I honestly didn't intend to wait so long… no, really, I didn't. But I was pelted with rotten oranges to remind me how long it's been… well… oops. Sorry! Keep 'em coming when I wait to long… the oranges, that is.
Agh, I sprained my foot! This sucks… I'm not supposed to be updating, I'm supposed to be elevating it while watching Lord of the Rings. OH WELL. I can walk on the stupid thing, so why do I NEED to elevate it?
Disclaimer: I don't own Tokyo Mew Mew, because rabid fangirlism doesn't constitute ownership.
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Tart had never realized just how huge a city Tokyo was until his only hope was to find a single measly human amongst the enormous buildings and the mass of people below him. The young alien cursed fluently in both his native language and Japanese as he flew high above the pollution, searching frantically with someone who had the massive powers of the Blue Knight. While the powers of the Blue Knight were unmatched by anyone—even all of the mews combined—it still was not easy to find him. For one thing, his powers lay dormant in hid human form. For another thing, Tokyo was just too big, too full of life. There were more humans in Tokyo than members of Tart's entire people!
The alien dropped down to Café Mew Mew, relieved to know at least one useful landmark. He teleported into the computer room, mercifully empty, and began running a search on anyone with the last name 'Aoyama'.
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Several layers of wood later, Kish stopped to reconsider his actions. His hands were full of splinters and paint shavings, rubbed raw, his fingernails ragged from trying to get under the wood. Nonetheless, the door was a good deal thinner in places. If he could endure the pain of his hands for much longer, then it shouldn't be too hard to escape and hide out somewhere until he'd regained his ability to teleport. He supposed that the biggest worry he had now was infection in his hands—not to mention his acid wounds—but even so, the technology of his people was so far ahead of human technology that they could halt and cure an infection from burns and bleeding hands in less than an hour. The alien decided that the pain was endurable and began scraping at another layer.
A small chink of light shone through to the closet, casting his reddened, bleeding hands with a garish, sickly yellow glow. Kish winced—the contrast made his skin seem unhealthy and wounded much more badly than it was—but he was almost there. He'd peeled a hole nearly the width of his thumb in the door. Now he simply had to keep it up.
After five more minutes of frantically detaching wood from the door, the teenage boy had cleared a space large enough to crawl through. His long, flapping shorts caught on the wood, shredding them slightly, while one of the ties at the back of the garments tore completely off. The boy hissed as his ears roughly scraped the wood, digging cuts into his sensitive skin. Finally pulling through and tearing a leg wrap to the point where it fell off in the process, the teenager was free, out of the now pitiful looking area of confinement. He wasted no time celebrating his triumph, but instead began to walk, cursing his sudden inability to float. If nothing else, he would hear the mew girl before she heard him.
Finally reaching the nearest window, Kish hesitated. He didn't want to risk getting all the way to the door, but without his ability to fly, was jumping out a window really safe? He knew it wasn't, but that could be worried about later. As long as he didn't break his foot or something, he could live with the consequences of getting hurt.
Kish leapt, tucking his knees up, folding himself into a ball. He hit the ground on his side and rolled, scrambling to his feet, relieved to note that his worst injury seemed to be a scraped hand and a gashed cheek. He had closed his eyes, so the cut had gone over his eyelid, but was shallow enough that the eye itself was unharmed. The alien wiped his face with the front flap of his shorts—hoping that he wasn't making things worse by getting dirt in the wound, though he knew he probably was—and then took off. Café Mew Mew would be the prime spot. He could hide out in his enemy's stronghold, where they would never think to look, and maybe even find some way to get a message to Tart and Pai.
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Tart began sifting through Masaya Aoyama's room, attempting to find any indication of where he had gone. After nearly an hour of searching—an hour! Pudding could be half dead! —he had finally found the correct Aoyama house. Much to his vexation, he had arrived to find that the boy was out doing something. The alien truly regretted knocking the human's parents unconscious—it would take far less time to interrogate them.
Ichigo's house or the kendo dojo. Tart had to decide between the two places—which was more likely? Ichigo had not been at the café when he had snuck in, so she might have the day off work, making it plausible that he would be with her. Tart gritted his teeth and kicked the human boy's sensible desk, bruising his foot. "Damn it!" the alien growled, putting the pain out of his mind to think. The dojo was closer than the stupid hag's house, and it was on the way. Yes, he could check there and see if the boy was in the place. The alien teleported to the place he had decided on.
It seemed as though everyone was either absorbed in practice—or absorbed in watching Tart's intended victim trounce his opponent. The alien gave a feral grin—perfect. No one would be expecting his attack. He edged into the crowd, feeling disgusted at the feel of pushing through so many inferior beings, before he was finally certain his attack would only hit Aoyama. Not that he cared if he hurt some humans, but that would give Aoyama warning. "Ho Rai Den!" he cried, tossing his rope out, forming it into a net that sent the older boy sprawling.
"Huah!" Aoyama grunted, falling forwards and struggling to get out of the net as his fangirls erupted into screams, turning around in panic, trying to find the person that had knocked over the object of their affections. The human's practice partner had been knocked backwards from the aftershock, and seemed stunned. No one had eyes for the strangely dressed, huge eared boy that crept forward and began to gather up his rope.
"You!" Aoyama gasped, recognizing Tart. "You're one of those aliens! Where's Ichigo?"
"Hah! The old hag's fine. That's not why I need you," Tart snapped, teleporting up to his ship. "Pai needs someone to torture to get the mews to stop hurting Kish, and there's no way I can let him keep hurting Pudding. You're option two."
Aoyama's attempts at struggling against the net intensified. Tart thanked every god of every religion that he had ever heard of for his superior strength, and dragged the boy to the torture chamber. He flung open the door, his eyes searching for Pai. "Pai, I have him—" the young alien's eyes caught sight of Pudding, torn, bruised, battered, semi-conscious. The ten-year-old leaned over to the side and vomited helplessly.
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It's a bit short for having gone so long, but I do want my foot to heal, so I really should go elevate it. Huh, who knows? Maybe I can update again soon? Monday, perhaps? I shall attempt to do so. Again, apologies for the wait, keep those rotten oranges coming.
