Part One

Ningengirai


Notes

Warning: eventually Rape! Language! Mutilation! Nun-bashing! Violence! M/M-Sex! Character death(s) in later parts! Fun for the whole family!

Has no spoilers and does not follow cannon.

Personal note: I don't know if Farfarello's codename really is 'Berserker'. I read it in a fic by Scarlet Fever, Gutter Glitter (if you haven't read that yet, DO!). If Scarlet invented it, my apologies for taking it.

All poems, one-liners and such that appear in this fic were made by ME! You steal, you die.

Notes for usage of German: I let my Schuldig use German profanity once in a while. You can fill in those words with any other English swearword, such as 'asshole', 'dickhead', 'son of a whore', etc. If I use a whole German sentence, the translation can be found at the end of the text.

Thankees: To Fitz, who, despite her dislike of a certain Irishman, beta'ed this for me. All remaining faults, as well as Evil Commas, are mine and mine alone.

C&C welcome, on or offline: NingengiraiKumo@gmx.net

On with Insanity


"So where did you find him? Psychos ' R 'Us?"

The voice sounded bored to the extent where one can tell the owner of said voice is going to get on one's nerves. Mixed with a slight undertone of teasing, it was one of those voices, honed by years of being obnoxious and a pain in the ass, usually paired with an either impish or downright contemptuously raised eyebrow, that set Crawford's teeth on edge faster than anything else could. Add to that the fact that said owner was not only beautiful, but also very sure of himself and thus not very easily intimidated by one of Crawford's trademark death glares-from-behind-glasses, both voice and owner made for everything Crawford had never wanted for a partner in crime.

But partners they were, for good or for worse. According to Crawford since Day One, worse.

"So?"

"Ireland."

"Could you be a bit more specific?"

"No."

The young man at Crawford's side sighed with the air of the long-time sufferer and shoved his hands into the pockets of his white, tailored overcoat. He might as well have been talking to a brick wall. A really thick brick wall, consistent of Bradley Jacob Crawford, handsome, American, stick-in-the-ass-wearing and overly serious leader of Schwarz. If one had asked Schuldig what Schwarz were, he would not have been able to answer them. Assassins? Yes. Bodyguards? That, too. Apart from that - nothing. They didn't exist, their slate long since wiped clean of birth certificates, identification cards and everything else that ties the normal Joe Smith to the material world. And yet, they existed. And yet, they walked around, sporting expensive clothes and Grade-A weapons, living in a high-tech glass tower in Tokyo. Schuldig had once joked that they might as well have been ghosts, and Crawford had not laughed.

But then, Crawford rarely laughed, or at least not when someone was watching him.

Man...Does this fucking corridor never end?

Schuldig felt ill at ease within the immaculate, bare walls of the asylum. The doctor walking before him and Crawford nearly blended in with all the whiteness around them, his coat stiff, stethoscope, meaty lips and blotted skin the only colour-giving points to his appearance. Schuldig did not like asylums, or any institution of the medical kind for that matter. All they did was housing shells, soulless shells long since dying or living an existence that was barely worth the time; being inside one brought back unpleasant memories - he had once been an occupant of all this harsh light and these endless corridors, too, back in a time that now seemed as distant as yesterday's love to him. Schuldig still remembered how he had screamed for them, screamed for all those who lived in worlds distant, bloody, or empty. How he had -

"Well, here it is. I trust you know that this individual is in the highest degree dangerous and should by no means be left unsupervised?"

Crawford smiled thinly at the bald doctor while he shook his hand. The thick wad of money that changed owners went unnoticed by anyone but Schuldig, but then the German was part of the plan. Plan. Schuldig almost laughed out loud.

Is it just imagination, or do you spend a lot of time in the loony bin?

His mind's voice reached Crawford effortlessly, trained to brush past the American's mental barriers. It was a kind of game between the two - Schuldig teased and taunted, slipping in when least welcome or least needed, and Crawford put up higher barriers, which only made the German try harder. Sometimes, it seemed as if Crawford enjoyed it, too. Not today.

Stay the hell out of my mind, Schu. Remember what I told you about him, and behave yourself. I don't want to pay yet another hospital bill for you.

You never paid any bills for me, Crawford

Just stop it, okay?

They were standing in front of a locked and bolted door of iron, with a small square, barely large enough to admit a grown man's hand, cut into it at eyelevel. The doctor who had brought them here eyed the door with a quirked eyebrow.

"He got out, once, you know. Killed seven inmates before we could get him back in here." Rubbing thick fingers over his chin, the doctor shook his head slowly, as if marvelling at something. From a quick dive into the man's mind, Schuldig knew that secretly, the good man regretted letting one of their prize possessions go. A frown passed over the German's face. His doctors had been thinking just the same as Crawford had come for him, buying him out of a German mental ward four years ago.

"I assure you, we will have no problems dealing with him." Crawford's voice held little emotion. He placed a hand into his pocket and brought out a blank plastic card. "I think you should leave us now, before anyone gets suspicious."

Again, the doctor nodded. "It might be better. Our dear Farfarello isn't, as one might say, very fond of me."

Images of thick fingers tracing barely healed scars and pulling them apart to touch the flesh that lay below, needles probing into arms and chest and genitals, and beyond it all lay the cold, emotionless curiosity of a man made god. Schuldig had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from snarling, once again a victim of emotions or images coming from someone else's dreams, someone else's past, someone else's story. It was over quickly, but it left a stale, bitter taste in his mouth.

"Hurensohn," the German whispered, meeting the doctor's quizzical stare with his own searing one. Crawford looked at him, Crawford knew him, Crawford knew his past, Crawford spoke again, and in the next moment, the good doctor was on his way down the corridor, fingering the money that would buy him enough cocaine to last another year or two in this madhouse.

"What's with you? Didn't know you cared so much for the insane."

"Shut up," Schuldig growled, fighting to keep his emotions under control. "You spend six months in a place like this and tell me people like that - that Drecksau of a doctor don't make you mad!"

Crawford did not reply; unlike Schuldig, he had no taste for poking around in other peoples' pasts. Instead, he drew the blank card through the slot of the electronic lock next to the door and punched in a code number. The light on top of the small metallic box blinked green, and a moment later the bolts on the door slid back with a cattish hiss. Entering another code, Crawford and Schuldig listened to the actual lock opening. One, three - seven locks.

Aside from his anger at the doctor and the asylum in itself, Schuldig was curios and agitated. He knew little about this Farfarello, and what Crawford had told him made for an interesting image. Supposedly, the Irishman had killed fifty-three people before they managed to arrest him, and that had only been possible after he had been shot in the stomach three times. During the time they had him imprisoned in Ireland, he had escaped five times, each time leaving authorities hard-pressed as to offer explanations how. Finally declared mentally insane and a public danger - they should have managed to sort this out earlier, fifty-three victims not counting the ones never found and all - he had been brought to St. Joseph's Institute for the Deranged, London, to be kept under lock and key for the rest of his as of yet young life.

How one could name an asylum after a saint was beyond Schuldig.

