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The Prophet	By : Tcharlatan Category: > Kyo/Kaoru Views: 1201 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of pure fiction. I do not personally know any of the members of Dir en grey, and do not profit from this work.

Chapter List
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February 2^nd - 8:00 pm
Sharp eyes the color of dark chocolate looked through a wall-to-wall pane of one-way glass, critical and predatory. Thin lips were pursed thoughtfully in an angular face framed by medium-length black hair, and a crisp pinstriped suit complemented the man’s lean, sturdy frame. He was watching the small blonde in the other room sleep; utterly unthreatening even if he weren’t handcuffed and stripped down to his trousers and undershirt.
“You’re telling me… child is the mind behind Shinya Terachi?”
The tall redhead behind the man at the window was impossible to read behind black sunglasses as he flipped through a heavy file folder, “According to everything we could find, including one inside source.”
“This ‘inside source’ is trustworthy?”
“Hideki spent three days with him, and his story never changed.”
“Fair enough.” The shorter man waved a hand. “What do we know?”
“Tooru Nishimura, age twenty-six, born in Kyoto, moved to Osaka at age seven where he supposedly met Shinya Terachi – age five – in grade school. School records report several fights involving Nishimura and Terachi, though the gist is that Nishimura was doing most of the fighting in Terachi’s defense. At age ten, his father was charged and convicted with the murder of his mother and sent to prison. His maternal grandparents fought for custody, but papers came up naming Kunio and Yumi Terachi his legal guardians.
“After that, it gets kind of hazy. Shinya Terachi went on to college and graduate school, while Nishimura turned in a blank high school entrance exam and fell off the radar shortly after. What we could get from our ‘informant’ suggests he was brought up by Kunio to serve as Shinya’s advisor. He’s supposed to know everything about the family business, more than Shinya himself, and is apparently responsible for all of their recent acquisitions of power. They call him the Prophet.”
“I see… What do you think, Daisuke?”
“I don’t know, Kao,” Die admitted, moving forward to stand next to his boss at the window. “He looks like a… I don‘t know, like a fucking accountant, if not for all the tattoos and piercings. He doesn’t carry a gun, either. But the computer he was carrying… no one can get into it.”
“What, it’s password protected?” Kaoru frowned. He paid for better people than that.
Die shook his head. “They can’t even get it to turn on. Every time they try it starts up, beeps for fifteen seconds with a blank screen, then shuts itself down.”
Kaoru watched with quiet fascination as a blonde head rolled slowly side to side, a soft moan of discomfort coming through the camera feed playing on a screen behind him. Dark gold eyes fluttered open, shifting from sleepy, to confused, to angry over the course of several long moments. A thin, but toned torso shifted and flexed experimentally, testing the bonds that held his wrists together. He stood, staggering a bit at first but stabilizing quickly, and bare feet padded silently to stand before the mirror his captors had gathered behind. The face that had been so soft in sleep was now pulled into a challenging glare, chin raised defiantly.
Kaoru smirked, raising one hand to touch the glass in front of the younger man’s face, “Put Hideki to work on him. No permanent damage.”
Die nodded quietly and pulled out his cell phone to make the call.
February 3^rd - 12:00 am
Kyo grunted in pain as he was dumped unceremoniously into a small cell. One of his two impossibly large, black-suited ‘escorts’ set a little plastic cup of water next to him, then the heavy metal door was slammed shut and he was left alone in the darkness. Sitting up slowly, rubbing the raw circles around his wrists where the handcuffs had worn into his skin, the blonde assessed his situation while waiting for his eyes to adjust.
He had, for the past couple hours, been interrogated by a very large, peroxide-blonde man who introduced himself as Hideki Yuji. Questions – about where Shinya lived, where the Terachi headquarters was located, what was on his computer, how to get into his computer, who was in charge of what operations – had been met with blatant, ridiculous lies, for each of which he’d been soundly beaten. The two large men that had brought him to his cell had, in the interrogation room, held him in place for each vicious blow to his face and torso. When the wind was knocked out of him and he fell to his knees, gasping to recover it, they stepped aside to make room for Hideki to kick him around the room.
Now, one eye was swelling shut, and the other one was blinking furiously against a slow trickle of blood from a shallow cut on his eyebrow. Deep red marks that promised to be wicked bruises dappled his torso and arms, and he suspected his legs weren’t in much better shape since he’d used them to guard his stomach while being kicked on the floor. The cell he’d been left to recover in was small, maybe two meters wide by two and a half deep, unlit and unheated. Already his feet were going numb from the cold cement floor. A hard plastic cot was bolted to the far wall, a toilet mounted on the sidewall nearby, and the only window was a tiny barred rectangle mounted high on the metal door.
“Nnnn… yeah, Kyo, you’re fucked…” he sighed, one hand clutching bruised ribs painfully as the other reached out for the little cup of water. Sipping slowly – wincing as the liquid stung a split in his lower lip – he dragged himself over to the cot to stretch out. “Thoroughly fucked, indeed.”
February 3^rd - 10:00 am
“What is the password that starts up your computer?” a deep voice demanded coldly.
“ASCII art of a big, fat cock,” Kyo gasped, face dripping, his one working eye defiant.
The hand gripping the back of his head by the hair shoved him down, facefirst, into a large bucket of cold water. He trashed violently but, on his knees with his hands cuffed behind his back, he had no leverage with which to free himself. That single, powerful hand held him in place until the breath he’d held escaped, and he had nothing to replace it with but water. When his spasms became involuntary, instinctual panic, he was pulled back up, coughing and gasping for air. He’d only been here for an hour so far, but nearly drowning over and over was quickly sapping his strength.
“What is the password that starts up your computer?”
“The-ck! The entire written works of Michael Ende. Backwards.”
He was pushed into the water again, his desperate bucking and flailing not having the slightest impact on Hideki’s grip. When he was pulled back up, he threw up water and bile onto his pants between fits of coughing and choking.
“What is the password that starts up your computer?”
“Th-the transcript for that p-porno your mother starred in.”
This time he was pushed in almost before he finished his sentence. He was held under longer than before, and the sheer biological panic a body experiences when faced with death kicked in. He blacked out. For a while, all the pain seemed to fall away from him and he was floating in a field of twinkling lights. In the distance, he thought he saw the hazy outline of a woman, heard a soft laugh. His mother? Ah… he hadn’t seen her in so long… Everything was so soft and bright and... fuzzy. Peaceful. He drifted lazily toward the figure.
Hands pounding on his back and shaking him roughly brought him, water spitting out of his mouth and nose followed by more thin vomiting.
“What is the password that starts up your computer?”
February 3^rd - 6:00 pm
Kyo’s escorts, dragging him by the underarms, tossed him into a wet heap in his cell, again leaving a little cup of water. Having had quite enough water for the day, he ignored the cup for now, instead focusing his energy on dragging himself to his cot. His arms and legs felt like they were made of soggy bread, his throat was burning, and his stomach ached fiercely from a day of coughing, puking, and choking. The early stages of nicotine withdrawal gave him a severe headache, making it difficult to think clearly. It took nearly ten minutes to get himself across the tiny room to his cot, and another five to climb onto it.
His undershirt and wool trousers were soaked and thin, clinging to his legs like sheathes of itchy ice. He reached up one shaky hand to grip the skull pendent that hung around his neck, clutching it as a religious man might hold a crucifix in times of trial. Closing his non-swollen eye, he pictured Shinya’s face and vowed silently to protect his family’s secrets as sleep swept up to claim him.
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The Prophet