Note: This isn't a two-chapter, early-posting bonus so much as a tiding-over! I will be on hiatus from July to late August while I contend with major Real Life events (the more annoying of which is the Bar exam.) This means I won't have time to sit down for fan-ficcing! (DX) Hence, I'll be leaving you guys with these two chapters, until the RL arena settles down.

Thanks in advance for your patience! This story will be finished soon! I promise!;)

Call and response: A performance style in which the chorus imitates the singing leader.

Manhattan South on 1 Sheridan Square, revamped into a nightclub called The Salvation, is inlaid completely in red.

Seats surround the circular dance floor, a blood-colored amphitheater where patrons can watch the dancers spar like gladiators. In the dim lighting, the air is redolent of cigar smoke, spilled liquor, and expensive cologne.

Niklas, seated on a leather settee at the corner, tensely sips his strawberry daiquiri.

Suddenly, a warm hand touches his shoulder.

"Smile, wallflower. This is supposed to be a party."

Startled, Niklas raises his eyes to the speaker. Recognizing who it is, he relaxes. "Solomon."

The Chevalier, faintly smiling, settles into the seat opposite Niklas'. His hair is lightly tousled, eyes bright as if he's raced all the way here on foot. In truth, he flew. He's learnt early on that one avoids being tailed that way.

"You're late," Niklas says, an attempt at casual that instead falls into plaintive.

"I know." But a little lateness is good for keeping you on your toes. "It was no intention of my own; I had business to see to." He offers his most winning smile. "Still, I am sure you can forgive me. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that…"

Niklas melts immediately, the way most people do when Solomon takes the trouble to be charming.

"Of—of course. It's all right. I suppose I was just a little... impatient."

Impatient? Amused as he is, Solomon knows better than to let it show. Or were you just afraid I might walk out on you?

Knowing Niklas, it is both.

Aloud, he says, "You are so dependable, even if circumstances are chancy. That's what I like about you. And the reason I approached you for this business at all."

Niklas ignores the fine-tuned compliment. His eyes are on Solomon's mouth, the gaze less-than-subtle.

Solomon's lip curls.

That is another reason I approached you. And one that allows our business to proceed twice as smoothly.

"I have no patience when it comes to the only high-point of my week," Niklas says. "You know that."

Solomon smiles indulgently. He's used to being cosseted, admired, fought over. But something about his conquest with Niklas enhances the thrill. Because Niklas, so personable, so well-educated, a member of one of the world's wealthiest families—is so needy for him. It is pitiful.

By himself, Niklas is urbane, self-assured. Able to get his way in anything. He is not as clever as most humans Solomon has dealt with—but he is a great deal more sophisticated. Where others can be intimidated, awed, or simply bought, Niklas' type has to be seduced.

Except he has one critical weakness, and Solomon can smell it on him like a shark scenting blood.

He's in love.

Not the soulful, uplifting type—but that dark miserable one that makes you lose focus of your priorities, muddle your judgement and do insane things. The years have made Solomon a connoisseur of recognizing each brand—and using it to his advantage.

What he lacks in empathy, he's always made up for in perception.

But aware as he is of Niklas' dependency, he's also aware that Niklas has ulterior motives for wanting to be with him.

Ulterior motives that allow him to play Niklas like a puppet on a string.

Pretending insouciance, he glances around the bar. "This is an excellent location for a rendezvous, Nikki. The red interior is especially … cozy. And best of all, none of our usual acquaintances ought to run into us here. The less imaginative would suspect more obvious spots like The Peppermint Lounge or Adonis. Or, had they a deathwish, Stonewall."

All three venues—notorious for homosexual and heteroflexible clientele—are on Solomon's Avoid-At-All-Costs list, for business meetings or otherwise. As with most such establishments in these years, they are subject to police raids. There's also the threat of plainclothesmen lurking about, ready to haul someone into court on the grounds of 'disorderly conduct', if they as much as look at another man the wrong way.

Solomon isn't too bothered by all that. In his experience, money conquers both law and social intolerance in the end. But it isn't his nature to invite untoward fuss.

In an era as volatile as this—and for dealings as risky like his—discretion is key.

