As the Prime continued his silent wait, Harlequin left his side to approach the still form in its growing aura of crimson-stained earth. He knelt beside the boy, this creature of just the right age and build to have been a ready victim of Masquerade if he hadn't had the resources to buy in, and reached out tenderly to close his unseeing eyes. There was genuine grief in the set of his body as he knelt in what might have been prayer, not for the loss of a good customer but a good friend. It was absurd, almost grotesque that he should feel sorrow at the passage of one who would have been no more than meat to him under different circumstances, disposable property. Somehow, it made the whole situation that much more terrible.

High above these players and the impatient murmuring of their audience, the four giant screens continued their avidly omniscient survey of Aya's struggle for survival. In the process of casing Dream Land, Weiß had taken note of several hidden cameras, more perhaps than would usually be necessary for park security but not enough to arouse much notice. Either more had been set to prepare for a possible Hunt, or even their trained eyes had missed as many as two-thirds of them.

As he made his slow, stumbling way along the cobble-stoned path outside the Center, surrounded by the skeletal forms of autumn-naked topiaries and concrete statues of saccharine-sweet park characters, Aya was being filmed from literally *hundreds* of shifting angles. The cameras swept along the lines of his body like lewdly caressing hands, lingering on the painful way his right shoulder drooped from its socket, the whorls and slashes of the wounds that tore his flesh, the trail of blood drops he was leaving on the path behind him, rose petals instead of bread crumbs. He was staring at the ground as if he was afraid it would fall out from under him, not really watching where he was going as he wove his weary way along.

In the lower left corner of each screen, a blinking timer comprised of fat, white numbers clicked away the time that Aya had left before the dogs . . . no, the *wolf* was loosed on him. Less than three minutes. They just had to hope that the omnipresent cameras were solely for the benefit of the audience, not the hunter.

"Whose catch was he?" the Prime suddenly asked, addressing the mourning man behind him. "Who brought me this prey?"

The Harlequin scampered back to kneel at the Prime's feet with all the alacrity of a child caught doing something naughty; he really shouldn't have left his master's side before the true Hunt began, it would seem. "The operatives Kalen and Tolith, sir. They found your chosen only this evening."

"Are they here tonight? I would speak with them."

"Yes, sir. Well, Tolith is . . . Tolith is gone missing, sir, but Kalen is here . . ."

Hesitantly, Harlequin stood, scanning the aisle where he'd last seen Kalen leaning over the arena wall. The blond was no longer there, of course. He was still with the two assassins he'd been cheerfully torturing for most of the night, silvery eyes sparkling with what looked like giddy joy as he gazed down at the Prime. While the Harlequin seemed genuinely afraid of his master, Kalen showed no hesitation. He waved an enthusiastic arm, bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet until a small spotlight was aimed at his location, revealing him more clearly an instant before Harlequin could point him out.

"You look familiar, Kalen," the Prime observed. "How do I know you?"

"My name is Kalen Stark, Master Prime," he shouted respectfully down to the arena. "My mother was one of your household slaves for several years, until the games were made public. She was the last to wear the blue dove mask . . . they tell me you had it destroyed in her honor after that first Hunt."

"Oh, yes," observed the wolf-masked one, "I do remember you. The bastard with a claim to my blood . . . and an eye for the game almost since he was weaned, as I recall."

"Yes, sir," Kalen responded without the slightest trace of hurt feelings.

"Why, Harlequin, you told me that this one didn't have the heart for Masquerade, didn't have the right eye for perfect flesh. I believe you even told me he needed baby-sitting. Can you explain to me how this 'failure' managed to find the finest prey we've had in years?"

Harlequin didn't seem to have the explanation his master sought, not one that he could get out past the sudden, nervous stutter he'd developed, at least. Luckily for him, the counter on the big screens above him had made it to the last thirty seconds of Aya's head start. The crowd drowned them out with the noisy countdown that large groups of people seem genetically predisposed to in such situations, and the Prime was content for the moment to let it go.

As the time ticked away, the Harlequin retrieved a long, broad, wickedly curved sword from the blue comedy jester who brought it. This he pressed into the Prime's hand before again taking his position behind his master's right shoulder. The Prime hefted it expertly, a massive, lovingly polished thing with tendrils of something like smoke, something like suffocating dreams engraved into the shining metal. The hilt was of white stone, carved in the shape of a running wolf with the blue and silver silk cords of the grip wrapped around its belly, four long tassels dangling.

Finally, the time was up, and the screens above the arena split into two separate views: one of Aya as he fled, one of the Prime as he lifted his sword on high to salute the adoring crowd. The blade rotated slowly, slicing the light that dared to touch it, then pivoted a half arc toward the ground so that the Prime held it underhand. With an almost martial gesture, he flipped it down and back under his right arm.

