- Title The Scarlet Phoenix
- Author Lykotheia
- Pairing(s) 53, Dokux8, past KoumyouxSanzo (it's AU people!) and HazelxGat if you squint reaaaaal hard
- Rating NC-17
- Summary or description- An AU fic in which two corrupt officers use a Leavenworth inmate to glean inside information about an illegal weapons cartel and the infamous Scarlet Phoenix Organization. Sanzo, a victim of the state, ends up falling for the man he's supposed to turn in and meanwhile finds out a mysterious figure from Phoenix Headquarters is after him, and wants Gojyo's head on a plate. 
 Disclaimer- These characters are the exclusive property of Kazuya Minekura. I only claim the plot and the conversations. The names of the gangs mentioned in the story are fictional, though the Golden Dawn is based on a late nineteenth century occult order in Europe that was disbanded by the early twentieth century. Leavenworth does exist, and the brief snippets of history concerning it are factual. 
- Warnings- Sex, drugs and rock n' roll? How about VLDS? Violence, and lots of it, coarse language, drug-use, and sex.

 

 

The sound of boots shuffling over concrete woke him. One moment he was peacefully unconscious, the next, painfully awake, alert. The tension in his shoulders that never left increased.

            He heard the familiar grind and creak of his cell door being pried open, sliding along the rusty grates with an ear-shattering scream; he thought it sounded like something out of a low-budget horror film.

            "Get up."

            "What the fuck do you want?" He hissed, bright eyes piercing the darkness of the room in a manner he had been told, once upon a time, was terrifying.

            "Get up," the blue suit repeated to him, tapping his heavy wooden club against the palm of his left hand. The blond rose, body tense, muscles aching in complaint; it couldn't be more than four in the morning. Apparently three consecutive life sentences for a crime they practically thanked him for wasn't sufficient torture.

            "What?" He spat, no more afraid of the guard than he might have been of a street cop. What was he going to do, extend his sentence? He couldn't possibly stuff him into a tinier room, and the fair-haired man wasn't claustrophobic besides. Beatings were a source of pride, not pain. And they knew better than to try it against him. The last three guards who had ganged up on him, in the manner in which prison sentinels were accustomed, wound up with a total of two split lips, four snapped wrists, and at least eight missing teeth. The blond wasn't certain, but he thought he had cracked a rib or two in the process. They knew better than to mess with him. So what was the suit doing?

            "Just get up, punk."

            He was already standing, loose brown clothing barely clinging to his narrow frame. His instincts urged him to scan the room for anything he could use in self defense, but his memory made him ignore them. There was nothing. A shelf nailed into the wall, a bedstead screwed to the floor, and a small stack of plastic cups, one half-filled with water.

            "Turn around."

            "Is this how you get your kicks on the night shift?" He hissed wickedly, feeling, rather than seeing, the guard's face flame in a mixture of anger and humiliation. He heard the club move, but it never touched his back. Apparently, the blond thought ironically, his captor wasn't feeling lucky.

            "Hands behind your back."

            He obeyed because he didn't have anything better to do. The cuffs snapped on, and he felt the familiar caress of the icy metal on his narrow wrists. He tugged, twice, to test the titanium chain between, hissing when the cuffs tightened around his skin, pinching painfully. New cuffs.

            "I'm working on getting one for the neck, just for you," the guard growled against his ear.

            "Don't you think your wife might get jealous?" That did it. He grunted when he felt the club slam into the small of his spine, sending him forward, against the wall, but only for a moment. He had learned well over the years to block out pain in times that required it. The blond swung about, using his tightly bound hands as a club, the metal hilt of which inflicted sufficient damage. Idiot should have seen it coming. He knew what the prisoner was capable of.

            "Sergeant!" The guard bellowed, and quickly two much taller men flocked to his side, each grabbing one side of the prisoner's body, holding him still and stepping on his feet for good measure. The fair-haired man stilled, looking pleased as his attacker rose stupidly from the floor, rubbing his red jaw and spitting out a sticky wad of torn gums and blood.

            "Bill," one of the tall guards shook his head and clicked his tongue, "I toldya when you first took this floor, don't mess with anyone past cell 8-C. 'Specially this prickly bitch." The object of conversation twisted against his captors again, unable to obtain sufficient leverage to strike a blow.

            "He's put several guys in the hospital. Damn state won't let us execute him, and there're rules about beatings. Unless he strikes first, of course." The other guard just nodded, humming his answer from the back of his throat.

            "No one oughta listen to those rules. He's nothing more than an animal," the bloodied blue suit hissed angrily, still cupping his jaw and, from a distance, glaring daggers at the fair-haired man.

            "Why were you in here? Where do you want him?" The voice behind the prisoner's head made his ears hurt; it was grating, the sound of a smoker who sucked on unfiltered, cheap cigarettes. Maybe cigars.

            "Wilson's office."

            "Wilson?" It was the name of one of the parole officers, the one who usually dealt with prisoners in for a long time, usually the result of multiple homicides.

            "What the hell would he want with this one?" They were already transporting him through the hall, stirring other inmates with their noise. The lights were still off; one carried a flashlight, the other, still cradling his injury, a glowing electric lantern. The glow bounced cruelly off of sharp angles and narrow, rusty bars. A few grunts and curses emerged from the cells, but the injured suit shut them up quickly with vicious threats.

            "He's got a deal, apparently," came the answer when they reached the stairwell. The tallest of the men tensed, surprised.

            "They ain't gonna let him loose are they?"

            "I dunno; Wilson's crazy anymore. He uses these beasts like they were people, to capture more of 'em and make our lives hell."

            The prisoner was silent for a change, not spitting curses out or thrashing cruelly against his captors for a change. He was listening.

            "I heard this one, 'cause of whatever gang he was in, has some value to the Chief."

            "Tch. My dog has more value."

            "Hey but your dog doesn't bite," the silent guard finally spoke up, garnering a snicker from his partner and a grunt of disdain from the injured man in blue following behind them, watching carefully.

            "'S'awful late for Wilson to be working."

            "Guy's a night owl, what can I say? And he loves his fucking job." Tittering followed, and, fifty-four steps later, a door was pushed open on the third floor, and a brown-clad prisoner was pushed through it, roughly prodded and kicked down the hall in the direction of the oak door, imprinted with "Mr. H. C. Wilson," and directly below it, "Parole Officer." The blond had been promised he would never live to see that door if he reached eighty. At twenty-three, he thought they must have made a grievous error. Grabbed the wrong guy. Disturbed his sleep for this?

            One of the guards knocked sharply, and a surprisingly smooth voice answered from the other side.

            "Come in."

            The injured man crept forward first, followed by the blond, a scowl on his face at the sharp, fluorescent lights of the office. The guards behind him nodded to the brunet behind the desk, who removed his glasses and smiled.

            "Thank you gentleman. You can leave him with me."

            "Uh, we dunno if that's sucha good idea there, Mr. Wilson. This one's not like the others. He's from Block C."

            "That's quite alright."

            "He's dangerous, Sir." The quiet one spoke up again.

            "As I said, gentleman, I assure you I can handle him." A small, well-polished revolver was plucked from a drawer of his desk and laid, delicately, on top of the shining cherry wood.

            "I see Cadet Thomason finally received his due for taunting the inmates." Mr. Wilson pointed out, a smile on his face as though he'd cracked a joke. One of the guards behind the prisoner coughed, "Sir, this'un just attacked him for no real reason."

            "Oh I doubt that." The brunet named H.C. answered, his smile never faltering. "See yourself out, gentlemen."

            The two forceful hands and arms released the prisoner, shoving him down roughly into the armless leather chair situated directly before C.H.'s imposing desk. The door clicked behind him, and the fair-skinned man continued to smile pleasantly, flipping through a small manila folder on his desk.

            "State your name." It was an order that came out sounding like a request. How unnerving.

            "Genjyo Sanzo."

 

            Sanzo had no idea what the hell they had woken him up for; he knew—for he'd had several judges tell him—that he had no chance of parole, or the shortening of his sentence. What would it matter, when he was doomed to spend three lifetimes in here anyways? Nothing he did would shorten or lengthen his stay.

            "Genjyo? That's odd. You're listened under "Kouryuu."

            The monk stared at him without response, violet eyes cut like amethysts, sharp and unyielding. It didn't affect this strange man's smile. He put his glasses on again and flipped through the pages of his files.

            "Did you change your name?"

            There was a long silence; H.C. was very patient. Annoyingly so. The cuffs were starting to chafe.

            "I don't go by that name anymore."

            "Very well." He smiled handsomely, scribbling something onto the folder before turning the page again. "Genjyo it is. Or would you prefer I simply call you 'Sanzo'?" He didn't give him time to answer. "I see you're in for a triple-homicide, but aside from that, you have no prior records with the police. Does this mean you took no interest in vandalism and drugs, or does it mean you were just very good at what you did?" He laughed lightly, hollowly, and turned another page. Sanzo was getting annoyed.

            "I have here a note from one of our specialists, a certain Mr. Sammonth, who studies symbolic markings and gang tattoos. He says that you have the mark of the Golden Dawn on your lower back and spine?"

            Sanzo wondered if he was asking to see it. He seemed the type.

            "A simple nod would suffice, Mr. Sanzo."

            "I have the mark." He allowed, still staring at the impenetrable emerald gaze.

            "Mm. I see…" More page-turning.

            "Why the hell did you drag me up here?"

            "I didn't intend for you to be dragged," H.C. frowned, but only for a moment. "But you see I have a proposition for you."

            Sanzo watched in silence, waiting.

            H.C. smiled. "According to our records, you joined the Golden Dawn at the unusual age of thirteen, and left it at sixteen, though you had continued dealings with various members up until last year. That's nine years of experience within a group we have very little knowledge of."

            "I don't have amnesia," Sanzo snapped, riled at having his past splayed on a sheet before the man. He hated the idea that anyone could just pick up a copy, glance over it, and assume they knew the entire private life of Genjyo Sanzo. They looked at him and through him, at best with malice, at worst, pity.

            "Of course. Forgive me. I didn't mean to outline your life for you." He smiled again. Sanzo was becoming incredibly pissed off. "I meant this as a point of departure for a more important conversation." He folded his hands before him, never so much as glancing at the gun to his side. But the weapon wasn't what kept Sanzo from leaping over the desk and taking him out. He didn't quite…want to. There was something about the man that held him, rapt, and made him answer every question posed thereafter.

            "Frankly, you have more recent experience with gangs than anyone else here."

            "So."

            "So," H.C. went on, "I have a…business proposition for you. I know very well that you wouldn't be willing to act against your own people—I couldn't ask that of you—but perhaps you would be interested in rooting out a few notorious criminals from the Scarlet Phoenix?"

            Mr. Wilson noticed no change in the man before him at the mention of the gang. He pressed; "Are you quite familiar with them?"

            "Enough." Sanzo allowed, revealing nothing.

            "I take it you wouldn't be averse to seeing some of them brought down? You don't have any…affiliations with them?"

            "No."

            "Good." Mr. Wilson smiled again—didn't that make his mouth hurt?—and cracked his knuckles individually. "As far as I know, your people and the Scarlet Phoenix are not enemies. Is this correct?"
            Sanzo nodded.

            "Well. Let me get on with it then. What I want you to do is to ferret out the location of the Scarlet Phoenix's headquarters, and the locations of a few specific men of interest. I know it won't be easy, and may even be a very time-consuming process, but it's certainly not impossible. You would have to plead interest in joining those of the Scarlet Phoenix, and then probably undergo some sort of ruthless hazing—but you'd be familiar with that, wouldn't you?—but once you're in, information will be easily supplied."

            "You want me to infiltrate another group's core and parrot their secrets back to you?"

            "Precisely."

            "I could get killed. What am I getting in return?"

            "Well that's up for discussion. Obviously I can't shorten your sentence—even taking fifty years off of it wouldn't prove useful to you. But I can certainly make your stay more tolerable."

            "How's that." Sanzo looked bored all at once, not able to think of much that the man could do to make him risk his ass in the Scarlet Phoenix's territory.

            "I could give you access to what is currently off limits."

            "Such as?"

            "The opportunity to earn a bachelor's degree, for one."

            "And do what with?"

            "Conjugal visits."

            "Who the hell do you think I have to visit me?" He snapped.

The officer laughed and moved a file on his desk in a nervous habit Sanzo did not fail to pick up on. "Of course; I forgot. You're a monk." He chuckled at his own pun, referring to the nickname—or perhaps it was a title?—that Sanzo had earned amongst the Dawn members. He opened and closed the folder again before pushing it farther yet; when a small name plaque was nudged out of the light's way, the reflection dimmed enough for the blond to read it. "Hakkai Wilson." Well that explained the H, anyway.

            "Forgive the slip. It was only when I saw you smoking that I thought you must have forgone the Augustinian code."

            Sanzo glared daggers at Hakkai, who seemed completely unmoved by it, and simply flipped through a second folder, looking for something with which to tempt the priest.

            "Most men are easier to placate. Tell me..." His eyes traveled to Sanzo's fingertips, noting the clean pink nails, and then to his lips, tracing them with his eyes. "How long has it been since you abandoned that nasty little habit?"

            "My time in here. Nine months." Sanzo tried not to remember the first two weeks of his stay; it had been hell, deprived all at once of nicotine. He had traded various assets with other inmates for fractions of a pack, not even his own brand; food, a snatched up and all too precious newspaper, once his water rations. It was when they started asking for his company in bed that he decided it was time to quit.

            "You seem remarkably well-controlled for someone who quit cold turkey."

            "It's easy not to smoke when you don't have any cigarettes."

            "Oh yes of course." But Hakkai caught the gleam of interest in Sanzo's eyes. "As much as I hate fueling bad habits, I think this one may have its benefits…if you help us, outside of getting time on the outside, I could remove you from your solitary confinement to a slightly more...accommodating room."

            "Define 'accommodating." Hakkai knew what he meant by it, and chuckled in amusement. He drove a hard bargain, and rightly so. It was his life he had anted.

            "Well, most men find their space a bit larger, lighter, perhaps occupied once a week by a favorably-endowed woman. For you I would suppose the space would hold the daily newspaper and a pack of Marlboros."

            Sanzo snorted in disdain, not bothering to ask how Hakkai had known his preferred brand. "I'm not tossing my life into the air for cigarettes and a newspaper."

            "Fair enough. What about if the room were, say, outside of Leavenworth?" This caught Sanzo's attention. He had spent the last nine months of his life in the misery that was Leavenworth Correctional Facility, situated just north of Kansas City with walls towering forty feet overhead and another forty feet beneath the Earth. Since 1906 the place had served as a hellish last home for thousands.

            Sanzo nodded, barely, for him to continue.

            "There is a correctional facility associated with Leavenworth East of here, medium security, lavish, by comparison. I have associates there who would be more than willing to make arrangements for you, as they would be equally grateful for the extermination of the Scarlet Phoenix. It has branches throughout the North East."

            Sanzo sat in silence, pondering the offer, and leaning sharply towards no. It was still a prison, and he would still spend his life there. A nagging voice in his head reminded him that such a life might be made somewhat easier by newspaper and Marlboros, but there was no guarantee, and the values didn't exactly balance out in his favor. The only real temptation, he concluded, was the brief freedom he would have when he would be permitted onto the streets again, to slip under the Scarlet Phoenix's barrier.

            "I see you're disinclined to accept." Hakkai murmured, turning a page in the folder once again. It rattled with the sound of old paper, settling quietly atop his palm. Sanzo wondered if the man thought he would find a list of his prisoner's weaknesses and favorite foods somewhere in there to further persuade him.

            Sanzo nodded.

            "What if I said…not everyone we're after is a member of the Scarlet Phoenix?"

            "So?" He feigned disinterest.

            "What if I told you one of them was only a wandering assassin, hired from the dying strains of the Eclipse Gang, almost completely filtered out of society."

            Now he had Sanzo's attention, and he knew it. He couldn't help but wonder if perchance Hakkai had found that in his folder too.

            "There's a certain Nii Jienyi who requires exterminating…if he were, say, to die in a squabble between gangs…well there's really nothing we could do about it. It's not as though another life sentence would much affect your future anyways."

            Was he allowed to do this? Tempt him with the opportunity to escape the prison walls with the intention of committing another murder? Suddenly Sanzo didn't care whether this Hakkai Wilson was or was not permitted to make the offer; if he could make good on it, it would be accepted.

            "Why, you're tense, Mr. Sanzo." His smile looked wicked when the overhead lights flickered. "Do you need a day to think it over?"

            "No." He stood, noting that the slender brunet before him didn't even flick his eyes towards his gun. He was an awful cocky bastard, to think he already had Sanzo where he wanted him. Maybe he did.

            "I'll do it."

 

            Rain lashed at the window of the car, pelting the glass furiously as the rubber wheels skidded underfoot, causing the entire vehicle to lurch precariously to the left. The officer driving swore under his breath and accepted a cup of coffee from the man to his right. Mr. Wilson was unaffected, only glancing slightly at Sanzo, with whom he sat behind metal latticing, in the back seat of a police car. Sanzo had forgotten what it felt like to be in a car. Not that he had logged many hours in one on the outside; he didn't even know how to drive. He had traveled mostly on foot, or on the back of someone's motorbike.

            "Aren't you the least bit interested to know where we're taking you, Mr. Sanzo?"

            "My guess would be the downtown precinct."

            "Aa yes quite right. We need to run through the plan by you, and explain what we intend to do."

            "Fine." He turned away again, looking to the rain-slicked concrete and pavement outside, rarely glimpsing so much as a spare shrub or wilting weed poking up between the cracks in the sidewalks. And then suddenly they pulled up to a red light, stopping all at once and nearly throwing Sanzo up against the back of the seats and the icy metal grate separating him from the drivers.

            Outside the window there was a little flower shop, squished between the wide end of a twenty-story bank building a bustling bar and grill, with a line poking out the narrow front door. At the tail, umbrellas had popped up.

            Tall daisies bobbed humbly in the window of the shop; a little flowerbox full of geraniums hung low, threatening to fall off in the wind. Beneath it sat a wide pot overflowing with sopping petunias, their petals torn and turned inside out by the rain shower. The sudden burst of color amongst the gray of the city surprised him; the oranges and pinks looked uneasy, and the yellow daisies appeared downright terrified. But it was the faint blue of a hydrangea that he saw through the glass that startled him the most. It was one that had been dyed, but most of the dye had evaporated from the soil or been absorbed by the plant over a period of months; its hue was no longer azure or robin's egg, but more like the sky. Sanzo hadn't seen that color in a very long time; he thought, a week or so ago, that he had forfeited that right along with everything else.

            The image of such a pale and yet striking shade returned each time he closed his eyes, even after they had long passed the little flower shop. Only when he remembered it, the blue didn't decorate the fingernail-sized petals of a bushy plant; it peeked up at him from beneath fair lashes, blinking fast. And suddenly he was back, seven years ago, holding his dying savior in his arms and trying to staunch the flow of a most offensive crimson with ivory, rain-washed hands.

            Rivulets leaked out between fingers, down a pale pink mouth, a delicate, harshly-clenched jaw. The echo of the gun's thunder reverberated in the distance; no one else could hear it but him. He watched fingers, so much like his own, tremble over the wound, releasing it and drowning in a deluge of Scarlet. Sanzo wasn't certain from whom the keening groan cracking the air between them came. It didn't sound like his voice, but his throat ached.

            The weight on his lap, in his arms, was cooling off quickly, his heat pouring out through his lifeblood, streaking the crumbling sidewalk and sinking into his clothes. Wheat-colored lashes beat back the rain and fierce, sky blue eyes peered up at him. Sanzo drew him closer, hoping the panic in his chest wasn't in his eyes.

            "Let go." Was the whispered command, gentle, red stained hand covering his with icy, trembling fingers. His head fell back over Sanzo's right arm, long blond braid splashing in the leaf-clogged gutter, tied fast to the bottom of the shallows by the amber-studded clasp holding it together.

            Suddenly his face looked so much whiter, like marble, a harsh engraving on a stele, all sharp angles and lifelessness. Sanzo was shaking, his cheek pressed in the icy, rain-soaked folds of the man's cloak, staining his face with red petals of blood. His words echoed.

            Let go.

            Cruel golden eyes peering over the hilt of a forty-four mocked him wickedly; a lifeless smile, not intended to be cruel anymore than it was to be joyous, leered. Sanzo knew then that Jienyi would die, and by his hands, no matter the cost.

            And he couldn't let go.

 

            "Mr. Sanzo?" Hakkai stressed, tapping his shoulder and jerking him out of his reverie. "We've arrived, and you can get out now."

            The door of the car was open, rain pelting the featureless interior, devoid of a handle lest the captive become suicidal. Sanzo stepped out carefully, ignoring the looks from passersby, tourists, if they weren't used to seeing inmates; he followed Hakkai inside, walking under his umbrella only because the brunet kept pace with him.

            "We're going to meet with Mr. Dokugakuji Carerra; he's a specialist in gang-related crime and organization. Of course I doubt he knows much more than you about it; please forgive his questioning. You're obviously not under interrogation; he's simply a very curious man," Hakkai promised, leading him down a narrow corridor, lined only with two or three doors in total, painted a sickly beige that was peeling around the cracked crown molding. Sanzo heard his wet shoes squish against the terracotta tile below, and Hakkai's miraculously dry heels clicked smartly with every step.

            They stopped suddenly before a door with Carerra's name on it; room 8D. Hakkai tapped lightly before entering, but didn't wait for a response. "Mr. Carerra your office becomes more disorganized every time I see you."

            "Maybe that's a sign you should up your meds there, obsessive compulsive."

            Hakkai laughed hollowly and gestured for Sanzo to sit; he did. The chair was shockingly comfortable, not metal or lined in vinyl, but something softer. He hated being pulled into furniture, and was relieved to find the lining was firm. Not that it gave him any advantage, a step away from hand cuffs as he was. But it allowed some level of personal pride to peer through, even if he wasn't permitted his own clothing.

            "I'm Doku Carerra," the man behind the cluttered desk said with a grin, holding his hand out only to draw it back in, repulsed by the stare. The hesitance wore off quickly.

            "This is him?"

            "Indeed," Hakkai sat in the chair beside him, beaming. "I've already explained to him the basics of what we intend, and your area of expertise. I suppose you have questions for us both."

            "Actually, I'm more interested in him." Doku turned to Sanzo, and for a change the two seemed to recognize that he was an actual presence in the room, a person capable of comprehending what they were saying, and possibly storing it away for later use. Most guards and officers didn't see inmates as more than silent (and not always) pets, in front of whom anything could be said. They blended into the shadows, their individual rights and identities taken away along with their humanity. Sanzo didn't particularly care one way or another, so long as they would see through on their promise. He wanted a gun in his hand, and Jienyi within shooting distance. If he had to plot and arrange it himself, he could do so.

            "Sanzo huh…'Kai why'd you scratch this out?" Sanzo realized that the relationship between the spiky-haired bureaucrat and his parole officer was more intimate than a career usually permitted.

            "The name he's registered with is not current. I believe Genjyo is correct now, is that right, Mr. Sanzo?"

            Before Sanzo could piece together any sort of retort, Doku shrugged and picked through the folder carefully, "So you were with the Golden Dawn up until about ten months ago…"

            "No. It's been almost seven years." Sanzo corrected him.

            "Oh? Just random dealings with them then?"

            "On occasion."

            "I see…so you entered way back in…shit you must've been like…what, fifteen?"

            "Thirteen."

            Doku whistled and shook his head, "That long ago, your marking must be the more detailed one, the tri-color flourish with the half-sun, right?"

            "Yes."

            Hakkai turned to peer at an image on Doku's desk of such a marking, and its general location on a gang member's body. "My that must have hurt terribly. It looks like it would take several hours to complete, with all that detail. The Celtic Knot of gang signs, I suppose."

            "According to the only other two we've ever extracted details from, it takes between four and six hours," Doku nodded his appreciation. "For you?"

            "Four or five." Sanzo shrugged, his memories of the event unclear.

            "Are you still in contact with anyone from the Golden Dawn?" Doku queried, scribbling something down on a yellow pad of notepaper.

            "No."

            "I guess you don't have anything you wanna up and volunteer, huh?"

            "Not a thing." Sanzo agreed, staring at the man behind the desk. He didn't like him. Not that he particularly cared for Hakkai, but this one seemed too happy. Wilson's was an obvious mask, and Sanzo could respect that, but Doku appeared genuinely thrilled to be talking to him.

            "So, be straight with me," Carerra folded his hands atop his desk, "What made you take the deal? I doubt anything Wilson would've offered would make you risk your skin."

            "What made you choose me?" Sanzo retorted, curious besides. Why would they trust a man with three homicides (and at least another half dozen they didn't know about or couldn't prove) on his record with a gun, set loose on the streets?

            "Because you're the only one we have whose arrest wouldn't have been publicized, or known of, amongst street populations. You left the Golden Dawn years ago, had sporadic dealings with them, and then nothing. No one who knows of you knows where you are, or what's become of you. This way, if you suddenly come out of the shadows to ally yourself with the Scarlet Phoenix, you won't be remembered as someone who was arrested. Or as anybody at all."

            You won't be remembered…as anybody at all. Well wasn't that the truth? Doku was right; anyone who might have remembered him was dead now. He would even wager that the Golden Dawn was under an entirely new hierarchy, and had probably been re-arranged several times since his leaving seven years ago. For all he knew, one too many coups had brought it down entirely. Apparently it was evading whatever radar the cops were using, ducking under it, or simply not producing enough chaos to set it off.

            "You're also a worthy candidate because of the nature of your crimes," Hakkai suddenly had a clipboard on his narrow lap, flipping papers over every so often. "Because you have no criminal records before the homicides, and all three murders were of Eclipse gang members, most would be inclined to believe that this was a personal vendetta. As far as we know, you never so much as glanced sideways at an innocent passerby."

            "Tch."

