On the Seventh Day
A/N: The last chapter gave me grief, for several reasons, which made writing this next bit difficult—coupled with the sad fact that RL waits for no fic writer, and you get a very guilt-inducing delay, about which I feel duly horrible. Hope you will forgive me and are still reading--here is the next bit. I wrote it in a rush, so as always, I reserve the right to change it later. Heartfelt thanks to those still reading, and to everyone reviewing. It is very much appreciated.

All disclaimers and warnings continue to apply; please refer to notes before the Prologue.

Please note: This part in particular is rated a hard R at least, or whatever used to be NC-17, and it's meant to be dark and disturbing. Please don't read this part if you are under the age of 18.

On the third day, Manx sent them an e-mail.

A body of a young man, unrecognizable, had been found in Tokyo harbour. The body was dark haired, and slim. The corpse had not yet been identified, but Kritiker would obtain tissue samples in due course.

Weiss were reminded of all the training they had had, and of what they already knew—that if Siberian still lived—and it was highly unlikely he'd have survived past the first 12 hours, and even on the off-chance he had--by now he'd have escaped, or they'd have found him. Kritiker valued its people. Kritiker had put all its resources into recovering its agent. Siberian was deceased. There was simply no other possibility.

Kritiker had provided Weiss with funds for a small memorial ceremony, just like when Momoe-san had died. Peacefully, in her sleep.

Kritiker advised that a replacement would be found. Omi told the other two, in a voice too bright and cheerful, that Kritiker had already begun looking.

A soccer game was on the T.V. in Weiss's common room. No one made any effort to turn it off, or to change the channel.

"Aya, is that you? Have you come for me? Please ... please talk to me. Aya?"

"Kid, you were screaming in your sleep last night. Again. I heard you."

Omi jumped, startled from his frantic typing only by Yohji's hand on his shoulder.

"I ... I must have had a bad dream."

"Every night for the past few days?"

Ever since Ken was taken, neither of them said.

"Omi," said Yohji awkwardly into the silence that followed. "We'll find him. You know we will."

"I know." Omi's words were too quick.

The typing never ceased.

It was early, Friday morning. All the schoolkids—including Omi—were in the midst of exams, it had been raining steadily since before dawn, and the shop was deserted.

Under different circumstances, finding himself with so little else to do, Aya would have amused himself by watching Ken.

Or, he thought, smiling now, by not letting the erstwhile Ken, who frequently shared his shifts, talk him into doing something idiotic. Like the time when ...

"Aya, will you come get ice cream with me?"

"I think there's some in the freezer."

"No, there isn't, and I really want some ... please?"

"Ken, it's after 10."

"So?"

"So, it's late and all the shops are closed."

"Not the one in Shibuya ..."

"That's almost an hour from here!"

"So?"

"Ken ..."

"I want ice cream," said Ken stubbornly, a hint of wheedle and whine creeping into his voice. "C'mon, Aya, live a little."

"I do live. I live a lot. I have a morning shift through which to live."

"Ayaaaa ..."

"Oh, fine, whatever. Go if you want to."

But somehow—and it was almost frightening how mindlessly it had occurred—Aya had found himself in his pretty white Porsche driving both of them to the ice cream parlour clear across town which was apparently the only place, according to Ken, that served the right kind of ice cream.

And afterwards, Aya hadn't even minded, because Ken had, for the rest of the night, tasted like chocolate, dark and rich and sweet.

Aya knew that Ken hadn't had much to rely on in his young life. He knew Ken trusted easily—too easily--but what the others didn't know was that Ken rarely trusted all the way. He'd been burned too many times, from too young an age, both literally and figuratively. Ken had no idea what it was to really trust someone else, to rely on someone else—as loyal as he was to Weiss, Aya wasn't sure if he expected that same loyalty in return. As Aya had begun to know Ken, he had realized that Ken was still working towards being able to trust them. To trust Aya.

