Aftermath
by Tin Mandigma
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Weiss Kreuz is copyrighted to Takehito Koyasu and Project Weiss. Characters
in this fanfic, except those created by the author, are used without
permission.
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NOTE: This fanfic is set five years after the final Weiss Kreuz episode.
This is non-yaoi (well, except for a scene or two ^^;;). There may be
some discontinuity with the original series storyline. I plan to post
a oneshot prequel to this, but as of the moment, "Aftermath" is an
'independent' story.
The writing style is rather loose, compared to my previous convoluted
efforts ^^;;. In any case, I hope to re-word some parts later on.
VERY ROUGH DRAFT
2: The Anatomy of Introspection
Fujimiya Ran prided himself on being a practical person. His world
after Takatori had been carefully divided into stark if unequal
contrasts: means and ends, friend and enemy, with Aya and without
Aya. And when he'd finally recovered his sister, that had meant
only one item scratched from his list. *He* had remained divided.
For someone like him, there couldn't be any middle ground. No
compromise. It was either now or never.
Forgive or forget.
Love or hate.
Only fools lived in between.
And yet...
He held his hands under the faucet and waited... and waited...
and waited... for the water which never came, and probably would
not come, not while human hands failed to intercede. Not while they
traced imaginary figures in the air, instead; lingered on skin and
hair and laughter made real by illusion, instead; dreamed in the sense
of what had been and what else could be, instead.
He didn't just hear her voice, didn't just see her standing
beside his sister, smiling at him with a smile he couldn't remember,
maybe because it was one he'd never seen. As if *she* was wondering
where he had been and who he'd been talking to. As if *she* had
stumbled upon him lost and bewildered in an unfamiliar room, and
not the other way around.
And he could think of nothing else.
A blur of movement whisked past him, and then he heard the hissing
sound of a tap being wrenched away from its resting place.
Something cold tingled his fingers and he looked down, surprised
to discover that the water finally was running.
"I won't ask what you've been doing," a dry female voice said from
somewhere to his right. "But it's obviously not productive. I could've
put a bullet right through you by now and you probably wouldn't have
noticed."
He nodded automatically. "Manx."
A sigh. "Are you sure you're up to this, Aya?"
"Shall I call the others?" he asked, glancing perfunctorily towards
her direction.
"No 'How are you, Manx? 'What's up?' 'Good to see you...'" She smiled,
shook her head. And then with deliberate teasing, "How are you, Aya?"
"Fine," he said curtly.
"What's up?" she mocked lightly.
He didn't respond as a burst of girlish laughter resonated from the
shop, alternately grating on and soothing to his ears.
"Visitors?" Manx wanted to know.
"My sister," he said softly. "And--her friend."
"Oh," she said, smiling at his downbent head. "Do you want me to
re-schedule the meeting? Tomorrow would do just fine."
Tomorrow? Or today?
Decisions, he told himself. Make your choice.
You could never have both.
The kitchen door swung open slowly with a practiced squeak. He
felt, rather than saw, Manx steal inobtrusively into a secluded
alcove. He snatched his hands back from the spray of liquid with
a jerky movement.
"Oniichan?" Aya.
He toweled his hands briskly. "Yeah?"
"Sakura-chan and I are going now." A pause. "I'll be back this evening.
Is that all right?"
Ran nodded, refusing to look in her--their--direction. "Sure."
"Fujimiya-san?"
Sudden excessive exaggerated hypocrisy, he thought fiercely, almost
venomously.
<'My name is Ran, OK?' He smiled.
She smiled back. 'OK.'>
It took him a moment to speak. When he did, his voice was nearly
drowned out by the sound of rushing water. "Yes?"
"Thank you."
How to answer that? So many things he could tell her but... 'No
middle ground.' He decided not to say anything at all.
She didn't seem to have noticed. "Goodbye, Fujimiya-san."
That he could answer. There was only one way to answer goodbyes,
after all. And this was not the first time they'd gone through
such a routine. His mouth twisted bitterly. "Goodbye."
He felt Aya brush his cheek with a soft kiss. He glanced at his
sister. She returned his gaze pensively. "OK?" she mouthed.
He nodded and turned away, his throat tightening inexplicably.
The door rattled again, closed.
Another rustle of movement.
"Why don't we just meet tomorrow morning?" Manx's voice sounded
strangely subdued. "Say seven thirty?"
He could only nod mechanically. "Yes."
"Do you want me to tell the others...?"
"No," he answered abruptly.
He could sense Manx staring at him. "It's her, isn't it?"
"Yes," he snapped, and then hesitated. "No."
"Aya..."
Yes or No.
"I don't know!" he all but screamed.
Surprisingly, Manx only laughed. He started when he felt her
cool hand on his cheek, pat it once, twice. "It's good to see
you, Aya," she murmured.
And then she turned away in a whiff of perfume. "Tomorrow morning,
OK? And..." She paused in the doorway leading out to the back. "Try
not to think too much about her. We have a job to do."