            "Well was it?" Doku asked, causing Hakkai to sigh in aggravation. Their approaches were different; Hakkai's sly and cautious, Doku's more akin to jumping into the deep end and hoping to resurface.

            "I don't see how any of that is your business."

            "It is if you want to do this," Hakkai reminded him. "If you want the chance to see Jienyi put away."

            "Yeah! Him. He's the leader of that group, isn't he?"

            "You're telling me you don't know?" He had a feeling that such a vital piece of information was more than likely in the records. Were they testing his knowledge, or simply desperate for conversation? Sanzo snorted in disdain, "Fuck no wonder you have so much trouble catching anyone."

            Hakkai smiled wryly, perhaps to placate the prisoner, but Doku looked annoyed. "Listen, you're gonna answer our questions and follow our orders whether you like it or not. If you don't, you can go back to rot in Leavenworth."

            Sanzo just stared at him, and then, after a long moment (in which he could visibly detect Doku's jaw tightening), he bit out, "Yes, Jienyi is the head of Eclipse."

            "As we thought," Hakkai murmured. "But they seemed to have collapsed, or taken up charity work, because there's no real evidence of activity in their districts."

            "The most recent report of Jienyi that we have is seven years ago. He's been hiding out, I guess. Someone shot at him, and some of his men, killing them. He escaped; the cops on that case never found him."

Sanzo twitched, and Carerra cocked his head to the side. "Safe to assume it was you, shooting at them?"

"Think what you like."

"Now listen--"

"A confession really isn't necessary," Hakkai interrupted. "When he was caught, it was for an attack on other Eclipse members. Perhaps after the same man…?" He looked to the blond with some interest, fingers tapping the table in thought.

Sanzo gave him a look that reminded him that he was very aware of his own past, and didn't need to be reminded again. The very mention of the man's name brought back the taunting golden eyes, the lifeless, meaningless smile as he walked away, stuffing his gun into his coat, and left Sanzo holding the trembling, crimson-stained—

            "Erm right." Doku was unnerved. Good. "Anyways, our plan has nothing to do with them, though we've had a few reports of former Eclipse members being hired out as freelancing assassins through the Scarlet Phoenix. They, by the way, have expanded their territory threefold since they rearranged their Order. Their leader—we know his work and little else—is like the Kambyses II of Kansas. He's got territory all over the state, and he's mean as hell when it comes to keeping it."

            "Yes. His proverbial head would be quite a boon for our precinct. We would be eternally grateful to you if you aid us in catching him." Hakkai put the clipboard back onto Carerra's desk.

            "What makes you think I can do it?"

            "It's more a question of, given that we can't, who has a chance at it?"

            "Yeah," Doku nodded, "this is serious shit, and despite all we do know, we're not nearly prepared enough to go into a situation like that without experience, without knowledge of the inner workings of the Scarlet Phoenix."

            "And what do your betters think of all this?"

            Hakkai smiled, and Carerra looked nervous. It was Hakkai who answered. "Well now, I'm sure you, being a victim of some of your 'betters' in the past, might understand why we need to keep this under wraps."

            Sanzo grunted noncommittally.

            "I know how much this opportunity means to you, or I wouldn't be sharing this information, making this proposition. It's a gamble, no doubt, but one I think will turn a significant profit. Besides," he leaned back on the desk, hands avoiding the clutter without having to look, "who would believe you if you decided to tattle on us?"

            Another grunt, and Doku asked again how well Sanzo knew the Scarlet Phoenix.

            "I never had dealings with them." Sanzo said flatly, beginning to understand their reasoning. It was cruel and Machiavellian enough for him to respect. To send a valuable officer, a decent, tax-paying citizen, into the abyss of Phoenix headquarters would be akin to murder. He, however, a non-citizen and arguably non-human, not to mention a money pit for the state, was entirely dispensable.

            "But the Golden Dawn was never an enemy of them, and you have greater experience in that world than any of our officers. But that aside," Hakkai's voice was strict now; he was done chit-chatting. "We've made our offer very clear, Sanzo. You told me you'd do it—are you ready?"

 

            He was sitting on a metal table top in an eerily sterile room, shirt off, left pant leg rolled up to his knee, and Doku was kneeling on the floor below, snapping a titanium band around the lower section of his calf.

            "There, all set."

            Hakkai was sitting on a chair nearby, watching the exchange in a manner Sanzo found mildly unnerving. The man seemed far too preoccupied with his inmate's naked torso.

            Sanzo slid off the table, barely able to feel the band about his leg; it was incredibly light and thin, molded to his skin despite the cold.

            "It's so that we can track you, wherever you go. Safety precautions," Doku shrugged. "Also, if it's broken, it alerts us of that too. I wouldn't try anything tricky," he admonished, "our officers don't like being sent out to corral runaways. They tend to get trigger happy."

            "Duly noted." Sanzo said flatly, snatching at his shirt, which Hakkai was delicately handing to him.

            "It really is a work of art," he murmured, glancing once more, before brown cotton cloaked it, at the tattoo covering the back of the blond man's waist and the delicate curve of the small of his back. He was probably wondering just how far down the rest of it went.

            "Tch."

            "We'll have to get you something appropriate to wear, and a weapon, of course." Hakkai promised. "And we'll brief you on the Phoenix's new territory, and various markings used to indicate it. Doku has a list."

            "Right-o," Carerra agreed far too cheerily, guiding them back from the inspection room, or whatever that windowless cage was called, to his office. Sanzo noticed the distinct smell of cigar smoke when he entered; perhaps he hadn't sensed it before because of the way the hallway cleaner muted it. After spending half an hour in the sterilized steel chamber, every scent jumped out at him.

            "Take a look here," Doku unrolled a map of the city, half of it covered in colored circles. "Everything circled in red is theirs."

            Sanzo noted that the wide range of the Golden Dawn's control had dwindled significantly since its most powerful leader's death. It was circled in violet.

            "The headquarters, we suspect, are in the oldest and best-established district, but we have no real proof. Needless to say, without knowing where that is, we'll have an awfully difficult time finding enough evidence to accuse them of pirating unlicensed weapons, among other things."

            Sanzo watched his strong fingers glide over the map. He was mildly amazed at the difference between these two officers and the many others with whom he had been forced to deal in the past. Neither of them seemed disgusted or even put off at the idea of conspiring with a criminal. Maybe it was because they were going to get what they wanted in the end, and use that to justify the means. But Sanzo wasn't stupid. There was no way they were going to bend the rules and send him to a prison with lower security. That was useless wishing. Their only useful bait had been Jienyi's life. As far as Sanzo knew, he was alive, and he sought to rectify that. And to break down a powerful pillar of the black market, these two officers were going to look the other way if "something" happened to go down between their inmate agent and the renegade Eclipse overlord.

            "So we're sending you to what we call 'Sector C' of the Phoenix territory, basically everything between Stockholm Road and the back tracks of Rhodes Avenue. We've got a little more info on the leader of that division; he's one step below our Kambyses, and probably his strongest support. You need to use this guy, who goes by the name of Sha Gojyo, to get to the head hauncho."

            Doku pushed a rough sketch over the map, tapping it lightly. "This is supposedta be him, though it's not like we've got a photo. I ugh…gut feeling, this is pretty accurate."

            Sanzo studied it carefully, wholly unfamiliar with the face. He had a strikingly red mane and eyes darker than wine, tinted garnet. The two claw-like scars beneath his left eye that might have marked another man in a crowd probably went unnoticed under a mop of such bright hair. Strong jaw, straight nose, a generous mouth…hair aside, he might be anybody.

            Doku leaned over the desktop only slightly. Hakkai turned to Sanzo and promised him a change of clothing and a weapon by the next morning, if he hadn't changed his mind. They rose and left, and Sanzo spent his last night in his cell at Leavenworth Correctional Facility.

 

            By morning Hakkai had informed him of where he would be sleeping and returning every night to give a full report of what he had discovered throughout the day. He continued to instruct him even as he pushed a pile of clean clothing into the man's hands, followed by a small bag of various other hygienic products.

            "You're under my supervision, and this is my proverbial hide on the line," Wilson reminded him in a gentle tone that belied his threat. Sanzo was fairly good at reading people off the bat, and he'd had enough time to with Hakkai to confirm what he had originally suspected; beneath that smiling façade was a mentality more dangerous than that of most of his inmates. The only difference was the level of self-control and will power between them.

            "So you'll shoot me if I fuck up," Sanzo filled in the unuttered words, tying his left sneaker carefully. He hadn't had anything with ropes or so much as shoe strings since he had been locked up. Dangerous, the guards told him. They didn't want their inmates forming weapons, or committing suicide. That last concern baffled the monk; it would be one less mouth to feed, one less prisoner to guard over and watch menacingly. Not that he would have given them the satisfaction. No, with any sort of weapon, he most likely would have opted for the former.

            "Precisely." And Hakkai beamed.

            "You're a creepy guy, Wilson."

            "I could say the same about you."

            The man shrugged, looking up when Hakkai held out a plum-colored shirt, the sleeves a little too long, stretched out neatly over a hanger. He was already wearing jeans, which, after almost ten months in cotton jump pants, felt rough, tight, and exquisite. The harsh scrape of denim against his skin was a welcome change.

            When Hakkai saw fair eyebrows rise in silent question at the color, it was his turn to shrug. "I thought it would go nicely with the color of your eyes."

            "Am I going on a date?" He snapped back at him, buttoning the shirt up quickly. Hakkai didn't miss another opportunity to stare blatantly at the intricate art winding up his lower back.

            "Hm. Probably not, but you never know when the emphasis of your assets may come in handy."

            "Assets?" Sanzo blinked back at him. "I hope you're talking about my gun."
            "Actually I was referring to your facial features; you're very attractive. I don't know nearly enough about your 'gun' to make comment."

            Flushing darkly, he tossed his tan, oversized uniform onto the chair, glowering at his parole officer. Hakkai thought that those amethystine eyes could pierce metal with their ferocity. No telling what they could do when aimed against an enemy in battle. "Where is it?"

            "Excited aren't you? Well it's probably a bit simpler than what you're used to, but I'm not about to give you a forty-four." He laughed hollowly and handed over an empty—Sanzo could tell by the weight—silver pistol, a comfortable fit for his lean, nimble hands. Turning it over, the blond saw Smith & Wesson scrawled on the side in Corsiva script. A six-shooter, tiny bullets, perfect grip. It would do.

            "You're welcome." Hakkai teased, suddenly all too-friendly, as he dusted Sanzo's shoulder off as he might for a friend going on a first date. "So you know the drill. Come back by midnight, and report." Sanzo realized with disdain that he was being given a curfew.

            "Don't forget," and now Hakkai was tucking a thick wad of bills into his front right pocket, hand far too comfortable roaming through the empty denim. Sanzo shrugged him off, stepping forward quickly. It didn't shake his friendly hand.

            "You're looking for a decent gun. For a good price, but one you don't have to worry about registering. This, rather than drugs, seems to be the hub of their trade circle. If you can get in this way, you'll have a shot at professing loyalty later."

            "Fine, but you wanna get your hand off my thigh?"

            "Of course." Unabashedly, he removed his palm and smiled to Sanzo in a manner that would have screamed seduction on anyone else's face. On Hakkai's, it just looked like any other spare smile.

            "Oh and Sanzo?"

            He was pulling his coat on against the brisk wind that had picked up outside, tucking his pistol—he had found bullets in the coat pocket—into a hidden pouch on the underside of the jacket.

            "What?"

            "If you do come back, and bring me something useful, I'll make it worth your while."

            He wrinkled his nose at the offer; it wasn't that Hakkai was an unattractive man—he was, very, actually—but he was his parole officer too. His keeper. Nothing like chains to turn a guy off. Well, most guys, at least. "I don't think I want any of those surprises from you."

            Hakkai smiled. "It's not that, Sanzo-san. Trust me, this, you will appreciate."

            Before his curiosity could be further stirred, Sanzo was ushered out a side door, down three steps, and onto the city street.

            "Good luck now," Wilson waved cheerily before letting the door click shut and locked behind him.

            "Shit."

            After spending ten months in a walking-total of about one thousand square feet, the entire city was almost bigger than he remembered. The fresh air (fresh being an extremely relative term) made him crave a Marlboro ten times more than he had behind bars. Even the thunder grumbling in the distance was a welcome sound, not muffled by ten-foot walls and iron bars. His feet wanted to take him down shady alleys, guide him towards a most likely long-abandoned hideaway. His. Theirs, really. And he'd have time to pass it, too, on the way back. He wanted to wait until moonrise, when it would become a more familiar sight, each shadow, each angle, jumping out at him despite the dark. The crackling brick, broken, rusty gutters, surprisingly warm and dry wooden floors. He shook the thought from his head, nudging shoulders with a passerby who muttered his apology. Sanzo had to look down at his clothing again to remind himself that he wasn't in the telltale costume of a criminal, but rather that of a citizen. A layman.

            Yeah he knew where he was supposed to go, and the gray skies, threatening rain, didn't deter him in the least. He walked downtown, and twice sprinkles dotted his cheeks, the backs of his hands, but the rain clouds stayed shut tight for the most part, dribbling only when their burden became too heavy to hold. They were moving East, and Sanzo, West.

 

            Hakkai's telephone vibrated against his side, and he plucked it out, pressing the flashing green dot. "Wilson."

            "It's me."

            "Doku. What is it?"

            "Nothin' much; did you send him out yet?"

            "Oh yes, about half an hour ago."

            "Aa."

            "Why—having second thoughts about this?"        

            "No, more like third and fourth." He laughed without humor, nervously. "I can't help it. If he screws up, it'll be our heads. This is totally against protocol."

            "It's against a lot more than that, haha. We've already determined the severity of the results if they don't turn out in our favor, Doku. We know it's a gamble."

            "I just…I keep thinking, what if the fucker goes berserk or something and kills an innocent bystander?"

            "I really don't think that will happen, Doku."

            "But we can't be sure." He heard the phone shift shoulders, and papers rustling. Doku was working late. "I mean, 'Kai…we could be responsible for that. And if the Office ever finds out, we're dead men. Losing our jobs will be the least of our worries."

            "We've discussed this." Hakkai sounded mildly annoyed, even to his own ears. "But things will unravel as predicted. He'll bring us the information necessary, we'll send our men to bust the ring, and claim it was all an anonymous tip. Who's to be the wiser?"

            "We don't have a warrant."

            "We both know that the D.A. will overlook that happily when he realizes what a coup he'll have pulled off. He'll get the credit in the public eye, and give us our dues privately. Naturally we'll agree to defer to him in all the details of the investigation, and in the end no one will know that we and a homicidal inmate did the dirty work. People are always very happy to take credit from others."

            He heard a shaky sigh from the other end of the line. "What makes you so sure he's gonna help us? We're just bluesuits to him."

            "Oh, Sanzo's not doing this for our sake. It's for his own. We've already made an arrangement."

            "About that Jienyi guy, right?"

            "Precisely."

            "Why…why does he want him dead?"

            "The details are a bit hazy, but what I've gathered from my research is that Sanzo was caught and arrested when he was shooting up Jienyi's men a second—or perhaps third--time. The leader himself escaped; we have no idea of his whereabouts not. All I know is, for some reason, the man is bent on revenge against him. I don't know what he did. I assume he killed a relative, or perhaps a dear friend. Maybe he hurt Sanzo personally."

            "We're in for some serious shit with him aren't we?"

            "I wouldn't go that far. I think he'll be content to have a shot at exterminating Jienyi, and we'll be easily rid of one more psychopath."

            "One more?"

            "The other three Sanzo took out were wanted men, one of whom was on the FBI's list. In my opinion, he deserves a medal, not three consecutive life sentences."

            "He killed them in cold blood, 'Kai."

            "We don't know what they did to him first."

            "I think you're warped, man. Honor killings aren't legal anymore—didn't you get the memo?" Doku snickered at his friend's reactionary tendencies. "Can't shoot a guy for popping your sister's cherry."

            "I do believe it was more serious than that."

            "Still. Can't shoot a guy. This premeditated shit is especially tricky."

            "When did you become a voice of morality?" Hakkai was packing up his things as he spoke, and clicked the briefcase shut atop his desk, glancing to the side where his empty gun lay, gleaming.
            "I don't know, but I can tell you when I stopped."

 

            This was by far the seediest side of town. He'd seen a total of two pedestrians despite the relatively pleasant fifty-degree weather, and one of them looked dazed, eyes glazed-over pleasantly as he strolled, arm scraping the sides of buildings, knocking over trashcans. The other was fairly running, hands stuffed in his pockets. Sanzo ignored them pointedly, keeping his eyes out for the telltale markings of the Scarlet Phoenix.

            That morning Hakkai had briefed him on the various graffiti art and tattoos attributed to the gang. The most prominent of them, the one all members boasted, was almost as intricate as the old mark of the Dawn. Sanzo had seen two sketches and a photograph, and by now he had the hallmark burned into the back of his eyes. A crimson phoenix, its feathers melting into flames, head tossed back in a silent call. Hence the name, he supposed. Hakkai told him that, according to Doku, most members wear it over their left breast, so it was difficult to see, but another, more obvious marking, was one worn just below the right shoulder and held by senior members: an intricate feather, each little wispy line done in great detail.

            That would be easy enough to locate. He kept his eyes peeled for a man of Officer Wilson's description; with red hair like that, he should stick out like a sore thumb among the rain-slicked concrete and jet macadam paving, crackling in places, pitted with potholes that the city was bent on ignoring.

            Leaning against a surprisingly dry concrete wall, half-shaded by a holey awning, he skimmed the red and silver décor smeared up and down in jagged, three-dimensional letters. This was their territory alright. Maybe even one of their buildings, though he wasn't about to knock and find out. Suddenly he was itching for a cigarette, and his fingers went so far as to dip into his front pocket in search of them. He felt only the sharp edges of crisp fifties, and quite a few of them at that. He would've gladly traded half of his Grants for a single Marlboro at that point.

            "Hey." A raspy voice startled him; he was getting sloppy, to let someone sneak up on him like that. The weight of his gun pressed against his chest through the coat's thin lining, and he heaved a mental sigh of relief. He had loaded it along the way.

            "What the hell do you think you're doing here, pretty boy?"

            If he hadn't been called that a million times already, he might have shot the guy for sport. He hated that. But his luck picked up quickly. The man wasn't wearing anything more than a tank and tattered jeans that barely clung to his waist; Sanzo could see the rugged outline of a feather on his upper bicep.

            He was blonde, beneath a layer of grime and grease, and rather lanky, built for street fighting, rather than wrestling. Judging by the significant bulge in his baggy pants, he was a frequenter of public street brawls. Or maybe the referee.

            "That mark on your arm. You're with the Scarlet Phoenix, aren't you?"

            The gun was out in a flash, and pressed far too close to Sanzo's throat for comfort. He couldn't barely breath with the pressure.

            "Depends. You a cop?"

            "Get real." He rasped, forcing his body to loosen up. He would have killed for a cigarette. Literally, of course. "I'm lookin' for a piece."

            The pressure of the muzzle eased up, and, when the sandy-haired man looked him over a second time, it was put away. "Who told you to come to us?"

            Sanzo took a shot in the dark. "Some hooker on Eleventh. Brunette. Blonde, some nights." The man before him gave a toothy grin and wicked snigger, running a hand through his hair.

            "You mean Sheela." Bull's eye.

            "I don't ask their names."

            "Fine, fine. Yeah she sends us high-spenders. You lookin' to outfit a crew or somethin'?" He kicked open the poorly latched, peeling door of the building Sanzo had been leaning against. The air smelled heavily of mildew and stale smoke.

            "No. Just me."

            "Jus' you? Why? You got a band of old men chasing you down?"

            Sanzo didn't grant that a reply; he watched the slightly taller man kick around some boxes and tug a cell phone out of his back pocket.

            "…Who're you with?"

            Again he shrugged, "No one." It was easy enough to fall back into the life he had been leading for seven years before getting caught for it.

            "I ain't buyin' that shit. I think you're a fucking cop!" Sanzo had to wonder if this guy was high, changing his mind so quickly and slamming him up against the concrete wall so that his lungs had to go into overdrive to breathe.

            "Fuck you're an idiot aren't you?" Sanzo hissed back, skillfully jamming his sharp knee into the man's belly, just above his groin. Hey, he didn't want to make any permanent enemies. The gun was out again, and Sanzo's Smith & Wesson met it head on, his violet eyes narrowed.

            "My profession doesn't allow me to pass out business cards," Sanzo seethed, "If people want a job done, they know to come to me."

            His opponent must have caught on. A grin spread over his wide mouth. "Hitman."

            "Bullseye."

            He grinned and lowered the gun, carefully, and only when Sanzo had done so as well did he hold out his hand, meeting a much cleaner, more slender appendage in a rough handshake and grasp.

            "Banri." He said, stuffing his pistol back into the droopy pants. Sanzo brushed his into the pocket of his coat, not offering anything in return.

            "So what kinda piece are you lookin' for? I'd think, for your job, you'd want somethin' with a good range on it." His cell phone was back out, and he was muttering into it, informing someone with a gruff tone to meet him at the corner of Twelfth and Hillock.

            "Something with a working silencer."

            Banri flashed a grin at him and stuffed his phone back into his pocket. "Okay. So I take it you don't want me to get it numbered for ya?" He joked.

Sanzo smirked to stay on his good side. "I like to give the suits a run for their money."

"Always a fun time." Banri strode towards the opposite wall with such intent that Sanzo was certain he planned to walk right into it. Maybe through it. Instead he ducked, kicking the lower end of a crumbling cement block beneath an old shelf, and nudging it out like a Jenga block. "Sorry, I don't work outta the office," he jested, following Sanzo out, "but meet me at 'leven at Twelfth and Hillock, and I'll get you the deal."

            "Fine."

            "Want?" He offered, holding up a poorly rolled joint visibly laced with a thin line of white powder. "Not that I wanna fuck up your aim later t'night. With your hit or Sheela," he joked.

            Sanzo shook his head in distaste. If you live your life in perpetual danger, why would you want to make yourself that much more vulnerable? He had always hated the loss of control over his body; he'd spent too much time forking over free will in Leavenworth to ever risk doing it again. Even his sleep was jerky, troubled.

            "Ooh." He frowned teasingly, snickering once he inhaled. "Lemme guess, you're a Virginia Slims man?"

            If Marlboros weren't made available soon, he might be, the monk reasoned silently.

            "What? Stop glarin'." He put it away, along with his lighter, and kicked the loose brick back into place. "You're a pretty unhappy fellow," he drawled, eyes still sharp, focused, despite his words. "Maybe this'd loosen you up."

            Staring at him coldly, he wondered if he'd even be at the corner that evening, and if so, how he was going to wheedle his way into his confidences—if he had any—and get a hold of Sha Gojyo? "I'm leaving now." Sanzo spoke crisply, as though lack of enunciation might baffle the man before him.

            "You got it. Hey hitman."

            Sanzo turned with a frankly annoyed stare.

            "Come alone."

           

            Ducking out of the Phoenix's territory, he stepped into the neutral strip of roads between it and the newly expanded Dawn. He recognized the yellow paint on various sheds and underpasses, and, unlike most, could read the twisted letters scrawled vertically along posts and train cars. Apparently now the void between the two territories had thinned drastically, leaving only the space from thirteenth to sixteenth, barring half of Poplar, as impartial ground.

            The old five and dime, long abandoned, sat at the corner of fourteenth, closer to the Phoenix than the Dawn, though not by much. Even when he was very young, he could remember the boarded up windows and flimsy locks on the doors. It had been easy for them to get in. Easier yet to make a retreat out of it, keep it clean with frequent use. The third floor, a loft, where no one else could see in, became his haven. It wasn't until red rivulets ran down the gutters, and a blond braid fell into a shallow puddle, that he stopped coming.

            The building was done in turn-of-the-century architecture, painted a deep green, though most of it had peeled and faded by now, leaving a helpless white and naked brick exposed to the rain. It was almost raining now. Evening, sunset, and clouds blocking the stars. The moon would peek out on occasion, spearing the trees with silver bolts.

            He didn't have to think actively; while reminiscing, his feet took him there. He knew to look up when they stopped moving, meeting the smooth arches of the windows and sharp, torn metal of ancient gutters with worn eyes. Ducking around to the alley in the back, he tested the door and, when it refused to give, jerked the knob up at a forty-five degree angle, to the right. It sighed under a familiar hand and squealed when it was opened. The warmth of a well-made building enveloped him as the door clicked shut. Light flickered poorly through the thin windows, boards long-since rotted off, that lined the narrow stairwell. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness; it didn't make him nervous in the least. Who would come here but him?

            He mounted the steps, dodging the third, and the sixteenth, both of which were rotted through. He turned when he hit the second floor, and moved up the next staircase, pleased to find even the rickety handlebars smooth and dry, untouched since he last came here.

            Gods when was that? He mused quietly, counting back the days. It was almost seven years ago since they last met here. The moon was not quite full, missing a sliver of silver; it had illuminated the entire room, casting everything in an ethereal glow. Their hair, twined together, had glistened like platinum, inseparable by glance alone. He pushed open the door of the third floor, finding the air stale, empty, unused, unbreathed, for more than half a decade.

            Everything was dry, what remained of the furniture was clean—what would settle on it? Perhaps someone, the owner of the property, or a relative, was maintaining it in the semi-decayed state in which Sanzo had first found it. Or maybe it took more than seven years for a building to die. They were bigger, stronger, than people. Its insides were still warm, functioning. Perhaps it would stand another twenty years.

            He let out a sigh that almost sounded like a word. Not one he had intended, or could make out. He pulled boards from the windows, finding the glass panes had been replaced, only one or two broken since. So someone was keeping it up. But, he noted, it didn't seem to be in use. Everything had been pushed to the side, some of the tables, the bed too, covered with a tarp to protect it from dust that didn't exist.

            Sanzo wondered how long the room had stood empty. Few would inhabit the building, given its dangerous location, walking the tightrope between Phoenix and Dawn territories.

