Disclaimer: Fushigi Yuugi is not mine. Not making any money off this. Etc.

Warning: Heed the M rating. It's there for a reason.

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Outsider

Chapter 1

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"We're lost," Miaka muttered.

"We are NOT lost!" her brother Keisuke barked from the driver's seat. "We're just…turned around," he added a little more weakly.

Karuko, in the back seat, was staring apprehensively out the window. "Keisuke, turn right at this next street."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Do it."

The turn signal clicked on—tik-tak, tik-tak—and Keisuke glanced both directions and turned. They passed a convenience store on the corner and passed into an area with very little street lighting, making it even grimmer and gloomier than the seedy area they'd just left.

"Uh… Karuko…"

"I know where we are now." Karuko's voice was flat. From the seat beside him, Ryuen glanced at him anxiously. "Just keep going. We'll hit the edge of the industrial area and then there'll be an outer road that leads back to the highway."

It was a cool night, but warm in the car, and the air conditioning was on the blink as usual. Miaka started to roll the window down a crack, but she felt Karuko's hand on her shoulder, and she glanced back at him. He was shaking his head. "Don't."

Miaka returned her hand to her lap. Karuko—or Hotohori, as she knew him better—was diffident, and rarely said much, but when he spoke, he knew what he was talking about. She opened her mouth, wanting to ask him how he knew a place like this.

"Look out!"

Miaka gasped and clutched at her sliding purse as the car jerked to a stop, rocking her against her seatbelt. Beside her, Keisuke was gripping the steering wheel, wide eyes staring out into the smoggy dark. Miaka looked out and saw a few indistinct figures in front of the car. They stood casually, and one of them moved around to the driver's side door. "Toll booth," he grated cheerfully, and rapped the hilt of a knife on the window. "Open up."

Karuko cursed softly in the back seat. "They're Flame Runners. We're in trouble. Get out." There was a muffled click as he unlocked his door.

"I don't think we should—"

"Now!"

Nervously, Miaka unlocked her door, and as Keisuke opened his door, she opened hers and got out. She glanced around. There were three more figures now, two in front of the car, two on each side, and each of them wore a jacket with bright red-and-orange flames emblazoned on the back and sleeves.

The one who had tapped on Keisuke's window had an unlit cigarette poked in one corner of his mouth, and a silver dagger earring dangled from one ear. He grinned at Miaka from beneath a shock of black hair. "Ooo. Nice. Let's have that purse, missy." He came around the car.

"Give it to him, Miaka," came a quick murmur from Karuko behind her. He was watching the gang members closely. Slowly Miaka slipped the purse strap off her shoulder. She held it out gingerly, and the young man took it and passed it to another. He snapped his fingers sharply, making Miaka jump. "Come on. Wallets." Karuko took his out; so did Keisuke.

"C'mon," a shaven-headed young man snapped at Ryuen on the other side of the car. He was tapping a billy club in one hand.

"Do it, Ryuen," hissed Karuko.

"You know, you guys are awfully cocky. How do you—oof!" The sound of the club driving into Ryuen's stomach made Miaka wince.

The black-haired gang leader's eyes turned a chill look on Karuko. "You know, you really don't need to be talking," he drawled. Karuko only stared back mutely.

Miaka's heart was pounding, but she found herself almost more angry than afraid. If we were in the Universe of the Four Gods, Nuriko could wipe the floor with these guys all by himself, and Hotohori could run them through!

The gang leader's hand suddenly curled firmly around her upper arm. She looked at him and found him grinning again. "You're not too scared, are you? Why don't you come back with us? I can show you a good time…"

Miaka thought she could feel the temperature around the car drop. Uh-oh. Ryuen was slowly straightening up, leaning on the car. Karuko stood silently. But both of them—and Keisuke too—were turning suddenly black gazes on the gang leader. And he knows it, Miaka realized suddenly, watching his grin broaden. He did it on purpose. He wants a fight.

Well, he's going to get one!

It really should have worked. She'd practiced it with Ryuen for months. But the leader of the Flame Runners had apparently run into the old "elbow-into-the-solar-plexus" trick before. He twisted her arm until she fell on her knees, gasping.

