Special Warning! This particular chapter contains scenes of disturbing physical and sexual violence, as well as a great deal of intense emotional trauma.
Chapter Six - Lost Boy
Hong Kong was an ugly city.
It was dark, cold and wet, but at least the rain had stopped, even if only for a little while. Ryoga kept his umbrella open and propped up above him, however, because he knew that he was too tired to be able to open it quickly should the rain decide to return, and the last thing he wanted was to be stuck in his pig form. Not here, in this cursed place. Not now.
The grass he was resting on was damp, but not enough to instigate a change. Laying on his side, arms wrapped around his stomach, Ryoga settled his head on his pack and watched life going on around him. Garish neon lights across the strip lit the inky night with strangely unnatural colors, and it was on that side of the street that professional hookers hawked their trade, under the flashing bright shadows of bars and gaudy houses. The slick city street was alive with greasy vehicles, their headlights drowning in the black surface of the pavement, the engines hissing loudly as they sped past. Most of the cars didn’t stop, and the occupants probably didn’t even notice the scattered groups of damp street kids that lined the edge of the park on other side of the street.
They gathered along the parkway, under the lights, huddling close for warmth in over-sized jackets and ragged sweat shirts. Occasional cars drove slowly along the strip, drivers looking over the children carefully. Ryoga watched dully, distantly, knowing what the night was going to bring. Many of these young ones would be going with strangers who drove by to pick them up, to sell their bodies for a little money that might buy them food or drugs to last another day. Some of them were very aggressive, going right up to the cars and peeking in the windows, chatting with the drivers, accepting small offers of cigarettes and other cheap tokens as a hint of what they might receive later if all went well. Others hung back and waited for someone to approach them, looking cold and lost under the splash of lights.
Ryoga was not going to join their ranks. He had been here for two nights in a row, and though he had been propositioned by three different businessmen in shiny rental cars, he simply could not bring himself to take that final step. He could not let himself be absorbed by the ugliness of this place.
It was against everything he believed in, and he knew that he would rather die than ruin himself in such a way. The very thought made him ill, but there was nothing in his stomach to be sick on and hadn’t been for several days, save a sharp tight pain that made him dizzy and light-headed. If Ryoga had been home in Nerima, those who knew him would have been hard-pressed to recognize him, as his face was an odd shade of chalky pale and his cheeks were gaunt. He had lost any of the baby-ish roundness to his face that still remained, and his dark soft eyes were glazed and rimmed with fever.
No, he simply could not do it. Though he had entertained the notion, as he huddled sick and frail in the dirty trash-filled downtown park, he knew that selling himself was far more of a disgrace then dying alone. He would not trade his honor for his life. In death, it could at least be said that he had maintained his principles, though he had no idea who would say it. No one knew he was here. A reluctant phone call to his home in Nerima several hours previously had yielded nothing save an endless series of rings and the knowledge that he was truly and utterly alone.
Somehow, Ryoga Hibiki had always known that was how he would end up dying. And it really wasn’t death itself that bothered him . . . it was that he was alone.
Time to go. There was no point in hanging around this vile place any longer if he didn’t intend to go through with selling himself. Dragging to his feet, feeling a keening pain shoot through his stomach, Ryoga fought back a wave of dizziness. His damp clothes clung to him, but he paid them no mind, hefting his pack and slinging it onto his back, nearly driving himself back to his knees with the effort. It was all so difficult and he wondered why he was even bothering? It would be much easier to simply find an isolated corner of the park, lay down among the cigarette butts and crushed beer cans, and never move again.
But Ryoga had never been like that. He had never been one to give up when he probably should have. He couldn’t just curl up and die. He needed to be doing something, anything, to convince himself that he wasn’t just surrendering. Even if it was only putting one foot in front of the other and moving forward.
He wasn’t sure where he was going, but then, when was he ever? He decided to just start walking. It didn’t matter which direction he chose. Either he’d finally make it out of this damn filthy city or he wouldn’t. It made no difference anymore. He’d keep going until he no longer could, and then . . . well, then he’d stop. With a heavy sigh of resignation, Ryoga propped his heavy umbrella up against his right shoulder and moved slowly down the sidewalk, trying not to stumble as he stared blankly at the pavement passing beneath his feet.
He hadn’t gone far when a small commotion made him stop and look up.
A black BMW sat glittering wetly beneath the heavy sodium glow of one of the street lights. A young man, presumably the driver, leaned against it, arms folded over his chest and looking impatient. He was handsome, but had a rather vicious aura about him that disrupted otherwise fine features. Thick dark blonde hair fell over his eyes and was pulled back into a tail, and his build was slender but with a look of strength to it. Ryoga didn’t peg him as a martial artist, but it was likely that he worked out a great deal. He wore a trendy business suit of black with a dark green silk shirt.
He was glaring down at a young Chinese girl, a pretty little thing that couldn’t have been more than twelve years old. Unlike the other girls who were hanging around, she still had a sense of innocence and naivety to her, and didn’t look as if she had yet been jaded by the type of life the others lived. Her almond shaped eyes were wide as she stared up at the man, wringing her hands nervously, lost within the large stained sweat shirt she wore.
From the looks of it, this was going to be her first trick, and she was having second thoughts. Ryoga really hoped that she would back down and walk away, go home to her parents and family. She was so pretty, shining in the night like a perfect blossom sprouting in the midst of a trash heap, and there was still time for her.
{( Don’t sell your honor, sweetheart, )} he thought dismally. {( Especially not to someone like him, who won’t even give a damn. )}
"Well, what’s it going to be?" the man asked in Cantonese, laced with a distinctly American accent. He shook his head slightly to flip the bangs out of his eyes.
"I . . . I don’t think . . . " she muttered in reply, taking a step back.
It was obvious that she wanted to leave, wanted to get away, but the elegant-looking man clearly wasn’t pleased by this. His face tightened and his eyes narrowed dangerously. Ryoga tensed in response, feeling a surge of adrenaline race into his veins.
The man moved forward, startling the girl and grabbing her small arm tightly. He yanked her back, despite her small yelp of protest. Other teenagers nearby watched the scene with dull interest, not one of them even thinking of helping. This was a play that was acted out night after night, and they all knew how it ended.
"Why else would you be waiting around here, little girl? Now, come. I’ll pay you what you deserve." He turned and tossed the girl at the car, smiling with fierce satisfaction as she thumped hard against the passenger-side door. "Get in, hon."
She fumbled with the handle, obviously terrified.
{( No, no, no! )}
The man took another step forward, reaching out to grab at the girl again, but stopped up short as a red umbrella shot into the pavement precisely where he had meant to place his foot. He looked up, surprised, to find Ryoga scowling at him. Fists balled and dark eyes hot with fever, the young martial artist came forward to retrieve his thrown weapon.
"Leave her alone," Ryoga told him in English as he yanked his umbrella out of the crater it had torn into the concrete. His throw hadn’t been as powerful as it normally would have been, but it served his purpose. Ryoga leveled a heated glare at the American. "She obviously isn’t interested."
The man raised an eyebrow speculatively at Ryoga, an appreciative smile crossing his thin lips seconds later. "Then what’s she doing hanging around here on this strip with the rest of the whores? Stay out of this, Pretty Boy, it’s none of your business."
Ryoga bristled at being called Pretty Boy. "I’m making it my business," he growled. "Just get in your shiny car and leave."
The blonde stepped around Ryoga, keeping his gaze directly on the Lost Boy’s face. His eyes were a penetrating green, clear, icy, and calculating. Ryoga did not like the look the man was directing at him, for it was a dangerous mixture of dislike and interest, and the faint smile on his face was predatory. He moved to the car and snapped his fingers at the girl who was still pressed against the door, eyes wide and shaking with fear.
"Get in," he ordered sharply. She cringed.
