Chapter Text
Inhale.
Exhale.
A curling plume of smoke drifts into the murky sky above.
Below, the pitiful irritation of a man begging for his life, rivers of red pooling. A puddle of yellow below adding a spark of color to an otherwise insipid picture.
…What A Waste.
Red eyes regard the scene before their owner extinguishes the stub of her cigarette on the annoyance’s forehead and before he can even scream, slits his throat with a single swing of her scabbard, letting an elegant spray of blood fly into the air.
And then…
Silence.
The street is empty. Anyone who could have made a fuss either having become a part of her performance or having fled already.
The surrounding lighting is dull from faulty power lines and there’s no hope of seeing anything but light pollution above thanks to the thick, ugly grey blanket of clouds above.
Idly her hands reach into her pocket for another cigarette pack only to find nothing in them.
Ah. That was her last one then.
Her last cigarette, a disappointing waste.
Her last lead, a dead end.
Her last goal, nothing more than the slow greying of stains against concrete.
…Her final piece, grey on grey. The details so bland and smudged not even her mastery in finding the beauty in ugliness would give it a passing glance.
…
She ponders a moment if setting herself alight might save it. A fiery centerpiece in defiance of a washed out world not worth living in might make for a rousing statement… but ultimately dismisses the idea as cliche.
(A silent, unnoticed hanging out of the direct focus seems more fitting anyway.
A statement of futility, of the inevitability of leaving mountains of bodies in one’s wake only to join them willingly for reasons no one but the artist themself could know.
Grey on grey on grey. Unremarkable and easily disregarded yet still an image that might linger and later haunt the minds of any witnesses during the quiet hours of the night.)
She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply, the scent of filth and building moisture in the air for once stronger in her nose than tobacco, before she shakes her head free of stupidity and searches the surrounding bodies for cigarettes and money.
(She might not have any leads left but she can still make art, can’t she? Still a chance she could cut loose a hint of who was responsible from some random pig’s lips if she gets lucky.)
(Who is she kidding?)
And then there is a gasp behind her.
(…)
(Being this distracted by her own thoughts… Sloppy.)
She straightens up and turns around to see an unexpected blot of colour.
Old enough that if he’d been from the Backstreets she’d consider him full grown, but with the awkward way his armored coat and weapon sit on his shoulders ‘chick forced to leave the Nest too early’ is the only suitable description for him.
She’s seen such fledglings within the Backstreets before. Weak and naive, it’s rare for them to last long before being eaten alive by Rats.
This one approaches slowly, a tense, wary expression on his face. Yet underneath the supposed calm she sees the way his hands keep twitching in the direction of his weapon and the barely repressed gleam to his golden eyes has her curious as to what might be hidden underneath.
The chick, realizing he has her attention stops in place, his eyes darting briefly to the circle of bodies littered in chunks around her then back up to her face.
“W-were you the one t-that did this? T-that killed all of these p-people..?” He stutters, body shaking even as that oh so curious gleam sharpens. Ryōshū in response simply raises an eyebrow and rests her hand against her odachi’s handle to draw his gaze to the fresh blood still dripping off its sheath.
The kid inhales sharply, his grip on his halberd tightening.
“How could-?!” He starts then cuts off his own furious hiss with a sudden deep gasp of breath and a violent shaking of his head. “No! No, I- I’m sorry, I’m overreacting. M-may I ask why you did this? D-did they attack you? Is that why you felt you had to..?”
…huh.
Ryōshū takes a moment to regard this strange little fledgling going from speaking with fear and fury for the lives of random Backstreet scum, to earnest grief over the thought she was possibly ‘forced’ into performing her art and finds herself snorting in amusement.
“They were ‘informants’ who thought they could get away with selling lies. So Actions Cutting Through Shit were taken to make them regret it.” She chuckles at the fledgling's widening eyes and the way he takes a step back at the sight of her smile. “So. What do you think? Does knowing the origins of this art piece enhance your experience?”
The fledgling trembles, his breathing ragged, his teeth bared and liquid threatening to escape his tear ducts.
Idly she takes a step towards him and watches with interest to see which side the coin will land on.
