Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Reflections ❯ Prologue: Beginning, & Chapter 1: Homecoming ( Chapter 1 )

Reflections: Beginning

Prologue

A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason.

Standard disclaimer applies: No copyright infringement intended. No profit being made or sought.

Omi drifted through the living room, intent on the manga in his hands. If it hadn't been for nearly tripping over Ken's foot where it stuck out past the end of the sofa, he would never have looked up, would never have caught a glimpse of the muted TV screen out of the corner of his eye… Oh, my God… He froze. The magazine fluttered from his abruptly nerveless fingers. A tremor swept over his small frame, and he made an inelegant, gagging noise.

"Hey- !" Ken bit off a protest when the youngest member of their team staggered backwards, nearly taking his foot off against the edge of the couch. The damned thing had wood-trimmed arms in some sleek, ultra-modern style, and was sharp enough to inflict razor burn. "Omi! Watch where you're going…" But the smaller boy hadn't heard a word that he said; was staring fixedly at the TV screen. Ken frowned and dragged himself far enough upright to see over the littered coffee table. And choked in surprise. And scrabbled madly for the remote so that he could turn up the volume to an audible level.

"-found during a recent police raid in Tanagawa is still unidentified. Authorities have issued an appeal for assistance and released this photo. Anyone with information regarding the victim is encouraged to contact district police headquarters at-- "

Aya.

Oh, my God… That has to be Aya…

The newscaster moved on to an unrelated story about a warehouse fire near the docks, but neither of the Weiss hunters moved. All either of them could see was a horrible crime scene photograph of a swollen face, skin purple with bruises and angry red from scrapes… one eye closed by puffed flesh over what was obviously a broken cheekbone. But the other eye, listless and vacant had been violet, and the filthy, matted hair was the dark shade of crimson that they had only ever seen on one living being.

On Aya.

***********

Yohji cursed soundly at the screaming and shouting coming from downstairs, noise that was coming his way at about mach 2 if he was to judge by the thundering of running feet on the stairs. He knew that it wouldn't work, but he stuffed his head back under his pillow anyway, and held it down with both hands. His door banged open with enough force to send it ricocheting off of the wall, and by the sound of it, nearly taking off Ken's nose in the process. Something solid landed on the bed, and Yohji's pillow was ripped from his face. He cracked an eye, caught a glimpse of a white face, and tried to grab the pillow back.

"Omi…" he groaned, "What the fuck has gotten into you?"

"Aya. Aya's been found-- "

"WHAT?!" The short, sweet sound of that name did more than a shot of coffee straight into his veins could have. Yohji shot upright in bed, tossing back the blankets. He was completely unmindful of the fact that he was stark naked, and that Omi made an odd, sputtering noise when he scrambled out of bed and into a pair of jeans that had been in a heap on the floor. "Where? Did Birman call? Dammit, where is he?"

"Tanagawa. The police found him in a raid-- " Ken interjected. The soccer player waved a hand in front of Omi's wide eyes, startling the younger boy into blushing and stammering his own agreement.

"Yeah… Tanagawa. It was on the news. They were asking for help in identifying him."

Yohki abruptly sat down on the edge of the bed. Shaking, he whispered, "Identifying? Oh, fuck no. He can't be dead."

"Um, no. I don't think so." The smaller blond thought rapidly. The news reporter had said `victim,' not `deceased.' And, lost though that violet gaze had been in the photo, it hadn't been the eye of a dead man; gods knew he had seen enough of those to be able to tell the difference. Then something else occurred to him, and his lips tightened. "Yohji, we have to get him back before anyone else recognizes him."

Behind his shoulder, Ken murmured, "And just how the heck are we supposed to do that?"

************

In the end, they decided to simply steal him.

The plan was for Omi to hack into the police and hospital security systems, and to try to derail duty schedules and guard assignments, while simultaneously taking down both the primary and back-up power on one of the hospital's lower, non-critical care floors. Yohji was to be in position at the nearest nurses' station, chatting up the women on behalf of a fictitious friend, ready to move when the chaos hit. It was kind of dumb, actually. Of the four of them, Ken was the most nondescript, the closest to just looking Japanese, even though his hair had streaked rusty brown thanks to spending every spare minute outside in the sun, coaching the neighborhood kids in soccer. Yohji, between his height, jade green eyes, and wavy dark blond hair was really too memorable. But he also had a knack with people - especially women - that the younger athlete lacked. So, he got to stay inside, and Ken got to freeze his butt off, waiting on the ledge just outside Aya's window.

This last was, of course, the riskiest part of the plan. They would have to lower a man with unknown injuries two stories down to a roof-top terrace, bundle him into a wheelchair, and hopefully make it out the parking lot door, and do it all before anyone noticed that they were short a patient.

As plans went, it was far from their best.

For one thing, no one had bothered to inform the weather gods that wind and freezing drizzle were bad things. Ken squeezed himself more tightly into the angle between a concrete abutment and the target window, blowing on his numbed fingertips. He had chosen to wear gloves that left them bare under the mistaken impression that it would give him an edge in case he had to use lock picks or any other fine tools. Fat chance, if his fingers froze off first. It was nearly the end of March, for Pete's sake, and his dark jacket wasn't really suitable for hanging around out of doors, either.

But at least he didn't have too long to wait. He figured that Omi would be pulling the plug on the electricity any minute now. Their resident computer wiz had already reported over the comm-link that the remaining police officer assigned to guard Aya's door had gone to use the phone at the duty supervisor's desk, and was reaming out his partner, who swore that he wasn't due to relieve him for another two hours. If Yohji could slip unnoticed through the unguarded door during the few minutes of confusion to come, they would presumably be undisturbed for the better part of an hour, until it was time for someone to check on the invalid. Plenty of time to make their escape, right? Then why was his stomach tying itself into miserable knots?

