Warnings: Character Death, violence, gore, language, drug use, language, angst, yaoi sex, het sex, language.

Pairings: 2xSolo, 6x3, 1x2x3, 5xM, 5x H, 4x S, 4x R, 13x 6, 13x?, probably a few more as well.

A/N:Think The Watchmen but way darker and with yaoi. I know that some folks want/wanted Deviant to morph into more of a superheroes thing, but that fic is really about ordinary, less than perfect people struggling with something extraordinary. If you are looking for superheroes… this is the fic for you. Except, this is me, so there's no Superman or Spiderman or Aquaman. There are no powers. It's more like Batman and The Watchmen. And there's a fair influence from The Departed in here as well, especially regarding Sally Po.

Also, unlike pretty much everything else I write, this isn't a good vs. evil kind of story. There are good guys and there are bad guys… and both of them do good and bad things… there's no black and white. Just a bunch of gray.

A/N#2: I know. I KNOW I've got Lost Dreams and A Very Dark Corner and Deviant… and Revenant and Penumbra… but this has been haunting me for months and I had to get it out. I will finish all of the fics I am working on – I haven't abandoned one yet! You have my solemn promise.

A/N#3: This first chapter opens on some extremely disturbing content… you can skip down to the section break and be okay, although you will miss some character development. Also, it ends on a lemon… so… graphic violence to start with, sex to end with…

Without Virtue

Chapter One

The man could take a hit, Zechs had to give him that.

He watched as the man's head rocked backwards under the punch, the force of the blow actually knocking his chair back a few feet. But instead of crying out in pain, instead of spilling his secrets – the man just looked up and grinned, his mouth a mess of blood.

"That all you got, Mueller?" The man asked, directing his question to the lackey who had been tasked with doling out the beating.

Mueller sneered and with a hiss of rage lashed out again, delivering a succession of quick, fierce blows to the man's face and chest before ending with a kick to his gut that sent the man and the chair he was taped to sprawling over on his side.

"Better, but still not impressed," the man spat out a mouthful of blood and teeth in Zechs' direction.

Zechs stepped back from it and arched an eyebrow towards Chilias Catalonia.

The older man met his eyes and gave a brief shake of his head, indicating that he, too, doubted that the man being tortured would crack.

Catalonia sighed and stepped forward to jerk the chair upright before sitting down in the chair opposite.

"Officer Ford, I'll ask you one last time: whose payroll are you on?" Catalonia's irritation colored his voice only slightly, but it was obvious that he was at the end of his patience.

Zechs couldn't blame him. They had been here for two hours already. Mueller had first tried waterboarding, but when that hadn't worked he had moved on to the more violent and bloody approach of beating the information out of Ford. Only that wasn't working either.

Ford's pale blue eyes narrowed, but he met Catalonia's gaze with a defiance that Zechs had to admire him for.

"I'm on the payroll of the city of Sanc," Ford said between gritted teeth.

Catalonia rolled his eyes and then casually drew a knife from his boot and, without any warning, plunged it into Ford's left leg just above his knee.

A hoarse shout of pain passed Ford's lips before he clamped down on them.

Zechs watched as the man's chest rose and fell in a heavy, erratic pattern as he tried to gain control of himself.

"Who else is paying you?" Catalonia asked, his tone bored as he idly twisted the knife in the wound. "Because you clearly don't take orders from me, the Chief of Police."

Ford took in several deep breaths and actually had to close his eyes before he could speak again.

"I don't take orders from OZ," Ford allowed. "My job is to protect the innocent people of this city and see that they get justice. My job is not to let gangbangers, pimps, dealers, and rapists do whatever they want just because they swear allegiance to your filthy –"

Before Ford could finish his tirade, Catalonia jerked the knife downwards, cutting into Ford's kneecap and forcing him to shriek in pain.

"Everyone has a price," Catalonia said over Ford's whimpers of pain, "even you, you self righteous prick. So who has been paying you to hassle our people?"

"The city of Sanc –" Mueller took his booted foot and stomped down on the knife in Ford's knee.

"This is getting us nowhere," Zechs said to Catalonia while they watched Ford scream and writhe in pain. "He isn't going to tell us anything."

"But he knows something," Catalonia sneered. "I'll be damned if I let him get away with thwarting our plans and keeping intelligence from me."

"Sir?" Mueller asked, interrupting their conversation.

Zechs was mildly disturbed to see the red flush on Mueller's face. The boy was clearly enjoying his handiwork.

Catalonia waved a negligent hand.

"Do his other knee."

"I'm not going to tell you anything," Ford cried out as Mueller removed the knife from his left knee. "You might as well kill me now."

Catalonia frowned.

"Well if you aren't going to tell me anything then I see no reason to put an end to your punishment so soon. Perhaps if you did tell me what I want to know, then I would allow Mueller to kill you quickly. But if you continue to defy me…"

"I work for the city of Sanc!" Ford shouted as Mueller plunged the knife into his right leg.

