Notes: Starting with this chapter, titles may also be from Nickelback's Savin' Me as well as Breaking Benjamin's Breakdown.

Chapter Five

The remainder of the night passed by in relative peace, with both of the exhausted operatives being able to sleep. Vodka finally started awake hours later after nearly falling out of the chair. He barely managed to catch himself by grabbing the arm, and as he straightened up again, he looked around the room blearily, taking in the walls, the carpet, the empty bed. . . .

His eyes widened. He got up, wondering where on earth Gin had decided to go. Somehow he could not imagine the other leaving the suite in his condition. But would he have, believing again that he was actually at Portman's base? Maybe he would be desperately looking for an escape route. Nervously Vodka walked to the door leading into the living room and then simply stopped and blinked.

Gin was there, just wandering aimlessly around the room. He touched the top of a chair, then ran his hand along the wall, and finally opened the drawer of the small desk upon which he had his laptop. He rummaged through the contents, slowly pulling out a pack of cigarettes and staring at it.

Vodka stared at him for a moment, feelings of both relief and confusion washing over him, and then went out into the other room. He did not know what to say, or if there was anything he could say, and so he stood near the doorway mutely until Gin sensed someone watching and looked up. Vodka cleared his throat and shifted uncertainly.

"I . . . didn't know where you were, bro," he said at last. "I thought maybe you'd left. . . ."

Gin grunted, opening the package and removing a cigarette. Slowly he placed it in his mouth and then took out a lighter that was in the same drawer. He held the flame to the cigarette until it caught, and then he started to cough. Vodka was further confused until he realized that Gin most likely had not smoked very much, if at all, at Portman's lab. He had probably suffered withdrawl symptoms frequently, and from what Vodka knew about the woman, he could easily picture her laughing and allowing it to happen, figuring that it would only make Gin all the more of a weakened, broken man.

After a moment the coughing subsided and Gin sat down in the chair by the desk, draping his arm across the top of it as he smoked. "Was everyone taken prisoner by Portman?" he asked after a moment.

Vodka again stared, growing even more bewildered. "What do you mean, bro?" he asked then.

Gin looked over at him. "Vermouth, Chianti, Korn . . . Brandy . . . all of them," he answered.

Vodka gaped. "N-no," he stammered then. "We're at our base, Gin. Don't you remember? Portman isn't here." And he suddenly wondered where she actually was, and if she would ever come back to cause further trouble. He wished that they had been able to catch her and eliminate her so that the possibility of her tormenting Gin and the others again would not come to pass.

Gin blinked, looking confused. "She's not here?" he repeated, as if that was the most incredible and impossible thing that anyone could say to him. He cast his gaze around the room wildly. "She has to be here," he retorted. "She's never far away. She's probably tricked you into thinking she's left and that she'll let us go free!" He held the cigarette tightly between his fingers, nearly crushing it in his rising panic.

Vodka's shoulders slumped in despair as he watched his partner. Gin was still not anywhere near back to normal, but the other man supposed that it was amazing that he was as well off as he was, under the circumstances. Chardonnay and Sake had been even worse. Vodka had been the one to find Chardonnay, and he had hardly recognized her at all. She had shrieked and wailed like a banshee the moment he had gotten anywhere near her, and he had finally had to restrain her so that she would not try to kill herself or him with the knife she had held. He had been worried after that, wondering if he would find Gin and if his partner would be in the same state. He recalled that at first he had tried to tell himself that Gin most likely was not there, or that he would never end up anything like Chardonnay, and so he had been shocked and alarmed when he actually had found the other.

"Bro," he said then, "I don't know what to tell you. No one's going to hurt you now. . . ."

"You couldn't stop them from drugging me last night," Gin objected, and Vodka felt a sharp prick of guilt in his heart. He looked down, ashamed, knowing that it was true. Why would Gin truly feel any more safe after that had happened?

The blonde was silent now, smoking as he gazed off at the opposite wall. Vodka wondered what else Gin was thinking of while he was lost in his own world, and then Vodka wondered if he honestly wanted to know. Gin was probably blaming him for other things, things that Vodka blamed himself for as well. But Vodka did not really want to hear them voiced. He sighed softly, half-looking away.

"Are you hungry, bro?" he asked at last. Gin had not eaten anything since Vodka had found him the previous day. Surely he would want something to eat after all this time.

Gin shrugged. He was still feeling leery of food, recalling how Portman had always made certain to slip drugs into whatever she had given him. Of course, if this was real, then he no longer had to worry about that. Maybe he could get something that would not be easy to tamper with. "We'd have to go down to the cafeteria," he mumbled finally.

Vodka nodded slowly. "Or . . . I could go get something and bring it back," he offered.

Gin turned to look at him fully, and Vodka pulled back in astonishment and alarm at the empty look he saw there. "Would you?" the blonde replied. "If you go out there, Portman might still get you. You wouldn't come back."

Vodka very nearly felt like screaming. This was not something he could handle! How could he respond satisfactorily to Gin's concerns? How could he get the other to believe him? "She wouldn't get me! She's not here!" he cried after a moment, and then exhaled deeply. ". . . Would you want to come with me?" he said then, trying and succeeding to lower his voice to normal tones. He worried about taking Gin out of the suite, and yet on the other hand he wondered if it would be worse to leave him behind. It was so hard to know. Gin could suddenly attack someone if he felt threatened, but if he was alone he could work himself into a different sort of panic, believing that he would remain alone until Portman's men came to torment him again and he would have to fight to defend himself.

Gin gazed at him for a long time, as if contemplating his answer. But then he nodded slowly and started to get up from the chair. He did not want to be left alone.

