wednesday november 4th, tokyo bullet, 11:58am

He felt the note again as he rode the Tokyo Bullet back to the shop. Tightly folded notebook paper pressing into his thigh, shoved deep into his pant pockets before he had boarded the underground subway. He hadn't looked at it as he had shoved it in, had kept his eyes fixed on the white line drawn out underneath his feet. The modulated, female voice over the speakers told him politely to stay behind it. The train could kill him. He had boarded without an upwards glance, a sea of late night commuters streaming out past him, rubbing shoulders and book bags and purses and umbrellas against him in their haste. He took a seat by the window and paid no attention to them. The note pressed into his thigh. He crossed his legs and paid no attention to it.

It was close to twelve midnight, the ghostly streets that screamed past the darkened windows alive with a pulsating, heady nightlife. It ran past him, it crawled, it thundered in his retina, it stagnated in puddles of the garish orange halos of the street lights. The station came into view in a flash of bright, efficient white and pealing posters. The doors slid open to an advertisement for Fuji Film. He dug his hands into his coat pockets and made his way across the crowded platform, taking the flight of stairs to street level two at a time. He drew in a sharp breath as he emerged, the garish light of the Bullet windows melting into the creamier glow of street lights mingled with faded stars, packed, silent snow, and darkened skyscrapers. He was late. It usually didn't take him that long to get back. He should have been back at the shop by eleven. Pulling up his coat collar, he made his way down the street. Hurrying wouldn't do him any good. By twelve everyone at the shop would be asleep already. He could spend the night outside if he wanted to. But the note pressed harder into his thigh, and he didn't want to.

thursday november 5th, koneko no sumu ie, 8:47am

"Ok. Lemme see if I've got this straight. We've got one pale cream Elizabethan vase, three tulips, two roses, four gardenias, lilac pansies as an accent, and... blue ribbon? Purple. Yes, purple ribbon. Of course. Suimasen deshita. Ah hah. All right, got it. Domo arigato gozaimashita. Hai, you too, ma'am."

Ken Hidaka set the phone at the Koneko no Sumu Ie flower shop down and jotted a few hurried notes into a pad he kept clipped by his hip. He made a mental note to get a hold of Yoji at some point in the day and demand why he hadn't showed up for work. The customers at Koneko were few and far between, but they could be demanding when they set their minds to it. Passing by a display of multicoloured tulips he pulled out three pale pink buds and made his way towards the store counter. As he went along he picked out an Elizabethan vase, rescued a lacquer pot from where it shivered precariously at a display table's edge, gathered a handful of lilac pansies, checked his note pad, and tried not to enjoy himself too much. In his experience, enjoyment often brought disasters. And disasters meant handfuls of potting dirt on the floor. Potting dirt that would not acknowledge the sweeping powers of a broom.

"Hey, Aya, could you fetch me, um, two Tea Roses, no, make that two Don Juan Roses, and four gardenias...? Special order. I'll be at the counter putting it together. Thanks."

Blinking, Aya Fujimiya turned his head towards the sound of Ken's voice. It sounded shrill and hollow, as it often did when he fell into one of his determined moods. He watched him set his vase and flowers on the counter top, pulling out a yard of brightly coloured wrapping paper. He worked quickly and efficiently, sliding a pair of scissors along the paper as if he had been born a florist. Ken had a knack for things like that. Ken had a knack for most things. Wiping his hands over his apron, Aya gathered the flowers he had been instructed to get and placed them silently within Ken's reach. He heard the older boy mumble a plain domo, the sound of scissors and scotch tape drowning out his voice. Aya tried not to shake his head as he walked away. Ken had a knack for adapting. Sometimes he envied him.

"Yo, Aya. Going out?"

Aya paused on his way to the door. "Yeah. You need anything?"

Ken's voiced sounded apologetic, a silent, embarrassed laughter spilling out with his words. "Breakfast, perhaps? I only had toast this morning. You know how it is. New toaster, suddenly all I want is toast, and I go unfed. I'll give you the money, of course." Fishing into his back pocket, Ken pulled out several yen, counted them, and passed them to Aya. "Eight hundred yen. Ought'a be enough for ramen and a soda, you think?"

Aya folded the eight hundred yen and placed them into his pant pockets. "More than enough. Is that all you want?" He waited until Ken had assured him that, yes, that was all the money he was willing to spend on breakfast and shut the door behind him. Once outside, Aya pulled the yen from his pocket and placed them instead in the pockets of the apron he had forgotten to untie. The note was in his pant pockets. He had forgotten to pull it out last night. He placed his hand over the fabric of the pant, feeling the square piece of paper underneath, and looked up at the blue, winter morning sky. Blue. The morning sky was still blue. Not grey, not sombre, not shivering in remorse and despair. Blue.

wednesday november 4th, allez alice dance club, 9:38pm

All she could see was blue. Blue flower shaped house lights spinning across the floor, blue wraps draped across the couches, blue neon lights over the bar, blue drinks, blue dresses on blue people with blue make-up on blue coloured drugs that melted into navy blue sailor dreams. She laughed and threw her arms around her companion. He turned his head a fraction to kiss her cheek and took another gulp from his blue drink. Resting her head on his shoulder, she kissed the back of his neck and laughed again, an airless gasp that left her breathless.

