A sliver of light slit vertically through the darkness; its sleek form wavered in the black, neither growing nor shrinking in the brief instance following its birth, but instead, just quivering as though in deep and careful consideration of its next move. Soon enough, the shot of light waxed into a slim, handsomely angular rectangle. It waltzed in this form for another beat, its luminous edges creating sunstar's against the otherwise black stage as it considered the beauty of its evolution.

Dissatisfied and eager to show its true colours the sleek rectangle eagerly underwent its final metamorphosis and thus throwing open its wide jaw, the sheet of light yawned with a stab of unoiled hinges as it changed faster and more aggressively than ever before.

The final, overfed rectangle glowered back at Mei as the four silhouettes finally emerged through its luminous gate. The doorway smirked vainly at its captive audience; its curtain finally risen, its light matched by no one and seen by all, utterly demanding in its perfect existence that the final show, at long last, had begun.

/

An electric jingling permeated the overhead atmosphere. The columns of light ascended down the tubular lamps strapped to the ceiling in distinct intervals, the next cylindrical column dimly sparking to life a beat before the previous had reached its full luminous output. Mei involuntarily screwed her eyes shut as the inky world as she knew it erupted with the invasive light.

She tried to force her eyes open but was coerced into waiting a few seconds nonetheless, her eyelids only giving a spasmodic flickering in compliance with her demands, desperate to shield the delicate retina's beneath from the harsh fingers that stabbed at even at her closed lids. Defiant nonetheless, Mei exploited the sliver of vision her eyelids allowed her and surveyed the musty prison to which she had been confined for the last, indeterminable number of hours.

The blocky light fittings lining the ceiling were segregated at choice intervals by solid wooden beams that ran horizontally along the plaster. A series of iron hooks were variably bolted along the length of the shaft Mei's squint followed, the talons of rusted metal comically mirroring their dust born counterparts; the dust hooks, however, were caked with foreign objects; plaster chips, hair, gunge and predominantly the gnarled exoskeletons of ancient and recently perished spiders alike. Their crooked legs jutted and crumpled at odd angles, the swirling patterns of the accompanying dust cages coming to intertwine about the bodies like the folds of a decaying hydrangea bulb trapped within the grip of a dozen rotting fingers.

Mei removed her waxing vision from the disturbing image, sliding her gaze about the emerging room.

The walls were of a whitewashed brick, only fueling Mei's disorientation as she recalled the sole metal jacket the warehouse wore upon her entry. She immediately dismissed the notion of them having moved location in the short space of time, more due to the resulting stress than any amount of logic, hazily recalling the width of the warehouse her and Harumi hadn't surveyed upon their initial inspection of the grounds.

The room, now lit, revealed itself to be larger than the echoes her and Harumi's voices had led her first to believe. Mei found herself struck by sudden nausea as she tried to focus on the wall; strange patterns of light glared back at her, dancing and shuddering in the weak wind that filtered into the room from the rafters above. She soon realised these light tricks were a mere reflection off of a second, inner wall, made almost entirely of solid glass and coming to sit on a base of brick about three stones high and surrounding the entire room. Mei came to understand she was trapped in an old conference room of sorts, yet the whole effect of the glass and strange reflections gave her the sickening impression of being trapped in a huge fishbowl.

The wind groaned again, those tubular lights suspended instead of attached to the ceiling swinging on their iron chains, throwing projected light onto the transparent prison where they were reflected over many multiples. Mei jerked her head back to the centre of the fishbowl as she saw the multi reflected figures of the four silhouettes begin to move across the glass.

She heard a distant thud followed by a slosh of liquid as three of the four figures expanded from the tight kernel they had formed; the fourth broke from the herd. The jingling lamps threw harsh light down onto the face of Arata Takahashi as he approached, his expression grossly thrilled as he brandished something long and thick in his hand. "Fine piece this, Miss Aihara."

