Fushigi Yuugi Fan Fiction ❯ Ateratraatrum Noxnoctis ❯ Chapter 1 ( Chapter 1 )

Ater Atra Atrum Nox Noctis

Chapter 1

Author's Notes: This fanfic came on whim and was written when I could find nothing else to write. It's going to be different from most of the others that I've written in that I make use of a variety of characters and do a lot of scene changes in order to get a large cast in. As a result, this is going to be quite a few chapters in length, longer than anything else I've written solo before.

Just some facts to know about this piece itself. It's set in WWII; thus, it is an AU ficcie. I know you're thinking: "huh?" but let me explain. I shifted the entire time frame of FY into the time frame of 1941-42. The Mikos are from this era instead of the 90s. They still do find Shijin Tenchisho and meet their Seishi. This is set post that. It's a reincarnation fanfic. I hope everyone likes it. It'll seem a bit strange at first because I make abrupt scene changes, but it's meant to be like that.

Now then, just a word on the title. It translates as Dark Night. I was originally going to call it Shades of Revolution but I changed my mind, so, it's as it is. I hope everyone likes it. It's a bit strange because I have somewhat butchered the time period in which this is set (changed some historical facts to make it fit my piece).

DISCLAIMER: I do not own FY, nor do I own any of its characters. They belong to Watase Yuu and co. All original characters are copyright of Ai-chan ©2002.

1941

Out of sight, offset to the side, on a base training site run by the House of Commons and the House of Lords, headed by the King at Buckingham, two important figures. One leading a brigade in the American sector, and the other leading the British brigade, faced off, at odds with each other.

The first, the Captain, second in rank of the 10th company of the United States Army, Captain JC Andreas, was about six feet in height, with striking blond hair and piercing blue eyes, stood tall, not moving. His imposing air gave him unmatched confidence as he faced the other, a Captain of the Imperial Guard of his Majesty, Captain Russell Stonewall IV. The British captain was matched in height against his American counterpart. The difference, he bore a regal air to both his speech and his mannerisms. His hair, though not long, was a deep chocolate brown complimented by his gentle hazel eyes.

The pair were on the ground troops training field, facing each other, the backdrop behind them, was a setting sun with their troops running one last lap before heading off to the mess hall for the third square meal of the day. The captains appeared to be angered by the other's presence, but waited till they were alone.

The first, JC Andreas, drew the ceremonial sword that went with his traditional, formal military uniform. He held it out, pointing the tip at the base of the other captain's throat, touching the cold stainless steel metal to the warm flesh of his throat.

A distinct yet subtle smirk tugged at the lips of the blonde captain. He was immensely enjoying the hatred that radiated from the other man. It was food and more to him. If he could live off one thing, it would be this.

In a cool and very composed voice, he stated, "once this war against the Nazis is over, your life will be over before it ever had a chance to start, Seishuku Saihitei." He placed notable, mocking emphasis on the other person's name, trying to drive a point home before he brought his ceremonial sword from the other man's throat, replacing it in the sheath.

Turning curtly on his heel, Captain Andreas said nothing more to the other man, he only wanted to leave his threat in place, leave the other man to wonder, contemplate the very meaning of his words.

Unfortunately, that didn't come to. Captain Stonewall reacted with incredible speed and accuracy. Drawing his sword swiftly, he moved forward, aggressively pressing the sharp blade against the neck of the American Captain. In a scathing, hissing tone, he replied, "though I have no recollection of what point you're attempting to drive home, rest assured, that you will not be my demise, you son of a bitch!"

"My, my, such lowly improper words from a man who was once so regal, so important. From a man who once ruled a country from his Imperial court as he struggled against the strongest country of them all. His life was lost in vain, and now, once more, he utters more vain words of how he will not come to an end. Such ignorance."

Deftly pulling himself from the grasp of the infuriated man, Captain Andreas wandered off toward the officer's mess hall, only once looking back over his shoulder to cast a smirk at the man known as Captain Stonewall. "We shall see who will be the victorious one at the end of this war, we shall see…Seishuku Saihitei. Don't forget where you stand, below me. You shall fall once more."