"Souji this is wonderful. Really rad. Well, no, not rad. Rad's not cool, I mean, not in, is it? Is it 'in', Souji, is that the term? Maa, whatever. This is the best."

Souji took another gulp from his drink and flashed her a crooked smile. She had picked out a tight fitting, shimmery blue cat suit for tonight on the way to the club. He liked it. He liked her silhouette against the strobe lights. She was getting high. Slowly, it took her sometime, but she was getting high. He could hear it in her voice, even if he never saw her take the drugs. He liked it. Liked the way she wanted to dance and spin her hair around in a pumped up frenzy and jump up to twine her legs around his hips as she laughed. She dropped an ice cube into his drink and leaned onto a bar stool. With a cock of her head she gestured towards the dance floor. The music's tempo had picked up, her favourite song. He shook his head and fished out the ice cube.

"Not now, baby. Let me finish this drink, then we'll dance, ok?"

She pouted. "I wanna dance now. It's, like, too early, you know? You can drink later. Come on. Please, Souji? Just one dance."

It was hard to deny her anything. She stood bathed in an eerie neon blue glow and fiddled with the straps across the stomach of her cat suit. She looked older than seventeen, her lips painted a dark purple, mascara lining her lashes. He shook his head. "Sorry, babe. Can't. Waiting for someone."

With a stomp, she pouted again, rephrasing her plea, pulling closer to him, one hand sliding beneath his shirt. He frowned and pushed her away. She was adorable, but he had promised to wait. He watched her as she stumbled backwards, the surprise making her look grotesque for a moment. She steadied herself against the bar, glaring at him. "Fine. Don't dance with me. Whatever, ok? I'll just find myself someone else." Stumbling, she made her way towards the dance floor. He watched her disappear into the crowd and took another sip of his blue drink. She'd be back. Above the bar mirror, the clock struck ten pm. He made a mental note never to be early for anything again.

thursday november 5th, name of shop, 10:25am

The Elizabethan vase stood waiting by the counter, an empty box of take-out ramen perched beside it. Lowering his shears, Ken craned his neck to get a better view of the small, portable black and white TV he had set by the cashier. The picture looked fuzzy.

"Is that Hide on TV, Omi? Looks like Yoji from over here..."

Omi Tsukiyono chuckled and popped a few bits of popcorn in his mouth. It was a customarily slow day at the shop, and he had pulled a garden chair out in front of Ken's TV. It was a serviceable little set, to a certain degree. NHK came in with brilliant, sharp hues of grey and white and not much to say, the other channels were a splotch of greys and swirling static patterns, Mtv Japan was a shivering mass of ghostly shapes. The deceased J-Rock musician Hide did look like Yoji for a while there, if you squinted and added a bit more hair. Shades, too. Omi heard Ken set down his shears and pad closer. He rested his elbows on the back of Omi's couch and squinted at the images swirling before him.

"Look at that. Is that Globe, or Namie? Can you tell?" Ken shook his head and made a mental note to ask Yoji if he could donate a TV set to the shop. The currently blond, shades sporting older boy had stopped by the shop at  nine to pick up a backpack he had abandoned by the gardenia beds. The smell of cologne and cigarettes followed him around as he picked out a few lilies and promised to pay them back tomorrow in the same breath with which he corroborated Aya's absence.

"Met the loveliest girl, Ken, old boy, old buddy, old pal. Lovely. Piece of Heaven. Promised to meet her at the park. No hard feelings, ok? I'll be back by, say, three...? That good with you? Great, 'cause I gotta rush. Love ya, Ken. Say hi to Omi when he wakes up, 'k?"

With that, he had been out the door, cologne and cigarettes filtering out behind him. Ken had no doubt he would be back at three. Ken had no doubt he wouldn't be back at three. Yoji was like that. If he set his mind to it, he could be the most punctual soul on the island. When he set his soul to it, he could be gone for days, return giddy and smelling of fancy cigarettes and rented tuxedos, wearing a new pair of shades.

"Maybe we could buy a new TV set," Omi said. "I saw a special on Sony's at that store by the bus terminal."

Ken brought his lips close to Omi's ears and nodded his head towards the back of the shop. The sound of Aya's watering pail could be heard above the din of J-Pop and static. Omi sighed and hugged his knees. "You think Aya likes TV...?" Ken shrugged his shoulders and clambered over the couch's back to sit beside Omi.

"Who knows? Who knows anything with him?"
 

wednesday november 4th, allez alice dance club, 10:45pm

She had torn her shimmering blue cat suit. A deep gash ran from her knee and disappeared down into her tight, blue leather high heel boots. She groaned as she took in the damage, limping towards an empty space on a couch to access the full damage. It was irreparable. She knew it. The suit was plastic. She could try her hand at sewing it, but she couldn't sew, not to save her life. Her skin felt clammy as she slipped her index finger beneath the torn fabric and groaned.

"Damn. Only lasted me one night... I am such a klutz. I swear. Souji'll kill me. Almost forty thousand yen..."