"I always thought Stonewall was mafia-owned," Niklas remarks uneasily. "There are rumors flying around that its run by the DeCurtis family. A few friends once dared me to go there for drinks with them. The crowd was…shady at best. I could barely get a seat without some fellow trying to slip acid into my pocket."

"Nonsense. Stonewall's owners are harmless entrepreneurs. Like brother Amshel or myself."

"That's not too reassuring."

An amused smirk. "Careful, Nikki. This place might be noisy, but I am still perfectly capable of hearing every word you say."

Niklas' lips twitch. "It would've been better if we met here on a weekday. The place would be... quieter."

"Not at all. The more crowded the venue, the lesser chances of being eavesdropped on, after all."

His companion winces. "That's what makes me nervous. Even in this city... people talk."

Solomon shrugs. "Not if they are tipped well enough. And one thing I guarantee, my friend. In places like these, if we see any of your acquaintances, or mine, they will be upto as little good as we. And therefore be as eager to forget they saw us here."

Niklas manages a smile. "You seem to have it all figured out."

Trained by experts. "I have to look out for you whenever possible, don't I?" Waving to a waiter, Solomon orders a cognac. Reclining in his seat, he regards Niklas with half-lidded eyes. "I received your message last evening. Of the important visitor Red Shield received overnight. Saya."

"Yes. I wanted to inform you as soon as I could. Keep you on guard."

"I appreciate your efficiency. But there was no need. I am a Chevalier, after all. We are supposed to know when our Red Queen has arrived. Our blood feels it, even if our minds do not register it." He tilts his head. "But how is she? I have never met Saya in person, so I am curious as to what she's like."

"You've—never met her?"

"Not once. It's not as if we travel in the same social circles, after all. Is she the awe-inspiring enigma we've heard so much of?"

Niklas hesitates. "At first glance—I'd disagree. She's nothing impressive. Skinny. Soft-spoken. Seems barely out of her teens. Nothing like the gorgon described in Joel's diary."

"I detect the unsaid 'but'."

"Well, this was my first impression. Until she lost her temper at the meeting. I-I can't describe it. One moment she was this girl refusing to take our orders. And the next, she literally seemed to fill the room. I have never seen anything like it. And as I mentioned in the message, I spoke to her personally." He pauses. "You know as well as I do, what makes a woman pretty and what makes her beautiful."

"Of course. It's all a matter of self-projection. How approachable, or unattainable, she makes herself appear."

"Precisely. But Saya is... hard to classify as either. No femme fatale, I grant. But she… made me want to keep looking at her. And once I was looking, it was hard to stop. I can't think of a time that's happened."

Solomon's smile is a silk-laced garrote. Coming from Niklas, who sees women as nothing more than camouflage to wear on his arm and project a wholesome persona, that is a compliment indeed.

"Then she is precisely as Brother Amshel described her," he says.

"Her Chevalier made me nervous, though. No matter how hard I tried, I could not tell what he was thinking. Reading his face was like staring at a blank wall." Niklas pauses, smirking. "But—if I might say so—that is one face I wouldn't mind reading deeper into."

"Ah yes. I believe he is called Haji. My big brother once showed me his pictures. He is easy on the eyes, isn't he?" Solomon chuckles. "Amshel once told me that even if Haji had nothing to his name, he had that pretty face. It might've landed him the favors of a rich countess. Even marriage to an heiress, if he'd played his cards right. In fact, the first Joel had put aside substantial capital for Saya and him, on the occasion of either of them marrying. But as I understand, he hoped it would be to each other."

Niklas nods. "That capital was converted to gold and diamonds on Saya's request, following the Bordeaux Sunday. Cash is unstable, and she and Haji needed an emergency fund for the war. Only my stepfather—and every current Joel—is privy to which bank holds their fund. Along with Saya and Haji themselves." Bitterness creeps into his voice. "I, however, am not so blessed."

Solomon makes an effort to seem interested. "What do you mean?"

Niklas swirls the dregs of his drink around. "I told you earlier, how I planned to purchase a loft in Soho next month. So we could have more… privacy than we do in hotel rooms?"

"Yes."

"Well, my stepfather learnt of it. And put his foot down. In both the verbal and financial sense."

Solomon cocks his head, understanding. "He's barred you from using your trust fund?"