"No," Ryoga also ordered, stepping between them with umbrella crossed in front of him, poised and ready. He could feel his weakened body shaking from the surge of anger and energy he was forcing through it, he could feel the muscles of his arm crying out in protest as they were forced to hold an abnormally heavy weapon that had never been a task to lift before. Ryoga tried to ignore it all. The girl’s safety was more important right now. "Leave her alone, or else," he growled lowly.
The American glared at him for a long moment, as if trying to decide what to do about this. Then, without warning, his hand flashed out and he grabbed Ryoga’s umbrella, wrenching it away despite its extreme weight and tossing it carelessly to the sidewalk. The pavement cracked under the force of its impact.
Ryoga jumped back, startled that the American was at least as strong as he normally was, and his eyes went immediately to the cast-aside umbrella. Though he tried valiantly not to let it show, despair welled up within him. He was too weak, damn it all! Under normal circumstances, no non-martial artist should have been able to disarm him so easily. He should have been able to move aside with grace and ease. But now his reflexes were dulled and his strength was shot. He was next to useless. If he couldn’t even keep a grip on his umbrella, there was no way he would be able to last long in a sustained fight.
However, there was something far more important here than his health. Ryoga could feel the little girl pressing against his back and legs, crying softly as she took refuge behind her protector. His sense of honor had compelled him to jump rather stupidly into this fight, but there was no way he could abandon it now, no matter how weak he was. Determined, Ryoga dropped into a more defensive stance, hands up and ready. For her sake, he set his face firmly into its most dangerous glaring expression and faced the man squarely.
The blonde smiled tightly, clearly recognizing false bravado when he saw it. "You’re as weak as water, Pretty Boy. There’s no way that you can stop me if I really want to take her."
"I’ll damn well try, bakayaro," Ryoga hissed.
The green eyed man laughed and stepped forward, his aura pressing against Ryoga’s uncomfortably. Those brilliant eyes sparkled coldly with a strange sort of anticipation. "I’ll make you a deal, Baby. If you’re so concerned about her virtue, I’ll gladly take you in her place. She’s just another cherry to pluck, but you have some fire in you. What do you say, Pretty Boy?"
Ryoga’s eyes widened. He had never been good at concealing his feelings, so revulsion and immediate dismay showed plainly on his face. His stomach turned painfully at the very thought. No! There was no way! He had already made the decision not to disgrace himself with such a filthy act. How dare this bastard even suggest . . .
The American raised his hand and brushed his fingers lightly against the line of Ryoga’s jaw, causing the Lost Boy to jerk his head back. "Don’t touch me!" he snapped, roughly shoving the offending hand away, fangs showing. "You’re sick, and there’s no way I would ever - - "
Ryoga saw the man’s hand draw back and fall forward quickly, but couldn’t react fast enough to avoid the open handed smack. He raised his left arm to block a moment too late, as the American made contact with the side of his face. The blow staggered him, knocking him to the side, driving him down to one knee.
Ryoga was stunned for a long moment, unable to believe that such a minor blow had put him down. His hand went to his face, and he felt the warming sting of the slap. He had grown so weak, so sluggish! A block like that would have been child’s play only a couple of weeks ago, and now he was being beaten down like an amateur by some gaijin bastard who wasn’t even a martial artist! Any self-confidence Ryoga had left crumbled at that very moment, splintering away uselessly. His head lowered as misery rose. There was little point in going on now.
The American stepped around Ryoga and grabbed the girl once more, dragging her back to the car. "Looks like it’s you then, hon," he said, opening the door and slinging her into the passenger’s seat. She yelped and pleaded with him in Cantonese, telling him that she didn’t want to go, that she was scared, that she had changed her mind and did not want to be dishonored.
Ryoga ground his teeth together, moved by her begging, a low growl forming in his throat. She was counting on him, damn it all! And he would see to it that her honor remained intact, even if it killed him! Slowly, he got back to his feet, fighting down the pain in his gut and the aching of his joints, and turned to face the American once more. He wasted no time with words, but simply sprang forward with a wild yell, throwing a punch that normally would have sent his opponent flying into the next prefecture. His fist made contact with the man’s face, knocking him back against the car.
However, the punch was not as strong as Ryoga might have expected and the man was able to recover quickly. As the young martial artist was reaching for the car door to release the girl, the American turned swiftly and grabbed him. With a strength Ryoga wouldn’t have expected from someone so slender, he picked Ryoga up and slammed him hard against the shiny unyielding surface of the vehicle.
Ryoga’s world spun as his head hit metal and all of the air was forced from his lungs. The gaijin held him in place, backhanding him viciously, cutting the boy’s lip and drawing a small arch of blood into the air. He then slung an arm across Ryoga’s throat and leaned hard, throwing all of him weight forward. The Lost Boy choked, trying to find support and purchase against the slick side of the car.
"You little prick!" the man snarled, though there almost seemed to be amusement in the tone. "You got balls, I’ll give you that. I should leave you here with the rest of this gutter trash, but I’d just love to break you into little pieces, Pretty Boy. So, it’s you or her. Make it fast now, I haven’t got all night."
Ryoga fought desperately for breath, grappling with the arm that was holding him in place, feeling despair closing in on him once again. He was failing, being beaten! Reduced to nothing by some arrogant American who didn’t even practice the Art!
"Give me an answer!" the blonde snarled, increasing the pressure on Ryoga’s throat.
The Lost Boy shuddered, black spots appearing at the edges of his vision and head pounding. Flickeringly rom the corner of his eye, he could see the girl peeking out of the car, eyes large and filled with tears, gazing at him with terror and concern.
She was so delicate and pretty, and she had hope, a future, and somewhere people who undoubtedly cared about her very much. If he backed down now, all of that would be stripped from her, for Ryoga knew the gaijin would force her for his own pleasure if he had to. He could see it in the man’s glittering green eyes. He didn’t care one bit about a faceless little Asian girl that he would never see again. She was just a vessel for him to come off in, not the special little treasure that Ryoga saw.
And, by comparison, what did Ryoga have? No home, an absentee family, and only the memories of a long ruined friendship for companionship. None of the people he loved cared for him in the same way. There was no future for him to look forward to, save either slow death from Hong Kong flu or endless wandering if he managed to survive. He had . . . was . . . nothing. The honor of the girl huddled in the car was everything. And it was his duty as a martial artist to protect the honor and lives of the innocent, no matter the cost to himself. The strength of the American’s arm on his throat, and the grip he was held in more than clearly illustrated that there was no way Ryoga could fight back, which would have been his first choice of action under normal circumstances. So . . . there seemed to be only one option . . .
{( Kami-sama, forgive me . . . )} Ryoga pleaded silently.
"Well, Baby?" the American pressed, applying a little more pressure to the young man’s neck, leaning close enough that Ryoga was overpowered by the man’s manufactured department store scent.
Ryoga struggled to draw in a long low breath. He looked to the side as best as he could, meeting the girl’s satin black eyes. "Go on," he said in his halting Cantonese. "Leave. Go home. Promise me. Go home."
She blinked slowly, turning very pale, covering her mouth with a thin shaking hand. "You . . . you are going to . . . ?"
"Yes. Promise me."
She straightened, sliding out of the car, trying to put a brave mask over the anguish and fear on her face. "Yes," she nodded, sobbing out the word. "I promise. Thank you. Thank you for protecting me."
"Go," he insisted.
The American let Ryoga down, and both men watched her as she scurried away.
"Excellent," the blonde grinned, looking pleased. "I was kinda hoping that would be your decision, Pretty Boy. I’m going to have some fun playing with you, I can tell. Now, get in the car."
Swallowing down his nausea, Ryoga slowly retrieved his umbrella, barely able to drag it along behind him, and got into the car, feeling like he was moving through gelatin. The neon lights across the street, the splashed colors of the road and passing cars, it all suddenly seemed to shrink down into shades of grey and ugly darkness. As the American climbed in on the driver’s side and started up the purring engine, Ryoga shut his eyes, trying to prevent the escape of hot tears. The car pulled back into traffic and he felt its speed increase, but he remained still, not caring to see where they were going.
