PLEASE READ: I do not know who first wrote: "I don't just float stuff." I quoted the phrase, having altered it slightly. If the author wants me to take it out of the story, EMAIL me. If not, I'll happily give credit!!!!! Which means you have to tell me who you are, that is.
Disclaimer:not mine, making no money
Warning: RAPE (m/f), FarfarelloxSchu and vice versa, ooc-ness
Rating: NC-17
Notes: whacks self
Thankees: To the feedbackers. To cigarettes. To the ASSHOLE who lives in the apartment above me and who decided playing techno at three in the morning is fun ( gootta get up at five for work). I showed him that playing 'Phantom of the Opera' at three in the morning, volume on full blast, can be fun too (he has to get up half an hour later).
Work in Progress. AU. No Spoilers, no canon.
On with Insanity...
I'm in the dark again
I'm on the road again, my friend
All my heroes dead and gone
Just fading bloodstains under a dying sun
Some were easily beaten
Some were never born
Most just couldn't tell the difference anymore
by Ningengirai
"Are you in pain?"
"What do you think?"
Farfarello cocked his head and regarded the girl at his side with a slight smile on his lips.
"This is not funny, you fuck."
"Oh, but it is. All the more because you brought it onto yourself. Man, to himself, is still his own worst enemy."
Dee Moriate stopped, knee-deep in murky, stinking water, and sighed, wiping a hand over her sweaty brow. Any other time, any other circumstance, and the Irishman would have been lying on the grounds of those waters now, becoming one with the dirt. Any other time, and she would have been down here with twenty men, and not one demented Irishman who spent his time making snide comments about her physical state.
"Listen, I know this Tsukiyono is down here. Let me just kill him, and be done with it."
She knew her voice had a pleading note to it, just one more notch taken off the scale of her self-esteem. But she was in pain, every step she took making her bandaged ribs throb in reminder of last night. Stupid. Stupid, walking into a danger every mindreader knew of and sought to avoid.
"Schu wants him alive, Schu gets him alive." Farfarello sloshed on, holding the flashlight they had brought with them up, trying to make out their way through the underground tunnels of Tokyo's canalisation. "Can you call him?"
"Yes."
"Then do. I want to get out of here as much as you do, despite what you might think about me or my mental state." He stopped as the tunnel they were walking down crossed with another.
From somewhere nearby, they could hear a great, rushing body of water moving, here and there pierced by the shrill squeaks of rats and whatever else was spending its lightless time down here. Moriate moved to the Irishman's side, panting shallowly. When this was over, and she had actually survived it, she would take a long holiday, somewhere far away from tunnels and Tokyo and Farfarellos. Far away from Schuldigs and Nagis, too.
"God, I hate this place."
"God?" Farfarello turned, the flashlight dropping to his side. "Do you think god is down here?"
Moriate took a step back and felt the tunnel wall against her outstretched hand. Schuldig had warned her about this. Farfarello and god were things that did not mix well. It was something she maybe could work with, after she had found out enough about him to tread carefully.
The Irishman glared at her for a moment longer, then pointed down the second tunnel.
"Over there. There's some sort of bridge between the walkways. That'll do."
They made their way down to the small stepping plank he had indicated. Moriate climbed onto it, gingerly, and sank to her knees, trying to forget about the horrid brew all around them. In this tunnel, the water moved faster then in the one they had taken down here, a brown, bubbling mass rushing towards an unknown destination. The ocean, perhaps, or a sewage plant, where it would be cleared up, mixed with chemicals, and sent back into the toilets, showers and faucets of a million people who had shat and pissed into it before. She took a deep breath and concentrated, yet Farfarello's voice interrupted her a moment later.
"Before you do whatever it is you do - why not me?"
"What do you mean?"
"You killed Crawford. Why didn't you kill me?"
"Coincidence." At his cocked eyebrow, Moriate added, "What, that never happened to you? Never killed someone unintentionally? Well, I coincidently let you survive."
Actually, that was not entirely the truth. She had had every intention to kill him in that warehouse, all her interest lying in Schuldig. What Moriate had not known prior to her attack was that Schuldig and Farfarello shared a mental connection; it had been this connection that had channelled most of her mental attack away from the Irishman and into the red-haired telepath instead.
And for all the good this had done her, she might as well have put a gun to her own temple and pulled the trigger. When her and Schuldig's minds had met - and oh, what a meeting it had been - the echo of her own powers had hit her like a sledgehammer, taking down her mental shields. Stupid, again, but it was too late to moan about it now. She had done herself the favour; she would have to live with it - for the time being at least.
"You're not telling me the truth," Farfarello said thoughtfully, holding the flashlight into her face for a moment.
"No, I'm not, and why do you care? You're alive. Be happy about it, and let me do my work."
She had a way to herself that amused the Irishman, and her apparent non-caring about her situation was impressive. One cold bitch, he had to give her that. So different from Schuldig, who made a joke out of almost anything, and told the world where to stick it if they didn't like it. Moriate did what she was told, and she did it with a vengeance. Even this, this forced partnership between her and the rest of Schwarz was treated the same way as any other job. No jokes, no tricks.
He could tell she was not comfortable around him; she did not try to mask it over, hide it. It made him wonder what she had seen and done in her life, in her time as Eszet's pawn.
They had set her up in Crawford's room. Farfarello did not mourn for the American; if he did mourn about something then it was the fact that they now were without an oracle to predict the future and steer them around the worst trouble. At least, that was what Farfarello had always thought had been Crawford's function in Schwarz, besides apparently being the leader because he was the oldest. From the shouting matches between his lover and Crawford after Ouka's death, Farfarello knew the American had knowingly let them kill the girl, had perhaps even enjoyed the thought. The trouble they were in now was as much their fault as Crawford's; no, Farfarello did not mourn for the American. He did not miss him, either.
