Zenith Rosenkreuz's Story

That owl was intelligent. More intelligent than an animal had any right to be. It was obvious in the way it looked at him. Sora graced it with the barest tilt of his mouth, cocking his head to one side. I know what you are. But there was no danger in this, because he also didn’t much care. Still, he wasn’t sure how she hadn’t been found out by now, if she let the thing follow her around like that. Who’d ever heard of a human with an owl for a pet, let alone one who smelled so strange. He shrugged to himself; none of his damn business, anyway.

The sound of a snapping string caused a twinge—he hadn’t meant to cause her to break anything, which was why he’d waited until the song was over. Her reply to his presence could have instigated an argument, if he’d wanted it to. I have as much right to be here as you do, princess, don’t try to tell me what to do. Or something trite like that. Instead, he let the comment pass in indifferent silence; it was hardly the clever reply she was capable of, and he supposed he must have caught her off-guard with the suddenness of his appearance.

The comment afterwards, though, did demand an answer. “Feeling a bit off today, are we, Fujiwara? Your comebacks are usually much better than this. What ‘creeper’ lets himself be seen?” He asked nonchalantly, glancing around the room. There was nothing particularly interesting about it, and so he settled for making eye contact again. Apparently, that was the socially-acceptable thing to do. He did it only because the range of expression that faces were capable of producing was telling, and much more interesting than staring at blank walls.

Her reply to that was just downright dismissive, and she seemed inclined to be leaving already. The hell is wrong with you today, Fujiwara? He hadn’t even gotten a proper scolding out of the deal. Instead, he’d been thanked. She must be sick or something, and he just blinked at her for a second, huffing a breath from his lungs as she disappeared beyond the doorway, disturbing the locks of hair that hung over his forehead. Well, that had been about thirty times more boring than usual. Shaking his head, Sora hopped from the windowsill and ran a hand through his hair, contemplating the wisdom of actually sleeping.

Ultimately deciding against it, he struck out down the hallway and back out onto the grounds. It wasn’t like he ever slept much, anyhow. He’d never really needed to—a few hours here and there was plenty to keep him going. He put it down to his childhood, and training that involved pushing hi and his siblings to the limits of their bodies’ capacities: forced insomnia, blood starvation… they’d been run till they were practically delusional and then forced to fight their ancestors. Nobody had ever accused vampire clans of being sane, and the Tsukinos had always taken things to extremes even then.

Whatever the case, his wanderings soon took him around the building, where he happened upon something most irregular: a group of vampires (and some humans, from the smell of it) were crowded around a tree. Frowning openly, Sora drew his brows together and went to investigate. There were a very limited number of things that would attract the attention of both species—you’ve got to be shitting me.

It wasn’t hard to tell upon approaching that the lollygaggers were actually observing someone sleeping. How messed up was that? Not to mention the fact that the sleeper was actually his practically-nonexistent roommate, though that really didn’t figure into what he did next.

“What the fuck is wrong with you people?” Sora asked the assembled group, mostly women. This caused several heads to turn in his direction, most of them shooting him glares. A few looked properly chastised and colored in embarrassment, hurrying along on their way to wherever they’d been going before getting caught up in this stupidity. For all that, though, there were about four who stayed, and one found her voice relatively easily.

“Oh look, it’s the dirt-eating thin-blood. Why don’t you run along and go drain a human, Tsukino?” She was lucky there weren’t any more humans around, running her mouth like that.

He’d have been angry if he didn’t find it all so damn laughable. “Come up with that all by yourself, did you Karena? Or did daddy have to help you? Seriously, fuck off you idiots—how’d you like it if somebody stared at you while you were trying to sleep?” To think Fujiwara had called him a creeper. He had nothing on these ‘fans’ of Zenith’s.

Karena looked like she was ready to respond, but her tune abruptly changed when he took a step closer. If Zenith was considered beautiful by the majority of the population, Sora was terrifying when he wanted to be, and it was wiser to avoid him when he was irritated. The look they were getting could likely have peeled paint with its blistering nature, and with much posturing and dignified sniffing, they all sashayed away. “Goddamn morons. He’s a person, not a thing,” the young vampire muttered. A sharp exhale, and Sora shook his head. He should probably find somewhere else to sleep, though. Less public, maybe. Casting a speculative glance at the other pureblood, he opted to leave him there. Maybe it would take them a while to reform now that he’d scared them off.

