Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Reflections ❯ Extremes ( Chapter 22 )

Reflections: Extremes

Chapter 22

 

A Weiss Kreuz fanfic by L.A. Mason.

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

 

Author's Note: Under normal circumstances, I hate it when writers use this space to make excuses for why they've blown off a fic… Life happens, deal with it. But now, having said that, I'm in the awkward position of feeling like I do owe at least a little bit of an explanation to all the wonderful people who've been emailing me in the past months. Yes, I'm (hopefully) going to finish Reflections, Monozuki, and my FMA fic, Rain. And no, I don't know how long it will take.

 

What happened is this: I've been diagnosed with cancer. The surgery was at the beginning of March, and I'm in chemo therapy right now. When that ends in July, I'll be starting radiation. Beyond that, it's very much a wait and see kind of situation. Even when it doesn't make me sick, I'm finding that my mind isn't in the right place for writing. I want to, but the words just don't come out the fingers, and I have trouble juggling the clues and making the story gel. The past few days are the first time in a long time that I've dusted Reflections off, and actually felt like working on it.

 

So, you have my apologies, folks. Don't give up hope - I actually do have an ending outlined. I will try to get there one of these days.

 

And, again, I want to thank CGay, Teresa, Lita and Kelly for beta-ing above and beyond the call of duty. Your comments and insights into the plot and character interactions leave me humbled. Thanks also to those patient folks who've been reading and commenting without me groveling. I appreciate you, as well. Any remaining mistakes are all my fault.

 

Lisa

 

P.S. To the person who asked if I was Indian… Um, no. Although that's the most creative guess I've had. I'm Danish, but I've been living in the U.S. for a reeeeeeaally long time. My first language is Danish, but English is now my primary.

 

 

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

 

“God-damned, fuckin' son of a bitch.” Yohji repeated, striding into the ringing silence. Coughing, Ken rolled onto his hands and knees, automatically checking the splattered mess next to him for vital signs while bottling the urge to gibber not Aya! up in a dark corner of his mind. Aya had not come, would not come… There would be no rescues from that side, not ever again. Instead, his blond teammate echoed Ken's actions, callously examining the other bodies strewn about the room. “Got the recall.” he snapped tersely. “Cops'll be here any second. Where's your headset?” Bending, he scooped the matte-black piece of plastic from the floor as he spoke, answering his own question. Ken patted his ear, belatedly noting that he wasn't wearing it.

 

“Christ…” muttering, he staggered to his feet, staring around the room. They'd all worn gloves, so no risk there, and the footprints and smears crisscrossing the upstairs were nothing readily identifiable. The lanky blond planted a foot on the chest of Omi's first victim, yanking the crossbow bolt from its throat, then shoving the muzzle of his backup weapon into the hole. He fired, obliterating the wound's distinctiveness. The ones killed by his wire got only cursory glances; the watch was a unique item, but death by garrote wasn't. There wasn't time to do anything more, and cleaning up the scene by fire or explosion was out - too many civilians, too close quarters… and they didn't have the necessary supplies, anyhow. Ken followed as the blond jogged back toward their initial entry point, the habitual laziness forgotten in the need to get clear before the police arrived.

 

“Bombay's already yanked the anchor out of the wall and reeled up the rope, so we're gonna have to jump it. You up to it?” he asked over his shoulder. Ken shrugged painfully.

 

“I guess. Or you can lower me to the alley and I'll go from there…?” There was an overwhelming itch to strip off his bloody gear, but the trash bags were waiting across the way in the office building. It was one of those catch-22 things… they needed to get rid of the wearable evidence, but could ill afford the time to take care of it.

 

Omi was also waiting, pale face anxious. He'd popped out the sliding pane from its casement, making the target opening as big as possible. Which was still smaller than Ken would have liked. Groaning, every ache coming home to roost now that the adrenaline was fading, the athlete eyed the gap. The only thing in his favor was that his shoulder wasn't dislocated or anything, and in point of fact, he'd felt worse after playing that exhibition game against a Manchester team. He hopped up onto the narrow sill of their side, coiling the powerful muscles in his calves and thighs, and sprang. He shot through the hole on the other side, tucking and rolling like he was supposed to, and biting off a yelp of agony when he landed on what was sure to be one Hell of a bruise. As Ken cleared, Yohji followed, somehow making his lean length graceful. The former detective was on his feet before Ken could get oriented, helping the other blond replace the window sash and obliterating any trace that they'd come this way. The furniture that Omi had shifted out of the way went back onto the dents in the worn carpeting, concealing an errant smudge of blood left by their messy mission garb.

 

“Gotta go.” grunted Yohji, stripping off his coveralls. They joined Omi's windbreaker and he tied off that bag efficiently. The smaller tactician helped Ken peel away his grungy jeans, bagging them as well, as he handed over a box of wet-wipes for the brunet to clean off as much of his face as possible. The point where the gun barrel had split the skin stung, but the wound was shallow and the bleeding had slowed to an ooze. But that wasn't what bothered Ken; rather, it was Yohji's tightly down-turned mouth, and the way he avoided eye contact with them.

 

“What the fuck's eating you?” Hopping on one leg as he dragged on worn but far less attention-grabbing clean pants, Ken glared at the older assassin. A jittery playboy was a worrisome thing, and he didn't like it. The younger man was tempted to dig in his heels and refuse to move, but the worried look on Omi's features convinced him that it would be a bad idea.