"And who works with you, Officer Ford?" Catalonia asked. "Who are your partners? Because you certainly don't play on my team."

Ford opened his eyes and glared at Catalonia, the pain and anger in his pale blue eyes making them mesmerizing. Zechs couldn't help but notice that his face, pale from blood loss, and the red that stained his lips, only seemed to emphasize the unusual color of his eyes and the white blonde of his hair.

"On my honor, I will never betray my badge," he started to recite the Oath of Honor.

Catalonia rolled his eyes and stood up from his chair, allowing Mueller more room to do his work.

"My integrity, my character, or the public trust," Ford continued.

Instead of going for his right knee, Mueller dragged the knife towards Ford's groin, cutting through his femoral artery in the process.

"I will always have the courage to hold myself and others accountable for our actions," Ford panted.

Mueller pulled the knife out and looked back to Catalonia. The Chief of Police nodded, and Mueller moved behind Ford and held the knife at his throat.

"I will always uphold the constitution, my commu –" Mueller sliced through his neck, and Ford gave a gurgle of pain.

Zechs watched as he struggled to breathe, but Mueller had cut deeply, severing not just the carotid and jugular, but his trachea as well.

The light faded from Ford's eyes and his body went limp.

My community and the agency I serve, Zechs silently finished the Oath of Honor for Ford.

Catalonia sighed in annoyance.

"Well, that was useless. Mueller, get rid of the body. Zechs, track down Ford's residence and go sweep it for anything useful. That fucking prick might not have told us anything, but I'm willing to bet there's something useful at his home."

Zechs nodded, but couldn't seem to move or take his eyes off of the dead body in the center of the room.

"Detective Merquise."

He shook himself and focused on Catalonia's hard brown stare.

"You come highly recommended by the DA, and your resume certainly indicates that you are a viable candidate for service to the Organization of the Zodiac, but I don't trust you yet. Despite whatever the DA thinks – you still have to prove yourself to me. Are we clear?"

In other words, if Zechs didn't manage to dig up something at Ford's apartment then he would suffer the same fate as his colleague – former colleague, he amended.

"Yes sir," Zechs said and went so far as to offer a salute, knowing that it bordered on insubordinate.

Catalonia's lip curled at the gesture, but he returned it.

Zechs turned on his heel and left the interrogation room.

He was immediately assaulted by a flood of bright lights as he entered the main corridor of the police station.

Zechs blinked against the harsh fluorescents and started to walk towards the HR file room. This late at night there were only a handful of officers on duty in the station. Most of the officers were out on the streets, patrolling, running interference, and protecting the investments of OZ. Investments that officers like Ford didn't agree with.

To Zechs' knowledge, Ford had been the last bastion of independence in the precinct. Every other cop and detective seemed to fall in line with Catalonia and OZ – even if they weren't members, the others followed orders and were, in Catalonia's words, team players.

Ford had been the unknown, the last vigilante on the force who seemed to think that he could hold onto his ideals and his life.

Now there's just me, Zechs thought bitterly as he sat down at the computer terminal in HR and typed in the passcodes that allowed him access to all personnel files.

Of course, Zechs wasn't like Ford. He wasn't a vigilante or an idealist. He was a survivor. For now, he would play by Catalonia's rules and he would join OZ. He would be a team player until the time was right.

It turned out that Ford lived in one of the worst parts of town. Zechs immediately recognized the address as being in the L2 quarter – the section of town that was controlled by street thugs and gun runners. A section of town that had always been hostile the law enforcement, OZ, and Romefeller.

Zechs was surprised Ford managed to make it to work alive everyday. Then again, if they needed any evidence to prove that Ford was against OZ and Romefeller – surely Ford's home address was a huge indicator.

With a sigh, Zechs printed out the address and went to the locker room to change into plain clothes. He wasn't stupid enough to go to L2 in his uniform, and in any case he had a meeting to get to in two hours.

On his way out of the station he ran into a female officer, her dark hair cropped short enough that he almost mistook her for a man.

"Detective Merquise," the woman blushed as she looked up at him.

Zechs frowned as he tried to place her. There was something familiar about her…

"Trainee Schebeker," he remembered. Of course – she was one of the new rookies, and her training officer had been Ford.

"I was wondering, have you seen Officer Ford? I saw him come in earlier and thought he might need a cup of coffee?" She held up two cups, one of which was now nearly empty, its contents all over her uniform.

Zechs grimaced.

"Officer Ford is in the middle of an interrogation. I doubt he will be available for the next few hours."

"Oh. Okay." She looked from him to the door down the hall, the entrance to the room that now held Ford's corpse.

Zechs sighed.

"He's working on a case involving an L2 prostitution ring," Zechs told her, thinking quickly. "Why don't you start pulling RAP sheets on anyone from that quarter?"

