Ken stood on the bottom step, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, and listening to the sounds that floated out of the darkened briefing room --- muttered curses and the soft tick-tack of someone typing. He couldn't help but think back to the last time he'd stood here, feeling awkward and uncomfortable about facing one of his teammates. But, then, it had been Yohji. This time, Omi was the one ensconced in the cave-like room. They hadn't spoken, other than basic, everyday pleasantries, since the night he and Yohji had picked the boy up at that coffee shop. It was like living with a stranger, instead of the teammate who had, over the years, become his closest friend, and Ken was sick of it. He was sick of the whole, damn thing --- of the bland words spoken in passing, nothing more than the common courtesy you'd extend a stranger; of the tension hanging in the air between them; of pretending nothing was wrong when this was eating him alive. So, once again, the ex-goalie found himself standing on this bottom stair, causing it to creak and squeak underneath his shifting weight, and wondering how the hell he could get past what had happened and make peace with someone who meant the world to him. Ken sighed. He wondered why he had the uncanny knack for pissing off everyone around him, and, much as he hated to, he couldn't help but wonder if, maybe, his failure to get along with Aya had more to do with his personality and stubbornness than the redhead's.
Ken shook his head, ridding himself of that thought. Maybe, he could explore it later, but, right now, all he cared about was finding some way to make peace with Omi.
"You might as well come in. I know you're there," the young blonde called. His voice was soft. It didn't sound angry, but it had an edge of tension and exhaustion to it.
For several seconds, Ken debated over whether he should just turn around and retreat up the stairs. That would be the easy thing to do, and, on some level, was the path he most desired. When it came to personal relationships, Ken had always been a fan of the path of least resistance, which is what had gotten him into this mess, in the first place. Hating Aya had been easier than getting to know the man, and, ultimately, that hatred had caused him to alienate, first, Yohji, and, now, Omi. Ken sighed as he came to the inescapable conclusion the path of least resistance wasn't going to work in this case. He'd made this mess. Now, it was time to face up to it, to face it head-on, like he did so many of his other problems. Besides, he was sick and tired of pretending there was nothing wrong between him and Omi. If it meant a screaming confrontation to clear the air, then so be it.
"Ken," Omi's disembodied voice prompted, "I know it's you. Just come the fuck in and get it over with."
Ken frowned. As always, Omi knew him better than anyone. He had a feeling the boy had known, all along, he was out here, and that Omi had let him stew for this long in order to torture him. He felt like he should be angry with the younger blonde, but Ken just didn't have it in himself to feel that way. After what had happened between them, he figured it was the least he was due at Omi's hands. The younger blonde was extending an offer of peace, and he was grateful for it. It was more than he deserved.
Ken took a deep breath and walked into the briefing room. It was dark, except for the bluish, electronic glow from the computer, which bathed Omi and his surroundings in an eerie half-light, throwing a shimmering glow over almost everything it touched. The youngest Weiss had been entrenched in this room since he had returned home, spending the past few days in the cave-like dark, with only the glow from his computer for company. Ken thought Yohji had forced the boy to take a few breaks to sleep and eat, but he was ashamed to admit he wasn't sure. He had, pretty much, avoided both his blonde teammates since that night in the coffee shop parking lot.
He paused in the doorway, staring at Omi's back. The young blonde didn't bother turning around, but, despite that, Ken couldn't help but notice how exhausted and beaten his friend looked. Now that he was taking his first, good, long look at Omi, Ken realized the strain, stress, and tension from the past several days, not to mention the time the boy had spent in captivity, were starting to take their toll. Omi's slumped shoulders and the bitter, brittle edge Ken heard to the young blonde's voice spoke volumes. As he approached from behind, Ken could see his friend's face reflected in the monitor, and he was surprised at how pale, thin, and drawn Omi looked. His skin had an ashy gray pallor to it, and deep, bruise-like circles ringed his eyes, which were dull and listless, a sharp contrast to their normal, vibrant expression. Omi had, upon arriving home, immediately showered and changed clothes. But, the ex-goalie was pretty sure the green t-shirt and grubby jeans Omi wore now were the same ones the kid had donned upon discarding his blood-soaked clothing. Omi's hair was mussed and matted, testament to the many hours he'd spent in front of this computer, as well as his frustration at running into one dead end after another in his search for Aya.
Ken coughed and glanced down at the floor, running his hand through his hair in an uncomfortable, almost embarrassed, gesture, when he realized Omi was glaring back at him through the computer monitor reflection. He hadn't realized he'd been staring.
Omi sighed, a tired, defeated sound that was uncharacteristic for the young blonde. Somehow, it made the boy seem so much older than he actually was, whereas, usually, Omi managed to retain enough cheerfulness and exuberance to seem much younger. Ken was startled at the stark contrast.
"I'm not mad at you," Omi said. Somehow, despite staring at each other reflection-to-reflection, he managed to look right through Ken's eyes and into his soul.
Ken sighed, a small puff of relief, and pulled a chair up next to Omi's. He slumped into it and leaned forward to stare at the floor, elbows resting on his knees.
"Maybe … maybe you should be," the ex-goalie replied.
His voice, although lacking the tired, bitter edge Omi's had, was so quiet it was almost lost in the soft click-clacking of the computer keys. Despite their little staring match, the boy's fingers had never ceased moving over the keyboard, finding their positions automatically from years of practice as Weiss's computer expert and chief intelligence operative. But, at Ken's words, Omi's fingers slowed, and, for a moment, paused --- just two heartbeats of uncertain silence before, once again, resuming their cadence --- telling Ken the boy was as uncomfortable and unhappy with the situation, as reluctant to broach the entire subject, and as uncertain of how to get past it as he was.
"I was," Omi said, after a few seconds of silent tapping.
"But … not any more?" Ken asked.
Omi shook his head.
