A/N: All disclaimers and warnings continue to apply; please refer to notes before the Prologue.

Please note too: I thank everyone who has left comments for all your comments and for reading—I really do appreciate it. But as for the rating—I know others may not consider this fic quite NC-17, but it definitely approaches NC-17 given the adult themes and certain scenes, and certainly deserves at least its M rating. Again, I can only ask you—if you are underage, for both our sakes, please skip this fic and read something else. For my part, I am assuming everyone who reads my fic is mature enough to do so.

In any event, now that writing the graphically horrible bits—which I really, really procrastinated about writing, to be honest—are over, hopefully the next parts should come a bit quicker. I like writing the fluffy fun stuff much better—grim bits are just so ... grim ...

And as much fun as it is to write fic, I really can't tell you how happy and thrilled I am, always, to get a review, either positive or critical. I am interested to hear as much about what you don't like as what you do. If you'd like a reply, please sign your review or leave an address, and I will. For my unsigned and anonymous reviewers: a heartfelt thousand thank yous.

Chapter 12: They Also Serve

On the seventh day, Weiss was ordered to stop looking for their fallen member, and accept Kritiker's confirmation of his death. It was distracting them. They were to be re-listed on active duty a week from this date. A replacement for their fourth member would be found.

They were warned of consequences if they failed to obey.

They were also quietly supplied with an array of drugs, both legal and non, to assist them with ... their focus.

Persia conveyed his condolences via Manx.

Aya punched a hole in the wall of their common room. Yohji disappeared. Aya covered his shifts and Ken's that afternoon and throughout the following day.

Omi didn't leave his room. At all, except to show up dutifully for his scheduled shift. He showed up, unfortunately, two hours late.

On Sunday, Aya simply closed the shop. Yohji came back that evening, unwashed and unshaven, reeking horribly of smoke and booze and with his ubiquitous sunglasses hiding his eyes. He went straight to his room. He didn't even look at Aya. Omi remained in his room. Aya left a plate of food outside each of their doors.

That night, Aya sat in the basement, nursing a cup of tea. It was warm in his hands.

There was nowhere else to look. They'd exhausted all avenues.

Ken might already be dead, he thought. That's what Kritiker said. They'd told them the DNA matched. Ken was already dead.

The teacup shattered in his hands.

He couldn't lose Ken. The thought was unbearable, unthinkable. After his family, and Aya, and ...

He couldn't lose Ken.

He wouldn't allow it.

Omi's voice, strained and exhausted, interrupted his thoughts.

"Manx just e-mailed me."

He looked up. Omi and Yohji were both in the room, and the light was on.

On the eleventh day, Bombay let the other two know that Kritiker had assigned Weiss a new mission. A mission consisting of little more than straightforward elimination and data recovery. A simple one.

A mission for all of Weiss.

A three man mission.

It took a full day, between shifts, to organize the mission. None of them had any time in between to continue the search for their fallen teammate. It was a relief. Although he refused to acknowledge it, Aya's search had been impeded, more recently, by a growing sense of futility. He'd watched his sister lie in a coma and not wake up, but he'd forced himself to keep waiting, keep hoping, despite what everyone else said. Surely, Aya told himself, he was strong enough, would make himself strong enough, to do this for Ken also. But in private moments, he wondered ... he wasn't sure he could bear waiting so long again, and hope was such a fragile thing next to the weight of his despair.

But now Weiss—Aya--had a mission to focus on, and they were professionals. Despite everything, by the following night, they would be ready. He would be ready.

The following night, he was ready.

It was surprising how easy it was, despite everything, to become Abyssinian again. To become a living weapon, a tool of Kritker—memorizing entrances and routes and passwords, practicing katas and swordwork, preparing himself to creep and catch and kill—and this mission really was, as Omi had said, very simple. In fact, the tape supplied by Persia had been little more than Persia stating, as he had countless times before, that these dark beasts must be denied their tomorrows, and that the mission files would provide all the necessary details. Rather more curt than Persia usually was, in truth—the mission tape really did sound like a rote description more for demonstration's sake than anything else. But the mission files really had been more than sufficiently detailed, and Omi's research thorough as always, so it really didn't matter anyway.

