Chapter Text
00:00:00:01
Familiar white notches as a frame around all four corners, central bottom holds a time tracker on the screen as it proceeds to display gray static. The closed-circuit security camera was only set up recently as requested by an anonymous customer, perhaps it was something they’d like to record in this room to capture an aesthetic similar to that of a crime documentary. The fluorescent lighting was dim, the one farthest right down the second column even buzzing and shifting between on or off. It was not a room of quality. The floor was made of concrete layered with an additional layer of thick dust due to the insanitation and desertion. It wasn’t a room of much usage, that was apparent. The metal against the gray walls holding up the roof was also quite rusty to mention, not excusing the grime and particles evidently visible when observed at a certain angle through the light.
72:58:15:66
A white-haired man wearing the traditional muted-cardinal Hunting Dogs uniform consisting of the standard military shirt with tall, coal-black Wellington boots and a long cape over his shoulders. The middle-aged man had his sleeves rolled up for convenience, along with his fingers coated in the fabric of an angelic-white half-palm glove. As if testing, the man tilted his head upwards to directly stare at the camera. His hairline forms a lightning bolt shape on the left side of his face, also zoomed in to see light, spiky hair with exactly two strands falling in front of the face and an upward mustache. Those eyes of his glow a vibrant magenta, appearing to have purple underneath them, as he narrowed them. A chiseled jawline, just like those on television’s right cheek are three distinct healed scars that almost resemble claw marks. He slowly stepped around the room to further test the angles of the surveillance camera, blade sheathed by his hip. He had a blank expression, that if not serious. It’s fascinating for the public to see him with such a…forbidding and stern composure when compared to Fukuchi Ouchi’s usual tones of humor, yet no one would be viewing this just as of now. With a straight posture, Fukuchi inspected the room once more, though for whatever reason is unclear. The clicks of his heels against the concrete soon fade into the background as he inhales deeply, completely disregarding the fifth and ashes of the place. Perhaps it could use some better ventilation- no. Then the screams would be audible.
88:34:75:19
The stabilized pocket door opens once again to reveal Fukuchi present once again, this time carrying a wooden cut-out back chair which he placed right onto the center of the room, sending a wave of dust particles rushing up as he raised a hand to sweep some fresh air in, coughing as he shook his head. After so, he exited the area of vision to return exactly seven seconds later, this time carrying back another man that he set onto the chair. He seemed to be drugged, currently unconscious as his head was slumped forward, shoulder-lengthed ink-black hair swayed softly upon the motion. The key features of the victim were only his scarlet scarf- the one of the new port mafia boss replaced seven years ago after the predecessor died of illness- and the dark trench coat, casting a vivid contrast. Fukuchi reached into his cape and pulled out a thick stack of twisted manila rope, advancing forward to tie the hostage up in. He demonstrated efficiency, accuracy, and fluency, almost as if he had experience with such an atrocious act before. However, he is a soldier. A soldier who also possesses immense intimidation skills that he most likely has used many times throughout his career to achieve the position he holds so dearly today. Fukuchi grabbed the latter’s face, shoving a piece of wet cloth into his mouth as a gag and covering his vision using a ripping of soft sunset-purple blindfolds. It was done. Clapping or dusting off his gloves in what showed similarities of celebration, he began to circle around the victim. His facial expression still hasn’t changed a single bit, no. Except this time around, it resembled the gaze of a predator, an eagle testing its prey before descending down with a speed faster than the eye could see and swooping up the chick. A glitter of sadism sparkles in those pupils of his, yet for whatever reason, he chose to spare the helpless man.
Fukuchi’s hands were on the Amenogozen’s sheath, entire body froze for what was a minute before turning around, back facing the victim. He could’ve ended his life right then and there, though he didn’t. It was most likely that he was simply calculating and measuring the consequences of whether it was really worth it or not to wait another couple of days to be joined, and whether should he murder the port mafia boss right this instant. What would be most beneficial to him, his plan, and his vision? Or what would quench this thirst for power and vengeance? Fukuchi closed his eyes as the camera flickered, and as far as one could tell from the footage, he was in deep thought.
The recording cuts.
The humming, fluorescent lights were the first item the restrained man registered as it assaulted his senses even through the blindfolds as he gradually regained consciousness, head still light with vision a blur due to whatever drugs or anesthetics were used on him. The immediate next was the environment, sending him to choke and cough as he inhaled the filth particles down. This wasn’t the hospital, he thought. The second he tried to move sent him feeling a sharp pain in his abdomen, where he was stabbed not long ago. And time, yes, time…how long had it been again? Though he could conclude that it wasn’t long enough for his injury to heal. Wanting to support and hold the wound, the mafia boss soon realized that he was tied up. Painfully tight.