Ken kept his gaze firmly fixed on the floor. He felt like the stalemate between them had ended, but he was unsure about what he should do or say. Considering his recent past history with both his teammates, as well as the unpopularity of his outspoken views on Aya's personality, the ex-goalie was terrified of doing or saying something that would, once again, open a gulf between them. Omi wasn't much help. He continued quietly tapping away at the computer, engrossed in the information flashing across his monitor. Ken couldn't help but think the young blonde had forgotten he was even present. As soon as the surly, petulant thought crossed his mind, the ex-goalie did his best to rid himself of it. He was jealous of the attention Omi was devoting to finding Aya. He knew it was selfish and ridiculous, but, all the same, the thought and feelings were there, no matter how hard he tried to stuff them down.
After several minutes of silence, broken only by the hum of the computer's hard drive and the clacking of Omi's fingers flying over the keys, Ken cleared his throat. He never had been very good with silences. He was a person who craved noise and life. Silence put him on edge, made him nervous, made him feel like he'd done something wrong.
"Yohji's still mad," Ken said. His voice was soft, barely a mumble, and he never lifted his head, instead, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor between his bare feet.
Omi shrugged in response, a gesture Ken saw out of the corner of his eye. Just as he was wondering what the boy meant by that noncommittal reply, Omi's voice broke the silence.
"Yeah, well … Yohji and Aya … they're like … you and me," Omi said. Ken looked up to find the boy, once again, staring at him through the glazed-over reflection in the computer monitor. "He'll get over it, eventually … when we find Aya," Omi continued. He paused for a moment, and then added, his voice quiet and small, sounding almost lost in the vastness of the room, "If Aya's still alive, that is."
"And … if he's not?" Ken asked. His words were slow, hesitant, as if he didn't want to know the answer, but, still, had to ask the question.
Omi shrugged again. "If he's not … I don't know," the young blonde said. "Probably he'll never get over it. It's not you he's mad at. He's mad at himself, blaming himself for what happened … for Aya being gone. It's just easier. Easier for him to hate you than himself."
"Like I did with Aya," Ken said.
The desk chair's squeak attracted Ken's attention from the floor. He looked up to find Omi had twisted around to face him, a serious, earnest expression in his dull, glazed, dead-tired eyes. "Maybe … sort of," Omi said, searching for the right words, "But … you … I think, on some level … really do hate Aya. I don't know why … and, I guess, I don't really want to know, unless you want to tell me. But, that's something … well, I think it's the one thing he can't ever forgive. When we find Aya … well, I think Yohji will be able to forget, but he'll never truly forgive you. Your feelings about Aya … you're going to have to come to terms with them. For your sake, as well as for the sake of the team."
Ken thought about Omi's words. The young blonde was right, and he hated it. Omi was wise beyond his years, which gave him the uncanny tendency of, almost always, being right. Still, knowing that didn't make the words any easier for Ken to digest. It was true. On some level, he hated Aya. He didn't even know why, exactly. Maybe they were just too different --- fire against ice, noise against silence, righteous rage at the world against the desire for revenge. Maybe it was because he kept seeing that first night they'd met Aya, when the redhead was still working freelance, and Birman had invited him into their group. He kept seeing Aya, defeated, wrapped in Yohji's wire, unable to move, Birman's gun at his temple, and, yet, refusing to admit he'd been beaten. He could still see the defiant glare in the redhead's eye, as if he'd been daring Birman to pull the trigger. Ken didn't know why, but he'd hated the swordsman from that moment in time, had despised Aya for refusing to give in, for refusing to be beaten. The truth was, Ken realized, he had always felt like he had sold out by joining Weiss, instead of trying to work his way out of the quagmire that had become his life when Kase had betrayed him. And, he supposed, in the end, that was why he really hated Aya --- because the redhead was stronger than him, because Aya hadn't sold out, because he'd been forced into joining Weiss, into being Kritiker's killing dog.
He glanced back toward his friend and found the young blonde still watching him with that same intent, earnest expression. Ken wanted to tell Omi how he felt, wanted to pour out his heart and soul, wanted to explain why he hated Aya, especially since he had, only now, figured it out for himself. But, somehow, he couldn't seem to find the words.
"What if … what if I can never like him?" Ken asked. He felt miserable, seeing a lifetime of alienation from Yohji, a man who was like a brother to him.
Omi sighed and smiled, a sad, sympathetic expression that let Ken know, in no uncertain terms, the boy understood how he felt. That was what the ex-goalie liked so much about his companion, what drew him to Omi's friendship. The young blonde always understood him, even if he didn't understand himself. And, Omi was always willing to accept him for who and what he was, even the deepest, blackest parts of his soul, the parts he tried to hide away from the light. Suddenly, the blonde's words echoed back to Ken … "Yohji and Aya … they're like … you and me", and the ex-goalie wondered if this was how Yohji felt about Aya, and vice versa.
"Maybe you won't be able to," Omi said. The soft sound of his voice drew Ken's attention away from his thoughts. "You and Aya … you're probably too different, personality-wise, to ever really get along. But, for your sake, Ken, you need to at least try not hating him."
Ken nodded. He smiled at Omi, a lopsided grin that showed his embarrassment, and looked back toward his feet as the boy turned his attention back to the computer.
"For what it's worth," Omi said, after a few minutes of silent typing, "You're wrong about him."
The boy's fingers stilled their rhythm as Omi shifted, leaning back in his chair to retrieve something from his front pocket. He handed the object, a crumpled piece of paper, to Ken, who smoothed it out against his knee and leaned forward, more into the light from the computer monitor, so he could see it. It was the picture of Aya --- the one Yohji had found at the warehouse. When Ken glanced up from the photograph, he found Omi had, once again, turned to face him.
