Chapter Text
Routine is boring.
Unfortunately, that’s all Karma’s life seems to be. Routine.
Wake up at 6:00. Hit snooze once. Get up at 6:05. Take shower, brush teeth. Put on slacks, button up a shirt. Grab a belt, a coat, a tie. Throw some bread in the toaster. Put on tie while waiting for toast. Pour some water in the Keurig, shove a mug under it and wait for it to brew (salted caramel with sugar and vanilla syrup, the sweetest part of his day). Slip on belt. Eat toast, drink coffee. Shrug on suit jacket. Take overcoat from the wall hook. Take keys from the wall hook. Slip on shoes, good to go.
A simple process, his morning routine. Work is almost identical each day, as well. The only real variable is his secretary’s choice of eye shadow. She’s been using an earthy palette lately, probably since he mentioned that the green looked nice with her hazel eyes. It hadn’t been a compliment, not really, but ever since then she flutters her eyelashes at him when he walks into a room, waiting for another comment like a dog begs for a treat.
It’s been like this for years, since the moment he stepped out of college. Working his way to the top of the ranks had been easier than the majority of his midterms. Now he has his own office with a 36th-story view and a cherry wood desk and a leather couch. None of it really matters to him. It’s all just a part of the routine.
On an overcast day in early March, Karma decides to drive to work rather than walk, in case it rains. He doesn’t mind walking in the rain, but his hair looks noticeably more slick than usual, and that’s enough of a change that he doesn’t want it to go to waste. His company offered him a car, but it would technically still be the company’s car, so he denied. Sure, the company is also technically his, but he’d rather have the purchase in his name. Plus, the company only had cars that were five years old at the youngest, and Karma’d had his eyes on a sleek black BMW (which had absolutely been worth the cost; it feels more like flying than driving and looks like a butler should be opening the door for a supermodel to step out).
Normally, he loves driving his car. Other drivers seem to get a vibe of importance from it, and they practically whip into another lane so he can glide by. His routine is boring, but the driving part of it gives him a little satisfaction.
A toppled pile of folders at work has Karma leaving an hour or so late, eager to sulk over a glass of scotch. The extra hour is enough time for the sun to set almost completely, so the horizon is barely tinted lavender, just a few minutes from being smothered by the night sky. Karma has the windows down, letting in the cooling air and ruffling his hair. He’d avoided the highway tonight, and the drive is leisurely. Over the quiet radio, he can hear a group of people talking loudly on the sidewalk, the muffled music from inside a bar he passes, and distant sirens. Oh, make that not-so-distant. Karma keeps his eyes on the mirrors, ready to pull over if need be.
At a stop sign, Karma comes to a rolling stop. At the moment he glances to the left, something is thrown into the passenger seat. That something appears to be a person. Karma is less deterred by this than he would have expected himself to be.
The individual is wearing all black. Over tight long sleeves, they wear a thick vest with many pockets and a high collar and hood. Their boots look like they have some sort of pocket on the sides. Their pants are fairly tight, with cargo pockets on the thighs. A thick belt rests on their hips, but from the look of all the compartments it seems to have, Karma assumes its purpose is more than holding his pants up.
Their hood is up, and their face is mostly in shadow, but Karma can see their eyes: bright, wild blue. He only has a second to take this all in before the barrel of a gun is pressed against his side.
“Drive, or I’ll shoot you and do it myself,” the individual growls.
Well, Karma thinks, listening to the sirens grow ever-closer, I always did want a break in routine.
Rather than slamming the pedal to the floor, as the individual probably wants him to, Karma flicks off his headlights completely and accelerates slowly, the engine’s hum almost inaudible beneath the radio.
The individual twists to watch behind them, gun still steady against Karma’s side. “What the hell are you doing?” they hiss, pushing the gun more firmly against him.
“The sudden revving of the engine would be an obvious giveaway to your location, not to mention noise complaints. Plus, this looks like a getaway car,” Karma explains smoothly, running three red lights and narrowly avoiding a Volkswagon Beetle. “And my headlights moving so quickly through a neighborhood district would raise suspicion, as well.”
They’re silent. “Oh,” they say after a moment. Then they narrow their eyes. “You’re headed toward the highway. Why aren’t you turning me in?”
“Would you rather I did?” Karma asks, making a lucky green on the on-ramp and accelerating to speed in a heartbeat. “I still could, if you’d like.”
“Wh—no! I mean, please don’t,” they burst out, and the pressure of the gun lightens a bit against his side. They position themself more comfortably on the seat, but still look ready to leap into motion at any moment. “I just think it’s odd that, y’know, an obvious criminal jumped into your car and threatened to shoot you, and you just… rolled with it.” They lean a little more into the back of the seat, expression thoughtful. “And you didn’t freak out and floor it. You stayed calm, and took a logical course of action.”
