|Day 8 - Twisted
||[May. 16th, 2007|04:08 am]
|||||Scary Mojyo [LocoRoco soundtrack]||]|
Fandom: Eyeshield 21
Characters: Hiruma x Mamori
Summary: Hiruma instructs Mamori on being 'evil'
Author's Notes: Set right before Deimon High Field Day.
“Hiruma-kun, this is never going to work,” Mamori sighed. “I can’t pretend to be evil any more than you can pretend to be nice.”
“That hurt, fucking manager,” Hiruma cackled as he loaded a bazooka and handed it to her. “Now try firing it again, upwards.”
“The fucking baldy can handle it, so quit whining,” Hiruma popped a new stick of gum and Mamori readied herself. It wasn’t that she couldn’t fire the gun; it was the recoil that she hated.
As expected, her arm jerked from the recoil and she nearly fell, but Hiruma quickly steadied her. “Che. You should have joined the Death March and built up some endurance.”
“I don’t need to use such a big weapon!” She protested in return. “Give me one of the smaller handguns or a semi-auto rifle or something!”
“It doesn’t look menacing enough,” Hruma scowled. “You’re supposed to turn evil, woman. If you’re using a handgun, you’d better look like you mean it.”
Mamori picked up the gun, weighed it and took aim at Hiruma. She thought about all the blackmail material he had on her and how satisfying it would be to blow his brains out then and there.
Hiruma smiled devilishly at her sadistic expression. “Keep that up, manager. You’ll scare the fucking chibis so hard they’ll be running with wet pants.”
“Actually I’m wondering if I could scare you shitless.”
“No dice,” Hiruma took a casual step and the barrel of the gun touched his chest. Mamori suddenly found it hard to breathe. Even if it were rubber bullets, should she pull the trigger there was no doubt that he’d get injured. An image of a bleeding Hiruma both scared her… and yet it was strangely thrilling in a bizzare… twisted way.
Hiruma placed a hand on the gun and easily directed it elsewhere, his gaze still locked on hers with an intensity that made her stomach twist in knots. “In fact, I’m beginning to like this alter-ego of yours…”
The comment was like a bucket of ice water over her head. Whatever sadistic imagery that floated in her mind was instantly doused clean. Mamori promptly wrenched the gun out of his grip and turned around in a huff. “I’ll practice my evil laugh at home.”
“Wear something appropriate,” His voice was laced with amusement, and it infuriated her to no end. Everything was just a game, huh? “Preferably mafia-ish. At least you’d be able to cover any weaknesses in your acting.”
“I will wear whatever I like,” Mamori was about to leave when she felt his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t let me down, fucking manager.”
Standing in front of the mirror at home, Mamori stared at her reflection. In the mirror, she was smiling like a demon, and Mamori began to fear.