Fanfic Archive: Sacrifice, 4

[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 4

Omi came awake to a chaotic symphony of unfamiliar sounds --- metal walls creaking and groaning as they struggled against the slightest breeze, the muffled honking and tire screeches of distant traffic, and a bit closer, but still muffled, the steady, dull, throbbing hum of heavy construction equipment. He felt confused and disoriented, and he kept his eyes tightly shut, as the unfamiliar sounds washed over him. He had expected, upon awakening, to hear the noises he always heard. Familiar sounds that said "home" to him: Ken bouncing his soccer ball off the walls or clinking dishes in the kitchen; the muted drone of the television, which Ken and Yohji insisted always stay on --- no one ever really paid attention to what was showing, but the chain-smoking blonde and the ex-goalie hated silence; Aya yelling at Yohji, or, more likely Ken, about one thing or another; or, on rare occasions, the sound of playful bickering between the swordsman and Yohji. Those were the noises that drifted up to Omi's room on the rare mornings when he wasn't the first in the house to wake, but, the sounds he heard now --- screeching metal, like fingernails on a blackboard, the low, distant hum and throb of traffic and construction --- were completely foreign. He must not be at home, then. So, where was he?



Part of his mind didn't care. Wherever it was might be unfamiliar and noisy, but he was warm and felt fairly safe. And, he was tired --- so damn tired it felt as if his brain and the insides of his eyelids had been stuffed with cotton. Part of his mind wanted to forget about everything, turn over, and retreat into the safe blackness of knowing, feeling, and hearing nothing. But, another part of his mind --- the part where Bombay prowled --- screamed at him for a fool. That part told him, with no uncertainty, if he wasn't home, and he didn't know where he was, he couldn't possibly be safe. Omi tried to ignore the little voice screeching danger inside his head, but Bombay forced his eyes open.

'I'm in a … cave?' was his first thought, as his muzzy, drug-addled brain struggled to come to terms with the dimly lit vastness he felt around him.

No, he realized, as he managed to fight off the fuzziness enough to take a good look around. Not a cave, but a huge, cavernous room … a warehouse --- probably the next best thing to a cave in the city. He wasn't sure he was still in Tokyo, but, wherever he was, he knew it was a city of some sort. The traffic and construction noises told him that much. He felt the wall behind him shudder with a loud, metallic screech and wondered if it was windy outside. Probably not, he finally concluded. The wall screams and creaks were intermittent, and he'd been around enough warehouses to know they shuddered, creaked, and screamed in protest at even the slightest breeze.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Omi realized there was a row of small windows at the top of the wall behind him, maybe ten feet or more off the ground. Pale, weak sunlight filtered through their dirty panes, illuminating the space enough so that he could make out some vague shapes and dim colors before the shadows deepened at the other end of the room. There were crates everywhere --- stacks and stacks of them. There had to be hundreds, and those were just the ones he could see. He guessed there were more in other parts of the building. They loomed over him --- huge, dark, foreboding hulks, each one big enough to hold a car or two, stacked several feet in front of him, blocking his view of the rest of the warehouse. Omi craned his neck back, trying to see just how tall the stacks were, but had to give up because it made him dizzy and nauseous. He couldn't see how far up they went, anyhow, as they disappeared into the murky darkness a good distance above him. He guessed they went all the way to the ceiling, or very close to it. There was a clear space, about five or six feet in width, between him and the looming wall of crates, and, when he turned his head to look from one side to the other, he guessed it ran the entire length of the building. He couldn't see any boxes on either side of him, but the murky darkness swallowed the far ends of the warehouse. He supposed he could see almost half the building's length, before the shadows closed in. He squinted and, in the dim light, managed to make out a small break, kind of like a path, in the wooden wall facing him. He squinted harder and noticed a door in the distance. He could barely see it in the murky, gray half-light, but it looked like the only easy way in or out of the building.

Omi sighed and rubbed his hands over his face and through his tangled, matted hair. He tugged on the ends, hoping the pain might bring some clarity to his fuzzy mind. Waking up in a strange place wasn't ever a pleasant experience, and his rather cursory survey of his surroundings had done little to give him hope. He just wished he could think clearly. He couldn't seem to put two coherent thoughts together, and it was starting to frustrate the hell out of him. He had the feeling something was horribly, terribly wrong. Well, more "wrong" than waking up with a drug-induced hangover in a strange, creaky warehouse stacked full of crates large enough to hold an army of bodies, that is. It was right there, lurking in the fuzzy, muddled recesses of his brain, so close he felt like he could reach out and grab it. But, each time he tried, it skittered away from him, as if his fingers barely managed to brush against it.

"Okay, Omi. You're a trained assassin. You can certainly do a little thing like remember what happened before you lost all this time. Just start from the beginning," the boy muttered in an irritable tone, almost under his breath. Even so, his words bounced around the cavernous space and echoed back to him, a mocking taunt.

He sighed again and closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall behind him. He could feel its metallic coolness even through his jacket and shirt, and it felt good --- cold, almost damp, almost like freedom --- a welcome counterpart to the oppressive dustiness of the rest of this place. He forced his mind and body to relax, consciously letting go of the tension, anxiety, and fear his predicament had caused to well up inside him.

"The beginning," he muttered. "The beginning. Start at the beginning. … OK, I was at the club …with … Aya …"

His voice trailed off as an image popped into his mind: a surprised look flashing through blue-violet eyes before they went dead; Aya crumpling to the ground next to him, landing in a puddle of red. Suddenly, the pieces of memory snapped together to form one big, seamless, horrific picture, and Omi was unequivocally, irrevocably awake, the cobwebs chased from his addled mind by the memory of his teammate, his partner on this mission, falling to the ground beside him. Omi wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or not. On the one hand, he remembered and had a better understanding of his situation. On the other hand, he remembered and had a better understanding of his situation. It was a double-edged sword. He knew the memory of Aya falling, the image of that startled look in his eyes just before they went blank and slid closed, would haunt him for some time to come.

'Wait a minute …,' Omi thought, his brain still not quite working on all cylinders, despite the rude awakening that jolt of memory had given it, 'Aya …'

The boy bolted away from the wall, coming to his feet so quickly it made him dizzy, and he staggered to the side, close to falling, before he managed to steady himself by placing a hand against the cool metal. He ignored the wave of vertigo and the lurching in his stomach. He had to find Aya. His mind whirled. All he could see was Aya's head snapping back from the force of that blow, the startled, almost shocked look in his eyes --- all the more unusual considering the way the redhead guarded his emotions, the way Aya had fallen to the ground --- bonelessly, heavily, the way dead bodies fall. The images swam before his eyes until Omi wanted to scream. No. It couldn't be true. Aya couldn't be … he couldn't be dead. He had to be here. He had to be here.

'Please, God,' Omi thought, 'Please … please … don't let him be dead. Please … I … I don't want to be alone here.'

It was a selfish thing to think. He knew it, and he was ashamed. But, he didn't care. Right now, he wasn't an assassin; he wasn't Weiss; he wasn't Bombay. He was Omi. He was trapped in a dark, dusty, unfamiliar place, and he was scared. He didn't want to be alone. He really didn't want Aya to be dead, either. Despite his initial worries over the mission, he had grown fond of the quiet swordsman during the week they had spent working the club together. He even thought of the redhead as Weiss now, as a member of his surrogate family. He didn't want anything to happen to Aya. But, more than anything … selfish as it was … he didn't want to be alone.

