Author's note: This sorta came to mind while I was helping Atolm2000 with 'Waking the Dead'. Gonou's got a vicious streak a mile wide; I wrote this to explain why he went after that nameless flunky in chapter one of 'Waking the Dead' and killed him with the old thumbs-in-the-eyes trick – and yes, that's what happened to the other flunky. Rating is for all sorts of violence, and as with the rest of my Saiyuki stuff, this is a non-yaoi fic.
Disclaimer: I don't own Gonou, Gojyo, or Hyakugan Maoh. And to be honest, I don't want to.
A knock on the door interrupts my careful cleaning. Gojyo is out running errands and won't be back for a few hours. I've been trying to tidy up a bit while he's out, but between my still-healing wound and the sharply-fluctuating levels of energy I seem to have now, I can usually only manage slow, careful chores that aren't too demanding. I tried to sweep last week and only managed to re-open my wound, earning me a lecture from Gojyo and a second one from the doctor. I have hopes of washing the dishes today, or at least bringing them to the kitchen. It took me several minutes to gather the peels and cores of the fruit Gojyo brought me the other day; the natural sweetness of fruit gives me the energy take-out doesn't. Halfway to the kitchen with a plate of fruit remnants and a knife balanced carefully in my hands, and someone is knocking on the door. Picking up the pace makes me a bit lightheaded; I set the plate down on the counter by the door and lean on it as I open the door enough to see who's knocking.
A group of about ten men, humans and youkai, are standing on and around the steps. They don't look entirely reputable, but then again, neither does my host.
"Oy, where's Gojyo at?" The apparent leader is a dark-haired youkai with yellow eyes that flick up to my ear, then narrow speculatively.
"He's out," I reply shortly, not trusting that appraising look. My right hand tightens around the doorknob and I hold the door protectively half-shut, using it to shield as much of my body as possible from their sight. There is a whispered comment from one of the human men, and nasty laughter in reply.
"Well," the leader leers at me. "I didn't know Gojyo was like that, but you're pretty enough to be up to his standards. No wonder he's been giving the local ladies the cold shoulder!" His cronies break into raucous laughter. "This might just work out." The words are quiet and smug, barely audible above the braying behind him. "I'll tell you what," he says condescendingly, leaning towards me as though I were a woman he was trying to impress, showing off his muscled frame and the bulge under his black leather pants. "See, we're part of a group that's got a lot of weight around here, of you take my meaning." More laughter; they're part of a gang. "Now, we've been trying to get ol' Gojyo to join up with us. You convince him to join us, and we'll let you in with him. He has the potential to go a long way, better than he could ever do on his own."
"Is that so?" My voice has picked up a quiet, curious edge; my left hand tightens on the edge of the counter.
"Yeah. Half-blood like him, he'll never be much on his own. But he's got a way with the ladies, see. And with him in the organization-" he stressed the word, to more chuckling from the rest of the gang, "- everybody profits."
Something cold stirs in my gut, just behind the bandages over the still-raw wound. "Oh, really? How's that?"
The youkai smirks. "It's easy work, real sweet. All we gotta do is find a few lovely ladies every so often and bring 'em to Hyakugan Maoh."
"Hyakugan Maoh?" I echo stupidly. The cold stirring reaches out from the pit of my stomach, sending chill tendrils up my spine and into my brain.
"Heh, ol' Hyakugan Maoh loves the ladies. He likes 'em pretty, and doesn't care if we sample 'em first so long's they're not too roughed up when he gets 'em."
The guards roll on the floor, blood and entrails making the stone tiles slick. One of them has a ring of keys, but the double doors are unlocked and open easily at my push. The room inside is lavishly furnished; silk and satin for the sheets and pillows on the huge, low bed. The floor and walls are covered in expensive rugs and tapestries. There is a human woman lying on the bed, unmoving. She is on her back, honey-colored hair spread behind her. A naked youkai, broadly muscular with red-brown skin, stands with one foot on the floor and the other on the woman's stomach. He's between forms – almost human-looking but with claws and talons, every joint almost spiked. His ears are human-shaped but pointed, and his gore-streaked member is easily the size of my thigh. It looks barbed. The clawed foot curls into the woman's stomach, coming close to disemboweling her. Blood runs down her sides and from between her legs. He glares at me, annoyed, talons fumbling awkwardly at one ear where three silver rings glint. Panic and rage consume me, making me fearless in the face of the youkai lord. I dash forward and slash one fumbling arm to the bone with my knife; the return cut slices into that monstrous penis, and he doubles over, screaming in agonized rage. A kick topples him.
"Kanan! Where is Kanan?!"
Hyakugan Maoh bellows angrily at my demand, but does not answer. My knife sinks into one massive thigh.
"Where is Kanan?! Tell me!"
A glare is my only response; one huge hand creeps up towards the ear with the silver rings. My knife opens his stomach.
"Tell me where she is!"
