Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Chains ❯ Consult Me ( Chapter 83 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Miko No Hoshi 
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Romance / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 05.17.2011 | Updated On: 05.17.2011 | Pages: 3 | Words: 2.6K | Visits: 264 | Status: Work In Progress
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Angst / Romance / Drama | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 05.17.2011 | Updated On: 05.17.2011 | Pages: 3 | Words: 2.6K | Visits: 264 | Status: Work In Progress
Notes: I used Aya’s old name in a flashback here, but I think it makes sense that way. I hope so anyway! Thank you to everyone who is reading this, and especially to those who are reviewing! A special thanks to Cody Thomas who keeps me posting here.
Chapter Eighty-Three: Consult Me
It was an easy mission. In and Out. Location already confirmed and a clear image of the target.
Despite three hours on the database, Omi didn’t foresee any complications.
But he still didn’t have a very good feeling about it.
Powering down the computer, he leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling.
Even if everything went just right, it was going to be a miserable night, at least for Aya. No mission was good, and the first one wasn’t always the worst, but they were hard, scarring.
Omi, Ken, and Yohji had all participated in each other’s initiations by simple necessity. Later, it became clear that Kritiker had designed these to be as palatable as possible, or at least to incite them into killing. Yohji had been slated to kill a serial killer who targeted young women; there had been pictures of the victims and too much discussion of their names and backgrounds. For Ken it had been a drug lord, a man who distributed steroids laced with fatal doses of something more serious. Even for Omi, with all his extensive preparation, they had found a kidnapper who specialized in orphans; even though he didn’t know too much about his own past, he remembered it striking a strong cord within him. He had wanted to kill the man, right up until the moment he did it.
Taking a long breath, Omi turned his thoughts back to Aya. It wasn’t too hard to figure out how this mission figured in to the redhead’s past. The boy had obviously been held captive; he had definitely been tortured, probably in worse ways than even these victims. And the rape. Om didn’t like to think about it, but Yohji had hinted more than once that there had been a sexual component to Aya’s servitude.
It made Omi angry to think of the boy being used that way. He wanted to be relieved that Aya could become empowered enough to take up a weapon, but he knew from personal experience that killing wasn’t empowering. Maybe for a brief second, but then…then there was just the guilt.
He wondered if Aya could handle the stress of the mission. Omi hadn’t gotten close enough to get a good read on the boy, and Yohji said he could handle it, but the kid wasn’t exactly stable. It was strange, Omi thought, that Manx had let the issue go so quickly. Ken said they put him through nearly four months of psych counseling before his first mission, and Omi had seen more than one shrink himself. Yohji never talked about it.
Manx had said something about weekly sessions for Aya, but they were going on with the mission beforehand.
It didn’t seem quite right.
~*~
There was no sense putting it off. They met briefly after Omi got home from school, looking over the club blueprints and talking about how they would go in.
Omi watched Aya carefully. The boy was quiet, but very attentive. He studied the layout for several long minutes, and repeated the plan when Yohji questioned him. No one asked him if he could do it.
When the blonde told him he would take down the target, he said only, “Yes, Yohji.”
Afterwards, they had gone their separate ways, but, even after a full afternoon of errands, Omi couldn’t fall asleep. He found himself back at the kitchen table, lingering over a pot of coffee, thinking.
~*~
“Hey,” Yohji greeted quietly as he walked into the kitchen in just a pair of sleep pants. Making a beeline for the coffee pot, he poured himself a cup before taking a seat at the table.
He wasn’t too surprised to see Omi and Ken there. The chibi, apparently, hadn’t made any attempt at sleep. He looked just as tired as the other two, but at least he was still dressed in a pair of shorts and a gray t-shirt. Ken looked worse for wear, his blue bathrobe half open to reveal a pair of white briefs as he sat sprawled in the chair, cradling his chipped, blue coffee cup.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked, receiving two dirty looks for his comment.
“No, we’re always here at two a.m. You’re usually too drunk to notice.”
“Who pissed in your Wheaties?” Yohji questioned, forcing a smile. Ken just shook his head and took another drink.
“Something on your mind, Yohji-kun?” Omi asked.
Yohji shrugged, not quite ready to pour his heart out.
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the house. The refrigerator began to hum.
“You guys remember it?” Ken asked, not looking at them, “Your first kill?”
Omi nodded. Yohji sat still and stared into his coffee.
“I was so scared. I damn near wet myself. Then we get there…it went so fast,” he shook his head and rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin, “I was all geared up. Then we get out of there and it was just…gods. I threw up on the way home.”