"Aya!" he screamed, once he had managed to regain his balance and silence the tumult roiling in his brain. He pushed himself away from the wall and staggered out into the open space, out where he had a little more light. "Aya!" he called again, but there wasn't any answer except for his own voice, throwing the word back at him, mocking him with its echo.

Now that he was away from the wall, standing in the squares of weak light thrown on the concrete floor from the window panes high above, he saw a misshapen pile about three or four feet away from him, to his left. It was half in shadow, and looked almost like old, discarded clothing. But, Omi knew it wasn't old clothes. A shaft of light fell across it, illuminating specks of dust that floated through the air and giving him the briefest glimpse of red. Even without that, the boy had known the rumpled, misshapen pile was his partner. It was Aya.

Omi sprinted, half running, half stumbling as he struggled to keep his feet beneath him, the short distance to his teammate's side, his nausea and dizziness forgotten now, lost in the hammering of his heart, the panicked gasps of his breathing, and the pounding rush of blood in his ears. He slid to his knees next to the fallen man, and, as he got his first good look at Aya, his heart fell and his stomach clenched in horror and fear. It was a good thing he hadn't eaten anything in some time. If he had had anything in his stomach, he wouldn't have been able to hold onto it, and he didn't want to throw up. Being trapped in this musty, dusty room with the strong, sickly-sweet, coppery-metallic smell of fresh and drying blood was bad enough without adding the odor of stale puke to the mix.

Aya was so still. In the poor lighting, Omi couldn't tell, at first glance, whether the other man was breathing. He stared at Aya for a long time, reluctant --- scared, really --- to reach out and touch him. If he touched Aya, he might find the swordsman was dead, and that would mean he was alone. If Aya was dead, he was dead. It wasn't like touching him would make any difference in that respect, but, Omi felt like touching the man would make his worst fears come true. As long as he didn't touch Aya, he could believe the swordsman was alive. As long as he didn't lay hands on the man, he could believe he wasn't alone in here. It was irrational. He told himself it was irrational. Bombay knew it was foolish and irrational. But, Omi was afraid, and he didn't care. The boy strained against the murky, gray half-light until, finally, he saw the smallest, almost imperceptible, movement of Aya's body. He was breathing. He was alive. Omi breathed a sigh of relief.

The redhead was lying on his side, facing away from the young blonde, his hands tightly cuffed behind his back. Even in the dim light, Omi could see they were slightly bluish-purple, a sign the cuffs had long ago cut off their circulation. Twisted. Crumpled. Broken. Helpless. Fragile. They weren't words he normally would associate with his red-haired partner, but they were the words that popped, unbidden, into Omi's mind as he stared at Aya. He hadn't known the older man for long, but he had already decided, about ten minutes after meeting him, that he probably wouldn't ever think of the swordsman as anything but strong and invulnerable. Omi and the others had quickly learned a core of steel seemed to run through the quiet redhead's deceptively slight frame. He just hoped Aya's will to survive and stubborn streak were strong enough to get him through this.

Suddenly, the boy's mind seized upon a random snippet of memory. When he was around three or four, he had had a toy. What was it? Some kind of pull-toy … maybe a horse or a dog or something like that. Funny how he could remember how much he had loved that toy, but he couldn't recall what it had looked like. He had taken it everywhere with him, and he remembered he had even slept with it. He didn't remember his father, other than as a deep, angry, disembodied voice, but, one day, the man had taken that toy, in a fit of anger, and flung it against a wall. Omi could still remember how it had fallen to the floor to lie, broken, next to two big feet.

The young blonde shook his head slightly, dispelling the unwanted images from his mind. He didn't have many memories of his childhood before Persia had saved him, and almost none of them were happy. But, why would his mind seize on that memory, so painful in its clarity and the emotions it brought to the surface even after all these years?

'Never mind,' he thought, as he turned his attention back toward Aya, 'I think I know.'

Frowning, Omi did his best to shrug the memory off and turn his attention to the task at hand. He didn't want to check Aya over --- maybe because he was afraid of what he might find, maybe because he was afraid of being left alone here, maybe because he was afraid for Aya, too, or, maybe, because the surprise and shock he had seen pass through Aya's eyes was still all too vivid. He didn't know, and it didn't matter. He couldn't avoid it forever. Aya had made this entire mission and their safety his responsibility, and Omi knew he had let him. He had felt safe in that club, knowing Aya was there, had lulled himself into a false sense of security through the belief that everything would, naturally, be just fine because Aya was lurking in the background, ready to make everything okay. And, what had happened? Aya had been hurt … badly … because Omi had gotten careless. He didn't want to admit it, but he knew it was true. Omi knew he had approached the entire situation in a sloppy, hap-hazard manner. Aya's safety was his responsibility as much as his safety was Aya's, and Omi was ashamed he hadn't given it a second thought. That carelessness had led them to this, and, now, he had to do whatever he could to keep Aya alive and get them out of this mess.

Omi held his breath without even realizing it as he reached out with a shaking hand to grab Aya's shoulder and turn him onto his back. There was no resistance, and Omi settled the swordsman's head in his lap, feeling his stomach clench and lurch again --- with anger, this time ---as he got his first good look at the older man's injuries.

"Holy shit," Omi muttered, almost under his breath.

He didn't know why he whispered. Obviously, there wasn't anyone here, and Aya couldn't hear him. Still, he muttered the words in the kind of reverent half-tone people reserve for serious places, like churches and libraries. It was almost as if, by saying the words out loud, he'd make this whole nightmare come true, as if he might wake up and find out he really wasn't at home, over the Koneko, in his nice, warm, safe bed. It was stupid. He knew it was stupid, and, yet, he whispered.

Aya looked like something out of a horror movie or a carnival freak show. The right half of his face was a bloody, pulpy mess. The blood and dim, almost non-existent lighting conspired to keep Omi from determining the actual extent of his companion's injuries, but he was willing to bet, even without further examination, things were bad. One side of Aya's face was slightly misshapen, a bit flatter than the other side, as if it had been pushed up against something and mashed in a bit. Blood still seeped through a couple of deep gashes, one along the side of Aya's head, from his temple to his chin, and another, higher up, above his right eye. There was a lot of blood. It was dried and matted on Aya's skin and in his hair, where it was almost indistinguishable from the swordsman's crimson mane.

Omi mentally calculated, remembering that Aya had dropped to the ground in the parking lot in a small puddle of his own blood and noticing another pool here. He wasn't sure exactly how much blood there was in a human body. You'd think, in his line of work, that would be information he'd make a point of remembering, but he never could seem to recall how much someone could lose before they bled to death. Still, he was willing to bet Aya was teetering on that edge. There just seemed to be too much of the red stuff, although Omi tried to reassure himself by silently repeating that head wounds bled a lot, even if they weren't serious, that it didn't mean anything. If he said it enough times in his head, maybe he'd even start believing it.

The damaged side of Aya's face was swollen almost beyond recognition. His right eye was swollen shut, and there was a dark, bruise-like circle ringing the bottom of his left eye and snaking toward his nose, which seemed a bit out of place, as well. His jaw skewed a little too much to the left, indicating it was probably broken. All things considered, Omi figured there was a good chance Aya had a skull fracture. He'd be lucky to get away with nothing more than a broken nose, broken jaw, and, maybe, a smashed cheekbone.

