Week Five Fic, Saiyuki: The One Song Everyone Would Like to Know
Fandom: Saiyuki
Author: lady_ganesh
Pairing/characters: This is all about Nii, baby. His obsessions creep in a little.
Notes: Thanks to emungere for betaing and of course much love to indelicateink for dreaming up Miamiverse. Title from Margaret Atwood's Siren Song. The Cream songs are from the album Disraeli Gears.
Summary: Maybe it's better to become a monster than keep fighting them.
Ken woke up to a hangover, his head throbbing violently. He shouldn't have done that second line. It'd seemed like a good idea at the time.
Eric Clapton's guitar started sliding into his consciousness. Who the hell played that shit, that loud, at...oh, it was close to noon.
Still.
He opened his eyes and stared up at the white textured ceiling of Bonilla's penthouse. He needed to piss. And maybe a bottle of aspirin.
When you fight a monster, Ren had said, you run the risk of becoming one. It's the first thing we learn. It's too easy to lose yourself, if you're not careful.
What if there hadn't been much of a self to lose?
What the fuck was he doing? He was no cop. He liked the adrenaline rush, the risk. Maybe he was just playing the wrong side of the game. Maybe he always had been.
You thought the leaden winter
would bring you down forever
but you rode upon a steamer to the violence of the sun
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and fumbled for his glasses. It would certainly be the easiest way to solve the case. We're happy to inform you that everyone involved is dead, so the likelihood of their paying off any more police or judges has dropped to zero.
He slid his glasses on. The ceiling looked dingier.
tiny purple fishes run laughing through your fingers....
What would have happened if Ulysses had gone to the Sirens, instead of letting himself be tormented by the song?
What would have happened if he'd learned the tune?
Three months he'd been doing this, chasing Bonilla halfway across Florida. Judge after judge 'reconsidered' the case. Bail, dismissed charges, shitty evidence.
Nothing. Nowhere. Pointless. Futile.
Teach me the song.
Ken sat up.
Bonilla was alone when Ken came in, sitting with his legs out, counting a pile of twenties on the coffee table. His mirror was sitting at the edge of the table, still slick with cocaine. "Check this out, Chang," he said. "We're rolling in dough."
Ken had never used the alias Chang in his life. Bonilla just thought it was funny. "Where's Johnson?"
Johnson was Bonilla's major thug, six feet tall and probably three hundred pounds, at least half of them muscle. It was important to know where Johnson was at all times.
"I don't know," Bonilla said, licking the side of his finger before moving on to the next pile. "Fucked off to sober up. C'mere, take your share for the night."
...coming to me with that soulful look on your face,
Coming looking like you've never ever done one wrong thing.
"Sure," Ken said, walking closer. "That sounds like an excellent idea."
Bonilla had given him a 9mm Sig Sauer with a silencer. He had said it was the perfect weapon.
It certainly worked well enough on Bonilla. Ken shot him twice, just to be sure, carefully piled the twenties and put them back in the suitcase. He picked up the case and left the cocaine. He had work to do, and he didn't need the distraction.
He called 911 before he left. "Yes," he said. "It sounded like shots. I heard someone say a name -- I think it was Ulysses."
The afternoon sun was brilliant and warm, and his headache was gone by the time he got into his car. Even the approaching police sirens didn't seem too loud.
Author: lady_ganesh
Pairing/characters: This is all about Nii, baby. His obsessions creep in a little.
Notes: Thanks to emungere for betaing and of course much love to indelicateink for dreaming up Miamiverse. Title from Margaret Atwood's Siren Song. The Cream songs are from the album Disraeli Gears.
Summary: Maybe it's better to become a monster than keep fighting them.
Ken woke up to a hangover, his head throbbing violently. He shouldn't have done that second line. It'd seemed like a good idea at the time.
Eric Clapton's guitar started sliding into his consciousness. Who the hell played that shit, that loud, at...oh, it was close to noon.
Still.
He opened his eyes and stared up at the white textured ceiling of Bonilla's penthouse. He needed to piss. And maybe a bottle of aspirin.
When you fight a monster, Ren had said, you run the risk of becoming one. It's the first thing we learn. It's too easy to lose yourself, if you're not careful.
What if there hadn't been much of a self to lose?
What the fuck was he doing? He was no cop. He liked the adrenaline rush, the risk. Maybe he was just playing the wrong side of the game. Maybe he always had been.
You thought the leaden winter
would bring you down forever
but you rode upon a steamer to the violence of the sun
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands and fumbled for his glasses. It would certainly be the easiest way to solve the case. We're happy to inform you that everyone involved is dead, so the likelihood of their paying off any more police or judges has dropped to zero.
He slid his glasses on. The ceiling looked dingier.
tiny purple fishes run laughing through your fingers....
What would have happened if Ulysses had gone to the Sirens, instead of letting himself be tormented by the song?
What would have happened if he'd learned the tune?
Three months he'd been doing this, chasing Bonilla halfway across Florida. Judge after judge 'reconsidered' the case. Bail, dismissed charges, shitty evidence.
Nothing. Nowhere. Pointless. Futile.
Teach me the song.
Ken sat up.
Bonilla was alone when Ken came in, sitting with his legs out, counting a pile of twenties on the coffee table. His mirror was sitting at the edge of the table, still slick with cocaine. "Check this out, Chang," he said. "We're rolling in dough."
Ken had never used the alias Chang in his life. Bonilla just thought it was funny. "Where's Johnson?"
Johnson was Bonilla's major thug, six feet tall and probably three hundred pounds, at least half of them muscle. It was important to know where Johnson was at all times.
"I don't know," Bonilla said, licking the side of his finger before moving on to the next pile. "Fucked off to sober up. C'mere, take your share for the night."
...coming to me with that soulful look on your face,
Coming looking like you've never ever done one wrong thing.
"Sure," Ken said, walking closer. "That sounds like an excellent idea."
Bonilla had given him a 9mm Sig Sauer with a silencer. He had said it was the perfect weapon.
It certainly worked well enough on Bonilla. Ken shot him twice, just to be sure, carefully piled the twenties and put them back in the suitcase. He picked up the case and left the cocaine. He had work to do, and he didn't need the distraction.
He called 911 before he left. "Yes," he said. "It sounded like shots. I heard someone say a name -- I think it was Ulysses."
The afternoon sun was brilliant and warm, and his headache was gone by the time he got into his car. Even the approaching police sirens didn't seem too loud.