Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A thunderous crack echoes through the local arcade center in Trinity.

Here, there’s a corner where the machines for the more active customers reside.

Dance machines, various rhythm games, and of course, punch machines.

It’s a relatively unpopular area of the arcade center, generally speaking.

Most of the Trinity students are here for the fun, not tiring themselves out chasing numbers on the LCD screens.

Not to mention, arcades are already few and far between here; if you’re a hardcore gamer, D.U. and Millennium have far better choices anyway.

The machines are at least a generation behind, and are visibly worn with paint jobs peeling off, rusty metal parts, and blinking displays.

To the certain few, however, this little world is still a perfect mix of entertainment, exercise, and perhaps a tinge of emotional ventilation.

All the while not having to travel out of Trinity, a huge plus for those who are busy with their club work.

Such as a certain member of the Justice Task Force.

Instead of her usual black-and-red sailor uniform, she opted for a white blouse, a tan high-waist trousers, finished off with sandals and shades.

No choker today.

Overall, a simple, sleek, and inconspicuous outfit, for the person who is of the same atmosphere (at least in her own perspective).

For those with keen eyes, however, they’re still able to tell the identity of the mysterious lady by their wings; size, length, profile, and color.

Pairing that information with the person’s physique and hairstyle, the answer can be narrowed down with ease.

“……”

Nobody is around, however.

It’s the early afternoon of a weekday; everyone who gives a crap about their attendance rate and grades will be in class.

Unlike her, who took a personal leave today for both the class and JTF, just to enjoy (?) herself in the one-sided dual.

It was a pleasant surprise find when the adult brought her here in a quest for her new hobby.

Air hockey requires two players; the dance machine is… just that, and she’s not into rhythm games, either.

Not when the notes start pouring down on her like a storm at inhuman speed.

But this? This is great!

It’s quick, simple, and… how do you put it? Guilty-pleasure? But what’s so guilty about punching a pad?

Whatever. Mumbling to herself, she slots another coin into the machine.

It’s her afternoon and her money, and she decides to spend it all on this guy.

“……” A frown emerges in her pretty face.

Even now, she can feel it. The magic is fading. Again.

Each cross she slams into the machine, it chips away a little. And yet, she continues, trying her best to keep it in her, to feel more.

She’s here to find reprieve in her work of endless cycles.

New job at the JTF command, tedious conversation, getting caught and ground between gears that just wouldn’t fucking listen-

Her gloved fist clenches tighter. No. She says to herself.

She’s here to have fun, not to build up more internal friction.

Too bad the fun is dying. Like the past countless times.

She still has one last shot, though. Might as well.

With an inhale, she retracts her arms like loading a crossbow; back, back, back, lock, and...

She drawls with a sigh. There goes another 500 Yen, straight down the drain.

Pulling her out of the glove, she can feel the minor but muted pain in her knuckles and the sting of her nails digging into her palm.

Maybe it’s time to move on.

“Heavy sigh.” A voice comments, coming from her right.

“Mhm.” She grumbles, taking her Red Dragon and her purse as they are handed to her.

“……” Handed to her?

“Hello, Ichika.” Her rifle speaks up first.

Or rather, the person holding her rifle speaks. And it doesn’t take a genius to recognize who that is.

Her grayish-blue eyes open in surprise and shift upward, only to meet another pair of eyes in a similar color scheme, narrowed in amusement.

A man in business casual stands before her; dark gray, slim-fit blazer and chinos, a black polo shirt, finished off with a pair of aviator shades.

He even substituted his usual two-piece belt system for a sleeker and simpler EDC belt. IWB holster. She muses.

It’s a rare sight seeing him dressed anywhere close to formal. He probably had (or will have) big meetings in high places, such as the Tea Party.

“!...” Ichika turns into a statue for a full three seconds.

“You, uhm,” And she makes a horrible (but funny) attempt to change her voice as she averts the piercing gaze.

“You’ve must mistake me for someone else... ”

“Oh really?” Sensei practically wheezes as he speaks. “Can you help me out with something, then?”

Oh here we go. She’s already regretting her phenomenal decision.

Taking an inhale in a feeble hope of sucking her said word back into herself, she replies. “G- Go ahead…?”

“Well, you see,” With a shit-eating grin, he playfully shows off the spoils of mischief.

“Since you’re definitely, absolutely, 100-and-20 percent NOT who I’m looking for. I need to find the owner of these.”

The A in Auburn Sensei. Ichika’s left eye twitches. Good thing she still has her shades on.

“Have you seen her around?” He hums and gestures. “About this tall, black hair, medium-sized black wings, slit-eyes?”

“I, uh…”

“Affable and sociable?”

“Sensei, I-”

“Cute and funny?”