He didn't want to imagine what Ken was thinking, if he was still alive. He'd better be still alive. He needed Ken home, Aya thought with a pang, home where he was safe and whole. He didn't want to think about ...

Hang on, Ken, he thought. We're coming for you. Just hang on.

He had tried to keep track of the days, from what they were telling him, from what he could hear. From the pattern of when they came.

But it was no use. Time had lost all meaning. There was only pain, now.

Ken couldn't tell anymore where he ended and the pain began. He supposed it didn't matter. There was only pain, and thinking about the pain led him to think about the nightmare that he was in. All he wanted, now, was for the pain to be over. He didn't care how.

It had been by Kobayashi's order that after the first session a group of guards had come and washed Ken down, cleaning him of blood and his own filth, before dressing him in an oversized yukata. They'd given him some water, and touched him as they'd done it, leering and taunting with comments that chilled Ken's blood. Drained of strength, uncaring, Ken hadn't fought their hands on him. Despite himself, the water had been a blessing, the touch of the thin, cool cotton a protection, and lying down a relief.

Kobayashi would be coming, they'd said, as they tied him to the cot. Ken had roused himself to struggle, then, but it was too late. But it was a kindness, a favour, they explained, as they easily overpowered his panicky, feeble attempts to fight them off. A privilege, he was told--one he didn't deserve, but had been granted nonetheless, and he should be grateful. Kobayashi was honouring Ken, they said, by coming to him personally. "Please," said Ken, hating himself for begging, his voice hoarse and weak, "Please, please don't do this." They'd only laughed as they left him tied to the cot and closed the door behind them, and their laughter in the darkness was not kind.

Kobayashi had come in afterwards, with some more guards, throwing on the lights, waking Ken from a half-doze. He wasn't sure how long he'd been lying there, but he thought he'd stopped bleeding.

They'd given Ken some more water, then fed him by hand. The smell of the food made him nauseous. Kobayashi pinched his nose to force him to swallow the food when he would have refused, stomach rebelling. Ken choked and gasped, although he managed not to vomit again. "Such a beautiful boy, you are," Kobayashi had said, smiling genially while Ken shuddered and gagged.

Then footsteps and movement, and the door opened, and closed again, and the lights dimmed. Ken didn't bother watching them leave. The room was silent, and still. He was grateful for the silence.

A touch on his hair, a stroking hand, caused him to jerk violently away, muscles tensing to the point of spasm. He was not alone. He was not alone.

Kobayashi's voice broke the silence. "A beautiful boy," he repeated. "So sweet."

Ken opened his eyes. Kobayashi reached for the belt of Ken's robe. Ken couldn't move.

Ken recoiled violently when Kobayashi touched him. Kobayashi had smiled.

It had been a surprise, Kobayashi had said, when Ken had earlier, and unwittingly, admitted that he had been untouched in that regard. A pleasing surprise. "Innocent," he'd called Ken then, smiling benevolently. "Like a child."

Ken knew innocence was what these men sold.

Ken hadn't thought he'd been innocent. He was an assassin. He hadn't thought he had anything left that was pure.

"Let's test Kritiker's training, shall we?" asked Kobayashi, still smiling in the same manner that one of Ken's most hated grade-school teachers had asked him a question in class that they both knew he couldn't answer. Kobayashi untied Ken's legs, then, and for a brief moment, Ken allowed himself a spark of hope. Under other circumstances, it might have been enough. But Ken was weak and ill from dehydration and pain. Kobayashi outweighed him by a good sixty pounds, and was healthy and well-fed. Even terror and adrenalin and skill weren't enough.

Kobayashi had laughed as Ken struggled and fought and swore. "Such a rare prize, you are," he'd said.

Ken's struggles opened his cuts, and his blood soaked the sheets.

Kobayashi didn't care.

Ken had been burned, badly, when he'd been seventeen. That pain had been excruciating, and he hadn't thought to survive.