A figure sat beside her, the cushions shifting slightly as it settled back. She peered through mascara coated lashes at the person, toying in absentminded preoccupation at her suit's tear. She couldn't make out the figure's face, but it was male, dressed in black, melting into his surroundings. She edged closer and tapped his shoulder. He didn't turn his head, but she could see him cock it slightly in acknowledgement. A slow love song had begun to play, the couples on the dance floor swaying from side to side, hands clasped around each other's necks and waists. Her eyes glanced in their direction once, found their way back to the black figure beside her.

"Say, this ever happen to you?" In one movement, she lifted her leg up for him to see the tear running down her cat suit. His silhouette shifted. She decided he had looked and crossed her legs. "It's so embarrassing, you know? 'cause Souji bought this for me and I usually don't break things. It's, like, so klutzy of me, you know?" She laughed, a nervous little giggle that ran through her chest and escaped through her nose. She hated the sound of it. "It's a brand new suit and now it's ruined... That ever happen to you?"

The figure shifted again, bringing a glass she had not noticed before to his lips. "No," he said. His voice was deep, faintly monotonous. It reminded her of a movie she had seen once. Something about a war leader, something historical. She laughed, moving closer to him. "I just bet it's never happened to you. You probably, oh, hang up your clothes in separate perches or som'thing, or buy those fancy organizers, huh? Not me. I'm a little pig girl. I toss, toss, toss everything on the floor. Souji hates it. When he visits me."

The dark silhouette shivered slightly, his head turning towards her. A plain face, his eyes lost under a mass of bangs that framed his cheeks. The blue light, emitted by a pair of swirling lava lamps set on the floor, dyed his hair a dirty sort of purple, an odd shade of brown, blue dirt. On an impulse she brought her hands up, running her finger down one long bang and holding it up for inspection. The figure held perfectly still. For some strange reason she could not name, it made her giggle. She twirled his bang between her thumb and index finger and gave him an inquiring smile.

"Is that for real? What colour is this?"

She saw his silhouette shiver again, one hand rising to rest over his hair, as if he had not realized until then that he had it. He seemed to stiffen for a while. His glass clinked against the polished silver floor as he set it down and got up. She recoiled back into the couch, her lips pressing together as she watched him manoeuvre his way from the couch and the people sitting around it. He almost tripped over a couple twined around each other and she reached out, before she had registered what she had done, the blood running to her face, to grasp his coat. His shape stiffened again, but now she could see his features dimly in the brighter light spilling from the dance floor. Red hair, a brightly dyed set of bangs with two long sideburns framing an oval face. He didn't say a word. His form shivered again and he moved out of her grasp easily, without a backwards glance. She let him go. She liked him. Long, red sideburns. It was funny.

"Hey," she called out, following his back with her eyes as he disappeared into the heaving fabric and flesh and fog effects around him. "That's a pretty colour! You hear me? It's cool!" He couldn't hear her. But she didn't care.  She would find him again before the night was over. She would make sure of it.>

thursday november 5th, koneko no sumu ie, 4:12pm

"Get a load of these."

With pre-meditated efficiency, Yoji Kudo slipped on a pair of oval, wrap-around, brightly coloured pink shades. He left them perch precariously at the bridge of his nose, peering out at the three other boys gathered around him, his fingers anxious guns aimed at his newly acquired item.  He was expecting Omi's claps, Ken's carefully arched eyebrows, Aya's questioning silence. He grinned as his predictions hit the mark and took a sweeping bow.

"Four thousand six hundred yen, a discount, mind you, and a lifetime guarantee of overall cool and rose tinted pandemonium, thank ye very much, oh fashionably minded gentlemen. Picked 'em up on my way here. Bet you thought I'd forget, huh, Ken?"

Ken smiled. Yoji had come through the shop's door at four, whistling to himself and carrying a small paper bag under his arm, the shades wrapped in white paper and secure inside their box. He didn't seem to mind that it was an hour after three, calling over his shoulder that the streets were packed with pedestrians, something about a car crash. His unmistakable smell of cigarettes and cologne mingled with the faint echoes of citrus perfume. A grin stretched from one side of his face to the other.

"You spent that much money on a pair of pink shades?" Aya said now, a mutter he directed towards the refrigerated rows of petunias at the back of the shop. Yoji mystified him. His slick, expensive clothes, his wavy, pasty blond hair, his damnable sense of what constituted a good time. He couldn't understand the need for pink shades. He didn't care for them. Yoji pushed his shades up his nose and graced the room with an expansive, goofy grin, hands on his hips.

"So-oh. Now that me and mein very wunderbar pink shades are here at last... what's up? We selling anything? Shipment of gladiolas come in yet? Omi complain about his molars again?" A groan greeted his last comment. With a wink in Omi's direction, Yoji fixed his gaze on Ken. "Well, O Unproclaimed Sainted Leader of the Enthusiastic Florists, Hi-ii-daka Ken, what can I do for you, my man?"

"Well..." Omi put in, pulling into a pretzel position next to Ken on the couch, "Ken got a flower arrangement order today, already finished, and I got another one this afternoon. Birthday party. All bromeliads."

Yoji let his shades slip down his nose again. "What in the name of the Holy Twenty first Ward is a bromeliad?"

