~Andrenal Glands: Ayato~

Ayato Kirishima sluggishly strolled down the busy side walk, hands crammed into the pockets of his jeans, fur rimmed coat zipped to the top. All around him were humans going about their everyday mundane lives, shopping, incessantly chatting, giggling, touching, hugging, eating from plastic containers or foil wrapped oblongs. Livestock. How different he was to them and their sloth-like tendencies. How easy it was to be the great white in the middle of a shoal of ignorant fishes, bubbling away their useless lives. How could they not see the predator lurking in their mists? Simple. They were what they were, imbecilic beings who could not see past their own noses to see the danger salivating in their face with a gaping maw. Diseased, lobotomised lab rats, the lot of them. No one looked his way, no one took the time to spot the wolf in sheep's clothing. In a way, it gave him a rush that no good hunt or chase could live up to.

He was the broken bungee cord. He was the swinging guillotine. He was the weak cage that held back the shark. He was the landslide one earthquake away. He was the pick that didn't lodge into the side of the mountain fully. And whose fault was that? His? For being born this way? Evolution working in all its glory... Or theirs for being vapid enough to come out from their box and play with fate? Baiting the hangman with a bared neck? He wasn't the only one, of course, many of his kind prowled the streets, watching, waiting, starving. Yet, despite being in full knowledge of this, they, the humans, came out in drones, taunt muscles, smiles and sweet skin, tempting, beckoning for just one bite. Furthermore, they had the gall to act affronted to their, his, existence. As if they were the blot and mar on earth's face, the teenage prom pimple. As if they were the ones needing to be exterminated because they simply existed. Fools with god complexes. A dangerous mix if he did say so himself.

That fateful day, just as a plump, waxen, clammy chunk of a man walked passed him, second-hand suit and scuffed briefcase swinging at his side like a pendulum, dithering and obnoxiously laughing with his equally sense offensive friends, Ayato was hit with a smell... A smell that got his Adrenal glands pumping out adrenaline as fast as a waterfall into a still pond, disturbing all function, water spilling over the sloping ridge, reaching, searching for that smell. Although, on the surface, he managed to look as he always did while in the company of food he couldn't eat. A slight opprobrium twist to pale lips, a frown plucking at the centre of his eyebrows, strides deliberate, casual but long. The only difference were his eyes, his normal front unfocused eyes now transmute, hooded and covertly searching the human-infested streets around him.

Where was that exquisite smell coming from?

Ayato thrived on Adrenaline. In the throes of a battle, in the mists of bloody disputes over feeding grounds, when a human proved more audacious than previously assumed, it was the thing that kept him going, kept him punching, kept him kicking... Kept him biting. It kept him alive. Unlike many things in his relatively short life, unlike people, his own sister included, he had found he could trust that rush of adrenaline to lead him straight, pull him through, be his compass more than anything else. It was the smoking pistol that befell the fight or flight instinct and Ayato, well, he had never been a flight kind of guy. So, when this hormonal high frothed his gut with wanton lust, who was he to divert his natural course?

It was easy and familiar to keep up the act of merely walking down the street, all the while still searching, even as the flow of blood pulsated in his veins, consolidating the little elastic tubes. As his heart picked up tempo, breath hitching in his throat, as the adrenaline took hold of him fully and irrevocably. For his patience, his grand act on the stage that was this dirty, foul smelling road filled to the brim with sweating, sneezing, dribbling food, he was given a gift. A little one to be sure, but one that hinted at another to follow promptly, if he played his cards right. He knew where the smell was coming from now, had located its origin with pinprick pupils and a sweep of swollen taste buds over slick teeth. He could only see the top of their head, peeping out from the bodies that swarmed around them, just a glimmer, just a hope. Just a hint of long locks, curly, dark red in hue, almost like mulled, fine wine, black if viewed in low lighting. However, by the bounce and trajectory, they were heading right for him, walking this way.

How easy would it be, just as they reach the precipice, as they idly sidle up to him on their route, to reach out and snag the person's arm, hauling them into an alleyway that would be off to the side of their meeting point, devour them in the looming shadows, hidden by an overflowing bin? Risky. Too risky. But by god, if he existed, did Ayato want to do just that. His fingers clamped together in his pocket, short nails digging into the tender skin of his palm. They were about a foot away when it happened, when the bodies masking them parted like the red sea, bequeathing him with the first glance.

They, as it turned out, was a she.

