Omi was sitting at the table inside the shop, reading through the manual, when Youji came back from his errands.
"Hey, Omi," the older assassin said, depositing his grocery bag on the counter. He looked at the piece of equipment sitting on the table in front of the boy and his glasses slipped a notch. "What is that?"
"A camera," Omi replied implacably.
"Oookay... what are you *doing* with it?"
Lady Killer 9 -- Snapshots
by K.Huntsman
released 7 September 2001
"Bwahahaha! REVENGE!!!" Ken shouted, splashing cold ocean water at Akayuki in retaliation for the dunking she'd given him by tackling him into the waves. She laughed and screamed and tried to shield herself, then splashed water back at him. Omi caught the moment on film, then lowered the camera, smiling at the pair's play.
Youji, lying on a beach chair nearby, clad in an open red shirt and black swim trunks with a flower pattern climbing up one leg, took another drag of his cigarette. "Man, this is the life," he commented. "Now if only it could be like this all the time...."
Omi looked back at him. "Wouldn't it be awfully boring, then?"
"The beach is nice once in a while," Aya agreed from where he sat on his own beach chair, shaded from the sun, reading a book, the headphones of his discman in only one ear, "but it would pall after a while."
Youji snorted disbelievingly. "So the chance to relax is only nice because we never get to relax? That's stupid."
"Oh, come on, Youji-kun," Omi chided, sitting back down and putting the lens cap back on his camera. "Even you would get tired of the beach eventually."
Youji's gaze followed two bikini-clad girls walking by. "Not with this scenery, I wouldn't!" he declared. Omi rolled his eyes and then closed them. Settling back to soak up the heat of the sun, he listened to the shrieks and laughter of two of his teammates as they played in the water, to the vague sounds of classical music that seeped from Aya's headphones, to the patterns of Youji's breathing.
*click!*
Aya tucked his hand into the pocket of his black coat and managed to smile, just a little, for the camera. The silver cross Youji had given him for a birthday present not too long ago rested over his breastbone, on top of a gray shirt. One of Ken's arms looped around his neck as the four of them posed for the last picture on the roll.
Omi's camera had been a amusing toy for all of them to play around with on this week-long beach vacation. Even he had taken a few pictures, mostly of sunsets and the semi-deserted beach. Ken's shots had been a random mix of whatever had grabbed the Siberian's attention at the moment. Youji's were largely women, women, and more women, though Aya had caught him taking a few photographs of his teammates. Akayuki's film consisted mostly of pictures of the four of them. And Omi, like Ken, had tried his hand at photographing everything. The results would be interesting.
The camera whirred in Yuki's hands, recording the four of them against a summer sunset.
*click!*
Ken picked up the camera from the table, idly handling its weight as he listened to Omi and Youji heatedly argue over who exactly it was that had forgotten to order the week's shipment of potting soil. Beyond the two of them Aya rested his head on a hand, annoyance in every line of his body.
Pictures.
He didn't know why the others had also linked so instantly with Omi's camera. For himself, it was the idea of a legacy. Life was so quick, gone in a flash--who to know that better than him?--and while he accepted that he would die someday, he was scared of it happening too soon. So he wanted to collect all the little pieces of the better parts of his life, the mundane things, and put them together so that someone after him could look at his life and know he had existed. Know that Ken Hidaka hadn't died still in disgrace in a warehouse fire a year after the end of his J-League career. Know that he had lived, and been happy, however briefly... and remember him.
He looked back up at the arguing two, and smiled a little. Even times like this, when the volume was getting a little out of hand, were good times. Omi and Youji would finish their "discussion" in a few minutes, glower at each other for a few hours, and then completely forget about it.
//My friends,// Ken thought with a smile, and raised the camera.
*click!*
Aya paused halfway down the stairs, camera in his hand to return to Omi, and raised it to focus on the two below him. Omi handed Youji a cup of coffee, their earlier argument officially over with the act.
Despite not being good at taking pictures of people, Aya pressed his index finger down on the button anyway.
*click!*
Yuki flipped through her photography scrapbook. The pictures were mostly of the other members of Weiss, though she had begged copies from Omi and Youji of a few shots that included herself.
She didn't have her brother's artistic eye, but she still wasn't too bad at judging the composition of a picture. All it took was filling the frame with what she wanted to see.
She paused on a page which held only one photograph, that of two geisha beneath fiery autumn maple trees. Yuki smiled, remembering how she and Omi had gotten Ken to come along with them to take that picture. The hard part, of course, had been telling him just enough of the truth that he didn't guess at Omi's hobby, without lying.
