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SYSTEM CRASH

FUCK!

"Fuck!"

Manicured and tapered, bitten and square -  their fingernails clacked past her voice.  The downpour pitter-patter of the electronic age. 

"Oh, shit.. someone get the backups."

Between the monitors were windows.  So many windows.  Windows framed by roses on crisscrossed stands.  Miss Karen liked roses and flowers in general.  They.. spoke to her.  And the members of the Baxter Special Projects (East Asian division) had learned that the words contained in a thorn or wickedly pointed leaf could speak louder than a scream.

Though there were, on occasion, those too. 

"Uplink to CYGNUS_5 restored through terminal three.. that's you, Ayase."

"Got it."

Ayase, like the rest of them, wore a headset - crowned, anointed lady over her own bank of flatscreen monitors.  They looked a bit out of place - contrasted with the roses and the sandstone and the blue, blue sky.  But operators under Miss Karen's watch never looked up.  Never looked up. Never noticed the frankly boring nature of the dull little quest for salvation in which Seigfried dare not leave his chair.  Never pissed off Miss Karen either. Those unfortunates who did so were apt, like one Chika Imawano, to find scattered yellow roses on the mousepad and a transfer card beside. 

For Imawano, damnation to the seventh layer of hell among her terrible 'foreign devils'.  Sin and punishment. So sad.  Clack clack.  The noise carried on without her. 

"Memory overload, Mishima?"

Chika'd only lasted a week.  And she had never, ever had a memory overload. 

Fuckfuckfuckfuck...

"Well.. no, not exactly..."

Reiko's screen was disturbingly back.  Disturbingly black.  Her own private little abyss. And as the clack continued on from four other workstations, uncaring, the long-haired girl willed her screen to come back to life. 

"Hold that thought. Soul Bee sighting at latitude 45 - North Korea," step.  Crash.  Turn.  Miss. Karen's high heels were thunderbolts playin in the white noise, and she knew it.  None dared look, but all could hear.  "Their network's a bitch.. too primitive for it to metter if we hack it.   They're likely to have hardcopy.  Jun - call up CATASTROPHE. We need hunters at mark 415 over Seoul." 

"Yes Miss Karen!"

This wasn't fair.  Wasn't fair!  How dare she have to keep working here?  How dare daddy lose out to the recession, lose out to the world?  How DARE they make it so hard for her image to be maintained?  What was she supposed to do? 

Reiko Mishima was supposed to be young, idle, rich, and beautiful. 

This wasn't her homeland - locked up instead of on the tennis courts of some forgotten eite cafe.  This tower-within-a-tower with the school's clock a-chiming.  Large, and also ticking, with a more methodical beat.  Clack.  Miss Karen liked that.  It reminded them all how little time they had. 

"And will SOMEONE fix that computer?  The rest of us have a Soul Bee situation to take care of..."

Tick tock.  To the end of the world.  Reiko Mishima's world had already ended, but no one was allowed to know that (Reiko had the clout to keep her father's fall out of the papers - a perk of hiring on here). Which was why she was so perfect for this stupid job that kept her in enough new handbags to keep the social wolves at bay. 

Clack clack.  Life wasn't fair.  And no one cared. 

"Fuck the soul bees!  My terminal's down!  Someone could be hacking through to DISCORD right now..."

So why should she?  Time to get out of this place, with all the fucking rain and no smoking rules and the smell of rotting potpourri.  Screw salt - this was going to give her a bloody aneurysm.

Fuck.  She needed a cigarette. 

"Calm down, Mishima!  You were outside your authorization level again, weren't you?"

Oh, shit.  Reeeally needed a cigarette.  The operators all looked the same, but Miss Karen?  White-haired, red-eyed Miss Karen 'I'm just the school botany teacher' Kirishima? She'd known that that search would fail.  But if she could just find something, anything, on Karen...

No more disappearing for 'modeling classes' for her, no sir.  Reiko Mishima was a simple girl, at heart. Diamonds are such girls' best friends - not the enticing forever shadows of good intentions.

"But Miss Karen..."

She was bloody scary.

"Mishima."

And.. oh God, not the flowers. 

Reiko noticed her breath catch.  So did the pale Miss Karen, who was obviously not amused. 

"Hyacinth?  Please, Miss Karen, I just..."

"I will see you next week.  And if this happens again you shall have roses.  Is that understood?"

"Yes Miss Karen!"

