Part IV

Farfarello had his calm periods, but they came at irregular intervals, and Nagi was never quite prepared to see the madman eating dinner placidly when he entered the kitchen.

The Irishman looked up from his plate of suspiciously edible-looking food. "You going out?"

"No, why?"

"It looks like rain."

"Oh. Thanks." Nagi went through the contents of the fridge and assembled his own meal. "Where are the rest?"

"Crawford is in; Schuldig is out."

Nagi nodded absently, and was about to start on his dinner when Crawford strode—no, stormed—in. Nagi stared for a moment; Crawford seldom displayed his anger, but this... something did not bode well.

A hard glare fixed itself on him. "Are you free now, Nagi?" Something in the voice warned him that he had better be.

His peripheral vision told him that Farfarello had taken that as a cue for retreat, and did exactly that. Smart move. Nagi sighed to himself, and his stomach echoed it resignedly. "Yes, what is it?"

"Someone is going to try to hack into our network."

Nagi felt his face tighten. "Who?" They had always known that there were people trying to track Schwarz, but so far, none had gotten this close. If it was SS...

"I don't know," the older man bit out. "Now get to work."

As though he needed that reminder. He was already running down the corridor to the computer room by the time the American finished speaking, even as he uttered the automatic "Yes, Crawford."


~~~

Gaze locked to the screen, his fingers flew rapidly over the keyboard, and elation danced at the edge of his awareness. The search had been so long, every step painstakingly verified to make sure that it wasn't a step in the wrong direction—Schwarz's computer expert, whoever he was, had left enough red herrings to start a fish market—but now... it would be over soon. He could feel it.

Soon, he would locate Schwarz for good.

Distantly, he heard his two teammates' voices, but as though from far, far away...

"Don't disturb him."

"He hasn't slept or eaten for days!"

"He's surviving on what he's doing. You know how he gets when he's hot on the scent."

"He's going to hurt himself if he continues like this."

"He won't listen."

"Yeah... I know."

He pushed everything else out of his mind and concentrated on the world only he knew before him; not far now... almost in sight...

The place turned pitch black around him.

It took a moment for the implications to sink in.

"Damn!" The explosive left his mouth almost before he knew it, even as he clenched his fists, fighting against the urge to hit something, anything. Of all the times to have a power failure—

"Omi? Are you all right?"

He looked up numbly—not that it did much good; the basement had no windows, and in any case, this was night time. "Huh?"

"The whole place blacked out. Up and down the street too, as far as I can see." He could place the speaker now: Aya. "Do you want to come up?"

Adrenaline seeped out of him, slowly but surely. He had been so close... "Okay." He wanted to just curl up on the couch, but that did no good, and he knew it.

Dully, he trekked up the curving staircase, blinking at the faint light that emitted from the kitchen. The entire place was dark, and thunder was rumbling outside, warning of rain to follow, so what was that light?

Firm hands stirred him gently into the kitchen. "Ken."

The dark-headed young man looked up with a wide grin. "Good thing that I remember where we kept the candles. I'm making sandwiches. Ham or—"

"Ham would do, thanks." He was starting to feel vaguely hungry. "Do we still have cheese?"

"Bought yesterday," Ken announced cheerfully, stacking thick slices in between two chunks of bread. "Here."

"Ken-kun, that's too much; I can't finish—"

"Do you remember when you last ate?" Ken gave a fair imitation of Aya's glare. "End of discussion. Eat."

Omi gave in and took a tentative bite, chewing slowly. His mouth felt dry, after—well, goodness knows how long.

Aya poured him a glass of water without being prompted. "Go to bed after you're done, Omi. You need the rest."

"But the hacking—" He slumped into a seat. "I was getting so close—"

"I called the power supplies," the redhead informed him. "This is expected to last till morning."

He shut up and finished his sandwich in silence. Could the timely black out be something other than coincidence? On the whole, he thought not. Probably just bad luck; luck, after all, had never been Weiß's friend.

And now that the end disappeared from sight, fatigue and disappointment began to take their toll. He rose to his feet. "Guys, I'm going to sleep..."

"Yes, we can tell," Ken's voice muttered, as arms steadied him and half-guided, half-carried him to his own bedroom. His brain was complaining, softly but persistently, threatening to shut down soon anyway even if he did not lie down.

"Ken-kun, when the power comes back..." he fought drowsiness long enough to get that out, even as he more or less stumbled into bed.

"I'll wake you up, don't worry. I know what's at stake here."

Rain started to fall outside, accompanying him into slumber.


~~~

It was a dark and stormy night...

"Urgh!" the voice from the other side of the room groaned, even as its owner sat up with a grin. "Do you have any idea how clichéd that phrase is?"

He grinned back. "Well, it is."

"Oh, right. Spare me." Schuldig stood up and joined him by the window. "Move over. There's space for two."

"What's there to see?"

"If you're here, why shouldn't I be?"

"Fine, fine, suit yourself." He threw up his hands in exaggerated despair. He didn't really mind, of course. They both knew it. They both knew that they knew it. They both knew that they knew that—but this could go on forever. The gist of it was, they were comfortable with each other, in a way that Youji would scarcely have imagined possible with anyone, let alone a member of Schwarz.

Except... he no longer associated Schuldig with that.

Their truce had lasted for close to a month now, and they often hung out together. At their outdoors spot during daytime meetings, and the occasional night meeting—like tonight—at his old office. Asuka, Youji felt, would not have minded.

