fic: The Technical Term is "Re-imagining" (bandom/Asian extreme cinema, 1/1)
So I don't know if I've mentioned it later, but I love Asian extreme cinema. Clearly, the only sensible thing to do is cross it over with bandom. (Travis/William, Pete/Patrick, Panic OT4 + Brent, Cobra Starship gen, Mikey/Bob, all AU.)
--oh my God, you guys, I don't even know anymore. But I really, really like this one, so.
the technical term is “re-imagining”
by gale
SUMMARY: Five things that aren't true. As far as I know. (AKA, Guess the Asian Movie Crossed Over With Bandom.)
1. imprint
The boat ride was long, and cold, and even the raw fish tasted like shit. Travis hardly noticed. He was finally, finally doing what he'd longed to do all these years: return to Japan and get his love, his William. The boy had fallen on hard times, but it didn't matter to Travis; he'd buy his freedom and they'd go somewhere -- somewhere quiet, where William could play his mandolin and Travis could write dimestore novels, cheap and profitable.
But when he got there, the pinch-mouthed madam, a slip of a girl named Elisa, would only say, "William's not here."
Travis shoved his foot in the door. "What do you mean, he's not here?" he demanded. "Where is he?"
Elisa muttered something under her breath, rapid-fire. "Not here," she said again. "You want to stay the night? The boat's already gone, you might as well." Her smile was lascivious and twisted, more from her mouth than anything else. "I have prettier boys. Girls, even."
Travis opened his mouth to say no, then shook his head. Might as well. "Let me see the list?"
Elisa thrust a book at him. Each page was a glossy picture and a neatly-typed name, with measurements handwritten beside that. All but the last page, which had only a name.
"This one," he said, pointing. "I'll take Tom."
One of Elisa's assistants burst out with high, raucuous laughter. Elisa cuffed her ear and nodded. "She'll be in your room within the hour," Elisa said. "I'll send the book up too, in case you change your mind."
"Why would I--" Travis started, but she was gone.
*
Sure enough, an hour later -- after a hot bath and a meal of sake and sashimi -- there was a knock at the door. Travis belted his robe and opened the door.
Very faintly, someone said, "Are you Travis?"
Travis frowned. There was a man standing there in a cloak, his face obscured.
"I'm Tom," the voice said. "May I come in?"
"I--"
"Or you could choose someone else," Tom said. He sounded cheerfully defeated,like Eeyore on weak opium. "Elisa said you probably would. I'm just surprised someone chose me at all."
Travis thought for a moment, then eased the hood back.
The left side of Tom's face was normal, even handsome: blond lashes and baby-faced cheeks, a fine dusting of stubble on his chin. The right, though--
"It's all right," Tom said, still polite. "They mostly save me for the ones who come who're too drunk to care where they stick it. It's not so bad, really."
Something about his steadfast optimism made Travis' heart twist again. "William," he whispered. "I'm -- I'm sorry to ask. Did you know him?"
Tom tilted his head towards the room. Travis stepped aside and let him in, closing the door behind them.
"I know everything," Tom said. "They speak freely around me because they think I'm stupid, as if physical deformity had anything to do with it. And I know what happened to your William."
Travis sat on the edge of the bed and stared at him for a long time. Finally, he said, "Tell me."
"William was one of the favorites," Tom said quietly, sitting cross-legged on the floor. "Everyone loved him - salarymen, royalty, politicians. He did his job flawlessly, but at night he would pine and weep for his true love, a writer who'd promised to return for him."
Travis winced. "I," he started, and stopped. His reasons for staying away were his own, after all.
"One day, Elisa lost a piece of jewelry, a pretty jade ring a client had given her. The other whores pointed and said it was William, it had to be, no one else loved shiny things as much as he did. And Elisa believed it, because she wanted to believe it.
"They took him and tied him by one foot to disorient him; then they began working on him. Terrible things, needles in his gums--"
"Don't tell me," Travis said faintly. "It's not -- go on."
"They found the ring behind her bureau," Tom said, "but it was too late. William killed himself that night. They took his body and heaved it into the river, and no one has seen it since."
