Chapter nine

Life bustled, whirred, and blipped in a series of unconnected waves. The familiar red gleam of formica in sunlight felt alien and grey. A heady mixture of smell, sound, and flavor enveloped the long countertop like a surreal malt-shoppe painting of the 50's. Somehow, the reality that could be bled from it felt distant, glamorized, and lifeless.

Along the forlorn space, papers had been spewed without consideration. Motoki wasn't necessarily known for making rhyme or reason work to his advantage. If anything, the maddeningly chipper student seemed to thrive on a sense of chaos. How else could he manage a place riddled with youngsters, food, and constant noise? It was with a saddened heart, the sole occupant noted that his organizationally disinclined friend had not, in fact, been anywhere near the tablet in hours. This mess was the tattered remains of his college life. He wished he cared more about it.

Mamoru tried to be as honest and forward as possible in his paper, and what he saw seemed right in a logical sense. He knew he was proud and arrogant, that he was good at everything he attempted, and that he could finish literally anything. They were not bad qualities to have. They would give him the things in life he had never had, through hard work and determination. They were what gave him his edge.

He set the paper aside quietly, fingering the old, chipped mug before him. He had worked all week and more, quickly reading or rereading the assignment books for his extra credit class. During his first or second year of college, he'd had to cover a few credits that took a stab at the subject of self, and had even taken one or two literature courses. It would be interesting to see what the younger kids thought on the subject; especially since they were just extensions of parents and family still.

What an awful assignment. Looking at books wouldn't be a problem, but class discussion was going to kill him. These kids had no idea, he was sure, what life was really like in the real world. They'd never even had to get jobs for the most part, let alone fend for themselves outright. As degrading as it was, however, one semester of weekly torture was an acceptable exchange for a better GPA. Motoki had gladly signed on as a fellow paper grader and possible substitute. Given Mamoru's extracurricular activities, this was probably more of an eventuality than a possibility.

He took a sip of dark, bitter coffee as he thought. The sudden dull ache was a stark reminder of a week ago, despite all the healing powers he had. His lower lip still bothered him even this long afterward. The reminder was not a pleasant one. After all, what he'd almost done could also almost be considered statutory rape. Had she been any younger at all, he'd be completely screwed.

How could she possibly be so young? The question was a plague, infecting every other thought in his mind. He had been young and fighting for his life at one point, he could respect that level of maturity. It had been him against reality, however; and she stood against an entire kingdom of demons howling for her head. That alone was impressive. The way she had fought that night seemed surreal.

He could still see her lithe form sliding across the back of his eyelids. She had been lethal and dangerous and beautiful, the way her kicks had landed, her impossibly golden hair fluttering through the winter air as she spun. It had been like a dance. Her kiss… he felt the fresh thrum of desire building in his blood. Her kiss had been a nearly lethal dose of ecstasy. Drugged, taunted beyond his ability to withstand, he all but pounced on her the second the chance had presented itself. Thought had ceased, all higher brain functions had somehow gotten lost in translation. His only desire had been her.

But she was so young! Despite all the power in her body, the strange power she had over him, she was barely more than a child! It was her moment of triumph when she should have been celebrating with the Senshi for her obvious improvement; and he had all but kidnapped her. She had been so frustrated and angry with him for assuming anything would happen, and he'd walked all over that. There was no thought of whether or not she was ready or even wanted him to. He'd just taken and assumed she'd thank him later.

He was a bastard.

And she was so young!

"Oi, Mamoru-kun! You gunna sit there all night?" Midnight blue eyes flew up from the countertop, momentarily angry at the intrusion. His blond friend was busily wiping down the grease vat, the arcade gutted like a pig for the roast. How long had he sat there staring off into space? Two hours? The empty tables had already been wiped, and the games stared black screens.

He shrugged, looking back at the papers and fingering the mug again. The brew was cold. Wow, he really had been out of it completely. The cup was almost full still. His analytical mind knew in some small way that eventually everything came down to perspective, and his was muddled and incoherent at the moment. He needed a fresh take, and maybe an extra set of eyes in the search.

"Motoki," his mouth was dry as the question formed, "am I a bastard?" The blond paused a moment, obviously surprised at the question. When he answered, the tone was cheerful and encouraging.

"As a friend or honestly?"

It took Mamoru a second to decide. He did want an honest opinion, it was true. But part of him knew exactly what the answer would be. Strangely enough, he actually cared a great deal what his best friend thought. Motoki was your typical white knight, and he knew how to take care of people in a way that just didn't click with Mamoru. He wondered for the first time what would have happened if the roles were switched; if Motoki had been called as the dark savior. Moon would have literally leapt into his arms the first night.

