In Fear Of
The Weaver Atropos
Chapter 10 - Intimidations
Later that day found both Aya and Ken on the way back to their current hotel, where Omi—much to his chagrin—had been forced to stay and await the arrival of their missing Weiss member. Youji had, at that point, been missing for the better part of a day, and Omi was beyond himself with intermixed worry and anger. He was worried because it wasn't in Youji's nature to be so reckless; irresponsible, yes, reckless—rarely. He wasn't sure if something could have happened to the russet blonde to delay him such; usually he would warn the others before he disappeared, or called at the very least, but this time…this time there had been nothing.

At the current moment he was sitting at the Inn's kitchen—which they'd ended up entirely renting, lest the owners and other resident become suspicious of their constant coming and goings—tapping his fingertips anxiously against the round mahogany table in typical teen-angst fashion. Just as he was going to rise and prepare something for them to eat, three dull raps on the door made him jolt awake. Grumbling something under his breath about 'Poe' and a 'damned raven' he sluggishly made his way to the living room, to which the front entrance was adjoined.

It was too early for Aya to be home with Ken—they weren't due for at least another twenty minutes. Maybe there had been little traffic. Shrugging, and smiling at the idea that Kenken be home at last, Omi pulled open the door.

And his smile promptly disappeared.

"It's so cold out here."

Aya cast the shivering brunette an unsympathetic glance, having already reverted to his normal, impassive self, and shook his black leather jacket off, plopping it unceremoniously atop Ken's shoulders. The boy 'oomphed' at the sudden weight, and coupled it with an indignant, 'Oi! Aya!' before easing open the door to Aya's compact—and inevitably frozen—white porche.

He settled himself inside as comfortably as he could, clumsily trying to wrap Aya's overcoat about himself without jostling the healing wounds on his forearms. His cheeks, the redhead noted, were flushed from the wind, and his hair lay in tousled, messy waves over his head. Turning in time to see the violet gaze fixed on him, Ken offered the assassin a beaming smile coupled with a curious look. "Whatcha lookin' at?"

Aya didn't respond, continuing his sojourn over the other man's face instead, and watching him—consequently—squirm under his attentive stare. Content that the discomfort he had been feeling over the past few days had finally been transpassed over to the brunette, Aya made to turn on the ignition, when Ken's bandaged left hand settled over his, effectively pulling the key away. At his pointed look, and reminder that they were going to freeze otherwise, Ken gave a resigned nod, dropping his hand and turning his head to stare at the passing scenery, falling strangely silent.

Nearly twenty minutes later, feeling guilty over whatever Ken had tried to tell him, and once they were on somewhat of a deserted, less-trafficked road, he risked a glance at his companion. "What is it?"

Ken remained as he was, deaf to Aya's question, stare fixated on the condensing water droplets that were slowly beginning to cloud his view.

More prodding, "Ken?"

He really shouldn't be driving like this, common sense told him, amethyst eyes spending more time on his companion's immobile body than on the road, but suddenly making sure Ken was at ease was more important than anything he might have learned at Driver's Ed.

Seeming to realize the fact, doleful, dull brown eyes blinked at him, their deadened countenance so unlike they had earlier been. For a moment, the image of Ken as he'd been dismissed from the hospital—bright smile and flushed cheeks, lit up in his mind. His stomach constrained painfully, and he realized of how much importance the brunette's happiness was to him. His thoughts were interrupted by a broken, whispered voice, "That night…with Mastermind…I—"

Mastermind.

Aya's gaze snapped back toward the road, jaw stiffening, lips set into a fine line. "Aya—no…I…"

Ken sighed, biting his lower lip for lack of a better thing to do. He wanted to tell Aya what had happened—what had really happened that night, but…he wouldn't listen. "It wasn't my fault," he finally muttered, tone soft and weary. "He just…he just—"

The German was tall.

Very tall. Taller than Youji, Omi guessed.

He'd never actually estimated the telepath's height—having never fought him one to one—that was Youji's job.

A thin, predatory smile graced the redhead's feline features. "Call it good genes."

Omi took a step backwards, eyes narrowing at the none-too frequent attention he was receiving from Mastermind. Having to worry more frequently about being slammed telekinetically into a concrete wall than at whether or not his enemy was busy perusing through his mind, Omi found his newfound opponent somewhat unnerving. Fact which he was sure the redhead knew, and delighted in.

