[Feb 22nd] [Magic Kaitou] Murderer: One of Their Own [Random Scene]
Title: Murderer: One of Their Own [Random Scene]
Day/Theme: February 22nd - "My heart is hardn'd, I cannot repent"
Series: Magic Kaitou
Character/Pairing: Kuroba Kaito
Rating: R
A hand went to his shoulder and, without thought, he spun around and held the knife he'd taken from the other person to the throat of the one who'd snuck up behind him.
Carménère didn't bat an eyelash. Instead, she only raised an eyebrow at him. "You finished?" she asked, seeming more amused by his actions than anything else.
He mentally shook himself, reminded himself firmly where he was and why he was here, his true purpose, not the task his was being forced to carry through because of who he was to these people. They thought they could keep him, but they were wrong. It was because of them that everything had gone so wrong, and he'd remind them of that. After all that time in the cell and the pit, however, he'd learn to wait.
Even if it meant killing his soul just a little more at a time, playing as their lapdog until he was out of their sight.
Until he was just Kuroba Kaito again, huddled against the corner furthest from the door, just waiting until the right time, trying to keep from those memories from coming after him--the living nightmares that he was somehow able to deal with whenever he wore this mask to fool them.
Or maybe they weren't all fooled.
Quietly, he only spoke one word: "Off."
Carménère tilted her head to the side, not seeming to even acknowledge the cold metal at her throat. "Off?"
Just as he was expected, performing his role without a flaw, he explained in a more leveled manner, voice lighter than before and yet holding a slight edge to it, "If you would take you hand off my shoulder and refrain from touching me, Carménère, we'll be able to get along much better."
It had the opposite effect with this woman, it seemed.
"Hm?" she hummed in a thoughtful manner before her hand lifted from his shoulder--and quickly grabbed a tight hold of his wrist.
Even with the carpals grinding together and other bones protesting against the pressure, he didn't react a bit and merely continued to stare at her, even as her features settled on a more fiendish expression. "Is there a reason that our new pet doesn't like to be touched?" she asked with a slight purr, using her hold on him to push his arm back and lean further forward into his space.
He tried not to let the knee-jerk reaction kick it but could already feel the minute tremors running through his body.
And there was no hiding it from these people.
"Aw, what is wrong, my pet?" Carménère asked in a sickenly-sweet manner before reaching out with her free hand towards his face. Her eyes flashed with a sort of knowing that made his stomach drop without warning. "Afraid I'll throw you back down there, are you? Because you're one of those people, the ones from that hellhole. Don't worry, I'll treat you--"
"Wouldn't do that if I were you."
Neither of them moved, but the young woman before him asked the new-comer in a deceptively calm manner, "And just what is that you mean by that, Absinthe?"
The man known by the controversial spirit's name calmly approached them and, without prompting, took the knife from the younger man's hand just as he somehow managed to pry Carménère's hand from his arm. The man was not very tall at all but retained a sort of stature that made on unsure of his real height. And yet, somehow, he was able to smile down at the two of them in a way that seemed false and yet real at the same time. When he finally let go of the young woman's hand, Absinthe then informed her, "This one here is the one brought in by Vermouth. I wouldn't go about planning any of your 'innocent games' with him."
Carménère looked from Absinthe to the aforementioned young man with an incredulous look. "Him?" she asked in a manner that implied that she thought it was all a joke. "Well, I suppose it makes sense. That woman's been losing it for ages, and now she's brought in someone like this nutcase from that pit--"
"Whoa," Absinthe broke in just as the supposed nutcase began to move forward, face a careful study barely confined emotions. "Now, look, we don't need any more deaths than necessary--"
A hoarse laugh came from the young man beside him. "Do you really believe that?" he asked, the cynical smile lighting his face, almost making him appear more like the young man he had been before. Then, almost as suddenly, the falsely-cheerful visage fell and he glared at the older man before him, stating in a polite manner that was at odds with the flat tone his voice carried, "At this moment, I could hardly care less if one of you were to suddenly drop dead with a knife in the back or a bullet through the head. However, I do mind being in this room with the two of you while there's a dead body lying in the heaped in the middle of the room, which you both apparently have forgotten."
Neither of the agents looked over to the forgotten body, only stared at him as if they couldn't believe their eyes.
He didn't spare them another glance as he began to walk toward the exit--
Absinthe grabbed a hold of his arm. "Now hold on a moment--"
He tensed. "Let go," he said stiffly, voice going quiet at the end of the command.
"Not until you come with me, Merlot."
The words echoed throughout the room, silence meeting them in return. Silence filled with a harsh breathing that was now escaping that young man who just wanted to run from the scene before he ended up vomiting right there and then because of the stench in the room, on his clothes, on his hands. The stench couldn't seem to be washed out no matter how many times he tried, so he'd long since stopped rubbing his hands raw whenever left to his own devices, knowing how futile it was.
