Fanfic Archive: Sacrifice, 2
May. 28th, 2009 05:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
texchan(Written: June, 2004)
Warnings: Bad Language. Violence
Summary: When a mission goes bad, Aya may have to make the ultimate sacrifice to protect Omi, and the rest of Weiss learn you don't truly miss something until it's gone.
Legal Stuff: As always, this story is intended to express one fan's genuine appreciation of Weiss Kreuz and its characters. It is just for fun and not for profit. If you have any rights in the anime described here and find the posting of this fanfiction offensive or harmful, please contact me, and I will be happy to remove it.
Sacrifice
Chapter 2
The noise in the night club was almost deafening --- a constant, dull, throbbing roar that vibrated and boomed through the floor, into your feet, up your legs, and through your body until it finally settled in your chest and head, where it rattled your ribs and shook your brain, refusing to let go. Loud rock music rumbled through giant speakers that hung from the ceiling above a dance floor so crowded there wasn't room to breathe, much less truly move. The music reverberated and rumbled around the room, shaking the floor and walls, until nothing about it was distinguishable, except for the heavy, thrumming, bass beat that seemed to drive everything and everyone in the crowded, smoky club. The room was dark, lit only by spotlights nestled at its corners and strobe lights that hung from the middle of the ceiling, flashing and blinking circles of colored light across the mindless people crowding the dance floor, moving dully to the beat of the music as if they were partaking in some tribal ritual. Fans pumped a soft haze of fake smoke into the air, where a fog of cigarette smoke, which drifted around the floor and bar before floating up to hang just under the ceiling, joined it to create a dense, gray cloud of indoor smog.
Aya perched on a tall stool in one of the club's darkest back corners, just as he had every night for the past week. He had carefully placed himself so that his back was to the wall, affording him an excellent view of almost the entire club. His elbows were propped on a tall, spindly-legged table, and he cradled his head on his open hands as he listlessly, almost absently, watched the activity around him. What he had told Omi that night in the Koneko's kitchen was true. He didn't have much experience clubbing. By the time he'd been old enough to partake of the city's nightlife, he was already an assassin, bent on revenge and living only for vengeance. He'd always thought, perhaps, he'd missed out on something, but, after shadowing Omi for the past week, he had decided that was definitely not the case. He hated it --- all of it: the dark room; the throbbing, pulsing music; the constant haze of smoke; the crush of people all around, jostling against you, spilling alcohol all over you; coming home smelling like stale booze, stale cigarette smoke, and even staler puke; the constant background noise that combined with the music to hover at an almost deafening din at the back of your mind. He didn't know how Yohji could stand it, and, yet, the tall blonde professed to love losing himself in a dark, smoky room and the crush of hundreds of strangers' bodies pushed up against his own. Aya had a headache --- had had a headache for the entire week, in fact --- and he found himself thinking, not for the first time, that if their target didn't make a move soon, he'd just have to commit suicide to spare himself any more of this noisy, tribal, almost animalistic ritual known as "clubbing". The best thing he had to say for the place was that their assassin gear seemed to fit right in with the dress code. He and Omi both wore their killing clothes. Concealing his sword under his long trench had been easy, and he knew Omi had a decent supply of darts hidden under his jacket, even though the boy hadn't been able to bring his crossbow. Aya ran a practiced eye over a similarly dressed crowd, and wondered just how many of these people were hiding weapons of some sort.
If he had been forced to judge just from what he had seen this week, Aya would have guessed the city's entire population was either gay or bisexual. There were people crowded into the club, almost wall-to-wall, and he knew there was a line of hopefuls outside that curled around almost a whole city block. He and Omi had been lucky, in that respect. The first night they'd come, the bouncer and door man had spotted them immediately and waved them in, thanks, in large part, to their exotic looks. After coming here for an entire week of nights, the guys working the door recognized them as "regulars", and they didn't even have to wait in line any more. People crowded onto the dance floor and around its edges, as well as around the tables and stools clustered throughout the club. Everyone seemed to have a drink in their hand, and they laughed and yelled to be heard over the music, jostling each other and spilling alcohol on anyone within arm's reach. Aya had gone home every night this week reeking, head to toe, of liquor, even though he hadn't had a single drink. And, that pissed him off. No one should have to smell like booze without getting to partake. It wasn't fair. Aya could feel the crowd bumping and pushing against him even now, but he ignored it. It had bothered him at first. Now, though, the unwelcome personal contact had become nothing more than a minor irritation, as had the almost constant stream of men, women, and men who just looked like women approaching him to ask for a dance, a date, or something more.
From his position, he had a fairly clear view of the whole club, except for the rest rooms, which were behind him and slightly to his left. As long as Omi remained out in the middle of the action, it was pretty easy to keep an eye on the kid. Right now, the young blonde was working the opposite side of the club, and it looked as if he had also managed to attract more than his fair share of unwanted attention. But, unlike Aya, Omi couldn't refuse his suitors. After all, the boy was supposed to be the bait for their target, and he was playing his part perfectly, allowing one person after another to lead him onto the dance floor or buy him a drink, which he surreptitiously discarded as soon as his admirer's back was turned.
