InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity 8: Vendetta ❯ Prejudice ( Chapter 21 )

~~Chapter 21~~

~Prejudice~

 

-=0=-

 

 

Kurt stomped his feet as he entered the facility, shaking snow out of his hair. It had started to now around noon and showed no sign of letting up. He didn't mind that. At least it had dissuaded some of the insane people who enjoyed the mass-madness that was the day after Thanksgiving sales.

 

The door closed behind him with a loud bang, and he started down the hallway, heading for the elevator.

 

“Hey, Doc!”

 

Stopping short at the impromptu greeting, Kurt peered into the security office.

 

The researchers inside chuckled. One of them—Kurt thought that his name was Warren or something like that—was leafing through a stack of pictures while the other—Peterman—gestured with two fingers for Kurt to step inside. “What?” he asked, not bothering with any sort of pleasantries.

 

The two exchanged smug looks. “Now, now, don't be like that. We're all friends here, aren't we?” Peterman drawled.

 

“We are?” Kurt replied with a raised eyebrow.

 

“Sure, we are! We both work here, right?”

 

Kurt wasn't entirely certain how that could possibly make them friends, but he had to admit that he was somewhat curious as to what the two were up to.

 

“Well, you know . . . we just wondered if you'd be willing to take the night off . . .?”

 

“And why would I do that?” he asked rather casually.

 

“Ah, you know . . . figured we'd get a little more research in with our little demon,” Peterman remarked.

 

“You don't have enough normal working hours to do that?” he countered mildly.

 

The two exchanged what Kurt could only consider to be shit-eating grins. “Well, Doc, just between us . . .”

 

Warren chuckled. “Let's just say it's a little . . . private research.”

 

Narrowing his eyes, Kurt crossed his arms over his chest and slowly shook his head. `Private . . . what? What is that supposed to mean . . .?' Then again, did he really want to know . . .? “What the hell are you talking about?” he demanded.

 

“Look, man, she's got all the parts in all the right places, and maybe she's a damn freak, but she's a damn hot freak, you follow?”

 

“No, I don't follow,” he countered, reaching over and snatching the stack of pictures out of Warren's hands. Snorting loudly as he leafed through the first few, he peered up at the two men. “Have you lost your damn minds?” he growled, unable to wrap his head around what the two researchers were suggesting. “That thing is not a . . . female . . . and it could kill you.”

 

Peterson chuckled somewhat smugly, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the panel of monitors, crossing his ankles as he regarded Kurt with what could only be described as complete asshatishness. “Oh, she's a girl, all right. We checked her out today. Everything's there . . . and I do mean everything.”

 

“Aw, come on, Doc! You saw the pictures! She's hot—damn hot! And who the hell will care, anyway? It's not like she's human or anything,” Warren went on.

 

“You're right,” Kurt growled. “It's not human, and maybe you've forgotten what, exactly, it's capable of. Stick your tiny little prick anywhere near it, and I guarantee you won't have it long, so be my guest, if you're really that stupid. Just don't say I didn't warn you.”

 

“Oh, Jesus! Like she can do a damn thing once we've got her rigged to the apparatus,” Warren scoffed.

 

Kurt wasn't sure if what they wanted disturbed him nearly as much as the idea that they'd already put that much thought into it. Either way, he wasn't going to be a part of it. Those things were hellspawn, damn it . . . How idiotic were they, anyway? “You'd compromise the entire project just to get a good fuck? You really are stupid,” Kurt remarked quietly.

 

Peterson shook his head in abject disbelief. “You can't honestly say that you wouldn't do her,” he insisted. “I tell you what . . . We'll make sure she doesn't try anything funny while you take a turn. That okay?”

 

“And just what do you think your boss would do to you if you actually do what you're planning? You think Harlan'll be all right with that? You think that he'll appreciate you potentially ruining his prize puppy? Don't be stupid. You do that, and it'll fight back, and regardless of whether I want to or not, I'll have to kill it . . . though I might wait until after it has a go at you, instead . . . Fair's fair, after all . . .”

