Part 4

Red Slacker

Monotony. A welcome, different kind of monotony - certainly better than the asylum - but it's monotony nonetheless. A month I've spent here, in this building, most of the time in this same fucking room with the same fucking walls and the same fucking windows in the ceiling.

They healed me, of course, after that time in the kitchen. I'd come to discover that they always would, every time. I could cut into myself over and over, I could bleed all over the whole fucking room, and I could even kill guards. But they would only give me a few rows of stitches and clean up after me, and that would be the end of it. They never took the knives away. They lock me up often, but they don't hide the knives when they do let me out, and sometimes I've even been given them. For that, I'm happy. Most of the time, I'm in the jacket, but sometimes, they let me out. It's on another infuriating schedule, though. When I'm not here, I'm training... which has the same amount of monotony as staring into the safety-white of my new home's walls.

The tests came first; to see how agile I was, how accurate my knives were, how quickly I could react to a situation or one of Crawford's fucking commands. Then they tried to improve it all.

I have to admit, I enjoy it. Every day, they let me have the knives. They let me attack and practice with them. I'd rather they'd let me do it on real people, but even attacking dummies is a huge improvement than the shit I got at the asylum, where they wouldn't even give me a damn spork.

I frustrated them at first though. The expendables, under Schuldich's mental control, would be attacking me furiously, trying to get me to respond quickly and fight back. I wouldn't. They were so amusing, these little children with their eyes still glazed from when the manipulative whore had fucked their minds. The pain they were supposed to inflict upon me hurt God so, so wonderfully. God sat up there on his fucking Throne and wept and bled and I smiled. It was beautiful.

It made Crawford angry. I could tell. A training session would have to be canceled because I was letting these weak little children fight me until I was almost unconscious, and he would come to me when I was in my cell, yelling at me. I didn't care. God hurt.

One day, though, he must have figured it out. He came up to me and told me the truth, and I don't know how or why I believed otherwise. After one of those canceled sessions, he came to my cell. Instead of yelling at me and asking me why I never fought back, he only said one thing. "Farfarello," he had said, standing in the doorway to the corridor beyond my cell, the bars to my wandering grounds still between the two of us, "You love God very much, don't you? After all," he said, adjusting his glasses, "in the Bible it says, 'bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you. If someone strikes you on one cheek, turn to him the other also.'" With that, he had left. And I took it upon myself to prove the bastard wrong about me loving that fucking shit in the sky. I killed so many expendables that Schuldich yelled at me for making him warp too many minds.

Crawford and Schuldich become more entertaining by the day. Crawford growing into a bigger pompous ass, and Schuldich growing more interested in that ass. They are the only people I see, though, other than the expendables.

Schuldich taught me how worthless they are, those without powers, to Esset and to Takatori. "You can kill as many of them as you want," he told me one day as he watched over some lackey washing the blood from my cell after I tasted the sweetness of a nurse's blood, "I won't care. Esset won't care. Takatori himself won't care, except that he might bitch about it being expensive. The people without powers are worthless in this new world." Then, curled up in my jacket with my chin resting on my knees as I watched that scared and mousy janitor desperately trying to wash up blood without leaving a puddle of piss to clean up, too, I laughed. "Takatori hasn't got any powers, so why does he have so fucking much importance?"

"He has something better," the whore had said, smirking at me with that sinner's smile, "he has money."

So that became the order of the world. Like the Pope being closer to the Liar than some common fucking priest, money was closer to True Power than any abnormal shit God crapped upon you at birth ever could be.

The powers; the strange, inexplicable powers that we three seemed to have hidden in us. After a while, I had grown to trust Crawford and Schuldich's powers. My own was fact all along; theirs took some time to become law to me.

