syllable mosaic of the cracked sort

shatterworks @ 2008-06-12T21:43:00

2008-06-13T01:43:53Z

stockholm

053 | power 。 1,710 。 PG-15 。 shun , namae
much older drabble started back during a city at war
pulled it out and cleaned it up a bit for fun, but still unfinished

Slats of sodium yellow lights and the screech of traffic, the gentle waft of smoke and cyanide in the air at four AM, the alcohol's singing in his brain and tinting everything a psychedelic tone of red-black-red. Nameless dogs wander back alleys after intoxication, and Namae's no different, save the cigarette in his lips, a source of sweet nicotine and toxins that he breathes in and savors.

There's gasoline in the air, light and thin, and the match is in his hand, ready to drop.

Potential.

And a trigger.

A sick smile paints his lips when he turns a corner to find a familiar figure standing there, backlit by the sickly orange glow of a street lamp and hunched over a motor scooter, the key held in slender fingers glowing a nasty shade of yellow. The click of a lock. He watches as the ghost undoes the chain that ties the scooter to the post, straightens up, loops it around the handles of the bike.

The rattle of metal links is the cue for him to enter the stage, and there's the crunch of loose dirt under his boots as he steps forward, a sneer on his lips.

"It's been a while."

The ghost whirls around to face him immediately, dark eyes narrowed then widening for a moment in recognition - is that fear in your eyes, little bitch, or is just the wariness that all animals are born with? Are you even an animal, or are you just the shadow of a beast? Namae takes another step forward, smirk widening.

"Remember me?"

There's no answer but the soft rustle of cloth as the ghost takes a defensive stance, hand reaching back and fumbling at a belt - you got a weapon there, little ghost? The dog steps closer, cigarette dropping to the ground and dying out in a moment, weak embers fading fast.

"I'm sure you do." Crash-clatter-crunching steps, and he can almost reach out to grab the ghost's arm, can almost taste the blood that flows through the veins hidden by pale skin - but he can't see any fear/anger/hatred in those eyes. It pisses him off. (You won't scream, you won't show fear, you won't show hatred, you won't show anything. Are you a person or are you already dead?) "You were a pretty good fuck." Poison words, sweet, cutting. "Bet you liked it."

There's no answer but the wail of a car horn in the distance that fades after a moment.

He smiles.

"I'll prove it."

The ghost moves first, draws something sharp - it's a swtichblade - the blade glinting dully, and it gives a shriek as it slices through the air, just missing his neck - it snags the skin of his shoulder, rips through -

-- a splash of opera scarlet --

-- a kick aimed at his side --

-- dodge it, lunge with his good arm, empty sleeve fluttering --

-- a sharp sidehand blow to that narrow wrist, the knife clattering to the ground, the blade sparking against concrete --

-- grappling, struggling, narrow limbs shaking against wrought-iron grip --

-- a shove back, slamming the ghost into the brick wall --

-- a ragged gasp, and the thump as a knee hits the ground, must have been the collision between the back of his head and solid concrete --

-- and, before the ghost can get up, Namae's stepped up to him, and deals him a kick to the stomach, the tip of his boots sinking deep - he's got a wild look in his eyes, and he only laughs as the other groans, retches, collapses onto the ground on all fours, chest heaving, fingers twitching, hands shaking, black eyes still glaring up with no signs of anything in them--

-- he lets out a barking sort of laugh.

There's a dull crack as he kicks him upside the head, then the soft thud as the body hits the ground in a tangle of narrow limbs. It's almost too easy. Reaching down, he entwines his fingers in black hair, jerks up and leans forward to whisper into his ear, spitting out harsh, grating syllables--

"I'm not done, yet."

-----

Shun wakes up to a dizzying sensation and complete darkness. A blindfold. A strip of rough cloth tied about his head - he can't open his eyes - it takes him only a moment longer to realize that his wrists are tied behind his back - rope, it's thick, he can't move them enough to escape - there's a cold weight against his back, it feels like he's tied to something - a metal pole?

He twists his wrists, tries to escape.

No use.

It's silent, the only sound the rough echo of his breathing. The underground? Halting his struggles, he listens for something, anything - he hears something like a shout in the distance that echoes and rings - gers nothing in the end.

He waits.

-----

Only a few hours since he's brought the ghost to one of the more secluded areas of the Underground, and Namae snaps awake when there's the digital trill of a cellphone. It echoes around the room, and there's a snarl on his lips as he rolls off the bed and approaches the corner where he's got the son of a bitch tied against a gas pipe.

There's no response - no movement, no noise, no flinch, no nothing - as he rifles through a pocket and draws out a cellphone - it's one of the older models, it keeps repeating a simple melody, it's fucking annoying - and flips it open.

"--Shun? What took you so long?"

The voice echoes through the room, and the ghost hears it - looks up with blindfolded eyes - startled, alerted, alarmed, maybe. Poor, pathetic sucker.

Namae smirks as he crouches down, shoves the phone roughly against the other's head, whispering,

"Go ahead."

There's no kindness in his words.

A pause, then from the other side,

"Hello? Shun? Can you hear me?"

Another pause, silence, then, quiet words. When Namae lets go of the phone, Shun props it up with his shoulder, straining. Trying to maintain normalcy.

Well, we'll see how long that lasts.

"Yes, Kaito. I'm sorry, I was a little distracted. What is it?"

"Oh, you're there."

"Yes."

"Are you okay? You sound a little hoarse."

"Yes, I'm fine."

Not any more.

Because there's a visible flinch when Namae flicks open a switchblade and runs it almost tenderly down the side of his neck. A slight tremor. A pause. A shaky breath out.

"--well, the aunties were wondering if something happened, since you didn't show up this morning--"

Slide the blade down pale skin marred by bruises, over where delicate tendons and veins lay, toward a collarbone, the tip pressing hard enough to hurt, but not enough to bleed.

"--and then I dropped by the store, but you weren't there, either, so--"

"Kaito."

It must have had at least some small effect, because there're traces of hesitation in the way the ghost calls the name. Namae chuckles, and flicks the knife up to press against Shun's chin, forcing him to cant his head up the slightest bit.

"--yeah?"

"I will be away on a business trip to meet with some sponsors for a few days."

"Oh."

"I'm sorry I didn't get to tell you any sooner. It was an abrupt arrangement, and I was required to leave quickly."

"Oh, okay, then. I'll tell that to the aunties."

"It may take me a few days. I will drop by when I return."

"Sure! Alright, I gotta go to class, then."

"Good luck."

"Alright. Be careful!"

The click as the call ends is almost loud, but it's easily muffled by the clatter of the phone dropping to the floor when Namae flicks the blade up and runs the tip lightly - almost gently - across the dark bruise on the pale cheek, where he'd kicked him across the head.

"Your name's Shun, huh?"

Lazy words. He clicks the switchblade shut with a flick of his wrist.

"I'm Namae."

Shun doesn't respond. Just sits there, unflinching, breathing in out in out with a steady rhythm.

Again, we'll see how long that lasts.

"Nice to meet you."

-----

Time has no meaning, and Shun doesn't know how long it's been since he's been left here. It's cold, and he's long since lost the feeling in his wrists, rope digging into tender skin, rough fibers cutting deep. He's bleeding, and it's warm. Everything feels numb, dull, muted.

He doesn't realize Namae's there until the footsteps are right next to him.

The slight crunch of gravel under combat boots. He doesn't flinch.

"You've been here a while," comes the growl. Unslurred by alcohol. It's almost friendly. "Getting hungry?"

He doesn't answer, doesn't move. If a response is what's wanted, it's what he won't give. But he can't help but flinch, gasping for breath when a cascade of water hits him; it splashes down on the back of his neck, drips down, it's cold, cold, it forces the breath out of him, and he hisses, feeling rivulets of ice run down his chest.

"Thought you might be thirsty." There's laughter - cruel and smug - laced into that voice. Footsteps. Fading, this time.

Only when he's absolutely sure that the footsteps have gone - they've been out of earshot for a long time, he doesn't know how long, but he's counted to at least a thousand - does he realize how cold it is. Cold. Dark. The numbness has crept up his wrists, most of his arm's dead.

He shivers.

-----

It's been about half day. Maybe a little less.

Namae's enjoying this game.

It's rare that he ever bothers to torment people like this - he usually kills them, maybe fucks them if they piss him off badly enough, leaves them dead in the alleys strewn over trashcans and lets the crows take care of the corpses.

But this one, it pisses him off, that this one won't scream.

Whatever.

He can play this game for as long as he needs.

-----

Seconds blur into minutes blur into hours.

Shun passes the time by counting his breaths, by counting the beats of his heart, but he always loses track after the first few thousand. How long has it been? It feels like several days, but this darkness is skewing his sense of time. The pounding in his head from the kick to his head doesn't help - a concussion? - he drifts in and out of consciousness.

Not that being awake is any different from being asleep.

It's all dark and silent and static and muted-echoed-noises.

shatterworks @ 2008-06-08T21:21:00

2008-06-09T01:22:34Z

080608 。 friends

It starts like your average school trip -- all eighty of you in your grade on a short plane trip to some tiny, tropical island where you can chill and laugh and have fun for the three days that you're free from school and society -- life's looking great, isn't it? Yeah, it always is.

Funny how the first night, you walk around the corner in the hallway to see one of your classmate walking around with his girlfriend's decapitated head in his finger and blood dripping from his mouth. You scream, you run, you try to escape, but it's never, ever, ever that easy. You turn the corner again, run headfirst into your best friend who immediately grabs at you, screaming -- there's something wrong, those guys are fighting, they're killing each other, something's wrong, what's happening -- and all you can say is

I don't know.

You run, the two of you, towards where the teachers are sleeping, and run slam into one of the younger teachers -- she's screaming, panicked -- the three of you flee to a tiny cove out near the beach, huddled with a transistor radio, and manage to hear snippets of news above the screaming coming back from the bungalow.

-- infection disease -- insanity -- aggressiveness -- transmitted through skin contact --

And then the teacher, she screams so loud it's like your head's going to shatter -- because your homeroom teacher's standing at the entrance to the cove, leering at the three of you, spittle and blood drooling from lax lips -- Hello, he says, almost polite -- then starts strangling the teacher.

Ignoring the flailing limbs and choked screams, you and your friend make a wild dash for the woods, but not before a wild backhand from the teacher knocks your friend off his feet. And though he scrambles back to his feet, you know it's too late -- his eyes are already starting to widen.

Sorry, you tell him.

And he looks at you, eyes wide, like a cow before the slaughter-line, just staring at you -- until you smash the edge of a shovel just above his ear. He drops to the ground immediately, spasming and jerking around -- you make sure to avoid his twitching hands -- and run. To where? Nowhere. It's an island, and you're trapped. Every once in a while, you hear screams, shouts, hints of movement, and it's like your heart's gonna explode in your chest, a machine-gun rattle against the fragile cage of ribs.

You want to die, you want to live, you're trapped, and you learn to kill those people-turned-monsters without touching them, ignoring the way liquid black eyes stare at you even as you smash in their skulls. It's a little bit like hunting, and you almost enjoy it, that crack of bone giving into metal.

It's almost exhilarating as you watch your childhood crush collapse bleeding from both ears and both eyes.

Five months later, and you've turned into an animal, fighting for survival. The transister radio that you've managed to keep alive for so long finally fizzles out with dying batteries. It's been a long time -- there's been a military raid that tried and failed, and you spent a good half-week burying the dismembered bodies of dead soldiers -- and there was talk of a general firebombing to just kill everyone, but that idea was shot down by protestors who claimed there might still be survivors, and that made you laugh.

One day, you hear the screaming of a helicopter blade, and you rush out of your little cave shelter, glaring up at the black behemoth that descends from the sky.

shatterworks @ 2008-05-01T12:44:00

2008-05-01T16:48:46Z

falling forever

089 | defeat 。 783 。 PG-15 。 ash , namae , shun"
in somnia verse ; a dream one night

Ash, sitting in a room with white walls and a single black door. A low table, made of smokey glass. She's in a strait jacket, and strapped to a glass chair.

Opposite the table, a man smiles at her.

"They're going to die. Aren't you worried?"

She smiles back.

"Nah."

-----
An empty street, it looks like just any other residential alley in the city. One of the streetlamps flickers once, twice, then goes out.

At the far end, a tall shadow. A man wearing a mask. It's hard to tell what it's a mask of, only that is has four horns, twisted and curved. His shoes are visible in the light of a nearby lamp. Black leather. Expensive. Highly polished.

Namae stands with familiar metal pipe in hand, but no cigarette - now's not the time for that. Not smiling, either. Takes two steps forward, the pauses - the man at the other end of the alley is suddenly surrounded by tiny black shapes that hover in the air.

They're not birds, not insects - too flat, too simple, too black. Metallic. One flickers in the light. A gear. Just a simple gear, like in watches and music boxes, just larger, and black. Floating in mid-air.

The scratch of metal on concrete, and Namae lets the end of the pipe drag on the ground.

"Is that it?"

"Yes," the man says. "This is it."

Movement, then, and Namae rushes forward, the metal pipe sparking as the end scratches against the unflattened pavement. Swing up, as a gear comes whistling his way, and he smashes it aside - on the backswing, deflects another gear. Weave to the side, duck down low - dodges each gear that comes shooting his way with expert movements.

But.

"You missed one," spoken with a laugh.

And a gear embeds itself in his stomach.

Stagger back, recover, rush forward again - or at least, try to, before there's a whirring noise and the gear makes a vicious half-turn, metal teeth grinding against the lining of organs. Blood drips down as the gear digs in a bit more, a little deeper. And Namae, he takes a step forward, swallowing back the taste of bile.

"--not yet--"

"Yes yet."

Whirr, click, dig deeper deeper deeper. Stagger -- fall -- Namae drops to his knees, fingers clawing at his stomach where the gear's sunk in between the folds of internal organs.

"Ah, you shouldn't touch."

And the gear spins. Blood, thick at the back of his throat. Tiny bits of flesh come away at his fingers as the metal teeth keep spinning, tearing, desecrating.

-----
An elevator shaft, darkened, save for lights that go whipping downwards as a metal platform shoots upwards, lights that blur into streaks of white.

It bounces off the surface of the metal blade that Shun is holding, fingers grasping tight against the leather grip. It's cold, and his breath fogs in the air as tiny whisps of smoke.

On the other side of the platform, a man. His tie is unclipped, and flaps with each second the elevator continues to streak upwards. Face obscured in the shadows and a mask - a metal grill, and four jeweled eyes, white. A modified gas-mask. Voice warped by layers of air filters.

