Fanfic Archive: Sacrifice, 6
May. 28th, 2009 05:35 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 6
Aya's scream reached in with icy, black talons and yanked Omi out of a restless, fitful sleep haunted by images of the swordsman collapsing, again and again, in a pool of blood. The boy jolted upright, confused, disoriented, and struck through, to his very core, with terror. He sat there for several minutes, panting, feeling his heart thump against his ribs, hand clenched in the fabric at the front of his shirt, cold sweat trickling down his back, and listened to the wail resound and echo off the building. He almost believed he had heard it in his dream, but, after a few moments, he realized it was too big, too real, to have been part of that nightmare world. The sound seemed to expand, filling the cavernous space until Omi thought the warehouse would explode, or, maybe, he'd go mad before it was finally done. It seemed to go on forever, a mournful, pain-filled noise that made his stomach clench in fear and brought tears to his eyes. But, suddenly, almost as quickly as it had started, it stopped, leaving in its wake a soundless void. Nothing moved, nothing breathed … even the building seemed to stop creaking.
Omi realized he was holding his breath, and let it out in a long, huffing sigh, which exploded out, unnaturally loud, in the silent room. He glanced over, to where Aya had last been, hesitant to look in that direction, as if he was afraid of what he would find. It was silly, really. He already knew Aya wouldn't be there. It hadn't registered in his mind yet, but, deep down inside, he knew Aya's scream had awakened him. He knew it in the same way he knew the sun would come up tomorrow; his mind hadn't acknowledged it, but the knowledge was there.
The sight of the blood-soaked leather trench crumpled in an untidy pile a few inches away, almost close enough to touch without even stretching out his arm, caused the true meaning behind that nightmarish scream to slam home, leaving his brain no choice but to admit its truth.
And, then, Omi was on his feet, running faster than his legs could carry him, stumbling as he tried to keep his balance, toward the little opening in that wall of crates. He bolted through the maze of dark, looming objects, twisting this way, turning that way, his sneakers making flat, slapping sounds on the concrete as he pounded through the labyrinth of boxes, his breath exploding from his body in short, strangled huffs that seared his chest and made his ribs ache, tears streaming down his face, the sound of blind panic roaring in his ears like an ocean, his heart slamming back and forth against his chest. He was a crazed, terrified creature seeking nothing more than escape. Omi cursed as he rounded corner after corner, only to slam, literally, into one dead end after another. By the time he figured out the correct direction, he was black and blue from bumping against the crates in his haste, his hands and knees were scraped, bleeding, and full of splinters, and he was almost pissed off enough to overcome his initial panic.
He knew he was nearing the end of his destination. He guessed he was somewhere in the center of the huge warehouse, although he couldn't be certain, as nothing but the iron girders criss-crossing the ceiling were visible to him, and even those were engulfed in murky darkness. He could see light glowing from the shroud-like shadows ahead, and, through the roaring in his ears, he could, just barely, make out the sound of laughter --- soft, jeering, satisfied laughter. It was that sound and knowing what it meant that finally broke through and solidified Omi's blind panic into something closer to rage. He was drawn to the light and sound, just as a moth must come to the flame that spells its doom. He didn't want to go there. He knew what he would find, and he didn't want to face it, wasn't sure he had the strength to face it. But, still, he was drawn, unwilling and, yet, unable to resist, ever forward.
The young blonde turned a final corner, willing his jellied legs to speed up, to carry him ever faster toward the evil he'd find at the end of his path. In his haste, he stumbled over his own feet as he reached the opening from where the light glowed, and tumbled forward, landing on his hands and knees in a make-shift clearing amid the black forest of crates. He looked up and felt his stomach clench in fear for a moment, before attempting to exit his body by crawling up his throat and out his mouth. He had known what he would find … had known, and, yet, still hadn't been prepared for this.
A single bulb, hanging from a long cord attached somewhere in the shadowy recesses of the ceiling, illuminated the small, open space with a white-hot glare that threw everything into harsh, garish relief. It slammed into Omi's eyes with enough force to make the boy wish for momentary blindness, just to escape the light's ferocity. Their captor stood with his back toward the young blonde, and Omi came face-to-face with a heavily-muscled pair of legs clad in old, faded denim and a pair of black, leather biker boots. He looked up … and up, feeling smaller and smaller by the moment, dwarfed as he was by the huge, hulking crates, and, now, this person who, from the boy's point of view, seemed more like a giant than a man, and saw a broad, muscular back covered in soft, blue linen stretched just tightly enough to show every curve and sinew, and, eventually, shoulder-length, thick, jet-black hair. Although he couldn't see the man's face, Omi recognized him as Roland Harrister, the man who had approached Aya that last night at the club.
Omi couldn't spare much time or attention for their captor. The boy's vision tunneled down until all he could see was his partner. Aya hung from a hook attached to the ceiling, suspended a foot or two off the floor and supported only by the chain between his cuffed hands. His bare torso was bloody, and red streams trickled down his arms. The swordsman's chest was a mass of cuts --- some small and shallow, others deep and long. A few, along Aya's ribs and near his collarbone, were deep enough to allow for a glimpse of white bone. His head was slumped against his chest, but, as the young blonde fell into the clearing with the small, splatting sound of flesh hitting concrete, Aya looked up. His good eye focused on Omi, and he mouthed the boy's name.
It wasn't hard to tell this "play session" had been going on for some time. Many of the cuts had stopped bleeding. There was a small puddle of blood underneath Aya, and the sound of his blood dripping onto the floor seemed to echo out loudly in the cavernous space. Omi wondered how long the older man had endured the torture before, finally, voicing the inhuman wail that had awakened him. Aya had struggled to suffer silently on his account, and the young blonde felt a lump rise in his throat at that realization. Aya had fought so hard to protect him, but Omi wished, with all his heart and soul, the swordsman hadn't taken so much of this burden on himself. He wasn't afraid of their captor --- not for himself, anyhow. His only fear was for his partner, for the injuries Aya had already suffered, and for the torture that still lay ahead. Aya had had more than enough trouble with the head wound, and Omi was certain the redhead couldn't take much more. The older man's scream, which still echoed through the young blonde's memory, confirmed Omi's worst fears.
As he watched, Aya's tormentor sidled up to the injured assassin and ran a gentle, loving caress over Aya's bleeding chest and side. Omi could see enough of the man's profile to witness the smile that crossed his face when Aya hissed in pain. The young blonde wanted to do something --- yell, scream, throw himself at the man in blind rage … something, anything, but he was too horrified even to scramble to his feet. Instead, he remained as he had fallen, kneeling on all fours, and watched the drama before him with a sinking sense of dread.
"The others," the man whispered, his voice pitching to a secretive, conspiratorial tone that barely carried the short distance to where Omi remained crouched, frozen in place, "They were for him. To protect him … to save him. But you … my beautiful prize … you're all for me. Just for fun. I'm going to savor every scream that comes out of your mouth, you filthy murderer. For what you took from me … I'm going to make you pay … until you pray for death … until you're broken at my feet, begging me to let you die. And, I'm going to enjoy every second of it."
The low, almost seductive tone of the man's voice had an edge of venomous hatred to it, and the cruel words were at odds with the gentle way he stroked Aya's bleeding chest. With a flick of his wrist, so fast that Omi barely saw it, he raised his hand to the uninjured side of Aya's face and drew the knife down it, opening a gash from the redhead's temple to his chin. Aya didn't seem to notice. After first seeing Omi, his head had slumped back down onto his chest, and it remained there, even as his tormentor unleashed this newest river of red onto his marred skin. Omi figured Aya was too exhausted to react, but the dark-haired man grew angry. His eyes narrowed in rage, and he backhanded Aya across the injured side of his head.
Aya's head snapped back and to the side, blood flying from old and new injuries alike, to splatter across the wooden crates surrounding him, and his vision exploded into brilliant, multi-colored lights at the impact. The darkness crowding the edges of his vision surged forward, like a pack of hungry wolves intent on a kill, and Aya found himself wishing it would engulf him. He was tired. He had passed his limits hours ago, and, even at that, he hadn't been strong enough to protect Omi. He had seen the boy stumble and fall into the area behind Harrister, no doubt, summoned by his scream. He knew it was only a matter of time before the English asshole noticed Omi's presence, and, from there, it was inevitable that the man would see the logic of a connection between them. He had failed. All he had needed to do was protect Omi, even if at the cost of his life, and he hadn't been able to do that. He had failed --- miserably --- and he could feel despair overtaking him. It was Aya all over again, as if he was watching, helpless, as her body arced through the air and bounced off the trunk of Takatori's shiny, black car.
Even though Harrister's body was between Omi and Aya, some of the blood splatter reached the young blonde. It sprayed across the boy's arms and onto his face, leaving a coppery-metallic taste in his mouth. That was what, finally, managed to break through the horror-induced stupor. The taste of Aya's blood slammed into Omi's brain like a freight train and filled the boy with a rage strong enough to overcome any horror or fear he might have felt, a burning anger that smoldered brightly enough to make him foolhardy.
Omi surged to his feet and threw himself at Harrister's considerable bulk, screaming, "LEAVE HIM ALONE, YOU BASTARD!"
