Don’t panic! Not giving up on Fragments! However, the concept for my next story has been rolling around my head for ages, and in a mad moment of inspiration I decided to write up a prologue for one of the characters. As always i’m immensely grateful to Mirage_GSM for his proofreading skills. 
This is also the first time I’ve attempted to write outside of first person, so i’m really interested to hear what you think. Do you like the present tense? Or would it be better in past tense? Anything I could do better, or just does not work at all?
Enjoy, and don’t worry the next Fragments chapter will be up before christmas.
The Legendary Rust Bucket
With the frigid air biting at her exposed fingers Sora Shizuka leaves what may well turn out to be the most boring party of the year, which was just interrupted by a very irritable police officer. And if all that wasn’t bad enough, the most annoying guest at the party - having misread her like a Mayan calendar - has taken it upon himself to trail pathetically after her.
Well, at least he hasn’t tried to make small talk…
“That was wild right?” The boy - whose name she hasn’t bothered to find out - says, brushing his jet black fringe away from his artificially paled face. It’s strange hearing a guy dressed like an angel of darkness sound so excitable.
“Oh, super wild.” Sora replies her lips tight, tone thick with cold sarcasm.
“Oh come on!” he groans. “When was the last time you went to a party broken up by the police?”
Sora snorts with laughter. She can’t help it:
So young and so very stupid. She can’t talk of course, she is young and prone to making decidedly ill-advised life choices herself, but at least she has the common courtesy not to show it. Honestly, if more people could just keep their thoughts to themselves the world would be a better place - and a quieter one to boot.
“What’s so funny?” He asks, apparently unfazed by her very deliberate cold shoulder.
“That wasn’t a police bust you idiot. That was the stupid host’s dad, just coming home.”
“And how on earth do you know that?”
“There were pictures of him all over the apartment? Or were you too busy drooling over anything even vaguely resembling a girl to notice?”
“That’s like, super smart,” he says; impressed.
Sora scoffs, withdrawing a pair of headphones and crumpled pack of cigarettes from her pocket. With well practiced motions she hits play on her mp3 player. She Pushes the earbud into her ear, before rummaging for her lighter. People have called her a lot of things in the past - disgusting self centred bitch to quote an ex friend - but ‘Super smart’ is a new one on her.
Not that it matters how many compliments he throws at her, he is destined for disappointment. Which Sora can empathize with, the party was a mistake, it isn’t even her scene. Black-clad goths and desperately emotional skinny teens are hardly the kind of people she would elect to hang out with, but everyone else was either bored of her, sick of her or otherwise engaged.
Her whole evening feels like a massive waste of time. Hours wasted in front of the mirror applying makeup she hates, hours sitting on lonely busses and walking cold streets to find a party she wasn’t even invited to. Then, to really complete this travesty of a night, a gathering that managed to have no booze, a no smoking rule and no one even remotely interesting to talk to.
The bracelets on her wrist jingle as she takes a long drag on the cigarette. Blowing out a slow frustrated plum she closes her eyes, trying to focus on the sound of a song she used to love, but is now so worn as to be white noise.
“You smoke?” The boy asks, mouth slightly open.
“No,” She answers flatly, blowing a second drag into his spluttering face.
“Gah, christ, fine. Okay, stupid question.” He coughs. “But you really should be a little nicer if you want people to hang around with you.”
“Apparently I’m nice enough to keep you following me.” With a shrug she takes a step off of the well lit path, plunging down a familiar, yet pitch black, alley. “Or are you going to try and mug me? Because I wouldn’t bother. People with money don’t have to go to such shitty parties.”
As the darkness closes in around them she feels for the first time tonight something other than frustration or boredom: excitement. His eyes feel like icy fingers against her back, and she shivers. Will he do something? It’s unlikely - he doesn’t seem the type - but there's always a chance. No matter how good her judgment is, there is always a chance. Obeying some eons old instinct her body comes alive, goosebumps texturing her flesh, while every muscle tenses ready to either run… or fight.
The sparkling skyline is visible at the end of the ally, a poor imitation of the stars. Their lights have bleached from the night sky. A stiff breeze forces itself between the buildings, like some living thing hunting exposed flesh to sear with its icy touch before moving on to the next hapless victim.
“I’m not going to do anything to you,” he shouts, having to raise his voice above the whistling wind. “I’m not a creep,” he concludes defensively.
Not answering him she sighs silently, disappointment replacing nervous energy as together they emerge from the alley.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
No longer trapped in a maze of residential tower blocks Sora slips into a more comfortable gait. This is her part of town, sedate by day but alive by night. For perhaps the hundredth time she wonders what her mother would say if she knew her daughter was hanging around on streets like this past sundown, entranced by the thud of electronic music and the flash of neon light.
