InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ The Archangel ❯ Bringing Down Walls ( Chapter 10 )

The Archangel

 

By: Undecidedlycertain

 

Chapter 10

 

Bringing Down Walls

 

 

 

New York City, Long Island Sound

Torvald-Richardson Shipping Yard

Sunday, June 19th, 4:35 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

40 Hours, 10 Minutes until Archangel Release

 

 

 

Sesshoumaru had barely managed to pinpoint the general location of the flux of Kagome's energy before it simply vanished into thin air. It was obvious they had somehow suppressed her power, or they had moved her entirely. The faint traces of youki he could sense here seemed to be coming from underground. Unfortunately, he had spent the better part of the last thirty minutes trying to narrow the field to the best point of entry for what he suspected to be some sort of underground bunker carved out of the bedrock that surrounded the wharf.

 

 

 

It was quiet - too quiet. The shipping district was a good place to set up shop for those who were powerful enough or frightening enough to throw the kind of weight around that it would take to get the hard-edged denizens of the shipyards to keep their mouths shut about any under the level comings and goings. These were qualities Naraku possessed in droves; the pseudo hanyou would have little trouble tailoring this place to his needs. And judging from the number of warm bodies he sensed watching him, Sesshoumaru deduced that there was probably a fair deal of cash exchanging hands here as well.

 

 

The men working the docks were a gritty bunch, prone to take more than their fair share of intimidation without cracking, especially if they were on the payroll. Which meant getting answers would be difficult. It didn't matter; he didn't have the time or patience for interrogation at present. There were simply more efficient achieve the desired results.

 

 

 

And he realized with a bleated sense of detachment, that he probably looked like a mad man, turning circles on a wide swath of cracked and faded black top, but he pushed any fleeting concern over his public perception to the wayside. Rather, he needed to stay focused with a singular intensity upon the small, fluctuating undercurrents of youki radiating from beneath his feet.

 

 

He had yet to feel anything that even remotely resembled Kagome's energy signature, but he was certain this was the place it had originated from. Narrowed eyes swept the area with the heat of a pernicious predator, taking details into account that a man of lesser training would miss: the excess of lichen and algae running along the starboard side of the Dante, the deckhand that had been winding the same rope repeatedly since he arrived, and the horizontal crack in the asphalt in front of his current position, running perpendicular to all the cracks of natural origin around it.

 

 

The tip of Tokijin slammed into the aberrant fissure with a loud, scraping clack and the deckhand bolted like a startled minnow. Sesshoumaru was unconcerned by the man's sudden disappearance. No warning he could give now would spare Naraku and his minions the fury of his wrath.

 

 

Sparks danced along the dark, double-edged blade as the ground began to crumble under the force of his will. The light rippling off the blade was intense, the sensation of wielding such power addictive. The lusty call of the blade seemed much too loud in his consciousness, but he pushed all concern aside.

 

 

Sesshoumaru watched with stoic fascination as massive gouges of asphalt, earth, and metal piping were rent in the ground before him. He imagined, as his assault broke through the last layer with the force of a bullet train to reveal an underground chamber, that he must be quite the terrifying sight to behold, ablaze with the swirling fire of Tokijin's jaki while the fulgent swell of his own profound youki lashed about him like a tempest, tearing violently at his clothes and hair with the promise of imminent doom for anyone foolish enough to oppose him.

 

 

Kill. A voice whispered in his head, one that Sesshoumaru wasn't entirely sure belonged to him. Kill them all. Bathe in their blood. Revel in tearing their flesh.

 

 

His lip pulled back momentarily, an inhumanly sharp canine lengthening, his face contorting with feral rage as the gentle scent of his chosen mate reached him through the flagrant din of stench that permeated the subterranean structure he had unearthed.

 

 

It barely registered through the red-tinged haze that had consumed his mind that the deep rumble shaking the ground was coming from him. He shifted his grip on Tokijin and dropped into the dragon's lair.

 

 

 

888888888888888888

New York City, City Sector B47

Municipal Sewer System, Section 12

Sunday, June 19th, 5:15 pm Eastern Standard Time

39Hours, 30 Minutes until Archangel Release

 

 

“You're sure this is it?”

