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Post by Haruki "Chance" Shiuzo on Oct 19, 2013 14:41:47 GMT -5
tags- nikita@nikita
words- 640
notes- finally <3
He was skipping school.
That was bad, and he knew it, but at the same time, he didn't care. He'd faithfully gone to school every day since he started and deserved one day off. What better day to skip then the terrible day when they hurt you? Specifically with -needles-. FLU needles, that they said would stop you from getting it, but what Chance was in fact certain would make you get it. He had heard about them after all- they put the flu INTO you. Like heck he was going to fall for that trap!
So here he was, Hubbard sleeping in his arms, a pretty red bow around her neck, and Blayze trotting at his side, looking lively and excited. It had been a long time since they'd gone running around the streets at free will- Chance had quit that about a week after moving in with Aubre. It frightened her when he randomly disappeared for hours on end, even after he assured her that he could look after himself. But if Aubre thought he was at school, then she would have nothing to worry about. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her, right? He'd go home when school ended and no one ever had to know.
"Isn't this fun?" Chance sang out, moving off of the main road and into a shortcut he knew that led to the slums. Blayze simply gave a happy, affirmative yip. The little vulpix thought that staying in school all day was boring, and had been longing to do this for a long time now. It was still the same here. The same streets, dirt, the odd smell, the vagrants and strange druggies who twitched on the sides of the street. Blayze loved Aubre just as much as Chance did, but for him, this place would always be home, not her little, but nice apartment.
They passed one of the brothels that Chance had once visited a lot-- not that he knew the actual reason for the building. But he liked the ladies who worked there, and when it rained, or it was cold, they would feed him and let him stay there until the night or storm passed. He hadn't seen them in a long time and briefly debated going inside, but passed right by instead. He could always visit them some other time. Right now he had somewhere that he wanted to go. A destination in mind.
In the heart of the slums, where the buildings were falling down and criminals freely did their jobs in the broad daylight, Chance came to one of the many, tiny alleyways. It was the same here. Carefully slipping past the large trash receptacle, he made his way to the dead-end. Amazing! Everything was still here. Moving a board out of the way on one of the walls, he slipped into a tiny area that had been hidden away out of sight. This had been home for a very long time- part of it still felt like home.
Giving a delighted yip, Blayze bounded forward and curled up on his old blanket in the corner. This had been part of a building with heating- it was good because in the winter, that heat would warm this tiny little area up. There were a few boxes filled with stolen items. Some of them were getting rusty now. There was a gold necklace, a moth eaten silk scarf, some kind of expensive silver watch, and a lot of wallets and coins. He dropped a new wallet in it- old habits were hard to break after all.
Something outside caught his attention. Crawling back out, leaving Hubbard curled up next to Blayze, Chance went to investigate. Carefully, he moved the board back into place, and slipped past the large dumpster, looking around curiously. |
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Post by Nikita Z. Harris on Oct 21, 2013 2:10:48 GMT -5
Bumbling and incompetent morons! How dare they wear that badge!?
It had been one target! A step-by-step plan had been drawn up; the mutation of the suspect had been taken into account. Each officer had been equipped to handle it in case of a confrontation. His best squad had ended up looking like a grade school production of ‘COPs’. The suspect had escaped; three officers and one hapless prostitute had been badly injured in his pursuit. Media, like the annoying baying bitches that they were, yapped at his door for answers—he doubted they truly understood the questions.
He had been awoken at 4 a.m. to try and clean up after the dumbasses. To be honest, as he rarely slept, it had merely been a process of slipping his shoes on. A cup of coffee, bitter and black, battled off any residual drowsiness. While he usual did his own work, leaving most of his other staff alone, he had tore them apart the night before. The task force left the room, licking wounds, with more fear for their supervisor than a deranged serial killer. When they had departed, leaving Nikita in his darkened office, the mask of cool indifference had returned to the head officer. Three hours later, tracking leads through the internet and phone lines, he moved to investigate the scene of the shitstorm. Doubtlessly, as his staff seemed to all have been struck blind, he would find a neon sign awaiting him.
The jacket, which smelled slightly of sweat, was thrown over thin shoulders. Fingers, old and arthritic, buttoned the last two holes. The holster was adjusted at his hip. The badge was clipped into place with a quick ‘pop’. Glasses were pushed up a thrice-broken nose. Loafers left scuffs on the floor as he departed. A second shadow, greying at its muzzle and tail, bolted behind its partner.
Technically, as the clock had struck noon, the Head of the S.I.F., seemed to be in the mood for volunteer work. He had been removed from his shift over an hour ago. Nikita, who wanted this situation dealt with quickly and efficiently, did not care about his measly salary ; he wanted to salvage months of hard work. He ignored the ache in his right arm as his anger began to rise. While some of it was at his officers, for being horrifically inept, the large majority of it went toward his prey. The pictures of victims, sodomized and torn apart, burnt like a wild-fire in his mind. He would enjoy putting a bullet through that deranged motherfucker’s head. Some bastards just deserved to die.
