Summary: After a series of painful Ebay losses, the Weiss boys decide to take matters into their own hands and "get even" with their Ebay nemesis. General mayhem ensues. One-shot. Complete.

Author's Note: There is some cursing in here, which should become painfully obvious upon reading the first line. Not that I think the Weiss boys are particularly potty-mouthed, but they are 4 guys, living together … and, as such, I would imagine some bad language gets tossed around, from time to time. Plus, they're assassins … not choir boys, so, there you go. evilgrin Hopefully, it won't put anyone off too much.

Legal Stuff: This story is intended only to express my appreciation, as a fan, for the anime Weiss Kreuz and its characters. It is done for fun, and not at all for profit. If you have any legal rights in the anime Weiss Kreuz or its characters and find the posting of this fanfic offensive or harmful, please contact me through this site, and I will be happy to remove it.

"Dammit! Stupid son of a bitch!"

Omi spat out the stream of curse words as he banged his keyboard in frustration and glared at his computer monitor, as if the blinking cursor on the screen had, somehow, worked a mortal insult against him.

Aya looked up from the book he was reading, and frowned across the room at his teammate. It was obvious something was bothering the young blond. If Omi's act of pounding out his frustration on the keyboard in front of him hadn't been enough of a clue, there was the string of unsolicited swear words. Not that Omi was a saint or anything. Far from it. Candidates for sainthood didn't last very long in Weiss's world. But, Omi wasn't one to curse freely … not unless something was really bothering him.

Aya debated over the preferable course of action. It wasn't that he didn't care about Omi's problems. After all, Weiss was a team, and the other guys were, more or less, like family to him --- a homicidal, dysfunctional family … yet family, all the same. But, this had been their first night off in almost a month of solid, back-to-back missions. A month of staking out bars or warehouses or whorehouses, a month of digging through other people's garbage for clues, a month of killing … night after night, watching some stranger's blood flowing over his blade, feeling it slide through his fingers … and Aya had been looking forward to a quiet night, spent buried in a favorite novel. And, besides, he wasn't the best one for dealing with the others' problems, emotional or otherwise. If you wanted tactical genius and solid leadership, Aya Fujimiya was your guy. If you wanted someone to hold your hand and pat your back while you sobbed out all the problems the world had dumped on your shoulders … well, you were better off talking to yourself. It wasn't that he didn't care. It was that he wasn't good at caring. No … not even that. Not really. He wasn't good at showing he cared. Somehow, it always seemed to come out the wrong way, and Aya ended up feeling like a bigger screw-up than he had when the whole thing had started. And, he had a sneaking suspicion his botched efforts at "supportive" made his teammates think he was an even bigger asshole than they had given him credit for being. Well, not Yohji. Yohji knew better. But, Aya was pretty sure Omi and Ken thought it.

Still, if Omi really was having a problem, if the younger man needed to talk to someone, Aya figured he should give it the old college try. Yohji was out for the evening, probably trying to talk the nearest sweet young thing into bed at this very moment. And, Ken was out, too, doing … whatever it was that Ken did when he wasn't around the Koneko. So, by default, that left Aya on the hot-seat as emotional counselor for the evening, a role he did not relish. It would be a heck of a lot easier and more pleasant to pretend he hadn't heard the muttered curses and retreat back into the make-believe world of his book. Well, more pleasant except for the nagging feeling of guilt Aya knew would dog him. But, heck, he was an assassin, right? When you kill people for money, you kind of get used to a certain amount of residual guilt hanging about your soul. It had been quiet in the room before Omi's muttered outburst --- so quiet that the archer had, likely, forgotten anyone else was even in the room with him. That fact would also make a tactical retreat easier on Aya's part.

Aya marked his place in the novel with an index finger as he watched his teammate for a few silent moments. Maybe it was nothing. Omi's back was to him, so he couldn't see the teen's face, but the young blond had stopped banging on his keyboard and muttering swear words. Now, Omi just sat in front of the computer, staring at the monitor in that emotionally drained, slumped-over manner Aya had always associated with coming through some kind of life-threatening experience. Aya pulled his reading glasses down a bit lower on his nose and squinted over the tops of the frames. It looked like Omi was staring at an auction site. He thought he recognized the page layout as being from some site called Ebay, which Omi frequented, but he was too far away to read the miniscule text.

For just the smallest tremor of a moment, Aya felt curiosity flare within him. What in the world could be on an auction site that would get Omi this upset? Granted, in his limited experience, those sites were bad news. Nothing good ever happened on them. No, the only thing that happened was that you got your hopes up for winning some precious item, some treasure you had searched for for years … only to have them dashed out at the last second by the twisted hands of fate.

Aya's eyes narrowed in an irritated expression as he remembered his own, recent auction experience. It had been on Ebay, too. A very rare, flawed printing of The Art of War. He had read rumors, for months, on the Internet about a few errata-containing copies possibly surfacing at last. And, after hundreds of hours spent on research, he had located one of them --- on Ebay. It hadn't been too difficult to convince Omi to bid for him. After all, the blond hacker was pretty much locked to the computer most of the time, anyhow, and Omi had, in recent months, developed a sudden adeptness at traversing the various auction sites. He vaguely recalled the teen mentioning collecting something or other, but, the truth be told, he hadn't paid much attention to Omi's long-winded, detailed explanation of what it was. Anyhow, Omi had put in the bid … a high bid. A very high bid. Even now, Aya winced at the thought of how much money he had been willing to spend. But, this book … it was worth it. He had searched for a copy from this printing for three years, without any success. None of his usual sources had been able to locate it. In short, he was desperate. Things had looked good, too. All the way until the last day of the auction, he had been winning, and for less than half his maximum bid. Until the last two seconds of the auction, actually. That's when Fate had lifted her fickle hand and denied him his prize. In the last two seconds, someone managed to bid higher and snatch the book right out of Aya's grasp. His book! That's when he had realized it --- Ebay just chewed up your soul and spat it back out at you, like a cat hoarking up a fur ball on your nicest Persian rug.

Aya looked down at the sound of rustling paper to find his hand clenched around the spine of his current novel, his knuckles showing white and his fingers wrinkling the pages, he was gripping the book so hard. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat, seeking to release the sudden surge of anger from his system. It was silly, to be so upset over something as trivial as losing an auction. Still … he had to admit, even now, a few weeks later, it stung. It wasn't so much losing, as the way in which he had lost. To think himself the winner, and then, have victory jerked so unceremoniously from his clutches. Aya's hand tightened around his novel again, and he took another deep breath and forced his fingers to release the already-abused pages and spine.

OK. So, maybe he had been premature in presuming there wasn't anything on an auction site that could cause the kind of reaction Omi had just displayed. Even so, Aya ruthlessly stuffed down the little spark of curiosity that, again, flared to life inside him. Did he really want to know what had Omi so upset? Oh, sure, maybe, at this second, it seemed like an attractive idea, but what would it lead to? Feeling embarrassed and inadequate as he murmured meaningless words of comfort that, in the end, even Omi wouldn't believe, and the end to his hopes for a nice, quiet evening spent lost in a favorite book. Besides, it looked like Omi was all right now. The crisis must have passed.

With a contented sigh, Aya pushed his reading glasses up, onto the bridge of his nose, and settled back into his chair, prepared to take up his reading where he had left off at Omi's first outburst. He had just flipped the page and begun to lose himself in the story, when a low, almost inaudible groan caused him to look up, once more, at his teammate.

Omi was now leaning forward, softly banging his head against the keyboard, and muttering something that sounded like, "Why? Why? Why?"

Aya frowned. Maybe the crisis hadn't so much passed as escalated. At any rate, he couldn't let things go now. It was clear Omi was a lot more upset than he had appeared at first, and the tone of the young blond's voice, caught somewhere between frustration and deepest sorrow, tore at Aya's heartstrings. Sure, everyone thought he was a total ass. It was easier letting them believe that than getting involved in emotional problems he didn't feel equipped to handle. Still, he couldn't let his teammate suffer alone.

With a soft sigh of regret, Aya marked his place and laid the novel down on the side table next to his chair. He pulled off his reading glasses and set them on top of the book before rising to cross the room and stand behind Omi.

Aya cleared his throat, a soft, almost uncomfortable, sound in the room's quiet atmosphere.

"Hey," he said, hoping his voice sounded more confident and secure than he felt at the moment. "What's up? Is something wrong?"

Omi didn't turn around to look at him. The young hacker continued to stare at the computer screen with that lost, shell-shocked expression, but he managed a small, distracted shake of his head and a muttered, "No. It's … it's nothing."

Aya almost left it at that, and retreated back to his chair and book. He wanted to leave things at that. He really did. But, the lost look in Omi's eyes, reflected back at him from the computer monitor, forced him to stay put. It might not be that important to anyone else, but it was obvious it was a life-or-death type of thing to Omi.

"It's obviously not nothing, when you're sitting there, looking like someone just ate your last cookie. It's OK, if you want to talk about it. I mean, you know, if it would help."

Aya winced at how stilted and uncomfortable his words sounded. With Yohji, this would have been easy. Why was it so damn hard with Omi? He placed his hand on his teammate's shoulder in what he hoped was a supportive gesture.

Omi sighed and glanced up at Aya, giving the redhead a small smile. He could tell Aya wanted to be anywhere else but right there at that moment, and doing anything else but trying to comfort him. The tension practically radiated off of the slender man, telegraphing his unease to anyone who happened to be around to see it. And, yet, Aya had made that effort. No matter that he was uncomfortable and, maybe, even a little embarrassed, Aya had taken those dozen or so steps across the living room because he thought Omi needed a supportive friend. Omi figured it was a lot harder for Aya to do that than running into a burning building or throwing his body in front of a bullet, and, in the end, that meant a lot.

"Well, it is something … but, really nothing," Omi replied. At Aya's perplexed expression, he explained, "I lost an auction. For a cel."

Aya frowned. He hadn't been standing here for more than a minute or two, and, already, he felt like he had overstayed his welcome.

"A cel?" Aya asked. His tone sounded a bit reluctant, as if he wasn't quite sure whether or not he wanted an answer to his question.

Omi didn't catch the reluctant tinge to Aya's voice. His eyes started to gleam with excitement at being able to discuss his newest passion with a willing audience, and a big grin seemed to slide across his face, from one ear to the other.

"Yeah. A cel. You know … for an anime. They use them to make the shows. Each shot of each scene is painted onto a piece of acetate by the studio artists, and, then, they put these in front of a background and film them for the show."

Aya winced a little and stifled a groan. He recognized the fanatical gleam in Omi's eyes. He'd seen that look before --- every time Yohji started going on and on about his latest love conquest, or Ken started yammering about soccer. It was an expression that told him he could be stuck here for the foreseeable future, listening to the finer points of an obsession he did not share. Still, he had inserted himself into the situation, and he had a feeling he had already passed the point of no return on this particular mercy mission. So he steeled his expression into what he hoped passed for "interested", and hunkered down to wait out what could shape up to be a rather boring conversation … at least, from his point of view.

"So, it's a piece of painted plastic?" Aya asked. He hoped his tone did not sound as dubious as he thought it did. He didn't want to make Omi feel bad or anything like that, but he just did not get his teammate's newest obsession.

"No way!" Omi replied, with an emphatic head shake. "It's … it's way cooler than that! I mean, sure, technically, it is … but .. there's more to it. Lots more." He paused, but Aya's raised-eyebrow, skeptical expression seemed to prompt him to continue. "It's totally amazing … to hold, in your hand, the actual scene you see on the screen. I mean, you can see details and stuff you'd never see just by watching the anime. And, it's like owning a piece of your favorite show. Plus, even though there are sequence mates, each cel is different. No two are alike, so no one out there will have anything exactly like yours … even if they kind of look alike."

"I see," Aya said, a slight frown touching his face, causing his mouth to twitch down in an expression that was more perplexed than anything else. Really, he didn't see. He didn't get it at all, but it was obvious that Omi wanted him to see, wanted him to share the obsession, at least for this moment in time.

Aya glanced at the Ebay screen, which was still up on Omi's computer monitor. He saw a head-and-shoulders image of an anime character, silhouetted against a huge, full moon. The character, who wore all black, with a flowing cape and spiked shoulder-pad-looking armor, was glancing over his shoulder as he held up what looked like an arrow in one hand. Aya vaguely recalled sitting through a movie involving this particular character, who, he thought, was male, although now, looking at the picture, he wondered. The pose and clothing were decidedly masculine, as were the facial features and the large-brimmed hat the character wore, and, yet, there was what looked like yards and yards of rippling, wavy, brown hair flowing down his back. Aya tilted his head to one side and squinted a bit at the fuzzy auction picture. No, it looked like the character wore a very large broadsword strapped across his back. Aya could just make out the weapon's handle at the right edge of the image. So, that decided it --- definitely a male character. He didn't know any women who used swords. Well, that one Schreient girl used an umbrella, which was … well … downright weird But he didn't think it counted as a sword --- even if it did have a pointy thing at the end.

Aya realized Omi was looking at him with that hopeful, puppy-dog expression that meant the young blond expected to carry on some sort of conversation about this newest obsession. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other … an involuntary, nervous gesture … and cleared his throat as he sought to pull words out of thin air.

"So," Aya said, "How is it that these cels become available, then? I mean, if the studios use them to create the movies and stuff … shouldn't they be locked away or something?"

Omi shook his head, a frantic, half-frenzied motion that almost made Aya think the archer's brains were going to slosh right out of his ears.

"Oh, no," Omi replied, still shaking his head. "When the production is done, the studio doesn't want 'em any more. They're a pain to store, and take up a lot of room … so I've heard. I think, for a long time, they burned them or something. That's why, for some of the older shows, it's pretty much impossible to get cels. Because they were all destroyed, except for a few dozen or so, that either the artists kept as souvenirs or someone snuck out of the studio."

Aya frowned. He had thought he was confused a few moments ago, but now he really wasn't getting it.

"So, wait a minute. These are, basically, trash? Like, stuff they threw away? And, you bid how much …?"

Aya reached around Omi's shoulder to grab the mouse and scroll down the auction page. When he saw the final price, he thought he was going to throw up. He knew Omi had plenty of disposable income. They all did. It was part and parcel of the assassin game --- sell your soul, very short life expectancy, but plenty of cash. Even so, the number of zeros at the end of Omi's bid shocked the hell out of him.