Aya shifted into a more comfortable position on his stool, causing the buckles on his trench and boots to clink against the table's metal legs. He glanced down to make sure his weapon was still hidden underneath the long coat. For about the millionth time since starting this fucked-up mission, Aya felt almost stupidly grateful for the sword's heavy presence pressing against his side like a familiar friend. He was glad their wet work gear blended in so well. Going into a situation like this, just the two of them, unarmed, would have been too foolhardy, and he wouldn't have done it. If it had come to that, he would have made himself the bait, even though he didn't fit the victim profile and it would have resulted in a mission failure. They knew so little about this mission and the target, and he was still uncomfortable with that fact. He wouldn't have been able to bear the oppressive feeling of not knowing, of not being certain what they were facing, if they had had to come in here unarmed and helpless. Well, neither of them was ever truly "helpless", but, still, having the weapons there was a comfort and a relief.
Besides, there hadn't been a distinguishable pattern to the target's kills, which meant the beast could strike at any time. They had to be ready to act on a moment's notice. They had been poised and ready for action for a week now, but with no result. Although Omi had attracted more than a fair amount of attention, none of the people approaching him had seemed overly interested, and no one had tried anything yet. The tension of constant readiness and, yet, being unable to release themselves into action, was beginning to wear on his nerves. He knew it was starting to get to Omi, too. After the first five unsuccessful nights, Aya had decided they didn't need their outside backup, and he had relieved Yohji and Ken of the task of waiting in the car every night, watching the outside of the club. He figured there was no use in all four of them being constantly tense and irritable from the stress, and, besides, he had gotten sick and tired of hearing Yohji complain about how boring it was to sit in the car all night, listening to Ken's soccer stories. An unexpected bonus was the perverse pleasure Aya was getting out of forcing Yohji, who was a notoriously late-riser, to work Omi's early shifts at the flower shop.
Aya speared his latest admirer with his best icy-cold death glare and dismissed him with an angry wave of his hand, sending the man scurrying from the table toward the dance floor. He jumped as the communicator in his ear crackled to life with a screech of static.
"Looks like you're Mr. Popular, Abyssinian. But, if you keep turning people away like that, you'll never find Mr. Right, you know," Omi's teasing voice sang out over the comm..
"Yeah, well, Mama always said I didn't know how to play nice," Aya responded, his voice mimicking Omi's teasing tone. He lifted his drink to his lips to camouflage his speech.
Omi's soft laughter crackled through over the comlink. The boy hadn't wanted to take on this mission. The thought of going to a gay club had been almost unbearably unpleasant, and the idea of spending so much time, virtually alone, with Aya, had been equally as uncomfortable and daunting. But, he was surprised to find he really liked working with the redhead like this. After the first night, they had become accustomed to each other, and had slipped into a comfortable, almost teasing, banter, which still surprised the young blonde. It seemed his initial assessments of Aya had been wrong. There was a lot more to the man than what appeared on the surface, and, not for the first time, Omi felt he understood how Aya and Yohji could have become so close. Considering some of Aya's comments during the past week, not to mention the redhead's protective, almost mother-hen attitude about watching his back, it was almost like working with Yohji. In fact, Omi had almost forgotten, a couple of times, that he was with Abyssinian and not Balinese.
"If I didn't know better, I'd almost think that was a joke," Omi said, his voice quiet and serious. The boy paused for a second before asking, resuming the light, teasing tone he'd employed before, "So, getting any good offers?"
"Mmm," Aya replied, "Yeah. Enough. Let's just say I'm starting to seriously consider a career change." Omi laughed again, and it sounded as if he was about to reply, when Aya cut him off by saying, his voice suddenly serious, all business, "Look alive, Bombay. Bogey coming in on your right."
"Yours, too," Omi replied before turning to talk to his newest admirer.
Aya jumped when he felt a strong hand grasp his shoulder in an iron grip, and he turned to face a tall, impeccably-dressed man. Aya guessed the man was probably a bit taller than he was, and he looked to be a few pounds heavier, too, although it was obvious that his bulk was all muscle. He could see the faint outlines of the man's leg and arm muscles through the tan linen suit and light blue linen shirt he wore. Even in the club's dim light, the red-haired swordsman could see the man had piercing, light blue eyes and short, jet-black hair, which he wore, slicked back, away from his face. Aya had to admit, if he had been gay, he probably would have considered going home with this guy.
"Mind if I have a seat?" the man asked, smiling to reveal perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth, and, at the same time, gesturing toward the empty stool across the table from Aya. His Japanese was flawless, although he had a slight English accent.
Aya regarded the stranger with the same cold look he reserved for anyone who dared approach him, and replied, "Not interested."