            The squeal of irritated metal on wood forced him to clench his jaw until the bed was righted, put back against the windows, tarp thrown off to find a pristine covering. They weren't the sheets that had been left on it, but newer. Maybe prepared for a possible renter. As if anyone would risk driving, never mind walking, through the neighborhood. Sanzo smiled ironically and finished prying the boards from the windows, pleased when the clouds parted long enough to let a waxing gibbous flood the room with light.

            He removed his coat despite the chill, tossing it onto the bed and stretching out on top of it. From that angle, he could see clearly through the windows, the building across the street and the flickering orange glow of a streetlamp smudged with graffiti. Stars twinkled dimly, dustily, from behind a film of clouds. He shifted

            and felt a familiar weight settle over his body, hands trailing through his hair, cupping his face gently. Kisses peppered his hair, his forehead, ghosting across his smooth forehead, between his eyes, and down his nose. He let out a fluttering gasp, his own slender hands knotting in a thick, wheat-colored braid, urging.

            "You're bleeding." Sanzo's voice sounded so much lighter, softer.

            "It's only a cut. Minor skirmish," he promised, exhaling softly against callused fingertips, kissing each digit, and laving it with his tongue. "You're quiet." He observed.

            "Mmn." Sanzo felt his shirt being plucked open, soft lips gliding over scarred skin. "Sorry."

            "Don't be. Go wherever you need to," he murmured, "even if it's not here."

            Sanzo closed his eyes and permitted himself the escape, crying out in response to the sharp dash of pain followed by a quick, throbbing heat that slowly blossomed into pleasure. The stars were blazing pinpricks of light in the pitch of the sky; the moon beamed like a smooth pearl amidst diamonds, without facets, without angles. And then he could smell rain and herbs, the faintest flicker of clover. Lips that tasted like a storm fluttered over his own in light caresses. He almost thought he heard those words again, through the movement of the body over him, the hesitance.

            Are you certain this is what you want?

            Oh yes. Oh Koumyou…

 

            Sanzo let out a short gasp, sitting up again and glancing at his watch. Its glass face caught the moonlight, hiding the time. With a flick of his wrist, he read quarter to ten and sighed in relief.

            Turning to the window again, he found the stars too dim, the moon a shade too yellow. The bed was too cold. Sanzo rose, raking a hand through his hair and trying to picture what Koumyou would look like now. He would be thirty-six. He had looked almost as old then, though by no fault of his own.

            Koumyou wasn't like the others; he had worried. Especially about Sanzo. It drew premature lines on his face, though when he smiled, they would vanish. Sanzo realized he met him a decade ago, and hadn't seen him for almost as long. Three years was painfully short.

            "Hn." He sat again, ignoring the icy sheets beneath his legs, glancing up at the head of the bed, familiar with the low brass headboard and the slim bars he could just fit his fingers around. He remembered that night, their first night, and the guilt in his eyes that Sanzo couldn't wash away. Hadn't he said that was what he wanted? It had been. He'd never regretted it.

Sanzo would deny as hotly today as he would have ten years ago that Koumyou ever hurt him, or tried to take advantage. As the leader of the Dawn, he had rights the others did not, but he only made them known when it came to protecting the youngest member of their group. Sanzo didn't know how many scuffles he had gotten into that required bailing out by his protector. An expert gunman, he had picked off potential enemies over the boy's shoulder numerous times, always using his body as a shield, his words as a safety net. He was like an older brother, a defender Sanzo had never had in life. He took in a starving runaway, on his own time, and sheltered him, welcoming him warmly, rather than dragging him over the coals as would be expected of an initiate. His argument had never been "he's too young," though the others bickered and dissented amongst themselves over their leader's decision. It was always look at him. You can see it in his eyes—would you test a lion's claws?

            There was anger amongst the others because of the ease with which the blond was accepted and taken to their leader's side. They assumed Koumyou was having him, even then, at thirteen, and he had put a slug in a man's mouth for uttering it in his presence. Sanzo had taken out a few himself for making such crass statements. But that was not how he had earned his title, monk, it was merely an added irony.

And Koumyou had been so much like a fallen monk, and he was always the first to admit to it. It was surprising how easy it was to plummet into the trap of Dawn life. One wasn't born a killer; that was something that developed circumstantially. Koumyou had been a good man who had fallen prey to the sin of vengeance, and his fall had been irreversible. Maybe he hadn't wanted Sanzo to fall beside him. Living with him, accepting the mark of the Dawn at thirteen (for safety, not for life, he had said), how could it have turned out otherwise? But the man had always been stupidly optimistic, after all. Sanzo would tease him for it, and receive a faint smile in return.

They called Koumyou "monk," because of his kindness, his so called "soft spot," for Sanzo and for others. Sanzo had inherited that title, though not through any similarity to its namesake.

Koumyou hadn't killed indiscriminately; in fact he rarely killed at all, and, after his initial taste of revenge, abandoned the business of it all together. He ran a well-organized, highly disciplined company that dealt mostly in illegal arm and drug trades. Assassinations were out of his jurisdiction, though no one crossed him.

What Sanzo learned from the man helped him to survive, later in life. After Koumyou's death, though he took on the nickname-turned-title, he never returned to lead the Dawn. It more or less dissembled, and he dedicated his life to vengeance, knowing his lover would not approve, but might understand. Three years into it or so, he recognized that his intentions were selfish. Koumyou wasn't the sort of man who wound himself up in such affairs. He recognized the danger in them, and he wouldn't want Sanzo to thus entrap himself. Especially not for seven years. Eight in counting, given that, to him, the hunt wasn't over.

He felt his lover frown somewhere in the distance, and placated him with kind promises to settle once he had this over and done with. There was a flickering smile given in return.

The memory made him ache. A once so familiar face was fading in his mind. He remembered the rough hands, pressing over his and showing him up to level a gun, aiming with both eyes open, never squinting. But a part of him believed that he was seen, even by sixteen, as a child corrupted unjustly, a symbol of a contagious sin. As if he hadn't had free will, and hadn't decided to make the Dawn his life, never mind the reasons. Sanzo had never felt like a child in his life; he couldn't remember ever not having freedom. But Koumyou looked at him as though he trapped a beautiful wild creature for his own pleasure, tried to teach it tricks, train it, and then realized too late that, if he released it, the fair-haired being wouldn't survive. To make up for it, he loved him. And even at fifteen, he wasn't being "had." It was a wholly mutual agreement, initiated, surprisingly, by the younger of the pair. It was done out of love. Or whatever aspect of love they were capable of attaining.

            If his body had been fifteen then, his mind had been at least twenty five. He was pretty close to Koumyou's age now, the blond estimated, glancing down at the thin scars on his palms, one trailing up the side of his finger. His hands rested in his lap calmly, and he let his eyes flicker shut, pushing back memories as he rose to his feet. Koumyou would tell him it wasn't healthy to be there, and he would have done better to go after a pack of Marlboros. Sanzo smiled faintly at the thought, tossing a glance back at the window as he pulled his jacket on.

            "Hey!"

            The gun was out before he could clearly see the figure standing there in the dark.

            "Whoa, hey." Hands rose, and burgundy coat sleeves rolled back. "I think you may be a little confused," the voice murmured, shadow of a body turning just a bit. Sanzo spotted the orange glow of a cherry, bouncing up and down as the man spoke. "See…this is my pad."

            So it was being rented out. Sanzo lowered the gun, clicked the safety on, and pushed it into the side of his coat.

            "So…why are you here?" The man stepped out of the shadows and into the moonlight, wincing a bit and blinking. Sanzo's lips parted in a small O of surprise as, beneath the light, the man's coat turned from brown to burgundy, and his muddled black hair to a fiery Scarlet. With eyes like dark, dark wine.

            "Sha Gojyo?"

            "Aw hell is this another hit?"

            "No." Sanzo shook his head, closing his jacket. "It's not."

            "Good! So…what d'ya need?" He grinned cheekily, not at all perturbed by the idea of Sanzo's headhunting.

            "I was looking for you." He said stupidly, shocked by the man's casual acceptance of his breaking and entering, not to mention his raising a gun at his head.

            Gojyo flopped back on the bed, stretching out very long legs so that his ankles propped up at the footboard; arms slid behind his head, pulling the coat apart to reveal a thin tank beneath. Edges of ruby red feathers peeked out from the left side of his chest.

            "Okay." He agreed. "What can I do for ya?" And now he was grinning. Leering, really. "Here for a bed to sleep in, Goldilocks?" He offered huskily, generous mouth closing to better display the firm, blood-red of his lips. Sanzo shuddered, but he wasn't sure why, nor willing to analyze it.

            "I don't think so." He snapped, and, reining his temper in, he forced his face to relax. "It's not that. I've…heard about you."

            "So've a lotta folks."

            His attitude was so disarming that Sanzo wasn't certain of what to say, or how to make himself convincing. The redhead exuded an air of comfort, tolerance, placidity.

            "I've heard, more appropriately," he began again, "About the Scarlet Phoenix."

            "Ooh. So you read newspapers," he jested. Sanzo thought it was unwise to joke with a man packing heat, but for all he knew, Gojyo was too.

            "I want to join."

            "Do you?" Interested now, he sat up, grinning slightly. Out came the gun—impressive—a forty-four in his cargo pants. "How then, do I know you're not a cop?"

            "Ask Banri."

            "Yeah you know Banri? So how do I know you're not a hooker?" He was smirking again, and Sanzo had heard the safety being clicked on.

            "Do I look like one to you!" He snapped in annoyance, cheeks flushing faintly. Gojyo was staring at him as though he might turn into one, if he wished hard enough. The redhead traced his figure with undisguised appreciation, tongue touching his lower lip.

            "If I answer that, you might shoot me. Why don't we talk about Banri then?"

 

            An hour later he was walking beside the leader of the Scarlet Phoenix's local division, listening to him prattle on uselessly, but, thankfully, declare Sanzo a "shoe in."

            "We just put you through a little initiation, ya know, and then you're in." He shrugged.

            "And you can say this without consulting anyone else about it?"

            Gojyo gave him a lopsided grin, plucking a back of Hi-Lites from his back pocket, and a Zippo lighter from the front. "This ain't a democracy, Goldilocks."

            "You call me that again and your clan will be one monarch short."

            Gojyo laughed. "Sorry. Sanzo." The blond tched in reply. "But yeah, you do one favor for me, and in return, I'll give you the protection of our name."

            Sanzo was silent, waiting for elaboration. The faint smell of nicotine and smoke hit his face, and he bit his tongue, almost wishing he had detoured to pick up cigarettes first. He still had the money Hakkai had given him to buy un-registered weaponry. It looked as though he might end up with that for free within a day or two, and the money would serve to fan the embers of a dormant addiction.

            "Here." Gojyo stopped in the middle of the street, between an auto-repair shop that had seen better days and some old-fashioned bank building that had been closed since the early seventies, by the looks of it. The redhead led Sanzo down a narrow alley and around back, shoving through a door and flicking on a series of naked bulbs hanging low overhead. Sanzo was just short enough to walk safely beneath them, but the taller man had to dodge the glowing pendulums, and he did so without effort.

            "Welcome to my office," he snickered, barring the door from the inside and hitting another switch, this one illuminated a formerly hidden stairwell and half of a second room above. The wooden walls were old and not particularly well taken care of, but they weren't falling apart, or showing signs of rot. Sanzo estimated that touching them would result in an unpleasant series of splinters.

            The man's "office" was nothing more than an old metal desk, three chairs, all threadbare and creaking, and a bookshelf that was almost empty, save for a few skinny binders and moth-eaten books. There were two glass ashtrays, and one on the desk, half-full. When the redhead gestured, Sanzo sat, staring ahead. "Well?"

            "Well." Gojyo repeated, that smug grin plastered across his face once again. He ashed a Hi-Lite against the dirty side of the tray to his left. "Tell me why you want in, and what makes you think you can handle whatever I throw at you?"

            "What makes you think I can't?"

            "Aw, you want me to come out and say it, Goldi--" he stopped himself just in time, smiling too broadly to look even mildly regretful.

            "I'm a good shot." When Gojyo failed to respond, he added, "and I've had practice."

            "Killed a guy?"

            "Would I be in this shitty profession if I hadn't?"

            "So have you done time for it?"

            "I'm not stupid enough to get caught." Sanzo retaliated, affecting an appearance of annoyance at Gojyo's question. His interviewer looked pleased.

            "Any inhibitions about killing more?"

            "Depends on who they are."

            "I'm not talkin' about mommies and daddies here, Sanzo. These are guys like us, except with half our skill." His face turned serious. "I don't fuck with the innocent unless they fuck with me first." He stated somberly. "But you just happened to come at the opportune time. We're in a bit of a…contest…with some guys in Eclipse." He must have noticed the sudden tension in Sanzo's navette-like eyes. "You're familiar with them?"

            "Yeah."

            Gojyo nodded. "How about the Dawn?"

            Sanzo shrugged. "I've heard of them." He was surprised at how easily lying came to him. He had never had to do it before. He'd never wanted to.

            "We trade with them. They're sort of our allies. The enemies of our enemies are our friends, anyways." He shrugged. "Apparently they still have some vendetta against the Eclipse too, from years back."

            Sanzo glanced off, hiding the hatred he knew must have sparked in his eyes. "I'm not here for a history lesson." He stood. "Give me my target."

            "You're awfully eager. Not that I'm complaining." His teasing tone was threading its way back through that silky murmur. Sanzo wanted to deck him for eyeing his lower half so intently, but held back. "Just one question, though."

            "What?"

            "You on the run?"

            Sanzo stared.

            "Are the cops after ya? Why'd you come here?"

            "Because I don't have anywhere else to go." It came out so easily, without forethought, and Sanzo realized it was because it was truth.

            Gojyo looked solemn once again, nodding. "Okay." But a flicker of a smile graced those generous lips. "Forget about Banri tonight. I'll get you the weapon you wanted. You can come get info on your target tomorrow night." At the questioning gaze presented him, he smiled, "Gotta keep you comin' back, don't I?"

            Sanzo rolled his eyes. Gojyo smiled. He must have noticed his initiate's eyes watching his left hand intently, because he pulled the back of cigarettes from his pocket once again, holding it out in offering. Sanzo would have hesitated, but the draw was too strong. He plucked one from the bent packaging easily, and Gojyo rose to light it, leaning closer with his red-handled Zippo than was truly necessary. Sanzo pulled back the moment he saw the cherry glow, leaning into the wall—no splinters after all—and inhaling the strong, bitter taste. Not his brand, but who the fuck cared? It had been months. He let out a sigh of relief that sounded vaguely like a moan, drawing the thick smoke down his throat with a muted shudder.

            It took him a moment to register the garnet gaze fastened on his every movement; he tossed a sharp glance at Gojyo, who was leaning against his desk. "Do you always orgasm when you smoke?" He quipped, watching the fair-haired man's face color brightly, despite the dim lighting. He didn't relinquish the cigarette.

            "Asshole."

            "Not denying…" Gojyo couldn't stop grinning.

            "So spit it out."

            It took the redhead a moment to register what was being asked of him, but quickly he slid off the desk and strode to the stairwell. "Come up here with me."

            Sanzo followed, cigarette still pressed firmly between his lips, though nearly smoked to the butt by that time. Gojyo lit another and leaned forward to press it between the other's lips; a slender hand snatched it away to position it himself.

            "Any preferences?" The lights overhead were startlingly bright, glinting off of the redhead's mane. He kicked a couple floor boards and pried out tarp-wrapped bundles. Sanzo watched discreetly from the door way.

            "Something small and easy to hide."

            "Like the one you've got there? It's not bad," Gojyo murmured, drawing a silver weapon from its hiding place followed by a handful of bullets. "So how'd you get into this business?"

            "How does anyone get into it?"

            "Fair enough," he allowed, lanky legs bending again to replace hidden treasure. "You want anything else?"

            Sanzo exhaled, muffling a soft sigh. The smoke after months without made his voice gratifyingly gruff. "No."

            "My gift to you, Goldy," Gojyo grinned, pressing it into his palm and, as if imitating Hakkai, he pressed a handful of bullets into the blonde's front pocket, thumb trailing dangerously close to the inseam. Sanzo jerked his hips and turned away with a muttered curse. "What the hell!"

            "Oh come on." A wide half smile greeted his protest; the man was too handsome for his own good. Sanzo wanted to put a bullet between those glowing eyes. "I haven't exactly been subtle."

            "Tch. Spell subtle."

            Gojyo threw his head back in a bark of laughter, tugging a strand of fair hair as he strode to the door. "You're a real spitfire aren't you?"

            "You wanna mock a guy you just armed?"

            "It's kinda hard to stop." He leaned against the door frame with a wry smile and flicked his tongue over the edge of his cigarette, waving it about between full lips. He had to appreciate the new initiate. The guy was gorgeous, though he supposed telling him as much would earn him a bullet—perhaps one of his own. He looked like he would do well as an assassin; he was quick witted, and, Gojyo assumed, quick on his feet. Of narrow, slender build, wiry and probably, the redhead mused silently, quite flexible. He had an aristocratic face that a body didn't see much these days; firm nose, rather narrow lips, though Gojyo thought they could be made useful with training. And his eyes…well who had purple eyes anymore? They were dangerous in their appeal. The redhead assumed he had about a snowball's chance in hell with the sputtering flame that was glowering at him now. He shrugged.

            "How the hell does a guy like you end up running an underground conglomerate?"

            "The secret of the trade, my friend," Gojyo grinned. "Skill, of course. And luck."

            "I'm leaning in favor of luck."

            He laughed. "Can't deny it. But to be lucky, a guy's gotta be in the right place at the right time. I've got good instincts, and I usually am."

            Sanzo watched him flick off the lights, and began following him down the hollowed out stairwell. "So where's the right place now?"

            Gojyo turned as his foot found solid ground, whirling on the man behind him with a dangerous grin. "I'd say your bed," he murmured darkly, "but I've got a feelin' I'm gonna have to work for that."

            Sanzo shoved him off roughly with a grunt of disgust, pushing past the smiling shadow towards the door. "Fuck off."

            "See you around, Goldilocks!" Gojyo called good naturedly from the door, watching the glowing blond head disappear into the angular shadows and obtrusions of the alleyway.

           

            Once again, Sanzo mused ironically, I'm working with idiots. Both sides of the law seemed to be run by morons, he thought as the extra weight of his newly acquired weapon bumped against his chest. He stopped at a gas station, one that was open all night, and smoked half a pack in the flickering glow of a dying neon light. It gave his reflection in the dirty window a scarlet tinge. He didn't know why that irritated him.

 At eleven on the dot, he returned to the side door of the precinct. Hakkai smiled widely.

            "Good to see you in one piece, Sanzo. How did it go?"

            Sanzo removed the gun, watching Doku, who appeared shortly after, jerk his hands up in surprise. Hakkai watched idly as the weapon, followed by bullets, was dropped onto the table.

            "Success, I see. Did you happen to get the name of the man who sold it to you?"

            "Yeah, and by the looks of things, I could have his phone number for you too," Sanzo wrinkled his nose in displeasure at the thought of returning to work for that arrogant idiot.

            "Oh really?" Eyebrows lifted over dark emeralds. "And that is?"

            "Sha Gojyo."

            "Gojyo?" Hakkai looked impressed. "You work fast."

            Sanzo shrugged. Doku looked impressed. "Where am I staying?"

            "Well not back at the jail," Hakkai assured him, noticing how his shoulders relaxed at the news. "Since you're rather under my care, you can sleep in the office. I pull late shifts all the time."

            Sanzo stared at him blankly.

            "What is it?"

            "Maybe he's afraid you'll feel him up," Doku offered with a toothy grin, finishing off the last of a diet coke and resting it on Hakkai's desk. He received a sharp frown, and Sanzo couldn't decide if it was for the innuendo or the littering.

            "You'll be quite safe," Hakkai assured him with a light pat to his shoulder. "There's a couch that folds out right through there."

            "No windows." Doku reminded him. "So don't try digging a hole through the floor."

            Sanzo pointedly ignored him, turning to Hakkai when he heard him make a small sound of surprise, inspecting the gun. He hadn't noticed anything special about it, carrying it back.

            "I almost forgot." He put the gun into Doku's hands, followed by the bullets, and moved to his filing cabinet. "I promised to make it worth your while if you came back on time."

            "Yeah you promised that to me too," Doku drawled. Hakkai laughed hollowly, but made him no answer. He was digging through a dented filing cabinet; Sanzo could see the manila envelopes over his shoulder, all neatly alphabetized and labeled.

            "I'm afraid it's not much of a gift, as it did belong to you a few months ago. It was taken because of the sharp edges, and the cord," officer Wilson explained, a shock of dark hair falling over his right eye. He pressed an amber-studded pendant into Sanzo's palm, lips soft in a frown.

            "When they took this, you were livid. Is it that it belonged to someone very important to you?"

            Sanzo stared vacantly at the familiar token, running his thumb over it, watching the fluorescent lights catch the bubbles of air within the amber; it looked as though it were glowing.

            Hakkai kindly stood back and didn't press his question.

            He looked up, too shyly for someone who had done this before, he thought with some embarrassment. His eyes focused on everything but the glowing pair overhead, darting uselessly about the room until a gentle hand stroked the centre of his chest, calming him. The glint of moonlight on amber distracted him; as the shirt slid off, he noticed the amulet, swinging like a pendulum and hanging from his throat. He had never seen him without it.

Long blond hair slithered free of its braid, tangling in the gold cord, stilling the object's movement. Sanzo thought the amber inlay looked like a cat's eye, and he watched it with interest for a stolen moment, until he heard a pair of muslin pants hiss into a pile on the floor, followed by his own rumpled jeans. He turned back to a familiar pair of eyes and—

            coughed, closing his slender fingertips over the heavy metal before pressing it into the safety of his jeans pocket. He removed the heavy roll of bills Hakkai had given him originally and placed it atop a pile of papers, snatching a few of the greenbacks from the top. Hakkai raised his eyebrows in silent question, and received a shrug in response.

            "You don't expect me to work without nicotine do you?"

            Hakkai smiled. "Not a problem, Sanzo-san."

            "So you didn't pay for the gun? This guy just gives it to you? How the hell does he know he can trust you?" Doku was pulling his coat on to leave.

            "No, yes, and how the fuck should I know how that idiot's mind functions?" Sanzo hissed, irritated at once when reminded of Gojyo.

            "Huh. Never seen it before. You must be one smooth talker," Doku nodded to him and then leaned close to squeeze Hakkai's shoulder, mouth almost brushing his ear in a murmur. "Call me."

            Hakkai nodded, the same meaningless smile on his face as he waved Doku off. "Well I'm in for a long night. You might as well just make yourself comfortable in the back room. There are some blankets on the couch. It pulls out. I'm sure you'll figure it out." And with that he shut himself off, sitting in the creaky wheeled office chair and poring over a series of papers, all jumbled with names, numbers, and statistics.

            Sanzo returned to the back room, pleased to see that, although there wasn't a door separating it from the central portion of Hakkai's downtown office, the couch was at an angle that couldn't be seen from where he sat at his desk. Sanzo tugged out the bed and threw a blanket over the naked mattress. Fabric hissed as it dripped off of his narrow shoulders and onto the edge of the bed. He sat down with an obnoxious squeak and plucked the familiar locket-shaped pendulum from his pocket, draping it about his neck. The weight was familiar, a comfort to have on again. It was almost warm.

 

            "I want to give this to you."

            "Your necklace?"

            He smiled, familiar lines creasing his face. "Yes. You might need it, one day."

            "Why is that?"

            "It's sort of a …good luck charm. You never know when you might find it useful. I'll tell you more about it someday…" He draped the square pendulum, patterned in amber, about the youth's neck, pressing a kiss to the cord just above his shoulder. "Keep it on you all the time." Sanzo didn't believe in luck, only circumstance, but Koumyou had always been the sort to put stock in things like Fate. And he liked to see him smile.

            "I promise," came the whispered reply; fingers stroked the small love token, thinking that, with its width, it might have been a locket, only there was no slit or opening present. He looked up in question, and felt a hand pat his head, silencing him for the moment in a way that said Trust me.

           

            Sanzo jerked awake at an unmarked point in time, glancing about the windowless room and scanning cluttered bookshelves and table tops for a clock. There was nothing, only piles of books, folders, and the occasional vase or miniature globe. A decorative map hung on the wall, drawn grossly out of proportion. Above the couch hung a framed "Mappe Monde," foreign animals and princes decked out in faded regalia stared down at him. He drew his shirt on and, barefoot, walked across the carpeted floor to Hakkai's office.

            There was a clock above his desk, ticking softly and reading four in the a.m. Green-sleeved arms pillowed Hakkai's right cheek; Sanzo noticed him stir gradually at the sound of footsteps.

            "Mr. Sanzo?" He smiled blearily. "Oh I must have dozed…" Consulting the wall clock, he gave his charge a curious frown. "Can't sleep?"

            "I did sleep."

            "Oh my you don't need much to run on do you?" Adjusting his monocle, he tapped the stack of manila envelopes beneath his fingertips. "Well I was done for the day anyhow. I suppose, since you're already awake, you wouldn't mind regaling me with the tale of your first day on the outside?"

            "Not much to tell."

            "I would be appreciative of anything you could give me."

            "Fine."

            Hakkai gestured for him to sit, and he did, unnerved at the extended glance given his bare feet. He pushed them behind the lower rung of the chair, drawing the officer's gaze up to meet his own with a beginning syllable. He recounted every detail with monotonous accuracy, emitting only his prolonged stay at the Five and Dime at the corner of fourteenth. He told Hakkai he "walked, and walked some more" during that stretch of time, running into Gojyo by accident between territories, so that they both ended up pulling their guns. Naturally he excluded the kappa's unrefined pick up lines; they were of no significance to the department, and Hakkai would only look amused in that sickening manner of his. Sanzo wasn't in the mood.