An attack would be interesting. Out of naive anger or the denial of fear, either way a brief momentary excitement - whether or not he’ll survive her single strike up to skill and willpower.
Cowering or fleeing though… Ugh. If that’s what he settles on after such an interesting start her swings won’t leave a single part of him unsliced.
(No matter what he chooses, the answer is already written in stone.)
(A baby bird left bleeding on the pavement and her return to grey upon grey upon grey.)
(A pointless distraction added only to further delay her own inevitably mediocre finale.)
“A-a-art?! I. I- I think it’s, it’s…” The chick stammers in terror and internally she feels irritation at what looks like the coward’s ending…
But then he looks between her and the corpses once more, and to her surprise spends a long moment deep in thought before straightening up, an odd calm replacing his fear as his eyes meet hers, a look of reproachful dissatisfaction on his face.
“...It’s hideous. I don’t know much about art and I still can’t tell if they deserved this or not based on what you’ve said, but. Even if I can respect your skill to have cut them all down yourself without taking a single scratch… I- I just can’t see how reducing living, breathing people to scattered lumps of meat could ever be more meaningful than seeing them when they were alive.”
(A pause.)
(A skip in the music.)
(A single instant in which the bloodthirsty red eyes of the Asura meet the golden gaze of a naive, fragile little bird…)
“...Huu~” She lets out an appreciative noise, genuinely caught off guard by the coin flip resulting in the rare and much valued honest critique before nodding in response. “I agree. Corpses are boring. Their fear in their last moments when they realized I was going to Slice Them All to Bits was much more interesting.”
“Th-that's not what I meant!” The chick squawks predictably at her provocation but again, instead of acting on his hostility or fear, continues with words trying to understand her even as he gets increasingly worked up. "They were p-people! With names and thoughts and feelings and dreams all their own a-and now that's all gone and their loved ones have no idea! O-or they'll stumble upon this a-and- and-!"
Ah. She sees how it is.
"Who'd you lose?" She bluntly interrupts the fledgling out of his spiral.
“How'd you…"
The chick bristles with confusion, fear and rage across his entire form for a brief instant… But just as suddenly the emotions cool and the sharpness in his eyes fades, as if with that single question he's realized all he needed to. "…My mother, father and sister."
He then falls silent, hands clenched and shaking before he swallows and once more looks her directly in the eyes. "…What about you? Who was it that- that you..?"
(...and it is the Asura who blinks first.)
Ryōshū glances away, flicking her sheathe clean of blood and feeling even more irritated by her lack of cigarettes than before.
(Can't nonchalantly cover her expression or use the motions to add extra emphasis to her words.
Annoying.)
The fledgling of course takes this as a threatening motion. "S-sorry, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have a-asked-"
He rambles meaningless words of unnecessary guilt and with each one her irritation grows, until she swipes her sheathe through the air again and takes a moment to enjoy the newfound silence and the fledgling's pale face as he stares down at the 'blade' now resting against his neck.
"Draw your weapon." She orders as she pulls her sheathe away, and finds herself having to withhold a sigh as the chick does nothing but tremble like a mouse. "Not A Fight. …Unless you take too long."
"R-Right." The kid clearly doesn't understand her purpose but is quick to obey, drawing up his poleaxe...
…and holding it in front of himself, nervously gripping the handle like a corpse of a casket holding their own funeral bouquet.
"How you'd use it in a fight." She clarifies and watches as he jolts, quickly adjusting his stance to one more 'textbook' before -under her expectant gaze and 'go on' tilt of the head- he thrusts, swings and blocks, seemingly determined to keep going until she permits him to stop.
And throughout it all Ryoshu scowls.
The kid goes from stiff but otherwise 'solid' movements to awkward cuts to throwing more and more force into his strikes as he tires until finally, one last overly powerful swing yanks him right off his own feet to clatter pathetically onto the ground.
"T'ch."
The fledgling sags at her dismissal, still trembling from the sheer strain of his efforts and looks up at her from his spot on the bloodied concrete with wide eyes as if awaiting his final judgment.
(Decent reflexes and strength.)