He followed Vodka out into the hall very cautiously, taking his time to look up and down the corridor. All looked normal, and familiar, out there just as it had in the suite. He had been out here the previous night. He had to remember that. He knew that Portman's base was not here, and yet it was so very hard to always keep that in mind. When he heard a door open nearby, he tensed immensely. For a moment he froze like a trapped animal, and then he turned and started to walk briskly in the opposite direction. Vodka looked after him helplessly before quickly following.

He wondered if he should say anything at all to his partner, or if he should stay silent. The agent who had just emerged was Brandy, not someone whom Vodka wanted to encounter. He had certainly given them their share of problems in the past. He had even bluffed his way out of certain death at one point by claiming that one of the agents whom he had been training had disguised himself as Brandy in order to attempt killing Gin, Vodka, and several other important operatives at Vermouth's villa. No one had been able to prove otherwise, and so Brandy had stayed. But Vodka still was certain that it definitely had been Brandy, and not an imposter, who had attacked them. For some reason, he seemed to hold a particular grudge against both Gin and Vodka, and the heavyset man decided that it would be better not to attract his attention. And so he quickly and quietly followed Gin.

The ride down to the main floor was silent, with Gin still obviously edgy and anxious, and Vodka not being able to think of anything to say to him. Vodka wondered if the tension he felt in the air was real or imagined. He was still sure that Gin was blaming him, recalling both Gin's words a few moments ago and his accusing eyes from the past night. With a soft sigh, he leaned back against the side of the elevator and gazed blankly at the ceiling.

At last the machine came to a halt and the doors opened. Gin stood watching, apparently not wanting to make the first move. Vodka was about to go out himself when the blonde took several tentative steps forward. The other stopped and waited, not certain what he was supposed to do, and then simply watched as Gin wandered onto the floor. Then he followed.

He hated the stares of the other agents they passed. Some of them looked sympathetic, as if saying, "Poor Gin", or "So he really is back. He looks even worse than we were told", or even "Vodka, you poor man. How are you going to handle your partner in the condition he's in now?" Others looked alarmed, as if wondering, "Will Gin go crazy again and attack all of us?" "What's Vodka thinking?" And still others regarded them with disgust. Vodka could imagine their thoughts as well. "What's he doing out already? He should be in isolation!" "Aoshi wanted to keep him there, but Vodka wouldn't let him." "He's endangering everyone on the base for that man! Why?"

Vodka swallowed hard, forcing himself to look ahead, as Gin was doing. Surely Gin felt the gazes too. But the emerald-eyed man paid no heed to them, at least not outwardly. His eyes were completely concealed behind the long bangs, as always. Calmly and firmly he walked into the cafeteria and began studying the various types of food available through the glass of the long counter. Suddenly realizing that he had become the follower again, and not the leader, Vodka went in after him.

A young, high-pitched voice startled them both out of their silent reveries and caused them to look up at shock at the girl working the counter.

"Gin!" she exclaimed, leaning forward over the top of the case and placing her hands on it. Her brown eyes were wide with shock, and as she moved, her short, flipped blondish-white hair swished across her cheeks. She was no more than sixteen, and as an agent still in training, she often was assigned to work in the cafeteria or other such places. Due to this, she saw Gin and Vodka many times, and she had never gotten used to seeing Vodka come in by himself as of late. Now she smiled a bit. "So it's really true," she said now. "You really were found. I'd heard rumors, but . . ."

Gin looked at her with his gaze of emerald ice. At the moment he seemed quite like himself, but Vodka was not willing to trust that it would last long. Vodka was also not sure what to say to the young girl, though he finally decided that it should be as brief as possible. On the one hand, he thought that something needed to be explained about Gin, and yet he knew how much Gin hated to be talked about, or around.

"I found him yesterday," Vodka replied then, and gave her his order. It was amazing, that so much could happen in less than twenty-four hours. Sometimes it just did not seem possible that it could. He swallowed hard. "I'm sure you heard that Portman didn't treat him, or Chardonnay and Sake, very well. . . ." He was hoping that would be enough of a hint that Gin would most likely want to be left alone.

The girl nodded seriously. "Well, I'm just glad to see you're back, Gin," she said then, looking back to the blonde assassin.

Gin grunted in the back of his throat, then told her what he had decided on eating. He was definitely not in the mood for conversation---not that he ever was---and luckily for all concerned, the agent in training could see that he was even more taciturn than usual. She did not press him for answers, and instead swiftly fixed up the food for him and Vodka. She noticed that Gin watched her intently as she did so, and she had to admit that it made her feel somewhat nervous, but she did not ask questions. Vodka seemed anxious too, and from the way he was looking at her, even from behind the sunglasses, she was certain that he was silently pleading with her to leave the matter alone.

It was only a few minutes later that Gin and Vodka were back in their own suite. They rarely ate in the cafeteria, and they especially did not want to right now, as they knew that then they would have to continue enduring the stares. Vodka let out a soft sigh of relief as he opened the door and went in, followed by Gin.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" he asked finally, setting the food down on the coffee table.

Gin shrugged, sinking down into a chair. He supposed not. They were safe, at any rate. Nothing had happened, no one had tried to attack. . . . If it was in his mind, surely something would have gone wrong. Something always went wrong. He supposed it still could, but he did not want to think about it. He wanted to believe in this reality. He knew that unless he could, he could not very easily begin to heal. But wanting something and actually being able to do something were two entirely different things. Still, he had made several steps to attempt it, which Vodka recognized and was pleased about.

Slowly Gin reached for one of the styrofoam take-out containers. Without a word, he opened it and began to eat. Vodka watched him for a moment, then followed suit.

By now two more days had passed and Gin had been missing for one long, agonizing week. Vodka was still in Okinawa, trying desperately to fit the jagged puzzle pieces together and to figure out how Chardonnay and Sake's disappearance could possibly relate to Gin's. He had registered at the same hotel, in the same suite, but he had not found any clues there that could help. Of course the room had been cleaned before his arrival, and upon asking, he had been told that the maids had not found anything out of the ordinary.