Travis closed his eyes. It couldn't be true; it couldn't. William was still alive somewhere, hidden from him, maybe even wounded, but alive. The way he'd been when Travis last saw him--
--that's not good enough for you? Hands around that pretty pretty throat, kill you kill you KILL YOU--
Eyes still closed, Travis said, "Tell me again."
2. tomie
The day after they killed Brent, he was back in second period like nothing had happened.
"That's bullshit," Spencer snapped, glaring across the room. "He's -- I stabbed him, I fucking dismembered him, and the rest of you helped me--"
"Cut him up," Jon said softly. "No way he's getting back in one piece, let alone going to French."
Very true. But there he was, turning to Page 97 in Entrez-Vous France! like last night hadn't happened.
The thing about Brent was, he wasn't cute. Or hot, or sexy, or anything like that. He was quiet and shy, and his cheeks were too full for his face. When he spoke, it was in a colorless monotone, and no one had ever actually seen him smile.
The first week he'd been there, two girls had had nervous breakdowns, one guy had killed himsef, and there'd been 27 separate fights over him. Even Brendon and Ryan had gotten into a fight over him, and Spencer was reasonably certain that had never happened before, in the history of ever. Jon was terrified of him -- not scared, terrified, in a way he couldn't process or express. He spent the whole two weeks Brent was there looking freaked and sweaty and wan.
Somewhere around the third time Ryan called to tell Spencer howmuch he needed Brent -- interrupted by two call-waiting beeps: Brendon, saying the same thing, and Jon, telling Spencer he was pretty sure he was going nuts -- Spencer decided he had to kill Brent.
It wasn't complicaed; he just looked at Brent, who was sitting in history, staring, uninterested, as Greta and Chris tore themselves apart over him (fucking Greta and Chris, come on), and thought: I'm going to kill you. There was no heat to it, no passion. The whole plan just sprang into his head fully-formed, like Athena from Zeus' skull.
When he'd told the others, they'd instantly agreed. Any other time or person or circumstance, it would've been sickening. But not where Brent was concerned.
Brendon had lured him into the woods -- and Brent had been quick to go, which was the disgusting part. What kind of person agreed to a date in the woods? -- and Jon had struck first, slicking Brent's throat from behind with a carving knife. Ryan and Brendon had punched and kicked him, but Spencer had been the one to actually knock out his teeth and dismember him.
The whole thing had been fucking weird. It had been like an out-of-body experience or something. Spencer remembered the rage, the way he'd gone after Brent's teeth with a claw hammer, but he couldn't remember how it had felt. It was fucking creepy.
But not as creepy as Brent sitting there when Spencer was damn sure they'd killed him less than twelve hours earlier.
"Do we -- do we talk to him?" Ryan whispered. He fumbled and found Brendon's hand, squeezed it.
"Hallmark doesn't make cards for this, Ross," Jon whispered. He'd looked almost normal on the drive back, and before first period, but now he was wan and sweaty alll over again.
"Why?" Brendon said. "What does he want??" His voice cracked on the last word.
Spencer said nothing, just looked across the room and glared at Brent's profile.
Brent looked up at them suddenly.
And smiled.
3. battle royale
"Oh my God," Ryland said. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my GOD--"
"Shut the fuck up!" Alex yelled. "Just, shut the fuck up and wait. Gabe'll be here soon. He promised." Alex wasn't letting himself think about variables, like someone killing Gabe before he could meet them there. He wasn't.
"Seriously," Vicky said, "do you even know what you have?" She rummaged through her government-provided pack and pulled out a cheese grater. "Explain to me what I'm supposed to do with that."
"You could seriously wound people," Gabe said blithely, coming into the clearing. Everyone jumped.
"Gabe!" Nate said. "Oh thank God. We hoped--"
"*I* knew you were coming," Alex said imperiously, shoving Nate aside. "The others doubted."
"Can you blame us?" Ryland shouted. "Jeanae got a knife in the fucking forehead, and Mike got his head blown off. It's been a bad fucking day, and we've only been out here about an hour."
"It's okay," Gabe said. It was one of the things Alex loved best about him: nothing ever disturbed him, ever. Nate swore up and down that he'd once seen Gabe beat a kid unconscious for bumping his arm during lunch, without so much as batting an eye. Alex couldn't think of anyone he'd rather follow. "It's going to be fine."
