Ch. 4: "Confrontation"
Notes: Yes, I know the series ended differently. But you know me, I always gotta tweak the story line... =pp so I guess this is kinda AU. I mess a lot with the concept of the story. ^.^; Those with weak stomachs, don't proceed. *Sweatdrop*
Disclaimer: WK does not belong to me. Neither do the lyrics that proceed each chapter- they're taken from various songs from the "Queen of the Damned" soundtrack. Don't sue. =pp
The jury is coming
Coming to tear me apart
All this bitching and moaning
Come on, it's on
Things were just getting worse by the moment. In a sudden surge of desperation, Ken dug his fingers into his attacker's hair and yanked, turning his head quickly aside. He caught the man by surprise, and his fangs slipped free. Something hot and thick dribbled down the side of Ken's neck and he coughed hoarsely, the blood in his throat nearly choking him.
The man snarled quietly at him, but his attention was focused almost completely on Farfarello, who was standing almost casually under a street lamp, staring at them with his single mad eye. "You..." the bulky man breathed, blood dripping from his lips to fall onto Ken's cheek.
Ken released the man's coarse hair and clapped his palm over the wound on his neck, closing his eyes tightly and reaching instinctively inside for the power that even now throbbed through his drained veins. His palm grew warm, and underneath it he felt flesh close and pucker. It was working!
The skinny man was hanging back, looking warily at Farfarello, his whole body tensed. Even these men were afraid of one who could rip apart a man twice his size. For the first time in his career with Weiß Ken was glad to see the assassin. He could heal himself and then make his escape while the lunatic was shredding these thugs into confetti.
"The Traitor returns," the man holding Ken snarled, hate lighting up his eyes. He hesitated, then released Ken, letting him fall onto his back on the hard asphalt. He rose to his feet, hands curling into fists. "How dare you show your face here."
Farfarello bared his teeth in scorn and said nothing. He spun his fingers, and a whirling blade emerged in his hand as if by magic.
The big man hesitated, then glanced at his scrawny companion in a silent command.
The skinny man clenched his teeth in a false show of bravado and began to circle around to Farfarello's left while the other one moved in on the Berserker's right.
Farfarello glanced cooly towards the on his right, ignoring the one on his blind side. The blade in his hand whirled faster, and he parted his lips slightly in a quick intake of breath, his excitement showing in his golden eye. He was looking forward to this kill.
Ken pushed himself slowly into a sitting position, palm still to his neck wound. He felt weak and lightheaded, and groaned at his own stupidity. His Gift could heal the punctures on his neck, but he had lost too much blood. No Gift could fix that. He needed to get to a hospital, and fast. Either he was going to black out or Farfarello was going to tear him apart.
Or probably both. He began to tremble uncontrollably just at the thought, and clenched his teeth hard in an attempt to stop. His body ignored his fierce command, his brain screaming at him, telling him all the horrifying, agonizing things Farfarello was going to do to him.
Fuck fuck fuck FUCK. Out of the frying pan and into the active volcano.
He was gonna die, all right. But he was beginning to think he would've preferred the fanged man to have finished him off.
Then the men were leaping for the Irishman, screaming in rage and defiance.
Farfarello whirled with heartstopping speed, slashing at them with his dagger.
They both collapsed to the ground, thrashing and giving gurgled cries of agony as their guts bubbled out of the gashes on their abdomens.
The fight was done in less than ten seconds.
Ken gaped at the terrible scene in horror and felt his stomach heave in protest. He turned quickly and stumbled to his feet frantically, trying to make a break for it.
The ground swayed underneath him and his legs buckled. He cried out in dismay as he fell heavily to the ground. He'd lost far too much blood. He was weak as a kitten right now.
He heard a light footfall, and tried to get to his hands and knees. A foot landed on his back and ground him into the road again. He cried out, trying to wriggle free, beating over his shoulder in a vain attempt to dislodge the foot. Farfarello stood over him, watching him calmly, and leaned more weight on his foot. Ken grunted and stilled, gasping for air. He was trapped. Farfarello hadn't killed him yet, which meant a slow death. Oh god oh god... He took in a shuddering breath that was almost a sob, and nearly choked to stop the sound from emerging. He wasn't going to let the madman see him afraid, god damn it. That just gave the man his kicks- seeing the terror in his victims' eyes right before he killed them. A flicker of anger came to life, temporarily overriding his fear, and he pushed at the ground forcefully in an attempt to get back up. Farfarello only pushed him back down, and his chin cracked against the road. His temper flared.