"Shit, Omi … have you lost your mind?" he asked, his voice shaking a bit from the shock of the kid's final bid.

"No," Omi said, his tone indicating, in no uncertain terms, that he thought Aya was the one in this conversation who was a few squirrels short of a full tree. The young blond recaptured the mouse and scrolled back up, to, once again, gaze longingly at the blurry auction image. He sighed before continuing, "It was worth it. More than worth it. Shit. I would've paid twice that. I just didn't think it was going to go past my max."

Aya didn't know what to say. He shoved Omi's hand away from the mouse, and, again, scrolled down to look at the auction's ending price.

"It was the A1," Omi said, "With the original matching background."

The finality in his tone indicated that this should, of course, explain everything. Aya still didn't get it.

"But, it's just a piece of plastic … with paint on it … that they threw away," Aya muttered, half under his breath, his tone full of wonder.

"Oh, sure," Omi replied, "It's not like it was something really important … like, say, some moldy old book or something."

He shoved Aya's hand off the mouse, shifting his body a little to the side to block any further computer access on his teammate's part. Omi scrolled back up the page to the auction image, the sarcastic tone to his voice and his narrow-eyed, raised-eyebrow expression telling Aya exactly what he thought of the swordsman's criticism of his new obsession.

Aya glared at Omi, irritated with the blond hacker for bringing up that auction experience, which was still so fresh and painful.

"Yeah, well … that's different," Aya muttered, almost under his breath. He frowned and decided to change the subject when Omi let out a snort of laughter. It was pretty obvious they wouldn't get anywhere on their current conversational track. And, besides, Aya didn't have any desire to relive those painful memories. He felt his blood pressure rising just thinking about it.

"Anyhow," Aya said, "This guy looks familiar. Is he from a show I've seen?"

"Oh, yeah!" Omi replied. His eyes began to gleam, and his words started to come faster, as excitement overtook him. "That's D, from Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust."

He turned around and gave Aya a meaningful nod. Clearly, this was supposed to serve as sufficient explanation, but Aya, much to his own chagrin, found he needed more. He shrugged and shook his head in response.

Omi rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and sighed in exasperation.

"You know … He's a dhampir --- half vampire. And, he hunts vampires for a living. And, he was hired to bring back this girl who was in love with this other vampire … only her family couldn't admit to it, so they never told him … and there was this other team of hunters that he competed against, the Marcus brothers. Remember … we watched it a while back."

Aya thought for a moment, and suddenly, it came to him. He did remember. Maybe, two months ago, Omi had decided it would be a grand idea for them to have a "movie night", where they all stayed in and watched a movie together. Since it had been his idea, Omi had picked the first movie --- this anime flick. Yohji had called second pick, for the next week, and he had made them all watch some porno movie, which, at least, had been mercifully short. After that, they had realized they would never agree on what to watch, so movie night had been dumped almost as quickly as it had begun.

"Oh, yeah," Aya said, nodding. "I do remember. The guy with the sword. No one would really use a sword that was that long."

Omi rolled his eyes again. "Oh come on! That sword is kick ass. D's Dracula's son, you know." He emphasized the last sentence, as if it held some kind of special meaning. No doubt, in otaku circles, it was some sort of secret code or something.

Aya shrugged. "The sword was too long. It was taller than he was. No way anyone could use a weapon like that. Not efficiently, anyhow. And, the cape … no real swordsman would fight in a cape. It would just get in the way. And, what about that hat? What was up with that? It always covered his eyes … does he have x-ray vision or something?"

"What do you mean?" Omi asked? "Get in the way how? Kind of like a long trench coat or something?"

Aya scowled in return and muttered, "Well, maybe. But the hat was too much."

Omi tried to stifle a snicker at Aya's reaction, and failed, which elicited a fresh death glare from the older man.

"Well," Omi continued, warming to his subject matter, "D is the greatest. He is the most bad-ass swordsman ever. I mean, the things he can do … incredible. I wish I could, just once, see someone handle a sword like that."

Aya stared at his young teammate. This was a new experience --- being compared to a cartoon character, and coming out on the losing end. A new experience … and not a fun one, either. Aya frowned in irritation and leaned forward for a closer look at the auction picture.

"Oh, I remember this scene. Wasn't this where that one hunter guy shot an arrow at D? And, then, D caught it?" At Omi's confirming nod, Aya continued, "Oh, yeah … that other hunter … what was his name? Borghoff or something like that? He was really skilled with a crossbow. It's too bad you can't ever find anyone in real life who can do the things that guy could do."

"Hey!" Omi yelped, in an accusatory tone.

Aya smiled, feeling an immense, and very wrong, sense of smug satisfaction at his teammate's injured reaction.

"Anyhow," Omi said, giving Aya an angry, over-the-shoulder scowl as he turned his attention back toward the monitor in front of him, "This frernoir guy has sniped me out on all my auction bids for the past couple of months. It's getting fucking irritating. It's like he's doing it on purpose or something."

Omi paused for a moment and, lost in thought, tapped his forefinger lightly against one of the keys on his keyboard.

"Yep. That's it. I've had it. This guy ain't gonna do this any more. Not to me."

Omi attacked the keyboard in front of him with a renewed, almost frenzied, interest. He minimized the auction window and opened his favorite hacking program. After a couple of seconds of intent clicking on his part, Omi maximized the auction window once again, reducing the splashy design on the page to nothing more than lines of code. He perused this for a moment, and, with a satisfied-sounding grunt of approval, selected three or four lines of text. He closed the auction window and pasted he newly-acquired text into the hacking program. Nodding his approval at the computer, Omi sat back to wait, but it didn't take long. Within a few seconds, a new string of information flashed across the monitor. Omi nodded at it again, and uttered a small chuckle as his fingers continued to fly over the keys.

Aya leaned forward and squinted at the screen as Omi brought up a new program. It looked like some sort of reverse directory listing, but one in which you could plug IP addresses and then get a physical address. Aya leaned back and, arms crossed over his chest and a frown pasted on his face, watched Omi work. Although it was fascinating to see the kid cruise so effortlessly into and out of classified, personal information, Aya had a feeling where this little expedition down the information highway was going to lead. Right into Hell. And, he was pretty sure he didn't want to be along for the ride.

After another few moments, Omi's efforts generated a street address.

"Lookit this," Omi said, pointing at his monitor, "This asshole lives right here in Tokyo. Isn't this street near here?"

"Omi," Aya cautioned, "You can't do this. You can't use Kritiker programs to track down some poor idiot who had the misfortune to outbid you on some stupid auction. And, what're you gonna do, anyhow? Go down there and break his legs?"

"No. Not break his legs. Just … maybe … you know … let him know what he did wasn't … nice. Or something," Omi replied. His tone was defensive and a bit sullen, indicating that, perhaps, leg breaking had been on his mind.

"You can't do that. Just stop and think for one second, here. You're an assassin. You can't just run around terrorizing innocent people because they happened to win something you wanted. It's not right," Aya said, with an emphatic shake of his head to emphasize his words.

"Oh, really? Well, that's not all he won," Omi commented. He turned around in time to catch the raised-eyebrow, questioning look Aya gave him, and said, with a shrug, "Remember that moldy old book you were so hot to get?"

"Yeah …" Aya replied, his tone taking on a wary edge. He was pretty sure he didn't want to hear the rest of Omi's statement.

"Well, this guy won that, too."

For about two heartbeats, only the whirring sound of Omi's computer processor broke the silence in the room. Aya leaned forward and took another look at the address Omi's research had discovered.

"Pull up that map program," he said, nodding toward the monitor. "That street name does look familiar."

---

"Maybe you left them in your coat pocket, Aya," Omi said, for the sixth time since they had entered the kitchen.

The boy's mouth twisted sideways in a sarcastic-looking frown and he rolled his eyes at the ceiling when Aya only responded with a shake of his head. He tried to hide the gesture from the redhead, but Aya saw him, anyhow. The quiet swordsman stopped pawing through the junk mail Ken had left scattered across the counter near the exit door, and glared at Omi for a second or two. The youngest Weiss shrugged and gave what he hoped was a sheepish-looking smile in return. He didn't want to fight with Aya, not right now. Not when they were unified and about to undertake a mission of their own choosing, for a change.

As soon as Aya turned his attention back to the mess scattered across the kitchen counter, Omi muttered, "Geez, you're so fucking stubborn."

The words were uttered under his breath, but, even so, Aya paused for a fraction of a second. He didn't bother turning around again, but his hand hovered over its task just long enough to let Omi know he had heard the half-hearted insult.

"No. I know I left them in here. On the counter. I always leave them on the counter. Always," Aya commented.

His absent-minded tone of voice indicated he was speaking more to himself than to Omi, but the accompanying shoulder shrug seemed to acknowledge that, maybe, the blond hacker had a point. Aya knew he was being stubborn. He had been looking for his car keys for at least ten minutes now, with no success. Maybe he had left them in his coat pocket. Maybe, he couldn't go look now, just because Omi had suggested it, and he hated being wrong about anything, even something as small as this. Aya knew that was exactly what Omi was thinking. The teenager's exasperated sigh and eye-roll toward the ceiling had told him as much.

Aya shook his head, a motion so slight as to be unnoticeable. No. No, he was sure he had left them in here. He remembered, plain as anything, walking into the kitchen and tossing the keys right onto this counter. He remembered hearing their metallic clink as they slid across the slick surface. It wasn't just stubbornness on his part. He was sure they were here.

Of course, that had been a day ago, and this stack of paper hadn't been on the counter then. At least, he didn't think it had been. Aya paused and glanced around the kitchen. The room was a wreck. Dirty dishes filled both sinks and spilled over to the neighboring counters. More dishes littered the table that occupied the middle of the room. Aya could only see small patches of the worn, golden wood peeking through beneath stacks of pots and pans and an odd assortment of trash --- empty Gatorade bottles, empty beer bottles, empty soda cans, used-up paper plates, candy wrappers, and what looked like the pages from a discarded mission file. Some of the trash spilled off the table's surface to clutter the floor underneath it and around the four matching, wooden chairs. The counter nearest the exit door, which Aya leaned against during this brief survey, wasn't any better. It didn't have any dishes on it, but it looked like all the junk mail in the universe had picked this spot in which to die. The pile of overstuffed envelopes, promising this or that fantastic vacation deal, credit card offers, advertisements, and who knew what else, had to be at least three or four inches deep. Aya shook his head in wonder. Sure, they had been working almost non-stop for the past month or so, but still … when did things get this bad? Were they like this yesterday, and he had just failed to notice it? Could he have been that tired? Or, were they really that slobbish --- that they could destroy a room this completely in a little over a day?

He glanced to his right, where Omi lounged against the doorjamb leading from their living room into the kitchen. The young blond had been standing there for the past ten minutes, hands in his pockets, watching as Aya pawed through a mountain of junk mail and other assorted crap on the great key search. As far as he could tell, Omi hadn't moved even a fraction of an inch, and the teenager wore a bored expression that, even so, seemed tinged with an underlying bit of amusement.

Aya's eyes narrowed in just the fraction of an inch that, for him, indicated a change from his normal facial expression to an irritated frown.

"You could help, you know," he commented, sending one of his best death glares in Omi's direction.

Omi shrugged, unfazed by Aya's irritated expression. "I'm not the keeper of your keys," he replied.

Omi had to admit he was rather enjoying watching Mr. Perfect flounder around searching for his keys amid all this clutter. For one thing, Aya, who was always perfectly put-together … never a hair out of place, never so much as a speck of lint on his clothing … looked so awkward in the middle of their ransacked kitchen. That was funny enough, on its own. When he added in the fact that Aya almost never lost or misplaced anything … well, that made the whole situation too deliciously funny to ignore. He tried to keep the teasing, rather amused, tone out of his voice, but, when Aya sighed in disgust before turning back toward the cluttered counter in front of him, Omi knew he had failed. Still, he had seen the ghost of a smile play across Aya's mouth just before the redhead had turned away. That was enough to tell him Aya wasn't mad, and that his teammate also saw the amusing irony in the situation.

"Who do we have to thank for this god-awful mess, anyhow?" Aya asked, as he shoved aside a stack of envelopes and reached behind the canister of rice that stood on the counter, pushed back against the wall. He pulled the container out a fraction of an inch and felt around behind it, all the while looking at Omi, his raised-eyebrow expression indicating he expected the archer to know exactly what had happened to their kitchen.

Omi shrugged again. "All of us, I guess. But, mostly … Ken. It's been his turn for the past month or so to clean up the kitchen. And, I guess he just didn't do it."

"I thought it was Yohji's turn," Aya muttered, shaking his head in irritation as his search behind the rice failed to turn up the elusive set of keys. With a sigh of resignation, he pulled the next canister, this one full of flour, away from the wall and began to feel around behind it.

Omi shook his head. "No. Well, it was, but Ken traded with him. I think. I don't know. Why don't you ask them?" He placed emphasis on "them", indicating how foolish he thought it was for Aya to expect him to know everything that went on around the house.

"Why?" Aya asked. "You always know what everyone's doing. Like some sort of stalker house mother or something."

Omi's eyebrows shot up at Aya's statement. He regarded the older man with an irritated, yet dubious, expression, although Aya's back was turned to him, and the impact of Omi's facial contortions was lost on the redhead. He wondered, for a second or two, whether or not Aya had intended the words as an insult. But, in the end, he decided against it. The swordsman's absent-minded, half-muttered tone of voice had indicated Aya wasn't thinking about what he was saying. The words had just slipped out, almost of their own accord. Omi wasn't sure if Aya even realized what he had said. And, besides, it was true. Omi did make a point of keeping up with his teammates' activities. For one thing, he was the team tactician, and he felt keeping tabs on them was part of his job in that respect. But, really, if he was to be honest with himself, he had to admit he did it because he cared about the rest of them. He knew Ken kept tabs on him, too, and on Yohji, to a certain extent, although the soccer-loving brunette couldn't seem to care less what Aya was up to at any given moment. Yohji functioned as Aya's second shadow a lot of the time, and Omi knew the blond playboy had a vague idea of what he and Ken were up to, too, most of the time. Omi figured Aya generally knew what Yohji was doing, but he had a sneaking suspicion the redhead didn't pay a lot of attention to either him or Ken. For all his perceptiveness and intelligence, Aya could also be a bit unobservant when it came to his teammates. Omi didn't think it was a lack of caring on Aya's part. On the contrary, he thought Aya cared a lot, in his own way. But, he also thought Aya felt unwelcome in his life and in Ken's, most of the time. The young blond sighed under his breath, a soft sound that didn't carry across the space separating him from Aya. Really, when he thought about it, Omi had to admit Aya was right. He and Ken hadn't done much to make the swordsman feel welcome. True, it was partly Aya's fault, for being so closed-off and hard to get along with … but, still, they could have made a bit more of an effort.