“Sensei!”

“Yes, Miss. Stranger?”

Ichika grabs her rifle and purse straight out of his hands. “Why are you like this?” Her shades crook a little as she chides with a smile.

Sensei lets her. “I aim to please.” Followed by an ow as his student pokes him with the muzzle of her rifle.

“Not going for another round?” He prods, eyeing the punching machine and the most recent record.

698? On Kivotos’ machine, even he can hit that number on his good days.

“E-he…” She scratches her chin with a helpless smile. “Maybe next time. I’m done for the day.”

There are still at least a couple of hours of free time left before she returns to JTF Headquarters.

Or maybe she should head back early? Tell the girls that her business is done and is ready to pick up where she left off?

“……” Ichika flattens her lips. She wants to say no, but can’t find any reasons to say yes, either.

There is no fun left here anymore. Unless he’s staying, but…

“If that’s the case,” Auburn brings up his shade to his forehead, revealing the mellow, silver irises. “Mind coming with me for a moment?”

He offers his hand. “I know a place where you can… unwind yourself.”

Ichika’s eyes widen, feeling her well-hidden knot revealed with but a look. You never cease to amaze.

She exclaims, brimming with a smile again. “Sure.” And she takes his hand.

Chapter Text

After an hour, Ichika is left alone in an open, padded venue.

And no, Sensei did not throw her into an asylum. Although the first half an hour did seem like so.

He drove her to a small facility in D.U. located underground; it has zero distinguishable features, not even a WELCOME floormat.

They met the owner, then Sensei had her sign a waiver of “acknowledging potential risks”.

Rage Room it was called. Ichika has absolutely zero idea what that is.

However, she was later told to pick a… handy tool, they said: crowbar, sledgehammer, shovel, and fire axe. No guns allowed in there.

She chose a wooden baseball bat with barbed wire wrapped around its forend. It just… kind of speaks to her, for some reason.

Sensei helped her put on an overall, a pair of gloves, and safety goggles.

Before she could ask anything, he gave her a see you in a minute~ and disappeared behind the sturdy armored doors.

So… what now?

Ichika glances around the room full of miscellaneous stuff.

Old TV and computer screens, a bunch of glassware, a grand piano, a table full of cheap-looking desk ornaments, some old wooden furniture…

Is that a chandelier on the ceiling? Is that… a fair game, too?

Oh, and a rubber mannequin; Sensei said she can request a photo of whoever she wants to be plastered on its face, but Ichika declined.

Kasumi isn’t the kind of person who’d let her beat the crap out of her without fighting back (also known as running away).

Nevertheless.

Ichika casts away the annoying grin and laughter echoing in her head. Time to pick her first victim.

Such as this… shabby wooden stool thingy… or is it a child’s chair?

She raises the weapon she’s not familiar with.

The first swing is awkward, hesitant. The bat connects with the furniture, but it does nothing but leave a crack on its surface.

“……” She lets out a small, annoyed breath and tries again, lining up her shot and heaving the bat over her head.

This time, it made a satisfying sound; the stool shatters into pieces, its limbs splay out as the surface is crushed in half.

And something inside her responded to that noise. As if a screw on a cage comes loose, just a little.

Ichika wants more, but she doesn’t know why.

She aims for a plain vase sitting next to the remains of the stool.

Tightening her grip and pulling back, she swings with more force, sending the bat slamming into the brittle porcelain.

Now, she is certain. Something inside her pounding chest is resonating with her action, sparks are dancing, fire is burning.

She wants more.

A smile twitches at the corner of her mouth as she turns to the shelf lined with plates and bottles.

Ichika inhales.

And she violently rakes one of the drawers’ stuff off to the ground with a massive sweep.

“ A-ha…!” She airs out. Why is she taking pleasure in vandalism?

It doesn’t matter anymore. She wants more.

She grabs whatever is left on the semi-broken shelf, chugs it into the air, and bats it into the closest wall with full force.

They all shattered spectacularly, sending pieces flying in every direction.

“Heh.” It’s an audible chuckle this time, short, sharp, elated by the sound.

So she throws another. And another. And another. Each crash is a word she swallowed, a moment she endured without protest.

However, the shelf is emptied faster than she’d like.

“……” So Ichika lays her eyes on the shelf itself instead.

With a quick inhale, the bat comes down on the poor thing in lightning speed, like a raging storm finally found a target to ravage.

The next time she comes to her senses, her breath is caught, and her heartbeat is racing. The shelf is no more, but a pile of small ruin.

Ichika doesn’t care. More!

Her movements are wild yet fluid, autopiloting through the room, searching for the closest target within her reach.

Yearning for the next spike of thrill, the next victim of her violence, her eyes are wide open, a maniacal, upward curve bleeds into her mouth.

