Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Reflections ❯ Clues ( Chapter 5 )

Reflections: Clues

Chapter 5

A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason.

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

The remaining three members of Weiss exchanged confounded looks. It was fairly obvious that they were all wondering precisely what had caused their red haired teammate to bolt. When Yohji and Omi's concentrated attention settled on him, however, Ken found himself backing away, hands raised to fend off whatever it was that they were going to throw at him. "No, no…" he protested. "I don't care, and I don't want to know. If you guys are planning something, you can do it without me."

As the most senior member of their little group, Yohji took it on himself to be the spokesman. He advanced on the retreating Siberian, a wicked grin splitting his face. "Hey, Kenken, it's gotta be you. You're the one the new and improved Fujimiya responds to the best."

"No fair! Pick on Omi. He ended up in bed with him, too-- "

"In bed, too?!" Oh, that just tore it. Ken could practically see the gears turning in the older man's head.

"Not like that." he insisted. "And besides, Omi was there, too!"

As if that was a defense. The grin had turned to an evil smirk, and Omi was giggling. The younger of the blonds managed a passable imitation of Aya's no-nonsense tone, saying " `Ken. Come to bed. Now.' " before collapsing into the couch.

Ouch. That hurt. Ken scowled at both of them, and stalked off toward the bathroom. "Fine." he muttered angrily. "I'll see about getting him to come out. But that means you two get to call in the clean-up detail. I am not dealing with the mess." He shot them a final, furious glare, tapped peremptorily on the closed panel, and yanked it open.

Aya was sitting on the rim of the deep tub, staring with horrified fascination at his hands, the fingers of which were twisted convulsively together. He didn't even glance up when Ken strode in and slammed the door behind him, but his whispered words made it clear that he was aware of the younger man's presence: "Ken, I can't get the blood off of them…"

"Aya…" Ken fell silent, unsure of what to say. All joking aside, whatever it was that had happened to the red haired assassin was not funny. It had left him stripped bare, and vulnerable, even as it allowed him moments of peace. He stared at the bowed head, catching sight of a faint glimmer that dripped silently from his nose, landing inaudibly in a darker splotch on the gray yukata. Aya was… crying?

A different kind of pain twisted in Ken's gut, and without thinking he found himself stepping into the swordsman's personal space, wrapping his arms around the man's lean shoulders. Aya was stiff to the touch, then, hesitantly brought his arms up around the brunet's waist, and hugged him as if the world were coming to an end.

Maybe it had? Ken threaded his fingers through the shorn silk of Aya's fine hair, rocking gently onto his heels, and back. A tremor ghosted through the thin form in his embrace, but the man was absolutely dead silent, not allowing so much as a whimper to escape him. Bemused, the soccer player let his eyes drift shut.

It was… nice… holding, and being held. But they were still running out of time. He sighed quietly. "Aya, we have to get going. This place is compromised. We probably should have been gone a while ago."

"I know." Even muffled, the resignation was unmistakable. "I just wonder when it will end. We keep killing. It never stops."

A chill drove away the lingering warmth Ken felt. Carefully, he stroked the crown of Aya's head, fingers following the curve of the skull beneath down to the rigid lines of the tendons in the back of his neck. "They were trying to kill us. There's nothing wrong with defending ourselves."

"Tell that to the innocents whose lives we've destroyed."

It was odd to hear the older man give voice to one of his own worst fears. Ken couldn't remember the number of times that he had started awake from a nightmare where the solid, meaty impact of his tiger claws was ripping the life from some kid, or a woman with wide, scared eyes. It had happened; they had all taken the lives of people who didn't deserve that fate, where the punishment was too severe for the crime. But for the sake of his own sanity, Ken continued to believe that what they did was necessary, and right. The Dark Beasts that they hunted were the ones that the law couldn't touch, who would destroy far more innocents than Weiss at its worst ever would.

"But when does it stop, Ken? When is enough, enough? And how can we take Kritiker's word for it all?" Desperate, Aya pulled back from him, staring up with haunted violet eyes that were dry, but suspiciously pink-rimmed and exhausted.

"Take Kritiker's word?" Bewildered, Ken flinched when steel-strong fingers bit into his upper arms. Aya's hard grip would leave bruises.

"Yes. They tell us who the Beasts are, and we kill, without questioning their motives. Even when we learned that the Takatori controlled us, we kept on doing their dirty work." Anguished, he averted his gaze, leaving Ken to stare at him with dawning horror. His voice sank till it was barely audible. "I became a Hunter for revenge, and for the money, Ken. I told myself it was okay, that I was doing it for my sister, for Aya-chan. But I was lying to myself. Even then, I knew, on some level, that what I did was wrong. I can't do this anymore."