            "Well you did a lot of walking." Officer Wilson concluded, looking pleased, though not entirely convinced, by the inmate's story. "Regardless, I am grateful for the information you were able to bring us, and the weapon. If you can continue to supply us with information and, eventually, lead us to their headquarters, I'll see to it that you're removed permanently from Leavenworth."

            "You mentioned that." Sanzo said flatly, clearly no longer enthused by the idea. He'd never be put in anything less than a medium security prison, and his reason for continuing on in the department's services was the slight chance he might have of catching up with that dark-eyed bastard and feeding him lead.

            "So this 'initiation' you're describing—did he give you any hints of what it might be? Really there's no standard, as I'm sure you know. It would be helpful if we--"

            "I'm not trying to get into a fraternity," Sanzo snapped irritably. "This is a gang; what the fuck do you think he's gonna have me do?"

            "Well I really can't be responsible for your shooting anyone. You mustn't do that."

            "Then you're fucking out of luck, aren't you?" Sanzo seethed, his nerves coming undone under Hakkai's seamless smile and glowing eyes, as though he had the power to read every word printed on the inside of Sanzo's skull. It was sickening enough that he had access to a basic outline of the man's life from age thirteen and onwards, but to stare at him as though he were some orphan the kindly officer rescued from the streets made Sanzo's trigger finger itch.

            "Hmm," Hakkai mused in silence, the smile never faltering. "Well I suppose sacrifices must be made. I'm just not sure how to cover this up for the time being. It will be happily overlooked if we manage to capture the Phoenix's headquarters—I am assuming your target will be a killer much like yourself—but if any random acts of violence are discovered before then, I'll be forced to retire you to your cell, permanently. Quite a quandary."

            Sanzo detested the way he said that, a killer like yourself, and the implied "and therefore totally dispensable and useless to society." For a moment the blonde's indignation surged up in his throat, threatening to burst free in a series of condemnations and useless explanations. He choked it back. To the state, it didn't matter who you killed, only that you did. It didn't matter that it was just payback, that he had to take the life of the man who had taken Koumyou's. His own.

            His lips parted, but nothing came out. He wanted a cigarette.

            "Tell you what. You go through with whatever it is you need to do," Hakkai murmured, thinking as he spoke, "and tell me only what behooves you to admit."

            "Don't I do that already?" Sanzo smirked, rising, and retired to the side room again, slipping his shoes on, and then the outer coat.

            "Mr. Sanzo?"

            Silence.

            "You can't wear the same thing again. Let me find you clean clothing."

            "Tch." Sanzo couldn't hold back a grin at the sudden, well, motherly tone. When Officer Wilson strode through the gaping doorway with a black shirt on a hangar, he was humming.

            "I think it's a handsome shirt. It's silk, like the other," he promised, pressing it into Sanzo's lap and gazing at the man's sharp profile. "Like a cameo."

            "What?" A tense voice snapped, and suddenly blazing amethystine eyes met dull emeralds, fogged by sleeplessness. Laughter resounded in response.

            "Just put it on. I've left your things—from your cell—in the little side bathroom there for you. You can leave to feed your nasty addiction whenever you like, only make sure to come back by midnight."

            "Or what, I turn into a pumpkin?"

            Hakkai laughed brightly at that. "Haha, of course not. I'd have to shoot you."

 

            When Gojyo stumbled into his ramshackle office, Sanzo was already resting in the chair, feet propped up on the weathered desktop, perched neatly beside a half-emptied back of Marlboros. He had one between his fingertips, and the other hand laid atop his pistol. "You're late."

            "Did we specify a time?" Gojyo purred, not seeming to mind the seat his initiate had taken.

            "If we did, would you even remember?" Sanzo groused, stuffing the Marlboro between his lips again. "You know why I'm here."

            "Hell yes. And don't worry, I've got your guy. I had to do some double checking. You know, make sure he's actually still alive. Got a location. Sort of."

            "Is there a more competent overlord I can appeal to?" Sanzo deadpanned, expecting to get a rise out of the redhead; to his great surprise, Gojyo only laughed. The lanky, long-legged sharpshooter was the most laid back assassin Sanzo had ever met. And perhaps the most exasperating as well.

            "Nope, not in this region. Word on the street is we've got a new boss. Old one got shot in the face, twenty times. By his hooker." A grin spread over that generous mouth.

            Yes, definitely the most exasperating creature I've ever met.

            "Sad for him. I hope she let him finish."

            Gojyo's grin seemed a permanent fixture on his face. But it was bemused, genuine. Not like the shield Hakkai wore.

            "Well I can't say I know the details, but good news for you is the guy we're sending you after drinks like a fish. It'll be a cinch; easier than a shooting range."

            "You think I can't handle a serious target?" Sanzo didn't know quite why he was so riled up about it. It didn't matter one way or the other; his real "target" was the redhead standing before him. Everything before that was just busywork.

            "Ya didn't let me finish."

            "So do so."

            "His name is Hazel Grosse. And he's a rich bastard who's been the monkey on my back for years. Problem is this: he has a body guard to rival the Secret Service."

            "That many?"

            "Who said anything about many? There's one guy—nicknamed Gat, because he shoots like a gatling gun. Never misses either. The guy's built like a tree—he's at least my height, and he probably eats guys like you for breakfast."

            "I'll be careful to avoid his mouth," Sanzo sneered in irritation.

            "Do that." Gojyo's face was serious now. "I tried to dissuade some of the guys from pushing you into this. It's not absolutely necessary to kill Hazel; we could find another way, but this one's the easiest, and cheapest. And to them, you're entirely dispensable."

            Not an uncommon point of view these days. "I'll kill him." Sanzo promised.

            "You sure?"

            "What the hell do you mean 'am I sure'?" Sanzo dropped his feet back to the ground, riled. "If you think I'm so easily intimidated, I clearly gave you the wrong impression when we met." Sanzo jammed the muzzle of his gun up between Gojyo's ribs, face as close as it could be without his standing on the tips of his toes. "I'm not running to you for protection. This is business to me. You give me an assignment, I do it, we're even. Don't insult me with your patronizing bullshit."

            Instead of drawing on him, Gojyo backed up, hands in the air, a faint smile pulling at his lips. "Okay, Sanzo. You got it." He nodded, whistling. "But damn a man has to appreciate spirit like that, hellion. And a fine body to boot."

            "You're impossible." Sanzo felt the beginnings of a headache coming on. "Give me a location."

            "Can do. Corner of Third and Main, little ways from the BP station: the Trackside Tavern . He rents a room up top that little bar there. Sometimes I wonder if he an' his bodyguard are a pair, ya know?"

            "It doesn't matter."

            "Just don't try to get Gat drunk. He'll get suspicious, and you'll die of alcohol poisoning before he even gets a buzz."

            "I don't plan on drinking." Sanzo rose to leave.

            "So what, you bringing me back a scalp? Some Scythian cups?" Gojyo chortled. "Underpants?"

            "Get bent!"

            "Ooh. Feisty. Don't screw it up, Goldilocks," Gojyo murmured leaning against the doorframe as the blond disappeared into the shadows. He realized he could still smell the softer, sweeter stench of Marlboros, and turned to find one fizzling out in the ashtray, tipped against the edge. He sucked it down to the filter.

           

            It was half past eleven, and he had won special permission from Hakkai and Doku to remain out "as late as it takes." Given that he didn't have John Wayne's miraculous luck, Sanzo decided to gradually melt into the background of the bar and, from the perspective of a fuzzy outline perched on a stool near the counter, track down his guy.

            He had a description, but it was vague, and Gojyo promised he would "know him when he saw him", by the hulk of a bodyguard dogging his shadow. Sure enough, the frail, fair-skinned blonde with a fondness for Western dress waltzed in under the shadow of a hulking jet-haired man. Sanzo had to admit, he hadn't expected this. But muscles didn't deflect bullets, he reasoned, and Gat didn't know who he was, or why he was here. He'd work when they retired, and it would be a cake walk.

            Just as Sanzo was beginning to think that Gojyo had made this too easy, the only other blond in the bar strode over to his corner and wiggled over the surface of the nearest bar stool, making the un-oiled hinges squeak.

            "Well I've never seen you before," the man commented prettily, long lashes already working overtime. "Can I buy you a drink?"

            "I have one," Sanzo pointed out, tapping a fingertip against the amber-filled, round glass inches from his wrist at the bar.

            "So you do." He smiled, and Gojyo noticed the hulking shadow had left his place at Hazel's heels. "You look like a man who could use a little Southern Comfort."

            "Like I said, I've got a drink."

            "Who said anything about a drink?"

            Sanzo made a mental note to shoot Gojyo in the face upon returning, the precinct be damned. That bastard redhead was probably laughing his ass off right now. "I think we're done here." Sanzo rose, but Hazel laughed, tapping his arm lightly and gesturing for him to sit again.

            "Oh my, you're fussy aren't you? I'm hesitant to make any more recommendations."

            "Good."

            "Though if I were you, I'd try the Famous Grouse. It's a blended--"

            "Yeah I'm familiar with it." Sanzo remembered that, for all intents and purposes, he didn't know Hazel's full name. Or first. He feigned ignorance at the idiot's jest, tapping his fingertips atop the wooden bar. How long did Gojyo say it would take for this idiot to get plastered?

            "Are you?" He looked thoughtful for a moment, pushing stray strands of hair behind one ear and glancing at Sanzo with a false warmth in his eyes. The blond attributed it to whatever he had already drunk and a poor attempt at sincerity. "Well," he stuck out his hand until Sanzo's staring persuaded him to put it away again. "My name is Hazel. It's nice to meet you Mr….? What did you say your name was?"

            "I didn't."

            "Would you?"

            Sanzo bit back a growl and improvised. "Luke."

            "Well Mr. Luke," he waved the bartender over and ordered some malt liquor or other; long, slender fingers twirled about the glass as he debated over the syntax of his question. "Y'know I just happen to be visitin'; this isn't exactly my 'home town,' though I'm sure you deciphered that already, given my accent."

            "No kidding."

            He laughed hollowly, and it reminded Sanzo of Officer Wilson. "Yes well...are you a frequenter of this bar?"

            Sanzo shook his head.

            "Aah, well you know, it's rather old. I spoke with the owner hours ago—it dates back to the early 1900s."

            How intolerable would this blabbermouth be when he left sobriety behind completely? Sanzo began mapping out his revenge on Gojyo, listening to Hazel chatter on with half an ear. The man's voice was truly a nuisance in itself; he could be reciting poetry and still give listeners an ear-ache. That damned accent…

            "…thought it might be fun." Sanzo snapped back to reality at the sudden dip in octave to his left. He raised his eyebrows.

            "Come again?"

            "I said I was contemplatin' askin' you up tonight. I thought it might be fun. For both of us."

            Oh yes. He was going to die. Sanzo forced a halfway civil expression, clenching his jaw as Hazel plucked at the black fabric of his shirt. He slid back on the stool a bit and, meeting the scrutiny beneath pale lashes, shrugged. "Yeah. Fine."

            Hazel practically beamed. "Wonderful."

 

            "Gojyo."

            "What?" The redhead looked up from a fistful of spades, eyebrows cocked in mild annoyance. Banri was fucking with his game. He never beat Yaone at cards, and for once he had a flush. "Spit it out."

            "News." He handed over a small, tightly rolled piece of paper. It was sealed with wax and stamped with what looked like a signet ring. New boss must be old-fashioned, the kappa mused ironically, popping it open and scanning the note. Good lord the man wrote it out by hand. Either it was incredibly important, or the new leader of the Scarlet Phoenix had way too much free time.

            "Well?" Banri was fairly peering over his shoulder; he shooed him away with a flick of his wrist, claret eyes narrowing. "Well fuck. Turns out Hazel Grosse is no longer on our 'most wanted' list."

            "Does that matter?" Banri queried, bored already with the seeming triviality of the message.

            "It will if Sanzo's done him in yet."

            Yaone frowned, her perfect lips falling into a familiar pattern. "You sent an initiate to assassinate Hazel?" Long nails tapped the tabletop in annoyance. Gojyo side, folding his cards and letting them fan out in disarray.

            "Yeah, and he could've done it too. Hell, he might've gotten to it already, given Hazel's tendency towards whiskey. This guy's a pro—or so he says. I don't know. I've never actually seen him work."

            "How do you know he's not a cop?"

            "Trust me," Gojyo dragged his coat over broad shoulders, "he's not a cop."

            "Which means he's handsome," Yaone filled in, rolling her eyes. "You didn't put him through any sort of background check did you? Or send someone to follow him for a day?"

            "Psh I'd have done that myself if I wasn't afraid of getting shot. The guy's a firecracker." Gojyo realized that he was grinning widely as he said this. "Anyhow, gotta go stop him from filling Hazel's ass with lead. I guess th'new boss made some sort of deal with him. He's given us too much trouble to let him off the hook for no good reason…"

            "Maybe he wants Gat on our side." Yaone pointed out, following Gojyo halfway down the street in conversation. He could tell she was interested in the new member of their branch, and fishing for details.

            "Maybe." Gojyo allowed, lighting up and increasing his stride. She was almost as tall as he was, and had little difficulty keeping up. He could hear her high-heeled boots snapping sharply at the crackling pavement below. "We can continue our game when we get back, yeah?"

            Yaone shook her head, snatching a Hi-Lite from the redhead's coat pocket. "No can do. Plans tonight. I accept your forfeit." With a twitch of her fingertips she was off, turning the corner sharply and vanishing amongst the slick shadows. Gojyo realized he would never convince her now of his full spade flush.

 

            "Hey, it's past midnight. Where's Cinderella?" Doku leaned against the door frame, a beer in one hand. He was off the clock.

            "I gave him permission to stay out as late as is necessary." Hakkai's chair squeaked as Doku's hand pressed down on the back of it, sliding over the rough fabric to press gently at the younger man's shoulder.

            "You think we'll have a little more time alone before he gets back?"

            "I have no idea when he'll be back."

            "Well what's he doing?"

            "I don't know. I told him not to tell me if…you understand."

            Doku grunted in agreement, his other hand finding Hakkai's unoccupied shoulder, kneading the tense skin and dusting his lips across a smooth nape. "You're tense…"

            "Haha, imagine that."

            "You work too hard, man."

            "Only enough to keep us afloat, you realize."

            "Maybe that's too hard…I think you need a vacation."

            "Perhaps I can take one when we're through with this sordid business." He tilted his head back, glasses glinting under the fluorescent lights. Doku kissed his forehead softly, trailing fingertips down his chest. Hakkai jerked up into a sitting position when he felt a button pop.

            "Hey. That's a nice shirt."

            "Sorry," Doku grinned bashfully, not at all sorry, and swiftly bent low, head tilted to press his lips flush with Hakkai's throat. "I just wanted to see what was under it so bad."

            Hakkai made a sound in the back of his throat that was like humming and then shook his head. "Not tonight, Doku. We're here for a reason." He tugged amicably at a shock of short hair. "Tomorrow afternoon." He allowed, sensing a full-lipped frown behind him. "Your place."

            "Gotcha," Doku promised, giving both shoulders a squeeze.

 

            The bar was practically closed; no one but the owner and a waitress running late occupied the main room. Gojyo mounted the creaking stairs, receiving no more than a raised eyebrow from the man behind the counter. Apparently Hazel regularly received guests at this hour. It was almost one.

            He ran into a wall of muscle and two forty-fours the moment he hit the top step. Gat didn't recognize him—why should he?—but Gojyo sure as hell knew who—or what—he was facing. "Hey."

            "You have the wrong room," Gat informed him politely, but with a glare that threatened serious pain if he did not evacuate the premises at once. Gojyo grinned in return.

            "Ugh, I don't think so. I'm lookin' for two blond guys—kinda slender-like, one of 'em a serious firecracker."

            Gat looked confused for a moment. "You're with him?"

            "Hell yeah." Gojyo wasn't sure what he had affirmed.

            "I didn't see you in the bar."

            "I blend in with the furniture," he jested, leaning back against the wall as Gat gave him breathing space. "See I just need to speak to the bitchy blond real quick. It's important."

            Gat shrugged. "Fine, your eyes."

            "My eyes?" Gojyo frowned tightly in concentration—it wasn't as though he hadn't had some whiskey himself that evening. "Shit. You mean they're--" But Goldilocks wouldn't consent to that. It must be part of his trick. That meant he had relatively little time.

            "Doesn't three make it a party?" He forced a grin, hurrying down the narrow hall to the room at the end and shoving the door open to a scene that didn't surprise him in the least.

            "You son of a bitch!" Sanzo hissed at him, not moving his eyes from his target, who sat half-dressed facing the butt of a Smith and Wesson pistol. Sanzo's finger was on the trigger.

            "No need for name-calling. I'm here to, ugh, relieve you of your duty."

            "I figured this was a set up."

            "A set-"

            "I don't care. I'm going to kill him anyway."

            Hazel raised a hand in protest and Gojyo lunged, pinning Sanzo against the wall and hearing the gun go off behind him, hitting something against the wall that shattered on contact.

            "You crazy sonuvabitch!" Sanzo writhed against him, unable to escape the vice-like grip Gojyo had him in. His hands, though warmer, served as manacles.

            Gat entered quickly, both guns raised, and Hazel slid off of the bed and slunk to his side. "I have no earthly clue what is goin' on." He said simply. "The redhead saved my life. Shoot the blond."

            "No wait!" Gojyo drew back only to slam Sanzo against the wall a second time, managing to knock his head against the side of the window, temporarily stunning him. His fists never left the slender wrists. "It was a mistake! You made some kinda deal with…some kinda deal with the Phoenix, didn't you?" He panted between words, feeling Sanzo struggle against him again, though he had dropped his gun.

            "Oh my, are you tellin' me this was a hit?" Hazel looked more flattered than terrified. Gojyo nodded with an embarrassed smile, shrugging.

            "Uhm sorry?"

            "May I ask why you thought it necessary to put me out of my misery?" After a few hissed curses, Gojyo released the enraged blond, refusing to let him have his pistol back, and watched him glare at Hazel, seething.

            "You were on our list. I thought I'd send Blondie here after you, but it looks like he was more interested in getting you into bed than a coffin." The joke went over well, stroking the man's ego though they both knew it was a blatant lie. Gojyo was just glad he had disarmed the livid man beside him. "But see…now you're off. So maybe call off your watch dog, and I'll take this poodle home with me?"

            Hazel laughed hollowly. "Well I suppose it would be bad form to kill the man that saved my life…but don't think for a minute that I'm through with you." His eyes leveled on Sanzo, and suddenly they were sharp, opaque; Gojyo thought that must be what the man looked like before he shot someone. He certainly had a record of that, even if he traveled under Gat's gracious shadow.

            "It's okay, Gat dear." His voice was like ice despite the smile plastered across his face. Phony was the only word Gojyo could think of to describe him. Everything on the exterior was smooth, delicate, polite. But anyone familiar with his criminal record knew Hazel was a madman. At least Sanzo was upfront about his anger issues.

            "We're just going to mosey on out of here…" Gojyo wheedled, Sanzo's gun in his back pocket, the man's wrist in his hand.

            "Do that." Hazel smiled. "Nice meeting you, Mr. Red Hair. And as for you…Sanzo…" Suddenly the smile looked crooked, with too many teeth showing. "I'll see you later."

           

            "Did you have to go fucking ballistic!" Gojyo snarled at him the moment they were on the streets. Sanzo responded with a sharp punch to his jaw, snatching his gun back as Gojyo whirled on his heel, barely maintaining his balance.

            "What the hell!" The redhead swung and missed, momentarily paralyzed by glaring violet navettes. "What is your problem!"

            "Mine!? You send me on some joke mission and stop me before I could fill that pervert's mouth with lead under some stupid excuse?"

            "Hey! It was no picnic hunting you down and trying to stop you from fucking us over without getting shot in the process! I wasn't lying. The guy's not just a pervert, he's a psycho. He's actually been institutionalized. It was the real deal, when I told you I wanted him dead."

            This barely pacified him, but at least, Gojyo thought with a mental sigh, he wasn't shooting. He didn't know if he could bear to fire back. He was such a sucker for a pretty face…

            "He's been on our list, but I got a message today that he's turned coat, or whatever the hell you wanna call it. He's with us. Or doing something for someone upstairs."

            "Your boss?" Sanzo asked, features softening in curiosity.

            "Yeah. New one. Got a letter that took him off the list. So no more hits on Hazel. However," and now he was grinning, rubbing his cheek. "You little hellion…you woulda done it, wouldn't you have?"

            "You have no idea what the past hour was like."

            Gojyo's eyes widened, his mouth falling slack. "What? You mean you and him…?"

            "I had to sit there listening to his drunken babble—that bastard doesn't even breathe between words—for over an hour. I should kill you for that."

            "Aw don't be like that. You said you wanted a tricky mission. How much more difficult does it get? But regardless, you don't have to kill him. Or anyone you don't want to, yet. You're in. Show up with your metaphorical scalp tomorrow 'round noon. I'll send for someone to tattoo you."

            Sanzo glanced up, biting off his syllable neatly. "Where?"

            "My apartment—the one you broke into. And on your chest." Gojyo grinned. "I was hopin' you'd pass. I just wish I knew how to use a needle; I'd do it myself."

            "You're going to hell, you know." Sanzo informed him flatly, a smirk on his lips.

            "And you're not?"

 

            Sanzo was back by half past two, having stopped for Marlboros—after that night he was prepared to suck down a whole pack of them before bed—and then four aspirin. He had a headache.

            "So good to see you back," Hakkai murmured tiredly, waking from his place on the sofa. "Any big news?"

            "I'm in. Tattoo tomorrow. Guy named Hazel and his bodyguard bedding down above Larry's Tavern." He knew right away that Hakkai was familiar with the name.

            "Hazel Grosse?" He murmured, hurrying to his desk and already pressing one of the call buttons on the wide phone jack.

            "That's him. And don't you dare call it in."

            "What—why?" He lowered the phone carefully, adjusting his glasses.

            "Because it will be too obvious," Sanzo lit up with a small sigh of relief. "I was there to off him tonight. The cops find him within hours of my near-miss, and they'll know. The criminals on the streets are the smart ones, Hakkai."

            Officer Wilson nodded his agreement, apologizing for being so exhausted and not properly thinking things through. A feather-light smile, but shockingly genuine, fluttered over his lips when Sanzo addressed him by his first name.

            "Of course you're right. Good luck with the tattoo tomorrow. I assume, after the one you had put on, that this will be a cinch. You don't happen to have any other gang-markings on your body, do you?"

            "No."

            "Aah good. Just be careful that they don't see the one on your spine."

            Sanzo rolled his eyes, already working on his second cigarette. "I'm not about to take my clothes off, Officer."

            "Hm no, I suppose not," Hakkai mused. "Though you never know; that Gojyo seems to be a very persuasive person."

            "When hell freezes."

            Hakkai opened his mouth and closed it again quickly. Now was probably not the best time to remind Sanzo that, according to Dante, that had long since passed.

           

            Heavy oak doors swung open, splashing light across the shadowed room. Bookshelves lined the walls, and heavy tables, empty except for unused lamps, sat beneath the windows. Curtains blotted out the nightlights, Scarlet velvet trimmed in gold. At the sudden intrusion, dark eyes glanced up; long fingers tapped at a worn oak desk. "Yes?"

            "Boss." The man nodded, his gangly limbs still swinging with the effort of his climb. They were five stories up, and the elevators were still in disuse. His poor posture and nervous temperament didn't mislead the dark-eyed man in the least; he knew Gyu was one of his best, a deadly shot and blissfully unaware of the concept of a conscience.

            "I assume the letter arrived safely?"

            "Yes." The deep, grating voice returned with his breath, and Gyu didn't move.

            "Good." He smiled. "And Mr. Grosse…?"

            "Safe and sound." The words sounded eerie, coming out of Gyu's mouth. His overlord nodded, finished his writing, and glanced up. That Gyu had been dismissed was implied, and yet the man still stood before him, filthy shoes dirtying the Persian rug under his feet.

            "Something else, Gyu?"

            "Why save Hazel? He's no more likely to side with us than with anyone else." Usually such questions would not be permitted; the man in the high-backed leather chair mused at his underling's bravery, knowing he only behaved this way because he could get away with it. He was indispensable; his talents with everything from complex explosives to simple .38 handguns made him worth his weight in gold, and then some.

            "I am currently indebted to Hazel Grosse," he explained. "You see, he's discovered something I've spent the better half of a decade searching for."

            "What's that, Sir?" Vagaries wouldn't work with Gyu; he was as sly as the man he worked for. That was why he had risen through the ranks so fast, accompanied by a few other small favors.

            "He was the first to locate a certain young man. Genyo Sanzo."

            "I know that name…" He hesitated, brows furrowing; "He was with the Dawn, years back. I thought he died."

            "No, he's still quite alive…" Long fingers tapped atop dark wood, wound about a narrow ink pen.

            "Why do you need him? I've heard of his talent with the gun…but he's too young to have amassed sufficient experience."

            He laughed at Gyu, a hollow ringing sound, though it was as genuine as his amusement ever was. "My relation with Sanzo is of a more personal nature. I want to see him again, before he dies."

            "You just want to kill him?" He didn't put it below his chief, but only thought that it was inefficient, and rather old-fashioned.

            "Oh, that will come." He waved his hand in dismissal. "What's more important is that I believe has, or at least knows the whereabouts of, something I want.

 

 

The walk took less time than he anticipated. He was able to cut right through Phoenix territory this time; no one accosted or even so much as questioned his presence.

Whistling overhead, an irritated wind promised rain. The swirling yellow marks of the Dawn had withdrawn from their side, south of Fourteenth Street; the Scarlet Phoenix's graffiti crept closer yet, though Gojyo's apartment was still in technically neutral territory.

Sanzo had never seen the apartment over the old five and dime in the daylight. It looked completely foreign to him, and if it weren't for the address, he might not have recognized the building at all. The ethereal glow of the window panes and the eerie sheen of wet, naked bricks were absent. Creaking under his hand, the door refused to budge; even the knob was immobile. Fisting his thumb, he rapped thrice at the rickety wood. Footsteps, a muttered conversation, and then it swung open, revealing a grinning kappa.

