Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Falling For You ❯ Falling For You ( Chapter 1 )
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: megalotro 
Farfarello encounters Fujimiya Aya on a mission Yay for bad descriptions!
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Action / Comedy / Romance | Type: Songfic | Uploaded On: 08.01.2005 | Updated On: 08.01.2005 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.7K | Visits: 581 | Status: Completed
Farfarello encounters Fujimiya Aya on a mission Yay for bad descriptions!
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Action / Comedy / Romance | Type: Songfic | Uploaded On: 08.01.2005 | Updated On: 08.01.2005 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.7K | Visits: 581 | Status: Completed
+ Falling for You +
-by Tro
It was dark and silent as a grave as Farfarello made his way past inconsequential security systems. The cold, unblinking eye of the camera had long replaced the warm bodies of paid security. Those lenses stared blindly, having been effectively disabled and rerouted by Nagi. It made no difference to Farfarello. Silencing an alarm with a press of a key or a human life with the flick of a wrist, it was easy enough either way.
His footfalls were soft and soundless as a cat’s as he prowled down the maintenance corridor to the elevator shaft. He didn’t know what the man he would soon be rending limb from limb had done to warrant the death sentence and wondered idly if he cared. Probably not. Killing was killing, a mortal sin, the ultimate blasphemy against God; its ulterior motives usually irrelevant. It did bother him that he was not told. Brad, he was sure, had divulged this knowledge to the other two members of Schwarz, but not him. His ‘accomplice’ on this mission, Schuldig as usual, had not cared to share.
Farfarello took a moment to snort and shake his head. Irritating as the telepath could be, at least he saw the inherent stupidity behind one grown man babysitting another grown man. This wasn’t a two person mission in any way, shape, or form, but Brad had sent Schuldig along to watch him. After arriving at the building, it had taken all of thirty seconds, a quick, mock salute, and the redhead had ditched him for more entertaining, most likely carnal, diversions.
Absently, the white haired Irishman wondered if all corporate buildings were designed from the same blueprints. A little faux Venetian plaster here, some art deco pieces there, but inside they were all the same. He had been in countless corridors identical to this one, killed fat, aging businessmen like this one innumerable times. All the same, died the same, blood and urine and dying greedy eyes turning cold and grey, staring at their cookie cutter office walls until the end.
Punching the up button on the service elevator, Farfarello hefted up the heavy gate and stepped inside. While the elevators in the lobby required a key to access the top two floors, the service elevator had free access to even the highest floor. Everyone needed a little service in their life. He pushed the button for the eighteenth floor and shut the grate. Too easy. The elevator smoothly lifted him towards a dead man walking.
Bored, he pulled a finely bladed butterfly knife from his vest and spun it on a finger as he watched the elevator floor numbers light up in succession as he ascended. The blade was hungry for blood, splitting the skin on his finger tip, eager for more challenging flesh. Farfarello wiped his bloody hand on his pants, mindful not to leave any trace of his presence, as the last call dinged cheerfully on the elevator. Last stop, everyone off, it was time to play.
Silently sliding the protective grate up out of the way, the Irishman stepped out into an unlit maintenance closet. He frowned in the darkness. Something was wrong; there was a strange feeling in the air. Gripping the handle of his knife more firmly, he slowly pushed open the door and looked out. Nothing out of the ordinary. Still, he felt something off, and carefully slipped out into the lavish, garishly gaudy lobby. The maintenance door snicked quietly closed behind him as he scented the air.
Farfarello frowned. It smelled almost sanguine.
On high alert, the white haired man padded across the plush mauve carpet. Then, in a split moment decision, threw caution to the wind, and kicked open the heavy mahogany doors. As the doors slammed violently into the walls, tearing form their hinges, the man in the room looked up, startled. He jerked the bloody katana in his hands from the body at his feet and stared in disbelief at the Irishman.
“Farfarello,” the redhead hissed, falling into a fighting stance, sword at the ready.
The man in question cocked his head, single amber eye taking in the fresh red blood painting the walls, the floors, flecking the other assassin’s pale features. It was a beautifully macabre effect, infinitely more attractive than the office’s original decorating scheme.
