Dream Deferred
A Weiss Kreuz / Sandman crossover
By White Cat
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
Like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore--
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over--
like a syrupy sweet?Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.Or does it explode?
--Langston Hughes
He was dreaming - one of those odd, spiraling dreams where he knew he was sleeping, but was powerless to wake himself up.
It was in a dark room, with only a single shaft of light in the direct center lighting everything up; the longer he stared at it, the more certain he became that there was something in that light; a shape that slowly coalesced out of the brightness and slowly gained definition, until -
It was raining. Why was it raining? He was inside, after all. He raised a hand to his forehead, intending to swipe the long damp strands of hair from his eyes, only -
The rain had become blood, and it was staining his skin; horrified, he scrubbed frantically at his arms, but it only made things worse; scratches opened up and trickled down his arms, adding his own to the mess, and he tilted his face up to scream, but -
Now there was someone who joined him in this madness - and this one was feminine and slender and looked fragile enough to break - but when she turned towards him, there was a sort of mindless, empty hunger in her face that made him recoil. She could have been pretty, otherwise, and for some reason, he found himself frozen in place as she reached out to him -
I'm here, he heard her whisper, and her breath was cold and stale against his cheek. Do you see me? I'm here.
You see me, as I see you. A two-sided mirror, my lovely. Wake up - I want to leave.
And then he was falling backwards, through the still-falling blood, past the figure in the light (which now seemed so familiar; he saw closed eyes in a face that should have struck a chord in him, but passed by too quickly to be truly seen), past the dark gates of his own dream-world, and for a moment, he thought he saw a pale man with skull's eyes looking at him in perceived astonishment - wide and gaping and dark, as inhuman as one could possibly expect -
"Youji-kun!"
One bloodshot eye slitted open, then fell shut again.
"Youji-kun, are you awake? Do you know what time it is?"
He didn't answer for a few minutes - his entire body felt like melted lead, too heavy to move. The rapid-fire succession of knocks again, and this time, Omi sounded more concerned than annoyed.
"Youji-kun, are you all right? Are you awake?"
He poured himself off of the bed, and stumbled to the door, fumbling with the knob and swearing under his breath before he managed to yank it open. Omi's wide-eyed face met him on the other side; the boy's fist was raised up again, and there was no denying the concern in his expression. "Youji-kun!"
"'M okay," he mumbled, though the words sounded garbled in his mouth; he stepped aside and made a vague gesture. "You gonna come in, or do I hafta leave?"
He didn't have to be completely awake to see the fierce worry that lit the boy's eyes. "There's a mission," he said quietly. "But, Youji-kun, you don't look very good right now; maybe you should just sleep this one out, and let someone else take care of it ..."
"No, no, of course not." He cut Omi off with another wave of his hand. "Jus' give me a few seconds; I'll be ready like that." He tried to snap, found his motor skills weren't quite up to that level yet, then gave up, shuffling back off to his bedroom.
When he reappeared, still bleary-eyed and sluggish, Omi looked ready to reassure him that his presence wasn't required again, but he ignored it, moving past the kid and heading into the hallway. "C'mon, let's go see what Persia's got on the agenda for us tonight."
I have hands.
When I stretch, I can see them, long-fingered and shining pale in the darkness.
It delights me to no bounds, and I laugh - and that amuses me, too.
To be able to laugh, and hear it echoed back at me! To know this is real, and that it cannot be taken away from me when dawn comes ...
Unless I am discovered. But I am smarter than that: I am small and easily forgotten and intelligent. The great lord has much more to worry about at present, then one single member of his kingdom. It may even be years before he notices my absence - centuries, even!
Oh, how the thought pleases me. That I could walk here for years, unchecked ...
Such simple things make up this world. But it is the simple things that make me the happiest: the fact that I have hands, real hands, when before I only had whatever could be spared, is utterly amazing.
I do not have forever; I am not so arrogant that I think I will be entirely forgotten. Eventually, the great lord will notice me - or perhaps his librarian will; Lucien has always been impeccable at keeping the records neatly in place.
But as long as I am here, I will take everything I can.
Because now, I have hands.
Fighting was easy; after a while, the mind went blank and the body went on autopilot, relying on instinct rather than planning to pull through. And even when muscles protested every pull, it wasn't difficult to push that small pain aside. He would ache something awful later - but the important thing was that there would be a later; that he would wake up in the morning and meet his friends and bitch about the late nights, and -
The shining of his wires cut through the darkness like a whip, looping over an overhanging beam and finally connected with human flesh, wrapping around a fragile neck and biting into thin skin. He grinned sharply, a wolf's smile, and pulled, his shoulders straining, sweat moving in an itchy trickle down the side of his face and neck -
He was breathing very loudly in the darkness, his heart thundering in his ears, and the sound of a man strangling to death isn't very loud: how can it be, when he lacks the air to cry out?
And yet, Youji knew the moment his opponent died; he felt it in the sudden slack heaviness that tugged at the edges he held wrapped around his gloved hands and in his watch. He opened his hand, and heard the soft *thud* of the large figure slide to the ground, then bowed his head.
It was not unusual for Targets to have bodyguards - in fact, it was almost a given - but he'd never fought one before on such a short amount of sleep; it slowed his reflexes to a fraction of what they normally were, and he tired much faster than he ever had in the past, even in the days before Weiss, when he'd been nothing more than a simple PI., answering to no one but his own whims, his alarm clock, and the clear voice of his partner.
He stood on shaky feet, and tottered over to lean against a wall; the wire slowly uncoiled itself from the dead guard's neck and trailed after him with the soft glide-*clink* of metal against tile. It was dark enough that he could only make out bare shapes in the darkness, but he could see the wire, coldly gleaming and bright, the image burned into his eyes.
"Youji-kun?" Omi's voice was tinny and small through the headphones, but still loud enough to startle him out of his fascination with his wires. "It's over, Youji-kun. We have to get out of here quickly; someone managed to trip an alarm to the police. Aya-kun and Ken-kun are already out; you're the only one left."
Cold; the wire was cold, and he could feel its chill sinking through the leather of his gloves and into the flesh underneath -
"Youji-kun! Youji-kun, are you all right?"
The concern in Omi's voice caught his attention; startled, he looked up and squinted into the darkness, his hands automatically beginning to recoil the wire for storage. "Ah - aa, Omi," he said, and his voice was strangely hoarse to his own ears. "Just a bit distracted, that's all."
"This isn't the time for distractions," Omi warned, and he could see the small frown that had probably folded itself into the smooth skin of the boy's forehead. "Wait until it's all over before relaxing."
He gave a lopsided grin, and pushed himself off of the wall. "Hei, hei," he chuckled. "You don't need to tell me twice."
Hiding was not quite as easy as fighting; he was a tall man, and though not overly bulky, he was broad-shouldered enough that sometimes melting into the darkness could be something of a challenge. But he'd had several years of practice, and within moments, nothing was left in the hallway except for the guard's abandoned corpse, which lay on its back, empty bulging eyes staring at the dark ceiling.
But after a moment, something small and white crept out of the shadows, reaching hesitantly forward and pausing every few seconds, until it finally resolved itself into the five long fingers of a human hand and rested on the guard's sweaty, cooling cheek.
"I can have this now, right?" a voice asked into the darkness. "Because you don't need it any more, you won't begrudge me this, okay?"
The hand tightened, and the fingers curled inwards, nails digging sharply into leathery flesh, slicing skin and staining it red.
"You really don't need this, so it's all right."
In our line of work, nightmares are commonplace things.
When we don't have assignments, I either sleep like a rock, or I spend the whole night starting awake and jumping at the tiniest movement in the shadows. And unlike a lot of other things in life - like work and school and bad luck - nightmares are never easy to get used to, because it's just your own subconscious fucking with your head. What can you really do with something like that?
