Chapter 1
Ran focused.
Hands lifting from his side, palm outward and parallel as they lined up with his chest, he waited, clearing his mind and letting go of everything except the steady thump-thud-thump of his heart in his ears, waiting for his breathing to even out. The moment stretched, past the outward awareness of the early morning chill, the prickle of skin raising in response, the room dim with no lighting save that of the early dawn, the sun not yet visible through the jungle of skyscrapers. Then he moved, one foot then the other, arms separating and rising, one rising to block as the other struck outward. His body followed through, pressing in on invisible attacks and then neatly twisting away as if he'd been rebuffed, not losing ground so much as giving it up, feeling the earth, even through floors of metal and concrete, centered beneath the balls of his feet. The dance was a familiar one, even if every step was something new, his body falling into the rhythm, breathing unchanged as his movements picked up in speed, the tempo changing. He could see them in his mind, shadowy opponents mirroring his every move, the sparring lacking the edge of danger anything in real life might throw at him, but no less important for that.
There was something comfortable about this, no thoughts, just instinct and movement, muscles working in tandem, boxing with shades he could put a name to, channeling his emotions into something clean and useful. There was no room for anger or hatred here, grief and fear diverted to other channels, powering each punch-block-kick. This was as close to meditation as he got these days, a fine sweat breaking out and lathering his flesh, trying to work past the guilt eating at the back of his mind but no matter how he tried there was always a point in which --
Blue-gray eyes, curling dark hair always smiling at him from across the lecture hall, wet with tears as he lay in Ran's arms, blood flecking his lips.
Short blond hair soaked scarlet, golden skin made waxen as Ran leaned over him, feeling nothing but resignation, loathing himself, loathing them both for this ending and yet feeling the inevitability of it.
One boy paying for a life that had never been his and the other, a man, giving his up in the hopes of something better. They haunted him, these ghosts, one dead and the other -- almost dead, not who he was but someone else.
Izumi Sena. Kudo Yohji.
His movements grew jerky, more violent as they were wont to do, unable to control the tide of memories, the tenuous peace he'd found slipping through his fingers when he tried to grasp it. He stopped mid-kick, foot hanging in the air just a hair breadth from the his punching bag, having stepped out of the prescribed space, feet leaving the tatami matting but he'd been too engrossed to realize. He stood there, poised, waiting, deciding but the moment was gone, shattered and nothing he could do would win it back. Morning work out over then.
Slipping back into stance, he went through a final bout of stretching, giving his muscles time to cool down before retrieving the towel hanging forlornly off the back of the couch, patting his face and hair with it. The water from the bottle beside it, slid down his throat, cool and tasteless, lacking the subtle texture and taste that came along with city water. Which, Ran thought, having tried New York tap water, was a definite improvement. He leaned against the couch, careful to keep his skin off the upholstery, face turned towards the window, staring out at the lightening skyscape as he sipped his water, his breathing slowly returning to normal, muscles warm.
Everything seemed to move as though through a filter of syrup, golden orange and fringes of palest white-gold chasing each other across the horizon, reflecting in tones of blood and sand against the chrome and glass of the high rises. This high up it was easy to forget that there was anything but buildings, reaching forever towards the heaven and blocking the view for everyone else, some days the streets below nothing so much as chasmal tunnels of sound and activity, people moving without cessation. There was a different feel to this place than Tokyo -- older, a little dirtier, and certainly more self-assured. Of any place he'd yet traveled, New Yorkers were probably the most assertive, sometimes rude, but always bold people he'd ever met. They knew their place in the grand scheme of things and more to the point, they knew yours, very often not hesitating to tell you so. They saw politeness a form of weakness and more often than not would run over you, should you prove not to be as forthcoming as they were. But there was also something more vital, larger than life about them, something that went past the jaded cynicism they affected, right to the core of the city. It was always moving, always open, and more than that, it welcomed people, all people, collecting them, whole countries remade in certain districts.
For an expatriated traveler such as himself, it was both heartening and disheartening at the same time. He enjoyed the anonymity he had here, the newness to the streets and the places, able to go anywhere without being slapped in the face by memory, unwelcome or otherwise but he couldn't deny the wave of homesickness some of the Asian districts in the city roused in him. There were scents and customs that would always be associated with home, even if he never went back there and if a complete, clean break had been what he'd intended by coming here, New York City was definitely not the place to be. The only place worse would have been Los Angeles but Ran had spent a week there in the past and it had taken less than that for him to decide that it was not for him.