"Aren't you afraid?"

No answer, but Shun shifts his balance. The elevator is speeding up, and the pressure is getting worse - pressing downwards, ever harder, it's difficult to even stand.

"If you insist in such savage activities,"

and the sigh sounds like a rush of static through the mask, and he raises --

The clash of metal, and Shun's rushed forward, aimed a forehand stab at his shoulder - but parried what looks like a needle, four feet long. Trailing thread. Shun's hands are ringing from the force of the impact, but he pulls back, lunges forward again, aiming at the stomach.

Parried again.

Clash -- crack -- metal on metal -- each blow blocked and tossed aside effortlessly. And each time, Shun staggers a little more, takes a fraction of a second longer to recover and try again.

Thirty-two seconds.

He falls back, panting, gasping.

"You seem troubled," says the man. It sounds almost friendly. "We're going up at a really fast speed. The air is thin up here." A slender finger taps at the filter of the mask, with metallic ping-ing noises. "You're suffocating without the necessary oxygen. And,"

The needle, thrown forward. Shun throws himself to the side and dodges it - and can't get up. Limbs shaking, lungs heaving, throat dry. The pressure of the elevator shooting upwards. The thinning atmosphere. He's choking on air.

The man in the mask steps forward, and leans over him.

"Aren't you afraid?"

-----
Ash, still in the same room.

The same man, at the same table, with the same smile.

He says, "You're going to die, too. Aren't you worried?"

She smiles back again, the same smile.

"Nah. Not really."

shatterworks @ 2008-05-01T12:41:00

2008-05-01T16:41:54Z

080501 。 worms

We approach the slide, the group of us, and he tells us, it's an extraordinary slide, simply superb! It was developed through an algorithm that scientists searched for a long time! But that algorithm, you see, is one that I discovered in 1956, and so I put it to good use. It maximizes the thrill of the slide, makes it all that much more exciting, come, come!

And for some reason, we can't refuse. We climb up to the small platform, all of us, the kids giddy with excitement and happiness, the adults all playing along -- my son's made friends with one of the little girls, and they decide to go on the slide together.

Aren't they sweet? the girl's mother asks me.

And I nod.

But everything starts to go wrong once we get on the slide. It's one where we stand, and the platform whizzes forward -- but we don't lose our balance, for some reason. It's thrilling. But not fun. The scenery goes whizzing past us at a dizzying rate. Then, we enter a tunnel. Walls enclose us. I blink. And then hear the scream.

I turn around just in time to see one of the young mothers suddenly get sucked into that narrow space between the edge of the platform and the walls caging in the slide. Her leg's being ground to mince-meat, and there's blood everywhere. Her husband lunges forward, tries to pull her out, but his added weight must have just made it worse -- they both get sucked into the area between the slide at the walls, torn to shreds and spat up as tiny pieces of flesh and organs and bone. One of the other mothers screams, takes a step back -- ends up a little too close to the far wall.

There are funny little grinding noises as she gets pulled into that gap, slowly, but surely -- we all watch, silent -- as first her leg, her hips, her waist vanishes in a spray of red. The rest of her -- the torso -- is dislodged, and goes thumping onto the floor of the slide, and soon fades out of sight as we go whizzing forward. The platform's growing smaller. The slide swallows up two more people. It's hard to smell anything but blood. My son and his friends are clutching at each other, clinging to my leg. The girl's mother is gone.

Suddenly, the walls vanish -- it's just us on a platform whizzing forward on a narrow railing, the scenery blurring all around us -- and we think we're safe. Then, the platform suddenly bounches, like a spring-loaded trap. My son and his friend are sent flying into the air, too light to stay put on the platform -- the rest of us fall to our knees, shaking. And I watch as the screaming forms of my son and the little girl go soaring through the air and smash onto the pavement many many feet below into small, bloody shapes.

I don't cry, but I know, at that moment, I'll never be able to sleep again.

-----
We wake up, the small group of us left. A few men, one woman, one unlucky child -- he looks close to fainting. No wonder, we're all laid on the ground with our hands chained behind us. I wake up first, take a look around -- we're in a subway tunnel, on the platform before the railing. I struggle over to glance at the railing, and find that the entire gap between the platform we're on and the wall is filled with worms.

They're not normal worms, they're huge, and colored a disgusting murky-red-brown -- they're squirming all over the place. I feel sick.

Suddenly, there's a voice behind me, and it's him. The one who told us about the slide. He's here, suddenly, and he rouses us all awake, jabbing at us with his cane.

Come on, up! he says. We still have a lot to see!

One of the other men gets up, and opens his mouth to shout, but nothing comes out. We're mute. Our voices are gone.

We're prodded forward by the cane, and we trudge forward, herded ahead like so many sheep.

The worms keep on writhing.

-----
I'm the last in line, and I watch the others as we trudge ahead. We're quiet, obedient. One of the men had tried to attack him, earlier, kicking away the cane and body-tackling him. In a moment, the worms from the train tracks had swarmed onto the platform, all over the man, covering him in a gigantic mass of writhing coils. When they retreated back to the rails, there was nothing left.

The little kid started crying, silently.

Some ways along, I realize there's someone behind me. I look over, and there's a man on a hoverbike, lurking just in the shadows. He notices me, and whispers,

Shhh. I'm trying to help you.

I nod, and look forward again, but I know what happens when I hear the the scream from behind me, and the wet slap-slap-slap of the worms spilling over onto the platform. I keep walking, and when I finally do look back a long time later, there's no one there any more.

The worms in the railing area are increasing, and squirm up against the far wall, spelling out words with their bodies.

X. Come. Scream. IX. Laugh. Live. Me. III. You? Pinwheel. II. Me.

The worms spelling out the last few words drip off the wall before I can read them.

-----
We eventually reach a stair case.

Well, he tells us. Go up. Then he vanishes.

We consider running, but the worms are swarming behind us. So we start up the stairs. I count for a while, but it's hard to concentrate -- behind us, the worms follow us, slowly, writhing in a solid mass that fills up the stairs that we've ascended.

I'm still the last in line.

Up ahead, a gunshot rings out.

I don't trust the staircase, he shouts out. So I'll shoot you as you come up. You can't run.

And we don't. Ah, I think. This is despair.

We trudge up to our doom, and the gunshots echo in the winding staircase.

Brian bleeds out.

Mary dies instantly.

Ken bleeds for a long time.

So does James.

I know their names, and I watch them die, one by one.

I'm the last.

I walk up to him, the mass of worms behind me twisting, squirming, writhing. He's saying something to me, muttering under his breath,

I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you, but I have never loved you.

Somehow, I understand, and I nod.

He raises the gun.

shatterworks @ 2008-05-01T12:40:00

2008-05-01T16:41:11Z

080429 。 fishing

아아, 머리가 아프다.
아프고 아프고 아프고,
당장이라도 폭발할것같다.
이런건 처음. 머리가 이상해지는것 같다.

I fell asleep in my chair and had a dream that I was drowning in a sea of some liquid that wasn't water, because it burned my skin and clothes and hair and eyes, and I knew I had to get out, so I swam and swam and swam, but no matter how far I went, there wasn't any land in sight, nowhere for me to go, to turn to, to crawl to, to rest to sleep to take a breath, and just as I was about to sink under and drown, the stars let down a fishing hook that caught me through the throat and pulled me up, but it didn't hurt. The stars lowered me onto the surface of a frozen pond, and I lay on the ice looking up at the sky and it blinded me, because it was so huge and blue and out of my reach. A monster erupted out from the frozen pond and caught me in its jaws and threw me in the air, and there were shards of pond ice scattered through the air, and I knew that it was beautiful and fragile and nothing but temporary and nothing but a waste of space, just like everything else made of glass and dreams.

아아, 제길, 아직도 아프다.

shatterworks @ 2008-05-01T12:36:00

2008-05-01T16:37:17Z

080313 。 disease

You're walking down the street when he grins and gives you a thump on the back, mop of stringy black hair a tangled mess and face ripe with stubble.

"Lookin' good today," he says, smiling a smile full of too-white teeth.

And you think, this guy's awfully shady. But you keep going your way. It's just some random bum, right?

-----
It happens when you visit the clinic, with your regular doctor. He tells you, calmly, "You have anthrax."

And of course, he's not talking about the garden variety of the disease, no, he's talking about the new strain of the disease that's going around - the one that builds up in your lungs, without any symptoms and without any effect - until one day your lungs explode into a mess of blood and tissue and tiny fibers. The gestation period varies - and no one knows when an infected person will die.

But it is known that it is extremely contagious - one person with the disease in a city like New York, and everyone can be infected in a matter of days.

No cure, either. The solution? Euthanasia. Kill anyone who shows the characteristic red spot at the nape of the neck.

The doctor looks terribly calm, as he folds his hands on his knees, and says, "We'll have to put you down."

But before he's done with his sentence, you're already running.

And by the time he gets up from his seat, shouting "-- wait!" you're already too far away to hear.

-----
You try to escape, leave the country, but there's a huge clog at the airport - seems like everyone else is trying to leave, too. So many people, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands - everyone trying to leave.

You try, too, join the crowd walking towards the airport, hoping you won't get caught, but the moment you walk until the gates to the airport, red lights go off and a siren tears through the air. Immediately, policement are after you, masked men wearing radioactive suits and carrying bullwhips.

"Stop!" They yell at you.

But you're running again. It's the only thing you can do, after all.

-----
You're walking down the same street, hood pulled up and head bowed, when you hear the familiar voice, and it says, "Fifty-five bucks for the leather jacket, thirty for the jeans. Ten for the shoes. Wanna sell'em? It's a good price."

You turn around and see the same stringy hair, the same too-bright smile, the same grimy face, and it's grinning at you. "You need the money to live."

It must hurt when you grab him by the collar and shake him, hard, voice raised to a furious shout. "You gave me this disease! You're forcing me to run! What's so funny!"

And he just laughs, hysterically, even when you let go and turn to leave.

-----
Eventually, you return to that same clinic, with the one doctor you know. The city's grown so empty.

You tell him, "I'm tired."

And he nods, syringe filled with clear liquid in his fingers.

"You can sleep, now."

shatterworks @ 2008-05-01T12:07:00

2008-05-01T16:15:18Z

071007 。 tower

It towers above.

Everything's long since been smashed to ruins, all there's left is a few three-story buildings, maybe, but mostly it's just the ground floors of skyscrapers left, houses half-rebuilt, ragged shelters made of scrap wood and plate metal and whatever else you can find lying around. It's a mess, but it's the only place where people can live. Everywhere else is the same, if not worse. This is home. This city of remains.

Except for the tower.

It's a nameless monster, but it towers above everything. It's ugly, it's gross, it's an amalgation of garbage just like all these other buildings, made of rusting metal beams and huts and bolts and jagged pieces of scrap metal that jut out every each way, it's just a million times taller than the other 'buildings'. They build it. Nobody's seen them, but every day, we see the tower grow a little taller, a little bigger, a little higher. Why are they building it so high? No one knows. But they say that, maybe, if the tower's high enough, if it's tall enough to rip through the sky, then maybe it'll make something happen.

But that's none of our concern, is it? We don't care about why the tower's there. We don't care about why they're building it, either.

We just want to reach the top.

Every day, we climb, higher and higher, rest at night, lying on those dangerous metal beams that jut out the side of the tower and hang above the ragged cityscape a thousand feet below and sleep like that. We never dream. Wake up, climb again, up up up. We have fun. Laugh. Cry. Fight. Get tired. Sleep. Wake up. Climb. There are other people along the way, they're also climbing. Ever so often, there's a vendor selling food. It must have been hard to bring the food up there. It doesn't matter. It's good, it's food, it lets us live. Lets us climb.

Once in a while, someone falls.

You watch them slip, lose their grip on whatever they were climbing, watch as they flail their arms out in one last attempt to grab ahold of something. Watch as they fail. They fall for a long, long time, it seems. You can't even hear the thump, it's so far away, and there's no splash of red, either, all you see is their screaming body deterioriate into a tiny speck into the distance down below, then vanish.

Just another dead body.

As per the rules, somebody wrenches off a sharp piece of metal off the side of the tower. Scratches a long, jagged line across the side of the building. It's a mark. There are marks like this everywhere. It's a body count. Just another dead body.

Ever so often, you're climbing, and you see a body come falling from above. Sometimes it hits another person on the way, and that person falls, too. You have to look out. It's just the way things work. If that happens, you just leave the mark on the place that the person fell.

We still keep climbing.

Partway up, we find someone dead on the metal beams. Seems he died in his sleep, maybe he wasn't getting enough to eat, or maybe he just gave up. He looks peaceful. We push him off, so that his body doesn't get in the way, and do the same as usual, mark the wall that we found his body leaning against. But it's not a jagged line, this time, it's a cross.

Because his grave was here, not down there.

Crosses are harder to find that lines, on these walls, but they all mean the same thing, in essence. They're countless.

Countless sacrifices for what cause?

Maybe we'll find our reason at the top.

shatterworks @ 2008-03-25T15:58:00

2008-03-25T19:58:13Z

junkyard tidbits

[ shun ]

★ Every year, when September 11 rolls around, the kids at the Sunflower take a bit of time to bake a strawberry cake -- it usually ends up a bit battered and oddly shaped because the younger kids really aren't the best patissiers around, but it's still a lot of fun, anyway. And they turn off the lights in the hallway and set up a surprise for -- and even though this happens every year and Shun comes to expect the huge shout of "Happy Birthday!" when he drops by that evening like he does every day -- he still acts surprised. It's happened every year for the past four years, since he left the Sunflower -- and it's come to be one of the things he looks forward to every autumn.

★ The main graveyard of the Neo State is divided by funeral custom -- the Japanese graves are placed in the far eastern section. Once a year, on the day his parents died, Shun visits the Shimizu family grave and prays for them. His grandparents have long since passed away, and his parents were distant from the extended family, and so Shun is always the only one there. He doesn't really remember what his parents were like, but he follows this custom anyway -- has been following it since he was fourteen.

[ namae ]

★ Alex and Terry-Anne were sort of like the older siblings that Namae had-but-never-really-had. He still remembers the day he attended their wedding and wished them the best of luck in the following years. That was six years ago. Even now, they're the only people that he'll probably hesitate to kill. Pity they won't hesitate to kill him.