That was all it took. Ryuen and Karuko lunged; she heard thunks and cries as punches landed, but she couldn't see who hit whom. She was suddenly whirled up onto the gang leader's shoulder, and borne off into the smoky darkness, the fight receding behind her.

When she tried to struggle he put her down and twisted her arm again, until she subsided, gasping in pain. "That's better," he grunted, dragging her back to her feet. "Now stop it!"

Her brief spurt of anger had wilted, and she was frightened again. C'mon, Miaka! she said to herself fiercely. You've been in worse situations than this! She'd been in need of rescuing so many times in the Universe of the Four Gods that it was a standing joke among the others now. And being alone with Nakago was a hundred times worse than any gang leader here!

Then again, in the book she'd had the power of Suzaku to protect her from Nakago, to some extent. No such saving grace here…

You're going to have to get out of this one yourself. Somehow.

There was a rave in progress on the lower level of the building where he took her. The music throbbed through the floor. He bypassed it, going along a side hallway to a dingy staircase where a couple of thugs grinned knowingly at him and let him pass. Up the stairs he went; another thug opened the door, and shut it behind them.

He deposited her unceremoniously on the floor butt first. "Ow!" she yelped involuntarily.

"Serves you right, you little witch," he grumbled, shrugging off his Flame Runners jacket and rubbing his ear where she'd managed to plant an elbow earlier. He folded his arms, glaring at her. "Women…"

She stared up at him. It was still dim here, the room striped with light from streetlights out one window and from a skylight above. In one corner of the room, a few candles burned beneath something like a shrine, but it was mostly in shadow. Still, she could see him better here than she'd been able to outside. He was shorter than Taka, but muscled, the smooth bulges outlined by his tight black long-sleeved shirt. A shock of black hair hung in his eyes, and an earring shaped like a dagger glinted below his left ear. Still, looking at him closely, something didn't fit. He wasn't the same as his lackeys, but she couldn't put her finger on why. He'd be cute if he weren't such a creep, she thought, some of her anger leaking back. She glared at him.

He began to smirk as he stood over her, and she stood up, clenching her fists. "What're you smiling at?" she growled.

"Aw, aren't you cute when you're mad." He moved forward swiftly, closing his hand firmly around her upper arm again; she drove her other fist forward, trying to catch him in the jaw, but he caught her wrist with his other hand, pulling her toward him. "Oh, no you don't."

Damn…he's too strong. Now what? "Let go of me, you—" That was all she managed to get out before he cut her off, his mouth closing hard over hers. She managed to get an outraged squeak out, but his tongue pressed aggressively past her lips, and his other hand caught her other wrist. She tried to bite his tongue, but he seemed to sense her intention and drew back, letting her teeth snap down hard together. It hurt her jaw. He tightened his grip on her wrists until she gasped. "No, you don't," he murmured again. His voice had softened and grown breathy, and he backed her against the wall; his greater weight pinned her there.

Uh-oh. I'm in trouble. I'm really, really in trouble. Her mind was racing almost as fast as her heart. Knee in the groin? No, he wasn't in the right position, probably anticipating it; the most she'd get would be his thigh. Not good enough. Tamahome!

Her assailant jumped suddenly, pulling back a little, still holding her wrists against the wall. Miaka blinked. Had she called out loud? She wasn't sure. Panic was seething around the edges of her mind, trying to break in. She'd stopped struggling, and he leaned in again, making a low sound of satisfaction as he began to kiss her again.

A vague memory swam back to her...sitting in bed in an inn in the Universe of the Four Gods during the time they'd been fighting Tenkuo.

Her head swimming after drinking far too much... alone with Tasuki, who was under the control of a demon...

"Chichiri and the others aren't here..." His hand running through her hair, possessively...

Her sense of danger increasing through the alcohol haze as she pulled away from him... "I...think I'll go look for them this time...they're probably here by now..." Starting to get up, feeling profound relief... Tasuki wasn't acting like himself...