Was it because it was Aya? Indestructible, iron-willed, unyielding Aya? The redhead wasn't supposed to be fragile, or end up seriously wounded. Or missing for upwards of a month, either. To start with, none of them had been too alarmed when the repressed man had elected to take a break by himself for a while; of all of them, he was the least comfortable living hand in glove the way they did. He had simply needed a little space, a little distance between his weary soul and the constant reminders of what they did for a living. Yohji could go out drinking, and pick up chicks, Ken could immerse himself in soccer with the neighborhood kids, and Omi had his schoolwork and computers… Aya got his equilibrium back by pushing things away when they got to be too much.

But he wasn't supposed to get hurt in the process.

Birman had confirmed that Aya had taken at least one solo assignment during his time apart from them. Nothing big, nothing dangerous, not even something that had required a killing to complete. It kind of bothered Ken that his teammate's idea of a vacation consisted of more of the same, but Aya was Aya. In a warped sort of way, it even made sense. The mini-mission had gone off without a hitch, but when Birman next tried to contact him, there had been no answer. And that had been three long weeks ago.

Somewhere below, lights flickered, and went dark. At very nearly the same instant, Omi's voice, thin over the tiny speaker in his ear, said simply "Now." Expertly, Ken fed a shim through a crack by the window and popped its latch. He was through and the betraying draft cut off within seconds, and was just sliding into concealment behind the cotton drape that allowed the room to be divided into a double when the door to the corridor opened. A tall, lanky form was briefly silhouetted against the light. Yohji. His supposition was confirmed by the soft exhalation of his name, "Ken?"

"Yeah." The younger man stepped from his hiding place, and for the first time let his gaze slide to the occupied bed. The form it held hadn't so much as twitched, and that was really disturbing. Aya would never have allowed anyone to invade his space.

"How is he?" Yohji whispered. He didn't seem to find anything strange about un-Aya-ish behavior, and was plucking a small chart from a plastic holder attached to the intravenous stand and its attendant drug pump. He frowned in the dim light, trying to make sense of the symbols and abbreviations on the page. Ken mimicked his frown.

"Not a clue." he admitted. There was nothing in the hospital room to answer the question, either, except for the still shape in the bed. Any documentation was presumably at the nurses' station, or locked up in some doctor's office. Omi had admitted freely that there was next to nothing available to him and his computer. Which presumably meant that there was something special, something that only Aya's assailant would know about. Ken's stomach clenched uneasily as the thought of what that might be. In his years with Weiss, he had seen too damned many things, and his imagination was primed to give him the worst. He sighed, and pushed back his reluctance to approach the bed-ridden man. The clock was ticking, and there really, truly was no other way… But damn, he didn't want to take a look at what had been done to his team mate.

As he lifted the sheet covering Aya's sleeping form, Yohji tucked the list of meds that he was on into a pocket and began assembling the web sling that they would be using to lower Aya to safety. Ken took a deep breath. Well. First observation: while the slim redhead was wrapped like a mummy in bandages, there was no cast, not even a temporary Velcro-ed splint, unless you counted the fact that his pinky finger was taped to its neighbor. That suggested that they didn't have to worry about any major broken bones. But there were disturbingly large hunks of gauze packed into wounds on his shoulder, right side, and inner thigh. That did not bode well for their brand of rough and ready kitchen doctoring. Ken murmured his findings to the former PI as he gently skimmed his hands over his companion's oblivious body. Whatever the doctors had him on, it had to be pretty potent stuff.

Yohji grunted and stepped back from the careful arrangement of ropes and pulleys. It was all rock climbing gear, intended for lowering an unconscious adventurer in case of an emergency, and eminently suited to their needs. He stepped around the end of a cart loaded with blinking equipment, addressing their absent team member as he did so. "Oi, Omi. I'm ready for you to take over the monitors."

"Hai." The lights on the panels gave the barest flicker, then resumed their patient counting and timing. The taller man began swiftly unhooking the leads attached to Aya, as Ken carefully detached the IV from the back of his hand. It took both of them together to shift him into the cocoon of blankets and webbing for his descent. Ken cinched down the last strap just as his partner opened the window. He hesitated, then cleared his throat.

"Yohji, I want to go down with him."

That earned him a worried frown. Yohji was generally too laid-back for his own good, but on something like this, he wouldn't dream of deviating from the agreed-upon plan. Which, in this case, had himself rappelling slowly down along side Aya, steadying him so that he wouldn't bump the wall, and catching him at the bottom. Ken was supposed to stay up top to remove all traces of the ropes before following him down along the more treacherous route of a free climb. It didn't really matter; they were each as good as the other when it came to climbing; but it went against the mission.

"Please?" the younger man said.

Yohji ran a hand back through his thick, amber gold hair, and shrugged. "Yeah. Whatever." He blew out a breath noisily, and somehow, without really knowing how it happened, Ken found himself guiding the too still form of the redhead down to where Omi now waited with a wheelchair, and a longish brunette wig. Moments later, Ken was wheeling his "mother" down a corridor, chattering cheerfully about nothing in particular. No one gave him a second glance.

They were pretty much right on schedule, reaching the exit just as the lights came back on. The hospital staff were all too busy to pay any attention to a wholesome-looking young man with an open, guileless face walking out the main doors. If anything, the only woman who noticed - a volunteer on her way to sit with some distraught family in the ER's waiting room - thought it was rather sweet, the way he carefully tied the scarf around his mother's hair, and made sure that the long coat she wore was buttoned up close against the unpleasant weather outside. The volunteer gave them a fluttery little wave as they passed by, and never noticed soullessly dark eyes grow sadder.

