Chapter 2

"It wasn't by chance that I met you. This is what they call fate."

-Take Off, 2PM

Manhattan, Unites States of America- January, 1922

The air was frosty, biting, and vicious. Nipping at people mercilessly as it whipped and whirled down the busy street, whistling between buildings and through crowds. The cold wind blew harshly up the hems of jackets, sending top hats tumbling to the ground or whisking them away all together. All around, people were bundled up tightly in their thick coats, warm scarves and woolen gloves. The sky was gray, but bright, and that coupled with the lack of snow made the day look nowhere near as cold as it felt.

"Bloody hell, isn't America s'pposed to be warm?" cursed the man irritably, rubbing his gloved hands together. He cupped them and blew, sending a cloud of misty breath into the chilly January air as he tried to warm himself.

"Language please," admonished his associate with a sigh, wrapping his own scarf tighter about his neck. Appropriate conduct and gentlemanly behavior was a must…even if it was bloody cold.

"My apologies Mr. Kirkland," said the first man, ceasing his frantic motions and straightening his back before looking sheepishly towards his boss. Mr. Kirkland merely raised one of his notable eyebrows before pulling his top hat down further atop his sandy-blonde hair.

"Simply mind yourself better in the future," he said sternly, but not with any degree of menace or true annoyance. He was shivering himself and he sank his chin deep into the folds of his scarf.

"It is cold though," he commented with a sigh. "Let's hurry and get this business taken care of. The sooner we get back to England the better. I'm sure you're itching to get back to your son, right James?"

James grinned and nodded vigorously. "Howard is growing like you wouldn't believe. He'll be five soon. Five!"

Mr. Kirkland smiled at the man's excitement and love for his family, but found his smile strained and his mind wandering, as he began thinking of his own son, not yet nine years old. Their relationship was…mediocre at best, and there appeared to be a growing gap between what Mr. Kirkland thought his son wanted and what the boy actually seemed to desire.

The Englishman sighed and he found himself wishing that he could stay in this country longer and avoid the conflict, arguments, and tension that awaited him at home.

Despite the cold, America was a pleasant place. It had a constant busy hum to it and while England had a similar thrum of activity the streets of Manhattan just seemed more…alive somehow. The way the people moved, the way they interacted with each other. The busyness that wasn't just business. A person walking might just be walking with no place to go, with no aim, and no purpose. A happy aimlessness that was different from London, where everyone had an agenda. Manhattan had an almost easy-going, joyful vibe that said that most of its inhabitants loved simply living and not living for any monetary or materialistic reasons.

Of course, that wasn't to say that the place was perfect. No, the homeless people on the street corners, shivering under newspapers and braced against the wind, were a harsh reminder that no Utopia could exist, even in a land of dreams like America.

Mr. Kirkland's eyes peered out from under his hat, watching a young couple with large shopping bags skip down the sidewalk with a giddy looking boy in between them.

Of course, the Englishman might be biased. His own home life and existence in London had become so frustrating lately that any place was likely to look better than the British city. There was nothing wrong with London itself, and yet, Mr. Kirkland was rather sick of it. Sick of the businessmen and their lies. Sick of the people there, still floating on euphoria after their victory in the war. And sick of the fact that he, the head of a major company and one of the most influential people in Europe, could not for all his money, seem to get along with his son.

"Hey! Hey! Thief! Stop thief!"

Both James and Mr. Kirkland paused in their stiff, quick walk, the younger of the two turning around with wide eyes while the elder man just looked back over his shoulder with an exasperated, somewhat irritated expression.

"Oi, what's all the commotion about?" inquired James, peering forward with eager eyes at the excitement and movement going on in a particularly loud crowd by a series of street-vendors.

"Ignore it James," commanded Mr. Kirkland sternly, "American theft is no different than British theft. Let's go."

The younger man seemed to deflate a little but he nodded at his boss's request and turned his head with a sigh, snuggling deeper into his jacket collar. "Yeah, ye-I mean, yes. Yes, you're quite right sir. My apologies." James flushed at his momentary slip-up and hid his face in his scarf, averting his eyes. Mr. Kirkland resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his young assistant who, despite having recently turned thirty, still had a tendency to act quite immature.

The two British men resumed walking, and Mr. Kirkland bit back a sigh as he noticed a few white flakes beginning to drift down past his eyes, one of them stinging his nose with cold as it landed. The Englishman shook his head as water ran down the front of his nose and bit back a groan of annoyance. However much irritation he might feel with his homeland, he would take England's perpetual rain over this infernal white stuff any day.

Lost in his thoughts as he was, Mr. Kirkland did not hear the rapid pitter-patter of feet behind him, nor did he pay attention to the cacophony of shouts and curses coming from the collection of street vendors that they had just walked by. As such, he was understandably surprised when James let out a shout from behind him, and something large suddenly crashed into his legs.

"Wa-,"

"Oof!"

Mr. Kirkland's knees buckled and he was saved from falling only by his cane, which he leaned on heavily as he tried to keep his balance.

"Mr. Kirkland! Are you alright? Answer me sir!" James was at his side in an instance, holding onto his arm and helping to stop him from falling forward. Mr. Kirkland shook his head, trying to regain his bearings.

What the bloody hell just happened? He thought to himself in astonishment, eyes growing wide at the sheer force he had been hit with. Mr. Kirkland turned around, steadying himself on James's supportive arm and standing up straight.

The sight he was met with was not one that he expected to see, though not necessarily a strange sight in a city as big and poverty stricken as New York.

It was a boy, looking to be no older than six if that. Messy dark blonde hair, with a single piece sticking defiantly upwards, hung into dazed dark blue eyes. The boy was young, younger than his own son, and, Mr. Kirkland realized with one glance, clearly living in poverty.

Tattered pants that barely reached his ankles, a once white shirt with a frayed, oversized grey vest hanging off of it and shoes with holes in the front, so that tiny toes could be seen. It was obvious the entire outfit had seen better days.

Then there was what the boy was carrying. Or what he had been carrying before he had crashed into Mr. Kirkland. A scattering of buns were spread out across the dirty pavement and as soon as the boy came to his senses he began frantically gathering them up, casting panicked glances back over his shoulder towards the crowd of street vendors.

Clearly, this boy had been stealing.

"Oi! Don't go runnin' into people like that!" snapped James irritably at the boy. The youngster looked up at the two Englishmen, having finished gathering up his stolen goods, and stuck his tongue out defiantly.

"Nyeh! Stuffy ol' farts! Shoulda watched where yous was walkin'!" he replied angrily in a thick Brooklyn accent, before resuming his frantic flee from whomever he had stolen from.

"Now wait just a minute!" fumed James, making motions to chase after the boy. Mr. Kirkland, however, tightened his grip on his young associates arm, causing the young man to stop.