The German flaunted his at me almost every hour, but I let it take a long time to trust it despite the constant proof. The whore wasn't someone to be trusted, I had thought. He's manipulative like Him, and He was a liar, so the whore should be, too. Somehow, he isn't. He does play with people's minds. He does twist words and thoughts to make them work for his own good. But for all his manipulation of the truth, he is not a liar. He twists the truth, he doesn't make it up, and although it's questionable if manipulation is a single fucking bit better than blatant lying, I prefer it. Manipulation is a damn sight more respectable than lying, because it takes more intelligence to use it. I hate to call that German slut intelligent. I'd like to think the most intelligent thing he's done has something to do with buying condoms. But he is smart, in his own fucked-up way. He's at least intelligent enough to realize that lies can be seen through, truth is subject and incriminating, and manipulation is the only way to go.

The American took a lot less time in proving his powers to me. I could tell from the start that he's a man who will do anything to reach his goal. Whatever his goal is, however, is a complete fucking mystery to me. At any rate, he wouldn't lie, unless it somehow was justified in his fucking grand plan, and madman deluding doesn't sound like an essential part of any plan. Even though he's uptight and possibly impotent, the bastard is fairly trustworthy.

I asked him once where exactly our powers came from. I figured that if he was so fucking great that he was entrusted leadership over us, then he had to know that much. Maybe that Esset place knew or something. So I asked him one day, as he polished his gun, watching over me as I ate to make sure I didn't kill myself or stain his damn kitchen again. When I asked him the question, he actually looked up from that fucking gun, which is a rare event.

"That's a question I wouldn't have thought you would have asked," he had said. "The truth is, no one knows. Or, if someone does, they are very good at hiding it from us."

"So, you don't know? How can you claim to be so much better than us, when you don't even know where these fucking powers come from? You're no better than us."

Crawford looked at me with that damn smirk when I had said that. "The only reason I lead you two," he said, adjusting his glasses again, "is because you are too insane to guide yourself, and Schuldich can't be trusted to look beyond his own libido, much less his own agenda."

"You're only looking out for your own fucking agenda, Crawford, and you fucking know it."

"Yes, that's entirely true, Farfarello. But I at least look faithful to my bosses. I may not care about what becomes of Takatori or Esset, but at least I can put on a show that I do. They trust me, which may be their falling. However, for now, staying with Takatori is the best move to reach our goal."

"And what is that goal?"

He looked back down at the gun then. The conversation was over - the gun could tell you that. "That, Farfarello, is not of your concern. Your concern is our means, not the end."

And he was right.

So the monotony continues as I follow my means. Today has been an endless training session to teach me how to resist powers like Schuldich's. It's something I can tell he's not thrilled with - apparently his dear Bradley knows how to block his thoughts, so I was the only entertaining read here. The fear of the dispensables must get old. I find this training boring, myself. I'd rather provide Schuldich with a mind to rape than put up with hours of fucking sitting, but Crawford just goes on about how easy it would be for another mind reader to pick out information on a job I was on out of my mind and bores me even more, so I gave up protesting. I'll put up with the sitting if Crawford shuts the fuck up.

That German slut, however, will whine endlessly about how everyone is learning to block his power. He thinks it's not fair because no one can bypass my power or Crawford's. As of yet, no one has listened to his whining.

Schuldich has been more restless lately. I know there will be some confrontation soon, but I don't know what it'll be... He wants Crawford, and badly. Every move Crawford makes is gawked over by the German, and every fucking thing Schuldich has said to the guy is full of sexual innuendo and lust.

He notices. The nearsighted fuck notices every glance that's lasted too long and every "I-want-to-fuck-you" smirk. He hasn't missed a single drop of the rivers of pure and sinful want that the whore has let out. But being the stuck-up cold bastard he is, he won't say a thing about it. He acts like he's never even fucking heard of sex. Which leaves me to deal with Schuldich's moods. As soon as Crawford leaves the room, that damn whore will go on like some fucking woman about how great he is and how stuck up Crawford is and about how Crawford is so stupid to be ignoring him.

I think he knows it irritates me to no end, and that's exactly why he does it, the common whore.