This pain speared him; it was a violation, it was too intimate and fear was choking him and was this what Aya had felt? and then he hated himself too and Kobayashi was inside him, and he tried to push away and arch away and he squirmed and bucked and fought harder than he ever had but the ropes at his wrists were strong and he couldn't reach the knots and Kobayashi just laughed and there were hands on his hips bearing down and scratching and drifting lower and hands on his thighs spreading him too wide and his legs didn't bend that way and his bones would break and hands on his sides gripping his ribs hard enough to bruise and crush and he couldn't breathe and hands touching and pushing against his swollen shoulder and surely something there was broken and pain flared white against his eyes and something pushing past his gasps and screams into his mouth choking him and he would have bitten down if he could but he couldn't breathe and it kept coming and thrusting into him so deep he thought he'd break in half or rupture and a rough hand reached between his legs and gripped softness, squeezing and twisting until he screamed so high his voice actually did break and he was tearing and felt the warm rush of liquid and the pain was searing and too bright and it went on and on and he couldn't get away and couldn't escape ...

Before he'd pushed in, Kobayashi had paused and asked Ken, again, in a voice soft and kind, to tell him his name, and the name of his teammates. "That's all," he said. "I want their names, and yours. You don't have to tell me anything else. I can be gentle, if you tell me."

Ken had spat at him.

Afterwards. Kobayashi gathered Ken carefully close, even while Ken had cringed away. He'd held him, speaking to him softly and stroking his hair. In his pain and confusion, Ken had broken down and sobbed, clinging to Kobayashi like a child. And Kobayashi had held him, and kissed his temple, before pulling back and tilting Ken's chin up, smiling tenderly. "What are their names, Siberian? Your name. Tell me."

Still sobbing, Ken had shaken his head wordlessly, reaching out blindly for the comfort he'd just had. Kobayashi slapped him across the face, and got up to leave.

As he'd left, Ken had managed, with some unknown reserve of strength, to move his leg. To kick at Kobayashi, as hard as he could. He'd almost missed, but the edge of his foot caught Kobayashi in the stomach, making him gasp and clutch the wall before he'd continued on his way out. He didn't touch Ken again.

After Kobayashi left him, his men came in. They'd waited until Ken had finished throwing up, everything he'd been fed before and bile afterwards. One of them turned Ken's head so he largely soiled the floor and not himself or the bedclothes. "Poor kid," he thought he heard one of them say. Then they untied him, held him down, and broke his leg. Ken had passed out.

After that, who came, and when, and what they did to him—it had all gotten blurry. They took him away, and wherever they took him, they hurt him. There was no predictable pattern; no way to prepare himself or plan. Sometimes they left him, afterwards, in a room filled with others—crying children or silently shaking teens or screaming women—while he gasped and bled, and hearing their screams and cries was almost as bad as hearing his own. Sometimes they took him right back to his cot, to what he'd begun to think of as his cell, but that was no sanctuary. Outside, Kobayashi oversaw his torture; in his cell, whoever entered was free to torment him as they wished.

But lately, when he woke, he was alone.

Ken was used to being alone. Days before his sixth birthday, strangers had dropped him off at an orphanage, where he'd remained with other strangers. When he'd been eight, even more strangers had taken him to another. Years later, he'd become part of a soccer team, and then another—but by then, he hadn't been alone, because by then Kase had been with him. Just barely, as an alternate, but still. And then Kritiker had made him sign a contract, when he'd been dead and betrayed and no one had mourned his death. And after a time, there had been Weiss—Omi, the younger brother he'd never had before; then Yohji, an older brother he'd never missed until he had one; and then Aya, who had become ...

This wasn't alone. This was insanity. Worse than Kase's betrayal, this was abandonment and despair. This was so impossibly far away from love, from hope, from light, from all the rational things he'd ever believed.

The room was quiet, but through the walls, he could hear a high-pitched screaming, and a small hateful part of him was grateful it wasn't his own. He was too hot. The smell of bile and vomit made his gorge rise again, even as he tried to control it. But he was weak, and his body had betrayed him a long time ago.

