Thankees: to the god of cigarettes. To the people who wrote me feedback on the first part. To my spellchecker. All remaining faults are mine and mine alone.
Personal note: I've been to London. I've never been to Tokyo (yet). I'm writing the city's feel as I imagine it would be, or rather, as I would want it to be. No offense.
Disclaimer: I forgot this thing in the first part, me bad. Let's just say that if Weiss or Schwarz belonged to me, they'd be selling the series under the table, marked as pornography.
I hear you crowing in my sleep, in my dreams,
A great dark wave shivers over me
(Therapy?, Jude the Obscene)
Tokyo. Who cares what goes on in those stink-ridden alleys at three a.m., who cares if someone gets mugged, if someone gets raped, if another life is splattered over three square metres of solid cement or whispering stone? Who stops to listen to the screams, who has the courage to enter the shadows and help those that are already forgotten and gone? Tokyo is built on bones. Generations of people has she seen come and go, generations have given their life for her, given their bones for her to build her houses on. Tokyo is a cat, sitting atop a throne of mice. All she has to do is to reach out one paw, and willingly they come, and willingly they go, like moths drawn to the flame, all burning to burn themselves. Entertainment? Hear me, hear me scream. I am sure my suffering will provide you with a sight to feast even the most jaded eyes on. Tokyo, your eyes are jaded. You have seen too much, and you have heard too much; like a sponge you suck me in, and god don't I love you for it.
Here there were skyscrapers so high they seemed to lean towards each other, their tops touching. Here there were meandering streets, seemingly disconnected, but still leading somewhere. Here there were so many holes for the scared to hide in. We all know there are things to hide from.
Sometimes, we just don't see them.
They were picked up by one of Taketori's private limousines at the airport. It was so cliché - a big black car, and two big black shadows hovering near it, two nightmarish visions of burly men in dress suits wearing dark sunglasses, their hair slicked back. If Schuldig, Nagi and Crawford had not been used to it, they might as well have laughed. But, they were tired. The Pacific Ocean was beautiful, but not when one spend nearly twenty hours looking down at it, seeing nothing but a stretch of blue as far as the horizon, and a thousand times as deep. And so, they wordlessly sat down on leather seats, and rested their heads against the seat backs, and closed their eyes.
Tokyo, the whore. They did not know who had given the city her telltale-nickname. She spread her legs and welcomed you like a mother welcomed her child, but as always, and as it is with these things, there was a prize to pay. If it was one's sanity, or one's life - that did not matter. As long as she got paid, she would spread.
Farfarello kept his eye trained on the world outside the tinted glass of the limousine windows, absorbing his new surroundings. There was so much to see. So much to hear. So much to smell.
The city stretched out before his eyes like a patchwork-puzzle of metal and stone, tantalizing with its many possibilities. He had never been interested in villages, or any other kind of enclosed society for that matter. In small cities, people tended to keep an eye on each other, most of the time being more than familiar with their next-door neighbour. In small cities, they talked; swapping information like lovers swapped saliva. In small cities, one could not melt into the background and become part of the faceless masses; in small cities, they actually cared if someone was murdered. A group of people that stuck close together was only interesting when something happened, when they started tearing each other apart because someone had thrown a stone into their deep pond of urban leisureliness; Farfarello had never been interested in domestic dramas of any kind. It was so much more fun to just seek a crowd, and then seek a victim. Of course, if the person he had chosen was a follower of the lies, then it added all the more to the sweet thrill. But a little sport on the side? A little fun? He'd take the faceless stranger anytime.
He turned from the window and sought eye contact with Schuldig, who sat across him, eyes half-lidded, trained on some point in the distance only he could see. Farfarello moved his knee, bumping it against the redhead's, and those green eyes focused on him, wearily, but waiting all the same.
"What?" Schuldig's voice was soft, the tiredness audible. After their little adventure in Rome, he and Farfarello had been playing 'Ignore me'. Well, Schuldig had been playing, not that the Irishman had seen the need to participate. He had spent the rest of their flight in silence, getting a feel for his new knives. Seventeen of them, resting against his torso like seventeen additional ribs. He had slung two belts across his chest, over his shirt but under his jacket, seventeen sheaths attached to them; seventeen little ways of death no one noticed if they did not know what they had to look for.
"Since when have you been in Japan?"
Schuldig glanced at Crawford, but the American's eyes were closed, his mouth slightly open. He was sleeping. Nagi was staring out of the window on his side of the car, earphones on, oblivious to the other members of Schwarz.
"A little over four years. Why do you ask?"
"It interests me." Farfarello cocked his head. "I know so little about you, and you know so much about me."
