The water was hot on his cold hands, but Kenshin was shivering, so it didn't matter. That tiny body was shaking miserably on the floor of the bath as Katsura stripped the two of them. The redhead moaned pitifully as he was picked up again.

he whispered. Please, Katsura. I don't like this . . .

To see the slender boy - though he was hardly a child - in such discomfort made Katsura ill. He stepped quickly into the spacious bath, walking through steaming water to a shallow seat against the wall. There he deposited his precious lover, and sat beside him, holding Kenshin's head to his chest.

He was crying. Katsura . . . he sobbed, his tears flowing freely. He's dead, Katsura! He's dead! His tears were cold and wet against Katsura's skin. I don't want this feeling anymore . . . I don't want it! Make this stop, Katsura . . .

It made his skin crawl, that Kenshin was so desperate. Though he looked not a day over fourteen, Kenshin was much older than that. . . much older. The petite vampire was usually possessed of a calm that Katsura had never seen before in any other creature. He felt ill just watching his suffering, hearing the soft, whimpering noises that issued from Kenshin's throat. Is this what pain does to us? he wondered. Katsura, himself, had never experienced such pain. The children he'd sired lived on, death had not been agony. This pain his lover was in - it was foreign to him, and he knew no way to cure so great a hurt. Yes, it made Katsura ill - partially in sympathy for his precious love, and partly, though he could not say it, in fear.

He pulled Kenshin's head away from his chest, and bent to kiss him. The redhead stilled, startled, his mouth slightly open. Katsura deepened the kiss, and Kenshin seemed to understand. His pale-skinned lover, Katsura knew, was not one for words anymore, if he ever had been. Kenshin was ruled by sensation. Perhaps, he thought distractedly, touching his tongue to Kenshin's, that's why the pain of his kinsmen hurts him so . . . It had never occurred to Katsura, but it seemed feasible. Kenshin took the kiss as comfort, a way for Katsura's lips to say things Kenshin didn't want to hear out loud.

His whispered, I love you's were always met with silence and a downcast gaze, at best, a quiet, I know.' Katsura could - and did - express his adoration for the fragile creature at every available opportunity, but it made little difference. What mattered to Kenshin, he had come to realize over the past few decades, was the physical. If Katsura could give the redhead pleasure - or, under some circumstances, if he could cause him pain - Kenshin would respond. Sweet nothings didn't make him budge, but with a well-placed hand, a kiss, Katsura could convince Kenshin to move mountains.

he gasped, a different sort of desperation in his voice. Oh, God! Master . . . he pleaded, his voice soft and breathy. Please . . . I need you . . . His thin, white hands were on Katsura's bare chest, pressing, needy.

As he maneuvered the redhead against the wall, Katsura thought that at least he would successful in distracting Kenshin from his pain.




Hey-! Hey, Sagara! Hey!

He didn't stop walking until the hand touched his shoulder. Then he wheeled around and socked the bastard right in the face. The man stumbled, regained his balance, and spat towards Sagara's feet before laughing. Stubborn son of a bitch, he said , smirking.

Sagara scowled.

Nevertheless, the blond continued. How'd it go?

He shook the stinking, heavy garbage bag. How do you think it went, you mother fucker?

Watch your mouth when you speak to your superiors.

Shove it, Sawagejo, the brunette snarled.

Again the blond laughed. Cool it, Sagara, cool it. No hard feelin's. I had the shit kicked outta me a coupla times. Happens on everyone's first kill.

Shut the fuck up.

He chuckled. It's true, man. Don't you go thinking you ain't nothing but the best. Chief wouldn't a called in nobody but the best. It looked, for a moment, like the blond was going to clap him on the shoulder again. One icy look from Sagara and the hand stilled at his side.

How long have you been at this, buddy? Sagara asked.

The officer considered, scratching his scalp. Been on the force for six years . . . he said, shrugging.

Sagara grit his teeth. No, I mean, how long has this little vampire' project been going on? There were questions he wanted to ask, but he'd decided that he sure as hell didn't want to bring them up with Saito. But, maybe, if Sawagejo had been on the job long enough, he could be of some help. Brash and obnoxious as he was, he'd been the one to train Sagara, and he knew his stuff.

We can't talk about that out here, the blond said somberly, his brows drawing close.

Well, where the hell can we talk about it, then?

Cho jerked his head in the direction of a door down the hall. So the two of them walked down the white, sterile hallway and slipped into the empty conference room. The blond leaned easily on the table.

So how long have you been on this case? Sagara repeated, standing his ground stiffly across from Sawagejo.

Over a year, he said. Just over. The guy at trained me and the other guys on the team - he's dead now. He's a damn sight better n me at all that history stuff, but Arai ain't doing any more teaching - ever again.

His eyes broke away from Cho's face, as he studied the neat conference room. If there was one clean, stable building in all of Tokyo Haven, it was the police headquarters. Everything else was continually rotting, but the cops all had clean offices.