"If he was like you think … such an asshole … he never would have done that," Omi said, pointing at the photograph for emphasis. "All of that … what you see there … was because of me. He did it for me … gave himself to that asshole Harrister to protect me. It's the only reason I was able to walk out of there without so much as a scratch." Omi paused, allowing time for the meaning behind his words to sink in. "And, for the record," he continued, "what happened on that mission … it wasn't Aya's fault. It was mine. I got careless and let myself be taken. Aya jumped in at the club … just like when Harrister had us … to save me. If he hadn't been there … I would have been in the next batch of mission photos Kritiker sent over on that guy. I know you probably want to think otherwise, but I didn't want to leave him. I wanted to stay, even if it meant Harrister would kill me … but Aya … made me go. He said it was the only way … to get help … but … I think he already knew he was dying. He didn't think he'd be able to protect me any more, and he wanted to know I was safe. He didn't care about himself at all. Knowing I did what I did … that I left him behind, probably, to die alone … I'm going to have to live with that for the rest of my life. I have to believe he's alive … otherwise, I can't stand the sight of my reflection in the mirror."
Ken didn't know what to say. He stared back at Omi's unblinking gaze and felt small --- petty and ashamed. As always, Omi was right, damn him. Ken hated that.
The silence between them lengthened and grew, taking on a life of its own until neither of them could break it, no matter how awkward or uncomfortable they felt about the revelations that had passed between them. Omi cleared his throat, a soft sound the silence gobbled up, and turned back toward the computer. His fingers resumed the familiar, tip-tapping tempo so at least there was some noise in the room. Ken stared at the young blonde for several minutes. He knew he should say something --- his friendship and his feelings for Omi demanded that --- but, he didn't know what to say. He was startled by Omi's revelation. In truth, he hadn't realized the boy felt that way … well, hadn't given it a second thought, really. And, now that he knew how Omi felt, he had no idea how to respond or comfort his suffering friend.
"What're you gals doing down here in the dark, anyhow? Making out?"
Ken sighed a little in relief when Yohji's voice boomed out from the doorway, breaking the tense, uncomfortable silence.
Ken and Omi both turned to watch the tall blonde enter the room. As always, Yohji had on his sunglasses, and a lit cigarette dangled from his lips. It bobbed up and down as he spoke, and they could see the glowing orange of its ember reflected in the dark lenses. His wet, disheveled hair hung loose around his shoulders, telling the two youngest Weiss Yohji had just emerged from the shower. The chain-smoking playboy wore a slightly wrinkled gray T-shirt with the words "REALITY BITES" emblazoned across the front in large, red letters, and a slightly more wrinkled pair of jeans. But, the clothes appeared to be clean, which was a plus around the Koneko these days. Although cleanliness had improved his appearance dramatically, the tall blonde still looked exhausted. His face was pale, thin, and drawn, and his hands shook despite his best efforts at controlling the tremors, testament to how little sleep and food and how much nicotine and caffeine he'd had. The dark glasses hid his eyes, especially in conjunction with the darkness of the briefing room, but Omi knew, if he looked, he'd find heavy, bruise-like circles under them.
"What the fuck?" Yohji asked as he reached the computer and came to a stop just behind Omi's chair and to the side of Ken's. He pulled his glasses down to glare at his two teammates with dull, exhausted, jade green eyes. "What the fuck're you staring at?"
Ken looked away, returning his gaze to the floor. Yohji was in a fickle temper lately. The tall blonde's nerves had been frazzled beyond the breaking point, and it was impossible to tell what might set him off. The ex-goalie didn't want to have any kind of physical altercation with Yohji. He knew it was something they would both regret later on, but, he also knew the slightest provocation on his part would be enough to light the older man's short fuse.
Omi, though, continued to stare at their oldest teammate. The boy matched Yohji glare for glare until the older blonde finally shrugged, indicating an end to the standoff.
Omi snorted slightly, a small hint of laughter, and shook his head as he replied, "The walking dead."
Now it was Yohji's turn to snort at Omi's little joke. "Like you have any fucking room to talk. You look like shit warmed over twice. At least I'm clean."
Omi shrugged, signaling that Yohji had won the round. The tall blonde smiled and turned his attention to Ken, who was still staring at the floor between his feet. He reached over and ruffled the ex-goalie's hair, eliciting a yelped protest from Ken, which was enough to make Omi laugh.
"And you," Yohji said, ignoring Ken's baleful glare, "Taking advantage of our little Omi this way. I woulda thought, if anyone would, you would respect his virginal innocence."
"Virginal," Omi said, a sarcastic edge to his voice, "That's an awfully big word for you. Been reading the dictionary again, have you?"
Yohji laughed. "Only the interesting parts."
He reached over, around Omi's head, to flip on the desk lamp, which rested on the shelf above the computer monitor. Just as his hand brushed the switch, Omi stopped him.
"Don't you dare," the young blonde said.
Yohji pulled back and gave the boy an eyebrows raised, questioning look. "What? You're gonna go blind like this. You've been down here in the fucking dark for I don't know how fucking long already. You wanna be blind?"
Omi shrugged. "This place … it's a fucking pit. I made the mistake of leaving the light on the first night, and I thought I'd have a heart attack because of all the crap everywhere. I figure blindness is better than a heart attack any day. Besides, this way, when I hear things scurrying around in all the ash and trash you idiots have scattered all over the place, I can just tell myself it's my imagination. If I had the light on, I'd be able to see what was coming after me." He glanced up, studying Yohji's reflection in the computer monitor, and added, all kidding aside, "Aya's gonna blow a gasket when he gets home."
Yohji shrugged.
"So, have you found anything yet?" the tall blonde asked, leaning forward to peer over Omi's shoulder.
The boy nodded. "Yeah, actually," he said, hitting the print key with a last stroke of his finger.
He waited for a few moments while the printer whirred and clicked. When it was finished, he leaned over with a small grunt and retrieved the sheet of paper the machine had spit out.
"Once I had that fuckhead Harrister's name, I had all the puzzle pieces," Omi said, looking down at the paper in his hand as he talked. He leaned closer to the monitor, so that its blue, electronic glow illuminated the writing. "I just had to put them together … which, took way too fucking long because this guy's a freaking ghost. I mean … there's more information on us out there than this guy, even with knowing his name. Looks like he didn't own that warehouse where he kept us. Probably rented. But, that's a bust, anyhow. He won't take Aya back there. He's arrogant, but not that arrogant. Other than the club, I found one property --- a townhouse on the city's north side. So, if we're gonna find any leads to Aya's location, it's either the club, which hasn't been open since he grabbed us, or the town house." Omi looked up at Yohji, waiting for some kind of response to the implied question buried within this newly-revealed information. When Yohji didn't say anything, the young blonde prompted, "So, what do you think? What do you want to do?"