One place or another, it now made no difference.
*******************************
The hotel they went to was nice enough, but not so nice that anyone gave a second look at the trendy foreign businessman checking in with a nervous teen-aged boy.
"On the bed," the American, who at some point in the drive had told Ryoga that his name was Stephan, ordered as he shut the door of their room behind the boy. He slung his coat off and hung it on a conveniently placed hook just inside the doorway.
Ryoga took his pack off and set it aside, but otherwise made no move. Instead his glanced around the room, wrinkling his nose in distaste. The room had an odd musty smell to it, even though it looked clean enough. However, the decor left a lot to be desired. The walls were a dingy shade of cream and the thin carpeting was a muddled looking brown. There were two chairs facing a dresser with an antique television on it, and a solitary bed that was covered with a faded floral spread. Dusty looking prints of scenery and flower arrangements hung here and there on the walls.
Stephan made sure the door was securely locked and strode further in, his green eyes sparkling at Ryoga speculatively. "What’s your problem?" he asked sharply, undoing the top button of his shirt.
"You’re obviously well-off, Ameko," Ryoga frowned up at him. "Couldn’t you have chosen someplace nicer than this dump?"
"That’s quite a mouth you have, Pretty Boy." Stephan didn’t look pleased. "Beggars can’t be choosers."
"I didn’t beg or choose you," Ryoga replied testily.
"Right, we’ll get to the begging soon enough," the blonde smiled and snapped his fingers towards the bed. "You. There. Right now."
Ryoga paled, clenching his hands nervously. "Y - you don’t waste time, do you?" he said, trying to maintain his composure, knowing he was failing.
Stephan took one step over and grabbed Ryoga’s arm. Considering his slender build, he was remarkably strong, and his grip hurt, immediately bruising the Lost Boy’s undernourished body. With an ease that frightened Ryoga more than anything else, Stephan tossed him at the bed.
The boy caught himself on the edge and immediately turned, positioning himself defensively. All those years of martial arts training had conditioned him to fight back automatically in response to an assault, but his weakened state made him sluggish. Ryoga had barely planted his feet before Stephan nailed him with a resounding slap.
Ryoga was knocked onto the bed, his head ringing with the force of the strike.
Stephan stood above him, his face stern but with sadistic amusement dancing in his icy eyes. "This can go well for you, Baby, or it can go badly. It’s your choice," Stephan said lowly. "It’s pretty obvious that you’re too sick and weak to fight back, so I suggest you just cooperate. Now undress."
The Lost Boy fought back tears of anger and shame, pushed himself up and slowly began to pull off his shirt. The side of his face started to bruise and burn almost immediately, and he resisted the urge to touch the sting. He would -not- show weakness, not while Stephan stood above him, watching intently. Ryoga swallowed hard.
{( Think about that little girl . . . )} he told himself silently. {( You’re doing this for her. Hopefully, right now she’s on her way home. Her family will be so relieved to see her and she’ll grow up safe and find love and live a beautiful life. You’re doing this for her, Hibiki. You’re strong, you’re a martial artist. You can get through this. )}
Having thus resigned himself, Ryoga dropped his shirt off the side of the creaking bed and got to his knees to wiggle out of his pants, kick his shoes off and strip down his boxers. Stephan watched him intently the entire time, corners of his mouth turned up in a slight bemused smile.
Ryoga tried not to look at his own body, to see how thin and pale he’d gotten. For lack of anything better to do, his hands fluttered to cover his most vulnerable places, and he was unable to suppress a shiver brought on by the cool air of the room.
"A little thin, but nice," Stephan commented lowly, stripping off his own shirt to reveal a nicely muscled and tanned slender torso. He draped the garment over the back of a chair and kicked off his shoes. Still wearing the black pants of his business suit, the handsome American came back to the bed and gazed down at Ryoga with a penetrating light in his green eyes.
Ryoga bit his lip and glared back, trying not to squirm under Stephan’s cold gaze.
Stephan bent forward, reaching out to grasp the side of Ryoga’s face and turn him. Leaning onto the mattress of the bed with one knee, Stephan firmly pulled the boy close and kissed him, gripping him by the arm with his other hand.
Ryoga tried not to react, but couldn’t help the soft whimper that escaped his throat as Stephan forced his mouth open, fingers digging hard into the flesh of Ryoga’s arm. He tried not to think about the fact that this was his first kiss, something he had always meant to save for Akane or . . . or . . . no . . . he tried not to be ill as the larger man forced him backwards, burying him into the pillows at the head of the bed, while his tongue invaded Ryoga’s mouth roughly, forcefully. The boy fought down the urge to gag.
Stephan straddled Ryoga, effectively trapping him, and his kiss deepened as he began to work his hands over the boy’s body, pushing his fingers painfully against Ryoga’s skin, pinching and prodding. Ryoga squirmed uncomfortably, quaking beneath the man’s greater size and strength like some sort of weak bird. He made soft sounds of pain as Stephan man-handed him, shutting his eyes and attempting to pretend none of it was happening. If he could just block it out, think of other things, then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he would be able to forget.
When Stephan pulled out of the kiss and began to nibble and chew his way down the line of Ryoga’s jaw, the boy tensed and turned his head. He could feel the heat that was starting to rise from the man, how he seemed to like Ryoga’s ill at ease movements beneath him. His hands moved lower, fondling Ryoga’s thin body, twisting his nipples painfully and he smiled at the soft yelp of pain Ryoga gave.
"Don’t . . . " Ryoga bit his own lower lip hard, as a trapped anxious feeling began to beat inside his chest. He had never been terribly comfortable with intimate contact to begin with, and Stephan’s large invading hands were almost too much for him to take. The feel of the American’s skin against his was like nails on a blackboard. Ryoga bit down hard on his lower lip again, trying to resist the urge to cry out in anger.
"I’ll do what I want, Baby," Stephan growled, though sounding pleased, twisting Ryoga’s right nipple again. The boy flinched, biting back a cry. Once again he tried to shut himself off, to distance his thoughts from what was being done to his body, but he simply couldn’t. Fear shot through him as Stephan pressed against his stomach, settling himself heavier over his groin. Ryoga could feel the warmth of Stephan’s excitement through the material of his dress pants, and the increased intensity of his stroking and prodding indicated that he was enjoying Ryoga’s discomfort.
"Stop," Ryoga heard himself insisting, the word punctuated by a cry as Stephan leaned down and bit him. " . . . I don’t think I can do this . . . "
He was ignored. The hands continued to invade. The heat continued to grow.
"Stephan-san . . . " Ryoga whined, panic starting to really grow within him. He didn’t want to give in to begging, but those hands and hurtful fingers . . . the pressure of Stephan’s aura against his own . . . He had never allowed anyone to press so closely, with the exception of Ranma.
Ryoga tried to latch onto that thought, desperately attempted to clear his mind of everything save the memory of Ranma hugging him long ago when they were just children and didn’t know any better. He tried to imagine Ranma’s strong sure arms around him, protecting him, sheltering him. Ranma could always make everything better.
Not this time. Ranma was hundreds of miles away, with Akane and Ukyo, and the rest of the group, all of them giving little or no thought to Ryoga. Stephan’s invasive presence was reality now, and his hands worked their way into Ryoga’s desperate meditation like boring worms. There was no refuge from this, there was no way to escape the here and now.
Beginning to hyperventilate, Ryoga squirmed, clawing at the bedspread beneath him, now fighting to gain the purchase necessary to pull himself out from under Stephan. He couldn’t! He couldn’t do this, couldn’t let it happen! The hell with survival and honor, Ryoga just wanted to be away from those hands.