"Remember what I told you, Schu." Crawford pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I want you to check his mind as soon as we enter. Don't speak to him, don't tease him, and don't make me kick your ass. Blow him to hell as soon as he tries anything funny."

"I thought we were here to make him part of the party," Schuldig said, eyebrow raised.

"He will not do us any good if he constantly tries to kill us. I foresaw no trouble for this, but well, you never know what might happen. Just keep close tabs on him, all right? Make yourself comfortable in his mind. You'll be spending a lot of time together, anyway."

"You make that sound so desirable, it makes we want to puke."

"As long as you don't puke on me, suit yourself."

"That's not funny."

"It wasn't meant to be."

"What if I can't control him? I never really tried my powers on the truly insane." Schuldig rubbed his arms, feeling a sudden chill. He had closed his mind off to the inhabitants of the asylum before they entered, hoping to be out of here as quickly as possible. Still, he could hear them, knocking, softly knocking on the doors to his soul, demanding entrance.

The American stared at him for a long moment. "Let's get over with this." Crawford took a deep breath and pushed the door open. Darkness greeted them. Darkness, and a soft, heavily accented voice that seemed so very out of place in all this madness. Running his hand along the wall, Crawford found the light switch and turned on the light.

Sitting on a bed with his legs stretched out in front of him, his ankles, knees and upper thighs restrained by shackles, his upper body confined in a straight jacket, Farfarello said, "Welcome darling queen of pain, " and laughed.


Chaos. The touch of a mind so far beyond normal classification, twisted and bent out of shape until it resembled a painting of Bosch rather than anything 'sane', and Schuldig sagged against the wall behind him, taking a great, whooping breath, feeling the other man's thoughts crawl over him like gigantic ants.

There was a milky, disturbing light in all that chaos, drawing him in rather than holding him back, beckoning with a thousand voices and the promises of pain. Children's rhymes, the sound of church bells somewhere far off, and that low, gentle voice telling him that it would be all right, that it would not hurt him but only hurt God, that suffering was better than love because it was true, because it was pure, and not tainted, and with a mental twist and a loud gasp the telepath wrenched himself free of that voice and that mind and returned into his own and locked himself in there.

Crawford started with surprise, then groaned with annoyance as he saw Schuldig withdraw from the world around them, the German sinking onto his haunches with a catatonic stare. Wonderful. Nice time to have a blackout. Now he was stuck with a madman and one useless mind reader whose mind was currently on the fritz. The urge to just walk outside and slam the door was overwhelming, but the American beat it down. He had his orders, and he would follow them. If that meant throwing Schuldig over his shoulder and carry him, then he would do it, and make the German's life a hell later, when he was back to normal. What the hell had hit the telepath, anyway? Had he locked minds with the Irishman already?

Leaving Schuldig where he was for the moment, Crawford calmly walked over to Farfarello and stopped beside the bed.

"My name is Crawford. I am here to integrate you into a group called Schwarz."

Methodically, he began to unbuckle the Irishman's restraints.


American. Farfarello hated Americans. They mangled the English language, chewing it and spitting it out until everything sounded drawled and out of proportion. One of his doctors had been an American, before Farfarello had opened the man's ribcage with nothing but his teeth and fingers, learning that Americans screamed just as sweetly as any other human being.

Yes, when it came down to it, humans all sounded alike. Tasted alike. Died alike.

Watching with interest as the American Crawford undid the restraints around his legs, Farfarello turned the man's words over in his mind. Schwarz. German, for 'black'. It was one of the words he had memorized after reading a dictionary once, when they had still let him read.

Schwarz. It sounded interesting. That, and the option to get out of the straight jacket. And the cell. Yes, he had been here long enough; it was time to step back onto the right path. How was he supposed to enjoy the sound of screams - other than those of the insane around him - while locked away from the world?

"Are you not going to ask me questions?"

The American spoke slowly, measured, as if to a child. Farfarello did not like him.

"I guess you're going to tell me sooner or later. Told me enough already."

Instead as a hint to keep his mouth shut, Crawford seemed to take Farfarello's words as an invitation to bother him further with his terrible, terrible accent. Something about being someone's bodyguard, living in a far away land, being free. Farfarello quickly lost interest. He let his eye fall on the second of his visitors, the man with the amazingly orange-coloured hair. He was still in his crumbled position next to the door, slumped against the wall as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Farfarello did not put him at much older than twenty, twenty-two maybe. As he looked at him, life came back into the young man's slack face, slowly at first, then with determination. Staring back at Farfarello for a moment, he got to his feet, still leaning his weight against the wall, and rubbed both hands over his face. An easy, lying smile slid into place, masking whatever had brought him to his knees four minutes ago.

Snake with a smile, Farfarello thought, grinning inwardly. A deceiver, just as God was a deceiver.

"Well, hello there." The young man came to the other side of Farfarello's bed, hands causally stuffed into his pockets. "Seems they tied you up nice and tight, eh?"

"God seeks to restrain those who are uncomfortable to him," Farfarello answered, eye still locked with the other one's. He craned his neck slightly as Crawford undid the collar that kept the straight jacket attached to him, contemplating to bite off some fingers. But then, the redhead was more interesting.

"I am Schuldig," the redhead introduced himself. His English was nearly without accent, but he was not a native speaker. Schuldig. Another German word. Farfarello wanted a dictionary to look it up.

Crawford stepped away from the bed and let the straight jacket fall to the floor, useless now. Both he and Schuldig watched how Farfarello slowly stretched, first his arms, then his legs, then his entire body seemed to be pulled taught as string only to relax moments later. He was wearing the same one-size institution clothes all the other inmates wore, but it was clear to see that he had the body of a fighter. The rough white cloth, hanging shapelessly from Farfarello's limbs, did not conceal the grace of his movements as he rose from the bed in a slow yet fluid motion, standing on bare feet.

Standing, Farfarello was a little taller than Schuldig, and maybe half a head shorter than Crawford. Lithe of body yet undeniably muscular in a cattish way, the strangely dark honey-golden colour of his single eye added to the impression of his liking to the felidae. Actually, Schuldig thought, Farfarello was anything else but what he had expected to find. Crawford's description of the Irishman had left Schuldig with images of a snarling, frothing lunatic, ready to kill whatever breathed and moved in his nearer vicinity. In reality, everything about Farfarello seemed calm, soothing. Despite his somewhat severe appearance, what with that one golden eye and the close-cropped, white hair, he was rather -

See something you like? Crawford's voice interrupted his meandering thoughts and left the impression of smugness and annoyance fitted into one. We should get the hell out of here. Nagi will be wondering what happened to us

Yeah, yeah Schuldig sighed, blowing a strand of hair out of his eyes I swear, that kid is more and more becoming like you

And that is a bad thing?

He decided not to deign this with an answer and sent Crawford an image of an ice block with glasses. Crawford snorted and made an ushering motion with his hand. He stepped out of the cell, waiting for Farfarello and Schuldig to follow.