 

The two finally looked like they might actually be listening to Kurt. “Harlan know you ripped off these pictures to jack off in the John with?” he asked, tossing the stack of pictures onto the narrow desk below the monitors. “You two seriously need to get out more.”

 

That said, he turned on his heel and stomped out of the room, half expecting the two deviants to follow him. They didn't. Kurt wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not, all things considered. It turned his stomach, what they were suggesting in any kind of capacity. Just what the hell were they thinking, anyway?

 

“Look, man, she's got all the parts in all the right places, and maybe she's a damn freak, but she's a damn hot freak, you follow?”

 

Slapping the elevator call button, he scowled. What the hell did he mean by that? Even as he asked himself that, though, he snorted. Those pictures, of course. What in the world were they doing, anyway? What part of `research' were those?

 

Those images looked like some sick masochistic peepshow, didn't it? Strapped to the table completely naked with its limbs spread, it did look like it had all the parts of a female. Still . . .

 

Snorting at his own bizarre thoughts, Kurt stomped into the elevator and jammed the button for the lowest level of the facility. Those things could change their form, right? They could look however they wanted to look, and that one was powerful enough to hide exactly what it was, right? Enough so that it actually looked pretty damn human with a few small exceptions . . . There was no way to tell what sex it was, was there? Assuming that demons actually had a sex, to start with . . .

 

`And why the hell am I thinking about this at all?' he fumed as the elevator ground to a squeaking halt. Stepping out of the claustrophobic box, he strode down the hallway. He was so irritated that he didn't really notice that the little demon wasn't waiting for him in its customary fashion. Scrunched into the far corner of the cage, it barely moved when he crossed the room, thumping his knapsack onto the desk with a muffled curse. Too irritated to pay much attention to anything else, he paced the floor in a vain effort to alleviate his growing irritation.

 

Damn those idiots, anyway . . . If they did something as stupid as to try to force themselves on that demon, then they wholly deserved whatever they got for their efforts, didn't they . . .?

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

It was late when Griffin stumbled into the house in the quiet cul-de-sac in Bangor, Maine, that he called home. The place was quiet—eerily so—without even the click of dog paws to greet him, and even the hideously ugly cat that Isabelle had brought home as a kitten so long ago was hiding. Isabelle must have taken both Charlie as well as the cat with her.

 

Then again, he wasn't going to be there long, either, was he? He'd just gotten back from Chicago where he'd been of absolutely no help at all. At least, that was how it had seemed to him, anyway. His initial thought was that he would head straight for Bevelle where Isabelle undoubtedly was, but he'd changed his mind, deciding that he really ought to take the time to shower and change clothes as well as check things out to make sure that everything was secure before he headed that way.

 

He couldn't figure it out. Everyone seemed so convinced that Samantha was still there, and yet he wasn't entirely convinced, was he? Certainly, the idea of someone with spiritual powers having gotten to her did pose a whole new array of problems that Griffin just didn't want to think about, but that didn't prove that she was still in Chicago, did it? After all, some of the best trackers in the world were there, scouring the city, but the fundamental problem as he saw it was that they were looking for someone who was being hidden—who had to be hidden—and if that were the case, was anyone really going to be able to find her?

 

Yet none of the leads regarding those rumored to possess spiritual powers had panned out, either. Why?

 

Shaking his head as he moved through the familiar surroundings, he headed for the bedroom to grab some clean clothes for a quick shower before he headed to the family compound.

 

The true problem was that, with every passing day, it became increasingly difficult to hope for the best, and while no one would actually say it out loud, Griffin knew damn well that everyone had thought as much at least once in the weeks that had passed since Samantha's impromptu disappearance. That wasn't to say that they should give up hope. That wasn't what he meant, at all. Samantha was precious to him—to everyone, really—and Griffin would no sooner give up on her than he would give up on Isabelle if she were the one who hadn't come home . . .