When it's really late at night and I'm lying alone in a cold dark room - keyword being alone - and all I can see are images of Yuriko's skin melting away to leave only muscle and bone behind, or Kase snarling accusations while his eyes burn hatred, I can't really blame anyone else for that, can I?
Tonight was easy, compared to some we've had in the past; it was slip in, get the info we needed, kill a few guys, and slip out. The white shadows that slip in unseen, only we're not ninjas in some pseudo sci-fi anime, we're just ... us.
The white hunters of dark beasts. Persia's pet team of assassins, dispensing justice when the rest of the world is ready to just look away.
Yeah, we're good at lying to ourselves to make us feel better about what we do. Not what we have to do, but follow anyway, because otherwise, none of us would have everything. Persia was smart, sending Birman to approach men who had no longer had any dreams to build on.
It all comes back to that, doesn't it? Dreams, nightmares, fantasies, wishes ... they're what keep people alive and going; take that away, and you're left with only a shell.
I want to sleep, but I can't: it's too late and too quiet, and going by the dryness of my throat, if I do close my eyes long enough to drift off, I'll wake up with Kase's bloody hands trying to pull me down to Hell.
When I was a little kid, my mom used to tell me to lie still and be quiet, so that the Sandman would come and bring me nice dreams. If I could meet this guy face-to-face, I'd like to introduce him to some friends of mine - they're small, light, and sharp enough to slice a man to ribbons if applied with enough force - because I haven't had a good dream since Mom died.
But then, I don't think it'll happen - it's not like the guy actually exists.
Huh. A Sandman - a someone who comes and brings you nice dreams.
Sometimes, Americans have the weirdest ideas.
"Not too shabby, eh?" Mervyn Pumpkinhead grinned at the raven perched on the tree branch above him. "Looks almost like Fiddler's Green used to."
The raven fluffed his feathers once. "It's not the same," he grumbled, cocking his small head to one side. "This is a nice enough place, but ... hell. You can't make another Gilbert."
"Details, bird, details." The worker waved his cigarette at the bird. "The boss knows what he wants to do with everything; if he says build another Heart, who're we to argue?"
"It's still not the same." The raven sidled lower on the branch, then beat his wings once to help regain his balance. "Gilbert was Fiddler's Green. He was the Heart of the Dreaming; he was special. You can't just make a new place and think it'll replace what was lost."
"Hey, hey." The pumpkin raised his hands. "Don't gripe at me. I just work here." He picked up his wheelbarrow, hefted the weight of the bricks inside, then grinned toothily. "I'm done. I rebuild two more walls, and then I'll be outta here so fast, that I'll leave skid marks on the ground. I tell you, bird, the new boss ain't so bad, but the guy's still a high-and-mighty flake. Later!"
He walked off whistling, and the raven fluffed his feathers again, sinking in on himself until he was little more than a dark speck against the foliage.
It would be exactly a year in two weeks, and even after so much time, there were still whispers of pain echoing in this ancient land. The Kindly Ones were not so easily forgotten, and the marks of their influence still showed strong: in the absence of Fiddler's Green, in the new griffin that guarded the gates of the castle, and, most dramatically, in the lord of the realm himself.
"Matthew? I would have expected you to be with Lucien."
Matthew uncoiled himself long enough to look down at the pale figure beneath him. "Got bored," he said shortly. "There's only so much help you can be in a library if you don't have hands."
There was a long pause. "You're disappointed." The light voice was softly matter-of-fact. "I am sorry, Matthew, but it was what Gilbert wished. He had his life, long as it was, and though he should not have died when he did, it does not change the fact that he is gone - and that he chose not to return, when given the chance."
"I know that, already," Matthew snapped. "But that doesn't change anything. This just feels wrong. Like you're trying to replace Fiddler's Green with some cheap substitute."
"Fiddler's Green can never be replaced, no," the pale lord agreed. "Not when Gilbert has decided his course. But there must be another Heart to beat for the Dreaming - there must always be a garden where people can retreat to. It will never be Fiddler's Green again, no." One white hand reached out, palm pressed against the rough bark of Matthew's tree. "But given the chance, it can forge its own place here and become something equally great."
Matthew made a rattling sound in his throat that might have been a laugh, had he still been human. "That sounds like something your sister would say."
"My sister ..." There was a hesitant pause. "My sister is very wise, yes. And I do believe this does somewhat fall in her realm of expertise. I ... Matthew, is this new place truly so awful?"
The raven spread his wings, springboarding off of his branch and gliding to rest on one slender white shoulder. "Does it matter?" he asked bluntly. "*You're* the boss. *You* make the decisions. It doesn't matter if anyone else doesn't like it or not - do you?"
A bare ghost of a smile touched the white lips. "It pleases me, Matthew. But I am still lord of this realm: what kind of ruler would I be, if I did not at least take the opinions of my people into consideration?"
He was answered by another amused croak. "Ah, see, now there's the boss I remember. Always nitpicky and concerned about rules and regulations." He shifted into a more comfortable position, then nodded. "It's not a bad place, Boss. It just needs time for everyone to get used to it, that's all."
"Indeed?" A thoughtful nod. "Very well. Thank you, Matthew."
Touji Kosaburo was having the time of his life.
Flushed and exhilarated with the feeling of invincibility brought on by numerous strong drinks and exhilaration at the passing of his twenty-first birthday, he and his friends wove down the street, arms around each others' shoulders, singing loudly and off-key. The city's nightlife buzzed actively around them, bright neon lights and fast cars and noisy people.
Things went up a decided notch further when he spotted the young lady standing at the stoplight fifteen feet ahead; he pulled away from his friends and stumbled forward, halfheartedly smoothing his rumpled clothing and blinking to try and clear the fuzziness from his vision.
She was slender, and tall for an Asian woman, her long dark hair styled in a single thick braid with a golden chain woven into the folds. She wore a white sun hat whose brim dipped and hid her eyes, but her mouth was painted red, and it curved upwards in a smile as he stopped beside her.
"Hey," he said, and was proud of himself for sounding only faintly buzzed. "You with anyone?"
She turned slightly towards him, then shook her head slowly.
He grinned. "Cool. You feel like going off and getting a drink somewhere?"
She tilted her face up further at him, and though her eyes were still hidden, that strange smile widened further. She held out one slim-fingered white hand to him, and it was cool to the touch as he wrapped his own broad grasp.
Touji Kosaburo was feeling just fine.
He was dreaming again - not quite the same one as before, but enough so that he recognized the elements and dreaded whatever would come next.
This time, though he tried desperately to close his eyes and turn away, he saw the figures that had never quite appeared to him before: a cross, etched in burning white, hung suspended in the single shaft of light at the center of his dark room, and he could see a body hanging from the glowing structure: one minute, it was Aya, then Omi, then Ken, then Asuka, and then the cycle began all over again, each face constantly shifting into another until the steady procession of images began to make him dizzy.
And then, abruptly, the light was gone; he was left stumbling alone in the darkness. For a moment, he saw a small, shabby motel room where a young man with bleeding eyes screamed as a pair of white hands reached out for him - and then even that was gone.
Somewhere, he heard a distant, steady beat, like the pulse of a heart. It was soothing, in some odd way - he felt that, if it could go on long enough, he could drift back into unconscious sleep, free of the images that lingered even now.
But then, he lost that too, just like he had lost so many other things before -
(asuka's body lit in high relief as bullets tore through her and the lights flickered off in her wide eyes)
and suddenly, it was raining blood again, soaking his hair and clothing and staining his mouth, even as he turned his face away, wanting to deny, to scream, to rail -
(maki's body suspended by ropes in the darkness that hide the terrible bruises that darkened her pretty young face)
he was so tired, so very tired, and every muscle in his body screamed exhaustion, pulling him down slowly, and for a moment, his vision blurred, and he thought he saw bloody hands reaching out of the ground to pluck at his clothing -
"Youji-kun?"