The destination, deep in the heart of the slums, was within a few miles of their apartment. The officer knew the area well-enough to recognize the place when he saw it. The windows were gone. It stretched the length of an entire block. The former owner, some kingpin, had departed to Johto shortly after the war; annoying tape, the kind even Nikita could not cross, kept it from being torn to rusty shrapnel. Two eyes, one red and one dark-blue, scanned the building. The warehouse had offered the mutant a large amount of hiding places. The back chain, holding shut the only way for a man of that size to escape without notice, seemed whole. “I remember when this fucking place was a factory, Nikki. It was many years ago now—fifty or so.” “We are here to investigate, Winters; we do not have time for meaningless chatter.” “It’s /Detective/ Wnters, Harris.” The middle-aged man had toned the old Houndoom out. His keen gaze had caught something within the dirt. Old loafers kicked at the grass and watched a spent bullet roll out; it was the standard caliber found on every officer’s pistol. Many more of them, glinting in the sunlight. It looked like they had thrown them like confetti—instead of taking their time to aim.
Nikita rarely smoked. For much of his life, especially with his eldest brother, he made sure others did not either. In this instance, with a tension-born headache pounding, Nikita lit up. Smoke billowed out from his nose like the sleeping dragon many compared him with. He continued his measured observation of the immediate area with a critical eye for the smallest anomaly. The Houndoom, a few feet behind, followed in silence.
They passed a box. The dog lifted his ears, smelled nothing dangerous, and continued onward. Rheumy eyes had missed the shadows within the little cube. A noise was made. The fire-type turned with a snarl and a plume of smoke. Nikita, much more subdued in his reaction, fixed cool eyes on the blonde and his companion. His lips twisted downward in a frown. While his outward countenance was still frigid, Nikita had always had a soft spot for children. He had spent many years attempting to dispel these pulled heart strings. “Boy, this is a police investigation. I assume even someone who has difficulties reading, as likely indicated by your truancy, is aware of that fact. “ There was a pause. The face looked vaguely familiar—no doubt this was one of the maligned and unfortunate spawn to some ex-convict.
Gloves, dark grey in color, gently polished foggy glasses. Nikita sighed.
"I do not have time to deal with children."
(He is sighing because this post is horrendous. I apologize. Please do not reply for 48 hours, Requiem!)
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Post by Haruki "Chance" Shiuzo on Nov 22, 2013 23:47:20 GMT -5
tags- nikita@nikita
words- 523
notes- finally <3
There was a man there.
Chance did not recognize the family resemblance nor remember their ties-- he had been too young and too traumatized to care to think deeper about his past and the family that he had lost. His memory for people could be sketchy at best.
"Hi!" He piped up brightly, eying the elder Houndoom with a good deal of curiousity-- but he had respect enough to leave the dog be and not approach him. While he was young and naive at times he knew enough to leave irritable dogs be. He did not want to get bitten as that would really put a downer on the day. Although he did like dogs-- unlike Aubre. It was a good thing that she was not here.
Actually, she would probably never find her way here, for any reason. Although he liked her dearly and viewed her like a family member, this was a part of his past that he instinctively hide and stole out of the light. He did not want her to see this place. Not because he was ashamed of it, or worried about her reaction, but because it was a private part of his past that he had put behind himself and only infrequently came to visit and reminisce.
That was strange wasn't it? But he didn't care. Happily Chance bounded forward, not caring a mite about any kind of police investigations or any other sort of event. "My name's Chance!" He declared, and wisely did not mention that he had no respect nor like for the "coppers". He was street smart enough for that at least.
His mentor hated police-- he had passed down a dislike of them to Chance. They had always been on the run from them, and every snatched snack or attempted theft was in danger because of them. Food that would fill a crying belly would remain tauntingly out of reach when they were around; a shiny that tempted with glistening wonderment must not be touched until the target was in a safe and copper free area. He lost count of the times he had been forced to run away by a police unit in an unfortunate area.
Oh yes, now that his life had changed, he knew that the police were good. He knew that they protected normal people (for the most part at least, when they were not corrupt and bad) and that he should not give them trouble, but the memories from the streets were hard to let go sometimes.
"I can read!" Proudly, he turned to a sign and rattled off a bit of a complex avenue name-- learning to read and write had been important lessons that his mentor had pounded into his head over and over again. School had also been a great help. He adored learning-- he loved books and would eagerly devour them for the limited amount of time that they could hold his attention span. It was difficult for him to stay focused on any one subject for any amount of time, a fact that was perhaps obvious by how much he was moving around. |
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Post by Nikita Z. Harris on Nov 27, 2013 4:44:59 GMT -5
The dog steadily advanced toward the blonde boy. Nostrils flared angrily at the tip of a snarling muzzle. The left canine was chipped from an encounter with a far scarier foe than Chance. Unlike his partner, who had raised four children, Winter had little patience for high-pitched voices. Orange eyes were visibly narrowed. When his pups were this age, likely eight or nine, they were running their own precinct. They were certainly not sleeping in boxes, waiting for handouts, and harassing officers of the law! The greeting, with a chipper exclamation point did little to help the dogs mood. With a dark voice, teeth still visible, the canine-detective tried to remind Chance of his place. “Boy, as Officer Harris stated, there is little need for your presence here. “ As he inhaled sharply, partially because a boot nudged his ribs, ears laid flat against his head. The steady rumble of an annoyed growl turned almost thoughtful.
The smell was vaguely familiar. His elderly mind, which was kept fresh with vigorous exercise and complaining, was still a bit foggy. Sitting on his haunches, fangs still bared, Winters decided to think upon the matter. This boy is likely some sort of ingrate we’ve picked up before—he’ll find my pockets rather difficult to pick. One ear lifted at a sound in a nearby alleyway. Metal collided with brick. A puddle gave the tiniest hint of ripples.