The youkai's mouth parts in a ferocious grin, full of fangs and victory. One talon catches a ring and rips it off the ear; a second is unclasped, but the third is still closed securely. With the removal of the second ring, his skin darkens. The spikes become more pronounced, and the talons grow to the length of my fingers. Those rings are youkai power inhibitors; I have to kill him before he gets the third one off. My blade flashes for his throat, but his torso lengthens suddenly and the point enters just above his heart. I drive the blade deeper and jerk it down, and that feral grin freezes as the light in Hyakugan Maoh's eyes dims and is no more.
"Dungeon." The word is a gasp, barely louder than my own ragged breathing. The woman I'd thought dead is looking at me with hope and despair. "He keeps us . . . in the dungeon . . ."
I turn away; I know where Kanan must be, this room holds nothing more for me.
"Please . . ."
Whatever else is said, I am no longer there to hear it.
My left hand is creeping along the counter-top. The scum standing outside the door are still laughing over 'sampling' the 'goods' before delivering them. My blood runs cold; my thoughts are cold. Cold as ice, cold as death, cold as the steel of the knife that fits perfectly in my hand and flashes in the sunlight as it cuts cleanly across the throat of the leader. He tries to scream, but chokes on his own blood. The rest of the scum freeze in shock, and then I am out among them. My knife is everywhere, flashing red now. Red like Gojyo's hair. Red like Kanan's blood. No remorse, no hesitation. Hands ward me off; I cut them. A back is turned; I stab it. No emotions or physical sensations mar the perfect sterility with which I cut and maim the kidnappers, the rapists, the maggots that condemned an unknown number of women to Kanan's fate. I strike to inflict pain, not to kill, and all too soon there are none within my reach. Singly or in clumps, supporting their bleeding fellows, they run and hobble away. There is blood on my hands, on the shirt Gojyo lent me, on the steps and the ground around the steps. The knife falls from suddenly nerveless fingers; the rage drains out of me, leaving me exhausted and barely able to stand. The still-healing wound on my abdomen is a slice of agony. I stumble back inside and collapse on my back in Gojyo's bed, not caring that the front of my borrowed shirt is splattered with blood – both mine and theirs – or that the door did not close completely and is standing ajar.
The door bangs open, jolting me awake. Gojyo comes charging in, hesitating a second in relief as he catches sight of me, then concern and momentum hurl him to the side of the bed and he goes down on one knee to check on me.
"Hey, what happened?" He reaches for the shirt, which is now stuck to my raw wound with dried blood. "There's blood everywhere outside. What-"
I grab his wrist before he rips the shirt off my stomach and causes the wound to start bleeding again. "Your friends came by," I tell him dully. I don't want to think that Gojyo would have anything to do with them, but knowing that they had tried to recruit him . . .
Gojyo blinks in confusion. "Friends? Not likely. Waitaminute – group of about ten, mixed race?" At my nod, his expression changes to one of disgust. "They're not friends. They're part of one of the gangs in the area that work for Hyakugan Maoh. No better than gutter trash, any of 'em. They keep trying to get me to work for them, but gambling's a lot more honest than what they do."
"And what is it that they do, pray tell?" My voice is cold and my grip on his wrist is approaching a nerve-hold, but neither of those seems to bother him.
A shrug. "Petty theft, fraud, extortion, a little racketeering-"
"A little kidnapping, a little rape?"
Gojyo looks at me in shock, mouth working but no words emerging.
". . . what?" He finally gasps in disbelief.
"Oh, you didn't know that?" I practically spit the words out. "Hyakugan Maoh likes them pretty and doesn't care if the 'goods' have been 'sampled' before he gets them." The vehemence of my tone shocks Gojyo further.
"Is that . . .?" He asks quietly, not prying, just giving me an opportunity to answer.
"Her name was Kanan." I turn my head away from Gojyo, talking quietly to the wall. There is a long period of silence while Gojyo digests this new information and no doubt is drawing conclusions, and I wait for him to evict the murderer from his home. He's probably regretting having saved my life.
"I thought after last week, you'd have given up on sweeping. Guess you're more stubborn than me." The casual, teasing tone startles me into looking up at him. "So why'd you try to rake, anyway?" He smirks at my flabbergasted expression.
"I . . ." What do I say to that?"
". . .re-opened your wound raking. I know. C'mon, the doc'll have my head if I don't get you to his office before he closes." Gojyo's tone is completely casual, as if nothing more important than chores has transpired today.
He doesn't care. Tears of gratitude start pricking my eyes; I avert my head under the pretense of trying to sit up, but my stomach protests the abuse and I have to lie down before I black out. As it is, the exertion and bleeding have me seeing stars. Gojyo stands up and reaches over me, then flips the edge of the blanket over me and scoops both me and the blanket up, standing with a wrenching motion. I struggle weakly; he shouldn't have to carry me to the doctor's.
"Quit it," Gojyo says in a no-nonsense tone of voice. "You'll pass out before you get a block down the street, and you may be thin, but you're not that light. So knock it off, or I'll wind up dropping you halfway there."
Chastised, I go limp and Gojyo practically runs to the doctor's office. His arms are trembling with the stress by the time we get there, but the sudden change of position and an unexpected dip in energy cause me to black out anyway. Well, at least I won't have to hear the lecture this time.