Silenced Memories

By Shadowravyn

I don't own Sailor Moon or any of the assorted characters. They belong to Naoko Takeuchi, Kodansha, and a whole bunch of other people who all have more money than I do. These characters are used without permission, but with tremendous respect.

The frantic girl dashed past closed shops and shuttered houses, feet pounding on the cement. She could hear the pursuit behind her, gaining with every step. Though younger and faster than the burly crew of men behind her, several weeks of insufficient food, shelter, and sleep were taking their toll on her. Her endurance was swiftly draining away from her, like water through a sieve; it did not help that these nighttime chases through the different districts of Tokyo were approaching the level of 'habit' instead of random occurrence. This was the third time in a week that they had been able to find her, and it seemed that this time they were going to catch her. If only she knew what they wanted her for!

Breath passed soundlessly across her lips and she looked for any spot of refuge. For all that Tokyo was supposed to be a never-sleeping metropolis, this area was certainly quiet and deserted—very likely the reason that had herded her there. So there would be no witnesses to see what transpired when they finally caught up with her; none that were willing to speak, that is.

"Slow down, little rabbit," one of the men cajoled behind her, his voice faint on the wind. "We just want to talk to you. A friendly little chat, belike. Surely you're getting as tired of the chase as we."

The girl dredged up another reserve of energy and began running even faster. She could feel the exhaustion settling into her limbs, but she willed herself to maintain this new, faster pace even as her body screamed for rest. If they were close enough to yell, than they were close enough to catch her. While she may not know exactly what it was they wanted with her, she was smart enough to realize that it wasn't simply a 'friendly little chat.' People interested in mere conversation didn't bring along several friends and an assortment of knives and cudgels. She slightly turned to glance over her shoulder; perhaps if they if they were still momentarily out of sight, she could find a place to hide and evade them for one more night. Some of the alleys across the street looked as if they could provide temporary asylum. She checked backwards again. Excellent, her pursuers were still not in sight. Keeping her attention focused behind her, she leapt off the sidewalk and into the street, completely heedless of the sleek, black car that was heading straight for her…

Chiba Mamoru, Darien to his few friends close enough to enjoy the privilege of calling him by a nickname, questioned once again the impetus that had sent him to the old haunts of his youth. Maneuvering his black Jag along the familiar streets, Darien was disappointed by how quickly the old neighborhood had deteriorated. Not that he had lived anywhere along her, but just around the corner was the old location of Crown Arcade, which had belonged to his best friend Motoki's father. He spent almost every afternoon at the Crown, mostly just hanging out with Motoki during his shift, as even at that age he'd found video games dull. The summer after their high school graduation was the last time he'd spent any significant time there, he'd left Japan to attend Harvard in the States. Motoki's dad had died a few years later, and Motoki had sold the old place to pay for medical school before Darien returned. Though upon his return, they had struck up their close friendship once again, the old arcade gradually faded from their memories, only brought up occasionally as they waxed nostalgic over a few glasses of scotch on holidays.

Until tonight, that was. Which was very odd, as Darien prided himself on not being overly sentimental. There was no reason for him to be driving through a neighborhood that had declined rapidly over the past decade or so in a car worth more than most of the residents made in several years, particularly considering he had a board meeting early tomorrow at the office. Yet some strange impulse had sent him down to see the old building where he had spent so many pleasant afternoons. He just couldn't understand it.

Perhaps the obvious explanation was the little scene at dinner tonight. He had broken things off with Beryl, and she did not take such 'insults' well. Never mind that it had never been serious anyways, simply an occasional dinner with sex to follow, and never mind that she was seeing several other men (though she doubtless thought him ignorant of that fact), Beryl prided herself on ending relationships on her terms and her terms only. Having Darien do so was a bruise to her pride, more than a blow to her emotions. Which was why she reacted the way she had; turning from a charming yet cold socialite into a shrewish, vituperative fishwife. Fortunately, as they had dined at his home that night, there was no one around to see her little display except the butler as he escorted her out—which she had also not taken well. Still it was a good thing that he paid his staff well enough to insure their silence; several of the insults she had flung could be described as highly uncomplimentary at best.

