DISCLAIMER: Gravitation is the property of Maki Murakami. This story is merely a work of fanfiction, and will not be distributed for profit.

SECOND DISCLAIMER: Gravitation is a work of shounen-ai, and due to this, this story will contain aspects of homosexual or bisexual relationships. If this offends you, please do not read the story.

------------------- Brilliant Eidolon --------------------


Chapter 1: The Lampyridae


"He was such a nice boy."

That's what they'll say about me. That's what they always say, isn't it, when a terrible secret is finally discovered? "He was such a nice boy. You never would have known. So pleasant as a child. So eager to please. What could have made such a lovely young man into such a monster?"

What, indeed?

This view of me is eidolon, the phantasm of reality. This is only what a person's mind sees. The ideal which we -wish- to view is reflected within faulty ocular globes which filter away the truth. This is eidolon, as spoken by Plato, the soulless physical body, without moral or ethic, detached from God.

This is the lie we prefer to see.

In most cases, I placate myself by recalling that the lie hurts less.

Much, much, less.

When I think about myself, I try to remember that there are, actually, some parts of myself which are not lies.

One. I was born Uesugi Eiri, and to that end, I am still, in some part, Uesugi Eiri, related to those who share my blood. I have heard many say that the bond to one's family is stronger than steel, more intricate than sakura. The people who tell me such things are very old, and in definite danger of being accused of senility. Usually, in fact, by me.

Two. I am, truly, a passable novelist, more by my own inner talent than by training. It is in this endeavor that I usually take solace in knowing that I can actually delight others, rather than seek to destroy them. Though, I must admit, sometimes it is exceptionally hard for me to remember the difference between the two.

Three. I'm living with a complete idiot named Shindou Shuichi.

I wish I wasn't, You don't understand how much I wish I wasn't. I'm such a hypocrite. Such a disgusting hypocrite.

I just hope to hell he never figures it all out.


"You should get a gun. You know, just to be on the safe side."

It's always about this point in our conversation that Seguchi brings up guns. I gaze out the window of his office, watching the clouds float past, carefree. I hate clouds. I hate pretty much anything that reminds me of angels, the heavens, or divinity.

"You wouldn't have to use it. Just..." He strums his fingernails on the desk, smiling sadly, looking at me the same way he always looks at me. Like he's sorry for me. He's sorry. I'm sorry. We're all so fucking sorry around here.

"I'm retired," I reply, ashing my cigarette. He hates it when I smoke. I hate it when he smiles. I guess we're even.

"It doesn't have anything to do with that. You could be attacked. I would be exceptionally relieved if you would exhibit more self-preservation, Eiri-kun." Tohma turns around in his desk chair and stares at the clouds, as well. How...pleasant of us, to watch the sky together. May the clouds part. May the sun peek through and illuminate the city. May the gods see us and strike us dead. "Besides, you told me you were retired last week, and the week before that.

I say nothing. We always have the same conversation. I even know what he's going to ask next.

"How is Shindou-san?"

If words could be made of acid, that question would eat through iron. I think the answer he's expecting is either "Dead" or "Disappeared".

"Do you really care?"

"It's not good for you, and it's not good for him."

"Good? Bad? Morals are a farce. People who embrace them are clinging to the foolish hope of spiritual redemption." Is this over yet? I want to go home. In my home, I can pretend the ugly world beyond my front door has dissolved into nothingness. Humanity is revolting, and every interaction with it assaults me like a war upon my senses, chinking away at the armor I wear, threatening to find a vulnerable spot.

"You know what I mean," Seguchi says, looking back at me over his shoulder. He's ever-so-concerned for me. My savior. My jailer. I'm his little bird in a golden cage. A fragile songbird whose notes form a requiem for the listener. Is he protecting me from the world? Or is he protecting the world from me?

"I know what you mean," I repeat. How can I not? He has such a hypnotic voice. The man could talk a child into murder.

I chuckle inwardly. It's good that I can amuse myself.