The kitchen door swung in with enough force to cause the knob to hit the nearest counter and ratchet off of it with a noise like a gunshot. Omi and Aya both jumped and whirled toward the sound, tensed and ready to fight, if necessary. It was an involuntary reaction, born from years of experience in Weiss's shadowy world. You just don't make a sound like that around assassins and expect them not to react.

Yohji stood in the doorway, reeking of stale smoke and even staler perfume, and grinning like a fool at having startled the crap out of his two teammates.

"Wow, you girls sure are tense," the tall blond drawled, his lips curling around his lit cigarette as he forced the words through clenched teeth.

He leaned against the doorway, pulling the cig from his mouth long enough to turn aside and flick ashes onto the step behind him as he chuckled at the sight of the half-startled, half-irritated expression on Aya's face. He couldn't help it. Yohji loved nothing better than getting a genuine, emotional reaction out of his stoic friend.

"You stupid fuck," Aya muttered. He tried to make the words sound intimidating by putting a slight growl of irritation into his tone of voice, but he failed. His heart was still beating too hard from the recent shock, and he knew he sounded more shaken up than anything else.

Yohji laughed, a low, throaty rumble of a chuckle that, from anyone else, would have been disgusting. But, coming from the debonair playboy, it was nothing short of drop-dead sexy. The fond expression that played through his eyes, along with the amused smile that curled around his lips made it clear Yohji wasn't fooled or taken aback by Aya's display of attitude. He knew Aya better than anyone else, and he always knew where he stood with the surly redhead. Aya wasn't really mad at him. The quiet swordsman's first reaction to being startled or surprised was always to go on the offensive.

"Who peed on your Cheerios?" Yohji asked as he came the rest of the way into the kitchen and pushed the door closed behind him.

Aya half-frowned and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling in an exasperated expression. He wasn't going to dignify Yohji's little joke with a response. That was just what the blond idiot wanted, and he'd be damned before he'd give it to him. Still, for some reason, Aya found he wasn't really mad at Yohji. If it had been Ken, or even Omi, who had done that with the door, he would've been all over them for scaring the piss out of him for no reason. But, with Yohji, somehow, it didn't seem like that big of a deal. Had he really become that fond of the smooth-talking playboy? Aya had sworn, after his parents' deaths and his sister's injury, that he'd never have friends. He'd never let anyone get that close to him. He couldn't. He couldn't take the pain if anything ever happened to them. But, somehow, Yohji had wormed past his emotional defenses and made a permanent place for himself in Aya's life. It was exasperating and frightening, but, at the same time, Aya was enough of a realist to admit it was also something he needed.

"What the hell are you doing home?" Aya asked, glancing across the room, toward the clock on the stove. "It's not even ten."

Yohji shrugged and stretched, a lazy, cat-like motion that seemed to start midway up his spine and keep on going until his fingertips reached for the ceiling.

"Eh … The club was boring tonight. All three of them. No action," he replied, with a dismissive shake of his head.

Omi had to work hard to hold back the snicker he felt building inside him. Yohji had tried to get Aya to go out clubbing with him, earlier that evening, but the redhead had refused, insisting he wanted to stay in for a quiet night of reading. Judging from Yohji's mannerisms at the moment, Omi guessed it was a pretty safe bet that the lanky blond had come back for the sole purpose of checking on his homebody teammate. Omi couldn't help but wonder whether or not Aya was surprised by Yohji's appearance here in the kitchen. The quiet swordsman looked surprised, but he would have figured Aya, of all people, would understand Yohji's motives. Still, Omi reminded himself, Aya was pretty unobservant, especially when it came to people's positive feelings toward him. He seemed to expect everyone to hate him, and, when someone thought of him as a friend, like Yohji did, Aya seemed shocked and a bit amazed. For some reason, at that moment, the whole thing struck Omi as more than a little sad, and that feeling managed to choke back the snicker that had been building at Yohji's antics. All of a sudden, he just didn't feel like laughing.

Aya stared at Yohji in confusion. "What? You mean, you didn't find even one girl to camp out with for the night? You? Not even one?" The redhead uttered the words in the same tone of voice someone might use to report that the sky had, in fact, just fallen … an event almost as unlikely as Yohji Kudou not finding a willing playmate for the evening.

Yohji shrugged again and crossed the two or three steps separating him from Aya. He sidled around the younger man, and with a crooked grin that seemed to curl from the cigarette still clamped in the middle of his mouth out to the edges of his lips, he draped himself over Aya's shoulders, leaning heavily on the younger man. Aya regarded the tall blond with a one-eyebrow-quirked expression of disdain, but he stood still, arms crossed across his chest, and suffered Yohji's physical contact.

Yohji leaned in, and, in a husky stage whisper, muttered, "Well, if I had found anyone as pretty as you, Aya … maybe I would still be there. In fact, I might not have come home at all." He allowed his lips to just brush the bottom of Aya's ear as the words flowed out of his mouth, smooth as silk.

Aya muttered some unintelligible, curse-word-ridden response, his words lost in a snort of disgust as he planted his palm against Yohji's face and shoved the tall blond away from him. Without so much as a second glance at their newly-arrived teammate, Aya returned to pawing through the junk mail stacks in search of his keys. Yohji, laughing at the little joke he had played on Aya, crossed the kitchen to toss his spent cigarette into the overflowing ashtray beside the sink. He then returned to stand next to the redhead. With an amused expression, he leaned back against the counter, long legs crossed at the ankles, and watched his friend search through the overstuffed envelopes and scraps of paper. Yohji glanced over toward Omi, and laughed out loud at the archer's shocked expression and the blush coloring the young blond's cheeks. Aya looked up at the sound of Yohji's short, sharp guffaw and followed the playboy's gaze.

"I think you've given Omi a brain melt-down," Aya commented. "You should have a little mercy. I don't think the kid's ready for full-on Yohji Kudou bullshit mode. Not just yet."

"Whatever," Omi replied.

He did his best to spit out the word, as if there was no way anyone could have believed the farce his two teammates had just put on, but he could hear the slight tremble around the edge of his voice, even if Yohji and Aya didn't seem to notice it. He wasn't sure what was more shocking --- that Yohji had dared to pull such a joke on Aya, or that the surly redhead had stood there and let it happen. Either way, Omi figured Yohji had to have balls of steel to pull a stunt like that, and the gods' own luck to get away with it.

"You guys should put on your little show for the after-school crowd. I bet we'd get even more business than usual," Omi said. He was glad he managed to keep his voice casual and his tone matter-of-fact. As it was, he figured he would have nightmares about this little scene for some time to come.

"Yeah, right," Aya snorted. "It'd only bring in more fangirls to stand around and use up all the oxygen in the shop without buying anything."

From the tone in his voice, Omi wondered if, maybe, Aya would put on their little act, if he thought it would bring more money into the shop. He knew the swordsman was more than a little fond of cash, mostly because he needed a lot of it to pay for his sister's medical care. Still, Omi would have thought even Aya had some limits. Yohji, on the other hand … Omi glanced back over at the tall blond, who was still leering at him from a few paces away. Yeah. Yohji was a hopeless lech. He would hit on anything and anyone, just to see if it would get him somewhere.

Yohji fumbled in his shirt pocket and pulled out a crinkled package of cigarettes. He tapped out one of the sticks, but, instead of lighting it, just rolled it between his index finger and thumb before popping it into his mouth.

"So?" the tall blond asked. "What about you two gals?"

He glanced from Aya, who had moved his key search from the junk mail-strewn counter to the cluttered tabletop, to Omi, who continued to lean against the door jamb, and was watching Aya's search with an expression of barely concealed irritation. Both Aya and Omi wore dark-colored jackets layered over black t-shirts and dark jeans. A pair of Omi's gray sneakers, along with Aya's favorite motorcycle boots, rested just inside the kitchen door, as if the duo had dropped the footwear there in preparation for donning them on their way out of the house. Not the most fashionable clothing, Yohji had to concede, but it looked like Omi and Aya were on their way out on some errand. Yohji didn't think it was a pleasure jaunt. For one thing, he couldn't imagine Aya and Omi choosing to do anything together for fun. Sure, they liked each other well enough, but their personalities were just too different. For another, both of his teammates had a purposeful air about them. The tension that seemed to radiate off of each of them told the tall blond Aya and Omi were up to something.

"You guys going out? Run out of ice cream, or something? Or, maybe, you're off to do something … else?" Yohji asked, his tone taking on an inquisitive, leading edge as he emphasized the last word in his statement, as if to say he knew exactly what they were up to.

"Yeah," Omi replied. "We're going out. Eventually." He nodded toward Aya, who was still leaning over the table, shoving pots and pans aside in an effort to look at everything scattered on top of it.

"Aya, what the fuck are you doing, anyhow?" Yohji asked.

Aya straightened up and sighed. It irritated him to no end to have to admit this, but he saw no choice now. Maybe Yohji would let them borrow his car.

"Looking for my keys," Aya replied, his voice taking on an icy edge that seemed to dare Yohji to make something of the statement.

"Oh," Yohji said. He paused for a moment, and then added, "Maybe they're in your other jacket or something."

Aya glared at Omi as the young blond started snickering. He glanced back over at Yohji and said, his voice level and matter-of-fact, "I hate you, Yohji Kudou."

Yohji shrugged, not in the least upset by his best friend's confession. "So," he asked, "Where're you going? I thought you were both staying in tonight. And, why are you dressed like that? You guys didn't get some sort of mission or something, did you?" Neither Aya nor Omi wore their wet work gear, but, still, Yohji couldn't think of many activities that required the dark color palette both assassins sported.

"No," Omi said, with a sigh and a stifled groan as he watched Aya move the key search to the counter next to the sink, "It's not a mission. It's nothing, really."

"Doesn't look like nothing," Yohji said, spearing Omi with a suspicious look. "Looks like something to me."

Omi sighed. He had hoped to keep this outing just between him and Aya. He still thought paying a visit to Mr. Frernoir was a good idea, but, after having to stop long enough for Aya's key hunt, Omi had to admit his temper had cooled a bit. Not that he was going to back down. He was still pissed as hell over his Ebay loss, but, he was also starting to see the foolishness in this plan of theirs. If Aya's search dragged on much longer, or, if Yohji made fun of their intended expedition, Omi thought he might lose the courage to do it, altogether.

"We're going to go pay a visit on someone," Aya said. The sudden sound of his voice caused both Omi and Yohji to jump, as neither of them had expected any response out of the quiet redhead.

"Who?" Yohji asked. "Anyone I know?"

Omi shook his head. "No. It's no one we know, either. Not yet, anyhow."

Yohji gave Omi a puzzled, inquiring look, clearly expecting the boy to continue his little story. Omi sighed again, this time, in resignation, and told Yohji everything, starting from losing Aya's book a few weeks ago, to losing the cel tonight, right down to tracking his Ebay nemesis and deciding to pay the guy a visit.

By the time Omi finished his tale, Yohji was staring at him with an expression of total disbelief written across his face. He took the unlit cig out of his mouth and, once again, rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, as if lost in deep thought, although the expression on his face seemed to say "shell shocked" more than "deep thinker". After a few moments, during which the only sound in the room was the hum of the refrigerator and the mechanical buzz of the clock on the stove, Yohji stuck the cigarette back between his lips. He glanced from Omi to Aya, as if waiting for some kind of additional explanation. Maybe he expected them to tell him it was all a big joke so they could all laugh about it and then go their separate ways for the evening. Yohji wasn't quite sure what he expected, but, whatever it was, it wasn't this --- stony silence filling in the gaps in the room and telling him his two teammates were serious about this hare-brained idea. If he didn't know better, he would've thought both of them had lost their minds.

"And, you went along with this?" Yohji asked Aya, his tone incredulous.

It seemed like Aya had, finally, given up on finding his keys. Instead of searching through the mess around the sink, he now leaned back against that counter and regarded Yohji with a cold, appraising glare. But, his only response to the tall blond's question was a shrug of assent.

"Have you both lost your fucking minds!" Yohji exclaimed, once again glancing from Aya to Omi, and then back again.

"No," Omi replied, managing to keep his voice even and free of the angry, defensive feeling he felt building inside him. "Look this guy deserves something. Every auction I've bid on, for the past couple of months, this guy snipes. Every auction. Enough is enough. Someone has to do something."

Yohji shook his head, giving physical manifestation to the disbelief he had expressed on his face and in his tone of voice.

"I can't fucking believe this," he muttered, under his breath, as if talking to himself. He glared at his two teammates, turning his head from one side of the room to the other to do so, and said, "You can't do this. It's totally nuts. Sure, maybe the guy is a pain in the ass or something. But, you're assassins. You have a responsibility here not to run off half-cocked over something as stupid as losing an auction."

"It's not stupid," Aya and Omi replied, in concert.

"It is stupid," Yohji said. He pointed at Aya. "I can't fucking believe you, of all people, are going to go along with this. This has got to be the most idiotic thing anyone in this household has ever done. Shit. What the holy hell is wrong with you, Aya? I would've thought you, at least, had more sense. Did you get hit in the head during our last mission or something?"

Yohji's words tumbled out of his mouth on a wave of angry sarcasm. He didn't mean to be cruel. He didn't mean to make fun of his teammates. Not really. But, he couldn't help it. Yohji had the sneaking suspicion that, if it had come down to this --- to him being the voice of reason in the house --- they were all doomed. And, he had to admit, the thought scared the piss out of him.