★ Namae doesn't really hate Lance. He doesn't really hate any of his siblings, actually, or anyone in his family. He just doesn't care about them. He'd been perfectly happy to completely forget about them, and so that's why Lance's sudden entrance back into his life pissed him off so much. What he does hate is how easily Lance can talk/force him into things, and can't help but feel that it's partly because Lance is his sister.

[ blame ]

★ Blame first saw Seth at a Chemistry lecture, back when he was 18 -- a freshman -- and Seth was a sophomore. The TA. That lasted for one semester, and the only reason Blame remembered Seth's face was because he always wore the same sharp, somewhat arrogant half-smirk when test results were announced. (And he didn't know it at the time, but that was because Seth had gotten straight A's on his tests, compared to Blame's mediocre B-pluses.) They never ran into each other until Blame was admitted into the Joy Division, five years later.

shatterworks @ 2008-03-25T00:55:00

2008-03-25T04:58:03Z

bite the hand that

059 | mercy 。 1,243 。 PG-15 。 blame , namae
in somnia verse

Ice. Needles. Freezing cold. Namae snapped conscious to an amazing headache and a searing chill that turned his breath into tiny clouds of mist, white against the dimly lit room. Where was this? What the fuck had happened? Memories flashed by one by one like snapshot bullets - Shun, at the counter of the dingy bookstore, frozen, revolver barrel forced between his lips, and another person - blond hair and pit-black suit, a narrow frame, back towards him - and the faint traces of a smile - "It's been a while." Before --

-- before? --

"Aw, fuck -- " His head hurt. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck -- why was this place so fucking cold? Wasn't like the government dogs to be so crude to their prisoners. Because that's where he was, right? No other option, if he'd been knocked out. Fucking miracle he wasn't already strapped to the wall for the shooting squad to take aim. An experimental clench of fingers signaled that his arm was still fine. Nothing broken. The cold press of metal against his wrist - handcuff, no doubt attached to the wall. A vicious jerk at the chain - he could probably snap it -- then he was suddenly choking, a chain around his neck. -- a choke chain?

That's what it was, one end cuffed to his wrist, the other looped over a metal bar, then around his neck. An effective design - he'd most likely strangle himself before he could break the chain. But that didn't stop him from giving it a hard yank, regardless of the way stainless-steel links dug into his throat.

"-- ah, bad doggy, bad doggy -- "

A voice.

Suddenly, a sharp click, then the room flooded with slats of brilliant light - he flinched back with a snarl, eyes stinging with bursts of neon color. Whitewashed walls and minimalistic furniture stacked away at the far end of the room.

"Aww, did it hurt the doggy's eyes?"

Ah, yes -- that's where he'd heard the voice before. Vision returning in splotches of oversaturated color, he glared up at long limbs and mess of clean-pressed clothes, a too-bright smile framed by wisps of bleached-blonde hair. All in all, a figure that was far too familiar.

Namae couldn't help but laugh, teeth bared.

"Long time no see, Blame. You're a shitty little fuck as usual."

Blame only laughed and drew closer, lowering himself into a crouch just out of kicking range.

"Did you have a good nap?" A cheerful laugh. "I took you out with a tranquilizer bullet to the neck. Prototype. Worked like a charm. And don't worry, that bookstore guy's fine, I thought it'd be more fun to let him live with the trauma of a gun in his mouth. But wow, I didn't know you were into pretty-boy types like him."

"What, jealous of losing your place of favoritism?"

"No, not really."

"Now undo this fucking chain."

And Blame just laughed, head thrown back and shoulders shaking.

"Oh, Seth." -- Namae looked up, eyes narrowed and no longer smiling. Five years since he'd heard that name, and never once had it been from Blame. No, it had always been a cheerful, almost reverent, 'Reever!' Situation? Reversed. Blame reached out with narrow fingers and pointed at the choke-chair handcuff. "-- you're not my superior any more."

Rapid movements - Blame had always been good with speed - then narrow fingers entwined in messy strands of hair, the other hand giving the choke chain a hard jerk - Namae gritted his teeth as the metal links around his neck drew tight, cutting off air. And Blame leaned close, lips curved up in a smile that was all too happy.

"I can kill you right now."

Namae merely smiled back, then kneed Blame in the guts. There was a momentary gasp as Blame doubled up, breath driven out of his lungs, then the thump-crash as a kick to the shoulder knocked him off balance. (A chained dog isn't always harmless.) They were crude attacks, hardly crippling, but effective for the moment -- Namae grunted, driving his heel into a side and slamming Blame's shoulder down to the floor.

"Really, now?" The steel links against his neck were making breathing difficult -- wrist doubled back and scraped raw by the metal cuff -- but who gave a fuck? It didn't take much effort to deliver a sharp kick to the base of the neck that he knew would numb critical nerves for a good few seconds -- then press down on Blame's throat, panting from the effort, beat for beat with the harsh breathes he could feel beneath his foot. "You were always too arrogant."

It was an odd sensation -- to feel the muscles spasming with barking laughs beneath his foot -- and Blame looked terribly amused, lying there -- head canted back to glare at Namae. "Y'know what? I really don't know why I used to hero-worship you." Lips curved up in a smile that was all too happy. "I think it might have been pity."

A flash of metal, brilliant and almost pretty, then it just hurt. A clean, cold flash of pain that ran through his leg -- Namae only writhed when Blame dragged the blade down, ripping open muscles and tearing apart flesh. Cleanly. Just like the red that immediately began dripping down, staining the floorboards a blinding red. "-- damn, those kicks are gonna leave bruises." And Blame sat up, knife held in one hand, brushing droplets of blood off the lapel of his coat.

"I'm terribly disappointed in you, Seth." The knife flashed when he twirled in in his fingers, almost thoughtfully. "Back when we were partners, I used to think you could do anything. That if you were put in a situation like this -- drugged and tied up -- you'd just snap the chains, just like that, kill the offenders and go off on your merry way, y'know?"

A sign, and he lay down on his stomach, just out of kicking range and resting his head on his arm -- looking up at Namae with an expression of genuine regret. "I guess I expected too much of you. If I were right, I'd be dead by now, and you'd already be off." Dragging a finger through the streaks of blood on the floor, he drew little meaningless circles. "Such a pity."

"--what, you're blaming me for your idiotic delusions?"

Namae hated the way his voice sounded hoarse, dry -- some combination of the chain pressed against his throat and the way the blood loss was making him dizzy. It was best to stay still in this situation, since moving around would just aggravate the wound. Haha. Not that he had a choice. Swallowing thickly, he gave the handcuff a tug -- useless.

"Oh, no. Not at all." And Blame sat up, grasping the knife by its handle. "I'm just thinking. I used to be so hopeful. And with that goes your last chance of getting away." A nimble hop onto his feet, and he leaned forward, smiling. "The higher-ups offered me fifty grand to kill you. But they didn't really give me a date to kill you by. So I have alllllll the time in the world."

And Namae watched with narrowed eyes as Blame straightened up, turning his back and walking away -- reaching for the light switch.

"You must be dizzy from the bleeding. Just go to sleep for a little while." And his smile was sincerely poisonous. "I'll be back to play a little later."

shatterworks @ 2008-03-11T22:25:00

2008-03-12T02:26:12Z

mild

062 | blur 。 503 。 PG-13 。 namae , shun
in somnia verse ; due to demand, fluff

Alcohol has a particular bitter smell that Shun highly dislikes, and so when he's greeted by the sharp sting of it upon opening his door, he can't help but flinch back for a moment. And of course, he notices the pair of boots lying near the doorway, and sinewy forearm slung limply over the armrest of his couch.

How characteristic.

Shun doesn't really make much of an effort to enter silently, letting the door clatter shut behind him as he pulls off his shoes and pads in, shaking rain out of his eyes. Outside, it's drizzling - a sudden downpour that had quickly tapered down to a light shower - and the raindrops tap at the window with a sort of calming ambience. A rare situation - it's hardly ever quiet when Namae chooses to break into his flat - and Shun's naturally wary as he runs a finger through wet hair and digs out a towel from a cabinet.

"--hey."

It's a more subdued voice, different from the usual rough snarl. Strange, that. Shun straightens up, towel slung around his neck, glancing over at the couch - Namae hasn't moved from where he's lying strewn across the cushions, one arm sagging off the armrest. An empty bottle of vodka abandoned on the floor. He seems harmless enough, for the moment. Maybe he's too drunk to move.

"Yes?"

"S'it still raining?"

The fridge door shuts with a dull thunk, and Shun opens one of the bottles of water he's pulled out, taking a drink.

"Yes."

"-- fuck."

A pause, and Namae laughs, scratching his head.

"I fuckin' hate rainy days. My window leaks."

Shun shrugs, takes another drink as Namae continues, wonders idly why he's not tearing everything apart today - decides it doesn't really matter.

"S'why I drink on rainy days. Alcohol burns you up inside."

It's a conversation that almost sounds 'normal' - Shun walks forward and leans over to place the second bottle of water on the small coffee table. "You'll get a hangover."

"So?"

Another careless shrug, and Shun turns to leave but is stopped when calloused fingers wrap around his arm and jerk down so he's bent over uncomfortably. His hair's getting in his eyes, and he frowns, tries to tug his wrist arm away, and gets nothing but a low laugh in response.

"Hey."

"Let go."

"'m not gonna kill you."

No answer, but Shun pauses for the moment, tense.

"Y'know why?"

"No," answered stiffly.

"I had a bunch of siblings. And one of'em was like you. Quiet. Skinny as fuck and always smiling fake. Youngest of us, and a fucking runt."

"And you are implying?"

"Nothing, really." Namae lets go, lips curved up in a smirk. "Just felt like telling you."

And it's probably the closest he's ever been to honestly being friendly - Shun straightens up, rubbing at the red marks on his wrist.

"What happened to your siblings?"

"Who knows." A low laugh. "I'm crashing here."

"Your window leaks that badly?"

"Nah, I don't wanna walk through the downpour. Even I can catch a cold."

And Shun almost smiles.

Outside, it keeps pouring a light summer rain.

shatterworks @ 2008-02-27T08:25:00

2008-02-27T13:26:52Z

countdown

--- | countdown 。 880 。 PG-13 。 ---
military-verse ; written for lastficstanding

It's a strange sensation, this, to be walking to your doom. Not in the proverbial sense, either - oh my god, I'm going to war, I'm going to die - nah, that's nothing. War's nothing. Been there, done that, lived in the sewers, been to the guerrilla riots, lived off the crappy rations, nah, that's not the big deal. You haven't been through it all until you're blindfolded and handcuffed and barefoot, being led to where the execution squad is waiting.

At least, that's what he's thinking as he pads down the hallways barefoot, silent compared to the dull thumpthumpthump of the booted guards leading him along by the handcuffs.

The blindfold's really nothing but a strip of dirty cloth, and it itches.

"Hey," he says to the guards, "this blindfold itches."

They ignore him.

"It really itches," he continues, gesturing with shackled hands. "Like, seriously." And it really does, geez, if they're gonna execute him, might as well make his last moment comfortable, but no, these government soldiers have to be asses and stick him in a dirty cell with cruddy clothes and handcuffs, insensitive bastards --

"Shut up," the guard behind him grunts, then shoves him forward, so he stumbles forward one step, two - then feels packed dirt under his feet. Oh my. "We're here."

For a moment, his thoughts go blank, but his life doesn't flash before his eyes - no shining epiphany, no great revelation, no magnificent burst of light. What a disappointment.

Hey, Allan, was it like this for you, too?

But still, it's oddly hard to think straight, and he's only vaguely aware of how the guards are leading him forward and around so he's standing against what feels like a brick wall - undoing his handcuffs and chaining his hands to the wall instead.

Somewhere to his right, someone starts talking, a speech full of complicated words, something like, "--for leading the guerrilla army in treason against the nation and it's military powers, resulting in the deaths of numerous civilians, at the New Valentine's Massacre and St. Sebastian's Shooting, and-- "

And what? No, no, you have it wrong. St. Sebastian? You think we killed civilians then? What? Are you kidding? We lost Ethan at that fight, your soldiers shot him through the head even after he surrendered. God, Ethan, he was such a sweet kid, always working hard, but you still killed him,

"-- as decided by the court martial on February 15 --"

and we lost Jonathan too, and Elizabeth, and Ken, and Lee, and

"-- execution by firing squad --"

you have no fucking clue what good guys they were, just a week before that shootout, y'know when it snowed really hard, they were out there having a snow fight, and Ken wanted me to join, but I was too busy making plans for the raid on St. Sebastian's, and oh god, I wish just then I'd left my work and joined them in their snow fight, it would have been worth it, it totally would have been worth it,

guys, guys, I'm sorry I didn't join you then, I was just too busy arranging another raid - that one succeeded, but you guys weren't there to celebrate, so even though we managed to hustle out the refugees before the government pigs got to them, you didn't get to see how grateful those refugees were, they were so happy, so nice, you guys would have loved it,

And he's crying now, he's crying when the guns are handed out to the twelve soldiers of the firing squad, but there's still a smile on his face - the other guys would have never forgiven him if they saw him crying,

yeah, that's right, I'm your leader, the big bro. I don't cry. I never cry.

"Company, ready!" Comes the shouted order from his right, and there's a volley of click-cachunks as the guns are cocked, and now he knows there are twelve shotguns pointed at him - sure, one probably has a blank cartridge to make the soldiers feel less guilty about killing someone, but eleven shots it more than enough to kill him, and oh god, I'm going to die, I'm going to die, guys, was it really this scary? You guys were so fucking brave to face this all the time, I did too, but I never knew it was this scary to know I'm going to die,

I don't wanna die

I can hear the soldiers breathing, they're going to shoot me any moment now, when the commander says to fire, god, my life's gonna end with a one-word command, it's so pathetic, guys, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I miss you, guys, I wish we could go back just a bit in time, and we'd do everything differently, I'd join that snowfight of yours and ditch the planning for St. Sebastian's and we could have had fun right then and there, another thing we'd never forget, and we would have been cold, but that would have been okay,

and maybe you guys wouldn't have died,

and maybe things would have been okay, even with the rebel war going on, because you guys would have been there,

and I miss you,

guys, I had so much fun, even when we were fighting and training,

don't worry guys, I don't cry, I'm your big bro,

I can't cry, I'm always here for you, guys, I'm alright,

I

shatterworks @ 2008-02-17T13:29:00

2008-02-17T18:31:46Z

nostalgia

--- | nostalgia 。 624 。 PG-13 。 ---
military-verse ; written for lastficstanding

He wakes up in a room where all he can see is nothing. It's somewhat cold - the air's chilly through the fabric of his shirt - but there's no sound, and he can't see the floor beneath his fingers when he gets up off where he was laying on the concrete.

