Author’s Note: All right, usual disclaimers here. Do not own Witch Hunter Robin, nor do I own the song “Gunner.” The latter is property of Denali, and the former is a creation of Sunrise... at least that’s what I think. Anyway, it’s not mine. A more thorough A.N. and tribute/description will be supplied at the end of the fic, so ... stay tuned if you’re into that sort of dribble.

Her breathing was labored, each inhale shaking the bones of her delicate, wispy frame akin to a leaf during a frightful gale. Her need for air couldn’t keep up with the sobs that expanded her chest like an unraveling fist, the pain she felt akin to a finger piercing raw, tender flesh, the precious oxygen barely filling her lungs before she craved more. The fist’s constant motion, fingers closing and then stretching outward, kept in time with her frantic heartbeat, which was currently imitating a flawless rendition of a hummingbird’s wing as it made her slightly protruding chest quiver and drop. It was as if she were racing in a marathon, or a bird shot down mid-flight whose wings still fluttered desperately, trying to lift itself off the ground and back into the sky. Clad in her high-collared, stately black dress that covered her svelte frame, her entire body trembled as she forced air through her aching teeth that were clenched as tightly as the muscles in her bruised arms and chest, her entire body rigid with fear. Her eyes strained through tears and blood to make out the pointed roof above her, its wooden beams as distant and unyielding as the stone saints that lined the curved windows alongside her, and fleetingly she jerked her head to the left in hopes of willing the faces of Saint Francis, Anthony or Luke to shift into better focus for the last seconds of consciousness that remained in her possession. A squeak emitted from her taut larynx; and along with that a squirt of blood that seeped around her incisors and dribbled down her chin, staining her puckered and injured flesh a shock of scarlet. The sound was so pitiful to her own ears she couldn’t imagine what it must sound like to them. The idea brought a fresh wave of tears that blurred her vision and inspired only more peals of anguished pain, her voice, which barely raised itself above a steady murmur, cracking and quaking much like its owner.

A single word could be made out from her hushed weeping and animalistic wails. It echoed in the otherwise silent church and ricocheted back into the delicate spiral of her ears moments after it fell from her lips.

“…Naze?”

It came out like spittle launched from a vindictive mouth, the word hanging in the air like a victim from the gallows. Sputtering pathetically she urged her lips to continue forming the word that slammed against her throat and pounded on her tongue in a mimic of her wounds. Tears leaked down her cheeks and sliced through grime and dried crimson as she cried out, “Naze, Amon?!”

Summoned by her exclamation, the sound of heavy, authoritarian boots clomped their way towards the battered, tawny-mane young woman, sending ripples through her supine body that quivered on the church floor. The steady beats almost quelled her frantic heart, lulling it to the pace of his footsteps momentarily, until the knowledge of just what it meant to have him drawn near dawned on her. Immediately she began to weep again, the helplessness of her situation settling in between the pause of his strides and pressing down on her like the hands of God, keeping her on her back and forcing her to bear this intolerable pain.

Shivering from the chill of frailty she muttered a prayer she had memorized at a young age, scrounging u p in times of desperation and great need. Under her breath she recited a Hail Mary faster than her tongue or chattering teeth could keep up with, all the while repeating her unanswered question of: “Naze?”

Added weight to the boards under her and the shriek of timber alerted Robin to the distance Amon had cleared rather quickly; she was surprised to find him so near, having settled himself less than a foot from her body, and flinched blatantly as the toes of his boots prodded her arms and torso as gently as his brusque manner would allow. Another loud creak and rustle of clothing and Robin could feel the heat of his body hovering over her, his breathing steady and unaffected by the gruesome display lying before him. His cruelty made the tears, cuts and bruises that decorated her body sting like venom, as if he were a lumbering Black Mamba that poured its noxious fluids down her throat and smeared over her body, and she let out one last keen of despair before Amon’s droning voice broke his silence.

“Does this surprise you, Robin?” The tone of his voice, as always, was difficult to place. Emotion was drained from his words and face like water seeping down a drain, leaving the mysterious Hunter in a world of black and white tints. When Robin shut her eyes to squeeze out the last of her tears she felt a tickle of cold leather against her cheek, a gesture similar to a lover wiping away the grief of their beloved, and the thermal contrast jolted her eyes back open and riveted her attention entirely on Amon.

