K: Midnight: A K Project Fan Fiction

Chapter Seven: Angle of Truth

June 8, 2009

I was seated inside Homra, my feet dangling at the bar. Izumo had procured for me a sundae ceremoniously topped with my signature supply of bright red cherries, one for every year I'd been alive (or so he thought), with the rare addition of an eighth cherry on this particular occasion. I found this somewhat strange. It was not yet my birthday — far from it, in fact. I thought perhaps it was a mistake, a simple slip of the finger I was not at all averse to savoring as readily as every other cherry piled high atop the mounds of chocolate ice cream and a dollop of whipped cream.

"Ah! There you are, Princess!" I heard Tatara calling out behind me, and before I had a chance to turn, his face appeared beside me at the bar, his elbow nudging mine. "I've got a present for you," he said, sending me a wink. Then, from out of nowhere — and I say so quite deliberately, for truly, I could not have guessed where in his slim white button-up he hid the thing — he ushered out a dainty oval jewelry box: crimson, velvet, beautiful and pure. "Happy Half Birthday!" He declared, raining smiles down upon my flabbergasted countenance. I didn't even know that such a thing as a half birthday had existed until then.

My own red stare (I'm sure) was astronomical, and gently, I deposited my spoon into my sundae bowl, accepting Tatara's gift as though, if handled incorrectly, it would surely disappear.

"Tatara," I managed to convey, too flushed and full of happiness to say more. I stared down at the brilliance of the box, moved beyond compare, and lifted up the lid.

"I know how much you love those pretty cherries on your sundaes," he informed me. "So naturally, when I saw these, I just couldn't help myself. I knew they had to be yours."

Resting in the box atop a lovely satin pillow was a set of crystal marbles of the most intrinsic red I'd ever seen.

Tatara scrunched his shoulders, eyeing my reaction. "Do you like them?" I sensed a bit of bashfulness parading in his voice.

"They're just like Mikoto's red," I said, smiling down at them. I knew that in that moment, I could very well have cried.

"They're exactly like his red," Tatara smiled, "because they are his red!" I bolted my attention onto him. "King put a pinch of his own flame in there: a little present just for you. Believe it or not, it was his idea. He certainly knows how special you are — as if there were ever any doubt."

I picked one up as carefully as possible and held it to the level of my eye, peering through the red to look at him. As I did, my lips became and O and I consumed a little gasp. "Tatara, I san see you!" I exclaimed.

"I should hope so!" He said, laughing. "They're made of glass, after all."

I shook my head. "No, I mean: I can see your color!"

Tatara's face lit up. "Really? Well that's wonderful! What a nice surprise!" Then he hummed a bit, tapping his long finger on his chin while staring into space. "I wonder if King knew that would happen, though judging him, he probably didn't. So then that means you can see things like…" he turned to look at me, "the color of my eyes?"

I nodded with a tiny little "Mm-hm."

"And my hair?" He asked, pointing to his head.

Once again, I nodded.

"And what about this?" He asked, holding up the little round medallion strung about his neck. "And the color of that chair over there? And the labels on the bottles at the bar?"

"I can see all of them," I answered, and then my own excitement wained as shyness took its place. I held the marble back and looked at him without it. "But I don't know which is which," I confessed. "I've never seen them all before. I don't know which is blue or green or purple or yellow or any other color: only red."

"Leave that to me!" He cheered, hopping off his stool. "I'll teach you every color in existence, just you wait! Here, come with me!" He whisked me off my chair, through the bar and out the door, then all about the city, pointing every color out and naming them for me.

He took me every day for weeks, showing me the sights with the added element of color and quizzing me on everything I'd learned. Soon, I understood both color and its meaning; and even now, if ever asked, I still can tell you every shade persistent in a face and what those colors mean.

For instance, I can tell you that the warmth of caramel basking in the irises of Tatara's eyes transformed the very nature of the mind and of the body, causing both the feelings of stability and peace, while golden chestnut tones pronounced within his hair conveyed the abject friendliness, steadfastness and dependability symbolic of his character.

