Author: Mirrordance
E-mail: mirror_dance@hotmail.com
Title: Illusions
Type: One-shot, stand-alone sequel to "Carnival"
Warnings: angst, language
Spoilers: with references to entire series
Teaser: Weiß has been captured. Ken betrays Kritiker to save them
Keywords: Crawford, Ken, Yoji, Manx, angst
"Illusions"
A WKff by Mirrordance
don't own anybody…
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You
had this look that of an angel
it was such a bad disguise
did you think for second I would not realize?
- "Somewhere in the Middle"
by Dishwalla
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Ken used to like the rain.
There was a certain justice in its indiscriminate fall from the gray skies. He could stand under its tingling embrace for hours on end. Just him and the rain.
He thought, that some aspect of human character always felt kindred with the droplets of water from the sky. It always means a certain way to a certain person.
The rain had always been cold, refreshingly so. Now… well, he supposed it all simply depends on one's frame of mind. It's colder than ever, falling furiously.
They no longer embraced him. The strings of water assaulted him like slivers and threads from the fingers of God, trying to mend the world and cleanse it.
More than once has he looked at his bare forearms, just to see if there were trails of blood on them; the rain had hurt that much, felt as if it had fallen that hard.
He ran through the storm, defying it. He just ran and ran and ran, but there was no escape. The only foreseeable end was the eventual arrival at his goal.
Ken stopped by the door of the house, lungs burning. He stood there for no more than two seconds, trying to catch his breath, before the owner opened it for him. Ken never even had to knock, or ring the bell. He knew Ken would come, just as Ken expected he would.
For the first time, Ken started to question why he was here. Ken started to question his judgment, why Ken had thought of him at this point in Ken's life. Of why Ken had thought that he would help him.
For the first time, Ken felt shame for his weakness and his helplessness, standing out in the rain. Shivering, whimpering.
For the first time today, Ken thanked the rain. At least, the wet streaks had hidden the tears that his eyes had shed. But it was a useless courtesy of Fate; somehow, Ken knew that he could tell Ken had cried.
He stepped back politely and led Ken inside.
Ken heard the satisfying click of the door as Brad Crawford closed it. The moment he had, Ken turned on him and trained his gun to the back of Brad's head. A gun… it was almost funny how much Ken wanted to wash his hands of all this. If he didn't use his trademark bugnuks, maybe it wouldn't be him at all… But Brad didn't look daunted at all, as he slowly faced his attacker.
"After all this time," Brad
said, "this is a little pretentious, don't you think?"
Ken disregarded his comment,
focusing on trying to steady his shaking hands.
"You knew I was going to come.
You have that advantage. But I... I don't know what you plan to do about it. This makes it fair"
Brad cocked an eyebrow at him. Arrogant sonofabitch. But he held his ground, and held Ken's stare.
"You helped me once," Ken said, and Ken could hear his own voice shaking, "And goddamnitt, you'll help me again."
"You could try asking nicely"
"I don't have the fucking time!"
Silence followed after that. Ken hated it that he sounded so desperate. But there were certain things, like pride, that one had to sacrifice when it came to the matter of the life and death of friends.
"Keep the gun," Brad said flatly, pushing past Ken to the living room of his house, "I'll do what you want."
The living room was spacious, just like the rest of the house, for a man living alone. And, it was painfully neat for the average bachelor. Then again, nothing about the man Ken had come to seek out was average.
Even in a pair of navy slacks and a crisp polo with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, Crawford managed to emanate a sense of power. And danger. Ken wouldn't, and couldn't afford to ever let himself forget that Brad had been his enemy, once. Or twice. Or thrice. Or several more other times than he cared to count.
Right now, the only things Ken cared for were that: first, Brad had the gift to see the future. And second, Brad helped him. Just Once before. But it had been enough for him to see that there was something in Brad that hadn't been completely what he had first thought.
They sat across from each other. Ken was soaking the classy couch, but Brad didn't seem to give a damn. About the couch, that is. Earlier Brad had handed Ken a towel which he decided to ignore; he felt imposing enough already, barging into Brad's house, seeking his help, then pulling a gun on him too.
"What happened?" Brad asked.