Yohji sighed. "I hate making decisions," he muttered, running his hands through his still-damp hair. "Aya's the decision guy, not me." When Omi continued to watch him, making it obvious the boy wasn't going to let him worm out of this so easily, the tall blonde sighed, and said, "I know it hasn't been open … but, my gut tells me we need to check out that club. I don't know … but … it's where all this started … maybe where everything started, if what you said is true, and Harrister was the target, all along. I think … probably … he'd go back there."
"Good enough," Omi said.
Yohji was relieved when the boy seconded his decision. It was stupid, but he felt better knowing he wouldn't have to shoulder the blame all alone if he had chosen incorrectly and the delay cost Aya his life.
"You go check out the club," Omi continued, unaware of the taller blonde's crisis of faith, "And, I'm gonna go visit Aya's sister." He looked up from the printout in his hand to find both Yohji and Ken staring at him. "What?" he asked. "Look, Aya used to go visit her every day … and, he's been gone for a while. I just think … well, I think he'd like it if someone looked in on her. I don't know … I just get the feeling … well, he wouldn't want her to be alone."
"You're right," Yohji said. He smiled at the boy, a crooked, lopsided, little-boy grin, and continued, "I'm just fucking ashamed I didn't think of it myself."
Omi smiled back. "You've had other things on your mind. We all have."
Yohji nodded. "Just do me one favor," he said. In response to Omi's questioning glance, he replied, "Wear a cap, OK? Your hair looks like shit."
Omi couldn't help but laugh, which made Yohji smile and broke the tension in the room.
The tall blonde turned toward Ken. "And you?" he asked.
Ken shrugged, "I'm going with you, of course." When Yohji gave him a disbelieving, eyebrows-raised look, the ex-goalie shrugged again and muttered, "Well, can't just let you run off halfcocked by yourself, you know."
Omi walked down the silent, sterile, white hallway of Magic Bus Hospital. At each door, he slowed a bit to read the patient's name, only to move on again upon discovering it was the wrong room. He had followed Aya here once, but he hadn't been back since then. He couldn't remember which room the girl was in. He had brought a large flower arrangement --- two dozen white roses --- and, each time he paused to read a name, he had to shift them to a more comfortable position. He guessed it was silly, really, bringing flowers to a girl who'd never know they were there. Still, he remembered Aya mentioning, one time, how much his sister loved white roses. He knew the redhead brought some every time he came, and Omi figured it was the least he could do.
He paused in front of the tenth door along the hallway, reading the name and sighing in frustration upon discovering yet another incorrect room. Having to face Aya's sister, coma or not, was going to be bad enough. Did finding her room have to be so damn hard, too? It was just compounding the problem. Omi figured, by the time he finally found the girl, he'd be so uncomfortable he'd never be able to explain what had happened to her brother. The boy was just beginning to wonder how many damn rooms were in this wing, and whether he was going to have to search them all, when a kind, soft voice startled him.
"Excuse me, young man. You seem lost … can I … help you?"
Omi whirled around to see a nurse smiling at him. She was older, maybe forty. She wore her hair pulled back in a neat bun, hidden beneath her cap, but a few graying strands had come loose and hung about the woman's temples. As Omi regarded her, she shifted her weight a bit and brushed at the front of her starched, white uniform, a self-conscious, almost embarrassed gesture. She had a nice smile, which even seemed to reach her blue-gray eyes, and she seemed very kind and sincere in her offer of assistance. Omi couldn't help but smile back at her.
"Um … yes," he said, shifting the roses yet again. He cleared his throat, trying to overcome a sudden wave of shyness, and said, "I'm looking for someone … a, um … a patient. Aya Fujimiya?"
Omi shuddered inside when he said the name. He knew Aya had taken his little sister's name after she had been injured, but it still gave him the creeps to hear the name he associated with the redhead echo through the deserted hallway. He knew he was imagining it, but it almost seemed as if the word reverberated through the corridor several times, like some kind of omen. He tried to shrug off the feeling, and struggled to continue smiling at the nurse.
"Oh," the woman replied. "Are you a … family member? She's one of my patients, but I don't remember seeing you here before."
Omi couldn't help but think how ridiculous the nurse's statement sounded. Like she worked all the time and knew every single person who came to visit Aya's sister. The boy chided himself for his cynicism and reminded himself the woman was nice and helpful. She was probably just trying to be friendly, and she couldn't possibly know the strain he was under.
"No," he said, shaking his head for emphasis, "I'm just … just a friend."
"Oh, well, then," the nurse said, her smile returning to light up her face. "How nice of you to come visit. Her room is right down here. Come. I'll show you."
She led the way down the hall, to the second-to-last room on the right, and gestured, indicating this was the door he wanted. When Omi caught up with her, she opened the door for him, standing aside to give him enough room to get the large bouquet through unscathed.
"Poor little thing," she said.
Omi turned his head enough to see her around the bulky flower arrangement. She was shaking her head, her eyes full of sympathy and sadness.
"So young," the nurse replied to the silent question she saw in Omi's eyes. "For this to happen. For something so terrible. Just a baby, really … well, no older than you. Her brother is so devoted. Comes every day to sit with her and hold her hand. He brings the most beautiful white roses … just like those," she said, pointing at the flowers Omi held clutched to his chest. "But … well, I haven't seen him in several days. I guess it's only natural. After all, she's been here a long time. I mean, it's only natural he would give up hope, eventually. No matter how devoted, family members always do, in the end. They have to go on living, and, somehow, they just can't do it if they cling to their hope. Once they realize that, well … they usually don't come around any more." She paused for a moment before continuing, "Still, I never thought it would happen to him. He seemed like such a determined, single-minded young man."