"I don't think you heard me correctly," Omi broke in, cutting Yohji's tirade off short. "I said he's sniped out all of my auctions for the past two months."

Yohji paused. He thought for a second or two, and then asked, "All of them?"

Omi nodded. "Every single one."

"And, what were you bidding on?" Aya asked, giving Yohji the smug, eyebrow-raised look of a man who has just seen the messiah, sent to save them all, fall right down into the mud with the rest of the poor devils.

Yohji sighed. His eyes took on a misty, far-away look, tinged with the residual pain of recalling a loss so sudden and cruel that he would, likely, never recover from it.

"A lighter," he said. In response to the flabbergasted expression of utter disbelief that crossed Aya's face, Yohji shrugged and said, "A Zippo lighter. With the most delicious, feminine morsel engraved on the side. It was a limited edition collector's item. Her tits lit up when you turned the lighter on."

"A boobie lighter?" Aya asked, unable to keep the derisive tone from his voice.

"Yeah, so, what were you bidding on?" Yohji asked, sounding a lot more defensive than he would have liked.

"A very old, very rare book," Aya replied. His voice dripped with a smug superiority that made Yohji want to slug the younger man.

"Oh, yeah," Yohji said, his tone mocking, "Like that's so much better."

Yohji turned his attention to Omi, who was watching him with a hopeful expression that indicated he expected the tall blond to see the light and jump on the "burn the evil Ebay sniper" band wagon. And, Yohji had to admit, now that he knew the whole story, he could see the merits in Aya and Omi's plan. Heck, he was halfway to being one of the village mob, himself. All he needed was his own torch. He thought about the situation for a long few seconds.

"All right," Yohji said, straightening up from where he had been leaning back against the counter. "You'll never find your keys in all this crap. I'll have to drive."

---

Yohji had just turned to reach for the doorknob when, for the second time that evening, the door slammed open. The chain-smoking blond yelped in surprise and jumped backward just in time to avoid hitting his head on the edge of the door, which had become a knife-edged, wooden missile under the force of the shove propelling it into the kitchen. As it was, Yohji's hand, trailing a bit behind the rest of his body as he jumped out of the way, smacked into the doorknob with a solid-sounding thud that was enough to make everyone in the room wince. The tall blond rubbed at the injured appendage and glared at Ken, who stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the streetlights that lit the alley behind the Koneko.

Ken gave Yohji a sheepish grin. "Ooops. Sorry 'bout that. I didn't realize anyone was there."

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other and uttered a half-hearted laugh, as if to pass the incident off as some sort of accidental joke, but it came out sounding more uncomfortable and uncertain than humorous. After a few seconds of squirming under the weight of Yohji's intense, angry glare, Ken shrugged and ran his fingers through his hair in a self-conscious gesture that seemed to highlight the awkwardness of the moment. With another sheepish grin at Yohji, who was blocking the doorway, he shouldered past the tall blond into the kitchen. He stopped about ten steps into the room, coming to stand next to Omi, who had been bringing up the rear as he, Yohji, and Aya headed out the door.

"Hey, what's up, anyhow? You guys all going somewhere?" Ken asked, directing his inquiry to the youngest Weiss member.

Yohji glanced over his shoulder as he, once again, started for the open door. "Yeah. We're headed out to bitch-slap some little shit who's been sniping all of Omi's Ebay auctions," he commented, before Omi had a chance to respond.

"All of 'em?" Ken asked, giving Omi an eyebrows-raised, questioning glance that seemed packed with hidden meaning.

Omi nodded.

"Cool!" Ken exclaimed, smacking his right fist into the palm of his left hand, in imitation of hitting someone. "I'm in!"

Yohji stared at his excitable brunette teammate for a moment or two. He hadn't missed the look that had passed between Omi and Ken. Neither of the two youngest assassins had said anything out loud, but there was a lot of meaning behind that glance. And, Yohji, being the perceptive ex-PI that he was, had a pretty good idea of what it was.

"And, just what did you bid on for Ken, Omi?" Yohji asked.

The tall blond chuckled when Aya turned to regard Ken with an expression of surprise. If it had been anyone else, Yohji would have thought they were acting, but he knew Aya's shock wasn't feigned. Even though the redhead had been standing right there, in the same room with them, and had seen the meaningful glance that passed between Omi and Ken, Yohji had no doubt Aya hadn't given it a second thought. For someone who was so smart and observant, Aya could be pretty dull at times.

Omi shook his head slowly from side to side, in the kind of reluctant gesture one uses when forced to share embarrassing information.

"A soccer ball. An …autographed … soccer ball," Omi replied. His voice was hesitant, as if he was searching for just the right words. Or, maybe, he was hoping Yohji would drop the subject at that simple explanation.

Yohji, of course, had no intention of doing any such thing. "Autographed by whom?" he asked.

Omi sighed in resignation and shook his head again. "Ken Hidaka."

It took a full second or two before the meaning behind Omi's words sank in for Aya and Yohji. For the span of a heartbeat, or, maybe, two, the kitchen was quiet, except for the buzz of the icemaker as it sprang to life in the background. Then, Aya groaned and brought the palm of his left hand up to his face, covering his eyes as he shook his head in an expression of disbelief. At the same time, Yohji began to laugh. It started as a small snicker, but, before he could choke it down, it had rolled out of control into a side-splitting guffaw. Yohji laughed until tears streamed from his eyes and he had to grab hold of the countertop to maintain his balance. After a few minutes, he managed to bring himself back under control, but, when he glanced over at Ken's blank expression, he started laughing all over again.

"What?" Ken asked. "What's so funny?"

Yohji shook his head in response. He wanted to answer, mainly because showing Ken, in no uncertain terms, what an idiot he had been was just down right fun. But, he couldn't stop laughing long enough to speak.

"You … you … tell him," he finally managed to gasp out. He waved his hand in Aya's general direction, indicating a passing of the torch to the redhead.

Ken turned his attention toward Aya, who was giving him a disapproving glare, as if the swordsman couldn't believe anyone could be as moronic as their brunette teammate.

Even Omi had begun to snicker.

"What?" Ken asked again. "What's the big deal? Why's it so funny?" His voice ratcheted up an octave or two, and his words sounded defensive and angry. Ken never had liked being the brunt of anyone's jokes … especially when he didn't even understand what the joke was.

Aya sighed, an exasperated sound that huffed out of his body with enough force to make it seem loud, even over Yohji's continuing laughter and Omi's snickering.

"You bid on a ball … with your own autograph on it," Aya said, his tone indicating that this should, of course, be sufficient explanation for anyone with half a brain.

"Yeah … so?" Ken asked.

Aya rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. He could not believe even Ken was this dense.

"How many times a day do you sign your name to something, Ken? A hundred? Two hundred?" Aya asked.

"I guess," Ken replied. "What of it? I still don't get what's the big deal."

Aya sighed again. It was clear his patience was wearing thin.

"So … why bid on an autographed ball on Ebay, when you could just go to the sporting goods store down the street, buy a brand new ball, and sign it for yourself, you stupid fuck!" he snapped.

Ken just stared at the redhead for a moment or two. His expression indicated that he, still, didn't understand what was so funny about trying to purchase a ball with your own signature on it.

"Yeah, but, this was a game ball," Ken said, as if that explained everything.

Yohji managed to get his laughter under control at last. He reached up under his sunglasses frames and swiped at the tears gathered in his eyes as he shook his head and commented, "Forget it."

A wave of Yohji's hand cut Aya off before the redhead could respond to Ken's statement.

"He's hopeless. Just leave it. He'll never get it," Yohji continued, as he grabbed Aya's arm and shoved the irritated swordsman toward the open door. "Let's just go and get this over with, already."

---

"There … it's that one. I think," Omi said.

He was in Seven's back seat, next to Ken, and, as he spoke, he leaned forward, draping one arm over the back of the passenger seat and across Aya's shoulder. He squinted as he tried to read the house numbers along the darkened street.

"Yep. That's the one," Omi confirmed, pointing toward the third house on the left-hand side of the street. His arm bumped across Aya's face as he did so, and the red-head batted it away, grumbling a nearly unintelligible string of curse words, in the process.

Yohji slowed Seven to a puttering crawl as they passed in front of the house. It was a small, disreputable-looking building. Like most of the houses on this particular street, it was built in the Western style --- square, wooden, and with a peaking, shingled roof, but, otherwise, non-descript. It was hard to tell in the phosphorescent-like glow from the street lights lining the sidewalk, but it appeared the house had, at one time, been painted a cheery shade of yellow, with white trim. Now, the paint peeled away in large chunks from the wood beneath it, and the cheerful color had faded to a dull, listless beige hue. Unlike its neighbors on either side, their target house had a small courtyard, surrounded by an ornate iron fence, just off the front door. It was obvious that, at one time, the fencing around the little yard had been very fine. It was full of patterns, scrolls, and flourishes, all executed in a delicate and detailed manner, which attested to the skill of the metal smith who had created it. But, like the house it guarded, the fence had long-since passed its glory days. Thick, dark-red rust clogged the once-pristine curves in the fence's design, and, although it remained standing, it was pretty clear the metal was losing its struggle with the elements and time. The fence creaked and swayed with the slightest breeze, like a worn, old soldier who has been on guard duty for a century or more, just waiting for someone to relieve him so that he can take his well-earned rest. A double gate joined the two sides of the fence in front of the house, permitting entry into the courtyard and the building beyond. Although the left half of the gate remained closed, the right half sagged off its hinges, dragging in the dirt. Through this opening, the four assassins could see the remnants of a garden gone to seed --- weed-infested and overgrown, with plants of all kinds tumbling over each other, fighting for that one extra inch of space that meant the difference between life and death.

"It doesn't look like anyone's at home," Yohji commented, nodding toward their destination.

The curtains were closed on all the windows fronting the street, and there didn't seem to be any tell-tale golden glow of light coming from behind them. The streetlight almost directly in front of the house illuminated the building's façade enough so that the four assassins could see an overhead light affixed above the house's front door. But, it was not turned on. All in all, the place looked like it had been deserted for a number of years.

"You sure this is the right address?" Yohji asked, his voice taking on a dubious tone.

Omi nodded, although the tall blond couldn't see the gesture in the car's darkened interior. "Yeah, I'm sure," he replied, leaning forward a little more, between Seven's front seats, so that he could peer through the windshield at the house in front of them.

As they passed the house up, Omi sighed and said, "I'm pretty sure it's the right address. Maybe … maybe circle around the block or something. Come back around and we can double-check."

As Yohji grunted his assent and stepped on the gas, easing Seven into a purring pace, Aya turned his attention to the surroundings that flashed by outside the car's windows. This was a bad neighborhood. The streets were clean and litter-free, but that was where any semblance of order ended. Most of the houses had peeling, cracked paint, broken shutters, crumbling porches, and sagging walls. The yards, what little there was of them, were either overgrown with weeds or plagued with brown patches, where it looked like nothing would ever grow again. He caught sight of two or three stray cats, slinking from shadow to shadow on some secret, life-or-death mission. As they turned the corner, a group of teenage boys glanced up at the sound of the car's approaching engine, watching with expectant expressions on their faces. Perhaps they were waiting for a drug deal to go down and thought that, maybe, this was their connection … or, maybe, they were just looking for a nice car to steal and someone to rob. The kids all wore similar clothing --- jeans, leather jackets, heavy biker boots, and t-shirts, all in some combination of the colors red, white, and black. Despite their youth, the teens had a rough, seasoned look about them. Aya wasn't sure exactly what it was, but he figured it was something about their eyes that struck him as cold and dead, as if these kids had already seen and done too many things in their young lives. He wondered how long it would be before he looked down into the face of one of these boys, speared on the end of his sword, and watched as the final flicker of life fled from their eyes. He shuddered and shook his head to rid himself of these dark thoughts.

"You okay?" Yohji asked, as Seven purred past the group of street-tough hoodlums.

Aya nodded, not trusting his voice, and watched in the side mirror as Seven drew away from the group. The boys grew smaller, and, then, faded into the black of the night surrounding them.

It didn't take more than five or six minutes to circle the block and, once again, approach the house. Yohji slowed the car almost to a stop as they neared the building.

"So?" he asked.

"No, I'm positive," Omi replied. "That's the address, for sure. Maybe we should find a spot along the street and wait for a bit, to see if anyone comes home."

Yohji nodded his agreement, the red-orange glow of his ever-present cigarette bobbing up and down with the motion of his head, painting swirling images in the dark. He backed up a few feet and popped Seven into a parking spot across from the target house, guiding the powerful car with the ease and grace that came from years of practice behind the wheel.

As the tall blond turned off the engine, Ken's voice floated up from the back seat for the first time during this little nighttime adventure.

"Uh … I'm not sure we want to just sit around out here like this. I mean, this really isn't a very good neighborhood or anything."

Yohji chuckled --- that rough, rumbling, phlegmy laugh that the ladies loved. "What's wrong, Ken-Ken? You afraid of the dark?"

He didn't even try to keep the sarcastic, mocking tone from his voice, and Ken felt his cheeks burn red with an embarrassed flush as Aya snickered in response to Yohji's taunt.

"No," Ken replied, his voice taking on a defensive timbre that made him wince. "Not the dark. It's just that … this place … the way it is … makes you think, maybe, something really bad is lurking around out here."

"Yeah," Aya replied, his voice soft and tinged with a ghost of a laugh that seemed to wrap around the words and give them an unexpected warmth. "Like us."

---

After about ten minutes of sitting in the darkened car with his teammates, Aya had a sudden, vivid recollection of why he hated stake-outs. Because he wasn't talkative, people tended to assume he was a patient person, but nothing could be further from the truth. If he was on the hunt, in the middle of a mission, actively stalking his prey, then, yes, he was more than willing to bide his time and wait for the exact right moment to strike. That was more a matter of self preservation, though. It was a hard fact of life when you worked at the kind of night job he had --- you either picked your moment of truth with the target well, or you didn't live to pick again. But, for something like this --- sitting around in a dark, chilly car, just waiting to see if, maybe, something was going to happen --- it made him crazy. He hated it. It made him feel edgy and jumpy, and, when he felt like that, the urge to kill something --- anything --- just to relieve the tension, seemed to surge up within him, until he had to struggle to keep it under control. It was times like this when he was likely to go off half-cocked and get into the kind of trouble that might be more than even he could handle. He stared out the passenger side window and almost wished the teenage gangsters he had seen earlier, farther down the block, would approach the car and try to start something. Then, at least, he would be doing something, instead of sitting here, in this cramped, dark car, breathing in air turned stale from Yohji's cigarette smoke, and listening to the sound of his life tick away, one heartbeat at a time.

