Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Reflections ❯ Lost ( Chapter 3 )

Author's Note:

The gold star for most amusing review goes to LoneCayt:

"So, an amnesia scenario? Hmm. A pretty average plot device, and done pretty often. But Aya's always an interesting character to give amnesia to. I was impressed by your attention to detail and your descriptions - normally, I would've said the plot could've used some work to make it flow better and such, but I think the detail and description you've used tends to fill in that gap. I'm interested to see where you take this."

LoneCayt, if I had had your email, you would have gotten chapter 3 in your mailbox five minutes after I received this. Please read - you'll see why. (*snicker*) Thank you for entertaining me.

L.A. Mason

P.S. I've actually finished writing chapter 6, and hope to stay a couple of chapters ahead of the postings.

Reflections: Lost

Chapter Three

A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason.

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

"Calm down, Ken. How could he not be Aya? I mean, this isn't a soap opera on TV. Real people don't suddenly discover that they have long-lost evil twins."

Like hell. Had the rest of Weiss somehow managed to drive the memory of Schwarz out of their collective minds? Because he hadn't. The harassed athlete muttered "… if people have evil twins, then we're the ones assigned to Weiss." Yohji blinked, but decided not to rise to the bait.

"Look, kiddo. Kritiker has his prints on file. Plus probably everything else that there is to know about him, right down to the last sequence on his DNA. We just check this guy's prints against Kritiker's, and we'll know if he's Aya, or not." suggested Yohji, slumping down into the blue sofa and planting his feet on the coffee table. Seated on the floor nearly beneath him, Omi shoved his long legs out of the way, muttering "Not next to the laptop, idiot." The boy was gnawing on his lower lip, completely focused as his slim fingers flew across the computer's keyboard.

Ken had a brief, panicky thought about Kritiker, and surveillance. But, he forced himself to relax; that was one thing that agreeable, obedient Omi had proven defiant about: Kritiker could not spy on them in the privacy of their own home. And the teen had applied the rule to the safe house, too. Ken forced himself to quit hyperventilating, to calm down for God's sake.

It was weird to think that his companions hadn't argued with him once about Aya, but accepted his intuition at face value. Ken's mind skittered sideways from the thought, adding it to the growing file of things that he didn't want to deal with just then.

"I can't get into those records." Omi snapped finally. He rubbed at the back of his stiff neck with growing annoyance. "If there's one thing Kritiker protects with a vengeance, it's the identities of the operatives in the various cells. There might be a few people at the top who know who everyone is, but down on our level, the cells are kept strictly isolated. That way, if one team goes down, the others can't be compromised."

Yojhi made an odd, see-sawing gesture with one hand, as if he weren't too surprised that there was a file out there that the kid couldn't access, after all. "Okay, look. There must be something that Aya - our Aya - has handled that I can lift his prints from, right? All I have to do is to compare them to Sleeping Beauty, and we'll know if he was ever there.

"Aya's katana." answered Omi promptly. Distracted from his futile quest on the computer, the youngest assassin was nodding enthusiastically, the gist of what Yohji was proposing apparently making perfect sense to him. "I brought it with us. Knowing how protective Aya is of it, logically, that means that the only prints on it should be his, and mine, because no one else would have touched it."

The former detective grinned approvingly. "Got it in one, kid. I can eliminate your prints, easy. If what's left matches our mystery guest, the odds are good that he actually is our favorite icy prick."

Bewildered, Ken passed an anxious glare from one to the other of his partners. "What do you mean, `odds?' If it's a match, he is, right?"

"Ah, ah… only circumstantial evidence, since we have no witness to the prints being made, and no positively ID-ed control to compare them to. If I was a lawyer, all I would be able to claim is that the same person made both sets of prints." Yohji grinned as he waggled a finger in the younger man's face. When Ken looked as if he were seriously considering biting it, he backed off, turning instead to Omi and saying expectantly, "Well? Go get it."

Bounding up from the floor, Omi went, and got. He came thundering back down the carpeted flight from the house's upper level - presumably from Aya's usual bedroom - clutching a familiar long shape that was swaddled in a cloth carry case. Yohji's tensely mocking humor lightened, becoming genuine for an instant at the sight as he unfolded from the couch with alacrity.