He reacted to the startled voice without thinking; in a single smooth movement, he caught his attacker and twisted, feeling the other body hit the side of the edge and slide to the ground with him following on top.
And then he opened his eyes.
Omi was staring at him in utter stupefied shock, his face framed by the dark silk of tangled blankets. His palms were pressed against Youji's chest in a way that was entirely too suggestive for the situation, his shoulders pinned to the ground by the older man's weight.
"Anou ... Youji-kun ..."
He pulled back instantly, releasing his young friend and rocking back onto his heels. "Omi?" He shook his head with a sigh, running a hand through his hair and scowling halfheartedly at the boy. "Haven't you ever heard of knocking?"
"Of course," came the dryly clipped response. "The question is, did you hear me? I know you're a heavy sleeper, Youji-kun, but then, so is Ken-kun, and it doesn't take him fifteen minutes to answer a knock."
"Heh. That's because I need my beauty sleep, and Ken knows that no matter how much of that he gets, it won't help his looks any." Youji's scowl turned into a wry grin, which Omi quickly echoed. "Now that you've gotten me up, what is it? It can't be another mission already; not even Persia works that fast. Naa, Omi?"
The smile vanished from the boy's face. "Youji-kun," he began, and the uncertainty in his voice was almost embarrassing to listen to. "I heard you screaming."
"Eh?" It wasn't the most intelligent of responses, but now two nights of poor sleep seemed to be catching up with a vengeance; his brain felt foggy and dim, and there was a headache beginning to form behind his eyes - he wanted a cigarette desperately, but didn't feel quite like groping around for the pack he knew had been on his night stand the evening before.
"You're lucky Aya-kun and Ken-kun didn't hear," the boy continued matter-of-factly. "But because the new shipment of soil has come in, they're out back unloading it."
"And let me guess," Youji interrupted, "Ken sent you up here to tell me to haul my lazy ass out of bed and actually earn my keep around this place?"
The face that looked up at him was the perfect picture of wide-eyed innocence. "Youji-kun! Just remember, you're the one who said that, and not anyone else."
"Yeah, what you said," he sighed, then waved at the door. "Get outta here and lemme get dressed."
Omi began to obey, scrambling to his feet, but he stopped halfway to the door, looking back over his shoulder.
"What?"
"Youji-kun, if these nightmares keep up, you should talk to someone," he said, very seriously. "They haven't been a problem so far, so I won't push you about it. But you can't go on forever like this; you're not getting any sleep this way. You'll be in a lot of trouble if you end up jeopardizing a mission."
"Hei, hei." Youji quirked a half-smile at him. "Have a little more faith in me than that, why don't'cha? I'll be fine."
"Youji-kun ..."
"Don't make me throw something at you," he said, turning partially away, not wanting to see the concern marring the boy's smooth face. "Get outta here. I'll be there in a few minutes."
There was a long pause. "If it gets really bad, though, Youji-kun, I want you to know ... I'm here. Please remember that, okay?"
He didn't answer, and after a few minutes, the door clicked silently shut.
To his credit, he waited a minute before grabbing the cigarette pack and lighting up.
"How very nice. I like it."
She rubbed the sticky red stuff between her fingers, eyes shadowed by the brim of her hat. "Not quite what I was expecting it to be, but in a good way." Cocking her head to one side, she reached out and pressed her palm flat against sweat-chilled skin, her lips twisting into a sweet smile when the flesh jumped nervously under her touch. "Scared? Please don't be. It'll only be a few minutes longer, and then you'll be just fine. More than fine - I'm sure you'll be going somewhere marvelous."
There was a quiet whimper, which she gentled by pressing her finger against trembling lips. "Shh, it's okay. You don't have to be scared of me, my lovely one. I'm done with you, now, so I'm going to let you go. That will be nice, yes?" She waited for a nod before continuing.
"You have taught me quite a lot, Touji-san. I thank you for that."
Sliding off the high bed, she bent and picked up the small dark object she had taken with her in her flight from her homeland.
"Goodnight, my lovely one. Sleep deeply, and sleep well. Maybe you'll even dream of me ... but I doubt it."
There was a *quip!* sound, a sudden thrash of motion, and then utter stillness.
"Where you're going, I don't think there's a lot of potential for dreams."
"Ne, ne, did you hear the news? They found another body yesterday, just left in the street in front of some night club! I saw the police tape and everything when I was walking to school this morning! I even saw some of the blood that's always splattered around when they find one!"
"Iya~a, it's scary! Stop talking about it!"
"But this is the fifth one in two weeks! If there's a serial killer on the loose, then we have to know everything we can, don't we?"
"Yeah, but really, Eiko, that's awful! I don't want to hear about it! This is really scary!"
Omi ducked his head further towards his open book as the two girls' voices trailed off. It wasn't exactly classified information, at any rate; they weren't saying anything he hadn't heard several times over. There were daily updates on every news station, and the steady stream of female customers had died down some - when they did come, it was slowly and cautiously, clustered in groups or four or five, until they were within the relative safety of the shop, where they would forget any possible danger in favor of swooning over their favorite Koneko worker.
Of course, he reminded himself with a wry grin, those girls were probably safer in the shop than they would be anywhere else in the city, even their own homes.
"Omi-kun, are you sitting by yourself?"
He looked up, and was able to spare a smile for Ouka, nodding to the empty place across from him. "I guess so. Do you want to sit down, Ouka-san?"
She flashed him a pretty smile, then slid in across from him and shivered. "Brr. Did you hear those two gossiping? It's awful. Someone out there is killing all these innocent people, and there's nothing the police can do about it."
"Sou." He nodded. "But at least they're trying, Ouka-san."
"I know that, silly." She leaned forward on her elbows, resting her chin on her interlaced fingers. "But you don't seem scared at all, Omi-kun. You're utterly and completely fearless, unlike anyone else." She beamed. "Shall I appoint you my bodyguard, then? You could walk me to and from school, and if anyone bad tried to attack me, you'd protect me - right, Omi-kun?"
He blinked at her for a moment, then blushed. "Bodyguard?!"
Ouka tilted her head to one side and grinned at his flustered expression. "Jou~dan. Don't worry, Omi-kun, I know you're busy. But I want you to be careful, all right? Not being scared is one thing, being completely incautious is another. Okay?"
Omi smiled at her reassuringly. "Don't worry, Ouka-san," he told her with cheerful confidence. "I'll be careful. No killer is going to catch me off-guard, I promise."
She beamed at him, then pulled a book from his stack and opened it. "Chemistry? Yuck. I don't understand Chemistry at all - will you tutor me?" Her look was slyly playful, and when he blushed again, she burst into laughter.
"Ah - anou - if that's what you want, Ouka-san, then I'd be, um, glad to help ..."
He was there the first time I opened my eyes and was aware of my surroundings. I remember him, tall and pale and forbidding, wrapped entirely in blue and black, with deep eyes that seemed to contain an entire universe in their darkness.
And I loved him. He was my master, my lord and creator, my father - how could I not love him?
He had not made me completely; I lacked wonderful appendages so many humans take for granted, like hands and feet and skin ...
But he had given me a name, and I loved him even more for that. Let those who did not understand laugh; I had a name, and I was known to my lord. I had the identity he had given me, the life he had created for me, and it was enough.
And then ... and then ...
My lord, my wise, wonderful lord, was lost. When the Ladies swept through our world, I hid and prayed to my lord that I would not be discovered; that I would be spared from the terrible violence that swept across what had been such a peaceful place for so long.
I watched as Mervyn was destroyed, his own gun turned against him and he was torn apart, shattered into a thousand fragments of yellow-orange and scraps of cloth.
I watched as the Fashion Thing ran shrieking from the ladies and was brought down, choked by the elaborate necklaces she had always insisted on wearing.