The door to the corridor opens, interrupting my thoughts about how annoying that German is. It's Crawford.

He looks down at me, glasses glinting. "We have a mission. This will be your first major one. The ones before - just simple assassinations - those were tests, and the people who died in them mattered little. This will be the true trial. Do you understand? If you mess this up, Takatori will no doubt rethink his original hiring of you. I know for a fact he's already trying to dodge 'rumors' that he hired a psychopath for the security department, so it won't take much for him to reconsider your contract. You have to succeed in this, if you're to stay on."

I nod quietly. It surprises me that I'm so interested in staying here. I'm still in the same, safety-white type of cell. I'm still on the same, monotonous, aggravating type of schedule. I'm still fed the same shitty food. I'm still forced to deal with the same mindless drones.

"What is this... mission?" I ask him, tilting my head. It is important... I can see that much.

Leaning against the wall, he smirks. "I thought you would be interested. It's hard to turn down a job were you can hurt your little God so much, isn't it?"

I growl at him. "Ah, shut up, you fucking dick, and tell me what the hell I'm going to be doing."

He laughs. Not a real laugh, but rather one of those short, disdainful snorts that men too often mask as laughter. If you're going to be a damned bastard, don't hide it, for fuck's sake. Flaunt it - hurt with it. Don't mask it.

"You'll be working with Schuldich, the telepath. It's a rather simple mission. All you have to do is take out the Fujimya family. The father is a banker who worked for Takatori. Takatori would like him taken out - no witnesses and no family left. The way you will be disposing of them is with explosives. It is best to make this appear as a terrorist attack, so try to control your bloodlust for one mission."

I shrug. It sounds like a really fucking boring assignment, and I don't see why I have to be in on it. Any fucking grunt could rig some fucking explosives. It took beauty and hatred and power to slowly, slowly disembowel someone as they prayed and cried their petty tears. But if this was all it took to remain here, then this was a damned gift to me. And I would take it, because death was death, and some freedom was better than none at all. The question of why Takatori wants that family is unimportant. Whatever a banker could do to a man with assassins is unimportant. What the man looks like is unimportant. How old the children are is unimportant. All that is and would be important is the death.

For that was all that was ever important, in the beginning and the end. They would die, and someday, I would, too.

It's to keys that I awake. Their jingle is unmistakable to me - beautiful and curious, with a promise of freedom, and perhaps bloodletting. I smirk.

The tall man in the dark smirks back, and the light from the hall shines, showing his hair as a bright, hell-red. Schuldich. Guilty. Framed in light at a damn early hour, his face impossible to see in the light of my cell. It's a face I never need to see, anyway. It always carries the same empty eyes, the same eternal smirk, and the same lazy demeanor. The same Luciferian beauty. He is annoying. He is German. But he is sin. And he can see me, even if I cannot see him.

"Crawford... is a very aggravating man."

It is all Schuldich says, and it chalks up the month for him. I can feel the aggression in this building. I can feel it every minute of every fucking day and it never stops. Schuldich is becoming more and more restless, as I have said, and something will happen.

"He is, isn't he?"

This is the reply he wants. It's true; incomplete on why I think Crawford's such a prick, but true nonetheless. Fuck, he can read the rest. The short acknowledgement is all that is in the script, and the rest he will decide if he hears or not.

Then, I hear it where I can't feel it. Schuldich's hand moves swiftly through the air, snapping across my face with enough force to make me loose my balance in this fucking straitjacket. When I look back up, he's still standing there, a hand cocked on his hip - the hand that hit me, I realize - just smirking, green eyes glittering now that the light is hitting his face.

"You," he says, his voice dangerously and erotically low, "You're always saying the same thing. That you'll kill anyone who touches you, who so much as raises a hand to you."

His hand raises, and strikes me again. I don't even blink this time. At the same time, though, I don't go to attack him. Something in his voice and in the way he's so restless entrances me. There is something beautiful about the way lust and frustration at that fucking American just seethes from Schuldich. I don't understand. I don't want to understand.