"Do I?" The words were whispered, but the Irishman heard them nevertheless. "Farfarello, I know no more about you than what is written in your psychological profile from St. Joseph's. And according to that, I should not be sitting here in the same car with you. No, according to that, I should be running and screaming."
"That can be arranged," Farfarello deadpanned. "And I think you're lying. You know more about me than you let on." He lifted an eyebrow. "Why did you collapse when you entered my cell?"
"That's none of your business, and now leave me alone."
"Did I shock you that much?"
"I said, leave me alone. You'll have enough time to harass me later." Schuldig turned his head, frowning. "We have a meeting with Taketori later in the afternoon. How do you expect me to keep an eye on you when you tire me out now?"
"I don't. Who is Taketori?"
An annoyed groan, and Schuldig hit his head against the back of the seat, grimacing. Did the Irishman never tire?
"He's a businessman who has his hands in pretty much every foul crime you can name. Stock markets, black market, anything that pays. The cops have been after him for years, but they can't nail him - "
"Because he has people like us to do the work for him?" Farfarello butted in.
"Exactly. People like us, who are, if I might add, very well paid for the work they do. We're not cheap, if that's what you were hinting at."
"I didn't. I don't care what kind of 'work' we do, as long as it hurts god." Farfarello turned to the window again, fingers playing with the hilt of one of his daggers. "Why are you in it?"
"In Schwarz?" Schuldig grinned. "Fun. Money. I don't think I could do any other kind of work. "
"So we aren't really that different."
"What do you mean?"
"When we came back to the airplane in Rome, you accused me of measuring people in terms of 'fun'. You do the same. We aren't different." With a smugness that set Schuldig's teeth on edge, Farfarello drew the dagger he'd been fingering, and pointed the tip at the telepath. "You are just as rotten as everyone else, the only real difference between us being the fact that you try to hide it, while I embrace it."
Schuldig had nothing to answer to this, and Farfarello did not comment on it further, seemingly satisfied that he had driven his point home. They spent the rest of the drive in silence.
The automobile is a penis substitute for the average male being. Taketori, owning thirty very expensive cars that ranged from limousine to tuned sport cars and fancy old-timers, had found this substitute lacking in grandeur, it seemed, and turned to skyscrapers instead. The Taketori Towers were glass monuments that shot up into the sky like daggers, reflecting the sunlight during the day, being lit by artificial haloes during the night.
Now, in the last rays of the afternoon sun, the towers appeared orange and golden, like pillars of fire that rose from the ground to mark the achievements of a man who had reached for the very heights, leaving moral rectitude and such trivial things as the law, or the good of the many, where they belonged: in the dirt.
As soon as the car stopped in front of the entrance of the Taketori Towers, the glass doors swung open, and an array of men filed out, one of them opening the door of the limousine. Schuldig, Farfarello, Nagi and Crawford got out and were escorted inside, into a glittering world of mirrored walls, crystal chandeliers and mahogany desks. The entrance hall alone, Farfarello guessed, could house one floor of St. Joseph's. Wherever he looked, luxury greeted him; from the red carpet leading to the reception desk to the brocade tapestry. On every available flat surface, objects of art displayed their old or nouveau charm.
It was so overstuffed he wanted to take a big, heavy baseball club and add some charm of his own.
An elevator that was as large as his cell had been was held open for the four as they made their way through gold and glitter, leaving their shadows behind as they entered. The doors closed with a melodic sound, and with a soft jerk, their journey upward began. The elevator being one of those that rose on the outside of buildings instead of in their guts, the short ride gave them a fantastic view on Tokyo, the bay glittering bloody and fiery on the horizon.
"From up here, people look like ants," Nagi's voice sounded extremely bored. Farfarello guessed the youth had been as little impressed when he had entered the Taketori Towers for the first time as Farfarello himself.
"Fitting," Crawford riffled through some papers he had taken out of a briefcase, "Taketori sees them as we do, and he treats them as such."
"You don't like Taketori, I take it?"
The American glanced at Farfarello, noting that the Irishman stood very close to Schuldig. He nodded, filing the observation away for later investigation. As much as he had been absorbed in his lustful dreams about messily doing away with the old man and his bastard offspring, it had not escaped him that Farfarello sought human contact - especially Schuldig's. It had also not escaped him that what Schuldig had classified as 'sightseeing' had been anything else but. Yet, Crawford had made a law for himself two years ago: anything concerning Schuldig, as long as it did not concern himself or the fulfilment of their orders, did not concern him. He had given up trying to understand the German. If, by whatever perverted play of fate, Schuldig had now found his counterpart in Farfarello, then so be it.
That's not a nice way to think about your teammate.
Neither is reading my thoughts. Fuck off.
Schuldig sneered at him, then stared daggers at Farfarello as the Irishman took his hand again.