Yohji had a dark, nondescript sedan waiting for them right outside the door, hazard lights blinking in the no parking zone, and between them, they loaded "mom" into the front passenger seat. Ken rolled the wheelchair to the side of the entry way, and quickly scrambled into the car's back seat. They were pulling smoothly away from the curb, signaling a turn out into traffic, and then they were free.

Beside him, Omi sank back, boneless in a post-mission feeling of relief that had nothing and everything to do with their lost lamb. "Jesus," Ken murmured. "I have never been so glad to get out of a hospital in my life." As the bars of light cast by the street lamps flickered past them, the youngerer boy nodded emphatic agreement.

"Yeah… the worst is over now."

Reflections: Homecoming

Chapter One

If only it really were that simple. Birman was waiting for them when they pulled up at the safe house, yet another wheelchair by her side. An irrational urge to growl We don't need that! rolled through Ken, but he stifled it. The only way he was strong enough to lift Aya by himself would be in a fireman's carry, and God only knew what that would do to the man's injuries. As it was, the redhead gave a low moan of pain when they shifted him into the chair, eyelids fluttering weakly as the drugs coursing through his system began to wear off. By his shoulder, Omi made a smothered noise in sympathy.

"I have a doctor waiting." Birman snapped. "He owes Kritiker, so we won't need to worry that he'll let anyone know about Abyssinian." No `hello,' no `glad you made it back.' Just a petite woman clad in clingy sky-blue vinyl and attitude. She turned away, entering the house through a bright rectangle of light that abruptly vanished as the door thumped closed.

Left behind, Ken glared sideways at Omi, daring him to comment. He gripped the chair's handles convulsively, torn by indecision. He didn't want some doctor, a stranger, laying hands on their partner. Even if his rational side understood that they needed the help, that Aya needed it. Because he was afraid to leave the wounded man in the care of someone who was not Weiss. But Yohji was already backing out of the drive, intent on returning the sedan to the drop point; it would be at least half an hour before he got back, and by then they ought to be deep into the rescue's debriefing. And he couldn't afford to miss that. Omi, ever the practical peacemaker, was the one who guessed at the fierce protectiveness that made the other boy freeze.

"It's okay, Ken-kun. Birman would never bring us someone dangerous." His light voice was gentle and matter-of-fact. Ken shot him a quick frown, needing to get Aya safely inside, yet wanting to avoid the woman, too.

"I don't like her." he muttered angrily. "She's not Manx." That defensive declaration probably told Omi a whole lot more than he really wanted to, but it was the truth. There was a world of frustration and suspicion in it: What was Kritiker up to? Just how much did they know about Aya's disappearance and subsequent re-emergence during a police raid? Are we being played?

The blond teen met his gaze levelly. Somewhere behind the outwardly clueless, guileless blue was the sharpest mind and best tactician of their little group. Omi gave Ken a slight nod, just an inclination of his head. I'll find out.

Then he was darting ahead, holding the western style front door open so that Ken could carefully maneuver the wheelchair through into the bright warmth of the safe house. Ken scowled fiercely and huffed, blowing a strand of dark hair off of his forehead. Instead of being happy that they had Aya back, he was letting himself get all stressed and pissy for no good cause. Even little things, like the split-level, modern styling of the house, were starting to get to him. It was no big deal that they had decided to turn the first floor den into a temporary bedroom, rather than subject their wounded partner to the discomfort of being carried upstairs to his usual quarters. It was just common sense, and besides, it would make it easier for them to watch over him during the day. So why was it bugging him so much? Why was he standing there on the threshold of the den, glaring at everything, and nothing?

"Come on, Ken-kun. It'll be okay; you'll see." A childishly thin hand closed on Ken's wrist. He blinked stupidly at the neat, short nails, registering a small white scar across the back of the tanned knuckles. Omi. Again. Forcing him to make yet another decision. He sighed inaudibly.

"Yeah, I know. Give me a hand, will you? I want to get him into bed before that doctor of Birman's gets in here."

"Sure." the boy chirped happily. He dropped Ken's wrist and bustled off, folding back the covers on the narrow twin bed that now occupied the middle of the room. Then he was back, slipping his arm beneath Aya's knees as Ken hooked his hands into the redhead's armpits. On a count of three, they lifted the limp body into bed.

Aya's too light, Ken thought worriedly. It was hard to tell under the added bulk of bandages, but what little of him that was visible under the hospital gown seemed far too thin to be healthy. Back at the hospital, they had been in too much of a hurry to pay close attention, but now, there was no avoiding the knowledge; Aya really was in terrible shape.

With shaking fingers, Ken brushed a strand of blood red hair from the older man's forehead. Neither playing pro soccer, nor his time as an assassin had prepared him for the stab of pure fear that pierced him. What if Aya died? They still didn't know what had happened to him, or the extent of his injuries, but even an idiot could tell that it had been bad. He had been cleaned up since the photo shown on TV had been taken, but under the swelling of his yellow and black cheek, and the scattering of band-aides, his face was gaunt. Omi nudged Ken out of the way, and automatically he obeyed, taking a step back as the boy smoothed a clean, fresh-smelling sheet and a soft, baby blue blanket up over the too-still form.

Birman's pet doctor was already waiting impatiently for them to leave. He was shifting from foot to foot in the hall outside the improvised sickroom, a nondescript man sporting short, iron gray hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. With that face, and his tidy white shirt and black suit, Dr. Nariakira would have been the perfect poster child for the virtues of being a responsible, stereotypically Japanese salary man. Ken hated him on sight. But at least the man seemed to know his stuff. He slid up alongside the bed and began taking Aya's vitals with practiced ease: pulse and blood pressure, and checking the dilation of his pupils with a tiny flashlight, rolling back a slack lid with a thumb and flicking the narrow beam into and out of Aya's line of sight. It wasn't until the doctor folded back the bedding that Omi had tucked so carefully around their teammate, and began drawing up the hem of his hospital gown, that the brunet jerked into motion. Ken's hard grip closed around the man's forearm, arresting him.