"Aya…" What could he say? The swordsman had been a loner, had belonged to other teams and even been a free-lance, while Ken had always belonged to Weiss. The younger man had no idea what life had been like outside the confines of the unit, what Aya had seen, and done, before joining them. But at the same time, he had a sharp recollection of sitting in the mission room of the Koneko, with Manx asking who was in, and who was out, and Yohji flippantly turning down an assignment because there were no pretty girls to rescue. It sent a shiver down the brunet's spine as he realized that nowhere had there been a question of right, or wrong, that that decision had never been within their grasp. Aya had had a choice, and had surrendered it. And now he had come to regret what was already past.

"Ken! Aya! Move it out, boys!" Banging on the bathroom door nearly jolted Ken out of his skin. The vulnerability of Aya's demeanor vanished - life-giving rain falling on barren ground only to be completely absorbed as if it had never happened - leaving the younger Weiss to mourn a lost opportunity. His companion rose smoothly from his seat on the wooden tub's rim, reverting with each step to the Abyssinian's cold control. Ken realized that he missed the stranger that Aya had briefly become, and without thinking, he snagged the taller man's elbow.

"Wait-You don't have to do this. It's not your fault the guy you caught killed himself." he said urgently. The bathroom was cramped enough that Aya couldn't avoid him, and Ken took advantage of it. They were so close together that he could feel the rise and fall of the lean chest and feel the soft brush of fabric against the back of his hand. Startlement widened those odd colored eyes, driving home the realization that there was only two or maybe three years between them in age. Ken stared up into bleak, graying lavender, and added fiercely, "It was his choice to commit suicide, just like it was his choice to attack us. He could have backed off. You had nothing to do with it." That said, the athlete reached blindly behind him and wrenched open the door, fleeing before he could give in to a half-formed desire to do something more to convince Aya. There was a line he couldn't cross. Not and live with himself in the morning.

His headlong retreat nearly plowed Omi into the carpet, which was kind of surprising considering that it had been Yohji's bellow that had ended their bathroom confidences. "What's the situation?" he snapped. The kid's eyebrows shot up into concealment behind his messy bangs. His eyes tracked Aya as the man's slender form slid past the bottleneck at the door and into the living room. There was a subtle stiffness to the erect back that hadn't been there earlier.

"Um, we have a car, we left a message anonymously that a clean-up crew is needed here, and we've decided to go to Villa Weiss."

"What?" Shock drove any lingering thoughts of a certain redhead out of Ken's brain. "What the hell? We have a known connection to the cabin. We can't go there."

"Yes, we can." Yohji interjected firmly. "We need gear. All of us need clean clothes by now, not just Aya. And we need to quit fighting a defensive war. It isn't win-able."

The last had the feel of being paraphrased from a quote, and to distract himself from the rest, Ken hazarded "Sun Tzu?" The nonsequitur made the older blond blink, then smile grimly. "No, an American general, from the time of their Civil War. Too bad he was on the losing side."

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

Since Yohji had been awake without a break longer than anyone else, and Aya was still too weak to pull his own weight, Ken found himself as the designated driver, with Omi as his co-pilot. The other two had ended up in possession of the back seat, which was a little strange considering that they were the tallest members of the team. Aya had curled up with a borrowed blanket directly behind the driver's seat, while Yohji was sprawled out as far as the minimal space permitted, with his head tipped back, mouth open for a low snore, and a new pair of sunglasses concealing his eyes.

Ken wished that he hadn't insisted on driving. He would have said he was feeling about sixty percent annoyed at getting stuck with the job while the others got to sleep, and maybe twenty percent annoyed at Omi for keeping up a steady stream of directions and chitchat, with the rest being a slow burn of anger toward the unknown enemy that was forcing them to keep moving, but the truth was that he was just about one hundred percent worried about Aya. Turned so that he leaned only on the car door, and not against Yohji, the man looked miserable and alone.

Still, even with Omi's careful doubling back and diversions, they were pulling up in back of the mountain cabin just as the sun was clearing the peaks to the east. The valley below was cloaked in deep shadow, lit by the occasional bright star of a yard light, or the slow red blink of a traffic signal still on night mode. The clock built into the sedan's dash read just after 4:30. Yohji stretched when the engine fell silent, and Omi twisted around in his seat to chirp brightly, "We're here!"