I can't wait to hear the old man's reason behind all this Schuldig, ignoring Crawford's order to stay out of the American's mind, pulled his hand out of Farfarello's with determination, and crossed his arms over his chest. That guy better be worth the money Taketori spent on him
I don't think there really was a reason to it. Taketori seeks the extraordinaire.
And he fulfils that need by having us deal with that psycho. Why didn't he fucking adopt him if he's so fond of him?
Crawford looked at the floor display; thirty floors to go still, then Taketori, then home. He sighed.
Taketori isn't that senile.. He realized where he had just put Schwarz in the scheme of things and shook his head, admitting that Schuldig did have a point. He, Nagi and Schuldig were gifted with psychic powers, Farfarello's only visible power being the fact that he was immune to pain. Did he have any powers beside that? Apparently, no. His profile had described him as violent and aggressive, but when it came down to it, those were characteristics found in pretty much any human being if the right buttons were pushed.
But then, not every human being had killed fifty-three people from all ages and both genders. Crawford had killed ten, maybe fifteen people in his time as an assassin, Schuldig and Nagi even less. Their targets had been chosen for them, or they had been meat on the side, by-products of a night spent raiding someone's house, someone's life. In fact, they avoided casualties as much as possible - all the good killing someone without a purpose did was to attract attention from the police. A good assassin came like a shadow, killed his victim quickly, and left before anyone noticed his presence. Everything else was just amateur work.
Silently, Crawford watched Schuldig and the Irishman. By the look on the telepath's face, he could tell they were having a 'private' conversation, which resulted in Schuldig throwing a pleading glare at the elevator ceiling and surrendering his hand. The expression on the Irishman's face could only be described as that of a post-canary cat.
Feeling the beginnings of a headache reach its greedy fingers into his brain, Crawford pinched the bridge of his nose and pushed his glasses up. Something about Farfarello bothered him, but he could not put a finger on it. He had not had a vision since London, which was strange considering that usually, they would not leave him in peace for more than five hours. Crawford doubted he'd had a real dream in ten years. His visions took up the space reserved for dreaming.
The elevator stopped, and again they entered plush hell. Overdone as it was, the entrance hall of the Taketori Towers was nothing compared to the personal office up here on the top floor. Each step through the antechamber left footprints in the thick carpet. The polished mahogany of the wall panelling reflected their faces, cameras followed their every move. A young secretary awaited them, smiling with too-white teeth, and opened the door to Taketori's private sanctuary, ushering them in with soft words of welcome, and would they like something to drink? Her face fell somewhat when Farfarello ordered a pint of blood, his smile going straight through her.
"I would behave myself if I were you," Schuldig said softly, "Believe it or not, but Taketori has the means to end your life right here and now. These walls are like Swiss cheese.he had heat-seeking radar weapons installed behind them."
"A great man in hiding," Farfarello mused, snickering a little. Really, people like that Taketori amused him. Did they really think a few high-tech knickknacks would save them from fate? No one was save. They all pretended. They all made-believed. But, in the end, it always ended the same. No sum of money could buy immortality - something would always be left unprotected.
"Aah, my friends."
A rather stout man stood up from behind his desk, opening his arms as though he was welcoming a long-lost family member. He was old and fat, Farfarello decided. Slow prey. The Irishman raised an eyebrow - it was rare that he disliked someone upon first sight, but the first thing that got into his head as Taketori walked around his desk to greet them was the wish to take him by the neck and send him through one of the windows.
Don't you dare! We'd be out of a job
He looked at Schuldig, frowning, but the telepath sent him a few explicit images that let him know Taketori wasn't on his good list, either. The old man spoke to Crawford in Japanese, his eyes flitting between the four of them, briefly resting on Farfarello before sliding away. Old, watery eyes shot through with veins, hidden behind glasses. He glanced at the papers the American handed him and put them on the desk behind him, leaning against it; now he was regarding the Irishman with open curiosity.
It struck Farfarello as odd - Taketori seemed to know as little about him as Nagi, Schuldig or Crawford had. He began to wonder how the businessman had learned about him, and more precisely, about his ability to withstand pain to a point where he felt nothing. Even the dumbest person would think twice about inviting a killer into his inner circle; did Taketori not know that Farfarello had killed his own family? Did he think that just because he had money and political influence, Farfarello would stop when it came to him? His family's cries, first for mercy, then for a quick death, had not stopped him.
"So, this is Farfarello," Taketori spoke in heavily accented English, looking the young man up and down. "Tell me, my friend, how do you like it in Japan?"
"I am - "
Be nice
" - overwhelmed."
Good boy
"I guess my other friends here have already told you why I chose to set you free. What do you think about my offer?"
No, Farfarello did not like Taketori. However, he was not stupid. He did not doubt Schuldig's warning about Taketori being able to kill him on the spot, at least while he was standing in his private office. He decided to play along for a while.
