The Search: Falling Chapter 3: Visiting the deceased, a d.gray-man fanfic

Title: The Search
Word Count: 1,775 words this part (13,000 words total at this time)
Warnings: AU. Switching 1st person PoV. Possible language (but nothing horrible). Violence.
Rating: PG13 for this part.
This part: Allen and Kanda go about their daily lives in the Quartered District.

Chapter 3
Part 1:Visiting the deceased

The trick to looking like you belong in a place is to act like you do. So, while walking ever closer to the border of the quartered district, I smile pleasantly and take care not to glance around noticeably. I've hidden the distinctive scar on my eye and cheek behind makeup, and tucked my white hair under a floppy hat. I take a deep breath.

The air is still, the clouds pulling at the sky's edges, masking clear blues in an unobtrusive gray. I can smell flowers, the earthy tint of just moldering leaves, and a hint of chill that early autumn brings. It all seems so fragile…like the wings of a moth.

And so I head out. Technically, I'm supposed to go through the official gate—and pay an unofficial bribe, but a fire escape makes a good path to the roof. I leap onto the ill-repaired wall and scuttle to the street.

I walk farther, my mind in a haze. My feet stop a few times, but I reorient myself with effort.

I look at the gate surrounding the man's house. Consider the high walls and the shuttered windows. The smell of blood that hasn't been scrubbed away. A closer look at the garden reveals the dust paths and broken twigs scattered about by a full-inspection; who else would muck about with so little regard?

There must have been dozens of people through the little garden, but their lively impression does little to cover the feel of desperation and unease. I'm not even close to the actual spot, but the air of tragedy is heavy. Like a mist of anguish seeping into my skin.

The air is decidedly different from the neighborhood outside . I walk slowly to the side. The feeling gets stronger, and I stop for a moment before frowning.

The feeling is like a hand on my shoulder, I turn to see a familiar figure. Dark eyes, high cheekbones, and a narrow, clever face. The Musician smiles at me. It's an odd expression, and rather than seeming friendly, it makes him look part wild. "Allen," he says quietly, and my name on his lips sounds like contemplation. "What are you doing?" As would be, his question is partially just that, but…that tone.

I close my eyes against an unconscious wince, bowing self-consciously as I wonder what I could say. "I heard he was—" I muffle my reaction with a smile, hiding my unease as best I can. "I've been…that is, the investigation detectives placed a Noah on the scene." Some of yesterday's raw emotions come back to me, and I try for a smooth, clear expression. I wonder if it fits.

The musician returns my smile indulgently, and his eyes, normally reflecting whatever light's around, seem pitch black. "You've been accused," he notes quietly. "I had wondered about that." Like Tyki, his mouth pulled into a smile is both handsome and cruel. But I'm not overly concerned. He hasn't done anything yet.

I shift my weight and offer a tentative nod. "You see, the witness said a few things to make the detectives think…or assume," I trod carefully, "that I might have done it." I peaceably look at him, opening my eyes wide and asking silently, did I?

Ignoring the look and shaking his hair out of his face, he nods to the gate. "Come with me." Close enough to touch, we walk through, and it feels like the air has fallen on me. I shiver unconsciously.

Common sense would tell me to stay in the garden. But the musician has called, and I want to see for myself what he's looking at. I follow as I catch sight of the golden sphere; it's a whisper of wings. Golem,I think. The little thing is strangely familiar.

It's as expected. The place is quiet, still. The light plays golden to blue, dancing on the edges and shivering. I step over the clumps of dirt and onto the cut stones.

I take a sharp breath. I want to close my eyes, turn away from the way memory that buries everything here.

"Ah," the musician says. He's passed the threshold and is touching the wall. He motions for me, and I follow more slowly to the side, looking for a door or window from the garden. "He's here…" the wandering singer announces, dark humor flavoring his tone. "His tragedy lingers." A breath too soft to hear, followed by a stream of air blowing in my direction. "Allen," he sings, and his voice is the lullaby of my childhood, before Mana, certainly before Cross.

"Yes?" I call, tapping on the side of a stone and looking at the door.

