(no subject)
[ AU -- twelve years into the future; it’s a bit brutal, bring an umbrella ]
For the first time in ten years her stomach did not rebel - the first sign of something wrong. Chrome leaned against the wall, careful of the missing bricks and torn mortar. There had not been a hit in ten years which had not made her cringe, either in the back of her mind (because if it was for the family but against a different family were they somehow equal - and even more than that the way that she could rationalize equal lives and still favor her own and her family’s… it continued around like that) or her stomach that insisted this killing was real. It was deceptively easy, to forget, but she had to remember how it was real - a concept Mukuro had explained to her before. If this world was not real then illusions had no hold in tricking the senses. Her revulsion worked for her, even as it caused her to retch.
But today she found herself devoid of that feeling, looking down at the body with some sort of detachment. Even odder than that was a silence between her ears, not even the quiet resting she found (more and more these days) of Mukuro. Shutting both eyes and looking for that spot in her mind where he usually was (looking was such an inaccurate term but it was the best she could think of). The absence was startling, and caused her to open her eyes.
“Muku…ro…sama?” even out loud it seemed misguided and empty.
If he were truly gone she would know, perhaps he was distracted. She thought of the number of times he had been -gone- and could not recall more than three. Even as she mulled over this her hands pulled out the cell phone, flipped it open and dialed the number. One ring and then hung up - a simple enough code, but effective. They would know that the hit had been complete.
How unusually quaint, the idea that this was normal - or even moreso, the idea that this normalcy was surviving when it shouldn’t. Squabbling, petty crime, she remembered Mukuro remarking on it. He thought it was exemplary of why the mafia was doomed to forever consume itself until it died out. She would have argued, but it seemed so true. Scattered and petty was how they were - even her, who carried out ‘duty’ (such a funny concept) had not seen anyone’s face for months now. A part of her ached for Japan, and humorously enough, for Ken to call her ugly and Chikusa to comment on her funny Italian.
She would head ‘home’ - a place to rest, and assumed someone would leave her a message in the morning. Mist was a particular kind of weather.
For the first time in ten years her stomach did not rebel - the first sign of something wrong. Chrome leaned against the wall, careful of the missing bricks and torn mortar. There had not been a hit in ten years which had not made her cringe, either in the back of her mind (because if it was for the family but against a different family were they somehow equal - and even more than that the way that she could rationalize equal lives and still favor her own and her family’s… it continued around like that) or her stomach that insisted this killing was real. It was deceptively easy, to forget, but she had to remember how it was real - a concept Mukuro had explained to her before. If this world was not real then illusions had no hold in tricking the senses. Her revulsion worked for her, even as it caused her to retch.
But today she found herself devoid of that feeling, looking down at the body with some sort of detachment. Even odder than that was a silence between her ears, not even the quiet resting she found (more and more these days) of Mukuro. Shutting both eyes and looking for that spot in her mind where he usually was (looking was such an inaccurate term but it was the best she could think of). The absence was startling, and caused her to open her eyes.
“Muku…ro…sama?” even out loud it seemed misguided and empty.
If he were truly gone she would know, perhaps he was distracted. She thought of the number of times he had been -gone- and could not recall more than three. Even as she mulled over this her hands pulled out the cell phone, flipped it open and dialed the number. One ring and then hung up - a simple enough code, but effective. They would know that the hit had been complete.
How unusually quaint, the idea that this was normal - or even moreso, the idea that this normalcy was surviving when it shouldn’t. Squabbling, petty crime, she remembered Mukuro remarking on it. He thought it was exemplary of why the mafia was doomed to forever consume itself until it died out. She would have argued, but it seemed so true. Scattered and petty was how they were - even her, who carried out ‘duty’ (such a funny concept) had not seen anyone’s face for months now. A part of her ached for Japan, and humorously enough, for Ken to call her ugly and Chikusa to comment on her funny Italian.
She would head ‘home’ - a place to rest, and assumed someone would leave her a message in the morning. Mist was a particular kind of weather.