Fic Pairings: Mostly Genfic. Light Kaito/Aoko, Shinichi/Ran, Saguru/Aoko, and Heiji/Kazuha

Final/Series Pairings: Saguru/Aoko, Heiji/Kazuha, Kaito/Shinichi (more may appear)

Warnings: Crime, Violence, Character Death.

Chapter Warnings: Violence(?)

A/N: Running a little behind my usual schedule today. I blame it on the fact that I spent most of my weekend half comatose from Tylenol and days of constant pain, and am still recovering. Fun stuff, that.

Anyway, this Apocrypha's scene was mentioned in Chapter 3 by Hakuba. I hope you all enjoy it, as I'm not to sure how good it is. Aoko is a tricky character for me to write, still.

Apocrypha 02

Valkyrie

A few paces ahead of her, Aoko could see Hakuba's broad shoulders and his shock of light colored hair as he gently but firmly forced his way through the crowd. It made her think of a gallant knight clearing the way for some noble lady, or maybe a guard clearing the way for a celebrity. If she hadn't felt so brittle, so frail, it might have made her laugh. Instead, she was too scared that she would fall apart if she didn't cling so tightly to herself.

"Excuse me," Hakuba murmured again as he edged between a man and a woman.

Aoko stepped out after him, and paused at the sight that was revealed: Row after row of chairs in which an array of people were settling. Some were obviously reporters, while others looked as delicate as she felt. The chairs were all uniform: Stiff black plastic supported by silver metal piping. A few feet to her left, voices that hissed like steam and snakes whispered constantly. Aoko glanced over blindly, and narrowed her tear dry eyes at the sight of black, monstrous video cameras.

She shouldn't have been surprised to see them there, they were ensconced in one of Nichuri TVs many rooms, but she still was. Her shoulders tensed, and it took every bit of iron will and control not to demand how they dare treat this of all things like some sort of media circus! But, she knew, oh, she knew. Aoko wasn't a genius, not like Kaito or Hakuba, maybe not even like Keiko or Akako, but she was a bright enough girl, and she knew. They dared make this a media circus because that was just what That Man wanted.

Hakuba's hand touched her arm through the soft knit of her sweater, just below the crease of her elbow, then fluttered away again as soon as she turned her attention to him. Aoko was thankful for the comfort his presence provided, even as she ached for Kaito to be standing by her side. She wanted Kaito to toss his arm across her shoulders in absent friendliness; the way he'd done since she was a little girl, the way he always did when she was upset even if it was nothing more than a scraped knee. Then he'd flicker his hand in front of her face, like he was made of magic himself, and present her with a perfectly crafted paper flower– if it was a particularly good day, she'd get a real one.

"Nakamori-chan?" Hakuba asked, his voice soft. It hovered somewhere to the left of her ear, formal and gently intrusive. Aoko made a little sound in response, heard a faint breath that might have been a sigh, before Hakuba went on, "Why don't you sit down?"

Aoko nodded faintly, and stepped around to sit in the stiff plastic chair before her. She half turned, having expected him to follow her, to take a seat as well, but he wasn't there. She turned her head further until her torso half twisted to follow, and found that Hakuba had merely stepped up behind the chair she had taken. His hands seemed to reach for the back of her chair, then aborted the attempt and disappeared behind his back. Aoko looked up at his face, and found it as unreadable and impassive as always. For a moment, she envied him. Aoko knew she wore her heart on her sleeve, she always had. What must it be like, she wondered, to be able to hide everything and keep people from seeing what you didn't want to share? She frowned up at him, at the way his eyes stared straight ahead– What color were they, anyway? She'd never really noticed, and though part of her was lit with an almost childish curiosity, she didn't dare look. It would look silly if she were to kneel up on the chair she was perched on just to peek at his eyes.

Aoko was pretty sure Hakuba wouldn't have appreciated it anyway. Barring their first encounter, when he'd clasped her hand and seemed so strangely forward yet sweet, a bit like cotton candy, he'd always seemed so imperturbable and untouchable. He was just so foreign.

