The Poison Tree
Part 1
I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

"We can't do anything, Ken-kun," Omi says, brushing his damp hair away from his face. The boy rubs at his pants uneasily, clenching his fingers around the material. If I hadn't been there, I wouldn't be able to tell that Omi had been puking his guts out five minutes ago. But I was there; I sat by his side and rubbed his back while trying my hardest not to join in the barfing. There is nothing more nauseating than seeing someone else hurling.

Now we sit together on a grassy hill, thunder clouds roiling overhead, the demolished building with its hidden carnage in front of us. Omi chews on a piece of gum – courtesy of me. I may not carry flashlights, but I carry gum. Always prepared, that's my motto – as he thinks over the current situation. His knees are pulled up to his chest, his hands hang between them limply; the picture-perfect dejected kid. He's got a lot on his mind, that's obvious.

I found Schwarz in that building. Well, I found their remains. Most of them, I think.

My stomach gives a lurch at the remembered sight of such a bloodbath. I really don't think I'll ever forget it. So I suppose that there is one thing more nauseating than someone else's barf. The scene in that building.

Someone tore them apart. Someone, something. They had been slaughtered, ripped limb from limb, all of them. Except one.

"There is nothing we can do," Omi amends his earlier statement. "I know that we haven't fought against Schwarz since the fall of Esset four months ago, and we have been going after the same targets lately…" he chews on his lower lip, looking at the building warily, "but they still are…were…our enemy," he concludes. He glances at me, and I know that he is looking for my approval. He wants some kind of assurance, he wants to see that I agree. I can't give him that, and he can see my reluctance in my eyes.

"Well what do you want to do, Ken?" There is no anger in his voice, only weariness. And fear. Schwarz was powerful. Better than us, although no one wants to admit to that. Someone who could defeat Schwarz could also be the end of Weiss, certainly. Omi knows this. He also knows that inside that building is the one remaining Schwarz member. "We can't take him to a hospital not owned by Kritiker; there'd be too many questions, but we can't take him to a Kritiker hospital either, they'd kill him on sight. We can't kill him without orders…All we can do is report the situation to Birman and let Kritiker take care of it."

"Do you think it's safe to leave him behind? He knows what happened, maybe he'll tell us." I know he never would tell Weiss anything, but I don't want to voice my real reasons for not wanting to leave the boy there.

"He's a threat to Weiss if we try to take him home, Ken, and you know it. He's injured, but he's still dangerous."

He's just a kid, I argue mentally, but on the outside I merely nod my head. I rise to my feet, slipping on the wet grass. Omi takes my hand as I reach out to help him up, and I pull him off the ground. He looks back at the ruined building for a moment as the rain starts falling before heading back down to where our bikes are hidden. I follow reluctantly, my thoughts spinning in circles as I replay the last few minutes.

The room I walked into had been the scene of something surreal. It was as if I had just stepped onto the set of an American slasher film. Blood was everywhere. It dripped down the walls to puddle on the floor, while splatters on the ceiling were already drying. Every time I put my feet down, something squashed underneath them; torn chunks of flesh, pieces of hair, strings of rubbery pink that could have been intestines, other red and gray lumps that I couldn't, wouldn't, identify.

After I called for Omi, I began counting body parts. I felt numb, disconnected, this was all just part of the job. A finger there, half of an arm over here, oh look, a whole torso in the corner. But no heads. Strings of hair, yes, but no heads to be found.

By the time Omi arrived, I had counted six torsos. One I recognized as the target's, another was his personal secretary. Three could be easily identified as Schwarz; a gaudy green jacket, a blue sleeveless vest, and a white suit that I vaguely remember the precognitive-American guy wearing. One torso I could not identify. It was obviously a woman; our target was male and accounted for. A visitor with awful timing, I suppose.

And as Omi stood in the doorway to the room, trying to take in all the carnage, I noticed someone else. The boy. The telekinetic, the one who looks about Omi's age. At first I thought he was dead, but I realized he was only unconscious, just seriously wounded. He lay in the farthest corner of the room, blood trickling down from his forehead and various other places, pooling around him to join the lakes and rivers of blood already on the floor. Slim fingers curled around a long lock of bright orange hair, bloody from where it had been ripped out of someone's scalp. His breathing was shallow, his fists clenched and released spasmodically.