“Yeah, in my damn car,” Yohji contributed with a rueful look that changed easily into a small smile. Ken offered one in return.
“I,” Omi started, stopped, then found himself watched and went on, “well, you remember. Not exactly professional.”
Again they all shared a smile, but it was harder that time. Yohji remembered Omi’s first kill, not for the target, but for the way the kid had cried. It had been miserable, trying to comfort him when they had barely known each other.
“How about you?” Ken asked.
Yohji didn’t want to answer that, not really, but he felt obligated in the face of their openness.
“It was before,” he said simply, “He was gonna kill my partner. I don’t regret it.”
“Did you throw up?” Ken was baiting him.
Yohji scoffed, “I got my ass good and drunk. Then I threw up.”
“Great coping mechanism, Kudou,” Ken returned easily, giving him another one of those meager smiles.
It might have been a lousy conversation, but Yohji was glad to have it with people who understood. And it kept them from going over it alone.
~*~
Aya stood in front of the window, staring out into the darkness.
It had been awkward before, with both he and Yohji lying awake in bed. He hadn’t wanted to talk and had ultimately feigned sleep so Yohji would leave him alone, half surprised when it actually worked. The blonde had shifted him gently and had gotten up and gone away.
There had been a moment of fear, and Aya had almost dropped his act to ask the blonde to stay.
But he didn’t want to talk. And if Yohji staid, they would talk.
Taking a deep breath, Aya thought about what he had to do. Part of him, a decidedly weak part, screamed for him to get out. He shut it down forcibly. He had failed at many things, but Aya knew how to be strong and how to get through.
He didn’t think he would die.
He could do this. He knew it. One swing of the sword, correct angle, enough force.
The man would die, along with the last of his fragile honor. There wasn’t much left, only that tiniest bit of reserve, the fact that he had tried his best for his sister and that he hadn’t committed any crime intentionally.
But the rest was gone, much ebbed away as he had realized what he was, the remainder taken by Crawford and Schuldig and the rest of them. And this tiny bit, that was his to give away.
He would. For her, Aya would.
*** ** ***
“It would be disgraceful, Amiko! To have such a—”
“Husband, please. I’m not saying he should run the company, certainly not, but can you really exclude him all together? What about your father’s wishes?”
“It’s a matter of pride. I can’t let the family name be taken over by that, that…he’s my son, Amiko, but he can’t be entrusted with the family name.”
“Don’t worry. Aya will have a good husband. You’ve made sure of it.”
“Yes. Her son…he’ll be what we want. But father—”
Leaning on the wall just outside the open door, Ran listened to his parents talk. Only five, he already knew the familiar words. Different. Strange. Foreign. Freak. Him.
He had caused so much trouble, and now his father... He didn’t understand that part, not all of it, but he knew about honor and rightness, and he knew that he had messed up somehow.
“Little Ran?” a voice said suddenly from behind him. He jumped, startled by the sudden appearance of his grandfather. A guilty blush stained his cheeks as he was found eavesdropping.
But the old man just smiled.
It was late at night, and his grandfather wore a dark blue yukata over light pants, looking regal and elegant even in this informality .His wrinkled face was drawn in concern, but not unfriendly. Gently, he took the boy’s hand and led him down the length of the covered porch. They sat together on the wooden steps, looking out at the night-dimmed garden. Aya could hear the fountain even though he couldn’t see it.
He loved his grandfather’s house. It was quiet and traditional, the large Fujimiya family home tucked away in the mountains. They came to visit several times a year, and his grandfather always seemed so pleased to see them, even him.
“You’re too young to be listening to that talk, little Ran,” he said, not unkindly as he reached to tug the boy’s gray yukata back up on his shoulder. Ran wore a lot of gray; his mother said it helped his hair, as much as anything could.
“I’m sorry,” the boy apologized. He watched his bare feet, scooting them along the wood.
They sat still for a few minutes, and Ran wondered if his grandfather was waiting to tell on him. Then the old man shifted. With a grunt, he stood.
“I want to show you something.”
They walked again, around the corner and to another door. His grandfather carefully slid open the door and ushered him inside, pausing for a moment to turn on a lamp.
It was a large, open room, with polished floors. On one side there were shelves and pictures, and it was here that Ran was led by his grandfather.
“Look here,” the man said, taking down one of the pictures and handing it to Ran. He held it with both hands, staring at the young man in the black and white photograph. He wore a gi and hakama and was holding a large trophy.
