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rex_sunTitle: Where He Can Be Found
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Tiger & Bunny
Characters: Barnaby Brooks Jr.-centric. Albert Maverick, Kotetsu Kaburagi.
Summary: Five years since Aunt Samatha was murdered, and yet still Kotetsu T. Kaburagi haunts Barnaby, like a spectre.
Barnaby has learned to live in loneliness.
Albert Maverick’s death comes very suddenly. It seems that one day he is his usual self, bustling around healthy and straight-backed, and over the course of one week suddenly he is bedridden. It’s cancer, they say, caught up to him in his old age. Barnaby feels desperately lost all of a sudden—the last of his family died long ago; then Auntie Samantha was murdered; and now this.
The call comes at a reasonable time, delivered with a reasonable degree of calmness. He receives it calmly over the phone, too, saying things like “Yes, I understand” and “It is sad and unfortunate”—but when the woman on the other end (Uncle Maverick’s ex-wife—the fourth one) hangs up, Barnaby holds on for only a few moments before collapsing backwards into his chair and sobbing for the next half hour.
He takes his first free moment the next day to visit the hospital. Wild Tiger stoically understands, as always, with just a nod and “It’s important to be there in their final moments”. Barnaby gives him a slight smile, grateful that, while sympathetic, his partner never pities. When Tiger raises his hand in farewell, his wedding band glints in the sunlight.
Barnaby studies the pavement outside the hospital doors, finding it wet despite the shining sun above. Come to think of it, he can barely feel the sun; it feels less of a blanket and more like an itch on the back of his bowed neck. A breeze makes a shiver run through him; ah—it must be autumn now. Gone is summer, just as abruptly as the turn in Uncle Maverick’s health.
One particularly loud breeze pushes him forward, like a guiding hand almost, ruffling his curls until he stumbles into the lobby just to get away. As he fixes his hair and looks about uncomfortably, he feels sick. Sick in a place of healing. He knows the last living person who really loves him will soon cease to be living here, but the air is so still and clean and put-together. It feels like if anyone should be dying, it shouldn’t be in a place so bleak and undefined but out there under an itchy sun, with the smells of fallen leaves and new mud and bugs crawling.
He’s used to doing things alone. He has, after all, almost always been as such. But somehow the walk down white hallways seems foreboding, lonely as he’s ever felt, quiet and brooding. Even after his parents were killed—even after Samantha was killed—always, afterwards, there was Maverick: pillar of Sternbild, powerful and beloved—these same roles applied also to Barnaby’s life.
Now what? he wonders briefly, and no answer is forthcoming. No possibilities open, no future unfolds itself. He is thirty years old, and somehow it feels like this is the end of the line. Of course there is always Wild Tiger, whom he respects—but even after Jake Martinez, even after Barnaby mellowed and became willing to accept other people into his life—even after that, it was just a shoulder pat and a thumbs up between them. Always so very professional. It seems that Barnaby’s feelings of respect, admiration, even fondness should always remain this way: as distant as the autumn sun.
Maverick’s room is at the dead end of one long hallway. There is a window at the hallway’s termination, sunlight streaming and making the way the color of aged lace. Underneath is a bench. Two of Maverick’s wives—one old like him and the other still in her prime—stand from this bench, not noticing Barnaby, and leave in muttered conversation. Then it is only Barnaby, and behind the door is silence.
“Uncle Maverick?” he calls as he takes a hesitant step inside, not liking the timidity in his own voice now.
The old man lays in cotton blankets, some, Barnaby recognizes, brought from his home (that home that used to be Barnaby’s as well). It is a large room, with a sitting area attached and no one sharing. The TV is showing a special on the heroes, and Maverick pauses it on the image of Barnaby’s own face. He turns his head with a wide smile, and suddenly Barnaby eyes and throat feel hot and constricted.
Uncle Maverick seems diminished, somehow. Lesser. For the very first time, Barnaby looks at him and considers him ‘old’. Before he hadn’t seemed like it at all; he had always been so spritely and busy, so proud. Now when he can barely move, it’s like seeing a lion that will not hunt.
“Barnaby,” Uncle Maverick says warmly, slurred. Maverick holds out his hand and Barnaby takes it, attempting a watery smile back. If only Barnaby could hold this hand forever; he presses a tiny kiss to the knuckles, strokes it with his own.
Some time into the visit, after Barnaby has cried a bit and Uncle Maverick has allowed it, Maverick cups the back of Barnaby’s head and brings it down to his chest. Barnaby shifts and settles his forehead against his benevolent benefactor’s shoulder and sighs.
“You were always such a good boy, Barnaby,” Maverick whispers, voice rough, and pets Barnaby’s hair with a heavy hand.
“Did I…” He chokes on the words and another wave of tears.
“What is it?”
“…are you proud of me, sir?”
Like a cat curling, a fireplace lit, a shirt from the dryer—Maverick smiles at him and says, “Couldn’t be more.”
Barnaby leaves only when he can no longer stay. When he’s home he begins to pack his things—his picture of his mother and father, the one with him and Wild Tiger at the party celebrating them as heroes number one and two, the robot toy from his fourth birthday—and he saves his open files and packs up his computer, too. He packs every bit of his closet and then decides he might as well donate his kitchen materials. He won’t need them anymore. Maverick has left one of his homes to Barnaby in his will.
He can do this, at least. This Barnaby thinks as he fluffs the pillows in his childhood bedroom that same night, looking around and smiling in nostalgia. He can at least do his best to take care of Uncle Maverick in his last days. It is the least that the great man deserves, the least that Barnaby can do. He will continue to do his best as a hero as well. His legacy can’t end—Albert Maverick can’t just be thrown away to the ages—Barnaby Brooks Jr. won’t allow it.
He pushes his trunk into the corner of the room, sets an oil warmer on, and slides under the covers. As he falls asleep he thinks of these:
A Christmas twenty-six years ago.
A warm hand.
And, for some strange reason that never fails to make him wonder but does not manage to surprise him anymore, he thinks of his partner. Wild Tiger, and the odd, off feeling that Barnaby gets when he thinks of him. Some sort of glow that he can’t remember the start of and can’t fathom the end of.
It’s not the first time, certainly, that he’s fallen asleep to thoughts of Wild Tiger. And it’s also not the first time he’s ever dreamt of the man.
( “I knew that you would trust me.”)
(The vague image of blood spotting on a grenade clutched in his own fist.)
Barnaby wakes, dissatisfied as usual, to a house quiet and empty. It’s as large and useless as his apartment and feels no less foreign, never mind that he spent a good chunk of his childhood in this house. He strolls through it and shivers, and within seconds remembers where the temperature control is. Then he remembers that somewhere around here is a music player—ah yes, here it is, in the corner of the upstairs sitting room. Barnaby chooses ‘play all’ and turns the dial until the majesty of the orchestra echoes from high ceilings onto tiled floors and everywhere in between.
