I had some fun facts. Idk now.
Kind of long, kind of weird. Tell me what you think.
Disclaimer: Gorilla.
Eyes of Wolves
- 16 -
.: MAY, PRESENT :.
"You know, Tsukuyo-nee has been super moody lately," Seita noted through a mouthful of red bean pancake.
"Has she?" Hinowa inquired, out of obligation.
"Yeah. She almost killed Gin-san yesterday, and then broke a heel."
"That sounds like regular Tsukki to me," Hinowa answered.
"But she's super tense, like, she's frowning a lot."
"When doesn't she frown?" Hinowa seemed tired.
"What do you think?" Seita turned to Zenshi. "Is she acting weird?"
Zenshi only nodded.
.: TWENTY-TWO YEARS AGO :.
The man is completely and absolutely terrifying, and if Zenshi doesn't hold his breath, he fears that the man will steal it away without mercy.
"Young one," rumbles the man, with a voice deeper than the planet's core. "Do not cower in that corner. Come here."
He doesn't beckon softly; he orders the child to come forth.
"Hosen-sama," murmurs Zenshi's mother. "He's only five. He's a shy boy."
"No matter," replies the great Yato. "Come."
Zenshi unrolls himself from his little niche behind his mother, ambling up to the King of the Night. He observes Hosen from below, noticing only the severe angles and ever-increasing frown that builds upon the man's furrowed brow. Yet Hosen smiles through his frown, his expression seemingly at odds. His wide, pressed smile is almost antagonistic to the sharp, deprecating burn of his eyes.
"What a mellow boy," he says, his inflection uninterested. "Does he fight as skillfully as others his age?"
"He's not one to take up battle," Zenshi's mother hurriedly covers.
"Not one to battle?" Hosen's eyes widen. "Is that a joke, dear?"
"No, Hosen-sama, it's just—"
"His words are feared much more than his umbrella," Zenshi's father interrupts. "He takes after me, I'm afraid."
"But you see, Linter, that's just the thing." Hosen kneels and puts a large hand on Zenshi's head. "He doesn't take after you. He is you."
He doesn't realize it then, but that is the moment where Zenshi begins to resent his black hair and blue eyes.
.: FOUR YEARS AGO :.
"There's a point where I stop saving little boys' hides," Abuto states sardonically, gripping Zenshi by the shoulder so hard that the younger Yato winces subtly. "You, bud, are not a little boy."
Zenshi is just short of sulking, but the aftereffects of his failure are hard to discern. He remains, as always, with shoulders squared and posture erect, his face as stony as ever was. Abuto, who is only a hair shorter than Zenshi, pushes the dark-haired man past cabin one. Zenshi, obliged to continue, stumbles all the way to deck five, where a few soldiers are having a late lunch in the galley.
"Don't make that face," Abuto says sharply, though his tone lacks the harsh reprimand it carried before. Zenshi is not making any face in particular, but Abuto's skill in reading people puts him nearly on par with Zenshi's mother. He reads the boy rather easily, but it doesn't mean he always understands.
"Your captain," continues Abuto, "is a fourteen-year-old, bloodthirsty killer."
"An understatement," ventures Zenshi, sitting where Abuto motions for him to.
"True." Abuto is hardly amused, however, and Zenshi finds it wise to cradle his habit of silence. "But you are his first lieutenant and his diplomatic master. You are also a Yato."
Zenshi knows exactly what Abuto is going to say, and he knows precisely how hard it will bite.
"If you don't want to be your father, you'll let go. Do you understand?" Abuto hardly has to ask the second question, but Zenshi wants to hear it nonetheless. "Don't just be the talker, bud. I know you aren't. There's a reason you didn't fight back, and I can probably guess why."
Zenshi shies from the barrage of recent memories. From how when, in a moment of pure panic, the man across from him produced a pistol and aimed it straight at his head, he was frozen. How even though his hands automatically came up and his umbrella found itself swinging into the assailant's neck, he could not move fast enough or think clearly enough. He had merely stood in shock while Abuto drove a fist into the man's gut, and Kamui dispatched most of the surrounding soldiers who had drawn their arms.
"I don't know if it's your mother's blood or her personality," Abuto continues, "but you've obviously picked up on her ways. She is the most mellow person on our planet, I'd reckon."
Zenshi wants to ask how Abuto is acquainted with his mother, but immediately discards the idea. His father is, after all, a big name.
"Your old man, on the other hand, is the strangest man on our planet. He can fight as well as any Yato, except with words."
"Like myself," Zenshi supplies, awaiting the cue.
"No, I'm not saying that." Abuto glares stiffly. "He can murder just like the rest of us, but his talent for words is rare. Combined with the softness of your mother, it's almost as if they've created a creature of peace. One who solves with negotiations rather than violence."
"And?"
"And where are you?" Abuto leans down, slowly, deliberately, his eyes locking onto Zenshi's with such languid grace that the younger Yato is petrified in awe. "Are you your mother? Or are you your father?"
