"Ran.”

I’ve taken many names, assumed endless personas that were invariably false. Taken into me so many lives that are untrue that I have inevitably lost my true self. Yet who wishes to know his own reality, truly? If you despise what you find, there is nothing remaining but the shadows of dark emotions.

I was once rather fond of that name. It has served me well in ages gone. If I needed a past, I could have produced one with ease. But I believe it would have been hardly fair if a past had been demanded of me, because I myself would only ever be able to hypothesize why the three who stood before me had joined. Furthermore, if they ever elected to tell me, I would yet remain unaffected. Their stories would float to settle with the rest of the ash that is my past, which the dry, burning wind will surely carry away.

“Ran, eh?” a lanky blonde mused, eyeing me up and down with clear, emerald eyes. His intense gaze peered from above dark shades, from a countenance that suggested a lethargy that was untrue. That much, at least, was apparent. A gleaming suspicion resided within those eyes, and a darkness that, if I had not encountered already, in my life or another’s, I would encounter in my twilight future, to dismiss and move beyond.

After briefly studying me and appearing to find no reason to protest, he shrugged. “Kudou Yohji,” he introduced himself, with a nonchalant, half-nod. “Nice to kill with ya.” With that flippant remark, taking a drag of his gently glowing cigarette, he turned and meandered away, in the direction of a door that I supposed to be the backroom.

A younger boy followed his actions with thoughtful, deep eyes, and I settled my gaze on him in turn. But it was another voice that brook the stillness, and I shifted my eyes from him to another.

“Don’t mind him, Ran,” the other young man said, apologizing for his teammate. I hated apologies.

He continued. “He’s not so bad. Cynical, yeah, but hell, what can you expect? Beneath that, and his vanity, and his laziness – which can be damn annoying – and his always coming late to the shop, and... Well, you get the picture,” he ended, trailing off and scratching his head. The younger one glanced back at him, eyes bright. He prompted:

“And, Ken-kun...:?”

“Nani?” Ken blinked. “Oh. Right,” he said sheepishly. “I was just gonna say that he really is a nice guy once you get to know him.” He gave me a relaxed, half-smile. “Anyway, I’m Hidaka Ken.” Luminous brown eyes gazed openly into mine, and if I had not been previously aware of his so-called profession, I might never have noticed the swirling emotion of indefinable guilt and sadness that rested in those coffee-brown orbs. A desperate attempt at having some sort of happiness in his life warred with that dark sorrow in an endless circle. His eyes, striving for brightness, and his lips, striving for joy, were a mask for the actions that stained his heart.

I dismissed him.

“Tsukiyono Omi desu,” the younger said, once his comrade Ken had finished speaking. A bright smile flashed onto his face, curving his lips sweetly.

I regarded him. Here was one to consider. It was not often that I had encountered someone that carried such a paradox as this seeming-child did. There hung about him an undeniable projection, aura, of joy and innocence. A rare quality for an assassin. Every action he made spoke of caring, and a glance, even a brief study, of his face left the image unified. But deeper, a glance in the eyes... That would create the lie.

My eyes were intent on him, and he shifted, smile faltering ever so slightly under my scrutiny. “Do you... have any questions?” he asked, appearing at a loss for anything else to say. “I assume Manx took care of most of the details such as assignments and stuff, but...” He trailed off, watching me curiously.

Ken, meanwhile, had made his way to the counter. I glanced around. Flowers were vivid about me, their brightly-hued petals a mockery to the true world without. We stood near one of the walls, by a side entrance, and there was a dull, metallic rack displaying potted flowers nearby. Their heady scent drifted about us. I ignored the musk.

“How long have you three been doing this?” I asked, somewhat abruptly.

Omi blinked. “Nani?”

“Assassins. Members of Weiss.” I forced down a dry chuckle. The name never really ceased to amaze me for it’s triteness. A cruel joke, but a joke nevertheless.

A frown tugged at the boy’s lips as he paused thoughtfully. “Ken-kun has been here for a couple years... Two, now. Yohji, about a year and a half.” He stopped, then nodded. “Yeah, that should be right.”

“And you?” I prompted.

He appeared to give what might have been a shrug. I noted this with interest, as it seemed that he was uncomfortable with the situation. I felt myself wonder, if distantly, what his story was. “Almost three years.”

I arched my eyebrows, and the display of surprise was unfeigned. “You are the youngest?” I asked.

“Hai,” he said, ducking his head slightly, in affirmation.

I didn’t respond.

“Would you like to see more of the flower shop?” he offered. “I mean, since you’ll be working here and all.”

I nodded. I was indifferent, but it seemed appropriate that I look around. I briefly considered what it would be like working here.

The slender boy led me in the direction of the checkout counter. “Do you know anything about flowers, Ran?” Ken asked, glancing up. The pencil in his slender fingers paused over the small pile of receipts.

“Not more than most,” I said levelly. “I assume that I’ll pick it up as I go along.”

“Just ask us if you have any questions,” he told me, before going back to whatever it was that he did. His bangs fell forward, hiding his eyes, and I turned away. I surveyed the shop as Omi briefly described to me where the generally more popular flowers were. I listened in silence.

