Fear by Kittyling and Sephy Prologue The desert was endless. Bright splashes of red on a stark landscape, the slow crawl of the noonday sun beating down on his neck, pale slivers of fractured light bleaching the sand like exposed bones. A barren waste bereft of anything save an ancient wreckage of wood and stone, splinters cutting his unshod feet, digging in deep as he shambled along. There was nothing and no one for miles, neither sound nor wind nor anything that might disturb this still waste. His mouth felt dry, thick as cotton, lips glued shut by grit and sticky saliva, his tongue swollen as it lashed against his teeth. He'd been walking for so long he couldn't remember the beginning of the path, only that he was on it, searching for... His mind was muddled on that, a blanket of images riddled with holes that were growing bigger, until only desperation pushed him onward. Something crunched beneath his feet, a sparing glance finding a dark pair of glasses now twisted at odd angles, and beyond that lay a pair of goggles, half-buried in the sand. They meant nothing to him, just echoes escaping through a sieve as his mind reached for them. He lingered in front of the crossbow laying across a bit of upturned rock, well-worn scratches in the guard, looking as if it had been set aside, waiting only to be picked up again by its owner. It gave him pause but it wasn't what he was looking for. A glint caught his eye and he turned his head, past the shards of broken weapons and buildings, glass mixing with sand in a razor sharp blend, his feet leaving a dark trail after them as he turned. In a nest of brambles (so odd that they would be here in this desert), vines twisting in on themselves, creating a hollow and in the center of it lay a lone earring, twinkling like a fallen star. He fell to his knees in front of the earring like a worshipful follower before an alter, hands trembling as he reached out, his fingertips stroking along the oblong shape, the twinkle expanding into a flare of the purest gold-- Waking was a slow, shuddery affair, lungs contracting as if the air had been sandblasted out, the desert segueing into somewhere else. Body coiled and tensing, he lurched upward from the pillow of garbage bags he'd been resting against. The stench of half-rotten food and blood thick in his nostrils, a sickly sour-sweet smell that made the bile rise fast to the back of his throat, scorching and scouring as he fought not to throw up. Fought and lost, his back and ribs screaming in protest as he retched, stomach rushing to empty itself again and again. It was hard to think -- to know anything beyond the sickness and the throb of his head and the solid ache of his body. Harder still to do anything but just hover there, lowering his head next to a puddle of vomit when he'd finally finished, the asphalt mercifully cool and slick to the touch. Half-crouched, panting and trying not to, he watched as blood rolled down one arm with a vague sort of interest, slim rivulets of scarlet beading off his wrist and knuckle, a steady drip-drip down onto the ground, dark drops disturbing the dirty rainbow film of oil and rainwater. The world was mottled in thin hues of transparent blues and soft grays, morning dew sweating in a thin fog on everything it touched. The air was still thick with the hint of heavier rains, a thin drizzle coating him, dampening his shirt when it couldn't soak through, clingy-cold against his skin. He lifted his face, his mouth opening to catch a stray drop or two on his tongue, the sensation almost blissful as it stroked across his fevered skin. His throat was scratchy, rough and painfully parched, wishing for a deluge, for something more substantial than these few precious drops. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had anything to drink and now... It wasn't enough. Opening his mouth wider and swaying, he rose to his feet, neck straining as he lifted up on tiptoe, as if that extra height would bring him something more. He stumbled, trying to get closer to the thin opening of sky visible through the enclave of walls and nearly tripped, glancing downward in response, blinking bleary eyes in confusion. The smooth, dark length of a katana, a dangerous shadow swathed in a polished black sheathe lay abandoned at his feet and without knowing why, he bent down, knuckles brushing against the worn leather of the hilt, fitting his hands like a memory as fingers wrapped around it. He held it aloft, one hand at either end, the sword trilling as he pulled it free, steel rippling cobalt, the blade curving in a gentle arc as it swung outward. It bit easily into the side of the nearby building, notching brick, tiny flakes of red cascading downward and over the tip of the katana. His arm trembled at the intimate familiarity, dropping the sheathe as the palm of his free hand pressing against his forehead, against the unpleasant bolt skittering across his nerves and temples. His brain was tingling, bubbling and hissing as if someone had lit a cauldron in his mind, a potent brew threatening to explode in the back of his skull until he thought he might scream. He was screaming, a raw, rattling keen of anguish tearing out of gritted teeth, his heart beating faster in his chest, a painful tattoo rattling against his ribs. Cradling his head tightly, he doubling in on himself. /Go./ The command whispered through his brain, his legs carrying him forward a few paces, the pain lessening, becoming something more manageable, less immediate than it had been moments earlier. His vision fuzzed in and out around the edges as if he were staring down a tunnel, the alleyway narrowing and expanding until he couldn't tell if he had only a few feet or a hundred