"I didn't have much time or choice to think about it, but I don't see anything that would hold me back from accepting it."
"Good, very good." Taketori walked behind his desk and opened a drawer, taking out a small gun. He pointed it at the Irishman, fired, the bullet hitting the right shoulder, a small explosion of black cloth and blood the only visible sign that something had happened at all. Farfarello stood motionless, ignoring the fact that Schuldig was short of breaking his hand. He could hear the telepath's sharp intake of breath; a short glance showing him the splatters of blood on the orange-framed face.they made his eyes so unbelievably green. Farfarello turned his head and stared into these eyes, studying their many shades. He paid no attention to Schuldig's free hand as it came up to the back of his injured shoulder, feeling the exist wound, his fingers slick as he drew them back.
"So, the reports were true," Taketori put the gun down on his desk, tapping his chin with his index finger. "I read that you were shot three times. Is that correct?"
"Yes," Farfarello replied, regretfully leaving Schuldig's eyes to look at the old prey again. "I was shot in the stomach three times. After that, they arrested me."
Taketori nodded. He did a double take as he saw Farfarello's and Schuldig's joined hands, all at once appearing so bewildered that it nearly made all of them laugh out loud. Muttering under his breath, he pushed a button on the intercom on his desk. More Japanese, and then, as Schuldig, Nagi and Crawford were already beginning to wonder if Farfarello would be left to bleed white on the cream-coloured carpet while in reality the wound was already closing, as Farfarello began to lose interest, Taketori finished his conversation and made an inviting gesture.
"I've ordered a little...welcome present for you. The others may watch. It will be a test - if you fail, I will have you killed in this very hour. Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"You are to fight one of my ...guests. No weapons. Survive, and you'll have a job, a pay check, and a life."
"Yes."
Taketori studied Farfarello a long moment, finally shaking his head. He pressed another button on his intercom; a wall to their left slid back, opening into a narrow, lit corridor. At the end of the corridor, bars from ceiling to floor had been let into the cement. Another inviting gesture, and Farfarello guessed it was his cue; he let go of Schuldig's hand, absent-mindedly shrugging out of his jacket. He ignored Taketori's raised eyebrow as his knives came into view, opening the buckles and letting them slide to the floor. On second thought, he stripped off his shirt as well. It was rather billowy, and it would do him no good if he caught on to something. He liked the shirt, despite the fact that it was already ruined. The silk was so smooth against his skin. No need to ruin it further.
Crawford, Nagi and Schuldig gaped. Red feathers lazily trailed over porcelain skin, disappearing into the waistband of Farfarello's pants. They twirled around his nipples, teasing his bellybutton. A few had sneaked onto his arms, accentuating his biceps, fading as they neared his wrists. The blood that was running down the right side of his torso nearly seemed as if it was part of his tattoos.
Farfarello paid them no mind. He could hear someone breathing at the end of that corridor.
"Wow," Nagi said, awed, as the Irishman turned and walked away from them. Farfarello's entire back was covered by two wings; angel wings in red, gracefully spreading from between his shoulder blades, arching over the muscular curves of his back, fanning out and also running into his pants. How many hours it had taken to finish this masterpiece was anyone's guess.
They all expected those wings to spread as Farfarello lithely walked down the corridor, each move of his body making the feathers shiver, each muscle giving them life.
"Did you know he had that?" Crawford asked Schuldig, who was all but flabbergasted.
"I did not peep through any keyholes, if that's what you're insinuating," the telepath replied. "They did not mention this in your reports, did they?"
"No."
They followed the Irishman into the corridor.
Angel wings. A cross, or someone's bleeding corpse would have seemed more likely. Bastardised bible verses, or a weird parody of Jesus in pampers maybe - anything but angel wings. Schuldig wondered what had possessed Farfarello when he had chosen this tattoo. Was it Farfarello's own version of mockery? See me god, I wear your wings?
Schuldig actually thought it was a wonderful idea. It was so paradox - angels, the messengers of god, innocence incarnate, and a blood-crazy killer had ripped off some wings and paid someone to needle them into his skin. If he had paid.
Schuldig wondered what he himself would chose, should he ever get over the aspect of pain that was part of all things skin-deep. A rat maybe? A smiley? Yeah, a smiley, wearing a big shit-eating grin, telling the world where to stick their heads.
He craned his neck to see who was behind the bars at the end of the corridor, but all he caught was a piece of black cloth, and the spreading of Farfarello's wings as the Irishman stopped and gripped the bars. Crawford at his side though, taller than the rest of them, made a small sound of surprise in the back of his throat.
"Who is it?" Nagi pushed between his older partners. "I can't see anything! Who is it?"