She wasn't tall, around five-three, encased in plain jeans, cotton jacket and woollen scarf in husky pink. The same pink that dusted the well-defined swoop of cheekbone, the same pink that grew a shade darker on lips, contrasting against the deep, effervescent emerald green eyes, almost too large for her elven face.

Ayato's stomach twisted itself into a knot as she grew closer, as the smell became more than just a hint, taking over all of his senses, drowning him. From this distance, so close but not close enough to touch... God, he wanted to do more than touch, he could see the grin playing with the tips and ends of her lips, the proud scar that fragmented her forehead, the indication of dimpled cheeks if the grin was wrought to full life. Step. Step. Step. Step. He was close now, so close all he had to do was get his frigid arm to move, to fling out and grasp, to tug, to pull and yank. However, just as his palm brushed against the material of his inner jeans pocket, her eyes snapped to his, locking, absolving, pinning, freezing him solidly.

Miraculously, his steps never faltered and neither did hers. However, her teasing smile did vanish, her eyes hardening to the gemstone they so magnificently emulated, a twitch of a muscle lining her jaw tensing, pulling away the ghost of a dimple. It almost... It almost looked as if she were egging him on, mercilessly teasing him, daring him to try anything. So unlike his normal self, faced with this absurd oddity, instead of acting upon impulse to prove he would simply do something because he could, Ayato found himself still walking, still strolling in the opposite way, gaze locked with hers as she drew close, shoulder brushing shoulder as she passed, finally breaking contact when she melted away from his thirsty vision.

Three steps. Four seconds. Two eye blinks. That was all it took before his brain kicked back into gear, chugging and steaming into feverish circles, a carousel horse going around, and around, and around, as he glanced behind him. But...

She was gone.

Nowhere in sight. Not hidden and smothered between bodies, tainted. Not crossing the street at the lights, at the black and white stripped crossing, a diamond lost in the middle of a batch of zirconia. Gone. The only evidence of her existence being the harassing sent left behind her like disparaging clouds of unique, mouth-watering bespoke perfume clouds. His head slowly swivelled back in front, his walk carrying on as if nothing had happened.

However, his adrenaline rush did not expire for a long, long, long time later, when the moon was fall and crowned in the sky.

~Enzyme: Eto~

"Hello, I hope you're having a good day and enjoyed the lecture I ga-"

Eto, perched on a wonky legged stool that kept tipping left if she leaned the wrong way, half hidden by the table she sat with, books piled to the left of her, books stacked to the right, substantial poster of her book hanging behind her, pinned to a cardboard partition strategically placed for all eyes to see, rattled of the same greeting in a excited, childish tone she had spoken to the last fifty customers that had joined the line-up to get their books signed after a small lecture she had given at the lesser known book store, never looking up, just pulling a new book from the mounds either side of her, signing in a flurry and twirl of blue ink pen.

However, her mouth clamped up, drying like the Sahara desert when the smell thrashed against her. Slicing her greeting off prematurely, cleaving through her childish veneer that she used to conceal her true intentions and feelings. The break in acts only lasted a possible second or two before she regained her composer, slamming her human mask of behaviour that kept her above suspicion back on tightly.

Tangy orange blossom, deep notes of ripe plum, a tickle of sweet cinnamon and just a dab of airy, grassy Green tea... Dessert. A grin slicked across her face like an oil spill, her gaze lazily peeking through her lashes up to this delectable visitor that had flown upon her tangled abstract web. She was a pretty thing, young too, sixteen, seventeen at a push. She was all flushed skin, porcelain complexion, decadent and untameable curls haggled into something that could possibly resemble a bun in the right conditions, that clashed clandestine with her complexion and overwhelming eyes... But none of it had an inch against the smell she exuded.

Eto curbed and repressed the rampant urge that galloped through her to leap over the insignificant table, as useful as a barrier as a sheet of paper against her kind, and sink her aching gums into the tender flesh of bare throat. Eto perked up, smiling broadly, eyes slit and crinkled, portraying that jovial nature she had mastered. Her mouth was so dry, pining for the action of chomping and chewing, she was unsure whether words could be wrung forth even if she tried. However, the woman in front of her seemingly didn't suffer from the same malady, undoubtedly stealing the wind from Eto's sails.

"Just sign the book."