Still even amongst all these distractions the nagging guilt of what she just did plays on her mind. Cursing herself she flicks her cigarette butt into the gutter. What if he had attacked her? Robbed her? She’s hardly a difficult target, her skinny frame comes up barely to his chin. So much risk, is it worth it? A few moments of feeling alive, of experiencing the rush that smoking no longer gives her?
She doesn’t answer her own rhetorical question, instead turning her attention - and frustrations - back to the boy. “No dude, you just followed me from the party with no invitation - not creepy at all.”
“You don’t even know me,” he complains at once, repositioning his stupid fringe yet again. “You’re so full of yourself, I bet you’ve not even finished high school.”
“Never claimed I did, and you're right, I don’t know you.” She says quickly, relishing the argument. “Which begs the question: Why the fuck are you here?”
“Because you were by far the hottest girl at that party.”
A smile touches her black lips. Part of her hates how shallow that statement is, but to say she didn’t treat boys the same way would be a lie. And at least he has the guts to make his intentions clear, some people try desperately to be kind and caring, but just end up dull and world numbingly boring.
“So what year are you in anyway... at high school I mean.” He asks, struggling to stay by Sora’s side on the bustling sidewalk.
“Little creepy,” she retorts, glaring at a short skirted party goer who nearly collided with her. “You don’t even know my name.”
“Fine, what’s your name?”
“I’m in the first year of high school.”
“Christ, are you always this difficult?” The boy, who she has to admit is growing less tedious, replies.
Deciding silence is the most infuriating response she lights another cigarette; two more bad habits. She isn’t antisocial, quite the opposite in fact. But she can’t help getting a sort of sadomasochistic joy at pushing people away, seeing how much they can take before they snap and lose interest in her.
Something cold brushes against her cheek, a tiny moment of chill which she tries to ignore until similar chills touch her hands and lips. Drawing deeply from her cigarette she looks up, only to discover the sky crowded with swirling snow. The flakes catch in the polluting orange light of the city, momentary turning to embers in the night air.
“Great,” she mutters, her mother is going to be on the phone tomorrow with her normal mix of warnings and worry. Sora wishes she wouldn’t, she’s well aware of how fragile she is. Knowing her mum will be fretting about it doesn’t help.
“Oh snow, cool!” The boy chimes, “I wonder if we will get a day off tomorrow?” He shrugs, “Not that you’ll probably care but my name is Itsuki Ito, and I’m in the third year at Tohoku Tech.”
“Sora,” she replies softly, “And I go to a high school you’ve never heard of.”
“Cute name,” he says, a smile ill-fitting his gothic pasona.
Shaking her head slowly Sora pulls deeply on her cigarette, the inhalation causing the ember to glow, bathing her face in a soft warm light. In the sharp contrast of light and dark the reminders of acne, long since passed, scar the flesh around her cheekbones. Itsuki watches her for a long moment, before Sora looks away.
“Well let’s see,” he begins, rubbing his chin in mock concentration, “You’re kinda stuck up, no offence, so my guess is a private girls’ school. Masako, or Oichi High maybe?”
“So you're a psychologist now?” She asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Just good at guessing.” He smirks. “So, was I right?”
“Nope.”
“Hmmm.” He pauses, considering her. “How about that International school? You know, the one with the fountain? You’re at least half foreign right?”
She stumbles, caught off guard by his observation. Recovering quickly she shakes her head. He’s not wrong of course, her father is American, but she’s always been under the impression that she took after her Japanese side. Perhaps this kid - Itsuki - is smarter than she gave him credit for. Not many people would have been able to see something so subtle under so much makeup.
“You’re half right, but I’ve never left Japan.”
Spurred on by her non-evasive answer he continues to list off high school after high school. Sora’s impressed, he’s nowhere near being right, of course, but his memory for schools is remarkable. She let’s him continue to reel off names, responding with a shake of the head until they reach the end of the street and the only dive in town where Sora is always welcome.
“The Rust Bucket?” Itsuki reads the sign above the door, “I’ve heard of this place, it’s like, legendary.”
“Do me a favour,” Sora says slowly, flicking the dog end into a nearby drain, “For the next five minutes, shut up.”
“Are you going to try and get us in?” he asks excitedly.
With eyes narrowed Sora stares at him, until the smile falls from his face, and with an agitated sigh he mimes zipping up his lips. Concluding that Itsuki can probably be trusted not to embarrass her she pulls the ear bud from her ear, before setting off with purpose towards the crowded entrance.
The Rust Bucket has been on this spot for as long as anyone can remember, oh sure, it hasn’t always been a bar. Over its extended and colourful history it has been everything from a tea room to a police station, from general store to plumbers merchant. Many local people will tell you with misinformed confidence that samurai drank on this spot at one point, and woe be it to you if you try to counter such arguments with facts. Some stories are just too good to be ruined by the truth.