“That’s me,” his grandfather explained, smiling again. “I was a great kendo competitor.”
He took away the picture and pointed to a shelf. The trophy sat there, the tallest among many others. Ran stood in awe, looking up at all the things his grandfather had won. He was a great man.
The man slowly led him to another shelf. On top of it Ran saw a sword.
“You see that?”
He nodded.
“That belonged to your ancestor, Kiran. You were named for him.
“He was a samurai, Ran, one of the best. He fought for justice, and he saved many lives. Your father believes his name means ‘spirit of the orchid,’ but I think he is wrong. The kanji are different from yours, but they are old and debatable. You know what ‘kira’ is, little Ran?”
“Yes.”
“Killer,” his grandfather answered seriously. “Kiran knew that that he couldn’t sit still and bring justice. He knew that he had to step forward and fight for what he believed in, and in that way he became an honorable man.”
Carefully his grandfather knelt stiffly beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“Grandfather?” he questioned.
“You’re directly descended from him, Ran. You’re the eldest son of the eldest son, all the way back. No matter what your father decides, you are worthy of every bit of…that sword will be yours.
“You see that, over there?” he asked, gesturing across the room to a shinai lying in the corner. Ran nodded. “Go get it for me.”
Ran hurried to do as he was bid, but when he tried to hand the practice sword to the old man, his grandfather pushed it away.
“Keep it. Take it with you, and learn to use it. Take action, Ran. Make yourself into a good man, a strong man who doesn’t sit by while bad things happen to them. Make your own honorable path, and when you are a man, come back to me and I will give you that sword.
“That will be your inheritance.”
*** ** ***
At some point in his life, after he had figured out exactly what it meant to be largely excluded from his father’s estate and business, Aya had dreamed of becoming something else. He knew that he would be a banker or lawyer, but even at the age of twelve he had secreted away dreams of becoming a samurai. Now that dream came back to him, twisted, but there.
He would go out into the night and exact justice. The man deserved to die, he knew, and the police would do nothing, just as they had done nothing for him. He hadn’t deserved it. But these girls—so much like Aya-chan—they didn’t deserve to be hurt. Aya would exact revenge for them. He wanted to.
And that scared him.
Was he so strange, so wrong, that he wanted to be a murderer? Was Crawford right, that he was filthy? Had it been more than superstition that told his father his soul was that of a demon?
His grandfather had been right, he was like Kiran. He was a killer, and a sword was definitely part of his inheritance. It wasn’t the samurai sword he had longed for, but it would do the bloody work he was meant for.
~tbc~
Converting /tmp/phpiBltqc to /dev/stdout
Chapter Eighty-Three: Consult Me
It was an easy mission. In and Out. Location already confirmed and a clear image of the target.
Despite three hours on the database, Omi didn’t foresee any complications.
But he still didn’t have a very good feeling about it.
Powering down the computer, he leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling.
Even if everything went just right, it was going to be a miserable night, at least for Aya. No mission was good, and the first one wasn’t always the worst, but they were hard, scarring.
Omi, Ken, and Yohji had all participated in each other’s initiations by simple necessity. Later, it became clear that Kritiker had designed these to be as palatable as possible, or at least to incite them into killing. Yohji had been slated to kill a serial killer who targeted young women; there had been pictures of the victims and too much discussion of their names and backgrounds. For Ken it had been a drug lord, a man who distributed steroids laced with fatal doses of something more serious. Even for Omi, with all his extensive preparation, they had found a kidnapper who specialized in orphans; even though he didn’t know too much about his own past, he remembered it striking a strong cord within him. He had wanted to kill the man, right up until the moment he did it.
Taking a long breath, Omi turned his thoughts back to Aya. It wasn’t too hard to figure out how this mission figured in to the redhead’s past. The boy had obviously been held captive; he had definitely been tortured, probably in worse ways than even these victims. And the rape. Om didn’t like to think about it, but Yohji had hinted more than once that there had been a sexual component to Aya’s servitude.
It made Omi angry to think of the boy being used that way. He wanted to be relieved that Aya could become empowered enough to take up a weapon, but he knew from personal experience that killing wasn’t empowering. Maybe for a brief second, but then…then there was just the guilt.
He wondered if Aya could handle the stress of the mission. Omi hadn’t gotten close enough to get a good read on the boy, and Yohji said he could handle it, but the kid wasn’t exactly stable. It was strange, Omi thought, that Manx had let the issue go so quickly. Ken said they put him through nearly four months of psych counseling before his first mission, and Omi had seen more than one shrink himself. Yohji never talked about it.
