OC-centric fic.
Sep. 17th, 2008 02:08 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ladybug_archiveWhich to Bury, Us or the Hatchet? was a large inspiration, yet So Long and Goodnight was easier to listen to while writing. XD; Which to Bury was too distracting. LOL.
This is about Azazel and Gunju Rakesh. The canon fandom they were created for is only mentioned in passing, so this will not be posted to FF.net.
Us or the Hatchet
By Lucky_Ladybug
Notes: The characters are mine and the story is, too! It's a plunnie that was inspired by several conversations on LJ, as well as by the song Which to Bury, Us or the Hatchet? by Relient K. It focuses on my OC characters for the Final Fantasy VII fandom, but since it's only about the OCs, I don't attach FF7 to the title. The time period is both before Just a Simple Mission and between it and Another Simple Mission. Many thanks to Kaze for plot help and ideas!
~No, I don't hate you,
Don't wanna fight you,
Know I'll always love you
But right now I just don't like you
'Cause you took this too far~
---Which to Bury, Us or the Hatchet? by Relient K
The dark-haired man sighed to himself as he unlocked the door of the well-furnished home and entered, closing the door behind him. The room was in darkness, signifying that his brother had likely not yet returned. He turned the key in the lock, reaching to flip on the lightswitch before replacing the key in his pocket. Sure enough, the room was undisturbed. At least his twin had not redecorated tonight, moving the furniture in all manner of odd ways. He tended to do that when he was bored.
But Gunju being gone at three in the morning was never a good sign. Azazel always dreaded finding out what he got into each time. His name, meaning "wild cat", was far too appropriate. Sometimes Azazel wondered what their parents had been thinking. His own name, meaning "scapegoat", was not very flattering as far as he was concerned.
Or maybe their parents had just been obsessed with animals.
Azazel ran a hand through his raven hair. It had been a long day at Broken Circle, with meetings stretching far into the late hours. Then he had still needed to take care of paperwork and phone calls upon returning to his office. One of his frequent associates, a man calling himself only Dalton, had left him a message from Dismal. He was having trouble with the prisoners and wished that Azazel knew of a solution. "You mentioned your brother is a wild sort and needs something to do. Perhaps it will take a wild man to calm these troublesome rebels down, hmm?" he had said.
Azazel did not want Gunju to go to Dismal. The town was not much better than its name. And it was filled with anti-Shinra terrorists. Gunju would fit in all too well, just wanting to get in on all the action. Azazel felt it was better for them to be involved from the shadows. He wanted to overthrow Shinra with his own company, but then promptly take control of Gaia himself. Gunju was impulsive and reckless, and if he was on the frontlines of the battle there was no telling what could happen. It might not work to their best good. Gunju wanted to bring pain and suffering on the Shinra dogs because of how he and Azazel had been oppressed in the slums during their childhood. For Azazel, it was not so much that he had anything against Shinra personally; he just wanted them out of the way.
He did not know that he liked the idea of Gunju working with Dalton, either. He respected Dalton for his shrewd, calculating mind and the strategic decisions he made, but on the other hand, Dalton also considered that he was waging a personal war against Shinra. And Azazel knew from past experience that Dalton often took his plans too far and lost himself in his rage. He would be a bad influence on Gunju. That was the last thing Gunju needed.
The sound of the telephone ringing cut through the night without warning. Azazel jumped a mile. Muttering to himself, he crossed the white-tiled floor of the parlor and into the carpeted living room. The telephone was where it usually was, on the desk. He grabbed up the receiver. Only one person would be calling this late.
"You'd better have a good explanation for this," he greeted.
"Ouch," Gunju's voice purred. "Well, Brother, I seem to have gotten into a little situation. They said I could make one phone call."
"One . . . Gunju, you're drunk," Azazel frowned. It was obvious that the other man's voice was slurred.
"Guilty as charged." Gunju did not sound the least bit ashamed. "There was a little excitement at the tavern. But the barkeeper really got too uptight over it all. It was just a little fun."
"What did you do, Gunju?" Azazel's voice was tightening. It was late, he was tired, and he was still trying to decide whether to even mention Dalton's offer to Gunju. This phone call was not influencing him in a positive manner.
"Nothing much," Gunju said. "I only dislocated one man's front teeth and trapped another under a flying chair. Actually, that was quite a good aim if I do say so myself."
"You started a barfight?!" This was not what Azazel needed to hear. Every time he turned around, Gunju was getting into mischief. It had been that way since they had been street urchins trying to survive in the dark underbelly of Midgar. Gunju had nearly landed them in juvenile delinquent camp more than once. His cunning, and Azazel's quick thinking, had saved them those times. And Gunju was able to get himself out of a lot of problems. But even so, Azazel could not count the amount of calls he received from his still-wayward brother, needing to be bailed out of a new mess. He was frankly growing tired of it. Gunju was an adult; he should be able to look after himself and use his better judgment more often.
"I didn't start it," Gunju said now. "But I finished it. Unfortunately the police interrupted my fun."
"And you're calling me because you need help again." Azazel clenched his fist on the surface of the desk. Usually it was not so difficult to control his temper, but right now he was struggling to not explode. He did not want to spend what was left of the night going to the crowded jailhouse, which was probably now filled to overflowing with inebriated "guests." And he did not want to recover his brother, only to know this would happen again later. And again, and again, and again. . . .
"Well, I didn't really want to stay here all night," Gunju said. "The accommodations leave something to be desired."
"Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to join the brawl!" Azazel retorted. "I've got a mind to leave you in there. It would teach you a good lesson, at any rate."