At least it was quiet --- for the moment, anyhow. He could hear the sound of Ken and Omi's breathing coming from the back seat, soft and almost inaudible. If they hadn't been sitting in such close proximity, he wouldn't have heard it at all. He could hear the crackling noise of Yohji's cigarette, and the soft, almost whispered breath of air as the tall blond exhaled smoke toward the driver's side window, which was open a little, just enough of a crack to let most of the noxious fumes escape into the chilly night air. Yohji had put Seven's top up tonight, to ward off the wet-feeling chill in the air, and, in the car's close confines, Aya could smell Omi's shampoo --- a fresh, clean scent, almost like baby powder … Ken's unique, earthy scent --- like freshly cut grass … and Yohji, who always smelled like a mixture of stale smoke, perfume, and booze. The redhead tried to will his mind to grab onto Yohji's scent and the familiar sounds of the tall blond smoking, to use these comforting smells and noises to center and calm himself. But, it was no use. Even without conversation, the car seemed to be closing in on him. Already, the windows were fogging up, the result of warm breath striking the chilled glass; the air felt more and more stale, until he thought he would choke to death on it if he tried to breathe it in; and Aya thought he would either have to scream or bolt from the car in order to keep his sanity. He fidgeted in his seat, earning him a sharp, concerned glance from Yohji, which he saw out of the corner of his eye as he turned his back toward the tall blond and leaned his head against the cool glass of the passenger side window.

If it had just been Yohji in the car with him, Aya figured, that would have been okay. Usually, when the team had to gather information in this manner, they split the stake-outs into two shifts. He worked with Yohji, and Omi and Ken worked together. That had always suited Aya just fine. It wasn't that he had anything against either Omi or Ken. He just wasn't as comfortable around them as he was with Yohji. The chain-smoking playboy didn't look or act the part, but he was a man who was comfortable with himself --- comfortable enough that he didn't need to fill the air with useless words and inane chatter. Aya respected that. No, more than that, Aya liked it. Sitting in a car, for hours on end, watching some boring warehouse or office building or whatever, didn't seem so bad when the silence that stretched between them was normal and comfortable … not tense and unhealthy, like it was tonight. Aya knew it was just a matter of time before Ken or Omi … or both … broke the quiet in the car, and he was dreading it. He figured hearing their voices would just remind him how many people were crammed into this tiny space, which, in turn, would make the air seem that much more unbreathable and lead to more nervous, fidgety behavior on his part.

"The windows are fogging up. People'll think we're making out or something. Plus, your smoke is killing me," Ken commented, his voice taking on a plaintive, whiney tone that made the hairs on the back of Aya's neck stand up and his teeth itch, it was so irritating.

The brunette jock's words seemed to float up from the back of the car and hang in the smoke-laden air between Seven's front seats. Although he had been expecting this break in the silence, Aya still felt his heart clench with dread, and he only just managed to stifle a low, miserable groan. He knew what was coming next --- the advent of ridiculous, inane chatter, Ken Hidaka-style. He wasn't sure he could take it, and he wondered, for the smallest fraction of a second, whether or not he could manage to bang his head against the window hard enough to render himself unconscious before Yohji stopped him.

'Probably not,' he decided, and, without saying a word, he rolled down his window.

He heard a slight squeaking noise from the driver's side of the car, followed by a sudden rush of cool, night air, and he knew Yohji had followed suit.

Quiet, broken by the sound of the wind and the small, scuttling noises of unseen urban wildlife going about their nightly business, once again descended on the car. It lasted for all of two minutes.

"I still don't get it. With the ball. What is the big deal, anyhow?"

Ken's voice cut through the car, destroying the final moment of peace and beginning the slow shredding of Aya's last nerve. The redhead tensed and, for a second or two, seriously thought about jumping out of the car and walking back up the block, to where he had seen the gangster kids hanging out. He figured he could either score some dope from them or pick a fight with them. Right now, both options seemed equally appealing.

"Ken, don't be a moron," Omi replied, in the same, gently chiding, tone of voice one might use to correct a stubborn child.

"You don't be a moron," Ken replied, his voice resembling that of a surly two-year-old who had just been denied a cookie.

"I'm not," Omi said, "But you are."

"I know you are, but what am I?" Ken replied.

"Oh, for the love of everything holy," Yohji snapped, turning around to glare into the back seat. "How old are you two, anyhow? Don't make me turn this car right around and go back home!"

The tall blond laughed a little at his own joke, and even Aya couldn't quite manage to suppress a small snicker, although both Ken and Omi stared at the older man with blank expressions. Yohji shrugged and sighed, shaking his head a little in a gesture that indicated just how slow and dull-witted he thought his two younger teammates were.

"I guess they never went on family trips as kids," Yohji commented, glancing over at Aya.

The redhead kept his attention on the scenery just outside the passenger-side window, but he responded to Yohji's statement with a shrug.

"Anyhow, it's stupid, Ken," Yohji continued, pausing to toss his spent cigarette through his open window and out onto the street, and, then, to light a new one, "Because you tried to spend good money on a ball with your own, fucking signature on it. You could have an autographed soccer ball anytime you wanted to, just by buying a ball and writing your name on it. You don't have to fucking bid on one."

Ken seemed to take a few moments to digest Yohji's explanation. Aya turned his head enough so that he could send a side-long glance toward the tall blond's side of the car. Yohji sat, staring out the driver's side window at the house they were watching and puffing on his cigarette. He looked like a man who didn't have a care in the world, and Aya couldn't help wondering how the older man managed to remain so calm in the face of Ken's determined idiocy.

"Yeah," Ken said, his voice hesitant, his tone stubborn and defensive, "But, that's different."

"No, it's not," Yohji replied, sounding, for all the world, like the voice of reason, which, somehow, scared Aya almost as much as Ken's stubborn stupidity.

"Yeah, it is," Ken said. "It's totally different. For one thing, that ball would be new. Never used. And, this one that I was bidding on was a game ball. I had actually played with it."

The note of smug triumph in the ex-jock's voice was what managed to fray Aya's last remaining shred of patience, pushing the redhead over the edge from irritated to all-out pissed off. Ken's argument was so moronic, it didn't deserve even the slightest amount of recognition, and, yet, the former soccer star clung to it with a stubborn tenacity Aya had seen exhibited only by the most willful toddlers. All of a sudden, Aya had this flash vision of what his near future would look like --- stuck in this car, fighting down surge after surge of claustrophobia-induced panic, listening to Ken's detailed, and yet, idiotic explanation of why it was perfectly normal to purchase your own signature off of Ebay. Aya couldn't take it any more. He knew, in that instant, if Ken didn't shut up, he was going to kill the stupid jock. He didn't think he'd be able to help himself, and he really didn't want to have to try and explain things to Kritiker. He wasn't sure he could come up with a plausible lie, and the truth was about as ridiculous as you could get. So, that settled it. Ken had to be quiet. And, he had to do it now. This instant. It really was a matter of life and death.

Aya turned to face the back seat, and speared the ex-goalie with a baleful death glare. "Then, you should just take the new ball out and kick it around. Preferably in heavy traffic," he snapped.

His voice was low and threatening. It was his assassin voice, and the words came out as more of a growl than anything else, so soft as to be almost inaudible, and, yet, the palpable threat that laced around them was enough to make even the most hardened fighter's blood run a bit cold.

Yohji stared at Aya for a few seconds, a mixture of amusement and genuine concern working across his handsome features.

"Here," Yohji drawled, after those tense moments of concentration. He pulled the cigarette from his own mouth and shoved it between Aya's lips. "You need this more than me. You're jumpy as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs or something, and you're creeping me out. So, chill."

Aya glared at the older man for a second or two. The tension between the two eldest Weiss members seemed to flare, and it looked like Aya might attack Yohji at any moment. Instead, the redhead sighed and shrugged, taking a long drag off the cigarette and blowing the smoke out into the chilly night air, through his open window.

At the sound of Ken's snicker, Yohji turned his attention to the back seat, spearing the giggling athlete with an angry look that promised a world of hurt in the very near future. It was enough to cause Ken to choke back his ill-timed laughter.

"And, you," Yohji said, pointing at his brunette teammate, "Shut the fuck up about that stupid ball. It was a dumb thing to bid on. Nothing you can say will make it seem any better. Accept that and move on already." He glanced over at Aya's profile and finished, "You'll live longer."

"It was kind of a silly thing to bid on," Omi, always the peacemaker, spoke up, trying to defuse a situation that had grown too tense too quickly. "But, then, I guess we all bid on kind of dumb things, now and again."

It was too dark in the car to see the kid's smile, but they all heard it in Omi's voice. And, his words had their intended effect. The tension that had suddenly built between the four of them evaporated. Ken gave a half-hearted, sheepish laugh and nodded his agreement. Yohji chuckled and, also, nodded assent, and even Aya shrugged in response.

After a few moments, Yohji broke the silence by asking, "Hey, Omi … you told me you lost out on a cel. But, you didn't say what show it was from."

"Oh," Omi said, his tone of voice brightening just a bit, "It was from Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust. Remember … that movie we all watched together a while back?"

Yohji thought about it for a second or two. "Was that the hentai one?"

"Uh, no," Omi replied, "You're the one who brought the hentai one."

"Oh, yeah," Yohji said, a rather salacious grin spreading across his face. "I liked that show. The hentai one, that is. Maybe I should rent that again."

Omi laughed. "You're hopeless. You know that?"

"Not hopeless. Hopeful," Yohji returned. "Anyhow, Vampire Hunter D. I do remember that one. The guy who was a half vampire, and he hunted vampires, right?"

"Yeah," Omi said, leaning forward to rest his arms on the back of Yohji's seat as he warmed to his favorite subject of conversation. "It was a cel of D … the main character. From that scene in the beginning of the movie where that Borghoff guy shoots the arrow at him."

"Oh, yeah," Yohji said, nodding. "I remember that scene. He catches it, right?"

"That's the one," Omi agreed.

"I liked that movie … very dark stuff," Yohji commented, his words muffled as he dipped his head a bit to light a new cigarette.

He paused long enough to take a drag off the smoldering stick, causing the red-orange embers at its tip to spring to life with a crackling noise that, all of a sudden, seemed big and loud in the car's quiet confines. After a moment or two of quiet contemplation, Yohji took the cigarette from his lips, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, and flicked some ash to the ground outside his window.

He stuck the smoldering stick back in his mouth as he continued, his words no more than a grumble, "Some hot chicks, too … except why all the clothes? Any anime is better with less clothes. At least, on the female characters."

"Spoken like a man who would bid on a boobie lighter," Aya commented, his tone dry, with just a touch of teasing sarcasm curling around the edges of his words.

Yohji jumped a little. After Aya's little blow-up at Ken, he had expected the younger man to brood in silence for the rest of the evening. It was a surprise when the red-head's deep voice rumbled to life out of the darkened interior, just a few inches away from him.

"Gimme another one of those," Aya said, nodding toward the pack of cigarettes Yohji had placed on Seven's dashboard. As he spoke, he tossed his spent butt out of the window.

Yohji shrugged, gave a slight nod, and passed the cigarettes and his lighter across to the passenger side of the car.

"Aya," Omi began, leaning forward a little so that he could get a better view of Aya's face, "Those are bad for you. You'll ruin your health. I didn't know you smoked." He used his reproachful, "mother-hen" voice and shook his head, as if to say he was deeply disappointed in his teammate.

Aya shrugged. "You don't know a lot of things about me. And, I'm not worried about my health. I'm sure I'll be dead long before I have a chance to develop lung cancer."

Omi frowned. "You have a really shitty attitude, Aya," he commented.

Aya tried to look serious and offended, but he didn't quite manage to suppress a little snicker. It worked its way out of his mouth with a small, snorting-choking sound.

Omi gave the swordsman the kind of look that said Aya had just sprouted two more heads. If that had been true, the young blond would, likely, have been less surprised than he was at hearing such an un-Aya-ish sound emerge from the swordsman's mouth. He knew Aya had a good sense of humor, appearances aside, but, even so, it seemed like he hardly ever heard the quiet man laugh. Whenever it happened, it was always a bit of a shock. For a moment, Omi wondered just what was in those cigarettes of Yohji's. Whatever it was, they had certainly had the desired calming effect on Aya, and Omi thought about asking for one, himself. It was a fleeting thought, gone in a heartbeat's length of time, but, for that moment, it was there, and it seemed like a pretty darn good idea.

"Anyhow," Omi continued, shaking his head to rid himself of the sudden, almost uncontrollable desire for one of Yohji's cigs, "It's such a great anime. The artwork … the storyline … the character designs. I've just started collecting from it, and the really nice cels are hard to find … and expensive. I thought I'd never see this particular shot up for sale, and I was surprised as hell when I saw it show up on Ebay, of all places. Some collector was selling off a big part of his collection, I guess. I'm never going to get over losing it, I don't think."

"It's just a piece of plastic," Yohji replied. "No reason to get so bent out of shape."

Omi gave the tall blond a sarcastic little frown. "Sure. Just like it was just a lighter," he quipped.

"A boobie lighter," Yohji corrected him. The older man smiled and gave his younger teammate a little, teasing wink, "But, you have a point, my little friend."

"No swordsman would wear a cape like that," Aya commented, out of the blue. "And, that hat. You couldn't fight with a hat that covered your eyes. You'd get killed in an instant. Even that umbrella chick from Schreient could ice someone whose eyes were covered with a hat."

Omi gave Aya a side-long glance. "You're never gonna let that go, are 'ya?" he asked.

"No," Aya replied, his voice taking on the stubborn tone that told his teammates, in no uncertain terms, he would defend his position to his dying breath. "It's stupid. And unrealistic."