“Fujimiya Aya,” Farfarello offered as a reply. He raised the butterfly knife up just in time to block a fierce downward strike as the Weiss assassin charged across the room. Grinning gleefully, Farfarello leaned over their crossed blades to lick a line through the blood splattered on Aya’s cheek, “Sweet.” He cackled at the redhead’s poleaxed expression and pulled another knife.
Coming at him again, Aya kicked him hard in the gut, pushing him back a scant few inches and struck forward with his sword again. Farfarello caught the blow between his knives and the two strained against each other for a few seconds. The redhead pushed hard and the other man buckled. Seemingly pressing his advantage, Aya shoved the other man to the floor, and was promptly hurled face first against the wall in the lobby. Darting after him, Farfarello got in a nasty cut to the other assassin’s chest before being forcibly shoved away. His back slammed up against the polished brass doors of the main elevator. Seconds later, a fatally sharp katana passed through the space where his head had just been. The fine blade bit deep into the metal, sheering pieces off, finally lodging in the center.
Taking advantage of this momentary lapse, Farfarello bodily tackled the other man against the elevator doors. Aya twisted at the last moment to avoid the twin knives aimed at his belly. The weakened doors groaned loudly at the abrupt shift in weight, then suddenly bowed inwards and crackled open. Tumbling backwards, Aya grabbed for purchase on the object nearest at hand, namely Farfarello. The pair plummeted down the shaft, falling two floors before slamming full force onto the top of the elevator car stopped at floor sixteen.
Floor sixteen. Farfarello cackled a bit from his position underneath the redhead. Aya must have taken the main elevator up to that floor, then walked the rest of the way up the fire stairs after finding access to the upper floors locked out. The movement caused him a moments pause to look down. He felt… something.
“Move,” he commanded, shoving the other man off without waiting for a response. Squinting his eye in the dimly lit gloom, he spotted the cause of the sensation. A large chunk of what appeared to be appeared to be part of the destroyed elevator door neatly pinned his left thigh to the surface he laid on. He rolled his single eye in irritation.
The dazed redhead watched in morbid fascination as he made a grab for the piece. Farfarello’s fingers slipped a few times on the blood slicked metal before getting a solid grip. Soft, gushing sounds filled the air as the hunk of metal was extricated, surprisingly carefully, from the Irishman’s leg. Blood pumped freely from the ragged wound for a moment before slowing to a feeble trickle.
Against his will, Aya stared at the gash. “Do you really feel nothing?” His stomach was churning a little in sympathetic pain.
Farfarello slanted an irritated glance in his direction, “Don’t be stupid. If I felt nothing at all, I would be useless and incapacitated,” he snorted contemptuously, “I feel no pain. Only God feels the pain of this body created in his own image.”
Aya shrugged, not arguing with that logic. There was a pregnant silence, uncomfortable as the redhead stared at the indifferent Irishman. “So, why did you… lick me?” he asked finally.
“Why not?” the madman countered, not bothering to look at him again. “Why did you kill that man?”
“Do you care?” the assassin asked, curiosity grudgingly piqued.
A shake of his head, “Not really. Dead is dead, regardless of who does the killing.” He sat up and flexed his muscles experimentally.
The Weiss assassin tensed and fumbled for a weapon. “No funny moves or I’ll kill you, too. I should kill you anyway.”
This drew an amused bark from Farfarello. “If I wanted you dead, I’d have just ripped your heart from your chest after the fall. Earlier was just for sport.” His amber eye glittered with amusement and he grinned, baring sharp teeth.
Suddenly, the white haired man surged forward, scarred lips pressing intimately against Aya’s startled ones. “Red is your colour. It makes your eyes glow,” he murmured before squirreling up the heavy elevator cords to the opening above as if he hadn’t just pulled a chunk of metal from his leg. His laughter echoed down to the confused man still crouching with his hand on his lips in the gloom below.
Have fun with the kitten? Schuldig’s annoying mind-voice intruded as Farfarello descended in the service elevator.
He ignored the telepath as he made his way back through the corridor, past the defunct cameras to the parking garage he had originally entered through. The German stood leaning against the hood of his car, cigarette in one hand, and an entirely too smug look on his perfect face.
