Title: Resonating Light
Chapter: 5
Series: Bishoujo Senshi Sailor Moon
Rating: Currently PG-13 for some bad language and violence.
Summary: Pseudo-AU.  At a decisive moment in battle, Kunzite chooses to take a very different path.  Now he must do all that he can to save the person who he was born to protect.
Warnings: Future shounen ai warning.  Do not read if you dislike homosexual pairings.  Also, somewhat unedited.  Beware.



They spent the rest of that night and the following day in a sort of shaky, mutual truce.  Endymion silently tolerated his apparent captor's presence, though while he made no more attempts at violence, he made it clear enough by his attitude that he was no more pleased with his situation than before.  Seemingly deciding that he could not trust a word that Kunzite said, the dark-haired Prince no longer bothered to ask questions, and Kunzite, preferring not to rock the already unsteady boat, offered no more answers.  As such, barely more than a few words were exchanged between them, leaving both to their own thoughts. 

The white-haired man continued to be a mystery to Mamoru.  If he was putting on a ruse, he must have been a mighty good actor.  Not once did he slip up on his role as the supposed protector--nothing in his eyes, his body movements, his actions, showed anything other than what Mamoru would have thought was sincere concern for him, if he did not know better.  He had yet to find a single hole in the strange man's story, which was rather aggravating in itself, though it did nothing to shake his belief that the entire thing was patently false. 

So why couldn't he get the man's face out of his mind?  Why did his skin tingle the way it did when his hands gently touched it as they rebandaged his injuries?  Why did he find himself wishing that the story were true, that someone out there actually found him important enough to take him under their care, to protect him from the enemies that until now he had faced alone?

But these questions were invariably pushed aside, inevitably drowned out by the image of that manic grin framed by silver hair, of that hand--not at all like the gentle one that cleaned his wounds--sent a super nova of energy bearing down on the girl he remembered as his Princess and beloved.  That was something he could never forget.  This man had nearly killed the girl he loved before he even had a chance to find her, and no amount of sucking up to him, as it were, could erase that. 

But in a sense, he did follow the man's advice--he waited until he was in better condition before making another move.  He saw now how foolish his initial reactions had been; all it had done was put the white-haired man on his guard.  But he bided his time, waiting for his wounds to heal and for an opportunity to present itself, and on the third night of his temporary stay in the his captor's care, the opportunity did indeed make an appearance.

Until that point, he had never seen the man sleep.  He knew that he must eat, as he always saved some smaller portion of the food he brought Mamoru for himself, but unless he was catching quick naps on the occasion that he left the room for a few minutes, it seemed to Mamoru that he never once shut his eyes.  He began to wonder whether Dark Kingdom people simply did not need sleep like normal human beings.  But he soon found that it was not out of lack of necessity that the man had never allowed himself to go into a state of unconsciousness, but due to necessity--that is, there was no way he could constantly keep an eye on Mamoru if he spent several hours a day in an unconscious stupor.  But even members of the Dark Kingdom, it seemed, had human needs, and after spending the last few hours looking quite ragged indeed, it was no surprise when the lack of sleep began to catch up with him.

He had been sitting off to one side, sort of slumped in the darker corner of the room, where he had a good view of all the important things to be watching in the room--Mamoru, the window, and the door.  The nights got cold here, and he kept his cape wrapped around him for warmth.  Mamoru had been pretending to sleep for the past hour or so, and while he did not dare open his eyes to catch a glimpse of the man, he could tell by the subtle changes in his breathing, and by the soft heaviness in the air, that he was drifting off.  Mamoru had always been especially good at feeling things about the people around him.  It was a skill he had mastered long before discovering that he had any sort of powers that involved magically acquiring a tuxedo.  Sensing whether a person was awake or asleep was something that even a child could do--and in fact, it was something that he had known how to do for as long as he could remember.

The man was asleep, but lightly.  It would be a few minutes yet before he had slipped into a deeper sleep.  Mamoru waited.  He was a patient person.

It was close to midnight when he finally dared to open his eyes.  He could see the man across from him, a heap of white cape and hair like polished pewter that seemed to dully glow through the thick darkness.  He did not stir as the black-haired Prince sat up, as he slid out from beneath heavy covers and padded barefoot across the creaky floor.  He was most definitely out.

He slipped out through the door, but did not dare close it all the way, as it always got stuck and required a forceful slam.  He blindly felt his way down the dark corridor, knowing that even in the daylight there was risk of stumbling over an uneven floorboard.  As he passed by the other room that the man occasionally used when he was not hovering over Mamoru, he caught sight of the uncurtained window, the soft glow of the streetlights washing over the bare room.  Some object sat there, carefully laid across the otherwise empty sill, and it took him a moment to realize that it was the rose he had used.  It was positively bathed in light, refracting the glow of the streetlights like a tiny multifaceted mirror.  It almost seemed to... shimmer, as though little lights were dancing all around it.  Strange, he thought.  He had never seen them do that before.  Perhaps it was just a trick of the light.

