A/N: All disclaimers and warnings continue to apply; please refer to notes before the Prologue.
Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoy this next short bit--I hadn't intended for this to be Chapter 9, but I dashed it off and thought, what the heck, let's go post! So here it is.
Thanks to all who have reviewed! I felt like the last chapter was a bit filler-like, and was really surprised by the positive responses. Again, I do reply to all signed reviews, and for those that didn't sign, while I can't reply individually (I'd flout the rules, but then I'd just feel guilty)—thank you! I truly appreciate it, and it really helps keep me motivated.
Chapter 9: Into the Fire
"How do you know Ken is still alive?"
"Huh?"
"How do you know Ken is still alive?"
"Uh ... well Ayan, it's..."
Yohji, wrapping careful bandages around the bullet grazes while Omi handed him scissors and gauze, blinked at the question, lifting his eyes to shoot a desperate glance at Omi. He—they—didn't know Ken was still alive. But they didn't know he was dead, either, and at the time, they'd just needed Aya to move.
Since they'd gotten home, since they'd entered his room—the room that reeked, by the way, of vomit and despair—since that time, Aya had barely moved. He'd suffered Omi and Yohji to remove his clothing, examine his injuries, dress his wounds, wrap him in bandages. But he looked about as alive as a plastic mannequin. And until now, he hadn't said one word to either of them.
"We don't know."
Shocked, Yohji looked up at Omi's quiet, even tones, cutting off his fumbling words. Didn't Omi realize how fragile Aya was right now? But Omi continued without a beat, ignoring Yohji entirely. "Aya-kun, we don't know, not for sure. But I'm pretty sure he's not dead. Think about it. There was no body, and we looked. There was no body. If there had been, the tracker would have picked up. I'm sure of it. If Ken-kun were dead, they'd have dumped him and fled. They didn't do that. I'm fairly certain they have him, and that he's alive."
"How long?"
"It's only been about five hours since we left on the mission, so ... Ken-kun should have been gone for about ..."
"No. How long will he stay alive?"
For that, Omi had no answer.
In the silence, Yohji kept wrapping.
They came too soon, and not soon enough.
In the cold, airless, windowless room, Ken hadn't really been asleep, half-lying in his own filth on the floor, but he wasn't quite awake either, drifting and shivering and cursing himself.
Now and again, a few times, someone had come in. They'd tested the bindings, maybe kicked him in the stomach, maybe punched him in the head. Sometimes they'd moved him, once tying him to the bed in the middle of the room. He'd thrown up on himself that time, and they'd left him quickly after that. Once they'd brought him food, things that looked half-eaten and disgusting and very, very tempting, and set them down on the floor just out of reach, the wafting aroma driving him mad, before it had made him nauseous. They'd left a glass of water, too, so tantalizing that Ken had tried for what felt like a full day to reach it, before realizing that the whole thing was pointless. He'd begun to dream of water, too.
He didn't know how long he'd been in the room. There was no way to mark time, and he'd given up trying. Long enough, he knew, for him to be really hungry, but more thirsty, and weak with it. Long enough for him to recognize the heat of infection in his thigh. Long enough for him to have soiled himself, the smell driving him mad, making his pants stiff and stinging horribly where it soaked into the torn flesh of his leg.
Once, when he'd opened his eyes, he thought he saw Aya, and actually had cried out, in sheer relief and joy--before realizing that it was just a trick of the light, muffled voices outside the door, and a fading febrile dream.
He was really fucking scared.
This time, they entered the room, the light from the hallway spilling inside and stinging his eyes. This time, he knew it was different, a horrible sense of anticipation hanging in the air. Without untying him, they dragged him to another, a room that was much brighter, and somewhat warmer, although still not warm enough. Ken was really, really cold.
There were, of course, a number of steel rods hanging from the ceiling, at varying levels. Ken had seen enough torture chambers—and one, really, was too many—to not be surprised by it. He would have struggled, but he knew it just would be a waste of energy. His captors were professional, strong, and efficient. They dragged Ken to one of these and, using a pair of metal handcuffs, swiftly and efficiently cuffed him to one of the rods that was just above Ken's head.
Ken's right shoulder screamed in protest, and his vision went white with pain.
When he opened his eyes again, it took a moment to remember.
When he remembered, he wished he didn't. Nothing had changed.
He was still in this horribly bright room. The pain hadn't lessened, but his body had adjusted enough to it that it allowed him to stay awake. He was still freezing cold.
Ken didn't want to stay awake. Terror was choking him, cutting off voice, and thought, and breath. The ropes were rough, binding together his wrists, his feet in such a way that he could barely stand, most of his weight being supported by his arms, by the blaze of agony that was his shoulder.
He turned his head a fraction.
The four thugs who had brought him in here were gone. Two men, early twenties, wearing blue jeans and faded t-shirts, were standing and chatting off to one side, looking relaxed and casual. One was laughing slightly, scornfully, clearly teasing the other who was looking irritated and well on his way to angry. Apart from these two, another man stood, speaking quickly and loudly into a cell phone, frowning and running his hand through his hair in frustration. At the table, a large older man, fat with both age and dissipation and dressed in a finely tailored suit, sipped what looked like a cup of sake, speaking quietly with a younger man, smaller and uglier and cruel-looking, sitting across from him, who was holding ... what Ken really hoped wasn't a whip.
No one was really paying any attention to him, Ken noticed, not sure whether to be alarmed or relieved by this. Although he knew he was being ridiculous, he was very much embarrassed. These guys seemed like the kind of guys he'd be friends with, should be friends with, the kind of guys he was supposed to meet up with after work to watch a game. Normal, regular guys. He didn't like being seen like this by them, filthy and unkempt and powerless. Didn't like being ignored by them, treated like he didn't exist as a person, as a peer, not in their world. Like he was so worthless he didn't matter.
Not that it really mattered; his bindings were tight, and he didn't have much energy to waste on his feelings of shame. All his energy was focused on standing and trying not to pass out again. Even though Ken wasn't sure that was altogether a wise use of his resources.
Aya, he thought, no longer caring about Aya being angry or annoyed and just needing Aya, needing the rest of Weiss to get here, now, now, ten minutes ago; trying and failing to choke down the panic induced nausea churning in his stomach, and willing Aya to hear him, Aya, guys, now would be a really good time for you to come get me.
End of Chapter 9 ... on to Chapter 10, where we may have actual plot (gasp!) Maybe. Thanks for reading.