 

He turned on the water taps before he went to find clean clothes since the old house didn't have the more modern conveniences and it took a bit for the water to warm.

 

He was tired, too: bone weary, pushing himself too hard and too fast so soon after the reconstructive surgery, and yet he couldn't help himself, either. He couldn't rest—none of them would—until Samantha was found.

 

So he ignored the twinges and little pains that were meant to thwart him as he hurried through his shower and make a quick attempt to shave. He'd just finished up when the cumbersome song that was programmed in to alert him when someone was trying to call him sounded.

 

“Hello?” he answered, wrinkling his nose at the Winnie the Pooh theme song.

 

“Ah, Griffin. How are things there?” Attean Masta, Griffin's long time friend, greeted.

 

Grabbing a small hand towel to dry the counter around the sink, Griffin grunted. “Nothing yet,” he admitted in reference to the search for his sister-in-law.

 

“They say no news is good news,” Attean ventured. “Then again, I don't hold much stock in those old sayings.”

 

Letting out a deep breath, Griffin scooped his keys and wallet off the counter, stuffing them into his pockets as he lumbered out of the bathroom. “You hear anything?”

 

“Possibly,” Attean replied. “At least, it might be something. I don't know.”

 

“What's that?”

 

“There's a rumor of an old man with some kind of spiritual powers,” he said. “Lives somewhere up in the woods in northern Minnesota.”

 

“Who told you this?” Griffin asked sharply. To his knowledge, no one had been dispatched up that way.

 

“It's just a rumor,” Attean repeated. “I don't know if there's any truth to it or not, and even then, from what I understand, the man is quite old. For that matter, he could well be dead, but I did not know whether this would interest the Zelig or not.”

 

“Thanks,” Griffin muttered, rubbing his temple as he plopped into his recliner and tried to tug on his socks with one hand. “You know where, exactly?”

 

“I've told you what I know,” Attean stated in an apologetic sort of tone. “However, if this man is there—if he isn't dead or nothing but a simple legend—the chances are good that he will be hidden, and if that is the case, then I'm not sure that he can be found.”

 

Griffin grunted, having already figured as much. In the end, though, he let out a deep breath. “Can't hurt to check it out,” he reasoned. “An old man, huh?”

 

“Yes . . . I'm sorry that I don't have more information than that.”

 

“Don't worry about it,” Griffin insisted. “I'm about to head to Bevelle, anyway. I'll tell Zelig what you said.”

 

“If there is anything else I can do . . .”

 

Griffin let out a deep breath and shook his head, not that Attean could see it. “Just keep listening,” he replied.

 

“Absolutely,” he assured him.

 

The line went dead, and Griffin sighed, stowing the device in his pocket as he reached for his other sock. An old man with spiritual powers in Minnesota? Did it matter whether or not this rumor was true? At this point, they needed to check out every available lead, didn't they? Time was working against them, and they all knew it, even if they didn't say it out loud. Sooner or later, they'd have to get some sort of break. No one was that good. No one could possibly have thought this thing through to the very last detail so perfectly. It stood to reason that eventually, the youkai would uncover Samantha's whereabouts. Rumor or not, it was worth looking into, wasn't it?

 

Griffin could only hope that they weren't too late . . .

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

Kagome leaned forward on InuYasha's shoulder, her eyes scanning the area below as he dashed over the tops of buildings. It was a strange feeling; she couldn't rightfully remember the last time they'd traveled anywhere this way, bringing to mind a myriad of memories that she loved and cherished.

 

Yet this time, it felt so uneasy with an underlying desperation that she couldn't help but feel. It was enough to choke her as she struggled to remember that as much as she worried, her granddaughter needed her.

 

The ultimate goal of finding and defeating Naraku seemed to pale in comparison in her mind. Samantha needed her—needed them, and while Naraku had been evil, at least Kagome had known what she and InuYasha and the others were up against. This time . . .