And he still could not forget that strange woman's words. More often than he would like, he had seen Vivalene's beautiful yet twisted face, her wicked smirk, as she had blatantly accused him of killing Gin. He could not understand why she would say such a thing. She would not have any reason to believe that he would betray his partner like that. Perhaps it was just that she was that dishonorable herself, and she imagined others being the same way.

Vodka could imagine that quite easily. He had sensed something about her, an evil quality that set her apart even from the agents of the Black Organization. From an early age, they were taught to be unwaveringly loyal to their comrades. But Vivalene would scoff and scorn at such teachings, Vodka was certain. She would not care who got hurt or killed in her quest for power, or riches, or whatever it was that she desired.

Now, as he sat in a chair by the picture window and quietly smoked, he wondered if possibly Vivalene did know more about the missing female agents than she had led him to believe. Was it at all conceivable that Sake could have betrayed Chardonnay, and Vivalene knew? Vodka frowned, narrowing his eyes behind the dark glasses. That sounded ridiculous. Sake was a good agent, and she had never hinted that she was unhappy working with Chardonnay, even though the other's cheerfulness had seemed to irritate her at times.

Still, even if he did not want to consider that, he knew that he should go talk to Vivalene once again. She might have some kind of important information. The only question was whether she would tell him or not. And he sighed, knowing that she must have seen how on edge he had been while trying to speak with her before. That would only make someone of her kind all the more eager to play her tricks. At least that was what Gin would tell him. And it did make a lot of sense.

Poor Gin. . . . Vodka knew that the other must surely be suffering. He thought about it almost constantly. Logically, it seemed to be the only thing that could be true, though he hated to imagine it. Vodka felt a certain panic, as if he must not waste any time at all in locating the other. But it was not that simple. He kept running into so many dead ends.

He was startled out of his thoughts by the sharp ringing of the telephone. Putting out his cigarette, he got up and went over to it, lifting the receiver. "Hello?"

He could not have been more surprised at who was on the other end. "Hello, darling," Vivalene's unmistakable voice purred.

Vodka nearly dropped the phone. A deep red color began to move across his cheeks. He stammered over a reply before finally choking out, "H-hello, Ms. Arnold. . . . I wasn't expecting to hear from you. . . ."

"Oh, that's quite obvious," she said, and he was certain she must be smirking in amusement. "But what's with this formal 'Ms. Arnold'?" she mock-pouted. "You can feel free to call me Vivalene, Vodka."

The poor man only continued to flush. "I know," he mumbled, speaking more to the floor than into the telephone.

Vivalene laughed in delight. "Well, anyway, I just haven't been able to get your plight out of my mind," she told him. "You're here looking for information that will lead you to your unfortunate partner, and I just remembered something that might help."

Vodka blinked in astonishment. "What's that?" he asked.

"Oh, I just hate talking over such things on the phone," she smiled. "How about we discuss it at dinner? My place, seven o'clock?"

It was times like this that Vodka desperately wished he had Gin's forcefulness. The blonde would strongly protest, and he would be listened to. But Vodka's feeble attempts to say no to a woman like Vivalene would quickly be shot down. That did not stop him from trying, however. "Dinner?" he exclaimed in disbelief.

"Why of course!" she said airily. "Even assassins have to eat, hmm? I always make it a point to mix business with pleasure whenever I can."

Vodka shifted uneasily. "Maybe we should meet somewhere," he suggested. "I could easily come to your office again. . . ."

"I know, but that's such a drag," Vivalene interrupted with a purr.

"Even a restaurant," Vodka tried again.

"It's too noisy in restaurants! My place will be perfect, darling---quiet, serene . . . the best food you'll ever have. . . . I'll see you there." Before Vodka could get in a word of protest, Vivalene had given him directions and then hung up.

The bewildered man was left standing where he was, gaping at the telephone. At last, coming to his senses, he placed the receiver back in the cradle and ran a hand over his forehead. What had he just gotten himself into?

The first thing Gin felt as he came back to awareness was the strong, rough hand that had suddenly wrapped itself around his throat. He gasped for breath, his green eyes snapping open to stare at the one attempting an assault. His vision blurred, but he did not recognize the person even when it cleared. This man had Vodka's build and Gin's height, and his brown hair fell limply to his shoulders. He was sneering cruelly as his grip tightened, and Gin's hands flew up to clutch the beefy wrist. He had to loosen the grip. . . . He could not let himself be overpowered! He would not die, not here, not now. . . . Desperately he clawed, digging his nails roughly into the other's flesh, but it did not seem to phase him.

Gin kicked out, slamming his foot hard into the attacker's stomach. The other grunted, his iron grip momentarily relaxing. Gin used the opportunity to wrench the hand free and punch the brunette viciously. As he fell back, Gin lunged forward, tackling him and bringing him to the floor. His eyes flashed with hatred.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, hitting his nemesis again when he showed signs of recovering.

The other grinned, spitting blood from his cut lip at Gin. "It's frustrating, isn't it? All of it's so damaging to your pride---the drugs, the hallucinations, the attacks, the helplessness . . . and that feeling of helplessness, more than anything else, angers you."

Gin dodged the crimson liquid, at the same time never letting up the pressure on his opponent. "Why spend time telling me things you think I already know?" he retorted. With his knee, he pressed down hard on the other man's chest. He could see that the brown-haired man was having trouble breathing, and he felt a certain exhilaration at finally having the upper hand after everything he had been through.

The grin widened. "Why? Because . . . it helps to distract you!" he cackled.

