Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Demon Angelic- rewrite ❯ Chapter 6 ( Chapter 6 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

CHAPTER 6

I remembered gaining consciousness hours later, and being utterly alone in my room, even the mangled bracelet that Farfarello had given me was gone. I was hazy on the details for the most part, except that I had nearly killed Schuldig because of an impulse that I was not wholly certain had been my own, and Farfarello I had refused to accept by force.

Perhaps worst of all was the memory that had surfaced. Smudged against the backdrop of a flaming grove, it is forever free to plague me. I make no secret of what I have become, but I am fearful that my inner barrier between the atrocities I commit and the hopes which I try to hold to has been irreparably damaged. I have never relied on semantics to shore me up even in the darkest of hours. I am bloodied and cruel. I have shamed my family to survive in a world that sucks my goodness to the marrow. I don't have the courage to leave it behind. I'm not even sure I deserve that release.

Earth shattering realization and morbid introspection aside, I talked to Nagi the day after and learned that I had taken down every power grid for several blocks, even the back up generators. He had given me a rueful grin and thanked me for not burning the house to a cinder, before informing me that I owed him a new computer. He is also convinced that my affinity for electricity goes beyond being able to generate and channel electrical currents. I might actually be able to create an electromagnetic field strong enough to span over great distances. If so, my natural "inclination" enables me to readily generate a type of weapons technology that scientists are just now beginning to dabble in.

Although interesting, the most pressing topic on both our minds was salvaging the fledgling bond that we had been cultivating. He had apologized for trying to take advantage of me, although he really had done very little in that department. I don't feel betrayed by him or the Irish, just disappointed. Then again, being a Yakuza, I had been well versed in verbal subterfuge, manipulation and power games through years of being cast the pawn. But I was one of the few who survived, battered and beaten though I may be. Disappointment is for the weak, and I am not ready to be bowed just yet. I knew on some level that we would have to play the game, so I forgave him, doesn't mean I am fool enough to blindly trust him though. I still visit with him into the wee hours of the morning to avoid being alone, my musings tend to take a turn for the morose most times lately. To tell the truth, I am more comfortable in the presence of these four men than anywhere else I have ever been, save in the arms of my lost family.

However, I still have a problem with prolonged physical contact, but I am slowly getting used to the causal touches that Schuldig and Nagi seem to so enjoy lavishing on me. Our leader keeps a leery distance, as though I am something dirty-- he is not mistaken, but the implication, whether intentional or not, does not help my mood.

Besides blasting open several forgotten doors in my memory, that night three weeks ago earned me some limited freedoms. I miss the little pleasures: the heat of the unfiltered sun on my face, the endless blue of the noon sky, the sweet scent of unprocessed air and the illusion that I have an innate human right to enjoy those things. However, my weapons were returned to me thanks to the general consensus that stab wounds are easier to deal with than brain damage. I will take what I can get. I missed the dance, the melding of flesh and steel. It is far preferable to the sickening heat of the bloodthirsty thing that hides within me. It scares me to know that I might not be alone in my own body and mind. It makes me wonder how Schuldig lives, mind like a revolving door to whatever personality in the vicinity is strongest. I hear him talking in tongues some nights and it frightens me, more so even than Farfarello. I try not to think about their personal quirks too often or too deeply.

Besides going to the gym and shooting range, I am now occasionally allowed to accompany Crawford on guard duty at the Takatori Towers. The job sucks, but it is better than hanging around home all day and listening to the German bitch about the first degree burns I don't even remember giving him. Lucky for him, most of the damage healed without scarring. I myself was not so lucky or perhaps unlucky depending on how you choose to look at it. I have a perfect imprint of Farf's teeth on my shoulder. The bruising has finally gone away, but I will wear his mark to my grave. And if he doesn't let up a little during training, I may have a few more to go with it. He has been a real bastard the last few weeks, saying very little to me since that night, and when he does choose to speak only scathing remarks and trite insults pass his lips. It seems like he gets no greater pleasure than when he can cause me pain of any sort.

Speaking of pain, it sounds like a literal cat fight is coming from the washroom. I am almost afraid to guess what he is doing in there. I balance my heaping hamper on my hip and grip the knob, steeling myself with a deep breath. Throwing the door back, I burst in to see the white-haired loony trying to shove what at first glance appeared to be decent imitation of the Tasmanian devil into the dryer. “What the hell are you doing?” I bellowed at the shirtless boy who had the nerve to look at me like an innocent child caught at play.

I plopped my load down by the door, snagging a dirty towel and rushed over to the liberate the poor ginger colored kitten that was scratching and hissing with all its might at the brute that intended to put it through the wrinkle free cycle at high heat. “Are you crazy or something?” The smug smirk that oozed its way onto the scene reminded me to whom I was talking. “Give me that!” I held the towel out for the still whirling hurricane and waited impatiently for him to comply.

“Make. Me. Yakuza,” each word dripped with venom.

“Make? Make you? You sick bastard that is a living thing that has just as much right to walk this planet for the duration of its short, meaningless little life as you do. Give me that, you cycloptic maniac!” I made a grab for the kitten only to find myself wrapping the towel around Farfarello's bare chest while the wriggling bundle of fur and fangs continued its tirade dangling in a one-handed grip above my head.

The other hand sunk into my hair, tangling painfully and yanking my head back to ensure that he had my undivided attention. “Is tha' all ya cun du?”

“Give. Me. That. Kitten.” I met his gaze unflinchingly even as his smirk broadened and the inevitable happened-- he dropped it right in the middle of my chest. The slicing sting of claws down the center of my torso caused me to bite my lip. The poor little animal ripped cloth and flesh indiscriminately as it clambered for purchase. Prying the frightened beast from the shredded rags of my favorite silk tank, I deposited it on top of the dryer and grabbed the wrist that was still partially shielded by my hair. Instead of trying to remove it, I used it as a point of balance, stepped forward and drove my knee as hard as I could into the cat hater's groin. He might not feel pain, but there was no way he could ignore a shot like that. He staggered back a step, loosing his hold on my hair.

Feeling bold, I clamped onto his wrist with all my strength and circled around behind him, fashioning his own arm into a sort of collar. Using the height difference to my advantage, I tucked my legs under me and let gravity do the rest. He landed on top of me in a temporarily disjointed heap. On the ground, I tightened the strangle hold and wrapped my legs around his body pinning his other arm. “Now that I have your attention, there is one thing I have been dying to ask you,” I spoke softly, letting my sarcastic tone caress the shell of his ear, “Why do you insist on torturing me? As I recall, I have done nothing to you.” Well, except for the fact that I was prepared to kill you… “Yet, you seem to delight in causing me pain?”

He snorted and shifted minutely in my grip. I tightened my legs around his leather encased thighs to remind him who held the upper hand, “New hobby.”

“I think you do it to hide,” I hissed indignantly, catching sight of the kitten who was watching the whole proceedings with wary curiosity from the safety of its perch. My captive's back stiffened reflexively as he flipped in my grip, shoving me to the floor with his readjusted weight and pinning my arms between our bodies. So much for the upper hand, I thought as the back of my skull connected with the textured tile blurring my vision for vital seconds. That was going to leave a mark.

When my sight finally swam back into full focus, the face dominating my field of vision was blank save for the delicate webwork of lines that appeared around the corners of his eyes, indicating agitation, “Shows wha' ya know, girl.”

“I think some part of you is afraid of me…” I was playing a dangerous game with him and I had a sinking feeling that I was about to lose. The crush of his greater weight was starting to cut off my air supply, while an undesired heat started to well in the pit of my stomach and marched outward into my immobilized limbs. I was only beginning to learn how to use my power, and it didn't always heed my commands. Just to think that there was something that powerful, lurking in me was enough to unnerve. The idea that it could use and influence me, terrified.

His face pushed closer to mine, hot breath smelling of mint was spat down at me across the lessening distance, “Ah'm naught afraid of ya.”

“Maybe you should be… I scare myself sometimes.”

The look on his face was odd-- somewhere between feigned indifference and confusion.

I allowed some of the energy to trickle over to him. Not enough to be uncomfortable, but enough to alleviate some of the accumulation. I had figured out that a slow, steady release at near non-existent amperes helped me maintain control.

“You two really should get a room,” Schuldig leered suggestively down at us from the doorway, before sashaying around our piled heap and snagging the kitten. I was so enrapt by Farfarello that I had only registered the approaching footsteps as a distant annoyance. The Irishman turned to snarl what I surmised to be a Gaelic obscenity at the non-pulsed German before scowling back down at me.

Still unimpressed, Schuldig jabbed again, “So, who got the pussy?” The German grinned slyly at his own lame innuendo while running his tapered fingers through the marbled orange fur.

“Stray that Nagi found,” the clipped reply was spoken without inflection as the white-haired boy lifted himself on defined arms to perch on top of the closed washer. He stared down at me as though he could drill a hole through me with his menacing gaze.

“Speaking of Nagi, the brat forgot the term paper he has due sixth period. I have to take it to him, so who wants to come with?” Schuldig smiled down at me, pulling my eyes away from the seething gargoyle, and only then did I realize I was still flat on my back in a shirt that now was completely ruined.

::Rough morning?::

::Bite me.:: I was in no mood for his comments. “I want to go; it's been awhile since I've been out in the world,” I answered, using my abs to lift myself into a sitting position before pushing to my feet. I noticed then that Schuldig was fingering something around the kitten's neck.

“Better change your shirt, don't you think? Wouldn't want the schoolboys to get distracted, would you?”

He sent a projection of my appearance, homely except for the obvious sign that I had recently been hurt. I don't know how a bloodied, tattered shirt would pose such a distraction, but I definitely agreed about changing.

:: Take your gift with you.::

::Huh?:: I reached out to take the kitten, even as I nodded in ascent to his question and shot him a quizzical quirk of brow.

::The fleabag is from Nagi because you seem to be lonely while he is away… the collar is from your kage. An apology of sorts.::

I rubbed my hand over the scruff of the kitten's neck and felt the reverberations of its now contented purr coursing through the etched band. I hid my smile behind a curtain of hair as I rushed from the washroom, carrying my precious cargo. My new pet's collar was the now reformed wristband that had disappeared after the tryst with mayhem and memory.

As soon as I was in my room, I unfastened the band from around the amber-eyed kitten's tiny neck and returned it to its place on my left arm. “I guess he isn't such a complete jerk after all, huh kitty?” I scratched the underside of its chin and it melted, draping itself over the crook of my right arm. “Now, what should I call you?” I was amused when it rolled over on its back to expose its white belly. “You're a girl… so, how about Asha?” A creaky mewling noise was its response. “I think it's a fine name… not Japanese, but still fitting.” I smiled down at her, rubbed one more languid stroke along her stomach and lowered her to my bed. Time to disinfect these scratches and change, can't keep Nagi waiting all day for his homework.

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Both boys had stared after her when she left cradling the kitten, but the telepath didn't waste any time in firing off at the mouth, “If you keep this up, she might actually get the impression that you like her… for more than an after dinner snack.” Schuldig had been rather amused by the fact that the stoic boy had gone so far as to mark the girl not once, but twice. The bracelet was removable, easily denied, but the scar she carried could never be erased. The amusing part was the boy had done it purely subconsciously. He would never admit to himself or anyone else that that had been his purpose.

“It'd be a mistake on her part. One she just might naught live through,” the half-dressed youth retorted as he slid gracefully from his seat. “Ah was just returnin' somethin' tha' belongs ta her anyway.”

“How long do you intend to hide from her?” The red-head's smirk was surprisingly affectionate as he took in the twitching nerve beneath the leather patch covering the right eye. ::Don't lie, or I'll know::

“Stay out of muh head.” Farfarello projected a barrage of images featuring various consequences that the interloper could face if the warning was ignored. One of them included a lump of gray matter being strangled into mush by ghostly white fingers.

The other shivered as the possibilities spanned across time and space to make him reel for purchase.

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Farfarello left the lanky youth clutching the edge of the dryer and fighting to keep his feet. It had been a long time before he realized he could use the telepath's intrusions to his advantage, but knowledge once acquired came in handy on occasion. The business with the girl is none of the nosy bastard's concern; he seethed as he mounted the stairs and stalked to his room to get a shirt.

She had an uncanny knack of putting him on the defensive. What was even worse was that she pitied him, underestimated him, and he could not forgive her for it. Nor could he forgive her for disappointing him.

