To the Darkest of Nights We Go

~Dystopian AU ~

Chapter 45

Written By: RinoaDestiny

King of Fighters, Chizuru Kagura, Kyo Kusanagi, Iori Yagami, Terry Bogard, Andy Bogard, Mai Shiranui, Blue Mary, Rock Howard, and Joe Higashi all belong to SNK


"Fingers heal, Yagami. Nails grow back." Kyo applied alcohol to the raw abraded flesh; Iori watched him in silence, expression unreadable. "If we can avoid fights, avoid danger, then…maybe…" There was no guarantee, though. They were traversing hostile land – this place a momentary refuge – and with soldiers and O.R.O.C.H.I. hunting them, conflict was bound to follow. It was the heavy weight of their heritage and clans' legacies.

"Still need to cross the border."

"Ikuno."

"They have soldiers there." Iori glanced down, staring at the hand Kyo finished bandaging a few minutes ago. Several fingers flexed, as though testing their strength. "We can't avoid them. We'll have to fight."

"But your hands…"

"Don't have time. We won't get any."

"Yagami…"

"When we have to, Kyo," Iori said, countenance growing grimmer, "if I can't fight anymore…if I become a hindrance, then…"

"No. You won't. I can't."

"These won't last, Kyo." The torn tips of Iori's fingers twitched, as if demonstrating the other man's point. "When these are gone, what will I do? Use flames? I won't have hands."

"I'm not putting you down. That's not –"

"We're being hunted, Kyo. You may have to."

"That's not an option. We're getting through this together. Against O.R.O.C.H.I. and the bastard behind it." Kyo wrapped one of those injured fingers with practiced care and moved onto the next one. "Even if you lose your hands, I'm not leaving you behind."

"What will you do with a fucking cripple?"

"Brother, Yagami. Even if."

Iori sighed. Began pulling his hand away. Kyo let him, only because he wasn't in the mood for quarreling today. The last bandage was looser compared to the others, but it wasn't critical if it remained that way. The redhead stood from his cot and limped away, favoring his uninjured leg. Kyo marked his progress across the room – past the table with their empty rice bowls and towards their meager belongings in the far corner. Curious, he stood as well, trying to see what Iori was looking for. The other man stooped, wincing and picked up the worn holster with the pistol inside. Kyo hadn't cleaned it since their flight from Naniwa, preoccupied with other urgent matters.

Iori ejected the magazine and removed the remaining bullets, lips moving in a silent count. He raised his head to meet Kyo's gaze. "Still have eleven."

"So, four."

"Yeah." The other fighter began field-stripping the gun, checking the chamber first and then dismantling the slide. Soon, along with the slide, the firing pin, spring, and barrel were also lined up on the floor next to Yagami. "You haven't cleaned it."

"Wasn't the first thing on my mind."

"Tch."

"We have rags, but we need lubricant. I'll ask Yoshiro for some."

The bandages on Iori's hands were dusted black with gunpowder. Not sanitary but at least it wasn't on open healing flesh. "That'd be helpful."

"Need anything else?"

"Some extra soup."

Kyo doesn't remark on Iori's appetite. Food of this quality was hard to come by now, and Yagami had always been a voracious eater. Without the luxury of meat, a request for extra soup wasn't extravagant. He noticed, though, that Iori left it to him to ask, rather than do it himself. The other man still didn't want to talk to Yoshiro or Saya unless necessary and Kyo wasn't going to force him to.

"Will it still work?"

"It's not waterlogged or broken. Give me some time. You'll have it back good as new."

Of course he would. Yagami used to do their weapons runs. He also became proficient at maintaining them and somehow managed not to shoot himself in the face. Hidden talents and abilities, along with the oddball fact of him being communications. Kyo learned some from it from Iori, but left the trickier aspects to the other man. Dismantling had always been Yagami's skill.

"Great. What will you do while I'm gone?"

A minor shrug. "Take inventory."

There wasn't much, but whatever kept Iori from going despondent or mad. Kyo nodded. The redhead acknowledged the gesture and returned to the gun, wiping gunpowder residue off the inner workings with careful precision. Kyo watched him work and then headed towards the door.

He wouldn't mind talking to Yoshiro more. The guy's levelheadedness was worthy of admiration.

Kyo still had a lot to learn. This much, he'd admit.


"Shouldn't take long to get the soup. Saya's relaying the request. We have rotation on duties, just so everyone has something to do. Sachiko's cooking today, so we'll have that ready for you. Don't mind waiting, do you?"

"No. Who's Sachiko?"

"You've seen her already. She has a child."

The young mother with a son. "How'd she end up here?"

"Her husband was with the SDF, but he was killed at the start of the war. She stayed in her apartment until supplies ran out and then fled with her son. Stayed with several groups before arriving here. She doesn't speak much – we think she's seen things," Yoshiro said, tone level and quiet.

