Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Discord in the House of Assassins ❯ Something Wicked Their Way Came ( Chapter 1 )

Discord in the House of Assassins

 

 

(Disclaimer: I don't own them, except for the Assassin of the menacing Spoon of Death, the lint technique, and the Naturalist Assassin school of thought.)

 

 

It lay there in the middle of the counter, treacherously.

 

Amidst the clutter, it's easy to regard the thing as, well, clutter- simple, harmless, mundane. It wasn't even that aesthetic for that matter. Just clutter-like. Like lint found in the pockets of pants everywhere. But in the House of Assassins, though clutter may assume an aura of innocent simple-ness and mundane-ity *(those weren't really words… mind you) they never are completely harmless. Not all the time. A folding chair, for example, the penicillin to all rheumatic old people afflicted with the 24-hour you-have-to-wait-in-line-because-it's-a-bureaucratic-system syndrome, could in the hands of persons who do not need too much imagination but has to at least be capable (or, even just an adrenaline rush is adequate) be swung with deadly accuracy and temerity (not to mention, velocity) at an assailant or an… assail-ee**. But, as professional cable TV wrestling has shown, this extra use for the common folding chair is not exclusive to the men of Assassin…-ing*** alone.

 

An Assassin of high caliber, such as the fellows who dwell in the House of Assassins mentioned (but, is NOT disclosed as the Building of the Flower Store Kitty in the House), can use the mysterious lint (found in pockets of pants everywhere) to kill a target or… target-er^. It is just the case of gathering a big enough wad (or ball, if you like) of lint and sticking it into the right facial hole with as much force as one needs to push an elephant off of one's foot. The best results are when the size of the ball of lint is at least twice as big as the hole- say, a nostril. Though, good results also comes when the lint has so penetrated the nostril or the mouth as to cause great discomfort to it's victim who, if s/he survives, will require extensive therapy to get rid of the manic fear of lint. This technique must be applied quietly, of course, and without even the hint of sweat. But, of course, a smile of ironic disposition can be assumed^^.

 

BUT the Assassin of high caliber wouldn't purposefully do such a thing for he (or she) is never without a proper weapon. Only the Assassins of the school of Naturalist Thought (which asserts that an Assassin needs no weapon, for his surroundings and his ingenuity are his only proper weapon) risks going without the concealed dagger, the small wooden gun strapped to the ankle or, in the case of one Assassin, the really menacing Spoon of Death^^^.

 

But this specific clutter's menace isn't in how it can be creatively used in six different ways of direct killing and ten more for maiming, its menace lies simply on the realms of Ego and Discord.

 

Let us describe this clutter. It is a silvery cylinder of 18 inches. A minute fraction of a second after the first look the brain recognizes that it is a) a vertical rack of 4-inch high mugs, b) made of that metal-thingy that keeps warm the coffee, c) of simple, even Spartan design (for there are luxurious kind of simples, and this one is NOT that kind), and d) there's a different word on the side of each cup. Then the thought of the word carrot appears to mind, but only for a moment (because the brain can associate anything to everything, and they don't have to have apparent reasons for being associated), followed by the flashing of the picture of the generic carrot†. Again, it is not what the artistic eye of several of the Assassins regard as aesthetic. None remembers buying the damn thing even. But, it was there and, like many things in their lives (far too many, one Assassin would wryly comment), just happened.

 

It was generally ignored for some days, until an unfortunate day for some black, nondescript `don't-ever-touch-this-or-else' mug fell, broke, and was buried in the trashcan. The owner of the late mug sees this as a minor inconvenience (but that is not how the late mug saw it, to be sure) because he needed to have his tea. Need, of course, is a huge word for this Assassin, for there are quite many things he would spurn, saying they are not needed (i.e. basic human affection, moral and legal dispensing of justice, forgiveness, a color chart for his wardrobe, etc.) but tea IS tea and he needed it NOW. So, when his eyes espied the aforementioned clutter, he took liberty of being the first to use one of the mugs.