"Aya Fujimiya."
"What?" Schuldig and Nagi said in unison, staring at Crawford, then at the barred end of the corridor.
"We caught him two days ago. He and his little group of annoyances broke into one of the warehouses on the waterfront, planting a bomb." Taketori came up behind them, his arms casually crossed over his chest, a smug grin on his face. "Apparently, they are not only annoying, but also stupid. The bomb went off too early, and they were broken up. We caught Fujimiya. The rest got away. Oh well, a problem for another day."
Schuldig checked the thoughts of Nagi and Crawford and found them just as surprised as he was. Weiss, as the group around Aya Fujimiya called themselves, had been a thorn in Taketori's side for a little over two years, successfully ruining a few small businesses for him. They were, as Nagi had once jokingly put it, the direct opposite of Schwarz, claiming to be the 'good guys'. It amused Schuldig to contemplate the fact that a group of killers had the nerve to claim that, for killers Weiss were. They might be fuelled by different motivations, but that did not mask the truth. No one who killed and planted bombs in warehouses had the right to call themselves 'good'.
"Did the rest of them not try to free Fujimiya?" Crawford turned to Taketori, smoothly falling into his role as bodyguard. "I do not consider it wise to keep him here."
"Oh, he won't be here for much longer," Taketori said with glee. "If things go as I expect them to, both you, my dear friend, and I, won't have to worry about Aya Fujimiya again. If not, well, then I can always shoot him."
A rattling sound interrupted them. Farfarello was banging his hands against the metal bars, uttering a soft, nearly keening sound that sent shivers over the others' skin. To Schuldig, it seemed as though the Irishman was impatient, lusting for the kill. He himself was a little agitated - Aya Fujimiya was a good fighter, especially with a katana. He had met the Japanese man in fight a few times and knew from experience that the coming battle would be more than interesting. Fujimiya was fast, skilled, and deadly, driven by some inner hellhounds Schuldig had seen glimpses off. Something about some sister, lying in some coma in some hospital, put there after Taketori had done something. When he fought, he fought with abandon, leaving care for his own self behind. At times, Schuldig had had the impression that even his own teammates meant little to Fujimiya; as long as he could exact his revenge upon the 'bad guys', he was content.
Taketori moved his hand into the inner pocket of his dress jacket, and some of the metal bars slid up, the gap large enough for Farfarello to squeeze through.
As soon as he was inside, a black shadow raced at him from out of a corner, and the fight was on.
Another redhead, but not nearly as interesting as Schuldig. Farfarello caught on to the man's shoulders as they clashed, the other man's impact into his middle lifting him off his feet and carrying him into the wall of the cell. He absorbed the impact, took hold of a slender neck and twisted it backwards, one of his knees coming up to snugly fit into the smooth hollow that lay beneath the ribs.
This one had funny eyes. Violet, like flowers. Hard and cold, they were set into a narrow face framed by bangs of dark red, the glimmer of a dangling earring catching the harsh overhead light. He was dressed in a black trench coat, with buckles winding around his shoulders and upper arms. The body beneath the trench coat was tall and slender; from his moves, Farfarello could tell that the man practised the material arts. He was quick on his feet, his movements fast and smooth.
His opponent was not fazed by Farfarello's kick. Like a cat, he sprang back, crouching low, hands hovering outstretched in front of his body. He yelled something in Japanese. Chi ne?
It did not matter.
Aware that the others were hovering outside the cell, Farfarello waited for his opponent's attack; he did not have to wait long. This time, he met the man mid-jump, one hand reaching up, brushing silken hair, and metal. Oh, he loved how that felt. Letting the earring fall, Farfarello delivered a blow to the man's midsection, noting with glee how the other gasped for air and gasped in pain, eyeing the earring on the floor.
More Japanese garble.
His jaw made a crunching sound as the other's boot connected with it, and Farfarello turned his body away from the kick, riding the pressure, preventing the bone from breaking. It had been so long since he had really had to fight to kill someone, and the giddy rush of adrenaline through his body nearly made him lightheaded.
Curling his fingers into claws, the Irishman sidestepped another blow, and that silken hair was tangled in his hands again. Using the other's momentum, he swung them both around, and the redhead into the wall face first. Blood spurted over the cold concrete.
Farfarello let out a screech. His entire body weight slammed into his opponent, the music of breaking ribs filling the air. A sound of pain, followed by a backward kick; Farfarello caught the leather-clad ankle in one hand and twisted the leg, and bones were breaking again, and now there was no turning back, for he also heard the crying in the back of his mind, the pleading, and the whisper of wings, and he knew that god was living somewhere in each human being, and if he wanted to hurt god, then he had to dig for him.