"Perfect! That cuts down on the likelihood of stray prints. Gimme." He extended a hand impatiently, and perplexed, the teen handed the weapon over. Without bothering to wait to see if the others would follow, or not, the taller of the two blonds spun about and headed in the direction of the massive kitchen, on the next half-level down. Ken shrugged and followed, Omi trotting at his heels.

As they emerged into the gleaming, stainless steel room, Yohji paused at the housekeeper's cramped desk that was squeezed into a nook at the bottom of the stairs, and snitched a tape dispenser. He set it and the still-wrapped sword on the huge steel worktable that dominated the center of the room, and focused his attention on the contents of a big spice rack. Several sneezes and impromptu taste-tests later, he carried an arm load of jars over to the table. At the mystified expressions on the two younger Weiss' faces, he relented and explained, "I don't have any powdered graphite, so I need something really fine-ground to use for finger print powder."

"Oh." In spite of himself, Ken was impressed. He had never really given much thought to Yohji's supposed abilities as a detective, having long since written them off as being mainly limited to having the gift of the gab. The man could make just about anybody spill their life's story, on the basis of his sympathetic expression alone. It was kind of a shock to discover that he had some real… well… `detecting' skills. But there he was, sifting a fine mist of something orange onto the black lacquered sheath of Aya's precious katana.

His choice of locations made sense, after a long moment of consideration. The sword's hilt, between its sharkskin wrapping and elegantly crisscrossed silk bindings, was too rough to hold finger prints; which was as it should be, since the point was to provide a secure grip for its master's hands in a fight. The tiny gold menuki that winked beneath the blood-red silk, and the ornately carved oval of the tsuba were no better. And there was no point in checking the blade itself, as Aya would never allow a fingerprint to mar its lightly oiled surface. But the glossy black surface of the sheath was another matter. More times than he could count, Ken had seen slim white fingers gripping it by its middle. And sure enough, that was were Yohji found a host of nearly invisible spots to trap his dust. The detective carefully lifted each off with tape, mounting them on a sheet of clean white paper.

"There." He hummed with satisfaction. "Now, all we have to do it to compare them to our guest up in the den."

Ken swallowed hard past the lump in his suddenly-dry throat, unable to decide if he wanted to them to match, or not. If they didn't, at bare minimum, they would have to explain to Manx how and why they had snatched the wrong man from the hospital, and at worst… they might be sitting on the tip of an iceberg of a conspiracy, because it could mean that someone had deliberately set them up to bring a cuckoo back to their nest. And if that were the case, he didn't want to think what it could mean for the original Aya. Their friend could be in serious trouble, if not dead outright. Which served to remind him naggingly of the conversation that the three of them had had earlier: in the real world, the professionals didn't keep victims alive, so why had Aya been spared?

He had just better hope that the redhead recuperating in the den was their redhead. Even if it meant that they were up against stock soap opera plot number two: horribly timed amnesia.

**********

Well. That went well. Or not. Ken frowned, staring at the unconscious redhead, not quite able to stop himself from shying away at naming him `Aya.' The prints matched, which upped the odds on him being their assassin, their Abyssinian, but somehow the knowledge didn't make him feel any better.

That smile, so fucking beautiful. And so very, very wrong.

Aya didn't smile.

Groaning, Ken rubbed his aching temples and tried not to think about it. Yet the ideas wouldn't leave him alone, and he was forced to admit that if the body was Aya's, then something terrible had happened to drive away his partner's mind. He flopped into the armchair, dragging one of Omi's blankets up around him, stealing what comfort he could from the boy's lingering scent. Okay, logically, it was fruitless to obsess about what had, or had not, happened to the man until he woke up and could answer some questions. Hell, there was always the slim possibility that it had just been the drugs that Aya was pumped full of that made him seem so strange. He might wake up with that tight-lipped, stone-cold face that was his version of normal, and then Ken could feel like a moron for alarming the rest of Weiss over nothing.

Right.

Ken didn't know what he was going to do. He was well aware that, even by Weiss standards, his hold on reality was a bit fucked up. Losing Kase not once, but twice and the second time by his own hand, had made him vulnerable, and had reawakened a host of memories that he had thought set aside by his training through Kritiker. On top of that mess, his brief what-ever-it-was with Yuriko that had nearly torn him away from his teammates left him feeling emotionally out of control. It wasn't fair, but he really needed Aya back as a stable point in an increasingly unstable world. Tears were beginning to seep from beneath his tightly squeezed shut lids, and rubbing his face into Omi's blanket simply wasn't enough.