Over the last couple of weeks, she had rapidly improved on the shooting range, in close quarters unarmed combat and in the use of her electrokinesis. But as her viable skills improved, the part of her personality that had first drawn his attention had begun to wan and fade from a desperate vivacity to a guttering ember; like a shadow had fallen over her. The shift in moods would not have been so tragic, if it had left Nagi unaffected. Amazingly enough, the events of that night had forged a stronger bond between the incubus and his prey. She had forgiven Nagi his transgressions and even confided the fact that, to her way of thinking, they were all pawns thrust toward the fruition of other people's hollow ambitions. It was the most jaded admission he had yet heard her utter and it seemed to herald her decline.

As it was now, Nagi spent an ample amount of his time outside of school and Schwarz affairs trying to revive the girl. He would have been squirming with hysterical laughter if he had seen the display that Farfarello had provoked in the washroom-- that was the girl they had stolen into worldly death. That was the person the boy missed; the gutsy, preachy, self-righteous bitch that would endure no matter what was thrown her way. The timid shell they had been living with over the last couple of weeks was eating away at his Japanese teammate, and it was pissing him off. Next time he bit her, he was determined to tear her damn throat out.

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Nagi felt his ears burning as if someone were thinking about him. He hoped desperately that it was Hikari… she and the others should be arriving sometime before the end of his survey to cultural arts class in order to deliver his “forgotten” term paper.

In reality, he had planned the entire delivery with Schuldig. It seemed that the Japanese teen was not the only occupant of Schwarz house that was alarmed by the sudden jaded comments and aggressive, but mechanical training sessions that characterized the girl's behavior. Whatever the experience weeks ago had revealed to her had stripped away a vital part of her outward persona-- tarnished the glittering exterior and dimmed the inner fire that had once blinded them to the truth of her fragile innocence. That had been their goal all along, but it seemed a tragic lose now that the damage was done. Forcing carefully suppressed memories to the fore had broken something inside of her.

Her guilt had existed all along, but only as an abstract hurt-- too many sins to pin down the most damning and too effective a mental failsafe to cull the demons. According to Schuldig, guilt and self-doubt were festering sores in her psyche. Nagi would have found the comparison laughable if it didn't seem to be so apt. Besides, who in their outfit didn't have a past that was spattered with blood, shit and tears, why should she have to be any different? It didn't change the fact that she was a survivor, that somewhere along the way she had seared her way into his heart or that she had chipped Farfarello's apathetic veneer. The Irish madman was becoming more volatile as time went by. It was not uncommon for him to challenge the green-eyed, Japanese girl for no reason other than that she lived.

He supposed pain was as much an affirmation of life as anything, but Nagi himself chose a more nurturing approach. Long talks, late night chess tournaments, companionable naps sprawled in a warm pool of sunlight on her bedroom floor, assistance harnessing her blossoming ability and now the addition of a sixth member to the house. The boy found it encouraging that Farfarello would help him in his plans to ensure she received the gift. He just hoped that the pills his messenger had taken that morning weren't metabolized before the kitten was delivered. If so, it was anyone's guess as to how many pieces the poor little thing might end up in. Perhaps, he should have left it with Schuldig instead, but he needed to forge a bond between the two wary parties. It would make life so much more pleasant for everyone and fieldwork, when it arose, would run more smoothly.

The blue-eyed Japanese youth allowed an apparition of a smile to ghost across his ruddy lips as he put a few finishing swipes of orange across his burning landscape. For this particular assignment, he had chosen to render one of his more favored memories-- a Milan sunset viewed from the bell tower of a famous cathedral. He had stood looking out over the cityscape with Crawford-san and Schuldig beside him, several dead bodies littering the ground below the tower, a sign of the successful completion of their mission. The sight of the buildings awash in varied hues and intensities of red, yellow and orange had been the most tragically beautiful sight the then ten-year-old child had ever seen; he had actually wept as the blazing globe had met the horizon and slowly bled its essence away. Funny how that the simple things in life could affect a soul.

The simple joys and trails- affirmations of life- were the deciding factors in healing the soul. Too bad Crawford, who had been so attuned to that fact with Nagi, seemed oblivious as to the girl's decline. He kept her under lock and key at all times, denying her freedom to an obsessive degree. Nagi felt sorry for her, she was not even allowed to take a stroll by herself and enjoy the full rays of the sun or lie on her back in the park to cloud gaze. Good thing for her that his education had always been a point of concern for Crawford, he was determined that Nagi get the best schooling possible. He was forever after him about his grades and often times made it a point to sit down with the boy to inquire about the current course of study. There was no way that he could object to her “saving” Nagi's grade by bringing him a three hundred and fifty point term paper and being coerced to enjoy a few hours out in the sun because the German decided to indulge in an iced coffee park side. Of course, now that he thought about it, Crawford had been very lenient on punishments where she was concerned. Amazingly, she had gotten by with only a lecture after nearly killing Schuldig.

“Very nice use of shading to bring out the contours of those buildings, Nagi-kun,” the instructor was saying as he leaned in over the distracted boy's shoulder to peer more closely at the canvas. “Interesting blend of colors too. The only suggestion I would make is that you give more depth to the shadows here,” the broad, blunt fingers hovered above the lower right corner of the canvas, “to indicate the elevated perspective of your `viewers'' vantage point.” The same fingers swept upward and to the left to indicate the indistinct outlines that surveyed the glowing landscape from the alcove of the bell tower.

“Hai, Auimata-sensei,” Nagi replied as he tilted his head to the side to take the man in.

Auimata Shindo was one of his reoccurring wet dreams. He was unusually tall for a pure-blood Japanese at 5'11” but the other stigmas of his heritage were pedigree enough. His almond shaped eyes were narrowed by genetics; the irises a brown so rich that in the absence of direct light, they appeared onyx. The skin was a warm olive tone, left smooth and ageless by the same genes that perched his piercing eyes atop high, flat cheekbones and rounded the tip of his broad, nearly bridgeless nose. His face was a draw, but his broad shoulders, muscular forearms, narrow waist and solid lower extremities were the real attraction. The man was a physical Adonis and intelligent as well.

A ripple of pleasure traveled through the boy as the older man gave him a dazzling smile and clapped him on the back, before wandering off to conference with another student. In some ways, Auimata-sensei reminded him of Crawford-san…

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The sun feels so good and the tangle of thousands of unseen fingers teasing my hair into a veritable cyclone of sable whipcords is relaxing. I sighed into the onrushing wind as I nestled my shoulders deeper into the gray leather upholstery of the back seat of Schuldig's red BMW convertible. We were racing down the highway at break-neck speed and the blur of buildings was shaded lavender by the tint on my rectangular lensed, black wire rimmed sunglasses. I was mesmerized by the shifting intensity of the hues as the scenery cascaded by. It was nice to be able to lose myself in the mindless onslaught of stimulus- road noise, German metal blaring above the howl of the gale, Schu's growling accompaniment, the smell of petrol and sun-baked rubber, the inconstant pressure of the wind massaging the flesh of my face and neck above the high collar of the Mandarin outer- shirt that cut off just above my ankles. My mind was empty and my soul quiet if only for a while.

The cool brush of metal across the top of my wrist as I shifted to recline at length on the bench seat drew my gaze and coaxed a smile from the lethargic muscles at the corners of my mouth. I was out of practice, I supposed-- hadn't been much call to smile lately. But today had yielded an unexpected bounty of simple pleasures: Asha, getting to see Nagi in the middle of the day, uninhibited sunlight and a roller coaster ride in a droptop. The best gift of all had been the bracelet… once misshapen, but newly reformed, if a bit dulled by its recent bloodbath. It seems rather symbolic when I consider it more carefully. I closed my eyes against an increased onslaught of sunlight and fingered the silver band idly.

I heard the groan of the tires change as the speeding bullet edged onto the exit ramp and made its final descent into the calmer sector of Tokyo where private residences and shops were in equal proportion. I didn't bother to look around, I had been in this area often enough to know the layout fairly well. Respectable, middle class homes and small groceries or luxury stores with upstairs apartments to shelter their owners were satellites to a scenic park overlooking a small manmade pond. It was a relatively peaceful atmosphere except for the occasional schoolyard tussle that spilled out from the gates of Ju-Dan High School and onto the greenway. The school was only a few blocks past one of the teen hotspots of this area, a small florists shop called the Kitty in the House. I had never been there myself, but some of the other young women at the Yakuza compound had commented on the exotic fare the establishment boasted.

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The silent sentinel in the front passenger seat had a death grip on Nagi's term paper, and was trying his utmost to ignore the yowling noise that the German crackpot was spouting with such gusto. When they passed the Head quarters of the Weiss, his head turned slowly to take in the unassuming storefront. As Schwarz existed in shadows and anonymity, Weiss thrived in the light of the bustling public domain. The florist shop put an innocent face on four of the city's predators- vigilante killers whose lives' missions were to deny the dark beasts their tomorrow. To ensure a safer world for all the unassuming peons that sat back and accepted reality at its current face value.

The four assassins in Kritiker's employ were merely human. They had no special abilities to boost their performance or ensure their success. They were a joke compared to Schwarz really, but Crawford found them amusing and therefore allowed them to exist in their territory for the time being. The arrangement suited Farfarello-- the lunatic inside him reveled in the uncertainty that he provoked in his enemies. His scarred exterior and the cackling roil that heralded his battle dementia unnerved the clawed brunette- his Weiss counterpart Hidaka Ken. Perhaps it was because the eighteen year old crossed the line into insanity when he killed, and the Irish was a tangible reminder of that slip. The youngest kitten was absolutely terrified of him. The blonde archer Tskyiono Omi was a walking contradiction, very much like the girl and even Nagi in some ways. Capable of normalcy, but denied the opportunity through a morose twist of fate's spool. He smiled cheerily and lied with every curve of his lips, but the falsehood never truly reached his pale, blue eyes; never alleviated the world weariness born of self-sacrifice. The two older assassins regarded the Berserker with a mixture of disdainful wariness and guarded indifference.

The sudden appearance of Nagi's school caused him to blink. The three story building was a dull gray in color and displayed a total lack of architectural ingenuity as most educational institutions did. The building consisted of four hallways arranged in the configuration of a hollowed cube- the most interesting thing about the place was the central courtyard where he would wait. His appearance, he had learned through experience, tended to startle most of Nagi's peers, which was in and of itself gratifying on some level, but it seemed to upset his friend. Why he really didn't understand, but the boy was overly defensive when it came to any perceived ill-treatment he might receive. He found the gesture amusing-- had his egregious reception truly bothered him, he would have removed their eyes and silenced their wagging tongues with the tip of his poniard. But, he thought Nagi might disapprove of the wholesale mutilation of his schoolmates. The boy could be such a killjoy.

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“We're here…” Schuldig's nasal baritone announced as he shoved the car into park and opened his door.

The girl appeared to have been nearly asleep in the back; her hair was a mass of wind-spun strands that formed an extravagant web across the fine woven cotton of her top. She had chosen a short-sleeved, red, fitted tunic that hit at the ankles and split up both sides from hem to hip to reveal a pair of skin tight black leggings and black slip-on shoes. The ensemble was simple but displayed her svelte body and accentuated her womanly curvature.

“Are the two of you coming?” He didn't wait for a reply, just pushed the door to and prowled toward the intellectual mecca before him. He knew full well that Farfarello would wait in the courtyard he had been staring at since they pulled in and that Hikari would likely be most pleased to wait with him in the sun dappled shade. She really has paled considerably over the last month, he mused as he shouldered the front door open and went to sign-in with the dumpy, young secretary that seemed unable to select a single hair color.

The woman was a shameless flirt with her brightly rouged lips, overstated eye make-up and low plunging necklines. Schuldig was sure that high school boys and male administrators appreciated the blatant display of décolletage, but he himself preferred the thrill of discovery. As expected the, now orange-haired, bimbo had spied him on one of the many cameras installed to ensure student safety and was preening in wait for his arrival. Losing the customary smirk for once, the fiery-haired German pushed his sunglasses up to rest over his ever-present bandana, a physical representation of his mental shields, and smiled indulgently at the little twit as he ambled into the office, making a line for the visitor's roster. Unfortunately, the pen was conspicuously absent.

“Well, hello, Schuldig-san, it's been a while!” she really did have a nerve-grating voice- markedly low-class with a provincial twang that marked her as a fairly recent transplant to the big city of Tokyo.

He glanced at the name plate on her cluttered desk before replying, “It has, Kasumi-chan.” The less formal honorific brought out a dimple on one of her fleshy cheeks. “Would you have a pen, by any chance?”

“Why yes I would…” She rummaged around one of the bottom drawers in the desk, bending much lower than needed and finally emerged with a ball point pen. “And here you go.”

