Reunion of Sorts

Summary: Mamoru Takatori has long ago forsaken the right to choose his own death. OneShot featuring Omi/Mamoru, three heirs to a lost industrial empire, two bodyguards with code-names taken from chess figures and a certain British assassin's troupe.

Warning: none I can think of right now

Set: Post-Side B

Disclaimer: Standards apply.

The clouds hung low, their color a grey so dark it almost could have been black. It would rain soon, probably even storm. In his business suit, complete with tie and everything, Mamoru Takatori felt a shiver run down his back. But he had long learned to hide anything other than what he wanted people to see about him, so to the people surrounding him, he seemed completely relaxed. Even though there were at least fifteen fire arms and an interesting assortment of other weapons trained on him.

Oh the irony to know he could only blame himself for being in this position right now.

Mamoru smiled.

Two days before his intermezzo with this gang of trained assassins on an empty expressway in the middle of Nowhere, his plane had landed on JFK airport in New York, USA. He still felt the jetlag he hadn't quite been able to get rid of – forty-eight hours of constant meetings, press conferences and interviews hadn't left him much time for sleep. Not that he needed much. He was used to worse. But he felt exhausted, as if his entire body had been emptied and re-filled with bones and muscles made of wax. Now, two days and an eternity later, he left the hotel in which he had met an assortment of important and less important businessmen and forced himself to smile. He was absolutely aware of the fact that a horde of journalists were waiting for him outside, ready to report even the smallest sign of weakness to the world. Now, being a member of the Takatori family was normally enough to ensure a media spectacle in Japan. At the moment he was in America, so why did they care? Maybe because he was Japan's new Prime Minister. Damn. He had known it would be work to take up the offer he had been made but he hadn't been in the position to refuse.

"Mr. Takatori, what is the most pressing matter you'd like to discuss with the President?"

"Mr. Premier, do you think your opposing party in Japan will try to negate the effects of your last actions?"

"Mr. Takatori, do you have a message for your people at home?"

"Takatori-San, what will your next actions be?"

The last question was asked in the soft syllables of his mother tongue and Mamoru looked up (smiling, of course) to find himself face to face with a young man. He wore a dark sweatshirt and silver-rimmed glasses, had dark eyes and unmistakable Asian features. He carried neither pen and paper nor a microphone – only a headset was clipped to his ear discretely. The man was young – almost too young to be here, Mamoru wondered, but he was already ushered forward by his bodyguards. The journalists closed in as they lead him down the stairs and into the black limousine standing directly in front of the entrance. He ducked into it with something that might have been a sigh of relief and the car moved forward the instant the doors fell closed behind him.

In the car, his assistant was waiting.

"Hello, Takatori-San."

Mamoru made sure the glass window between the driver's seats and the passenger department was closed and turned to her.

"Hello, Manx. What do you have for me?"

"Unfortunately, even more work, I fear," the tall, dark-haired woman said and handed him two folders. "Plus the answers for the interview tonight and the list of names of the people you'll meet at the dinner right after it. And the menu."

Her smile didn't waver and neither did his. Inwardly, he cringed. "How does it sound?"

"A bit exotic, I guess. But don't worry, you won't have to eat anything you don't like."

Mamoru opened the file she had handed him and started reading it. Menu was their secret code and mostly referred to his actions concerning the underground organization he still lead – Weiss, meanwhile, ran in the sixth generation. So there were slight problems in Japan but he didn't have to worry too much. Birma and his other agents were taking care of it. It was in Manx's character to still keep him well-informed.

"Oh, yes, and Sir Krypton called."

Mamoru looked up and frowned. "Oh? What did he say?"

"He told me to remind you to enjoy your time in the US. And that he might visit you in Japan soon."

"He didn't ask anything, didn't call for information? No, of course he didn't." Mamoru answered his own question. "Kritiker is organized pretty well. Its England branch is one of the best they have."

"They do have some advantages," Manx conceded, her eyes sparkling. "Approximately One-Eighty, red-headed and katana-wielding, and one-seventy, hot-blooded and chaotic."