miles until he reached the street outside. He nearly lost his footing a time or two, gripping and pushing himself off a nearby lamp post into the street. It was raining in earnest now, a steady downpour that hadn't been filtered through the overhang of buildings, the streets slippery as he stepped off the curb, now ankle deep in water. His bare toes rasped against the submerged concrete, using his katana like a cane, a wave of vertigo almost toppling him. '...Ran...' There was a moment and then he saw her. Chestnut hair framing a sweet oval face, her skin as pale as his own, pink lips tipped in a welcoming smile as she stood there, a patched yellow umbrella resting against one shoulder. He remembered that umbrella, helping her patch it again and again because she refused to throw it away, the relic of a friend long gone. Her sentimentality had made her refuse their parents' exasperated entreaties to be rid of it, clinging to it as she did to everything else, with a tenacity and strength he envied and wished for. 'Aya-chan.' The name came to his lips so easily, not quite a whisper as much as a whimper, the sound of a man finding something precious that had long been lost to him and was suddenly restored. 'Ran.' Her voice was sunny, hidden laughter bubbling underneath as she lifted up on her heels, waving at him, the umbrella bouncing, a glint of gold dangling from one ear. His hand rose of its own accord, fingers closing around the matching earring hanging from his own lobe. Their promise. His promise. 'I'll protect you, Aya-chan. I'll make them all pay for --' For what? Did it matter? Did any of it matter in the face of her wakening smile, warmth rising over him like the sun and he moved, hand outstretched, just a few steps more... Pure white filled his vision, blinding and loud as something shrilled, turning into his path, drawing his attention away, leaving to stare in stupefied as a car skidded down the street towards him, horn honking and tires squealing. "Aya!" "Aya-chan," Ran whispered and closed his eyes, because she was there too, in the glare, walking towards him, arms outstretched. He turned-- "Aya!" Something barreled into him, forcing him into a roll, knees and back exploding anew in agony as they scraped against the wet macadam. He lay there when they stopped, air knocked out of him, tears rolling out of his eyes as he clutched his sword. "Aya-chan," Ran whispered again, throat bobbing and opening his eyes. And suddenly he was furious. "Aya-chan!" "What the fuck is wrong with you? Didn't you see that car? You could have been killed," Someone was shaking him, taking him by the shoulders and attempting to wrench him upward. Brown eyes were boring into his, hair nearly the same color plastered to the other's skull, his good-natured face taunt with visible anger. "Jesus, what the hell was that about? Where the fuck have you been?" There was no thought behind what happened next, nothing beyond pure visceral rage at this one who had come between him and Aya-chan, the blade of his sword finding purchase against the man's throat. Those dark eyes widened, releasing him so that Ran fell flat on his back, the sword reaching where he no longer could, tiny droplets of blood welling against the other's vulnerable neck. "Aya…What are you doing?" The words were nervous and he propped himself upward with one hand, not taking his eyes off the other man. He attempted to stand and Ran shifted to his knees, the katana turning upward so that all it would take was one quick thrust and the blade would go up through the jaw and exit out the top of the skull. The dark-haired man froze, half crouched, real fear entering his voice for the first time, "Aya?" "Where is she?" Ran snarled, "What did you do with her?" "Her? Aya--" "Stop calling me that!" The other fell silent, his hands lifting slowly, attempting to smile. "Okay, um…what do you want me to call you?" "Where is she?" "Where is who?" Fuck this then, he'd skin the bastard and see if he was so eager to play games with an inch of flesh peeled off. He moved but something must have tipped his opponent off because his hands rose before Ran's could, leaping to his feet, the sword tearing his flesh underneath his chin where the point caught for a second. Ran attempted to bring the sword down again when he caught it this time, his knuckles taking the impact of the blow, a shock wave traveling up his elbow. He skidded backward, sword raising but not quick enough to ward the blow that caught him hard in the stomach, agony flaring in already bruised ribs. He coughed, blood burbling up and flecking out in hard spittle as the other man caught him just before he fell, the darkness rising up take him. *** Tick, tock. It was quiet enough that he could hear the clock's hand strike out each second, the silence of the room pressing in during the intervals of typing, clackity-clack of his fingers on the keyboard much too loud but the silence without them... Too monotonous, each second slipping by almost a dull thud in his ears, aware that an insane amount of time had passed by now--he should be back. He should have been back hours, days, weeks ago. Three weeks. It had been three weeks since he left. Omi stared at the nearly blank computer screen, a few sentences strung across the word document he had open all to show for the past hour that he'd been sitting down here. Ken had gone out early this morning, and Yohji had left for a date sometime the previous evening--presumably he wouldn't be in until late afternoon. And Aya...Omi didn't want to think about Aya, torn between giving up and believing that he had to be out there somewhere, where he could be found, traced, even from the tiniest lead or clue. Somehow