*click!*
Life was a funny thing, Youji mused. You started out on the bottom, got kicked along the way, and still managed to turn out with a decent life in most regards, if you ignored the fact that you were a professional killer.
Case in point: Ken. The guy'd been raised in Tokyo's slums and somehow managed to work hard enough to get into J-League. He'd gotten betrayed and nearly killed by his so-called best friend, yet still survived, ending up in Weiss with some pretty good friends and an active, attractive girlfriend. Life wasn't that bad.
Youji sat cross-legged on the roof, watching the two athletes practice. Yuki had her palms lightly resting on Ken's shins to help him maintain his balance. "Lift," she said, and Ken concentrated, shifting balance onto his right hand until was able to raise his left hand away from the gravelled rooftop.
He actually held the position for a few seconds before losing his center and collapsing downwards. He brushed bangs out of his face and smiled up at his teacher. "Almost had it," he said.
"Almost," she agreed with a returning smile.
Youji watched as Yuki flipped easily forward into a handstand of her own. It was only a second until her right hand lifted and she balanced on her weaker side, the left. Then she rocked over to her right, her expression stilling in concentration. She lifted a few inches higher, weight held only on her fingertips, then lowered. Then back to the left hand, and a collapse similar to Ken's but more controlled, as she failed the same rise on that hand.
Youji shook his head in fond disbelief.
*click!*
It was the first snowfall of the season. Ken hovered in the door of the shop, looking up at the sky, a soccer ball held under one arm, as if calculating how much it would have to snow before his team's practice was cancelled. Omi passed by him, carrying a small lily-of-the-valley. The youngest's face reflected the fragility of the snow, as if he might be blown away by the slightest wind.
"What do you fear?" Aya whispered to himself, not knowing where the thought came from.
*click!*
It was cold winter outside, but the late afternoon light turned the room gold.
Youji's breath caught as Aya shrugged out of his coat. He had been to see his sister today, and his expression held a unique look of distant misery.
Somehow, with the window at his back, he looked like a falling angel.
*click!*
It became Ken's birthday again, and then Christmas. Both occasions were celebrated correctly, with presents and cakes and champagne. Ken's birthday dinner was held in his rooms, Christmas in Youji's again, for the reason that none of them felt like hauling their tree further.
Then it was New Year's and the five of them dressed up in traditional clothes and went to the temple at midnight.
Life was quiet, normal, with no missions for the duration. Omi was thankful.
*click!*
They were gathered into Kitten in the House. The snowfall was bad enough that Yuki had decided not to open her shop, and was spending time with them. It was getting boring, though, with no customers. There wasn't even anything good on the television.
Youji stood from the table and turned off the set with the remote. He strode over to the rarely used radio and flicked that on instead, tuning through the stations until he came to some Western oldies show playing Elvis. He extended a hand to Akayuki and she laughed and came to him.
They danced around the shop, Ken and Omi encouraging them, Aya even cracking a rare smile.
Suddenly Omi stood, and with an inspired move, Youji sent Yuki-chan into his arms. Omi was not a bad dancer, though Youji didn't know where he'd learned. Then it was Ken's turn to fumble along; apparently he never had taken his girlfriend up on her offer of dance lessons. She had to whisper the count to him and guide his steps. Youji bit back a smirk.
There came the point where the black-haired girl should have been passed to Aya where he leaned against the wall, but both she and Ken hesitated. Then she smiled and stepped away from Ken, and in front of Aya. She held out a hand to him and asked in English, like in that movie, "Shall we dance?"
Aya nodded almost imperceptably and surprised Youji by being almost as skilled at dance as he was at death.
*click!*
Another day, another mission, and tomorrow he could go watch the sakura flowers with his girlfriend.
Ken tugged at the collar of his formal suit, positive that it was a size too small no matter what Youji said about the fit of these penguin get-ups.
Aya was in the security staff, Omi working as a waiter. Youji had come on his own and was already circulating though the crowd. They had three targets and had planted enough bombs to knock out all primary and backup power while Weiss made good their escapes in the confusion.
"You know, I didn't like it the last time we had to come to someplace this fancy," Ken complained in a low voice.
Yuki shot him a sympathetic glance. Her dress this time was black silk cut in a Chinese style with high slits up both legs and spiked heels on her feet. Neither of them had weapons. "Don't worry, you're good with bare hands."