It shouldn’t matter, really, he decided as he stalked off, but it kind of did. It was never for the same reason, but he knew what it was like to have people look at you and forget you had your own mind about things, like you were some kind of object for them to own. He’d always been more a weapon than the trinket those people seemed to think Zenith was, but the idea was basically the same in the end. Jamming his hands into his coat pockets, Sora allowed his awareness of the world around him to expand, his mind to empty of anything but the processing needed to properly identify all the sensations that came to him. It was meditative, in a way, and helped keep him in control of himself.

No mean feat, when just about everything about this place pissed him off so much.

Sora halted in his tread away from the door at the sound of his roommate’s voice. Great, he’d had an audience for his incredible stupidity. Just what he needed. And what was the guy doing here anyway? Shouldn’t he be trying to avoid large hordes of admirers or something? Almost as if to check that there were none, the dark man’s eyes focused over the light one’s shoulders for a minute. Nope. No slavering herds of fangirls. That was just plain unusual. He couldn’t imagine that his overly-polite roommate had actually properly told them off for once, so maybe he was just getting better at hiding or something.

Sora’s reply, such as it was, was automatic. “Rosenkreuz.” He inclined his head slightly, but it was not a gesture of deference, just acknowledgement. If there was one thing to be said in favor of his incredibly-blunt mannerisms, it was that at least he always treated people like people. He may not have it in him to defer to anyone, but he wasn’t such an ass that he’d completely ignore somebody who seemed to lack ill intentions.

Still, it wasn’t like he had anything else to say, and there was no way the guy was here for him, so he continued on his way, Midori at his side stopping to offer the other vampire a more complete, if equally irreverent “Good evening, Mr. Rosenkreuz.” With her, though, it was the slightly sly tone that always accomplished this, rather than the brevity of her phrases.

He thought he was going to escape this bizarre incident unscathed, but his shoulders stiffened when he heard the door open behind him. It was followed by the sound of Fujiwara’s marching feet, and he turned around again with resignation. It was more than a little irritating that whatever tongue-lashing she was going to give him now was going to have onlookers, but then they fought in relatively public locations fairly often, so it probably wouldn’t seem that far removed from the ordinary. She’d grabbed his hand, forcing the neutral set of his mouth back into a deep scowl—people did not touch him, ever—and drew back her free one. Oh, so it was going to be the violence thing? He could probably deal with—

What? was the only thought that properly registered for a few seconds after that. The rest was just sensation: arms, thin but strong, wrapped around his torso, a face pressed into his uniform shirt, the unfamiliar contours of another’s form. What the fuck was going on? Midori’s cat-laughter was the only audible sound, and he shot her a venomous glare, holding his hands awkwardly at his sides because he wasn’t sure what to do with them.

You’re supposed to hug back, the cat informed him smugly, which he supposed meant that he ought to put his arms around her, too, but what of his face? He couldn’t really do exactly the same thing she was doing, nor did he have a particular desire to. Sora had not been hugged before in his life; it wasn’t something that was done in his family, nor had anyone else ever shown the faintest inkling of wanting to. In the end, he just placed a hand on Fujiwara’s shoulder with some hesitation and waited it out, weathering his considerable awkwardness as well as he could. His first thought had been that she was trying to crush the wind out of him, which was an awfully difficult way to try killing someone, but he’d thought she at least had points for guts.

The way Midori spoke of this, though, it was not an act of violence at all, which puzzled him. Still, he allowed it for the sake of what he’d promised, since that was the only way he could really think of it. Eventually, she drew away on her own, and he made no effort to hide the perplexed look on his face, one that only deepened when she thanked him again. This was officially the weirdest day he’d ever had.

Then she mentioned fixing a mistake, and he supposed maybe something he’d said had made sense after all. He stayed in place until she’d disappeared around the corner, then shot a glance at Rosenkreuz.

“…I don’t understand people.”

And that was really all he could say about it.

“Hell man,” Sora replied plainly, raising both hands in a gesture of something between refusal and surrender, “None of that bowing shit, please. I just… did what seemed right at the time. You don’t need to thank me for being an impulsive bastard. Don’t even like ‘em, anyway,” he finished, more muttering the last sentence than properly stating it. The people who’d been creeping on Zenith were some of the same ones that glared at him with derision for daring to be the guy’s randomly selected roommate, for the love of fuck. Frankly, the opportunity to start something with them was welcome… or something like that.