Barnaby runs his hand along the banisters of the stairs and moves throughout the house just to see how far the music will follow and to see the places he had known as a child. In the downstairs living room he finds the corner where Barnaby and Uncle Maverick did not, repeat, did not ever erect a Christmas tree. (Barnaby did receive gifts, but all throughout the year, and gifts in December were never called Christmas gifts.)
In the downstairs kitchenette he finds plenty of coffee, but, still shivering, he picks out a packet of hot chocolate and sets that to warm. He keeps the blinds closed, tilted upwards, but it is too early for there to be light in any case.
Mug in hand, Barnaby finds his chair—the great green one in which, even now that he is older and taller and broader, he can always curl up on his side and fit comfortably in: the chair-and-a-half, salvaged from the fire of his parents’ home, darned in patches. He sits in it straight-backed, and he loses himself for a while thinking about blood and fire while the strings echo back, distorted.
(What is satisfaction? He knew it for a short time when he avenged his parents. When Wild Tiger helped him, supported him. It’s hard now to think of Wild Tiger in that manner—are they really the same person, the Wild Tiger of then and the Wild Tiger of now?
Did such a thing exist? His satisfaction? He can’t remember what it feels like in the same way adults can no longer remember the joy of a Christmas morning. Now it seems his life is made up of endless yearning.)
On Monday, Barnaby dresses in a somber suit, pushing the necktie up firmly, not liking the tension at the front of his neck. How does Wild Tiger do it? He gets a call from his manager asking if he’s awake yet, and to give himself more time to relax, he says “Just barely.”
He checks his cufflinks, sips coffee in his chair. Plays his favorite opera, looks up at the mantle of the fireplace. He smiles, just a bit—even after all this time, Maverick left two pictures there. One shows Uncle Maverick and Barnaby’s father standing side-by-side, arms around each other’s shoulders. The other is a single shot of his mother, caught without glasses.
When finally it is time to go, he grabs an umbrella and walks out into a gray morning where Wild Tiger is waiting.
“Good morning,” he calls formally, feeling his face grow warm despite the chill now assaulting. Wild Tiger turns his head mechanically, catches sight of Barnaby, and then smiles, hoisting a hand in acknowledgement. When Barnaby takes a few moments to lock the front door, Wild Tiger turns his head again to stare at the ground.
“How long have you been waiting?” Barnaby asks politely as he approaches.
“Thirty-one minutes and fifteen seconds,” Tiger responds.
Barnaby laughs, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Oh please. You and your drama.”
Tiger smiles but says no more, and they ride off, bike and sidecar.
The press conference doesn’t need to be that long. Barnaby also doesn’t need the cheap lines they give him to read off. He merely stands aside and lets the doctors say their bit and the big wigs that will take over from Maverick, too. Then he stands and takes his place, and he says the sorts of things that truly matter.
“Albert Maverick dedicated his life to helping others. He created a system that simultaneously helped the people accept Next and saved countless human lives. He is a hero in his own right. We can’t give up yet—”
When finally he is done, the people applaud. He hesitates for a second at the podium, but once he finds Wild Tiger, smiling and clapping along with them, Barnaby smiles back and feels he’s done his job just now. His job, not as a hero, but as a man who loves Albert Maverick with all of his heart.
Protect Tiger.
No one has to ask twice. It’s not even a question.
So at times like this, Barnaby doesn’t think and thinking doesn’t give way to brooding about this or that, the—at such times ‘silly’—pondering of that arguable need for meaning. Satisfaction. The point of existence. What does he do now that Jake Martinez is dead and Kotetsu T. Kaburagi is soon to follow and there is nothing that will save Albert Maverick? The answer is: what does it matter. Because Wild Tiger needs him.
That’s why Barnaby takes the hit. He remembers once, vaguely, the situation in reverse, and it comforts him as he falls to his knees, shivering. He sways, feeling dizzy, and screaming bleeds out from the crowd like so many droplets of water falling now down. His glasses precede him in falling to the concrete, and yet still he feels no pain even as his forehead hits hard and begins to bleed.
Why doesn’t it hurt? He blinks as someone rolls him onto his back; it’s Tiger, staring intensely. “Bunny! Are you alright?”
Barnaby opens his mouth and tries to respond, but his voice will not catch. Tiger’s head whips up faster than he’s ever seen, and suddenly Tiger is gone from his field of vision. Barnaby sees blurry figures rushing past, fuzzy rain coming to splatter just under his eyelashes, and the bright snap of fire.
Another gunshot rings out, and there is a man yelling louder than anyone, and then it all just stops. Someone—ah, it’s Blue Rose—steps over him, and several other colorful, faceless masses. “Barnaby! Are you—”
I’ve been shot! he finally realizes. He peels his hand away from the bleeding hole in his side.
But his hand is already glowing, the aura of his Hundred Power lighting. The pain catches up to him at last, but it’s worth it to hear the tiny ‘tink’ of the bullet being pushed out and hitting the ground.
“I’ll live,” he hears himself saying. The poor woman looks terrified. More urgent however is—
“You son of a bitch! Both of you! Both of you die!”
With his Hundred Power working on the wound, he doesn’t have the strength to stand. He can only look sideways and see the world on its edge. Cameras are rolling, microphones are pointing, security guards are huffing—and amongst them all, there is Wild Tiger, subduing the screaming man. The gun lies on the nearby ground.
“Get off of me! You’re not him! How dare you pose as Wild Tiger!”
Barnaby squints, trying to make out features. He can hardly see their faces, let alone properly discern their expressions, but as far as he can tell, Wild Tiger is completely blank. The man moves too much in his futile struggle; Barnaby can’t make out any identifying features except perhaps that he is an older man.
“And you—” Barnaby thinks the man may be looking at him. It’s hard to tell anymore, because Mario has popped from the woodworks, spouting his usual routine.
“A completely unexpected scene here at a press conference from Hero TV! A dangerous man—”
“You’re the one who—”
“—a gun—”
“—supposed to be his partner—”
“Luckily Wild Tiger was on the scene!”
The man struggles worse than ever. Barnaby thinks hazily through the pain that it is not the presence of the police van pulling up, but Mario’s words and the proximity to Wild Tiger that are making him so crazed. “HE’S NOT!” the man screams, voice shattering into pieces. “HE’S NOT HIM! HE’S NOT MY BROTHER! IMPOSTER! Imposter—”
The man fights tooth and nail and three officers replace Wild Tiger alone. Right before they slam the doors shut in his ruddy face, he manages,
“You’ve destroyed our family! Do you know what you’ve done, Barnaby Brooks Jr.!”