"Hey there." His smile was saccharine, one hand reaching out to guide Sanzo in. "Come on up."

He followed the redhead to the second floor, stumbling on the rotted third step and cursing beneath his breath. How could he have forgotten? He had skipped over that step every time he came for years…

"Careful, some of these are fallin' through. Don't worry though, I'd catch you," the rake promised, winking broadly. "You're not afraid of needles, are you?"

"What do you think?" Came the annoyed response; he was careful over the sixteenth stair.

"Well good. This is Billy, and he'll be doin' the hard work. I'm just here for the show."

Billy looked up from where he was running his needle through a glossy white cloth and nodded, grunting his hello. Sanzo decided he liked him better than Gojyo already. He noticed that Billy, unlike Gojyo, didn't have the scarlet feather on his right bicep; he had instead a thin lightning bolt trailing about his left wrist. It wasn't a mark of the Phoenix, nor was it one of any gang Sanzo was familiar with. The Dawn only used a single elaborate mark, and, occasionally, the obscure semi-circle with rays radiating out from it in dark colors. He could remember seeing that on the underside of various members' wrists.

"Ready?" Gojyo offered, beckoning Sanzo to the chair with a sweeping gesture of his hands. He seemed to be Billy's interpreter for the moment, instructing Sanzo to sit and take off his shirt. Green today, at Hakkai's insistence.

Sanzo unbuttoned the front and glared at Gojyo as if challenging him to insist upon more.

"Nice necklace," the kappa commented without sarcasm, though perhaps a bit of curiosity. He bent to touch the amber-covered pendant, and his hand was swatted quickly away. "Touchy, touchy."

Billy disinfected the area swiftly and without question. He seemed bent upon doing his job and doing it fast. Gojyo was enjoying it far too much for Sanzo's liking.

"What—suddenly you're shy, Goldilocks?" He teased, leaning back against the door frame as though it were built to support him, one arm stretched across the opening in an unintentional display of the red mark near his shoulder.

"I don't even see why you're here." Sanzo growled at him, mostly irritated by the sudden stinging at his chest. It wasn't as though he had never had it done before, only that it had been ten years since, and the guy was heavy-handed.

"Gotta supervise."

"If you're looking for a show, you might want to head to Larry's."

"Hey. I'd say I'm not into whiny blonds, but that would defeat the purpose entirely." He lit a cigarette. "I guess there's just something special about you in particular, Goldilocks."

"You wanna step a little closer and say that?"

"Don't move so much." Billy instructed, never looking up from where he had settled his gaze, right above Sanzo's left pectoral.

"I wonder if we shoulda done purple for you," Gojyo mused, stepping closer despite the kindling fire in his target's gaze. "It'd match those gorgeous eyes of yours…"

"When he's done, I'm going to shoot you full of lead."

Billy tensed and stopped, glancing up with raised brows at Gojyo. The redhead laughed and waved his hand, "Go on, Billy. He says that to me all th' time. It's his version of foreplay."

"You're full of shit." Sanzo seethed, careful to paint an angry expression over his suddenly curious one. He had been so long outside of a close-knit tribe like this one that he'd forgotten entirely how taboo threats were against the leader. And here he had been firing them off without so much as a frown from the redhead. Did that idiot seriously think he was so harmless? Or was he stupid enough to believe he was going to get Sanzo into bed with him?

His pondering didn't get him an answer, but what he discovered, watching Billy and exchanging mindless banter with Gojyo, was that the hierarchy very much existed. Almost to the point of monarchy, putting Gojyo somewhere below the king. Billy looked ready to lick his boots if asked, and Sanzo couldn't figure out how such a bumbling moron could manage so much respect.

"Jus' don't mess it up," was the last thing Billy said to him before striding out, leaving Sanzo to patch up the sensitized skin with cotton and tape. He did so quickly, slapping Gojyo's hands away each time he tried to help.

"Stop it."

"I'm just trying to help." That ridiculous smile never left his face. Sanzo buttoned his shirt.

"Why do you treat me differently?"

"What are you talkin' about? The flirting?"

"No. You let me bitch at you—not that you don't thoroughly deserve it—but somehow you manage to strike fear into the others. I've seen them around you—talking about you. Banri. Billy."

"Huh." Gojyo paused in thought, barricading Sanzo against the back of his chair as he rested a hand on either arm, kneeling on the floor. Their height differences made Sanzo, sitting, a few inches taller than Gojyo on his knees. "I guess…" He leaned forward, and the blonde, back, as far as he could go. Gojyo moved closer still. "I jus' have a soft spot for you. I think it's your eyes." He smiled faintly, a genuine expression that sent tremors through the slender body attempting to dig through the wood of the chair. Suddenly he was so intense, as though a completely foreign aura radiated from him. He leaned closer, one hand shifting from the side of the chair to run up Sanzo's tensed thigh.

"You're really beautiful, you know."

When Gojyo's hand slid too far north, his mouth too close to Sanzo's, the blond jerked to the side, stumbling rather gracelessly from the chair, cheeks flushed, to see Gojyo tip forward.

"Cut that the hell out," he hissed, hurriedly buttoning the top half of his shirt.

Gojyo laughed, and this time it sounded false. Like Hakkai. How many people had he heard laugh like that in the past few days? He used to think he liked the sound of laughter, regardless of its source. In jail you didn't hear any of it. Just grunting, grumbling, wailing. The occasional keening. Sanzo wasn't one to fake anything. He never laughed the way Hakkai did, Hazel had, Gojyo was just now. He only ever did anything because he meant it. As a result, he realized he had forgotten what his own laughter sounded like.

"You'll just have to get used to that." Gojyo promised, one hand ghosting down Sanzo's arm. He leaned a little closer in passing, "but you're in now, regardless. I'm throwing a little welcome party for you."

"You're what?" Was this a gang or a day camp?

"I'm just kidding. It's for me, really. To win back the cash I lost to Yaone—I swear she cheats—but she's damn good at it. Poker night. You can bring cash or drugs—Banri'll trade it out. But I bet a nice guy like you doesn't have much of that, huh?"

"I don't trade control over my body for pleasure."

"Well that's a damn shame. If you decide you're coming, corner of seventh and Alpine. New guy brings the beer!" They had made it down the stairs, and suddenly Gojyo was gone, vanishing about the corner. Sanzo looked to the closed door behind him, tried it, and found it stuck once again. Locked, though he knew there wasn't any sort of device on the other side. Jiggling the handle in frustration, he stalked off, thinking what a futile attempt at revenge this was, and how he was beginning to have doubts about this entire mission. How was he supposed to find out where these mysterious 'headquarters' were if he was working for the most untalented and uncoordinated branch of the Phoenix? Led by an idiot…

           

            "They're led by an idiot." Sanzo gave voice to his thoughts as he unbuttoned his shirt at Hakkai and Doku's request, peeling back the bandage. He pretended not to notice the officers' messed hair and Doku's miss-buttoned shirt.

            "Hmm he's not too much of one, if he's managed to keep away from the police for so long. There were reports of a drug bust last night in Phoenix territory, but only two men were caught, neither of them possessing this mark…my it's in excellent taste for being done in such a hurry. Did it hurt?" He made no mention of the pendant swinging about Sanzo's neck.

            Sanzo wasn't given a chance to answer as Doku traced the skin around it in interest. "Real artistry. Too bad the needle was probably filthy."

            "It was clean. These guys aren't poor."

            "Where'd you go to have it done?"

            Sanzo gave them the address, and informed them of his plans for the next night, requesting extra bullets. Neither looked surprised, though Hakkai was hesitant to hand them over.

            "Do try to avoid any unnecessary bloodshed."

            "I don't shoot anyone unless it's 'necessary.'"

            "Ah, haha." The fake smile. "Wasn't that your opening line in your trial?"

            "You've read too much about me." It was a little creepy.

            "Hakkai's got a head for words," Doku informed him as he buttoned his shirt again. "So you've given us a couple good locations; we scout them out more often now, and have increased the number of officers who regularly patrol those areas. Five guys share the same beat. But we're not seeing anything."

            "Regardless of their leader," Hakkai murmured, "they're not stupid. And we're not looking to break up too much of their black market dealings. We need them to linger and feel relatively comfortable, immune from the police."

            "So you send more guys out?" Sanzo asked dryly.

            "Only to watch for felonies. Arson, rape, murder. Most officers are too nervous to intrude upon a drug trade alone; it's very dangerous, and it's a rule that there must be at least three or four present. We've lost too many that way." Hakkai tapped the edge of a pencil to his lip, glancing up at a faded watercolor over his desk. "They're expanding their territory, aren't they?"

            Sanzo grunted his agreement.

            "Well with your talent, and the…appreciation…your boss seems to have for you," Hakkai smiled wickedly, scribbling something down on a yellow notepad, "you shouldn't have much trouble rising through the ranks. Take any plausible opportunity to discuss or meet with higher-ranking officials. We'd like to pull this weed out by the root, you see. Plucking off one leaf will result in numerous buds in undisclosed places."

            "That was lovely Hakkai." Doku grinned wryly at his partner. "They're like little gun-wielding and crack-sucking dandelions."

            "I think I can feel my IQ dropping." Sanzo sighed, rising and striding restlessly into the other room. "Where's the paper?"

            "Hey princess." Doku glowered, ignoring Officer Wilson's urgent tapping at his shoulder. "This ain't a resort. You're lucky to be outside of your cage."

            Sanzo whirled, and Hakkai, without so much as glancing up from a manila envelope, thrust a folded map at Doku. "Will you please go over these, Dokugakuji? I've highlighted the regions with the highest potential for being centers of black market trade. Also, the Dawn and Phoenix's regions are marked out. Sanzo, I'd appreciate it if you'd look as well, and double check my findings."

            Sanzo shrugged, accepting the folded newspaper Officer Wilson handed him with a grunt of thanks. Doku took the papers and thrust open the rickety door, striding down the hallway and into his office before it had time to close. Suddenly the air was much thicker, laced with a physical tension, a silence.

            "Mr. Sanzo…"

            "What?"

            "Would you mind if I asked you a personal question?"

            His first inclination was to say yes, I would, but he shrugged. Hakkai would just find a more subtle way of doing it. He didn't have to answer.

            "Why did you kill those men of the Eclipse gang?"

            That again.

            "Like I said, it was for someone."

            "When did you tell me that?" Hakkai appeared baffled, perhaps roaming through the files of his meticulously organized memory and scolding himself for having misplaced a vital fact.

            "I said it in court. I assumed, given that you've already quoted me once, you knew." His skin was starting to itch under that scathing green gaze. Hakkai's eyes were powerful. He didn't permit himself to appear intimidated.

            "But it wasn't a hit."

            "No. It was revenge."

            "An honor killing," Hakkai murmured, nodding very slightly. He appreciated Sanzo's reasoning—accepted it? Or was it merely an acknowledgement of understanding?

 "Who died?" He whispered. And his eyes were suddenly sad, the intense glimmer fading with a breath, replaced by something darker, damper. Sanzo thought the irises looked like folded leaves after a storm.

            "That pendant you gave me…" And Hakkai understood.

            "A lover's?"

            Sanzo didn't respond.

            "I am sorry," he spoke as though the air were glass. "I know it doesn't matter what I think, but I would have done the same."

            Sanzo cocked his head in Hakkai's direction. "Would you?"

            And the man's eyes were deep again, an abyss, the iris almost swallowed by the dark pupil. He nodded imperceptibly. "I almost did."

Sanzo shook his head. "Almost isn't doing, Hakkai."

 

            Dark eyes glinted in the dimly lit room as he flicked his fingertips atop the icy metal of the safe. Impenetrable, specially made to withstand just about any force of man or nature. Except perhaps explosives, which had already been considered and passed by. For all he knew, they might totally destroy the contents of the treasure trunk. Unfortunately that also meant slicing it open was not a possibility.

            Gyu opened the door without knocking, a recently developed habit, and closed it in silence behind him. Dark eyes glanced up in question. "Have you prepared the men?"

            "Yes. There were enough left near Leavenworth to take care of it, for the most part. I sent a few local recruits in as well, last night."

            "Good." His attention returned to the safe, pondering what might be in it. Regardless of the form it took, that hunk of metal's innards were worth, at the very least, 16.5 million dollars. Perhaps they held bank statements, pass codes to larger safes, land titles to half of the state, but, more likely, raw cash and perhaps a wealth of gemstones. He was a business man, and this was the final transaction between him and a longtime enemy. His body was slush by now, but his fortune would be put to good use. The only trouble was the key. He had had numerous locksmiths attempt to pry it open with makeshift keys, or so-called master keys, but nothing worked. There was not a combination to be cracked, or an actual slot for a skeleton key. Rather, the box was seamless, a thick heap of titanium and solid iron, pierced only by a slight, square-shaped indention near the bottom.

He hypothesized that a unique sort of key must fit into it, but for some reason objects of equal contour and size would not open it. He supposed the actual key had slight indentions along its edges that fit beneath the overhang of the dip in the box's surface, something he couldn't see or make a clay form of, for fear some of it might jam the lock.

"Your orders were sent with them, Sir."

"Good." They were very simple orders; exterminate the Leavenworth sector of the Scarlet Phoenix, kill their leader, Sha Gojyo, if necessary, but bring Genjyo Sanzo to him. Alive.

"What is it this Sanzo fellow has that makes him so valuable?" Gyu mused, more to himself than his chief. The dark-eyed man answered him regardless.

"Why he has the key to the safe, Gyu. And that aside, I want dearly to see him again."

 

 

            The room was underground, in an old cleared-out basement of a grocery store that had seen its last customer at least forty years ago. It was practically gutted, pipes and electrical wires exposed like so many innards, hanging from the ceiling and crawling up the walls. There were small windows revealing a star-studded sky pressed near the top of the room; it stretched farther back than the building overhead did, and there were card tables and a smattering of other furniture dotting the floor from one end of the open space to the other.

            It was bustling with people, not all of them members of a single gang, some stacking zip lock baggies up in front of powder-filled tins, others working their way through a drinking contest. Weapons were out, strapped to waistbands and poorly concealed beneath vests; some lay scattered across tables where greasy-haired patrons were bargaining like Arabs at a bazaar. Sanzo descended behind a particularly tall youth—he would guess not much over sixteen—and spotted Gojyo in the crowd right away; he was standing beneath a naked, glowing light bulb, his hair lit up like fireworks. Likewise, the redhead saw him right away too.

            "Sanzo." He grinned, abandoning the women he had been speaking to. "I didn't think you'd actually show."

            "You forgot the balloons."

            Gojyo snickered. "Nah, they're just deflated right now—in the back. Straight from Columbia you know."

            Sanzo wrinkled his nose at the implication of just how those balloons traveled. "I'll pass."

            "Thought so. But you'll play poker; I bet you're a sharp."

            Sanzo actually hadn't played it in quite a while. He shrugged his acceptance, led to a felt-covered table where one of the women to whom Gojyo had been talking was already seated, chattering with another who was smoking a Virginia Slim.

"Aah," the dark-haired and full-busted woman turned. "This has to be Sanzo."

Sanzo glanced in question at Gojyo who, to his great surprise, was blushing fiercely.

"Yeah, this is him," he admitted, plucking a crisp deck of cards from his pocket.

"Well here I thought he was exaggerating," the dark-haired woman chuckled, "you really are gorgeous." She stuck her hand out over the table, nails unpainted, a single sterling band about her middle finger. "Yaone."

            He was surprised at her grip, and covered it by glaring daggers at the man to his left. "Do you torment everyone, or did I just get lucky?"

            "Knowing Gojyo," the familiar, hissing voice behind him send a chill straight down his spine, "he'll be bored within a week. Stick it out."

            "Banri. I'm glad you made it," Yaone waved at him slowly, "and I hope you brought cash this time. You still owe me, you know."

            "I don't owe you anything!" Banri plopped down in the foldout chair to Sanzo's right, between Virginia Slims and Sanzo. "Tell her, kappa."

            "Tch, I'm not sticking up for you again. I say pay up."

            Kappa?

            "Three hundred by the end of this week. You'd better win a helluva lot to make up for what you owe me, nevermind Gojyo." Yaone snatched a cigarette from Virginia, inhaling with a sigh and a noticeable rise of her chest. Sanzo wasn't particularly drawn to women of any figure, but he couldn't help but follow every other male glance at the table with some interest.

            "Hey!" She smacked Gojyo, the nearest, "dirty kappa. Start dealing."

            Gojyo obeyed, grinning to the small circle. "Alright, prepare to lose your cash. If you run out," and here he looked pointedly at Sanzo, "feel free to bet clothing."

            This brought a low chuckle from Banri and Virginia, through Yaone only exhaled in annoyance. "Shuffle faster, Casanova."

            As he was dealing, he called his game. "Five card stud, hole card's wild if it's face or ace." Sanzo peered at his own, expression untainted when he saw a jack of diamonds facing the green felt.

            "Ante?" Yaone insisted, tapping her foot against the cement floor. She was wearing heels.

            "Oh right. Ugh, what do we wanna do? Ten?"

            "You're so cheap." Yaone rolled her eyes and pushed a ten onto the table, watching everyone mimic her shortly. Sanzo's money came from Hakkai—in theory the detective was going to get it all back and then some, when he busted the headquarters. Like a flustered parent (and he did pick out Sanzo's clothes again, though the source of all the silk shirts was still a mystery), he had encouraged Sanzo to socialize "as much as possible."

            "Yaone." She was to his left.

            "Fifteen."

            "An opening bet!" Banri seethed, pushing the cash forward. No one folded, and the round progressed. Sanzo watched as a ten of diamonds followed a three of hearts. His fourth, a second jack, gave him three tens, and his fifth proved useless, a six of spades. The pot ended up around 350, and Banri folded by the fourth round. Flipping over her neat fan of cards, Yaone revealed a full house. The swish of paper sliding over felt was muffled by background noise and curses from two of the three men at the table.

            "My deal." Leaning forward—and thus drawing the attention of three sets of prying eyes—Yaone snatched up the deck and shuffled, bridging them in a single hand.

            "Seven card stud, low hole card is wild, last one down and dirty. Aces go both ways—Banri if you say 'that's what she said', I'll cap your ass—but four-card flushes are a no-go."

            "Rules, rules," Banri muttered, grinning toothily at the pretty girl across from him. She was working through her ninth cigarette. Sanzo wondered vaguely if she was the Sheela mentioned before.

            "No one beats her, I swear," Gojyo muttered by the fifth round, looking at a pair of kings and a queen facing up beneath Yaone's hands. Sanzo silently weighed his options—his money or not, he wasn't going to give it away—he had an ace in the hole already, so his last card didn't matter, and an ace face-up along with a jack and nine. That gave him nine, ten, jack, queen, and if he got a king or an eight, he would have a decent mid-way straight. The likelihood of that, given Banri's pair of eights and the three kings split between Yaone and Gojyo, was slimmer than he would have liked.

            "Twenty," Yaone pushed a Jackson forward with a broad wink at Banri. He folded, followed by Virginia. Gojyo and Sanzo called.

            With another ace face-up and his hole card proving to be a miraculous third Ace, Sanzo found himself, with the aid of permitted wild cards, holding a royal flush. The only thing that would beat his ace-studded flush would be a natural one. Gojyo folded at Yaone's forty-five dollar bet, and Sanzo raised by ten. She winked at him this time—he was beginning to wonder if it was a twitch—and fanned her cards out. A high straight flush, starting with a king. Sanzo plucked his own cards from the spread, startled by a sudden whoop from his left.

            "Shit if I've ever seen sucha close call. Yaone you're off your game," Gojyo smirked, snatching up the cards at Virginia's insistence, claiming she could hardly play, let alone shuffle.

            "That's why we keep you here baby." Banri cooed.

            "That's why we keep you here," Yaone smirked, borrowing the other woman's lighter. "You're pretty good," she smiled softly to Sanzo. "Best damn poker face I've ever seen."

            "Oh, that's not his poker face," Gojyo filled in, bridging the cards between his large hands. "That's how he always looks. 'Cept when he smokes." A wide grin graced the redhead's mouth as he peered at the monk, as if they were sharing in some mutual secret. Sanzo wanted very badly to inform him that, after so many months without, anyone might have.

            "I'm going for a beer," Banri rose, heading to a shadowed corner.

            "Pick me up one. Make it two," Gojyo amended, looking to Sanzo. "You drink, don't you?"

            "If I didn't, I would by now."

            Yaone snorted in laughter. It was more endearing than annoying. Sanzo wondered what she did for the organization. He could see the tips of red feathers peering out from atop her left breast, and an elongated plume peered out from below angel-cut sleeves.

            "Here, lazy-ass." Banri plunked two glass bottles before Gojyo, popping the lid of his own with a thumbnail. Gojyo pushed one in front of Sanzo and received a murmured thanks.

            "So Sanzo," Yaone began, twirling the deck in her left hand and piercing it occasionally with slender fingers, "how did you get involved in all of this shit?"

 

           

"He could come back at any minute, you realize."

            "That just makes it that much hotter." Doku growled against his ear, pressing himself to Hakkai's tensed thigh. They were resting, both, in Hakkai's chair, Doku practically on his lap. "C'mon get on the couch."

            "I really would rather we…ah…please don't…" Hakkai shivered, thighs clenching about Doku's cupped palm despite his words, grinding against evasive fingertips. "Oh…"

            "You have no idea how hot you look…" He felt his glasses being removed, and suddenly Doku's hand was sliding up the front of his shirt, tracing the thin scar on his stomach.

            "It's really not…ungh…wise…here…" Hakkai's faint words fluttered and dissolved in the air. He arched his back in an attempt to push closer to his lover's palm. He was practically radiating heat, Doku thought, beginning to sweat from mere contact.

            "Not like we can get back home at a decent hour…c'mon…you're already up." He smirked cutely at the double-entendre, leaning in to deliver an intense kiss, knowing, as Hakkai's arms slid about his neck, hands fisting in his hair, that he had won.

 

 

            The night wore on, and Sanzo ended up with a balance of three thirty more than he had come in with by half past one.

            Gojyo was just at tipsy, a sharp contrast to Banri's being steps away from smashed. Yaone hadn't touched a drop, and was raking in everyone's money with a beaming smile.

            "Aw c'mon, pretty lady. How can you sit there and take our money like that? How'm I gonna eat tomorrow?"

            Just as Sanzo was beginning to think that Gojyo could not have possibly earned his position at the head of the local Scarlet Phoenix division, he witnessed a most astounding transformation.

            Guns and lights went off upstairs, and in an instant the tightly packed room began to hiss with scraping and toppling furniture, breaking glass, and muffled curses. People began to filter out, clogging the narrow passageways on the East end. Their table was nearest the staircase, and before anyone could so much as twitch, Gojyo had kicked the card table onto its side and, dragging Sanzo with him, dove behind it. Sanzo recalled later thinking that the man leapt like a gazelle in one long, elegant arc, landing neatly on his feet.

            The old wooden door snapped like firewood with a fierce kick from overhead; it tumbled off to the floor as heavy footsteps threatened to break the splintering staircase. Firing from behind the thin tabletop shield, Sanzo found himself leaning elbow-to-elbow with the redhead, who didn't miss a single target. The room rang with smashing glass and the crunch of wood; even the whiz of bullets through the air and the sickening smack they made upon contact with flesh was a deafening roar. Curses and yelps escalated in volume as a group of dark-clothed men and women invaded the little hollow, shooting anyone in their path. Sanzo assumed, in his few brief moments of thought, that they were a rival gang from whom the Phoenix had stolen territory. This location was rather out of the way, farther from the heart of the city than he had expected.

            "Banri! Sonuvabitch," Gojyo snarled, reloading with the skill of a soldier and leaping easily over the shambled table to kick one intruder in the gut and smash the butt of his gun into the jaw of another. He was marvelously unbiased in battle, Sanzo noted between skirmishes against his own tormentors. He was just as willing to shoot a woman between her eyes as he was a man, and didn't hesitate to step over the corpses if it meant avoiding stray bullets himself. Sanzo simply couldn't figure out why he would run through the midst of things and risk his own life for Banri's. The man was expendable to say the least.

            The redhead's level of skill was awe-inspiring, and he moved as if with some sixth sense of where the bullets would be in seconds. He managed to drag Banri from the heat of it—the man was too drunk to do more than trot along after him, panicked and devoid of his gun—and take out three or four on his way.

            "Shit wait my--"

            "Leave it!" Gojyo bellowed, forced to stop long enough to gain traction on the blood-slicked floor and drag Banri forward. The woman he stepped over twitched, hand still on her pistol, and moved to clench at the trigger. Sanzo fired twice, stilling her hand, and jerked Banri up the stairs roughly enough to dislocate his shoulder. "Move it fucker!" Gojyo came up behind them, taking the stairs two at a time and backwards, his gun firing, hissing some sort of incentive that got the idiot between them moving. Yaone was long gone, escaped through some tunnel in the back.

            Three were waiting for them upstairs, and Sanzo picked them off just as Gojyo mounted the last step. He was panting slightly, but managed a quick, "hey thanks," before they were able to scramble out a side door.

            "Who the hell--"

            Gojyo shook his head. "Some rag-tag local gang, maybe. I couldn't tell. Too dark. They fucking shot off most of the lights. Banri get the hell off my leg." He shook himself free, watching Banri scramble off in another direction with a muttered goodbye. He and Sanzo strode quickly into more familiar territory, down the winding length of Main Street, within a quarter of an hour. Sirens began to sound behind them.

            "We should lay low," he said after ten minutes of silence, gesturing to the run-down building of his "office" that was glinting under a streetlight.

            Sanzo made a sound of agreement.

            "So…you really are quite a shot." Gravel crunching beneath their feet, he held the side door open to Sanzo, ducking in after him a flicking the light switch.

            Sanzo shrugged, seating himself on the edge of the metal desk and lighting a Marlboro.

            "I'm impressed."