What everyone can agree on, regardless of historical knowledge, is that The Rust Bucket might just be the most selective club in town. There is always a line of people at the front door - not through immense popularity you understand, but rather steaming from a strict edict set-forth by the local fire department. It simply isn’t safe to cram an old, dilapidated building with customers, so numbers had to be restricted, which in turn left the preferred choice of clientele to the door staff.
Perhaps predictably, telling people that access was restricted brought them forth in packs, each convinced he or she alone were worthy to tread the sacred halls.
Head held high Sora approaches the front of the line, drawing amused stares from the customers as the bouncer folds his massive arms. At over six feet and half as wide the doorman is used to turning away people who think they can cheat the system with charm. Very few of these people resort to violence, and fewer still can recall quite what happened after they decided to attack.
“Sup’ Mini?” Sora asks, purposely using the english word for Minato’s nickname.
“Sky!” The bouncer announces in greeting, unfolding his arms and smiling at her, “Why you damn kids never wearing anything normal?”
“Normal is boring,” she shrugs, “Full-house?”
“Nah, not for a lil’ thing like you,” he peers effortlessly over her shoulder, “And him?”
“Yeah, we got kicked out of a party.”
“Not surprised, they probably thought you two were ambassadors from the underworld or something.” Minato smirks at his own joke. “Go right ahead. Your uncle’s busy mind.”
Patting his arm affectionately Sora strolls into the bar, followed quickly by Itsuki, who performs an awkward moving bow as he passes the bouncer.
One of the unforeseen joys of being a long time patron of the Rust Bucket is being able to watch newcomers’ reactions when they first step inside. Sora watches her companion closely as he takes in the warm walnut bar which stretches down the length of the room, his eyes momentarily stopping on the American flag which hangs behind a forest of bottles.
“What do you think?” she asks, a half smile creeping onto her face.
“Awesome,” he replies breathlessly, surreptitiously watching a pair of rosy cheeked women climb the stairs from the dance floor, before settling onto one of the half moon sofas, set into imitate alcoves against the walls. “Did you want to get a drink?” He asks, gesturing to one of the low unoccupied tables in the centre of the bar area.
“Later,” she grins, “Do you know how to dance?”
“Kinda?” He says uncertainly.
Without waiting for further comment Sora sets off in the direction of the dance floor. By virtue of how the building is designed it is actually quite hard to hear whatever music is being played in the bar area, but the low thud of the baseline is just discernible over the mass of conversation.
As the pair of teenagers draw closer to the stage the beat becomes more and more recognisable, much to Sora’s excitement. The spiky haired local band with their kick ass female lead singer is one her her favourite groups, playing their trademark mixture of rock interweaved with thumping drum and bass.
Finding the rhythm of the song with her bobbing head she steps out onto the hard shiny wood of the dance floor. Itsuki follows at a distance, either unsure or simply content to watch as her body moves in time with the music. She seems to require no script or instruction, but somehow strings together a series of graceful movements, her eyes closed.
Sora lets the music flow through her, focusing only on the beat and allowing her body to respond how it will. Some people have meditation, some people run, for Sora there is nothing better to alleviate stress than dance, nothing better to lull you to sleep than a relaxed beat and nothing better to beat boredom than discovering a new song.
Opening her eyes slowly she stares at Itsuki. He hasn’t moved, he just stands like a bodyguard on the sidelines with eyes for no one but her. That detail amuses her. Is he worried the women around her are too mature for him? Or does he really see something in her slender frame?
Sighing she breaks from the dance floor, just long enough to hold out a hand in invitation. “Come on, I’m only giving you one chance here.”
Nervously he steps forward and with a nod of encouragement begins to dance. The two strangers move together, but yet are somehow mountains apart. Sora simply follows her own rules, doing whatever comes naturally to her while Itsuki struggles to contort his own movements to suit hers. For song after song they entwine, never touching but becoming progressively closer.
By the time the band finishes its set, Sora is breathing hard, her make up smudged with sweat. Itsuki looks no better, his black shirt stained with perspiration, though his white concealer seems to have held up better than hers.
“I need to freshen up,” Sora says suddenly, braking the euphoric silence between them. “Grab us a table?”
“Sure,” her dance partner agrees. “That was fun, huh?”
Pursing her lips Sora considers him. He’s right, she can’t remember the last time she enjoyed somebody's company this much. The most striking thing is how he seems to find contentment just by hanging out with her, not asking for anything but relishing any slither of attention she offers him.
Still, no reason to give too much away, “I guess it kinda was.”
— — —
The look of shock on Itsuki’s face when Sora returns with two glasses of soda nearly makes the whole endeavour into the goth look worth it.
“Sora?” He asks, hardly noticing the glass she’s handing to him.