"Honestly."

"Yes." Motoki gave it, but only after showering the vat with the last spray of water. The expectation didn't negate the foul taste of iron in the back of his throat, nor did it supersede the momentary ping on his ego. Funny how it was that self same ego he was asking about.

"Ok, well what about as a friend?" Mamoru glanced up again, noticing at last that Motoki was staring at him curiously.

"Yes!" The cheerful grin on his face was just begging to be punched.

"Why differentiate between answers then?" he exploded, nearly knocking the papers off the counter as he spoke. This time the irritation couldn't be kept at bay.

"It's all in the tone." The blond shrugged, eyes mirthful as he leaned back on the counter. "See, as a friend I'm allowed to be enthusiastic about your bad characteristics. As a regular person I just call it as I see it."

The irritation fizzled back, disintegrating into blood and bone. Stupid Motoki; trying to be funny in face of a serious question like that. Mamoru should have known his friend would be such a smartass.

"Then why are we friends?" The darker man challenged, taking another sip from his now cold coffee as he did so.

"How else can I subtly change the course of your life?" The mischievous grin lighting on his face grated on already raw nerves. Mamoru set the cup on the counter again, sitting back to stare at his friend. Despite the grin, he had the distinct feeling that the blond was not actually teasing him so much as stating the obvious.

"I think you're secretly the bastard." He growled out finally, standing to take his cup behind the counter. A few turns in the microwave and it would be drinkable again. The comment heralded a sudden burst of laughter from the other man.

"Nope. See the big cheesy smile? It means I get away with stuff like that."

Mamoru rolled his eyes heavenward. How sadly true that statement seemed to be. The guy could literally get away with social murder at parties because no one took him seriously. It had been an irritation until he'd stopped going to them. Everyone loved Motoki, and respected Mamoru. If Moon knew him, she'd probably choose the blond trickster in a heartbeat. The fact that his friend remained single was definitely a consideration. In fact, it could be an interesting point. Motoki seemed to know a lot more about the younger people in the area since he worked so closely with the age group.

"Oi, I do have something I need help with actually. There's this girl…"

"Sailor Moon." Motoki cut in, his tone sharp and hinted with sarcasm. The irritation boiled a little at it.

"…yes." He replied evenly, turning to stare his friend down. Motoki had no idea how annoying it was when he did things like that.

"Just putting a name to it." The microwave beeped a moment later, only adding to the boiling frustration.

"Yes." He answered again, hardly bothering to note the microwave by his head.

"Just helping ya out there, buddy!" the dishrag was wiped across the counter nonchalantly, obviously meant as a distraction. Really, they'd been friends far too long for something like that to work on him.

"Motoki-kun."

"Well, it was pretty obvious after that little chat." The Cheshire cat grin spread across his mouth again, white rag flipping as he grabbed at his favorite glass. Mamoru felt his eye twitch dangerously at the sight of it. The surface had been buffed to high polish, and practically reflected light from the setting sun.

"Motoki."

"The way you go after these girls, Mamoru-kun; it really makes a guy wonder!" he was squeaking. Mamoru felt his teeth stand on end. The damn white rag on glass was actually squeaking.

"Motoki!"

"You could almost see the pedophile in that, you creeper!" Mamoru saw red. He was NOT a creeper! He was NOT a pedophile!

"Motoki-kun!"

"Careful, Mamoru-kun, that kind of stalker activity could turn a girl off pretty quick!" Squeak, squeak, went the glass. His nerves were raw, his jaw tightened. It was down to murder now.

"Mo…"

"No girl wants a stalker!" Motoki screamed finally, eyes glinting and brandishing the glass cup heavenward in righteous zeal.

"Why wouldn't she want me? I'm Tuxedo Kamen for crying out loud!"

"Holy shit!" Motoki screamed at nearly the same level, accentuated by the sharp tinkling of broken glass. Horror struck moments after shock, and the young man howled in pain and grief as he fell to his knees in the mess. "NO!"

Mamoru gulped, momentarily shocked into silence. He'd just blurted the biggest secret in the world, and Motoki had literally smashed his most prized tip cup to pieces on the floor. He didn't know which was more earthshaking.

"Wait, you didn't know?" Mamoru suddenly realized he'd been holding his breath. The fallen blond head in front of him was obviously downcast, and suddenly angry. Even as he lifted pieces of glass into his hands, the incoming explosion was obvious.