Barnaby waits until Wild Tiger is standing back over him. He drowns out Mario as he begins to speak of points and commercials. In fact he drowns out the sounds of the paramedics, too, and Blue Rose and everyone else, and he just looks up into Wild Tiger’s unreadable expression.
Disturbingly, his last thought before he passes out is this:
Was it really worth it?
The man, Barnaby learns later, is Muramasa… Muramasa Kaburagi.
When they tell him the name, Barnaby collapses back onto his pillow and fights a rising sob that he hides behind his shaking hands. It seems as if Kaburagi is intent on haunting him even now, like a spectre.
“Listen,” Karina snaps, covering the worried undercurrent in her voice. “Don’t set any store in that nutjob!”
The other heroes collected in his hospital room all nod and say more of the same. Karina barges on,
“He was just some old drunk! If his brother was what he was, what do you think of this guy? Really! What maniac goes shooting at heroes? Criminals, that’s who.”
“And their aides and abettors,” Keith adds in helpfully.
“Right,” Karina agrees. She whirls around and points. “Say something, Wild Tiger!”
Barnaby lowers his hands and lets his glasses slip into place. Tiger’s face is stony. He looks at Karina honestly and says, “Kotetsu Kaburagi is guilty of murder.”
That should help him. Should give him some small measure of comfort.
—but it doesn’t. With a heavy groan he banishes them all from his room, desiring nothing more than to be alone with happier memories. In the night he ardently wishes they would just go ahead and kill Kotetsu T. Kaburagi. Just get it over with. Stop this madness. If only Lunatic would…
He falls into troubled sleep, plagued by memories of Jake Martinez and Wild Tiger’s disapproving expressions whenever Barnaby wanted him dead.
“I’d heard you were shot, Barnaby.” Maverick’s voice is so thin and weak over the phone that Barnaby has to pause in putting on his clothes so that the rustling doesn’t drown him out.
“I’m fine, Uncle,” he replies honestly. “My power saved me. It’s a technique Wild Tiger taught me years ago. I’d never had to use it before now, ha ha…”
Maverick pauses, breathing laboriously. Barnaby takes the moment to buckle his belt and begin sliding on his jacket.
Maverick asks, “Who was it?”
Now Barnaby hesitates, fiddling with his zipper. He takes the time to pull it up and stand, now fully dressed, before saying, “It was the brother of Kotetsu Kaburagi.”
“Did he… state his motive?”
Sighing, Barnaby looks over at his partner, who has been, until now, watching carefully. Barnaby feels the familiar warmth in his belly—he had to admit to liking, rather a lot, whenever Wild Tiger showed concern for him—tinged just slightly with guilt. He refuses to actively revisit that last thought: ‘was it worth it’. Obviously, it was. How could he ever doubt?
“Not really, Uncle Maverick,” Barnaby says into the phone. “He was drunk and angry. There’s the fact that Kotetsu Kaburagi is undeniably guilty, but then, murderer or not, he does have a family. I’ve noticed that family tends to overlook the faults of a person.”
“Ah,” Maverick huffs, then takes a moment to grab the appropriate breath to say, “I’d heard he was saying some sort of nonsense.”
Barnaby smiles—a smile he shares with Wild Tiger, because sometimes when it’s just too much it becomes very funny. “A family delusion, I suppose. Remember that fool Kotetsu Kaburagi went around in Wild Tiger’s suits? I suppose he told his family that he was the real Wild Tiger and they believed him. That brother of his was yelling about Wild Tiger not being Wild Tiger.”
“I see,” Maverick sighs heavily.
“Don’t worry, Uncle,” Barnaby demurs. “I’m going home today. I’ll be there for you. Wild Tiger can take care of the criminals for a while.”
“I’m sure he can.”
By Friday, Barnaby is driving Maverick back home, side now only a dull ache. The gloom persists sans rain, and the sun illuminating the blanket of clouds hurts Barnaby’s eyes so that he squints and flips down his visor.
Barnaby takes the smooth, slow roads, and after thumbing the radio to the classical station, Maverick leans back in his seat and rests. Barnaby looks over to his peaceful face every now and then and smiles sadly.
“I hope you aren’t too upset by those people,” Maverick says tiredly at some point. “I wouldn’t let them bother you, Barnaby.”
They pull to a stop at a red light. Barnaby takes his hands off the wheel to run them through his hair. “I suppose,” he answers softly. “It’s not entirely pleasant to be reminded of that sort of past—”
“But Barnaby,” Maverick cuts in gently. “You’re the King of Heroes. You must persevere no matter what.”
Barnaby licks his lips, hesitates, and then agrees: “Yes. It’s my duty to prevent tragedy.”
But Barnaby can’t remember where these sorts of notions came from, and so they feel distant and false.
“Good, good,” Maverick grunts. He falls asleep.
Molly comes by to help Barnaby out. She is younger than Barnaby, less than twenty-five but beyond that he is unsure. She and Uncle Maverick had a very quiet ceremony a couple of years ago. Technically they’re still married, but for a reason that Uncle Maverick has never disclosed and Barnaby has never pushed for, they live separately.
She’s waiting, her hands clasped behind her back, outside of the gate. Barnaby waves to her and she follows the car inside after the doors swing open.
“Hello, my dear,” Uncle Maverick greets her, rolling down the window as Barnaby puts the car in park.
“Hello, Albert.” She doesn’t bother to ask how he’s feeling, just reaches inside and caresses his cheek.
Barnaby supports him with an arm wrapped around his back and she with a hand on his arm. Together they get Uncle Maverick into the house and into his bed. Molly stays by his side while Barnaby sets tea to boil, remembering that the box of cinnamon flavor tea in the back of that third cabinet is hers.
Molly comes back from the room just as Barnaby has set the tray, unwinding her colorful scarf and shrugging off her jacket. “He’s asleep,” she says. “I’ll drink his cup.”
When the sun is beginning to set she wraps herself back up and gives him her usual cheery smile. “I’ll come back. I suppose you’ll need help with him.”
“Not really,” Barnaby says quietly, but she accuses him of being shy and swats him on the arm. He watches her trounce off past the gate and pushes a button for it to close behind her. Through the metal bars, she gives one last wave before her car pulls up and she slides into the backseat.
Barnaby sets his recording now that she’s gone and peeps into Uncle Maverick’s room.
“…and go after the rest of them, too. It’s time to finish this nonsense. We can’t allow them to ruin things anymore.”