Everyone with their own story of survival. Sachiko's reticence reminded him of Iori. Yagami had seen things – experienced them – and it made his silences even deeper. He wasn't the only one scarred by this war and yet…

They all had their own traumas. It made a difference, however slight.

"Has it been better for her since she came here?"

"It's been better for Take. His name's Takeshi, but we all call him that."

The son. Too young to understand what happened. He wondered how Sachiko explained the circumstances to him about his father's death. About the chaos and destruction. The panic and bloodshed. "Poor kid."

"We all try to help." Yoshiro placed a plastic container of lubricating oil in his hand. The plastic was scuffed, scratches and dark smears a permanent part of the surface. "How are you doing, Kyo? What about your friend?"

He leaned against the wall, gazing out upon the medium-sized supply room. Its function hadn't changed – it once was a storage room for the subway cleaners and maintenance workers here. Metal shelves remained fixed to the walls, odds and ends lined up on them. Ropes, small toolboxes, plastic bins labeled "Bullets" and "Spare Parts", and even a small figure of Hachiman enshrined in his own spot on a lone shelf.

"We need a protector. May Hachiman guide us through this."

He and Iori were Sacred Treasures. They should've taken down Orochi before all this unfolded. Before Orochi redefined himself with military might. They were supposed to protect the world, protect Japan from…

"He's doing better."

"Doesn't like talking to people, does he?"

"Never did."

"Saya told me not to wear the uniform around him. Has he –"

No details. Yagami had been explicit regarding the information given of their plight and particularly his. "He's seen things."

"Like Sachiko?"

He wasn't sure what Sachiko saw or endured, and he wasn't about to assume they were one and the same with Iori's. "He doesn't want to talk about it."

"He has…certain scars."

Kyo recalled Iori's frustrated rant. How he couldn't trust Yoshiro or Saya because they saw what'd been done to him. The cigarette burns. The bruises. The gashes and heavy scarring. How each one told its own story of torture and pain. Of endurance. Yagami hadn't wanted to show him any of them, unwilling to face the fact that his defeat carried a high price.

To even admit it killed something within the other man.

So, Kyo wasn't about to confirm it to Yoshiro. Because Iori trusted him; he couldn't break that trust. That hard-earned trust earned amidst blood and the strife of a battlefield they couldn't conquer.

"It's his to tell. Not mine."

"And you? Are you doing better now?"

He wasn't Kagura-san, but Yagami flat-out told him that wasn't an expectation of his. How he wasn't inadequate. Kyo hadn't liked how the end result of that conversation turned out – Iori wasn't inadequate – but it did remove a lot of stress off him. It allowed him to focus on getting them through the hardships, despite the lingering feelings of inferiority.

They'd also confirmed on their treasures – on their joint powers.

A few steps forward on a journey that kept setting them back.

"It's getting better," he said, which was the honest truth. "We're trying."

They are. Together. They'd cross the remaining distance, set foot into Ikuno – Kyo wasn't sure how, but they would – and find the South Towners. If they were still alive, then they'd join forces. O.R.O.C.H.I. would follow, but he and Iori would take that bastard down with them. If it came to that, it was always an inherent part of being their clans' respective heirs.

Sometimes, sacrifice was needed.

Chizuru Kagura understood that. It was why they were here, alive.

Yoshiro smiled. "Glad to hear that." The older man looked ready to say more; just then, there was a knock on the door. "Probably your soup." He turned to the door and called out, "Come in!"

The door opened and Sachiko entered, holding a bowl on a lacquered saucer in one hand. Kyo smelled its aroma even before she handed it to him. There were chips in the black and red lacquer – well-used and precious once – and the broth was light and hot. While there wasn't much content in it, at least it'd warm Yagami for a short time. "Thank you."

Sachiko gave him a small bow. When she faced him again, Kyo saw lines in her face, creasing its smoothness. There was a smattering of gray in her black hair, which was bound into a bun and the way she carried herself reminded him of his mother. She was probably in her late twenties; yet, she seemed much older. Whatever she'd seen and experienced, along with the death of her husband, had accelerated her aging. Saya was the same. Was it identical for him and Yagami? How old did they look?

"Sachiko, any word about the surface?"

The woman stiffened, gaze turning to Yoshiro, who'd asked that question. "It's still dangerous."

"How so? Details?"

"The soldiers are still searching. There might be reinforcements."

Kyo straightened, jaw tightening. If reinforcements poured in, Nishinari would be swarmed and sooner or later, O.R.O.C.H.I. would discover this place. Once they did, he was under no illusions as to the fate of every single inhabitant here. Yoshiro. Saya. Sachiko. Take. The elderly man. The other two men he'd exchanged greetings with before. O.R.O.C.H.I. wouldn't spare them – certainly not for sheltering them.

