Fanfic Archive: Sacrifice, 7

[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 7

Ken padded down the hall and stopped in front of Yohji's room. He stood there for several moments, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and listening to the old wood squeaking under him, as he stared at the door, which was ajar. Light seeped out through the small opening, cutting a pie-wedged swath through the hallway's murky darkness, and Ken took the soft yellow glow to mean Yohji was inside. He wanted to go in, wanted to talk to Yohji, maybe even make peace with the chain-smoking blonde, but he was nervous and unsure. He didn't know how to approach the older man, and he wasn't sure if Yohji would accept his friendship any longer. Ken shifted again, eliciting a new series of nervous squeaks and creaks from the floor beneath him, and debated over what he should do. They hadn't talked --- not really --- since that day in the Crazy Geisha's parking lot, the first day they had known, for sure, that Omi and Aya were gone. Ken couldn't stop blaming Aya for what had happened, and Yohji couldn't stop hating the ex-goalie for that, so the two of them had come to a tacit understanding. They wouldn't talk about it. But, since the frantic search for their missing teammates seemed to consume every waking hour as well as the few sleeping ones, their "understanding" meant they hadn't spoken ten words to each other since Aya and Omi had fallen off the face of the earth.



How long had it been now, Ken wondered as he continued to stare at the door. Five days? Six? Maybe even more since they had disappeared? He wasn't sure. He was ashamed to admit it, but he'd lost count, all the days and nights blending together into one mind-numbingly long, sleepless mass of time. But, he knew it had been a while, and, really, this whole thing with Yohji was starting to seem just a bit … silly. Still, he was too stubborn to give in, too pig-headed to try meeting the older man halfway. The ex-goalie knew his chain-smoking teammate was just as stubborn as he was. Consequently, this silent stalemate between them could go on until the end of time.

Ken summoned up the courage to lay one hand, palm flat, against the battered, scarred wood. If it just opened on its own, he reasoned, the whole thing was out of his hands. It wouldn't be like he sought Yohji out. It wouldn't be like he was admitting he was lonely, that he missed the blonde idiot's company. No, it would be more like a sign he should venture in and try talking to the older man. The door refused to budge.

"For the love of … this is fucking ridiculous," Ken muttered.

He nudged the door with his foot until it swung open about half-way. He peered around it, and, to his irritation, found an empty room. Well, "empty" wasn't exactly the right word. True to his materialistic nature, Yohji collected a lot of "stuff" --- liquor bottles, packages of cigarettes in various stages of being smoked, ashtrays, shoes, jewelry, expensive clothing, DVDs, magazines, comic books … stuff like that … the flotsam and jetsam of life, more or less --- most of which he seemed to store on the floor of his room. But, although cluttered and dusty, the room was, at the moment, uninhabited.

Ken frowned at the digital clock beside Yohji's bed. It screamed the time in tall, angry, red numbers --- five A.M. If the blonde idiot wasn't in here, sleeping, or, more likely, pacing and chain smoking, Ken wondered, where the hell was he? The ex-goalie knew Yohji had to be around here somewhere. Normally, if the older man wasn't in his room, he was out, clubbing the night away, losing himself in a temporary haze of drugs and alcohol and the sweaty press of bodies on a dance floor. But, the tall blonde hadn't been out since the night Omi and Aya had disappeared.

"That fuckhead," Ken muttered, under his breath, irritated with Yohji for not having the good grace to sit around in his room, waiting for Ken to talk to him. He exited the room, pulling the door closed with a decisive slam, which echoed through the hallway. It wasn't much, but it made the ex-goalie feel a lot better as he turned and made his way down the hall to the stairs.

"Yohji?" Ken called as he entered the kitchen. "You in here? Yohji?"

No answer, other than the room's normal, quiet, electrical hum … the kind of sound you never noticed until it was gone and the creepy-loud silence screamed at you. The kitchen was dark, with only the small light over the stove offering illumination, but the ex-goalie didn't bother reaching for the switch on the wall next to him. Ken stood in the doorway and stared around the small space for a moment or two, as if he expected the older man to pop out of one of the cabinets over the stove or under the sink. He felt his irritation growing. It was just like that shithead Yohji not to be around when a guy wanted to make peace. The ex-jock sighed, his breath exploding out in an exasperated puff of air that sounded almost like a gunshot in the nearly silent room, and crossed the kitchen to the refrigerator. He removed his half-empty Gatorade bottle and stood there for a little while, leaning his weight against the appliance's cool bulk, one arm thrown lazily across the top of its door for support, as he drank the sugary-sweet sports drink and stared at the kitchen table.

He wondered where Yohji could have gotten off to, but, the biggest part of his mind surveyed the eerie silence that had fallen over the house since Omi and Aya's disappearance. Normally, Ken would have been the first to complain about the endless noise level around the flower shop and apartment, which was ironic, considering he was the source of a good part of it. He would have thought he'd be happy to have some peace and quiet for a change, and he'd have thought he'd be particularly glad not to hear Aya's cutting, biting remarks dogging his every movement.

Ken couldn't help but grin as he heard the redhead's sarcastic, irritated voice in his head: "What the hell're you doing, Ken? Air conditioning the whole damn house with the fridge? Were you raised in a fucking barn?"

But this … this quiet that threatened to suffocate the breath out of him was not a good kind of silence. It wasn't peaceful. It wasn't even nice. It was uncomfortable, hollow --- like the Koneko had died on the inside, but the building didn't realize it yet, and, so, continued to stand as it always had. He missed Omi … missed seeing the young blonde at breakfast every morning, missed hearing Omi's incessant chatter about everything that had happened at school that day, missed being able to talk to the youngest Weiss about anything and everything. That went without saying, but Ken shuddered as he realized he missed hearing Aya's voice, too. He didn't know how it had happened … hadn't even realized it had happened until this moment … but, somehow, he had grown accustomed to the redhead's surly, quiet, slightly angry presence and biting, sarcastic remarks. He couldn't quite say he liked Aya. No, it was more like he'd just grown used to the fourth member of their little team, much in the same way a person grows accustomed to the stray cat that knocks over his garbage cans every night. He doesn't really want it to be part of his life any more than it wants to be included, yet, all the same, there it is … day after day, until, one day, it's gone, leaving a small, lonely, little void.

Could it be that he … missed … Aya, too?

'No,' Ken thought, shaking his head to rid it of such traitorous ideas, 'No way. No fucking way. Not that guy. Who could miss an asshole like him?'

But, the truth was, even if the ex-goalie was loathe to admit it, he'd let go of his anger toward Aya. He wasn't sure when it had happened, but, over the past several days, the realization two teammates were missing under less than ideal circumstances had finally managed to wriggle past his innate stubbornness and sink into his brain. He wanted to hate Aya for what had happened. It was so easy, hating the redhead. Aya didn't do anything to endear himself to any of them, so he was an easy target for Ken's anger on most days, but, the fact he wasn't here to defend himself … well, that just made hating and blaming him for this shitty situation that much more attractive, in Ken's book. It was a hell of a lot easier than laying the blame where he knew it truly belonged --- at his own door. He couldn't escape the truth of the matter, which was that he might have been able to prevent this whole mess if he had been there that night. If he hadn't been so lazy and eager to shirk surveillance duty, Omi and Aya might not be missing right now. He knew Yohji had to feel the same way. It was why they hadn't spoken since that night. They were both angry at themselves, but it was so much easier for Ken to hate Aya for it, and for Yohji, in turn, to hate Ken. It was a vicious, never-ending cycle that spiraled ever downward.

Ken shuddered as the kitchen's quiet seemed to close in on him like a hungry python, wrapping him in its coils and squeezing the life out of him. He slammed the refrigerator shut with enough force to make the bottles on the door shelves slide around and clink together. He needed to be out of this room. He needed to be with another human being, even if his only choice in the matter was a grouchy, bitchy, pissed-off, and generally out-of-sorts Yohji.

"Well, not in his room, the kitchen, or the living room," Ken muttered, as he started down the stairs toward the basement, giving in to the urgency he felt by clearing the steps two at a time. "That only leaves the briefing room."

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

Three steps from the bottom, Ken could see a soft, bluish, electronic glow emanating from the dungeon-like darkness at the end of the stairwell. He recognized that light, having come down on more occasions than he liked to admit to find Omi clacking away on his keyboard with only the soft, friendly glow of the computer monitor to illuminate the darkened room. It told him, without a doubt, he'd found the chain smoking blonde. Ken paused at the last step. Now that he had found Yohji, he wasn't sure what he should say to the man. He knew he had to break this stalemate between them, but he didn't know how.

As he stood there, wondering if he could just pretend nothing had happened, ending this fight the same way they had ended so many others, the soft, intermittent sounds of Yohji striking computer keys, punctuated by occasional, almost inaudible exclamations of "Shit!" and "Fuck me!" carried to Ken's ears. He couldn't help smiling. The mental picture of Yohji, who never did anything more with that computer, which he had nicknamed "You Bastard", than surf for porn when Omi wasn't around to stop him, trying to extract useful information from the machine struck him as funny, despite the dire situation that had driven the blonde playboy to such extreme measures.