An Amon drained of color, with a matching monochrome background.

She would have blinked to test her sight but didn’t dare to break her hold on Amon’s gaze. Fierce and stoic he may be, there was something oddly delicate about meeting his eyes like this.

“There is...”

“Hmm?” Amon’s eyebrows creased dubiously, an inquisitive expression that didn’t expand to this other features spread across his face. He withdrew his hand and quickly glanced at his fingers, rubbing blood between his thumb and first finger idly, his movements clearly not something intentional as his mind was elsewhere. “What did you say?”

“There is no color here.” Her chest heaved a wrenching choke as she writhed and twisted her head away from him, wanting desperately to crawl to the feet of the cross and beg for mercy, casting her faith before her like a beacon in the dark. The diversion of life in monochrome was a brief one at best, and it was only a matter of seconds before Robin’s mind hurled her back into reality, into the leaden facts of her situation. Her limbs wouldn’t respond to the commands she gave them, and she just barely managed to lift her head off the floor to gaze down the aisle at the stern faces of Karasuma, Sakaki and Doujima—

When suddenly, a phone rang.

Robin fixed her eyes on Doujima, noticing the slightest shift in her posture as she reacted to the interruption and surmising that it was she who was trying to be reached. Robin was amazed at how effortless the young woman made it to stare down a friend and erase any traces of sympathy or compassion, all the while fidgeting in her pocket for her trilling cell phone as if this sort of thing happened every day. With a confirming chirp the in coming call was silenced, and Doujima’s hand emerged from her pocket, her face failing to register concern for Robin’s apparent wounds. Sakaki and Karasuma had likewise absent expressions on their faces.

Quicker than Robin could detect with her eyes, Amon flattened his palm against her forehead and twined his fingers into her scalp, forcing her head back onto the floor with a thus that rippled through her skull and jostled her teeth. She hunched her shoulders and yelped, spit mingled with blood oozing out of the corner of her mouth and staining her chin as she suppressed another wave of sobs.

“What… about com-comrade’s… trust?” She whispered, wincing under her growing migraine and Amon’s sturdy hand that pulled at her hair.

“Asking questions you would rather not know the answers to may lead to trouble.”

Again she felt the press of icy leather against her face, more specifically against the bleeding sore her right cheek had become after the assault of Sakaki’s fist and Karasuma’s backhand. Robin was still mentally and physically reeling from that pain along with the pressure building up at the uppermost portion of her skull, a force that curled down to her temple and alongside her jaw and her focus on it only intensified as Amon’s fingers applied deceptively gentle pressure to her swollen face. She whimpered and jerked her head away from his hand, her pain instilling a sense of determination in the delicate witch, determination which spread to revulsion. The expression had no right to mar her perennially calm visage that had become her trademark, and yet she made no effort to wipe the ire from her face. A fire pulsed in her narrowed emerald globes that moved throughout her entire body, flaring senses to life to structure strength she wasn’t aware that she had. I can burn them before they have a chance to attack again, she internally hissed, focusing her concentration on the trio farthest away from her…

No, I can’t.

Apparently Amon agreed with this thought for he quickly withdrew his gun and pressed its barrel against her forehead, the muscles of his own locking into a poker face. She gasped and the loathing and odious napalm soon melted away, usurped once more by her blind terror of Amon and the damage he could inflict upon her. Oddly enough he wasn’t looking at her, his storm eyes focused on the crucifix on the back wall in mild curiosity.

“Absolute power corrupts absolutely, Robin. Didn’t you know? Your kind can barely take hold of the Craft they’re charged with and fall into disarray quite easily. And thus a friend, a comrade, becomes… a threat.

“And, Robin, when a Craft User becomes a threat… she becomes the Hunted. After that, it’s only a matter of time before she’s captured and indisposed.” He paused and glanced down at her to make sure she was paying attention. “Oi, kiddo,” He nudged his gun against her temple, causing her to flinch and whimper. “Are you listening? This is something you might be interested in.”