They walked through the double doors and into the main ballroom of the affair. Youji wasn't hard to spot; he was only a few meters away. He nodded to them as they passed.
"Aya-san is on the far side, near the fountain," Yuki whispered. Ken followed her directions and saw the redhead, who also saw him. He thought he saw Aya nod.
"Omi's on the main floor, circulating," Youji murmured as he walked up to them. "Everything's in place and we just have to wait for the main event to arrive."
"Is there time for a dance?" Yuki wondered.
"Of course," Youji replied, taking a step closer.
Ken shook his head and held tight to his girlfriend. "Sorry, Youji. This dance is mine." He led the black-haired girl out onto the floor. He grinned at the other man as they began to move. The dance lessons he'd been taking from Yuki in secret paid off in the Balinese's one expression of shock.
*click!*
Yuki sat at the table writing carefully into a book. Youji watched her for a few minutes, then set down his tea and snatched it from her while her pen was raised.
"Hey...!" she protested mildly.
"Is this your poetry?" he asked, dangling the book between two fingers.
"Yes."
"Can I read it?"
She gave an amused smile. "Sure."
Youji flicked back a few pages to a completed verse. Aya looked over his shoulder and read as he did. When he'd reached the end of the page, the redhead looked up. "This is terrible," he said flatly, and Youji had to agree with his opinion.
Akayuki's smile deeped. "I never said I was any good at writing poetry, did I?"
*click!*
Omi watched in amusement as Yuki moved around the edge of the rink, hands glued to the wall in a death grip. Her face displayed vague distaste.
"They're heavy," she complained, looking at him as Omi came near, gliding to a easy stop in front of her. "How can I move if my feet are encased in cement? And the ice is going to kill me." She glared at the offending surface.
"Oh, come on, it's not that bad," Ken replied, halting behind her. He looked at Omi and grinned. "Show off for her, why don't you? I can tell you're dying to."
Omi smirked. "I was waiting until she got around the rink at least once."
"How considerate," the soccer lover replied, then made shooing motions. "We're here, go do your tricks for us."
Omi grinned and sped off, going once around the rink himself before starting anything. He was was no Tsuzuki Masanori, being strictly amateur at ice skating, but he liked it enough to indulge himself in lessons; he knew he certainly wasn't bad at the sport.
He built up speed, feet moving to the beat of the music, head swaying a little in time with the sweet English words. He checked that the ice around him was clear, then launched into a triple jump, spinning in the air, soaring, weightless for a perfect instant. His left foot met the ice again and he immediately launched into a following double axel, then glided to a spin. He grinned in satisfaction. From there it was following the music around the rink.
*click!*
Ken finished his song without missing a word and Omi applauded. Ken smiled and gestured for Youji to take his turn. He doubted that the other man could top a flawless recitation of the lyrics of "One Week."
Youji merely smirked and input his chosen song.
Ken's eyes widened as Youji's track started. Surely he wasn't serious...!
Yuki laughed delighted as Youji proved he was serious about this English-language karaoke contest. Ken smiled and shook his head, conceding defeat to the green-eyed assassin.
There was no WAY he would be able to top "It's The End Of The World (As We Know It)."
*click!*
Five cups on the table, five personalities revealed.
One an oversized Tokyo Disneyland mug of Aquarius, a sports drink.
One a plain blue mug filled with steaming coffee, a unique blend.
One a white china cup filled with delicate chrysanthemum tea.
One a plastic cup half-emptied of cola, a single half-melted ice cube floating inside, the red-and-white can sitting beside the cup.
One a tall, clear glass holding tap water, condensation beading on its sides.
Inside the darkened room, a large video screen showed the backlit figure of a man. His voice, giving information and orders, the only sound.
*click!*
"Ne," Yuki asked once, "what would you do for a mission?"
Youji blinked.
"Do...?" Ken asked.
Calm, dreamy eyes regarded Ken. "What would you do?" she repeated. "Would you whore? Would you betray? Where do the vagaries of each of our limits lie?"
He turned the question back on her. "What would you do?"
She turned to regard her cup and the sake within. Youji tried to remember how many she'd had, but couldn't honestly say how much any of them had drank. "Steal. Lie. Cheat. Kill."
"Whore?" Omi inquired, his voice soft and his eyes distant. "Betray?"
"That's where the line blurs," Akayuki admitted. "I don't know if I could. But given Kritiker's attitude towards failed missions... and who we go against... probably I'd whore."