It drove itself deep into the belly of the Harlequin behind him, piercing through until the crimson tip slid out through its victim's back.

"You've done well, Kalen Stark," the Prime said calmly, yanking his blade free as his onetime second-in-command fell backward with a meaty thump. He bent to wipe the weapon clean on the Harlequin's pant leg. "I seem to be in need of a new host . . . my son. Come to my rooms when the Hunt is done and we'll talk."

Kalen bowed low, grinning triumphantly as the Prime walked unhurriedly out of the arena in search of his prey.

The Center stood as the shining hub of what was called, originally enough, the Wheel Garden: four wedges of elaborate - now dead - gardens with miniature hedge mazes and park-specific statuary, split by the four spokes of the cobbled paths the public was confined to. Each of these spokes terminated, at one of the cardinal points of the compass, in a small, round pavilion with a themed centerpiece fountain. The "North" fountain contained the figure of a rotund, gleefully dancing snowman, cavorting in the spray that tumbled off the translucent plastic towers around him, molded in the shape of shimmering pillars and crystals of ice.

Kneeling beside this eternally grinning plaster monstrosity, Aya plunged his face into the heavily chlorinated water - dyed a hideous shade of turquoise - and then threw his head back, gasping at the deep cold of the water dripping down his body as he tried to pull his scattered senses together. Even if it felt like an eternity ago, he *had* spent an entire day familiarizing himself with the daytime incarnation of this place. Barring a few locked doors and a distinct lack of any people who might help him, the night needn't be any more difficult to navigate than the day. All of the "street" lights were still on and many of the rides were illuminated, providing him with all the landmarks he needed. The only thing missing was a clock to give him some idea how much time remained before the pursuit began. Not that he knew how much time he'd already wasted trying to jumpstart his brain.

The biting cold was one of the first enemies he was going to have to outwit if he wanted to survive, he knew. Getting to his feet, Aya followed the northwest rim of the garden to the "West" fountain: a pouting penguin in a cowboy suit surrounded by spitting cacti. He remembered the horrid, nonsensical thing only because Ken had gotten the giggles every time they walked past it, finally insisting on taking a picture of Aya in front of it before he would move on. Aya had capitulated with bad grace, already nursing the beginnings of a monstrous headache at that point. Running past the fountain, Aya moved onto the more random paths of the rest of Dream Land, following a curved concrete way toward one of the gift shops conveniently located throughout the park.

There was a short stretch of gated wooden fence between two of the buildings, concealing one of the alleyways through which the custodial staff hauled garbage and brought in equipment. It was painted smooth and looked a bit better suited than the rough brick of the storefronts to something unpleasant he needed to handle before he could continue. Bracing himself, Aya slammed his right shoulder into the boards, then again, then again, until he felt the sickening grind of the dislocated socket sliding back into place. The tidal wave of pain that washed over him threatened to take him down into the darkness again, weakening his legs such that he slid down the bloodied gate and had to rest his head on his knees until it passed.

It was thoughts of Yoji more than anything else that drove him back to his feet, gave him the strength to keep moving. Ken and Omi where there too, of course, but on some level he knew that - however much control and responsibility Yoji took on himself in their admittedly complex relationship - sometimes he really depended on Aya more than he was depended on himself. Story of his life, Aya supposed: living for someone else, because someone else wanted him to, needed him to. Still, if it gave him the drive he needed to get by . . . Omi was always going on about silver linings; maybe this was just one of those clouds.

A smallish planter hurled through the door of Gallika-Chan's Swampland Shop granted him access - shattering the logo and its nauseatingly cute, beribboned alligator mascot - and a shard of glass still stuck in the doorframe proved sharp enough to rid him of the bonds around his wrists. Once inside, he headed straight for the clothing display, testing his newly set shoulder for mobility. It hurt like Hell, but he could use the arm if he had to. His fingers still felt strangely numb, a bit alien, but he'd gotten back some of the fine motor skills he'd been missing.

It took some searching, but he eventually managed to find a pair of simple black sweatpants whose relatively modest logo neither sparkled nor lit up nor glowed in the dark nor did anything else that might give him away at a crucial moment. Unfortunately, any similarly plain sweatshirts were only available in small which, all comfort aside, he couldn't even get into. He had pulled the pants on and was just making his way to the tee shirts, for lack of a better option, when an ill-boding shadow passed across the shattered door of the shop.