"You can see the future," Ken replied, sounding more bitter than he wanted, "I think you know damn well what happened. You probably knew it before I did"
"Maybe my whole life doesn't revolve around you, Weiß," Brad said to Ken's chagrin. But then on second thought, it also sounded like a lie.
"I'm not having this conversation with you," Ken tells him wearily, deciding that if Brad wanted to hear him say what had happened, he would save time and just get it the hell over with.
"There was a mission," Ken said, a bitter edge in his voice. He was so tired, and so cold, and so angry. "My friends. I… I lost them."
"Not in the sense that they died," said Crawford, his eyes obtaining a little abstract glint, as if he was looking at something only he saw.
Ken shook his head. No. They didn't die. But would it have been better if they had…? He shook the thought away. No. As long as they were alive, something could be done. As long as they were alive, it wasn't the end.
"They were captured," Ken said, trying to calm down, "We all were, actually, except… they let me go. They want me to give them Kritiker on a goddamn silver plate. Kritiker in exchange for the lives of the rest of Weiß."
Ken watched Brad's face. He frowned.
"I wouldn't do it if I were you."
"Is that based on logic or premonition?" asked Ken, his brows creasing.
"Both," Brad answered coolly.
Ken stared at him. "If I did what they asked, something terrible would happen."
Brad shrugged. "I have… visions. And feelings based on these visions. That's how I can tell the future. But I don't see it as if I've lived it. And I can't tell you exactly how it will happen, or for a certainty that it will. It might still even change. Anything you do today could affect how it all comes down in the end. Then again, maybe anything you do today, even finding out about a future you can change, is part of your true fate, everything leading up to the end destined you by… whichever powers rule over us. It's all pretty philosophical."
Ken rubbed his eyes. Brad was just talking and talking…
"Actually," Ken said with a sigh that seemed to draw all the life out of him; this was it, this was the end of yet another life, the beginning of yet another. "It's practically a given that I would give them what they wanted. No matter the consequences. What I would want to know, is if they would hold true to their end of the bargain. Are my friends still alive? And if they were, if I gave them Kritiker, would they be set free?"
Brad rubbed his chin in thought. It was interesting, indeed. This young traitor, who himself seems to have been cheated by fate. The last time Brad had a run-in with Ken Hidaka of Weiß, the youth had already been through nightmare after nightmare, and yet kept a shine in his fiery eyes. His skin had a beautiful flush, his mind consumed by a passion. Now… he just looked tired. Body and soul tired. He was pale, and drawn, he was much thinner, with his eyes clouded, rimmed in gray. He wore clothes stained with dark-yellow spots of blood which had probably, partly been washed by the rain. He seemed to be wearing the same clothes he had on since that fateful mission he had spoken of.
"How long ago was this mission?" Brad asked, even as he thought about how this life has changed them, how this life was the slowest death, killing their passions one by one…
Ken was wavering. He rubbed at his eyes some more. His voice shook as he answered. "I don't know. Two days.
Three. Maybe four. I don't
know. Does it matter?"
"Where were you all this time?"
asked Brad.
"They kept me for awhile," answered Ken,
"I don't know for how long. It was
dark. I was alone. Then they told me about our deal. I said Yes. They let me go, and I looked for you."
Brad stared at Ken. "If you hold up your end of the deal, they
will keep theirs, and your friends will be free. But if you betray Kritiker,
you've never seen the kind of hell it would bring down on you."
Ken nodded. Brad could see the decision in his eyes. But the decision had been there, even before
Ken had sought him out.
"Is there no other alternative?" Brad asked.
"I can storm there on my own," said Ken,
laughing harshly, "except I don't know where they are, even if I don't have any
qualms taking on an entire army"
"Seek help from Kritiker?"
Brad suggested.
"They don't negotiate," said Ken, "Nor rescue. It's policy, under the logic that we are aware of the risks entailed by the job. It's a bullshit hands-free Pontius Pilate thing. And Kritiker doesn't bend for anybody."
"You will raise hell by your decision," Brad reminded him.
Ken got to his feet, wavered a little, but recovered by grabbing the arm of the sofa. Brad pretended not to see, to let the other man keep his pride.