Meanwhile, all the yellows, rosy apricots, and tender hues of orange invested in his features shared a fresh and happy, joyful spirit: one of clearest loyalty and honor and no small degree of energy and youthful optimism; but above all, they conveyed to one the feeling of remembrance, and always, I was certain of remembering that lovely face, that lovely soul, that lovely, pure existence that was Tatara.

Weeks soon passed, expanding into months. The summer came and went and autumn faded quickly into winter with the first few flakes of snow that littered every surface of Shizume.

One particularly blustery day in January, whilst sitting at the bar beside Mikoto on the one hand and Izumo on the other, Tatara having swapped his place to fix us up a drink, I drew a precious marble up and peered out at the room. By then, I'd come to realize that the world imparted more to me when looking through my marbles. Oftentimes I saw what kind of day it was, what good and bad persisted in the world that might invade upon our lives. Izumo said I had a sibyl's eye, which I admit, I rather liked.

I saw the new boy, Akagi Shōhei, trailing after Saburōta through the door into the bar, and found myself disclosing in a whisper to Mikoto how exceedingly boring he appeared when I observed him through the glass. Mikoto seemed to think that this was funny and he snickered out, "You said that already," as he lit a cigarette with a languorous whisk of his finger.

I kept on with my careful observations, though a moment passed, as did the pair of clansmen to a booth across the bar, and I noticed that my vision through the marble ceased to be a bright and airy scene but a grey and cloudy mess as like a storm: the very one that billowed on outside. It was as though somehow, a rain was pouring down inside the glass and that, at any moment, rumblings of a thunderclap might shatter it outright.

As if by way of a signal, the melodious chime familiar to Izumo's PDA rung first in muffled tones, then limpid crystal resonance on breaching the silk folds if his inner left-breast pocket.

"Yeah?" He answered mildly.

Just then our vanguard, Yatagarasu, came charging through the door with Rikio beside him, together with Masaomi, Yō and Kōsuke behind. All of them were drenched.

"Hey Mr. Mikoto! Mr. Kusanagi!" Misaki called out, clearly unencumbered by the icy rains despite the other three.

Izumo held a finger in the air, leaning further in to better hear the call. Mikoto dipped his head back, staring at the ceiling. He breathed a wave of smoke up in the air.

"Uh-huh. Yeah. Alright," Izumo mumbled. "Thanks for the help." A minute beep concluded the exchange. "Alright Yata, tell me you got something," he said, tilting his exhausted head as Tatara slid a whiskey by his arm.

"You bet we do," Misaki answered, darting off a roguish grin. "You remember those assholes who tried to cross us a couple weeks ago? The ones who smuggled all those guns in without tellin' us? Well it looks like they were working with a group of outsiders tryin' weasel their way into Tokyo; and they were bein' all secretive about it, like they didn't want anyone to know." He humphed. "That was their first mistake."

Izumo downed his glass, depositing it gently on the counter into Tatara's willing grasp. "Let me guess: these outsiders've got some special powers, am I right?"

Misaki grinned again. "Bingo. Seems that in exchange for weapons, these outsiders were able to make it into the city undetected. But that was two nights ago."

Cautiously I peered up at Mikoto. Still he seemed disinterested.

"If it weren't for more of those guns they traded showin' up in some undercover dealings in Shizume earlier this morning," Misaki went on, "we would never have gotten our hands on the location of the smugglers' current base of operations." On saying this, he paused, an unaccustomed air of terminality encircling him.

Reaching for another glass of whiskey from Tatara, Izumo seemed annoyed. "It's not like you to hold out, Yata."

Misaki chuckled, his grin contorted upward to one side. "Of course not."

"Well?"

"We lit up the place," he uttered proudly, "but not before we had a little chat with a couple of the ringleaders of that smuggling operation — which is now no longer runnin,' thanks to us." Again, another smile, this one playfully malicious.