Realization flashed through Gin's eyes, and he released his prisoner just in time to duck from another attack. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a club smash to the floor right where he had been a moment before. He growled, forcing himself to stand up straight and knowing that he would be in for another battle. His body was still aching from the previous one, but part of his training had been on how to keep going even after being injured. The sleep he had gone through had definitely helped somewhat, as he recalled not even being able to get up before---unless that had been part of an illusion as well. Maybe even this was still the illusion. He had no way of knowing anymore. Portman's treatment was definitely having its desired effect. Angrily Gin clenched a fist.

"It won't be as easy to get to me this time," he said darkly. "I swear it."

The first man sat up now from where he had rolled to on the floor in order to avoid the club. "Oh, I think it will be easier," he smiled, "since you're still weakened." He got to his feet, and both of Portman's minions started to advance at once.

Gin looked around wildly for a weapon, but in the bare corridor there was nothing he could use. As the club was swung again, he reached out and caught it between his hands, gripping tightly. He struggled to wrench it away from the wielder's grasp, but before he could succeed, a cord went around his neck from behind and went taut. His eyes widened.

Forced to let go of the wooden weapon, he grabbed for the cord, trying frantically to get his fingers under it and pull it away. His neck was still sore from when he had been half-choked several minutes previous, and this was not helping. Another violent tug came on the noose and Gin was jerked backwards, nearly losing his balance in the process. He stumbled, trying to get his footing, and then hissed in pain as the club suddenly connected with his shoulder. Not knowing what to do, and feeling that treacherous helplessness again, the blonde still worked to get the pressure around his neck loosened. That was the most important thing, but it was nearly impossible to concentrate while being struck with the bat.

He felt a bead of nervous perspiration trickle down the side of his face as the cord tightened. He had to get free. . . . He could barely breathe at all. . . . He could not die like this. . . . He did not want to die. . . . He had to get free. . . .

And somehow, he did. Receiving a sudden burst of strength, he reached higher and caught hold of a wrist. Squeezing hard, he hit a pressure point and his attacker screamed, letting go of the cord. Gin then grabbed it, pulling it free from the other hand, and whirled, using it to crack at the other person like a whip. "Stay away from me!" he screamed, his eyes aflame.

The person backed up, looking briefly surprised and then angry. He swung the club at Gin again, but missed, and the cord wrapped around the wood. Gin gave a sharp tug, and the weapon flew free, whereupon Gin caught it and advanced on the second attacker.

"I'm sick of you people ganging up on me!" he said darkly, his eyes flashing with his hatred and outrage. He swung the club, forcing the other to dive out of the way. Gin continued to advance, managing to land several painful blows as he backed the other man towards a corner. More than once Portman's lackey tried to grab the club back, but he never succeeded.

Gin almost had him against the wall when the blonde felt something harsh slam into his back. He gasped, falling forward and losing his grip on the weapon. Seeing his chance, the thug advanced, landing a fierce punch to Gin's cheek as he snatched the bat up from where it had clunked to the floor. Gin growled, trying to straighten up and ignore the pounding pain spreading throughout his back, but before he could, he was struck again and he crashed to the hard tiles.

Furious now, he struggled up and lunged at the nearest person. He slammed the other man against the wall, viciously punching him. He was not going to sit back and allow himself to be tortured as long as he could fight. He could feel his body protesting more strongly, but he still ignored it. His fury and panic took precedence over any pain.

Then he was tackled at his previously injured side, and he cried out as he went crashing to the floor. Quickly he recovered, struggling with the second man for the upper hand. Despite his weakness from the other beatings, Gin managed to overpower his opponent and in the end, he broke free from them both and dashed around the nearest corner.

That was when he found that he had run right to a balcony overlooking a large, bare room sporting more than a few bloodstains. He cursed, turning to find another way out, but saw that the original two men had been joined by six others and that all of them were coming toward him. He was trapped. He growled, forced to back up as they advanced. This was unacceptable.

He had been wounded several times during the last few moments, and he was ignoring that as well. His right arm was bleeding, as were his left leg and his shoulder. At some point during the battle, the first man had pulled out a knife, and though Gin had fought back and tried to avoid it, he had ended up stabbed those three times. He was certain that it would not have happened if he was in top form. He was normally very crafty and able to dodge such assaults.

He wondered if he could use the balcony to his advantage. At any rate, he certainly intended to try. When the first person lunged at him, Gin grabbed the other's arm and twisted it sharply, shoving the thug against and half over the railing. Apparently not having any fear of what could happen, the lackey quickly retaliated, reaching to grab Gin and attempt to throw him overboard. But the blonde was expecting that, and he was quicker, and his attacker yelped as he lost his balance and fell completely over, crashing to the floor below. Gin could hear him cursing as he hit the bottom.

Throughout the brawl that followed, Gin was able to defeat three others in various ways---punching, twisting limbs, and using their tricks against them---though he was becoming increasingly weakened himself. Even though he knew he would not last, he had vowed to fight tooth and nail against every one who challenged him.

It was much more difficult to fight off the next one. He was physically much stronger than Gin was at the time, and soon had the blonde pressed against the railing while trying to throw him overboard. Gin struggled as hard as he could, first kicking at the other and then trying to find a pressure point to squeeze, but that did not work this time. He was hanging partially over the railing, upsidedown, and he knew it was likely that he would fall. But he would not go alone. He grabbed the attacker's wrists even more tightly as the railing suddenly broke free, and they both plummeted to the floor below.

Gin let out a gasp of pain as he slammed onto the floor on his hands and stomach. Then he slumped down, relieved that at least he had been able to brace the fall somewhat by using his hands. But he could not get up. He was too badly injured to even try at first, and when he had the strength to attempt it, he was held down fiercely. "Let me up!" he screamed, trying once more to rise.

