Sagara turned off the taps, and stepped out of the glass shower stall. He snagged a towel off the shelf, scrubbing his skin dry before wrapping the towel around his waist.

In the foggy mirror, he was nothing more than a dark smudge. Once he'd wiped away the condensation, he wondered if maybe he shouldn't have. He looked tired, worked over. He had a fading bruise on his left cheekbone, left by a vampire who'd gotten hold of a crowbar a few weeks ago. He was lucky he hadn't been moving forward, or else the bone might've been entirely crushed. He wasn't sleeping well, and he knew exactly why, but it didn't really matter. Sleeping was something he didn't really do much of, anyway. He liked to keep himself busy.

He was running a comb through his wet hair when he heard something beeping. Steam rolled out of the bathroom when he opened the door and stepped into the bedroom. He followed the noise into the living room, and then he saw the blinking light on the answering machine. Apparently, someone had called while he was in the shower.

The machine beeped once when he pressed the Play' button. You have one new message, and sixteen old messages, it informed him. Gotta delete some of those, he said to himself. It had been a while since he'd taken care of things around the flat.

Following another beep, there was a brief crackle, and then a low, quiet voice came over the line. Mr. Sagara . . . I would like very much to meet you. Tonight, if at all possible. There are some things I should like to speak to you about. It's 10:47 right now, and I will be at a club called the Aoi in the Old Strip District until three this morning. When you arrive, don't look for me - I'll find you. There was another bit of static, and a click.

Another beep, an electronic, End of messages, and a final beep.

Sagara stared blankly across his living room. The man on the machine was entirely foreign to him. He'd never heard that person's voice before. For a moment, he'd thought that maybe it was Okita, who he'd run into occasionally in recent months, mostly through Saito's doing. But by the time the message was over, he was sure it wasn't the pretty hooker. There was always some strain of desperation on Okita's voice . . . He never sounded so - cool. Sagara replayed the message, but he still didn't recognize the person on the other end of the line.

The Old Strip District was a run-down place, all pre-Restoration warehouses that were the home to numerous nightclubs, pool halls, strip joints, and the like. Unlike the New Strip District, which was predominantly newly constructed buildings situated in a relatively respectable sector of Tokyo Haven, people considered the Old District to be dangerous. And the Aoi, he knew via the police files, was a vampire club.

He'd never been in the Aoi, of course, because most people who valued their lives wouldn't set foot in a place like that. Even if the general populous was ignorant to the existence of vampires, they knew enough to realize that the Aoi was trouble.

But, even armed with his knowledge of vampires, Sagara wasn't really intimidated by the concept of a vampire club. He knew that he probably shouldn't meet whoever it was that had left the message. But he couldn't really seem to care . . .





Although the moon had been out when he'd left his apartment, the clouds had once again closed over the sky, bearing down heavily. The night was cool, and, as usual, damp, and the air smelled like rotting things.

There was no line outside the Aoi. The dirty cement stairs down to the basement club were littered with cigarette butts and other bits of trash. At the bottom of the stairs, Sagara leaned forward and pounded on the thick, metal door with his fist. It opened, and a short, lanky man with tan skin and bleached hair stood looking down at him. His eyes narrowed, and he studied Sagara for a long moment before stepping back to allow him in.

Sagara walked past the bouncer, into the poorly-lit hallway. The bouncer reeked of death - he just screamed Vampire! to Sagara. But the dark-haired hunter just kept walking, even when he heard the door slam behind him.

The floor of the passage sloped gradually downwards for about fifty feet, at which point, there was another door. Sagara opened this door, and stepped down. The lights along the edges of the stairs were a bright blue, casting a dim neon glow over the otherwise black stairwell. He could hear the music clearly now, and knew it would be deafeningly loud once he was in the club, itself. Already, the bass made the soles of his feet vibrate. Sagara made his way down the steep stairs, and opened the third metal door inwards.

The club was not dark. It was a dusky black, sure enough, but the strobe lights and the neon kept true darkness at bay. The smoky air was laced with the scent of death, blood, and liquor. Sagara slitted his eyes and watched the mob. They were gyrating, throbbing, stomping, spinning to the overwhelmingly loud music. Sagara almost wanted to close his eyes against the chaos before him.