Nagi missed him, trying to pretend he didn't. There aren't enough other wrinkles in a young face to hide the lines of pain and sadness life etches into the skin. Schuldig missed him, too. Both had been used to Crawford's presence, and Farfarello knew how hard it was to let something go one had been used to for a very long time.
"It feels like giving up a piece of yourself," Moriate mumbled, hands clasped before her belly, eyes staring at the swirling brown flowing beneath her.
He contemplated being angry with her for slipping inside his private thoughts and then remembered what his lover had told him the night before: for her, it was like breathing. She did not stop to think twice if she should listen to one's thoughts, she simply did it.
"Did you give up something?" he asked her.
"Perhaps. I don't know. I am what I am. And at the moment, I am sick of this shit-hole here."
She closed her eyes, shaking her mind free of the water, the stench, and the Irishman's tangled but also intriguing thoughts. At once, she was not Dee Moriate anymore. She was the water, the tiny bubble dancing on the waves, the warm, stomach-turning wind blowing through the ancient tunnels. She was the rat hunting for insects, eyes knowing every stone, every crack, and every crease in this damp, dark world.
In this state of existence, she felt almost free. Even the tightly-knotted coil, the touching point between her mind and Schuldig's, lost in meaning as she left the limiting confines of flesh and bones and became one with the world around her. Most telepaths did not very much like this state of awareness, most of them fearing they would not find the way back into the prison cells of their skulls.
For Moriate, it meant freedom. As long as she did not spread herself too thinly, as long as she still retained knowledge of who she was and where she had come from, she was not afraid. At times she wondered if immortality did not lie this way; leaving behind an aging shell to become a ghost free to go wherever she so chose. No telepath, as far as she knew, had yet tried it. No telepath ever would, her included. It had not yet been proven if the mind was really free of the flesh.
Farfarello turned his attention from the mindreader back to the tunnel. At first, he heard nothing; only the steady gurgling and bubbling, the wind whispering around corners, down the watery alleys. Minutes passed. Moriate had become as still as a statue, her eyes closed.
Then, after what seemed like hours, he heard the splashing of feet.
"Come, kitty, kitty, kitty, " he whispered, and smiled.
While Dee Moriate called Omi to her in the canalisation, she also walked into the Taketori Towers. The receptionist bowed as she passed the mahogany desk, and an elevator door opened before she had pressed any buttons, soft music beginning its soothing magic as she rode upwards, the world outside the windows becoming smaller and smaller. She stood leaned against the windows, having no eyes for the matchbox world outside. She had seen it a thousand times over, it was nothing new.
The men who greeted her as she stepped out of the elevator fell without a sound coming from their gaping mouths, sinking to the floor like drenched wheat. The secretary who sat at a desk outside the door to Taketori's office stared, but not for long, her frantic scramble out of her chair ending in an ungraceful sprawl over the desk. Moriate patted her on the head as she walked by her, smiling.
"Good girl."
She opened the door and let herself in, closing it behind her. Taketori sat behind his own desk, mouth open to shout. He closed it again as she put a finger to her lips.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Taketori," she said in English. "I'm back."
"I see," he scoffed. "You realize how your absence will infect the report Tot will give to Eszet? I've been waiting for you for ever ten hours now, where were you?"
"Sightseeing."
"Sightseeing?" Taketori exploded out of his chair. "Who made that mess in the warehouse? Where are Schwarz? Did you meet them?"
Moriate sighed dramatically, putting a hand to her brow. "Questions that one day will want an answer."
"Listen you creep, if you think you can - "
Taketori's mouth fell open in shock as a ripple passed over the girl's face, the air around her shivering with it. He stumbled back against his desk, hand going to his throat. Imperceptibly, Dee Moriate's face changed, going from narrow and thin-lipped to angular and a mouth used to smiling cruel smiles. Her image wavered once more, falling apart.
Schuldig stood in her stead, one hand cocked on a hip.
"Wh-wha - "
"What?" The telepath helpfully supplied, grinning. "What am I? I am just a figment of your imagination. It is so easy to deceive a weak mind."
Taketori turned and reached for the alarm button imbedded in his telephone. He never made it.
An invisible fist rammed into the back of his head, forcing his breath out of his lungs, breath that came out as a long, agonized squeal. He collapsed on his desk, the edge of the wood digging into his midsection. The telepath was over him a second later, strong hands reaching for age-thinned wrists, pinning them to the desk. Taketori flinched as Schuldig's hips pressed hard against his backside.
"No, no, no," And the soothing, taunting voice was close by his ear, "I am not going to rape you. I am not that desperate, old man, nor that sick. I'm just going to rip you apart with one of those damn gold clubs of yours, that's all."
Taketori screamed until his lungs burned, until all he could feel and hear was his own voice and the terrible ripping sound behind his eyes, digging, clenching, curling, turning him inside out until everything was dragged to light and exposed. He vomited over his desk, sour liquids burning his eyes as Schuldig pressed his face into it. Then he was abruptly released.
The telepath stepped back from the desk, head cocked, musing. This would be funny. This would be more than funny.
Schuldig
His mental grip on Taketori wavered for the split of a second as Dee Moriate's voice rang in his head, but not long enough for the old man to make any attempts at escape. Schuldig sighed. It would take some time getting used to the new, steady presence of the second telepath. He stepped behind the man again and rammed a knee between his legs for good measure, delighting in the high-pitched squeak that got him.