The words echoed and reverberated around the cavernous room, until it sounded like a hundred throaty screams of pure, hate-driven rage. The young blonde slammed into Harrister at full speed and with all the force he could manage. He had hoped his head-on charge, coupled with taking the Englishman by surprise, would knock Aya's tormentor off-balance and bring him to the floor. If he could manage to get him down … if he could, somehow, get the upper hand by getting on top of the man, Omi was sure he could defeat him. Harrister was bigger and stronger, but Omi had training and experience that, under the right circumstances, could more than make up for the difference in their sizes.
Aya had seen Omi take on opponents much bigger than him on many occasions. Some of them had even been as big as Harrister, and the young blonde had always come out on top. Omi might be young, and he might be small, but he could more than take care of himself, and he was a strong ally in any normal fight. Unfortunately, this wasn't a normal fight, and the Englishman wasn't a typical opponent. Whether he had had some kind of military training, which enabled him to react quickly, or whether his senses were honed by the rage that drove him to the edge of insanity, Harrister managed to turn in time to meet Omi's attack. Without the advantage of surprise, and against a rage-maddened opponent, the Englishman's bigger size carried the day.
Harrister met Omi's charge with a vicious backhand that caught the young blonde a glancing blow along the side of his head and sent him careening into the nearest shipping crate. Omi bounced off the wooden hulk and slid, stunned, to the floor. Cat-quick, Harrister was on him, striking out to grab a handful of Omi's t-shirt and using it to lift the boy off the floor. He held Omi at eye-level, and regarded him with a cold, remorseless expression --- a snake staring at its next meal. Despite the bells going off in his head, Omi had enough sense to feel his blood freeze at the look in the Englishman's eyes. They were cold, filled with a rage that was like ice --- a rage that, instead of making him irrational and careless, had made him calculating and fixated on nothing more than accomplishing his goal of breaking and destroying Aya. There was no guilt, no remorse, no human emotion … other than that unblinking, blinding, freezing hatred.
The Englishman seemed to think for a moment, shuffling through all the pieces to this particular puzzle until he found the little bit of sky that, finally, brought the picture into sharp focus. When he realized what had happened, he smiled --- a predatory, satisfied grin that curled from the middle of his mouth outward but never laid a finger on his eyes.
"So," Harrister said, his tone so smug it made Omi want to spit in the man's face, "This is why. I thought you were just stubborn, but you didn't cry out because of him. You were protecting him, weren't you?"
His ice-cold snake eyes shifted from Omi to Aya. He glared at the injured man for several long moments --- several separate, little eternities --- trying to gauge Aya's reaction or read some emotion or some answer in the redhead's face. He failed. Aya revealed nothing, his violet stare matching Harrister's blue one icicle for icicle.
"What is he to you?" the Englishman asked, his voice soft, but his tone menacing.
Aya said nothing.
Harrister hissed in anger, and, still maintaining a firm grip on Omi's shirt, he freed his other hand by placing his knife between his teeth before reaching out, lightening-quick, to grip Aya's face. He squeezed until Aya gasped out in pain and Omi could see tears well up in the swordsman's uninjured eye.
The Englishman released the redhead and stepped back a bit before repeating, his words muffled by the knife still clenched between his teeth, "Who is he to you?"
Aya's head slumped back toward his chest, too exhausted to hold it up any longer, too tired to even glare at his tormentor. "No one," he mumbled, his voice weak and his words barely audible. "Don't … know."
Harrister smiled. Omi was certain it was the same kind of smile a gazelle sees as the lion descends upon it, and he swallowed, hard. He had recovered a bit from Harrister's stunning blow, but not enough to loosen the man's grip on his shirt. He struggled weakly, but he gave up, quickly deciding it was no use. It was a wiser move to wait for another opening. No one was that perfect. Harrister would make another mistake, and Omi needed to be able to take advantage of it. To that end, he decided it was wiser to conserve his energy instead of fighting to free himself from the death grip that held him dangling off the floor like a rag doll.
"In that case," Harrister purred, his eyes never leaving Aya's. He took the knife from his mouth and continued, "You won't care what happens to him. He must be expendable … just a weed that wandered into my garden." As he spoke, he brought the knife to Omi's throat and began to draw it across, opening a shallow, harmless cut.
Aya had thought he was beyond fear, beyond caring, but his stomach clenched and his blood ran cold as he watched the light glint dully off the blood --- his blood --- covering that blade, as he saw the tiny trickle of red against the white of Omi's throat. Aya's mind raced. He had to get Harrister's attention off Omi. He had to protect the boy. Suddenly, almost without consciously realizing it, his mind seized upon what seemed like the Englishman's only weak spot.
"What … was … he?" Aya asked, struggling to find the words he needed to put a coherent sentence together. His voice was hoarse and weak. The huge space surrounding them almost swallowed it up, but it was enough to carry across the few inches separating him from Harrister and Omi.
Omi's eyes grew round and frightened when he realized what Aya was doing. He shook his head frantically, slightly deepening the cut, as Harrister still held the knife against his throat, and started to protest, but Aya's next words cut him off.
"That … boy," Aya gasped out in a strained, hoarse whisper, which held Harrister mesmerized.
He was satisfied to see he had, once again, managed to direct the Englishman's attention onto himself, and he was even more satisfied to see Harrister's hand, the one holding the knife, begin to shake. He had guessed correctly. His words were having the desired impact.
"He … died … squealing … weak … like a pig … on my … s … sword. Almost too … e … easy … not … worth … effort," Aya continued, his speech strained and halting as he struggled for coherence. "Who … was he?"
Aya's words had their desired effect. Omi watched, mesmerized, as the emotions shifted and changed, chasing each other through the dark-haired man's eyes like a thunderstorm sweeping over the city. Ice-cold determination and hatred melted and gave way to the briefest glimmer of soul-rending grief, which was replaced, lightening fast, by white hot, blinding rage, so strong it seemed, for a moment, that Harrister had gone truly mad. The Englishman seemed to forget where he was, his eyes taking on an unfocused and far-away look as he released his hold on Omi's shirt. The young blonde fell to the floor, where he landed in an unceremonious heap with a puff of dust and a muffled grunt. Almost as quickly as it had happened, the fuzzy, unfocused, confused look slid away, fleeing before the white-hot flames of rage and hatred that swept Harrister's eyes and face, burning away all other emotions as they came.
"You … stupid … arrogant … fucker," Harrister muttered.
He stood, turned slightly sideways to Aya, with his head bowed, which caused his voice to sound muffled and strange. But, Omi, who had landed only a few inches away from the man, looked up and had a clear view of Harrister's rage-filled eyes. The young blonde was close enough that he could see the way the Englishman's fist clenched so tightly the knuckles turned white and his whole arm trembled from the force. He could hear the emotional tremor in the dark-haired man's words.
Omi felt his heart thud against his ribcage, an involuntary response to what he saw written so plainly on Harrister's face and in his eyes. He had been an assassin for nearly his entire young life, had faced maniac after maniac, had seen and experienced, first-hand, the inhuman things people can do to one another. But, in all those years, in all that life experience, he had never seen anyone look quite the way this man did right now. It scared the piss out of him, the way any semblance of reason had left the Englishman's countenance, replaced, not by madness or grief, both of which would have been understandable and human, considering the situation. No, the only emotion there, the only thing written on Harrister's face and in his eyes was spitting, venomous, white-hot, blinding rage --- the cold, calculating rage of a man who has already decided he has nothing left to lose. Omi knew Aya had said those things to protect him, to divert Harrister's attention away from him, but, seeing the sanity and reason flee the Englishman's countenance in favor of this raw, animalistic emotion that remained, he also knew Aya had, without realizing it, gone too far.
Omi glanced around him, driven close to panic by Harrister's expression, frantically searching for a weapon of any kind --- a board, a piece of pipe, a sharp shard of glass, a sliver of wooden packing crate --- anything he could use to defend his partner. He was going to kill Aya. This fucking asshole was going to kill Aya right here, right now, and Omi couldn't let that happen. There was no way he was just going to sit here and watch that happen without at least trying to stop it, even if he already knew trying was pointless, just one more fool's errand in a life-long string of them.
But, there was nothing --- no board, no sharp piece of glass, no suitably long sliver of wood --- nothing except the knives arrayed on Harrister's packing crate table, and the Englishman was closer to them than Omi was. The boy began to estimate the distance, glancing back and forth from Harrister to the table, trying to judge whether he'd be able to reach the weapons before the Englishman was on him. He wasn't sure. He was smaller, and should be faster, but he had seen Harrister move, and knew the man was quick for all his bulk. Even so, it seemed like the man had forgotten he was there, and Omi figured that should give him a slim advantage. It wasn't what he would have liked, but the young blonde figured slim to none were the best chances they could hope for in this situation.
"He … he was …his name was Jack," Harrister muttered, his words barely carrying the foot or so separating him from Aya. "And … he … was my brother. HE WAS MY LITTLE BROTHER!"
Omi had been so busy eyeing the knives he hadn't managed to hear Harrister's words. But, at the Englishman's shout of rage, he looked up, saw the man's body weight shift subtly, and realized he was about to attack. Omi vaulted to his feet, intending to at least put himself between the Englishman's rage and Aya, but he wasn't fast enough. He had hardly gotten to his feet by the time Harrister spun around, his heavily-muscled body moving with a surprising grace and speed, and landed a solid, bone-crunching spin kick to Aya's stomach.