Omi followed the woman's gaze across the room, to where a still, frail girl lay, motionless. The bed seemed to swallow her, making her look even smaller and more fragile, if such a thing was possible.
"He hasn't," Omi said, turning his attention back toward the nurse.
"Pardon?" the woman asked. The boy's voice had been so soft she wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly.
"Her brother," Omi said, pitching his voice a bit louder, but, yet, still keeping it low enough so it couldn't carry across the room. It was silly, since Aya was in a coma, but, still, Omi didn't want her to find out about her brother like this. "Her brother hasn't given up on her," he repeated. Everything he does … it's all for her. He … he lives for her." He juggled the flower arrangement once more, shifting it so its weight rested against his shoulder, before continuing, "He … he's … um, he's missing. That's why … um … why he hasn't been here."
"Missing?" the nurse repeated.
Omi sighed and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling as he wondered just how idiotic this nurse could possibly be. What the hell did "missing" usually mean? Did he really have to explain it to the woman? But, even as the thought escaped him, Omi chastised himself for, once again, being so cynical. He was glad his face was hidden behind the roses, so the nurse hadn't seen his eye roll, and he shrugged his irritation off as stemming from the exhaustion and despair he'd felt pounding away at him ever since he had left Aya alone in that warehouse.
He didn't look back at the nurse, but he said, "Um … yeah. Missing … He … um, he was kidnapped."
Omi turned to face the nurse at the woman's sharp intake of breath. She had gone pale and held her hand up to her face, covering her mouth. Her eyes wore an expression of fear and grief, and Omi realized she was a very kind person, indeed, and very devoted to her patient.
"That's … that's so horrible," the woman said. "What kind of world do we live in, anyhow? He's such a nice, quiet, polite young man, too. I certainly hope they find him."
Omi smiled at her and said, "Yes, I hope so, too."
"Well," the nurse said, smiling in return as she smoothed at the front of her uniform and cleared her throat. "I'll … um … I'll just leave you two alone, then. I'll be at the nurses' station, just down the hall, if you … um, if you need anything."
She turned and left the room, failing to even pause in response to the "Thank you" Omi called out after her retreating figure.
Omi took a deep breath and squared his shoulders as he struggled to prepare himself to face Aya's sister. After a few moments, he managed to work up enough courage to walk the few feet separating him from her bed, but he didn't look at her --- not at first. Instead, he fussed with the flowers for several long, silent minutes, finding the perfect spot for the overstuffed vase, pinching off a spotted leaf here, a wilted bud there, pulling and tugging at the blossoms until they were mounded neatly in an attractive, overflowing arrangement. He continued to fuss until he realized he was stalling for time, trying either to avoid the inevitable, or to find a gentle way to tell the girl her brother was missing, and, possibly, dead. Omi shook his head, irritated with himself for being such a coward about this. After all, Aya was in a coma. She probably couldn't hear anything he told her, and, even if she could, it wasn't like he would have to face a hysterical, crying girl. And, she wouldn't be able to blame him for her brother's disappearance.
He gave the flowers one last tug and sighed as he turned to face the girl. He pulled a chair next to the bed and sat down. Although he had known about Aya's sister for a while, Omi hadn't been in this room before, and this was the first time he'd seen the girl. As he studied her, he realized the nurse had been correct about their ages. She was, maybe, a few months younger than him. She had thick, brown hair. The nurse had braided it into two long, thick braids and then arranged them on Aya's pillow so they seemed to float out around her head. He could see a scattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose. Had she been healthy, Omi guessed they wouldn't have been noticeable, but they stood out in stark contrast to her pale skin. She was a very pretty girl, and Omi couldn't help thinking, had she been awake, he would have been tongue-tied in her presence.
A small glint of light prompted him to open her hand, and, there, laid across her palm, was a gold earring --- a small ball post with a rectangular, dangling bar attached to it. Omi recognized it as the mate to the one Aya always wore. He had wondered about the earring, but had never guessed it had such significance to his missing teammate. He felt a lump come up in his throat, and, as he, once again, closed her fist around the earring, he struggled to swallow back the tears he felt gathering.
Omi leaned forward and took her hand between both of his. "I … um … I … uh guess you're Aya," he said. His voice was so quiet it seemed almost lost in the big, white room. He cleared his throat and struggled to continue, "We … um … we've never met before. I'm … Omi. I … um … I live with Ay … um, your brother. I … guess … uh … you're probably wondering where Ay … um, your brother's … been lately, since he hasn't been by. He … he hasn't forgotten you. He …"
His voice trailed off into nothing as he stared at the silent girl, so fragile and small in the bed before him, like an injured bird. He struggled to come up with the words that would tell her her brother was gone … missing … and, maybe, even dead. How could he tell her? She had already lost so much. How could he take this away from her, too? How could he say the words that would, once and for all, take away the one thing she had left in this world? He wanted to tell her in a way that would help her feel better about it … that would make it sound less horrible than it really was. After a few moments of staring and struggling, though, Omi realized there wasn't any way to cushion the blow. There wasn't any way to make it sound less horrible than it was, and he decided just to forge ahead as best he could.
He took another deep breath and rubbed her hand with his thumb. "Um … the truth is … that … Well … you see … um … Ay … uh … your brother … Well, the truth is …"
Omi's voice trailed off again as words failed him. He had managed to remain strong, to remain focused on finding Aya, but, now, he could feel that composure slipping. He couldn't help but wonder at how weak-willed he was, if a slip of an unconscious girl could do this to him. But, it wasn't just that. It was … part of it was that he was having to tell this girl her reason for living might be gone, that his words were going to yank her world out from under her. But, that was only part of it. The rest was that he didn't want to say the words. It was silly, but, somehow, he felt like saying it out loud would make it true. He had to tell Aya her brother might be dead, but, if he said those words, they would seem real. He would have lost his hope, his reason for remaining strong and resolute.