"Let him be," said Mr. Kirkland, staring after the boy with a somewhat saddened expression. "I'm sure he needed the bread more then the one who was selling it anyways. Poverty is painful to see in children. That child…"

Mr. Kirkland shook his head, suddenly feeling like a leaden weight had settled into his chest.

"That child was younger than Arthur."

/

Alfred was feeling particularly lucky. It wasn't often that he got away with stealing so much at one time. The man who had been selling the buns had been so engrossed in a conversation with a rich-looking lady that he hadn't even seen the young boy grab an armful of food. Alfred had managed to get halfway down the street before nosy citizens had pointed out his theft.

Still, he had gotten away with his prize and the young American was feeling quite proud of himself. The warmth of accomplishment that spread through him was almost enough to banish the cold that had wrapped around his body. The winter winds bit at his unshielded toes, blew down his tattered shirt and through his matted hair, sent shivers up and down his spine and caused his nose to drip uncontrollably. But he had food, and the glow of achievement dulled the pain of the cold.

Alfred wiped away the drippage with his sleeve, taking care to maintain a tight hold on his buns as he did. It had been a chore keeping hold of them the whole time he was running. He thought that he might have lost a few, particularly when he had run into those two old guys.

Alfred scowled at that. He had worked hard to steal all these buns and then some stupid stiffs who talked funny had made him lose some! The young boy mumbled angrily to himself for a few moments before his irritated face gave way to a triumphant smile as he realized that he really had gotten away. That thought in mind, he finally stopped running and slowed to a brisk walk as his destination came into view.

It was a small, abandoned warehouse. Somewhat spacious, empty, and with holes dotting the roof. It really wasn't that much larger than your average house, and looked more like a large shack then a warehouse. The wood was rotting in many areas and the left back corner of the structure had collapsed and was covered up with badly hammered in planks and a number of blankets sewn together. The main doors were padlocked and rusted shut so that the only way in and out was through one of the many of the holes dotted about the exterior. Alfred made his way towards one of these holes, clutching at the buns that were beginning to escape the confines of his arms. The young boy hummed to himself, some song that had been stuck in his head for as long as he could remember. He thought that one day he'd put lyrics to it, or maybe pay someone to do it for him! Yeah, that would be swell.

Alfred smiled at the idea of getting someone to work for him and maneuvered his way through a hole in the wall, struggling to maintain his hold on the buns as he did and losing a few in the process.

"Mattie!" he called excitedly as he entered the warehouse, ignoring the few buns he had dropped and calling out for his brother. "Hey Mattie! Yous won't believe how much food I nicked this time! I knows ya don't like it when I steal but-,"

Alfred stopped his speech as he heard a soft sound echoing around the small warehouse, a quiet, but easily recognizable sound.

Coughing.

"Mattie?" called Alfred again, worry causing him to drop his buns as he dashed towards the corner of the Warehouse where his brother had been resting. "Mattie! Hey Mattie yous ain't still coughin' are ya? Yous said yous was feelin' better, right? Mattie? Mattie? Mattie?!"

There was no answer as Alfred ran towards the small form hidden under a mound of blankets in the dark corner. The young blonde's heart hammered in his chest as he approached, worry erasing the previous feelings of happiness and accomplishment that had moments ago consumed him.

"Mattie?"

In the corner, snuggled up in a pile of torn, thin-looking blankets, was another young boy. Similar to Alfred in both age and looks with wavy pale blonde hair and a flushed, skinny face. The boy's red-rimmed eyes opened a crack, revealing striking violet orbs that looked up at the other boy blurrily.

"A-Al?" he whispered, before his voice dissolved into harsh, phlegmy, coughing.

"Ack! Mattie!" cried Alfred in horror, falling to his knees and sidling up to his brother's side. "I thought yous stopped bein' sick! Why is yous still coughin'? H-hey! Hey!"

The younger boy doubled up in a coughing fit, curling up into a ball and tugging the blankets closer to him as his entire body shook violently.

Mattie…

Alfred swallowed thickly, hands trembling as he laid them on his brother's shaking form and eyes wide as Mattie's breath began coming out in short, painful wheezes. Alfred's breath hitched in his throat as he saw tears snaking their way down Mattie's dirty cheeks and a sob burst forth his lips.

"Mattie…" he whispered, clutching the blankets that covered his brother tightly, feeling the boy's severe trembling and the waves of unhealthy heat coming off of his body.

"Please don't die!"

/

"Blimey sir, have you seen some of this stuff? Some o' these chocolates are glowing I swear! You think these would still look this fancy if I took them back to London? Do you think Howard would fancy them? Or Lillian! Do you think Lily would like them?"

Mr. Kirkland resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the ceaseless excitement of his young assistant, who currently had his face pressed against the window of a sweet shop. The older man shuffled a bit, shivering in the icy wind that was blowing through. The temperature seemed to have dropped by several degrees since their walk to Mr. Kirkland's appointment with an important business associate, earlier that morning. The journey back to their hotel was proving to be much less enjoyable than the stroll to their meeting place had been. The air was crisper, colder, and large flakes of snow were blowing past at a heavier and heavier rate. Mr. Kirkland was beginning to regret not getting a driver to ferry them places. He had originally declined the offer because he had wished to experience the city of Manhattan without having it whiz by him too fast to see. Now, he wished for the warmth of a station wagon and the shortened distance between point A and point B. The cold chilled him to the bone and his joints were beginning to ache in the most annoying fashion.

I'm too young to feel this old, bemoaned the Englishman internally. Why am I so old? It's probably the cane. Should not have bought the bloody cane. I'm only thirty-nine for Christ's-,

"Help! Please! Somebody help!"

Mr. Kirkland was torn from his thoughts by a panicked, pleading voice coming from further up the street. The man looked in the direction curiously, his grip tightening around the hated cane as if in anticipation of stopping whatever was causing the unidentified voice harm. James tore his face away from the window, pouting as if upset at having been interrupted in picking out the perfect chocolate for his son and his wife. "Oi, what's all that racket?" he inquired, an irritated look on his face as he straightened up.

"I don't know," frowned Mr. Kirkland, trying to see through the crowds and the increasing haze of falling snow. "Perhaps we should go and see."

James grimaced, shivering in the cold wind and shifting his feet slightly. "Well, it's like you said," muttered the young man, pulling the collar of his coat up against the harsh winds, "Whatever is going on here isn't different then what would happen back home. Some one will help whomever it is out. Manhattan's a big city, and we're not exactly locals. What would we do? Direct them to the nearest hospital or police station when we don't know where they are?"

Mr. Kirkland frowned deeper and part of him wanted to reprimand James for the impertinence he had heard in the younger man's voice, while the other part reasoned that what he had said was true. Whoever it was that needed help would receive much better aid from someone who actually lived here rather than from two foreigners.