Izumo sent a covert eye around me to Mikoto; I looked too. Mikoto hadn't budged. His head still tilted upward toward the ceiling, only then, his eyes were closed.

"And?" Izumo asked.

"And it turns out the outsiders don't have just any powers: they match the description we gave 'em, just like you said they would. I bet you more'n anything they're the same guys we've been searchin' for since a year ago. After all the trouble they caused the last time, I'll be damned if we don't get another shot at 'em! And now's our chance!" There was a general grunt of approval from the others and Misaki's brazen look grew more intense.

"Izumo," came the dreary voice of Mikoto, eyes still closed. "Who were you talking to?"

There was a heavy stagnancy as Izumo lit a cigarette, breathing in and out a giant cloud of smoke. Leaning back against the bar, he said, "My sources shared some intel on a pretty hefty string of disturbances in Hisaharu over the past two days," he said, eyeing Misaki.

Misaki darted his eyes open with perception. "Hisaharu? You mean they've been hiding in that shit hole for two days and we didn't even know about it? Hell, that's Homra's territory!"

Masaomi slowly stepped up to the plate, countering Misaki's indignation with a mild disposition. "Mr. Kusanagi, did your pals in the underground have any info on the kind of guys we're dealing with? I mean, who even are they? Other than outsiders with dark auras."

Again, Izumo flashed a scanning eye upon Mikoto's eerily lethargic face no longer paying attention but rather focused on accepting from my hand a glass of bourbon Tatara gave to me to give to him.

"If these guys managed to smuggle themselves into Tokyo and hide out in our territory without us finding out about it for two whole days," Masaomi pointed out, "doesn't that mean they're guys we need to strategize on taking down properly?"

"The hell you mean 'properly?'" Misaki shot back, irritably confused. "It doesn't matter who they are. They assaulted Homra, so we've no choice but to turn 'em into ash! There isn't any point in knowing worthless shit like that that's not gonna change the fact that we're just gonna burn 'em anyway."

"All I'm saying is, if there's something useful we should know on how to bag 'em, I'm all ears."

Kōsuke held a finger out, motioning agreement. "Dewa's right; we need a plan."

"Yeah, like how we're going to turn 'em into ash when we already tried with no effect," came Yō's especial pessimism to accompany Kōsuke. "Or did you forget that part, Yata?"

"Yeah and then how they just disappeared without a trace," Rikio pointed out rather stupidly, and Misaki waved his bat above his head. His patience (what small portion he possessed) was thoroughly inflamed. "Well if you actually took the time to take your damn chopsticks out of your mouth every once and a while, then just maybe your stupid ass — "

Amidst the clamor of their argument, Izumo leant his elbows on the bar, bending back to catch Mikoto's eye, which had, at last, compelled itself to look at him. In a bit of a prying tone — quiet, lest the others overhear him — he asked, "You wouldn't happen to know anything about it, eh Mikoto?"

Mikoto bore intently on his cigarette, yet that was all it took.

Izumo cocked his head back to the others. "Alright boys," he announced. "Why don't you guys make yourselves scarce, okay? You, too," he said, addressing Shōhei and Saburōta, still seated in their booth. "All you idiots around, we won't get any decent customers — except for you Yata; you stay; and Kamamoto too."

"Why don't you three help me in the kitchen," Tatara proposed to Masaomi, Yō and Kōsuke, and the group, without a word — in fact, they seemed relieved — trailed one-by-one behind the bar and through the kitchen door. Meanwhile, Shōhei and Saburōta, clearly having a one-sided disagreement, took their conversation to the upstairs living room.

It was then when Mikoto finally pried himself up off the bar and rose, awaiting my dismount that came as one small leap and ended in a pair of high-pitched clicks as my red heels collided with the floor.