Barnaby stares, letting in a chink of light into the otherwise deeply dark room. Uncle Maverick looks up, frowns, and then says a short dismissal to the other end.
“Barnaby,” he calls. “Come here.”
Barnaby obediently kneels by the bed, and just as Uncle Maverick reaches out a hand, he pouts. “Are you still working? Uncle Maverick…”
Maverick’s hand lands with a thump and he traces the curve of Barnaby’s head to the back of his neck. Barnaby pushes his glasses up his nose and sighs at Maverick.
He implores, “Can’t you think about resting? Don’t work so hard.”
“I will be fine, Barnaby,” Maverick rumbles. His eyes and voice are painfully fond. “I have to take care of things, though. I’m just making sure you’ll continue to succeed even after I’m gone.”
Barnaby ducks his head to hide the tears suddenly hazing his vision. “Please don’t say that…”
“By the way, Barnaby,” Maverick begins again sometime later. “What do you think of Molly? She’s quite the girl, isn’t she? Very spritely. A big fan of heroes, too.”
Barnaby wipes his glasses clean. Earlier when he cried a bit, one tear streaked the lens. “She’s very cute,” he says honestly.
Maverick raises his eyebrows and smiles broadly. “I asked her to come and stay here, too. It’s why I bothered remarrying at this age, after all—I wanted someone who would take care of me. She’s a very kind girl.”
“She didn’t mention it.”
“Because she told me no straight out,” Maverick laughs. “She’s kind, and sincere as well! She says that marrying me is not what she thought it would be, and she’s holding on out of respect for my health.”
Barnaby purses his lips, holds his tongue. He’s never said what he’s really thought about Maverick and his long string of women—he otherwise respected Maverick too much.
“But what about you?” Maverick asks.
“Me, sir?”
“What about a wife and children, eh?”
Barnaby flushes and looks away quickly. This is not the sort of conversation he wants to have when Maverick is this close to—
“Well,” Maverick chuckles. “I know that you’re simply not that sort of man.”
Barnaby stays silent, peeking shyly back at Maverick, who looks very dark for some reason.
“Just do this old man a favor, Barnaby.”
“Sir?”
“Don’t pursue Wild Tiger.”
“…sir.”
Uncle Maverick does not elaborate, and for that Barnaby is awkwardly grateful. That is not a promise that he can make.
Lately when Barnaby sleeps he always dreams. It’s nothing less than he expected, what with Uncle Maverick’s condition and the most recent reminder of that crime from five years ago—but still. Still. It is…
He even tries his best with aromatherapy, with different recipes every other night. He tries hot baths and glasses of milk and drowsiness-inducing medicine, and all the other things that never worked back when his nightmares about a house aflame were unceasing. Barnaby wakes often around the mark of one in the morning, sweating and gasping.
This time he sees the face of a new madman—Kotetsu, not Jake—that man they decided was a fan gone too far.
Barnaby should have killed that man. He was so, so close to it. It was just, he thinks now, that the man’s rambling had been so infuriating. It had been confusing and nonsensical and for some reason, it had been so incredibly, incredibly infuriating. Barnaby had been so close to snapping for good—closer than he had been even with Jake.
He should have killed Kaburagi. It was only the thought of Wild Tiger that kept him from doing it.
Sweat-drenched and shaking, Barnaby rises from bed and sets his bare feet on the flat, cold marble tile of the floor. He pulls on a pair of pajama bottoms for modesty before leaving his room. He wants to be in the bright light, away from the silence, but he dares not remedy either for fear of waking Maverick. Thusly he makes his way to the kitchen without sight at all, just feeling and trusting his instinct of his childhood home, which is somehow lesser than he expects it to be.
The shadows seem all the darker without his glasses on. The house should be welcoming and familiar—instead Barnaby feels unsettled in the night. He feels guilty rummaging through the fridge, as if he hadn’t spent his childhood doing the exact same thing, as if he wasn’t going to own this house for himself in the near future.
He squints into the dark hallways, waiting, as if still trapped in some sick dream, for a face to emerge from the darkness—
he gasps and drops his glass of water. It shatters into a millions pieces at his feet, soaking the hems of his pants. He glares at the offense: his PDA is alerting him of a call.
At this time of night? He thinks vehemently but answers anyway. The light is far too bright and he nearly closes his eyes against it. It’s Agnes Joubert on the other end—“Bonjour!”—and judging by her expression it isn’t any sort of emergency, so he allows himself to be properly pissed off at her as he answers, “What is it at one in the morning?”
In the video feed, she’s frowning and twirling her hair around one finger. Almost as if she were bored, she replies, “Lunatic showed up again.”
He gasps and starts a jog to his bedroom, letting the light glowing from his wrist guide him. “Where?”
“Don’t bother, hero.”
“W-what? Why not?” he asks, taken aback. He freezes with one foot on the stairs.
She sighs. “He’s already gone.”
He stares stupidly at the video feed, half-asleep and sluggish. “Who did he…?”
“He didn’t kill anyone,” Agnes says with a yawn.
Barnaby annoyance mounts yet again. What is the point of being so obtuse at such an ungodly hour? “So why are you calling me, then, Ms. Agnes?”
“Because,” Agnes stresses. She doesn’t look too happy herself. “They woke me up in the middle of the night too, saying I should call you, saying you would definitely want to know—”
“But why—”
“Be patient! Because, as I say, they thought you would want to know that Lunatic appeared at the county jail, and instead of punishing criminals—he broke one out.”
“…who?”
“Who do you think? Muramasa Kaburagi.”
Barnaby feels his heart disappear. It’s the same sensation he had when choking Jake or when coming within an inch of splattering Kotetsu Kaburagi against the concrete. He doesn’t feel quite human.
“What about Kotetsu Kaburagi?” he hears himself ask, lips trembling.
“We don’t know yet. All security is on guard. Stand-by for more information.”
—and then she hangs up, just like that, and within fifteen minutes he is speeding at eighty miles an hour to make it to the prison on time.
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Tiger & Bunny
Characters: Barnaby Brooks Jr.-centric. Albert Maverick, Kotetsu Kaburagi.
Summary: Five years since Aunt Samatha was murdered, and yet still Kotetsu T. Kaburagi haunts Barnaby, like a spectre.
Barnaby has learned to live in loneliness.
Albert Maverick’s death comes very suddenly. It seems that one day he is his usual self, bustling around healthy and straight-backed, and over the course of one week suddenly he is bedridden. It’s cancer, they say, caught up to him in his old age. Barnaby feels desperately lost all of a sudden—the last of his family died long ago; then Auntie Samantha was murdered; and now this.