She turned back around and absently smoothed the material over her knees. Hakuba wasn't like Kaito, who was sweet and warm, and cold and distant by turns, like a kite, ironically. You could tether a kite to you, and sometimes you could direct it with a sharp tug, but it was at the mercy of the wind and you knew that at anytime a great gust of air could come and take it away from you, then it would be caught up in a tree. Aoko wasn't very good at climbing trees.

Maybe Hakuba was a bit like a carrier pigeon: He'd soar away, and you'd think you would never see him again, but eventually he'd come back even if it was just for a bit; would never forget the warm aerie he'd inhabited. A cotton candy pigeon, while Kaito was an ice cream kite. The metaphors were enough to claw a choked titter from her throat, and it was only then that Aoko noticed that her hands were shaking.

With determination, she blinked back tears that hedged the corners of her eyes and made them feel overfull. She wished that the soft, warm, comforting presence of Kaito's mother were here, along with the bright, living, radiance of her long time friend. Nothing seemed right in the world when he wasn't there, like she'd had something vital and supporting taken out from under her. She wished she had the courage to go see him, but she just couldn't right now. He'd be home soon, and then... and then...

In the end, she just wished she wasn't here. She hadn't wanted to come, but at the same time she had felt obligated to. Aoko set her mouth into a mulish line, straightened her shoulders, and sat up a little straighter. From behind her, she could swear she caught an approving sound.

Around her people flowed in an unnervingly quiet mass. They settled into chairs like discarded linens, and draped themselves near the walls like broken dolls. She felt a kinship, but a distance from them. There was a difference between her and them, she thought, though she couldn't say what it was. It all whirled around her and through her until she felt like she was on a carousel.

"It seems that things are about to begin," a quiet, accented, voice murmured in her ear, so close that Aoko jerked.

The sour-sweet feeling of pain bloomed sharply along her head where she'd collide with Hakuba's, and she glanced up through her fingers and hair to watch as Hakuba touched his fingertips to the side of his face with a wince. "I'm is so sorry, Hakuba-kun!" she squeaked, almost surprised at the sound of her own voice in the tenuous silence. She twisted around, reached up, and knocked his hand aside impatiently to touch where they had collided herself. "Are you okay?"

He tensed momentarily under the feather light touch of her fingertips, and she felt guilty. Had that hurt that bad? Then he straightened, the line of his shoulders tight. "I am fine, Nakamori-chan. I was merely startled by your sudden movement," As he said it, Hakuba glanced down at her. There was something strange about his smile, though she couldn't really place it. She wished she were as good as Kaito at reading people, or at least Hakuba, right now. He always seemed to know what Hakuba was thinking, though he persisted in using his ability for the power of evil, or, at least, the power of driving poor Hakuba insane. "It seems that our... esteemed... host is taking the stage."

Aoko blinked. She shot a quick glance forward to confirm that, yes, Wakahisa Hajime was stepping onto the slender, low stage that had been set up, and making his way toward the little podium they'd arranged for him. Aoko puffed her cheeks out indignantly at the sight of him. She didn't even know why she disliked him so much. Maybe it was merely that she needed someone to blame, and, right now, he was so convenient to turn her ire on. Aoko would have felt ashamed if she weren't so angry.

Wakahisa was a man who couldn't be older than her father by much, if he was at all. His hair was thick and black, but with graying hues around his ears. He looked like nothing so much as a calm, poised, business man with unusual laugh lines marking his gracefully aging face. Wakahisa was a man who should have seemed kind, a man who should have invited agreeable feelings, but she saw none of that. In fact she was reminded of a time when her father had taken her to the beach, and, curious little girl she was, she had discovered such a pretty little creature in the tidal pools. It had looked so ethereal but so familiar, so pretty but so plain. Her father had nearly had a heart attack when he saw what she'd been observing with such fascination. It wasn't until later that she learned how deadly the blue-ringed octopus was when it was provoked into biting, how its venom was potent enough to kill multiple people with one bite. Wakahisa was definitely a blue-ringed octopus.