Can you rip someone apart with your bare hands? You can. It does not even take that great an amount of strength. Eyelids, lips, they yield to you, the eyeballs popping open like ripe berries when you push your fingers into them. From there on, the path is easy: the soft skin of the throat, and the soft skin of the belly, they surrender to your teeth. It is like chewing stringy meat. And when the tear is large enough, slip in your fingers, and pull, and you'll be amazed at how easy it is to open up a body, how easy it is to spill its stinking secrets onto the floor, over your boots, and pants, and own skin.
And then, find yourself disappointed, for there is no light inside the hot cavity of the ribcage, no light, only a beating heart.
Schuldig ignored Taketori's glare as he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Thankfully, the old man had been kind enough to close the slide-wall again, shutting out the sounds that emanated from the barren end of the corridor. They had left as Fujimiya had fallen. Having seen Farfarello 'work' had been bad enough; he didn't need a reminder why he had introduced his stomach to the outside world in Rome. Casting a look at Nagi and Crawford, the telepath found himself strangely satisfied that both were a little green in the face, and that Crawford was pushing his glasses up his nose more often than usual. It left him with the knowledge that he was not a total wimp.
"If I may inquire, sir, how did you hear about Farfarello?" Crawford forced himself to concentrate on Taketori, rather than on the weak ripping sounds that came from behind the wall. God, how much time did the Irishman intend to spend in there? He must have reduced Fujimiya to a smear of red on the floor by now.
"The same way I heard about our telepath," Taketori once again sat behind his desk, fingers playing with the gun with which he had shot Farfarello. "I like to keep my eyes and ears open for valuable additions to my men. A doctor that is, how shall I put this, indebted to me, told me about him."
Schuldig entered the man's mind without hesitation and found his suspicion confirmed: images of the same bald doctor whom they had met at St. Joseph's. He felt his anger rise, stubbing the butt of his cigarette out with more force than needed, scattering ash. The same way I heard about our telepath. Yeah, sure. The only difference being that Schuldig's doctor had poked around in his head instead of his body; the treatment different but no less cruel.
"So, I guess that kind doctor of yours told you he'd found a specimen that did not cry out when he poked him with needles?" Schuldig snorted, ignoring Crawford's warning glare. "Nice plot. You wait for the world to turn someone into a maniac, and then you pick them up."
"I would keep my mouth closed if I were you, young man." Taketori regarded Schuldig with annoyance. "If it weren't for me, you'd probably still be in that mental ward I was so kind to help you out of, shouting at people that you aren't insane."
"Oh, so kind of you. Now, I do wonder: being your lapdog, or being locked in an asylum - which is worse?"
"Do you want to go back?"
"Too late for that. You committed the fault of making me stronger, of helping me."
Taketori leaned back in his chair, grinning. "You cannot control everyone's mind, Schuldig."
Oh really?
Taketori banged his hand down on the desk, shouting, "Stay out of my mind!"
Nagi yanked the gun out of the old man's reach as soon as he saw him grabbing for it, floating it across the room. It was grabbed out of mid-air by Crawford, who suddenly towered up before Schuldig, aiming the gun straight at the redhead.
"Don't make me shoot you," the American pressed out, anger flaring in his eyes, colouring his thoughts black and blue. "Now shut the fuck up and get Farfarello."
Green eyes met brown eyes, a silent contest of wills. Slowly, Schuldig rose, hands curled into fists at his sides. It was Nagi who stepped between them.
"Guys," he said calmly, even though he was anything else than calm inside, "we've had enough bloodshed for the day, don't you think?"
Crawford lowered the gun and placed it back on Taketori's desk, retreating to his seat. He refused to look at Schuldig as the German stalked past him.
Nice show of loyalty, Crawford
He refused to answer this, too.
Schuldig waited until the wall slid aside and stepped into the corridor, keeping his gaze straight. This time, it wasn't as bad, or maybe it was his anger that prevented him from really taking in the carnage the Irishman had wrought. There were bits and pieces of flesh and clothes strewn across the floor behind the bars, but he took them in with a kind of detachment. No, it was not as shocking as seeing that nun die had been. Maybe because what lay there wasn't recognizable as a human being anymore.
Or maybe because right now, he had fun envisioning Crawford and Taketori lying there, as dismembered as Aya Fujimiya.
"Playtime's over!" He stopped before the bars, fascinated by the blood running down them for a moment. "Come on, get out of there. Taketori! Open those fucking bars, or do you expect me to spirit him through them?"
Farfarello was sitting amid a sea of red, Aya Fujimiya's earring dangling from his thumb and index finger. He looked up at Schuldig and stood, pocketing the trinket.
"Why are you so angry? I heard shouting." Farfarello squeezed through the gap between the bars again, sending one last look over his shoulder. The light had not been inside this one, either.