Yet the break-up with Beryl was no where near enough of a reason to send him out to visit old ghosts tonight. He had been planning the dissolution of their affair for almost a week, and had nothing emotional really invested in it anyway. She had been a convenience, nothing more: an attractive escort to functions that required one, a witty, though stinging conversationalist, and skillful enough in bed to keep his attention occupied for awhile. This meant nothing to Darien. She meant nothing to Darien; there were hundreds of geisha in Tokyo who could boat the same skills, and thousands of eager socialites willing to brave his reputation for callousness and coolness for a chance at the Chiba fortune. So this strange whim stemmed from another source, one he could not readily identify.

His preoccupation with strange motivations was likely the reason that he didn't see the girl until it was nearly too late.

She darted out into the road with no thought that anything might be coming, looking neither left nor right. Though she was pale and luminous in the moonlight, Darien didn't even notice her slight figure until she was a few steps across the median, and practically within kissing distance of his front bumper. He slammed on the brakes of his Jag, hard enough to make the tires squeal, and his body surge painfully against the seatbelt. At that moment, she finally looked up, her elfin face caught in the glare of his headlights, horror written all over her features. Although he had not been speeding, Darien knew that he was going to hit the girl—he was too close not to hit her. He yanked desperately on his steering wheel; perhaps he could spin the car and avoid her, or hit her, but not crush her beneath his tires. The wide, panic-stricken blue of her eyes struck him like a blow; he would remember their intense blue for the rest of his life. There was time for one brief thought: C'mon, just let this work…

The car was on her in the blink of an eye. She'd been so focused in outrunning the threat behind her; she hadn't even noticed the danger barreling toward her until the shrieking of tortured rubber on unforgiving road. Hadn't even noticed the bright splash of headlights as she'd run into them. And now she was going to pay dearly for her lack of attentiveness. She wasn't sure, but she had a fairly good idea that being squashed beneath a set of tires would hurt more than whatever the bullyboys following her had planned.

There wasn't enough time for her to do anything more than close her eyes in anticipation of death before the car hit her. And it hurt. A lot.

The left edge of the vehicle's bumper caught her in the stomach and tossed her slight form high into the air. Lucky for her that it did, because had she landed any sooner, she would have either been struck by the side of the car, or fallen beneath the loudly protesting wheels, or both. As it was, she landed heavily on the roof, and then rolled down the back and off the trunk. Landing on the asphalt hurt a lot, too.

The car had turned nearly a full revolution by the time Darien got it back under control and fully stopped. The moment when the girl had been hit—the sickening crunch as the several ton car slammed into her thin body, the muffled thump as she'd hit the roof and then tumbled down its length, even the illusion of grace she'd had when she'd flown above him— they replayed endlessly in his mind in that span of a few seconds, and only his stern self-control kept his gorge from rising into his throat and beyond. He had to see if the girl was all right, if there was anything he could do for her. Hastily he clawed his way out of seatbelt and shoved open the door. He was thankful (though a little perturbed at the same time) that neither of his airbags had inflated, that obstacle would have taken even more time to get through. Not bothering to shut his door, he flew to the back of his car and stopped short.

Even though he'd been trying to prepare himself mentally for what he'd see, the pitiful sight that greeted him froze his heart. She seemed little more than a mangled lump in a spreading puddle of blood, curled up on her side. A worn sneaker lay several feet to the side.

He ran over to her and gently turned her onto her back, supporting her head with the crook of his arm. She moaned as he moved her, and his heart leapt up. She was alive! In horrible shape, but alive. Blood was welling from a deep gash in the side of her head, matting her long blond hair with streamers of sticky crimson. Her face and body were already starting to show signs of spectacular bruising, and it looked as if one ankle was swelling, though it was hard to tell with the remains of a sock on. Her clothing was in tatters, and he could feel sharp protrusion of her bones through the thin sheath of her skin. Fortunately, none of them were broken, or sticking out of her skin. Her breathing seemed a little off too; there was a slight hitch every time she inhaled. He put his hand on the side of her throat to check her pulse, surely it would be racing—his was!—but hopefully not erratic.

At the touch of his skin on hers, the girl woke up immediately. Run! screamed half of her. Too late! Caught! shrieked the other half, almost incoherent with fear. She tensed as a renewed rush of adrenaline surged through her, and with that slight movement brought on new waves of pain. She grayed out again.