“Yep,” she smirks. Running a hand through her short electric blue pixie cut, the black wing safely folded away in her handbag. Her makeup has also vanished, or more accurately it has been replaced by a more subtle style. “Sorry, did you prefer the Shinigami look?”
“No, no, just a surprise, you look good.”
With a puff of exasperated air she rolls her eyes, taking a long sip of her soda to hide her half grin.
“You forgot to take your contacts out,” he observes, tipping back his own glass.
Sora nearly chokes on the fizzy liquid. Her condition, though an influence on almost every aspect of her life, is thankfully for the most part invisible. Her thin limbs can be explained away as just simple skinniness. Even the pain in her joints is hidden by painkillers and a constantly pissed off look.
The only real giveaway are her eyes, the whites of which are tinged a bluish green, surrounding her turquoise pupil. Again Itsuki has noticed something that most people don’t.
“I’m not wearing contacts,” she says slowly, suddenly feeling uncomfortably hot.
“You're not?” He sounds a little surprised, folding his arms on the table in front of him.
“You wanted to know what school I go to?”
He nods slowly.
“Yamaku Academy, have you heard of it?”
His eyes grow wide as he nods yet again, “I have, isn’t it a school for, well… dis-“
“Yes,” she replies tautly, “It is.”
“Oh, well that’s cool I guess. Is that why your eyes are all blue n’ stuff?” He asks casually.
“Nah, they do that when I get stalked. Like a warning system.”
“Oh come on!” he groans, “I thought you were over that! I never stalked you, I just followed you a bit.”
“There's a difference?”
They continue to argue back and forth as the bar slowly empties. Quite a lot of the heated discussion revolves around the definition of stalking, but to Sora’s relief the subject of her school or what it might mean isn’t touched on again. In fact both of them seem to be purposely avoiding talking about anything too personal. Which is just fine by Sora, amazing in fact. Interacting with people would be so much easier if people could just agree to keep shit to themselves.
Eventually they are among the last in the bar, the time having slipped well past midnight. It’s Sora’s uncle who interrupts the pair, calmly informing them that the bar will be closed, and it’s time to leave. Itsuki gets up so quickly he nearly upsets the table, bowing apologetically to the older man.
“Of course sir, we’re sorry for intruding.”
“I’m not,” Sora points out, not moving from her seat. Her uncle, who despite his advancing years still dresses in shorts and Hawaiian shirts, his hair the same shade of peroxide blond that it was in the late sixties when he spent his days surfing off the coast of California. It’s as if he refuses to grow up, a trait Sora finds amazing and her father finds infuriating.
“Whatever girlie, we’ll see how forgiving you are when I intrude on your graduation.” He grins, throwing a wash cloth over his shoulder as he strolls back to the bar.
Itsuki watches him go, a frown on his face. “So, this is goodbye?” He looks like he wants to reach across the table and hug her, but thinks better of it. Which is fortunate - even for Sora ending a date with a knee to the crotch would be a low point.
“Look, if it means anything I didn’t completely hate spending time with you tonight.”
“Yeah?” He says, looking up with a decidedly brighter expression.
“Don’t flatter yourself, I’ll see you around, maybe.” She answers, trying to inject the chill in her tone that she began the evening with. Before he can answer she turns, sliding from her seat and towards the bar without a second glance. She can feel his eyes on her back for a moment longer before he’s gone.
“Awww my little sky is growing up and talking to boys!” Her uncle cues as she takes her normal seat at the counter.
“Amusing,” she replies dryly. “Can I have a glass of wine?”
“Nope.”
“Come on!” she groans, “I got kicked out of a party.”
“Fine, you can have some grape juice - it’s basically the same.”
“Okay, okay. Can I at least get another pack of smokes.” She asks, just as the huge form of Minato plops into his complaining barstool. He attempts to rub some warmth back into his vast hands.
“I guess,” her uncle sighs, “Are you going to go and see the therapist?”
“Of course, are you going to phone my dad?”
“When I get time, sure.” With their weekly ritual complete and false promises once again made, he dips under the counter, returning with a full packet of cigarettes.
In an ideal world he would come back with two or three, one is barely enough to get her through a week these days. But Sora is smart enough to know when she’s onto a good thing and won’t compromise it. Heck, one day she may even appease her uncle and visit the therapist he seems to believe will help her.
“There’s one thing I don’t get,” he says pulling out the last cigarette from his crumpled packet, while Sora does the same with hers. Stowing the new pack safely in it’s place. “How come you didn’t get that boys number? Heck, he could have shared the guest room with you if it meant you might have a friend.”
Sora shrugs, sparking life into her cigarette, before answering a confident grin.
“If I’m not worth chasing, he’s not worth knowing.”
A nice(?) tale, just short enough to keep my attention. Nice work, mate! Although not surprising, I still wasn't expecting the ending. Kept it subtle with Mi not actually ever moving a piece herself 
