Driving back the way he had come, the unconscious girl strapped securely in behind him, Darien reviewed his alternatives of what to do next. The girl needed medical attention, that was obvious enough—from what he could tell, she'd need it even before he'd hit her with his car. Yet the existence of her assailants made a relatively easy task much more complicated. All of the nearby hospitals were far too public and easily entered. Those men were no fools—well, at least their leader wasn't—and they'd waste no time dispatching a few of their number to search the local medical facilities. And with as woefully overworked and understaffed as they were, those grunts would have little difficulty locating her, and even less smuggling her out. The staff likely wouldn't notice for hours, not until an orderly checked in during his rounds.
He could still hear the leader's parting shot as they'd retreated from Darien and their quarry. "Don't think for a minute you're safe, girlie," he had said—not loud and blusterous, but low and menacing. "You're my prey, and I'll catch you yet, coney."
He could post guards, of course, but that was a little more ostentatious an idea than he liked. He might as well post an ad in the local paper apprising all and sundry of her whereabouts. And how would she feel, regaining consciousness only to find two hulking males looming over her? She might even do herself further injury trying to get away. And he certainly couldn't stay with her. Who knew how long she'd need to be hospitalized for? He had a business to run—strategies to plan, meetings to attend, investments to oversee! Darien acknowledged that owed her a debt for hitting her with his car and all, but surely not enough of one to potentially cost him hundreds of thousands of American dollars, to say nothing of what that would translate into yen. He certainly couldn't take time out to play nursemaid to a girl he didn't know, especially since she could need days of care…weeks even!
Yet the wealthier, more exclusive private hospitals weren't a much better option than the public ones. The cost wasn't a deterrent—he could afford a month of care in such an establishment with the interest from a single investment. No, half the problem came from the private hospitals' locations. The closest clinic was a good hour away from his currant location; the others farther still. Darien was no doctor, but even he could see that she needed medical attention soon. He didn't like the pallor of her skin, even accounting for the way moonlight washed out coloring, nor was he overly fond of the way her breathing seemed labored. Very labored. Although she was unconscious, her face was twisted with pain and discomfort which only grew with every breath.
Their exclusivity was an issue as well. He had no idea who the girl was, not even the most basic information: name, birthday, address, nothing. He could just imagine it now, explaining the whole scenario to the head nurse on duty. "I've just hit this girl with my car. I know nothing about her, nor what else is wrong with her beyond Jag-induced injuries, but I do know that there is an entire group of guys after her." Darien's upper lip curled. He wasn't sure who it would be more fun to repeat that story to, the police or the reporters. But both would be after him in a flash if he dropped her off with a story like that. And it was well within the realm of possible that the hospital would refuse to admit her without proper identification and the chance of violence following her to their facility.
Which left one alternative. Dammit, he hated asking favors, even from the only man he could call friend and mean it. Usually when he needed something done, he could call in the favors people owed him, leaving him beholden to no one. Darien had learned at an early age that it was far better having favors owed to you than by you. Even though Motoki didn't think like that—he occupied a place far removed from Darien's world of deals, lies, double-crosses, and contracts as iron-bound as one could make them—it was still hard for Darien to let his guard down that far. If the girl in the backseat didn't look so damn vulnerable…
His lip twitched again with sardonic amusement. It was a night already filled with unexpected events. Why balk now? And, besides, while he'd accepted that he owed this girl for harming her, he'd far prefer to transplant that debt onto Motoki, a known and trusted quantity. Motoki would likely never call that debt in, or, if he did, it would be for something minor that Darien could accomplish easily with either a wave of his hand or his name on a check. Who knew what the girl would end up asking for, should she ever become aware of the magnitude of the debt between them?
He'd found his cell phone in the backseat when he's buckled in the girl's prone form. It was a bit scratched and battered, but other than some cosmetic damage on the outer casing, seemed none the worse for wear. He reached for it now, back in the dashboard charger, his eyes never leaving the road in front of him. One catastrophe a night was enough, thanks.
"Motoki," he said, curtly. The voice-activated phone quickly retrieved and dialed the number. This time, a complete smile bloomed, although still full of black humor. Even his electronics hastened to do his bidding. Good. At least some things were normal tonight.
"Moshi moshi."
"Motoki, excellent, you're home. I was worried that you had rounds tonight. That would have seriously put a kink in my plans."
