Chapter 3: Slaughterhouse-Five
There was a giant serpent, once upon a time. Big enough to circle around the world seven times, and thick enough to divide continents, it was called Ouroboros.
It would sleep, most of the time, coiled underground. Every hundred days though, it'd open its eyes. It'd lift its heavy body up and slither, scales rattling like broken bells against the Earth's crust, all the way until it reached the surface.
Nobody knows what kind of thoughts that monster would have, when it saw the sun. But it would rampage, every time. Toppling mountains, erasing forests, splitting the sea; until it swallowed a thousand men. Only then, would it crawl back below, restarting the cycle. And so it went.
From its fallen scales, things, half snake-half earth creatures, were born. These 'children of Ouroboros', quickly made themself known. Posing as 'gods', amassing mankind, taking over civilizations; like mold seeping through a crack in the wall. So they could offer sacrifices for its birth-parent to swallow. This 'blasphemy' continued for centuries. And so it went.
Then, a revolution. Led by three people, each with a strange light. In the color of blue, white, and red, it salted the hybrid's skins, burning them. Together, they drove back the false 'gods', and when time passed, the next generation took the three's places. And so, and so, and so. Until the Children of Ouroboros returned to the earth, until the Serpent swallowed itself in hunger and wrath.
And so it goes.
Thump. The sound attracts a malicious stare from the nearby desk. Grinning, Ash slides the closed book back to the shelf. Then, when the guard is down! With a clatter, the tossed notebook skitters haphazardly onto the desk's wooden surface. Keeping eye contact, he heads over and spins a nearby chair once, just once, and collapses into its loving embrace. He bats his eyes at the stare boring into his skull. Now that's loud.
From outside, through a window, the French flag billows. Blue, white, and red. With a final snap, the eyelids stay down. Maybe the world 'is' conspiring against little old him. Eyes still shut, he leans against the back of the chair with a silent hum. This still is a library, after all, can't make too much noise. Ah, tragic. The tip of his boots scuff against the table leg, probably. So what, if a world-ending snake comes back from the dead. So what, if he just so happens to be related to corpses of thousands of years ago who killed it off in the first place. The dead don't even have mouths to breathe, let alone tell anybody what to do. Or so it goes.
A flash of blue, not from the flag, but from a stiff jacket and waistcoat; and eyes fly open. There's nothing though, because of course, his eyes were closed in the first place. With a sigh(another blazing glare from the opposite side of the table), Ash sits back up. It would be like Betty to materialize from nowhere to weed out disrespect, but not today! Unfortunately for her.
The notebook he tossed lies just a bit to the side. He leaves it there. Fingers fiddling with the corner of the page, the blank paper crinkles slightly. Books up to here, yet none of them come even close to being helpful. A complete waste of time, just like the Ouroboros tale itself.
Of course, there's more to the story. Politics. Disputes. Old men throwing expensive wine down their throats. Oh, the third family grew too weak and got absorbed by the other two. Oh, now the red fire is green. Who cares? Nobody was interested and nobody cared, because there was nothing left. No people, and no monsters. His fingers twitch, creasing the notebook paper irreparably. 'We'll meet again.' The ghost of a low laugh crawls on his palm. No monsters, except one.
So the real question: How do you get back at the Devil? Ash trails the air with a finger, leaving behind an invisible circle. Starting from the top. Its objective? Probably the revival of Ouroboros. Why? None of his business. How...? The circle halts. Already stuck. Or maybe not.
The library computer is tucked all the way to the far left wall. Slowly, he presses the keys of the old keyboard, typing out the words. All of the scraps of information from the old study is written down in the notebook, but he has them memorized anyway.
The first keyword 'Orochi' brings up some folklore from the far east. A quick scroll through describes a snake with eight heads and eight tails, underbelly rotted with blood. It's struck down by a God, who took the beast's tail and fashioned it into a weapon; the Sword of Kusanagi. The cursor hovers on the last word. He's heard that name before, somewhere, sometime ago. The page on it doesn't answer any questions. In fact it barely has anything at all. One of the Three Sacred Treasures, rumored to have fallen in a lake and be lost forever. One giant monster, and three things related to its defeat. The corner of his mouth slant upwards. Now where has he heard that before?
The rest of the notes turn out to be absolutely useless. Infographs, ugh. His head rests on the desk. How much time did it pass? Too much. Perhaps he should have gotten lunch. Maybe there's a place nearby with some good sea bass. Maybe even crab. A cat-like stretch, from the very bottom of his spine. Well, a break can't hurt, but one more. One more search. Not even bothering to look at the keyboard as the fingers typed in the word, Ash half-expects another bank site to pop up. Then he sits up.