"I am no—"
Abuto suddenly grips Zenshi's collar in his fists and brusquely yanks him to his feet. Then, before the dark-haired boy can react, the vice-captain punches him. As fist collides with face, all Zenshi comprehends is the echoing crack of knuckles against cheekbone, of himself sprawled backwards across a table, of slight murmurs and heads turning.
He picks himself up after sliding across the table, skin stinging from the strike.
"Who are you?" demands Abuto. "Don't lie to me. Give me proof."
"I am not my father!" Zenshi hollers, feeling his throat strain from raising his voice. The disuse of his voice causes his declaration to falter; he is not accustomed to yelling.
"I don't believe you," Abuto replies, just as loudly. "Give. Me. Proof."
"I am not my father, and I am not my mother." Zenshi stalks up to his superior, coming so close that he can feel Abuto's breath on his face. "I am myself."
"Give me proof," the older Yato whispers, the edge of a smile on his features.
Zenshi steps back, pushes his disheveled hair from his face, revealing all the scars and the stitches and the ferocious intensity that is himself. He jerks a thumb at his own chest.
"The proof's right here."
.: MAY, PRESENT :.
"Here at Yorozuya Gin-san, we do all sorts of jobs," rattled off Shinpachi. He grimaced. "That sounds like an infomercial. And it's boring."
"Like you, yes?" quipped Kagura, sucking on a tab of pickled seaweed.
"At Yorozuya, the greatest experience awaits you!"
"We're not a resort, Patsuan," drawled Gin plainly, taking a swig directly from the carton of strawberry milk he quickly put back into the fridge. "Anyway, what brings our Yato friend and the King — oh wait, I mean Queen — of the Night to our humble home?"
"We want ya to investigate this," Tsukuyo informed him, pushing Sa-chan's documents onto the low coffee table. Shinpachi scooped them up and flipped quietly through them, frowning all the while.
"A terrorist for hire?" he deduced quickly, skimming the last few pages of notes. "You think you guys were bombed by a hitman?"
"Yes," Tsukuyo affirmed.
"No," Zenshi denied at the same time.
"Decide," Gin demanded deprecatingly.
Tsukuyo proceeded to explain the mysterious tinkerer of bank accounts and Yoshiwara's subsequent confusion. Gin and his crew quietly absorbed this, occasionally nodding and mostly frowning.
"And you now think that it was the Harusame? And they were after our Yato friend here?" Gin gestured to Zenshi.
"Yes," Tsukuyo said.
"No," repeated Zenshi.
"It's half true," both said in unison, facing one another.
"It's an attack on Yoshiwara."
"No, it was directed at me."
"What are ya, self-centered?"
"No," Zenshi countered levelly. He tapped his head. "I'm thoughtful."
.: FOUR YEARS AGO :.
"You will repudiate all Harusame debts and grant general amnesty to the commanders of Divisions 6 through 9, inclusively." Zenshi decisively slides the documents across the table for official signing. The man across from him, sitting between two wide-shouldered guards, is the head executive of Onsha Law Corporation, the most influential law firm throughout the galaxies. Harusame, inevitably, runs into charges along its path, given that it is a known crime syndicate, but the dutiful 7th Division runs the clean-up department, seating Zenshi where he is now.
"In fact, you'll find it beneficial to refrain from calling it a grant of amnesty, as your name seems to imply greatly." Zenshi purposefully picks at the organization's name, which meant, quite literally, "amnesty". Known for their lawyers' nitpickiness and wealth of knowledge, Onsha Law was renowned for practically impenetrable defense — hence, they were able to grant "amnesty" to the unfortunately accused who were wealthy enough to afford their services.
"I cannot comply to this," states the head executive, a wiry little Amanto with a thick tweed jacket buffed with padded shoulders to increase his stature. He has a gaunt, pale face freckled with blue splotches, like that of an appaloosa horse. Round spectacles perch on his hooked nose, and his sparse gray hair is swept back over a distended head. "As head of this law firm, I uphold our standards and our—"
At this point, Zenshi has ticked off the number of seconds passed in his internal clock. Two minutes marks this offer, and when three minutes hits, he will offer again, this time with a menacing undertone and a slight switch in the game.
"—pride in maintaining moral integrity and trustworthiness. I will not soil Onsha Law with you Harusame swindlers."
Zenshi can't deny that the greatest crime syndicate in the galaxy is indubitably the boss in all affairs illegal, but he is their negotiator and Onsha Law will be no exception from the many he has persuaded so suavely.
Three minutes. He counts down to four, in which the threat of physical means will trigger the guards' alertness.
"Let's hear your side of the story, then. What will you offer us, as customers?" The tables are turned; no longer is Harusame a threat, but a potential source of income. And, as the manager must know, the Harusame have an abundance of wealth — legally acquired or not.
"For the defense of the following major companies," states the executive formally, listing major corporations that some division or another must've corrupted from the inside out, "Onsha Law is not responsible for the partaking of—"
Four minutes.
Zenshi slams his hand down on the table, so abruptly that the thin Amanto jerks backwards in his chair, little oval eyes growing wide.