He did his katas, and he dressed in his mission gear, buckling his coat over it all. He was calm. He was centered. He was focussed. He was a blade, a weapon, a tool. He was the mission given life and purpose and shape. He was Weiss.

He slipped past the sadly dusty motorcycle to climb into Kudoh's gleaming and overly flashy convertible, and the smell of smoke enveloped him. Aya was instantly annoyed, and grimaced in distaste—what kind of idiot assassin drove a car as obvious as this, and smelled so distinctively of American cigarettes, and, wonderful, now he was going to reek as well thanks to that pea-brained loser moron Kudoh--and sat in the back while Yohji drove them down to the warehouse on the dock, where all Japan's most heinous criminals apparently plied their illicit, perverted trades.

Aya remained silent as Yohji bitched and moaned, cigarette in one hand, about how Kritiker was practically forcing them into doing this mission—which was essentially true, the gods knew that despite the dearth of women in many of them, even the great Kudoh couldn't repeatedly refuse missions—when they'd as good as promised Weiss the extra week off before assigning a replacement and putting them back on active status. "We're inactive," Yohji whined, his voice droning on and on and threatening to ruin Aya's focus with the extent of his irritation at the blond, "and then we got to go and get a fucking replacement, without so much as a by your leave and thanks for playing, and why the fuck is Kritiker making us haul ass out in the middle of the night in goddamned fucking freezing December as if we were their fucking lapdogs and existed solely to fetch and carry for them at their goddamned bloody whim ..."

Aya absolutely did not think about Ken, who was the one being replaced so callously, and how Ken, if he had been there, would have rolled his eyes and grinned at Aya, and made tactless remarks about the weather that would have Yohji diverted and retaliating with some cutting innuendo or disparaging remark about the effect of cold on our shy little Kenken while Omi defended Ken by rote and Ken yelled in outrage and Aya, who'd been on the receiving end and was in a position to know, would just sit there smirking about the divergence between reality and Yohji's depraved imaginings until Ken would finally clue in loudly as to what Yohji really meant and lean over and flex his bugnuks in even greater outrage and indignantly demand to know, over Yohji's vociferous snickering and Omi's sudden fit of giggles even on their way to a dangerous scary mission in which someone would certainly die, in what Ken thought of as an undertone but what everyone else referred to as a yell, why Aya was smirking and making no effort to even defend him ...

"I'd rather have Ken-kun," said Omi in a small voice, bringing Aya abruptly back to the present. And Yohji paused in his ranting, car lurching wildly as he drew it into a one-handed turn well over the speed limit, to reach a hand over and grip one of Omi's, hard. "It'll be okay, Omittchi. It'll be okay."

But it never would be, again, the hard reality of going to a mission in which Ken was not injured or hadn't refused but was simply not there even more distracting than Kudoh could ever be and so Aya was definitely not thinking about Ken, or the way ... sharply forcing himself to consider instead how it was that the dissolute and careless Kudoh was such an effective assassin—and Aya had to admit that Balinese was as good as any of Weiss at what he did—although Yohji reeked of cigarette smoke and had no focus Aya could discern and had to be hungover ninety percent of the time ...

Which, Aya knew, was completely unfair, and now Aya felt a brief twinge of shame. The man might wear glamour like a cloak and confidence like a shield—but that's all it was, outer trappings, the crater-sized ego and thronging admirers part and parcel of the veneer--and Aya should know better. Yohji felt worthless enough too much of the time, and didn't need or deserve his teammate—and friend, if Aya was pressed—to make him feel worse.

Yohji was smoking too much, lately, Aya thought, the tendril of concern now taking hold of Aya's wandering thoughts. In fact, the blond playboy was rarely without a cigarette these days. He was also home very little, barely using his rooms to catch a nap or change before rolling out again with a careless wave and a blase smile, dismissing Aya's anger and Omi's gentle reprimands with the same degree of casual disregard. Leaving Aya to cover his shifts because he knew--as unobservant as the others thought he was, he was first and always an assassin and he did see things—that he was the responsible one and that was just the way he was and Yohji knew that and both he and Kritiker expected him to pick up his slack-- as well as the extra money; that Kudoh knew Aya needed the extra money despite everything far more desperately than Yohji ever could; and most of all, that Kritiker was unhappy with Weiss, and as such they couldn't afford right then to have any slack at all, and so Aya really had no choice as assumed field leader but to ensure that everything continued to run smoothly and up to expectation; and finally because Aya slacking off would be certainly remarked upon far more than Yohji's slightly more frequent than usual indulgences.