Aya abandoned his search and dove behind the three-sided turquoise and purple counter, looking now for something, *anything* to defend himself with. A new pair of scissors would have been nice, no matter how little good they would really have been against the sword the Prime was now toting. He'd only caught a glimpse of the thing but it looked *huge*, and its wielder looked like he had both the muscle and the finesse to use it well. There were no scissors back here, anyway, nor was there anything else more dangerous to life and limb than a well-used pencil with a broken lead. Aya knew that places like this had to be scrupulously kid-proofed, but this was ridiculous.

Creeping silently under the counter on hands and knees, carefully avoiding any bits of crumpled paper or other debris that might betray his position, Aya held his breath to listen for similar hints of his stalker's whereabouts. He tried to remember hearing the telltale crunch of broken glass underfoot, but he genuinely didn't know if he had or he hadn't. Chiding himself for an idiot, he peered out through a little hole drilled in the thin wooden side of the counter, through which an electrical cord had been laced.

No sound. No movement. Nothing.

It wasn't until he turned to look behind him that he saw the Prime.

The blade whickered past his ear, sliding through the pressed board side of the counter as if it were no more than rice paper. Aya threw himself backwards, almost getting tangled in the twisted computer cords behind him, conscious even as he did so that he would be dead now if the Prime had really wished it so. On the bright side, of course, he was more awake now than he'd been for most of the night. Startled panic had a way of doing that for a person.

Using the sturdier build of the main cashier's station as a base, Aya launched himself at the Prime's legs, knocking the bigger man down and clambering over him before he could bring his sword to bear. He knocked a rack of clothing over onto his pursuer - Gallika-Chan Sez: 20% Off for End of Season! - and sprinted for the door, dumping as many displays behind him as he could without slowing himself down. He managed to avoid cutting his bare feet on the broken glass only by sheer luck and an inspired, last-second leap. The October wind cut into him with its own cruel blade the instant he left the shelter of the shop but he barely noticed. Everything was lost in the need to get out of the wolf's jaws before they could snap shut.

The relatively broad thoroughfare the shop was on ended in a crossroads of two narrower paths. There was a carousel to the right, illuminated and playing a cheerful little marching tune. Scolding himself for even subliminally listening to Yoji's constant laments about "bad karma," Aya ran to the left instead, catching sight of the blinking light at the top of the Spasm's lift hill off in the distance just as the Prime emerged from the shop behind him. That glimpse of the black and fuchsia track he'd spent most of the day being buffeted about by graced him with a flash of inspiration.

There was a small specialty shop near the roller coaster, another place that had caught Ken's attention but for less wholesome reasons than the spitting cactus fountain. They carried decorative knives, some of them quite lovely and delicate but all of them with functional blades. Aya remembered finding it very amusing that they were willing to sell knives to their patrons but that any items purchased here had to be picked up on the way out of the park. Anything else would be in contravention of Dream Land's no tolerance policy on weapons, and there had been big signs by the exit saying as much.

Aya might not be able to get close enough to the Prime to stab him but he could throw a well-balanced knife with some accuracy; not as well as Omi, but well enough to slow his attacker down. If he could get to the shop and break in, his chances of survival might go up just a bit. He at least stood a better chance of making it until help arrived, if it ever did. He just had to lose his tail long enough to get into the place.

The instant he slipped around a bend where the Prime couldn't see him, Aya vaulted over a low wall to his right and crouched in the shadows, allowing the other to pass him by while he was still following sight cues instead of actively looking for a trail.

The jesters were looking a little less than boisterous now as they went about the business of removing their erstwhile leader and his favorite customer from the arena. Everything had to be ready for the Prime's triumphant return and, whatever challenge the Prime thought he was going to get from Aya, the general consensus seemed to be that this would be an intense but fairly short Hunt. The bodies were hauled off in wheelbarrows and the worst of the gore-clotted earth was shoveled up and sent with them; the rest was scattered and then covered over with fresh. It was soon as if nothing untoward had ever happened here.

Yoji noticed all of this only peripherally, details automatically catalogued in a mind trained to do so by hard experience. His primary attention was on the screen above the arena. There were multiple cameras *inside* the buildings too, it would seem, and they'd captured every instant of the near miss in the gift shop. It had been a startlingly uncharacteristic mistake on Aya's part, first lingering in one place long enough to be cornered and then losing complete track of an enemy. If the Prime hadn't been so caught up in his game of cat and mouse, it would already be over.

Kalen was behaving a bit uncharacteristically himself, sitting perfectly still and quiet on the back of Ken's seat, showing every sign of having forgotten the existence of his former playthings. He stared up at the screens like a child entranced by his Saturday morning cartoon fix, mouth slightly open and curved in an awe-filled smile, eyes wide and bright in the flickering illumination. Here was his favorite show, and it hadn't been on in years.

