See No Devil

Summary:In the wake of the Christmas Bowl, Hiruma's swift healing takes it's toll. When he falls ill, Mamori, Musashi and Doburoku team up to tend to the fallen quarterback. But illness has a way of getting past even the tightest defenses a person can keep up. Can they deal with Hiruma, unmasked? What exactly will it lead to, when the devil is undone?

Chapter One: Something Off

There was something...off, about Hiruma. Watching him, Mamori wasn't sure exactly what it was that was making her nervous. He was standing out on the field, as always. Yelling at the players, usually with insulting terms and curse words, as always. He still had a rather large caliber weapon in hand, and was randomly firing several shot bursts into the air, at the ground behind the players, at the ground in front of the players, and anywhere else he happened to think was a good target at the time.

Mamori sighed. The Christmas Bowl was over. They were the National Champions. A normal person would have thought that they'd take time out. Relax. Celebrate. Bask in the glory. And maybe, just maybe, think a little more on their schooling and plans for next year. But no. Hiruma had gotten wind of an international event again, the Youth World Cup this time. And so, less than two weeks after their impressive victory over the Teikoku Alexanders, they were back at it. With even more team members than ever, since it was an international event, and Hiruma was recruiting everyone he could get his hands on to fill out a solid team, with supports and back-ups this time. What amazed her wasn't his recruiting, but that every single one of them was willing, even eager, to be in this. They actually looked happy to be out in the frigid weather, chasing balls and hammering into each other like train wrecks gone mad. In fact, several players that hadn't been recruited were turning up, joining practice with friendly advice, shouted suggestions, or as partners in the effort.

After several months training with the Devil Bats, she understood the adrenalin. Certainly, she was cheering for them. Absolutely, she was diving into the work of manager. But she still thought it was a little mad.

Her gaze slipped back to Hiruma. He seemed as enthusiastic as ever, if not more so. But she'd spent months observing him. She'd learned to catch the little tells that said something was off. Subtle, because he'd rather shoot himself in the foot with his own gun rather than admit to any weakness. And her instincts were restless, insisting there was something off about his behavior.

He was chasing Sena, Monta and several others down the field. She checked his stride. He wasn't limping, so he hadn't hurt his knee again. She watched the way he carried the gun. Both hands, and level and steady. Not his back or his arm, then. Or his shoulder. He wasn't favoring his right arm either, which meant his previously broken bone wasn't bothering him. Though that, she would have known, since he sometimes permitted her to bind it, if it happened to be aching, and she happened to catch him nursing it.

She heard the click of an empty ammo cartridge. Hiruma made a face, then shouted something that sounded rather like "Run you chibis!". Then he turned and made his way to the bench, to the small armory that was settled there, on a canvas to keep it out of the snow.

Mamori frowned. She hadn't noticed, but...why was his artillery sitting on the bench? He usually carried it, unless he'd set it down to work on his passing practice. But in that case, he'd not be carrying the gun, either. Her concern strengthened. She watched him discard the clip with a small snarl of disgust on his face, then pick up another and jam it in. It occurred to her then, that the gun he was carrying was a somewhat smaller caliber than his normal preferred weapon. Still semi-automatic (his favorite kind), but not as big or as heavy as the one he usually hauled to practice. It wasn't even as heavy as the one he usually took to game days. It looked more like the lighter model he'd made her shoot once or twice.

She felt something very akin to an alarm bell going off inside her head.

Hiruma turned back to the field. "Hey, you damn slackers, get back to pushing! Get to work, you freakin lazy porkers!" That was directed at Kurita and Gaou, who had taken a break from the deadlock they'd been locked into for the past twenty minutes of shoving. "Yo, damn monkey...I didn't say stop running yet!" He pulled the gun off his shoulder and began firing, causing Monta, Riku and Sena to jump and race down the track. Even Shin, running at his usual calm pace, picked up a little.

If she hadn't been sitting right next to him, she never would have heard it. The low rough cough that didn't come from the gun. One, two, three...four rough breaths. If she hadn't been sitting next to where he stood, watching him, she wouldn't have seen the jerk of his shoulders and upper body. She knew most people would assume it was recoil from the gun, but she knew him. Hiruma didn't notice recoil from anything less than a rocket launcher.

