Disclaimer: Kazuya Minekura owns Wild Adapter. I do not.

Warning: Violence, language, Sanada. I think he should count.

Notes: So I've decided that I really hate Sanada, and I wanted to bring out his creepy, evil side. If any of you are Saiyuki fans like me, then think about the feeling you get in the pit of your stomach every time Dr. Nii shows up in the series. Yeah, that's how Sanada makes me feel.

Beretta 7

brkstrtrcr

June 2009

You're introduced to the straggling remnants of the youth group over the next few weeks, and so far you aren't impressed. There's Takata and Shinji, two seventeen year-old twin brothers who are better at arguing with each other than intimidating store owners. Fujimiya you dismiss as an alcoholic. You're fairly certain that Satoshi would piss himself if confronted with a weapon, but he talks a lot of trash. Matsuto probably uses more of the drugs he's supposed to be selling than his clientele, and if Hanada spent as much time collecting payouts as he does in the brothels you'd all be fucking millionaires.

It seems that things have changed quite a bit since you left the Izumokai. The standards have been lowered, and these are the decent employees. You make immediate changes, shuffling people around in your group's vague hierarchy and firing others outright. Collection routes are consolidated, individuals assigned specific duties and obligations. Slowly the youth gang fluctuates, stabilizes, grows, and finally you feel confident enough in your group's abilities and competence to come into the office a little later than usual.

Tokitoh is awake and vaulting out of bed before the alarm goes off like he does every morning, but today you don't follow him. You lay in the warmth of blankets and his lingering body heat and close your eyes against consciousness. You miss being able to lounge around in bed well into the afternoon.

"Kubo-chan, get dressed. You're going to be late, and Ryoji's gonna be pissed."

Tokitoh tosses your jeans at you and stands over the mattress, hands on his slim hips, frowning. You reach out and snag the front of his shirt and tug. "Kubo--!" he squawks indignantly and falls onto your chest, and you silence his muttered curses the most effective way that you know how.

He's been very standoffish the past few weeks. You're fairly certain that he's still angry with you over the whole Izumo thing, but you made your decision and changing your mind now won't erase your deal with Sanada, or the tattoo on your forearm. It won't ensure his safety. And there's something about his weight on your chest and his lips against yours that you'd rather keep around for a while.

He bites your lip sharply and pulls away and punches you in the stomach, calls you a pervert, but you smile. The slight tint to his handsome face is amusing, as is his elevated heart rate, his awkward adjustment of the front of his jeans as he glares down at you from beside the mattress. "Get up!" he demands, kicking you roughly in the side with a bare foot, and you oblige amiably.

Twenty minutes later you're wondering if perhaps you would have faired better had you ignored the alarm clock and your cat and the grudging responsibility of your Yakuza obligations. There's a familiar black sedan parked in front of the restaurant that houses the Youth Group office, and Ryoji is leaning against it's back fender with a scowl on his face.

"You're late," he mutters, flicking a cigarette butt into the wet gutter and eying you with mild disgust. You're willing back the urge to loose a few rounds into that car, because you know what its presence means. Sanada wants an audience with you and Tokitoh, and your guns aren't invited. This also indicates that your free run in Izumo is closing in on you. It was simply a matter of time before he decided to show his true colors and reign you in like a vicious dog on a chain. Your stomach is full of looming dread; this little rendezvous with your employer has arrived much too soon for your liking.

"You've got a date with the boss-man," Ryoji smiles crookedly. It doesn't reach his eyes. Their warm brown depths are worried, but he won't say anything to spook Tokitoh. For that you are damned grateful. Your roommate isn't stupid, and you'd stake your life on the fact that when he catches on to today's planned festivities at Izumo Headquarters you'll have to drag him into Sanada's office, kicking and screaming.

So you nod to Ryoji, push Tokitoh into the back seat, and climb in beside him, ignoring the suspicious look he shoots you and the trepidation in his violet eyes, and you feel ridiculously filthy as a human being for what you're doing to him.

What you're going to allow Sanada to do to him.