"Get off me, you son of a bitch!" he shouted hoarsely, his anger and helpless frustration clear in his voice. "Get OFF me, you fucking pyscopathic homicidal assassin--!"
Farfarello lifted his foot and put the toe of his shoe under Ken's stomach, heaving him onto his back. He rested his foot on the young man's belly and propped his elbow on his knee, leaning his weight onto Ken painfully and gazing down at him with an insane calm. "Weiß's kitten," he breathed. "What business does God's angel have in the slums of Hell?"
"Fuck you," Ken snarled, glaring up at him furiously.
The mad Irishman didn't so much as bat an eye. "That doesn't answer the question, Weiß," he pointed out helpfully, and leaned more weight on his victim.
Ken grunted, screwing his eyes shut.
"Bitten," Farfarello breathed, leaning over to brush fingers coated in dried blood over the fresh scars on Ken's throat. Ken jerked his head aside, repulsed by the touch.
"Don't touch me!"
Farfarello ignored him, golden eye trained on the healed wound. "Scarred already?" A faint frown tugged at his mouth.
Ken grabbed the man's ankle suddenly, gritting his teeth and feeling the Gift inside him flare in response. NO-!
Like Aya, he had used the Gift insinctively, and lost control of it.
Farfarello's eye widened and he jerked his leg away, kicking Ken in the side hard.
Ken coughed for air, rolling onto his unhurt side and clutching at his ribs.
Farfarello was staring at him almost warily, testing his weight on the foot. He gave a little grunt of surprise. "Not twisted," he murmured thoughtfully.
Ken glanced over his shoulder at the other man, taking in ragged breaths of air. Twisted? Shit, he'd healed him? The madman must have twisted his ankle at some time in the night, probably while stalking some other unfortunate victim.
Farfarello's gleaming eye landed on him, and he felt a tremor of fear go through him. "Talent," he said simply, raising his eyebrow in mocking surprise.
Ken swallowed back the bile that rose in his throat. Shit, the man was quick. He hadn't thought the insane murderer would be able to put two and two together that quickly. "Fuck off," he growled instead.
Farfarello's lips curled in a fearsome grin, and he walked towards him, seizing Ken under the arms and hauling him to his feet with surprising strength. Ken stumbled, falling against him, then jerked backwards immediately.
The man's fingers dug painfully into his shoulders, holding him still, and he gazed intently into Ken's wide eyes, face mere inches from his own. His eye was narrowed in thought, his lips pressed tightly together.
What the hell was he doing? Why wasn't he dead yet?
Then Farfarello's gaze drifted downwards, and he slid one hand up Ken's neck, seizing the chain clasped there. He yanked, and Ken gasped as the thin chain broke. The madman held his prize up to the light, examining the key dangling from it. Ken reached for it quickly, but Farfarello was faster. He moved the key out of reach, transferring his piercing gaze back to his prisoner. He gave a low hiss, irritation and longing flickering in his eye. "Weiß is useful," he said finally. "Be grateful, angel."
Ken felt a heady rush of hope. Was Farfarello going to let him live? "Quit calling me angel," he snapped weakly. "If I'm an angel, I'm a fallen one," he added almost bitterly.
Farfarello sneered slightly. "You are an angel who does God's dirty work," he spat. "You kill those who displease Him."
Ken closed his eyes, feeling very tired, his voice emotionless. "I don't believe in God."
The blow was completely unexpected, a brutal strike across the mouth. Ken stumbled back, his back hitting a grimy wall. He reached up quickly to cover his split lip, staring at the madman before him in astonishment.
"Blasphemy," Farfarello said calmly.
Ken stared. He really was insane.
The Irishman ignored him, lifting the key to study it again before slipping it into his pocket. He flashed a chilling smile at the silent assassin. "Next time we meet," he promised throatily, "you will lose all your blood, little angel." He stepped forward, raising his arm in a chopping motion.