I think, though, it was his expression that bothered me the most. It was as though he had lost everything.

Weiss is my replacement family. They are my parents, my siblings, my best friends all rolled into one. And I think that if I ever lost them, if I ever saw them ripped apart like Schwarz had been, I would have that same expression on my face.

And that, I suppose, is one of the main reasons that, two hours after Omi and I had left, I went back to that destroyed building, and I brought Nagi Naoe home with me.

I may not be as stupid as my teammates think, but I have no delusions of genius. I certainly have no delusions about my first aid skills. Sure, I know how to stitch up a small wound or fix a dislocated shoulder, but my medical expertise ends there.

That's why Nagi is lucky to be alive.

Well, the fact that his wounds aren't as serious as I had first thought helps. Most of the blood on him was not his, and after I cleaned him up – that was an awkward adventure all on its own – and settled him in my bed – now where the hell am I going to sleep? – I found that most of his wounds were within the scope of my training and should heal with time and rest. I think. How should I know?

I just hope I got all of the major lacerations. I could have missed a cut or two; I didn't want to take off all his clothes, I was too embarrassed. I mean, I think that's crossing a few boundaries there. Not only do I bring an enemy into my apartment and put him in my bed, but I strip him naked as well? Ha ha, I think not.

So I just treated what I could see, although I took his shirt off to get at the chest wounds better. He had two deep lacerations across his upper chest, and I had to stitch them up, along with a rather long and nasty looking cut across his back. There were only minor injuries on his arms and legs, and a shallow but bloody cut on his forehead. Which makes me wonder, because one would expect most of the injuries to be on his arms. When a building starts falling, most people try to shield themselves with their arms. Great, another mystery.

I put his shirt back on when I was done –hooray for decency – and just set him in my bed. Gross. Now I'm going to have to go out and buy new sheets, because these ones are all covered in creepy bloody crap, and I'll never be able to get the stains out.

So now, thanks to my overwhelming generosity – stupidity – there is a boy laying in my bed. Not just any boy, but possibly the most dangerous person Weiss has faced, and a member of the most ruthless assassin group known to Kritiker. Shit, I should have listened to Omi.

But I couldn't. I couldn't just leave him there. Not with that look on his face.

So if he kills me when he wakes up…well, that'd suck. I can only hope he won't. I would bind his hands, strap him down to the bed or something, but that won't protect me from his telekinesis at all. I wonder how far his range is? Maybe he can't hurt things outside of whatever room he is in…so if I stay out of the bedroom, I'd be okay. Maybe, if I feed him, he won't kill me. Kids like food, right? Sure they do. The ones on my soccer team will eat anything.

How old is he, anyways? Kritiker never gave us much information on the black assassins, leaving us to figure things out on our own, like usual. Lying there, looking so dead against my dark blue sheets, he doesn't seem any older than eleven or twelve. It's upsetting to think about; a boy that age should be out making friends and playing sports, not killing for money. I suppose it was the same way for Omi, though. At least I had the chance to live my life for a while before falling into Kritiker.

I glance towards the clock on the bedside table, and the steady green numbers tell me that it is four-freaking-thirty in the fricking morning. That means I've been home for over an hour. Soon I will be confronted by the hairy ass-crack of dawn. Then Omi will get up for school, followed by Aya and Yohji, who will be opening the shop. I, being the amazingly cool person that I am, don't work until the afternoon shift with Omi. Okay, so it's actually because I ran the mission last night, and Aya and Yohji didn't. Lucky shits. But I suppose that if I hadn't gone on the mission, I wouldn't have found Nagi. Aya probably would have skewered the kid. Maybe he's not that heartless, but he could be.

I stretch my arms and my back cracks loudly as I rise from the chair pulled up next to the bed. I wander into the kitchen, my socks making funny shuffling noises along the carpet. My favorite mug is sitting on the counter. I sniff it to make sure it's clean – one never knows – before pouring milk into it and setting it in the microwave. It spins lazily and I watch it. It's a Halloween mug; bats and a comical black cat appear as the mug is heated.