He was still laughing under his breath as he rounded the corner and entered the briefing room. As expected, he found the tall blonde seated in front of the computer, leaning forward so his nose almost touched the monitor, in a darkened room illuminated only by the light from the screen in front of him. It gave the mission room, which was dark and cave-like even on the best of days, an eerie, bluish glow. As he approached, Ken noticed one of Omi's favorite search engines running in one corner of the monitor, while a "hacker" program, which the youngest Weiss used to break into government databases, covered the rest of the screen. The ex-goalie could see the numbers and information reflected in the dark lenses of Yohji's ever-present sunglasses. Ken shook his head in wonder at his older teammate. How that idiot could see anything in the dark behind those dark lenses was a constant source of amazement. He figured he'd never understand it, but it seemed to work out okay for Yohji, which, he guessed, was all that really mattered.

His reflection in the monitor and an errant foot on a squeaky floorboard alerted Yohji to Ken's presence. The tall blonde's emerald green eyes flicked away from the screen to travel up and down Ken's person, taking in, in that short, momentary, almost careless glance, the disheveled hair, stained, grubby white t-shirt, and filthy jeans with a rip on the left knee --- the same clothes Ken had worn for the past few days. For a moment, it looked like Yohji was going to say something. Ken could almost see the sarcastic, angry, cutting remark flash through those eyes, so expressive even when, as now, they carried a world of worry and exhaustion within them, but Yohji managed to bite the words off before they left his mouth. The ex-goalie had to admit he was impressed with the tall blonde's self-control. Had the tables been turned, he was certain he would have said something he'd regret.

Instead, Yohji's attention settled back on the screen in front of him as he leaned forward a bit more to reach for his smoldering cigarette, which rested in an overflowing ashtray on top of the monitor. He managed to grab the stick without looking at what he was doing, but he shifted the ashtray's contents in the process, spilling ash and spent cigarettes. The ash floated down to the keyboard, where it joined several other fairly large bits of debris, and one crushed-out ciggie rolled along the top of the monitor, until it fell off the edge and came to rest on the right side of the desk, next to another overflowing ashtray. Yohji took no notice of either one, other than incidentally brushing the ash aside with his first stroke at the keyboard.

Ken shook his head as he leaned over, around Yohji, and flipped on the overhead desk lamp, which rested on a shelf near the monitor. It sprang to life, throwing the immediate area into a harsh, hot, halogen glow, which only served to highlight the generally sorry state of their surroundings. A thin, gray, sooty layer of ash coated the top of the monitor, keyboard, desk, and floor around it. Spent and crushed-out cigarettes littered the area, overflowing from at least half-a-dozen ashtrays and spilling out onto the top of the monitor, over the right side of the desk, and onto the floor. Several had rolled under the desk chair, only to be crushed into the carpet under its wheels. Ken spared a moment or two for a quick survey of the rest of the room. Hard to believe, but it looked even worse than the desk area. The whole place reeked of stale smoke and even staler booze, and a thin layer of greasy, sooty ash seemed to have settled on every stationary object in the room. Liquor bottles, well over two dozen of them, littered the coffee table and floor. Most of them were empty, but a few still had something in them. Several had tipped over onto their sides, spilling their remaining contents out onto the table or the floor. Ken even saw necks of a few sticking out from under the sofa cushions. The only thing in more prominence than liquor bottles were overflowing ashtrays. It looked like Yohji had moved almost all of his sizeable collection of the receptacles down into this room. Without even trying, Ken counted at least twenty scattered about, not including the six near the computer, and all of them spilled used, crushed cigarettes and ash onto the immediately surrounding flat surfaces. The small trash can near the desk spilled over with crumpled cigarette packages. The floor around the trash was covered with the crinkly, little cellophane balls, and Ken could see more on the floor under the furniture, probably having rolled there after missed attempts at hitting the too-full trash can. When Yohji was upset, he drank, smoked, and paced, and the carnage strewn about the briefing room stood as a silent testament to the tall blonde's frazzled state of mind. As Ken watched, Yohji lit up another cigarette, his fourth in just the few moments the ex-goalie had been down here, and began to huff at it as if his life depended on it, spewing each long string of smoke out into the air above his head, where it joined the already-hovering, stale, smog-like cloud that hung about the room.

Ken dropped into the extra chair near the desk, tearing his attention away from the tall blonde. He wanted to make peace with Yohji, but didn't yet know how to go about it. He did know, though, in the state of mind Yohji was in right now, staring at him was not the best thing to do. As upset, frustrated, and thoroughly pissed-off as Yohji was right now, Ken knew the slightest misstep on his part would lead to a physical confrontation that would do nothing to improve either of their humors or their quickly fracturing friendship. Instead, the ex-goalie took another long look around the room while he struggled to come up with some way of breaking the ice.

On his second pass over the space, Ken noticed the rest of the mayhem: the dozens of empty and half-full soda cans and Gatorade bottles; partially-filled, grease-stained fried chicken and pizza boxes and crumpled wrappings from half-a-dozen fast-food hamburgers gulped in a hurry --- hasty meals eaten almost as an afterthought; and at least thirty glasses in various states of emptiness, ranging from drained dry to over half full, with fuzzy black stuff growing on the liquid inside. It all attested to the fact Ken had spent almost as much time down here as Yohji since the disappearance of their teammates. Just as Yohji chain smoked and drank when he worried, Ken tended to eat. He'd already worked his way through most of the fast food restaurants in the Koneko's neighborhood, and, if they didn't find Omi and Aya soon, the ex-goalie figured he'd probably gain a good fifty or sixty pounds.

Ken closed his eyes, shutting out the pit-like chaos of the briefing room for a few seconds, as he thought about the rest of the apartment. He felt his stomach fall in dismay as he realized this room was only the very tip of the iceberg. There was more of the same all over the apartment, and Ken couldn't help but wonder what Aya would do when he finally came home to find such an unholy mess. Truthfully, at this point, Ken thought the only thing that could improve this place was if they decided to just take a match to it and be done with it. It was almost too filthy to clean … almost past the point of no return. He could just hear Aya blowing a gasket over this squalor.

Ken sighed, bringing Yohji's attention from the computer to him. The tall blonde gave his brunette teammate another long, appraising look before lighting yet another cigarette and blowing more smoke into the noxious cloud around them.

"Not sleeping?" Yohji asked, directing his attention back to the monitor and the blinking program in front of him. His voice was rough and gravelly with a hard, bitter edge to it, born of too much time spent in this futile, desperate search, too many hours spent blaming himself for what had happened, too much booze, too much smoking, and not nearly enough food or sleep.

Ken was surprised at the trembling edge to his teammate's voice. It almost sounded as if Yohji's words would break as they fell from his mouth and struck the carpet, brittle as old glass. He couldn't remember ever hearing that much exhaustion, that much hopelessness, that much fear, crowding Yohji's voice. Yohji was the one who joked his way through everything, no matter how serious, and he wasn't ever afraid of anything. At least, Ken had always thought so. Now, though, hearing the undertone in the tall blonde's words, the brunette had to wonder. Maybe, all this time, he hadn't known Yohji at all. Maybe, the chain smoking blonde had been hiding his fear behind the jokes all along, and none of them had realized it.

'No,' Ken thought, as he studied his partner, taking in the matted, greasy, disheveled hair swept back into an untidy ponytail, the clothes Yohji had been wearing for at least the past three days, the ashy gray pallor to his skin, the dark, bruise-like circles and exhausted green eyes that even those sunglasses couldn't hide, the way his hand trembled as he worked the keyboard or picked up a cigarette. 'That's not true. Aya realized it.'

Ken couldn't help but think back on the past several months, since Aya had joined the team. He remembered how surprised he had been to see Yohji take up with the unfriendly, stoic redhead. Within a month or two of Aya's arrival, Yohji had become the swordsman's almost-constant companion, something Aya had protested, but, even so, hadn't seemed to mind all that much. Ken thought back now and remembered all the times he had seen the two of them together, Yohji shadowing Aya on deliveries, or on some personal errand; Aya accompanying the blonde on grocery runs or other house-hold tasks; or just finding them sitting together in the common living room, Yohji watching a movie and Aya reading in a far corner. He had always thought it odd, but, now, Ken realized, for the first time, Aya had been the only one to, really and truly, understand Yohji. Aya had seen through the tall blonde's act and accepted him for who and what he was --- a human being, a man who gets scared and doesn't want to show it, a man who hates himself for what he does and who he has become.

"Hey … earth to Ken? You still awake over there?"

Ken blinked back into awareness to find Yohji giving him an irritated glare that, for all the exhaustion written in his eyes and face, had lost none of its edge. He smiled sheepishly, and ducked his head in an embarrassed gesture, as he ran his fingers through his hair and chuckled.

"Uh … yeah … yeah, I'm awake. Just … um … just, you know … thinking," Ken replied, a hint of nervous laughter coloring his words.

Yohji took another long drag off his cigarette, and snorted in irritation, sending two streams of white smoke from his nostrils, as he muttered, "Hnh. I'll be sure to alert the fucking media." He turned around to glare at Ken again. It looked like he was about to make another cutting remark, but, instead, he just sighed, shook his head, and returned to staring at the monitor in front of him, occasionally, plucking at a key here and there.

"Not sleeping?" Yohji repeated, this time, without looking back at his brunette teammate.

Ken jumped, startled by the sudden intrusion of Yohji's gravelly voice into the silence that had fallen around them, and shook his head as he replied, "Nah. You neither, huh?"