"Such as how many drunks can fit into a room before it pops?" Gunju mused. Wild laughter and belching could be heard echoing in the background, along with an annoyed cop telling everyone to shut up and shape up.
"You're crowded into a cell with too many others?" Azazel frowned.
"Three others, to be exact," Gunju said. "And I don't know . . . if this arrangement persists, I might not be able to refrain from doing something about it."
"Gunju . . ." Azazel's voice had turned to an annoyed warning.
In spite of his anger and frustration, the debate was not all that strong in his soul. Of course he was not going to leave Gunju there, and Gunju knew it. But that did not mean he had to like it. And it did not mean he was going to let his brother off the hook so easily.
"Don't do anything else stupid," Azazel snapped. "I'm coming."
"I knew I could count on you, Azazel," Gunju said.
Azazel did not bother to say goodbye as he hung up. He nearly slammed the phone down, then turned to walk right back to the front door. Snapping off the lights, he hauled open the door and stepped out onto the porch. Pulling the door shut behind him, he descended the steps and went directly to the car. In a moment he had unlocked it and was easing himself into the driver's seat. The anger was still coursing through his veins as he backed out of the driveway and headed for town.
When they had been children, Azazel had refused to be content with their poor and lowly status. The Midgar slums had been cold and cruel, with many of the people adhering to the "only the strong survive" idea. He and Gunju had been forced to learn to fight to deal with the neighborhood children---though while for Azazel it had been only a necessity, for Gunju it had often seemed to be a game. He had welcomed any challenge he received, and had dealt damage to more than one boy foolish enough to cross paths with him. He had soon become known as the Terror of Tenth Avenue, a title he relished. He hated the slums as much as Azazel did, but he did not regret what they had gone through in their youth.
As soon as Azazel had been able to pass himself off as someone older, he had lied about his age to get a job at the company that he would later rename Broken Circle. He had proven himself smart and efficient, and had quickly moved up the corporate ladder. Once Azazel had been in a high enough position, he had bought out the correct number of shares in order to take over the company altogether. It had taken several years to get to that point, but it had been worth it.
Gunju, meanwhile, had not been able to hold down a job anywhere. He was too restless to last much longer than a week or two on any of the small jobs he had landed. Azazel had tried to give him a job at Broken Circle after becoming the CEO and president, but that had been a complete disaster, too.
And the problem was not as simple as Gunju just being restless and unable to concentrate. Oh no, nothing like that. The main problem was that Gunju wanted to fight. He had so much pent-up energy and anger that he could not seem to let out in any way except with a punch or a kick. He had been like that since they had been children. And it had only gotten worse with age, not better. They were in their early twenties now, and Gunju spent most evenings running off to bars or other places where he could start chaos. Azazel was at his wit's end.
He had always felt a weight of responsibility on his shoulders that Gunju did not have. Their mother had abandoned them to run off with another man when they had been three. And their father had tried hard, but had found parenting identical twins to be overwhelming all on his own. So Azazel had tried to help all that he could when he had been old enough to understand. He had often joined Gunju on his missions of mayhem, but only because he had either been dragged along or because he had been trying to keep his brother out of trouble. He could not count the number of times they had come home to a harsh scolding from their father.
Once, when the results of the mischief had just been too much, the man had begun to whip Gunju out of sheer despair. But that had not helped, either. It had only made Gunju angrier, and he had tried to fight back. Azazel had been forced to restrain him amid a flurry of outraged expletives. Agonized by the conflict, their father had simply left the room without even trying to continue the whipping. Azazel had spoken harshly to Gunju after that, and for a time Gunju had not made trouble---at least not on purpose.
Azazel was the one person Gunju was willing to listen to. However, just because he listened did not mean he agreed with what he had heard. And after all these years, the endless struggle with the wild cat was taking its toll on Azazel. He understood so acutely what their father had felt.
Sometimes he felt like leaving the room in despair, too.
****
Gunju was actually sitting quietly in the holding cell when Azazel arrived at the local jail. He looked up as Azazel spoke to the desk sergeant and then counted out the bail money. Azazel felt his brother's gaze on him, but he did not look back.
"It's all here," he said to the sergeant, who was now counting it as well.
The older, strong-shouldered man at last gave a weary sigh. "Okay," he agreed. "Get the guy out of here. But Mr. Rakesh . . ."
Azazel frowned, looking to the sergeant. His ice-blue eyes displayed his irritation with the entire situation and his impatience at the sergeant wanting to say something more.
"Mr. Rakesh, your brother's been in here three times this month and two times last month," the policeman said.
"I know," Azazel said, his tone clipped and annoyed. "I don't need you to keep count for me."
The sergeant held up his hand. "I understand how stressed you must be, Mr. Rakesh," he said. "I'm just saying, this is no doubt becoming as inconvenient for you as it is for the police department. If you feel you can't handle it, maybe you should consider . . ."
"Maybe I should consider washing my hands of the entire matter and not coming to bail him out?" Azazel interrupted. "Maybe I should. Maybe I should have done it long ago. But it isn't any of your business, Sergeant. And let me tell you, you don't understand. I despise people who say that when they don't actually have any idea what's going on."
The broad man gave a quiet sigh, looking to where a young officer was opening the cell and allowing Gunju to walk out. If he had been going to say anything else, Azazel never gave him the chance. He crossed his arms, at last looking to his twin.
"Let's go," he said, his voice harsh.
Gunju walked to him without a word. Azazel turned, leaving the desk sergeant behind him as he headed for the doors. Gunju moved to catch up.