"You won't hurt me, you know. I can see that. You want to know. I know so much about you, so much that not even you know. You've made yourself forget, haven't you? Do you remember about your mother?"

"Yes, God allowed a burglar to kill her, my sister, and my father. That is why God must pay."

He smirks, the smile, again, not reaching those dark eyes. "Someday, you'll remember. Do you want to now? Inside, you're hiding from it. You never want to know what I know, and we both know that. So I'll give you a choice, Irres. You can learn the truth... or you can do whatever I say, whenever I want you to."

I don't understand, again. So much I don't understand or know about this man, this demon, and I don't care, either. I know the truth. God, the Father... he has killed my family. I remember. My mother, dead. My father, dead. My sister, dead, and wrapped lovingly in a tapestry; a beautiful tapestry of God's love. A beautiful tapestry of God's deceit.

I know the truth. I have no need to agree to Schuldich's terms or to do whatever it is he wants.

Oh, but you do. There are things in your mind that you'd never want to see, because they'd fuck up your little blame-game with God. Now, don't give me that little look - I can see it in your mind, your hatred and disbelief. What I say is truth. And you will realize this. I can see it, Jei. I can see what Sister Ruth said that day...

I jump up as best I can, given the tight restraint twined around my legs, given the straitjacket's grip. Then I shove him against the wall, growling.

He just smirks. That's all the bastard does, it's all he ever fucking does.

I press my weight against him, all the same. "You shut up, you fucking whore. I don't want to hear any of your fucking damned lies. I hate liars, you know that."

"I know you hate liars. But what you don't know is that you hate the truth even more. Everyone does, in the end."

I don't know what he means. I can see in his eyes that maybe he is right, though, that I don't want to know.

So, even though I believed I knew the truth; then, in the dark of the night, I agreed to his terms all the same.

He looks at me with those cold calculating green eyes of his, and smirks. "I thought you'd agree, Farfarello." He caresses my cheek like he fucking cares. I look up at him balefully... the damn bastard.

"Hmm. You're the one that agreed to do it all the same, Irres. Deal with the consequences."

With that, he pushes me roughly to the ground, sitting on my chest. His body pins mine in a way that I know I cannot break his hold on me. Does it matter? How much can one whore do to a man who feels no pain? He asked that himself, once.

"I wondered when you'd come to that thought, Irres. It's a logical one, isn't it?"

"What are you getting at, whore?"

"There are things you haven't felt. I don't know if you'd care about them or not, and chances are you'd care more about breaking some five-year-old's fucking rosary. But you intrigue me for that. Anyway, Crawford has been... a little less than cooperative. Even you have realized my... what did you call it... restlessness. You are about to relieve me of it, at least until that American manages to remove that stick from his pompous ass."

With that, he presses down with his groin. I can feel it. I'll be the first to admit that I've never had a damned chance to violate the seventh commandment. I'll be the first to say that it's really fucking hard to pin down some lily of an alter boy and fuck him until he renounces the Great Fucking Liar when you're kept in a straitjacket in a room as white as that damned child's soul. But I know what a fucking erection is when I feel it pressing against my chest with only some khakis on his part and a straitjacket on mine to separate. I have never known sexual pleasure, this is truth. However, there have been so many times where I have felt myself get hard, when tasting blood in my mouth or recalling the death-rattle of a guard's breath as I choked his worthless life away. Never have I done anything to remedy this.

Schuldich is the type who has had many, many remedies. Schuldich is a whore. I can smell it on him, we all can. Lust is his favorite sin, and he shows it with every movement. Never so prominently as now, though, as his body, tense and smelling so strongly of sin, presses me down.

"What will you do, Irres? I know you won't resist. You can't; you hate your God so much that some legendary rule has to be broken. So will you just lie there like some dead body? Will you struggle a little? Will you finally feel some pain? What will you do, madman? I don't really care what you end up doing, you know. But I will enjoy the game of finding out.