But he was wasting time here, so he did not give it another thought.  The rose was just one of multitudes that he could conjure up; he had no problem leaving it.  He found the stairs easily enough, but the climb looked dangerous, and the banister seemed unstable.  He tread carefully.

He was almost halfway down when his foot slipped on an uneven step, nearly sending a surprised Prince plummeting toward a quick and mighty ironic death.  Some heaven-sent instinct preventing him from crying out, all he could do was gasp and grab frantically for the banister.  His feet swept out from beneath him, both hands clinging to the aged piece of wood that lurched precariously toward the three-story drop.  The rest of him hit the steps with an audible thunk that seemed to positively shake the entire building with its echoes.  He continued to cling to the banister even after he had stopped falling, waiting for the pain in his back to subside, and for the inevitable sound of his captor rushing out of the room to find him. 

But the hallway above him remained silent, and the only part of him that was bruised from the ordeal was his pride.  Imagine, botching up an escape plan because he tripped.

The rest of the stairs passed without much incident, and somehow he made it down to the front door in one piece.  The entire way, he had been waiting for some youma to leap out at him, or for some great steel door to come sliding down, trapping him in his prison, but nothing of the sort came along.  It seemed that security really was limited entirely to the white-haired man.  Interesting.

The door swung open easily at his touch, his hand meeting with little more resistance than the rust on the hinges.  He stepped down onto the sidewalk, breathing in the cool night air.  Freedom.

***

Her nose crinkled up, as best as such a nose could, at the stench which seemed to permeate the very clothing she wore, hanging around her like a great, foul-smelling fog.  Such a filthy smell; how could they stand it?  The city was positively saturated with it.  If only one could eradicate the source of the odor, smoke it out like so much vermin.  The world would be such a lovely place if only it were cleansed of such filth.

It was the stench of human flesh.

But Bromie was not one to complain, no sir.  She was a good little youma who did what she was told, and if her highness the queen had ordered her to go sit in the nearest trash bin and wait for the Ginzuishou to be dropped on her head, well, duty was duty, after all.

A trash bin, however, did not nearly compare to the human stink that wafted through the repulsive surface of this vile planet.  Her skin positively itched at the nasty smell.

She delicately arched her slender back against a cool slab of steel, revelling in the night air.  Stench or no stench, it was positively exhilarating to be out here, with real, living wind on her arms and the tingle of human energy dancing below her, twinkling like so many distant city lights.  She had the perfect view from up here, perched as she was on the top of a building undergoing construction.  Perfect for hunting her prey.

Human energy.  Oh, how she longed for it.  The creatures may stink, but my, how good they tasted.  A pink tongue slid out of her slimy mouth, wetting moss-encrusted lips.  Mmm, she could almost -taste- it.  The very thought excited her, brought a momentary expression of estacy blossoming in an otherwise expressionless face--expressionless at least to the onlooker, who saw only the mud and swamp scum that oozed from every pore, a thin film of earthly muck that streamed behind her like a slug's trail.  She was everything rank and gross in nature--the very incarnate of Earth's most base and foul things.  The parts of her that did not ooze were home to various kinds of vermin and parasites, contentedly making themselves comfortable on her skin, in her hair, any surface that could be found.  Fungus dotted her calves and thighs, the occasional bloom of tiny poisonous mushrooms sprouting from the putrid skin.  Greenish slime--the sort that you find growing in swamps--mingled with the muck of her skin.  Insects roamed freely across her body, worms and slugs slithering through her hair.  Flies swarmed around her like a black, angry cloud, feeding on the decay of her body.  The stinking weeds that tangled among themselves, encircling her arms and head haphazardly, were likely the least sickening part about her.  It was a wonder she could smell anything at all, they created such an oppressive funk.

Bromie was a monster to end all monsters.  She was the sort of youma that other youma avoided--not so much out of fear and respect for her power, but because even the strongest, most ugly youma of the Dark Kingdom could stand neither the sight nor the smell of her.  But Bromie knew that they were all jealous.  Her power and beauty stood well above all of them.  She was the favored youma of Queen Beryl, the one chosen for this most important mission.  None of them, after all, had been entrusted to capture the traitor and the Prince of Earth.

She slid her fingers down her own slender thigh, once again drinking in the sweet air.  Her prey was coming, but she was in no hurry.  She would enjoy this mission to its fullest.  She would attack when the time was just right, when he had stumbled headlong into her tangling web.  And then she would be able to enjoy playing with him, doing what she liked until it was time to hand him over to her Queen.  What a delicious thought.