"Arrests and prosecutions for prostitution only?" Schebeker asked, her keen mind and eagerness to help taking over her momentary doubt.

"No, everything. On everyone arrested or convicted in the last six months." It would certainly keep her busy long enough for Mueller to dispose of the body and for Zechs to make his escape.

"I'm on it." She turned to go, but then hesitated and turned back around. "I, ah, I don't really drink coffee." She held the one full cup towards him.

Zechs swallowed hard as he accepted the cup of coffee intended for a dead man.

"Thank you, trainee." He took a sip of it, amazed that he didn't choke.

Zechs didn't frequent L2. His duties as a detective under the thumb of Catalonia kept him in L1 and the Core of the city, two quarters where Romefeller and OZ support were highest and where protecting the 'citizens' meant keeping their misdeeds from inspiring vigilantes like Ford from arresting them.

L2 was one of the most run down of all the city's quarters, and by far the most dangerous. Disease outbreaks were fairly common, the water and electrical grids often went on the fritz, and the quarter had a reputation for lynching cops. They had their own version of justice, with their own police force.

Romefeller and OZ left the quarter to their own devices for the most part, because the guns and ammo they made hardly ever made it out of that quarter into the others. The main export of L2 was prostitution and pornography. Both were low-end, serving the needs of lower and middle class citizens of the city, and as such didn't poach on the high-end clientele that L3 and the Barton Foundation serviced.

Zechs still couldn't wrap his head around the idea of Ford – of all cops, Ford with his never ending thirst for justice and equal protection under the law – lived in L2. The officer probably witnessed five felonies every time he opened his front door.

Breaking into Ford's apartment was a little trickier than Zechs had anticipated – three deadbolts, and a computerized entry code meant that Ford didn't like visitors dropping by unannounced. He finally had to resort to hacking into the code, putting his moderate computer skills to the test, and then relying on the force of his booted foot to force his way inside.

What he stepped into just continued to add to the mystery of the now dead police officer.

Unlike the weathered, graffiti covered exterior of the building and the mildew smelling hallway, the apartment Zechs had broken into was spotless. Bare wood floors that clearly weren't original to the building, leather furniture, remodeled kitchen, a fireplace with a lit fire –

That gave him pause until he remembered that Ford had been at home before Catalonia called him in, claiming that they had an informant who would only talk to Ford. Which, ironically, had been true – earlier in the day Mueller had picked up a junkie in the Core who claimed that he had intel for Officer Ford about some crooked cops.

It had confirmed Catalonia's suspicions that Ford was working against him, and he called Ford in to the station.

Zechs shook his head and was about to start his search when a voice called out.

"Solo, you fucking bastard, get in here right now and fuck me or I'm not letting you near my ass for a month! You said you'd be gone for an hour, tops – and I've been waiting here, with this damn butt plug up my ass and my hands numb from your fucking knots for three hours!"

Zechs had felt pure, blind panic at the sound of the voice, but he forced himself to calm down even as he reached for his gun. The voice was definitely male, and definitely pissed off.

He swallowed hard and moved silently across the floor towards the slightly closed door and the source of the angry voice.

"Solo?" There was a measure of uncertainty mixed with the aggravation in the voice now. "This is why I hate your S & M bullshit, man. Do you have any idea how hard it's been to maintain an erection without being able to touch myself? Get your ass in here and –"

The voice abruptly stopped speaking when Zechs opened the door and stepped inside.

"Who the fuck are you?"

Laying in the center of a king sized bed was a naked man, his wrists tied together above his head and, just as he had shouted, a large black leather plug was forced into his ass.

Zechs swallowed hard as he took in the sight of the man who was, besides being enraged, incredibly beautiful. A long braid of hair trailed over his chest and seemed to tickle an impressive erection that was very quickly fading. His facial features were sharp and well defined, his wide lips and strong jaw line in contrast to his blunt, upturned nose. Indigo eyes glared at Zechs from under long, shaggy bangs. The man's body was lean and just as well defined as his face, with taunt muscles in his abdomen, legs, and arms rigid with tension. Tattoos decorated his body – an intricate Celtic cross over his heart, a reaper's scythe over his right hip, lines of words across his upper arms and wrists, and a name, Solo, was visible on his collarbone, barely obscured by a gold cross on a thin chain.

Shit, was the only thought that Zechs had in his mind. Shit, shit, bloody fucking shit.

"Who are you?" The man repeated, giving a vicious jerk against his bonds, no doubt hurting himself in the process.

Zechs never would have figured Ford was a fan of S&M – in fact, he hadn't even suspected that the cop was gay – but he now had to deal with the overwhelming evidence of both.

He sat down on the edge of the bed, putting his back to the man, and tried to think just what the hell he was supposed to do in this situation.

He knew that if Mueller were here the violent, psychopath would quickly dispatch the man on the bed, burn his body, and ransack the apartment for any clues as to Ford's allegiance.

