"If ever I'd desired to have dinner with the dead, I can assure you I would have purchased a Ouija board already," Misaki's utterly mirthless voice announced in to her soup bowl.
Illumi glanced out through his forged and heavy lidded eyes across the table at the girl. She had been making an obvious point to avoid looking his way since their departure from Haku's residence. Now even her jokes, which he often made a point to ignore himself, sounded more like disdain-filled accusations.
"If I take them out, there is a chance one of them might see me," he explained.
"Mmhmm," she agreed flatly, lifting the side of the bowl to her lips to take a generous sip of broth.
Until this time, he had assumed that his plan to rectify both issues would be resolvable within this one night alone. It was unfathomable to the Zoldyck just how suddenly his upper hand seemed to be falling in rank, and failure was an inconceivable option. No, he would just have to adapt to Misaki's whims enough to impress her but not so much as to compromise his plan.
"If you'd like me to take them out, I will," his monotonous voice said, feigning compliance.
"If that was somehow a question I won't bother giving an answer since obviously you already know what it would be," she replied coldly.
He hesitated for a moment before rising from his seat and strolling over to the washroom to remove his 'Yuto' disguise. Apparently for some reason or other, Misaki seemed to be quite determined to make his job difficult tonight.
'No matter,' Illumi mused before the large, sink mirrors as he plucked the pins from his neck one by one, 'I will play her game and win, the way I always manage to do.'
There had been a time when Misaki had considered assassins that were inclined to drink frequently unfit for the profession.
'For why,' wondered the girl, 'would anyone who is not bothered by giving a death sentence need to calm their nerves or forget the act? Work is work, and most other jobs do not follow you home after hours. Why should this one be any different?'
This had, of course, all changed since her contract at the Volcanic Islands. Her work was becoming harder and harder to separate from her psyche, and each victim became a living, breathing, human being with children and feelings in her mind. It was then that she transformed herself in to a willing hypocrite, obsessed with blurring the lines of reality in order to at all complete a mission.
That was not to say that Misaki Tanoh was thus forgiving of her descent in to duplicitous auto-pilot mode. In fact, the girl found herself amidst a remorseless cycle of shame, loathing, and finally unhinged disassociation of self. She felt shame for her reliance now on something she had harshly criticized others for in the past, despite having never spoken it aloud. This eventually gave way to a preoccupied hatred for her lack of self-control, and ultimately led to a zombie-like, numb state which seemed to (thankfully) close off her receptors to full range of thought or emotion.
Still, the jobs continued to pour in. Misaki took them, too; wanting desperately to succeed sometimes, and at other times simply because she was curious as to whether she could feel anything while doing them.
It was April- five months since her fourteenth birthday had come and gone- when she was contacted for a job that she instantly knew would increase her credibility. She had performed fairly simple tasks for the mafia before, from simply acting as "arm candy" for underground events to small robberies and assassinations, but this one was different. It was the opportunity to put herself on the map for life.
The mafia had accrued a position amongst one of the Politicians running for presidency that ensured them easy access to traffic illegal narcotics over the border. The candidate was charming and well versed, and in fact stood an excellent chance of winning. However his wife, a former model for commercial advertising, jeopardized his odds of victory (according to Misaki's clients), since she was known for having affairs. This was said to have the possibility of losing the conservative-morale population's majority vote.
Misaki was nothing short of shocked to find such a high profile assassination being entrusted in her fourteen year old hands. She spent some time questioning it in her inebriated mind, obsessing over it and even dreaming about it, though finally she agreed to accept.
No matter the repercussions, she was certain that this one was worth it.
"I have to say," Misaki said with slightly more vigor to her voice as Illumi returned- free of disguise- to the table, "I would have never in a million years pegged you as the 'pseudo-bohemian' type."
Illumi shrugged, glancing around the small, eclectically decorated, café-styled restaurant.
"I thought it was apt to your tastes rather than mine."
The girl smirked, finally reaching him with her amber gaze.
"You're to tell me that you spent an indiscriminate amount of time stalking me around, and still you came to the conclusion that I'm practically a beatnik?"
Her brow was raised sardonically, but the forced pucker to her lips gave her away; even Illumi could tell that her mood had improved substantially in spite of her attempts to keep it somber.
"Either your stalking skills have deteriorated in the last five years, or your analytical abilities have," she teased, lowering her eyes as though doing so would conceal the playful smile weaving its way across her mouth. She reached for her teacup and held it to her lips, murmuring, "Since we're so very liberal, I suppose I should pay, too," before taking a sip.
"If that is your preference…"
"It seems I've forgotten my wallet."
"It's in your purse," he corrected her flatly.
Smiling broadly now, Misaki said, "Oh that you can figure out, I see."
After a moment she extended her arm across the length of the small, circular table and brushed her thumb tenderly over his knuckles.
"You should pay," she insisted. "After all, I'm still mad at you."
"For what purpose?"
"'For what purpose', indeed," she responded in a sing-song voice.
Considering his answer carefully so as not to risk losing the game, Illumi re-filled the wine glass that the girl must have drained during his trip to the washroom earlier. He was inwardly quite pleased to see that she had been drinking, as it would certainly improve his chances later. An orgasmic jolt of power hit him as she immediately got to work on her drink once he'd withdrawn the bottle, doing exactly as he'd wished without encouraging.