I pick the envelope up off his desk and leave. Seguchi doesn't expect me to say 'goodbye'. Oh yes, we're quite past such pleasantries.

This place annoys me. A building full of people, so self-important, so glowing with enthusiasm, so fucking pretty. Sometimes, in my more capricious moods, I stand outside of buildings just like this one, all over Tokyo, and imagine what they would look like, sound like, smell like, if reduced to rubble by some terrible calamity. Mental deconstructionism is a terribly engrossing habit. I indulge in it almost as often as I smoke.

There's about a million fucking halls going in a million fucking directions. Pretentious art. Luminescent linoleum floors. I memorize every detail. I can't help it. Even if I wanted to stop, I couldn't..

Rule number one for writers and murderers: Scrutinize every detail of your surroundings. This will make for interesting filler in a novel someday. And it will keep you alert to possible dangers.

Behind doors, within rooms, I can hear songs. I...

I am reminded how music is magical. Two parts sorcery, one part esoteric science. Those who practice it are dangerous mystics to be feared. They know spells to open secret doors into the heart. And, if they fail to open a willing door, they'll pierce it with bewitched bullets.

Damn them. Damn him. Damn....


I look at the water fountain to my left. Is it leaking or something...?

Oh fuck. Fuck.

The head of that damnable pink toy peeks around the side of the fountain, followed by the head of that damnable singer.

And by singer, I mean 'ridiculous shinobi'. Hiding in plain view, my ass. Well, no, I guess it works for him. He is, in fact, probably the most adept intelligence agent I've ever seen. Because he acts so stupid, people tend to just forget he can actually hear what they are saying...

When they even see him at all.

"What do -you- want?"

"Now, see, that's not nice at all, is it Kumagoro? Don't begin to behave like that traitor, or no one will like you ever, na no da."

Argh. I wish I hadn't left home today. I should pick him up by his scrawny little neck, but I think I'd only have a sixty percent chance of coming out of that battle alive. He's smiling at me, sure, but it isn't the same sort of pitying smile as Seguchi. Oh no. The wickedness behind his smirk can't be missed.

"You're still alive, aren't you, Sakuma?"

"I hate you," he says, suddenly serious, slipping out of his hiding place like a serpent in search of prey. I swear the man has bones (and a face) made of rubber. "You know that, right?"

"I don't care." I try to slip past him, but he's suddenly in front of me. He's staring at the floor, his brown hair flopping erratically into his face. No matter how I move, I know he'll mirror it. Left. Right. No use.

Damn ninjas.

"What do you want, Sakuma? Spit it out."

"Psssssssst, Michael." He leans in close to me, motioning with one crooked finger that he wants to whisper something in my ear. I bend down only a few centimeters, reveling in the fact that, at least, I'm still taller than him. "Lampyridae is coming for Shuichi."

My vision goes momentarily black as I begin to panic. No. Hold it in, Eiri. Raphael could just be fucking with you. Yeah. It's has to be one of his sick jokes. It...

I look into his blue eyes, trying to find mirth, or at least mischief. None. None. FUCK!

Now, -now-, I catch the little bastard by his upper arms. He tries not to wince as my fingers dig into him. I'm about ready to snap his arms off and beat him with them. "Where did you hear that? Where?"

He just glares at me, trying to incinerate me with his eyes, trying to burn me with his stare. I let up a bit on my grip, and he squirms the rest of the way out. He hates me. A lot. So, the only reason he'd tell me this would be as a favor to Shuichi. To protect Shuichi. I see. So, the ninja does have a heart, after all.

"What else do you know?"

"They've sent Lucy."

Fuck. "You better not be lying to me."

"Hmmmmmm," he coos, slinking away, disappearing from sight by turning a corner. Nonetheless, his voices floats back at me from the opposite direction than he left. Voice throwing. I forgot that he particularly likes showing off that skill. "Why would -I- betray -you-, Michael? Come on Kumagoro. Let's go look up the word 'fraud' in the dictionary, ne?"