Zechs had no problem pulling the trigger – God only knew he had murdered enough men in his lifetime already to be familiar with the mechanics of it – but something about this seemed so senseless and cruel. Maybe it was the lingering taste of coffee on his tongue, coffee meant for the dead lover of the man tied to this bed he now sat on, but Zechs simply couldn't bring himself to kill him.

"I'm Detective Merquise," he finally said and turned so that he could see the man's reaction. "I'm investigating the… disappearance of Officer Ford."

"Disappearance? He's only been gone for three hours!" The indigo eyes narrowed. "Merquise, huh? So you're that pig who protects the dealers and crank labs in the Core?"

Zechs felt the muscles in his jaw bunch at the painfully true accusation, but he forced his face to remain neutral.

"How do you know who I am?" He asked, thinking that, if nothing else, maybe this man could give him enough intel on Ford to save his ass from Catalonia's anger.

"Words gets around among the animals. Rats always talk about their favorite pigs." The man spat the words, hatred coating his voice and almost covering the fear Zechs could detect.

Fear of who – of Zechs? Fear that he would kill him or torture him? But this man had that same fire in his eyes that Ford had had – that same devotion to a cause. He didn't fear death, likely didn't fear torture. No, he feared something else.

"Where is he?" The man asked, his voice deadly quiet, and Zechs suddenly knew what he was afraid of: he was afraid of what Zechs' presence meant.

"Officer Ford didn't like to follow orders from the Chief of Police… any idea whose orders he did follow?" Zechs asked instead of answering the question.

The man's indigo eyes closed for a moment and his Adam's apple bobbed three times before he opened his eyes and looked at Zechs again. The hatred, anger, and fear were gone, replaced with a cold determination that was eerily identical to the expression in Ford's eyes as he recited the Oath of Honor.

"He ah, he…" the man trailed off and coughed slightly. He grimaced. "Sorry, I've been tied up for a while. Mind untying me so I can get some water?"

Zechs wasn't stupid or naïve, and his irritation at the man's underestimation of him must have shown on his face.

The man grinned.

"Sorry. Had to try – but seriously – can you just get me a glass of water?"

Zechs frowned, but couldn't think of any way that the man could use his absence to his advantage – those knots seemed impossible for him to untie on his own – so he rose from the bed and went into the kitchen to fetch him a glass of water.

As Zechs approached the bed for a second time, he couldn't help but glance towards the man's now flaccid penis, and he noticed the tattoo of an anarchist 'A' just above the brown nest of curls.

Not for the first time, Zechs wished that circumstances had been different and he could have actually known Ford – because judging from this view alone, Ford must have been one hell of a complicated individual to have ever become involved with this man.

"How did you know Officer Ford?" Zechs asked, although his eyes pretty much told him all he needed to know about their relationship. He sat down on the edge of the bed, closer to the man's head, and leaned over to give him a sip of the water.

"I take out his garbage," the man answered with a twist of his lips before gulping down the water.

Zechs pulled the glass away after a moment, when it was nearly empty.

"No, just let me finish it," the man said. "Never know when I'll have another chance."

Zechs frowned at that, but held the glass back to the man's face, having to tip it nearly vertical so that the last of the water would come out.

As he started to pull it away again, the man slammed his head forward into the glass, the force of his motion shoving the glass back against Zechs' nose. He felt the bone break and cursed, dropping the glass and falling off the bed to cradle his nose.

He watched, fascinated and in pain, as the man, his mouth filled with glass and blood, spat towards his hands.

Zechs had no idea what he was doing, and by the time he did it was too late – the man had spat a piece of glass into his hands and used it to cut one hand free.

He struggled to his feet and reached for his gun, but the man's legs suddenly wrapped around his throat, clenching tightly and crushing his airflow.

In a matter of seconds, the man's other hand was free and he pulled the gun from Zechs' holster before releasing him and scooting to the opposite side of the bed and getting to his feet.

"You crazy, fucking –" Zechs panted.

The man grimaced as he kept the gun trained on Zechs with one hand and with the other pulled out his butt plug.

"Who killed him?" The man asked.

"What?" Zechs massaged his throat, trying to play up the injury while he mentally tried to figure out how the hell he was going to get out of this alive.

"Who killed Solo? It wasn't you. Who was it?"

"It could have been me," Zechs sneered, trying to figure out how the man had guessed.

"Bullshit. Solo said you were more of a bleeding heart liberal than his new rookie. You didn't kill him. You couldn't even kill me. So who killed him?" The force in the man's voice and the determination in his indigo eyes were unnerving.

"Who the hell are you?" Zechs finally thought to ask. It was quite clear now that this man wasn't just a sex toy for Ford, but someone dangerous.

The man sneered.

"I'm about to become your worst fucking nightmare if you don't tell me who the fuck killed Solo."

