Diary of and Illusionist

25 November 2007 @ 02:06 pm

Testing

31 August 2007 @ 07:41 am

Zenon knocked back what had to have been his fourth or fifth whiskey, and then grimaced. He had lost count how many he’d had some time ago- probably after the first one. He’d chased every glass with a bottle of beer; those were rapidly accumulating on the bar. He was drawing attention, even if he was doing no more than sitting at the bar silently sucking down shot after shot and beer after beer. The stuff was beginning to take effect though, so soon he would cease to care.

And that was the goal, was it not?

He could feel Homura probing the world for his presence. The damned taishi was after him again, and Zenon never knew if it would be to fuck his brains out, get his brains fucked out, business, or simply to take out his frustrations by beating Zenon senseless. The redhead desperately wanted to crash at his place in Sri Lanka, but Homura would look for him there fifty times over. He could go to his lover Koumyou, where strangely enough Homura tended not to bother him, but lately Koumyou was turning into something like an unsatisfied housewife. Zenon knew damned well that Homura and the mission were taking up his time, but Koumyou was running towards the end of his rope on the matter, and Zenon couldn’t stand those accusing eyes.

He groaned thinking about the situation he found himself in.

He ran his hands through his hair and bade the barkeep leave the bottle of whiskey this time. The man glared at him, why Zenon didn’t know, but left the bottle without comment. At this point Zenon passed up the shot glass and simply hit off the bottle straight. It took a lot of booze to make a god as drunk as he intended to get, and he knew the one bottle would not be enough.

Zenon heard a light chuckle beside him and had to turn his head too much to get a look at the guy who was sitting on his blind side.

“Woman?” the youkai he hadn’t even noticed beside him laughed.

“What?” Zenon asked, the word conveying annoyance at being interrupted in his self-pity party. There was an undercurrent of malice in the word. The giggle that came forth only annoyed him more.

“Women!” Zakuro said. “Only women make men drink and groan like that.”

Zenon regarded Zakuro for a moment. The youkai sat facing away from the bar. He was leaning back on it on his elbows far enough to look at Zenon’s face. People in general didn’t recognize Zenon for what he was, especially when he was actively suppressing his aura. Even so, many of them instinctively knew to give him a wide birth when he was in a bad mood. A youkai should be able to sense it more keenly, so Zenon figured either this one next to him was suicidal or just plain stupid.

Still, he couldn’t ignore that he was a pretty one, but Zenon’s recent penchant for male company notwithstanding, he’d had enough sex (and sometimes rough sex at that, even by his standards) that he was likely to pass up a pretty fuck. It was obvious the youkai was trying to flirt with him.

“I don’t see what the fuck business it is of yours, creep.” he snarled.

The smile faded from the pretty face. Zakuro was in a bad way. Half the damned world thought he had joined the Sanzo party and even some of his friends seemed ready to kill and skin him as a traitor. The other half wanted to do the same for different reasons. When he had walked in, the rugged man quietly drinking all alone had immediately drawn his attention. Zakuro had taken a seat next to him, and was literally bathing in the energy of a powerful aura. However, no amount of posturing and space invading had seemed to pull the other’s attention from his booze. When he actively started grumbling to himself it didn’t take long for Zakuro to hear enough to get an idea.

And, after all, a person dissatisfied with a lover was ripe for a quick fuck, and Zakuro desperately needed the distraction. It had been a while since anybody had touched him, and that was a sin for someone as beautiful as he was.

He looked down at himself, even ran an appraising hand over his tight, exposed belly. Yes, it couldn’t be that the man wasn’t interested in this! He just had been too into his own issues to notice Zakuro’s delicious presence. So he would need to be more forward.

“Creep?” Zakuro mulled, “Me? I just want to help. You seem like you could use the company and,” he put on his best coquettish smile and leaned in close to the soldier, “I could use some company too!”

“I’m not interested,” Zenon growled.

