The sound of a wall crumbling was nothing new in Tokyo Haven. The destruction to the sprawling city had never been undone, and it was, in effect, a living ruin. Every building was falling apart, street were torn up, windows shattered by bullets or from larger impacts - from weapons no longer in use. Water leaked from every pipe, but it wasn't much of a loss. Lead and other naturally - and unnaturally - occurring chemicals had long since poisoned the city's water. On wet days like this one, the scent of rotten eggs - the sulphur in the water - permeated the city, not even fully dissipating until days after the rain stopped. Drinking water was shipped in from other locations, and bathing water was purified with imported chemical compounds. The stench of decay, however, rose not only from the water, but from the earth, the buildings, the exhaust. Tokyo Haven was perhaps less a living ruin than a rotting corpse, populated only with the worst sorts of life.

So Sagara did not look up when he heard shards of cement hitting the blacktop. The night was dark, starless, the rain still dripping unhappily down from the heavy clouds. The sound of dripping and running water, the gurgle of the drains and the over-full sewers, all of it served to mask the footsteps as they were approaching.

He was underdressed for the chilly, dank weather, though he had long-since grown accustomed to the goose-bumps that every cold wind raised on his skin. The icy hand on his shoulder sent shocks down his spine, and he whirled around, jumping back and falling into a defensive crouch.

Facing him was a creature like nothing he had ever seen. In the poor light, it did not seem hideous, nor was it beautiful. Its skin was white and grainy, its face twisted in something akin to anger. It lunged at him. He kicked the thing away, and it was surprisingly light. It screamed as it hit a wall, bits of wet plaster sticking to its clothes. It got to its feet with an uncanny ease, and fairly flew at him.

Sagara pulled a gun from his shoulder holster, and shot it through the chest. The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, the air gone from his lungs. It had its frail-looking, but sickening powerful hands wrapped around Sagara's throat, and he could feel the promise of bruises already. The thing screamed again, a guttural screeching, its mouth twisted wide open. Sagara stared up, stunned, unable to look at anything other than that head. Teeth, sharp and clean white, were the thing that best captured his attention, and, before he knew it, they were descending towards his neck, a growling noise bubbling from the open mouth.

He caught the thing's face in one of his large hands before those teeth could touch him, and he pushed the creature's head back with all his might. His other hand went to its shoulder, pushing back, as well. The thing was on his chest, the hands still tight around his neck. He couldn't breath! Goddamnit!

His right leg came up, and he hit the back of the vampire's head with the heel of his heavy boot. It screamed again, its breath cold against his palm. The feel of it made him want to retch, but there was no time now! The hand on the thing's shoulder went into its thick hair, and yanked the head back.

Sagara managed to get a foot against its chest, and pushed - hard. It went flying across the long-abandoned parking garage, slamming into the wall so hard that the supports shuddered a little. This time, the monster struggled to get to its feet. Sagara pushed himself up.

His gun! His fucking gun! Where the fuck was his gun?! It had fallen when the thing knocked him to the ground - Where the fuck did it go?! If he could hurt it enough, he'd have time to kill it. An injured creature moves slower! Right?! It was moving, getting up! He needed his gun! He stood, still searching. The goddamn fucking-

The vampire was on him. He staggered forward under the force of the lithe body dropping onto his back. It screeched again, and Sagara realized that his head was aching miserably. No time to think - Get it off!

He felt the teeth on the back of his neck, a searing pain. He screamed, this time, and hunched over, flipping the thing over his back and against the nearest wall. He pulled one of the heavy, wooden stakes from the other holster - What a waste of a space for a gun! - and lunged at the struggling, growling creature.

His foot slammed down on its face, and he heard the nose crunch even as it screamed. He could feel blood under his boot, but that didn't matter. He took aim, and with a vicious thrust of his arm, sunk the stake into its heart.

It wailed again - a miserable, agonizing wail that cut through the thick, moist air. It made Sagara's skin crawl. The thing was not dead yet. It struggled hopelessly, like a half-crushed insect, keening the whole while. The blood that oozed out of the wound and over its chest was so deep red that, in the night, it looked black.

Finally it stopped moving, and Sagara let out a sickened breath. He wanted to throw up - badly - but now was not the time. He would get home, and he could vomit, then. But not now, not yet. There were still things that needed to be done.

He took his foot away from the death creature's head, giving it one last kick for good measure. It jerked from the impact, but it was well and surely dead. Lying on the asphalt, it looked like little more than a skeleton, white skin stretched over thin bones, hair sort of matted and gross the way he imagined a long-dead thing's hair might be. Its skin was uneven; it looked almost as if it had been melted. Again Sagara fought down the urge to vomit. He would have to ask Saito about it. Were they all this ugly? He'd thought...

Saito came as a cold reminder, pushing speculation away. Cut off its head, he'd said. Burn the body and bring the head to us. We pay you per provided head - If we don't see it, you don't get paid for it. Unless you're killing them en masse, we need evidence that you've done your job.

So Sagara reached into his pants leg and pulled out a knife. He nudged the vampire's head with the toe of his boot, positioning it in a way that he thought might make severing it a little easier. Then he knelt on the damp pavement and slammed the knife down.

The sound of metal and bone meeting made his skin cold, and the hot blood that was splashed on his face and neck only made it worse. He could feel the monster's blood dripping down his neck, sliding down the exposed skin of his upper chest to soak into the thin cotton of his tank top.

It took a moment, but he finally found the strength to look down. The curse slipped from his lips without a though. The neck was only half severed - the cut was clean and all the way down to the pavement, but the blade had only been long enough to sever half the neck. The other half was intact, though wet with blood.