Mamoru nodded, already emerged in his file again. "Yeah." He continued to read in silence. Time passed. The motor of the car hummed steadily. The world passed in a blur while he read and jotted down some notes on the papers and Manx talked into her tiny mobile phone. He almost didn't notice when she closed it and looked out of the window. Only the rustling of the pages was heard. Suddenly, Manx tensed, which brought him back to reality immediately. He looked up at her again. "We're heading right for the interview now, right?"

His assistant checked her watch. "We should be there in… twenty minutes. The ride takes almost one hour." She looked out of the window. "What makes me nervous is that we're still on the highway." She leaned forward and knocked against the driver's glass. The intercom came on as she hit a switch. "Excuse me, when will we reach our destination?"

The driver didn't turn around. "In an hour, if the traffic doesn't jam."

Manx frowned, her shoulders tightening. Mamoru set aside the file he had been reading in and leaned forward.

"But we're supposed to be there at six thirty. The streets are clear – why is it taking us so long?"

"I'm sorry, I can't help it," the man replied. "We'll be there soon."

Annoyed, Manx leaned back into the soft leather of the limousine's seats. "I could have sworn the trip took only an hour and we've already been on the road for one hour plus," she grumbled. "I don't like this."

"Manx," Mamoru said quietly. "Do you know this man?"

His assistant eyed him, sudden suspicion in her eyes, and casually stretched upward to look into the rearview mirror. They barely saw anything – the mirror showed a high forehead and dark hair, perhaps dark enough to be Asian. Other than that, the man remained hidden. His chauffeur's hat shadowed his eyes. His hands were gloved in white, lying immaculately on the steering wheel. Without taking her eyes of the driver, she hit the intercom and adjusted her earpiece. "Red One here, Red Escort, status report!" She listened intently and swore. "Red Escort, report in! Damn, they're blocking us!" Her mobile was next. "He jammed the net, too," she realized seconds later, her voice full of self-loathing. "Damnit! I should have seen it coming! And I swear I checked him before we even came to pick you up!"

She fingered for something in her bag, then came up with her little gun. The intercom came on again. "Who are you?" She questioned sharply, pointing it at the back of the driver's head. The man still didn't turn but something like a smile crossed the part of his face visible to Mamoru.

"Oh, I wouldn't use that one back there. The glass's bullet-proof and so is the entire car – you don't want to accidentally shoot your precious Persia, Lady, do you?"

Both Manx and Mamoru exchanged glances.

"Where are you bringing us?" Mamoru demanded, calm and collected. The man chuckled. "I told you we'd be there soon. Some people are waiting for you. Some people who still have a bill open with Mr. Persia here. And now be nice." With a soft noise, the intercom system went off again and Mamoru and Manx were left to themselves.

They drove for maybe an hour until the car took an exit and finally came to a halt on something that seemed like the grounds of one of the abandoned steel factories that were found all over the region. Here, Mamoru and Manx were forced to leave the car, Manx first being ordered to drop her gun. She proceeded with clenched teeth after Mamoru shot her a stern glance.

"Let's hear what these gentlemen have to say, Manx."

"That's the right attitude, Mr. Takatori," a voice greeted him and three men stepped into his sight. All three of them were tall, blonde and rather lanky than muscled but still managed to look intimidating in their expensive suits. They were followed by about ten bodyguards, all heavily armed. "May I introduce us? My name's Mueller, and these are my two younger brothers. You might have heard of us."

"Markus Mueller, the heir to the Mueller empire," Mamoru said without a smile. "Certainly your name is not unknown in Japan."

"Yeah, stands to reason you know it pretty well, Mr. Persia, since you lead Japan's Kritiker branch. But compared to what we have created in America you're just a pitifully small country playing with things that are far too big for you. We warned you already once, do you remember?"

"What I do remember," Mamoru said stone-facedly, "Is that the Mueller family once led the biggest Kritiker branch in the known world. You had agents all over the continent. And then you started to welcome corruption and deceit into your ranks and fell pretty fast. It cost Kritiker a lot of money and intervention to rid itself of you and your likes."