Farfarello was aware that some kind of interaction had happened between the two men. Their eyes had locked, but they had not said a word; still, whatever had happened had resulted in Crawford's walking to the door. Interesting.

"C'mon, let's get rolling before he has a cow," Schuldig muttered under his breath. He waited for Farfarello to move. When the Irishman remained motionless, the German sighed. If he didn't stop that, he thought, he was going sound like he had asthma. "What are you waiting for? Want me to hold your hand?"

Farfarello held out his hand. Schuldig sighed.

Crawford had a hard time not commenting.


Nagi Naoe rested his feet atop the dashboard of Crawford's overly expensive black Thunderbird, wishing he'd thought of bringing his laptop. Where were they? Walking in and bringing out a single person should not be that difficult a task.well, considering Crawford had let Schuldig tag along instead of Nagi, maybe it was. The German had a talent for messing things up, always ending up the winner one way or other. Being inside a loony bin should provide adequate entertainment for the nosy redhead; Schuldig liked to rape the minds of whomever he met, taking the information he wanted, seeing what he wanted to see - and sometimes, things he did not want to see, too -, leaving just when the poor devils were beginning to understand what was happening to them.

Nagi wished they were back in Tokyo. England was a nice country, with lots of nice people and lots of nice fog, but still, he missed the hectic bustle of day-to-day life in the Asian metropolis. Things were too orderly here. Everyone said 'Thank you, sir', and 'Have a good day, sir'. People actually waited when there was a cue. And, he had never seen so many black umbrellas in all his life, all sixteen years of it. He wanted to eat properly again, too. Sausages and beans? Only the English could have thought such a horrid thing up.

Motion in the rear-view mirror caught his attention. He took his feet off the dashboard, not feeling up to one of Crawford's rants about how expensive his car had been, and how he was supposed to get muddy footprints out of real silk. Sighing, the teenager turned around in the passenger seat, wondering how anyone could upholster their car with real silk, anyway. Must be an American thing.

When he saw the fourth member of their little cosy family walking down the gravel path that led to the institute's entrance doors, Nagi felt his jaw come unhinged. White hair! And what was he doing with - he was holding Schuldig's *hand?* He blinked, but the picture did not change. Yes, they were holding hands, as if people held hands any day. Well, surely they did, but not when one of those people was a mindreading sneaky son of a bastard and the other a total basket case who committed murder like other people ate chocolate: without abandon. Nagi felt laughter bubble up in his chest but managed to keep it down; the look on Schuldig's face telling everyone in a five-mile radius they were that close to death if they laughed.

Farfarello seemed not to notice their joined hands at all. Walking barefoot, ignoring the sharp gravel beneath the soles of his feet, he was looking at the trees that surrounded St. Joseph's, appearing like one who was taking a leisurely stroll in the afternoon instead of walking out of England's best-secured mental ward. The first thing Nagi noticed about the Irishman were his scars. They stood out vividly against the deathly pallor of his skin and the white of his hair; marking his face like claws mark prey. One of the scars passed from the Irishman's right ear up towards his left eye, wandering over his nose to disappear beneath the black eye patch that covered said eye. Another started at his lower lip, cleaving it, and ran down his chin. There were random others, some disappearing into the hem of the loose shirt the Irishman wore.

Nagi jumped as Crawford opened the driver's door and got in. He had been so captured by the madman's appearance he'd forgotten about the world around. Meeting the American's eyes, the Japanese youth made a nodding motion toward the pair that got into the back of the car, moving his hands so they clasped in his lap. Crawford grinned and rolled his eyes, signalling: later. The American threw a look into the rear-view mirror, shook his head a little, and started the car. As soon as they were on the road back to London Central, Nagi turned around in his seat, about to introduce himself to their newest addition. However, Schuldig was faster.

"Yes, Nagi, Farfarello has been holding my hand, in fact, he still is," Schuldig lifted their still-joined hands for emphasis. "And if I hear so much as a snort out of you, it's curtains!"

"Death hurts God, " Farfarello announced calmly, pulling Schuldig's hand back down to the seat between them.

"Yeah, well, whatever. Farfarello, this is Nagi Naoe, the fourth member of Schwarz. He's just a kid, so you can basically ignore him most of the time. Up yours, too, Naggels." Schuldig stuck his tongue out at the Japanese youth, reciprocating. "Anyway, he's also a big-ass telekinetic, so you'd better keep your hands off him or he'll blow you to kingdom come and back. Blow as in 'ouch'."

"Death makes God cry," came the same calm voice again.

Nagi found it unnerving to look into the Irishman's single eye. It was the colour of old gold, the pupil almost invisible, a pinpoint of darkness in a sea of light. Farfarello sat staring out at the passing landscape, unmoving like a statue carved from ivory and gold. He might have been made from snow. Next to him, Schuldig was an explosion of colours, red hair and green eyes, yellow bandana wrapped around his head to keep his hair from falling into his eyes. It was odd to see them holding hands - well, it was more Farfarello who was holding Schuldig's hand, ignoring the redhead's subtle tries at pulling away. The two of them were like polar opposites, one too bright, frozen, almost pristine, and the other seemingly bursting with life.

"We'll have to stop somewhere and get you clothes, Farfarello, "Crawford said from the front, his eyes studying the Irishman in the rear-view mirror. "We'll be leaving England for Japan tomorrow, which gives us plenty of time to do some shopping - no, Schu, don't say it."

Schuldig closed his mouth with an audible 'click'. He hated it when Crawford did that. The American's ability to see into the near future almost always managed to ruin each and every snide or sarcastic comment the German was about to make. And Crawford willingly spending money on something or someone other than himself was worth commenting, that was for sure. Well, another time. Schuldig made another attempt at extracting his fingers from the Irishman's strong grip and failed yet again. Well, he'd held other, far less desirable things in his hands in his life. Actually, holding hands with Farfarello wasn't that bad, once you got over the fear that the Irishman would use your hand to wrench your arm out of its socket and whack you over the head with it. His grip was strong and sure, his fingers long, elegant, the only thing marring them the half-moons of dirt under each short fingernail. Schuldig briefly wondered if it really was dirt, and not blood, left there after these fingers had dug into another human being's body and searched for the life inside.

The German looked at Crawford and Nagi, who were talking animatedly in the front seats. Both of their minds were what he considered 'normal', minds he read every day if he so chose and they did not block him out. They planned, they considered, they mused. They thought about living, and they thought about killing.

Farfarello's mind was a land filled with whispers and sighs, coloured white and red. He had not been prepared for such an onslaught, and had entered the cell with his mind wide open to anything coming from the Irishman. The barrage that had hit him like a ton of bricks had neatly razed his mental shields to the ground. Now that he knew what awaited him, Schuldig found it easier and easier to slip into the other man's thoughts and be part of them for a while, hiding his own presence among the multitudes of images that chased each other. It had been these images, distorted and bent out of proportion, which had assaulted him as he had stepped into the cell. He had not expected them to be so overwhelming. Having spent his own time of hell in an institute like St. Joseph's, Schuldig could say he had had his share of twisted minds and perverted ramblings.

