Waiting around is the second most boring thing in the world.

I shift weight to the other foot for the fourteenth time, sigh, and examine the wall in front of me. From a distance it looked smooth and blank; when my head is this close I can see tiny cracks and veins running through the surface, chips and flecks of mica that catch the moonlight. If I squint they resolve into patterns, maybe a face -

"Balinese, wake up!" A hand claps my shoulder. Ken.

Slowly, I push the sunglasses back up my nose and turn around. "Who says I was asleep? Just dreaming." The only good point to boredom is you start looking at things you never noticed before. Like a wall, or a leaf, or the way water clings to skin.

"Oh, I'm sure." Ken's smirk could almost pass for a real smile in the dark. "Ne, about before -"

I wave a hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it." His concern is understandable; it's never good when the person about to be at your back in a fight is pissed at you. "Guards yet?"

Ken shakes his head. "Any minute now." His breathing is a little fast, his brown eyes wide and dark with anticipation of the killing rush. Involuntarily, he turns to look at the corner our victims will walk round. "Never know how you stay so calm," he mutters.

Words are no good to Ken when he's jittery, he barely hears them. Instead I pull out the pack and place a cigarette between his lips, lighting it silently. He stares down at it. "I don't smoke."

"So live a little."

Just then Omi's voice crackles in our ears. "Heads up!"

Ken flings the cigarette to the ground and stomps it out as though it were a snake. The guards come round the corner; we leap at them in perfect synchronicity, and the only sign of where we stood is a scuffed bit of ash and paper.

* * *

Only two guards. I can't decide if I'm disappointed. One of them topples backwards with a stunned look and Ken's claw in his chest; I snap the other's neck with a quick jerk of the wire, using his own movement against him.

Killing people is not fun. I stopped throwing up afterwards long ago, but I don't get off on it like certain unnamed redheads. On the other hand it's always satisfying to do something perfectly. The wire slithers back into the watch, and the body drops at my feet. Goodbye, nameless man.

Somewhere I read that when you die the ghosts of those you've killed will walk you to Hell as honor guards. Mine are going to be a fucking parade, with a brass band and flags and me riding in Seven in the middle. If deaths you're responsible for count Asuka can show up and twirl a baton.

We meet up with Aya and Omi at the entrance, none of us even breathing hard. Omi breaks the camera lens, slides the ID card he found through the reader, and we're in the door.

This place is more of an office than anything else; we're here for information, not death tonight. Ken and Omi hunker down in the control room while I start to search the rooms nearby. Aya prowls off to break something or other by himself.

Ten minutes of work tells me there's nothing useful about Dekakeru in this section. Bored, I wander back to the control room and peek in to see what the others are doing. Omi is crouched on the floor disassembling something complicated. Ken's taken off his gloves and is inspecting a long scratch on his off hand.

"Siberian, are you hurt?" Omi's eyes brighten with concern. "Let me see." He scrambles up and takes Ken's hand, over the other boy's embarrassment. "Hey, it's nothing."

Omi turns the hand over and tsks at it. As though it were the most obviously sensible thing to do, he leans down and licks the cut. Slowly and thoroughly. Ken makes little strangled noises.

"Maa, you don't want it to get infected, do you?" His tone is completely innocent.

Oh. My. God.

Did I say that boy needed help? That's as smooth a use of the Oh-You're-Hurt-Poor-Dear technique as I've ever seen. Has Omi been watching me in the shop or something? And, Ken! Of all people, Omi wants his male teammate?

Quickly, I step back from the door and pretend to fumble with papers. Ken crashes through it a few seconds later.

"Ah, Youji! Find anything?" His eyes light on the papers. "Here, I'll help you with those."

"Aren't you supposed to be guarding Bombay?"

"He's fine, really. Look, I'll search this room over here and you take that one." Ken stops when I grab his arm and shake my head sadly.

"After all those times you criticized me for not sticking to the plan? Siberian is the good one and Balinese is the screwup, remember. Now get back in there like a good assassin."

"But there aren't any - He doesn't need a -" Ken protests as I push him back into the control room and shut the door. "And stick with him!" I call through it.

Poor, poor Ken. Snickering quietly, I put my eye to the crack of the doorframe to watch.

"What. Are. You. Doing?" Aya's voice is right in my ear.

"Aaaah!"

Losing my balance and sprawling on the floor gives me time to decide that this is only a half-point for Aya. Still too many. I look down while getting to my feet, delaying the sweet sight of his anger.

And curse silently in disappointment. Aya looks disgusted and a little tired, no more. Youji screwing around during a mission is apparently no more than he expects. Fine. Fine.

I push the sunglasses back up my nose, shaking a little. "What do you want?"

"I found the safe." Aya turns on his heel and walks away, leaving me nothing to do but follow.

* * *

The safe is in the back corner of the building, in an office that fairly screams, "Hidden Things Here! Check the Painting!" Somewhere is a concealed switch that would slide it aside, no doubt; Aya prefers to pry the thing off with his katana.

While he does that I perch on a corner of the desk, meditating revenge. How dare he? Inspiration strikes as my hand brushes something smooth and round. A paperweight. Blown glass, nearly a perfect sphere.

When Aya turns around I've almost forgotten him. The paperweight's a little too big, but still it moves sweetly through my hands, rolling down one wrist and up the other, then balancing on fingertips like a soap bubble. I twist it through the space between each finger, hands turning over and over, watching the play of light in the glass...

"Balinese."

"BALINESE!"

I look up and smile at him, still soothed by the rhythm. "Aya." His fist is clenched. "Hit me again," I whisper throatily.

Now _there's_ a reaction.

The anger drains right out of his face, leaving it paler than ever. He looks...horrified. Revolted. "You're _sick_," he hisses.

I say nothing, still watching him, still sliding the glass ball over and around and through.

Abruptly he leaves, almost running from the room. My hands slowly stop and set the paperweight down. Was that satisfying? I'm really not sure.

The safe is much easier to deal with than thinking about this. I pull the little stethoscope from my pocket and set to work. Omi could blow the lock off a little faster, probably, but this way is quieter and a lot more fun.

My hands, freed from the gloves and tingling in the air, caress the dial slowly. Each click reaches my ear and fingers, sound and touch like a combined sense. In fifteen minutes the door is open and I'm scooping up the contents.

One stack of very valuable folders. Bundles of pointless money - Kritiker will claim it, anyway. Several plastic bags of white powder. Probably cocaine, but we might get lucky. I take it all, wipe the safe down carefully and leave.

The others are waiting for me out front. No greetings, not that I expected any. I nod in answer to the question in Omi's eyes, and we head for the car. Aya doesn't even look in my direction. I wonder if he'll never speak to me again. No, that would impair mission performance.

He'll get over it in a few days.

Probably.

Maybe.

Youji, you really are an idiot.

* * *
On toPart Five
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