Licking his dry, crusted lips before letting out a soft sigh, the man was notably calm. It’s almost to a degree of disturbingly, unsettling calmness that he radiates. Perhaps it’s the reassurance of experience with such events or the confidence that his mafia executives will eventually find a way and rescue him, or simply both.
Either way, however, staying calm was the only action that would even serve close to benefiting him. He considered now summoning Vita Sexualis, or as narrated, a blonde, seemingly of German race loli to untie his restraints, though it was clear he would still be too weak to escape the room entirely, therefore wasting this opportunity and potentially leading to more dangers. Attempting to shake off some loose strands of his hair, he now only possessed one mission to do: wait patiently.
It was much easier said than done as not even an hour in, he recovered to most of his senses as the drug effects either wore off or he adjusted to them. The aching pain of the posture, being confined to nothing but a wooden chair, caused his injury to only worsen by the second. Trying to at least wiggle in some room to breathe, he began expanding his muscles and pushing back against the ropes, platform boots scraping against the concrete floor with the screeches of the chair lifting and pressing back down again, essentially bouncing with the tapping noise. Once he no longer felt the pain of the pressure of the ropes- and used up all his energy finding out that’s as far as he was going to get- he lazily slumped back against the chair, head facing up for the surveillance to get a clear view on his features- jet-black bangs that hung outside the blindfold that was once supposed to compliment the fair skin only now was irritating and left him with disgust.
How many days had it been?
His face felt disgusting and dry. The white dust around his eyelashes only added to the nauseousness, but he knew better than to scream. It’d be a waste of energy, and even if he was to be greeted back it would, in most contexts, be a sentence to silence him. And to think, his most treasured memory of the sensation of an abduction was twelve summers ago, along the first few months he and his then partner and now President of the Armed Detective Agency, Fukuzawa Yukichi met, when the younger man was pretending to be refrained as well to a similar-sized chair. It wasn’t as dangerous as it appeared for him to expect, with the thrill being the clear highlight, but having such perfect synergy with his “savior”, Fukuzawa provided an entertaining rush, that he couldn’t help but subtly smile.
With the creek of the doorknob and rays of bright, glorious sunshine along with the exposure to fresh air, the victim could tell the door opened, though he resisted the primal urge to gasp and squirm in his seat, the allure of the fresh air supply and the imaginary sensations of it hitting and refueling his lungs. Even with the blindfold on, his eyes felt weak and overstimulated, his eyelids almost instantly shutting, for god knows how long he’s been in there.
Judging from the frequency and overlapping noises of footsteps, one from a pair of boots and the other from a pair of zori and small coughs, he effortlessly guessed two others just entered. Now, he had an idea of who just might be whom, but he wouldn’t jump to conclusions. In fact, all he did was pretend he was still knocked out.
Fukuchi and the other man hesitated for about what seemed like ten seconds, as he counted, before eventually proceeding to step swiftly towards the victim, eyes analyzing the position and cloth as he raised an eyebrow before giving it a few hard slaps right on the face. The assaulted didn’t display any sign of consciousness, let alone let out the smallest grunt or gasp. It was all part of the usual procedure, except Fukuchi is different. He wouldn’t let anyone or anything of his grasp go unless he made sure it was safe, and that's when he took a step back with his left leg to fiercely grab and tug on a few strands of his left bangs- it wasn’t enough to rip the hair out. However, still enough to cause pain and lift the head to somewhat face the officer, and after giving it a pull and swing, he threw him back against the chair, hair messily loose now with the posture limp. He must’ve known that Mori Ougai is a force to be reckoned with, however, as he slowly unsheathed the Amenogozen, illuminating rays of purple light that it radiated from the fine blade. Pulling the entire sword out that set as a barrier, almost, between Mori and Fukuchi was also a test of fear.
A test of fear of whether Fukuchi’d slit the mafia boss’s throat first, or for Mori to stop faking dead and fucking properly reply.
“Genichirou, don’t.”