With a snort, as it was likely just a nosy cat, the old hound rose to investigate its source. The mutant, likely thinking himself free of investigation, might have returned to his hideout. Tail stiff, hips far worse, and his back aching the old hound rose to investigate the source of the disturbance.. “I will keep watch. You may deal with this pup. I am assured of your capabilities in such matters.” In the back of his mind, as he stared ahead, the fire-type was beginning to put the pieces into place. The boy smelled familiar for a reason.
Nikita watched the hound depart with the slightest of frowns. This boy, planted in an opportune spot to monitor the hideout’s doorway, might have been a danger. Digging into his pocket, pulling out another cigarette, the man let it rest between his lips. Much of his patience with children had been burnt away by the years. Regardless, as the Pokemon departed, likely to something far less taxing, the dark-haired investigator turned back to his potential witness: “Hello, Chance. I apologize for neglecting to introduce myself before commencing conversation. You may call me 'Officer Harris' .” Unlike many of the alley-brats, who had quick hands and steely eyes, this one seemed little different from his own children. His clothing was clean. His light hair was free of soot, grease, and the lice common to most of the city’s homeless. Someone has either given him money, stolen it for his benefit, or provided him with these things. Things from the color of the jacket to the shape of the boy’s nose were duly noted. The stick of smoke and nicotine remained unlit as he narrowed his eyes slightly. The sense of familiarity continued to gnaw at his mind like a certain old Houndoom at a pile of chicken bones. If Nikita had looked in the mirror recently, which he avoided out of resentment, he would have quickly noticed Chance’s ears; they were a nearly identical to his own. The greeting was met with a cold nod. A lighter, a plain beat up beast of silver, sparked with a gentle glow. Ashes slowly twisted toward the ground beneath spindly fingers. Blue and red eyes lifted briefly with a question; he sounded like he was in the middle of an interrogation. “Chance? Is there a last name included in there or ,like many infamous singers, do you prefer to keep those things close to your chest?” Smoke flowed out from his nostrils as he gave the Vulpix a cursory glance. “What is your companion’s name?” Memories of a toddler came to mind unbidden. The boy had bright yellow hair; he looked nearly identical to his no-good father. The officer had loved him regardless. Tiny little fingers, covered in something sticky, twisted n dark orange fur. The white paper found itself rapidly devoured by angry heat. The memory was pushed away forcefully; Nikita had a lot of practice doing it.
The fingers rose to massage at his temples again. It seemed he would stumble upon the one boy in the slums who could pronounce the name of the street. Taking a deep breath, pushing away any memories forcing themselves forward, Nikita knelt in front of Chance: “I can see that, boy. You read very well. That does not matter any longer.” While he seemed to give the little scamp a choice, putting himself on the blonde’s level, Nikita had few issues with questioning a child. Arresting this murderer, by bruising a boy, would potentially save a handful of lives. Regardless, as he was not some sort of brute with a club, the investigator decided to use honey. “I need to ask you a question or two, Chance. They’re very simple questions. Have you happened to see anyone else nearby?" Ancient bones protested the movement toward the ground. Nikita Harris, working on a nearly constant basis, was exhausted. His head hurt. He was determined, bad-health or not, to end this goose-chase with the criminal. Muscles tensed as he prepared to chase after a younger-than-usual accomplice. Gus
On the young man’s level, peering right into those eyes, the forced smile began to tremble and shake. The frown that took its place was firm. Hands curled into fists at his side. A noise of disbelief forced itself out of his mouth. Embers sprayed across cracked cement. I need to get some more sleep; it appears I am beginning to lose my grip on reality. I will begin speaking to Arceus next. My grandson is dead; there are many blonde-haired boys in this hellhole. In a quiet voice, hardened to hope, Nikita posed another question: “. . . .how old are you, child?” There are not many named Chance, Nikita. His stance is identical--you saw how his left foot moved in front of his right. The hetero-chromatic gaze seemed to have softened for a moment.
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Post by Haruki "Chance" Shiuzo on Nov 27, 2013 6:20:48 GMT -5
tags- nikita@nikita
words- 1535
notes- feels. ; ^ ;
As the Houndoom moved away from the two, Blayze stirred from within their hidey-hole. He had been so very happy to be back-- and Hubbard was quite eagerly sniffing around at the many stolen-- no, obtained trinkets in the box, pawing at the moth-eaten scarf and deciding that it was a good place to lay down. His tail wagging, he had been grooming the tiny kitten when the sound of something hitting the ground caught his attention. The building that they had chosen was often full of rather ill-reputable people and he knew full well it was better to stay hidden in this safe place when they passed by, but Chance was outside and he could not leave the boy to his own. Knowing him, he would approach a child molester with the same good cheer and innocence as he greeted the wingulls they fed on the beach.
Though still young by human standards, the Vulpix had grown up beyond his years. He considered himself to be Chance's guardian-- he had made an oath to himself to protect the blonde-haired boy ever since the night he'd pulled him from the flames of the burning house that had taken the lives of the rest of their family. Whereas Chance had suppressed it for the most part, Blayze remembered every moment.
Chance had been sleeping, curled up around a pillow and happily dreaming. Blayze had not, instead reading a book by the glow of a nightlit. He hadn't understood what had happened-- one day everything had been calm and peaceful, then the next an explosion rocked the house and there was the smell of smoke and fire. He had frozen up in terror, heart racing. Then Chance, awoken from the sounds, cried out in terror and woke up the Vulpix from his frozen terror. He'd leapt to the young boy, just as confused as him and not having had the slightest understanding of what was going on.