 

There were four mugs, each for every Assassin. Aya, as the Assassin without a mug is named, thinks there is no reason at all to consult his fellows for which mug he would get. He was the leader of their group, and he judged getting to choose his pick of the mugs without consulting the others is just one of the few perks he got for the job. Besides, it's just a mug. So he chose the mug that had the word “powerful” written on one side. Three pairs of eyes, as he sipped from it nonchalantly, noted this.

 

The first pair of a brilliant green hue belonged to the Assassin who was a certain rebel. Not rebel as in `take arms and live in the hills' rebel, but Rebel as in would rebel to anything denoting Authority. And it is a bit off that he turns out not as the youngest of the group, but the oldest (for, we all equate rebelliousness to youth). And to anyone who possesses the gift of plain sight, Aya is a certain Authority figure. And Yohji, the Rebel figure, certainly knew this.

 

The second pair of eyes, a deep dark brown pair, belonged to the huge-hearted Assassin. Of the four, he was certainly the nearest to normal. And, like any normal sane man suddenly thrust into the world of crime, shadow, nightly crusades of vengeance, and red stiletto shoes worn with socks, he is voted first to teeter on the edge of sanity (for the ground is sanity, and across it and its' edge, the colorful void‡ of insanity). Abnormal (and you must forgive me for this word) men do not go insane, normal men do. And Ken, as said before, was the most normal of the three. But his daily ravaged mind is compensated and balanced by his huge heart that can encompass three other men, a flower shop, the old landlady and her cat, a big group of young obnoxious children, a whole J-League soccer team, two soccer fields, a girlfriend far away and the whole of Australia. And always, always, a room for one more. Ken, the Assassin of the huge heart, felt a bit sorry for Aya, but also, for Ken's passionate personality can be good and bad, irked that the said Assassin deems them only as subjects and not equals.

 

The third pair of eyes the color of cornflower blue crayons belonged to the youngest Assassin. The youngest Assassin is a paradox because he IS the oldest Assassin. He is the first member of their elite team and has been trained for this ever since he could remember (although allowances must be given for his memory has a big gap- can't remember where he came from, you see). But for some reason, everyone thinks he's innocent. Deprived is more of the word, because the three older Assassins at least experienced puberty without the nagging feeling that the man they killed last night is some classmate's father. Or the victim they saw the other day was the teacher's missing daughter. In that sense, they are innocent, while he is not. But they persist on thinking Omi can be treated as the youngest because of cardinal age. And besides, Omi hated being assigned the cute or kiddy or sissy gifts in a set of four. There's ALWAYS the cute/kiddy/sissy gift in a set of four. And he always gets it. Well, he thought, not today. I'm going to choose my mug. But this is not to say that he's a rebel, because that would be Yohji. Omi's a pretty level-minded kid, and he's not much of a rebel. He just doesn't like the sissy gifts, is all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

*not a word. But it's the word I'm looking for.

 

**I don't know what the counterpart of the word assailant is with the root word `assail' in it for uniformity.

 

***how do you say that anyway? I mean, not just `men of the killing profession' or `Assassin profession'. Kind of a more formal Assassin…ing.

 

^ there's that counterpart word problem again.

 

^^for it is always ironic to any professional killer or bodyguard to kill with and to be killed by the common pants-hold (well, they're not household) lint- found in the pocket of pants anywhere.

 

^^^ my kind of Assassin, hehe. The demented ones. If the menacing Spoon of Death had a sharp edge, it could very well be Farfarello. But maybe this one would be an original character with some future use in other fics.

 

† you know how a thought just occur without any prompting? Like a picture carrot just flashes through your head? Or maybe a squash? It happens. The brain just doesn't want to explain it.

 

‡colorful void- how does a void, it being a void, get colorful? Well, it is the void of insanity.