Chapter Three

The next two days passed with all the speed and fanfare of a funeral procession.

Syaoran left his room twice every night: once after everyone went to sleep to shower and eat, and once as the sun peered through his diminutive window to stock up on food and other things for the rest of the day. Other than that, he only ventured out for the most vital bathroom trips, and only when someone else was in the living room with Kurogane.

It wasn't that he thought the ninja would hurt him, though Syaoran wouldn't blame him if he wanted to. But as long as someone else was in the room, Kurogane couldn't broach the subject. It was cowardly, and Syaoran was sure Kurogane resented him for it, but the self-imposed rules brought with them some semblance of security, and he was loath to break them.

He read and reread books he'd borrowed from the library, examining the brutal history of this dismal country. Though he'd never had much interest in history before his clone had met Fujitaka, he couldn't deny that the Other's perceptions had changed him. Texts he would have found boring seven years ago were now intriguing, even engaging, and anything that got his mind off what had happened was worthwhile.

Occasionally, when the opportunity presented itself, he would eavesdrop on the conversations beyond his door. On the first day, this was mostly to monitor what Kurogane might say regarding what he'd done. When it became clear that the ninja had no interest in relaying that information, Syaoran listened just to hear the others talk. Since they had little desire to speak with him, he settled on listening to what they said to each other.

Sakura seldom spoke, and most of what she said was directed at Fai. Much of that related to daily conveniences and chore division. Even in the rare moments when she spoke for some reason other than to keep the apartment running smoothly, her voice was layered with a heartbreaking depression that hadn't existed before Tokyo.

Kurogane was similarly quiet. He'd never been much of a conversationalist, but from what Syaoran could tell, he was being even more reserved than usual, responding to Fai's half-playful, half-serious remarks less often.

Fai was the most vocal, though he still talked little compared to the days before Tokyo. In less tense moments, he teased Kurogane, just as he had before. But now he was calling the ninja by name rather than by the nicknames everyone had grown so accustomed to. Another drastic shift caused by his arrival.

It all goes back to Tokyo, Syaoran thought, words blurring together on the page in front of him. Everything shattered in Tokyo, and I keep stepping in the broken glass left behind.

Evenings were the hardest. Half the time, he ate through his food stored by mid-afternoon, so that by the time Fai started dinner, his stomach was already growling for sustenance. The gurgle of boiling water, the savory scents of whatever Fai was cooking, became a torment, and twice he found himself halfway to his door before remembering why he'd locked himself in his room in the first place.

The two days passed slowly, but still too fast. When he heard a knock on his door, his spine went rigid.

"The chess match starts in half an hour," Kurogane called through the door. His voice was steady, revealing nothing. "Get dressed and come out here."

Syaoran's chest seized up. He forced himself to move to his dresser and don his last pair of clean clothes—a black T-shirt with deliberately ripped sleeves and a matching pair of jeans. He ran a hand through his hair, brushing it into some semblance of order, then unlocked his door and stepped into the living room.

The others were already waiting at the door. When he glanced up, he saw that Kurogane was looking down the hallway, pointedly ignoring him.

Given the circumstances, he supposed that was a good thing.

They walked toward the dome that housed the chess matches. For the first half of their trek, it was silent. None of them enjoyed going to these tournaments—Fai and Sakura hated it because they hated fighting in general. Kurogane hated it because, according to what he'd muttered to Fai in the two days since Syaoran had isolated himself, there was no real competition. The aim wasn't to kill the opposing team, or even seriously maim them, merely beat them into submission. And Syaoran hated it because, even though part of him longed to be close to the others, his very proximity served as a reminder of all they had lost.

"So it sounds like this match will cover our living expenses for the month," Fai said as they caught sight of the massive white dome.

No one responded to his comment. When the pause grew awkward, Sakura interjected. "We should try to win."

"Obviously," Kurogane said, his voice even. Syaoran risked a glance in his direction, but flinched when the ninja's eyes slid back to meet his.

That was it for conversation. They entered the dome, checked in at the reception desk, and went to their temporary chambers to wait for the match. The close quarters meant little space to move around, no place to hide. Syaoran sat in the corner, facing away from the others as he fitted the spiked collar around his neck. The chains connecting him to the others would come later, once they were in the arena.

