Yami No Matsuei Fan Fiction ❯ Shattered Emeralds ❯ Marionettes ( Chapter 1 )

Shattered Emeralds

By: Vain 11.2001

I don't own Yami no Matsuei, nor can I claim Hisoka, Tsuzuki, Watari, Muraki, nor Tatsumi-Yoko Matsushita does. Please don't sue me; I'm poor and I'm not bright enough to try and profit from this. Read and review, please!! ^_~

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!!!!!!!! READ THIS, OR YOU WILL BE CONFUSED !!!!!!!!

::TIMELINE INFORMATION::

Okay, here's the deal:

This is slight AU. Tsuzuki was sent on an extended vacation for a year, so when Hisoka came to the department, he ended up getting paired with Watari instead. Unfortunately, a certain platinum-haired pedophile was waiting in the wings and decided that it was time to "re-acquire" his former plaything. Now, six months later, Tsuzuki has returned to JuOhCho to find everything turned upside down. Worst of all, no one will tell him what's going on. And, moreover, why is Tsuzuki dreaming about a mysterious boy with emerald eyes whom he's never met, and just what does he have to do with this new case?

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PART ONE

MARIONETTES

The air was cold and still, an artificial, air conditioned cold. It was sterile, painful to the lungs and abrasive on the skin, but he had long since adapted to such discomforts. If the chill air was all he had to endure today, he would happily count it as a very good day indeed. Kurosaki Hisoka hardly ever had good days.

Green eyes opened and quickly closed again when the master's presence was felt. He could feel the master-something that both relieved and nauseated him. The master's presence was pain; a slow, dull ache that moved across his skin and over the deep lines of the curse etched into his very soul. It was like a lover's caress . . . except the fingers were made of knives. But there was, much to his horror, pleasure in the master's presence. The master could give so, so much pleasure if one could endure the pain. That was, of course, the trick-enduring the pain mentally, physically, and emotionally.

He had no choice but to endure the pain. A prisoner in his own body, what more could he do? He could watch, feel, hear, taste, and touch world around him, but affect it? No. He couldn't even relieve himself if the master choose not to allow it. His mind was free, but his body, his damnably weak and unfinished child's body, was not. And that was probably the worst pain of all, being trapped within his own skull. No torture he had suffered in either life or death could compare with that.

Weight settled lightly on the edge of his bed and a hand gently stroked his cheek. It was amazing how gentle that hand could be. "Awake already, my poppet?" The hand slid down his cheek to his neck and from there began to explore his bare chest. The master never allowed him to sleep clothed and it was not uncommon for him to go for days in the nude. "Open your eyes for me, pet. Look upon your master's face."

The youth obediently opened his eyes and was rewarded for his efforts with a smile. Muraki, beautiful, horrible Muraki, gazed at him through his expensive crystal clear lenses with a deadly spark in his unnatural blue eyes. Some of his platinum colored hair tumbled free of his neat, carefully brushed ponytail and fell down into his face, hiding his warped right eye. His face itself was perfectly carved china. He looked like something artificial: too smooth and perfect and pale to have been made for the real world.

"Hisoka," Muraki purred as his hand continued its downward path drawing idle patterns across his washboard stomach before sliding lower still, "oh, my delicious Hisoka, why does your mind still fight me? You are mine. Accept that and your life will be so much simpler." The hand began to stroke the boy's limp penis gently, teasing Hisoka until an involuntary whimper escaped him. "I can make you feel such pleasure . . ." The hand clenched tight painfully and Muraki leaned in closer to Hisoka's grimacing face so that the gentle scent of the ocean and roses-his scent-washed over the hurting youth. "Or I can make you feel pain. Which do you want, Hisoka? Pleasure or pain?"

Hisoka struggled with himself to turn away and close his eyes, but the master had commanded him to look at him, so look at him he must. A year ago this treatment would have made him weep. A year ago his helplessness would have made him weep. But time had passed, and this pain and helplessness was natural now-this was the way things were and he could no longer deny it. But if he could save the other . . .