Ken flinched, trying to duck out of the way, but the other man was just too fast. He struck Ken on the back of the neck, and everything went black.
Ken fell into Farfarello's waiting arms, sliding into merciful oblivion.
Ken awoke slowly, his neck aching and his mouth dry and bitter-tasting. He opened his eyes slowly, blinking at the harsh overhead lights, and opened his mouth in an attempt to speak. All that emerged was a rasping croak. He blinked hard and tried to swallow.
What the hell was that infernal beeping noise? It sounded like...
It sounded like a heart monitor.
He blinked again and looked around.
He was lying in a bed, covered with crisp, clean white sheets, one arm lying over his belly, an IV trailing from his wrist and snaking off the bed to a bag of blood hanging over his head. The sunlight coming from the window proved it was daytime, and he had survived the night.
What the hell?
Ken looked toward the voice in the door, blinking dumbly.
Yohji offered him a cocky grin, though the shadowed look to his eyes revealed his concern. He hefted a bouquet of flowers. "On the house."
Ken managed a watery smile, feeling relief wash through him almost painfully. He was alive. His friends had found him.
Yohji strode over and placed the flowers on the desk by Ken's bed, looking down at him. "Do you need anything?"
Ken tried to swallow again and failed. "Water," he whispered.
Yohji slid his arm behind Ken's shoulders and eased him carefully into a sitting position before taking a cup of water from the desk and handing it to him. He watched Ken carefully, his mouth tugging into a frown. "How do you feel?"
Ken took a few gulps of the lukewarm water before he lowered it to speak. He swallowed and cleared his throat. "Weaker than a kid," he admitted. He looked up at the older man, dredging up a wan smile. "I thought I was dead for sure."
Yohji's face was grave. "You lost a lot of blood," he said solemnly. "They had to give you a blood transfusion. What the hell happened? And what gave you the crazy idea to go jogging in the middle of the night??"
Ken shrugged uncomfortably, reaching up unconsciously to touch the two small scars on his neck. They would never believe him... "A few thugs," he said evasively. "I took care of them, though." Hah. "How'd you guys know where to find me?"
Yohji gave him a strange look. "Apparently you have a guardian angel, Ken Ken," he said, trying to make his tone light. "We heard a crash and when we got downstairs you were lying on the sofa, knocked the fuck out. Someone had smashed one of the lamps. To get our attention. Unless you did that."
Ken felt a chill run up his spine. He reached for the chain around his neck. It was there. But the key wasn't.
Farfarello had the key to the shop.
And he had used it. But why would he go through the trouble of dragging Ken all the way home and alerting the others to his arrival? If he hadn't, Ken would be dead by now from blood loss.
The Irishman's words drifted back to him. 'Be grateful Weiß is useful.'
"No," Ken said abruptly. "I didn't do that."
"Who brought you back?"
Ken shook his head in feigned ignorance.
There was a light rap on the door and Aya entered, face set in its familiar cold planes. He nodded in greeting to Ken, and Ken managed to smile back.
"Where's Omittchi?" Yohji asked with fake cheerfulness, plopping down into the chair by Ken's hospital bed.
Aya tilted his head towards the door. "Talking to Birman."
Ken blinked. "She's here?"
Yohji nodded, propping his elbows on his knees. "You're in a Kritiker-funded hospital, after all. Two doors down from Aya-chan, as a matter of fact."
Aya flicked him an unreadable look at the mention of his sister.
"She came as soon as she got the news," Yohji continued. "I think she wanted to talk to us once you woke up. Maybe she's finally going to fill us in on this 'big threat' we have that forced us to get these damn Gifts." He pulled a wry face. "Whatever it is."
Ken shrugged helplessly, and Aya shook his head.
But Ken knew exactly what Birman wanted to talk about. Somehow, he knew. He reached up and touched the two small scars on his neck.
Only one enemy could be powerful enough to demand the use of Gifts.
Author's Notes: Short chapter. -_-;; Oh well.
"Pyscopathic homicidal assassin" was Mami's description of Farfie. ^^;; I quote: "I'm in love with a pyscopathic homicidal assassin". Yes, gentle readers, she is, indeed, insane. -_-;
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