The eldest brother had turned red from anger but it was one of his younger brothers who answered. "You ruined our company! We once had five hundred different companies, millions of dollars, thousands of orders – and you ruined us! You helped Kritiker to discredit us, along with that ridiculous little agents of yours, and now nothing is left of our father's work anymore! You've thrown us into the biggest scandal of the century! Our father was killed by your men! There is nothing left and it's your fault, you dirty Asian bastard!"

"Shut up, Michael," Markus said without a glance at his brother. Michael did comply, shame-faced and furious. "What my brother just tried to say, if without much eloquence," he continued, "Is that the Mueller family has a… let's say, a grudge against the Takatori family since you saw to our fall."

"Is this why I am here tonight?" Mamoru asked quietly.

"Exactly. You know…" Suddenly, the man chuckled. "The mightiest man in Japan, directly after the Emperor, and the without doubt most powerful person regarding Kritiker in Japan you might be. But it still was awfully easy to kidnap you, wasn't it?"

Manx was fuming, Mamoru could see it. Her hand was inching towards the gun hidden in her leg holster, thankfully invisible underneath her short skirt. He threw her a warning glance – Don't do interfere! – and shrugged, seemingly careless. "Mistakes happen. I'm the last one to forget that."

The third brother produced another gun. "How positively amusing to hear you saying this. I intend on saving you from the fate of having to repeat your mistakes."

"What's your name, by the way?" Mamoru asked, seemingly genuinely interested. "Does it begin with an M, as well? Marius, perhaps? Or Mordred? He was King Arthur's son, killed his father the way you killed yours by driving his company into ruin by cooperating with Eszett's successors. Markus, Michael and Mordred Mueller. Or is it something even more embarrassing?"

He felt a sting of victory as he saw the look of unguarded fury cross the man's face. "Shut up! I'll kill you slowly and painfully! I'll shoot you in your leg first. Then I'll cut off your ears and fingers and send them back to your precious Japanese killers and…"

Markus Mueller hit his brother. The back of his hand went square across the youngest Mueller's face. A look of shock in his eyes, the man looked at his elder brother, too stunned to react.

"Shut up," Mueller said again, his voice icy. "We don't have much time." He turned to Mamoru and Manx again. "I apologize," he said. "Normally I don't indulge in daydreams but I have to confess I've dreamed about this day for long. But we're all gentlemen here, aren't we?" He threw his brothers warning glances. "Now, Mr. Takatori. We decided to grant you a favor you didn't grant our father: You're allowed to choose your own way of dying. How would you like to be killed? We could shoot you, suffocate you, even stab you…" His eyes gleamed coldly. "Do you want us to kill you or do you want to do it by yourself?"

Mamoru fought an ugly flash of memories. Choose your own way to die. Persia – the old Persia, his predecessor – had once told him there was only one thing people like them could expect: they were allowed to choose their own death. Not the time of death, not the place, but just the way of dying. They could die fighting. They could die protecting. They could give themselves up and die without putting up a fight. Weiss was a team so secret capture wasn't an option for them – but they were allowed to choose the way they died. If wounded too badly to flee, they could either end their lives themselves or ask a teammate to do so. In danger of capture, they had to do it quick, without a second thought. It was all that was left, the only thing that kept them upright: They still could choose. A twisted, warped choice it was, but a choice nevertheless.

But Mamoru Takatori had long ago forsaken the right to choose his own death.

"I'm afraid I can't take up your generous offer," he said and lowered his eye lids, still smiling. "I have already lost the right to choose my own death."

The Mueller brothers gaped at him. "What are you talking about?" The third one demanded. The eldest brother blinked, then his professional mask was back. "Too bad," he said. Then we'll just have to shoot you like the common criminal you are."

The black hole of the gun stared at Mamoru threateningly. A finger pulled the trigger.

Mueller had forgotten Manx. The moment his finger closed around the trigger, the red-haired woman threw herself right in front of Mamoru, shielding him with her own body. The bullet caught her square in the chest and threw her back, against Mamoru. He caught her as she fell to the ground, her eyes wide in surprise. A wave of fury came crashing down on him, tingeing the whole world into a crimson red color. He clenched his teeth as the woman in his arms fought for air that didn't seem to reach her lungs anymore.