"You're just jealous because D's a better swordsman than you are," Omi said, his voice light and teasing.

"Whatever," Aya grumbled, with a shrug that seemed to confirm, at least in Omi's mind, that the young blond's assessment was correct.

"They should make an anime about us," Ken commented. His voice held that excited note that comes with a sudden flash of inspiration.

"Oh, yeah," Aya replied, before anyone else had a chance to speak, "Now that would be believable --- not."

"Whaddya mean?" Ken asked. "I think it'd be great. Lots of action, lots of soccer, more action, pretty girls, more soccer."

Aya leaned around his seatback, peering over Omi's shoulder to give Ken a perplexed stare.

"You're kidding, right? Please say you're kidding," Aya said.

Ken shook his head. "No. Of course not. It'd be kick-ass. Why not?"

Yohji sighed --- the soft, resigned sigh of a man who spends a lot of his time explaining the obvious to idiots --- and said, "Don't you think, as an anime, your idea has a bit of a limited range? I know it's hard to believe, but not everyone likes soccer."

Ken shrugged, "Well, you'd have to add stuff to it, you know."

Omi shook his head, "That's a bad idea, Ken-Ken. Filler episodes almost always suck. We'd get cancelled mid-season. That would be bad."

"Getting cancelled is always bad, if you're an assassin," Yohji quipped. His lips quirked up in a smile at his own joke.

Aya gave the tall blond a brief, baleful stare. "You're so funny, I just wanna barf from laughing so hard," he commented, in a dead-pan tone of voice that made Omi snicker.

"Doesn't look to me like you're laughing," Yohji said, blowing a small puff of smoke in Aya's direction.

Aya waved the smoke away as he replied, "Oh, I'm laughing on the inside. Believe me. Fits of giggles."

Omi's snicker burst out into a full, hearty laugh. He put his hand over his mouth to stifle the sound, but he wasn't quite successful. His laughter sounded big and loud in the chill quiet of the night surrounding them, especially compared to the hushed tones in which they had been speaking up to this point. His teammates all turned, in almost the same motion, to look toward the house they were staking out.

"Sorry," Omi whispered, ducking his head with a sheepish shrug.

He knew his sudden outburst might have alerted their surveillance subject to the team's presence. Thankfully, this wasn't a real mission. If it had been, there was a good chance they'd all be dead now, thanks to his lack of control. Of course, if it had been a real mission, they wouldn't be sitting here talking about anime, but that was beside the point.

"No, seriously," Ken continued, leaning forward a bit to peer over the window-side of Aya's seat as he warmed to his subject. He couldn't contain the excitement in his voice at coming up with what he thought was a super idea. "It could work, don't you think? I mean, it'd be better than some stuff out there, right?"

"You sound like you're going to run up to your room and start writing a script the minute we get home," Yohji said, his light, teasing tone a sharp contrast to the excited seriousness in Ken's voice.

"What of it?" Ken asked. He winced a little at the defensive tone that seemed to seep into his words out of nowhere.

"For one thing," Aya replied, blowing out a billow of smoke with his words, "I don't think Kritiker would take kindly to being outed in a cartoon. For another, it's too fucking unbelievable. Hell, it's my damn life, and I don't believe it half the time. Florist by day … assassin by night. Crazy scientists who turn themselves into beast-men … even crazier broads who call them "daddy" … and that's not even counting Schwartz. No one would ever believe it."

"It's as realistic as a half-vampire guy on a cyborg horse," Ken retorted, dispersing Aya's smoke with a wave of his hand.

"Compared to our lives, the half-vampire guy looks sane … even with the cape and stupid hat," Aya replied, with a sigh. "That one Schreient girl uses an umbrella, for crying out loud. In what kind of reality is that normal?"

"You're really hung up on this whole umbrella thing," Yohji commented. He tossed his latest spent cigarette out of the window and gave Aya a teasing look as he continued, "It's not healthy to obsess like that."

"It's an umbrella," Aya grumbled.

"It has a pointy thing on the end," Yohji pointed out, trying to be helpful.

"It's an umbrella," Aya repeated, as if this fact, alone, was indicative of just how ridiculous their lives had become.

Yohji shrugged, conceding the point. "A couple of those Schreient chicks are pretty hot, though. That one girl with the black hair … what's her name? Neu? She reminds me of someone. I wouldn't mind getting a piece of her action sometime."

"As if," Aya said, with a derisive snort. "She would chew you up and spit you out. And, then, where would you be? Loveless, friendless. It wouldn't end well."

Yohji shrugged again. "Might be worth it … if she's any good," he said, with a suggestive wriggle of his eyebrows and a lecherous grin.

"But, come on," Ken broke in, not ready to give up on his anime idea just yet, "If the animation was good, don't you think it'd be a big hit? It could be."

"Think about the last time any of us had any decent luck," Aya said. He glanced over at Yohji, just in time to see the satisfied grin that spread across the tall blond's face. "I don't mean that kind of luck," he commented, giving Yohji a light punch on the arm. "All I'm saying is that, with the kind of piss-poor life luck we've all had, we'd probably get stuck with the animators in training or something. It'd end up looking like something a bunch of third graders drew."

"That's true, Ken," Omi commented, with a shrug. "You have to admit, none of us is exactly batting a thousand in the "so lucky to be me" department."

Ken sighed and nodded. He didn't want to, but he had to agree with his two teammates. They had a point.

"I still think, though, if the characters look good enough, people will watch, even if the animation is a little bad at times," the ex-jock said.

"Hey, for my part," Yohji commented, "As long as my hair looks good, I'm all for it."

The sound of Aya's door opening cut off Ken's response. The swordsman's sudden break from the car was so unexpected, he was halfway to freedom, one long leg planted on the concrete sidewalk on his side of the car, before Yohji managed to react. With a yelp of surprise, the tall blond leaned across to the passenger side of the car and grabbed hold of Aya's arm, stopping the younger man's exit.

"Where the fuck're you going?" Yohji snapped.

"What's your problem?" Aya asked, giving the older man a perplexed look.

"You know I don't like it when you go off on your own during a mission," Yohji replied. "You always get into trouble when you do. You know that."

Aya's perplexed expression changed to one of outright irritation in what seemed like the blink of an eye. Yohji was his best friend … maybe, even, his only friend … so he let the tall blond take liberties he wouldn't accept from anyone else. But, even so, he hated being told what to do, even by the chain-smoking blond. The fact that Yohji was right only served to irritate Aya further.

"It's not like this is a real mission or anything," Aya snapped, jerking his arm from the older man's grip. He jerked his head in the direction of the house across the street from where they were parked. "It's just some Ebay bastard in there, some poor slob who had the bad luck to piss all four of us off at almost the same time. It's not like Schwartz, or even that umbrella girl, are in there or anything."

"Tot," Omi commented.

"What?" Aya and Yohji asked, in unison.

"The umbrella girl," Omi replied. "Her name is Tot."

Aya uttered a disgusted sigh. "Whatever. Look, I'm sick of sitting around. We've wasted enough time here, and I've got things to do."

"Like what?" Yohji asked.

"Like sleeping, for one," Aya replied. "Besides," he added, as he withdrew from the car's interior and stepped out into the chilly night, "You're down to your last cigarette." He nodded toward the depleted cigarette package on the dash to add emphasis to his words, before stepping around the front of the car and starting across the darkened street.

Aya was halfway across the street when a series of thuds, scuffles, and muttered curses told him his teammates were scrambling out of the car. After that, there was the sound of shoe leather scraping against asphalt, and, within another three or four steps, he could feel Yohji's comforting presence at his back.

"I thought you were gonna wait in the car," Aya commented, without turning around.

He heard Yohji shrug as the older man replied, "Yeah, well, you had a point … about the sleeping. It's getting late."

"Had a point about the cigs is more like it," Aya said, his tone slightly teasing.

"Yeah, that, too," Yohji replied, a sheepish chuckle coloring the edges of his words.

Aya was almost through the broken gate when he felt Yohji's hand, once again, grip his arm, pulling him back. Aya stopped and waited for Omi and Ken to catch up with them. Once their two lagging teammates had arrived, the four assassins stood around for a moment, just outside the courtyard gate, milling about on the sidewalk like the gang of teenage boys they had seen earlier that evening.

"What's the hold up?" Aya asked. "We gonna do this thing or not?"

"What's the plan?" Ken asked.

It was obvious the stocky brunette had gone into "Siberian mode". His gaze roamed over the house before them, taking in every minute detail of the building, looking for weaknesses, calculating escape routes, searching for the best entry point.

"What do you mean?" Aya asked.

Yohji shrugged and nodded assent to Ken's statement. "Ken's right. We need a plan. How are we going to get in? What's the best way out?"

Even Omi nodded his agreement.

Aya had the sudden feeling that, perhaps, he was at home, asleep in his bed, and this was all just a very bad dream. It was all just that surreal, watching his three teammates click into assassin mode like this, when all they were going to do was try and bully some poor slob into leaving their Ebay auctions alone.

"Have you guys lost your fucking minds?" Aya asked. "I'm going to walk up and ring the doorbell. The guy's gonna open the door. We're all gonna look really tough and mean, and scare the shit out of him. Then, we're going to turn around and go home. That's it."

"Just ring the doorbell?" Ken asked. "You really think that's the wisest plan?"

Aya sighed in disgust and rolled his eyes heavenward. "I'm not going to stand out here and debate this. I'm ringing the fucking bell."

He whirled away from his teammates and was through the gate and up the short walkway within less than ten strides. As he reached out and punched the doorbell, he heard the scuffle of running feet as his cohorts caught up to him.

The four Weiss assassins waited for a minute or two --- short units of time that, to Aya, seemed to drag on for an eternity and more. He could hear his teammates' heavy breathing behind him. Yohji was at Aya's back, standing so close that the tall blond's breath felt hot and damp against the back of the redhead's neck. The smell of stale cigarettes, perfume, and booze rolled off of Yohji to mix with the tension-fueled smell of the adrenaline high that was beginning to take hold of Omi and Ken. Aya felt like the air right around them was supercharged with excitement, and, perhaps, even fear of the unknown. He felt his Abyssinian persona trying to reach up out of his psyche and take control. His muscles tensed, and he began to assess the situation with the practiced eyes of an assassin. Aya took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. After all, this wasn't a mission, he reminded himself. He wasn't sure exactly what it was, but he knew Abyssinian had no place here.

Aya pushed the bell again, leaning on it for a few seconds this time, until he heard the ringing buzz of it echo throughout the back rooms of the little house.

After a few more seconds, the door swung open, and an eerily familiar voice, tinged with the slightest German accent, greeted them, "Well, hello, boys."

Aya's eyes widened in shock, and he took two steps backward in a sudden scuttle to put as much distance as he could between himself and the now-open door. He couldn't retreat very far, though. The rest of his team was right behind him, standing so close that two steps were about all he could manage before he trod on Yohji's booted toes.

"Holy fucking shit," Yohji whispered.

Aya had to agree with the older man's assessment. He knew Yohji wasn't complaining about being stepped on, either. At the moment, sore toes were way, way down at the bottom of their "things to worry about" list.

Omi and Ken were silent, although Aya heard both of them swallow, hard.

Schuldich opened the door the rest of the way and leaned against one side of its jamb, an amused, yet smug and slightly demented, grin pasted on his face as he regarded the four surprised assassins standing on his doorstep. This was even more fun than he had expected. The four Weiss kittens looked like a troop of overgrown trick-or-treaters who had just found out they had to give back all of their candy. For just a second, Schuldich wished he had brought his camera. The open-mouthed expressions of shock and dismay on the cat boys' faces were just too priceless. He would have loved to take a picture of it, so that he could show it to Nagi and Farfarello later on. He knew those two would have gotten a kick out of it.

"Look at this, Bradley," Schuldich drawled, in that irritating, nasal voice, "Seems our stray cats have finally decided to come in out of the cold." He favored Aya with a smirk and continued, "We've been sitting in here, watching you guys and wondering how long you were going to sit out there in your car."

Aya leaned a little to the left, just enough so that he could see around Schuldich, who was still lounging in the doorway. Just beyond the red-haired German, in the house's front room, Crawford sat in front of a desktop computer. The precog pecked busily at the keys, but he paused long enough to give Aya a rather evil, greasy-looking grin and a small wave of greeting.

Aya sighed and returned to his previous position.

'I hate my fucking life,' Aya thought.

'I don't blame you,' Schuldich thought back, inside Aya's mind.

"Stop that shit right now," Aya snapped, spearing the lounging German with a narrow-eyed death glare that still packed a punch, despite the rather shocked expression sitting on the rest of the swordsman's face.

Schuldich shrugged, but Aya felt the German's presence withdraw from his mind.

Behind him, Aya heard Yohji, again, mutter, "Holy fucking shit. It's them. It's really them. I mean, they're in there … and we're out here."

The irritated swordsman had to fight against an almost overwhelming urge to tell Yohji to shut the hell up. Instead, he settled for, once again, stomping on Yohji's foot --- hard. He ground the heel of his boot into the top of the tall blond's shoe, and the gesture seemed to get through. At the very least, it had the intended effect of temporarily rendering the older man mute.

"You have got to be shittin' me," Omi said, a note of disbelief still creeping into his words.

Aya glanced to his right and saw that the younger blond had come to stand next to him, shoving a stupefied Ken out of the way to do so. Omi glared at Schuldich and shook his head. It seemed like the teen hacker was trying, really hard, to reconcile this newest revelation with his recent string of heartbreaking Ebay losses.

"You're not …" Omi began, his words trailing off before he completed his sentence.

Schuldich smiled, a self-satisfied expression that made Aya either want to puke or slug the smug German, and nodded, "I am. Frernoir. Or, really, Bradley is."

Omi groaned and brought his hand up to face level, dropping his head heavily onto his palm. "Oh, for the love of …" The young blond sighed and shook his head. "I should've known." In response to the quick, questioning glance Aya shot at him, Omi replied, "Frernoir … Brother Black … in French, I think."

Schuldich snickered, enjoying the current situation. He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and tapped out one of the sticks, his long fingers plucking it from the box and putting it between his lips with one, fluid-like motion. He pulled a lighter from his other pocket and flipped the switch, causing the flame to spring to life. As it did, the breasts of the girl engraved on the lighter's side lit up.