Despite the fact that I don't have to wake up early tomorrow –today? This morning? – and I can sleep in, I have decided not to go to bed at all. I'm completely uncomfortable sleeping while Nagi is in my apartment, even though he probably won't wake up any time soon. Hence the hot chocolate. I need caffeine. Not that wussy hot-cocoa-in-a-packet shit. Real cocoa powder with milk and lots of sugar. "Just add water" my ass. Good cocoa doesn't use water. Cocoa. What a messed up word.

The microwave beeps and I grab my mug, ignoring the heat. It's not as if I can actually feel it on my palms, anyways. I deposit it on the counter and mix in the cocoa powder and sugar, careful not to spill any and taste-testing it periodically. I take my cocoa – again with that retarded word – very seriously.

Cocoa ritual complete, I head back to the bedroom, swearing as I drip chocolate on the rug. I'll clean it up later. Not really, it'll just join all of the other spots on the carpeting.

I set the cocoa on the small table next to the chair and make myself comfortable, my back against one armrest and legs hanging off the other. The chair is between my bed and the window; if I lean my head back far enough, I can see the slowly-lightening night sky. Neighboring buildings frame the coming indigo dawn, and the stars slowly fade out of existence. I have never seen anything so pretty.

There's a reason people don't sleep in chairs, and I just gained first-hand evidence to this logic. My neck is a mess, my legs are numb, and my back feels like I got a massage from a sumo wrestler using a bowling ball. In other, less fancy words, I feel like shit. Big, stinky shit.

I feel asleep in the chair next to the bed after deciding not to go to sleep. By the time I woke up, it was already noon and I only had half an hour before my shift started. I've wasted the last fifteen minutes deciding whether or not I have time for a shower, and now I definitely don't have time for one. Which is bad, because I kind of smell. But I walked around in the rain last night during the mission, and that counts, right? Of course it does.

Nagi's still sleeping all coma-like in my bed, and I'm not really sure when he'll wake up, but I'm assuming it should be sometime soon. I'm really uncomfortable leaving him here, but I said that about sleeping, too, and look what happened. I debate my options as I cook up a gourmet dish of Easy-Mac.

I could tell everyone that I am sick, and make someone else cover today's shift with Omi and any other shifts this weekend, but that would raise questions and cause Omi to go into nurse mode – which is really, really annoying – and he would want to come up to my apartment and make me stuff – even more annoying, although Omi's a good cook, and I…can cook, but I hate doing so – which is a problem considering that the former enemy is sleeping in my bed.

That's pretty much my only other option, so I guess I'm up shit stream without the proverbial life-jacket and stuck going to work. It all sucks a crap and a half.

I stop the microwave when I notice my macaroni boiling over. I can never get it right; I either cook it too much or not enough. Little clouds of orange powder float above the bowl as I pour in the cheese-mix and stir it up. It clumps messily and I have to use my fingers to get it unstuck from the spoon. I lick them clean before eating the small meal. Most of my meals are like this; I prefer simple American foods, as anyone with my upbringing would.

I carry the bowl with me to check on Nagi one last time. He's still asleep. He really should be waking up soon, I would think. His injuries weren't that serious, and they could have been much worse; I assume he used his powers to keep the collapsing building from harming him that badly. Why couldn't he protect the rest of Schwarz, though? Clearly they were dead before the building fell, but if he could shield himself from falling concrete, surely he could have stopped whoever killed his teammates.

With lots of questions and no answers, I rinse out my cheese-encrusted bowl, change into a clean shirt – I can get away with wearing yesterday's pants, they're nice and comfy – and head out of my apartment.

Yohji is waiting for me when I get to the shop, leaning against the faux-marble counter with his usual nonchalant grace. It's empty; we close from twelve to one for lunch, and it's only twelve thirty. We have half an hour to get the shop ready to reopen.

We had a mission debriefing last night, before I went back and got Nagi, so I know that Yohji's aware of Schwarz's demise. So is Aya. They both had to be present, since it was kind of a big deal. Omi had to call Birman and everything, so that we could discuss how their absence would affect Weiss. Basically, we were told that Weiss would function as normal, but Kritiker would be on the look-out for suspicious powerful people who could take out Schwarz. Gee, that makes me feel so much more secure. Yohji was quite curious about what Omi and I saw, and he still is, because I wasn't in a talkative mood last night. But we all know that all talk of missions and death stops outside the shop. We don't mix work with… other work.