Tranquillity left her in a whoosh, irrefutably gone, stolen by the words of a human of all things, with just four little words. Eto prided herself on her vocabulary, her way with words, to have them so easily taken from her, even if this woman's presence contradicted itself, easy and calm, subjecting and placating, yet simultaneously pulling air from your lungs, drying your veins, stilling your tongue, it was unnerving. Unnatural. Ominous... So delightfully entertaining. Eto wanted to know more. She needed to know more.

"Are you that eager to have little ol' me's signature? I feel so flattered! By one so pretty as yourself too! I think I'm blushing."

The woman didn't buy it for a second, not by the way her spine stiffened, her arms coming to fold over her chest, barricading her organs, her weak points, protecting. Neither by the frown blistered on her forehead, hot and heady, eyes as simmering as her stern but blank face. Uh. That must be the first time someone had seen through her act, not fallen for the bait, instead, shielding themselves, steeling themselves. Human's were predictable, Eto often feeling like if you knew one, you knew the next ten thousand. Their needs basic, easy to exploit. However, this one, this little woman in front of her did nothing as she had expected. Oh... What a pleasant surprise!

"It's not for me, It's for a friend."

Unbeknownst to Eto, her head cocked to the side, inquisitive, innocent, curious. How odd it was, this woman standing in front of her, looking as if she would wish to be anywhere but in her presence. How degrading, obnoxious, humiliating to be scorned by a human... How intriguing! The wonders that must lurk and lay in wait in this human's mind, waiting to be unlocked and found. Humans, on a whole, thrived on that small lizard part of their brain, even if they did not know you were a ghoul, their bodies subconsciously acted for self-preservation, swimming away, never getting too close, always just a hands distance away. Yet...

This woman stood proud and tall amongst the flock.

"What? Do you not like my books?"

Enzymes. What a funny little thing they were. They did nothing for themselves, oddly, yet, combined with proteins or other chemical structures in a contained area, they frenzied their surrounding into an explosive reaction, only to move and carry on, leaving the chain of destruction in their wake. Somehow, some way, for some unknown, ungodly reason, Eto thought this was an enzyme, this woman, brought into the world to create reactions in others but never herself, always above it all. The creator, never the created. The lit fuse but never the dynamite. The blood stained revolution, never the victory day. The woman's eyes slanted a fraction, just an allusion to suspicion.

"No. Pretentious writing is often written by pretentious people. Pretentious people are like cross stitches. Pretty in the front, fucked up in the back. I don't trust things that hide what they are with a pretty façade."

I don't like things that hide... Snap. Eto glanced down, eyeing the snapped pen in her hands, forcing herself to giggle and jar her hand away from hovering over the book, watching as the drops of ink that had escaped the pen landed on the front page of her book, bleeding into the paper, infecting the paragraphs, absorbing and eating the words in its abyss... Like the woman was doing to her. Thankfully, the crowd seemed to buy her 'oopsies' and 'oh dears' awing and cooing in sympathy, her manager dashing over to hand her another pen. All but one.

The woman.

Eto reached for another book to sign for the woman, a ploy to have her in her presence a bit more longer, just some time to figure at least a part of her out, a day, a month, a year. However long it took. Eto wanted to know. Unfortunately, the woman was having none of it, reaching over with swift limb to snatch up the book, slam it shut and twirl around, curls that had broken free from their prison of hair bobble and pins dancing in the air, retreating into the smoke that was the line-up.

"Can I have a name?"

Enzyme reactions were instantaneous, without warning, preamble or other showy lots that life often had. They were also irreversible. Eto felt the change fizzling through her nervous system, setting fire to the long thought of dead nerves, just barely shouting over her raging hunger, picking up pace as it buzzed through her body. The woman's answer was also instantaneous through the thick of the crowd, lost from sight but not hearing.

"No."

~Fetus: Furuta~

Fetuses, in short, were a parasite. It feeds, and feeds, and feeds within it's host's belly, stretches and contorts the skin to mould around it, protect it above all else, above the needs of the host, warm, safe and nourished in its dank, dark depths, cut off from the rest of the world until it decided it was time to come to light when it was strong enough. In that singularity, Furuta Washuu was a fetus the world had never observed before.

Just like the first parasitic stage of humanity, he was not above using people for his own means. Look at dear, chubby, uncouth Ami for example? The insipid bint believed he loved her, cherished her, wanted to marry something as disgusting as she, why? Because it was fun to make her believe so, because it would make that meal all that much more sweeter when he finally took her to the Ghoul restaurant, when she would rise from the floor like a phoenix, only to see her imminent death and in those final moments, the look on her face, the betrayal, the heartbreak, it would be priceless.