With that same unconcerned mask of discipline and irritated passivity, Amon dug a small, golden bullet from a pocket of his trench coat, drawing his gun back a few inches to load the ammunition into his Revolver. Sliding his finger over the release a set of six-notches disconnected from the gun and turned out, staring down at Robin’s wide, petrified stare in front of which he proceeded to load the single bullet into one of the chambers. In a mixture of awe and terror she paid attention to the elegant way he inserted the bullet, using the same hand to spin the chamber before he wrenched his hand and flicked the five empty (and one full) notches out of sight, assembling his Revolver in seconds.

Fixing her with a steady look that neither one was determined to break first Amon rose to his full height and loomed over her, his body rigid and movements uncertain as if there were invisible strings guiding him in direction and mannerisms he’d rather not go or express, yet he was powerless to stop it. He slowly lifted his Revolver (a strangely archaic weapon that Robin idly puzzled over) and leveled it with her forehead, the waver of his hand slipping the aim to the bridge of her nose or the line of her scalp. With an audible intake of air Amon focused his direction precisely at her brow.

They continued to stare each other down, Robin’s eyes glistening with tears of fury and frustration, her lips slightly parted in a dumbstruck, incredulous manner that stretched the chapped skin mercilessly. Fresh blood seeped from her new wounds but she paid it no mind. The threat of a gun in one’s face has that effect on people.

“Amon,” she whispered.

Amon’s thumb arched and pulled back the hammer, waiting for the secure lock before flexing his first finger that was poised against the trigger menacingly. He had no reaction to hearing his name, or if he did he chose not to reveal it. “I’ll get you before you get me,” He stated flatly.

He pulled the trigger.

The chamber clanked once, an empty one, and twisted to the next. Robin could barely believe it, but she quickly pieced together just what he was reenacting. A mandatory Russian Roulette, cruel and horribly clever, was maddening  for one reason and one reason only: the simple truth that you hadn’t the vaguest idea just what chamber was loaded, you couldn’t be sure what second was your last, and so you wasted them all worrying over when it would be. Robin watched in morbid fascination as Amon drew back the hammer again, locking it into place.

She said nothing. Words could no longer affect him, they had the same impact as tears or pleas—he was severed from it all. The truth itself was a wound that paralyzed her heart, yet she supposed if she had to choose she’d rather he be merciless with her than shielding whatever emotions he possessed. I’d rather he not care at all then pretend that he didn’t.

“I’ll get you before you get me,”

He pulled the trigger.

Robin flinched, remembering the initial hit that had started it all: how she’d risen from her place in the pew and turned down the aisle to find a hollow Karasuma barring her path. Before she could speak to question the older woman’s motives, Robin’s face exploded with pain as a swift punch sent her reeling a few paces back—straight into Sakaki who greeted her less-than-warmly by planting his heel into her gut and launching her backwards into Doujima. Amon stood at the double doors to the church, watching as Robin was volleyed back and forth like a doll between unruly children, making no move to stop the assault or join in.

Again, the chamber was empty.

Immediately Robin’s composure faltered as she broke down into wails that put her previous ones to shame, pleading with God, the Holy Mother, Saint Agatha and all her amputated, incinerated martyred glory for mercy, likewise thanking them for prolonging, however temporarily, her life. She shook her head side to side and called out for the parents she had never known, begging that they take pity on her and protect her somehow, praying to their spirits to oversee that the last minutes of their child’s life were not ones of torture. Again she recited the Hail Mary, the words slurring together and becoming a single, drawn out sentence.

At this Amon couldn’t help but smirk. “A merciful God would have let the first shot be the last. Why thank Who’s responsible for your extended suffering?”

Not bothering to wait for an answer he dragged his thumb along the hammer, locking it in. His eyes glowed viciously as he whispered, “I’ll get you before you get me,” and pulled the trigger.

Empty. Robin would have screamed if she had the lung capacity to do so. Instead she remembered the cunning use Doujima had made of the incense burner during their brutal three-ring-circus brawl with Robin as a centerpiece, slipping the chain over Robin’s head and criss-crossing it at the nape of her neck, forcing it down hard. Robin could recall the raspy, fervent gurgle as she clawed desperately at the chain around her throat, struggling against Doujima’s surprising strength. In the panic the girls caused, the lid of the burner had come loose and a torrent of scalding oil poured down Robin’s back, her screams of agony hampered by the chain and its pressure against her.