"You flatter me, kitten, but—" Schulidich pushed past him, looking inside the small inn apartment curiously, "I'm not here for you."

A small quirk in an otherwise tense brow.

"Where is he?"

"Who?" Youji?

"Hmm…?" Schulidich turned bemusedly at the thought he had barely caught. Eyes focused on the small blonde, he cocked his head to the side. "Balinese has gone missing?"

Omi wasn't sure how to respond to that. Frowning to himself and trying to clear his mind from accompanying images of Youji's disappearance, the youngest of Weiss made a quick motion to his pocket which—given Schulidich's speed, proved fruitless. With three strides—which Omi had trouble accurately following—the redhead had him pinned against the table, back aching incredibly at having the edge of the wood table jutting out against his vertebrae "Ne, kitten…I should have warned you about that. I have no issues with bashing your brains out against a stone wall, either."

Damn it, Youji. You could have told me fighting Mastermind was a bit hard—

"Not hard. He doesn't find it hard."

especially since he knows exactly what you're planning to do.

Struggling, and not having picked up the almost familiar manner with which the telepath spoke of the tall russet blonde, Omi tried to somehow push the stronger, taller, and altogether more powerful man off him. "What do you want?"

The tone was deadly. Acidic, given the youth's otherwise congenial disposition. Schulidich raised an eyebrow in mock offense, and let it fall just as fast. He didn't have much time. Crawford was sure to get a vision of his visit. "I need something Weiss has."

"And what makes you think we'll give it to you?"

"You will. There's no one else here."

"I would never give you anything!"

The youth struggled once more, bringing up his knees to push off the older man, and succeeding partly. "Relay a message for Balinese, will you?"

Schulidich backed off, making his way towards the front door without a glance back. "Make sure he gives me back what he took."

Omi blinked a few times, still staring at the door once the German had left, hand making its way to his heart, resting over the area so that he could feel its erratic feat. Balinese…? What had Youji taken of Schulidich? Puzzled and unsteady, he stumbled unsteadily towards the couch at the opposite end of the room, dropping onto it wearily once he reached it. "Youji…what have you done?"

Meanwhile, a young women with dark ringlets the color of wine was stalking through an otherwise emptied office, pacing to and from a metal cabinet, pausing every time without reaching it. She seemed to be considering her options, balancing the eventual prospects of her decisions, against the overall morality of her nature. She had to look out for those she cared for, but a job should not have to interfere with her emotions. That was what she had been taught.

Sighing and looking upwards for some type of divine intercession, she halted in her pacing, turned on her foot, and walked determinately toward the cabinet. Now, then…

Her first efforts to open it yielded her suspicions true; it was under lock and key. However, she hadn't been expecting any less, and had already more or less an idea of how to open it. Milky fingertips dropping into her right pocket, she pulled out a small pin that seemed more suited for holding together a child's diaper, than for performing any type of lock-picking. Regardless, it hadn't been the first time she had done such a thing—she had been a master at it when she was younger—and, like the saying, something that was well-learned wasn't easily forgotten.

Letting loose an excited rush of inheld-breath when the cabinet slid open, the woman—high heels and all—set on the task of finding that file.

Hidaka, Ken. Codename: Siberian.

She had to skim around in a few different places to finally find it, not sure if Kritiker would really risk filing its agents by name, or if it'd be too hard to find him by codename. She realized, several minutes later, that the files were arranged in a coded fashion—as should have been expected from the great Kritiker—and a black barcode ran the entire length of the files. She decided, beginning to tap the heel of her foot impatiently from habit, that the only way she'd find him was if she searched every document and hoped there'd be a picture of the youthful brunette grinning happily at her.

It was worth a try.

And she had better get to it soon, she didn't really have much time.

She began, methodic by nature, at the very top of the cabinet, standing on tiptoe despite her heels, and used long fingernails to aid in pushing away the unwanted files. She was surprised, actually, when she found Bombay's file fairly early on. So that was it…

They were archived by time—by the amount of time they had spent under Kritiker.