And he knows what's going on. 'Ah,' he thinks. 'So this is sensory deprivation.'

It's not like he's unfamiliar with the procedures, he knows how these things work. Lock a person in a dark room with no light, no sound, no food, no people, no nothing - keep them there for a few days, and soon they'll be babbling like a baby. Wonderful interrogation technique. It always works. He sighs and gets up, gropes his way over to a wall and sits down with his back to the hard concrete.

Most people, he knows, will fall asleep within the first thirty minutes, and then wake up feeling terribly lonely and lost. Then, they will start hallucinating, the brain running haywire without any feasible input. One, he counts. Two. Three, four, five. He counts seconds for up to five minutes, then falls asleep.

He doesn't dream. And when he wakes up, he lays there on the floor where he's toppled over for what feels like an eternity, making sure that he's still alive.

Maybe, he thinks. This is what it feels like to be dead.

The hallucinations don't take long to start, and he's still just lying there with his back to the wall and cheek pressed to the floor when he first sees them flitting by in the darkness before him.

It starts off mild, or as tame as hallucinations can get. A pile of grilled shrimp over there -- right there, to the right. Dripping butter. He can smell it, but he doesn't get up, because he knows they're fake. Just like he doesn't move even when he hears a piano playing somewhere behind him. Beethoven's Fifth. Bumblebees buzzing through the air. The scent of old grass and dusty books. He closes his eyes and can just barely hear the sound of gunshots and chimes.

And when he gets that prickle across his back that suggests there's another person there, he closes his eyes. Not that it matters, it's just dark either way, but it makes it easier to remember the fact that this is just another step in the process - step five in the process of going insane.

Still, he hears footsteps. Movements. The rustle of cloth. It hurts when he sits up and scratches his head, brushing bits of dirt out of his hair. His limbs ache.

It feels like someone sits down next to him.

"Hey," he says. "It's been a while."

And there's no response - of course there isn't, he's talking to a hallucination - but he talks anyway.

"Remember that last fight? Well guess what? I shot down three planes. Isn't that awesome? You always said it's impossible to get more than just one, but ha, I beat you there. I got three. Three."

His head's pounding with the sound of drums and mosquitos that aren't real, but he keeps on talking, throat dry and hungry for a drink. Beer.

"Beer would be nice, huh? Guinness. You love that shit. Half-frozen. With a side of pigs' feet, roasted. Jack always said they were fucking gross, but I thought they tasted just fine."

"Hey, you listening?"

"I can't hear what you're saying."

"Speak up louder."

"And guess what. Your plane. The old one. I have the propeller back in my tent. One side's all shattered. What the fuck did you do to it? It's all fucked up. No wonder you crashed."

"Stupid ass."

It sounds like there's a stream to his left. Nonexistent birds flying by. He blinks.

"Hey," he whispers. "You listening, you moron?"

"I miss you."

shatterworks @ 2008-02-03T22:58:00

2008-02-04T04:01:57Z

nameless

--- | dog 。 537 。 PG-13 。 ---
fragment of free-writing from a longer piece, stream-of-consciousness style

They say the snake once had its legs but was punished by _____ for telling Eve of the secrets of knowledge, for whispering words of temptation and sin/beauty into her ear – for drawing her towards that tree of red, red fruit. For whispering, chanting, pluck that apple and take it to your lips. Take a bite. Swallow. Devour. Chew. Desecrate. They say the snakes lost its legs for enlightening mankind, and yet _____ is all knowing, then was the snake but a pawn in the grand game of chess?

( -- eve was the queen and adam was the king and a famous tactic in chess calls for the sacrifice of the queen to win the war – perhaps the woman born of the curved half-moon of bone was meant to be labeled a sinner for the fifty thousand generations to come in order to glorify the victory of man against disgrace, the snake but another hapless knight sent to die for the label of glory-knowledge. )

My father used to keep a bottle of wine in the far-up cabinet in the kitchen, a bottle of amber-red glass painted over with dust and age, a filthy relic of the days gone by, and inside was coiled a tiny brown snake. I once pulled up a chair and peered inside the cabinet, caught sight of the glassy eyes past the milky layer of alcohol-enchantment and saw the world inside those sightless pupils, then my mother told me to come down off that chair before I fell and broke my neck.

When we moved houses, he threw away that bottle, and I never got to save that snake from inside the bottle that smashed to pieces, I never got to save it from rotting to pieces in the dirt, I never got to save those eyes that held everything inside. Instead, that night, I had dreams of a field of minefield flowers and morphine dandelions, tiny blossoms of endorphins and video reels that combusted on touch, exploded into thirty-four fragments of insomnia and nostalgia. They filled the air, choking the clouds, strangling the sky, and I woke up unable to breath for the glory in my skull.

Dreams and only dreams as long as they end when you wake up, and when I opened my eyes that morning, I was blinded by shards of glamor and impossible diseases that ate me up from inside out with teeth of diamond and gold.

I told this story to an old man I met on a train, while the cast-iron wheels turned round and round, creaking against rusty tracks and screaming a song of distance, a ballad of miles and dirt. I told him the story of the snake that had legs that were desecrated by _____, and the old man, laughed.

“You’ll burn if you play with fire,” he told me, but the way he smiled told me to go and hold my hand over the candle and never take it back – burn scars look magnificent against porcelain, anyhow, and cauterize flesh chases maggots away. “Be careful,” he said, and shook his head. His hair was white like static and ghosts, and reminded me of memories.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I told him.

shatterworks @ 2008-01-14T19:46:00

2008-01-15T00:47:32Z

BASIC INFORMATION

Name: Blame Credence
Reason/Meaning Behind Name:"to find fault with" ; "belief as to the truth of something"

Age: 26
Sex: M
Birthdate: Dec. 11
Height: 184 cm / 6'0"
Weight: 76 kg / 167 lb
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Bleached blonde
Ethnic Background: American
Marital Status: Single

-----

PERSONAL INFORMATION

Nickname: "Blame"
Religion/Religious Background: Agnostic
Political Affiliation:
Social Class: Upper class
Education: College graduate
Major: Linguistics major, history major
Name Of School: Neo State University

Where: Residential Area 99
Residence (Type): Two-bedroom luxury apartment
Describe Furnishings: Fairly well-furnished, with a fully furbished guest bedroom and a well-decorated living room, though fairly minimalistic and simple, with nothing gaudy
Children: None
Health: Excellent physical health
Physical Condition/Disabilities: None

Friends: A variety of people in the upper social ranks
Allies:
Enemies:
Most Significant Other(s): None
Community Status: Well-known, but considered dangerous
Pets: None

Languages Spoken: English,
Intelligence:
Sexual Orientation: Bisexual
Sexual Experience: More than enough
Type Of Friends Preferred:
Type Of Lovers Preferred:

Smoker/Drinker: Non-smoker, drinks for fun
Talents: Hand-to-hand combat and fighting with a blunt object
Hobbies/Pastimes: Gambling, cooking (surprisingly, he's quite good)

Favorite Place: The roof of the Neo State Tower
Favorite Color: Black
Favorite Entertainment: Music, electronica and acid jazz
Favorite Food/Drink:
Clothes/Accessories: Blame's usually dressed in a casual suit -- dress shirt and slacks, occasionally with a loosely-done tie if the occassion calls for it. Sometimes, he'll dress up or wear more casual clothes, but not that often.

-----

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

Complexion/Skin Tone:
Build:
Face/Head:
Hairstyle, texture:
Hands:
Upper body:
Lower body:
Distinguishing Marks:
Posture:
How They Walk:
Physical Aids?:
Predominant Feature/What Noticed First:

-----

FAMILY BACKGROUND

Father:
Profession:
Living/Dead:

Mother:
Profession:
Living/Dead:

Parents' Marital Status:

Siblings:
Home Life/Childhood Experience:
Family Relations:
Family History:

-----

PROFESSION/OCCUPATION

Profession:
Education In Work:
Job-Related Skills:

Favorite Subjects (School):
Poorest Subjects:
Grades (School):
Quality Of Work Performed:
Reputation:

-----

PSYCHOLOGICAL ANALYSIS/CHARACTER TRAITS

Morals:
Ambitions, Aspirations, Desires:
Outstanding Qualities:
Character Flaws/Weaknesses:
Character Strengths:
Habitual Mannerisms:
Fears, Anxieties, Hangups:
Temperament:
Emotions:
Leader/Follower/Dropout:
Most Cherished Beliefs/Values:

Dialogue:
How They Talk/Speech Patterns (Diction, Tone, Speed, Pitch):
Direct Statement Of Thoughts:
Body Language/Posture:
Gestures:

Perception Of Others:

How They Handle Crisis:
How They Protect Themselves:
Public Persona:
Ways Of Dealing With Children Or Those In Inferior Positions:
Eating Habits (When, What, How):

Motivational Patterns/What Gets Them Going:
Degree Of Intensity = Pace Of Life:
Attention To Detail/Degree Of Concentration:
Confidence Factor:

How They Treat People They Like:
How They Treat People They Dislike:
How They React When Angry/Upset:
Self-Value/How They See Themselves:
Do They See Themselves As Happy/Satisfied?:

Sense Of Humor:

Attitude Toward Sex/Sexual Values:
Attitude Toward Religion:
Attitude Toward Politics:
Attitude Toward Authority:

Attitude Toward Money:
Attitude Toward Work:
Attitude Toward Play:
Attitude Toward Their Looks:

Opinion As A Soldier/Fighter:

Feelings Toward Family:
Feelings Toward Friends:
Feelings Toward Enemies:

shatterworks @ 2008-01-14T19:19:00

2008-01-15T00:40:13Z

BASIC INFORMATION

Name: Ashton Lee
Reason/Meaning Behind Name: "settlement by an ash tree"

Age: 17
Sex: F
Birthdate: August 9
Height: 165 cm / 6'4"
Weight: 53 kg / 116 lb
Eyes: Black
Hair: Naturally black, but bleached and dyed various colors
Ethnic Background: Korean
Marital Status: Single

-----

PERSONAL INFORMATION

Nickname: "Ash"
Religion/Religious Background: Agnostic
Political Affiliation: WAKE
Social Class: Middle-class
Education: High school student
Major: N/A
Name Of School: Sector 35 High School

Where: Residential Area, Sector 35
Residence (Type): Three-bedroom apartment
Describe Furnishings: Typical family apartment, clean and cozy; her room is somewhat messy, and filled with electronic parts and plastered with posters of various bands
Children: None
Health: Excellent health
Physical Condition/Disabilities: None

Friends: Many friends from school, Shun, a few kids from the Sunflower, some younger kids whose parents are in the WAKE
Allies: WAKE members (openly)
Enemies: None specifically, against the Quies
Most Significant Other(s): None
Community Status: High school student
Pets: Two mice, Tip and Tap

Languages Spoken: Korean, English, minimal Latin
Intelligence: Above average, but only when it comes to sciences
Sexual Orientation: Straight
Sexual Experience: None
Type Of Friends Preferred: All people
Type Of Lovers Preferred: Not interested

Smoker/Drinker: Neither
Talents: Drawing and writing (specifically, visualizing)
Hobbies/Pastimes: Drawing, writing, net-surfing,

Favorite Place:
Favorite Color: Red
Favorite Entertainment: Videogames (first-person shooter, RPGs)
Favorite Food/Drink: Miso ramen, omurice
Clothes/Accessories: Usually torn jeans and sweatshirts/T-shirts ; dresses in a fairly boyish manner, sometimes intentionally
Personal Possessions/Toys:
Taste In Art, Literature, Decor:

-----

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

Complexion/Skin Tone:
Build:
Face/Head:
Hairstyle, texture:
Hands:
Upper body:
Lower body:
Distinguishing Marks:
Posture:
How They Walk:
Physical Aids?:
Predominant Feature/What Noticed First:

-----

FAMILY BACKGROUND

Father: James Lee
Profession: Manager of an accounting firm
Living/Dead: Living

Mother: Hee-Jean Jang
Profession: Women's magazine photographer
Living/Dead: Living

Parents' Marital Status: Comfortably married

Siblings: One older brother, on good terms
Home Life/Childhood Experience: Generally good, your typical family
Family Relations: Generally good, she's closest to her brother and acts a lot like him, which may explain her boyish/non-gendered behavior
Family History: Nothing notable

-----

PROFESSION/OCCUPATION

Profession: Student
Education In Work: High-school sophomore
Job-Related Skills: None

Favorite Subjects (School): Art , literature
Poorest Subjects: Math
Grades (School): All over the place; her grades are excellent in classes that are 'fun' or 'interesting,' but terrible in the more boring classes ; her GPA overall is mediocre (3.1)
Quality Of Work Performed: All over the place ; projects or assignments that are interesting yield great work, but she gets lazy on more boring work and does whatever she can as quickly as possible to get it over with
Reputation: "that weird kid, but she's nice enough"

-----

PSYCHOLOGICAL ANALYSIS/CHARACTER TRAITS

Morals: No morals ; she doesn't really 'get' the value of morals and something that is 'morally wrong,' although she does know what people like and dislike ; she could probably kill a person fairly easily if it meant no repercussions and there was a reason to
Ambitions, Aspirations, Desires: Nothing specific, though her ultimate dream would be to become an artist, she knows it's a little unrealistic ; she usually seeks fun for the moment most of the time, usually in the form of something exciting
Outstanding Qualities: Visualizing ; she can clearly imagine and picture almost anything - allowing her to materialize them in dreamscapes ; this is also why she's good at the creative arts
Character Flaws/Weaknesses: Lacks an attachment to anything, amoral, short attention span, by definition of society shows signs of "antisocial personality disorder"
Character Strengths: Quick-thinking and highly productive when motivated, unhesitant, confident, and friendly
Habitual Mannerisms:
Fears, Anxieties, Hangups:
Temperament:
Emotions:
Leader/Follower/Dropout: Dropout
Most Cherished Beliefs/Values:

Dialogue:
How They Talk/Speech Patterns (Diction, Tone, Speed, Pitch):
Direct Statement Of Thoughts:
Body Language/Posture:
Gestures:

Perception Of Others:

How They Handle Crisis:
How They Protect Themselves:
Public Persona:
Ways Of Dealing With Children Or Those In Inferior Positions:
Eating Habits (When, What, How):