Clay pigeons and pots? Out of my way!

A 30-inch TV screen? Worthless piece of trash!

A Peroro desk ornament? FUCK this stupid bird in particular!

She doesn’t care how she looks. Sweat slicks her back, her hair clings to her face, and she has definitely lost a feather or two so far.

The catharsis blinds her, and she lets it; she loves it.

“AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA-!”

Onto the main stars of the show. MORE!

With each strike, the grand piano’s old, scratched-up black coating cracks along with the fibers of its wooden body.

Even now, Ichika is methodical, brutally methodical; legs go down first, throwing it off balance.

Then the largest surfaces, as they can’t withstand bashing strikes. The lid and the guts underneath crater as her bat meteors down on its center.

Whatever comes after that is a dance of destruction.

Discorded wails and howls tremble the air, its strings snap under the sheer force and intensity of her relentless beatdown.

She even uses her legs halfway through, adding stomping and teeping into the mix; her arms are getting a bit sore with all that swinging.

It only makes noises at the beginning. She muses. Shame.

It takes less than five minutes for her to completely dismantle the grand piano back into shreds of wood, black plastic pieces, and strings.

Ichika exhales in reprieve, in utter delight.

Now she knows what comes after the sentence violence isn’t the answer.

No. Violence is the question. And the answer is yes. YES!

Next! The black-winged predator with a barbed-wire bat in hands hungers for the next prey.

The closest destructible object to her is the rubber mannequin, originally made for targets for small firearm ranges.

And turns out, rubber is also a suitable material for punchbags, or batbags, in her case.

How will she react?

Will that smug smile on her face be torn off? Will her irritating confidence and composure crumble?

Will her annoying laughter stop in place of a groan? Will her tone raise shake in pain?

Will she finally get the fuck out of her head if she chooses violence?

“……” Her knuckles whiten with how hard she’s vice-gripping the sole tool to find out the answer.

She storms towards the inanimate dummy, more aggressive than ever. Her feathers ruffle, and her eyes shoot wide open. I’ll shut you up.

With all her might, she slams the weapon straight down over her head, making a thunderous crack across the room.

The deafening noise and the following echo make her wince a little, but just a little.

Ichika strikes again.

Her eardrums, forearms, and lungs are protesting against her action. Heartbeats pound in her ears. And she just lost another feather.

Still, she presses on. I’LL SHUT YOU UP!

A flurry of strikes rains down on the mannequin’s head. The rage she held against that Gehenner shorty hasn’t gone away; far from it.

And now, it has a form. Sound. Motion. And for once in her life, she’s giving it a stage, a window; out in the open, loud and unapologetic.

It isn't until a moment when she hits something that feels different that she finally pauses.

The vibrative feeling of hitting something harder than she should numbs her already burning arms.

Ichika finally returns to reality, audibly heaving for air, hands trembling, and throat dry.

The poor victim of her brutality has long been destroyed; there is nothing left above its neck other than torn fragments of rubber.

Catching her breath, she slowly stands back up straight; it’s a good thing that there are no mirrors in this room.

Otherwise, she’s pretty certain she’d freak out at her own look right now.

The room is quiet, her head is quiet; the only noise in her ears is her own rapid breath and racing heartbeats.

Consider it worked, she says to herself, closing her eyes back to just slits.

Time for the finale.

Strolling back to the center of the room, Ichika works her hands and arms, making sure she still has some juice left for the closure.

Fibers of her muscle send stinging signals down from her synapses; she’s bottoming out, but she can manage.

She sighs, zeroing in on the chandelier hanging on the ceiling; the last intact object in the rage room. Good.

With a lilt hop, she defies gravity, doesn’t even use her wings.

The upward inertia levitates her; the single second of her feet leaving the floor feels like eternity.

Drawing one final arc over her head, Ichika swings her bat.

The well-adorned ornament instantly shatters as its lower half breaks clean off its hanger, splattering fragments all over the room.

Shards of crystals and bulbs rain on her like a sudden downpour as the remains hang on the ceiling.

In the light, the scene is ethereal: twinkling pieces of transparent rocks hailing over a room full of destruction and ruins.

Ichika exclaims and faces up, feeling little pinpricks on her cheeks and tinkling noises from her safety goggles.

“……”

And a smile of reprieve emerges on her face once again.

Vibrant, satisfied.

Alive.

“Gotta say,” Sensei praises. “You went hard in there.”

His student is taking off the safety equipment as he gently combs her wings and plucks out damaged feathers.

“What did that poor thing do to you?” He pokes fun at her, verbally and physically.

Ichika unzips the overalls. “Don’t mention it...” Her clothes stuck to her sweaty skin aren’t doing her any favors.

