Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Coming Home ❯ 62 ( Chapter 62 )

62

 

Jeux sans frontieres…

 

It was always a bad thing when Farfarello obsessed over Nagi. Usually it was either the silent staring variety of obsession or the more overtly dangerous religious mania.

 

This was new.

 

My brain whirred at top speed, trying to decipher and defuse the situation. “Far, I'm trying to remember my notes,” I said, stalling for time. “Tell me what you know about Copenhagen.”

 

“The port, or the Esset facility?”

 

“The facility.” Tension settled into my arms and shoulders as I gripped the steering wheel. Until I understood what Far was talking about, I didn't dare commit to a destination. I focused on aiming vaguely north, but kept an eye open for detours that might buy me some time.

 

Far stared at the highway.

 

With a jolt I realized I didn't know if Far had ever been there before. I knew he'd been living on his own since running away from an asylum in England at the age of eleven. He'd wandered from the British Isles into France, and who knows where else, before being picked up by the Rosenkreuz “talent scouts”. He'd been fifteen, and on the edge of starvation. They'd lured him in with a sandwich.

 

“Farfarello?” I prompted, liking this silence almost less than the conversation. “Have you been to Copenhagen?”

 

“Only in movies,” he murmured. “The shoemaker. The mermaid. The ugly duck.” One hand rose to his own face as if to verify that it was, indeed, quite scarred. “Swans.”

 

I frowned to myself. Far was taking too many odd turns for my taste today. I shifted in my seat and was rewarded with a twinge from my offended buttock and a cramp in my left shoulder. Flexing my arm a bit, I reached for the radio. Maybe some music would help Farfarello sort his thoughts, or at least knock him out of his Danny Kaye musical for a while. Not really thinking about it, I dialed around until I heard something vaguely familiar, though I immediately decided it was a mistake. It was one of Far's favorite artists, and in his current state that could be either a good thing or a bad thing. I'd always found this song somewhere between unsettling and annoying. I decided to change the station before he noticed it.

 

Far spoke, and I paused, my hand hanging in mid-air. “No,” he stated flatly. “Turn the car around. We have to go to France.”

 

“But we've already done France, damn it! Twice!” If I had to drive through those green hills with a raving lunatic in the car one more time, I was going to need the straitjacket for myself. That creepy song wasn't helping; I reached to switch it off.

 

Far grabbed my hand and gently returned it to the steering wheel. “France,” he told me yet again.

 

“Just ten minutes ago you were all fired up about-” I stopped myself abruptly, not wanting to revisit the robot factory just yet. “Why the change?”

 

Farfarello sighed and leaned back in his seat. “Brad Crawford is in France.”

 

“What the fuck??”

 

He gave me one of those beatific smiles that usually scared the crap out of people and said, “This is Tuesday. Four-fifteen. Damn, I don't know how he does it, but he did it. Seers are touched by God, you know.” Far pointed at the radio. An echoing voice repeated “jeux sans frontieres” as it faded out. “France.”

 

A chill gripped the back of my neck like the hand of a ghoul. “Explain,” I grated, not looking at him.

 

“He knows I listen to Peter Gabriel. He told me we'd know when it was time to meet up again, and where to find them. How many times have we been in a car and not heard anything by Peter Gabriel? Or any of Crawford's usual music, for that matter? Yet today, Tuesday, at quarter past four, you turn on a radio and the song is just coming on. He's a Seer, all right. And a damn good one.”

 

“Fuck,” I breathed, not at all certain about this explanation but having nothing better to offer.

 

“Be thankful it wasn't the song about the monkey.”

 

I shuddered. Though I didn't know exactly what he meant, his tone was thick with foreboding. Drawing a deep breath, I asked, “So what's important about the day and the time, Far? Was that part of it?” I still half believed that this was only another random detour on the mental travels of a lunatic. If Brad had set a signal, why hadn't he told me about it? Besides, he'd never used his foreknowing quite like this; it was weird, even to me.

 

Farfarello only smiled.

 

“Son of a bitch,” I growled, searching for the next off-ramp. I tried in vain to estimate how long it would take us to get to France - numbers still didn't want to be my friends anymore. With growing frustration, I pointed at the glove box. “See if there's a map in there.”

 

Far reached into the glove box and produced a small travel book. It didn't look like it had the best maps, but it would have to do.

 

“See if you can figure out how long it'll take us, and tell me where exactly the fuck I'm going.”

 

“To the airport, of course.”

 

Not like there's only one airport in France, but I wasn't about to say that. Brad would probably go for the deGaulle, so I set my sights for Paris.

 

At least this France thing had gotten Far off the robots, but I would have to follow through on that eventually. I wasn't sure whether it would be better to talk about it before meeting up with the others, or if seeing Nagi in his agitated state would be a Farfarello disaster. Then again, there was no guarantee that talking things out would improve matters: Far was psychotic, not neurotic. His worldview changed for no man.

 

“Where are we now?” Far asked, his voice relaxing into softer rhythms.

 

I sighed and tried to remember the last road sign. As if on cue, another sign loomed ahead, and I squinted up at the two exits denoted there. Stark blue and white brought my life into sudden harsh focus. One exit would take me into France.

 

The other led to Amsterdam.

 

I felt like I'd just been punched. My throat tightened, daring me to speak. “I guess we're headed that way,” I whispered, taking the road to Paris.