Mr. Kirkland gave a curt nod, stifling a sigh at the unpleasant feeling that had settled in his stomach, and continued walking. James gave a partly triumphant smile before shoving his hands into his pocket and following after his boss.

"Please, anybody, help my brother! Please!"

Mr. Kirkland stiffened as he heard the voice again, this time closer than before. It sounded painfully young and tugged at his heartstrings. That was the one thing that had really changed in the times since his wife had had Arthur. Previous to having a son, he'd been able to turn a blind eye to the poverty in the streets. He'd been able to walk by an urchin with no shoes begging for money. He'd been able to ignore it, just like everyone else.

But now, hearing a child's voice crying for help, knowing that the child could be Arthur's age or younger...And the fact that the cries hadn't stopped, that it seemed like no one was going to the child's aid…

"Please!"

Mr. Kirkland stopped abruptly, causing James to bump into him with a startled sound.

"Oi! Sir, what's the mat-,"

Mr. Kirkland began walking quickly towards the left, the direction from which he had heard the crying voice. As James began questioning his actions, a determined, stubborn look appeared on the older man's face. The famous 'Kirkland' face of absolute tenacity and steadfast gentlemanly pig-headedness.

Yes the locals were more able to deal with whatever situation was eliciting those cries, yes it was cold and he should really just go back to his hotel, yes it really was none of business. But Mr. Kirkland had a soft heart under his gruff business like exterior and moreover, he had a son who used to use that exact tone of voice when pleading for his father to play with him.

"Somebody…please…"

It didn't take the Englishman long to find the source of the voice. Weaving his way through the sidewalk crowd, he made his way over to a narrow passageway between two buildings, at the mouth of which stood the cause of the distressed cry.

Mr. Kirkland's eyes widened in surprise, bushy brows going straight up into his hairline as he recognized the young boy who had run into him earlier.

This time, however, there appeared to be two of them.

There was the first boy, who was standing with tears running from his swollen eyes and hoarsely calling out for help. Then there was the second boy, who the first boy had slung across his back in piggyback position. This boy was completely still, with his head lolling against the first boy's shoulder and entire body hanging limp.

"Somebody please help my brother!" screamed the first boy, taking a few staggering steps forward before falling onto his hands and knees.

Mr. Kirkland rushed forward, kneeling in front of the boy and placing his hand on his shoulder.

"Are you alright, lad? What's the matter?" asked the Englishman, casting a concerned look at the other boy, the one who hung limply and who hadn't moved an inch.

The first boy looked up in surprise, blue eyes wide. "M-my b-brother is s-sick," he sobbed, entire body shaking, "I-I th-think he's g-gonna d-d-die…"

Mr. Kirkland's face paled and he took a closer look at the second boy.

Indeed, the boy did not appear to be in good condition. He was worryingly pale except for the unhealthy flush on his cheeks. His hair was damp from either snow or sweat and hung in limp blonde strands around his face. The boy was breathing shallowly and his face was scrunched up in pain and discomfort. Mr. Kirkland reached out a tentative hand towards the child but found him yanked out of reach by his brother, who scurried backwards with a panicked look on his face.

"Watcha gonna do? Don't hurt him!" screamed the young boy, eliciting glances from several of the passerbys who had previously been ignoring him. "If you hurt him I'll…I'll…I'll biff ya somethin' awful!"

Mr. Kirkland paled and held up both hands in a placating gesture, astounded by the sheer volume emitted by such a thin-looking boy. "Now, now lad, calm down. You've been calling for help right? That's all I want to do, help you and your brother." The Englishman cast a worried look at the other boy, who hadn't moved at all despite his brother's loud outburst.

He looks extremely ill, thought Mr. Kirkland, brow furrowed with worry, and he's barely clothed…in this weather…

Mr. Kirkland once again moved closer to the two little boys but the conscious boy moved backwards, retreating into the alley with a panicked look. The Englishman gritted his teeth and moved back slightly, feeling a rising sense of urgency as he watched the sick boy's harsh breathing give way to coughing, the now heavily falling snow settling into his hair and on his back. While trying to think of a way to get the boy to trust him, Mr. Kirkland suddenly stiffened, noting for the first time that James had come up behind him and was standing by anxiously.

"Sir…" began the young man hesitantly while casting a wary glance towards the young boy crouched in front of his boss. The youth recoiled at the new man, panic in his red-rimmed eyes.

Fearing that the scared boy was likely to bolt at any moment, Mr. Kirkland turned to give James a stern look. "Hush James, give me a moment," he shushed, before pausing and looking over his assistant's shoulder to the busy street behind. "Actually, James, do you mind hailing down a cab?" His eyes slid back towards the shivering boy in the alleyway and his sickly brother. Both were dressed in threadbare clothes, attire not suitable for decent weather, let alone an increasing snowstorm. The sick boy appeared to be wearing socks but no shoes, while the other boy had too-small shoes but no socks. Despite his belligerence, the apparent awake brother was shivering and an unhealthy flush was beginning to colour his cheeks as well.

They need to get out of this weather…

James startled slightly, surprised by his boss's request. His eyes narrowed and he cast a suspicious, somewhat contemptuous look at the boys cowering in the alleyway.

"Sir," began the young man sternly, "If I may…I realize you…your heart is in the right place but honestly, the little brats are just going to run off with your wallet the second you turn your back and the smaller one gets tired of playing sick. It's like you said before, America isn't any different from England."

A beat of silence passed between them, before Mr. Kirkland's eyebrows came together in anger and he whirled on his assistant furiously.

"This is what I'm saying now!" thundered Mr. Kirkland in a loud voice he rarely ever used, a stern, enraged voice that caused his young assistant to jump. "I will not simply walk by and let two little boys freeze to death! Regardless of whether or not they plan to steal my belongings, they will die if left alone. Or do you not see the snow falling in front of your face? Has your affluence so desensitized you from the plights of others? Do you truly intend to have me walk away from children younger than Arthur? One of them sick and in need of medical attention, while the other is sure to follow if he continues living in these conditions? If this is truly your opinion on the matter, than I gravely misjudged your character when I hired you. Now, James, go do what you're paid to do- obey me. Go hail a cab." Mr. Kirkland's last statement came out as a harsh snarl and James recoiled as if he had been slapped, a stricken expression on his face. He took a step back before nodding stiffly and turning away, running to the side of the sidewalk while waving his hand in the air somewhat frantically.

Mr. Kirkland stared angrily after his young assistant before deflating like a balloon. He released his breath in a loud sigh and took off his looming top hat to run a hand through his sandy locks.