Passing on his way to the counter, Aya placed a medium sized lacquer flower pot on Yoji's hands, calling over his shoulder as he went. "I have no idea. But the order was for fifty plus arrangements, three thousand yen a piece. Might as well get started."

wednesday november 4th, outside the allez alice, 11:01pm

Souji pulled up his coat's collar as he stepped out in the cold night, reaching into his pockets for his pack of cigarettes. He hated meeting in places like this. The stupor, the lights, all those damned blue decorations. He couldn't remember where the girl had gone. She had stumbled out into the dance floor, hadn't come back. She was probably high already, or puking in some corner, getting dirty and moaning about it. He pulled out a cigarette and patted around his pant pockets for the lighter. The meeting had been brief. Nothing he wanted to remember. He had to get home. Tomorrow he would have to show up at the office again, make up some excuse for his absence tonight. Driving the girl home would be no problem. Just dump her at the apartment and be home by two. He would have demanded more of himself, normally, but he just didn't feel like it. He had thought he would feel up to it when he saw her in that skin tight cat suit, but too many blue lights had a way of smothering the sensations. One too many blue lava lamps. One too many cigarettes.

"Damn it, where's that fuckin' lighter?"

Cigarette pinched firmly between his teeth, he reached deep down into his pant pockets, the coat pockets, the lining. Nothing. He cursed, figuring he must have dropped it inside the club, as good as gone. He never carried matches, and the car was parked too far away, to keep the new paint job safe. He cursed again, the sound escaping as a mumble between clenched teeth and cigarette body. He would have to go back to the club and pull the girl out. He couldn't leave her. Not after he had blown fifty thousand yen on her. He had wanted her then. She was young and sensual and clingy. He shook his head. I must have been drunk.

Sucking at his unlit cigarette, he turned back towards the club. A movement to his right made him stop, the sound of his shoes shuffling to an alert silence. A cat called out and padded away down the snow covered alleys. His eyes flickered left and right, one hand edging slowly towards the place where his holster hung, a small, silvery gun encased in expensive leather. Seconds ticked by, hours as they rushed through his veins, pulsing towards his temples, and he closed his fingers over his leather holster. He heard a footstep, snow crunching and echo rising and the gun was in his hands and he swung around, the blood rushing to his eyes.

A pair of undisturbed, faintly luminous eyes looked back at him, the barrel of his gun resting above them, against a pale white forehead. "Who the Hell are you, buddy?!" His voice quivered, and he hated himself for it. In the refracted light of the street lamps he could see that his assailant was young, a skinny boy dressed in black, a jarring contrast to the blinding white around them. He seemed lethargic, his eyes calm and unblinking as he looked at him across space and time and the barrel of a silver gun. Souji's shoulders dropped, his voice regaining its composure as he lowered the gun and gave the boy a lopsided grin.

"You come out for a smoke, too, buddy?"

He saw the boy's left hand rise, comb through his dirty coloured hair. "Yeah, I came out for a smoke. But I ain't got any cigarettes left, an' I see you ain't got a lighter. Buddy. Mind if I?"

Before Souji could react the boy had pulled out a shinny, transparent lime coloured lighter, the flame flickering an odd shade of green before his eyes. He laughed as he put away his silver gun, a nervous little chuckle he hoped sounded as if he wasn't impressed. He pulled out a new cigarette and bent to puff it into life, mumbling a clipped arigato before he straightened and blew out a ring of smoke. The green flame flickered in his sight, the boy bathed in shadow.

"Thank you," he said again, adding an edge to his voice. The green flame flickered once in the night breeze, returned to his sight. It seemed to loom closer, burning at the edges of his vision. Souji took one step away from it, watched it flicker and follow him. He frowned. "All right, thank you. Very generous of you." The light flickered into his retina, weaving from side to side in a neon lime sea of reflections. He couldn't see the boy anymore. He took another step back and threw down his cigarette. The green light flickered with the motion.

"You some sort of crazy, buddy?"

He heard the boy step closer, the flame flickering with his movements; eyes, flame, dirty coloured hair, flame, coming closer. Souji clenched his teeth, reaching towards his holster. The green flame stopped close to his face, the heat making his skin tingle. He curled his fingers around his gun and thinned his lips.

"I'm not crazy," the boy said, a tall dark young man holding a lime green lighter, gazing at him through luminous lavender eyes. "What do you know about the murder of Masumune Hitaki? Nothing? Why do you smoke such cheap cigarettes? Can't remember the size of your last paycheque?"

Souji pulled the safety lock on his gun, his hands quavering for an instant over the trigger. "What the Hell are you talking about? Who the Hell's Hitaki?!" The boy lowered his lighter. The green light flickered over a photograph. The charred remains of a car, the husk of a human body, scraps of a woman's dress and pearls licked an ochre yellow by the flames. He felt the sweat break out over his forehead, his fingers tightening around the handle of his silver gun. "Who the fuck are you?!" The photographs disappeared, the green light flickering to wards his right. He heard the sizzle of his sideburns as they caught fire, the smell of his burned flesh rising to choke his nostrils. With a cry, he pulled away, body dropping and making a sprint for empty air before his mind could react to the instinct.

