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Maris Stella’s soft but insistent meowing rouses Akira from a restless sleep. She squints around her room and groans, instantly glad that today is her day off. Empty cans are strewn across the wooden floor from the night before, and her head is pounding. At the very least, she had the decency to shower and strip before getting into bed.
Akira admits silently that beer isn’t really her thing; nor alcohol in general. It’s pretty disgusting – both the taste and slight burning sensation as the brew slips down her throat – and she has next to no tolerance for it.
There was no question in her mind though, that personal preference will always pale in comparison to efficiency. So far, alcohol had never affected Akira’s work as an investigator – she made sure of it – but she understands now, the reason why her father had always gone to bed with his bottle. Alcohol dulls her thoughts; it helps her sleep (and passing out counts, in a way). It helps her forget the troubles of life, if only for a short time.
The petite blonde raises a hand to shield her eyes against the glare of the white curtains, rolling herself over on the bed to look at her pet. The cat wags her tail expectantly, in anticipation of breakfast and a cuddle. Akira smiles when the animal jumps into her arms, soft warm fur ticklish against her bare skin.
Careful not to disturb their position on the bed, Akira reaches to pull away the curtains, welcoming the morning. Sunlight floods into the investigator’s unadorned bedroom, highlighting miniature flecks of dust suspended like shimmering glitter. It's an almost whimsical sight, but Akira’s practicality offers nothing but a grim reminder to do some housekeeping soon.
Cleaning isn't too bad by any standards. Her apartment is compact - but it almost seems too big for one. It's still the same size, even though that her world has shrunk.
The light catches onto carefully-framed photographs on her drawer.
There used to be just one photograph on display – of Akira and her deceased father, guarded by the cat figurine Takizawa had so embarrassedly slipped her on her last birthday (she was surprised he remembered, when she’d almost forgotten it herself). A small picture of Akira and Amon now rests beside the cheap ornament.
The blonde picks it up from the stand. It was a standard-issue CCG photograph – investigators, posing with their respective partners. Amon’s brows were knit into his usual stern look; blue suit crisp and clean as always. On his right, somewhat overshadowed by her partner’s formidable height and build, Akira wore her usual apathetic expression.
It's an accurate description of their dynamic, sure, but Akira remembers a lot more than that.
Amon’s irises were light gray, and they were cold sharp steel whenever they were out in the battlefield. Akira remembered his rage, unleashed on anyone that threatened the safety of his comrades. Yet those same eyes were filled with gentleness whenever he cast them upon her, tinged with the nervousness and guilt at being an indirect cause of her father’s passing.
(She misses her father, too.)
Akira recalls the low rumble of the Senior Investigator’s determined voice; the respect it commanded from his colleagues when, in contrast, all anyone else seemed to feel for Akira was mistrust. The blonde didn't mind, of course - she didn't need pity, nor the same old father-daughter comparisons. Yet every time Akira made a mockery of the man and his attempts at friendliness, he had been so patient, taking her scathing remarks in stride.
Amon made her feel safe, and it was a dangerous feeling.
Akira only vaguely remembers now, the warmth of Amon’s solid back against her chest that time he'd carried her wasted ass back home. Memories of the next morning were clearer, of her aching hangover and the man’s flustered state after spending the night out on her balcony, doing push-ups of all things. His coat had been hung over her window, flapping lightly in the breeze as he gratefully ate the breakfast she made for him.
Her partner had stayed the night then; just so she didn’t have to be alone.
Akira fills Maris Stella’s bowl with cat biscuits and sets it down on the wooden floor. Her pet nearly barrels her over in her excitement.
At least she still had Maris Stella to feed. The investigator smiles wanely, watching her cat gobble up her meal, and wonders if the animal remembers Amon's scent like Akira does.
The incident Maris Stella would never forget in her short lifetime, on the other hand, would be her encounter with Takizawa’s dog. He'd stopped by once to deliver baked goods courtesy of his mother. The dog had an overexcited temperament much like its owner, and it freaked Maris Stella out so much that Akira actually felt sorry for her.
The female investigator hasn’t visited Takizawa’s mother in a while, now.