Yohji sighed and leaned back in the chair, tilting it backward until it creaked in protest. He removed his sunglasses and tossed them onto the desk, where they landed in the middle of a pile of spent cigarettes, kicking up a little puff of ash and knocking several of the butts onto the floor. The tall blonde ran his hands over his face and sighed again, a hollow, exhausted sound that twisted at Ken's stomach, and, somehow, almost made the ex-goalie want to cry. Then, Yohji stared at the ceiling above his head for several long moments. Ken figured their conversation was over. It hadn't been much, but, at least the brunette knew the stalemate between them had been broken, and peace had been restored. That, at least, was a relief.

Just when Ken had about decided Yohji was done talking, the tall blonde said, almost under his breath, as if he wasn't aware he was even saying the words out loud, "Fucking house is too damn quiet. Who the fuck can sleep like that?"

Ken shrugged and took another sip of Gatorade. He didn't know what to say in response to Yohji's question. The house was too quiet, too dead-feeling. It was what had driven him down here tonight, in the first place, seeking companionship from the only person left to him. Finally, after several minutes, Ken asked, "So, find anything?"

Yohji sighed and leaned forward once more. His fingers automatically grabbed for his smoldering cigarette, and he finished it off in one last, long drag. The tall blonde blew the smoke out into the air with an angry hiss before stubbing the spent stick out in the nearest ashtray. He crushed it with angry, stabbing motions that spilled a torrent of ash out onto the desk. Some of it drifted lazily down to the floor, and still more of it landed on Yohji's black jeans. Ken found his attention riveted on those floating embers, but the tall blonde ignored them in favor of grabbing for the pack on the left side of the desk, next to the keyboard. He shook out one stick, and peered into the little box, hissing in irritation and crushing the pack at discovering it was his last one. He tossed the crumpled package in the general direction of the trash can. It hit the rim and fell to the floor, bouncing twice before coming to rest a short distance away, just one more crinkly, cellophane ball added to the mess.

"No," Yohji finally answered, taking a long drag from the ciggie.

It was so quiet in the room that Ken could hear Yohji's cigarette crackling as the tobacco lit up and turned into glowing embers. The blonde held the smoke in his lungs for a moment or two before tilting his head back toward the ceiling and letting the breath out in a long, hissing sigh. He put the glowing stick back in his mouth before, once again, running his fingers through grease-matted hair, an action which freed the long locks from their elastic prison. His hair tie fell to the floor behind his chair with a soft, little plop, but Yohji didn't make any move to retrieve it.

"No," the tall blonde repeated. "Fuck! If they had dropped off the face of the earth, it'd be easier to find them." He sat up straight and glared at the computer, as if this failure, this utter lack of resolution to their current predicament, was the machine's fault. He banged it with the flat of his hand, muttering, "You bastard. You fucking bastard. Where the fuck are all the answers now, huh?" He shook his head in frustration and took another long drag from the cigarette before continuing, "This guy … he's a ghost. A fucking ghost. Less, even. I've found more information on us, Weiss, and Kritiker than the fucker who has them." Another rough jerk of fingers through his hair, the only way he had of physically indicating his frustration at the moment, and Yohji said, his voice soft, lost-sounding, "They've been gone … what? Three days … four … five … a week? Doesn't really matter. It seems like so long … so fucking long. Maybe … maybe we should just face the fact they're dead." His voice sounded so hollow, so exhausted, so defeated. "Shit … who the fuck'm I kidding? They're probably dead already."

Ken stared at Yohji, shocked to hear those words from the tall blonde, surprised at the hopelessness and defeat he heard in his partner's voice. He wanted to tell Yohji it wasn't true, wanted to tell the tall blonde they couldn't give up, they couldn't stop looking until they found their teammates, even if it was only to bring two bodies back home. He wanted to tell Yohji Omi and Aya deserved at least that much. He wanted to say these things … all of these things … but he just couldn't find the words. He understood the despair and hopelessness, the helplessness, he heard in Yohji's voice --- understood them because he felt it, too.

His mind ran back over everything they'd been through in the past several days, since Omi and Aya had dropped out of sight. They had gone back to the Crazy Geisha every night since the abduction, but the club had always been closed. In their minds, that cemented the connection between the night spot, the killings, and their teammates' disappearance. Another day or two of Internet research had led them to information indicating the Geisha was owned by some British conglomerate, but, after that, the wheels had come off their little information wagon. They hadn't been able to find anything more on the club's ownership, or track down the name of any one person connected to it. Kritiker had supplied a list of Crazy Geisha employees, and he and Yohji had questioned each and every one of them --- some several times. But the employees were a dead end. Several of them were involved in less-than-savory things, but none of them were connected to the killings or the kidnapping. Coming up with a complete list of customers had been next to impossible, as the club was, mostly, a cash-based business. They had managed to scrounge up a list of credit card customers from the night Omi and Aya had disappeared, and they had dutifully tracked down and questioned each and every one of those people, too. In their "downtime" --- mostly at night, when neither of them could sleep, but they couldn't question witnesses or physically chase down potential suspects --- they had taken turns surfing the Internet and using Omi's various hacking programs in an effort to gather more information about the British conglomerate or on the other victims, in the hopes something might lead them to their missing teammates' location. But, so far, everything had turned out to be nothing more than a series of frustrating dead ends. Still, until tonight, neither he nor Yohji had been able to bring themselves to voice their worst fear --- that Omi and Aya were dead --- out loud. Hearing the words fall, heavy and final in the room's silence --- it almost sounded to Ken like the slamming of a crypt lid, as if, by saying them, Yohji would make the worst possible scenario come true.

Ken sighed. He still didn't know what to say to Yohji, but he couldn't just let the tall blonde's words hang in the air like that without responding. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor, as he said, "C'mon, Yohji. Don't give up now. We can't … we can't give up on them. If … if it was the other way around… if we were the ones who were gone, they'd never give up. Not until they found us. You know that."

"Yeah," Yohji muttered. He took another drag from his cigarette, finishing it off and crushing it out in the nearest over-flowing ashtray, spilling another stream of ash onto the desk, keyboard, and carpet.

"You know," Ken said, as he watched the embers drift downward, like little, gray snowflakes, "Omi doesn't allow smoking around his computer."

Yohji snorted, a harsh, derisive sound, and shook his head as he opened a new package of cigarettes and pulled out the first stick. He had to flick the lighter three times before it finally lit. He sucked on the ciggie until the end glowed a warm red, and then blew the smoke out in a long, sighing breath, all over the computer.

"Yeah, well, if Omi doesn't like it, he can just get his happy ass home and make me stop," Yohji snapped. He blew out another stream of smoke, and looked over at Ken, a crooked grin spreading over his face, despite the exhaustion, worry, and fear also written there. "You ever eat or drink anything besides that damn green crap?"

Ken stared at the now-empty Gatorade bottle he still held clutched in his hand, and smiled back. He leaned forward a bit more and quickly, before the tall blonde could stop him, flicked Yohji's ear with his fingers, which caused the older man to jump in surprise, as he replied, "You ever do anything besides smoke?"

Yohji shook his head, running his fingers through his hair and working out a few of the larger tangles. "No way, brother. Smoking is life."

"Hnh," Ken replied, leaning back in his chair and twisting around to survey the room. "That might be so, but … well, this place is a pit. I mean … maybe this room is the worst, but the whole fucking apartment is like this. Everything smells like smoke, cigarette butts and ash all over the computer desk and floor in here, and in the kitchen --- in the sink, on the floor, even on the table. I even found holes burned in the carpet outside Aya's room. The kitchen sink's full of dirty dishes and empty booze and Gatorade bottles. I even tripped over a liquor bottle in the bathroom last night. I almost cracked my head on the sink! I can't remember the last time we cleaned off the table in the kitchen. I sat a glass down on there yesterday, and it stuck. Can you believe that shit? It actually stuck to the fucking tabletop!" He reached upward, toward the desk lamp, and removed a sock draped across it. He held it up in front of his face for emphasis as he continued, "There're clothes all over the damn place. I even saw a pair of socks in the refrigerator!"

Yohji waited patiently as Ken ran down his litany of household sins. When the ex-goalie paused for breath, the tall blonde shrugged, flicked some ash off the end of his cigarette, and asked, "And your point is?"

"Well," Ken replied, shifting in his chair and contemplating the floor near his feet with a sheepish, almost embarrassed expression, "Aya's gonna blow a fucking gasket when he gets home and finds the place like this. I mean … he's gonna kill us. It's like … it's like we're just proving to him we're a couple of fuck-ups … like the whole fucking place just falls apart without him here."

Yohji stared at his brunette teammate for a few minutes, before bursting out in laughter. It started as a snicker, then grew into a giggle, and continued until it morphed into a full-blown belly laugh. The tall blonde threw his head back, slid down a bit in his chair, both arms flung over its sides and cigarette held loosely in one hand, and guffawed until tears ran down his cheeks, at which point he paused for a moment to wipe them away, before laughing again. He finally brought himself under control and managed to stop laughing, only to start all over again the moment he looked over and saw Ken's exasperated expression.

"Look!" Ken yelled over Yohji's laughter, wincing at the squeaky tone in his own voice. He slapped the blonde lightly on the top of his head, and hissed, his face twisted in an irritated scowl that only served to fuel Yohji's hysterical laughter, "It's not funny, you asshole. This is serious. I mean … well, you know what a fucking neat freak Aya is, and … well, he's scary when he's pissed. You can handle it, maybe … but, some of us …"

"Aya already knows we're fuck-ups," Yohji said, cutting Ken off in mid-sentence. The tall blonde managed to bring his laughter under control, and he sighed, a satisfied, relaxed sound, before continuing, in a serious tone, "Look, I'd be happy to sit through about a hundred of Aya's bitch fits right now … just to hear his voice. Just so I'd know he was alive."