He heard a cold chuckle as his hair was brushed to the side and the back of his shirt was sliced open with a knife. He felt some of his skin being cut into as well, and he quickly dropped back to the floor until he was certain that the weapon had been put away. Now what were they going to do to him? The person who had ripped his shirt was still sitting on his legs, preventing him from standing, and as he tried to at least get up enough to partially turn around, another came and forced his head back to the floor, then held onto his arms. His eyes widened as he felt some of the wounds being pressed on. Growling, he fought desperately to get free.

Suddenly something cracked over his back. He froze, feeling a sudden, fierce, stinging pain. For a moment he was not sure at all what it was, but then he felt it again, and again. He recognized it then. They were whipping him, and laughing in delight while they were doing it.

Crack. . . .

He clenched his fists tightly, feeling another vicious lash across his shoulder blades. He hated this. To be flogged, especially while being held to the floor, was such an ignoble, humiliating, and demeaning experience. He knew that was what Portman had intended, and he despised her and her men all the more for it.

Crack. . . .

Whether he would admit it or not, he hated the pain as well. His entire back was on fire, and after the other things he had experienced, so was the rest of his body. He had felt those sensations before, but now, somehow, he just felt so drained in addition to all of it. He could not move, no matter how hard he tried. He could only jerk as the instrument raked into his flesh repeatedly, and even those movements lessened after a while. At some point, he simply lay still, not resisting at all as the torment continued.

Crack. . . .

He gazed ahead at nothing, his vision having grown blurred. He was lapsing into semi-consciousness, both from the pain and from the loss of blood due to his earlier wounds. He still felt the leather strips tearing into his back, and sometimes striking again where they had already landed before, but he did not have the strength any longer to react.

Crack. . . .

During such times of suffering, thoughts often enter people's minds that ordinarily would not. As Gin lay sprawled and restrained on the floor while the flogging continued and the blood dripped from his previous injuries, his vision dissipated all the more and he was left wondering if he was going blind, though he did not think it was likely. He was probably falling unconscious.

Crack. . . .

He coughed weakly, barely noticing. Where are you, Vodka? he thought to himself, suddenly realizing that his hands were being enveloped by a sticky substance. He had broken the skin on both of his palms from clenching his fists tightly against the pain. But the news meant little to him. He was already so badly hurt, what difference did one more thing make?

Crack. . . .

I never found out if you really are dead. If you aren't, why haven't you found me? Why haven't you come to get me out of this place? You're my partner . . . you're supposed to be loyal to me, as I would be to you if this situation was reversed. Don't you know where I am? Or do you know, but you haven't decided to come? . . . Or do they have you already, and they're torturing you somewhere else? Vodka. . . . Gin shut his eyes tightly, his hands unclenching and falling limp. I need you. . . . You're not here and I need you. . . .

He was shocked at himself for these thoughts, once it fully registered what he had actually said. He did not need anyone; he was too proud to have need of another human being. And yet, it was completely dawning on him that he could not get out of here by himself. He hated that truth, he hated the desperation he felt. And he both hated and was confused by the intense feeling that he did indeed need someone, that he even wanted someone. The last thing he wanted was for Vodka to see him in this condition, so helpless and broken, but at the same time he wanted the other there. Vodka was the one person who would take care of Gin and whom Gin would trust to do it without judging or belittling. Vodka would never look down on the blonde, thinking him weak, but that knowledge did not stop Gin's proud feelings. And Gin's proud feelings could not stop these other feelings, this intense longing for Vodka to come and get him out of there.

The whipping had stopped. Gin only noticed this now, and almost as soon as he did, he felt a sharp kick in the ribs. But not even that could get a reaction out of him, save for a weakened moan, which he hated himself for as soon as it had torn free from his lips.

Cruel laughter echoed boisterously around him, and he was kicked again. "You still with us?" taunted the thug who had been holding down Gin's arms. Taking both wrists in one beefy hand, he reached out and struck Gin violently across the face. The blonde nearly started but could not muster the strength. His green eyes slid open weakly, and he tried to focus. The other's cruel, twisted features came into view.

"Look, boys, he's still alive, and even still conscious," the man smirked. "Most people would've passed out by now, especially since this isn't the first beating he's taken in twenty-four hours."

More laughter. "Well, the boss knows how to pick the fun ones," said a second. The whip lashed across Gin's back once again, followed by a bored curse from its wielder. "But it's less fun when they get weary like this," he remarked. "I wanna see him fight back more! I wanna see that vicious spirit again!"

Suddenly Gin was grabbed by the hair, his attacker forcing the assassin's head back. Then the man leaned over into the blonde's line of vision. "Can you see anything?" he grinned, blowing on Gin's bangs to make them drift away from his eyes.

Gin glowered, using a last bit of strength to try to pull free from the harsh grip. This only amused the thug all the more, and he finally released Gin with a shove.

"There's still some of that fighting spirit left," he sneered. "How about we see if we can bring any more of it out?"

The others quickly agreed, all laughing as well, and before Gin could even stop to fully process what was being said, they were striking him and beating him with all manner of cruel weapons.

His eyes widened in pain at the first blows, then narrowed darkly. Oh, how he loathed all of them. He wanted so much to struggle up, to fight back, to make them pay for this . . . but he did not have any strength. His body went slack again as he gazed off at the wall, forced to endure what they were putting him through. Again he wished that Vodka was there. But he knew that the other could not come. He was alone. And if Vodka was dead, he always would be.

Vodka was not any more happy about the dinner when the time for it came than he had been upon first learning of it from Vivalene. It was possible that she did not even have anything that she could really tell him. That might only be an excuse to get him there, for all he would know. But he could not take the chance. That was why he had sighed in resignation and taken a taxi to Vivalene's house, and why he was now being led through the spacious, richly decorated hallways of the mansion by a butler. When they stopped in front of the dining hall, Vodka braced himself before going inside. He could almost hear Gin telling him that he needed to be extremely careful around such a woman.

