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

Warning: Language, Ryoji's hair-brained schemes.

Notes: This chapter is the product of a ten-hour shift in the projects (I work in private law enforcement) and an interesting conversation with an old homeless man who believes that he is the second coming of the Messiah. Hey, who am I to judge? Also, it was brought to my attention that I'm having compatibility issues with my formatting between OpenOffice and DocX. Hopefully those are fixed, now??

Beretta 11

brkstrtrcr

June 2009

Suffice it to say Ryoji is becoming increasingly tense as the day wears on. You've surmised from what little information Kou has thus far been able to provide and your own fragile understanding of Tojou's inner workings that their youth gang is considerably larger than your own, and being outnumbered has never been a favorable position in your opinion.

So as your second-in-command crumples up his third empty cigarette pack of the day and tosses it into the wastebasket beside your desk, you frown. You're really no closer to finding a suitable plan of action for handling this latest threat from Tojou, and while it would be fairly simple to send Tokitoh wandering into their headquarters as bait, you really do prefer your cat without bullet holes in his pretty little skull.

At this point you've decided two very important things. First, you have to get Sekiya alone--or at least, with a relatively small band of his men. Taking on their entire youth group would be virtually suicidal. Secondly--and perhaps most importantly--you have to assume that Tojou now views Tokitoh as a fully-fledged and initiated member of Izumo.

This second part is vital. They won't openly attack a rival Yakuza member on his own turf and risk a retaliation, but that also means that he can't simply waltz onto Tojou territory without being killed on the spot. You aren't willing to chance that every member of the rival Yakuza faction knows who--and what--the hell he is. That's a gamble with stakes too high even for a mahjong pro like yourself.

So you either need to find a neutral location in the midst of gang-riddled Yokohama, or this entire 'bait-and-ambush' trick of Ryoji's--as ingenious a plan as it may be--simply will not work.

And you muse on this while staring up at the ceiling of your office, boots propped up on a corner of your battered old desk, arms folded behind your head. The overhead fan makes lazy, thin clouds of your cigarette smoke and it helps you concentrate over Ryoji's angry muttering, Tokitoh's soft snoring from the other side of the room.

He's been sleeping quite a lot, lately. That hasn't escaped your notice. And you think for a brief moment that it has something to do with his right hand's development, which your observant eyes have also been watching warily. The soft brownish-red fur covering that appendage has spread, past the confines of his well-worn black glove and further up his wrist. You assumed that it was simply your innate paranoia at first, but you've seen the way he tugs the leather up when he thinks that you aren't looking, trying desperately to hide this change in his affliction.

Kou's mentioned it as well.

And Tokitoh's body temperature, always a bit higher than the average person's, has been skyrocketing the past few weeks, until it drags you from sleep and bed and into the front room of the Toukohan in the middle of the night. It's like trying to sleep under a furnace, and twice as disconcerting, because Tokitoh doesn't seem to notice.

Those little episodes he has where he doubles over in pain, clutches his right hand to his chest, and grits his teeth in silent cries of pain? Yeah, those have increased in number and severity recently as well. He actually screams out loud now, drowned out in the steam and pelting water of the shower, but you sit on the other side of the door and smoke and listen, because it's all that you can do.

You aren't naïve or idealistic. You know that eventually this disease or whatever it is will kill him. You understand that he'll lose his whole mind, and Tokitoh will fade from his eyes permanently in the wake of something much more primal and terrifying, and he'll shred himself into pieces with that horrible hand.

You had just hoped, stupidly, that it would be later rather than sooner.

Stupid Kubota.

"What are you thinking about?"

If it weren't for the agitated tone in Ryoji's gravelly voice or the nervous tick in his eyebrow, you'd laugh at the absurdity of his 'worried-girlfriend' question.

"Time-bombs," you reply evenly. You ignore his confused expression and sit up in your chair, planting your feet on the floor and pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose.

"Right," he rolls his eyes at your nonsensical response and sighs. "I'm thinking that we'll have to contact Sekiya somehow. Get him to meet us somewhere."

You arch an eyebrow at the blonde. "Oh?"