More explosions. The sounds of screams. Chance had fled into his closet, the one place that for a child, had seemed the safest. He had been crying, wrapped up in his blanket, waiting for his parents to come and save him as they always had. Blayze had clawed at the door, trying to get it open. The little boy, always a trouble maker even at a young age, had forced his parents to put a lock on the door so he couldn't go outside of his room and wreak havoc. The change had come after one frightening morning they found him in the streets, happily playing with his toys cars on a dark street. His poor mother had almost had a heart attack and understandably so.
He'd tried to get Chance out of the closet when the door wouldn't open, but the boy had been certain his parents would come to save them, even as smoke began to fill the room. The sound of the roaring flames could be heard all around them-- although the fire hadn't reached his room yet, it was already getting unbearably hot.
His mother had suddenly been at the door. Her voice sounded ragged and pained. She was understandably afraid, but through her choked and tearful voice, she called out for her child, crying out in pain as the door knob seared her hand, burning hot. Their house was made of wood. The fire ate away at it hungrily. Chance had risen, calmed by the sound and nearness of his mother-- there had only been a door separating them. It opened and she drew him into her arms and ushered him towards the hall. The glow of the flames could be seen from the other way, already having engulfed most of the first floor and a large portion of the second.
The smoke made it hard to breathe, harder to see. They'd crawled along the floor, agonizingly slow. Chance was sent on ahead without her-- she said she was just going to grab his siblings and be right back. The garden was on fire now. Blayze knew that that was where his friends slept. The Alakazam who was so old and blind now, the Ninetales who was like a mother to him. All of the other poke'mon who felt so much like a family. He forced himself not to think about them.
Chance hadn't wanted to leave his mother behind but Blayze forced him forward, biting him and dragging him when necessary. They were both getting light headed and tired, Chance's tears making it only harder for him. His eyes had stung so badly.
The window that served as a fire escape had been so close. It was never kept latched, and the material that it was made out of was fire resistant. A scream echoed out behind them, and the entire area behind them collapsed in a fireball of heat and flames. Blayze felt sick remembering that scream, and the shock of cold air as they both tumbled out of the window, Chance screaming for his mother as they hit the metal fire escape's stairs. He'd screamed for her the entire time they fell down, and when they hit the grass a story below, still wrapped in that blanket, embers falling down around them like rain, he'd cried. Staggering to their feet, they'd fled the flames. Blayze wouldn't let Chance go back-- he'd wanted to, even as the house collapsed behind them from the fury of the flames.
He'd never regretted a moment of his decisions, but sometimes he wondered if there was something more he could have done.
"Officer, huh?" Chance tilted his head and eyed the man. He looked old and tired and worn out. "You look like you need a nap."
He stepped back as the man lit up a cigarette, not liking the smell that came along with them. He grinned, prancing to the side, as happy as ever. The man's coldness, and his stiff and rather unfriendly demeanor did not cause him to hesitate in the slightest. He was used to dealing with angry and unhappy people after all-- and officers, coppers, had always been angriest of all. They were always willing to hit him to chase him off, or grab him by the hair. No doubt they were worn down by all of the criminals that haunted Nada's streets-- even with the crime rates at the lowest they'd been in years, only the best of the bad remained, hauntingly elusive and always willing to taunt the exhausted police force.
Blayze had crawled out into view at this time, and frozen at the sight of the man standing there. Chance took only brief notice of his companion's apparent unease-- no doubt that Blayze thought the police man was here for them or some other kind of unfortunate event. Chance was certain, that if the man was, then he could escape with relative ease-- he had given many other officers of the law the slip over the years. Something always seemed to work out in his favour.
"Ryuka Shiuzo!" He puffed out with some manner of pride. He liked his name very much-- it was unique and very much his own. Actually, Shiuzo was the only part of his proper name-- the Ryuka had been given to him by his mentor, who called him that out of a grudging affection for the bratty child. "An' that's Blayze, but don't mind him cos he doesn't really like coppers very much."
The man crouched down in front of him. Chance smiled and watched him curiously. While before his fingers would have been tricking, his mind thinking of ways to snatch that very shiny and tempting watch from his wrist, now those urges were gone and replaced only by curiousity and friendliness. His time with Aubre had been very good for him. He had gone from a dirty, hungry and lonely street child to a boy who looked like he might be any other child from a normal family-- aside fro[m the fact that he was in the slums on his own, where no sane child would ever dare to go.
"I'm ten! My birthday's in a few months, an' I'm super excited for it cos I'mma have a super big party an' invite alla the sparkly ladies an' Aubre, an' everyone else and I'm gonna give them lots of presents cos they're all really nice an' I finally got money cos I have a paper route!" He was talkative-- very talkative and it was a wonder he did not trip over his own words at the speed that he spoke. He loved talking with other people and given half a chance, he would ramble their ears off and make their eyes glaze over with surprised shock at just how much this little child had to say. Where did all of those words even come from?
"...Nik-nik?"
The voice was so quiet it may have even gone unnoticed. Blayze, his eyes wide, voice a trembling whisper, stood a few feet off to the side, his eyes wide in shock and disbelief. The word had been his own and Chance's affectionate term for the man when the boy had been too young to speak the man's name properly. While Chance may have not remembered the man-- Blayze did.
He could not believe his eyes. |
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Post by Nikita Z. Harris on Dec 3, 2013 21:35:19 GMT -5
The dog moved through the nearby alleyway. His ears, erect and attentive, swiveled like darkened-satellite dishes. Fragile paw pads, scarred and pocked with years, easily picked their way over shattered glass and broken needles. Orange eyes narrowed slightly as the noises grew louder. Nostrils flared. Burnt orange lips shifted away from large canines. Heat billowed out from between dark gums. The depths of his chest began to vibrate; his slim form erupted into a gravelly grown.
