D. N. Angel Fan Fiction ❯ Touch ❯ Chapter 2 ( Chapter 3 )

Disclaimer: I don't own D.N.Angel.

 

Touch

 

Chapter 2

 

Drip. Drip drip.

 

Where is it coming from?

 

Drip drop.

 

The thick wet sounds ring in my head, ricocheting around endlessly. Almost like the voice of Echo. I take a few steps forward in the darkness. My shoes make dull thuds as they make contact with the surprisingly solid floor. I listen closely, straining my ears. Hands outstretched as a blind person would, I continued forward.

 

Drip drip drop drip.

 

Is it water? No, it can't be. It's too heavy a sound. It sounds more like oil or paint or…

 

“Or blood.”

 

The words grow weighty in the silence, weighty and ominous. I stop walking and I faintly hear another set of steps, too fast to be mere echoes of my own movements. My heart begins to pound. Someone is following me.

 

“Who's there?” I call out. But it is as if my voice is swallowed up by the heavy dripping sounds and the shadows.

 

A soft whooshing noise answers me, sort of like the sound of cloth but more delicate and at the same time, more powerful.

 

I try again, “Hello?”

 

“What are you doing here?” a strangely accented voice asks back. “You don't belong.”

 

“Who-?”

 

“LEAVE!”

 

A tremendous force struck me in the sternum and I was flung backwards. The solid floor I thought had existed gave way beneath me and I fell endlessly in the dark.

 

Someone was shaking my shoulders as I jerked out of the dream, out of breath and disoriented. It's always strange to be falling in a dream and then wake up on your back, almost as if you had fallen back into your body. Then again, maybe I did. Who knows what dreams are? Most agree that they are the subconscious' way of working through your repressed stresses and fears and so forth. Some mystics disagree. Some believe that the really vivid dreams are really journeys into a spiritual plane. Either way, I didn't like how mine ended. I'm not accustomed to being shoved anywhere, spirit or subconscious.

 

“Detective Simon,” Hiwatari said, “We're almost to the morgue.”

 

I sighed heavily. “Already? Jesus, I hate this job sometimes.”

 

“Only sometimes?” the officer driving, whose name was Yamakawa, joked as he steered the car into a small asphalt parking area for a solitary building of a light colored stone. The light flickered rapidly, on the verge of being snuffed completely. I hope it doesn't go out. After that dream, I really don't want to be in the dark right now.

 

Swinging into a parking space with long practiced ease, the officer killed the engine and all three of us proceeded to exit the car; the officer and Hiwatari with relative grace, I sort of stumbled and got lucky by not falling flat on my ass.

 

As we walked up to the building, I took note of the small, unobtrusive plaque that I couldn't read. I assume it labeled the building as the local coroner's office. Generally, picking up languages isn't too big of a deal. A couple of useful phrases are what I end up learning, usually. But I'd never worked in Japan and my colleagues had informed me that the Japanese kind of didn't like foreign people coming to work in Japan who didn't make an effort to learn their language. To completely blow off learning some of the lingo before entering the nation was considered bad manners. Besides, I have a feeling that I might be here a while, so knowing Japanese is going to make my life easier. It can't be worse than German.

 

We entered the office and I wanted to shield my eyes. The entire décor was white and pale, pale blue and green. The secretary's desk was chrome and the computer equipment was white. Also matching the color scheme were the chairs and side tables. No pictures on the walls to relieve the harsh florescent lighting.

 

Head snapping up as we entered, the secretary stared for a long moment, then, as he realized he was being rude, his head snapped down again. White forms appeared out of some drawer that I couldn't see and the black haired clerk set them on the lip of the desk. Next, he stood and bowed, “Ohayoo gozaimasu,” he greeted politely.

 

Morning? I glanced at the white clock on the wall to my left and sure enough, it was five o'clock in the damn morning. God help me, I'd been awake for at least twenty hours. Rubbing my bloodshot eyes, I followed the example of the two Japanese I'd been traveling with and said, “Ohayoo.”

 

Seeming surprised, the secretary fixed his beady eyes on me. I guess not too many Americans show up here. Or maybe it was my appearance. Absently, I brushed at the coffee stain on the right leg of my worn out jeans, then attempted to straighten my green and lopsided button-up men's dress shirt. I didn't bother to button it up, even though it was cold in the office and my shoulder holster and the gun, a Berretta 9mm, were clearly visible. My gloves were starting to chafe too, damn it.

 

Yawning, I watched as the Commander relayed what we were here for to the clerk. The man nodded vigorously, saying “Hai” every several words that Hiwatari said. Then, the brunette man picked up the phone on his desk and informed the coroner of what he had just been told. As he hung up, he motioned to the forms he had placed on the desk when we had entered. Signing the forms was a tad challenging. You have no idea how long it took to learn the kanji characters for “detective” and then the katakana characters for my name. Because of long practice, the thick leather gloves on my hands didn't even hinder me as I wrote.

 

Once I, Hiwatari, and Yamakawa had signed in, the secretary gave us directions to the autopsy room in the back of the facility. Moments later, we entered the cold, sterile room. Stainless steel cabinets and counters lined the walls, while gurneys and mobile tool trays occupied the center. In the far wall, a door was located, leading to the room where the kept the corpses on ice, no doubt.