 

 

“Positive.” Shippo's voice crackled over the head set confidently. “There's got to be a hatch around there somewhere, maybe even something more crude like a punched out hole, but you're definitely on target.”

 

 

Miroku sighed, running a sweating palm over his face tiredly. He was quick to snatch it away sharply, however, when he remembered exactly what that hand had been in contact with quite recently. Grimacing, he rubbed his sleeve over his mouth and chin out of germaphobic paranoia.

 

 

With a long, slow sweep of his flashlight over the mold-encrusted bulkhead, Miroku surmised that the manhole above him was simply that. There was nothing out of the ordinary, and they seemed to be at a dead end. Sango returned from her assessment of the tunnel walls, her head shaking in frustration.

 

 

Regardless of what the fox was picking up on the Satellites, there was simply nothing there.

 

 

Another sigh left him, this one deeper and sincerely heart felt. Dark eyes turned a disdainful look at the only other possible place the portal could be hiding: beneath the fast flowing river of sewage. Lovely.

 

 

He was working up the gumption to take the dive into the trough cut through the center of the tunnel when Shippo offered up a more sensible solution.

 

 

“You couldn't even find anything with an illusion dispersal?”

 

 

Miroku immediately straightened from his gloomy crouch with a hopeful and mildly abashed grin.

 

 

“You didn't do one, did you?” Shippo deadpanned over the line.

 

 

Miroku chuckled. Sango rolled her eyes. Kinsley and Henson were still a bit too shaken by the earlier encounter to react much at all.

 

 

“Oopsie.”

 

 

Shippo's harsh sigh could almost be considered affectionate, in an exasperated kind of way. “Just get on with it already.” Then he mumbled something about Miroku's tendencies to be nearly as bad as a certain hot headed hanyou.

 

 

“Hey!” Miroku protested his honor amidst the jangling rings of Shakujou. “I believe there are still mountains between myself and Inuyasha, thank-you.”

 

 

Shippo and Sango snorted simultaneously.

 

 

“Maybe if we're talking about mountains of bullshit,” the young fox quipped.

 

 

Sango laughed, adding “Or a crude fascination with breasts.”

 

 

Miroku harrumphed, swinging his staff around him in wide, probing circles. “I feel so misunderstood,” He grumped dismally, prompting another round of sniggers.

 

 

With one last sweeping arc he felt the static pinging of a stationary illusion spell. It was simple enough to locate the wavering disturbance, disguised as a rust-rotted ladder bolted to a section of wall not even five feet from where they were standing.

 

 

Miroku would have been embarrassed at such an oversight, except that the illusion was flawlessly undetectable to anyone not looking for it. Besides, he made up for the lapse with the quick work he made of dispelling the glamour. Just a few words hummed under his breath and a tap of his middle and forefinger were all it took.

 

 

“That'll do.” He nodded satisfactorily at the sub-type portal, spinning the hatch. A feeling of immense gratitude surged in his chest toward Shippo for speaking up before they had gone for a swim.

 

 

“'Bout time.” Shippo's voice was a little snarky, so Miroku called him on it.

 

 

“You're just jealous.”

 

 

“I am not jealous of your self proclaimed `amazing stupid powers'.”

 

 

“That's `stupid amazing powers,' my good lad,” Miroku quipped, swinging the heavy metal door open with a flourish. “And let me just say that your admiration is flattering, even if it does tend to bring up questions of your sexuality.” Judging by the radio-silence, the technological genius was too stunned to speak. “But I'm from the `live and let live' school of thought, so, while I don't share your preferences, you have my full support, and if you ever manage to grow breasts - we'll talk.”

 

 

“I'm NOT GAY you cock-sucker!” Shippo's voice boomed with an ear piercing feedback through the headset, causing everyone to groan and scrabble to pull out their feeds before their eardrums burst.

 

 

“Sorry to disappoint, Shipper-oo, but sucking cock is definitely not very high on my list of sexual fantasies.”

 

 

“But it is there?” Sango interrupted curiously, elbowing past him to step through the entrance. “Maybe I need to look over this list of yours.”

 

 

“Touché.” He followed with a grin and a firm pat on the bottom.