"How?" Vicky said, hands on her hips. Even with her school uniform and the collar around her neck, she looked sexy. Alex knew from experience that if you tried something, she'd bite your balls off. According to the stories, maybe literally.
Gabe just looked at her. "You don't have any faith, Vicky?"
She scowled and crossed her arms over her chest, looking away.
"It's fine," Gabe said again. "I went ahead and flipped a coin. If it came up heads, we'd fuck this stupid game and find a way to beat it."
Everyone cheered at that. Everyone but Alex. He'd known Gabe long enough to know that he chose his words carefully.
"Gabe," he said, "why did you say 'if'?"
Gabe looked at Alex. "Because it didn't come up heads," he said, and reached out and snapped Nate's neck.
Alex didn't stop to gape or yell; he took off running.
And that would've been great, except he was in the goddamn woods, and -- okay, yeah, he had a hatchet, but someone (probably Gabe, oh GOD) had hold of Nate's Uzi and was firing on the others. It was quarter to four in the morning and they were on an island; sound traveled great.
Alex made himself stop after half a mile and get his breath and bearings. He panted and unfolded the map. They'd met by the cliff face, which was in G2. G2 was also set to become a forbidden zone in less than ten minutes, which meant--
"Alex. Why did you run?"
--there was a gun jammed into his kidneys and a sociopath asking him a question. Fuck.
"Better question," Alex panted, still out of breath. "Why are you killing people? Killing us?"
"I told you," Gabe said. Asshole wasn't even out of breath. "I flipped a coin."
Even with his back to Gabe, Alex gaped. "You *what*? You -- you just flipped a coin to see whether or not you'd *kill us*?"
"Yes."
Alex froze. He'd been expecting -- something. Not remorse, he doubted Gabe was capable of it, but...triumph, maybe. Or some measure of unseasonable gloating. Not the vast emptiness he was speaking to, certainly.
"Gabe," he said quietly, "don't do this. Please."
"It's a game," Gabe said. "Someone has to win. I'd rather it be me."
"Gabe, please, don't--"
Gabe fired.
4. dumplings
"I have heard," Mikey said, after a long pause, "that your dumplings restore youth and vitality." He took his sunglasses off, folded them neatly on the table. He was doing his level best not to touch anything in the small, cramped apartment.
This whole trip had been a disaster. The apartment this so-called "holistic rejuvenator" lived in was outside the city, and was beset on all sides by old men and families with shrieking brats. He'd had the smell of dung and fried food in his nose since his driver had found the place. Mikey toyed with his watch idly and wondered if it was really worth it.
Then he remembered Bob's eyes on the hostess at dinner the other night, and gritted his teeth. If this worked...
"Then you heard correctly," Frank said. He was small and solid, with a bright red forelock and cat's eyes. Everything about him screamed "fey" -- the original meaning, like he'd been lost from a group of wandering pixies. "It doesn't come cheap, though."
"That's only if you do what you claim," Mikey said.
Frank leaned in and put his hands on the table. "How old do I look?" he demanded.
Mikey shrugged. "What, 24, 25?"
"In August," Frank said, "I'll be 82."
"Bullshit," Mikey said immediately.
"I can show you documents, if you want," Frank said. "Pictures."
"You can fake those." But as he said it, he had the feeling in his gut that it was true. No one with eyes like that could be anything *but* inhuman. A thing like that could certainly age so, so slowly.
"It's your decision," Frank said, shrugging.
Mikey took out his checkbook. "Is a personal check all right?"
*
When Mikey came back the next week, Frank waved him in. "Come in! I was just about to start cooking."
Mikey took a seat at the table, hands clasped neatly in his lap. "Can I help?" he asked, and cursed under his breath. He was all thumbs in the kitchen; no one needed that.
"No thanks," Frank yelled. "You just stay there. The last thing I need is for you to discover the secret ingredient."
The kitchen was busy with sounds: kneading and stretching dough, the poof! of flour being doused, the filling -- chicken or beef or whatever -- being cut into pieces. The apartment slowly grew warmer. Mikey fanned himself.
