Post by Mikan on Jul 9, 2008 15:59:01 GMT -5
*This is a fanfiction I posted on FFN, but I am testing where to divide chapters for it. Hope you enjoy! And yes, I took my screenname from this story... -_-; You'll see what I mean.*
Part One
Muted colors swirled around the older teen, his cat-like eyes piercing through the mire. There was nothing. There was never anything worth seeing, the dark-haired boy found, not anymore at least. With most of his friends scattered to the winds – his hyperactive friend frolicking in flowers, the joker of the group languishing in an American jail, the nutjob back to drifting, the anti-hero a searcher, the assumed leader wandering with his wife around the world – the dreamless one, the destructive one was left adrift in Funbari Hill.
Something kept him there. He should’ve just gone home, like everyone had told him to. But something was in the air in Funbari Hill… something waiting to be bottled up and captured, an essence to be found.
When the destroyer tried to tell that to his friends, the best friend scoffed. The joker shrugged and the nutjob laughed. But the leader seemed to know. He always seemed to know exactly what was going on in the destroyer’s head. And he nodded his approval.
That was the last time the destroyer saw any of them.
The sky was dark, sucking in the faceless, formless people around the destructive youth. No one saw the weapon snapped into pieces in his backpack, or the ghost swirling around his head… nor the tracks he left in the snow with his Oxford loafers… he was a wanderer, someone no one cared to –
SLAM!
A girl skittered a few feet in the snow after slamming into the destroyer. The boy also landed on his rump, stunned. How distant had he gotten? But then he noticed the girl had orange hair. Most people would call it red hair, but it was too dark to be red, and so obviously not the color of the blood the destroyer was used to seeing. It was an entrancing dull orange, the kind of color that stood out in a crowd, not because it was so odd, but because it was so bold, poppy, vibrant. The destroyer couldn’t help but stare as the girl pulled herself out of the inch-deep snow, dusting powder off of her tights and Mary Janes.
“Oh my God, sumimasen, I’m sorry…!”
And then she looked up, and the dark teen gazed into her eyes. Like her hair, they were orange, but a light orange, almost yellow in their appearance. Their eyes locked for a second or so before the girl busied her light eyes with gazing at her snow-covered jacket and skirt. The destroyer tried to take in details on the clothing – the little safety pins holding swathes of fabric together on the dull grey coat, for instance – but his eyes kept traveling back to her sleek orange hair. Not since the battle over the Shaman King had the destroyer seen such a lively color on anything or anyone.
“It’s fine,” the destroyer muttered, pulling himself out of the snow quickly and shaking the white dust off of him. He offered a hand to the splayed girl, doing his best to avoid staring into her eyes. She took the hand, and immediately his glove surged with warmth.
She lingered on his hand a little too long before letting go. She gazed into his eyes, and once again, the destroyer was sucked into that light, airy shade of orange. The girl flipped her hair a bit, to dislodge some snow stuck behind her ear, and shivered in the cold winter air. “I’m really sorry about that.”
“It’s fine,” the destroyer repeated, nodding. He heard her foot shuffle and looked down at them immediately. She was just shaking some snow off of it.
The girl grinned, embarrassed. “See, I’m lost. I’ve never been this deep into town before…” She stuck out her hand. Some beads and bracelets dangled off her wrists. “My friends call me Mikan.”
“Mikan – like an orange?” the destroyer questioned as he shook her hand.
Mikan nodded, blushing.
The destroyer awkwardly took her hand, and warmth once again crept into his cold fingers. While they shook, he murmured, “Tao Ren.”
“…So you’re Chinese?” Mikan asked as she let go. Ren, the destroyer, immediately drew his hand to his side rigidly, biting his lip.
“Yes, actually.”
“It’s just that… well, Tao isn’t a very common Japanese name, is it?” Mikan wondered as she ran her fingers through her hair. The snow in it was being stubborn, as Ren had noticed; he couldn’t bring himself to turn away from that curtain of life. It was made even more obvious by the varied shades of gray swirling around the pair of them.
“I love that scarf of yours, though,” Mikan complimented.
Ren looked down at the scarf he was wearing, a muted sash tied around his neck to keep it from freezing. “…Thank you. But I can’t see why anyone would like such a thing.”
“The yellow is so cheery,” Mikan told him. “Brilliantly cheery. Really stands out in a crowd.” Mikan shrugged and gave a thin but warm smile. Ren looked down at the scarf again. He didn’t see anything cheery. He recalled washing his spastic friend’s blood out of it, remembered how he’d used it to stop his own hemorrhaging while trapped in his father’s torture chamber.
“So does your hair,” Ren answered unthinkingly.
Mikan blinked, looked at her feet, and began tracing a pattern with her shoe. Now the two of them were biting their lips in tandem.
“…It’s natural.”
“And?” Ren didn’t understand. He was still cold and callous at heart.
“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Mikan interjected heatedly. Ren could only gape at her.
“…No.”
“Then why’d you say that?”
“Because it’s true. Your hair stands out. It’s… well, it stands out.” Ren felt like the biggest idiot on the face of the earth. Usually he was so good with words, swift and smart. Yet saying that her hair was the only thing he’d seen worth looking at since the defeat of Hao seemed not only esoteric, but weird. Really weird.
Mikan blinked before giving an easygoing smile. “Oh, I see. I get it now.”
“That makes one of us.”
“Would you mind telling me where I could find the Mi-sun Hotel?” Mikan finally asked, handing Ren a slip of paper with an address written on it in some bright color. Ren looked it over.