Muraki released him and resumed stroking his cheek. "What am I, Hisoka?"

The words that had been forced down his throat were automatically regurgitated against the boy's will. "You are my Master."

Muraki slapped him hard, snapping his head to the side and making the world seem to pitch and tilt. "What am I, slave?"

"Everything."

The master smiled again then, pleased with Hisoka's automated response and leaned down and caught the boy's lips in a hungry and passionate kiss. The kiss was returned clinically. They both knew that the youth was just going through the motions. He was lucky, though; Muraki forgave him this time.

The pale man pulled back and gently brushed fine brown hair out of shimmering green eyes that seethed with hatred and humiliation. No matter what he lived through, the humiliation would always be there and no matter how many times Muraki took him the violation remained the same. "Good boy," the man murmured as though Hisoka was a pet dog. "Now get washed up and get dressed. There's work to do today. He's come back at last."

Muraki stood and left and Hisoka's body arose, obedient to the master's will, and began to clothe itself in the items the master had left behind for him. His mind wandered as his body continued to move to under it's own volition. So he's come . . . It's time for things to really begin in earnest, then.

Hisoka sighed and pulled on a long brown trench coat. Muraki always kept him in earth tones-he said it brought out his natural beauty. He would have to begin to fight again now. No more holding back anymore. No more concealing his true power and lying in wait. The other . . . the man from his visions . . . had at last come. It was time to bring things to an end.

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Tsuzuki paused outside of the Chief's office and frowned as two familiar voices carried to him through the door. It was unusual to hear shouting coming from this office-particularly if he was right about whom he thought was doing all the yelling.

The voice carried distinctly through the wood; a southern accent giving the fevered words a falsely gentle, lilting quality. "No!! You didn't even give me a chance to really look! You can't just sweep him aside like he doesn't even matter!!"

"This case was set aside over three months ago. If you weren't such a good agent as well as a valued scientist I would have suspended you for going against orders and continuing to pursue the matter."

"But he's still out there, I know it!! Just a little more time, please! I'll find him! I swear! We can't just give up."

"I've made up my mind-"

"Damnit, we can't just abandon him!!!!!!"

"THAT IS ENOUGH, WATARI-SAN!!!"

Tsuzuki flinched. Never in his seventy-plus years at Enma-Chou had he ever heard the Chief raise his voice, let alone actually shout. So I was right; it is Watari. But what are they arguing about?

The passion and raw desperation he heard in the other man's voice seemed so out of character for the blond Shinigami that Tsuzuki found it impossible to imagine what had the normally chipper man so distraught. He pressed his ear against the door once again, frowning as he concentrated.

"Spying?"

Tsuzuki flinched again at the sound of the deep voice behind him, unintentionally rapping his head on the wood of the door. He spun around, violet eyes wide and innocent. "Tatsumi!! You know I would never do anything like that. I was just-"

"Examining the pores of the wood for clogs?" The tall man adjusted his glasses and smirked knowingly while Tsuzuki flushed an unnatural shade of red. "Come now, Tsuzuki," he chided. "Is that any way to begin your first day of work in over a year?"

The amethyst eyed Shinigami instantly went into "Pity Me Puppy Mode" and turned an enormous pair of eyes to his former partner. "Tatsuuuuuuuuuuuumi . . ."

The secretary sighed. "You had better hurry, Tsuzuki. You're already late." He turned around to go, but hesitated. "And Tsuzuki?"

"Huh?" The other man stopped with his hand on the doorknob and stared at his friend curiously.

Tatsumi kept his back to his former partner. "Be nice to Watari, Tsuzuki-kun. Extra nice. He's . . . had a rough time of things."

Nice? Nice to Watari? But I'm ALWAYS nice . . . It's safer that way . . .

He stared after his old friend for a long moment, confusion etched on his finely carved features. Nice?