Omi remembered how hard their attacker had hit Aya, how the older man's head had snapped around after the impact, how the board had made that sickening, hollow sound, the surprise, shock, and pain written in Aya's eyes before they had gone dead. The images floated through his mind, over and over. It was like watching some horrific movie that had gotten stuck in one spot, so that the film looped back on itself, forcing you to sit through a never-ending cycle of your worst fears come to life.

Omi shuddered at the thought, squeezing his eyes closed, as if he could shut the memories out that way. But, it was no use. It wasn't a movie. He couldn't just turn it off. It was part of him, and he knew he'd see those images, in one form or another, for the rest of his life --- however long … or short … that might be.

He needed to hear Aya, needed to hear the other man's voice, needed to see Aya awake. He didn't know why. He couldn't explain it. There's no explaining something that is totally and completely irrational, and Omi knew this was irrational. Yet, it was there --- this aching, burning need, gnawing at him like a living thing, refusing to let him go until he heard Aya's voice, until he saw the redhead awake. As if just seeing and hearing Aya would make everything all right. It was stupid, and Omi was ashamed. If he had any sense or compassion, he knew he'd leave Aya alone. Unconscious, at least he wasn't in any pain. But, still, the need was there, driving him, forcing him to ignore his conscience.

"Aya," Omi said, his voice barely a whisper, and, yet, somehow, still managing to echo and reverberate around the huge room. He paused, hoping for some reaction, some sign, but there was nothing.

Omi frowned. "Aya … come on, now," he whispered after a couple of moments, "You're not … you're not gonna leave me hanging out here all alone, right?" His fingers strayed to Aya's throat, acting almost of their own accord, even though his mind had seen the other man breathing. Right now, his fingers and brain didn't seem to be talking. He felt a pulse, faint, but steady, under his hand, and sighed in relief.

"Yeah," he said, still employing the now-familiar half-whispering tone that had become his preferred means of communication. "Yeah," he repeated, threading his fingers through Aya's hair, "If anyone could survive that, it's you." Impulsively, the need once again taking hold of him, he grabbed Aya's shoulders and shook the older man. "Come on, Aya," he hissed, his voice taking on a tense, fear-filled edge that made him cringe and feel ashamed for his weakness.

Omi waited, holding his breath for an eternity spanning several seconds, until, finally, his efforts were rewarded with a cough and a small, pathetic groan from the object of his attention. Omi let out the breath he'd been holding --- one long sigh of relief --- as Aya forced his good eye open. The young blonde knew that small physical act took more will power and strength than he could have mustered, if their situations had been reversed. He smiled what he hoped was a reassuring smile, although he felt like all he accomplished was something between a teeth-baring snarl and the look he imagined someone would have if they had accidentally swallowed a goldfish. Still, it was the best he could do, under the circumstances.

"Shit … you … you scared me a little," he muttered through the tense smile he continued to bestow upon his confused partner.

"Nnnnh," Aya managed to mutter back at him.

Not the catchiest, wittiest banter he had ever heard, but, still, all things considered, Omi thought it was pretty good. He was surprised Aya could make any sound at all.

The redhead coughed again, a bone-wrenching sound that shuddered through his entire body. He gagged and choked, managing to turn his head away from Omi in time to narrowly keep from spitting the blood in his mouth out onto the boy's clothes, although, from the looks of him, it probably wouldn't have mattered. The kid was already covered with the red stuff. A little more wouldn't have made any difference, and Aya regretted the polite gesture when it sent bolts of white-hot pain shooting through his skull. The room swirled and swam around him, culminating in a series of color flashes, and he fought back the urge to puke as he wondered if he was still lying down. If he wasn't, he damn well should be, he finally decided, when he opened his eye to see Omi still leaning over him, an earnest, slightly terrified look in his cornflower blue eyes and a strangled, strained grin pasted resolutely on his face. The grin was a bit unnerving. The kid looked like he'd swallowed a goldfish.

Aya sighed, choking as he did so, and managed to croak out in a weak, almost inaudible voice, "Stop … that." He closed his eye in an attempt to regain some semblance of equilibrium, immediately opening it again when a wave of nausea and dizziness told him what he had was about as good as it was going to get. "That … the … grinning," he muttered, in response to the silent question he saw in the kid's eyes. "Disturbing … nothing …funny … here."

Omi rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Of all the people he could have been trapped in a huge cavernous warehouse with, it had to be Aya, the one person who couldn't come close to appreciating the effort it was taking to be positive for his sake. "It's supposed to be reassuring," Omi replied, more than a little irritated at the redhead's steadfast refusal to be comforted.

"Well … it's … not," Aya responded, his words coming out a bit slurred. He actually felt pretty damn proud of himself for managing to put together an entire sentence, even if it only consisted of three words. There was a contraction in there, too. That had to count for something, right? He lay quietly for a moment, staring at Omi with a pathetically weak imitation of his normal glare. When the room seemed to slow its spin down to what he guessed was the most manageable level he could hope for, Aya started to struggle into a sitting position, although he wasn't quite able to get his balance, due to the cuffs binding his hands behind his back.

"Be still," Omi snapped. "You … you shouldn't be moving around."

Aya silently counted to ten. At least, he thought he counted to ten. He might have skipped a few numbers here and there. After all, he wasn't hitting on all cylinders. He reminded himself the boy was just scared, and it wouldn't do any good to go postal on the kid right now. Besides, he was pretty sure screaming at Omi wouldn't do anything for the freight train of a headache pounding its way through his brain at the moment, even if it might relieve some of his anxiety. All in all, it wasn't worth the effort.

Once he had regained his composure, he hissed, managing to convey venom and irritation even though his voice was weak and cracked on every other syllable, "Then … you shoulda … let me be."

Aya regretted the harsh words and tone as he saw guilt and shame chase each other across Omi's expressive face. The kid was just scared --- and, with good reason, judging from what little he'd seen so far. Aya knew he was pissed off at himself for getting caught off guard so easily, a lapse that had landed both of them in this mess. Taking it out on Omi wasn't going to help matters any, and, in the end, he would just feel worse about things if he made Omi feel bad. The kid wasn't responsible for this mess, after all. He was.

"'M so … sorry," he mumbled. "Just … help me … sit up, OK?"

Omi had had to lean forward to hear Aya's words. The redhead didn't know whether he should laugh or feel ashamed at the surprised look that crossed the boy's face when he heard the muttered apology. He opted for doing neither, as laughter seemed inappropriate, given their situation. He wouldn't want Omi to think he'd gone completely off the deep end, after all. The kid was entertaining thoughts along those lines already, judging from the expression on his face. And, feeling ashamed just seemed like it would take too damn much energy. Aya didn't know for sure, but he had a feeling his energy reserves were swiftly running out on him, and he'd need every ounce he could spare, if he was going to get Omi out of this mess.