"Where's Omi?" I ask as I walk around the counter and grab my apron off its hook. I replace it with my keys. If I don't hang them up, I'll probably lose them.

"He's here, but he needs to go to the library to do some research, so he asked me to cover."

I nod and begin tying on my apron. I prefer working with Yohji. He's a hard worker – despite popular opinion – and he doesn't talk much or expect me to. Omi is the exact opposite, trying to make conversation constantly and prying into people's lives. On a day like today, when I'm trying to forget about all of these questions concerning Nagi and Schwarz, I really don't need Omi's nagging.

Omi comes into the shop from the small attached kitchen, backpack in one hand and a small piece of paper in the other.

"Oh, Ken-kun, I'm glad you're here! There's a new load of small trees in the back room, can you bring them in?"

And before I can groan about my already sore back, he's on to his next victim.

"I drew up a plan for the new window display using the azaleas and Japanese maples Ken will be carrying in," he says, thrusting the paper at Yohji. "It should be a pretty simple job." Yohji takes the sheet and studies it with an apprehensive look. His eyes grow wide after a few moments.

"This isn't simple! This is more complex than most of our mission plans!"

Omi shoots him a scathing glance. "It's as simple as one plus one."

How cliché. I look towards Yohji, waiting for him to counter. He rolls his eyes.

"No, it's more like 'as simple as the quadratic equation.'" Hey, that's pretty clever. Kudos for Kudoh. But really, I should break up this little argument before it blows into a full-blown fight. Omi's annoying me right now. I want him to leave. Go. Away.

"Isn't that the a2+b2c2 thing?" I feign a guess, trying to interrupt their verbal battle.

"No, Ken-kun, that's the Pythagorean Theorem," Omi replies, his voice taking on the tone of a mother correcting a preschooler. Well excuse the fuck out of me for not being a math genius. I might as well go all the way with this 'Ken is stupid' thing so he'll get tired of me and leave.

"Oh. I always thought Pythagorean was a Greek god or something."

It works. Omi rolls his eyes and then he's out the door with a wave and a promise to bring home carryout dinner. Yohji and I exchange glances and I wander over to stand next to him so I can inspect Omi's 'simple' plan. Yohji was right. He gives a sarcastic snort before tossing the paper in the trash can beneath the counter.

"I'll make my own arrangement."

"Will it be any better?" I ask, a thread of sarcasm lacing my voice.

"Just bring in the plants, slave, and don't question the wisdom of your elders," he says, giving me a playful shove in the direction of the back room. I laugh and enter the storage room to get the plants, and as the door swings shut I hear Yohji's final comment.

"You should take a shower, Kenken, you're beginning to smell."

I drag myself up the steps to my apartment, stabbing pains shooting through my back with every movement. I lugged plants across the shop for what had seemed like ages, and when we opened the place, we were bombarded by the after-school pubescent-girl rush. I haven't sat down all day.

The door jams after I unlock it – it has for years, I'm too lazy to fix it – and I have to throw my weight against it a few times to get it open. I shuffle out of my shoes and kick them onto the mat right inside the door before I remember.

Nagi. I forgot the kid was here.

I run to the bedroom to check on him. I can't believe I forgot he was here! I am such a spaz-ditz. I stop in the doorway, surveying the scene.

The bed is a mess, twisted sheets and pillows on the floor, but it's empty. The boy is awake; he sits in the corner with his knees pulled to his chest and his arms clasped around them. His fingers are clenched so tightly, I can see the skin turning red around where they are digging into his arms. Dark blue eyes narrow at me dangerously.

Shit. Oh shit.

Is it possible for one's head to simply…crack open? Would the brain just…ooze out like the innards of a pumpkin, giving off a fetid odor and jiggling awkwardly?

It feels like my head is going to do that. It would be quite interesting. This is the consequence of extending my powers to their limits. I'm not sure how long I've been asleep; if this time is anything like the last time I overreached myself, I can safely assume I've been asleep for a few days.

I don't know where I am, either. I haven't even opened my eyes yet, it's all too painful. I'll have to do it eventually, though. I must figure out where I am, and I have to get somewhere safe. Somewhere Esset can't find me.

I can be sure, without a doubt, that they don't have me yet. If they get me, they'll either kill me, wipe my mind, or tear me limb from limb, and despite the amazingly debilitating pain in my head and some general soreness, I'm feeling intact.