He was able, at least, to turn his head.

As he did, he saw that they had left fresh food and water on a pretty tray by the door. Even at a distance, the water looked cool and refreshing, and Ken could imagine how it would taste on his tongue. He was no longer bound. He wondered if the door was locked.

He looked away. There was a small, high window in the wall in front of him, and the sky glowed bright and blue beyond.

He remembered playing soccer in the park, bright sunshine all around him.

He remembered fighting Omi for the last of the teriyaki shrimp; hollering at Yohji while Yohji held his hungover head in pain.

He remembered Aya laughing in the darkness, the sound rich and low and beautiful.

It hurt to think about them.

But he remembered being warm and comfortable and confident.

He remembered being hugged and held and loved.

He remembered, and remembered, and tried so hard not to.

His leg felt heated and unnatural. It was a bad break. Ken remembered that he had once dreamed of a soccer career. Now, that seemed so silly. He wondered if he'd ever play soccer again.

Soccer.

By now, hadn't he missed that game, AC Milan visiting at his old club team, a game he'd been desperate to see? He'd have made fun of the useless goalkeep, and have imagined if ...

Alone in the room, and despite the pain it caused, Ken began, weakly, to laugh.

Yohji heard Aya's voice coming from the basement, loud and annoyed.

"Omi? Omi! Why aren't you at school?"

"I ... it wasn't important."

"Don't you have an exam?"

"I ... I don't need that class."

"You are expected to go to class, Omi. Your school called today, and I had to provide a reason for your absence."

"I ... I'm sorry," said Omi, sounding it. "I'm sorry, Aya, it won't happen again."

If Aya had gone silent in the days when Ken was missing, it was merely shades of silence, noticeable only to those closest to him. But it was Omi who was most noticeably affected by Ken's disappearance, Yohji thought, as he listened to Aya scold Omi about not destroying himself because it wouldn't help.

Because, of course, Aya was about the biggest hypocrite alive.

They all were.

And if Ken had been there, he'd laugh and tell them so.

They hadn't come for a long time, maybe even days, although Ken had lost track of any real sense of time. He thought they changed the food and water regularly, but he couldn't be sure because he never saw them. He always woke shivering, trying and failing to curl up against the cold, and the water was always out of reach. Sometimes, another person would be in the room—a child or two, or, a couple of times, a girl his own age who'd sat in the far corner and kept crying. She annoyed him. He'd tried to get out of bed several times, once even dragging himself as far as the door, but they'd come in before he'd managed to get to the knob. Sometimes, he dreamt of Kase, laughing while he burned. He didn't think he would ever be warm again.

He wondered why they hadn't killed him yet.

"Well, Hidaka, you're kind of a mess, aren't you?" Aya, lounging gracefully on the edge of Ken's stained cot, raised one dark red brown scornfully.

Aya's arm was blackened. There was a faint putrid odour emanating from him. Ken couldn't remember the first time Aya had dropped in, but time seemed to move so differently here. The first few times he'd seen Aya, he thought he was dreaming—Aya had looked so good, so gorgeous and perfect. But Aya hadn't said anything those times. Every time he showed up, now, he was injured—a different injury each time, although none of them seemed life-threatening.

He and Aya hadn't fought, exactly, before his capture—but Ken remembered, dully, his refusal to Aya, and how it seemed to matter not at all anymore. He should have let Aya take what he wanted, he thought. He should have ...

In the beginning, Ken had harboured a foolish hope that someone—one of his teammates—would care enough to come find him. Had thought of them looking, had imagined all the things he'd do for them if they'd only just come and get him.

