Because of how long he ended up staying at the church, talking to the Sister, he was late getting back to the shop. Yohji was upset and tried to saddle him with extra work, but Omi interrupted the squabble. There was a tape, he explained, and another mission.

They sat down to watch.

"Weiss," Persia's outline said, "there's a mission for you. The target is this woman: Yokohama Penichua Church's nun, Amamiya Kaoruko."

It was a picture of Sister.

Oh, no, Ken thought as his stomach curdled in shock. Oh, no, no, NO, not again, not this all over again!

"Amamiya provides psychotherapy to young people with serious family problems. Take a look at this news clip." The tape segued into the clip, which showed a female reporter.

"Last night, a well-known rock star, Jack K, real name Takoto Muashi, has been murdered by a fan, who then committed suicide. According to witnesses, there had been sounds of a fight coming from the waiting room before the incident. The prosecution is

deciding whether to investigate further..."

"That girl had been receiving regular therapy from Amamiya since several years ago. She was subconsciously programmed to be controlled by Amamiya, becoming her killing machine, and leading to this incident." Persia's voice darkened. "The method of operation is to first get close to the target, then commit the crime after becoming friends, and then commit suicide. For this incident, the news has indicated it's an isolated hate crime, but we know it is an organized murder. From the start of Kritiker's investigation up until now, over a dozen people have been murdered this way. These are the photographs. Each one of them is an influential figure."

Pictures flashed across the screen. Ken didn't see them. Bile rose in his throat and he felt very much like throwing up.

"This type of murder is making use of people's weakness of heart, so there can be no evidence brought to light. Therefore, it is your job. Hunters of the darkness, deny these dark beasts their tomorrows!"

"So, who's in?" Manx inquired, holding the briefing folder in one manicured hand.

"I'm in," Omi said.

"Me too," Yohji answered lazily.

Aya merely nodded.

"And Ken too?" Manx fairly purred, but she stopped when she saw how stiffly Ken was sitting, with his hands clenched in his lap.

"No. I'm out of this one." He ground the words out from a clenched jaw. "I quit."

"Ken!" Omi's voice was shocked.

"I QUIT," he snarled, and with that, he left the room.

He left uncomfortable silence behind him.

X-X-X-

It was funny sometimes, how life played out like a soap opera. Ken sometimes felt like he was following the script of someone who hated him. Against his better judgment, he'd gone to the church to try and warn Sister. Instead, he'd found Natsuki and Nagi. Nagi had told him firmly not to do anything that would betray Sister, and Ken had given his word… and broken it.

Her blood stained his hands too, now. She'd tried to put him under her control and turn him against his teammates.

Why was everyone he loved a traitor?

He'd gone to her and he'd sunk his claws into her body. He'd stood there while Nagi's grief brought the aging church down on their heads. His teammates ran, but he didn't, and when the destruction was over, he was still standing there unharmed. The universe made a bubble for him. Why? He wanted to scream and rage at the sky, but instead, he merely stood. Why? What was the point?

He left only when a sleek black car pulled up and Crawford got out. Ken had no wish to face any more of Schwarz today. He turned and he ran, he ran and he ran and he ran through the streets as the rain came down and the sky turned black and more and more of his heart and mind fractured with each passing minute. Lightning cracked and thunder rolled and his feet pounded the pavement, scattering water droplets as he charged through puddles. He didn't track his movements, just picked a direction and ran. He sobbed as he ran.

Finally, he could run no more. He collapsed against an alcove that contained a door, wrapping his arms around himself and letting great sobs wrack his body as he cried into his knees. He was still bloody, and he was out where anyone could stumble across him, but he didn't care. He couldn't care about anything, not anymore.

He didn't care when he felt steel-strong hands lift him from his crouch and propel him down a street. He didn't care when he was bundled into a building and herded up three flights of stairs to an apartment. He didn't care when his jacket was yanked from his body and he was tossed unceremoniously onto a rather comfortable, navy-blue corduroy couch.

He came back to himself rather abruptly when Farfarello crouched in front of him and mutely offered him a cup of tea.

For a long moment, they stared at each other – Farfarello with calm patience, Ken with suspended grief. Then, finally, he moved cracked lips and whispered.

"I understand now."

"What do you understand?" Farfarello inquired.

"Everything." He choked. "Everything. Why… Why YOU. I know now. How it felt, how you must have felt, why you do it… she was… she was…."

"She was a liar, as they are all liars," Farfarello said, the musical tones of his voice soothing. He folded Ken's hands around the cup. "Drink. You will feel better."

"What is this place?" Ken wondered, staring at Farfarello in mild disbelief. He'd been so sure the Irishman was dead….

"It is an apartment. It belongs to me."

"You have an apartment?" The strange normalcy of that made Ken goggle.

"Even I must live somewhere," Farfarello said. He moved off, and Ken drank his tea. It was Orange Pekoe, a pleasant surprise, and he took the opportunity to look around.

The place was very plain, but he could tell it was Farfarello's. The furniture was not black and red, but it was in dark, stain-obscuring colors, and it was comfortable and functional before being aesthetic. They were slightly mismatched items, a dark green easy chair shoved into a corner where three overflowing bookshelves surrounded it, balancing papers and paperbacks precariously. A narrow, scuffed table held a fairly new sound system, a set of nunchucks, a number of candles, and a cat-shaped chia pet, which Ken stared at dumbly for several minutes before convincing himself that it was really there.

