Part I
The morning sun was dreary and stark, which suited his mood perfectly, as did the chilling stream with its lonely whisper as it struggled its way around the rocks. Sunshine? Forget it. Even if the mountain over there had not existed to block off all sunlight, it was way too early for any real warm rays to reach earth.
Youji tossed the stub of his cigarette away, and lit another. He smoked too much, he knew. So did everyone else. Just as everyone knew he drank too much coffee during the day, alcohol at night, and slept around way too much. Could he care less? Not now.
It was cold out here, but he was used to that. He had, after all, been out here for most of the night. He had watched the clear dark canopy of night, scattered carelessly with stars; he had also watched the pearly threads of white diffuse into that crystal clear darkness, merging into a bleakly murky shade of grey.
That reminded him of her eyes—which was no surprise, actually; everything reminded him of her in some way. From the clear bright eyes that remained only in his memory had come Neu's gaze, apathetic, emotionless, truly dead eyes.
He closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply, inhaling the deadly intoxicating smoke. Really, what was the point? The past was the past. She was dead. He had made sure of that.
All the same, it was impossible to let go.
Lifting his wrist, he stared at his watch with something akin to morbid curiosity. How did it feel, he wondered, to have the wire around your neck? To feel your oxygen supply being squeezed off, bit by inexorable bit? To feel the frenzy as your body scrambles frantically to keep up the necessary functions, then give up altogether, and shut down? To know the exact instant when consciousness clouds over, when the brain dies and awareness deserts flesh? He had long stopped counting the number of lives he had taken this way; it was pointless. All his victims start out alive and kicking—and end up as dead meat, hanging off his wire. The amount of time taken to die could be lengthened if he took his time tightening the wire, he knew, but exactly how would it feel?
On retrospection, he should have done it faster. That way, she would not have had time to gasp out her last words, the words that, in a way, killed him as he killed her.
"Youji-kun?"
Yes, he should have pulled harder...
"Youji-kun?"
He startled. His reflexes had certainly gone to sleep, as they were apt to do these days. "What is it, Omi?" His voice sounded unnatural to his own ears. Try as he might, it was impossible to summon the glib ease he had once mastered.
"Come and have breakfast."
"I'm not hungry."
"You are reducing yourself to skin and bones."
"I've always been thin. Go away."
"Not this thin. Come back."
Come back? Wasn't he too far gone for that? "Leave me alone, Omi. None of us bothers Aya when he broods."
"That's different."
"It always it."
"Youji-kun!" The kid sounded exasperated. "Are you coming or not?"
"Don't pull rank on me, Omi. You're in charge of the mission but the mission is over. We've finished the bastard last night. Let me be."
There was a long pause, then the younger boy walked away, dragging his footsteps. He was hurt, Youji could tell that.
Sorry, kid.
"He won't come," were the first words Omi said as he walked into the suite currently occupied by the rest of Weiß.
Ken sighed. "Figures."
Omi flopped into a vacant chair. "What are we to do? He's well on his way to a complete breakdown."
"Is there anything we can do?" Ran [1] asked without looking up from his task of cleaning his blade. He had been the one to deal the final blow last night.
"He doesn't even protest about missions anymore," Omi noted gloomily. "That's not Youji-kun."
"Correction: he's not doing anything the way he used to," Ken muttered. "He has always frequented bars, but never came back dead drunk as he does nowadays; he has always flirted with women, but now he's practically desperate for their company. The only stuff he hasn't started on is drug abuse."
"And that may only be a matter of time," Ran added quietly, punctuating his sentences with the whetstone. "He has started frequenting the worst bars around."
Omi blinked. "How do you know?"
"We've gotten calls to collect him when he passed out on the counter, remember? I generally take a look around. Not his usual kind of scene."
Ken grimaced. "I didn't know it was that bad." He got up and began pacing. "But what can we do?"
"Nothing, I'm afraid." Omi sighed. Let's go and get breakfast."
Ken shared the sigh and got to his feet, while Ran put away his katana. "Have you sent the mission report yet?" the latter asked.
"Not the full report. I left a message with Manx last night after we accomplished the mission, that's all. Why?"
"Can you request for Persia to let up on missions for a while? If we're going to try to get Youji back on his feet, it might be better to do so here."
"No memories of Asuka or Neu, you mean?" Omi nodded slowly. "I see what you mean... but mountain resorts don't come cheap."
"Kritiker can afford it," Ken shrugged. "Besides, Weiß is valuable to them—we're one of the few teams it has that doesn't cringe about killing—and surely Persia wouldn't want us to be one member short."
"And it's time we get a break, too," Omi agreed. "We got, what was it, two days? After confronting SS and Schwarz, you know. If we don't rest soon, Youji-kun probably won't be the only one working on a shutdown." His eyes darted momentarily to Ken. "I'll try my best with Manx."
A new set of footsteps sounded behind him. Firm, steady, not fast enough to be in a hurry or slowly enough to appear hesitant. Aya, he decided without bothering to look.
The footsteps came right up to him. "You didn't come for breakfast," Aya said quietly, placing a can of beer and a hotdog wrapped up in a paper napkin on the grassy patch beside him. Without waiting for an invitation, the red-haired young man sat down beside him.
Youji was feeling too lethargic to drive anyone away, at any rate. "Why beer?" he asked as he opened the can and took a sip.