Flames began to flicker and pop within his jaw. His paws tightened against the ground. Claws dug into the dirt. He took a step or two forward. The badge hanging from his holster (around his neck), he refused to refer to it as a harness or collar, shone in the dank alleyway. “I am an officer of the law--- Detective Winters! I will use force if you choose not to reveal yourself. I am well-aware of your damned presence. I am too old to play hide-and-seek.” His muzzle folded into a snarl. His tail, tipped with a spade, was stiff and unyielding. Claws tested the alley dirt beneath his feet. Nostrils flared as he sniffed. Larger plumes of flame, like demonic dental floss, forced their way between ivory fangs.
He snarled into the corner. Flames licked at a nearby bag of black rubber, garbage, and old paper. He doubted the audibly disadvantaged creatures, the humans, heard so much as a squeak. The target hid behind a crumbling refrigerator box. I know this stench! Come out here! I will put cuffs around you otherwise—my teeth work. Sadly, aas he lacked thumbs or super-powers, the handcuffs hanging from his bullet-proof vest were mostly meant as a prank. They were locked. One embarrassing knight spent locked against a lamp post, when a criminal turned crafty, was too many.
Something leapt from the shadows.
He had last seen his family at 6:01 AM on a Thursday evening. The numbers on the clock, which seemed so unimportant as he closed the doors, had been permanently imprinted on his retinas.
Nikita knew nothing f that night. The police officer had left early in the morning for work. His wife, had been gifted with a final kiss upon the forehead. For some reason, hair in a tangled mess and snoring, she looked beautiful. The children, ranging from toddler to nearly thirty, had been given a final farewell. Making the rounds, dress-shoes scraping silently across the floor, the detective exchanged one job for another. He entrusted his family into god’s hands. The city was in need of his protection. The six-sided badge of the city police force, something he valued just as deeply as family, was pinned onto his vest. The door closed.
The call came in. The house he had spent nearly half of his life in was just a pile of wood and smoke. Nikita had felt himself shatter. He had not been there to help that boy out of the closet; he had likely, since that night, made other children cower within them. The raven-haired man remembered one thing. He knew the feelings of brain splattering against his fingertips; fingers trembled as he, without any firefight to excuse his actions, pulled the trigger. The man died. The accomplice, quivering beside him, received the same fight. It did not seem to help at first; it was immoral. Nikita had never stopped. Drinking, cigarettes, and work kept the pain away. The self-abuse accomplished one other thing.
It stopped him from remembering.
The cigarette twitched like the tail of an irritated cat. The lower-half of Nikita’s face twisted into a sneer. Some children needed to be spoken with about the principles of respect. In all truth, with dark bags beneath his eyes and a body living by caffeine alone, the head of the special-investigation team did need some sleep. The dark-haired man would be the eternal guardian; he cared little for wasting his time with sleep. He refused to succumb. Being overly lax on the day his family died, all those years ago, had lost him everything.
Fingers clenched tighter. Knuckles turned white. Muscles tightened in his arms , shoulders, and lower jaw. Dark eyes flashed dangerously. Turning his head, this slum-dweller did not deserve lung cancer, Nikita took another three drags from the stick resting in his mouth. Ashes dropped to the ground. The two different colored eyes slipped closed. Dark lashes left shadows over sharply-edged cheeks. Lips parted to allow irritation to siphon away. The reply to Chance was cold, composed, and free of any hinting of annoyance. “Yes, boy. I am a detective with the Remoorian police force. “ The irritating tones reminded him of someone. The person in mind, with the same colored hair, had given him this same migraine.
The snort produced a puff of storm-colored smoke. The child was far more likely to need a nap than a grown man“I do not need a nap. I am not a Kindergartner; I am also far from being considered elderly .” His stubbornness reared its head. A red eye narrowed. The blue turned into the tiniest slit of ocean water. The gaze seemed to have little tolerance for nonsense. Children made his dead-old heart crack. For some reason, one he could not understand, most still approached him with large-smiles. I do not deserve it—you would run if you knew anything, boy.. The name drew his lips down. The syllables sounded like gibberish; many parents named their children odd things. “ . . .that was far from the name I was expecting.” Regardless, as many of the younger people informed him, he was an outdated piece of law-and-order.. “Ten.” The math was correct; it did not mean anything. Millions of children had been born that same year with blonde hair. The youngest of the Harris children , a toddler with blonde hair, would be about ten-years old if he had survived. Nikita blinked as if waking up from a long sleep. Had it truly been such a long time? The grey in his hair was the only sign of time’s passage. The rest of the words, mere meaningless prattle, was ignored.
Lifting his eyes to the Vulpix, feeling his stomach do a flip-flop, Nikita would have quickly dismissed the little fox. He avoided anything that reminded him too deeply of his past. Blood on your hands seemed much more tangible when accompanied by bitter-sweet memories. “I would like to ask him why he does n—“ They kept murderers away. He was the reason things like Trey Lutkar rotted in hell.
Rough nails drew blood from Nikita’s own calloused palms. The man heard the vulpine speak. The words took a moment to settle in. While he had responded, with good mirth, he preferred other nicknames. The children had an issue with the alternatives; they could have called him anything as long as ‘grandpa’ was included. “Blayze. . .” Nikita shook his head to clear away the hallucination. Fingertips rose to rub at his wire-rimmed glasses. Sssshk! The cigarette dropped into a puddle of oil, sludge, and brackish water. The jaw, formerly solid as stone, went slack. The man remembered pulling this Vulpix from its litter. The smile as it was given to the young man beside him.” “I think insomnia has finally caught up with me. What are the chances . .?”
