Chaos Theory
Summary: Two times the world continued spinning. The third time it split apart, leaving the assassin adrift in a Pangaea of memories. Claire-centric and slight Claire/Chane.

A/N: Yay for Claire XD He's my third favorite character (Ladd being first and Luck being second!), but I find him difficult to write. So, I apologize for any OOC-ness and for the fact that I made up some of the dialogue I couldn't remember from the anime ^^'

Chaos theory (n): The study of nonlinear dynamics, in which seemingly random events are actually predictable from simple deterministic equations.

His beliefs had always functioned under this rule.

Every slight tug on his strings, even if it was just the fading whisper of the wind against the taught chords, he felt deep into his marrow. He had every string memorized, able to control the movements and actions of his world with a simple flick of his wrist. Forever the puppeteer...

Behind hazel eyes he saw the world spin. And he knew it would continue to do so; a day from now, a week, a year... a millennium simply because he dictated it as such. It was child's play, really. A list of determinable factors punctuated by a chaos of moments that added up to exactly what he calculated. There were no outliers in his spider web of control, where he was the spider in the center of it all, crafting web after web as time marched steadily on.

That's why the appearance of a girl with topaz eyes and a voice only he could hear shook him to his core. His world exploded and for (only) a moment he thought it would break apart. Instead, it expanded, accommodated the stranger (as if a supernova had suddenly exploded, creating a new world in the dust and ashes of the old), allowing her to continue to exist in her quiet somberness. The true birth of a phoenix, shaded in faded gold and smoky greys.

There was no room for love in his life (oh, there was room for a love of murder, of friends, and of family, but not for a girl who spoke only through her eyes), and definitely not for one in the purity and innocence he felt for her.

The second she looked up at him with her topaz orbs, he felt only the desire to protect her. His bloodstained suit and face suddenly seemed childish and rudimentary as he walked towards her, leaving red footprints in his wake. He would run his fingers through his hair to slick back the disheveled strands, but it would only cause more blood to drip into his hair. And somehow, he felt that the girl would not find that in any way attractive.

She backs away slowly, daggers glinting dangerously in the setting sun. He chuckles. And it's decided. This woman will be his bride. Before he can ask the question (which he knows she will say yes to—even if it takes centuries) a blonde psychopath who did not like being left out cackled loudly, causing the pair to turn their attention back to the equally blood-stained man.

The assassin's eyes narrow, flashing red. This nuisance of a man would not be allowed on the train any longer. Just as he had decided the raven-haired woman's fate, the blonde's fate is decided in an instant. He would bend to the puppeteer's will and vacate the train… on his own free will.

(and he knows this just as much as he knows that the girl whose name is Chane will eventually love him and meet him again—someday)

The name Claire Stanfield has become old. It is like a paperback book with too many pages missing and worn. There is still a sentimental value to it—there has to be for there to be so many tears—but it cannot function as a book any longer, just as Claire Stanfield cannot function as a name.

He decides on Felix Walken on a half-whim, half-reverence for the legendary assassin who had gone into retirement. It fits like an old glove and the man smiles as the words pass through his lips at his introduction.

And suddenly he is reborn for the second time.

No more Vino. No more Rail Tracer (well—that beast would always reside inside his heart regardless of his protests). No more Claire Stanfield. He finds the shedding of these names to be liberating in a sense. Suddenly, the memories of an orphan and a circus and a dysfunctional home are not his—because he is not Claire Stanfield. No… Felix Walken was someone entirely different. Entirely more dangerous. A predator.

Walking down the crowded streets he knows Chane is close. He can feel it with every rustling branch and every shrill beep of a horn. He walks without a purpose, every step inching him just a little bit closer to the woman who had stolen his heart.

In his wandering he stops by the sea, allotting himself a moment to just gaze into the setting sun. The gentle giant skirts across the water's edge, dipping lower and lower into the horizon until it disappears completely. Until it is dark. To his left he hears the sounds of an ensuing skirmish and smirks.

Chane, it seems you've managed to find me first…

He slips into the large group unseen, languidly lying against the crumbling entrance to what appeared to be an old car repair shop. The crimson-haired assassin can hear the ramblings of an animated blonde, watching as a large wrench spins up into the air. He expects for the object to clatter loudly to the ground, but finds that despite the blonde's frail appearance, he manages to catch the wrench with a single hand.

Interesting, he remarks in his head, finding himself in the middle of the crowd.

Despite his lean stature, he can barely make out a shock of brown hair and the flash of a pale tattoo. Oh, it's those guys from the train. Felix grins. Before he can walk towards the front of the crowd, everyone lets out a loud bellow. He follows suit, letting his voice mix in with the chorus of applause.

"That's strange, I don't think I remember one of those voices… could ya step out, please?" A hesitant voice beckons, straining to peer into the sea of people.

The red-head replies coolly, "I'm surprised you could pinpoint a stranger's voice through all that ruckus. Good job, kid." He steps to the side, finally revealing his presence. The brown-haired distiller backed away, eyes widening considerably.

"I-it's the Rail Tracer!"

A handful of gasps fill the room as the blonde with the monkey wrench gives a confused sigh.

"Who would interrupt me during one of my great monologues? Are you a fool? Or perhaps a philosopher, with your own ideals and notions? What a paradox! A philosopher interrupting a philosopher! I wonder what Boss Ladd would think of this exchange of petty words! Ah, yes, Ladd Russo, the only person who could ever kill me!"

The assassin stills, eyes cast to the woman at his right as the lunatic rambles on. She is in a fighting stance, fingers curled around two daggers. A figurative light bulb pops in his head at the mention of 'Boss Ladd.'