And he was gradually growing to know the German better; they talked about anything, from popular films to news, from the weather to choice restaurants in town. Stuff that he had never talked about with anyone, not because they were secrets—they were not—but because they were so... irrelevant. Random, light, without any bearing on the seriousness of an assassin's existence.

But the very relationship between Schuldig and himself was separate from that more solemn, tangible life, so why not? He had never felt this comfortable before, when he could simply say anything that came to mind and know for sure that he would not be judged in any way. Now, with this young man who chose to advertise his guilt to the whole world... In his own mind, he already considered Schuldig a friend.

"By the way, when do you have to get back?" Schuldig was leaning out as he spoke, arm outstretched to catch the raindrops.

"I should probably call soon. And you?"

The mindreader glanced back with a shrug. "They won't care."

"They won't?" That was not quite the image he had formed of Schwarz from Schuldig's occasional remarks.

"Okay, maybe 'won't bother' is a more exact term." Schuldig ran a hand through his orange hair. "They would care if, say, I show up covered in blood or if I disappear without a trace for a week, but they won't bother me otherwise. We don't function that way. Besides, there's no need for worry under most circumstances." Blue eyes glanced at him. "And just a reminder, your shield is wavering."

He made a wry face and concentrated. "Better?"

"Yeah. Now keep it up."

Youji suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. How did some people manage this twenty-four hours a day? Schuldig had offered the tutoring back when their truce first began—sort of to keep their relationship on a more equal basis, perhaps—but when he agreed, he had not counted on how much concentration it took. "How long did you take to learn?"

"Faster than you're doing now—but I had a helluva lot more incentive." Schuldig did not smile. "Just keep it up. Eventually it will become part of your subconscious."

"Okay." He reinforced in his mind. Learning to shield had been an uphill fight all the way, but it was growing easier with practice now. And he appreciated the lesson—Schuldig wanted to let him have control of his own privacy, even if the mindreader had not said so in so many words—but that was the case for almost everything they had between them.

"Didn't you say you're going to call?" Schuldig reminded him.

"I guess so. Excuse me." He went out into the corridor to use his hand phone. "Done."

"What did you tell them?" Schuldig asked curiously.

"That I'll be late. It's raining hard, you know; there's a power failure on their side of the city."

"You don't plan to leave?" Schuldig's tone was almost too casual.

"What, kicking me out? Hey, wait, this is my pad. I should be the one telling you to scram."

"But you aren't." The German's face relaxed into a smirk. "So since I'm, ahem, infringing upon your hospitality anyway, are there more cookies around?"

He produced the jar from the drawer in his old desk and tossed it over. "Why do I have this feeling that we're making pigs of ourselves?"

"Hey, you can do with a few more pounds." Schuldig helped himself to the contents of the jar before passing it back.

"Oh yes, and you can't," he retorted good-naturedly, biting into a cookie. "Chicks dig lean men, not fat ones."

"You've a long way to go before you can get there, don't worry." Schuldig chuckled, then sobered. "In any case, do you dig them?"

He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Do you go for those so-called chicks?" The orange-haired young man's eyes were completely serious.

"I—" he began automatically, then stopped. Did he mean that? He wasn't so sure anymore.

And those eyes surely weren't helping.

Blue. Shouldn't blue be a cold colour? He had always associated blue with ice, but now it seemed closer to fire. Intense, burning; like flames. Suddenly 'blazing blue' didn't seem like a contradiction in terms anymore.

It was almost impossible to concentrate with these eyes staring at him, burning, or so it seemed, through him.

"Never mind," Schuldig said suddenly. "Forget that I asked."

He managed a wry smile. "Good, since I don't have the answer."

"But if you do figure it out—"

"I'll tell you. Deal?"

"Deal."


~~~

Crawford glared at the computer, momentarily wishing that he dared strike at it. But he was by no means impulsive—and thank goodness for that. Venting frustration was all very well, but it would set things back, and he could not afford that here. Time was the crucial factor now.

Time, which Nagi had bought for Schwarz.

He gritted his teeth silently, ignoring the almost foreign sensation called feelings that coursed through him. He was getting too emotional. He did not feel sorry, of course. His vision had given him as much information as it could (which was nothing more exact than the approximate region of Tokyo where Schwarz's tracker was based), and Nagi did his best with that: when it became apparent that there was not enough time to either change everything that could possibly show the way to Schwarz or even hack into the city's power supplies, the young telekinetic had used his mental powers to sever the cables for that part of the city themselves. No one was at fault here; why should he blame himself that the boy collapsed along with the black out he caused?

Concentrate on the job at hand, damn it.

Nagi was the residential technology whiz, but Crawford was the one who taught him the basics from day one. If anyone, he should be able to figure out how all these protections were programmed—

"Crawford." Farfarello walked into the room.

"What is it?" Sometimes he could not decide who was more irritating when it came to etiquette, Schuldig or Farfarello. The former exaggerated almost outrageously, making himself a nuisance on purpose, while the latter seriously did not care to comprehend the concept of knocking before entering. The German didn't care, and the Irishman didn't understand. Which was worse? Hard question, that.

"Nagi woke."

"Oh." He had told Farfarello to inform him as soon as Nagi regained consciousness—but that did not mean he enjoyed being disturbed, especially when he was trying—and failing—to work the layers of protection that Nagi had set. "Anything else?"

No reply came. He glanced up to find a golden eye glaring at him sullenly. "Is that all you've to say?" the white-haired young man spat. "He passed out for you."

"Not for me; for Schwarz." Farfarello's way of seeing things was way too simple. "Now get out."

"It's not fair."

Great. It looked as though he had two kids on his hands—three if he counted Schuldig. Crawford snarled to himself as his temples began to pound. He did not need this, not now. "Get. Out."

"No."

Crawford clamped down firmly on his instinctive response, which was to punch his impossible teammate into the nearest wall, and instead stood up slowly. "I need to work, Farfarello. Leave. Now."

The madman held up a slip of paper. "Not until you take this. Nagi wants you to have it."

He took it immediately, and sat back down before the computer. Farfarello turned and left without another word. Good. He really didn't know how much more he could take. The unknown enemy, the spur-of-the-moment plan, the race against time to cover Schwarz's tracks completely before the faceless tracker's power supply returned and latched onto their information, Nagi's collapse, Farfarello's unreasonable behaviour... Right now, he wanted nothing more than to bury his head somewhere and ignore the problem—but he was the leader and he could not allow himself that respite.

Crawford shot a glance at the now empty doorway, and turned his attention to the piece of paper. Maybe he was too harsh on them. But if anything, he was only harsher on himself. Farfarello might as well live with it. He smoothened out the paper that he had unconsciously crumpled up—and stared.

On it, Nagi had written—with his hand obviously still shaking—all the directions and passwords for the protection programmes.

Crawford clenched his jaw almost instinctively, against—what? He did not know. So, of course, he ignored it.

There was, after all, no time to lose.

With the Japanese boy's note for reference, he began typing once more.

Thanks, Nagi.