Zechs stood up and glared across the room at him.

"Officer Ford acted in a manner that disgraced his badge and his office. He was executed for –"

"That's bullshit!" The man raged, taking several steps towards Zechs before he caught himself.

It was clear that as angry as he was, it was useless for Zechs to try to goad him into a fight.

"This is the last time I'm asking you," the man said before cocking the trigger on the gun, "who killed him?"

Zechs briefly debated the merits of dying by the hand of a naked, tattooed man who's accent and diction clearly labeled him as a native of the L2 quarter. Oh how the mighty have fallen, he thought to himself, picturing the man pissing on his dead body – a tradition among the L2 natives whenever they killed a cop on their own territory.

"Calias Catalonia," Zechs said. Of course it had been Mueller's hand that ended Ford's life, but Mueller was nothing, in the big scheme of things.

The hand on the gun wavered just slightly, but the man nodded.

Zechs watched the man as he rifled through a few drawers, the gun never leaving its aim on his heart. In almost no time, the man assembled a bag of documents, trinkets, and data cards that had been stashed amidst Ford's clothes. The very items that Zechs had been tasked with locating.

The man pulled on sweatpants and a track jacket, and Zechs had to admit that his dexterity and focus were admirable.

"I could have killed you," Zechs mused, half to himself, half to the man.

The man sneered.

"No, you really couldn't have. You hate the system just as much as Solo did. He knew you, knew you hate Catalonia and OZ and Romefeller. But unlike him, you're just a fucking coward, too afraid to act."

"And you? If you share his ideals then why aren't you acting on them?"

The man laughed.

"Oh, don't worry sweetheart, I am, and I'll continue to do so. Do me a favor, will you? Tell Catalonia that the God of Death is coming for him. The deal is off."

With those parting words, the man broke the closed window by the bed with his elbow and disappeared into the night.

"Fuck!" Zechs shouted at the empty room.

He had nothing to take back to Catalonia, he had a broken nose, and if he didn't get his ass in gear he was going to be late for his meeting.

The Circus defied labels or explanations.

When Zechs had first been invited to the 'club' after his graduation from the police academy, it had been described variously as an opium den, a brothel, a gambling hall, a strip club, and a sports bar. The establishment was located in L3, a quarter known for its drug trade, high end prostitution, and shadowy political deals with the Mayor to keep Romefeller and OZ from infringing on their autonomy. 'Their' of course, referring to the Barton Foundation, who ran L3 just as efficiently and ruthlessly as Romefeller ran the Core and OZ ran L1.

The Barton Foundation had a very loose alliance with Romefeller, since it was clear that neither organization was in a position to overpower the other, and that open warfare between the two would simply allow another faction to step into position and make a power play.

So Zechs found himself swiping at the bridge of his nose one last time, just to make sure it had stopped bleeding, before he entered the club just after midnight.

He was immediately overwhelmed by the pulsating beat of music and the strobe of multicolored lights. Booths, bars, and gambling tables decorated the perimeter of the first floor of the huge, open room. The center was left open and empty, for dancing, but mostly for the entertainment shows that were provided every hour – usually featuring acrobats, contortionists, and animals all in keeping with the theme of the circus. On the second floor of the room were a series of curtained rooms and hallways, most guarded by armed personnel intent on protecting the anonymity of their clients.

High overheard, two aerialists, a man and a women, performed a series of intricate tricks on silken ropes. Zechs was momentarily mesmerized by the sight of their near naked bodies, dusted with golden glitter, as they flew through the air, alternately falling and catching themselves before twisting their amazing bodies into mind-boggling positions.

"You are late."

His attention was jerked away from the performance by the appearance of Midii Une. She was dressed in her customary, severely cut red pantsuit. Her hair was pinned to her head in two braids and the glasses perched on her nose reflected a pink glare that obscured her no doubt glaring eyes.

"My apologies," Zechs told her.

Une sniffed, but turned on her heel and gestured for him to follow her.

Zechs did so, keeping one eye on the performers as he did so.

How remarkable, he thought, to fly like that with no concern for safety or death. To simply… exist.

Une led him to the second floor and one of the rooms farthest from the main entrance but, Zechs knew from experience, closest to one of the many secret exits from the building.

She hadn't been lying – when he stepped inside he saw that everyone was, indeed, assembled and that he was the last to arrive.

"I apologize for the rudeness of my tardiness," he told the assembled individuals, but his gaze focused on the man at the head of the table.

"No need for apologies," Treize Khushrenada assured him, "we all understand having to… juggle our loyalties." His lips twisted into a smirk, and many around the table laughed.

Treize gestured for Zechs to take the seat opposite him, and he did so.