"Oh, you are hoping that you'll be rescued, do you? Hmm. By ... Abyssinian, hmm? No, no, my boy, he was killed. He was killed, and then, the other two—Bombay, yes, and oh, what is it .. right, right, Balinese. Such fun little names. Yes, those two, the blondes, the little one and the tall one—only one is natural, you know, or maybe you don't, being such a casual sort yourself—well, they ran away, and your Kritiker ordered them not to return. No, my dear, you can't hit me, no, please don't try, Jiro doesn't like it. See, you'll only end up hurting yourself ... Anyway, yes, your friends, such a pity too, I'd have loved to add them to my collection ... oh, but the red-head, his death certainly was pretty, my, yes, all blood and his intestines all beautifully exposed ... oh, dear, now you are crying. I do so hate tears ... please stop, on your own or I'll have to ask Jiro here to help you again, and neither of us would like that, would we?"

Aya was dead, Ken knew. They'd told him, at the very beginning, and then repeatedly thereafter, and Ken hadn't believed them. They'd said all kinds of things. They wanted him to tell them, all about his teammates, because it didn't matter any more. They'd told him his teammates didn't care, that Kritiker had abandoned him, that Weiss was dead. And for a long time, he hadn't believed them. He still wasn't sure he did.

They'd punched him in the stomach until he threw up again, his throat burning from the bile. They'd brought flame, laughing as Ken cowered away, unable by then even to scream.

"Tell me their names, Siberian. Tell me."

He no longer even needed to refuse, having lost his voice ... he couldn't remember how long ago. He'd stopped wondering why Kobayashi even needed to know. He no longer cared. But still ... Weiss hadn't come. Omi, Yohji, Aya ... Ken had waited, and waited, in Kobayashi's huge and visible warehouse ... and Weiss hadn't come.

Still, he couldn't betray them.

He'd seen others—kids younger than him, and innocent, beaten and sold. He heard their screams in the night, as the guards had fun with a few of them, They'd even made Ken watch them hurt one small boy, Kaito, who'd been briefly housed in his room, and who'd dared to try to run away—Kaito had been small enough to fit through the small high window, and smart enough to get there--at Ken's unthinking instigation. One of them had held Kaito down as the other had his turn, laughing, and afterwards, Ken had been the one throwing up and screaming while Kaito comforted him, and how useless was that?

"Trust me," he'd told Kaito. "I promise you'll be safe." He hadn't thought he was lying.

Because Ken had secretly believed it too. Had wanted to believe. Had wanted to hope, to believe he was going home, where Aya was waiting, wanted to laugh at the guys scrambling to cover his shifts, wanted to smile when they made him tea and let him watch all the soccer he wanted as they always did whenever he was sick or injured. Had thought about paying Kaito's mother's boyfriend, who'd also liked to beat on kids, a visit with his bugnuks afterwards. Thought maybe Omi would be happy to join him.

It had been such a nice fantasy.

Ken could still hear Kaito's screams as they'd whipped him, and raped him; as he'd cried and begged and sobbed for his mother.

And after it all, Kaito hadn't escaped. No one had come to save him. No one had come to save any of them.

Kaito, so bright and energetic and determined, so much like the Kase Ken remembered that it hurt.

Ken knew he couldn't escape. And no one would come to save him either.

Kobayashi had won.

"I'm sorry, Aya ... I've been here a long time, I ... I wanted you to come for me, a long time ago, but you haven't. You're not coming for me, are you?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't know ... I can't remember ... and I don't trust them, but they said ... you must be dead."

"Pathetic, is what this is," Aya's voice cut in. "Look at you. Weiss doesn't do rescue and salvage jobs. Have you forgotten what it is to be an assassin?"

Ken looked up sharply. He didn't know how to defend himself against this Aya, not the lover he'd come to cherish and adore, but the arrogant, contemptuous beauty who had first joined Weiss. "I ... I didn't expect this," he said. "I ... " Oh, God. I never expected this. But Aya had reminded him. Why Kritiker hadn't spent much time on capture. Life. Death. Kill. Yourself, your teammates, if necessary. Whatever was necessary for mission success. There was only mission success, and there was not. Kritiker hadn't spent much time on capture, because ... if Aya followed protocol--and Aya was all about protocol--he'd come only to kill Ken, now. And only because Ken hadn't done it for himself.