"Damn," Michael swore and lifted his own weapon. "You can't even shoot straight when the target doesn't move, Mark."

"Do you hear it?" Mamoru asked. He lifted his head from Manx' unmoving body and his eyes were blazing with fury. The Mueller brothers almost backed away from the cold mask they looked at. He cocked his head. "This sound?"

"Damn!" Exploded the eldest Mueller. "Don't mess with us! She might have protected you once, but now you're a dead man!"

The noise increased, draw nearer steadily, and now Mueller's henchmen turned, one by one, and scanned the grounds. And suddenly, a land rover shot onto the factory grounds and rammed Mueller's car, shoving it into a huge pile of old steel trash and making it collapse. The heavy metal pieces fell to the ground, burying three cars and a few men, casting up dust and rost and an avalanche of other things. The Mueller siblings and their men scattered, utterly surprised.

Interestingly enough, the youngest Mueller found his voice fastest. Gesturing at his men with his gun, he shouted: "What do you think you're doing, having a picnic?" Mamoru cocked a brow. Coughing and gagging, about ten additional men appeared from their hideout behind their now demolished cars. The others pulled themselves up from the ground, rubbing dust from their eyes and grappling for their weapons, and started to surround Mamoru again. The man carefully laid Manx down and straightened himself, looking at the Mueller siblings both calmly and dangerously. The doors of the black land rover were thrown open and Knight and Queen exited the car in two directions, moving fast as lightning. Their weapons at hand, they came to stand between Mamoru and his enemies. Their fifteen (or twenty, perhaps, it was hard to see in the dusty air) henchmen moved across the grounds quickly, putting them into the middle of a circle formation of guns, swords and other weapons.

"You've taken your sweet time," Manx said reproachfully and sat up. She held her chest. "Ouch. That hurt."

"You're not dead," Queen told her and cast a quick smile down.

"Nah, but the vest's ruined."

"They're only two!" Mueller shouted, his voice higher and higher with every word. "Kill them!"

His men slowly focused on them now but hesitated. They saw a defenseless politician, his assistant, who had just returned from the dead, and two bodyguards which were only two but who had the predatory gleam of wild beasts nonetheless. Somehow, they didn't really want to attack them.

"I'm so fed up having to act as your bodyguard, Takatori," Knight said over his shoulder. "Why don't you order someone else around?" Queen shot him a reproachful glance. "Politeness, Knight. And respect."

"I don't pretend…"

"You can hate me all you want," Mamoru cut him off, smiling lightly. "I'm getting used to it, really, I am. And I won't pretend it isn't amusing to watch you get all worked up over it. But you agreed to be my bodyguard on this trip again so do your job. It's what you get paid for."

"Are you joking?" Knight regarded the men in front of them. "They're about twenty people and we're only three!"

"Four," Manx corrected sourly. Knight shrugged. "Fine, four, it we count Takatori. How the hell are we supposed to divide them up between the four of us?"

"Nice that you've finally discovered the meaning of irony," Mamoru said without lifting his voice. "Now do something."

With a wordless sound, Knight threw himself into the fight, followed on his heels by Queen and Manx. Mamoru tried to stay in the background and found his anxiety rising. It had nothing to do with the fact that they were fighting to protect him. If it had only been about him he would gladly have died in order to grant them safe passage back home. But it wasn't about him only. This was about Crashers, and Weiss, and all the underground organizations that existed in Japan. About Kritiker's work all over the world. And about the world and all the people who lived in it. No, Mamoru couldn't die yet. For a multitude of reasons.

He just wished he would be allowed to fight with them.

Just when Knight and Queen seemed to have defeated most of their enemies, another wave came crashing down. They must have been here long before – otherwise Mamoru would have noticed them approaching – and apparently had waited for a signal to appear on stage. Seemed like Mamoru hadn't been the only one with backup up his sleeve. Damnit. And he had felt so clever when he had arranged this entire drama to look like he was easy prey. Here, clearly, someone had had shown even more foresight than him and the thought irked him. He was Persia, he was supposed to be prepared for everything, supposed to have a backup plan whenever his first plan backfired… And now, many guns were trained on him, Manx, Knight and Queen and Markus Mueller stood there, his nose bloody and a nasty gash in his side. Mamoru only caught sight of another head of blond in the distance – seemed like only one other brother had survived Crasher's wrath.