Mei didn't reply; she was still dazzled by the sudden light and equally by her startling awareness that the rat was striding very quickly towards her, his multiple reflections thrown over the wide panes of glass as he raised the thick item in his stride. "Walnut wood, Chromium alloy, nice weight and handling too."

She completely forgot about the other figures in the room as she turned her face away, unwilling to give the rat the satisfaction of whatever reaction he so craved as his quick, excited strides drew nearer to her confined person. "I used to shoot these as a kid." She cracked open an eye, confused by his statement and even more so as her acute ears brought her awareness to the fact he had come to a stop about five feet to her left. "Though, I've always wanted one of my own."

Mei turned to regard him fully just as he threw the dust cover off the enigmatic mound that had leered at her in the darkness, the unpolished shotgun occupying his tense left grip. She felt the weak relief as she saw he was only referring to Mr Uki trickle swiftly away as the contents beneath the dust cover were finally revealed in a dramatic flourish of cloth.

Built into the small alcove where a single pane of the surrounding glass wall had been removed was what could only be described as a shrine of torture. Mei gawked at the endless rows of perfectly polished instruments, the first to catch her eye being the slim horizontal board sporting a neat line of every small knife imaginable. She found herself disquieted by the image, the blades that were surprisingly bulked by kitchen implements as opposed to those of combat, looked like the keys of a demonic piano ready to be played by an equally demonic pianist.

Drawing her eyes upwards she regarded the twin survival knives, suspended at mirrored diagonals either side of the shrine, each harbouring rubber handles and each a malicious ten split-saw-tooth design slicked down their ruthless serrated blades.

But, the most impressive piece of all, if that was the right word, was the huge bolo machete that sat clutched in the claws of the black horizontal wall supports that topped the collection of misery. Its ruthless eighteen-inch blade, ending in the rough wood of a quillon handle, brought the mammoth weapon up to a total of two feet in length. Its atrocious blade was swollen just before the tip; Mei assumed to make it more efficient for cutting, but seriously doubted the rat had tending his local sugar crop in mind for that devastating purpose.

An array of mismatched knives, daggers and the odd gun followed this, displayed in the way someone would the trinkets they had collected from a trip across the continent. A few grim boxes also lay at the feet of the display, each filled until their lids were bulging with ammunition, matches and a strew of other torture based miscellanea. Mei felt her gun churn as she regarded the two murky, plastic jugs of kerosene that lay either side of this, asking herself, and yet at the same time, knowing full well how he involved those in his torture routine.

She flicked her disgusted attention finally to the substantial vertical stand, small horizontal supports and several gaps that dotted the line of piano keys with a diabolical understanding; Arata had full intention of expanding the disgusting collection of torture implements over the course of his miserable excuse for a life.

Mei broke from her trance as Arata hopped back, his footsteps light and giddy despite his heavy boots. He drew his extended thumbs and forefingers into a square before his black eye, framing the atrocious collection like a director does a movie scene. He slipped his makeshift set square from his eye and hopped forward again, slipping the thick-handled bolo machete from the horizontal stand and rehoming it on the vertical with a singing of metal. He then held Mr Uki up to the light in both hands, cradling him with the maternal tentativeness of a new mother as he delicately placed the shotgun onto the stand, the hilt and barrel coming to rest naturally on either hooked hand of the black supports.

Arata smiled almost immediately as he drew back with a scrape of concrete to regard the newest piece heading his collection. After three seconds more of this perverted ogling, his smile slipped.

He cast the disappointment of his black eyes on Mei. "Something as precious as this truly needs taking better care of." She watched with disgust as he slipped a bony digit over Mr Uki's walnut surface," all these dents and such a lack of polishing …" He trailed off as Mei recalled the ridiculous number of occasions on which she had dropped the gun." Your lack of heart has divested it of its true beauty. But, don't worry, I have an eye for quality and not to mention the discipline to maintain it."

Mei couldn't help but always find the gun ugly, and yet, as his rattish paws skittered over its dull wood, she couldn't help but feel a sudden swelling of possessiveness.

