Pt I.
I
"Shit!"
Dull footsteps drummed against the sodden ground, staggered and uneven like a herd of wildebeests escaping the rainfall. There was no point in pleading the herd to slow down, as waiting for stragglers meant death for the entire group. Willing his legs to move faster, push harder, Kirihara strained to match the footsteps of the two before him: Kite, who glided through the Underground without even seemingly touching the ground, and Fuji, who slowed a pace beside him but never revealed how fast he could really go, how quickly he could tear ahead the herd when trouble nears. That these two were here gave Kirihara no comfort, with one man who he suspected, not without reason, could stab him in the back at any time. And the other man who would stab him in the front.
There was little to no lighting down here in the tunnels, where anything that stood out would get shot down. One could barely walk a hundred paces without running into a wall, for all the turns and pitches the ground made, a carefully constructed maze not much different than an ant hill. These three ants scurried their way down to the heart of it all, picking paths and never once backtracking, as if they knew exactly where they were going-- as if anyone knew where they were going, save for the person (persons? It couldn't have been just one) who constructed the entire place-- but more as if they were guided by instinct and preborn knowledge, as ants were.
Lactic acid clung to Kirihara's legs with the ferocity of hot tar; it was always a losing battle against the runner's high that never comes and the mantra mantra mantra of not giving up, that stopping meant death. "Down!" A harsh shove, nearly breaking his shoulder, but it was the instinct of a touch that dropped Kirihara to his knees before the walls even absorbed the world. The ground turned on his head and he tucked his head down, protecting his eyes and ears from the wave of soil rising from below and pouring over their heads. Hot tar. Kirihara was on his feet before he was buried, before he was left behind, and tore after the two who wasted no time in moving the moment they were sure no legs have been blasted off.
They were late.
The words burned in his mind in the way of a lover's note or favorite quote. A reminder folded up in his shoes so it may soak up dirt and never get lost. Of black over black every time his mind was repainted with new words, a new mission. Retrieve or Kill. Time, place, location. Target undisclosed, but, almost teasingly, "one you would immediately recognize." Blood pounded in his ears, a rush of sound that blended into the footsteps and grenades and landslides and that was no good; he needed to hear, he needed to concentrate. He couldn't breathe. He did not want to get left behind.
What was he doing here? Combat boots and firearms, dirt over his pants and face, blood inside or outside but you couldn't ever tell where or whose. War was not something unfamiliar. They were born into it, the signs of trouble always prevalent growing up, but lived in the back of their minds and blind eyes where it could be their parents' battle instead. Children inherit the world, and this was no exception.
Bright blue eyes that Fuji usually kept hidden flashed his way, and his soft voice sliced coldly through the air: "We spilt here!" And then there was darkness, eyes closed and Kite melting away into the darkness without a word or backwards glance at where Kirihara stood, alone. Checkpoint. Reorienting his position in his head, Kirihara took off through the tunnels, counting paces and trying to breathe.
As with all wars, tension was allowed to grow silently and steadily, so that when it did explode, it came as a shock to some people… or so they could claim. How the war started, why it continued, all of that ceased to matter when day by day concerns turned to living and surviving, the division between the two factions only growing deeper as time went on. It wasn't long before all able-bodied men were being recruited to join the war effort, the escalating death count countered only by debt. Even without recruitment, Kirihara saw no choice but to enlist the moment he was of age. His mother, however much she grieved over losing her baby boy to where she lost her husband, her father, her family, could not sway him from that particular glory that was the army.
It was a suicide mission. They were already so deep under Hyoutei that it was strange they hadn't met as much opposition as he was expecting, never mind Fuji and Kite of the Special Forces and whatever godly power they might have to remove all those who stand in their way. He wouldn't lie and say he wasn't terrified of the two, but more than relief that they were, supposedly, on his side, Kirihara couldn't help but wonder if Yukimura was just angry with the lot of them, enough to sacrifice his top soldiers, and Kirihara, to placate his fury.