"Urgh…" Grimacing, the detective licked his lips experimentally. Mornings were never his thing, unless he had stayed awake the whole night through, so it was no surprise that his expression was surly in the diffuse light. He unfolded from the back, grumbling "I'll go see if I can get the power and heat back on. You guys get Prince Charming inside, and see if there's any food in the kitchen, because once we get settled, we're not setting foot where anybody can see us until we know what's going on."

Ken bristled at the curt tone, even while logic said that Yohji's orders were only common sense. The house was frigid, closed up and untenanted as it had been; it made sense to fire up the generator and light the pilot on the central heating system first thing. Likewise, they would be better off with one quick trip into town to grab supplies, and then lying low, than allowing the neighbors to know that the four of them were back in residence by being visible all the time. But it irked him that Yohji just assumed that he would follow orders. The figure ambling away toward the generator shed wasn't his senior in Weiss by that much, nor his elder by so many years. A low growl that Ken wasn't aware of making cut off abruptly when Omi leaned over and tapped him on the nose.

"Relax, Ken-kun. This means you get to take Aya-kun upstairs and find him something warmer to wear, and Yohji-kun is stuck with trying to prime the engine on the generator. Which would you rather do, anyway?" The kid grinned at him, winked, and slid out of the car. Startled, Ken stared as the boy loped up the steps to the kitchen porch two at a time, then a tiny smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. He remembered the generator; with a little luck, Yohji would be cursing in the shed till well past breakfast.

Still smiling, he climbed into the back beside the sleeping assassin, speaking his name softly while reaching out to stroke the fall of hair that was nearly burgundy in the dawn light. His wrist was captured in a cruelly tight grasp before he could so much as lay a finger on Aya. Ken squelched his immediate instinct to fight back, and waited as eyes dark with confusion and exhaustion blinked slowly open.

"It's me, Ken. Remember?" He made his tone as soothing as he could, meeting a gaze that slowly lightened from storm clouds and mountain shadows to the color of the flag iris they stocked back at the flower shop. He stifled a pulse of longing to comfort and protect; the growing lucid sharpness staring back at him didn't invite those kinds of feelings. If I don't think about this, it isn't real… Ken told himself firmly.

"I remember you." The deep voice that had no right to be so sensuous raised the hairs on Ken's arms, even as Aya released him and opened the door on his own side of the car. The brunet shook his head hard, wondering what the heck was getting into him. Reacting to his partner like that was worse than stupid, it was suicidal. Which was probably why he dashed around the hood of the car in time to get an arm around the slender man before his wobbly legs dumped him on the ground.

"Okay. Call me suicidal." he muttered in resignation.

"What?" Taken unawares, Aya didn't struggle to free himself. When a shiver ran the length of his body, he even seemed to snuggle closer. Ken shook his head again, grumbling "Suicidal and stupid. Sheesh!" Unexpectedly, the taller redhead snickered, and permitted Ken to pull an arm across his shoulders for the agonizingly difficult climb up the steps.

They were both sweating and breathing hard by the time they reached the second floor landing. But before they could negotiate the long hall to Aya's room, the man pushed him away. "Bath first." he said resolutely.

"Sure." Ken shrugged and obligingly fumbled in the dark for the doorknob. At least the second floor bathroom had a skylight that faced east, making it brighter than the enclosed corridor, since it didn't seem as if Yohji was having any luck with the generator. "It's gonna be cold, just so you know." he warned over his shoulder. "I mean, the heat's finally on, but it'll be hours before there's enough hot water to fill the big tub."

Aya hung back. "Why are you doing this?"

"I meant to check on where you were bleeding back when we were first attacked, and I never did. Now's a good time." A cabinet yielded a box of emergency candles and matches, and while the first gush of water from the sink tap was orange, it soon ran clear. Ken gave a hum of satisfaction and turned to look for towels, only to find his way blocked by a redhead wearing an obstinate scowl that oddly wasn't as scary as it used to be.

"That's not what I meant." Aya rebuked him, and Ken felt a hot flush turn his cheeks pink. The air of centered calm had returned to the older Hunter, and weirdly enough, it was no longer so completely foreign. "Try again." he commanded.

"I know it's not. But it's not like I have any better explanation. I'm just tired." The soccer player didn't mean to come across so defensive, but it beat blurting out a counter-question of `What happened to you?' as he desperately wanted to. How could Ken tell Aya that he was acting weirdly because Aya had started it? But the excuse was accepted at face value. The older assassin slumped wearily and went to work peeling off yukata and bandages until nothing remained except the splint holding his little finger to its neighbor, and he was naked and shivering despite the puff of warm air blowing from the vent beneath the edge of the sink cabinet. Ken sighed, mentally smacked himself across the back of the head, and picked up a washcloth.

