Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ My Shinigami, My Hamburger ❯ The Introduction of Godliness ( Chapter 1 )

My Shinigami, My Hamburger

By Kaitsurinu


Chapter 1

The Introduction of Godliness

Mary Anilin was nearly finished with her coffee by this time, and that was a feat in itself. Usually she was passed out in late-night exhaustion by now. Just how she still had a casting tape to go after 4 hours of steady work, was another. The young, mostly disillusioned MTV casting director ran her finger along the buttons on her remote by habit, barely even thinking. Her fingers had danced from eject, to play, to stop, to eject, and so on for countless times. And countless times she watched some young, raw-faced youngster preach to the camera, hoping to catch a piece of fame. And now, as the music-postered walls seemed to close in the darkness around her and the annoying ticking of the clock loudened, it was the last one.

Hallelujah.

Black. Generic. Like all the others. Except this one was the troublemaker.

When the tape had been received in the massive bin of video mail for the music television station, the sorter had just moaned. The entire studio through that floor had heard him. Because, although the address was in quintessential English printing, the tape and the information along with it were written in quintessential Japanese. It had taken over an hour to track down the nearest translator in Times' Square, and it probably would have been better to just return it, but it had been a good day before that [and a bad week, casting wise] and the majority of the vote was to review it in hopes they would find the next reality star, who would later go on to a bachelor show or perhaps work on a farm with another brainless socialite. "Fear" had never had someone from a different country come on the supernatural investigation show before. It would be good variety, if his English was good.

Mary muttered to herself, picking up the tape and scrutinizing it under her desk lamp. Then she tapped her fingers along her desk and pulled the sheet with the translation over to read. Her green eyes danced behind her thin glasses perched on her nose and she shrugged. It was beyond her how a kid from Tokyo had gotten the address, but she really didn't care. After seeing the tape, she probably would never see him again. This was how she had come to meet most the world without really seeing them.

She popped it into the TV/VCR, which sat on her cluttered desk as well. With slumped shoulders, she limply pressed play with the faint hope that the kid spoke some, half-decent English.

The screen fizzed and crackled at first, but soon broke into high-quality videotape, something to be expected from Japan, and a young boy standing in front of the bustling lights of Tokyo. His dark, windswept hair, lighted by trendy caramel highlights on the sides of his head, clouded in his crystal blue eyes, which were framed by sharp eyebrows curving off his temples. He had the usual Asiatic small nose and delicate chin and neck, and his lips were formed in an emotionless pout that just drew her in. 'A little ball of sex,' she thought. 'Maybe I could hop a plane to Tokyo real quick…'

She laughed to herself, being reminded that it was insanely late and her boyfriend would be at home, probably sitting awake with a fussing baby. Then suddenly quieted down as the tape fizzed and he started talking.

Luckily, in fluent English. Amazingly, he had no accent.

"Hello. My name is Heero Yuy, age 25, and I am currently unemployed, but I was previously enrolled in the army until the age of 20, when I was forced to leave on undisclosed reasons…"

Bingo. Mysterious, quiet kid. Fear would scare some emotion into him.

Heero Yuy never expected the American letter that morning, as he hiked the backpack on to his shoulder and went to the mailbox for a perfunctorily mail check. Not that he expected any letters, but it was in his military-influenced upbringing to be thorough. He had only ducked his hand into his mail slot for a second; drawing out a few junk letters, then noticed a stained one, which had obviously traveled a long way over obstacles and the misfortune of a wobbly coffee cup. He frowned and drew it up to look at. The letter was addressed him in plain English. And it was from MTV.

Sweat beaded down the curve of his chin, landing in the lens of the camera staring up at him. The light flickered dangerously and the heat from it searing up at his neck this closely was getting unbearable. If that wasn't enough, the air around him in the bat-infested hall was as cold as ice. His war-sharpened senses screamed. His head swung toward the dark corridor trailing him, then back in the other direction. The camera captured the wary gleam in his crystal blue eyes as he lifted his head. His caramel bangs on his temples were slicked to his skin and stuck in his eye. The Japanese boy finally calmed his jumpy nerves and lifted the radio to his mouth breathlessly.

"Gabrielle," he said sharply, "I made it to the hallway. Now what?"

"Take the brush out of the paint can you brought with you," she replied in a metallic voice, "and paint an inverted cross on the first door on the right to summon the Angel of Death."