He never lets go of a grudge, does he?

Then again, I never let go of just about...anything.

I hate this world. I hate humanity. The squalid scent of flesh. The insipid chatter. The self-important dance of society, fucking itself like some sort of depraved hermaphrodite. The loathsome shells we are forced to wear, trivial containers for nothingness, our carapaces. I want to shed myself. But, beyond eidolon, for a man of no morals, waits only the monster without a chance at redemption.

I hate this world.

I hate myself.

But Shuichi...

I...am a lie clinging to a phantasm.

And Lucy wants destroy my last hope.


Although I am in a state of near panic, I do manage to keep myself from going to the Bad Luck recording room and dragging Shuichi out by his hair. That would be...suspicious. Besides, Lucy would never come to NG. A third of the people here secretly belong to Exile. There really isn't any safer place for Shuichi to be.

And Gabriel...

I wonder if Gabriel still hates me, too. Not that I care, really. No. He's not the type to hold grudges. That might come in handy if for some reason I need backup. Not that I ever have before, but...

Still, it is good to know.

I wonder if I should tell Seguchi. No. His reaction would be off the scale. Not because of the danger to Shuichi, but because of the danger to me.

Sometimes I wonder why he even signed Bad Luck at all, if he has such an aversion to the boy...

Oh right. He's ever the consummate businessman.

I make my way to the garage. Shuichi is getting a ride home from Nakano, as per usual. Good. Good. When he gets home I...

What am I going to do?


Lampyridae. Family of Fireflies. Light-bringers in the night.

What's your game this time, Lucy? Vengeance? Have you finally decided to get your revenge for what I did? Cruelty? Or is this just sport? Are you bored? Is it getting to easy for you?

No. It was always too easy for you.



I didn't lie when I told Shuichi that I didn't want to kill anyone, that I didn't want to kill again. I don't. I truly don't, you have to believe me.

And yet, as I sit here now, shaded by the dark tinting on the windows of my car, flipping through the pictures in the envelope Seguchi gave me, it all comes back to me. The complete shame of having to live with being degraded so thoroughly... The horror of being violated... Being betrayed, truly betrayed by someone who you trust. Afterwards, you can never trust again. You become a ghost, a phantasm walking through a world rife with hideous beings encased in flesh, afraid of everything.

This girl, in these pictures, she can't be more than twelve or thirteen. And the man, this bloated asshole on top of her...in his forties...

In one picture I can see her hand, her fingers spread, covering her face. In the next, he's taken her wrist and pinned it against the pillow. So he can watch her scream, so he can enjoy her sobs...

By the last picture, her naked calf, her tiny foot, hangs over the side of the bed. Limp. She's entirely limp. She's given up on fighting. She's not even crying anymore. Just staring into indeterminate space, her eyes glazed over, too shocked to flee.

She's so young. So...tiny. Smaller even than Shuichi.

It's a few moments before I realize that my fingers are at my lips, crushing against them bruisingly to keep any sound from escaping. Unwanted emotions must be held inside, sometimes by force. Showing emotion, even hidden here in this car, will expose weakness. Every emotion is another tiny mouse hole, another opening for someone to slither their way inside of me.

I, like this girl, will never trust anyone. Ever again. Trust brings nothing but pain. I've never known it to bring anything but pain.

I have walls. Strong walls built over many, many years. No one will ever see the parts of me I've sequestered away for protection.

This girl...will never be able to be innocent. Her first true kiss will be laced with fear and remorse. Every time she wants to love, she'll hear a voice in the back of her head asking, 'Can you truly trust that this person won't hurt you?' She will come to abhor love, and everything associated with it. Though she wants it like the parched desert wants water, in the end, she will turn her back on humanity.

She, too, will build walls. Walls to keep her safe. Walls that imprison her emotions. She will become a captive within her own body.

She will become...an Exile.