Temporarily chastened, Zakuro pouted and turned to wave the bartender down. “I’ll have what he’s having!” he called out merrily, trying to keep up his spirits. He leaned in again, bumping Zenon’s arm and sticking his hand uncomfortably within Zenon’s vision. For a second Zakuro’s stupid gloves arrested the god’s attention, making Zenon’s eyes cross.

The bartender approached and barked, “We don’t serve the likes of you! Be gone, demon,” and then waved dismissively at Zakuro and stormed away. Well, the man hadn’t exactly thrown him out.

He turned his attentions back to Zenon, “Buy me a drink at least?” He lightly touched the redhead’s arm, hoping to garner some form of sympathy, or something! After all, look what he was turning down! It was outrageous that the other could leave such a sexy thing like Zakuro wanting.

Zenon glared at the purple-headed thing drawing circles on his arm with those ridiculous youkai claws. Part of his body responded to the overt flirting, but most of him just got disgusted that any youkai dare touch a god, ie, him!

One swift jerk of his arm and he smashed his elbow into Zakuro's face. The youkai’s head rocked back on his shoulders and blood streamed from his nose. Zakuro had a pretty good idea that his nose had been broken, and for what? “What the hell did I do to deserve that?” he cried through his hands, which he had brought up in a vain attempt to staunch the flow and hold back the bright pain. His whole vision had flashed white at the impact and now he tried to suck in air through rapidly swelling nasal tissue.

“You touched me,” Zenon said. “Just be glad I’m not in the mood to kill you.”

Zenon got enough amusement out of the youkai’s reaction to release a chuckle before the redhead stuffed a cigarette into his mouth and lit it. He turned back to his almost empty bottle and flagged the barkeep for another. Around him, patrons gasped and Zenon was further entertained by the odd comments of “damned youkai,” and threats to throw the poor creature out. The man should have been wearing limiters. If he was taken out and thrashed he deserved it for being open about his race and daring to patronize a human establishment.

Zakuro wept into his hands, hoping the redhead hadn’t destroyed his pretty face. “Look what you did to me!” he bawled, the words Zenon had spoken failing to register. Zenon ignored him, except for another slight bounce of his shoulder indicating he was still laughing. Angered, Zakuro grabbed a half bottle of beer from the nearest patron and bounced it off the top of the ginger-haired man’s bottle. The beer erupted in a geyser, spilling all over the place and dousing the god. Zenon stood up; the bar stool flying backwards.

Zakuro was still holding his nose; rivulets of blood dripped from between his fingers and some had spattered onto his exposed chest and belly. His eyes, however, shone a brilliant and angry green as he stared levelly at the god.

The bartender graced Zenon with a smile, bumping a bottle onto the bar top this time and said, “Get rid of him and the next ones on the house!”

Zenon smiled back, taking the bait, “Sure thing.”

Before Zakuro knew what his move would be, Zenon had a small pistol pointed in his face. Zakuro glared, surprised, down the barrel and then his eyes shifted to look into Zenon’s one good eye. For a split second Zenon was impressed that the youkai had the rocks to not freak out. Zenon looked at the beer and the spilled whiskey pooling on the nasty bar-room floor.

“You made a mess,” he said. Lightning fast he grabbed Zakuro behind the neck. It was so quick the youkai didn’t see it coming any more than he had the gun. Zenon easily dragged him to the puddle and kicked the other’s legs out from under him. Zakuro became truly scared then, realizing what he had thought to be an exceptional human being was probably something far more. Zenon had overcome Zakuro’s youkai strength almost as if he’d been a child. He pressed Zakuro’s face down to the puddle, and he looked into it to observe how the filth of the floor was coming free to form a nasty suspension. The smell of whiskey, beer and floor smegma made him gag. Zakuro somehow kept his knees under him and that only caused him to maintain an ass-up position.