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

"Look, I'd love to hit the bastards where they live, but in case it escaped your attention, you moron, we don't know who they are!" Furious, Ken threw his chopsticks onto the table and paid no attention when they bounced and rolled off the edge, down to the floor. Omi made an exasperated noise and disappeared below the level of the table's surface to retrieve them.

Yohji gave the younger man the finger, but resisted the urge to descend to his level verbally. Instead, he helped himself to another scoop of rice from the covered pot and continued eating.

"Tanagawa." Aya said abruptly. When the other three turned expectantly, he folded his arms across his chest and refused to add anything more.

Well, yes. `Tanagawa.' Ken sighed. The events of the previous night hadn't really changed the inherent logic of sending Yohji and Omi to scope out the brothel and its former employees - they just made him even less happy about splitting the team in two. They had yet to contact Manx or Birman, and he suspected that the Kritiker handlers would be even less pleased. But what choice did they have? Aya hadn't been able to give them a single name of any substance, and the only person he had been able to conclusively identify turned out to be a whore that Omi already had on his list of lower-level victims of the police sting. He claimed to have been held in a constantly lit room, location unknown, for a length of time that was also unknown, and by persons unknown. Questioning him turned into an exercise in futility, with the redhead becoming progressively more mulish. There was probably more hiding behind Abyssinian's calculated silence, but they might never get at it. Someone had to go back to Tanagawa instead.

But Ken would be damned if he liked the idea.

Aya was looking much better. His bruises had faded considerably, and washed and fed he was almost his old self. It helped that he had dug out a turtleneck and a thick sweater - although not, thankfully, the orange monstrosity he liked to wear around the Koneko - to wear with an aging pair of blue jeans. His eyes flickered rapidly from one teammate to the other, assessing the unspoken parts of their conversation. What was different, and shockingly so, was the fact that his normal dark impatience had been replaced with humor and something approaching affection. It was damned disturbing. Ken sighed again, something he found himself doing with increasing frequency, and tried to address his partners with logic instead of temper.

"Let me go instead of you two. At least I don't stick out like a sore thumb, right?"

Omi coughed and unsuccessfully fought a grin. "What? You don't want me to dye my hair again? I didn't know you cared, Ken-kun."

Of all the times for the kid to resume flirting-- ! Before the other boy could do more than open his mouth, Aya's white hand flashed out and swatted the youngest Weiss upside the head.

"Stop it. The reason is valid. The people who have been hunting us know what we all look like. Ken is the most typical of district you propose to search, and as such will attract the least attention."

The three of them stared, jaws dropping. Not only had the red haired assassin just said more in one go than normal, he hadn't come across with the mix of rigid disapproval and cold anger that were his norm. And he had swatted Omi. Under his breath, Ken muttered, "...we control the horizontal, we control the vertical..." and for once, Yohji shot him a look of complete agreement.

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

Squashed into a cheap-fare seat on the vibrating train, Ken was mourning the demise of his most ancient and disreputable pair of jeans, because there was no way in hell he was ever going to be caught wearing them ever again, not after Yohji had `improved' on them by adding rips in a couple of strategic places. Especially not after the other man had draped himself down the length of Ken's back, breathing "Deliciously fuckable" in his ear. Ken shuddered, eyeing his reflection in the train window. The perpetual state of embarrassment made him blush and stammer, and returned him to a time when he constantly tripped over his own feet. But taken together with the slightly-too-large, sleeveless green tee that was obviously second-hand, it also made him look awkward and a bit waif-like, shaving several years off of his actual age. It fit with his cover story. Dressed like that, he really could be Achira, drop-out college freshman, with no family and no prospects. Just down on his luck enough to have turned a few tricks and to have drifted into a hole like Tanagawa.

He closed his eyes briefly against the rocking of the train car, fighting down the nausea that rose to the back of his throat. They had role-played a couple of scenarios before Yohji had dropped him within walking distance of the tracks. If anyone asked, `Why Tanagawa?' he was to shrug and mumble, `Why not? It was on the news.' Not only would it establish his rootlessness, it would give him an in to ask for gossip about the police raid, and about the stranger found locked up in the brothel's basement.

But it could back-fire. The one current news bulletin that Omi had found on the internet had been ominously silent on the official response to Aya's disappearance from the hospital and from police custody. It was more than a little disturbing. What if he was walking into a trap?

No, coming in and playing it cool was the right approach. So long as he kept his head down, and didn't attract too much attention, he would be okay.

