It's been four days now. Four days of running errands, some of which seemed particularly pointless. Four days of kneeling by her bedside to pray, just like she was tonight. Her calloused hands clenched around a rosary, eyes blankly scanning the sheets in front of her. Prayers seemed more like a ritual than anything else to her. Who am I praying to again? Her god was already off somewhere else, claiming salvation. She concentrated on each bead, absentmindedly trying to remember what meaning they were supposed to hold. Instead, she replayed old memories of Fyodor teaching her about Catholicism. About faith and corruption. False idols. She wasn't even sure how much of that particular religion he believed in as he would often criticize blind faith and many of the traditions that had come about over time. She could picture the mirth in his eyes as a low chuckle was pulled from his pale throat. "A soldier who was raised to know nothing of religion is closer to God than everyone leaving that building." She remembered watching the tired eyes as the church-goers left the building and headed home. Vacant. Docile. Obedient. Wasn't I just like that? As a soldier, the government must have become her religion, until she found her true savior, she supposed, sighing lightly. That man had always reassured her there was a place for her in paradise even though her only care was for all the world to burn. Her glassy eyes refocused on the beads in front of her, each prayer a simple one. Either to thank god for putting Fyodor in her life or a plea to bring him home safely. That was all. The repetition gave her peace until she was interrupted by a knock on the door-frame.

"A pious woman, I see." The reverend Hawthorne sat in a chair by her night table. Immediately, her posture stiffened as she eyed the man, his bible on his lap. The slightest laugh of indignation escaped her, "Is that what you see?". "I do." She bit back the grimace on her face. "That's because to religion, to governments, to companies, desperation looks like obedience." Her eyes held spite as she spoke. It was the truth, wasn't it? She was desperate for Fyodor. The same way the religious were desperate for meaning, or civilians were desperate for safety or that soldiers were desperate for orders. The silver-haired man eyed her thoughtfully as he adjusted his glasses. "I suppose that is true in some cases. But in desperation, some may find salvation. Even I am desperate." He cast his glance downward, trying to cover his strangled voice. That woman. Margaret Mitchell. He was desperate for her. Perhaps she and this man weren't as different from another as she thought. Whether he was aware of it or not, that woman was his god. As devout as he was, he would never admit to it. But, she knew his actions would prove it. He'd already made a deal with the devil to save her. A devil with magenta eyes, black silk hair that swept his shoulders, and a smile sharp enough to cut to the heart. "You're welcome to pray with me, if you'd like, father." Turning back towards the bed in front of her, she left the invitation open. The rustle of his robe was the only sound as he wordlessly knelt next to her. "But, I think we both know who it is you should be praying to." Her lips split into an arrogant smirk as the man's eyebrow twitched visibly. He opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it after a moment, in favor of sharing a prolonged silence. After a few minutes of prayer, both heads bowed, Nathaniel opened his bible to James 3:6 which he had higlighted, leaving the book open on the bed as he exited the room. Curiosity struck as she read the verse, "The tongue also is a fire, a world of evil among the parts of the body. It corrupts the whole body, sets the whole course of one's life on fire, and is itself set on fire by hell". So, this was his way of chiding her then? The thought honestly made her want to bubble with laughter. Fyodor had taught her this verse before. About the power of the tongue rather than its evil. His words had the power to set not only his own life on fire, but the whole world's as well. Of this, she was certain. With a renewed faith, she flipped the bible to a separate page, grabbing a pen from her nightstand and underlining a verse before leaving it open on the bed to return to her work in the main computer room. Hebrews 12:29 "For our God is a consuming fire."

And that, he was. Each night, that red-haired boy had come to see the man. Curiosity burning as he spoke to the pale captive, but never hearing much back other than a low hum. "Karma," the boy had said, "that's my name." Fyodor found the irony amusing. A boy named Karma who seemed to have been forsaken by the very notion. What could this boy have possibly done to acquire enough bad karma to be placed under a bafoon like Ace? That's why karma could never exist adequately. There is far more evil in the world than good. And if evil begets more evil, then the world should have already turned to hell in a handbasket. Karma requires balance, something this world is severely lacking. Abilities have already broken any balance that could have saved this world. And this boy here was simply a victim of that unbalance. But, Ace's ability that imprisons him, will be nothing compared to what would save him. Fyodor smiled lazily to himself, lost in thought. The boy's eyes widened at the expression. It's likely the first change he's seen in the man the past four days. He usually sits there, listless yet composed. A mystery to the boy. But, he'll either be enslaved like himself, or killed when Ace gets enough intel. Ace had just went out to go plead with the head boss to let him take lead on the interrogation. Then it was only a matter of time before this frail-looking man in front of him would be forced to submit. And they'd all be trapped here together.