 

 

Retaliation was forthcoming, but before Sango could even grind out a malicious approximation of his name, the entire structure overhead gave a mighty heave that effectively stopped them in their tracks.

 

 

“Not again,” Henson muttered frantically, edging himself back toward the hatch. “Not again. This ain't happenin'. Not again. Please not again.”

 

 

Kinsley snagged his partner by the collar, giving him a firm shake. It seemed to clear his head a bit; he stopped trying to slink away and his muttering ceased.

 

An unearthly growl cracked like thunder from somewhere overhead. Miroku's eyes closed briefly in contrition before snapping open as the distant sound of screaming echoed down into the empty storeroom from stairwell.

 

 

“Mother of God,” Kinsley whispered with a touch of real fear. “We're going to die.”

 

 

Sango punched him in the side of the head as she stalked passed on her way to the stairs. Miroku was quick to follow, taking the lead with a warning look when it seemed she would protest.

 

 

“What's going on?” Shippo's voice crackled in his ear.

 

 

Miroku moved up the stairs cautiously, forcing his senses to fan out before them despite the horrible pressure of angry youki pushing down on him, making it difficult to breathe.

 

“It seems that Commander Takishima has beaten us to the punch.” Miroku's voice was light, more suited for a comment about the weather than the realization that they might just be too late.

 

 

“Shit.”

 

 

“Yeah,” Miroku conceded, “that about sums it up.”

 

 

He motioned for the others to keep a few paces back. Judging by the force and wild fluctuation of his youki, Sesshoumaru was not far ahead…And he was seriously pissed off.

 

 

Miroku knew he was the only one with a chance in hell should they run up against him in a full rage, and even then it was the slimmest sliver of a chance imaginable. He doubted the inu, if he truly was in the throes of a blood frenzy, could be subdued by any less than ten men of strong spiritual integrity, a mile of binding beads, and a super-powered cattle prod, and even then it would be iffy.

 

 

If Inuyasha was here he would have felt a bit better, knowing that the hanyou was the only person to ever best Sesshoumaru in a fight, but there was no way of knowing whether he'd be able to stand against his brother when he was not in control of himself.

 

 

Making a decision on a course of action, Miroku rounded the corner only to be attacked by a scruffy group of rogues. They were hardly worth the effort his team made to dispose of them.

 

 

Then the rolling force of killing intent slammed into him like a sledge to the chest, stealing his breath and snapping his eyes up in search of the source. Stalking down the hall, loose limbed and doused in a heavy spray of dark blood, was Sesshoumaru. His eyes were as red as the blood soaking his shirt and streaking down his face and neck. Miroku had the grace to offer up a silent prayer as he made his move.

 

 

Appealing to his superior's primal instincts was their only hope of surviving this encounter.

 

 

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New York City, Long Island Sound

Project Miasma, Underground Headquarters

Sunday, June 19th 4:55 p.m. Eastern Standard Time

39 Hours, 50 Minutes until Archangel Release

 

 

The metallic tang of blood filled his nose like an exotic perfume. It riled the beast that stretched its claws beneath his skin, too long asleep to be completely controlled by the parts of his mind that made up the man that was Sesshoumaru.

 

 

He felt a manic excitement at how easily their flesh rent beneath the flail of his whip, their bodies falling like blocks of stone before the strike of his blade. The warm spray of blood - vile and tainted as it was - had a certain allure, a violent seduction woven through the tearing flesh and the warm slide of blood and fluids.

 

 

He was a god amongst insects, a shining vision of death before their bleak eyes - eyes that recognized the unsympathetic rule of fate the moment they caught sight of him.

 

 

The scent he was chasing seemed to be getting stronger the further down into the compound he went, though the understanding of who the scent belonged to had dulled to little more than a primal need to reclaim that which was rightfully his.

 

 

 

Rounding the sharp bend in the hall, and taking a good chunk out of a cinderblock wall with the backlash from Tokijin, he came upon more fools seeking their demise at his hand. A man stepped forward from the shadows to challenge him, human by smell, but with some synthetic source of power that tainted the natural flow of his energies and caused his aura to writhe.