"Ken-kun? What's the matter?" The low, warm voice made its target twitch so hard that Ken was sure he had dislocated something. Then joy leapt in his heart; Aya remembered my name!

"W-wha--? N-nothing!" Confused, a flush of embarrassment creeping up his cheeks, the younger man found himself staring into a steady pair of eyes that seemed very aware of his turbulent mental state. Aya frowned slightly in a way that seemed wholly normal, then did the unthinkable: he held his hand out toward Ken.

As hands went, it wasn't that threatening. Too large and masculine to be mistaken for a woman's, it none-the-less was slim, and elegant. His nails were too long, and on the ragged side, as if he had broken most of them a while back and let them grow out without further attention. They didn't fit with the automatic, almost mechanical care that Aya normally took of his body. The hand beckoned imperiously, drawing Ken's stunned attention to the pale expanse of bare forearm, and the way the skin was reddened and irritated by the tape that secured the IV's needle. All in all, a very human invitation, which probably explained the depth of Ken's reluctance. But even so, the athlete pulled himself up out of the chair, letting the comforter slip from his shoulders, and hesitantly approached.

The texture of Aya's calluses, and the hard strength still present despite his weakened condition, immobilized Ken as the other man's fingers wrapped around his, and tugged. Before he could think to protest, he was perched on the edge of the bed with Aya still in it, and it seemed as if the redhead had gone back to sleep. But asleep, or not, it made no difference; the bewildered assassin was trapped. There was no way short of violence to get his hand back.

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

"Aw, isn't that just the cutest thing you've ever seen?" Groggily, Ken worked out that the speaker was Yohji. A Yohji who was sounding way too amused for the sanity and well-being of anybody within range. And what the hell did he mean by `cute,' anyway?

"Hey! Keep it down, would you?!" hissed Omi. "They need some sleep."

Oh. Sleep. Sleep was good. Despite some annoying tendencies toward being a morning person, Ken could appreciate sleeping in. He was feeling surprisingly comfortable, and more relaxed than he could remember being in days… weeks, even. He made an inarticulate noise, and burrowed in closer to the heat of his pillow, distantly registering how it shifted to accommodate him.

Wait a minute. Accommodated? But… there shouldn't be anyone there. Hadn't been anyone since Yuriko, even though he'd had plenty of offers from their fan club following the young woman's departure for Australia. Adrenaline, closely chased by fear, jolted the weariness out of him, and he tried to sit up, only to find that there was a very possessive arm wrapped around his shoulders. His eyes flew open wide.

Yohji was snickering, and really deserved to die. Like, right away.

"Help?" squeaked Ken. The papery texture beneath his cheek was unmistakably a hospital gown.

The snicker turned to a guffaw that cut off abruptly when Omi hissed angrily. The kid's voice took over, light and soothing, "It's okay, Ken-kun. We'll get you loose."

"You know," Yohji drawled, "When I suggested that you climb in and join our little Aya, I didn't think you had the balls to act on the idea." Neither of the younger assassins responded; Omi was too busy trying to find a way to defuse the bomb, and Ken was fighting the panic that seemed to be his constant mood of late. The detective made a vague sound of disappointment.

"There… All better." the blond teen murmured gently. The entrapping arm relaxed, falling limply away, and the older boy gingerly sat up.

Prior to the events of the preceding couple of days, Ken couldn't remember having ever been close to a sleeping Abyssinian. There was something about the older assassin that didn't encourage taking liberties, and being in the same room with him while he slept definitely constituted invading his personal space. Yet, here they were, again, all crowded in together in the mansion's den. And not only that, he had been touching the stand-offish man, and was still alive to tell the tale.

Maybe `unconscious' didn't count? Because there was certainly something at work keeping Aya from waking up with a snarl and a murderous assault, and helplessly unconscious was a better choice than thinking that the man had lost his edge. What had his captors done to him, to make it possible for anyone, even Weiss, to get within the sealed borders of his defenses?

"Ken-kun?" Omi's light touch settled on his shoulder, hovering uncertainly. Ken read the implied Do you want us to leave? together with Do you want to talk about this? Helpless, he shrugged under his friend's hand. What could he say, anyway? `Aya's freaking me out?' He settled for staring at the sleeping assassin's face, perfectly beautiful, even with the damage and bandages, and tried to ignore the way something unfamiliar twisted in his gut. Then, resolutely, Ken averted his gaze from the swollen curve of the injured man's cheekbone, and the arc of long lashes falling on bruised flesh; there was something obscene about even thinking about the relaxed line of Aya's lips under the circumstances. He slid from the bed and headed for the door.