He's too proud to admit that the leader of Izumo makes him very fucking nervous. Tokitoh doesn't tell you when he's scared or anxious or upset, but then again he's never really needed to. As naturally as he's able to read your emotions in your eyes, your lying smiles, you've learned most of his nervous habits. Right now he's chewing on his fingernails--left hand--and staring out the tinted window at Chinatown slowly morphing into corporate skyscrapers and cleaner streets. Well, as clean as Yokohama gets, anyway.

You want to say something. You want to look at him with your easy smile and lie to him, tell him to relax, that everything will be fine, but your lips are set in a grim line that will not budge. Lying always came so naturally to you before. When did telling people what they want to hear become such an obstacle?

He pulls his fingertip out of his mouth and glares at you with this accusing, flighty look on his handsome face, and you find the answer to that question. Lying became harder the minute you picked him up off of the ground and dragged his sorry ass into your apartment, your sanctuary. Lying to him became tedious and altogether unpleasant when he opened those beautiful, angry violet eyes and demanded to know who the fuck you were and why you were standing there in your own bedroom. Lying to Tokitoh became impossible when he snapped your arm in that monstrous hand of his like it was a matchstick and then sobbed blindly into your chest for twenty minutes like a child.

And as the lying got exponentially more difficult, the trusting became exponentially more easy, and you still aren't sure that you don't feel cheated by that particular little ratio. Maybe that's why you feel so incredibly dirty for what you know is about to transpire at Izumo Headquarters. As you slide out of the backseat of this expensive sedan and duck through the large glass doors of the building, you leave your emotions at the entryway. You can't afford to be distracted by your heart walking a step behind you and your newly-acquainted conscience in your throat.

Tokitoh's sneakers squeak unnaturally loudly on the pristine marble floors. It grates against your ears in syncopation with your heartbeat thudding in your chest. Apprehensive doesn't begin to describe your state of mind. A year ago if someone had told you that you'd stroll into this office with your cat in tow you would have smiled and put a bullet in their head. Now you're wondering if maybe you deserve that lead more.

You don't bother to knock on the large oak doors to Sanada's office. You step inside, and Tokitoh is practically standing behind you. You know without having to ask that you're both resisting the urge to turn on your heels, draw your guns, and leave this room a bloodbath in your wake as you run as far away from this single man behind his desk. Your survival instincts are quite finely honed though, and the brainless, steroid-pumping bodyguards posted on either side of the doorway behind you are reason enough to control your itching fingers. They look at first glance like the type of guys who jerk off watching people beat kittens with baseball bats. That alone is a fine reason to keep your cool.

Sanada smiles his superior smile and you return it. You hate yourself as you step aside and leave Tokitoh bared before his cruel grey eyes. Tokitoh hates you more. "So this is the infamous Kubota Tokitoh," he drawls, ignoring your arched eyebrow at his tactless addition of your surname to your cat's given name. He stands up from the desk and moves towards you both, focused solely on your counterpart.

His steel-grey eyes are raking over Tokitoh like a starving man at a buffet and it's creeping him out. Every muscle in his lithe frame is wire-tight, ready and waiting to strike. He's barely breathing as Sanada stands before him, several inches taller, and smiles down at him like only a predator can. "You, dear boy, are the key for this organization's future endeavors, and I'm going to need you to submit to some testing."

But Tokitoh is not an injured gazelle in the safari. He's a dangerous fucking animal when cornered. 'Submit' does not exist in his vocabulary. Tokitoh hits and scratches and bites and breaks until he gets what he wants. You've said that for years. And when Sanada reaches out and takes his chin in one hand, his lips twisted into a conniving smile, Tokitoh lashes out like only a feral cat can.

Several things happen almost simultaneously.

Your cat bites the living shit out of your boss' hand. Sanada jumps back with surprising agility, cursing, and instead of pulling his trusty Sig Sauer on Tokitoh, he kicks your legs out from underneath you instead and rams the barrel against your temple. The two meat-heads grab Tokitoh and knock him to the floor, wrenching his arms behind his back and yanking his head up by a handful of black hair. When he sees the gun aimed at your head he stops struggling instantly.