Farfarello had outdone them all. His mind was not so much perverted or sick, as it was confusing; it seemed without order and yet so organised. Random thoughts, all centred on a black ball of burning hate for all things god-made. He could not discern a reason for that bone-deep hatred, but then Schuldig did not feel like digging too deep. He had the distinct impression that he would find out more about it than he had ever wanted to know very soon. After all, it was part of his job.

They passed Heathrow Airport and London's city borders, at once amid the hustle and bustle that made the European city so interesting to tourists. It was nothing compared to Tokyo's chaos, yet Schuldig regretted that they could not spend a few days; it had been some while since Crawford had allowed them free time to enjoy themselves. He looked at the Thames, running smooth and undisturbed, as she had been for a thousand, for a million years. Oily waters, calling waters, waters that promised peace and freedom from all the world's chaos. Drown in me. I'll put to sleep all your worries, all your pain. All I ask for is an embrace.

The German closed his eyes for a moment, his head sinking against the seat of the car. Sometimes, it felt as if even those drowned in rivers called to him, as if their presence refused to dwindle as their bodies had, bodies carried out to the ocean, generations of fish flowering from them. Sometimes, he felt like joining them.

The Thames vanished from his sight, giving way to Piccadilly Circus and The Strand. Crawford manoeuvred the Thunderbird into a line of traffic heading for the Charing Cross Hotel. Soon, the façade of the part old, part new hotel loomed into the sky before them. They parked the car in a little side street and walked to the hotel entrance, ignoring curios stares from what must have been tourists. Londoners themselves, used to the oddities of mankind in all its forms, paid little attention to the man with the white hair, who was holding hands with a distracted-looking redhead, or to the slight Japanese youth who talked to a tall man with glasses.

They entered Charing Cross, at once surrounded by pleasant warmth and an air of cultivated boredom. At the reception desk, Crawford turned to Schuldig, holding out a golden, shiny card.

"Here, you go buy clothes with him. I have an online-meeting with Taketori."

"What?" Schuldig sent the man at this side a glance. Farfarello seemed fascinated by the lustre chandelier above them, nearly bending backwards to look up. After what had happened in the cell, Schuldig would have loved to spend some time alone. "Why me?"

"Well, I obviously can't go, and Nagi must study for school. Make yourself useful once in a while." Crawford collected the key to his hotel suit and put it in his pocket. "What are you worried about?"

How about me being worried about him getting a little schizo and killing half of London?!

He won't do that. I've foreseen it

What if he decides to kill me instead?

Well, then I'll have to prowl the loony bins again, as you so adequately put it Aloud, Crawford sighed and said, "Just get going, Schu. Buy clothes. Buy - whatever he wants. Be back before tomorrow morning, and don't make me come to the police to bail you out."

The American slipped the credit card into the breast pocket of Schuldig's coat and turned away from them, entering the elevator Nagi held open. Before the doors closed, he caught one last glance at the odd pair standing in the reception hall, and smirked.

"Do you think that is wise?" Nagi's face held a small amount of concern. "Farfarello seems to be a wild card. Do you really trust Schu to keep him in check?"

"Nothing will happen, " Crawford assured his young partner. "Unless, of course, Schuldig decides to drag him into the nearest church and check out the nuns, that is."

"For a madman, he seems very calm to me."

"That he is. I've studied his profile." The elevator stopped and two other guests got on. Crawford switched to fluent Japanese. "Apparently, his insanity gets triggered by religious matters. He is reported to be almost complacent when not in one of his fits."

"Religious?" Nagi snickered, shaking his head. "Schu's the right person for him."


London. It had been some time since he had last been here. But, not much had changed. He hadn't expected it to. He could smell the Thames; smell her fish- and - rot odour that clung to the stones of the city itself like a shroud. Two of his victims had died in the river's arms, staring at him with wide-open eyes as they slowly descended to the muddy grounds, clothes and hair afloat around them like seaweed. So ethereal. So beautiful.

A tug on his arm. He looked at Schuldig, who was practically dragging him down the street, muttering to himself. About Crawford, no doubt. Farfarello let himself be dragged. There was too much to see, now that he was free at last of that cell, to not enjoy London's sights. The street beneath his bare feet felt pleasantly cool and alive, different from the disinfected linoleum of his cell. The air he breathed was humming with a thousand sounds, a thousand smells. God must have wept as he created London, filling her with life and love and hate.

God would weep again in time.

"Of all the stupid..." Schuldig angrily stomped down the street, internally wishing a certain black-haired American to hell and back. He'd been looking forward to an evening at a pub, not to an evening of shopping with a psycho. Yes, a nice, quiet evening in a dimly lit pub, with a large pint of ale right in front of him and a room full of strangers to feast on. Maybe, someone would have caught his attention, he'd have taken him, or her, to a nice little hotel suit, and then he would have had some fun with her, or him, and forgotten about the madhouse that passed for a certain Irishman's mind. And now? "Psychos' R' Us."

"What did you say?"

Farfarello's voice was so close to his ear all of a sudden that Schuldig nearly jumped out of his skin. He had pretty much forgotten about the attachment on his hand while ranting internally; now they stood side by side in the slow flow of humanity. Farfarello was looking at him expectantly, obviously wanting an answer.

"I was thinking about how I'd planned to spend the evening drinking, instead of getting you dressed." Hell, why not go for the truth once in a while. He was too angry to care, anyway.

"What speaks against drinking?"

"The fact that you are most likely going ballistic once I give you the chance."

The Irishman narrowed his eye. "Do you think you can hold me back? I know you're carrying a weapon under your coat. Will you get to it in time before I rip your throat out?"

Schuldig smirked. Looking around, he pulled the Irishman off the sidewalk, into the mouth of a small alley. There, he concentrated briefly, searching for the link with Farfarello's mind - and pushed. Farfarello gave a small start of surprise as a short, loud roar of voices exploded in his head and died down immediately. It was as if someone had suddenly amplified every sound around them - no, not every sound. Every thought. For one perfect moment, he had heard a million whispering voices in his head, a jumble of phrases and words, too jumbled to make anything of them.

"You try something stupid, like running away or pushing me off a bridge or something, and I'll fry your brain." The German fished a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket with his free hand and lit one, exhaling an unsteady ring of smoke that quickly dissipated in the cool air. "I don't need a gun to keep you in check. One false move, and you can kiss those remaining brainies of yours good-bye. Now, in the face of this being almost a holiday and your usefulness to Schwarz, don't make me do it, okay?"

"Is that what you are? A telepath?" Well, that certainly explained the wordless exchange between the German and Crawford earlier in the cell. "What is Crawford?"

"An oracle. He can see into the future, a little time at least." Another drag on the cigarette. "He foresaw you causing me no trouble, so you better stick to the premonition."

Farfarello laughed, a soft, chilling sound. "The future is constantly changing."

"So is my mind, and right now, I'm in the mood for not buying clothes. But, as I am also a good little teammate, I will help you in the crusade to get dressed. Maybe we can find some quiet place after that."

