Only Half Mine [KHR 1896]

Chapter 2: An Empty Paradise

Chapter 2: An Empty Paradise

"This plane smells like a wet dog… Oh. Wait. That's probably just you, Ken-niisan."

Fran's monotone rang crisp against the steady hum of engines. It had only been a little over an hour since the plane took off from Japanese soil, and yet another heated exchange of insults seemed already underway among Rokudo Mukuro's companions.

"Shut up byon!" rasped Joshima Ken, "Why is this brat even flying with us anyway?"

"Because Captain Squalo said he would blow up the plane if he had to sit with me all the way to Europe." Fran remained unfazed. "Anyway, Ken-niisan, you shouldn't talk so much. We all have to hold our breaths when you open your mouth, you know."

"What did you say, you little-!" Even without looking, Mukuro could guess that Ken had his animal teeth in hand, ready to jump into Kong Channel at Fran's next quip.

"Ken, Fran, keep it down. Mukuro-sama isn't feeling well." Kakimoto Chikusa's slow, quiet voice intervened. He had always been the most observant and considerate among Mukuro's little band of criminals.

"Eh? Isn't Master just heartbroken because Chrome-neesan didn't come with us?"

Fran's tone was not a pitch off its usual drone, and yet his latest statement sounded almost like mockery to Mukuro's ears. A vein in his temple twitched involuntarily, but his slight reaction went unnoticed, as his companions became preoccupied with their own more violent retorts.

"I said, shut up byon! Nobody cares about that stupid woman byon!"

"A brat like you shouldn't meddle in adults' affairs! Mukuro-chan doesn't need that ugly Chrome when he has me!"

"Ken, Fran, M.M., be quiet. Mukuro-sama needs to rest."

Mukuro stifled a sigh as his followers resigned into disgruntled silence. He leaned his head lightly against the cool glass of the window next to his seat and peered uninterestedly. There was nothing below but solid darkness, the lights of Japan long since left behind. Instead of scenery, he saw in the glass a vague image of his face, reflected by the dimmed lights within the airplane cabin.

His reflection showed Mukuro no more than what he already knew. He looked an alarming level of exhausted. He had the usual bemused smile off his face, which itself was a mask of unbroken, unnatural pallor. The skin between his brows crinkled slightly as he tried to ward off the insistent throbbing in his temples. His eyes, hot and dry in their sockets with the threat of an impending fever, glimmered for once with something other than dark humor.

'Loneliness, maybe,' Mukuro supposed as he idly pondered upon the odd emotion he saw in his eyes.

His limbs ached, as well as his back, his chest, his abdomen, and practically the entirety of him. It hurt Mukuro to move, and it hurt him even to stay still. He had overexerted himself in the final battle against the Real Six Funeral Wreaths and suffered far too much strain than wise for someone barely three full days out of a decade-long confinement in a water tank.

With a small grimace, he gingerly nestled his head against the tall back of his First Class seat and closed his eyes, intending to sleep away the remaining thirteen or so hours of flight to Italy. Mukuro shut himself out from his surroundings.

When his nose caught the sharp scent of damp grass, his eyes fluttered back open in surprise. The airplane and his companions had disappeared in favor of verdant pastures underneath a clear blue sky.

"Oh?" Mukuro murmured to himself. He had not intended to come here, but it seemed that, by force of habit, his consciousness had automatically sought out this familiar illusory refuge as soon as he had relinquished full control of his senses.