"The nerve of that cop!" he declared as they passed through the door onto the steps. "Imagine, him trying to meddle in our affairs like that." The alcohol on his breath was obvious. He was still not completely sober.
Azazel whirled on his brother, his eyes flashing. "It's because of your actions that he said those things," he retorted, his voice clipped with knives. "He has a point. I shouldn't have come for you. I should have refused the first time this happened!" He walked past Gunju, storming down the white steps and over to the car. He wrenched the door open, practically throwing himself into the driver's seat.
Gunju followed, opening the passenger side door more gently as he climbed inside. "You rarely act like this, Brother," he commented, shutting the door after him.
Azazel slammed the door on the driver's side, then reached for his seatbelt. "Everyone has a breaking point," he said. "I've hit mine." He took out his keys, but looked to Gunju instead of inserting the key into the ignition. "You're always getting yourself into trouble, and if you can't get yourself out, you expect me to do something about it. I won't do this anymore."
Gunju brought down his own safety belt. "You're going to let that uninformed blowhard influence you?" he returned.
Azazel practically stabbed the key into the ignition slot. "No," he said as he started the engine. "I've thought about this every time you've called me to bail your sorry hide out of jail. I've thought about it the times you come home drunk, having somehow escaped the police. And I've thought about it every other time you get into some kind of trouble." He slammed on the accelerator, the car moving forward with a sickening screech. "I won't be your sanctuary, someone to fall back on when you've gotten yourself into more trouble than you can handle!"
Gunju hit the back of the seat as the car zoomed forward. "It really wasn't that serious," he said. "But I could have spent the night in jail if that would have made you feel better."
"It isn't just that," Azazel retorted, turning the corner. "It's your entire attitude! You take everything in stride. You don't care what you've done or how you're inconveniencing or hurting other people. You don't care if they're being slowly driven mad by your wild behavior. You just use people as you see fit. They're nothing to you!"
"And you're any different?" A slight edge had crept into Gunju's voice. "You use people all the time. How do you think you made it to the top at Broken Circle? So now you're O So High and Mighty Righteous Azazel, is that it?"
Azazel slammed his hand on the steering wheel. "No, that isn't it!" he snapped. "I don't mean 'people' as a general term. I mean it referring to myself. I'm your brother, but I'm never treated like it. When are you even around if you're not asking for my help?"
"You're always busy!" Gunju retaliated.
"I'm keeping food on the table!" Azazel screamed. "I'm trying to keep us from falling back to what we were before. I won't go back to that. I won't. You wouldn't even have money to buy your precious liquor if it wasn't for me. You don't earn any income!"
"That isn't true," Gunju said. His own voice had been climbing. By now it almost matched Azazel's. "I loaded crates for one of the local grocery chains."
"And stopped after a week!" Azazel said. "You can't focus on anything for very long if it doesn't involve combat of some kind."
"I'm not you!" Gunju retorted. "I don't like normal work."
"That's why you'll never get anywhere in life!" Azazel swerved to the right, narrowly missing a stray car coming from the other direction. The other driver honked, but Azazel barely paid attention. All of the pain and frustration, bottled up from years of rarely saying anything, were coming out.
"If there was a job that was actually suited to me, I would keep it!" Gunju shot back.
Part of Azazel did not want to say the next words threatening to leap out of his mouth. But the other part wanted them said. And it was that part that won.
"Fine!" he cried. "Then I'll tell you what you should do. Go to Dismal and move in with Dalton. He needs a prison guard, someone to inflict pain and suffering on the stupid and uncooperative prisoners he's dealing with. He specifically requested you!"
For a long moment Gunju was silent, processing this information. ". . . Do you want me to take the job, Brother?" he asked.
Azazel still did not. But he was not thinking of that now. His anger was not yet spent.
"Yes!" he snapped. "Take it and get out of my hair. Let Dalton deal with you for a change. He wants use of your 'talents', if you can call them that. And he must be the only person who wants to see you use them!"
Again Gunju was silent. "Very well," he said at last. "I'll go to Dismal."
Azazel frowned, stunned into silence himself by Gunju's change of demeanor. He had expected a retort, a retaliation. They had been screaming at each other only moments before. Now Gunju was not putting up a fight. That should be a good thing, something to be relieved about . . . but it was not.
Azazel should have asked Gunju about it. But he did not. Part of him wanted to believe that Gunju's lack of resistance was a good thing.
And once again, it was that part that won.
The rest of the drive was in silence. Why did it feel like the whole neighborhood could hear that even more acutely than the screams?
****
A shaking hand reached out, the pale fingers curling around the bottle on the desk. Tipping it, the hand struggled to keep the container steady enough as the shotglass was filled. When the liquor almost reached the brim, the bottle was brought upright again. The fingers grasped the shotglass, bringing it to the owner's pale, thin lips.
He only took one sip at first. And that was enough to start him coughing. He set the shotglass down, slumping back in the stuffed chair as he passed a hand over his bloodshot eyes.
What had his brother seen in this sort of thing? It tasted awful. He never had been a fan of alcoholic beverages, but for some reason he had kept this bottle in the bottom drawer of his desk at Broken Circle. His brother had given it to him long ago, for some occasion or another. Maybe it had been when he had at last taken over Broken Circle as president. Or when he had closed a business deal. Perhaps it had even been on their shared birthday.
In any case, now was a good time for it. He grabbed the shotglass again, downing several mouthfuls all at once. By now the small container was mostly empty. He set it down again. Taking in so much at once was dizzying. The room was starting to do gymnastics.
Was it really true that if you drank enough, you could forget?