Farfarello grinned. "Yeah, a quiet 'pub' in the middle of London. I figured you'd more go for the dance thingy kind, or maybe the peepshow."

"Don't make me hurt you," Schuldig said, annoyed.

"You cannot hurt me."

Schuldig lifted an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"You cannot hurt my body. I feel no pain."

Schuldig lifted their still-joined hands and put his cigarette out on Farfarello's wrist. The Irishman did not even flinch. His gaze remained locked with the other's, unwavering even as the sweet smell of burnt flesh permeated the air for a moment.

"Amazing," Schuldig flicked the butt away and inspected the charred skin. "So that's why he chose you."

He expected Farfarello to ask him about Crawford's motive behind freeing him from St. Joseph's, but the Irishman was looking over his shoulder, at the street. A little boy was standing there, staring at them with wide eyes. Schuldig probed into Farfarello's mind and saw red, literally. He tightened his grip on the Irishman's hand, giving a sharp tug. "No."

Farfarello turned to him, single eye burning with a hunger that had not been there before. "Why not?" Gone was his complacency; gone was the calmness that had previously surrounded him like a halo. Instead, Schuldig looked into an eye that housed a truly mad spirit; looked at a body capable of killing. Instead, he looked at the beast that had slaughtered women and children and men, mowing them from the planes of life with a smile and a knife.

"We are to buy you clothes, remember?" Schuldig hissed. "Crawford is gonna ship us both straight back to that loony bin if we do something stupid now, and for once I agree with him."

The little boy stood there staring a moment longer, then ran away, probably after his parents. Schuldig breathed deeply, thankful for all deities that looked out for little boys and assassins with red hair. It would have been interesting to see Farfarello kill someone, for the German was curios about the Irishman's fighting techniques - if there were any -, but a little boy was hardly a worthy enemy, and besides, how was he supposed to get one blood-drenched individual past the reception desk at Charing Cross, or, more importantly, past Brad Crawford?

But the red blaze in Farfarello's mind had died away, leaving only emptiness and a dull looming anger.

"I want a knife," Farfarello announced, staring at the redhead. "If you won't let me have any fun, then I will have fun with myself."

"...all right," Schuldig hesitated, wondering what passed for 'having fun with myself'. "We'll buy you a knife."


Red.

From wall to wall, from ceiling to floor, red was all he could see. He stepped onto the plush carpet and heard it squish under his feet; the carpet was red, too, soaked with it, sucking at the soles of his boots as he walked further into the room, staring. It was all he could do: stare. Into the heart of madness, and it stared back at him with a golden eye, inviting, luring, soft and gentle and warm.

Red.

The bed was the epicentre of it; amid a sea of blood, it was the calm eye of the storm, the resting place. One step, two; he brought his hands down on the satin and he knew it was as wet as the rest of the room. Satin and gore - any other time, he would have found it amusing. Now, it disturbed him. Rattled, Schuldig stepped back, his eyes sweeping over the sheets and pillows. How much blood had it taken to cover the entire room? How many people had it taken to re-decorate?

"Fifty-three, and then some."

He nearly screamed, seeing the mouth on the bed open. No, not the mouth. A mouth, belonging to someone's head. Covered in blood as the rest, Schuldig had not seen the head lying amid the satin pillows, its eyes closed, its long hair drenched. If not for the absence of a body beneath its ragged stump of a neck, it could have been the head of someone lying beneath the sheets, slumbering, dreaming pleasant dreams.

"Fifty-three, and then some," the mouth repeated, and now the eyes were opening, milky marbles, unseeing. "My beautiful son, he put them here. My boy, my sweet and gentle child, I used to rock him at night and sing him to sleep."

He turned around. A dream. He was in a dream. It had happened before, usually after a night spent with too much drinking, too much fucking, or after an especially taxing mission. Where was the door? He had to get out of here before another part of him was lost; he had to stop dreaming and start waking, so he could forget about the dream. Where was the fucking door?

"You know what I sang to him? Do you?" The head called from its place on the bed, mouth now distorted into what might have been a soft smile once. "What all good mothers should sing to their children when they hold them at night! Rock-a-bye baby..."

He clasped his hands over his ears as the head started singing a crude version of the simple nursery rhyme, voice harsh and cracking, sounding like nails dragged over a chalkboard. Blindly, battling the rising panic that rose like bile in his throat, Schuldig made for the walls, prepared to feel his way along them for the door. He had to get out.

"...there's blood on the ground..."

He stumbled. And now he screamed, hands pushing out to stop his descend into the red carpet, into that carpet that suddenly seemed made of flesh instead of fibre, living flesh, pulsating flesh, blue veins crawling over oozing wounds like snakes and slugs.

"...there's demons and ghosts that hunt without sound..."

His arms sank into the living, breathing mass beneath him; at once, he was buried to the elbows. Madly fighting to get free, Schuldig choked on a scream as something wrapped around his ankles, pulling him further down.

"Rock-a-bye baby..."

Hands crawled up his legs like slimy spiders, liquid seeping through his pants, seeping into the pores of his skin, into the cleft of his buttocks as those hands reached his waist. He shook himself, vowing that he would not look. He would not look. He would not -

"...oh father, can you see?..."

"Schuldig?"

People have to look at things that terrify them, even if they are just dreams. Like lid-less eyes, we stare at the car crash, at the operation table, at the road kill. It is human nature to stare at what we should not want to behold, and maybe we do not really want to but have to, just like we have to pick at a healing wound.

"Schuldig! Hey!"

He turned his head and looked.

"...what was once locked now has been set free..."

A gigantic mouth yawned open before him, uneven rows of sharp teeth and a long-snakelike tongue curling over parched, blue lips. It was all he could see, and like a doe caught in headlights, Schuldig stared at the snapping jaws as they opened impossibly wide, as the foul breath reached his nose. There was a hole behind those teeth, all-consuming. And shadows. God, such shadows.

"SCHULDIG!"

Hands grasping his arms, and he screeched madly, kicking out, feet connecting with something that yielded with an audible sound of pain and a vile curse in English. There was darkness all around him, devouring. wait a moment. He opened his eyes. A pale yellow England sun made the shadows go away, but they held on to the corners of the room for a moment, hissing, leaving deep scratches in his composure. He realized he had tangled himself in his blanket during the night, the fabric sweat-soaked, constricting his mobility.

"You stupid fuck..."

Schuldig sat up, searching for the owner of the pain-filled voice. He found him in Brad Crawford, who was nestled into an ungraceful heap next to his bed, hands pressed over his crotch, his lips white and gasping for air, glasses lying next to him.

"What happened?"

"You kicked me, you ass! That's what happened!" Another wave of pain shut Crawford up. He rolled into a tight ball and moaned. Schuldig looked around. A hotel room. What hotel room? Ah, yes, they were still in London, so this must be his hotel room at the Charing Cross Hotel. Rubbing his eyes, he swept sweaty hair away from his brow, a chill running down his spine. What a fucked-up dream. He hadn't had a nightmare this bad in months!