"I didn't think you'd be in the mood for anything nutritious." Cool violet eyes lingered on the pile of cigarette stubs.
The sarcasm in that observation would have made him wince—had he cared. "I've run out of cigarettes for now."
"So I've gathered." Aya hated cigarette smoke with a vengeance, as they all knew.
He put down the beer and picked up the hotdog. "Are you going to get started, or do I have to prompt you with appropriately offending laziness? I presume you didn't come here just to offer me food."
"No, I didn't," Aya agreed.
"Then get on with the lecture. I know I wasn't up to standard last night, I put everyone else in unnecessary danger, et cetera, et cetera."
"It's not about the mission." Aya paused. "Look, Youji, this may not be the best of circumstances for a talk, but we've got to have one."
"Your point being?" He bit down hard on the hotdog.
"You are spinning out of control."
He laughed. What passed for a laugh from him nowadays, anyway. "Gimme a break. Life goes on, doesn't it?"
"Life goes on, yes, but you aren't," came the curt reply. "Let go, Youji. The past is over and done with. You won't ever heal if you hold the pain close to your heart."
He laughed again. "That's easy for you to say."
"Youji, we've all experienced pain and loss before, we've all—"
He cut off his teammate's words savagely, turning upon the momentarily surprised-looking young man. "No, you don't," he hissed. "You, least of all. Omi had to kill his own family, Ken ended his best friend's life and lost a cherished trust he had held since childhood, I've lost the only woman I've truly loved, twice, first time when she sacrificed herself to save me and second time when I killed her so that I may live—what have you lost? Yeah, you lost your family, but you got the vengeance you sought, and you got your sister back, conscious and well! You have someone to live for! What, may I ask, do I have left?" He gulped down the last dregs of the beer. "I've nothing but the past, Aya. If I let go of that, what the hell do I have left?"
Aya was silent for so long that he thought the talk was over, but then the younger man spoke again. "Perhaps you're right. I'm more fortunate in the sense that I still have my sister to live for. But I do know how it feels to kill someone you hold dear." In a softer voice he added, almost dreamily, "I trusted him..."
Youji wetted his lips. "That's before Weiß?"
"He was in the first team I joined, and he betrayed us," Aya said dryly, almost as though he was telling someone else's tale. "I only found out two years later; during the mission that led Weiß to Sendai."
"You didn't tell any of us." He remembered, with some discomfort, how tight Aya's shield had been. Nothing cracked that icy facade during those days.
"I didn't see the need to." Aya shook his head slowly, as though trying to dislodge the painful memories from the forefront of his mind. "My point is, Youji, that betrayal by someone you care for doesn't necessarily signify the end of your world. Ken has survived his."
"I'm not Ken."
"I know."
Silence crept back between them. This time, Youji knew for a fact that the talk was over. Aya had exhausted his points and so had he—but there was no conclusion to this fruitless conversation.
He stood up slowly, not wishing to add over-straining cramped muscles to the incredibly long list of foolish things he had done. "If you wish, I can talk and laugh, pretending that nothing's wrong and I'm handling everything fine, or I can continue like this. Which would you prefer?"
Aya sighed. "Your outer behaviour isn't the real problem, Youji."
"And the real problem is one that I can't solve and neither can you," Youji finished for him. "Thanks for bothering, anyway." He turned to leave, heading back to the resort.
"Where are you going?"
"To get more cigarettes."
"Anything on the news?" Schuldig asked as he entered the living room, kicking the door shut behind him. The scene that greeted him would have unnerved anyone who was not used to Schwarz. "Nagi, this is your idea of keeping Farfarello under control?"
"I make sure that there is no blood stain anywhere," the youthful-looking killer replied evenly. "As for the rest..." he trailed off with a shrug. "I think he's bored."
"Fine, fine," he backed off. Farfarello was certainly a great asset when they were on a job of any kind, but all the same, he did not care to be too near the Irish young man while wearing newly cleaned clothes. There had been occasions in the past when he underestimated the distance blood could spurt. "Crawford?"
"Nothing concerning us directly," the American said curtly.
Schuldig rolled his eyes. "I hardly think SS is going to broadcast their search on air. But what else? I think you meant more than that."
"Remember Weiß?"
How could he not? Schuldig touched the fading scar on his neck gingerly. "Of course. It has only been a month."
A month after severing ties with SS; a month of keeping a low profile and a lookout. As Crawford had pointed out—more often than necessary, in the mindreader's opinion—while Schwarz's strength was enough to handle any direct confrontations, the four of them had yet to perfect their defence system in other aspects. The leaders of SS have been toppled, but an organisation as powerful as SS had been would surely have enough manpower to seek vengeance. Hence, as of now, lying low was the wisest option.
Which explained why the four members of one of the underworld's top assassination teams were cooling their heels in a mountain cottage right now—which in turn explained Farfarello's boredom.
"What about Weiß?"
"Earlier today a dead body was found on this side of the mountain. From the identification and the method of killing, it sounded very much like Weiß's kind of job."
"The deeply-missed deceased being another 'dark beast'?" Schuldig guessed. "Amazing how far idealism can go. Which of their weapons was it, anyway?"
"It sounded like Abyssinian's nihonto." Crawford grimaced in distaste. "One'd have thought they would have progressed to something more modern by now."
"Sooner or later investigators from the police would knock on our door," he predicted.
"Kill them," Farfarello interjected suddenly.