The microphone perched atop Wakahisa's flimsy podium whined shrilly for a split second, and through it she could hear a faint shift and rustle. Behind her, as though in echo, she heard the same sound. Aoko glanced up at Hakuba's face and found him to be wearing a disturbing, thin lipped expression. She didn't know what to make of the way he was looking at Wakahisa, and desperately wished, again, that she had Kaito's ability to read him. Kaito always seemed to know what Hakuba was thinking. It was such a shame that they couldn't seem to be better friends...

"First and foremost I would like to apologize to all of you," Wakahisa's voice jolted her as if it were a physical thing. Aoko faced forward again, her fingers digging into her thighs until she could feel the pressure and bite of her fingernails through the fabric of her clothing. "If it were not for some horrible malcontent's evil doings you would not be here right now, and would, instead, be enjoying time with your loved ones. I can only take the blame onto myself in part for not foreseeing this possibility. Had I been more careful, paid more heed to what I thought was a petty grudge..."

As the man angled his head down, appeared to look at the surface of the podium, his hands tightening just so on the edges, Aoko felt something in her stomach twist. She could feel her gorge rising, stinging like acid reflux, and bile colored the back of her throat– she could taste it on her tongue. Aoko drew in a low hiccuping breath, held it, and counted slowly backwards.

"Those lost in this tragedy were heroes, or had the potential to be heroes; brave men who lived with honor they had earned by serving us."

Something cold settled over her for a moment. It made her scalp prickle as if she could feel every hair on her head.

"No words can comfort your grief, and I will not try. I cannot say I feel your grief, for that would make it seem as if I do not comprehend the enormity of this loss, and that would be false. Though nothing can be done for those who are gone, I put my faith in the authorities to take the person responsible into custody with due haste."

It seemed to her as if his voice was fading in and out, like it was playing over an old, battered radio. White noise roared in her ears.

"It is impossible for the pain from such a heinous act to ever truly be healed, but I fully intend to make sure those who have suffered do not continue to suffer unduly by making reparations if necessary. In the face of your losses, mone–"

Aoko didn't notice when Wakahisa's words cut off abruptly in surprised confusion as she stood up, nor did she notice as one of the studio's cameras turned ponderously to focus on her. She didn't even notice the sound of enraged frustration that clawed its way out of her throat, or the tears that furiously wet her anger flushed cheeks. Something in her churning stomach, taught as piano wire, had snapped. "You," she hissed, unable to articulate more. As usual the first blossoming of her temper left her incapable of speech. She gave it no more thought, merely lunged forward. Her weight and momentum was halted sharply as an arm snatched her around her waist.

She had no idea what angered her more, the fact that Wakahisa was obviously using this as a way to make himself look better to the public, or that he dared to think he could make them, her, feel better by giving them, her, money. What was he trying to prove? What was he trying to show by doing this so publicly? What did he have to hide?

Aoko gave another enraged sound, wordless and inarticulate.

"Nakamori-chan, please!" Hakuba yelped, voice close enough to her ear that his volume made her eardrum throb. Then, quieter, he added, "Please calm down, Nakamori-chan, you're making a scene."

"A scene?" she snarled. "I will make a scene if I want to! You heard him, Hakuba-kun! You heard him!" She shoved at Hakuba's restraining arm with a hand that fumbled against the feel of his clothes. His grip, though, was solid and tight, restraining her without restraining her at all.

"Nakamori-chan, I know but–"

"Young lady," Wakahisa's voice cut across whatever it was that Hakuba attempted to tell her, the microphone before him whining again with an earsplitting note. "Please, sit back down. If you have something you'd like to discuss with me regarding recent events I will be happy to speak with you privately after–"

Aoko ignored the way the people sitting near her drew back, shrunk away, at the harsh sound that tore itself from her throat. If there was one thing that she and her father were known for it was their temper, and, like always, it was like having blinders drawn over them. She barely noticed Hakuba's pained wheeze as she shoved her elbow sharply into his stomach and forced him to release her, was hardly conscious of her automatic reaching for a weapon, something that Kaito had conditioned her to. Aoko paid no attention to the cold feel of the boom mic as she jerked it out of its owner's hands, heedless of the cords connecting it to the equipment, or the headset that went flying as it was yanked off the man's head. The sound of the microphone squealing never entered through the haze that clouded her mind, nor did the feel of her skirt fluttering around her calves as she swung the heavy piece of equipment at Wakahisa's head with enough force to knock him out.