Crawford guessed it was all right to sit up. Restraining himself from shooting the German as he saw that Schuldig did not even bother to look at him, he put his glasses back on. That was what you got when you tried to help people. Schuldig had screamed as though the hounds of hell were on his heels, and what did he do as soon as Brad tried to wake him? Fucking nearly castrated him.

"I am sure you won't have any trouble performing, Crawford." Haunted green eyes stared at Crawford, through Crawford. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, I'm sure you are." Groaning once again for good measure, Crawford stood on wobbly knees and then plopped onto the bed. He should have been mad at Schuldig for reading his thoughts first thing in the morning, but something about the German's rigid composure and empty stare worried him. Usually, Schuldig only withdrew that far into himself when he saw something really disturbing in someone's mind. A brief flash of Schuldig collapsing in Farfarello's cell made Crawford frown. "Bad dream? I heard you screaming."

"Something like that, yes."

He reached out a hand and put it on Schuldig's brow. It was slightly hot to the touch, but that might be due to the intensity of his dream.

"You're not going to fall ill now, are you? I need you to keep your mind on Farfarello."

Schuldig's usual mask of a face, consisting of a half-sneer, half-smile and contemptuously raised eyebrow, slid into place.

"Gee, you're so concerned about my well-being, it's nearly frightening. Besides, if I really were going to get a cold or something, you'd probably see it ahead of time and pump me full of antibiotics, anyway. Where's our psycho?"

"Having breakfast with Nagi. Why?"

Schuldig shook his head. He was not sure if he wanted to see the Irishman now. The dream still bothered him, and he felt like his head was going to explode any moment.

"Well, I'll see you in the dinner room." Crawford rose, eyes lingering on the redhead. Schuldig was frowning, staring at his folded hands as if he was seeing them for the first time. "Our plane leaves in three hours. Be ready. Oh, and just so you know - I've decided that we should stick to English when we're around Farfarello, at least until he's learned Japanese. Don't need him to feel left out."

All he got was a slow nod. It worried him.

Schuldig barely acknowledged Crawford, barely heard him close the door to his room. Three hours? He wanted a whole week off to clean up his mind. That dream had thoroughly rattled him to the core, leaving him as shaken as he had been before Crawford had hauled him out of the mental ward four years ago. Was he falling back into the old days?

He got out of bed and walked into the tiled bathroom, staring at his reflection in the mirror for a few minutes. His thoughts kept returning to that nightmare, and to Farfarello. Had Schuldig been so settled in the routine of being around only Nagi and Crawford that the addition of a third mind to his constant awareness had shaken him so much? Apart from the thing with the little boy, Farfarello had not caused Schuldig any problems. They had raided the stores of Camden Lock Market, buying black clothes by the armful. A little mind-fucking had done its job on a weapons store owner, who had then sold Schuldig seventeen knives that Farfarello insisted he needed. Afterwards, pacified by the fact that Farfarello had indeed not been a problem, Schuldig had steered them into a cosy, dark pub near Blackfriar's Bridge, where they had eaten something. Then they had gone home, Schuldig had locked the door to Farfarello's room, and soon afterwards, the redhead had fallen into a deep slumber.

Brushing his teeth, he turned the shower on and sat on the rim of the tub. Perhaps the dream had been a remnant of his mind's brief touch with the Irishman's? That sometimes happened to him - most peoples' minds were so dull and boring that an encounter with one that was different always 'shocked' him. Yes, that was it.

And still, as he took his shower, he could not help but flinch as the water ran between his buttocks.


A private airplane, owned by Taketori Enterprises, awaited them at Heathrow Airport, ready to take them back to Tokyo. They were to make one short stop in Rome, Italy, to pick up something for Taketori's daugher, Ouka. Schuldig had nearly wet his pants at the fit Brad had thrown - them, highly-skilled assassins, picking up packages for the idiot offspring of their boss! Personally, he did not mind. The package, most likely containing a fur coat, make-up or whatever else girls Ouka's age enjoyed, would be brought to the plane; they only had to take it in. A matter of mere minutes.

Schuldig sat with his feet propped up on the seat across him, staring out at the sky. Somewhere far below, there was the ocean. A little away from him sat Nagi, typing away at his laptop. Crawford and Farfarello sat side by side, talking. He looked at the sky again, hearing Crawford explain to the Irishman what his function in Schwarz would be. His name would be Berserker, at least while he was in the presence of Taketori or one of their assignments. Apart from performing the job as a bodyguard, Farfarello was basically expected to slaughter. Of the four of them, he had the disposition, and the taste for it. He would be the way-maker and the wave breaker, he would cause distraction or spread fear and loss while the others stole, kidnapped, or ransomed. In short - he would lead the life all psychopaths longed for. As long as he did what was expected of him, Taketori and Schwarz would cover his back and mend his wounds.

As Schuldig listened, he thought about his own past, and how he had come to be part of this mad little family. He still had not found out how Taketori had learned of him, or why he had been chosen to function in Schwarz. He had an authority allergy, he was loud-mouthed, disrespectful, obnoxious, and a chain smoker. When Crawford had come to him, he had also been anorexic, and an alcoholic. They had managed to clean him of the later two aspects of his personality, but not of the others. Instead of dulling him, being in a mental ward for six months after being put there by his family had made him aggressive. Instead of trying to 'forget' about his abilities, he had honed them, sharpening his mind-reading skills to a point where his victims could not feel it when he entered their minds or manipulated them. It did not always work with people who were aware of his talents or had too strong minds, but each and every weak individual on the planet was food for Schuldig's lusts.

When Crawford had turned up in his room out of the blue, the American had offered him ways to become even better, and actually be paid for it. He had grasped the opportunity with both hands. Sure, sometimes he hated being what he was, being under Taketori and Crawford's thumps like a dog trained to do his master's every bidding, but the fun he got out of it made up for every discomfort. He had tested his limits over time, and learned that he could pretty much do anything he wanted, as long as it didn't interfere with anything concerning Taketori or Schwarz.

A hand on his shoulder woke him. He was surprised to find that he had fallen asleep; normally, airplanes made him nauseous. Blinking his eyes, he looked up at Nagi, and then at Farfarello, who stood behind the teenager. For a moment, it was strange to see the Irishman dressed in normal clothes instead of his institute attire. Clothed in light-absorbing black from head to toe, Farfarello's appearance was even more startling, for the black brought out the pallor of his skin and the whiteness of his hair.

"What? Are we there already?"

Nagi shook his head, rolling his eyes. "We're in Rome, Schu. There is a problem with the package we are supposed to take on board for Taketori, something with the customs authorities. Crawford has gone to see it solved. Do you want to go for a short walk? We won't touch steady ground for the next twelve hours."

He blinked again, surprised. He had slept through a landing? Usually, he latched onto the nearest indestructible object and whined when it came to landing. Tossing his hair over his shoulders, Schuldig stretched and stood.

"Sure, why not. Might as well eat something."