“Arigatou.” He gave a shallow dip of his head and then signed his name with a flourish before returning the pen and nancing from the room to the sound of the girl's disheartened “until later.” At least she hadn't tried to speak German with him again. He absolutely detested the pitiful garble she made of his native tongue. Very few Japanese could reproduce the growling gait of the East German dialect with any success— but, surprisingly enough the Yakuza raised assassin was one of those. She had condemned him to hell prettily enough.

Schuldig, though an infrequent visitor to Ju-Dan, was familiar enough with the building that he easily located the art studio on the second floor, and if memory hadn't been an adequate guide, the smell of oil paint and turpentine and the hushed strains of classical music wafting out the door were a decent signpost. He knocked staunchly on the doorframe and waited to be acknowledged. He rarely used his gift inside the building incase there were other sensitives among the collage of faculty, staff and students. It was rare to find another telepath about in the general melee of daily life, but it happened occasionally.

The sensei, Auimata, slid the shoji back and stepped into the hallway. Schuldig had gleaned images of the man from Nagi's private musings late at night when he thought the rest of the house slept, but they didn't do him justice. He was pretty in a masculine sense-- finely chiseled, distinctly Japanese features framed by short, poker-straight black hair. He was a few inches shorter than the German, but what's a few inches in the horizontal position-- the young man smirked to himself before greeting the sensei in paint splattered Khakis and rolled shirt sleeves.

“Good afternoon, sensei,” he bowed from the shoulders up before continuing, “I am here to speak with Nagi-kun in the courtyard.”

“And who might you be, sir?” The man regarded him evenly, keeping his body firmly planted in the doorway.

“I'm a guardian; Schuldig is my name.” He gave his most winning smile, marred only slightly by the sharpness of his canines.

“Schuldig-san.”

Interesting the man actually pronounced it as it's meant to be spoken. “Yes, may I speak with the boy? I have a few matters to discuss with him and a term paper to deliver…”

“You may speak with him, but try to keep the meeting brief,” he sidled out of the doorway. “Nagi-kun,” he spoke the boy's name softly and motioned toward the door. The aspiring artist had already stored his supplies and removed his smock, having heard the knock. He had known all along that it was Schu come to fetch him to the courtyard as planned. Auimata-sensei stopped him at the door with a glance.

“You may go to the courtyard, but you only have six minutes. I will be checking in on you from here. Do not be late in returning.”

“Hai, sensei,” Nagi replied obediently, bowing solemnly before making a break for the door. He slid the panel closed behind him and headed for the exit with little more than a nod in his liberator's direction.

“Hai, sensei…” the mocking jest received a sigh from the Japanese teen, but didn't slow him in his trek for the stairs.

“You will make a fine, lackey someday, bishounen.”

“Enough of that, I only have six minutes and I really do need that paper. I left my copy in Crawford-san's car this morning.” Besides, I want to find out if the kitten survived… he added silently.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The sparsely shaded courtyard was arrayed in the early hues of autumn and the ground was littered with the first sloughing of summer's passing foliage as the October winds beguiled the fallen brethren to dance in a whirling frenzy. The fleeting cyclones drew a thin smile across my lips; I remembered fall days spent waltzing with the leaves and pursuing drifting Sakura petals on their way to break the surface tension of the Koi pool. If only life were so simple again…

My silent companion sighed audibly. He was fidgeting with the stack of crinkling papers in his hands as if he were nervous. Not a first in my experience with the bedeviled Irish, but certainly a rare state to catch him in. He seemed much younger, less menacing when he was uncertain. I supposed the setting had him on edge-- he was markedly out of place among the natural kaleidoscope of colors that drew attention to the pale features and hair that rode above the monochrome black he usually sported. I suppose it must be hard for him, he doesn't really blend in anywhere. The rest of us, Schuldig included, could disappear into a crowd and draw only a few glares from those we jostled, but Farfarello is unique. Beautiful and terrible in his own duality. I hadn't realized I was staring until I heard him speak quietly in English, “Wha' duh ya want?”

“Oh, sorry, my mind was wandering…” I glanced away only to have my gaze drawn back to the self same spot.

“Well, ya better keep a tighter hold on it. It's too wee to go about on its own.” He never cracked a smile. I don't even know if he realized the comment was humorous and not hurtful. Guess it didn't really matter, I grinned for the both of us.

The crunching of leaves and skittering of loose pebbles stilled Farfarello's twitching hands and drew my attention to the two sprightly figures that were making their way into the shifting shade. Nagi walked quickly, smiling firmly at the gaijin at my side before stopping a foot or so away to face us. “Hello,” he said turning his smile to me, “how has everyone's morning been?”

I suppressed a laugh at the thought of Asha pawing up at me from the bed as I dressed. “It has been full of pleasant surprises. Arigatou for the kitten, Nagi.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

He noticed the wristband when she bowed in expression of her gratitude. The fifteen year old had known that Farfarello had pried the thing from her wrist, misshapen and stained with his own blood, but he thought the older boy would have repaired the band and kept it for himself. He wondered if the girl understood the possible implications of the gift. Did Farfarello for that matter? He would have to find out, later.

“I'm glad you liked it.” And got it in one piece, he left off in deference to Farf's feelings. “I hate to cut this short, but my teacher is timing me. I have a history exam to study for later. Maybe you could help me?” He didn't really need help, but it gave him an excuse to be near her.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Sure. If you like, I'll make dinner tonight so you can get a head start,” I offered as he clapped Farfarello on the shoulder and retrieved his slightly mangled paper from the boy who hadn't said a word the entire time.

“You're an angel,” Nagi grinned toothily at me, and I couldn't help but smile. He was generally such a reserved guy that when he did something so animated, it was adorable. The feel of warm fingers caressing my cheek. He was smiling his usual genteel curve of lips as he brushed a stray strand of hair from my face, letting his fingertips trail up my cheek, behind my ear and along my neck before casting the thin tendril off into the waiting mass. “That's what I've been missing.” I didn't believe the angel bit for a second, but it was reassuring to know that my smile still held some value.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The view of the courtyard from the art studio window was blessedly unobstructed or Auimata might have missed the opportunity of a lifetime. The girl with Nagi was a vision. She was about the boy's height, but smaller- finer boned. She was dressed in a traditional Mandarin tunic of crimson that helped to bring out what he assumed were natural mahogany hi-lites in her wavy, dark hair and the porcelain-beige tone of her skin. Her face was angular with a sharp chin, almost fox-like but delicately proportioned features saved it from being sinister or openly cunning.

The smile she gave his student was hesitant, perhaps little used, but heart-felt. Her eyes were covered by thin framed sunshades. Her posture and the way she moved when the small group dispersed spoke of the physical surety of a dyed-in -the wool predator, a Yakuza no doubt. Her's was a fierce beauty, tempered by a guarded spirit. He had to have her-- what a fine portrait she would make. He never thought the job he had taken at Ju-Dan would be so simplistic or profitable.

When Nagi finally stepped through the door, Auimata took his time in approaching the teen that busied himself, stuffing his term paper in the satchel at his feet and resuming the critique of his piece. Occasionally, he would add a stroke or two to one area of the canvas or another, but overall the boy seemed satisfied with the composition. It was a rather well rendered sunset. After the third circuit around the room, he finally halted beside the brunette's easel. “Nagi, the girl that was with you in the courtyard…” he waited until the blue eyes were focused on him before continuing, “is she a dragon or a tiger?”

The boy look confused. “She is older than me, by a few years, but I'm not familiar enough with the zodiac to answer knowledgably.” Best to play it off like he had no idea what sensei meant- anyone affiliate with a gang, whether directly or by knowledge, met with zero tolerance.

Auimata smiled indulgently, he knew the boy was savvier than that but decided to let that particular issue rest. “She is very attractive from an artist's stand point.” From anyone's I would imagine, he smirked ruefully at the teen's blankening expression. “Do you know where I could contact her? I'm interested in procuring a model for the art club's first major project and I think she would pose a challenging presentation.”

“Hikari-kun would never agree,” Nagi mused aloud to himself more in answer to the instructor.

So Hikari is her name. “I would be willing to pay her generously for her time.”

“She works… giving private dance lessons; it keeps her pretty busy. Besides, I don't think our guardian would allow it.”

“So, you two live together?”

“Yes, sir,” the reply was hesitant; perhaps he was giving more information than he ought. “We have the same guardian.”

“Interesting.” The passing bell clamored loudly outside the doorway, signaling the official close of fifth period. “I would like to consult your guardian on the matter. But would you be so kind as to speak to…”

“Hikari-chan,” Nagi supplied.

“Hikari-san about my offer. Ten dollars an hour in exchange for allowing other people to admire her,” he smiled proprietarily down at the boy.

“Hai, sensei,” was the obediently muttered response.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

As the three of us were walking to the car, Schuldig made a big production of disentangling his red tinted shades from his unruly mane and shoving them up the bridge of his pointed nose in order to read the face of his watch. “We have two hours to kill before Naggles is free for the day, and I'm in the mood for something sweet.” His flippant grin made me uneasy. :: You think me such a cad.::

“If the shoe fits,” I replied aloud, casting a resigned look over the open top of the car as I climbed in on the passenger's side. I liked the long tunic, but it tended to get tangled about my legs easily. Have to remember that when dressing for guard duty. “So, what did you have in mind?” I decided the seat belt would be a good idea this time, especially if Schu had succumbed to one of his cravings. The one time he had run out of cigarettes had been a near apocalyptic experience, not one I was wont to repeat anytime in the foreseeable future.

“Iced coffee… parkside.”

Farfarello's only comment was a steely glare articulated with a grunted “hnn.” Protest, of sorts, duly logged, off we went. Driving fifty miles an hour in a residential area found us in front of a neighborhood café in less than five minutes and a rather complicated barrage of choices regarding the selection of designer coffee kept us occupied for another ten or fifteen. Farfarello gave up on the whole proceedings when Schu changed his order for the fourth time in under three minutes. He selected a bottle of juice, paid his bill and took a seat at one of the booths near the window to wait sullenly. After the sixth order change, I followed his example. I began to wonder if it was all just a game to the telepath-- see how pissed you can make the shop keepers and then eat their rage like candy. Seemed like an entertainment that would whet his malicious palate, probably more robust than the coffee too.

After what seemed like hours of steadily rising tempers on the part of the java clerk and feigned indecision from Schu, who ended up ordering the same thing he had initially requested to go, we were finally crossing the street to the park. The place was mostly empty near the waterfront, except for a few college couples and some parents with small infants or toddlers. The read-head checked the closest bench for goose refuse before plopping down to enjoy his iced mocha with a shot of vanilla and sprinkled cinnamon. Why he wore white dress slacks and that tight green pea coat instead of jeans and a comfortable shirt is beyond me, I mused as I moved toward the railing that kept park patrons from sliding into the foamy layer of goose slime that constituted the outer perimeter of the pond. I stared down into the ick, pointedly ignoring the glaring shadow annoyingly close behind me. Pay back for letting my mind wander earlier I supposed. I had been dealing with my captivity surprisingly well the past month, but now that I was out in the open, freedom at my fingertips, I was suffocating under the idle scrutiny of my two companions.

“Schuldig?” I turned enough to look him in the face, but never released my one-handed hold on the paint-flaked railing, “Could I go for a walk… by myself?”

“No, Crawford's orders,” he replied around the straw he was steadily slurping through.

“Since when have you ever cared about his orders?”

He hiked his shoulder nonchalantly and continued to drink.

“I just want to go over there! Right behind that grove of trees…”

Schuldig shook his head no, not even bothering to follow the direction of my pointed finger. Farfarello was watching us with one eyebrow cocked, leaning his back against the railing, both elbows hooked loosely over the top rung for balance.

I stepped away from the edge of the pond and angled to face both of them. I schooled my features and voice into overtures of contempt, “Between the two of you, there is no way I could escape if that's what you're worried about. Besides, where the hell would I go? I have no place to run-- you all saw to that when you killed me.” The look on Schuldig's face telegraphed his shock, the Irish's pale eyebrow was lost beneath his habitually disheveled bangs.

::You ungrateful, little minx. After all we've done for you today.:: The narrowed gray-green slits glittered menacingly from beneath blazing bangs.

::One day does not make up for keeping me a prisoner- no matter how well I am treated.::

::Prisoner? You're allowed out…::

::To work with Crawford, to shoot at the range with you, to train with the team, to go everywhere under guard!::

::What does it matter-- out is out?::

::Trust matters!::

The relaxing of his expression told me that I had shocked him for the second time in less than five minutes. I was on a roll.