It had been earlier that day when he had learned of the final battle at Dismal. In the end, the mayor had tried to detonate the entire village to kill the SOLDIERs, which would have taken himself and his staff with it. His head prison guard had fully supported the plan. Dalton had been arrested, but Gunju . . .
He had not known what had happened to Gunju until the Broken Circle spies had sneaked away from Shinra and brought the body with them. Gunju had been defeated by Sephiroth and had jumped to his death rather than to be arrested and taken into SOLDIER custody.
Azazel kept seeing the broken body in the back of his mind. There was one sword wound in his side that had gone all way through, and another that had sliced into his right arm. His neck had been bent at an unnatural angle. And that smirk . . . even in death, he had been smirking, as if to show defiance. Azazel had barely been able to make himself look at the sight, and yet he had also not been able to turn away.
He had been supposed to look after his brother. Instead he had sent him away. And now Gunju was gone.
He downed the rest of the shotglass's contents. Placing it back on the desk, he began to pour another glassful.
Gunju had offered no resistance when Azazel had screamed that he wanted Gunju to take the job at Dismal. When Azazel thought about it, Gunju had almost seemed sad. At least as much so as Azazel had ever seen him. Had Gunju wanted to leave at all? If Azazel had told him about the offer under normal circumstances, would he have accepted it?
. . . He probably would have. But under normal circumstances, he would not have thought that his brother just did not want him around.
Maybe the liquor was not so bad after all, Azazel decided as he began to gulp the second round. Maybe it just took some getting used to. His mind was getting a lot foggier. Maybe he would be able to push all of this away with a third glass.
Gunju's words echoed through his mind. "You're always busy!" Had he felt like Azazel had never had time for him anymore? Was that even part of the reason why he had often not been around? They had grown so far apart, but Azazel had always thought it was because Gunju had not cared.
Had Gunju thought Azazel had not cared?
At least some of this was his own fault. He had driven Gunju away---away from home, from Midgar . . . and from him.
"Take the job and get out of my hair!"
He had said that. He had screamed it right at his brother's face. And at that moment, he had believed he had meant it. He had not known how to deal with Gunju anymore.
Gunju had always been wild and uncontrollable . . . but of late, had he been getting into trouble partially to get Azazel's attention? What if when Azazel had finally snapped and told him to go to Dismal, Gunju had decided it was pointless and that he might as well just leave?
By now Azazel had lost count of how many times he had filled the shotglass. He could scarcely manage to sit up, let alone to pour the glass another time. He swayed, setting the bottle back on the desk once more. Well, so now he was discovering that he really could not hold his liquor. Gunju would be laughing at him.
. . . Only Gunju never would, because he would never see Azazel again. And he would never be able to enjoy the liquor himself.
Azazel frowned at the bottle. What a waste. He should not have drunk so much like this. It had not helped anyway; he still remembered perfectly. Gunju was laying dead downstairs, in a wooden box. He had killed himself, but he would not have been in that position if he had never gone to Dismal.
"A toast to me!" Azazel said aloud, raising the glass high in the darkened room. "Azazel Rakesh, murderer." And he started to laugh. The haunting sound echoed off the walls, dying down only long enough for him to down this final glass. He choked, the chortle building in his throat. He was alive and well, and Gunju was dead. Maybe it should have been the other way around. But no, then Gunju would have been all alone.
But he had been anyway, hadn't he? Azazel had turned him away and kicked him out. Such a display of brotherly love!
He laughed harder, slumping back in the chair as the room swirled out of focus. Oh, he really should be honored for the wonderful humanitarian act he had performed! Gunju was the only person in the world he actually cared about, and he had seen to it that Gunju had believed he had been hated and despised.
What if Gunju had even thought that it would not matter if he killed himself? What if he had thought that no one would care if he was gone?
The drunken cackles lessened and then ceased. Azazel moaned, passing a hand over his face. He would have to live with this the rest of his life.
He had killed his brother.
He sank further into the chair, passing out of thought and mind.
****
Eliza Welsh had been the secretary to the presidents of Broken Circle for so long that most did not remember a time when she had not been there. She had assisted the previous two men who had been in charge before Azazel Rakesh had come along, altogether totaling over twenty years of service. Of the three, Azazel appreciated her work the most. He had let some of the employees go when he had taken control, but he had allowed her to stay "because of the excellent job" she did. And she had always strived to be worthy of the respect and trust he had placed in her abilities. He was at least twenty years her junior, and really quite young to be running a company, but his mind was sharp and his skills undeniable.
She had been horrified to hear of Gunju's death, but mostly because of how she knew it would affect her boss. She did not like Gunju herself; he was too brash and wild. But she knew Azazel had loved his brother very much. He had barely said anything to her yesterday after the body had been brought. And he had dismissed her early. She had worried all night about how he was handling the news.
Now, as the elevator admitted her onto the top floor of the Broken Circle company building, she could see that some of the lights in her outer office had been left on all night. A frown graced her features as she entered through the glass door. As she opened the door to the inner office, a gasp left her lips. Azazel was slumped in his office chair, his left hand hanging limply over the arm.
She hastened inside, looking the man over with a searching eye. He would not have . . . ended his own life, would he? No, thank goodness, he was breathing. She narrowed her eyes at the bottle of liquor and the shotglass on the desk. He had drunk himself into unconsciousness. She had never known him to consume alcohol before. And when he woke up, he likely would not want to do it again.
Shaking her head, she walked back into the outer office and retrieved a throw from off the couch. Then she came back into Azazel's office, gently spreading the warm material around his shoulders.
"Poor man," she said, her voice quiet and sad. "Just rest. You've got an awful weight on you now. I can't imagine what could've possessed your brother to go and do what he's done. If he could see you now, surely he would regret it."
