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| It was just one life. How much could it really be worth anyways? It was just one life ... Ran Fujimiya repeated the litany of words over and over in his head, hoping to assuage the uneasiness that had somehow settled inside his chest. No, it wasn't Ran anymore. It was Aya now, a name he had to accustom himself to. Ran had died that fateful night when everything he had held dear was taken from him. Closing his eyes, he shifted his body deeper into the hotel bed, naively wishing that with the physical comfort would also come some semblance of an all too elusive peace. With an empty half-smile, he slipped his hand under the pillow, and tentatively traced the unfamiliar metal of a concealed semi-automatic. Peace - what a fucking myth. A flash of light, a screech of tires, and it was all gone. It was odd how when one lost everything that defined oneself, one tended to become detached, to just merely exist rather than live, to watch one's body in motion as if it were a separate entity. Perhaps that may have explained why he had remained so impartial when this group, this Kritiker, had approached him and offered him a deal he found himself compelled to take. That may have also explained why he didn't blink an eye when they gave him a gun and ordered him to kill a man to prove his worth. Even the fact that the target - a highly respected American businessman – preferred young male prostitutes, and that he was to pose as such for the best opportunity to kill the man didn't phase Ran overly much. Apathy was such a wonderful thing. Yet, when he considered what he was giving Kritiker to what he would receive in return, he believed he was getting the better end of the deal - the tattered remains of a near non-existent soul in exchange for the blessed appeasement of an all-consuming drive for vengeance. For an opportunity at revenge, he would be trained as one of their agents, a pawn to be used at their discretion: it was not too much to ask at all. But first, it started with taking one life. Nothing much ... just one life. A sudden rattle at the room door alerted Ran of his target's imminent arrival. Forcing his tense muscles to relax, however slightly, he watched through the darkness as a looming figure moved into the room. The first thought that ran through the would-be assassin's head was that the man was tall, impossibly tall and imposing. Pushing that trivial detail aside, he also noted that the target was fairly young, easily seen in the youthful grace and energy with which the shadowed figure moved, thereby contradicting the middle-aged persona that Ran had initially pictured. So this was the man he was to kill, the man who had apparently been responsible for numerous deaths through his black dealings, and would undoubtedly be responsible for many more if left to go free. Releasing his hold on the gun and moving to sit in an upright position, Ran watched quietly as the man walked purposefully closer to the bed. "Mr. Blackwell, I ..." Ran's words were effectively cut off by harsh lips that descended roughly onto his own. Panic flared. No, not like this! This wasn't what he had intended. It was supposed to be quick and simple ... shoot and then run. But his protests were smothered by the older man's mouth, which sucked and bit with such carelessness, Ran was certain he tasted the coppery tang of blood. Before he could mount any further protest, Ran felt his arms being captured in a vise-like grip and the man's weight shift atop him, essentially pinning his body to the bed. "No escape, my lovely boy," came the man's harsh whisper. No escape. The words stilled Ran's protests as they wove their way through his frantic thoughts. That's right: no escape. He had been trapped since the night his parents died, trapped as his sister slipped away, trapped in his own thirst for revenge. There was no way out now, imprisoned as he was in the course he had chosen for himself. "Yes, you've past the point of no return," mumbled the man as he moved his lips down Ran's jaw line and onto the vulnerable expanse of his neck. The boy took a faltering breath and closed his eyes, ignoring the bittersweet sensations that coursed through his body at the man's expert ministrations. He had made this choice and by God, he was going to live with it, even if it meant ignoring the fact that he was allowing his body to be violated. "That's it, my boy," the man said quietly, encouraged by his partner's passivity. "How far are you willing to go? How much are you willing to endure?" The man chuckled softly as Ran felt a hand inch toward his groin. 'As far and as much as it takes,' Ran told himself, and turned his head away from the looming figure astride him. He watched the intriguing flutter of the drapes caused by some hidden air vent. He watched the moonlight dance through the slits of those said curtains. He watched particles of dust swirl to some unheard melody in the moonbeams that made it into the room. He forced his mind onto the most benign things, onto anything as long as it kept his mind off what was being done to his body. His body wasn't his anymore; it belonged to the vengeance he owed his family, to this group called Kritiker, and for tonight, to this man on top of him. Besides, he wasn't losing anything of significance, he reminded himself. A body without a soul wasn't worth much anyways.
