your friendly neighborhood web mistress, reflection unless otherwise specified.
Return to Angel Black
Dear Reader,
Dedication to my friend Kurama, who gave me the lyrics of
'Come Undone.’ Thanks ^_^
Dedication to those who plan to or have written Weiß Kreuz fan fiction before having seen the real thing because I admire you for being brave enough to step into unknown territory. I hope this piece will be of some help.
Dedication to You: the Reader, the Supporter and the Fan.
I wrote this for you.
DISCLAIMER: Everything belongs to Takehito Koyasu basically... character, plot etc. I’m just writing up an episode guide for those who can’t get their hands on the anime *sweatdrop* ^^V
Reflection.Kagaya
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MY NAME IS FUJIMIYA RAN. I am twenty years old. I am an assassin. Two years ago, on my younger sister’s sixteenth birthday, the two of us came home and found our father and mother murdered. Beside their corpses there was a time bomb. I pushed my sister out of the house and took the worst of the blast. When she stood up, she was run over by a car. The press took my parent’s deaths as suicide based on evidence of their corruption in the government provided by Takatori Reiji, who was a popular candidate for the next Governor election. He somehow explained to the press that his car had placed my sister into comatose because while he was coming to arrest my parents, his driver was distracted by the blast. The blast, apparently, was proof of my parents’ guilt. After I recovered from my wounds in the hospital, I killed Takatori’s driver. I promised myself, I would kill everyone. Takatori’s parents, his siblings, his loved ones. Every single human being that he cared about – I would kill them all. I was good at what I did, but alone, I grew careless, vengeful, weak. I was accosted by the assassin group Weiß before the end of the first year, approached by a pretty lady with gorgeous legs, the edge of her skirt riding high up her thighs. I was tied down to the floor by a mass of wires in the position to fully appreciate the view, but in no mood to do so. Held at gunpoint, she gave me an offer that I could not refuse. “Be my dog, or die.” I met some of the group the next day at the flower shop Kitten’s House. They needed a reason to stay in Tokyo, and they needed a cover. The pretty lady, who had touched my heart with her semblance to my sister, was an informer, a mediator between us and the one who gave orders to us. Tsukiyono Omi, codenamed Bombay, was seventeen, a top class sniper and hacker without a past. I could scarcely believe that I was given the right address when I first saw that disarming smile. It told me that, as far as he knew, he had been an assassin all his life. He, who would take lives then smile with good cheer; I knew he was the solid leader of Weiß. Hidaka Ken, codenamed Siberian, was a hot headed nineteen year old, a fine young man who was dedicated to justice and humanity. Consequentially, he punched me on sight to pay me back for nearly killing him when we first met the night before. At the time, aside from being a florist, I had no idea what the youth was qualified for in our line of work. I just knew that the two of us had a score to settle. We did what grown men do when they have problems with each other: we fought. It was then that I learned we were both selected as members of Weiß for our skills in close combat. I came to with a sour mood in the morning, my head hurting from more than a nightmare and a bruise. I found myself in the bed of a handsome stranger, who turned out to be the last member of Weiß before me. His name is Kudoh Yohji, codenamed Balinese. He is two years my senior, had been my age when he joined Weiß. Yohji had returned to the shop last night and found Ken and I passed out on the floor. He had taken the liberty to heave Ken two flights of stairs to his room, and since I hadn’t been assigned one yet, the man carried me one flight up and loaned me his bed. I appreciated the effort, but it was a waste of time and energy on his part. I didn’t even deserve it. He told me who the lady was, that her codename is Birman and that he had been after her ever since he first met her. He was also known as the biggest playboy in the world, so it never surprised me that she had always turned him down. I was told that we worked for a mystery man, Persia, who could help me in my revenge. Yohji told me as much as I wanted to know, but he had made the mistake to ask me about my sister, Aya. I had been dreaming of her, betraying her name in sleep. It hit a sore spot and I couldn’t speak to him anymore, not even to say my name when he had asked. “What should we call you then? Aya?” After I joined Weiß, my sister was placed in a private hospital, which was better equipped then the last. I was given this information and the hospital address by a stunning woman with a passion for red – like my hair. Ken called her Manx. Birman had been reassigned. Two years later, nearly my sister’s birthday again. The doctors kept telling me the same thing. It would take a miracle, if not some massive shock, to cause her to awake. I am Fujimiya Aya, codenamed Abyssinian, the man who’s thrown away his smile. |