"But would you betray?" Aya inquired, and Youji could see that the Abssynnian's violet eyes, too, had softened from the liquor.
It was a moment before Akayuki replied, "You can only betray those who mean something, Ran-san." She knew his real name, they all did. On the soft edge of inebriation she called him by it. But the redheaded killer didn't seem to notice. "And... I don't think I could betray the four cutest florists in Tokyo."
"In Tokyo?" Youji asked, trying to make a joke to drag them away from the deep stuff. "Hey, hey, I thought we were the cutest in all of Japan!"
"In the world!" Omi agreed with a cheer.
"So," Akayuki asked again, her head now lying on tired crossed arms, "where do your vagaries lie?"
*click!*
Ken sighed and regarded his closet. Stuff upon stuff upon stuff. Piles of soft-mounded jeans and shirts and jackets, heaps of clean underwear and socks, but his shoes, at least, were neatly lined up along the side wall of the closet. Ken didn't believe in hangers, never had, was convinced they were some part of an evil plot to take over the world. Besides, wrinkles had their own style and if he really wanted something that was pressed, he'd raid Aya's closet for it.
And buried at the bottom of the piles of clothing was a pair of highly illegal weapons.
Their leather was soft and worn, molded to the contours and movements of his hands by now. It flexed and it gave, sturdy and comforting, sometimes seeming like the only warmth which could protect Ken against the cold wind that tried to steal his soul at night.
Cleaned and sharpened the first thing after every mission, the bugnuks were Ken's ticket to life. If he didn't keep them in top condition, his own life wasn't worth ten yen against the scum of the earth Weiss regularly went up against. And if he didn't succeed each time, Manx or Birman would hold a gun to his temple and calmly pull the trigger, and no one would stop them. After all, Hidaka Ken had died years ago. Just ask any soccer fan.
The bugnuks kept him alive, a day at a time.
Youji wore his weapon constantly. Aya's katana was kept on a ceremonial stand in his bedroom where he couldn't help but see it every day. Omi's various bows and darts were kept neatly beneath his bed, hidden behind stacks of shounen manga. Akayuki kept her collapsing staff and poisons in a small decorative box in her living room.
And Ken's bugnuks were hidden beneath piles of clean clothing.
He judged when it was time to do laundry by whether or not he could actually see the tiger's claws yet. If he could, he was definitely running low and lugged everything to the nearest washing machine. If he couldn't, no matter how full the hamper was, the laundry could just well enough wait.
Ken decided that though the piles were low, they weren't quite short enough. One more pair of jeans and a shirt and he'd be doing laundry. But that would be tomorrow.
Ken closed the closet door.
*click!*
"What a wonderful shot, Omi-kun!"
Omi gave a small smile and bowed. "Thank you very much, Kyoumiko-sempai," he murmured. "I believe you're next?"
The young woman smiled at him and took her place, body aligned with the target, two arrows held almost casually in her right hand. A fluid motion raised the bow, drew it, fired the first arrow. The string sang and the distant thump heralded a bull's-eye.
There they were, the two stars of Tokyo University's kyuudo team, practicing away a lazy afternoon as though raising a bow and firing an arrow was an action without cost.
Omi knew all too well the lie that that was.
//Fraticide,// his demons sometimes whispered into his ear, during dark nights, during long sessions on the computer, during too-easy classes. During archery tournaments. //Brother-killer, sister-slayer.// And though he knew that latter wasn't true, and that Ouka would never blame him for it, he hadn't ever been able to rid himself of the guilt of her death.
He didn't think he ever would be.
Omi didn't know how he'd been dragged onto the kyuudo team. It had certainly been the last thing on his mind; if anything he wanted his archery skills to remain unknown. They were not something he felt he should take pride in. But during the first week of classes and the club rush frenzy it seemed the school entered into, out of nowhere had come Ozaki Kyoumiko, literally grabbing him out of the between-class stream of students and dragging him over to the booth the kyuudo club had set up. She'd had him fire an arrow off in demonstration and his body was too well trained to be able to muff such an easy shot.
He'd been drafted immediately not only into the club but into trying out for the team. Somehow the other members of Weiss were proud, at least one of them showing up at each match.
And how dare he be sitting here in the sun with a bow in his hand, passing the time in casual play like this when only last night he'd put an arrow through the eye of a woman who played with humans like they were so many laboratory mice? With that blood on his hands, how could he draw a bow in a competition, a mere game?