Ken's sarcastic, biting reply was cut off before it even started by the angry, urgent jangling of the telephone. The former soccer star sighed and reached around Yohji's back to answer it. At least, his fingers fumbled in the air where it should have been, only to find it inexplicably missing. Ken stared at the empty space for a few moments. The phone was always there. He couldn't ever remember it being anywhere else, and his brain struggled to catch up with reality and come to terms with the knowledge their phone was officially M.I.A..

"Where the fuck is the phone?" Ken hissed, by the time the third ring had sounded. He prodded the back of Yohji's head with his elbow in an angry, rough gesture to get the tall blonde's attention.

"Huh?" Yohji replied, pulling his attention away from the computer monitor and staring around with a lost, empty expression, as if he wasn't aware of the harsh, angry, trilling that seemed to expand until it overwhelmed the litter-filled space around them.

"The phone," Ken prompted with another angry elbow jab, as the tenth ring sounded out.

"Oh … uh … somewhere," Yohji replied, waving his hand behind his head to indicate the room at large. He turned his attention back to the monitor, ignoring the scathing glare Ken directed at him.

"Great …. Just fucking great," Ken muttered under his breath.

He rose from his chair and scanned the room, taking in the general chaos with a sense of urgency and panic, brought on by the twentieth angry ring. Whoever it was wasn't going to hang on forever, and Ken was convinced he wouldn't be able to find the telephone before the mysterious caller hung up. Suddenly, a flash of inspiration flared through his panic-numbed brain.

"The cord!" Ken yelled at the back of Yohji's head. He hissed in irritation when the tall blonde, who was ignoring the ringing phone altogether, failed to respond. "Where is the cord?" Ken snapped to the background cacophony of the phone's continued ringing.

Yohji shrugged, prompting Ken to mutter, "Fucking idiot," as he began to root around under all the trash, ashtrays, spent cigarettes, soot, and discarded clothing piled up on top of the desk, in the vicinity of the phone's last known location. He had to work around Yohji to do it, though, as the tall blonde made no move to either help with the search or get out of the way. Instead, he remained seated in Ken's way, eyes glued to the computer screen, where the hacking program was almost fifty percent finished with its work. Ken grunted with the effort of reaching around the blonde's much taller frame, and, finally, after several seconds of stretching and reaching, and a series of grunts and muttered, unintelligible curses, he succeeded in finding the cord, which had been entombed under two of the over-stuffed ashtrays, a sizeable pile of ash and spent cigarettes, and another dirty sock and torn t-shirt.

With a small cry of triumph, Ken yanked at the cord, freeing it and sending a deluge of debris plummeting toward the desk below. Yohji yelped in surprise as one of the ashtrays bounced in front of him, scattering its contents on the keyboard, the desk, and Yohji's hands and jeans before plummeting to the floor, where it bounced twice and then came to rest at a crazy angle, tilted against one leg of the coffee table.

Ken shrugged and gave Yohji a sheepish grin as the tall blonde turned around to glare at him before blowing the fine, gray dust off the keyboard, brushing most of it off his pants, and, almost immediately, turning his attention back to the computer in front of him.

The ex-goalie couldn't be bothered with Yohji's irritation right now, though. He was on a mission --- a phone-finding mission. He continued to pull at the cord, unearthing it from various piles of trash, dirty dishes, and clothing as he followed it almost completely around the room. He couldn't help but wonder why any of them had ever purchased such a long cord for the damn phone. He would have sworn it could circle this room at least twice, but, maybe that was just the panic and frustration of not being able to answer a ringing phone that was clamoring for attention. He finally got to the end of the cord and located the errant telephone --- buried under the middle sofa cushion, next to a half-eaten sandwich with some questionable green stuff growing on it, a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels, and a pair of boxer shorts.

Ken frowned at the odd assortment as he tossed the cushion aside. The phone was lying in close proximity to all the items, and he really didn't want to touch any of them. He couldn't help but wonder how long the sandwich had been there. He was pretty sure it had to have ended up there long before their teammates' disappearance, at least, judging from the amount of fuzzy green on it. It looked like it had been turkey, in a previous life. As for the boxer shorts … Ken shook his head firmly. No … he didn't even want to think about those. If he let his mind wander down any of the trails to which those boxers led, he'd never be able to sit on that sofa again.

Finally, the ex-goalie sighed in defeat. He had to answer the phone, which meant he'd have to touch at least one, and, possibly all, of the items hidden beneath the cushion. The liquor bottle was the least objectionable of the three, but it was lying right next to the boxers. He couldn't move the bottle without touching the underwear, so, Ken shrugged and grabbed the sandwich. He resisted the urge to gag as his hand brushed against the fuzzy green growth, and tossed the food item over his shoulder. He heard it land with a squishy plop in a pile of Yohji's used-cigarette-pack cellophane balls, and he glanced down at his hand. He could have sworn he felt something crawling on it, but there wasn't anything there. Shaking his head, Ken succeeded in retrieving the phone at about its fortieth ring.

"Yeah … hello?" Ken snapped upon bringing the receiver up to his ear.

He listened for a few minutes without saying anything, and, then, he began to jump around and snap his fingers at Yohji to get the tall blonde's attention. After twenty or thirty finger snaps, the older man twisted around in his chair to stare, dumfounded, at Ken as he wondered what in the holy hell had gotten into the idiotic jock.

"Okay … we'll be there soon," Ken muttered into the phone, a sense of urgency mixed with the relief Yohji heard in his voice. "Just … just stay there. Stay out of sight, and don't move, okay? Just … just wait there." He grabbed Yohji's arm and pulled, dragging the unwilling blonde out of his chair, even while he was still saying, "Yeah, yeah, okay. Just wait there. We're already on our way."

Yohji had just enough time to make a wild grab for his sunglasses before he found himself pulled across the room and toward the exit.

The conversation over, Ken dropped the telephone without bothering to hang it up. A nasal, recorded voice came on the line, telling them that, if they wanted to make a call, they should hang up and try again. Ken ignored it and continued to pull his confused, protesting partner toward the stairs, chattering, "Come on, already! Get your ass in gear! We've gotta go!"

At the base of the stairs, Yohji managed to jerk his arm out of Ken's iron grip and snapped, "Like Hell! I'm not going anywhere but back into that damn chat room, and I'm staying there until I find some fucking new leads!"

"Fuck the chat room, you idiot!" Ken yelled, practically dancing with excitement, his eyes shining from the adrenaline surging through his veins. He had the presence of mind to realize Yohji was no longer following him, and he stopped moving up the stairs for a moment and did an excited little jig, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as he explained, "Omi! That was … It was Omi! On the phone! He's at some all-night coffee shop downtown. He wants us to come get him!"

"Shit! Why the fuck didn't you say so?" Yohji snapped, grabbing up his car keys and tailing Ken up the stairs.

Some of the ex-goalie's excitement had infected the chain smoking blonde. Yohji took the stairs two at a time in his hurry. He tripped halfway up, but he didn't mind. He regained his balance, and couldn't help laughing at his own clumsiness. He couldn't believe it. His prayers had finally been answered. They were all right. They were found, and they were all right. Finally, his family would be back together again. Suddenly, the fact Ken hadn't been forthcoming with very many details managed to work its way through Yohji's excitement-muddled brain.

Yohji paused near the top of the stairs and called after his brunette teammate's quickly-retreating back, "He's okay, right?"

"Huh?" Ken replied, "Yeah … sure. I'm … I'm sure he is. He didn't say, but, he sounded fine. Maybe a little upset, but … well, that's to be expected, right? Sure … he's fine. He called, didn't he?"

Yohji felt his sense of relief flee before the all-too-familiar feelings of fear and dread. Damn. He should have known it was too good to be true. The tall blonde reached the top of the stairs and crossed the kitchen.

He felt his stomach clench in fear as he exited their apartment into the cool night air and pulled the door closed behind him. When he caught up with Ken, who was dancing an excited jig next to Seven, Yohji asked, a suspicious tone to his voice, "Aya was with him, right?"

Ken stared at Yohji, as if he'd suddenly forgotten how to speak Japanese and couldn't understand the tall blonde's words.

Yohji paused, keys poised above the lock on Seven's driver side door, scowled at the ex-goalie, and repeated, "Right?"

Ken shrugged, a gesture that immediately pissed Yohji off. It was as if the ex-goalie felt Aya's safety was of no importance whatsoever, now that he knew Omi was safe and sound, waiting for them to pick him up. The tall blonde's eyes narrowed in an icy glare as he thought if they didn't have to go pick Omi up right away, he would have liked to beat the crap out of the stupid jock. Yohji could feel it. He and Ken were going to have words --- serious words --- over this whole Aya thing.

The brunette looked up to see his partner spearing him with an imitation of Aya's death glare that was convincing enough to make his blood congeal. He shrugged again, unaware of the effect that simple gesture had on his teammate's all-too-brittle nerves, and said, "He didn't say … Sure. I mean, he has to be, right? Why wouldn't he be?" He waved his hand through the air, as if to dismiss Yohji's concerns and ducked into the car as the tall blonde clicked the locks open.