::It may be more than any of us deserves, but it does matter. The security system at the house was down for two days… not once did I try to escape.::

::You knew?::

::I was the one who fried the system, or did you miss that newsflash?::

The set of his jaw hardened as the tip of the straw was flattened between clenching teeth and his eyes narrowed once again.

“I'm not as naïve or unobservant as you want to believe,” I answered aloud incase our silent observer was missing part of the mental exchange. “None of you truly trusts me. Perhaps you're wise not to. I still have no intention of actively aiding your Eszet, but that's a moot point. I have no where else to go because you and your kind will find me wherever I am. At least in Schwarz, I have some idea of where I stand.”

“Let her go.”

The shock registered on my face before I could stop it.

Farfarello was staring off into the sky over the pond; he had obviously gotten bored with my plight for space somewhere along the way. “If she runs, Ah'll bring her back. Canna make any promises as to condition though,” his voice was distant as if he were miles from our shared reality.

I didn't waste another second, just bolted for the tightly clustered trees without a backward glance and disappeared into the cool darkness of a stand of maples.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Schuldig was on his feet, half empty coffee splattered across the ground, caught in a rare moment of indecision. To give chase or to place his trust in Farfarello's ability to return the girl alive should she decide to escape? Crawford would kill him if he let anything happen to her, but the look on her face when the Irish had come to her defense in his own round about way had been enough to make him hesitate. He supposed of all of them, Farfarello was most likely to sympathize with her situation. He had gone from armed supervision at the nuthatch to electronic surveillance and a veritable cocktail of neurological suppressants via Eszet.

The German telepath knew from first hand experience how brutal institutionalization could be-- having spent the first eleven years of his life in and out of mental wards in East Berlin. He had been labeled schizophrenic, because the truth was too unbelievable. After that he had been cast to the streets and turned to drugs and prostitution to drown the tidal wave of voices that clawed their way into his every living moment. Eszet had saved him, dried him out and used his hatred to create the ruthless Mastermind he was today. In comparison, the girl had it relatively easy-- a few lousy years with the Yakuza and then being placed under lock and key with Eszet. Besides, trust was overrated.

The one-eyed youth was still staring transfixed into the sky, looking at goodness only knew what. “Is she gone?” The voice was a raspy whisper when it hit Schu's ears, drawing him from his thoughts.

“Ja,” he replied, stalking toward the other figure. “What was that all about?”

“I like to hunt.” His mouth was set in a grim slash- devoid of the manic glee that would have usually accompanied the assertion. The boy was neck deep in trouble and sinking fast; the amusing thing was that the lunatic apparently had no clue what was happening.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I darted between the trunks of the young grove, careful not to snag my feet in any of the unearthed roots. The slender rays of sunlight filtering through the shadowed canopy called to me, sped me along at a breath taking pace to pitch me into blinding sunlight as the waist-thick trunks and sweeping branches gave way to open fields. I stopped to catch my breath and allow my eyes to adjust to the brightness when a black disk hovered into view. Perhaps, hovered was not the right word for it since the thing was descending rather quickly. I reacted out of instinct, thrust the hem of my shirt out of the way and sprang into the air, connecting with an aerial round kick that sent the soccer ball jetting back the opposite direction. And right into its approaching owner's face…

The sound of leather slapping flesh was followed by a masculine grunt as the guy staggered back a few steps, clutching his face in both hands. A steady stream of blood was dripping between the interlaced fingers to taint the deep green grass; I hoped his nose was just busted and not broken. “I am so sorry!” I moved to close the distance between us, reaching into the hidden pocket in my tunic for the linen handkerchief I had placed there. I was hesitant to touch the sweat-drenched fabric of his green jersey, but there was really no other choice since he had his eyes covered. I laid a tentative hand on his left shoulder, before extending the cloth toward his hidden face. “Here, take this. You can use it to stop the bleeding.”

One large, blood-smeared hand pawed the air until it closed over my fingers in an attempt to capture the proffered hanky. The boy yelped in surprise and jerked away as if he had been burned.

Strange, I thought, a moment before one liquid-chocolate eye snapped open to rivet me to the spot.

His vision was blurry with unshed tears, a natural reaction to being hit in the nose. “What did you do that for?” he slurred from beneath the mask of his other hand. I must have looked confused, that or the guy was just naturally impatient because he elaborated without me having to ask, “You shocked me!”

“Static I guess. Are you going to be all right?” I asked again as I dangled the handkerchief in front of his face. “Take this already… you're going to get blood all over your shirt.”

He snatched the piece of fabric indignantly and titled his head back, sweat-matted bangs clinging to his forehead as the rest of his dark brown locks swung away to reveal exertion reddened ears. Shifting his other hand to pinch the bridge of his nose tightly, he brought the white linen to the tip to staunch the flow. “That was some shot. You didn't even look, just nailed it.” His voice was thick as his breath caused the fabric to puff up on each consonant, revealing the glistening crimson coating his rounded chin and releasing droplets off into the air.

“And you…” fidgeting with the arm band was becoming a nervous habit for me—a source of solace in sticky situations. The guy, about early college age- probably eighteen or nineteen, was sturdily built with large muscular calves, thick, flat wrists, bulging forearms, and well-defined biceps that flowed into broad shoulders. Must work construction or something, I speculated. The tendons in his right inner forearm flexed absently as he applied pressure to his injured feature. “The way you're gripping the bridge means I didn't break it at least.”

I saw the lax mouth quirk at the edges and assumed he was smiling. “If you had, it wouldn't be the first time.” He was silent for a while, probably afraid to gag on the drainage and embarrass himself. When he finally lowered his head to a level position, he used the remaining clean corner of my nearly saturated hanky to mop off his chin. At least he didn't offer to return it, just wadded it up and pitched it into a nearby shrub. “Sorry, I'll get you another one.”

“S'okay. It was my fault really. I should have looked before I leapt.” I retrieved the delinquent ball and handed it to him.

Now that he wasn't huddled in pain or covered in gore, he was actually fairly attractive in a boy next door sort of way. Over the rim of my sunglasses, I took a look in living color. His chocolate-brown hair was a little on the long side, curling in sweaty straggles down his neck, but still short enough not to drag too far below his squared jawline. His skin was a dark brick tan, the flesh of his face smooth with only the barest hint of stubble along his upper lip and chin. His nose was red from its melding with the speeding sphere, but was otherwise well suited to his face- more American in appearance- moderately bridged and sharp at the tip with shapely nostrils. The heavily fringed eyes were more rounded, asymmetrically spaced and capped with thick black brows.

His grin was lopsided and his voice a resonating baritone, “I should have been a little quicker. I was just kinda startled… thought I had the playing fields to myself for about another hour or so.”

“Sorry to disappoint you…” I trailed off meaningfully.

“Oh, sorry. I'm Ken.” He tucked the ball under one arm and extended his right hand in my direction. I was reaching out to shake it when I noticed that both our hands were stained with traces of blood. His cheeks flushed an interesting shade of near purple, probably the tinted lenses again, but I grasped his hand quickly before he could retreat, giving it a squeeze, then withdrawing.

“Guess it doesn't really matter, we're both stained.” I had to suppress a smirk at the irony, if only this guy knew. “I'm Uotani; it was a pleasure to have met you, Ken-san.” I had long since been out of the habit of adding honorifics, but it's best to be polite to strangers. I started walking in the direction of the nearest goal, not caring if he followed or not. Who knew how long I would have before Schuldig's mood shifted and he was no longer in a humor to indulge me.

“Ken-kun… You make me feel old or something, Uotani-chan,” he clawed his matted bangs back as he jogged to my side, bumping the ball ahead of him with the toe of one cleated-sneaker, before dropping back to match my stride.

“Okay, then it's Uo-chan or Uo. Whichever you prefer.”

“So, you just out for the day?” He was looking straight ahead; not really paying any particular attention to what he was doing, just propelling the ball along as if it were second nature. Perhaps to him it was.

“Uhmm, for a while anyway.” The rhythm of shuffling kicks and bouncing leather was hypnotizing. I had a sudden urge to steal, but brushed it off. I gathered my hair in one thick mass and pulled it over my right shoulder, picking up a section at a time to finger comb it smooth before letting it slip across my back.

“So,” I looked up to catch him studying me outright. He looked down at the ground quickly, picking up his pace in order to pull away from me. Too bad it didn't serve to do anything but telegraph his embarrassment at being caught. “Do you do much ball handling?”

Great another innuendo lover, just my luck! “No, didn't have much time for it when I was small,” I replied, finishing finger picking through the last handful of hair. I pulled the entire wad back over my shoulder and split it into three relatively even sections before plaiting it with deft fingers.

“Well, you could have fooled me, the way you tattooed it like that.” He scooped the black and white sphere onto the top of one foot with a flick of his ankle, flipped it into the air and proceeded to juggle it from the top of one knee to the other. His eyes followed the ball's bouncing revolutions as he started moving forward again.

I didn't have anything to tie my braid off with, but I figured it was dirty enough from the pollution in the air to hold. Flinging it over my shoulder with a toss of my head, I rushed to catch up to him, blocking off his path. He halted, juggling in place, darting quick glances at me.

With a challenging slant of eyebrows, I offered in my best cocky drawl, “So, are you saying you want to play me?”

At that, an eager grin erupted across his face; fire ignited in those wide- guileless eyes and the game was on.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Fraternizing with the enemy, tsk tsk, the mind reader chided the girl silently from his resumed seat on the bench. He had been inside her head since the importune soccer match had begun and was only mildly surprised to realize her opponent was none other than the Weiss squad's bugnuk-swinging Siberian. Nice to see the kid didn't always bumble through life on two left feet-- he was a pretty aggressive ball handler. Just another form of battle to instill some grace into the klutz, he surmised off handedly, as he saw the boy's lithe form slide tackle the ball from between his host's speed blurred feet. Either the guy was stupid or was contemplating copping a feel because that move sent the girl tumbling down on top of the Siberian. If she electrocuted him, that would be one less thorn to pluck from their organization's side later on, but he knew the conscious thought would probably never occur to her with so little provocation. Pity… but enough of that.

Farfarello was looking out over the lake again, one foot propped on the lower rail of the safety fencing while his upper body was supported on crossed arms perched on the top rung. He hadn't uttered a word since his spiritless pronouncement over twenty minutes past. The red-head momentarily entertained the idea of weeding his way through the whirling tornado of sadistic speculation and cynical self-derision to see what the boy was truly thinking. Deciding the potential headache was more trouble than the information was worth, he settled for the direct approach, “What are you daydreaming about over there?”

The German's guttural English rubbed thinly sheathed nerves raw. “Yer head on a stick,” he snapped, voice dangerously low, rolling lilt gone from his speech.

“Thinking about her again, ne?” Schuldig smirked, waiting for the Irish to send a barrage of jigging Gaelic curses his way.

The dark-clad figure straightened from the rail slowly and shifted to cast a backward glance at him. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs in wait of the scathing response. He was tempted to tell Farfarello that the girl was rolling in the clover with one of the “White Hunters” but thought better of it. A rampaging Berserker would make the afternoon news for certain.

“And if Ah am?” A brow raised in silent challenge.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

It was obviously not the response the nosy bastard was looking for, considering he nearly face vaulted off the bench. Sheer force of will allowed the Irish youth to keep the satisfied sneer off his lips. He had been thinking about her—about her idiotic ideals. Freedom, control, trust, truth, innocence… all conjurings of a delusional mind, even he was lucid enough to realize that. But still she clung to those lies, even after her lip service to the understanding that they were idealistic dribble. The mask had been removed, her own cruelty revealed, and still she struggled with her precious humanity. Compassion and regret set her apart, saved her from the apathy that jaded the rest of their breed. Killers with human souls didn't survive long, not in Eszet.

“Then you are…” the recovery lacked the usual foppish flare that the German normally exhibited to disguise his surprise. “A nun's heart for your thoughts?” The patent smirk reappeared at the revised idiom.

The single, golden eye glinted in the sunlight, as he turned away from the telepath. :: She's more deranged than I am.::

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I hope she enjoyed her day out; it's likely to be her last for a very long time after Crawford- san hears from sensei, Nagi sighed dejectedly into the palm supporting his face as he stared out the window of his last class, watching the mottled canopy of foliage sway with the passage of the wind. He had no sure way of knowing how the older Schwarz member would react to the request for Hikari's time. Nagi's money was on a rather long, frigid lecture on the importance of keeping the “dead” at rest—what if she were to be recognized by a passerby, Crawford-san would query in that superior tone of his. The question would be purely rhetorical, but Schuldig would interject with a few choice scenarios, and Crawford-san would pinch the bridge of his nose in irritation before berating them for another half an hour or so. He was not looking forward to that portion of his evening.