He leaned forward, shoving his cap back so he could rest his forehead against the bedrail. He could feel the cold metal through his bangs. He felt the tears gathering in his eyes, but he didn't fight them. Instead, he just let them come, and they slid down his cheeks, a torrent of anguish, fear, despair, and anger. They dropped from his face and left large, wet spots on the pristinely white hospital sheets. A few even dropped onto Aya's hand, where they beaded up before sliding off.
"This is … so … fucking … hard," Omi said, his words choked and almost lost among the sobs shaking his body. "Why? Why is this so hard? I didn't think … I didn't think it'd be like this … it'd be so fucking hard."
He raised his head and looked at the girl's silent, sleeping face. Without bothering to wipe away the tears that continued to spill from his eyes, Omi, once again, took her hand in his and said, "Aya … I'm … I'm so sorry. But, your brother … he's gone … missing. He … he was kidnapped … by … by a very evil man. But, we're trying to find him … me … and the rest of his friends. We're trying so hard … and, we won't stop looking for him … not ever … not until we find him. I … I promise. I promise …we will find him. Just … try and have faith … try to believe he'll be all right. He's so strong … you know that … better than anyone, right? So … just believe … believe in him … just like we're trying hard to do."
"Um … excuse me?" a soft voice called from the door.
Omi jumped at the unexpected intrusion. He turned, swiping at the tears tracing his cheeks, to find the nurse from before, the one who had shown him Aya's room, standing in the doorway, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable. Omi realized she must have overheard most of what he had said.
He smiled at her and said, "Yes?"
"Um … are you … Omi?" the nurse asked. She smoothed at the front of her uniform and glanced down at her shoes.
"Yes," he replied, rising from his chair.
"I'm so sorry to interrupt … um … your visit. But, there's a phone call for you. You can take it at the nurses' station, if you like."
Omi was across the room and moving through the door almost before she finished her statement. "Thanks," he muttered as he brushed past her and into the hallway.
He was breathing hard by the time he reached the nurses' station, not from exertion, but from anxiety. He struggled to slow his racing heartbeat as he took the offered telephone receiver from one of the nurses. He smiled and nodded his thanks as he turned his back on them and, with a shaking hand, brought the receiver up to his ear.
"Hel … Hello?" he said. He cringed at how his voice sounded --- uncertain, lost, and scared --- like a little kid's.
"Hey, kiddo," Yohji said.
His smooth, slightly teasing voice seemed to ooze right out of the phone, even now, in such a time of crisis. Omi was amazed the tall blonde managed to stay so calm. Still, the boy couldn't help but feel a bit relieved at the relaxed tone that was so normal for the older man. It had to mean they hadn't found Aya at the club, as it was definitely not the voice of a man who had just found his best friend's dead body.
"Yohji," Omi replied. He paused for two heartbeats, waiting for the blonde to speak, and then, impatient, plunged ahead. "The club?"
"Bust," Yohji said. "Totally deserted … But, there was a hidden room in the basement. Looks like he did return there … had Aya in there, and, pretty recent, too. Fresh blood all over the place."
Omi was quiet as he digested the new information. "So, do you think …"
"No," Yohji said, cutting the boy off before he could finish his thought. "No. Don't go there. As long as we haven't found a body, he's very much alive, in my book."
Omi nodded, a silly reflexive gesture, as he knew the other man couldn't see him. "So, now… the townhouse?" he asked.
"Yep," Yohji said. "We're coming by to pick you up, so meet us downstairs. We'll be there in ten." The tall blonde clicked off, severing the connection before Omi could reply.
It took them a little over an hour to make the drive across the city from the hospital to Harrister's townhouse. Once they reached the correct neighborhood, Yohji found a shady, unobtrusive parking spot on a side street several blocks away. They stowed Seven there and walked to the townhouse in silence. By the time they stood in front of the address Omi's research had indicated, it was noon.
Harrister's townhouse, like all the other homes in this particular neighborhood, was built in the Western style. It was large, brick, had three stories, and was on the top of a hill, which gave it a very nice view of the surrounding area. Although there wasn't a yard, it had a large, three car garage attached at one side. All in all, the building's size, as well as the general, shaded quiet of the surrounding neighborhood, spoke of wealth and affluence.
Yohji whistled as he pulled down his sunglasses and observed the brick building over their rims. He tilted his head back, hands on his hips, and took in the entire scene, from first story to third. "Hot damn," he said, flipping his spent cigarette onto the ground with a flick of his wrist and, in almost the same movement, removing his ever-present pack so he could fish around for another of the sticks. He tapped the new ciggie against the box as he said, "Shit. This place is fucking huge … I mean fucking huge. Looks like being a serial killer pays pretty damn well."
Ken cleared his throat before replying, "Well, we get paid pretty well for doing it, don't we?"
Yohji gave the ex-goalie a sideways, eyes-narrowed glance. "Hnh … never quite thought about it like that," he said as he flicked on his lighter and puffed at the cigarette until the end started glowing.
"So," Omi broke in. He was impatient to get this over and done with in the hopes it would bring them closer to finding Aya, and he also wanted to head off any conflict between his two teammates before it had a chance to escalate. At the moment, Yohji appeared mellow and uninterested in fighting, but Omi knew, from experience, that could change at any second. "What now?"
Yohji shrugged. "What do you think, ladies? I decided on searching the club … I told you I'm not the decision man."
"I think we should just go in the front," Ken said. "Act like we belong here … repairmen or something … then no one will be suspicious."
Yohji gave the ex-goalie an incredulous stare. "How the hell many times did you hit the ball with your fucking head when you were playing soccer?" he asked. "In this fucking neighborhood? Give me a fucking break. They're already nervous and suspicious of us, and we haven't even done anything yet. And, the front door? What're we gonna do? Walk up, ring the fucking bell, and when Harrister answers, ask him, real nice, if he'll tell us where Aya is?"