~~~

"How did people survive in the old days with only candles?" Ken muttered for at least the third time. "It's not bright enough to do anything!"

Ran was relaxed—and bored—enough to offer a reply. "In the old days people sleep at night."

The soccer lover groaned and slouched further into his chair. "That's not supposed to be funny, is it?"

"It's not." He refilled their cups of tea. Omi had slept long ago, but the two of them stayed up by unspoken consent: someone ought to keep watch, given how most of the security gadgets around depended on electricity to run and were now useless. And being awake alone on a stormy night like this was hardly appealing. "If you want something to do, how about a workout?"

Ken looked a little doubtful. "Okay, I admit I've slacked a little this week, but our equipment's downstairs and we can't exactly keep watch from the basement."

"We can take turns. I'll stay here for now."

"Thanks." Ken grinned. "I'll take over you after I'm done." With that, he sauntered off, and Ran was left to contemplate the flickering flame in silence. Not that he minded, really; he liked the quiet atmosphere.

And he ought to enjoy it while he could—something told him that they would be facing off Schwarz soon. Rationally, it was not something that he should look forward to. This was Schwarz that they were trying to track and defeat, after all; how possible was it? How impossible was it? All three of them knew the odds, certainly, but some things were not decided rationally. As always, the memory of what Schwarz had done to his teammate steeled his resolve before it even began to hesitate. He would never forgive himself if he ever forgot.

But sometimes... it seemed almost as though Youji had.

Ran frowned to himself. While he was glad that Youji had been spared the memories of that traumatic experience, he did not trust the mindreader's motives. Yet whom could he discuss this with? Ken hated Schwarz with a vengeance, and Omi—well, one word should sum it up: Ouka. Sometimes he wished that Youji had never confided in him.

As though the thought summoned him, Youji's car pulled up outside. Ran got to his feet, grateful for a distraction from questions he had no answer to—questions that he doubted if anyone, including Youji himself, could answer.


~~~

"No, it's no good," Omi sighed at last, pushing himself away from the computer with a look of mingled frustration and disgust. "Every lead I've found, every trace I've followed—gone!" The last word practically exploded into the quiet room, but the youthful killer's expression did not change. Some people, Ran knew, could vent their feelings by talking or screaming about them; others could not.

Knowing that nothing he could say or do would be of much use here, Ran left the basement silently.

Ken came in with lunch just as he came up. "How's the research going?" the younger man asked, then apparently read something in his expression. "Hopeless, huh?"

"Yes."

Ken groaned. "Poor kid. I can guess how this feels like. Shouldn't we try to calm him down?"

"He is calm. That's the problem." Ran glanced at the takeaway Ken had bought. "Pizza?"

"Yeah." Everyone knew that pizza ranked high on Omi's list of favourites.

"I'll call him up."

Omi was pacing the entire basement when Ran came down again, his face an almost expressionless mask, save for the constant tightening and relaxation at the corners of his lips. Ran found himself being reminded of a bomb with an impossibly long fuse: able to explode, willing to explode, wanting to explode—but probably never would.

"Omi, lunch time."

"Later, Aya-kun. I don't feel hungry yet."

"Ken bought pizza. Come up." Ran walked over and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder.

Omi tensed, then nodded slowly. "Aya-kun?" His voice was thin and tired.

"Yes?"

"Can you tell me how to get mad?"

Under other circumstances, such a question from anyone would have seemed ridiculous, but Ran understood what Omi meant. "No, I can't." Different people had different ways of handling their feelings. His own parents had never argued, or even disagreed in their children's presence—and Ran grew up without knowing how to do that. People who met him for the first time usually tended to be surprised when he switched from complete calmness to total fury without any warning, but he could not help it. The only time his emotions ever showed was when he reached boiling point—and then the dam burst.

Unfortunately for Omi, the boy's dam would not burst forth even when he reached that point.

"Leave it. You'll feel better eventually." Not much of decent advice, that, but it came from personal experience.

"Okay." The smile that Omi gave him was wan. "I was so close..."

"That's over now. We'll find them again."

Ken had set out the food before the TV when they entered the apartment. "There's a movie in ten minutes' time. Re-run, of course, but I don't think you've seen it."

"What's the title?"

"'Home Alone'. Then there's 'Moulin Rouge' on another channel. Which do you want?"

"Not 'Moulin Rouge'," Omi said immediately, a spark of life coming back into his eyes. "Some of my classmates watched it before—half of them spent the time crying, the other half laughing their heads off. [1] Let's stick with something that is what it intends to be."

"Okay." Ken tossed up the remote control before catching it and pointing it at the TV with a flourish. "Here goes."

"Shouldn't you be more careful with electronic equipment, Ken-kun?"

"Do you realise that you're speaking to a soccer goalie?" Ken mock-scowled. "I demand satisfaction. Name your weapon."

"Fork and spoon."

"Shouldn't it be fork and knife—oh wait, that's Aya's specialty." Ken ducked as a plastic knife flew at him. "Forget that I said anything!"

"My katana is not a knife." Ran kept his face straight.

"Okay, okay!" Ken yelped as a real smile began to light up Omi's face. "Ceasefire, alright? The movie's starting."

Ran smiled to himself as the movie rolled on and the food got demolished. It looked as though Omi was all right now.

Three quarters through the movie, Omi leaned forward suddenly. "Intruders, of course!"

"What?" Ken looked blank.

"Don't you remember? Youji-kun encountered Farfarello on our mission the other time; how did he know? Where did he come from? Where did he leave?" Omi was growing more excited by the moment. "Excuse me."

There was an almost expectant silence as Omi dashed out of the living room, presumably to the basement. The two of them stared at each other over pizza leftovers for a moment.

"Well, I guess he's fine now." Ken grinned.

"Let's clear up."