"Worse. He's threatening to throw me out the inheritance altogether. I'll be permitted a monthly allowance. But that's all. He says he won't settle any capital on me, not a franc, unless I 'clean up my act'. He's aware of the... activities I indulge in. Claims they're 'morally depraved'. He won't have me sullying the family name with my dissolute image."

Solomon nods sympathetically, even as he's secretly sniggering. In his case, a 'dissolute image' has been a great advantage, both in his business and social sphere. People do not see him as a serious threat when they are too busy gossiping about his recent bed-hoppings and playboy lifestyle.

It lets him get away with so much. Right under their noses.

"What are you planning to do?" he asks.

Niklas exhales. "I'm not sure. To be honest, I don't give a damn. I despise my stepfather. He's never made me feel anything less than worthless. For him, I was never manly enough. Never athletic enough. Never business-minded enough. And after my mother passed away, it only got worse. He's remarried now, you know. Has a new wife, barely two years older than myself. She's got a brat in the oven too. Eight more months, and my stepfather will have a daughter or son. Spawn of his own loins. And I'll be deemed even more unnecessary—and disappointing—than I was before."

The words resonate with eerie familiarity to Solomon's own past. His reasons for joining the Great War as a soldier. For becoming a Chevalier at all. To escape, somehow, the yawning inadequacy of what he was.

He shakes it off. "I do see the problem."

Niklas rubs his temples, eyes shut. "I am not sure how much more I can take. I despise my duties to Red Shield. I despise my life here. I just—need to get away."

And there, thinks Solomon, is the ulterior motive.

Well-bred boys like Niklas do not chase other boys with such lewd flagrance, unless it is to annoy their fathers. But when well-bred boys like Niklas chase men like Solomon—immortal, dangerous enemies—it isn't annoying their fathers they are after.

It is death.

Suddenly, Niklas' hand clasps his. His grip is always the same. Tense, imploring. "Solomon—when will you give me what I want? I want to take that final step for you. Drink Diva's blood. Become like you. We could accomplish so much together."

Solomon holds Niklas' gaze, even as he gently draws his hand away. "All in good time, Nikki. I do not think you are quite ready yet."

"I am ready. Every moment I am in this life is torture." All poise drains from Niklas' face. His voice is tight; full of despair. "Solomon, I am begging you. End this for me. Free me. How much longer must I go on?"

Those are the same questions Solomon used to ask himself as a human. But instead of feeling pity, all he sees is an opening to twist the knife. "You cannot be a Chevalier until Red Shield's alliance with the United States is over, Niklas. It is vital to our plans. Once that has been settled, you will get what you deserve."

"I have been doing my best, Solomon. You know that."

It is true. For the sake of a few hours of passionate debauchery with Solomon, for the prospect of eternity at his side, Niklas is ready to jeopardize not just his duties, but all of Red Shield's efforts.

Love really does make one foolish.

It makes Solomon glad he'll never fall in love with someone he never ought to love.

"There are... certain drawbacks to being what I am, Nikki," he says, in probably his only sincere moment in the entire meeting.

Niklas shakes his head, stubborn. "That's easy for you to say. Looking at what you are... So beautiful. So powerful. I want to be like you. Not this weak, expendable human. You can't tell me you regret becoming a Chevalier? Staying mortal and watching your youth drain away?"

"Time ravages human life, true. But existing out of time the way I do…" Solomon pauses. This conversation is becoming too personal. And he is never one for revealing himself too much. Least of all to a human. He quickly steers them to neutral ground. "Of course I don't regret it. I would not be here with you then, would I?"

Niklas smiles. Gaze, expression, whole body, open to Solomon's presence. In that moment, Solomon realizes he has the chance to impart Amshel's orders.

Keeping his voice casual, he says, "If this is what you truly want, Niklas, I will not argue. But there are business impediments to set aside first."

"What impediments?"

The time for dilly-dallying is over. "The Special Ingredient you transferred to Red Shield's Vietnam crew. Brother Amshel wants to double the supply."

Niklas grimaces. "Can't be done. We've already sent all the necessary supplies to our teams. My father would not consent to any more."

Solomon is dismayed, but he keeps it off his face. So easy to forget, in a lapse of concentration, how much power still rests at Niklas' fingertips. How his one decision, or refusal of it, can undermine Solomon's own duty.