"I wonder... what you taste like."

With that, he bends his head down to bite my lips, hard. I can taste blood in my mouth, and I grow hard because of it. He laughs and jams his tongue deep in my mouth, lapping the blood for himself.

I know you aren't hard for me, Irres. If you were, I think I'd stop. Your pleasure means nothing to me, you lamb.

I fight against him now. He called me a lamb. I know what he means - he is insinuating, the whore, that I am a lamb of God, that I will follow that damned bastard Lord to the slaughterhouse where He kills us and feeds upon us and wraps His fucking self in the skins of everyone.

He laughs at me. It is the same, mocking laugh as always, slightly absorbed by the padding of the walls as he continues to press me down.

"Oh, calm down, little lamb. You'll do as I say. If you do, you'll be breaking another of your Lord's laws, and that is enough for you. Who cares if you're a lamb or not?"

Biting at his face, spitting at him, cursing... none of this does any good. He still straddles my torso, and smirks that sinner's smirk, and presses that hardness down against my abdomen. Finally, guarding my thoughts as I was trained to do, I stop. I may want to hurt him, but I know a lost cause when I see it, and trying to get out of his hold on me is one of them. However, if I stop struggling, he may let down his guard...

You forget, kleines Lamm, that I am a mindreader. Your little plans... like the little plans of everyone who thinks they're the greatest thing since sin itself... mean nothing against my kind. Your secrets are as open as your speech, Irres. This is a rule you'll have to come to terms with in this house. Oh, Crawford and Esset can train people with their little mind-guarding trickery, but I make it my priority never to let out the knowledge of how powerful I am.

With that, his mind pierces into mine, like the day I first met him. The guard, that I had supposedly mastered, is shattered. Everything disappears. Fragments. Laughter. Shadows shrinking and vanishing. White, white, white, white. Memories - a nun with bleeding hands - no, no, that never happened, never...



I pull through, my eye opening again (did it close? Or was that another shadow vanishing?) and looking up at him, his green eyes suddenly the only thing that matters, the only thing that ever mattered. God... God, the Liar, who is suddenly secondary. God, less of a mastermind than this German with hair wild like fire.

Schuldich - sin - I wonder... I wonder why, for the first time since I was the other I, I am afraid.

And his smile broadens as his head lowers to mine, and his tongue pierces my mouth like his mind had my mental block.

His fingers tear at my straitjacket's buckles, and he pulls it off and throws it aside.

I do not think to struggle. He has won. I can do the impossible: I will kill God. But to defy that grin... to ruin this opportunity of another beautiful sin against the Gilded Tyrant... that would be somehow more impossible than slaughtering Jesus and the Angels.

Mine. You were wrong, to think that every human was one of the flock of that Lord of yours. You, kleines Lamm, are not His, but Mine, and I'll make you remember it.

The words repeat, over and over, and after awhile... it's hard to know if I am thinking them, or he is sending them, and I realize that this could be disorienting to him, too, and I wonder if it is always this way, to him, if every thought could be his or mine or someone on the street and how could he know how could I know what the Hell is happening now...

I shivered. This... this was strange, this helplessness. Even in restraints, I can still pull an upper hand on any fuck who tries to mess with me, but this, this restraint and muddling of the mind... this is something that weakens me in a way that I can only be weakened by that Great Bastard or this devil crouching over me, his casual shirt (one of the ones that Crawford hates so much because it looks too much like a bowling shirt, but it has buttons, so he can't complain) being shrugged off his shoulders; he looks so much like an incubus that it takes my breath away. He leans over and bites my lips - I do nothing - and whispers something against them. I can barely hear it.

"Poor kleines Lamm. So confused, aren't we? Well, I don't intend to help. You see, I've waited long enough, and I need to fuck something. I'm not going to wait any more for your little introspective moments, virgin. I'm going to do what I came here for."