Quickly she was discarded back to Karasuma who welcomed her with a vicious backhand that shattered her nose, causing a stream of blood streaked down her chin and splattered the aisle in scarlet tears. It was difficult to tell from which direction the attacks came from after that, the Hunters sharing a single purpose and thus a single action, to remember all of them would be useless since she couldn’t put a name or a face to the assaults she suffered. She knew one thing for certain: Amon had not taken part in it, hadn’t even touched her until she was thrown backwards onto the dais by Doujima’s heel, having taken the acquired beating without protest and now left to the mercy of the STN-J’s janitor. Always cleaning up their messes, Robin thought bitterly, watching as Amon locked the hammer into place and aimed the gun at her furrowed brow. The wait for a loaded chamber was driving her insane, torn between wanting it to be over and wanting to live, resigned to her fate and committed to her life. Her face swelled and was stained with tears, cuts that had slowed their own weeping split open again, and strands of her hay-colored hair clung to her skin, glued to the surface. She looked like a wretch, an abhorred blemish on the face of the Lord God’s sanctuary. Her body oozed with regret and sorrow, ashamed of her existence and the treason she had unwillingly committed against God. Forcing her tears and pleas down her throat she closed her eyes and held her breath.

A flare of something moist splattered against her face in time with an empty click, the former taking her by surprise and eliciting both a flinch and a quick gasp. Immediately her mind launched onto the most gruesome of possibilities—that it was blood dripping down from an unknown wound on Amon’s body, that he’d spat on her in disgust—before it stumbled over another, less distasteful, idea:

A tear.

Her eyes sprang open just in time to see Amon bow his head, strands of his coal mane obscuring the expression on his face, but there was no hiding the tears that ran down his clenched jaw. Quick he pulled back the hammer and set his finger on the trigger one more time.

“So I see—” Robin began.

As the final trill in the word ‘see’ escaped into the church a burst of expanding gases and discharged metal up-heaved her gentle voice, followed by a bullet lodging itself into her forehead and splattering blood around her face in a sanguine halo. The shot was final and cut off whatever it is she had hoped to say, her body falling slack and frightfully still at Amon’s feet.

A lone tear followed soon after.

Robin jolted herself awake, her body rigid with terror and trembling furiously. An abrupt cry of pain and shock burst from her pale lips as she glanced wildly around her, still caught in the nightmare and expecting the line of pews and solemn, apathetic Hunters and saints to greet her. Instead she found herself in the passenger seat of Amon’s car with the seatbelt twisted around her, cutting painfully into her neck. A stain of rouge crept into her face as she realised her mistake and instantly regretted it, her body relaxing into the seat and drawing the tension out of her limbs. To further her humiliation Amon was sitting motionless behind the wheel to Robin’s left, his tempests’ eyes focused on Robin through a rift in his hair. He said nothing.

Her blush deepened as she pursed her lips and turned to gaze out the window at the spray of stars in the sky, all too aware of the steady pair of eyes that hadn’t moved from her face and expected an answer to his unspoken question.

“How long was I asleep?” she asked meekly, nervous of the answer.

He paused, glancing at the digital clock to witness its transformation into 8:43. “Twenty minutes, give or take.” He replied.

“And you didn’t wake me?” They had been investigating the patterns of a suspected Witch for days now, waiting for a certain sign of his guilt before instigating the Hunt. It had been a tiring task which involved more sitting and observing than Robin cared for, and her utter lack of motion and excitement tended to lure her into lethargy more easily these days. She assumed that falling asleep on a stake out was unforgivable by Amon’s standards, considering that it meant letting your guard down, but she was more concerned with how immature it had made her look. Robin winced and quickly corrected herself. “Nevermind, I’m sorry.”