Tanagawa was only a few stops farther down the line. Ken made the mistake of trying to watch the cityscape that flashed by just outside the window, its lights blurred together into long streaks, and hastily shut his eyes against the queasy motion. Another thought occurred to him. Oh, God, what had he gotten himself into? It was likely he would have to give someone a hand job, or maybe a blow job to win his way into the confidences of the other whores. And he had been thinking disgusted thoughts over what Aya was willing to do for a mission. The difference, of course, was that this was by his own choice… He swallowed hard, turning to the idea of Omi almost being the one going out to do reconnaissance. He was pretty sure that the kid hadn't gotten any farther than necking and some basic fumbling around on any of his dates. Didn't Aya care that it had almost been the most junior member of Weiss going out tonight? Wait a minute… Ken blinked, something about the familiar non-conversation with their reclusive redhead hitting him: that prick had been subtly influencing their decisions. He knew better than to try to forbid Omi anything outright, but had resorted to some below-the-belt - pun intended - nudging none the less. Aya had set him up.

Ken expelled his breath in a woosh. He ought to be royally pissed, but for some reason, he wasn't. It was weird.

The train slowed, halting for a couple of minutes before rushing on into the growing dark. It wasn't sunset, but rather that they were leaving behind the dense urban landscape, roaring through a down-at-the-heels industrial district on their way out to the nearer suburbs. Like much of that side of Tokyo, Tanagawa was mainly post-World War construction, inexpensive and largely pre-fab, with rows of identical, ugly houses and blue collar factories. There weren't many office buildings… Probably more bars in the neighborhood, actually. Going there ought to kind of feel like going home; the orphanage Ken had spent most of his youth in had been in a place just like Tanagawa.

And who said, `you can never go home again?'

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

Christ on a crutch, but his feet hurt. Ken paused to roll his aching shoulders for a minute before turning down a side street. He had been wandering the thin red-light district for over two hours, and he hadn't found a single person who knew anything concrete. And it wasn't because people were shy of talking. Hell, no. He was now privy to the intimate details of several sordid lives, and had damn near gotten himself fucked against a wall by a drugged-out teenager who had thought he had money. The kid had shrieked obscenities after him, involving some gestures that Ken recognized as punk for `moron,' and `loser' at the same time. It was a good thing that an aging Nissan had rolled to a stop at about that point, distracting the brat, because the other prostitutes had been getting a good laugh out of it at Ken's expense.

Business was beginning to sag a bit as it approached one in the morning. The ex-soccer player tucked himself into an alley doorway, wearily dropping down to sit on his heels as he leaned against the grubby metal door. If it hadn't been for Kritiker, he could have wound up in a place like this, once he was out of the hospital… Superstitiously, Ken scrubbed at the fading burn scars on his arms. He was getting cold, and the cheap denim jacket he had pulled on wasn't doing the job anymore. He flinched at the low, rhythmic moans coming from deeper into the narrow alley. Christ, people would do it anywhere. The noises hit their peak and ceased. A moment later, he heard the brisk sound of footsteps moving away, heading for the other end of the passage, and then the dragging, bone-tired sounds of someone coming his way.

"Fuck, I'm getting too old for this…" a hoarse, feminine voice muttered. "I should go find another place with a bed."

Startled, Ken coughed. With a bed…? Like, maybe, the Hot Body?

"Who's there?" The woman was coming closer, hostile and edgy. There was a distinctive snick, and Ken peeped out to the doorway to see the flash of light on the steel of a small switchblade. He knew he could take her down, but it would be kind of counter-productive, so he settled for standing up and saying, "Um… Hi?"

"Who the hell are you?"

"I, um… just got in, from, ah, over by Shinjuku? And I was looking for a place to stay…?" Ken couldn't help it. Nerves made his voice slide up helplessly into an interrogative, making everything come out tentative and scared.

The woman groaned softly. "Fuck, not another kid." She put away the knife and fumbled for a lighter instead. By its flickering light, Ken caught a glimpse of beached blond hair, in frizzy, knotted curls, and a full busted chest squeezed into a halter top that had to be at least a cup-size too small. But it was her face that captured him; behind the garish make-up, she couldn't be more than a couple of years older than him. She took a long drag on the cigarette. "Go back to Shinjuku, kid. You don't want to be here. This place is only for losers."

"I, uh, can't. Like, I've got no place to go." He hated the pleading note, but at the same time, he felt a pulse of excitement; he was very nearly sure that her face had been in the array of mug shots that Omi had downloaded from the police. Tentatively, he took a step toward her, leaving the safety of the recessed doorway.

The woman sighed. "You got any money, kid?" she demanded. At his reflexive flinch, she groaned. "No, I'm not offering to do you. Are you hungry? There's an automat that's okay down the street."