But, as Amshel said, It is the center, not the framework, you must focus on.

Solomon intends to do just that.

"Yes. I suspected so." Pausing casually, he throws the line. "Well, that's perfectly all right. I'll simply have to find another means of carrying the transfer out. I believe there is a reliable source of suppliers in Washington. I can go there to—"

"Washington?' Niklas' eyes widen. "Why do you need to go there?"

"I need to complete this transaction, Niklas. I cannot stress how much. If it is beyond your power, then—"

"But if you leave then—" Niklas hesitates, swallowing. "Our business will be—"

"Over?" Solomon feigns regret. "I am afraid so. But I have duties to Brother Amshel. I cannot—"

"I could find some way to transfer more supplies to our Vietnam team," Niklas cuts in.

Solomon pauses. "Could you?"

"Yes. Using an oversight in the paperwork, I could order another batch of supplies shipped to Vietnam. Its risky, but it could be managed."

"It would be wonderful if you could, Niklas. After all, you are in charge of this operation. It should allow you some privileges."

"It certainly ought to." Half-frowning, Niklas stares into his drink. "I'd try to keep the oversight out of my stepfather's attention. And if he does learn of it, the supplies will already have reached Vietnam, so it'd be too late to recall them. I'd just dismiss it as a clerical error and have my assistant fired. I can't stand him anyway. My stepfather only hired him to keep tabs on me."

This is far better than Solomon anticipated. He masks his triumph into a look of gratitude. "Could you do that for me?"

Niklas raises his eyes to Solomon's. "I'd do anything to keep you here. You know that."

Solomon offers his most enchanting smile. "Niklas, your generosity never ceases to amaze me. But now that that annoyance is off the table, what is it that I can do for you?"

In response, Niklas curls warm fingers through his. His voice is both an invitation, and a plea. "It's too noisy here. I've booked us a room in one of the flats across the street. Perhaps we could… continue our conversation there?"

"By all means." Solomon's smirk is more fitting to a boardroom conqueror than a doe-eyed seducée. "Lead the way."

Saya proceeds swiftly through the twelve forms of her Iaido kata.

The lamplight—dim and gold—spotlights her from behind. Skin dewed with sweat; braids swinging. Her shadow is a doppelganger on the bare white wall as she pivots, slices, ducks, retreats, her sword punctuating each blow in silver flashes.

Her eyes stay closed through the entire ritual. Lost in a perfect cadence of motion and force.

Haji stands by the door, watching. She must know he is there; her blood can sense him.

But she carries on as if alone.

This apartment is a safehouse owned by Red Shield. Located on the eighth floor of a sooty building on East Eighty-Second Street. The rooms are claustrophobic; taller than they are wide. A bedroom with a rusty queen-sized brass bed. One bathroom with an ancient clawfoot tub. A narrow sitting area and a narrower kitchen space. Two rickety chairs and a table.

The stove and fridge are secondhand, the latter stripped down to its polish, empty. The walls are equally blank. No phones. No radios. Not even a television. Outside, traffic is a nebulous drone, overlapped by the buzz of electricity. A pair of loiterers at the building's front stoop—no doubt on Red Shield's payroll—keep track of the residents' ins and outs.

This is not a safe-house, Haji grimaces. It's a prison cell.

But on the table: a surprise. A cooler of four medical bloodpacks. Compliments of Red Shield.

Provisions for their imprisonment? Or a peace offering?

It isn't like Red Shield to take an active interest in Saya's nourishment. Then again, a good businessman has no use for damaged assets. Feeding Saya is probably just a matter of expediency.

The bigger surprise, however, is beside the cooler. A glassful of blood.

At first, Haji thinks it is Saya's. Poured out in a moment of weakness, only to be abandoned when guilt sank in. But closer inspection reveals red lip-tracings along the glass' rim. An empty blood-pack lies crumpled in the wastebin.

Saya has already drunk her portion.

This has been left … for him.

Stunned, Haji lifts the glass. He is not sure how to take it. It is an apology, but not quite. An implication rather than a statement.

Or is it just the proverbial Last Supper before Saya gives him the boot?