"You have the most obvious solution as usual, Farfarello, but in this case—" he glanced at Crawford's look of annoyance, presumably directed at Weiß— "I don't think it's the best idea."
"We'll draw attention to ourselves if we kill them." The American did not bother to elaborate on that point. All knew that SS followers could hardly miss such blatant leads to Schwarz's whereabouts. "If we leave, it amounts to the same thing."
"As will my scrambling their brains like eggs," he chuckled, stretching out on the sofa comfortably. He was annoyed as hell, truth be known, but it was a matter of pride between him and Crawford in their semi-serious conflicts not to behave like the other was—and Crawford was already exhibiting his vexation. "So... that leaves cooperation?"
"It certainly seems like it," Crawford agreed sourly.
"Hey, Brad, look on the bright side. The last thing SS would expect us to be mixed in is a murder case like this where we don't stand to gain anything."
Crawford levelled a glare at him for that, but did not press the issue. The don't-call-me-Brad argument had long been worn out and nowadays was only called up when they had nothing better to argue about. "So long as we don't give ourselves away."
"Oh certainly. To all intents and purposes, we're a bunch of foreigners on holiday here to enjoy some fresh air—I assure you, I can wax eloquent about the species of rare plants found at this altitude—whatever that maybe—until the most persistent questioner's eyes glaze over."
"And such an outrageous act would convince the police." Crawford's voice was heavy with sarcasm.
"Come on, foreigners equal aliens; they don't think and behave like decent dull folks." He had read thoughts along this vein more often than he cared to count during his stay in Japan. For a country that appeared to embrace all foreign influences, it was in some ways still incredibly traditional in its attitude.
"Fine." Crawford nodded, just as the phone rang. "Hello? Yes?" A pause. "Certainly, when should we expect you?" Another pause. "That will be fine." Replacing the receiver, he turned to the rest of Schwarz. "Investigators. Coming to ask questions in half an hour's time."
"Did the chap mention the murder?"
"No."
"Great. I'll have to look surprised when he springs it on us." Schuldig sank further amidst the cushions. "I'm starting to prefer Farfarello's proposal. It has a certain direct charm in its simplicity."
Crawford sighed wearily, a sure sign that he had been pushed as far as possible within safe limits, even for his teammates. Schuldig was well aware of the instances when people outside Schwarz had irritated the American far less than this and ended up dead by obviously natural means. "Don't get started on that again," he warned. "Here's the script: we've heard the news regarding the discovery of a body on radio, and we've guessed that the police probably wants to ask regarding that. We're willing to help, but unfortunately we know nothing about it."
"Don't we?" Nagi muttered.
"If we drag in Weiß, they'll drag us in, too. And Nagi, the interview with the police investigators would probably go more smoothly if they don't see Farfarello."
"I'll see to that, Crawford."
Schuldig waited until Nagi had brought Farfarello out before turning to Crawford. "How serious exactly are SS's people?"
"Very." Crawford's shoulders sagged as he slouched forward in his armchair. "Once or twice they nearly found our trail."
Which meant that only his friend's precognition had kept them safe so far. "We really don't need this business Weiß landed us in," he noted wryly.
"It's not the best time for us," Crawford agreed, massaging his right shoulder. "SS's devotees have been pouncing on all possible and impossible leads for the last month, and they are searching everywhere. Weiß's kill certainly complicated matters."
Schuldig looked away. At that moment, there was no trace of the omnipotent all-knowing leader front that Crawford cultivated for the world; all that was left was an utterly exhausted man, tired out by his constant surveillance to keep his teammates safe.
Despite personality differences and his constant poking fun at the other's more serious outlook, Schuldig knew—as did Crawford—that they were comrades. They shared the same goal—getting free from SS—and they could depend upon each other if ever the situation called for it. To know that some jerks had caused his friend this much trouble—he felt a sudden urge to trash each and every one of the self-proclaimed white hunters.
Sure, Schwarz had clashed with Weiß before, but that was before they themselves had wrestled their freedom from SS; then, they were only to happy to let the kittens live and destroy SS's various bases of power in Japan. Except for the last fight a month ago which got disrupted by an ocean bath instead of the planned blood bath, all their encounters had been marked by mere token gestures where combat was concerned.
This time—
Joint by joint his hands clenched into fists.
"Schuldig?" He looked up at Crawford's question. The latter's eyes were on his clenched hands as he spoke again. "You're planning something." Truly, they had worked together for too long.
"I want to pay Weiß a visit."
Crawford was silent for a while. "They are currently residing at the holiday resort at the other side of the mountain." No reminders about being careful and no warnings to conceal all trails—Crawford knew he could trust him further than that. Besides, Schuldig suspected, the American probably want to send Weiß his greetings, too.
"Thanks." The grim smile that lifted his lips was shared by Crawford.
The doorbell rang.
Crawford straightened and stood up. "How many of them?"
He was already striding over to the front door. "Two. One investigator plus an assistant. They aren't feeling very suspicious; let's keep it that way."
"And afterwards?"
He grinned. It was a deliberate grin, one that bared his teeth. "Afterwards, I'm making a house call on a certain litter of kittens."
Having finally changed out of assassin gear and taxed further into his supply of cigarettes, Youji headed out again, taking care to avoid his teammates. He wanted to be alone, damn it all.
