Closer to Death [Frozen]

Title: Closer to Death.
Author: Trice
Rating: R
Classification: Alternate Universe, Thriller, Suspense
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Blood, conspiracy, strong language, violence, stuff young and innocent people shouldn't read, Trice tries things, etc.
Summary: The married journalist Inoue Mao is send off to Tokyo by her boss to write an article about a conspiracy set-up by using city sweepers to murder several politicians, which is raging on in Japan. Soon, she finds herself entangled in a dangerous world, which brings her closer to death.
Disclaimer: I do not own Matsumoto Jun or Inoue Mao. Neither do I have any relationship with them. This is pure fiction. If the reality would become close to this fiction, it'd be pure faith .
The fic might have compounds based on Tsukasa Hojo's manga City Hunter and Angel Heart. It's his, not mine. I don't own anything about this story, but the plot (I guess). ^^
Additional notes: This fiction will be sporadically updated. Actually, I wanted to give a thriller/suspense fic a try a while ago and this is just an attempt (Oh noes). If it turns out to be more likely a comedy, I guess I failed. (And noes, am not forgetting Six Months... Just a bit stuck with this fanfic. I'll try to do something about it this weekend, but I wouldn't be very hopeful if I were you =( )

The incessant salty flavour teased my numerous sharp papillae. The taste made the flesh buds stir up, which became very hard. I scraped them roughly against my dry palate while staring apathetically at my victim's blood, which kept on pouring out of his wound, staining everything on its passage. Sweat drops rolled down my forehead, and drowned my eyelids, soon covered my eyes with a blur.

The moment of killing a person wasn't the hardest part after all. It was to bring yourself to do this, and of course, the tormenting aftermath that would be awaiting me, once I realise what I had done.

To sweep one's life away, is actually pretty simple.



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Comments on the first 7 sentences?

No matter how it was supposed to look like, it felt like she was being send off directly to her final resting-place along in a coffin. Only, the head of her department called it: an exciting mission with a great bonus on top. Moreover all of her expenses - which included a brand new flat, taxi-fees, etc. - would be all covered by the firm. An offer which was not to be refused, according the head of the US newspaper, New York Daily. Next to the practical arguments, they coaxed her by reminding her that such a smart person with a criminology degree didn't have her place behind the office and would be better off exploring the field. The degree of danger of her task was never really mentioned. When it was about to be thrown into the discussion, the head swiftly steered the conversation back to the sweet-talking or money.

The fact the female reporter accepted this unreasonable offer shook the editorial department of the NY Daily she worked in. More precisely, the local-news offices she used to work in, was very impressed. Her curriculum made it a little believable she could take upon such a task. After all, she has never been doing the active research on field of criminality and such before. She has only done the paperwork, the editing and so on. And was even probably more familiar with Word than NVivo and XSight by now, that much she might have forgotten about these aspects of her education. But frankly, her education was redundant the moment she got the job at the newspaper.
The only reason she was employed, was to make articles involving crime sound a little more intelligent by throwing some specialised vocabulary now and then, or adding statistics with the courtesy of Google being such a helpful alley during her work. Of course, there were times she wasn't sounding this lazy. At the beginning, she was a very enthusiastic person, using the most reliable sources she could aim for each statistic and statement the article would make. Unfortunately, she got quickly confronted with impossible deadlines and that fiddly thing called 'market'. She was forced to change her way of working, adapt herself to her new environment and forget about all the idealistic ideas of learn something to people through the newspaper which is more valuable than the 'celebrity X takes drugs, again' info. The US daily needed the scandals, the juicy gossips, and so on, before daybreak.

Now, things had changed a little. The boss of the company had changed around a year ago, and the paper seemed to be less trash and a little more interesting. An intellectual would still refuse to use the newspaper even as toilet-paper, but the day that they would actually mind to read at least once the headlines wasn't a fantasy any more. It could even be a reality for the near future.

The special mission assigned to the female reporter was part of this master plan set out to the staff of the editorial department under the motto 'less trash, more news'. Not original, doesn't rhyme, but has at least some content. And that was something that could be appreciated a little by everyone, but the fashion and showbiz section of the editorial department. They were the only ones who booed the changes and had a reason to do so, as their budget got cut to the bone. As consequence, some unavoidable discharges, which that section was saddled to deal with itself. The boss didn't care who would get out, but only 1/4 of the staff would remain by the end of the month.
When the upper-layer of the 'editorial-department' pyramid broke the news, the butt-kissing feast could be ushered in the office of the boss. It ended up in a bloodbath, and only one of the fifteen current employees could stay. Some nerdy, unnoticeable person, too shy to even try and sex up the boss.

To the reporter, with the freshly assigned mission to just go and die, it all didn't matter any more... Not it ever really did before - it wasn't her section after all.



Narita airport, Japan.

Quarantine questionnaire, passport control, baggage claim, custom inspections,... Enough torturing procedures after a long flight to finish you off.

Dragging her luggage along her, she sighted a few duty free shops nearby and decided to make a stop to lift up her spirits. It didn't take long before she went out with some cosmetics and perfume. It wasn't all too handy to shop being loaded as some donkey, hoping you wouldn't knock a rack full of Chanel perfumes down. If she did that, the bonuses she'd get would find their use there. And probably her whole income as well.