It was another full minute before Amon made any movement at all, returning his cell phone to his coat pocket and wrapping his fingers around the ignition key. With a twist the engine flared to life. The sudden noise startled her into remembering her dream, the final gunshot ringing in her ears like peals of church bells. In the reflection cast onto the window Amon stole a quick glance at Robin’s slack figure, wondering just what it was she had dreamt that made her so distressed before he turned back to the front and began to drive in the general direction of Robin’s apartment, suppressing his curiosity by forcing it down into his mind. If she chose to do so, she’d tell him about it on the way.

The moment that Amon’s eyes fell away from Robin, hers lifted to stare at the faint image of him in the glass as she recalled his tear against her face and the image of the bullet hurling towards her brow in a deadly spiral. If she sat still long enough she imagined she could feel it there still, drilling into her skin and sliding through her brain before it exited the back of her skull. Shivering she wrapped her arms around herself and hunched her shoulders protectively, closing her eyes and whispering the Hail Mary under her breath.

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed are thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for our sinners, now and at the hour of our death.”

“Amen,” Amon whispered, unbeknownst to Robin.

Denali – Gunner
There is no color here
I’ll wait one more minute for you
I suppose I might leave
‘cause I can see
‘cause I can see him
I see my killer

My shadow has disappeared
And so has my ghost
I’m still waiting
I’ll get you before you get me
I suppose I might leave
‘cause I can see
‘cause I can see him
I see my killer

So many people aren’t here
But I know I was meant for you
You’ll get me before I get you:
So I see—

First things first: inspiration. Quentin Tarantino’s film Kill Bill Vol. 1 played a huge role in the scenes and ideas from this fic—the black and white ‘monochrome’, the church setting, the attack, the way Amon touches her face (á la Bill wiping blood of the Bride’s face), heck even the way Amon walked over to Robin. If you want to know what I’m talking about just see the movie and you’re questions will be put to rest rather easily. Also, for those of you who’ve seen both films and know The Bride’s last name, did you spot the subtle mention of it in the story? =) Hopefully someone did, if not I’ll just say it here anyway. “Oi, kiddo.” (said by Amon). Bill says “kiddo” a few times during the opening scene of Kill Bill Vol. 1, and it isn’t until in the second installment do we learn that it’s part of the Bride’s name. What else did I chuck in here that’s Kill Bill in feel? Robin’s hair being referred to as “hay colored” (the sheriff used the words to describe the Bride as he was overlooking her body), and the comparison of Amon to a Black Mamba (that’s the Bride’s DiVAS code name). I may have forgotten something.. hmm.

If you would like to hear the song, just visit , they have the mp3 for grabs over there. I recommend that you do get it, it’s a beautiful song. Truly gorgeous, I must say. The idea of making it a dream was thought of from the beginning—once I heard the song I knew that I wanted to make something out of it using Amon and Robin, since I just finished the series and wanted to try and pay a small tribute to its honor. The name of the song stood out to me the most—gunner. Immediately I thought of Amon and almost drooled at the prospect of making a fic that including him and incorporated such a sad, emotional song. Also am I the only one that noticed that Robin’s dreams/visions in the series are prophetic? She has some hint of a Second Sight but I don’t think anyone else called attention to it. That disappoints me a little bit... and while I’m not saying anything is for sure, lets just stick with the vague testament that hey, if she can see the future, why can’t she dream about it? =}

As for why Robin is being attacked… well... uh, she is a Witch and all. This fic was set following the episode where she meets Methuselah and realizes what she is. Of course the girl’s going to have some troubles adjusting to this new burden of information and what more horrible of a way to have it expressed then in a dream where your friends kill you? I don’t like the idea of Robin being beaten up any more than the next person, but hey… it’s just a story.

Why is Amon saying “I’ll get you before you get me”? This here is a spoiler, so don’t say I didn’t warn you: He’s a Seed, and he’s terrified of when his powers will awaken. His mother let her powers take control of her, as was (almost) the same with Kate. Therefore he’s afraid of Witches on one level or another and of their powers. Saying “I’ll get you before you get me” to Robin isn’t necessarily a jibe at her, its moreso directed at what she is: a Witch. He’ll get the Witch/kill the power before it gets/kills him. Understand?

Also, correct me if I’m wrong, but naze means why, yes? In Japanese, that is. If this is wrong please tell me so in the review and then tell me what the correct word is. I’d appreciate it.