"What the hell are you doing?" he growled.

Slanted, coal black eyes blinked in surprise. "His breathing sounds rather wet. I wish to listen to his lungs, in case there is the beginning of pneumonia. I also intend to listen to his heart. These are the preliminaries to a more thorough physical, depending upon what I find."

God, the man sounded as fussy as he looked, with a nasal but educated Kansai accent. Before Ken could say something to that effect, however, Omi's clear voice called his name from the living room. He let the doctor go with a small shove and stalked out the door.

The younger blond's grin was the first thing to register when he stomped into the chic, modern room. Omi was kneeling in the navy-blue couch that formed the nearer side of the grouping of furniture, leaning over its back. He energetically beckoned to Ken, smile widening impossibly. It was on the tip of the athlete's tongue to berate him, to ask how he could possibly be so happy with Aya so badly hurt, but a quiet chuckle followed by a cough drew his eye to the fireplace, and the slim, red-haired woman standing in front of it.

"Manx!" Ken whooped. The surge of relief he felt was so sharp that he instantly understood Omi's reaction. Without thinking, he bounded across the intervening space, and swept the slim woman up in a bone crushing hug. "Oh, Manx! You have no idea how glad we are to see you!" Laughing, she pried ineffectually at his encircling arms, finally settling for a light slap to his jaw that was nearly a caress.

"Well! You were never this happy to see me when I brought you mission briefs."

"Speaking of which-- " Omi cut in eagerly. "Did you find out anything about Aya-kun?" He scooted over to make room as Ken dropped onto the couch beside him. The woman rolled her eyes and struck a pose in front of the fireplace. She looked just as she always had, from the thick waves of her shoulder-length hair, to her short red suit, and on down to her ankle socks and strappy high heels. Heels that Ken had reason to know were just as lethal as his tiger-claws, if she let loose with a spinning, powerhouse kick.

"Find out? Aside from the fact that he's been compromised? Not a hell of a lot." Birman's waspish tone broke into the conversation as their other handler joined them. She seated herself in a matching armchair, crossing elegantly long legs under the brief hem of her form-fitting, sky-blue vinyl skirt. Ken had a brief distracted moment to wonder if looking good in a mini-skirt was one of the prerequisites for the job. If Yohji had been there, he would probably have let loose an appreciative wolf-whistle.

"Ne, Birman-san," Omi's chided. "Aya-kun would never let anything slip about us. He wouldn't talk. Never."

"Abyssinian," she shot back, "Would have had no say in the matter. He was in the hands of the police for over thirty hours."

Angrily, Ken opened his mouth to protest that they had thrown together the rescue in the least amount of time that they could, and had done a damned good job at it, too. Manx beat him to it, shooting the other woman a quelling glare. "Birman, all things considered, I'm impressed at how quickly Weiss was able to retrieve him. However…" Her gaze swept over the two young men, the companionable, friendly woman of moments earlier lost to professional calculation. "It isn't so much a matter of his talking that concerns us. But rather, that the police had ample time to collect tissue and blood sample, fingerprints, and whatever else they could from him. Even if he was unconscious the whole time - which we don't know for a fact - they would still have had the opportunity to learn far too much."

"Too much about what?" another voice asked. Yohji's hip bumped the front door closed with a muted thud and he ambled over to join them. Ken snorted softly as the man's eyes ran predictably over the two women, taking in long legs and short skirts. Youji slid him a sideways glance, smirking, but opted to hold his peace as he perched on the arm of the blue sofa. Omi was the one who glanced up, pixie features scrunched in open concern, and answered the lanky man's original question.

"The police. They know about Aya-kun, now."

"Hn. So what's the big deal? Just make it all disappear. My prints were on file, too, from back when I got my PI's license. Kritiker took care of it."

Manx rolled her eyes in exasperation. "The difference, Balinese, is that you had already been declared dead, and your information had been moved into the inactive files before we took that action. Abyssinian, on the other hand, may well be their only living lead in an extremely active and high profile case. The authorities are not likely to let us sweep him under a rug. The truth is that he is becoming a liability."

"No!" Omi burst out. He was on his feet, turning frantically between Manx and his partners. "You can't say that. Aya would never let us down. It's wrong for us to turn against him. There has to be a way."

The annoyance on their handler's pretty features softened, and Ken was reminded that she had known the boy longer than any of them, had practically raised him to be a Hunter. She spoke gently, "Bombay… Omi… Then you also know that he would never want to put any of you at risk. I'm not proposing to terminate his employment, I just think it may be time for him to move on again, into a different line of work. Something a little less `noticeable' than Weiss Kreuz."

Ken was sure that he looked every bit as stunned as the kid did; for one thing, he could feel his mouth open and close, with nothing coming out. He knew, of course, that Aya had belonged to another team before coming to them, was even vaguely aware that before that something terrible had happened to the ones who had trained him, not long after Kritiker had first taken him in. Nobody liked to talk about it, but enough tidbits had been allowed to slip out and they all added up to Aya already having a past with the organization. And Ken wasn't sure how much more slack the redhead was likely to get.

Surprisingly, it was Yohji who drawled, "Or maybe we should make it so that the cops have no reason to be interested? By solving their case for them? What do you say, girls, are we up for a little detective work, or what?"