***

Mamoru jogged down the back alley, casting a nervous glance around him.  He knew he really should be walking normally, trying not to attract attention, but he could not calm the pounding urgency in his chest, urging him away from the danger and closer to safety.  He was back in his civilian clothes now, trusting in his powers to disguise him from his enemies, and hoping that dressing like a normal person, rather than a half-naked pseudo-superhero, would make him a tad less conspicuous.

The alley ended at a slightly busier, more well-lit street.  He peered up at the signs, not recognizing either of the streets that crossed here.  Where in the world was he, anyway?  Blast Tokyo for being such a big city.  This most certainly was not anywhere near Juuban, and the darkness was not making his search for familiar landmarks any easier.  He could not even figure out where the heck North was.

His best hope would be to find a subway and hop on the nearest train, so he could ride the routes around until he found his way home.  He only hoped that he had enough cash in his pocket for a pass.  Silly him had left his own pass at home, not realizing that he would require the use of a subway while fighting evil.

The black-haired Prince continued on his way, forcing himself into a more leisurely walk this time.  If that man was out looking for him, he would be much less likely to spot him if he was not prancing around like a frightened chicken.

He only had to go a few blocks before he saw the telltale signs of a subway station in the distance.  Resisting the urge to bolt for it, he settled for a brisk walk, and made straight for the stairs.

He was halfway down the deserted stairwell when suddenly he felt... something.  It was like a sinking feeling in his stomach, a sudden queasiness that shot through him.  Mamoru shuddered involuntarily, feeling uneasy without quite knowing why.  He gripped the handrail, glancing at the street above him and the tiled walkway below, but nothing out of the ordinary seemed to be anywhere near him.  He could feel no presence near him, no stirring of human or inhuman movement.  Things just did not feel quite... right.

He brushed it off, owing it up to paranoia.  He really needed to get back.  He needed to find Usako, to make sure she was alright.  Everything would be fine if he could just make it to Juuban in one piece.

The echo of his sneakers on the tile was the only sound in that hollow, underground place.  It was late; too late for the trains to be running.  He should have realized that no one else would be up at this hour.  He cast a look at the maps of the train routes on one wall, conveniently located next to an oversized Panasonic ad featuring a lovely pop artist who held up a digital camera as if intending to snap his picture.  The banner was a little too cheerfully seductive for his mood, and he chose to ignore the woman's charming brown eyes sparkling down at him.

It was his intent to study the map and at least figure out where he was, but he never got that far.  He had barely taken two steps toward it when suddenly it was as though the floor dropped out from beneath him.  The entire world lurched like a schooner caught in a hurricane, confusion whipping through his brain with a tight snap.  He fought to regain his senses, but the subway station had dissolved around him, and he was trapped in a warping, twisting vertigo.  He vaguely thought that he hit his knees, but he could feel nothing anymore, and there was no ground substantial enough for his knees to hit.  Mamoru tried to cry out, but his breath caught in his throat.  He was blind, helpless, unable to grasp even which way was up.

Out of the torrent, a deep, gurgling, grating voice began to laugh, though the sound was like a cross between nails on a chalkboard and slime oozing on a swamp, and was very little like a laugh at all. 

"Could this be the Prince of the Earth?"  The voice asked, and Mamoru found that it was no more pleasant when it spoke.  "You're not at all as powerful as I'd expected."

The black-haired Prince attempted to answer, but his voice refused to come.  He struggled against the storm, though he could not even move his limbs.  He squeezed his eyes shut against the dizziness, trying to force his mind to steady itself, but nothing could shake off the all-consuming disorientation that shocked every nerve and held him prone in his confused state.

That gurgling parody of laughter echoed through his mind again, repulsing him through his numbness.  "What a cute plaything you are.  We'll have so much fun together, won't we?"

Mamoru attempted to look around and find the source of the voice, but succeeded only in nauseating himself.  He could see nothing around him but dizzying swirls of color, bursts of light that seemed a sickening imitation of real light, clinging shadows that threatened to strangle him.  He could hardly breathe, hardly move.  His brain ceased to function, disjointed thoughts only on the staggering whirlwind around him.

"I wonder how delicious you'll taste compared to normal humans."

Suddenly the storm broke with a tremendous crack.  The sickening colors and darkness dissipated, leaving the comparatively blinding light of the subway station in their wake.  Weakly, he struggled to stay upright, but his efforts were futile.  Mamoru crumpled against something soft but refreshingly solid, only dimly aware of something holding him stable. 

The gurgled cry of the voice that had been speaking out of the tempest should have alarmed him, but he was so tired, and everything was so warm and comfortable here.  Something pressed him closer against the softness, and he thought there was something distinctly familiar about the smell of it.

The last thing he remembered was being lifted up, and the sudden sensation of flying.



Past chapters:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4