The man laughed silently, shaking his head, and pulled out the stool, ignoring Aya's icy demeanor and the refusal of permission for the requested seat. He draped his long legs over the stool in an easy, lazy gesture that, oddly enough, reminded Aya of Yohji, and sat down, cutting off the redhead's view of Omi. Aya did his best to ignore the man and to reinforce how unwelcome the stranger's company was by pretending he wasn't even sitting at the table. The redhead didn't bother even looking at the new arrival. Instead, he shifted his stool a little to the left, in an attempt to catch sight of Omi again. Unfortunately, he failed, as the stranger was large enough to completely cut off his view, and he couldn't resume his surveillance of Omi without leaning way, way to the left to peer around the man's shoulder. Aya figured that would be too obvious, so he settled for glaring at the stranger sitting across from him, hoping that would be enough to drive the man away.
"I know," the stranger replied, "I've been watching you shoot down hopefuls all night. Well, all week, really. You're responsible for a lot of deflated egos --- male, female, and anything in between. And, I have to admit, you've even intrigued me, which isn't easy to do." He paused and regarded Aya for a moment before offering his hand in a handshake, saying, "I'm Roland. Roland Harrister. I own this club."
Aya looked at the hand extended across the table toward him as if it was covered in filth. After a moment of silent disdain, he looked back toward the stranger, pointedly ignoring the greeting gesture, and said, his voice and eyes cold with anger and frustration at the stranger's intrusion into their mission parameters, "I'm sure your mother's very proud. But, I'm still not interested."
Aya had to hand it to the guy. If his rude response had angered Harrister, the dark-haired man didn't show it, other than a slight twitching of the outstretched hand that still rested on the table between them and an almost imperceptible stiffening of his back. He smiled, but, unlike the greeting gesture he had employed minutes before, this one didn't reach his eyes. Instead of seeming genuine, it had a predatory aspect, and Aya felt his blood run a bit colder at this first inkling of Harrister's temper. He knew it was foolish, but something about this man set his nerves on edge, although he couldn't quite put his finger on exactly what.
Harrister sighed and withdrew the offered hand. "I forgot. You Japanese don't like to shake hands. Ten years in this country, and I still forget." He shrugged and unfolded his body from its seated position, graceful as a lion rousing from a mid-afternoon nap. As he passed behind Aya, he leaned in close, his mouth inches away from the redhead's ear, and whispered, "Too bad. But, if you ever change your mind, just call." He slipped a business card into Aya's hand and calmly walked away through the crowd that had gathered nearby to stare at the two men. As he approached, the gaggle of onlookers parted to allow him passage.
Now that the distraction was gone, Aya shuddered and tried to shake the feeling he needed a shower, almost immediately turning his attention back to Omi. The boy was still engaged in animated conversation with the man the redhead had warned him about. Of all the people who had approached Omi, this guy seemed the most likely candidate for their dark beast. He was young --- older than Omi but younger than Aya --- and he was dressed completely in black. His hair was also black, except for the ends, which were bleached a light, almost platinum, blonde. He wore several heavy, chunky chain bracelets on each wrist, as well as heavy silver chains and dangling pendants around his neck. When he gestured during a particularly animated moment of conversation, Aya noticed he was wearing black fingernail polish.
But, it wasn't his appearance that made the hair on the back of Aya's neck stand on end; it was the way he acted. He watched Omi a little too intently, leaned in a little too closely, and he was too nervous. He kept glancing around, as if he was hiding from someone and afraid of being discovered, and he constantly tried to position himself within easy reach of Omi's drink. Aya glanced down at his watch, and realized there were only fifteen minutes until last call, which would make this guy's timing perfect, too. They had guessed, from matching the days on which the victims disappeared with their approximate times of death, that the killer had picked each victim up shortly before closing time and then held them prisoner for several days before killing them.
Aya clicked on his comm. and said, "Heads up, Bombay. This one's a definite possible." He frowned when Omi failed to respond. 'It's OK,' he thought, unable to shake the uneasy feeling, 'He can't say anything with that guy right there. Doesn't mean anything's wrong.'
He got up and gathered his trench coat tightly around his body to conceal his sword as he heard the bartender announce last call. According to the plan, Omi would remain at his table until most of the crowd filed out of the club, and, then, he would lead the target toward the back door to the parking lot, where Aya would meet them. After confirming they had the right man, they would quietly and quickly dispatch the evil beast. Aya's heart skipped a beat as he saw Omi allow the stranger to lead him away from the table, and the two of them disappeared into the crowd exiting the club.
"Shit," Aya hissed under his breath as he pushed and shoved his way through the crowd. He struggled to choke back his fear as he fought against the tide of humanity to catch up with Omi and the stranger, who was leading the young blonde out the back door and to the parking lot. "Damn it! I knew I shouldn't have let Yohji and Ken stay home!" he muttered as he sped through the crowd, ignoring the yelps of surprise and insults that trailed after him from people he elbowed or shoved out of the way in his desperate bid to catch up to his partner.
