[khr] snippets
Mostly just little pieces for RP, as I attempt to build on a little Kakipii. Unbetaed. New to the fandom, new to the character; don't mind me. :3
I.
(losing all feeling now that sunrise is outlawed.)
Ken was the stronger one, of course. Chikusa may have been taller, but there was a gaunt lankiness to his limbs that everyone important knew he would never outgrow. Even now, Chikusa can recall with crystal clarity the way the examiner had poked and prodded and deemed the four year-old entirely unsuitable for experiment HAH-417k.
Perhaps he was lucky, in that regard.
Chikusa remembers the day (April tenth, seven thirty-two am CET) a pair of armed, suited men accompanied the examiner to the feeding room to take Ken away. The silence had been absolute, save for the quiet whimpered prayers of the six year-old girl three seats to his left, an endless, breathless litany to a god Chikusa no longer believed in as they stalked their way in patent leather shoes toward their table, and called the name of his first and only friend in terrible basso cantale harmony. He remembers the way his blood ran cold as Ken put down his spoon, stood, and pushed the chair in gently behind him.
He remembers the way the tiny blond had smiled at him then, the slight quirk of thin lips that held no joy or hope, only an all-encompassing resignation that Chikusa knew even then had no place in the expressive repertoire of a child.
He did not see Ken again for almost two months. When he did --
-- when he did --
--well. He remembers that too.
.
II.
(the world is all bending and breaking from me.)
Chikusa's head had felt heavy and uneven, each of his senses muted as if his whole body had been wrapped in cotton batting. Even his tongue felt thick and half-numb, like someone had drawn a line of fire across the back of his head, but he pushed it away with the un-self-conscious determination only little boys and hardened warriors can muster. After all, there was something far more interesting happening just to his left.
There was a part of Chikusa's mind, one that was only just beginning to acquaint itself with concepts like irony and fate, that was not surprised to see that the child strapped to the bed next to him was Ken -- it was just that between his battered senses and the sheer amount of damage visible against the pale gold of Ken's skin, it took him a moment to realize it.
It took him a few tries to push out that single syllable that was Ken's name, but he did it, and almost flinched when Ken twisted his head to blink owlishly at Chikusa. There was something about his eyes -- something wild, something different --
Chikusa stared back, focused on those glittering eyes. It was easier to do that than to catalog the bruises that had bloomed across cheeks still chubby with baby fat, spreading down Ken's neck beyond the collar of his thin hospital gown, emerging from the sleeves around the IV's taped to the crook of his elbow.
Ken didn't speak -- there was something weirdly wrong with his swollen mouth -- but he tried, and despite the swelling, Chikusa saw that all his milk teeth were gone.
Chikusa remembers leaning back against the thin pillow of his own bed and staring up at the ceiling for what seemed like a small eternity, confusion warring with his first taste of pure hate. He remembers the way it felt, then, hot and almost comforting, the way it overrode the pain and left him feeling both full and empty.
He remembers the way that, some time in the night, his small hand met and folded around another, just as tiny but now somehow strangely jointed.
.
III.
(and kids get lost, and kids get broken.)
Chikusa remembers because he cannot forget.
Ken might have been the stronger one, but Chikusa's mind was sharpest, and in many ways that was just as dangerous in those days.
The Estraneo may have been bastards -- pure bastards, down to their black, black hearts -- but they were powerful bastards. And when their experiments were successful, they created masterpieces.
And yet, as every critic knows, even the most poignant masterpiece has its flaws, however slight.
Take Ken, for example. Channels upon channels; the ability to become a beast of choice while keeping his human's analytical mind. To a soldier or an assassin, it would be almost as good as the perfect armor. Imagine: the ability to become a panther, to stalk prey by smell alone, to move with beyond-human speed, to rend flesh from bone with an errant swipe of a paw. The ability to become a gorilla, to overpower an enemy with raw strength.
To a fourteen year-old boy with a bad temper and a short fuse, it's just a hell of a way to fight dirty.
Take Chikusa. Take a naturally curious mind, and open the gates. Memory like photographs, ever-crisp, a series of events laid out in chronological order with commentary intact, set aside neatly in stacks, simply waiting for the time Chikusa chooses (or not) to go back and browse. A mind brimming full of knowledge he has never been given time to earn, and a small cable jack that will in all likelihood, within twenty years, corrode inside the sensitive grey matter of his brain (nestled tight, just above the temporal lobe) and -- if he's lucky -- cause a fatal hemorrhage.
(Assuming he has the chance to live that long.)
What good, really, are the siege tactics of Hannibal to an angry child whose greatest ambition is to protect his best friend?
Take Mukuro.
Take Mukuro.
A flawed masterpiece, indeed.
Chikusa remembers, because he cannot forget.
Even when he wants to.
There'll be more -- I haven't even touched on their relationship with Mukuro, which is weird and fascinating in all my favorite ways. But these three bits were in my head tonight and uh ... yeah.]