(Textbook form of a student who'd been taught by someone who'd never experienced a real fight in their life.)
(Could probably cut down a few Rats but against anything more, bound to panic and overextend.)
(Stupid enough to approach someone like her without his weapon already drawn.)
(…)
(If left to fend for himself, this child will die.)
Out loud, she simply grunts before giving a gentle 'tap' to each of his current 'weak points' with her sheathe, then asks, "Why an axe?"
He blinks at her as climbs to his feet, still trying to recover his breath. "…A-aren't they good? F-for starting o-out with?"
She snorts at that, then again at his dismay at her response.
"Not For You. Good for crushing armor, bad for noodle limbed brats." She looks over her nearby 'artworks' before picking up a relatively intact sword and holding it out for him to take. "Swords are lighter. Won't leave you gasping for air after five minutes."
He winces, grip tightening on his axe's handle as his eyes linger on the offered blade. "…What if I need to crush armor though?"
Hm.
No stutter this time.
"Switch As Needed Seamlessly." A look of genuine confusion greets her SANGRIA. Irritating. But as its the first stumble towards her many uses of it today, she doesn't mind translating.
"Use the sword in combat for now and in your own time train your body using the axe. Eventually you'll be able to use both tirelessly and can pick and choose whether you need crushing power or speed and precision in the moment."
Understanding lights up the fledgling's eyes before he nods, hangs his poleaxe back over his shoulders and gingerly takes the offered blade from her hands, a brief look of discomfort flickering across his features as does so, before it is forced back by the barest hint of a genuine smile.
"T-thank you."
She lets out an acknowledging hum before finally returning to her task of looting of the corpses surrounding them, casually adding the placement of any intact ID she finds onto it's owner's remains to her usual routine as he stands in place watching awkwardly. "It's shit quality. We'll need to hit up a Workshop to get you decent."
"A-a Workshop? Wait, w-we?" The fledgling lets out a series of anxious chirps but she pays them no mind, instead counting up her newly acquired funds and -satisfied with the number- starts walking in the direction of somewhere she can use it.
…Only to pause when she realizes the fledgling isn't following. She looks back at him, waiting with a raised eyebrow as the wide eyed chick stands awkwardly in place, his entire posture screaming confusion and alarm.
Hmm.
"Out Of Cigarettes." She explains, then when that fails to get her intent across, she jerks her head in a classic 'this way' gesture. "Withdrawal headaches suck ass and those Insolent Fools had plenty of cash. Don't mind shouting a kid's meal if you can handle a convenience store trip."
With that she continues walking again… And smirks to herself when the sound of hurried footsteps and anxious mutterings follow behind her shortly afterwards.
Six cigarettes and a lighter fluid enhanced kebab later for her and half way through the kid's choice of bento box for him, he timidly asks her name.
"It's Ryōshū." The better name for puns and the play brats need, even if she isn't in the mood right now. "You?"
"I. I'm Sinclair." An odd pause. At her stare the fledgling flinches and ducks his head, unable to look her in the eyes. "E-Emil Sinclair. Pl-please, don't use my first name."
A shrug and exhaled plume of smoke. "It's your name."
She isn't likely to use either but cute that he'd trust her with the one he wants buried. The additional flinch at her reply gets added to the mental notes though.
(Dead or too personal?)
Silence for another cigarette, and fidgeting, eyes darting every which way and reluctant pecking at his food before the chick finally works up the nerve to ask his real question.
"So. What now..?"
Ryōshū considers their options…
And smiles.
Hours later, when the ever familiar scraping of the Night in the Backstreets outside the building they've claimed gives her chance to drop her guard and rest, Ryōshū's mind wanders to SANGRIA as it always does.
Emil huh.
E.M.I.L
…
(Just a distraction until either release or a single swipe of the sheathe.)
(Painted chicks don't last anyway.)
(It's better, not to get attached.)
…
(…She's replacing ̸̖̠̔͘h̵̼͇͆͠e̸̥̦̬̓̆̈r̸̻͇̿ already, isn't she..?)
…
How fitting.
She can see why he doesn't want to use it.