"What's new, eh?" Ken chuckled bitterly, the harsh cackle of it moving to become a deep, paralyzing coughing fit. His lungs were burning, and the air felt so thin… He struggled for breath, wheezed as his lungs protested. His vision turned, and narrowed, and dimmed.
As he coughed, Crawford made his way to his side, knowing what would come next, and caught him cleanly before he hit the floor in an unconscious heap. Crawford picked him up with ease—he was amazingly light, and almost disconcertingly frail—and laid him on the couch.
He jerked awake, some time much later that same evening. The rain was still pouring outside, and he was lying on Crawford's couch, still in his mission clothes, sweating from two layers of blankets. All the lights were closed, save for a dim yellow lamp. Crawford was on one knee by his head, cautious not to touch him, so as not to alarm him. Crawford felt he might be disoriented. And a disoriented assassin with instincts as honed as Hidaka's was a lethal one.
"Do you know where you are?" asked Crawford, his quiet voice soothing.
"I wish I could forget," Ken croaked, and cleared his throat. His mind began to deduce what had happened to him, and he was profoundly embarrassed. He felt the heat on his cheeks, and he made a move to sit up.
Deliberately slowing his movements—Crawford didn't want Ken to mistakenly lash out at him in defense; after all, they had been enemies once—Crawford pushed him back down with one hand to his chest and put another to his forehead.
"Your fever has already broken," said Crawford, "But you need to rest, or you will get a relapse. And a relapse can be much more dangerous. You also need to eat. I was going to feed you except I feared you wouldn't be strong enough to hold it. If you don't eat, you would need an IV soon. How long since…?"
Ken shook his head. "I don't know. Since before the mission."
Crawford frowned in
disapproval. "Well I don't know how to
cook. But I called in some deliveries
some minutes ago. It's cold now, but I
didn't think you would be choosy."
He was right. Ken had devoured what had been put in his
way. The food seemed to give him a
renewed strength, especially when Crawford brought out the only thing he had
from inside his certifiable- bachelor's-refrigerator: ice cream.
When eating had been out of the way, and Ken could no longer use as his guise for not making conversation the fact that his mouth was full, he stared at Crawford, who was looking back at him.
"Why?" Ken asked, plainly, simply. Why do you help me? Why should you give a damn? Why you, why me…
"I'm drawn to you," Crawford asked, just as simply, without a thought, "You asked about your future. Now let me tell you about mine. I don't know why. But there is something about you, and my part in your life, that my visions say would complete me somehow. Then, when you had come to me at the Carnival, as now. Only before it was I who sought peace and found you. Now it is you who seek peace and found me. Maybe after this, the circle would end. And we would both find what we are looking for. Get what we both want."
Ken wondered about that quietly for awhile, before standing up from the couch and steadying himself. "I'd best be going."
Crawford nodded in understanding, as he walked Ken to the door and silently forced an umbrella his way.
Ken took it, hesitant, shy, but profoundly grateful. "Thank you," he said softly, giving Crawford a ghost of a smile.
"I'll see you soon," Crawford said coolly, making Ken wonder, the man being a pre-cognitive, if he said it just to be polite, or if he was already telling the future.
She would put up a fight, he knew.
As far as Kritiker was concerned, Weiß was dead. As a matter of fact, the flower shop has been closed for days now, and Ken felt that a new set of replacements was soon to be on the way. He preferred it that they did not know Weiß was alive, or specifically that he was let go. It gave him more freedom to do what it was he intended to do.
There was no way that he, although computer literate, could do an Omi-thing and steal Kritiker's files. He doubted if even Omi could pull it off unscathed. Much less him. But there was one other source of Kritiker's secrets that didn't involve electronics at all. She had killer legs, a beautiful face and piercing eyes.
Manx.
Secretive as the night, stealthy as its ghosts, Ken broke into the shop basement and stole one of few gadgets he did know how to use: a tracer.
All of Weiß's communication links had tracers. And it would have been extremely helpful for Ken to find out where his friends were being kept right now, if only the goons from that last mission hadn't grabbed and disposed of their commlinks.
So Ken dismantled one commlink, took the tiny tracing chip, and stuffed it inside a stick of bubble gum. Then he put it in his pocket, and waited for her to come.