"Let me go!" he cried, trying to push against Stephan’s chest. He was so weak! He should have been able to flip the man off of himself with hardly any effort, but now the muscles in his arms were aching and his back was hurting just from that small effort. Though a distant part of him screamed not to beg the man, he heard the plea come from his mouth nonetheless. "Please . . . I’m sorry . . . let me go . . . I’ll do anything else you want, but not this. Stephan-san, please!"
"Shut up, Pretty Boy," Stephan looked annoyed. He straightened himself, glaring down at Ryoga with a vicious angry expression. The boy cringed reflexively, hating himself for being so weak, so scared, but unable to find any strength within himself to show. He gasped audibly as Stephan slapped him again, adding further sting to the darkening bruise that was already on his cheek.
"You’re gonna do as I say, got it?" Stephan grabbed Ryoga’s face, forcing the boy to look at him. "Got it?"
Ryoga lapsed into his native tongue, no longer centered enough to concentrate on English. The words stung even sharper in Japanese. He was a failure, nothing but a cowardly failure! "Please . . . let me go . . . let me go . . . "
"Whatever," Stephan chuckled humorlessly. He shifted his weight a bit, settling onto his left leg a little more heavily. This gave him the room to slip a hand down between them, and he watched Ryoga’s face intently for his reaction, as he grasped the boy’s limp member and yanked at it roughly. "Tonight you’re mine, Pretty Boy. Mine!" He punctuated the word with another rough jerk.
Ryoga gasped in shock, a jolt of icy terror shooting through him, slamming into his head with the force of a gun shot. His back arched involuntarily as his body tried to move away from the source of the torment. Stephan’s hand on his penis was blazing hot, and his fingers dug uncomfortably into the sensitive flesh of the underside. Shame and the pain mingled together until they were literally the same thing.
"No!" Ryoga begged, realizing that he was crying now. The tears felt cold against the fire of his bruised cheek. "Please . . . "
Stephan squeezed his balls tightly and another lightening strike of pain blazed up Ryoga’s body, centering in his stomach. Nausea caused him to choke and terror took over. Frantically, Ryoga began to kick and struggle against Stephan’s weight and hands, twisting his body in an effort to dislodge the larger man. He reached for the metal bar headboard for leverage, to pull himself out of harm’s way, only to be rewarded with another savage grip around his balls. With a strangulated cry, Ryoga jerked involuntarily, the sickening pain traveling through him once more.
His distraught struggles increased, and he succeeded in twisting out from under Stephan, but then those hands were on him once more, gripping into his flesh, holding him like a vise. Ryoga looked up through a haze of tears to find Stephan hovering over him.
He saw the first punch coming, but simply could not react fast enough to avoid it. Stephan’s fist connected with the side of Ryoga’s head, the blow driving him back into the headboard. Pain flowered through his skull and his vision went black. As consciousness leaked away, Ryoga was aware of the fact that his body slumped limply back into the pillows.
Being out cold was a mercy he wasn’t granted. Dimly, Ryoga was still cognizant of what was going on around him. He felt further blows hit, knocking his head from side to side, and he heard resounding rings as the back of his skull repeatedly hit the metal headboard. He felt Stephan’s fists pound into his body, slamming against the muscles of his stomach and torso, bruises springing to angry life almost instantly under the steady rain of punches. He heard the man yelling at him, shouting that he would be still and cooperate or else. But he could do nothing to counter except cower instinctively, nothing to stop the pain, and shame drummed into him with the force of a machine gun. Useless . . . weak . . . worthless . . .
Then there was nothing for a long blissful moment, and Ryoga was able to simply shut down for a time while his body quivered and shook from the abuse.
The reprieve didn’t last long. He blinked slowly as movement caused the bed to shake, sickening him further. Then, there was a strange tearing sound. Vaguely, Ryoga realized that he was being moved again, that his arms were being forced roughly over his head. His battered body sobbed in protest. Something tight was wrapped around his wrists, then the bed lurched again.
Ryoga moaned softly, reacting to the new sharp pain in his head. What was going on? Everything seemed to be spinning dizzily, and the boy couldn’t exactly pinpoint where he was and what was happening. Hadn’t he just been in the park? Was he in Hong Kong . . . Jusenkyo . . . Kyoto . . . or maybe back in Nerima?
He remembered falling off the roof when he was a child, and feeling this same sense of disorientation as a neighbor carried him to the closest doctor, scolding him the entire time for being on the roof in the first place. She was an older woman who often kept an eye on him when his parents weren’t around, but Ryoga didn’t like her very much because she was very stern and had little patience for him.
He’d had a mild concussion and received several sets of stitches . . . had he somehow been transported back to that time? The feeling of queasy dizziness was the same, but the pounding ache in his body seemed out of place. What had happened?
Oh, yes, he stayed at the neighbor’s until his parents returned, and his mother had smothered him with hugs and kisses, thankful that he was all right. But . . . but Ryoga had been angry with her for not being there when he fell. He ran away from her and hid under the porch of the neighbor’s house until nighttime, furious and hurt. She was -never- there . . . no one was -ever- there . . . except Ranma. He had been there for a while, for a few bright blissful months, and then he had gone, and now Ryoga was alone again.
Always alone . . . never knowing where he was . . . pain . . . why was there pain? Where was he? What was happening?
Hands . . . hands were touching him . . .
Ryoga jumped awake with a frantic start to find himself staring into Stephan’s glacier green eyes. The handsome man suddenly seemed huge to the Lost Boy, huge, powerful and in control. He loomed over the boy like some sort of beautiful vengeful god bent on the punishment of an unruly mortal. Ryoga whimpered, because he couldn’t remember doing anything that he deserved to be punished for.
Worthless . . . failure . . . dishonor . . .
Ryoga cringed as the American leaned down and kissed him again, grinding his lips between their teeth, jamming his tongue deeply into his mouth. He tried to get away, only to fuzzily realize that his wrists had been tightly lashed to the headboard with strips torn from the sheets. He yanked against the bonds, looking up at his hands as best as he could with Stephan locked against his mouth. A pitiful whine escaped his throat, and vicious dread seized him as Stephan pulled back and laughed. Laughed mockingly.
"There now, isn’t this better? No more fighting me, you little shit," the blonde grinned, running his hands down the bruising length of Ryoga’s slender torso, causing the boy to buck and cringe at the pain even this touch prompted. Stephan was now nude as well, apparently having shed his pants while Ryoga was semi-conscious. The boy could feel the heat of the man’s erection against his leg, burning like a hot brand. He wanted to scream, but only a pathetic moan came from his throat. Apparently beating Ryoga had aroused the gaijin a great deal.
"No . . . " he twisted and fought against the surprisingly strong makeshift ropes, succeeding only in cutting off his own circulation. Stephan had lashed his wrists tightly, and Ryoga could already feel his fingertips starting to tingle. Holding him in place, Stephan crawled up his body and sat himself high on the boy’s chest, knees on either side of his head. Ryoga shut his eyes and turned away from the man’s engorged penis, which now hung close to his face, but Stephan grabbed him by a fistful of hair and yanked his head back.
He rocked his hips forward, jamming the tip of his cock against Ryoga’s mouth. "Open up, Pretty Boy," he ordered sharply, sounding just a bit breathless. "Time to earn your pay."
Ryoga choked on the close starchy scent, keeping his mouth firmly shut. No! He would not give this bastard the satisfaction! Not pleased by his refusal to cooperate, Stephan settled his weight down heavier, grinding against ribs and sternum, and grabbed Ryoga’s jaw with his free hand, gaining complete control of the boy’s head. He squeezed tightly and twisted, pressuring Ryoga’s mouth to open.
The Lost Boy felt his jaw joint crack just lightly, but enough to be painful. He fought and squirmed, but Stephan succeeded in prying his mouth open and quickly jammed his large cock in. The tip hit the back of Ryoga’s throat, gagging him, but the gaijin didn’t seem to care. He humped forward, still holding tightly to Ryoga’s head, and the boy felt that horrible invading thing pump and thrust in his mouth. His entire body tensed to the snapping point, and with each thrust a despairing wordless plea sounded in his throat.