He was Omi's back-up. It was his job to protect the boy. He couldn't lose them. No matter what he had to do to prevent it, he couldn't let that guy get Omi into a car before he caught up to them. If that happened, he knew he'd never see the kid again --- not until he saw Omi's dead eyes staring at him from the next set of mission photographs. And, he'd have no one to blame but himself, because of all the mistakes he'd made --- going into this mission so blind, becoming so complacent that he'd allowed their outside backup to leave, letting that stranger distract him in the club. He couldn't stand the thought of Omi suffering and dying like the other victims had. No. He couldn't let that happen to the boy. He wouldn't. He wouldn't go through that again; he wouldn't be responsible for someone else's suffering ever again --- not if there was anything he could do to prevent it.
He shoved his way through the last cluster of club-goers and burst through the back door into the chilly night air just in time to see the stranger lean Omi up against the side of a car parked across the lot, in a dark and deserted spot, where any activity would go unnoticed by the drunken, exhausted partiers exiting the club. That clenched it, as far as the redhead was concerned. The guy had parked in the most deserted spot on the lot, near where Aya had parked his Porsche. Only people with something to hide would go out of their way to park in a place like that, and he should know. Omi slumped against the car, completely submissive to the stranger, which told Aya the guy had slipped something into the kid's drink. It must have happened during those few minutes in which Harrister had distracted him, and Aya cursed himself for his lapse. He knew better than to allow something like that to happen when they were on the hunt. A moment's distraction could get someone killed. There would be time enough later for him to beat himself up over the mental slip-up, but, for now, he had to be satisfied that at least he'd gotten to Omi in time.
Aya broke away from the crowd, skirting the dark edge of the parking lot, and managed to approach the stranger from behind without being noticed. As he slipped up behind them, he saw Omi come out of his stupor enough to try and fight off the stranger, but the boy's reactions were slowed by whatever the guy had given him. The stranger easily sidestepped Omi's clumsy lunge and swiftly turned, brutally backhanding the boy and sending him crashing to the ground just as Aya made his killing leap. He didn't have any doubts. This guy was the target; his behavior toward Omi had confirmed that in Aya's mind. Aya's sword, powered by the rage he felt at the stranger for his treatment of Omi, and by the anger he felt toward himself for almost losing his partner, severed flesh and bone as easily as if it was slicing through butter. There was a sickening, wet sound and a strangled cry of surprise and pain, which was cut off when Death arrived to seal the man's lips forever. The stranger was dead long before his body crumpled to the ground with a dull, almost hollow thud.
Aya stepped over the target's body and knelt next to Omi, who was slumped, stunned, against the side of the target's car. He looked into the boy's eyes, praying he would see a glimmer of emotion there, a spark of recognition. He didn't have any idea what the guy had slipped the kid. Considering the brutality and vindictiveness with which the target had treated his victims, it could have been almost anything, and Aya just prayed it wasn't something that would do Omi permanent damage. He didn't think he could live with that, especially not when it was his fault it had happened. Omi blinked at him for a moment or two. He was dazed and confused, and his eyes were glazed and unfocused. But, after the first few blinks, Aya thought he saw recognition flash through the kid's eyes, and the boy hadn't passed out. That had to be a good sign, right?
He gripped Omi's shoulder, giving the boy a gentle shake, and asked, "Hey. You okay?"
Omi nodded in response. Suddenly, he tried to focus on something behind Aya's back, and his eyes took on a terrified expression. He mouthed words several times before he finally managed to choke out, in a strangled whisper, "Aya … watch … out."
Omi's whispered warning was swallowed by a scream of pure, primal rage. Aya whirled toward the sound just as Roland Harrister descended on him out of the shadows, holding a medium-length wooden board. As he jumped forward, the Englishman swung the board toward the side of Aya's head, where it impacted, full-force, with a loud, sickening, smack. The swordsman didn't have time to defend himself, and he crumpled to the ground next to Omi in the pool of their target's blood, dropping his sword as he fell.
It all happened so fast, really, but, in Omi's mind, it seemed to take an eternity --- seconds ticking out in slow motion, stretching into oblivion. The attacker hit Aya with enough force to snap his head almost completely around, and the swordsman's body seemed to hang in the air before slowly, almost like a movie shown in slow motion, crumpling to the ground. It was funny how he noticed small details at a time like this: that the man's face was twisted in rage, his lips curled back from his teeth in a savage snarl, that Aya had managed to come halfway to his feet, that Aya's hair seemed to whip around a split second after his head, and that the swordsman looked almost surprised as his eyes went dead and slid closed. The impact made a dull, hollow sound --- the same sound a melon makes when it breaks against a concrete sidewalk. Omi wanted to scream. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't make his voice obey his brain's commands. He couldn't do anything but watch, helplessly, held prisoner by the drug their target had slipped into his drink, as Aya crumpled to the ground next to him. He couldn't even summon up the coordination to reach out and attempt to cushion the redhead's fall. Omi felt his stomach lurch, threatening to disgorge its contents, even though he knew there was little in there to release. As he gave in to the blackness trying to engulf him, the last thing he saw was Aya, lying next to him in a pool of blood. It was an image that would return to haunt him, in his nightmares, for some time to come.