Being the Oracle, Crawford would probably be expecting the call and easily avert any impending catastrophe, but there was that element of unpredictability that went with the man's gift. It often times overlooked the importance of minor events like phone calls from persistent art instructors hungry for a fresh face. Whatever the future held, the mousy-haired brunette was sure their leader would perceive the inquiry as a threat to Schwarz' singular hold over Hikari.

The tittering cadence of the young female teacher's voice halted a few feet from his desk, the tapping of one cheap mule heel and the stifled giggles of his peers alerted him to the fact that his inattention had been noticed and unappreciated. At least he had studying with Hikari to look forward to later.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

“Five seconds left in the second half,” Ken announced, not even out of breath as he dribbled the ball out of my reach with practiced ease, one arm out to ward me off should I try to crowd him out at the goal line. We were fast approaching the frame.

“He shoots,” one powerful kick sent the black and white blur rocketing into the neon-green netting of the soccer goal, “He scores!!! Game over!”

I had to resist the urge to snigger as the guy pumped one fist over his head in jubilant celebration, trotting ahead of me to retrieve the object of his affection.

The score was a whopping sixteen to four in his favor, but I was definitely proud of those four measly points. I worked my butt off to score them. What Ken lacked in conversational skills out of the game, he made up for in dexterity and fervor on the field. Actually, I kinda liked the fact that he didn't talk much—it meant I had to lie less.

Ball now safely in grass-stained clutches, the stocky brunette trotted back to me with a triumphant grin. “I haven't played a match like that in years!”

“Glad I could amuse you.” I ran a vein-patterned hand across my forehead to stem the trickle of sweat that was racing toward my still shaded eyes. He watched me swipe at my damp bangs for a few moments before trotting off to the sidelines where his oversized, blue sport bag rested, clearly visible on the well- manicured grass of the playing fields. I wondered how badly I would ruin my tunic if I put it back on over sweat slicked flesh as I watched him root through the duffle. I had decided to remove it after snagging a foot in the hem for the second time at the beginning of our match; the stupid thing had kept me from scoring and therefore had to go. I had left it lying folded neatly behind the home goal and finished out the game in the thin, gray shift I had worn as an inner shirt.

“Here.” he rose to his feet in one fluid motion, only to trip on some invisible obstacle a step later. The wooly, blue towel he had in hand was pin wheeled through the air in an effort to regain his balance and the two sport drinks he held in the other were sent flying in opposite directions. I caught the bottle containing a lilac colored liquid as it sailed past a few inches from my face. The other bottle landed harmlessly several feet behind the bumbling teen. Two stumbling steps ensured that Ken was not going to kiss the dirt, but they didn't save him from the chagrined blush that began at his v-neck collar and darted to the tips of his ears. “I guess you got the drink, heh. Ah, you can use this towel to dry off, if you want, that is.” He handed the faded, bleach marbled clothe to me before going to retrieve the other bottle. “Don't worry,” he called over his shoulder as he ambled away, “I always have plenty of extra drinks and towels around, the kids are always forgetting their's at home.”

“Kids?” I started to pat my face and neck with the wash- softened fabric. It smelled faintly like feet-- he probably stored his cleats in his bag when he wasn't wearing them.

“Yeah,” he plucked the plastic container from the grass and dropped to the ground, wriggling to face me before twisting the cap off and throwing back a slug of neon-green liquid. “I coach soccer here in the neighborhood. We get together on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays to practice and have games on Sundays.” The guy looked pretty contented, sitting there knees pulled up to his chest, arms crossed over them. He squinted up at me from the short distance away; I was probably little more than a fleshy outline backlit by the glaring afternoon sun. Must be nice to lead a normal life- something solid, distinct without the need for shadows. “Hey, I know! We're having a match this Sunday… why don't you come?”

::Time to go, Lebien.::

How sweet, but impossible. “You know, that is very kind of you, but I am really busy with work,” I denied as I gave him a deep bow, straightened, tossed him the towel and beat a hasty path for my tunic. ::Coming, pater!:: A cold, heat washed over my consciousness, I took it as Schu's equivalent of a long-range snarl.

“What kind of job do you have that takes up even your Sundays?”

The question stopped me at the goal line; I guess I owed him that much. I faced him; he was on his feet and over halfway to my side when I pinned him with a dubious smile. “I'm a dancer of sorts, and it's a real cutthroat business. Gotta be willing to put in the hours if you want to make a killing.” While he was mauling that over, I snatched my tunic and loped toward the tree line I had unwittingly ambushed him.

“Hey wait!!!”

I didn't slow down for fear that any further delay would unleash Schwarz' own version of the hounds of hell on me and anyone I happened to be near. It would be a shame to repay Ken for his unwarranted kindness by getting him maimed or worse. “Arigatou, and good luck to your team on Sunday!” I called back as I fled into the waxing shade of the grove and out of sight.

::Too slow, Maedchen. ZEHN::

I didn't waste my breath arguing, just ran faster, leaping over tree roots and stones that sprang up in my path as I ripped my tunic on and scrabbled with the tiny eyehooks that ran up the left side from collar to hip.

::NEUN::

I stumbled over a rotting log and nearly went down, cursing myself for my clumsiness as I lurched to my feet and continued on. Best to forget about the shirt for now, lest I want to break my neck.

::ACHT, SIEBEN, SECHS::

From the pulsing waves of prickling energy that stabbed across my brain, I got the impression that the bastard was enjoying this immensely.

:FUNF, VIER, DREI::

Weaving around one of the largest trees in the entire clump, brought a fragmented view of the pond into sight. I was going to make it with a second to spare.

::ZWEI::

I sensed Farfarello's presence an instant before a pale hand shot from behind the nearest blur, closing on the end of my braid. The sudden jerk of his wrist slammed my back against the trunk he was still partially sheltered behind, “Time's up, girl.”

“Yeah, and here I am…” I flinched imperceptibly as he gave the braid another tug, grinding the back of my scalp into the rough bark of the maple tree. I had nothing and everything to worry about.

“So ya are…”

I could feel the tension on the back of my head shift as he slid his hand further up my plait. Ragged nails bit into the nape of my neck through the parted strands of his makeshift tether, as he maneuvered from behind his shield to stand beside me. He stayed just out of reach of anything other than a side or hook kick, both of which would have been much too slow to connect with his heightened reflexes.

“Dun't think it changes anything.”

I could feel him drawing closer. The jagged edges on some of his nails broke the skin, the sting of salt made the tiny wounds nag immediately.

“Nothing can ever change for you can it?” Wrong thing to say.

His taller, broader form had me pinned bodily to the trunk in less than a second. I was able to get my hands up between our chests in hopes of keeping some distance, before he settled his full weight against me. Passersby would probably have believed we were lovers, necking in the woods if the embrace were glimpsed from afar. His right hand was still clamped across the back of my neck, the other crushed the muscles in my right bicep with bruising force. His lower body was pinioned against mine, rangy hipbones digging into my belly, left knee cocked beside my lower thigh to keep me from shoving him back and spinning out of the hold. His upper body was held at an arching angle to allow him to peer down into my face, scowl scrunching the flesh under his left eye into a tight pucker, his mouth a seamless gash. “Aye, but it cun—yer fool tongue mounted on muh wall. That would be a welcome change, no more bloody mind fuckin' from a worthless skirt,” his tone was raspy, a threatening whisper, meant only for my ears.

I answered him in the same hushed tone, even though to my knowledge no one was within easy ear shot, “You're afraid— you're running.” I searched his face and fear niggled at the pit of my stomach when I saw the rage roiling in the gleaming depths of that single brandy-wine eye. “Somewhere inside, you still want to believe things can change for the better, but you're too jaded or too scared to hope.” Silence has never gotten me anywhere, but the truth may very well get me killed one day. Just not today… I hope.

“Ah'm naught afraid.” His lips were beginning to curl back in a snarl as the weight of his chest tested the resistance of my fending forearms. I had the sinking feeling that he might very well rip my throat out with his teeth.

“Same old line—I'm. Not. Buying. It,” my voice dropped in volume as I spoke. I had several options really: smash the bridge of his nose through his brain and watch him die, electrocute him which nothing short of a few dozen amperes would be a turn-off in his case, or sweep his feet out from under him and pray he didn't drag me down with him. None of these sounded very appealing—of course, neither did getting mauled to death.

Then, I had an epiphany, how better to quench a flame than to fight fire with fire. I gripped the nuby-cotton of his sleeveless sweatshirt near the throat and jerked him to me. My unexpected shift from victim to aggressor allowed me to knock him off balance. I thrust to my tiptoes, despite the bone-creaking pressure on my bicep and lower skull and met his shock-lax bottom lip with even, white teeth. The first coppery taste of blood was heralded by a hissing inhalation of breath and the rake of taloned fingers down the back of my clammy neck, no doubt leaving thin, crimson-seeping trails in their wake. The expression in his eye never changed, hatred and rage still boiled there, even as I sucked the masticated flesh between my teeth and lapped the blood away.

The acceptance, self-serving though it may be, would not change anything between us. To weather the storm of dubious malice, preferably in one piece, was the best I could hope for. Perhaps I set my hopes too high, I reflected as cruel fingers abandoned their wringing hold on my upper arm and wrapped themselves around the apex of my throat, palm-heel burrowing just above the hollow to restrict my airflow. In a fit of determination, I sunk teeth into the sensitive skin of his inner lip, his answer—slam the back of my skull into the tree hard enough to send a colorful spray of stars skittering behind my eyes and forcibly rip my blunt staves from his mouth.

We stared at each other, a moment frozen in the twittering, mottled light of the infant grove— bright blood painted his lips and ran from the gnawed inner recesses of his mouth to well at the grimacing corners. The glossy sheen of his mouth reminded me insanely enough of a circus clown I had seen once as a small child on a trip to Hunan. I had always been repulsed by their smiling falsehoods even at five, but there was no lieing now, no smiling pretense… not with Farfarello.

“Clean it up,” it was a hissed command that sent flecks of cooling blood to freckle the bridge of my nose and cheeks.

“Sorry, fresh out of handkerchiefs.”

Fine ridges appeared between his eyes as the grip on my throat tightened minutely, then relaxed and slithered further up my neck to allow him to grip the hinges of my jaw with bony, tapered fingers. “Ya drew it, now take it.”

I was starting to get what he meant and the thought of so much blood turned my stomach. The first bite had been a desperate ploy to stay whatever sadistic impulses were running through his head, but actually drinking life's essence was detestable.

“My perversions only go so far and vampirism crosses that line.” I could feel my body tingling with an anticipatory revulsion at the idea of what he was demanding. ::Schuldig…:: I didn't think he would be much help, but it can't hurt to hint or even insistently request.

If he responded at all to my mental summons, I couldn't have said, because Farfarello took my defiance as a challenge. He used his vise grip on my jaw to force my head back and smashed our lips together. The blood made the roughened flesh of his distressed bottom lip glide wetly over my entire mouth, smearing the sticky red substance over the edges of my lips, upward toward my nose and down onto my chin. I would have screamed in frustration at the sickly onslaught then, but that would have made it easier for the spearing tongue to pass the final barrier of teeth. That barrier was forced open a moment later when extremely sharp points were jabbed into the curve of my lower lip; I sucked in a breath to protest and was gagged by the first aggressive thrust of copper flavored muscle.

After that first stroke, the walls of my inner cheeks were washed with Farfarello's blood as well as my own, only to have the taste devoured by erratic strokes. He seemed to be relaxing into the rhythm of the assault, and the hand that had been pinching the nerves at the nape of my neck had plunged itself back into the thick tangle of braid at the base of my skull. He still hadn't taken his trained gaze from my face yet, I observed from under lowered lashes. I had gotten tired of the predatory amber of the wolfish eye. The boy had other lights that shone from that single window on occasion, and I much preferred them.

The painful grinding of teeth against my upper lip dragged a whimpering groan from the back of my burning throat. This couldn't continue for much longer. I had tolerated his domineering attentions for a few minutes in hopes of sating him without the violence escalating, but my patience was beginning to wear thin. ::Schuldig!!!!!!!!!!!::

::You called, mistress!:: the mental picture of a hump-backed lab assistant with one bulging eye and three moldy teeth would have made me titter if I hadn't been more concerned about breathing at that particular moment.

Without warning, Farfarello released all but his hold on my jaw, a thin line of pink-tinged saliva stretched between us before it was snapped by his whirling movement. Schuldig stepped further into the shade of the bouncing branches, and plucked the thin-bladed throwing stave out of the air with the first two fingers of his right hand as though it were a twirling milkweed pod.