I.
(losing all feeling now that sunrise is outlawed.)
Ken was the stronger one, of course. Chikusa may have been taller, but there was a gaunt lankiness to his limbs that everyone important knew he would never outgrow. Even now, Chikusa can recall with crystal clarity the way the examiner had poked and prodded and deemed the four year-old entirely unsuitable for experiment HAH-417k.
Perhaps he was lucky, in that regard.
Chikusa remembers the day (April tenth, seven thirty-two am CET) a pair of armed, suited men accompanied the examiner to the feeding room to take Ken away. The silence had been absolute, save for the quiet whimpered prayers of the six year-old girl three seats to his left, an endless, breathless litany to a god Chikusa no longer believed in as they stalked their way in patent leather shoes toward their table, and called the name of his first and only friend in terrible basso cantale harmony. He remembers the way his blood ran cold as Ken put down his spoon, stood, and pushed the chair in gently behind him.
He remembers the way the tiny blond had smiled at him then, the slight quirk of thin lips that held no joy or hope, only an all-encompassing resignation that Chikusa knew even then had no place in the expressive repertoire of a child.
He did not see Ken again for almost two months. When he did --
-- when he did --
--well. He remembers that too.
.
II.
(the world is all bending and breaking from me.)
Chikusa's head had felt heavy and uneven, each of his senses muted as if his whole body had been wrapped in cotton batting. Even his tongue felt thick and half-numb, like someone had drawn a line of fire across the back of his head, but he pushed it away with the un-self-conscious determination only little boys and hardened warriors can muster. After all, there was something far more interesting happening just to his left.
There was a part of Chikusa's mind, one that was only just beginning to acquaint itself with concepts like irony and fate, that was not surprised to see that the child strapped to the bed next to him was Ken -- it was just that between his battered senses and the sheer amount of damage visible against the pale gold of Ken's skin, it took him a moment to realize it.
It took him a few tries to push out that single syllable that was Ken's name, but he did it, and almost flinched when Ken twisted his head to blink owlishly at Chikusa. There was something about his eyes -- something wild, something different --
Chikusa stared back, focused on those glittering eyes. It was easier to do that than to catalog the bruises that had bloomed across cheeks still chubby with baby fat, spreading down Ken's neck beyond the collar of his thin hospital gown, emerging from the sleeves around the IV's taped to the crook of his elbow.
Ken didn't speak -- there was something weirdly wrong with his swollen mouth -- but he tried, and despite the swelling, Chikusa saw that all his milk teeth were gone.
Chikusa remembers leaning back against the thin pillow of his own bed and staring up at the ceiling for what seemed like a small eternity, confusion warring with his first taste of pure hate. He remembers the way it felt, then, hot and almost comforting, the way it overrode the pain and left him feeling both full and empty.
He remembers the way that, some time in the night, his small hand met and folded around another, just as tiny but now somehow strangely jointed.
.
III.
(and kids get lost, and kids get broken.)
Chikusa remembers because he cannot forget.
Ken might have been the stronger one, but Chikusa's mind was sharpest, and in many ways that was just as dangerous in those days.
The Estraneo may have been bastards -- pure bastards, down to their black, black hearts -- but they were powerful bastards. And when their experiments were successful, they created masterpieces.
And yet, as every critic knows, even the most poignant masterpiece has its flaws, however slight.
Take Ken, for example. Channels upon channels; the ability to become a beast of choice while keeping his human's analytical mind. To a soldier or an assassin, it would be almost as good as the perfect armor. Imagine: the ability to become a panther, to stalk prey by smell alone, to move with beyond-human speed, to rend flesh from bone with an errant swipe of a paw. The ability to become a gorilla, to overpower an enemy with raw strength.
To a fourteen year-old boy with a bad temper and a short fuse, it's just a hell of a way to fight dirty.
Take Chikusa. Take a naturally curious mind, and open the gates. Memory like photographs, ever-crisp, a series of events laid out in chronological order with commentary intact, set aside neatly in stacks, simply waiting for the time Chikusa chooses (or not) to go back and browse. A mind brimming full of knowledge he has never been given time to earn, and a small cable jack that will in all likelihood, within twenty years, corrode inside the sensitive grey matter of his brain (nestled tight, just above the temporal lobe) and -- if he's lucky -- cause a fatal hemorrhage.
(Assuming he has the chance to live that long.)
What good, really, are the siege tactics of Hannibal to an angry child whose greatest ambition is to protect his best friend?
Take Mukuro.
Take Mukuro.
A flawed masterpiece, indeed.
Chikusa remembers, because he cannot forget.
Even when he wants to.
There'll be more -- I haven't even touched on their relationship with Mukuro, which is weird and fascinating in all my favorite ways. But these three bits were in my head tonight and uh ... yeah.]