 

Yet the answer when it came was less than helpful. “Abyssinian said the Tanuki is with `em.” The clipped response confused him until Ken connected the nickname with Yohji's old contact among the cops.

 

“Why? This oughta look like a turf war gone bad.” He trotted after the others as they hurried out of the office and down the back stairs. Sirens were clearly audible, and they needed to be across the larger alley and into the empty warehouse that squatted there before troops moved into position. They'd plotted a route that zigzagged between places that were devoid of life, all the better to avoid having a civilian see them leaving the scene of the crime, but it would be stupid to not be careful.

 

“Dunno. Could be he's just watching anything to do with Tanagawa, what with the political pressure on him to solve the original prostitution ring case. Could be something else.” The man's tone emphatically did not encourage further discussion, and Ken hesitated, reluctant to provoke him by giving voice to the thought that immediately popped into his head: What if Detective Tsanakia is here to do damage control?

 

They knew already that there was a leak somewhere in the police force, and who better than the lead investigator? Omi, who'd kept his mouth shut for the entire discussion, shot him an apprehensive, big-blue-eyes look that could have melted stone, then dashed across the alley and into the next building on their escape route. Ken followed, automatically keeping his head down, even when the distant barking of a dog made him flinch. In spite of everything, his lips thinned in annoyance, and he could have kicked himself. They'd taken on a superior force, and against the odds come out alive. Recklessly taken them on, and miraculously survived… and a lot of the recklessness was his fault. If the police detective found anything useful, it would all be because of a certain hot-headed soccer player.

 

Inside the hushed darkness of the abandoned warehouse, Ken leaned to one side of the battered door, catching his breath as he waited for Yohji to join them, and turned it over in his head. Really, the three of them shouldn't have been able to take down eight professionals, and come out of it in one piece. And he was the one who'd insisted that Weiss hit them without spending any more precious time on prepping. What the fuck had he been thinking?

 

The answer, of course, was that he hadn't been thinking. Far easier to avoid considering what was coming in the near future if they survived this screwed-up disaster, to give in to the urge to slash and burn mindlessly, letting the berserker in his soul take control with what was becoming frightening ease.

 

But on the flip side, if they had waited, worn down as they were, the Hunters would have ended up as the prey. The mercenaries had been on the ground in Tanagawa for weeks, and had gotten used to the territory. That familiarity had bred contempt for the sheep around them. If they hadn't consistently underestimated Ken's companions, the Kritiker team would be the ones cooling in the morgue by now. Now that he was starting to use his head for something besides hanging a hat on, it hurt to think how close he and his friends had come to losing.

 

By rights, Ken ought to be the one dead on the floor; he deserved it.

 

Yohji and Omi carefully re-locked the heavy steel door, and then the three of them were flitting through the darkness, their rubber soled shoes barely audible in the echoing emptiness. The route back to the junkyard wasn't as well planned as the smaller blond's usual, but the cops weren't likely to be able to get a bead on them. The combination of a poor economy and having out-lived its usefulness made Tanagawa perfect for people who weren't really supposed to exist. This one building, for example, would take them most of a block away from the bar, while keeping them invisible to the cops. They detoured around the heavy steel posts that supported the invisible roof high above, reaching the small office area that fronted onto the next street over. There wasn't a cop in sight. At least, not yet. Sirens were approaching rapidly from several directions as the first responders had undoubtedly had time to call for both for backup and for emergency rescue vehicles.

 

Ken dropped down to squat on his heels, back resting lightly against the scuffed plasterboard wall, and waited for the flashing red and white glow that leaked between the sheets of plywood covering the plate glass windows to recede. Small flashlight gripped in his mouth, Omi sidled over and began probing at his aching shoulder. The small, deft fingers, together with the comically intent expression on a dirty pixie face, sent a stab of residual lust straight to Ken's groin. Knowing that it was just the leftover nerves from the fight didn't make it any easier to resist the temptation to nuzzle into the thin column of the boyish neck. Instead, Ken batted away his friend's hands, growling softly. Omi rocked back onto his haunches, staring intently in the bright spot of light. He doused the flashlight.

 

“Ken-kun…” the teen said softly, dimly seen hand reaching out, before falling down into his lap. “Talk to me. What's wrong?”

 

“Nothing.” Frustrated into inarticulacy, Ken snatched up the black cylinder of the flashlight and took a look for himself, grunting with relief to find his hide unbroken. His skin was still buzzing and it took an effort to sit still when what he really wanted was to pry open the boarded up doors and run. Christ, what was getting into him? Flipping the switch to `killer' from `florist' was an unnaturally natural part of their existence as Hunters, but distantly Ken could tell that he'd - no, they all had - slipped a little farther across the divide than normal. And it ought to bug the Hell out of him that he could do so, so easily. Wisely, Omi said nothing but simply eased down to sit cross-legged on dusty tile, simply waiting for Ken's volatile temper to settle a bit.

 

For his part, Yohji rolled his shoulders to loosen the kinks, and remarked in something approaching his normal drawl, “Okay, kids. Coast is clear.” Omi immediately bounced to his feet, dashing over to unbolt the exit from the inside, so that he could wriggle a thin hand through and pick the padlock securing the blatantly obvious, rusty chain looped through the door handles on the outside. Then the blond teen fidgeted impatiently until the older pair was out, until the door chained up again, proclaiming to the world that no one had come that way.