****************

A rather peremptory cough drew five sets of eyes around to the mouth of the first floor hallway, stopping dead a pointless argument over how Aya could possibly have ended up in Tanagawa. Even though he already had their undivided attention, the doctor standing there fussily cleared his throat a second time, and rapped his knuckles on the clipboard that he carried. "Well. The twenty-four hours that he spent in the hospital did a great deal toward stabilizing your young man's condition, and the IV that he's on is making good progress against his dehydration. I would prefer that he had remained there longer…?" He peered at them in turn, shrugged, and let the suggestion drop unfinished. "Be that as it may, then. Allow me to give you my report. His initial injuries stem from a severe beating two to three weeks ago. While the majority of the contusions are healing on their own, there was some more serious damage that had been left untreated until his arrival at the hospital. They are as follows: little finger on the right hand, broken in two places, right wrist dislocated. This is consistent with his having been forcibly disarmed during a fight. He has wounds on his shoulder, right side, and inner thigh. The shoulder appears to be the result of a gunshot. I am unable to ascertain the causes of the other two. However, the course of antibiotics that the hospital started him on should be very helpful in combating any infections resulting from those, and also the mild case of pneumonia he is suffering from. The congestion in his bronchial tubes appears to stem as much from a reaction to where ever he was held, as to illness. The last item on the list, however, is the most serious. He suffered a skull fracture--"

"His cheek?" Yohji demanded. Catching the expressions around the living room that ranged from darkly amused to incredulous, to outraged, he added defensively, "What?" Ken snorted, while Omi rolled his eyes and fought down a grin.

"Ne, Yohji-kun, let Nariakira-sensei finish his sentence. He was getting there." teased the boy. Yohji was always so easy-going… until something seized his interest. Then he was like a dog with a bone, and Omi could practically hear the annoyed growl that that behavior would draw from Aya once he was back on his feet. Aya hated being the center of attention - especially that kind.

"No, I was not referring to his cheek." the doctor admitted. "That damage is comparatively recent - not more than a week old - and looks worse than it is. He probably won't even require any reconstructive measures. No, what I'm referring to is a slightly depressed area in the rear of his skull. Without access to the appropriate diagnostic equipment, I can't begin to hazard a guess on its severity." Nariakira scowled at each member of his audience in turn, clearly indicating that he saw the lack as being entirely their fault, then presented his clipboard to Manx with a tight bow. "If you would be so kind, I would appreciate it if you arrange a ride home for me? I will, of course, return in the morning."

The senior handler nodded shortly. "Of course. Thank you for coming, Nariakira-sensei." She offered him a tight, barely humorous smile, and drew her cell phone from her jacket and quickly tapped in a page. "If you would care to go to the front door, my driver will be with you in a moment."

Ken opened his mouth to comment, but the younger boy beside him jabbed him sharply in the ribs. Startled, the soccer player rubbed the sore spot and shut up, realizing that there were things that were best kept in the family, and for all that the doctor was on the Kritiker payroll, he really wasn't one of them. When the front door had finally closed behind the man, Omi again beat him to it, bursting out angrily and unintentionally echoing the older boy's thoughts. "Manx-san! Why did it take so long to locate Aya-kun and bring him home? The police shouldn't have been the ones to find him, we should have. He's one of us."

Frowning, she shook her head, answering with resignation, "Bombay, we've been over this. You know as much as I do. We couldn't find him, because there was nothing to find. In a sense, it was pure luck that the police stumbled over him, seeing as they were after under-age prostitutes and run-aways, not an operative of Kritiker."

Pure luck… Ken shivered when a nasty feeling ran down his spine. He didn't like the sound of that, much, didn't like to think how close they had come to never finding Fujimiya Aya: swordsman, assassin, and partner. The little blond that vibrated against his side had literally scoured the Internet until he had fallen asleep at his keyboard, and done it not once, but night after night. Yohji and Ken, himself, had been back over the route between their communal home and the last known places that Aya had visited, checking and rechecking coffee shops and bums, cabs, gas stations, and quickie one-stop grocers. Anything. Any place that he might have stopped. Anyone who might have registered the distinctively handsome man. Normally, they all cursed the fact that it was next to impossible for Aya to slip through a crowd unnoticed, but this time, it had been their only hope.

And the hope had turned to dust. When he had failed to return from his "vacation," they had all started looking, but the trail was already days cold. There had been nothing to find.

"You said it was a high-profile case that the police were working on?" Ken asked abruptly. "What's so high-profile about teenage prostitutes?"

"Nothing. Except when one of them turns out to be the grand-daughter of a member of the Prime Minister's cabinet." snapped Birman. She sounded more than a little put-out, and sourly re-crossed her legs. Yohji's appreciative gaze followed the movement intently, but he still managed to pay attention to the conversation.

"So, the big-shot had the police tracking the kid down? And that's why they decided to bust the whorehouse?" the older hunter murmured. His lazy smile grew into a smirk as the handler scowled at him but defiantly resisted the urge to tug her skirt down. Ignoring the exchange, Manx nodded.

"Yes. The place was nothing special. Just a small time operation that wasn't worth anyone's time to shut down. Their bad luck that the girl they picked up on the street was a somebody, not a nobody." The quiet words were derisive. It was hard to tell if she was mocking the whorehouse's bad luck, or that of the other runaway children who didn't rate a full-out police assault. "Of course, rather than looking into why the stupid girl ran away in the first place, gramps is up in arms and demanding justice. That they found Aya being held there seems to have just added fuel to the fire."

"Why?" Omi asked curiously. "Why didn't they just assume that he was a customer who got roughed up?"

Manx shook her head. "I have no idea. Absolutely none. But he seems to have importance, and that's going to be a problem for us."

Gloomy silence descended on the five of them, until the boy visibly shook himself. He wasn't the one responsible for research in their little band for nothing. Instinct said that there was something there, just waiting to be nosed out, and that he was just the guy to do it. "Okay, we're missing something. We're just going to have to go back through what we've got until we find it. Birman-san, I'd like to see the mission data from the assignment you gave Aya-kun. Please."