Focusing his sights dead ahead, Captain Andreas tossed his short hair out of his face, as his bangs were tickling his face. He had longer than the normal brush cut, as he had grown it out since acquiring his position of Captain of his own company of Elite Infantry men, equipped with tanks and assault arsenal. He only kept the best, the rest he would place into other areas. This was his way of gaining ranking. Any other way would just be a vain struggle uphill.

'We have one Suzaku Seishi, six more to find. Once more I will take over. There are at least a couple Seiryuu Seishi in the area, or perhaps more, but they don't know who they are yet. They will know soon enough. They will be good for a purpose. I know my one second class private meets the standards, a pity he hurt his wrist. He'll make a good shield on the front lines when we launch an attack on the Nazis. I hate to see the boy die, but that's the only thing Dallas, or rather, Amiboshi is good for. The pacifist dies for his ideals because he is naïve.' Captain Andrea's eyes twinkled dangerously.

~~~~

Out near the launching docks of Dublin where the German U-boats have come into refuel at the invitation of the IRA, a small fight between the IRA rebels and defendants of the crown, the Protestants, breaks out. It is all in the name of freedom. Or, that was what they thought. They continued their century old feud despite the growing tensions over on mainland Europe, as the British, French, Canadian and other allied troops saw their numbers get slaughtered by the hundreds and thoughts.

Only recently had the Americans joined in the fray of the war. They were holding posts across the United Kingdom for the most part. Only their Air Force would make campaigns over to bomb Berlin and other important bases held by the Nationalist Germans. The ground troops remained in UK for training exercises, while the Marine Corps re-equipped themselves following the losses they experienced at Pearl Harbour following the December 7th attacks launched by the Empire of Japan.

One of the ground troop companies was near the docks, off duty. They paid no mind to the sparking fight between IRA and the UVF (Ulster Volunteer Force). They had been informed to not interfere with civilian activities, for they were only there to serve the United States of America and rescue its allies: England, France and Europe from the menace known as Nationalist Germany.

One of the young men, twitched. He felt something stir within him. He couldn't explain to anyone else why he was reacting like this. He knew it had something to do with past memories of a life. The entity within him seemed to try to want his attention, force him to notice the presence of its other half…

Looking up, he stared into the clear sky above. 'What is it…the one that looks identical to me that I keep seeing in my dreams?'

He wanted to know. He needed to know. He really, truly yearned to know why he was feeling this, why all of a sudden, after 19 years he was feeling this. Before then, he hadn't felt like there was a force calling out for him. He had merely been plagued with strange dreams of another world. It seemed to be a world much like the Ancient China he had heard about in the tales as told by his father. Yet, it was different. The world he saw in his dreams was very surreal. The presence of a girl from another world, a Priestess who could summon a God from the heavens, and seven mystical, celestial warriors who were created to be her protectors, whom in turn had been blessed with near super-human powers that no others had.

But, it seemed worlds away from the home he had been raised in, in San Francisco. The home he knew was peaceful, no worry about war. He had only known about the nasty little aspect of life known as the Great Depression that began with the panicked, mass sales of stock on Wall Street, the Dow Jones and the NASDAQ. It sent the economy of the United States plummeting down into a deep, deep recession of the thirties from the prosperous era of the Roaring Twenties.

The young man had been born in the twenties, specifically in the year of 1923, around the time of the great earthquake of San Francisco. He knew that many had suffered and there was an incredible loss of lives on that day. He knew he was safe, and his parents were. Or so he thought his parents were.

The young man sighed softly then, his hand touched the nameplate he wore on his uniform. It read: "Dallas". He smiled, remembering the remarks about his surname, as it was also the name of a southern city.

Once more, he gazed up, feeling the same electrical surge lance his body. The same itch called his attention, begged for him to answer. He brushed it off in the same curt manner, as before, it wasn't really important, if it was, he'd know. Yet, there was a nagging sensation about it that drove him nuts. It wouldn't let him go.

Shaking his head violently, the young man, Second Class Private Jeremiah Dallas, tried to shake the feeling and sensations from his body. He didn't understand, nor accept it. It was utterly disturbing to say the least. He had these flashes before, but none as strong as this, and none as ruthless as this.

'Ye gads and little fish! What the hell is this? Why won't it let me go? Why do I keep seeing images of Ancient China and a young boy identical to me? Why do I keep getting called names I'm not! I'm not "Koutoku", or "Amiboshi", "Kaika"…or "Chiriko"! And I sure as hell ain't anybody's bloody twin! I was born a single child and lived an only child! I don't have a twin!' Jeremiah thought bitterly, his hands grasping his head.

At this, his right shoulder heated up, a small blue light throbbing beneath his uniform, the inner essence within him suddenly flaring to life. With this instance, the eyes of Jeremiah flashed with a strange glint before returning to normal.

'Again? Why? I do not deserve this bullshit!' He shivered. "This is strange…"