The Prime was his father, his mother prey for the Hunt . . . it was hard to believe and yet it wasn't. Ken had gone all wide-eyed at the revelation but Yoji knew from hard experience that people had a way of becoming what they saw, even if they were only continuing the same terrible cycle that had destroyed their own chance at normality. Kalen was doing what he felt he'd been born to do. He'd given Daddy a present and now he got to watch him play with it, secure in the knowledge that it and he had been well received. His future as part of the big happy family of Masquerade was assured.

"Not if we have anything to say on the subject, asshole," Yoji thought to himself. "You may have been born to be Masquerade, but we died to become Weiß. It's all about commitment level . . ."

There was another peripheral detail that Yoji had quietly catalogued: the sudden attrition of the local guard population. Most of the departed had vanished shortly before Aya was sent out into the park, the rest immediately after the Prime followed him. There were still quite a few, more than Yoji would have preferred, and all of them were on hair triggers because of their lower numbers, but it looked like the odds were as good now as they were going to get.

Kicking Ken's foot to get his attention, Yoji surreptitiously signaled his intention to move and where. Ken nodded enthusiastically - there was a distinct air of "finally!" to the gesture - stifling a ferocious grin as he shifted his shoulder out from under Kalen's thigh, stretching out the feigned stiffness. Jostled slightly, Kalen glanced tolerantly down at him for only an instant before looking back up at the screens that had him hypnotized.

Once they knew that nothing was suspected, Yoji did a countdown on one hand.

Three.

Two.

One.

He slid into the leg space in front of his seat and then down into the bleacher-like structure beneath it in one smooth motion, followed immediately by Ken. His wire was out and around the neck of the guard down there before he hit the ground, giving it a savage enough yank to crack the man's spine. Ken ran past him, slipping on his bugnuk gloves as Yoji retracted the wire, hoping to run up on the guard in the next section and take him out with equal ease. Yoji headed for the section on the opposite side with the same plan but, unfortunately, Kalen had other ideas.

"I was going to let you live, you ungrateful fools!" he shrieked, dropping down to the ground behind them as he reached for his gun. "You are *not* going to ruin this for me!"

The guards from both adjacent sections rounded the divider walls simultaneously, guns drawn, attracted by Kalen's shouted alarm. Yoji could already hear the footsteps of approaching reinforcements echoing through the seating structure, more and faster than he'd anticipated. With nowhere to retreat to, Yoji and Ken did the only thing they could do, what they'd been trained to do: attack the targets nearest to them and worry about the rest if they survived.

As he wrapped his guard in wire and left him to strangle, abandoning that section of the filament to free another, Yoji heard Ken's feral growl and the meaty purr of his bugnuks ripping free of the other guard's chest cavity. The clawed assassin immediately rounded on Kalen, sprinting in his direction with a savage yell, but Kalen's gun had been out and trained on him before he even turned. Ken didn't notice that fact any more than he'd noticed the gun his kill had dropped, a weapon much better suited to this particular situation than the intimidating but purely short range bugnuks. Ken didn't notice a great deal when he hit berserker mode.

Grinning smugly, Kalen aimed low, gunning not for a kill but a debilitating gut wound. More presents for Daddy. More fodder for the game.

"Kalen!" Yoji shouted, grabbing the gun his own kill had been carrying.

The malignant blond obligingly aimed his pistol at Yoji instead, squeezing the trigger just before Yoji could get a shot of his own off.

The world exploded around Yoji like a shattered mirror and he suddenly found that he didn't have the strength to stand. All of his muscles turned to water on him at once and just sort of slid to the floor in a boneless heap. Still conscious enough to hear the satisfying sound of Ken's bugnuks tearing into Kalen's hateful body, Yoji drifted away with a faint smile on his lips.

The displays were empty.

It had been foolish of him, unforgivably foolish to break into this tiny place with no back door to turn to and the Prime immediately behind him. He'd been counting on the blades to get him back out, perhaps even to eliminate the hunter if he didn't realize in time what his prey was about. What little time he might have used to escape was wasted in breaking open one of the wooden boxes that were supposed to contain the display models. He should have known it would be empty, should have realized that all of the shops had been cleaned out with the Hunt specifically in mind.

The Prime stood in the narrow doorway now, a featureless shadow in the dim halo of lampglow light that slipped past him. Aya stood to face him, teeth bared in a snarl of defiance. He wasn't afraid to die - a man in his line of work couldn't afford such trivial phobias - but that didn't mean he was prepared to lay down and do it without a fight, without honor. Fists clenched around the piece of broken board he wielded as his only weapon, he waited for the Prime to make his move.

