly are welcome to if you don't mind having civilian blood on your hands," Hawthorne deadpanned. "Regardless of his misguided intentions, he is clearly not on any one side."
"That only makes him more dangerous," Mitchell pointed out.
Hawthorne paused. "I believe you're right," he said finally, humorously surprised.
Mitchell looked ready to throttle him for sounding so questioning about her own intellectual input. "First them and then you're next," she fumed.
Lupin just wondered if they were ever gonna get a room. His expression was comically tired and bemused at the same time. Although he was a teen, he wasn't completely dense to the chemistry radiating off of the kismesis between these two bickering adults before him. "You two…instead of fighting shouldn't you both just get a room?" he asked, curious.
Hawthorne and Mitchell looked utterly appalled at such a rancid inquiry. Their faces looked like two pugs who ate rotten food washed down with sour milk. "You vulgar little-" Mitchell's wind whipped up, as her face bloomed red as a tomato.
Hawthorne just thanked the Lord up above for his ability to stay composed, even now, when his will was being tried to such strained lengths. He whipped out his cross, and Lupin hilariously began to run from the floating red letters that followed him like a word train. "Ah crap! This is like playing word train but way less fun!" he yelped, dodging the letters that attempted to snake themselves onto his body.
Akutagawa meanwhile snarled, and his tendrils redirected towards Hawthorne and Mitchell. Mitchell summoned her wind and Akutagawa grit his teeth. "Your opponent is me!" Akutagawa's tendrils clashed with Mitchell's wind.
Mitchell's eyes widened with shock.
Though her wind was strong, those red tendrils managed to slice through her wind like it was nothing! "Ah!" she exclaimed in horror as she felt herself get penetrated through the chest, arms and thigh. She screamed.
Hawthorne's eyes flashed. "Mitchell!" he yelled again, whirling. He stared with abject horror as blood trickled from her lips, and her body fell like a rag doll to the ground. He wouldn't make it in time, but he wouldn't have to. Already, the boy caught her despite the injury to his own right arm, lowering her to the ground.
Hawthorne grit his teeth, turning his eyes back to Akutagawa. "So, you really are an assassin sent by The Port Mafia…"
"We were interrupted earlier, however… Don't think I had forgotten about you," Akutagawa said, his cold coal gaze fiery.
"Heh," Hawthorne grimaced, noting how the red letters on Akutagawa were gone, nothing but the mere ghost of a scuffle remained on his slender frail figure. Akutagawa had managed to slice the ability with his own like mere ribbon. "And you…are you the devil?"
"Perhaps," Akutagawa coyly replied.
"Then, what is your name?" Hawthorne spoke, tense.
"Diablo." Akutagawa spoke coldly and calculating at the same time as his coat attacked Hawthorne.
Hawthorne, already in clothing not suited for running around in the dirt with common drabble, grit his teeth as he found himself penetrated by Akutagawa's ability, rendering holes in him that made him holy in a less flattering sense. However, Hawthorne began to laugh, grinning. "Hahaha… then let this be Mount Hermon…" He panted past copper-tasting lips. "Are you sent by God to test me, his loyal servant?"
"Oh? You want this to be a test, Brother*? Have it your way," Akutagawa spoke, eyes narrowing. "You may wish you had faced a different proctor. My passing rate is 0%"
The wall of crimson words went up, Akutagawa's attack colliding with it. "Do not presume to associate me with some historic relic of Rome. I am highly ranked as a minister." Hawthorne spoke with some irritation, his glasses glinting, sharp as his tongue and quick as a whip cracking down. "Do not think you can make me cower in this city of filthy demons," Hawthorne hissed, and he gripped his own bleeding arm, as his words shot towards Akutagawa like arrows on rope.
Akutagawa's eyes flashed.
"...!"
Their abilities crossed in midair.
Both men realized their abilities were mid-range and similar. "I am merciful-which is more than scum like you deserves. So, take this chance to repent, in your final moments!" Hawthorne declared.
Akutagawa had no interest in repentance. Such a farce concept was beyond him. Let those fantastical ideals remain for those select few that could afford them over the will to survive in this cruel world. Akutagawa had no plans to let something meaningless like faith get the better of his own dark dogma he'd learned to live with through knowing what it meant to suffer.
"Interesting," he pensively replied, none-the-less enjoying that this person's resolve resembled his own. There was no pretense of being good or right. This opponent wasn't naive and dense like that were-tiger. He also had no interest in trying to steer Akutagawa in another direction like that brat. No, he was keeping things straightforward and simple.
Akutagawa could appreciate a man whose heart was as twisted as his own.
Both men accepted this one truth between themselves, unspoken.
In the end, whoever's ability and strength of spirit was stronger, would be the winner.
A/N:
*I'm sorry, I couldn't fucking resist :'D LOL.
*Brother: Clergy term that apparently it pisses off Nater the Hater? lmfao?