"Darien, hello! You're probably the last person I expected to hear from tonight. I thought you had plans…weren't you going to break things off with Beryl? Or is that why you're calling? She didn't seem like the type to take that quietly. Do you need me to set something, or did she just scratch your face up a little bit. I've seen her nails—they look like they could do quite a number on someone. I was never sure if that was nail polish she was wearing, or the dried blood of past victims."
"No, Motoki, I'm fine," Darien cut into his friends amused ramblings impatiently. "I took care of all that earlier."
" 'Took care of all that'? How romantic an emotional. Well, considering it sounds like you're not calling me for consolation over a broken heart, what's up?"
"I need a favor."
"Sure, no problem. Whaddaya need?"
Darien was torn between pleasure that his best friend would be so willing to help him out without first hearing what he was agreeing to, and frustration that his best friend would be so naïve as to agree to help him without first hearing what he was agreeing to. That kind of faith would get you killed in the cutthroat business world; financially and emotionally, if not physically. And Darien had known men that had chosen that last option when the first two had occurred. A little known fact to anyone outside their circle, but suicide was the most common form of death among Japanese business men/x/.
With cool pragmatism, Darien throttled down his frustration: Motoki's eagerness only benefited Darien in this case. Besides, trying to change his best friend's open, giving nature was about as fruitless as trying to teach a rock to sing. It was just a part of what made Motoki Motoki; and was probably the reason Motoki was a doctor, and not a giant of industry, like Darien was. And Motoki's sunny cheerfulness was a soothing balm sometimes, so different than Darien's own, far darker personality. He knew why he enjoyed Motoki's company, but was somewhat at a loss to figure out why Motoki so enjoyed his.
"Hey, Darien, you there? The wife's giving me an impatient look—she's just set dinner on the table. Hey, ya hungry? There's plenty and Reika was just complaining that we don't see you enough."
"Sorry, Motoki, I was changing lanes and needed all my attention on the road. And as much as I'd love to have dinner with you guys, I don't think circumstances are going to permit it. As a matter of fact, Reika's going to be more than just 'impatient' when I tell you my request. I need you, and whatever medical equipment you have handy, at my house as soon as you can make it. I'm afraid dinner—as delicious as I'm sure it is—is not an option." Darien's voice was grim.
Silence reigned over the line. Then: "Are you serious, Darien?" All of the jovial, good-nature had left Motoki's voice.
"As serious as life and death. And it may come to that if you don't get to my house as soon as you can."
"Jesus!" Motoki swore; the son of Protestant Japanese missionaries. "What the hell is going on?"
"I'll explain when I see you."
"Darien--" A pause, as Motoki gathered up his courage to ask his question, "this isn't anything illegal, right? Because you know that I won't be party to anything like that."
A trace of regret crept into Darien's voice, "Do you really think so little of me, Motoki? First that I would do something illegal, and second that I would drag you and Reika into it?" Motoki's question had hurt more than Darien ever would have expected. A deeper cut than he'd experienced in years, in fact.
Again, Motoki was silent for a moment. When he spoke, guilt and contrition were clear in his tone. "Look, Darien—no, I don't think that. I'm sorry. This whole thing just took me by surprise. I—"
"We'll talk about it at my place, okay?" Darien broke in, brusquely. "I've got to go so I can concentrate on the road."
"Where are you coming from?"
"The old arcade."
"What?" Motoki yelped, "What the hell were you doing there?"
I'll explain everything when we get there. Hurry." He shut the lid to his phone, cutting off the rest of Motoki's startled questions. Glancing in his rearview mirror, he saw that the girl had yet to regain consciousness.
"Shit," he muttered, stepping on the gas. "Motoki, hurry up. I don't know how much time we've got left."
At the end of the driveway—perhaps more aptly termed a 'private road'—Darien was glad to see Motoki had indeed beaten him home. It was a good twenty minute drive from Motoki's house to the outskirts of Tokyo where Darien made his residence, but almost double that when one was leaving from the Juuban district. He was gladder still to note that Motoki hadn't gone inside. At the first splash of headlights, he'd gotten out of his car and stood beside it, waiting. He smoothly pulled into the space before his front door—they'd hit a rough patch on the highway heading in, and he'd been horrified to see tears roll down her face. She'd nearly regained consciousness, or at least he thought she had, but it was hard to tell with her continued silence. He could tell she was whimpering in pain from the way she moved, but not a sound had escaped her lips.