That was Yukimura.
Going any further would be like walking straight into a death trap. But so would turning back. All he could do was press on, try not to get killed, and hope with all his might that it wasn't all part of the plan to abandon him at the Hyoutei stronghold. All he could do was to trust in two men he hardly knew. How could he do that? Movement. What other choice did he have? Hand outstretched before he could think, hand clenched around cold steel, shaking, smoking. He was a soldier; in a small group, the failure of one man often spelled death for the rest. Don't stop. Keep moving. He was a soldier. He could still fight. He was needed. He was--
Yukimura who held the fear and respect of thousands of men. It was hard not to look up to somebody with so much charm and charisma and strength. When Kirihara first met the general, he was taken aback by that genuine smile-- how could somebody smile in a time like this?-- but also by that lean body that hid not frailness but exact, raw power, throwing Kirihara onto the ground before he could even touch his rifle, bony elbow like a dagger against his face, soft, warm breaths of laughter licking his cheeks as if it were a game. It was all a game to him. However ruthless training and drills were, Kirihara loved the game. He lived off the surge of adrenaline that sustained him week after week until he crashed and Yukimura would be there, holding a wet towel to his forehead and chiding him for pushing himself so hard. A hand in his hair-- Yanagi-- and he was proud, so proud. All that Kirihara did, he worked so desperately to make them proud. To have Sanada praise him, telling him he did well, and maybe someday his commanding officer would smile at him.
It was quiet. What time was it?
Smooth steel lay underfoot, the inorganic hardness foreign compared to the soil and rubble that was his last few days. Movement. But before Kirihara could react, a shadow fell over his face; Kite stood in front of him, turned, hand into his pockets and walked away. "Thanks," Kirihara mouthed, an empty word, as he stepped over the body. Kite wasn't to be friends with him. He wasn't happy here. These weren't the people he wanted to work with.
Fuji met them a few paces forward, forever wearing his pleased smile of a mask, hands cleaner than Kite's, but his line of work was slightly different. Not speaking, Kirihara passed the two men to stand before the large steel door. Checkpoint. It was too imposing to not be suspicious, but Hyoutei never skimped on what they could to show off, even if it were only for the dead to enjoy down here. He kneeled down, running his hand along the edge of the wall where it met the floor, feeling. Twenty paces to the left, five up, he set the first explosive. "Faster," Kite finally spoke behind him; Kirihara couldn't hear anybody coming, but he hurried, fingers working too quickly to make mistakes. However poor his skill at disarming was, blowing things up was something he had never had trouble with.
There was nowhere to take cover down in the tunnels. Three bodies pressed themselves flat against the wall, the rhythmic beeping resonating through their spines. There was no countdown; there was no time. Silence. Warm silence. And then the wall sucked them in backwards, rock crumbling as they passed, exchange of rubble and fire and sound and silence. Singed hair cracked and broke in his hand as Kirihara brushed a hand over his head and brought it back black and brown but not red. His head hurt-- that low throbbing sort of hurt that doesn't go away so was possible to ignore-- and his ears felt they had sunk deep into his head, the pressure building and building and he couldn't hear. Fuji was the first to react, pulling Kite along behind him and moving Kirihara forward. That should have been a hint.
Something was wrong.
Wet grey debris spilled onto white tile on the other side of the wall, paving the way into a small alcove. Where the false door previously stood, a green liquid slopped out, eating away at the rock and sinking into the ground until only a thick slime covered the ground, hissing white. Careful not to touch the liquid, Kirihara stepped into the Hyoutei stronghold. Something was wrong. It was a thought that often passed through his mind, but he pushed it to the side again. It wasn't a thought that had a place here. Not now. Not ever. This wasn't his usual assignment. Something was wrong.
One.