"You'd what?" Incredulous, the woman reared back. Her blue-tinted black hair seemed to bristle out into a cloud, as if it could sense that Omi had just declared that the sun rose in the west. Or something at least as ridiculous. "You know I can't do that. All reports to Kritiker are kept confidential, and are only shared on a need-to-know basis."

"Well," Omi said reasonably. "I need to know. And it would be helpful if the rest of our group could look it over, too. An extra person might be just what it takes to spot the inconsistency that will give us a break."

At the obstinate set to Birman's mouth, Ken's hand tightened into a fist and he felt his temper slip another notch down the path toward pounding the woman into a paste. He didn't especially care that she was a Kritiker agent, and that they were supposed to follow her orders; Birman made his hackles rise, and this felt like just the excuse he needed to make that point with her. To his surprise, it was the tall playboy, Yohji, who leaned over, resting a gentle hand on his clenched fingers. He drawled at the woman, "Hey, what can it hurt? We do some of your work for you, and we get to find out what happened to Aya-kun. It's a win-win, right?"

"I fail to see the relevance of Abyssinian's last assignment. It was simply an intelligence-gathering exercise, and he was only pulled in at the last minute because the team that it would normally have gone to already had too much on their plates. It wasn't even anything that required him to get security clearance." she replied sullenly.

"Then you won't mind letting us take a peek, will you?" The older man gave her a winning smile, pulling off the sunglasses perched on top of his head and twirling them idly between his fingers. Then the smile slipped, showing a bit of the fangs beneath, and he continued more softly. "Just in case there was anything that didn't make it into the transcript? By accident, of course."

The effect was more than a little unnerving, and Birman looked to her senior uncertainly. Manx was silent. Finally, the dark haired woman shrugged. "I guess it doesn't matter. The mission is over and done with, anyway." Her attention shifted to the blond teenager seated in the center of the couch, flanked by his two friends. "Bombay, hook your laptop up to the TV."

Omi jumped to comply, fetching the battered carry bag that held his equipment. The living room had a sleek plasma screen TV that was nearly double the size of the one back home, and his fingers itched to play with its controls. But this was hardly the time. It was too rare a chance to get a glimpse of what the other units within Kritiker were involved with. Weiss Kreuz might be an elite team of assassins, but they were far from being the only resource at their employer's command. He unrolled a patch cord and hooked his computer up to the TV. Birman nudged him aside, however, when he attempted to log on, and her slim fingers danced across the keys, flashing slick, dark violet polish at them. The boy watched greedily as windows flickered by, opening and closing rapidly, until Aya's familiar low voice came from the TV's speakers. She set the laptop on the coffee table in front of the couch and retreated to her chair.

It never failed to surprise and amuse the other Weiss hunters that such a deep, rich voice should be matched with Aya's deceptively slight figure. While nearly as tall as Yohji, he was all whipcord muscle and hidden steel, with only his graceful, confident movements to give the game away to outsiders. As they listened, Aya ran through his pre-mission equipment check, recording date and time.

Omi was the one who gave a tiny, involuntary start. At Ken's questioning murmur, he leaned over and groused, "They gave him all the brand new, miniaturized stuff. Jerks." On the other side of the boy, still half sitting on the arm of the couch, Yohji snorted. Trust their tech to get bent out of shape over something like that. The equipment that Omi regarded with such jealousy included a tiny, sensitive mic that fit invisibly inside Aya's shirt collar, ready to be activated by his barely vocalized whisper. They were all practiced at the soft speech that was almost ventriloquism. The redhead would have worn a receiver tucked into one ear to go with the mic, and that was the piece that really made the youngest Weiss salivate; it was smaller than the best hearing aid, and had incredibly clear fidelity and double the range of their own equipment.

After a long moment, the screen of the big TV lit as well, Aya's digital camera coming on line. They caught a glimpse of the man himself as he passed his hotel room's mirror, almost unrecognizable in an exquisitely tailored slate-gray suit instead of his usual, ugly orange sweater and chinos. Birman's voice-over confirmed that everything was go, and that they would begin recording when the hunter left his car at the target destination. His quiet acquiescence ended the test segment.

A new time stamp jumped onto the display and Aya's sharply creased pants leg passed through their field of vision as he slid out of his Porche, and a valet slid in. Yohji grunted "Wow…" enviously as Aya strode past the entrance to an opulent restaurant and a casino on his way to a rose-marble lobby with a bank of elevators. A uniformed attendant punched in a code, and the slim assassin was on his way up.

They watched his ghostly reflection in the smoked glass walls as the glittering cityscape slid by outside. The sheen of a polished cotton shirt in the same exact slate shade as his suit drew out the blue in his violet eyes, and mellowed the fierce red of his hair. Gleaming rivers of headlights crisscrossed below, and in the distance the distinctive form of the Tokyo Tower rose into the skyline. Blue-violet eyes finally focused on his reflection, and long fingers tugged at collar and lapels, minutely adjusting the drape of his jacket. Then, Aya turned away from the fantastic, superimposed view of city and flesh just as the elevator doors hissed open. Ken was surprised by the lump in his throat, unable to decide if it was out of appreciation for beauty that had nothing to do with gender, or because there was no way to warn this past Aya so that he could avoid becoming the present Aya who lay unconscious less than twenty-five feet away. Either way, the sensation made him want to cry.