I stuff the pictures back into envelope so roughly that I end up with a paper-cut on the fleshy divot between my thumb and forefinger. But the blood...the blood barely even reaches the surface before I put it to my mouth and press my tongue against the wound, trying to seal it closed with saliva.

Things keep trying to leak out of me.

I must be ever-vigilant to keep the world at bay.

Seguchi knows me all too well. He knows us all. I don't want to be a murderer, an assassin. But, how can I sleep with that girl's face staring at me? I'm in danger of feeling...too much.

I could choke on the taste of blood in my mouth.

Bite your cheek, Eiri. Bite your hand.

Anything to hold back the tide...

The rapids are threatening to break the dam...

And destroy me in a river of blood.


By my stopwatch, it takes me only fifty seven minutes and twenty six seconds.

I click the small button, ending the ticking, stopping time. The watch falls from my hand, making a soft "thuft" noise as it comes to rest on the hotel bed. I sit at the foot, looking at the mirror over the dresser, watching my reflection watch me.

I don't feel anything. Nothing. Just nothing. Even when I see my reflection. Even though I look like...

I look like sensei.

I reach up to gingerly touch the brown wig on my head. It's so...lifeless. Not like his hair at all. I touched it once. I told him there was a bug in his hair, but there wasn't. I just wanted to touch his hair. It's horrible to want, to desire...someone. The heroines, in my novels, they always revel in love. They enjoy it. But, no matter how I write it, I can never make myself believe that love doesn't involve anything but blinding pain.

I look just like sensei...with this wig...these contacts. My skin is the same light tone, my lips are just as pale. I've performed some sort of magic, and caused a dead man to rise from his grave.

What am I doing? Am I trying to force him to atone for his sins? Every time I... I'm trying to make him apologize.

Am I sick? Yes. This is such a strange sickness. I can't recognize my face, even though I'm looking at it. Why do I have to become him in this way?

Shuichi is right. I'm fucked up. Is this a certain kind of insanity? I don't even know.

And I just don't know how to stop.

But, I feel nothing now. My entire body is numb. My hands move independently of my mind, slipping off the wig, popping out the contacts. I've successfully fended off yet another attack of that rising tide. I've...removed another monster from the world.

But sensei...you weren't a monster, were you?

I unbutton my shirt, barely able to feel the cold plastic between my fingertips. There's a little blood on the cuff of the right sleeve. I wad the fabric up in my hands and toss it against the wall, never letting my eyes leave the mirror. My shoes are next, followed by my pants. Removing a man's pants is an undignified affair and I hate watching mine slide off...

But Shu...sometimes squirms in a certain way when I...remove his pants...and I forget...

A naked man stares back at me from the mirror.

I lift my hand and push my fingers into my cheek, making sure that I'm still me. Or maybe, maybe I only exist in the mirror now. Maybe I'm gone. Maybe there's no Uesugi Eiri left. Maybe one day I will put on that wig, and I won't be able to take it off again.

There is nothing beautiful about nakedness. Flesh is grotesque, covered in tiny imperfections, ingrown hairs, scars, moles, lines and wrinkles. I'm completely hideous. And, yet, I still don't understand...

Is that why you hated me, sensei?

Is that what you saw when you looked at me?

If you hated me so much, you should have just killed me...

You'd have been doing the world a favor.

I pick up the thick duffle bag at the end of the bed, so thoughtfully provided for me by one of the Seraphim. I stuff everything into it, the clothes I was wearing, my wig, the contacts, and a blood-covered butterfly knife.

Twenty minutes ago, in a hotel not far from here, a rapist begged me for his life. He begged for my forgiveness. But, forgiveness never comes for the truly wicked. It will never come for me. It will never come for him.

Fifteen minutes ago, I dropped an envelope containing very damning pictures at the feet of a dead man.

Right now, I turn towards the dresser and begin to put on my own clothes once again. Shimmying into my pants, slipping on my shirt, sliding my sunglasses onto my face. I become...Yuki Eiri, romance novelist.