 

“Next place has a working incinerator.” he murmured, taking back the trash bag that Ken had automatically picked up. Yohji slung the other one casually onto his shoulder, thumb of his other hand hooked carelessly into his front jeans pocket, and led the way diagonally across the lonely street and into the dark mouth of another alley. On their way to the bar, the tall playboy had half-unscrewed the only bulb, and it was still out. Who would have fixed it? There wasn't a single sign of life. Working by touch, Yohji had the lock picked and the door open in a heartbeat, and ushered his team through with a barely seen, ironic bow. Ken was peripherally aware that their tactician was watching the PI and him like a hawk, probably anticipating a breakdown from the more highly strung men, and it was annoying. Still, in the interests of keeping what little peace was left, the ball player shrugged it off, mouthing, for the good of the team.

 

But he wasn't really sure how much longer he'd be able to keep that fiction going without saying `what fucking team?' Unaccountably, the stress Ken felt transformed into an unreasonable, simmering anger; he could see that it was unreasonable, but was powerless to rein in the loathing he suddenly felt toward not only the smirking idiot holding the door, but also his best friend.

 

And toward himself.

 

This factory was still in use, although quiet and dark for the night. There was an indefinable difference to the silence, more of a waiting for returning life than permanent desolation. Their door opened into a concrete floored and walled corridor with a time clock and a wall rack of stiff paper cards, each bearing the name of a blue collar worker. Beyond, dimly lit by a red `exit' sign, the hall opened into a wide floor populated by the shadowy shapes of machines: drill press and die punch, big rollers, and spools of wire and thin sheet steel. Omi had earlier disabled the aged security alarms and there was no watchman on duty, leaving Weiss alone in possession of the refuge. When they were gone, Ken knew that it would be as if restless ghosts had flitted through; Omi would reconnect the severed wires as they had been before. But for now, they could use the tiny washroom and dispose of the bloodied clothing, could catch their breaths and relax a little. The solid walls cut off what little outside sound there was, giving the illusion that they had all the time they could possibly want.

 

Seizing the opportunity while the brunet was wool-gathering, Omi shoved his trash bag at Yohji, and towed Ken into the lavatory, tersely ordering him to strip off his shirt. Blinking, the jock tried to dig in his heels once the words sank in, but it did no good.

 

“I said `off.' ” Omi snapped.

 

“What the fuck for?” Ken replied belligerently. In the light of the single, naked bulb swaying overhead, the streaks left by rivulets of sweat in the plaster dust on the shorter teen's face should have been laughable, but Omi's jaw was clenched and the Pacific blue eyes narrowed accusingly. Automatically, Ken's fingers began fumbling with the buttons fastening the shirt he wore over his black turtleneck. When he peeled that off as well and Omi's glare finally relented, Ken protested weakly, “Come on, Omi… It's not that bad…”

 

“You let me be the judge of that.” the younger Hunter snapped tartly. But the cold fingers prodding at the swollen and discolored flesh were gentle. Relieved, he said softly, “Feels like just soft tissue damage, but the timing sucks. We've got to finish this off, and it's going to be tough without you.”

 

“Hm.” Tired eyes slipping closed, Ken leaned his forehead against his friend's and let the chilly touch sooth him. “Feels good,” he mumbled. “I'll be okay. Used to play with lots worse than this.”

 

“Ken-kun. This isn't soccer. They're going to be trying to kill us.” Under the scolding tone was amusement.

 

“Ha. You've obviously never played Manchester.” the athlete grumbled half-heartedly. He was not only physically weary, but sick to death of the whole situation. “I was thinking about them earlier… funny, but I thought we'd have another chance at beating them, but then the scandal hit the news… I never got a second chance.”

 

“Ken…” Omi's light alto sounded as if he were close to tears of exhaustion himself, but before the older youth could turn the conversation around into a joke, he was tasting drywall and sweat, and feeling chapped lips pressing urgently against his. Startled, Ken almost over-balanced, and ended up bracing one hand to the doorframe while the fingers of the other spread wide to cradle the back of Omi's skull. The blood was pounding under his suddenly too tight skin when the frailer teen whimpered and opened his mouth to the teasing of Ken's tongue. There was desperation, and a clumsy urgency… one of those `carpe diem' things that earnest and thoughtful Omi never indulged in… But they were. Ken's thigh was slipping between his friend's, and the whimpers had become a low, hungry whine.

 

“And you guys ride me about my sex life…?” The scent of tobacco accompanied the lazy drawl as the two nearly fell over the lid-less toilet in their haste to disentangle themselves. Yohji leaned negligently against the wall just outside, cigarette dangling as he flicked invisible lint off of his snug black vest. Blushing and furious, Omi surprised Ken by hissing, “Fuck off, Yohji-kun!” and storming out of the cramped washroom. The older blond gave a humorless bark of laughter, languidly drawing himself erect and turning to follow. “And here I was just coming to tell you that I was done playing with matches, Omitchi.” Ken stared after them, finally rubbing the back of a shaking hand across his mouth.

 

What the heck had just happened?

 

It wasn't as if he had never gotten a wholly inappropriate rush from a mission before; that sort of thing happened whenever emotions were high. Thinking back on his soccer career, it had been one of the things that the other players joked about, and sometimes even did something about. And the same applied to the wire man, who often disappeared to let off steam at some club or other. But Omi had never come on to anyone before, as far as Ken knew. If anything, Omi buried himself in the most normal and mundane things he could find, like homework and his cd-player.

 

Was it because of Aya?