The feeling of dread stuck with Ken as, for the next two hours, he and his friends fought to stay awake while the redhead moved through an expansive, posh suite, quietly identifying pieces of art while the camera he wore captured the faces of the other attendees. The slim man ignored the fact that he was getting almost as many looks as the items that were up for sale. A small bronze sculpture of a cowboy on a bucking bronco was listed off as a Remington, and a tiny, swirling miniature of painted sunflowers was described as being by Van Gogh. Birman's reply agreed with the assessment of the latter, saying "Yes, that's one of the ones Interpol has listed as stolen. Plan to bid on it tomorrow." Aya's quiet grunt acknowledged the order, and he moved on to another grouping. Even though he kept his interactions to a minimum, it was obvious that he knew his way around a classy, well-heeled gathering like that, that he had the manners to blend in, even if he came across as socially challenged when he was with his teammates. And it was equally obvious that he was intimately familiar with art and artists, identifying schools and time periods with ease. It was no secret that the quiet man preferred reading over more social activities, and they were all used to relying on Aya's ability to rapidly assess a situation and think of a solution. But that was a far cry from seeing him move confidently through the crowded reception, rubbing shoulders with the rich and famous. Abruptly, it hit the soccer player that this was the world that their teammate really belonged in - not the flower shop, and definitely not the blood-splattered darkness. Ken felt a twinge of something suspiciously like jealousy.

Aya's soft speech broke into Ken's distracted thoughts; he had pushed open the swinging door to a small lounge that was all forest and moss green carpet and walls, and glittering brass light fixtures. "Birman, I'm going unavailable for a few minutes. Camera off." The digital image ceased just as Aya shoved another door, briefly revealing a slice of cool green marble floor, and the corner of a counter stacked with real fabric towels. Ken snickered; even Superman had to make pit stops.

Without the redhead's vocalizations to keep it on, the auditory pick up cut out as well. Not that the bored soccer player minded; he lived with the man, for God's sake, and knew more about his finicky personal habits than he had ever wanted to. Yawning, Ken slid down farther in the couch cushions, outstretched legs bumping the coffee table. He yawned again, cracking his jaw this time, and glanced at his wristwatch. It was on the high side of 2:00 am, and the deadly dull recording had yet to yield any sort of pay dirt. It was starting to look as if Birman had been right, and they were idiots for insisting on prying.

An involuntary noise reactivated the recording, and the mic was picking up an unfamiliar voice, distorted by the bouncing echoes of the washroom's hard surfaces. It was definitely male, and very likely foreign. There was something about the cadence of the words and the way the accent fell wrong that made it sound American. But that wasn't what really made them sit up and take notice; it was the warm, intimate baritone that sounded like a caress, saying, "Well… hel-lo, gorgeous."

That beauty and elegance had attracted someone else's attention, too.

They gave almost identical groans of half disgust, and half humor. It was a long-standing joke that Momoe had hired the four young men solely on the basis of their looks when she had decided to retire from actively running the flower shop. The truth of it was that no one would seriously believe that four cute guys working as florists could also be the crack team of assassins that slipped without fail through the fingers of any and all opponents. It was a part of their cover that Yohji was the handsome lady-killer, that Ken was the wholesome athlete - just the sort that the matrimony-minded girls wanted to bring home to meet the folks, and that Omi was the cute, sweet kid. Of course, Aya was in a league of his own: crimson and snow, a rigidly controlled, volcanic temper beneath a frigid exterior. It was no wonder that people stared at him, even if it was the last thing that he wanted.

Most of the time, the man was either oblivious, or annoyed by the reactions he got. But this time, there was a faintly panicky edge as he murmured, "Excuse me…" But the stranger wasn't going to let him go so easily.

"Well, look at that… You're Fujimiya's kid, aren't you?" The voice, now clearly American, and amused, cut across the background noise of running water as Aya hastily finished at the sink. There was the scuff and crisp sound of hard soled shoes on marble as their owner approached. Yohji and Ken exchanged alarmed glances; aside from nightmare of being recognized by someone from their previous lives - a worry that was never far from any of the assassins - they had never heard anyone make reference to Aya's parents. Certainly, their teammate never had.

Aya growled something indistinct to the effect of, "You must be mistaken, my name is Fujita Masahiro," but the stranger rode over it.

"Nah, you're Fujimiya-san's kid. I remember the first time he brought you to a company picnic; there was a hell of a lot of speculation over whether you were really his, with your coloring. You didn't look anything like him, or your mom." The voice got more intimate, lower and more confidential, suggesting that its master was leaning into Aya's personal space. "So what are you doing here? I heard your family's assets got seized. I know the embezzlement case never went to trial, but murder-suicide is a damned strong admission of guilt."

Embezzlement? Murder-sucide?? What the fuck--? Identical looks of stunned consternation passed between the three Weiss members on the couch. Ken noted abstractedly that neither Manx nor Birman seemed surprised. Of course not. They already know everything about all our pasts. But it was damned worrisome that while the red haired woman's brows drew together into a thoughtful frown, Birman's poker face never wavered. That meant that Manx had presumably not listened to the recordings, had only read the mission transcripts, while as primary, the other handler would have been there, would have heard every word as it was spoken. That thought was confirmed when the recording continued and Manx's sharp brows flew up in astonishment. All of this was news to her.

"So… You're here under an assumed name, and you definitely don't have the money to be here alone… Who's your sugar-daddy, gorgeous?" Friendly, in the slightly condescending, arrogant way of someone who had the upper hand and knew it. The sound was low, and breathy, coming bare inches away from the mic in Aya's collar.

Oh, so not good. In his mind's eye, Ken could practically see the way the fine skin would have tightened around Aya's almond shaped eyes as they narrowed, the way his soft mouth would have thinned even more than usual with the anger. "My father didn't- " Aya choked, swallowing whatever he had been about to say, but the barely-there tremor in his voice screamed at them. Whoever this man was, he was someone that Aya didn't want to see, was in fact afraid to see. And the things that he was raking up were tearing their self-contained teammate to shreds. With an effort, Aya controlled himself, bottling every bit of emotion to continue in a flat tone. "I remember you. Roy Benson. You were with one of the big brokerage houses… Price Waterhouse?"