"No! What the hell is this?!" The pieces were swept carefully into his arms. The shocked, almost disbelieving man stood quietly, swallowing a bit. Motoki had had that glass forever. Not the childish kind of forever as in five minutes previously, but since they were kids. Strangely, it made him feel…guilty? It was still a fairly new sensation. He didn't like it. "Explains even more! Why didn't you tell me –all I did over Halloween was make fun of you!"

"That's why I thought you knew!" Mamoru shot back, hardly believe what had just happened. How could his best friend not have known? Seriously, it couldn't just be one giant cosmic coincidence that he happened to down his coffee and race off the second a Youma popped up. Usually Motoki was all over that kind of stuff. "Look, we're getting off subject. Moon won't trust me…"

"Because you're a bastard." That last jibe could have been for either Moon, or the glass. He couldn't decide which.

"Duly noted! But…how do I even begin to get to her? She's Sailor Moon! She's perfect! She's the ultimate woman on the face of the planet and I want her and I can't have her and it sucks!" the second the tirade had begun, it all came spilling out onto the floor so much like the broken glass had been. It actually hurt to admit it out loud, but really she wouldn't have anything to do with him unless it was under coercion.

"And you're coming to me for advice on wooing superheroes? How many of those have I dated?" he asked from the ground, arms full of broken glass and dreams. Were those tears in his eyes?

"She would respond to you, is what I'm saying Motoki. She's sappy and sweet and all that crap I'm not good at." The blond turned back to his work, carefully lifting the bundle up from the ground. Shards of light glittered from the tile still, like a cemetery of glitter. The other man carefully took the other pieces to the counter, laying them out carefully so as not to incur more damage to them.

"So get good at it." He stated quietly, as if the answer was obvious. It was, but that hadn't been the question to begin with. Mamoru couldn't help the irritated eye roll as his friend continued on in his work. It was gone, just put the glass down and back away! It was awful, that he freely admitted, but it wasn't like it could be glued back together or anything.

"How?" he pressed. The clattering stopped. White clad arms leaned heavily on the red countertop, obviously irritated in turn. Despite the sudden death of the old glass, Mamoru felt a tiny ping of satisfaction. After all, the blond had done nothing but give snide remarks since the beginning of the conversation.

"Well, you could start by being nice."

Both eyes rolled heavenward again. Yeah, be nice. Because that's really all it would take to impress a super hero of her magnum. Not to mention it would bring a lot of unwanted attention from the world at large. Besides, it wasn't exactly what he was going for.

"You think? What else can I do? I don't want to just be nice to people, I want to be…"

"Better?" His friend cut in, turning from the mess finally. He must have seen something pretty pathetic in Mamoru's face, because suddenly the tone was no longer irritated or joking. "Please tell me this is more than just wanting a one night stand with her."

"It is." He nodded quietly, more for himself than anyone else. He loved her, wanted nothing more than to stand beside her, to fight with her, to make her laugh the way she did. She may have been painfully young, but really what did it matter at the end of the day? She was old enough to make her own decisions. He could only hope that one of those would be to forgive him, and maybe let him into her life.

"Are you sure? Not just a great pair of boobs now?" Motoki's green eyes were intense, searching him. Mamoru returned the stare with withering sarcasm.

"Give me some credit, Motoki, I said that to throw Matsumori off the trail."

"Are you sure?" Again, those eyes searched him, as if he could see straight into Mamoru's soul. "You know, you never really had a family. She probably comes from a fairly good one. There's a pretty big difference between you right there. It's something that's going to take time, especially for what you're asking."

Mamoru shrugged nonchalantly. It was something that he'd at least somewhat known about her. She'd mentioned some sort of family last summer on the roofs. Too bad he hadn't been taking notes during the tirade, the information would have been incredibly helpful in the search.

"I don't know anything, Motoki, you just said that." The blond nodded.

"Obviously. So what would you suggest?" Mamoru grit his teeth angrily. Why did the man have to answer a question with another question? All it did was infuriate, it didn't actually serve a purpose at all. His fists clenched a little. His friend had always been able to get to him like that, just beneath the surface. No matter how often it happened, he would never get used to it.

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking you." Mamoru was in slight disbelief as Motoki started to arrange the glass like an intricate puzzle.

