Ken saves the day! Part 1
Notes: Ken-centric. I love Ken. He’s so under appreciated >.< I don’t understand why ;_; This is going to be very random, very weird, with all sorts of cameos, and all sort of bishounen hitting on Ken. The title is very blah *shrugs* but until I think of another one, this’ll be it. BGM: The Lunatics Have Taken over the Asylum
He didn’t get it; he just did not understand. What was this thing that caught his fascination so? What was it about this endless game of chase? Predator v. prey. Cat v. mouse. Roadrunner vs. Coyote.
Nagi Naoe sat hunched in front of the tv, huge eyes staring intently at the wide screen. Both hands were clasped firmly and tucked under his chin, elbows balanced precariously on knees. His entire posture was one of absolute focus and concentration. He hadn’t moved from the couch for nearly the entire day, ever since yesterday. Yesterday, that fateful, blessed, curse worthy day when Crawford, with Schuldich’s help and Farfarello’s encouraging ‘Yiyiyiyiyiyi!’, had installed a satellite dish. Actually it had more involved Crawford ordering black suited, sunglass wearing, near faceless lackeys around with Schuldich tormenting anyone in his reach, but really it all amounted to the same thing - a widescreen television which took up nearly the entire wall. On the new tv were over a thousand different channels, broadcasting from all over the world, and nearly half of it were these insane, inept, wonderful, maddening American cartoons. Granted most of them were in a foreign language, dubbed incredibly badly, but there they were - the staples and backbone of American culture. They weren’t anything like the anime Nagi would flip through. No, these cartoons made no pretenses at intricate dialogues, twisted family trees, strange powers, or even the generic formula of good v. evil. These American cartoons existed in unabashed primary colors, with tin can orchestral scores, and weird fuzzy animals that wore no pants. The fuzzy animals also had the apparent intelligence, maturity, and attention span of a typical four year old.
An almost nostalgic look had passed over Crawford’s face. Almost. Then their resident American adjusted his glasses, the glare on them eliminating any passing sentiment from being viewed. Not that Schuldich hadn’t tried, he had dived right into their dark haired leader’s psyche with glee. The red head then walked away within a minute, mumbling something about dead zones and the need to go read ‘War and Peace’. Farfarello had watched for nearly half an hour, whining excitedly whenever a flat object, blunt object, heck *any* object had in some way hit, dropped, or injured the fuzzy animals. Finally, he too had wandered away, licking a dvd of “Akira” and complaining about visual anemia.
So here he stood, or rather sat, the last member of Schwartz.
And he just did not understand. Why did people watch this? Coyote running after roadrunner only to get blown up, smashed, flattened, thrown, fried, electrocuted. Cat chasing after mouse only to get well… blown up, smashed, flattened, thrown, fried, electrocuted. Cat chasing after bird… The finite number of ways they could maim each other played on in an endless waltz of ineptness, temporary amnesia, and phenomenal healing abilities.
Nagi drummed impatient fingers on his chin. How could he understand this? How could he even begin to discern a way? What was the point of the bat, the bombs, the dishes, cannons, the flower pot…
A flower pot…
Most recently, he had begun delving into scientific reasoning. The cartoons were an unknown quantity. The flower shop boys who laughingly called themselves an assassin group, Weiss, were a thoroughly researched and well known quantity. The formula was contained within the cartoons - predator v. prey. Cat v. mouse. Weiss v. Schwartz. It just needed the introduction of a flower pot into that familiar equation.
This could work. Nagi nodded in satisfaction and made to rise. His body protested vehemently. With a little whimper, he collapsed back onto the couch. Start experiment *after* making sure muscles were in working order. Ouch.
The day had started out normal enough.
Wake up to alarm, hit snooze, fall back asleep, wake up to alarm, hit snooze, fall back asleep, repeat until Aya threatens (via intercom) to let out the air in soccer balls, get up, stumble out of bed, stub toe on motorcycle helmet, hop around clutching toe and cursing, stop and apologize repeatedly when Aya threatens (via intercom) to sell beloved motorcycle off on e-bay, brush teeth, take shower, remember too late to take boxers off, curse, finish shower, dress, stick soggy boxers in dryer, remember too late to put new boxers on, go back to room, take off jeans, put on boxers, wake up Omi for school, wake up Youji for work, go downstairs to eat breakfast, greet Aya, get ignored, greet Omi, get asked why is he tromping around without pants, blush, run back upstairs, ignore resulting whistle from Youji while passing him in hallway, smirk when Youji runs into closed bathroom door, put pants on, run downstairs, eat breakfast, ignore Omi’s giggling, check work schedule, open up flower shop with Youji, ignore Youji, laugh at bright red spot on his forehead from this morning, fend off giddy school girls on their way to school, relax until afternoon when giddy girls return.
See - a normal, typical day in the life of a flower shop worker by day and member of vigilante group by night.