He had to force himself to say it. "Yes."
But she was already gone, leaving him to ponder on...
'Try not to think too much about her.'
"No," he whispered.
Kudoh Yohji hated mornings.
The sun hurt his eyes relentlessly, and he'd forgotten to bring
his shades because he'd overslept. And he'd overslept because
no normal human being--except perhaps freaks of nature--could
possibly wake up at seven in the morning. It's a veritable
sacrilege.
Mornings were for sleeping. No one came alive until one in the
afternoon or thereabouts. Those so-called 'morning people' were
automatons running on one too many doughnuts and enough caffeine
to sustain Tokyo on a nightlife which would put Las Vegas to
shame.
Yohji scowled as he tugged at the brim of his too-small-baseball-cap,
trying to get the latter to stay in place, oblivious for once to
the wide-eyed stares his usual gang of adolescent girls--and some not
so adolescent boys--kept throwing his way. His eyes were beginning
to water. He rubbed them harshly. He should have brought the car but
he'd been in such a rush it seemed less of a hassle to simply walk.
And walk was all he'd done in the last half hour and, if his luck
held and he didn't try to cross another freaking intersection when
the light was green, he probably had another fifteen minutes to go.
If something like this had happened back in the good ol' Schwartz days,
he'd have tottered to his death. Or, worse, pushed over the bridge
and/or the Tokyo Tower by that maniac Schuldich, may the bastard
rot in hell, and he wouldn't even have blinked.
He shouldn't have stayed out late last night, Yohji grudgingly
admitted. But, damn it all, what's a twenty-five year old guy
to do on Friday nights? Drink his milk and go to bed at eight
o'clock sharp? No way. He was Kudoh *Yohji*. He had his reputation
to maintain.
'This is all Aya's--no, his sister is nowhere near as aggravating--
*Ran's* fault,' Yohji seethed, his scowl deepening. 'Disappearing
like a wimp and then coming back conveniently after Sakura has left
to tell us that no, we wouldn't meet that afternoon but that yes,
we would do so at seven thirty tomorrow morning. Seven thirty,
Yohji. Seven thirty. Don't be late.'
Yohji shook his head. Sometimes Aya--he corrected himself--*Ran*
acted like such a prissy spinster it was almost neurotic. It
would be funny, too, as it was most of the time, if only it wasn't
so damned inconvenient *some*times.
He should have asked Sakura out while he had the chance, just to
get one up on Mr. Fujimiya. An unwilling smile curved Yohji's lips
as he pictured what their stoic I'm-cool-as-ice-and-don't-you-forget-it
leader's reaction would be to such a scenario. Ran would probably lose
it... and then some, though it really wouldn't be so weird given
Sakura's (non-) involvement. The girl was gorgeous, Yohji thought
with satisfaction. If she played her cards right and pulled the
right strings--Yohji chuckled as he remembered yesterday's scene--
she'd have Ran eating out of the palm of her hand in no time. Maybe
she'd thaw him a bit, make him less of a killjoy, and that would
suit Yohji--and Ken and Omi and the rest of the world--just fine.
But he still should have asked Sakura for that dinner date. It
was fun testing Ran's predictability, as long as his notorious
bad temper was kept firmly in leash... and doing *that* wasn't fun.
All in all, Yohji decided as he adroitly stepped out of the way
of a presumably insane biker, he'd leave everything to Sakura.
Yohji briefly considered setting *her* up on a date with Ran
and caught himself just in time. He loved taking risks, but
he wasn't crazy, and he was definitely not some sappy romantic
who believed blind dates, one-night stands included, were free
passes to a state of lovestruck bliss.
Take his case, for instance...
'And you could just forget it, pal,' he thought bitterly as he
stopped himself just in time from meeting the morning traffic
headlong. The rush-hour crowd jostled him around, swamping his
senses with the pungent mingled scent of perfume, aftershave,
leather, carefully-pressed clothes... and this scent spoke of
movement, the act of happening, and it was a feeling Yohji
savored. He could stand here, in the middle of this surging
humanity, and he could pretend he was also going somewhere, and
that that somewhere was a place he really wanted to reach.
That, despite all his protestations to the contrary, he had waited
for this moment, and the moments which would come after this.
And he would see her...?
Yohji scowled again. 'A little speculation about Ran's lovelife
and you're as fanciful as Omi on his worst days,' he mocked himself.
He was going to another briefing, and after that, another job.
Memories were for wimps. To look back and beyond was disastrous.
He'd known just how disastrous way back when he first joined
Weiss Kreuz, and all he could think about was what he'd lost, what
he stood to gain, what he could never have.
Asuka.
And then later still...
Yohji stumbled as he was pushed over the sidewalk. People streamed
beside, around, and, as he regained his balance, nearly into him.
He cursed silently. Light must be green now. Time to go, Yohji.