"Well don't. You've got a whole list of things you could be doing to help with that." Motoki finally gave up on shards and reached into a cabinet under the counter. He came back up with an intricate napkin that was soon laid out on the flat surface. The tinkling of glass as it was carefully placed in the cloth was the only sound in the arcade for awhile. Mamoru thought for a few moments, noting how the last rays of the sun glinting in through the window and hitting the pieces of the over-shined glass was somehow distracting.

"Give me one example." Motoki had finally tied the corners of the napkin together and walk to the trash bin, contemplating over it.

"No, Mamoru. This is something you have to figure out on your own. My suggestion is start with something you know." The precious cargo in Motoki's hands was finally placed in the compartment. Mamoru stood, figuring that he was not going to get anything more out of the man who was now kneeling in front of the can and seemed to be giving the glass its final words. He decided to give the man his privacy through this trial, and packed his books and papers. The sun had just set, city lights illuminated the street as he left the arcade.

.

.

…..

The room blossomed deep red, accented in the heady scent of roses. The childish room was completely overrun with crimson. Usagi smiled, breathing deeply and laying back on the bed. The sudden weight by her feet made her smile in sleepy bliss. Luna padded her way up the bed slowly, obviously muttering under her breath about the gifts. The blond tried her best to ignore that bit. Her room was filled with red roses from Tuxedo Kamen, and she was just going to enjoy it.

"I don't know why you're accepting gifts from that guy. We've already told you he could be the enemy." The long, sleek body curled up beside her as she spoke, tail switching in irritation. Usagi nodded half heartedly and set her hand along the warm, soft back of her mentor. Thick black hair slid between her fingers as she drifted in and out of sleep. It was the last day of winter vacation, tomorrow would bring school again. She wasn't quite ready for that yet, but it was going to happen anyway.

"Oi, Usagi-donkey!" the door whipped open at the sound of her brother's voice, revealing the short brunette. Usagi couldn't help but chuckle a bit. "You got some mail! I found it on the counter under a stack of magazines!"

The letter came flying through the air toward her, barely missing an ear as she deftly slid around it. Shingo grumbled at not hitting her before turning to hobble off down the hallway.

"Oi Shingo! Crutches look good on you!" She called back, half giggling as he hollered over one shoulder for her to shut it. She really shouldn't be amused at it, since he'd been caught in an attack that she had been part of, but he was just…such a little brother. Luna sniffed disdainfully, flicking her tail anew. Her and Shingo hadn't gotten along from the start, and the boy still got on her nerves sometimes. Especially after interrupting her little cat nap.

Usagi reached up carefully, picking the letter up from the other side of the mattress. It was from the school district. She groaned, knowing her grades from last semester weren't going to impress anybody. But she was trying so hard to get her battle skills up, she didn't have time for school. Besides, knowing her luck, she'd be fighting these demons forever, so school was really secondary anyway.

The white envelope tore easily, and the letter unfolded like a message of doom. She grimaced, sliding upward to sit on the edge of the bed. This was not her grades at all. She stood, walking quickly towards the door and shutting it behind her. Dad was not allowed to see her Christmas gifts, or else she'd never hear the end of it.

"Mama! What's this?"

Ikuko leaned back from her chair far enough to glance up the stairs at her daughter. She was making her way slowly down the steps and staring blankly at the paper in her hand. She stood from the chair, flinging pieces of deep blue hair over her shoulder as she walked toward the stairs. It could be a death sentence for how Usagi was staring at it.

"Hmm," she began, looking over the notice carefully. "Looks like it's an extra credit class to make up for some of those grades last semester! That's wonderful Usagi! Oh, and it looks like it's required for you as a graduation credit! Isn't that wonderful? Now you won't have to spend so much time at the arcade!"

Usagi groaned, slapping her head down on a hand. She was afraid of that. Not to mention the fact she hadn't been to the arcade in months. She'd had other things to do.

.

.

…..

The familiar streets pantomimed life in every direction. Cold, steel grey skies bore down from above, sheeting color from the view. Lifeless, sloshing snow cuddled close to the ditches. Above, the traffic light changed from red to green, or at least supposedly did. Everything seemed grey and hollow. He swallowed down on the lump growing in the back of his throat. Both shoulders felt stiff and unyielding even as he tried to force himself to breath and relax.

His hands felt clammy and cold. It was winter, though, and the air was humid and freezing from the nearby ocean. It had absolutely nothing to do with the building across the street. His lungs felt frozen and scratchy, his throat sore and aching. He heaved another breath, feeling tired and worn down. The sudden buzzing in the back of his mind was familiar; anger, resentment, denial. The hard emotions all but growled at the back of his thoughts; prowling dangerously for release.