He thought his jaw was going to shatter as Stephan quickly reached his climax, fueled on by little more than the boy’s struggles. The rock solid cock spasmed rhythmically into Ryoga’s mouth, and he immediately realized that he was in far greater danger of drowning from the great gush of ill-tasting semen that filled the meager space left in his mouth and spilled down his throat. He coughed violently, retching from the awful stuff, much of it overflowing down his chin and neck. With a final shutter, Stephan forced himself in as deep as he could get and for several terrifying seconds, Ryoga was suffocating.
Stephan pulled out abruptly, catching his own breath even as the boy coughed and gasped, sputtering sticky white fluid everywhere. Before Ryoga had the chance to recover his senses, Stephan hit him again, sending his thoughts reeling. "Little prick," the man hissed, sounding angry even though there was a vicious smile on his face. "You didn’t even suck."
"Fuck you . . . " Ryoga spat, his voice far more shaky than he intended it to be.
Stephan laughed and shifted, allowing Ryoga the freedom to breathe normally again. Still chuckling to himself, the handsome blonde ran his hand through some of the cum staining Ryoga’s chin and wiped it down the front of his chest, causing Ryoga to shiver violently.
"You’re done now," Ryoga whispered, raising his head enough to fix a pleading gaze on Stephan. "Let me go . . . "
"Done?" Stephan looked very amused, leaning down to plant a kiss on Ryoga’s cut and unresponsive mouth. "Not by a long shot, Pretty Boy."
Ryoga turned his head away from those penetrating green eyes and fought back a new wave of tears, swallowing hard, fear, loathing and pain fluttering in the pit of his stomach. His shoulder joints began to tremble from being held in the same tensed position for so long. He realized, with no surprise, that he wanted to die.
Stephan needed to be aroused again, so he laid stretched out beside Ryoga to amuse himself with the boy’s body. His large hands touched everywhere, invading and violating, fondling him ruthlessly. Ryoga tried once again to close it all off, fought to limit his reactions, but simply could not. Tears ran down his cheeks, mingling with the drying cum on his chin and neck, and he twisted this way and that in an effort to dislodge himself.
Stephan obviously enjoyed the boy’s fear and struggles to escape, as it wasn’t long before he was stroking a renewed erection, drawing in deep audible breaths as he watched Ryoga’s slender body jerk and pitch. Though he seemed overly fascinated by the feel of the boy’s silky skin, and spent a great deal of time running his hands over Ryoga’s torso and chest, twisting and savagely pinching his nipples, he eventually concentrated most of his attention on the Lost Boy’s genitals. It was abuse in this area that produced the best reactions from Ryoga. Stephan prodded and slapped, smiling lightly every time the slender boy quivered in pain. He especially delighted in squeezing the soft velvety balls, rolling them in the grip of his hand. Each time he did that, Ryoga would spasm violently and within only moments the boy’s pleas crumbled away into incoherent sobs.
Stephan’s hands became the defining parameter’s of Ryoga’s existence, they were the only thing he could feel, the only thing he could remember ever feeling, and he prayed desperately that they would go away. Stop touching him, stop violating him, stop hurting him. Nausea brought on by the abuse of his most sensitive area threatened to overwhelm him, and every muscle in his body sang painfully from being tensed so hard. He was hardly aware of his struggles, since they seemed to do little good, barely cognizant of his begging, since it was going unheeded. All that existed were those hands! Those hard raping hands! Hands that wouldn’t go away! It was all building up into a scream within Ryoga’s throat but even still, somewhere in the back corners of his mind, he fought with himself.
Don’t scream! Don’t give the bastard that kind of enjoyment! Don’t welcome further dishonor! For Kami-sama’s sake, close it off! Be strong! Be strong, damn it all!
With the sudden force of a slap, Ryoga realized abruptly that Stephan was moving, no doubt planning some further torture. Those hands gripped him tightly, digging into his already aching flesh, and forced him to turn over. His bound wrists twisted painfully, going almost immediately numb from the loss of circulation. Ryoga kicked in protest, only to be rewarded with a savage slap to his backside that sent a flame of pain and shame through his already burning body.
He nearly strangled as Stephan moved into position and roughly hoisted him up by the hips, bending his neck at an angle and driving him deep face first into the pillows. His air partially cut off, the Lost Boy couldn’t find the strength to struggle any longer, but continued to sob , pleading uselessly, begging the man to stop hurting him. With steadily mounting terror, he felt Stephan spread his ass cheeks, and pitched violently when he felt the man’s large fingers poking carelessly at his puckered opening. Stephan made a soft groaning noise, his own hips moving without control, as he roughly felt around within Ryoga’s tight resisting depths with the tip of his finger.
"Oh god, yes," Stephan muttered, poking in hard a couple of times, causing the boy to pitch and buck. "Nice and tight." Removing his finger and gripping the flesh of Ryoga’s legs once more, the fiercely handsome blonde maneuvered the boy’s body to make access easy for himself, not caring that he was choking his partner. When he was ready, Stephan paused, the throbbing hot tip of his penis pressing tightly against Ryoga’s ass, closing his eyes briefly to savor the moment.
Miserably realizing what was about to happen, Ryoga could no longer contain his absolute horror. The scream that had been building within tore its way out of his throat, though the sound drowned in pillows and bedspread. A fresh kick of adrenaline granted Ryoga the stamina to struggle again, and he fought desperately to get away from that thing which was burning and poking at his most private orifice.
Oh, Kami-sama! He -couldn’t- get away! The hold on him was iron and he simply didn’t have the strength. His twisting only excited Stephan further by stimulating the end of his cock. Ryoga heard the man encouraging him to struggle, goading him on, but the words barely made any sense to the terrified boy. He screamed again as the utter futility of his situation became crystal clear. He was trapped, he was trapped, he was trapped!
The boy echoed himself a moment later as Stephan’s hard cock drove into him, bringing with it a shattering light of pain and disbelief. The vicious blonde pushed in as far as he could, grunting softly at Ryoga’s tight resistance. He pulled out and tried again, this time thrusting deeper. Within his head, and beneath the sounds of his own cries, Ryoga could hear the tearing of his inner flesh as that large invader penetrated him without benefit of lubrication. Stephan moved himself within Ryoga, settling in and getting a good feel of him, before he began to pump his hips and his member repeatedly and dryly violated Ryoga’s deepest core.
Oh, Kami-sama, no! This couldn’t be happening! Not like this, not like this! No, no, no, nononononono . . . . the protest began to lose all meaning as it repeated itself over and over both in Ryoga’s mind and his throat. His reality narrowed down to only that hot thing filling him, penetrating, invading, tearing him apart. It was huge, breaking him wide open, splitting him down the middle. It tore at him repeatedly, and he could soon feel a strange wet sensation slide slowly down the insides of his legs. The salty taste of tears mingled with the metallic tang of blood as the boy bit first his lower lip and then his tongue. The pain, he had never imagined its like, went on and on, brightening sharply with each thrust, continuing forever, never stopping . . .
There was a shattering crash as Stephan began to cum within him, heat and pain and misery and pain and tearing and pain all becoming the same thing all at once, the only thing there was and ever had been. Ryoga himself no longer existed, he was only a vessel, a depository for ripping endless torture. Failure . . . dishonor . . . dishonor . . . His mind turned over on itself, protecting him in the only way that it could, shutting him down, as it rapidly tried to deal with this complete and utter loss of self.
As he was shoved repeatedly into the pillows and his air was cut off, he felt as if he were breathing underwater and blackness began to seep in on him. Excruciating blackness. Blackness that was never-ending and filled with sorrow.
Blackness that slowly began to solidify into a wall, brick by brick, pain by pain.
