"Ladies and gents," roared the loud speaker across the soccer stadium of twenty thousand people. "What a game we have here tonight! Only fifteen minutes on the field and the LA Galaxy are losing two to nothing! What's wrong, Hidaka? Has our hotshot goalie finally lost his edge?"
The crowd cheered, some booed, some just sat in their seats and did nothing, but the energy in the stadium was absolutely stimulating. Ken tried to focus on the game, he tried to focus on the crowd's energy, but he couldn't. Something was wrong, but it was something he couldn't place. The sensation of danger lingered in the air around him. It was pulling him into a sickly abyss.
"Hidaka! Watch out!"
Snapping himself from the depths of his mind, he noticed the soccer ball flying towards an open section of the net. Diving, he managed to grasp the ball in his hands and pull it into his chest before doing a forwards roll in front of the net.
The crowd screamed and hollered, cheering his name over and over again.
"Okay," admitted the announcer. "He's still got it."
Grinning, Ken prepared to run to the edge of the box and dropkick the ball. He knew if he picked up the right amount of speed before reaching the box he could probably kick it far across center to Gary Mores, the newest addition to the Sabers. Gary wasn't being guarded, more or less to his under-appreciated talent. If Ken could manipulate the spin to confuse the other players, Gary could probably make the goal, bring the team closer to a tie, and earn some respect from their hothead-of-a-coach.
Ken readied himself to sprint, taking a deep breath and running his free hand through his creamy chocolate-brown hair. But that's when she caught his eye.
She stood by the resting cheerleaders, off to the far side of the field, on his end. But she wasn't with them. She was far too beautiful and domestic for that. Her figure was tall and slight, complimented by her short black-leather skirt and her sleeveless lavender top. She stood with perfect elegance and class, an air of composure and etiquette about her, taking her beyond her age of twenty or so. A pure woman who looked to be an innocent girl.
She stared intently at the ground, consumed by something within her mind. Though, almost as if feeling Ken's gaze, she immediately looked over in his direction, her sparkling brown eyes lingering on his as strands of uneven blonde hair blew across her piercing stare. There was a fright to that stare, a desperateness, a warning.
A spray of heat slashed his face, and a massive explosion grasped his unaware body and flung him across the field. Pain oozed into the empty hole panic wished to envelope, and all he could do was bite his tongue to keep from screaming. His vision was blurred, hazy, as the frantic shrieks of thousands of people filled his head like whispers from the past. Strange gray clouds swam in front of his eyes as he quickly pulled himself to his feet.
Flames shot up from the ground as the grass on the field burned, smoke rising to the sky all along the sidelines and benches. The metal and green had been transformed into a deranged artist's work; fire dancing among the twisted remains of poles and stands, benches and bodies. Thousands screamed, trying to evacuate. Pure panic raged through the stadium like a mighty hurricane, gashing the air with its power. His teammates were running for an exit as Gray grabbed Ken's arm, pulling him from his trance.
"C'mon man!" he yelled tugging on Ken. "We've got to get out of here!"
But Ken stayed put, consumed by the sight.
"Jesus," swore Gary. "Come on!"
He received no response.
Waves of intense heat caused a bead of sweat to trickle down Ken's cheek. His chocolate locks blew in the scorching winds as Gary shook his head and ran off towards the exit, leaving Ken to stand and watch the fire blaze.
What was he doing? Ken felt as if his body and mind were no longer working on the same level. Every instinct he had said to flee, but his body wouldn't move. His eyes would not wander from the mounting inferno.
The stadium was almost empty now; only a few hundred remained still trying to get out the doors. They pushed and shoved, trampling over one another.But their voices faded away as silence seemed to wash over Ken. Only the sound of the raging blaze and crackling fire quaked the quiet. Just like that night one year ago—Weiß's last night together.
Through the firestorm Ken saw her: Aya, lying on the ground, motionless. Flames swirled around her, deranging her appearance in the heat. Is she alive, he wondered. Then again he didn't know if even he was alive. Still, he staggered towards her.
The building was set ablaze. The heat was excruciating, causing his sight to blur. His right shoulder pained from the bullet lodge within, and blood trickled down his face from a deep head wound. But all he could think was that he had caused this. He had caused it all. And now he and Aya would die because of his foolish mistakes. Regardless, he had to save her...
"Help me, dear God!"
Ken snapped back into reality, escaping his past memories. The smoke was starting to choke him. The fire was spreading.
And there she was, sprawled out on the ground. The beautiful blonde, her legs trapped under metallic rubble, fire burning behind her, her clothing ripped, her hair blowing in crimson winds. A look of pure terror was plastered on her face—the look before death. She reached out her hand towards Ken. She mouthed words, but in a language he did not know. Clouds of debris fell from above, crashing down upon her body, covering her completely, pushing her into the ground.
Pure instinct gave in, and without giving it a second thought he ran into the blaze. Her legs were trapped under massive amounts of debris; her shirt ripped and covered with rich trails of blood. Her hands were crushed; her elegant fingers snapped backwards, the bone broken and splintered, only the skin keeping them attached in the most disturbing of angles.
He leaned rigorously against the rubble on her legs and pushed until it fell to the side, crumbling into dust. Collapsing to his knees next to her, he pulled her body into his arms, resting his fingers against her neck, searching for a pulse.
She twitched and subsequently opened her eyes, staring deeply into his. She raised her hand and stroked his cheek. "I'm sorry, Ken," she whispered not in English, but in Japanese—a language he hadn't heard in two years.
He felt his breath quicken. The blaze started to close in on them.
She struggled for a breath. "I-I came here to warn you…"
"Warn me of what?" he demanded still holding her in his arms.
"They have to destroy all those who may be a threat. Hundreds of the world's finest have already fallen into the depths of torment. And you will be next. You are next." Her chest started to heave. She didn't have much time left. He could feel her becoming more and more distant with each passing second.
"Who wants me dead? Whom have they killed?"
She winced. "I was sent here to warn you, but I did not fulfill my mission. A threat is building; they wish to empower all. But you must fight them; you must go back to Tokyo and rebuild the past. That is the only way to succeed. The only way to live."
He shook his head. "I don't understand. Why do I have to return to Tokyo?"
She gave a small, weak smile. "The Siberian is a wild cat, and his sense of trust is incredible. Listen to him."
His eyes widened. "Are you—"
"Do you trust me now?" she asked serenely.
He did not respond.
"I'm sorry," she mumbled again and started to trace his lips with her finger. "I would've made it worth your while."
She leaned up towards him and closed her eyes, her lips brushing his for a moment before she fell back into his arms. Dead. He cringed, glancing down at the limp beauty in his arms. Everything died. Everything he touched died. He was cursed. Cursed by innocent blood. A nameless blood he would never know.