His stomach growled, always willing to eat. To be honest, she had only half-misunderstood his reaction; he had been thinking how to introduce the topic of the whorehouse before the conversation derailed inevitably into sex, not that she was propositioning him. The offer of food was even better than he had hoped for. Ken nodded, trying not to come across as over-eager, but she smiled in the twitching light from the neon signs at the far end of the alley. She turned and easily began sashaying down the cracked concrete, somehow avoiding fissures and trash in her high heels. Ken hurried to catch up.

Not unexpectedly, his new-found friend didn't offer to buy him supper when they reached the diner. She shot him a sideways glance, taking in worn clothes and the battered backpack that he carried in the harsh florescent light. There was no attendant on duty, and no other patrons, so they had the scruffy place to themselves. Ken fished the pitiful wad of crumpled, low denomination notes from his pocket, and winced again. This time, it was over the selection of wilted sandwiches and aging fruit going around and around on the little shelves behind their scratched plastic shutters, but the woman again misunderstood.

"You gotta eat, kid, and this is about as cheap as you're going to find."

Ken cut a quick glance at her. The halter top was almost the same brilliant shade of deep crimson as Aya's hair, and the matching miniskirt she had on was even shorter than what Manx and Birman liked to wear. But her chocolate brown eyes were sympathetic behind a veil of cigarette smoke. He fed money into the vending machine and picked a pre-packaged noodle-cup at random, figuring that it would probably be safe to eat. There was a water spigot under a tattered `Warning: Hot' sign at the end of the counter. By the time he turned back, the woman had an unidentified, lumpy package in cling-wrap sitting in front of her, and a steaming cup of muddy coffee. Ken slid in opposite in the narrow booth, twitching a little to find his back exposed to the plate glass windows and anyone who might pass by. Cautiously, he asked, "So… What's your name?"

"Honey." The English word sounded odd, and it took a second for his brain to process its meaning. Oh. It was probably a professional name, because he was pretty sure that it wasn't what Omi had had on the computer. She unrolled the wrapping, revealing a couple of triangular rice balls that looked basically edible. "How about you?"

"Um… Achira…" he stammered. God, he had almost answered Hidaka Ken like some newbie. And he had been doing this line of work for how long? Without thinking, the rest of his cover story stumbled out, his dinner companion nodding and making occasional noises around her food. Honey looked incredulous when he offered his lame excuse of `because it was on the news,' though, remarking "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard."

"But you know about it, right?" Ken persisted.

She shrugged, displaying a little more of that impressive cleavage than he was completely comfortable with in the process. "Sure, I know about it. I was even there when they brought in that guy, the one they found in the cellar."

He couldn't believe his ears. She had seen them bring in Aya? Ken struggled to keep the urgency from his voice, to tone it down to just typical, ghoulish interest, like spotting a car wreck in the opposite lane on the freeway. "So, who brought him in?"

"Beats me. Couple of foreign guys. Jesus, the man was a mess - they beat him up pretty bad." Losing interest, she slurped at her cooling coffee, and grimaced. The stuff was bitter enough that it was beginning to stain the paper cup from the inside out, and was probably going to do a number on her stomach.

"Were they Americans?" Even though it brought a sharp suspicion to her mascaraed eyes, Ken couldn't let it drop. He had to know if they were Benson's goons, or not.

"No…" her reply was slow, obviously weighing his need to know against what a teenager like him would normally want. "One was French, or something. He spoke colonial, like he was from Vietnam, or something? The other guy was from one of those East European countries. I don't know… Russian, or Bulgarian, or whatever. He had black hair, slicked back, but he wasn't Japanese. I'd never seen them before, but they knew the owner, Mishakawa, and he let them in, so I assumed it was okay."

The nationalities of Aya's kidnappers had the brunet confused, but he filed the information away for later. Omi could probably make something of it, or maybe it would spark some recognition in their swordsman. Better still, he had a lead: the Hot Body's owner had known them.

Honey's hand with its long, blood-red artificial nails snaked across the faded yellow formica, catching Ken's wrist. "You're not a cop, so what's your interest in this?"

Shit. He was no good at hiding from her searching gaze, blushing and stammering, "No, I mean, you're wrong. I'm-- "

"Lying to me." she finished. Honey released his wrist, calculation clear on her sharp features. She wasn't particularly pretty, despite her assets and the frizzy mop of curls, but there was above average intelligence in her. "You know that guy, the redhead, don't you?"