What?
I just thought you wanted to know something I just found out from Tsukiyono
You have him?
Yes. Now listen
He listened. As he did, his smile became wider, until it was fairly stretching his face. When Moriate was finished, he chuckled, regarding the moaning man with amusement glinting in his eyes.
Bring him here
How? Do you expect me to march straight into the towers with him slung over my shoulder?
Farfarello knows a way. I'll wait here for you. Take your time. There's something I want to do before I...
What? The voice inside Schuldig's head sounded suspicious.
He sent her an image, and closed his end of the connection. Stepping around Taketori's desk, he pulled a curtain aside and found what he'd been looking for. A case of golf clubs, leaned against the wall, metal and leather polished to perfection.
Farfarello noticed Moriate flinch as he slung the motionless body of Omi Tsukiyono over one shoulder. Her eyes were distant again. After a moment, she shook her head, and stared up at the Irishman.
"Your lover has a funny taste." Her mouth pursed. He did not know what to make of the look she sent him. "Well, figures."
"What's that supposed to mean?" The Irishman wrinkled his nose, turning his head away from the hip close to his cheek. The boy stank!
"Nothing. He said you know a way into the Taketori Towers."
"Yes. There's a number of hidden passageways going from inside the towers to several sewer openings."
"Great, more shit." Moriate threw her hands up, wincing as a stab of pain shot through her torso. "Do me a favour and kill me?"
"No."
"Thought so."
"I like your sense of humour. It's not as nice as Schu's, but I like it."
"Fine. Let's go." She proceeded him down the tunnel they had come. "Wanna tell me something about golf clubs?"
She was biting her fingernails. She hated it when she did that. It was a bad habit, and it made her hands ugly.
Tot sat on the couch in her apartment, staring at the telephone that stood on the coffee table before her. Ten hours, and no message from Dee Moriate. Ten hours, and a line of men waiting for the mindreader to descend into the canalisation with her, to search for a lost kitten. Ten hours, and not a single call from Taketori, which irked her.
Ten hours, and she knew she would have to make a call herself soon, to Switzerland, reporting to her superiors that things were not as they should have been. Tot dreaded making that call. They had not asked, true, when she had requested Moriate; yet requesting Moriate always meant something not to Eszet's liking was going on. Calling them now to report the mindreader as missing and gone would put her in a hot spot. Taketori had stopped payments to Schwarz as soon as suspicions about the death of his daughter had arisen; Schwarz did not know of that yet, unless their little hacker had chosen to look into their bank accounts recently.
She did not know what to make of the call she had given the mindreader last night. The cell phone had been answered, and then there had been a deafening screech in her ear, stopping her in mid-ramble. After that, nothing. Zero.
Things were falling apart in Tokyo. She did not favour the idea of having to move to another city, to another boss, one who maybe was not as easily charmed as that old leech Taketori had been. She had worked hard to achieve her current status, and spreading one's legs was not always easy. To spread them again, in another city, another bed, for another man, seemed a waste of luxury and peace. And her job here had been peaceful, aside from the occasional run-in with a certain redhead. It had already tasted ill in her mouth that she had had to request Moriate; worry about the mindreader finding out about the millions Tot was secretly hoarding in a bank account had mixed with the slow realization that she would actually have to work together with Moriate instead of command her. Hell, one of the secretaries at the Eszet base, had warned her about that. While still under orders from Eszet, Moriate liked to work alone. She did not so much as disobey orders, she simply ignored them. It would have been easier had she been a little more like Schuldig, whose blatant disrespect made it easy to pin him down.
Tot got up, aimlessly wandering over the rosé carpet, still biting at a fingernail. Outside her windows, the sun was already beginning to set, tinting the windows and glass walls of the skyscrapers a magnificent shade of all the colours of the rainbow. Even from here, she could see the Taketori Towers, glinting like multi-coloured pillars of diamond, steel and stone.
Her glance fell on the telephone again. She would wait another hour, and then she would call Eszet. As much as she disliked the idea, it was by far better than what would await her should something go wrong.
"Hmph," She sat down again and tucked her hands beneath her armpits, "I wonder what hasn't gone wrong."
Nagi frowned, scrolling down.
"You bastard," he said softly. "Think you can hide that from me?"
Payment to Schwarz's banc account had been stopped three weeks ago, according to the information on the screen of his laptop. As it was, the sum still stood at an impressive forty-five million American Dollars, yet it should have been more. A lot more, considering the insane sums of money Taketori paid them for the odd job here and there, the random kill. Even considering the amount that got send directly to Eszet instead to them, it should have been more.
He flexed his fingers and set to work, hacking into Taketori's bank accounts at the Tokyo National Banc, where the old man kept his clean money. It was a task he had mastered countless times before, for Crawford's stock investments or Schuldig's sometimes-expensive cravings for German food. Most of Nagi's personal computer equipment, all state-of-the-art, had been funded with that money; it was hard to be a good hacker without the proper tools. Even Schuldig had seen that.
He hacked into another depository after directing a certain sum of money from Taketori's account to their own, and decided to clean it out. It was not as if the old man would need the money anymore, anyway, if things went according to plan.
The thought made his fingers stop over the keyboard. A minute later, he was busy cleaning out the Tokyo National Bank account and setting up several new accounts in several countries all over the world. They would be able to access these funds from anywhere; he remembered how Crawford had always preached about having a certain sum of money handy because one never knew what would happen. Coming from the oracle, the statement now sounded ironic. Yes, one never knew what would happen. Apparently, not even Crawford had known. He had seen Moriate meeting them at the waterfront. He had not seen himself dying. Perhaps it had been better this way.