~~~

Another lazy, idle afternoon. Pointless, perhaps; useless, perhaps. Whatever. Maybe he was just addicted to all the frivolous, useless things in life.

Schuldig stretched his legs out, and leaned back against his companion. They were sitting back to back now, not really talking much, just being comfortable in each other's silence.

No, not really silence, was it? Just silence from other people's thoughts. There were mundane, everyday sounds around them, sounds that he usually did not notice in his efforts to set up enough barriers to hear himself think. He tilted his head slightly, distinguishing a sound that seemed vaguely familiar, from far off. "What's that?"

"Hmm?"

"That sound. There it goes again."

"Ah, that. It's a cicada. Summer's here."

No wonder it sounded familiar. He smiled somewhat wryly to himself, remembering a brighter childhood when he used to sneak out at night to observe a cicada nymph moult into an adult. But that was a long time ago. Still... the existence he led now looked almost as bright.

Wait, the second childhood was supposed to be senility.

Oops.

He chuckled to himself, and emerald eyes glanced over in askance. "No, you don't want to know."

"Okay, I'll take your word on it." Youji reached back suddenly, resting his palm against the trunk of the tree under which shade they were sitting. "Look, here's one."

"Cicada?"

"No, its shell." The blond young man leaned closer. "I haven't seen one for a long time; used to collect them."

"Collect? For what?"

"Money. It's used in Chinese medicine."

Schuldig made a face. "Medicine? People ate this for the benefit of their health?"

"Don't ask me how it's used; I never asked." Youji shrugged. "Besides, cicadas themselves make a dish, too. Fried, I think."

"Thanks. I really needed to know that." Different cultures and all, he supposed, but he wasn't quite ready to be that open-minded. "Have you observed a cicada moulting?"

"They mostly do that at night, don't they? I've better ways to spend my time. Had, anyway." An obscure look of pain flashed across Youji's face as Schuldig turned to look at him, but it disappeared in the next moment.

So he pretended not to have seen it. He knew Youji well enough by now to know the taboo topics. "Say, do you want to watch one of these little things squeeze out of its shell? It used to be quite interesting, as I recall."

"How old were you then?" Youji sounded curious.

"Seven." His grin almost wavered. It was something that he seldom had occasion to remember, since... well, since he last led that life.

Still, he just wanted some leisure time here; there was nothing wrong with thinking about the past.

"I won't mind," Youji said softly, breaking into his reverie. "Watching life... there's something enthralling about it."

Schuldig nearly started. That sentiment described his fascination with mindreading perfectly. Youji and himself were really quite similar in some ways, weren't they? "So, how about we meet up some night next week?"

"No specific date?"

"Hey, what am I supposed to do after I find a nymph? Tell it 'hello, I want you to start wiggling at 9 pm tomorrow'?"

"Nicely put," Youji chuckled.

Off in the distance, another cicada's song began.


~~~

"Found them!" The triumphant cry echoed throughout the basement, as Omi himself grinned widely, exhilaration threatening to split his face into two. Not, of course, that anyone would have begrudged him that. The boy's loud satisfaction was understandable, considering how long the search had taken him, and how difficult each step had been.

Besides, this was Schwarz that they were after. Ken looked ready to make some war cries himself, Ran thought, not bothering to hide the feral smile that crept up his own lips. "And our next step?"

Omi became all—well, almost—business at once. "Youji-kun. We'll report our findings to Kritiker and request for the mission after that, but we've to tell Youji-kun first. We can't keep him in the dark any longer."

"True." Ran glanced at the clock. It was four-thirty in the afternoon now, and Youji had agreed to call before that if he planned to come back for dinner. "We'll talk with him tomorrow, after tonight's mission."


~~~

It was not Nagi's fault.

He drew his hand back.