He broke his loving gaze with the weapon as he glanced over his shoulder to the other three idle figures. "Matsuda, go check the spares bondages. And Yuzu, go tell no Japanese Mr Vietnamese to go to work," he flashed a rancid grin as he drummed his fingers a final time against Mr Uki's barrel," I can't have the other one bleeding out before I've had my fun."

Mei's stomach convulsed as she connected the shrine of torture to the woman who's breath just hitched to her right. She turned to regard Harumi in the light for the first time. She shuddered at the sight that met her.

Harumi's eyes were hooded with fatigue, the amber iris's abnormally vivid and the sweat glossing her face and neck dripping to the desk her hands were bound to in hot rivulets. The loose bandage about her right hand was saturated with red, her figure arched, and her sweat sharpened hair scattered across her face to the dignity of her expression. Mei glared at the soaked bandage, begging herself to look away yet the practical side of her still asking how much blood Harumi had already lost over the course of the last hours.

Mei produced a short yelp as a black shadow suddenly fell over her. She questioned the level of her disorientation as she saw Matsuda lean over Harumi's barely reactive form to check she was still securely restrained, wondering how the hell she hadn't heard the monster of a man lumber over in his heavy steel toe caps. His thick lips arched as he tugged at the rope cutting into Harumi's reddened wrists, apparently satisfied with the tautness as he reclaimed his colossal height and lumbered back over to the far end of the room. He stopped at the open doorway eclipsing the vain rectangle of light in his mass. He turned and legs spread like a nightclub bouncer, he devolved into a contented silence to watch the night's atrocities play out.

The clack of Yuzu's heels reverberated off the glass, now only weakly trembling, almost instantly after Matsuda came to his final, light eclipsing, stop. Mei jerked her neck to the slender silhouette of her sisters approaching form; her voice was efficient and clinical as she beckoned, in well practised English, to the fourth and final shadow in the room. "Right this way Mr Nyu-gen."

Matsuda's head swivelled like a meerkat sentry as he followed the owner of the light strides. Mei watched Mr Nyugen raise a deep veined hand as he finally stepped into the projected light. He shook it dismissively, promptly ending Yuzu's lengthy struggle at pronouncing his Vietnamese name before he spoke in some very heavily accented English," No, no need call me that if it struggle." Even though Mei still couldn't see his face, she detected the feather of a smile in his voice," I am Gary."

Mei assumed the man, who she could now see was wearing a white doctor's smock, must have dealt with a lot of English speaking patients in the past, therefore adopting an appropriate name to make appointments more comfortable. But, she thought as she watched Yuzu gloriously fudge that name too, he might have done well to adopt a Japanese one as well.

"Gaa-ryu?"

There was an awkward silence.

"No, G-ar-y."

"Gaary. Dr Garyu?"

"Nooo. G-a-ry"

This continued through three more cringeworthy exchanges until finally, Mr Nyugen balled his revealed hand into a fist and stuck out a congratulatory thumbs up," Oh - Yeah. That verry good. Perfect sounding."

Mei found herself dumbstruck by the absurdity of it all, Yuzu giving a weak smile over her shoulder in acceptance of the compliment as she finally beckoned the Vietnamese doctor over.

Mei shrunk back into her chair as he approached, glaring defensively into the harsh light as the straight-backed man finally slid into view; he clutched a jet black physicians bag under his right arm, the other swinging softly by his side. He entirely ignored Mei's scrutiny as he passed, his chin raised almost too high to be natural before he finally lowered it as he came to kneel at Mei's right side.

Mei saw his head tip as he scrutinised the blood-soaked bandage that clung to Harumi's right hand, but still, she couldn't see his expression, his face again, almost purposely turned away. Harumi only raised her head from where she glared at the table, seemingly dazed from blood loss, at the moment the doctor let go of the bag. It made an uncharacteristically loud thud as it contacted the concrete, as though a couple of bricks, as opposed to bandages, lay within.