After fifteen minutes of blissful meddling in the virtual world, Nagi leaned back in his chair and stretched, a triumphant grin playing on his face. They were very rich now. If it hadn't been for Eszet, they could have bought their own island somewhere in the sun and spent the rest of their lives in luxury.
His stomach rumbled. He had not eaten since breakfast, spending the time after school - he had erased his false name from their records immediately after he had come home - at the computer. These few hours had barely whetted his appetite; his fingers still twitched, longing to dance with the keys again, as he walked into the kitchen and raided the fridge for something to eat. Luckily, Crawford had sent for food three days ago; Nagi was not so sure if Schuldig would think about that, seeing that the German seemed to exist on air, love, and depravity alone.
As he sat at the table and ate, he wondered if Schuldig would be their leader now. Then he wondered if Schwarz still existed. It seemed unlikely, now that Crawford was dead.
"Fuck, not even twenty-four hours, and my entire life is falling apart."
The plan Schuldig had come up, if one could call it a plan, was as simple as it was crazy. Kill Taketori in the most degrading way possible. Kill Tot. Get out of Japan, fly to Switzerland, plant a bomb, and boom! Eszet would be just another smoking hole in the skin of the earth, all records about mindreaders and telekinetics and oracles scattered to the four winds. As far as Nagi knew, the people who 'ruled' Eszet were like spiders: sitting amid their web of information and willing pawns, waiting for yet another victim to come along or be found in a cell, a subway station, an orphanage.
If they pulled that one off without losing their lives, Nagi would kiss the German. Well, hug maybe. Farfarello could be oddly jealous at times.
Nagi stopped mid-munch, his mind coming to rest on the big, red button with the nametag 'Dee Moriate'. What would they do with her, once she had fulfilled her purpose? One mindreader was good, two mindreaders were better, and two mindreaders, a telekinetic, and an insane Irishman who was immune to pain together were a nightmare for anyone who tried to go against them. Moriate, probably closer to the heart of Eszet than any other gifted, was worth her weight in gold as far as information was concerned.
Schuldig could have taken that information and killed her. And yet, he had not. Nagi had never really understood the telepaths and their way of doing things; he just floated stuff, and he was content with it. All their garbled talk about mindlocks and merges lead to more garbled nonsense. A connection of minds could not be much different from a connection of a computer to the net; pull the plug and the connection is dead.
He finished his meal and left the kitchen. On the way back to his room, he heard a key in the front door and turned. Schuldig and Farfarello were the first to enter and the first to disappear into Schuldig's room; Nagi did a double-take as he saw Farfarello actually carry Schuldig, the telepath's legs wound around the Irishman's hips for leverage, their mouths fused. Schuldig's bed had one squeaky spring. He cringed as it began its mourning song to the gods of abused metal.
Dee Moriate entered more slowly, one arm pressed over her stomach, her face white. She stopped in the doorway; their eyes met, and they would have stood there forever and a day, staring each other down, had Schuldig not chosen this moment to utter a long wail of arousal that made both of them flinch.
"Are they always like this?"
"Yes."
"Great. Is there an access to the roof?"
He pointed the way; absurdly, for a moment, worried she might try and escape.
"I won't. I can't. Don't worry."
"I would appreciate it if you stayed out of my mind," Nagi said acidly, anger crawling up his throat. "Just because Schu lets you live doesn't mean we all love you."
She sneered, shrugging her shoulders. "Do you think I care if you like me or not?"
"I hate you."
"Fine. Hate me all you want. You're not the first, you won't be the last, and no, I don't care about that either."
She turned without a further word, walked into the kitchen, and carefully climbed up the stairs that lead to the trapdoor above. Nagi remained in the hallway a moment longer. He felt as if she had just betrayed him, robbed him of his chance to scream at her.
"Bitch!" he hissed under his breath, and followed her.
The world as he had known it seemed not the same anymore, changed from a place familiar to a place filled with strange sounds and tantalizing smells. He reached his hands up at the sky and they touched darkness; his blood ran cold with the realization: he might be alone in this new world.
Through the air it shivered, the gentle voice, beckoning him with the promises of warmth and an end to loneliness. He turned to the voice and reached for it, the soothing waves becoming his sun, his life, his end to all ends. Nothing mattered as long as he heard this voice; nothing could touch him as long as this voice was with him. Everyman, I will be thy guide...
His hands touched sweaty skin; gliding, sliding gently to grip hard the next second, eliciting moans and gasps and all the interesting sounds the human throat can conjure up. He wound his hands around a hard-working throat, fingers sliding along his own straining cock into the wet warmth of his lover's mouth, and the agile tongue greeted him with teasing touches. Farfarello wanted more. Hands searching again, they found orange hair and pulled on it, dragging the wet hell away from his cock and against his own mouth, teeth and lips clashing, melting, merging. The heavy weight on his ribs purred as he slid one hand down Schuldig's spine - feeling almost every bone of the spinal cord, and for some odd reason it turned him on, like he could touch the secrets of his lover's body without opening him up - and slipped two fingers into the other man's ass, stroking deeply once, twice, over the almond-smooth nub inside.
He opened his eye, smiling.
"I could make you come just by touching you there."
Above him, so close the Irishman could feel the feathery brush of his eyelashes against one pale, scarred cheek, Schuldig moaned gutturally, arching his back to invite the fingers in deeper; fairly wanton in his display of lust and love, and yet so endearing. Yet so lovable.