With that she turned and walked out, carefully pulling the door shut behind her.
This is about Azazel and Gunju Rakesh. The canon fandom they were created for is only mentioned in passing, so this will not be posted to FF.net.
By Lucky_Ladybug
Notes: The characters are mine and the story is, too! It's a plunnie that was inspired by several conversations on LJ, as well as by the song Which to Bury, Us or the Hatchet? by Relient K. It focuses on my OC characters for the Final Fantasy VII fandom, but since it's only about the OCs, I don't attach FF7 to the title. The time period is both before Just a Simple Mission and between it and Another Simple Mission. Many thanks to Kaze for plot help and ideas!
~No, I don't hate you,
Don't wanna fight you,
Know I'll always love you
But right now I just don't like you
'Cause you took this too far~
---Which to Bury, Us or the Hatchet? by Relient K
The dark-haired man sighed to himself as he unlocked the door of the well-furnished home and entered, closing the door behind him. The room was in darkness, signifying that his brother had likely not yet returned. He turned the key in the lock, reaching to flip on the lightswitch before replacing the key in his pocket. Sure enough, the room was undisturbed. At least his twin had not redecorated tonight, moving the furniture in all manner of odd ways. He tended to do that when he was bored.
But Gunju being gone at three in the morning was never a good sign. Azazel always dreaded finding out what he got into each time. His name, meaning "wild cat", was far too appropriate. Sometimes Azazel wondered what their parents had been thinking. His own name, meaning "scapegoat", was not very flattering as far as he was concerned.
Or maybe their parents had just been obsessed with animals.
Azazel ran a hand through his raven hair. It had been a long day at Broken Circle, with meetings stretching far into the late hours. Then he had still needed to take care of paperwork and phone calls upon returning to his office. One of his frequent associates, a man calling himself only Dalton, had left him a message from Dismal. He was having trouble with the prisoners and wished that Azazel knew of a solution. "You mentioned your brother is a wild sort and needs something to do. Perhaps it will take a wild man to calm these troublesome rebels down, hmm?" he had said.
Azazel did not want Gunju to go to Dismal. The town was not much better than its name. And it was filled with anti-Shinra terrorists. Gunju would fit in all too well, just wanting to get in on all the action. Azazel felt it was better for them to be involved from the shadows. He wanted to overthrow Shinra with his own company, but then promptly take control of Gaia himself. Gunju was impulsive and reckless, and if he was on the frontlines of the battle there was no telling what could happen. It might not work to their best good. Gunju wanted to bring pain and suffering on the Shinra dogs because of how he and Azazel had been oppressed in the slums during their childhood. For Azazel, it was not so much that he had anything against Shinra personally; he just wanted them out of the way.
He did not know that he liked the idea of Gunju working with Dalton, either. He respected Dalton for his shrewd, calculating mind and the strategic decisions he made, but on the other hand, Dalton also considered that he was waging a personal war against Shinra. And Azazel knew from past experience that Dalton often took his plans too far and lost himself in his rage. He would be a bad influence on Gunju. That was the last thing Gunju needed.
The sound of the telephone ringing cut through the night without warning. Azazel jumped a mile. Muttering to himself, he crossed the white-tiled floor of the parlor and into the carpeted living room. The telephone was where it usually was, on the desk. He grabbed up the receiver. Only one person would be calling this late.
"You'd better have a good explanation for this," he greeted.
"Ouch," Gunju's voice purred. "Well, Brother, I seem to have gotten into a little situation. They said I could make one phone call."
"One . . . Gunju, you're drunk," Azazel frowned. It was obvious that the other man's voice was slurred.
"Guilty as charged." Gunju did not sound the least bit ashamed. "There was a little excitement at the tavern. But the barkeeper really got too uptight over it all. It was just a little fun."
"What did you do, Gunju?" Azazel's voice was tightening. It was late, he was tired, and he was still trying to decide whether to even mention Dalton's offer to Gunju. This phone call was not influencing him in a positive manner.
"Nothing much," Gunju said. "I only dislocated one man's front teeth and trapped another under a flying chair. Actually, that was quite a good aim if I do say so myself."
"You started a barfight?!" This was not what Azazel needed to hear. Every time he turned around, Gunju was getting into mischief. It had been that way since they had been street urchins trying to survive in the dark underbelly of Midgar. Gunju had nearly landed them in juvenile delinquent camp more than once. His cunning, and Azazel's quick thinking, had saved them those times. And Gunju was able to get himself out of a lot of problems. But even so, Azazel could not count the amount of calls he received from his still-wayward brother, needing to be bailed out of a new mess. He was frankly growing tired of it. Gunju was an adult; he should be able to look after himself and use his better judgment more often.
"I didn't start it," Gunju said now. "But I finished it. Unfortunately the police interrupted my fun."
"And you're calling me because you need help again." Azazel clenched his fist on the surface of the desk. Usually it was not so difficult to control his temper, but right now he was struggling to not explode. He did not want to spend what was left of the night going to the crowded jailhouse, which was probably now filled to overflowing with inebriated "guests." And he did not want to recover his brother, only to know this would happen again later. And again, and again, and again. . . .
"Well, I didn't really want to stay here all night," Gunju said. "The accommodations leave something to be desired."
"Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to join the brawl!" Azazel retorted. "I've got a mind to leave you in there. It would teach you a good lesson, at any rate."
"Such as how many drunks can fit into a room before it pops?" Gunju mused. Wild laughter and belching could be heard echoing in the background, along with an annoyed cop telling everyone to shut up and shape up.