However, she wasn't quite ready for the centre stage yet, not quite as deeply in love as he wanted, not quite as besotted, which led him to the tedious action of hunting out a guest to take this evening that would hold the tides until he could eventually take Ami in. A book store seemed the perfect playground to find that.

Furuta was not toothless, but he was not as bloodthirsty and dim as his brethren, hunting for hunting's sake, never trying to find the next level to the game that was called life. Nor was he a slop of genes, marrow and jellied DNA like the humans, Although, he had more fun playing on their grounds, intricate, complex emotions and mental battlefields that you had to navigate to get to their hearts and souls, rather then his kind's own simple inner labyrinths of feeding, hunger and thirst. To win over a human, you needed a lot more than an offer of meat and a share of territory.

Furuta loved the games you could play with humans, the games that would fall on dumb minds and deaf ears if started with a Ghoul. A simple skimming of his long fingers against the spines of the books made the old woman reading and drinking coffee in the corner blush and bury her head into her book. A sly wink thrown over his shoulder to the till girl gave the same reaction. A distracted flick of tongue against bitten lip made the shaggy man in a hoody eyes linger a fraction too long to be counted as decent.

And yes, one of these poor, measly humans would likely go missing from this book store, bones found in a months time from being ravenously eaten, but how was that his fault if they were so eager to play his games without asking for the rules? He didn't give a shit. Not if they had families. Not if they got scared, that would only make the game better if possible. Not if they begged or needlessly pleaded for their lives.

The book store could possibly be shut down when the CCG find out the person was last seen here, but that would be all the questioning would ever lead to. Parasites destroyed and decayed their environments. It's what they do. What he did. Poison. Infection.

His uniform, standard for a Ghoul investigator, was just the icing on the cake. Humans, silly, loveable, tasty humans were all too quick to trust an investigator, consigning trust and loyalty from first glance when he had done nothing to earn it. It's why he did it after all, just another level on his chessboard, another hurdle they would have to jump to catch up to him. To them, he was a hero. How laughable.

He was a fetus, hiding in the womb that was iniquity. No one would find him, no one would see his plans and schemes, no one would clock on until it was too late, until he was birthed. V. Sunlit Garden. Akihiro Kanou. The Clowns. The Ghoul restaurant. The CCG. They were blind, just pieces on his growing chessboard, pawns to move at his will, to sacrifice at his will. He was in control.

He moved through the aisles of books formlessly, weightless, gliding, a dormant disease waiting to stricken the populace. His motive was floating, waiting in the dark to have hope breathed into its stillborn lungs. That life twitched and jarred to life, a vessel given innards and clockwork when his gaze caught that of another's in this establishment. Green was the colour of nature. Nature represented life in all magnificence. Just like the colour of the gaze that caught his from over her book. As he strolled over, her smell hit him. He couldn't resist. Target locked. His tone had shy edges, as soft as clouds, polite and easy going.

"Hello."

He had expected beautiful naivety, her soft satin features hinted at such, curiosity laced voice. It would all be so very human, so very fragile, spun glass and woven silver. When he looked at her, spoke to her, smelt her, he was wilted with the mental image of spring fading to summer. Such an intricate web of compulsive complexities it brought into his thoughts and gut as he gazed upon her, waiting for what was sure to come. She blinked, scanned him briskly, a swoop of his form and he swore he heard her whisper.

"I just can't escape you guys can I?"

Was she talking about the CCG? Now, what would this little creamed peach have to do with them? All Ghouls found it easy to formulate and imitate humans, it was a talent they all gained if they wanted to reach passed childhood. However, he, even if said so himself, was one of the most polished in these attributes. He had to be, playing the many diverse people he did.

"I don't mean to be a bother miss, but... Well, I have two reservations to a meal tonight. My blind date bailed last second and the restaurant we would have been attending is serving my favourite meal tonight, as well as hosting a band I have been wanting to see for a long time. Would you... Well... Would you mind filling in? I just don't want to look so lonely, my sister set up the date you see, she would be disappointed if I didn't go and I'm such a terrible liar."

Uninhibited stride. Convivial posture. Open face. Timid but amiable tone. There should have been nothing wrong. Nothing exposed. He had done this more times than he could count. No one had ever seen passed the front he so diligently wore.

"No."