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Post by Haruki "Chance" Shiuzo on Jan 5, 2014 6:11:25 GMT -5
tags- nikita@nikita
words- 561
notes- dumb post is dumb. apologies.
He did not remember.
In some ways he did not care to remember and thus chose to block out the memories. All but one. The feeling of being abandoned. Of being left alone and lost and hungry and cold. That feeling had followed him around his entire life, moving from one person to the next. In the end everyone went away and he hated it. But he was a child and despite the many things that he had seen and done in order to survive he still did not know how to hate and instead forgave. But the innocence of childhood could not last forever and for Chance, most of it had already been stripped away from him.
Happily Chance took a step forward, familiarity stripping away any fear that he might have felt. This man was much like the others he had met. Those cold eyes did not tell him to stay away; like a moth to a flame he was drawn to them. These kinds of people were dangerous if you were the wrong sort of person but Chance was a kid. He was small and tiny and generally harmless so there were not many people that he had to fear from-- and those that he did he was able to recognize for the most part and avoid.
Chance laughed happily. "Don't matter how old or young y' are if you push y'rsef past your limits you can use a nap." He replied with a faint wisdom. But if this man wanted to keep going on until he dropped dead of exhaustion than that was his own choice and nothing that would affect Chance. So far that he knew anyways.
Proudly he puffed his chest out. "My name is special an' unique, a'least t' me it is." He had spent too many years on the street. Whatever other names he might have had were lost to the wind-- those two words remained only because of the little fox beside him and his mentor who had been strange in so many ways, the least of which was insisting calling people their full name when he was angry. And he had been angry often: how many times had he left Chance with dark and angry bruises? He'd already forgotten about those days; anything unpleasant was left in a lock box in the closet of his own memories. There were many lock boxes in that dark and cold place.
Blayze did not keep those lock boxes locked. No he kept everything out in the open and forgot nothing. His ears, the edges ripped from fights, fell back, his legs trembling. His tails, still ragged and torn, curled up against his belly. He looked like he was going to be sick. Maybe he was. How could this be?
Chance looked between the two of them, not comprehending. Not wanting to. If he had realized it there and then, he would have fled no questions asked and another lock box would have been set in that closet. But he did not understand at first and that was just enough time for the wheels of fate to take another path: perhaps a kinder one, or crueler. That was yet to be seen.
Blayze stepped forward, trembling, trying to see if it was really not just an illusion of his own head. "You... You're really here?" |
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Post by Nikita Z. Harris on Jan 10, 2014 6:08:56 GMT -5
(Have this crap <3. Nikita can’t figure out his emotions—I am going to decipher him soon.)
The dual-colored eyes narrowed. The chill intensified for a moment. Finally, asi f pressure was being vented, he brushed aside his anger. This was a boy; its parents may have forgotten to inform him of respecting his elders. Rubbing tired eyes, resisting the urge of an ironic nod, Nikita took a deep breath. When he allowed his gaze to lift to the blonde again, tears dotting the corners of his eyes, he looked far worse. It seemed as if the very mention of a nap had sapped energy from his bones. “I am not past my limits, child..” The frustration was shoved aside. He was the adult. “ I assure you, if I feel pushed past my limits, I will certainly ask for your assistance.” The dark-haired man had been his niece’s favorite. His children enjoyed spending time with him; he had been the first person informed, in a hushed voice, when his daughter became pregnant. In his current mood, which many might relate to that of a deadly teenager, it seemed unlikely any child had liked him. A siesta would set everything right.
The dual-colored eyes narrowed. The chill intensified for a moment. Finally, asi f pressure was being vented, he brushed aside his anger. This was a boy; its parents may have forgotten to inform him of respecting his elders. Rubbing tired eyes, resisting the urge of an ironic nod, Nikita took a deep breath. When he allowed his gaze to lift to the blonde again, tears dotting the corners of his eyes, he looked far worse. It seemed as if the very mention of a nap had sapped energy from his bones. “I am not past my limits, child..” The frustration was shoved aside. He was the adult. “ I assure you, if I feel pushed past my limits, I will certainly ask for your assistance.” The dark-haired man had been his niece’s favorite. His children enjoyed spending time with him; he had been the first person informed, in a hushed voice, when his daughter became pregnant. In his current mood, which many might relate to that of a deadly teenager, it seemed unlikely any child had liked him.
A siesta would set everything right—except his stomach Collapsing onto his face, likely buried in old cases, might be the end of the man. He ignored his health. Nikita no longer cared. Food was rarely consumed. In fact, while not homeless, his form had obviously not eaten recently. The hands were gaunt. The man had actually adapted to a diet consisting mostly of vodka mixed with the most intermittent of unhealthy snacks.
How many children had he met whose life was ruined by a nickname—natural or peer-given? Regardless, as the minor did not seem overly encumbered, it was not Nikita’s place to critique. If the name was proven fake, or the alias of a criminal, it would be a different matter. Nodding once, turning to stare at an odd stain upon the old factory, the detective spoke. His words carried the obvious hints of disinterest. “It is certainly unique, at least, boy.” If this little thing was ever arrested, for any reason, it was unlikely he would forget the name. His memory, even after the chemicals his brain had pickled in, remained needle-sharp. It might have been denial that kept recognition away; Nikita had tried his best to forget his family had once existed. It hurt less that way. Fewer rotten criminals died.