It was not Nagi's fault.

He saw the flash of surprise in those dark eyes.

It was not Nagi's fault.

He saw the surprise turn into something less tangible, something that looked like resignation.

It was not Nagi's fault.

He brought his hand down.

Someone caught his hand from behind—no small feat by itself, that. He knew who it was before he sprung around to meet Schuldig's icy glare. As though anyone else sneak upon him undetected.

"And what," the German purred in a dangerously careless voice, "do you think you're doing?"

It. Was. Not. Nagi's. Fault.

Having overridden his rage for the moment, he met Schuldig's eyes, returning glare for glare. "I should think that's fairly obvious. Where have you been?"

Schuldig's eyes narrowed. "That's none of your business, Crawford. But you can't say the same. What's going on here? What do you have against Nagi?"

The mindreader must be seriously annoyed, Crawford decided; he wasn't even bothering to annoy others. Furthermore, he did need to enlighten his teammate regarding their situation. "Do you remember that someone has been tracking us?"

"That case of nipping too close to home the week before last? Of course." Schuldig did not even miss a beat. "They came close again?"

"Worse still, they found us," he bit out, not bothering to check Schuldig's expression for any changes. The day the mindreader actually showed his emotions instinctively—well, that day would never come, so forget it. "And I don't know how they managed it this time. The only redeeming thing is, Nagi traced them back to their base."

"And who are they?" Schuldig tilted his head, not offering any guesses.

"Weiß."

"Weiß?" There was a pause before Schuldig spoke again, his voice dry. "It seems as though Bombay's hacking skills are better than we've given them credit for." Crossing his arms, the German dropped into a swivelling chair and fixed him with a look that varied between unreadable and indescribable. "So, what do we do now?"

Crawford sat down as well, realising with a grim start that he had not thought that far yet. Damn. The irrational rage had sprung up as soon as Nagi reported the break-in and identity of Schwarz's tracker just now, leaving him little time for his sense to have its say. "Nagi, check out what Weiß is up to; if they're after us, we should take the initiative."

"They have a mission tonight, Crawford. I gathered that much from Bombay's pre-mission files when I traced back to Weiß's network just now."

"Print out what you've got."

"Yes, Crawford."

Schuldig's eyes were still on him when he turned his attention back to that conversation. "Lighten up, Brad, okay? Nagi doesn't deserve that kind of treatment."

He felt a surge of surprise, though he did not show it. If Schuldig thought he was harsh... perhaps he had gone a little too far. "Schwarz comes first; you know that."

"Oh yes I do—and Nagi knows it better, I think." The younger man stood up and made for the door. "Besides, has it ever occurred to you that he'd take whatever shit you dish out, even when he's personally against it? Ease it; you don't need to push him the way you push me."

"What?" Since when did Schuldig make a habit of defending others?

Schuldig paused at the doorway and looked back with what Crawford privately termed as his copyrighted smirk. "You're growing senile, Braddy-kins, if you couldn't even hear that. Call me when we leave tonight, will you? I'll be in my room."


~~~

"Cold?" Aya asked sharply as Youji shuffled in his coat, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

Youji felt like rolling his eyes, but refrained—even if Aya could not see it in the darkness, he could. "We've gone through this before, Abyssinian. I'm fine."

"If you say so." Aya, it seemed, caught the subtle message in his chosen form of address: they were on a mission.

This was a routine mission, though, as routine as killing could get. Clear target, convenient location, little chance of eyewitnesses... all Weiß had to do was to get in, kill, and get out again, plus detonate the place behind them. Ken had volunteered for the former and Omi was the natural choice for the latter—hence Aya and himself were standing sentry now.

Youji frowned to himself. Ken had seemed very eager to go on their mission tonight. He looked around again; there was no one in the general vicinity. "Abyssinian, may I ask something?"

"Yes."

"What's got into Siberian? He doesn't usually insist on being the—the one who does the killing."

There was a pause. "He's trying to work off his excessive energy."

"You're sure that it's not bloodlust?"

Another pause. "Don't go off after the mission, Balinese. We have to talk."

"You and I?"

"All of us."

He would have asked further, but at that moment, Omi's voice came over via their transmitters. "Done, guys. I've set the bomb."

Aya activated his speaker. "Then let's get out of here."

"Too late."

Assassins' reflexes, Youji decided later upon reflection, was probably the only reason why Aya and himself survived the opening round against their attackers. Had they paused to think about it, the Irish madman would have sliced up at least one where he stood.

"Schwarz!" Aya hissed.

Three members of their rival team stood there, silhouetted against the faint streetlights, their faces indistinguishable. Farfarello had retreated after the initial, failed attack, and now snickered quietly beside the other two.

The eerie silence lengthened as the two teams looked across at each other. The faint light lit upon the edges of Schuldig's unruly hair, a strip of flame outlining an otherwise dark form.

"Hello, Weiß." Schuldig's voice, almost painfully familiar, but with that merciless quality that Youji had long stopped associating with this man, spoke dryly. It was the same greeting that he had used that morning in the woods, close to a year ago.

Déjà vu, anyone?


~~~

The clock indicated one o'clock when Nagi woke up, making him wonder momentarily what roused him before his senses kicked in, reminding him that he woke of his own accord because he was no longer alone here.

"Lovely reflexes, kid, but your brain ought to catch up," a familiar voice drawled from a corner. "And shield, will you?"

"Schuldig, what are you doing here?" He steadied his mental shields before taking in his surroundings: his own room; past midnight. "What happened?"