The kick impacted with enough force to send Aya catapulting off the hook and into the crate behind him. There was a sickening, almost deafening crunch --- the sound of bone and wood breaking at the same time --- which reverberated and echoed around them for two lifetimes of eternities. The swordsman's body struck the box with enough force to splinter it, sending sharp shards flying all over the immediate vicinity. Omi turned his head, shielding his eyes from the debris, but he looked back in time to watch Aya's body come to rest amid the splintered remains of the crate with a dull, hollow, heart-wrenching thud. The redhead landed, still and limp. Omi slumped bonelessly to the ground at the sight, his knees gone to jelly and refusing to support his weight.
Harrister moved forward, splinters of wood shattering under his heavy boots with sharp cracking sounds that were so similar to the noise of breaking bone it sent shivers up Omi's spine. He stopped at Aya's side and stared down at his fallen foe, a snarling sneer twisting his handsome features into a mask of evil, and nudged Aya's head with the toe of his boot as he muttered, almost under his breath, "He was my baby brother."
He turned and swept past Omi toward the exit, apparently having forgotten the boy even existed.
********************************************************************************
Omi glared up at the windows. They were so close, and, yet, so out of reach; their very existence mocked him. He could see the moon, which had just risen, full and so white that it almost hurt his eyes. It hung there, like some over-inflated balloon, in the middle of the window above him, seeming close enough that he could touch it, if he just stretched his fingers far enough. He hated that damn moon. It was childish, idiotic, and showed just how impotent he felt against their current predicament, but, still, he hated that glowing, brilliant-white orb with more passion and more vehemence than he had ever hated anything. He hated it because it was out there, and they were in here, trapped like rats, nothing to do but sit around and wait for the cat to show up.
It had been four days since he had first stumbled, literally, onto Harrister's little "play" session with Aya. The dark-haired Englishman had returned twice in that time, each visit heralding the start of another sadistic, inhuman round of torture heaped upon the broken redhead. Well, Omi had to admit "broken" wasn't quite the right word. Aya was beyond his limits, physically, the head injury and the wounds inflicted by Harrister starting to take a heavy toll on him. But, his spirit and stubborn will were as strong as ever. The young blonde figured Harrister would kill Aya, eventually, but the dark-haired psychopath would never get the true satisfaction he sought. He would never see Aya break emotionally.
Funny, Omi suddenly realized, how he hadn't thought about both of them getting out of here, how his mind had just slid right into the conclusion their kidnapper would kill Aya. He hated himself for that. It was like he was betraying Aya, giving up on the stubborn redhead so easily.
'Guess I'm the one who broke, eh, Aya?' Omi thought as he glared venomous daggers at the tauntingly out-of-reach portals to freedom.
Omi shivered and clutched his arms around his waist for warmth, although he knew he'd never get warm like that. This wasn't the kind of cold you could warm away. He was cold from the inside out --- cold with fear, cold with hate, cold with rage, cold with feeling powerless, cold with knowing he couldn't do anything but watch while that bastard tortured Aya to the brink of death and beyond. And, that thought chilled him more than any other --- that he was going to have to sit and watch, helpless, powerless to intervene, while that crazy English fucker killed Aya.
Not that he wanted to. Not that it didn't take every ounce of strength he had to keep from throwing himself onto Harrister in a fit of rage and killing the man with his bare hands --- well, trying to kill him, anyway. Considering their size difference and the fact Harrister had, obviously, had formal training of some kind … probably military … Omi figured he'd lose. Still, it would be worth it, just to get the asshole off Aya, even for a minute or two. At least, that's how Omi had felt at first. When Harrister had come back, after that first time, he had attacked the Englishman --- made a pretty damn good showing of it, too, having given the psychopathic asshole several deep cuts, scratches, bruises, and bite marks he still wore. But, in the end, when Harrister had gotten the better of him, Aya had stepped in and provoked the Englishman to the point of blind rage, in order to protect him.
Omi shivered again as he remembered the swordsman's screams echoing in an endless, relentless cycle around the building. That had been two days ago, and he could still hear them pounding and roiling around in his head. He figured he'd hear them for the rest of his life, and it would serve him right. It was what he deserved, for his weakness, for his inability to do something as simple as protect his partner, for standing by and letting Aya take all of this on himself.
He felt ashamed. He hated himself for his weakness, for his fear, and for his inability to help Aya. But, after that one time, Omi had been afraid to try anything else. He had been afraid Aya would have to protect him again, and he couldn't bear the thought of it. As it was, he didn't know how much more Aya could take. Harrister's last "playtime" hadn't lasted ten minutes. Aya had passed out before then, and it seemed the Englishman didn't get any pleasure out of torturing someone who couldn't feel it or scream in response. If the redhead had to provoke his tormentor again, Omi was sure Aya wouldn't have the strength to survive what would follow, and the young blonde just couldn't live with that on his head. It was bad enough knowing, if Aya died, he was indirectly responsible for it, his mistakes and carelessness having landed them in this predicament in the first place. But … to be so directly, actively responsible … that was something he couldn't live with.
No. They had to get out of here. That was all there was to it, but how? He kept coming back to these windows, again and again, lured by the siren song of the freedom they promised. He would stand here, just like this, motionless, for hours, staring up at them. They were the only possible way out, but they seemed so out of reach. Omi knew he was only feeding his own depression and feelings of worthlessness, but he couldn't leave the windows alone. He couldn't make himself stay away from them. He kept thinking, somehow, if he stood under here long enough, the answer would reveal itself to him and he'd suddenly see the way out.
"It's the only way," Omi muttered, not even really aware he had said the words aloud. "They're the only way out … but … how? How can we possibly get up there?"
"With this."
Omi whirled around, startled by the sound of Aya's voice. He had left the swordsman in that little clearing amongst the crates, the place he had come to think of as Harrister's playground. He hadn't wanted to stay there, so near the place where Aya had been tortured, but, after the last session, Aya hadn't been in any condition to move. He couldn't believe the older man had had the strength to stand, let alone make his way through the dark maze of packing crates to this clear stretch of floor near the windows. The swordsman was a mess. His head wound had worsened, the cuts lengthening and deepening from all the extra abuse Harrister had heaped upon him. Much to Omi's dismay, it still seeped fresh blood, even after the passage of all this time. Aya's torso and back were a mass of cuts of varying depths and lengths, all inflicted during Harrister's "play" sessions. Most of them still bled freely. After the first time, Omi had tried to stop the bleeding, and had succeeded in getting the worst ones staunched, but he had, finally, given up on getting the flow to stop altogether. In the small spaces where skin managed to peer through all the blood, Omi could see red, angry welts and dark, blue-black bruises, testament to the beatings Aya had taken. The young blonde knew Harrister's last fit of rage had cost Aya at least two broken ribs, and, maybe, a fractured collarbone. Aya's right shoulder dipped at a funny angle that had nothing to do with the tentative way his body supported its own weight, and, now that his hands were cuffed in front, he kept his arms pulled in tightly at his sides to support the painful ribs. The cuffs had inflicted deep gashes and ugly, black bruises on Aya's wrists, and Omi could see smears of blood on the redhead's arms, from where it had run down them while Harrister had hung him from the ceiling.
Aya leaned against the nearest box, panting from the exertion of threading his way through the wooden forest to find his partner, and struggled to catch his breath. His body was rigid, his movements jerky and tentative, as if he was made of the most brittle glass and one misstep would shatter him beyond repair. Omi figured that assessment wasn't too far from the truth. Aya had already been through more than any person could take, and the fact he was still alive, not to mention having summoned up the strength to move under his own power, was testament to the swordsman's fortitude and iron-clad resolve. Omi knew Aya's stubborn nature was the only thing the redhead had to cling to at the moment.
As the young blonde mentally catalogued every bruise, every broken bone, every bleeding gash and filed them away in his memory against what he would take from Harrister's hide if he ever got the chance, Aya swayed. Moving for even the short distance he had traveled had been almost too much for him. He leaned into the crate a bit more, and seemed ready to slide down it to the floor. Omi quickly crossed the space separating them, unable to bear the thought of the swordsman sliding all those bleeding, raw wounds over rough wood, and managed to reach Aya just as the redhead lost his footing. He caught the older man and, ever so gently, murmuring nonsensical words of encouragement the entire time, lowered him to the ground, grunting under the burden of Aya's weight.
"Woke … up… gone … thought … okay?" Aya muttered, his voice hoarse and raspy, barely more than a whisper. It was obvious he was struggling, both for the strength to talk and for the words that seemed intent on eluding him. When Omi shook his head and gave Aya a questioning look, indicating he hadn't understood, the redhead sighed and took a shallow, gasping breath before trying again, "You … okay?"
"Yes," Omi replied, his voice soft.
He brushed a strand of Aya's bangs out of the head wound, careful to avoid making physical contact with the swordsman's face. Aya's hair was so matted with blood it had taken on a new shade of red. Omi frowned, turning his attention to his partner's wrists and the deep wounds and bruises inflicted by the handcuffs. He pushed the metal bracelets back a little and brushed at the injuries, eliciting a pained hiss from Aya.
"So … sorry," Omi muttered, embarrassed at having caused the swordsman additional pain. It seemed he was doing that a lot on this mission --- trying to help and ending up causing more trouble --- and he hated the hell out of it.
"I'm okay, Aya," Omi continued, giving his partner what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "He didn't hurt me at all. You … protected me." The young blonde's voice hitched a bit at the end of his last statement, and he struggled to fight back the tears he could feel threatening to gather in his eyes.