If Kirihara had been able to move and get out of the way, perhaps Fuji and Kite would have at least had a chance to see what Yukimura had thrown them all into before finding a blade against their throats and blood across their fronts. The long length of metal held straight at Kirihara's heart, the point nicking the fabric of his bulletproof, exposing the silver mesh within. Red slid from the blade, dripping hot and wet onto his shoes. The only thing preventing further blood from being spilt was not Kirihara's revolver mirroring the other's stance, but the presence of a certain someone, sitting as calm as can be in front of two steaming cups of tea-- one now overturned, tea running across the floor, washing Fuji's face clean of blood. Blue eyes peeked through a crack, already glassing over. The muscles in Kirihara's arm quivered, and he looked away, tightening his grip on the gun, finger tense on the trigger.
Two.
"Hello," Yanagi said softly, rising from his seat. He stepped over Kite's head, cold fingers palm down on the stained floor. "How are you, Akaya?"
He flinched at the voice, feeling the spasm run down his shoulder to his elbow to his--a loud crack, smoke in the wall and dust in the air-- finger closed on slick steel, his own red dropping to the ground where the gun had fallen from his grip, blown a hole by the side of his head. "I--" He didn't finish. Couldn't. His eyes slid from Yanagi to the one in front of him. Sanada. Whose mouth twitched into the closest thing Kirihara ever saw to a smile, but how could it be when it was laced with so much cruelty and spite. "Why are you here?" he asked, confusion gripping his brain and was too busy spinning it on its head to make any sense of what was going on. The last time he had seen either of them was months, after he had completed his recruit training and went on to specialize in other fields. This wasn't another training course...? He shot a quick look down at the floor, where two men lay dead. Two of the most skilled he knew. Panic shot up the back on his head like a bullet, eradicating the confusion and replacing it with terror. "Why are you here!?" he asked again, louder, desperation apparent. No test was worth losing two lives for.
...Three.
Having been too focused on Sanada and the blade that hadn't moved the moment he stepped foot into this nightmare, Kirihara hadn't realized Yanagi had moved until he felt the hand on the small of his back, the warmth of another person's touch burning deep like fire. "Akaya," Yanagi said softly, and Kirihara drew away, spinning around and catching Yanagi's wrist where he had brought up to touch the younger man on the cheek. The wrist was thin in his; his fingers wrapped around comfortably. The other hand rested on his cheek, brushed away the tears that leaked from Kirihara's eyes, and he let go. "Good boy," Yanagi whispered as he stepped in closer, fingertips brushing his jaw line as they slid down his face, a feathering touch at the side of his neck before a stab of pain shot him out of his reverie and into a new one.
'Retrieve or kill.'
His mouth slacked open, gasping for breath that wouldn't come. His arms dangled at his side, refusing to lift and protect his neck, it was too late. His knees buckled and strong arms moved forward to catch him. The last thing he saw was thin fingers on a thin wrist, tucking a hypodermic needle into a coat pocket, and then the deep, hateful blue of the Hyoutei insignia on his former general's uniform before all faded into black.
"Send him back, Genichirou," Yanagi instructed as he kicked aside the mess on the floor, porcelain shards powdering over the faces of two fallen, one more to fall even further. Sanada grunted with the effort in lifting the man over his shoulders, much heavier than his stature suggested even taking into account the weight of the combat suit Sanada was so familiar with. He watched as Yanagi bent to pick up the sword that had finally left Sanada's grip, watched him wipe off the blade with the hem of Fuji's shirt-- pale white stomach in stark contrast with the blacking blood-- so that it wouldn't rust over like all men who passed through here.
"Checkpoint," Sanada muttered to himself as he left first, stepping over the rubble and into the stench of the tunnels. What Yanagi was thinking, he had no idea, but to throw what was once his kouhai back to…
Warm smiles and bright laughter, how this person embodied peacetime and summer days, even while standing in a sea of blood and rotting flesh. He often wondered about the mental strength required to be able to do that, but then he was reminded of another, whose lack of allowed him to do just that.
Failure will not be tolerated.