Benson made a pleased sound. "Very good. Although, it's Price Waterhouse Coopers, now. I rode out the merger pretty well."

Aya went on as if he hadn't heard a thing. "My father said you were a real son of a bitch."

That elicited a bark of laughter. "Then I'm sure that he also told you that I'm used to getting whatever I want. And right now… that might be you. I won't tell our hosts about you, if you play nice…?" The words slid into an interrogative, but they were so close that Aya's inarticulate noise of protest was drowned out by a rustle of cloth and a moist exhalation. "Hmm. You do taste as good as you look. If you play nice, I might forget to wonder about how you got in here. Because I'm sure that the people running this little shindig would have something to say about you being here under false pretenses."

"What do you want?" Flat, defeated, steeling himself against the worst, thinking furiously about how to salvage the situation… the nuances packed into the four, clipped words were pure Aya-speak.

"Me?" Soft, victorious laughter. "I want to see you put that pretty mouth to good use. I want to see what you look like with my cock in your mouth, down on your knees-- " There was a sharp sound, and an abortive cry that sounded like Aya trying to squirm free without doing anything that didn't fit with his cover, and failing miserably. Then there was harsh panting against the mic, and the rasping buzz of a zipper. "Oh, yeah… like that. Just… like… that…"

The wet, rhythmic sounds were almost worse without the visuals. Ken had an irrational urge to cover the kid's ears. It wasn't like Omi had never gotten stuck listening to other people having sex before. God knew that as the team's technophile, he ran surveillance on targets as easily as walking and talking. But somehow, this was different. This was Aya, for crying out loud, and if there was one thing that they all knew about the redhead, it was that he absolutely hated having anyone touch him.

"Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Aya!" shouted Yohji. Agitated, he sprang from the couch, whirled, and came within a heartbeat of flinging Omi's laptop into the TV screen. Without thinking, Ken tackled the older man, wrapping himself around forearm and wrist before he could do anything stupid. Shorter and more compact, Ken probably still weighed in at about the same as the lanky blond, and he used that to his advantage, forcing Yohji to sit back down.

Omi snaked an arm past the struggling pair and tapped the keyboard to pause the playback. His face was beet red, and he couldn't bear to look at anyone else in the room, even though he was thinking a hundred miles a minute. The blond teen shrugged helplessly. It wasn't just that he was younger than his partners - at seventeen, he was well aware that even Ken had a couple-three solid years on him - but it was because he looked even younger than he was. There was no hiding his small size, or the fact that his thin, gawky build made him out to be all miss-matched parts: skinny legs and too big feet, knobby knees and childishly large eyes in an almost girlishly cute face that had yet to feel the kiss of a razor. It was just so fucking unfair.

But, at the same time, he had been an assassin longer than any of the others, having grown up in the trade. He was smart, and skilled, and damned good at it. Frowning, the boy gathered his resolution around him. "We need to listen to the rest of it; to find out just how sour the mission went. I mean, it's possible that this was just some random encounter, and that Aya-kun pulled it off."

"Omi…" Yohji spoke his name with a heart-broken sob, and the kid's eyes jerked to meet his, blue gone suspiciously bright. Their gazes locked for a long minute, and it was the older man who looked away first. Yoji scrubbed a hand over his face, then back through his hair, tucking jaw length strands behind an ear. He sighed, defeated. "Yeah, you're right. Besides, this is all ancient history. Why should we get bent out of shape over something that happened weeks ago?"

Because it matters. Ken answered silently. He relaxed his hold on Yohji's other arm, and gave the man an irresistible tug back into a quick hug. It was funny that Yohji, who was so casual about sex when it came to himself, should be the one to get all bent out of shape when it came to the rest of them. The tall blond was like that; quick to wear his heart out on his sleeve when it came to taking care of his friends. Over Yohji's shoulder, Ken sought out Manx, and noted the pained expression on her face. But that bitch, Birman, was as blank as ever, although he could swear that he saw the beginnings of uneasiness under her mask. It was obvious that there was more to come, and that they weren't going to like it.

Omi's lips thinned resolutely, and he clicked on `play' again. Grimly, they waited until the mix of guttural panting and cursing, and obscene, wet slurping and sucking hit a crescendo - Remind me to never wear my mic right there! Ken thought frantically - and died into a satisfied moan. "God, you're good, kid…" The baritone was breathless, and high. Aya made a harsh, gagging sound, spitting into a sink and then covering the sounds with running water.

"Here." There was an indistinct, plastic rattle on the counter top. "I'm staying at the Imperial. Room 708. Come see me when the viewing is done."

"I'm not--"

"Yes, you are." Benson said calmly. "We've already established that there's someone that you didn't want knowing who you really are, or you wouldn't have gone down on me. Be there." The implied threat was confident. The listeners heard an angry, choked sputter from Aya, and they knew with sickening certainty exactly what was going through the redhead's mind: Whatever it takes. Don't jeopardize the mission.

The American's voice resumed, still filled with an almost gentle, musing calm. "You give really great head, kid. I'd be interested to see if you're just as good at other things. Till later." Footsteps, a jaunty, almost swaggering beat against the hard floor, withdrew. The door swished.

"Birman. Get me the profile on him." Beneath the unmistakable, hoarse rasp of Aya's voice was rage.

"Negative." The handler snapped back. "Benson is not, repeat NOT, part of the mission."

"He knows who I- "

"All he knows is your name, Abyssinian. So long as he thinks you're just a fucktoy who puts out, he has no reason to tell anyone else. So drop it and focus on your objectives."

The only sound from the speaker was a low growl, punctuated by the sound of a muffled blow. Aya had punched the wall. Then there was the faint swish of the swinging door as he returned to his post.