He stopped shooting, and hoisted the gun back to his shoulder. "Keh." he made another face, popped a bubble on his gum, then spoke. "Oi, damn manager. How's the analysis coming?"

She looked down at her clipboard, where she'd been taking notes on everyone's progress, and writing ideas on how to strengthen this or that element, or compensate for this or that individual's weakness. "We've got some fairly good data already, and I've begun ranking the statistics you asked me for."

"Keh. Fine. I'll have data on the American players by the end of the week, so be fucking prepared." He popped another bubble.

"Of course." Mamori sighed. Then she looked up at him. "Hiruma-kun..."

"What?" The green eyes slanted toward her.

"Just now...it sounded like you were...coughing." She felt a rock in her stomach. Sure, she'd never hesitated to confront him over an injury before, but this was more like looking for information. She wasn't sure what was going on. Before, she'd always been fairly certain.

Hiruma snorted. "Idiot. The cold and condensation in the air is just screwing with the gun." Before she could ask anything further, he walked away, heading back out to the field.

Mamori watched him walk away, thinking about his words. It sounded like a plausible explanation. The sounds had been rather masked by gunfire after all. But she couldn't shake the knowledge that if there was anything Hiruma understood besides football and manipulation, it was guns. Weapons in general, really, particularly anything that could produce a violent explosion. He would have known that the cold and moisture would mess with his weapon. And he wasn't the type to have ignored it, so he had to have taken precautions. Extra oil, or whatever it was you did to protect a firearm from cold and wet. No...she didn't think it was the gun.

"You noticed." Mamori jumped. Musashi had come in from his part-time at the construction company and was standing beside her, dressed in his uniform.

"Musashi-kun." She took a moment to calm her racing heart and slow her breathing. He was gentleman enough not to notice how she'd jumped. Instead, he was staring at the practice field. At Hiruma. She followed his gaze. "Hiruma-kun..."

"He's sick. But he's trying to hide it." Plain simple fact, spoken low enough that their conversation couldn't be heard, but audible nonetheless. A light movement, that might have been a frown, twitched the corner of his mouth. "He pushed his body to it's limit, trying to heal that arm in time. Then again in the game. Now this. With the cold and as damp as it is...even Hiruma has a limit."

She stared at the figure on the field, the number One emblazoned on the back. Her heart sank. She'd been hoping she'd imagined it. "Do you think it's bad?"

Musashi shrugged. "Who knows? I can't tell. I've only ever seen him sick once before, and Kurita and I couldn't tell how bad it really was." Another shrug. "Could be a simple cold. Could be pneumonia."

Mamori swallowed. "How can we tell?"

He shook his head. "No way to tell. He either recovers, or he passes out and dies. He'll never tell us anything until he's actually too weak to stand up straight. But it might not go that far."

She bit her lip. She and Hiruma clashed over a lot of things. Despite how she'd come to respect him, she still sometimes thought he could be a noisy, arrogant, foul-mouthed jerk. But the idea of him being sick, especially that sick, made her worried. For the team in general and him in particular. "What do we do?"

Musashi shrugged again. "We wait. Until something happens. And watch him, as much as we can." Then he calmly pulled his helmet out from under his arm, strapped it on, and trotted out to the field to join the practice. Hiruma shouted something impolite at him and gestured, and he ran over to drill with some of the others.

Mamori watched a few moments longer. But as much as she hated to admit it, Musashi was right. With someone as stubborn as Hiruma, there really was nothing to do but wait it out until he either recovered or collapsed. She watched him run down the field for something, then sighed and turned back to her clipboard. She had work to do, after all. Still, she couldn't help but keep one eye on him as she wrote.

Author's Note: I read the manga for the last three games after I watched the anime, and this just sort of popped into my head. Hiruma always seems so bloody invincible, but everyone has a stopping point. And no, this is not planned as Hiruma/Mamori specific, for anyone who is wondering.

Hope you enjoyed the story so far.