Through the folds of her pleated skirt (thank God for cheap uniforms)... where on earth was her lighter?  Fuck.  She couldn't afford the smokes either.  But it seemed poetic and kept her out of withdrawal, so whatever.

Too many fucking players at this school.  Too many goddamn games.  Nobody likes games.  Games are for people with too much time on their hands, or no time left at all. 

Every afternoon at exactly four o'clock, two elderly gardeners trimmed the hedges by the south wing of the Kirishima family estate.  Neither of them was particularly fast, or efficient for that matter.  But both took a certain pride in the way that crisp right angles cut the horizon, serrating variable greys and blues with a maze of twisting vines.  The hedge was fairly out of place - European, not Japanese.  But the Kirishima Clan had a taste for the eclectic and the exotic, fanning out across the continents to bring their very own special brand of death to the world at large. This naturally lead to the smuggling of several curious tastes and souvenirs.  Including, but not limited to, a taste for leaf-bound mazes and cooks smuggled out of remote regions of India on fairly suspect-looking student visas. 

But that had very little to do directly with the trimming of the hedge by two elderly gardeners - bearded and shuffling - who were as much a part of the decor in the yards as the gracefully crumbling fountain by the willow grove.  Or the tire suspended by knotted, greying branches that echoed hollow laughter from four generations of chalk-white Kirishima children when the wind hit it just right. 

The elderly manservants, whose names were worn with age and repeated use into a fond glow of a tone, were not particularly interested in indulging unpleasantness or morbid curiosity at their age.  When the screaming started they preferred to be elsewhere. 

The Kirishima estate had been specially designed to amplify the acoustic properties of voice and note and other many-splendoured things. 

Yurika had never been quite sure why she bothered watching. 

There was always someone here. An informant, a spy, an agent of the law, and agent of the underworld,  or a disobedient cousin, or just some soul who happened to be lost in the wrong place at the right time.  And they always, invariably, undoubteby, bored her. 

The Kirishima came here alot.  On weekends.  In summers. Or during the illegal mornings after one-way escapes.  Why was she here - bored, in this room full only of meaningless empty deference?  Why now, when her brother lay comatose and under the dubious care of Lucille, while she herself waited for a classmate locked in the east tower to regain consciousness? That didn't' make sense.  She had things to worry about.  Like when Miss Isami would realize that no, Yurika had not dropped Akira Kazama off at the hospital, and neither was she returning to campus soon to assist in Saori's 'covering' for them. 

It was most definitely not a sadistic streak, though she was sure such an affliction would likely have crossed the mind of her dear brother once or twice too many.  The assassin Yurika held little fondness for sadism, and flavored thoughts of it with the same inklings of distaste she reserved for senseless violence, particularly dry parties, and those with the ill taste to serve red meat with white wine. And it wasn't to learn either, really. There was little to study here.  Simply a he patches of light cast through a heavily barred window, a man presumably sobbing in his overstuffed armchair, and the pacing skirted middle-aged crisis that was Second-Uncle Hazime.  He was bored too - his songs spent, and his usefulness limited - but they all had their place here.  And perhaps he might have missed her, if she'd chosen to occupy herself with studying or recordings from the Noh theater. 

The pain, muffled like the sound of bagpipes filtered through the specially-constructed silencing headphones scattered about the manse, was of little to no concern.

Troubling, her gravitation to this pointless little spectacle, which the teenager watched from the sidelines of a loveseat blanketed with doilies.  This was not like Yurika at all. 

Ah, but would he talk?

The Two Who Belonged, complicit in manner and appearance, were fairly certain. Second Uncle Hazime's bagpipes produced a migraine effect that very few had the mental resources to withstand for more than a few hours.  And her Uncle's competency certainly was not in question.  That would be highly rude, not terribly of the disposition that united a family (as Uncle Koji might have called it, while lecturing her on politics, discipline of subordinates, slitting necks, and taste in herbal teas).  Besides which the incompetent did not tend to live long within Kirishima walls. 

Their graves or their exiles were such pretty little things - frills and payoffs and first class-  and really in the best interests of all concerned. 

The music stopped, and Yurika pulled off the protective equipment employed in practices and the occasional quickly-thwarted coup by some hotblooded fringe member.  He would talk.  He would whisper to her all the secrets of his heart, and forget the pain of living for the comfort of a cushion knit by Grand Aunt Arisu in a fit of domesticity. 