And while I was not there to witness his end, I felt it. With every faltering heartbeat, I knew he was gone - and the world knew it, as well.
There will never be a way to know how much has been lost with him. This new one who has taken his place - this pale impostor who has his basic form and memories - this is not my lord.
So I escaped. I took advantage of the confusion left by the funeral, and I was able to follow one lovely human on his trip back to the waking world.
Here I am now. As I was made to be.
Find me if you can, great lord. But know that you can never take the place of he who was lost. I'm beginning to wonder if you really *are* his successor, or just some highly successful charlatan. Haven't you noticed that you're short a nightmare?
I'm here, great lord.
Find me if you can.
"Sir?"
"Come in, Lucien."
The tall, thin man hesitated in the doorway, a large tome held loosely to his chest. Three large windows on the opposite wall provided more than enough light to illuminate the slender figure on the far side of the room, turned towards the world that lay outside of the palace.
"Please, Lucien. There is no need to hover. Come inside." Dream turned towards the old librarian, and perhaps there was a small smile on that ageless face. "Is there something wrong?"
"There may be, sir." Lucien pushed his glasses up his nose and sighed. "Some of the records aren't quite coming together - not everyone is accounted for, like we had originally hoped."
"Oh?" One white eyebrow raised slightly in question.
"Nothing to the extent of those that escape while you were imprisoned, my lord. Just a few small dreams and nightmares that managed to escape while the Dreaming was healing itself from the Ladies' ... ah ... 'visit.'"
"Visit." The soft voice sounded almost amused. "That is one way of putting things, isn't it, Lucien? A visit from the Ladies. That is, I suppose, the best way to phrase it. So who has managed to leave the Dreaming, this time?"
Lucien adjusted his glasses again, and the reflected light rendered his eyes invisible. "Three dreams: the Dark-eye, Bijou, and the Mandrake. They are, for the most part, under control, and have not strayed far from the Dreaming."
"And the nightmare?"
A pause. "Alptraum, sir. And we haven't been able to locate where she is."
The only change of expression in the bone-white face was a slight thinning of the lips; no emotions flickered in the socket eyes. "I see. That is unfortunate, but it is also done. All that is left now is to fix it."
It might have been surprise that flickered behind the light-opaque lenses of Lucien's glasses, but it passed quickly. "And what do you plan to do, sir?"
"Plan to do, Lucien?" The white head tilted to one side. "No. What I am going to do. I go after her - after all of them. They are still my subjects, after all: there is nothing less I could do."
So.
This is turning out to be one of my "stare at the ceiling until my eyes cross" nights, which really bites, because damn it, I really am tired tonight - Momoe-san got sick with some kind of flu, and though she really doesn't seem to do anything except sit there and pet Koneko-chan, it sure seemed like we all had more work than we usually do.
Blink. If I close my eyes long enough, will they finally get heavy and stay shut?
Aya had the radio on to the new station today; he's been following this whole serial killer thing with much more interest than I would have expected from a guy like him. One can almost see the yen signs going off in his mind - if this keeps up, Persia will eventually assign us to track this guy down, and when he does, we'll all be paid - and Aya's sister's life gets extended a little longer.
And it has been a while since our last mission - almost two months since we took out the drug and arms trafficker, and I know I, for one, am getting a bit restless. It's nice that the criminal element has been quiet for a while, but to be honest, this sort of inactivity makes me nervous - it's the calm before the storm, and when it finally breaks, we're going to have to be ready for it.
This other killer seems like he'll be the next likely Target: he doesn't pick off the same kind of scum we do, or no-name barflies that no one mourns. He takes young and happy and healthy people - those who've got their whole lives ahead of them waiting to be lived out. And he doesn't distinguish between gender, either; while there have been more male than female victims, there's still been a fair share of women who have been found scattered throughout the district.
Always, the eyes are scratched out, the mouth left intact and twisted in a mask of pain. Sometimes body parts are missing; sometimes, it's only the face that has been mutilated. The calling card is a singe blue-black flower petal; the police were in here a few days before, questioning us about the species and characteristics - but whatever it is, I've never seen anything like it before.
Aya said it looked like a rose petal. But there's no such rose with that kind of coloring.
Blink. Sigh. And shift. I can't get comfortable, no matter how much I shift in bed, and I can feel the exhaustion like a physical weight, but my mind refuses to shut down long enough to let me sleep.
I could make tea, or something. Omi always says that tea is good for soothing nerves and stuff. Or I could pop a pill, and - er, no. If there was an emergency, then I'd be too drugged to be of any help to the others. Nah, not one of your brighter ideas, Hidaka.
Shuffle, resettle. I'm on my back again, my arms spread out, and one hand is dangling off the side of the bed. I can feel gravity in my fingertips, and I think that if I relaxed enough, I'd just slide off.
Well, maybe I could finally get comfortable and go to sleep on the floor. It's not like I've never done it before ...
Shit. Turn over again, punch the pillow, and then pull it over my head. Deep breaths, Hidaka; breathe slowly and try to relax.
It's funny how, whenever I think things like that, it's always Mom's voice - or Kase's, though that doesn't happen as much any more - that I hear. *Breathe*, Kenken, remember to breathe, because if you pass out, it'll be your own damn fault.
I think it's working. That's it, Kenken, just close your eyes and let yourself drift ...
He was standing on the edge of a cliff and looking out at an ocean that was stained bloody by sunset. He was in his "work" clothes, and when he looked down at his hands, the extended claws were solidly red - he could see the slow, steady movement of liquid as it trickled down to gather at the curved tip, then fell to splash at his feet in a slowly-growing puddle.
"Nice view, isn't it?"
He turned, but didn't say anything as Kase strolled up to stand beside him. "You always liked the ocean, Ken-chan. It's so wide and changeable - you could get lost in it, couldn't you?" Arms twined familiarly around his waist, and he stiffened as a sharp chin settled on his shoulder. "What, aren't you glad to see me?"
"Any other time, maybe," he said stiffly. "But you're dead, Kase. You died promising to wait for me in Hell. I've already said good-bye to what I always thought you were."
"Apparently not as fully as you may have thought." The words were breathed moistly against his ear. "Or else why would I be here?"
Angry, now, he pulled away, instinctively lashing out and realizing a heartbeat too late which hand he had used.
Kase stumbled back from him, dripping lines of red scratched across his face. He was smiling broadly, and as Ken watched, the dead man licked at the blood trickling down at his face. "It seems the little kitten's claws have grown," he said, his voice choked and gurgled - and Ken saw that his throat was now a mess of blood and tissue.
"Kase ..."
"I'm still waiting, Ken. Don't make me wait forever."
"Kase!" He lurched forward as the other man threw himself backwards off of the cliff, falling backwards into the oblivion of water, grinning up at him the entire time.
His knees gave out them, sending him down to kneel in the puddle of blood - Kase's? or someone else's? - his head bowed and his hands tightening into fists. "Damn it, I'm past this. I'm past this. I'm past this, I'm past this, I'mpastthisI'mpastthisI'm -"
*Shreeeeee!*
"Eh - ah!!" He flailed wildly, managing to knock the alarm clock from its place on his nightstand and hopelessly tangle himself in the folds of the blanket. "Damnit ..."
After some scuffling and rearranging, he was able to work a hand free, and it groped outward until it closed over the clock's sharp edges, then closed.
"Nine-thirty, shiiiiit. I was supposed to wake up an hour ago, wasn't I? Ch', I need a new clock."
He dropped it with a careless thunk, and wriggled free of the blanket-cocoon he'd made for himself, and stumbled into the bathroom.
"Blah," he told his reflection, sticking his tongue out at the mirror. "Good morning to you, too."
Talking to oneself was not exactly the healthiest of habits, but it helped calming his rattled nerves so that as he applied the toothpaste, his hands only shook in the barest tremors. "Omi's gonna kill me, man, after I said I would be down at eight to help out with the new displays. I'm not gonna be able to live this down for a while, won't I?"