even work wasn't enough of a distraction from that thought, as the blonde had hoped. Hands hovered above the keyboard, hesitant; a shuddering sigh and those hands lifted, not even bothering to close out of the program before Omi stood up and stretched, brushing unruly strands of hair out of his eyes and glancing at the clock, pursing his lips slightly as he saw what time it was. Five minutes since the last time he'd checked, and it seemed like it had been an hour. Maybe the damn thing was going backwards. A shake of his head and a small frown as he ascended the winding staircase, bringing him up to the main level of the shop. They were thankfully closed today, because as much as Omi really did like working there, he was too tired to be very cheerful at the moment. Exhaustion brought on from overworking himself, probably, but work kept his mind off of things. Aside from that, he couldn't even work on what he wanted to be working on--finding Aya. A mission gone awry, Omi supposed bitterly as he shuffled into the kitchen, shivering at having to walk across the cold tile floor in his bare feet. The upsetting thing was that they'd completed the mission, a simple one that had taken little to no effort compared to their usual cases--but once they'd finished and regrouped Aya was nowhere to be found. And as frustrating as it was, there was little more to it than that from what any of them could determine. It couldn't possibly have happened so simply; Aya wouldn't have just up and left, and Omi was certain they would have noticed if he'd been taken, kidnapped, whatever. After three weeks of those thoughts, however, he was starting to second-guess himself, and despite Manx's reassurance that they would find Aya, his stubborn optimism was beginning to wear thin. Particularly since she'd told him straight out that he should concentrate on immediate casework and not go searching for clues regarding his partner; after a week or so of Omi coming bleary-eyed to mission briefings she'd pulled him aside to tell him not to spend any more hours at the computer than necessary. He'd been curious as to how she knew, and she'd claimed that it was all "a woman's intuition". More likely they had cameras monitoring every single little thing that went on in their lives, but Omi had kept his mouth shut. Through all of this Omi had to wonder just what it was that made him want so fiercely to find the Abyssinian. It wasn't as though he'd been particularly attached, though he would admit that he'd admired the older man; there was a part of Bombay that wanted to know more about him, to see just what was beyond the icy violet eyes and cool demeanor. If that had slipped out of his grasp without even a chance...maybe that was what kept him searching, fumbling towards a goal that wouldn't necessarily ever be reached. No warning, nothing--the disappearance was surreal and another part of Omi wished fiercely that the time that had passed had just been a dream. And it wasn't as though he completely heeded Manx's warning; he worked when he could, which wasn't often but it still got somethingdone. Weary sapphire-blue eyes found themselves gazing at the clock once again. Almost noon. Omi sat down at the kitchen table, nearly tempted to call Yohji to ask where the hell he was if for nothing more than a little company. Of course, that would probably just get him teased by the playboy, and that wasn't really something Omi felt like putting up with today. He was surprised when the phone rang, eyes darting to the countertop before he stood up and walked over to it, picking up the receiver and hoping it was either Yohji or Ken to say that they'd be back soon. Before he could get a word in, a familiar voice was cutting in, static from an obviously poor connection making it difficult to hear. "Omi. Omi, hey--" The connection cut out for a moment, but Omi could determine almost immediately who it was, seeking to make sure he was correct once the quick breathing on the other end of the line alerted him to the fact that the connection was back. "Ken-kun?" There was no reply for a moment, then-- "I found him. He's lost his fucking mind, but I--" Omi's heart leapt at the first, cutting Ken off before he could continue, his words rushed and nearly frantic. "Found who? Ken-kun, who did you find?" There was a pause in which Ken said nothing, the static fading in and out and the continual labored breathing on the other end signaling to Omi that the other boy was probably moving as he was talking, although apparently he was having a difficult time of it. "Aya," came the grunt, the connection clearer than previously, "And I'll explain more when I get back. I'll be there in about fifteen minutes." The connection cut off completely; Ken had hung up. Omi stood there a moment, holding the receiver to his ear, hearing nothing more than Ken's previous words. Aya. *** "Goddammit, Aya, you're heavy," Ken grunted, stopping to adjust the weight draped across his shoulders, Aya's face lolling against this neck, a faint tickle of air against his damp skin the only indication that the Abyssinian was still alive. Ken was a bit worried about that; he'd hit him harder than he'd intended and from the looks of things his normally taciturn teammate was already banged up. 