            "You should be," Sanzo returned bluntly. A grin spread over Gojyo's face. "So where the hell does a nickname like 'kappa' come from?"

            "What you didn't know? Everyone calls me that." He shrugged. "It's like a water sprite?"

            "A fish?" Sanzo smirked. "You don't much look like one." And he didn't, standing there in the dim light soaked in sweat, bronze skin gleaming through a half-opened shirt. The muscles of his arms clenched slightly as he drew the heavy chair out from behind his desk, straddling it backwards. But damned if Sanzo would let him know it. "More like a…cockroach."

            "A river deity." Gojyo corrected with a laughing roll of his eyes. "Known for its sexual prowess, of course. I don't know how it started; Yaone, probably."

            "She got out?"

            "Hell yeah, faster 'n any of us. She's used to these little raids, though she doesn't usually pack heat. A gun, I mean."

            "You're lovers?"

            "No." Gojyo looked a little surprised. "Even the great Sha Gojyo can't turn 'em. At least not usually." He shrugged. "However, I'd probably sell my soul—or what's left of it—to see her and her girlfriend get it on."

            Sanzo wrinkled his nose in distaste. "I'm sure your soul already has loans out against it."

            "What, you prefer entertainment of a different variety?" He lifted his eyebrows suggestively.

            "I'm not here to be entertained at all." He said flatly, exhaling in the kappa's general direction. They smoked in silence, watching the swinging light bulb overhead. "So why'd you save his ass?"

            "Who? Banri?" Gojyo shrugged. "Dunno. Used to it, I guess?"

            "He doesn't seem worth it."

            "He's one of our own." It was spoken with a startling level of sincerity. 

            Sanzo had forgotten that sort of devotion. He had had it, once, himself. But it had dissolved over the years, leaving him loyal only to himself. Who else did he have to protect?

            "I guess a guy in your profession isn't used to running with a pack, huh?"

            "Not really."

            "Well, you're in one now. If you're ever in a fix, you send for me."

            "Psh."

            "Hey, I'm serious. You're like, family, or somethin'." Gojyo smiled gently, tapping the back of his hand. "I'd kill for you now, you realize."

            "You kill a lot of people." He slid off the desk. "What's that worth to me?"

            Gojyo frowned, and it was one of the few times the monk had ever seen it. A hand ghosted through a curtain of blood red hair. "But not without reason. And not anyone who doesn't deserve it."

            "Who are you to administer justice?"

            "I could ask you the same question."

            Silence stretched between them. Gojyo sighed. "Look, the offer stands. Whenever you need m—any of us. Same goes for you. You're on call twenty-four seven now."

            Sanzo sighed around a Marlboro. "Good thing I don't have a cell phone."

 

            By the time Sanzo returned to the precinct, Hakkai was dressed, hair neatly combed, and working late at his desk. Doku was napping with a satisfied smile on his face, draped lazily over the couch. The slam of the door startled him awake.

            "Oh Sanzo-san. How was poker?"

            "Fan-fucking-tastic."

            "Is that blood?"

            Glancing down at his shirt, he noticed it was torn in more than one place, and speckled with blood. "I guess it is."

            "Mr. Sanzo!" Bracing himself for a barrage of admonishments, he was surprised when Hakkai simply fretted about the expense of the shirt, and how he was going to start giving him t-shirts instead.

            "Did you get into a fight with your flirtatious sponsor?"

            "No. Let me see your map." As Hakkai plucked it from a squeaky drawer and unfolded it, Sanzo drew the red lines farther West. "As far as I can tell, all of this street too. There's a building, around here, with an underground tunnel. Probably a series of them. Whatever group called this their territory beforehand got pissed tonight and tried to take it back."

            "Hmm…" Hakkai mused, glancing over the map once again as he cleaned his eyeglasses on his shirttail. "You're sure of who they were?"

            "No. Just that they were shooting at me."

            "Well. I am most relieved that you're unharmed." Hakkai smiled. "So when do you go back?"

 

            "I am most displeased, Gyu. This was your team of crack troops, and you jeopardized the entire mission. Genjyo Sanzo was almost killed."

            "The men got a little excited, Sir."

            "They're not dogs, tracking a wounded deer—they're men," he snarled, hands slamming palms first down onto his desk. "Control them."

            "It won't happen again," Gyu vowed quietly. He would go himself, except for his precarious position at Headquarters, where he was in charge of one of the country's largest and most lucrative drug cartels. He couldn't ask anyone to cover for him; no one knew the business as he did. "I'll see to it."

            "You do that," came the heavy voice from behind the desk; a hand swiped across the stubble of his chin. "I don't expect failure from you."

            "I know." Gyu ducked out, greasy hair swinging atop his shoulders. He heard his boss curse quietly and return to the mystery of the Safe. It was plaguing him as it had been since he managed to obtain it, six months ago when invading the territory of the Golden Dawn, now much reduced, thanks to his little Leavenworth sector's expansion. The iron box had come from the central building, mostly underground, and the leader's bedchamber. It wasn't his—they were dirt poor now—but belonged to the practical founder, a man who had died around seven years ago in a shoot out. Gyu didn't know much more, only that, at the time, the Dawn had controlled everything, save for the scant holdings of the Eclipse. They ran a small, tight, and incredibly profitable illegal arms trade. Undoubtedly the safe was packed with wealth. But Gyu had never known his chief to do anything solely for money, regardless of the amount. It wasn't as though he needed more. There was, he decided, something a bit more personal involved. He knew it was best, in light of his recent failure, not to pry.

 

 

            Sanzo went back multiple times over the following month and found only scraps of information that would be useful to the precinct. Hakkai was often more pensive than usual, trying to find a way for Sanzo to discover more without being completely obvious. The monk's usual retort was that gang members, despite a startlingly basic vocabulary, weren't stupid.

            "If you think the criminals you can't catch are dumb enough to let me waltz into their headquarters, what does that say about your officers?" Hakkai would laugh dryly, assuring him, "point taken," and leave most of the planning to Doku, who seemed better informed about modern gang hierarchy.

            "It's not really a horizontal monopoly anymore," he sighed around a cigarette. "It's actually a lot like the mafia—am I right Sanzo?"

            The blond grunted his agreement.

            "They've got pockets of powerful people all over the country; it just so happens that they're incredibly active here, and their headquarters probably aren't far away. I would assume the areas of greatest financial success are surrounding a hotspot of trade—isn't that usually where the capital of these mobile nations are?"

            Amused at his comparison—Sanzo certainly didn't feel ethnically connected with either the Dawn or the Phoenix—he nodded nonetheless. "Usually. Either that or you've got a mastermind behind a local branch."

            "And do you think Sha Gojyo would qualify for that?" Hakkai asked quietly, reminding Sanzo of a psychiatrist the way he gently drew the answers from him. He was waiting to hear, "and how does that make you feel?"

            His first reaction was an amused no, or, better yet, hell no. But he thought about it. Gojyo was quick on his feet, and, from what he had seen, his mind didn't lag too far behind. Usually. There was no way to tell just yet. The man put up the most baffling shields, switching them out like masks depending on his mood and whom he spoke to. Sanzo wasn't certain if he was a mad genius or a bumbling idiot who happened to be in the right place at the right time. He settled on a mixture of both.

            "I don't know."

            "You've spoken with him numerous times." Hakkai had an awful habit of reminding people of their histories and stating the obvious. Sanzo wanted to tell him, "Well you're wearing a blue shirt," but refrained, shrugging.

            "That doesn't mean I can read his mind. He comes off like an idiot, but in a fight he's quick. I think, when he needs to, his mind can plan a few steps in advance of his body."

            "I am assuming he has some sort of skill, being able to evade the law so effortlessly. I'm almost tempted to test him, but I fear we'd chase off whoever rests at the top of the Phoenix's pyramid. We can't have that." As he spoke, he glanced at Doku; something passed between them too quickly for Sanzo to interpret.

            Doku nodded his agreement. "Pluck them out by the root."

            "You did mention a newer leader, didn't you, Sanzo?" Hakkai pushed a green glass ashtray across his desk in the monk's direction, noticing ash floating to the floor.

            "Yes. When I went after Grosse, Gojyo brought it up. It's why I didn't kill him."

            "Mmm." Hakkai hummed in the back of his throat, lost in thought.

            "Maybe the newbie will slip up." Doku offered hopefully. "If not, you might have to start workin' it with this guy, Sanzo." He smirked, crushing his cigarette—a Camel—against the side of the tray. Hakkai sighed when ashes tumbled over onto the wood.

            "Like hell." His nose wrinkled in distaste.

            "He'd go for you."

            "What the fuck?"

            "Jus' sayin'." Doku shrugged. "Gut feeling," he explained after being glared at by steely pinpoints of violet. "Try it. We don't exactly have an unlimited window of opportunity here. Crime rates are gonna soar if they push their territory any further. Tax payers really can't afford the increase a bigger police force is gonna cost them. And angry, impoverished tax payers just means more crime. It's a vicious cycle."

            "My sympathies," Sanzo sneered in annoyance, rising and lighting a second cigarette. "I'm not doing that."

            "Fine. But work a little faster."

            Hakkai took it all in in silence, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. After an uneasy tension in the room began to simmer with frayed nerves, he smoothed a palm over Doku's shoulder. "Sanzo does, in all fairness, have more experience in this than we do. He's been bringing us decent information."

            Doku shrugged, and Sanzo glanced at the clock. "I'm going."

            "Oh, where?"

            "I'm not sure yet. That idiotic redhead has a 'surprise' for me." He snapped his head around to gaze threateningly at Doku, daring him to make a joke of it. The officer only smiled and waved him off, bursting into laughter as the door clicked shut.

            "I bet he does."

 

The surprise was less than appealing, sprawled out over a wide, high mattress decked in satin sheets, covered—and barely—by lacy undergarments. Sanzo sighed in mild distress, glaring at the kappa behind him. "Another initiation test? Can't I just shoot someone?"

Gojyo guffawed, slapping him on the shoulder. "Man, this is a gift."

He looked at the girl. Did being referred to as a 'this' not offend her? So much for an increase in feminist activism in Kansas.

"Oh, Gojyo's a long-time customer," she explained prettily, flipping a mop of dark hair over one shoulder as she efficiently read his mind. "I put up with a lot. But the payoff's nice. And he tips well too," she jested, pressing a bare foot to the kappa's thigh. "So what? Both of you? That would be fun…"

"Hell yeah," Gojyo seconded, draping an arm about Sanzo's shoulders and giving his arm a squeeze. He jerked back when he heard the safety of a revolver being clicked off, hands held up before him. "Or not. Really."

Sanzo stared at them both, thinking they could be siblings if they weren't business partners. They both had that wily gleam in their eyes, brows cocked expectantly.

"I'm leaving now," he informed them, turning on his heel and heading back out onto the rain slicked street. It had been sunny moments ago.

"Apparently the weather's as temperamental as you are." Gojyo sounded only slightly put off. "I thought you'd like it. Her. Since you're obviously not into guys. Or is it just me you're not into?"

"That's not what I'm here for."

Now he frowned, deeply, and Sanzo found himself thinking it was an unattractive look for the redhead. He was used to seeing that generous mouth posed in a come-hither smile or, at the very worst, a sardonic grin. "You can't live for your job, man. Especially when that job is killing."

They walked in silence, the taller man dogging the blonde's heels. Eventually he sighed, giving in. "Have it your way. You're a pretty pissy guy, you know. That's why I feel like a real ass for trying my hand at you again." He tugged his sleeve, drawing him to the side of the street as they passed a bar.

"At least let me buy you a beer, yeah?" And the randy grin was back, eyebrows raised playfully, waggling at him so that his defenses fell limp. Sanzo shrugged and lit up a cigarette, "yeah."

The obnoxious neon lights flickered over damp pavement, but disappeared once they were inside the dimly lit room. Chairs and tables lined the walls; a few were pushed out in the center of the floor. Gojyo seemed to know the bar tender, he held up two fingers as they crossed over the threshold, and by the time both men were seated atop squeaking stools, the barkeep met them with two shot glasses and a brand of strong whiskey Sanzo had never tried before.

"So." Gojyo murmured after downing the glass; now he was tapping the rim, and seemed unlikely to follow up with anything more substantial. Sanzo glanced around the room, noting the way most of the patrons seemed to blend into the woodwork. None of them were making enough noise to be heard individually; only a single sound, a multi-voiced murmur, could be made out. The steady drone would have shielded anything Gojyo had to say from prying ears.

"So you don't like women."

"What the fuck?" Sanzo glowered at him from over a mug of beer—the barkeep had slid that to him down the slick countertop.

"What?" Gojyo shrugged. "It's cool. I just didn't know. I thought, ya know, since you kept turning me down…"

"You're an imbecile." He sat flatly, careful not to give Gojyo any direct hints about his "preferences" at all. He didn't want any more surprises.

"So I've been told. You know for such a pretty guy, you're an awful bastard."

"So I've been told," Sanzo mocked him, taking a drink. This didn't rally his anger, but rather brought forth a burst of laughter. The blond assumed he was either a lightweight or a true moron.

Gojyo plucked a worn deck from his back pocket, pressing it to the bar between them. "Cards?"

"Very good." Sanzo scoffed. "Can you spell that?"

The kappa rolled his eyes and began shuffling. "If you beat me, I'll spell it for you," he promised, tapping his glass to Sanzo's with a wink. "Or, you know, do whatever else you like."

"That would involve an awful lot of dynamite."

The redhead looked amused, and dealt. Sanzo couldn't help but notice the way long tanned fingers dusted expertly over the cards, snapping them into a bridge and then out onto the table in a neat fan. They played in silence to pass the time; Gojyo was fond of drinking, and Sanzo, of silence. The imaginary stakes had shifted in the monk's favor, and the clocks and accumulating cluster of empty glasses told him an hour or two had passed. It was easy to get sucked into the dull buzz of the place, feel dizzy and maybe a little sleepy, without really accomplishing anything. Sanzo glanced at an ashtray piled with Marlboro and Hi-Lites butts. All the corners were dusted with ash. Gojyo tossed back another shot of whiskey, and Sanzo reached forward to nudge his shoulder, fully anticipating he would topple right off of the stool. He did not.

"Hmm? Is that a forfeit I hear?" He smiled cockily, and the blond thought his voice was far too steady for all the whiskey he had ingested. Sanzo felt a slight buzz, nothing worth paying for—the taste hadn't been that great either—but enough to make him question his balance. He'd been drunk before, and was nowhere near it now. He could probably still aim a gun if he had to. But he feared his tongue had loosened in his head; he bit down on it and grunted noncommittally. Nimble fingers dealt, fanning his hand out before him.

Gojyo broke the silence Sanzo had been hoping to impose. "So how did you get into this business anyway?"

He had been asked this before, and was as disinclined to respond in detail as he had been originally. "How does anyone get into it?"

"Well, that really varies. I know how I got into it. I know how Banri got into it. But I can't see a guy like you just…slipping through the cracks. People would notice you."

"No. They didn't."

"So what, your parents were bastards? How old were you when you started?"

"Thirteen."

Gojyo whistled his appreciation. They were still playing cards, a distraction for the hands rather than the mind. His wine-dark eyes told Sanzo he was intent on the story he was prying out of him. "That's awful young. Why did you leave home?"

"I didn't." He blew a cloud of smoke to the side, lighting up another cigarette before continuing. "I just got passed around a lot, between sets of parents." He never really considered any of his foster parents' houses and apartments to be home for him. He liked to think he found a home with Koumyou instead. It was a long time in coming, but the best things usually are.

"Your parents died?" He asked softly. Sanzo shrugged.

"Maybe. I really don't know. I grew up in three or four different households, and they all told me different things. I have no idea who my parents were. I don't really need to know," He added, not wanting any more piteous looks from the redhead. He began to shuffle again.

"That's tough."

"That's life. I didn't starve."

"Still," Gojyo insisted, scooping up the five cards he had been dealt and peering at them between glances at the monk. "So what happened at thirteen? I can't see you playing hitman as a kid."

"I wasn't." He hesitated, unsure of how much he should reveal, and wondering, if he invented something on the spot, how much of it he would remember. He opted for a foggy version of the truth. "I got taken in. By a guy who did this. A group," he corrected himself, "who did this."

"What, like the Mafia?"

"Not really."

"I can't see a guy just picking a kid up off the road and teaching him to shoot." Blinking, something sparked in the kappa's eyes, and he blushed. "Ah—oh."

Sanzo snapped at him, "Don't assume that, pervert. He didn't touch me."

The fierce defense of the unnamed gunman sobered Gojyo the slightest bit; he took another drink to balance out the effects of being yelled at, smiled, and shrugged. "Okay."

"I wouldn't have stayed."

"No." He smiled faintly. "You wouldn't have."

Sanzo frowned sharply, mostly in thought, and the kappa's eyebrows twitched upwards in a way that reminded Sanzo of caterpillars. That was how he knew he was a little too close to drunk.

"So this guy taught you what you know?" Gojyo spoke after two hands of silence.

"Yeah."

            "Was he a hitman too?"

            "…sometimes." Sanzo allowed, not wanting to veer off course into dangerous territory. Gojyo didn't need to know he was the leader of the Dawn. It was better he thought of him as some independent branch too small to be of much significance.

            "What was he like? Ach, sorry. Don't mean to pry." He rubbed a hand through thick hair. "I just can't picture it—ya know? I never woulda picked some kid up off the road, much less trained him. You don't hear of that every day."

            Sanzo felt his lips pull into an almost-smile, leaning one elbow against the counter. "I don't know what to tell you. He was eerily patient. Always acted like he had all the time in the world, and he was never in any hurry to get rich, or revenge."

            "He sounds more like a holyman than a hitman," Gojyo chuckled, and Sanzo smiled at the irony. The kappa misread it, and he let him.

            "So where is he now?"

            Sanzo hesitated, and Gojyo drank, letting him gather his thoughts. "He died."

            "I'm sorry." The kappa sounded confused, as though he wasn't sure whether he was truly sorry or not.

            Sanzo shrugged. "It was a while ago."

            "Yeah?"

            "Seven years."

            "Damn. I wouldn't have guessed."

            "How's that?"

            Gojyo frowned, leaning a little closer. "The look in your eyes when you talk about him. It's like you just saw him. I dunno." He tugged a shock of hair in thought, then smiled faintly in realization. "You were lovers."

            Opening his mouth to deny it, Sanzo's face betrayed him in a pink flush. Gojyo chuckled, sipping at a beer. "Don't bother; it's written all over your face."

            A sigh escaped him, and Gojyo was kind enough not to ask how he died. He probably already knew. There weren't that many options, given his lifestyle.

            "What about you?" He returned, lighting up another cigarette and pushing the filter of another from his mouth into the ashtray.

            "Started a couplea years ago, when I was nineteen. I was outta the house by nine, when my dad died. I was supposedta be with some distant relatives—you must know the story—but I ran away."

            Sanzo frowned, peering carefully at him. "You lived on the streets at nine?"

            "Hell yeah. I was a regular pickpocket." He grinned proudly, "like those little British kids who snag shit from old men's pockets, right?"

            Sanzo nodded his understanding, fingers wrapped around a warming bottle, disinterested in its contents.

            "Well it's not like I was totally alone," he shrugged. "I had an older brother who would help me out every so often, give me money. He tried to get me to live with him, but…"

            "But?" Sanzo blanched, embarrassed at having nudged him. He was forgetting that he wasn't supposed to care.

            "But I couldn't stand to see him, just then, for very long. Our mom was batshit crazy—drugs, and probably something genetic." He shrugged. "My brother…" Shaking his head, a sigh escaped his lips. "He used to haveta beat her off of me."

            Sanzo felt his eyes widen of their own accord, pupils wide in the dim lighting of the room.

            "Hey, hey, it wasn't that bad. It's not like she came at me with a knife." His lips pulled into a shadow of a smile; the form was there, but not the energy behind it. Suddenly Sanzo suspected he was lying to protect his brother; he still loved him, but perhaps his brother could no more bear to see Gojyo than Gojyo could bear to look upon him.

 "But I couldn't stand to see him just then, because I'd remember that. Being near him gave me nightmares. He tried to get me put with a foster family—like you—but I managed to slip away every time. A lady took me in…" He paused, emptying half of his glass in thought and gazing at the worn grain of the counter for a long moment, as though it were moving beneath his hands.

            "But he was really good to me, my brother." Gojyo smiled softly, a genuine one this time. "He'd pick me up out of scrapes—he was a good nine years older 'n me, so he could—and he'd let me stay with him whenever I needed to. Tried to keep me there, but I'd sneak out. Stupid kid, huh?"

            Sanzo shrugged, understanding the motivation, the need to avoid what caused him pain. He wondered if his brother was still alive.

            "I miss him, sometimes. You know what he does now?"

            Sanzo shook his head just the slightest.

            "He's a cop. Isn't that a riot?"

            "You haven't seen him since," Sanzo guessed, receiving a nod in return.

            "Yeah. Once I started this shit up, he saw me once, asked me to turn myself in, and when I refused, we sort of just…drifted. No clue where the hell he is now—maybe not even in the city-- but I know he doesn't keep tabs on me."

            They turned on their stools to watch a drunken brawl in the corner of the bar, but it ended quickly, one man collapsing uselessly to the sticky floor below. They returned to staring down into amber liquid and empty glasses. Sanzo flicked a glance to a curtain of red hair, noting the two little scars beneath his dark eye. Both men realized, slowly, through the fog of alcohol and thinned blood, that they had probably said too much. To balance it out, they exchanged scathing insults as Gojyo paid the barkeep and they walked into a wall of water beneath the streetlights.

            "Fuck it's wet."

            Sanzo heaved a sigh, glancing at the watch on his arm and wondered how it was already three. It would be a long walk back to the precinct. He'd probably catch a cold, and his cigarettes would be too soggy to smoke. He doubted Hakkai had any.

            "How far are you?"

            "What?" They were huddled under the narrow awning, Gojyo trying uselessly to light up.

            "How far from here is your place?"

            "Couplea miles." Good, vague.

            Gojyo shrugged. "Mine's closer. Come on." He took off in a long-legged stride towards fourteenth street. Sanzo followed for lack of anything better to do; the rain was like a sheet of ice, pelting at such a pace it stung upon contact. By the time the old five and dime came into view, they were both sopping wet, clothing clinging to every curve and angle. Sanzo could feel his hair dripping down the back of his shirt.

            Gojyo worked the lock of the side door, pushing it open and slamming it shut when they were both inside. It was chilly, but dry. Sanzo reminded himself of the collapsing stairs on their way up, but found himself temporarily distracted when the redhead peeled off his second skin, tossing the sopping cotton mass to the side. He stumbled with a curse, and was tugged up quickly by a pair of sunburned hands.

            "Gotta fix those one day," Gojyo grinned, leading him into a room with which he was already more familiar than the kappa knew.

            "I gotta blanket around here someplace," Gojyo promised, digging through a particularly deep drawer—the dresser looked to be from the 1970s, though Sanzo had never seen it before. The bed—the bed was exactly the same. Whomever Koumyou had rented the place from hadn't done much redecorating since.

            "Here." Gojyo turned to find Sanzo still in his wet clothes; he shrugged, draping the heavy blue cover over the fairer man's shoulders. "Gonna catch cold in the same clothes."

            "I'll survive," he muttered, sinking back onto the bed out of habit. There was no other furniture in the room, and Gojyo didn't seem to mind. He was still rifling through drawers; when Sanzo turned to look at him, he heard the snick of a lighter and saw the kappa with a dry pack of cigarettes—those disgusting Hi-Lites—and little else. He had undressed, and was inhaling a throatfull of smoke as he air-dried and searched for spare clothing.

            "Put your fucking clothes on," Sanzo snapped, glancing away in irritation and trying to banish the image from his mind. Unsuccessfully.

            "Where'd you get that, anyway?" He murmured.

            "What, you don't have one?" Gojyo snickered, and Sanzo heard the distinctive buzz of a zipper being tugged up. He turned to glare at him, taken aback when he flicked on a dim light and strode, barefoot, over to the bed. The red phoenix on his chest shimmered with a garnet dust; the muscles of his chest, defined by water and shadow, arched appealingly as he flopped back onto the mattress.

            "Idiot. The scar, I meant." Sanzo shook his head and glanced off to the side, not having to feign annoyance.

            "On my leg? Few years ago," Gojyo explained. "Little skirmish with some guys and a knife." Sanzo turned to peer at him again, recalling the dark depth of the mark trailing halfway up the side of his thigh, ending just before the faint curve of his--

            "Ass."

            "What!" Gojyo protested.

            "I didn't lie to you."

            "Didn't you?" Gojyo smiled without humor. "Okay it wasn't a skirmish," he admitted. "And it's more than a few years old."

            Sanzo frowned, something in the centre of his chest telling him already how the scar was obtained.

            "I told you I was on the streets young. My brother—Jien—he never knew about this. No one does, really. Just Banri."

            Sanzo stored his questioning glances away for later, urging Gojyo to continue by his silence.

            "I was like thirteen or fourteen, and I got into a fight I couldn't handle. Alone." Tensing, he suddenly had the feeling that he kappa wouldn't be telling him this if the whiskey hadn't pried his tongue and better sense loose. "They didn't want my money." Gojyo said quietly.

            He nodded, turning away and hoping that a similar truth didn't reflect in his own eyes. Drawing the blanket a little closer, he let his gaze rest on the windowsill. He remembered that too, that God-awful fear and panic, foreign hands pushing at clothing and tearing at skin, raking through hair with greasy nails and pressing hot, sweaty lips over smooth flesh. Sanzo bit his tongue. Hard.

            "Banri rescued me, though." Gojyo murmured softly. Suddenly Sanzo understood his formerly inexplicable loyalty to the man. "He pulled me up out of the muck. That's how I got here, because of him. So even when he fucks up—and he fucks up a lot—I go after him."

            The loyalty he professed was of a nature Sanzo hadn't witnessed in a long time. Gojyo looked a little embarrassed, as though the effects of the alcohol were already wearing thin. He sat up, pushing damp hair behind his ears. "But who doesn't have a shitty story?"