"Worth … it," Aya said, his wandering attention focused, for the moment, on the dusty concrete near his leg.
Despite the way his mind seemed to have wandered off out of his control, the way his memory had warped and developed staggering holes in its content, the way he found the blackness pushing in on him ever more seductive and inviting, Aya could still see Harrister holding that knife to Omi's throat. The image was burned into what was left of his brain --- one of his worst nightmares, watching another person for whom he cared destroyed right in front of him, unable to stop it. He knew he'd carry that vision with him to his grave … and, probably, pretty soon, judging by how soft and comfortable that blackness was starting to look. Aya had been terrified when Harrister had turned on Omi. He couldn't remember ever being that scared, except for his parents' deaths, Aya's accident, and a few times when Yohji or Ken had been late showing up from a mission.
Omi seemed about to respond to his statement, but the boy's words were lost in a small, hitching sob, which he barely managed to stifle.
"You … gotta … leave," Aya continued, before Omi could pull himself together enough to say anything. The redhead talked so softly the boy had to lean forward, his ear close to Aya's mouth, in order to hear, and the words were halting and hesitant as the swordsman struggled for coherence.
Omi shook his head frantically in response to Aya's statement. "No!" he exclaimed, "No way. No fucking way! We leave here together or not at all. Besides, there's no way out. You know that. Even if there was, I'm not leaving you."
"Windows," Aya muttered.
Omi shook his head again. "No, Aya," he said, his voice patient, his tone that of a parent reasoning with a stubborn child, "They're too high. I already tried them. It's no use. It'll never work."
"With … this," Aya said.
A tiny, sharp, metallic clink drew Omi's attention toward Aya's hands as the redhead released a small object. It clattered to the floor, and, in the moonlight from the windows above them, Omi recognized one of Yohji's watches. He frowned at Aya, confused as to why the redhead would have their teammate's weapon. Yohji was a fanatic about his weaponry. They all were. You didn't stay alive long in their business if you didn't take care of your equipment, and none of them would ever willingly let their weapons out of their sight for any length of time. So, how was it Aya had Yohji's watch? Had the chain smoking idiot actually given it to him? For the first time, the depth of the friendship and trust between Yohji and Aya hit him. Why hadn't he seen it before? But, it was true. There was the proof, right there on the floor next to Aya's leg. Somehow, knowing Yohji held the redhead in such high regard made Omi feel that much more protective toward him, as if he, now, had to protect Aya for Yohji's sake, too.
"Yohji's watch," Omi muttered, retrieving the fallen object. "But, how did you …?"
"Yo … Yohji," Aya said, cutting Omi off mid-question. He was running out of strength, and he had to get Omi out of here before it failed him. "For … forgot … had it. You … use it … es … cape."
"We'll go together," Omi said. He felt his heart clench when Aya slowly, gingerly, shook his head. "Please, Aya, don't … don't make me go."
He knew he was begging, and he knew it was irrational. All that time spent standing under these damn windows, wishing for a way out. Now that it was in his hands, now that he could smell freedom, he wanted nothing more than to remain here, imprisoned in this cavernous room forested with the huge packing crates. If he left Aya here, he had a sinking feeling he'd never see the swordsman again. Harrister would kill him, and they'd never find the body. Omi couldn't bear the thought of leaving Aya behind, couldn't stand the idea of the stubborn, iron-willed redhead dying alone, the last victim of that psycho, murdering, English bastard. Somehow, without him even realizing it was happening, Aya had come to mean so much to him. When had that happened? When had he stopped having to struggle to think of Aya as Weiss and begun thinking of him as his friend … his brother?
"Please, Aya," Omi repeated. "Together. We'll go together, OK?"
Aya, once again, shook his head no. He finally summoned up the strength to look at Omi, and the young blonde was shocked beyond words, and a little bit scared, to see tears in the swordsman's good eye.
"Can't," Aya managed to choke out. "Can't … make … it. Everything … too hard … Hurts … too … much …Can't … protect … Can't … hang on … longer. You … have … go."
Omi sat quietly for a moment, his mind stringing Aya's broken words into sentences and considering what the redhead had said. Aya was dying --- had, probably, been dying from the first minute Harrister had dragged them back to this godforsaken place. No matter how much the young blonde wanted to deny it, no matter how much he wanted to pretend otherwise, he knew it was true. And, Aya knew it, too. He could see it in the swordsman's face, and he realized Aya had only been hanging on for his sake, to protect him. All the more reason, in Omi's mind, not to go. Still, if he left, he might be able to bring Yohji and Ken back here in time to save Aya. It was only a slim chance, but, if he stayed, they'd have no chance at all. And, then, there was Harrister. Aya had taken so much damage keeping the Englishman's attention off him. His leaving would remove that threat from Aya's head, and Omi figured that had to help a little.
"All right," the young blonde finally agreed. He leaned forward and retrieved the watch from the floor. It made a soft, metallic clicking sound as he turned it over in his hands and released a small length of the wire coiled inside.
"All right," Omi repeated, with a soft sigh, "I … I don't want to do this." He found he couldn't even look at Aya, so he focused his attention on the small patch of dusty concrete near the toe of his sneaker. "I don't want to leave you, but … I know you're right. If I go … I can get Yohji and Ken." He finally summoned up the courage to look at his partner and found Aya staring at him with an unblinking, one-eyed gaze that was surprisingly intense and focused, considering everything the redhead had been through. "Promise me, Aya," Omi said, his voice quavering a little, "Promise me you'll wait for us. Promise you'll stay alive until we come back for you."
Aya stared at the boy for several minutes. He knew Omi needed to hear the words, needed to hear him promise, needed to believe he would hang on until they could come back for him. Omi needed to believe everything would work out, in the end. Aya understood this, and he wanted to give it to the boy. He wanted to bestow that belief, foolish, childish, candy-apple fantasy that it was, on Omi --- his final gift to the young blonde who reminded him so much of his sister, one final act of kindness that, maybe, would undo some of the black karma he'd built up over the past few years. But, he just didn't know if he could. Promising meant he had to try; he had to try to survive, had to struggle to continue living, and he just didn't know if he could. Really, he didn't know if he wanted to. Time was when he'd been afraid of death, been afraid of leaving those he cared about alone in this world. But, now, the blackness was so familiar, so inviting. It didn't seem all that bad, anymore, and Aya was ready for this whole, little drama to be over. He already knew how it was going to end; the soft, inviting black hovering at the edges of his vision told him that. So, why bother playing it out any longer? Why not just skip to the ending and be done with it?
"Aya," Omi prompted, "Promise me."
"Try," Aya finally answered. He looked away from the boy's earnest, almost-innocent blue eyes. Omi tended to wear his emotions there, for the world to see, and Aya couldn't face the fear and disappointment written in them at the moment.
"No," Omi stated, his tone flat, matter-of-fact, and insistent. He reached over and, ever so gently, cupped the redhead's chin in his hand, forcing Aya's head up, so he could look into the swordsman's good eye, "If that's all you can do, I'm not leaving. I don't care if I die, too … but, I won't leave you here to die alone. You don't just fucking try, you hear me? You promise me. Promise me, or I'm staying."
Finally, Aya nodded his head, ever so slightly, his eye sliding away from Omi's face, refusing to meet the steady, earnest gaze in those cornflower-blue eyes.
"Say it," Omi insisted. "I have to hear you say it out loud, or I won't go. Promise me you'll hang on … you'll stay alive until we come back for you. Promise, Aya."
"Pro … mise," Aya whispered, slumping forward as his strength finally gave out.
Omi caught the older man before he hit the floor. His arms tightened around the redhead's battered, bruised body in a gentle, protective hug, and he pulled Aya closer to him, praying, to anyone who cared to listen, that Aya would be able to keep his promise. Omi knew what it had taken for the redhead to make it, and he knew Aya would never willingly break his word. He knew, in the end, this one, simple promise, one demanded, perhaps, more out of a boy's childish selfishness than anything else, would cost Aya dearly. So, Omi prayed and wished with the fervor of childhood innocence, something he'd never truly known, that Aya would have the strength he needed to endure what was sure to come, and that they would be able to get to the redhead before it was too late. Impulsively, he brushed his lips against the top of Aya's head, a whisper of a kiss against filth encrusted, blood-matted hair, before lowering the unconscious man the rest of the way to the cold, hard, dusty floor.
"I'm … I'm sorry, Aya. I'm so sorry," he whispered.
Swiftly, now that his mind was made up, Omi returned to his position under the windows. He tore his coat and wrapped the material around his hands before he unleashed the wire, smiling in satisfaction when he was rewarded, on his first attempt, with the sound of shattering glass, followed by the metallic clink of the wire connecting to the window frame. He pulled and leaned against the line, to make sure it would hold his weight, and, once he was certain, climbed nimbly up the wall. He hitched one arm against the window's base as he used his fist to break out the rest of the glass, and, then, he was up, over the sash, and through the tiny portal into the fresh night air just beyond. He dropped the wire down the outside and rappelled down, making the distance in three easy bounds. Once he was safe on the wet pavement surrounding the building, concealed in its heavy shadows, Omi paused long enough to retract and replace the wire before making his escape into the misty, foggy night. He never looked back, not even when he was perched in that window, breaking out the glass serving as the last flimsy barrier to his freedom. He couldn't. If he had looked back, he would have seen Aya lying there, helpless, broken, and dying …and he wouldn't have been strong enough to leave.