"You're crowded into a cell with too many others?" Azazel frowned.
"Three others, to be exact," Gunju said. "And I don't know . . . if this arrangement persists, I might not be able to refrain from doing something about it."
"Gunju . . ." Azazel's voice had turned to an annoyed warning.
In spite of his anger and frustration, the debate was not all that strong in his soul. Of course he was not going to leave Gunju there, and Gunju knew it. But that did not mean he had to like it. And it did not mean he was going to let his brother off the hook so easily.
"Don't do anything else stupid," Azazel snapped. "I'm coming."
"I knew I could count on you, Azazel," Gunju said.
Azazel did not bother to say goodbye as he hung up. He nearly slammed the phone down, then turned to walk right back to the front door. Snapping off the lights, he hauled open the door and stepped out onto the porch. Pulling the door shut behind him, he descended the steps and went directly to the car. In a moment he had unlocked it and was easing himself into the driver's seat. The anger was still coursing through his veins as he backed out of the driveway and headed for town.
When they had been children, Azazel had refused to be content with their poor and lowly status. The Midgar slums had been cold and cruel, with many of the people adhering to the "only the strong survive" idea. He and Gunju had been forced to learn to fight to deal with the neighborhood children---though while for Azazel it had been only a necessity, for Gunju it had often seemed to be a game. He had welcomed any challenge he received, and had dealt damage to more than one boy foolish enough to cross paths with him. He had soon become known as the Terror of Tenth Avenue, a title he relished. He hated the slums as much as Azazel did, but he did not regret what they had gone through in their youth.
As soon as Azazel had been able to pass himself off as someone older, he had lied about his age to get a job at the company that he would later rename Broken Circle. He had proven himself smart and efficient, and had quickly moved up the corporate ladder. Once Azazel had been in a high enough position, he had bought out the correct number of shares in order to take over the company altogether. It had taken several years to get to that point, but it had been worth it.
Gunju, meanwhile, had not been able to hold down a job anywhere. He was too restless to last much longer than a week or two on any of the small jobs he had landed. Azazel had tried to give him a job at Broken Circle after becoming the CEO and president, but that had been a complete disaster, too.
And the problem was not as simple as Gunju just being restless and unable to concentrate. Oh no, nothing like that. The main problem was that Gunju wanted to fight. He had so much pent-up energy and anger that he could not seem to let out in any way except with a punch or a kick. He had been like that since they had been children. And it had only gotten worse with age, not better. They were in their early twenties now, and Gunju spent most evenings running off to bars or other places where he could start chaos. Azazel was at his wit's end.
He had always felt a weight of responsibility on his shoulders that Gunju did not have. Their mother had abandoned them to run off with another man when they had been three. And their father had tried hard, but had found parenting identical twins to be overwhelming all on his own. So Azazel had tried to help all that he could when he had been old enough to understand. He had often joined Gunju on his missions of mayhem, but only because he had either been dragged along or because he had been trying to keep his brother out of trouble. He could not count the number of times they had come home to a harsh scolding from their father.
Once, when the results of the mischief had just been too much, the man had begun to whip Gunju out of sheer despair. But that had not helped, either. It had only made Gunju angrier, and he had tried to fight back. Azazel had been forced to restrain him amid a flurry of outraged expletives. Agonized by the conflict, their father had simply left the room without even trying to continue the whipping. Azazel had spoken harshly to Gunju after that, and for a time Gunju had not made trouble---at least not on purpose.
Azazel was the one person Gunju was willing to listen to. However, just because he listened did not mean he agreed with what he had heard. And after all these years, the endless struggle with the wild cat was taking its toll on Azazel. He understood so acutely what their father had felt.
Sometimes he felt like leaving the room in despair, too.
Gunju was actually sitting quietly in the holding cell when Azazel arrived at the local jail. He looked up as Azazel spoke to the desk sergeant and then counted out the bail money. Azazel felt his brother's gaze on him, but he did not look back.
"It's all here," he said to the sergeant, who was now counting it as well.
The older, strong-shouldered man at last gave a weary sigh. "Okay," he agreed. "Get the guy out of here. But Mr. Rakesh . . ."
Azazel frowned, looking to the sergeant. His ice-blue eyes displayed his irritation with the entire situation and his impatience at the sergeant wanting to say something more.
"Mr. Rakesh, your brother's been in here three times this month and two times last month," the policeman said.
"I know," Azazel said, his tone clipped and annoyed. "I don't need you to keep count for me."
The sergeant held up his hand. "I understand how stressed you must be, Mr. Rakesh," he said. "I'm just saying, this is no doubt becoming as inconvenient for you as it is for the police department. If you feel you can't handle it, maybe you should consider . . ."
"Maybe I should consider washing my hands of the entire matter and not coming to bail him out?" Azazel interrupted. "Maybe I should. Maybe I should have done it long ago. But it isn't any of your business, Sergeant. And let me tell you, you don't understand. I despise people who say that when they don't actually have any idea what's going on."
The broad man gave a quiet sigh, looking to where a young officer was opening the cell and allowing Gunju to walk out. If he had been going to say anything else, Azazel never gave him the chance. He crossed his arms, at last looking to his twin.
"Let's go," he said, his voice harsh.
Gunju walked to him without a word. Azazel turned, leaving the desk sergeant behind him as he headed for the doors. Gunju moved to catch up.
"The nerve of that cop!" he declared as they passed through the door onto the steps. "Imagine, him trying to meddle in our affairs like that." The alcohol on his breath was obvious. He was still not completely sober.