            Sanzo grunted his agreement, idly wondering how the kappa could sit there, shirtless and wet, without shivering. To him the room was freezing.

            "Sorry I don't have another blanket," He said softly. "This isn't my only place. I usually don't come here that often, but my car's in the shop, so I've been crashing. You really should take your clothes off."

            Sanzo glowered at him, and he smirked, shaking his head. "It's worse to be in wet clothes when it's cold out. See? You're kinda shakin' there. Come on, I won't look." He winked, and Sanzo stood, dropping the blanket for a moment and glaring. "Fine then, don't."

            Gojyo turned his head in mock consideration, listening to the sound of rumpled, damp fabric being tossed off. He waited for the buzz of a fly, but only heard Sanzo's "tch," as if to say, "you can turn around again," when he had replaced the covers.

            The monk was careful not to turn around, even in the slightest, in case Gojyo decided to peek. He reasoned that, so long as he kept the blanket secure about his back, the tattoo peering up from the waistband of his jeans would be concealed. He had to admit, he was considerably warmer with the woolen cover bound about his naked torso and arms.

            Gojyo whistled, eyes tracing the V of pearly flesh that ran down the center of Sanzo's chest. "I shoulda peeked," he teased. "You're awful shy."

            "Only because you're terribly perverted." Sanzo retorted, letting his long legs dangle from the edge of the bed. He wished Gojyo had a couch, or at least a folding chair. The kappa was suddenly far too close.

            "You're shivering again," he whispered, pushing damp shocks of hair from the man's cheek. Sanzo twitched, jerking away.

            "I'll live."

            "I can't have you catching a cold now can I?"

            "Stop coddling me you stupid--" And suddenly a warm mouth was pressed to his, dry, callused hands plucking at the blanket around his shoulders and pushing it down to bare his chest. Sanzo parted his mouth to breathe, to pull away, and Gojyo nipped his lower lip affectionately, taking the gasp as one of pleasure. The blond slammed the heels of his hands into a hard chest, shoving Gojyo away with a sputtering curse.

            "What the fuck are you doing!"

            "What the hell kinda question is that! I know you've been kissed before. A perfect mouth like that…"

            "Shut up! Just shut the hell up," Sanzo hissed, struggling into his wet shirt again and reminding himself in the nick of time not to turn his back on the kappa. Gojyo noticed his almost apologetic glance at the bed. He didn't understand.

            "Look—I'm sorry okay? You seemed to like it just fine when we--"

            "There is no 'when we.'" Sanzo hissed. "Don't touch me again."

            "Why the hell not? You can't tell me you're still in mourning for that guy!" Sanzo felt his shoulders tense at Gojyo's perceptivity. The kappa noted it.

            "Fuck, Sanzo…he died seven years ago. You meanta say you haven't gotten laid in seven years?"

            A bright flush flooded his ivory complexion, and Gojyo only smiled faintly, shaking his head. "You musta fought off a helluva lotta folks. Look—if you don't want me to, I won't touch you again. I promise. I can respect that—your mourning, or whatever it is," Gojyo explained, moving to stand in the doorway while keeping his word, hands up before him harmlessly.

            "Just stay the night."

            Sanzo colored again, and Gojyo strove to correct himself. "No, no—not like that. I'll sleep downstairs, even. I won't touch you," he promised, as though talking to some nervous, fidgeting virgin. It incensed the man before him, almost to the point of decking him for using that tone, but the kappa seemed sincere.

            "Please. Tonight was just…weird. Okay?"

            Sanzo mentally nodded his agreement. That was the perfect word to describe it.

            "Just…look. It'd be stupid to walk across town in this shitty weather. Just stay here, and I'll leave you alone, okay?"

            Sanzo knew it would be wiser to leave, but exhaustion, the effects of too much whiskey, and the cold changed his mind. "Get me the cigarettes," he growled, stalking back over to the bed. Gojyo beamed in victory, digging through his dresser drawer and pulling out the spare pack and a lighter. He left them on the nightstand.

            "Ta da." A small smile. "I'll be downstairs, okay?"

            "Tch."

            "G'night," he grinned cheekily, closing the door, and the monk marveled at his resilience. He ought to have decked him. Kissing him like that…Sanzo shook his head in disgust. He could have pulled away from those scalding lips, from the wide palms, much more quickly. He was sick inside over having hesitating, asking himself without words, are you sure you don't want this? Don't want him? A ragged sigh escaped him, and he lay back in the familiar bed, cigarette between his lips, and asked Koumyou for forgiveness he didn't merit. Sleep found him quickly, just after he stubbed out a third cigarette on the top of the bedside table.

 

            "No, no, don't ever fully extend your arm. The backlash of the shot could seriously hurt it, even with a small pistol."

            Sanzo let his elbow bend a little, feeling a warm hand press against it and help him take aim. "Like so."

            The gun went off, and the bull's-eye in the distance had a bullet shaped hole in its second circle out.

            "Not bad."

            Sanzo was displeased, and long after Koumyou left, he continued his practice, pitting three different targets with holes. A mixture of frustration and determination built in him, and it seemed to better his aim. Koumyou drew him from the shooting range at sundown, chuckling at his resolve and warning him that his arm would pay for it in the morning.

            Sanzo was quiet, following him down the street to Headquarters. When they passed the building, he suddenly knew where they were going, and strove to catch up with the long-haired man ahead of him. They were nearing Fourteenth Street.

            "Aren't you tired?" Koumyou teased, tapping his arm. "I saw you practiced with both hands."

            "I don't have a preference," Sanzo explained, cracking his knuckles, stiff from their exercise.

            "Ambidexterity comes in handy," he promised, slipping in through the side door. "I wonder sometimes if I should teach you to grapple."

            "You should," Sanzo agreed, a faint smile pulling at his lips as he followed the blonde shadow up the stairs, dodging the rotted steps. Soon he fell back on the bed, arms beneath his head, and peered out the window; the sky was upside down, and it looked just the same. It was a bright night. He heard Koumyou changing, but didn't sit up.

            "Isn't grappling usually done on the ground?"

            "It is," the older man nodded; the smell of cigarettes wafted faintly through the room. "It'll make you sore."

            "Perhaps a little less, if we do it in the bed." Sanzo mused, a small smile on his mouth. He heard a bark of laughter and sat up to meet warm kisses, arms looping about his neck.

            Fair eyes met his, asking, are you certain? He nodded, tilting his head to meet his lover's in a gentle kiss, reveling in the smooth, cool touch of his skin. Moonlight stained the room silver, and Sanzo let his eyes fall shut.

            Suddenly the mouth over his was wider, softer, warmer. He moaned, fingers tangling tightly in a red mane. There were bolts of pleasure between his legs, and then a tumble of Scarlet, wine-dark eyes peering up playfully, a smooth smile on a generous mouth…

 

            His own quick gasping startled him awake. Blinking, he rapidly surveyed the room, hands tight in the sheets that smelled far too much like a certain redhead's musk. The faint scent of lotus and gunpowder that had lingered in his dream had long since vanished. A hand pressed to his mouth, and a foreign sound escaped. He felt heat behind his eyes, but nothing followed. Koumyou…

            He wanted to apologize in silence for his dream, but found he couldn't quite find the words. Sleep claimed him, and this time it was tinged with neither silver nor Scarlet, only a blessed, blinding white.

 

            "You get up early," Gojyo groused from where he had fallen asleep at the desk. It never struck Sanzo that there wasn't an appropriate place to bed down on the main floor. Serves him right. Asshole. He couldn't quite bring himself to say it aloud.

            "No. You're just lazy."

            "Says the man who stole my bed," Gojyo teased, stretching and wincing when he found his muscles to be tense and cramped. "You okay?"

            "Why wouldn't I be?"

            "Dunno. Heard you yell up there. I almost went up, but I figured you were just dreaming of running me through with a spear or somethin'." He shrugged, smiling softly, a tint of concern in his eyes.

            "You must be psychic."

            "Leaving?"

            "I have shit to do." Sanzo explained, tossing his hand up in a simulation of a wave as he strode out, purposely neglecting to thank the kappa for his hospitality. He might have, if it weren't for that damned kiss and everything after it. He shook the fragments of the dream from his mind, looking up at a gray sky and anticipating a stern lecture from Hakkai for failing to make it back before sunrise.

           

Gojyo, tripping up the stairs to his now vacant bed, fell forward with a groan, the beginnings of a headache teasing him mercilessly. Inhaling sharply as he hit the pillow, he caught the distinct scent of the blond who had occupied it minutes ago. He sighed contentedly, wondering where that perfect mixture of lavender and musk came from. It must be a gift of nature, he reasoned, unable to imagine Sanzo using any sort of perfumed soap. For his own safety, Gojyo thought wryly, it would be better not to imagine Sanzo using any sort of soap.

Fuck if he didn't look so damn gorgeous last night… Gojyo hadn't really thought about kissing him—he just acted. Sanzo had looked cold; his sharp features were softened a bit by the dim lighting and his exhaustion. The man was beautiful, though he'd probably heard that too many times, and from all the wrong people, ever to want to hear it again. He was surprised to find that Sanzo had gone through a lot of the same shit he had, minus the crazy mother. But minus the aid from an older brother, too. He didn't even know where he belonged, though he made his way in the world well enough without such guidance, Gojyo thought appreciatively.

He couldn't help but admire the way he carried himself, though he could stand to open up a bit more, or at least smile once in a while. Gojyo thought he would look very handsome smiling, or panting, he added mentally, a sleepy grin tugging at his lips.

He may have resisted, but Gojyo had kissed a lot of people, and he knew damn well when someone liked it. And Sanzo had liked it. What made him pull back, loyalty to the man who had been his lover seven years ago, some personal sense of honor, Gojyo didn't know. What he was sure of however was that he was going to win him over. Without touching, as promised. Hell, since when did he need to touch someone to make them fall head over heels for him?

            Creaking beneath him as he stretched, the mattress seemed to echo his self assurance. The redhead grinned, but desire was muffled by exhaustion, and he fell into sleep.

 

            As anticipated, Hakkai was pissed off when Sanzo returned. Doku just grinned sleepily at him from the fold-out couch. Sanzo thought it was terribly obvious what they had been doing, and vowed to himself never to sleep on that sofa again.

            "You can't do that without warning me first." His voice was sharp as a whip, lashing the air; the monk blinked.

            "What, you don't trust me?" Sanzo retorted wryly. Hakkai let out a hiss of frustration, glaring at Doku as if he ought to be helping him out in this.

            "We can't risk your running wildly about the city—how am I supposed to know you didn't kill anyone?"
            Sanzo pulled out his gun, startling Doku, and popped the back open, revealing all six bullets tightly packed in their chambers. He wheeled it about and closed it, pressing it back into his jeans.

            "That's beside the point," Hakkai insisted, furrowing his brows at the state of Sanzo's clothing. "Did you fall into a well?"

            "It was raining."

            "Did it?" Hakkai had clearly been occupied the night before, Sanzo thought with a shake of his head, glancing between them to let them know he was aware.

            Hakkai blushed uncomfortably. "What did you find out?"

            "Nothing. He got drunk." Sanzo glanced off.

            "So where were you all morning? I very much doubt there's a bar in town open past three. You don't look exhausted."

            "What are you, my mother?"

            "He was with Gojyo." Doku smirked, shaking his head. "He finally got you into bed didn't he?"

            "Shut the fuck up," Sanzo grumbled. "I wasn't that drunk."

            Doku grinned. "But he tried, ne?"

            "What does that have to do with anything?" Hakkai asked, sitting back in his chair. "I have to say, I'm losing faith in our mission here. Sanzo, if you have to get a little…close…to him to find out what we need to know, do it."

            "I'm not sleeping with him for information. Or anything else." On that, he wouldn't budge.

            "'Kai, eventually Gojyo's gonna have to go to headquarters. We just have to wait 'till then, and hope Sanzo's far enough onto his good side," and here he glanced encouragingly at the blond, "to tag along."

            "Yes, well. At least we know the locator is working well," Hakkai offered. "We thought it might have broken last night, when you ended up somewhere along fourteenth—is that Phoenix territory now too?—for the evening."

            "It's not. It's neutral."

            "Aah."

            "So Sanzo." Doku grinned. "How do you suggest we ensure you're in Gojyo's good graces?"

 

 

            "Do y'want sugar or cream with that?"

            Gyu shook his head at the waitress, flipping through the newspaper atop the shiny plastic counter of the restaurant. It was all plastic and chrome, meant to look like a 1950s diner. Vintage Coca-Cola posters were framed and plastered all over the walls, along with chrome-framed clocks and antique memorabilia featuring poodle skirts and saddle shoes. His coffee arrived promptly, and he sipped at it as he scanned the paper. A local gang, name unknown, made the second page, and his boss had been pleased. It was Gyu's sector that had successfully passed weapons across state lines while distracting the police by exposing a competitor's load. Their measly fifty thousand dollar transport had landed them in prison, and no one had looked to Gyu after the car crash he had incited, except to ask him if he was alright, and if any of the guns had gone off upon impact. Playing the frazzled accountant, prop glasses askew beneath his wig, he'd given the cops the right story and watched with a silent sneer as the last of the Phoenix's competition was herded away by the bluesuits.

            Meanwhile, his boss had been doing some house-cleaning. Many of the former Phoenix members had been removed from office; some by force, while others simply…disappeared. The drug cartel's sector had been almost entirely restaffed, and mostly by former Eclipse members. Gyu wasn't too familiar with that particular gang's history, given that it had never expanded much outside of Leavenworth. His boss seemed to know it well, most likely because it could provide competition if not quickly conquered. He himself had been selected to aid in rounding up old recruits and sending them on their way with a surprisingly generous pension. To keep their mouths shut, his superior had assured him. And if they looked dissatisfied, or ready to sing, they were shot. There wasn't really a place to hide, either. The Phoenix owned Topeka, and they would know who came in, and who left.

But Gyu had another, more trying assignment next, involving the extermination of Sha Gojyo's Phoenix subdivision. He had promised his chief that, this time, it would go well. He had orders to kill everyone and anyone who got in the way, so long as he brought Genjyo Sanzo back alive. And that was the message he passed on before sending men out from a more southern location. Why his boss wanted Sanzo, really wanted him, Gyu didn't know. But it wasn't his place to, and so long as he got the job done, he would be getting what he wanted. In the meantime, the boss would just have to be patient.

 

            Something was going to go down. He could sense it, and he knew Banri, in this rare, sober state, could too. The fair hairs on the back of his arms were prickling; he couldn't smooth his hackles down either. It wasn't just the weather, though the ominous southern sky promised strong storms. It was a tense silence in the air, broken on occasion by the rattling of a door or the click of a pistol's safety lock.

            "This doesn't feel right."

            "Fucking never feels right," Banri muttered. "Look, even your antennae are twitchin'."

            "They're not antennae," Gojyo muttered, not able to muster his usual gusto. "The area's too quiet. I haven't seen a single person on the streets." This alone wasn't the sign that worried him; it supported a hunch, a gut feeling that Gojyo had learned to trust from age nine. It was a sixth sense, one of self-preservation, that he supposed most animals had, and humans had grown out of as they developed a general sense of security in the walls of their city. Banri naturally had it too.

            Sanzo arrived around noon, cigarette between his lips and looking peaked. Gojyo suspected he sensed the same thing. The man was content to sit on the edge of the sofa, inhaling nicotine-flavored air and listening to the drone of an old car in the far distance. For once that spark of fire faded into the background; he looked content to be forgotten.

            The door rattled open, its screen nearly falling out, and the clunk of high heels resounded throughout the room. "Boys." Yaone nodded her greeting, mouth pinched into a tight line.

            "Where you been?" Banri murmured, flipping a playing card over into his upside down baseball cap. It missed, and fluttered to the floor.

            "Looking around. We're in a bit of a mess here, you know."

            Gojyo looked up at her, frowning. "What do you know?"

            She looked surprised that he didn't, shaking her head so that the large medallions piercing her ears jingled. "Our new boss is hiring Eclipse members."

            "So? They freelance all the time. They don't have much territory left, or trade."

            "Not as freelancers. They're working inside, with the rest of us. And a lotta guys've been killed. Dissenters, mostly."

            "The fuck?" Banri hissed, hands going out of instinct to the pistol inside his vest.

            "Where? And who's been killed?" Gojyo pressed.

            "I don't know—the offices are all the way in Topeka. I can't even get ahold of my girl there." Yaone's face looked as pinched as her mouth all of a sudden; Gojyo tugged her onto the sunken couch beside him. She resisted, continuing to pace like a caged lioness, long fingers flexing into fists. "Rhi hasn't been responding. You know she works at the headquarters, and she's practically always there."

            "Sounds like we just need to replace some traitorous satraps with men of better-known loyalty. How many have died?"

            "I don't know. I'm lucky to know what I do—guy from Headquarters, I never met him, came down here for shelter. Hell if I know where he went. And then there's Lirin."

            "Shelter…?"

            "What if it's a coup?" The words exploded from her mouth before she could smooth them over.

            Gojyo felt his eyes strain at the very word; he pushed the heels of his palms into them, rubbing away the beginnings of a migraine. "Fuck no. What about the new boss? Maybe it's him? Or the guys around him? Who's issuing the orders?" He had no mind for secrecy at the moment; the situation necessitated immediate communication. What could he fear that Sanzo might find out? Hell, if the man could get his new boss' name, he'd be grateful. Besides, he was one of them now.

            "I don't know. They won't tell me anything. Nothing's working the way it used to." Yaone was suppressing a whine in her voice, and Gojyo felt a pang of sympathy for her. She was worried about Rhi more than their "company." The Phoenix would bounce back, or its members would scatter, but Rhi could be dead.

            "Run this by me again," Banri interrupted, lighting up a cigarette. Yaone took a deep breath.

            "A lot of 'upper-management' have been taken out. The ones who disagreed with taking on so many former Eclipse members."

            "This isn't exactly a democracy," Gojyo pointed out.

            "Yeah, but on the national level, it's not a monarchy either. We're multi-faceted, and suddenly this new guy is killing off some of his best men. Massacring them, even. It's as if he's trying to make them examples for others who might have diverging opinions about his new plan." She continued. "I got all of this information from Lirin."

            The two men nodded; Lirin was a younger recruit serving just outside of Headquarters. She had abandoned her former occupation, with her brother in the Dawn, and gone to work for the Phoenix, minor jobs that weren't too risky. She had complete access to its inner workings, and was, for the time being, a reliable source.

            "She said that they were hired assassins—no one else could've killed the guys they did. They're at Gojyo's level, and well-guarded to boot. All she knows is that they're definitely being supported by our new boss, who, by the way, I only have vague descriptions of."

            Gojyo shook his head in thought, wondering just how the former perished. He knew it was a brawl of some sort, but the details were fuzzy. Little information leaked down from above. Theirs was a tightly packed and highly secretive system. "I liked the old man, too."

            "He's weeding out anyone with the potential to hold power or chip away at his own. And he's obviously not an idiot." Yaone cracked her knuckles. "We're the second largest co-op in the country. He's going to purge Leavenworth next." The unspoken "What are we going to do?" hung in the air between the three of them; two looked to their leader.

Gojyo stood, cocking his gun. "Right now? We're going to have to fight."

 

 

He wasn't wrong. Within minutes, as if on cue from some backstage war god, a small cluster of armed men, two women trailing behind, broke through the screen door with a clatter. Dressed in black and navy, all bearing the telltale black crescent tattoo on their throats, the Eclipse converts scanned the room, most eyes focused on Gojyo. A muscle in his gut clenched tightly.

 The leader of the five opened his mouth to speak—maybe he was only the herald?—and Yaone shut it for him with a sharp kick to the groin, following it up with a round of bullets that shredded the thin strip of flesh that was his throat.

Gojyo's skin prickled in the same familiar sensation that always accompanied a serious battle. Fight or flight? His body asked him. Four on four was fair; they could take them. Fight.  He sensed more than heard Banri and Sanzo behind him, guns out and firing within an instant. Rattling mutely beneath the clatter of firearms, the backdoor must have opened at some point, because suddenly there were at least seven other men in the room, all armed to the teeth. They were massively outnumbered. Flight, now.

He felt himself bawl out "Move!" but couldn't hear it for the life of him, swinging up over the railing of the stairs that led to the rooftop, tugging Yaone by the back of her shirt. She was trying to reload. In seconds the rickety stairwell vibrated with the thud of eight feet; Banri held the base and retreated only at Gojyo's snarling command. The old door was barred with furniture, and soon ventilated by a barrage of bullets and strong shoulders. It bought them seconds.

Gojyo thought fast because he was trained to, kicking through a window and sliding out onto the glass-strewn roof. It was slanted, stripped of most of its shingles, and slicked by moss. The others followed, and he guarded their backs.

Yaone tumble gracefully despite her heels, long fingers latching onto a rusty gutter and flipping her neatly to the ground below. A black-clad figure burst from the ground door with a cry; Gojyo noted blankly that her arm was soaked with blood from a wound just above the shoulder. Yaone shot her in the side of the head, waving her hands to the rooftop.

"Step it up a notch huh?!" She hissed, watching their fair-haired new recruit slide easily off, landing with a thud, followed by Banri—he had a wound in his lower leg that made him curse—and then Gojyo. The moment he landed, tumbling amongst broken glass and a fallen gutter, they were being fired upon from above and below. Sanzo had little trouble picking off the three in the window; he almost thought he heard Gojyo whistle his appreciation at his handiwork.

They scattered, Yaone taking off in the direction of the downtown, Banri farther into the inner-city, and Sanzo, instinctively, darted off towards neutral territory.

He was winded. Ten months without a chance to run for his life had put him sorely out of practice. It was almost embarrassing, how easily he was panting, though a superior sense of self-preservation kept him moving. Three blocks later, weaving between buildings just in case they had missed some of the men, he leaned back against a slick brick wall, one hand over his mouth to quiet the sound of his breathing. There was a long period of silence, and then the mad thud of feet on gravel and trash. Sanzo snapped his gun up, firing as the shadow burst from around the corner. Recognition came almost too late; bright red hair and a sweat-slicked face greeted him, and his wrist twitched, sending the bullet to the side, buried within a dumpster.

"It's me!" He hissed, hands up before him. "Damn you run fast."

Sanzo took it as an insult, though they had all been running, and it must have shown in his face, because the kappa quickly strove to correct him.

"It's a good thing. I don't know how many they've got, but whoever our new 'boss' is, he wants me dead."

"Funny, it looked like they were shooting at all of us," Sanzo growled, filling two empty chambers in his gun with bullets from a small pocket on the inside of his coat. Gojyo watched him closely, shaking his head.

"It's my head he'll be after, whoever the fuck 'he' is."

"When the hell did you get so disorganized?" A chain link fence blocked them into the alley, and Sanzo realized that left them in a vulnerable position. He scaled it easily, hopping over onto the other side; Gojyo followed with a rattle.

"I wish I could tell you. Hey—do you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

There was a heartbeat of silence, and then the skid of sneakers on pavement as a troupe of three leapt from a car, all dressed in shadows, crescents on their throats.

"Fuck!" Gojyo cried out in surprise, watching a second car pull up behind them, people tumbling from the windows. He could hear more in the distance.

 Sanzo emptied a round into the fray, putting each bullet to good use. He was running low, and the kappa already advocated flight.

"Gonna get shot!" He hissed a warning at Sanzo, slamming him up against a wall and out of a bullet's path with a little gasp. He jerked him roughly into a retreat, weaving to discourage easy shooting. Sanzo would turn back every so often and fire into the mass of their pursuers, picking off one or two with luck. He noticed Gojyo did not, and in fact was more winded than he was. It wasn't until five blocks later, after leaving a trail of at least five corpses between fifth and ninth, that the kappa collapsed with a little grunt.

"Fuck get up!" Sanzo moved to stand over him like some Ajax over the fallen Patroklos. The remainder of the troupe approached, hollering out. Gojyo staggered to his feet, gun held out before him with a trembling hand. Sanzo realized with a start that he was bleeding heavily from his side, and his breath came short, unevenly.

"Put it down!" They drew to an abrupt halt, guns thrust forward yards away in a filthy alley. "Sha Gojyo, you're free to go. We're not after you, though we have no orders not to exterminate you."

"The hell are you shooting at me for!"

The shorter of the pair jerked his head in Sanzo's direction. "We're under orders to take him."

Gojyo looked confused, or in pain. "Sorry boys, you've got the wrong guy. He's a new recruit. Here by mistake."

The shorter shook his head. "Turn him over. We're under orders to bring back a Genjyo Sanzo."

"Orders from who!" The kappa's voice trembled, jerking in octave as he would gasp for breath. He still held his gun forward in pretense, as though they couldn't easily pick him off at this range, and Sanzo besides.

"That's not your affair. Lower the weapon."

            Sanzo knew, regardless of how quickly he moved, he would be shot by the survivor if he fired. That or Gojyo would be. He grit his teeth, not trusting the kappa's reflexes in such a state.

            "Can't," Gojyo grinned shakily. "See, I like him. He's gonna stay with me a while, I think." A shot was fired, and Sanzo responded by instinct, pistol aimed at the man nearest him before he had time to register who had been taken out. He hit—right between the eyes—and the taller of the two returned fire, sending Gojyo to the ground with a muffled grunt. Sanzo fired at him, almost picking up chase as the man dashed off. But then there was Gojyo.

            "The hell is wrong with you! You fucking missed him!" He pushed him onto his back, tearing his stained shirt open with a growl of irritation, skimming bronzed skin for the wounds. One in his left side, the other, by coincidence, inches below.

            "Yeah well I had a little hole in my side," Gojyo ground out, trying to sit up.

            "They weren't shooting," the Sanzo hissed in response, shaking his head as he worked to bind up the side and prevent hemorrhaging. "You're such a stupid bastard. Hey! Listen to me when I'm talking to you!" He despised the sudden shakiness in his voice, but recognized his nerves when he heard them. The kappa was fading in and out, and needed to be kept conscious.