His Queen sweeps her sword up in a gleaming ellipse, then down in one powerful stroke. The killing blow. She takes a deep breath. Then straightens and returns the blade to its sheath.

Her eyes open, locking on his.

Haji still has the glass in his hand. Saya's eyes widen, then quickly drop. Pink tinges her cheeks, so faint it could be a play of light.

"I-I thought you might be thirsty," she says.

"Thank you." It sounds robotic, even to him. He has no idea what else to say. She is close enough that he can smell the sweat on her skin, feel her pulse humming beneath. For a moment, deja vu flickers. It is like seeing the Saya from the Zoo, all bright eyes and radiant smile, superimposed on this bleak fleshless figure.

Except the tang of blood is too harsh in his nose. And the rusty traces of past kills, on Saya's blade and on her skin, color the air in a macabre potpourri.

All the changes she has undergone—inside, outside—are insurmountable. Yet for him, the core of her still stays perfectly untouched. Still stirring him, a song of call-and-response without end.

Eyes averted, he says, "Perhaps you would like more blood? After three days, a half-pack is less than a slice of bread."

"It's enough for me to get by."

"Saya, there is nothing wrong with keeping yourself nourished. You needn't be ashamed of—"

"You're consoling again." The chilly undercurrent returns to her voice.

Haji sighs. It is probably best to hold his tongue for now. At least she is feeding again. Pushing Saya too far will only activate that hidden timer inside her. Erase even the smallest intimacy between them, and set her back to hostile distance.

Focusing on business, he asks, "Saya—what do you plan to do, now that—?"

She lifts a hand for silence. "I want a hot soak in the tub, chéri. Finish up your drink and join me there."

Chéri?

He stares at her like she has sprouted a forked tongue. "What?"

"Please." Her voice is coaxing. But her eyes are sharp. Full of warnings.

Haji realizes she's trying to tell him something. Obediently, he drains the glass and follows her into the bathroom. There, Saya turns on the showerhead, the faucets. Hot vapor steams the mirrors. The heavy susurration of water fills the air.

Understanding, Haji lowers his voice. "This apartment is under surveillance."

It is not a question.

Saya's eyes narrow. "I'm sure it is. I can feel this buzz in the air, like at an airport. There are Minox cameras hidden behind the walls. And did you notice those guards stationed at the building steps?"

"Especially."

"They've only been put there to watch us. Red Shield must expect us to break loose."

"Do you wish to? We are less prisoners than boarders here. We can easily overpower the guards and disappear. Begin searching for Diva on our own."

"We could." She bites her lower-lip. "But the more I think about it, the more I wonder…"

"Wonder what?"

"What if it was Red Shield who detonated the apartment? As an excuse to keep an eye on us. What if there's no Chevalier at all? Surely if he was there, we'd have sensed him?"

"With a pack of Chiropterans so near? I doubt it." He studies her. "Are you having second thoughts that Diva could be here?"

"I—I don't know." Frowning, Saya turns away. "There's no simple answer to this. I want to believe she's in this city. Then again, Red Shield lured us here on a lie. Whose to say they aren't lying to us still?"

"True. But it is just as likely that Joel placed us under surveillance because we threatened him. As a way of upping the ante."

Saya nods. A strand of hair curls over her cheek, slick with sweat. Haji's fingers itch to smooth it away. "Whether it's the case or not, we need to get that power back."

"Get it back?"

"For Red Shield, its all about control. They're treating us like indentured servants. As if without them, we'll be immobilized. But that's not true, is it? We're only allies out of necessity. I fight the Chiropterans to defend them, and in exchange, they provide us with funds. It's the same interchange of money and protection as between a prostitute and pimp."

Haji crooks a brow at the analogy. "We protect, and they pay? That would make Red Shield the prostitute, and us the pimps, would it not?"

An almost-smile flickers across Saya's lips. Then it fades. "We need some sort of leverage against Red Shield. To stop them from pushing us around."

"Do you think its wise to antagonize them further? If the board feels cornered, they might snatch all our privileges away."

Her gaze hardens. "What else can we do? You may be able to resign yourself to obeying a tyrant, Haji. But I can't."

"Resign myself?" He stares at her. "What do you mean?"