He could feel the blood screaming through his veins, his pants alien to his ears as he tore through the alleys, trench coat flapping open behind him. He couldn't hear the boy, he couldn't tell where he was going. The streets rose up before him in dark clumps, illuminated openings in the alleys blinding him. He splashed over a puddle of frozen mush and cursed, his voice a raspy whine, his body crouching and stiffening in anticipation of discovery, gun shots, darkness, nothing at the other side. He trembled, holding his silvery gun close to his heart. Footsteps echoed at the mouth of the alley. With a whimper, he bounded up, tore off to the left, crashed into a chain link fence.

His fingers groped in horrified surprise at the cold metal, his pants escaping as shallow, frozen little whimpers as he stared at the upper half of the fence. He could scale it. He could scale it, he knew he could. The footsteps sounded closer. He had to scale it. He placed one foot into an opening, felt it slip as tremors ran through him. The footsteps sounded closer. Cursing, he tightened his grip around the trigger of his gun, attempting to scale a second time, slipping a second time. He whimpered. The footsteps sounded closer. He felt his body drop, his knees strangely elastic, the nerves running down his spine burning with an urgency he couldn't control. Footsteps. He pulled his gun in front of him, the barrel rattling as he aimed at the darkness beyond him. Closer. The sweat ran down his back, sliding into his eyes. Closer. He shut his eyes tightly, brought his finger firmly over the trigger. Closer. Without a second thought, he squeezed the trigger, the shot ringing hollow and final in his ears.

thursday november 5th, koneko no sumu ie, 5:37pm

Yoji woke with a start, noticing with alarm and panicked disgust that a faint trail of saliva clinged to his right cheek. He wiped it away quickly, making sure no one had seen him. No one had. From the front of the shop he could hear Ken bow and polite his way through a sale, his boots skidding over the polished floor as he opened the door for their customer. Yoji peeked around the corner to see who it was, moved back down into his place by the couch when he saw that it was an old lady, stooped and half blind, judging from the way she kept trying to shake the sleeves of the sweater Ken had tied around his waist. "Man, flower shops are way overrated. I've had more fun at the dentist. I've had more fun hunting through social security lists. I've had more fun watching... watching soccer!"

The door to the shop shut with a flurry of tiny snow flakes, Ken's footsteps moving back towards the counter. The sound of tape and wrapping paper filled the air once again. Ken had been busy at those fifty plus bromeliad birthday arrangements since four, tackling pot after pot as if in a Holy Mission from Beyond. Omi was in charge of picking out the flowers. He kept them lined out in front of him, categorizing them by size and shape and subtle hue variations. "We can do five by pot, three at the back and two smaller ones at the front," he said, marker clamped firmly between his teeth as he showed Aya how to keep them standing in the potting soil. Ken called out from his place at the counter, never missing a beat from his wrapping endeavour. "You can place the darker ones near the centre. Should be a smashing effect." Aya looked as if he wanted to smash Ken. Yoji couldn't blame him.

With a sigh, he turned back to his decidedly unglamorous job. Uncapping his silver, extra fine marker, he scrolled out Otanjoubi Omedetou Gozaimasu, Saki on a faintly lavender card. He hoped Saki was cute. He hoped Saki would come around to pick up her bromeliads personally. He hoped she appreciated the fine, silvery penmanship of each card. "Artistically perfect, yet such a bloody boring job. Curse bromeliads. Curse flower shops. How many of these we got left, Ken?!"

"Twenty seven." A crash followed his words, followed by a sharp intake of breath from Aya, a carefully concealed, stifled groan from Omi. "Um, well, ah, twenty six, actually. We're, ah, making good time."

Yoji sighed again. He could be doing so many things on an afternoon like this. It seemed to call out to him from the snow covered streets beyond the shop windows. It had been an early winter, and he deserved to be out in it. He scrolled out another happy birthday wish to Saki and capped his marker, sliding it behind his ear. He felt more than heard Aya's approach, his body sliding to allow room for him in the couch before the younger boy could ask. He seemed taken aback by the favour, sitting down stiffly before he crossed his arms over his chest and lowered his head to rest over it.

"Industry got you down?"

He heard Aya sniff in contempt, the sound accompanied by an indifferent shrug. "It'll take Ken a while to clean up that one thousand yen lacquer pot he smashed. I can sit down for a while."

Yoji grinned and dispatched another birthday wish to Saki. "In other words, industry got you down. Quite literally in your case, Aya, my man. And I'd ask you to help me with these lavender birthday notes, but your handwriting is microscopic. You'll leave poor old Saki myopic. How do they look anyway?"

Aya's eyes glanced over the lavender card Yoji held out to him, giving him another indifferent shrug. "They're illegible."

"Precisely. Like Chinese calligraphy. Like Ken's "I'll be back late" notes. Like your kanji. A piece of art in its own right. I tell ya, Saki'll love these. And when she sees what handsome young men put them together for her, she'll be... she'll be... Why, I dare say she'll be flabbergasted. Completely flabbergasted. More flabbergasted than you can shake a stick at!"