"We had a little discussion out there," Schuldig scoffed, loud enough for the others to hear.
He was just about to turn as Farfarello took him by the shoulders and pressed his blood-smeared lips to the redhead's. It was not a kiss; more a meeting of lips, and in the next moment Schuldig had punched the Irishman in the face and spat on the ground.
"What the hell did you do that for!" he yelled, disgusted, and wiped his mouth, spitting again.
"I wanted you to taste him," Farfarello stated, unfazed by the punch, the second one he had received from the telepath. "Would you have preferred it if I had dipped you headfirst into a puddle on the floor? His blood has a funny taste to it - almost bitter." He wiped some blood off his own mouth. "Do you think he had blood poisoning or something?"
Schuldig spit in Farfarello's face and left.
The shouting started as soon as they arrived home. 'Home' was a seven-room apartment located on the first floor above a clothes store, near enough to the next building to allow a fast escape over the roof should the need ever arise. Crawford parked the Thunderbird that had been brought to the Taketori Towers in the underground garage, slammed the door, grabbed Schuldig by the collar of his coat and dragged him up the stairs that lead to a metal door. His hands shaking from anger, he dropped his key twice before he managed to open the door; propelling Schuldig into the room, he backed the redhead through the next door, and slammed that close, too.
The shouting began.
Nagi sighed, locking the metal door behind Farfarello. There they went again. Random swearwords started flying hard and fast, German, English and Japanese mixed. The Japanese youth looked at Farfarello.
"Are you hungry?"
"I want to see my room."
"Oh." Fidgeting with the straps of the bag that held his laptop, Nagi threw an unsure glance at the door to Crawford's study and decided that no help would be coming from this direction.
This meant he was practically lying on a silver platter. And Farfarello had seventeen knives.
"We didn't really prepare a room for you." He made a vague gesture at the other doors, leading to each Schwarz member's respective room. "See, we were sent to get you on short notice, and Taketori didn't tell us you'd be, well, living with us."
"Do you intend to lock me in the closet or something?" Farfarello's voice was tinged with amusement.
Nagi bit his lip, grinning helplessly. He was not going to admit that they actually had discussed that option on the flight to England.
"Uhm, perhaps you should take a shower. I'm sure that Schu and Crawford will have cooled off by then. They'll decide what to do about your room."
Farfarello looked down at himself, cocked his head, and nodded. The blood was starting to peel off of his skin already. On the drive to their apartment, Crawford had made him sit on a plastic bag.
Nagi lead the Irishman into the bathroom, for the first time since he lived here glad that it didn't have windows. Pointing out towels and soap, he left the other to take a shower and went back to the car, retrieving their luggage, concentrating to keep the door to the bathroom locked with his powers. He did not feel like actually locking it with a key; surely, being imprisoned in a bathroom was not on Farfarello's list of favourites, much less being imprisoned by a sixteen-year-old. He wondered how they were expected to keep an eye on him, anyway. Would they have to bar the windows and replace every wooden door with a metal one with electronic locks? Would they chain him to the next indestructible object like a dog? Would Schuldig knock him out mentally, or would Crawford inject him with a strong drug, thus keeping him calm?
None of these options were much to Nagi's liking. Their apartment was large and airy, the windows going from floor to ceiling. They had done their best to secure all entranceways, but strived to keep the rest as comfortable as possible, and that did not include metal doors, chains, and barred windows.
He dragged the suitcases into their apartment, noting that the shouting hadn't yet stopped.
Carefully opening the door to the bathroom, he was hit by a cloud of steam and the sound of running water. He put Farfarello's suitcase up on the toilet seat and sneaked out again, heaving a deep breath. He had just taken a step towards the kitchen as the door to Crawford's study slammed open, leaving a dent in the wall, and an enraged German stormed out. Another slam later - the front door this time - and Schuldig was gone.
"Fuck!" Crawford screamed, his voice loud enough to make Nagi's ears ring.
He threw himself into the night's arms and ended up in a cheap hotel room, in the arms of a man he had never met before, and did not care to meet again. They fucked, and while the man was in the shower, Schuldig stole his wallet and walked out, into the cooling, cleansing night air of Tokyo. He threw his faceless lover's identification card and other personal papers into the next sewer opening and stuffed the wallet into his pocket, once again reminding himself that he sooner or later would have to get rid of the stack he had at home - empty wallets, one for each meaningless lover he had taken. Schuldig liked it that way. He could gaze at the wallets and keep them; an actual lover could not be kept or thrown away just as easily.