Funny he hadn't thought of getting both of them out of here, Aya couldn't help musing as Omi lifted and shoved him into a sitting position, leaning back against the cold metal wall behind him --- even if he did list dangerously to one side. He must be hurt worse than he had initially figured, if he'd given up on the idea of getting himself out of this mess alive. Aya wasn't sure when or how he'd come to the conclusion that only Omi would be walking away from this. It was almost like he hadn't ever decided it. Instead, it was just there --- a piece of innate, instinctive knowledge, the kind you never know about until you need it, or until some situation causes it to rise from the depths of your brain. From the moment he'd awakened to find Omi staring down at him, he had known, somehow, that only the kid would walk away from this thing. Well, he figured it was the least he owed the boy. After all, he had dragged Omi into this godforsaken mess, to begin with. He'd screwed up one thing after another on this stupid mission, starting with letting Manx push him into it when he knew they weren't ready, and ending with going to that damn club without any backup. Besides, it didn't take a genius to know he was already done for. Aya was nothing if not a realist, and he knew he was hurt badly. He knew his time and strength were limited. The ringing in his ears, the freight train that had taken the place of his brain, the throbbing ache pounding through every joint and nerve ending in his body, and the fact that the blackness hovering just at the edges of his vision seemed soft and inviting all told him that.

"… broken?"

Aya blinked away from his thoughts. He hadn't realized Omi had been talking to him, he'd been so busy giving the floor in front of him a slightly askew, one-eyed glare as he tried to collect his scattered wits. He tore his gaze away from the dusty concrete to find Omi staring at him with a frightened, earnest, and, yet eagerly hopeful expression that was almost painful to see. Clearly, the boy thought everything would be hunky dory, now that Aya was awake. Clearly, he thought Aya would, somehow, manage to, once again, do the impossible and get them out of here.

'Clearly … he's a fool,' Aya thought.

But, out loud, he asked, "What?"

"I said," Omi repeated, "Is your jaw broken?" He managed to sound peeved at Aya's lack of attention.

'Well, 'scuse the hell outta me,' Aya thought. He gave the kid a half-frown, the best he could do, since only half his mouth seemed to be working properly. He was more than a bit peeved with Omi's pissy tone. 'It's not like I've been hit in the head with a fucking board … brains scrambled all to hell or anything.'

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought he should feel stupidly happy about managing to not only put an entire sentence together without having to pause and grasp for words, but using sarcasm, too. Still, considering the gravity of their current situation, it was ludicrous to think something as mundane as stringing together a few words would cheer him up --- even if his brains had been scrambled all to hell. Regaining clarity only meant he was all the more aware of the mess they were in, not to mention the screaming, throbbing ache that now sat where his head used to be.

Aya dragged his wandering mind back to the here and now, and realized he had yet to answer Omi, who was still staring at him with that odd look, somewhere between pure terror and stupid hope. He reached reflexively for his jaw as he pondered the answer to the kid's question, feeling surprised when he couldn't feel or move his hands. Then, he remembered the cuffs.

"Uh … no," he finally answered, his words still slurred and coming at a snail's pace. "Don't … don't think … so."

Omi frowned, reaching out, almost as a reflex, to pull Aya upright as the redhead began to slide sideways, toward the floor, for the third or fourth time in the past few minutes. It worried him, the way Aya's wits were so scattered, the way he didn't seem able to focus his eye, the way his words were slurred and came so painfully slow. Omi couldn't tell if Aya was struggling to find the strength to talk, of if he was searching for words. Either way, it couldn't be good. The boy didn't know a whole lot about head injuries, but he did know getting smashed in the head with a board was bad for you. And, he knew enough to decide things looked pretty damn awful right now.

"Well," Omi muttered, his voice taking on a vague, absent-minded quality, as if he was unaware he said the words out loud, "That's pretty lucky."

He jumped when Aya managed a strangled, half-choking laugh. "Lucky …," the redhead panted, listing to the side again until Omi's well-placed hand stopped his crazy slide, "Not … a word … I'd use … here."

Omi smiled. For the first time, a small sliver of hope seemed to break through the dark cloud of fear hovering over him. If Aya could manage to be sarcastic at a time like this, if the redhead could mock him, then, maybe, everything would be all right, in the end.

"Well," he said in a light tone, shrugging off Aya's biting comment, "All things considered, I guess we have to take whatever we can get right about now." He held two fingers up, forming a "V" in front of Aya's face, and asked, "How many fingers?"

Aya managed to summon up enough strength from somewhere deep within his being to give Omi a one-eyed death glare that actually made the blood run cold. The kid couldn't help but think things might not be so hopeless, after all, if Aya could still do that.

"Look," the redhead snapped, his voice managing to rise to something approaching a normal level, "Feel … like … shit. Head … hurts. Almost … wish … that … ass … hole … had finished me. No … games. 'M fine … just … leave … me alone."

"How many?" Omi persisted.

Aya sighed. It was obvious he wasn't going to escape Omi's mother hen tendencies. Well, maybe if he died … but, it didn't seem like he was going to be that lucky right now. He leaned his head back, resting it gingerly against the wall behind him. The cold from the metal felt good. It numbed the pain a little.

"Four?" he said, closing his eye.

"No … try again," Omi said.

Aya didn't bother looking at the kid again. "Uh … eight … six? Pick … a number … any number …," he muttered, laughing giddily at the end of his statement, even though the noise devolved into a strangled, choking cough.

"Oh, yeah," Omi muttered, unable to hide the sarcastic note in his voice. "You're fine … just fine. If you're lucky, you'll get off with just a concussion. But, when was the last time any of us was lucky?" he muttered, almost under his breath, as he leaned forward to prod at the injured side of Aya's face.

Aya jumped backward the moment Omi's fingers brushed at the injury. It was as if he'd been scalded, and the boy jumped as Aya inadvertently slammed his head into the wall. He hadn't expected the gentle contact to elicit such a severe response, and he chastised himself for underestimating how painful his ministrations might be.

"Oh!," he exclaimed, darting forward to catch Aya, who had begun to slide down the wall toward the floor. "Careful! I'm … I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Omi stopped Aya's crazy, downward slide, exhibiting a strength that surprised the redhead. Aya rested his head against Omi's forearm and groaned in a weak voice, "Hurt … lot."

He was dimly aware of the worry and fear crowding out the eager hopefulness he'd seen earlier in Omi's eyes, and he tried to grin to dispel some of the boy's terror. All he could manage was a twisted, pained half smile, and he knew he'd failed miserably at allaying Omi's fears. One look at the boy's face told him that much. He thought he should feel bad about that. After all, Omi was his responsibility, and his mistakes had gotten them into this mess. But, Aya found he was just too damn tired to care. All of a sudden, he'd slammed up against the brick wall of his physical limitations, and all he wanted to do was lie down on the cold, dusty, concrete floor and sleep like the dead. If he was lucky, maybe he'd wake up back in his room over the Koneko. If he was really lucky, maybe he wouldn't wake up at all, and this whole nightmarish existence that had become his life would finally be over and done with.

Still, his sense of duty and the fondness he felt toward the boy, although he seldom allowed himself to show it, forced him to make some final effort at making Omi feel better. He might not be able to do anything about the kid being scared, but, at the very least, he could salve Omi's misplaced guilt. He managed another painful, twisted, half smile, and muttered, his words heavily slurred and so quiet they barely traveled the few inches to Omis' ear, "'S'okay, 'mi. Not … your fault. 'm tired … wanna … sleep."