His reflection nodded.
"Thank you so much for your support."
The actions were familiar from years of practice, and five minutes later, he was tugging off his nightshirt for his shower.
Outside, a single bird chirped bravely, its tiny voice almost drowned out by the cars that roared under the window. He paused to listen to it for a moment, head tilted to one side, then smiled.
"Good morning to you, too, tori-san," he said cheerfully, and flipped the water on.
Two of them. I wasn't expecting two of them.
It will make things a bit more difficult, I think - but it is nothing I cannot work around.
I admittedly dislike the idea of lingering too long in one given place - it will give the great lord more time to discover and find me.
Dreams do not generally dream themselves, but when we close our eyes to rest, we are more aware of the world that birthed us, and the lord who shaped us - he is gone, but his successor remains, and the feel of the two is similar enough to be familiar.
I know he has left the Dreaming, and has entered the waking world. The question is not, as it has never been, will he find me - it is when he will find me. And staying here will only shorten the thread that somehow still manages to connect the two of us: as much as I would like to say it shattered with my lord's death - it did not.
The Dark-eye and Bijou are his once again. Soon, he will recapture the Mandrake, and I will be all that is left.
I know the Mandrake, however; it is not a dream easily found. Perhaps it will distract the great lord long enough for me to be done with my business here, and move on.
But there are two - and this is the crux of my problem. To take only one of the two would leave too great a signal of my presence; the one left behind would sense me and raise up an outcry amongst the other two - the two who normally not be a problem, only ...
Only. There is always that single word: only.
Play your hand carefully, step lightly, and keep to the shadows.
Two is problematic, but not impossible.
I will figure out a way.
It was three o'clock when the girl came in - three o'clock on a bright and sunny Sunday afternoon, when business was slow and easy and the only thing to do was putter around, sweep clean floors, and move various potted plants around. The radio was on, tuned to some popular music station, and a low-voiced man was singing about love and stars and happiness.
When the door opened and the bell chimed once in a tinny ripple of sound, Omi switched the volume down and turned to smile brightly at the prospective customer. "Ne, irasshai! How can I help you?"
The girl smiled at him, her red-painted mouth very bright against her pale, pale skin; she reminded him of a story he had heard once, long ago - longer than he could quite remember, though he knew he had been very small and scared of the dark at the time - of the yuki-onna - the snow-maidens that lured men to their deaths with a brief kiss and a touch of icy hands. Her hair was very dark, and it fell in elegantly styled curls around her oval face, and her eyes were golden, like a cat's.
"It's all right, thank you," she murmured in a small, echoing voice that he had to crane forward to hear. "I think I will just browse around a bit, if that is okay."
He smiled again nodded. "Of course it is. If you need any assistance, please let one of us know." And then he drifted off, towards the back of the store, quietly humming along with the new song on the radio under his breath. He didn't see the sharp smile that slashed itself across her pretty face before it faded into a more gently vague expression.
"We~ell," a voice said from behind her, low and thoughtful and appreciative. "What do you have here? Ojousan, did that boy just off and leave you to fend for yourself like this?"
She glanced over her shoulder and shrugged once, a smooth and easy motion, then turned to face the green-eyed man fully. "No," she demurred, eyes dropping to the tile under their feet. "I was merely looking; I didn't wish to bother him."
"Hei, hei." He leaned forward and down, just enough so that he could catch the edge of her gaze with his own. "Omi's a perfect gentleman, I assure you; he likes to help people. Whereas I, on the other hand ..." he trailed off suggestively and grinned widely, winking once. "To help such a pretty lady out, I would do anything."
She blushed at that, and the faint splash of color across her face seemed all the more striking in contrast. "Thank you ..."
"It's not a problem," he affirmed, smiling. "I'm Youji. You're new here, aren't you?"
"Un." She nodded once, eyes still downcast. "I'm ... I'm very pleased to meet you, Youji-kun."
"Well." He reached out, tilting her face up with the tip of his index finger. "It's only fair if you give me your name back. I'm sure you have a pretty name to go with that pretty face."
Her smile was radiant, white teeth flashing for a moment behind her bright red lips. "Araba. My name is Araba."
The creature was waiting for him, curled in the cool darkness of some nameless forest, away from the blazing heat of the sun and the dangers of prying human eyes. When he approached, it raised its head warily - but at the sight of him, it staggered to his feet and whined pitifully.
Dream knelt beside the beast, pressing his white hands against the red, torn flesh of one long-haired flank, and the Mandrake butted its head against his arm, whining again. It had been a difficult hunt, but in the end, the creature recognized its master and was ready to return to the promised safety of his realm.
"Rest, little dream," he told it gently, stroking his palm once along the place where the skin was now stitched together, smooth and whole once more. "The day is over, and you can rest, now."
The shaggy head turned for a moment, and a long, rough black tongue appeared to lick once at the gentling hand.
The dream-king smiled faintly, and closed his eyes. The emerald around his neck flashed once, like a shooting star.
Alone in the forest once more, he rose to his feet and brushed the clinging dirt and twigs from the folds of his tunic.
The Dark-eye. Bijou. And now the Mandrake. They were all returned safely to the Dreaming; now there was only the nightmare left to go.
Briefly, he remembered something his sister once said, years ago, in the constantly shifting mass of colors and shapes that was her mixed-up realm. She had said it about their brother, quoting a child's game nearly as old as history, mismatched eyes brightly eager - and he had to admit, there was little that could convey the idea so simply to one's target.
"Ready or not. Here I come."
"I don't trust her."
Youji looked up in surprise at Aya, who was reflected in the bathroom mirror as lounging in the doorway, his expression set in something that was oddly different from its usual cool indifference.
"You've never had problems with my girlfriends before," the older man pointed out reasonably, adjusting the high collar of his shirt one more time. "Why is Araba any different?"
In the mirror, violet eyes narrowed at him for a moment, then softened to something that could have approached uncertainty, in anyone else. "I'm not sure. There's something that just seems to be ... off ... about her."
"Is that so?" Youji wet a comb and slid it through his hair twice. "Then you shouldn't be saying things like this to me, A~ya~kun. I know you're antisocial, but some of us do like to have a life outside of our jobs, ne?" He winked and leered, but the porcelain expression never changed.
"You're a trained member of Weiss," Aya said quietly. "You know exactly how deceiving appearances can be."
Youji scowled, now turning to face his teammate. "Of course I do. But just because you don't like her doesn't mean you have to rain in on our date." He paused, tilting his head to one side and tapping his chin with his folded sunglasses for a moment, then grinned. "Or are you just jealous?"
Aya's expression never changed. "Just be careful, Youji. Don't let your guard down around her."
"Hei, hei!" He waved the solemn words off, settling the glasses on his nose and straightening his jacket one last time. "I'll be fine, Aya. Me, Kudou Youji, the very soul of discretion! Don't worry, I won't tell her any of your deep, dark secrets." He winked again, more roguishly than before, then breezed past the slender redhead. "Ja! Don't leave the lights on for me!"
And he was gone, leaving only the door's quiet *snick* as it fell shut behind him.
Nightmares, by their very nature, are more clever than dreams. They take whatever horrors that the human psyche can craft, then mold the various pieces into a more complex and terrifying whole. There are, on occasions, the simple nightmares who only brought normal everyday fears to life - but for the most part, they are intelligent and resourceful creatures who adapt easily and well to any changes in circumstance.
Alptraum was not, by far, my grandest nightmare - that honor was reserved for the Corinthian until the original was destroyed, though I have high hopes for the new one - but she was made to be one of the brighter of her ilk; I remember that she used to spend a great deal of time ghosting around Lucien's library, rarely speaking, always watching.
Like Fiddler's Green, she had been one I would not have expected to simply leave the Dreaming under the confusion of some major event.