James was young. He had never known poverty, his family being a well-off, well-known English family that the Kirklands had been working with closely for a few generations now. He had grown up in the same manner that Mr. Kirkland himself had; with his nose sharply upturned to the plights of those 'beneath' him and with a conditioned blind eye towards the poor.

Mr. Kirkland felt a twinge of guilt as he turned away from his young assistant, but he brushed it off. James was in the wrong here. No questions asked.

A harsh cough caused Mr. Kirkland to whirl around, his attention once again on the young boys. The boy he presumed to be older, the one who was carrying his brother, was looking up at him with a puzzled and somewhat stunned expression. The Englishman withered on the inside. Had his outburst destroyed any chance he had had of making the child unafraid of him?

The child stared unblinking at the man and Mr. Kirkland cleared his throat awkwardly, preparing to try and placate the boy.

"Wow," said the boy, blinking his wide blue eyes and interrupting Mr. Kirkland's thoughts, "Ya sure gots a loud voice. Heard ya right over da city noise. An', t'was real nice whatcha said. Y'all dressed real nice an' stuff. Nice-dressed people ain't usually nice. Theys always tryin' ta take us to da cops or somethin'. Didn't 'spect a nice-dressed person ta stop when I started hollerin'."

Mr. Kirkland blinked, stunned at the sudden rush of words from the young boy who, moments before, had been screaming at him, terrified.

"Oi, Mista," continued the boy, waddling out of the alleyway to stand in front of the Englishman. "You really mean it, ya gonna 'elp us? Me an' Mattie? Mattie's real sick ya know…I…I'm real scared…" the boy's sudden rush of confidence disappeared as he hung his head, tears once again dripping down his cheeks as he took the limp hand of his brother.

"P-please," he whimpered in a heart-breaking voice, "I…I'm s'posed ta protect him. I'm 'is big brotha…I'm s'pposed ta b-be his h-hero!"

Mr. Kirkland's heart positively broke as the little boy broke down into sobs and he knelt in front of the young child.

"There, there, don't cry," soothed the man, awkwardly patting the boy on the head. He mentally sighed in relief when the child didn't flinch or pull away and continued with his movements, inching closer as he did. "Listen, you're here aren't you? Out in the cold? And it's all for your brother, right? That means you're doing a splendid job of protecting him. I mean, it might have been better if you had left him inside instead of exposing him to the elements, but…"

Mr. Kirkland trailed off as the young boy looked up at him, a stricken look on his face.

Dammit, I never could talk to children, cursed the man internally, even Arthur…

"S-sir."

The boy drew back, looking up distrustfully at James, who had hesitantly appeared behind Mr. Kirkland. The older man turned around, slightly irritated at having the progress he had made regressed. However, his eyes softened as he saw the dejected and somewhat pained expression on James's face.

"Ah," said the elder man somewhat awkwardly, "Did you-?"

"Yes," replied James automatically, before flushing and recoiling as if apologetic for interrupting. "Y-yes, th-there is a cab waiting." Mr. Kirkland nodded, turning away from his assistant. Just looking at the young man's depressed face was causing his conscience to send waves of discomfort through his stomach.

I'll talk to him later, sighed the man internally, but right now…

The boy had retreated into the alley again, looking at James with pure distrust. There was a pout to his lips and his entire body was shivering. His brother had begun coughing again, and tears were gathering in the eyes of both boys.

"Now, now," soothed Mr. Kirkland, once again turning his full attention to the boys, "I thought we were on better terms! Come now, come out, please?"

A few long seconds later, the boy inched himself and the brother he was carrying out of the alleyway, sending a particularly nasty glare at James as he did. The young assistant actually flinched under the intense stare and, with a glance towards his boss, retreated to the cab.

Mr. Kirkland could visibly see the boy relax and he couldn't help but smile as the young American gave him a small smile once James had gone.

"I dun like 'im, m'glad he's gone," mumbled the boy, shivering more than ever, stamping his feet as he did. "W-wotcha need a cab f-for anyways? G-gonna call a d-doctor? 'urry please, I'm w-worried 'bout M-Mattie…'so cold, y-y'know?"

Mr. Kirkland's heart clenched painfully again. "Mattie? Is that your brother's name?"

The boy looked up, seeming a bit surprised at the question. He nodded once, casting a worried glance over his shoulder, where his brother's head lolled limply.

"And what's your name?" asked the Englishman.

"A-Alfred," responded the American, looking more and more detached from the environment as he began to shiver more violently, his blue eyes blinking lethargically.

Bollocks. Cursed Mr. Kirkland internally. "Well Alfred, I'm going to take you and Mattie to see a doctor, okay? We're going to go in the cab, to the hotel I'm staying at, and- bloody hell!"

Mr. Kirkland just managed to lunge forward and catch the two Americans as Alfred toppled forward, his eyes slipping shut as he finally succumbed to the cold that had been biting mercilessly at his body.

"Dammit!" cursed the Brit aloud, "James! James get over here! I need you to carry one of these boys back to the cab!"

Mr. Kirkland gently eased the brothers to the ground before quickly taking off his jacket. He wrapped the article of clothing around the younger one, Mattie, and picked him up carefully. James rushed over and, quickly assessing the situation, picked up Alfred. The young man's mouth was in a straight line, and he kept whatever opinions he might have had about the situation to himself. Mr. Kirkland nodded to his assistant before rushing quickly towards the cab.

I don't know what I'm doing...thought the British man, wincing at the unhealthy heat coming off of the young boy in his arms, but I can't let these boys die out here. I don't know what it is, but I feel…responsibly for them somehow.

Mr. Kirkland looked down at Mattie. The boy's face was pale with an unhealthy red at the cheeks and sweat beading his brow. His hair was wet and clung to his skin; his mouth open as harsh, grating breathing came through.

Mr. Kirkland gritted his teeth angrily.

No matter where I go, it's the same. It's always the innocent who suffer for the mistakes of the arrogant.

No matter what, I will not let these boys die.

Tokyo, Japan- March, 1922

"Wang Yao will be transferred to your faction."

Kiku looked up from the work he was doing, momentarily distracted by the interaction between his father and the messenger that had just appeared in the doorway. His hold on his brush loosened slightly, before he remembered that he was supposed to be practicing his characters and he dropped his head back down with a shamed blush. Despite his attempts at concentration, the words of the conversation still reached his ears.

"What?" hissed his father, brow creased in anger, "This is unacceptable! I won't have that-,"

"Sir," interrupted the man, his mouth set in a firm line, "This is not a request. This is an order. Wang Yao will be placed under your jurisdiction. He will be transferred tonight. I trust you'll take the proper procedures to…make him feel welcome."

The messenger bowed deeply before turning around and leaving, sliding the door of the house shut behind him.