Anyway, Rosenkreuz left after that, which was just fine by Sora, who was pretty sure he could use an opportunity to get away from all this complicated stuff and back to something simple… like killing things. That was the easiest thing in the world. Some people might find that unfortunate, but to him it was just normal. He was a Tsukino, and the family business was bringing death to the deathless. That still applied even if half the family was dead.

Reaching into his pocket, he extracted the piece of paper and read the name. Hm. He knew this one; interesting. He would not have picked the man on it to be involved in the killings of his family, but Sachiko was never wrong. Though they slew without mercy, his family was also absolutely scrupulous about researching their targets first. No death without a reason, and none without a cause. His reasons were the best ones he knew, and he was the only cause. None other guided his hand any longer, for this was the path he’d chosen for himself. He would not allow anyone else to define him any longer. Fate would not have him, to place in chains and yank around at her will. He forged his own chains, and bound himself only because nobody was truly free.

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His target was some miles from Cross, but he was hardly concerned with missing class. If all went according to plan, he’d be back before the passing period. From his locked closet, he took the arms and armament he wanted—though he could just as easily fight with his body alone, he preferred to conduct electricity through metal objects, preferably bladed ones if at all possible. To this end, his preferred implement was a split-bladed knife of about a foot and a half in length, somewhere between a dagger and a sword, though he also concealed a number of throwing knives and some wires on his person. A proper assassin was never without at least five backup plans, and if ever there was a proper assassin, he was it.

Last was the pearly-white mask, unadorned save for the fuchsia marking slashing one eye.

There! It looks so much better that way, don’t you think?

He had not the heart to change the design. Better that the last thing those bastards saw before they died carried some trace of their forgotten collateral damage, anyway. Nobody was insignificant or unimportant. Nobody. He’d make damn sure they knew it before he ripped them apart.

Crossing to the opposite side of his room, Sora opened the window, releasing it even as his fingers began to take on a strange, feathery pattern. Most vampiric transformations were instantaneous, lost in a burst of light or something of that nature. Sora’s was strangely beautiful, or at least he’d been told so. Perhaps there was something to be said for it, the way the feathers appeared first as tattoo-black on his skin, erupting from the surface of it even as he shrank, the front of his mask distending into a hooked beak and turning the black of obsidian, or perhaps onyx. The wings burst from his back, and he stretched his arms to his side, that they might meld into these. Within a few seconds, he was a large, entirely night-colored falcon, and he hopped onto the windowsill, taking off and spreading his wings in silent flight out the window.

His destination took him a few minutes to reach, and he chose to land out-of-sight on a rooftop, straightening up as he lost the form of the bird, though not before plucking a single feather from his own wing. He had always enjoyed the sensation of flight, and had his life been different, might have employed such journeys for no other purpose than the exaltation of the wind beneath his wings. But his life was not different, and so instead he used it as an efficient form of transport to take him to his targets.

This one left the prescribed building right on schedule, and for several minutes, his future murderer did nothing more than follow him from above, hopping silently from roof to roof under the cover of darkness. His attention was unwavering, fixed on the deader (another word for victim—a dead man who does not yet know he is dead), but also spread to take in his surroundings. There was always the chance that someone would try to sneak up on him. They would fail, but they could try.

At long last, the target hit a backalley shortcut, and behind his expressionless mask, Sora rolled his eyes. You think they’d learn, but people never ceased to amaze him with their stupidity, not even those who were supposed to be ‘above’ others. Despite his boredom, he felt his adrenaline picking up as a matter of reflex—a kill was nigh, and his every visceral instinct was attuned to it. This was what he had been born and raised to do, and he had never known anything else. It should not come as a surprise to anyone who knew that to know that he found a certain kind of artistry in it. He was a creature of planning and precision, and he’d mapped the exact course of events for this night long before this moment.

Shifting in his crouch, Sora extended a hand to touch a nearby drainpipe, currently trickling a steady stream of water into a small puddle, which the deader even now approached. His timing needed to be perfect, but then, when perfection in such matters had always been demanded of you, you grew somewhat accustomed to it. Indeed, the pulse of electricity wasn’t even a second off, and the man collapsed with a muffled cry. The voltage hadn’t been lethal, though he could have made it so. No no, this required a considerably more… personal touch.

Launching himself into a flip off the roof, Sora landed with nothing more than a rush of air, straightening at once and approaching the deader from behind, drawing his blade as he did. His free arm wound around the man, a gloved hand closing over his nose and mouth even as he struggled to stand upright after the jolt he’d received. “Kristoff Kline,” he murmured, tone clear even through the mask. It might as well have been the voice of the void for all the emotion it displayed. “You have taken that which was not yours to destroy.” Slowly, Sora raised the knife to lay it across the man’s collarbone. The deader’s eyes went wide, and he started to struggle, but the Tsukino’s grip was as an iron vise, and there was no escaping it.