Ken froze, caught in the headlights and about to get run down. Double shit. Aya would have his balls if he found how badly Siberian had screwed up. He'd always had a tendency to say whatever popped into his head, and was never any good at schooling his open features to secrecy, but this was way beyond his usual level of ineptitude. "Um…" he squeaked, uncertain of which way to run.

The woman leaned back on her side of the table, stretching until her top threatened to pop. Now that she had Ken, the intensity had relaxed, and she could afford to settle back. She smiled, musing, "I kinda wondered what they had him for… I mean, gorgeous piece of ass, but not the sort that the Hot Body usually supplies. I figured that they were stashing him for some high-priced place in Tokyo, you know? Wearing him down until he was more cooperative. There are lots of people who'll pay good money for a looker like him, willing or not."

A shiver of fear ran down Ken's spine. Crap. They had discussed and dismissed the idea of some lone stalker type going after Aya, but what if it had been an organization? Benson had leapt to the conclusion that the surviving son of the Fujimiyas had a sugar daddy, so why wouldn't someone else think the same? And maybe take steps to act on the idea? His thoughts had to have been clear on his face, because Honey suddenly frowned, leaning back in to examine him. "God, kid." she murmured. "You didn't know any of this, did you? You came here trying to get information on your buddy, and you have no fucking clue."

"You could be wrong." he argued desperately. "They might have grabbed him for something else."

"Sure. Whatever you want to believe, kid." The calculation was back in full force as she shrugged away the momentary concern. Aya wasn't anyone she knew, so the details didn't really matter too much either way. Honey smiled craftily. "But I do know how you can find out."

"How?" In his eagerness, Ken upset the dregs of his noodle cup, spilling thin yellow broth across formica that was nearly the same color. He didn't care.

"Mishakawa always kept the security tapes that had anything interesting on them off-site. I'll bet you that the one from when they brought your friend in is one of them. I might happen to know where you could get a copy… if you get my drift. I just need a little help with my memory." Her smoker's hoarse voice was seductive, and belatedly, Ken recognized the fever-brightness to her eyes. She was a junkie, and probably in need of a fix fairly soon to keep her energized and happy. He was torn; there were a couple of large bills folded into the bottom of his shoe in case he would need to buy information at some point, but he really didn't want to let Honey know that she had him. On the other hand, a tape with footage of Aya's captors was beyond his wildest dreams; they had all just assumed that whatever there had been to find had disappeared into the black hole of the police investigation, never to be seen again. Even Omi hadn't found a trace of any usable evidence, and the kid was good.

"How much will it take to refresh your memory?" asked Ken abruptly. His mouth had opened and made his decision for him.

"Five hundred thousand yen." she replied promptly. Ken paled, contemplating how much money he had on him, and how much more he had sitting in his checking account. There was more than that, of course, but he had tied it up in some investments to benefit the orphanage where he had grown up. He could access it, but not easily. Yet at the same time… the woman took a last drag on her cigarette, stubbing out the remnant in a black plastic ashtray sitting on the table. He took a deep breath and nodded.

"All right. Five hundred thousand." he repeated the number with a wince. That was a lot of money; about a month's income for him. A very good month. With jobs from Kritiker combined with the flower shop's proceeds. Honey was quirking an eyebrow at him, obviously amused that he had given in so readily when the figure equally obviously scared the shit out of him. Yohji was going to bust a gut laughing, but Ken would show him what was what if the tape proved to be any good. He growled out a threat about what would happen if the tape wasn't any good. The woman's grin changed to a smirk; she knew she had him. Ken moaned, scrubbing his hands up over his face. "So, when can I get it?" he demanded.

"Tomorrow night?" she suggested. Dismayed, Ken considered. A prescient dread was digging at him, and in the end he shook his head firmly.

"No. Tonight." Yohji had money on him, and it wasn't really that much. He just didn't dare let the woman out of his sight, or he was afraid he would never find her again, or their best hope to find Aya's assailants.

Startled, Honey blinked at him, confused by the sudden forcefulness after all his earlier stuttering and hesitation. Ken met her gaze steadily. "I'm going to call a friend of mine to bring the money, then you and me are going to go get the tape. We'll just wait for him here, okay?"

The blond whore shrugged. If they were willing to pay her more than a month's take home for one lousy video tape, she would give them the whole damned night. She tapped a fresh cigarette out and tucked the crumpled pack back into the waistband of her miniskirt.

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

They sat across the table from one another, conversation exhausted, until the low rumble of a motorcycle outside announced Yohji's arrival. The older assassin had opted for the ease of mobility that the bike offered, and had dressed the part, wearing worn black leathers and a bandana around hair that had been temporarily dyed to match. He paused in the door to the automat, taking in the bright empty space over the top of his sunglasses. Ken figured that he had rarely been so happy to see the playboy in his life. Yohji had no trouble spotting them since they were the only customers in the place, and stomped over, cycle boots heavy on the scuffed linoleum floor.

