Time of Dying
A Hagi story based off the song "Time of Dying" by Three Days Grace
Aldedron: I could give an excuse, but it'd just be an excuse. There's no justifying yet another multi-month blank spot—and for that, I apologize. Wrote an extra long chappy just to try and make amends ^^'
Lulu: *rolls eyes* 'Bout time you wrote again…
Aldedron: *nervous chuckle* Yeah… Either way, I've been contemplating rewriting Time of Dying. My style and formatting has changed, the Japanese is pretty horrible, as is word choice and grammar XP Plus, some of these chapters are so pitifully short… So, were I to rewrite it, all those would be vastly improved—plus I'd actually incorporate the character Melody who was, sadly, never introduced, despite my plans to O.o The only real loss would be the mental conversations—
Neles: *overly dramatic* NOOO~!
Aldedron: —which people seem to really enjoy
Saya: Prob'ly 'cause they're funny, while everything else is angst
Aldedron: -_- My mental anguish is comedy… huh… Ah well, I laugh at myself all the time, so it's only fair ^^ Anyways, I'll be posting a poll on my profile on whether or not I should rewrite TOD
Aldedron: As for another matter, I should prob'ly point out that, for this chappy, the timeline's goin' backwards. It starts at Haji's perspective after… *shifty eyes* something… and works backwards to the events building up to it. Just trying to avoid any unnecessary confusion lol. There shall also be a flashback ^^
Darkness consumed the stone chamber beneath Joel Goldschmidt jr.'s manor. A pervasive dripping could be heard in a corner, counting the seconds as poignantly as the ticking of Joel sr.'s pocket watch. Ragged breathing kept in perfect synch with the droplets pittering on the worn stone. Slowly, however, the breathing and dripping's pace began to retard (MT—slow down, basically). After a long while, the dripping ceased as the breathing faded to near imperceptibility.
In this realm of black, this place where hope itself seemed eclipsed in despair, a stain was stroked between the stones, oozing into the mortar. Its coppery scent tainted the very air of which its single resident breathed, breath moist with crimson flecks, fiery with thirst.
Haji's stark akai eyes glowed, fevered and wide. They stared and stared and stared at the cadaver which lay sprawled across the stone floor, limbs bent the wrong way, mouth caught in a grotesque wail silenced by Death. What had he done‽ His mind was blurred and pulsing aka. How had this happened? The only recollection was of coppery warmth and pulsing Lycoris. Was this even real? It was anything but imaginary, he knew, for the feel of liquid dripping from his lips was oh too real.
As was the still warm corpse lying on the stone before him; the blood spatter strewn across the walls, floor, and coffin; the locks of hair still caught between his fingers.
Thump-thump.
What had he done…
…
Master Haji—something was wrong, something was terribly wrong!
As far as Aiya'd picked up, listening in on Goldschmidt-sama's conversations with his guests, something illegal was going on. A "killing technique"? And they'd specifically mentioned that Master Haji was the one who had "mastered" it. Could she be working for a lord of the underworld? Oh, that wasn't good at all… Plus… Master Haji had been so kind to her. If he was involved with such things, then his life was in constant danger, a flux between life and death. How had someone so kind become so involved with something of such heinous morale?
So Aiya ran, fast as she could. The corridors seemed to fly by as her body followed it motor memory to that study of obscurity. It was where she had met Master Haji, where he'd taught her how to read basic instructions, where he always played that glossy instrument, where he'd disappear through that door and not be seen again for months at a time.
As the candlelight flickered and ornate paintings blurred past, the Frenchwoman couldn't help but wonder why it was that he seemed to spend all his time in that single room of towering bookshelves and papers skewed with ranging tongues. Goldschmidt-sama seemed so sure that that was where Master Haji had gone, no consideration of any other location whatsoever. And whenever she was in there, odd as it seemed, it felt like time stood still, yet when she looked up at the grandfather clock, in actuality, a great many hours had whizzed by; in this room where time was so obsolete, Master Haji fit in, rather than fading into obscurity. Perhaps his being was so infused with those books and that cherry-wood desk that that room was the only one in which he could truly be, for everywhere else she encountered him—be it the entryway, an empty corridor, or an interrogation in Goldschmidt-sama's office—it was like he faded into the woodwork, like he was trying to disappear. That room was the exception. Therefore, there was nowhere else he could be.
Panting heavily, Aiya finally came upon the study. The door was closed.
She had known that Pierre would be trying to get to the study, too, for he seemed to have a deep interest in Master Haji, so she made sly like a fox. Pierre would be unable to leave his hiding place so long as Goldschmidt-sama might catch him, so he was caught there for at least thirty seconds; in these thirty seconds, she knew him to spying through the keyhole. She speed walked 'til the first turn in the corridor, Goldschmidt-sama just moving to enter his office whence more, and broke into a sprint of her own the moment she was out of sight, moving through secret passageways Pierre knew nothing of because he spent more time snooping than working. Running in a dress, it was hard to go as fast as she wished, but these passageways cut her distance in half, so she could only hope that this would combat her skirts slowing the pace.