"So why're you doing this, anyway?" Frank yelled. Thwack! went the knife. "If I can ask, I mean."
Mikey fiddled with his watch.
"I -- my partner travels a lot," he finally said. "For business. Just lately, I think he's started to look at other people."
"Think" wasn't the right word for it; Bob had been looking at people, and usually in plain view of Mikey. He'd complain to Gerard, but his brother had been against the marriage from the start. Mikey had lost track of how many times he'd heard Gerard yell "You're better than that!" But Gerard had his art (and Ray) to keep him company, and what did Mikey have? A failed career as a bass player. No thank you.
"Ahhhh," Frank said, standing in the doorway. MIkey jumped. "And you want to regain your faded youth and catch his eye again?"
"I still love him," Mikey murmured. "That probably seems very silly, to you."
An unreadable expression crossed Frank's face. "No," he said quietly, "it doesn't." He turned and went back to the kitchen.
*
An hour later, Mikey was peering into a bowl of entirely unremarkable dumplings.
"I'm sure they're great," he said, trying to sound enthusiastic. "I--" He paused. "All of them?"
"Every one," Frank agreed.
"Is it fish? I told you, I don't like seafood--"
"It's meat," Frank said. "And that's all I'm gonna say. Just eat the fucking things, okay?"
Mikey glared, but picked one up with his spoon. The dough was surprisingly thin; he could see pinkish-red meat inside. He took a deep breath, then screwed up his courage and ate it.
It tasted a lot like organic, free-range chicken. Mikey looked at Frank when he bit into something crunchy.
"A little bit of the dough usually gets overcooked," Frank explained. "It's fine."
Mikey shrugged and chewed more slowly, savoring it. He was barely listening to Frank; in his head he was nineteen again, bent over Bob's sound equipment and asking what he was doing. Firm thighs, flat stomach, flatter ass, and Bob staring at him the whole time, cigarette in his mouth, rapt.
He swallowed and spooned up another.
5. marebito
By the third day, the boy was worse.
As if he hadn't been pale before, Pete thought -- and he was, pale as paper, pale as a boy who'd been living beneath the earth -- he was downright sickly now. His mouth seemed too red and too full for the rest of him, and the fairness of his hair made him look more washed out; but he was wearing clothes now, even if they were ill-fitting, and the mark around his ankle where he'd been chained was healing nicely.
He would not speak. He'd started answering to Patrick, the name Pete had given him (something Irish, he'd decided, and the kid didn't look like a Sean or a Michael), but that was all.
"If you could just talk," Pete muttered, looking at him. Patrick was sitting on the bed, glancing around but never really focusing on anything. He almost thought there was something wrong with the kid -- like, mentally -- except Patrick picked up everything Pete showed him on the first try. He was clever, even intelligent, but the understanding was missing. Forget being abused, or slow; it was more like he was an alien.
Pete sighed and reached for his coffee--
--and got a palmful of scissors instead.
"Aaaagh!" Pain was sizzling up his arm. "Fuck--"
Patrick was off the bed in an instant, holding Pete's wrist steady with one hand and pulling the scissors out with the other. The sight of bright red blood made Pete wince.
"Goddammit," he said through clenched teeth. "Patrick, can you go into the bathroom and get me the per--"
Patrick fastened his mouth to the wound and started sucking.
"Hey!" Pete yelled. "That's -- fuck, don't do that! It's unhygenic!"
Patrick didn't move, just kept sucking it. He growled when Pete tried to pull him away.
"What are you," Pete said, "some kind of fucking vampir--"
Patrick fixed curious eyes on him, his mouth still working.
"Oh," Pete said faintly. It...wasn't surprising, somehow. He didn't burst into flame in sunlight, but he didn't love it, either; and Pete had found him in an unlit cavern beneath the earth. He hadn't eaten anything until now, with his mouth wrapped around the wound in Pete's hand, and he slept like the dead.
There was a vampire in his apartment, and it looked exactly like a pretty redhaired boy.
"It's all right," Pete said, voice still faint. He started to pull his hand away again. Patrick pouted a little, but let him. Somehow, Pete wasn't surprised to see that the wound had started closing up.