Azazel whirled on his brother, his eyes flashing. "It's because of your actions that he said those things," he retorted, his voice clipped with knives. "He has a point. I shouldn't have come for you. I should have refused the first time this happened!" He walked past Gunju, storming down the white steps and over to the car. He wrenched the door open, practically throwing himself into the driver's seat.
Gunju followed, opening the passenger side door more gently as he climbed inside. "You rarely act like this, Brother," he commented, shutting the door after him.
Azazel slammed the door on the driver's side, then reached for his seatbelt. "Everyone has a breaking point," he said. "I've hit mine." He took out his keys, but looked to Gunju instead of inserting the key into the ignition. "You're always getting yourself into trouble, and if you can't get yourself out, you expect me to do something about it. I won't do this anymore."
Gunju brought down his own safety belt. "You're going to let that uninformed blowhard influence you?" he returned.
Azazel practically stabbed the key into the ignition slot. "No," he said as he started the engine. "I've thought about this every time you've called me to bail your sorry hide out of jail. I've thought about it the times you come home drunk, having somehow escaped the police. And I've thought about it every other time you get into some kind of trouble." He slammed on the accelerator, the car moving forward with a sickening screech. "I won't be your sanctuary, someone to fall back on when you've gotten yourself into more trouble than you can handle!"
Gunju hit the back of the seat as the car zoomed forward. "It really wasn't that serious," he said. "But I could have spent the night in jail if that would have made you feel better."
"It isn't just that," Azazel retorted, turning the corner. "It's your entire attitude! You take everything in stride. You don't care what you've done or how you're inconveniencing or hurting other people. You don't care if they're being slowly driven mad by your wild behavior. You just use people as you see fit. They're nothing to you!"
"And you're any different?" A slight edge had crept into Gunju's voice. "You use people all the time. How do you think you made it to the top at Broken Circle? So now you're O So High and Mighty Righteous Azazel, is that it?"
Azazel slammed his hand on the steering wheel. "No, that isn't it!" he snapped. "I don't mean 'people' as a general term. I mean it referring to myself. I'm your brother, but I'm never treated like it. When are you even around if you're not asking for my help?"
"You're always busy!" Gunju retaliated.
"I'm keeping food on the table!" Azazel screamed. "I'm trying to keep us from falling back to what we were before. I won't go back to that. I won't. You wouldn't even have money to buy your precious liquor if it wasn't for me. You don't earn any income!"
"That isn't true," Gunju said. His own voice had been climbing. By now it almost matched Azazel's. "I loaded crates for one of the local grocery chains."
"And stopped after a week!" Azazel said. "You can't focus on anything for very long if it doesn't involve combat of some kind."
"I'm not you!" Gunju retorted. "I don't like normal work."
"That's why you'll never get anywhere in life!" Azazel swerved to the right, narrowly missing a stray car coming from the other direction. The other driver honked, but Azazel barely paid attention. All of the pain and frustration, bottled up from years of rarely saying anything, were coming out.
"If there was a job that was actually suited to me, I would keep it!" Gunju shot back.
Part of Azazel did not want to say the next words threatening to leap out of his mouth. But the other part wanted them said. And it was that part that won.
"Fine!" he cried. "Then I'll tell you what you should do. Go to Dismal and move in with Dalton. He needs a prison guard, someone to inflict pain and suffering on the stupid and uncooperative prisoners he's dealing with. He specifically requested you!"
For a long moment Gunju was silent, processing this information. ". . . Do you want me to take the job, Brother?" he asked.
Azazel still did not. But he was not thinking of that now. His anger was not yet spent.
"Yes!" he snapped. "Take it and get out of my hair. Let Dalton deal with you for a change. He wants use of your 'talents', if you can call them that. And he must be the only person who wants to see you use them!"
Again Gunju was silent. "Very well," he said at last. "I'll go to Dismal."
Azazel frowned, stunned into silence himself by Gunju's change of demeanor. He had expected a retort, a retaliation. They had been screaming at each other only moments before. Now Gunju was not putting up a fight. That should be a good thing, something to be relieved about . . . but it was not.
Azazel should have asked Gunju about it. But he did not. Part of him wanted to believe that Gunju's lack of resistance was a good thing.
And once again, it was that part that won.
The rest of the drive was in silence. Why did it feel like the whole neighborhood could hear that even more acutely than the screams?
A shaking hand reached out, the pale fingers curling around the bottle on the desk. Tipping it, the hand struggled to keep the container steady enough as the shotglass was filled. When the liquor almost reached the brim, the bottle was brought upright again. The fingers grasped the shotglass, bringing it to the owner's pale, thin lips.
He only took one sip at first. And that was enough to start him coughing. He set the shotglass down, slumping back in the stuffed chair as he passed a hand over his bloodshot eyes.
What had his brother seen in this sort of thing? It tasted awful. He never had been a fan of alcoholic beverages, but for some reason he had kept this bottle in the bottom drawer of his desk at Broken Circle. His brother had given it to him long ago, for some occasion or another. Maybe it had been when he had at last taken over Broken Circle as president. Or when he had closed a business deal. Perhaps it had even been on their shared birthday.
In any case, now was a good time for it. He grabbed the shotglass again, downing several mouthfuls all at once. By now the small container was mostly empty. He set it down again. Taking in so much at once was dizzying. The room was starting to do gymnastics.
Was it really true that if you drank enough, you could forget?
It had been earlier that day when he had learned of the final battle at Dismal. In the end, the mayor had tried to detonate the entire village to kill the SOLDIERs, which would have taken himself and his staff with it. His head prison guard had fully supported the plan. Dalton had been arrested, but Gunju . . .