The dining room was dimly lit, as Vivalene's office had been, and candles had been set up on the long table. Many lavish dishes were there as well, and Vivalene herself was sitting at the far end of the rectangular piece of furniture. Her red hair fell in wavy curls upon her shoulders, and she was adorned in a black strapless dress that highlighted her locks and her eyes. The long gloves she wore matched the dress, and when she caught sight of Vodka, she immediately got up and walked over to him.

"Darling, it's so good to see you! Come in, come in!" she purred, taking his hand and leading the poor, dumbfounded man to the table. "You'll sit by me, of course, won't you?" she smiled, indicating the chair closest to her on her right.

Vodka tried to find his voice. "Y-yeah . . . if you want me to," he answered at last, and found himself sinking into the chair. He could feel Vivalene's hands move over his shoulders and immediately crimson spread across his cheeks.

Vivalene laughed softly in delight. "Won't you take those sunglasses off tonight?" she said, going to her own seat and taking it. Then she leaned over, reaching to remove the dark glasses herself. "I've never seen your eyes. I wonder what color they are---brown? Blue? Green, like mine? Lavender, even? Or gray?"

Vodka brushed her hands away uncomfortably. "I'd rather leave the glasses on, if you don't mind," he said, shifting in his seat. This line of conversation reminded him of some of Vermouth's teasings, but at least Vermouth had respected Vodka's privacy and had never tried to take the sunglasses off. And Vermouth would never accuse Vodka of harming Gin. . . .

Vivalene mock-pouted as she started to dish up her food. "Oh, don't I ever get to see?" she said smoothly. "You're so shy, Vodka. I wonder, does anyone ever see your eyes?" She passed the bowl of mashed potatoes on to him and he took it, dishing up the food. "Maybe your partner does, hmm?" she continued.

He looked at her, not entirely certain he liked what she was insinuating. "What do you mean?" he asked, using a knife to take a couple of slices of the main course---a roast chicken.

Vivalene used the ladle to spoon gravy over her food, then passed it along. "Well, I could mean several things by it," she told him. "After all, I know the two of you share a suite. You probably see both the best and the worst of each other." She laced her fingers and then laid her chin on them. "Forgive me, I should say 'saw,'" she amended.

Vodka glared at his plate. "He's not dead," he mumbled, taking the fork and holding the meat steady while he cut it into bite-sized pieces with the knife.

"Oh, of course not, darling," Vivalene smiled, and began to eat.

"Tell me," she said after a moment of uneasy silence, "is it worth it? Looking for him, I mean."

Vodka looked up at her in shock. It was all he could do to not demand to know what was wrong with her, how she could be so bold and brazen. He knew that Gin would just tell her it was not her business, but he was not accustomed to saying such things, and especially not to a woman.

Vivalene took a sip of the champagne. "Well," she said slowly, "I'm only asking because of course I've heard about what kind of a person Gin is. Very cold, and proud, and not a people person in the least. Will he appreciate your efforts, Vodka? He'll probably hate that he has to be rescued by anyone, maybe especially his partner."

Vodka swallowed too fast and immediately starting coughing. Vivalene handed him a glass of water in a blasé manner, and he took it, downing half of it almost instantly. "Why . . . why do you keep changing your mind?" he sputtered then. "First you act like I killed him, now you act like I'm telling you the truth. And all the while you're playing with my mind!" He certainly did not intend to tell her anything, and most definitely not any of his personal insecurities. Maybe her charms worked on many other men, but they would not work on him.

Perhaps a part of him did wonder exactly how Gin would react upon being found. But if he truly was being tortured, as Vodka increasingly felt was the case, then the blonde's feelings would probably be mixed. He would despise being seen in such a condition, but he would be relieved to finally be free. At least, that was what Vodka hoped. More than that, though, he simply hoped that Gin would still be alive.


"Oh, it's your imagination, darling," Vivalene replied then, bringing him back to the present. "It's just that my opinion changes as time goes by. I never really thought you killed him, you know, but I like to touch all the bases. And I'm just wondering how grateful Gin will be for your efforts. All of this is for him, right? I mean, you're not planning to find him because you're hoping to get a promotion, are you?"

Vodka gulped down more of the water, trying to keep his temper under control. This woman was seriously trying his patience. She was still playing with his mind as if it was a toy, trying to determine how it worked, and why, and she had no right. Of course his searching was for Gin. He did not have any intention of trying to rise in the ranks right now. He just wanted to bring Gin back safely. Just because Vivalene obviously did not have any scruples at all, it did not mean that Vodka was the same way, even though they were both on the wrong side of the law.

"You said you had something to tell me," he pointed out. "Why don't we talk about that?"

"Oh, but it's so much fun to talk about you," Vivalene purred. "However, you've been a good boy, so I'll reward you with the information that might help you." She took another bite of meat, chewed and swallowed, and drank a bit more champagne before answering.

"As the girls were leaving," she reported, "I noticed that they stopped to talk with someone else who had come to see me---a doctor by the name of Alice Portman. The strange thing was, Portman seemed to know their identities, even though that had not leaked out. And they didn't seem shocked, either. It was as if they had met before." She shook her head, reaching for the gravy bowl again. "You know, I can't imagine how I forgot that," she mused. "It really was odd, for them to talk with her like that. But then Portman came in and we got down to business immediately, so obviously it all slipped my mind!"

Vodka had to wonder if that was true. It seemed rather convenient, that Vivalene had "forgotten" it. "What business does this Portman woman have with you?" he asked then, relieved to be back on the subject at hand.

"Oh . . . she designs things for me," Vivalene said vaguely, "and sometimes offers ideas. She's a scientist."

Vodka nodded slowly. He could see that she did not want to say a lot about Portman, but he would get to that in a moment. "Does she live here on Okinawa?" he wanted to know.