The call comes at a reasonable time, delivered with a reasonable degree of calmness. He receives it calmly over the phone, too, saying things like “Yes, I understand” and “It is sad and unfortunate”—but when the woman on the other end (Uncle Maverick’s ex-wife—the fourth one) hangs up, Barnaby holds on for only a few moments before collapsing backwards into his chair and sobbing for the next half hour.
He takes his first free moment the next day to visit the hospital. Wild Tiger stoically understands, as always, with just a nod and “It’s important to be there in their final moments”. Barnaby gives him a slight smile, grateful that, while sympathetic, his partner never pities. When Tiger raises his hand in farewell, his wedding band glints in the sunlight.
Barnaby studies the pavement outside the hospital doors, finding it wet despite the shining sun above. Come to think of it, he can barely feel the sun; it feels less of a blanket and more like an itch on the back of his bowed neck. A breeze makes a shiver run through him; ah—it must be autumn now. Gone is summer, just as abruptly as the turn in Uncle Maverick’s health.
One particularly loud breeze pushes him forward, like a guiding hand almost, ruffling his curls until he stumbles into the lobby just to get away. As he fixes his hair and looks about uncomfortably, he feels sick. Sick in a place of healing. He knows the last living person who really loves him will soon cease to be living here, but the air is so still and clean and put-together. It feels like if anyone should be dying, it shouldn’t be in a place so bleak and undefined but out there under an itchy sun, with the smells of fallen leaves and new mud and bugs crawling.
He’s used to doing things alone. He has, after all, almost always been as such. But somehow the walk down white hallways seems foreboding, lonely as he’s ever felt, quiet and brooding. Even after his parents were killed—even after Samantha was killed—always, afterwards, there was Maverick: pillar of Sternbild, powerful and beloved—these same roles applied also to Barnaby’s life.
Now what? he wonders briefly, and no answer is forthcoming. No possibilities open, no future unfolds itself. He is thirty years old, and somehow it feels like this is the end of the line. Of course there is always Wild Tiger, whom he respects—but even after Jake Martinez, even after Barnaby mellowed and became willing to accept other people into his life—even after that, it was just a shoulder pat and a thumbs up between them. Always so very professional. It seems that Barnaby’s feelings of respect, admiration, even fondness should always remain this way: as distant as the autumn sun.
Maverick’s room is at the dead end of one long hallway. There is a window at the hallway’s termination, sunlight streaming and making the way the color of aged lace. Underneath is a bench. Two of Maverick’s wives—one old like him and the other still in her prime—stand from this bench, not noticing Barnaby, and leave in muttered conversation. Then it is only Barnaby, and behind the door is silence.
“Uncle Maverick?” he calls as he takes a hesitant step inside, not liking the timidity in his own voice now.
The old man lays in cotton blankets, some, Barnaby recognizes, brought from his home (that home that used to be Barnaby’s as well). It is a large room, with a sitting area attached and no one sharing. The TV is showing a special on the heroes, and Maverick pauses it on the image of Barnaby’s own face. He turns his head with a wide smile, and suddenly Barnaby eyes and throat feel hot and constricted.
Uncle Maverick seems diminished, somehow. Lesser. For the very first time, Barnaby looks at him and considers him ‘old’. Before he hadn’t seemed like it at all; he had always been so spritely and busy, so proud. Now when he can barely move, it’s like seeing a lion that will not hunt.
“Barnaby,” Uncle Maverick says warmly, slurred. Maverick holds out his hand and Barnaby takes it, attempting a watery smile back. If only Barnaby could hold this hand forever; he presses a tiny kiss to the knuckles, strokes it with his own.
Some time into the visit, after Barnaby has cried a bit and Uncle Maverick has allowed it, Maverick cups the back of Barnaby’s head and brings it down to his chest. Barnaby shifts and settles his forehead against his benevolent benefactor’s shoulder and sighs.
“You were always such a good boy, Barnaby,” Maverick whispers, voice rough, and pets Barnaby’s hair with a heavy hand.
“Did I…” He chokes on the words and another wave of tears.
“What is it?”
“…are you proud of me, sir?”
Like a cat curling, a fireplace lit, a shirt from the dryer—Maverick smiles at him and says, “Couldn’t be more.”
Barnaby leaves only when he can no longer stay. When he’s home he begins to pack his things—his picture of his mother and father, the one with him and Wild Tiger at the party celebrating them as heroes number one and two, the robot toy from his fourth birthday—and he saves his open files and packs up his computer, too. He packs every bit of his closet and then decides he might as well donate his kitchen materials. He won’t need them anymore. Maverick has left one of his homes to Barnaby in his will.
He can do this, at least. This Barnaby thinks as he fluffs the pillows in his childhood bedroom that same night, looking around and smiling in nostalgia. He can at least do his best to take care of Uncle Maverick in his last days. It is the least that the great man deserves, the least that Barnaby can do. He will continue to do his best as a hero as well. His legacy can’t end—Albert Maverick can’t just be thrown away to the ages—Barnaby Brooks Jr. won’t allow it.
He pushes his trunk into the corner of the room, sets an oil warmer on, and slides under the covers. As he falls asleep he thinks of these:
A Christmas twenty-six years ago.
A warm hand.
And, for some strange reason that never fails to make him wonder but does not manage to surprise him anymore, he thinks of his partner. Wild Tiger, and the odd, off feeling that Barnaby gets when he thinks of him. Some sort of glow that he can’t remember the start of and can’t fathom the end of.
It’s not the first time, certainly, that he’s fallen asleep to thoughts of Wild Tiger. And it’s also not the first time he’s ever dreamt of the man.
( “I knew that you would trust me.”)
(The vague image of blood spotting on a grenade clutched in his own fist.)
Barnaby wakes, dissatisfied as usual, to a house quiet and empty. It’s as large and useless as his apartment and feels no less foreign, never mind that he spent a good chunk of his childhood in this house. He strolls through it and shivers, and within seconds remembers where the temperature control is. Then he remembers that somewhere around here is a music player—ah yes, here it is, in the corner of the upstairs sitting room. Barnaby chooses ‘play all’ and turns the dial until the majesty of the orchestra echoes from high ceilings onto tiled floors and everywhere in between.
Barnaby runs his hand along the banisters of the stairs and moves throughout the house just to see how far the music will follow and to see the places he had known as a child. In the downstairs living room he finds the corner where Barnaby and Uncle Maverick did not, repeat, did not ever erect a Christmas tree. (Barnaby did receive gifts, but all throughout the year, and gifts in December were never called Christmas gifts.)
In the downstairs kitchenette he finds plenty of coffee, but, still shivering, he picks out a packet of hot chocolate and sets that to warm. He keeps the blinds closed, tilted upwards, but it is too early for there to be light in any case.