Omi caught him as he began to fall forward. From his first good look at Aya's injuries, he'd been afraid the blow had fractured the redhead's skull, and nothing so far had allayed that fear. In fact, he felt it intensifying by the moment, and he was terrified of being left alone in this dark, dusty, creaky, cavernous place. He was terrified Aya wouldn't wake up again, and he'd truly be alone. He knew it was stupid and selfish. Aya wasn't in any condition to be of any help when their abductor returned, and, if he had had any compassion for his companion, he should have wished for Aya to be unconscious, if only to escape the pain from his injuries. But, he didn't care if he was being selfish or stupid, and he didn't feel compassionate. He only felt afraid, and Aya's presence had been comforting.

He shook his injured partner, and hissed, "No! Aya! Stay awake!"

It was too late. Aya had already fallen asleep, and Omi knew nothing would cause him to stir now. All he could do was wait and hope Aya woke up sometime soon. He refused to let his mind dwell on the all-too-real possibility that Aya might never wake up again. That was too frightening. Omi sighed and settled Aya in his lap, trying to make the redhead as comfortable as possible, and resigned himself to waiting alone, in the cold, dark, creaky, cavern of a room.

*****************************************************************************

Sunlight creeping through his closed eyelids, turning the insides a shade of red, a low, soft groan, and the feeling of shifting weight on his lap brought Omi out of the uneasy sleep into which he had drifted. The boy blinked awake, surprised at finding himself sitting on the cold, dusty concrete floor in the midst of building-like stacks of wooden crates and surrounded by creaking metal walls, instead of in his own warm bed over the Koneko. They had been here for two days already, and, each day, he had awakened with the same shock of surprise at unfamiliar surroundings. He wondered if the startled feeling would ever go away, but, in the back of his mind he rather hoped it didn't. He had a feeling the loss of that initial shock of surprise would signal his resignation to whatever fate their captor had in store for them. That would be a bad thing, indeed --- for himself and for Aya.

Aya. Omi frowned as his mind turned down that particular dark and well-traveled pathway. It had been two days since Aya had passed out on him, and the older man had shown no signs of awakening. Much to Omi's dismay, Aya had barely stirred, seeming to hear and feel nothing. Omi didn't style himself as a medical professional, but he knew enough to know that was a pretty bad sign. He had to keep the despair and feeling of resignation, the feeling of being dragged toward an inevitable, unhappy ending to this little drama, at bay. He didn't care about himself, but he had to be strong, for Aya's sake. Aya was his responsibility now. He had to do whatever it took to get the older man out of here alive.

Another low groan brought his attention away from his thoughts and toward the man whose head rested in his lap. He looked down to find one exhausted, unfocussed blue-violet eye staring up at him.

Omi felt almost stupidly relieved to find Aya, finally, awake. Not that the redhead was going to be fit for anything, not that it made the slightest bit of difference in their current situation, not that it put them even the minutest smidgeon closer to having a chance at getting out of here, but it meant he wasn't alone any more. That had to be an improvement, right? It had to be better than sitting here, hour after hour, dozing fitfully, waking up to wonder if your partner was dying, only to fall back into a fitful sleep and repeat the whole process, endlessly, again and again. Maybe it wasn't an improvement at all, but Omi told himself it was. At the very least, it was different, and that was all he had at the moment, so he figured he'd have to just work with it as best he could. He pasted a resolutely cheerful, encouraging smile on his face --- at least, he hoped it was cheerful and encouraging --- and leaned forward to peer at his injured teammate.

"Man, am I glad to see you awake!" Omi chirped, struggling to maintain his normal, cheerful tone of voice and optimistic approach to things.

He doubted he fooled Aya. Even in his present condition, Omi figured the redhead could easily see through the transparent charade. But, if Aya noticed Omi was faking, he didn't mention it. In fact, Aya didn't say anything. He just stared up at Omi with a confused expression. The younger man felt his stomach clench in fear at the thought that Aya didn't recognize him.

"Shit, you really scared the ever-loving piss outta me," Omi chattered, adopting one of Yohji's favorite expressions. "You've been asleep for two whole days, I think … I thought … Well, I really started to think you, maybe, weren't gonna wake up. So, I guess we're kind of in a predicament here, huh? I wonder what Yohji and Ken are doing right now? You think they had breakfast? Maybe they went to that waffle house for pancakes. That place has the best pancakes, don't you think? I mean, I think they're much better than the ones at the coffee shop across the street from the Koneko … but, it's further away, though. Takes longer to get there. But, Yohji likes this one waitress there --- at the waffle house, I mean --- what's her name? Oh, yeah, Carmen, or Kiki, or Kat, or … well, something like that. She always gives him free food."

The words tumbled out, all running together in a sort of nervous, sing-song chatter. Omi had a tendency to rattle off when he was upset or anxious, and, even though he wanted to stop, he found he just couldn't. It was as if his brain had decided, on its own, to fill up the uncomfortable silence with words … any words … no matter how inane they sounded. Omi broke out of his monologue long enough to realize Aya was staring at him with an expression that indicated the redhead thought he had lost his mind. Well, if one of Aya's eyes hadn't been swollen shut and the right side of his head hadn't been a bloody mess, that's what the expression would have conveyed. As it was, the best the redhead could do was a sort of mild-looking confusion. Still, it was enough to make the boy realize he was nattering on mindlessly, and Omi clapped his hand over his mouth, physically silencing the stream of verbal barf.

"Sorry," Omi muttered, looking a bit sheepish. He smiled, a crooked, little boy grin that was so close to being innocent it almost made Aya's heart ache for what the kid had to be going through, and continued, "I … um … I thought you didn't recognize me. It … well, I guess I kind of ramble when I'm nervous … or upset."

Aya cleared his throat and coughed, wincing at the white-hot pain that lanced through his head, and said, "I … uh, didn't, really … recognize you. Not until you … started … talking. I guess … there's reason … to feel … like that."

His voice was so soft it almost got lost in the big emptiness of the room. Omi had had to lean forward to hear it, and, he frowned at Aya's words and the exhausted, almost resigned tone in the redhead's voice. It sounded like Aya had given up on getting out of here, like he had reconciled himself to the idea his life was going to end here, in this stupid, dirty room full of echoes, creaking metal walls, and wooden shipping crates, and that thought made Omi's blood run cold.

Aya was better than that. He deserved better than to die here like that, to die without anyone knowing or caring, at the hands of some psychopathic madman who took such pleasure in hurting others. He was the hunter, and he deserved better than to be run to ground by Weiss's prey. Omi wanted to tell him all of these things. He wanted to tell Aya how much working with him on this last assignment had meant, how he had come to think of the quiet man as part of his family. He wanted to beg Aya not to give up, plead with him to hang on, not to lose hope. He wanted to make Aya understand how much he had come to care for him over the past week, to make the swordsman realize that, if he gave up, Weiss would never be the same --- none of them would ever be the same. If Aya died here in this godforsaken place, if he just gave up like this, he would be killing all of them, even though Omi was pretty sure the redhead wouldn't see it that way. He wanted to make Aya understand all of these things, but he didn't even know how to begin.

So, instead, he asked, "You wanna sit up?"

Aya stared into nothing for a few long seconds before finally replying with a catchy, all-purpose, "Nnnh."

Omi thought about it for a moment, and then decided that had been an affirmative. Striving to be as gentle as possible, he shifted the redhead off his lap, pushing and tugging until Aya was sitting upright, leaning back against one of the cold, creaky walls.

"You know, you're pretty damn heavy," Omi joked, trying to ease the tension with a little humor. He failed --- miserably.