::You have got to teach me how to do that some day…soon.::

::Ja, tomorrow we start.:: He pocketed the throwing knife, “Am I interrupting something?” He stared pointedly at me and I remembered that I hadn't been able to refasten my tunic all the way. It still hung open from about mid-ribcage to shoulder, revealing the paper-thin sheath that offered a flimsy shield for my dark sport bra. And I am sure that my face and hair were a fright to put it mildly. We no doubt resembled two rabid dogs that had just made a go of trying to chew each other's throats out. Judging by the rusting smudges decorating the lower half of the Irish's face and the throbbing ache of my lips, we were going to need a washcloth and some antibacterial rinse.

“Aye,” the white-haired youth spat, disentangling himself from me completely. He stalked past Schu, clipping him with one scarred shoulder as he pushed by, swiping at his own face carelessly with the back of one hand before giving himself over to the unadulterated sunlight.

“Here.” The red-head held out a square of fabric which I gladly accepted. I spit into the hanky before scrubbing at my mouth and chin. Some of the blood had already started to congeal, and I ended up having to rub until the skin of my face tingled before enough gore came off that Schuldig was willing to let me leave the cover of the woods.

The whole time I cleaned myself up and tugged my shirt to some semblance of normal, he hadn't said much-- which was odd for him. “What are you thinking?” I broke the silence because to be utterly alone with the telepath, to be scrutinized by him, was more oppressive than with any of the other Schwarz men.

“That you should stay away from Farf, unless Nagi is around,” his pale green eyes were eerie in the ambivalent light of the grove.

I had expected some flippant, sexually engendered repartee or more asinine humor, so the seriousness of the comment and his deadpan tone put me on the defensive. “Thanks for the tip, but he found me.” Petty to quibble, but it gave me a way to let off pent-up tension.

“Doesn't matter… the two of you are playing at a game that neither can win.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” The cryptic comments were doing nothing to ease my already edgy mood. The wolfish grin that curled the corners of the German's mouth was a dead-on indication that no more information would be forth coming. A sinister flash of sharp, white teeth made me realize that Schu had gleaned the thought from the ceaseless stream that raced across my conscious brain. ::My what big teeth you have, grandma.:: the childish part of me whispered into the swift currents, as the rest of me wondered just how far into the depths of insanity I had sunk.

::All the better to eat you with, my dear…:: The sidelong glance he cast me before slinking from the shadows no doubt revealed the innuendo-induced stain creeping over my high cheekbones.

At the rate things were going, a pound of heart, a sliver of soul and quite possibly my tongue would all be on this evening's menu.

::Don't be so dramatic, Lebien. Come, Nagi is waiting at the school.::

I rushed out into the blazing rays of the sun to continue my screwed up existence as Uotani Hikari. What else could I do? Maybe, take up soccer…

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Nagi's afternoon had taken a turn for the worst after Hikari's brief visit to Ju-Dan. He had been reamed in front of his entire sixth period class for staring out the window and not being “contrite” enough when the error had been drawn to his attention. Crawford-san would probably be getting a call about that, plus he had to stand in the hallway with a textbook balanced on each arm until Schuldig had wandered in to rescue him after he didn't show up outside in a reasonable amount of time.

The German had tried to charm the twenty-something year old teacher into forgiving the incident, but she had been determined the boy's insolence could no longer be tolerated in her class. The bastard had declined to use his powers to sway her, telling the boy silently that a sound thrashing from their leader would build character. Thanks, but no thanks! Too bad he didn't have much of a choice now; what was done was done.

When they had made it to the car, his day had taken a nose dive into an empty pool. Both Hikari and Farfarello had traces of blood marring their otherwise pale faces, the Irish's scowling bottom lip had definitely been bitten through, and the girl's clothes looked like they had an overdue appointment with the washroom. So much for bridging the gap; of course, most great alliance weren't forged in a single day.

At least she offered him a smile when he jumped over the side panel of the car and bounced on the seat beside her. “So, how was the rest of your day, Nagi-kun?” she asked him quietly, glancing at Schuldig when the boy was slow to answer.

“Kid has a smart mouth, and it finally got him into trouble,” the red-head was actually grinning when he said it.

He's going to pay for this one. I'll have to remember to let Farf put globs of wet cat food in his bowl of Bauernsuppe the next time I make it. Nagi returned the grin easily.

“What did you do?” She was giving him a sternly, curious look.

“What the boy did is no one's business but his and Crawford's. Leave it be,” Farfarello's voice was phlegmatic. The back of his short hair gave no indication as to what he felt. Just that the comment was not a request.

The girl gave the brunette at her side one last searching look and then shrugged her ascent.

Thank Farf for small favors, Nagi sighed, dropped his bag into the floorboard and settled back against the upholstery of the backseat. Schuldig revved the engine, cranked the music and peeled away from the curb, heading toward the highway. At least the rest of the drive would be peaceful, nothing but road noise and ducking the occasional kamikaze bug.

He spent most of the ride home turned sideways in the seat, staring at their female passenger. She had obviously had an eventful afternoon, the blood and grass stains attested to that, but there was no way of knowing what had sparked the confrontation until they were alone together. He had a lot to discuss with her, before Crawford-san played his hand. Not only the modeling offer, but her whole outlook on life in Schwarz, especially where the Irish was concerned. The chemistry between the two was volatile and both were suffering for it.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The affect of the pills was waning fast and the bitch was digging at his last stable nerve. The boy was in enough trouble already without being concerned about her opinion of him too. It had been three years since Nagi's last run-in with Crawford, and Farfarello had hoped the next would be delayed indefinitely. The boy's tender flesh was never marked, but the bone deep soreness was always present after each infraction was atoned for. It was always the same, after a day or two of laying on his stomach, the kid would finally be able to sit on his arse again. He was tough, had survived the streets alone since he was small, but it was different when Crawford “corrected” him. The kid actually looked up to him, trusted him. Too bad the man didn't appreciate that gift.

The worst beating Farfarello had ever received himself was when he interfered with one of the boy's punishments. He had stood aside and allowed many things to happen to Nagi behind Crawford's closed office door, but the boy being violated to assert dominance was not one he would tolerate. He had stormed in, laid the older man's ribcage open with a stave, and spirited the boy away to his room for safe keeping. The end result had been a beating that left several new scars on his already riddled skin, and Crawford added thirty-four stitches to his limited dossier of wounds. However the confrontation had ensured that Nagi would never suffer unwanted attention from their leader again. Beatings were standard fare, understood and easily accepted, but rape was the ultimate violation—body, mind and soul were placed at odds and inner balance was lost. That would never happen to Nagi or himself again—he had promised the sobbing boy that as the trembling little hands had wiped the blood from his face with a wet rag.

The sound of the garage door grinding up the chain woke him from his daze. He needed his pills.

::Keep your pants on. I'll send them to your room with Nagi, he wants to talk to you anyway.:: When the car was parked, Farfarello waited impatiently for Schuldig to enter the door code from the touch pad hidden in the center column. He took his sweet time, just to piss Farfarello off. No matter, he knew where the German kept his favorite porn. He didn't know much about computers, but he was hell with a ball bat and a twelve gauge pump was sure to solve even the most prolific of glitches. The thought stretched his swollen lips into a rictus grin as the lock gave a loud “click” and the door slid open.

He skirted the island in the kitchen, dashed across the living room and bolted up the stairs to the isolated serenity of his room. He had just gotten done taking inventory of his extensive blade collection when a knock came at the door. “Aye, what is it?” He found one of his smaller knives was dull, so he plucked it from its cubby in the padded top drawer of his bureau, along with the whetstone and crossed the sea of white, Berber carpet to perch at the head of his scarlet draped bed.

Nagi's dark head peeked through the widening space between the door and the jamb.

“What are ya waiting for, come in all ready?”

The boy's face was solemn, not that it wasn't normally, but there was a tightness about the eyes he had only when he wanted to broach a topic that he thought Farfarello might resent. It had to be about her… why couldn't they all just let it be?

“I brought your pills, Schu said you needed them.” He crossed the threshold finally and shut the door behind him before crossing to sit on the end of the bed. “Here.” He offered the blue pills open handed to the white-haired boy and watched as the amber-eyed Irish swallowed the two capsules dry.

“Ya've come about her,” it wasn't really a question, but his lilting accent made it anyone's guess. Japanese was difficult for the Irish to articulate correctly, but he and the boy had spent enough years together to diminish any language barrier that might have existed between them.

“Hai, I know we planned to tarnish her, make her fit in… but I--” He looked away, chewing at the corner of his mouth, a nervous habit he had never been able to break.

“Ya dun't like wha' ya think she might become?”

“Hai. She's different, but similar enough to fit without trying to change who she is.” His narrow, cerulean eyes returned to Farfarello's face almost guiltily.

“So, ya want ta know what I think du ya?” He watched the miniscule creases pile along the center the younger boy's forehead. “Ah think she'll change regardless of wha' anyone wants. Nothing pure can survive unscathed in Eszet. We both know tha'.”

“What happened between you two today, in the park?”

The change of direction was abrupt, but by the look of determination on the younger teen's face the question was desperately in want of an answer. “She wanted some time alone, and Ah made sure she got it. She was late getting' back.”

“And?” the petulant tone grated on his ears. Nagi really could be a pest, maybe he was overdue that thrashing after all.

“Ah scared her when she was coming back, and she bit meh,” the rhythmic scrap of the whetstone reminded him to keep the timbre of his voice even—toneless.

“On the lip?” One dark eyebrow disappeared into the fall of soft, feathery bangs.

“Ah would think that was obvious.”

One side of the kid's lips pulled upward in a tolerant smirk. He knew this was going to be like pulling teeth to get Farf to talk about his feelings, but he had thought a simple recounting of events would go more smoothly. “So, she mauled you on the mouth, and how did that make you feel?”

The “f-word” silenced the whispering glide of the blade across the sharpening rock. The amber eye fixed itself on the slender, smooth face, and he grinned as the resolve in those dark eyes wavered. They might be friends, but there were still boundaries that were set in stone. “Wha' are ya now, muh shrink? Remember, boy, the last quack that dug around in muh head took muh place in Paradise.”

“You gave her the bracelet back… you've marked her flesh. She obviously responds to you. Now how do you feel about her?”

Pugnacious little shit. Farfarello regarded him coldly before returning his attention to the blade still dangling between his fingers. He tested it against the pad of his thumb, watching in fascination as the hairline incision filled with life. He could feel the boy still watching him. Ignoring him was not going to work anymore, not like it had when they were both younger, less sure of their bond.

“Ah gave her the damn thing back because she goes around unarmed all the time. As fer that mark, she's lucky Ah didna get it inta muh head ta rip her throat out and drink her dry while Ah fucked her corpse.” He slidd off the bed and stalked to his bureau to select another dulled knife to work his mounting frustrations out on. He had a premonition that Nagi was about to hit below the belt.

“You say that, but she stopped you with a word—a tear.”

“The bitch was ready ta kill me… even I canna survive a shock over a few amperes,” he glanced over his shoulder to see the boy smiling queerly at him.

“You gave up long before she ever threatened you,” Farfarello's hands moved before his brain had fully gotten a handle on what his appendages intended. Luckily, the Japanese teen's telekinesis deflected the first star and one of the staves which wedged itself hilt deep into the drywall. The other three blades hovered in the air several inches in front of the still smiling imp. “Defensive, much?”

“Get out,” he shoved the drawer shut angrily, his tone finally registering some heat, as the physical evidence of his outburst dropped harmlessly to the carpet with a muted clinking of metal on metal. “First the German and now ya start too! Get out!”

“I'm going. But, Farf?” the boy had his hand on the knob when he looked back over his shoulder to find the older teen in the same spot, glaring a hole through what had been the back of his head.

“Aye?” Ah know Ah'll regret this.

“Watch out that someone else doesn't take her from you,” with that he was gone, leaving the scarred man scowling at the raised panels on the door. What the hell did they know about anything? What the hell would he want with her, the annoying cunt? He would gladly pay someone to take her off their hands; course killing her would always be cheaper and far more pleasurable.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Ken announced his return to the Koneko with an oppressively loud crash of terra cotta on tile.

KenKen really knows how to make an entrance, Yoji groused silently as he lowered his half-finished beer to the table and trudged down the stairs from the kitchen of the second story apartment the four assassins inhabited. It was quarter after six, the oldest Weiss didn't even have to consult his watch, Ken-ken was like clockwork—well, if you took a few loose cogs into consideration.