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WE ALL HAVE OUR REASONS. We kill for Persia. We kill for ourselves. But, sometimes, there is no explanation for death. There was a freak car accident on the morning news. It took the front page of the local newspapers. Last night, a van had crashed over a bridge embankment, crushing a motorcycle beneath it. Five killed, four reporters from the Toyko News paper and the young motorcyclist who had just escorted his girlfriend home. He had literally been at the right place at the wrong time. Died instantly. No reason. His girlfriend, I recognised as Hayasaka Michiru only because she was a frequent visitor and customer to Kitten’s House. According to Omi, Michiru was also famous for being the winner of the recent Genius Hacker competition at the youngest entry, which was probably because Omi wasn’t in it. Michiru had made the news at that time. Now, she was on the screen again. “Masato! MASATO!” Her voice was transmitted through the television to our ears, screaming the name of her lost loved one in vain while the press just gathered round her to take pictures and footage of the wreck. It was news, nothing to dwell on, just like the Fujimiya family was once news. We opened shop and a flood of school girls flocked inside. They’re here for boy watching, because, according to them, the four florists at Kitten’s House are hot. It doesn’t help much that our martial status is single. After all, are assassins honestly in a position to date seriously? Omi’s almost angelic in appearance. He’s a pale blonde, with blue eyes a little too large for his face, which made him look incredibly innocent though I don’t think he remembers a time when he actually was. He often acts as a solicitous little brother to us. He’s also the smartest boy in his year with the perfect alibi for falling asleep in classes. All his teachers and friends know that he’s an orphan and that he has to work part and even over time at Kitten’s House to make money to support his education. If he ever did fall asleep in class, we would be the ones who’d take the blame. Other then our targets, I doubt anyone could so much as hate him. One girl was particularly smitten with him. Her name is Sakaki Ouka. Her family must be rich because she’s a frequent customer here, who usually bought flowers not for herself, but for Omi. Ken looks and dresses as the regular boy next door, the type the girls fall in love with and the type the boys pick fights with. He had brown hair and brown eyes, but I think he wears contacts sometimes. The colours of his eyes change every so often. Sometimes blue, sometimes green. Earthly. He loves soccer and enjoys being around children. When he’s not working as our best florist or an assassin, Ken’s teaching the local kids his love of the soccer ball. He’s incredibly humanistic, believing that everyone deserves a second chance. Sometimes I wonder why he became an assassin. He’d make a good boyfriend, husband and then father. But in this job, no one’s allowed second chances. Believe it and you’d crack. Yohji is tall, blonde and, for lack of a better word, handsome. Personally, I hate these clichés but I admit that they do come in handy because I don’t want to explain everything and I haven’t yet been able to explain to myself what I think of Yohji as. I think he should have been on the cover of Playgirl. I think he’s set up his identity as playboy, just to keep girls, who are looking for a serious relationship, away from him. I think he’s a horrible florist. “Yohji, do something!” Ken was yelling over the crowd at Yohji, who sat idly flirting at the counter. “Sorry, Ken. Not interested in minors. Let Omi deal with them.” Minors or no, it’s just another excuse that he’s always found quite useful and positive. “Yohji!” Omi was already flanked by girls on all sides. To think that these three have been assassins years before me, that I’ve been a florist for less than a few months. I feel completely out of place. I am. Worst of all, visitors here are not always customers. They are watcher; for me, budding stalkers. More then once, I’ve had to tell them, “If you’re not here to buy anything, LEAVE!” Then, Yohji would chide me about scaring away potential customers, or in his case, dates. Omi once pointed out that while telling people to leave may increase the percentage of Yohji waking up earlier in the morning, it wouldn’t help with business. I choose to stay behind the counter after that, especially because the statement really has no effect. It just establishes to everyone else that I’m a cold-hearted bastard only interested in making money and that they would do well to stay away from me. It doesn’t deter the fact, however, that some of the girls take me as an ice cube desperately waiting for the warm heart who will someday melt me. No, thank you. Aya is all I have and need. She used to tell me, that I should just accept the fact that people like to look at me because I’m... not handsome, but beautiful. I have blue eyes, its colour so icy light that they edge on mauve because of my red hair; blue tinted purple by the blood that I spill. I have a pale complexion and I’m naturally slim. I’ve been accused of being anorexic on more than one occasion, but I seldom have the appetite, especially when I think of Aya lying motionless in the hospital. I’m not vain. I don’t gloat. I would rather be ugly if it meant that people would stay away, but life doesn’t grant wishes for just anyone, least of all a killer. We all have to put up with the girls until the next mission arrives. We have our personal statistics posted on Internet sites set up by particularly nosy fans, who took it upon themselves as a life’s mission to find out everything possible about Omi, Ken, Yohji and I. If they only knew, I thought. If they only knew... I spotted Michiru and her friend approach the shop the same time as Omi did. The boy swam through the school of girls and made his way outside. He had seen the news and his concern was all too apparent on his face, a killer’s most fatal flaw, but his perfect alibi. “Michiru!” To everyone’s surprise and Ouka’s obvious displeasure, Omi held out a single blossom to Michiru. Lily of the valley; for the return of happiness after the violent storm. It was Omi’s way of saying, ‘Cheer up!’ How fitting. How thoughtful. How... Omi. I would kill to be the one to make Aya smile again. In a way, I’m already trying. Don’t look, I told myself, turning my head. A car stopped directly in front of the shop, noticeable to me only because it was black, black as the car that ran Her over. No opening of the door, no authority figure stepping out to buy flowers from a shop packed with squealing girls. Why stop? The hair on my skin pricked on its ends. Someone was watching us. Not us, but ... Michiru. A flash of a smile. The car drove away. As usual, Manx arrived just as we were closing shop, with her red pumps and red skirt and that fresh-blood-red hair. Mission. We were to kill four murderers, assassins like ourselves; another version of Weiß, gone wrong. They called themselves the Skull gang for the bone masks that they wore and were known mostly for their vicious brutality and a love of toying with their victims before killing them. They had killed the four reporters earlier mentioned for money and a floppy disc, which held evidence of some sort of bribery system in the government. According to our sources, there was no recent money transfer from any of those involved in the list, so Skull didn’t finish the mission and the floppy was missing from the crash, most likely in the hands of Hayasaka Michiru. Skull then has to find her, retrieve the disk and finish the girl. For our own reasons, all of us accepted the mission. Under the pretence of our day job, Yohji and Ken set about following the girl while delivering flowers, waiting for Skull to show up. Omi hacked into the Tokyo News and Police network, searching for any information that just might be useful for this mission. While Michiru was out, I had to steal into her apartment and make an inventory of her wardrobe, among other things. Ken followed Michiru into the local library, where she was researching her boyfriend’s accident. She was approached by a man who called himself Kimura Akihiko. We called him Skull scum. Using his semblance to the late Masato, the target befriended Michiru and encouraged her in her research. He had known her name, of course, but it didn’t strike her as unusual after he explained that he had seen her name a couple of times in the news. As for her investigation, he suggested that the reporters were gathering information on illegal activities. “The perpetrators might have been after a floppy, or a disc of some sort...” Yohji wasn’t the only guy who despises men, especially men who prey on women’s emotions and weaknesses. Michiru was young. I could easily see Aya in her place. The disc was obviously password protected and our genius hacker had yet to find the key. For her safety’s sake, we had to move fast, before she broke the code. Yohji wrote up an innuendo of a note which found its way into Michiru’s mailbox the next day.
go to the White Villa at Mount Takeda.
As anticipated, Kimura was informed and asked to accompany her. The rest of Skull was close behind. The head of a system of bribery in the government was Mr. Ikeda, the Minister of Energy. Damn authority figures. Michirui had just signed her death warrant. Kimura flung off his lamb’s skin disguise and tossed his axe at her head, aiming to miss. Skull exposed themselves and tossed her around, cornering her onto the cabin bunk bed. They were planning to have fun before they killed her, and Weiß wasn’t about to let them. The power was switched off at the vital moment, just long enough for us to activate a secret passage in our villa and make a little switch. The lights came on. The figure of Michiru ran outside and Skull broke chase. Balinese strangled one from behind with his wire. Bombay snared another dead. I moved after the rest as they rushed for who they thought of as their target. A flashback of Ken and I, changing in the car. “Why me?” Ken moaned dejectedly as he slipped the soft fabric over his head. If I didn’t have an image to live up to, I’d laugh at the sight of him: a grown young man wearing a pink turtleneck fumbling with the zip of his skirt. “This is so unfair,” he whined, tugging at the skirt. I remember that he had to shave his legs for this particular mission. He looked up suddenly. “What are you smiling at?” I hadn’t noticed. Without a word, I looked away, thrusting the wig into his hands. After a moment of silent glaring, he tried to fit the thing over his head, failing. I forced myself not to even smirk as I reached over to help him. Watching our target’s movements from the hilltop, I could have sworn that Ken really did look like a girl. That was something Yohji would tease him about later. But not me. Not