The mountain resort was sparsely populated, this not being the tourism season, and he made his way out without any interruptions. There was a small path leading from the back of the establishment and across a stream to the woods beyond, which spread up the mountain. He took the path.
It was quiet in the woods, quiet and dark. What sunlight there was had been filtered extensively by the thick canopy overhead, and the three-quarters lifeless grass spread thinly on the ground, struggling for survival. Fallen leaves cracked under his feet, making him wonder for a moment just how long ago the last rain was.
As he rambled on, his thoughts went back to the conversation just now. Omi, then Aya—and it was barely past nine o'clock. All he needed now was to scream at Ken and he would have set a record for managing to set all his teammates against him within one morning. Sure, they meant well, but knowing that did not help; it just made him feel worse for rejecting their sincere offers to help.
"Asuka."
She would have been the first to tell him to snap out of it, frankly. Well, she was not around to do that now. Youji dug out a cigarette and lit it, watching the lazy haze spiralling upwards as he exhaled slowly.
They had made a strange couple in those bygone days, by all accounts. She rash and straightforward, he with a certain savoir-faire that kept their business going smoothly; yet for all that, their working styles complemented each other almost perfectly. They were not out for big business, but they were successful for such a small agency, and, more than that, they had been happy...
The stab of pain that accompanied these faded memories was something that he had grown used to, by now. It always hurt to remember those early days, which belonged to a younger Kudou Youji, but never more so than now. The taste of contented happiness that once painted a blithe hue in his life now tasted bitter, two years down the road. Had he known happiness ever since her death? Sure, there had been moments spent with his teammates when he had laughed—and meant it—but always there was that gaping, aching emptiness where she used to be. He had sprouted the cover of a playboy, to be shed only when he drew his wire to kill... Asuka would not have approved of that, he knew. For all her raging against injustice, she did not believe in taking the law into one's own hands. Kill in the name of justice? Like hell. Weiß was essentially just a group of killers, used by Persia in his power struggle and vengeance against his own family. He had come a long way from the somewhat still idealistic youth whom Kritiker first approached two years ago.
Sometimes, when he looked at his hands, they were still stained with blood. Her blood.
"Hello, Weiß."
The voice was unexpected, breaking into his personal hell, but he was too tired to feel surprised as he turned around, coming face to face with his nemesis. "Schwarz?"
"Exactly," the young man known to the world as Schuldig replied as he launched into an attack.
"Where's Youji?" Ken asked, looking at his watch. "I haven't seen him since this morning."
"Probably off to be alone for a while," Ran replied from the experience of one who often sought solitude himself. "Let him."
Omi opened the door and entered, wearing a grin. "Manx just replied; we get one week here—where's Youji-kun?"
"Exactly what I was asking," Ken remarked with a frown. "Do you think we should go and look for him?"
"You are worried?" Ran asked.
"Not very—I mean, it's not as though he's in a suicidal frame of mind or anything, but still..." Ken made a helpless gesture. "I'm not comfortable about leaving him alone for too long."
Omi sighed. "I get what you mean. How about this: we give him another hour or so, and if he's still not back, we look for him?"
"All right."
All three lapsed back into silence until Omi mentioned the mission again. "It's just as well that our target arrived late last night. Had he registered at the counter, I dare say the police would look at this area much more closely."
"True," Ran nodded. "What's their opinion of what occurred?"
"Their current conclusion is that our target met his demise while crossing the mountain, and never reached this side." Omi had hacked into the police's base and read the preliminary report the investigators sent. "There are some mountain lodges over on the other side, but so far, nothing suspicious there either."
"That's good." Causing innocent people to fall under suspicion was something Weiß avoided where possible. "Any idea who they are?"
"Mostly folks on holiday, with a bunch of foreigners as well. Nothing much there, I should think."
The small stream appeared clean, but its coldness caused him to draw his breath sharply as he applied his soaked bandana over the large bruise on his arm, which was already turning purple. With his free hand, he touched his face lightly, almost wonderingly, feeling the flushed skin covered by a sheen of perspiration.
Had that really been him? That ferocious, snarling, all-out fighter?
All along, his fighting style—insofar as he employed one, that was: usually he left it to the more enthusiastic Farfarello—had been one dependent primarily on speed, on dodging direct blows and using all tricks to keep his opponents off-balance, at a disadvantage. It was a natural extension to his manipulative skills as a mindreader, that. He had never been one to favour the blow-for-blow, fist-against-fist kind—until today.
Maybe, Schuldig decided as he rinsed the bandana again and placed it over another bruise, because he had a lot of anger to vent—and there was something brutally satisfying about giving someone a solid pounding.
Not, he must add in all honesty, that he himself had emerged much better from it.
His wry glance went over to the unconscious member from Weiß, now passed out face down on the ground. It seemed as though he had not been the only one with a lot of pent up emotions approaching boiling point; what was Kudou Youji's problem?
A gust of wind stirred, gently lifting strands of sweat-soaked hair and cooling his still-heated skin as a self-mocking grin lifted his lips. Without any doubt, this had to be the worst fight he ever performed. What a pity that it was also the most satisfying.
By the time they had gotten rid of the police just now, his initial irritation had developed into full-blown fury—to the ones unfamiliar with Schwarz, Crawford appeared as calm and unflappable as usual; to Schuldig, it was painfully obvious how tense his friend was, knowing that a slip here could mean SS on their trail—and he had been eager for an outlet, any outlet. The fight provided exactly that. Crude and painful it might have been, but the mental relief as fists connected and neck snapped back from impact had kept him going, heedless of the blows that landed on his own body until, finally, his opponent had been knocked out.