Motivational Patterns/What Gets Them Going:
Degree Of Intensity = Pace Of Life:
Attention To Detail/Degree Of Concentration:
Confidence Factor:

How They Treat People They Like:
How They Treat People They Dislike:
How They React When Angry/Upset:
Self-Value/How They See Themselves:
Do They See Themselves As Happy/Satisfied?:

Sense Of Humor:

Attitude Toward Sex/Sexual Values:
Attitude Toward Religion:
Attitude Toward Politics:
Attitude Toward Authority:

Attitude Toward Money:
Attitude Toward Work:
Attitude Toward Play:
Attitude Toward Their Looks:

Opinion As A Soldier/Fighter:

Feelings Toward Family:
Feelings Toward Friends:
Feelings Toward Enemies:

shatterworks @ 2008-01-14T19:16:00

2008-01-15T00:17:35Z

BASIC INFORMATION

Name: Namae / Seth Reever
Reason/Meaning Behind Name: "name" / "appointed" ; "rudolf, reknown + wolf"

Age: 27
Sex: M
Birthdate: March 30
Height: 186 cm / 6'3"
Weight: 80 kg / 176 lb
Eyes: Brown
Hair: Brown (slightly reddish)
Ethnic Background: Australian-American
Marital Status: Single

-----

PERSONAL INFORMATION

Nickname: "AAA", "NONAME"
Religion/Religious Background: Aetheist
Political Affiliation: WAKE
Social Class: N/A
Education: College graduate
Major: Chemistry major, psychology minor
Name Of School: Neo State University

Where: Residential Area 40
Residence (Type): Studio-style flat
Describe Furnishings: Extremely simple, and only what's necessary - single bed, storage space, table and one chair, etc., no decorations anywhere
Children: None
Health: Excellent physical health
Physical Condition/Disabilities: Right arm amputated three inches below the shoulder ; the end has been cauterized roughly, and what remain of the limb is severely scarred up to the shoulder

Friends: None
Allies: WAKE members (only loosely and a select few)
Enemies: Quies
Most Significant Other(s): None
Community Status: Name and identity deleted from the community roster, and thus "does not exist;" recognized by some in the streets as "dangerous"
Pets: None

Languages Spoken: English, conversational Chinese, Japanese, Spanish, German
Intelligence: Very shrewd, and good with numbers and plans
Sexual Orientation: Bisexual
Sexual Experience: Plenty
Type Of Friends Preferred: Currently not interested ; when he was in the Quies, he was friendly with most people
Type Of Lovers Preferred: Currently not interested ; his ex-girlfriend was a very cheerful, well-meaning and active person

Smoker/Drinker: Heavy smoker and drinker
Talents: Hand-to-hand combat and fighting with a blunt object
Hobbies/Pastimes: Drinking ; used to be a gambler, but has long since broken the habit

Favorite Place: The roof of the Neo State Tower
Favorite Color: None
Favorite Entertainment: None
Favorite Food/Drink: Vodka
Clothes/Accessories: Rough, heavy-duty wear - combat boots, leather jackets, heavy canvas cargo pants, shirts with the sleeve torn off; in the summer he usually makes no effort to hide his amputated and arm, and keeps it sleeveless to keep the bandages from being tangled in a sleeve

-----

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

Complexion/Skin Tone: Slightly dark for a Caucasian
Build: Lean and sinewy
Face/Head: Sharp features, eyes sharp and narrowed, usually with a cigarette in his mouth
Hairstyle, texture: Brownish hair, kept ragged and largely unkempt, average length
Hands: Narrow fingers, but calloused and rough
Distinguishing Marks: Scars spanning his amputated arm up to his shoulder
Posture: Usually slouches
How They Walk: Still slouching, usually somewhat arrogantly, in a swagger, unless angry
Physical Aids?: None
Predominant Feature/What Noticed First: Missing arm

-----

FAMILY BACKGROUND

Father: David Reever
Profession: Quies accountant
Living/Dead: Living

Mother: Catherine Reever
Profession: Housewife
Living/Dead: Living

Parents' Marital Status: Married

Siblings: An older brother (Jonathan), an older sister (Lancelle), and twin younger sisters (Grace and Mercy)
Home Life/Childhood Experience: Slightly poor; he was fairly distant from his family, and didn't really care about it
Family Relations: Very poor ; he doesn't exactly know how they're faring, and vice versa
Family History: His family was poor, and he was often comparatively left alone due to his many other siblings; he left his family at age 15 for a dormitory-style school and has since then ignored all attempts at contact, and has not seen them since

-----

PROFESSION/OCCUPATION

Profession: Unemployed / ex-Dreamer for the Quies
Education In Work: Knowledge of basic dream psychology, training in Hunting
Job-Related Skills: Physical combat

Favorite Subjects (School): None in particular
Poorest Subjects: None in particular
Grades (School): 4.0 GPA in high school, 3.96 at Uni.
Quality Of Work Performed: Currently, N/A, used to be very high
Reputation: As a Quies member, he was highly rated, and ascended quickly in rank, buying much jealousy from his co-workers, resulting in their actions

-----

PSYCHOLOGICAL ANALYSIS/CHARACTER TRAITS

Morals:
Ambitions, Aspirations, Desires:
Outstanding Qualities:
Character Flaws/Weaknesses:
Character Strengths:
Habitual Mannerisms:
Fears, Anxieties, Hangups:
Temperament:
Emotions:
Leader/Follower/Dropout:
Most Cherished Beliefs/Values:

Dialogue: Doesn't talk much, usually fragmented sentences
How They Talk/Speech Patterns (Diction, Tone, Speed, Pitch): Talks in a low growl most of the time, sounding very arrogant or taunting; he usually sounds either furious or sullen, neither of which are very pleasant; he also talks pretty quickly, spitting out words in rapid sucession
Direct Statement Of Thoughts: When he does talk, it's fairly blunt, and he doesn't cut corners on expressing his thoughts
Body Language/Posture: Slouching and arrogant; seems mostly apathetic, but the way he holds himself usually signifies the fact that he's always ready for a fight
Gestures: When taunting, he usually toys with a weapon, but for most of the time, he doesn't gesture when he talks

Perception Of Others: Mostly apathetic; he doesn't care about most people, other than to toy with them and try to draw out weaknesses

How They Handle Crisis:
How They Protect Themselves:
Public Persona:
Ways Of Dealing With Children Or Those In Inferior Positions: Entirely apathetic, he doesn't care for people in general, but he is especially disdainful of those who cannot defend themselves
Eating Habits (When, What, How): Whatever, whenever; he usually goes for whatever gives the most energy with the least time, and isn't very picky about food (will eat almost anything)

Motivational Patterns/What Gets Them Going:
Degree Of Intensity = Pace Of Life:
Attention To Detail/Degree Of Concentration:
Confidence Factor: His is a confidence born out of having nothing to lose; as a result, he seems extremely confident and reckless

How They Treat People They Like:
How They Treat People They Dislike:
How They React When Angry/Upset:
Self-Value/How They See Themselves:
Do They See Themselves As Happy/Satisfied?:

Sense Of Humor: Dry, sadistic and morbid, his idea of a good laugh is watching a celebrity get beaten up

Attitude Toward Sex/Sexual Values:
Attitude Toward Religion:
Attitude Toward Politics:
Attitude Toward Authority:

Attitude Toward Money: Entirely apathetic, though he does show a little
Attitude Toward Work:
Attitude Toward Play:
Attitude Toward Their Looks: He takes mild amusement in shocking others with his missing arm, which is why he usually flaunts it, but is otherwise fairly apathetic abou how he looks, and he choosed functionality over aesthetics when it comes to clothes and such

Opinion As A Soldier/Fighter: Whoever survives is the winner, i.e. strength is everything

Feelings Toward Family: Entirely apathetic; he's mostly forgotten about them
Feelings Toward Friends: Doesn't really have any; if a person seems worthy and/or useful enough (mostly select WAKE members), he'll be slightly less caustic, but otherwise, his attitude isn't all too different than how he is towards strangers
Feelings Toward Enemies: All rage and anger, and slightly irrational

shatterworks @ 2008-01-14T18:41:00

2008-01-14T23:58:09Z

BASIC INFORMATION

Name: Shun Shimizu [駿清水]
Reason/Meaning Behind Name: "speed" ; "clear water"

Age: 20
Sex: M
Birthdate: Sept. 11
Height: 176cm / 5'9"
Weight: 63 kg / 138 lb
Eyes: Black
Hair: Black
Ethnic Background: Japanese
Marital Status: Single

-----

PERSONAL INFORMATION

Nickname: "Ghost"
Religion/Religious Background: Agnostic
Political Affiliation: WAKE
Social Class: Middle-class
Education: High-school
Major: N/A
Name Of School: Sector 34 High School

Where: Residential Area, Sector 34
Residence (Type): One-bedroom flat
Describe Furnishings: Simple furniture, largely minimalistic - single bed, two-person couch, table and two chairs, coffee table, closet, etc., very few decorations
Children: None
Health: In decent health
Physical Condition/Disabilities: None

Friends: the children of the Sunflower, a few high school alumni
Allies: WAKE members (only loosely, largely works alone)
Enemies: Quies
Most Significant Other(s): None
Community Status: Shun is generally acknowledged as the "quiet owner of the bookstore," and is usually well-liked enough ; "Ghost" is a notorious terrorist and wanted dead or alive
Pets: A black cat, Holy Night

Languages Spoken: Japanese, English
Intelligence: Fairly high, quick-thinking
Sexual Orientation: Not interested
Sexual Experience: None
Type Of Friends Preferred: None in particular
Type Of Lovers Preferred: Not interested

Smoker/Drinker: Neither
Talents: Sharp aim, speed ; violin
Hobbies/Pastimes: Reading, used to play the violin

Favorite Place: The bookstore
Favorite Color: Gray
Favorite Entertainment: Reading
Favorite Food/Drink: Strawberries
Clothes/Accessories: Largely simple clothes (no logos, no special designs) in monocolor (black, white, gray) ; mostly unobstrusive and plain, though he does favor V-necks

-----

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION

Complexion/Skin Tone: On the pale side
Build: Average height, narrow build
Face/Head: Fine features ; narrow nose and lips, eyes mostly hidden ; keeps expression neutral most of the time
Hairstyle, texture: Natural, black, in a ragged cut down to the neck, long bangs to hide his eyes
Hands: Pale, with long, narrow fingers
Distinguishing Marks: Two gunshot scars on his right shoulder, always hidden
Posture: Straight and well-formed
How They Walk: Average length, but quick steps
Physical Aids?: None
Predominant Feature/What Noticed First: Nothing in particular

-----

FAMILY BACKGROUND

Father: Takashi Shimizu
Profession: Flower shop owner / WAKE terrorist
Living/Dead: Dead

Mother: Tohru Shimizu
Profession: Kindergarten teacher / WAKE aide
Living/Dead: Dead

Parents' Marital Status: Married

Siblings: None
Home Life/Childhood Experience: Fairly normal chidhood, middle class family
Family Relations: Very good
Family History: Parents were fledgeling members of the WAKE, but were discovered aiding Nikola and thus exterminated. Shun returned from playing outside (age 5) and found them gone, with the house showing signs of a struggle.

-----

PROFESSION/OCCUPATION

Profession: Bookstore owner ("Eden Garden")
Education In Work: None
Job-Related Skills: None

Favorite Subjects (School): Literature
Poorest Subjects: Physics
Grades (School): 3.3 GPA ; did excellently during freshman and sophomore years (4.0 GPA) but spent most of his junior and senior years running part-times jobs and saving up for independance, and thus did not do as well
Quality Of Work Performed: Very well
Reputation: The store is popular and does quite well

-----

PSYCHOLOGICAL ANALYSIS/CHARACTER TRAITS

Morals: Vague at best. Shun feels absolutely no empathy for adults, believing that they should fend for themselves in a dog-eat-dog sort of way. This doesn't mean that he will go out of his way to harm people, but it does mean that he won't hesitate to kill people (regardless of gender) if his survival depends on it.
Ambitions, Aspirations, Desires: None in particular for all three. He thinks it would be nice to live a peaceful life and ensure that the children of the orphanage will also be able to live without threats of danger, but other than that, he has no particular wishes.
Outstanding Qualities: Determination and will.
Character Flaws/Weaknesses: Lack of self-interest and self-preservation other than the most basic instincts.
Character Strengths: Tenacious nature when it comes to protecting what he is devoted to.
Habitual Mannerisms: None in particular.
Fears, Anxieties, Hangups: Failure.
Temperament: Almost ridiculously mild.
Emotions: Subdued, mostly. Emotions can be used as weaknesses, and so he subverts most of them, showing only enough to go by in daily life without seeming too cold. In battle situations, he shuts down all emotions entirely.
Leader/Follower/Dropout: Dropout
Most Cherished Beliefs/Values: 'Those who have not yet had the chance to fully live must be protected and given that chance.'

Dialogue: Polite in both English and Japanese
How They Talk/Speech Patterns (Diction, Tone, Speed, Pitch): Almost always uses keigo in Japanese, and uses extremely polite language in English; slightly more relaxed towards the children, but the way he talks is still somewhat distant;
Direct Statement Of Thoughts: Blunt enough, padded only by polite language. If what he has to say can't be worded politely, he won't say it at all.
Body Language/Posture: Good posture, very little body language. Slightly tensed, but not noticably.
Gestures: Few to no gestures.

Perception Of Others: Largely neutral. He rarely makes judgements about other people before getting to know them -- regardless, he rarely cares about them enough to matter.

How They Handle Crisis:
How They Protect Themselves:
Public Persona:
Ways Of Dealing With Children Or Those In Inferior Positions:
Eating Habits (When, What, How):

Motivational Patterns/What Gets Them Going:
Degree Of Intensity = Pace Of Life:
Attention To Detail/Degree Of Concentration:
Confidence Factor:

How They Treat People They Like: Mostly the same as anyone else, just slightly more relaxed (he'll occasionally drop using the polite form when he talks)
How They Treat People They Dislike: Mostly the same as anyone else, just slightly more distant and polite
How They React When Angry/Upset: He expresses negative emotions through silence; he generally doesn't express any such emotions, but when he does, it's through silence and distance
Self-Value/How They See Themselves: "just another human"
Do They See Themselves As Happy/Satisfied?: Satisfied enough.