But Ken still desperately wished for Aya to come. Even if Aya came only to kill him, Ken would still feel nothing but gratitude and relief, and happiness to die by Aya's hand. He didn't want to exist like this. This .. this was never supposed to happen. This was never supposed to happen. For victims, maybe. But ... he was young. He was strong. He was a killer. He was good, he told himself desperately. He had been good. He was Weiss. Unless he'd screwed up, and he honestly couldn't remember how ... but he must have. Because otherwise, this wasn't supposed to happen.

Not to Weiss.

Not to him.

Aya watched a little boy playing with a ball in the park, and smiled. The kid reminded him of Ken. Tousled brown head, flashing limbs, and filled with energy and vitality and joy. He could almost see Ken, now, if he just tried. He watched him now, running, jumping ...

A hand on his shoulder made Ken disappear.

Yohji.

"We'll find him, Aya. Not just for you, and not just because he's your lover—but because we have to. Because he's Weiss. Because without him, none of us exist."

Omi was crying in his sleep as Aya walked by, protesting something no one else could see.

Aya hesitated, and then pushed open the door.

"Omi," Aya muttered, leaning over the bed, placing one hand gently on the damp forehead. "Omi."

Blue eyes snapped open and harsh breathing filled the room.

"You were dreaming."

Sense chased confusion out of the blue eyes, leaving only fear and wariness.

"You are Tsukiyono Omi, you are Weiss, you are home, and you are safe. Know this."

Omi didn't say anything, staring at Aya.

"And know this too. We are Weiss. We will find him." And Aya sat down beside the bed, and waited until Omi fell asleep.

Omi saw the requisition, and blocked it again. Kritiker was looking for a replacement for Ken. But Omi couldn't have a new agent sniffing around the Koneko, not right now.

Omi hadn't been able to find out much. But what he did know was that ... Kobayashi's organization was related to Kritiker. Siberian had been marked as "Reassignment—training program: Experimental, compensation to be determined." Siberian's status was listed as "Inactive, to be terminated."

All of which meant that ... Kritiker had lied to them, and Ken was still alive.

Omi wasn't sure what condition Ken was in ... but Omi was fairly sure that time was running out. The older two had no idea of what he knew. They had no idea how deep, and how dark, Kritiker went, or was. Omi did.

The record was sealed—and so far, he hadn't been able to find any further information—no details, no location. Omi had had to hack for three days even to get as much as he had, only to find that – the record was a paper file only, not online, and accessible only to Persia.

But there were others ways to find out what he needed.

He couldn't tell the others. It would compromise them.

But it didn't matter. Time was always the enemy, and it was hard to say how much time was left, so he had to focus, focus on what mattered. Ken wasn't dead. Ken was alive, and still within Kritiker's net. Ken was alive, and if Ken was alive ... Omi would find him.

He'd find him.

"Omi?"

"Omi, is that you? Is ... Is Aya dead? Where is Aya?"

"Is it my fault? Did he die ... they told me he died because of me. Please, Omi, please tell me he didn't ..."

"Please Omi, we've known each other for so long ... you can tell me, please; please I need to know ..."

"I knew you wouldn't be able to come for me. I didn't really ... you know, it's ok. I don't mind. I know you have other things to think about. But ... "

On the seventh day, Weiss was ordered to stop looking for their fallen member. They were warned of consequences if they failed to obey.
"Aya? They told me you were dead."

"Did they?"

"But you're not dead, are you? Aya, please. Please, Aya. Tell me you're okay?"

"I suppose I am."

"You're bleeding!"

"The dead don't bleed."

"But that looks really ... I mean, gut-wounds are ... "

"I can't feel it."

"I ... I guess. I can't feel much anymore either."

End of Chapter 11.