To his right, stretching along a good portion of the wall, there was a bar. It was crowded with people, mostly clad in black and leather. There were five bartenders that Sagara could see, all attractive young women, and they were all moving pretty much nonstop, mixing drinks or talking to customers. In the far corner, to his left, there was an elevated platform. A DJ had his turntables set up and beside that there were several tables and couches, all peopled by more club patrons. Sagara thought he could see some doors against the back wall, but he couldn't be sure. The rest of the space was more or less entirely filled by dancers.

Sagara knew that not all these patrons were human. The smell of them, which he'd become very accustomed to in recent months, was overpowering. Worse still, he could smell human blood. There were vampires feeding in that crush of bodies, on the sofas, probably in the back rooms, if they existed. The hunter knew that, if he looked closely enough, he would be able to see them. Instead of doing so, Sagara started to push his way through the crowd, keeping to the fringes, forcing a path between hot, twisting bodies.

The bar, although it was crowded, seemed like an oasis. He couldn't think of anything he wanted more than stiff drink. He paused a moment to glory in the strange beauty of Tokyo Haven, that so much alcohol was so easily available. Some part of his mind sensed trouble - all vampires in one place made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. That same part of his brain tried to tell him that he shouldn't drink, that there might be a fight, and he wouldn't be able to fight as well if we were drunk. But he seldom listened to the sensible part of his mind.

What'll it be? asked one of the bartenders. She was short and a little too cute, with a hell of a lot of dark hair. Like the other women behind the bar, she was dressed in stylish, black clothes.

Just a beer, Sagara said after a moment's deliberation. Best imported. One of the boons of his business deal with the police was that he could afford to suffer in luxury.

She looked a little like he'd insulted her grandmother. All we have is imported, she replied. She turned around, flipping her long braid over her shoulder. It snaked through the air, whiplike, and Sagara had to lean back to avoid being hit in the face with it. A moment later, the young woman turned back around, and slid a bottle of beer across the bar. He tossed a few Euros across the bar.

A moment of silence passed while Sagara took the first sip of his beer. The bartender lingered, and he couldn't help but wonder what she was waiting for. Finally, she spoke up. You're new here, right?



The girl glanced out at the crowded club, then down the bar, and, finally, back at Sagara. Well, in that case, I oughta tell you the rules. First off, you'll want t-

- That won't be necessary, Misao. Sagara turned around to face the man who had interrupted the bartender. He was huge, more than a full head taller than Sagara, himself, and very thin. He, too, was dressed entirely in black, his dark hair falling in his pale face. Sagara stared into the man's stormy eyes, and found that he was just a little intimidated.

the bartender said, her tone tense. So, Sagara thought with a little surprise, this is Aoshi. Aoshi Shinomori, the club's proprietor, and, from everything he'd heard, a ruthless killer when the opportunity presented itself. Most every criminal in the city - and who wasn't a criminal in Tokyo Haven? - was impressed by Shinomori, if not a little afraid of him. Looking at the man, Sagara could see why.

You have an admirer, Mr. Sagara, Aoshi said coolly. He'd like to meet with you. Follow me.

This is ridiculous, Sagara thought as he pushed away from the bar. He followed Shinomori silently, studying the crowd, trying to get a better feel for the place. If a real fight broke out, what could be used to his advantage? On all sides, the stench of vampires welled up like cigarette smoke, pungent and thick. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a couple dancing, of the trickle of blood running down the girl's neck. Disgusted, he turned his head, and kept his eyes on Shinomori's broad shoulders.

At length, they'd made their way through the crush, past the DJ's platform, to the cluster of tables. Seated alone at one of the small tables was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. Shinomori was leading him right towards her table, and, before they reached their destination, Sagara had realized just who that woman was. She was, in fact, not a woman at all, but his admirer,' the same man who had left the message on his answering machine earlier.

As quickly as he'd appeared, Shinomori faded back into the crowd, leaving Sagara standing in front of the table. The handsome man leaned forward, his airy, red hair falling forward into his face. Why don't you sit down, Mr. Sagara? he asked. His voice was just as smooth, as cool, as it had been on Sagara's machine.