When she came too a second time, the first thing she was conscious of was that she had been shifted. Her entire upper body was being supported against something warm and soft, instead of lying prone against the cold ground. The second thing she noticed was that there was someone speaking to her, speaking in smooth, cultured tones utterly unlike the voices of her pursuers.

"It's all right, miss, you're gonna be okay. Can you tell me where it hurts?" the soft voice crooned. It kept up a babble of talk, probably just as much for his benefit as for hers. It took her a few more heartbeats to realize that her eyes were closed. It took an effort of will to open them, and even more to focus. Everything seemed blurry and muzzy, as if all the sensations were coming to her from underwater, or like she was wrapped in some kind of filmy gauze.

The first thing she saw when her eyes began behaving was a deep pool of cerulean blue. Her rescuer's eyes, she belatedly realized, filled with what appeared to be both concern and elation. There was a shock of blackness—his hair, her mind whispered—and a rich crimson smear on his left cheek.

That's probably my blood, she thought foggily, trying to make sense of everything. I think he's trying to help me…The concept seemed so foreign to her that she nearly doubted the proof of her own senses. No one had tried to take care of her since…well, before she could remember. It felt nice, even if the man taking care of her was the one who'd hit her in the first place.

Darien had nearly cheered when the girl's eyes slowly fluttered open. "Hey, everything's going to be taken care of," he told her, "you'll have the best care money can buy, I pledge it. You'll get better in no time at all. Can you tell me where it hurts you the most?" She gave him a weak, dazed smile, and something had flip-flopped in Darien's heart. Even covered in bruises, with her cheekbones too stark in her face to be healthy, the girl's smile was stunning. He noticed her confusion and assumed she had a concussion along with all her other injuries—in all though, she seemed to have gotten off quite lucky.

And, in what seemed like a stroke of more luck, he could hear footfalls coming from behind him. Likely people had heard the squeal of the tires and had come out to investigate. With a swift glance at his Rolex, Darien realized that barely five minutes had passed from the time he had hit her and now. Easing her against the back grill of his car, Darien stood and turned to face the approaching people. They stopped about ten feet away and looked at him appraisingly. "Can one of you call for an ambulance," he started to say.

"Give us the girl 'n be on your way," interrupted one of the men in front of him. He was swinging a length of chain, and had a smile that could only be described as sadistic. There were five, all told, and all cut from the same mold: tall, bulky, none-too-clean, each with the aggressive air of one who has taken what he wanted so often that he could no longer even imagine resistance. All of his instincts were letting him know that giving them the girl was a bad idea. Quite loudly, actually.

"I don't think you gentlemen understand the issue here. She has been hurt very badly, and someone needs to contact the police." Darien's voice was firm. "The only place this girl is going is the hospital."

"Why doncha stop worrying about police 'n hosp'tals and just hand over the girl," the first man suggested. "We'll make sure she gets to where she needs t'be."

"Somehow, I don't find that very reassuring."

The first man opened up his mouth again, about to say something angry and threatening if Darien read his face right, but another man silenced him with a wave of his hand. "Well now, why don't we start this whole thing all over," the second man said in a false 'let's-be-reasonable-about-this' tone. "I'm sure with all the excitement and all, we just let our nerves get the best of us. We're her fambly," the man said with a voice of pure sweetness. "Kino here is her brother, and is just a wee bit protective of our little rabbit. So now then, if you'll just hand over our little rabbit, we'll make sure she gets to a hospital right away."

Darien was amazed that a man with that many scars on his face could look as angelic as the other man did right then. Still, the man's innocent face and explanation did nothing to calm the jangling of his nerves. He saw no resemblance between the injured girl and this band of hoodlums, but the longer he waited, the longer she went without medical help. And it was possible that she belonged with these men. He just didn't believe it.

A small noise attracted his attention from the gang. There, nearly hidden by his back tire, was the girl's face, peeping out past him to the men beyond. Her eyes widened with fear, and she immediately began scooting backwards, wincing in pain with each movement. That was enough for Darien. If this girl was willing to inflict more pain upon herself to stay away from the men in front of him, than he was going to make sure she stayed away, whether she was family or not. He owed her that much.