He pushed the door open to the Chief's office, walked in, and-

And nearly choked when he saw Watari Yukata. The blond looked thin and haggard, his ever-present lab coat seemed to be less immaculate than usual simply because of the way it hung off of his near-emaciated frame. His face, usually lively and handsome, looked weathered as though he had aged, despite the fact that Shinigami never age-ever. Dark smudges underlined his eyes and his lips had a dry, stretched appearance to them, like an old rubber band stretched too far too fast. The irises were normally tawny gold like a lion's fur, but now they were a dead luster, tarnished gold that had been left behind in favor of newer, brighter toys. Even his little companion-the owl 003-had a bedraggled misused appearance about him.

Tsuzuki stared at his friend in horror, manners and greeting forgotten in his shock. "Watari?! What's happened to you?!"

The Chief looked up gravely and settled further back into his chair. "Have a seat, Tsuzuki-kun."

The brunette Shinigami looked from his boss to his co-worker. One looked grave and tight lipped and the other refused to meet his gaze, instead studying the edges of his lab coat against his brown pants dejectedly. Tsuzuki sat down warily. "Yes, sir?"

The Chief sighed, a tired exhalation of air. "I know that you just got back from vacation, Tsuzuki, but I want you in Kyoto ASAP."

The young man blinked and barely avoided stealing a peek at Watari. "But . . . I work Kyushu, sir . . . Isn't Kyoto Watari's area . . .?"

"Yes. You will be his partner on this mission."

Violet eyes blinked again. Watari's partner . . .? Out of the corner of his eye he saw the blond shift restlessly. Apparently, Watari wasn't exactly thrilled with this either.

"But-"

"No 'buts,' " a firm voice interrupted him. "My decision in this matter is final." The last was directed at the blond scientist who only responded by sinking deeper into his chair. "Watari, you are to update Tsuzuki on the way back to the human world, understand? You two are both Shinigami and have been doing your job for years. Act like it. You're dismissed." A large stack of paper was straightened out by being banged against the desk with unnecessary force in summation and both Shinigami rose and made a hasty retreat.

As he closed the door behind him, Tsuzuki looked over at his partner hesitantly. Although Shinigami normally worked in pairs, Watari tended to be an exception. This was because his partners often met with unfortunate . . . accidents as a direct result of being paired with the scientist. Once Watari had "accidentally" slipped one of his partners one of his experiments. The poor woman's legs turned to stone for a week, during which time she was incapable of moving. The sad part was that such accidents were not uncommon. It was a well-known joke and oft-proven fact that Watari was just as hazardous to his co-workers as he was to his enemies. There were very few Shinigami left anywhere in JuOhCho who brave enough to work day in and day out with the blond, and although Tsuzuki had known Watari for years and counted him to be a close friend, he was not one of those brave people. But now he was stuck with him.

For his part, Watari simply gave his new partner a forced smile that looked almost as painful to hold as it was to view. "I guess we're stuck together, huh?" he asked in a pathetically futile attempt to sound upbeat.

Tsuzuki flinched internally and forced a smile of his own. "There are worse fates. So what's the case about?"

Unbeknownst to the pair, a figure watched them in the shadows. After the two had vanished, Tatsumi stepped out into the faded light and went into the Chief's office. The elderly-looking gentleman had turned his chair away from the desk and ignored his friend as he entered. Tatsumi gently set a large file down on the desk and waited.

"That's it?" a voice rumbled.

"Yes, Chief. That's all the information we could find. The boy's file is included." Tatsumi removed his glasses, took out a pure white handkerchief, and began to polish the lenses fastidiously. "You do realize that we're sending them right into the mouth of the beast." It was not a question.

"What would you have me do, old friend?" Large, meaty hands lifted up the file and began to flip through it. "Whoever has the boy is obviously after Tsuzuki now, too. The little one presents too much of a potential danger and is too important a field agent to just let slide through the cracks."

"And Tsuzuki?"

"Is quite capable of handling himself. In seventy years, he's never faced anything he couldn't defeat. I trust him to take care of this."

Tatsumi held his glasses up to the light and peered through the lenses. "The boy couldn't."

Pages rustled. "The boy was young and inexperienced."