Aya frowned. Yoji talked too much. Talked too much nonsense. He sighed, gazing at the finished lavender cards Yoji had lined up on top of the low table. The silvery kanji, curving gracefully above a simple firefly design, pulled and pushed at his eyesight. Blinding. Like the snow outside. The snow outside. The snow tinted with blood, seeping down the thickening ice. Gaping red holes in the purity of the snow, shimmering, warm against his skin. Red before his eyes. Green flamed red snow falling from the grey heavens. Blue grey red tinted green flame heaven dreams of alice and the white, blood stained rabbit down the dark, dank rabbit hole. Nowhere to go but down. Nothing to do but scream. Scream blue coloured grey dreams of red tinted green flame murders of cold, white bastards. Weiß bastards. Weiß snow. Red snow. Red. Red. RedredRed Red.

"Yo, Aya! Aya! Snap out of it, man!"

Yoji came into view with a start, yellow hair dishevelled as he bent over him, shaking his shoulders. He was on the floor. How did he...? Frowning, he sat up, pushing away Yoji's hands. "I'm all right," he snapped, turning his face away as hurt drew itself out in Yoji's face. He stood up without looking back, heading back to the bromeliads and the potting dirt, thankful that Ken and Omi had turned on a radio and had not seen what happened. Whatever had happened. He couldn't remember.

Picking up his silver marker, Yoji watched Aya limp back towards his work station, his lips thinning. He wanted to get up and ask him what was wrong. He wanted to grab him by the collar and shake some reaction into those cold, lavender eyes. But he knew it was hopeless. He picked out a new lavender card and scrolled out a birthday wish. Otanjoubi Omedetou Gozaimasu, Saki. You Don't Know How Lucky You Are.

wednesday november 4th, outskirts of the allez alice, 11:12pm

The snow drifted down in slow arabesques, blanketing the deserted parking lots and alleys in a still, white silence. He pulled on a pair of gloves, sliding them up his wrists with his teeth, the cold nipping at his cheeks. The body was heavy, head lolling from left to right under a thick mass of blood stained hair. It left a bright red trail on the snow, ochre brown as it sank down into the ice. He didn't care. Let the police find the body. Let the police try to track down a katana and a faceless crazy that threw his bodies into the gutter, that slammed his fists onto their faces until there was nothing to recognize. No I.D., no face, no way to trace deeply cut sword gashes, a severed limb. The work of a lunatic. Political dirt to baffle the Diet, if they wanted to be baffled. He didn't care.

He watched the body drop down into the frozen waters beneath the city in silence. It bobbed above the water for a while, its coat puffing out and billowing around it as the weight of its own body dragged it down. Red snakes spread out around it as it sank, curling out towards the sewage gathered at the corners, drawing out careful designs under the ice. He watched until it was completely out of sight. Nagawa Souji. Hitaki Masamune. Corpses. Running corpses, fleeing down the alleys, turning around in sheer terror, gripping a gun in one hand, a silvery gun that did him no good. Cornered, with nowhere to go. Nowhere to go but down.

He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a slow, even breath. He should be getting home. It was late. But he couldn't go home, not yet. Picking his way through the darkened alleys he made his way back to the night club. Sound came towards him slowly, as if stifled beneath thick fabrics, muffled. The sound of sobbing, a choked, abandoned sound. He guided himself by it, walking slowly, making his way with care. Up ahead he could see the dim light coming from the club, a neon blue sign winking to itself in the darkness. A figure lay huddled by the fence in the parking lot, shivering to itself, its sobs a raspy, thick sound as he drew closer. The figure looked up as he approached, a tear stained face lined with the ugly dark gashes of smeared mascara. Raven dark hair, spiked with bright blue, framed a pasty white face, washed out eyes and trembling blue lips. She wrapped her arms around her bony shoulders and seemed to huddle into her shimmery, torn blue cat suit.

Her words stumbled out with her tears, her hands rising to wipe them away, to blow her nose. She spoke gibberish he couldn't understand, her sobs cutting every word she said in half. She was pitiful. He saw her struggle to get up, her hand reaching down into her pocket, shivering as she attempted to pull something out. She pried it free with a shuddered compulsion, her tears flowing faster as she crumpled it between her mascara stained fingers and threw it at his feet. She stuttered a few words, folding into herself as she rocked and sobbed and pressed her hands to her temples.

"Oh God I wish I hadn't c-come out... I w-wish I hadn't come out... hadn't come out..." She rocked back and forth as she whimpered, her fingertips pressed tightly against her temples, her eyes darting from left to right in a frenzy that he recognized as growing madness, despair eating up at her insides. He closed his eyes, turning away. He had seen enough.

thursday november 5th, koneko no sumu ie, 6:10pm

Ken pulled on his thick black coat, checking the pockets to make sure that he had the shop keys and his coupons and enough change for a quick cup of cafe au lait before getting back. He heard Omi whistle to himself as he put the finishing touches on the last bromeliad arrangement, his own coat draped over the couch in front of the TV. Yoji was already outside. His voice came through even with the door closed, impatient and already demanding to be taken out of the cold. Ken signalled for him to wait a few minutes and reached out to pat Aya's shoulders. "We'll be back in a couple of minutes. You sure you don't wanna come with us, grab a bite to eat? We're going to Mitsukashi's."