"Come on, Omi. I need some exercise before I go stale. Spar with me?"

"Me?" Omi protested plaintively. "Why me? You know I don't do close-in stuff. How about Yohji? I'm sure he'd be glad to help you practice."

"Hey! There's a big difference between `work out,' and `work off frustration.' Trust me, I should know." Yohji gave them an impressive leer. "Now me? I prefer to see my favorite cuties have a go at each other. It lives up to a fantasy that's a particular favorite of mine." The petit blond responded with a vocal declaration that he would show who was working out, and who wasn't, and that all he needed was five minutes alone with a certain loud-mouth. Along the way, between Omi's indignant and largely ineffective complaints setting Yohji off again, Ken dropped back to take a last look at Aya.

He sighed. He really needed to do something about that queasy feeling in his stomach.

***********

Without his bugnuks, the glancing blow Ken landed wasn't enough to do any real harm, although it was powerful enough to send the smallest member of Weiss sprawling, and thereby starting up Yohji's hyena-like amusement all over again. Narrow chest heaving, Omi gasped out, "I… hate you… both."

That appealed to the predatory part of Yohji's sense of humor. "Maa," he said lightly. "Don't say things like that. Especially when you look so ready for Kenken to pounce you."

"Yohji!" they both protested. Ken stifled the urge to go whap some sense into the flirtatious older blond. It wouldn't do any good, anyway, and it would leave them wide open for the next round of innuendoes. Especially when what Yohji was saying was true; Omi did look remarkably pretty spread out on the floor with his face flushed from exertion, and his hair and clothing mussed. It gave Ken an uncomfortably sharp memory of Kase, who had really looked nothing at all like Omi, lying on the torn-up grass of the soccer practice field, laughing his head off in the pouring rain. It had been the first time Ken had kissed him. In the typical useless fashion of free-association, his next thought was to wonder if that was the moment when Kase had begun to betray him, and everything that their friendship had meant. In which case, the betrayal that had led to the destruction of his pro soccer career, and of the love he had had for his best friend, had been all his own fault. The ease that Ken had felt moments before evaporated, leaving him feeling more bereft and lonely than he had since waking up in bed with Aya. He turned blindly away, not giving Yohji the satisfaction of seeing the hurt in his face.

"Hey, Ken-kun!" Omi scrambled off the floor and ran after him, but he had enough of a lead to make it through the length of the house, and into the security of his own room.

Ken threw himself face down diagonally across his water bed, ignoring the brief tsunami the act set in motion. He groaned. He was weak to even think about a teammate in those terms. Just like he had been weak with Kase.

It wasn't the sex so much. Despite his Christian upbringing, the brunet kind of doubted that God cared, or had the time to be bothered with that part. Ken didn't think the post-game, adrenaline-fueled, up-against-the-shower-wall sex meant much of anything. If he had been content to leave things there, it would have been okay, but he had committed the sin of falling in love, and of believing that he was worth being loved in return. And now he was starting to make the same mistake all over again.

The sound of the doorknob turning caused him to burrow his face into his rumpled covers. Muffled, Ken snarled, "Go away."

"No." The surface of the bed undulated nauseatingly as weight settled familiarly beside the soccer player's hip. "You need to talk, Ken-kun. We need to talk."

"Omi, just go away." A hand settled on his back, just to the side of his spine, and began rubbing slow circles. Against his better judgment, some of the tension bled from him, and Ken added a frustrated curse.

"No." The soft repetition didn't bring with it any threat of enforced confidences or confessions; Omi just sat beside him and continued the slow stroking. The lack of pressure calmed the older boy. Did a better job of it, in fact, than his attempts to beat the living daylights out of his internal demons using exercise had.

"Yohji-kun says to tell you that he's sorry. He didn't think about how teasing you might upset you." The unexpectedly serious tone made Ken tense up all over again, but the smaller blond never paused in his slow, judicious movements. Eventually, Ken gave up and released a pent-up gust into the bed's surface. The kid continued as if the noise had consisted of words open to understanding, saying "Yes, I know. He can be a pain, and it would be really nice if he would think first, sometimes… But he means well. He really does worry about all of us."