Ran watched the rise and fall of the sleeping form’s chest as his fingers tightened their grip. The man was young, he knew, younger than he had expected. The assassin had felt it in the man's graceful movements, and in the toned muscles that had pressed against his skin earlier that night. But a life was a life, be it young or old, and by taking this life, not only would he save all the lives that this man would eventually take, but he would also be one step closer to his own vengeance-tainted goal. It would all work out nicely: one life in exchange for all those that could be lost. The man was a murderer, despite his professional veneer, and duly deserved this, Ran tried to convince himself. He pulled the gun from its temporary sheath, and after ensuring the silencer was on, pointed it at the man’s head. 'Pull the trigger,' he told himself. 'Just pull the trigger. It's not that hard. Just shoot.' His breaths were coming erratically now, loud to his own ears, but through his harsh breathing, he heard the man's as well, rhythmic, relaxed, ... serene. It would be so simple to stop that breathing, so simple ... but he couldn't. Squeezing his eyes shut, he dropped the gun on the bed and cursed. 'Goddamnit Ran, you're a fucking idiot! A stupid fucking idiot!' He laid there, unmoving, frozen by his own indecision, as the man's breathing continued to echo in the darkness, taunting him and lulling him at the same time. God, he hated this inexplicable frustration he felt. He hated his own ineptitude. He hated ... he hated himself.
"Money's on the table," came the man's voice as he turned to leave. Ran ignored the words as he casually moved his hands around the bed in search of his discarded gun. The assassin stiffened when he came up with nothing. 'Shit!' Panic began to well in the pit of his stomach as he once again searched the blankets around him. Where did he – "It's not that easy, is it?" Ran looked up at his supposed target, who had paused on his way out. When Ran didn't respond, the man continued. "It's not that easy taking a life." The assassin froze, stunned at what he had just heard. Without any ceremony, the man threw the missing gun at the boy, curious to see if there would be any reaction. Ran didn't even bother catching it. "A gun doesn't suit you, kid. Not your style." Ran stared blankly at the weapon that was now neatly ensconced in the comforter. "Let me tell you something, Ran. If you want to become an assassin, the first life you must take has to be your own, not mine, not some so-called evildoer they assign to you. No, your first target must be yourself because if you don't kill everything that is you, you'll never make it through with your sanity. And from what I can see, Ran Fujimiya is still very much alive." The man paused, letting the boy absorb his words. "Are you willing to do that, Ran? How much is your life worth to you?" The gaze that raised itself to meet the man's was detached, uncaring at the awkward turn of events. "How did you know my name?" was the only thing that came from the boy's lips. The man smiled coldly, a brief flash of whiteness in the still-darkened room. "I know a great deal more than you'll ever know." Ran watched as the figure moved towards the door. "I know what you will become in the next few years. I know what you will give up to get there. I know that we will meet again and it won't be under such amiable circumstances. In fact, I look forward to it." The man’s hand turned the doorknob. "But there is something you should know. Stephen Blackwell is dead. I killed him last night. My name is Crawford, but I don't expect you to remember that." The door opened. "Remember what I said Ran. Or should I say, Aya." A resounding click marked the departure of the man, leaving a thick silence that encompassed the room and drowned out Ran's thoughts. He didn't know what had just happened, or perhaps he did, but wasn't really willing to process it yet. Frankly, he didn't care. Gingerly, as if afraid it would bite, Ran picked up the gun. Kill himself, the man had said. Kill everything that was him. Could he do it? Ignoring the soreness that riddled his body, Ran put the gun on the nightstand and quickly dressed. 'Yes. Yes, I can do it.' he decided as he picked up the gun and the money. 'I can kill Ran Fujimiya.' How much was his life worth to him anyways? 'Nothing. Nothing at all,' Aya thought as he left the room.
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