Your boss is a hell of a lot more observant than you've given him credit for. Tokitoh won't fight back at the risk of your head exploding across this clean marble floor. It's weaknesses like that that are ruthlessly easy to exploit, and Sanada is the most opportunistic son-of-a-bitch you've ever met.

"Not so tough when 'Kubo-chan' has a gun to his head, are you?" he drawls mockingly. Tokitoh doesn't respond.

It doesn't take much to ignore the ache in your legs from that kick and the hard stone digging into your knees. You glance across the office at Tokitoh. He's got that, 'if-I-weren't-being-held-down-by-two-fucking-line-backers-and-you-weren't-a-twitch-away-from-having-your-brains-blown-out-I'd-kick-your-ass,' look on his face.

Above you, Sanada sighs angrily. He takes a fistful of your hair and wrenches your head back violently before hitting you across the face with his pistol. Tokitoh growls and lunges towards him, but the bastards pinning him to the the ground kick him in the back with heavy boots and step on his spine, drawing a loud scream of pain from him.

Sanada jams the business-end of that Sig between your eyes. "I don't explain myself often, but I'll make this exception for you. Once. You're alive today because I allow you to be, Kubota Makoto. Try my patience much more and I'll gladly revoke that favor. You work for me. You do as I say, without question. I own you."

Apparently he needs to reiterate that point and really drive it home, because he rears back and slaps you across the face like one of his no-account hookers in his whorehouses. "I own you." It bruises your ego a bit, but right now you're too focused on getting Tokitoh out of here in one piece to really care.

"Follow my orders to the letter and the boy lives," Sanada hisses. "Defy me and your uncle will be scraping his scrawny ass off of the sidewalk and into a bucket. I can make that happen. Do I make myself clear?"

You meet Sanada's grey eyes and answer him without emotion, "Crystal clear," like the dog that you are.

He lets go of your hair and stands there with his gun against your temple. "Now I want him to comply with whatever testing my associates feel is necessary. I don't care if you have to beat him half to death to force compliance. If you can't manage him I have people who can."

There's a tense moment when your employer lowers his aim and pauses to see how Tokitoh will respond, but you suppose that there's something about having a two-hundred and fifty pound man standing on your lower vertebrae that discourages stupid actions. You wince in silent sympathy when Sanada stalks over to your roommate and kicks him in the gut, his spine arched painfully back by the grip the other asshole still has on his hair. Sanada ignores Tokitoh's strained gasps for breath and kneels in front of him, aiming his gun behind himself and in your general direction.

"You," he sighs furiously, reaching up with the bleeding hand that Tokitoh bit and cupping one of your counterpart's cheeks. "You have caused me far more inconvenience than I care to think about at the moment. I don't know what manner of bullshit Kubota has fed you, but I couldn't give a shit less whether you live or die." He strokes the pad of his thumb over Tokitoh's mouth, smiling in amusement when those soft lips curl up in to reveal angry, barred, blood-stained teeth. "You'd probably be easier to handle in a body bag," he adds thoughtfully, before leaning in closer.

You can hear Tokitoh growling from ten feet away. Sanada ignores his snarling and presses his lips against Tokitoh's and cocks back the hammer on the gun still pointing at your face. It's all the threat that your cat needs to keep from ripping Sanada's face off. "Listen to Kubota and you'll both continue to breathe," he smirks arrogantly against Tokitoh's mouth before pulling away and nodding for his bodyguards to release your companion. Sanada gestures vaguely at the door with his loaded weapon, sitting back down behind his desk calmly. He doesn't bother to look at either of you. "Now get the fuck out of my office."

You're practically running down the stairs and out of the front of the building before Tokitoh will even look at you. As you light a cigarette with shaking hands that you refuse to acknowledge, he doubles over, hands on his knees, to catch his breath. You touch the swollen side of your face gingerly and frown when your fingers come away from the skin speckled with bright, wet blood. You decide that you hate the color red.

And before you can open your mouth or turn to look at your roommate or take a decent drag of your cigarette, Tokitoh walks calmly over to you, plucks the thin white stick from between your fingers, and punches you as hard as he can in the stomach.