Fifteen minutes from now, one of the lesser employees of Exile, known as the Seraphim, will slip into this hotel room. He will pick up this duffel bag, take it out of this hotel, and disappear. Everything inside will be burned.


Is such a cleansing force.

"If there is a fiery hell, I imagine it to be brilliant and pure. Burning away at this ridiculous body, removing monsters from the world, lightly bestowing calming nothingness with a soft kiss of flame."

That's the last thing Uriel ever said to me...

Before he left Exile...and formed the Lampyridae.

Our fallen angel, who turned his back on hope and walked away.

We call him Lucifer.

Lucy for short.


Rule number two of writers and murderers: Always know who you are up against. If you don't, you're doomed.

I pull the car up to the curb, not caring that it's a yellow zone, and step out. I'm not going to be here long.

Tungesh-san waves apathetically to me from behind his counter at the newsstand. It's a hot day, and he's got a small electric fan pulled up close, causing beads of sweat to dry on his dark skin. The edges of various publications curl and flip in the manufactured breeze. Indian music washes over the road, coating it in curried sound. There's no one standing around looking at magazines or newspapers. I wouldn't have stopped if there were.

"Uesugi-san," Tungesh says, bowing only minimally. I've been coming to his stand for years. It's close to my flat, and Tungesh doesn't ask too many questions. We've struck up a minimal association based on the fact that we smoke the same brand of cigarettes, we both speak English, and we're both writers. But, Tungesh writes a small newspaper for the Indian population of Tokyo. So, we're not rivals. "I've got everything packaged up for you, already."

He hands me the bundle. Four magazines, a carton of cigarettes, a case of beer, and...a paperback?

"The newest Palahniuk," Tungesh says, motioning with two fingers towards the book, "I'm finished with it."

I nod. We've established some sort of loose book trade, the two of us. He won't tell me if he thinks it is good or bad beforehand. But, we'll discuss it briefly after I read it. Tungesh is one of the few people who doesn't really care that I'm a famous writer. He just likes having someone with which to discuss books.

"How's your wife?" I ask distractedly, looking down at the candy rack.

"Fat and whiny. How's yours?"

I glare at him. Did I mention that he thinks he's funny?

Tungesh merely shrugs and leans back on his stool, crossing his arms as he nods towards the package under my arm. "You're up two."

Two? Only two? Shit. That means...

"I read his book, you know. It was crap."

"Yeah, but your opinion is for shit. It's all that Camus infecting your brain."

"Nothing wrong with the existentialists, Uesugi-san. They had some great ideas."

For a moment, I forget that only an hour ago, I killed a man. I like this illusion, this lie. I like the world where I'm a literary snob who writes schlock to appease the masses. Someday...someday I'm going to write a real book. Someday...when I escape my past...when I no longer need the vapid illusions I create in those novels...I will write something containing truth...

"Heh. You want the candies Shindou-san likes?"

I guess I've been leering at the Pocky. I can never remember which kind he likes best. He's going to rot his teeth out if he keeps eating this sort of crap but...

At least he shuts up when I take it out of my desk and give it to him.

Yeah, that's why I do it. To make him quiet.

Tungesh doesn't even wait for my answer. He rings up three boxes of Pocky along with the rest of my order. "See you later, Uesugi-san," he says as I head towards my car, "And get some sleep. You look like crap."

Unlocking the door, I slide into the car. I set the package down on the passenger seat.

I...should look...

No. I can wait two minutes until I get home.

No. I should look. I'm up two. That would put me at five.


I let the car idle as I slip the trade magazine 'Letters' out of the paper bag.

Flip. Flip. Flip.

Where is it? Where's the chart? Goddamnit. If he's...

There. On page nine. 'This Week's Bestsellers'.

Damn. It's just like Tungesh said. I'm at five. Five. Below a celebrity-written cookbook, an autobiography of a politician, a recently translated Stephen King novel, and...