But just as suddenly as he took the first step to fight his way
through the throng, the latter was shoving him backwards, away
from the cars now fluidly taking their turn on the street. He had
been left behind.
Again.
This time, the profanity which left his lips was loud enough to
draw the crowd's censure. Yohji ignored it as he sprang
forward, straight towards the incoming traffic. Car horns blared,
their owners shrieking in protest as Yohji dashed his way
across the four-lane road, face set beneath his baseball cap.
"Bastard!"
"What the hell do you think you're doin?!"
"F--- you, man!"
He suddenly felt like laughing. Almost, he turned around, just so
everyone could see. But there was no looking back, he told himself.
Damn straight. That was his motto now.
But he could at least look *up*, and that he did... and froze.
The street sign looming over his head seemed to be familiar.
In fact, it *was* familiar, especially since he'd walked under
it thirty minutes before on his way to the briefing.
He glanced at his watch. Seven forty five. Damn it.
Yohji sighed and fought the urge to slump down on the sidewalk.
Self-recrimination--and maybe a visit to his psychiatrist--would
come later. For the moment, he could still hear the traffic behind
him. Yohji didn't give himself time to consider.
He turned around, rocked back on his heels for momentum, and
ran back the way he'd come.
The coffee was hot. Manx winced as she hurriedly made her way
down the winding staircase leading towards the basement, her heels
clicking frantically on the steel-encased steps.
Very hot.
She put down the cup on the table gingerly. 'Damn styrofoam,'
she thought as she studied her hand. Pale pink ugly marks
lined her palm, and her fingertips were equally afflicted.
She'd carried the coffee cup from the hotel restaurant to the
flower shop with barely a pause. She didn't want to be late,
even though she'd been up since five in the morning, had been
dressed and ready to go by six.
<"Nervous, Manx?">
Manx sank down on the couch tiredly, resting her carefully-
coiffeured head on the back rest with careless abandon. After
walking all over Tokyo in rush-hour mode, the quiet of the room
was a balm. She scanned her surroundings pensively. Nothing
had changed at all and it had been five years since she'd last
been here. At first, it had been too painful, especially after
Persia had died. Even if she had wanted to go, which she didn't,
she couldn't, not without feeling grief, anguish, and she didn't
want that. Not then. Even cowards deserved the right to be brave
once in a while.
<"And then later?">
And then later, she had exercised her right to retreat, especially
after that--night. Manx's lips tightened unconsciously. Birman
could not understand why she relentlessly browbeat herself over the
issue, considering that said issue had been finished a long long
time ago.
<"It is finished, right?">
But not satisfactorily. Not to her satisfaction, at least. Manx
shifted on her seat, her expression darkening. If she had her chance,
she would have made sure it *did* 'finish' and on her own terms, but
the odds had been stacked in his favor from the very start; she'd
known that since...
Her hands tightened on the heavy spring-backed folder which lay on
her lap. Manx glanced down at it with almost angry concentration, trying
to wrench her thoughts back to the work at hand. The bulky sheaf of papers
had kept her company half the night and not, she conceded dully,
because of the complexity of the material. This 'case' was a pretty
simple one; Birman had done a good job of streamlining background
details. Manx smiled faintly at the thought of her friend. It had been
Birman's more tenuous connections with what remained of the Kritiker
network which had seen them through after that last confrontation
with Schwartz. There had been no question of returning to normal
life; that option had been closed to them ever since they had started
working for Persia. And they had never really wanted to have that
'normalcy' which most women of their age took for granted anyway. They had
things left to do, and they would do them, because those things they
could do best. The job first, and then everything else, including Persia,
whom they rarely mentioned nowadays. To Manx, doing so had simplified and
proven a lot of things, things she had constantly assured herself with then,
and now found she couldn't really think about.
<"Is it because of him?">
'And now this... this complication,' she thought harshly.
Suddenly.
There was a faint sound, a sort of rustling which permeated the--in
fact, through--the silence, teasing her ears with a sense of something
opening far away, and then coming closer... and closer... As if the
door was a thief stealing in, and each creak was a step towards her,
until it closed, and then it became bolder, seeing no one about,
rushing down the corridor, afterwards the stairs, in hasty rhythm.
She stood up abruptly, glancing at her wristwatch with faint alarm
and nervousness. It was only seven fifteen; the meeting wasn't
scheduled to start for another fifteen minutes. Someone was early...
Not that it was so strange. Most probably, Aya had been positioned
somewhere in the vicinity of the shop since dawn. Routine surveillance.
He had his illusions to keep, and Manx didn't see it fit to disprove
him of those, especially since she'd seen how--rattled he was yesterday.
Yet another concentric complication... if she had the luxury, she would
have tried and talked to him more, but she had her own problems with the
turning wheel of fate.
She reached for her handbag, drew out her gun silently. Chances of
preliminary detection in this case were almost nil, but then one could
never be too sure. She only hoped Aya was ready to provide back up.