And true enough, she did.
Ken thought that perhaps Manx would come around some time eventually, to check if any of Weiß have returned. And indeed, one of Kritiker's wayward sons was back.
She stood by the door inside the darkened shop, and Ken grabbed her by the arm and pinned her to the floor.
"Siberian--!" she exclaimed, her eyes puzzled, even as her body struggled. She was strong, but he was stronger. She was skilled, but he was better. She was fighting for her life, and he was fighting for the lives of his friends.
"This doesn't have to hurt," Ken said with gritted teeth as he pressed her harder to the floor.
"You're crazy!" she hissed, not giving up, even though she knew for certain that eventually, she would lose.
He straddled her back, one hand pinning her arms, the other holding her by the hair and pressing her head to the floor.
"Stop moving, Manx," he said darkly, "shut up and do what I tell you, and we'll both get out of this alive."
She stopped moving. It always had been in her to find out the truth. And no matter how much pissed at and afraid of Siberian she was at that moment, she listened.
Ken's heart wrenched at the thought of this betrayal. But he would do everything he could to end up winning this round with his anguished fate.
"I need Kritiker information," Ken said.
"Over my dead body," replied Manx flatly.
"I thought you'd say that," said Ken, "they would never be able to break you. But they will keep you alive, and then I can find you."
"Who are they?" asked Manx.
"They have Weiß," replied Ken, "and I'm supposed to give them Kritiker in exchange. You are Kritiker, Manx, more than anyone or anything else. Your head, your heart… it's better than any sort of database they can find. You are the key, and you are the rope that holds it all together."
"And I will be your sacrifice," she said coldly, "I will get you, Hidaka, if I get out of this alive. You know that, don't you? I will get you, I promise I will. You'd better wish I die at their hands."
He unwrapped the gum with one hand as he held her with the other. He stuffed the gum in her protesting mouth.
"Eat it," he growled, and when she finally did, he put a hand to a pressure point in her neck to make her dizzy and to knock her out.
"I'll come back for you," he vowed,
"remember my promise."
"And remember mine," she murmured,
collapsing against him.
It was two nights later, that Ken was thinking about the layout of the enemy's HQ, which he had memorized, and glanced at the mini-computer he was going to bring that was tracking where Manx was.
He put on his mission clothes, stifled the cough that had been plaguing him for days now. Crawford had been right about that relapse. He had wanted to be stronger by the time he had to rescue Manx, but he couldn't afford to wait any more…
He breathed shakily, but the cough would not be suppressed, and it released itself in a hollow, dry hack that hurt his lungs and abdominals.
He hoped he wouldn't give the flu to any of his friends, who were themselves recuperating. The enemies who had captured the three made sure that, once reunited, Weiß would not be able to take up arms against them anytime soon. These past two days, it was Ken who had hauled them all the way back home to the shop, prepared their meals, and made messy bandages for their wounds; it hadn't been his forte. He checked them periodically, spent a sleepless night stressing about Ran, who sustained the worst of the injuries.
Now, Ran was peacefully asleep. Yoji and Omi were awake, as they had been that night that Ken had freed them, but more lucid now, although no one was yet to be up and about.
Ken hoped that his friends would be well enough to help him mount a mission to rescue Manx, but time was running out and he was the only one standing. Or at least, trying very hard to keep standing.
He coughed again, propped his hands against a table.
Secretly, though, he was glad that they were not yet well enough to help him. At least this way, they may never find out about the betrayal that he had bought them with. At least this way, they would never feel bad about what their lives had cost him. At least this way, when Kritiker came after him, the rest of Weiß had plausible deniability.
Steadying himself, he put on his bugnuks, clenched his fist to test the retraction, the smooth, crisp swoosh of it telling him that at least, his weapon was ready for this big battle.
Ken headed for their garage, towards his bike except he had felt that someone was watching.
His honed senses made him know precisely where to look, and sure enough, Yoji Kudou—Balinese, sat in the driver's seat of Ran's car, holding the wheel and smoking a cigarette between his teeth.
"About time," Yoji said.
"Where are you going?" asked Ken, a little irritably. Damn. This wasn't what he had in mind at all.