 

This time there was no such luck.

 

The trouble was that they were relying upon her to detect a barrier—something she wasn't entirely certain that she could do. But she had to try, didn't she?

 

“Oi, wench . . . You sense anything?”

 

Huddling closer against his shoulder, she used his body to block the icy chill in the air. “Nothing yet,” she replied.

 

InuYasha grunted and kept moving. “Kich says she's still here in Chicago,” he went on to say.

 

Kagome nodded. “I know. Bellaniece says that she can feel her.”

 

“Feel her,” he echoed. “Sounds `bout right . . .”

 

She frowned, her optimism failing her as she gazed at the immense cityscape below. To sense a barrier . . . she'd done it before, but it always seemed to have been constructed by Kikyou, and she'd always wondered if she'd only been able to tell because they were Kikyou's—because she was Kikyou's reincarnation . . .

 

Stopping abruptly, he let her off of his back then shrugged off the fire-rat haori that he'd chosen to wear when the temperature had dropped. “Here,” he said, dropping it over her shoulders. “You need this more than I do.”

 

She blinked and smiled wanly, understanding what it was he was trying to say. He was trying to reassure her in his own way. It was something that she loved about him, and she nodded in agreement as he scanned the horizon once more. “Thank you, InuYasha . . .”

 

He spared her a little smile though his gaze retained a saddened sort of brightness. “When I find whoever took her,” he vowed solemnly, “I'm gonna rip `em limb from fucking limb.”

 

For once, she didn't chastise him for the harshness of his remarks. For once, she might actually agree with him . . . It still made no sense to her, no matter how many times she considered it. Just who would want to hurt Samantha, and why? All right, she'd chosen to be a hunter, but the girl Kagome knew was too sweet, too gentle. Protecting those who were weaker than herself was a way of life that was not uncommon among those in her family, and while Samantha chose to do it in a most literal sense, every last one of them did that in his or her own ways, too. The young girl with the bright smile, the clear blue eyes that hid nothing . . . Where was she now? Where was she, and how on earth would they ever be able to find her . . .?

 

Kagome's concern must have showed on her face. InuYasha grimaced, ears flattening against his skull as he crossed his arms over his chest and tossed his head defiantly. “InuYasha . . .”

 

“Come on, wench . . . you're tougher'n that.”

 

“Am I?” she countered though she couldn't help but smile at the high praise coming from the hanyou she knew and loved so well.

 

“Don't go getting all mushy on me,” he warned, his cheeks pinking just a touch.

 

“Okay!” she exclaimed softly as he pulled her onto his back once more. “We'll look as long as we have to, right?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . Let's get movin',” he muttered as he set out once more.

 

 

 

 

-OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO-

 

 

Huddled in the corner of the cage with the blanket pulled up to her chin, Samantha gritted her teeth without taking her eyes off the holy man. Slumped into the chair behind the desk, he still looked entirely agitated. Something was bothering him, and she didn't need to rely on her senses to tell her that, and as much as she wondered what it could possibly be, she had larger things to worry about, didn't she, and in the end, his preoccupation was helping her. He had yet to notice that she hadn't touched the fresh water he'd given her and that the soggy looking hamburger that he'd dropped through the bars still sat, untouched, nearby.

 

Shifting slightly, she bit down a little harder—hard enough that her teeth groaned under the force she was exerting; hard enough that her jaw ached.

 

She'd removed the top layer of stitches despite the overwhelming pain that it brought on. Now to pull the second layer . . .

 

That took a lot more out of her, though. The pain that shot through her brought a blackness to her vision, reducing it to mere pinpoints of light. Her hand was shaking terribly, but she managed to force her fingers to split the cut open, and she reached into her own body to snag the first stitch and slice through it.

 

The second and third ones were pretty much the same, but to her dismay, the pain was growing steadily worse, and there was another layer of stitches just below this one, too. `Stop that!' she chided herself sternly. `One thing at a time . . .'