Shakku Arai was the only scholar left on the planet who knew about vampires. It'd been passed down through his family since before the Reconstruction - all the history, how to kill them, all that shit - but it was totally underground. The government didn't find out about it until about twenty years ago, and then they freaked. They put Arai in jail and told his wife that if his son ever breathed a word about his dad's secret, he'd be put in prison, too. Sons of bitches don't kill anyone - they just lock them up like dogs . . . Ain't no goddamn good in that . . .

Anyway. Two years ago, the administration figured out that vampires were a big deal - that they were actually a very immediate threat. So, after a lotta debate and some string pulling, they took Shakku outta prison, and brought him here to train a task force.

Sagara asked. Why isn't he here anymore? He just get old, or what?

Sawagejo said darkly. No, didn't get old. He was only fifty-some when they brought him here.

Then what?

They killed him.

They . . . Sagara scowled. You mean vampires.

Yeah, vampires, the blond spat. A coupla months ago, he disappeared. Then this building downtown burned to the ground . . . Found bone shards or somethin' - and they were Arai's.

There was doubt in Sagara's mind. How d'you know it was vampires, though. Mighta been anyone.

Cho shook his head. I know. We all know. It's just - It's just the way it is. No explaining it, it's just the truth.

Well, whatever. Look - I got a question. He could feel the other man's gaze on the side of his face, but he wouldn't look back. He wouldn't.

Sure, go ahead an' ask, Sawagejo said, calmly enough.

These vampires - Are they supposed to be ugly? I mean, you never talked about that, but . . . This one I killed tonight - It was one ugly son of a bitch.

The blond nodded slowly, understanding. His hand tensed on the metal back of a chair, and then relaxed again. The change don't make em ugly. If you're a vampire, you look like you did when you were a live - paler, maybe a little thinner, but you look like you.

Sagara's eyes widened. So that one tonight-

Was like that when he was alive, Cho finished.

Then -! He had to be a-

The officer nodded again. he interrupted again. But hold yer horses, lemme finish what I was sayin'. Ignoring Sagara's black glare, he continued. If the piece a shit you killed out there t'night was ugly to begin with, ain't nothin' gonna fix that now. But he mighta been good lookin'. Depends on how you mean by ugly. If a vampire gets real, real hungry - hasn't fed in weeks, maybe months, like - it'll get all dried out. Looks more like a corpse an usual. So maybe the fucker was really hungry . . .

Sagara bit his cheek, considering this. Well, he was fighting like he was desperate, but - I don't think that's it.

One sure way to find out, Sawagejo said with a cock-eyed smirk. Lemme have a look.

Reluctantly, Sagara held out the bag, which the other bounty hunter took from him. As Cho untied the knot, the smell of rot and blood filled the room, making the brunette want to gag. The officer pulled the head from the garbage bag, holding it up by its hair. He let out a long, low whistle, his eyes trained on the bloody, severed head.

muttered Sagara, his head turned away. Killing things he didn't mind, really, but having to carry them around was another thing. The stench of death had been lingering around him since the vampire showed up in that run down parking garage.

Nice, clean cut, Sawagejo said.

What a fucking compliment, Sagara thought. he said dryly.

The other man put the vampire's head back in the bag, and tied it up again. He dropped it on the conference table with a sickening sort of wet thud. Need to get you a longer knife, though, he added.

I know.

Anyway - That thing wasn't fucking hungry. It was like that before. The skin's bad.

Sagara said. Now that the stench was somewhat quelled, he found that he could look back over at Sawagejo, who was still just leaning against the table, his hand on the back of a chair. So . . .

So the guy was a reject. Someone who wasn't perfect, and was gonna die.

Why would anyone wanna be immortalized if they look that bad? the brunette mused absently.

There was no teasing in Cho's voice now. The Gentleman, he's a smart guy. He's creating a whole legion of vampires, but he knows that just your average people won't make good fighters in this sort of situation. Think about it - you're born deformed, maybe with shitty skin, or whatever, and they're gonna kill you for it because you could pass if on to your children. It makes a guy fucking mad.

Sagara's eyes were dark when he said, I know.

So the Gentleman is collecting these guys - rescuing em from extermination, keeping em for a couple years, makin' em even angrier, and then turning em into vampires.

That's sick - This is all sick, Sagara muttered, shaking his head.

Well, yeah, Sawagejo said with a roll of his dark eyes. But, hell, if you were a reject, wouldn't you love it? The blond did not miss the scowl on Sagara's face, but he knew better than to make anything of it. He pushed away from the table and made for the door. he said lightly, throwing open the door and stepping into the white hall, after you drop that off, you wanna go have a beer? I mean, you may be a tight-assed bastard, but you're tougher'n most of the station's guys.