"Imawano.  Their agents are in.... you can... the Imawano agents are holed up in Osaka." His tongue lolled in a rasp.  Befitting. 

He plead to her curls, this man.  He blinked into mercy and found impassive blue. 

Maybe, on some instinctive level, the seventeen year-old that would later become matriarch of one of the greatest assassin clans in the known worlds knew even then that she was making her Reputation. 

"Mistress Yurika, your guest appears to have awakened."

"I see.  I will be there shortly."

Expressionless, the albino offered the man with crumpled-paper skin a lightly iced glass of water.  Pricking herself with his pain, with the morbid curiosity of someone who hopes that she shall bleed. 

It would not do to admit that she was lonely. 

Akira Kazama achieved a bleary consciousness with the same unthinking tenacity with which a motorcycle is revved into gorgeous activity.  A few fuzzy attempts, and then altogether in one great rush a rumbling new altered reality. 

She did not feel like leaping into action - limbs heavy and waited with the secure little calm of bliss that always proceeds a storm of dread confusion. And so she lay - leather-clad sleeping beauty - unaware of the eye of the sun peering through what was nmost definitely not her window.

That was how the answers found her, as they are so apt to do when questions are reluctant to leave their toast and tea.

"Are you feeling well, Miss Kazama?"

"Hunh?"

Not the most articulate of responses, for the most part because the nervousness had crept up on her like some jungle cat in training.  This was not as abnormal a sentiment as her usual proclivities might indicate.  Akira Kazama was waking under a strange roof with a new acquaintance and a fuzzy recollection of some severely abused muscles that were now pleading mutiny as she tried to move. 

"Your concussion was minor, and your healing has been... facilitated," the white-haired girl spared a glance for the violin that was now set on the dresser.  Dresser?  What dresser?  Why was there a dresser here? 

What the hell?

Confusion was something new, and nothing new, and everything in-between to Akira Kazama.  Sometimes - when she was wild and free and not herself entirely except for the part of her that was - she knew everything. And there was no confusion because there were rules, and the rules were hers, and therefore it mattered not who won the game but that it was played at her convenience. Others, more frequent, were awash in avoidance as confusion was warded away by ignoring a game, and thus bypassing rules that, when she understood at all, made her taciturn and uncomfortable.  That was the Way.  That was the Law.  And so, that was the way things settled when a familiar weights was discovered not to be smothering her hair and instead of fiberglass she caught the smell of laundered cotton sheets. 

"Please don't try to sit up if you still feel disoriented.  It's better that you recuperate quickly so we may return to campus."

"Recuperate?  From.. how did you find me?"

The birds in the trees grew quieter, or perhaps that was just some thickening of the air, " I was looking for my brother."

Blink.

"Your brother?"

Intimidation is a funny thing.  It crushes you down with balls and chains of your own making.  Perhaps that was what Akira Kazama felt most days.  Some vague, oppressive weight - her self-constructed cross to bear.  A disgusting little creature so low as to be felled by a simple bout of anger.

She swung her calved, still sheathed by metal and factory-hardened leather.

"I asked you last night for answers."

Questions question question!  You, Akira Kazama - aren't you nervous?  This room is beige and elegance.  Your helmet is taken away - oh my!  Look into the sideways mirror, and you will see brown hair and camouflage.  Doesn't that scare you?  Can't you see her eyes boring down? 

Maybe.  Her eyes were hooded as she scanned the room, shaking of confusion for a cold simmer.  The world was like a child with a stick.  No one to stop it poking a hill of ants it had no right, no duty to disturb, and no adult caring enough to stop it.  Yes.  That metaphor fit.  The world was capricious - made no sense, and constantly demanded way more  attention that it deserved.  It wheedled.  It whiiined.  And it had no idea what the fuck it was doing, let alone anyone else. 

God, was it her clutching the edge of some cashmere quilt that smelt of talc and grandmothers? 

"I haven't gotten any," the mechanic continued.  Lost, just a bit.  Was she not confused?  Was she not scared?  Was she not studying the bland undulations of a pure white carpet that likely did not appreciate the abuse of her steel-toed boots?

Ah.  Skeleton in the closet. Or at least it's head. 