"I knocked you out before we left to confront Weiß just now—with Crawford's silent assent, of course." The mindreader did not stir from his position, draped in shades of midnight in the darkest corner. "You should have told him that you're still recovering from the backlash of that massive power failure, you know. Otherwise he'll trust that you can handle things and push you on."

"I can." He would probably have a pounding headache for a month, but it wasn't as though he had never experienced worse backlashes before. "This concerns Schwarz." They should eliminate external threats first; he could afford to recover afterwards, not before.

"Sometimes you're so like him that I can't believe you," Schuldig muttered. "But in any case, Crawford didn't stop me. And he didn't bite off my head, either. What does that tell you?"

"You brainwashed him."

"Very funny. I happen to enjoy being alive right now." Schuldig chuckled coldly, but did not press the issue. "By the way, you haven't asked yet about our little tête-à-tête with Weiß."

"So, how did it go?"

"Begin report. We dropped by just as they finished their mission, had a somewhat direct and aggressive exchange of opinions, and then got interrupted—now why does that sound familiar?—by the explosives Bombay had set. End report. In summary: Weiß survived, but then, they've always enjoyed phenomenal luck."

"Oh." He digested that. Had he been there... But no good would come out of speculating about it now.

"Rest, kid." Schuldig moved to the door as he spoke. "You'd better recover soon—Crawford won't be very amused if I find it necessary to kick you into bed again."

"Good night." He frowned to himself after the door closed, wondering. The covert concern from his teammate wasn't really surprising—he had always sensed that Schuldig did care about Schwarz—but since when did that one not have any ulterior motives?


~~~

There was a sharp hiss of pain as the ethanol-soaked cotton dabbed into the angry wound, but the redhead was otherwise silent. Youji would have ignored noises anyway—they had bandaged one another so many times over the years that he could do it automatically, which was a good thing, considering how haywire his thoughts were right now.

The mission. The disastrous stupid damned mission.

No, he would not think about that. He would not

"Youji."

"What?"

"Three layers of bandages appear somewhat excessive."

He looked down to find that Aya's arm had already been bandaged securely, and put away the fresh roll of gauze that he had been holding. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking."

"You were. Too much thinking, I should say." Violet eyes studied him thoughtfully.

"Whatever."

Omi came over to where they were sitting. "Youji-kun, are you okay?"

"You two are the ones who got bashed up and you're enquiring after my health?" He eyed the way Omi moved, favouring one leg in pain. "Alright, kid, I'm not dumb. What do you guys want to talk about? Aya mentioned before that there's something to discuss."

"Well, yes." Omi sat down gingerly, not putting any more weight on his right foot than he could help. "Ken-kun, can you please come here?"

The soccer lover had been edging over anyway, and obeyed at once. Youji leaned forward—resting his chin in his hands, which conveniently covered half his face—and waited. He had a bad feeling about this.

"It's about Schwarz, Youji-kun."

"I figured."

"We've been trying to find them, since—" Omi trailed off, refraining from mentioning the event. "You know, that."

"'We'?" He was obviously the only one being excluded here, and he wasn't sure if he liked it. They probably just meant to be protective, but still...

Omi bit his lips, but his voice was firm when he replied. "Aya-kun, Ken-kun, and myself. Mostly searching on my part; that they know what I'm doing is about all." Large sincere eyes sought his own, obscure behind the dual protection of his hair and sunglasses. "Perhaps we should have told you from the start, but there was nothing to show for the search then. I had no clues, no traces, and absolutely no idea of how to find Schwarz. For a long time, all I did was to grasp at straws, searching a dark cellar at midnight for a devious cat that might not even be there—we didn't want to raise your hopes over nothing.

"Also, do you remember that Manx came with a mission concerning Schwarz last Christmas? You reacted strongly, Youji-kun, and in any case the lead was gone when I checked later. You'd get over what they did eventually, we all believed that and still do, so I kept up the search, and earlier today, I located them. Their current safe house, the contacts they keep, their frequent sources of income, and so on—enough relevant information that I'm confident to say: even if they erase everything that led me to them now, they can't slip away again. We were going to tell you after tonight's mission, Youji-kun; let you know that we'll be there with you whenever you're ready to confront Schwarz."

"What if I'm not ready?" His voice sounded hollow to his own ears.

"We'd wait. And meanwhile, I'd keep Schwarz in sight. I won't let them disappear again."

"You didn't expect them to show up tonight?"

Omi shook his head. "The only logical explanation I can think of is that somehow, they became aware of my discovery. They've been lying low all this while, so I doubt that they just want to attack out of the blue for nothing—Farfarello would and Schuldig might, but the other two seem to be more calculative. Which is why," the strategist of Weiß concluded, "we can't wait any longer. We had planned on fighting them on our own terms, when you're ready—but they are forcing our hand. I believe that they are out to eliminate, and we can't afford for them to call the shots."

He stayed motionless throughout Omi's talk, not sure of what he might do if he gave his body any rein at all. Somehow, he felt dead inside, as though caught up in some post-war shock. And, in a way, he was.

Cynically speaking, though, he should have expected this reality check long ago. If he hadn't been giddy from the heady feel of his bizarre friendship with Schuldig, he would have.

The warm, lazy afternoons, talking and joking together under a clear blue sky, laughing amidst grassy hills that rolled gently all the way to a sun-lit, dazzlingly bright sea...

But they were creatures of the night, both of them.

In this underworld to which they both belonged, body and soul, they could only be enemies, on teams that would never view each other as anything but representatives of everything it was against.

Even if he claimed that he wasn't ready, what good would it do? The situation had changed when Schwarz took an active role tonight—Weiß, as Omi had pointed out, could no longer afford to wait for him to be ready. What would probably happen in that case? His friends wouldn't force him to fight alongside them, and they were hardly adequate against a full team of Schwarz. Just look at what three members of that team managed to inflict on a full Weiß tonight—and they would probably have had a worse time if not for the bombs that broke up the fight. His friends—his only friends for years—his family... No, he could not leave them to that fate.

And that left... that.

Their eyes were all on him when he lifted his eyes, not actively demanding, but the pressure was there: they were willing to accept any answer he might give, and that in itself left him little choice.

He did not try to grin. It would look fake, and he was trying to project assurance here.

"Count me in. I'm ready."