~~~~

He stood in the shadows. He only watched, watched as his small team slaughtered the other morons who had for so long opposed Catholic rule. While he stood in the shadows, he casually took out a rolled fag and lit up. He only did this once in a while during a fight like this. He found that it calm him in such times. To be worried and edgy during a fight did him no good, he needed to be calm; opium did that. Calmness was the secret to winning each battle he fought everyday. He may only just be a high school graduate, but he wasn't a normal teenage boy, he was part of a terrorist militia that only wanted one thing, a free Irish state. They wanted to be a whole sovereign land, free of British rule.

He regarded his position, as a fly-by night terrorist, fighter; it was just a sideline pastime. It wasn't truly what he chose in his style of combat. Though he did use hard line arsenal, he preferred his own mind-made weapon and poisoned darts. Those he used when he did his real work, assassinations.

Slowly he inhaled the smoke. It felt good as it went down his throat. He hated cigarettes, yet he didn't mind a rolled fag once in a blue moon especially since headquarters had an abundant supply of this crap. He noticed that he was feeling slightly light-headed, It made him feel loose, just how he needed to go into battle.

He held the smoke in his mouth before blowing out his nose. He continued to watch the fight as he exhaled the intoxicating smoke through his nose. After doing so, he again raised the rolled soporific to his lips and took another inhale. Again, like the other one, it was slow and pensive. He liked to savour the taste during one of those rare times when he smoked this stuff. He preferred the taste only once in a while, the rest of the time he would have thrown up if he smoke this illegal crap; opium. He was half way through the fag when he felt an aggressive tap on his shoulder. He turned to see his friend standing there.

"Yo, jackass, don't hog the damn thing!" his friend exclaimed in rough, unpolished Irish Gaelic, as he took the fag from his friend. "I've been fighting, wasting my energy and you're over here doing sweet-dick all. Go and fight. Don't like, ya can kiss my fucking Irish ass!"

"In time Brennan." The shorter youth, Séamus Kennedy replied calmly in the same tongue, only his speech was more polished. "And besides which, you didn't have to take that one from me. Wanker boy, you have your own. You're just too bloody cheap to light your own fag."

"Yea I know," Brennan Mackenzie replied coolly, as he took a quick inhale.

Séamus sighed as he eyed the fighting group. "Looks I should teach these knaves a thing or two about respecting their superiors, namely us, the IRA. So, should I give them a dose of reality or just do whatever?"

"Listen to your heart man." Brennan replied, speaking like a new-age mediator as he exhaled the smoke through his mouth.

Séamus nodded and waltz over calmly to the first loser Ulster Protestant he spotted. He calmly walked up. Séamus' expression had been clamed and blank before he came up to this man. Suddenly it seemed to change, it become filled with profound disgust for the man. As well, his eyes glinted like that of a cold-blooded murderer. Although he wasn't in this life, he had been before, in some past life. He didn't honestly believe that he had a past life, but wondered why he kept having dreams of such things. Especially when he killed in cold blood for the ones he loved and cared about...about a little too much.

From his sheath that was attached to his belt, Séamus drew his long dagger that had a finely crafted wooden handle with a small carving of what looked like a dragon. He couldn't explain it, but he felt some sort of draw to such a creature and felt the desire to have it engraved on the handle of his favourite weapon.