Mug in hand, Barnaby finds his chair—the great green one in which, even now that he is older and taller and broader, he can always curl up on his side and fit comfortably in: the chair-and-a-half, salvaged from the fire of his parents’ home, darned in patches. He sits in it straight-backed, and he loses himself for a while thinking about blood and fire while the strings echo back, distorted.
(What is satisfaction? He knew it for a short time when he avenged his parents. When Wild Tiger helped him, supported him. It’s hard now to think of Wild Tiger in that manner—are they really the same person, the Wild Tiger of then and the Wild Tiger of now?
Did such a thing exist? His satisfaction? He can’t remember what it feels like in the same way adults can no longer remember the joy of a Christmas morning. Now it seems his life is made up of endless yearning.)
On Monday, Barnaby dresses in a somber suit, pushing the necktie up firmly, not liking the tension at the front of his neck. How does Wild Tiger do it? He gets a call from his manager asking if he’s awake yet, and to give himself more time to relax, he says “Just barely.”
He checks his cufflinks, sips coffee in his chair. Plays his favorite opera, looks up at the mantle of the fireplace. He smiles, just a bit—even after all this time, Maverick left two pictures there. One shows Uncle Maverick and Barnaby’s father standing side-by-side, arms around each other’s shoulders. The other is a single shot of his mother, caught without glasses.
When finally it is time to go, he grabs an umbrella and walks out into a gray morning where Wild Tiger is waiting.
“Good morning,” he calls formally, feeling his face grow warm despite the chill now assaulting. Wild Tiger turns his head mechanically, catches sight of Barnaby, and then smiles, hoisting a hand in acknowledgement. When Barnaby takes a few moments to lock the front door, Wild Tiger turns his head again to stare at the ground.
“How long have you been waiting?” Barnaby asks politely as he approaches.
“Thirty-one minutes and fifteen seconds,” Tiger responds.
Barnaby laughs, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. “Oh please. You and your drama.”
Tiger smiles but says no more, and they ride off, bike and sidecar.
The press conference doesn’t need to be that long. Barnaby also doesn’t need the cheap lines they give him to read off. He merely stands aside and lets the doctors say their bit and the big wigs that will take over from Maverick, too. Then he stands and takes his place, and he says the sorts of things that truly matter.
“Albert Maverick dedicated his life to helping others. He created a system that simultaneously helped the people accept Next and saved countless human lives. He is a hero in his own right. We can’t give up yet—”
When finally he is done, the people applaud. He hesitates for a second at the podium, but once he finds Wild Tiger, smiling and clapping along with them, Barnaby smiles back and feels he’s done his job just now. His job, not as a hero, but as a man who loves Albert Maverick with all of his heart.
Protect Tiger.
No one has to ask twice. It’s not even a question.
So at times like this, Barnaby doesn’t think and thinking doesn’t give way to brooding about this or that, the—at such times ‘silly’—pondering of that arguable need for meaning. Satisfaction. The point of existence. What does he do now that Jake Martinez is dead and Kotetsu T. Kaburagi is soon to follow and there is nothing that will save Albert Maverick? The answer is: what does it matter. Because Wild Tiger needs him.
That’s why Barnaby takes the hit. He remembers once, vaguely, the situation in reverse, and it comforts him as he falls to his knees, shivering. He sways, feeling dizzy, and screaming bleeds out from the crowd like so many droplets of water falling now down. His glasses precede him in falling to the concrete, and yet still he feels no pain even as his forehead hits hard and begins to bleed.
Why doesn’t it hurt? He blinks as someone rolls him onto his back; it’s Tiger, staring intensely. “Bunny! Are you alright?”
Barnaby opens his mouth and tries to respond, but his voice will not catch. Tiger’s head whips up faster than he’s ever seen, and suddenly Tiger is gone from his field of vision. Barnaby sees blurry figures rushing past, fuzzy rain coming to splatter just under his eyelashes, and the bright snap of fire.
Another gunshot rings out, and there is a man yelling louder than anyone, and then it all just stops. Someone—ah, it’s Blue Rose—steps over him, and several other colorful, faceless masses. “Barnaby! Are you—”
I’ve been shot! he finally realizes. He peels his hand away from the bleeding hole in his side.
But his hand is already glowing, the aura of his Hundred Power lighting. The pain catches up to him at last, but it’s worth it to hear the tiny ‘tink’ of the bullet being pushed out and hitting the ground.
“I’ll live,” he hears himself saying. The poor woman looks terrified. More urgent however is—
“You son of a bitch! Both of you! Both of you die!”
With his Hundred Power working on the wound, he doesn’t have the strength to stand. He can only look sideways and see the world on its edge. Cameras are rolling, microphones are pointing, security guards are huffing—and amongst them all, there is Wild Tiger, subduing the screaming man. The gun lies on the nearby ground.
“Get off of me! You’re not him! How dare you pose as Wild Tiger!”
Barnaby squints, trying to make out features. He can hardly see their faces, let alone properly discern their expressions, but as far as he can tell, Wild Tiger is completely blank. The man moves too much in his futile struggle; Barnaby can’t make out any identifying features except perhaps that he is an older man.
“And you—” Barnaby thinks the man may be looking at him. It’s hard to tell anymore, because Mario has popped from the woodworks, spouting his usual routine.
“A completely unexpected scene here at a press conference from Hero TV! A dangerous man—”
“You’re the one who—”
“—a gun—”
“—supposed to be his partner—”
“Luckily Wild Tiger was on the scene!”
The man struggles worse than ever. Barnaby thinks hazily through the pain that it is not the presence of the police van pulling up, but Mario’s words and the proximity to Wild Tiger that are making him so crazed. “HE’S NOT!” the man screams, voice shattering into pieces. “HE’S NOT HIM! HE’S NOT MY BROTHER! IMPOSTER! Imposter—”
The man fights tooth and nail and three officers replace Wild Tiger alone. Right before they slam the doors shut in his ruddy face, he manages,
“You’ve destroyed our family! Do you know what you’ve done, Barnaby Brooks Jr.!”
Barnaby waits until Wild Tiger is standing back over him. He drowns out Mario as he begins to speak of points and commercials. In fact he drowns out the sounds of the paramedics, too, and Blue Rose and everyone else, and he just looks up into Wild Tiger’s unreadable expression.
Disturbingly, his last thought before he passes out is this:
Was it really worth it?
The man, Barnaby learns later, is Muramasa… Muramasa Kaburagi.
When they tell him the name, Barnaby collapses back onto his pillow and fights a rising sob that he hides behind his shaking hands. It seems as if Kaburagi is intent on haunting him even now, like a spectre.