Sighing, Ken shrugged off the soothing hand. But he did it gently, trying to convey that he wasn't offended, or angry. Omi shook his head slightly, grinning with something approaching his normal level of silly good humor. There was an evil twinkle in the lake-blue eyes as he added, "Of course, we could always yank Yohji-kun's chain with some yelling and moaning, and maybe thumping the headboard against the wall."

"Ur…" Ken's brain seized up at the idea of those kinds of noises, Omi, himself, and what Yohji would think - hell, what Ken was thinking - until he caught the significant glance their genius hacker shot at the closed door. Oh… So, Yohji was waiting right outside to see if the kid was successful in talking him down from his mental ledge. Mouth twitching, the athlete tried unsuccessfully for a Fujimiya-level poker-face. "Omi, by the time the headboard on this thing hits the wall, we'd be terminally sea-sick. I think we're going to have to give the plan a pass, no matter how tempting it is to mess with Yohji's brain."

"Oh, well. Too bad." The kid slid off of the bed and extended a hand to pull Ken along with him. "I guess we'll just have to go with significant, smoldering looks over pizza, then. Come on; I'm starving."

Startled, Ken felt a genuine laugh bubble up as his stomach growled in sympathy. It might not really make things any better, but pizza at least provided the illusion that everything was A-okay. That, and the prospect of a little revenge against the team's playboy cheered him up, too.

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

One of Manx's people had picked up enough pizzas to feed an army, which in a way was exactly what they had guarding the estate, and he had left two of them behind on the coffee table in the living room. Yohji had scrounged several bottles of some kind of dark, imported beer, the sight of which sent a delicate shudder through Omi. The kid declared his intention to get himself a Coke from the kitchen, instead, and smiled when Ken asked him to grab one for him, as well.

Not drinking alcohol was probably a very good idea just then.

"So… did you and the kid work anything out?" Yohji asked with forced casualness. He kept his eyes on the slice of pizza he was engaged in extracting from the box, looking more like a wolf separating his prey from the herd than usual.

Ken sighed. Trust Yohji to make a production out of anything. Still, it felt nice to be asked. "Yeah, I guess so." He shot the older man a quick peek from under his bangs, and noticed with amusement that even without Omi's `smoldering looks' the older Weiss was turning faintly pink. It was cute, and endearing, in a typically weird sort of way. Ken's grin grew. Yohji was obviously dying to ask, and at the same time really didn't want to know what went on between his teammates.

Ken supposed that on some levels, he and Yohji were very much alike in their tastes: neither one cared all that much about the gender of their sexual partners, even if the reasons for it were completely different. For Yohji, it had a lot to do with the thrill of the chase, and with his perceptions of what constituted beauty. If somebody was hot, then gender became a distant second consideration. On the flip side, for Ken it didn't matter because he didn't intend to let anyone get close enough emotionally for it to matter. He hadn't slept with anyone in months, and didn't intend for that to change, but if he did, that person would just be a body. He wasn't about to screw up his professional relationship with the other Weiss Hunters for something so ephemeral, no matter that sleeping at Aya's side had felt so good, or that Omi's gentle touch had eased more than the physical hurt in his muscles. Teasing would help to keep things in perspective, plus anything that put Yohji off balance was good in his book. The blond acted as if he were God's gift to women and to men, both. Smirking, the younger man fired the opening salvo, "Why? Were you feeling left out, Yotan? Omi and me, we wouldn't mind if you came along." He concentrated on taking a very deliberate bite off the end of the triangle of pizza, showing off his even white teeth. Yohji paled subtly at the intended double meaning.

"Er… no. I mean, thanks, but hey - what do you suppose is taking Omittchi so long, anyway? He only had to go to the kitchen--" Babbling, he got up from the floor on the other side of the coffee table and bolted for the kitchen stairs.

"Geez. That wasn't much of a challenge." Ken murmured, disappointed. He shrugged, finished the slice in his hand and reached for another. The missing member of the team arrived and dropped down to sit cross legged by his side.

"Hey. So where was Yohji going in such a hurry?" Omi asked. He checked both boxes before deciding on a piece of the vegetarian special. He picked off a toasted cube of tofu and popped it in his mouth, nodded, and took a healthy bite.

"Dunno. Something he ate didn't agree with him, I guess." Ken decided to let the matter rest for a bit; Yohji in a mood like that was no challenge, anyway. Instead he accepted a sweating can of soda from Omi and changed the subject. "Where were you?"