~~~

It was full moon tonight. If he drew his curtains apart, he would see the place bathed in clear moonlight. It was hard to appreciate the moon's relatively feeble glow in a city, but Asuka had once told him that in rural area, moonlight made a huge difference. Heck. He left the curtains alone. His room was fine as it was—full of dark shadows. The sky out there was too clear.

And Youji resented that.

Rain would be more appropriate, even if it leaned a little heavily on the melodramatic side. It, he privately felt, should not be a fine day. Or night. Or whatever.

Two days since the dratted mission, and he had not left Weiß's apartment except for the flower shop downstairs. He had had the morning shift today, and a week ago, that would have meant he would be visiting their spot in the afternoon. A week ago.

He stayed in and went through an entire pack of cigarettes.

After dinner, he had returned to his room, but did not smoke again—he had run out of them. He had been gradually weaning himself from these coffin nails lately; there was only that one pack in the house, expected to last him for a month, not one afternoon. And, he noted, the clear sunny day had been succeeded by the equally clear, cloudless night. Unfair. It should rain.

His hand phone rang, and it took him a few moments to realise it. Youji picked it up. "Hello?"

The reply took so long to come that he was about to switch the phone off, attributing it to some prank, then—

"Youji?" Schuldig's voice asked dully. "Is that you?"

It was a good thing that mobile phones did not break easily, because he would have reduced his to bits if he could.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Schuldig?"

"You said you'd be interested to see a nymph moult."

"Yes."

"I found one. Our old spot. I'll be waiting."

"I will be there."

As though in a dream, he saw himself stride out of the apartment, giving Ken and Aya casual nods as he passed them in the corridor, leaning over the sofa to rustle Omi's hair on the way to the door, and—finally—drive off into the night.

He had no memories of how he drove there, but he was switching off the car's engines—having arrived—before he even realised that he had started them. He got out of the car.

Away from all but a few of those annoyingly distracting streetlights along the expressway, the moon high up in the sky cast a dreamlike sheen of silver over the entire place. Next to the overhanging tree which shade they favoured on particularly hot days, a young man stood waiting, his hands thrust into his pockets and his hair bleached pure silver. Youji slowed his approaching steps unconsciously, half-afraid that the lovely mirage would disappear dared he intrude.

But Schuldig had already heard him. A faint smile curved up those lips as the mindreader turned to face him. "Hey."

This was too ethereal to be true.

This was not the underworld.

This was not real.

This was... safe for them.

He smiled back. "Hey." A few more long strides brought them within arm's length of each other, grinning like a pair of idiots, or children indulging in some forbidden game and thrilled by the fact.

It was Schuldig who spoke first. "The nymph's there; started just before you came. Here, I brought a torchlight."

They knelt down side by side next to the tree's trunk, and Schuldig switched on the torch. Sure enough, a nymph, or its shell—what was the correct term when the matured cicada had not separated from its nymph shell yet, anyway?—was clinging tightly to the bark, a lengthening crack on its back. "How does it stay here?" he whispered.

"Honestly? I don't know," the German whispered back. "But I guess it has to in order to survive, so evolution equipped it with whatever it is. The moulting takes one hour, at least, maybe two. If the shell doesn't cling tight, everything would plummet to the ground the moment it tries to wiggle out."

"How do you know all this?"

"Interest." Schuldig chuckled suddenly. "Can you believe that I used to want to work in the zoo? I liked animals."

"You? Zoo?" He wanted to laugh, but settled for a few quiet snickers. Nothing ought to break the magical stillness of outdoors at night, and that included loud noises.

"Hard to believe, I know."

They turned their attention back to the tiny creature. It was fascinating, in a way that watching nature programmes—even if those shows generally feature more majestic animals—could never hope to match.

Gradually, almost painstakingly, the half-transparent insect forced the opening wide enough to poke itself out, bit by bit.

"It's so white," he remarked at last, his voice hushed.

"Pearly white now, true." There was a bitter undertone to Schuldig's voice. "That will change very soon, when the exoskeleton hardens."

"I've seen enough cicadas to know that they aren't generally this colour, but I thought that it's because this one's from a different species, or something." He watched as the delicate creature, now fully emerged, perch on the shell that had, until recently, been a part of it. Quivering, vibrating with every light breeze—it never ceased to amaze him that there was life, real life and awareness, inside this petite little thing. The newly freed wings were still crumpled like so much translucent moist paper... "They look fragile; the wings, I mean."

"They'll uncurl eventually. It's not ready to fly yet." The orange-haired young man passed the torch to him. "Can you hold it? My shoulder's starting to ache."

"Sure." He busied himself soaking up the intoxicating atmosphere all around him as he steadied the torchlight. This was so peaceful. Away from strife, from their nightlife... but this was not real. Maybe that was why he dared to be what he was.