Mori’s theory was proven correct- it was indeed Fukuzawa Yukichi. And judging from the glow of the weapon the other held oh so tightly and swiftly, it could only be so difficult of a guess. His face in the magazines, names on the covers of fantasy novels, the cheerful outrageous iconic laugh of his that, in Mori’s opinion, sounded a little more like a crackle. Now, if Fukuchi, the embodiment of righteousness was here and was not interested in saving Mori, he would be the only one to hold him captive. Calculating the risks and outcomes in his head, he quickly realized that, if he played the role well, he doesn’t have to die. Fukuchi would never kill him, because if he precisely intended to assassinate Mori, he would either come up with a criminal sentence deserving of execution, or simply cut off his skull many days ago. It was all a part of a greater scheme, and Mori would not let him have what he wished. Solely, by staying quiet.
The two just happened to remain in their positions, frozen for longer than one could count before Fukuchi sighed and turned around, visibly frustrated. He must’ve come to the realization of what was going to happen- the camera was still on, and even now he’d have to cut out the footage, but it was still better than scarring the man on the spot, on camera, with no plausible explanation. He gritted his teeth, getting a sense of what kind of game Mori was playing.
Yes, even now, he had a gut feeling that Mori was awake.
Still ignoring the detective’s command, Fukuchi suddenly and aggressively ripped off the cloth used as a gag. This was a move that would force Mori to stop playing his games and get serious for once. And sure enough, it worked. As he grunted softly with his head swung by the motion, he decided it was time. Faintly gasping upon the shock, he slowly moved his head back to a more neutral, comfortable position. Mori would’ve chosen to scream “Who’s there,” though he knew better than to make a fool out of himself. Even if the wake was sudden, it was still apparent that he experienced enough training to adjust to not inquiring out loud. On the other hand, when met by silence once again, Fukuchi had had enough. On the contrary, he now kept the thought and reminder of not advancing overboard due to the recording, and so he unambiguously returned to the original stance next to Fukuzawa, who had his arms crossed in the usual manner, and signaled by a nod for his best friend to take over. It’d all play out according to plan, all he needed to do now was make sure he didn’t get captured by the security camera.
“Fukuzawa, don’t you have anything to say to him? It was why he was brought here after all.” Mindfully worded to leave out the first-person phrase in case of association and the reminder that served as gaslighting, it would all be directed towards the detective. The footage, as of now, could not clearly display his expression due to the angle, yet a sigh was audible as he began to approach the wooden chair, farther end of the black haori over broad shoulders gently lifted by the current caused by the transit. A swordsman, he was, also carrying a katana
Too bad Mori knew exactly what he was doing.
Lightheartedly smirking, Mori opened his mouth and began to speak, “Ah! I could recognize that bright, voice from anywhere, all over the television along with the source’s comedic face, Fukuchi Ochi of the Hunting Dogs!” Fukuchi sighed, this man wasn’t as simple as people make him out to be even as the port mafia boss. Now that his name was declared and caught in the audio, the recording wouldn’t be as complete as he intended it to to use as evidence. “And to think I could one day bear the honor of hearing it in person-”
There was a slap. Back of the samurai’s hands and directly onto Mori’s face with a burn. Standing straighter as he gazed down at the helpless man tied up before him, the familiar memory of twelve years ago, them as partners on a mission together. It only enraged Fukuzawa how he knew this was all coming, how he was disgusted at this one hell of a human and should’ve left years ago.
Each second that managed to pass by for the warrior only infuriated him further until his hand was placed on Mori’s chin, the other fiercely ripping off the makeshift blindfold and tilting his head to the right to examine the latter’s face.
Overwhelmed with such…strong light- in comparison to the muted ambiance he’d adjusted to over the past half a day sent him helpless and only to squint in transition. The urge to lower his head in an attempt to accustom the blinding rays that triggered and raped his senses. Instead of cursing, however, all he managed to let out was a smirk from the corner of his mouth before getting slapped once again. How pathetic of him to be in such a weak, vulnerable, and miserable state. But Mori knew, didn’t he? He was aware, that he had to fuel Fukuzawa’s anger and thirst for bloodshed to get action from him and therefore either cut free of these restraints or play the role of the innocent victim a little more realistically. Human nature, what a beauty. Everyone likes acting as the hero, so how come he shouldn’t use it to his advantage? And if all went well, it’d even protect Fukuzawa.
“Look at me.” Commanded forbiddingly the white-haired warrior, expression as cold as always. It’s almost his key feature- the serious and resolute tone of his as well. And as one might expect, Mori did not obey and face the camera’s focus. “I said, look at me.”
It was with those words of his that he did not register his accomplice slowly backing out of the camera’s radius of visibility. In the absolute ideal situation, he wouldn’t have to cut out any more footage.