He looked at Patrick, at the smear of red on Patrick's bottom lip.
"I'll take care of you," Pete murmured. "I promise."
Patrick smiled and licked the last drop of blood away.
--oh my God, you guys, I don't even know anymore. But I really, really like this one, so.
the technical term is “re-imagining”
by gale
SUMMARY: Five things that aren't true. As far as I know. (AKA, Guess the Asian Movie Crossed Over With Bandom.)
1. imprint
The boat ride was long, and cold, and even the raw fish tasted like shit. Travis hardly noticed. He was finally, finally doing what he'd longed to do all these years: return to Japan and get his love, his William. The boy had fallen on hard times, but it didn't matter to Travis; he'd buy his freedom and they'd go somewhere -- somewhere quiet, where William could play his mandolin and Travis could write dimestore novels, cheap and profitable.
But when he got there, the pinch-mouthed madam, a slip of a girl named Elisa, would only say, "William's not here."
Travis shoved his foot in the door. "What do you mean, he's not here?" he demanded. "Where is he?"
Elisa muttered something under her breath, rapid-fire. "Not here," she said again. "You want to stay the night? The boat's already gone, you might as well." Her smile was lascivious and twisted, more from her mouth than anything else. "I have prettier boys. Girls, even."
Travis opened his mouth to say no, then shook his head. Might as well. "Let me see the list?"
Elisa thrust a book at him. Each page was a glossy picture and a neatly-typed name, with measurements handwritten beside that. All but the last page, which had only a name.
"This one," he said, pointing. "I'll take Tom."
One of Elisa's assistants burst out with high, raucuous laughter. Elisa cuffed her ear and nodded. "She'll be in your room within the hour," Elisa said. "I'll send the book up too, in case you change your mind."
"Why would I--" Travis started, but she was gone.
*
Sure enough, an hour later -- after a hot bath and a meal of sake and sashimi -- there was a knock at the door. Travis belted his robe and opened the door.
Very faintly, someone said, "Are you Travis?"
Travis frowned. There was a man standing there in a cloak, his face obscured.
"I'm Tom," the voice said. "May I come in?"
"I--"
"Or you could choose someone else," Tom said. He sounded cheerfully defeated,like Eeyore on weak opium. "Elisa said you probably would. I'm just surprised someone chose me at all."
Travis thought for a moment, then eased the hood back.
The left side of Tom's face was normal, even handsome: blond lashes and baby-faced cheeks, a fine dusting of stubble on his chin. The right, though--
"It's all right," Tom said, still polite. "They mostly save me for the ones who come who're too drunk to care where they stick it. It's not so bad, really."
Something about his steadfast optimism made Travis' heart twist again. "William," he whispered. "I'm -- I'm sorry to ask. Did you know him?"
Tom tilted his head towards the room. Travis stepped aside and let him in, closing the door behind them.
"I know everything," Tom said. "They speak freely around me because they think I'm stupid, as if physical deformity had anything to do with it. And I know what happened to your William."
Travis sat on the edge of the bed and stared at him for a long time. Finally, he said, "Tell me."
"William was one of the favorites," Tom said quietly, sitting cross-legged on the floor. "Everyone loved him - salarymen, royalty, politicians. He did his job flawlessly, but at night he would pine and weep for his true love, a writer who'd promised to return for him."
Travis winced. "I," he started, and stopped. His reasons for staying away were his own, after all.
"One day, Elisa lost a piece of jewelry, a pretty jade ring a client had given her. The other whores pointed and said it was William, it had to be, no one else loved shiny things as much as he did. And Elisa believed it, because she wanted to believe it.
"They took him and tied him by one foot to disorient him; then they began working on him. Terrible things, needles in his gums--"
"Don't tell me," Travis said faintly. "It's not -- go on."
"They found the ring behind her bureau," Tom said, "but it was too late. William killed himself that night. They took his body and heaved it into the river, and no one has seen it since."
Travis closed his eyes. It couldn't be true; it couldn't. William was still alive somewhere, hidden from him, maybe even wounded, but alive. The way he'd been when Travis last saw him--
--that's not good enough for you? Hands around that pretty pretty throat, kill you kill you KILL YOU--
Eyes still closed, Travis said, "Tell me again."