“Oi, Ken-ken, what the hell are you doin'? Aya's going to be pissed, he just swept up at closing,” Yoji jabbed good-naturedly as he came to rest on the last step, arms spanned the framed stairwell to display his impressive reach, a flat expanse of belly as the midriff rode up and the tip of one pointy hipbone as the tight, hiphugger jeans shifted with the cocking of said hip.

“Sorry, Yotan, just distracted when I came through and clipped this stupid…” the musty reek of layered sweat wrinkled the blonde man's nose as the younger boy gestured widely to the tumbled rack and shattered flower pots, “display with my duffle.”

“Whewww! I tell ya what, you shower and I clean,” his deep baritone was strangled by the reflexive urge to gag, as he rushed from the recessed stairway to the back room of the shop in less than ten gangly strides.

“Really?” A backward wave as the playboy disappeared through the door was confirmation enough. “Thanks, Yotan!”

I must be pretty ripe if Yoji is willing to work, the brunette frowned, but hefted his bag onto his shoulder once again and made his way up, through the apartment and into his room to toss his duffle on the bed and gather up some clean clothes. A pair of ratty umbros left over from his brief tour in the J-league and a fresh shirt saw him in the narrow corridor and on his way to rinse the grime and then soak his aching muscles in a salted bath. Uo-chan sure gave me a workout today and then the kids were vicious, he grinned as he remembered the winning goal of their boys vs. girls scrimmage. Tatsuyia had nailed it from a good fifty feet back and Rei had done a heck of a job keeping the defenders off him long enough for Tat to line up the shot. The girls hadn't done quite so well on their teamwork; there had been some squabble in school that had knocked the group's dynamics off kilter and it had somehow made its way onto his field. The after practice lecture had been on the importance of support and learning to talk things out in order to build good teamwork skills. Ken of all people knew the importance of teamwork— in his business, a group's dynamics determined their chances of survival. He lived with his teammates, worked with them and would someday, when their luck ran out, die with them.

At the door to their communal bathroom, he was forced out of his downward spiraling reverie when he met up with Omi, who from the look of his clinging t-shirt and water-darkened, sandy hair had just gotten out of the bath. “Did ya leave me any hot water, genki?” He cajoled, lifting a hand to ruffle the other boy's plastered hair. He had forgotten about his apparently offensive aroma until the youngest Weiss turned gray around the gills and ceased to breathe until he had taken several hurried steps down the hallway toward his room.

“Geez, Ken-kun, do humanity a favor…” he pinched the end of his cute little upturned nose and pointed dramatically to the bathroom with one slender, blunted finger.

“I'm goin' already! You and Yoji oughta be a comedy duo, I swear,” he grumbled, ducking the yellow washrag that came hurdling through the door after him with the ease born of familiarity. Scuffles and ribbing jousts outside the bathroom were common place between himself, the vain, wire-slinging ladies' man and the baby-faced computer genius. Aya, the newest member of the team and by far the most anti-social person Ken had ever come across, never competed for the bathroom or joined in on the sophomoric exchanges that occurred upon the threshold at rush hour. The guy kept odd hours, disappeared completely when he wasn't scheduled to work the shop or on-roster for a mission. No one knew where he went when he wasn't around, and anyone who asked got that disdainful, violet glare of his and otherwise ceased to exist in Aya's alternate frame of reality.

Hell with Aya and all the insignificant gripes he might have about the day, he decided as he cut on the hot water, shucked his grass-stained clothes and stepped under the pelting spray. He loofahed the visible grime from his skin as he rolled the tension, bunched muscles in his shoulders. Thinking about Aya always got to him; the guy tried to act as if his shit didn't stink. Well, we're all killers here, he fumed to the mental image of the red-headed katana wielder as he sat at breakfast sipping his tea like a prim schoolboy, reading glasses pushed up high on the bridge of his long nose as he reviewed the morning news with the same meticulous care he did everything else.

Ken had come through the fires of hell and had cheated death to become a member of Weiss; he had earned his right to call men like Yoji and Omi friend, brother. Nothing anyone ever said or did could take that pride away from him. He had given up his dreams to protect the society that had been awed by his love of the game and he wouldn't let the ice-prince or a few lousy breaks in the neighborhood leagues diminish the honor he felt at the sacrifice. He cut the shower off, twisting the rickety knob with more torque than was really necessary and stepped carefully out of the stall to cross the small distance to the already opened tub.

He lowered himself into the water slowly, breath rushing past his front teeth in a sharp whistle as the heated liquid licked up his inner thighs. Why the genki liked the water just the uncomfortable side of scalding he would never know, but he made it a priority to readjust the temperature of the coils before settling back into the lapping embrace of the water. Nope, that mahogany-haired prick with the tree stuck up his ass was not going to ruin his mood.

He had met her today-- Uo-chan. She was pretty, obviously health conscious, adventurous and best of all determined. He stared at the hands resting on his slightly bent knees; miniscule flecks of blood were still visible in the fine lines running along the sides of them. The girl had barely even hesitated to shake his hand even though it was unclean; if she had only known how true that was. His hands were soaked with blood; they could never be washed clean. But he had the small consolation of knowing that it belonged only to the evil-doer. Those despicable enough to come under the scrutiny of Kritiker deserved far worse than the swift death brought by the White Hunters of the Weiss squad.

Semantics are all fine and good, Ken chided himself settling lower into the water, chin tucked to his breastbone, but could she understand? Did he even have the right to imagine she could? Uotani had been so odd, more real than most people in a strange sense that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Do I dare hope—

A loud rap on the door nearly sent him rocketing out of the tub; the backwash from his sudden movement splashed over the rim and loosed a thinning sheet of wetness to creep over the beige tiles. “Did you die in there or what?” Yoji sounded miffed, “What does a guy have to do to use his own bathroom around this place? I have a date in a couple of hours; I need to start getting ready, you slob!”

“Yeah, yeah, keep your pants on, Yoji.” Ken had no idea how long he had been soaking, must have been awhile judging by the prunes that used to be his fingers. He hoisted himself from the tub quickly; the bath hadn't relaxed him as much as he had hoped. It was all so confusing; the Weiss fought to preserve innocence, but they were too tainted by their plight to be an innocuous part of that legacy. They posed a remote threat to everyone they came into contact with—who knew when Schwarz or some other rival group would decide to burn the shop down around their ears or kidnap one of his soccer kids to get to them? Did he have any right to want to see her again, to knowingly place her in harm's reach? He just didn't know…

Yoji's impatient hammering on the door threw him into high gear, or would have if the never-ending puddle hadn't arrested his attention. He was going to have to mop before anyone else could use the room safely, but for now a few strategically placed towels would divert any probable disasters. Luckily, he had set his clothes on the top of the closed toilet lid and not on the floor like he normally did; he grinned as he dried hurriedly, added the used towel to the patchwork of fabric covering the floor and reached for his shorts.

When he was fully clothed, in a record time of over four minutes because of the safety precautions, he pulled the door open ready to step through only to be clapped soundly on the nose by Yoji's descending palm. “Owwww, baka!” His face was still sore from Uo-chan's ill-timed punt earlier.

“Took you long enough!” Yoji scowled at him over the shades he habitually wore perched midway down the length of his aristocratic nose. “Hey…” He leaned in close to the younger man's face, crease between his brows deepening as he cupped the other's rounded chin and used it to turn his face from side to side slowly. “What happened to your nose? It's kinda swollen…”

“I, uhhhh, met this girl in the park today…” he stammered, knowing that Yoji would automatically jump to conclusions.

“And you were your usual smooth self, I assume?” The blonde-haired playboy smirked and rolled his eyes, withdrawing his cooler fingers from the soccer player's bath-warmed skin.

Ken huffed good-naturedly and offered up a lopsided grin. “Didn't even have the chance. She nailed me before I opened my mouth.”

“That was harsh,” Yoji offered sympathetically as he slid past the shorter, stockier brunette and trod carefully into the room, mindful to stay on the patchwork trail on his journey to the sink.

“It was worth it,” Ken smiled ruefully at the incredulous slant of the older man's sandy brow as he regarded Ken in the medicine cabinet mirror above the basin.

“Oh, yeah?” He opened the cabinet door, retrieved a hairbrush, toothbrush and paste from within and then re-secured the mirrored panel. Definitely wearing my hair back tonight, he decided as he ran the brush through his chin-length cascade of golden waves.

“After she nailed me in the face with the ball, she challenged me to a game. She about ran me into the ground today,” the kid was getting louder as the excitement of the match welled in the playing fields of his fanatical cerebrum.

“So, does this feisty chick have a name?”

“Yeah, Uo-chan.” Ken leaned against the doorframe, watching the blonde twist the hair-elastic around his thick, high horsetail.

“What kinda name is that?” He turned to frown at his observer. All the girls I talk about at least have first names.

“Well, her name is actually Uotani, but she told me to just call her Uo or Uo-chan.”

“Baka, didn't you even get her first name?” He knew the kid was green when it came to girls, but this was ridiculous. The opening and then immediate shutting of Ken's mouth confirmed his suspicions; the Lothario of Weiss slapped one elegant, long-fingered hand over his face in exasperation. Any comment he would have made was momentarily delayed by the appearance of Omi's little blonde head over the object of ire's shoulder.

“What is this? A company meeting in the john?” the surprisingly deep voice asked as the sky-blue eyes twinkled mischievously.

“Yeah, step into my office and pull up a chair.” The ex-PI gave a sweeping gesture toward the toilet, emerald green eyes never leaving the black-brown of the hopeless virgin's.

“So, what have I missed?” the sprightly little fellow asked as he crossed to the commode and plopped down to listen.

“Well, baka here,” he leaned against the sink, hips slanted at a jaunty angle and pointed toward the now glaring Siberian who was still propped in the doorway with arms tightly crossed over his white-clad chest, “met this chick in the park today and didn't even get her name.”

“Hnnn, yep, sounds like something he would do. Continue,” the chibi interjected, nibbling thoughtfully on his bottom lip, easily picturing the type of girl that Ken might find appealing. Cute in a tomboyish way, definitely a jock—probably had some impressive muscles on her.

“Do you know anything about her at all, except that her last name is Uotani?”

“Yeah,” the nineteen-year-old replied defensively.

“Like?” Omi prompted from his seat, leaning forward in semblance of eager anticipation.

“Well, she's a dancer and is really working hard to make a name for herself, even works Sundays.”

“What kind of dancing does she do?” inquired Yoji desperately trying to picture clumsy, bumbling Ken interacting with someone as refined and delicate as a ballerina or a folk dancer and failing miserably. Too refined for him, girl was probably a stripper, he decided.

“I don't really know, she didn't say…” he looked down at the sopping lane of towels laid end to end on the nearly invisible floor.

“Yeah, and you didn't ask either did ya?” the older man thrust up from his slouch against the sink and turned to finish his preening with a disbelieving shake of his head. The kid was utterly hopeless. No wonder we hardly ever let him go on recon.

“She was leaving when I found out; she just took off, before I could say anything else.”

“So, you got her number right? You can just call her,” Omi asked gently, not wanting to make his friend feel any more inept than he probably already did.

“No, I didn't, and I'll probably never see her again to ask for it either,” he answered dejectedly, unfolding his arms and pushing one darkly tanned hand through his rapidly drying bangs.

“You never know, Ken-kun,” the younger boy soothed, ever the counselor, “fate has a way of bringing people together.”

“Or not,” Yoji snipped as he spat a foamy, blue streak of saliva into the sink and bent to rinse his mouth and chin. Omi just rolled his eyes and Ken stuck his tongue out at the antagonistic assassin's narrow rear. “Fate can only do so much, chibi.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Seven- thirty found me showered, fed and sprawled across Nagi's bed with a study guide four pages long in one hand and a soda in the other. Looking over the guide, I thanked my family and the Yakuza for my private education. The teacher must not think very much of his students if the majority of his test is recall; I scoffed, rolling my eyes at the inanity of the first three questions. Funny that Nagi even bothers to study, he could probably ace the test without ever cracking a book. Probably teach the class too if the instructor would give him the opportunity. I smiled at the idea of the quiet teen usurping the sensei's role and leading a school-wide revolt, yardstick firmly in hand leading a charge of marching desks and free-floating chalk erasers.

I stifled a giggle that was very unbecoming a teenage assassin and glanced toward the desk where the ram-rod figure was surrounded by an aria of clacking keys and the thumping beat of synthesized drums that issued from the computer's speaker system. He was on an Intel mission for Crawford he said when I had made myself comfortable on the bed earlier, but would be wrapping up shortly. That had been over half an hour ago.