*******************************************
Stephan hummed quietly to himself as he straightened the cuffs on his green silk shirt, checking his reflection in the mirror as he did so. Fresh from the shower, his hair was still dark from dampness, slicked back neatly into its tail. He looked a little bit tired, but that was to be expected from a night of such enjoyable romping. From between the part in the heavy curtains over the window, the colors of early morning were just starting to seep in, splitting the room in half with a shaft of light that glittered with a swirl of airborne dust.
Ryoga lay curled in a fetal position on the bed, listening to Stephan’s humming without really hearing it. Sheets stained with his own blood were twisted around his legs, but he didn’t dare stir to rid himself of them. An earlier experiment at movement had produced sharp new pains deep within his gut and up his lower back, so he dimly decided not to try again. He simply lay where he was, staring vacantly at the shaft of light with glazed feverish brown eyes. His entire body was bruised and burning, as surely as if someone had set him on fire, and the surface of his skin felt as if it were still being fondled by Stephan’s large hurtful hands. He didn’t even have the strength to squirm against the horrible sensation.
It didn’t matter if he ever moved again. His honor, his pride, his will to live had all vanished, driven out of him by Stephan’s repeated assaults on his body. Twice more during the long night the American had brought him back to consciousness only to drive it from him again with further abuse. Hitting him, touching him, bruising him, tearing him up on the inside. There was nothing left of him now, nothing. Ryoga was completely drained, utterly used up.
How had he come to this point? How could he have been so easily torn down like this?
Stupid foolish dreams of winning Akane’s heart and sharing a life with her had shattered and splintered away into the darkness. Idiot fantasies of possibly finding happiness with Ukyo or Akari were gone, faded away until he barely remembered that they had ever existed. And Ranma . . . well, that dream had been impossible to begin with, but now even the space that Ranma had filled within Ryoga’s soul was empty.
Empty . . . All that remained was a hollow shell that fate had seen fit to strip of hopes and future. Though tears had been falling steadily from Ryoga’s eyes since he’d awakened to find Stephan untying him, his wretched sobbing now built into a agonizing crescendo, and the child buried his stained and bloody face deeply into the bed, gripping the crumpled spread weakly with his fingers.
Stephan looked up at the sound and rolled his eyes, turning his attention back to the straightening of his collar. Yeah whatever. He had an early breakfast meeting that he needed to get to, then it would be back to the States in the afternoon. Slipping his suit coat back on, the attractive blonde checked his reflection one more time, then turned towards the miserable boy on the gory bed. Hmm, the housekeeping staff wasn’t going to appreciate cleaning that up.
"Check out time is at ten, Pretty Boy," he said lightly, not really caring whether or not Ryoga heard him. "I suggest you make yourself scarce before then, or you’ll have a lot of questions to answer. Oh, I almost forgot . . . " Stephan reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet. Opening it, he counted out a few bills and tossed them onto the bed, along with a handful of spare change.
Ryoga stirred as the money hit the mattress and coins pattered around him. He looked up at Stephan’s uncaring face and cold green eyes, and slowly fury began to mount within him, bringing the last reserves of his adrenaline along with it. He was now completely ruined, stripped of honor and future, and this bastard had the gall to throw a few bills at him?
"Hentaisha," he breathed, pushing himself up slowly. "Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?"
"A more appropriate question would be, do I care?" Stephan shrugged lightly. "No Baby, not one damn bit. Have a nice life." He turned to leave, casually putting his right hand into his pants pocket and reaching for the door with his left.
Time seemed to come to an abrupt stand-still for Ryoga. Stephen, the movement of the dust motes in the air, the ticking away of early morning. All of it stopped. As the pain and fury and misery of the long terrible night built within him, so did the power of his ki. Though the Lost Boy was often depressed or upset, he had never felt this way before, this was utter hopelessness, complete surrender. His inner power responded to his despair, flaring up like a flame of agony, tearing through his body, literally lifting him from the mattress of the bed. A roar filled the room, accompanied by a hurricane of wind and shards of lacerating pain. It came completely without will, without summoning, and it was all Ryoga knew, all he was aware of, save the surprise in Stephan’s eyes as the man slowly turned to see what his cruelty had wrought.
Ryoga was a terrible sight, hanging in the air, his thin blood-stained body glowing with the red blaze of his battle aura. He lifted his hands automatically, numbly concentrating all of his anger, despair and sorrow down into the limits of his extremities. Everything happened in only a matter of seconds, but to the unresponsive boy it seemed like several eternities passed in that span of time. Several long lonely dark eternities. During that time, a trembling ball of white hot power was birthed into being, hovering just within the span of his fingertips. The sphere turned over ominously as it grew in size and intensity, humming with viciousness on Ryoga’s behalf.
Beneath him, the bed abruptly shattered away and the floor buckled under the heavy pressure of his energy build-up. Excess power shed from him in a pillar of that same energy, which rose up and smashed through the ceiling, the floor of the room above splintering upwards violently. Ryoga was peripherally aware of distant screaming, but paid it no mind. He was beyond concern.
It took supreme effort for Ryoga to care enough to open his mouth and call the words that would bind the power to his bidding, but he managed to do it, letting the deadly ball of gravity-laden ki fly from his hands in the same instant that the words fell whispered from his lips.
"Shishi hokodan."
Mercifully, Ryoga never saw the blast hit Stephan, stripping him of flesh and muscle in a matter of seconds, nor did he hear the man’s agonized scream which seemed to hang in the air far longer than it should have. Even as angry and empty as he was, Ryoga would not have been able to mentally handle a sight such as that, let alone the knowledge that he had caused it.
He also never saw how his power blew the hotel room apart like nothing more than a flimsy cardboard box, how it smashed through the room across the hall, which was luckily empty of guests at the time, or how it blew out through the side of the building, lighting up the early morning of downtown Hong Kong brilliantly. As soon as the energy had left his hands, Ryoga Hibiki collapsed, his fragile body completely exhausted and drained. Any will he still possessed, he had released in the ultimate shishi hokodan. He fell away among the wooden debris of the room, sinking into the welcome waiting hole in his mind, while the real world crashed in around him.
Firefighters found him there, laying twisted within piles of cratered wreckage where he had fallen, slowly suffocating from the smoke of a conflagration he had unknowingly caused.
*************************************
Sighing heavily to himself, Doctor Lang stepped out of the boy’s room, looking up with surprise as one of the floor nurses came forward. She seemed mildly flustered and upset, which was probably due in no small part to the stern-looking men flanking her. Pausing in the doorway, Lang regarded them silently, waiting for someone else to speak up and explain what was going on.
The nurse stopped in front of him and frowned. "These men are from the American Embassy and wish to see the patient."
Americans? Well, that didn’t especially surprise him. He regarded the well-dressed man who appeared to be in charge, peering through his glasses speculatively.
"Doctor Lang?" the middle-aged man extended a manicured hand, shifting the folder he held under his arm, and seemed rather put off when the stern old doctor didn’t appear inclined to return the greeting. After a few awkward seconds, he withdrew the offered hand, glancing uncomfortably at the two men who had come with him. One was Chinese, probably an envoy of some sort, and the other was obviously a member of the American military, as evidenced by his sharp uniform and insignia.
"My name is David Burgess, Doctor," the man in charge began after recovering his demeanor. "I’m with the U.S. Department of Foreign Affairs. We need to speak with your patient." His Cantonese was well practiced, but plastic. Lang wasn’t impressed. But then, he had never had much patience with bureaucratic types, even under the best of circumstances.
"My patient," he began slowly, "is Japanese, not American. I do not see what business you could possibly have with him."
"He -is- Japanese then?" Burgess glanced at his Chinese attache. "We have a positive ID on this kid? Why wasn’t I told?"
"All he had on him was an old school identification card, it took some time to track it down and verify the information," the young man explained, opening one of the folders he held and squinting at the paperwork he’d been handed right before leaving the Embassy. "Ryoga Hibiki, apparently from Nerima, a prefecture of Tokyo. Age unknown, but we estimate that he’s in his mid to late teens. Report says that we got an address and telephone number from the school records, but repeated attempts at phoning the number have failed. There’s no one there and no answering machine. Parents were listed as Ryuzen and Ainami Hibiki. Other than that school ID, which is close to five years old, this kid doesn’t seem to exist."