"Now that we are all gathered, I would like to take this opportunity to toast the first official meeting of the Treize Faction." Treize raised a glass of champagne, and everyone around the table quickly followed suit. "Over the past few months, Lady Une and I have worked tirelessly to gather together this group. Everyone here tonight represents the future and is essential to our goal of establishing a new regime in Sanc. Together we will rid this city of the corruption and desperation of old men and replace it with strength, with honor." There were murmurs of agreement around the table. "And of course," Treize added with a significant look at Zechs, "with virtue."

"Here, here!" Several shouted.

"To the future," Treize intoned before taking a sip of his champagne.

And to the past, Zechs added for himself before following Treize's example.

"Now," Treize said after allowing each man a moment to celebrate. "The mayoral election is in four months. Currently there are three candidates – Duke Dermail, Deikim Barton, and Zayeed Winner."

"What about Thomas Darlian?" Michael Quinze asked from Treize's left side.

Treize waved his hand. "He is a non-issue. Lady Une will be having negotiations with him next week. He will be dropping out of the race. Now, obviously, if Dermail, the incumbent, is reelected then we can continue to form our network and slowly build an army of followers. With Dermail in power, we will triumph, eventually. Likely we won't even need to stage a coup. One of us," he looked around the table, "will likely inherit power from the old man before the next election cycle in four years."

"You are the DA," Quinze pointed out. "The public face of Romefeller – the people trust you."

Treize nodded in agreement.

"Yes, but I'm more concerned about the potential of Barton being elected instead."

Zechs thought it was incredibly foolhardy, or at the least overly bold, for Treize to be discussing his fears of Barton here, at The Circus – an establishment owned and operated by the man in question.

"He would put his own men in the Police force," Trant Clark spoke up. Unlike Zechs, he wasn't a member of the Sanc police force. Instead he was the overlord of the meth labs in the Core – the brains behind the drug cartel that allowed Romefeller to maintain control over the underworld and finance their operations. He was a man that Zechs often had a to protect – and a man that he despised. "That will be very bad for business."

"Yes, " Treize agreed thoughtfully.

"But it would weaken Deikim and Romefeller," Zechs pointed out. "That would help us, in the long run."

"Indeed."

Trant turned to glare at Zechs – he was well aware of the loathing Zechs felt for him and returned it ten fold.

"What about Winner?" Une asked. "Dermail is obviously the ideal, but we could work with Barton. Winner, however, despises everything about Romefeller and OZ. He would never leave the officers of the Treize Faction in power."

"Exactly. Which is why he must be dealt with. Wouldn't it be lovely – so ironically beautiful – if he were killed? Mugged in L2 perhaps? Then his entire platform of pacifism and equality would die with him."

"We can easily arrange that," Quinze promised. Quinze was in charge of the gun running operations of OZ, the right-wing, elitist military arm of Romefeller, which liked to maintain a public façade as a political organization.

"Good," Treize smirked. He looked over at Zechs, and something in his expression must have given away his doubts about the proposed actions.

"Unless we want to wait? See how things play out? Perhaps we could find leverage on Winner after all?" He suggested.

Zechs sighed.

He knew Zayeed Winner – the man had been a friend of his father. The man was nothing without his ideals. He shook his head.

"No, there is no leverage for a man like that." He thought back to Ford's death – to the crazy man who called himself the God of Death. Men like that… they couldn't be bought.

"Excellent. Then if we are in agreement, let us adjourn this meeting and sample some of the pleasures in this palace of sin."

Treize chuckled at the immediate and delighted reactions of the individuals around the table as they practically tripped over themselves to leave the room and track down more entertaining pursuits.

Zechs remained, and as soon as they were alone with just Une, Treize allowed the mirth to fade from his expression.

"Something is troubling you," he said. Direct and to the point, as always.

Zechs carefully considered just how much to tell Treize.

Friendship wasn't something that Zechs dealt with lightly – his few friends were trustworthy and would lay down their lives to protect his own – but he also didn't deal with it blindly. He knew that Treize would take a bullet for him, knew that Treize would be by his side as he continued on his quest for vengeance and would even help him pull the trigger when he finally had the chance to execute those responsible for the murder of his family. But he also knew that Treize was cold and calculating, and that their friendship was only strong for as long as Zechs could be useful to the other man.

"Tonight Catalonia had Solo Ford executed."

Treize frowned and looked to Une.

"The officer who arrested Clark's dealers. The officer into whose custody twenty-nine men were released and found dead the next day."

Treize nodded as the words refreshed his memory.

"We can't pin the deaths to him, though, can we?"

Une shook her head.

"No. He has an alibi for every instance."

Treize turned back to Zechs.

"Why did Catalonia act tonight?"

"One of Ford's informants fingered him. Accidentally, I'm sure, but Catalonia had had enough. Mueller slit his throat. I was sent to Ford's apartment to find any dirt on him."

"And?" Treize asked with an arched eyebrow.

"Clean. Except… there was a man there. Ford's lover. He called himself the God of Death."

For the briefest second, Treize's eyes flicked to Une's before settling back on Zechs.