They left the airplane and entered the airport. It was a small airport, stationed on the outskirts of Rome, accommodating mostly private flights. There were only a few people around, and they paid them no attention as they descended upon a snack bar like vultures, a little manipulation on Schuldig' s part making the vendor forget about asking for payment. Food in hand, they decided to take a stroll outside.

"Man, this stuff is good! Much better than sausages and beans." Nagi bit heartily, his hands nearly too small to hold the round sandwich he had bought. His eyes caught sight of a shop sign. "Hey, there's a newspaper shop. You guys wait a moment, okay? I need the latest issue of 'Hackers Online.'"

It was Schuldig's turn to roll his eyes. The kid was such a nerd when it came to computers. If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn that Nagi and his laptop had to be connected by an umbilical cord. And the only reason why the kid bought that stupid magazine was because they regularly published his articles.

When Nagi had disappeared into the shop, Schuldig turned to Farfarello. He noticed that the Irishman had not eaten a single bite of his sandwich, and was staring at something across the street. Following the stare, Schuldig saw a small church. Suddenly, he wasn't hungry anymore. As he watched, the door of the church opened, and a line of black-clad nuns filed out, bibles and rosaries in hand, all four of them smiling and chatting, enjoying the sunny afternoon.

Farfarello felt his heart leap. Nuns. The women, the wives of god. They, who had married God and offered up anything they possessed, even themselves. They, who served at the feet of the deceiver, whose barren wombs desired to house the infant Jesus, whose eyes and ears heard no evil, saw now evil, whose mouths spoke the lies with such devotion it made his stomach churn. He let the sandwich fall and stepped onto the street, watching their every move with a narrowed eye as they walked into a side street. A car passed him by, honking, but he paid no attention. The last of the black-clad figures vanished out of his sight.

Schuldig caught him by the elbow as Farfarello attempted to cross the street and follow the small procession of women. Worriedly, the German noticed a policeman a little down their side of the street, not yet looking at them. In a small café across the street, an old man was sitting at the window, thoughtfully drinking from a small cup, cigar burning between his fingers.

He forgot all about the cop and the old man as Farfarello turned to him, hand coming up to wind around Schuldig's wrist, his stare so deadly cold it made the German shiver.

"I think my date just turned up," was all the Irishman said.

"No," he whispered hastily. "Not here! Not in the middle of the day, in the middle of the fucking town! Crawford can be back any minute. He's - ah!"

Very deliberately, very slowly, Farfarello twisted Schuldig's wrist, fingernails digging into the soft skin where his veins lay close to the surface. He knew the German would let him go any moment. He frowned as he felt the first voices beginning to probe at his mind. As he was twisting, Schuldig was opening up his mind to him, the threat clear: do it, and I'll burn your brain.

Farfarello grinned, changing tactics. Suddenly, his nails were not cutting angry red half-moons into Schuldig's wrist anymore, suddenly he was close to Schuldig, staring into wide green eyes framed by thick lashes, and just as suddenly he pushed away from him and sprinted across the street, a wild cackling laugh trailing after him like a triumph banner.

Schuldig stood frozen. Farfarello had been so close to him... close enough that Schuldig had felt the Irishman's breath on his cheek, close enough for him to feel the other's determination. He cast a glance down the street, but the cop was gone, and the old man in the café was still drinking from his small cup with the cigar between his aged, wrinkled fingers, oblivious to the world around.

And Farfarello was running after the women who served god, ready to do some serving of his own.

And Crawford would kill them both.

"HEY!" Nagi's mouth dropped open as he stepped out of the shop, magazine under his arm, sandwich still clutched in his hands because he hadn't figured out yet how to hold it with one hand without making a mess out of his clothes. He could see Schuldig race across the street and into another, smaller one, that lay between a church and a restaurant on the other side.

Go distract Crawford any way you can!

He forgot about his sandwich. What? Why?

Just DO it, okay! Farfarello's lose!

Whatever else Schuldig was, he was also one of the few friends Nagi had. More often than not, they stuck together when it came to keep Brad Crawford from knowing too much, setting aside their harassing each other when it really mattered. This seemed to be one of the times it did matter.

Nagi dumped his sandwich into the nearest waist basket and went back into the airport hall, hoping to catch Crawford before the American caught Schuldig.


It wasn't a scream that stopped him dead in his tracks. It was a moan, a tiny, nearly inaudible moan that wafted from around the next corner. It was one of those sounds young dogs make, this half-whimpering mewl, when they are lonely and want attention. Schuldig took a deep breath. He had followed the Irishman down narrow streets that seemed to get only narrower the more they entered into the bowels of the small city. It was a wonder no one had yet opened their window and screamed at him in Italian, that wonderful language where a change in tone makes all the difference between a lover's whisper and an insult. But then again, maybe no one cared, or no one heard. They had raced down the streets in an awful silence, the only sound the staccato rhythm of their boots. He had expected screams, and wild laughter.

Instead, silence. Schuldig would have preferred screams.

He turned the corner and stopped yet again, staring, his mind blank. Red. Red was all he could see. Again.

Farfarello had followed the nuns, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. When the nuns had walked past a dead end alley's mouth, he had started with the last one, slitting her throat so quickly she didn't even have time to scream. The second and the third went that way as well.

He knew Schuldig was behind him somewhere, following him. The telepath was screaming into his mind, cursing him. Farfarello let him. He was busy, and the consequences he would suffer if he did not carry out his vow were nothing compared to what Schuldig or Crawford could make him suffer. The fourth nun, a tall woman with the wiry limbs of one used to hard work, turned as the third fell, her eyes widening in shock and disbelief. Before she could scream, Farfarello dug two fingers into her throat, paralysing her vocal cords and doing a fair amount of damage to her trachea. Bible and rosary fell as she stumbled back, grabbing at her throat, a croak escaping her. A strong hand clamped down on her mouth, silencing any further sounds; she was nearly lifted off her feet as a second hand grabbed the front of her robe and yanked her forward. For a moment, the Irishman and the nun pressed against each other like lovers. Then Farfarello put an arm around her waist and danced into the dead end alley with her, a smiling lover leading his maiden.

Schuldig slumped against the wall. His stomach heaved. Farfarello's back was turned to him, one of the Irishman's hands pressed over the mouth of the wildly flailing nun he held against the brick wall. His other hand was out of sight, but whatever he was doing caused the woman to squirm in a way Schuldig had never seen a human being squirm before. The other three nuns lay dead next to Schuldig, but he did not look at them.

Farfarello twisted his arm, and the body of the nun went from flailing to rigid in the blink of an eye.

Schuldig!

The telepath jumped as Crawford's voice thundered into his mind, sounding as pissed-off as he never had before.

W-what? He knows. He has seen this happening, and he's going to murder me as soon as I get back to the airplane.

What's the Italian for 'asshole'?

Farfarello drew his arm back and leaned closer to the nun, holding up something for her to look at. Blood was spreading beneath them, a dark, sinister pool that trickled between them, wetting the ground.

I don't know His mind's voice sounded dazed, he knew. He could not have cared less. Are you still in customs?