"No birth record?"
"Not in Tokyo, sir. He may have been born and registered someplace else. We’re looking into it."
Burgess frowned heavily, not pleased with the information. The American government did not like unknowns and, as an extension of that government, neither did he. Turning his attention back to Lang, Burgess asked, "Is he awake?"
"What business do you have with him?" Lang repeated flatly.
Burgess cleared his throat, looking rather perturbed. "Doctor Lang. An American has been killed under suspect circumstances, his remains found in the same room of the Zui Xiu’Xi Hotel as your patient. Naturally, we need to question him and find out what happened. Stephan Mercer’s family is understandably upset and are demanding to know what he was doing in that hotel, with that boy, in the first place, when he was suppose to be in Hong Kong on business."
Lang snorted softly. Because of certain aspects of his patient’s injuries, he knew exactly what Stephan Mercer had been doing there, but said nothing of this to Burgess for the moment. That was the boy’s business. He shook his head. "I am sorry, Mr. Burgess, but my patient has already spoken several times to the local Inspector, who was very demanding with his questions. The boy is upset and exhausted. I cannot allow you to cause him further distress."
"The Department is not satisfied with this kid’s answers, Doctor." Burgess yanked the folder out from under his arm and glared at the top page within. "He says that he and Mr. Mercer had sexual relations, but he doesn’t actually remember going to the hotel with Mercer, doesn’t precisely remember anything that occurred there, and doesn’t recall the fire or how it started." Burgess looked up. "How does someone not remember something as big as a fire which destroyed most of a building?"
Lang sighed softly, without any hint of humor. "The boy is traumatized, Mr. Burgess. And if you read my medical report, which I am sure you have in one of your folders, you will understand why." He paused for a moment, and considered leaving it at that, but couldn’t. Good conscious wouldn’t permit it. His mouth tightening, Lang leveled a very unfriendly look at Burgess.
"Tell Mr. Mercer’s family that he was a sadistic pedophile, and that he very nearly killed a young boy who was already sick and undernourished. I’m sure the fire was started as some ritualistic aspect of Mr. Mercer’s twisted sexual fantasies and it simply got out of control. In my opinion, your American got exactly what he deserved."
The three men stared at the old doctor, startled at the venom in his words.
"Now," Lang gestured towards the elevators. "Please leave. You have all of the information you need." Closing the door to his patient’s room, the latch clicking firmly, Lang herded the men away with nothing more than his authoritative presence.
Within the darkened room, Ryoga Hibiki closed his eyes slowly, fear and pain making his heart pound furiously. Ignoring the ache deep within his body, he eased himself onto his side and clutched at the large clean-smelling pillow beneath his head.
The doctor . . . Lang . . . had told him that he’d been here in the city hospital for a week already - one more thing on top of everything else that he didn’t remember clearly. That bothered Ryoga, it unsettled him to think that things had happened which he couldn’t recall, especially after listening to the conversation that had just taken place at his door. Both the Americans and the local Inspector said that a fire had occurred, that Stephan was dead. But Ryoga had no memory of either of those events. In fact, the last thing he clearly remembered was deciding to leave the park. Though he didn’t actually recall meeting the trendy American, he could accurately picture Stephan’s looks in his mind, and could see a hazy picture of the hotel room when he concentrated on it.
Opening his eyes again, the boy stared at the bandages around his wrist, remembering how raw the wounds there had looked when the nurse changed his dressings. What had happened between he and Stephan in that hotel room? From the aches deep within his body, Ryoga had a pretty good idea as to the answer to that question, but how had that come about? He recalled being very firm in his conviction not to sell his body, but obviously he had . . . and . . . and things had gone wrong . . .
Stephan dead . . . the hotel burned . . . had he . . . ? Had he done that?
Ryoga made soft choking sound, and his mind immediately blocked out the thoughts he’d just had. Sniffling softly to himself, the Lost Boy eased up and slid out of bed, shuffling over to the window so that he could look out at the darkening evening.
The lights of Hong Kong were just starting to wink on, and from his perspective high in the city hospital, the night was becoming awash with color and glow. It was pretty, he decided, though he had never cared much for cities. They always seemed very oppressive and confining to him, filled with the stifling auras of so many people living too close together. Ryoga much preferred the openness of Nature. The wilderness was something he could deal with on equal terms. It seemed that whenever he was around other people, he found himself walking on unsteady ground.
For some reason, there was a tightness in his throat that he didn’t understand. Re-focusing his gaze, he concentrated on his dim darkened reflection in the surface of the window and was startled. Someone he didn’t recognize was looking back at him.
His face was thin, almost gaunt, and his large dark eyes were weighted with heavy circles. His cheek and the left side of his head were shadowed by fading bruises and there were cuts around his mouth. Without the usual bandanna to hold it back, his hair seemed long and scattered-looking. Tentatively, Ryoga raised his hand and touched his fingers against the cool glass, tracing the shape of his face. It was no longer the soft face of a child, of a stupid hard-headed boy who could never make up his mind about what he wanted and still carried grudges from nearly a decade ago.
It was the slender shadowed face of an adult.
{( Of a killer . . . ? )} he wondered, the conversation in the doorway coming back to him.
His mind quickly countered that thought before panic could rise in him. No. No. He wasn’t a killer. Whatever had transpired in that hotel room, he had nothing to do with it. All that had happened was that he and Stephan had spent the night together and parted in the morning. There was nothing beyond that. Nothing beyond . . .
Ryoga swallowed down that tight feeling in his throat, recognizing the hot burn of tears trying to form. Nothing beyond his complete disgrace . . . absolute dishonor . . .
His mind blanking out again, the boy traced the reflected bruises on his face, mesmerized by the sight. Bruises . . . cuts . . . {( He hurt me . . . he hurt me . . . )}
Ryoga turned abruptly away from the window, resisting the irrational urge to smash the glass into thousands of hurtful sharp fragments. He didn’t remember being hurt. Why didn’t he remember? What was he trying to hide from himself? Something terrible? Memories, perhaps, of Stephan’s death, why he had been killed, how he died? As Ryoga retreated from the window, he felt that ache deep in his body tweak at him once again, and his hand tightened into a fist. Stephan had hurt him . . . hurt him bad . . . he’d deserved to die . . . deserved to die . . .
No! No one deserved to die! And Ryoga was not a killer! His mind insisted that he wasn’t, quickly jerking the angry painful thoughts out of his head. The shut-down was too fast for the weakened boy. The room spun a bit crazily, and Ryoga put a hand to his forehead, eyes narrowing as he tried to bring things back into focus. What had he been thinking? He couldn’t exactly recall. Something about Stephan . . . the fire . . .
{( Nothing happened to Stephan, )} his thoughts prompted, soothing him as one might calm a troubled child. {( He picked me up, I spent the night with him, that’s all. I was desperate. I was sick. I had no choice at the time. )}
Ryoga sank to the floor, still holding his head. There was pain within, the hurt of memories trying to break through, but the wall was up and would not let them come. No . . . he remembered making the choice not to resort to selling his body. Why would he have changed his mind about something so important? It was the ultimate disgrace. He had sold himself! Allowed his body to be used for profit! It didn’t matter how or why, all that mattered was that the deed was now done and Ryoga was ruined. He moaned softly, sinking even lower, the cool surface of the floor burning his body through the flimsy gown he wore.
Failure . . . failure . . . failure . . .