'And fucking out of his mind,' he added. It wasn't like he'd wanted to knock Aya on his ass but damn it the man had tried to skewer him, what other choice had he had? All well and good but that didn't stop his conscience from nibbling at him. He still couldn't figure out what had happened -- one minute he'd been on a delivery run and then Aya had just...appeared. Almost as quickly and mysteriously as he'd disappeared in the first place, stumbling across the street looking more disoriented than anyone had a right to be, especially Aya. He'd called to him, stopped the bike and tried to get his attention but then the man had stepped right into the path of that car and he hadn't moved. No, and this was what made Ken frown a little harder, picking up the pace, wishing he hadn't had to ditch his motorcycle like that, Aya had smiled, almost beatifically, walking almost open-armed into the embrace of a speeding vehicle. It was only quick reflexes, practiced and honed with time that had saved them both when he's thrown himself after the man, tackling him to the ground. Omi was still going to kill him when he saw Aya's condition. Strange as it was, that brought a hint of a smile to his face again, eager to see the expression on Omi's face when he brought Aya in. It was no secret that Omi had spent much of the intervening space between Aya's disappearance and now, trawling whatever clues he could find, trying to piece together what had happened to Abyssinian on what should have been a routine mission. Yohji and he had tried to help as much as they could, taking on the bulk of the shop work or writing sick notes to his school to allow Bombay a little more sleep after pulling a few of his infamous all-nighters but neither of them were much good at detail work. Ken was a more hands on kind of guy, he always had been. He could type and do the most rudimentary of searches but he didn't have Omi's skills with coaxing info out of that damned machine. Hell, he didn't even have Yohji's skills in using it and that was saying something. The last time he'd tried, Omi had threatened to break a broom over his head. Better to leave it to the experts, he supposed. Even if usually meant he spent a lot of time standing around, waiting to be of some use, unable to do more than to be encouraging whenever Omi hit an inevitable snag. He paused, shifting Aya's weight again, grateful when the alleyway twisted again, the back door of the Koneko finally in view. He wished he'd thought to tell Omi to call Yohji, the blond being the only of them besides Aya with a car, but it just past noon on a Saturday -- even if Yohji was up (and Ken highly doubted that), he probably wasn't home yet. And there was no way he could try and juggle Aya's limp body on his bike, not without tying him down and Ken didn't have the materials for that. So he'd done the only thing left to him, hidden the bike, grabbed Aya and his katana and started walking, by way of taking every alley known to man, skulking as much as humanly possible because there was no way that even his earnest face was going to be able to explain this one. He'd been lucky so far, the rain driving everyone indoors but that didn't mean he still wasn't paranoid, trying to keep to the walls and away from the line of sight of passing windows, fearing some concerned citizen making a call about a crazed lunatic sprinting past with a body. "Almost there, buddy," Ken grunted. He wondered what Aya would do if he was awake enough to hear that. 'Probably snort and gimme one of those disdainful looks of his before turning away,' Ken rolled his eyes. Oh well, he wasn't talking for Aya's sake anyway, more to hear his own voice, trying to work through what he'd seen and to get past the fact that Aya had nearly, very fucking nearly taken his head off. "Remind me to deck you later," he muttered. Omi was in the kitchen when he threw the back door open, keys giving him a moment of gyp when he'd tried to turn the lock, his hands slick with rain and blood, none of it his. The blond boy made a startled noise in the back of his throat, stopping mid-pace, eyes growing larger as they raked over him, the unconscious body hanging off him like a sack, and the sword in his hand, "Ken-kun! What--" "Later," he snapped at him, lacking any real bite but with just enough force to silence him. He dropped the katana on the table, wincing at the loud clattery-crash it made and praying Aya didn't choose this moment to wake up and rip him a new one for destroying his sainted blade. But there was nothing, not even the slightest hitch of his wheezing breath. Aya was out for the count. Which wasn't necessarily bad, all things considered. Meanwhile Omi had drawn closer, his hand hovering close to Aya's wet hair, somehow managing to look both relieved and ill at the same turn. "A-Aya-kun?" his voice was small, worried, and his expression was frightened when he finally turned his eyes on Ken. "Is--is he?" "Alive but he's hurt pretty bad, I think," He tried to smile, to be reassuring. "Nothing new there. Aya's always getting into scrapes, huh?" 'Just not anything like this,' Ken thought. They all got into scrapes, sometimes took a bullet or torn something but this was different. Aya--hadn't been in his right mind. He could recall with chilling clarity, vivid amethyst eyes dilated and wild, his voice shaking and -- Well, if Ken were asked, he'd have to say that it had seemed like Aya hadn't recognized him. What with that and the way he'd freaked asking about 'her' and 'she...' Ken shook his head, feeling completely out of his depth here. "We should get him upstairs," He looked around, "Where's Yohji?" "Out still." No surprises there. "We'll just have to do what we can," Ken mustered as much cheerfulness as he could force but even he could hear how flat it sounded. He had a bad feeling about this and while normally he'd scoff at such things, the sensation persisted, causing him to avoid Omi's eyes as he loped up the staircase, wanting to put off the explanations for a few minutes more. And still he kept coming back to one thought: 'What the hell happened to you out there, Aya?' ***End Prologue return to splash page