But then up until a few months ago, he had stubbornly clung to the belief that America was not for him either. The realization that he actually liked it here, that he was lingering in this city, in this country, out of choice rather than necessity had been a grudging one.
Looping the towel around his neck, his hair trapped, plastered against his damp skin, he padded across the floor towards the bathroom, the hardwood floor creaking in response, hard and chilly against his cold toes, his hand catching the light switch as he went past. As much as he appreciated the shadows, the comfort and protection they provided, the last thing he wanted was to stub his toe against a random bit of furniture. His apartment was Spartan, still looking as if it were half-finished, only slowly acquiring any real belongings, but on more than one occasion, he'd managed to bang himself up without trying. Ran wondered at that, curious as to what moment he'd let his guard down enough to not know the layout of the room, inside and out, in his head, relying on instinct to maneuver him without even trying. It made him uneasy, aware of how quickly things could turn, and like it or not, it went against every thing in him to completely settle down, uprooted too many times in the past few years. Too many possessions meant too many ties and having cut himself free of all but one remaining tie, the idea seemed almost...well, alien.
The bathroom was cavernous, the remains of an ancient air conditioning unit taking up part of the wall, bulbous with navy blue paint flaking in places, revealing oxidized steel underneath, surprisingly unharmed for all the moisture changes in the room. A long hollow tube branched upward from the squat body, towards the ceiling, painted over in cream tones, matching the rest of the room. For all the lighter colors, the room felt small, tiny and dark, the overhead exceptionally bright, a yellowish tinge throwing hollowing shades across everything it touched. The shower itself was a simple affair, just a white cubicle whose only concession to decoration was the patterned glass door. That he threw open, twisting the spotty silver knobs, the showerhead sputtering to life, tossing the sweaty towel in the basket near the toilet, his sweat pants soon following suit. Letting the steam fill the room, curling outward over the frigid linoleum, lapping at his feet as he half-turned, catching sight of himself in the wall-length mirror and pausing. Unable to stop himself, Ran fingered the crescent length scar running along his side, close to his ribs, a thick patch of scarred skin the only evidence of where the knife sunk in months earlier. He'd come close, dangerously close, to dying then -- maybe more so than any of the missions he'd taken in the past, alone in a foreign country and slowly bleeding to death.
But he hadn't died, either too lucky or unlucky for that, spat back from the brink, waking up a week later in a hospital bed, a light shining in his eyes as the doctor leaned over him, speaking to him in a smooth, rolling cadences that had taken him a moment to identify: English. At the time, he'd been too out of it to do much more than lay there, staring dumbly, the ache in his side returning with a vengeance, broken images unreeling, bringing with it the ghost of emotions he'd tried to cap. Sena. Yohji. Ken. Omi.
No, not Omi. Omi was dead, Takatori Mamoru sliding so easily into his place, as if the other had never been. Takatori Mamoru in charge of the Weiss and because of that, he could not stay, could not knowingly be under the control of the family that had murdered his, seeming innocence or no. Reiji was dead, yes but there was some fearful twist, some taint in the Takatoris that corrupted and he couldn't stay to see that or worse, to see himself corrupted in turn, forgetting the mission. Whatever that was these days.
Shaking his head, he stepped into the shower, his elbow length hair a thick, warm weight as he stood under the scalding stream of water, playing with the knobs until the pressure equalized out, feeling it beat against his skin. He stretched, head lowered, feeling the water scour his back, wet fire licking between his shoulder blades, before reaching for a wash cloth and soap, sloughing off dead skin as he began scrubbing. There was something wonderful about a water heater that just kept on pumping, a sharp contrast to the old Koneko, where morning fights had broken out on a regular basis because someone had used up too much hot water -- too much being all five minutes worth the building had spared. He grimaced, turning his head to one side, letting the water spray against his throat before leaning down and snagging the shampoo, lathering his hair into a soapy mass, unsettled by the rather impromptu trip down memory lane his thoughts were taking. It wasn't that he set out to forget his past; he could no more do that than cut off his hand. Rather, he pushed it aside, not ready to think on it yet, too crowded by the loss of things he would never get back, a different ache from when he'd left Aya-chan. They had won, yes but the victory was pyrrhic at best, tearing the group apart and in some cases, taking lives. At least Yohji had a chance now, a chance Sena would never have, Sena who was dead and likely to be forgotten, as if he'd never existed at all.