The path was well worn to this spot, and it had taken weeks to come even this far. He shuddered somewhere low in the spine, the familiar smell of machine oil and coal somewhere nearby. Flustered, irritated blue eyes searched downward for a watch, staring thoughtlessly at his face reflected back. The steady hands lied the time: 6pm. It had been more than an hour and a half since he'd finished his last class; too long to stand out in the snow staring at a building.

The red brick stared back, coated gray and rusty with time and neglect. Around the back, the cook would bring the trash any moment, a side door squeaked in response to the thought. The same stale rice and soup aromas filtered back even now. He forced down the sudden tickle in the back of his throat. Even after this many years…

Clammy, stiff hands stretched within their thick leather gloves. He heaved one more breath, then another. If he could just focus long enough to cross the street… if he could just take another breath maybe…

Late January air clogged and tore on the way down his throat. He had to get moving. Pretty soon, the attendant would assume he had not wanted to come by at all. He'd spoken with her weeks ago, tentatively setting up a time to come by. Even then he'd known what it would take to cross the threshold again, to stare down the long narrow hallway into the blackness. The doors would line the walls evenly spaced leading down into oblivion. The warped, uneven wood floor would squeak at the pressure of tiny feet, the smell of future lunch would nearly bring tears to the eyes.

Mamoru forced back again the aching emptiness in his gut, further into his heart and soul. The place had been hell on earth, a corner where kids who were not worth caring for got shoved in the hopes that they would just disappear. Some did. Mamoru had not. As young as he'd been, as confused and scared as he'd been, he still knew there had been a purpose. He knew more than anything that he must survive. He'd known how to close himself, how to stop feeling, how to stop caring. But the mind is a terrible thing to waste, and Mamoru had not done that.

Though teased and bullied early on, he'd spent his time studying. The ultimate reckoning had come the moment his high school test had come back. The others could look forward to a life covered in coal and fish scales, he had been accepted to Azubu Tech, and with it, been assigned to sponsor. The sudden flash of school grants and a chance at a real job, he'd clawed his way out from the pack and into a better life.

The rest, as they say, was all history. He'd never looked back. He'd never thought to come back. Now that he stood a street away, he could hardly make himself. The orphanage loomed against the hard grey sky like the impending hand of Death himself.

That last conversation with Motoki loomed in the back of his mind. His friend had not given him any answers that he'd needed, but he had made a few excellent points. Moon had mentioned something about a family in June, she was warm and caring like a hallmark card, she had the ability to love everyone. Mamoru had not even come close to that. He'd been raised in the pits of hell itself, taught that things like emotions and feelings were weaknesses to be dealt with. He had not known what it was like to care for someone until she came along

Granted, Mamoru cared about Motoki as well, just not exactly the way that Moon made him care. He'd needed fresh perspective and time. Through his reading a preparing for class, someone had brought up the merits of service in character, and had specifically mentioned places like orphanages that needed the help. The book had been direct in the connection between kindness and service. It had been one of the few to even mention it, however the idea had stuck. He barely had time as it was to complete everything, but this was important too.

Now, if he could just make himself actually go across the street. The plan was to come once weekly and be a sort of big brother to a few of the kids. He had no idea what kind of brother he'd make, but the things that had helped him break free would be useful to know to the other kids still living here. The things they hadn't learned yet would be a reminder to him as well of a childhood he hadn't had. Well, he amended, at least a reminder of what it was like here. He'd tried to suppress those memories as much as possible.

Moon would think it was a good idea. The memory of her checking over the babies last August was enough proof of that. She loved kids, and sometimes showed signs of being childlike herself. It would give them something to talk about anyway, if the chance for leisurely conversation presented itself. He probably could have just gotten a puppy, for all the effect it would have. Like he'd told Motoki, however, it was all about becoming better, not just pretending to be.

He did not think, he did not bother to breathe, simply stepped down from the curb and walked quickly to the other side. His heart pounded harsh and urgent behind the ears, a sound that felt heady and drugged even as close as it was. The snow crunched loudly underfoot, obviously frozen and refrozen with the ebbing storms across the island. His breath fogged in the air, momentarily blinding him in the cold.

The sudden apparition of the door spooked him from the stupor. He froze instantly at the sight, suddenly remembering how it had looked from a much shorter vantage point. The great wooden door was still painted off white, cleaned to a creepy sort of sterile. The whole place had been like that, scrubbed over and over with the tiny hands of children who had misbehaved. The cool touch shuddered along his spine again, and he raised his hand to knock.