“I still remember,” Mori started, “about…twelve years ago? Do I recall correctly? How sometimes I’d get abducted, all tied up just like this and you’d play the hero. Good times.” Good times, were those? For it did manage to infuriate Fukuzawa that the man before him even possessed the sheer audacity to call those good times- he had it easy. Sure, being tied up to a chair and potentially getting tortured, like he is now, was easy for the former underground doctor, though it did take quite some work cutting down the soldiers and guards at the entrance, saving him every time- the hero rescuing the beauty with the beauty essentially being more of a bitch. And Mori finally fluttered open those alluring amethyst eyes and overcame the strong lights, gazing into Fukuzawa’s lightheartedly. That was what was annoying about him, wasn’t it? How he always remained so goddamn talkative and cheerful, even in the most dire situations.
And in those situations, Fukuzawa gradually shifted from being concerned for Mori’s well being to frustrated. He wasn’t sure whether to be reassured and proud that Mori always managed to pull his business together in the most unexpected of ways, no matter how cruel they may be, or be utterly disgusted upon them. Fukuzawa held Mori’s chin tighter, higher, forcing the distance and gap between the two to lessen that Mori could feel the former’s heavy breathing of fury. He, or rather, Fukuchi, carefully observing from the corner, was confident. The new mafia boss is undeniably a force to be reckoned with, that was clear. But today was different, no, no one will come and save him now.
“No one will come and save you now.”
“The Silver Wolf is resorting to torture! And I thought you were going to how carefully wash and rinse those damn, sadistic, bloodied hands of yours by opening a detective agency for the people!”
That was the immediate follow after a few rough, yet fierce punches and slaps down the face, bruising the once fair and almost tender skin. Silence greeted them once again, engulfing the entire room with the pressure so strong it might as well crush the two. A bloodied nose on Mori’s behalf, his body that was originally weak by the drugs now joints ache with pain and agony, and he still managed to shake it off like nothing short of a few light scratches. Both Fukuchi and Mori knew, that, for the execution to work, more violence must be forced upon them. Especially the agency President, who, a nerve has been hit by Mori’s words. His eyes, teal green with a hint of sage, were now burning with anger that if it wasn’t for his rationality reminding him of what was happening, would probably have killed the man before him. Fukuchi simply watches this, his back not quite against the door to avoid the tracing from the dust, or simply stains that would give his location away. If the officer was bored, he didn’t seem so.
It’s thrilling, that he had to admit as he turned his head subtly to shake away a strand of hair hanging down that restricted his vision. Yes, the lion would watch the wolf and the fox battle each other out before feasting on the injured wolf that came out victorious. It’s how the food chain works in the land of animals, and could one really blame him for just so happening to stand on top?
The fox may be cunning, calculative, and sly, but its only weakness is that they never get serious, no. They’re always hiding in the shadows and once you shine the bright afternoon light on them, one can see that they’re all nothing but cowards. The wolf may be logical, thoughtful, and loyal, though it is that loyalty that makes them reliant on their pack. They’ll never suspect one of their dearest friends actually holds immense hatred and jealousy for their actions. The lion, on top of the food chain, is considered the king of animals- they’re courageous, realistic, and have that natural charisma of leadership. Empathy is their strongest trait, the most powerful. And now, it’s time for the lion to use that empathy against them. After all, why join the fight and climb the ranks one by one when only one battle needed to be fought?
Fukuchi took a deep breath, closing his eyes as he drew out the Amenogozen of its sheath, gripping it tightly with the right hand. His eyes sparked open with determination- the Mirror Lion knew the Silver Wolf all too well, how he couldn’t, no matter how much dedication or persistence he would put in, end something as serious as the life of a dear friend. Loyalty, oh, loyal he was. But without a pack, without the Armed Detective Agency, he is but a mere pawn in the grand scheme. Fukuzawa’s hands reached for the edge, the outer corner of Mori’s left eye, pressing against the temple. An hour had passed from when they originally entered the room, and Fukuzawa had long since gotten used to the dust and ashes around, even seeing better in the dim lighting. On Mori’s behalf, however, time went awfully slow as the major concern was not even the horrible condition, some may consider him a clean freak, or the posture. Instead, it was the pain inflicted on him over and over…until he would be content. Smirking, he knew he seemed like a masochist, and that was only true to some degree. He wouldn’t want Fukuzawa to gauge out his eyes…
Blood. The smell and sensation of blood excited Fukuzawa, the earlier years of his days working as an assassin for the government, how the occupation almost brought him the thrill of violence- which is why he suddenly pulled back his hand and turned around, breathing growing more rapid by the second. What had he done? Mori’s scarf was torn, hair messy, and stained with the crimson blood that also painted the nose, even the fabric of the trench coat was ripped slightly, revealing the cut skin. He was still able, no bones were broken… Fukuzawa’d hope to think. Yet, there was a feeling he couldn’t make out that made him feel the world was closing in on him, harder and harder to breathe. His body trembled faintly, though the overwhelming adrenaline still failed to subside.