He glares. "Well we can't just parade onto their turf, can we? If any one of us sets so much as a fucking pube on the other side of West Yokohama Crossing we're as good as dead."

You nod at the logic in that statement. "What you're saying is that we need a common ground?" It's more rhetorical statement than question, but his train of thought is running parallel to your own. And you think of all the places that you've encountered in Yokohama short of police stations where Yakuza members are hesitant to spill blood, and your mind comes up blank, because there really isn't anywhere at all that you would be reluctant to kill someone--

"Church," Ryoji breathes, his gaze unfocused, and then those intelligent coffee-colored eyes jump to yours. "We need to meet him in a church with a lot of people inside."

You can't help the exasperated smile that curves your lips. He's absolutely fucking serious about this. It's actually somewhat poetic, in a morbidly religious kind of way, but then again you've never been religious.

Your eyes trail over to Tokitoh, sprawled across the couch in the corner of your dimly-lit office, and you remember him leaning down over you in your old apartment, just before your botched infiltration of the Fortune's Fang cult, and asking you who your god was.

You'd wanted to respond 'stray cats,' but you had murmured something altogether insignificant and disinterested as you looked up into the eyes of your god.

Maybe that's why you seize onto this incredibly cliché idea of your partner's. Or maybe it's because you can't come up with anything more clever at the moment, distracted as you are. It'll do for now, at any rate.

"Which church?" you ask no one in particular.

Ryoji smiles deviously. "I know a place."

The next day you're trudging through ankle-deep snow towards his proposed stage for the showdown with Sekiya. The snow in the city is never the fluffy, picturesque crap that you've seen in movies or postcards; it's dirty, muddy, and an altogether unpleasant affair. It clings to the sidewalks and streets with a slushy, nagging persistence, dogging your footsteps.

"Where the hell are we going?"

Tokitoh is visibly unhappy, bundled up behind you as if heading bravely into an arctic blizzard, hood pulled over his head and scarf wound around the lower half of his face. Even under the layers, he's still shivering and grumbling at the wet clumps of ice falling into his eyes. You offer him a half-smile and turn your eyes back to Ryoji, who seems to be ignoring the inclement weather with a single-minded determination. "The Church of the Sacred Heart," he announces, with a bit too much enthusiasm for your tastes.

Tokitoh rolls his eyes and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. "Never heard of it," he mutters. Truth be told, neither have you, but then again you never made it a habit to hang out in this part of town. You're walking up the single street in the entire city that separates rival Yakuza turfs, and it was always much easier to stay well within Izumo boundaries.

You arrive in front of a huge, ornate white building with a prominent bell tower that pierces into the dreary grey sky like a knife-point. Carved stone statues ring the outer walls of the place like sentinels. The heavy iron gates stand open and foreboding before you, as if challenging you to enter.

"This is one of the only Catholic churches in the city, and it sits smack dab on the center of West Yokohama Crossing," Ryoji informs you, obviously impressed with himself. He casts a proud glance up at the brightly-colored stained glass rosetta window above the building's ancient oak doors. The painstakingly rendered piece depicts the crucifixion of the Christ, and a lone Roman soldier impaling his side with the fabled Spear of Destiny.

While the craftsmanship does impress you, the story it outlines isn't new or even interesting. You shrug casually and follow Ryoji through the iron gates, until you realize that something is missing. You stop at the top of the marble stairs that lead to the church's massive oak doors and turn to find Tokitoh staring at the glass window, wide-eyed and frozen in place.

His violet eyes carry an expression of terror. It's blatant and very real, the kind of fear that you have only seen on his handsome face when he bolts awake from violent nightmares, unseen phantoms torturing him just beyond the peripherals of his memory.

"Tokitoh?" you ask quietly, sudden apprehension twisting in your chest.

Your roommate turns his stricken gaze to you. When he speaks, his words come out in an almost disbelieving rush of breath.

"I've been here before."

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So, I've noticed a disappointing disparagy between the number of ppl subscribed to this story and the amount of feedback that I'm getting. If you like the story, tell me. If you hate it, tell me why. Every writer appreciates constructive criticism, but what we don't care for are those who favorite a fic, lurk, and contribute nothing. Help an author out and leave a review.

Okay, I'm off my soapbox now.