Adult-FanFiction.org : Inuyasha / Yashahime

The Mind Crime	By : QueenoftheDream Category: InuYasha AU/AR > Het - Male/Female Views: 1430 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Inuyasha, nor the characters from it. I made no money in writing this fiction.

Chapter List
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An underground mastermind pushing for an uprising against corruption finds a young mainline addict with a raging grudge. The young man is molded into an assassin to serve the new society, his trigger finger indiscriminate when given the order. He justifies murder with freedom and deliverance from evil. A tenuous salvation appears, but can he grasp it before it dissolves? Nothing is fair in love or especially war.

Chapter 1: I Remember Now
6:00p.m.
The young man awoke from a dreamless slumber feeling drained. The plain cotton blanket rested upon his thin, bony calves, and his right arm rolled listlessly as he turned his head upon the pillow. The round clock across the whitewashed room ticked 6:00 p.m., and the small television in the upper corner of the room automatically flipped to the local news station. The blue-streaked background on the small television was nearly the only color in the sterile, cold area. In the background, he could hear someone, a buzzy secretarial voice, paging a "Dr. Hamilton, Dr. J. Hamilton" over the intercom.
The anchorman appeared upon the glossy television screen, and the young man turned his head to stare dully at the program, too disinterested to be bothered to brush the shaggy silver hair from his eyes.
"Today's top story: it seems that the bizarre assassinations of local political and religious figures that have rocked the San Francisco community since they began a year ago today have ended as quickly and abruptly as they began." The young man's eyebrows knitted together. Something tickled the back of his subconscious, and he leaned upon his elbow to scoot into a sitting position.
"Murders? Jesus Christ, how long have I been out?" he murmured quietly, his voice scratchy and weak.
"There have been no terrorist groups or foreign cells coming forth to claim responsibility for the series of what have been called 'Death Angel' murders. However, police have stated that they've had a suspect in custody for some time, who is being held under observation at a state hospital, the location of which is not being disclosed at this time. The identity of the suspect is being withheld pending further investigation. Up next, this week's weather forecast…"
The clear voice of the news anchor faded into a high pitched ringing as the sickly pale man sucked in a deep breath through his nose. His arms shot out to the sides, jostling the cup of green gelatin and its accompanying spoon on the pivoting table connected to his bed. Long, bony fingers were wrapped around the rails, rattling the plastic against the side of the bed and rustling the linen sheets. Bars…? Bars on his bed?!
He clenched his teeth, and the muscles of his jaw tightened and twitched. The inside of his head felt like it was squeezing and narrowing into blackness, with the world a small, ringing point in the center. A pinprick, really. A bleeding, ringing, screaming pinprick in the middle of his void.
"…Hello? Hellooo"" a woman's singsong voice drifted into his ear. "Perhaps you need another shot," she stated matter-of-factly as he breathed rapidly out of his nose, throwing his head back onto the pillow. He stared straight at the ceiling and gave a small grunt as a needle pierced the bruised skin of his left forearm. His heart rate slowed, and his fingers gradually loosened upon the plastic bars at the sides of his bed to curl into loose fists. "There, that should do it," the woman cooed, her voice almost sickly sweet. She pulled the blanket up over his calves to tuck it around his waist.
He held his body rigid in the bed, for he had the strange thought that if he let go, if he let himself go and relax, that he would never come back. That he would find something, a terror lurking, waiting for him in the shadows of his bed, inside the ticking clock, underneath the scrap of crumbling bread crust that had fallen onto the floor at some point.
He heard the nurse's shoes click across the dappled linoleum floor before a beep rang out, and she pulled the door open. "Sweet dreams," she said sweetly as she stepped out of the room. He almost missed the, "you bastard," muttered under her breath just before the door closed with finality. Almost.
With a forced exhalation, he turned once more to the television screen. A peppy blonde woman was pointing enthusiastically at a projection of northern California. "We can expect to see clear skies here in this first week of June, and…" Her voice dulled, and he zeroed in on the scroll at the bottom of the screen.
"Suspect confirmed to be in custody in Bay area murders. Alleged development in xenolinguistics at local university suggests…" the white letters read as they flew by.
Xenolinguistics… Xenolinguistics. He felt the ghost of a memory trail its icy fingers across his mind, searching.
Xeno. Xeno… Xerox. X-Files. X.
X…
X.
His body went cold as the icy fingers drove sharp talons into a dark corner of his mind. Dull yellow eyes brightened to clear gold as memories rushed into the forefront of his mind like a severed artery pumping and jetting hot blood into the void.
Dark cells. Cold eyes in a kind face. The feel of his hand wrapping around the grip of a pistol. Dark tendrils hidden under a blanket of black purity. The bite of metal into his skin and the liquid fire burning and searing through his veins. A bitter life on the streets replaced by the enraged life of a monster.
He closed his eyes, letting each image flit before him like a sick parade. Instead of bubbly, comic floats, bloated bodies drifted across his memory. Blood rather than confetti fell around his face. Jolly pop music and joyful children were replaced with shouts, groans, the hiss of blood escaping an artery that only an assassin knows. His stomach churned, and he felt the little color in his face drain.
"I remember now," he whispered to nobody in particular, especially since he was the only one in the room. He remembered his name, though he couldn't remember how he forgot it or why he hadn't noticed until this point. Yesterday was a blur, and he couldn't put an exact point on where the memories stopped and the blank began.
His voice sounded foreign in his ears. "Nngh, and how it started…I just remember doing …" Doing what?
"What they told me," he answered his own internal question, and the words echoed in his head as ripples in a pool, touching walls and corners of his mind he had forgotten were there. Existence was the furthest thing from his mind as his consciousness hurtled through a myriad of lost memories.
What they told me...

This story is based upon the Queensryche "Operation:Mindcrime" album, so I suggest visiting the lyrics for each chapter to fully understand the story and atmospheres portrayed. It's a great album and is definitely my favorite concept album.
I've got a head start on this story and know exactly where it's going, so I should be able to update this regularly. Just a heads up, subsequent chapters will be longer than this one. Aiming for a sort of neo-noir vibe, so we'll see how that pans out.
Please, rate and review! You guys have no idea how much it means. :]
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The Mind Crime