In the meantime, though... She raised her arms in the usual perpendicular
stance, clasping and cupping her hands, one supporting the other, underneath
the cool metallic butt of the gun, training her sights...
"Hi... I'm sorry if I'm late..."
She stiffened at the voice. Smooth, deep, slightly ragged...
Aya? No.
<"He'll be there tomorrow.">
"I overslept and I--Damn! It's only seven fifteen?! What the hell--"
She hurriedly dropped the gun in her bag, grabbed the folder, tried to
pretend...
<"You can't avoid him forever, Manx.">
Silence.
He had seen her.
She didn't look up, found she couldn't look up. Instead, she stood there,
her folder hugged tightly to her chest, eyes downcast, like a prim and chaste
maiden avoiding the prying gaze of of her lewd unwanted lover.
And maybe she was that, at least with him.
To him.
As usual, he was the first to speak. "Well," he said sardonically. "Look
who's here."
'He's... the same,' she thought bitterly as they regarded each other
like a couple of predators circling for the kill. He was dressed in a pair
of old faded jeans and a plain white and slightly tattered shirt. And he
was not wearing his shades. Hazel eyes studied her inscrutably. She tried
to look away. He had such beautiful eyes. She used to wonder before, even
before they were like--this, why he would persist in hiding them.
She didn't know, until much later. Much later.
He raised an eyebrow, obviously waiting for her to speak.
She did so with a frustrated snap. "Who did you expect?" It would
have been better, perhaps, to say the words with more calm; maybe
they would have reached him then, made him realize that she wasn't
who she was before.
He seemed to think about that. And then he shrugged. "I don't know..."
He paused, stared at her for a long disconcerting moment.
Manx waited, hardly daring to breathe. The intensity of his gaze
touched her face and body with an almost intrusive quality, and
for an inane moment, she wondered if her hair was out of place, or
if there were creases in her jacket, or if she smeared her lipstick
once again.
<"Stop it, you!">
"You, I guess," he said, still staring at her.
She laughed at that, but it was a hard and jerky sound, as if it hurt.
As it did. "I'm sure."
Something flickered in his eyes. Annoyance? Anger? "Ah," he murmured.
"So we'll do it the civilized way, hmm?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said stiffly. She tried
to smile back, in that ingratiating and sophisticated way of his.
He returned the smile narrowly. "I'm sure you don't." She watched him
slide a hand into the pocket of his shirt, draw out a pack of cigarettes,
a lighter. He tapped a couple of sticks out, placed one between his lips
and held out the remaining one to her, moving forward as he did so.
She clasped the folder to her chest. "No, thanks. I don't smoke."
He looked faintly surprised. "Strange," he said softly. "I seem to remember...
that you liked to smoke. Especially in--bed."
Damn him.
"Not anymore," she returned just as smoothly.
"Not now?"
"Not ever," she said, and looked away.
This time, it was he who laughed.
She nearly threw the folder at him. Instead, she bit out, "You're early."
He shrugged and sat down on the couch. "Some problem with clocks and
streets," he said dryly, resting his head on the back rest, where
she had rested hers a few moments before.
The realization was discomfiting. She shifted on her feet, trying to
think of a way to turn the circle to her favor. "I had thought you'd be
the last to come," she said silkily. "Clocks... and streets? Late night?
A party? Some rendezvous...?" Somehow, that last part sounded puerile,
whiny. Almost as if she were his wife, nagging him for staying out late,
and then coming home at the crack of dawn, while she sat in their conjugal
couch, sick with worry and jealousy.
Christ.
He regarded her through half-closed lids. 'Poised to the very end,' she
thought, not without a degree of unwilling amusement. "It's a job," he
said simply, as if it answered everything. "I couldn't do anything less."
<"Don't think it's you.">
The casualness of his voice stung her inexplicably, and her amusement
vanished. "A job. That's all this is to you."
He looked up then. "That's all it had always been to you," he said and his
voice seemed to waver, undertones assuming almost vitriolic shades. "Why
do you expect us--me--to be any different?"
<"Don't lose your cool.">
"What's that supposed to mean?"
His head drooped, a flower wilting, unable to withstand the cruelty of
Nature. The metaphor angered her even more. "I'm saying that hypocrisy
doesn't suit you, Manx," he said, and the smile was discernible in the
suddenly lilting quality of his voice.
She didn't stop to think. In a flash, her hands dipped into her bag,
grabbed the gun, aimed it at him.
He didn't seem surprised. "That's more like it," he said quietly.
Her fingers tightened on the trigger. "You have no right--!"
"It wasn't my fault, Manx," he said, still staring at her. "*You* left--"
"Are we interrupting something?"
She whirled around at the cool sardonic tones, half-expecting to see Aya
standing at the foot of the stairs, arms folded on his chest in that
deliberately mocking way of his.
<"Manx, what the hell is wrong with you?"?>
But it was Omi who met her gaze. Omi who stared at her with an almost sad
expression on his face. 'He must have heard,' she thought dully. 'Even worse.'