But Ran remembered, just as he remembered everyone else in his life he'd lost. It was a poor memorial but it was the best he could manage, wondering briefly if Mamoru thought to bestir himself from his lofty perch to honor the boy whose life had been so cruelly stolen. Probably not. The last Ran had heard, he was far too busy ensconcing himself into the political spotlight, for the moment Japan's golden boy, Nagi shadowing his steps. Nagi, not him, or Ken, or even Yohji but a former Schwartz member. The memory was enough to make him grit his teeth, almost as painful as that last conversation…
Ran turned around, glaring at the smooth white porcelain shower walls. This wasn't something he wanted to think on, angrier by far by that last betrayal than any past deception. He'd done what was needed for that last mission but never once had he been able to forget that moment in the briefing room, Omi coming down the stairs one last time, his face openly regretful, eyes lingering on Ran as he pronounced his own execution and then later still, afterward at Sena's funeral, coldly perfunctory, perfectly Persia, as he had conveyed his sympathies. It was to be expected he supposed. He couldn't really expect Persia to be openly emotional or sorrowful over the death of a subordinate, not and maintain the level of distance needed for his job, but the truth was, he had expected better, had expected more -- of Omi. And therein lay the problem.
Whether it was deserved or not, he did place something of the blame for Sena's death on Mamoru and upon himself. Sena should never have been assigned to the Weiss, too young, too inexperienced and he'd paid for it. He wasn't Omi and Mamoru had made a mistake in thinking that he was. And… Ran himself had gotten too attached, seeing something in Sena that he had no right to, letting it blind him. His nails dug into his palm, trying not to remember the scent of Sena's hair, like warm chocolate, ruffled when he stumbled out of bed in the morning, his kiss burning against Ran's eager lips. He had known better and still he had -- Maybe if he hadn't things might have turned out differently. There had to be something that he could have done to prevent it, could have realized or gotten there sooner, left only the job of executioner.
Yanking the knob, he turned the shower off, movements jerky as he grabbed a towel off a nearby rack, rubbing it briskly over his hair then his glistening limbs, haunted violet eyes staring back at him when he dared another glance in the mirror, dark circles underscoring them, making his face thinner, nose more prominent. He hadn't been sleeping well of late and it showed, plagued by dreamless sleep, a feeling of dread more than any fearful images chasing rest away. Picking up his hairbrush he wandered, naked, into the bedroom, trying to lose himself in the untangling of knotted locks, dark strawberry now that they were damp. He didn't have time for this -- not with classes to teach and papers to grade and just-- No, Ran told himself, the comb making one more vicious circuit against his scalp then threw it on the bed, reaching for the pair of jeans and the loose white shirt he'd pulled before his morning workout. He could do nothing for Sena or for Yohji, nothing that hadn't already been done and the others...The others would have to find their own path as he was trying to find his and as fortune cookie-ish as that sounded, it was the best damn thing he could come up with right now that didn't involve him wrecking his apartment in a fit of aggravation. Control was something he prized, had exercised for much of his adult life, and he wasn't about to forget that now, unsettled or no.
Clothes rumpled but on, he strolled out into the living room/kitchen area, catching his damp hair in a loose, messy ponytail, pausing long enough to turn on the television, the sounds of the morning news filtering in as he headed for the coffee maker. It probably wasn't a good idea, the way his nerves were going but he needed the caffeine right now, the smell alone enough to calm him. Putting the past firmly out of mind, he ran through his calendar for the day, class at one, office hours directly after until four and then he was expected downtown for a departmental dinner. Ran wanted to roll his eyes. True, there had been a certain amount of politicking he'd been expected to perform as an instructor at Koua Academy, but it had been nothing in comparison to dealing with the American Board of Regents. He supposed he should have been grateful to have the job in the first place, his lack of a degree disguised by a plethora of forged documents, his parting gift from Kritiker, taken with reluctance because killing aside, he had no other talents besides running a business and the idea of opening another flower shop somehow had lost its appeal. Still, it grated to be indebted to Takatori Mamoru for his new life, no matter how peripherally.