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 6
Aya's scream reached in with icy, black talons and yanked Omi out of a restless, fitful sleep haunted by images of the swordsman collapsing, again and again, in a pool of blood. The boy jolted upright, confused, disoriented, and struck through, to his very core, with terror. He sat there for several minutes, panting, feeling his heart thump against his ribs, hand clenched in the fabric at the front of his shirt, cold sweat trickling down his back, and listened to the wail resound and echo off the building. He almost believed he had heard it in his dream, but, after a few moments, he realized it was too big, too real, to have been part of that nightmare world. The sound seemed to expand, filling the cavernous space until Omi thought the warehouse would explode, or, maybe, he'd go mad before it was finally done. It seemed to go on forever, a mournful, pain-filled noise that made his stomach clench in fear and brought tears to his eyes. But, suddenly, almost as quickly as it had started, it stopped, leaving in its wake a soundless void. Nothing moved, nothing breathed … even the building seemed to stop creaking.
Omi realized he was holding his breath, and let it out in a long, huffing sigh, which exploded out, unnaturally loud, in the silent room. He glanced over, to where Aya had last been, hesitant to look in that direction, as if he was afraid of what he would find. It was silly, really. He already knew Aya wouldn't be there. It hadn't registered in his mind yet, but, deep down inside, he knew Aya's scream had awakened him. He knew it in the same way he knew the sun would come up tomorrow; his mind hadn't acknowledged it, but the knowledge was there.
The sight of the blood-soaked leather trench crumpled in an untidy pile a few inches away, almost close enough to touch without even stretching out his arm, caused the true meaning behind that nightmarish scream to slam home, leaving his brain no choice but to admit its truth.
And, then, Omi was on his feet, running faster than his legs could carry him, stumbling as he tried to keep his balance, toward the little opening in that wall of crates. He bolted through the maze of dark, looming objects, twisting this way, turning that way, his sneakers making flat, slapping sounds on the concrete as he pounded through the labyrinth of boxes, his breath exploding from his body in short, strangled huffs that seared his chest and made his ribs ache, tears streaming down his face, the sound of blind panic roaring in his ears like an ocean, his heart slamming back and forth against his chest. He was a crazed, terrified creature seeking nothing more than escape. Omi cursed as he rounded corner after corner, only to slam, literally, into one dead end after another. By the time he figured out the correct direction, he was black and blue from bumping against the crates in his haste, his hands and knees were scraped, bleeding, and full of splinters, and he was almost pissed off enough to overcome his initial panic.
He knew he was nearing the end of his destination. He guessed he was somewhere in the center of the huge warehouse, although he couldn't be certain, as nothing but the iron girders criss-crossing the ceiling were visible to him, and even those were engulfed in murky darkness. He could see light glowing from the shroud-like shadows ahead, and, through the roaring in his ears, he could, just barely, make out the sound of laughter --- soft, jeering, satisfied laughter. It was that sound and knowing what it meant that finally broke through and solidified Omi's blind panic into something closer to rage. He was drawn to the light and sound, just as a moth must come to the flame that spells its doom. He didn't want to go there. He knew what he would find, and he didn't want to face it, wasn't sure he had the strength to face it. But, still, he was drawn, unwilling and, yet, unable to resist, ever forward.
The young blonde turned a final corner, willing his jellied legs to speed up, to carry him ever faster toward the evil he'd find at the end of his path. In his haste, he stumbled over his own feet as he reached the opening from where the light glowed, and tumbled forward, landing on his hands and knees in a make-shift clearing amid the black forest of crates. He looked up and felt his stomach clench in fear for a moment, before attempting to exit his body by crawling up his throat and out his mouth. He had known what he would find … had known, and, yet, still hadn't been prepared for this.
A single bulb, hanging from a long cord attached somewhere in the shadowy recesses of the ceiling, illuminated the small, open space with a white-hot glare that threw everything into harsh, garish relief. It slammed into Omi's eyes with enough force to make the boy wish for momentary blindness, just to escape the light's ferocity. Their captor stood with his back toward the young blonde, and Omi came face-to-face with a heavily-muscled pair of legs clad in old, faded denim and a pair of black, leather biker boots. He looked up … and up, feeling smaller and smaller by the moment, dwarfed as he was by the huge, hulking crates, and, now, this person who, from the boy's point of view, seemed more like a giant than a man, and saw a broad, muscular back covered in soft, blue linen stretched just tightly enough to show every curve and sinew, and, eventually, shoulder-length, thick, jet-black hair. Although he couldn't see the man's face, Omi recognized him as Roland Harrister, the man who had approached Aya that last night at the club.
Omi couldn't spare much time or attention for their captor. The boy's vision tunneled down until all he could see was his partner. Aya hung from a hook attached to the ceiling, suspended a foot or two off the floor and supported only by the chain between his cuffed hands. His bare torso was bloody, and red streams trickled down his arms. The swordsman's chest was a mass of cuts --- some small and shallow, others deep and long. A few, along Aya's ribs and near his collarbone, were deep enough to allow for a glimpse of white bone. His head was slumped against his chest, but, as the young blonde fell into the clearing with the small, splatting sound of flesh hitting concrete, Aya looked up. His good eye focused on Omi, and he mouthed the boy's name.
It wasn't hard to tell this "play session" had been going on for some time. Many of the cuts had stopped bleeding. There was a small puddle of blood underneath Aya, and the sound of his blood dripping onto the floor seemed to echo out loudly in the cavernous space. Omi wondered how long the older man had endured the torture before, finally, voicing the inhuman wail that had awakened him. Aya had struggled to suffer silently on his account, and the young blonde felt a lump rise in his throat at that realization. Aya had fought so hard to protect him, but Omi wished, with all his heart and soul, the swordsman hadn't taken so much of this burden on himself. He wasn't afraid of their captor --- not for himself, anyhow. His only fear was for his partner, for the injuries Aya had already suffered, and for the torture that still lay ahead. Aya had had more than enough trouble with the head wound, and Omi was certain the redhead couldn't take much more. The older man's scream, which still echoed through the young blonde's memory, confirmed Omi's worst fears.
As he watched, Aya's tormentor sidled up to the injured assassin and ran a gentle, loving caress over Aya's bleeding chest and side. Omi could see enough of the man's profile to witness the smile that crossed his face when Aya hissed in pain. The young blonde wanted to do something --- yell, scream, throw himself at the man in blind rage … something, anything, but he was too horrified even to scramble to his feet. Instead, he remained as he had fallen, kneeling on all fours, and watched the drama before him with a sinking sense of dread.
"The others," the man whispered, his voice pitching to a secretive, conspiratorial tone that barely carried the short distance to where Omi remained crouched, frozen in place, "They were for him. To protect him … to save him. But you … my beautiful prize … you're all for me. Just for fun. I'm going to savor every scream that comes out of your mouth, you filthy murderer. For what you took from me … I'm going to make you pay … until you pray for death … until you're broken at my feet, begging me to let you die. And, I'm going to enjoy every second of it."
The low, almost seductive tone of the man's voice had an edge of venomous hatred to it, and the cruel words were at odds with the gentle way he stroked Aya's bleeding chest. With a flick of his wrist, so fast that Omi barely saw it, he raised his hand to the uninjured side of Aya's face and drew the knife down it, opening a gash from the redhead's temple to his chin. Aya didn't seem to notice. After first seeing Omi, his head had slumped back down onto his chest, and it remained there, even as his tormentor unleashed this newest river of red onto his marred skin. Omi figured Aya was too exhausted to react, but the dark-haired man grew angry. His eyes narrowed in rage, and he backhanded Aya across the injured side of his head.
Aya's head snapped back and to the side, blood flying from old and new injuries alike, to splatter across the wooden crates surrounding him, and his vision exploded into brilliant, multi-colored lights at the impact. The darkness crowding the edges of his vision surged forward, like a pack of hungry wolves intent on a kill, and Aya found himself wishing it would engulf him. He was tired. He had passed his limits hours ago, and, even at that, he hadn't been strong enough to protect Omi. He had seen the boy stumble and fall into the area behind Harrister, no doubt, summoned by his scream. He knew it was only a matter of time before the English asshole noticed Omi's presence, and, from there, it was inevitable that the man would see the logic of a connection between them. He had failed. All he had needed to do was protect Omi, even if at the cost of his life, and he hadn't been able to do that. He had failed --- miserably --- and he could feel despair overtaking him. It was Aya all over again, as if he was watching, helpless, as her body arced through the air and bounced off the trunk of Takatori's shiny, black car.
Even though Harrister's body was between Omi and Aya, some of the blood splatter reached the young blonde. It sprayed across the boy's arms and onto his face, leaving a coppery-metallic taste in his mouth. That was what, finally, managed to break through the horror-induced stupor. The taste of Aya's blood slammed into Omi's brain like a freight train and filled the boy with a rage strong enough to overcome any horror or fear he might have felt, a burning anger that smoldered brightly enough to make him foolhardy.
Omi surged to his feet and threw himself at Harrister's considerable bulk, screaming, "LEAVE HIM ALONE, YOU BASTARD!"