His arms suddenly locking around her from behind, the muscles rigid with tension, his voice harsh in her ear..."I told you... no one's coming..."

Being flung down on her back in bed... pinned...her frightened struggles ineffective...

It was that memory coming back to her now, not any of the many other times she'd been in danger. Suddenly, it came together, and she gasped.

Flame Runners.

Gang leader.

"Tasuki, stop!"

He stared at her, motionless. She stared back at him, and didn't breathe.

"Shut up!"

The sharp blow of his hand snapped her head sideways, making her cry out. His rasping breaths hissed into her ear, which was ringing from his shout. Oh God, I was wrong… He's not going to stop… His hand clamped harder on her wrist, making the fingers start to tingle painfully. The tears that had sprung to her eyes when he struck her began to fall. She tensed, ready to try again to fight him off.

Then she saw his dark eyes. They stared without seeing, and his hand gripping her wrist was shaking violently.

Suddenly his weight was off her. He threw her wrists down as if they burned his palms; he staggered back and walked away from her a few unsteady steps. He stopped with his back to her, putting one hand up to his head. His breathing was still ragged.

Trying to quiet her own breathing, afraid to make a sound, Miaka didn't take her eyes off him. He stood with his back to her, one fist clenched at his side, the other still pressed to his head. He didn't turn around, and she glanced uneasily at the door. Could she…?

No, the guards out there would stop her. She didn't dare yet. She looked back at the gang leader. Had she guessed right after all? "Tasuki?" she whispered.

There were loud voices down below, and heavy footsteps on the metal stairs. He whirled around suddenly, dark eyes glinting, and crossed back to her in a few steps. He jerked her away from the wall and pulled her to him again, and as the door rattled, he curved one hand firmly around the back of her neck. "Shh," he whispered.

The door slammed open and the shaven-headed man burst through, and Miaka, through her angry/confused daze, saw that one of his eyes had been blacked and his mouth was bleeding. He backpedaled when he saw the gang leader clutching Miaka, bumping into one of the other toughs behind him. "Sorry, boss," he grunted, as the gang leader turned to look icily at him. "I just thought I should tell ya—"

"Get out." The hiss was worthy of a venomous snake, and the toughs retreated as hurriedly as they'd crashed in, the heavy door slamming.

She was released so suddenly that she almost fell over. He stepped away, and stood with his back to her again. His breathing had slowed. "Tasuki, please let me go," she whispered.

"Have you had anything to drink tonight?"

She blinked, confused. "…what?"

"Alcohol. Have you had any alcohol tonight?" The smug threat was gone from his voice, the question asked in a flat tone.

"No…"

He crossed to the nightstand beside the unmade bed, and she heard a muted rattle of a pill being shaken from a bottle. He stepped into the dingy bathroom, and after a brief rush of running water he came out with a full glass. He walked toward her, holding out a capsule in his hand. "Swallow it."

She backed off a step. "No!"

He heaved a sigh of exasperation and stepped closer. "It's a sleeping pill. If you don't take it I'll force-feed it to you. Now do it!" He kept his voice low, but glared, and she had no doubt he'd force it down her throat if he had to.

Slowly she reached out and took the capsule, and swallowed it. The water tasted metallic, but she got it down with a cough. He glowered over her until she stopped gulping, and then he walked away again, dragging the rumpled comforter from the unmade bed. He walked to the corner of the floor beneath the little shrine and folded the cover into a pallet. Miaka watched him, confused.

Downstairs, the rave went on; Miaka could feel the bass as a faint pulse in her chest, but there had to be some kind of soundproofing in the room, because she couldn't hear much else from outside.

She stared at him. She still wasn't sure. "Tasuki…? Is it you?"

He ignored her, grabbing a cushion from the end of the couch and crossing back to the shrine in the corner. He paused, standing over the folded blanket, and suddenly cast a sidelong look at her. The face was different, but the fierce/guilty/stubborn expression was so like Tasuki that she gasped.

He looked away quickly and tossed the cushion onto the blanket, then walked past her toward the bathroom. "Go lie down." He stopped in the bathroom doorway, glaring at her until she moved. She crossed the room and curled up on the folded blanket with the cushion for a pillow.