Back, safely back, in the hall she sought for a person who might hold a paper or card-board saying NY Daily or such. She found a tall man, with brown curled hair, inviting her to come closer with a confident smile. His dark eyes flickered from the cardboard he was holding to her, several times until the reporter finally brought herself nearer to him. The card board did not say NY Daily, or anything like it, she thought. But she got the clear hint that she should meet up with this man.
The height difference got clearer facing each other, as she had to pitch her head, until the back of her neck cracked.
"You're from the newspaper, from New York?" It was not a man, but a boy. His light and unprofessional way of talking, said enough about his age and mentality. Why on earth was she being picked up by him?
"Yes," the reporter answered, without showing a glint of disappointment or distrust.
"A guy asked me to give you this." He handed her the cardboard over, then turned on his heels. The woman frowned in confusion, as she saw the boy vanish into the crowd. This short meeting didn't really give her a single clue about who she would work with, precise information about what she'd be researching, when she'd be starting and most importantly, where her flat was located.

Scanning the object she got tucked in her hand before, she took notice that was written on the board was really far from being 'NY Daily'. It was actually 'free hugs'. Lightly irritated, she flipped the board a few times, until she noticed a small inscription in the back. Two numerical combinations and a place in Narita airport, written in the most horrid English ever. The time to find a plan of the building and a possible explanation for the place she had to be, half an hour passed by and another one until she was at the appointed spot.
Guessing that no one would be waiting for her, she moved on to the next riddle to solve. The numbers. Actually, this mystery was easy to elude as the hall she was standing in, was covered with lockers. It was just a matter of a couple of minutes to track the right locker, and then insert the combination to open it.

When she was about to open the metallic door of the locker, she wondered if she could really trust blindly this whole deal. Was she being a little too naive? Or was it the whole mystery that seethed her till the rational being she was would shade to some mindless puppet doing whatever she was appointed to.

She smiled.

Nah, the switch wasn't as sudden as she just described. The process of change into a marionette people could exert as they wished, was something that had been taking years. Evidently, it were these years she had been working for New York Daily.

Shoving her thoughts aside about the newspaper, she jerked the door open and snapped her eyelids open and shut. A big brown envelope, with a yellow square on top - probably a post-it - was awaiting her. Carefully, she reached out her fingers to the object, and drawn a deep breath. Was it ticking - a bomb perhaps? Or would some poisonous gas expand once she ripped the wrapping?
A few moments of hesitations translated itself in nervous twitches bothering her facial expression. Her hand started to shake, but she didn't permit it for any longer, and grasped the heavy envelop and torn the top, not even minding to check the post-it first.

Her pupils dilated and the tip of her tongue ran over her underlip, as she shifted through the content of the suspicious envelope...



The night set in over Tokyo, putting a chilly blanket over the city. Near the haven, the gusts of wind produced whispers, hoovering over the piers. On one of the platforms, a thin smoke vanished up into the air. It was too insignificant to be noticed, in comparison of the tall figure who seemed to be the source of this continuous fume, rising up. The man was watching intently the cargos moored to the quays. The ones who were docked didn't show much activity, but the flaring lights blinding the figure a little.

And then, suddenly, he heard a noise. Not produced by any of the large boats, by the sea, or by cards.
It was a faint clicking sound that grew louder, announcing the arrival of the guest he had been waiting for, for a while. He did not avert his eyes, only clenched the cigarette, which was settled nicely between his lips, with his teeth. A smile drawn up his face. When the sound stopped, and the presence of his guest was clear enough, he stopped chewing on the end of his cig, and allowed his hand to snatch it away, to grant enough freedom to his mouth to speak. "New York," he muttered, "Daily."

"Yes." the voice from behind retorted. A female voice. And he knew it would be a woman, though he had opposed himself to have a woman being involved into such a dangerous case. But, there was no use to voice it any longer, as he was a mere contracting party if the NY Daily.

On her side, the reporter wanted clarifications on many plans. The envelope, the meeting, the case and most importantly, who this man was. She had followed sheepishly the instructions on the post-it, came here, though it isn't a safe place for a lady to wander in,... Now, she deemed that she had the full right to receive an out-an-out explanation of this masquerade.
She wanted to look at him, but didn't. The instructions had required for her to stay at the other side of the platform. The deal was to talk to each other while they were facing backs. It was a silly agreement; or more likely a rule that was being imposed on her. She was cold, and could not laugh with all this.

"Mrs. Smi-" the man started, but got quickly interrupted by the reported.

"Inoue," she chimed in sharply. "Inoue Mao." And against all the rules, she stole a quick glance over her shoulder and demanded, "And who are you?"

Since the man didn't answer, she brought her head back to its initial position, and flinched in frustration. Somehow, she felt like she was behaving as some immature teenager - card-board-guy worth -, but her curiosity was fired up, and she just wanted a couple of answers, to avoid any foiling outbursts coming from her side.

"I am..."


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Comments? I know it's a bit weird, but with the chapters, things will become clear xD (or it's supposed to be this way. ROFLMAO XD)