31-021 Ten-en Street.
Ren sighed before nodding to Mikan. “Yes, I know where this is.”
Part One
Muted colors swirled around the older teen, his cat-like eyes piercing through the mire. There was nothing. There was never anything worth seeing, the dark-haired boy found, not anymore at least. With most of his friends scattered to the winds – his hyperactive friend frolicking in flowers, the joker of the group languishing in an American jail, the nutjob back to drifting, the anti-hero a searcher, the assumed leader wandering with his wife around the world – the dreamless one, the destructive one was left adrift in Funbari Hill.
Something kept him there. He should’ve just gone home, like everyone had told him to. But something was in the air in Funbari Hill… something waiting to be bottled up and captured, an essence to be found.
When the destroyer tried to tell that to his friends, the best friend scoffed. The joker shrugged and the nutjob laughed. But the leader seemed to know. He always seemed to know exactly what was going on in the destroyer’s head. And he nodded his approval.
That was the last time the destroyer saw any of them.
The sky was dark, sucking in the faceless, formless people around the destructive youth. No one saw the weapon snapped into pieces in his backpack, or the ghost swirling around his head… nor the tracks he left in the snow with his Oxford loafers… he was a wanderer, someone no one cared to –
SLAM!
A girl skittered a few feet in the snow after slamming into the destroyer. The boy also landed on his rump, stunned. How distant had he gotten? But then he noticed the girl had orange hair. Most people would call it red hair, but it was too dark to be red, and so obviously not the color of the blood the destroyer was used to seeing. It was an entrancing dull orange, the kind of color that stood out in a crowd, not because it was so odd, but because it was so bold, poppy, vibrant. The destroyer couldn’t help but stare as the girl pulled herself out of the inch-deep snow, dusting powder off of her tights and Mary Janes.
“Oh my God, sumimasen, I’m sorry…!”
And then she looked up, and the dark teen gazed into her eyes. Like her hair, they were orange, but a light orange, almost yellow in their appearance. Their eyes locked for a second or so before the girl busied her light eyes with gazing at her snow-covered jacket and skirt. The destroyer tried to take in details on the clothing – the little safety pins holding swathes of fabric together on the dull grey coat, for instance – but his eyes kept traveling back to her sleek orange hair. Not since the battle over the Shaman King had the destroyer seen such a lively color on anything or anyone.
“It’s fine,” the destroyer muttered, pulling himself out of the snow quickly and shaking the white dust off of him. He offered a hand to the splayed girl, doing his best to avoid staring into her eyes. She took the hand, and immediately his glove surged with warmth.
She lingered on his hand a little too long before letting go. She gazed into his eyes, and once again, the destroyer was sucked into that light, airy shade of orange. The girl flipped her hair a bit, to dislodge some snow stuck behind her ear, and shivered in the cold winter air. “I’m really sorry about that.”
“It’s fine,” the destroyer repeated, nodding. He heard her foot shuffle and looked down at them immediately. She was just shaking some snow off of it.
The girl grinned, embarrassed. “See, I’m lost. I’ve never been this deep into town before…” She stuck out her hand. Some beads and bracelets dangled off her wrists. “My friends call me Mikan.”
“Mikan – like an orange?” the destroyer questioned as he shook her hand.
Mikan nodded, blushing.
The destroyer awkwardly took her hand, and warmth once again crept into his cold fingers. While they shook, he murmured, “Tao Ren.”
“…So you’re Chinese?” Mikan asked as she let go. Ren, the destroyer, immediately drew his hand to his side rigidly, biting his lip.
“Yes, actually.”
“It’s just that… well, Tao isn’t a very common Japanese name, is it?” Mikan wondered as she ran her fingers through her hair. The snow in it was being stubborn, as Ren had noticed; he couldn’t bring himself to turn away from that curtain of life. It was made even more obvious by the varied shades of gray swirling around the pair of them.
“I love that scarf of yours, though,” Mikan complimented.
Ren looked down at the scarf he was wearing, a muted sash tied around his neck to keep it from freezing. “…Thank you. But I can’t see why anyone would like such a thing.”
“The yellow is so cheery,” Mikan told him. “Brilliantly cheery. Really stands out in a crowd.” Mikan shrugged and gave a thin but warm smile. Ren looked down at the scarf again. He didn’t see anything cheery. He recalled washing his spastic friend’s blood out of it, remembered how he’d used it to stop his own hemorrhaging while trapped in his father’s torture chamber.
“So does your hair,” Ren answered unthinkingly.
Mikan blinked, looked at her feet, and began tracing a pattern with her shoe. Now the two of them were biting their lips in tandem.
“…It’s natural.”
“And?” Ren didn’t understand. He was still cold and callous at heart.
“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Mikan interjected heatedly. Ren could only gape at her.
“…No.”
“Then why’d you say that?”
“Because it’s true. Your hair stands out. It’s… well, it stands out.” Ren felt like the biggest idiot on the face of the earth. Usually he was so good with words, swift and smart. Yet saying that her hair was the only thing he’d seen worth looking at since the defeat of Hao seemed not only esoteric, but weird. Really weird.
Mikan blinked before giving an easygoing smile. “Oh, I see. I get it now.”
“That makes one of us.”
“Would you mind telling me where I could find the Mi-sun Hotel?” Mikan finally asked, handing Ren a slip of paper with an address written on it in some bright color. Ren looked it over.
31-021 Ten-en Street.
Ren sighed before nodding to Mikan. “Yes, I know where this is.”