Child of Dust

"Please don't touch. Everything in that room is very important to him, and I wouldn't be able to live with myself if you made him cry."

The voice had come from one of the lower floors, perhaps a bedroom...one of the many rooms that had been deemed not worth exploring, not in a home where a plus lingered. After all, it was a big home, and it hardly had to be -perfectly- empty for a shinigami to do their job. But whoever was downstairs sounded...entirely wrong. They spoke with the absolute confidence and certainty of one who had sent out a house call and was simply shouting to their expected guests. But there was no time to so much as consider this, before the noxious taint smacked Moriko like a hammer; there was a hollow present.

Its reaitsu signature continued to expand and grow ever stronger, as someone could be heard clomping up the stairs slowly, with no particular sense of hurry...but with an odd sense of clumsiness that brought to mind one trying to carry something very heavy up a banister. It took perhaps ten seconds to cover the stairwell, before the door opened with a creak, and a brownish-white blob began to ooze into the room, almost as soon as the door had opened any amount. Like a squid pushing itself through a peephole, the hollow had slid through on a crack no bigger than the size of its own mask.

"Well, I say live. But...well, words can be so unwieldy sometimes."

It stood proud and tall, staring directly at Moriko without any expression apparent, simply...waiting. It bowed its head slowly, all four arms splaying off to the sides as it dipped its head low into a bow...exposing the back of its neck, and making it a perfect target. Somehow there was a sense of supreme confidence around the beast, as if it knew that even though it was full of openings, even though it had shown no obvious way of responding to attacks...she was no more a threat to him than an ant to an elephant. He rose upwards even slower, tilting his head ever so slightly on the side.

"I wonder if I could trouble you for an interview, while you're here?"

For a second, there was...absolutely no reading the facial expression on the hollow, and not simply because of the mask.  His entire stance turned into an odd, off-kilter mess of joints and bones, some slouching rictus that didn't seem to respect bilateral symmetry at all.  It was just possible to imagine he was getting poised to strike, that his muscular body was about to launch across the room like a spring and tackle the shinigami.  But after a few seconds of this, he simply began to speak.  It was a slow, contemplative tone, as if he were trying his very best not to snap or strike out at her comment.

"You know, when I was still alive people practiced barter more than they actually used money.  We had it, but unless one was going to a major city, there was no need to have them; everyone simply knew the value of their work, relative to everyone else.  I know you don't understand, shinigami...but once, mankind was able to band together and get along.  They would've been insulted that you hadn't even considered the concept of goods or services for goods or services."

He shook his head ever so slightly, and then the odd boneless stance began to drain away all at once, leaving him looking oddly like a melted candle that was being pushed back into a proper shape.  Finally, a thick line of black thread began to form across the alabaster white of his mask, revealing a mouthful of sharp, meat-shearing teeth that looked particularly well-suited towards tearing off huge chunks of ectoplasmic flesh and gulping it down.  This time when he spoke his voice was wry, almost teasing.

"I never much liked the world the way it was when I was alive.  500,000 it is.  Give me just one moment."

He turned back towards the stairwell, but this time he didn't even bother to go down it; he simply began to sink through the floor as he slithered forward, his movements odd, precise, and measured.  It took a few moments to realize, but Yaksha was walking down thin air exactly as if there had been a staircase built there.  He turned towards Moriko, pointing a finger directly at her, and this time his voice wasn't polite, or good-willed, or pleasant, or...even human.  There was a horrible sense of depth there, a feeling that he was speaking with the voice of multiple people at once, words overlaying each other.

"Remember, shinigami. Touch Nothing."

He was gone for perhaps fourty five seconds, before he drifted directly up through the floorboards, without any ceremony or drama.  He gestured downwards, his voice once more rich and pleasant, as he began to turn his head to survey the room, as if hoping he could catch her in the act of being naughty.

"On the third floor, there are a stack of banded hundred-dollar bills resting just behind one of the loose floorboards.  I would've taken the time to count, but I imagine you must be growing impatient.  You're free to check it out as I finish setting up for our conversation."

One.