Looking back at the fight now, he could shake his head and marvel at its stupidity, but he did feel better. He had 'let out the steam', so to speak.
But what about his opponent?
Again his gaze went over to the blond young man. From his considerable experience with human nature, he knew that Kudou had been seeking the same relief from emotional stress as himself.
In a way, Schuldig decided as he dipped his makeshift bandage into the icy stream again, he respected Weiß. These four were far from fools—the weak and the foolish could never survive the underworld as they had done—yet they persisted in their hopeless battle against the darker side of mankind's essential nature. Weiß had been in operation for years—had he been in their place, he suspected, he would have given in to disillusionment long ago. There was something strangely admirable about this quixotism of theirs—he did not share it himself, and he had certainly used it against the white hunters before, but he admired it all the same.
What had changed? The determined, deadly Balinese he had first met had little in common with this burnt out-looking young man before him. Had one white kitten, at least, begun waking up from his delusion? That would be a disappointment, actually. It would confirm his own view on human nature's inevitable eventual turn towards evil, but he would rather keep things as they stood now.
Was that a paradox? He, who had tried hardest among his teammates to crush the romantic notions in their opponents, actually preferred them to remain staunch? What a joke.
Still... Weiß stood for all that he had rejected, all the gentler, nobler aspects of life that he had turned his back on long ago. If even they gave in to the darkness around them, who else did he have to hate?
"Where do you suppose Youji-kun may be?" From far off in the distance came the young Takatori's voice. "Up or down the mountain?"
"Aya thinks it's probably up. Quieter up here, you know, with more cover. Let's look around."
Schuldig briefly contemplated staying around for another fight, then decided against it. He had exhausted the anger that had fuelled his attack in the first place—and besides, he was aching. It would not pay to let Weiß see him and Kudou together; the kittens were a protective bunch, as well as perfectly capable of putting two and two together.
The exclamations came when he was barely within earshot, well on his way back to Schwarz's side of the mountain.
"Youji!"
"Youji-kun! Are you—" The wind carried away the rest of the words. Not that he cared to listen, at any rate.
Some time later, he was back at Schwarz's residence. Nagi opened the front door for him as he reached the steps. "Crawford saw that you'd be coming back."
"How considerate."
Nagi gave him a look of mild curiosity. "You didn't kill." It was halfway between a question and a statement.
"Why should I?"
"You went to pay Weiß a call, as I understood it."
"I was venting my frustration, that's all."
One of the Japanese boy's fine eyebrows raised coolly. "Sounds more like a tantrum to me."
He gave the label some serious consideration. "Perhaps." That admission earned him a startled look from the normally reserved kid, and he responded with his trademark smirk before heading down the hallway to his own room.
"Bloody Hell!" Ken swore for the umpteenth time as he wrung the towel dry. It required no great imagination on his two teammates' part to guess that he was visualising the assaulter's face—whoever it was—in place of the dripping towel.
"Pass the antiseptic, Ken," Ran stretched out a hand from his seat next to Youji's bed, holding a piece of gauze with the other. His eyes were fixed on the other's bloodless face, alert for any sign of awareness.
If only they had started their search earlier—
Guilt welled up as he recalled the initial shock they had all felt when they came upon their missing friend, collapsed in a heap on the ground— The bleeding wounds and blue-black discolourations that bloomed liberally all over the inert body explained for themselves.
How the three of them managed to convey Youji back to Weiß's suite at the resort without being observed, Ran had no idea, but they did manage that.
The second bout of shock came when they started dressing Youji's wounds.
They had all noticed Youji's gradual wasting away ever since the Schreiend mission, but the self-proclaimed playboy had always taken care not to let them see much of his body, exchanging the tight clothes he usually favoured for looser, purposely baggy ones. This was perhaps the first time they had really seen Youji close up for a long while, and the condition of that greyish skin with that certain death-like pallor, sunken between ribs that jut out sharply, was appalling. Then, in addition to all that, had come the vicious onslaught...
"Damn the bastard," Ken muttered again, setting the basin of lukewarm water onto the bedside table with enough force to splash some out.
"We should have searched earlier," Omi whispered, his eyes downcast.
Vulnerable. The word came to Ran unbidden as he looked at his friend's tightly shut eyes. It was not a word he would normally have associated with his suave, smooth colleague, with that characteristic light-hearted banter—which just showed how far Youji had gone. Watching the slow rise and fall of his friend's shallow breathing, Ran wondered, with a painful wrench in his heart, whether they deserved even to be called friends. Friends were supposed to be there for one another; how could they have let Youji throw himself away for so long?
"The bastard who did this is going to get it," Ken bit out ferociously, as he handed a fresh pack of sterilised swabs to Omi. "Oh, if only we know who it is!"
"Schwarz—" came a hoarse whisper, though Youji's eyes remained closed, as if he was too drained to open them and parting split lips took up all the effort he could muster.
"Them?" Omi exclaimed. "They are around?" After that last encounter a month ago, they had found no trace of SS's former subordinates. Kritiker had tentatively started considering them gone for good, but they—who had actually fought with Schwarz—suspected otherwise. Still, they had had no proof either way until now. "How many of them? Any idea which direction they came from or left? Was it a planned ambush or chance encounter?"