Ken stood behind him, looking as bewildered as Omi, but not as comprehending.
"You--you're late," she snapped at them.
Ken raised his hands. It was supposed to be a teasing gesture, but the
wary look in his eyes betrayed him, as if he were trying to tame
a wild unpredictable animal. "We, uh, got held up..."
She lowered the gun slowly. "Where's Aya?" she said hoarsely.
"Here," he said, coming down behind Ken. His face was calm; there was no
hint of the derision she expected, the silent accusation of one who had
too many important things to do, which didn't include seeing people make
fools of themselves. There was just--nothing.
As if he had expected this. Manx released a ragged sigh. She wondered
how much he knew.
"Let's begin," Aya said. "It's late."
She placed the gun on the table behind her unsteadily, too a deep breath.
"Sure," she said, forcing a smile, as if nothing had happened. And nothing
*had*. Not really. "Anytime you're ready," she said.
Omi tried to speak then. "Manx-san--"
"And to answer your question, Aya," she continued smoothly as she turned away,
her eyes seeking despite herself. She caught a glimpse of his profile; still
and pale and unyielding. He hadn't moved. For an instant, another frozen picture
came to her mind. That of him lying on a pool of white heat, hair blending in
the golden shadows contained within, eyes unadorned smiling. At her, she
thought. At her...?
No..." She smiled at them all. "You didn't interrupt anything."
No one answered that.
She didn't expect them to.
<"You have to get a grip, OK? OK?!">
Aya paused as he passed her on his way to join the others. "Manx," he
said quietly.
She looked up at him silently.
He touched her cheek. "Try not to think too much about him." And almost,
he smiled.
She nearly laughed then, but a flicker of movement arrested her.
Behind Aya, she saw his head turn slowly, hazel eyes glittering with
some unknown emotion as he stared at her.
'*You*,' he mouthed. 'You who left.'
<"It's over. It's over.">
Ken strolled slowly along the quay, hands thrust into the pockets of
his jacket. It was a chilly morning; invigorating, but cold nonetheless.
Children ran past him, shrieking in laughter as they chased each other
over and across the rather cracked concrete flooring the harbor. Ken
swerved neatly to the side just as two of the miscreants nearly mowed
him down. The mother ran after them, shooting Ken an apologetic and
exasperated smile as she passed him by. He returned the smile sadly.
The woman had looked at him with a sort of complacency, as if she
knew he would understand because he'd been a child once... or was
it because she thought that he would understand *her* because he too
was...
...a parent? His smile assumed a bitter twist.
The truth was too painful to be borne.
He sat down on an empty bench facing the seafront, relishing the
feel of the wind on his face and hair. He knew he should have gone
straight back to his apartment. Aya had given him a rundown of what
he needed to check out and verify, and the list was long. Manx's
report had been comprehensive, but that only meant more details to
absorb and link together. The process would take a lot of time, he
admitted grudgingly. But the prospect of staying holed up in his place
for the rest of the day and probably the entire night digging through
his files was not very inviting. He sighed as he rummaged in his pocket
for a cigarette. He lit it quickly, cupping his hands over the tip
to protect it from the wind. Someone tapped him on the shoulder suddenly,
firmly, and he looked up, startled, nearly dropping the cigarette on the
floor.
"Uh, can I have a light, man?" The boy, for surely he was that
despite the earrings, long hair and torn jeans, gazed at Ken with
something like wariness in his eyes.
As well he might, Ken thought wryly as he proferred his lighter with
a wordless nod. He must have looked like he was ready to pull a gun.
Still wary, the boy leaned down, a cheap cigarette stick clamped between
his teeth, staring at Ken, who shrugged, flicked the lighter open, and
caught the tip at the first spurt.
The boy sighed appreciatively, rancor forgotten as he slapped
Ken on the shoulder, the smile on his pale face revealing a set of
nicotine-stained teeth. "Hey, thanks, man!" He turned away, stopped
and then looked back at Ken. "By the way, this your first time?"
Ken stared at him. "What--I--" he stammered and caught himself in time.
Damn it, he was not the juvenile delinquent here.
The boy grinned ingratiatingly. "Thought so. Better be careful with
that, OK? Don't try to take it all in at once; you'd choke. Work your
way to the lungs slowly. You'll be fine." He gave another casual wave
and then was striding down the quay before Ken could so much as offer
a thank you.
Or not, Ken acknowledged ruefully. What he thought was fear on the
part of the kid was just a moment of incredulity at seeing a much
older guy on his first stick. And showing it. But it wasn't his
first time, he consoled himself. Not really. 'Who're you tryin' to fool,
Kenken?' Yohji jeered in his mind's eye. Ken sighed. He tapped
his cigarette thoughtfully on the side of the bench. Maybe he should
just throw the stuff into the sea. He didn't know what had possessed
him to start smoking, anyway. He had always stayed away from cigarettes;
as an athlete, he couldn't afford to become addicted... to anything.