However, such is the way of all things.
Sifting the unique presence of a single nightmare out of thousands of dreamers is not the easiest of tasks, even for the Endless. There are dozens of planes she could have escaped to - the human waking world is only one small pocket of the vast spinning axis known as existence. And each of those, there are around twenty dreams and nightmares that walk amongst the dreamers, authorized by my hand to certain subjects, which only complicates the matter further.
All I need now is a single clue - some small hint to lead me on my way, and then I will be able to track my wayward nightmare down. I am reluctant to contact the Ladies, so soon after our last unfortunate parting of ways - and I am not that desperate yet.
Rest assured, brave little dream, I will find you. All I need is time - and that is one thing that I have much more of than you could possibly ever imagine.
"You're special, you know," Araba confided to him, looking up at his bound form with sparkling golden eyes. The slinky red dress she had worn earlier, brightly confident in the neon lights of the city streets, was replaced by a long, dark brown robe that swallowed her entire slender shape in shapeless folds; against such a deep color, her skin seemed to glow with its own sort of light.
"I know you're awake." She reached out and grasped one ankle and shook it slightly, jumping back when it gave a sudden, vicious kick. "Ara! Please! Violence is never a good way of handling things."
Thin eyelids fluttered once, twice, then lifted to reveal a venomous emerald stare. Cracked lips moved and pursed, too dry to do anything more than the simple action of spitting.
"Shh," she told him gently, reaching out to hold his leg again, her fingers tightening into an icy, unbreakable grip. "It will only hurt more if you try to fight, I promise. Please, just relax a little."
Under her hand, she could feel the furious, muted movements of muscle and skin and bone; apparently, this one - like so many of the others - was not very good at taking suggestions. She frowned, shifting her grip so that her nails could press threateningly into the exposed flesh. "I'm serious, here. Struggling will only hurt you worse."
If anything, he grew angrier. "And why does that bother you?" he hissed, in a voice cracked hoarse by dryness and disuse. "I know who you are, now - I know what you do to the people who are stupid enough to be lured in by you."
"Do?" One penciled black eyebrow rose in surprise before comprehension dawned in the cat-gold eyes. "Oh, that. It's unfortunate, really. I've been trying very hard to find someone who would work, you see, but every time, it's just not enough." Her expression turned mournful. "It's so hard to find the right kind of person, you understand. There are so many more than I would have expected, but none of them are sensitive enough. It just won't work."
"Sensitive?" The look he gave her was skeptical. "Usually, when a woman is looking for a sensitive man, she doesn't do it to kill him."
"But that's not what I mean to do," she said unhappily, turning to present her profile to him. "I only do that when I don't have any other choice. If I could find one strong enough, there would be no need to kill them."
"What do you want, anyway?" he asked, and despite his attempts to remain detached, curiosity entered his tone. "What do you want so much that you'd have to go through ten people in two months, trying to find?"
She covered her mouth with one hand and giggled. "Silly. Isn't it obvious?"
Thin white arms flung out, as if to embrace him, the cloak moving aside to reveal the nude body underneath - and the twisting network of livid scars that laced up and down her stomach and chest.
"So that I can walk in this world of humans and reality unhindered ... I am looking for a host.
"A pernament host."
*Bang* *Bang* *Bang* *Bang*
"Oi, oi, I hear you, I hear you!" Ken struggled to tug his robe on, decided against the slippers, and shuffled to the door. "I'm awake, I'm awake already!"
He flung the door open with a snarl that died halfway out of his throat. "M - Manx?"
Framed by moonlight, the contact silently held up a folder. Ken groaned, slapping the heel of one palm against his forehead and grinning at her wryly. "Persia couldn't wait until morning?"
"The circumstances of this mission are a bit different." Manx's voice was clipped. "It's an authorized assignment, of course, but it's also a bit more important than that - especially to Weiss as a team."
"Eh?" Ken paused in the motion of reaching out to accept the folder from her. "What is that supposed to mean?"
She tilted her head to one side, and suddenly, it was impossible to see her eyes in the reflection of light and shadow. "Get Aya. And Omi."
"Aya? Omi? What about Youji?"
She didn't answer him.
"... Manx?"
"Siberian." Her voice was cold. "I may not be your superior, but in cases such as this, I speak for Persia, who is. Get Abyssinian and Bombay. Balinese has apparently gotten himself into quite a bit of trouble. Weiss protects their own, don't they?"
"Ah ... yeah ..." He frowned, and the transition of personalities in his eyes was plainly visible. "Youji's in trouble, huh? Then there's probably a pretty girl involved. You wanna come in?"
"A few girls called in, saying they saw it happen," Manx told them quietly, once the tape had snapped off. "Apparently, someone fitting Youji's description was seen leaving a club with a girl hanging off his arm - but once they were out of the spotlight, she smashed him over the head and dragged him off."
"What did I tell you? There's a girl involved." Ken shook his head, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "Though I'd never've guessed she'd be the one killing all those people recently. Jeeze. Youji needs to start picking his girlfriends more carefully - he's been slipping recently, it seems. Hanako, Kari, and that little blonde chick who kept making calf eyes at him until she found out he was a player ... what was her name?"
"Sayako," Omi supplied, then turned to Manx. "We'll all do it, I guess. If Youji-kun is in trouble, then as his teammates, we need to help him, right?"
"Youji is a grown man," Aya replied, and that in itself was startling enough to draw the others' attention. "He's made his own bad decisions, and now he has to live with it." He rose to his feet and slowly walked towards the open door.
"Aya-kun!" Omi protested. "Youij-kun is our friend!"
"This is something where I think we're going to insist all three of you go, Aya," Manx said smoothly. "If this woman was able to take Youji out as easily as she did, two of you might not be enough. Best to go as three, just in case. Hm?"
There was a pause, with Aya standing with his back to the others, halfway in and out of the doorway.
"Come on, Aya-kun," Omi pleaded. "We can't just abandon Youji-kun."
"Have a heart, man," Ken added. "I admit, sometimes the guy gets annoying - but he's still one of us. He wouldn't leave you behind, I'm sure."
At that, the other boy turned back, expression set in its usual grim mask. "Fine. I'm in."
"What the hell happened to you?" Youji asked as Araba reappeared, carrying a small wire cage. "You're so pretty - who could do something like that to you?"
Araba paused before opening the cage and reaching inside. "You could say my father did this to me," she said, then hefted out a small, squirming black shape. "Or, you could say that I did this to myself, because of my father." Her mouth twisted bitterly. "He died and left me alone with a pathetic copy - there was nothing else I could do."
"There's always something you can do," Youji told her, twisting his wrists against their rope bindings as he spoke. "We always have choices."
That sentence brought her up short; she cocked her head to one side, blinking at him in what seemed like utter and absolute surprise. Then she sighed and looked away, down at the small creature she held - which, he realized with a start, was a little black lamb.
"No, not always," she said sadly. "Sometimes, there's only one thing that can be done." She drew a long-bladed hunting knife from the folds of her robe, then clasped the lamb's tiny body between her knees, pulling its small head back with her free hand. "Sometimes, there's only one thing to do."
There was a flash, and the lamb screamed once as its throat was cut. Youji watched in horrified fascination as the tiny creature struggled a few times, kicking its back legs weakly, then went limp as scarlet trickled in a steady flow over Araba's white fingers. There was a precise sort of detachment in the girl's wide golden eyes - not quite the same distance that he would sometimes see in a teammate's eyes - but something infinitely more dangerous and complex - something almost inhuman.
"What are you?" he asked, his eyes still locked on the lamb's dead body as she twisted the neck to open the wound further, moving the lamb out so that the blood collected in a shallow bowl.
She ducked her head so that her hair fell forward and hid her eyes. "What am I? I'm going to be you, if all goes well. It won't hurt, I promise."