He raised his hands suddenly in comical ownership," Whoopsie, that be the stethoscope," he turned over his shoulder, his full countenance finally displayed to Mei for the briefest second as he turned to look over his shoulder sheepishly. "Broke two in same months," Mei stopped breathing for a moment as she questioned what she just saw. The man waggled his fingers, idiotically smiling at the three faces that glared back at him, "when not doctoring, heavy hand, see?"

Yuzu said nothing. Arata glared at the man with bewilderment. "Just get the job done, alright Mr Vietnamese, I -"

The doctor shook his hands again," It Mr Ga-rr-y, say-"

"I don't give a shit what it is! Just do your fucking job! I can't have her bleeding out prematurely," he raked his fingers twice through his black hair, the simple act apparently calming him somewhat as he glanced to Harumi and then back to the array of polished instruments he had on display; his eye lingered especially on the serrated curve of a small, yet ruthlessly crafted blade. "I have a lot of things I want to get around to first."

Mei might have felt a second wave of sickness if her eyes weren't fixed, pointedly on the face of the man now testing each of Harumi's fingers with a makeshift pointer. Even Harumi's pasty features were now coloured with a dappled flush of blood as she too, undeniably recognised him. That sealed it for Mei, it was impossible, but it was happening.

Takamoto took Harumi's wounded hand carefully between his two large ones and gently raised it as far from the table as her bondages would allow. She twitched at the uncomfortable sensation, but didn't make a sound; her lips squeezed tight, Harumi glared at her hand as Takamoto drew his thumb over the bruised skin, not even daring to look at his face again for fear of the tremendous emotion gushing inside of her spilling out onto her features.

Mei watched with an equal scarcity as Takamoto's dexterous fingers undid the bandage. She flicked her gaze on his face twice more during the process, even in spite of the warning in her head, she couldn't help but reassert the fact she wasn't hallucinating. Fighting to keep her grim expression plastered to her shuddering facial muscles, Mei watched as Takamoto finally peeled the bandage away from Harumi's discoloured skin. She suddenly didn't find it so hard to keep a stony expression.

Harumi's swollen hand was blackened with a butterfly-shaped bruise, the dark brown blood that lay spattered about the puncture had finally dried, leaving a dusty caking of blood around the wound. Mei felt her throat spasm with an unvoiced cry as she stared, transfixed at the ring and little finger that were now swollen to twice the size of the others.

Takamoto's expression never changed from the instance he had removed the cloth, to the second he had placed it down and returned his scrutinising hands to the wound. Mei had always respected the man, but this time, perhaps the uniform had something to do with it because she had never felt such professionalism radiate from him. Somehow, even in the face of Harumi's savage wound, his relaxed air and nonchalant expression, put her at near equal ease.

She watched with awed curiosity as his face morphed back to that of the colourful Vietnamese character; the corners of his lips upturning, his eyes narrowing along with the cheeky smile and his face somehow growing ruddier before he finally turned to regard Yuzu. "Miss, how long bandage been on?"

Yuzu was silent for a moment as though she needed the second to catch her breath. The calm, measured tone that followed, however, reflected nothing of the notion, "about five hours. Maybe six."

"Ok, Miss. Water now."

Yuzu nodded gently and with a click of her heels withdrew to the back of the room. She returned a few seconds later, her weight hurled over to her right side and her left arm straining as she lugged the large orange mop bucket to the expectant man. Mei felt a trickling of disquiet as she noticed the cheery plastic was of the same ilk as those condemned buckets in the hall of mattresses, this one, however, was full, a greying gauze cloth poking from over its rim.

Yuzu stopped by Takamoto and dropped the mop bucket by his feet; the weight dragged her down a little as she stooped, causing the bucket to hit the ground harder than expected. A glob of water catapulted from the sloshing liquid and promptly plopped back down to its inky birthplace, causing a slim shockwave of liquid to spill over the edges. The water dampened Takamoto's brown sailing shoes. He smiled. "Thanking you, Miss. You stand over there now."