"You're trying to stall, Takatori," Mueller spat angrily. "But no matter how many other bodyguards you have up your sleeve, you'll die today. You're outnumbered one to seven now."

One to Seven? And it hadn't looked that much to him. His sense of estimation seemed a bit off today. Manx spit out a mouthful of blood. Knight was breathing heavily, blood all over his combat gear. Queen held her arm. It didn't look good at all.

And yet, Mamoru felt no fear. He had long ago lost his fear towards death. The only thing he felt was slight regret.

"I hope you've spoken your last prayer, Takatori!"

"You can't kill him."

The calm voice seemingly came from nowhere. Mueller's eyes shot back and forth, searching for the source of it, trying to estimate the danger it posed to him. Mamoru would have recognized it anywhere. Manx straightened, turning towards him, as Queen's face lit up. Knight didn't take his eyes off the enemy but his rigid posture loosened a bit. Mamoru felt a huge smile break out on his face.

"Abyssinian."

The tall, red-haired swordsman stepped into the circle of gunmen as if he had appeared from the shadows. He still wore a long, dark coat, as he always had, but his face was covered by the half-mask that was Kryptonbrand Side B's trademark. His katana's sheath hung loosely by his side, Shion a silver threat in his gloved hand. He was tailed by a dark-haired, slightly shorter man Mamoru knew as well as he knew the swordsman. His face, too, was covered by a mask that covered his mouth and nose but his weapon of choice was unmistakable. Four other people followed, each one with a half-mask or similar, the oldest one perhaps a bit older than Aya, the youngest one a bit younger than Mamoru himself. He eyed each one and stiffened in surprise when he recognized one of them: the dark hair and Asian features, complete with glasses from which now his mask hung, belonged to the journalist who had spoken to him in Japanese that morning.

"You!"

The tall youth looked at him and nodded curtly.

"Man, you've got yourself into some mess!" Ken exclaimed, enthusiastic as always. "Why does it always fall to Aya and me to help you out again?"

"Because it's what you do best," Mamoru answered and smiled and suddenly felt alive. Really, incredibly alive.

"May I introduce us?" The eldest one, a tall, blonde man who reminded Mamoru distinctly of Yohji, gave a small bow in his direction. He carried a few roses in his hand, presumably with trunks and thorns of steel. "Kryptonbrand Side B. At your disposal, with KR's best regards."

"You're far off your usual territory, KB," Manx said. The second blonde – a young man with a whip-like weapon wrapped around his arm – chuckled. His voice was incredibly young. Only his left eye was covered by a delicate, white mask.

"Aya promised us vacation as soon as we are finished here. And I wanted to see New York."

"What the hell…" Mueller had found his speech again. He had paled visibly and his sickly complexion didn't go well with his dark, already torn and cut, suit. Sweat was forming on his forehead, his hands were trembling visibly. "What are you waiting for?" He screamed at his men. "Shoot them!"

"I wouldn't do that," the boy who had posed as journalist said. He carried a scythe. "We've planted mines all around the area. If you shoot just once, I'll press the button. We'll see how many parts of you remain to bury, won't we?"

"Shoot them! If they set off the mines, they'll die as well!" Markus Mueller lifted his own gun. His finger had only curled around the trigger when a katana sliced through it, weapon and finger alike.

"I told you you cannot kill him. It is my privilege to do so." Whimpering in pain, the man stared up at the masked assassin. A sour scent emanated from him: his fear, sweat and panic were almost palpable.

"Who are you?" The man whispered. "I've seen you before."

"We've met a few years ago," Aya answered without emotion. "I was sent to New York to bring down your father's empire. You hid in your father's office as I killed him. You didn't lift a hand to defend him. You see, I knew you were there all along."

"You!" But he didn't seem able to say anything else. Markus Mueller was now trembling so hard he was unable to keep standing: he sank to the ground, clutching his bleeding hand, and sobbed. "Why didn't you kill me right then?"