Yohji slid into the driver's seat, his stomach twisted in fear, and a familiar sense of dread settling over him and overpowering his brief elation at finding at least one of his missing teammates alive and well.

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

Omi shifted nervously and shrank back into the shadows near the coffee house's front door. It was a tricky business --- getting close enough to the light thrown from the building's interior to feel safe, and, yet, remaining hidden in the shadows so none of the patrons noticed him. He hated cowering out here in the darkness like a cornered rat, but it couldn't be helped. Much as he wanted to, he didn't dare enter the brightly lit restaurant. He hungered for the comforting feel of a room full of people around him, even if they were complete strangers. He longed to bask in the washed-out, fluorescent lighting, which made everything seem older and staler than it was, and to sit anonymously among the clatter of chipped dishes and the buzz of conversation that he knew filled the place. But, he didn't dare. His clothing was ragged, torn, and encrusted with what looked like a whole lifetime's worth of dirt. That might not have been so bad --- might have raised a few eyebrows, but nothing too serious. It was the blood that kept Omi out here, hiding in the shadows when his soul longed for the light. He was covered, head-to-toe, in Aya's blood, and, while a dirty, street-urchin-looking kid might not draw an undue amount of attention, Omi was smart enough to realize, even through the blind panic that had taken hold of his senses, a blood-soaked kid would warrant a call to the police. And, that was something he couldn't chance.

A particularly loud burst of laughter caused the young blonde to start from his thoughts. He tried to shrink back into the shadows even more, only to be stopped by the damp brick wall at his back, and nervously scanned the latest wave of incoming patrons. Omi thought he had gotten far enough away from the warehouse district that Harrister wouldn't find him, even if he did return to the building that night. Still, he couldn't seem to shake the mind-numbing fear that the next person who walked by would be the crazy asshole. It was like a nightmare --- one of those where the guy in the hockey mask chases you to hell and back … only Omi knew he was awake. Somehow, not being able to wake up from this whole mess made it seem that much worse. Life was often so much crueler than nightmares --- if anyone should know that, Omi figured he should. He was Weiss, after all, had been Weiss for so long he could barely even remember being anything else.

He wasn't afraid for himself. Not that he wasn't almost stupidly grateful to be out of Harrister's clutches, but he was really afraid for Aya --- afraid that crazy asshole would take his escape attempt out of Aya's hide. And, Omi had to admit he was afraid the psychotic Englishman would find him, drag him back, and make him watch while he punished Aya for this little foray into freedom. The boy knew it was selfish to feel that way, but, right now, he didn't care. It was the way he felt, and it was a strong enough emotion to keep him hugging the shadows and expecting Harrister to show up at any moment.

Omi sank back into the dark as the small group of coffee house patrons --- three truck drivers and two women of rather questionable employment, from the looks of them --- entered the brightly-lit restaurant. The boy sighed and, noticing a medium-sized chunk of asphalt near the toe of his left sneaker, gave it a vicious kick. The impromptu missile sailed out into the open darkness of the parking lot, and Omi winced when, a few seconds later, he heard the sound of shattering glass. He shrugged, glancing around to make sure no one had seen him, and slid down the coffee shop's wall to sit in a crumpled, little heap. Within moments, he felt the moisture from the brick at his back seeping through his coat. It made him shiver, but he didn't bother moving to a different position. It wouldn't have mattered. He was cold from the inside out, and that was the kind of chill you couldn't warm away, no matter what you did. Omi pulled his knees up to his chest, encircling his legs with his arms, and rested his chin on the twin mountains, looking all the world like a lost, dirty, homeless kid hoping for some spare change or a quick handout of food.

He hadn't realized it until now, but he was mad --- so mad, he could probably spit nails, if he really tried. He was pissed at so many things --- himself for his part in getting them into this mess, in the first place, and for leaving Aya behind like he had; Aya for making him go; Harrister, for the smug, sneering tone of voice, his self-confident attitude, and the fact he was a homicidal maniac bent on destroying Aya with prejudice; life, in general, for turning out in the shitty way it had and forcing them all into this godforsaken job that slowly robbed them of their souls and humanity; Fate for tossing him and Aya into Harrister's clutches. He was so fucking sick and tired of being sick and tired that he almost couldn't stand it. He was so sick and tired of having to play the bad hand he'd been dealt, of having to scrape and squeeze by on wishes and prayers to stay alive, and he was damn sick and tired of being afraid. He was fed up with Harrister always having the upper hand in this little game, and he couldn't wait to turn the tables on that asshole. Omi just hoped he'd get the chance to do it before the crazy English bastard killed Aya.

"Where the fuck are those idiots?" the young blonde muttered. He wondered how long it had been since he had called home. Five … ten minutes, maybe? Not that long, but, still, he was ready for Yohji and Ken to be here, already. "What the hell is taking them so fucking long?" Omi asked the moisture-laden night air. He sighed and buried his face in his knees. He couldn't get the image of Aya, lying broken, bleeding, and helpless, on that dusty concrete floor, out of his mind, and, now, he could feel the tears beginning to gather at the corners of his eyes as his blind rage gave way to anguish and despair. "I … I never shoulda left him," he whispered.

Finally, after an eternity of lifetimes strung together and passed in this dark, wet doorway, Omi saw Yohji's car pull into the parking lot. He couldn't remember ever being so glad to see anyone in his whole, young life, and, as he caught his first glimpse of his teammates' faces through the windshield, he felt his composure slipping. Seeing them made him think of home and safety, and that made him want to break down into the hitching sobs that had been trying to escape him ever since he had left Aya. He took a deep breath and choked it all back down --- all the fear, all the longing, all the thoughts of home and safety, all the little boy, childish feelings. He did what they all did; he pulled an emotionless façade of courage around his crumbling heart. Now wasn't the time for fear, anguish, and tears. Now wasn't the time to fall apart. Maybe later, after they'd found Aya, after he knew the redhead was safe, he could give in to the trauma of what he'd been through and allow himself to break down. Now, he couldn't be Omi. He had to be Bombay. Bombay was Weiss. Bombay never feared, never cried. When you were Weiss, you didn't need childish things like feelings and emotions. You kept going until the job was done, no matter the cost, and that was it.

Once he had managed to regain his composure, Omi rose and made his way out into the parking lot, to the far, rather dark corner in which Yohji had parked. He waited, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, on the driver's side, while Yohji turned off the car. Ken bounded out of the passenger side and was about to slide across Seven's hood when a glare from his tall blonde teammate stopped him, cold, in his tracks.

"Your ass is grass if it touches my paint job," Yohji snapped as he shoved open his door and unfolded his long, lean body out of Seven's rather cramped confines.

Ken's eyes narrowed in irritation, and he glared back at Yohji, but, to the chain-smoking playboy's satisfaction, he proceeded around the car at a much more sedate pace. Yohji gave Omi a smug smirk and patted at the front of his shirt, fumbling in the pocket for his ever-present package of cigarettes. He located the little box, shook out one of the sticks, and shoved it in his mouth, pulling out his lighter and flicking it to life in almost the same, smooth movement. The flame flared, bright against the murky half-light thrown by the one overhead lamp near Yohji's chosen parking space, the flickering orange tongue reflected in the tall blonde's sunglasses. He shoved the lighter home into the back pocket of his jeans as he slammed the driver's-side door closed with a nudge of his hip. Then, he leaned back against the car, resting his rear end on the front fender and regarded Omi with a crooked grin, which seemed to start from the cigarette he held clamped between his lips and lazily spread outward to the edges of his face.

It was an expression so familiar it almost made Omi homesick, and the young blonde could feel his composure, once again, beginning to slip. He couldn't crater now. He had to hold it together long enough to rescue Aya. He had promised the suffering redhead he'd be strong, at least until then, but, at the first sight of his two teammates, the first glimpse and feeling of "home", the first sign of a light at the end of what had been a very long, very dark tunnel, he already felt that resolve slipping. He wanted to run to Yohji and Ken, throw himself into their arms, collapse into a sobbing, emotionally distraught mess, and have them tell him everything was going to be okay. Omi shook his head, struggling to choke back his emotions, to pull Bombay's icy calm façade around his crumbling heart and trembling soul. He cursed his weakness, his frailty, and his ever-annoying, childish tendency toward becoming emotional at the most inopportune times. He wasn't a child any more … maybe, hadn't ever been one … and, he couldn't afford to act like one now. Aya was counting on him. Aya had remained strong, despite everything, for his sake, and Omi knew he had to do whatever it took to save the swordsman. He owed Aya that, and it was a debt he was determined to repay.

"Why the hell can you rub your ass all over the car and I can't?" Ken asked, his whining tone snapping Omi out of his thoughts and bringing his attention back to the here-and-now, where his two teammates seemed on the verge of a physical altercation.

"My paint job, my ass," Yohji snapped back, a slight snarl coloring the edges of his words.

Omi rolled his eyes at the heavens, as if they could tell him why he had to be saddled with these two idiots who seemed intent on supplying bad comic relief during particularly tense moments of his life. The young blonde wondered if Ken and Yohji were punishment for the bad karma he'd built up in a previous life, or for the black cloud of karmic energy that must be tailing him in this one. He should have felt sorry for his two friends, who were now arguing back and forth, like children, about whose ass was bigger and would do the most damage to Seven's paint job. They both looked like they'd been through the ringer.