Aya didn't say anything. He just stared at the dusty floor near his legs, trying to will his uncooperative eye to focus. Finally, after struggling to gain control of his vision for a few minutes, he became aware of the tense, nervous silence looming about their immediate area. He glanced up and gave the boy a half-hearted, rather painfully twisted, half smile.

"Any … sign of … host?" the redhead finally managed to ask.

Omi shook his head in response. "No. I mean, I haven't seen him, at least." He gestured toward a medium-sized cardboard box, which rested a few feet away from them, about halfway between the two assassins and the first line of wooden crates. "I saw that … last time I woke up. So, I guess he's been here … with souvenirs."

He grunted as he rose to his feet, brushing concrete dust off his dark clothing and, then, reaching his arms toward the ceiling and rocking his head back and forth, stretched the kinks out of muscles forced to remain in one position for too long. After allowing himself the luxury of a leisurely stretch, Omi made his way over to the box. It was sealed with packing tape, and he prodded it with the toe of his sneaker.

"Be careful," Aya called out, his voice barely managing to carry across the small distance between them.

Omi turned back to see Aya giving the box a suspicious, unfocussed, one-eyed glare, as if he thought it would blow up at any second. The boy rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and shook his head in response, indicating, in no uncertain terms, how ridiculous he thought Aya was being. After all, considering the condition the redhead was in, and the fact that their captor had come and gone without either of them realizing it, the guy could, pretty much, do them in whenever he wanted. He didn't have to resort to anything as loud or messy as a bomb in a box.

Aya shrugged, immediately regretting the gesture, as he felt an avalanche of pain start at his head and race through every nerve ending in his body, finally stopping at his feet. He managed to choke back a groan; he figured Omi had already done a fair amount of worrying, and he didn't want to make things worse for the boy.

Omi turned his attention back toward the box. A more forceful prod with his foot caused the tape to pop open, revealing several kinds of pre-packaged food and bottled water. He walked to the other side of the package and gave it a kick, sending it sliding crazily across the dusty floor, where it came to rest near Aya with a thudding-skidding sound, like a stone skipping over choppy water. The boy followed and knelt next to it.

"Food," he said, shuffling through the contents and removing a couple of packets. He held them up for Aya's inspection. "And water," he continued, doing likewise with two of the plastic bottles. "Kinda weird, huh?" he asked, dropping the items back into the box and looking up at Aya, as if he expected some kind of confirmation.

He didn't get any. Aya just stared at the box as if it had grown legs and would walk away at any moment. Omi figured that was as close as the redhead would come to agreeing with him.

"Very … weird," Aya agreed.

The sound of his voice made Omi jump, because a response had been so unexpected. He looked over and gave Aya a sheepish grin, to hide his embarrassment at being taken by surprise. But, if Aya had noticed the involuntary startle, he didn't let on. He continued to stare at the box.

"Drugged?" the redhead asked.

Omi shook his head. "Nah, I doubt it," he replied. "If he wants to kill us, it'd be easy enough. He already has us where he wants us … no need for drugs. Besides, everything's prepackaged and still sealed up --- food and water."

"Hnh," Aya grunted in agreement. After a few moments, he added, in a quiet, confused, almost lost-sounding voice, "Guess … he … wants … play." He blinked up at Omi, wincing at the pain of moving his head the fraction of an inch that allowed him to look at the boy, and said, his voice still almost inaudibly soft in the big room, "Thought … I killed … target."

Omi frowned. He had been relieved at seeing Aya awake, a small flicker of hope that the swordsman might be all right, after all, springing to life as soon as he had seen that familiar blue-violet eye staring up at him. But now, Omi felt relief fleeing in favor of the more familiar emotions of anxiety and fear, which surged up within him to squash that tiny spark of hope. Aya was not all right. He stared at the older man for a moment, silently taking stock of the symptoms he could see: noticeably slurred speech; short, halting sentences, as if Aya couldn't quite remember which words he wanted to use; the unnerving, vacant, lost-looking stare; the perpetual state of slight confusion, something Omi knew wasn't typical for the quiet swordsman; the way he trembled almost uncontrollably --- one shudder and muscle spasm chasing another through his body, although he didn't seem to take any notice of it; the unhealthy, ashy-gray, almost waxy, pallor to Aya's skin; not to mention the actual wound itself.

Omi let his eyes linger on the physical manifestation of Aya's injury for several long seconds. It had finally stopped bleeding, although it still oozed a bit. Now, the boy could see a fairly deep gash along the right side of Aya's head, running from his temple, almost all the way to his jaw. The skin was laid open enough so that he could see small glimpses of white bone in some spots, and the facial tissue around the injury was badly bruised and swollen. The whole right half of the older man's face was deformed from the swelling, and discolored a deep, dark, almost-black purplish hue. His nose seemed slightly off-center, and his right eye was swollen shut. Omi had already decided he didn't know enough about head injuries to tell how severe Aya's was, but his mind kept coming back to the inescapable reality that getting hit in the head with a big damn board had to be bad for a person.

He had a sinking feeling Aya was hurt very badly, indeed. He knew enough to know that he had to find a way to get the redhead out of here and to medical attention as soon as possible. But how? That was the question to which he couldn't seem to find any answer, and it was beginning to frustrate the hell out of him. He was an assassin, for crying out loud! He ought to be able to figure some way out of here. He reminded himself that Aya was here, too, and had yet to come up with any plausible means of escape. As if that was going to help salve his guilty conscience. After all, Aya had been smacked in the head with a board, so he figured that probably entitled the swordsman to a bit of leniency.

A small cough jolted Omi from his silent, depressing reverie, and he looked up to find Aya staring at him with a rather expectant expression in his good eye. He realized the redhead was waiting for an answer of some kind to the question he'd sort of asked several minutes ago.

Omi smiled, and shook his head as he replied, "Um … no. I'm pretty sure you got the target. I mean … that weird guy, the one dressed all in black. He put something in my drink when I wasn't looking, dragged me out to the parking lot. Almost had me in the car when you showed up. You killed him. I saw it, just before …"

His voice trailed off at the unpleasant memory that flashed before his eyes: the hollow sound of wood smacking against Aya's skull, like a melon smashing on concrete, the swordsman's head whipping around, the surprised look in Aya's eyes just before they went dead and slid closed, Aya collapsing in that pool of blood. Omi shuddered, trying to rid himself of those visions. He knew it wouldn't do any good. Those sights would haunt him, probably for months to come, just so many new nightmares to rotate in with the old ones.

"You … think … wrong? Um … wrong guy?" Aya asked, the sound of his voice jolting Omi away from the haunting images.

The boy shook his head slowly, mulling over Aya's question, even as he answered, "No … No, I really don't think so. I … I don't know. I mean, I don't really remember who grabbed us. All I can remember is seeing him hit you, and watching you fall over. I thought …" His voice hitched a bit, but Omi managed to choke his emotions back enough to continue. When he resumed speaking, his voice was steady, "I thought you were dead … I was so fucking scared. I can't remember ever being that scared … but I just can't remember what he looked like, that guy who grabbed us." He looked sideways at Aya, who had resumed staring at the box of food, and asked, "You think … well, you think the target had a partner of some kind?"