Sense Of Humor:

Attitude Toward Sex/Sexual Values:
Attitude Toward Religion: He personally doesn't believe in God, but also acknowledges that other people may find comfort in believing in such an entity ; generally respectful (but apathetic) about other religions
Attitude Toward Politics:
Attitude Toward Authority:

Attitude Toward Money: A necessity; he lives a fairly frugal life, partly because firearms and other such supplies cost a lot, but also partly because he doesn't really see the point to living an overly luxurious life
Attitude Toward Work: Something that must be done; he's extremely efficient about the bookstore, and is careful to keep his customers satisfied (as a result, the store has a pretty good rep); he also considers his terrorist activities as "work" and treats it with the same (or even more) concentration and caution
Attitude Toward Play: Something that is necesssary to maintain concentration at other times; as much as he is focused on his work, he knows that occasional rest is necessary to maintain concentration at the right times; after what necessary work is done, he does take breaks, usually with reading or catching up on sleep
Attitude Toward Their Looks: Fairly apathetic; he does present himself neatly, but otherwise doesn't really make any effort to make himself more attractive

Opinion As A Soldier/Fighter: Though he doesn't specifically enjoy fighting (he's a pacifist by nature), he believes that for a cause, anything is possible; however, he does not show any remorse over having killed people/seen people die, as he feels that all parties involved (WAKE members, Quies workers) have already thrown away their lives by joining one of the two sides

Feelings Toward Family: No direct family, fiercely protective of the children of the orphanage, and grateful towards the caretakers
Feelings Toward Friends: No real friends, but generally mild and polite towards WAKE allies
Feelings Toward Enemies: Cold; although he acknowledges that, in some cases, the enemy (Quies people) may only be working for the sake of the money i.e. not directly related to the policy that the company upholds, he is still extremely cold concerning anything to do with the organization

shatterworks @ 2008-01-14T01:13:00

2008-01-14T06:14:23Z

dog

01 | phobia 。 877 。 PG-13 。 namae , shun
a city at war continuity

Namae, he has nightmares, sometimes.

Wakes up from where he sleeps sprawled across the bed in his corner of the Underground, covered in sweat and throat dry. He chases away what's left of these nightmares with alcohol and nicotine, drowns them in poison that's killing him slowly.

He doesn't remember what these nightmares are of,

just knows that they wake him up,

and he can't sleep.

He sits on the bed, cigarette in his mouth and fingers entangled in his hair, empty bottle of whiskey smashed against the wall and glass shards glimmering in the murky light.

And he wonders what it is that chases him.

-----

He doesn't bother to reflect on it, but he clearly remembers what it was like, back then, back when he was a Zero, back when he was normal, back when he was a life, back when he had a name a face an identity

back when he wasn't just "name".

Working as a bodyguard for high-up Zero executives - standing guard at their offices day after day - sent to high-risk areas where thieves and punks and no-good youngsters and rebels try to wreck havoc on the Zeros and he's assigned to shoot them down and dead. Nights out working, days sleeping. A meaningless life.

But a life.

Remembers a girlfriend - curvy body and black hair and red lips and clingy personality, but nice and a good fuck - remembers a boss, strict and sharp but reasonable and a good employer. Remembers an apartment in the Southern sector.

Remembers fragments and pieces and jagged bits that don't fit together.

He pushes them back to the corner of his mind and doesn't dwell on them any longer than necessary.

-----

"Do you ever drink?"

It's a lazy question, asked where he's sitting out on the veranda of Shun's flat, smoking a cigarette and leaning against the metal railing. It's fun to think that, if the railing should falter, he'd fall back three stories and probably break his neck on the street below.

Shun is sitting on the couch, reading a novel - fucking bookworm's always reading or working or something - and turns a page before answering.

"No."

"Didn't think so."

The bottle of whiskey in his hand is half-full, and it makes weird sloshing noises when he rolls it across the veranda floor and into the living room. It clinks to a stop against the leg of the coffee table.

Shun doesn't look over, just turns another page and keeps reading.

"Try it."

More non-response.

The veranda floor is made of white tiles, and is cold under his feet as Namae gets up, leaning on the railing for a moment and taking one last drag at his cigarette before throwing it out. It flickers in the wind and falls to the streets below and out of sight.

"Too pansy for some alcohol?"

"I dislike the taste of most liquor."

"That's the fun of it."

Another page turned, Shun is quiet as Namae walks over, picks up the bottle from the floor. Still quiet as Namae kicks the book out of his hands and throws the bottle in his lap.

"Drink."

Shun finally looks up with that quiet expression that irritates him so much.

"Why do you insist?"

"'Cause I fucking feel like it."

"I refuse."

"And why are you so stubborn about this?"

"Because I feel like it."

Namae laughs.

"Those words don't fit you."

Shun falls quiet again, and Namae leans over him, hand gripping the back of the couch.

"What are you afraid of anyway? Afraid of being dirty? Won't smoke, won't drink, won't even fuck anyone unless it's me fucking you against the wall. Think you're a fucking saint?" Namae doesn't know why, but this irritates him more than anything, this silence, and he snarls, lips curved in a sneer, "You're a fucking killer, Ghost, you're no better than me."

And Shun, he says, quietly, "I know."

Namae snatches up the bottle, throws it halfway across the flat and listens as it smashes to pieces in the kitchen sink, the glass shards leak pale-amber liquor down the drain.

He says, "Can't run from what you are forever."

The door slams as he leave the flat, and he doesn't look back.

-----

That night, he doesn't dream, and that's probably because he doesn't sleep. The Underground is dank and humid - he punches the wall, and the jagged concrete wall scrapes his knuckles and they bleed sluggishly down his wrist.

He spends the night smoking cigarette after cigarette and drowning out all coherent thoughts with tar and toxins.

It's almost five in the morning when he dozes off, sitting on his bed, back against the cold concrete wall. He dreams of nothing, but still snaps awake half an hour later, chest heaving and head pounding with a sharp pain that drives him insane - more insane than he usually is.

It occurs to him, maybe what he's afraid of is the fact that he doesn't know what he's running from.

Bullshit. It's enough psychological bullshit to choke Frued, enough to make him laugh, head thrown back and voice dry and teeth bared.

What the fuck is he joking about.

shatterworks @ 2008-01-14T01:13:00

2008-01-14T06:14:13Z

snow

32 | confess 。 1,710 。 PG-13 。 shun , namae
a city at war continuity

The air at dawn is cold. Shun gets up in the morning and notes the thin layer of frost that's covered his window, and hopes that the orphanage isn't suffering from another frozen pipe. Tokyo winters are merciless, and when he steps out of his flat, he can see his breath fog up in the air

only for a moment

before it dissipates and vanishes up up away.

The sky is still dark and the street lamps are spotlights of thick, salty white that fall heavy on asphalt streets. There is no snow - it hasn't snowed in the past ten years - and Shun wonders what it would be like to leave behind footprints on pure white.

-----

He visits the orphanage that morning to find that the cat has given birth to kittens - six of them, black and white and dappled. The children as ecstatic, and need to prised away from their basket and sent off to school.

Most of the children leave for school eventually, and he kneels down to pet the mother and examine the new kittens.

They are tiny and weak and defenseless.

The black one nips the end of his finger.

Kaito's heading out the door, but pauses to look over and smile. "The ladies said that you might like one! Since you live alone and all!"

Shun glances over, nods, smiles (fake-sincere) - and Kaito runs off for school, jacket unzipped and flapping with each running step. He pauses just outside the door, turning to wave - Shun waves back - before turning the corner and out of sight.

Outside, it is cold and silent.

Shun picks up the black kitten - it shivers in his arms - and turns to the orphanage caretakers who are getting ready to walk the smaller children off to kindergarten.

"Maybe I keep this one?"

They say, smiling,

"Why, of course."

-----

He returns home that night to the door just slightly open, and knows what to expect when he unlocks it and walks in, spots filthy combat boots tossed into the corner of the entranceway, laces tangled.

Namae is on the couch, drunk - reeking of cheap vodka and eyes glazed with that feverous delerium that comes with too much smoking and alcohol - and looks up when Shun walks into the living room, lays the keys to his motorbike down on the table.

"I was waiting for you."

Words unslurred and sharp.

Shun notes this, as it means Namae is not quite out of it tonight.

"I can see that."

The creak of springs and Namae gets up, approaches where Shun is shuffling off his jacket and draping it over one of the kitchen chairs - drops a ream of papers on the table. They're printed with lines of writing and numbers - data - possibly hacked.

"Next week--"

"The assistant executive director of the science department will be out in the city."

Namae smiles.

"You know, then."

"Yes." Shun walks over to the kitchen counter, pours himself a glass of water and drains it. Tokyo winters and cold and dry. The empty glass clinks when he lowers it back onto the counter. "I was planning to shoot from the abandoned building on the fourth lane off of Third Street."

"By yourself?"

"Yes."

"You're going to die."

Shun ignores that, washes out the cup in the sink. The glass is clear and reflects the flourescent kitchen light.

"Pity I won't be there to watch."

"Please leave."

"I'd love to watch you die - the ever perfect Ghost slammed down and lying dead on the streets--"

"Please leave."

"--wouldn't that be a pretty sight for the media, especially if they found out who you really were--"

Shun slams the cup into the drying rack hard enough that the glass cracks -

"Please leave."

A smooth step forward - quiet and slick - and Namae's suddenly behind him, arm around his neck and breathing hot into his ear,

"--maybe I'll just kill you now."

And Shun repeats, quietly, "Please leave."

Namae does, laughing quietly.

"See you if you make it through alive."

-----

"Shun, Shun!"

"Yes?"

One of the younger children of the orphanage tug at his sleeve where he's kneeling by the basket where the kittens are, brushing the mother's fur.

"How much longer do we have to wait before we can feed them?"

"It takes about a month before kittens can start eating normal catfood."

"Awwww, that long?"

"It takes a while for the kittens to develop."

"Oh."

Shun smiles.

"Have they been named, yet?"

"Yeah!"

The boy points in order, "That one's Makoto, that's Lucky, and then Keith, and Tamaya and Jin."

"And the black one?"

Shun points to the black kitten, and the kid laughs.

"The aunties say that one's yours, so we were going to ask you to name it!"

"I see."

"So, do you have a name for it?"

Its fur is sort and short - Shun pets its back, and it twitches.

"--not yet, I'm afraid."

-----

Things go as planned, and Shun snipes from the roof of the building, kills the assistant executive with three neat holes through the chest. He spends the night hiding in the underground and returns to his flat at dawn, changes, goes straight to his store, right on time.

And, on the news, it's everywhere,

Ghost must be killed.

Shun listens quietly for a while before turning the radio off and taking a seat behind the counter, eyes closed.

Morning, and the store is quiet.

Customers filter in and out.

At three twenty-eight, Namae comes in, shoving the door open hard so it bounces against the wall. The store is almost empty, and Shun is reading Kafka on the Shore.

"Nice job."

Namae leans against the counter, smoking a cigarette. Shun doesn't look up.

"Please do not discuss this matter in the store."

"I'm impressed you made it out alive."

No answer.

"Funny, seeing how easy it would be to kill you right here, right now."

Still no answer, and Namae shrugs, cants his head back, smiling as he breathes smoke out of his nose towards the ceiling.

It's quiet, the air is cold and dry.

Outside, a car screeches by.

-----

"So have you decided what you're going to name it?"

At a month, the kittens are almost old enough to be seperated from the mother.

Shun names the black one Yuki.

"Snow?"

"Yes."

"But he's black."

"Yes, she's a black cat."

"Black snow?"

"Possibly."

One of the younger girls is leaning over his shoulder as he brushes the kittens' fur, and she laughs, hugging him.

"Shun, you're funny."

Shun just smiles.

-----

Weeks pass by without event, and eventually, the talk about Ghost fades a bit, it reduced to just another name printed on the wanted list - small black letters on a white background, pixels on a screen, no name, no image, no string attatched.

That's the way it's always been.

Shun brings Yuki to his apartment, and she curls up on his pillow and goes to sleep.

Black on white.

That night, as he's sipping at a cup of coffee at the kitchen table and looking through the Kuushuugou network - news of more security measures taken by the Zero, news of more people dead, new of more people to kill. He sighs, rubs his temples.

He's tired.

Yuki is sitting on the kitchen table, toying with a piece of string, and licks his nose.

It seems to help.

-----

But this time, things don't work out so well. A failed attempt at sniping - it was a fake alarm, a decoy, and he barely makes it out alive.

Stumbles back to his flat at two in the morning, with a broken rib and a bleeding shoulder and a stunning pain running through his side. He collapses on the floor.

Falls unconscious to the sight of Yuki asleep on the couch and combat boots dumped in a dirty mess in the corner of the entranceway.

Wakes up hours later on the couch, and sees Namae slouched at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette.

"I didn't kill you this time," he says. "Drugged you, instead. You broke a bone, you'll make it out alive. Blood loss'll make you dizzy for a while. How fun."

A pause, and Shun tries to get up - can't move, it's dizzying and he feels sick - everything looks and sounds fuzzy through a curtain of white static - he can't talk.

"Was awfully tempted to fuck your body while you were asleep. Just because I know it would have pissed you off. You kill countless people and act so clean, makes me want to fuck you up to hell and back."

Shun whispers, "--why did you help me."

Namae laughs.

"I fucking hate cats, by the way."

Shun falls asleep as the drugs take over again.

And wakes up almost in the afternoon.

His wounds have been bandaged, clumsily.

And the apartment is empty.

Namae's last words ring hollow in his head.

Outside, it's snowed - the first time in years - and the ground is covered in a fine powdering of white. His breath fogs up into faint clouds as he rushes outside - ignoring the way his side is throbbing with pain.

He finds the body under a telephone pole, under a dusting of white.

Neck broken.

The air is cold, searing his lungs, and when he picks up the body - so small, so frail, black fur stiff and brittle and lined with ice - it's so delicate and weak. The concrete is hard beneath his knees, and the cold sears through his clothes - he doesn't care.

And when he holds the corpse to his chest, it's cold and unmoving.

He doesn't cry, and he doesn't say anything, but he stays like that for a while, clutching the dead body in fingers numb with cold.

The streets and empty, and the sky is gray.

Shun lets the body go, and it's a tiny black spot on streets painted white.

Black snow on white.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

(This was meant to be me.)

shatterworks @ 2008-01-14T01:05:00

2008-01-14T06:06:17Z

Kaito's sitting worried in the waiting room - it's been a long while - and he looks up with a start when the door opens and one of those higher-up guys comes walking in - black suit and black tie and painfully white shirt and words pressed flat flat flat - "Akano-sama has approved of your request."