"Hey," Yohji said, sounding indignant and offended, "That's my lighter!"

Schuldich laughed, but he didn't make any move to return the lighter to his pocket.

Omi ignored Yohji's outburst and went so far as to take a step forward, positioning himself slightly in front of Aya. The swordsman frowned and, not liking Omi's proximity to one of their most-hated enemies, placed a protective hand on the young blond's shoulder, ready to jerk the youngest Weiss back if Schuldich tried anything.

Schuldich noticed Aya's gesture and shook his head, "No need for that, Abby. Tonight's just for fun. Nothing more."

"So, all along, it's been you?" Omi asked. "My cel … Aya's book … the lighter … even the soccer ball? All of that was you?"

Schuldich nodded. The pleased, self-satisfied expression seemed permanently glued to his face. "Well, part me … part Bradley."

Omi glared at the red-haired German. "That's fucking cheating, you know. Using your stupid powers to snipe Ebay auctions. I wouldn't think even you guys would stoop so low."

Schuldich laughed again, a short, humorless bark. "Not that you'll ever believe this, but we didn't even need to use our powers. It wasn't that hard to figure out which auctions were yours."

Omi frowned, but his expression seemed to invite Schu to continue his explanation.

"I mean, come on … as if your Ebay ID wasn't enough of a dead give-away, the amounts you bid certainly were."

"Omi," Aya asked, not sure he even wanted to continue this conversation, and, yet, drawn inexorably forward, like a moth to a flame, "What is your Ebay ID?"

"CatCradle," Omi replied, sounding sheepish and a bit ashamed. Up until tonight, he had thought it was a pretty good screen name, but, now, in the face of Schu's teasing, it seemed foolish and ill-conceived.

"I see," Aya replied, never taking his eyes from Schuldich. "And, what did you bid?"

"Different amounts each time. You know that. For your book, I think it was around $2,000.69 US … for Yohji's lighter … $125.69 US … for Ken's ball … I think it was the same bid as the lighter … for my cel …"

"You bid with sixty-nine cents at the end of the amount each time?" Aya asked, cutting Omi's explanation off short.

Omi nodded.

"And, let me guess where you got the idea to bid that amount," Aya continued. He broke eye contact with Schuldich and turned a bit to regard Yohji, who was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, looking sheepish.

Omi didn't notice the significant, meaning-laden glance that passed between the two oldest Weiss members.

"Well," he said, continuing with his explanation, "I wanted to bid an odd amount … you know, so that, if someone bid the same as me, but an even amount … with no change tacked on, I would still win. It's a bidding strategy."

"And, Yohji was the one who told you to bid sixty-nine cents, wasn't he?" Aya asked.

Yohji shrugged. "He asked me what my favorite number was," he said, sounding almost as sheepish and embarrassed as he looked.

"I … I don't get it," Omi said, looking from Aya to Yohji to Schuldich, who was watching them all with that same amused, yet demented, smile on his face.

Aya shook his head and thought, not for the first time that night, how unbelievably ridiculous his life was. Thankfully, there were no answering mental images or thoughts from the German lounging in the doorway in front of him.

"Forget it," Aya said, turning to leave and shoving past Yohji and Ken in the process. "I'll … I'll explain it in the car."

"Better be careful, Abby," Schuldich called after the retreating swordsman. "You don't want the little kitten to go blind or anything."

Aya paused on the walkway, as if to make some sort of retort, but, then, he shook his head, hunched his shoulders into his jacket, and kept on walking, without saying a word. Omi and Ken, with several shocked glances back at their German enemy, followed in his wake. Schuldich just smiled and waved at them, looking, for all the world, like a host who was seeing off the last of his party guests.

Yohji paused for a moment.

"Gimme that," the tall blond said, his hand snaking out to snatch the lighter from Schuldich's grasp. He shoved it into his jeans pocket before turning and hurrying after the rest of his teammates.

Schuldich's laughter followed them, seeming to float out into the night on the chilly breeze.

It was a somber, subdued group of assassins who climbed into Seven for the short journey back to the Koneko. This time, there was no joking, no snide-yet-funny remarks, no playful banter, no running anime discussion --- nothing but the sort of shocked silence that seems to creep up out of nowhere and wrap around you when life gives you more than your mind can handle. They had left the Koneko earlier that evening --- had it only been a mere hour or two before? --- four hunters on the prowl, four avenging angels, ready to right the twisted wrongs dished out by Fate and heal the scars Ebay had inflicted on them. They had been young, confident, at the top of their game … maybe, even, a little bit cocky … secure in their skills and abilities, and certain of the victory that lay just within their grasp.

That was gone, now. All gone. Fate had, once again, pulled the proverbial rug out from under the Weiss boys, leaving nothing but bitter, tortured shells in her wake. They had expected victory and, instead, she had handed them one of the, if not worst, then, certainly, nastiest, shocks in recent memory. Denied the precious items they had worked so hard to obtain, and, at the last, even the satisfaction of knowing they had made their Ebay nemesis suffer for his auction victories, what could they say? It was one of those times when words seemed inadequate to encompass the true depth of human suffering packed into Seven's tight confines.

Yohji turned the key in the ignition, and the car purred to life, throbbing with the strength of all that horsepower locked beneath the thin metal covering its hood. The tall blond smiled. That sound --- that perfect, glorious, beautiful growling purr --- it was a thing of beauty. It didn't matter how many times he heard it, the sound of Seven's engine always brought a smile of satisfaction to his face.

Before he eased the powerful sports car into action, Yohji paused, just long enough to grab the almost-empty cigarette package off the dashboard and tap out his last cancer stick. He rolled the cig between his thumb and forefinger, almost seeming lost in a moment of quiet contemplation, before shrugging and, then, placing it between his lips. Yohji ducked his head and cupped his free hand around the cigarette as he opened his lighter and flipped the switch that would cause its flame to spring to life. He had covered the small, metal object with the palm of his hand, but, even so, he wasn't able to hide the blinking, red lights that lit up on the breasts of the girl engraved on its side.

Aya said nothing, but gave Yohji a sharp, narrow-eyed look of disdain wrapped with pure, unadulterated hatred, as he thought about how much he wanted to kill Yohji Kudou right now. But, as it had with Ken earlier that evening, the thought of trying to come up with a plausible explanation for Kritiker stayed the swordsman's hand --- at least for now. Maybe, if he could figure out a way to explain the older man's death without using the words "boobie lighter" …

Aya shook his head, forcing these random thoughts from his mind. Where had that come from, anyhow? He didn't want Yohji dead, not really. Yohji was his friend, his best friend … maybe, even, his only friend. There was no way he could ever even think about harming the lecherous ladies' man. And, yet, the fact that Yohji had managed to come away from this embarrassing encounter apparently unfazed … with his dignity and his boobie lighter both intact … Well, it gnawed away at Aya's nerves, which were already shredded paper-thin by an evening spent in a pointless stake-out, not to mention coming face-to-face with one of his worst nightmares, as well as the disconcerting feeling of having his real life smash head-first into what he had supposed was an anonymous virtual existence. All of a sudden, thoughts he would have once balked at seemed almost like good ideas.

As Seven slid from its parking space and out onto the dark, deserted street, Yohji shrugged and commented, "That went well, I think. We sure showed them."

Aya gave the tall blond another side-long glare. No … he didn't want to kill Yohji. Death was too easy, too painless. For this, Yohji needed to suffer. Aya smiled as he contemplated replacing the chain-smoking playboy's favorite shampoo with a cheap-grade dog soap, or, maybe, hiding Yohji's stash of cigarettes --- just for a day or two. Sure, it was petty and small, but, heck, at this point, Aya figured it would make him feel a whole hell of a lot better.

Omi's voice floated up from the doom-laden silence that seemed to have engulfed the back seat, "I guess this means I should change my Ebay ID."

---

Aya sat at the table in the middle of their shared kitchen above the Koneko. He had commandeered two of the creaky wooden chairs, sitting in one and resting his feet on the seat of the other. His favorite blue ceramic mug and teapot sat nearby, within an easy arm's reach, both filled with the steaming green tea he favored over coffee or soda. The rest of his teammates were in the adjoining room, watching that Vampire Hunter D movie that had so captivated Omi's attention. Aya could hear cheers, preceding what he recognized as D's voice, alternating with the boos and hisses that seemed to indicate an appearance by the bad guys or the rival vampire hunters, as well as an occasional cat-call of "Take it off, baby!" from Yohji, which, he guessed, heralded either Leila or Charlotte's entrance on screen. Despite the noise coming from the next room, the kitchen was quiet. Aya's only companions were the tick of the clock on the stove, the hum of the refrigerator, and the soft, swishing sound as he turned a page in his book.

Aya reached for his cup of tea and glanced around the kitchen. The mess and clutter were gone now, replaced by the rather ordered chaos that passed for normal around Weiss's house. The dirty dishes had been cleaned and put away, except for a few stray glasses and Yohji's plate from lunch, which stood on the counter next to the sink. The table that dominated the room's center was scrubbed clean, until the old, pitted wood glowed. It was free of clutter, except for the newspaper, which Omi had left spread out on top of the table earlier that morning. The counter near the exit door was, once again, junk-mail-free. The fluorescent, overhead lights threw a dull sort of shine over the clean, blue-gray Formica. Four brand-new nails, hammered part-way into the wood of the door jamb, also gleamed in the bright kitchen light, and, on them, four sets of keys --- Ken's, Yohji's, Omi's, and, of course, his own wayward set, which he had finally located in the cabinet over the kitchen sink, next to the drinking glasses. Aya still had no idea how they had gotten in there.

As Aya brought his tea cup to his lips and took a small sip of the steaming liquid, he heard another burst of laughter from the adjoining room. For the smallest fraction of a second, he felt alone and left out --- as if he was standing outside the Koneko, looking back at his teammates through the big, plate-glass windows … a part of their lives, and, yet, not. It was silly. They had invited him to join them, and he had refused, mumbling something about the ridiculousness of swordsmen wearing long, flowing capes and large-brimmed hats. So, any loneliness he felt was entirely his own fault, but, still … that didn't make the sting less painful.

The truth was that he had wanted to retreat to the kitchen's solitude so that he could brood, although he had a hard time admitting that, even to himself. It had been almost three weeks since their surprise encounter with Crawford and Schuldich, and, for the most part, the others seemed to have gotten over it. Omi had changed his Ebay ID and bidding strategy, and, as far as Aya knew, hadn't been sniped again. Life had resumed its normal, frenzied pace for the four assassins, and, with the return of almost back-to-back missions, they hadn't spoken of the incident since that night. Really, it was more like they had come to some tacit agreement never to speak of it again.

That seemed to work for the rest of the team, but Aya remained dissatisfied and unhappy. He couldn't shake the unpleasant memory of not only losing a much-coveted item at auction, but of finding out the whole ordeal had been one of Schwartz's twisted games. Oh, sure, it had all been just for fun that time, but the thought that their most-hated enemies had tinkered in their lives with such effortless ease … Aya had to admit that it shook him to the core of his being. He didn't want to dwell on it, but he couldn't help it. It reminded him they were never safe, no matter what. He thought he would have been used to that idea by now, but, somehow, it seemed like he had forgotten it for a bit. Having Schuldich and Crawford show up like that, in the midst of their Ebay auctions, had served as a very nasty reminder of how precarious life could be, when you were Weiss.

A sound from the doorway separating the kitchen and living room brought Aya's attention away from his brooding thoughts. The quiet redhead looked up to see Omi standing in the doorway, holding a large bowl in one hand. The young blond smiled at him, giving a slight nod of greeting, and crossed the threshold into the room. Aya, suddenly self-conscious about his reading material, tried to hide his book under the stack of papers strewn across the table, at the same time removing his reading glasses and tossing them onto the wooden surface.

Out of the corner of his eye, Omi saw Aya shove the book under the stack of papers. The young archer didn't comment on his teammate's strange behavior, although he felt a sudden surge of almost uncontrollable curiosity. What in the world could Aya be reading that would make him act so guilty? Omi couldn't help but notice the faint ghost of a blush that seemed to creep across Aya's pale features. He would bet his last dollar that Aya was embarrassed about something, but, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what. It's not like it was unusual for Aya to sit around reading and drinking a pot of tea. Without speaking, Omi crossed the room to the pantry, which was slightly behind Aya's chair. As he removed two fresh bags of microwavable popcorn, he craned his neck, trying to see over the swordsman's shoulder in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the book Aya had hidden. He could only see one corner of the front cover, but the artwork was unmistakable. Right away, he recognized it as the first novel in the Vampire Hunter D series. Omi shook his head and tried, hard, to suppress his snicker at discovering Aya's dirty, little secret. He wasn't entirely successful, but he managed to make it to the microwave before he laughed out loud. Once there, he tossed one of the popcorn bags into the appliance and busied himself punching in the correct heating time on the keypad. Thankfully, the little beeping sounds emanating from the machine covered the small giggle that escaped from his mouth.

As he waited for the popcorn to cook, Omi moved to the table and pulled out one of the remaining chairs, dropping into it as it slid across the floor with the shriek of old wood torturing even older Linoleum. He gave Aya one of his most angelic smiles and began to shuffle through the stack of newspapers lying on top of the table, on the pretext of straightening them into a more presentable pile. Omi knew it was a little mean of him, but he relished the look of abject horror that crossed Aya's face as he gathered up the papers. Sometimes, torturing the serious redhead --- just a little --- was kind of fun.

As Omi reached the bottom of the newspaper pile, Aya's hand snaked out to grab the book. Maybe, he was intending to hide it under the table or something, but it didn't matter, because Omi was faster, by a fraction of a second. The youngest Weiss grabbed the novel right out from under Aya's reaching fingers, and, with a teasing smile, held it up, waving it in front of him. Omi couldn't hold back the giggle that formed at the horror-struck expression on Aya's face.

"Oh, wow," Omi commented, keeping his tone light and teasing, "Ken must've left this here." He paused for a moment, tapping the book's spine against his chin and looking up at the ceiling, as if lost in deep thought. "No, wait … Ken doesn't read. Well, except for comics and sports magazines. So, it can't be his. Maybe it's Yohji's?" He paused, again, looking up at the light fixture overhead, as if it would solve the mystery of the book's owner.