Brooding, the telepath let himself be carried by the stream of people. Tokyo was never really devoid of life, just as it was never really dark. Artificial light made up for the lack of sun, shining in all the colours of the rainbow. When he had first come here, the light had driven him mad. Now, it was an old friend that welcomed him home, temptingly bathing his face in the red lights of the brothels and bars, the soothing lights of the stores and shops, the hectic lights of the traffic. In Germany, most bars closed at twelve in the night, the shops at eight. Tokyo catered to the needs of the children of the night, securing their stay with an endless offering of temptations.
He entered a bar, seating himself at the counter. The life he had been leading in his birth country was so different from the one he led now; leaving out the fact that he was an assassin, the youth who had once been locked in a mental ward was nothing compared to the young man he was now. Four years, and the world had changed. again.
The barkeeper took his order, the woman's thoughts dull: another victim of humanity come to drown in alcohol.
He had been drowning in alcohol, once. It had been all that had kept him from losing himself entirely, back then when he had not known how to shield himself from everyone's thoughts. His parents had dragged him from one doctor to the other during his puberty, each quack diagnosing something else. He had been send through endless tests - for cell abnormalities, brain tumours, chemical imbalances, and finally, when nothing had seemed to work, for mental imbalances. The first psychologist had written 'split personality' on his pad the first time he had talked to Schuldig. Schuldig's parents had not sought a second opinion. And off to the loony bin he had gone, a sane mind trapped inside an insane place. Whoever had thought up the idea of an asylum being a place where people were cured must have been a little on the mad side himself. One does not find a way out of madness when he has to listen to the screams and moans of others all the time.
Schuldig sipped on his drink and lit a cigarette. Irk him as it may, Taketori had been right about one thing: he would have gone insane sooner or later if Crawford had not been sent to get him out.
He had left Germany behind without a second glance. He had been sixteen.
A year later, Crawford had slipped a newspaper clipping into Schuldig's frosted flakes at the breakfast table. It had been the obituary notices of his parents; both had died in a car crash. He had read them, and kept them in his own wallet ever since; a small reminder why his current life was so much better than the one he had been leading back then. By that time, he knew what those voices inside his head were; by that time he had already learned how to infiltrate other peoples' thoughts and bend them to his will.
By that time, he had killed his first assignment. It had been a hacker who, by chance, had managed to override the security codes to Taketori Industries' main computer, opening the gates of one warehouse that held something other than computers and video recorders. He and some of his friends had checked it out; Crawford and Schuldig had been waiting for them.
Schuldig had shot the hacker, Crawford the rest. All, but one. Nagi Naoe.
Nagi had been thirteen, and a wreck. An illegal child, he had run away from foster parents when he was ten, joining one of the many gangs that existed like rats in the streets of Tokyo. From there on, the downward path to prostitution and drug abuse had been only a matter of time. Nagi's telekinetic powers had broken free as Crawford pointed the gun at him, sending the American flying into a stack of crates.
Taketori had been more than pleased when they brought Nagi in.
Sometimes, Schuldig was amazed at Nagi's lack of moral standards. Disillusioned to the point where nothing matters anymore, the boy had been first thankful, then thrilled as they offered him a place in Schwarz. Schuldig himself had fretted when they had taught him to use a gun; Nagi just absorbed the information and hungered for more - the insatiable mind of a child who had not yet had his own try at living. Having been treated like dirt for most of his life, he had no care for other people and did away with them without blinking twice; yet he clung to Schuldig and Crawford with all the love only a child was capable of. Being only four years apart in age, Nagi and Schuldig had been quick at making friends, Crawford, twenty-five, becoming something like a father figure to both of them. for a while, at least, where it concerned Schuldig. That short span of time had lasted until Schuldig had slept with Crawford on the telepath's eighteenth birthday. Too different in character, they had put it off to too many drinks and declared it as 'Fun, but over'. Nothing had been the same between the two since that night.
He lifted his glass to his lips and was surprised to find it empty. Ordering another, Schuldig turned in his seat and swept his eyes over the assembled crowd. Boring, the lot of them, their thoughts centred on trivialities. How would they react, he wondered, if they knew an assassin was sitting in their midst, reading their thoughts? Would they even care?
"Hello there."
He turned in his seat again and looked to his left, where a young woman stood leaned against the bar. Dark-haired, plump, delicious.
"Hi." Schuldig smiled, a gesture that meant little to him and was as easy as breathing. He offered her a seat, which she accepted, and ordered her a drink.
"I normally don't talk to strangers, you know, but there was something about you that convinced me to do it." She sipped her drink, lipstick leaving red smears on the glass. Briefly, Schuldig thought of Farfarello's lips on his own.
"What was it?"
"Your smile. The one you smiled when you turned around."
Ouch. In his experience of bad pick-up lines, this one ranged among the top five.
"You like my smile?"
"It is nice," she answered, and held out her hand. "I'm Sakura."
"Smiles lie," He took her hand, and smiled. "I'm Schu. Nice to meet you."