Saya turns away. He can only see her profile—the snub little nose, the perfect lips and thin line of her cheek. Her voice is tight. "You don't need to be so polite. I know—you aren't with me out of choice. I—I haven't been good to you. I've done my best to make your life as miserable as possible."

"So you assume I am with you out of—resignation?" He can't suppress the incredulity in his tone. What does it say about their relationship, that even now, she can make such presumptions about him? Can so easily devalue the quality of his feelings?

Her head snaps up, eyes flashing. "What else could it be? I've told you time and time again to go! But you never do! What else could it be but out of some enforced duty? You must realize that this war is a lost cause. That I am. I'm not the Saya you knew anymore. This isn't the life either of us envisioned. But the fact that you're still here despite it—"

"Has nothing to do with obligation," he says, quiet but firm.

Saya stares at him. Face chalky, immobile.

"Saya, just because this is not the life we chose doesn't mean we give up on it. Or on each other. You keep insisting that you aren't the same person anymore. But I think perhaps you protest too much. You are the same Saya. That's why you are still here. Still undoing a wrong that happened decades ago. Because you believe in doing the right thing."

Bitterness darkens her gaze. "Don't be too sure of that."

"What do you mean?"

She sighs, eyes slipping shut. Her voice is raspy. "Sometimes… I need a better reason to fight on. Because 'doing the right thing'… just isn't enough anymore."

"Not enough?"

A deep breath, as if stepping off a precipice and into an ice-floe. That same helpless plunge. "I… have this dream sometimes. Not even a dream. More like a fantasy. That I've given up on the mission and run away. Away from responsibilities and fighting. Away from the entire world."

"What?"

"You remember what Niklas said at the diner, don't you? What makes Diva and her Chevaliers so powerful? Because unlike us, they don't care about duty. They live entirely in the moment. Sometimes… I wish I were that way too. So much that I can practically feel it. Fleeing up North, where the nights go on for months. Just roving and hunting for food. Leaving a place as soon as I was tired of it, just as long as the wind's at my back. Just as long as I don't have to be what I am now."

"Saya—" Haji stares at her, unsure of what to say.

Her eyes open. Full of desperation and self-loathing, a combination that would look horrifying if the rest of her face were not so contained.

Then again, perhaps that is most chilling of all.

"I want to know how it feels like, to live without rules for once, Haji. To feel… light. Absolved. I've already caused so much suffering. It must mean that I'm evil. What difference does it make if I abandon my duty now?"

"There is another word for such a feeling, Saya. And it has little to do with duty or evil."

"Oh?"

"It's called death."

The word reverberates eerily over the rushing water.

Saya seems to absorb it into herself like a pollutant. Her mouth tightens. "That's the only reason I'm still fighting, aren't I? So I can be at peace once Diva is gone." Her eyes lock on his, painfully sharp. "But what reason are you fighting for, Haji? You aren't like me. You could have so much more to go on for. Music. Travel. I could see you becoming a famous cellist, somewhere in Europe. Going on worldwide tours. Ladies in fancy gowns slipping you their room keys after concerts—"

The words are more rueful than acidic. But that does not dispel their bite.

Grimacing, Haji interrupts, "Saya—please. Don't say such rot."

"It isn't rot." She isn't looking at him anymore. But he feels the acrimony radiating off her. "You're the only one between us who has an actual future. And I—I see the way people look at you. Women. Men. There's a hundred new avenues your life could take—if only you chose."

"I have chosen, Saya. I did a long time ago."

"When? After I made you a Chevalier?"

"No…"

He can't pinpoint exactly when he forfeited his right to leave her. Perhaps it was one of the million nameless moments in the war. When he'd bled out from wounds to save her, or she'd allowed herself the penance of crying on his shoulder afterward. Or perhaps even beyond that. Perhaps it was on that faraway evening at the Zoo. When Saya held his child-self to her, over the drumroll of rain.

Whispering:

Tell me what I can do to make everything all right?

And she had.

With just her presence, she'd given his existence a fresh meaning. Made herself the little Sun in his orbit, with just the glow of her smile.

That smile which, no matter how hard he tries, he cannot give her back now.

The memory is enough to remind him, each time, why he is still with her.

And always will be.

Sighing, Haji looks away. "Saya—believe what you will about why I fight alongside you. But understand that I will continue to. Today, tomorrow, and as long it takes."