A news article at the top of the results glares in blue against the white backdrop: 'Freak Tornado strikes Japan during International Martial Arts Tournament'. Click. It's an image of a destroyed arena; collapsed walls, torn flags on the ground. On one large piece of rock, just out of sight, is a dark stain of pixels. Immediately, he knows it to be blood. On April 13th, Sunday, a sudden freak wind storm hit the Kyoto region of Japan. While most of Kyoto escaped undamaged, the Kyoto Nishikyogoku Athletic Stadium; the location of the finals of the King of Fighters Tournament, suffered heavy damage. The number of wounded are 137, and the recorded casualties so far has been 3 people. Eyewitnesses say the storm almost seemed to happen at the center of the arena...
Below is another picture; of two people. On the left a man wearing a black blazer, and a woman in a white dress on the right. It's a photo, but the shot has the exact moment of movement, that it's not a static image at all. It's almost like the two are dancing, from the outstretched arms trailing white sleeves, to the arch of the man's back. With this angle, he looks as if he's going to jump out of the screen, stance wide, dark eyes blazing, as he swings upward with a gloved fist. Something about all of it is mesmerizing, in a way. Maybe that's why it takes a moment and a half to see that the fist is on fire.
Member of the finalist Team Japan, Kyo Kusanagi(left) facing off against Chizuru Kagura(right), for the final match of the King of Fighters Tournament. Kusanagi. It's that man again. The fire. A giant snake. He looks at the image again and notices a flash of a grin, behind strands of black hair. It's crooked, cocky as if sharing an inside joke and the inside of Ash's mouth goes dry.
The King of Fighters. He's heard of it before, of course. People in school talking about it here, a little talk about it on the news there. Something something the world's first international team-based martial arts tournament. That part isn't important though. The mouse arrow circles around Kusanagi's face, cutting the cocky grin off. Three treasures. The King of Fighters. The smear of blood. Something had happened in that tournament, on that final day. The smell of copper creeps up again at the back of his throat.
Would something also happen if the tournament happened again this year...?
"I'm back." Sing-songing his way through the apartment door. No need for the window, courtesy of the spare key.
From the couch, a bob of brown hair turns to look. "You sure are walking in here like you own the place" she says, dryly. She motions with an open can of beer to the bag in his arms. "Did you get groceries?"
He makes a face. "Ew, no." He upends the bag, spilling the contents.
A yelp. "Hey, don't do that, I have people downstairs!" The beer sloshes around panickedly and Ash smiles. It takes an extravagantly long removal of his jacket for her to ask another question. "Do teenagers these days even read books?"
"What can I say, I'm a little special."
"Criminal, more like." A dull tink. The can must have been set down. "Just because you paid back for busting my window lock doesn't mean I can get a new one anytime soon." He's untying the last of his boots when the voice rings out. "'A Guide to Chinese 101'?"
The paperback pricks his fingers as it's yanked out of the woman's hand. "It's rude to look without permission." He gets to sneer. The book hangs limp, looking guilty. To the top of the shelf it goes.
"Says the one who broke into my house-"
He cuts the words off. "What's this?" He picks up a blue vial, lying on its side. He gives it a shake. It's caked with dust.
Suddenly, a horrible feeling. As if a fish from the deep took his fingers into its mouth. "I've been looking for this! What made me even put it up there in the first place..." The vial is in her hands now. It's still a dark sea-blue, even in her grasp, and maybe, just maybe, he sees something dark swirling in it.
She gives him a look. "It's nail polish. Haven't you seen one before?"
Nail polish. Of course it is.
"You got the nails for them. You interested?" There's an ulterior motive. It says it, right there upon her lowered brow. She then smiles. "Hey, this is my job. I know what I'm doing."
So he smiles back. "Why not?" The couch creaks as he takes a light fall on it.
"Have any specific color in mind?" The woman's tone is all business-like now. Her back's turned, rummaging through a dresser.
"Black's good. It matches my eyes, don't you think?" No response. He turns his head away with a huff. From here, the ceiling light is at an angle. It casts a contrast on the still-turned back.
It takes a bit for her to return, with an armful of plastic shapes and cylinders. They all rattle as they fall onto the tiny couchside table. "We probably won't be needing half this stuff, but you never know." She takes a black vial from the clutter and-
Ash yanks back his hand.
The woman's brows dip downwards. "I can't paint your nails if you don't give me your hand." There's nothing he can say to that. She takes his hand, and it feels like the fish all over again.
The brush is cold. It slowly inches, leaving behind a layer of coal-black. The grip shifts, and it's onto the next. It falls into a rhythm. A stroke. Shift. Stroke. Shift again. Something lurches. It's just skin. Just another human person. Another touch of the brush and it feels like a swarm of ants.
"Stay still." He bites his tongue. It's just a manicure. Something so unimportant, that it should count as a 'so it goes.' 'In the next moment, Billy Pilgrim is dead. So it goes.' The phrase spills over, over his head, over to his insides.
So he talks. "So, how goes the search for a girlfriend?"