It seemed like Aya tried to shrug in response, but he couldn't quite get his body to cooperate. The gesture turned out to be nothing more than a more pronounced tremor that seemed to run over his torso, and the redhead winced in pain at the effort, leaning back against the wall and closing his eye. Omi took that as a sign their conversation was over. He could tell just the little bit of talking they had done had, pretty much, worn Aya out, and he figured the swordsman didn't have the strength to continue.

He was surprised when he heard Aya whisper, almost under his breath, "Partner … prob'bly. Shoulda … never taken … mission. Not enough … information. Never thought … partner …"

"It's not your fault, Aya," Omi said. Aya didn't give any indication he had heard, and Omi placed his hand on the redhead's leg and gently shook at him until Aya finally looked at him. "It's not your fault," the boy repeated, giving Aya's leg a little squeeze for emphasis. "If not for you … I would've been taken, for sure. I would've been in that next set of mission photos, Aya. And, now … you're so hurt … because of me."

Omi sighed and looked away, to hide the tears he could feel gathering in his eyes. Guilt was a cruel emotion, and the boy was quickly coming to be on a first-name basis with it. Still, despite his injuries, Aya was remaining strong and resolute. At least, he seemed to be, and Omi didn't want the redhead to see him cry. After a few moments, he managed to get his emotions under control, and he turned back toward his partner, surprised to find Aya still watching him with the most intent look he'd seen cross the redhead's face in the past two days.

Omi shrugged and said, "Well, guess we'll just have to wait for him to show up again, then."

When Aya leaned his head back against the wall once more and closed his eye, Omi turned his attention toward the box, shuffling noisily through its contents. He removed several of the sealed packets and a few bottles of water. "You want anything?" he asked, unable to keep the hopeful tone out of his voice.

Aya didn't even bother opening his eye. He managed a painful-looking, twisted half-frown. He felt queasy and just the thought of food was enough to make his stomach flip flop like a dying fish.

"N … no," he replied.

He could feel the disappointment radiating off the kid, which made him selfishly glad he had opted for keeping his eye closed. He didn't think he could face the sad, crushed look that was probably on Omi's face right now.

Aya jumped, startled, when he felt something cool and wet against his lips. He opened his eye to see Omi's face inches away from his own. The boy's wide, almost-innocent blue eyes were filled with an expression of sincere worry that was almost enough to tear at Aya's heart, and he was holding one of the water bottles up to the redhead's mouth.

"Please, Aya," Omi begged, unable to calm the slight tremor in his voice, "Please, at least drink some water. You … you don't look so good."

Aya blinked at the kid for a second or two as he wondered how good Omi would look if he'd been smacked in the head with a fucking board. But, he knew the kid was only trying to help, and, instead of saying something he might regret later, he opened his mouth and let Omi pour some of the cool liquid into it. Maybe he couldn't stomach food, but he was really thirsty. Besides, arguing with Omi would take way too much effort and energy. It was easier to give in.

The cool liquid felt good as it slid down his dry, parched throat. Omi held the bottle for him until he had managed to drink it all. Once he was done, he tried to give the boy a reassuring smile, but, as all he could manage was that stupid, pained-looking, half-grin, he figured he had probably failed to hit reassuring and skipped right on over to damn creepy. Aya sighed and leaned his head back against the wall, relishing the feel of cool metal against his too-warm skin. Within minutes, he was asleep.

Omi got comfortable, leaning back against the wall and sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Aya. It was foolish, he knew, but the sound of the swordsman's even, quiet breathing was comforting --- a small, but tangible, reminder he wasn't in this thing alone. He sat quietly for several long minutes, listening to the squeaky creak of the walls around him, the way the huge building sighed and groaned with even the smallest gust of wind, the sound of a rat, rooting around in one of the dark corners. Finally, he scooted forward enough so that he could just touch one corner of the box with the toe of his sneaker. He gave the container a quick shove, scooting it toward him with the loud, crackly scraping sound that cardboard makes when it slides over dusty, dirty concrete. The noise seemed almost deafening as it broke the silence. Omi spared a guilty glance over at Aya, afraid he had awakened the injured man, but, seeing the redhead was still sound asleep, he shrugged and grabbed one flap of the box, dragging it along with him as he returned to his previous seat, leaning against the wall. He shuffled through the contents once more. The crackling of brittle plastic wrapping ratcheted out into the cavernous space, seeming to boom back to him on echo after echo, until, finally, he found something that seemed to his liking. Omi grabbed one of the water bottles and uncapped it as he settled more comfortably on the cold, hard floor, leaning against the wall, water in one hand, pre-packaged, barely edible foodstuff in the other.

He chewed the food slowly --- not because it was tasty enough to deserve savoring, but more to have something to do, something to try and occupy his mind for a time. Maybe, if he concentrated on the food hard enough, he could stop worrying about what might happen to them, how they were going to get out of here, and whether Aya was going to survive. It was a good plan, but it didn't work. The slower he chewed … the more he tried to concentrate only on his food … the more the thoughts and fears crowded into his mind.

There were too many questions. That was what was really starting to piss him off --- too many damn questions with no answers. Did the killer have a partner? The guy who had tried to grab him at the club had been the one who had taken those other boys … Omi was certain of that. But, was he the killer? Or, did he just pick up the boys, and, then, someone else killed them later? Who had grabbed them? What was he planning on doing with them? Omi knew for certain he had been the target at the club. That was obvious. But, now? Now, it seemed as if the killer, if their captor was the killer, had turned his attention toward Aya, judging from the way the injured man was handcuffed. That didn't make sense. Had the killer set his sights on Aya? And, if so, why? Was it possible he had seen Aya kill the target at the club? So … revenge? Was the person who had grabbed them actually the killer they had been hunting? If that was so, it meant Aya had killed the wrong man in that parking lot. Omi knew the man Aya had killed had been involved somehow … but how?

The young assassin sighed, frustrated at the endless rabbit trails and questions his mind seemed content to throw at him. He'd probably never know the answer to most of them. And, it didn't matter, now. Nothing mattered but the fact that Aya was hurt … probably dying … and they were stuck in this fucking place with no way out. He had to figure a way out; he had to get Aya out of here. Nothing else mattered now. And, that led to the ultimate question, and the ultimate frustration, because he had yet to come up with a plausible answer: How? The short, one-word question seemed to echo through his mind, mocking him with its deceptive simplicity, its very existence reminding him of his weakness and failure.

Omi wrestled with his questions and his demons for several long minutes before deciding to explore the warehouse. He hated to leave Aya, even for a few minutes, even if he was still in the same room. He knew he was being irrational in that regard, but the feeling was there. Still, maybe he could find a way out of here. He couldn't just sit here and wait for the crazy bastard who had grabbed them to come back. He couldn't just resign himself --- and Aya --- to whatever that asshole had in mind for them --- not without at least trying to find an escape.

*************************************************************************

The young blonde wandered through the labyrinthine forest of wooden crates for about ten minutes before deciding their captor had chosen a very effective prison. The room was huge, with a series of echoes that reverberated off of every surface, giving your mind a sense of vast space and completing the illusion of freedom. But, for all the space around and above them, there was only one viable entrance/exit point --- the door he had seen upon first awakening. He leaned against it and pushed, rattling the handle in the vain hope that, perhaps, it wasn't locked. Unfortunately, it was … and from the outside, too, from the looks of it.