“Listen,” Karina snaps, covering the worried undercurrent in her voice. “Don’t set any store in that nutjob!”
The other heroes collected in his hospital room all nod and say more of the same. Karina barges on,
“He was just some old drunk! If his brother was what he was, what do you think of this guy? Really! What maniac goes shooting at heroes? Criminals, that’s who.”
“And their aides and abettors,” Keith adds in helpfully.
“Right,” Karina agrees. She whirls around and points. “Say something, Wild Tiger!”
Barnaby lowers his hands and lets his glasses slip into place. Tiger’s face is stony. He looks at Karina honestly and says, “Kotetsu Kaburagi is guilty of murder.”
That should help him. Should give him some small measure of comfort.
—but it doesn’t. With a heavy groan he banishes them all from his room, desiring nothing more than to be alone with happier memories. In the night he ardently wishes they would just go ahead and kill Kotetsu T. Kaburagi. Just get it over with. Stop this madness. If only Lunatic would…
He falls into troubled sleep, plagued by memories of Jake Martinez and Wild Tiger’s disapproving expressions whenever Barnaby wanted him dead.
“I’d heard you were shot, Barnaby.” Maverick’s voice is so thin and weak over the phone that Barnaby has to pause in putting on his clothes so that the rustling doesn’t drown him out.
“I’m fine, Uncle,” he replies honestly. “My power saved me. It’s a technique Wild Tiger taught me years ago. I’d never had to use it before now, ha ha…”
Maverick pauses, breathing laboriously. Barnaby takes the moment to buckle his belt and begin sliding on his jacket.
Maverick asks, “Who was it?”
Now Barnaby hesitates, fiddling with his zipper. He takes the time to pull it up and stand, now fully dressed, before saying, “It was the brother of Kotetsu Kaburagi.”
“Did he… state his motive?”
Sighing, Barnaby looks over at his partner, who has been, until now, watching carefully. Barnaby feels the familiar warmth in his belly—he had to admit to liking, rather a lot, whenever Wild Tiger showed concern for him—tinged just slightly with guilt. He refuses to actively revisit that last thought: ‘was it worth it’. Obviously, it was. How could he ever doubt?
“Not really, Uncle Maverick,” Barnaby says into the phone. “He was drunk and angry. There’s the fact that Kotetsu Kaburagi is undeniably guilty, but then, murderer or not, he does have a family. I’ve noticed that family tends to overlook the faults of a person.”
“Ah,” Maverick huffs, then takes a moment to grab the appropriate breath to say, “I’d heard he was saying some sort of nonsense.”
Barnaby smiles—a smile he shares with Wild Tiger, because sometimes when it’s just too much it becomes very funny. “A family delusion, I suppose. Remember that fool Kotetsu Kaburagi went around in Wild Tiger’s suits? I suppose he told his family that he was the real Wild Tiger and they believed him. That brother of his was yelling about Wild Tiger not being Wild Tiger.”
“I see,” Maverick sighs heavily.
“Don’t worry, Uncle,” Barnaby demurs. “I’m going home today. I’ll be there for you. Wild Tiger can take care of the criminals for a while.”
“I’m sure he can.”
By Friday, Barnaby is driving Maverick back home, side now only a dull ache. The gloom persists sans rain, and the sun illuminating the blanket of clouds hurts Barnaby’s eyes so that he squints and flips down his visor.
Barnaby takes the smooth, slow roads, and after thumbing the radio to the classical station, Maverick leans back in his seat and rests. Barnaby looks over to his peaceful face every now and then and smiles sadly.
“I hope you aren’t too upset by those people,” Maverick says tiredly at some point. “I wouldn’t let them bother you, Barnaby.”
They pull to a stop at a red light. Barnaby takes his hands off the wheel to run them through his hair. “I suppose,” he answers softly. “It’s not entirely pleasant to be reminded of that sort of past—”
“But Barnaby,” Maverick cuts in gently. “You’re the King of Heroes. You must persevere no matter what.”
Barnaby licks his lips, hesitates, and then agrees: “Yes. It’s my duty to prevent tragedy.”
But Barnaby can’t remember where these sorts of notions came from, and so they feel distant and false.
“Good, good,” Maverick grunts. He falls asleep.
Molly comes by to help Barnaby out. She is younger than Barnaby, less than twenty-five but beyond that he is unsure. She and Uncle Maverick had a very quiet ceremony a couple of years ago. Technically they’re still married, but for a reason that Uncle Maverick has never disclosed and Barnaby has never pushed for, they live separately.
She’s waiting, her hands clasped behind her back, outside of the gate. Barnaby waves to her and she follows the car inside after the doors swing open.
“Hello, my dear,” Uncle Maverick greets her, rolling down the window as Barnaby puts the car in park.
“Hello, Albert.” She doesn’t bother to ask how he’s feeling, just reaches inside and caresses his cheek.
Barnaby supports him with an arm wrapped around his back and she with a hand on his arm. Together they get Uncle Maverick into the house and into his bed. Molly stays by his side while Barnaby sets tea to boil, remembering that the box of cinnamon flavor tea in the back of that third cabinet is hers.
Molly comes back from the room just as Barnaby has set the tray, unwinding her colorful scarf and shrugging off her jacket. “He’s asleep,” she says. “I’ll drink his cup.”
When the sun is beginning to set she wraps herself back up and gives him her usual cheery smile. “I’ll come back. I suppose you’ll need help with him.”
“Not really,” Barnaby says quietly, but she accuses him of being shy and swats him on the arm. He watches her trounce off past the gate and pushes a button for it to close behind her. Through the metal bars, she gives one last wave before her car pulls up and she slides into the backseat.
Barnaby sets his recording now that she’s gone and peeps into Uncle Maverick’s room.
“…and go after the rest of them, too. It’s time to finish this nonsense. We can’t allow them to ruin things anymore.”
Barnaby stares, letting in a chink of light into the otherwise deeply dark room. Uncle Maverick looks up, frowns, and then says a short dismissal to the other end.
“Barnaby,” he calls. “Come here.”
Barnaby obediently kneels by the bed, and just as Uncle Maverick reaches out a hand, he pouts. “Are you still working? Uncle Maverick…”
Maverick’s hand lands with a thump and he traces the curve of Barnaby’s head to the back of his neck. Barnaby pushes his glasses up his nose and sighs at Maverick.
He implores, “Can’t you think about resting? Don’t work so hard.”
“I will be fine, Barnaby,” Maverick rumbles. His eyes and voice are painfully fond. “I have to take care of things, though. I’m just making sure you’ll continue to succeed even after I’m gone.”