The smile strained and shook on his face, beguiling the truth underneath the cracks appearing in his fortress, his armour. His charm, as counterfeit as it was, had never failed him before. Never. The unassuming, shy man who only got brave enough to speak to you, it was practically kryptonite to the woman he enclosed his trap around... Then again, this woman was not like all those others. No. But still, why wasn't it working now? What made this little woman who smelled so tantalizing so special? Her book shut with a thud, sliding back into place impeccably.

"What?... I mean... Excuse me? I... You see-"

Did this conventional woman have ultra-sound eyes, could she see the devil-spawn growing in the darkened womb? No? No. No one saw passed what he wanted them to see. Not even this perplexing individual. She didn't answer him, didn't give him so much as another gander as she turned sharply, walking to the end of the aisle and disappearing through the cherry wood shelves and slithers of wood encased in leather spines.

Crack.

Thinking the palatable human had hurt herself, therefore damaging the meal he was still planning no longer planning on taking to the Ghoul restaurant, but keeping for himself, Furuta followed, swinging around the same corner she had taken before the loud noise fully left his eardrums.

Furuta had always been surrounded by walls, walls he had constructed around himself to keep his core safe. Unharmed. Un-bruised. Uncut. Whole and un-shocked. They guarded him, disguised him into a fluid of persona's that let him play his games. So imagine his shock, his surprise, that rudimentary tremble to his core when not even two seconds after the crack rang out, he peeked into the aisle she had taken to find one thing.

Nothing.

~Immune System: Itori~

The hefty base thrummed through the air, igniting vigorous emotions and harmonious hormones of the regulars, newbies and patrons of Helter Skelter. Itori, half cast in the palpitating shadows and flashing neon lights, swayed her body as she danced across the open floor, hiding, blending, seeping across the floor, back against the wall, laying in wait. Waiting for what? Well, that was up to debate, even within her own mind. A meal long overdue or a good time... Perhaps a bit of both. Not anyone would do...Oh no. On the contrary, Itori had particular tastes and standards that needed to be met, need to be sated. Itori was picky in all things, from the shade of her nails, to the inch to her heels, to her clothes and bed partners to the humans she inevitably consumed.

Here she was again, lost in the music, body rioting and gliding with the many on the dance floor, mirroring, playing. She had done this numerous times in the past, dance with wild abandonment, organized chaos is what she liked the think it was if it was possible for such a thing to exist in this dreary world. Sex, feeding and parties were her rituals, Mayhem her faith. She was the diamond queen in a deck full of blank cards, just waiting for her to brand them with her own touch, fingerprints and blood left on crisp white. Between the door and her, anything could happen, anything could exist, anything could be dreamed. The moon outside her only witness.

Of course, when she had been a child, young and innocent, she had never thought her life would turn out to be like this. But then again, they trapped themselves, didn't they? Humans and Ghouls alike, trapped by inhibitions and silly plans, only, in the end, to feel that lump in their throat that tasted like failure. Self-fulfilling prophecies seemed to roll in with the rainstorms that hue'd Tokyo's skies gloomily. Frequent and with more to come. However, unlike the rest, she rolled with it, moved with the punches. Each new storm meant new possibilities. New people. New plans. New bedlam to revel in.

During her indolent inner monologue, her body had been circulating, gyrating, twirling, sidling up to a few who had captured her interest... Only momentarily, feeling like velvet mixed with broken glass as she brushed skin against skin, forcing her to move along in her goalless quest. Too hairy. Too skinny. Too fat. Too pimpled. Too smarmy. Innocent playing at being a vixen who would bulk when actually faced with the games she pretended she wanted to play. Smelled bad. Not the right clothes. Hair greasy. That one in the corner was obviously on drugs, about to O.D by the looks of it. No. No. No. No. No! None of them would work. None!

Bombs and guns were just toys, people too, things to watch unravel and break when pushed. The harder to break, the better to see explode, the more it got Itori's heart thumping, her grin spreading, her mind draining. Itori wouldn't call it violence, not always, destruction and breaking didn't just happen with broken bones and blood splatters. It happened in the bedroom too, between silk sheets, flesh pressed against flesh, knee's and limbs locked, sweat cloying, breath mingling, head and neck straining backward into the mattress when the dam finally did break and euphoria poured out. That, with that image flashing as fast in her mind as the blinding lights, was when she saw the silhouette swaying to the music, congregated around, lone figure in the middle.

From the lights, the distance, the bodies splitting them like a cavern, Itori couldn't tell the obviously woman's, you had to be with those curves, features. She couldn't tell the colouring either, the woman having found a spot where the lights didn't flash as impulsively.