The words echoed and reverberated around the cavernous room, until it sounded like a hundred throaty screams of pure, hate-driven rage. The young blonde slammed into Harrister at full speed and with all the force he could manage. He had hoped his head-on charge, coupled with taking the Englishman by surprise, would knock Aya's tormentor off-balance and bring him to the floor. If he could manage to get him down … if he could, somehow, get the upper hand by getting on top of the man, Omi was sure he could defeat him. Harrister was bigger and stronger, but Omi had training and experience that, under the right circumstances, could more than make up for the difference in their sizes.
Aya had seen Omi take on opponents much bigger than him on many occasions. Some of them had even been as big as Harrister, and the young blonde had always come out on top. Omi might be young, and he might be small, but he could more than take care of himself, and he was a strong ally in any normal fight. Unfortunately, this wasn't a normal fight, and the Englishman wasn't a typical opponent. Whether he had had some kind of military training, which enabled him to react quickly, or whether his senses were honed by the rage that drove him to the edge of insanity, Harrister managed to turn in time to meet Omi's attack. Without the advantage of surprise, and against a rage-maddened opponent, the Englishman's bigger size carried the day.
Harrister met Omi's charge with a vicious backhand that caught the young blonde a glancing blow along the side of his head and sent him careening into the nearest shipping crate. Omi bounced off the wooden hulk and slid, stunned, to the floor. Cat-quick, Harrister was on him, striking out to grab a handful of Omi's t-shirt and using it to lift the boy off the floor. He held Omi at eye-level, and regarded him with a cold, remorseless expression --- a snake staring at its next meal. Despite the bells going off in his head, Omi had enough sense to feel his blood freeze at the look in the Englishman's eyes. They were cold, filled with a rage that was like ice --- a rage that, instead of making him irrational and careless, had made him calculating and fixated on nothing more than accomplishing his goal of breaking and destroying Aya. There was no guilt, no remorse, no human emotion … other than that unblinking, blinding, freezing hatred.
The Englishman seemed to think for a moment, shuffling through all the pieces to this particular puzzle until he found the little bit of sky that, finally, brought the picture into sharp focus. When he realized what had happened, he smiled --- a predatory, satisfied grin that curled from the middle of his mouth outward but never laid a finger on his eyes.
"So," Harrister said, his tone so smug it made Omi want to spit in the man's face, "This is why. I thought you were just stubborn, but you didn't cry out because of him. You were protecting him, weren't you?"
His ice-cold snake eyes shifted from Omi to Aya. He glared at the injured man for several long moments --- several separate, little eternities --- trying to gauge Aya's reaction or read some emotion or some answer in the redhead's face. He failed. Aya revealed nothing, his violet stare matching Harrister's blue one icicle for icicle.
"What is he to you?" the Englishman asked, his voice soft, but his tone menacing.
Aya said nothing.
Harrister hissed in anger, and, still maintaining a firm grip on Omi's shirt, he freed his other hand by placing his knife between his teeth before reaching out, lightening-quick, to grip Aya's face. He squeezed until Aya gasped out in pain and Omi could see tears well up in the swordsman's uninjured eye.
The Englishman released the redhead and stepped back a bit before repeating, his words muffled by the knife still clenched between his teeth, "Who is he to you?"
Aya's head slumped back toward his chest, too exhausted to hold it up any longer, too tired to even glare at his tormentor. "No one," he mumbled, his voice weak and his words barely audible. "Don't … know."
Harrister smiled. Omi was certain it was the same kind of smile a gazelle sees as the lion descends upon it, and he swallowed, hard. He had recovered a bit from Harrister's stunning blow, but not enough to loosen the man's grip on his shirt. He struggled weakly, but he gave up, quickly deciding it was no use. It was a wiser move to wait for another opening. No one was that perfect. Harrister would make another mistake, and Omi needed to be able to take advantage of it. To that end, he decided it was wiser to conserve his energy instead of fighting to free himself from the death grip that held him dangling off the floor like a rag doll.
"In that case," Harrister purred, his eyes never leaving Aya's. He took the knife from his mouth and continued, "You won't care what happens to him. He must be expendable … just a weed that wandered into my garden." As he spoke, he brought the knife to Omi's throat and began to draw it across, opening a shallow, harmless cut.
Aya had thought he was beyond fear, beyond caring, but his stomach clenched and his blood ran cold as he watched the light glint dully off the blood --- his blood --- covering that blade, as he saw the tiny trickle of red against the white of Omi's throat. Aya's mind raced. He had to get Harrister's attention off Omi. He had to protect the boy. Suddenly, almost without consciously realizing it, his mind seized upon what seemed like the Englishman's only weak spot.
"What … was … he?" Aya asked, struggling to find the words he needed to put a coherent sentence together. His voice was hoarse and weak. The huge space surrounding them almost swallowed it up, but it was enough to carry across the few inches separating him from Harrister and Omi.
Omi's eyes grew round and frightened when he realized what Aya was doing. He shook his head frantically, slightly deepening the cut, as Harrister still held the knife against his throat, and started to protest, but Aya's next words cut him off.
"That … boy," Aya gasped out in a strained, hoarse whisper, which held Harrister mesmerized.
He was satisfied to see he had, once again, managed to direct the Englishman's attention onto himself, and he was even more satisfied to see Harrister's hand, the one holding the knife, begin to shake. He had guessed correctly. His words were having the desired impact.
"He … died … squealing … weak … like a pig … on my … s … sword. Almost too … e … easy … not … worth … effort," Aya continued, his speech strained and halting as he struggled for coherence. "Who … was he?"
Aya's words had their desired effect. Omi watched, mesmerized, as the emotions shifted and changed, chasing each other through the dark-haired man's eyes like a thunderstorm sweeping over the city. Ice-cold determination and hatred melted and gave way to the briefest glimmer of soul-rending grief, which was replaced, lightening fast, by white hot, blinding rage, so strong it seemed, for a moment, that Harrister had gone truly mad. The Englishman seemed to forget where he was, his eyes taking on an unfocused and far-away look as he released his hold on Omi's shirt. The young blonde fell to the floor, where he landed in an unceremonious heap with a puff of dust and a muffled grunt. Almost as quickly as it had happened, the fuzzy, unfocused, confused look slid away, fleeing before the white-hot flames of rage and hatred that swept Harrister's eyes and face, burning away all other emotions as they came.
"You … stupid … arrogant … fucker," Harrister muttered.
He stood, turned slightly sideways to Aya, with his head bowed, which caused his voice to sound muffled and strange. But, Omi, who had landed only a few inches away from the man, looked up and had a clear view of Harrister's rage-filled eyes. The young blonde was close enough that he could see the way the Englishman's fist clenched so tightly the knuckles turned white and his whole arm trembled from the force. He could hear the emotional tremor in the dark-haired man's words.
Omi felt his heart thud against his ribcage, an involuntary response to what he saw written so plainly on Harrister's face and in his eyes. He had been an assassin for nearly his entire young life, had faced maniac after maniac, had seen and experienced, first-hand, the inhuman things people can do to one another. But, in all those years, in all that life experience, he had never seen anyone look quite the way this man did right now. It scared the piss out of him, the way any semblance of reason had left the Englishman's countenance, replaced, not by madness or grief, both of which would have been understandable and human, considering the situation. No, the only emotion there, the only thing written on Harrister's face and in his eyes was spitting, venomous, white-hot, blinding rage --- the cold, calculating rage of a man who has already decided he has nothing left to lose. Omi knew Aya had said those things to protect him, to divert Harrister's attention away from him, but, seeing the sanity and reason flee the Englishman's countenance in favor of this raw, animalistic emotion that remained, he also knew Aya had, without realizing it, gone too far.
Omi glanced around him, driven close to panic by Harrister's expression, frantically searching for a weapon of any kind --- a board, a piece of pipe, a sharp shard of glass, a sliver of wooden packing crate --- anything he could use to defend his partner. He was going to kill Aya. This fucking asshole was going to kill Aya right here, right now, and Omi couldn't let that happen. There was no way he was just going to sit here and watch that happen without at least trying to stop it, even if he already knew trying was pointless, just one more fool's errand in a life-long string of them.
But, there was nothing --- no board, no sharp piece of glass, no suitably long sliver of wood --- nothing except the knives arrayed on Harrister's packing crate table, and the Englishman was closer to them than Omi was. The boy began to estimate the distance, glancing back and forth from Harrister to the table, trying to judge whether he'd be able to reach the weapons before the Englishman was on him. He wasn't sure. He was smaller, and should be faster, but he had seen Harrister move, and knew the man was quick for all his bulk. Even so, it seemed like the man had forgotten he was there, and Omi figured that should give him a slim advantage. It wasn't what he would have liked, but the young blonde figured slim to none were the best chances they could hope for in this situation.
"He … he was …his name was Jack," Harrister muttered, his words barely carrying the foot or so separating him from Aya. "And … he … was my brother. HE WAS MY LITTLE BROTHER!"
Omi had been so busy eyeing the knives he hadn't managed to hear Harrister's words. But, at the Englishman's shout of rage, he looked up, saw the man's body weight shift subtly, and realized he was about to attack. Omi vaulted to his feet, intending to at least put himself between the Englishman's rage and Aya, but he wasn't fast enough. He had hardly gotten to his feet by the time Harrister spun around, his heavily-muscled body moving with a surprising grace and speed, and landed a solid, bone-crunching spin kick to Aya's stomach.