"I wanted to stop in and check on Aya-kun. His IV bag needed changing, and I wanted to make sure that the catheter wasn't blocked. Nariakira-sensei showed me how to take care of it when he stopped by earlier."

"Oh." The brunet considered that. He had been vaguely aware that the doctor had been by while he had been in the shower, but then he had gotten the shock of seeing Aya being so un-Aya-ish, and in the resulting panic had completely spaced the annoying man. Nariakira just wasn't one of his favorite people, even if it seemed that he was competent to do his job. "So, was it?"

"Was it what? Oh, you mean the catheter. No, Aya's fine. He's been sleeping better, and his color was good. I think it helped him to have you stay close by earlier." Omi took a swig of Coke, hiding his expression behind the can so that Ken was uncertain exactly how to take the comment. Face value seemed the best course, so he plunged ahead.

"Omi, do you think it's his head injury that's making him act so strange? I mean, it's not like Aya to treat somebody like a teddy bear. Especial not me; he doesn't even like me."

The kid shrugged and grabbed another slice of pizza. "You should give yourself a little more credit. I don't think Aya-kun dislikes you; he just isn't good at showing how he feels."

The temptation to roll his eyes was overwhelming. "Ri-i-i-i-ght. If Aya was any `better' at showing his true feelings, he'd explode. Don't forget, I've seen him around the Takatori."

That earned him a wince from the boy, who retorted, "And, don't forget, I'm a Takatori, too. Or, I was before Persia took me in. I don't understand all of it, not yet anyway, but Aya said that I was me, not my family. And having seen some of the stuff they've done, I'm just as glad."

Ken nodded, relaxing as the food hit his system and a headache that he hadn't even known that he was nursing faded. In his own strange way, Aya was as predictable as the sun rising in the east. Omi had slowed to just nibbling on his last slice, finally conceding defeat and dropping the crust into the lid of an empty box. With a contented sigh, the kid stretched out full length on the carpet, pillowing his head on his folded arms.

It was kind of nice to lie around, secure for once that Aya was safe, even if he wasn't quite up to `sound' yet. The sun was already setting, painting the underside of the clouds visible through the plate glass of the sliding doors a lurid shade of mingled pink and orange. Streaks of shadow violet were creeping in as day faded into evening. Comfortably full, Ken opted to stay seated on the floor, leaning back against the end of the couch, too lazy to go stretch out next to the teenager. Omi looked as if he were dozing off; a good plan if he and Yohji were going to go snooping in Tanagawa later than night, and Ken thought he might do the same. The late nights were wearing on him, and even the couple of extra hours that he had spent curled up at Aya's side hadn't been enough to restore him. Half-heartedly, he eyed the remaining mushroom-pepperoni pizza, and decided to leave it for Yohji. The eldest Weiss had absolutely no sense of humor when it came to someone else snagging the last of a treat. Although, if he didn't get his butt back from where ever he was hiding, it would be his own damned fault if there wasn't any left.

The sunset deepened until the colors were reminiscent of Aya; a particular shade of darkened wine red and another of violet slate. Ken blinked sleepily, remembering how warm, and surprisingly comfortable the hard muscle of the man's shoulder had been beneath his cheek. He had felt safe, and comforted… Neither the crazies of Schwarz, nor the more mundane evils of Esset's minions had had a hold on his dreams. Nor had Kase, or even Yuriko tried to torment him. Weird, but true. There had been no screams, no explosions, no blood…

The distinctive sound of breaking glass galvanized both young men into motion. Omi rolled, coming up onto his feet in a fluid rush, wide awake as slim metal needles as long as his fingers appeared in his hand. No matter how many times he saw the move, Ken had yet to catch where the slivers appeared from, making it seem a kind of magic. But right at the moment he didn't care where the other assassin managed to hide his weapons; the racket was coming from Aya's room.

They sped noiselessly into the hallway, each flattening to either side of the door without speaking. Another crash - metallic this time - resounded from within. Please, Aya, be all right! Omi held up a hand, bending down his fingers: one, two, three… Ken planted a kick just below the door's knob, tearing the latch out of the frame in a way that felt as if it were his heart tearing through his throat. But there was no time for any of that. Following the swinging door inward as it banged into the wall, his forward dive took him into a roll that brought him up in the shelter of the bed, between it and the desk. Omi's lunge took him to the other side, toward the solitary armchair. The shattering bark of a gun at point blank range told them that the instinctive moves had been right on the money.