The brush stops. "How did you-"
He airily motions to the nearby bookshelf. " Had some spare reading time. Pensées d'une Amazone, The One who is Legion, The Well of Loneliness. You're not exactly trying to hide it."
Her eyelids blink, for a step and a half. Then- "Same boat, huh?"
For a moment, Ash forgets that he's trying to hurt someone. "Maybe. I haven't thought about it." It's the truth, but why he would ever say it, he doesn't know.
She keeps talking, somehow, as she starts painting again. "You haven't read the bottom shelf ones yet, right? Those are for adults-only!"
"Mm." The polish is starting to dry, the cold dying down. It's all her fault; he decides. Simple as that. From how it's her skin that feels like fish, to why it feels like he's lost a fight that hasn't ever happened.
As soon as he reaches that conclusion though, his hand hits open air. "There! Nothing fancy. What do you think?" It really is nothing much; just a simple layer of black. Ash inspects it closer, twisting his wrist left to right. It's nothing, but it's heavy. It weighs the tips of his fingers down, throwing them off balance. The nails shine, the light of the room reflecting off the polish as a small sheen.
With a nearby cushion he covers the hand up, save the manicure. The parts where she touched are still buzzing. "Not bad," he admits.
A snort. "I guess I'll take that." The couch drastically dips as the woman joins without warning. "You don't have to scoot over, there's plenty of space."
He returns to his position. It's a loss again, but it's better than being scrunched up to the side like a rat. A sideways glimpse has the woman holding the TV remote, switching through the channels on her outdated television. Colored light floods her face, framing an angled shadow beside her nose.
The light glitters on the black polish also. He takes another twist of the wrist. The balance is still crooked. He brings himself to allow a small frown. It really should be stifling, and it is, but not very. He doesn't know how to make of that. A flash of white light against black, and it's like the manicure is a back of an eel instead.
Suddenly the weight on the couch shifts, as the woman leans forward. "Hey, they're re-airing Titanic!"
"The boat that sunk in 1912?"
"Very funny. You'll like it, it has Leonardo DiCaprio in it."
The movie in fact, did have Leonardo DiCaprio in it, as a very very attractive sailor. The film also turned out to be 18+, but it wasn't DiCaprio showing skin so it didn't matter. Maybe he was in the same boat after all.
It takes three more days before his new nails to feel light again. Well, not light, but more natural. They fit, and that's the important thing.
Blue, green, pink, red...aha. Ash finally manages to find the black vial, picking it up. It shines briefly, before being tossed into the purse without a second thought. He also takes some brushes for good measure. You never know!
The cars outside buzz, the annoying racket spilling through the open window. He should close it, but he doesn't quite feel like it. He does close the curtains though. Too many ugly squares heading in one direction. With some slight effort, the Chinese 101 book manages to be squeezed inside the bag. Maybe that's an unpatriotic sentiment.
The room is dim, but that's because the lights are off. The owner of the flat doesn't like it when electricity is 'wasted', since it brings a higher bill. That's stupid, in his opinion. What's the point of offering a service if you're just going to ask for money anyway? Zipping up the purse, he pops the closet doors open. It's yellow bellied, not taking what you directly want.
There's quite a lot of clothes to choose from. Shirts, dresses, pants, stockings, so on. A lot of cool tones, with light blues and yellows, that go pretty well with his simple fit of blouse and trousers. From the far corner, Ash pulls out a brown coat. It's for winter, simple design, with a thick trim of fur around the neck and sleeves. The fur isn't something high-grade like rabbit, but also doesn't feel like plastic. It's honestly, a little tacky. He pulls it on. He hasn't forgotten it's summer, and immediately the heat is blasting.
He laughs. There's something about it; wearing a winter coat in summer, with a purse full of stolen nail polish. Something delightful. The clock ticks, announcing that it's already almost ten in the morning. That leaves a maximum of 14 hours for him to leave the country on this day. He tosses his spare keys onto the couchside table. It lands with a metallic splat and he really can't help but snigger. Briefly, he imagines that this grin might be the same as Kusanagi's.
Kusanagi. Finally, something important. He takes the coat off, tying it around his waist. There's a man out there who can also use fire and fought in a worldwide tournament with something that caused a tornado. It's the only real thing he has. Everything else is paltry; the clothes, the keys, the nails. ...Of course, that isn't a proper answer to anything. But who was going to challenge him?
Preparations set, Ash draws back the curtains. There's a taxi over th-ere across the street. An easy fast track to the airport. Swinging his legs over the open window frame, he allows a backwards glance. The front door stays closed, unchallenging. And since there's no challenge, it's an automatic win.
The thick fabric feels strange against his manicure.
With that, Ash lets go of the window.
Notes: Book references: 'In the next moment, Billy Pilgrim is dead. So it goes.' -Slaughterhouse-five
Pensées d'une Amazone, The One who is Legion, The Well of Loneliness- lesbian literature
(Gay teenager) handshake (Lesbian woman)
liking the Titanic