And it had worked! Here she was; she'd reached Master Haji's study before Pierre. But she knew not how far behind he was, and rushedly entered the room. It was ubatama (pitch black). Just leaving the lit hallways, the darkness was even more encompassing than it would've been otherwise and she tripped over a chair. Aiya reached out, trying to prevent her inevitable fall, and latched onto the cherry-wood desk, only her fingers seemed to grasp leather instead of wood and she rammed into the floor with a painful thud. She could hear papers floating to the ground on the other side on the desk, so apparently she'd knocked over more than herself and the leather-bound book now in her grasp.
Blinking profusely, the Frenchwoman looked up: directly in front of her loomed row after row of bookcases… but something was off. The more she stared at them, the more it didn't add up. Each and every shelf held the exact number of books it could possibly hold—all but one which held an ominous black hole in a single missing novel's place. Aiya glanced down at the tome in hand. Could this be the missing volume…?
It was so out of place, this book was. Everything about this room was immaculate and glossy-kirei ("clean", but can also mean "pretty" ^^). Then there was this book. It was the only book missing from those shelves, placed haphazardly on the edge of a desk piled with neat stacks of loose paper.
Only then did it hit her that Master Haji wasn't in here. She'd been so sure he'd be right here in this study, as had Goldschmidt-sama! Was it possible she'd beaten him here? It couldn't be… could it?
The gaping hole between books glared at her.
Beating Pierre here meant nothing if she'd also missed Master Haji.
Ubatama.
… She'd replace this book and then wait outside for Master Haji. Dakudaku (fierce "Yes, yes!"), that was it. Get rid of that gaping kuroi hole in the shelves, then wait for Master Haji. Ee… ee… ("ee" is a more casual form of "yes" which can be represented by "yeah" or "okay").
Just as she was sliding the tome into place, thankfully filling that glaring kuroi hole, footsteps echoed down the halls and through the gaping door. Surprised, Aiya fell forward, pushing several books in as she held herself up. The shelf began to move and she ripped herself away, the original book still in hand. As she fell back, the novel went flying through the air, and she stared in shock as the unit swung open to reveal a secret passageway leading into ubatama depths. The footsteps were quickly growing louder and moved at the pace of a sprint—it was Pierre!
In a sudden panic, Aiya leapt to her feet and dashed into the corridor behind the shelves, pulling the unit closed behind her…
…
A woman's scream echoed down the Parisian streets. There was no doubt it woke at least somebody up, yet no one came, no one called to help the woman, no one even looked out their windows. A single person's death was insignificant when compared with their own lives—as is obvious by the fact that if she'd screamed "Fire!" there'd have been a mob to help her, it being illegal not to assist in putting out the flames, were that the case. But, no, there was no fire. There was no help. There was only darkness… And, worst of all, even if someone had come, they wouldn't have saved her, for she was just a common whore, drowning in sin; her life was worth nothing in the eyes of society, the eyes of the church.
The wail was sharply cut off, the resounding silence deafening once the echoes had faded.
Satsujin (Murder). The woman was dead.
Come the light of morning, her blood which had spilt in great blooms upon the cracked stone was dry and black like Death's robe, her skin pale and withered, body frozen stiff.
Two officers examined the body and scene, journalists pining for intel on the latest kill of this brutal serial murder.
"Yeah, I heard a scream last night."
"Time?"
"Oh, 'round three. Woke me up, it did."
"Did you see anything?"
"No sir. Stopped just as quick as it started, so I just went back to sleep. I need rest for my work, so if you'll excuse me gentlemen…" The man briskly left the scene, supposedly to his job at the local sawmill.
The officer turned his gaze back to the broken body of Primevère Rouge (French: "Red Primrose"). "'I, me, my'," he muttered in disdain. "A woman's dead and all he can think about is himself."
"She's just a whore," his partner indicated with a frown. "Who cares."
"I care, Pierre."
"Fine, fine, Andre. Fight for the hookers." 'Pierre' rolled his eyes mockingly.
A journalist shoved his way between the men, notepad and pen in hand. "So—officers? I hear rumor that this's been your serial murder case for a good seven years, yet you've yet to catch the criminal—"
"You ain't gettin' nothin' from us, leach," Pierre sneered, promptly punching the reporter in the gut.
"—Pierre!" Andre ripped Pierre away from the crumpled reporter just as he moved to kick the man in the head. The reporter quickly took this opportunity to jump to his feet and run off. Andre gave his partner a firm look. "That was completely unnecessary, Pierre."