Heero cursed in Japanese. He drew his lips in once to wet them, tasting salty sweat on them, and breathlessly closed his eyes. "Is that it?" he managed to breathe out, bringing his hand up to wipe away the streams of moisture running along his temples. It was damned taxing to be this anxious, while walking down pitch-black corridors oozing with the long-lingering smell of disease.

"Ooh, Baby Doll, you have to sit there for a while in radio silence," she said in a huffy voice. "Sorry, Heero. Sorry."

"Don't worry," he reassured. The ex-soldier could hear his drill sergeant's advice resurfacing and although he was still tensed and even his dull sixth sense was screaming whenever he turned, he felt more under control. "I never really talk that much anyway."

The girl chuckled quietly in response to that. "'Kay, baby doll, now go ahead and paint the cross."

"Hai." Heero felt pain from his tension bleed through his arm as he moved to pick up the brush. He never was the artistic type and with the heat from the light and heightened awareness of every sound, the upside down cross he painted was jagged. The black paint gleamed in the camera's light and Heero felt something heavy drop in his stomach, like a bowling ball. He began to pray and repeated softly that it felt so wrong in his tensed mind.

He hastily dropped the brush and it spit black paint across floor in completely random, sinister designs. It didn't matter, though. The cement under his feet had a mysterious hum of its own. "Gabrielle, I'm finished."

Radio feedback. "Heero, just hold tight. You must sit in total radio silence for two hours and attempt to contact the Angel of Death."

"Alright," Heero replied.

"You okay?" It was clear in her voice that Gabrielle was truly concerned about Heero.

"Yeah," he replied halfheartedly, backing up to the other side of the hallway as another batch of silent, chocolate brown bats steamed out into some unknown place. "Nothing I can't handle."

"Right, babe. We'll have the hot cocoa ready for you when you come back, 'kay?"

"Sounds good," he breathed tiredly.

"Bye."

Silence. Sweet, rich silence. But at the same time, it was suffocating. Heero stood for a second with no movement except for his low, raspy breathing out of his parted lips, staring at the dripping cross on the door. Crystal blue eyes suddenly flashed an alarmed white and Heero could feel panic seeping back into his stonewalled heart. The slim foreigner eased his aching legs down so that he leaned against the opposite wall, then sat on the cold stone floor. He assured himself nothing would happen. A lot of paranoid shit had happened the past two nights, but Heero still remained a harsh skeptic about the paranormal. A few buildings made noises, a few balls rolled in the children room, his comrades had 'channeled' a few spirits, but so what. Maybe Fear thought they could breathe some believing air into him, but he'd prove them wrong. He'd win his share of that five thousand dollars, hang around America for a few more weeks if he still felt like it, then head home to Tokyo and pay off his nagging rent.

He sat fine for the first 45 minutes, but slowly it was getting worse.

Breathing. It had grown eerily loud on the back of his neck, and Heero sucked in his at the same time as another breathed out. At first, his heart skyrocketed through his throat, but he closed his slanted blue eyes as though he were a kid under the covers and temporary calm claimed him again. Nothing was there. Nothing. Even look, Yuy, he thought. His heart although did not slow. Blood coursed like thunder through his brain and the once cool, collected darting of his eyes had grown into full-blown alert scans, delving into the dark... The trails of still wet black paint on the door now dripped down to the floor. Heero turned his head as his sixth sense bit hard.

A ghostly child, dripping white ghost blood, lifted her hand before him. Heero froze like a deer in the headlights. He could see her southern style white dress float around her tiny legs. Her innocent, china doll face was as smooth as glass and her tiny nose disappeared in her chalk complexion. But the homemade, paper doll she lifted up betrayed her emotionless face. Its smiling cloth face was mauled and dripping with an obvious red liquid, and it was alive. It slowly moved, by its own will, its hand up and reached for Heero.

He screamed.

But no one heard.

Heero bolted up from his uncomfortable recline against the wall, arching his back over as his rib cage ached with heavy breathing. His panicked whitish eyes pierced every innocent shadow, looking for that little ghost girl. She was nowhere to be seen. The black paint had stopped dripping to the floor, and had dried in a streaked fashion.

The Japanese youth mentally slapped himself. He'd dreamed it all up.