The kick impacted with enough force to send Aya catapulting off the hook and into the crate behind him. There was a sickening, almost deafening crunch --- the sound of bone and wood breaking at the same time --- which reverberated and echoed around them for two lifetimes of eternities. The swordsman's body struck the box with enough force to splinter it, sending sharp shards flying all over the immediate vicinity. Omi turned his head, shielding his eyes from the debris, but he looked back in time to watch Aya's body come to rest amid the splintered remains of the crate with a dull, hollow, heart-wrenching thud. The redhead landed, still and limp. Omi slumped bonelessly to the ground at the sight, his knees gone to jelly and refusing to support his weight.
Harrister moved forward, splinters of wood shattering under his heavy boots with sharp cracking sounds that were so similar to the noise of breaking bone it sent shivers up Omi's spine. He stopped at Aya's side and stared down at his fallen foe, a snarling sneer twisting his handsome features into a mask of evil, and nudged Aya's head with the toe of his boot as he muttered, almost under his breath, "He was my baby brother."
He turned and swept past Omi toward the exit, apparently having forgotten the boy even existed.
********************************************************************************
Omi glared up at the windows. They were so close, and, yet, so out of reach; their very existence mocked him. He could see the moon, which had just risen, full and so white that it almost hurt his eyes. It hung there, like some over-inflated balloon, in the middle of the window above him, seeming close enough that he could touch it, if he just stretched his fingers far enough. He hated that damn moon. It was childish, idiotic, and showed just how impotent he felt against their current predicament, but, still, he hated that glowing, brilliant-white orb with more passion and more vehemence than he had ever hated anything. He hated it because it was out there, and they were in here, trapped like rats, nothing to do but sit around and wait for the cat to show up.
It had been four days since he had first stumbled, literally, onto Harrister's little "play" session with Aya. The dark-haired Englishman had returned twice in that time, each visit heralding the start of another sadistic, inhuman round of torture heaped upon the broken redhead. Well, Omi had to admit "broken" wasn't quite the right word. Aya was beyond his limits, physically, the head injury and the wounds inflicted by Harrister starting to take a heavy toll on him. But, his spirit and stubborn will were as strong as ever. The young blonde figured Harrister would kill Aya, eventually, but the dark-haired psychopath would never get the true satisfaction he sought. He would never see Aya break emotionally.
Funny, Omi suddenly realized, how he hadn't thought about both of them getting out of here, how his mind had just slid right into the conclusion their kidnapper would kill Aya. He hated himself for that. It was like he was betraying Aya, giving up on the stubborn redhead so easily.
'Guess I'm the one who broke, eh, Aya?' Omi thought as he glared venomous daggers at the tauntingly out-of-reach portals to freedom.
Omi shivered and clutched his arms around his waist for warmth, although he knew he'd never get warm like that. This wasn't the kind of cold you could warm away. He was cold from the inside out --- cold with fear, cold with hate, cold with rage, cold with feeling powerless, cold with knowing he couldn't do anything but watch while that bastard tortured Aya to the brink of death and beyond. And, that thought chilled him more than any other --- that he was going to have to sit and watch, helpless, powerless to intervene, while that crazy English fucker killed Aya.
Not that he wanted to. Not that it didn't take every ounce of strength he had to keep from throwing himself onto Harrister in a fit of rage and killing the man with his bare hands --- well, trying to kill him, anyway. Considering their size difference and the fact Harrister had, obviously, had formal training of some kind … probably military … Omi figured he'd lose. Still, it would be worth it, just to get the asshole off Aya, even for a minute or two. At least, that's how Omi had felt at first. When Harrister had come back, after that first time, he had attacked the Englishman --- made a pretty damn good showing of it, too, having given the psychopathic asshole several deep cuts, scratches, bruises, and bite marks he still wore. But, in the end, when Harrister had gotten the better of him, Aya had stepped in and provoked the Englishman to the point of blind rage, in order to protect him.
Omi shivered again as he remembered the swordsman's screams echoing in an endless, relentless cycle around the building. That had been two days ago, and he could still hear them pounding and roiling around in his head. He figured he'd hear them for the rest of his life, and it would serve him right. It was what he deserved, for his weakness, for his inability to do something as simple as protect his partner, for standing by and letting Aya take all of this on himself.
He felt ashamed. He hated himself for his weakness, for his fear, and for his inability to help Aya. But, after that one time, Omi had been afraid to try anything else. He had been afraid Aya would have to protect him again, and he couldn't bear the thought of it. As it was, he didn't know how much more Aya could take. Harrister's last "playtime" hadn't lasted ten minutes. Aya had passed out before then, and it seemed the Englishman didn't get any pleasure out of torturing someone who couldn't feel it or scream in response. If the redhead had to provoke his tormentor again, Omi was sure Aya wouldn't have the strength to survive what would follow, and the young blonde just couldn't live with that on his head. It was bad enough knowing, if Aya died, he was indirectly responsible for it, his mistakes and carelessness having landed them in this predicament in the first place. But … to be so directly, actively responsible … that was something he couldn't live with.
No. They had to get out of here. That was all there was to it, but how? He kept coming back to these windows, again and again, lured by the siren song of the freedom they promised. He would stand here, just like this, motionless, for hours, staring up at them. They were the only possible way out, but they seemed so out of reach. Omi knew he was only feeding his own depression and feelings of worthlessness, but he couldn't leave the windows alone. He couldn't make himself stay away from them. He kept thinking, somehow, if he stood under here long enough, the answer would reveal itself to him and he'd suddenly see the way out.
"It's the only way," Omi muttered, not even really aware he had said the words aloud. "They're the only way out … but … how? How can we possibly get up there?"
"With this."
Omi whirled around, startled by the sound of Aya's voice. He had left the swordsman in that little clearing amongst the crates, the place he had come to think of as Harrister's playground. He hadn't wanted to stay there, so near the place where Aya had been tortured, but, after the last session, Aya hadn't been in any condition to move. He couldn't believe the older man had had the strength to stand, let alone make his way through the dark maze of packing crates to this clear stretch of floor near the windows. The swordsman was a mess. His head wound had worsened, the cuts lengthening and deepening from all the extra abuse Harrister had heaped upon him. Much to Omi's dismay, it still seeped fresh blood, even after the passage of all this time. Aya's torso and back were a mass of cuts of varying depths and lengths, all inflicted during Harrister's "play" sessions. Most of them still bled freely. After the first time, Omi had tried to stop the bleeding, and had succeeded in getting the worst ones staunched, but he had, finally, given up on getting the flow to stop altogether. In the small spaces where skin managed to peer through all the blood, Omi could see red, angry welts and dark, blue-black bruises, testament to the beatings Aya had taken. The young blonde knew Harrister's last fit of rage had cost Aya at least two broken ribs, and, maybe, a fractured collarbone. Aya's right shoulder dipped at a funny angle that had nothing to do with the tentative way his body supported its own weight, and, now that his hands were cuffed in front, he kept his arms pulled in tightly at his sides to support the painful ribs. The cuffs had inflicted deep gashes and ugly, black bruises on Aya's wrists, and Omi could see smears of blood on the redhead's arms, from where it had run down them while Harrister had hung him from the ceiling.
Aya leaned against the nearest box, panting from the exertion of threading his way through the wooden forest to find his partner, and struggled to catch his breath. His body was rigid, his movements jerky and tentative, as if he was made of the most brittle glass and one misstep would shatter him beyond repair. Omi figured that assessment wasn't too far from the truth. Aya had already been through more than any person could take, and the fact he was still alive, not to mention having summoned up the strength to move under his own power, was testament to the swordsman's fortitude and iron-clad resolve. Omi knew Aya's stubborn nature was the only thing the redhead had to cling to at the moment.
As the young blonde mentally catalogued every bruise, every broken bone, every bleeding gash and filed them away in his memory against what he would take from Harrister's hide if he ever got the chance, Aya swayed. Moving for even the short distance he had traveled had been almost too much for him. He leaned into the crate a bit more, and seemed ready to slide down it to the floor. Omi quickly crossed the space separating them, unable to bear the thought of the swordsman sliding all those bleeding, raw wounds over rough wood, and managed to reach Aya just as the redhead lost his footing. He caught the older man and, ever so gently, murmuring nonsensical words of encouragement the entire time, lowered him to the ground, grunting under the burden of Aya's weight.
"Woke … up… gone … thought … okay?" Aya muttered, his voice hoarse and raspy, barely more than a whisper. It was obvious he was struggling, both for the strength to talk and for the words that seemed intent on eluding him. When Omi shook his head and gave Aya a questioning look, indicating he hadn't understood, the redhead sighed and took a shallow, gasping breath before trying again, "You … okay?"
"Yes," Omi replied, his voice soft.
He brushed a strand of Aya's bangs out of the head wound, careful to avoid making physical contact with the swordsman's face. Aya's hair was so matted with blood it had taken on a new shade of red. Omi frowned, turning his attention to his partner's wrists and the deep wounds and bruises inflicted by the handcuffs. He pushed the metal bracelets back a little and brushed at the injuries, eliciting a pained hiss from Aya.
"So … sorry," Omi muttered, embarrassed at having caused the swordsman additional pain. It seemed he was doing that a lot on this mission --- trying to help and ending up causing more trouble --- and he hated the hell out of it.
"I'm okay, Aya," Omi continued, giving his partner what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "He didn't hurt me at all. You … protected me." The young blonde's voice hitched a bit at the end of his last statement, and he struggled to fight back the tears he could feel threatening to gather in his eyes.