Part II.
"Shit!"
Dull footsteps drummed against the sodden ground, staggered and uneven like a herd of wildebeests escaping the rainfall. There was no point in pleading the herd to slow down, as waiting for stragglers meant death for the entire group. Willing his legs to move faster, push harder, Kirihara strained to match the footsteps of the two before him: Kite, who glided through the Underground without even seemingly touching the ground, and Fuji, who slowed a pace beside him but never revealed how fast he could really go, how quickly he could tear ahead the herd when trouble nears. That these two were here gave Kirihara no comfort, with one man who he suspected, not without reason, could stab him in the back at any time. And the other man who would stab him in the front.
There was little to no lighting down here in the tunnels, where anything that stood out would get shot down. One could barely walk a hundred paces without running into a wall, for all the turns and pitches the ground made, a carefully constructed maze not much different than an ant hill. These three ants scurried their way down to the heart of it all, picking paths and never once backtracking, as if they knew exactly where they were going-- as if anyone knew where they were going, save for the person (persons? It couldn't have been just one) who constructed the entire place-- but more as if they were guided by instinct and preborn knowledge, as ants were.
Lactic acid clung to Kirihara's legs with the ferocity of hot tar; it was always a losing battle against the runner's high that never comes and the mantra mantra mantra of not giving up, that stopping meant death. "Down!" A harsh shove, nearly breaking his shoulder, but it was the instinct of a touch that dropped Kirihara to his knees before the walls even absorbed the world. The ground turned on his head and he tucked his head down, protecting his eyes and ears from the wave of soil rising from below and pouring over their heads. Hot tar. Kirihara was on his feet before he was buried, before he was left behind, and tore after the two who wasted no time in moving the moment they were sure no legs have been blasted off.
They were late.
The words burned in his mind in the way of a lover's note or favorite quote. A reminder folded up in his shoes so it may soak up dirt and never get lost. Of black over black every time his mind was repainted with new words, a new mission. Retrieve or Kill. Time, place, location. Target undisclosed, but, almost teasingly, "one you would immediately recognize." Blood pounded in his ears, a rush of sound that blended into the footsteps and grenades and landslides and that was no good; he needed to hear, he needed to concentrate. He couldn't breathe. He did not want to get left behind.
What was he doing here? Combat boots and firearms, dirt over his pants and face, blood inside or outside but you couldn't ever tell where or whose. War was not something unfamiliar. They were born into it, the signs of trouble always prevalent growing up, but lived in the back of their minds and blind eyes where it could be their parents' battle instead. Children inherit the world, and this was no exception.
Bright blue eyes that Fuji usually kept hidden flashed his way, and his soft voice sliced coldly through the air: "We spilt here!" And then there was darkness, eyes closed and Kite melting away into the darkness without a word or backwards glance at where Kirihara stood, alone. Checkpoint. Reorienting his position in his head, Kirihara took off through the tunnels, counting paces and trying to breathe.
As with all wars, tension was allowed to grow silently and steadily, so that when it did explode, it came as a shock to some people… or so they could claim. How the war started, why it continued, all of that ceased to matter when day by day concerns turned to living and surviving, the division between the two factions only growing deeper as time went on. It wasn't long before all able-bodied men were being recruited to join the war effort, the escalating death count countered only by debt. Even without recruitment, Kirihara saw no choice but to enlist the moment he was of age. His mother, however much she grieved over losing her baby boy to where she lost her husband, her father, her family, could not sway him from that particular glory that was the army.
It was a suicide mission. They were already so deep under Hyoutei that it was strange they hadn't met as much opposition as he was expecting, never mind Fuji and Kite of the Special Forces and whatever godly power they might have to remove all those who stand in their way. He wouldn't lie and say he wasn't terrified of the two, but more than relief that they were, supposedly, on his side, Kirihara couldn't help but wonder if Yukimura was just angry with the lot of them, enough to sacrifice his top soldiers, and Kirihara, to placate his fury.