And Kaito, he's not sure whether he should be glad about this or not.

Akano is nowhere to be seen when he approaches the room, but there are guards - one on either side of the door - and they ignore him as he steps up to the door, taking a deep breath. He can see his reflection in the doorknob as he grasps and turns and pushes the door open.

The room, it's cold, freezing - he can see his breath fog up in front of him.

And the colors, so minimal, black and white and red and gray.

Kaito takes a moment to take it all in.

White walls - impeccably clean and spotless - a metal rack of stainless steel tools - most of them sharp and jagged - and a metal chair bolted to the floor. And Shun, he doesn't move - wrists handcuffed to the seat - head bowed. Clothes once white - (Shun wears white a lot, and it usually suits him) - stained dirty and red.

It's an ugly, ugly sight.

Maybe that's why Akano's letting him see it.

The door shuts behind him - automatic - and Kaito takes steady steps into the room - one, two, three - stops in front of the seat.

"--Shun."

There's no answer, and Kaito wonders for a moment if Shun is already dead, before he sees the slightest rise and fall of chest with a weak breath - reaches out and grabs him by the neck of the shirt (the blood's dried and makes the cloth stiff and brittle) and yanks up, almost snarling,

"Don't play dead--"

And then realizes that Shun's left eye's been gouged out. The socket is empty and bloody and that entire side of his face is caked with gore.

Kairo feels like he's going to be sick.

Shun looks up - gaze steady and cold through one eye - says, quietly, "Hello, Kaito." His lips are lined with red.

Immediately, Kaito lets go, and backs away a step, expression twisted - angry - scared.

(I was almost hoping you'd already be gone.)

"Why are you here?"

"I asked, and Akano-sama gave me special permission to see you."

"Why?"

"I wouldn't know, but he--"

"Why did you ask?"

"I--" (I don't know.) "--needed to ask you something."

Shun almost, almost smiles, and Kaito hates that.

"What is it?"

"Why did you join the Kuushuugou? Why did you kill so many people? Why-- you were always the pacifist type, but then-- I don't get it why you would have done something like that."

There's a moment of silence, and Kaito watches his breath fog up and then dissipate. It's a while before Shun answers, quietly, the words almost lost under the hum of the air-conditioner.

"--I believed it was the right thing to do. Just as you felt it was the right thing to report me as such."

Kaito flinches back.

"Do you hate me for that?"

"For?"

"For reporting you."

Shun breathes out - it manifests as a cloud of white - "Would you?"

"I-I don't know."

"Then that is my answer."

Outside, one of the bodyguards taps on the door - "You have a minute more" - and Kaito bites his lip, can't take his eyes off the floor.

"Kaito."

"--yeah?"

"Does the orphanage know of this?"

"No, they just think you went missing."

"I see. Then, may I make one request of you?"

Kaito starts at the question, but nods, hesitantly, and Shun gives a weak laugh - it sounds more like a sigh than anything else.

"Please tell them I was killed in a street shootout."

"--but--"

"Please."

For the first time, he sounds desperate.

And with painful suddenness, Kaito realizes that he's never heard Shun sound so pathetic before. He swallows, nods.

"--alright."

"Thank you."

Another tap on the door, louder, "--get coming out, now--" and Kaito turns, shouts, "--a moment longer!"

"Please, go."

"--what?"

"This is most likely being recorded. It may be held against you."

"--it won't. I handed you over. I got lots of plus points for that."

"I see."

A hesitant pause, then Kaito nods.

"I-I'll tell that to the orphanage ladies. The kids won't know. It's probably better for them not to."

"Thank you."

He almost runs to the door, tears it open and rushes out with loud footsteps.

In the hallway, he runs into Akano, where he's standing leaning against the wall, smiling, fingering lime-green sunglasses.

"Na, did you have a good chat with him?"

Kaito forces on a polite smile and bows.

"Yes, Akano-sama. Thank you very much for the chance."

"That's good, then. Since he'll probably be dead by tomorrow."

"Understood."

"I'm going to go play with him some more now, so I'll see you later."

"Yes, sir."

It's summer, and when Kaito runs out of the building, the heat slams into him like a wall - drives the breath out of him (but it's not fogging up and he can't see it).

He wonders if that's what it feels like,

to have one of the people you loved the most,

send you to the death row.

shatterworks @ 2008-01-14T01:05:00

2008-01-14T06:05:58Z

bittersweet

02 | addict 。 395 。 PG-13 。 namae , shun
a city at war continuity

Sometimes, Namae still remembers back to what it was like when he was in the Zero and lived a normal life - he takes these memories and kicks them when they're douwn, tears them apart and throws the bodies away.

He hates it when these memories come back, and so he drowns them out with tar and toxin, the bittersweet taste of nicotine.

Some people smoke for pleasure.

He smokes for the masochistic pain of knowing that it's killing him slowly, ever so slowly.

And so, when one day, when he's at Shun's flat, sprawled across the couch and staring at the ceiling and beating those memories to death with a cigarette - unfiltered and toxic - he's almost surprised to see Shun stop by the couch, look down at his with an empty gaze.

"What."

"I wish you would stop smoking here."

Namae just laughs and takes a long drag.

"You wish."

A cant of the head, something close to an irritated expression. "The scent is staining my clothes. People are growing suspicious that I am associating with strange people. It is drawing attention."

Another crude laugh.

"Then you start smoking too."

Namae doesn't get an answer, so he assumes that Shun's left - he's proved wrong when he hears rustling - turns his head and sees Shun placing his box of cigarettes back on the low table. Lifting up the lighter that Namae's left.

It's hilarious, this, absolutely hilarious, and Namae actually sits up, watching as Shun carefully lights the cigarette he's got in his mouth, places the lighter back on the table and straightens up - takes in a lungful of smoke.

Immediately chokes on it and doubles over coughing, hacking, clutching at his mouth with a hand.

And Namae, he just laughs, howls - this is too good to be true.

Shun's still bent over, trying desperately to breathe again - having difficulty, like his throat's on fire - and Namae leans back on the couch, taking a long drag on his own cigarette and blowing the smoke out towards the ceiling.

The coughing finally stops, and Shun straightens up - eyes narrowed and hand still over his mouth - and grinds the cigarette off into the ashtray on the table.

Says, quietly, "I am afraid I can't."

Words hoarse and still tainted with the remnants of nicotine and toxins, and Namae loves how much filthier they sound than usual -

black tar always stands out best on pale white.

shatterworks @ 2008-01-14T00:56:00

2008-01-14T05:57:32Z

lies

95 | bleeding 。 1,380 。 NC-17 。 shun , kaito
a city at war continuity

It wasn't meant to be like this.

It was never meant to turn out like this.

Shun slumped over in the corner of one of the back rooms in the orphanage, One arm bleeding from a bullet wound that's cut clean through and hair wet with rain. His clothes are soaked and wrap slick around narrow limbs, lit up harsh by the slat of sodium-yellow light that filters through the open doorway past Kaito.

And Kaito, he can't take his eyes off the gun that's lying on the floor - a sniper rifle, a long, stark shape, in harsh contrast to the pale wood of the floor.

"--Shun, what--"

There's no answer. Rain's gathers at the tip of Shun's hair and drips to the ground - slides off his clothes in rounded droplets, mingling with blood from the bullet wound, tinted an ugly, ugly color pale red that's dirty and forbidding.

It's a hesitant step forward that Kaito takes, eyes open wide and mouth open in the semblance of a disbelieving smile.

"--you're not, this isn't--"

It's the first time that Kaito's ever wished that he wasn't so good at figuring out logic, that he wasn't so good at piecing together fragments of a truth and bringing together a whole, because this situation, it's too easy to see. Reports on the news of the terrorist Ghost, yet again. Snipings at a group of Zero executives who were out in the city. Bombs. Two men killed. Several civilians hurt in the fallout. Shot through the arm by a bodyguard and last seen fleeing the scene, heading South towards the residential area. The only known information: a young man with dark hair, average height, narrow build.

It all fits so perfectly.

"You're not really a terrorist, are you, Shun? This is just a-- a coincidence, or a--"

There's almost no noise as Shun gets up, clutching at his wounded arm, narrow fingers drawing tight against dark cotton wet with rain and blood. And he says, quietly,

"I'm sorry, Kaito."

But they're quiet words a far cry from the way he usually talks - all faint smiles and polite words and traces of warmth - these words, they're lined with frost, and Kaito knows, then, that everything is going to

break.

His shoes are painfully harsh against floorboards as he steps forward, closes the distance between himself and shun in an instant, reaches out and grabs him by the neck of the shirt - wet cloth slippery in his hands - he's a good half-foot taller, and is aware of the way pale skin and protruding collarbones jostle against his knuckles - and jerks forward, yelling.

"Shun, I trusted you, you said you were a pacifist, that you didn't like this war. But is thi what you were doing all this time? Killing people?"

"I'm sorry, Kaito." A pause, then, "I have never said anything of that sort."

His words are still quiet and cold and painful to listen to.

"I will not lie to you any longer. Yes, I am a terrorist, the one that the media and Zero refer to as Ghost. I have killed numerous members of the Zerodantai, those crimes attached to my name are true."

Kaito stops speaking because he doesn't know what else to say, and he's still silent, as Shun reaches up, prises away his hand with bone-narrow fingers - both hands slick with rain and one side pale-red with blood.

"Do what you will with this information."

Fingers grasp tight, and Kaito both wants desperately and wants not to pull his hands away.

"I will ask only that you do not associate this orphanage with my actions. This is the one and only time that the caretakers have provided me with shelter, and they have in no way been assisting my actions."

Fingers unclasp, and Shun turns away, leans down to pick up the abandoned gun and gets up, staggering with uneasy movements - his arm's bleeding heavily, and still, he turns towards the doorway, rifle slung over his good shoulder.

Only a brief pause, Shun looks over with empty eyes, and Kaito realized for the first time how frail and broken and desolate he looks.

Then he's gone and out.

Kaito stands alone in the empty room for a long while, and the rain outside rattles at the windows, as if pleading to be let in - he wants it all to shut up, but the silence would just be more painful.

-----

It seems to be a normal day, nothing wrong, a late night at the store--

the streets are empty, now, and everyone's gone to home and bed

-- and Shun is getting ready to close up - when there's the tramp of booted feet - many, many, many - drawing near.

He stays calm, closes the cash register and waits with hands folded over the wooden counter as the window is smashed - a cascade of shattered glass pouring onto the floor - and the door kicked in - the "OPEN" sign tossed to the ground and trampled underfoot.

And when the militia enter the store, guns pointed at him,

"Don't move,"

he doesn't.

A statue of lead, perfect still and breathing calm - in out in out - his heart a steady beat in his chest.

A shard of glass from the broken window shatters on the floor and is ground to dust under booted feet.

-----

Fourteen and a half days.

The bookstore - Eden Garden - has already been cleaned out and emptied - the Garden abandoned by its inhabitant - and Kaito stands at the doorway, looking into the empty window frame at torn-down masonry and dusty rubble.

Shun is gone - maybe not dead yet, it's hard to know how long the Zero are going to torture him for information, it's already been a week, even though he's part of the Zero now, they won't tell him what's happening - and Kaito closes his eyes, breathes out harsh and low.

Inside the abandoned bookstore-Garden, a rat skitters through the rubble and vanishes into a crack in the wall.

And, for the first time in as long as he can remember, Kaito, he regrets what he's done.

shatterworks @ 2008-01-14T00:56:00

2008-01-14T05:57:09Z

porcelain

36 | still 。 524 。 R 。 namae , shun
a city at war continuity

He finds the body on the top of a heap of trash in the junkyard, where he's been looking for abandoned firearms. Pale skin - washed to a sickly white by the pouding rain - stands out against the mottled trash in stark contrast, and he stands there for a few moments, looking down at the body, hand clenched into a loose fist.

Even with one eye gouged out - the socket torn-up and bloody and ragged - it's not hard to recognize that face.

Namae crouches down, entwines fingers in a handful of black hair - it's wet, tangled, matted with blood that's slowly melting in the cold rain - and lifts up. One eye gone, the other open and blank, surrounded by a dried-out trickle-pool of dull scarlet.

"Guess they got you in the end, Ghost."

He lets go, lets the body slump back. His face is impeccable, analyzing, blank and cold save for narrowed eyes as he surveys the damage. Every single bone in the right arm broken -- severe burns and cuts that span the chest -- destroyed eardrum via exposure to extreme noises -- it's all the regular procedure, the one he learned about back when he was one of the torturers. Then the torn-up abdomen, flesh raked apart and shredded -- rat excitation. A favorite of the twins. He almost smiles, because he can clearly picture how the scene would have played out -- rats placed in a metal drum pressed against the stomach with fire on top, tiny rodents in a frenzy with nowhere to run except straight into flesh, no way to get out except to tear into pulsing intestines and writhing insides.

It must have been glorious.

He lets his hand snake forward, and fingers the single remaining eye - debates, for a moment, tearing that out as well - fucking Ghost would probably appreciate the symmetry - but decides that it's not worth it, and closes the eye instead. The rain's coming down hard, and it's washed away most of the blood. Pale skin's almost back to white, but torn-up intestines won't fade in color so easily.

Namae reaches down and through the torn-up skin, fingers digging deep within the folds of wet organs. There's the sick sound of something squelching -- it's gross and filthy and he knows it -- and his smiles widens as he burrows his hand in deeper - watching the body shift as he digs in deeper, deeper, deeper, and his shoulders shake with harsh, barking laughter, and he cants his head up at the raining sky, that twisted smile never leaving his face.

"That's the way I'd like to go, too."

His hand drips with blood and dirtier things when he withdraws his hand out and drags it across that pale face -- across lips parted slightly in one last imitation of a breath -- past the one closed eye -- over the pale skin of a scarred neck.

The streaks of red he leaves there don't last long under the pounding rain.

Pity, that.

There's the crunch of something glass and metal under his boots as he turns to leave.

"Maybe I'll be following you soon."

shatterworks @ 2008-01-14T00:37:00

2008-01-14T05:40:47Z

reclash

57 | repeat 。 3,087 。 PG-13 。 namae / shun
a city at war continuity

Seventy-two hours hasn't been enough time for the bruises to fade, and Shun is forced to wear long-sleeved sweaters with high necks in order to hide the darkened marks that dot the area around his neck, his shoulders, his wrists, his arms. The pain's long since dulled to a faint static that buzzes only in the back of his mind, but the aftereffects still linger.