So…I'm somewhere. And I need to get…somewhere else. They know I'm alive. They've been monitoring Schwarz's bank accounts for a long time, so I can't get to any money. They know the location of every Schwarz residence or safe house, even the ones we didn't tell them about. They ripped the information from Crawford's mind before they shot him execution-style.

The full implications of what has happened, what I've done, begin to sink in and realization dawns. I've got nowhere I can go, I've got no money, I can't even hack some for myself because I don't have a computer. I'm fucked, I'm fucked, and I don't care. I may be fucked but I'm free. I can live on the streets, like I did when I was a kid. Live homeless until I die a miserable poor death.

The prospect amuses me so much I begin to giggle. Maybe I'm hysterical. Maybe I've cracked up. Maybe I've always been fucked in the head.

I continue giggling until the sound of a door opening snaps me out of it. Fuck. I wrench my eyes open, ignoring the sear of pain in my head at the sudden light. I'm in a bedroom. It's sparse; the bed I'm on, a nightstand next to it, a chair by the window, a small table with a mug on it. A dark closet with the door ajar. I hear a soft thud; someone taking off their shoes. I scramble around on the bed, wounds finally making themselves known and my vision blurring. I scoot off the bed and fall against the wall before sliding along it to the corner.

I can't use my powers, my head doesn't feel quite right. But I can defend myself from the corner if I must. I try to remain standing, but my vision waivers again and my legs decide not too cooperate. I find myself sinking to the floor, knees at my chest. Damn damn damn.

I watch the doorway warily, expecting anyone.

Anyone except the one who walks in. Siberian. Weiss. Fuck.

My head hurts.

He passed out again. I'm torn between being considering this a good thing or a bad thing. Being unconscious means he's harmless. But I'm worried. Should he just be dropping out of wakefulness like that? It doesn't seem healthy. But he isn't healthy, I guess, I mean, he is wounded and all. And I think I remember Omi once telling me that unconsciousness is a life-threatening condition.

Sometimes I hate myself for my stupidity.

If I was smart, like brilliant-fucking-Omi, I wouldn't be having this problem.

The black TV screen stares back at me, not helping out at all. This place is so fucking quiet. It's weird, sitting alone here in the middle of the apartment I call home, in front of the TV that's never on. You'd think I'd be used to the loneliness after so many years. But this tight feeling in my chest, this sensation that I'm missing out on something, just won't go away.

I was part of a family of six kids. I was popular in school. I was a member of a close-knit soccer team. This quietness has always been abnormal. No one comes to visit, no one calls, I don't have any casual friends. It just feels…so strange.

Weiss may be my replacement family, but we're not close. Well, I lie. Yohji is my best friend. I can count on him to always be there for me and he does the same. But there comes a point where I don't want him to be there for me anymore. I don't ever want to be a burden to anyone. I don't tell him how I really feel, because I don't want him to think he needs to worry about me. Aya simply tolerates me, along with the rest of the human population. I suppose that's better than having him hate me. Omi tries to be there for all of us, but he has school friends he'd rather be with. Everyone seems to assume…that I'm okay. I'm okay not talking to anybody, I'm okay with being alone. I don't think I am.

And so here I sit, a nineteen year-old guy on a Friday night, in this apartment, staring at a blank TV screen that is no substitute for a friend. So pathetic, I could laugh. I would laugh, but I don't think it would make this feeling go away.

I pull my feet up onto the couch and lean to the side. Eventually, I lilt far enough for gravity to take over and I fall over on the couch with an amusing plopping noise. Now I'm laying sideways, and the TV looks different from this angle. You see something new everyday, they say. Or maybe they say you learn something new. I'm not sure, and I probably wouldn't care even if I wasn't exhausted.

It's almost midnight. I put Nagi back in the bed after he passed out in the corner, and at this point, I am beyond caring about him waking up while I'm asleep. Fuck, I'm beyond caring that I'm still wearing today's clothes. That means I'm still in yesterday's pants. Oh well.

I grab the blanket that's draped over the back of the couch and attempt to spread it over me before twisting around into a position more comfortable for my back.

Just when I've found the best way to sleep, I realize I've left the lights on.