The hunter sat down and studied the man across the table from him. It was easy to see how he could be mistaken for a woman. His vibrant red hair was long, hanging loose past his narrow shoulders. He looked young - sixteen at the most. There was still a telltale softness in his cheeks, and his mouth was too sweet to have been thinned with age. That mouth was a dark, dark red, and his eyes looked like black holes, they were so heavily made up. Sagara could not make out the color of his eyes, but they stared at him with keen interest.

There was something lingering under the subtle scent of perfume, something Sagara could not quite place. He did not seem distinctly vampiric, although his nearly translucent skin pointed in the opposite direction. For the moment, Sagara decided, it was all right to stick around, so long as he played it safe. Innocent until proven guilty, as the old adage went. Maybe there would be no hell raised tonight. He doubted it, but a man is allowed to hope, at least.

I'm glad you came, the redhead said finally. I thought you might not.

Yeah, well - I'm still not clear on why I'm here, Sagara replied, crossing his arms over his chest.

He smiled sweetly. I think you're here because you want to know what I have to say . . .

In that case, I'm listening.

The youth took a small sip from a shot glass of clear liquid. Sagara's eyes watched his mouth on the glass, and he studied the small crescent of blood-red lipstick left on the rim as he lowered the glass to the table. You can call me Kenshin, by the way, he offered.

Is that your name? Sagara asked, lifting an eyebrow.

An enigmatic smile crossed Kenshin's lips. Yes and no. But you can call me that all the same. He let out a short sigh. I'd like you to know that I've had my eye on you for some while, Sanosuke.

Sagara snorted briefly. That so?

Mmm . . . Yes, indeed. Kenshin's dark eyes were fixed only on him, and it was becoming increasingly intense. And I couldn't help but notice that several other people are quite interested in you, as well . . .

What can I say? Sagara quipped. I'm in-demand.

Kenshin laughed lightly, a sweet, pleasant sound that barely reached Sagara's ears past the pounding music. That certainly seems to be the case. He paused for a moment. I won't say that I've come to make you an offer you can't refuse, because you're quite free to refuse it, if you like. But it's my hope, as well as the hope of my associates, so to speak, that you will be interested.

An offer . . . Sagara watched as Kenshin's pale, slender fingers slowly turned his shot glass round and round. His dark eyes, the bounty hunter noted, were now downcast, fixed on the glass, his long lashed lowered.

Kenshin looked back up, his gaze just as intense as before. Yes. An offer. A partnership, of sorts. You, Mr. Sagara, are a highly desirable person. It's no coincidence that so many people have expressed an interest in you of late. You have a very unique combination of relentless drive, intelligence, skill, and honor that are important in these times . . . But what my associates and I see in you is something above and beyond all this, something which I highly doubt the Chief of Police recognizes. That, of course, is that you have the strength in you to accept huge responsibilities . . . You could be a great man, if you wanted.

What if I told you that's not what I want? Sagara asked curtly.

I would believe you, Kenshin replied. He smiled, looking for all the world as if he had just been bested in a game by a clever opponent. I should have known better. No, you don't want the world. You aren't that sort of man. But I know what you do want. And I can tell you that, in your current position, you can't fulfill the revenge you seek.

Revenge? What makes you think I'm that kind of man?

What are you doing here in Tokyo Haven, then, Sanosuke? You're surely not here for your health? Nor are you here of your own free will. Circumstances forced you here, and I know you want retribution for the wrongs that were done against you.

Sagara snarled. You don't know what the hell you're talking about, all right?

Don't I? Kenshin asked, cool as ever, his shadowed gaze burning into Sagara. I rather think I do. He tipped his head to the side, his red hair falling down and pooling on the tabletop. Your brother . . .

Leave him out of this, he snapped.

How do you reconcile such injustice? You work for the same people who killed your brother, for the same people who have slaughtered millions of innocent people . . . just because they weren't perfect.

What the fuck is this? Sagara pushed back his chair and stood, preparing to leave.

Kenshin's arm shot out, covering Sagara's broader, coarser hand with his own fine-boned one. His silver rings were cool against the hunter's flushed skin. Kenshin said, his voice no longer so composed. He sounded more honest than he had before, more human. I was only asking. Please don't leave yet.