He glanced back at them just in time to catch them charging at him, clubs raised and chains flying. "Shit!" he spat, and dodged out of the way, just as a length of chain swung down and slammed into the metal of his trunk, hard enough that one could make out individual dents for each link. Five to one, not good odds. Five to one and they were armed, even worse odds. Fortunately, he'd been trained to handle such possibilities, back in the days of his young adulthood. He had never foreseen a day when the lessons taught to him by the old priest at the Hikawa Shrine (which doubled as an impressive dojo) would come in handy, but he was certainly glad to have been taught them. And that he'd never allowed himself to get out of practice. His body was a weapon, even years later, one that had been honed by the maturing and practice of the intervening years.

She watched in mingled fear and awe as the man who had helped her waded into the group. Fear slowly vanished as she watched him evade a blow to the head by literally writhing out of the path of the bat. And wherever he passed, injury followed. He took down the largest of them with a swift kick to the diaphragm, and another with a sharp elbow in the windpipe. He was beautiful, mesmerizing, deadly; like a tornado that destroyed everything that it touched. She nearly forgot the pain of her own injuries, even the one that made her feel as if she was inhaling burning ashes every time she breathed, captivated by the man's movements. It was like watching the dance of an assassin.

The last man standing, the one who had tried to speak with reason, broke away from the fray and lumbered towards her. She knew she could never get up in time, and that even if she could, there was no way she could run on her left ankle which felt as if the bones had been replaced with ground glass, knew that he would use that brutal knife he had just pulled from his pocket and snapped open on her voiceless throat. She cowered by the back of the car and watch Death approach with a malicious leer. She was done for. Again, she closed her eyes in anticipation of pain.

This time, however, it did not come. She heard a loud bellow, and her eyes flew open to see her attacker land face first into the asphalt, her rescuer's feet planted firmly in his back. The knife skittered out of his hands, and the other man dove for it, snatching it up with the grace of a hawk in flight. By the time the thug rose to his feet, his face bleeding from a broken nose and multiple contusions, the rescuer was standing protectively in front of her, knife at the ready.

"Take your boys and get out of here," he said in cold, menacing tones, "or I'll have enough of your skin to make myself a pair of slippers."

The other man looked back at his gang, who, for the most part, were lying on the ground and moaning. He looked back at her, glaring with hatred. "Don't think for a minute you're safe, girlie," he spat. "You're my prey, and I'll catch you yet, coney." He smiled at her shudder.

"Go!" her rescuer shouted.

Slowly and deliberately, he did, stopping at pile of broken men. "Get up boys," he said roughly. "We got stuff to do."

Darien watched them, his grip on the knife sure and steady. Had they even turned around once to glare, he would have thrown it. As it wasn't balanced and the distance was good, it probably wouldn't have hit anything, but he wasn't taking any chances. He still had no idea what was going on here, but he was determined to keep the girl from more harm than she'd already endured. When they were finally out of sight, he dropped the knife and turned back to the girl, still huddled against the bumper of his car.

"They're gone now," he told her gently. "And I don't think they're coming back." She looked up at him, gratitude shining in her eyes. Again he was struck by their brilliant blue. "It's the least I could do, considering what I've already put you through tonight. And I didn't think they'd shown up to ease your misery." Put you out of it, is more likely, he thought with disgust.

Pushing that thought away, he reached down for her hand. "Do you think you can stand?" She shook her head and pointed to her ankle. Yup, it was definitely swelling. "That's okay," he said and bent down, gathering her up in his arms. As he lifted her, he was amazed by how light she was. Even given her slight stature and slim frame, she should weigh more than this. The sudden motion was a bit much for her. Blood rushed to her head, bringing unconsciousness in its wake. She sagged in his arms.

Out of the darkness came a loud report from behind them. Instinctively, he dropped, rolling over on top of the girl, fearing gunfire. After a few moments of silence, Darien cautiously raised his head, scanning the darkened streets and alleyways for any hint of movement. Nothing. With a bit more assurance, he stood. There, through the back windshield of his car, he saw the source of his scare. Immediately, he began to laugh, jostling her a bit as he held her limp body in his arms.

In the front seat of his Jag, the passenger airbag had finally inflated.