"All right," Omi said. His voice held an edge of steel to it, a warning to his two teammates. "Shut it. Now's not the time. I say we go in through the garage. I saw some windows on the side when we walked up. I think we can get in without anyone seeing us … and, if there's an alarm, which I'm sure there is, it's not likely the garage'll be wired."
Ten minutes later, they were standing in Harrister's large, commercial-grade kitchen. It looked like every stainless steel appliance ever made had come here to die. There seemed to be miles and miles of the shiny gray metal, as well as dark blue granite countertops, and cherry wood cabinetry. The floor was a blue and white checked tile. None of the assassins spared much attention for the room's details, although Yohji gave it a quick and thorough once-over as he leafed through Harrister's unopened mail.
"What?" the tall blonde asked, in response to the glare Omi gave him. He kept his voice pitched low, barely more than a whisper, but, even so, it sounded loud in the house's silence. He held one of the envelopes up to the light, muttering, "Look at this shit … this asshole may already be a winner. I didn't know he could play the fucking Publisher's Clearing House here in Japan."
"We didn't come here for that," Omi whispered, emphasizing his words with another glare. "Put that shit down. We don't have time for you to fuck around."
"Who's fucking around?" Yohji hissed. He shrugged. "I used to be a PI, remember. I can't help it … I see mail lying around, unopened, and I gotta look through it … same thing with garbage cans. Can't resist 'em."
Omi sighed. "Well, try," he replied. "There have to be about a billion of them in a house this size … you stop to go through them all and it'll be next year before we find Aya." He glared at Yohji again. "I said put that down," he repeated.
Yohji shrugged again, but he tossed the envelopes onto the nearest counter. As he did, the top one caught his eye, and he retrieved it, glancing at it briefly before stowing it in the inner pocket of his jacket. In response to Omi's raised-eyebrow, questioning look, the tall blonde said, "Credit application … pre-approved." When his two teammates stared at him in disbelief, the older man waved his hands in front of him in a placating gesture and said, "Look … it's not like he's gonna need good credit. Not where he's going. And … well, we could use a new big-screen TV … with this credit line, we could buy plasma."
"That's illegal," Omi said.
Yohji couldn't help laughing. He put his hand over his mouth to stifle the noise when his two teammates tried to shush him, but he couldn't manage to stop completely. It was too damn funny. The kid actually managed to sound shocked. It beat the hell out of Yohji how he did it, but, somehow, he did. That was Omi for you --- deadly serious, take-charge assassin one minute, innocent high-school kid the next.
Once he managed to get his laughter under control, Yohji said, "Like I care … don't forget what our "night" jobs are … so … credit card fraud looks so bad in comparison?"
Omi frowned. "Yeah, I suppose you've got a point." The younger blonde paused for a moment, before continuing, "All right, what do you guys want to do? Go together or split up? Remember, there was a van in the garage, and the keys are here on the counter … so, we have to assume Harrister is home."
Yohji shrugged. "I vote split up. This place is fucking huge. It'll take forever to search if we go together."
Omi nodded his agreement. "It's risky, but worth it. Ken?"
The ex-goalie shrugged his assent. "I'll take the third floor."
"All right," Omi said, keeping his voice pitched low, "I'll take this floor … so, Yohji, that leaves the second floor for you."
"I really, fucking hate this shit," Yohji muttered as he made his way down the large hallway on the second floor. "Hated it when I was a PI …"
He paused to jiggle a doorknob, and, finding it locked, fished around in his back pocket for his lock pick. The door swung open after two sharp, quick tugs, and Yohji leaned around the doorjamb for a quick look around the room. It was nice --- some kind of guest bedroom, from the looks of it --- all blue silk and tapestries hanging on the walls. But, there wasn't any sign of Harrister or Aya, so the chain smoking blonde moved on to the next door.
"And I still fucking hate it," he continued, under his breath, as he jiggled the next lock, and finding it open, repeated the same look-around procedure on this room. "Nice to see some things never fucking change," he muttered, as he moved on to the next room, picking the lock and taking a quick look around.
Another bedroom. Yohji ducked out, pulling the door closed behind him. He glanced back, toward the stairway. He figured there had to be at least six rooms opening out onto this hallway. So far, he had looked into half of them, and they'd all been bedrooms. "What the fuck does one guy need with so many fucking bedrooms, anyhow?" Yohji muttered, as he continued on, jiggling locks, opening doors, and looking into rooms. "Although … I mean … I could probably find a good use for them."
"Well," he muttered, under his breath, as he stood before the last door. "If there's nothing in here, my trip down bedroom lane was a total and complete bust." He jiggled the knob. The door was unlocked, and he nudged it open with his foot, mumbling, "Some kinda shit going on around here. This place is too quiet … too fucking creepy quiet … like something's happened … something bad."
The door swung open to reveal the library. A bank of windows stood along the wall opposite the door, and sunlight poured through them. The other walls were lined with shelf after shelf of books. If pressed, Yohji would have guessed there had to be thousands of volumes. The paneling and flooring were a nice, gold-red hued mahogany, and several expensive-looking, Persian rugs covered the floor. A huge fireplace with a sitting area in front of it --- three arm chairs and a big, overstuffed, leather sofa --- stood to the right side of the doorway, and a gigantic desk, made of the same gold-red mahogany as the paneling and floor, stood toward the middle of the room.
Yohji sighed and crossed the floor in five long strides to stand before the monstrous desk. A dark haired man slumped forward over it. A large pool of congealing blood covered the once-shiny desktop surface, and the red liquid had dripped down its legs to puddle on the floor, where it stained the rug a deep rust color. He couldn't see what was left of the man's face, but he knew it had to be Harrister. After all, it was the guy's house. He didn't bother checking for a pulse. The blood splattered across the windows behind the desk told the tall blonde the man was dead. Yohji fished out his switchblade and flicked it open. He used it to prod at the blood on the desk and then stooped down to do the same thing with the congealing pool on the floor. It was still fresh, and there wasn't any smell, so Yohji figured the guy couldn't have been dead for very long. Maybe Harrister had killed himself that morning … but, no earlier than that. Yohji stood up and wiped his knife off on the sleeve of Harrister's shirt.