 

When the radio station faded out, Far switched it off and we drove in silence. I tried to get my mind away from Japan, but it wasn't working too well. It had been months since I'd seen him; again I hadn't been able to really say goodbye before leaving. I wondered if he missed me.

 

With a silent snarl I reminded myself that this off-topic musing wasn't resolving anything about Far and his robots. Besides, how could I face Brad if I spent the drive daydreaming about Yohji? And face Brad I would - playing spy shit at the expense of his own second was really pissing me off. He needed to either trust me or ship me off to Kritiker. We had to get this sorted out or Schwarz would self-destruct.

 

“Okay, so we're on our way to an airport somewhere in France,” I stated, anger making my voice almost whiny. “Will you tell me what the fuck you were going on about, with the robots and shit?”

 

Farfarello regarded me with a calm and puzzled expression. “You already know, why are you asking me?”

 

I could have gone to Amsterdam, put Far on a bus to France, and sent Yohji a plane ticket… Count to ten, count to ten… “I'm asking you,” I purred, the anger nowhere near gone, “because I'm trying to concentrate on driving. So will you please just humor me?”

 

“Copenhagen trains the Nagis,” Far stated in his most patronizing tone. “The ones who can move things with their minds.”

 

“Telekinetics,” I murmured, just to verify that we were, in fact, on the same page.

 

“And other psychokinetics, anything but the pyros,” Far confirmed. “Esset wants more Nagis, they know he's powerful. They hunger for his talent. If they can't force other recruits to manifest that kind of power, they're going to try to instill it in them. It's only a matter of time.”

 

“So, Far,” I ventured, “why a robot?”

 

“He acts like one. That's why they think he's perfect. That's why they want him. If they can train the others to act like he does, Esset will think they're perfect, but they'll be mistaken. Only God is perfect.” He frowned then, as if his words had tasted foul on his tongue. “Only God is perfect, but Nagi has the power of the angels in him. Did he make his own power? Or did Esset put it into him? Does Esset hold the power of God?”

 

Ah, shit. “I don't know, Far.” Carefully neutral answers were my only option now. This was familiar territory, and it was fraught with peril. “I don't think they hold that kind of power. If they did, they'd have found us already.”

 

“He parted the waters, and brought forth the Beast,” Far murmured in a low monotone. “But I don't know for certain if he was made by God or by Man. If he was made by God, then I don't know his purpose. But if he was made by Man…” His voice trailed off again and he returned to staring out his window.

 

I tried to stay calm. In this state, the madman could damn near smell fear. He'd been going after Nagi since the start, with occasionally bloody results. Once he had marked the kid, carved a fucking cross on his back. Another time he had cut his own hands, a sort of assisted stigmata, and smeared the blood on Nagi's face as a benediction. There was some weird dynamic between the two of them, but fuck if I could figure it out. This new commentary didn't help. If Far was trying to decipher the origin of Nagi's power, it could lead to all sorts of interesting and disastrous conclusions.

 

“Four,” came the whisper from my passenger. “There shall be four. One with a bow. One with a sword. One with the balance. And one with all of Hell at his back.” He turned and looked at me, his single eye gleaming. “The question remains, which four?”

 

Oh, no. I wasn't about to get into that discussion. Even robot-land was safer. “With the exception of Copenhagen, did we hit all our stops on this little scenic tour? I'll have to let Brad know how it all went. Not like we can get our film developed anywhere, but maybe he's been taking classes on how to do that in a fuel-stop bathroom.”

 

Far regarded me with a thoughtful expression on his face. “Every place except Denmark,” he confirmed. “Where are we going now?”

 

I resisted the urge to slam my head against the dashboard. “France, remember? We're looking for Crawford and Nagi.” The name was out of my mouth before I realized it, and I cringed, hoping it wouldn't set him off again.

 

But Farfarello merely nodded. “Ah, yes. Jeux sans frontieres. Esset is fond of those, don't you think?”

 

With a mental sigh I accepted his momentary return to reason. “Too fond,” I murmured. “It's the only game they know.”

 

The conversation faded out like the radio, so we switched that off as well. We travelled in silence until fatigue forced me to stop. I made Far promise to stay close and keep watch while I slept a little.

 

My dreams weren't good.

 

 

A/N:

 

Jeux sans frontieres…

 

“Games Without Frontiers” - Peter Gabriel Melt. This quote translates as the title, and the fact that it is French seems quite important to Farfarello. The song is at once a condemnation of the pettiness of war, and a recognition that hostilities aren't likely to cease anytime soon. In a way, it could be interpreted as a call-to-arms for those seeking to break the cycle of power of Esset.

 

This chapter, perhaps more than any of the ones before it, shows just how disjointed Farfarello's mental processes can get. He has a set view of the world that mixes a literal application of the Bible with random scientific and philosophical tidbits. Though he usually manages to blend them into a comforting whole, there are times that they clash and he has to decide which is more correct. Situations that make him debate his own worldview are perilous to those around him, for one wrong observation might send him into a killing frenzy.

 

“There shall be four. One with a bow. One with a sword. One with the balance. And one with all of Hell at his back.” - “…and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer… And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword… and lo a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand… And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.” (The Bible, King James Version. Revelation, 6.2-8)

 

“The question remains, which four?” - Good question, Far…good question.