"Who's keeping track of the activity above?"

"Murashige."

"When's he coming back?"

"He and Shirou are on rotation. They'll be back in time for dinner."

Across from him, Yoshiro's expression altered. A change in the air – preparation for violence, for things worse to come. "Should we be there when they return?"

"If it's urgent, they'll come find you. I'll let Saya know."

Grim the look on Yoshiro's face. Iori's had been like that earlier. The bowl of soup in his hand, still hot and steaming. He had the lubricant oil tucked in the crook of his other arm. He needed to head back – to relay a warning to Yagami. If the situation worsened, then plans would immediately have to change.

"I need to go. We may need to prepare."

Yoshiro nodded at him and Kyo realized the older man treated him as an equal. Both of them leaders-in-training and both facing difficulty ahead. With what he needed in hand, he nodded to Sachiko as he left. The woman's eyes lit up for a brief second at his gesture. Then, striding down the subway station – the place slowly becoming familiar – he returned to their room. Rapped the door with his knuckles.

"Kyo?" Yagami's voice through the other side.

"Yeah. It's me."

"Good."

Using his empty hand, he opened the door and stepped in. Walked over to the table and put down the soup bowl first. Upon seeing the soup, Iori got off the floor, hobbled over and picked it up. Swallowed half of it in one gulp. Kyo let him enjoy the moment before he placed the lubricant on the table and sprang the unwelcome news.

"There might be reinforcements incoming."

Iori stared at him and put the bowl back on the table. "How many?"

"They don't know. Two of them are monitoring the surface." Right above their heads. Unable to see the situation at large increased his anxiety. The same was reflected in Iori's face, uncertainty in his eyes. "I was with Yoshiro when the news broke. They'll know more tonight."

"Should we leave?"

He'd been considering that course of action, but decided to wait until he knew more. Estimated numbers, troop movements, or if anyone else was accompanying these possible reinforcements. He didn't want to go out there blind. With Iori still recovering from injuries and the likely trauma that reexposing him to the soldiers would do, Kyo wanted more knowledge. They could prepare a better escape plan – maybe figure out alternate routes from Nishinari to Abeno.

After Abeno, then Ikuno.

"Not yet. We need more details."

Iori's jaw tightened. The other fighter glanced away, grabbed the container of lubricant and strode back to his position by the corner. Kyo followed him and watched as Iori stooped, unscrewed the cap and wet the edge of a discarded shirt with the oil. Began cleaning the barrel, movements careful and thorough.

"It'll be ready by tonight."

Kyo didn't miss his meaning. They needed all forms of defense and offense possible available to them. The gun. Also, their treasures and what those could do now for them.

"Yagami."

Iori turned his head, looking upward at him. Oil covered his hands and Kyo made a mental note to replace his bandages later. "If we have to leave, will you be able to handle it?"

Getting to the root of the matter. He needed to know.

The other man returned his gaze to the barrel in his hand. Kyo saw it tremble but pretended he never noticed. Silence and with everything that came before, not unexpected. Once they left, they were on their own again. Facing danger and death. Confronting trauma and the source of it. If Iori's mental state wasn't strong enough, it may take days to clear Abeno.

"Together, right?"

Said in a voice so low Kyo leaned forward to hear him.

"There'll be soldiers, but I'll be there."

A slight dip of Iori's head and it was acknowledgement enough. The barrel finished, Yagami moved onto the slide next, wedging the oiled cloth into the interior crevices. Kyo watched him, taking comfort in his solitary activity. It was like this before, back when their headquarters existed. Back when Kagura-san was still around, leading them in the battle against O.R.O.C.H.I.

He missed her. Always would.

"Want me to stick around?"

Iori didn't look at him this time, concentration fixed on the spring in his hand. "Up to you, Kyo."

Maybe he should go off on his own and practice with the mirror. Could he teleport and follow up with an attack? Kagura-san always did; perhaps, he could do the same. Leave Yagami to the gun maintenance and he'd tackle his own pursuit – this way, he wasn't idle and it'd hone yet another weapon in their care.

He turned, ready to depart when Iori started coughing. Alarmed, Kyo glanced back, glimpsing Iori pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. Several minutes passed until the spasms subsided and the other man lowered his hand.

Crimson, wet and fresh on Yagami's knuckles.

"Yagami…"

"It's nothing." Iori waved him off without looking at him. "Don't worry about it, Kyo."

The last time that happened…

"You sure?"

"Yes."


Notes: Hachiman is a Japanese god of war in the Shinto religion and is also considered the protector of Japan. He's been invoked by the Japanese since ancient times before and during war campaigns leading right up into the modern era. Wikipedia does a quick rundown, but Hachiman is also mentioned in Eiji Yoshikawa's novel on the Sengoku era, "Taiko".