Unable to resist, Kiku lifted his head, blinking owlishly as he watched his father's stiff and angered movements as he moved away from the door and stalked across the room to the kitchen entrance. The young boy winced as his father wrenched the kitchen door open and then pulled it shut forcefully. The walls of the room shook and Kiku let out a small noise of despair as the ink he had been using swished about and threatened to spill over the side of the container.

What was going on? Why was Otou-sama so upset? Who was Wang Yao?

Kiku frowned as the ink finally calmed down and stared at his paper with a pensive look on his face, before turning his head to look towards the door that the messenger had stood at seconds ago.

The young Japanese boy knew better than to pry into his father's affairs and he knew that his father was not the calmest person and was often presented with situations that frustrated him. But such a reaction to a mere name…

And what a name it was.

Wang Yao. Kiku had never heard a name that sounded like that before. And he had never heard of the Wang family either. The youth knew all the families that made up the network that his father belonged to. The Matsumoto, Sawada, and his own family, the Honda. Powerful Japanese who had been in power for decades. Kiku's family in particular was very powerful and the youth took pride in knowing that his otou-sama had achieved the rank of 'Right-hand', Wakagashira. One day, Kiku would be the Right Hand to the future boss, as his family had been since the beginning of their complex organization. One day, it would be he who handled the affairs of their community with dignity and grace.

But first he had to learn all his Kanji characters, and stop thinking about 'Wang Yao' and things that did not, at the moment, concern him.

Kiku tightened his hold on the brush again and pushed up the sleeves of his yukata. He dipped the tip of the brush into the now calm well of ink and began slowly, painstakingly, copying down the unfamiliar script.

For now, this was all that he had to worry about.

/

The dojo was a forbidden area.

It was the area where his father often met with his subordinates and officers, the place where they would occasionally spar with their fierce-looking swords and even fiercer looking faces. This was the place where his father had his men settle disputes. If there were arguments over money, who had got it, who had lost it, then it would be fought out in here. Sumo was a popular form of fighting, both to solve issues and to simply let off steam when the old men wanted to 'play'. There was almost always something going on in the Honda dojo and as such, it was one of the many places in the residence that Kiku was forbidden from entering.

The courtyard, the main dining room, his father's bedroom, those were others.

Kiku had no interest in the main dining room. It was a spacious room, with ornate decorations and a large table in the center. Due to the number of expensive artifacts and adornments in the room, Kiku had never been allowed in it. And he never really had a wish to. Like most young children, he had a tendency to loose control of his limbs and knock things over or trip frequently. Not good traits to take into a room full of priceless heirlooms and relics.

Contrastingly, Kiku would have jumped at the opportunity to go out into the courtyard and see the sakura trees, something he was never allowed to do unless accompanied by several of his father's subordinates. He never really understood why that was but as a respectful and dutiful young son, he obeyed his otou-sama's wishes and did not leave the house by himself.

His father's room was, perhaps, the most forbidden. Kiku had never had so much as a glimpse inside so he was not sure why the area was so taboo. He guessed that not entering the room was a part of showing respect for his otou-sama and gave it wide berth.

Kiku was an obedient, dutiful son. He did what he was told. He listened to his elders.

But he was a seven-year-old boy.

And when left alone for long periods of time he got bored.

And he got curious.

Which brought him to the point he was at today, one hand on the door of the dojo, which he had just pushed open. Eyes wide as he peered within.

It was okay to go in, just this once, wasn't it?

The young boy took in a sharp breath as he stepped onto the matted floor, body shaking as he took in the absolute emptiness of the room. Kiku swallowed nervously before stepping further into the dojo. His attention was immediately drawn to the far wall, which had an array of katana sitting on spikes or strapped with thick leather to the wall. Kiku took quick steps towards that side of the room, looking furtively over his shoulder as he did.

Kiku reached the far wall and he stared up in awe at the weapons that stretched from one side to the other. His dark eyes blinked rapidly and he took a step back, craning his neck upwards to get a better view of the selections closer to the ceiling. Kiku's eyes widened at the sparkling blades with the ornamental handles and his gaze trailed down the wall to follow a selection of long, thin swords, varying only in the intricate designs of their hilts and the characters inscribed on them. The youth let out a short gasp as he saw a particular blade near the middle of the wall. It seemed rather plain in comparison to the intricate designs of the other swords, as it lacked designs or characters and was simply a straight, silver blade with a black hilt. But Kiku was taken with it. The gleam of its surface, the slight curve of the blade, the unblemished silver, and the single, deadly point at the tip. Unconsciously, Kiku extended a hand upwards, as if yearning to touch it. He stretched up on to his toes, his sandals bending underneath his feet as he reached…

"What are you doing?"

Kiku gasped and whirled around, eyes wide as he frantically began muttering apologies and bowing. Oh no! He'd thought that no one would be in the house today…but he had been discovered. Otou-sama would be angry….

"S-sumimasen!" he stammered, bowing low again and again. "I th-thought I was allowed in here today. I-I will leave immediately-,"

"Hold on, aru. Stop panicking."

Kiku halted his frantic apologies and bowing. He lifted his head, brow creased in confusion at the strange accent and choice of words that his mysterious visitor had just used. In what region of Japan did they end their sentences with 'aru'?

As he straightened, Kiku saw the stranger clearly for the first time. It appeared to be a boy, older than him, with black hair tied back in a ponytail and an overlong green yukata sagging about his feet. There was something odd about the boy's facial features and Kiku's surprise was momentarily pushed aside as he stared at the stranger, trying to determine what was off about him.

"I'm Chinese," said the boy, interrupting Kiku'a thoughts as well as startling him.

"Wh-what?" stammered Kiku, face red at having been caught so blatantly staring.

"I'm not Japanese, aru. I'm Chinese, from the mainland of Asia," continued the boy, what looked like a smirk playing about the corners of his lips. "That's why I look different from you, aru. No need to stare."

Kiku blushed a deeper red before shaking his head rigorously. "I-I wasn't staring!" he denied, confusion and humiliation rolling through him.

"You were, aru," laughed the boy. "That's fine, I don't mind."

The Chinese boy walked into the dojo, his eyes traveling about the room with interest. Kiku's eyebrows shot up at the lack of respect as the foreigner unceremoniously prodded at the weapons in one of the neat piles on the floor and even picked a wooden sword up and swung it experimentally.

"H-hey!" protested Kiku, running up to the older boy. "Y-you can't do that! Ch-children aren't allowed to touch the weapons without an adult's permission!"

The Chinese boy turned his head slightly, an amused arch to his eyebrows. "Oh? Well, lucky for me I'm not a child then. Unlike you, aru." Kiku flinched at the boy's sharp tone, before his eyes narrowed and his small hands clenched into fists.