He had not known what had happened to Gunju until the Broken Circle spies had sneaked away from Shinra and brought the body with them. Gunju had been defeated by Sephiroth and had jumped to his death rather than to be arrested and taken into SOLDIER custody.
Azazel kept seeing the broken body in the back of his mind. There was one sword wound in his side that had gone all way through, and another that had sliced into his right arm. His neck had been bent at an unnatural angle. And that smirk . . . even in death, he had been smirking, as if to show defiance. Azazel had barely been able to make himself look at the sight, and yet he had also not been able to turn away.
He had been supposed to look after his brother. Instead he had sent him away. And now Gunju was gone.
He downed the rest of the shotglass's contents. Placing it back on the desk, he began to pour another glassful.
Gunju had offered no resistance when Azazel had screamed that he wanted Gunju to take the job at Dismal. When Azazel thought about it, Gunju had almost seemed sad. At least as much so as Azazel had ever seen him. Had Gunju wanted to leave at all? If Azazel had told him about the offer under normal circumstances, would he have accepted it?
. . . He probably would have. But under normal circumstances, he would not have thought that his brother just did not want him around.
Maybe the liquor was not so bad after all, Azazel decided as he began to gulp the second round. Maybe it just took some getting used to. His mind was getting a lot foggier. Maybe he would be able to push all of this away with a third glass.
Gunju's words echoed through his mind. "You're always busy!" Had he felt like Azazel had never had time for him anymore? Was that even part of the reason why he had often not been around? They had grown so far apart, but Azazel had always thought it was because Gunju had not cared.
Had Gunju thought Azazel had not cared?
At least some of this was his own fault. He had driven Gunju away---away from home, from Midgar . . . and from him.
"Take the job and get out of my hair!"
He had said that. He had screamed it right at his brother's face. And at that moment, he had believed he had meant it. He had not known how to deal with Gunju anymore.
Gunju had always been wild and uncontrollable . . . but of late, had he been getting into trouble partially to get Azazel's attention? What if when Azazel had finally snapped and told him to go to Dismal, Gunju had decided it was pointless and that he might as well just leave?
By now Azazel had lost count of how many times he had filled the shotglass. He could scarcely manage to sit up, let alone to pour the glass another time. He swayed, setting the bottle back on the desk once more. Well, so now he was discovering that he really could not hold his liquor. Gunju would be laughing at him.
. . . Only Gunju never would, because he would never see Azazel again. And he would never be able to enjoy the liquor himself.
Azazel frowned at the bottle. What a waste. He should not have drunk so much like this. It had not helped anyway; he still remembered perfectly. Gunju was laying dead downstairs, in a wooden box. He had killed himself, but he would not have been in that position if he had never gone to Dismal.
"A toast to me!" Azazel said aloud, raising the glass high in the darkened room. "Azazel Rakesh, murderer." And he started to laugh. The haunting sound echoed off the walls, dying down only long enough for him to down this final glass. He choked, the chortle building in his throat. He was alive and well, and Gunju was dead. Maybe it should have been the other way around. But no, then Gunju would have been all alone.
But he had been anyway, hadn't he? Azazel had turned him away and kicked him out. Such a display of brotherly love!
He laughed harder, slumping back in the chair as the room swirled out of focus. Oh, he really should be honored for the wonderful humanitarian act he had performed! Gunju was the only person in the world he actually cared about, and he had seen to it that Gunju had believed he had been hated and despised.
What if Gunju had even thought that it would not matter if he killed himself? What if he had thought that no one would care if he was gone?
The drunken cackles lessened and then ceased. Azazel moaned, passing a hand over his face. He would have to live with this the rest of his life.
He had killed his brother.
He sank further into the chair, passing out of thought and mind.
Eliza Welsh had been the secretary to the presidents of Broken Circle for so long that most did not remember a time when she had not been there. She had assisted the previous two men who had been in charge before Azazel Rakesh had come along, altogether totaling over twenty years of service. Of the three, Azazel appreciated her work the most. He had let some of the employees go when he had taken control, but he had allowed her to stay "because of the excellent job" she did. And she had always strived to be worthy of the respect and trust he had placed in her abilities. He was at least twenty years her junior, and really quite young to be running a company, but his mind was sharp and his skills undeniable.
She had been horrified to hear of Gunju's death, but mostly because of how she knew it would affect her boss. She did not like Gunju herself; he was too brash and wild. But she knew Azazel had loved his brother very much. He had barely said anything to her yesterday after the body had been brought. And he had dismissed her early. She had worried all night about how he was handling the news.
Now, as the elevator admitted her onto the top floor of the Broken Circle company building, she could see that some of the lights in her outer office had been left on all night. A frown graced her features as she entered through the glass door. As she opened the door to the inner office, a gasp left her lips. Azazel was slumped in his office chair, his left hand hanging limply over the arm.
She hastened inside, looking the man over with a searching eye. He would not have . . . ended his own life, would he? No, thank goodness, he was breathing. She narrowed her eyes at the bottle of liquor and the shotglass on the desk. He had drunk himself into unconsciousness. She had never known him to consume alcohol before. And when he woke up, he likely would not want to do it again.
Shaking her head, she walked back into the outer office and retrieved a throw from off the couch. Then she came back into Azazel's office, gently spreading the warm material around his shoulders.
"Poor man," she said, her voice quiet and sad. "Just rest. You've got an awful weight on you now. I can't imagine what could've possessed your brother to go and do what he's done. If he could see you now, surely he would regret it."
With that she turned and walked out, carefully pulling the door shut behind her.