2. tomie
The day after they killed Brent, he was back in second period like nothing had happened.
"That's bullshit," Spencer snapped, glaring across the room. "He's -- I stabbed him, I fucking dismembered him, and the rest of you helped me--"
"Cut him up," Jon said softly. "No way he's getting back in one piece, let alone going to French."
Very true. But there he was, turning to Page 97 in Entrez-Vous France! like last night hadn't happened.
The thing about Brent was, he wasn't cute. Or hot, or sexy, or anything like that. He was quiet and shy, and his cheeks were too full for his face. When he spoke, it was in a colorless monotone, and no one had ever actually seen him smile.
The first week he'd been there, two girls had had nervous breakdowns, one guy had killed himsef, and there'd been 27 separate fights over him. Even Brendon and Ryan had gotten into a fight over him, and Spencer was reasonably certain that had never happened before, in the history of ever. Jon was terrified of him -- not scared, terrified, in a way he couldn't process or express. He spent the whole two weeks Brent was there looking freaked and sweaty and wan.
Somewhere around the third time Ryan called to tell Spencer howmuch he needed Brent -- interrupted by two call-waiting beeps: Brendon, saying the same thing, and Jon, telling Spencer he was pretty sure he was going nuts -- Spencer decided he had to kill Brent.
It wasn't complicaed; he just looked at Brent, who was sitting in history, staring, uninterested, as Greta and Chris tore themselves apart over him (fucking Greta and Chris, come on), and thought: I'm going to kill you. There was no heat to it, no passion. The whole plan just sprang into his head fully-formed, like Athena from Zeus' skull.
When he'd told the others, they'd instantly agreed. Any other time or person or circumstance, it would've been sickening. But not where Brent was concerned.
Brendon had lured him into the woods -- and Brent had been quick to go, which was the disgusting part. What kind of person agreed to a date in the woods? -- and Jon had struck first, slicking Brent's throat from behind with a carving knife. Ryan and Brendon had punched and kicked him, but Spencer had been the one to actually knock out his teeth and dismember him.
The whole thing had been fucking weird. It had been like an out-of-body experience or something. Spencer remembered the rage, the way he'd gone after Brent's teeth with a claw hammer, but he couldn't remember how it had felt. It was fucking creepy.
But not as creepy as Brent sitting there when Spencer was damn sure they'd killed him less than twelve hours earlier.
"Do we -- do we talk to him?" Ryan whispered. He fumbled and found Brendon's hand, squeezed it.
"Hallmark doesn't make cards for this, Ross," Jon whispered. He'd looked almost normal on the drive back, and before first period, but now he was wan and sweaty alll over again.
"Why?" Brendon said. "What does he want??" His voice cracked on the last word.
Spencer said nothing, just looked across the room and glared at Brent's profile.
Brent looked up at them suddenly.
And smiled.
3. battle royale
"Oh my God," Ryland said. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my GOD--"
"Shut the fuck up!" Alex yelled. "Just, shut the fuck up and wait. Gabe'll be here soon. He promised." Alex wasn't letting himself think about variables, like someone killing Gabe before he could meet them there. He wasn't.
"Seriously," Vicky said, "do you even know what you have?" She rummaged through her government-provided pack and pulled out a cheese grater. "Explain to me what I'm supposed to do with that."
"You could seriously wound people," Gabe said blithely, coming into the clearing. Everyone jumped.
"Gabe!" Nate said. "Oh thank God. We hoped--"
"*I* knew you were coming," Alex said imperiously, shoving Nate aside. "The others doubted."
"Can you blame us?" Ryland shouted. "Jeanae got a knife in the fucking forehead, and Mike got his head blown off. It's been a bad fucking day, and we've only been out here about an hour."
"It's okay," Gabe said. It was one of the things Alex loved best about him: nothing ever disturbed him, ever. Nate swore up and down that he'd once seen Gabe beat a kid unconscious for bumping his arm during lunch, without so much as batting an eye. Alex couldn't think of anyone he'd rather follow. "It's going to be fine."