*When* he had been an athlete. After he had joined Weiss Kreuz, he had
spurred such need for self-denial. His addiction to revenge had been
too strong to discard. Katse... Yohko... Ken took an angry drag
from the cigarette, and exhaled defiantly into the chill-bitten air.
After Schwartz, that addiction had waned, but there were no rehabilitation
centers he could go to, no counsel he could seek when the withdrawal
symptoms had set in, and he had started looking at his life, free of
the haze of anger which had justified it before in his eyes, and
found it wanting.
There was--and had been--no question of starting anew, of course. Aya
had told them that they would have to separate for a period of time.
The police were on their trail and if they were caught... But Weiss
Kreuz would still continue to exist, Aya had said. Each of them would
be provided with cover stories; new lives, in effect. And Ken's new
life had been the pick of the draw, he supposed. He had been
surprised that Aya would have offered him the job on the legal front,
but then, despite everything, Aya knew him too well.
But who would have thought?
Hidaka Ken. Private detective. Consultant to a number of security
firms, one of which formed part of the security corps surrounding the
prime minister.
Yeah. It was a good life. A few more years and he would be unable to
leave it, which was why he had answered Aya's call for re-grouping with
something like desperation. Which was why he took up smoking with
something like lust, even.
Anything to keep him free. Sometimes, the past was better than the
present, and his present...
Held too many dark alleys, the answer came to him in a sudden bitter
surge. Too much loneliness.
He did not want to get used to being alone.
At least the others did not seem to mind the enforced isolation of their
'new' lives. They were different, he acknowledged. Omi, for instance, was
no longer the boy he remembered. The effervescence which not even Takatori
and Ouka's death could efface had been tempered, perversely, by age.
Among other things.
And Aya... He smiled sadly. Aya had not changed. Reserved, contained,
he would probably always be. Of all of them, it was Aya who showed his
scars the most. Ironic, really, considering his personality, but it
was in silence that Aya had always been obvious. And Ken couldn't
blame him for that, though sometimes he wished that Aya would realize
that solitude was not the best tonic for loneliness. He should know
that.
At least Aya had Sakura. Even an idiot could see that, though Aya's
profundity, in some ways, was even simpler than that of a common
fool's, and by that, more indecipherable.
And there was his sister...
Ken wrenched the thought away from his mind's tracks furiously, like
an unwanted railroad car. Not now, not now. Think instead, he told
himself, of this morning, the scene he had witnessed between Manx
and Yohji.
It distracted him for a moment.
'What the hell is going on between those two?' he thought, taking
another long drag from his cigarette. He'd been a couple of steps
behind Omi when they had entered the shop. He didn't hear anything,
but he did see Manx with the gun and it was not a pretty sight.
He supposed Omi must have heard *something*; the startled expression
on his friend's face had been more than expressive, but he had refused
to answer Ken's questions. Aya, of course, probably knew, though it
would be the height of foolishness to ask him. Ken sighed as he
remembered the morning's meeting. Manx had been thoroughly businesslike
and Yohji, silent. Omi and Aya had been subdued, and he, after a moment
of studying the scene, had decided to follow their lead. What else
could he have said? The air had been heavy, tense, not at all like
the scene he had envisioned in his mind as he had walked with Omi to
the Koneko. Friends seeing each other again, trading stories about
their lives, laughing, joking. But theirs was--had been--no ordinary
reunion. They were mercenaries talking about their latest hit.
Who to kill, how to do it. No sane person laughed about murder.
Ken closed his eyes as he went over the details of the plan. It was
simple, as Manx had said. Their 'client' had identified the target as a
terrorist right wing group, comprised mostly of students and idealogues,
who had sent a series of cryptic messages to the government intimating
their desire to bomb several major areas in Tokyo unless their such-and-
such demands were met. The word 'government' had captured Ken's attention,
but only because he had thought that their new jobs would involve much
more personal--quests. On the part of their clients, at least.
The bombing threat itself had no novelty. He had ceased to be surprised
at the depths to which the human spirit could sink to in the name of
elevated ideals. And he saw nothing wrong with that, personally.
What he found revolting was how humans could hoist themselves on
righteous pedestals while debasing others. Takatori, bastard though
he was, had never been obtuse about his motives. Power was all he was
after, plain and simple. But these people wanted to 'save' society,
even if it meant killing innocent people...
"Working with the defense department, are we?" Omi had inquired idly.
Manx had offered a slight if strained smile. "In a way, yes."
The particulars had all been established; the names of the leaders of
the organization, the dates... Amateurs, Aya had said succinctly.
But the very fact that the government was after the would-be bombers
was significant, Ken thought. And that a group of mercenaries should
be sent after them... There was a very high probability, then, that the
threat was not purely bluster, after all. And that was the danger, Ken
realized. By his very single-mindedness, Takatori had been predictable.