He saw Aya shake his head. "It's all right. Yoji put some left over soba in the fridge. I'll just heat that up." Ken sighed, pulling up the zipper of his coat. Aya's voice was humourless, his face averted as he straightened out the already straight lines of bromeliad arrangements with absentminded gestures. There was no getting through to him when he was in one of these moods. All he could do was hope that whatever it was would pass. He had given up trying to decipher Aya a long time ago. You didn't ask him anything, you couldn't expect a reply if you did. Not if it was personal. Not if it wasn't anything he could answer with a yes or a no or an I guess.

"Yokkai. We'll be back in around half an hour, ok? Take care."

The door closed behind them with a click, Omi pulling on his coat as they walked away from the shop, Ken rushing to catch up after making sure that the door had closed properly. They walked in a huddled, comfortable line, disappearing as they took a corner, swallowed up by the never ending stream of pedestrians. He envied them, for a moment. They seemed so close, so happy. He couldn't understand it. He didn't want to understand it. It was better that way. If he ever came even close to understanding their happiness then his own world wouldn't survive. He wanted it to survive. It had taken him too long to build it, to draw it close to him and make it his own. It had taken too long to forget...

Aya shook his head. He slid off the stool drawn up behind the counter and made his way to the fridge. It wouldn't take more than a few minutes to heat up Yoji's soba. He punched in twenty seconds on the microwave and leaned against the break room's counter, rubbing at his left eye as he waited. When the microwave's ping announced that his noodles were ready he took them with him as he settled into Ken's couch, drawing up his legs beneath him. The noodles were watery, chunks of carrot still frozen as he bit into them. He grimaced and set the container down. He wasn't very hungry anyway. A sigh escaped his lips as he drew up his knees under his chin and he frowned. He didn't want to regret not going with the others. Someone had to stay at the shop. What if that girl came in to pick up her bromeliads?

He stretched out on the couch, gazing at his reflection in the darkened face of the TV. He looked sick, bony. Dark circles spread out from beneath his eyes, his lips pursed in a frown he hadn't been aware of. He thinned them out, watched them purse back into a thoughtful, disquieting scowl. His red bangs were uncombed, hanging in a matted mess over his eyes, one long, red sideburn crushed against his cheek. He wondered if he always looked like that. Was that what people saw when they looked at him? His hand rose to rub at the scar that ran above his eyebrow, his fingers trailing back though his hair, pushing back his bangs. He looked terrible. Ugly. He drew a hand over his face, rubbing at the greasiness he found there, wishing he could rub away his features.

I wish I hadn't come out...

The voice echoed in his mind, his hands hovering over his eyes as he heard it again, the memories of last night threatening to push through the quiet enui of the day. He turned on his side, his arms cradled over his face. In the darkness he could see images, flashes of movement and sound. He squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to drive them away. Red red green white coloured screams in the dark, splashes of blue gasps and broken ice surfaces. Sinking down. Into the water, into the snow. Into the flesh. He heard a scream and he jerked upright, the echoes of it ringing in his ears. He threw uneasy glances at the corners of the shop, rows of flowers and potting dirt and vases looking back at him in mute expectation. He felt ugly, his chest rising and falling with every intake of breath. He felt alone and scared, his arms rising to wrap around his shoulders. He shook his head. Snap out of it. Snap out of it.

He shuddered as he ran a hand through his hair, tucking his sideburns behind his ears, pulling them back out, twirling them around his fingertip, snapping off a few strands as he stroked them down over his cheeks. He caught his hands in mid motion and folded them over his chest, forcing himself to calm down. Green flame white snow murderers of murdering bastards. Smash his face in. smash his face in. He drew in a sharp breath, rubbing at his temples. He had to calm down. He had to take a deep breath. Hey, it's you, tall dark and red side burned. I wanted to give you something.

His hands rose to cover his eyes. He could see her, standing in the dim light outside the club, blue cat suit muted in the cold night. She smiled as she made her way towards him, stumbling a little, swaying under too many drinks and two heroin laced cokes. He had watched her drink them down one after the other, flipping the glasses to the ground after she was done, mumbling against that man, Souji, and drawing a hand under her nose. She stood before him, smiling, reaching into her pocket, her eyes luminous. Luminous as they realized that he wasn't smiling. Not a very smily person, are ya? S'okay. This'll make you smile. You wanna smile? Her teeth shone pearly white in the street lights, her smile never wavering as she looked beyond him, into the darkness, an absentminded gesture that made her smile freeze in place. The corners of her mouth twitched, just a little, the light in her eyes muting as she struggled to put the pieces of what she saw in some sort of logical order. He knew what she was seeing. He heard him, that man, Souji, groan, his halting footsteps drawing closer, stumbling. He saw her hand rise to cover her mouth, her eyes widening. He didn't hear her scream.

At that moment he had already whirled around, the light from the street lights catching in his eyelashes, in the length of the katana as it was drawn from its scabbard, a flaming silver streak as he turned in a flurry of instinct and the sickening rush of excitement. He heard a scream, a gurgling sound that choked out in its own intensity, he saw the blood spatter down into the snow, felt the clean, fluid movements of his sword as it slid through flesh. His lips had drawn back over his teeth. He only noticed that after the man had crashed down, one hand grasping his torn chest, his eyes wide, bulging in disbelief. He seemed about to laugh, the corners of his mouth drawing up in a grotesque gesture.