After all, it was all in his head.
But right then, that sort of thought couldn't register, and all he could hear were those words, familiar words that always led to him being dragged forcibly out of that cell and thrown back into that ring, face-down, breathing in the dust and soot and blood that stained his gloves--no, he never wore gloves in the arena. He had to keep from letting those memories get themselves mixed up in one another, making an endless round of killings. There were things that happened between them, after all--
It was futile to fight off the attack when it began, so it was all that he could do to jerk his arm from of the agent's hold and quickly back out of reach, back hitting the nearest wall as he struggled to remember how to breathe, knowing how foolish it was to let them see his moment of weakness, giving them that much more control over him. He couldn't stop it from progressing more than it had, but he was able to at least keep the tears from his eyes and his hands clenched into fists at his sides instead of in his head, trying to find some way to keep everything from shattering apart again.
It was only after a few minutes of forcing himself to take deep, steady breaths that he was able to look back up to the two other living people in the room who just continued to stare at him as if he were something they couldn't necessarily recognized.
He couldn't blame them.
He could hardly recognize himself most days.
Still panting and recovering from the attack, he leveled a sharp look at them, managing to get out the words when he could, "Don't touch me..."
Silence reigned for a moment.
Then Absinthe said to Carménère without even looking to her, "Clean up the mess in here."
The young woman rose an eyebrow at him before inclining her head toward the third living person in the room. "And what about him?" she asked, her intention clear.
He pressed the heel of his hand to his right eye as his body shook, both with the residue panic from the attack and from the laughter that the question had caused.
But I doubt that, despite the trouble you have given them, those men will allow you to die.
Laughing was the only way he could keep himself from breaking down once more. It was the way he was taught, after all. Poker Face. Keep a smiling face whether the hand you got was good or bad. At that moment, however, Kaito really wondered what was the worst part about this endless game--this continuous round.
The fact that they had done all of this to him because he had been a threat or the fact that they no longer considered him a threat, so much so that they'd actually taken him in their arms and actually regarded him as one of their newest assassins.
Even when he'd had yet to lash out at anyone since they'd given him a name just like those others.
Vermouth. Carménère. Absinthe.
Merlot.
-end of scene-
... the ending might seen awkward because it was written later on than the first part. Also, braindedness.
Why am I always brainded whenever I work on this fic?
And now I pass out.
X_x;;;
Day/Theme: February 22nd - "My heart is hardn'd, I cannot repent"
Series: Magic Kaitou
Character/Pairing: Kuroba Kaito
Rating: R
A hand went to his shoulder and, without thought, he spun around and held the knife he'd taken from the other person to the throat of the one who'd snuck up behind him.
Carménère didn't bat an eyelash. Instead, she only raised an eyebrow at him. "You finished?" she asked, seeming more amused by his actions than anything else.
He mentally shook himself, reminded himself firmly where he was and why he was here, his true purpose, not the task his was being forced to carry through because of who he was to these people. They thought they could keep him, but they were wrong. It was because of them that everything had gone so wrong, and he'd remind them of that. After all that time in the cell and the pit, however, he'd learn to wait.
Even if it meant killing his soul just a little more at a time, playing as their lapdog until he was out of their sight.
Until he was just Kuroba Kaito again, huddled against the corner furthest from the door, just waiting until the right time, trying to keep from those memories from coming after him--the living nightmares that he was somehow able to deal with whenever he wore this mask to fool them.
Or maybe they weren't all fooled.
Quietly, he only spoke one word: "Off."
Carménère tilted her head to the side, not seeming to even acknowledge the cold metal at her throat. "Off?"
Just as he was expected, performing his role without a flaw, he explained in a more leveled manner, voice lighter than before and yet holding a slight edge to it, "If you would take you hand off my shoulder and refrain from touching me, Carménère, we'll be able to get along much better."
It had the opposite effect with this woman, it seemed.
"Hm?" she hummed in a thoughtful manner before her hand lifted from his shoulder--and quickly grabbed a tight hold of his wrist.
Even with the carpals grinding together and other bones protesting against the pressure, he didn't react a bit and merely continued to stare at her, even as her features settled on a more fiendish expression. "Is there a reason that our new pet doesn't like to be touched?" she asked with a slight purr, using her hold on him to push his arm back and lean further forward into his space.
He tried not to let the knee-jerk reaction kick it but could already feel the minute tremors running through his body.
And there was no hiding it from these people.
"Aw, what is wrong, my pet?" Carménère asked in a sickenly-sweet manner before reaching out with her free hand towards his face. Her eyes flashed with a sort of knowing that made his stomach drop without warning. "Afraid I'll throw you back down there, are you? Because you're one of those people, the ones from that hellhole. Don't worry, I'll treat you--"
"Wouldn't do that if I were you."