I think, sometimes, that I am a self-centered person. Everyone seems to think otherwise, but I truly believe they are wrong.

I mean, look at what's in front of me. A boy, one who is a danger to the only people I've got in this world, an enemy of the organization that saved my life and provides for me.

And why is he here? Because I'm selfish. I may say I brought him because he looked sad, because his teammates are dead, but I think I'm lying. I'm selfish and just so goddamn tired of being the only thing alive in this apartment. Yohji has his nameless girls, Omi has his special little school friends, Aya's got his sister, who finally woke up.

Me? I've got nothing. But now I've got this injured boy on the bed, and I've got something to be around, be there for. Sure, he'll probably leave as soon as he's better. Hell, he'll probably want to leave as soon as he's awake, but just for now, I've got something. And maybe that will be enough.

It's Sunday. The shop is closed; it's our official day off. Nagi hasn't been awake since the incident Friday night. I've spent most of my time since then sitting in this chair. Well, I worked yesterday too, but other than that, I've been here almost the whole time. It's not as if I've got a whole lot to do.

Soccer season is only in the summer for the little kids; apparently no one wants to play in January, when it's snowy and cold, so there's no one to coach right now. I'm not sure if I want to coach anymore, though. I love the sport, and I love the kids…but it kind of hurts. Watching them, it hurts. I can't watch games on TV, either. I…I just can't watch people do what I love, what I have been denied, what I want so much, without feeling near-physical pain. I just don't want to deal with it anymore.

A small movement draws my attention back to the bed. He's waking up, I think. I'm not sure what to do. If he uses his powers on me, I'm fucked.

Nagi's eyes open and he blinks a few times before focusing on me. I slap on my most disarming smile –it's disconcerting how easily I can smile – and try not to appear too threatening. Not that I appear threatening in the first place.

His hand twitches but he doesn't say anything, simply staring at me. I shift uncomfortably in the chair, trying to think of something to say. This silence is unnerving.

"Ummm…I'm assuming you know who I am…" The boy doesn't respond. He's still staring. Shouldn't he have to blink or something? God, that's creepy.

"You're at my apartment. You're wounded, but it's not that serious. Mostly bad bruises and a few major lacerations…" I pause, not sure what to say. "We found the remains of your teammates. They're all dead."

There's no emotion in those eyes, no reaction from that face. What did I expect? For him to moan and wail like some bereaved and weepy widow? Yeah right. I guess, that for a moment, I forgot he was an assassin. I expected him to react like a normal kid.

"You can stay as long as you want," I continue, "I don't recommend that you leave at least until your wounds are healed, but I'm not going to force you to stay, either. You aren't a prisoner."

He's still staring at me. Jesus, this is freaking me out. What is he trying to do, read my mind through my freaking eyes?

"Do you want some food or something? I imagine you're hungry, you've been out for a few days!" He closes his eyes for a moment and shakes his head slightly. No.

"Well, you should at least have to use the bathroom or something. That's just not normal," I say, rising to my feet and stretching my arms over my head. My back is still sore. Fucking Omi and his fucking plants.

This time, Nagi considers for a moment before responding. He slides his arms up on the bed and pushes himself into a sitting position, resting his back against the headboard. I can tell it's hurting him to move this much, and I reach my hand out to help him as he tries to swing his legs over the side of the bed.

My arm is shoved away by an invisible force, and I retreat back from the bed a few feet. It's weak, nothing compared to what I've felt from Nagi during clashes between Weiss and Schwarz, but it's a display of power and I realize that.

"Don't fucking touch me," he hisses, teeth clenched and eyes closed as he struggles against the pain. He successfully gets his feet onto the ground and grabs on to the corner of the nightstand.

"Fine." I watch him as he sits on the side of the bed for a moment before I head towards the door. "The bathroom is right across the hall. If you change your mind about the food, just give a yell." He doesn't respond, doesn't even bother to look at me. He's a pitiful sight in his torn and blood-caked clothes, matted hair hanging down in front of his eyes. I should offer him a change of clothes – mine won't fit him, but I'll be generous and let him borrow them anyways – and a chance to shower, but I'll do that when he's feeling more receptive.

I leave the room and head down the hallway to the kitchen. Nagi may say he's not hungry, but I'm freaking starving.