#spark 6

“You worry,” Konro finally states.

Yes. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ve been trying to get your attention for several minutes. You’re worrying ‘bout [Y/N]...you don’t like that she’s on her own with Haijima and the Temple after her.”

“We don’t know if they are.”

The risk is huge, though, as rumours are circulating – and not just in Asakusa either: a few “leisurely” visits to bars in neighbouring districts had quickly payed off in the form of whispered gossip. And yeah, the people Benimaru had overheard were all civilians but his distrust of the governing bodies fed into what some would consider conspiracy theories.

“...and I don’t worry.”

Simply smiling knowingly, the older man sips his tea and allows the silence to become the answer. Faint notes of jasmine and camellia cocoon them in an attempt to create a fragile, peaceful bubble. Under normal circumstances that would work. This time, however, one of them men remains jittery, his mind losing a battle against unwanted concerns.

“Why would I even worry? You’ve no reason to think that.”

Konro tries to smother a laugh. “I’ve known you since you were a kid, Beni,” he snickers, “and in all that time I’ve never seen anyone get you as riled up as she does.”

“That’s ‘cause she’s infuriating!”

And she is. Uncooperative, stubborn, reckless, unpredictable, strange, intriguing, resourceful, charming (to those she likes). Fuck. Loath to admit it, the captain has to accept that the list of adjectives would be filled with increasingly positive traits if he were to continue trying to define the woman.

It hardly matters, though. It’s been almost a week and despite the rumours flourishing beyond Asakusa, there hasn’t been a single tangible bit of evidence that [Y/N] is still roaming free somewhere. Maybe, she’s taken his warning seriously and done a proper job at hiding this time, but the risk is great that she’s been caught by either of the authorities for testing.

They’d see her as a blank slate. Someone who clearly has some pyrochinetic ability latent, waiting to be triggered and possibly shaped to fit the needs of the situation in which it arises. She’d be an experiment. A test subject bombarded with horrors until either Haijima or the Temple accomplish what they want...or dispose of her as a failure.

“Listen,” Konro tries to appease, “I don’t want her falling into their hands either and I’ve got both eyes and ears open. Maybe we’ll find her in time.”

...  Reader   ...

Staring at the paper in your hands, the writing blurs in comparison to the picture of two men with attempted smiles – one of them is holding a framed photograph of a pair of sisters, the other father clenches a plushy. Even if the scene is monochrome you know the singed, floppy ear of the toy rabbit is purple. It’s the stiff way they sit that call forth tears which you angrily wipe away. It’s their eyes focused beyond the camera, at whomever choreographed the whole thing from the way they sit to the text which you still haven’t read. You know it’s not the men’s words anyways, despite what the text claims.

“W-where’d y’get this?”

You hate how shaky your voice is. Hate the slight wince that not even the Joker can hide.

“Let’s just say I’ve got...friends in the right places.” The hesitation is obvious to anyone with trust issues, but you decide not to dig into it. “Don’t worry...daddies are still at home, nice and safe and under surveillance in case you show up.”

How? You’d purposely stayed away for more than a year after having seen them through the anguish of rebuilding a life with both daughters gone. Staying away from the neighbourhood and all the places you knew they might frequent...and still they’d been dragged into a manhunt without knowing half of what was going on. Or do they? No. Haijima and the Temple would tell them a lie, that much is clear from the few lines seeping into your consciousness from below the picture. ‘Kidnapped’, ‘vulnerable’, ‘return her home’, ‘reward’.

“Tell me,” your strange rescuer puffs, “why are you so keen on not getting caught by them? They could help you with your powers.”

You suppose it’s a logical question, one that aligns with the plan you’d come up with once the initial panic and concern had faded away during the first weeks alone:

Squeezed in between the dumpsters, you could only see glimpses of the third special fire force company’s battle against the infernals. You could hear the burning screams; wailing, high pitched, cursing the living while craving their souls. One by one, the fiery beings were extinguished. Latôm.

But your legs were shaking too much for you to crawl out of your hiding spot and all you could do was sit and try to breathe. In and out. Thoughts swirled in your head, obscured by a different kind of smoke, and it was the dry voice of one from the third company that brought your attention back to the world:

“What a shame,” he complained in a hush to another, “I was sure it would work this time.”

“More tests,” was the curt answer, “the more we discover and get control over, the closer we’ll get.”

The words held little meaning to a scared teenager but you understood – no, you wanted to think – they were trying to find a way to stop infernals from appearing.

“The faster they combust, the sooner we can find a new Atolla. Burn the place down.”

“Until then...we managed to get those,” the second consoled icily and you saw his shadow point to two children.

Frightened, crying snot so hard that one of them is hiccup’ing, it was clear they didn’t want to be a part of whatever the men were talking about. The first man, wearing a high hat and glasses over a bird-like mask, bend to look at them, giving you the impression that he might as well have been scrutinizing the craftsmanship of a woodworker rather than human beings.

“They won’t be missed?” he inquired.

It seemed to amuse his friend. “Missed? Who’d miss sticky little maggots like these? Besides, it’s for the Cause.”

A few days later, you saw the red-eyed mother handing out homemade pamphlets with description and picture of one of the children.

A week after that, you saw the kid holding on tight to a hand as they walked down a busy street. Not tight enough, though. The boy cried out in distress at being abandoned at first until the confused sounds morphed into screams of agony as flames sprouted from his eyes, arms, body. As you fled the scene, you could have sworn you saw the masked man retreat into an alley.

“I don’t know much about them, but I don’t trust them. They hurt kids. People.”