 

Wincing, Ken hastily dragged his turtleneck back over his head, cursing as his too long hair caught in the collar, and dashed after the slight figure. He ignored the low, knowing chuckle from the playboy bastard, cornering his friend by the roll-up dock door at the far end of the machine shop. “Omi!” he called urgently, “What's wrong?”

 

“Nothing. Everything.” Parroting Ken's earlier protest, the slim teenager gave a dry half-laugh, half sob. “It's all falling apart, and I have no idea what to do.”

 

“Omi,” sighed Ken. He forcibly turned his friend around, wrapping his good arm around the narrow shoulders, pulling the small form against his chest. “Don't. Don't obsess about it. We'll find a way to make it work. I promise.”

 

“How can you, when we both know that fail or succeed, we still end up losing?”

 

For that, Ken knew, there was no real answer that he could give.

 

 

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

 

 

Calling it déjà vu was an understatement. Here he was, back in the van, sitting in basically the same spot again with his butt on the scratched and dented metal floor, and his back against the exposed framing of the rear doors. Ken shifted slightly, trying to ease the ache that had spread all the way down to his lower spine, and wished that the mild painkillers Omi had fed him would hurry up and kick in.

 

The cramped space reeked. It wasn't just the expected sweat/grime/blood stench he was accustomed to thinking of as `post-mission-ew-need-a-shower.' Weiss didn't normally go in for firearms, so the addition of burnt powder lent an indefinable something to the mix. Ken had - once, when he was first recruited by Kritiker - referred to that as `the smell of cordite' and gotten smacked up the back of the head by his instructor and told that that was a newbie's mistake. But he wasn't quite sure what else the acrid smell could be described as. And, of course, lazy Yohji picked guns as one of the few things he would get obsessive about, and the added aroma of cleaning solvents was making the brunet's head swim.

 

And there wasn't even a window that he could risk opening.

 

The low murmur of Omi's voice filling Aya in on what he'd observed at the bar washed over Ken, and he let his throbbing head fall back against the bare metal. At least it was cool, even if it wasn't comfortable. There was a soft clink and a grunt as Yohji dropped something or other from his cleaning kit, and Ken pried his eyes open to stare at the blond's intent features. Without the ever-present sun glasses, and with his hair cropped short, the man looked less like a playboy, and more the professional investigator he could have been, had not a case gone bad and Kritiker interfered.

 

Ken knew that he was being broody and off-kilter too, but he couldn't help it. The whole mission had just felt wrong, what with Aya opting out. Before the abduction and their enforced flight, there had been times when one or the other of the team had chosen not to participate, but that was different. Here, now, when they'd started bonding on a personal level, taking on a major target one short had been the wrong thing to do. His gaze settled onto Aya, dark hair turned purple in the aquatic light, and Ken bit the inside of his cheek to contain the frantic `why!' that threatened to burst out of him. Aya chose that exact instant to glance up, meeting Ken's pleading brown eyes with his own, inscrutable silence.

 

Of course the asshole isn't going to say anything; he never does. A bitter surge of rage flooded through Ken, and the assassin ground his teeth until he tasted blood. Why the Hell would Aya care that his absence had nearly cost his team their lives? Soon to be `former team,' at that.

 

Shit. His hands were shaking, curling into fists with the burning desire to pound a reaction out of that beautiful face. It was almost a relief to be able to shift his focus back onto Yohji when the lanky assassin tossed him the cleaning kit, saying, “Your turn, Soccer Boy. Don't want a misfire, do we?” with exactly the kind of leer that turned the most rational, everyday conversations into a minefield of innuendo.

 

“Yohji-kun, stop it.” Omi, too tired to put his usual, courteous `please' on the order, interrupted. “Aya-kun, tell them what you showed me.” The older man inclined his head, blue light shimmering on the softness of his hair. With an effort, Ken shunted the immediate pang of longing off to join the need for physical violence, settling for a final glare at the smirking playboy. Yohji waggled his fingers insultingly, and grinned with a nasty, feral edge that did bad things to Ken's blood pressure, but he held tight to the idea that Aya might have learned something useful. At last, the older blond rolled his eyes, subsiding bonelessly against the equipment rack, somehow managing to look comfortable as he did so. But the bruised tightness around his weirdly underwater, blue-green eyes, and the pinched line of his mouth signaled that even a cigarette wouldn't be enough to calm the man down. He was spoiling for a fight, too.

 

Aya, of course, ignored the warning signs, saying in his level, unemotional voice, “During the second excursion to the police, my purpose was to monitor cell phone activity. At the time, I gathered a great deal of data, but was unable to analyze it when you, Omi, and you, Yohji, were captured.” At the bald statement, Yohji flinched and Ken was reminded of the blond's nearly suicidal behavior; Yohji hadn't expected to survive his ordeal. By the cool intensity of the stare Aya fixed on the oldest of their group, he knew it as well, but he made no comment on it. “The information remained on the laptop. This time, when the bar's owner telephoned the police, an outgoing call was made nearly immediately from the station back to a cell number. The identity of the caller is still unknown, but by comparing to what we had from the earlier attempt, I was able to fix the recipient to a specific phone.”

 

Baffled, Ken frowned at both the serious redhead and his grinning best friend. Omi especially seemed tickled, and that was the clue that finally let the jock say slowly, “You've got a solid lead to the rest of those guys, don't you?” Fierce joy blossomed in his gut, and he laughed, low and harsh. “Good. We'll be rid of the fuckers once and for all.”

 

Yohji cut across him. “The one who made the call, do you think it could've been the Tanuki?”