I snatched his wrist and followed as he drew across the bar and sat along the couch. As for me, I sat myself with diligence before him, his knees on either side. Mikoto didn't mind. In truth, he seemed expectant, and before I even finished settling in, he ushered forward, draping both his arms around my shoulders, crossing them and pulling me inside.

The others took our queue and filed over, and when at last, the bar was clear aside from those instructed to remain, Izumo strode around the room, combing his long fingers through his hair. "Alright, Mikoto." He stopped to face the king. "It's time."

The pair, Misaki and Rikio, were noticeably anxious, though it showed more greatly in the face of Misaki, whose scowl was deeper than before. He tapped his bat into his palm and called out, "Yeah, what are we waitin' for? Let's go fight those guys!"

Mikoto plopped his chin atop my head and dryly asked, "What's wrong, Izumo? Losing faith already? I'm beginning to think you don't trust me."

In that instant, Misaki shot an urgent glance between the two, his face contracted with alarm. "Wha — ?! I mean — of course we trust you, Mr. Mikoto! We just thought — !"

Izumo held a hand to stop him. "Alright, Mikoto. Care to fill us in?"

I could feel Mikoto's grip intensify around me and I drew my little hands up to the place where they entwined, nestling my fingers in between his wrists.

"You wanna know why I'm not rushin' to go after 'em; why I'm lettin' a group of outsiders roam around our territory like they own the place, is that it?"

"Figured you'd have a plan by doing nothing while they're out there terrorizing half the town," Izumo answered. "But if this keeps up, pretty soon we won't have a territory to call our own anymore. Hisaharu's the dumps, true enough, but my guess is: those aren't the stomping grounds they're vying for. They'll spread, and soon, they won't bother being secretive about it. We're going to have to contain the situation and it makes sense to do it now before things get out of hand. So I'm asking you: what's your angle, Mikoto?"

The king sighed. He didn't like to talk. "I'm playing on a hunch."

"A hunch?"

"Tch, some hunch," Misaki grumbled out, then he realized what he said, how loud he said it, and reddened a bit, fumbling his eyes awkwardly to the floor, his fingers, clutching tightly in a fidget to his bat.

Mikoto humphed. "I've been suspicious for a while now and thought I'd draw 'em out. Looks like it worked."

Izumo took another drag, eyeing Mikoto, reading through the words he said to all the ones he didn't, as though the pair were locked inside a silent conversation only they could understand.

"Um, excuse me, Mr. Mikoto?" Rikio rose a hand uncertainly. "What exactly am I missing here? Are they really all that dangerous?"

In response, Mikoto eyed Izumo and Izumo understood.

"Yeah, they're that dangerous," he answered, glazed eyes staring through Mikoto. "My guess is they're looking for something. And seeing as how they seem intent on turning over half of Tokyo — particularly places closer to home — they know generally where to look, which makes them even more dangerous. He inhaled long and breathed out, "At least that's what my sources say — that, and my own vague intuition. They've got a bit of confidence and it's beginning to show, which (I'm sure) is what you're bankin' on," he said to Mikoto.

"But what exactly are they looking for?" Misaki posed. "If we know that at least, we can make sure they don't get it, or else lure 'em in by using it as bait — the sooner we can burn 'em all to hell."

Again, Mikoto said nothing, a silence that conveyed the simple message to Izumo that he didn't want to talk about it, or rather not for the other two to hear.

Izumo crossed his arms. "Regardless of whether we know or not, you've got that figured out, don't you, Mikoto?" Again, silence. "Your plan is to do nothing until whomever their leader is gets comfortable enough to make a move, is that it?" Still, no answer came, but Izumo didn't mind. He'd known Mikoto long enough to be his voice and play his thoughts out to the rest of Homra in such a way as to make everybody happy, even if the truth itself were not entirely disclosed. "Aren't you worried about Scepter 4 getting involved?"

"Let 'em," Mikoto answered, and Izumo rose his chin, straightening his glasses. His cigarette, then wedged between his fingers, issued out a dancing trail of smoke into the air.