Heero dusted his lanky finger across his temples. His caramel-highlighted hair was dripping sweat like a wet dog in the summer. He frowned to himself and was glad no one could smell that his deodorant had succumbed to the nervous panic he was in. It wasn't much better than the coppery smell of blood that manifested the entire place. And of course, that mortal sense of death that still wandered this place.

"Stupid bastard," he muttered at himself. "Can't get worked up."

Suddenly, after another hour, sweet redemption. "Heero, your time's up. Come on back." Gabrielle audibly smiled.

"Thank Kami." He breathed. "Thank Kami even more for not seeing any stupid Angel of Death..."

CraAAck...

Like all the B-grade horror movies he seen, the radio died in Heero's hand suddenly, spurting out a last desperate mechanical cry of death. It sparked and he instantly recoiled his hand back and let it drop. Along where the wiring had been on the back, lines of blood marked him. He'd lost all contact with the others and was lost in the dark, tuberculosis-colony house, filled with dead souls. It wouldn't have bothered him before, but the unnerving little girl in his dream felt like an omen... it was an omen... But the nature of that omen was a mystery, sinister or good.

Probably not the latter.

Heero's heart beat faster the instant the camera blinked out. He knew it by the little red light that had annoyingly blinked near the base of the light, which was currently off. Technical difficulty. That was to be expected once and a while. It'd been acting up ever since he'd stepped foot inside this damned house. The Japanese boy once again had to scrape the perspiration from his body, and stood in uncertainty, using his hand against the wall as a guide. He knew that it was his radio that had died, not Gabby's, so their was no way he could communicate. But, it was no big thing...He could do it. It had only been a decade since his army training. Nothing too bad could happen.

Suddenly, Heero felt an overwhelming icy wind blow him over and slam him against the door with an almost malevolent intent. It howled fiercely, turning death cold as it blew against his skin.

The wind swirled and conflicted with the heat of the confined building and it picked up debris and flung it around the room. The paint can that had sat patiently with him now buckled with a supernatural force, rocking back and forth until it finally slammed against the floor, spilling the paint. It lifted into the air and buckled against the walls as it whirled out of sight. The paintbrush impaled itself into the wall, causing plaster and dust to burst up into the icy convection whirl of wind. Pieces of glass whirred past Heero's head and slashed at Heero's exposed shoulder, since he was wearing his usual green tank top and he buried his head in his chest for protection.

"Okay, I take that back," he growled to himself.

The black paint from the inverted cross splattered suddenly, melting off the wood like boiling butter, all over Heero's hands which he used to shield the top of his head. Grunting as larger shards struck his body in a vicious whirl, Heero braved a look over his bloodied shoulder into the blackness. He could see the glints of light off the glass, as the camera, which had been dead until this very opportune moment, burst back to life. It blinded him for a second. As his eyes adjusted, the pit of his stomach filled with a cold black hole.

There was a body.

The wind died abruptly...and then it moved.

Heero, although the camera was cramping, moved forward to investigate, although his sixth sense was screaming bloody hell. He put his hand down to help him stand. He was careful not to cut himself, but the white-blue of his eyes gleamed with too much curiosity to care. Blood streamed down his arm. The body, still too far away to see closely, was trailed by a cloud of dust sifting toward the floor, and a large gaping hole in the ceiling that extended stories up, letting slivers of moonlight in.

He numbly stood up and walked over. He staggered over, his awe stealing away his speech. As he stood over the thing, apparently a person, it rolled over groggily in its state of unconsciousness.

Silky black wings erupted from the creature's shoulder, catching each sliver of moonlight and stealing them for itself. The layers of glistening, raven-like feathers unfurled in a curling wave of ebony and splayed out at Heero's feet. The appendage fluttered lightly, as if in pain. More black silk followed as an arm unfurled out to Heero's feet like the wing, smooth and delicate, but with a certain element of innocent softness to it. His stunned white-blue eyes followed it up to lanky but still muscular shoulders, a flat, broad chest, thin, almost girlish waist, and long, trim legs. It was human… sort of.

And the face...

It had that same childish appeal, innocent and rounded as no sinister supernatural thing he'd ever seen. A cute, pert nose and marble-shaped closed eyes. American-looking definitely. Long, wild bangs of dark chestnut were cutting the sun-tinted complexion of its forehead. Even longer was the creature's chestnut hair, streaming all the way down to pool in its lap and untied in a river of beautiful hair. Parted lips, taking in quick, almost strained breaths. A short, full neck, much unlike Heero's long, skinny feminine one.