 

Embarrassed, Omi said hastily, “We don't known that, Yohji-kun. It might not have been your frie--” Aya silenced him with a small gesture.

 

“Yes. I have no proof, but I think it likely. He mobilized immediately. The timing between the call to the station, the one back to the cell number, and Detective Tsanakia's departure with his forces is too close for anything else to be logical.”

 

“Son of a bitch.” Yohji swore. He jammed an unlit cigarette into his mouth, then yanked it out and crushed it in his fist, shedding bits of paper and tobacco across his lap. “I don't believe it,” he snapped flatly. “Not the Tanuki.”

 

“But it was with this possibility in mind that you asked me to monitor the police calls.” Aya snapped back, the tarnished silver darkness of his eyes glittering as his temper began to fray in turn. “Even while you cling to the… `nostalgia' of the good old days, of the life you had before Weiss, a part of you was aware that however lovely the apple, there could still be a worm hidden within. You spent two hours on the drive down persuading me that I had a duty to assist with this. I agreed to help. I did not agree to lie to you.”

 

“Whoa! What?” Ken demanded. His world view underwent a sharp shift as he considered that it might not have been Omi's intent to keep him away from the wire man, but rather to give the blond a chance to work on Aya uninterrupted that had led to Ken riding with his best friend. Now that he thought of it, it made loads of sense. There was no way that Yohji could not take advantage of having Aya as a captive audience. And an appeal to duty was the one thing that would persuade the swordsman that his participation in the assault was necessary, no matter how little he liked the idea of slaughtering their opponents. It had worked when all of Ken's impassioned pleas had failed, and didn't that just leave the athlete with an acid burn behind his ribs?

 

Aya ignored him. “You insisted that this was not worth the effort of doing unless it were possible to eliminate the threat inherent in the stolen documents at the same time. I believe your wording was `if we don't take down the source, someone else will just turn up to buy the goods?' ”

 

The blond snapped back tiredly, “Yes, fuck, I remember what I said, all right?” There was none of his usual, languid grace as his hand fell unthinkingly onto his watch, just an unspoken warning to give the matter a rest.

 

Instinctively, Ken shifted, gathering himself to jump as needed, although in the close confines of the van it would be difficult to do much. And he wasn't sure what he ought to do if it came down to that. He agreed with Yohji, but a tiny voice at the back of his brain was clamoring, And how far do we take this? Until everyone is dead?

 

Sensitive to the brewing argument, Omi hurriedly cleared his throat. “Be that as it may, Yohji-kun, the first step is still to find the mercenaries, right? They're smart enough to not have a phone with a GPS built into it, so we can only narrow their position down to a few square miles of the city. If they were moving, we'd be able to tell when they reach the boundary of one cell, because the switching system will hand off their signal to the next cell, but even that is of limited use. So instead, what I plan to focus on is listening in on the calls to and from that number. Thanks to Kritiker, we have both the software and the equipment to do that. It'll just take a little time.” Eyes pleading for their patience and understanding, Omi waved vaguely at the racks of electronics crowding the van. Yohji nodded grudgingly, casually allowing his hands to fall into his lap as if that were what he'd intended all along, glancing across at Aya. The redhead also nodded, accepting the offered truce. Only Ken saw his best friend's face quiver, exhaustion and upset threatening to have the smallest and youngest of them break down and cry. But the teenager's voice was its normal, upbeat self as he suggested, “Ken-kun, Yohji-kun, why don't the two of you go to the sedan and get some sleep? I know it's not the most comfortable--” The implied apology made the PI grimace.

 

“Yeah, yeah… I wasn't expecting to still have to keep our heads down after tonight, either. But there ya go.” His sour expression morphed into a smirk, as his tone became deliberately light, “But don't you want to go with Ken-chan first, Omitchi? You guys could finish what you started at the machine shop. I'm sure you'd feel better for a chance to let loose.”

 

The unseen currents in the room made Ken's head spin. Omi blushed what would have been scarlet without the van's blue illumination, and squawked incoherently as the older blond's snicker turned into a malicious, out-loud laugh. It was obvious that Yohji hadn't stood down from the keyed-up state brought on by the fight, probably because he didn't regard it as over yet. Ken was aware that he was quicker to anger, but also often the first to cool off.

 

Less likely to carry a chip on his shoulder.

 

He stole a glance at Aya, abruptly aware of the considering weight of his gaze. It made him blush, and stammer, “N- nothing h- happened, Aya--”

 

The slim hand raised in front of him cut off the rest of his protestations. “I'm not the one that you need to justify your actions to. You're an adult, Ken. You make your own choices, and take responsibility for the results. I have no say in it.”

 

Oddly, it seemed as if the swordsman were talking about other things, too, and Ken felt a flush of heat when he remembered that he'd never finished cleaning off the blood caked into his hair—both his own, and that of his last target.

 

Or was it victim?

 

Yohji was grumbling, “Come on, Ken-ken… let's leave the geniuses to their illegal wire tapping. I'm beat.” As the light went out, making it safe for them to leave, Ken barely heard, sunk into humiliated self-inspection. He had taken out his frustrations on their enemies, had gone at them the way he used to go at an opposing team on the soccer field. Except, the difference was that now his need to lash out resulted in people being dead. It was mortifying, even if Aya's cool gaze withheld judgement, pitilessly forcing the brunet assassin to be his own judge and jury…

 

To find himself wanting, with no one else to take the blame.