He got out of his car quickly, and went straight for the back door, ignoring Motoki's hesitant greeting. He wanted to get the girl out before she could be hurt further.
"Jesus, what happened to your car!" Motoki exclaimed, looking at the front.
"I was in an accident," he grunted, bent over awkwardly trying to wedge his arms beneath her back and knees while she was still prone against the seat.
"With what? An anchor!"
Darien carefully stood, the girl cradled against his chest and kicked the door closed. "No that's from about five minutes after I hit her." He gestured at the girl, once more unconscious, in his arms. Motoki straightened immediately. He'd been so taken up with the weird dents on Darien's beloved car that he'd missed what Darien had been doing in the backseat. The change in demeanor was instantaneous. Gone was all the usual jocularity, the air of absent-minded good nature. With a patient present, Motoki was all authority and business.
"Well, now I see why you called," he murmured, coming forward and taking a closer look. "I don't like the look of this at all. Bring her into the house while I get my bag. I want her on a bed in a quiet room with good lighting, and about a ton boiled water. Now."
Not wasting the time it would take to acquiesce, Darien headed for his home. Before he could do more than walk up to the front stoop, the door was opened, and his butler was bowing him in. "Good evening, sir—" Fumi stopped and looked at the battered girl his employer was carrying. "Shall I summon Mrs. Toshida?" he inquired, his calm, professional deportment shaken a bit.
"Yes, as quick as you can, Fumi. Tell her to put a giant pot of water on to boil and have her meet me in the first floor guest bedroom. Dr. Furuhata is here as well. Don't bother with him for his coat, just send him in here."
His butler obeying him with alacrity, Darien continued further into his house. For the first time ever, he wished it was not as spacious as it was. He longed to set her down, not because her slight weight was a bother, but because he was dreadfully afraid that he was harming her with every step he took. Motoki caught up just as Darien was laying her down on the crisp, clean sheets of the guest room. Mrs. Toshida, his ever-capable housekeeper, was not far behind with a basin of water. For a moment he wondered how even she could have forced water to boil so quickly, but then remembered this was about the time she had her nightly cup of tea. He stepped aside gratefully to let Motoki have a better look at her, and motioned Mrs. Toshida to set down the basin on the nightstand.
"Darien," Motoki said quietly, as he began unbuttoning the girl's shirt. "Go wait in the living room or something."
"What! I'm not going anywhere!"
"Oh, really? When did you get your medical degree?"
"Medical degree? What the hell are you talking about? You know I don't have one—"
"Exactly!" Motoki whirled around, eyes flashing. "You don't have a degree, you're not a doctor, and therefore, you're not allowed to be in the same room when I am examining a patient! I will not have her privacy breeched any more than I have to. Get out!"
Abashed and somewhat amazed, Darien retreated to the living room as ordered. He'd never heard Motoki raise his voice before; then again, he'd never seen Motoki with a patient before. He'd heard the passion in his best friend's voice when talking about his profession, but was still surprised at the tenacity with which he adhered to the Hippocratic Oath. In a way, Darien was almost impressed. Very few people dared to raise their voice to him, even fewer in the sanctity of his own home. That Motoki had done so, and then only in the defense of the girl's confidentiality, showed the depth of his dedication.
Close to twenty minutes passed while Darien waited, impatiently, in his living room. He'd tried to watch his television, but lost track of what was happening within moments. The same thing occurred when he tried to read a book, or glance through the papers in his briefcase. The entirety of his attention was taken up with whatever was taking place behind the guestroom door. In the end, he settled for pacing, pausing only once to accept the cup of tea Fumi pressed into his hand. Mrs. Toshida had entered the room several times, bringing in more hot water, and once leaving with an armload of bloody linen, but she refused to tell him anything other than "Dr. Furuhata seems to have everything well in hand, sir."
Just as Darien was going to either throttle his housekeeper to get more information, or break down the door to the guest room for the same reason, Motoki came into the living room. Blood was speckled on his sleeves, and his eyes were tired. He immediately sank into one of Darien's overstuffed chairs with a heartfelt sigh.
"So?" Darien demanded.
Motoki wearily raised his head. "Do you know you've got dried blood on your cheek?" he asked with a ghost of amusement. "And one hell of a bruise on your forehead. It looks like it's been quite a night. Want to tell me what happened?"