He pretends nothing's wrong.

He does a good job.

He stops by the orphanage in the morning, like every other morning - the kids don't notice that he's a little more careful with his steps, just a little more cautious with his movements - and he keeps watch at his store as usual - ten in the morning 'til eight at night. Nothing changes, much.

That night, the door creaks open, and when he looks up to greet his customer with a polite nod, as usual, he freezes for half a second, his breath hitching, maybe. And he looks back down at his computer, narrow fingers resting lightly on the keyboard. Not shaking. But tense.

The door closes with a clatter-crash-slam, and there's the flutter of loose cloth - an empty sleeve - as well as the dull thump of boots on the floor. Namae's tracking a thin trail of dirt onto the ground, but he doesn't seem to care. It doesn't matter, much.

Five minutes to closing time.

There's only the rustling of books and the flipping of pages - Shun tries to focus on the book in his lap, turning the pages one by one with steady movements - and some time passes by like that. The ticking of the clock is almost audible. False tranquility's broken when two books drop onto the counter, one after the other, and Shun looks up to find Namae standing there, tapping a finger on the wooden surface.

An English novel and a reference book. American Psycho. The Psychology of Assault. Shun doesn't react to the titles, knows it's just an attempt to rile him up, to draw some sort of reaction. He refuses to give in. Sees no point in it.

"1,560 yen, please."

Namae drops a handful of cash on the counter with the clatter of coins. One rolls off, falls onto Shun's side, bounces off the keyboard. It's way more than 1,560 yen, almost ten times that amount. Maybe Shun's just imagining it, but Namae seems smug as he snatches up the two books in his hand and turns away towards the door. Pauses for a second. Half-turns and leers, his lips curled up in a cruel smirk.

"I'll be seeing you around."

There are bloodstains on one of the crumpled-up bills, and Shun rubs at it with a finger - it doesn't come off - before placing it in the cash register. It's five minutes past closing time. He's late. Off schedule. A rare occurance. He remains at the counter for a while longer, hand resting on the polished wooden surface.

He's ten minutes late to closing, that night.

Namae was his last customer.

-----

Three weeks pass.

Wounds fade, but memories don't.

Shun's trekking through the underground, a sniper rifle slung over one shoulder and dripping blood off the other. A half-successful mission. Successful in that the Zero executive he'd been sniping at had died almost immediately - one bullet to the pericardium and a second to the head just for good measure - and the bombs he'd detonated had provided adequate cover for him to make a getaway without being spotted. A failure in that the blind gunfire from the bodyguards had hit. Only a graze wound, but it was still bleeding.

'I must be losing my touch,' was his grim thought as he sloughed through a tunnel, water splashing beneath his feet. First, the event at the dam, and now this.

"I thought you'd be better than that."

The voice makes him look up with a start, immediately reaching at his belt for the revolver there. Pauses, when he realizes who it is that's standing there.

Namae's looking as smug as ever, cigarette in his lips, leaning against the grimy tunnel wall.

"You're the infamous Ghost, aren't you? The media's all over you already. Here and gone. Always the same. Perfect coverage. Just the one target dead. Gone without a trace like a ghost. That's how they know it's you. Flawless. Perfect." A pause as the words sink in, then he sneers. "Rubbish."

Shun doesn't answer, only narrows his eyes - grips the revolver and draws it out. Points it at Namae's chest. It's a warning and a challenge.

Namae just blows out a smoke ring at the darkened ceiling.

"How many people have you killed like that? Look at you. Pretending to be all innocent. I've seen you at that orphanage, with all the kids, looking for all the world like a saint. But bring it down to a basic level and you're no different from me."

The cigarette fizzles loudly when it's dropped into a puddle of water, and Namae steps forward with a violent crunch of boots on mud and gravel.

"And who knew you'd be such a good fuck."

Shun's finger pulls tight against the trigger and comes close to shooting.

(No, there cannot be any other casualties than the one target. Never falter. Never stray from the plan. A gunshot will alert people outside, draw attention, jeopardize everything. Do not shoot. --but this may be the only chance, no, it's too dangerous, it wasn't in the plan or the calculations - it doesn't matter, just shoot--)

A flurry of deafening footsteps, and Namae's suddenly just in front of him, grabs his wrist and twists the revolver away in one swift movement. Points it at Shun's head. Smiles.

"If I killed you and brought them your dead body, they might let me back in."

Shun doesn't answer. Feels the barrel of the gun pressing cold and hard against his skull. Looks up with blank eyes.

Namae doesn't shoot.

He turns away with the grind of grit under boots, tucks the gun in his belt, and heads down a darkened tunnel.

"Consider it payback for the free fuck."

The smirk he throws over his shoulder almost glows in the dark.

"It might not be the last time."

Shun watches as he fades into the darkness, then realizes that his shoulder's stopped bleeding during this exchange. The blood's clotted into a clump of dark brown-black that's matting his sweater. It doesn't really hurt any more. He can't feel anything, really.

His footsteps feel oddly loud as he resumes his way down the tunnel.

-----

The next day, Namae turns up at the store at noon, when the store's almost empty. Shun greets him like he would any other customer, and returns to his laptop. Half an hour later an old woman - a regular - comes to the counter to check out. It's some magazine on gardening. Nothing out of ordinary.

The door chimes as she leaves, then it's just the two of them there.

"Why are you here."

"I'm a customer."

Mocking words accompany the shuffling of pages.

"You hardly seem the reading type."

"Guess you're wrong, then."

Half an hour later, he pays for his book - Lord of the Flies - and leaves.

Shun tears up the blood-soaked bills and throws them in the trash.

-----

It becomes a semi-regular occurance.

Namae drops in the store randomly, suddenly, picks out the most morbid books he can find, flips through them with a bored, dangerous look on his face. Shun, for the most part, ignores him. (Whenever the money Namae pays with had bloodstains on it, he burns it. He knows it's probably money that's been stolen off of dead bodies, and he doesn't want any incriminating evidence on his hands.)

It's been maybe two months since they first met in that back alley.

The store's empty except for the two of them, and Shun's reading Battle Royale over a cup of coffee when Namae stalks up to the counter, slams down the exact same book and smiles.

"The executive chief of the engineering department of the Zero's coming out on a street outing three days from now. I want to kill him. You're going to help me."

Shun closes his book and sets down his cup.

"Understood."

"Good."

-----

The countdown timer reads 29:38 until their plan's set in action.

"You used to be a Zero."

"Yeah."

"Why did you leave."

"They made me." A low, rasping chuckle. "Took my arm while they were at it."

Silence, dark and gritty, before Namae spits out around a cigarette, "I hate those fucking bastards."

Shun doesn't answer, just finishes cleaning his gun parts and starts reassembling it. The pieces let out metallic click-kachunk noises as he fits them together.

Namae laughs.

"I know you do, too."

-----

Neither of them admit it, but they work well together.

Shun times everything impeccably, strategizes perfect plans and awaits from the distance with a gun in hand. Shoots the executive's car just as the guy's getting off, sets off the bombs at the just the right places so the guy's forced to run away into one of the darker street alleys with only a handful of his bodyguards. Namae's waiting there, with a lead pipe in his hand and a smile on his face.

Three days later, Namae turns up at the store, out of the blue. There are a few customers around, and Shun gives him a look, one that says without words, 'please, wait.' Namae knows better than to do anything brash. He lurks in the back flipping idly through some violent manga and waits for the store empty.

An hour later, it's finally just the two of them, and Namae saunters up to the counter, where Shun's organizing the cash register.

"You're quite the murderer."

No response.

Namae smirks.

"I'll have to use you again, some time."

"You will not use me."

Shun's voice is cold as he shuts the cash register and looks up.

"But perhaps another joint effort would be possible."

A sharp, barking laugh from Namae, and he grabs Shun by the neck of the shirt and pulls forward, roughly. Shun's expression is still blank, frosty, as Namae whispers harshly into his ear,

"I will do whatever the fuck I want with you."

He bites Shun's ear hard enough to bleed - revels in the fact that it draws a flinch and a shudder - and then there's footsteps from outside, and so he lets go and turns around, out the door in a flurry of clamorous footsteps and fluttering empty sleeve.

Shun fingers his bloody ear, eyes narrowed - it's not a deep wound, it'll stop bleeding in a few minutes - before the door chimes, and there's another customer.

"Shun, who was that guy?"

"Hello, Kaito."

"I mean, he turns up here a lot, and he looks fucking insane. What the hell's with that arm, too? I mean, geez. Is he giving you trouble or anything?"

Shun gives Kaito a mock sincere smile.

"He is just another customer."

-----

Shun's a light sleeper, and he wakes up one night to the sound of metal grinding on metal. He's out of bed in a moment, the gun in his hand cold and heavy and forbidding.

There the sudden unclicking of a lock, and the door to his flat swings open.

It's Namae who walks in, spitting blood onto the floor of the hallway before he shuts the door. He's got an ugly gash across one side of his face, and a bullet wound in his arm. There's the faint splatter of blood on the floor as he steps into the house without taking his boots off, his expression a foul grimace.

"Hey, Ghost, get out here."

Shun comes melting out of the shadows, gun still in hand and his expression blank.

"I do not appreciate your breaking into my house."

"Like you have a choice."

Namae smirks, steps forward in a series of quick stomps and grabs Shun by the neck of his shirt, snarling into his face.

"You should have medical supplies. Fix my wounds right now, or I'll fucking kill you."

Shun hardly reacts to the red staining his clothes.

"You are not in the position to be making such demands."

"I can still easily kill you."

Shun silently presses his revolver into Namae's temple, his finger on the trigger.

Namae just gives this ugly, ugly laugh and shifts his grip to Shun's neck, pressing down hard, almost hard enough to choke.

"Go head, shoot. It'll bring your neighbors over immediately. And I'm sure the kids at your orphanage would love to hear about how their kind, precious, saintly older brother killed a man in his very own home. A lovely revelation for them, eh?" Shun doesn't respond, and Namae goes on, blood dripping from his lip and onto Shun's collarbone as he leans forward to mutter darkly into Shun's ear. "And that raises the question, why did a bookstore owner have a gun in the first place? More than suspicious, don't you think? It might lead to some pretty intense investigation. And who knows, they might just find all those weapons you have lying around. All those terrorist activities of yours." Namae leans in closer, breathing hotly into Shun's ear. "Ghost."

They freeze like this for a good minute.

Finally, Shun lowers his revolver.

"Please wait here. I have bandages and basic supplies in my room."

Namae lets go of Shun's neck - he's been dripping blood on Shun's shirt the entire time, it was once white, it's mottled a filthy red-brown-blood color now - and backs off, a smile on his face.

"Of course, bitch."

Shun doesn't respond, just pads off, bare feet silent on hardwood floor, and there's the sound of rummaging from his room. Namae drapes himself over a chair in the kitchen, kicking off his boots and dumping them on the floor.

They're both silent as Shun cleans and stitches up the wounds, narrow fingers quick with the needle and thread. There's no anasthetic, but Namae hardly winces, just taps an erratic tattoo onto the table with a grimy finger while he waits.

"Your wounds are taken care of."

Shun closes the first-aid kit with a small click, and is about to turn away when Namae reaches up, suddenly, snags his collar and jerks down - forces Shun to double over - and hisses into his ear,

"I haven't fucked anyone in a week. Been busy cleaning up a few Zero rats."

Shun doesn't answer.

"You were a pretty good fuck, back then. Bet you'd scream real pretty, too, if I hit you in the right place."

There's the glint of metal. Shun's drawn out a scalpel from the kit and has it held up against Namae's neck.

"Please, leave now. I have no desire to be burdened with a dead body."

Namae laughs, and lets go.

"I'm sleeping here. I'll leave in the morning if I feel like it."

Shun turns away without another word. The door to his room gives a dull clack when he shuts it.

The sound of traffic outside is faint and dying.

-----

"When will you stop this?"

They're alone in the store again. Shun's rereading Nekotopia while Namae's browsing restlessly through a selection of magazines, a cigarette in his lips despite the "no smoking" sign on the door. He doesn't look up from the news magazine he's been flipping through.

"Stop what?"

"This act."

"What act."

"Coming here."

"Whenever I goddamn well feel like it."

"I see."

The magazine is thrown back on the rack with the rustling of cheap paper.

"Which reminds me, there's another guy I wanna kill."

"Please stop smoking."

"I said, there's a guy I wanna kill."

"Smoke outside."

A grunt, the door is kicked open, and the cigarette thrown outside before Namae stomps up to the counter, leaning heavily on the polished-wood surface.

"The usual. You snipe from afar, set off a few bombs. I beat his face in. This one's a high-up from the science division."

Shun doesn't answer, just the turns a page of his novel.

-----

The job's gone smoothly enough, and Shun's returning to his flat. It's late at night - he'd hidden out in the Underground for a few hours to throw off any trackers - and he's almost startled when he arrives to find a trail of dirt leading down the hallway and his doorknob wrenched off.

Shun walks in and attempts to shut the broken door behind him. He's lowering his rifle onto the kitchen table and disposing of his bandanna when Namae comes slouching out of the bathroom, water dripping down his face. There's the click of a lighter, and cigarette smoke wafts up.

"Please do not smoke in here."

"I disabled the smoke alarm."

No answer save the rustling of cloth as Shun shuffles out of his jacket, shedding a fine layer of dust and grit onto the floor.

"What took you so long."

"I would appreciate it if you would stop damaging my door."

"Your aim was lousy today."

"Please get out."

Namae gives Shun a rough shove and backs him up against a wall. Shun draws his gun automatically, points it up at Namae's chin at almost the same time that Namae draws his hand tight around Shun's neck.

"Go ahead, shoot me."

"This is meaningless."

"And I'll stay however long I want."

"Please stop damaging my door."

"Maybe, if you get on your knees and beg."

Shun lowers his gun, slips it in his belt. Namae smirks.

"Gonna beg?"

Shun doesn't answer, just retreats to his room and locks the door behind him. Namae briefly considers breaking down that one, too, just to piss him off, but then decides it's too late to bother.

He drapes himself across the sofa and falls asleep there.

It's late enough at dawn that most of Tokyo's asleep, and the only noise is the distant rumble of a motor and the wail of a police siren.

-----

The ring of the door as it creaks open, and the "OPEN" sign flaps against the wooden frame. The store is full of that dusty books-and-paper smell. The clatter of combat boots is all too telling and loud.

"What is it this time?"

Shun speaks without looking up, and Namae laughs.

"What do you think?"