Bingo.

Itori wanted her. And what Itori wanted, Itori took with complete sheer will and a laughing face. Arrogant it may be, but also fact. Itori's hands nestled into her loose hair, fingertips fluttering across scalp pleasantly as she coiled and twisted towards the mysterious woman, gliding with the grace of a snake, slithering away from anyone else who thought to try and dance with her.

When she finally got close to dance with the woman, Itori noticed how much smaller she was, maybe shoulder length, yet still, those damned shadows she normally revelled in blocked out her being, leaving just a mass in its absence. Well, it wouldn't be the first time Itori had taken the lead, and maybe this darkness she could use to her advantage, a new landscape to explore. Drifting behind the woman, Itori slid one leg between hers, excited hands finding hips, pulling closer, never stopping the great primal dance. What the woman lacked in stature, she didn't in bravery, herself never stopping the sway to her hips, even when Itori made herself partially known.

Then the smell came and Itori was thrown into a spring field picnic, sunny skies and freedom absolute. Her eyes closed unbidden, her face delving into the silken strands of long hair, nose grazing the satiny slope of neck. Unknown to her, odd in itself, one of her hands left sweet curve of hip to glide up the other woman's body, dipping and climbing with the curves, ending up at her neck, curling as she dragged the woman closer, sniffing deepening, nose pressed tightly against the fragrant skin. If only she opened her eyes, this close she would able to see, obtain just who held this sent. Possessive. Dominating. Acquisitive. She began tightening only to lose it all before it was ever really truly hers.

The woman yanked herself free, pivoting to face Itori, still a hairbreadth away. Not only did she smell amazing, she was a pretty little thing too... And those eyes! Were they contacts? No. They didn't look it... But surely eyes so green couldn't exist? While Itori perused the woman, it seemed she had done the same to her, only unlike her own judgement she had come to, this woman being hers, the woman was not as impressed by her huff, rolled eyes, hands held up in surrender as if she had given up on everything and slinked back into the crowd, leaving Itori to the hungry and gorging shadows.

Itori had never laughed so hard.

It didn't matter. The woman would be back. Or, if need be, Itori would eventually hunt her down with saliva coated teeth when she did not show face. There was no rush. Either way, Itori knew one thing.

This was only beginning.

~Jaws: Juuzou~

Juuzou crouched over his open palm, seated on the cold and damp side walk underneath a street lamp, rocking back and forth, humming a splintered tune underneath his breath, ringing in the base of his skull. One, two, three, four, five hundred yen. Dammit, that wasn't enough for a decent drink, let alone a meal. He should have pick pocketed that old lady that wore too much paisley, he bet she would have a boatload in her sequinned purse, wasted on her thousands of cats she kept at home.

"Here."

Juuzou's fingers stilled in their flicking of the money in his hand, the rocking becoming less noticeable, but still ever present. Juuzou liked movement, liked to keep going, never staying still for too long. His cosmic eyes blinked, finding a hand seeping into his little bubble of light in the dark night, pierced now, long, delicate fingers holding out a sandwich.

His arm jarred out, sweeping like a frail birds wing that hides the lion's strength in its spun sugar bones, snatching the sandwich from the floating hand, biting through the cellophane as he tore the food free, mouth wide as he gobbled down the first bite, dramatically sighing and awning. The hand was joined by an arm and then a body and finally a face as the person stepped into the portal of light Juuzou had claimed, sweetly and bravely sitting next to him, pulling another sandwich out of her colourful satchel bag, calmly unwrapping it and eating like Juuzou pictured a peacock would. Small bites, regal, poised. In total contrast to his own ravenous devouring of bread, cucumber and cheese.

Juuzou knew he was ill, not quite right in the head, some would say, a dissociative personality disorder or antisocial behaviour the men in white coats would titter about as he was strapped and cuffed to a hospital bed, left to rant and rave or laugh. A diseased broken brain the men back at the CCG academy would preen and scorn him over when they told him he had gone too far... What was too far? Was there a chalky white line he should keep an eye out for? Something to tell him he had crossed some imaginary boundary some old man had conjured up in the name of 'safety' and 'social constructs'? Who made up these rules anyway? Not him, that's who. They were too boring and complex for him to pay much attention to.

Sometimes he did things even he didn't know why, things that made no sense, no logic, had no heads or tails. He tried to fix it once before, back in the early days his file had labelled integration into society, only to find he lacked in all forms. It felt like trying to view the world upside down, blood rushing to your brain, coating your mental capacity, obscuring it morbidly, slowing it. What was good about being normal anyway? You missed out on all the fun.