"Is this the best you could do? Run into a blind corner?" the hunter laughed, taunting his prey. He had a deep voice, familiar yet not, tainted by a sneer that never seemed to fade behind the passive face of the mask. "The Hunt's barely started, my little one, and already I could have had you twice!"

As Aya watched him, wary and confused, the Prime sidestepped away from the door, opening an escape route. He touched the tip of his sword to the ground, holding it in his casual, underhand grip like a staff or a cane. It looked quite startlingly like he was offering Aya a way out, but the redhead had to go right past the man who was hunting him to take advantage of it. He stayed where he was.

"One of those, then, are you?" The Prime murmured it with a sort of tolerant exasperation. "You want to be told what to do? You *need* to be told what to do?" He took a step toward Aya, his voice a suggestive purr. "Well, then . . . run."

The Prime walked casually toward the counter as Aya sidled along the wall, keeping his back to it, the two of them orbiting a common center until Aya had almost reached the door. This was too good to be true. If life had taught him a single lesson in all his years on this Earth it was that nothing was this easy, not unless it had a vicious catch. He glanced out the door, halfway expecting to see the rest of the wolf pack awaiting him outside.

"I told you to *run*!"

Ah, there it was. The instant his back was turned, the Prime swung his massive sword into an overhand attack posture and charged. Aya dashed out the door but the blade caught him across the shoulder and back just as he cleared the frame, carving a deep gash in his flesh and knocking him to the ground. The worthless board fell from his hands, clattering on the bricked path. He scrambled up before the pain could keep him there with it, before his body could realize exactly how badly injured it was, running off to the side through the fresh-tilled ruins of what had once been a flower garden. At least it was the same shoulder he'd dislocated earlier; he'd been regaining some sensation in it but it was no more than a dead thing at his side now.

The forest-like superstructure of the Spasm sprang up around him as he stumbled on, muzzily worried that the new wound didn't hurt yet. Shock, blood loss, hypothermia: the exact reason didn't matter when all were such bad signs. The Prime was following him again but he was in no hurry. He didn't have to be, not with such a clear trail to follow. Aya's stolen pants were no longer enough to soak up the flow of blood.

The edge of Dream Land property was marked by a tall chain link fence with strips of plastic woven through it, partly to limit visibility and partly to add a touch of color to an otherwise drab bit of landscaping. The strips were of alternating black and fuchsia in this section, the same colors as the Spasm's track. Ten feet high at least, the fence was well outside Aya's current capability to scale, but theme park fences had a way of getting cut through or tunneled under. Maybe if he found a weak place . . .

He didn't notice them at first. The black and red of their masks blended too well with the black and pink of the fence in the darkness. It was the sound of a gun bolt clicking into place that caused him to skid to a stop, landing on his rear in the dew damp grass.

He'd found the rest of the pack after all.

The figures lining the perimeter fence wore wolf masks just like the Prime's, if a little less elaborate, and they still wore the pin-striped suits that had previously marked them as Center security. Their masks were done in black and red instead of the Prime's white and blue, a bit like the cat mask Aya had been wearing. A lot like the cat mask, come to think of it, but he didn't ponder that as carefully as he might have because they also had guns. Very big guns.

Turning and scrambling back the way he'd come, he angled off to the right as the ground behind him kicked up under a brief rain of bullets. The perimeter guards weren't there to kill him, that much was obvious, but he doubted they'd be so considerate if he tried for the fence again. The pack will join the hunt if the Alpha misses his kill.

He headed back for the park proper again. The closest thing to a plan in his mind was to find somewhere not so open, maybe someplace he could lock himself in. Fighting wasn't a feasible option anymore, if it ever had been, and running was rapidly ceasing to be. He half broke through, half tumbled over the short hedge wall surrounding the queue path for the Spasm, coming to rest by a little statue of Koroku-Kun the Tortoise - "You Must Be As Tall As Me To Ride!" - and using it as a crutch to get back on his feet.

He ran on.

The Prime calmly changed direction to intersect his current path.

They were crammed into a small space between support beams, Ken with his back to the dividing wall, Yoji laying across his lap with Ken leaning over him to fire out at the guards in their own spots of cover. There were a few bodies laying in the open space under the seats, some of them shot, some of them slashed by Ken's bugnuks. Yoji was pleased to note that one of these latter had long blond hair. He chuckled softly. Gotcha.

"Yoji!" Ken shouted, gazing down at him with an expression of relieved joy.

"Yeah, who else?"

"Is it on?"

Yoji tried very hard to find the sense in that question. He finally decided that there wasn't any. "Huh?"