"Omi-kun," Kyoumiko's voice interrupted. He looked up at her; she looked concerned. "Omi-kun, are you all right?"
He smiled. "I'm fine," he lied with the ease of long practice. "It's nothing."
She studied him for a minute longer, appearing unconvinced, then nodded just a bit. "It's your turn."
Omi stood, bow and arrows in hand.
*click!*
Akayuki rang up Michiko's purchase, all too aware of the throbbing pain in her right shoulder. She managed not to wince or bite her lip, but it was with her left hand that she waved good-bye to the girl, the last of her afterschool customers.
//Nearly closing time,// she reminded herself as she looked at the clock. //Only another half hour.//
She couldn't help but flash back to the previous night, to her fight against the blue-haired girl of Schwarz who had thrown her off with the speed of her attacks.
The feel of that blade ripping through her shoulder.... And she couldn't take painkillers because they would make her unable to tend Magic House.
//Don't complain,// Akayuki reminded herself. //It's your own fault for not moving fast enough. You weren't even the most badly hurt.//
Omi would be out of combat action for a while with his broken leg. And Youji was lying upstairs, too dizzy and nauseous to stand or work in Weiss' flower shop. Kritiker's doctors, though, had assured that both of them would be fine given a little time.
//Compared to them, I'm fine,// she told herself.
Still, it was the first time she had ever been hurt doing her job.
//The first time,// she thought angrily, //that I wasn't good enough. It's my own fault. I didn't train enough. Stupid, Akayuki!// She brushed her left hand across her eyes. It came away wet. And she despised herself for that weakness. Tears didn't solve anything. They didn't fix anything. They didn't make her faster. They didn't make her stronger. Her body was a weapon, and she wasn't yet skilled enough in its use.
Magic House closed a half hour early.
Akayuki went to the roof to practice.
*click!*
"'What a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive'," Youji murmured in English, making sure the fine monofilament lines inside his watch shot forth smoothly after he'd replaced a busted spring. He cast out the clear, silvery threads a few times before he was satisfied he'd set everything correctly. "Marmion, by Sir Walter Scott. Hell of a thing to become a watchsmith at my age."
He snorted and lay back on his bed. "Hell of a thing to be a florist, either."
He stared at the ceiling, wondering abstractly where his life had gone horribly wrong. He was fairly sure it hadn't been right to begin with, that he'd been damned since birth, but still, there had been patches of gray in the unremitting black. At least he'd ended up on the side of the angels.
So why did he always feel so fallen?
His hand crept to cover the tattoo on his shoulder, the one which was his essence, and he knew that no number of women could ever make him feel good enough to forget about who and what he was. About what he did.
Perhaps it was the only fate for someone like him, to kill people for a living.
He closed his eyes against the thought and rolled away.
*click!*
The point of perfect balance between body and not-body; the sword, nothing more than an extension of his arm, cleanly cleaving the space before it, no more than a whisper of silver light, and all around him the silence of the dojo.
Not like the laughter around a table after dinner, a game of cards dealt by expert hands, Youji losing his shirt to the girl before she relented and let off on targetting the green-eyed man.
Measured steps and measured motions crossed the floor, muscles honed and trained by years of practice under a master, and more recently, nights and nights and too many nights of using the sword's blade as it was meant to be used.
Omi had thought the blade dance beautiful, once, watching it during the day. He never had the chance to truly watch at night, when it was all so much more rushed and bloody, gore staining the steel.
Sunlight spilled in the door as he stopped, hearing soft applause from the owner of this dojo. "Incredible, Fujimiya-san," the man complimented him. Ran let the words slide around him. No one used the sword as a weapon these days. It was antiquated in the age of semi-automatics. But it was graceful, perhaps the only grace in him being that of this ancient weapon and its kills.
All of them used such antiquated things. Wire, darts, claws, staff, and sword. Perhaps it was something of a deathwish. Or perhaps, as Ken had once ruminated, such intimate kills were the only honor left to them.
Author's Scribbling: If you have the first Animedia Mook and the two manga, you'll recognize many of the snapshots. ^^ Tsuzuki Masanori is an ice skater referenced from Naoko Takeuchi's manga The Cherry Project. The song Omi was skating to is Christina Aguilera's "Genie in a Bottle." Natalie knows why. ^^ I also borrowed a line or two of inspiration from her story Sword Dance for Aya's last scene. Back to Chapter 8 On to Chapter 10 Weiss Kreuz fanfiction page Send comments to author