Nikita could no longer truly feel. The wall he had built around those memories was thick, opaque, and unyielding. The emotions, tucked deep inside and latched like the infamous Pandora’s Box, were buried far deeper. It had been replaced with rage, indifference, and addictions The feeling of hot acid in his throat as his wife turned to ash before him was subdued. Fingers had brushed charred flesh and felt it flake away like powdery snow. The tears had poured openly that day. In truth, unless it was due to chemicals, he had likely cried only three or four times since. The man’s family was a forbidden topic within his organization. The vaguest of mentions would draw fire from within—the tightly sealed box possessed defense mechanisms. The frozen heart soared skyward for a brief moment; it quickly tumbled into a pit of suspicion. Staring at the little Vulpix, its scarred form cowering, the red-and-blue gaze narrowed. “You know, while I am inclined to believe you Blayze, this seems too convenient.” Moving from his kneeled position, with a grown, the greying man teetered. Turning away from the little vulpine, back straightening with cracks, he moved to hover over Chance. “Tell me, Ryuka Shizuo,” His voice softened as the viciousness echoed back. “Have we met before?” The face was similar—it was older. He could imagine the chubby cheeks of the toddler, in time, becoming that of the boy before him.
Tears, as if they had forgotten how, refused to flow. Happiness was quickly crushed. Hope, when done without certainty, was a foolhardy emotion.
Then again, if someone was attempting to trap him, they would attempt to find a half-way decent likeness. Criminals, while many were not the sharpest tools in the shed, were often cunning. Turning back to the fox, feeling he was far more grounded, another question was ground out. “Blayze, if you are who you claim, do you happen to remember anything that may confirm your identity.” A dog snarled in the distance. Something, or someone, screamed.
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Post by Haruki "Chance" Shiuzo on Jan 25, 2014 19:43:07 GMT -5
tags- nikita@nikita
words- 960ish
notes- chance ;^;
Chance tilted his head to the side. He paused. This one was obviously stubborn. He dropped the subject, deciding not to push against a subject that he seemed so very stubborn to deny. People were just like that sometimes. If they didn't like something than they'd just pretend it wasn't there, or wasn't happening. They'd literally push themselves way past their limits, even to death, no matter what the cost was. "I'm just a kid! Iffin you really need assistance you'da gone to one of those adult's places." Adults rarely asked kids for help. When they underestimated a kid it made it a lot easier to get away with things that they wouldn't expect a kid to do. That was one of the things that his mentor had taught him and it had been very true.
Tilting his head to the other side, he studied the man with a great deal of curiousity. If it wasn't for the copper's outfit, he would have thought that he was another person from off of the streets of the slums. The cold expression was there, the gaunt frame and chilly demeanor. He would have fit right in. As for what sort he would be, he wasn't sure. Someone in a position of power, no doubt.
Blayze, on the other hand, knew who this man was, and the change was shocking. He had a very good memory, and he was very smart. To see the kindly, loving figure that they had once sat upon the knees of, being told stories about knights and heroes, reduced to such a state sent shocked chills running up and down his spine. The fur on his back bristled up, his tails stiffly held out behind himself. How could it be? Surely he was just hallucinating but he'd never done anything like that before. Chance did not remember who he was-- that much was obvious.
Carefully he winded against Chance's legs, trying to push him backwards, away from the man. What if this was all some kind of cruel illusion? They'd made enemies on their times in the streets. He could not trust his own memories that was was real, nor trust his eyes. He remained silent. He knew full well how Chance felt about what he did remember-- how many times had he heard him quietly weeping in the night, alone and cold and hungry? The feeling of complete abandonment, of being lost and empty that had consumed them both before shoving the past behind them and moving onward? He did not want Chance to relive those painful memories and feelings. They had a new life now, after all-- with Aubre and all of their friends. The pain was not gone but it was forgotten-- hidden away in some deep corner.
Chance was not stupid. He stared at the man, feeling a faint uncomfortable feeling rising up in the pit of his stomach. Memories fought to swim to the surface-- he fought back to bury them again. He did not want to have a family-- he did not want to run the risk of being so hurt again-- even if his father or mother had reappeared before his eyes, alive and well again, he more than likely would have chosen to run away again then stay behind and face them. The hurt, irrational and heartfelt, was there deeply. He was not just hurt-- he was angry and bitter and a tiny flame of hate at the perceived abandonment still flickered within the deepest depths.
He had not been called Ryuka in a long time-- it was all Chance now. Just the slightest bit frightened, and both cautiously and curiously, he replied, "I ain't never been hangin' with coppers." He resisted the urge to step back and run away. Something was happening here. He count not put his finger as to what it was.
Blayze looked up at the man, picking out familiar details, studying him. The voice was the same-- if you looked past the harsh effect the man's addictions had on it. His smell, underneath the same effects, had the same scent of memory. His face, the eyes-- could it really be true. Slowly, he spoke, "We lived in a big house. You used to tell us stories about heroes and knights." He had been a tiny kit back then but those had been some of the happiest years-- surrounded in a comforting sensation of safety and love. "Mom-- you picked me out of her litter. I remember being scared, but y-you were so comforting. And you gave me to Chance." His voice faltered. "We used to sit outside on the deck, and you told us all about the different stars, and constellations..." Now he was surely just attaching memories to reality. No way this could be real.