There was an emotion in the boys eyes that Fyodor recognized well. It was pity. To be on the receiving end of such an emotion was new to him, no matter how unfounded it may be. Usually, he regarded others with pity. Whether they had been cursed with ability or whether they were victims of a world afflicted by ability users. Some people felt empathy, some people felt sympathy, but all he was ever left with was pity. It was comfortable and familiar to him, even being on the receiving end. It was such an easy emotion to digest and understand. And to use, if need be. "I'm thirsty." His accent was thick as he allowed himself to speak for the first time since being brought here. His eyes met the boy in front of him, as his saw him jump slightly from the sudden sound of his voice. Once the surprise settled, the boy broke out with a large grin, excited at the chance to help someone. "I'll go get some water, you'll wait right there, right?" The boy chuckled at his own joke before running off down the corridor. The small joy he could take in being Ace's prisoner. Fyodor smiled to himself as his eyes narrowed in anticipation. Ace is a fool. And in his end, those below him might seek salvation, outside of the evils of this world.

The sound of keys chattering as Fyodor typed echoed through the silence in the dimly lit base of operations. One monitor was lit up with the smug profile of a light-haired man named "Ace". He would be their target for Intel extraction in their next step of the process. The young woman lazily searched over the screen displaying his record for any trace of danger, but he seemed like your average megalomaniac with a penchant for gambling. The hacker typing next to her had decided to undertake this part of the plan himself, so she was being extra careful to find any cause for worry, but there was next to nothing worrisome about this mission. Fyodor would be able to make this man dance like a marionette with little effort. "Seems like you should be able to pull this one off without a hitch." She murmered quietly, half to him and half to herself. "Greed is one of the easiest sins to manipulate. I was honestly hoping for more of a challenge." The dark-haired man leaned back in his chair, a slight pout on his face before biting at his thumb. "I think there are very few men in this world that you would view as a challenge, sir." She glanced down at him, professionally stifling the warmth spreading through her chest at his childish expression, but still the hint of a smile tugged at her lips. "Stop that." She was taken aback watching his face return to a neutral canvas. "I'm sorry, sir?" Her intonation rose slightly, utterly confused but masking as best she could. "I'm not a child. I don't particularly appreciate that doting expression." Ahh. That's what this is about. Her shoulders were set back as she stood straight and statuesque. "Of course, sir." Her eyes held that glint of playfulness but she held back her tongue. She couldn't deny that she felt protective of him. She was his soldier after all. But, in the times where he would let his pettiness seep out or the very rare times she would see the effects of his anemia, she felt a strong maternal instinct. One she had to choke down or suffer the consequence of his wounded pride. That option was never a pleasant one.

Making his preparations, Fyodor was singularly focused on his work. He contacted a Port Mafia smuggler, claiming to be an informant with the known whereabouts of the leader of the Rats in the House of the Dead. Cold vermillion eyes held the slightest trace of amusement at deceiving the smuggler. Ending his call, he locked gazes with the woman standing in the doorway. "I should be expecting him tomorrow- I'm heading to a motel tonight to wait for him." "Roger." The woman sauntered over, placing a hand on either side of his chair. "Are there any other preparations, or-" she gracefully moved her lips near his ear "do you perhaps have a bit of free time?" Practically purring the last part and pulling her head back, there was a fire in the way she looked at him. She knew she was stepping out of bounds and punishment was certainly a possibility for her behavior. But, he would be gone for a week, at least. The bed beside her would be dismal and desolate, and her body would be on edge until he returned to her. For a week her god will have deserted her and she needed something tangible to keep for herself in that time. "You're playing with fire." The man eyed her dangerously, despite the smirk pulling at one side of his mouth. "Then burn me." Her intensity matched his own as she nimbly moved her legs to straddle his lap, hips settling comfortably against one another. At this point, she would accept any punishment she received just to feel his cool skin against her feverish skin, to feel his soft, elegant hands caress her calloused and scarred body. If she could hold his attention for one moment, it was enough. A ghostly hand traced her back, grabbing the hair at the base of her scalp and pulling her forward into a frenzied kiss. It was sloppy, animalistic. So different from the usual detached affection she'd grown used to. The skin at the nape and scalp seethed with pain at the tension of his grip, but she would gladly bear it. Tongues warred and battled until the his hand pulled her back allowing him entrance. Her hands explored his clothed chest, feeling the heat in her chest spread to the pit of her stomach. Her skin flushed deeply, while she could barely makeout the faintest tinge of pink on the pale man before her. She was his soldier, yet he was always the one who remained composed. Feeling his mouth lower and attach to her neck, she allowed herself to melt, just this once. A shallow gasp left her lips as Fyodor marked her skin. "Fedya, I-" her though was cut off as the ministrations stopped abruptly.

