ten things you never knew about

Komui Lee

As the first born he was expected to be perfect.

From the day he was old enough to hold his baby sister in his arms and be reprimanded for his actions, he was introduced to the high standards that the simple act of being born Chinese required. (This had prepared him for his roles, later on in life.) For his parents, he had to know how to play all roles, and to play them perfectly. He had to be the genius, the success story, the brother, the caretaker, and—when their parents died—the provider.

Later, when they took her away, his only family (his baby) he had to become even more.

In order to attain his position as Head Supervisor, he had to be the best. Even better than the best. To survive in a field of ruthless competition, he had to endeavor to be even more ruthlessly efficient: he had to beat out hundreds of others for his spot; he had to shoulder responsibilities he never would have dreamed.

Even in his joy at finally, finally being reunited with his little sister, he was aware of the new, daunting weight that bore down on his shoulders. Each day he slumped a little more in his seat, passed out a little earlier, drank a few more cups of caffeine. He soon became very good friends with the cook, Jerry, who had to keep up with his coffee habits.

Komui was twenty years old, but he had just become responsible for thousands, maybe millions of fragile existences. The lives and happiness and welfare of his coworkers and subordinates, all of which were impossible to guarantee. Worse, among those thousands and millions of nameless faces was his sister; Innocence-compatible and doomed, marked for disaster. His decisions were sentences, condemnations. For him to slip up would be catastrophic, cataclysmic.

Eight years later, he never once wavered in his competence, contrary to River's and the majority of the Science Department's firm belief otherwise. Eight years later, despite countless failed Komurins and lingering cases of PTSD among his scientists, fewer coffins filled the Order's mess hall.

1. No matter what anybody said to the contrary, in his own way, Komui defied all expectations.

One of the reasons Jerry was such keen friends with Komui was also one of the most unlikely.

On his first day arriving at the Order, Komui had ordered lunch from one of the newer cooks stationed (Jerry himself, at the time). It was an unremarkable order; jiaozi with a soy-vinegar dipping sauce (extra red chili, please). His slight accent was strange in comparison to the Oxford English spoken by just about everybody there, so it stuck out in Jerry's mind as he prepared the ginger and hurriedly stuffed the dumplings (under the screaming French-tinted authority of the head chef. Yeesh). Several minutes later, he served the man with a beaming smile and a shooing motion of his arms (because hey, there were a lot of people waiting in line) and gave no further thought to him.

Until approximately ten minutes later anyway, when the Chinese man made himself known once more, this time with his white beret lopsided and glasses askew.

"Excuse me. I would like another order, please," the Chinese man said politely, fixing his spectacles. "I got into a slight… accident." He held up his splattered coat and empty dish as proof. Jerry sighed and pushed his sleeves up again.

"Sure thing, hon."

"It was probably for the best," Komui said apologetically as the pink-dreaded cook scuffled away. "The last batch could have used a little more pork, and a lot more garlic."

Jerry stopped in his tracks.

"Oh, excuse me," he huffed, crossing his arms. "I've got thirty other people waiting on me behind you, so sorry if I skimped out on the garlic."

Komui, instead of taking offense at his tone, inexplicably perked up.

"That's alright," he beamed. "I can make some for myself, if you would allow."

Jerry was normally a very cheerful and placid-mannered person. That is, until somebody crossed his cooking.

"Fine," he hissed testily, whirring around and directing the other to the kitchen entrance. "Let's see if you can do any better yourself."

They were delicious. They were plump, and golden, and bursting with tender meat and scallions. Jerry wanted to cry unmanly tears. Instead he and the Chinese man (Komui, so that was his name) ended up excitedly exchanging recipes and life stories (he made these for his little sister all the timeback in China, you see, and what say, so you're little Lenalee's brother).

It was the start of a beautiful relationship.

2. Komui was quite the talented cook.

He never wore any other color.

No matter how Lenalee stomped around and pleaded, Komui's sister-complex never extended to his wardrobe, which was white and bland to say the least.

"Brother," Lenalee would moan, colorful knit sweater in hand. "Nobody wears white on white on white unless they work in a hospital and are trying to blend into the walls."

"Oh my dear, naive Lenalee," would come the sage answer. "The walls here are all gray, you know that. Stone and cement obviously don't match my coat."

"Just because you work as a scientist doesn't mean that's the only color you have to own. Come on, brother, try this nice sweater on…"

He would. And when she would come back an hour later, carrying his afternoon coffee, she would find him in the process of bleaching it white. She would then make some strangling motion in the air before giving up.

Komui had a complex with wearing colors, you see. White was safe. White was monotonous. White always matched.

White was mourning.

White was the color that he turned when he sent others away and received them back home in boxes. White was the color that never stayed, that was always lost when it was splashed with chemicals or stained by blood. White was the color the Chinese wore to receive the dead, which he did so often, he took to dressing that way for convenience.