Aya recognized that Kritiker was displeased and watching closely, although it had never been stated in so many or so few words or at all, and also that this was a large part of the root cause of Omi's sleepless nights and hollowed eyes. But he also knew that Omi, as was his wont, would deny any problem and chirp extra-merrily at him if he asked. It was Omi's way of protecting them, even if they'd never asked for protection, and even if they were in some ways better equipped to handle a lot of things than Omi would ever--by Persia's careful design--be.

But most importantly, Aya was completely and both gratefully and resentfully aware, without having to ask, that most of what Yohji did while he was away and Aya was covering for him was use the time to scout, in the hopes of finding Ken, for information, far more effectively than Aya ever could. Yotan would have made a fantastic spook, Aya had always thought—he was terribly charming, sharp-eyed, almost as ruthless as Omi, could read people like a book and had a knack for blending in wherever and with whomever he was. Aya might have been a damned good assassin and swordsman, he may also have lived a variety of lives--privileged kid, careful student, dangerous killer, common labourer—but he never had blended in or been able to engage in the easy exchange of casual conversation that was second-hand to Yohji. Perhaps if everything had been different Ran would one day have been at home in the MBA program he'd once dreamt of, with the other shy, studious, socially-awkward types—but the Aya of today would never fit in there either, not by a long shot. Aya was either unapproachably dangerous or mockingly dismissible. Yohji was neither unapproachable or mock-worthy, but gave off just the right edge of dangerous to hold his own, ordinary and unthreatening enough to gather information without being unusually memorable or noteworthy, and so damned charismatic that men and women both fell all over themselves to tell him anything he might graciously indulge them to hear. And as Aya's attempts to gather information proved increasingly fruitless, all he could do was cover for Yohji and allow Yohji to do what Aya was forced to accept he himself could not. It was a galling admission, and more so because as close as they all were and damn his pride, deep down it wasn't just that he wanted Ken to be found safe yesterday, he wanted to be the one to do it. Instead he'd been relegated, once again, to performing meaningless and menial jobs as his loved ones suffered, while he only stood and waited, while others with more skill or talent or ability did more, waiting for news that never came. And Aya couldn't help the rage his helplessness and frustration caused in him.

It made him feel marginally better to direct his anger at Yohji, undeserved or not (because frankly, even Yotan at his best often got under Aya's skin) even while he was fully aware that it wasn't with Kudoh that he was really angry. It was with himself, shy and stupid and inept Ran with his pathetically high academic achievement, knack for saying the most wrong thing always, and overly conspicuous, ridiculous appearance, that he truly despised. And so Aya sat there, stewing and irrationally angry, while Kudoh spun his idiotic laments; irritated and heartsick and so completely losing his focus that ...

The groan of brakes, and they were there. In front of a non-descript industrial warehouse in the harbour district, indistinguishable from all the other non-descript industrial buildings in the area. It looked dark and closed for business, with no light visible from the outside, no movement discernable, no cars to be seen in the tiny lot.

Yohji flashed his killer smile at Aya as they climbed out, removing his sunglasses for the mission and tucking them into a concealed pocket. He winked, unaffected by Aya's equally killer glare as Aya flipped him off, while internally Aya scrambled to recover his focus, his center; become the mission once again. He tried not to notice how the smile never quite reached Yohji's eyes, or the wry twist to Yohji's mouth as he ran through his self-imposed final weapons check—something Yohji always in the last minutes after arrival and before any mission in his book actually began—for him, because Aya and he had argued multiple times about the point at which Weiss should expect to be mission ready, and they were yet to agree. The other two were of no use in the arguments either, mostly ignoring them and doing their own thing—and appealing to Omi only resulted in a look of disgust and a flat refusal to pull rank to decide something that was in his Omi's words, "stupid and trivial."

And then Yohji looked up and gripped Aya's bicep firmly, his gaze serious and direct, and even though Aya normally loathed casual touch, that grip and the look in Yohji's eyes conveyed everything he needed right then—friendship, support, and unconditional acceptance. He was Weiss, Yohji was saying wordlessly, and they were the best. They stuck together. And together, they were invincible.