"Wait, did you say Ladd? I met that guy earlier. I think he's out of commission though, jumping off a train and all that jazz."

The lunatic immediately ceases his rambling, a hint of shock appearing in his cerulean eyes. "How would a nobody like you know about our great leader?"

"Well, that's 'cause I'm the reason he jumped off the train—kind of, anyway."

The blonde's group immediately took a few steps back, all glancing at each other hesitantly. Graham steps forward, despite the frantic looks of his group, a hardened frown on his face.

"I don't believe you. You must be a liar. And I'll prove it… by defeating you!" He swung the wrench towards the red-head without warning, bringing it above his head.

The man dodges easily, flipping forwards as the wrench creates a gigantic crater in the floor. The ex-Rail Tracer smirks as the man growls, throwing the wrench towards him. He catches it easily, sending the object flying. It collides dangerously close to the lunatic's ribs, barely catching it with one hand.

Graham runs forward, bringing the monkey wrench for one final arc, mustering all his strength into the swing. The topaz-eyed man flips backwards, landing on a crate of boxes with a large smirk on his face.

The blonde sends the wrench towards the acrobatic yet again, only to find that the man had disappeared. He fell from the ceiling, landing on the wrench with ease. He jumps off before throwing his weight against the repair man, sending the blonde towards a stack of boxes. The youth smashes into the crates, letting out a groan of pain as he clutches at his aching head.

The red-headed assassin takes the time to dash towards the topaz-eyed woman, grinning widely. He takes her much smaller hands in his, letting out a light chuckle at the confusion in her eyes.

"Ah, I know I had a layer of blood on me before, but surely you recognize me! I'm Felix Walken, previously known as Claire Stanfield, Vino, and the Rail Tracer, of course!"

She cocks her head to the side, as if the names themselves are foreign. And they probably are, he realizes, truly understanding what little hold she had on the grand scheme of things. She had played the part of a pawn for so long that it seemed to be almost embedded in her DNA. In that way she was a fragile thing; for all her strength and skill, she could still shatter under the lightest of pressure, given the right circumstance.

Surprisingly, it made him only love her more.

"I know this is sort of sudden, but will ya marry me? I promise to stay loyally by your side for all eternity." He brings a hand to his heart, giving a wide grin. His head dips slightly, the closest thing to a bow he has given since his days in the circus.

There is, of course, hesitance in her eyes. It was only natural to be skeptic; not every day does a (handsome—her brain supplies and immediately shakes away in a fit of childishness) man confess his undying love. Especially to a person they have met only one other time. Yet, there is an all-knowing confidence in his russet orbs. Something that makes her almost want to immediately nod her head. It is as if he has measured all the options, weighed them side by side, and seen only one solution. A twisted wisdom long beyond his years.

Her response rests on the edge of her expression. For the first time since giving away her voice, she wishes she could speak, to form the right words against her tongue. Instead, there is only a flicker of trust in her golden orbs, followed by a hint of uncertainty.

The crimson-haired man chuckled. "I understand." And he does. This response was not different from his prediction. He speaks again, softer, warmer, "I'll wait for you, Chane. I'll wait to marry you. We can start off as friends. And then become lovers. And then, when you're ready, I'll become your husband."

Chane's eyes widen marginally and for the second time, his world has to accommodate. He has made room for another person in his life (expanded until he feels the edges of his own tectonic plates nearly split apart). In both his heart and his mind, she is tangible. She is real.

(Which is all that really matters.)

And, as they walk out of the warehouse side by side, there is a warmness in his heart. Love, he realized, could be an even greater aphrodisiac than blood. The urge to kill is subdued for a time as his steps follow her own. He smiles—a genuine, happy smile when her eyes meet his own.

There is a grave with her name on it.

Etched in a simple marble slab he sees the words Chane Walken. But, she couldn't disappear. Not yet. Never. He had seen the end, knew that it would happen eventually, but even solipsists could lie to themselves, sometimes.

(and maybe if he hadn't it wouldn't have hurt so much when she did(n't) die)

His world had expanded so much to fit her in, and now, with her presence gone, there was a noticeable emptiness. The tectonic plates broke apart, drifting until he was lost in a Pangaea of memories. Of their wedding, their family, children, grandchildren, happiness…

It was all gone, buried in the dirt with her. Left in a mahogany coffin that should never have carried her bones. His eyes drifted to the chrysanthemums in his hands. They were her favorite. Ironic really, considering their symbolism in some European countries.

That of a flower of death. Under the delicate pearly petals and graceful stem, there was the connotation for despair. Sinking to his knees, he faintly traced the outline of her name, arms reaching around to wrap themselves against the cold slab.

It was too cold. Chane was never cold. She was warm, like a living flame. There is a sudden gust of wind, wrenching the bouquet of flowers from his frail hands. They glide harmlessly in the breeze, floating towards the setting sun.

He was so tired.

His very eyelids seemed heavy, weighing like cement in the fading golden light. He was tired of keeping the world spinning. The earth was already drifting apart; surely he had played his role for long enough. The puppeteer felt a warm lethargy seep into his limbs. A calming, peaceful feeling that hummed contently all the way to his fingertips. He could not have a world without her; he wouldn't allow it to spin on its invisible axis without her.

So, he closes his eyes, embracing the gravestone. He can feel her arms around him, hugging him back as his consciousness fades. Under his eyelids he sees her smiling face, knowing he has made the right choice. And, for the first time, it is not an ending he has predicted.

That day, Felix Walken does not wake up.

A/N: You have no idea how long this took me to write. I think I had this collecting dust on my laptop for a couple months and finally had a surge of inspiration to finish it ^^' Anyway, hope you guys enjoyed it! Please drop a review and let me know what ya think, if you get the chance!

-isis