He vanished into the bathroom with a click of the lock. In a moment, she heard the shower turn on.

Is it really Tasuki? It has to be, doesn't it? Why else would he have stopped?

The shower ran and ran. By the time the water stopped, her pounding heartbeat had slowed, and she had dared to move enough to refasten her shorts before tucking her knees up to her chest. She lay watching the bathroom door.

When the lock clicked again, she opened heavy eyes. She hadn't realized they'd been closed. Whatever he'd given her, it was beginning to work. He stepped out of the bathroom, still toweling his black hair dry. He was in boxers. She watched him through eyes that didn't really want to stay open. They drifted shut, and she heard a drawer rattle open and closed and a creak as he sat down on the edge of the bed. She opened her eyes again in time to see him stand up and yank a pair of black jeans into place at his hips. Zip, snap. He turned to the chest of drawers again, and she saw a large flame tattoo on his back and a small shape tattooed on his right arm, but in the dimness she couldn't make it out.

"Tasuki?" Speaking was an effort. Being quiet was easier.

"Go to sleep." He started to look over his shoulder at her, and then crossed the room out of her range of vision.

She felt sleep bearing down on her like a heavy blanket, but she just before her eyes pulled themselves shut, she managed to turn her head, and looked up at the image above the shrine—a screaming scarlet phoenix.

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I've felt it ever since I was a little kid.

In my house, you didn't talk about feelings. Pop didn't have patience for anyone's bullshit, from his offspring on up. Mom backed him up in everything, whether it was beating the living hell out of my older brother with a belt for breaking a dish or making me go without food and skip school until I apologized for cussing in front of Mom.

I felt like I didn't belong on this earth, like there wasn't any place for me. I'd dawdle on my way home and look in other people's windows, and it was like I was living on another planet, or maybe on the wrong side of a mirror, watching the real people smile and laugh and talk and hug each other, my chilled hands pressed flat to the cold glass.

I didn't get along too well with anyone else. I had a temper, and I blew up over small things. Other kids stayed away from me. I was sent out of class a lot. When I was really little, I could talk to my brother, but he was eight years old when I was born, and by the time he was in high school he was drawing away from me, spending more and more time out with his gang.

And then he was gone, shot in the head in a confrontation on the street. And after he died everything got worse; it seemed like I was walking around in chains, knowing what was waiting for me when I got home. Mom didn't want to let me out of her sight. Pop screamed at me, or worse, every time I said a word. And finally I decided I wasn't going to live in a fortress anymore. I wasn't going to hide, dammit. I was going to get out and make myself stronger and find the guy who took my brother away, and kill him. Even if I died, so what? It wouldn't be too much loss to the world.

But I made it. Every time I got knocked down, I got back up and wiped off the blood and the dirt and kept going. What did I have to lose? I let the hate take over. If no one cared, then why should I? That need, the need to be loved like the people I watched through the windows, shrank down to a little tiny spark. When I started to reach the higher ranks of the gang, I thought it went out.

I made it. I'd cowed or beaten up anyone who stood in my way, until it was just the leader, and when I offed the leader of a weaker gang, he decided I was more of a threat then an asset.

He was right.

Then I had the power, and didn't take me long to find out what I needed to know. I found out the guy's name. The gang was the only one higher in position in the city than mine. I hunted him like an animal. He was as ruthless a son of a bitch as I was, and not too easily intimidated.

It was a treat, then, to see the look in his eyes when I cut down his bodyguards. By then I was getting pretty good with a knife. He found out really intimately how good. And I mean 'intimately'.

Heh.

And just like that, it was me. I was at the top. There was no one above me anymore. I could have anything I wanted, anyone I wanted. I'd done what I had to do, and I was the goddamn king of the city.

And I wasn't satisfied. I wanted more.