His mind tightly shut to all things non-Farfarello, Schuldig was a star on the verge of becoming a nova. All fires burning, ready to explode; the only anchor holding him down on earth two fingers and a mouth sucking on his neck, a vampire's hungry maw. Those fingers stilled inside him, forcing him to move and take over, take control without being in control, a slave to lust and love, and so powerful.
His mind began to reel away from reality, dancing dangerously close to the edges of self-sacrifice.
Farfarello touched a single finger to the tip of Schuldig's cock, fingernail tracing the tiny hole and finally pressing in, demanding an entrance that could not be given. The telepath shrieked with pleasure, back ramrod-straight, staring up at the ceiling now poised over Farfarello's hips like a whore over a client but oh so differently, and Farfarello's fingers slid in deeper, as deep as they could, knuckles grating against the tender skin of Schuldig's perineum.
Farfarello wondered if those clenching muscles could break his fingers.
Schuldig sank onto him, a shivering, gasping, happy heap. The last spasms wearing off, Farfarello pulled his fingers out, sucking on them, finally sliding them over Schuldig's lips and in, chuckling as he received a playful yet hard bite.
"We should let you do things more often if the result is this spectacular," the Irishman said, nibbling on the end of Schuldig's nose. "I doubt Taketori would appreciate it, but I have to thank him when I see him again in hell."
"What for?" It came out muffled, spoken around his fingers.
"For making you so hot and eager."
Another bite, this one softer, more a strong suckle than anything else. A last nip at the tip of a finger; Schuldig rested his head above Farfarello's heart, grinning.
"Murder and bloodshed are wonderful aphrodisiacs, I agree." He yawned. "I'll let you do away with Tot."
"The gesture being not entirely selfish, I hope."
"Tease. Do you want Nagi to take care of her?"
"No. I owe her one for being alive."
Schuldig snickered. "Such hate...what do you think, should we let Moriate watch?"
"She did not seem too fond of being forced to look at what you did to Taketori."
"True." The telepath closed his eyes, still grinning. Taketori's tears as he raped his own son had been droplets of sweet water on Schuldig's fields of hate. Father and son, unified beyond the flesh...who would have thought the old man had spread his seed that far? What a miraculous twist of fate! "A kitten who wandered into the lion's den...and the lion showed him who's the master."
"And we killed them both. Messily. You're being poetic again."
"Fuck you."
"Fuck me?" Farfarello bucked his hips. "Yes please."
He wanted her to scream.
"I hate you!" Again, driving his cock into yielding flesh, not caring for a moment if her ribs would break again as he pressed his entire weight down on her, skinning his knuckles against the tar of the roof. He had never thought it possible; anger turned into sexual aggression seemed such an absurd notion. And yet...here he was.
"I hate you!"
Nagi saw Moriate gritting her teeth, biting her lips. So close. So close to hearing her voice utter something other than snide remarks and careless comments, so close to seeing the marble façade of hers break up and shatter into tiny pieces that lay bleeding on the roof. However, she would not let him have this final victory, this last step that would make his deed worthwhile, bring meaning to this act of degradation.
Her body told him she was in pain: thighs clenching around his midsection, back arching, throat working.
Her eyes told him: you cannot win. You lost this fight the second you threw me down.
It was what made him stop, made him draw back, out of her, staring at the bite marks on her throat; bite marks that bled heavily, the surrounding flesh turning a subtle shade of violet and blue.
With the realization that he had achieved nothing came another realization: he had just raped a girl on the roof of an apartment in the middle of Tokyo.
"Don't worry." Her voice was flat, monotone. "I took care of that."
"What?" He was surprised to find his voice still working; Nagi had wanted her to scream until she was hoarse, and now he was the one whose throat ached.
"Getting into trouble with the cops is the last thing we need right now." Moriate slowly sat up, bringing her legs together, frowning as she saw the droplets of blood on the black tar of the roof. She stood, swaying for a moment, and reached down to draw her pants back up. Buttoning it, she touched a hand to her throat, wincing as she fingered the bites.
"I - " Nagi opened his mouth and closed it again, at a loss for words. "I raped you."
Moriate rolled her eyes. "Yes. So? Happens every day. And? Did it help you?"
The youth who sat on the roof before her, pants open, his blood-smeared cock limply hanging out of the fly, slowly embraced himself, shivering. He avoided her eyes as he stood, one hand holding his pants up.
"I guess it was a new experience for you, am I right?"
Nagi turned from her and fled from the roof, disappearing down the trap door. She heard the distant banging of a door, followed by loud, thumping music.
"To each his own remedy," Moriate sighed. Actually, she had not anticipated this; Nagi's bout of aggression had surprised her more than the actual act. It was both surprising and disappointing; she had thought they would be arguing when he followed her. But he had just raped her. As much as the act itself had hurt, it had been nothing but a repetition of what she had seen in peoples' heads a million times. Just like any other mammal, Nagi had resorted to the means that put an end to all good arguments: brute force. "To cure what ails you..."
She sat on the edge of the roof and stared at the sinking sun. It was uncomfortable; he had ripped her slip, and there was blood trickling between her thighs, wetting her pants, but she did not feel like taking a shower.
After a minute or two had passed, Moriate fished a battered pack of cigarettes out of the breast pocket of her sweater and lit one, the harsh bite of the smoke adding to the pain from Nagi's hands nearly strangling her after he had thrown her to the roof. She inhaled deeply and held the smoke in until her mind started swimming, and then she had to laugh a little at herself. Normally, she did not smoke. She was not against it, but regarded it as a waste of money. Normally. The fact that she was smoking now reminded her that she was not all that cold, all that impenetrable. Her mind sighed at the irony in that last word. In fact, it was damn near amusing.