Violet eyes. Deep violet eyes. Deep opened violet eyes.

The creature, the false human with the black silk wings, groaned in a low, baritone voice in pain as its blurry eyes cleared and focused on Heero in the dimness with a stunning fluidness that was definitely inhuman. Tiny slivers of light caught in those eyes that perfectly focused on him and Heero couldn't breathe. It was male… he thought.

The silky braid poured off its shoulder like water and rested behind it as it sat up curiously. Wide purple eyes paralyzed Heero in place. It, or he, moved with amazing animation as if it was nothing at all, as if the air was too light and thin for its godly presence. At first, it made strange noises from the bottom of its throat, and he watched the bold apple in its throat juggle up and down with words that came out gurgled. It winced and gave a dismal look at its trouble speaking. It twisted up its face up at Heero and cleared its throat, sitting with its long legs tucked under it

"You...called?" it tried in a rough voice. A definitely male voice, but the hair and tone kept Heero confused about its gender, if it wasn't androgynous. It smiled up at him in almost embarrassment. It was a stunning white display of teeth that just struck something with in the disillusioned Japanese boy.

"Are you Shinigami?" he asked breathlessly.

A genuine smile lit up that childish face and it lifted its previously black wings around it. Again, Heero stood without a breath in his lungs. He stood watching the wingspan in slide through the darkness, highlighted by moonlight and the artificial light of his camera. He was actually seeing this, and actually getting it on camera? It was beyond word. This... This was... an angel...

Of Death.

It lithely shook the stiffness from the gleaming waterfall of fluid black and blew a bang from its face with a happy laugh. It just laughed and continued to smile up at him, blinking warmly at him.

Heero instantly felt threatened, when the word Shinigami finally reached that cold pit in his stomach. Anyone would have been, anyone would have gone screaming from the actual God of Death that he was convinced now sat before him. Of course the omen had been bad; how could it not be! He felt a horrible pain in his stomach. It was a warning. The light fell of his camera suddenly and clattered loudly on the ground. The result was the same as smacking a frying pan in front of a rabbit.

Heero ran.

For his life.

He sprinted down the corridor, not caring if he forfeited himself for some measly money. Something didn't feel right. It never felt right to know he was in a room with the thing that called itself Death. Sudden pain flared in his knees as concrete scraped against his legs. He had stumbled when glancing back toward the sitting creature and it suddenly gave a look of pure confusion and hurt. Heero didn't care; he was going to save his ass first and hopefully the ghost thing would disappear and never bother him again. Never would hover over him with that overwhelming sense of death ever ever ever again. He scrambled to his feet and ran, his sixth sense going dull from screaming so much.

His legs ached with that warning pain, but Heero was stopped at the end of the hall.

His head snapped back at the sound. Highlighted by the light rolling back and forth and illuminating the creature, he could see the thin lines of tears running down the Shinigami face, it's gaze never leaving Heero's face. Never turning dark or threatening, never even thinking of Death. Eyes afraid of being alone even. And sudden pitiful sobs racked its entire body; the summoned creature yelping quietly with each inhalation like an emotionally hurt child.

"Oh man... don't cry," Heero muttered.

The Shinigami, as Heero had identified him now, twisted his lips as tears caught streaked down his face. Straining to hold the sobs back, it tried not to break, but it was no use. The light in his eyes turned quiet and hurt and he looked away. Then, his composure broke and the creature planted his face in his hands and his shoulders quaked around him. He was crying…? Could a God of Death actually cry?

Heero paused, opening his mouth. But he knew what he had to do while the thin Angel of Death sobbed to himself, slumping to the ground. There was only one thing.

Gabrielle had bitten her nails down to the quick by the time the knock on the heavy metal door came. April, who had nervously been playing with her piercing around her eyebrows, screamed and dashed to the door. Her long, black-painted fingernails scratched on the metal loudly as she hurriedly unlocked the door and flung it open. Thomas, Creed, and Antwain gathered around as the sweat-drenched Heero Yuy tentatively blinked his crystal blue eyes, loaded down with broken equipment. His naturally pouty, sharp lips were twisted in uncertainty. The slim boy gave a nervous look around the pale, worried faces and, with his arm curiously extended backwards, managed to speak through an unsteady voice.

"...I completed the dare."

He pulled the Shinigami into the light. It smiled.

"It's real."