Pierre's reply was an indifferent shrug. He pocketed his hands which were flaming red from the samu (cold). "I came out in negative six degree weather (21°F) for this whore and that nosy reporter…" he muttered with disdain while stalking off to the carriage.
Andre watched his partner walk away with a very disappointed expression, forlorn sigh escaping his lips as he climbed into the same cab as that ingrate he had no choice but to work with.
At the station, Andre worked on his report concerning the latest murder in this string of cases: slaughter number eight in seven years; that was a scary number. The latest victim was a Miss Primevère Rouge, age sixteen, orphaned, and a prostitute. This string of serial murders weren't considered very important in the beginning, the first five just being working girls and gypsies, but when murder number six turned out to be chevalier (French nobleman hee-hee ^^), that's when the case took priority in the precinct. Unfortunately, even with the added support, they came up with no real leads, especially since his fellow officers only investigated the chevalier's case, never looking back on the prostitutes. When number seven turned up as a homeless orphan-boy, everyone stopped caring again and the chevalier's family hired a private investigator who turned up nothing significant. Andre Vick had been working this case since the beginning. Pierre Ire only joined in at the chevalier's slaying and could've cared less about the two most recent killings.
There was more definitely something strange concerning the cases, though: the victims themselves. Far as Vick had ever seen, serial killers tended to only kill certain types of people: women, men, children, adults, prostitutes, orphans, foreigners, homeless, etc. In these cases, two of the first victims had been gypsies, the other three working girls; the female, prostitute, homeless categories had been crossed out at the chevalier's murder, he being a wealthy man of high standing and blue blood; the adult category had been deleted at the orphan boy's death, and now they were back to prostitutes. Far as he'd searched, Vick found absolutely no connection between any of the victims, especially concerning that the boy was but five when he was killed and didn't have any relations whatsoever with friends or family connecting him to the chevalier.
If you wanted to get creative, you could say the killer was going after a certain prostitute and her relations; working girls tended to live in the slums, which was also where gypsies dwelt lest they be lynched for getting too close to the bluebloods, so perhaps the boy was one of those prostitutes' and the chevalier's illegitimate son who was orphaned upon his mother and unknown father's murders. But… that seemed a little farfetched, especially considering that the chevalier, son, and previous prostitutes were dead and another working girl's corpse had shown up on the streets, so the grudge obviously wasn't against a wedlock-mother who might've told her companions something.
It just didn't add up… nor did he have any clues to help connect the dots.
Before he knew it, night had fallen and the station was clearing out.
'One more look. Just one more look—to make sure I didn't miss anything.'
"Hey, Pierre!"
"Yeah?"
"Would you mind accompanying me on a double-check of the scene?"
Pierre gave an exhausted sigh. "You ain't gonna drop this 'til I do, are ya?" His frown was heavy.
"Nope," Vick smirked.
…
Vick stared at the corpse of his partner, back broken, neck snapped, gut shredded open by razor sharp claws. He stared in the face of Death himself, those chi no iro orbs boring into his soul. It raised a claw and those glinting blades flew down to decapitate—
Gunfire erupted as the monster was overthrown into a rotting cedar wall; the ramshackle structure collapsed, the terrified screams of a man, wife, and their six month old cut off by the roof beam which so promptly crushed them.
A group of men in crisp black suits and frock coats pulled him up and shoved him into a four-horse carriage's cab. He left his partner's corpse and his life behind that night, memories tainted by akai blood and shiroi (white) bone. These well-dressed men told Vick they worked for the government, directly under the Secretary of Defense who was under orders from the President (I'm pretty sure France has a president…). They told him his old life was over and he'd either join them in their conquest or die.
A couple months later, after extensive training in self-defense and marksmanship, he was assigned to infiltrate Goldschmidt Manor, of whom they were suspicious of being involved with research concerning these monsters they called "Chiropterans". Being with this group for such a short period of time, Vick was considered a trainee and labeled as a "Level T", but his ancestor was a bourgeoisie, many descendents of which still held considerable power due to their wealth, even after the French Revolution, so he was favored by his superiors more so than he would've otherwise been. When Vick entered the Goldschmidts' servants' ranks, he was greatly startled; Vick had lived a comfortable middle-class life and suddenly he was on his hands and knees scrubbing an aristocrat's marble floor, so the adjustment was one hell of one. He greatly missed when he'd go out drinking with his new comrades or that one time his superior took him to some string-quartet's concert. But this was an important mission, so he sucked it up and scrubbed those floors as clean as he used to overview a case.
Until he met "Master Haji", as Aiya called the man. Haji knew who he was from the moment he listened in on his playing. What had given him away? Vick had been convinced his act was flawless, yet that cellist saw through it like air.