-That- fucker.

Akasugi Naoko and that gay piece of tripe 'Pianissimo Butterfly' is at number one.

I've got to get a new publicist. Akasugi is such a fucking asshole, anyway. Won't even do signings or interviews. Women swoon, thinking he's so mysterious, so dark and troubled. But, really, his handlers just won't let him go out in public because he's a complete moron.

I can't even beat the shounen-ai market. Fuck.

Maybe I should start writing for...

No. That would give Shuichi entirely too many ideas.

I stuff the magazine back into the bag and take off down the road.

Motherfucking hell.

Could this day get any worse?


"She lay strewn across the bed like exquisite roadkill, massacred by his touches. He watched from near the open window, dividing his time between contemplation of her svelte legs, and the street traffic below. 'Tangerine'. She'd said her name was 'Tangerine', but she tasted like plums..."

I've now read this same paragraph upwards of forty times. Except, I'm never really reading it. My eyes pass over the words on my computer screen, unseeing.

Who tastes like plums, anyway? People taste of soap, and sweat, and whatever they had for dinner. No one tastes like fruit.

Well, Shuichi does -smell- a bit fruity, sometimes. But, that's completely different.

Hn. Shuichi.

Shuichi who, two years ago, somehow insinuated himself into my life. Shuichi who...without fail...tells me every day that he loves me. Pretty, smiling Shuichi, who would do anything for me, is now in danger because I wasn't clever enough to push him away when I still had the chance. No. I wasn't strong enough. I'm weak. And greedy. I thought maybe...I could...have something...

The Lampyridae are coming for Shuichi, or so the idiot shinobi says. When will they come? What's your plan, Lucy? You want to torture me. You want to make me suffer, so...

You'll make Shuichi suffer.

I press a three-button sequence, and my manuscript disappears, replaced with a map of Tokyo. Shuichi is...hm...four blocks away. He must have had Hiro stop off at Tungesh's for some reason.

Is it mildly obsessive to put a tracking device in your lover's cellphone?


He was so ecstatic when I gave him that new phone. He was jumping on the couch, acting like I'd just handed him an engagement ring or something. "Oh Eiri," he said looking at me with those sparkling eyes of his, already half-ready to cry, "It's so great. It's even the kind that takes pictures."

Yeah. So, now, instead of getting phone calls every half hour, I receive a bevy of photographs directly to my email. I don't know if you can exactly call that 'progress'.

For now, I suppose, I will have to play Lucy's game. I don't think he'll kill Shuichi...

I don't think he will, but...

There's always the possibility that Lucy will hurt Shuichi in some way. He wants to get to me, and Shuichi is the easiest way to do so. Lucy won't go after Mika, because she's too close to Seguchi. He's got her under massive protection, even though she doesn't know it. Sweet maids who are actually trained in sixteen different forms of combat. Drivers who are ex-government agents. Mika is protected. And Tatsuha...

Heh. He won't go after Tatsuha. Lucy is...superstitious about the whole religious thing.

I flip back to my manuscript and close my eyes. The problem is that we don't know what Lucy looks like anymore. After he left Exile, Seguchi and I tried to track him. Paris. Moscow. London. And then the trail disappeared. Lucy has a new identity, probably a new face and voice, as well. Even that stupid shinobi couldn't find anything out.

"...she tasted like plums..."

Shuichi, why did you come into my life? Don't you have any sense of self-preservation? No. You're always plunging head first into everything. How is it...that you don't care if you get hurt? Over, and over, and over, you get hurt. And it never changes you.

After these two years, I still don't understand you. I don't understand why you stay. I don't understand what you think I can give you. I don't understand why...

You still smile at me.

I thought you'd get bored with me. I thought you'd leave. But you just keep...

Coming home.


"...she tasted like plums..."

Delete. Delete. Delete. No one tastes like fruit. That's just stupid, and no one will buy it. Plums are nasty, anyway. Who eats plums? Who goes to a fancy restaurant and says 'Give me a goddamn plum'? Nobody.