He could still see that man's face, the blurred contours as he had pounded into it. Again. And again. Crouched over him in the snow, beating the bloodied man down into it. He had brought spare gloves. He couldn't board the train back to the shop with the bloodied ones. He beat the man's face into disfigurement and sought to keep thoughts of train tokens from passing through his head. He couldn't hear the girl anymore then. He saw her again after the body had sunk beneath the waters of the gutter. He saw her tear stained face.

The note pressed into his thigh. The memory faded and he was surrounded by the pants and pots of the shop, the deepening evening dyeing them a soft purple blue. He pulled the note out slowly, the paper creased where he had folded it tightly. He unfolded it with painstaking care, a curious, dizzy sensation running through him. He knew what the note said. He had read it as he had picked it up from where she had flung it at his feet. A simple message written out in medium print, blotches of ink darkening the edges of her kana: Satsuki. 03-8320-9871. Call me. You're cool.

He frowned at the message. In the break room he found Yoji's abandoned backpack, a box of matches tucked into the front pocket. He brought them back to the couch. Eleven matches nestled into a ruby red case. No hotel matches for Yoji. He pulled out one and ran it across the ignition strip. The flame flickered a bright orange yellow in the darkening room. He watched it shiver in fascinated silence, the darkness growing in urgency beyond his eyesight. He held the note above it. Satsuki. 03-8320-9871. Call me. You're cool. He remembered her face, rounded and friendly, open, lost within itself, not certain of where she should be. The edge of the note caught fire, the flame bursting into an urgent, glowing golden. She hadn't whimpered, hadn't cried out. It was all there in her face. Her reaction. Her cry. Her plead with the world that it not be this way. He stood before her, supporting her as she sagged forward, the sword that ran through her shuddering between them. Her hands felt cold, unafraid. Her face distorted, her lips drawing back in a grotesque sob as she realized that her heart would stop beating, that the pain would pull her down and nothing would pull her back. Tears welled up in her eyes. Satsuki. 03-8320-9871. Call me. Y...

She had fallen with her eyes open, her body sliding off the length of the katana, the weight of her body taking her down into the snow. Wide open eyes, cornflower blue, losing their sight, life flowing into the snow, spreading out in a dark brown stain. He saw her spasm, blood gushing out of her mouth, thin trickles of it trailing down her cheeks. He looked down into her face and slipped the note into his pants. Satsuki. 03-8320-9871. Call m...

He had taken the body to the gutters, let it slide down into the icy waters, blue strips of hair glimmering white under the bits ice, blue cat suit stained a dark purple as her long, thin arms drifted upwards. Her fingers remained above water for a while, suspended, before she began to sink. He pulled off his second pair of globes and submerged them with her, watching her hair undulate under water, the note pressing into his thigh. A strange burning had lodged in his throat, an uncomfortable pulsing that kept him in place, unable to leave her as she sank beneath the waters. He wondered where her body would finally come to rest. Not in some paradise. There was no paradise. There was no beyond. Only darkness. He wanted to know what it was like. Satsuki. 03-8320-9...

The note burned away, inch by inch, before his eyes. The heat from the flame licked at his fingertips. Her phone number had almost completely burned away. He thinned his lips. Call me. You're cool. He pitied her. A stupid unfortunate. A laughable irony. Nagawa Souji's date, his girlfriend, his whore. The witness to his murder. Satsuki. Satsuki the shimmering blue gutter mermaid. He wondered what her voice would have sounded like, on the phone. He frowned. He hadn't meant to think anything like that. Her number had burned down to the last digit. The flames licked the kanji for Tsuki. Moon. Satsuki. Hey! That's a pretty colour! You hear me? It's cool. You're cool.

He wrapped his hand around the paper, the extinguished flame biting at his skin. Satsuki and a charred edge. He closed his eyes. The others would be back in a few minutes. That girl, Saki, had promised to pick up her bromeliads that night. On the face of the break room's microwave the digital face read 6:20pm. He folded the piece of paper slowly, the charred edges tainting his fingers, and slid it into his pant pockets.
 

December 10th, 6:20pm.

Pretty cool coincidence, huh? I finish HTMLing this story at the precise minute the story ends. Heh. For better or for worse, this was the first Weiß Kreuz story for us. It took a pretty long time to both write and HTML it, being as we discovered Weiß around the same time finals started to come up, and we being such a studious bunch... ::laugh::  Story HTMLed to the sounds of students at the UCF labs desperately putting together last minute papers and Weiß's own Dramatic Image Album II and Schlag Des Herzens.  Damn good CDs.

Well, but there you have it. If you'd like to send in comments, please feel free to drop 'em off at  Ken's To Answer Mail Pile
 
 
 

@November 4th, 6th, 13th, and 25th, 1998 Team Bonet. Weiß Kreuz is @1997 Takehito Koyasu and Project Weiß. Thank you for stopping by to read. Getting awfully long, isn't it...? Thanks go out to Dr. Finley Taylor for his generous aid with the German title.