He was Weiss.

Then Balinese smacked him smartly on the head. "Focus, Abyssinian. We go in, we get out, we get away clean. Nothing fancy." His own words, echoed back at him.

And Aya took in a deep breath as Yohji--back to being Yohji--dramatically flung out his arm, adjusting with his other hand the earpiece Bombay handed him—the chibi was meant to hang back near the car and monitor remotely until time for the data transfer--and announced in a stage whisper: "Showtime."

Balinese glided stealthily up along the narrow corridor, smooth and silent, barely a dust mote disturbed by his movement. He was glad he'd drawn the target when he'd rock-paper-scissored--or cheated if one must be technical--Abyssinian for it. Fujimiya was just too damned distracted—which meant he'd be liable to make mistakes. And mistakes, in their line of work, were fatal. Especially on a mission like this, where they were short a man and forced to each go it alone, distraction was like an engraved invitation to the shinigami. And if he was honest with himself—and he tried to be, brutally, albeit only in his own head--he was only marginally less exhausted and preoccupied and grief-stricken than Aya. He was just glad that so far, this mission had been cake, with the building apparently abandoned. He'd have worried about whether it was too easy, but he wasn't that kind of man, and left that kind of thing to his more fretful teammates. He just took it as it came. And anyway, this mission was such a mistake, the timing and the stupidity and the whole bloody useless thing, he'd have royally loved to personally demonstrate to Kritiker just how to fuck themselves ... Ah. According to Bombay's spec's, the target would be ... just about ...

Bingo. Small corner room, small hopefully unlocked door. He tried the knob.

The door was unlocked. Yippidy do dah.

He eased open the door.

And ... was assaulted by a stench so powerful he nearly gagged, almost turning involuntarily away. But he needn't have worried. The room itself was ... pretty much empty. Deserted, actually, as the rest of the building was; while the room showed signs of recent use, it looked like all the other rooms here had, like no one had been here for at least a day or so. Biting back the bitter taste of disappointment and a flash of anger at Kritiker's poor research and the waste of Weiss's time, Balinese swore under his breath, scanning the room with a trained eye, looking for any clue, any sign of his target, and saw only ... Hard-backed wooden chair. Table covered with some small knives, remnants of rotting food, papers and debris. Closed cabinet in the corner. Tiny window overlooking an empty expanse of concrete. Small lumpy iron cot off-center, covered in disordered bed-clothes, dirty and stained.

Yohji sighed, and started to turn away.

The mass on the cot moved, just slightly. He thought.

Balinese narrowed his eyes, moved closer to investigate. There was ... dear God ... there was a body lying on that disgusting mattress. Matted dark hair. Bloodied and swollen face. Skinny, distorted limbs, tied at wrist and ankle to the iron frame of the bed. Pity and revulsion rose up in Balinese's throat; training kept him steady. Poor, poor kid, he thought, readying his wire to kill the poor sod quickly if necessary—he couldn't leave the fellow to rot here, nor could he leave or bring back any witnesses, Bombay had been explicitly clear about the mission parameters, although maybe he should check first, because this guy was so clearly a victim, pretty far gone to remember anything anyway, and if they timed it right, they could just as easily leave an anonymous tip for the authorities and damn Kritiker anyway --whoever he ...

The lump moved again. Eyes the colour of melted chocolate snapped open

Startled, Yohji called the lump by name.

"KEN!"

End of Chapter 12 ... on to Chapter 13, the ironically titled "Twelfth Night" ... (see how my careful numbering backfired ...)

In case you were wondering, "They also serve" is a line snippet from a sonnet by the very well-known seventeenth century Puritan poet, John Milton. This is the final line from one of his sonnets (in which he alludes to the loss of his vision--Milton went blind in later years--which is just for your info, and entirely irrelevant for my purposes). Regardless, the line inits entirety reads: "They also serve who only stand and wait." One of my favorite lines ever, I thought it was kind of fitting for Aya in the circumstances.

Also, forgive me the eye colour description. I couldn't help myself.

Thanks for reading, comments welcome. Sorry the chapter's so short.