The denizens of the bar were crowding around, forming an audience. Every one of them seemed to be on the god’s side, egging him on. “Clean it up like the dog you are,” Zenon growled. He pressed the butt of the gun to the back of Zakuro’s skull for emphasis. Zakuro could hear the crowd cheering for him to suck the mess up. He squeezed his eyes shut, determined he would not let even this powerful being degrade him.

Terrified, Zakuro summoned his strongest power and sought the current that was the god’s thoughts. It was remarkably easy to tap.

“But, sir, what about your gun?” Zakuro asked into the puddle, struggling to keep his face from being pressed into it.

“Huh?” Zenon said. The next thing he knew, a bright heat flashed in his hand. The pistol at Zakuro’s neck began to melt and suddenly Zenon needed to throw it away lest his hand be encased in molten metal. “What the fuck?” he cried. He and several bystanders watched in amazement as the pistol puddled on the ground and then ate into the very floor. A strange stench emanated from it. “What the hell did you do to my gun?”

Zakuro smiled, “I don’t think the gun is the worst of your problems,” Zakuro said. “Your cigarette is behaving funny too!”

Zenon’s cigarette exploded like a fire cracker. Embers that were hotter than they should have been erupted and stung in his skin and face. He released the youkai to bat at the dancing things, but they only swirled around to light on his clothing.

The next thing he knew, he was on fire. It was a fire strong enough that it could do him real harm, and before he understood what was going on he was dancing about the bar trying to get the flaming clothes off his body. His hair caught fire and he ran to the nearest source of liquid-the taps. Zenon doused his head with beer, and the flames were extinguished. He turned to his coat, and watched it burn, amazed at how the armament it concealed also seemed to burn and melt away.

“Holy shit!” Zenon exclaimed. “You’re a freakin pyro!” he yelled at Zakuro. Pyrokenesis was something Zenon could combat. He began to chant an incantation to suppress the other’s power.

Zakuro was straightening up and the room had fallen silent. He looked on the god, who had drawn another weapon and was now aiming a machine gun at him. Apparently Zenon had underestimated him.

Feeling a little more on a level playing field, Zakuro bawled, “I am the Great Zakuro! Feel my power!”

And there were suddenly piles of skulls everywhere. The bar-room faded away and a purple haze filtered in and blotted out everything else. “Why are you holding that worm?” Zakuro asked innocently.

The gun had suddenly taken on a mealy, squishy feeling. Zenon looked down to see a strange grub in his hands with a mouth on it like a lamprey. His breath hitched and he made a strangled cry of surprise. Before he could cast it away, Zakuro observed, “It bites!” and the creature went for Zenon’s throat.

Zakuro stood over the god, who was writhing in an invisible struggle on the floor. He looked pathetic, battling for air. The god had actually slapped himself around pretty good, trying to put out flames that weren’t there and remove creatures that weren’t attacking him.

Angry, Zakuro drew back his foot and kicked the god as hard as he could. Zenon grunted and flailed. “Oh no!” Zakuro whispered, “More are coming-they are coming out of the ground!” He kicked the god again and Zenon slashed at the air with a knife he produced. “What the hell are they?” he screamed. Zakuro evaded him easily, Zenon couldn't even see him any more. The next kick landed on Zenon’s head, at the temple and the god was knocked out.

Zakuro looked about at the flabbergasted patrons of the establishment. Half of them were caught up in the illusion and the other half were gaping at the twitching figure on the floor. Most of them were staring wide eyed at Zakuro.

“Anybody else want a piece of me?” Zakuro screamed. He no longer was in the mood for a good fuck. Now he just wanted to get the hell out of there and resurrect his pride.

Had Zenon pressed his face into the mess before Zakuro found his voice he might have actually been forced to lick the floor. How close he’d come to that made the youkai shudder.

The rest of the establishment looked in no way ready to mess with him, so Zakuro marched stiffly out the door.

Tags: fic, zenon

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