"Is . . . your . . . *comm* . . . on," Ken enunciated carefully, leaning out to shoot at a guard who had crept a little too close to their shelter; he pegged him in the arm, sending him scurrying back to cover.

"I think so . . ."

He rather regretted having admitted that the thing was activated an instant later when Ken leaned down to shout directly in his ear.

"I don't know what he told you to do for a distraction, Bombay, but *now* would be a really good time!"

Click.

Ken gave the stolen gun a glare of disgust and tossed it over his shoulder: out of ammo. The bugnuks on his gun hand snapped back into place an instant later and Yoji sat up to ready his wire. It was a matter of a few seconds before the guards figured out why the shooting had stopped and rushed them, guns blazing, and Yoji was awake just in time for the grand finale. Gee, thanks again, Big Guy.

A huge crash suddenly rocked the theater as the dividing wall opposite the one Ken and Yoji were using for cover was crushed under the weight of something massive.

Omi had taken the lights down, all right. One of the giant spotlights that had been hanging above the crowd was now sitting before them in a pile of rubble and body parts. What was left of the support cable was still pierced by one of Omi's crossbow bolts.

"Good enough?" Omi asked over the comm.

"I think it'll do . . ."

The guards that had been trying to get to Ken and Yoji suddenly realized that they just might have a bigger problem to deal with than two cornered intruders. They rushed out from under the seats, many by the handy exit Omi had made. The last of them went down before he cleared the hole, a steel crossbow bolt in his throat.

Yoji raised an eyebrow. "Well, I was going to say that Omi needed help, but . . ."

"I've got him," Ken assured him, taking the offered comm, "you go get Aya."

He didn't need to be told twice. Ken helped him to his slightly unsteady feet and they headed for the "exit" side by side, Ken sticking his head out first - very carefully - to make sure neither of them got anything vital shot off or crushed by falling machinery. As he passed one of the broken bodies, Yoji felt a strengthless grip on his ankle, easily kicked aside with a little noise of disgust. Ken glanced back.

"He's still alive."

"Yeah, so he is," Yoji responded blandly.

He crouched beside the broken creature, taking his bloodied chin in hand and tipping his face up so that Yoji could see his eyes. For the first time in a while, he looked down on agonizing, mortal suffering that he and his friends were responsible for and felt no guilt for it, none at all. Kalen glared malignantly at him, choking on his own blood.

"Gut wound," Yoji commiserated. "Ouch. Man, that karma shit will get you every time."

Kalen grabbed his lapel, pulling Yoji's face down closer. "It was . . . perfect . . ." he coughed angrily, "perfect . . . and you . . . you *ruined* it . . ."

"Yeah, whatever . . . have fun explaining all this to Daddy."

They left him there, wading in opposite directions through the glorious chaos.

He'd retained just enough objectivity to find the symmetry . . . amusing.

Sitting on the floor of the bathroom where he'd made love with Yoji, leaning back against the locked door where he'd seen Kalen and Tolith for the first time, Aya was less than surprised to note that his memory of no windows in the bathroom was a correct one. The Prime had already answered the other question himself - whether or not he had any keys - by starting to hack away at the door, wielding his sword like a hatchet. There was a part of Aya that mourned the mistreatment of such a fine weapon, a realization that almost made him laugh out loud. Maybe he should just go out there willingly, spare the sword such abuse and give it a snack of something softer and wetter than the laminated wood of the door.

No longer able to find the strength to stand, Aya crawled to the janitor's closet with vague thoughts of putting another door between himself and the hunter. The knob slipped through his blood-slicked fingers several times before he managed to get a grip on it and, when he finally did, he found that the closet was locked. Out of ideas, he slumped to the ground in front of it, closing his eyes. He did laugh a little this time, though not with any real humor.

The door eventually gave way, as he'd known it would. The Prime sauntered up to him, casual as a Sunday afternoon, and laid hold of his upper right arm, ignoring Aya's breathless cry of pain as he all but threw him up onto the countertop. He'd left the blade in the corner, waiting obediently for him like a faithful pet, but the silken cords he'd been using for a grip were now wrapped around one of his hands.

"Really, I had higher hopes for you than this," he said, gazing reflectively into Aya's half-open eyes from inches away. "Maybe he put you in the wrong mask after all."

As he spoke, he was wrapping one of the long cords around Aya's right wrist. He tossed the other end over one of the lamps above the mirror, levering Aya's arm into the air. Aya groaned his agony as the motion stretched the torn flesh of his back, reopening a multitude of wounds and freeing fresh blood in crimson ribbons. The world had faded out around the edges, wrapped in shadows like fluttering ebony wings.