'Yeah, right,' Omi thought, feeling embarrassed and more than a little stupid for having had that small spark of hope, 'Like that was gonna happen. Like some crazy asshole would go to all this trouble --- brain Aya with a fucking board, drag us back here, and all that --- just to go off and forget to lock the damn door.'

Still, he told himself, it had been worth the effort, worth feeling foolish at failing. If he hadn't checked the door, hadn't tried the obvious … well, that would have been true and unforgivable folly. Small as it was, there had been an off chance of the door being unlocked. How stupid would he have felt if he hadn't ever tried it, if he had just stayed here, held prisoner by his belief of a locked door, instead of walking himself and Aya right out the exit?

Omi shook his head, irritated with himself, with the whacked-out bastard who was holding them here, and with the damn door for being locked. He leaned forward to give it a closer inspection. This side of the warehouse didn't have any windows, and he had to run his hands over the door to get any idea at all of its solidity and construction. What he found was disappointing. Not only was it locked from the outside, it was made from heavy, solid metal. Omi guessed, judging from the extra-heavy, reinforced riveting, someone had replaced the original door with this one. There wasn't any window or other opening in the door, and even its hinges were on the outside, which would make prying it off the wall impossible.

Omi sighed irritably, the short huff of breath exploding out unnaturally loud in the oppressive silence of the room. It echoed back to him, sounding like a small, distant gunshot, and he slammed his fist into the door before he turned his back on it and slid down to a sitting position. He drew his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them as he listened to the sharp, metallic thudding sound of his fist striking the door echo back to him from every part of the cave-like room. He sat like that for several long minutes, listening to the echoes reverberating and fading away, staring at the scuffed toe of one sneaker and the dusty concrete floor just beyond it, and trying, really hard, not to think about what might happen next. Still, the more he willed his mind away from that topic, the more he struggled to push the fear and uncertainty from his thoughts, the more his rebellious brain insisted on traveling down the various rabbit trails and ghost paths of "what if", and the more fear clawed its way into his subconscious, until it was all he could do to keep from screaming out loud. The only thing that kept him from it was the thought of having to listen to the tangible evidence of his weakness echo back at him for what would seem like two lifetimes.

For, maybe, the first time in his life, Omi felt small and helpless, sitting there on that cold, dusty floor, dwarfed into near nothingness by the hulking crate carcasses that loomed over him, like some sort of forbidden, evil city. He was certain there had been other times when he had felt this way. After all, he didn't have the best history in the world, hadn't had what you'd exactly call a "happy" childhood. So, there had been more than ample opportunity for him to feel small, insignificant, weak, helpless, and afraid. But, try as he might, he couldn't remember actually feeling like that --- until now.

Omi shook his head in disgust, irritated and angry at himself for the way he felt, for allowing himself to feel so weak and helpless. It was stupid. He was an assassin, for crying out loud! He was Weiss! He was Bombay! But, even as his mind whispered these truths to him, even as it told him he had no reason to be afraid, the traitorous doubts crept in.

Yes, he was an assassin; yes, he was Weiss; yes, he was Bombay. All of these things were true … but, equally true, at least in his mind, was the fact that he never faced his enemies head-on. He never charged into the fray like Aya, Yohji, or Ken. He lurked in high, tight, dark places, throwing poison darts and shooting crossbow bolts into his targets from a nice, safe distance. He prowled the Internet for information on their beasts … a virtual White Hunter only … while Aya, Yohji, or Ken did the actual dirty work of in-person or undercover reconnaissance. Once those ideas took root in his mind, he felt the hopelessness, despair, and fear begin to overcome him once again.

He hated himself for feeling this way. He hated himself for not being able to be strong, the way Aya was. He was sure the redhead had to be afraid, injured and hurting as he was, but he didn't show it. Aya was dying. He'd seen enough death in his life to know his partner's remaining time was short and running out, and he hated that. Aya deserved better than that, deserved better than to die, unnoticed and alone, in a place like this, victim to a madman. He couldn't think of any way out of this mess, though, and he hated that. They weren't getting out of here --- he could feel it in his bones, in the back of his mind, like some kind of inevitable truth, the kind of thing you're born knowing, but you don't realize is there until it just springs up one day … and, then, it's like it was just there, all along. It meant he had already given up; he had already allowed their captor to win. And, he figured he hated that, most of all.

"Well, shit," Omi muttered, shaking his head to rid it of these depressing thoughts. He spoke the words out loud, more for the comfort of hearing another human voice than anything else, even if it was just his own voice, echoing back to him from another part of the room.

He stood up, dusted off his shorts, and straightened his jacket. "No time to sit around here feeling sorry for myself. Aya'd never do that … no way. He'd keep right on fighting, right up till the very end."

Omi never doubted that about the redhead. As full of doubts as he was about himself, he believed Aya was that strong, that stubborn, and that powerful. Maybe, it was the only thing he did believe at this point. Still, it was enough. He figured he owed Aya at least that much; trying to stay strong, trying to fight their way out of here … it was the least he could do for his partner.

"If the fucking door's a bust … that only leaves the windows," he muttered, as he began to retrace his winding path through the forest of crates that closed in on him from every side.

It only took him a few minutes to retrace his steps back to where he had left Aya sleeping, just under the row of windows lining that side of the warehouse. His first look at them told him they weren't a viable escape route, either. Much as he wanted, in his heart, to believe there was a way out of here, he had to face the reality that he and Aya were well and truly stuck. The windows had been his last chance at freedom, short of jumping and overpowering their captor --- something he knew he couldn't do, unarmed and on his own, considering the man's size, from what he remembered of him. Now that he stood here, squinting up into the rays of pinkish-hued, dying sunlight that slanted into the building, teasing him with their freedom and the ease with which they passed into and out of this metal prison, Omi had to admit it was pointless.

The windows were small --- too small, probably, for Aya to fit through, even if he had been in any condition to climb up to them, which he wasn't. The young blonde figured he could probably get through them, if he could reach them, but reaching them seemed like an insurmountable challenge. They had to be a good ten, maybe twenty, feet off the ground. He glanced over at the huge packing crates just a few feet to his side. They seemed to offer the only means of reaching the windows, but he couldn't stack them --- they were too big and heavy. Just one of them would never be tall enough. Besides, even if he could get up there, Aya wasn't in any condition to climb, and he refused to abandon the redhead. Nope. The windows were out, for now. That meant he was just going to have to try his damndest to be strong, for Aya's sake, and bide his time until a viable escape opportunity presented itself.

"I just hope it's not too little, too late," he thought, casting an uneasy glance toward his partner.

At least it didn't seem as if the redhead's condition was any worse, but the swordsman had begun to shiver violently. He still rested against the wall, and the temperature in the room had begun to drop as night fell. Omi sighed and pulled Aya's heavy trench, which had been crumpled nearby, over the sleeping man, wrinkling his nose and frowning in distaste as he caught a whiff of drying blood, like old copper, and noticed, for the first time, how soaked the garment was.

"Sorry, Aya," he muttered as he settled the heavy material around the injured man, "This damn thing's filthy … but, at least it's warm."

Omi sat down next to Aya, placing his side against the redhead until they were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. He moved slowly and gently, avoiding jarring the injured man with any unnecessary or quick movement. He waited for a few minutes, until the combination of the leather coat and his body heat warmed Aya enough so that he stopped shivering. Satisfied he could, at least, do that much for his partner, Omi settled into a fitful, restless sleep.