"Yo." he said casually. His gaze swept over Honey, noting her outfit, and for once not making any comment about it. Silently, he asked Ken if it was all okay, and equally quiet, the boy nodded. He was grateful that the other Hunter didn't feel a need to make an issue out of the sum of money, or to ask if he was really sure that the tape would be worth the effort. Yohji's steady green eyes slid back to Honey, but the roll of bank notes he drew from the tight front pocket of his pants went to Ken.

Sighing, Ken undid the rubber band and peeled off enough bills to meet the agreed upon price, leaving a sadly shrunken roll behind. He suspected that Yohji had planned it that way, intending for Honey to see that she had gouged them for all they were worth, and that it wouldn't be in her best interests to try to up the price. The woman grinned around her third, or was it fourth? cigarette, peremptorily holding out her hand. Ken put the wad of cash into her palm.

"Okay, lover boy," she cooed flippantly, shooting Yohji a coy glance. "Why don't you make yourself at home with a nice slice of pie, or something? The kid and me'll be back in a jiffy." Ken nodded. They had discussed it after his quick visit to the battered pay phone in the corner. The owners of the Hot Body maintained a discrete office away from the brothel, behind a dry cleaners. But with both partners taken during the police sting, there was no one left to run the meager betting operation at the other location, and it was left locked up tight. Ken wasn't quite clear on how Honey had wrangled a key for the place; it had something to do with her brother being hired muscle, and her occasionally serving as a secretary… And something bizarre about Mishakawa being a second cousin. Or something. It was a bit scary and incestuous to think of the bookmaking and brothel as a kind of family business, but there it was. Between spending the previous night on the run from someone else's assassins, and tonight prowling the streets of the suburbs, he was exhausted enough that it was all beginning to make a sort of sense. Honey strolled out the door, and the athlete had to hustle to catch up.

They didn't have far to go. The Hot Body, its façade dark and boarded up, was only a couple of blocks away. Ken had spent the early part of the night circling the scruffy building, sticking close to the building with its signs advertising "Girls, girls, girls,' and `Live Entertainment,' as if it were just another sleazy club. Honey led them past the whorehouse, turning into the darkened mouth of a driveway near the far end of the block. The passage between the buildings looked barely wide enough for a delivery truck, a supposition born out by the scrapes and scuffs of paint on the weathered bricks. But the woman seemed to know where she was going, and Ken had no option by to follow when she materialized a small bunch of keys from somewhere on her under-dressed person, and unlocked an anonymous door set into the wall.

The air that rolled out was stale, loaded with the chemical stench of the dry cleaners up front, but it was much, much warmer than the outdoors. In the dim glow of the emergency exit light overhead, Ken could see that the cold had turned the woman's nipples into sharp peaks that poked through the thin fabric of her halter top; he had no idea how Honey could stand running around in virtually no clothes when he was freezing with a jacket on.

The ring of keys jingled as she selected another one and opened an inner door. They stepped through, her hand automatically hitting a light switch set into the wall illuminating a big room with several mismatched desks and awful brown pressboard paneling. Ignoring them, the blond crossed the room to another door, unlocking it as well.

The office beyond was only marginally nicer than the bookies' room out front. Two desks were crammed into a much tighter space, together with several file cabinets, a small copy machine, and a fax that had its own small stand. Honey fished in the knee-hole drawer of the first desk, and then used the key that she found on the other one. The big, bottom file drawer was packed full of tapes and junk.

"Crap…" she muttered. "Hey, do you remember what day your guy got snatched on?"

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Exasperated, Ken shoved her out of the way. There had to be fifty tapes in there, some labeled with only a date, others bearing a post it note. He began stacking them on top of the desk, figuring that the one he wanted would likely be fairly recent and so near the top. If he could get the damned drawer open, he was just going to have to take all of the ones that were anywhere close to being right.

The drawer opened farther only with some difficulty, hung up on a black nylon bag. Something indefinable about it gave the young man pause, and slowly he wriggled it out of the cramped space, adding it to the heap of tapes. It wasn't terribly large - just a bit bigger than an overnight bag… At that thought, a puzzle piece clicked into place, and Ken turned the name tag dangling from the handle over with trembling fingers, half-dreading what he would find. Bold handwriting that he had seen a thousand times stated `Fujita Masahiro,' and gave the address of a drop that they occasionally used.

It was the bag that Aya had taken with him when he had gone out on his solo mission.