 

Ducking his head, Ken scrambled out of the vehicle, and set off for the other car. Yohji strolled in his wake, a soft-footed, ambling wraith in the dim, urban glow. But before Ken could ask his shadow if he had any preference, or call dibs on the reclining front passenger seat, a lean weight had him pressed against the side of the vehicle. “Shit--!” he gasped, and then a hand closed across his mouth, silencing him.

 

“Ken-ken… Gotta keep it quiet, remember?” Barely audible, the words and the hot breath that bore them tickled at the ends of the hair covering his ear, only to be followed by a quick, wet stroke.

 

“Fuck, Yotan! What--?” Shoving back, Ken managed to wriggle around to face his assailant and discovered that it left him bent dangerously backwards against the curved surface with Yohji's arms planted to either side, imprisoning him. The man's lower body was still pressed snuggly against him, and through their combined jeans, there was no doubt as to the lanky playboy's aroused state.

 

“What do you say? A little quid pro quo?” He gave a lazy thrust, rubbing full-length up Ken, and the brunet shuddered at how abso-fucking-lutely fantastic it felt in his hyper-sensitive state.

 

But then his memory flashed first to how easily Aya had wrung a response from him in front of the mirror, waking a craving for more of the same mindlessly simple unwinding of his mental springs… then rapidly followed it with the astonishment of waking with the vulnerable redhead dead asleep next to him. This isn't the same! Ken thought furiously, and his tongue stumbled over itself in his haste as he planted a hand in the middle of the wire man's chest, and pushed. “Y- Yotan! I- We… This isn't…”

 

“What you're saying is `thanks, but no thanks,' huh? It's okay, I get the message.” One brow arched up sardonically, and the seductive mouth curled into a grin. “Wrong time, wrong place… wrong guy.” He straightened, giving a half-mocking salute. “Then I hope you don't mind if I slope off to take care of business for a little while? Thought as much--” And waving a casual farewell over his shoulder, he was sauntering away between the wrecked vehicles as if he were on a busy street in broad daylight. Ken sagged against the side of the sedan, running shaking fingers through his tangled hair.

 

Had everybody gone insane? On auto-pilot, he unlocked the car, fumbling under the seat for the thin, folded shape of the survival blanket, and instinctively relaxing when his questing fingers slid across the textured grips of a spare pistol. An involuntary smile twitched at Ken's mouth. Well, if they're nuts, then so am I…

 

First Omi, now the other half of the Blond Duo… He shook his head slightly, wrapping the blanket around him against the pre-dawn chill. It felt as if he were on the verge of some major epiphany that would allow him to understand what each of them had been trying to say. Ken had never grasped the subtleties of Yohji's sense of humor, for one thing. Perversion and innuendo made for some pretty un-funny jokes in the brunet's book, experience with what passed for amusing on the soccer circuit not withstanding. But this time, Ken could almost hear the older man saying, hey, we're still good - the thing with Aya, it doesn't mean we don't wantyou around anymore. Of course, it could also be the playboy's way of saying I've got the itch, let's go scratch it together. That would certainly also be in character. But Omi… that had definitely had the feel of desperation - and of fear. The poor kid had probably been scared witless by how close the mission had come to collapsing, and on top of the decision to break Weiss apart, too. Relief that Yohji had been able to snatch Ken back from the brink of the meat grinder, hitting him at a moment when emotions ran high had been the cause of that kiss. Nothing more. Like all of them, Omi tended to compartmentalize… to shove their night-time activities far, far away from his daily life. Things had just gotten a little out of control. That was all. Ken sighed heavily, the last vestiges of his smile long gone and replaced by a leaden sadness that dragged at him.

 

In a few hours, he'd go give the others a break; while the intricacies of hacking cell phones might be beyond a poor jock, he could watch the small video screens of the perimeter security system and give them a shot at catching some shut-eye in peace. Although… with Yohji gone for a bit, there was no need to play jan-ken-pon over the sleeping arrangements. The thought was enough to put a tiny smirk on his face as Ken leaned back the better of the car's two front seats, and curled comfortably into it.

 

 

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

 

The sunshine poking him in the eye brought with it the distinctly unpleasant feeling of having over-slept his shift at the flower shop. Ken jerked awake, only to meet the uninspiring landscape of crushed and scrapped cars heaped high on all sides. He squinted against the beam of light bouncing off of an unfortunately shiny bumper and revised his estimate of the time of day backwards a few hours; it couldn't possibly be more than eight or nine, meaning that he'd gotten about five hours of sleep. An injudicious attempt to squirm over onto his side and out of the reflected sun woke up a host of aches, and had him swearing under his breath. Oh yeah… five hours of sleep that was about twenty too little.

 

And the bottle of pain killers was with Omi, back in the tricked out van.

 

Muttering threats, Ken peeled back enough of the insulating blanket to lever himself up onto one elbow. His intention was to share the love and rudely shake the playboy out of his sweet dreams, but the other seat was empty. There was no sign that Yohji had even tried to adjust the steering wheel and the seat back to give himself enough room to stretch out - and a quick glance in the back confirmed that the taller man hadn't been desperate enough to fold into the bench seat, either. Alarmed, Ken sat all the way up, and winced when pain lanced through his entire right side.