A slight sway to the left. A slight sway to the right. Then back again. Ceaselessly. He was on a ship of some kind out at sea. Of that much, Fyodor was certain. He'd been adequately "captured" and this cell, tied to a chair, is where they'd decided to hold him. Too bad for them, as he'd already set his plan in motion long before they could have even comprehended it. They came for him in the early hours of the morning, around 1AM or so. Fyodor bit back the slight smile that rose out of him, remembering the half-assed "attempt" he made to fight back. If you let them believe that they've accomplished a task by their own power alone, people are so readily willing to dispel any of their own doubts. The parts of humanity he detested were also the parts that made it so easy for his plans to come to fruition. The irony wasn't lost on him. Inky black hair fell to his shoulder blades as he allowed his head to fall back, staring at the ceiling. It must be late morning by now. She'd likely be up and on her way to pick up the delivery if she hadn't already. He would never admit it to her, but as much as he trusted her and as competent as she may be, he greatly disliked leaving any plans in someone else's hands. His beliefs, his plans, his faith, were the greatest treasure he had. More important than his life, or hers, or anyone else's and relinquishing control, even for a moment, was a decision he did not come to lightly. But, if I'm going to play chess with him, my queen will need to be active on the board. The gentle swaying of the boat relaxed him as he closed his eyes in thought, excited and anticipating the next moves in the game.

She watched intently as Dazai and the younger boy beside him conversed. As long as they were here, there was no way for her to receive whatever delivery Fyodor expected of her. Why? Why is he here, in Yokohama? I thought he was running from this place? A frown etched itself onto her face as she glanced from behind the warehouse. She saw dark hair tousle in the breeze as his head turned in her direction. Fingering the gun on her left holster, she pulled her head back behind the wall, praying that the man hadn't seen her. She held her jaw rigid, as she tightened her grip on her weapon, waiting for the faint sound of footsteps. But, they never came. And by the time she went to peer around the corner again, the two men were out of sight. She let out the breath that she had been holding, keeping her posture alert as she headed inside the warehouse. Keeping abreast of her surroundings, her gaze fell over every object in the warehouse before entering completely. It must have been at least 30 minutes of reading the packing slips on different boxes before coming across one larger wooden crate addressed to Fyodor. And it was heavy. She figured it would probably be easier transporting the packaged items as opposed to the crate as a whole. The extra weight of the wood would likely slow her down. Taking her gun, she shot the lock off before opening the crate. And there she saw it. Fyodor's cello, packed neatly in it's case and surrounded by packing peanuts. Her brow twitched in irritation while she felt the muscles in her body tense in her annoyance. He sent her all the way out here for... this?

The blue light from the monitors was the only light she could see as she blearily opened her eyes, the familiar clack of fingers on a keyboard ringing through her ears. Slight rubbing along her torso had awoken her as Fyodor's arms twitched gently as he typed, head resting over her shoulder while he worked. His pale skin looked somehow translucent under the blue lighting of his monitor as if he were some kind of intangible ethereal being. Except he was very tangible and she could feel every dip and curve of his body with the way she was sat on his lap. Sitting back, her eyes found his violet ones and tried to capture his attention. A shifting glance to her was the only acknowledgment she received, but it was all she needed as a command to speak. "Good morning, Fedya." Her voice was raspy and light as her eyes scanned the computer room, mentally noting where each article of clothing lay discarded. When the man before her gave no move to return the greeting, she came to the realization that it was likely within the realm of working hours. His not waking her was a gracious courtesy and it would be better not to press for more, especially after his return from a mission. "I see I'm interrupting your work." Biting back the frown begging to tug at her lips, she kept her face stoic. Propping herself off of his chair and quickly wrapping his cloak around herself, she retrieved each article in quick succession, delicately handing Fyodor his shirt and ushanka before dressing herself. She felt eyes on her as she pulled her tank back over her head.

Turning her head to the door, she saw familiar black garments and neatly placed silver hair. The look of disapproval etched on his face gave her greater entertainment than she participated. She could feel herself speaking before she could stop the words from coming out of her mouth. "Good morning, father Nathaniel. As you can see, I have been diligently praying and serving the lord, our god." Mocking the man who held himself in such moral superiority had become commonplace since their encounter during prayer. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the smirk that played on Fyodor's otherwise delicate features, llan expression perfectly between an angel and a demon. "Good morning, young lady. I'm here because I was asked in for a meeting." The priest retorted defiantly, keeping himself composed and poised. At that moment, she understood that Fyodor had purposefully called upon him at this particular time for his own amusement. Even god has a sense of humor, she supposed. "You two seem to have gotten on well in my absence, to the point of exchanging pleasantries. What an unexpectedly lovely development." It wasn't unexpected. He absolutely knew how the two of them would interact with one another. The feigned sweetness in his voice covered all trace of sarcasm and enjoyment, but he was the demon she knew. It may not have been apparent to Hawthorne, but her god hid nothing from her. That's not to say he didn't have secrets. It's just that they weren't hidden. Her faith in Fyodor kept her from looking where he didn't think she needed to or asking questions he didn't want to answer. Except for one. Dazai. How long had Fyodor known he was here?