"One—" Youji managed to squeeze out before Ran shushed him.
"Don't speak yet." He grabbed the pitcher and a glass from the nightstand, then eased his teammate up in bed while Ken rearranged the pillows to accommodate the new position. "Drink."
The battle between the concerned friend and the hardheaded tactician was obvious on Omi's face. "Youji-kun—" he began again.
The oldest member of Weiß gulped down half of the glass's contents before looking up, flashing a ghost of his old grin. "I'll live, kid." His voice was still to weak for Ran's liking, but the hollow ring to it, which had become increasingly marked ever since Neu's death, now seemed to have faded, somewhat. Perhaps, Ran reflected, the very bloodiness of the fight provided an anchor in reality for Youji. "Solitary attack, Schuldig; not sure if it's planned, but even if it was, killing me wasn't on the agenda. I didn't see him coming; was knocked out before he left."
Omi's youthful face hardened as he stood up. "Thanks, Youji-kun." With that, he walked out of the room and returned a moment later with his laptop, which he set down on a table. "Any other points for the report?" Adroit fingers flew over the keyboard rapidly.
"Don't think so."
Ran allowed his attention to be diverted by the youngest—yet most experienced—assassin among them for a moment. If any of Weiß stood a chance of being promoted above field agent status, it would be Omi. Maybe Persia—their last one—had groomed him with an eventual leadership role in mind. The boy could certainly put aside personal feelings when the situation required it, now. For all he knew, in another few years they might be working under Omi instead of with him. [2]
With a mental shrug, he turned his attention back to the present and resumed applying salve to the less severely injured areas. Nothing had been broken, as far as they had been able to ascertain, but it would probably take a good ten days before Youji could be considered for any mission, however minor, again.
The rest of the day was spent in the general vicinity of their bed-bound friend, discussing Schwarz for the most part.
"Why?" Ken muttered. "What do they hope to achieve by this?"
"Put one of us out of action?" Omi suggested, although he did not sound sure at all. "Or maybe there was no specific goal other than hurting... I mean, we did thwart their plans—insofar as we knew of them, anyway."
Ran glanced at Youji. The latter had sunken back into slumber, and his watch lay demurely on the table, where it had been since this morning. "Perhaps we should start bringing our weapons around, he observed quietly. "If the goal of all this was to get back at us, I rather doubt they'll stop at one attack."
Omi nodded. "Better safe than sorry—but how can you carry your nihonto around, even if disguised? My darts are no problem, and even Ken-kun's glove won't be terribly conspicuous until the claws come out."
"I'll stay put; someone has to guard here."
"Okay."
Towards evening, the reply from Kritiker came.
Ken was shaking with barely-suppressed rage by the time he was through reading. "Of all—"
"What did Manx say?" Ran went over. "I see."
The message was terse and impersonal: basically, Kritiker had received the information Weiß had reported, and measures would be taken to look out for Schwarz in the future.
"What about us, meanwhile?" Ken demanded at the computer screen.
"We look out for ourselves," he replied wryly.
"I'm back, minna, sorry I took so long—" Omi's voice trailed off upon sensing the tense atmosphere. "What is this?"
"Kritiker just told us it's none of their business," Ken said shortly, clearing an area on the table.
Omi sighed as he placed the takeaway food packages on the table, and flopped into a handy chair with a resigned grimace. "Can't blame them, I suppose. They have been scrambling to straighten things out, and that's no easy job; confronting SS had left everything in shambles—why else would they plan to put us on mobile in the near future?"
"Selfish chicken-livered jerks," Ken snorted.
Ran would have rolled his eyes had he thought that it would do any good. "Let's eat. Ken, please go and see if Youji's awake. Omi, did you get the disposable chopsticks?"
Someone knocked on the door.
Schuldig sighed. He knew better than to read his teammates without permission, but answering the door in the traditional method was more of a chore. "What's up?"
"Open the door." The speaker was Crawford.
Schuldig groaned to himself as he struggled into a T-shirt, then went to the door and threw it open. The American's eyebrows rose as their owner took in his appearance. "You don't look as though you want to move any time soon."
"I'll survive." He sat down somewhat gingerly. "So, what's this about?"
"Weiß."
Again? "What about them?"
"They need a lesson."
He looked across sharply. There was no trace of anger left on his friend's calm exterior, but underneath that—
His own rage, Schuldig knew, could be violent and explosive, but once spent it would be laid to rest. Crawford's was the icy kind, damned hard to arouse and damned hard to quell. He had seen past examples of Crawford's anger, which were few—but memorable. And even if he had never witnessed it before, every instinct in his body now told him that the American was well and truly furious.
"No further trouble expected from the police?" As though he actually needed to ask. Crawford would never have given his anger free rein until more urgent matters had been settled.
"Hopefully." Crawford paused. "How long would you take to be back in condition?"
"That depends on what's on the agenda."
"No direct fighting."
"Two days."
Crawford nodded. "They would be on their guard now," he murmured thoughtfully, as though to himself.
"Well, all the more fun for us, right? I assume we're talking about ambush, since fighting isn't involved."
"Yes." Glasses flashed, reflecting the evening sun that now graced the window, for a moment concealing the ruthless eyes underneath. "The one you attached today was Balinese, right?" Seeing his affirmative nod, his teammate continued. "Being the closely-knit group that they are, Weiß would probably endeavour to make sure that their injured teammate is safe."