He rose, feeling somewhat detached, and walked around the corpse, trying to avoid the thick, slowly congealing blood that had pooled on the pavement. He knelt on the other side, and hacked through the flesh, repeating the spray of blood across his front. He held back a shudder, and pulled a plastic garbage bag from his pants pocket. In went the head, and the bag was tied up tightly.

Sagara stood, and pulled something else from his pocket - a small, silver hip flask. He emptied the flask's contents - pungent gasoline - over the vampire's corpse, and returned it to his pocket. Then he lit a match, tossed it on the body and stepped back to watch it burn.

As he did so, he noticed a dull shine, and looked over - his gun, lying next to a small pile of rubble and trash. He bent to pick it up, and returned it to his shoulder holster. The other side of the holster was empty, the stake still through the vampire's heart, and he felt imbalanced. He could tell that he would be going through a lot of wooden stakes. He could also tell that he'd need to streamline this routine if he wanted to make any real money at it . . . He could see the potential - if he could manage to run like a well-oiled machine. That might take some practice, more training, maybe some experimentation - within reason, when it wouldn't cost him his life. But he had faith in himself. Sagara knew that he could do this.

But what Sagara was most aware of, at the moment, was how tired he was. His muscles ached, his neck was bruising, his elbow was throbbing from slamming the stake and the knife down so hard. All he really wanted to do was drop the goddamn head off, collect his ten thousand euros, and go home. Once he was back in his shoddy, dank apartment, he could take a shower, go to bed, and forget this had ever happened. Somehow, though, Sagara had the feeling that this nightmare would be one less easily forgotten than some others . . .




The pain of a dying descendant sang loudly in his blood. No one important, nor anyone closely related, but he could feel it all the same. He could feel it, could feel the tiny strain of his blood in his kin's as it spread across wet pavement and cooled and congealed and then heated from fire. It surged through him, shared blood calling out to shared blood, a sort of tingling. It was a physical sensation, a burning in his veins. He had seen his share of corpses burned and experiencing immolation, no matter how distantly, brought a sick weight to his heart.

He whined. This did not feel good. He hated this. He hated it when one of his died. He could always feel it, feel their pain, however indistinctly. It sent shivers over his smooth skin, made him feel sick to his stomach.

He pressed his nose to his lover's thigh, breathing in his cool, musky scent, focusing on the wool of his trousers. He whimpered again, pressing his face against that slightly scratchy, black cloth. He closed his eyes, trying to very hard to think of something else.

This was what he got for trying to let himself feel. This was what he got for staying so open to the world, even after all this time . . .

A strong, fine hand slipped through his soft hair to cradle the back of his head. He leaned his head back obediently and was met with a pair of somber, dark eyes. Now is not the time, precious, said his lover.

Yes, Master . . . he whispered. The word, that title, slipped so easily off his tongue, but he did not care for the taste. It's only . . . He sighed quietly, looking up at the strong jaw and pale skin of that handsome face. Then he turned his head to look at their audience. Only Shishio. He could speak freely. he murmured, shifting in a futile attempt to escape the discomfort, one of mine died . . . I can feel it . . . He moaned, pressing his cheek to his keeper's thigh again. He sat at the man's feet, between his knees, obedient, subservient . . . And yet this man could not feel his displeasure.

Those serious eyes shifted in their expression, the consternation fading as a slight hint of worry appeared. Then, just as easily, it was gone, and his lover's expression was simple and strong once again.

Shishio said, his tone commanding as usual. His lover's second-in-command was a truly terrifying man, with an anger and a hunger for violence shining in his eyes that rivaled any he had ever seen before. But his lover, he thought, was stronger, at least for the time being . . . He would not let his lover be taken down by such a greedy man as Shishio. No. That could never be the course of things.

His lover looked up. I know you're still here, Makoto, he said, his hand slipping out of the boy's hair. But Kenshin has just brought something to my attention.

Shishio snarled. So I heard. You shouldn't keep that brat out here while you're conducting business, Sir.

The man on the dais glared down at his second-in-command. Watch what you say, he growled. You're dismissed, for now, Makoto, but we will have words later. I shall send for you. The other man stood, and left through the heavy double doors, letting them bang shut in his wake.

The delicate man moaned again, pressing his face against his lover's leg needily. The body in the throne moved, and he was lifted into strong, slender arms. he said, twisting in his Master's arms, trying to shy away from the invasive pain. . . . They're burning him . . . It hurts, Katsura . . . It's so hot . . . ! Katsura . . .





Notes:
These aren't European euros. It's just sorta along with the idea of a universal nations. During the Reconstruction,' the nations unified - so there's just Earth. That's all. They share a currency, a language, et cetera. That's also why, when I get to it, the names will be in western order, because that's the way the administration does things, and so that's how everyone does things.
Also - Humungo (er?) thanks to Miss Clarus-sempai-sama-dono (I added another one, dear!) for her fan-effing-tastic job beta-ing this fic, and for all the good she's done me, and for the smut, too. (Cause God knows there has to be smut!) I hope I'm not distracting you too much from your reaaaaaal goals. (Like Incarnate?!?! Hint, hint, wink, wink!)
Lastly, hyper wiggling of the fingers to - Oryo: Love ya, dear! Thanks for your kind words! FarStrider: This is just the beginning of the vampire interaction. Much more is to come. kthy: Aww - Thanks so much! I'm glad you like it.
And on oooooooone, final note:
Clarus raised this question recently - If Sano were Buffy, would that make Kenshin Angel, or Spike. I'm not entirely sure, but I'm inclined to say Spike, cause Angel's too mopey and Spike is totally kick-ass. At the same time, Kenshin isn't as mean as Spike. I dunno. Thoughts?
Please review!!!!! I will love you for it!!!!
Yoroshiku, baby, desuno!


SnM