Yuzu nodded and then swifter than she had come, returned to her post. She looked briefly to Arata as she went. He didn't answer her glance; instead, he remained wholesomely mesmerised in the act of polishing his new pet shotgun, a look of sickening contentment lacing his ferret features.

The snap of brass clasps to Mei's right snapped her attention from her retreating sister. She watched as Takamoto prised open the fastenings of his black medical bag and slipped his deep veined fingers within the mauve, silk interior. He stretched one side of the leather more than necessary with his unoccupied hand as his other delved further, causing the bag to splay open in such a way only he and the two people in front of him could see within. Harumi being directly in front of him saw it first and Mei, leaning slightly across her seat on the cue of Harumi's restrained acknowledgement, saw it a mere second after.

Content, they both understood the situation, Takamoto tampered with the bag's leather a final time, bringing the two clasps to rest gently against one another so he could easily slip his hand in and out of the bag without revealing the contents any further.

And with still no change in expression, he slipped the grey cloth from the bucket and began to bathe Harumi's hand in silence. He continued the tender process in this quiet manner for the next minute, his great eyebrows quivering every now and then as he washed the caked blood from the surface of the bruised skin.

Mei spent the entirety of the minute fighting to calm the adrenaline rushing through her brain. She was shocked by how impassive Harumi managed to keep her face, even under the disorientation of blood loss and only twitching her brow ever so minutely at intervals when Takamoto would run the cloth over a particularly tender section. Mei whispered a silent prayer to the God's that allowed her to keep so well practised in the art of poker face over the years or else she would have thrown their chances right then and there.

By that sliver of resolve, Mei kept her twitching facial muscles equally impassive as the image of the gun nestled between the bag's expensive silk interior flitted mercilessly across her mind. She exhaled her nervous energy, inhaling as light a breath as which could still be satisfactory to her parched lungs. It was the same weapon that hung in the kitchen suspended between the copper pots and iron forks; it was the real deal, no bluffing.

Mei kept her eyes front as Takamoto wrung the cloth between his great hands; the falling droplets peppered the water in an obnoxiously loud patter. Mei heard the wind howl distantly, the glass walls of the room shuddering and groaning in weak tandem. Exposing only a corner of the cloth, he slipped the fabric a final time over Harumi's tethered hand, smoothing away the last caking of blood. Takamoto then moved to set the cloth to rest in the water, taking greater care this time and producing only a polite splish as he let it go. Mei watched the rectangle of cotton for a moment, its twisted tail swimming gently over the undulations of the sloshing water.

She felt her body tense before her eyes had even snapped back to the medical bag, Takamoto's hand slipping inside through her peripheral, prompting her sparking brain to believe this was the fated moment of the gun reveal.

Her mind didn't stop taunting her until a good three seconds after Takamoto had fully withdrawn the roll of medical tape, his second hand delving into the bag alongside the first again as he also took out a pair of robust scissors followed by two lengths of some sturdy material Mei didn't recognise. He dipped back into the bag a final time to withdraw a small gauze cloth, and an ominous bottle of some clear liquid Mei didn't recognise. He set each item carefully at a different point on the desk as he withdrew it; a specific order of orientation clearly tracking the position of each object as he went. Takamoto looked back to Harumi's wound as he closed the bag again; he placed the ominous bottle by her right wrist and moved the scissors to sit by her left. Mei stared upon the array of medical miscellanea blankly, feeling like a tentative audience member whose curiosity had just peaked in the moment before the magician performed his trick.

Takamoto turned his gentle hands back to Harumi, first taking her swollen ring finger softly in the palm of his hand. She winced as he ensured it was fully extended. He then took a length of the rigid material and held it against the length of her finger, a slight hum reverberating in the back of his throat as he withdrew the sheet and picked up the iron scissors. Cutting the material into a makeshift splint in the flourish of five loud slaps of grazing iron, he slipped it beneath her finger and then collected the roll of green tape from the table. An adhesive stuttering racketed against the glass walls of the room as Takamoto unwound a decent length of tape, Arata's ferret head sparing a glance in their direction before he resumed polishing the now shimmering barrel of Mr Uki. Yuzu continued to watch the scene from a comfortable distance.