Warnings: Bad Language. Violence
Summary: When a mission goes bad, Aya may have to make the ultimate sacrifice to protect Omi, and the rest of Weiss learn you don't truly miss something until it's gone.
Legal Stuff: As always, this story is intended to express one fan's genuine appreciation of Weiss Kreuz and its characters. It is just for fun and not for profit. If you have any rights in the anime described here and find the posting of this fanfiction offensive or harmful, please contact me, and I will be happy to remove it.
Chapter 2
The noise in the night club was almost deafening --- a constant, dull, throbbing roar that vibrated and boomed through the floor, into your feet, up your legs, and through your body until it finally settled in your chest and head, where it rattled your ribs and shook your brain, refusing to let go. Loud rock music rumbled through giant speakers that hung from the ceiling above a dance floor so crowded there wasn't room to breathe, much less truly move. The music reverberated and rumbled around the room, shaking the floor and walls, until nothing about it was distinguishable, except for the heavy, thrumming, bass beat that seemed to drive everything and everyone in the crowded, smoky club. The room was dark, lit only by spotlights nestled at its corners and strobe lights that hung from the middle of the ceiling, flashing and blinking circles of colored light across the mindless people crowding the dance floor, moving dully to the beat of the music as if they were partaking in some tribal ritual. Fans pumped a soft haze of fake smoke into the air, where a fog of cigarette smoke, which drifted around the floor and bar before floating up to hang just under the ceiling, joined it to create a dense, gray cloud of indoor smog.
Aya perched on a tall stool in one of the club's darkest back corners, just as he had every night for the past week. He had carefully placed himself so that his back was to the wall, affording him an excellent view of almost the entire club. His elbows were propped on a tall, spindly-legged table, and he cradled his head on his open hands as he listlessly, almost absently, watched the activity around him. What he had told Omi that night in the Koneko's kitchen was true. He didn't have much experience clubbing. By the time he'd been old enough to partake of the city's nightlife, he was already an assassin, bent on revenge and living only for vengeance. He'd always thought, perhaps, he'd missed out on something, but, after shadowing Omi for the past week, he had decided that was definitely not the case. He hated it --- all of it: the dark room; the throbbing, pulsing music; the constant haze of smoke; the crush of people all around, jostling against you, spilling alcohol all over you; coming home smelling like stale booze, stale cigarette smoke, and even staler puke; the constant background noise that combined with the music to hover at an almost deafening din at the back of your mind. He didn't know how Yohji could stand it, and, yet, the tall blonde professed to love losing himself in a dark, smoky room and the crush of hundreds of strangers' bodies pushed up against his own. Aya had a headache --- had had a headache for the entire week, in fact --- and he found himself thinking, not for the first time, that if their target didn't make a move soon, he'd just have to commit suicide to spare himself any more of this noisy, tribal, almost animalistic ritual known as "clubbing". The best thing he had to say for the place was that their assassin gear seemed to fit right in with the dress code. He and Omi both wore their killing clothes. Concealing his sword under his long trench had been easy, and he knew Omi had a decent supply of darts hidden under his jacket, even though the boy hadn't been able to bring his crossbow. Aya ran a practiced eye over a similarly dressed crowd, and wondered just how many of these people were hiding weapons of some sort.
If he had been forced to judge just from what he had seen this week, Aya would have guessed the city's entire population was either gay or bisexual. There were people crowded into the club, almost wall-to-wall, and he knew there was a line of hopefuls outside that curled around almost a whole city block. He and Omi had been lucky, in that respect. The first night they'd come, the bouncer and door man had spotted them immediately and waved them in, thanks, in large part, to their exotic looks. After coming here for an entire week of nights, the guys working the door recognized them as "regulars", and they didn't even have to wait in line any more. People crowded onto the dance floor and around its edges, as well as around the tables and stools clustered throughout the club. Everyone seemed to have a drink in their hand, and they laughed and yelled to be heard over the music, jostling each other and spilling alcohol on anyone within arm's reach. Aya had gone home every night this week reeking, head to toe, of liquor, even though he hadn't had a single drink. And, that pissed him off. No one should have to smell like booze without getting to partake. It wasn't fair. Aya could feel the crowd bumping and pushing against him even now, but he ignored it. It had bothered him at first. Now, though, the unwelcome personal contact had become nothing more than a minor irritation, as had the almost constant stream of men, women, and men who just looked like women approaching him to ask for a dance, a date, or something more.
From his position, he had a fairly clear view of the whole club, except for the rest rooms, which were behind him and slightly to his left. As long as Omi remained out in the middle of the action, it was pretty easy to keep an eye on the kid. Right now, the young blonde was working the opposite side of the club, and it looked as if he had also managed to attract more than his fair share of unwanted attention. But, unlike Aya, Omi couldn't refuse his suitors. After all, the boy was supposed to be the bait for their target, and he was playing his part perfectly, allowing one person after another to lead him onto the dance floor or buy him a drink, which he surreptitiously discarded as soon as his admirer's back was turned.