Whatever that new hunger was, I couldn't sate it. Drugs didn't do it, though they numbed it for a while. Girls didn't do it, and believe me; I tried every permutation I could think of. Violence didn't do it; every fledgling gang that might have grown to be competition was efficiently scattered within a few weeks, and I usually had a personal hand in the scattering, but it never measured up to the feel of putting my favorite knife—Honoo, "Flame," I'd named it— in my brother's murderer. Hell… most of them were just kids. Vicious kids, but kids. Like my brother.

Like me.

I'd never been exactly chummy with anybody in the gang in the first place—I'd forced them to accept me by improving myself until no one could doubt my abilities—but I began to feel that distant pain again, like an old broken bone aching when the storms loom up—that feeling of unbelonging, of being an imposter, hiding among real people and waiting for someone to rip my mask away and display me for what I really was.

And at about the time I stopped being able to sleep at night without drinking myself into a stupor or swallowing a pill, it occurred to me that from the top, the only place to go was down.

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She was finally sleeping.

He stared down at her for a long time. The light of the few candles on the tiny shrine glowed softly on her face. She'd tucked her knees up to her chest and wrapped one arm around them, the other flung across her forehead. There was a familiar ring on her finger.

His hand reached out involuntarily, and then he clenched it into a fist. No. Don't even touch her until it's time to take her home.

He tore his gaze away from her and crossed the room, opening the door. Taiten was waiting. He stepped out onto the landing and closed the door behind him.

Taiten smirked. "Finished already?" he rumbled in his low voice.

"What happened?"

Taiten shrugged, leaning on the rail. "I'm not sure. From the sound of it, Toru, Yuuji, and Shotaro had the crap beaten out of them by a bunch of white-bread college boys. They were nobody I'd seen before—the driver's ID said Tokyo, but they might not all be local. Piece of shit luck, man. Picked the wrong goddamn car to stop. Lost martial arts students, I think—Shotaro wouldn't know a roundhouse from a scissor kick, but from what he described and what I saw, at least two of those guys were pretty advanced. Couldn't place the style, though."

"Might be trouble again?"

Taiten looked him in the eye. "I don't think I'd want to take them on alone. You going to go dump the girl?"

"Yeah. Stay here; I'll deal with her."

He closed the door as Taiten retreated down the stairs, and then went over to pull on a tight black t-shirt and get his jacket on—not the one marked with the Flame Runners' sigil, but an old battered leather duster that would blend in with the usual late-night denizens of the city. He laced his boots and stood up, hearing the comforting creak of worn leather. He put on his black leather gloves and slipped Honoo back into its sheath on his thigh, and then turned toward the girl.

He frowned. She was wearing a jacket, but it was a light one, and the temperature had dropped some more in the last hour. He went back to the closet, and rifled through hangers, mostly empty. He finally pulled out a brown raincoat—kind of shabby, but it would do. He carried it back out to the room and laid it on the floor, and then, as gently as he could, lifted her onto it. She hardly stirred.

He wrapped it around her and then lifted her. Why did I think she was heavy? Damn, she hardly weighs a thing. He got through the door and carried her downstairs, ignoring the two guards at the bottom. Everything would look perfectly normal to them.

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There was a park not far off the highway. It was shabby and overgrown, but it was all that the kids of this particular neighborhood had, and it was well used. He'd played here himself. A battered, graffiti-scrawled bench overlooked a rusty swing set and a slide with ivy growing up through the rungs of the ladder. The merry-go-round was missing a few of its handholds, prized off by older kids, probably the same ones who had appropriated the street sign on the corner.

There was a regular police patrol past here. He had it timed to the minute. He laid her down gently on the bench, still wrapped in the large raincoat. She stirred faintly and sighed, and he straightened up, staring down at her. He had her wallet in his hand, and he slipped it into the coat pocket. She'd get safely home all the quicker if the police didn't have to work too hard to identify her.

There was still a faint mark on her face where he'd struck her. He reached out and this time, he let himself touch her, running fingertips lightly over her cheek. He closed his eyes.

I'm sorry, kiddo. I'm so sorry.

Goodbye, Miaka.

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By the time the police patrol rolled through again, there was only the limp figure on the bench, sleeping on and on.

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End Chapter 1

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