Takamoto snipped the tape into two lengths, wrapping the first around the upper end of the splint and the second around the lower, fully securing it to Harumi's finger. Mei heard Harumi involuntarily suck her teeth in sudden pain as Takamoto immediately moved his hands to her little finger. Their eyes met for a moment as she caught her breath and Mei caught the minute nod Harumi gave him to indicate she was ready. He repeated the procedure, Harumi's brow relaxing with semi-relief as he finally removed his hands from the splinted fingers.

Mei watched his hands move now to inspect the puncture wound. He smoothed his fingers lightly over the area of torn skin and Mei heard Harumi's seat creak as she shifted her weight back into it, fidgeting with the pain yet determined not to make any additional noise. Takamoto withdrew his hands faster this time; the grave arch cut into his brow lessening as he shifted his crouch into a lower kneel to inspect Harumi's shin. Mei heard a soft shuffle of fabric as he raised the lower leg of her jeans, drawing his hands over the bruised skin and pressing lightly on the bone, a sensation Harumi's screwed up face suggested she wasn't the greatest fan of.

Mei watched with awe as Takamoto slipped from his crouch and drew himself up to his full height, transforming his deep lined countenance into that of the colourful Vietnamese character with frightening ease. "Whatever puncture your hand, I believe no hit any bone or tendon. You in good books, Missie; it real miracle."

Mei detected the shuffle of a mint blouse from somewhere in the lightless distance at the last word; Harumi only nodding her head slightly and clearly not daring enough to give a vocal response for fear her tone of recognition would give them all away.

Takamoto looked away quickly nonetheless, already busying himself again with the objects on the table, this time selecting the square of gauze and the unlabeled bottle. "Leg fine beyond little bruising, but both your fingers got mallet fracture. I splint DIP joint in extension for eight weeks. Should be fine after, but no use finger in that time."

Harumi attempted to draw the relief and gratitude into her eyes, unsure of whether her subtlety could be read in the clumsy contrast of the artificial lamps. Takamoto didn't make it clear whether he had registered it or not, staring down his nose and continuing to talk as he poured the colourless liquid onto the cloth. "For puncture, fresh bandage at regular intervals, then just take antibiotic and sanitise regular. You only-"

"Shut the fuck up yammering would you." Arata stopped polishing the gun's walnut hilt and slammed it down on the horizontal stand with an aggressive clang. He turned to face Takamoto's back; the skin around his black eyes crumpled with irritation. "Your goddamn voice is giving me the holy mother of a headache. Talk again, and you'll be the one giving your own diagnosis when I chop your fucking tongue out," He flicked the dust cloth in his hand aggressively, the flailing fabric making a directive clap in the air as he motioned to the Tanto knife that would apparently do the most appropriate job of divesting Takamoto of his speech organ. "And besides," he said with finality," telling her all that crap's useless anyhow; she's not going to last half a weak, much less eight."

Takamoto didn't turn to regard the man threatening him with the loss of his tongue; it was then that Mei realised he was looking directly at her. Again, she curbed the emotion that threatened to find her face as she followed his gaze as it lowered to the pair of scissors on the table.

Arata shuffled his hand through his hair, selecting a particularly brutal paring knife for scrutiny as he quipped," Don't worry, though, I have no intention of making it too quick."

Mei never saw the slight flush of colour that had found Harumi's face drain out at the rat's words; her eyes were on the scissors now, waiting for Takamoto to make his move. He turned his gaze back on Harumi, dousing the gauze cloth with a generous pouring of the colourless liquid.

He mouthed the words, this is going to sting, but Harumi barely had the time to nod in realisation before he clamped the fabric full of rubbing alcohol down on the wound.

/