Yagami's Little Girl – Notes in the Night
Written By: RinoaDestiny
King of Fighters and Iori Yagami belong to SNK Playmore
Iori loved jazz. He had survived fatherhood for the first few weeks and credited part of it to the music. He was a music man – had always been in a way. Even from a young age when he used to live on the vast family estate with his father and the servants, he'd been caught playing the shamisen and plucking the strings of the koto. He'd been beaten for whiling away his time on trifling matters – women's instruments, no less! – but nothing lessened that initial love.
Close by, the sensuous low notes of an alto saxophone filled the living room.
He'd hauled out the portable stereo system, dusted off one of his favorite CDs from his collection, and set it spinning, then went to recline on the couch. He only knew how to play because he knew how to listen. This was his life – different from the expected annual bloodsport – and it kept him sane.
It only made sense that he wanted to introduce it to his daughter.
Mako, who had helped him out earlier today approved of this. "Yagami-san," she'd said, amused. "Comes as no surprise. That's just like you." He wondered if she referred to his musical tastes or something else. "'Sides, it'll be good for her."
He couldn't disagree there. It helped him. It should be good for her, too, right?
Of course, he was biased. Iori knew it – hell, he admitted it – since he was steeped in the genre and could rattle off names if asked. Not that most people would with the death glare he often had. That kept them away. Now his bored look – that drew them in. Mostly women, he'd discovered. There were a few men at times but he was good at dissuading them and anyone else if he wasn't interested. Nights at a live house after a performance did much to stir the blood.
Often afterwards, he just wanted a smoke.
It was on one of those nights when he'd met Michiru.
Iori sighed, running his hand through his hair, disheveling it. Between work and taking care of Aoi, he was making funeral arrangements. Michiru didn't have much family left – an older sister and an uncle – but he knew she'd kept tabs on her sister. He usually didn't care much for others but Michiru would probably haunt him if he neglected her family in this. It was already difficult enough with Orochi yammering away from time to time in his head; he didn't need his wife lingering by as well to complicate matters. There was a wake to attend and he needed to rent a standard suit. After that, the funeral.
This was where he had a problem. Was he going to take Aoi to the funeral? Or was that too risky?
Iori never knew his mother. His father never had an altar dedicated to her memory; he'd never seen one growing up. The Yagami clan guardians never mentioned her within earshot and dared not when his father was around. Certain things were not discussed in the Yagami household. His mother was one of those. The day he'd come across her room – all the way back in the left wing of the traditional estate – and discovered clothing and musical instruments, he was eight.
He hadn't known the room was hers.
Only years later, remembering certain facts, did he figure it out. The terrible look on his father's face. The harsh punishment meted out to his chaperone for failing his duty. Iori had been made to watch the violent undertaking. Then he was subjected to a beating that kept him in bed for a week. He'd never seen his father so angry before and actively tried not to trigger that rage.
Much good that did him. It seemed built into his training.
Memories of his mother were non-existent, except for that one instance. Would keeping Aoi away for now do the same to her or was she too young to remember? Would he be repeating his father's mistakes? He didn't want to be his old man – was already breaking away from the tried-and-tired pattern – but Iori knew hindsight was twenty-twenty. What seemed good today could easily backlash years later.
He didn't want that.
Yet, if he took her to the funeral…
Iori shifted, stretching stiff muscles. If he took her, he was taking a risk. A risk that someone in the crowd would see him – a King of Fighters contestant – and see Aoi, put two and two together, and declare it to the world. With today's smartphones and social media, the secret would be out within seconds. He'd be unable to stop it. There was only so much he could do by threatening people.
But if he didn't take her…
Tough choices here. Facing Orochi – that goddamn bastard – was easier than this. For one, he couldn't punch or claw his way through it. He had to decide.
Well, fuck.
He'd been lost in thought for so long that it took him a while to realize the music had stopped. Nothing emitted from the speakers. Did the final track just finish? Swinging up and off the couch, he ambled over to the system, checked the screen and saw the runtime was complete. Not liking the silence, Iori tapped the play button, listened for the whirring, and then hit the forward track button a few times. He settled on the fourth track and moved, leaning back.
Heavy bass notes thrummed, joined in soon by keyboard.
That was more like it.
So…take her or leave her at home? Ask Mako to babysit her?
He looked at the slightly ajar door to his daughter's room. She had no choice but to trust him right now. When he was significantly younger, he had trusted his father – initially – before that trust was terribly broken. He would've liked to know more about his mother. As it was, he didn't even know her name.
Aoi, as she grew older, would know her mother's name.
He had pictures to show her to match the name with a face. She'd have more than he had.
So why stop there? Why not have her at the funeral? He need not take her to the cremation but for the first part of the service and then the actual burial grounds, it was safe enough. He didn't think she'd have any bad memories from it, if she could remember.
That was settled, then.
When Iori made up his mind, he never went back. Didn't do it for NESTS, didn't do it for chasing after Ash Crimson and those were life-changing events. Wasn't treading back on choices he made concerning his daughter, either.
What he needed to do was to make himself inconspicuous, then.
How?
Tapping his fingers against his thigh, he kept count to the continuing bass beats like a mantra. It would come to him in time. But they were both going and Michiru was getting a home shrine. He was not like his old man. Not at all.