It was strange, to be there. I had done many things in my past, committed many sins, but I had not often stood in an unassuming place such as a flower shop – dubbed Kitty in the House, no less – with three perfectly innocent-appearing people that were to be my allies in killing. It mattered little to me. Things had stopped having much weight some time ago. My life was a detached thing, with my consciousness drifting in a steady, weak current. I had nothing to live for, less to die for.

Omi’s words flowed around me, falling on deaf ears. If this was truly how I felt, I mused to myself, why was it that I kept moving on? I continued to search for a new identity, a new place, new people, to occupy my time. What was it that I was searching for? There had to be something that drove me.

A purpose, perhaps, although it eluded me what purpose there may exist for me. My strongest belief was that there was no purpose. And I continued to believe in that, even as I seemingly sought one out.

I never claimed to be rational.

Nothing to live for. It echoed in my mind, hollowly true. But at least there were the nights.

Omi’s words and the life around me dissolved into the endless strain.

Bittersweet melody. Bittersweet blood.

Trance music pounded into my mind, against my pale flesh. Dim, flashing lights cast jumping shadows across the room – the lights were shadows themselves. This place emanated darkness, was the epitome of darkness. The feeling of comfort was embracing, overwhelming. Lithe arms were embracing.

Pale skin, silken and flowing with the shadows of the room. Murky darkness melded with twisted light spilling from the ceiling. A twist of shapes writhed about the room, gathered in a mass at the center, dancing with aimless intent, perhaps to forget whatever haunts resided in their dying minds.

Lucid eyes, indigo spread with flecks of violet diamonds, velvet darkness to swallow the light whole. Platinum hair, shimmering in the dusky atmosphere. She was willing, lovely, utterly desirable.

And in the end, it never mattered who she – or he – was.

I forced her back, away from the phantom darkness we danced beneath, into a deeper darkness. Into a deeper silence.

The room appeared to disappear behind us, the driving beat coming as if through a corridor. The feeling of distance was not unwelcome, rather pleasing. And the slender girl maintained no protest. Gazing into her consuming eyes I imagined myself there reflected in the drug-induced haze. I never knew what it was she was under, I never cared. I discovered her with it, I discovered her willing. It was enough.

Pliant lips sought mine, and I submitted willingly. A steady throb that had been ever-present built within me, pulsing through my veins, echoing in the back of my head. It was a familiar tingle of anticipation and desire. It would soon built into a driving need that I could inevitably run from, yet never escape.

I had to wait yet.

I raised my hand, letting it trail over her soft cheek as she pressed herself closer against me, gliding my fingers through her golden hair.

It was a never-ending promenade, to a beat always changing. Graceful, an endless waltz; spontaneous, a creation of ingenuity; driving, the trance beat of the darkness. A circle in and upon itself, a cycle I followed with the scenery always draped with new styles, which hung shimmering over the old cardboard that was littered with dust. The outcome was always the same. Their blood. My endurance. My immortality.

I intensified the kiss, paying heed to the need growing within me. Crimson flashes dashed my vision, sweet like the blood I desired, would absorb.

Soon.

A sigh escaped her lips. I broke the kiss, trailing my lips over her pure skin. It was no longer about her; she disappeared from my mind. My need became all the mattered, would ever matter. She was a distant silhouette, an empty shell.

So close. Burning, intoxicating. At her throat, now. My lips seeking, searching, for the pulse I sought, for the perfect expanse of flesh. There. So perfect.

She moaned at the first contact, as I pierced the pale skin smoothly, drawing sweet, bittersweet, blood. An ecstasy never forgotten overwhelmed me, and I drank deeper, a weakness coming over me. I was dimly aware of her slender fingers suddenly tightening, one clutching my arm, the nails of the other digging into my shoulder.

More. Still more.

A moment, a lifetime. It never ceased to consume me wholly, erasing all thought and memory but for the moment. Yet a distant part, at the same moment, always anticipated the end. It would come soon. The sweetness would become less so, would become dead the moment the spirit fled the body.

Nearing climax.

The blood came stronger, pulsing quicker as the heart fought for life that wouldn’t remain. Deeper, crimson, more pure. I felt a surge of ecstasy and undeniable life with the final stream. A last sigh escaped her body as it finally fell limp against mine, and I gasped when I pulled free, vision uncertain for the tinge of red. A hollow body lay within my arms, and I gazed upon the face that now regarded me. An empty shell.

Lifeless eyes, now complete with a dead glaze; lips forming a wordless, bloodless sigh. Skin paler, more white. Like porcelain, so perfect. A drop of blood splattered upon that face, staining the white with scarlet. A contrast utterly perfect.

I ran my tongue over my teeth, over the protrusion of my fangs that would retract in the absence of blood, absorbing all traces left of the viscous, carmine sweetness. Tasting it also from my lips, until the last trace was gone.

And then it was time for me to be gone. A shadow, a silhouette, a figment of night. I lay her body where we had stood, buried her in the music that continued to pound against us. They would find her, eventually. No one would care, not in this place. Those that were inside, we did what we chose. The shadows in the corners were left to their own devices. Drugs, overdose, suicide, sex. It was all the same.

I laid her gently to the ground. Another nameless face, another unknown name.

I turned and walked away, from the pulsing room into the night that embraced me.