Yoji cocked an eyebrow at him in irony, obviously implying that HE and not Ken, should be the one asking just that.
"I've seen you mulling around," said Yoji, "saw you preparing and reviewing papers, like we do on a mission. I awoke a little, when you watched over me in my room, as you worked. You're not going to do it alone, Ken. Whatever it is. After all this time… I don't know what's going on, but I want to help you."
Ken shook his head, coughed once, "You're not well enough to help me. And it's not in your place, Yoji…"
"Let me drive you at least," insisted Yoji, "I'll be your outer perimeter. For god's sake, Ken, I won't even ask Why. I don't know what kind of a mess you're in, but I know it's big. Give me a little credit, I'm not going to let you get yourself killed."
Ken rubbed his eyes. "Christ, Yoj… Fine. But you stay in the car. No fucking funny business."
Yoji actually grinned. Ken made his way to the passenger seat, before he paused and remembered that this was Ran's car.
Reading his expression, Yoji winked at him. "It's as if we have him with us, eh?"
Ken shook his head in dismay and amusement.
"You just don't want to damage YOUR car, Yoj."
"I'll tell him it was your idea."
"He won't believe you."
They drove away. Ken had missed company. And not just any. Ken had missed Weiß. Tonight… tonight Yoji had reminded him precisely Why he did what he had done. No one else may understand, but he had no doubts at all.
Getting in was easy.
What Ken had gathered from the Kritiker data from the time the mission had been first given to them to storm the compound a few minutes from the city was fixed to perfection, blended with his first-hand knowledge of the place from the time of his capture and when he had given up Manx.
But Manx had been the main attraction here; she was a treasure to them, their most important prisoner. Guarded like a queen. Ken could not help but encounter the enemy, in a constant drove. There was no other way to do it stealthily, and he took them head-on.
By the time he was done, bloodied bodies littered the ground which seemed flooded with blood. It was impossible that in the midst of this melee no one had the time to make a call for reinforcements; there had been so many of them and just one of him.
He had precious little time.
Drawing in his strength, snapping at his claws to gain momentum, he headed straight for the lock of the steel door, and pulled back after he had hit it. Detracting his claws, he opened the door and peered inside.
He knew it would be bad, he kept telling himself that he was supposed to know it would be bad, but he never thought he would find her like this.
Unconscious in the corner, her body curled up in a loose ball of tattered clothes, and her skin a mass of blacks, blues, greens and reds.
Blinking at the tears in his eyes, he hardened his heart. He was still in a mission, and both their lives depended on how strong he was. Mentally and physically. Mentally he has long since been wavering, and physically, his body was already protesting to the strain. Adrenaline was keeping him going, but his illness was quickly catching up.
He had precious little time, in more ways than one.
He checked her vitals. She too, was running out of time.
He picked her up; she was light-- and taking a deep breath, he just ran himself to the ground, trying to get out of there.
Ken could feel them at his heels. Not in a physical sense, but he could feel the pressure mount as time progressed, and it seemed forever until he rounded a corner and could see the exit, at the end of a long corridor. He found Yoji standing about halfway through the corridor, apparently not holding up to his end of the deal to stay in the car.
Ken had no time to berate him, however, and the two of them ran towards the car together, and were almost to the mouth of the exit when gunshots whizzed over their heads.
Ken looked behind him at the approaching group, then wordlessly passed Manx to Yoji, and plunged himself into battle once again.
"Leave now!" Ken cried over the din of the battle, "I mean it, Balinese, I can handle this. She doesn't have time."
Yoji's eyes burned. It was not in him… it was not in him at all to desert…
"Go!" yelled Ken desperately, as he downed another man, "Go, goddamnitt, think of what she knows! GO!"
Yoji turned from Ken, and his heart shattered. But he did as Ken so desperately wanted, and ran bearing Manx towards the car. He laid her in the backseat and was about to return for battle when he felt a hand land on his shoulder.
Instinctively, his hand shot out at the stranger to protect himself. But the stranger caught his hand cleanly.
Schwarz.
God! He surely didn't need this now…
"Do as Hidaka told you," Brad Crawford said flatly.
"Are you behind all of this?" Yoji asked, gritting his teeth.