How dare he? He might only be seven years old, but he was still Honda Kiku, son of the First Lieutenant of the Gama family Yakuza. One day, he would be First Lieutenant to the next Oyabun. Even though he was still just a child, his father's subordinates still treated him with respect.

This Chinese boy should be no exception.

"Do you know who I am?" hissed Kiku angrily. "Watashi wa Honda Kiku desu!"

"Oh?" replied the Chinese boy, turning to fully face Kiku with a slightly amused look on his face. "Nice to meet you, Kiku-kun. Ore wa Wang Yao, aru."

Kiku's eyes grew wide, both at the casual way that the foreigner was addressing him (nobody called him Kiku-kun. It was either Bocchan or occasionally, Honda-kun) and at the name that he had just introduced himself as.

Wang Yao.

The reason his Father had been frustrated and angry two days before.

That was this boy? This Foreigner who couldn't have been more than a few years older than him?

"Have you heard of me, aru?" asked Yao with a smirk, obviously noticing Kiku's surprise, "I've been in the family for awhile. Not as important or as outright as your father of course, but I've gotten around, aru. I've made quite a name for myself and done a lot for the Oyabun. I'm ten years old but I'm already quite respected. And," Yao grinned, taking a few steps closer and bending so that he and Kiku were at eye level. "I'm considered an adult, aru."

Kiku's cheeks flushed red with shame and he suddenly found himself at a loss for words. What was he supposed to say? This…this Wang Yao. He was only three years older than him, but he was respected in the family, for himself. Not because of who his father was or what his father did, but because of who he was.

"This is a nice dojo, aru," continued Yao, turning away from Kiku as if having lost interest in the previous conversation. "There are a lot of weapons. More than there were at the other house I was staying with." The Chinese youth hefted the wooden sword over one shoulder and spun on his heel, tilting his head to the side as he once again face Kiku. "Did your father collect them all himself?" he inquired, unusual amber eyes centered on the Japanese youth.

The seven year old startled slightly before nodding shyly, a deep red blush across his cheeks. He hadn't realized how important and powerful Wang-san was. Now, he was sure to face reparations from his father when the man found out about how rudely he had addressed his subordinate.

And he had been having such a good day!

"I-I don't know," stammered Kiku, bowing deeply. "A-and I apologize for earlier. It was disrespectful."

"Don't be sorry, aru," replied Yao, with a shrug, "You have a right to be proud of your family name. But," the ten-year-old's eyes darkened, "Remember, you have done nothing yourself to warrant that respect, so be mindful of how you expect others to treat you. Not everyone will roll over onto their backs and show their bellies when they hear your father's name. Prepare for a time when it will no longer shield you."

Kiku blinked rapidly, and he found himself bowing again, unsure of exactly what Yao meant (the Hondas would always be in power) but instinctively feeling like he had been given a great piece of advice and should respond accordingly.

"Thank you very much, Wang-san," he said, rising up from the bow. Kiku let out a squeak and jumped backwards, suddenly confronted with the end of the wooden stick thrust in his face. "Wh-what-,"

"Want to spar?" asked Yao with a grin, hefting the sword over one shoulder. "There's another bokken over there."

"You want to…?" Kiku blinked at the older boy in astonishment, eyes following Yao's finger, which was pointing towards another hardwood sword that was propped against a wall.

"B-but I'm not allowed to-,"

"It's alright, I'm giving you permission, aru," grinned Yao, walking over to where the other sword was leaning and snatching it up, tossing it deftly towards Kiku. The Japanese youth let out a squeak as the bokken flew towards him, managing to wrap his arms around it and catch it before it hit the ground.

"W-wang-san!" He stammered. "Th-that is not proper-,"

"You really are boring, aren't you," muttered Yao with a raised eyebrow. "Loosen up. No one's here but us today, right? Come on, maybe you'll learn something. Your father is pampering you too much. You can't expect to take up the mantle of Wakagashira if you've never touched a sword before."

Kiku's eyes blinked wide in surprise at the words. What did Wang-san mean by that? It was his right to take up his Father's position as Wakagashira. Just because he hadn't touched a sword yet didn't change that fact. Kiku found prickles of irritation beginning to manifest within him. Pretty much from his arrival, this Wang boy had been making challenges at his birthright and his own standing in the family. Kiku didn't get mad easily, but he was tired of the stranger's smug attitude.

Regardless of Wang Yao's own high rank, regardless of the fact that he was older, he had disrespected Honda Kiku several times today.

Kiku adjusted his hold on the sword, wrapping both hands below the hilt. He lowered the hardwood stick slowly into the diagonal position he had seen his father use before.

Yao blinked at Kiku's sudden serious expression and then laughed.

"You're so cute, aru!" he cooed, still laughing. "So serious! You really are the cutest thing!"

Kiku bristled and raised the sword in preparation for a swing. Immediately, Yao's eyes narrowed and he brought his own sword upwards, blocking Kiku's downward slash with ease.

"Tsk. I made you mad, didn't I, aru?" commented Yao in a soft, silky voice. "Well then. Let's see what you can do, Kiku-chan."

Kiku's eyes flew open in indignation and he pulled his sword out of Yao's block with a shout before swinging at the Chinese boy's side. Yao smirked and blocked again, sliding his bokken down instead of blocking it directly. Pulling his blade free, Yao held it up over his head and brought it down in a swift, soundless slash. Kiku's eyes widened and he let out a little gasp at the sight of the wooden sword speeding towards him, his own sword going limp in his grasp. He squeaked and closed his eyes, placing his hands over his head in anticipation of the painful blow that was sure to occur.

Kiku waited a few seconds and then slowly peeked out of one eye, still cringing in preparation of the hit from the bokken.

"You can get up, aru. I'm not going to hit you, you big baby."

Both of Kiku's eyes flew open at that comment and he stood up immediately, face red with indignation.

"I-I'm not a baby!" he exclaimed, hand tightening around the bokken, which he once again raised in front of his face. Again with the insults! If this Wang Yao thought he could-

"Put it down," said Yao dryly with a roll of his eyes. "I've seen everything I need to see. Honestly, aru."

"W-what's that supposed to mean?" squeaked Kiku, hands balling up into fists.

"You're extremely inexperienced," said Yao with a shrug, leaving his own bokken loose at his side. "You have had absolutely no training whatsoever."

"I-I know that," stammered Kiku, trying to ignore the burning flush in his cheeks. "I-I'm only seven! My training will start later."

"No," said Yao abruptly, eyes narrowed and dark. "That is foolish. 'Later' is an unacceptable date. Your training should start now."

"I'm too young," said Kiku in a matter of fact manner, reciting what had been told to him on the one occasion he had asked his father a similar question. "I would not be able to handle the con-OW!"