"I want to know what's wrong with the girl." Darien snapped.
"Well, for one thing, she looks like she's been hit by a car," Motoki shot back, with a bit of his own temper. "But before I can sort out what is a recent injury and what's not, I'd like to know what the hell happened tonight. So shut up and answer my questions first."
Surprised anew by Motoki's forcefulness, Darien obeyed; spilling out the events as he could remember them. When he got to the part about the run-in with the gang, Motoki started a bit, but gestured for Darien to continue. The retelling lasted almost longer than the accident itself, not even counting the break when Fumi came in with a damp rag for Darien to wash his face with as well as a cup of tea for Motoki.
"Ahh," was all that Motoki said when Darien's narrative concluded. "Hmmm. Well, that explains some of the things I was wondering about, though certainly not all.
"She's a very interesting case," he mused, staring into his teacup. "A mix of irregularities, I guess one could say. Just when I think I've got her all figured out, she surprises me again."
"She does?" Darien asked. "Has she spoken to you then?"
At that, Motoki shook his head. "I'm not entirely certain, but I'd say she's completely mute. At least, that's the impression she gives, what with not speaking and all. Would you like to see her?"
"Of course!" Darien leapt up. "I didn't want to ask; I was afraid you'd hit me or something."
Motoki laughed as he stood. "Just for a moment, mind you. I don't want to disturb her, but there are a few things I think you should see."
Fumi beat them to the guest room door, his face carefully blank, but his eyes alive with interest. Darien nodded as he stepped inside, if Motoki thought Fumi should leave, he's say something. Stepping inside, he got his first good look at the girl since he'd brought her home. Though the lights were on, she was deeply asleep. Her head was swathed with bandages, and her face a bit battered, but even so, there was a beauty to her. Golden eyebrows arched over closed lids, light lashes resting against her hollowed cheeks. Her lips were full and a delicate coral pink, slack with sleep, showing a row of even, white teeth. Her foot was elevated in a makeshift sling, and the rest of her body covered by a warm blue blanket. Even so, he could see additional bulkiness caused by more bandages around her ribs.
"She's still unconscious?" he asked, concerned.
"Shh!" Motoki silenced him with an abrupt gesture. "No, I gave her something to help her sleep once I ascertained that she didn't have a concussion and would be in no danger. Her body needs food and rest more than anything else. The drugs I gave her hit her harder than I'd calculated, and believe me, I took her size, weight, and condition into account while dosing her. If she's eaten anything today, I'll be greatly surprised. Hell, if she's eaten anything more than bare subsistence in the last week, I'll trade in my stethoscope for a shepherd's crook and take up sheepherding."
"So, she's a transient," Darien murmured, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest.
"You'd think that, but I'm not entirely sure," Motoki answered, even though Darien hadn't meant it as a question. "Like I said, she's full of surprises. Here," he continued, lifting up the girl's limp arm. "There are a few things I want to show you specifically."
Darien felt strangely reticent about examining her while she lay sleeping so peacefully in his house. It felt like an intrusion…a violation. "Are you sure?" he asked reluctantly. "What about her privacy?"
Motoki gave him a sour look. "Well, for one thing, unlike a half an hour ago, when you were so eager to see, she's not going to be naked."
"Hey!" Darien protested hotly. "That wasn't it at all, and you know it!"
"I know, I know. I'm sorry." Motoki sighed, and ran his free hand through his short blond hair. "She's certainly not going to be able to be moved for at least a week. Wouldn't you like to know a bit more about her, both the injuries you'll have to watch and the mysteries she represents? From what you've told me, there are some serious people after her. You might want to know a bit more about the situation that you rescued her from, no?"
"Well, when you put it that way…" Darien looked over to Fumi, standing straight next to the door and being as unobtrusive as possible. "Fumi, unless the good doctor objects, you may wish to return with Mrs. Toshida. As I still have business to take care of, the two of you will likely be her primary caretakers for the next week or so, and should probably hear the diagnosis firsthand." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Motoki nod.
"Certainly, sir." Fumi bowed, managing to look as if he were simply obeying orders, instead of receiving permission to eavesdrop away. Darien's mouth twitched. His staff was just as curious as the next, but they conveyed an air of general disinterest and kept silent, at least with outsiders. That was really all anyone could ask for.