But these 'amateurs' were not.
We'll take them out now, Aya had said, probably thinking the same.
Manx had shaken her head. "No. These people are very highly-placed.
Besides, killing them would not solve anything. We have to stop the
group itself, and we could only do that when they push through with
the bombing. You will stop them before that actually happens, of
course, but the point is... it has to *nearly* happen."
"We're gonna end up walking on a very fine line," Ken had answered.
Manx had looked at him, an unreadable expression in her green eyes.
"We have no choice."
No choice. Ken flicked the ashes from his cigarette with a restless
motion of his hand. No choice. He had seen Omi look at him when
Manx had said that, an enigmatic expression on his face. Even Aya
had spared him a glance. He wondered if he had made any betraying
movement, or murmured something even he had not been aware of.
Yohji, of course, had remained conspicuously silent.
The places? Omi had asked after a moment's pause. The letters did not
contain any mention of the threatened localities. Tokyo had a lot
of 'major' areas.
"Soon," Manx had answered.
Aya had raised an eyebrow at that. "What do you mean by 'soon'?"
"I have a source," Manx had said carefully, head averted.
A source? Ken frowned as he considered this. Maybe Manx was not as
fortright with them as she maintained. The meeting had broken up
not long after; he had tried to talk to Manx, but she had been in an
hurry to leave, muttering something about an 'appointment.' He and
the others had agreed to meet at the Koneko tomorrow evening and
discuss more details. There had been no small talk. Just an abrupt
suggestion of a meeting place by Aya, and equally curt nods from the
rest of them. And then they'd parted ways.
He toyed with the cigarette absently, remembering a comment Omi had
made to him five years ago, right before he left the Koneko. "I'm
kinda afraid of us going away like this, Ken-kun."
He had laughed then. "Why? It's just temporary."
"Do you think we'd still be friends? When we see each other again?"
"Yeah," he'd said, both amused and exasperated. "Don't be ridiculous,
Omi. Nothing will change. This is just part of the job."
"And it might tear us all apart," Omi had answered quietly, given
him a hug, and then turned away. "Take care of yourself, Ken-kun."
'Just a job,' he thought now. Manx had said the same thing. 'No choice.'
Sometimes, he wondered if his life was governed by such singularities.
A linear process of factors; a series of addictions, conditions.
Exchanging one for the other, but never truly being satisfied with
either. After Takatori, Schwartz. After Schwartz, solitude. After
solitude, Weiss again. And with Weiss, his friends. They were not
the same.
And now, his life for...
"Hello, Ken-san."
He froze instantly at the voice. That voice. Thoughts and feelings he
had been keeping studiously contained for the past week, for the past
five years, in fact, ever since he had seen her that night, and then,
more recently, yesterday afternoon, slipped back with gleeful ferocity.
One more addiction he could have done--and yet cannot do, he admitted
in rare moments of introspection, like now--without.
But it was too late.
She smiled at him. "May I sit with you?"
The cigarette fell from his nerveless fingers.
Sakura looked at her watch. Nine o'clock in the morning. She folded
the newspaper and tossed it to the side. She had deliberately
dawdled over her breakfast. The morning was slightly overcast, but
the breeze was refreshing, and the sun, if weak, was at least less
harsh than what she had expected for spring. Than what she thought she
remembered, in truth. Sakura smiled slightly, glad that she had chosen
this outdoor cafe for brunch. Not really *her* choice, she amended. It had
been recommended by a friend, but still, the view was nice, distracting even.
She'd grown too used to the seemingly relentless rain in London, the
gray skies interspersed with the occasional balmy weather. It felt good
to be back in Tokyo, a simple pleasure in watching the cherry blossoms,
her namesake. A trite thought, maybe, for one who had spent half her life
in this very place. But five years was a long time, and homecoming had its
privileges.
She studied her surroundings idly. Passersby whisked past her, variously
suited up and strung with their accroutements against the necessities of
their own lives. A group of schoolgirls stopped in front of her for
a moment, giggling and whispering among each other. She felt a sudden
tightening in her chest as she watched them. Nostalgia, she thought.
Just like with Shiro-kun. She smiled as one of the girls flailed her
arms, laughing with what seemed like rapturous glee.
She glanced again at her watch. It was time that she left, maybe.
The person she was waiting for was probably not coming. Not today,
anyway.
Or, she thought as a large shadow fell across her vision, blocking
her view of the girls, maybe not.
"Sakura-san? Tomoe Sakura, right?" The voice came with the shadow.
Deep, masculine, familiar.
Definitely not.
She looked up, allowed a startled smile to creep across her features
as she beheld the dark-haired handsome man, dressed impeccably in
a fine linen suit, standing in front of her table. "Ru-san!" she
exclaimed graciously. "It's been a long time."
He smiled back. "May I..." And he indicated the seat opposite hers
with a graceful wave.