"Bring me my helmet and we'll.. have this out," her voice quaked.  She couldn't say it.  Oh god, even now she couldn't say it.  if there were a way to jump out the window Akira would take it, she really would.  Was there a way to do that?  To not be human?  To ignore all this confusion of people wanting ties bonds and webs and interconnections to drag them down?/ 

"Why do you pretend?" Yurika breathed in the doorway, bit it didn't sound like breath.  Her voice dripped, based in some depth of security that Kazama could not begin to imagine.  How odd.  To be secure like that, when people are so variable.  Could this girl not see things changing? 

"I.... pretend what?"

What do you want from me?  She was not brave enough to ask that.  The mechanic mended, she did not challenge. 

"Why do you hide from what you are?"

These people.  Their minds were opaque, their thoughts annoying, their voices flies.  Could they not see her need, her craving?  Did they not understand confusion as a way of life? What other way could there be, away from the simplicity of right and wrong and want and need and tailwinds on the highway? 

"I... don't know what you're talking about," avoid the question.  Assess the possibilities.  Had she just...

"Don't you?  You fought my brother.  And you didn't die.  I'm very impressed, even if he was not himself at the time of the incident," silver-polished nails drummed on the window.  Had Yurika walked to the window?  Akira supposed yes.  Kazama was not used to watching people, and felt no need to break with habit now.. 

"Didn't die?"  but something was very wrong here.  The lamps had grown cold.  Clutch the spheroid tighter - on for dear life, mechanic. If Akira weren't so afraid of looking like... something, she'd be running far far away from here. 

"My brother is a very dangerous person," Kirishima continued, seeming somewhat... contrite, though Akira was fast learning that this Yurika never seemed too much of anything at all.  "Perhaps because he does not truly think he is a very dangerous person.  He thinks like a normal teenager.  It's very deceptive, and I commend him for it, even if he doesn't know he's doing it.  No matter what he wears or how he acts to become otherwise... it sucks people in.  Puts them off guard.  The rest of us have our style, or pretensions and our philosophies of life and death and the mercenary to get us through the day and what we do for a living.  Our epidemic of brooding...  But him?  To him 'it' is normal.  Nature.  Like doing laundry or going to a movie. He's the real deadly one, because he'll never hesitate.  That is his place."

'It'?

Lessons learned on the street included one salient fact.  'It' is never a good thing.  You like things with names, since they're special enough to have them.  'It' is a bad sign.  Something wriggling in the alley, hiding in the dumpster, a deep dark shameful secret in the byways. 

Fuck.

"Give me a good reason not to kick your ass and get the hell out of here.  And I don't mean guards," clutch.  Grab.  Focus, on the skull beneath the skin.  This didn't fucking make sense.  This wasn't happening to her.  She was through with that shit - for Daigo, for all of them! 

She hated that mirror.  It was ugly.  Rich people are supposed to have taste. 

"I suppose I'm not being rational.  My apologies.  There is no need for violence," was this Kirishima even listening to her!?

It was not hard for Kazama to keep control, really.  It was acting that did not come naturally to her.  Grip tighter. 

"Answers, Kirishima.  I want answers," she was not angry at her lot.  She was not.  Confusion is a state of matter and mind.  Confusion is.. natural? 

It would be so stupid looking to put a helmet on in the middle of a house, wouldn't it?  Oh dear... 

"Let's have tea!"

"Mwah?"

Tea.

What a wondrous beverage!

From India to England, China to Japan, everyone drinks tea.  Green tea, black tea, herbal tea.  Tea in Ceylon!  Tea in Rome!  Not so neurotic or pretentiously remixed for glitterati and litterati in thick plastic glasses and copies of Faulkner and Cicero.  Without the intoxicating vortex effect of sharp-smelling ferments of common cereal grains.  Or fruits.  Or whatever man has had at hand, and wishes to live beyond himself in.  Nay - tea is a drink of the here and now.  Reality is not dulled by tea, or intensified, or even made bearable, but simply allowed to be in a gentle background sort of way.  That is the tradition and one true heritage of tea - a legacy that cannot be ripped from it by fad or fashion. 

When Yurika Kirishima drank, she preferred to drink a sport of tea laced with irish cream or in a pinch vermouth.  Call it an eccentricity - or a disgusting combination, if you wish. It didn't really matter.  Such things relaxed the nerves while allowing for a certain grasp on that razor-leaved link to tradition. And that was how she liked it.

"Here."  that was how the rumored Akira Kazama found herself dragged to a table on the veranda, sat down with all possible politeness, and with a spot of beverage she was a least two years too young to be allowed to drink by Yurika's way of thinking.  Which has never stopped the albino anyways, really.  So many problems in this world could be avoided if people would only allow their children a dram of port instead of locking them away to guzzle rebellious gallons of fermented junk. 