She stopped chuckling as something hot and wet rolled down her cheek and dripped onto the hand holding the cigarette; a trembling hand, fingers nearly clenched around the butt of the white stick as if she wanted to crush it. Angrily, Moriate wiped the solitary tear away.
"Why are you crying?"
She turned, a bit jarred that she had not heard Farfarello come onto the roof. The Irishman's eyebrow rose as he saw the cigarette in her hand.
"And since when do you smoke?"
"I've been smoking since I turned sixteen. I don't cry."
"As in 'never'?"
"As in 'not willingly'."
"Does anyone?"
She cocked her head, regarding him through a cloud of smoke. He was wearing a lose pair of sweatpants, riding low on his hips, the fragrant, heady musk of sex still lingering on his skin. He was beautiful, but it was a frightening beauty.the beauty of the predator seconds before the kill. She could understand Schuldig's fascination with him.
"Eh..." Farfarello frowned and stepped closer to her, sniffing the air. She turned her neck, hiding the bite wounds under the collar of her sweater, hoping he would not see them.
Apparently, he didn't.
"Are you bleeding? I can smell blood around you."
Moriate laughed out loud and stood up, crushing the cigarette under her sneaker. Sometimes, the Irishman was so sweet.
"All women bleed, Farfarello. Did your mother never tell you that?" She noticed how his body tightened, muscles bunching on his arms; much like a coiled spring, ready to explode any moment if only given the chance. "Or did you..." She went into his mind and picked up the images without trouble; they were swimming on the surface, dredged up by her words. "Fascinating. So... I guess she never got around to telling you, hm?"
Farfarello fought hard to keep his anger under control, every inch hard-won, but his body betrayed him. Slowly, very slowly, he brought a hand up, clawed fingers hovering before her eyes; and if only she would move, then he could plunge two of them into her eyes and see for himself if they were as wet as the ocean they sprang from, wet and deep and full of secrets.
She wanted him to. The voiceless demand spoke through her eyes, visible in the nearly ecstatic tremble of her lips, the way she opened herself slightly to his aggressive stance, arms held loosely at her sides. Farfarello understood something about her in this moment: she did not value her life nearly as much as Schuldig thought she did. Never going so far as to consider suicide, but careless enough to chose death over life if she had a choice to make.
Moriate moved forward, the shift in stance almost imperceptible. The lashes of her left eye brushed the tip of one of Farfarello's fingers.
"I'd never have thought you, of all people, would hold back when it comes to killing someone like me." She cocked her head, the movement tickling his fingertip. "Did Schuldig tame you that much?"
The blow to her face nearly carried her over the edge of the roof; she landed with a loud grunt, hissing a second later with an arm wound around her ribs.
"We're packing up, " Angrily, he turned, cursing himself for letting her rile him up so easily. "We're leaving Tokyo tonight, after paying a visit to someone."
"Tot, I guess?" Moriate spat onto the roof, tongue moving over the split in her lip, and serenely looked up at him.
"Why don't you read my mind, bitch?" He stomped off and jumped down the trap door, leaving her alone once again.
Moriate got to her feet, slowly, feeling every bone in her body protest this simplest of movements. Inside, she was laughing.
"You haven't beaten me yet," she said to herself, as much a threat as an oath, spoken to uncaring skies, spoken to all and no one.
Tot was packing in a hurry. Three suitcases alone for her numerous clothes and fur coats, two more for shoes and jewellery. If she had to leave this paradise of luxury behind, then she would at least try and take a piece of it with her.
The call to Eszet had gone less smoothly than she had hoped. Instead of speaking to Hell, the secretary, she had been put through to an old man, one who was not charmed by her words and flowery swearing about Schwarz. The old man, as much a shadowy figure as the other old people who made Eszet what it was, had ordered her return to the Switzerland base within the next forty-eight hours. No threats had been spoken, no, his words had been formal and not impolite, but clipped, making it clear that she was expected to obey and not sweet-talk. It left a sour feeling in her mouth - never before had she been forced to leave a job behind.
Never before had she been stripped of her considerable power within the mainframe; the old man's words had been designed to let her remember who she was and where she stood, and they had done a proper job indeed.
She had never felt so small and helpless before. And she was frightened. What would they do? They could not blame her for the things that had gone wrong; she was not an oracle, she could not have foreseen them take a wrong turn and end up in disaster.
"What if they punish me?" She stood in her bathroom, staring at her reflection in the gold-framed mirror that hung above her rosé porcelain sink. "What if they think it was my fault?"
Her reflection did not answer.
"Fuck!"
Make-up, toilet articles, perfume bottles, all thrown into a large, flower-print bag; she hoped these items would survive the harsh treatment of the airport staff. She would miss this bathroom, miss this apartment. She would even miss Taketori, despite all odds. Whatever else he had been, he'd also been one of her easiest clients up to this day. He had not called her yet today, his mind probably busy with thoughts about Moriate and Schwarz. She had no time to sulk, though. She was in trouble now.
Tot turned from the bathroom cabinets and walked out of the door. Well, she would find someone else to fuck for money. People like Taketori weren't hard to find.
In her bedroom, she threw the flower-print bag into the sixth suitcase, on top of her files and personal notes. They would kill her if she left those behind, them being the result of six years of keeping close and closer tabs on Schwarz, Taketori, and both subjects' businesses.
"They won't have to."