So he analyzed it. The first connection was his very first sentence: "You are an amazing cellist, sir." That was the first giveaway, because peasants didn't have the resources to even know what in the hell a cello was, let alone what you call someone who plays the classy instrument; most would've called it an oversized violin. The sheer confidence with which Vick spoke was probably another giveaway: polite, like a servant, but overly confident when faced with an "elite". There was also the fact that he'd made his alias the name of his murdered partner, and that was most undoubtedly in the newspapers, so when Haji recognized the name, he most likely guessed that the man standing before him wasn't the reincarnation of Pierre Ire, but instead his partner, Andre Vick, who went missing the exact same night of the murder. From that point on, it was all lucky guesswork, and the moment Vick responded evasively to Haji's "Why is an agent of France inside Goldschmidt Manor?" it was pretty easy to guess what he was after. It was quite unnerving how calm the man clad in black had been during that whole scenario, how he seemed to know everything Vick would say before he did himself, how he so simply conquered every protest and threat.
Haji was so odd, so odd indeed. He knew so much on Chiropterans, most likely more so than the French government entirely, played Bach like it was easy, knew a great many languages, and his entire background was shrouded in mystery. No matter who he asked, nobody knew anything, and all the servants who were fire just the year before had been paid off with hush money, refusing to say anything or even give the slightest hint as to what they knew.
He was so cool, all the time! Each time Aiya'd seen him, each time Vick had. That was why this was so important that he interrogate the stoic man while he wasn't cool—for once!
The bookshelf was heavy, but not so much that he couldn't open it. Vick stared into the ubatama depths of the hidden corridor before him. It was so dark…
"Shplug—"
What was that…? It sounded… like someone was squeezing a raw steak 'til the blood spurted out. It was a disgusting sound which made Vick sick to his stomach, the recollection of Pierre's murder suddenly all too vivid in his mind. But this was Goldschmidt Manor! No way in hell a Chiropteran was inside here… right? An iron ball settled in his stomach. Waves of animosity radiated from down those stone steps. He was so samu (cold), shivering with, even, yet sweated so profusely. It felt so much like that night when he'd stared into Death's chi no iro eyes, that bladed hand swinging down—
With a deep gulp, Vick took hold of every last ounce of willpower he could muster and took a step forward; then another. It was slow, one step every thirty seconds, feet heavy as blocks of lead, but he gradually made his way down those winding steps into the belly of the beast. With each step forward, the ball in his stomach grew heavier and his conscience screamed louder and louder to turn back, but he denied his instincts and continued to move forward.
If only he hadn't. It's impossible to unsee—
Aldedron: Why the big rant on the preying on a prostitute and how nobody cares and the fire deal, you ask? Or maybe you don't… but I still wanna explain it!
Lulu: Well then, explain it!
Aldedron: BAKA apprentice!
Lulu: Oh, sure, YOU'RE allowed to do that *rolls eyes at double standard*
Cross Marian: *devilish grin while reaches for bottle of wine*
Aldedron: Get outta here, Cross! This's Blood+, not DGM!
*Cross knocks everyone over the head with a hammer before sneaking off*
Awhile later, everyone reawakes
Aldedron: Well, at least he's gone ^^ Gotta stay focused! Okay… where was I…
Saya: *sits up rubbing aching goose-egg* Oh… what happened…
Serin: For some odd reason, Aldedron introduced Cross Marian into this Blood+ fic and he knocked everyone upside the head with a hammer and snuck off while we were unconscious. Several hours later, we awoke with pounding headaches and—
Aldedron: Okay, we get the point -_-* As I was saying—
Lulu: Why'd that kisama hit ME‽ I'm a CHILD!
Allen Walker: He's Shishou, little girl, it's what he does
…
Serin: You're not gonna kick Allen out, too?
Aldedron: Naw, he's too adorable ^^ Now, AS I WAS SAYING—
Serin: *knocks Aldedron over and shakes Allen's hand profusely* Hi, hi, I'm Serin and I see you have white hair, too
Aldedron: Goddammit! *shoves everyone out of head* OKAY! Now, as I was saying earlier, I had those things because I recently watched a thing about Jack the Ripper on the History Channel, watched 'Afraid of the Dark' on NatGeo, and saw a movie where a hooker gets stabbed in the face and nobody does anything so they hire a hit man (don't remember the name…). They were all this time period, I've been reading Godchild, and it just ended up like that… The whole Victorian era has always been very interesting to me, and considering that this's currently based in that time period, I decided to take advantage of it! THERE. *brings everyone back in* NOW you can talk
Lulu: Hm… I don' feel like it…
Serin: *indifferent shrug* Me neither
Aldedron: -_-