He took a fighting stance that would allow for his favourite lunged attack. His opponent took a more standard hands-on-combat type of stance. There was a moment when neither moved. But when the movement came, it was sudden. As Séamus lunged at the man, thirsty for blood and lots of it, the man came at Séamus. His dagger just grazed the man's upper arm, as the man winded Séamus with a quick shot to the gut.

Séamus fell like a sack of potatoes and hit the ground hard. However, he was smart enough to move his hand with the dagger out of his way as he fell, unfortunately, his wrist broke with a echoing repulsive sort of crack.

The man the caused Séamus' fall, strutted over, ready to deliver the next blow, however, the young man was fast and switch hands, so that his dagger was now in his right. He thrust his dagger upward, catching the man in the upper thigh. Séamus smirked sadistically. He then pulled his dagger downward as blood splattered on his face. The man fell next to Séamus, as he rose to his feet.

"Never mess with the best!" Séamus bragged in Gaelic, as he smirked, taking a sadistic and malicious pleasure in watching the man bleed to death. After a moment, he walked back to his friend, his right hand hanging limply from the rest of his arm. As he walked back over, he replaced his dagger back in the sheath.

"Jackass, ya gonna get that wrist taken care of?" Brennan asked, trying to be concerned, but nonetheless wasn't. He still spoke in his first language.

"Nah, I'd rather just let it be asshole." Séamus replied off-handily.

Brennan looked a tad grossed. "It's fuckin' repulsive!"

Séamus, being immature raised his hand and dangled his severed limp in front of Brennan's face.

"Stop bein' so bloody damned immature and let's move it before the Brits get 'ere!" Brennan exclaimed, starting to leave the scene.

"No, I like nauseating you. And good idea mate, let's split!"

"Right behind ya!"

At that particular moment, Séamus stopped dead in his tracks; something felt off, dreadfully off. He prayed he be not one of those horrid illusions that claimed his mind so often or those revolting sensual feelings he had lance his form for no reason. He loathed the feel of these sensations; they felt dirty, almost sinful. Yet, strangely, a part of him welcomed it with an open heart, embracing it, trying to remember what it was.

Falling against a pillar near the dockyard, he wrapped his arms around himself. 'Oh Lord, please, not again! Don't make me feel this! Don't make me see this illusion! Why me, why? Lord answer me! Pray tell, answer!! I don't need to not know!'

He shivered in fear. 'Why do I keep hearing sounds of a haunting melody…of a flute, which seem to have a hypnotic rhythm. And…this person, I call "Aniki", why does its presence see so strong, so overwhelming all of a sudden…'

Brennan brushed his obtrusive longish red hair from his face, his greenish-brown eyes studying his friend for a minute. He remembered how his friend was frequently plagued by these strange episodes of uncertainty. His friend explained it to be illusions of the mind, a temptation send by Lucifer.

Sighing, he folded his arms. There was nothing he could say at this time, it was best just to let it pass. He wanted to say something, but his friend acted much too strange.

'It's more than an illusion, it's probably reality and we have yet to see it come to life.' Brennan reasoned, remembering his own strange memory flashes. He had more willingly accepted what he dreamt that Séamus had been. Brennan had his own memory flashes, but because of his modest zealous ways, he was more willingly to embrace what was the past.

He didn't bother asking, he knew it was memory restoration, but he didn't want to ask what of. He knew it was linked to his own past, but how, hasn't sure thereof. The face of his friend and the mannerisms were vaguely similar to that of another person in another time that he had known. Yet, he could be quite sure if it was so.

Thus, patiently he waited, he didn't know what else he could do, as this left him virtually helpless, without solution. He could only wait for it to pass. He hardly remembered any such incidents like this involving himself. He had his dreams, but this, this he never experienced.

'I know I might have seen my friend in my past life, but who was he?' Brennan wondered. Before this, he hadn't quite thought much on the topic, but now, it was starting to catch his intrigue. He longed to know.

'I know I was someone called: "Tasuki", and on occasion, "Genrou" and "Shun'u". It seems linked to something called Suzaku, but how does that link me to him? Why do I feel like we've known each other before?…'