"The black mask is special, my little one. Only those who have been of us and betrayed us wear it in the ring . . . or those who might have been of us if their lives had run a different path."

His other wrist received the same treatment, leaving his arms dangling from the silken cords like a pair of delicate manacles. Their anchor on the lamp was tentative at best, but he simply didn't have the strength to pull them loose. His head had fallen back against the mirror, his black-clothed legs on either side of the Prime's hips. There were hands on his body, callused, strangely gentle. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend that it was Yoji, that the last several hours had never even happened. He struggled to keep them open.

"You have been the hunter," murmured the Prime. "I see it in your eyes, but you weren't born to it. You don't want to fight anymore. You never wanted to fight me."

A full moon at midnight, silver and indigo; such incredible eyes. You could see into his head if you looked long enough, into the pit where his soul should have been. It was cold in there. Aya shivered.

"Poor little fool. You were born to the collar . . . you just never knew it."

The other cord tightened around his neck and somehow the eyes behind the mask were green now, the rich green of summer grass just after the sun goes down, when the fireflies come out to dance. There were hands at his waist, pulling his hips forward, and he didn't fight them because they were Yoji's hands, Yoji's voice telling him that he didn't want to fight the collar, he never had wanted to. As long as it was held tight in Yoji's hands, he never would.

Some part of him knew that he was being manipulated - maybe the Prime was a telepath; Schwarz had used psychic weapons on him before, he knew the feel - but some deeper part knew that what he was being shown was at least partially the truth, drawn from his own mind. In some scrupulously hidden corner of his soul, the place he hid all the darkness in when he had to face up to the light, love and death and hate had long ago become one and Yoji could be all of that beautiful, terrible one to him. Yoji, who could be so gentle in bed and so cruel in battle, who had hated and killed that which he loved, whose hands always seemed to glide near Aya's throat when he was out of his mind with lust . . .

And be welcomed there.

"No more reason to fight . . ."

"No . . ." Aya whispered. He didn't know whether or not it was a denial.

The body against his jerked suddenly, a hand twisting in the cord that held up his wrists and yanking it down, shattering the glass globe and showering it on him like a rain of glittering ice.

He'd wanted to draw it out, make the Prime suffer a heartbeat of agony for every soul that he'd hurt, a lifetime of it for daring to lay his hands on Aya, but his rage got the better of him. The instant the razor-sharp wire snaked its way around his throat, Yoji yanked it taut with such force that the Prime's head was torn from his shoulders. He advanced on the body even as it fell, tearing loose the fingers that still clung possessively to the cords Aya was tied with before that jealous grip could pull the redhead down too.

Aya didn't move or look up at Yoji's approach, not even when he reached out to unwind the loose silk from his wrists. His dazed, barely focused eyes were fixed on some tiny thing that lay on the counter beside him, something soft in the midst of the jagged shards of glass from the shattered light fixture: a dead moth. He just kept staring at the dusty, tattered white wings of the little creature with what looked like tears in his eyes. Yoji was inclined to attribute that to the pain he had to be in. Aya never wept, not in Yoji's experience. It just wasn't in his nature.

Yoji struggled with the overwhelming urge to just wrap the wounded redhead up in a big bear hug. Aya would have been scornfully annoyed at such blatantly sentimental treatment under any other circumstances. As things were, Yoji just didn't want to hurt him any worse than he already was. He didn't look like he was entirely in possession of his senses at the moment. Any unnecessary jarring might just tear that tentative grip on consciousness loose.

He spoke Aya's name softly, questioningly, then with a bit more force when he got no response. The other cord was still looped through itself around Aya's throat, no longer tight enough to choke him. Yoji reached out to unwind that as well.

That got Aya moving. Shying violently away from Yoji's touch, Aya tried to hop off the sink and back away but his legs didn't have the strength. They just folded under him and he went down, Yoji following right beside and guiding his fall to keep him from striking his head on the counter. Yoji tried to keep hold of him but Aya would have none of it, flailing blindly until Yoji was forced to release him or risk injuring him further. He sat back on his heels, worried for Aya but uncertain what to do.

The instant Yoji backed off, Aya's hands rose to claw at the cord in what could only be described as panic, fighting with it as if its very presence hurt him - or frightened him - but all he succeeded in doing was twisting it tighter. A soft sound escaped him as he struggled. If Yoji hadn't known better, he'd have thought it was a sob.

"Aya! Stop!" Yoji ordered, clasping Aya's face in his hands to force him to make eye contact. "Please, Aya, let me help you! You have to let me . . ."