Manx had said something about weekly sessions for Aya, but they were going on with the mission beforehand.
It didn’t seem quite right.
~*~
There was no sense putting it off. They met briefly after Omi got home from school, looking over the club blueprints and talking about how they would go in.
Omi watched Aya carefully. The boy was quiet, but very attentive. He studied the layout for several long minutes, and repeated the plan when Yohji questioned him. No one asked him if he could do it.
When the blonde told him he would take down the target, he said only, “Yes, Yohji.”
Afterwards, they had gone their separate ways, but, even after a full afternoon of errands, Omi couldn’t fall asleep. He found himself back at the kitchen table, lingering over a pot of coffee, thinking.
~*~
“Hey,” Yohji greeted quietly as he walked into the kitchen in just a pair of sleep pants. Making a beeline for the coffee pot, he poured himself a cup before taking a seat at the table.
He wasn’t too surprised to see Omi and Ken there. The chibi, apparently, hadn’t made any attempt at sleep. He looked just as tired as the other two, but at least he was still dressed in a pair of shorts and a gray t-shirt. Ken looked worse for wear, his blue bathrobe half open to reveal a pair of white briefs as he sat sprawled in the chair, cradling his chipped, blue coffee cup.
“Can’t sleep?” he asked, receiving two dirty looks for his comment.
“No, we’re always here at two a.m. You’re usually too drunk to notice.”
“Who pissed in your Wheaties?” Yohji questioned, forcing a smile. Ken just shook his head and took another drink.
“Something on your mind, Yohji-kun?” Omi asked.
Yohji shrugged, not quite ready to pour his heart out.
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the sounds of the house. The refrigerator began to hum.
“You guys remember it?” Ken asked, not looking at them, “Your first kill?”
Omi nodded. Yohji sat still and stared into his coffee.
“I was so scared. I damn near wet myself. Then we get there…it went so fast,” he shook his head and rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin, “I was all geared up. Then we get out of there and it was just…gods. I threw up on the way home.”
“Yeah, in my damn car,” Yohji contributed with a rueful look that changed easily into a small smile. Ken offered one in return.
“I,” Omi started, stopped, then found himself watched and went on, “well, you remember. Not exactly professional.”
Again they all shared a smile, but it was harder that time. Yohji remembered Omi’s first kill, not for the target, but for the way the kid had cried. It had been miserable, trying to comfort him when they had barely known each other.
“How about you?” Ken asked.
Yohji didn’t want to answer that, not really, but he felt obligated in the face of their openness.
“It was before,” he said simply, “He was gonna kill my partner. I don’t regret it.”
“Did you throw up?” Ken was baiting him.
Yohji scoffed, “I got my ass good and drunk. Then I threw up.”
“Great coping mechanism, Kudou,” Ken returned easily, giving him another one of those meager smiles.
It might have been a lousy conversation, but Yohji was glad to have it with people who understood. And it kept them from going over it alone.
~*~
Aya stood in front of the window, staring out into the darkness.
It had been awkward before, with both he and Yohji lying awake in bed. He hadn’t wanted to talk and had ultimately feigned sleep so Yohji would leave him alone, half surprised when it actually worked. The blonde had shifted him gently and had gotten up and gone away.
There had been a moment of fear, and Aya had almost dropped his act to ask the blonde to stay.
But he didn’t want to talk. And if Yohji staid, they would talk.
Taking a deep breath, Aya thought about what he had to do. Part of him, a decidedly weak part, screamed for him to get out. He shut it down forcibly. He had failed at many things, but Aya knew how to be strong and how to get through.
He didn’t think he would die.
He could do this. He knew it. One swing of the sword, correct angle, enough force.
The man would die, along with the last of his fragile honor. There wasn’t much left, only that tiniest bit of reserve, the fact that he had tried his best for his sister and that he hadn’t committed any crime intentionally.
But the rest was gone, much ebbed away as he had realized what he was, the remainder taken by Crawford and Schuldig and the rest of them. And this tiny bit, that was his to give away.
He would. For her, Aya would.
*** ** ***
“It would be disgraceful, Amiko! To have such a—”
“Husband, please. I’m not saying he should run the company, certainly not, but can you really exclude him all together? What about your father’s wishes?”
“It’s a matter of pride. I can’t let the family name be taken over by that, that…he’s my son, Amiko, but he can’t be entrusted with the family name.”
“Don’t worry. Aya will have a good husband. You’ve made sure of it.”