Biting her lips and trying to remember exactly when Siberian had signed up for membership in the Weiss, she found that she couldn't quite recall when or why he had joined. The circumstances of his recruital were foggy in her mind; as though she couldn't quite differentiate between what she remembered and what she had been told, and what she had suspected and found out on her own. Manx had investigated a lot of things earlier on in her Kritiker career…though most of them had been on the actual group leaders of Kritiker. The underground vigilante setup hadn't always been controlled by Persia; and it hadn't been opposed to using backhanded means to attain the forced recruit of agents they deemed necessary to achieve certain means.

She had paused over a particular file in her reminisce, and as she looked downwards once more, she was intrigued by the relative thickness of the file in comparison to the rest. Even Omi—who had been with the company from a decidedly young age—had a thin file in contrast. Not having quite the right mind to pass it, but doubting it was Ken's, Manx stooped down a bit lower and pulled the file slightly out of its position. And there it was, in typical typewriter font:

Hidaka, Ken. Weiss. Siberian.

Manx had to wonder why on Earth Kritiker would risk placing the files of their most valued assassin group in an everyday cabinet in the middle of an office that was accessible to all. Most especially if they were as thick as the brunette's file. She could only imagine the type of information it would hold…

Frowning more to herself than at the file, she plucked it from its location and, walking towards Persia's desk, sat down and spread it open before her. Three lines into the document, her eyes had already hit a snag. That couldn't be true…

She was startled from the document when an alarm rung out, the lights in the room falling dead to be replaced minutes later with the red emergency ones. The bell wasn't one that would signal an intruder—but rather, one that suggested a fire. She looked around about herself, unsure of what was going on, wondering what had happened to cause a fire, when she heard the unmistakable sound of machine guns slicing through drywall and flesh.

Unsure of what else to do, she pulled out her cell-phone—simultaneously dropping Ken's file—and crawled into a secret passageway that led outside, dialing Abyssinian's number first. If there was someone who'd pick up, it was him.

"Hello?" The voice was impatient, annoyed.

Ken turned away slightly to give Aya his privacy, chocolate gaze falling to study the crystals beginning to aggregate at the base of the car's window. Aya had swerved to the right a few seconds ago, uncharacteristically ill at ease by Ken's apparent attempt to clear up the situation.

"Manx? Where are you?"

Ken turned back towards the other young man, brow crinkled just the slightest bit as he heard—even from his position—the loud echoes of an alarm ringing from wherever Manx was. And…was that…gunfire?

He'd been exposed to that sound so long, that it was near unmistakable to him. Wrenching the phone from the redhead's grasp with more strength that he knew he had, Ken brought the small cellular to his ear and called out to Manx, "Manx? Where are you!"

The brunette's features hardened as the women gave out the information of her current location, and—for a split second—Aya was too startled to act. His eyes lingered on Ken's face, taking in the alert eyes, the almost hot-headed demeanor…the almost reckless way in which he'd pulled away his phone.

He was still Ken. Bandaged up as he was, he was still Ken.

I'm just the slightest bit abused…

"She's at the restaurant a few blocks from the police headquarters," Ken glanced at his watch, "That's roughly a 45 minute ride from here to there—and that's if we push the speed limit."

"You're not going anywhere."

"Aya, I'm fine—start the car."

The redhead remained motionless, hands slack and lifeless against his thighs. "Aya? Manx is in trouble…she says she thinks there's an attack. It could be Schwarz—Mastermind."

Mastermind.

"You're sick."

"Dammit, Aya!" Ken's cheeks burned in anger, "I'm not sick! I've never been sick—it's just the way I am, all right!"

"You're…sick."

Amethyst eyes were focused almost hazily on his—looking past him, through him…anywhere but at him. Mocha-hued brows knit together once more. "Ne…Aya—c'mon, Manx—"

The redhead drew in a labored breath, looking momentarily disoriented, "Sick…"

Milky pale hands reached out to him, grabbing him by the wrists, seeming utterly unaware of the wince that riddled his features, and the young man gripped him hard. "Aya…what's—"

"I know what you have."

In an instant, the boy's eyes widened and fell closed. "Oh…" a small smile graced his features, "How much do you know, exactly?"

The redhead's fingertips where still tight on his forearm. "Enough."

Ken shrugged a little then, wishing Aya would let go. "Manx is waiting."

He missed the warmth of Aya's fingertips on his wrist.

And he was colder than he ever remembered being.

I'm really sorry about the melodrama. I really, really hope you can all forgive me. That said, this goes out to Seph Lorraine, who wrote a ficcy that made me go UPDATE!!