Chance, listening to Blayze, felt a sickening dropping sensation rising up in his stomach. Memories, unwanted, flooded forth like a gate. He found his voice, shaking and with a hint of hurt anger in it, "I I got abandoned-- e-everyone left me all alone..." The memories, of confusion and starvation, of freezing, alone and lost in the rain flooded back, tears filling bright green eyes. Fire, heat-- they surrounded the memories, with hot biting flames. "It was hot, a-and I was so scared but--" He took a step back, trembling now from head to foot. "You said families don't abandon families but you lied!" Who was he referring to? His father, mother, the man in front? He did not know, and did not care. He wanted to run away and forget again.
As the scream pierced the air, Chance turned and fled, desperately trying to escape the painful memories threatening to overwhelm him. He ran, as if the flames of hell themselves were licking at his feet.
Blayze took one desperate look at the man who represented that long ago past, then turned and ran after Chance. |
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Post by Nikita Z. Harris on Jan 28, 2014 6:03:28 GMT -5
What was the cost of his death, in truth? The crime-rate may have ticked up a few. Some of the cold cases he so diligently solved, many of which laid upon his desk to be reviewed at a later date, would remain frigid some time longer. Nikita knew the consequences of his actions. A machine pushed too hard, for far too long, would eventually explode into cogs and gears. His heart could give out. His mind, straddling the line between anger and bottomless despair, might finally snap in two. Nikita just massaged at his temples. How dare a brat suggest he take a nap---? It might have amused him when he was younger. “ . . .I see. I think I shall consult an adult-place at a later date.” This was ridiculous. Children, as he had raised four, rarely went past his radar. He knew they were capable of mischief. Chance, with both eyes trained upon him, was unlikely to wiggle out of trouble. His likely partner, the man in the factory, wouldn’t either.
Had the slums rubbed off on Nikita? The gauntness had existed long before his move. The chilly demeanor, frown, and tired-expression had not. When the house had been cleared, the insurance companies coming forth with checks, the idea of rebuilding had made him want to vomit. The money still sat in a vault. Nearly all of his paychecks, which he truly had no need for, were left to sit in the cool embrace of a safety deposit box. Day to day, surrounded by graffiti and degradation, he walked through these alleyways. A man like him did not deserve better. Why should he live in a nice home---when his ineptitude allowed this area to remain disgraceful? The crime gave him something to combat. It was harder to do that, one of the heads of the S.I.F or not, from an ivory balcony.
Nikita had been the generous one in his family. He had never known hunger, poverty, or true pain. The family he had come from, rather wealthy, had shook his head at his choice in profession. It was for the same reasons he had become a cop, a desire to help, that had made him such a gentle caregiver. His knee, with five different children upon it, should have collapsed from the weight. The man had been the one toting the little ones around. Jokes had been plentiful. His laughter, a foreign and bitter noise now, had once filled the home. That had all burned with his wife. A pampered lifestyle, with foreign vacations, did not truly prepare him for his own pain. Then, finding his brother the cause, had destroyed the rest.
Then again, in such an odd circumstance, who was hallucinating? Was it the tiny fox, looking up with a child’s eyes, or the grandfather? Had his sleep deprivation finally caught up to his aging body? Hopefully. Nikita truly did not want to deal with a living relative. He would have to face them. It was preferable to face down a gang o armed felons. The dark-haired man remembered how to deal with them.
In terms of their defense mechanisms, bitter anger and fleeing, the pair were obviously related. Nikita, while his flame burned gold, had made it his duty to lash at that which angered him. Each and every day, depriving himself happiness, he took revenge on another villain: himself. This was an hallucination. This boy was just a siren. He had met mutants who could project illusions. But, how did they knew how he appeared? Where had the knowledge came from? “ …you have not ever hung around with police officers.” The butchery of words made Nikita wrinkle his nose in distaste. This was not the slums of London. Those eyes, two different and distinct colors (like the lights of a cop car), stared down at the boy. He remembered his name quite well; Nikita had wondered at the reasoning behind it. What had been wrong with ‘Ryan’ or ‘Leonard’?
Damn this Vulpix! Shut up! Enough of this charade! The eyes bristled like porcupine quills for a moment. These were flames that flickered hwen his family was mentioned. The bitter ones of anger and guilt that served as a warning. It was as plain as the rattle on a venomous snake. The man remembered those stories. That silly book, by the time it was Chance’s turn, had nearly fallen apart. Had that been three bears on its cover or one giant one? Nikita remembered going with the young parents to pick out that first Pokemon. As neither of them had been employed at the time, trying to better themselves, grandfather had paid for the little bundle. One tear fell. He had went through the same process nearly six times before—it had been Nikita to give all those Pokemon away. Another tear. Four more. A steeling of his features---no! The word rose to his lips, unbidden. “Ryuka.”
Anger, surprisingly hot, washed over his head. Bewildered, hearing his own nightmares spoken aloud, Nikita rocked back on his heels. Then, just like that, the kid had raced off. For a moment, staring at the warehouse, the lithe man debated two paths. Then, with a whistle, he moved after Chance. He had to know. Fit, maybe fitter than a fiddle, he was easily able to keep pace. “Fuck it. That bastard isn’t going anywhere--Winters will take care of him.” He was referring to the criminal.
There were other questions in need of answers. Who had stolen his grandson? Who had filled the brat's head with nonsense? Which asshole had ruined his lessons in grammar and proper speech? The cigarette disappeared into a puddle. A Pokeball was thrown. A large finger, hunkering with fur of cream, appeared in front of Chance. There were two chances: run through the Chesnaught or down the alley to the side.
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