Schuldich is, unlike God, true to his word. He is also swift. He unbuttons his pants (which Crawford hates, because they're not slacks, but they're not jeans, so he can't complain) and pushes them down only enough to do, I realize, what he intends. He is hard. He is smirking. I give in.

He pulls my pants down only enough to do as he pleases, and spreads my legs. "It will be interesting to fuck someone who can't feel pain," he states, kneeling between my legs like I used to kneel on the pews of the church before the Father of Lies. And as I look up into those cynical green eyes, wondering where he stands between God and Satan and me, he thrusts in fully, without lubrication, without preamble.

I don't feel it. I haven't felt anything since he raped my mind. Raping my body means nothing - it has been through so much pain from everyone, including myself. My body is nothing to me. It is merely a vessel to bring the horror of earth up to that fucking pompous liar in the sky. But my mind... my mind is something I cannot defile myself. The last person to fuck with my mind was God, and then... then I was so young, and it was so long ago.

He laughs, his mind trailing my thoughts as they circle around like fucking angels with their damn flaming swords; his body thrusting powerfully and I wonder, will I never feel again, because this should be felt, shouldn't it?

It shocks me, because I wish to feel.

And, with his eternal smirk, Schuldich rushes through my mind, and breaks something, something deep inside where I never thought there was anything, and suddenly I can feel. Not the pain... that's the whole reason he wants me, to have someone to fuck that can't scream and make a fit when he shoves in without care... but I can feel everything else fully and understand it. And I don't want God to have it.

I want the pleasure.

And he laughs.

I start moaning as he bears down on something in me - physically, now, but the difference between my mind and body is scattered and gone - and he strokes me, and bites my lips, and he moans, too.

This is what I want you to feel. After all, if you don't feel the pleasure, then what will my powers be worth? Half the fun is your prey's feelings; you know that, don't you?

I flex my body against him, pressing back onto that warmth slamming into me like a knife into a fucking nun's heart.

I laugh, too. This is right. God is hurting, because I can feel the blood paving the way for his cock the entire time and I can feel that it should hurt, and I can feel that it's so good, just to let go by ripping at this slut's hair and biting him back... It is the ultimate sin. Better than death, I think.

I wonder how many times this guilty one has done this and how many times he's taken another's virginity. This is so strange and new to me, and that, I realize, may be just why he is doing it. Are a virgin's thoughts sweeter?

Does it matter?

And, of course, it doesn't matter at all. I am hurting God. He is finding his pleasure. He is showing me pleasure in its purest most defiling form. It is strange to feel so thankful as I do now.

It overwhelms me, these feelings. And, before I know what is happening, I feel that blood is no longer the only wetness between my thighs.

Schuldich rests upon me, his body a dead weight now that he's found his release. His cock is still deep in me; I savor the warmth of it, and move so it presses like it did before in me. He murmurs uncomfortably, and holds me still.

"Knock it off," he grumbles, voice sleepy. It's a few minutes before, with a wrenching move, he pulls out. I look up at him as he stands and pulls his pants back up.

"Well?" I ask. My voice surprises me - it's so breathless.

"Well, what? You want a fucking gold star?"

I shrug. "I just wondered if that is all there is to it."

"For you? Of course. There's nothing that'll hurt God more than you getting fucked without reciprocation," he says, smirking again.

I nod. For some reason, though, I still feel weak. Why?

"Ah, and... try not to stain the flooring too badly."

And I realize that it's blood loss.

Leaving through that door - that door with the bright hall-light flowing through it - he smiles, having read my thoughts.

"Don't worry. You wouldn't have liked the mission, anyway. Little Nagi can help me instead."

He leaves, and I am to tired to pull up my pants, too tired to complete myself, too tired to even wonder who the fuck Nagi is.

But I am never too tired to laugh at a weeping God, and so I do.

Part 5   |   Fanfiction