"How?" Vicky said, hands on her hips. Even with her school uniform and the collar around her neck, she looked sexy. Alex knew from experience that if you tried something, she'd bite your balls off. According to the stories, maybe literally.
Gabe just looked at her. "You don't have any faith, Vicky?"
She scowled and crossed her arms over her chest, looking away.
"It's fine," Gabe said again. "I went ahead and flipped a coin. If it came up heads, we'd fuck this stupid game and find a way to beat it."
Everyone cheered at that. Everyone but Alex. He'd known Gabe long enough to know that he chose his words carefully.
"Gabe," he said, "why did you say 'if'?"
Gabe looked at Alex. "Because it didn't come up heads," he said, and reached out and snapped Nate's neck.
Alex didn't stop to gape or yell; he took off running.
And that would've been great, except he was in the goddamn woods, and -- okay, yeah, he had a hatchet, but someone (probably Gabe, oh GOD) had hold of Nate's Uzi and was firing on the others. It was quarter to four in the morning and they were on an island; sound traveled great.
Alex made himself stop after half a mile and get his breath and bearings. He panted and unfolded the map. They'd met by the cliff face, which was in G2. G2 was also set to become a forbidden zone in less than ten minutes, which meant--
"Alex. Why did you run?"
--there was a gun jammed into his kidneys and a sociopath asking him a question. Fuck.
"Better question," Alex panted, still out of breath. "Why are you killing people? Killing us?"
"I told you," Gabe said. Asshole wasn't even out of breath. "I flipped a coin."
Even with his back to Gabe, Alex gaped. "You *what*? You -- you just flipped a coin to see whether or not you'd *kill us*?"
"Yes."
Alex froze. He'd been expecting -- something. Not remorse, he doubted Gabe was capable of it, but...triumph, maybe. Or some measure of unseasonable gloating. Not the vast emptiness he was speaking to, certainly.
"Gabe," he said quietly, "don't do this. Please."
"It's a game," Gabe said. "Someone has to win. I'd rather it be me."
"Gabe, please, don't--"
Gabe fired.
4. dumplings
"I have heard," Mikey said, after a long pause, "that your dumplings restore youth and vitality." He took his sunglasses off, folded them neatly on the table. He was doing his level best not to touch anything in the small, cramped apartment.
This whole trip had been a disaster. The apartment this so-called "holistic rejuvenator" lived in was outside the city, and was beset on all sides by old men and families with shrieking brats. He'd had the smell of dung and fried food in his nose since his driver had found the place. Mikey toyed with his watch idly and wondered if it was really worth it.
Then he remembered Bob's eyes on the hostess at dinner the other night, and gritted his teeth. If this worked...
"Then you heard correctly," Frank said. He was small and solid, with a bright red forelock and cat's eyes. Everything about him screamed "fey" -- the original meaning, like he'd been lost from a group of wandering pixies. "It doesn't come cheap, though."
"That's only if you do what you claim," Mikey said.
Frank leaned in and put his hands on the table. "How old do I look?" he demanded.
Mikey shrugged. "What, 24, 25?"
"In August," Frank said, "I'll be 82."
"Bullshit," Mikey said immediately.
"I can show you documents, if you want," Frank said. "Pictures."
"You can fake those." But as he said it, he had the feeling in his gut that it was true. No one with eyes like that could be anything *but* inhuman. A thing like that could certainly age so, so slowly.
"It's your decision," Frank said, shrugging.
Mikey took out his checkbook. "Is a personal check all right?"
*
When Mikey came back the next week, Frank waved him in. "Come in! I was just about to start cooking."
Mikey took a seat at the table, hands clasped neatly in his lap. "Can I help?" he asked, and cursed under his breath. He was all thumbs in the kitchen; no one needed that.
"No thanks," Frank yelled. "You just stay there. The last thing I need is for you to discover the secret ingredient."
The kitchen was busy with sounds: kneading and stretching dough, the poof! of flour being doused, the filling -- chicken or beef or whatever -- being cut into pieces. The apartment slowly grew warmer. Mikey fanned himself.
"So why're you doing this, anyway?" Frank yelled. Thwack! went the knife. "If I can ask, I mean."
Mikey fiddled with his watch.