 

 

The dark-haired man spoke, bold to a fault as he postured arrogantly with his large halberd. The strange diamond marking on his forehead glinted as he tossed the long rope of his hair over his shoulder, but his words fell upon ears deafened with the ringing rush of blood, the howling hunger for destruction.

 

 

Sesshoumaru smiled, a feral bearing of teeth. The human should not have challenged him, he should have been afraid.

 

 

In the end, he too was tested and found unworthy.

 

 

A strange, snake-like blade shot out of the dark abyss of an open door, glinting in his peripheral vision like the spark of a firefly…and just as easily quashed.

 

 

A tussle up ahead turned his attention from the withered mass of flesh that had been a man mere moments before, to the bright flashing and muted pops of gunfire as two groups took on each other with vicious efficiency. The victors moved toward him, their mouths open in speech, but he could hear nothing over the piercing howl in his head.

 

 

A dark haired man stopped their approach, his female halting obediently behind his outstretched arm. His build was slim, but his instincts warned of the hidden fire within him. He was by far the biggest threat he had come against, but still so far from matching his own power. The man spoke, but the words were warbled and distorted in Sesshoumaru's ears, like listening to an old record that had been warped in the heat.

 

 

These creatures had dared to encroach upon his hunting ground. His instincts screamed for retribution, but the singular vein of clarity in his mind stayed his hand when it raised Tokijin to attack.

 

 

The dark haired male made a subtle motion with his hands, and his pack immediately dropped down to their knees, necks bending submissively. His eyes flickered to meet Sesshoumaru's in a brief moment of fear and indecision before gliding forward and dropping in a submissive gesture himself. He had singled himself out for attack, should Sesshoumaru decide their prostration was not accepted.

 

 

But there was something that gave Sesshoumaru pause. He took a slow, deep pull of the air around him, disregarding the scent of blood, sweat, and death, to single out the minty musk that stirred up a pang of familiarity, and shook him into stillness.

 

 

His fingers gripped the hilt of Tokijin so hard that he wondered that it didn't crack. His mind snapped back into lucidity as the red mist receded from his consciousness. His body was shaking with slight tremors that he wasn't sure were from the physical exertion or the shock of losing control so completely.

 

 

After a few beats of tense and oppressive silence he felt enough of a hold over himself to speak.

 

 

“Houshi.” It came out as more of a gravely rumble than his normal smooth baritone, but it was sound enough to break the tense hold gripping his subordinates. “You reek.”

 

 

Miroku's grin was quick and unabashed. “Yeah, kind of do, don't I? But not as bad as Sango.”

 

 

A quick “Shut up, baka!” was returned in the sharp-witted tones of the weapons expert.

 

 

Sesshoumaru realized with a pang of dread that he had nearly annihilated a large chunk of his own team. He assured himself that he felt no particular attachment to them, but common sense maintained that it was unwise to take out ones own allies. Besides, they were good agents, and decent fighters despite their humanity. Even through his stubborn detachment, he had to admit that he would have felt a sense of remorse had he been the cause of their demise.

 

 

“Commander Takishima.” Miroku addressed him, sounding cool and collected as always, though the pallid complexion of his face gave away his true unease. “Are you alright?”

 

 

Sesshoumaru mentally shook himself, pushing back the near painful urgings brought on by the warm, damp smell of blood that saturated the dungeon-like bottom level of the keep. A tightening of his mouth was the only answer he offered before returning his sword to his side with a smooth, practiced arc.

 

 

That seemed to be enough for the dark haired lieutenant. His expression relaxed as he stepped forward, looking around with carefully schooled features.

 

 

“So,” he said after a moment, a serene smile twisting across his face like a grim parody, “I take it that Kagome is no longer here.”

 

 

A dangerous sound from deep with in Sesshoumaru's throat was his reply.

 

 

“She was here though, right?” Sango asked, coming forward to stand beside Miroku. Sesshoumaru's nose crinkled in disgust. Houshi was right - she did smell worse.

 

 

“Yes.”

 

 

 

Miroku sighed, making a quick sweep of the devastation surrounding them with an unflinching gaze. “Well, then. I suppose we should find something still breathing and squeeze it until it whistles Dixie.”