The whole of the situation begins to unfold, and I can sense a whisp of the dead man. Like the musician said, the air is perfumed with frustrated ambition, loss of choice, and a soul entombed in sadness and fury. It's remarkable. Overwhelming. With the singer, I feel stronger than I ever have before… Like his simply being here is an amplifier for things I've half dreamed my whole life.

I take one step closer, ducking into the building. My curiosity about the singer, the death of a man I've never met, and the feeling here has pulled me in.

Soft light. Quiet, still air. Only the ticking of a clock keeps me from thinking the whole of it a painting, a still life we've intruded on. I can hardly breathe for fear of upsetting the pattern. As I step through, I sigh into the curtain he pulls aside, and a sight like the coldest of nights greets me.

It's lackluster and frightful inside. The wonder of life has fled. Off in the corner, a shadow of a figure slumps.

I give a cry, wanting to rush forward and check for signs of life, but the musician gives me such a look that I stop.

"Look closer…" he says. The golem stretches from his finger to take flight again. It flutters closer to the corner, and that quiet, reflecting light clears the shadows.

The slumped man's eyes are open, and tears stream down his face, but there's a transparency about him, a lack of weight that startles me. I close my eyes, then turn away. When I look again, it's out the corner of my eye, and I see it for what it is. An empty corner, darkened with blood or bodily fluids, chalked out in white. There is nobody there.

"Definitely murder," the musician muses. "Look at that." He smiles. "Timcanpy has the right of it…" The little golem has moved away, settling on the side of a chair. I can't see what Timcanpy has seen at all, but the singer is talking again. "Murder…" he isn't smiling. "It doesn't cause the soul to wither and decay, Allen Walker, but the suffering…and regret…it could cause a soul to linger." He looks carefree even as he speaks of that terrible fate, and I shrink from it.

But his hand reaches towards me, and he gestures at the spirit. 'What do the Noah say happens to a soul after death?"

I stand straighter, remembering the stories Mana told me. "The soul passes to the Keeper," I murmur, "and he speaks with them…they choose with him how long they ought to rest before rebirth. When—"

He interrupts with a cough. "Before they meet with the Dark One, Allen." He yawns. Looks at me closely, an eyebrow raised. "What happens?"

I swallow, chagrined. Maybe I haven't learned my lessons so well as I thought. "The spirit is left here...to say goodbye, to leave behind the impurities of life." I touch my right eye, wondering. Trying to remember the story of a clown—

"Yes. Too true. And they must find their way to the god of death or else be led to him." He grins wickedly at me. "You would probably get lost, wouldn't you?" He touches the corner of his mouth. "Best send someone to fetch you, hmm?"

I turn back to the pool of black and wispy white that marks the spirit. "Oh, yes." I murmur. "He's to purify himself...by waiting. They say time will-"

-there's a sharp noise as Timcanpy runs into a low set table. He flutters and lands precariously. The only sound he makes is the whisper of tail and wings. I take a step toward the golem.

"Why do you suppose it's come to this?" The singer muses, and I can hear a melody on his tongue, though it isn't a pretty one. "You know it's murder. "The question is…is it the act of a crazed psychopath working on his own? Or something bigger?"

I look at Timcanpy. "I have no idea," I reply, and my eyes search the room for clues.

He presses on. "But what do the Noah have to do with it?" He leans in close, and I can feel him at my back. It's the closest I've felt him, and there's a chilly familiarity that surprises me. He waits for a reply.

I look into the soul and sense the sadness there. The hollow eyes are focused on me, but it's strange. He doesn't seem to notice the singer at all. I want to touch its cheek, to ease away the grief, but such a thing is impossible.

"Well?" he urges. I'd like to say he sounds impatient, harried, or even spiteful. That a Noah Musician would hate the supposition of an obvious, hate-inspired rumor.

Confused by his lack of outrage, I waver. Frustration and anger boil out of me. "No, it's nothing like that!" I feel my jaw clench, and my lips could tear if I pulled them apart any faster. "That's only a hateful lie.Nothing more than a rumor. I—" I stop, stuttering. My voice falls to pieces like shattered glass.