Hmph. Meet me at the plane in half an hour, I should be done by then. Schuldig? Something wrong?

He shook his head and then realised that Crawford could not see him. No. Feeling a little sick

You are going to a doctor as soon as we're back in Tokyo With that, the mental connection between them was broken off.

Farfarello let go of the nun's face, watching her slide along the wall until she lay on her side, eyes blankly staring now, a string of saliva hanging between her slack lips and his hand. He wiped it off on her habit, rising. As usual, he quickly lost interest once the object of his ire was dead. Looking at the wad of bleeding meat he held in his other hand, he gave a soft sigh of regret. They never lasted long enough for him to make them understand the importance of what he was doing to them. He turned his hand, let it hover over her corpse, and opened his fingers. Flesh to flesh, what once was yours I now return to you.

For you, my dear, the living. Leave for us the dead.

"Shit...Farf - "

He turned at the sound of his name and watched as Schuldig vomited onto the ground. Politely waiting until the redhead had emptied his stomach entirely and crawled away from the puddle, Farfarello rolled down his sleeve, concealing the blood that stuck to his arm and hand from the elbow down.

Shakily, Schuldig wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He could see her now, as she lay there dead, sagged to the dusty ground. Her wide, staring eyes, her curled fingers. Her habit dragged up around her waist, legs spread -

He gagged, but his stomach was painfully empty.

"She will never want to bear the Son of God again, " Farfarello said simply, stepping nearer to Schuldig. Schuldig looked up, arms slung around his middle. He was struck by the calm expression on the Irishman's face, a calmness that was underlain with.satisfaction? He found no other word for it. With a shudder, the telepath looked at Farfarello's hand. Red, as if he was wearing a glove.

Farfarello held out his red hand. "Go back to the plane? Crawford will be pissed if we're late."


Crawford wasn't pissed. In fact, he did not even pay them any intention as they entered the plane, Schuldig white as the wall, Farfarello sporting a bruise on his right cheekbone. No, Crawford wasn't pissed. He was fuming.

"Italian customs! Remind me to never set foot here again, all of you, should I ever develop the sudden urge to go on a vacation!" The American huffed, eyeing the parcel that set on a seat next to his with unfathomable anger and disgust. "Shoes! Can you believe that? We were sent here to pick up shoes for that infantile girl!"

Nagi kept nodding at the appropriate moments, but in reality, his eyes were glued to Schuldig and Farfarello. The German looked like someone who had seen a ghost, his movements lacking his usual grace as he plopped down in his seat by the window. Farfarello sat down next to him. It did not escape Nagi that Schuldig sent the Irishman a scorching glance and scooted away in his seat, nor did it escape him that there were wet spots on Farfarello's black jacket. They could have been water, but he knew they were not.

In that moment, Crawford realized the two were back. Turning to them, he pushed up his glasses, narrowing his eyes.

"Where were you? I was already thinking about reporting you as missing."

"We had fun sightseeing," Schuldig said flatly, staring out of the window. "They're pretty boring around here. Dead."

Farfarello chuckled low in his throat, and Crawford decided to let it rest. He gave the parcel another nasty glare and punched it. One day, he would kill Taketori, and stuff these shoes up his daughter's cunt. His mind occupied with pleasant images of what he would do to the old man and his daughter, Crawford failed to notice the haunted stare in Schu's eyes, or the fresh crimson under Farfarello's fingernails.

Farfarello trailed one finger over the bruise on his cheek. Schuldig had given that to him as he had held out his hand. Turning to the redhead, Farfarello noticed with amusement how Schuldig tried to scoot further away.

"Why are you so angry? I thought you were a tough, hard-boiled assassin. Does a little blood like that always make you that sick?"

A little blood? Damn you, Farfarello, you - The German's eyes were ablaze with anger and disgust. You ripped that woman apart!

So what? Farfarello asked into Schuldig's mind, trying if the connection worked both ways. Apparently, it did, for Schuldig slowly shook his head. I thought I was in here for killing people. Or am I not?

Killing your assignments, yes, but not murdering innocents in the middle of the city, where we can be caught anytime!

Farfarello's face darkened. Innocents? Nobody is innocent. Don't tell me you really care for those bitches.

And if I do? Will you kill me, too?

Farfarello snorted. He brought his face very close to the German's, lips nearly brushing skin. You're not innocent. I think you never were. And, I think you're more fun alive, so don't worry.

Is that how you measure people? Fun?

Sometimes.

God, you're sick! You -

A hand wound around Schuldig's wrist, painfully gripping. Instinctively, he made for the gun he carried in a shoulder holster, but then his eyes met Nagi's wide ones. The boy was staring at them with shock written across his features, silently shaking his head. Schuldig forced himself to look at Farfarello again and was nearly knocked out by the wave of hate that greeted him.

"Don't ever," the Irishman pressed out between thin lips, "mention my name in the same breath with god. I hate god. I will not have my name mentioned with his."

"I am that close, " Schuldig whispered back, holding two fingers of his free hand an inch apart, "to frying you in your seat, you sicko. You want to hurt god?" He gasped as the fingers tightened, but right now, he didn't care if Farfarello broke his wrist. "I can arrange for you to see him in person. Do you want me to do that?"

They stared at each other, neither of them giving an inch. Schuldig slowly began to lose feeling in his captured hand, Farfarello's fingers holding off the blood flow. He brushed his mind against Farfarello's and encountered darkness, and a beast lurking beyond the darkness. He shuddered to think that from now on, he would spend a lot of time with the Irishman, him being the only one of Schwarz who could kill with a thought and control minds. Now he began to understand why Crawford had chosen him to keep an eye on the Irishman. Being what he was, sooner or later he would find a way through the haze of the other man's mind, and if it was only to save his own ass. Sooner or later, he would begin to learn what made Farfarello tick. Call it a masochistic streak, but Schuldig knew that what had happened this afternoon would draw him even closer to Farfarello. And, he finally admitted to himself, he would even learn to enjoy it.

If there was one thing Schuldig was good at, then it was turning a bad table to his own favour.

But then, Crawford's plan hadn't worked out, had it? Schuldig was supposed to keep Farfarello in check, not watch him murder nuns. So far, the Irishman had been little impressed by the telepath's threats of cooking his brain. Schuldig doubted Farfarello really cared if he lived or died; he lived, but only because no one had killed him yet. How was he supposed to control someone who seemed not to care about dying, who only cared about bringing pain to others? He knew he could stop Farfarello by overloading his brain, but how many times could he do that before he seriously damaged something, before his meddling sent Farfarello further into his abyss of insanity?

"Do you like secrets, Schuldig?" Farfarello whispered, a grin spreading on his lips.

"What?"

"Secrets. Do you like them?"

"...yes."

"Then let's keep this afternoon a secret." The Irishman loosened his death grip on Schuldig's wrist, turning his hand palm up. Keeping his eyes locked with the others', he let his fingers crawl into the telepath's palm, tangling their fingers. "God hates secrets. Together, we can hurt God."

"...yes."


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