"How… melodramatic," Treize mused.

"He told me to tell Catalonia that the deal was off. Do you know what he could have been talking about?"

Treize shook his head immediately, and Zechs knew beyond a doubt that he was lying. Treize recognized the name, and he certainly knew about the deal – whatever it entailed.

"Think I should pass on the message to Catalonia?" He asked, fighting hard to keep his voice neutral.

"Yes, why not? It doesn't seem too important." Treize waved a hand in dismissal. "Maybe we'll get lucky and the bastard will manage to kill Catalonia. Then we can put you in power as the Chief of Police."

Except that Zechs hadn't mentioned the man's threat to kill Catalonia.

"I've arranged a little entertainment for you," Treize said with a smirk. "You look like you could certainly use it."

With a frown, Zechs turned to see that Une was holding open the door to the room to admit the male aerialist.

"He seemed to catch your eye," Treize continued. "And indeed, he is splendid to look at." Treize rose to his feet and as he walked past Zechs he squeezed his shoulder. "We will triumph, old friend," he assured Zechs.

For some reason, the words filled Zechs' mouth with the memory and taste of ashes.

Une left as well, and the aerialist regarded Zechs with detached green eyes half hidden by a long fall of auburn hair over one side of his face.

Zechs forced himself to put his memories at the back of his mind and buried all of his turmoil over the events of the evening. Treize was right about one thing – he could use some entertainment.

From a distance, as he flew through the air, the aerialist had appeared nearly naked, and Zechs had assumed it was an allusion – some sort of flesh toned body suit.

But up close, the man was in fact covered only with gold body glitter and a thong that blended into his skin perfectly, the front decorated with a gold cluster of oak leaves that drew attention to the significant bulge underneath.

"What's your name?" Zechs asked as he allowed his eyes to rake over the perfection of the man's body.

"Trowa Barton."

An orphan, then. One of the dozens if not hundreds of orphans that the Barton Foundation scooped up from the streets and raised to become prostitutes. Each of the children were 'blessed' with the name of the Barton Foundation, promised a lifetime of service, and guaranteed a swift and painful death if they betrayed the Foundation.

Zechs sighed. He didn't really need the additional reminder that there was no possibility of escaping the cruelty and injustice that had overwhelmed Sanc. But he had it now, all the same.

"Come here."

Trowa obeyed immediately, crossing the room to Zechs and kneeling down in front of him.

Something about the submissive posture reminded Zechs of Ford's lover, tied up and naked, vulnerable yet full of fight.

"Not like that. I don't want a weakling," Zechs couldn't help but sneer.

Trowa's green eyes narrowed, and one side of his mouth quirked upwards.

"Why else would you want a whore?" Trowa asked.

Zechs' breath caught at the audacity of the man. Barton was infamous for training his prostitutes to cater to every whim and fantasy of their clients – no matter how depraved or painful. Prostitutes with attitude were quickly broken, often discarded, and certainly never allowed to entertain someone was important or well connected as Zechs.

He felt his hand itch to slap the man still kneeling at his feet.

"Go ahead," Trowa murmured, his green eyes never leaving Zechs' face. " Abuse my body. Allow yourself to feel power over someone with no escape. I'm used to it. I'm used to you."

The man had a serious death wish, sitting there, speaking to Zechs like this.

"But you aren't like the others, are you?" The man continued after a moment, his voice so low Zechs could barely hear it. "You know power doesn't lie in fear. Not real power."

It was the second time that night that Zechs had been called out by someone for not belonging to the band of happy, sadistic murderers, rapists, and criminals he associated with. It was twice too many times.

With a surge of anger, Zechs rose from the chair, gripped Trowa's shoulders, and pulled him to his feet.

As he forced Trowa's mouth open with his tongue and roughly scoured the hot, wet cavern of his mouth, Zechs tried to channel all of his anger, disgust, and self-loathing into the kiss. He didn't care anymore. He didn't care if he was just like the others.

After all, he had sat by and watched a good man die tonight – perhaps the only good man left in all of Sanc. He had allowed a tied up sex toy to best him and escape with the very information that could secure Zechs' place at Catalonia's right hand. But worst of all, he was allowing himself to forget his quest, to forget the promise he had made to the memory of his dead father. He was abandoning virtue, forgetting everything that made him who he was.

Even a whore could see the transformation and felt the need to call him on it.

Zechs very suddenly became aware of the fact that Trowa was returning his kiss with as much force and hunger as he had used to initiate it. The slightly shorter man's hands were wrapped around Zechs' waist, pulling their bodies flush together, and he actually moaned into Zechs' mouth when he dug his fingers in the tender, naked flesh of his ass.

He pulled away and looked into Trowa's hooded green eyes. There was desire in those detached green depths, and his near breathless panting was either the product of an amazing ability to act, or it was genuine.