Raising out a hand and staring into the calloused palm of his, realization hit him worse than a truck. Through his ash-gray hair, now loose that he didn’t have enough thoughtfulness to give a damn about. He had hurt someone. He had sworn to never lift a finger on anyone that didn’t pose a threat to his, or any innocent’s life let alone hurt someone whom he personally knew so well, had been with for so long and to top it all off, couldn’t defend themselves back. His mouth was subtly open with shrunken pupils, still reviewing what he had done. It’s just a minor assault, minor. What originated as a conversation about the agency’s medic, Yosano Akiko, now was no longer a negotiation but instead one of intimidation. Minor. Minor assault. Mori wasn’t seriously hurt, or-
“Or, I could always choose you, Fukuzawa-dono.”
Or he would’ve shut up already.
As if he made it worse, Fukuzawa proceeded to ignore the comment about the member transfer. Mori just needed to get under his skin a little more… a little more until he breaks and lashes out at him. That, however, with Fukuzawa in a state of sudden awareness, or simply exhausted from the raw emotion as he just stood there, the center of the room, head lowered staring down at his hands, it was so close yet so far. For the Mirror Lion, torture was something completely different to him than most. See, the common folk wouldn’t have hesitated in the slightest to remark out loud that it is a disgusting, absolutely atrocious act of interrogation that may god bless the victim's poor, forsaken souls, granting them a merciful death rather than resorting to violence to inflict agony, and that is exactly the reason given, or more, thought on why infamous rat Conjurer, also known as the head of the Rats in the House of the Dead, Dostoevsky wouldn’t agree to construct a perfect plan. “Perfection is boring”, also claims the man who claims that God values perfection in his creations. “Irony”, Fukuchi had grown to both love and despised that word, given his current occupation.
After what was about fifteen seconds that passed, Fukuzawa finally seemed to have calmed down- or at least regained his breath and composure.
“I…” With a choked gasp that hurt his throat to even make out, he spoke, “I…W-Wonder…I-If I ever saw this c-coming…” Mori sighed to himself, still smiling…except the blood by his lips and the few strands of stray hair that clung to the crimson liquid really made the smile look absolutely terrifying than anything of a peaceful smile, or a self-mocking sigh. He wondered how it got here, how he was under the mercy of the only man who understood him who never supported him, the only man who knew him personally but never by habit. The man who he spent practically every day and night, and annoyed the fucking shit out of. Ah, how beautiful. Life really is just a precious little thing. It gave you senses and sentience, it gave you emotions and intellect. And Mori would abuse every last bit of these senses until all he could taste was dust and all he could smell was the stench of his own blood as the cuts by his lip soon fell dry due to the liquid’s condensation.
It was useless, wasn’t it? The camera couldn’t capture the agony the man was in, all his limbs both numb and aching. Fukuzawa wasn’t stupid either, he knew not to kill Mori. He knew to avoid Mori’s fatal organs and just slash blindly, heck, even abandoning the sword as skin-to-skin contact never once failed to make his blood boil. It was a feeling of pure desperation, a cry to be heard and not drowned by his morals that he had to release all onto the one person that ruined his life, that ruined his youth- Mori Ougai. Excuse after excuse, what should’ve taken just a few days took three years to establish- his very own armed detective agency that just so happened to be rivals with the port mafia he never thought deserved the privilege of existing, and yet he knew.
Every person Mori cured wasn’t purely just out of moral obligation or for salary, it was for his own gain. Oh, how hilarious, how absolutely hilarious. What a knee-slapper this is, for the boss of the port mafia to be a former doctor and for the president of the armed detective agency to receive award after award, praise after praise all led by a former assassin who barely executes missions himself anymore. The truth was, he did it simply because he wanted to. No, he was sure that everyone who was someone would know that Mori himself was more than capable of leading and saving Yokohoma from evil, protecting it from the night that threatened to engulf everything, and yet his greed for doing good overwhelmed rational. Perhaps he didn’t want to fall short and “lose” to his former partner and colleague, and he couldn’t bear the precious city of Yokohoma being supervised and protected by the government and a street mafia alone, and that was why the agency was formed. And look at where they are now.