Only something was wrong. Between the time when the school girls left hurriedly, shrieking out that they’d be back… why did that sound so very threatening, and the time he could truly relax till afternoon… something was horribly, inconceivably wrong.
While Ken never considered himself the brightest of his team members - in terms of street smarts that title went to Youji, in terms of book smarts that title went to Omi, in terms of how can I possibly squeeze the most monetary value out of a mission and *still* hurt Takatori in some small conceivable manner smarts went to Aya - he prided himself on being alert. Never underestimate the observation skills of a former J-League soccer player!
It was with these Grade A, J-league approved, Takatori goon tested observation skills that Ken noticed something wrong with Nagi. (the very idea of a Schwartz member standing in the doorway of their flower shop set off an entirely different string of alarms). The kid with the usual cool, measuring eyes and starchy, scratchy looking school uniform looked sort of frayed at the edges. Well, actually he looked about two steps away from taking out the nearest flower shop with his bare hands, or in this case by the power of the mind alone. The normally cold eyes were glazed over and blood shot, even his uniform was rumpled and had the look of being slept in. The kid’s hair was mussed and standing at an odd angle, as if clutched by agitated fingers. All this Ken noted expertly with a glance, actually more of a gaping stare.
Unfortunately, being a star goalie didn’t necessarily entail lessons on snappy dialogue so all Ken managed was, “Irassaimase! Uh, no. Schwartz, Kisama!” Then he prepared himself for pain; anything involving Schwartz involved pain, lots of pain. This Ken knew for a well tested fact. So he was surprised when the kid smirked, shattered the front glass plate window, and ran away with a taunting, “Nyah, nyah, stupid cat!!”
In fact, Ken was pretty much dumbfounded and didn’t think to give chase until he heard Aya’s outraged, “Who the hell is responsible for this?”
Then he ran for it. Crazed Schwartz brats had *nothing* on Aya in ‘someone will pay for this and dearly’ mode.
Things went rapidly from strange to freaky at this point. Sure, giving chase to the *Schwartz* brat was in and of itself strange. Usually, Schwartz magically appeared, shot off insults and threats, caused as much trauma (physical and mental) and injuries as inhumanly possible, and disappeared just as quickly. Fifty percent of the time they kidnapped a random girl, the other fifty percent of the time they would snatched Aya’s kid sister.
There was a certain rhythm to it, a routine, and later when all kidnapped victims were returned (or dead), and all the tangles were somewhat smoothed - there was a righteous feeling of *good* all around. White had defeated black; the bad guys were off licking their wounds (or other things - Ken had *serious* doubts as to where that white haired freak was putting *his* tongue).
Chasing the kid willy nilly through the streets of Tokyo in broad daylight… it just wasn’t *right*. Not to mention how conspicuous it made both the chaser and the chased. Ken couldn’t stop though. Something compelled him forward, an irresistible draw. Maybe it was the thought of Aya’s cold wrath if he returned without compensation for both the broken glass and unassigned ‘break, maybe it was the thought of Youji’s cooking - Haggis Night, bring your own ketchup - maybe it was a leftover from the severe concussion that Farfarello had so efficiently yet creatively caused by chucking huge pewter sculptures at his head - whatever it was, it made Ken chase Nagi up and down, around, across, and even under the streets of Tokyo.
This was of course while dodging falling safes, pianos, cars, yachts, airplanes, and all sorts of strange things that fell out of the sky, things that shouldn’t even be *in* the sky for that matter.
They didn’t faze Ken.
His attention and focus was absolute:
Catch Schwartz kid.
Beat ever loving snot out of said kid, but in a self righteous, corrective, and even older brotherly way. This usually involved a not very vindictive but very earnest speech followed by a sheepish apology, an awkward hug, and Ken buying the kid an ice cream cone afterwards. Then again, this was the bad guy and not some kid he was coaching.
They might have to forgo the awkward hug moment. Maybe an equally awkward pat on the back then.
Return home in flushed triumph and win approval from Aya and maybe even coax a pizza out of the stingy red head!
Or failing that, hide himself in room and try not to turn green as Youji slung on a kilt, turned up Scottish Bagpipes Greatest Hits IV, and started defrosting the sheep innards.
It really was too bad that Ken was lost in his little fantasy of opening up the window and airing out his room from the smell of haggis filling the flower shop.
So lost was the brown haired lad in his happy place that he missed the unleashing of his undoing.
And irony of ironies, it was a strategically, though mentally, thrown flower pot which landed with great force upon his noggin.
*SLAM* was the sound of the flower pot hitting Ken’s unprotected though very well groomed head.
*BAM* was the sound of Ken’s unconscious body hitting the pavement.
*THANK YOU MA’AM* was the sound of Nagi’s triumphant scream as he did a little ‘I’m *so* much more telekinetically kewl than anyone, biAtch’ dance.
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