A towel hovers into her peripheral before she goes looking for it with her now limpy noodle arms.

“So,” Auburn walks into her view from behind as she takes the towel with a mumbling thanks. “What’s the verdict?”

“Eh…” Ichika peels off her black strands from her face. “I guess… It’s a pass? I probably won’t be able to be here due to work, but… yeah.”

She puts together an ambiguous reply. “It’s a bit exhausting, too.” And she adds.

“You have a gift, though.” Sensei circles back behind her, holding her hair up as she dries herself with the towel.

“In breaking stuff with extreme speed and efficiency, that is.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a compliment for a JTF member…”

“For you, it is. And maybe Tsurugi, too.”

“Are- Are you putting me and Tsurugi-senpai in that same category!?”

Ichika looks over her shoulder, picturing herself making the signature… expression of her well-respected and equally revered Senpai.

“You don’t wanna?” But Auburn keeps running circles around her, not letting her get a good look at him.

“Stop gaslighting me, you- hey! ” Being led into a spin, Ichika swats at the adult with a chide.

“I just wan- ow! I just wanna say,” Sensei finally stops as both of them are getting dizzy from the back-and-forth tangoing.

“Don’t deny your genius, whatever it may be. You’re special in your own way, too.”

A pair of hands is tidying her hair by picking up the loose strands and carding the fingers through them.

He’s still behind her after all the teasing and dancing. Ichika can almost hum at his caring touch.

“……” But she says nothing, pulling herself out of the legs of the overalls.

She glances down, bringing her wings to her view from behind; they are pretty and pristine again, thanks to his careful pruning and combing.

Some of her secondaries are still a bit frayed, but it can’t be helped; they’re just inches away from her… more private parts.

Don’t deny it. She lets the words bounce around her head for a while.

She seizes a small opening of his right fingers, reaching back on her locks, and holds it with a strained hand.

“Even,” The tone drops in a half-pondering, half-reservation mumble; a tone she’d never use on anyone she knows.

“Even if it’s… causing you trouble? Even if it’ll overthrow your impression of who I am, or who I’ve been?”

“Depends.” His hold firms, followed by a playful squeeze. “Will be a problem if you can get even cuter than you already are.”

Ichika’s face scrunches together for a millisecond, but the smile on her face remains.

“…I see why my juniors in JTF speak that highly of you now.”

“My reputation precedes me, it seems.”

“You have no idea, Sensei.”

The two eventually exit the facility, a mutual smile is shared between them; one is more jaded than the other, however.

Ichika does a stretch of the day, pulling her arms over her head and trying her best to rein in the weird noises desperate to escape her teeth.

Sensei quietly shadows her, being a good walking-talking rack for her rifle and purse.

“I suppose,” Well, maybe not quietly. “You wanna keep this between us?”

“Mm-hmm,” She flaps her wings as she confirms. “Thoughtful as usual, how nice.”

“Very.” He gestures. Car is that way. “And I’d better be. I don’t wanna be that dummy, that’s for sure.”

Ichika turns into a statue, and he is taking the lead in their walk because of it.

“Auburn sensei,” She goes for the business name of the adult.

Her mind is calm as a windless sea, however. Maybe it’s the odd reciprocation of going over 100 percent in her embarrassment-o-meter.

“Hm?” He turns around with raised eyebrows.

But he is met with an Ichika with wide-open eyes, paired with a smile that is definitely anything but.

Gray confronts silver, boring it down with zero movement in its gaze.

She’s not sure what’s gonna happen next, but one thing she is certain, dead certain.

Auburn is a bit wary of the sudden turn of her atmosphere. “What?”

Ichika invades his bubble, so close that she has to strain her neck just to bore into his eyes, ignoring her… forend grazing his lower pecs.

“You keep that up,” She raises a finger like a lecturer. “I’ll show you what I actually can do to someone who doesn’t break.”

“Oh, please. Don’t tempt me.”

Ichika’s threatening smile deepens into a (͡o‿O͡).

“I would like to apologize.”

“Good.” She retreats half a step and walks past the adult, grazing her feather past his waist.

“You said it yourself!” She adds with a slightly raised voice, gaining a pace of space from him.

“I’m your trouble now, Sensei! Take it and don’t leave it!”

Ichika marches toward the parking lot, steps so light she feels like with a flap, she can easily take off and into the sky.

She’s not sure how long the newly acquired hobby will last.

Perhaps it’ll survive longer than the last; perhaps the magic will die along with his absence. Everything is fluid for her, given the record.

Nevertheless, there’s one thing she’s certain, dead certain.

Your trouble. She traces that line with a smile, every letter, every syllable. Yours.

This. This will also keep her entertained in the foreseeable future.

And she can’t wait for more.