Just take a fucking look at where they are now.
The former doctor who practically resurrected his patients from the dead even without the savored assistance of the eleven-year-old-girl who forbid death all neatly tied up and bloodied, limp in a chair with the adorable smile he always wore.
The detective agency president that was known practically worldwide for his heroic deeds that graciously rescued the troubled citizens of Yokohoma with his knuckled bleeding, hair loose and messy, and forehead covered in sweat droplets with a heart so close to bursting with pure fury. He knew he was susceptible to Mori’s constant teasing, and it really made him question why he never attacked Mori earlier.
The literal audacity Mori has to bicker about the member transfer- the scale of justice sure does not favor the outcomes right now for Fukzuawa actually owes him one, he owes Mori a member. He clenched his teeth harder, his body still fuming and trembling with rage that barely began to quench its share of release. His teeth clattered as he took a few steps forward, the wooden soul of his shoes now hard to the step that was excused only because of the state its’ owner was in. With eyes glassy and a heart that wondered somewhere else, recalling every little second of the past memories, every little encounter and interaction the two had ever had, every word and syllable Mori had ever spoken out as it only made the white-haired warrior wonder about one thing… Only one thing….one small little detail….
“W-why did you stop, Fukuzawa-dono? Did your superior, F-Fukuchi-kakka, there tell you to stop hurting me?”
“Why didn’t I think of killing you earlier?!”
A punch. Straight to his face. He slumped back, his head bruised and concussed as the back of his skull slammed against the edge of the wooden chair, threatening to knock the entire structure over if Fukuzawa didn’t forcefully tug him back by his scarf as he smashed his fist against the latter’s forehead. Ah, yes, Genchirou was right, it really did feel so much better, so much more addicting if I destroyed him by the very skin of my own hands. He had such smooth skin…I would’ve wanted to caress it if it weren’t for that devious smile. Aww, he has such soft hair…too bad the roots are now stained with his blood. Such pretty eyes, such lush eyelashes…I will shut them forever.
Finally, Fukuzawa had enough, he kicked the chair over only to pull it back as he stabbed his sword right over Mori’s heart, his head crashing forward to his chest in a violent motion that caused him to cough up blood, the reflexes within his muscles moving against his will as a wave of sticky, crimson blood leaked out of his lips, running and trickling down his jaw as it gathered there before flowing down and staining onto the sage-green fabric of Fukuzawa’s clothes, right before another wave hit as more blood was coughed up. Barely conscious, fuck, he might as well be dead- No one could survive a stab straight to and through the heart, and besides, he was sure no ambulance would arrive in time. With a rough grunt, he pulled the sword back as his left hand got a firm grip on Mori’s hair, tugging it and pulling it up. His head swiftly followed, almost dangling as it was limp with no more resistance, no more fight.
He looked like something straight out of a horror movie, except all the more realistic and far more gruesome. By pulling and tugging on the strands of hair alone, Fukuzawa felt as if the body before him was one of a marionette, head heavy and full, stuffed with cotton, like a doll’s. It was…something beautiful. Something that awakened the primal instincts of him, bloodthirsty and vindictive, the urge that was forcefully buried away. Ah, the blood of Mori smelled both intoxicating and strangely alluring, the silkiness of the hair with the sticky liquid of blood over the roots as his fingers ran over and through it was awfully satisfying to the touch.
Why did he like this feeling? His heart clenched- revenge felt great, fuck was it thrilling, but why wasn’t there a hint of pity? Fukuzawa loosened his grip on the man’s hair, letting it fall as his head slumped forward. He was dead…he’s really dead. Why does he feel regret? Oh fuck, what did he just do? He killed the person who was with him through everything, the person whose synergy with him was enough to take down the entire government- the person who both contradicted and complimented him, the person who would always return with a cheerful smile and call “Fukuzawa-dono!” whenever he was even in the presence of him, the person who would tug at his arm and ask him for a walk, a drink, to just talk under the stars- the person who suffered because no one understood him except for Yukichi, the very man who fulfilled and completed the silver wolf.
With ink-black hair that swayed oh, so gracefully and amethyst eyes that seemed to glisten with cheer, he would greet him.
At twenty-six years old, Mori Ougai was just busy slurping ramen when Fukuzawa entered.