Aya sighed. "You know damn good and well the book's mine," he snapped, reaching out to jerk the novel from Omi's grasp.

Omi laughed. "I thought you hated Vampire Hunter D. I thought it was too unrealistic and stuff."

Aya frowned, irritated at having been caught with the book. "Maybe I just want to see if he manages to survive through the entire novel … you know, considering the swishy cape and stupid hat and all," he replied, schooling his voice so that his tone was matter-of-fact, as if the book couldn't have been less important to him.

"Huh," Omi replied, shrugging, "I thought, maybe, you were looking for some sword pointers or something." The words rode out of his mouth on another laugh, and Omi gave Aya a teasing wink, just to assure the older man that he was joking.

Aya couldn't help but feel relieved when the doorbell rang and cut their conversation short. He was busted. It was true. He liked Vampire Hunter D. He liked the story. He liked the artwork in the movie. Heck, he even liked the cape and hat. He just hated like hell for anyone to realize he liked it. And, if their conversation had continued along that particular track, Aya knew he would have ended up admitting everything to Omi --- something he didn't think he would ever live down.

With a relieved sigh, Aya pushed himself up from his chair and crossed the few steps to the door. At almost the same instant, the microwave dinged, summoning Omi to retrieve his now-popped corn. The young blond dumped the salty snack into the large bowl he had brought from the other room, and put the second, unpopped, bag into the microwave to cook.

The door rattled as Aya pulled it open to find a delivery person standing on the top step, holding a large box. Aya nodded a greeting to the man, who handed him an invoice and pointed to the line at the bottom. The man then produced a pen and nodded at the invoice, indicating he needed a signature confirming delivery.

Aya frowned.

"We didn't order anything," he said, shaking his head for emphasis. "You must have the wrong house."

The delivery guy looked confused for a moment, and then double-checked the address listed on his invoice.

"Nope," the guy said, shaking his head, "This's the place. Says so right here."

Aya glared back at the man. "No, it must be a mistake."

The delivery man sighed --- the long-suffering sound of someone who has spent an entire day dealing with morons, only to find himself facing yet one more. "Look, mister," he said, "I don't know what to tell 'ya. It says on the invoice this is the address. So, as far as I'm concerned, this box is yours. Sign here." He shoved the invoice and pen across the top of the cardboard container, toward Aya.

Aya redoubled his glaring efforts, which, so far, were not having the desired effect on this guy. "I said you're wrong. Go away."

He backed into the kitchen and began to shut the door, but the delivery man's foot seemed to shoot out, almost of its own accord, to block the door from closing.

"Lookit," the delivery guy said, his tone of voice growing more irritated by the second, "I don't give a rat's ass whether you think you ordered this or not. The invoice says it's yours … as far as I'm concerned, it's yours. I've had a really bad day, and I'm not gonna lug this stupid box back down all those stairs to my truck. Either you sign for it, or I'll leave it here and make up a name to put on the invoice. Either way, this box is staying."

Aya stared at the stranger with an irritated, slightly disbelieving, expression on his face. He did not like it when people argued with him. Especially people he didn't know. He was just about to give the delivery man a piece of his mind, when Omi came to stand next to him, elbowing him in the ribs to get his attention.

"What's up?" Omi asked.

"This guy has the wrong house, but he refuses to listen to reason," Aya explained.

Omi rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Maybe, you're being just a bit stubborn, too, Aya. That couldn't be, could it?" He barely managed to suppress a snort of laughter at the narrow-eyed look of irritation Aya gave him. "Look," Omi continued, "Just take the package. I'll call the delivery office later and get it all straightened out, OK? Otherwise, I don't think this guy's gonna leave."

Aya sighed in frustration, but he shrugged and signed the invoice. The delivery guy shoved the box at him and beat a hasty retreat down the stairs and back to the alley, where he had parked his truck. Aya watched until the stranger had backed the vehicle out of the alley and eased it into traffic. Then, he retreated into the kitchen, pushing the door closed with his foot as he carried the large box to the table.

When he got his first good look at the mailing label, Aya felt his blood run cold. There was no return address, but the snarky "To: Our Favorite Kitties", accompanied by a crudely-drawn picture of a cat, left no doubt in the swordsman's mind as to the box's origin. It had to come from Schwartz. In particular, given what was written on the label, it had to come from Schuldich. That was just the kind of thing the smug German would write.

Omi had returned to the microwave, where he was dumping the second bag of popcorn, now cooked, into his bowl. But, at Aya's muttered explanation of: "What the fuck?" he came to stand next to the redhead, a look of concern on his face.

"What's up?" Omi asked, nodding toward the box.

Aya sighed and gave Omi a long, searching look. "It's … it's for us. From Schwartz. Probably, from Schuldich."

Aya nodded his agreement with the wide-eyed expression of horror that crossed his younger teammate's face.

"Hey, Omi, what's taking so long with the popcorn? You girls making out in here or something?"

Aya and Omi turned, almost in unison, to watch as Yohji entered the kitchen. Ken followed on the tall blond's heels.

Omi jerked his head toward the box, "Delivery. From Schwartz."

In an instant, Yohji and Ken switched from a lazy, where's-my-popcorn attitude to cat-like interest in the package sitting on the table in front of them. They both came to stand next to Aya and Omi. Yohji paused long enough to grab a wooden spoon from the container on the counter as he passed.

"What d'ya think's in it?" the tall blond drawled. He poked the box with the end of his wooden spoon, in that same attitude one might use when facing a very large, very venomous spider.

Omi shrugged. "Dunno," he replied. "But, whatever it is … it can't be good."

Yohji nodded his agreement. "Care packages from hell seldom are. So, what do we do? Turn it over to Kritiker?"

Aya shook his head. "No. We can't."

In response to the questioning looks his teammates gave them, Aya replied, "Do you really want to explain exactly how and why Schwartz might have decided to send this to us?" His eyebrows shot up in a suggestive expression, and he ducked his head a little, as if to encourage his teammates to think the situation through.

And, they did. Aya watched as the light of understanding dawned on his companions' faces. There was no way they could tell Kritiker about the box without revealing their Ebay escapade. And, their employers did not take a kindly view toward assassins who freelanced, even if it was doing something as minor as trying to put the fear of the gods into someone.

"Guess we'll have to open it ourselves, then," Yohji said, shrugging and, once again, poking at the box with his spoon. "What if it's a bomb or something?" he asked.

Aya frowned and grabbed the spoon from the older man's grasp, tossing it onto the counter next to the sink, where it landed with a wooden clatter. "If it's a bomb, you're just gonna set it off with all that damn poking," he snapped.

"Look," Omi cut in, before the two oldest Weiss members could start arguing with each other, "I've got some equipment in the mission room, left over from the last time we had to sweep for explosives and bugs around here. I'm sure we can use it to try and detect anything odd about the package."

"Sounds like a plan," Yohji agreed.

Omi, Yohji, and Ken turned and trooped out of the kitchen, so intent on retrieving the necessary gear from the mission room, that they didn't realize Aya hadn't followed them --- until they were a dozen or so steps away, and heard the unmistakable sound of tape being ripped from cardboard. They whirled back toward the kitchen, halfway expecting to hear and feel a mind-shattering explosion at any second, only to see Aya peering into the open box, his mouth quirked down in an irritated frown.

"Do not do shit like that," Yohji growled as he returned to the kitchen, with Omi and Ken following.

"Like what?" Aya asked.

"That!" Yohji snapped, gesturing at the now-open box. "What if it had been a bomb?"

"But it wasn't," Aya replied.

"But what if it was?" Yohji repeated.

"It wasn't," Aya answered, shaking his head.

Yohji glared at the swordsman. "I swear, one of these days, I'm just gonna beat the ever-loving shit outta you. Just for fun."

"You can try," Aya replied, with a smirk.

"So, what is it?" Omi asked, once again, breaking things up between the two oldest team members before they could escalate.

Aya peered back into the container. He reached in and fumbled about for a second, before drawing out an old, battered soccer ball.

"My ball!" Ken exclaimed. The ex-jock practically danced with joy and excitement as he reached out to snatch the smelly piece of sports memorabilia from Aya's hand. Ken turned the ball over, and, after a few seconds' inspection, he pointed at a squiggle of very bad handwriting.

"Look! My signature!" he crowed, his voice booming with triumph.

Yohji frowned at the indecipherable line of text. "Ken, your handwriting sucks," he commented.

Ken shrugged and, a happy grin pasted on his face, exited the kitchen, tossing the ball and head-butting it through the air as he walked.

Aya reached into the box again and pulled out a large, flat package. It looked like two pieces of heavy cardboard, padded and taped together, and, at first, he mistook it for part of the packaging --- until he saw the greedy gleam in Omi's eyes. That expression told him, without a doubt, this bit of apparent trash was something, indeed.

Omi took the package from Aya's hands with an air of awed reverence. He laid it flat on the table, next to the larger box, and, ever so slowly, began prying off the tape bundling the flat cardboard pieces together. Yohji and Aya watched the delicate operation. It took Omi almost ten minutes to remove all of the tape. Finally, when he was done, he lifted off the top piece of cardboard to reveal a painting --- done on a clear sheet of plastic, with a watercolor background of a full moon behind it. Aya immediately recognized the image from the auction that had led to their misadventure three weeks ago --- D, glaring over his shoulder at the camera, as he held Borghoff's arrow in his hand. Aya heard the soft intake of Omi's breath as the young blond leaned forward and, with a reverent, shaking hand, touched the very edge of the plastic.

"The cel," he whispered. "My cel. Dammit."

Omi's voice choked, and he sounded like he was going to cry.

"What's the problem?" Yohji asked. "It's here. That's a good thing, right?"

The older man didn't understand Omi's sorrowful reaction, but Aya did. The swordsman reached into the box and pulled out the last item --- the errata-containing copy of The Art of War that he had so desperately tried to win. He frowned at the battered, leather cover.

"The big deal is that Omi feels like he can't ever enjoy his cel, knowing it came to him because of Schwartz's largesse. Knowing the story behind it … and remembering, each time he looks at it, that they bested us."

Omi nodded, not trusting his voice to speak.

Aya picked up the cel, careful to hold it by the very edge of the plastic bag in which it was encased. He held it up and inspected it, taking in the beautiful, rich, dark colors, the minute detailing in D's face, clothes, and hair, the masterful use of shadows and highlights. After a few moments, he put it back down on the table.

"Maybe," Aya said, his voice hesitant, as if he was searching to find just the right words to comfort his young teammate, to assure Omi that everything really was all right, "Maybe, though, that's not what counts. Maybe it's more important to remember this is a beautiful piece of artwork. It should be protected and loved --- by someone who can truly appreciate it. I think that means Fate decreed for it to end up in your hands, Omi."

Omi glanced up at Aya, tearing his attention away from the cel.

"Do you really think that, Aya?" he asked, his voice small and uncertain.

Aya nodded.

Somehow, even though he hadn't said much, the redhead's words made a world of difference to Omi. They allowed him to see the cel for what it was, a beautiful piece of art he had coveted and dreamed of owning, and which, now, was his … not through the kindness of his enemy, but through Fate, which had, somehow, righted the grievous wrong worked upon him. Not a reminder of their defeat at Schwartz's hands, but a memory of a show … and a character … he loved.

"Yeah," Omi said, nodding. "Yeah. You're right. Thanks Aya."

He gave the swordsman a grateful smile as he carefully gathered up the cel and background and retreated from the kitchen, leaving Aya and Yohji alone.

Aya slumped back down into his chair, glaring at the worn, leather-covered book lying on the table in front of him. This was something he would have treasured, something he would have given almost anything to possess. And, now, it seemed to scream out the fact of his failure, of his shame and embarrassment, of his defeat. Despite his supportive words to Omi, Aya couldn't see the book as anything else.

Yohji leaned against the counter by the kitchen's outside door, watching his friend for a few moments. He could see the anger and self-hatred playing across Aya's face and through the younger man's normally emotionless eyes, and, not for the first time, Yohji wanted to kill that bastard Schuldich. For Aya, this was worse than losing the book, in the first place. Schuldich knew that, and, what made it even worse was that Aya knew Schuldich knew. It was like adding insult to injury on top of an ass-kicking.

"So?" Yohji finally asked.

"So what?" Aya replied, his voice whisper-soft, his eyes never leaving the book that lay in front of him.

Yohji nodded toward the object of his friends' attention, although Aya didn't see the gesture. "What're you gonna do? You gonna follow the advice you gave Omi? Or, are you going to torture yourself over this?"

When Aya looked up at him, Yohji was surprised at the pain he saw flit through the younger man's eyes. It was only a moment --- one unguarded flash of time --- but that fleeting expression spoke volumes and made Yohji's heart ache for his friend.

"What about you?" Aya asked, "What do you feel when you use that? What do you see when you look at it?" He nodded toward the lighter Yohji held in his hand.

As he had stood there, the tall blond had removed it from his pocket, and, now, he toyed with it in an absent manner, as if he didn't even realize what he held.

Yohji looked down at the lighter and shrugged. He grinned at his friend and replied, "I see a beautiful woman with bright, shiny tits. And, I remember that I walked away from that whole, little thing … and that I'm still alive to enjoy her. And that no one, not even Schuldich, with all his sick, stupid jokes, can take that away from me."

Aya laughed. "Spoken like a man who would bid on a boobie lighter," he said.

The light tone of laughter to his voice seemed to curve around his words, giving them a warmth and richness that told Yohji the younger man had understood exactly what he was saying. It wasn't the kind of closure Aya had wanted. In the end, they had lost that round with Schwartz. But, they were still alive and kicking … and, sometimes, that was all that mattered.

Aya settled into his chair and pulled his reading glasses back onto his face. He put his feet up and opened the battered, old book, prepared to settle in for a nice, quiet afternoon of reading.

Yohji smiled at the younger man and turned to retreat into the living room. But, before he did, he retrieved the bowl of popcorn Omi had left on the counter. It looked like he was going to have to finish the movie on his own … but he didn't have to do it on an empty stomach.