now. One of them had followed Ken’s path with his eyes from the hilltop. He decided to take a shortcut to ambush his target and leaped at Ken from out of the woods. Ken wasn’t defenceless. He was armed with something called a bugnuk, a specially made glove with a spring mechanism in the palm. Four blades jut out at his knuckles when his hand presses into a fist. Four blades rip into the target’s flesh, tearing lungs, ribs and heart. Now, Kimura was mine. “Who the heck are you?” “Weib. White hunter of the dark beasts.” One target. One stroke. One death. Mission accomplished. We had to leave Michiru alone when she woke up, had to distance ourselves from our crime. We were still having our car fixed when she came to. The press loved it and the police rejoiced that some of their most wanted criminals are no more. Omi was talking with her on his mobile. “We were so shocked, Michiru! Thank heavens you’re alright!” Michiru laughed and reassured him that she was recovering. “Lily of the valley,” she stated idly. “For the return of happiness.” Her voice came from outside the shop. The four of us came out to greet her. We found her waiting with a basket of flowers in her hands, which she gave to me. “Cheer up!” she told us. Her smile was beautiful. This is the reason that I kill. I kill to see Her smile again. |
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THE FIRST TIME WE MET, he threw me onto the floor. He had me staring up at his face as he gazed down at me, his smile cruel and knowing. He had known all along that I was coming that night. It was the reason that he came: to fulfil his purpose; preventing mine. Before the mission, I made another visit to the Magic Bus hospital. It was a ritual of sorts, to see the face of Aya, to talk to my sister, never expecting to be answered, to foolishly hope that she would wake up one day and smile again. I brought her flowers. Flowers used to make her smile. Happy birthday, Aya. I’m going to kill again. Love you. I never had the courage to say it out loud. Never thought I deserved to be loved by anyone. I stared at her, my substitute for love, my sleeping beauty with her eyes closed and her mouth fixed in a perpetual frown. I needed to see her smile again. For that, I needed nothing else, not even love. I walked out of her room as a yellow ball bounced down the corridor, stopping at my feet. I turned to see a little girl in a hospital gown, her eyes closed, both hands in front of her, one touching the wall and the other grasping for empty space. She’s blind, most obviously, and the ball was hers. I picked it up and placed it in her hands. She smiled. “Brother!” I drew back with a gasp. I’m not your brother, I wanted to say. I’m a murderer! A killer! I quickened to the stairs in an attempt to escape the image of that child, so much like my teenage Aya. I couldn’t bear to be reminded, yet felt so guilty that I wanted to run away. The ball seemed to follow me down the stairs, like the persistence of a memory. I turned to see the child again, fallen prone at the top of the stairs. I couldn’t run away from the sight of her, the sight of Aya there in her place. I forced myself to take Aya in my arms and carry her limp body to the nurses. The nurse prattled away as she tucked the girl in bed, happily exclaiming that the child hadn’t had a visitor since her older brother stopped visiting. They were orphaned at a young age and the brother works to pay for his sister’s treatment. He used to visit her every day, but now, though the money kept coming in, he hardly showed his face at all. The door of her room read Yamade Mie. I walked out of the hospital, my thoughts fixed on Mie and her mysterious brother. I was about to cross the road when a car zoomed past. I had a flashback of the car that took my sister from me. I saw once again the face of the man who sat in the back seat. Takatori Reiji. For Aya, this man was going to die. That night, the four of us were given a blind target, a name with no face. The man, Hikage Masaya, had successfully avoided the cameras in all his years of earning blood money in Japan. We were told that a red mark would appear on his forehead if he was to become excited, or overly emotional. Aside from that, we had nothing. We were to assassinate Hikage and shut down his underground casino, which specialized in some perverse sport called human chess. Young men were lured in by attractive ads in cheap papers, promised a quarter of a million dollars if they participated, the money given upon their leave. No experience was required and no guns were allowed, a rule which few volunteers could seem to follow. There was nothing to lose and all to gain if they could walk out. Alive. Balinese dropped the mission on the grounds that there was no women involved, but was still considerate enough to grant me the use of his wires. Siberian was stationed on the roof as backup for Bombay and I while we infiltrated the building as young waiter and gladiator, respectively. I was taken beneath the arena by an incredibly ugly woman, who was believed to be Hikage’s secretary. A young man had just been shot six rounds in the chest. His corpse was being carried outside, no doubt, to be dumped. “Useless boy,” she sneered. “Said he needed the money for his little sister.” His name, I had asked, was Yamade Jun. In the air vent, Bombay used his laptop to tap into and loose a virus