Second to the last bite, Juuzou leisurely turned to face his surprise companion this night, his face creeping inch by inch closer until his nose pressed into the woman's cheek, a girl around his age, younger by a year maybe, dressed plainly but put together, unlike his own haggard appearance, peering into her eyes unnervingly, even as she carried on eating as if nothing was wrong. A bony finger raised, prodding the woman in the cheek, voice childish and high pitched, almost whining when he spoke. However, what the woman wouldn't know was his other hand had delved into her thick coat pocket, plucking out her wallet and sliding the prize into his own trouser's hidey holes.

"I'm going to call you Kermit."

Juuzou waited for a reaction, a bluster of indignation, a weary glance, a shuffle of body away from him. He was used to that. People never getting close, always an arm's length away, lovely skin contact just out of reach, only to come when he swung and sliced his knives, but that was never the same as what he really wanted in his hazy summer dreams. It had been his life for as long as he could remember... Or as long back as he liked to think of. Instead, unlikely, strangely, all this weird but wondrous woman did was finish her sandwich with a pop of smacking lips, shrugged nonchalantly and turned to face him, grin teasing the lines of her face, pulling at the edges of Juuzou's reality, warm and soft, a hug but not a hug. Touch... It felt like a gentle touch. Pillow feathers.

"Well, I suppose that it's better than most of my nicknames. What should I call you then? Candy cane? White and red is a bold palette mate."

Maybe this woman wasn't real, another delusion, another piece of mind he had brought into the waking world by will, another thing for the demons in his soul to nip and distort. However, what did that matter? His reality was his. it was all in perspective, what was real and what was not. If he wanted this woman to be real, then real she was. Like Pinocchio, painted in sand masquerading as glitter, shiny buttons for smiles and emeralds for eyes. Drawing back a minute fraction, Juuzou pulled at the stitches on his lip crevice, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his head as he thought, breaking into a fit of disturbing chuckles when the name made sense.

"Sweet but twisted... I like it Kermit!"

Kermit grinned at him, dimpled and lazy like a Sunday afternoon, a nod making her curls flicker like candles as she stood, head aflame under the artificial light, turning without so much of a goodbye, walking away. Well... That wouldn't do. Juuzou scampered up, slipper nearly falling off his left foot, not that he cared, as he dashed after this amusing specimen.

"Wait! What if I want another sandwich!"

The sound of her steps ceased, kissing away his urge to run forth. It was harder to see her through the murky night, but he did see those eyes as she looked over her shoulder, that fluffy cloud of a smile too.

"Check your phone! You're not the only one who has sly hands!"

Juuzou's head cocked to the side before he gambled into a rush, her words finally clicking home as his hand frantically patted the pocket he had stashed her wallet, giggling when he found it empty. When he pulled out his phone, ignoring the fifteen missed calls from the CCG academy, scrolled through it, trying to find anything, he had nearly given up when he landed on the contacts, flicking thumb nearly running passed the name in the K subcategory that had been previously empty.

Kermit.

When he looked up, she was gone, dim befuddled night left to silence and lustreless.

~Kidneys: Kaneki Ken~

Vacillation was nothing new to Ken Kaneki. He had grown with it, as if it was fertilizer, it's nuances and nutrients now inside him, a part of him, atomized. Yet, he had never felt it quite like he did then, sitting on a bench staring at the college he should be in right now, learning, talking with Hide, living life like any other human being. But that was it, though, wasn't it? He was no longer human, not for some weeks now.

He was a Ghoul.

And because of that, the price that would fall on his head if he should slip for a second, just a toe off the tightrope, he couldn't afford to pay. Self-hatred hid in flaps of flesh around his body, his gums, his tongue, his cheeks, between his fingers. It made him shake and tremble, second guess his second guesses. He could taste it in the morning when he awoke, feel it swimming in the ocean of his soul, mouthwash, Iodine, bleach, nothing could wipe it from his sore and bruised body. What was that saying? Practice makes perfect, but how could he practice self-restraint and discipline when if he broke, a life could be lost? Was the pay out worth the risk?Was his life more important than another's? Did he have any value at all? No. No he didn't.