Yohji looked like he hadn't slept in days. Even behind the sunglasses, Omi could make out dark, bruise-like circles under the older man's eyes, and his hair, usually so meticulously clean and well kept, was greasy and matted. The long locks hung limply around Yohji's face, and his clothes were wrinkled and stained, as if he'd been wearing them for some time now. If it had looked like he'd slept, Omi would have guessed the tall blonde had slept in his clothes, the way he sometimes did when he came home in the early morning hours after a night of heavy partying. His skin had an unhealthy, almost gray pallor to it, and his hands trembled, indicating he'd been putting little into his body other than caffeine, nicotine, and alcohol.

Ken looked almost as bad. The ex-goalie had shoved a cap onto his hair, but Omi could see grease-matted, unruly locks jutting out from under it in various directions. His clothing --- jeans and a previously-white, pocket tee --- were covered in dirt and various stains, and he looked as if he'd gained at least five pounds, indicating he'd been worrying in his own way.

Just as Yohji snapped, "I know you are, but what am I?" in response to Ken calling him a fatass, Omi decided it was more than time to end this squabbling and get down to more serious business. Obviously, without Aya here, someone else was going to have to take charge.

"Shut the hell up!" Omi hissed, stepping out of the small patch of shadow that had concealed him and moving into the light, closer to Seven and his bickering teammates.

Yohji and Ken stopped fighting. Almost as if they were one person, their heads swiveled toward Omi, and they stared at him as he moved into the yellowish light, expressions of worried, shocked, surprise written across their faces. At first, Omi thought they had forgotten he was even standing here, but, then, he remembered he was covered in blood, and figured that had to be the source of his teammates' shock and concern.

"Where the fuck have you guys been? What the holy hell took you so long to get here, anyhow?" Omi snapped, deciding to take the offensive in an attempt to shrug off the inevitable interrogation about the blood on his clothes. He knew it was a futile effort, but he had to try. They just didn't have time for any of that crap right now.

"Well, excuse the fuck outta me," Yohji snapped back. He finished his cigarette off and flicked it onto the ground, grinding it out under his boot. He straightened up and ran his hand through matted greasy hair, a frustrated gesture that spoke of worlds of irritation and nerves frayed to the breaking point and beyond. "I'm so sorry if our tardy arrival is keeping you from some important appointment or some shit like that," he drawled.

He pulled another cigarette from his pack and lit it as he opened the door and sank into the driver's seat, his long, lanky legs stretched out in front of him. He gave Omi a pointed look, which told the kid, in no uncertain terms, he wasn't a bit fooled by the young blonde's little act, and grabbed the hem of the boy's tee-shirt, using it to pull Omi toward him, further into the light. He corralled the young blonde between his outstretched legs, ignoring Omi's irritated grunts of protest, and began lifting the kid's shirt, checking his body for injuries. Ken, his argument with Yohji forgotten, came around the car and stood ready to assist the older man.

"Cut that shit out!" Omi snapped, slapping away his teammate's hands. "I'm fine, you fucking morons! We don't have time for this shit!"

"Look," Yohji snapped, slapping the younger blonde lightly on the side of his head, "How can you be fine? You're covered in blood. What the fuck happened to you, anyhow?" He paused in his search for hidden injuries long enough to take the cigarette out of his mouth and blow a long stream of smoke into the air above their heads, before continuing, in an exhausted, irritated tone, "And don't get fucking pissy with me, you little shit. It's not like we've been sitting around having a grand fucking time while you guys have been gone, you know. We've been worried sick!" He glanced around, and asked, "Where the hell is Aya, anyhow? He in the coffee shop?"

Ken, his face a mask of barely-concealed panic, knelt next to Omi and shoved Yohji's hands out of the way, as he took over the task of lifting the kid's clothing with trembling hands and searching the boy for wounds. Omi continued to mutter curses and swat at the hands trying to assist him, insisting he was fine, but the older men ignored him.

"What the fuck happened to you, Omi?" Ken hissed, half under his breath, as if he didn't realize he was saying the words aloud, "Are you hurt? Where's all this blood coming from?" He lifted his head, to glance around the immediate area, and continued, "That stupid son-of-a-bitch Aya. Where is that fucking asshole, anyhow? When I get my hands on him … fuck! For letting this happen to you … what the fuck was he thinking? Fuck … he was point on this … he was supposed to protect you."

Yohji saw the rage flicker through Omi's eyes --- the smallest, briefest glimmer of what was to come. He moved to place himself between Omi and Ken, but he wasn't fast enough. One second, Omi was standing there, bitching and complaining, but, yet, submitting to Ken's ministrations. The next, he was a spitting, hissing, compact ball of rage. He threw himself onto Ken, bringing the startled ex-goalie to the ground, and began clawing, kicking, punching, biting, pulling hair --- anything and everything he could do to inflict some kind of damage --- all the while screaming a stream of garbled, almost unintelligible curses at the top of his lungs.

Ken couldn't fight back. He didn't want to hurt the younger blonde, and Omi's attack had taken the ex-goalie by surprise. Almost before he realized it, he found himself on the ground, wondering how he had come to be lying there on the cold, damp asphalt with his best friend a crushing weight on his chest, spitting venomous curses at him, his face twisted in a vicious snarl of rage. The young blonde's blind rage was the only thing that protected Ken from serious injury, as most of Omi's punches swung wide of their mark.

Yohji stared, stunned, as Omi continued to do his level best to take Ken down, with prejudice. He had seen the kid's change of mood coming, but it had happened so quickly, even Yohji had been taken by surprise. He couldn't imagine what had gotten into their youngest teammate. He'd never seen the boy fly off the handle like this. It was almost as if they had found some sort of demon seed, instead of their missing friend. Yet, another part of Yohji's mind --- the part that wanted to beat the crap out of Ken for the ex-goalie's shitty, irritating attitude in the past few days --- considered letting the kid's tirade continue. The tall blonde did let it go on for a few minutes, smoking his cigarette to the accompanying background noises of Omi's screamed curses, and Ken's loud, grunting protests. Finally, with a sigh, he ground the stick out under his boot and shoved off the side of the car to a standing position, crossing the small space separating him from his struggling teammates in one long stride. Much as he would have liked to let Omi beat the ever-loving shit out of Ken, Yohji knew he couldn't let this continue for much longer. For some reason, the kid was crazed with rage at the moment, but, if he succeeded in injuring Ken, Yohji knew Omi would regret it for the rest of his life. And, the scuffle, along with the stream of screamed curses spewing from the boy's mouth, were beginning to attract the attention of passersby. The last thing they needed now was for some well-meaning patron to call the police, which would force him to come up with some plausible explanation for why he and Ken were here in the parking lot with a crazed, nearly hysterical, blood-soaked kid.

"All, right," Yohji snapped, grabbing the collar of Omi's shirt.

He yanked, pulling the kid off Ken. Omi was still blinded by rage, swinging, cursing, and lashing out wildly. He managed to land a glancing blow to Yohji's head, causing the blonde's sunglasses to go flying several feet, where they landed on the asphalt with the almost-melodic, tinkling sound of breaking glass. Yohji shook the kid hard enough to knock Omi off his feet.

"I said, that's enough!" Yohji snapped, a bit louder.

He shook Omi again, and, this time, it was enough to get the boy's attention. The young blonde hissed irritably and slapped Yohji's hand away. When the older man released him, he stumbled before managing to regain his balance, but he didn't try to go after Ken again, settling, instead, for glaring at the ex-goalie, who was slowly picking himself up off the ground. Yohji spared a glance for Ken, giving the brunette an eyebrows-raised, questioning look. Ken nodded, indicating he was all right, and bent over with a slight grunt to retrieve his ball cap, which had been knocked off during the fray. He brushed at his clothing, trying, unsuccessfully, to get rid of the mud splatters and water stains that now joined the rest of the grime caked on his t-shirt and jeans. He had a black eye, but, other than that, he seemed no worse for wear. A bit shaken, perhaps, but nothing more.

"You … stupid … fuck," Omi hissed, still glaring at Ken. "How dare you … You have no idea … no fucking idea. You don't know what you're saying." The boy was still trembling with rage, but he seemed to be calming down a bit. Omi glanced away, and Yohji caught a glimpse of tears gathering in his eyes, as he repeated, "No idea … no fucking idea. And no right. Aya …" His words trailed off into a soft, hitching sob, and he paused, gathering his composure before continuing, "It's his … the blood. It's Aya's blood, you stupid son-of-a-bitch. He's not here. He … he couldn't get away." The younger blonde turned a tear-streaked face to Yohji and said, his tone apologetic, almost embarrassed, as if he expected some kind of retribution from the older man, "He was hurt … too badly. I didn't want to, but he … he made me leave."

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

It was a very tense, very quiet fifteen-minute ride from the coffee shop, where they had picked up Omi, to the warehouse, where they hoped to find Aya. Ken had been subdued into a sort of embarrassed silence, no doubt due to the violent dressing-down Omi had given him, as well as his miscalculation regarding the kid's blood-soaked clothing. It was just like the ex-goalie to get all riled up, and, then, when he realized he'd been wrong, not to know what to say to clear the air. Omi was still pissed at Ken, and chose to sit on the passenger-side of the car, slumped against the window and fuming silently as he watched the cityscape tick by. For his part, Yohji couldn't spare the brain power for any kind of conversation. He was too busy calculating how much blood there was in a human body and trying to match that against the amount of it staining Omi's clothes. That sinking feeling of despair was back again, twisting around in the pit of his stomach and making him nauseous. Each time he glanced over at his younger blonde teammate, taking in the blood-stained clothing, the tear-streaked cheeks, the devastated, traumatized look about the boy, the feeling intensified. Yohji had a hunch it wasn't going to go away until they found Aya, and, if the redhead was already dead when they found him … well, he figured it'd never go away, then.