Neither of them moved, but the young woman before him asked the new-comer in a deceptively calm manner, "And just what is that you mean by that, Absinthe?"
The man known by the controversial spirit's name calmly approached them and, without prompting, took the knife from the younger man's hand just as he somehow managed to pry Carménère's hand from his arm. The man was not very tall at all but retained a sort of stature that made on unsure of his real height. And yet, somehow, he was able to smile down at the two of them in a way that seemed false and yet real at the same time. When he finally let go of the young woman's hand, Absinthe then informed her, "This one here is the one brought in by Vermouth. I wouldn't go about planning any of your 'innocent games' with him."
Carménère looked from Absinthe to the aforementioned young man with an incredulous look. "Him?" she asked in a manner that implied that she thought it was all a joke. "Well, I suppose it makes sense. That woman's been losing it for ages, and now she's brought in someone like this nutcase from that pit--"
"Whoa," Absinthe broke in just as the supposed nutcase began to move forward, face a careful study barely confined emotions. "Now, look, we don't need any more deaths than necessary--"
A hoarse laugh came from the young man beside him. "Do you really believe that?" he asked, the cynical smile lighting his face, almost making him appear more like the young man he had been before. Then, almost as suddenly, the falsely-cheerful visage fell and he glared at the older man before him, stating in a polite manner that was at odds with the flat tone his voice carried, "At this moment, I could hardly care less if one of you were to suddenly drop dead with a knife in the back or a bullet through the head. However, I do mind being in this room with the two of you while there's a dead body lying in the heaped in the middle of the room, which you both apparently have forgotten."
Neither of the agents looked over to the forgotten body, only stared at him as if they couldn't believe their eyes.
He didn't spare them another glance as he began to walk toward the exit--
Absinthe grabbed a hold of his arm. "Now hold on a moment--"
He tensed. "Let go," he said stiffly, voice going quiet at the end of the command.
"Not until you come with me, Merlot."
The words echoed throughout the room, silence meeting them in return. Silence filled with a harsh breathing that was now escaping that young man who just wanted to run from the scene before he ended up vomiting right there and then because of the stench in the room, on his clothes, on his hands. The stench couldn't seem to be washed out no matter how many times he tried, so he'd long since stopped rubbing his hands raw whenever left to his own devices, knowing how futile it was.
After all, it was all in his head.
But right then, that sort of thought couldn't register, and all he could hear were those words, familiar words that always led to him being dragged forcibly out of that cell and thrown back into that ring, face-down, breathing in the dust and soot and blood that stained his gloves--no, he never wore gloves in the arena. He had to keep from letting those memories get themselves mixed up in one another, making an endless round of killings. There were things that happened between them, after all--
It was futile to fight off the attack when it began, so it was all that he could do to jerk his arm from of the agent's hold and quickly back out of reach, back hitting the nearest wall as he struggled to remember how to breathe, knowing how foolish it was to let them see his moment of weakness, giving them that much more control over him. He couldn't stop it from progressing more than it had, but he was able to at least keep the tears from his eyes and his hands clenched into fists at his sides instead of in his head, trying to find some way to keep everything from shattering apart again.
It was only after a few minutes of forcing himself to take deep, steady breaths that he was able to look back up to the two other living people in the room who just continued to stare at him as if he were something they couldn't necessarily recognized.
He couldn't blame them.
He could hardly recognize himself most days.
Still panting and recovering from the attack, he leveled a sharp look at them, managing to get out the words when he could, "Don't touch me..."
Silence reigned for a moment.
Then Absinthe said to Carménère without even looking to her, "Clean up the mess in here."
The young woman rose an eyebrow at him before inclining her head toward the third living person in the room. "And what about him?" she asked, her intention clear.
He pressed the heel of his hand to his right eye as his body shook, both with the residue panic from the attack and from the laughter that the question had caused.
But I doubt that, despite the trouble you have given them, those men will allow you to die.
Laughing was the only way he could keep himself from breaking down once more. It was the way he was taught, after all. Poker Face. Keep a smiling face whether the hand you got was good or bad. At that moment, however, Kaito really wondered what was the worst part about this endless game--this continuous round.
The fact that they had done all of this to him because he had been a threat or the fact that they no longer considered him a threat, so much so that they'd actually taken him in their arms and actually regarded him as one of their newest assassins.
Even when he'd had yet to lash out at anyone since they'd given him a name just like those others.
Vermouth. Carménère. Absinthe.
Merlot.
-end of scene-
... the ending might seen awkward because it was written later on than the first part. Also, braindedness.
Why am I always brainded whenever I work on this fic?
And now I pass out.
X_x;;;