Aya shifted into a more comfortable position on his stool, causing the buckles on his trench and boots to clink against the table's metal legs. He glanced down to make sure his weapon was still hidden underneath the long coat. For about the millionth time since starting this fucked-up mission, Aya felt almost stupidly grateful for the sword's heavy presence pressing against his side like a familiar friend. He was glad their wet work gear blended in so well. Going into a situation like this, just the two of them, unarmed, would have been too foolhardy, and he wouldn't have done it. If it had come to that, he would have made himself the bait, even though he didn't fit the victim profile and it would have resulted in a mission failure. They knew so little about this mission and the target, and he was still uncomfortable with that fact. He wouldn't have been able to bear the oppressive feeling of not knowing, of not being certain what they were facing, if they had had to come in here unarmed and helpless. Well, neither of them was ever truly "helpless", but, still, having the weapons there was a comfort and a relief.
Besides, there hadn't been a distinguishable pattern to the target's kills, which meant the beast could strike at any time. They had to be ready to act on a moment's notice. They had been poised and ready for action for a week now, but with no result. Although Omi had attracted more than a fair amount of attention, none of the people approaching him had seemed overly interested, and no one had tried anything yet. The tension of constant readiness and, yet, being unable to release themselves into action, was beginning to wear on his nerves. He knew it was starting to get to Omi, too. After the first five unsuccessful nights, Aya had decided they didn't need their outside backup, and he had relieved Yohji and Ken of the task of waiting in the car every night, watching the outside of the club. He figured there was no use in all four of them being constantly tense and irritable from the stress, and, besides, he had gotten sick and tired of hearing Yohji complain about how boring it was to sit in the car all night, listening to Ken's soccer stories. An unexpected bonus was the perverse pleasure Aya was getting out of forcing Yohji, who was a notoriously late-riser, to work Omi's early shifts at the flower shop.
Aya speared his latest admirer with his best icy-cold death glare and dismissed him with an angry wave of his hand, sending the man scurrying from the table toward the dance floor. He jumped as the communicator in his ear crackled to life with a screech of static.
"Looks like you're Mr. Popular, Abyssinian. But, if you keep turning people away like that, you'll never find Mr. Right, you know," Omi's teasing voice sang out over the comm..
"Yeah, well, Mama always said I didn't know how to play nice," Aya responded, his voice mimicking Omi's teasing tone. He lifted his drink to his lips to camouflage his speech.
Omi's soft laughter crackled through over the comlink. The boy hadn't wanted to take on this mission. The thought of going to a gay club had been almost unbearably unpleasant, and the idea of spending so much time, virtually alone, with Aya, had been equally as uncomfortable and daunting. But, he was surprised to find he really liked working with the redhead like this. After the first night, they had become accustomed to each other, and had slipped into a comfortable, almost teasing, banter, which still surprised the young blonde. It seemed his initial assessments of Aya had been wrong. There was a lot more to the man than what appeared on the surface, and, not for the first time, Omi felt he understood how Aya and Yohji could have become so close. Considering some of Aya's comments during the past week, not to mention the redhead's protective, almost mother-hen attitude about watching his back, it was almost like working with Yohji. In fact, Omi had almost forgotten, a couple of times, that he was with Abyssinian and not Balinese.
"If I didn't know better, I'd almost think that was a joke," Omi said, his voice quiet and serious. The boy paused for a second before asking, resuming the light, teasing tone he'd employed before, "So, getting any good offers?"
"Mmm," Aya replied, "Yeah. Enough. Let's just say I'm starting to seriously consider a career change." Omi laughed again, and it sounded as if he was about to reply, when Aya cut him off by saying, his voice suddenly serious, all business, "Look alive, Bombay. Bogey coming in on your right."
"Yours, too," Omi replied before turning to talk to his newest admirer.
Aya jumped when he felt a strong hand grasp his shoulder in an iron grip, and he turned to face a tall, impeccably-dressed man. Aya guessed the man was probably a bit taller than he was, and he looked to be a few pounds heavier, too, although it was obvious that his bulk was all muscle. He could see the faint outlines of the man's leg and arm muscles through the tan linen suit and light blue linen shirt he wore. Even in the club's dim light, the red-haired swordsman could see the man had piercing, light blue eyes and short, jet-black hair, which he wore, slicked back, away from his face. Aya had to admit, if he had been gay, he probably would have considered going home with this guy.
"Mind if I have a seat?" the man asked, smiling to reveal perfectly white, perfectly straight teeth, and, at the same time, gesturing toward the empty stool across the table from Aya. His Japanese was flawless, although he had a slight English accent.
Aya regarded the stranger with the same cold look he reserved for anyone who dared approach him, and replied, "Not interested."