To Yohji, it was two lifetimes of eternities before they finally reached the warehouse where Omi had been imprisoned. After stowing Seven in the deep shadows behind a handy trash dumpster, the tall blonde found himself standing in front of a rusty door, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other, as he inspected a slightly-more-rusty lock. He thumped on the door, fiddled with the lock for a couple of seconds, and wondered what they were going to find inside. All the time he'd spent worrying over Aya, going crazy wondering where the hell he could be, torturing himself with the thought the redhead was dead. Now, here he was, with only one door and a lock separating him from his friend, and Yohji couldn't seem to make himself take that last step and open the door. He was afraid … afraid of what they would find once they went inside, and, stupid as it was, irrational as it was, the tall blonde had to fight back the urge to turn around, get back into Seven, and go home, leaving the door, the lock, and whatever horrors were waiting for him, untouched. Stupid, irrational, childish, ridiculous. And, yet, real --- very real, if he were to judge by the way his stomach flip-flopped and his palms felt slick with sweat.

"You gonna open it or what?" Omi snapped, his voice sounding right at Yohji's elbow, close enough to make the tall blonde jump in surprise and jerk back into reality.

Yohji turned around and regarded the younger blonde with a frown, as his index finger reached out to push his sunglasses higher up his nose. It was a reflex action, and Yohji couldn't help but feel puzzled when his finger met empty air. He frowned at Omi again as he recalled the kid knocking the glasses flying during his spat with Ken. Yohji let his attention wander to the third member of their little rescue party, who stood a bit behind Omi. Ken had chosen to remain silent, a decision for which Yohji was grateful. It saved him from having to decide whether he should pull Omi off the stupid jock again.

A sharp elbow jab brought the older man's attention back to Omi, who gestured toward the lock with a sharp nod of his head and a raised-eyebrow look that indicated he was more than fed up with Yohji's idiotic behavior and more than ready to get this whole damn show on the road. Yohji shook his head as he turned his wandering attention back toward the lock. Omi was still pretty mad --- at Ken, at him, at the world in general, pretty much, at anything and everything that had the misfortune of crossing his path. Yohji had only seen the kid get like this a couple of times during their association, but it had been ugly enough that the memory stuck. He really wasn't looking forward to having to continue to deal with a pissy Omi. He figured he should be mad at the kid --- if not for the sunglasses, then for his general, holier-than-thou, I-hate-everyone-and-especially-you attitude, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. Not when he considered the blood soaking the kid's clothes, the gaunt, tight appearance of his face, the ashen pallor to his skin, and the undercurrent of fear he saw in those wide, cornflower blue eyes. Those things told Yohji Omi had passed his breaking point eons ago. He didn't have a clue as to how the kid was holding himself together, and he thought, were he in Omi's shoes, he wouldn't be so strong. Omi would break, eventually … and, when he did … well, Yohji figured it wasn't going to be pretty.

"We don't have all damn day," Omi snapped, jabbing Yohji in the ribs with his elbow again. The younger blonde squinted up into the sky, using his hand to shade his eyes against the sun, which was just beginning to show in the distance, coloring the gray of pre-dawn a warm, blushing pink.

Yohji sighed and shook his head.

'Yep,' he thought, 'this is going to be a fucking great day. Fucking … great.'

Out loud, he replied, "I'm thinking."

Omi hissed in frustration and stamped his foot against the dew-wet pavement. It made a soft splatting sound. "'Bout what?" he snapped. "What's there to think about? Just open the fucking lock … or get outta the way so I can do it."

Yohji turned his head a little to the side and regarded Omi with an eyes-narrowed glare that conveyed the message the young blonde had best watch his step if he didn't want the ass-whooping of his life. Omi ignored it, though, and glared back at his older teammate with a venomous anger that took Yohji by surprise.

"I'm thinking, maybe, this lock is booby-trapped," Yohji said, struggling to maintain a calm veneer to his voice. He ignored Omi's glare by returning his attention to the object of their discussion. "What do you think?" he finished.

Omi shook his head in response, even though Yohji wasn't looking at him. "No," he replied. "I don't … I don't think so. This guy … he was only concerned with keeping us in. He never figured on anyone finding out we were here, on anyone connecting him to us or this place … so he wouldn't have thought about trying to keep people out."

Yohji shrugged. "Good enough for me," he reasoned.

He leaned over and gave the lock a closer inspection, squinting as the sun's first rays of light bounced off it and into his eyes. He turned it over in his hand a couple of times, inspecting every side, and, after a few seconds, reached into his back pocket for his switchblade. He flipped the blade out and flicked it lightly against the keyhole, and that small gesture was enough to open the lock. Yohji snorted in disgust as he slid back the bolt and opened the door.

"You're right," he commented to Omi, "This bastard's full of himself. That was one cheap piece of shit lock. Asshole never expected anyone would stumble onto his playground … at least, not without an invitation."

Omi shivered at Yohji's unconscious choice of words. They reminded him all to well of the way Harrister had described his torture sessions with Aya as "playing with his new toy". Suddenly, the boy couldn't wait any longer. He knew they should move cautiously, fan out and look for any signs of their enemy. It was the prudent thing to do; it was what Bombay would do. But, Omi wanted to be with Aya, wanted to be at the redhead's side this second, so he told Bombay to shut the hell up and shoved past Yohji to dart into the warehouse's cool darkness, ignoring the tall blonde's yelp of surprise and his admonition to wait.

"You think it's a good idea for him to go off alone like that? That guy could be around here, you know." Ken's voice, although quiet and subdued, caused Yohji to jump, as it sounded unexpectedly out of the nearby darkness.

The tall blonde shrugged as he listened to Omi's hurried footsteps echo and reverberate around them, bouncing off walls, ceiling, and concrete floor until it sounded as if a hundred Omis were running through the building from all directions. He fought to swallow back the feeling of impending doom that was turning his blood to ice as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the grayish half-light filling the warehouse. After a few seconds, he could make out his surroundings almost as well as if they were bathed in full daylight, and he gazed in wonder at what seemed like a maze of huge packing crates. Yohji shuddered, feeling small and a tad claustrophobic because of the huge wooden hulks that loomed over them, almost all the way to the ceiling. He was able to discern a path, of sorts, through the forest of boxes, and he managed to pinpoint the origin of Omi's echoing footsteps in that direction.

Finally, he replied to Ken's question, "Who the hell's gonna stop him? Not us … not when he gets in one of those moods." He turned back, just enough to see Ken nod in agreement, and then motioned the ex-goalie forward with a wave of his hand. "Come on, let's go find him. Place is like a fucking maze or forest or something. Creeps the shit outta me," he muttered as he led the way deeper into the warehouse, in the direction of Omi's echoing footfalls.

In the space of a few moments, which seemed to hang in the air and drift off into forever, Yohji and Ken threaded their way through the silent, packing crate city surrounding them, following the open path twisting its way through the looming hulks and into what felt like the middle of the warehouse. The trail flowed into an open place in the center of the building, a small oasis of space amid the crowding, looming boxes. As they neared it, Yohji saw the glare of a bright, overhead bulb, and felt its heat, even before he reached what looked like the end of their road. As he rounded the last corner and stepped into the first stretch of walkway bathed in light, he also noticed Omi's echoing footsteps had ceased, and he figured the kid must be just ahead of them. The tall blonde's steps slowed, as he squared his shoulders and, remembering the general state of Omi's clothing, tried to steel himself for what he would find at the end of this short journey.

He wasn't prepared; he couldn't have been prepared for what he saw when he emerged from the packing crate jungle into the white-hot, incandescent desert of open space. Yohji stopped in his tracks as he cleared the end of the path, and stared, open-mouthed and stomach twisting in a mixture of rage and disgust. Ken, who had been following along behind the taller man without paying much attention, slammed into Yohji after the blonde's sudden stop, pushing him further into the small clearing. Yohji stumbled a few steps, but managed to regain his balance by bracing himself against a nearby crate.

"Holy … shit," Ken muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper, and, even then, managing to echo a bit around the cavernous room.

The words echoed Yohji's thoughts, and, for a moment or two, the tall blonde wondered if he had said them out loud. He turned to look at his brunette teammate, who had come to a dead stop right at the edge of the clear space. Ken was staring around him with the same open-mouthed expression --- fear, shock, disgust, and anger mixing and melting together on his handsome features.