 

Kami, it hurt . . . It hurt more than anything she'd ever felt before. Being shot had hurt, yes, but not quite like this . . . This was more of a slow, intense pain that just didn't let up. Cutting through another stitch drew a soft whine from her. Unable to staunch the sound, she blinked as tears filled her eyes, let her head fall back against the bars of the cage as she willed the incessant vertigo to pass.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Blinking dully—she had distinct trouble focusing on the holy man's face—she slowly shook her head but didn't even try to speak.

 

Hunkering down and narrowing his gaze on her, he snorted loudly. “If this is some sort of ploy . . .”

 

A harsh sense of urgency shot through her despite the dullness of her brain. If he found out what she was doing, he'd try to stop her, wouldn't he? Yelping as the next stitch gave to her claws, she couldn't stop the slight keening as she gave voice to her pain.

 

The holy man's eyes flared wide when he reached through the bars to yank the blanket away. “What the . . . Shit!” he bellowed, slamming his hand against the lock release on the cage. “What the hell are you doing?”

 

He reached inside, seized her arms, and jerked her roughly out of the cage. She whimpered, rolling onto her side as she drew her legs up. He pushed them down and yanked on her blood soaked smock. “What are you trying to do? Kill yourself?” he demanded as he gaped at the incision that traversed her stomach.

 

She didn't try to answer. Gathering what was left of her strength, she pushed herself up against the cage wall, moaning as she pulled the wound open once more, as she cut the next stitch away.

 

He grabbed her hands and shoved them aside. “Are you stupid? Are you insane?”

 

She flopped back, her entire body breaking out in a cold sweat. She had to get those stitches out before she passed out . . .

 

The holy man stared at her in something akin to abject horror. “Why did you do that?”

 

Shaking her head, she could only look at him. “I have to take them out,” she whispered. “I won't . . . won't heal . . .”

 

“What?”

 

Swallowing hard, breathing shallow, harsh, Samantha tried to lift her hands but couldn't. She was exhausted—completely exhausted. “My body . . . heals faster . . . than yours . . . Stitches . . . won't heal . . .”

 

“They don't heal,” he repeated, scowling at her as though he were trying to make up his mind whether or not she was telling him the truth. The scowl seemed to dissipate just a little, and he nodded as he pushed himself to his feet and strode over to the supply cabinet.

 

He returned with a sterile kit and a box of gauze pads. Ripping the pack open with his teeth, he pulled the a pair of rubber gloves out of it and tugged them on before letting the pack go, catching it in one hand as he pulled a pair of clamps and surgical scissors out with the other. The quick look he shot her spoke clearer than words. He understood, didn't he? He understood that she hadn't done this to herself, at all . . .

 

He worked in silence as Sam averted her gaze, staring at the clock on the wall as she willed the pain to go away. It didn't work completely—she hadn't figured that it would—but she was strangely comforted by the efficacy of the holy man's movements, and with a loud exhalation, he sat back on his heels. “They're out,” he muttered, letting the scissors drop from his fingers. “What did they do?”

 

She was slow in turning her head to face him, her smile weak and weary. “It seems they wanted to know whether or not I was a girl,” she murmured. “I guess they figured that looks could be deceptive . . .”

 

A strange sort of expression filtered over his features, but only for a moment. It was long enough, though. In that instant, she saw it: the complete revulsion at what he understood. The white-coats had cut her open just to see if she had `girl parts' . . .

 

Of course, he probably didn't realize that she had been completely awake when they'd done it, and she wasn't about to mention it, either. Listening to their clinical description of her uterus and ovaries was a little more than she really wanted to think about at the moment, anyway.

 

The holy man didn't say anything else as he carefully wiped her stomach with a clean, sterile pad. “These won't hurt you, will they?”

 

Blinking at the grudging tone in his voice, she shook her head when she saw the butterfly bandages he held up. “Those are . . . okay,” she managed.