At twenty-six years old, Elise was already a functional mold of Yosano’s. Kicking her feet and drawing with the new crayons the busy doctor bought her, it was all Mori could ask. Ambitions existed, burnt and twirled and danced as the flames refused to fade away, though watching his precious Elise simply being happy never once failed to make his heart swell. Tonight, however, hearing the crisp three knocks from the pocket door caught the dazing doctor’s attention as he immediately twirled the leather chair around with glittering hopeful eyes to greet his bodyguard’ gaze- for he had already entered the room. Mori’s ink-black hair lifted and swayed subtly by the turn, a few loose strands managed to cover his vision slightly, though he didn’t mind the flowing bangs.
A visitor…Mori thought to himself, glance shifting back to his fold-up table at the far corner of the room, its contents above messily arranged. It wasn’t nearly enough, oh, how much a first impression mattered was evident to Mori, for this…man…with the buttercup-yellow scarf and eyes deeper than the starry night allured Mori. Ah, it felt nothing more than just a written, captured, and unrealistically glorified moment from a fictional tale.
The doctor pressed against the wall to swiftly lift himself up from the chair, kicking it back by the desk and stepping over to the pocket door to twist the doorknob open, a cheerful smile present on his lips. Mori, unfortunately, didn’t make the best entrance or room presentation for Fukuzawa during their first meeting, and whether it was that or another reason that resulted in the skilled bodyguard often canceling visits or enthusiastic invites.
“Guard duty.”
Those were the first words Fukuzawa ever said to Mori, the first impression of his voice that Mori memorized over the years as he visualized their future. It was a magical scene, and as the sun hid over the horizon the earth was engulfed in darkness and only found the salvation of light from the reflective rock. The two were like the sun and moon, meant to be but never stay together long enough before venturing off to their own journeys, their own orbits.
The indigo of the night seemed to seep through the windows, brightening and enhancing the thirty-two-year-old Fukuzawa, who still had yet to form the armed detective agency that changed the course of his and the entirety of the city of Yokohoma’s lives. Ah, the good old days…the days devoid of the political conflicts the two are victims of today.
Fukuzawa kept a certain seriousness within their eye contact that almost lost Mori, to which he instead remarked on his visit. “Uh- yes!” Mori stuttered- oh, how foolish was he, he barely stuttered. Even if it was for pure comedic relief to lighten up the mood, he should’ve known at first sight that the warrior before him was a serious, stern man who refused such frivolous attempts at cheer. the smiling warmly as if apologizing to him to excuse my casual attitude. “I’ve been told that you’re quite an exceptional bodyguard.”
Mori replied with a smile, he knew how to talk his way into other’s hearts, he knew that damn well. A smile that never seemed to leave his lips, a smile he wore as a mask that clung to him as a second skin. With a voice crisp and just higher than Fukuzawa’s, he had hoped to flatter the ego of the warrior before him- after all, it worked countless times with others before, though he had yet to know his bodyguard used to be one of the best and most elite government assassins Japan had to offer, and what he didn’t even think of was that Fukuzawa just might be a little…just a little ashamed of his past career, the career he sharpened and utilized those incredible skills from the art of the sword he mastered. It struck a cord, young Mori struck a cord within Fukuzawa he never knew even existed- he was so confident that everyone had an ego to please and pamper he forgot that not everyone was as determined as he was to never, not even once regret their past. And for the case of Fukuzawa, well… his eyelid twitched as wrinkles seemingly began to form on his forehead.
Clenching his teeth, he stood still, frozen.
Just like how he is now, holding Mori’s shoulder, standing still, frozen in place.
Those words, the introduction and remarks of young Fukuzawa joining Mori were the first ones exchanged with each other, the differences in personality and attitude, the synergy of their instincts and desires, how their eyes met each other’s without flinching one bit, how despite the height difference, Mori dares to gaze up right at him and into those aqua eyes of his, how he read him like an open book…it was fate, wasn’t it? The two were meant to be together, meant to fulfill each other, they might as well be two sides of the exact same coin as they balanced each other’s flaws and shortcomings out, how they’ve had each other’s backs ever since day one. Weren’t they just…perfect? Together? Ah, if only either of them knew they would end up like this today, on this specific eleventh of June, with Mori collapsed against his bodyguard’s chest, all bloodied and limp, at the mercy of the man he both loved and hated the most.
It’s about time he summons Elise.
The art of personification, ah, the very thoughts that shaped a person’s existence and attributes- for they were the very essence of Vita Sexualis, after all, that’s what formed Elise, his dancing girl who would entertain and busy him throughout the days and nights, dawns and dusks. With locks of lustrous gold, cascading in gentle waves that swayed and whirled with each graceful step, it did pirouette upon the tip of its feet. Every little aspect of it was beautiful, what could he say? It was merely a personification of his desires and attraction, how can he not come to grow a liking of it? The expressions that painted her beautiful porcelain skin, soft and alluring, that was something to thank Humanism for. To thank the belief and culture that truly captivated human potential and how flawless they could possibly be.