            "Yeah but…they were gonna take you. I had to try somethin'. Knew they wouldn't shoot you."

            "And how the hell do you figure?" Sanzo was tearing long strips of his own shirt now to secure the man's side.

            "'Cause they woulda shot you on sight. Someone obviously wants you. Alive." He coughed, spitting up strings of thin blood; Sanzo helped him raise his head, lip curled in disgust.

            "They wouldn't want me. And you're stupid to have gambled on it."

            "They knew you." He whispered.

            Sanzo shook his head. "They're mistaken."

 

Even though he looked like a drowned rat, sopping with water and sticky with blood, the redhead managed to flash one of his becoming smiles in a general upward direction. "Where'd you go Goldilocks?"

"Call me that again and I'll finish the job," Sanzo groused, striding to the bedside with clean bandages. "Impatient idiot."

"Hey I've got holes in me here!" Gojyo protested, wincing a bit as slender hands ghosted over his skin, brushing the wounds and setting them on fire. "Fuck if that doesn't hurt." He squeezed his eyes shut and arched his back a bit; Sanzo saw his knuckles, a bright white, against the bed sheets. He had had some trouble carrying Gojyo, who outweighed him by about forty pounds, all the way back to Fourteenth Street. He had been conscious enough the first leg of the journey to limp along, assisted, but collapsed by Eleventh in a heap of blood-stained clothing and scarlet hair. Now it was night, and he was resting more peacefully, body tense, but at least recumbent.

"I don't suppose you know how to get a bullet out?"

"Of course I do. But it'll hurt like hell." Sanzo reminded him, glancing at the small first aid kit and pair of tweezers he had picked up at a gas station after getting Gojyo to bed hours ago. That was where he had purchased the disinfectant and proper bandages too.

"Better do it. I can't exactly go to a hospital."

Sanzo made a sound of agreement, listening to his footsteps as he wandered the length of the room, trying not to look directly at the kappa in their bed. His bed, now. He shook his head in aggravation, trying to rid it of the thought.

Why the fuck is the moon even out? It's raining. It should be hidden.

He had explained what had happened to Gojyo already, and the kappa hadn't pried, content to be thankful. Sanzo didn't tell him that he almost left him there, almost turned on his heel and ran for the other side of Fourteenth. He had come so close to deserting him, the man who had fired first to save his life. And after taking a bullet for him four blocks before.

 It's not, Sanzo reminded himself, as though I asked him to protect me. But he had done so nonetheless, and it almost didn't make a difference.

For an instant he had panicked, looking at the crumpled form on the street, long hair awash in red water, trailing off towards a leaf-cluttered gutter. So much of the red was on him, too, streaking his hands and clothes where he had tried to support Gojyo, draw him back to his feet. And just then, the kappa looked lifeless for the longest time, barely breathing in the chilly onslaught from overhead, a bright scratch of color on a grey street, under a slate sky. And for a moment his hair was gold, blood-stained clothes clinging to a much narrower, paler frame. A startled sob escaped him, and thunder rang in the distance, waking him. The man at his feet was breathing, no thanks to him. He scooped him up with a grunt, cursing him in his unconscious state, and stumbled back to the only refuge he knew.

"Something wrong Gol—Sanzo?"

"It's your own damn fault you were shot," he murmured, going through the first aid kit and plucking out more disinfectant, a needle, and sterilized thread.

"Didn't say it wasn't."

"I didn't ask you to defend me."

"You didn't," he agreed.

"Now find something to bite down on, because this is gonna hurt." Sanzo sat on a tilted crate near the bed, unwrapping the loose bandages and peering into the wound. He'd done this a few times before, once for Koumyou, even. That was how he learned.

"Knife in the drawer."

"Nice point," Sanzo murmured, peering at it closely and dousing it with the alcohol. He watched Gojyo slide his belt out and place it neatly between ivory teeth. He gave him a thumbs up and a wink, and Sanzo peered at the bullet farther north, lodged deep in his side, though it must have missed all the vital organs. The idiot was alive, after all.

He gave no warning, and at first Gojyo made no sound but a muffled groan as Sanzo wedged the fine edge of the dagger against the underside of a tiny bullet, drawing it out and trying to avoid further damage to the muscle and nerves there. He grasped it roughly with the tweezers, listening to a hiss that emerged around leather and clenched teeth.

Dripping onto towels, blood ran in rivulets down copper-colored skin; his breath came hard, paining him. Sanzo withdrew the bullet, fingers slippery in a metallic scented paint. He rested it on the side table, disinfecting the open gouge he had formed without warning, startling the kappa as though he had cauterized the wound instead. Sewing next, neat handed as always, he had it miraculously tight, evenly-stitched, within minutes.

"Ungh." Gojyo arched his neck, arm muscles tensing and relaxing inadvertently. "Give it a rest before you do the other." He managed, keeping the moan from his voice this time. Sanzo had seen very few weather pain like that. He made a mental note to avoid looking impressed by it.

Gojyo peered at his wound, attempting a whistle through dry lips. "Nice handiwork. I guess all that needlepoint paid off?"

Sanzo held up the knife again with a blank gaze. "You were saying?"

"You could be a doctor," Gojyo amended with a shaky grin, lying back and breathing deeply. "Good thing I think ahead huh?"

"You said Banri left the kit here."

"Yeah well, he does get into more scrapes n' me." Gojyo spoke hoarsely, and then not at all. Rising with each breath, his damp chest gleamed under a sudden deluge of moonlight. The slight indentations of each muscle were streaked with rainwater and sweat, reflecting light and emphasizing every well-formed twist and bend.

"What is it?" A breathy murmur; wine dark eyes were peering up at him. Sanzo looked away.

"Nothing. But we should get the other one out." We?

"Yeah. Go for it, Doc."

Sanzo found the second one easier to remove; it seemed to cause Gojyo less pain too, though he moaned once, a mixture of agony and exhaustion. The stitching hurt less, and soon the kappa was deep asleep, snoring faintly with his head tilted into the plush of the pillow.

Sanzo cleaned the skin around his wounds with an untouched cloth, jerking the filthy towels beneath him out with a grunt, surprised it didn't startle him awake. A faint smile played around his lips, flickering like a flame until he snuffed it out with a little huff of indignation. He didn't ask to be saved.

He kept himself busy and awake, on his feet for twenty minutes, cleaning up blood and equipment, when he noticed the kappa's labored breathing. It would hurt worse when he awoke; Sanzo knew this from experience. He winced in pity, striding towards the moonlit bed and gazing at the bronze form stretched out atop it. His shirt was gone, torn to shreds for bandages, and his jeans were splattered in brown sunbursts, unbuttoned at the top and tugged a few inches down his narrow hips, so that Sanzo could have access to the lower wound. He had chosen a fine day not to wear underwear, the blond mused in annoyance, as though Gojyo had had it all planned out this way. He could see a small V of red hair and smooth, almost delicate skin, a little more each time his flesh rose with a breath. He was like a moth, staring so hard at something that he didn't recognize the danger of it until it was too late to turn back. Garnet eyes fluttered open.

"Sanzo?"

"You're shivering." He said stupidly, blinking at the other. "Where're the blankets?"

"Top drawer, other end of the room." The monk felt dark eyes following him every step of the way, watching his hands as he drew out a heavy blanket—one he had used, in fact—from the drawer where it had been hastily folded. He spread it out over a prostrated form; Gojyo thanked him softly, letting his eyes fall shut again.

"Hey man…" He was speaking long after Sanzo had been certain he slept. The blond himself was nearly out, leaning on a wooden chair, cheek pressing into the rail of the back.

"Hng?"

"I appreciate it." He murmured.

"Tch."

"Eloquent." Gojyo smiled faintly, eyes closed again. Sanzo thought he would sleep this time and curb his conversation.

"Sanzo."

"What?" His eyes flicked open this time, curiosity overpowering any other sentiment present.

"How come they want you?"

 

 

"You left quite a trail in your wake, Sanzo. Officers have found a good number of bodies, though a proper investigation won't begin for at least another twenty-four hours, while they determine the cause of death."

"I thought the bullet wounds would make that fairly obvious."

"It's not funny!" Doku fairly snarled from his seat, earning a glance of surprise from even Hakkai, who seemed used to his unusual temperament. "You killed a lotta people! And we let you out—that makes us responsible!"

"What the hell did you want me to do?" Sanzo had already gone through the entire story—twice—and explained everything he knew and heard through the Phoenix.

"Yes, you did have to defend yourself…I still have trouble believing Gojyo took a bullet for you," Hakkai mused aloud, tapping a pen to his lower lip in thought. "I can't imagine why members of the Eclipse would be here, either. We can't be certain they were hired by Phoenix lords."

"Why the hell not? They knew exactly where we were and how to find us. They knew Gojyo."

"Yeah," Doku agreed hesitantly, "they've been inactive for years. I doubt they've started staging pointless raids. What else would they have had to gain? Unless Gojyo's got some secrets he isn't sharing with you."

"How the hell should I know?"

Doku shrugged. "How are the wounds?"

"What wounds?" Sanzo snapped. Had the man not been listening to him?

"Gojyo's."

"They're not mortal—why the hell would you care?" His short temper was born of a lack of sleep, and not nearly enough nicotine in his system. He had run out of cigarettes early that morning, around four, and not wanted to risk going out for more. Not with Gojyo twitching in sleep every so often, and breaking out into fits of shivering. Shit, I should have. I'm not his fucking nurse.

"Well if what you say is true, then we're going to have a lot more trouble in getting you in to see this mysterious new leader. Perhaps, next time they come for you, you should go with them?"

"I'm not stupid," the blond growled from his chair, leaping up to pace the length of the room like a caged lion.

"With the detector on your ankle, you'd be under our protection--"

"Like I was last night?"

Hakkai quieted. "We weren't aware you were in danger."

There was a long silence between them; Doku popped a can of diet soda open, but didn't drink from it.

 "I don't know what the hell he would want, or how he would know me."

"'He'?"

"Phoenix's new leader."

"Aah." Hakkai frowned tensely, tapping his pen against a pad of yellow paper covered in notes. "Perhaps he's heard of you? Through the Dawn?"

"It's been seven years. The Dawn is practically disbanded by comparison with the Phoenix. No one would know me now."

"Perhaps not." The officer sighed, plucking off his glasses to clean them. He glanced at Doku, and spoke more kindly. "But you should go back to check on Gojyo."

A nail tapped at the aluminum can; "there're pain killers in the top drawer, there. Take those with you."

Sanzo cast them a curious look, scooping up the narrow package on his way out.

"Thanks."

 

            Gojyo was sleeping when he got back, but jerked awake at the sound of the door being shoved open. He had a gun in his hand, raised shakily until his foggy gaze registered Sanzo's presence, and it lowered, fingers loosening from the weapon.

            Rain pelted the windows once again and cloaked the room in blue and gray shadows. Gojyo looked too pale, beneath his tan.

            "Hey." He smiled to the blond, "Come to check up on me?"

            "No."

            "So why're you hear?"

            "To shut you up." He popped the lid of the bottle in his left hand, pressing two pastel pills into his palm. Gojyo saw the label on the tinted container and raised a brow.

            "How'd you get prescription drugs huh? Rob a Walgreens?

            "You gonna take them or just sit there bitching?"

            "Sorry, sorry," he swallowed quickly, wincing as the motion disturbed his stitches. "Thanks, man." A smirk grew on his lips as the "tch" he received in return; Sanzo darted out of range before he could touch him.

            "You didn't get hurt, did ya?"

            "You ask me this now?"

            "Well you seemed fine last night, temperament aside."

            "I'm not hurt," Sanzo affirmed, sinking back onto the wooden chair and tilting his head so that the maple arch behind him supported his neck. "Just fucking tired." He lit up a cigarette, refusing to share it when the kappa made his plea.

            "So why don't you lay down?"

            "You have to ask?"

            "Come on. I won't touch you. I'm still in stitches here," Gojyo protested with a sleepy grin, propping himself up with one arm. "Guess I'll have to get another bed over here, if you're gonna come visit so often."

            "Don't bet on it." He lit a second cigarette, passing it to the kappa when he tossed him a forlorn frown. Gojyo groaned his appreciation, and Sanzo rubbed the arch above his eye.

            "You gotta headache?"

            "Every time I see you."

            "Ha, ha," Gojyo offered dryly, a faint smiling still pulling at his lips. "You gotta like me at least a little bit though."

            "Your reasoning?" Sanzo had risen to rifle through the old bureau at the other end of the room; he drew out a second blanket, and then a third, though they were threadbare and fraying at the corners.

            "You came back. You brought me medicine. You sewed me up in the first place," Gojyo concluded, looking far too in control for Sanzo's sense of well-being. The blond tched, shaking his head.

            "Don't look too much into it." He chucked the bunched up pile of blankets at Gojyo, rather than spreading them out. He didn't want to get flack for that too. The kappa hastened to smooth them over, one side of his face still lifted in an expression of amusement.

            "Aw, lookit that, you do care." Clicking, the Smith & Wesson emerged, and Gojyo held his hands up in mock surrender, the shit-eating grin never fading. "Okay, okay," he amended, meeting the monk's stubborn behavior with a forced apology. "Sorry. You don't care at all. In fact you probably want me to catch syphilis and die."

            "There ya go." Sanzo lowered the weapon and slid it into a hidden pocket on the lined inside of his jacket. Creaking beneath him, the rickety chair sighed and decided to support his weight, only protesting further when he twitched on the hard seat. "Now tell me why the fuck those guys were after us, and what's going on at headquarters."

            "You look at me like I should know." Gojyo shook his head; "Those guys who came after us—you must know the crescent symbol they wear?"

            Sanzo nodded, a muscle in his jaw twitching at the thought. Yes, he knew the sign of the Eclipse.

            "Well, it's just what you heard Yaone say. We don't know anything else." He made a small sound of frustration. "Look, since you already know what's going on—stuff you really weren't supposedta hear—you may as well help us out."

            "What's in it for me?" The question was asked in a bored tone; he lit a second Marlboro and flipped the lighter end over end in his palm. Gojyo's heated response startled him, and the plastic cylinder fell to the floor.

            "Maybe you don't get it yet," he hissed, pushing himself farther up on the bed, "but you're one of us now; you don't work alone; you're part of a group. What we need, you need." Tense fingers cupped the deeper of his two wounds, knuckles whitening as his jaw tightened. Sanzo felt a stab of trepidation; it shot through him like an icy gust, wriggling down his chest and numbing the tips of his fingers.

            "Fine," He agreed with a shrug, leaning back. Gojyo didn't seem to comprehend that his anger had affected the fair-haired recruit before him in the least. "How do we find out just how far this little coup d'etat has gone?"

            "We call a local universal, and see just how many of our own are left. If there're enough, we go to Headquarters, and see who's been fucking around up top."

            "Just like that? How do we know we're not gonna get shot when we walk through the doors?"

            Gojyo grinned. "We don't."

            "That's the fun part?"

            "Now you're getting it."

 

 

            "You've failed me again, Gyu."

            "I'm sorry." And he was sorry. So sorry. He had fallen out of favor, and was dangerously close to losing his position. Maybe more, if he didn't shape up. "I will go down there myself, shortly. It won't happen again."

            "No…" The dark-eyed man mused, a humorless smile on his face, "It won't." There was a pause, and then, "I've hired someone else to take care of it, Gyu."

            "Sir?"

            "You proved yourself quite incapable. It's a good thing I hadn't decided to have Mr. Grosse assassinated after he brought me the information. I was beginning to think he was useless, but he surprised me, I found a new purpose for him, and I let him live. Wasn't that generous?"

            Gyu nodded dumbly, tension coiling in the pit of his stomach. He knew this voice. It was the same voice his chief used before he took someone out.

            "Hazel and Gat will be taking care of the Phoenix for me, and bringing Genjyo Sanzo to Headquarters. I'm most enthused."

            "Forgive me, Sir."

            "Now, now. Like Hazel, you appear useless to me now, but perhaps later I will find some worth in you, some use for your skills."

            A spark of hope ignited in his chest, and Gyu thought he might have a chance of coming out of that office alive. He nodded, concealing an encouraged smile. "I will do whatever you ask of me," he vowed. "To try and be useful."

            His boss was still smiling, looking at him. "Of course. Well then, I have a mission for you, Gyu. Something simple that I know you won't fail."

            "Yes, Sir."

            "Mr. Grosse has stopped by, and is waiting downstairs, in the lobby. Please be kind enough to show him up."

            Gyu nodded and hurried out, stepping into the elevator, now fully operational, and striding into the lobby. He saw the fair-haired man seated beside a hulking presence that could be none other than his body guard, the Gatling Gun. The ridiculous cowboy hat he wore was cocked to the side of ease of conversation, and it looked as though he was holding up most of it. Gat's mouth didn't move.

            "You must be Mr. Grosse."

            "I am," Hazel stood, a smile on his lips, as he shook Gyu's hand. "So nice t'meetcha. An' this here is Gat." They exchanged pleasantries, as Hazel seemed used to doing, and shuffled into the elevator. It rang four times as they passed various floors, then slid open to red carpeting on the fifth.

            The dark-eyed man watched them enter, nodded to Hazel and Gat, then gestured for Gyu to come forward.

            "I assume you know who they are."

            "Yes, Sir." Gyu nodded. He had never laid eyes on them before, but recognized them both by Gat's presence. Hazel's eccentricities had never been mentioned, but apparently he was a freelancing mastermind; Gat was the sharpshooter. Brains and brawn.

            "They're here to complete a mission you failed, twice." He pulled a drawer open in his desk, and drew something from it.

            "I am sorry, Sir." An eerie note had crept into his boss' tone, and it was setting his nerves on edge, grating against them so that the hair on the backs of his arms stood up.

            "They have to clean up your mess, twice."

            Twice? One interference should suffice to fix what he had—

            The gunshot barely registered with him, and though the pain was paralyzing, it was very short. He heard the echo of voices in the distance, as if through a tunnel, and watched the dark ceiling swirl, coming down over him like a tornado. Above the whirl of wind, he heard Hazel's laugh.

            "If you expect me t'clean that up too, we'll have to renegotiate payment."

           

 

Gojyo healed quickly—his body must have been used to it—and in the meantime Sanzo stayed put, trying to keep off the streets unless he had a reason to be out. He didn't want to run the risk of getting cornered by any more Eclipse mercenaries; he only left the precinct for the necessities. And smokes.

Gojyo told him, as far as the local "universal" went, he was off the hook. It was for the upper echelons only, to draw in as much information as he could before barging into Headquarters. He and Banri would attend; Yaone was already farther north, nearing Topeka. It was scheduled for eleven, and the message passed easily from member to member. Sanzo, the kappa assured him, had the night off, and would better spend it picking up a box of smokes.

It was on one such cigarette run that he spotted the black slash of a crescent, half-hidden beneath a man's turtleneck. He was at a BP, pushing a twenty over a slick countertop in exchange for a red-lined packet of Marlboros when the man, walking in and out of aisles, captured his attention. Pushing the crumpled change into his front pocket and the now bent packet into the back, he strode at a civil pace to the aisle directly before the corner occupied by the tattooed man. He occupied himself by glancing over the colorfully bagged products on the shelves, trying to see through the openings in the racks.

The man, dressed like a shadow, all in black saved for the flash of a silver belt, turned to the side, and Sanzo peered over the top of salsa jars at his profile, memorizing it instantly. He didn't recognize him, but he would if he were to run across him again: a sharp hawk nose highlighted in the center by a thin white scar, strong, bristly jaw, narrow, onyx eyes. Sanzo noticed, somewhere in the back of his mind, that the man was twitching on occasion.

 When he bent to scoop up a case of beer from the bottom shelf, the edge of his turtleneck slid forward, and the full crescent was momentarily exposed. What idiots, Sanzo mused, to wear their mark where anyone could see it.

Maybe they do it because they don't have anyone to fear, anymore. It was true enough; the Dawn was decrepit, purged of their most powerful leader by the Eclipse itself, and as of now, the Phoenix appeared to be on a downhill plummet. This man might have information, he thought with a thrill of urgency running through him. He would be worth investigating, and it was just the boost he needed, taking on an opponent who was at least physically worthy.

The blond made himself scarce, vanishing through the glass-plated doors to lean against the side of the building and wait for the tattooed figure to exit. He lit up, resting the edge of his skull to the stuccoed building, and hardly moved when the unoiled hinges squealed and the man—a bit more intimidating up close, and at least six feet tall—exited. He tossed the butt of his cigarette into the stranger's path, thus catching his eye. He lit a second, exhaled, and flicked his gaze in the direction of the small building's corner, between the nearby carwash and dumpster. He'd seen plenty of drug deals, and he knew that the decent ones—those you actually made money from—didn't involve "Hey kid wanna try some dope?"

Neon lights from the carwash flickered on, illuminating greasy puddles and slick macadam with obnoxious pink and orange tints. The sun had set less than thirty minutes ago, and Hakkai wouldn't be expecting him back anytime soon. For some reason, he encouraged him to "check up on" Gojyo frequently; Sanzo thought the man put too much stock into friendly alliances.

"What." The man behind him—he knew he would follow—fairly barked the words out. Sanzo turned to him with a bored expression, plucking the cigarette from his lips. "You want to buy, or what?"

"Buy what?" The man growled, catching the inside of his lower lip between his teeth in what must have been a nervous habit.

Sanzo rolled his eyes at the novice ignorant act, "Shrimp out of my van," he sneered, "What the fuck do you think?"

The man paused, inclining his head with mild interest. He didn't have to ask how Sanzo knew he was a potential candidate; all good dealers could spot a user a mile away; those who couldn't, just got arrested. Coincidently, Dawn members weren't too shabby at picking them out either. "What do you got?"

"What you need." He didn't have to feign impatience this time.

"Eight ball." The man hissed, and Sanzo almost whistled at his good fortune. No one carried that much cocaine on hand, or in a vehicle. No one with half a brain, anyways. It wasn't for fear of being arrested, but rather being robbed. The perfect excuse to draw the stranger farther than an abandoned parking lot.

"That's expensive shit," Sanzo reminded him. "You think I carry that on me? He rolled his eyes, "Corner of fourteenth, ten-thirty. Do I have to tell you I don't take checks?" He brushed past him, moving at a comfortable pace between buildings until the shadows of the city swallowed him up.

 

            The man was there on the half hour, as Sanzo suspected, leaning up against a lamppost and looking almost nervous; he had a tick, most likely the result of drugs. Or a lack of them. He gestured for him to follow, and the great hulking shadow behind him muttered something about this being Phoenix territory.

            "'Phoenix territory'?" The blond smirked, "Don't worry about that, unless you're on their bad side for some reason. I'm a…special friend of theirs."

            "I knew they pushed drugs, but I didn't know they hired out," the man mused aloud, almost having to duck to slip under the doorframe of the building.

            "They don't hire just anyone."

            "This your place?"

            "Yeah," he lied, shrugging as the man looked around. "I'm not married." He explained, deadpan, and a snicker escaped the other. Tugging open a drawer of Gojyo's heavy desk, he jerked out a pistol, the safety already off, his finger on the trigger. The man before him snarled at the betrayal, and his hand strayed instinctively to his jacket, where he must be keeping his own gun.

            "I wouldn't try that if I were you. Shooting people isn't a hobby for me, it's a career; you move an inch where I don't want you, and you're dead." Sanzo explained calmly, narrowed violet eyes on his target.

            "What do you want?" The giant wasn't anywhere near as frightened as he should be, Sanzo realized with a frown. He would have to change that. "You some kinda cop?"

            "No. I don't give a shit what your drug of choice is. It has a lot more to do with that tattoo on your neck."

            "You're with the Phoenix, aren't you?"

            "Not quite. Like I said, I'm a 'special friend.' Now here's how it's gonna go. You're going to drop your weapon, slowly, and have a seat in that chair right there."

            With a muttered curse, he was obeyed. Dark eyes, smoldering in anger, met his. The room was very dark, despite the naked bulb swinging overhead. It threw oblong shadows in every crevice of the man's face and clothing; Sanzo kept his finger on the trigger.

            "Tell me who you work for."

            "Tch, I work for no one."

            "Do I look stupid to you!" Sanzo kicked the man's gun roughly as he approached, sending it skidding across the uneven floors to a web-covered niche behind the stairwell. "Say it."

            "What's it to you?"

            "Not your fucking business!"
            "You're in with that Gojyo guy aren't you?" He turned his face to meet Sanzo's, and froze instantly when the muzzle of a pistol was jammed against his cheek.

            "Like I said, not your business." He maintained a calm voice, gritting his teeth in impatience. "Don't think of taking this away, either. I'd shoot you first, and I have a second gun, loaded, in this coat."

            "Is that a fact?"

            "Do I have a reason to lie?"

            He grunted, shifting uncomfortably in the seat; the legs of the chair scraped obnoxiously against the wooden floor. Sanzo could tell the man clearly didn't believe he would be shot; perhaps he assumed his captor feared the repercussions, and didn't want to endanger his own life by killing a member of the newly empowered Eclipse. Sanzo had no such reservations. He would have to get his attention the hard way.

            "So why don't you tell me," he growled, "why the fuck your men are killing ours!?" The side of his gun came swiftly down to meet the giant's skull in a rough blow, nearly knocking him from the chair.

            "You're in the way!" He hissed, "Why the hell do you think?"

            "In the way of what?"

            He muttered something, and the butt of the gun came down across his jaw, spilling a mouthful of blood and a few teeth onto the floor with a cry.

            "Speak up!" Sanzo bellowed, circling him with wary eyes, slamming a fist into his back when he spat out a curse.

            "I don't know!"

            "That's a bad excuse. I'm just going to have to keep hitting you." His knuckles might have broken had he used his hand the next time, so forcefully did he slam the side of his gun into the man's shoulder bone, and then, when he rose as if to fight, into his ribcage. He heard a distinctive snap, and his captive howled.