The ropes were beginning to loosen ever so slightly. His wrists were being chafed raw, but if he could keep this up ...
"That's who, not what," he told her. "What are you?"
There was a long pause, and when she looked up, Youji recoiled.
He knew her face.
He had seen it, months ago, when he had twisted restlessly in the throes of a nightmare and had been awakened from it prematurely by Omi's knocking.
"You're ..."
"Alptraum," she murmured, and when she smiled, her sharp teeth glittered brightly. "Nightmare."
"Thank God for modern technology." Ken glanced over at the silent figure beside him, his grin toothy and wolfish. "It's saved our butts several dozen times over, hasn't it?"
Aya didn't reply - but then, that wasn't exactly surprising. Ken glanced up into the rearview mirror for a moment, looking back at Omi. "Oi, Omi, where now?"
The blonde head bobbed a few times, then looked up. "He's actually not that far from the club district," the younger boy said. "Aya-kun, I can't believe you went so far as to bug his clothes. He deserves some privacy."
"We could have easily spent the whole night searching for him," the redhead said simply. "And this is a big city: if we had to do that, we might've been too late."
The reproachful gleam died in Omi's blue eyes in a heartbeat. "I suppose you're right," he agreed, looking down at the open laptop resting on his knees. "Okay. Signal has been fully locked on. We know where they are, now."
"Just give me the word." Ken drummed his fingers against the wheel, nodding once. "And we'll see how fast this baby can go."
Visually, one can describe the dream-king as a spider, living in silent contemplation at the center of his carefully crafted web - each dream and dreamer connected to him by fine-spun silver threads. When one is plucked, it vibrates up until it reaches the lord himself.
And he knows. And he sees.
He has his clue: that is all he needs.
She was chanting something now, loud and low, in a language he didn't understand. Her entire right hand was painted red now, the lamb's blood staining the ground around them in a crude circle. The robe was gaping open now, and whenever she turned, he could see the lacework of dead and sore flesh that stretched across her skin.
His wrists were almost free, now. Just a little more, and he would be able to reach his watch easily.
"This was always a problem before," she confided to him, eyes bright with anticipation. "If it doesn't work, you'll have to erase the circle for me, first. I won't be able to cross it, otherwise."
"And if I don't?"
"You'll do it." She shrugged carelessly, and once more, his eyes were drawn to the puckered marks. "They always do."
"I'm not everyone else, ojousan." He gave her a tightly pained grin. "I think you'll find I'm a little tougher than the normal mouse in a trap."
"They always think that, though." Alptraum wrapped the folds of dark cloth around her hands in crudely makeshift gloves, and pressed them to her face. "You men are always so arrogant, thinking that because of superior size and strength, you'll win if it came to a fight." Pale lips parted long enough to show rows of sharp teeth, which she glazed with a swipe of her tongue. "I would say we're about equal."
The ropes finally gave away, and he released his grip on it, dropping into a low crouch on the ground. "And if I were to step outside the circle now? You wouldn't be able to follow me, wouldn't you?"
Without waiting for an answer, he lunged towards that possible safety - but too late; he felt her fingers curl around the material of his shirt, hearing the fabric snarl as it tore. For someone so deceptively small, she was surprisingly strong; he found himself flat on his back, gasping for breath as his fingers twitched feebly against the cold ground.
"That's no good," she said sweetly, moving to straddle him, using her hands to pin his. "We're not quite ready for this yet, my lovely one - patience. Everything comes to those who wait ..."
Her cold lips touched his, and then there was blackness.
"Youji-kun!"
For once, Omi led the charge, shouldering the door open and bursting inside, dropping to the ground in a tightly graceful roll and coming up with his crossbow held ready. Behind him, Aya and Ken branched out to the side, invisible in the shadows of the dark warehouse.
Through the dim lighting, and the single shaft of moonlight that managed to escape in through a high boarded window, Omi could see the two shapes curled together on the ground; overhead, a cut rope dangled from the rafters.
The figure on top looked up at the intrusion, and Omi recognized the girl who had come into the Koneko the day before - now, though, the paint was gone from her mouth, her dark hair matted into a clumsy tangle. There was no longer a pupil in the wide eyes that stared back at him - they were merely two twin flat disks of gold that gave nothing away.
Recognizing them, the girl lurched off of Youji and rose to her feet. The dark robe she wore gaped open like a wound from Aya's sword; even from a distance, Omi could see the puckered red and pink that laced her abdomen, and a small part of his mind registered sympathetic horror for someone who could have survived such horrible physical mistreatment.
"Pass forward, if you can," she invited. "The doors are open."
On the ground at her feet, Youji shivered and gave a thin, reedy moan - the sound of a dying man. Automatically, Omi took a step forward towards his fallen friend, then caught himself as Aya thrust an arm out before him. "Aya-kun?"
"What are you?" The Abyssinian's eyes were narrowed to slits of hard violet glass. "You're not human."
Ken whistled softly in the darkness. "Looks human to me," he muttered under his breath.
The woman-girl smiled, stepping back and spreading her arms wide. "I'm whatever I have to be," she breathed, and from the shadows around her, white mist began to appear, boiling out of thin air and coalescing around the crude red circle that was laid on the ground around her and Youji. Shapes flickered in the whiteness, the suggestions of twisted shapes and agonized faces and hideous monsters, quicker than could be fully registered by the human eye; both Omi and Ken recoiled reflexively, but Aya's eyes never wavered from their Target's face.
"You are the Target," he corrected softly. "Nothing more, and nothing less."
With that pronouncement, he dropped the arm that had been holding Omi back and lunged forward himself, katana held high.
Like a living thing, the mist rose up around her, then smothered him in its white embrace, rendering him invisible.
As if from a distance, there was the distinct sound of metal striking pavement - the sound of a sword being dropped.
"Aya-kun!"
"Aya!"
"Done," she pronounced succinctly, still smiling. "And you -" she pointed to Ken, "you're special, too. He was special, you know; that's why I had to meet him. But if he hadn't been there, you would have worked fine, too."
"Me?" The Siberian looked a bit pale. "Why me?"
She pouted. "Because you're special, that's why. Only certain people can ever become Hosts. He is one. You are another."
He scowled and clenched his fist, the bugnuk's claws unsheathing themselves. "I've been a puppet before," he said. "So no thanks. I've had enough of that in my life. Omi!"
The crossbow pinged once, the girl turning in surprise at the reminder of the youngest boy's presence. The dart buried itself in her shoulder, and she lurched back another step, almost tripping over Youji's still form, her face twisting in anger.
"You," she pronounced, in a single, vicious syllable, "I'll deal with you later."
Abruptly, the same white mists that had swallowed Aya exploded into life around Ken, wrapping long, thin tendrils around him until he was completely gone.
"Ken-kun!"
Omi heard him give a single choked cry, and then the mist receded, slowly, lingering, as if reluctant to completely give him up.
The wide brown eyes were blank, staring into space without seeing. Like a cut-string puppet, he fell, first dropping his knees, then forward onto his face.
Omi was alone.
The touch of a nightmare is no small thing.
Alone and naked in some strange place, Youji huddled in on himself and told himself he wasn't crying.
Tears were for grief, and for privacy - they were things given for the brave and strong that had been needlessly sacrificed
(blood exploding out of asuka's back)
- because of his own damnfool idiocy -
(maki's untouched face in the darkness)
not for someone small and tarnished like him. Tears were not meant for Kudou Youji, whether they were shed by others, or by himself, for himself.
They weren't.
All the things that had plagued him in the previous months - all the nights that been too bloody or too noisy to allow him rest seemed to crowd around him, clamoring for his attention - he could no longer sort out things that had really happened from those he had feared would.