Kiku staggered back, clutching his head and falling to his knees with a pained gasp. He whimpered, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

"Wh-why did you do that?" he whined, looking up at Yao and the bokken he held in his raised hand. The Japanese boy immediately balked at the harsh glare his question was met with. Yao had a blank expression on his face but his eyes were narrowed and staring harshly. He appeared to be standing loosely and relaxed but his hands were clenched into fists and his jaw was tightened slightly.

"You, you don't even understand do you?" he asked softly, kneeling down so he was at eye level with the crouching Kiku. "You are never too young. That is just an excuse- and a bad one at that. The younger you start the better prepared you are for the future. And Kiku-kun,"

Kiku bristled while Yao just smiled, tilting his head to the side slightly. "The future that is approaching, the one that I wish to bring about- it will devour anyone who is not prepared. No one weak will survive."

Kiku's eyes widened at the statement and he found himself drawing away from the Chinese youth, unnerved by both the boy's statement and the matter-of-fact tone his voice had taken.

"Wh-what are you talking about?" he stammered, "What do you-,"

"The war in Europe ended a few years ago," interrupted Yao, "But another one is sure to start. Have you heard about how Germany was treated, aru? Perhaps it was wise to have them defeated so utterly but leaving them to their own devices now is sure to lead to conflict in the future. No people with a shred of self-respect or pride would let themselves be treated as the Germans have been and not strive for retribution." The boy sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear. He lifted his gaze to the ceiling, as if seeking guidance from above, before turning it back on Kiku.

"You don't even know what I'm talking about, do you, aru?" he asked, amused. "Hm, perhaps I'll add a history lesson to that sword-fighting lesson…"

"I-I don't understand what you're saying," admitted Kiku with an ashamed blush. "I-I've heard about the war, but I don't get-,"

"This world is too divided, aru," interrupted Yao, "It needs a single, strong ruler to govern it. People are too full of folly and wiles to be left to their own devices. Young as I am, I can see that, aru." Yao paused, a thoughtful look on his face. "Or, perhaps, it is because I am young that I can see it."

The Chinese boy sighed again, closing his eyes and falling back onto his bottom.

"Of course," he continued, crossing his legs and folding his arms into his sleeves, "Building a new world won't be easy, aru. It takes time, dedication, skill. Many, many things. It is a very weighty task. That is why I have begun my preparations so young. 'Later' is not an option if I wish to change the world." Yao opened an eye a slit, peering at Kiku with an unreadable expression on his face.

"Kiku-kun," began Yao slowly, opening his other eye. "Will you build a new world with me?"

There was silence in the dojo. Kiku continued to stare at Yao, mind not really processing what had been said, and quickly becoming more confused than ever. Yao stared back at him, eyes half-closed and an impassive look on his face.

The silence stretched on with neither youth speaking. Kiku was quickly becoming uncomfortable and he shifted in his crouched position, his gaze long since having dropped to the floor. The silence was stifling and that coupled with the whirl of questions in his head and the utter confusion that was consuming him was quickly overwhelming the young boy.

"You're confused, aru," said Yao, finally breaking the silence. "That's alright. For now, that's fine. In any case…"

Yao grinned, getting to his feet with a shake of his head. "You are still far too weak, aru. Such a child."

"Hey!" exclaimed Kiku in indignation, breaking his own silence and leaping to his feet. Shame quickly coloured his cheeks as he remembered, once again, that Yao was both his elder and his superior. "Uh, I-I mean…"

"Speak your mind, aru. I won't bite," said Yao with an amused smirk. Kiku remained silent, gaze centered on the ground. Yao frowned and leaned forward. "I mean it, aru. It's not a crime to say what you're feeling. You don't have to worry about status with me, because to be honest, I don't care. Status means nothing unless you have the power and skill to back it up. I'm not treating you with the respect the others do because you have yet to prove yourself. Similarly, you only have rumours to back up your perception of me. Save your demure behaviour for when I have earned it, aru."

Kiku clenched his fists, clutching the cloth of his yukata tightly.

"Status is very important," he muttered, "How can you say it means nothing? It means everything."

"Poppycock," replied Yao immediately, pouting.

"P-poppy what?" asked Kiku, flabbergasted.

"It's an English word," explained Yao, a smug look on his face, "Like the Foreigners speak. Can you speak English Kiku?"

Kiku blinked and then swallowed, looking nervous and embarrassed. "N-no," he stammered, blushing.

"Well, neither can I, aru," admitted Yao with a laugh. "I'm learning though. I want to go to Hong Kong one day, and I hear that they speak a lot of English there. If I want to be powerful, I have to speak all of the languages of the places I want to rule. I speak Japanese and Mandarin, aru, and I'm learning English. I'm going to start on Korean soon. Korea is part of Japan's empire right? I want to learn to speak that language as well."

Yao tilted his head and placed his hand on his chin, an amused, contemplative look on his face. "There's lots that I want to do, aru," he mused, "So much."

Kiku stared at the older boy, awe and grudging admiration in his dark eyes. Wang-san just kept getting more and more interesting. As far as Kiku knew, all the men in the Yakuza only spoke Japanese. He knew that a few members knew some Mandarin but he did not know anyone who was fluent in it. And English! Kiku had heard of the foreigners, of the ones from the West who came and muscled in on Japanese business unwelcomed. But he had never met one and he had never heard their sure-to-be-strange language.

"That is..." began Kiku hesitantly. The Japanese youth paused and he swallowed nervously before remembering Yao's previous comment about speaking his mind.

"That is…very impressive Wang-san! I am extremely impressed at that! I too wish to learn other languages!" exclaimed Kiku, practically shouting out his praises as he exercised the right to his own opinion for what felt like the first time.

Yao grinned at the boy's exuberant reaction and gave a little laugh. "Is that so? I'm flattered, aru. And please Kiku-kun," Yao smiled and he regarded the younger boy with an almost mischievous look, "Wang-san is far too formal for a kid like me. Call me Yao. Better yet, call me onii-chan."

"O-onii-chan?" spluttered Kiku, eyes widening at the smug, self-assured look on Yao's face. Why on earth would he call Yao big brother? And with that honorific! "W-wang-san, I don't think-,"

In the midst of Kiku's stuttering, Yao stiffened and a serious look spread across his face. Immediately, he launched himself at Kiku, tackling the younger boy to the ground and covering his mouth with a sleeved hand. Kiku let out a frightened squeak and struggled under the older boy's weight, hitting at Yao's chest futilely.

"Sh!" hushed Yao. "Someone's just come into the house. I think it's your father."

Kiku immediately froze, dark eyes wide and pupils dilated in fear.

O-otou-sama? H-he's back already? No, it can't be him. He said he wouldn't be back until-

"Yep," continued Yao, nodding his head at his own statement. "It's definitely Honda-sama, aru."