Mmm. That feels...nice. I wonder...

Small, but surprisingly strong, hands press against my shoulders and begin to knead my muscles. He slips down to my shoulder blades, working out the knots as deftly as a trained masseur. How does he know how to do that? Ah. Ah. I'm going to turn into putty. I won't be able to get any work done like this. I'll fall asleep at my keyboard.

"Stop that."

But, he doesn't. I feel his nose rooting around at the nape of my neck, brushing back and forth across one of my vertebra, tickling a patch of short hairs with his breath. "You're tense. Bad day, huh?"

I only grunt in response. I'm not sure if it's because he hit the nail on the head, or if it's because I'm slowly being reduced to the mental capacity of a caveman. Shuichi always seems to have the ability to make me utterly stupid. He's such an idiot that he obliterates rational thought by his mere presence.

"I had a good day, though," he says, nibbling at my neck. He picks one spot and decides to torture it with his teeth and tongue. "We finished the new CD way ahead of schedule for once. I'm so excited."

Of course you are, Shuichi. You're excited about everything. You even get excited buying bath towels.


Maybe we should do that...sometime soon.

"You smell good," he whispers in my ear before pressing his face against my shoulder and inhaling deeply. "I love the way you smell."

"You're a moron. I smell like cigarettes. Like smoke..."

"Mmhm. Just like that."

Waifish arms wrap around me, holding me in place. When he does that, I just don't know what to do. It makes me realize...that in this relationship, or whatever you want to call it, Shuichi is the strong one. Shuichi can endure everything. He's rubber boy, eternally bouncing back into place. And I...

I'm the one who might just break. At any moment...

I'm always just barely holding it all together.

Why...did it have to be...Shuichi?

I want to stop, Shuichi. I do. I want to live in this lie with you, forever. I want to be good to you, to be a decent person, someone who makes you happy, someone who makes you proud. But, I'm frightened. I'm scared that you'll leave me. I'm scared to see you really hurt by me, or by something I've done. But...most of all, Shuichi...I'm scared...

That you're going to break down my walls. That you'll break me...

Because you're rubber, but I'm only glass.

"You're trembling," he says.

"It's cold."

Shuichi laughs, crisp and clear, a wind-chime that sounds just for me. "That's because you keep it like a fridge in here. Don't worry, I'll warm you up." He leans forward and licks my jaw playfully, like some sort of kitten, leaving a thick slime of spit in his wake.

"Gross, brat. Just gross." I wipe at the damage with the back of my sleeve.

Shuichi giggles and smacks his lips in my ear...

"Mmm. Yummy. You taste just like plums."


In Our Next Chapter: Shuichi goes off to 'work', but Eiri finds out Shu isn't at NG. When Eiri tracks Shuichi to an odd part of Tokyo...he finds something he never expected. Will Eiri find out anything more about Lucy's plans? Stay with us to go further into the lies, to expose more of the phantasm, in the next chapter of Brilliant Eidolon.

Author Note:

I'm pretty sure no one will be interested in this story, since...well, I've made Yuki Eiri into a serial killer, and introduced a lot of pretty far out elements. People tend to not like that sort of thing, I fear. Well, we'll see what happens. I hope you'll stick with it for a few chapters before giving it a thumbs down. :D Well, until next time... Oh, it's not all going to be depressing, either. There should be some funny bits, too.

Chapter Lexicon:

Exile: Some sort of clandestine vigilante organization created by Seguchi Tohma. The top operatives are named after archangels, and the lesser employees are called "Seraphim".

Michael: Yuki Eiri Raphael: Sakuma Ryuichi Gabriel: ? Uriel: Was a former operative who left for a yet unexplained reason to form the Lampyridae.

The Lampyridae: Another clandestine organization, which appears to have goals inimical to Exile's. Their top operative is the former Uriel, and is now referred to by members of Exile as "Lucifer", Lucy for short.