 

What a moron I am! he snarled wordlessly. Why had he assumed that his teammate was just heading to the tiny lavatory in the defunct bus parked next to their hideout? Or maybe to find a less smelly, but equally private corner nearby to jerk off? Now Ken would have to admit that he'd `misplaced' the pain in the ass, and settle for praying that one of the cameras deployed to monitor their little kingdom of junk had picked something up. He wadded up the foiled blanket and crammed it back under the front seat, yanking simultaneously on the door handle. He tumbled out, automatically bending his knees to sink down into a crouch against the vehicle's side. Almost immediately, his ears picked up the low sounds of voices arguing, and identified them as the missing Yohji, and Aya.

 

A shiver of trepidation slid down Ken's spine, but he eased across the rusty ground anyway. Whoever was monitoring - Omi, presumably, since the other two were mere feet away and otherwise occupied - would know that he was awake and moving, but hopefully wouldn't blow the whistle. Cat-footed and silent, the brunet assassin tucked himself into a narrow split between the front end of a dead truck and a compacted cube of unidentified metal scrap, just in time to hear Yohji say with disgusted annoyance, “And don't you think that other people have a right to be let in on your decisions?”

 

“No, I don't. Before you and Omi approached me about leaving, Ken had already told me that it would be for the best, that he doesn't want me here. What business is it of yours if I happen to agree?” There was an edge of steel beneath the flatness of Aya's rejection, suggesting that the team's meddler had been at him for a while. But the content still made Ken stifle a whimper against his clenched knuckles. How could Aya have misunderstood? Far from not wanting him, the younger man wanted him too much; and at the same time knew that there was nothing within his power to offer that would do the least bit of good. Aya's changes ran too deep, and any attempt to fit the fractured pieces back together would have to start somewhere else. Ken couldn't mend the man's soul for him.

 

Sunk into introspection and misery, Ken missed the playboy's snorted reply, finally tuning back in when Aya snapped with some asperity, “I don't have to listen to this.”

 

“No? Well, excuse me for caring!” Yohji shot back tartly. “Ken-chan is a friend, even if he's too busy guarding his virtue to relax around me. And he's a heck of a lot smarter than you or Omitchi give him credit for. Haven't you ever noticed that out of all of us, he's the only one who's just himself? No masks, no misdirection. Just good old generous, earnest, klutzy Ken. If anyone has the guts to accept one of us - especially you - without flinching, it's going to be him, not some psycho-babble-spouting Kritiker shrink--”

 

“Yohji!” Aya's tone was so deadly that for an instant, the eavesdropping athlete wondered if the redhead's resolution to set aside his sword had come to a crashing halt. But it was his next words that twisted the knife in Ken's wounds. “I do not have any claims on Hidaka. And that's as it should be. He's his own person.”

 

All of a sudden, it didn't matter if they discovered his presence, or not. Ken fell back onto his rear with a thump, rattling the leaves of metal that protruded from the sides of his hiding place. It figured that with neither target nor soccer ball in front of him that he'd turn into a complete klutz just like Yohji accused him of being, attracting the attention of the other two men, but Ken couldn't bring himself to care. There was a roaring in his ears, and his eyes stung as if a beach bully had kicked sand into them. It shouldn't surprise him that Aya was back-pedaling as fast as he could go. Not really. The redhead didn't handle emotional shocks at all well, preferring to shunt them to the side, or to box them carefully up, and what did Ken expect? It had barely been a day since he'd flat out told Aya that there wouldn't be any help coming from him, only to find that the other half of Weiss had done the same thing…

 

The crunch of light footsteps rounding the end of the compacted pile of scrap gave the brunet just enough time to hunch his shoulders defensively, but not to get up and run. It was the ostrich sort of thing to do, but Ken couldn't help but imagine that if he stared hard enough at the littered ground, and pretended that no one could see him, that it would come true. But then Yohji's stricken voice exclaimed, “Kenken! What are you--” before rounding on the silent redhead trailing him to growl, “Now look at what you did! He heard you, you lowlife shit--”

 

“Yohji. It's okay.” The flat bitterness of his own tone surprised Ken. The volatile rage that had been gnawing at him seemingly forever leaked away, leaving him cold and exhausted. “It was stupid. I got so hung up on charging after Aya like the prince in some legend, waving a magical sword--” Peripherally, the slumped athlete noticed how the swordsman winced at the mention of his chosen weapon. “—on rescuing him, that I stopped thinking about why he was there in the first place: because of a mission. Aya's right, anyhow. Work doesn't mix with personal crap. I've got no claim on him, either. This should have been about stopping the bastards from the beginning. We're the ones who made it into a quest to rescue the princess from the evil ogres, when we should have been looking at the bigger picture.”

 

Yohji made a choked noise, smothering his own, instinctive protest, but Ken was sure that he was right; they'd all let themselves be derailed by the immediacy of rescuing one of their team. Callously, he continued, “And you're right, Yohji. I'm not like Aya. I don't think about a lot of stuff. I don't split moral hairs - I just try to do what my gut tells me is the right thing at the moment. You know: simple and direct, that's my motto. No deep thinking here.” Finally, he glanced up, blinking back the swimming tears in an effort to make Aya's white, pained face stop wavering in his sight.

 

“Ken…” The low voice was conflicted, but the younger man so addressed waved it away.

 

“At least hear me out for once. I'm used to not being the brightest bulb in the bunch, and that's okay. But if we're gonna do our jobs… and I mean really do them, then we need to eliminate the risk to the public, and that means cleaning up the stolen documents and money, right? That's what you said…” Anguished, his throat closed up and Ken swiped at the blurriness clouding his sight. The cuff of his shirt still smelled of blood, reminding him again that he needed a shower. `But I…. I just wanted things to work ou- out…” Gulping, he began to sob in earnest.