Kiku turned white as a sheet and unconsciously began trembling. If his father found him in here, in the dojo, where he was forbidden to be…

"You are going to be in a lot of trouble if he catches you here, aru," said Yao with a contemplative look, verbalizing what Kiku was already thinking. "Soooo much trouble."

Kiku's eyes narrowed and as he peered up at the child who was pinning him, he noticed a mischievous, cunning look in the Chinese boy's eyes. Shaking his head rigorously, Kiku freed himself from Yao's smothering hand.

"What are you thinking Wang-san?" hissed Kiku, all previous respect and niceties replaced by annoyance and urgency. "What is it that you want?"

"A little brother, aru," purred Yao, reaching up with one hand to flick some hair out of his face. "That's all. A little brother. Call me Nii-chan, let me train you and make you stronger. Let me teach you all of the languages I am learning, all of the things of the world that I know, and all of my skills. Be my little brother Kiku, join me in my quest for the world and I will cover for you. Because you may be a beloved and sheltered young master, but you won't make it to age eight if your father finds you in here."

Kiku wilted and fear jolted through his body, causing an unpleasant twinge in his stomach and a painful ache in his head. Wang-san was right. He had seen his otou-sama's anger before: It was terrifying. Simply horrible. The receiving party almost always ended up with injuries. Bad ones. Would that be Kiku's fate if he were to be discovered here?

"L-let me up!" squealed Kiku writhing wildly. He had to get away, had to get out of here, had to move before his Father discovered him in here…

"No, aru," said Yao with a wicked grin, "Not until you agree. I'll hold you here until your father comes. I'll tell him I caught you in here. You'll be in so much trouble."

Kiku stared up at Yao in horror, tears filling up in his eyes at the unfairness of the situation.

Would Wang-san really do that? Would he really pin Kiku here until…

One look at the Chinese boy's cunning gold eyes gave Kiku his answer.

The Japanese youth wilted and he let out a panicked gasp as he heard the voices for the first time, echoing around the previously empty house.

Oh no…moaned Kiku internally. He's here, Otou-sama, he's going to find me, he's going to be mad, oh no….

The young boy clenched his eyelids shut, fighting back tears, before swallowing and meeting Yao's gaze with wide, resolved eyes.

Wang-san was strange. He was interesting and powerful, but strange. Much of what he said went right over Kiku's head. He didn't understand why the Chinese boy wanted him to be his brother so badly. He didn't understand how a ten-year-old had a high rank in the Yakuza. He didn't understand quite how he had gotten into this situation and he wasn't sure if he really trusted this Wang-san.

But right now Wang-san was his only hope for survival.

Right now, Yao-niichan was his only hope for survival.

"P-please cover for me," stammered Kiku, large brown eyes meeting Yao's small amber-coloured ones. "Please cover for me Yao-nii."

Yao's face broke out into a wide grin and he leapt off of the Japanese youth, clapping his hands together excitedly and practically skipping towards the door of the dojo.

"Of course otouto," he purred, twirling in a circle, "Anything, anything. I'm so happy, aru! My cute little Kiku-kun. Finally, I finally have someone. Finally."

Kiku sat up slowly, looking with wide eyes as Yao continued talking and laughing to himself, a huge, giddy smile plastered across his face. It seemed as if the world had become a brighter place to the ten-year-old, and every step he took resonated with uncontained joy. Kiku watched the display with rapt attention, confused as to why calling him nii-chan had elicited such a reaction from Yao.

Yao skipped to the door, still grinning, smirking, and laughing. As the Chinese youth reached the entrance, he looked over his shoulder, eyes suddenly dark and his happy expression fading.

"I've been alone for a long time, aru," he said, voice somber, "Being a child prodigy has its disadvantages. I need someone, badly. I can't do this myself. Thank you, Kiku. Thank you so much. You won't regret this. I'll be the best, most powerful Nii-chan in the world. Just you wait."

Yao pushed the door open, returning his gaze to the front. As he stepped through he inclined his head to the side slightly, leaving Kiku with one last parting phrase.

"I promise I'll make you more powerful than anyone in your family has ever been before. We'll build a new world together, you and I."

And with that, Yao left the dojo, the swishing sound of his oversized yukata fading into the distance.

Kiku sat in silence for a few moments, staring at the open door with a slightly dazed expression. Slowly, the Japanese youth got to his feet, shaking his head as he did. Quickly, Kiku ran through the dojo door, looking fearfully from side to side to make sure that no one was coming down the hallway from either direction. The coast clear, Kiku stepped through and slid the door behind him shut quietly. As he entered the hallway he became more aware of the voices echoing around the house. The Honda residence was never a quiet place; there were always people in it. His father preferred to keep his affairs close to him, and did not have a 'private' estate separate from his business quarters. As such, whenever his father was in the house, so were several of his associates, subordinates, partners, and the like. The house was never quiet. Today had been an anomaly.

Kiku let out a sigh, turning and walking down the hallway with quick little footsteps.

Today had been…a day he wished to forget. It had been a bad day. He had disobeyed his father, something he had never done before. He had met an extremely important, extremely unpredictable individual. And he had agreed to take on the role of younger brother to that individual.

Why had he done that?

It doesn't matter, thought Kiku with a shake of his head. I probably won't meet Wang-san again. Otou-sama is rarely out of the house, and he never lets me interact with his subordinates alone. I don't know why Wang-san was allowed near me today, but it won't happen again. It can't.

Kiku paused, looking back over his shoulder as if expecting to see Yao's cunning, unusual eyes staring back at him.

What have I gotten myself into?

/

Thank you to everyone who reviewed (especially that really enthusiastic Guest pfft)! I'm thinking I'll update every 2 weeks on Tuesdays, now that I've got a decent writing schedule down for all of my wayward plot bunnies.

Most of the characterizations of characters in this will be 'dark' characterizations. So Yao is Dark!China. Kiku is also Dark!Japan, but you won't see that side of him for a few chapters. (note, I said 'Dark'. Not 2P. )

Also, I'm taking some liberties with the structure of the Yakuza. So, um, if you happen to know how the Yakuza actually works, don't expect this to be completely accurate.

Also, I know it can be annoying for some people to have other languages in fanfiction, so if you really want me to stop inserting Japanese in, I will. But for a language like Japanese I think it's sometimes necessary. For example, Kiku introduces himself with 'Watashi' and Yao introduces himself with 'Ore'. Watashi is more polite and formal, whereas Ore is more assertive and masculine. And I think a lot of the translated words are words most people know as anime fans anyways.

Regardless, if you want me to lay back on the Japanese translations, then I will.

/

Chapter 3: The deepest holes are the ones you dig for yourself, regardless of your intentions. Good luck to you, Arthur. And to everyone around you.