He saw too much black around the Order for him to feel comfortable. Black may have the Western color of grieving, but because they did not understand his culture, his specific way of paying respects to the dead, he took it upon himself to dress for all of them.

3. Komui was always dressed to remember the fallen.

When he was ten, he was the top of his class in regards to science. In fact, his teachers had to bump him up to Chemistry, while he was still in primary school. As he grew older, he showed even more promise, even drawing the attention of the distinguished foreign programs. This made his parents very proud.

"You'll be a scientist," his father declared. "Always make that your first career choice."

Then his mother had Lenalee and his father changed his tactics.

"Remember, Komui," he said as his son carefully handled the blanket swaddled baby. "Be a good role model for your sister. She is your mirror; whatever you do, she will do. Be a good brother."

"Yes, father."

"Family always comes first, little one. When your mother and I are gone, you will be all the other has."

"I'll remember that, father," Komui promised.

Years later, when his father's prophecy proved truer than either sibling could predict, Komui accepted a mug of coffee from his little sister.

"Thank you Lenalee," he said, beaming. "You're growing into such a thoughtful, fine young lady!"

Lenalee huffed and but blushed nonetheless.

"Thank you, brother," she replied, looking pleased as she turned to leave. "Don't let me interrupt your work."

"Oh please," Komui airily sang, stirring his coffee and haphazardly shoving documents to one side. He could feel River's death glare on his neck as he did so. "Tell me about your day, you just got back from a mission! Come to think of it, I've never seen Morocco before, you have to tell me all about it!"

"Well," she laughed and eagerly started to relay the sights and peculiarities of the region: the food was amazing, just as the mountains were, and there were so many stars and oh, he just had to go see with her—

And he just smiled and ignored his duties and waited for his coffee to grow cold. And eventually the others stopped getting on his case about it, because like River, they all knew it was useless.

3. He would always be a brother first and a scientist second.

Sometimes, when he wanted a word in private, or when she was in deep trouble (or when he just wanted to pull one over on their English speaking comrades), he would speak to Lenalee in Chinese.

Lenalee knew then to cut herself short and hear what her brother had to say; either it was of a serious nature or just too hilariously insulting to be said out loud (the number of times she'd burst out laughing when she and her brother privately spoke made Kanda paranoid to no end).

Sometimes he was stern with her, and used their native tongue as a way of privacy, to spare the others the rare talking-to or grim explanation meant only for her. He made sure to correct her when her wording was rusty, or when she stumbled over a half-forgotten phrase. When he was on the phone for a social call with Bak, he attempted a shaky Cantonese for which Fou always snorted at in the background. When he found himself reading just one too many English documents, he would fling them away, look out the window, and hum to himself distractedly one of the Chinese folksongs his mother had taught him, or the somewhat bawdy nursery rhymes he knew as a child, or a poem that his grandfather had recited, once.

Every Chinese New Year, he could be seen eating moon cakes with Jerry, and slipping his little sister a red envelope.

4. He never wanted to lose his culture.

It was hard, being the one who stayed. The one who waited, the one who received them when they came back, bloodied and exhausted, almost forgetting the hard earned Innocence in their hands. But it was hard sometimes too, when they came back and they weren't too badly beaten up, and their hands drew excited pictures in the air and Allen described with a drooling reverence all the foreign cuisine, and Kanda made a disparaging comment on the climate, and Marie made a distracted remark on how the music he'd heard walking down one of the alleys was so tuneful, so melancholy. When Lenalee and Miranda tiredly (but happily) exchanged short exaltations of the sunset-colored sarongs and luxurious fur capes they'd seen others wear (they were women, after all). When Lavi commented on the women, the women, and Crowley would blush and advert his eyes.

Sometimes, Komui wished he wasn't the one sitting behind the desk, waiting at home, missing out on their grand adventures.

5. He was a little jealous of them, sometimes.

He had a very special relationship with River.

Komui knew when he was supposed to be doing work. River knew when Komui was supposed to be doing work. The entire Science Department knew when Komui was supposed to be doing work, because they could hear River all the way from out here, thank you very much. And yet, whenever Komui passed out and awoke to stabbing sunlight in both his eyes, there was sometimes a pillow under his head, sometimes a folded jacket. Whenever River gave up on consciousness and allowed himself to close his eyes just for a few seconds, he would tell himself, he would wake up with no crick in his neck and sometimes, a blanket settled over his back.

None of the Science Department asked who it was, but none of them had to.

6. He and River both appreciated the rarity of sleep.

Komui loved his straight hair. It spiked when he was in an evil mood, and swung oh so gloriously and he was quite vain of it actually. He'd never appreciated it more than after the Incident. Nobody but Jerry really knew the truth of this, of course. Him, and Johnny, come to think of it.