"You did not seem angry over the last week," he said, and she flushed a deep shade of pink at the implication of his statement.
"That has nothing to do with it," she protested on rapid fire. In a whisper, she added, "You can sleep with someone and still be upset with them, you know."
Hearing this opinion from her was a relief to Illumi, as he now felt confident that at least that portion of his plan would not likely fall through this night.
From the outside, "Butterfly Peaks" did not at all convey the atmosphere of sensuality and sexual freedom that it promised its customers. The warehouse-like exterior was painfully bland and uninspiring. One would almost glance over its grainy texture and box-like shape and pass by without a second thought. Nevertheless, Misaki held her breath and entered the infamous Love Hotel in search of her victim.
The lobby revealed a few dozen television monitors, many displaying images of differently styled bedrooms that were everything from modest to obscene, and five of the screens were blank. Ignoring the welcoming requests of the desk agent, Misaki exited the building again, taking a risk and keeping in mind which number of screens were empty.
It wasn't until she had reached the third room, having scaled the building from the outside two other times already and feeling the effects of her physical exertion, that she had discovered a woman in her forties with golden hair lounging atop a heart-shaped king sized bed. This was the woman she sought, she was positive…
The act of the assassination itself was uneventful. The woman was unprepared for the attack and fell to the floor, limp. Deciding it was probably in her best interest to do so, Misaki awkwardly approached the openly displayed shower where the lady's fully exposed lover was currently stationed. She slit his throat with the sharpened tip of her umbrella, and then retreated toward the window.
An uncorked bottle of champagne caught her eye on the table. Robotically, she reached for it and hungrily downed the bubbly liquor. This was her fate… to be this shell of a human… to feel too much and then maybe too little… or too little and then maybe too much…
The reflection of herself in the vanity mirror behind the bed was pathetic enough that she could have almost sworn she felt physical pain simply catching sight of it. Her eyes were drooping and purple bagged, her skin was oily and glistening under the incandescent bulbs, and her hair was terribly askew. Worse still was the bottle at her mouth, which she was sucking on as though it were breathing life into her weary and sickly skeletal looking figure.
Misaki collapsed to the floor, teary eyed. This was her nature, her destiny, to cease all development and only vaguely remember any simple comforts. Every day was new, but stayed the same. The faces changed, the people rushed by, but nothing was familiar. Only this Novocain feeling… She was alone… all alone…
As if it were an answer to her half intoxicated, teenage prayers, a familiar face suddenly did appear. With his head cocked mildly to the right, dark eyes looking at and then through her, the boy she had encountered before was projected on to the mirror's surface.
Misaki spun from her position on the ground, wide-eyed, and faced him. He held needles between each of his fingers, and she very seriously wondered if he would kill her. There was an odd sense of serenity in that thought just then, as though being killed by someone she recognized might be acceptable somehow. He pushed past her and studied the body of the politician's wife, stared silently at the bluing lips and sunken cheeks, and then turned on his heel back toward the window, pocketing his weapons.
'Leaving!' her mind shouted. 'He's leaving!'
Her hand grasped his ankle tightly, and he halted. She gazed in to his black eyes through her weary, pathetically pleading ones. To her surprise, he turned back to face her again.
"I…" she started to say, trailing off when she realized that she did not really know what she had intended to speak. She whispered, "Please…"
'Please' what? She didn't know, but oddly it appeared that he did. He lifted her chin with his index finger, and she followed it until she was standing on her feet again before him. There was something strange lingering in his facial features, as though he were fighting to suppress something that she could not understand.
He reached behind her, hesitated as his fingers touched her back, and fumbled through the material of her shirt for a moment or two. It wasn't until she actually felt the clasp of her bra fall open that she comprehended what he was suggesting.
There was something horribly right about the thought of engaging in this impulse… something that was plaguing her fourteen year old body as though it had been the answer all along and she had carelessly overlooked it. It begged her to feed in to the urge, to explore it, and before she could convince herself otherwise, Misaki happily surrendered. In that moment, she wanted him, and nothing else mattered...
Her alcohol addiction, while perhaps it had not been fully overcome, had been successfully replaced with something she decidedly preferred better. Even when they parted, Misaki knew she would see the boy again. This would not be the only time, and she could build a wonderful, steady routine out of this elated feeling. She could stay true to her lone nature, and still have this beautiful loophole that allowed to be close to someone and yet far at once.
Sins of the flesh were the most fun, after all…
...if not the most irreparable and deadly.
"Can't we go through the door?" Misaki's slurred voice whined out as Illumi carried her in through Haku's bedroom window.
The truth was they could not if he expected his plan to work correctly. Killua could not see him enter the house first if his plot was to succeed… not in his true form, at least. Soon it wouldn't even matter anymore.
Rolling Misaki over on the bed, he got to work on unfastening the knot in her halter dress as his eyes fell on to the clock. There wasn't much time to prepare, and he was grateful that the girl had followed his prompts and drunk enough to loosen her tongue and free her inhibitions. It was completely necessary that she was willing to do and say what ever he suggested; especially tonight.
How would he be able to teach Killua an effective lesson otherwise?
A/N: I know it seems like Killua disappeared, but he'll be back next chapter :P