"He hurt me . . . " Ryoga whispered, his tone one of childish disbelief and betrayal. "He hurt me . . . it wasn’t my fault . . . he hurt me . . . I didn’t mean . . . "
{(Didn’t mean what? To kill him? I killed a man! Killed him! Killed him! )}
No! No! Ryoga started to shake violently, as his fragile mind continued its break down, torn psyche trying frantically to sort the agony and shame into neat manageable packages that could be set aside and dealt with later. Taking advantage of the distraction, horrible memories fought to seep their way back into his mind. He experienced brief quick images, flashes of hard light and suffering . . . Stephan’s cold green eyes, the feel of his violating hands, the helplessness of being tied to the headboard, the horrible tearing, tearing, ripping pain . . .
The boy whined, huddling down to press his forehead to the floor, shivering uncontrollably. The black wall that had formed in his mind rose immediately, seeking to protect him from the trauma, but it wasn’t quite fast enough. He had glimpsed the truth, had seen the fire and hatred he released in the shishi hokodan. He knew . . . he knew . . . he knew . . .
Oh Kami-sama! He -was- a killer! He was!
Alone and shattering slowly, Ryoga spent a long time simply trembling and crying, his body pressed tightly to the floor of his hospital room. He had never been a strong person emotionally, too many disappointments and too much loneliness and abuse had seen to that. Only his body was strong, and it had always been his one safe refuge, something to fall back on when things were bad. He could always break something, or seek out a sparring partner, lose himself in the way his muscles moved, take pride in the purity of his structure and in how much physical power he had developed over the years.
Now that had been stripped from him as well. His body was weak, and it had been hurt. Hurt, torn apart and defiled. He could no longer cover his grief with the sanctity of his physical form. It had failed him. The last thing he could depend on was gone.
Thus he could not stop the torrent of emotional storms that slammed into him with the force of a thousand shishi hokodans. Every pain, every slight and hurt that he had ever suppressed tried to come bubbling to the surface, each demanding his attention and control of his fragile mind. The only way he could retain some semblance of sanity was to force it all down, shut it all away, pretend that none of it had ever happened. Shivering alone on the floor of his room, Ryoga regressed for a time back into his true self, the person he never allowed to surface when he was with others -- a boy, lost and vulnerable. He cried, he begged for his parents to appear and comfort him. He whimpered and curled around himself, attempting to become as small as possible, as he’d often done when he was a child and didn’t want to be noticed for fear of teasing from his peers. He lamented the loss of the one true friendship he had ever been a part of and now missed more than he could possibly express.
No one came to hold him. His mother did not magically appear to give him the comfort he so desperately needed. Ranma was not there to make him feel accepted and part of something special. He had only himself.
And that wasn’t enough. It had never been enough.
Tears still falling, the boy lifted his head and his wounded brown eyes fell on his pack, which had been rescued from the hotel and brought here for him by the local authorities after they had investigated its contents. Slowly, every movement a chore that ached and hurt, Ryoga got to his knees and crawled to it, opening the top flap. With practiced ease, he laid his hands on one of his hunting knives and withdrew it from the pack. Not the traditional choice for what he was about to do, but close enough. He was already disgraced, adding one more shame couldn’t hurt now.
Cradling the knife, he slid across the floor to the bedside table and pulled the telephone down, curling around himself in a protective ball close to the bed as he tucked the receiver to his ear and started to dial. Though the past week was a disjointed blur to him, he easily and automatically picked out the number of his father’s calling card, following it with his own home number. The connections were a bit slow, and he waited nervously, biting his lower lip.
At last, the other end of the line began to ring. And ring. And ring. For nearly a half an hour, Ryoga huddled shivering and sobbing, listening to the repeated monotonous sound of his home phone ringing. No one was there to pick it up.
"Okasan," he whispered into the phone, as he unknowingly began to rock back and forth. "Where are you? I need you . . . he hurt me . . . where are you?" Though he was too distraught to notice it, his voice contained the lisp that he’d had as a child.
Reluctantly, Ryoga broke the connection. Then his shaking fingers were almost automatically dialing a new number. Biting back tears as he rocked, he listened to the exchanges being made and held his breath when the ringing was answered after only three times.
"Hello," a gentle caring voice at the other end answered, "Tendo Dojo."
He caught a sobbing reply an instant before it left his lips. He wanted more than anything to respond to that voice! To beg her to help him, to ask her to get Ranma. But something deep within, something that had been so firmly ingrained on his psyche that it was stronger than even the pain, stopped him. Honor. Above all, he was disgraced. His fingers tightened around the grip of the knife he held. How could he be so selfish and foolish as to try and drag other people, innocent people, into his shame?
He couldn’t . . . he couldn’t . . . oh Kami-sama! He was truly alone! Truly and completely . . .
"Hello? Is anyone there?" There was a touch of concern in Kasumi’s voice now, that nearly broke Ryoga’s resolve. He bit his lip hard enough to prompt blood and slammed his eyes shut, quaking violently. He couldn’t!
{( He hurt me . . . hurt me . . . oh kami . . . someone help me! . . . )}
"Odd," he heard Kasumi say, her voice becoming distant as she lowered the phone and broke the connection.
The phone shattered into dozens of pieces as Ryoga dashed it against the wall.
He would never quite remember what happened in the next few minutes. His fragile hold on sanity slipped and his mind slipped with it, plummeting down into a bright white hot pit of burning shame and agony, and he screamed. The knife in his hand became the only thing that was real to him, and he sought to bury it in his own body, hoping that the violation of the cold metal would bring a end to the fire consuming him.
But the nursing staff had heard both the sound of the phone being smashed and his wounded cry. The ward clerk, his night nurse, and a handful of interns hurried in, and for several minutes they fought to wrest the blade away from the hysterical sobbing boy. The battle was intense, but brief, as Ryoga’s body was already stretched to its limit and he could not sustain the struggle for long. And when the many groping hands of the interns closed in around him, extreme terror and blind panic shorted him out. He fainted dead away, and was mercifully out cold as they picked him up and put him back in bed.
Soft restraints were brought to secure him, and the nurse in charge quickly contacted Dr. Lang to let him know of this new development. He assured that he’d come by and check on the boy, but ordered that they contact the psychiatric unit and make arrangements to have one of the doctors there come to consult with him as well. He also ordered several strong sedatives that would keep the patient calm and help him to sleep.
Lang didn’t realize that those medicines, combined with Ryoga’s own mental defenses, would help to build up that black wall in the boy’s mind. When he woke in the morning, Ryoga would remember nothing of the past week, save the relatively safe and believable mantra that his thoughts gave him to explain the whole nightmare situation. {( I went with him, spent the night and he paid me in the morning. That’s about it. )}
While the nurse hurried to comply with the doctor’s orders, the ward clerk stayed with Ryoga to make sure the sedatives took effect. She wet a sponge with tepid water in the bathroom sink and ran it carefully over his flushed damp face, hoping to soothe him a bit. She was of the firm belief that the mind had far more control over the healing of the body than most doctors cared to admit, and she recognized how traumatized this child had to be. Knowing that caring could provide far more help than medicines, she washed his face, humming softly and took great care in brushing back his thick black bangs, letting her fingers massage his temples gently.
He stirred at the feel of her touch, not waking fully. His eyelids fluttered and he whispered, "Okasan . . . "
The ward clerk didn’t know Japanese, but she had a pretty good idea who the boy was asking for. With a soft caring smile, she bent down and kissed his forehead, letting her lips linger there so that he would be sure to feel it. That one small gesture was apparently enough to calm him, for the stress lines on his face smoothed out and he let the drugs drift him into sleep.
**************************************
Four days later, Dr. Lang wasn’t terribly surprised to get a call from the nurse in charge of Ryoga Hibiki, informing him that his patient had left the hospital without being discharged. It was unfortunate that the boy wold not allow himself to be helped further, but Lang understood. Hibiki had told him that he was a martial artist, and the old doctor had encountered enough of those over the years to know how they were. The week and a half in the hospital had succeeded in putting the boy firmly back on the road to good health, and he was healing remarkably fast.
And the memory loss was probably for the best. Lang told the nurse to write up a discharge for Ryoga Hibiki, and left it at that.