Barnaby ducks his head to hide the tears suddenly hazing his vision. “Please don’t say that…”
“By the way, Barnaby,” Maverick begins again sometime later. “What do you think of Molly? She’s quite the girl, isn’t she? Very spritely. A big fan of heroes, too.”
Barnaby wipes his glasses clean. Earlier when he cried a bit, one tear streaked the lens. “She’s very cute,” he says honestly.
Maverick raises his eyebrows and smiles broadly. “I asked her to come and stay here, too. It’s why I bothered remarrying at this age, after all—I wanted someone who would take care of me. She’s a very kind girl.”
“She didn’t mention it.”
“Because she told me no straight out,” Maverick laughs. “She’s kind, and sincere as well! She says that marrying me is not what she thought it would be, and she’s holding on out of respect for my health.”
Barnaby purses his lips, holds his tongue. He’s never said what he’s really thought about Maverick and his long string of women—he otherwise respected Maverick too much.
“But what about you?” Maverick asks.
“Me, sir?”
“What about a wife and children, eh?”
Barnaby flushes and looks away quickly. This is not the sort of conversation he wants to have when Maverick is this close to—
“Well,” Maverick chuckles. “I know that you’re simply not that sort of man.”
Barnaby stays silent, peeking shyly back at Maverick, who looks very dark for some reason.
“Just do this old man a favor, Barnaby.”
“Sir?”
“Don’t pursue Wild Tiger.”
“…sir.”
Uncle Maverick does not elaborate, and for that Barnaby is awkwardly grateful. That is not a promise that he can make.
Lately when Barnaby sleeps he always dreams. It’s nothing less than he expected, what with Uncle Maverick’s condition and the most recent reminder of that crime from five years ago—but still. Still. It is…
He even tries his best with aromatherapy, with different recipes every other night. He tries hot baths and glasses of milk and drowsiness-inducing medicine, and all the other things that never worked back when his nightmares about a house aflame were unceasing. Barnaby wakes often around the mark of one in the morning, sweating and gasping.
This time he sees the face of a new madman—Kotetsu, not Jake—that man they decided was a fan gone too far.
Barnaby should have killed that man. He was so, so close to it. It was just, he thinks now, that the man’s rambling had been so infuriating. It had been confusing and nonsensical and for some reason, it had been so incredibly, incredibly infuriating. Barnaby had been so close to snapping for good—closer than he had been even with Jake.
He should have killed Kaburagi. It was only the thought of Wild Tiger that kept him from doing it.
Sweat-drenched and shaking, Barnaby rises from bed and sets his bare feet on the flat, cold marble tile of the floor. He pulls on a pair of pajama bottoms for modesty before leaving his room. He wants to be in the bright light, away from the silence, but he dares not remedy either for fear of waking Maverick. Thusly he makes his way to the kitchen without sight at all, just feeling and trusting his instinct of his childhood home, which is somehow lesser than he expects it to be.
The shadows seem all the darker without his glasses on. The house should be welcoming and familiar—instead Barnaby feels unsettled in the night. He feels guilty rummaging through the fridge, as if he hadn’t spent his childhood doing the exact same thing, as if he wasn’t going to own this house for himself in the near future.
He squints into the dark hallways, waiting, as if still trapped in some sick dream, for a face to emerge from the darkness—
he gasps and drops his glass of water. It shatters into a millions pieces at his feet, soaking the hems of his pants. He glares at the offense: his PDA is alerting him of a call.
At this time of night? He thinks vehemently but answers anyway. The light is far too bright and he nearly closes his eyes against it. It’s Agnes Joubert on the other end—“Bonjour!”—and judging by her expression it isn’t any sort of emergency, so he allows himself to be properly pissed off at her as he answers, “What is it at one in the morning?”
In the video feed, she’s frowning and twirling her hair around one finger. Almost as if she were bored, she replies, “Lunatic showed up again.”
He gasps and starts a jog to his bedroom, letting the light glowing from his wrist guide him. “Where?”
“Don’t bother, hero.”
“W-what? Why not?” he asks, taken aback. He freezes with one foot on the stairs.
She sighs. “He’s already gone.”
He stares stupidly at the video feed, half-asleep and sluggish. “Who did he…?”
“He didn’t kill anyone,” Agnes says with a yawn.
Barnaby annoyance mounts yet again. What is the point of being so obtuse at such an ungodly hour? “So why are you calling me, then, Ms. Agnes?”
“Because,” Agnes stresses. She doesn’t look too happy herself. “They woke me up in the middle of the night too, saying I should call you, saying you would definitely want to know—”
“But why—”
“Be patient! Because, as I say, they thought you would want to know that Lunatic appeared at the county jail, and instead of punishing criminals—he broke one out.”
“…who?”
“Who do you think? Muramasa Kaburagi.”
Barnaby feels his heart disappear. It’s the same sensation he had when choking Jake or when coming within an inch of splattering Kotetsu Kaburagi against the concrete. He doesn’t feel quite human.
“What about Kotetsu Kaburagi?” he hears himself ask, lips trembling.
“We don’t know yet. All security is on guard. Stand-by for more information.”
—and then she hangs up, just like that, and within fifteen minutes he is speeding at eighty miles an hour to make it to the prison on time.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2011-11-17 09:00 pm (UTC)I'm working on it now and thiiis close to posting another bit as we speak, lolz
♥
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Date: 2011-11-17 09:12 pm (UTC)♥
That's great news!
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Date: 2011-11-17 10:14 pm (UTC)In the show Maverick used to be a fatherly figure to Barnaby and it was obvious that he was very important to Bunny-chan, but once Maverick started turning evil, the change was abrupt and by the time Bunny had to deal with it, Maverick had shown himself so despicable that there was no hesitation.
The importance of the connection they formed to Barnaby (and maybe to Maverick), as false as it was, was lost/glossed over in favor of a quick plot progression.
You, instead, do take time to show all the tender moments between Maverick and Barnaby, and even though I know what Maverick is plotting, I also see him as the man who raised Barnaby. I do love the ambivalence.
Am I making any sensee? lol
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Date: 2011-11-17 10:22 pm (UTC)Hey, confessions from the author time. lol because I've been bursting to say this, but thought I'd look like a dweeb saying it to everyone else
The comments on the meme... someone said that the "big green armchair" reminds barnaby of Kotetsu. And honestly-- uhmm... I did not EVEN plan that, but it works out well, doesn't it? Now I totally look like the Master of Subtlety.
But the subtle little things I actually DID plan... no one picked up on. TT^TT
No one seems to realize that Molly is Scarf-tan. I thought people would high-five me for the lulz, but...
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Date: 2011-11-17 10:43 pm (UTC)Haha, I fail too XD
I was distracted by Origami's blog-reading dorkness. Nah, no excuses for me ToT