The speedometer wavers between 105 and 110 miles per hour as Karma weaves seamlessly between cars. He shrugs. “I figure it’s usually a matter of hesitation. I’m not missing anything if I go on a bit of a road trip, and I’ve got the connections to get out of any legal trouble. My CEO knows what he’s doing, so it isn’t like my business will fall to pieces if I’m gone a while.”
“Okay, sure, but it’s just weird. I get the feeling you’ve done this kind of thing before.”
Karma says nothing, simply casts his passenger a side-eyed glance and a smirk.
Their jaw drops, lips a little ‘o’, before they shake their head and checks behind them again. The distant sound of sirens is gone. Karma reaches over to adjust the radio.
“Attention: police seeking public assistance to locate wanted woman. Slim…”
The individual turns the station to some sort of electronic pop with a thin smile. “See, that’s why they’ve never found me.”
“Because you’re slim?” Karma asks.
They give him an unamused glance. “No. Because they can’t pin a gender on me, and that’s a huge part of their investigations, or public announcements. ‘Slim, 5’4, wears mostly black’? That describes about forty percent of high schoolers everywhere. As long as I keep my hood pinned to my hair, they won’t get that feature, either.”
The highway has narrowed to two lanes, no other cars in sight. Towns on the highway-side are few and far between. Karma wonders how long he’ll keep driving. “Well, since we’ll probably be together a while, we may as well introduce ourselves,” Karma suggests, turning on the cruise control when the needle points to 100. “My name's Karma Akabane.”
The individual looks dubious for a second, then sighs. They tuck the gun somewhere on their person. “You can call me Nagisa, I guess. And I’m not really picky about my gender, just… don’t use ‘she’ pronouns, and—” they stop (he? Sure, whatever). “Wait. Wait wait wait. Akabane? As in, Akabane Enterprises? As in, Akabane Enterprises, famous for its, like, everything?”
“‘Famous for, like, everything’ is a great summary of my business,” Karma says. “Can I use that in my next commercial?”
“Oh jeez, you’re not joking! You’re completely serious right now!” Nagisa gasps. He rocks forward in his seat, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. “Of all cars to jump into, and I pick the president of—”
“Chairman,” Karma corrects.
“Chairman, whatever—of one of the biggest companies in the country. What’s with my luck tonight?” he whines.
The dashboard clock reads 20:32. Karma figures he can drive on the highway for another two hours or so before he has to stop for gas. They have a while. “Your luck? Think of mine,” Karma sighs. “I was going to treat myself tonight, too. A new Panda Express opened just down the block from my building. Such a shame.”
“Aw, so you can't eat your cheap dinner. My heart bleeds,” Nagisa intones, rolling his eyes. “Aren’t you at all curious about what I did to have a PSA about me?”
Karma shrugs. “I thought it might be impolite to ask. Like a ‘How did you lose your entire arm?’-type situation.”
“I killed a man.”
The way it’s said is very blunt, almost completely emotionless apart from a little bit of something that sounds suspiciously cocky. Karma actually blinks, turning his head toward his passenger. He looks him over, top to bottom, and raises his eyebrows before turning back to the road.
“You don’t exactly look the type, but as long as you’re not getting blood on the seat, I don’t particularly care what you did.” A lie. Karma is bursting with curiosity—how did he kill him? Was it easy? Was he hired? Why did someone want him to die? How did the police get involved?—but he keeps it in.
Nagisa stares at him expectantly. He fiddles with his pockets. The hem of his hood. Stretches his fingers in his gloves. Then he exclaims, “Oh, come on! If you want to ask, ask already!”
“Fine, you got me," Karma sighs dramatically. Then, he sends a side-eyed glance and a smirk to his passenger. "Can I take you out to dinner?”
The startled noise Nagisa makes is enough to make Karma want to snicker, but he has an image to uphold, here, and he isn’t letting it go now.
“D-did you just ask me out?” In the dim light of the dashboard, Nagisa looks like he’s actually blushing.
“You told me to ask.”
“I didn’t mean it like that!”
“Don’t you think you’re being a little insensitive? You encouraged me to express my feelings, and I did.” Karma hums. “Should I consider this a rejection, then? My diary will be exceptionally tear-stained tonight.”
Nagisa crosses and uncrosses his arms. He grumbles something about air conditioning and it being hot, reaches under his hood to unfasten whatever clips hold it to his hair, and lets it fall. There’s no denying the fact that Karma’s gaze hovers on Nagisa’s unhooded profile a bit longer than it probably should have.
Someone has caught his attention for the first time in years, and he’s probably a hitman. A hitman that will be sitting in his passenger seat for at least two more hours. A hitman that has a small scar on his cheekbone and a soft jawline and thick, fine-looking hair that Karma sort-of-definitely wants to run his fingers through, maybe pull.
Leave it to me, Karma thinks, more than a little frustrated at his current predicament. Especially when Nagisa presses his cheek to the window and gasps something about the stars, and he has the overwhelming temptation to pull over, lay his jacket on the dying grass, and lie with Nagisa, pointing out constellations he memorized out of boredom.
God damn it.