Abbreviated Author's notes:
(1) Disclaimer: These characters, this universe, this concept—none of these is owned by me, and I have no claim to any of them. But—this universe contains pretty angsty florist assassins! You expect me to resist that? You fool! You fool! I will return everything in its original packaging when I'm done. Promise.
(3) Summary: Sometimes, kindness and cruelty are just two sides of the same thing. Mostly about Ken, but there's Aya too.
(3) Warning: Like each new fic I write, this is an experiment for me. This is unfortunately unbeta'd, which means that I may later edit/alter/delete at will. Also, this is part of a longer thing, but I think this bit—which is both the first bit and somehow separate, could stand alone. This fic is rated, like all my fic, whatever adult themes is rated these days. There may well be suggestions of all kinds of horrible violence, sexual themes, same-sex pairings, opposite-sex pairings, Mary Sues, and other things you should be old to read. Or at least 18 years old. Plus this is set in anime-fandom Japan, where there may well be donut shops on every corner. Don't read this if you are young, or easily offended, or don't like the dark. However, there is nothing very explicit here. If you were looking for steamy, graphic, or titillating, this is not your fic. Go away. Go away fast.
(4) I adore feedback, both positive and negative. I want to know what you really think, or if you notice mistakes, or if you have a good recipe for chocolate soup. It would make me happy ... please? Pretty please, with a pretty boy of your choice on top?
Small Acts of Kindness
by Mockorange7
Prologue (Part 1)
The room was full of quiet, and full of noise.
There was the noise of flesh hitting steel, and steel biting flesh, of gasping and crying and screaming in pain.
There was the quiet of steps trained for stealth, of a hand muffling voice, of the final noiselessness of death.
There was the girl, lying at Ken's feet. She was young—maybe his own age, at most—and pretty, with long pale hair and wide brown eyes. She had been part of the child slavery ring; had lured the merchandise—younger, maybe even some older--with sweet smiles and promises of candy or money or both. He'd watched her on the monitor, helpless to change anything, while she dispassionately suffocated one of the younger kids—a little boy, not more than three or four--who wouldn't stop screaming when he discovered where he was.
She too was both noisy and quiet, making soft sounds of wordless agony that echoed in Ken's ears and shrieked and rang through his head. Her own blood pooled around her, the end of a small dart stuck out of the side of her neck as she lay, dying but not yet dead. Her face was the picture of untold suffering. Omi must be experimenting with a new toxin, Ken thought absently. He was usually faster than that.
It took less than a minute, less time than it had taken for her to suffocate the little boy, for Ken to reach down and quickly, painlessly, silence her in turn.
Blood burbled up through the girl's open mouth even after he knew she was dead. Ken wiped his weapon carefully on a piece of her skirt. He noticed the crest of a local school on her shirt, a bracelet made from thread on her delicate wrist. Watching her face, her large dark eyes and long pale hair and hand clutching uselessly at air, he thought she reminded him of a girl he'd once known. A friend, from that life he'd once had.
It was quiet, as they drove home after that mission, none of them much in the mood for chatter. It had been one of their worst in recent weeks—the slave runners had killed many of the kids when they'd discovered the serious security breach, and then an alarm had been tripped, somehow—Kritiker had either left something out, or hadn't been thorough, or maybe, they just hadn't cared. There had been, rather than the easy in, easy out: a lot of screaming and even more blood, blood; a little girl, no more than eight or nine years old, crying and shaking, backed in a corner and holding a knife; a pile of warm, small bodies with wide, staring eyes; nightmarish pictures on the wall of terrified, naked children that made the gorge rise in their throats.
Through it all, Ken had just done the job, trying to close off his brain, trying not to think, trying not to remember, even now. He assumed the others had done the same.
The moment they had left, the sound of sirens ringing in their ears and mingling with the eerie sobs of the little girl they'd all simply left alone for the police to find, still cringing in her corner, Yohji had begun smoking like his life depended on it, making it a point of not touching any of the others, sitting apart and away and self-contained. Aya, driving even more precisely than usual, was his own world of silent and expressionless, the remote cast of his features a warning. Omi, who tended to like the connection of casual conversation on the way back, was as silent as Aya, sitting still and carefully not looking at any of the others as they drove home, covered in sweat and blood and things best not spoken of.
Each of them separated as soon as the car stopped, going up to their apartments without any words being exchanged. Ken knew they'd likely each come down to breakfast in the morning and by then, the distance brought by a scorching shower, a few hours' drug-induced sleep, and the morning sun might, might silence the screaming in all of their heads, just enough.
In his apartment, door closed and locked and dead-bolted twice, he cleaned his weapon, and threw his clothes in a corner, and let the water scald his skin until it was almost as red as the blood being washed away.
He was in the shower for more than a half hour. Even after he emerged, skin angry red and wrinkled, dressed in a concealing, over-large sweatshirt and track pants, he still felt unclean; still felt naked and exposed in the small, cramped apartment.
He sat on his bed in his empty apartment for a time, and contemplated the small white pills in the bottle in his hand. When it came to drugs, Kritiker gave them whatever they wanted. These, he knew, would allow him to forget, allow him silence, allow him sleep. Omi had given them each a bottle. He knew Omi took them after almost every mission.
Ken sat on his bed. He hadn't slept in it in over two months. He wondered, as he did every night, if he would tonight. He wondered if he would sleep at all.
It was much later that night when Ken got up, and went to his door, and locked it behind him. He knocked softly on the door of another apartment. He waited. He raised his hand again, and hesitated. He turned away.
Aya might have taken the pills, and been deeply asleep himself. Aya might have wanted to be left alone. Aya might ... But the door opened.
Aya didn't say anything when he saw Ken standing there, dressed in loose pyjama bottoms and his ratty old practice jersey, holding his pillow. Aya didn't even raise an eyebrow, or do much of anything, except leave the door open and wordlessly pad back to the bed, getting back in and lying down.
Ken didn't move for a few minutes. He stood still in the doorway, and watched Aya watch him impassively from the bed. Aya's room was neat and tidy. It smelled fresh and clean. There was a cool breeze from the window, soft shadows made by moonlight on the floor. Ken looked at down at his hands, where they clutched the pillow. They looked clean as well, the skin smooth and unbroken except for where he'd pricked himself badly on a rose thorn, earlier in the day. For the second time that night, Ken began to turn away.
Aya's deep voice broke the silence. "Come in and close the door, Ken," said Aya, his voice rough with sleep. "It's late. It's time for bed."
Ken opened his mouth, but no words came out. But Aya had given him an order, and so he did as Aya said, and closed the door, and moved toward the bed. Aya, lying motionless on his side, reached over and tugged down the sheet, and Ken got in, awkwardly, moving closer to Aya, and closer yet, until he simply folded himself into Aya's embrace, rubbing his cheek along a length of pale skin and damp hair. Aya moved then, pulled him close and wrapped strong arms around him, holding him safe. "It's ok, Ken," whispered Aya, his breath warm in Ken's ear, the beat of his heart steady, "you can sleep now."
Ken let out the breath he'd been holding, and somewhere, somehow, something small inside of him relaxed. He buried his head in the hollow between Aya's neck and shoulder, and allowed the dark of sleep to claim him, shutting out both the noise and the quiet with the soft, even sounds of Aya's breath.
End part one.