“Yes. Her son…he’ll be what we want. But father—”
Leaning on the wall just outside the open door, Ran listened to his parents talk. Only five, he already knew the familiar words. Different. Strange. Foreign. Freak. Him.
He had caused so much trouble, and now his father... He didn’t understand that part, not all of it, but he knew about honor and rightness, and he knew that he had messed up somehow.
“Little Ran?” a voice said suddenly from behind him. He jumped, startled by the sudden appearance of his grandfather. A guilty blush stained his cheeks as he was found eavesdropping.
But the old man just smiled.
It was late at night, and his grandfather wore a dark blue yukata over light pants, looking regal and elegant even in this informality .His wrinkled face was drawn in concern, but not unfriendly. Gently, he took the boy’s hand and led him down the length of the covered porch. They sat together on the wooden steps, looking out at the night-dimmed garden. Aya could hear the fountain even though he couldn’t see it.
He loved his grandfather’s house. It was quiet and traditional, the large Fujimiya family home tucked away in the mountains. They came to visit several times a year, and his grandfather always seemed so pleased to see them, even him.
“You’re too young to be listening to that talk, little Ran,” he said, not unkindly as he reached to tug the boy’s gray yukata back up on his shoulder. Ran wore a lot of gray; his mother said it helped his hair, as much as anything could.
“I’m sorry,” the boy apologized. He watched his bare feet, scooting them along the wood.
They sat still for a few minutes, and Ran wondered if his grandfather was waiting to tell on him. Then the old man shifted. With a grunt, he stood.
“I want to show you something.”
They walked again, around the corner and to another door. His grandfather carefully slid open the door and ushered him inside, pausing for a moment to turn on a lamp.
It was a large, open room, with polished floors. On one side there were shelves and pictures, and it was here that Ran was led by his grandfather.
“Look here,” the man said, taking down one of the pictures and handing it to Ran. He held it with both hands, staring at the young man in the black and white photograph. He wore a gi and hakama and was holding a large trophy.
“That’s me,” his grandfather explained, smiling again. “I was a great kendo competitor.”
He took away the picture and pointed to a shelf. The trophy sat there, the tallest among many others. Ran stood in awe, looking up at all the things his grandfather had won. He was a great man.
The man slowly led him to another shelf. On top of it Ran saw a sword.
“You see that?”
He nodded.
“That belonged to your ancestor, Kiran. You were named for him.
“He was a samurai, Ran, one of the best. He fought for justice, and he saved many lives. Your father believes his name means ‘spirit of the orchid,’ but I think he is wrong. The kanji are different from yours, but they are old and debatable. You know what ‘kira’ is, little Ran?”
“Yes.”
“Killer,” his grandfather answered seriously. “Kiran knew that that he couldn’t sit still and bring justice. He knew that he had to step forward and fight for what he believed in, and in that way he became an honorable man.”
Carefully his grandfather knelt stiffly beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“Grandfather?” he questioned.
“You’re directly descended from him, Ran. You’re the eldest son of the eldest son, all the way back. No matter what your father decides, you are worthy of every bit of…that sword will be yours.
“You see that, over there?” he asked, gesturing across the room to a shinai lying in the corner. Ran nodded. “Go get it for me.”
Ran hurried to do as he was bid, but when he tried to hand the practice sword to the old man, his grandfather pushed it away.
“Keep it. Take it with you, and learn to use it. Take action, Ran. Make yourself into a good man, a strong man who doesn’t sit by while bad things happen to them. Make your own honorable path, and when you are a man, come back to me and I will give you that sword.
“That will be your inheritance.”
*** ** ***
At some point in his life, after he had figured out exactly what it meant to be largely excluded from his father’s estate and business, Aya had dreamed of becoming something else. He knew that he would be a banker or lawyer, but even at the age of twelve he had secreted away dreams of becoming a samurai. Now that dream came back to him, twisted, but there.
He would go out into the night and exact justice. The man deserved to die, he knew, and the police would do nothing, just as they had done nothing for him. He hadn’t deserved it. But these girls—so much like Aya-chan—they didn’t deserve to be hurt. Aya would exact revenge for them. He wanted to.
And that scared him.
Was he so strange, so wrong, that he wanted to be a murderer? Was Crawford right, that he was filthy? Had it been more than superstition that told his father his soul was that of a demon?
His grandfather had been right, he was like Kiran. He was a killer, and a sword was definitely part of his inheritance. It wasn’t the samurai sword he had longed for, but it would do the bloody work he was meant for.
~tbc~
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