Like everything else, Takatori did nothing by halves, his papers passing even the most rigorous of inspections, a nod and a word getting him in with the faculty before he'd had the chance to realize that they hadn't hired him because of his intelligence or charisma but rather because someone had put in for him to have it. There was no sense in kidding himself on that score, as the hefty severance fee sitting in his bank account bespoke, not enough to live on forever, but enough to live on comfortably with a job.
Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he paused mid-tilt, the dark liquid dripping all over the counter as he stilled, the news behind him filtering through for the first time, past and present threatening to collide, the dread he'd felt earlier multiplying, casting a glance over his shoulder at the screen and the familiar picture plastered there..
"In other news, leading Japanese industrialist Takatori Saijou was found dead this morning in his compound in Tokyo. The cause of death is unknown but there is some suspicion of foul play. Heir to the Takatori family wealth, Takatori Mamoru is also missing and police have embarked on a nation-wide search to ascertain his whereabouts for questioning..."
***"...in conjunction with the case. As of this moment, police say that he is not a suspect. Takatori Saijou was a longtime--"
The sound died with an abrupt click, the screen going gray, a light afterimage lingering for a moment before turning completely black. A thin man with wiry, ferret-like features ignored the groans behind him, blocking the now defunct view as he snorted, "Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. Goddamn rich are always the same. Nothing but sheep if you ask me."
"Christ, do you have to be such a goddamn fuckhead, 'kari? Some of us have better things to do than listen to another of your rants about how the system 'done' you wrong. Done us all wrong, if you ask me. Only got an hour of television time and I want to watch my fucking show," snarled another, this one larger, balding and beefy, a permanent sweat running off his brow down to the hollow of his chin, his dark correctional uniform somehow managing to look shabbier and more wrinkled than the other's.
"The problem with you, Souji" Ikari announced, his weasely nose twitching, "Is that you're too fucking obsessed with your shitty soap operas to give a damn that the rest of us have been given the shaft."
"I think someone needs to give you the shaft, 'kari," Another one snorted, "Might shake the bug that crawled up your ass out."
"I was watching that," Hidaka Ken announced mildly before Ikari could reply, one arm resting against his upraised knee from his lean against the couch, watching the proceedings with a careful mix of humor and disinterest.
Ken felt his smile widen, watching the man mentally skitter back, indeed all of them doing it, that fat pig Souji near tottering off the edge of the couch in an effort to put some space between them. In prison less than a year and Ken already had something of a reputation and it was almost amusing to see how much more unnerved they were by a simple grin and a few soft-spoken words from him than they were the swear-laden threats of all the other gangbangers in the place. It hadn't always been like that and more than a few of them still bore the scars from the experience, finding out the hard way that he was more than just a nice piece of ass. This kitten had claws and even if he had given them up, he still knew how to hurt people pretty well without them.
"Ahh, Ken-san. I didn't realize you --um--" Ikari looked as though he were going to choke over his own tongue, torn between the obvious urge to smart back and some hint of survival instinct warning him of the consequences should he try. Ken's smile turned humorless, almost daring him to try. Ikari was one of those snivelly little hanger-ons that had tried to beat him down in the first couple weeks he was here. He'd broken the man's jaw but it hadn't taught him to shut his mouth completely. Nor had subsequent beatings. At least he had the sense to put some distance between the two of them, although they were both aware that should Ken choose to make it so, that wouldn't save his skin from the subsequent beating if the former Siberian got good and pissed off.
Normally, Ken would enjoy nothing better than sitting back and watch the man twist his intestines inside out, trying to figure a way to get back in his good graces but he had other, more pressing matters to attend to.
"Forget it," he waved, cutting off the stuttering at its source, no one more surprised than the hapless Ikari. He got to his feet, ostensibly to stretch and watched as everyone in the room scooted back a bit, past experience making them sensible to Ken's more mercurial tendencies, some of which ended in broken arms and stitches. Not today though, because the last thing he needed was to be stuck in solitary. That would put a serious crimp in his plans.
And still Ikari couldn't let it go, sniffing at it like a dog does an infected cut, "You--you're not mad?"
Ken shrugged, "Any other time and I might be tempted to make you eat your fingers but today... Let's just say I'm feeling generous and leave it at that."