The other wall had a stand-up corkboard several inches thick onto which were pinned human-shaped black targets. The targets were barely intact anymore, and several throwing knives were still imbedded in the cork nearly to the hilt, in the targets' vital spots. A battered punching bag hung in one corner near a stand of free weights. The door to the bedroom was closed, and in the kitchenette, Ken could see Farfarello moving around.

Moving around. In a kitchen. Ken gave his head a hard shake when it was suddenly filled with an image of the madman in an apron and chef's hat, giggling maniacally while chopping ginger.

Farfarello slipped from the kitchen into the bedroom soundlessly, moving like a panther on his own turf, and Ken stopped paying attention. The tea was sweet and good and warmed his bones. He hadn't really realized he was cold.

Farfarello reappeared and dumped a pile of clothes in his lap. "Change. You are soaking my couch." He then retreated back into the kitchen.

Ken laughed despite himself, and set the teacup aside. He'd been brought a rather nondescript set of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt, in gray and navy blue, and a pair of gray slipper socks, along with a towel. He glanced at the kitchen, but Farfarello was out of sight. Knowing he'd been intentionally given privacy, he stripped and dried off quickly, then pulled on the borrowed clothing. He was toweling his hair dry when the Irishman returned and gathered Ken's clothes, beckoning him. He followed into the bedroom, then to the adjoining bathroom, to see his clothing tossed over the shower rod to dry. "You may use the shower," Farfarello told him, "or anything else here."

Ken nodded, swallowing against the lump in his throat. "Thank you. Can I ask you a question?"

Farfarello smirked slightly, a lopsided expression that only touched half of his mouth. "It is not the questions you should be afraid of – it is the answers."

He chuckled. "All right. Question, then: why are you being so kind to me?"

"I have already answered that," Farfarello told him.

"I don't remember. Humor me."

"Because we are alike," Farfarello told him, pausing next to the large, low, unmade bed with sheets of white and slate-blue. The closer doors bore full-length mirrors, and he brushed his fingertips down the face of one. "Because if you looked into a twisted mirror that showed your soul, you would see something like me."

"I used to think that wasn't true," Ken said quietly, looking in the mirror along with him. "But lately, so many things have happened. Did you know, I practically grew up in a church? And that nun, the Sister, she did so much for me during my childhood, but it was all a lie. When I killed her, she clung to me, and I couldn't help thinking of how Ruth still tried to hold you even when you'd already murdered her. And I knew then how you must have felt that first time, when you just lost it. I knew because I wanted to. I wanted to destroy everything. Kill the world."

"It hurts," Farfarello said simply, softly. "Even I can feel that kind of pain."

Ken turned abruptly, to face him. "Were you always like that?" he demanded. "Or did it happen… after?"

"It happened in adolescence," Farfarello told him. "It went away slowly in the asylum in Ireland. Over the course of four months I lost the ability to comprehend the pain. I fought and tried to bring it back, but it was gone forever. When I escaped that place and was later recaptured, I was shot three times and felt nothing. I tore out my eye not long after that."

"You have some sort of… increased healing, don't you?" He reached out and took Farfarello's arm, shoving the sleeve of his t-shirt up to reveal an unmarked stretch of skin that had once been burned with acid. "So why do some scars stay and some don't?"

"All the scars I still have, I received before my healing abilities were fully developed." Farfarello did not object to being manhandled. Ken had a brief flash of the bench in the park, hands moving through his hair and turning his muscles to jelly. Farfarello was a tactile person. But, he thought, that made sense. As much time as he's spent in isolation, restrained, touching and being touched must be reassuring. Without really thinking what he was doing, he ran his hand up that pale, scarred bicep. Farfarello moved only slightly, turning and cupping Ken's other elbow, staying like that. Ken couldn't tear his eyes away from that pale skin, stretched over hard muscle. Farf was strong, he'd noticed that before. He was solid, and real, and THERE.

All of a sudden, Ken felt dizzy. He swayed on his feet, but in taking his elbow, Farfarello had already caught him. He couldn't fall. Securely, he was coaxed backwards, collapsing on springy softness.

"Sleep here," came the lullaby whisper. "And in my place, do not be troubled by dreams."

Obediently, he slept.

X-X-X-

"He just conked out?"

"Immediately. He is not injured."

"Nah, 'course not. Post-traumatic stress disorder. I guess we're lucky he just passed out. If you and he are really so similar, we could have had a massacre on our hands."

"He is not far from that point."

"No, I wouldn't guess. So, what're you going to do with him? Slice him up and test out your new blender?"

A soft, dangerous chuckle. "No. He is damaged, and hurting. The truth is a knife that twists ever deeper. I will keep him."

"For how long?"

"Now, until he decides to leave. In the future, as long as I may. It will not stop until he has lost everything. It will be little comfort that his companions are going insane along with him, all save Abyssinian."

"What makes him special?"

"He has no purpose, no goal, and no dream," Farfarello said quietly. "He is perfect void."

"Ah. Buddha's prodigy, then. I don't know. I tend to think that when you live like that, you lose something essential about being HUMAN, and about what it means to live here in the mud like everybody else. But I ain't Buddhist and Tao ain't anywhere near me. Hey, you cleared for Tuesday?"

"I know the time and place."

"See you then, I have to run. Take good care of him, he's cute, and no religious ranting until he can string a complete sentence together. You'll just make it worse."

"It will worsen anyway, before it heals."

"If it heals. Goodnight."

"Good evening."

X-X-X-