Like the girls that populated the Koneko after school and on the weekends, they paraded before him in steady succession, and he felt like he could *hear* them, in tiny whispering voices, calling out his name, pleading with him to look, to see -
(omi's body strung up and garroted by wires he had trusted as a friend's weapon)
(ken lying on the ground in a bloody pool, his blank eyes fixed on the last object of betrayal)
(gloved fingers slipping out of his own as aya fell into darkness)
Locked in his dark downward spiral, Youji pressed his palms to his ears and screamed.
"Dream? I stand in my gallery; I hold your sigil. We have something we need to discuss."
Despair watches as the young man in the mirror before her writhes, desperate to escape the traps his own mind has created for him. Two others also fight their way deeper into her gray realm, and though Despair relishes this, she also deplores it: this sort of thing dances too close to blank uncertainty, the responsibility hovering uncertain between two realms.
Her brother, younger and older both through fate and accident, answers after a beat, and his light voice is distracted. "My sister, I am somewhat occupied at the moment. Could this not wait until later?"
"I'm afraid not." Despair looks down again at the miniature helm that lies cradled in her fat white palm. The new Dream has never donned his predecessor's crest, still too uncertain of his own place in his family, and for that, Despair is distantly grateful. Time will eventually scab over the wounds of Morpheus' loss, and until then -
"One of yours is wreaking havoc in the waking world, my brother," she says, looking back at her mirrors, now at the redhead who kneels in a bloodstained room with his katana cast aside, holding a girl's body desperately in his arms and screaming. "She is giving humans to me - humans that should, by all rights, belong to our sister, if she accepted the living."
There is a pause; and then Dream is standing beside his sister, impeccable in his white robes, hands folded into his sleeves. He studies the reflection of the brown-haired boy as he yells angrily at a dark-haired man while cradling a child's limp and bloodstained form against his chest. "Nightmares sometimes are the forerunners of despair," he says, unemotional. "I do not see how this concerns me beyond that."
"The nightmare isn't originating from their minds as they sleep," Despair tells him, and then the picture changes, to a white-skinned, golden-eyed, dark-haired girl-creature who stands within a circle of lamb's blood and shrieks, directing swirling mists after a blonde boy who dodges and weaves madly to avoid them.
Now Dream's expression changes; his mouth thins and his eyes narrow. "So this is where the wayward nightmare escaped to," he muses. "Thank you for telling me about this, my sister. I will deal with this."
He bows to her, and then Despair is alone again. She bows her head; talking to her newest brother is sometimes so like and unlike speaking with his predecessor, that it pains her in soulsick sort of way.
Her family is not something she particularly enjoys thinking about.
Deliberately, she sets her hooked ring against the corner of her right eye and pulls.
"Augh!"
Omi's feet finally gave way beneath him, tripping over something that he had not noticed in the darkness until too late. He landed on his shoulder, wincing as he felt the bones grind together and a muscle overstretch itself. As he lay there gasping, he looked up, almost directly into the face of their Target, who regarded him with a cold sneer. With a start, he realized he was lying within the drawn red circle; the thing he had tripped over, he realized with a sick lurch, was Youji's body.
"You're not who I want," she told him. "You just don't work. And yet ..."
One hand strayed to her shoulder, where his dart remained embedded in her skin. "I suppose, just this once ..."
A knife appeared in her hand, heavy and sharp and already stained with some unfortunate creature's blood. "Just this once ..."
Youji-kun!
This voice was different; it cut through the angry, coarse catcalls of the nightmares that surrounded him, and offered him a single, shining thread of hope in his self-imposed prison.
"Omi?" he croaked, feeling his chapped lips finally crack, sending the stinging bite of blood into his mouth.
Youji-kun!
He lurched to his feet, and for a moment, he saw a confused scattering of images that somehow, despite the utter improbability of them, seemed more solid and real than any vision the nightmares had presented: he saw a nude obese woman, short and grim-faced, with blood trickling like tears from her right eye standing in a misty hall of mirrors; he saw a tall, slender man, white-skinned, white-haired, the heavy emerald around his neck and the small red jewels set in his sleeves the only amount of color he wore pointing at something, and when he turned to look -
He saw Omi, lying on the ground as Alptraum raised her hunting knife high overhead, for once caught in the frozen deer position, for once unable to do anything more than watch -
O M I ! !
Is this how I'll die? Omi wondered distantly, feeling oddly detached from the entire situation. When I tried so hard, and survived through so much ...
"Good-bye," the Target said sweetly, and then the knife began its downward arch.
Move, Omi! Move, damn it!
And then, silent as a ghost, wire came snapping out of the darkness, wrapping around her wrist and slicing through skin and bone as easily as a knife might.
"Omi!" Youji's voice was a whipcrack. "Break the circle!"
"Aa -" He cast around in the darkness, and saw how close the red line lay to his outstretched hand. Above him, the Target screamed and clutched at the bloody stump; a terrible, keening sound that grated on the ears and teeth.
"Omi!" Youji roared, as the Target turned to face her attacker. "Break the circle!"
He allowed his hand to slip, sending him crashing back to the ground. The muscle in his shoulder pulled further, and his hand smeared through the wet red, smearing it and breaking the line's crude symmetry.
Abruptly, the Target's scream cut off in midhowl; as Omi wearily pushed himself back into a seated position, he could see her slender body frozen in mid-crouch over Youji's half-prone form; through her neck, directly through her throat, Aya's sword glittered red and silver.
She gurgled and clawed at the offending weapon, and when he yanked it free of her, the odd whistling sound her throat wound made was almost worse than her screams.
From behind the grim tableau, Ken gave a startled yelp. Standing beside him was the same pale man whom Youji had seen briefly before waking up to his sore body, and the figure exuded such a sense of presence, it was frightening.
The Target saw him, and let out another whining gurgle, and stumbled towards him, bloody hands outstretched. He caught them in his own, folding his long fingers around them and squeezing gently.
"Too many times, what we ignore become defective because of simple neglect," he said softly, in a voice that was soft and shivery and somehow pale, as if though the color of the words had been taken and bleached until badly faded. "You were broken by the Kindly Ones, though they never laid a hand on you. Rest, little dream; when you awaken, you will have been shaped into something more than what you are now."
Flat golden eyes stared pleadingly up at him, then slowly slid shut. With a tiny sigh, she crumbled, turning to dust and mist, which blew away on some unfelt breeze, leaving only a single gold coin in her place.
The pale man bent and picked it up, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger, his expression thoughtful as he turned towards the four Weiss members.
"I would take the memory of this from you," he said, "but it would not be fair of me to steal so much of your lives from you; not when so many others would still remember. So I say: remember. But not with the immediacy that comes directly after something horrible: remember it with the distance and pain that accompanies all nightmares - awful while it lasts, but easily forgotten in the light of day." He waved his hand once, and moonlight seemed to collect in solid bubbles at his fingertips. "Be well."
And then he was gone.
After a minute, Omi scooted over to kneel beside his older friend, laying a hand against the bare arm.
"Youji-kun, can you stand?"
"Ara? Omi-kun, you're in a good mood, aren't you?"
The boy pffhed a strand of blonde hair from his face and grinned broadly at Ouka's smiling face. "Un. I'm just happy to be alive right now. No more innocent people are dying because of the mysterious serial killer, and I've been sleeping a lot better, lately. Lots of good dreams."
"Oh?" Her violet-pink eyes were bright with amusement. "Maybe I should ask you what your secret is. I'd like to be able to have lots of good dreams, too."
He turned to set down the tray of blooming freesia down, then impulsively plucked one and offered it to her. "I don't think it's exactly a secret to be shared, Ouka-san," he said, and his smile was somewhat secretive. "Maybe I'm just lucky, and some higher being has decided to take interest in my dreams. You never know."
She blinked at him, then blushed faintly, accepting the flower.
He beamed, then turned away, returning to work.
And in the sunlight, a tied bunch of white-petaled daisies nodded their heads, their single round, bright centers glowing like a golden coin.
~owari~