"She's from Oregon, in America," Vivalene smiled. "She's only visiting Japan, and I believe she said that she would be in Tokyo for a while."

Vodka swallowed. "How long ago did she go there?" he asked.

"A few weeks ago, shortly after those female agents vanished, actually," Vivalene replied.

Vodka did not like the sound of that. "Would she have had any reason to take them?" He cut another bite-sized portion of meat.

Vivalene swirled the remaining champagne around in her goblet. "Well . . ." she mused slowly, as if determining how much to tell. Vodka gripped the fork tightly. Vivalene smiled. "I've heard rumors. . . ."

Vodka gave her a firm and piercing look. "What rumors?" he demanded.

Her smile widened. "I love it when you get stern," she purred, reaching over and running a finger down Vodka's cheek. He pulled away.

Vivalene settled back. "Some people say that Dr. Portman is . . . quite mad," she announced. "She isn't a well-respected scientist because of some of her theories on how the human mind should be studied." She poured more champagne for both of them. "Apparently, people have disappeared around her before, and they return in . . . well, pretty bad condition."

Vodka slumped back. "Dead?" he asked in a hushed tone.

Vivalene's smile turned dark. "What is death, Vodka?" she remarked. "Is it always physical? Is death always when the spirit leaves the body behind, when breath and heartbeat cease? Or is there a living death?"

Vodka slammed his fork down on the plate. "What are you trying to say?" he cried, unable to keep his voice from rising.

Vivalene laid a hand over his. "These people," she said calmly, never losing her dark expression of seeming amusement, "turn up with their minds either dead or badly damaged. They attack others mindlessly, they scream and yell as if they're no longer human, and sometimes they just rock silently in corners, back and forth, back and forth. . . . Never speaking, never crying, never acknowledging anyone. . . . Back and forth . . . back and forth. . . . Have you ever seen the eyes of someone who's been emotionally broken, Vodka?" She leaned closer, her green eyes alight with many indescribable feelings. "You have, haven't you? I'm sure your organization tortures people sometimes. You've probably seen the results. They're like living ghosts."

Vodka pulled away, just wanting her to stop touching him. His heart was racing. If this was true, then . . . was that what was happening to Gin? Was he being experimented on? Did this woman know of it? Was she pleased about it? Her voice, her eyes, her touch . . . all of it alarmed him. It was as if she did indeed know, and she reveled in it. "What do you know about it?" he said hotly. "Do you know that this is happening to Gin, and Chardonnay and Sake?"

"Oh, you're so emotional," Vivalene smirked. "Of course I don't know. These are only rumors. Maybe they aren't even true." She shrugged and leaned back, the shadows gone from her face. "Dr. Portman is somewhat unorthodox, I'll admit that, and I wouldn't be really surprised if these rumors are true. Anyway, I thought it would be something that you could look into. Maybe it would even help."

Vodka said nothing. He stared blankly at his plate, mulling over what she had told him. He had indeed seen people such as Vivalene was describing, and the thought of Gin ever being one of them was horrifying. He could not even imagine it. He knew he had been thinking that Gin was being tortured, but the thought of experimentation had never entered his mind. Surely that was not true. Gin was too strong-willed. He would not let that happen to him. Still, Vodka knew that his partner was only human. If Portman was as devious as Vivalene was describing, then maybe she would even have the abilities to break Gin. The blonde had already been missing for a week. That would be plenty of time to torment his mind. Vodka clenched a fist on the table. He knew he had to find Gin before much more time passed. It could be critical not only to his life, but his sanity.

Thinking of something, he looked over at Vivalene again. "Why would Portman want agents from the Black Organization?" he demanded.

Vivalene picked up her goblet again. "Well, think about it, darling," she answered. "Think of all the training you and Gin and all of the operatives have to undergo. Think of how particularly strong-willed all of you would have to be. Think of how much fun Portman would have trying to destroy that."

Vodka looked down at the table again. But why, he asked silently, why didn't Portman take me as well? Had she decided that he was not worth it, that she would not have as much "fun" trying to break him? . . . Or was there a much more dark, sinister reason? Had she left him behind because without him around, she could torture Gin even more? Had she been watching them for a long time and had observed their close partnership? Oh, what kinds of things would she be doing to Gin?

He knew he was getting carried away. Perhaps Portman had not done anything. Perhaps she was not the guilty party. But Vodka could not help feeling that she very well could be. It at least made a certain sense, and it was something that he would thoroughly investigate.

When Vodka found that Gin had fallen asleep in the chair later in the day, he tried to move about more quietly so as not to wake him. Once he thought he had stepped on a floorboard too loudly, but when he looked over at Gin, the other had not stirred. His blonde locks had fallen about his shoulders, and he was resting his head against the back of the soft furniture. Vodka decided that the other almost looked peaceful.

He started when his cellphone rang. Quickly he groped for it, managing to answer after one ring. "Hello?"

"Hello, Vodka," Vermouth purred. "I heard that you found Gin last night. I was out on an assignment, or I would have called earlier. How is he?"

Vodka glanced over at the still-sleeping blonde before vanishing into his room to talk. "He could be better," he answered shortly, wondering how much Vermouth had already heard. The news was probably all over the base by now, including how Gin had attacked Aoshi and his medical team. Vodka also wondered if that incident was being told fairly, or if it had been twisted to make it sound as though Gin had lashed out without any reason.

"Yes, I've heard he isn't doing too well," Vermouth agreed then. "But he's not as bad off as Chardonnay is, is he?"

Vodka sighed, his shoulders slumping as he thought of Gin's behavior and then Chardonnay's since they had been located. "Neither of them are doing so well," he said finally. "Not Sake, either. They're just reacting in different ways." He hesitated, looking out through the partially open door and wondering if Gin would wake up and hear the conversation. "What else have you heard?"