"Are you saying," Zenshi says in a low voice, "that you're not going to take responsibility for your clients? Are you insinuating that your law firm is merely a despicable conglomerate of swindlers who defend swindlers?"
He goes so far as to draw a pocketknife, pull the papers back across the table, and stab the blade deep into the mahogany and through the unsigned documents.
"Are you claiming to stand for the defense of these corporations, and then backing away with the power of intergalactic law to play the waiting game? Who, may I ask, benefits? Do tell." Zenshi leans forward then, elbows propped up on the long table, chin in hand. The bodyguards have tensed visibly, and one draws a spear.
The little Amanto is conspicuously shaken, but slightly more indignant that anything. Zenshi gives him credit — for such a frail-looking man to stand so solidly against the Harusame's finest diplomat is quite a feat. The lone Yato, flying solo on this trip, watches the Amanto carefully.
"I am going to discuss with my associates," says the weedy man, his nose twitching. "And then I will be obliged to answer your questions."
Zenshi, usually the patient one, has taken the "push" tactic with this man. Never once has he really let the poor executive take a real lead or finish a thought. Eager to get this rotten negotiation out of his system, Zenshi is stringing the fight away from the man.
Five minutes hit, an internal notification sounding, and Zenshi prepares to cut off the man's exit.
However, the guards, along with a few hired soldiers that surrounded the perimeter of the meeting room in good time, have caught onto Zenshi's thoughts. At that moment, the supposedly feeble Amanto whirls on him, a patronizing smirk on his thin, dry mouth.
"You foolish brutes," he laughs, purposefully loud. "Did you think that sending one boy could suffice? Don't think for a moment that I don't recognize you, child. You're Linter's son, aren't you?"
A guard swiftly closes the gap between himself and Zenshi, but he hasn't the time to seize the Yato because he has just been decapitated, brutally and mercilessly.
"Am I?" Zenshi replies coolly, proceeding with his customary flick of the wrist to shake the blood from his fingers. Intriguingly enough, the guard's blood is a gluey purple that almost immediately globs into black crusts.
"You're the spitting image of him," comes the fatal reply. "A cowardly actor who would fall within a heartbeat if taken by force."
Zenshi slowly draws his umbrella, and shoots once. It hits the executive in the foot, the bullet smashing through the frail flesh and bone of his toes. Howling, the manager crumples to his knees, falling so that he is clutching the wound.
All around, guards swarm at him.
"I may resent my father and his name," Zenshi says, in no particular direction but focused on the still-agonized head executive, "but I don't take kindly to any sort of insult."
He fires exactly ten rounds, takes out exactly ten soldiers. Their numbers are increasing, seeing as the door is ajar and bodies are upping the count. When they come to close, he swipes out quickly with his left hand, cutting through throats like butter. Oddly enough, the fudge-like texture of the guards' bodies is alarming, almost as if their flesh could latch onto him parasitically. Zenshi deals out quicker blows to avoid the disgusting repercussions.
When every single guard is either decapitated, shot, or disemboweled, Zenshi stares at the door. The man has fled.
"I also don't take kindly to running," he mutters under his breath, sheathing his umbrella and taking off rapidly down the hall.
Nimbly, he avoids any unnecessary obstacles and easily overwhelms any opponents in his way.
But the whole time, his subconscious is terrified. The whole time, he lets his blood run loose, free of restriction. The Yato urges flow through him faster than his heart pounds, and in time, he finds himself captivated by the rhythm of his muscles, his nerves, and his breathing all in sync. It's an elaborate dance, and the Yato within is leading.
He sees, however, none of his parents.
Zenshi only sees himself.
.: MAY, PRESENT :.
Tsukuyo was thoroughly disinterested in Zenshi's argument, had no trouble telling him that he was everything but "thoughtful", and finally simply stood up and left.
"Is she okay?" Shinpachi whispered under his breath.
"Maybe it's that time of the month," Gin suggested lewdly.
Zenshi rose to his feet, sighing inaudibly.
"Zen-chan, why's she so angry? It's about protecting Yoshiwara, yes?" Kagura had eaten a total of thirty-two strips of pickled seaweed, and was intently starting her next.
"When you're given something to protect, you protect it, yes?" he offered, lapsing into the childish Yato accent Kagura, like many others, still carried. He did it to comfort her, but the perceptive young girl was anything but so.
"The Hyakka might know, yes? They're the ones closest to Tsukki."
"I'll keep that in mind, space fighter."
"Aye aye, cap'n."
.: FOUR YEARS AGO :.
Zenshi throws the papers, letting them flutter arbitrarily like leaves to the cold tile floor.
"Now," he says, with an unencumbered wealth of patience. "Your signature."
No please, no "if you will" here.
"No," whispers the Amanto hoarsely. "I will never lose to Linter, never."
"No, you will not," agrees Zenshi. He gently takes the man's hand and encloses a pen within it. "But for yourself, you, regrettably, will lose to me."
duh duh duh
dunnnn.
Zenshi is promoted! Zenshi becomes a true Yato!
U hhh.
TSUKUYO ANGRY
WAHHH
/so done