After a moment, Aya nodded dazedly, letting his hands fall into his lap. Yoji reached for the cord tentatively, noting the way that Aya stiffened when it began to slide away, as if he really didn't know whether Yoji's intentions were good or not. When it was free, Yoji held it up and then threw it aside, a sort of broad gesture to indicate that the whole thing was over, done. Aya relaxed visibly but he still shied away when Yoji tried to touch his hand. Yoji didn't push it, just stayed beside him on the chill floor of the bathroom and waited for him to find his bearings.

One of the hinges attached to what remained of the shredded door clattered to the ground and Yoji spun at the sudden interruption, reaching instinctively for his wire. A backlit figure lingered in the doorway, small fingers clutching the frame the twisted metal had fallen from: a very concerned, very confused looking Omi. He looked back and forth between motionless rescued and equally motionless rescuer before finally catching sight of the enemy . . . and then his head, a little further away. The mask had fallen away to reveal the Prime's plain, unremarkable, middle-aged face, slack in death.

"Yoji-kun!" Omi exclaimed. "It's Tashi-San! Remember from the . . ."

Hissing in annoyance, Yoji motioned him to come in, get down and be still. He couldn't have given a shit less about the mission or the identity of any of its targets at this point, but the suddenness of Omi's shouted revelation had set Aya trying to back away from imagined threats again, the blankness in his eyes terrifyingly complete. Omi knelt by Yoji's shoulder, watching Aya through wide, empathetic blue eyes.

"Where's Ken?" Yoji asked quietly, his casual tone forced at best.

The young blond followed his lead. "A few of the targets got out of the Center. He's, um . . . tracking them down."

Even Yoji had to admit that he was impressed. "You two managed to take down an entire theater full of targets just since I left you?"

"Yes and no. We really just let all the victims out and locked the doors." Omi shrugged cockily, a touch of his usual perky cheerfulness showing through in his fragile smile. "You know, they really should have had the Fire Marshall over more often. That place was a total death trap."

Despite himself, Yoji actually laughed a little. Relief was just starting to seep in around the edges of the fear, weakening its foundation. Even Aya looked like he was starting to snap out of it a little, though he still refused to look up at either of them. Omi had a way of doing that for his teammates.

"Oh, I almost forgot! Ken-kun wanted me to give you this back."

Grinning a little sheepishly, Omi loosened the leather jacket he'd had tied around his waist and handed it over. He winced as he did so, favoring the injured right arm that Yoji was extremely annoyed at himself to realize he'd completely forgotten about in his worry over Aya. Omi just smiled, no hard feelings. With him, there almost never were.

There was a neat set of five slash marks cutting through the winged cross image on the back of the jacket. A liberal soaking of blood had darkened the worn material, all but obscuring much of the image, but it was still recognizably his, back in his hands. He had no idea why he felt such a relieved sense of closure - materialism at its ugly worst, he supposed, exactly the sort of thing Aya would have scolded him about - but he held onto the feeling for what comfort it offered.

"Sorry. Ken-kun got a little carried away retrieving it . . ."

Right above the slashes there was a small, round puncture in the leather. Yoji stuck a finger through the hole - just the right size for one of Omi's crossbow bolts - and raised a friendly eyebrow.

Omi blushed. "Um, yeah. You can get that fixed, right?"

Yoji smiled in amused confirmation as he turned to Aya, setting the damaged jacket carefully over his bare shoulders. The injured redhead still shivered with cold, pain and pure exhaustion, his body drooping as if he were just clinging to the ragged edge of consciousness, but there was something . . . well, something *Aya-ish* in his eyes again. One shaking hand rose to hover near the bloody kerchief Omi had tied around his bullet-pierced arm, head cocked in what might have been a silent question, or maybe an apology. Omi took the hand in both of his, squeezing it with a comforting smile, and Yoji fought a little twinge of jealousy that the bloody gash in his own forehead was going completely unnoticed; this just wasn't the time to get snippy.

"I'm fine, Aya-kun," Omi assured him gently, "I promise. It's you we need to worry about now."

"Aya?" Yoji asked hesitantly, studying Aya's eyes when his lover turned at the sound of his name. He sidled a little closer, slipping a tentative arm around Aya's waist and almost sighing with relief when it was met with neither objection nor fear. "It's time to get you out of here, all right?"

Finally, Aya nodded, but insisted on being helped to his own feet, a patently Aya move if Yoji had ever seen one. He leaned heavily into Yoji's chest, eyes closed as he fought with all his strength to stay upright, but he did manage the first few steps under his own power. When he finally, inevitably lost his battle with unconsciousness, collapsing with a soft sigh, Yoji gently lifted him into his arms. The barely palpable shiver of his breath against Yoji's throat was the only sign that the bloodied, battered body still lived as Yoji bore him out into the fragile starlight.

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