Absently, he massaged his damaged shoulder. He winced at the flash of pain the movement caused. That's only going to get worse once we get into the arena, he thought, stretching out the joint as much as he could in the limited time they had before the match. When the pain didn't dissolve after a few minutes, he was forced to conclude that it really had fractured when he'd hit the wall. If we can win this match, I'll have the rest of the month to let it heal. I'll be fine. He exhaled quietly, trying to cope with the ache without tipping off the others. When he turned around, however, Kurogane was staring at him.

Their eyes locked for a moment, Syaoran's heart clenching as blood rushed to his cheeks. He turned away before the others could notice his blush.

"Black Team to the arena," a voice blared over the intercom. Syaoran rose from the bench, following the others down the stairs and into the tunnel beneath the arena.

Sakura situated herself in the egg-shaped pod, allowing arena employees to affix chains to the loops on her collar. Each chain led to one of them, and would, according to the pamphlet he'd read the first time they'd been here, "modulate their physical abilities according to the mental fortitude of their chess master."

He wondered what that would feel like, in the event Sakura ever lost her composure during one of these matches.

"Step onto the platform, please," one of the employees said, handing them their pre-selected weapons. For Syaoran, it was a pair of dagger-tipped rings. For Fai, it was a strange, hooked blade attached to the end of a black cord. Kurogane's tournament-approved sword was the only normal weapon they had.

The platform shifted under their feet and rose like an elevator. In less than a minute, they had reached the arena.

"Big crowd tonight," Fai said, nodding to the rows of roaring spectators.

"You said the stakes were big," Kurogane said with a shrug.

The other team rose from the floor, earning a chorus of cheers from the audience. "It looks like we aren't the preferred victors this time around," Fai said.

Syaoran glanced back at Sakura, cherishing the brief moment when their gazes met and mourning the moment when her face turned away. He would do whatever it took to win this fight for her.

"Teams ready!" the announcer called. Syaoran took a fighting stance, studying their opponents. Directly across from him, a man of about twenty raised a pair of gleaming metal claws, his squarish jaw flexing. His dark hair was streaked with splashes of red and white, and several piercings glinted along his eyebrows.

"Fight!"

Their team shot forward, weapons in hand. The chains attached to their collars jingled and weighed them down. The other team did the same, pushing forward until they both occupied the center of the board.

Syaoran darted toward his opponent, dodging the first swing of his metal claws and using his daggers to block the second. The man twisted his wrist, trying to hook Syaoran's weapon with his own to yank him off balance, but Syaoran disengaged before he could and brought his daggers around, aiming to sever the man's leather collar. There were several ways to eliminate someone from the chess matches. The first was to incapacitate them. The second was for them to surrender. But the most efficient way was to sever their link to their master, either by breaking the chain connecting them or by destroying the collar.

The man evaded his attack, barely. "You're quick."

Syaoran stayed silent, not allowing himself to be distracted. He swung the daggers in twin arcs, once more aiming for the man's collar.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to play with knives?"

Syaoran feinted as if to use his dagger again. When the man's attention was focused on avoiding that, Syaoran brought his leg up and smashed his heel into the man's face. He reeled back, his multihued hair flaring as he hit the ground. Without hesitation, Syaoran threw himself to the floor and brought his dagger to the man's neck, slicing the ribbon of his collar.

"White Team Rook, retreat to back of arena!" the referrees commanded.

Hissing, the man retreated to the opposite side of the arena. Syaoran turned his attention to the others, trying to find an avenue to victory. He saw Kurogane knock out one of their opponents with a punch. Syaoran winced, teeth rattling at the mere thought of getting hit like that. It's lucky nothing worse happened two nights ago, he thought, scanning the area for their final opponent.

"Look out!" Fai shouted across the arena, racing toward him.

Syaoran started to turn, but the movement was crippled by the rope wrapping around his throat. When he tried to yank himself free, all the slack went out of the cord, clamping his windpipe shut. His fingernails dug at his throat, instinct driving him to free himself even as his vision went spotty. Under normal circumstances, he could hold his breath for an admirably long time, but between the exertion of the fight and the unexpectedness of the attack, the oxygen in his lungs dwindled rapidly, and moments later, his legs buckled, sending him sprawling across the tiled floor.. He lifted his eyes, searching for some escape.

The last thing he saw before his vision went black was a pair of dark red eyes.