Motoki still stood at the girl's bedside, her arm dangling slackly from his gentle grip. "Uhhh, Darien, you wanna come over here and take a look at this? Or should I just wave her limbs around like a puppeteer?"
Rolling his eyes at his best friend's odd sense of humor, he examined the proffered hand.
"What do you see?"
"A hand." It was a nice hand, he could admit to himself. The finders were long and slender, but with no rings or identifying jewelry on them. Her wrist was slim and dainty, and what appeared to be a well-shaped forearm—if such things existed outside of romance novels—extended back to where the coverlet began.
"Look harder. Now what?"
"Still just a hand." Darien replied shortly. He despised guessing games.
"Look at her nails."
Sighing, he did so. "Yes, Motoki, they're nails. Fairly nice ones. Not very long though, nor, for some inexplicable reason, painted. Do I get a prize?"
"For sheer wrongheaded obstinacy, yes." Motoki also sounded exasperated. "From her general appearance, how long would you say she's been on the streets for?"
"Years, maybe? I don't know, Motoki, I've never sat down and examined all the stages of hobohood!"
"Are these the nails you see on people who live on the streets!"
"I'd say sure, except that they're clean!" Darien—almost—shouted. Then he stopped abruptly. "Wait, they're clean. And they're not ragged, either. It looks like she's filed them, and recently too, or they wouldn't be so short."
With the smile of a teacher who's finally made a breakthrough with a particularly stubborn student, Motoki nodded. "Exactly. She's remarkably clean, even for someone who's only been on the streets for a week or two. You may not have dealt with the homeless before, but I have. Beside them, this girl glows like a pearl. She's clean. Her clothes have been inexpertly patched, but some care has been taken with them. They have also been washed recently. There are no food stains anywhere, either. And look," he said, turning her hand palm-up, "these are new calluses. The ones on her feet are new too. There are the remains of some cotton batting which suggests that she'd recently had blisters. But where there are no calluses, her skin is still fairly soft. She's either extremely new to the streets, or she's been taking care of herself. Or both."
"So what does that mean? She's a runaway? That would make sense, if that's why those guys were chasing her. If they were my family, I'd leave home, too."
"I did a thorough exam, at least as thorough as I could under these circumstances." Motoki's cheeks reddened, but his voice remained steady. "Mrs. Toshida was in here to verify. She's not been abused… sexually…more than that, she's still a virgin. Her hymen is intact. This also means that she doesn't ride horses regularly, do gymnastics, or use certain feminine products. Look at her. Even after getting hit by a car, she's lovely. How long do you think she could keep herself safe from the predators out there?
"Back to how clean she is. We discussed that she hasn't had much to eat in at least a week. I'd say from her vitals and the hollows in her cheeks and throat that it's been longer than that. Her stomach hasn't begun to bloat from malnutrition, but her body has started eating away at some of her reserves. Yet, again, she's almost startlingly clean, once you got the road-grime off of her. Which means that she values cleanliness over food—but not to such an extent that suggests obsessive compulsive disorders. She has just been raised to a high standard of hygiene and refuses to compromise that, even when it's within her best interests to do so.
"Lastly, there's this." Motoki picked up a sheaf of papers laying on the nightstand. "When it became apparent she could not speak, I handed her a pen and some paper that I might be able to get some information. For the record, she's not deaf. Just mute." He handed over all but one.
Not needing any prompting, Darien examined the paper. It was covered with an elegant, feminine script. The quality of penmanship spoke of hours practicing, a tedious chore Darien recalled from his own youth, making sure each stroke of every character was concise and clear. "She knows kanji. Fluently," he murmured to himself. "And these aren't ignorant responses. She's been well educated. High school at the very least."
"Precisely. Do these qualities match that gang of hers?"
"Not hardly."
"I didn't think so. So I think we can safely rule out that she has had any kind of association with them, at least not before the accident."
"Before I hit her?"
Motoki shook his head. "No, before whatever accident caused this." He brushed aside some of the bandages and gently touched her temple. There, at his fingertip, was a silvery, puckered scar, almost crescent-shaped. "There's one more thing that I haven't mentioned to you yet."
Darien could tell that whatever it was, he wasn't going to like it. "What's that?"
"She's got complete amnesia. She doesn't even remember her name." Motoki handed over the last page.
Doctor, can you tell me who I am?
/x/I am making this up. I have no idea whether this is true or not.