Ken registered the wet gush of the burst IV bag as its stand tangled with Aya's legs, bringing the tall man down in a heap, too busy grappling with a smaller, quicker form in black commando gear to care. Their wounded partner was fighting with a mix of unthinking reflex and desperation, but he was already too exhausted to hold off the hands that grabbed fistfuls of his hair in preparation for slamming his head into the floor. There was no glove or bugnuk to lend his punch killing force, but Ken closed his fist anyway and jabbed at the base of the intruder's skull, connecting in a solid impact. At the same time, his red haired teammate was doing a side-ways twist and squirm that put the knife aimed for his gut into the carpet instead. Ken landed another short, stiff punch and felt something give beneath his knuckles as the enemy went limp on top of Aya. Their eyes met, Aya's pupils so enlarged that they were depthless black, but the continuing scuffle behind Ken's back distracted him, and he spun.

An intruder, also in anonymous black, was already down with a gleaming steel needle protruding from his sightless eye. A third swept Omi's feet out from under him, but the kid rolled and bounced back up without a moment's hesitation. For someone who insisted that close-in fighting wasn't his thing, he was deadly efficient. Ken felt a distant hum of terror and displaced fight-or-flight, his heart beating fast as his blond teammate slid under his attacker's arm, forcing it up and sending a bullet harmlessly into the ceiling. Omi's dart sank into the man's armpit, bypassing a hidden vest, just as his stiffened fingers found the invader's trachea. An explosive, gurgling cough drowned out the solid meat-sound of the kid's other fist striking low and to the side, going for the femoral artery in its hiding place beside the protected groin. Agony flashed across what Ken could see of the man's face, stark white against the torn black of his mask as he collapsed into the tangle on the floor.

Movement that wasn't the breeze fluttering the blinds at the broken window alerted the soccer player, and his ingrained reflexes had him diving across the pile of damaged bodies in time to grapple Aya and take him and his IV down again. Dazed and confused though Abyssinian was, he still launched an elbow at the side of Ken's throat, and only luck and prior familiarity with the move let the brunet avoid it. He rolled, flipping them over so that he partially covered Aya with his own body, coming up onto one knee as a new form hurled through the blinds, finally succeeding in tearing them down. Omi had scrounged a section of the collapsed IV stand and swung it like a baton, catching the latest intruder across the back of his neck. The body joined the dog-pile on the floor with a grunt.

A bullet whined through the gaping window, smacking into a bookcase loaded with books and sending up a puff of dust and paper. Even though it had cleared him by several feet, Ken ducked reflexively and shoved Aya prone under the frame of the hospital bed. Shit. That meant a minimum of a fifth attacker somewhere outside. They weren't using silenced weapons, which meant that they had no fear of attracting attention. Which in turn meant that Manx's perimeter guards had already been neutralized. The house was isolated enough within the confines of the estate that it was likely that no one outside its borders could hear a thing.

Omi caught his eye, signing for retreat. Ken nodded agreement - the sooner they were out of the trashed den, the better - and he added an interrogative. Omi's swift fingers replied down - garage.

That made a lot of sense. The underground garage was also a hardened bomb shelter. Lacking the proper codes would mean that the heavy steel roll door could only be opened from the outside with some serious equipment. The connecting door to the house had two inch thick bolts that would seat into the concrete, making it damned near impregnable. And, best of all, the car parked in the garage was already loaded with everything from communications gear, to high-powered rifles, to bullet proof glass, making it a rolling hit-man's wet dream.

The smaller blond was already scuttling for the door, taking up the point position and leaving Ken to wrangle Aya. The man was barely conscious, seeping blood staining the powder blue hospital gown an unmistakable, gory shade down his ribs where either the earlier wound had broken open, or he had acquired a new one. Either way, they needed to get the flow stanched. But not while they were in the open, and vulnerable.

In the end, Ken had to rely on brute strength to haul Aya up from the floor, brace him against the foot of the bed, and finally settle his lean body over Ken's shoulder. He winced in sympathy at the low moan the pressure wrung from the man, but couldn't do anything but shift him a little higher and lock an arm across the backs of his dangling thighs. Aya's sheathed katana lay on the near end of the desk, and automatically he snatched it up. They had to go; Omi was already out into the hall, sliding along the wall, and he had to follow.

Crossing the expanse of the living room with those stupid sliding glass doors was going to be a bitch.