That was Yukimura.
Going any further would be like walking straight into a death trap. But so would turning back. All he could do was press on, try not to get killed, and hope with all his might that it wasn't all part of the plan to abandon him at the Hyoutei stronghold. All he could do was to trust in two men he hardly knew. How could he do that? Movement. What other choice did he have? Hand outstretched before he could think, hand clenched around cold steel, shaking, smoking. He was a soldier; in a small group, the failure of one man often spelled death for the rest. Don't stop. Keep moving. He was a soldier. He could still fight. He was needed. He was--
Yukimura who held the fear and respect of thousands of men. It was hard not to look up to somebody with so much charm and charisma and strength. When Kirihara first met the general, he was taken aback by that genuine smile-- how could somebody smile in a time like this?-- but also by that lean body that hid not frailness but exact, raw power, throwing Kirihara onto the ground before he could even touch his rifle, bony elbow like a dagger against his face, soft, warm breaths of laughter licking his cheeks as if it were a game. It was all a game to him. However ruthless training and drills were, Kirihara loved the game. He lived off the surge of adrenaline that sustained him week after week until he crashed and Yukimura would be there, holding a wet towel to his forehead and chiding him for pushing himself so hard. A hand in his hair-- Yanagi-- and he was proud, so proud. All that Kirihara did, he worked so desperately to make them proud. To have Sanada praise him, telling him he did well, and maybe someday his commanding officer would smile at him.
It was quiet. What time was it?
Smooth steel lay underfoot, the inorganic hardness foreign compared to the soil and rubble that was his last few days. Movement. But before Kirihara could react, a shadow fell over his face; Kite stood in front of him, turned, hand into his pockets and walked away. "Thanks," Kirihara mouthed, an empty word, as he stepped over the body. Kite wasn't to be friends with him. He wasn't happy here. These weren't the people he wanted to work with.
Fuji met them a few paces forward, forever wearing his pleased smile of a mask, hands cleaner than Kite's, but his line of work was slightly different. Not speaking, Kirihara passed the two men to stand before the large steel door. Checkpoint. It was too imposing to not be suspicious, but Hyoutei never skimped on what they could to show off, even if it were only for the dead to enjoy down here. He kneeled down, running his hand along the edge of the wall where it met the floor, feeling. Twenty paces to the left, five up, he set the first explosive. "Faster," Kite finally spoke behind him; Kirihara couldn't hear anybody coming, but he hurried, fingers working too quickly to make mistakes. However poor his skill at disarming was, blowing things up was something he had never had trouble with.
There was nowhere to take cover down in the tunnels. Three bodies pressed themselves flat against the wall, the rhythmic beeping resonating through their spines. There was no countdown; there was no time. Silence. Warm silence. And then the wall sucked them in backwards, rock crumbling as they passed, exchange of rubble and fire and sound and silence. Singed hair cracked and broke in his hand as Kirihara brushed a hand over his head and brought it back black and brown but not red. His head hurt-- that low throbbing sort of hurt that doesn't go away so was possible to ignore-- and his ears felt they had sunk deep into his head, the pressure building and building and he couldn't hear. Fuji was the first to react, pulling Kite along behind him and moving Kirihara forward. That should have been a hint.
Something was wrong.
Wet grey debris spilled onto white tile on the other side of the wall, paving the way into a small alcove. Where the false door previously stood, a green liquid slopped out, eating away at the rock and sinking into the ground until only a thick slime covered the ground, hissing white. Careful not to touch the liquid, Kirihara stepped into the Hyoutei stronghold. Something was wrong. It was a thought that often passed through his mind, but he pushed it to the side again. It wasn't a thought that had a place here. Not now. Not ever. This wasn't his usual assignment. Something was wrong.
One.