“I am what you sought to kill, and yet you failed. I hope you are satisfied, for I will never be. This is for Sakura and Yuusuke. I don’t expect you to remember them, but you will now.” He was never one for protracted talking, and he wasted no more words now, slicing into the exposed throat with brutal force, parting the vampire’s head from his shoulders. The body crumbled away to dust, creating a pile of ash near the bloody puddle, and the head was unceremoniously tossed on top. That would fade, too, eventually, but likely not before someone found it. The last touch was a simple one, a signature: the feather he’d extracted from his shifted self was dropped into the puddle, where it created only the faintest of ripples there, a last testament to a deed done from the greatest of pains and the oldest of motives.

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He was back on campus before sunrise, as anticipated, the evidence of his deeds—the mask— stowed within his coat. He’d not acquired any new bloodstains, though doubtless he smelled faintly of it. It wasn’t like anyone cared enough (or was brave enough) to question him about it, and he was heading back to his room to shower anyhow. That said, he would not enter the same way he left, just in case Rosenkreuz so happened to be there. He hadn’t ever been thus far, but Sora wasn’t one to take chances.

On his way into the grounds, Sachiko had called him with an unexpected piece of news. She had a name. The entire time he’d been hunting their killers, he’d never known who’d pulled the strings behind it. But his cousin, his brilliant, loyal cousin, had at last struck upon something. The faintest whisper, and not even a thing that made real sense, but something that pricked a vague sense of memory, like a thorn in his mind. Perhaps his parents had mentioned it, but regardless it seemed important.

Contra Mundi.

But what did that mean? Against the world was the literal Latin, but that was hardly a clue. There was a new would-be tyrant born every fucking day, what made this one so special? So distracted was he that he didn’t even register that someone was on a collision course for him, so naturally, he failed to step out of the way. Not that this was a big deal to him—he was quite a solid person and quite skilled at keeping his feet besides. Less fortunate was the person that ran into him, and indeed doubly so, for he scented a trace of blood immediately thereafter. Furrowing his brows, he looked down, and couldn’t decide whether he should laugh at the grand joke the universe was playing on him or just curse his luck.

Her again? Someone, somewhere is having fun fucking with you, Tsukino.

Something about the fact that she was bleeding didn’t sit well with him. Particularly that he had caused it, which was absurd if he really thought about it. He’d just murdered a man without batting an eyelash, slit his damn throat, and here he was, perturbed that this girl had a minor injury that was mostly her fault anyway. What the fuck was wrong with him? Sure, she had nothing to do with the death of his family and was interesting on some level, but really?

Sighing, mostly at himself, he reached into a pocket and extracted a handkerchief. It wasn’t his, of course; in fact it belonged to Sachiko, but he carried it around because the troublesome girl insisted that they were useful and he should never be without a clean one. “Shit, Fujiwara, if you’re this clumsy, I’m surprised you’ve managed to survive so many years at this school,” he groused, reverting to their normal schema of banter and insults because he didn’t know how else to handle the situation. Unusually for him, though, he did grasp her wrist with surprising gentleness and pull the arm forward, applying the handkerchief to the elbow with his other hand. “Be more careful, unless you want the mosquitoes sniffing at you.”

He wouldn’t admit it to himself, but she did smell rather good, so it was a legitimate concern. Moving her other hand to take over holding the handkerchief to her wound, he stepped back a few feet and swallowed. He was certainly quite capable of controlling himself, however, and so he made no move to dab at the drop still upon the metal surface of the locker. Running a hand though his hair, he glanced up and down the hallway. Nothing yet, but… “Being who you are, that should heal pretty quick, but you should get out of here until it does, yeah? And don’t argue about your duties or whatever—I’ll take care of it.”

He wasn’t sure why he’d just volunteered to do that, but he’d go with it. Better prefect duties for one shift than an incident between the Night Class and a ‘human’ student, right? He’d never be able to do his work in peace if there were all sorts of highborn idiots snooping around the place, as there surely would be if such an incident occurred. “And I really hope you’re not thinking about thanking me,” he added quickly, “Cause if you do, deal’s off.” He wasn’t assuming anything, but he did want to make sure. He wasn’t sure he could stand any more thanking—he’d had enough of that for a month, at least.