It was only on one fine day that Johnny, hungry and woozy from sleep deprivation, made his way into the cafeteria, only to halt at the sight of his Supervisor with a towel wrapped around his shoulders and the head Cook holding what looked like a basting brush in his hand. It was dripping bubble-gum pink.

"Uhh." Unsure of how exactly to receive this image, Johnny turned around and started retrieving himself a sandwich. When he came back, Komui's head was being… what the heck, it was being painted… pink. Jerry was humming very happily, as he did so.

No one commented on the strangeness of this scene, so Johnny took it upon himself to.

"Uhm, Supervisor?"

"Yeeees?" Komui sang.

"Why exactly are you…?"

"Oh, I just felt like a change."

"I… see," was the strained reply.

"Mmmhm," Jerry hummed, smacking his brush into some more dye. "Ol' Komui here wanted to try taking a gander at these luscious locks of mine, so I said, 'Why not' and he said 'I wanna try the dreads too' and I said 'Sure thing' and half an hour later, here we are. Balayage highlights are tricky, so if you don't mind, hon…"

"…Oh," Johnny said, for lack of anything to say. (Clearly, there was nothing better to say.) "I'll leave you to it then."

They turned out dreadful, as predicted. The color washed out, mercifully, but the chemicals had somehow left Komui's hair all curly and kinky from the braids. For a week, his hair poofed out on either side like a clown's wig, still somewhat threaded with faint hints of pink. On top of this monstrosity, Komui had very proudly perched his beret, as if nothing were the matter, and pretended to love his new hairdo.

Everybody took him even less seriously than usual.

Lenalee couldn't look him in the face for months without laughing.

Bak had to hang up on him when the video log came through to save him from hearing his hysterical guffaws.

Kanda even laughed.

7. Komui looked terrible in curly hair.

It was always a mystery to Allen how and why Komui's beret managed to stay on his head all four seasons of the year. The man never took it off. Sure, it looked nice, and okay, maybe it was sort of his thing, just like Lavi's eyepatch and Johnny's swirly glasses. It was only after Levierrer arrived and Allen came back on missions more and more beat up, that he noticed one day, after a briefing, that Komui had gray hairs peeking out from under his hat. The sight made him stop and stare mutely. Komui noticed the boy pause by the doorway, blood still dripping onto his tiles. He gave Allen a weary smile, and for the first time, Allen noticed how Komui's eyes were starting to resemble Bookman's.

"Are you alright there, Allen?" he asked, cheerfully as ever.

"I'm… fine, Komui," was all Allen managed to answer. "Thank you," he added. "For asking, that is."

"It's nothing, Allen, nothing," Komui sang, and waved him out the door. "Maybe I'll have to make another Komurin Luxury Stress-Relief model for you, eh?"

As Allen closed the door behind himself, it occurred to him for the first time that Komui was only twenty eight years old.

8. He wore a beret to hide the worst of his stress.

Maybe it was his sick, twisted way of letting off steam, Kanda thought, as he ran for his life down the suddenly empty corridors, the pounding sound of metal feet inches behind him. Or maybe, he thought, as his leg was snatched up by the Fifty Seventh Komurin model, and Lavi yelled frantically for River to hurry up with that bazooka, Komui was just a goddamn imbecilic bastard who had too much time on his hands.

9. Komui found creating monstrous killer Komurins very therapeutic.

He hated always being the bearer of bad news.

He hated being the one who always had to deal directly with Levierrer and Central, the one who always had to end up carrying out their orders, no matter how hard he argued. He hated being the one who caused Lenalee's face to scrunch up like that, for Allen's head to hang so wearily on his shoulders, for Kanda to avoid his face entirely. He hated Cross Marian's derisive snort when he passed decisions that he himself didn't agree with.

He hated being the one who had to hold that thick Latin Bible open to Funerals, and to read to an assembly of people all dressed in black; all standing (kneeling, crying) next to row after row of stately white coffins. People he'd sent, decisions he'd made. Lives he'd ended.

He hated being able to laugh it off the next day, being able to resume his role as the goofy, screwball superior; because if he couldn't laugh after that, then who could?

He hated not being able to cry.

Not in front of them, because God, if he cried, then they would cry, and he could not allow himself to let them lose hope.

When Kanda gave Allen hell for his fake smile and false optimism, Komui forgave him for it, because he did it too.

10. He hated his job, but he was the only one he could trust to do it right.

A/N:

Whaaaat? An update?

Yeah. Read and review :)

I don't know why I made Komui's so angsty, but its good to see
this side of him. Since it's, you know, so hard to take him seriously.

Oh and explanations:

jiaozi = a sort of potsticker, think dim sum or dumplings

PTSD = Post Traumatic Stress Disorder

and yes, Balayage is a real technique for highlighting hair.

And I just noticed that I wrote two number 3's. Oh well.

Thanks for reading!