"Not much, really," Vermouth told him, "just that they've been acting violent, and that Gin's been even more taciturn than usual." Vodka heard a click in the background, as if she had just lit a cigarette.

"Well, that's pretty much it," Vodka confirmed slowly. "They don't get violent unless they feel threatened, though." He wanted to make sure that Vermouth understood the full situation, and that she would not think that they were randomly psychotic. At least, Gin was not. Vodka hated to remember that Chardonnay had indeed seemed to attack absolutely anyone, whether or not they were doing something that could be interpreted as a threat.

"That's the impression I got," Vermouth smiled, "even though Aoshi's been trying to cast a different light on things." She paused. "How is Gin treating you?"

Vodka blinked, not especially feeling that it was Vermouth's business. He searched in vain for words for a long moment, and then started when he heard a loud crash. Quickly he opened the door the rest of the way and came to look out, and was stunned to see Gin throwing himself against the front door, as if desperate to get out. Forgetting completely about Vermouth's question, he tossed the phone onto the bed and ran into the living room.

"Bro, what are you doing?" he gasped.

"I have to get out of here!" Gin screamed in reply. He looked back at Vodka, his green eyes devoid of recognition. Having barely woke up, he was still partially in the nightmare he had just been having, and he seemed to believe that Vodka was one of Portman's minions. "You can't keep me here!" He threw himself at the door again, apparently trying to break it down.

Immediately Vodka reached out, firmly grabbing at Gin's arms near his shoulders and bringing them down while getting a tight grip on the other man. He could feel Gin's heart pounding wildly as he kept his arms around the blonde's chest. Gin struggled, kicking and clawing in his mad attempt to free himself, and it was all that Vodka could do to hang on without hurting his partner. "Bro, you have to calm down!" he pleaded. "You're going to hurt yourself! Don't you remember, you're safe now! You're not with Portman. It's just me. . . ."

Gin pried Vodka's arms away from him, screaming in an inhuman way that completely chilled Vodka's blood. Before the shorter man quite realized what was happening, Gin punched him harshly and sent him sprawling to the floor on his back. Vodka lay there in a daze for a moment, not having expected such an assault at all. Then Gin lunged, apparently going to try pinning the other down again, as he done the previous night.

Recovering in time, Vodka rolled out of the way and then caught Gin by surprise, gripping his shoulders again and pressing him to the floor. Gin screamed again, fighting against him madly, and Vodka struggled to keep hold of his companion.

"Gin, stop it!" he cried desperately over the sound of Gin's panicked, wordless yells. He winced as Gin kneed him in the ribs.

Suddenly he became aware of a loud rapping on the door, followed by an angry, familiar voice. "What's going on in there?" he demanded, and Vodka recognized the speaker as Brandy. "It sounds like someone's being murdered!"

Vodka groaned inwardly. "Don't worry about it," he called back, never taking his gaze away from Gin. The blonde had suddenly stopped struggling, and was simply staring up at Vodka, as if frozen in terror. Vodka was haunted by that look. He wanted to make it go away, he wanted to simply shut his eyes and ignore it, but he could not. And now that he had seen it, he could never forget it.

"Do you need help?" Brandy asked gruffly.

"No!" Vodka shot back. If anyone was going to come in, Vodka did not want it to be Brandy. He was certain that Brandy would not be able to do anything to help, and Vodka did not trust him in the first place. He could easily imagine Brandy treating Gin as cruel as Aoshi had done.

After a moment he heard the other walking away and he sighed in relief. He studied Gin again, wishing now that the blonde would scream, or fight, or do something, instead of continuing to stare up at him with those wide, panic-stricken eyes. Vodka swallowed hard, trying to think of something to say. "Bro . . . snap out of it," he whispered, his own voice strained and begging. Gin did nothing, barely even blinking. Vodka could feel how tense the other's muscles were and he suddenly realized that the other must be expecting some sort of punishment for his behavior. The dark-haired man's expression changed to knowing horror.

"Bro, I wouldn't hurt you," he said now, trying to get Gin to remember reality. "You're with me, you're safe." He paused. "If I let you up, you won't attack me, will you?" Gin did not move, but his gaze darted around the room, as if he expected to see other people coming in. Then he looked back to Vodka, as if to ask what he would do.

Vodka could not bear it. He released Gin and slowly moved back to sit on the floor. He wanted to plead for Gin to stop looking at him like that. He wanted to see Portman dead for making his partner end up like this. He would gladly pull the trigger himself. . . .

He started and then gaped in disbelief as Gin scrambled up and then dove into the corner. Sinking down on the floor, Gin drew his knees up to his chest. The blonde shuddered, looking around wildly as if still expecting an assault, and the thought occurred to Vodka that Gin looked scarily like a lost child. It was so wrong. All of this was wrong. . . . It could not be real. It was impossible for this to be reality!

The heavyset man slumped back, just gazing at Gin in complete and utter shock. Though he wanted to look away, he could not. Slowly he ran a hand over his face. He was a fool. For a short time, he had allowed himself to believe that Gin was recovering much more already and that perhaps things would not be as hard as he had originally thought. He saw now how ridiculous that was. There was a long way to go before Gin could fully recover.

He started out of his thoughts when he heard another knock on the door. Was it Brandy again? Vodka was about to yell in despair for him to go away when he heard a much different voice than he had expected.

"Vodka? Is everything alright in there? You threw down the phone so abruptly, and I could hear so much screaming in the background."

Vodka fell against the wall, still watching Gin in disbelief and feeling so highly disturbed. He opened his mouth, trying to find the strength to reply, to say that everything was fine, but he could not. "No," he choked out finally. "It's not alright, Vermouth. . . . It's not alright at all. . . ."