Ikari blanched but he didn't have time to do more than notice that, sticking his hands in his pockets as he wandered away. So old man Takatori was dead. And despite the media's half-assed attempts, it was clear that the police at least suspected Omi might be involved in some way or else they'd be talking about the possibility of two double homicides, rather than wanting to secure him for questioning. What a load of bullshit, he rolled his eyes, walking towards one of the barred windows and staring out into the yard. It wasn't that he didn't think Omi was capable of such an act -- they were all capable of it but there was no reason for him, too. All those years longing for a family and he offs his one chance for what? Money? Power? Omi already had both, running a virtual empire as Takatori Mamoru. Didn't make sense at all, so far as he could see. So that meant something else was up, something that called for a little help, something Omi wasn't likely to get if all of Japan was looking for him.
First things first though, he'd have to find a way out of here. Preferably without killing someone. That might make coming back a little sticky and the last thing he needed was another corpse added to his sentence.
***"No, I don't think you understand," Ran replied, adjusting the phone against his ear and rubbing just above his right eye.
He'd been on the phone for hours now, trying to find out what the fuck was going on in Japan, which was proving somewhat more difficult than he'd anticipated. Apparently not only was old man Takatori dead and Mamoru missing, but Kritiker was in total chaos. The emergency number he'd been given been given to call in a dire emergency had gotten him shuttled three different times, each person seeming to know less than the one before about what was going on in Tokyo. No one knew anything, no one had heard anything, let me connect you to someone who can help, sir-- Hell, it had taken nearly fifteen minutes to find someone who even knew what he meant when he'd said Abyssinian.
He listened carefully then smacked his fist against the table. "Can I at least speak to Rex then-- Oh. Well, is there anyone who might know what the hell is going on that's still alive then? I see-- No, I don't want to hold. I'll call back."
The phone rattled against its cradle as he slammed it down. 'Shit.' So the final tally was this -- Takatori Saijou dead, as was Rex and half of the Tokyo branch of Kritiker, and Mamoru was nowhere to be found, likely dead as well.
The only thing to make this catastrophe more complete would be for Esset to suddenly rear it's ugly head, reborn again. A chill sparked down his spine and he straightened, chastising himself, 'Because really, jinxing myself is all I need right now.'
The truth of things was, he didn't know what he was feeling right now. Concern and worry, yes, his earlier dread not holding a candle to the full-fledged alarm he was fighting now. He'd called the school and canceled classes for the day, realizing that there was no way he could lecture in front of a group of students right now. Not and do it normally. He was already jumping at shadows, his eyes swinging towards all the exits in and out of this place as if he expected assassins to jump through the skylights. Then again, was that thought so out of place? Someone had very carefully and very thoroughly taken out Tokyo's Kritiker branch, to say little of it's founder and current director. If Mamoru was dead, he amended. There was no evidence so far, no body to lay alongside Rex's and Saijou's. Still, it didn't look good. There was no way Mamoru would abandon the family he had given everything else up for, not while still breathing.
'Unless of course he had something to do with it.'
Ran passed a hand over his eyes. 'Christ, I really am getting paranoid.' He was angry at Omi, yes. He had been since Sena's funeral--- no, since before that, since Omi had decided to forsake them all in favor of the very family that had destroyed his. Ran had understood and respected that decision but that didn't mean he had liked it. There was a twist and a darkness in the Takatoris that he knew all too well. Omi knew it, and that was why he'd extracted a promise that Ran would slay him before the Abyssinian allowed that to happen. His fingers twitched. Maybe that was what was really bothering him -- the knowledge that if Mamoru were somehow behind all of this, then Omi would truly be dead and he would have to execute his murderer.
'That would be assuming I can find him,' Ran drummed his fingers across the counter. As a member of Weiss, Omi had been trained at stealth and it was something that he, more than any of them, had excelled at. If he didn’t want to be found then it was going to be extremely difficult to pinpoint his location.
Of course, the first order of business would be booking a flight out of--
Thump, thump, thump. Ran started, then cursed, damning Kritiker, the Takatoris, and Omi in particular for making him jumpy. He didn’t need this and more to the point, he wasn't sure he wanted it, having made something of a life for himself here. The last thing he wanted was to go haring off to Japan right now and --
Thump-thump-thumpthump. The knocking against his door increased in tempo and he bit off a growl, stalking towards it, catching the sword he kept hidden in umbrella stand. "What?" he yelled, lifting the latch to peer out the spyglass.
Distorted blue eyes blinked at him. Familiar distorted blue eyes.
'Shit.'
***End of Chapter One