There was no respite from self-loathing, uncertainty... Depression. In sleep, the black thoughts escaped his tormented mind, oozing from his eyes, falling onto his muted pillow that buried half his face like ink drops into the desert sand. The horizon crying. Tainting everything he touched with its darkness. Yet, he woke up every morning, resurrected from the dark, even if he had to drag himself from bed, like limp road kill who still fruitlessly clung to life, and tried. By god, did he try. However, seemingly, the more he tried, the more that dank black monkey clenched it's meaty arms around his torso and squeezed, refusing to descend from his shoulders and back, weight to heavy to bare for much longer. Still, he hoped that one day he would no longer have to fight this inner war of his. It just wasn't today.

You couldn't escape from depression, couldn't run from it, couldn't hide because it was there, inside you, the acorn in your brain, rough bark chaffing your fragile nerves, growing, roots skewering, casting more and more darkness upon your subconscious and conscious alike. After all, depression didn't differentiate, didn't give mercy. War monger on its throne of insecurities and analysis. The tree would take over, be it a year or decades later and you would be nothing but a rotting corpse in moist soil, entangled in its root system. Another cog in its machine.

The worst was depression wasn't always so hardy, so forthright. It was deceptive, mischievous in a way, it played with masks and faces. It was that little voice in the back of your head, telling you not to do something simply because you were you, pretending it was looking out for your best interests when really, it was holding you back, tugging you down into that deep ocean. It was a wind chime lullaby that sung you to eternal rest, you, a babe, trying to fight the drooping eyelids knowing if you gave in, you would never wake again.

But it was never inevitable.

Love was there too, in your mind, a little Sakura blossom waiting to bloom on bud and stem. It only needed you to feed it, to prune back those oppressive branches that blotted out reason and hope and let those few sunbeams through to heat its petals, to let it unfurl. You just needed to learn to pay less attention to the tree and more to the flowers it created. Of course, that was easier said than done. But sometimes... Sometimes, if we're lucky, we find what we need in the things we fear.

Happiness was a funny little thing like that. Antiseptic wipes that rid the infection, taking the forms of friendly faces. Hide mainly, although Touka appeared once or twice. It would have been easier, of course, if none of this had happened, but wishing got him nowhere. It had and he would have to learn to roll with the punches, dodge the clawed hand. Kaneki snuggled deeper into his coat, feeling the chill in the marrow of his bones, the breeze ruffling his hair. The chilly wind stung his nostrils, like a hit of menthol straight to his withered and decrepit lungs.

Then the smell came.

Kaneki's insides crunched with hunger, from gut to kidneys, aching with the pain of starvation. However, breaking through the suffering came a disembodied voice from ahead of him, airy and genial.

"Chin up, you'll drown slower."

Kaneki blinked back to awareness, crawling through the fog to reality, halting his breath, scared of the same reaction crippling him if he inhaled. Standing in front of him was a woman, a year younger maybe, framed by the sunshine behind her, halo and proverbial wings present. The joke snapped him out of his melancholy mood, his hunger too.

Her smile was as sweet as marshmallow and warmed milk. Cosy. Her radiance was engulfing, slithering through the cracks of his armour to wrap around his soul. A single star in the vacant sky.

Then, as quick as she appeared, she went. Walking away, taking that warmth and smile with her. He wanted to run after her, ask her a million questions, find out why she had bothered to stop and speak to him, see her face, scent that smell again, bottle her up so he could take her out when times were darkest.

But he was a Ghoul.

A danger. A nightmare. The bogeyman moulded in flesh. A monster. An abomination. Night and day could only meet in twilight and dusk, so, he stayed sat where he was, watching her back grow smaller, curls bouncing... A free bloom floating on the wind, bringing beauty to the few who wandered this earth searching.

NEXT CHAPTER: Mutsuki, Yomo, Tsukiyama, Touka, Uta and Yoshimura.

What's this? Do you know, because I sure as hell don't. XD Honestly, this was dreamed up at 4 am with too much coke and popcorn in my belly, watching a Dr. Phil marathon (Don't you judge me). Do I know where this is going? Mmm, nope, so buckle in, it will be a surprise for all of us! (I know, that's never a good thing to hear from the writer)

Either way, I've had real fun with writing this, which I haven't actually felt while writing in a long time, and I hope you had an equally good time reading the drivel that pops out my mind. I swear, I am sane... Most of the time.

As always, thank you for taking the time out of your day to even glance at this fic's direction. I hope you enjoyed it and please, if you have a spare moment...

Review!

Until next time, stay beautiful!- AlwaysEatTheRude21