Sagara looked down at the slim redhead. As he did so, the lights flashed bright, and he caught sight of Kenshin's eyes for the first time. They were a stunning violet color, and, at the moment, they expressed what seemed to be heartfelt sympathy.

I'm sorry I offended you, Kenshin said. Please don't go.

The dark-haired man let out a sigh, and sat down again. There was something about the younger man's demeanor that was very convincing. He felt as if, just maybe, Kenshin meant what he was saying.

I really am sorry, Kenshin said, his tone subdued. I meant it, though. It isn't fair to you, that you're betraying your beliefs. Doesn't it trouble you?

Of course it does. Sagara wouldn't help but notice that Kenshin had not moved his hand. It was not an unpleasant position to be in, really.

The youth cocked his head thoughtfully. Then why do you do it?

'Cause it's the right thing to do, I guess, Sagara replied. For the greater good. The other guys . . . They're wrong.

Do you care about all the people in the free world, Sanosuke? Do they care about you, those people in free cities, who can go wherever they want, who are

Does it matter.

Why wouldn't it? Kenshin asked. You shouldn't have to be a martyr for their sake.

Sagara rolled his eyes. I liked you better when I was threatening to leave.

A genuine smile crossed the redhead's lips. You can't deny that I make a valid point.

Maybe you do, Sagara said. I'm willing to agree to that much. His expression darkened. But it's a damn selfish one.

Kenshin nodded, and he seemed pleased by this accusation. Yes, you're very right.

The two fell silent for a time. The music throbbed around them, the noise of the dancers swelling beneath it. Kenshin took another sip from his drink, and Sagara watched his face as it was distorted and tinted by the light patterns. Presently, Sagara felt Kenshin's hand lift, and he looked down. Kenshin traced his cool fingers over the man's knuckles and the backs of his hands. Sagara looked back up, catching the redhead's eye.

Kenshin smiled slightly. Dance with me?

Sagara studied his expression for a moment. Then he stood, taking Kenshin's hand.



It was near sunrise when Sagara finally left the Aoi, Kenshin's taste on his lips. The Old Strip District looked sad in the dim light of very early morning. The buildings were flimsy, gun-shot riddled structures. The pavement was cracked, blasted apart, or generally just dirty.

Sagara, however, was paying little attention to the city around him. His mind was working at top speed, trying to sort things out. Kenshin - he was . . . Well, he was devastatingly beautiful, for one. But, more importantly, he was obviously a member of a hard-core underground group. And what was worse, Kenshin's associates' seemed very interested in having Sagara, himself, under their thumb.

Kenshin seemed to know what Sagara was up to, seemed to know most of his personal history, or at least enough to fake the rest. It was disturbing. Sagara did not share his story with people. He knew there had to be official documentation about his family, about himself and his brother. That Chief Saito had access to information about him was not surprising. But if Kenshin really was with some contraband group, then it was a testament to their strength and organization that they had the same information as did the Chief of Police.

As far as the offer itself went, Sagara was entirely uninterested. He couldn't deny that he didn't always agree with the Administration, couldn't even say that liked Tokyo Haven's police force. But, as much as he pretended to be killing vampires for the money, or for the benefits, those reasons were secondary. What he'd said to Kenshin in the Aoi was true. He did think working against the Gentleman was the right thing to do, even if people in the free cities never even knew he existed. Why? Because - The Gentleman was wrong.


Notes:
Well - This was a long chapter. And it didn't quite turn out the way I thought it would, but I'm also rather pleased with it. Anyhoo.
I think you'll probably get to learn more about Sano in coming chapters. Hm.
FarStrider (and any others who caught my stupidity) - OK, the deal was that the vampires faked Arai's death in the explosion, pretty much, and Sohjiro killed him later, in the pool. That was badly explained, I know. Originally, Cho was supposed express doubts about his death, and badmouth the vampires a bit more . . . But - he didn't. So. I apologize. A lot.
One more note - Gracious thanks to Miss Clarus-sempai-sama-dono for her kind editing, once again. *Hugs Clarus.*
Um . . . Review . . . Please? ::Makes like a cute little kitten.::

! SnM