"I -- my partner travels a lot," he finally said. "For business. Just lately, I think he's started to look at other people."
"Think" wasn't the right word for it; Bob had been looking at people, and usually in plain view of Mikey. He'd complain to Gerard, but his brother had been against the marriage from the start. Mikey had lost track of how many times he'd heard Gerard yell "You're better than that!" But Gerard had his art (and Ray) to keep him company, and what did Mikey have? A failed career as a bass player. No thank you.
"Ahhhh," Frank said, standing in the doorway. MIkey jumped. "And you want to regain your faded youth and catch his eye again?"
"I still love him," Mikey murmured. "That probably seems very silly, to you."
An unreadable expression crossed Frank's face. "No," he said quietly, "it doesn't." He turned and went back to the kitchen.
*
An hour later, Mikey was peering into a bowl of entirely unremarkable dumplings.
"I'm sure they're great," he said, trying to sound enthusiastic. "I--" He paused. "All of them?"
"Every one," Frank agreed.
"Is it fish? I told you, I don't like seafood--"
"It's meat," Frank said. "And that's all I'm gonna say. Just eat the fucking things, okay?"
Mikey glared, but picked one up with his spoon. The dough was surprisingly thin; he could see pinkish-red meat inside. He took a deep breath, then screwed up his courage and ate it.
It tasted a lot like organic, free-range chicken. Mikey looked at Frank when he bit into something crunchy.
"A little bit of the dough usually gets overcooked," Frank explained. "It's fine."
Mikey shrugged and chewed more slowly, savoring it. He was barely listening to Frank; in his head he was nineteen again, bent over Bob's sound equipment and asking what he was doing. Firm thighs, flat stomach, flatter ass, and Bob staring at him the whole time, cigarette in his mouth, rapt.
He swallowed and spooned up another.
5. marebito
By the third day, the boy was worse.
As if he hadn't been pale before, Pete thought -- and he was, pale as paper, pale as a boy who'd been living beneath the earth -- he was downright sickly now. His mouth seemed too red and too full for the rest of him, and the fairness of his hair made him look more washed out; but he was wearing clothes now, even if they were ill-fitting, and the mark around his ankle where he'd been chained was healing nicely.
He would not speak. He'd started answering to Patrick, the name Pete had given him (something Irish, he'd decided, and the kid didn't look like a Sean or a Michael), but that was all.
"If you could just talk," Pete muttered, looking at him. Patrick was sitting on the bed, glancing around but never really focusing on anything. He almost thought there was something wrong with the kid -- like, mentally -- except Patrick picked up everything Pete showed him on the first try. He was clever, even intelligent, but the understanding was missing. Forget being abused, or slow; it was more like he was an alien.
Pete sighed and reached for his coffee--
--and got a palmful of scissors instead.
"Aaaagh!" Pain was sizzling up his arm. "Fuck--"
Patrick was off the bed in an instant, holding Pete's wrist steady with one hand and pulling the scissors out with the other. The sight of bright red blood made Pete wince.
"Goddammit," he said through clenched teeth. "Patrick, can you go into the bathroom and get me the per--"
Patrick fastened his mouth to the wound and started sucking.
"Hey!" Pete yelled. "That's -- fuck, don't do that! It's unhygenic!"
Patrick didn't move, just kept sucking it. He growled when Pete tried to pull him away.
"What are you," Pete said, "some kind of fucking vampir--"
Patrick fixed curious eyes on him, his mouth still working.
"Oh," Pete said faintly. It...wasn't surprising, somehow. He didn't burst into flame in sunlight, but he didn't love it, either; and Pete had found him in an unlit cavern beneath the earth. He hadn't eaten anything until now, with his mouth wrapped around the wound in Pete's hand, and he slept like the dead.
There was a vampire in his apartment, and it looked exactly like a pretty redhaired boy.
"It's all right," Pete said, voice still faint. He started to pull his hand away again. Patrick pouted a little, but let him. Somehow, Pete wasn't surprised to see that the wound had started closing up.
He looked at Patrick, at the smear of red on Patrick's bottom lip.
"I'll take care of you," Pete murmured. "I promise."
Patrick smiled and licked the last drop of blood away.