"... thank you."

That was likely why she looked apprehensive too.  But it was good!  Really!  Yurika knew so.  A pleasant little fire in the muscles to drive away to cold of hard fall winds.

But that thank you would not do at all.  Sad, really.  Her reflection in the liquid told her quite plainly that she might later regret this, as she regretted most things that involved attempting personal connection instead of a logical tempered solution. 

"You may put the helmet back on if it would make you feel more comfortable.  I really wouldn't mind."  a strange affliction.  Pour.  She'd seen worse. 

It was unbecoming for her to feel desperate like this, suspended a meter above the gardens by the stone terrace.  Their table was iron and glass.  The sky was blue.  The stone portico  smelling of rain.  And Yurika?  Yurika was wired, fingernails tracing lightly over the inlaid inscription in her ever-present violin.  The Question - a meaningless directive that, as a fragment of he mindset should, been scratching at the back of her mind ever since she'd first gotten out of the house just over a year ago. 

Do you have a comrade? 

"I... thank you,"  and the girl looked relieved.  That was good, right?  No need to botch this up. 

Yurika Kirishima did not botch things up.  Not ever.  That was why she was the Heir, why she was still alive, and why this had all ended so well for her, when her brother had precipitated near disaster (his inscription - 'easy come, easy go'.  In her particular sky-blue eyes, that was not a comforting statement, considering that it originated from a solidly-defined fracture of his soul just as hers did.  Claws.  Hah.  What was Grand Aunt Arisu thinking forging him those?  Another coup?  Surely he had no need of them with the family treasure in his hand, and power politics was not conducive to business  ). 

But a person who has no abilities of self-analysis is hobbled, isn't she?  A Kirishima had no need of a common drug dealer.  Disguise is unhealthy.  Go deeper. Why put yourself in an obviously disadvantageous, barely diverting situation when there's so much to be done for poor Uncle Koji? 

Do you have a comrade?

The violin had developed the phrase itself upon its forgery at the age of eight.  Such a foolish thing.  How could her own mind and power question her?  Did it really think it had something to say?  That was preposterous.  She was fine here. 

"I said," the biker took a swig of her tea, looking so out of place that she warped the reality of manicured lawns behind her into something approaching fitting, "that I want answers."

Sip.

Answers.  Yes. Wouldn't those be comforting?  Everyone wants answers.  So few realize that there are no answers to be had.  If all the world is a stage, and everyone a player, then who can hope to see beyond the background?  The dressing rooms?  The maintenance bay?  So many invisible players in this world of theirs.  So very many fruitless, beautiful, life-giving games. 

And that had absolutely nothing to do with the question. 

Do you have a comrade?

"I'm listening."

"Yesterday was not a normal day," her tone was quick and pounding like the metronome any self-respecting Kirishima assassin kept in their room (and father, sadly, had not) kept in her room.  This Kazama was not one to mince words, was she?

Sip.

"Do you think I'm stupid or something?"

Oh dear.  If she hit the table like that again, the glass might crack, and then where would they be?  Cobweb faults that would take the servants just ages to repair. And Uncle Koji would most certainly not approve of her choice of company. 

Indeed, she did not approve of her own choice of company. Considering her profession, was that not actually rather funny? 

"Please, Miss Kazama... allow me to explain before you wreak any more damage on my family's property."

"Just Kazama," the biker muttered, slumping back down.  her body was tense, and her face beneath the plexiglass unreadable.  Outfitted in combat fatigues that Yurika found vaguely odd and faintly ridiculous and just a little bit like her brother.  A drug dealer.  A biker.  A thug.  Or if not one, walking the thin grey  line between criminal style and criminal pathos.  Kirishima knew that line.  Oh, she knew it well.

Was that...

Do you have a comrade? 

What on earth was she thinking? 

"'Kazama', then, I ... can understand your confusion.  But you have to understand that..."

Her hands were gloved.  How could she feel the heat through the glass?

"You have to understand that I wanted..."

"What," Akira interrupted, "Drugs?  Money?  Blackmail?   You've got more than I could possibly give you.   Get that shit yourself.  You're not some pathetic naive little girl like Saori.  Don't play games with me, Kirishima."