"So Munakata comes in, stirs things up; and if these guys are smart, they'll leave, and Scepter 4 will have successfully disposed of them for us." He smiled satirically. "How nice of them."

"But those bastards!" Rikio hollered in complaint. "Taking a piece of what's rightfully ours — and on our own turf, too!"

Misaki cocked his head and gave another swing of his bat, landing it firmly in his hand. "Yeah, I say we burn 'em now."

"However," Izumo said, ignoring them, "if they're serious — which it looks like the are — they'll stay, but they won't be able to do whatever it is they're planning because by then, they'll have the Blues to worry about. That's when you come in and make your move: while they're all battling it out. No one would expect it from a guy who hasn't shown the least bit of interest up until then. According to everyone else, you haven't have cared enough to act so far, so why start all of a sudden?" He gave a brief pause. "That's how you plan to do it."

I felt Mikoto bob his head into a nod. "That's the idea," he said, at which, his sleepy gaze fell on Misaki. "You think you boys can hold out a little longer?"

At this mere word from his beloved King, Misaki's irritation washed away. He sent a willing fist up in the air, his solemn oath to Homra. "Anything you say, Mr. Mikoto!" Rikio, too, produced a similar gesture — though with less invigoration — paired with something in between a grunt and the word, 'Yeah.'

"Right, then, you boys just get back to what you're doing," Izumo said mechanically. "And don't go chasing trouble 'til you get the word, okay Yata?" He turned his sleepy features to the vanguard. "I'm counting on you," he added with what I sense was feigned emotion.

"You got it, Mr. Kusanagi!" Misaki announced, veritably moved. "Let's go, Kamamoto!"

"But Yata, it's snowing outside!"

"I said 'let's go,' idiot! We'll get some food, so don't worry about it." He yanked Rikio by the collar and the pair strode through the door, leaving Izumo, Mikoto and I alone.

Izumo took a final drag of his cigarette and flicked the butt into the air. I watched it self combust and dissipate without so much as a trace of ash.

"Now that it's just us," he said, taking out his pack of cigarettes, but he slowed his progress to a halt. "Unless, uh…" and his eye roamed down to me.

"It is," Mikoto answered, signaling my pre-approved inclusion.

Izumo showed no sign of affectation as he drew another cigarette and held it to his lips. He searched his pockets absently for his lighter but Mikoto made another casual flick and a small red flame appeared along its outer end, sending up steady line of smoke into the air.

"Thanks," he said, sitting opposite us. "Now, then," he began, but stopped as I reached out to him, pointing to the fag. Izumo looked at me, then downward to the cigarette and, perceiving with a sigh of defeat, proceeded to hand it to me.

I took it from him, holding it maturely in my fingers as Mikoto knelt beside my face and closed his lips around it.

I saw Izumo fixate on the act, though he blinked and it was gone, his features falling back to his innate look of indifference.

"Now, then," he resumed, reaching for his pack. "What is it you're not telling me? I can read you pretty well, Mikoto, but even I can't see what's going on in there." He nodded, referencing Mikoto's thoughts. "It must be pretty serious for you to keep it bottled up like this; but whatever it is, I want you to trust that I can handle it; you always have before."

"This time, it's not mine to trust you with," Mikoto answered, and I felt a sudden stillness start to creep into the room, furthered by Izumo's puzzled features as he tried to comprehend.

Meanwhile I could sense Mikoto struggling internally. His walls went up and everything about him felt protective to the point of being angry. Gently, I responded with a squeeze against his arm.

Just like that, the tension disappeared. He knelt his head and sighed against my neck, then hugged himself more thoroughly around me, poutingly, as if to say, "I wanted this to be our secret." But that, of course, was stupid and he knew it.

"Fine," he grumbled out, inciting a small, shifting blink from Izumo. Then nodding down to me, he said, "It's hers."

Chapter Eight: The Shadows