They were both quiet for a long moment before the Chief spoke again, softly this time, almost reflectively. "This looks very, very bad for the Shokan division, Tatsumi. Between the child's disappearance and Watari's current state, this looks very bad indeed. We don't even know who has him. You will draw more flies with honey than with vinegar, my friend."

The Secretary of Enma-Chou nodded once and turned to go. "I hope you're right then, sir. If you're not, imagine how much worse it will look for us. One of our strongest agents and one of Hades' most powerful empaths snatched right out of our nest . . . It will be worse than we can imagine."

The Chief watched the heavy mahogany door swing shut behind Tatsumi. "I know," he whispered to the barren room, "but that's why it has to be Tsuzuki-kun, Tatsumi. What stronger bait could there be?"

His sad gaze flicked down to the Polaroid in the file. A fragile, lost looking teen was huddled on the ground in the picture. The boy had been stripped, bound, and gagged. It was quite obvious from the marks on his body that he had been abused in various ways. Bruises marred his smooth complexion and his striking emerald eyes were lidded and averted, whether it was from shame, exhaustion, drugs, or pain, one could not tell. On the bottom of the photo in tiny, flawlessly delicate print was written:

To whom it concerns,

Thank you for taking such good care of my property. My collection is not quite complete, though. Be sure that my pretty violet-eyed doll is ready for me when he returns.

The picture and a blood red rose had been sent to Watari one week after the boy's disappearance. Thankfully Tatsumi had intercepted both the flower and the photo first. If Watari had seen the child's photo . . . given the condition the guilt wracked scientist had been in after the kidnapping, he may very well have lost his mind. The Chief's hand clenched convulsively and it took a conscious effort not to crush the photo in his grip.

"What stronger bait is there?" he asked the picture. "What else can we do?" The boy in the photo remained silent, frozen in an eternal heap of broken human being. The file closed with a quiet rush of air.

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Once, when Hisoka had been a child, his mother had beaten him. She had split his lower lip, bruised two of his ribs, and left him bruised and battered all because he had tried to help her. She had been crying and he heard her, so he had snuck into his parents' bedroom and had begun to send her soothing feelings to ease her pain. She recognized the alien emotions for what they were, however, and upon spying her "witch brat" son hiding behind a table, had lost control in her fear and misguided sense of violation. That had been a week and a half before his eleventh birthday. That was also the last time he ever tried to alter someone's emotions. Until the master came for him, that is.

It was late afternoon, almost evening, and the descending sun cast long shadows over Kyoto. The wind blew, carrying with it the cloying scent of sakura and Hisoka's nose twitched at the smell. Once more, he wished he could move under his own volition. He wished he could stretch or sigh or smile. Or better yet, whirl around, take out his gun, and shoot the white-clad figure beside him in the forehead. The blood would go everywhere, splattering the neat white suit and bursting over the stones of the building beside them in a glorious explosion of crimson. He wished he could see that. He wished he didn't have to wait any longer.

Muraki came up behind him and gently squeezed his shoulders. He bent down to whisper in Hisoka's ear and his breath smelt like crushed mint leaves. "Her."

Hisoka's eyes followed Muraki's to observe a tall young woman just out of her teens carefully sipping a tiny cup of tea. She twisted a strand of black hair around a delicate finger and looked into the distance. Hisoka felt a pang deep inside him and pushed it aside. Such emotions wouldn't save her and would only hinder him.

"I want her," Muraki breathed in his ear. "She'll make the perfect sacrifice to him."

Hisoka nodded mechanically, a living marionette that felt his strings being pulled and was powerless to stop it, and focused his glassy eyes on her with a terrible intensity. She stiffened and placed her cup on the table with a heavy leaden motion and turned to stare at Hisoka and Muraki. Her eyes were almost black, he noted. After a moment of eye contact she looked straight ahead again and Hisoka shivered.

Muraki gently slid one hand down his arm to catch his hand and draw him back into the shadows. His glasses flashed ominously in the light. "Now we wait, poppet. Soon . . ."

Hisoka nodded again, a limp bobbing of his head. "Yes, Master." Yes, soon . . . Soon it would all be over.

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