There was blood everywhere --- some dried and caked onto various surfaces, some still recent enough to retain the deep red color it has when fresh. A good deal of it soaked the floor under a long hook that seemed to hang from the ceiling. Most of that blood seemed to have been there for some time. It was in various stages of drying and turned the dusty white of the concrete several hues of a rusty maroon color. Blood was splattered across all the crates surrounding the small open area --- great red, rust, and maroon splashes of it. It looked like some modern artist had been at work with buckets of paint. One of the boxes, behind the hook, was shattered, as if something heavy had been thrown into it with a great deal of force. The broken, jagged ends stuck out at different, crazy angles, and many of them were tipped in red. In front of the broken crate was another puddle of the life liquid. It looked like a body had rested there, and recently, too, as this smattering of red was much fresher than the rest. Half the broken crate remained intact, standing tall above the rubble surrounding it, like the chimney of a burned-out house, and Aya's purple-black trench hung on it, spread-eagled like a gaunt scarecrow, nailed in place with two knives, one through each shoulder, and both driven into the wood with such force they were buried up to the hilt. Even from several feet away, Yohji could tell the garment was heavy with blood; small droplets of the sluggish liquid rolled off its hem to join the growing puddle beneath. A pair of empty handcuffs hung from the hilt of one knife, and the second blade impaled a square of paper, nailing it to the crate, as well. From the distance at which Yohji was taking in this horrific little tableau, the paper appeared to be a photograph, although the tall blonde couldn't make out the image on it. But, when he considered the rest of the scene, he felt pretty sure he really didn't want to.

Yohji stood, stock still, barely remembering to breathe, for several minutes as, in a state of shock, he took in the scene before him in all its horrible detail. On some level, his mind registered the fact Omi was nowhere in sight, and his ears picked out the sound of Ken's breathing behind him, harsh, ragged gasps that indicated the ex-goalie was having as much trouble with the scene before them as he was. Yohji couldn't spare any attention for these details, even though his mind, honed through years of experience as an assassin, noted and catalogued them. He was too busy diverting all his attention to the scene in front of him.

The tall blonde took a large breath, struggling to suck courage into his body along with the much-needed air. The coppery-metallic smell of blood closed in on him, strong enough to flavor the very air he breathed, and Yohji fought back the urge to vomit as he stepped further into the open space. Five long-legged strides carried him to the center, where he paused for a moment, looking up at the hook and then down at the drying puddle on the floor, which he stepped around, before two more strides took him the rest of the way across, to stand in front of the trench coat scarecrow. He reached out, and, his hand shaking so violently he could barely control it, twisted and pulled at the knife holding the photograph until he freed it from the wood. The coat crumpled and slid to one side, held in place, now, by only one blade. It made a sloshing sound as it slid away, wet leather rubbing against rough wood, and Yohji, once again, felt his stomach lurch. He swallowed back the reflexive urge that seemed intent on emptying his stomach, and, for the first time in several days, felt glad he'd been too worried over his missing friends to eat much of anything. As it was, he barely had anything in his stomach, other than booze and smoke fumes, and he was having a hard time holding even that much down.

As he pulled the blade free and tossed it aside, the photograph came off and floated down, drifting toward the ground until Yohji caught it in mid-air. When the tall blonde got his first good look at it, any urge to vomit fled in the face of the overpowering anger and rage that took over his mind and body. His heart thudded against his ribs and his breath came in hitching, ragged gasps as he glared at the photograph clutched so tightly in his hand that his fingers showed white and his joints ached. He knew he was trembling from rage, but he couldn't stop. For the briefest moment or two, the space of one, maybe two, thudding heartbeats, the world went to shades of gray and white around him as his mind blanked of any thought other than venomous, spitting, poisonous rage the likes of which he'd never experienced.

It was Aya, hanging from the hook, his head bowed onto his chest, his body a mass of bruises and oozing, bleeding cuts and gashes. One side of his head was a fractured, bloody mess. Blood dripped from his heavy, leather boots onto the floor beneath him, pooling into the drying puddle they had found under the hook. His arms were streaked with red. Yohji glanced at the handcuffs, which still hung from the hilt of the remaining knife, and saw liberal smears of red, confirming they had, indeed, inflicted deep gashes on the swordsman's wrists. He flipped the photograph over, and, on the other side, saw the word: "Broken", written in a sloppy, scrawling hand that took up most of the blank space there.

The world around Yohji went white and gray again, as a new wave of white-hot, pulsing rage surged through him. But, this time, it was rage tinged with sorrow and a profound sense of loss, and it was all the tall blonde could do to keep from falling to his knees right there, in the puddle of Aya's blood, and sobbing his heart out. There was no way Aya could be alive --- not after all that. Yohji knew, probably better than anyone, what a strong, stubborn, asshole Aya was, but no one could survive what he had gone through. No one was that strong, that stubborn, or that much of an asshole. Never had Yohji hated anyone more profoundly, with more white-hot venom than he hated the man who had done this to his friend. Never had the tall blonde wanted to kill anyone as badly as he wanted to kill the arrogant bastard who had left this horror for them.

"Son … of … a …," Ken's soft, shocked voice trailed off from just behind Yohji, where he had leaned around the tall blonde to get a glimpse of what had so captivated the older man's attention.

Yohji had to fight the irrational urge to hide the photograph from Ken. He didn't know why. Maybe it was because Ken had expressed such venomous hatred for their still-missing teammate. Maybe it was because the ex-goalie had been so quick to blame Aya for everything. Maybe it was because Ken had seemed so unconcerned with Aya's disappearance, focusing all his attention, instead, only on getting Omi back unharmed. Whatever the reason, and no matter how irrational and stupid his mind told him it was, the urge was there, and so strong Yohji barely managed to fight it back.

"We're too late. He's not here," Omi's voice cut into the heavy, tense silence that had fallen over the two older Weiss.

Yohji and Ken both jumped, startled by the sudden intrusion of the young blonde's words, and turned their attention from the photograph to regard the youngest assassin with guilty expressions. Ken stepped away from Yohji, and the tall blonde tried to hide the photograph behind his back, in that studiedly casual way people act when they're trying to hide something horrible from someone else.

Omi stared at them for a couple of moments, his eyes narrowed in a suspicious glare. Finally, he moved into the space, coming to a stop just in front of Yohji, and said, "What is that?"

"Wh … what?" Yohji asked, trying hard to sound nonchalant and failing, miserably.

Omi sighed, a small explosion of sound between a snort and a huff, indicating his general displeasure with, pretty much, anything and everyone at this particular moment, and said, "That … what you're hiding … behind your back. And, don't give me any of that … 'it's nothing' shit. We don't have time for that crap."

Yohji sighed and stared up at the ceiling, as if he could find the answer to Omi's question written there, but he replied, in a quiet, almost non-existent voice, "It's … a picture. A picture of Aya."

Omi held out his hand. When Yohji failed to move, the younger blonde's glare intensified, and the older man could see fear, horror, uncertainty, and anger chasing each other through his wide, almost-innocent, blue eyes.

"Give it," Omi stated, struggling to keep his tone flat and matter-of-fact, but unable to hide the small hitch at the end of his words. When Yohji still hesitated, Omi continued, his voice sounding small and almost lost, "It doesn't matter, Yohji. I already know. I was there. I saw it happen."

Yohji hadn't thought about that. It made sense, though, considering the amount of blood on the boy's clothes, and the tall blonde wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. Somehow, Omi's simple statement of fact, spoken so quietly the words were almost swallowed up by the hulking packing crates looming over them, drove reality home to the tall blonde, like a railroad spike through his brain. He shuddered and began to shake as he fought back the grief, despair, and loss that had been eating at him all this time and that, now, threatened to consume him, body and soul. He felt tears gathering in his eyes, and he cursed the loss of his sunglasses. The dark lenses would have hidden his weakness from his teammates, and, in particular, from Omi, who was remaining so strong, even after all he'd been through. Without them, Yohji felt naked, exposed, but he didn't make any movement to wipe away the tears that, now, spilled over and traced small paths over his face. Instead, without a word, he held the photograph out to his younger teammate.

Yohji's hand shook, and the paper crackled a bit as it slapped against itself. Omi stilled the tall blonde's hand by covering it with his own as he gently pried the photograph from Yohji's grasp and stared at it for several minutes. He knew Yohji and Ken were both watching him. They both seemed poised, tensed, ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation. Probably, they expected him to fall apart when he saw the photographic evidence Harrister had left behind. Well, they were wrong. He'd seen the real thing, and that was much worse than any picture ever could be; if that hadn't broken him, nothing would. After several silent moments, Omi crumpled the photograph in his fist and, without a word, stalked toward the path leading back to the door.

"O … Omi?" Yohji's soft, almost pleading voice, tinged with so many emotions --- fear, worry, despair, and, even, anger --- stopped the boy just as he was about to re-enter the packing crate jungle.

Omi paused, but he didn't turn around to look at his teammates. He couldn't. If he did, they would see the tears spilling from his eyes, and he couldn't bear the thought of seeming so weak in the face of Aya's stoic bravery. He owed Aya more than that --- more than the fear-filled tears of an idiotic boy. He had to remain strong and resolute. It was the only way he could honor his injured teammate's sacrifice, and the only way he could keep his promise to Aya.

"I'm going home," Omi replied, his voice soft but with an edge of steel to it. "I'm going home," he repeated, clenching his fist around the photograph for emphasis. His knuckles showed white, bone pushing against skin. "I'm going to find Aya. I'm going to find the bastard who did this … and I'm going to kill him."

Without another word, the boy left, melting into the shadowy depths of the packing crate jungle surrounding them. Ken and Yohji looked at each other for a moment or two, both of them thinking Aya, surely, was dead, but neither willing to voice that thought out loud. Finally, Yohji shrugged. He turned and, with one smooth, savage yank, pulled the second knife from the broken crate, freeing Aya's trench. He gathered the tattered, blood-soaked material into a bundle and turned to follow Omi.

"Sounds like a plan to me," he commented as he, too, entered the shadowy pathway leading toward the door, Ken following on his heels.