Tot screamed, a hot stream of urine running down the inside of her leg, and whirled around, nearly tumbling over. In the door to her bedroom stood the last person she had expected to see again.
"Moriate!" Perplexed, Tot took a step toward the silent girl, noticing with a frown that she had a split lip and bruises on her face. "How - who - "
Tot froze on the spot. A shadow fell over Moriate from behind, dwarfing her, accompanied by the softest of chortles.
Behind the girl, Farfarello filled the entire doorframe, smiling a smile darker than any shade of paint could ever be. He was dressed in black again, tight leather outlining the hard edges of his body. Crossed over the Irishman's chest rested too many knives in sheaths, held there by two belt-like straps.
Farfarello's one hand fluttered over the knives. His other descended on Moriate's shoulder, moving her to the side.
As Tot watched him, mouth agape, her mind still trying to recover from the shock of this being Farfarello in her apartment, this being Moriate with the Irishman, Farfarello stepped into her bedroom on light feet, the hand hovering over his knives moving and coming away with an ice shard of a blade. As she stared, he brought the tip of the blade to his lips and cut himself. A drop of ruby welled up on pale lips, a finger coming up to spread the blood on his growing smile, a smile so cold it was burning her.
"Look at me," Farfarello said. And then, changing his voice to a parody of hers, high, female, but so utterly distorted, he said, "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the most beautiful of all?" and laughed.
Tot opened her mouth to scream, to scream for help; the scream of a child in pain and fear, an animal trapped behind bars.
He was upon her a second later.
The agonizing crunch as the knife sank into Tot's abdomen and sliced up too many vital organs made her wish for unconsciousness. She was not given that cheapest of mercies; forced to listen to her own blood gush out of wounds, each breath becoming a little more raspy as her lungs filled with liquid, Tot closed her eyes and pretended she was not here. It was not her who was slaughtered here.
Hear no evil. See no evil. Feel no evil.
It never works.
It did not take long for her to understand it.
Moriate listened to the sounds, but she did not hear them. Schuldig saw through her eyes, but she did not pay him any attention. Blood spattered across her face, onto her clothes, but she did not react. As Schuldig was in her mind, so she was in the Irishman's, killing with him. Learning as much as she could. Seeing everything she wanted to see. The desecration of god's work, done with a knife and two hands, and sometimes, teeth. What was he trying to achieve? Who was he trying to pay back?
If there was something like a universal force behind all deeds of men, then it had also created Farfarello and destroyed the person he had been before. If there was a god, then he was directing the Irishman who wanted to hurt him. Did Farfarello not see this? Did he not understand it?
Perhaps therein, lay his insanity. Too far gone from reality to maybe question if what he was doing was not one of god's plots, one of god's lies.
You'd better keep those ramblings to yourself, sweetheart Schuldig spoke into her mind, and she could just see him smirking, leaned back in the seat of his jeep, Nagi at his side. Farfarello would not take kindly to it if you asked him those questions
She did not answer, forcing the part of her mind the other telepath was controlling to go back to observing.
One day, she would ask Farfarello those questions.
Nagi stared at his hands, turning them over and over in his lap, scrutinizing the fingernails, the knuckles, and the palms. They were still young, these hands, though the body behind them, the mind behind them, carried the knowledge of one three times the telekinetic's years. Slightly calloused fingertips, born by too many hours spend on the keyboard, the odd scar here and there, caused by life and living.
The hands of a child. The hands of a murderer. The hands of...
He quickly looked at Schu, suddenly anxious the redhead was listening in on him; Schuldig however was still leaned back in his seat, smirking at something only he could see.
He had thought he would put it behind him like any other job. He could not. He could not get the image of her face out of his mind, that cold, cold smile, lurking beneath watery eyes.
Attacking her in the warehouse had been as much an act of defence as it had been an act of anger; raping her had been something else. He did not know if he should be angry with himself or angry with her because she had not reacted the way he had wanted her to. He had wanted her to scream.
She had smiled, and crushed his defences with that single smile.
He looked over at Schuldig again; the telepath was smoking yet another cigarette - from Moriate's pack, Nagi noticed.
"Schu?"
"Yes?" Schuldig blinked a couple of times and turned his head towards him.
"About Moriate..."
"Was she any good?"
"What?" Flabbergasted, Nagi stared at the redhead. "What do you mean?"
The telepath rolled his eyes, a malicious smirk beginning to brighten his features. "Come now, Naggels...she has bite marks on her throat, and I'm pretty sure Farfarello didn't bite her. I know that I didn't bite her, either. Was it fun?"
For a moment, but only for a moment, Nagi was thoroughly disgusted by the German. It was so like Schuldig to find amusement in an act that - that...
" - that you yourself committed not two hours ago." Schuldig's eyes hardened, losing their twinkle. "Don't forget what you are and what you do, Nagi. Don't go soft on me now."
"She didn't even scream..."
Schuldig snorted, blowing smoke through his nose. He leaned over in his seat and took Nagi's chin in his free hand, turning the youth's face towards him.
"Still so much like the child we found all those years back, Naggels...still so very innocent, in so many ways. Depravity is a long way coming, but once it finds you, it will make you stronger than anything else. One day, you'll love the sweet thrill as much as I do."
The telekinetic slapped the other's hands away and scowled, scooting away from him until his back pressed against the car door. Schuldig laughed. He sat back, regarding the slender youth at his side with mirth.
"You're trying so hard to be like us, and you fail so miserably."