"You fucking asshole," the tall blonde muttered, kicking the leg of Harrister's chair. "Such an easy death … no fucking fair."
The body shifted a little with the chair's movement, and a glint caught Yohji's eye. It looked like a small piece of metal, under one of Harrister's palms. Yohji shoved the chair, hard, with his foot, and the body toppled over onto the floor, revealing a dangling gold earring --- a round post with a hanging, rectangular bar attached to it. The tall blonde recognized it immediately. Aya's earring. His eyes narrowed in rage. Who the fuck did this asshole think he was that he could take something like that? Before he could think better of it, Yohji aimed a savage kick at Harrister's body. It landed with a sickening, sucking thump and caused the corpse to roll slightly to one side. Yohji scooped the earring up off the desk and shoved it into his jeans pocket. He didn't even want to think about what this meant. It had to mean Aya was dead. Otherwise, he'd never give up that earring.
Yohji shook his head. 'No,' he thought. 'I don't care. It can't mean that. He can't be dead. Not after all this.'
He kicked the body once more before making his way to the hall.
"Hey!" he shouted, "Up here … second floor, last door!"
The pounding of two sets of feet, one from above and one from below, rewarded his call. Within moments, Omi skidded into view at the other end of the hall, Ken following right on his heels.
"Aya?" Omi called as he jogged down the corridor toward Yohji. He wanted to believe the tall blonde had found their missing teammate, but the frowning, angry expression on Yohji's face told him otherwise.
As Omi neared him, Yohji shook his head and replied, "No … but I found our host. Our recently departed host."
Omi frowned at Yohji and shoved past the older man to enter the library. Yohji followed to find him standing in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, staring at the bloody desk and mangled corpse on the floor behind it, and muttering curses under his breath.
"Well, fuck," Ken said, as he rounded the corner and skidded to a stop just inside the study. "What the fuck do we do now?"
Yohji looked over at the ex-goalie. He hated to admit it, but, when Ken was right … he was right. And, the jock was right this time. It looked like, with Harrister's little swan song, they had run up against their final dead end.
"No," Omi stated, shaking his head. "No."
"O … Omi," Yohji said.
He moved toward the boy, afraid that Omi, finally, was starting to lose it. The kid had been so strong through all this. Yohji had to admit, if the tables were turned, he would have been a mess a long time ago. But, now, faced with what had to be the end of their quest and still no closer to finding Aya, he figured the younger blonde was going to go ballistic. He knew, when Omi finally broke over this thing, it wasn't going to be pretty, and he tried to prepare himself for whatever might happen next. He came to a stop behind Omi and put his hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Omi," Yohji repeated.
Omi's only response was to shrug off Yohji's supportive touch with an angry, harsh gesture. He turned toward the older man, and Yohji saw, for the first time since they had picked him up at that coffee shop, tears glistening in the kid's eyes. To his credit, Omi didn't let the waterworks flow. He managed to grab onto his anger and screw the lid back onto his despair and grief.
He took a deep breath and said, through clenched teeth, "No. This isn't it. It can't be." He moved around the desk, heedless of the blood pooling there, and started to pull out the drawers, one by one. He dumped them onto the blood-soaked rug and sifted through their contents before moving to the next one, then the next, and the next.
Yohji and Ken stared at the boy. They understood what Omi was doing. They understood the boy had to continue to have hope, that Omi couldn't give up, not after everything he'd been through, not after everything he'd seen, and not after having to abandon Aya the way he had. Yohji, especially, understood it. Aya was his best friend --- the closest thing to a soul mate he'd ever found --- and the thought he would never know what had happened to the redhead ate away at him until it was all he could do to keep from falling to his knees right here, in the middle of Harrister's blood-soaked rug, and sobbing out all the anger, grief, frustration, and rage he felt building inside him. But, neither Yohji nor Ken had the slightest idea what Omi was looking for, and neither of them knew how to help the boy.
After several minutes of tense silence, broken only by the sound of cracking wood as Omi removed one desk drawer after another, emptied their contents onto the floor, and then smashed them, the boy gave a small, triumphant cry. He came around the desk, waving a piece of paper through the air in front of him, like a trophy.
"Look!" he cried. "This is it. This is where Aya is. I know it. I just fucking know it."
Yohji grabbed the younger blonde's wrist, stilling his hand long enough to read most of the writing on the paper. He gave Omi a skeptical look as he said, "That's … that's an invoice … for a burial plot."
Ken had come over to stand on Omi's other side. He peered at the paper over the boy's shoulder, and, then, looked up at Yohji with an expression that indicated he thought Omi had finally gone over the deep end.
"Yeah, so?" Omi snapped, glaring from Yohji to Ken, challenging them to argue with him. "Aya's here. I know it. Look. See … this date … he bought it the day after he grabbed us … the day after Aya killed his brother. This is where he put him … where he buried his brother. Aya's there, too. I just know it."
Yohji frowned. He wanted to believe Omi, but he just couldn't stretch his imagination around what the boy was saying. "That … that doesn't make any sense," he said. He glanced up at Ken for confirmation, and the ex-goalie shrugged.
Omi sighed in exasperation and rolled his eyes at the ceiling. "Like anything this crazy bastard did made any fucking sense. I'll tell you what I know … sense or not. I was there … I know this man. I know what he'd do … and I know Aya's there. I think there's a good chance he's still alive, too."
Yohji shrugged. "All right," he said, taking the paper from Omi's hand. "We don't have anywhere else to look, so it's as good a place as any. This cemetery is on this side of town … only about a mile from here. But, we need to wait until after dark." He glanced at his watch and continued, "That should give us plenty of time to go home and change into our "night shift" clothes."
Omi started to protest, but Yohji waved him into silence. "Look," the tall blonde said, "I understand, all right? Believe me … if Aya's there, I want to go there right now and dig him up with my bare, fucking hands. But, we can't go around robbing graves in broad daylight."