Saya's jaw clenches. But her voice is deceptively cool. "It's your funeral."

Second verse, same as the first.

Shaking his head, Haji turns to go. "If you are washing up in here, then I will be outside. I should talk to the guards stationed at the door. Ask them when Red Shield will next contact us."

He starts past her.

Saya hesitates, then leans out and catches his sleeve.

Haji freezes. This is the first non-violent contact she has made with him in the past six months. He wills his pulse to stop humming, in anxiety, in excitement. Lets her draw him closer, until he stands a foot away from her.

He takes in how still she is, how she keeps her eyes shaded. Her voice is a whisper in the steamy air:

"Haji—I'm sorry. I know—you're only trying to help. Except you can't. You know this mission is hopeless as well as I do."

"It does not have to be that way unless you let it, Saya."

How many times he has said so in the past. And each time, she simply closes her eyes as if to eclipse some sight too horrific to gaze at.

"Don't make it sound so simple," she says. "It's too late for me to be clean again. Not with all the lives hanging over my head. If I'd been stronger, I would've been able to stop Diva, right from the beginning."

"Saya—" He wants to reach out, draw her in. But he knows she will resist. The only embrace he can offer is in his voice. "Please. There is no point in laying all the blame on yourself this way. The best thing we can do is stop such a tragedy from happening again."

"I know. " Her eyes open, hard and cold. She lets his sleeve go. "That's the only reason we're still here. Out of duty."

She moves to turn off the roaring water. But before her hand touches the faucet, he murmurs, "Saya…"

She pauses.

"Saya, I know it is not something you credit, but we will get through this. You have an important mission to complete—and I will support you no matter where it might lead us. You never have to shoulder this alone."

Saya falters. And, as if unable to help it, turns.

Suddenly they are looking at each other, full-on, in a way they haven't done since her Long Sleep in Russia. Haji still remembers that moment with perfect clarity. The crystal snowflakes. The words forming on Saya's red lips. Telling him, full of grief and without hope, to forgive her. Begging him to keep a promise that chills his blood to envision.

A promise that still hangs between them in a cloudburst.

She gazes up at him now, eyes large and dark with pain. He inches closer, the toes of his shoes brushing hers. And, on an overwhelming impulse, gathers her slowly into his arms. She stiffens all over, breath catching. Then, as if in a tactile release, lets a soft sound work its way out of her throat. Lets her body flow bonelessly against his.

He pulls her in tight, forehead pressed to hers. Enveloped at once in the dizzying scent of her sadness, in her hot incessant pulse.

Even now, there is nothing about her that isn't full of life, or that mesmeric power. He can't get enough of touching her. Wants to stay here, suffused in her warmth, until time drips to a standstill.

"Haji," she says against his chest. "I—I want to believe you. I really do. You're the only person I can bring myself to believe anymore. Except if I did, I'd just be lying to myself. And I can't do that. I want to—but I just—I can't—"

"Ssh. It's all right. You've already taken more responsibility than you ever agreed to. You have nothing to apologize to me for."

She swallows hard. Circles her arms tight around his waist. He senses that she is still resisting, and trying to stifle it. But he also senses she'd like to hold onto him for as long as she can.

So would he. There is nothing he wants more, nothing else that so fills him with terrible unquenched longing.

But she will never allow it. There are duties to carry out. Perimeters of the apartment to survey, Chiropterans to hunt, and a long battle ahead. This war has warped their entire world. Imbued it with so many changes he's longer sure which direction the Earth revolves in anymore.

On cue, Saya gently pushes his hands away. Retreats a step, eyes on the floor. He can feel her gathering herself, putting the permafrosted armor back on.

She does not look at him again, as he turns regretfully on his heel and goes out the door.

Soooo… about Niklas. All those who thought he was evil—or at least affiliated with the bad guys—raise their hands. *Raises own hand*

I wasn't really going for any big revelation in that area, anyway. The guy's unreliability was made pretty clear from the get-go. Bear in mind, though—his character isn't a Gayngst trope, so much as a Love Makes You Dumb trope.

Either way, don't expect positive things to happen to the poor guy…XP

Any comments/criticisms? Don't hesitate to share! Reviews keep the story chugging forward!;)