onto their mainframe computer, predictably causing panic and chaos throughout the complex. The target was forced to reveal himself, which he did, but I was beneath the arena and Bombay was in no position to manage a clear shot. In the confusion, the woman ran for the controls at the arena and sent me up to face my competitor, who had already survived many turns by killing all of his opponents including the man who shot Mie’s brother. I had my Japanese sword sheathed in what looked like a rod of wood. I did not intend to take casualties. I knocked the man unconscious, but the woman kept sending more. It was obvious that she wanted to see blood. She wanted to see people fighting for their lives. In fact, I think she enjoyed it, but I refused to satisfy her need. Security was high, human obstacles rendering Bombay useless in his position. The woman was growing frustrated that I wasn’t killing and that no one was killing me. Her emotions were running high, close on hysterical, and that was when I saw a red mark on her forehead. During his last disappearance, Hikage Masaya had had a sex change. Unsheathing my weapon, I was about to strike the target down when I once again laid eyes on one familiar face: Takatori Reiji. In my rage, I was blind. I let the target escape me. I turned instead and lunged at Takatori, ready to avenge my family and draw blood. I failed to see the bodyguard beside him, who took me easily and tossed me over his shoulder. Standing above me with the barrel of his gun pointed at my head, he smirked. I was flat on my back, stunned into defencelessness. Bombay resourcefully fried the lights and everything went black. I saw the flash of the bodyguard’s glasses, his lips pulled into a disdainful, twisted smile. In the darkness, I heard his voice as he addressed his client. An American accent. “Mr. Takatori, I think it's best we leave.” It occurred to me that he could have killed me then and there, earning himself a raise. He didn’t. To my horror, to my shame and disgrace, to my maddening relief, he walked away. With the security’s focus diverted to Takatori, Bombay sniped our target dead. The mission was over, but Takatori was still alive. I pushed myself off of the floor, brutally ignoring the cry of protest from my shaken limbs. Amidst the excess noise and screaming there was the sound of a helicopter. They were heading towards the roof. I broke into a run, but it was too late when I arrived; the helicopter was lifting off. Siberian stopped me, held me back from gun fire that never came. The last I saw before the helicopter flew off was the face of Takatori and that bodyguard’s sick, gentleman’s smile. Takatori’s dog. As I stood there on the roof, all I could think about was the smile that mocked me and those piercing, cold brown eyes. I went back to my sister the next day, thankful that I was still alive. It meant that I could still avenge her, but I was spared and I didn’t know why. I survived another mission, Aya. When will you ever wake up? I had left the shop with two baskets of flowers. Ken and Omi had given me an odd look, but they were both smart enough now to keep their questions to themselves. Since they had been working together for the longest the two of them were actually quite close. It wouldn’t surprise me if they talked about me or Yohji’s problems behind our backs. That is, assuming the older man actually had problems. Yohji must have enough sex between missions to keep himself busy, happy and in bed until after I leave the shop in the mornings. If he was awake this morning, he would be teasing me about dating two girls at the same time. They all know the main reason behind my frequent disappearances from the shop, but luckily, they’re considerate enough to mind their own business and pretend they don’t know. I had brought one basket for Aya, and one for Mei, both of whom I felt akin to, both of them in a way my sister, who I fight for and kill for, as Jun had tried and failed to do. As I stood there by Aya’s bed, I thought back through the events of the mission. I had failed to kill Takatori, almost had myself killed in the process. I knew I had to fight the dog before I could reach its master. But Takatori’s dog, was strong, cruel and calculating. He had caught Bombay’s shot with the sweep of his hand as though he’s seen it coming. He had thrown me onto the floor in one quick movement, as though he was ready, waiting for my move all along. Takatori’s dog was a personal bodyguard, registered and legal. Unlike us, he was officially licensed to kill. Omi found his name through the government’s files: Brad Crawford. I would remember that name, I thought to myself, as I remembered his smile. My skin flushed with anger when I thought about it, flushed with humiliation. It had been too easy for him to lift me over his shoulder and fling me down. How I hated him. How I hated that smile. How dare he smiled at me, taunting me when he knew all along who I was after! He knew! He had to! But that didn’t make much sense to me. Then again, killing doesn’t make sense. I would kill him to get to Takatori, in order to avenge Aya. That’s what makes sense. Brad Crawford. It was only the first time that we’ve met. |
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your friendly neighborhood web mistress, reflection unless otherwise specified.
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