"By the way, do you know where these nymphs stay before they crawl out?"

"Underground, is it? I know that tunnels in the soil are sure signs that cicadas are moulting nearby."

"True, as far as that goes. Cicada eggs are usually stuffed somewhere on a tree, and tiny nymphs will touch down when they grow a bit, then begin digging into the ground immediately." Schuldig brushed aside a stray strand of his own hair. "The nymph will stay there for a good while—longest I've heard so far is seventeen years. Then it digs itself out, which forms the tunnels you've observed before. After that it moults, finds a mate, and produces eggs for the next generation."

"When did you major in Biology?"

"I read up when I was bored. Bio is about as far from my life as possible." Schuldig shrugged. "What do you do when you have the time? And I don't mean women."

"I wasn't going to say that anyway." Women. How much interest did he really have there? After Asuka, he had never allowed any of them to get close—and even in Asuka's case, he wasn't sure. Love? Comradeship? Guilt? Blood debt? Whatever... that was over and done with. "I read detective fiction; read a lot during my PI days—Asuka and I used to have mock-debates on that. She thought Sherlock Holmes is the definitive detective, and I prefer Agatha Christie's longer novels. Maybe that's why she read Conan and I stuck with Kodachi—even if the latter's drawing style sucks." [2]

"Good. If you liked Kodachi for its art quality, I would really wonder about your taste."

"Oi! I like myself, and that's the epitome of good taste in Kudou Youji's dictionary. Besides, I like you, so if my taste is lousy, what are you?"

It was meant to be a joke, but Schuldig did not smile, and his own faded after a moment of strained silence.

"Why?" Schuldig sighed suddenly. "Why you? And why now?"

The last lingering traces of his grin died. "I don't know," he whispered into the stiflingly hushed night air. "Schuldig, do you remember that I said I'll tell you after I decide whether I'm really hetero or whatever?"

The Caucasian young man shrank back. "No, cancel that deal. Please." Words nearly tumbled over one another in their effort to rush out. "You can't retract what you say."

He had began that on a sudden impulse anyway. "I know." Of course he knew, rationally, that he could not say some things out aloud.

Screw rationality.

Still holding the torchlight, he examined the cicada. "Great bio expert, enlighten me on this. How long does a cicada live after it moults?"

"A month, perhaps. Shorter if it moults late." Schuldig leaned over and plucked the cicada onto his own hand. The creature trembled, but made no attempt to fly on still-wrinkled wings. "Cicadas can't survive winter."

"Is it worth it?"

"Is what worth what?" Schuldig raised an eyebrow.

"All that effort," he said slowly. "Years upon years of darkness, living without light except for its earliest memories, which have probably faded over the years—then it comes out into summer on earth and dies within a month? I mean, what the hell."

"At least it gets to sing before it dies." Schuldig noted wryly. "As for whether that's worth it, I don't know."

"Maybe it should have stayed underground," he mused. "If light is all but forgotten, it wouldn't know what it's missing."

"And dies a trouble-free death, instead of with the knowledge of all that it had enjoyed so briefly." Schuldig returned the cicada to the tree trunk. "The good things in life never last, do they?"

They avoided each other's eyes surreptitiously. Both were aware of the fact, but neither pointed it out.

Some things could not be said out aloud.

"At least it gets a chance to sing."

"Yeah."

They sat down on the grass, still faintly warm from the sunny day. Stars winked at them from above. Stars looked close to one another, but their courses would never cross. All of them; each in its own lonely orbit...

"Sorry about the attack."

"It's okay. The truce was only between the two of us, anyway. When our teams get involved—"

"I know. I can't quit."

"Neither can I. They need me."

They fell silent again.

He had a sudden urge to hold the other young man close, the young man who had become a friend—or, perhaps, even beyond that—to him. Just hold on, and never let go... He wanted to reach out; he almost did reach out—but he held back in time.

The closer they come, the more painful the separation.

"Which is worse? Regret about what had been, or what never happened?"

"I've no idea." Schuldig got to his feet slowly. "I have to—"

"Go back now, I know." He stood up as well. "Same here."

The Schwarz mindreader tried a smile. "Wish I could say 'take care', but it just seems too ironic."

"Yeah." Considering where and how they would next meet... "How about 'good luck'?" He held out his hand.

"That I can manage." Schuldig's hand clasped his own. "Good luck, Youji."

"Same to you."

They each backed off a few steps, then, almost in unison, turned and left. Youji did not look back and neither, he suspected, did Schuldig.


~~~

[1]: No, I've nothing against 'Moulin Rouge'. I haven't watched it myself, but three of my friends watched it together and laughed their way through, in the midst of a weeping audience. *shrugs* Go figure.

[2]: Okay, maybe I should have given them Japanese detective fiction writers as favourites, but I haven't read them myself, so... *sheepish look* Conan and Kodachi are both detective manga series that I've read. Personally, Conan's way of solving mysteries remind me of Sherlock Holmes (the kind that generally depend on some physical clue to solve things, and relatively little attention paid to the 3-Dness of the suspects' characters) while Kodachi develops the people involved in each particular drama a bit more, and tend to be waaaaay longer. Sherlock Holmes stories tend to be collections of short stories, by the way, while Agatha Christie's works are mostly full-length novels that discuss, among other things, human nature. Just my opinion, anyway. And oh yes, about Kodachi's drawing. If you don't think it sucks, you probably haven't been exposed to anything else.