"I guess being a rapist is everyone's dream come true?" Nagi spat, his hands clenched now in his lap. "Look, there's a difference, okay! I - "
"Is there? Really?" Schuldig interrupted him. "Rape...murder...they all go in the same pot. I thought you wanted to become hard and tough. Or is it bugging you that maybe she didn't react the way you wanted her to? Believe me, this lady wouldn't scream if you raped her with a branding iron, at least not in the way you want her to. Keep your hands off her."
"Oh? Defending her now, are you?"
He was pressed against the car door a second later, the telepath's hands digging into the soft skin of his neck. Flipping his cigarette out of the car window, Schuldig leaned over him once again, dangerously close this time.
"Do you realize," he said slowly, softly, "that all your telekinesis will be worth shit if the two of you were to really fight? Do you realize that if she weren't bound to me, you'd be just another corpse by now? You got her once with your powers; you'll never get her twice. Telepaths are snakes, Nagi, never forget that. We wait in the grass until the time is right, and then we attack when you least expect it. At this point, I'm not even entirely sure if my connection with her could really hold her back if she wanted to kill you, or Farfarello. I'm not even sure if she couldn't kill me."
Nagi wound his hands around Schuldig's arm, choking, but the telepath was not yet finished.
"I want to get rid of her as badly as you do. I hope once we've finished off Eszet, there'll be a way. Until then, she is a part of the team. Argue with her. Scream at her. Get over your guilt complex and deal with it. But keep in mind that she's just as bad as I am, if not even worse. And so far, you've not yet proven that you're a match for me. You see, I actually care about you."
He let go and sat back, taking a deep breath. In the passenger seat, Nagi slowly rubbed the bruise marks Schuldig had left on his throat, glaring at the telepath.
"When the time comes," the youth said hoarsely, "I want to be the one who kills her."
"When the time comes, you can do as you like. Until then, do make sure she won't kill you first. I need you on this one."
Their conversation was ended as the doors to the apartment building Tot had been living in were opened from inside and Farfarello and Moriate came out, both carrying a suitcase. Schuldig started the engine, waiting until the two had stored the suitcases in the trunk and got in, then he drove off.
"What's in those suitcases?" he asked once they were on the street, heading towards the airport.
"Jewellery and fur coats," Farfarello said.
"Eszet files on you," Moriate muttered, staring out of the window at the buildings. "We cleaned out everything that could be traced back to you, including Tot's personal stuff like ID, driver's license and so on and so on."
He looked at her in the rear-view mirror. "Smart girl."
"I am not an amateur." She pulled the hood of her sweater up and rolled the window down to let in fresh air, lighting a cigarette.
"No," Schuldig said to himself, "that you are not."
One by one, the street lights lit up. Night was falling.
They passed their old apartment on the way to the airport, forced to drive slowly because fire trucks were blocking the street. Their apartment was still on fire, a bonfire to the past, everything that had once been Schwarz going up in flames.
The smell of smoke entered through the open car window, filling their noses. Schuldig and Nagi drove by with a drop of sadness mingling with their silent good-byes; there went a lifetime, an era, and a past. Good times and bad times, dancing with the fire, sinking together until only ash remained; just like a corpse dances with the worms and the earth after it has been lain down to its last bed; dancing, a short rebellion against that force of forces, making one last stand before its bones embraced the bones of the earth.
And with a sigh, the sigh of a lifetime, one will acknowledge that nothing lasts forever. One will always sing the cadence of the dirge in the end, the notes bitter and sad and yet so true.
Past skyscrapers they drove, past shops and restaurants that had seemed so alien when they had first seen them, but that now were like good friends waving farewell to them, wishing them well wherever they were going.
Perhaps wishing they would never return, too.
At the airport, Schuldig drove the jeep into an underground garage and parked it in the farthest corner. They took the suitcases out of the trunk and took the elevator up to the airport halls, slipping into the crowds of tourists as one of them, going home, returning, arriving.
They stood in line for the better part of ten minutes until Schuldig cleared the way, a little mental persuasion buying them tickets to Europe under names that did not exist, and if they did, then the people who wore them did not know about it. It would arouse suspicion if they used the plane Taketori Enterprises had always held ready for them; so, they bought seats on a regular plane. First class.
In the chaos that followed the explosion of the jeep in the underground garage, Schuldig, Farfarello, Nagi and Moriate checked in. They listened to sirens again, and to the explosions that followed as the fire ate into the venting system of the garage. Soon, watching from the large windows in the passenger lounge, they could see the orange glow reaching up into the sky.
Farfarello's fingers crept into Schuldig's palm. "Beautiful," he murmured.
"Yeah," Schuldig whispered back, squeezing his lover's fingers in his own. A mischievous smirk appeared on his lips. "I didn't get to see the end of Tot. Was it as beautiful?"
"It was...entertaining."
Schuldig chuckled, leaning in close to kiss him, lushly. They embraced; and if some other passenger waiting in the lounge with them was affronted by this blatant show of homosexuality, then they wisely kept their opinion to themselves.
Perhaps, after having decided that, their eyes would have wandered away from the redhead and the one with all the scars and the eye patch, and found an interest in the other two waiting with the two men. One, a youth still, with dark brown hair and dark blue eyes, cradling a laptop, his glances occasionally darting away from his green-glowing screen to stare at the girl who sat two seats away from him; this one seemed so young still. If he was haunted by any demons, then he kept them away from the surface of his face; only those who cared to look deeply into his eyes would see them hiding in there, laughing.
The girl, if she was still a girl, was one of those demons. But the mind, dwelling on these thoughts, went strangely blank; and after a look into her eyes, one did not think at all anymore.
Outside, flakes of ash began to tumble from the sky like snow.