“Not to rush you or anything, but are you ready to study yet?” I made it a point to sound bored and shuffle the papers nosily. I wanted to get to bed early tonight; maybe that way I could eek out a few hours sleep. I hadn't had a full night's rest since the incident three weeks ago. The nightmares had started out fuzzy, indistinct—just a blur of jumbled shapes, colors, and shadows. But as each night passed, they became clearer. The same dream over and over again, with minute variations that plagued my waking consciousness. Concealer worked wonders for the bruises under my eyes, I don't think any of my housemates even noticed.

“Sorry, just a little while longer.” He turned in his chair to offer me an apologetic wrinkling of lips. He didn't turn back around immediately, just sat twisted in his chair, watching my gift wander around the mattress pricking the comforter with sharp claws in vie for attention. When that didn't work, Asha started bumping into my chin with her ginger-colored head, and purring loudly. Her warm fur stroking the underside of my jaw tickled, I grinned and ducked my head to plant a kiss on the tip of the kitten's tiny, pink nose to persuade her to stop. My affection only encouraged her to crane her small neck up to nuzzle my cheek with her suede-soft nose.

“Arigatou again for Asha,” I said softly, returning the rubbing motion the small mammal was making against my cheek.

He wrapped his arms around the back of the headrest, laying his cheek against his folded hands and regarded us placidly. “Asha, that isn't Japanese. What does it mean?”

“In Sanskrit, it means `hope',” I shifted to sit cross-legged on the bed, put the drink can on the nightstand and scooped the purring furball up in the palm of one hand to cradle her against my chest. The first thing she did once near my body was to bury both diminutive paws into the damp braid that hung over my right shoulder. I guess security is always an issue when trust comes into play.

“Why `hope'?”

“So I will never stop believing that it exists,” I hid the self-depreciating smirk in the nape of the kitten's neck as I lifted her, still tangled in the thick rope of braid, to my face. She smelled faintly of baby powder and flea shampoo. I was beginning to think hope was wasted on me, but I just refused to let it go. Calliou used to say that the ability to hope for something better was what made us human—what saved my father from being a soulless monster. Farfarello had abandoned hope somewhere along the way and now he was dependent on pills for his moments of lucidity. Nagi was balanced precariously on a high wire spanning faith and despair, a strong enough nudge in either direction would seal his fate for better or worse, which was yet to be seen.

“Hikari-chan?” Nagi began to grind the corner of his bottom lip between his even teeth, as he curled his knees up to his chest and clasped the tops of his long, narrow feet in slender hands.

One day the boy was going to be taller than Crawford, I reflected distractedly. Asha was trying her best to worm her entire body into the solid mass of hair at the juncture of shoulder and neck, but was having trouble with her paws still hooked in the wet chords of plait. “Hnnn?” I was already at work on disentangling her feet when the boy leaned in to help, stretching toward us and propping himself on an elbow.

“Do you… Do you hope for anything?” he peered up at me nervously through a curtain of black lashes, the fingers of his free hand teasing my braid loose.

I stared into his face, not entirely sure I understood all the implications of the question. “What exactly do you mean?”

“I… I know you're not really happy here. I just wanted to know if I could make it any easier… I mean, I know I haven't been the most forthright with you and I apologize for that profusely, but I meant what I said when you first got here. I want to help you. ”

So that was what today had been about, strange that it appeared to have been a concerted team effort. Now I felt kinda guilty for arguing with Schu, but it had earned me a nice reprieve thanks to Farf. “Living here isn't so bad really. I just wish I could have more of a life. I know I'm “dead,” but this is ridiculous.” Asha was finally free and perched comfortably on my shoulder, but Nagi's fingers still combed through the ends of my unplaited tresses. “I mean, you have school, Crawford has Takatori, Schuldig does his own thing regardless of what his orders are and Farf…” to be honest I had no idea what the extent of his personal freedom was.

Nagi must have picked up on this fact because he supplied the answer immediately, “Has his pills and you.” That was not exactly what I had expected.

“Me? In case you haven't noticed, Farfarello has a pretty pronounced hate, hate thing for me,” I replied, lowering my upper body back onto the pillows piled in a heap at the head of the bed, watching as his fingertips glided through the dark pool of silk like the dorsal fins of some deep sea predator as I pulled away from him. Asha slid from my shoulder onto a cushion where she circled lazily a few times before resettling to resume her interrupted nap.

“That's his wrist band isn't it, the one with the blade?” He motioned toward my left wrist with his chin, even as he shifted to stretch out at full length on his stomach; the movement made the gesture appear awkward.

I followed his nod and fingered the metal as if my eyes might deceive me. “Yeah, it is, but that doesn't mean anything,” I hoped I didn't sound disappointed.

“Are you sure?”

“He told me I was worthless and that he didn't want to waste his time looking after me, so he gave me this.” I traced the etching of the Gordian knot at the center of the band. It was an impossible riddle just like the bracelet's previous wearer. The mischievous sparkle I saw in the dark blue eyes when I glanced up made me nervous. “Besides,” I continued quickly, “after what happened in the park today, I think Schuldig may be right.”

“Schuldig right?” A look of mock horror skittered across his features and was quickly gone. “About what?” he propped his angular chin on the summit of interlaced fingers, serious once again.

“That neither one of us can win…” I slid down lower on the bed, laying my face on the pillow close to the tiny, ginger puddle that stood out in bright contrast to the sheet of dark hair on which it floated. I stroked her side, marveling at the softness of her fur and the ridges of ribcage that gave shape to that supple covering. “We're at a standstill. He hates me, and I can't do anything to change that, just survive it.”

“Sometimes anger is just love disappointed, Hikari-chan,” his voice was low, even timbered, the twinkle in his gaze had dimmed to a dull gleam.

“Love… does he even know what that word means?” I couldn't suppress the croaking laugh that accompanied the question. It was not a mirthful sound and I knew full well that the smile I wore never touched my eyes.

“Love means different things to different people. Not all of it good— you react based on what you know. Farfarello knows pain, fear.”

“That much I figured out on my own, thanks.” The furrows on the back of my neck had burned terribly when I disinfected them after my shower earlier.

“He protects you, you know, even though he hurts you to do it.”

“Protects me? From what?” My hand stilled on Asha, as I tilted my head to look at Nagi over the tiny obstruction of her sleeping form. I could feel the skin of my forehead puckering into a frown, before my lips expressed the sentiment.

“From yourself…”

I didn't know what to say to that, so I just stared at him, my frown deepening. Is that what I needed from the deranged Irish? From Nagi? The conflicting intervals of pain and pleasure the duo orchestrated offered me a respite from the nightmarish pursuit of my guilty dreams and overdue remunerations. The sins of my past were clamoring for atonement and I had the niggling feeling that not all those trespasses were mine alone. “Nagi, did I do or say anything strange that night?”

The renewed chewing of his lip told me that I didn't need to specify which night I meant, and that I had in fact acted oddly. We had never really talked about what happened after I “blacked-out.”

“Well, you weren't yourself, really.”

“What do you mean?” I settled back onto the pillow and picked up where I had left off petting Asha. She rolled onto her back to expose her snowy belly and heaved a contented sigh in her sleep.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

How was he supposed to tell her this, you seem to be schizophrenic and stress turns you on? That would probably get him cooked ten kinds of crispy. “Well, you … I…”

She was waiting so patiently for his answer, her elegant fingers skimming the silken expanse of underbelly distractedly as her luminous jade eyes searched his face.

I have to be honest with her. “I thought you were going to eat me alive.”

“Did I hurt you?” She looked genuinely alarmed as she pushed up onto one elbow to stare over at him. She obviously had no idea how enticing she looked with the neck of her oversized, green pajama-shirt slipping carelessly off her left shoulder. The crescent strand of pinkish pearls of scar tissue from Farf's bite stood out in haughty contrast to the rest of the unmarred flesh.

“No, just made me nervous,” and horny, he added to himself, glad he had chosen to lay on his stomach since the memory wasn't helping him quell his body's reaction to her innocent display. Dealing with fifteen-year-old hormones really sucked sometimes. “It was like another person was animating your body. It just freaked me out,” he finished, lowering his head to hid roving eyes beneath a curtain of overlong bangs.

Her body was willowy, small; limbs well-proportioned and toned. Standing, she was around five feet three inches, but when in motion her size seemed to shift to meet the demands of the movement. When she fought in training, she appeared to stretch, shrink or contort at will, wielding blades and body as if they were an inseparable entity. Strangely enough that was the only time she seemed at peace—swept away into the dancing revolutions of the sword and claw. At rest now, weaponless, she seemed less together, uncertain of herself. Perhaps, in a way, she was two very different people. In a way maybe everyone is.

“Nagi? Hello?”

He hadn't realized her mouth had been moving the whole time he had been staring at her. He had no idea what she had been saying, so he sputter the next thought that came to the fore, “Can I draw you, sometime?” He had no idea what Auimata-sensei had seen in her that made him so adamant about having her as a model, but the tragic duality of her soul was what appealed to his own artistic inclinations.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

He had obviously missed the last few minutes of our dialogue. His question made me self-conscious. I pulled up the slipping neckline of my top and slowly eased my hair out from under the snoring animal curled between us, so I could sit up. “Why would you want to do a thing like that? Are we going to study or not?” I was starting to get ancy.

“In a minute,” he was trying to make his voice soothing; I guess the agitation had crept into my tone. “Now can I draw you someday or not?”

“You didn't answer my question.” I had successfully extricated my mane of inky black waves from feline captivity and rose to sit cross-legged, back against the wall. I had never been fond of seeing myself, although I had noticed that most people lately had no qualms about staring at me. I had no clue why.

“Because I want you to understand what I see when I look at you.” His face was solemn, eyes darkened by determination to convince me of the truth behind his reasoning. “Maybe it will help you figure out why Farfarello wants to protect you…”

“All right.” Being a painter myself, the logistics worked for me, even though the proposition was frightening.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Crawford-san would be home in an hour or so and Nagi was debating whether or not to mention Auimata-sensei's request. On the one hand, it would be cruel to get her hopes up since Crawford-san would most definitely refuse, but then again she had a right to know that they might all be in for an earful tonight. “Today, when you came to my school, the art instructor noticed you in the courtyard and asked about you.” He watched her eyes narrow fractionally, probably suspicious.

“Yeah, so?”

He noticed her fingers snaking down her arm to caress the girth of the silver circlet and suppressed a smile.

“He asked if I could persuade you to model for the Ju-Dan art club. They meet for a few hours every day after school. He's going to talk to Crawford-san about it. But the answer will probably be no.”

“What makes you think I would agree anyway?” Her tone was flat, gaze challenging.

“I don't know… it's just that the art studio isn't Schwarz territory. Besides, Auimata-sensei is actually a relatively well-known artist, so it is a pretty big honor for him to ask.”

Her eyes widened at the mention of his name. “Auimata Shindo? The painter that produces those fantasy-genre calendars?” He had piqued her interest. She often talked about painting and even sketched on scrap paper from time to time.

“That would be the one. He teaches stuff like that to his art club and then deals with more traditional styles and genres during his scheduled classes.” He reached out and patted the twitching body on the cushion next to his face. Asha must have been dreaming of chasing mice, by the look of her paddling forepaws.

“You take a class with him then?”

“Yeah, we're working on landscapes right now. You know, he was adamant about me talking to you,” he smirked proudly at being able to say that.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

The smirk he plastered across his face was weirdly proprietary. Like a proud entrepreneur gloating over a rare bauble. Guys were so strange. “Really?” What could an artist like Auimata see in me? I'm plain, except for the prominent bridge of my nose, a markedly European trait, and odd green eyes, both contributions from the half-German mother I had never gotten to know.

“Yes, he wouldn't take no for an answer. The strange thing was that he knew you were Yakuza somehow.” He looked puzzled for a minute, and then shrugged it off, quirking a corner of his mouth in concession. “Doesn't really matter though, since there's no way Crawford-san will agree to let you go.”

He had a point, but I could always hope. Auimata and the art club would mean at least a few hours freedom from the counterculture that was Schwarz. “Hnnn, yeah. Well, anyway, why don't we get started on these review sheets?” I retrieved the crumpled papers from where they had fallen over the side of the bed and started on the first page. “Name the three Axis powers of WWII.”

Nagi looked at me with cross-eyed displeasure and left the bed to reclaim his place at the computer, before rambling off the answer in, what I assumed, was the same droning monotone in which it had been taught, “Italy, Germany and Japan. The leaders of those countries were Mussolini, Adolph Hitler and Emperor Hirohito the 307th descendent of the Rising Sun.”

I couldn't help but giggle as he recited, quite possibly verbatim, a list of each power's respective faults, adding a plethora of worthless details, while he navigated through cyberspace to finish his Intel chore. Talk about multi-tasking.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++