The man laughed silently, shaking his head, and pulled out the stool, ignoring Aya's icy demeanor and the refusal of permission for the requested seat. He draped his long legs over the stool in an easy, lazy gesture that, oddly enough, reminded Aya of Yohji, and sat down, cutting off the redhead's view of Omi. Aya did his best to ignore the man and to reinforce how unwelcome the stranger's company was by pretending he wasn't even sitting at the table. The redhead didn't bother even looking at the new arrival. Instead, he shifted his stool a little to the left, in an attempt to catch sight of Omi again. Unfortunately, he failed, as the stranger was large enough to completely cut off his view, and he couldn't resume his surveillance of Omi without leaning way, way to the left to peer around the man's shoulder. Aya figured that would be too obvious, so he settled for glaring at the stranger sitting across from him, hoping that would be enough to drive the man away.
"I know," the stranger replied, "I've been watching you shoot down hopefuls all night. Well, all week, really. You're responsible for a lot of deflated egos --- male, female, and anything in between. And, I have to admit, you've even intrigued me, which isn't easy to do." He paused and regarded Aya for a moment before offering his hand in a handshake, saying, "I'm Roland. Roland Harrister. I own this club."
Aya looked at the hand extended across the table toward him as if it was covered in filth. After a moment of silent disdain, he looked back toward the stranger, pointedly ignoring the greeting gesture, and said, his voice and eyes cold with anger and frustration at the stranger's intrusion into their mission parameters, "I'm sure your mother's very proud. But, I'm still not interested."
Aya had to hand it to the guy. If his rude response had angered Harrister, the dark-haired man didn't show it, other than a slight twitching of the outstretched hand that still rested on the table between them and an almost imperceptible stiffening of his back. He smiled, but, unlike the greeting gesture he had employed minutes before, this one didn't reach his eyes. Instead of seeming genuine, it had a predatory aspect, and Aya felt his blood run a bit colder at this first inkling of Harrister's temper. He knew it was foolish, but something about this man set his nerves on edge, although he couldn't quite put his finger on exactly what.
Harrister sighed and withdrew the offered hand. "I forgot. You Japanese don't like to shake hands. Ten years in this country, and I still forget." He shrugged and unfolded his body from its seated position, graceful as a lion rousing from a mid-afternoon nap. As he passed behind Aya, he leaned in close, his mouth inches away from the redhead's ear, and whispered, "Too bad. But, if you ever change your mind, just call." He slipped a business card into Aya's hand and calmly walked away through the crowd that had gathered nearby to stare at the two men. As he approached, the gaggle of onlookers parted to allow him passage.
Now that the distraction was gone, Aya shuddered and tried to shake the feeling he needed a shower, almost immediately turning his attention back to Omi. The boy was still engaged in animated conversation with the man the redhead had warned him about. Of all the people who had approached Omi, this guy seemed the most likely candidate for their dark beast. He was young --- older than Omi but younger than Aya --- and he was dressed completely in black. His hair was also black, except for the ends, which were bleached a light, almost platinum, blonde. He wore several heavy, chunky chain bracelets on each wrist, as well as heavy silver chains and dangling pendants around his neck. When he gestured during a particularly animated moment of conversation, Aya noticed he was wearing black fingernail polish.
But, it wasn't his appearance that made the hair on the back of Aya's neck stand on end; it was the way he acted. He watched Omi a little too intently, leaned in a little too closely, and he was too nervous. He kept glancing around, as if he was hiding from someone and afraid of being discovered, and he constantly tried to position himself within easy reach of Omi's drink. Aya glanced down at his watch, and realized there were only fifteen minutes until last call, which would make this guy's timing perfect, too. They had guessed, from matching the days on which the victims disappeared with their approximate times of death, that the killer had picked each victim up shortly before closing time and then held them prisoner for several days before killing them.
Aya clicked on his comm. and said, "Heads up, Bombay. This one's a definite possible." He frowned when Omi failed to respond. 'It's OK,' he thought, unable to shake the uneasy feeling, 'He can't say anything with that guy right there. Doesn't mean anything's wrong.'
He got up and gathered his trench coat tightly around his body to conceal his sword as he heard the bartender announce last call. According to the plan, Omi would remain at his table until most of the crowd filed out of the club, and, then, he would lead the target toward the back door to the parking lot, where Aya would meet them. After confirming they had the right man, they would quietly and quickly dispatch the evil beast. Aya's heart skipped a beat as he saw Omi allow the stranger to lead him away from the table, and the two of them disappeared into the crowd exiting the club.
"Shit," Aya hissed under his breath as he pushed and shoved his way through the crowd. He struggled to choke back his fear as he fought against the tide of humanity to catch up with Omi and the stranger, who was leading the young blonde out the back door and to the parking lot. "Damn it! I knew I shouldn't have let Yohji and Ken stay home!" he muttered as he sped through the crowd, ignoring the yelps of surprise and insults that trailed after him from people he elbowed or shoved out of the way in his desperate bid to catch up to his partner.