"Well?" Trowa asked, cocking one eyebrow in challenge. "Did you want to fuck me or rape me?"

"You have a filthy mouth," Zechs muttered, reaching out to trace his thumb over Trowa's full, swollen lips.

Trowa held himself perfectly still, allowing Zechs to make up his mind – to decide whether or not to give in to the darkness or to fight it.

"Get on the table," he ordered Trowa.

The expression on his face was impossible to read, but Trowa did as instructed, sweeping the champagne glasses aside and laying his stomach and upper body on the table, presenting Zechs with the view of his perfect ass, the golden globes separated by only a thin strip of fabric.

"No," Zechs growled, "not like that. Turn over."

Trowa did so, rolling over to his back in one smooth motion and perching his heels on the edge of the table, the move forcing his pelvis upwards slightly, giving Zechs an obscenely arousing view of the man's lower body.

Trowa smirked up at him.

"Sorry, it's been a while since anyone fucked me," he murmured, absolutely no apology in his voice.

Zechs reached out and pulled down the thong covering Trowa, allowing an impressive erection to spring free of the material and providing unfettered access to Trowa's entire body.

His mouth suddenly felt dry, as he looked over this golden creature and realized just how desperately he needed this.

Trowa clearly thought he wasn't moving fast enough, because he wrapped his long, lean legs around Zechs' waist and pulled their groins together.

Zechs groaned at the friction, and Trowa repeated the motion.

"Impatient and insubordinate – don't tell me I'm paying extra for this," Zechs mused as he used one hand to jerk his trousers down and coated the fingers of his right hand in saliva.

"You aren't paying for this at all," Trowa groaned as Zechs started to prepare him.

That gave Zechs pause.

"What?"

"Treize Khushrenada's footing the bill for this little party, isn't he?" Trowa asked.

Zechs nodded but refused himself to think too much on the fact that even this – this momentary escape – had been orchestrated by Treize.

He entered Trowa in one smooth, powerful thrust.

Trowa's green eyes latched onto Zechs' own blue eyes. There was something about him – something about the way that he shifted his hips to meet each of Zechs' thrusts and draw him deeper into his own body while remaining completely silent as they fucked – that Zechs found incredibly enticing.

Finally, in an effort to draw some reaction from him, Zechs reached between their bodies and started to stroke Trowa's penis in time with his own thrusts into the other man's body.

It didn't take long for Zechs to reach the brink of his own orgasm, and he couldn't help but feel a surge of triumph when Trowa came with a gasp just as he filled the other man with his own pleasure.

It took Zechs several minutes to catch his breath, and he felt incredibly reluctant to leave the warm, near scalding embrace of Trowa's body. Eventually, however, he stepped back, wiped himself clean, and pulled his trousers back up.

He watched idly as Trowa cleaned himself off, using a napkin wetted with champagne to wipe the mess from his belly and between his legs before pulling his skimpy underwear back into place.

Once he was finished, he looked up at Zechs, and that same detached look was back in his eyes. It was almost as if Zechs had managed to capture some spirit, trap it in Trowa's body while they fucked, and now it had escaped again.

"Come home with me."

The words were out of his mouth before he had time to consider them, but Trowa certainly took his time weighing the request before he answered.

"It's going to cost you," the green eyed man said eventually.

Zechs shrugged.

"I'm not concerned. I can afford to foot my own bills."

Trowa's lips twisted into a smirk but he nodded.

"I'll get dressed and meet you by the front entrance."

Zechs watched him leave the room before burying his head in his hands.

What the hell am I doing? Bringing a whore home to my bed? Zechs knew there was every chance he could wake up in the morning with a knife in his heart. He had learned very early on not to trust strangers and yet…

If he were honest with himself, he almost hoped Trowa did kill him in his sleep.

When he walked through the club, Zechs easily picked up the members of the Treize faction, each indulging in their vices, but there was no sign of Treize. No doubt Treize kept his proclivities a secret – or perhaps they were too nefarious for even The Circus to service him.

Trowa was waiting for him in front of the club, as promised, his long legs encased in skin tight black jeans, while his torso was covered with a green turtleneck. He looked… disturbingly normal. Nothing like the golden creature Zechs had just possessed.

Zechs was starting to rethink the sanity of this once again, but Trowa's lips twitched into a smirk and Zechs couldn't help but accept the challenge.

They spent most of the night fucking, and when Zechs finally fell into an exhausted sleep an hour before dawn with Trowa stretched out beside him, for the first night in years, his sleep wasn't disturbed by nightmares.

In the morning, he woke alone and cold, and quickly discovered that Trowa had found all of his hidden cash and taken it – leaving behind a single dollar bill in his freezer.

Zechs stared at it for a long time, but eventually, he took out the bill and pressed it between the pages of his father's Bible.

He would accept this challenge too.

TBC

Next up:

We meet Heero Yuy, gun for hire.