If Kirihara had been able to move and get out of the way, perhaps Fuji and Kite would have at least had a chance to see what Yukimura had thrown them all into before finding a blade against their throats and blood across their fronts. The long length of metal held straight at Kirihara's heart, the point nicking the fabric of his bulletproof, exposing the silver mesh within. Red slid from the blade, dripping hot and wet onto his shoes. The only thing preventing further blood from being spilt was not Kirihara's revolver mirroring the other's stance, but the presence of a certain someone, sitting as calm as can be in front of two steaming cups of tea-- one now overturned, tea running across the floor, washing Fuji's face clean of blood. Blue eyes peeked through a crack, already glassing over. The muscles in Kirihara's arm quivered, and he looked away, tightening his grip on the gun, finger tense on the trigger.
Two.
"Hello," Yanagi said softly, rising from his seat. He stepped over Kite's head, cold fingers palm down on the stained floor. "How are you, Akaya?"
He flinched at the voice, feeling the spasm run down his shoulder to his elbow to his--a loud crack, smoke in the wall and dust in the air-- finger closed on slick steel, his own red dropping to the ground where the gun had fallen from his grip, blown a hole by the side of his head. "I--" He didn't finish. Couldn't. His eyes slid from Yanagi to the one in front of him. Sanada. Whose mouth twitched into the closest thing Kirihara ever saw to a smile, but how could it be when it was laced with so much cruelty and spite. "Why are you here?" he asked, confusion gripping his brain and was too busy spinning it on its head to make any sense of what was going on. The last time he had seen either of them was months, after he had completed his recruit training and went on to specialize in other fields. This wasn't another training course...? He shot a quick look down at the floor, where two men lay dead. Two of the most skilled he knew. Panic shot up the back on his head like a bullet, eradicating the confusion and replacing it with terror. "Why are you here!?" he asked again, louder, desperation apparent. No test was worth losing two lives for.
...Three.
Having been too focused on Sanada and the blade that hadn't moved the moment he stepped foot into this nightmare, Kirihara hadn't realized Yanagi had moved until he felt the hand on the small of his back, the warmth of another person's touch burning deep like fire. "Akaya," Yanagi said softly, and Kirihara drew away, spinning around and catching Yanagi's wrist where he had brought up to touch the younger man on the cheek. The wrist was thin in his; his fingers wrapped around comfortably. The other hand rested on his cheek, brushed away the tears that leaked from Kirihara's eyes, and he let go. "Good boy," Yanagi whispered as he stepped in closer, fingertips brushing his jaw line as they slid down his face, a feathering touch at the side of his neck before a stab of pain shot him out of his reverie and into a new one.
'Retrieve or kill.'
His mouth slacked open, gasping for breath that wouldn't come. His arms dangled at his side, refusing to lift and protect his neck, it was too late. His knees buckled and strong arms moved forward to catch him. The last thing he saw was thin fingers on a thin wrist, tucking a hypodermic needle into a coat pocket, and then the deep, hateful blue of the Hyoutei insignia on his former general's uniform before all faded into black.
"Send him back, Genichirou," Yanagi instructed as he kicked aside the mess on the floor, porcelain shards powdering over the faces of two fallen, one more to fall even further. Sanada grunted with the effort in lifting the man over his shoulders, much heavier than his stature suggested even taking into account the weight of the combat suit Sanada was so familiar with. He watched as Yanagi bent to pick up the sword that had finally left Sanada's grip, watched him wipe off the blade with the hem of Fuji's shirt-- pale white stomach in stark contrast with the blacking blood-- so that it wouldn't rust over like all men who passed through here.
"Checkpoint," Sanada muttered to himself as he left first, stepping over the rubble and into the stench of the tunnels. What Yanagi was thinking, he had no idea, but to throw what was once his kouhai back to…
Warm smiles and bright laughter, how this person embodied peacetime and summer days, even while standing in a sea of blood and rotting flesh. He often wondered about the mental strength required to be able to do that, but then he was reminded of another, whose lack of allowed him to do just that.
Failure will not be tolerated.
Part II.