She laughed. "Of course!" She studied him surreptiously as he took his
seat, hiding her surprise that he should recognize her still. Yoshima
Ru was a classmate back in high school, but they rarely, if ever,
talked. He was a lofty upperclassman, she a somewhat lowly member of
the track team. They had both been members of the student council,
but aside from the almost ritual 'hi' and 'hello'... They weren't
even friends. But then, she had been too engrossed then over a certain
redhead to seriously consider other possibilities. One of the more
underrated side effects of young love, she thought wryly.
"How have you been?" he asked, his gaze lighting on her features with
frank appreciation. He hadn't changed, she reflected. Still elegant,
sophisticated, polite. She had conceived of him as a somewhat 'hard'
person then; she thought he was merely lonely now. Odd. Distance
certainly lent perspective, but it also gave feeling where none before
had been given. Age did not tamper with judgment, after all. It
merely held back what should have been immediate.
For an instant, she was reminded of Shiro-san.
She shrugged casually, if a bit gratified inwardly, at the other's
obvious interest. "Fine. I just got back."
"From England, right?" He laughed. "Oh, don't look so surprised,
Sakura-san. I do keep track, you know."
She allowed herself a small smile. "Really?"
He leaned back in his chair. "Hmm," he murmured. "For instance, I'd
heard that you were getting married."
This time, her amusement was genuine. "You followed the wrong track
then," she grinned. He must know about Michael, but aside from Aya,
whom she had told more from a burst of ill-timed planning than friendship,
she hadn't mentioned her short-lived--and somewhat confused, both
sides later agreed--engagement to anyone she knew in Japan. "How
did you know?"
He smiled again. "Oh, here and there," Ru said vaguely.
Sakura left it at that. "And you?" she asked. "Married?"
Something--indescribable flickered across Ru's face. "No. Once,
nearly, but it didn't work out."
"I'm sorry," she murmured.
"And how about you?" he asked, the enigmatic look gone. "Prospects?"
"You seem to think of me as some sort of libertine," she retorted.
"Not really," he laughed. "But England must have changed you somewhat."
"In some ways," Sakura conceded. "But at heart, I'm still a traditional
Japanese girl."
"Are you?"
She stared at him. He had sounded almost--mocking.
Ru was instantly apologetic. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way."
Sakura smiled back, refusing to be discomfited. "It's all right."
"As a traditional Japanese guy myself, that was unforgivable," Ru answered.
"To make up for my lapse, will you let me take you to dinner?"
This time, her surprise was evident. "I don't know, Ru-san..."
"Just for old times' sake," he said, dark eyes crinkling at the corners
as he grinned. She remembered how so many of her classmates would
fall all over themselves in the face of that grin.
She paused, as if hesitating, and then nodded slowly. "When you put it
that way... Why not?"
"Great!" Ru enthused. "Shall I pick you up tonight?"
She didn't give it a second thought. "That'll be fine, thanks."
"Where?"
She was careful to keep her eyes demurely lowered. "At the Koneko..."
"The flower shop?" he frowned. "I know the place, but--"
"I'm meeting a friend there later this afternoon," she answered.
"This evening then," he said, standing up with a suave flourish. "Say
seven o'clock?"
"Perfect," she said.
He offered her another tentative smile. "I'm really sorry, Sakura-san..."
She shook her head. "Don't think about it anymore, Ru-san. No insult
taken." She felt him hesitate, and then he leaned over and touched
her cheek slightly.
"It was nice seeing you again," he murmured, gave one last smile,
and then left.
Sakura stared after him. The soul of solicitousness, was how a former
date of his and a friend of hers had described Yoshima Ru. Fast, too,
she reflected, for a 'traditional' Japanese boy. This wouldn't be so
hard then.
"That was very nicely played," someone murmured dryly at her right.
She looked up, grinned. "Thank you. I thought you wouldn't come."
She frowned as she considered the other person's pale face. "Did
something happen? You look--tired."
Her companion shrugged, taking the seat vacated by Ru. "It was
an exhausting morning."
She murmured an assent. "We have a date tonight," she said, trying
not to look smug.
"I think Aya might very well kill me for this if he found out."
Sakura inclined her head. "And that will prove a lot of things."
She smiled again, violet eyes gleaming. "Manx-san."
End of Part 2
Whee! ^__^ *gives Kuya Lloyd (who's been waiting to use the computer
for five hours) a high five*. Finally finished this part :). It was
pretty long, and I guess pretty confused at some points ^^;;. Like
Sakura said, distance lends perspective, and that's true for me, too.
More explanations later.
Excuses, excuses:
This fic is told purely from the main protagonists' point of view, as
you might have noticed by now. In the process, I ignored some characters,
mainly the *koff* opponents. There's a reason for this, but that would
have to wait until Chapter 4 or so. In the meantime, please don't flame
me, ne? ^_~ Thanks for reading this far! ^_^
tin@redrival.net - May 5, 2000 2:25 P.M.
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geocities.com/tokyo/market) (
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