"No," replied Crawford, "You don't have time. He's keeping your back clean. Leave now. Do as he says."
Yoji stared at him. He had no idea what mess Ken had gotten himself into. But clearly, the Schwarz man did, and it bothered him deeply.
"If you go back there," said Crawford, "you won't be able to fight as you used to. You would be a liability, Weiß. Hidaka'll look after your ass because that's the kind of man that he is. But you're going to get him killed. And then you would follow shortly, and they would get her in the end. In short, the survival of the three of you depends on whether or not you get in your goddamn car and leave."
"Why should I trust you?" Yoji asked darkly. His mind reeled. The man was a pre-cog, and he would know all of these. But they had been hardened enemies. Why should he help me now…?
"Because he did," Crawford answered, his eyes intent and as true as any Yoji had ever seen in his life…
"I don't know what's going on…" Yoji's voice shook.
"You will, eventually," said Crawford, "Now, however, you must leave. Your friend will not be alone."
Yoji jogged to the driver's seat. Then he looked at Crawford curiously through the window.
"You would return for him," Yoji said, searching the other man's eyes. For the first time, Yoji saw him hesitate a little.
"He's more like me now, Weiß," said Crawford finally, "than you. He's as much ours now, as he had ever been yours. There's no going back from some sins."
Yoji felt Crawford was alluding to Manx. But he remained completely lost and confused. But no answers were forthcoming.
"Tell Ken to come back to us," Yoji said softly.
"I will," said Crawford, "but it would be up to him in the end."
"And he's sick," added Yoji hastily, "make sure he doesn't leave it alone—"
"Go now, Weiß," said Crawford, turning his back on Yoji, heading towards the building where Ken fought.
When the fight had concluded, Ken was not altogether too surprised to see Crawford standing with him.
"It's over," said Ken, huffing.
"It never is," said Crawford.
Ken covered his mouth and coughed. "Would she live?"
"Yes," said Crawford tightly, "and she will stay true to her god forsaken promise to you."
Ken wasn't surprised that he knew about that too. "Well," he said with a bitter chuckle, "I'm not a pre-cog and even I knew that. But anyway, one way or another, dead is dead."
"I wish it were that simple," said Crawford.
"Do me a favor," said Ken wryly, "don't tell me about the future."
"If we
blew this place up," said Crawford, "We can throw them off, even for just a
little while. Make them think you've
died."
"What does it matter," Ken sighed.
Silence.
The two of them walked towards the exit.
"Kudou said to tell you to come back to them," Crawford informed him flatly.
Ken waved it off. He was exhausted. And profoundly unhappy. But he wasn't fool enough not to know that he could not go back there. Because of his sins. Because of his betrayal. Because of the backlash he knew it would cause. And if Manx and Kritiker went after him, he knew his friend would side with him, and just may lose their lives. No. He couldn't go back. Not now. Or not yet. Or perhaps not ever.
He should have known, this being his life, that it would be a no-win situation. Even after everything… he still lost Weiß. He had nothing in the end.
"You know what," said Ken, "I think it would be a good idea to blow this place up and make everyone think I've died."
Crawford nodded.
Silence.
"You have nowhere to go, after," said Crawford, "but my couch… it's all right, I mean. You can crash."
Ken looked at him. He knew Crawford would offer. Just as he knew that it wasn't necessarily because Crawford was a kind man. But Crawford was a lonely man, who had suddenly found a kindred soul.
"Thank you," said Ken softly, "I accept."
Silence.
"Do you feel complete now?" asked Ken.
Crawford
shook his head. "I don't know… but I've
already figured out that there was just one way to complete life, in the sense
that I had truly wanted."
"How's that?"
Ken asked.
"You told me not to tell you the future," said Crawford cryptically.
The building blew up. Yoji told Manx, when she had regained consciousness in the hospital days later, that Ken was dead.
She felt that he certainly believed it, but she felt in the darkest, bitterest corners of her hardened heart, that she could not rest until she saw the traitor dead and buried before her very eyes.
THE END
April 5, 2003
NOTES:
"Carnival" was written two years before "Illusions" and I was never really sure
about making a sequel. Either way, "Illusions"
was eventually created, and of course, "Escape" had to follow J