"  Have you ever felt separate, somehow, from all the vague proceedings taking place around you?  So utterly alone on a crowd of people for reasons only you can ever dare to know?  I don't think very many people do," the servants, and likely Second Uncle Hazime once he had need of her rubber-stamp approval,  looked on from the sidelines as Yurika's voice flowed smaller.  And weary.

"........where's my bike?" the biker faded to a bear-like growl. 

Funny.  They were more alike that Yurika had thought. A dash less of proper upbringing and a few generations of old blood missing, and what would she be? Another girl in another family dedicated to the Dark Side of life, trying to scrape by in a world that can never ever possibly know and live up to vague expectations from family members, underlings, and thieves. 

Well well.  Analysis makes progress.

Do you have a comrade? 

Sip.  Sip.  Steady.

"I'll drive you back to the site. I'll tell you one the way."

"Fine."

And perhaps that was the problem and the solution after all.

"Follow me to the garage, please."

Was it her imagination that her fellow student sounded somewhat sinister, when she told her that she'd though she'd never ask?  Probably not.  But one bridge to cross at a time, please. 

Do you have a comrade? 

As she rose, the pale musician motioned off the mostly unneeded guards.  One bridge at a time. 

Some people, a very few people, a blessed and unaware minority of people, are gifted with a certain thing called Presence. 

People with Presence get things done.  Fill up a room with their personality, and use the pressure to shape reality around them.  Some might call them leaders - but that's not so.  Not always anyways.  Some might call them charismatic, but they forget the dark and looming presence of the stranger at the gates. 

Does it matter?

Yurika Kirishima had Presence, and this was why she was not plagued with a shuddering fear at the thought of a very angry martial artist biker affiliated closely with the Yakuza sharing a recently buffed Windermere Academy van.  Despite her brother having mutilated said biker the night before in an errant fit of irrational rational rage. This was also what made her unchallenged heir to a three-hundred year-old oldest ninja dynasty (though that being so very old fashioned, easily maligned, and really not descriptive of their modernization efforts starting in the 1900s, the Kirishimas as a whole preferred the word 'assassin').  The deadly are rather prone to having, and needing, a shot of Presence as calculating rationality now and then. 

Akira Kazama also had Presence, but not of the same sort.  If Yurika made one suddenly more conscious of their movements, their manner, their intelligence, their grace, their utter inferiority... then the brunette did the opposite. Decked out in leathers and with all the tricks of the intimidation trade that fashion had granted the modern-day all-purpose bandit and highwayman, hers was a solidly physical presence.  A restrained and brooding tension producing a visceral, basic fear.  Something relentless, unreasonable, and not entirely visible combining into the reliably striking unknown. 

Sitting in seats of patterned upholstery with a distinct air of middle-aged, Akira at shotgun, neither of them noticed this on a very conscious level.  Perhaps presence is fairly easy to ignore  when one has a protective shield of it one's self. 

Who is to say?

Even Presence, sadly, has its limits.  Stopping short at explanation, or filling the void of an uncomfortable silence baking slowly in the noonday sun. 

So Presence had to be replaced with boredom, uncomfortableness, sticky leather, and rapid fire. 

"Your guards are gone now," it was a statement.  Wasn't it?  The Biker said very little that did not come out sounding like a threat.  A bad habit of days in Gedo, when one submissive move would have you nailed to the wall.  Martyred to machismo in a heartbeat. 

"They are, aren't they?"  Kirishima didn't' sound as sarcastic as.. well.. at all.  Kirishima never sounded much like a teenager at all.  That didn't' add up, and Kazama did not like things that didn't add up. 

So why stall?
 

"Then you will tell me what I want to know or I will beat you to a pulp," that one was a threat. 

An eyebrow raised in choked frustration or amusement or.. what exactly was this girl getting at? 

"I agreed to answer our questions - please do refrain from thinking the worst of me."

Apologetic her ass.  Who was this rich bitch thinking she was fooling? 

"Why did your brother attack me?" 

Lunge.

"He was upset about the death of our parents - he anniversary of which is fairy close to the present date.  You presented a convenient target.  Your demeanor of the road, you must realize, if fairly antagonistic."

Parry.

"Coincidence?" she snorted.

"Coincidences happen," a reigned-in scoff.  "Really Miss Kazama, why would why target you? I mean no disrespect, but you're hardly the sort of person one would mark for death."

"Death?" it was the second time that Yuriak had mentioned that.  Why must these peopel play so many stupid, time-wasting games!   "What are you people?"