The musician smiles at me, his cool eyes reflecting a night-sky I cannot see. A soft, genuine smile seems to blossom under my gaze, and he lifts a hand, the index finger extended. He twirls a circle lazily. "Think about it, Allen. Now. Go.Take Tim with you."

The golem has already landed on my hair. I give a start of surprise, and turn back to the spirit. I can't hear anything from it; if it speaks it all. I can't ask any questions.

When I look back to the musician, he too is surveying the soul. I wonder if there's anything I can say to get another opinion, but it seems risky. He's either forgotten I'm here, or really meant for me to go.

Stern Words from Link

I open the door, push the key back into my pocket, and mentally prepare myself for readying the shop for tomorrow's business. The list of things to do should comfort me. Should bring the wary tension off my shoulders. But it's more like a sharpener.

It's quiet. My heart thumps a quiet pattern in my chest, and warm air breezes through my hair. A warning.

"You shouldn't have gone there," a voice calls. It's the blond haired detective, the baby with a theory all his own.

I'm almost happy to see him, but the words give me pause. I look at him a while longer. "What?" My fingers fall from the door, and I hover there.

He motions me in. "Inside." His voice conveys suggestion, but his stiff manner says more than that.

I'm rooted to the spot, uncertain. I hear music in the back of my mind like a warning.

"Go in. Unless you'd like your business on the wings of rumor?" he's biting his lip, like he knows he's already said too much.

I let him in.

"You shouldn't have gone back, Allen Walker." He frowns, his expression pinched.

"You," he nods his chin at me to emphasize it, "are one supremely distinctive young man."

I swallow. My throat is suddenly tight, and my heart wants to dance all the sudden. The urge to run, to never look back, is strong on me. "I-"

"A hat Mr. Walker?" his voice is prim. "To cover your hair." He chides, and the decision seems like a really primitive one now. "Only that, when your manner, eyes, and dress all give you away. " He pinches his nose. "Don't go back there, Mister Walker." His expression is all seriousness and exasperation.

"I didn't!" I protest, and anger flares in my voice. I bite my tongue just as quickly, knowing argument rarely works with people like him. I school my expression into a polite mask, dropping my gaze. "I'm sorry Mr. Link. I have no idea what you're talking about."

Leaning against the door frame, Link looks older than he is. Like he'd surpass me by a decade in experience, when that's not the case at all. "I'm serious, Allen." I see he calls me by my name when he's not so angry. Odd that my outburst affects him so little. "You're quite memorable."

I look away.

"If you go the scene, someone will see you. Returning to the scene of the crime...it doesn't look good."

My heart catches in my throat again. I heard somewhere, something very like that. Murderers often return to the place- whether it's to relive the glory, or to be reminded of the heinous things they'd done.

"Human..." he coughs. "People's memories," he amends, "isn't always reliable. Witnesses identify the wrong man, respond to outward influence and investigator's inclinations. If asked again," he pins me to the spot with a stern gaze. "Someone else might conveniently remember you after all."

I can feel the blood drain from my face. He's right, of course. I want to fill the awkward silence, to right things. "...can I offer you some tea?" I offer. My voice sounds plaintive even to my ears.

"No," Link shakes his head. "Now keep your nose out of trouble." Sharp eyes fix me with a stern look. And with that, he lets himself out.

I stare into the twilight of the room, unsure of myself, my own motives, or anything at all.

The clock ticks. My eyes close. But I won't let myself be sucked in. What does he know? It must be some sort of elaborate move.

I remember something that Cross once said. 'The easiest man to con is someone who wants something. If you can deliver, he's all yours. The greedy ones, the impatient, the ones hungry for power. Those are the people we can work with.'

But Link skipped a step. You're supposed to start small, to deliver after they've invested in you. Only then can you raise the stakes and take it all. But Junior Detective Howard Link doesn't have my trust. He's trying to play me.

I'm sure of it.

He thinks he's so much older, so much more experienced than me. Stupid human brat. I may not yet be recognized as an adult among my people, but I have at least as much experience as he does.

I bet I can show him up. Find out who really killed the man...I must have been looking in the right area, just not asking the right questions. The dead man's spirit can't talk to me...but someone else can.
All I need to do is look.

tbc...

Stern Words from Link