He was Omi's back-up. It was his job to protect the boy. He couldn't lose them. No matter what he had to do to prevent it, he couldn't let that guy get Omi into a car before he caught up to them. If that happened, he knew he'd never see the kid again --- not until he saw Omi's dead eyes staring at him from the next set of mission photographs. And, he'd have no one to blame but himself, because of all the mistakes he'd made --- going into this mission so blind, becoming so complacent that he'd allowed their outside backup to leave, letting that stranger distract him in the club. He couldn't stand the thought of Omi suffering and dying like the other victims had. No. He couldn't let that happen to the boy. He wouldn't. He wouldn't go through that again; he wouldn't be responsible for someone else's suffering ever again --- not if there was anything he could do to prevent it.
He shoved his way through the last cluster of club-goers and burst through the back door into the chilly night air just in time to see the stranger lean Omi up against the side of a car parked across the lot, in a dark and deserted spot, where any activity would go unnoticed by the drunken, exhausted partiers exiting the club. That clenched it, as far as the redhead was concerned. The guy had parked in the most deserted spot on the lot, near where Aya had parked his Porsche. Only people with something to hide would go out of their way to park in a place like that, and he should know. Omi slumped against the car, completely submissive to the stranger, which told Aya the guy had slipped something into the kid's drink. It must have happened during those few minutes in which Harrister had distracted him, and Aya cursed himself for his lapse. He knew better than to allow something like that to happen when they were on the hunt. A moment's distraction could get someone killed. There would be time enough later for him to beat himself up over the mental slip-up, but, for now, he had to be satisfied that at least he'd gotten to Omi in time.
Aya broke away from the crowd, skirting the dark edge of the parking lot, and managed to approach the stranger from behind without being noticed. As he slipped up behind them, he saw Omi come out of his stupor enough to try and fight off the stranger, but the boy's reactions were slowed by whatever the guy had given him. The stranger easily sidestepped Omi's clumsy lunge and swiftly turned, brutally backhanding the boy and sending him crashing to the ground just as Aya made his killing leap. He didn't have any doubts. This guy was the target; his behavior toward Omi had confirmed that in Aya's mind. Aya's sword, powered by the rage he felt at the stranger for his treatment of Omi, and by the anger he felt toward himself for almost losing his partner, severed flesh and bone as easily as if it was slicing through butter. There was a sickening, wet sound and a strangled cry of surprise and pain, which was cut off when Death arrived to seal the man's lips forever. The stranger was dead long before his body crumpled to the ground with a dull, almost hollow thud.
Aya stepped over the target's body and knelt next to Omi, who was slumped, stunned, against the side of the target's car. He looked into the boy's eyes, praying he would see a glimmer of emotion there, a spark of recognition. He didn't have any idea what the guy had slipped the kid. Considering the brutality and vindictiveness with which the target had treated his victims, it could have been almost anything, and Aya just prayed it wasn't something that would do Omi permanent damage. He didn't think he could live with that, especially not when it was his fault it had happened. Omi blinked at him for a moment or two. He was dazed and confused, and his eyes were glazed and unfocused. But, after the first few blinks, Aya thought he saw recognition flash through the kid's eyes, and the boy hadn't passed out. That had to be a good sign, right?
He gripped Omi's shoulder, giving the boy a gentle shake, and asked, "Hey. You okay?"
Omi nodded in response. Suddenly, he tried to focus on something behind Aya's back, and his eyes took on a terrified expression. He mouthed words several times before he finally managed to choke out, in a strangled whisper, "Aya … watch … out."
Omi's whispered warning was swallowed by a scream of pure, primal rage. Aya whirled toward the sound just as Roland Harrister descended on him out of the shadows, holding a medium-length wooden board. As he jumped forward, the Englishman swung the board toward the side of Aya's head, where it impacted, full-force, with a loud, sickening, smack. The swordsman didn't have time to defend himself, and he crumpled to the ground next to Omi in the pool of their target's blood, dropping his sword as he fell.
It all happened so fast, really, but, in Omi's mind, it seemed to take an eternity --- seconds ticking out in slow motion, stretching into oblivion. The attacker hit Aya with enough force to snap his head almost completely around, and the swordsman's body seemed to hang in the air before slowly, almost like a movie shown in slow motion, crumpling to the ground. It was funny how he noticed small details at a time like this: that the man's face was twisted in rage, his lips curled back from his teeth in a savage snarl, that Aya had managed to come halfway to his feet, that Aya's hair seemed to whip around a split second after his head, and that the swordsman looked almost surprised as his eyes went dead and slid closed. The impact made a dull, hollow sound --- the same sound a melon makes when it breaks against a concrete sidewalk. Omi wanted to scream. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't make his voice obey his brain's commands. He couldn't do anything but watch, helplessly, held prisoner by the drug their target had slipped into his drink, as Aya crumpled to the ground next to him. He couldn't even summon up the coordination to reach out and attempt to cushion the redhead's fall. Omi felt his stomach lurch, threatening to disgorge its contents, even though he knew there was little in there to release. As he gave in to the blackness trying to engulf him, the last thing he saw was Aya, lying next to him in a pool of blood. It was an image that would return to haunt him, in his nightmares, for some time to come.