 

He nodded once then carefully applied them. That done, he bandaged her up before gathering up the mess and heading back toward the cabinet. The sterile kit clanged into the bin beside the cabinet, the rubber gloves were disposed of in the biohazard can. He took his time, scrubbing his hands—Samantha almost laughed. `He had to touch me . . . how much did he hate that . . .?'

 

But he returned to the cabinet and rummaged around before heading back over to her once more. He held a clean smock in his hands, but a he stared at her, he sighed. “Can you sit up?” he finally asked in an irritated tone of voice.

 

She swallowed hard and nodded, but it took a bit longer to get her body to comply. She tried to tug the soiled garment off, but she just couldn't. As though all of her strength had been used in the stitches she'd been able to remove, she simply didn't have anything left, did she?

 

He said nothing though he did heave a sigh, sticking the clean smock under his arm and grasping the soiled one with one hand on either side. Then he tugged it over her head and tossed it aside before shaking out the clean one and helping her to put it on. To her surprise, he picked her up and moved her aside before striding over for the hose. Setting the untouched burger atop the cage, he sprayed out the cage then shut off the nozzle.

 

“Eat this,” he said, slipping the sandwich into her hand before putting the hose away again.

 

She stared at the sandwich and swallowed hard. To be honest, the idea of eating made her stomach turn over, but she understood what he hadn't said. If she didn't eat, she wouldn't heal as quickly, right? So with that in mind, she bit into the sandwich and slowly chewed.

 

“They cut you open to see whether or not you were female?” he asked at length.

 

She nodded and swallowed a few times before nibbling on the sandwich again. “I guess so.”

 

He heaved a sigh and shook his head. “They could have just used an ultrasound to see that.”

 

“It was broken, they said,” she mused.

 

“Broken.”

 

She nodded again.

 

He regarded her for several moments while she finished the sandwich before jerking his head toward the cage. “Get in there.”

 

She did—at least, most of the way. Her legs were too shaky to move very quickly. She ended up crawling part of the way. She managed to scoot into the cage most of the way before her body just gave out. In the end, he had to pick up her legs and scoot them in, too.

 

She was asleep within moments.

 

She didn't feel the gentle fingers pull back the bandage, didn't see the trouble gaze as the holy man frowned at the angry gash that was already starting to seal itself closed. She didn't hear the soft sigh as he pressed the bandage into place once more, and she never knew that he knelt there in the opening of the cage for a long, long while with a frown on his face as he watched her sleep . . .

 

 

~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~= ~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~*~=~

A/N:

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Reviewers

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Sovereignty:
the way they say it, what ever that special thing is sounds bad.... "That the great Izayoi InuYasha, hero of Sengoku Jidai, had been arrested because the police had taken offense(hey is this meant to be spelt with a s or a c???? I am copying and pasting this on Firefox and the spell check says c.... not s...or is this an American spelling???(switches from American to Australian and offense is no longer underlined but spelt is...) to the fact that the hanyou of legend refused to give up his sword . . ." "Helluva thing to imagine"

 

of•fense

a violation or breaking of a social or moral rule; transgression; sin.

http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/offense

I'm not Britishor Australian, so I only use USA rules and spellings, sorry.

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MMorg

asgard ------ brownie31 ------ Rawben ------ oblivion-bringr ------ Sesshomaru4Kagura4ever ------ malitiadixie ------ Jester08 ------ zoriko ------ OROsan0677 ------ sunshine161820

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Forum

Cutechick18 ------ Zero ------ ai_Artista ------ sueroxmysox ------ mangaluva ------ Amerise ------ GoodyKags ------ OROsan0677

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Final Thought from Kurt:

Broken …?

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Blanket disclaimer for this fanfic (will apply to this and all other chapters in Vendetta): I do not claim any rights to InuYasha or the characters associated with the anime/manga. Those rights belong to Rumiko Takahashi, et al. I do offer my thanks to her for creating such vivid characters for me to terrorize.

 

~Sue~