"Worth … it," Aya said, his wandering attention focused, for the moment, on the dusty concrete near his leg.
Despite the way his mind seemed to have wandered off out of his control, the way his memory had warped and developed staggering holes in its content, the way he found the blackness pushing in on him ever more seductive and inviting, Aya could still see Harrister holding that knife to Omi's throat. The image was burned into what was left of his brain --- one of his worst nightmares, watching another person for whom he cared destroyed right in front of him, unable to stop it. He knew he'd carry that vision with him to his grave … and, probably, pretty soon, judging by how soft and comfortable that blackness was starting to look. Aya had been terrified when Harrister had turned on Omi. He couldn't remember ever being that scared, except for his parents' deaths, Aya's accident, and a few times when Yohji or Ken had been late showing up from a mission.
Omi seemed about to respond to his statement, but the boy's words were lost in a small, hitching sob, which he barely managed to stifle.
"You … gotta … leave," Aya continued, before Omi could pull himself together enough to say anything. The redhead talked so softly the boy had to lean forward, his ear close to Aya's mouth, in order to hear, and the words were halting and hesitant as the swordsman struggled for coherence.
Omi shook his head frantically in response to Aya's statement. "No!" he exclaimed, "No way. No fucking way! We leave here together or not at all. Besides, there's no way out. You know that. Even if there was, I'm not leaving you."
"Windows," Aya muttered.
Omi shook his head again. "No, Aya," he said, his voice patient, his tone that of a parent reasoning with a stubborn child, "They're too high. I already tried them. It's no use. It'll never work."
"With … this," Aya said.
A tiny, sharp, metallic clink drew Omi's attention toward Aya's hands as the redhead released a small object. It clattered to the floor, and, in the moonlight from the windows above them, Omi recognized one of Yohji's watches. He frowned at Aya, confused as to why the redhead would have their teammate's weapon. Yohji was a fanatic about his weaponry. They all were. You didn't stay alive long in their business if you didn't take care of your equipment, and none of them would ever willingly let their weapons out of their sight for any length of time. So, how was it Aya had Yohji's watch? Had the chain smoking idiot actually given it to him? For the first time, the depth of the friendship and trust between Yohji and Aya hit him. Why hadn't he seen it before? But, it was true. There was the proof, right there on the floor next to Aya's leg. Somehow, knowing Yohji held the redhead in such high regard made Omi feel that much more protective toward him, as if he, now, had to protect Aya for Yohji's sake, too.
"Yohji's watch," Omi muttered, retrieving the fallen object. "But, how did you …?"
"Yo … Yohji," Aya said, cutting Omi off mid-question. He was running out of strength, and he had to get Omi out of here before it failed him. "For … forgot … had it. You … use it … es … cape."
"We'll go together," Omi said. He felt his heart clench when Aya slowly, gingerly, shook his head. "Please, Aya, don't … don't make me go."
He knew he was begging, and he knew it was irrational. All that time spent standing under these damn windows, wishing for a way out. Now that it was in his hands, now that he could smell freedom, he wanted nothing more than to remain here, imprisoned in this cavernous room forested with the huge packing crates. If he left Aya here, he had a sinking feeling he'd never see the swordsman again. Harrister would kill him, and they'd never find the body. Omi couldn't bear the thought of leaving Aya behind, couldn't stand the idea of the stubborn, iron-willed redhead dying alone, the last victim of that psycho, murdering, English bastard. Somehow, without him even realizing it was happening, Aya had come to mean so much to him. When had that happened? When had he stopped having to struggle to think of Aya as Weiss and begun thinking of him as his friend … his brother?
"Please, Aya," Omi repeated. "Together. We'll go together, OK?"
Aya, once again, shook his head no. He finally summoned up the strength to look at Omi, and the young blonde was shocked beyond words, and a little bit scared, to see tears in the swordsman's good eye.
"Can't," Aya managed to choke out. "Can't … make … it. Everything … too hard … Hurts … too … much …Can't … protect … Can't … hang on … longer. You … have … go."
Omi sat quietly for a moment, his mind stringing Aya's broken words into sentences and considering what the redhead had said. Aya was dying --- had, probably, been dying from the first minute Harrister had dragged them back to this godforsaken place. No matter how much the young blonde wanted to deny it, no matter how much he wanted to pretend otherwise, he knew it was true. And, Aya knew it, too. He could see it in the swordsman's face, and he realized Aya had only been hanging on for his sake, to protect him. All the more reason, in Omi's mind, not to go. Still, if he left, he might be able to bring Yohji and Ken back here in time to save Aya. It was only a slim chance, but, if he stayed, they'd have no chance at all. And, then, there was Harrister. Aya had taken so much damage keeping the Englishman's attention off him. His leaving would remove that threat from Aya's head, and Omi figured that had to help a little.
"All right," the young blonde finally agreed. He leaned forward and retrieved the watch from the floor. It made a soft, metallic clicking sound as he turned it over in his hands and released a small length of the wire coiled inside.
"All right," Omi repeated, with a soft sigh, "I … I don't want to do this." He found he couldn't even look at Aya, so he focused his attention on the small patch of dusty concrete near the toe of his sneaker. "I don't want to leave you, but … I know you're right. If I go … I can get Yohji and Ken." He finally summoned up the courage to look at his partner and found Aya staring at him with an unblinking, one-eyed gaze that was surprisingly intense and focused, considering everything the redhead had been through. "Promise me, Aya," Omi said, his voice quavering a little, "Promise me you'll wait for us. Promise you'll stay alive until we come back for you."
Aya stared at the boy for several minutes. He knew Omi needed to hear the words, needed to hear him promise, needed to believe he would hang on until they could come back for him. Omi needed to believe everything would work out, in the end. Aya understood this, and he wanted to give it to the boy. He wanted to bestow that belief, foolish, childish, candy-apple fantasy that it was, on Omi --- his final gift to the young blonde who reminded him so much of his sister, one final act of kindness that, maybe, would undo some of the black karma he'd built up over the past few years. But, he just didn't know if he could. Promising meant he had to try; he had to try to survive, had to struggle to continue living, and he just didn't know if he could. Really, he didn't know if he wanted to. Time was when he'd been afraid of death, been afraid of leaving those he cared about alone in this world. But, now, the blackness was so familiar, so inviting. It didn't seem all that bad, anymore, and Aya was ready for this whole, little drama to be over. He already knew how it was going to end; the soft, inviting black hovering at the edges of his vision told him that. So, why bother playing it out any longer? Why not just skip to the ending and be done with it?
"Aya," Omi prompted, "Promise me."
"Try," Aya finally answered. He looked away from the boy's earnest, almost-innocent blue eyes. Omi tended to wear his emotions there, for the world to see, and Aya couldn't face the fear and disappointment written in them at the moment.
"No," Omi stated, his tone flat, matter-of-fact, and insistent. He reached over and, ever so gently, cupped the redhead's chin in his hand, forcing Aya's head up, so he could look into the swordsman's good eye, "If that's all you can do, I'm not leaving. I don't care if I die, too … but, I won't leave you here to die alone. You don't just fucking try, you hear me? You promise me. Promise me, or I'm staying."
Finally, Aya nodded his head, ever so slightly, his eye sliding away from Omi's face, refusing to meet the steady, earnest gaze in those cornflower-blue eyes.
"Say it," Omi insisted. "I have to hear you say it out loud, or I won't go. Promise me you'll hang on … you'll stay alive until we come back for you. Promise, Aya."
"Pro … mise," Aya whispered, slumping forward as his strength finally gave out.
Omi caught the older man before he hit the floor. His arms tightened around the redhead's battered, bruised body in a gentle, protective hug, and he pulled Aya closer to him, praying, to anyone who cared to listen, that Aya would be able to keep his promise. Omi knew what it had taken for the redhead to make it, and he knew Aya would never willingly break his word. He knew, in the end, this one, simple promise, one demanded, perhaps, more out of a boy's childish selfishness than anything else, would cost Aya dearly. So, Omi prayed and wished with the fervor of childhood innocence, something he'd never truly known, that Aya would have the strength he needed to endure what was sure to come, and that they would be able to get to the redhead before it was too late. Impulsively, he brushed his lips against the top of Aya's head, a whisper of a kiss against filth encrusted, blood-matted hair, before lowering the unconscious man the rest of the way to the cold, hard, dusty floor.
"I'm … I'm sorry, Aya. I'm so sorry," he whispered.
Swiftly, now that his mind was made up, Omi returned to his position under the windows. He tore his coat and wrapped the material around his hands before he unleashed the wire, smiling in satisfaction when he was rewarded, on his first attempt, with the sound of shattering glass, followed by the metallic clink of the wire connecting to the window frame. He pulled and leaned against the line, to make sure it would hold his weight, and, once he was certain, climbed nimbly up the wall. He hitched one arm against the window's base as he used his fist to break out the rest of the glass, and, then, he was up, over the sash, and through the tiny portal into the fresh night air just beyond. He dropped the wire down the outside and rappelled down, making the distance in three easy bounds. Once he was safe on the wet pavement surrounding the building, concealed in its heavy shadows, Omi paused long enough to retract and replace the wire before making his escape into the misty, foggy night. He never looked back, not even when he was perched in that window, breaking out the glass serving as the last flimsy barrier to his freedom. He couldn't. If he had looked back, he would have seen Aya lying there, helpless, broken, and dying …and he wouldn't have been strong enough to leave.