He was simply lucky that he'd reacted like any human and jerked away, stumbled to the side, twisted to keep her in sight, and fell onto his rear. He was also lucky that the boom was far longer and weighed much differently than Aoko's preferred mop. The sound of his body thumping down on his little stage accompanied by startled screams from the audience brought her back to herself, panting with exertion, anger, and her white knuckled grip on her unwieldy weapon. She could see him as he scrambled backwards, his feet pushing against the floor and half concealed by his podium. With what remained of her anger wrought adrenaline, the strength left in her shaking arms, Aoko brought the boom slamming down against the podium, and was satisfied at the scream of technical equipment and flimsy breaking wood that overrode Wakahisa's warbled cries for security.

She wasn't exactly a violent girl, but she was sure she could be forgiven this outburst. Aoko uncurled her fingers stiffly, and stalked forward until she stepped onto the little stage, and glared down at the prone, quivering man. She pointed a finger sharply at him, cheeks puffed out in annoyance, and her glare fierce as she loudly proclaimed, "I will accept nothing from you! You, who treat the loss of my father and his men's lives with such insult, and parade it for your own gain! I will not be a victim for you to play kind and good hearted to! I do not want to be part of this, and my father wouldn't want to be part of this–this stupidity either!" She whipped around, sent a scalding glare over the staring people, and paused on the sight of Hakuba in the center isle between two islands of shocked viewers still clutching his stomach with a wide eyed look on his face.

Aoko sent a final, scathing, look over her shoulder at Wakahisa then brushed resolutely passed the darkly dressed, and faintly nervous, security guards who were approaching her. As she stepped up beside Hakuba she heard his voice call her, albeit a bit more breathy than usual, "Nakamori-chan, are you..?"

She felt immediately bad for being so rude to him. "I'm leaving," she said weakly, followed by a faint sniffle. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him rub at his stomach, expression wry.

"Of course. I think we've worn out our welcome regardless." He offered her a flat, dry smile that would have made her laugh any other time, or maybe just in this situation if she hadn't felt so absolutely awful from both the circumstances and her own horrible outburst. She hoped that her father wouldn't have been ashamed of her just then. Instead, she offered him a tentative smile in return, and turned away secure in the knowledge that all was forgiven.

As she strode out of the room, the silence behind her like a great canyon that had yawned open out of pure shock, Aoko realized what the difference between her and the others was. They had let themselves be victims, they had weary acceptance, unlike herself. Aoko would not let herself be cowed, would not accept anything that horrible excuse for a man brought forward: Not money, not platitudes, not condolences. She would not let the slothful pull of grief whittle her down like it had the rest of these people.

The doors whispered closed behind them, and Aoko wandered a few more paces down the hall they'd emerged into. She paused and discovered all the interesting ways in which her shoes settled against the tiled floor. Hakuba stopped at her side, and, though she couldn't see his face, saw nothing but his faint, barely there shadow leaning close beside her own on the floor, she could almost taste his concern. Aoko wrapped her arms around herself, lips quivering as she whispered guiltily, "I shouldn't have done that."

Hakuba made a strange sound in his throat, and his shadow hesitated a moment before resting its hand on her shadow's shoulder. Warmth, seeped through her sweater where the real Hakuba's hand rested. "No," he murmured softly, then his voice became dry as if he were trying to make her smile through his strange, strange humor, "but at least Wakahisa won't be able to press any charges. He would be look upon badly for treating a distraught young girl so callously." She tried hard to summon a smile for him, but it fell away unfulfilled. Hakuba sighed, and squeezed her shoulder. "Come, I will escort you back to Kuroba-kun's home."

Aoko gave a grateful nod, and followed after Hakuba with her fingers digging into her upper arms. Right now, she merely wanted to go back to Kaito's home where she could cry in peace– for these people, for herself, and for her father.