She wonders if his family is coping okay.
What if they aren't?
Akira’s pot of coffee warms gently on the stove as she deftly flips some pancakes for her own breakfast. Her hair’s still in an uncombed mess, but she couldn't be bothered today. Not that there’s anyone to see it anyway. Her brain, however, is still hammering viciously against her skull, and her strategy of ignoring it is clearly not working as well as it should be.
She’s still got some of the painkillers Amon bought for her that night.
Akira turns off the fire on the stove, removing the pan from the cooktop so the pancakes don’t burn, and goes to rummage in her medicine cabinet.
She swallows some of the pills with a glass of water. As Akira’s re-tying the plastic bag, something black falls into the sink.
The blonde twirls the shiny button in her fingers. It must have loosened, but from where?
A shirt - his shirt - or perhaps his coat.
Akira's breath hitches, and she's knee-deep in her memory of that day - the beautiful, horrible evening before the Owl Extermination Operation.
Amon, at his previous Quinque owner’s grave.
She remembers how annoyed she was that day, at him for always being so tall, for always thinking about the welfare of everyone but his own.
Akira hid it well, she supposed, but she'd been terrified then. That he'd die, that she'd die, and that would be the end of it all. The end of them.
She didn't even fully comprehend what she was doing with the smooth fabric of Amon’s tie in her grip, but all Akira wanted to do was to make sure that the man she resented so much to know exactly how she felt.
They say that when the end comes, it's always in an instant.
Perhaps one day, Akira can forget the feeling of Amon’s hand against her lips. The shock and sadness in his gray eyes; his insistence in completely shutting her out.
In retrospect, the man hadn't needed to say a single word for her to know why. He'd always been transparent like that.
He had been unwilling. He, Amon Koutarou, had been scared.
That fateful exchange had been their last.
Akira wipes away an escaped tear and lets out a self-depreciating laugh.
Akira places a fresh bouquet of white carnations at the foot of the gravestone she visits ever so often.
“Chief Investigator Marude promoted me to First-Class Investigator on Thursday. They’re talking about giving me one of the Quinques I’m helping to re-craft,” she explains. Her tone is calm and quiet; almost resigned. “They’ve given me a choice, and I want Doujima. I’ve helped repair it once, but the current damage is much worse. I’ll see what I can do."
"I’ll probably have a new partner soon, too. I’m not sure if I’m ready though.” The female investigator runs her fingers over the inscribed letters of her father’s name on the granite. “At least they found you, papa. They haven’t found him, nor Takizawa-kun. Not even a single limb. I really wished they did. Killed in action, bodies not found. Amon Koutarou and Takizawa Seidou only exist as classified documents now.”
First her mother, then her father; Akira hadn't wanted to bury another important person in her life. She hadn't been careful enough of what she wished for, and the loose ends will be forever untied, now she'd been robbed of the chance to say goodbye to the two people she loved most.
Akira rests a hand on her aching chest, fist clenched, nails digging raw crescents into her skin. “I know you want me to be stronger than this, papa, but you, of all people, would understand the pain, right? You learnt to cope with mama gone, and you told me to trust my instincts. So if Investigators Amon and Takizawa are with you and mama now, why doesn’t it feel like it at all? No matter how many ghouls I exterminate, why do I still feel the same way? Why can't I let them go?”
She sighs tiredly. "Does it even matter anymore, papa? There’s no one left for me now. No one to make sure I’m okay, no one to wish me happy birthday, no one to carry me home and tuck me into bed. I miss them, and I miss you. So much. Maris Stella does, too. I don't want to feel so empty anymore, papa. Please.”
There's no one left to live for.
Akira leans onto the side of her father's headstone, hugging her knees, shivering in the wind. The investigator's blonde locks dance around her delicate features, pale green eyes illuminated by the dimming light. Nestled in the ebb and wave of the grass, Akira looks like an abandoned child.
Tears of despair run down her cheeks, falling like dew onto her father’s flowers.
Grief is the price we pay for love.
(Unnoticed, safely hidden in the shadows; he averts his gaze and covers his left eye in shame.)