 

A small man, the coroner, was currently rolling out the fourth body that I would be touching tonight—morning—and he looked at us gravely. Covering all four bodies were white sheets, bright, clean, and somehow darkly foreboding. In the States, they would have been blue. I'm no stranger to morgues but, every time I go in one, I'm struck by the cold impartiality it seems to embody. It makes me want to shield the deceased from it, even though they are long past caring.

 

Introducing himself quietly as Aisho Shinji-sensei, the medical examiner bowed slightly and then continued to line up the bodies in a single row. The man was quick and efficient, like so many other people I'd met with his job.

 

Solemnly stepping forward, I went and stood next to the first body in the line. “Numai Chisato wa?” I asked, carefully enunciated the foreign words.

 

“Hai,” Aisho-sensei assented.

 

“Miss Simon?” Hiwatari said in English.

 

Turning back to him tiredly, I began to remove the green shirt to reveal the white sleeveless tee underneath. “Someone my age should definitely not be calling me `Miss Simon'. It makes me feel old. Call me Cassie, or Cassandra, or just Simon. Hell, `Detective' would work. Just leave off the `Miss' part.”

 

Impassively, he continued, “Are you sure that you're up for this? Mistakes are made if the investigator is too tired to function.”

 

Prick.

 

“I guess I could say the same for you, Hiwatari. Bleeding definitely qualifies as distracting, probably more so than sleepiness,” I replied scathingly and with a smile. Pulling on the fingers of my left glove to loosen it, I began to remove the full-length leather prison. Even well oiled and worn leather irritates the skin, so I try not to wear the damn things for longer than fifteen hours at a time. But during a case, that doesn't happen. Going non-stop for thirty-six hours is the norm for anything high-priority.

 

I buy more repairing body lotion than anyone would believe.

 

“Could someone set up the video recording equipment?” I requested in English, removing the other glove and placing it on the counter next to its twin. Getting everything on video is much easier to play back and understand than just a tape recorder. As Officer Yamakawa began to break out the equipment, I began to instruct the three men how this was going to work. “I'll just be touching their hands, their dominant one if you know which one it was. For some reason, I've had better luck with that. Also, this may be very…” I paused to find the right word, “…disturbing. My visions tend to manifest themselves physically, often violently. I have bled doing this.” I stressed the last sentence, wanting them to know how weird things could get.

 

They won't be able say I'd never warned them.

 

Looking down at Chisato's body, I continued solemnly, “Don't touch me. That's the only rule. Never, ever touch me. I don't care if the apocalypse is pending. Even if I'm being thrown around or bleeding, don't touch me. Wakarimasu ka?”

 

“We understand, Simon-san,” Hiwatari assured me dryly, “Just do your job.”

 

Bastard. I ask him not to call me “Miss” anything, so he reverts to the Japanese equivalent of the honorific. Holding back a growl, I glanced over to Yamakawa and asked, “Ready?”

 

The officer nodded.

 

Then I inquired of Aisho-sensei, “Was she right or left handed?”

 

“Right.”

 

I was already positioned on her right side, so I didn't need to move. “Start the tape, Officer Yamakawa.”

 

There was a small click and then I heard Hiwatari stating everyone's names and ranks in a cool, calm voice. Through the facade he put up, I could tell he was tired. More than tired, actually. Exhausted. He still held himself stiffly because of his injuries.

 

When he'd finished, I looked over at the blue-haired boy to make sure I was clear to start. Once he nodded and after I'd taken a deep breath, I reached down and gingerly clasped Chisato's right hand between both of my own. Whispering to the girl's corpse, I squeezed her waxy and lifeless hand, “Tell me, Chisato.”

 

My entire body went ridged as the first wave of the vision struck me.

 

So scared. Can't see. Why can't I move?

 

Why me?

 

“Please let me go,” I beg, my voice raw from crying. “Please. My family will give you whatever you want, I swear. Just let me go.” The salt in my tears stings when they drip over my split lip and down my scraped chin.

 

“But I'm not finished with you, yet, swan. Not yet,” a man sings back, actually sounding remorseful.

 

The scene changed.

 

Still can't move. I fight the bonds, but I am too weak now. Helpless.

 

I feel hands caressing my face. The fingers trail down my neck and then back up to my lips.

 

Panic. Not again.

 

I bite down on the appendage, and hear him howl in agony.

 

“Bitch!” he roars, slapping me soundly across my face. “You'll pay! You'll all pay!”

 

Hands shove me down onto the hard, cold floor and a gag is forced into my mouth.

 

No! Not again! Not-

 

“-again! No! Enough!” Flinging Chisato's hand away, I stumbled back until my butt hit the chromed counter. “No…” I panted, hanging my head and shaking my entire body. “No…”

 

“…Simon-san?”

 

Lifting my head, I looked up at Hiwatari, so out of it that I ended up transfixed by his dark blue eyes for a few seconds. “I'm alright.” Wincing as the words left my lips; I touched my mouth and came away with some blood. Resigned, I asked, “Where else?”

 

“Your arms and your chin, that I can see,” Aisho-sensei responding, sounding shocked.

“And your back,” Hiwatari added, blue eyes scanning my body for further injury.

 

Sighing, I turned to the camera, which was still recording and began relaying I had seen and felt as the victim. Now, I could feel the blood running down my shoulders.

 

Great. Now I need a new shirt.