"That's a rather rude question to ask, Miss Kazama," eyes narrowed.  A reaction!  If she wasn't holding the wheel... 

"Fuck rude.  Carving up my insides is homicidal."

"It is, isn't it?"  Yurika fixed her with what could only be termed a Gaze.  "I'm sorry, and thought I apologize sincerely for my brother's indiscretion, I hope you can see that no harm was done and I really would rather not divulge further family affairs to you.  We are simply a business concern, and I hardly think your interest..."

"Bullshit!" Akira Gazed back.  Or was that Glared?  Habits, again.  "What happened to the bleeding hole in my gut?"

"If I may please reiterate," a normally lukewarm voice raised slightly, " that is none of your business!"

"I disagree," a growl.

"I'd suggest" the Kirishima said tersely," that we move on to another topic before I am forced to..."

Three.

Two.

one.

BANG!

In the tattered wreck of a slightly crumpled van, two girls lay prone and blinking. 

Blinking.

Blink.

"You just ran us into a TREE!?  What the hell were you doing?"  Akira had known she should have driven, but noooo....

"If I might suggest," Yurika snapped," perhaps the fact that you were attempting to slap me might have had something to do with the unfortunate incident." 

Grunting, the biker looked down to notice a definitely odd angle to her left calf.  A bad angle.  A very bad angle indeed.  Complete with lancing pain.

But she, Akira Kazama, was getting the hell out of that van!

"Auuug!"  a hiss.

.....so she wasn't getting out of that van.  Goddamit, goddamit, goddamit, goddamit...

"Are you alright?"

"Do I LOOK alright to you?"

"There's no call to be rude!" mulling over the idea that giving Akira back that horrid helmet had been the stupidest idea she'd had all year, Kirishima unceremoniously hopped out of the half-ruined vehicle.  "If you'll give me a second, I'll fix this."

Akira wasn't going to respond to something as lame as that, and resorted to trying to systematically wilt the offending foliage.  How DARE this happen to her?  Daigo was going to be so disappointed...

That was when the music started.

It was pretty slow music.  Nice, in it's own way, but nothing Akira would ever listen too. Which didn't' matter, because why the hell would she start playing violin when they were crashed at the side of the road and Akira had a goddamn broken leg!

"What are you doing?"

Concentrate. You will not show pain. You will not show weakness of all sickening things. It was getting easier to ignore, the biting, burning. 

"Are you insane?  Nobody's going to hear that from the highway!" her words rebounded out of the metal frame and into bland nature.

Concentrate.  It really is getting better...

Ten minutes later, she was almost ready to fall asleep...

"There, done," the albino tapped her on the shoulder, snapping away the drowsiness. 

"Hmm?" why use a work when a perfectly good noise would do? 

''You're fine," the musician continued,   If you feel up to getting up, then we could walk down the road to your motorcycle.  It shouldn't be far."

Akira, siting, just looked.  And looked.  And looked.  Not gracing her with an answer, until the curly-haired debutante just sighed. "Yurika Kirishima, " gloved hand was held out for Akira to grasp, pulling the biker up with a light grip.  " Assassin.  This is my violin, 'Stella by Moor'. It heals things.  The rest... is a long story. "

Assassin.

Violin.

....Of healing?

"You're joking," the Biker, now selectively ignoring the fact that she was standing with very little pain, leaned with arms classically crossed against the back of the van.

"Am I?"

"Point," Kazama looked at her leg.  "But.. you're an assassin?"

"And you're a drug dealer.  Or will be.  Or would be," Kirishima looked slightly amused as she scanned a wardrobe consisting mostly of leather, spikes, and skull motif.   The Mechanic noticed these things.  " At the very least you're a gang lord in training."

Pulling herself into a stand with a highly unladylike grunt of fatigue, Kazama fell into a passable version of standing. "So what exactly did you want from me?"

The musician shrugged, hair still perfect in spite of all reasonable natural forces. "I had thought that getting out of physical education would be to our mutual benefit, given the activities in which we participate on an extracurricular level.  That's all.  We are perhaps the only students on campus who cannot beg exception for involvement in non-scholastic athletic activities."

"Ah."

Bravado pushing away the creeping feeling of instinctual shock and wariness in her spine, the biker started walking down the roadside.

"Lets go," the biker ordered in an aloof sort of way. " I'll see if my big brother can get a chop shop to fix this."

"Alright."

Do you have a comrade?