Yaksha slid down to the floor just beneath, his hands folding over his chest, his clawed fingers stroking across the flesh of his alabaster shell.  This shinigami was...oddly unsurprised to find him at the location.  Had his disguise somehow failed?  Was she here -aware- that it had been a trap?  Or had his presence somehow been leaked, and the woman made aware that he had no intention of causing violence?  And what was with this absurd attempt at bribery?  She had thrown a number out at random, and it didn't even have a currency attached!  Why did Yaksha always have to get stuck with the ones who lacked any -imagination-?

Two.

He rose a hand towards the floor above, his eyes shut.  He didn't want to mistrust her like this.  He didn't want to be a paranoid, wretched beast that planned to debilitate his opposition before he even knew whether or not they'd -be- opposition.  For all he knew she might be curious enough to wait for his return, and find out what exactly he wanted.  He wasn't doing this because of some reasoned, rational response...no.  This was purely the act of instinct, purely the response of a beast when confronted with a hunter.  What in the hell was wrong with him?  Why was it -now- he was succumbing to his baser nature?

Three.

Shinigami.  Arrogance.  Their mere -presence- denoted arrogance.  Such quiet, self-sure actions.  Such sanctimony.  How was he supposed to battle something like that with reason? Yes, that was it.  She had done this to deceive him.  There was absolutely no getting around that fact.  He closed his fist, preparing to fire a projectile through the floor, before...stopping himself.  He wanted to attack this black-clad intruder already, to break her bones and leave her mangled and bloody.  But in the long run, what would that do for him?  Nothing but garner unwanted attention.  Hadn't the point of this been to learn something?  He would learn nothing if he killed his guest.

Four.

He instead opened his hands, causing thin strands of reaitsu to peel off from his body, like string unfurling from beneath his fingernails.  He watched it happen with an odd sense of discontinuity, his mind suddenly resting inside the threads as much as in his own head; it was like trying to fly a drone and walk at the same time.  Or at least, it would've been, had Yaksha actually flown a drone.  Instead he simply set the tiny filiments to work, letting them probe and spread across the ceiling, searching out for cracks to the floor above slowly, cautiously.

Five.

Yaksha had spent half an hour with a box cutter making sure to leave a series of small slices in the drywall, just in case he'd needed to disable someone.  There was -no- way he would've gone to the attic if he'd sensed more than one reaitsu signature.

Six.

The threads slid upwards slowly, once more spreading outwards, seeking out an appropriate target, creeping towards the woman's legs.  Their movements weren't slow, but nor were they overly hurried.  Had she thought to survey the area, she may have seen a faint visual disturbance, rather like small coins glinting in the splayed light.  But they were already upon her, and prepared to leap.

Seven.

No.  No, be patient.  There was no -guarantee- she would act, just yet.  She seemed more interested in waiting, counting to some arbitrary point in her head.  Was she preparing to strike?  Or simply trying to think of how to answer his questions?  There were so many possibilities, and if he acted now they would all collapse into one.

Eight.  

The threads were now resting just by her feet, utterly inert, patient as a snake poised to strike.  Yaksha's hand began to tremble, the exhaustion of holding such an ability for so long without a clear target beginning to work its toll on him.  He'd not be able to do this much longer.

Nine.

This was it, the sense of tension around Yaksha's head told him.  He'd be able to hold this for perhaps a second longer, if he was willing to put himself severely at risk.  He felt as if his nerve endings had been covered in kerosene, as if he were about to burn up alive.  He had to-

Ten.

Shit!  He had already been trying to withdraw, and the shinigami was faster than he'd thought.  She had already released her zanpakuto, and was moving in towards her goal.  The plus, obviously.  His threads shot up and out, doing their best to clasp around her legs and hold her in place.  Naturally, they had been poised to stop movement of the legs, not the hands...and she was so damnedably fast.  Her blade's pommel lowered, so very slowly...

Eleven.

Damn!  Damn, dammit, dammit all!  He hadn't been able to stop her.  He hadn't been able to save him.  But the threads had done their work, and would buy him at least a few more good seconds.  He ducked down two more steps, reaching into a safe hidden behind, most originally, a picture of J.P. Morgan.  He all but tore out the inner mechanics, leaving it a mangled mess...and neatly bundled the stacks of money inside in a corner of the room, before returning upstairs.

He had asked for an interview, and he was not going to allow her to cut and run like that.  There was some benefit to be made of all of this...and with any luck, Yaksha would be able to fight his instinct to rip her throat out long enough to share some fraction of it with her.