The kid was crouched low, his back against the corridor wall, an array of his throwing darts fanned between the fingers of one hand, and a gun that he had liberated from one of their assailants in the other. Without bothering to look back at Ken, he murmured, "I wish the hell I knew what happened to Yohji."

And that really was a million-yen question, wasn't it? Yohji hadn't come back from the kitchen when the whole rumble had gotten rolling. The nagging sense Ken had had that their partner was taking too long took on a more sinister feel. What if the absent man had already been neutralized, before the attackers went after Aya? And, if Yohji had been taken out in the kitchen, what did that do for their chances? The route to the garage lay that way through servants' territory, since the house had been built with the assumption that a chauffeur would be on hand to bring the car around front for his master. Heart thumping, he adjusted his grip on Aya and got ready to move.

They had worked together for so long that Ken felt rather than saw the marginal tensing a second before Omi darted into motion, flying across the middle of the living room, intent on drawing enemy fire, and providing what cover he could. The athlete was barely a step behind him, even though he wouldn't be able to keep up for long with Aya's increasingly dead weight hampering him. Thank God they hadn't turned on the lights before the mess began. If the living room had been lit, a trained monkey would have been able to hit them from the concealing darkness outside. But luck was on their side; not only did nothing hit them crossing the living room, but the bullet fired up at them as they descended the stairs missed.

From his place in the lead, Omi cleared the last couple steps in a flying leap. He tackled the shooter before he could get off another shot, leaving Ken to pray that there was only the one as he and his precious burden staggered. The cloyingly heavy, wet scent of fresh blood assaulted his nose; Ken gagged and held his breath, focused on getting to the other side of the charnel house without losing his dinner.

An exclamation of pain made him pause, even knowing that as a moving target, they would be harder to hit. Omi was on his knees, grappling with someone who was wedged tight in the gap between refrigerator and wall. He finally edged backwards, sitting onto his heels and drawing a half-wild, bloody apparition with him.

Yohji.

Ken cast a worried glance up the stairs behind him, the prickling on the back of his neck convincing him that they were running out of time. Worse, Aya picked that minute to regain consciousness and to begin struggling weakly to get free. They didn't have the time to waste for Omi to talk the hysterical man he had hold of into some semblance of calm.

"…down…" the groggy redhead demanded thickly. Ken wanted to snap `no!' but Omi was shooting him a look of desperation. There was blood smeared liberally over the older blond's face, and he had lost his sunglasses somewhere, making his green eyes look too defenseless, and more than a little crazed. There was no way that Omi was going to be able to handle somebody who was almost a foot taller than him, especially not when it looked like he was the only one handicapped by the desire to not get anybody hurt.

It was an if the universe was picking the worst possible moment to listen to him, Ken thought. No sooner had he decided that Yohji was slipping out of control, than the man snapped, lunging forward to whap his forehead into Omi's chin. The kid sprawled over backwards, taken completely unawares by the attack, dislodging the gun that he had tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Yohji pounced on it just as shots rang out up the stairwell. For a brief, staggering moment, Ken thought that the former detective had been the one to fire, but then the drum of foot falls spun him back toward the stairs from the living room. One, no, two more were about to descend into the insanity. Omi couldn't take them alone; God only knew that, and while Yohji would normally finish whatever they had left, not today. Not like that.

Ken slid Aya from his shoulder, carefully straightening. The glittering violet eyes that met his were still confused, but gaining control by the second. There was something lurking in their clear depths that Ken didn't have time to explore.

This was crazy; they ought to be retreating for the garage, and sealing that door behind them. Instead, he snatched a lethal-looking kitchen knife from its rack and turned to face the stairs; he had to buy Omi as much time as he could.

He let fly at the first of the black-clad invaders, but missed, flinching at a wild cry from Aya. "No! Don't!" Aya staggered, arms out-stretched, coming between Ken and his target. The brunet tried to dance sideways, but the taller swordsman kept pace with him.

"Shit, Aya! What the fuck are you doing?!" he shouted, aggravated beyond belief. There was no time! Of all the times for Aya to interfere, this had to be the worst. A tremor of unreasoning rage spasmed through him, and Ken came perilously close to hitting his own teammate. Aya's generous mouth thinned down into a familiar obstinacy, and his chin jerked up defiantly. The moment stretched between them.

"I won't let you kill him. Enemy or not, killing is wrong."