 

Somewhere, far away, a somber voice repeated, “Ken, I didn't me--”

 

“Oh, give it a rest, Fujimiya! Haven't you done enough? He damn near got killed last night, and all because we went in there one man short. Bet you didn't think about that when you decided not to dirty your hands any more.” The furious sneer was accompanied by a strong grasp that hauled Ken up from where he had hunched over, face buried in his drawn up knees.

 

“I've been doing nothing but think!” Aya growled back, stepping in to intercept the older assassin. Yohji kept one arm protectively around the brunet's shoulders, shoving the thinner man hard enough to stagger him.

 

“You're off duty. Why don't you get some sleep - assuming your conscience will let you,” Yohji snapped, then more gently, he murmured, “Come on, Kenken… Omitchi's got breakfast waiting, and I'll bet you're starved,” as he led the younger man away.

 

But they weren't headed for the scruffy white van as Ken expected. Rather, Yohji pulled him into a cavity in the rough wall of stacked wreckage, a quiet pocket that reeked of spilled motor oil and rusty metal. Not that he cared. How had things ended up going so totally wrong, when a few scant days earlier, he'd thought the four of them were coming together, and gelling as a team? Resigned, Ken waited for the pain in the ass to get it over with and drop whatever it was that he was itching to say. Instead, Yohji pulled out a bar wrapped in shiny mylar, offering it to him.

 

“Hey, I know it's not the Ritz, but it's food. And you gotta eat.” The crooked grin that invited Ken in on the joke slowly died away as he stood there holding the meal bar in his outstretched hand. Sighing, he grasped the athlete's hand and folded his fingers around the food. “Look, kiddo. If it makes you feel any better, I'm sorry Ayan went off on you. I was just trying to get him take a second look at his options, but he's so damned pig-headed--”

 

“Quit it, Kudoh.” Ken interrupted wearily. “Enough with the talking. I'll bet you groped me before just so you could go wait for Aya without me getting in your way. Well, you can talk at him, at me, at whatever, all you want. Talking isn't going to change a damned thing.”

 

“You and Aya… you really are made for each other. Can't you guys just not do everything to extremes? Look at that book of his--”

 

“Fuck off. I'm not interested.”

 

Anger sparked in the jade eyes as Yohji slammed a fist into the corrosion-dotted curve of a chromed fender just beside Ken's ear, making the younger man jerk back. “Don't give me that, Soccer Boy. You can't just give up! For one thing, you say enough with the talking - what about the listening? I hear a lot of yapping, but I'm not seeing a lot of the other half happening. Fine, you're bleeding. Suck it up, put a band-aide on it, and move on, will you? Now is not the time to be giving up.”

 

Stunned, Ken stared into the flushed face inches away, barely noting the grimy lankness of the playboy's signature wavy locks, or the bloodshot recklessness in the exposed eyes. Then his shoulders slumped, and he dropped his gaze to the front of the older man's scruffy tee. What did it matter, anyhow? Aya agreed with him; it was time to get out of the team, time to leave it all. Shit, he should have let Yohji jump his bones, should have taken Omi's desperate offer, should have... should have done something that would at least let him feel... "Yohji... I..." Ken waved a hand miserably at the world beyond the junk. "I... You didn't have to stick up for me. All that's left to do is to finish the mission." Ducking under the rigid arm, he slipped out of the quiet pocket in the wall of trash. “I gotta go relieve Omi; otherwise, he'll stay there till he drops.”

 

 

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

 

Author's Notes:

 

For a simple explanation of how cell phones work:

http: / / www. yale. edu/ ynhti/ curriculum/ units/ 2003/ 4/ 03. 04. 07. x. html

 

I gave a great deal of thought to Weiss using the mercenaries' cell phones as bugging devices, but concluded that the enemy was sophisticated and experienced enough to be blocking many of the obvious weaknesses (such as GPS). If you're curious about some of the things I came across in the course of researching, here's an interesting article that ran in the December, 2004 issue of PC World magazine:

http: / / www. pcworld. com/ howto/ article/ 0, aid, 118236, 00. asp

And the legal aspects of GPS in the US:

http: / / www. privacyrights. org/ fs/ fs2b- cellprivacy. htm

The December 10, 2005 New York Times:

http: / / www. nytimes. com/ 2005/ 12/ 10/ technology/ 10 phone. html? ex = 1291870800 & en = 2019ce 35d6b47983& ei = 5090& partner = rssuserland & emc = rss

 

Without having Omi and Aya put everyone to sleep by discussing it at length in the fic, what they propose to do is very possible given that they now have the phone number belonging to the surviving Communist mercenaries. There are virus software programs that can do all sorts of interesting things when they get installed onto a target phone,

(An article in the International Herald Tribune, published by the New York Times, on the tapping of Greek officials ran on February 3, 2006:

http: / / www. iht. com/ getina/ files/ 307567. html)

and also more mechanical ways of tapping a call. An example of one of the latter can be found at:

http: / / www. hackcanada. com/ blackcrawl/ cell/ motorola/ fovchack. html

(I found this one interesting in part because I do have an older Motorola cell phone sitting a few feet away on the desk as I type this.)

And a more sophisticated monitoring setup (although please note that the specs talk about Windows 95 and 98 - not XP, so this is obviously dated) in a .pdf file attached at:

http: / / www. spygadgets. com/ telephone- recorders/ cell- phone- tapping. html

 

The internet is an endlessly entertaining place.