Nice to hear that you have so much fucking faith in the police force, Sagara ground out. He grabbed the bag and followed Cho out of the room. Maybe the blond was dense. Then again, maybe the exhaustion and misery and anger didn't show quite as much as he felt like they did. After all, he hadn't looked at himself in the mirror yet. Maybe he was all sunshine and roses after that kill. Upon consideration, Sagara decided that Sawagejo had to be dense, skills and wisdom as a bounty hunter aside.

Do you wanna go? My treat, seein' as you're the rookie an' all.

No. Fuck you. Sagara turned away, stalking down the hall towards the claims office' as Saito had so merrily put it. He did not want to speak with that skinny son of a bitch Sawagejo, much less drink with him. He wanted his 10,00 euros, and then he wanted to go home.

It occurred to him, as he walked, that his allotment of purified water for the month was almost depleted. There was maybe a shower or two left, if he sent his laundry out to be done, which he always did. Sagara liked a long shower when he could get it - if he could get it - so he didn't mind paying extra for laundry service if it meant more bathing water . . . He sighed heavily. Well, he only had a week left before he could get more clean water. He could always go for a day or two without a bath - not like there was anyone around to smell him. The vampires didn't seem to care what the hell he smelled like, as long as, underneath it all, he still smelled like blood . . .




There hadn't been a time in years when he hadn't felt something. There was always a shared sensation. His line was old enough and long enough that he could always sense one of his kinsmen somewhere. Somewhere in the back of his consciousness, there lingered the joy of someone's kill, the pain of death, the hunger, the darkness of sleep. He lived for it, really, in his old age.

Those kinsmen, they showed him that he was still alive, if not in the strictest sense. He was old enough to forget that, once, he had been young. It was even easier to forget that he had once been mortal.

His bloodline spanned across the globe - a respectable blood line. There was always something to hone in one, someone's emotion. Now, two individual but not unsimilar sensations were pushing their way to the front of his mind . . .

Distantly, he could feel that one of his far-removed blood relations had died. He could feel, very vaguely, like the tingling of pins and needles, the fire heating that trace of his own blood as the corpse was burned. That was nothing new. The death had not been painless, but it wasn't torture, either. It was hardly a twinge to the old vampire, the creature was so distant a relative.

But more distinct was the pain of one of his children. If he closed his eyes - He knew which one, now.

That idiot, he muttered into the silence of the darkened, dusty room. That damn idiot...

That boy would have to learn someday. His favorite son . . . The old one wondered how the boy had survived so long without going insane. Even he, the oldest vampire left on earth, didn't keep his mind as open as that boy.

But Kenshin - Oh, Kenshin, Kenshin, Kenshin . . . He let himself feel every pain, every ecstasy, of their bloodline. Why? He'd had never been able to figure it out. Maybe for the same reason he, himself, did so - But if that was the case, the boy needed to quit taking things so personally.

He sighed. For all his complaining, it really did worry him. With Kenshin, everything was more immediate. Usually, he had to shut Kenshin's multitude of sensations out. Right now, he couldn't seem to bring himself to do so. His child, one of the most delicate and precious, was in pain because, the elder knew, he was feeling his kinsman's death, too. Kenshin picked up on everything - strongly, at that. That was the truth, had always been the truth. It was simply the way the boy was. Not that it made it any easier on his progenitor's nerves . . .

Ah, but the truth was, things were changing. There were things in the world changing, stirring, waking up or dying. The lone vampire didn't know which it was, but he could feel it in his blood. There were more of them, now. More of his kinsmen - more vampires, in general. He had a feeling that it was partly Katsura's doing - if not entirely so.

Like insects, he muttered. The sound bounced dully off the walls, and he realized that he'd said it aloud. The words, spoken out loud, sounded ridiculous, and he couldn't help but chuckle. He looked out the dusty window, out at the shifting night sky, shaking his head. There was a time, he told himself, when I said that about humans . . . But they're no different from us. We're all monsters.





Notes:
Wow. I wrote petite vampire. I think I have to go die now.
Is the last part too confusing?! I'm afraid it might be . . . You'll find out soon who Kenshin's real Master is . . . That is to say, his sire. Heehee.
Long chapter this time. It started out being far too short, but then - this. Oh, well. How was it?! Please tell me!
Ah-! Hugs to reviewers:
Fitz - I'm glad you like it! And, no, you shouldn't know what the percentages are about. Why? Because I haven't explained it. Suffice to say that in this new administration, it's a way of ranking physical perfection.' You have to be over a certain percentage to live. I think it will get explained in more detail soon. Hope that helped a little, and please keep with me!
FarStrider - Hi!!!!
Oryo - Heehee! Well, OK. Katsura's not quite Antonio . . . More like Lestat, really, I think, cause Armand in the Interview with a Vampire movie was too too hissy and goth. Katsura is very, very elegant and composed - unless he's mad. ::Snicker.::
Please continue to review! Thank youuuuuuuu!!!