"So it would be doubly satisfying to grab that one despite all their defences, no?" The mental image of that young man rose in his mind, and, for a moment, his smirk nearly wavered. Somehow, it was hard to suppress—what was it? Pity? Sympathy?—for the white killer who carried such emotional burdens that oblivion through pain became an attractive option...
Crawford stood up. "I'll talk this over with Nagi later. Do you have any objections to paying Weiß a visit with him in two days' time?"
"What about Farfarello?"
"Not discreet enough." The subtle message behind that remained the same as what Crawford had repeated countless times: cover all traces—SS was on the lookout for Schwarz's trail. "So, agreed?"
"Yeah."
'Smile' was not exactly an appropriate term for the facial expression that crossed the American's face, but then again, neither was anything else.
Privately, Schuldig wondered, sincerely wondered, if Kudou Youji could survive Crawford's fury.
"Schuldig?"
"Yes?"
"You... don't seem very comfortable about all this."
"Is that so?"
"You aren't relishing what's going to happen later."
"Neither are you. But hey, this is Crawford's show."
"I don't think I've ever seen him this angry."
"The strain of the last month has begun to tell."
"Who can blame him? Still, I don't think Weiß intended it for us."
"I'd have killed them long ago if they did."
"Really?"
"You see too much, kid."
"So you are uncomfortable about this. Why not tell Crawford that?"
"Would you? You yourself said that you've never seen him this made. And besides, he tends to hold grudges. There would be no living with him until he has purged this from his system. Get it over with, I say."
"But why would you feel uneasy about it? It's Weiß."
"I... I'm not very sure. Maybe because I've already spent my own anger by the time he proposed this."
"A mindreader yourself, and not sure?"
"The mind is a very delicate organ, Nagi. Feelings, thoughts, instincts, impulses... you can't reduce everything to the rational level of cause and effect, or action and reaction."
"That's what Crawford usually tries to do, isn't it?"
"He's not really succeeding, but yeah, he's trying. That pain-in-the-ass is too serious most of the time; it does him good to be called Brad once in a while—keeps things in perspective and him at a manageable level."
"He's totally changed when he's angry."
"A glimpse of the natural man."
"Do you think, well, that this method of vengeance is a little... petty?"
"Honest opinion? Yeah. It's sad, really. He tries so much to be above it all that we are not prepared for his real self—yet he's not at all a bad teammate."
"Would you rather have him show his real self more often?"
"Actually... no. I like the team dynamics fine as they are balanced now. We'll be like Weiß if we get cuddly."
"Really."
"Seriously; the way we are now is suited to the path we walk. And—switch of topic here—you've been making a great deal of my attitude tonight, what about yours?"
"I'm rather irritated at them—I can tell from Crawford's expression that it was quite a close shave—but nothing beyond that either way. Farfarello takes Crawford's side—because he doesn't like Weiß."
"Of course. His line of thought is always refreshingly short. The resort is over there, by the way. You can see the lights beyond the trees now."
"Yes, I see them."
"You aren't taking the whole thing very personally, I'd say."
"I... haven't taken anything personally since she died."
"Alright, alright, let's talk about something else, shall we?"
Ran stirred restlessly, caught in that irritating nowhere between slumber and reality. The room felt cold, but surely it shouldn't? He did not recall adjusting the air conditioner to such unholy chills—and Youji definitely could not. Why was it so cold?
The cold, it reminded him of that holiday, so long ago... Aya-chan had insisted on going far from their campsite, and, true to Murphy's Law, not bringing windbreakers assured rain... There was that blast of cool air... really, why did anyone turn it that cold? The blankets provided weren't all that thick—this wasn't winter, after all... The last thing he needed now was to catch a cold... and what if Youji was to start a fever? After everything else his friend had suffered...
C'mon, Ran, wake up... Wake up and turn the stupid air-con off...
Turning over, he buried his face against the pillow, savouring its warmth. He wanted to sleep, goddamn it. He needed to rest; keeping guard day after day was not easy.
But it's cold... Just turn up the idiotic thing...
Somewhere, a cold wind was blowing...
The air-con was really too strong...
Tired...
Cold...
Just rest...
But it's cold...
Somewhere along the way, the transition from dreamland to their hotel room had been completed, and Ran found his eyelids gradually parting, while the furniture shifted into focus. It was dim in the room, but not as dark as he recalled. Who drew the curtains? And what the hell for? It was not as if they have to get up early to open the shop...
Sitting up, he turned to glance at the window.
Against the dull dark wall hung a square tapestry of midnight blue velvet, dotted by countless tiny sequins that winked at him, twinkling as the tapestry shifted—wait, it was the curtains shifting, curtains drawn to reveal the square in between—
It took a long moment for the implications to sink into his sluggish mind, then he was up and hurrying to his friend's bed, at the other side of the room. "Youji!"
Then he stopped.
Two steps in that direction were enough to show him what he instinctively already knew.
The bed showed signs of being slept in, but now gaped emptily, its occupant whisked into thin air. Youji's blanket lay in a discarded heap on the polished floor, halfway between the window and the bed.
Ran closed his eyes, remembering that heart-wrenching moment in the hospital when he flung back the covers only to find a deep cross cut into the mattress.
Again, again, he had let down the people he wanted to protect...