Aya watched him with violet eyes cold as the sea. "I didn't have the order to do so. This time it might be different." He turned to Mamoru.

"What are your orders, Persia?"

Mamoru's eyes had to be black. He had once seen how he looked like when he gave orders. He had almost frightened himself. This has to be done, he reminded himself.

"Kill them all except for Mueller."

Crasher and KB Side B went to work without a word. Mamoru watched as forty men met their end on the cold factory ground. It didn't take a minute. Then he was facing a terrified Mueller, surrounded by two Kritiker teams.

"Who is the mole in the White House?" he demanded coolly. "Don't deny it. I know you planted a spy there years ago. Tell me his name."

Mueller tried to spit at him and spluttered angrily. Mamoru nodded at Aya. "Abyssinian."

"Free?"

From nowhere, wires wrapped around the unfortunate man and were pulled tight. The man gasped as blood began to flow from countless thin cuts.

"I won't tell you!"

"You will."

He did, in the end, and he did so fast. The man called Free just had to tighten his wires twice more, one time to force Mueller to spill the name, one time to kill him. Mamoru watched, outwardly dispassionate, while inwardly he fought to remain in control of his expression. This man used wires. Just like Yohji. But he wasn't like Yohji, they weren't in Japan, he wasn't who he had been once and he couldn't afford to be weak.

"Manx?"

"Got it." She didn't note the name down. She committed it to memory, locked it away until he would need it later, as she did with so many other things.

"Finish this."

Ken shielded the two youngest KB members as Free tightened the wires one last time. The last sound Markus Mueller made before he died wasn't a nice one.

"One hell of a reunion, don't you think?" Ken sighed and grinned. He slapped Mamoru on the shoulder. "Hey, it's good to see you!"

Aya, in the meanwhile, was quietly conversing with Queen and Knight. Ken had just finished introducing all KB members to Mamoru when Aya and the two Crashers members walked over.

"I don't think," Knight began somewhat grudgingly as a dragging sound suddenly caught their attention. Time seemed to stand still as the youngest Mueller lifted a gun to train it on Mamoru.

"Die," he rasped, already halfway dead himself. Every reaction of his bodyguards and the KB members seemed to come in slow-motion. Manx and Queen had their mouths open but no sound was heard. Mamoru reacted the way he had trained himself to react, with all the speed and agility he had acquired over the years even after having abandoned Weiss to become Persia. The youngest Mueller died from a dart that lodged itself right into his left eye. His gun clattered to the dusty ground. It really has to rain soon, Mamoru thought distantly as he took in the scene and brushed some dust off his suit. The grey clouds hung even lower than before.

For a second, nobody said anything. Knight stared at his superior incredulously while Aya, Ken, Manx and Queen breathed a silent sigh of relief. The other KB members wore expressions ranging from surprise to approval.

"How do you do that?" Knight demanded.

"Do what?" Mamoru asked.

"You're wearing a damn suit and just killed a man from a distance of fifteen meters with a dart right through the eye!"

Ken grinned. "That's the way he is."

"I'm not going to ask what you're doing here, Ken," Mamoru told him and Ken blushed. "Oh well, there was this message…"

Aya interrupted him. "We'll tell you on the way back. We have to get rid of the blood and you need to eat something before you leave for the interview. Come on, we have a place."

"Some things never change, do they, Aya?" Mamoru asked as he followed the tall swordsman to the car, closely tailed by Knight and Queen, Manx and the rest of Side B. Aya didn't reply. Mamoru smirked.

"What does never change?" Ken asked.

Mamoru almost laughed out loud. "Nothing."

"Oh, by the way," Aya said and threw him a glance from over his shoulder. "Congratulations for being elected Prime Minister."

There were a lot more things contained in Aya´s few words than he actually said. But that was okay. Mamoru could still read him easily, his gestures, his features, his glances. There had been a silent remainder, too. Killing him is my privilege. But, hopefully, it would still be some time until it would become necessary to insist on the fulfillment of their prophecies.

"What would you like to eat?" Ken asked, suddenly all business. Mamoru Takatori smiled.

"Your fried rice with pork, please."