They say, oh, do they say quite a lot, that by merely gazing into someone’s eyes, one can see the rough image of their spirit and therefore their current mood. He had been acting that out ever since he could remember, his eyes aligning with the subject of conversation and it wasn’t until fairly recently he realized they could be viewed as an impression of charisma, to which he did not hesitate even in the slightest to utilize the aspect to his full advantage. Yet, he could no longer gaze into Elise’s eyes, for they would be shut forever. Ah, as the bright pink sparkles form the girl of divine, flawless stature- her limbs curled up as she ascended behind him, the bright light of the ability lighting up the room as well as all of the imperfections- every drop, stain of blood and the still-afloat dust particles. With the fading of the splendid light, the fabric of the blood-red dress the girl wore would come into view as it descended onto the floor with the tip of the toes, its eyes still bright indigo as sapphire before regaining sentience. Ah, the angel, the angel during the battle that was staring straight into the man in the shadow's eyes, for Mori had one last thing to do before he could rest in peace.
“Fukuchi Ochi,” a soft, high-pitched voice called out as the cherry lips parted, just behind the corpse of its owner, the last moment before he died. It was a command for Elise to chant out as loud as she physically could, for the words echoed in the room. She had to make sure that the true perpetrator was known…yet none of her words registered in Fukuzawa’s mind. Ah, what a sight for sore eyes- For Fukuzawa’s had already begun to tear up. The memories flooded back, to the night they first met…how could he explain these horrendous atrocities to Elise? For it was just a manifestation, yet the warrior felt like he owed it an answer. He had realized, he had woken up. His tears finally started to run down his cheeks and finally- finally, just before the very end, he realized his sins. “Fukuchi Ochi,” Elise repeated, this time staring at the camera.“You are the man who ruined the president’s life.”
Was it too hate to repent? Oh, would the benevolent lord forgive him for his sins?
Fukuzawa had sinned in the past, he had slaughtered and dismembered and relished in the sight of his fallen targets, to draw the first, last, and only strike of his blade that separated their souls from their bodies…yet it never hurt. It never once hurt and tormented and haunted Fukuzawa as much as Mori’s death did, it never made his mind spin with flashbacks of what could’ve happened and their…friendship. The least he could do for the mafia boss, the underground surgeon, and his Mori Ougai was to end it as fast as possible, that even when he fell unconscious Fukuzawa did not want to leave his body to suffer the pain and decay until his inevitable death…he needed to release him from this room, from this hell. He owed him this, he owed Elise’s procreator a proper ending, one that would surely devoid him of any agony as he died.
And with a cut with the aggression of a starving wolf pouncing on his prey, the front legs of the fragile wooden chair get almost elegantly sliced apart from its body.
Elise didn’t stop him.
A gunshot was heard just as the upper half of the abused corpse was lifted by the slash of the silver blade, shooting Mori in the head.
Fukuchi Ochi had missed.
Fukuzawa raised a trembling hand out to the mafia boss’s chin, to caress or to lift, as the sound of a bang violated his eardrums that seemed to shake the entire room of this locked shed with the overpowering, nauseating aroma of gore. Dropping his katana with a spark of metallic noise onto the dusty, concrete floor, he soon realized what was wrong. A golden bullet, accurately shot into the latter’s forehead a millisecond after he twisted his lips into a cruel smirk, using up all the remaining energy the doctor had. Fukuzawa’s pupils dilated, arms shivering though not with cold. All hope was gone now. It’s peaceful again. It’s finally peaceful again.
Shaking, the sense that Fukuzawa couldn't quite make out but he was sure it wasn't fear, he tilted his head back right at the man before him. The embodiment of righteousness. The war hero of Japan. The Fukuchi Ouchi of the Hunting Dogs, aiming a pistol with a case almost glistening by the humming, fluorescent light. The index finger of his, neatly gloved with the color of innocence- white, angelic white- pressed against the damned trigger that took a life...No. He couldn't lie to himself like his, he enjoyed the violence. He enjoyed the shrieks he caused and the fury he felt. Heavy breathing, a sigh from the officer farther down the room and closer to the only entrance and exit, and the folds of chenille, muted-cardinal uniform of the officer as he, after what seemed like an eternity set aside the gun to his hip.
“...Of course, you’d want to kill Elise too, Genichirou.”