He took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. Now was not the time to dwell on guilt, well deserved as it was. Grabbing the katana that lay under his pillow, he knocked on the adjoining door between this room and the next. "Omi! Ken! Open the door!" Please, don't let them be gone as well...
"Aya?" Omi's voice asked sleepily. "What time is it?" There was some scrambling, then the youngest Weiß assassin opened the door, blinking owlishly. Beyond him in the room, Ran could see Ken sitting up in bed, brushing tousled hair out of his eyes. "What's up, Aya-kun?"
"They took Youji."
Schuldig grabbed a can of beer from the fridge, tore off the tab, and chugged down half the can before he got a grip on himself. Christ, he felt sick.
"Thought you'd be here." Nagi appeared at the kitchen doorway.
"You can't stomach it yourself?" He jerked a thumb at the fridge. No one threw things at Nagi unless they enjoyed leaving a depression of the object on his own nose.
The Japanese young man took a can of coke from the fridge himself. "I don't need a refuge for that, I came for a drink."
Schuldig grinned wryly. "Poker face."
"I try." Nagi took a sip. "You can't stand watching?"
"I can, but I don't have to." He sat down on the kitchen counter, resting one foot on a high stool. "What are they doing now?"
"Rape, the last time I looked."
He nearly retched. "Now? After all the messy business of blood and what not?"
Nagi shrugged. "Crawford's leaving it to Farfarello. I don't like to say this, but he fucks like an animal anyway."
From the temporary torture chamber's direction came an inhuman shriek. He winced, and Nagi made an expression of distaste. "Finally. He certainly held out for a long time."
He nodded absently. The white assassin's endurance was something that he respected immensely, to be able to refrain from screaming for over an hour under those two.
And rape... He lifted the beer can to his lips only to find that he had already drained it. A primal assertion of the power one held over another, a show of brutal domination, a tool to humiliate and break, a taste of enforced submission... Rape was all these and more.
True, he would resort to almost any tactics to defeat his opponent, but he drew the line there—at least where Weiß was concerned. He respected these four that much as enemies.
Now, this...
"If you feel so strongly about it—" Nagi began.
He interrupted, having already picked up the rest of the sentence from Nagi's projected thoughts. "Talk to Crawford? No way, kid. One, have you ever seen him swayed by anyone else? Two, who am I to interfere? Not minding other people's business is one of our unspoken rules, and he hasn't done anything that I haven't done before. Three, I don't feel that strongly, anyway." Just uncomfortable. Just damned uncomfortable. Just sick.
Nagi's eyebrows rose at the vehement denial. "If you feel like explaining, at least make it sound convincing."
He sighed, and threw the beer can at the rubbish bin. It went in, bingo. "As I said just now, I'm not sure myself. I guess... I'm not feeling angry at Weiß anymore myself, so this appears somewhat excessive."
"Oh." Nagi opened the fridge with his powers. "Want another can?" he asked, as a second pain-filled scream echoed about the soundproof house.
"Heck, why not. Thanks."
By now the three of them had covered every inch of the room and a hefty area in its vicinity. The result was not encouraging.
"It's no good, guys," Omi sighed finally, straightening up from the fruitless task of looking for footprints.
"What about search by computer?" Ken walked over.
"What do you think I've been doing for the last two days?" Omi snapped back. "They've covered their tracks, I tell you."
"Well, they can't be far. If we spread out—"
"If we spread out we'll all be fair prey!"
"Then what else is there to do?"
"Am I supposed to have an answer to everything? Why don't you try?"
Ran let out a long breath. Tempers were short all around, and this could very well be the catalyst. "Ken, Omi." Someone had to break these two up. He did not feel up to it himself—he was certainly in no position to criticise anyone else—but there was no other person available. "They shouldn't be too far. We can stay together and cover the area."
Omi grimaced. "I guess that's the only option left... where?"
"There are some cottages on the eastern slope."
"Would they be there?" Ken's voice was a blend of doubt and frustration. "Rather blatant for a hideout."
"It wasn't as though many people would suspect." Omi fingered his darts, then returned them to his pockets. "It is possible. Might as well start there."
"Let's go, then." Ken pulled on his gloves and clenched. The sharp claws came out with a steely hiss. "Come on!"
It was nearing dawn now. The grass blades were heavy with dew, and he plucked one idly, fingering its smooth edge. There was just enough light to see his teammate, standing next to him. "They've left."
"I heard them," Nagi replied calmly. "Are we going to get on with this?"
"Of course." He stood up and stretched exaggeratedly. "Shall we go?"
Ten minutes later, they were in Weiß's suite. Nagi deposited the unconscious assassin in the same bed where they had first taken him earlier that night. "Going?"
"Go on first. I'm leaving a note for them."
"Alright."
After his teammate had left, Schuldig picked up a memo pad and a pen from the table in the room, then began scribbling. While waiting for Weiß to leave just now, he had decided on the message—as well as something else.
Leaving the note on the table, he walked over to Youji's bed. The tightly shut eyes and clenched jaw bore silent testimony to what had been inflicted. Even unconscious, he had no sanctuary from pain...
Schuldig laid his hand palm down on the bloodied forehead, and concentrated.
[1]: I don't think it's really all that confusing, but anyway, Ran is Ran in his own POV, while others think of him as Aya.
[2]: dramatic irony, I know. ^^;;