“Well?” he asked out loud, taking a lazy drag. He slid into the driver’s seat and cheerfully patted the passenger seat mockingly.
Farfarello tilted his head thoughtfully, looking at the blood soaking steadily through his pants. “I did.” He sat down and let his fellow assassin drive them home.
end -
-by Tro
It was dark and silent as a grave as Farfarello made his way past inconsequential security systems. The cold, unblinking eye of the camera had long replaced the warm bodies of paid security. Those lenses stared blindly, having been effectively disabled and rerouted by Nagi. It made no difference to Farfarello. Silencing an alarm with a press of a key or a human life with the flick of a wrist, it was easy enough either way.
His footfalls were soft and soundless as a cat’s as he prowled down the maintenance corridor to the elevator shaft. He didn’t know what the man he would soon be rending limb from limb had done to warrant the death sentence and wondered idly if he cared. Probably not. Killing was killing, a mortal sin, the ultimate blasphemy against God; its ulterior motives usually irrelevant. It did bother him that he was not told. Brad, he was sure, had divulged this knowledge to the other two members of Schwarz, but not him. His ‘accomplice’ on this mission, Schuldig as usual, had not cared to share.
Farfarello took a moment to snort and shake his head. Irritating as the telepath could be, at least he saw the inherent stupidity behind one grown man babysitting another grown man. This wasn’t a two person mission in any way, shape, or form, but Brad had sent Schuldig along to watch him. After arriving at the building, it had taken all of thirty seconds, a quick, mock salute, and the redhead had ditched him for more entertaining, most likely carnal, diversions.
Absently, the white haired Irishman wondered if all corporate buildings were designed from the same blueprints. A little faux Venetian plaster here, some art deco pieces there, but inside they were all the same. He had been in countless corridors identical to this one, killed fat, aging businessmen like this one innumerable times. All the same, died the same, blood and urine and dying greedy eyes turning cold and grey, staring at their cookie cutter office walls until the end.
Punching the up button on the service elevator, Farfarello hefted up the heavy gate and stepped inside. While the elevators in the lobby required a key to access the top two floors, the service elevator had free access to even the highest floor. Everyone needed a little service in their life. He pushed the button for the eighteenth floor and shut the grate. Too easy. The elevator smoothly lifted him towards a dead man walking.
Bored, he pulled a finely bladed butterfly knife from his vest and spun it on a finger as he watched the elevator floor numbers light up in succession as he ascended. The blade was hungry for blood, splitting the skin on his finger tip, eager for more challenging flesh. Farfarello wiped his bloody hand on his pants, mindful not to leave any trace of his presence, as the last call dinged cheerfully on the elevator. Last stop, everyone off, it was time to play.
Silently sliding the protective grate up out of the way, the Irishman stepped out into an unlit maintenance closet. He frowned in the darkness. Something was wrong; there was a strange feeling in the air. Gripping the handle of his knife more firmly, he slowly pushed open the door and looked out. Nothing out of the ordinary. Still, he felt something off, and carefully slipped out into the lavish, garishly gaudy lobby. The maintenance door snicked quietly closed behind him as he scented the air.
Farfarello frowned. It smelled almost sanguine.
On high alert, the white haired man padded across the plush mauve carpet. Then, in a split moment decision, threw caution to the wind, and kicked open the heavy mahogany doors. As the doors slammed violently into the walls, tearing form their hinges, the man in the room looked up, startled. He jerked the bloody katana in his hands from the body at his feet and stared in disbelief at the Irishman.
“Farfarello,” the redhead hissed, falling into a fighting stance, sword at the ready.
The man in question cocked his head, single amber eye taking in the fresh red blood painting the walls, the floors, flecking the other assassin’s pale features. It was a beautifully macabre effect, infinitely more attractive than the office’s original decorating scheme.
“Fujimiya Aya,” Farfarello offered as a reply. He raised the butterfly knife up just in time to block a fierce downward strike as the Weiss assassin charged across the room. Grinning gleefully, Farfarello leaned over their crossed blades to lick a line through the blood splattered on Aya’s cheek, “Sweet.” He cackled at the redhead’s poleaxed expression and pulled another knife.
Coming at him again, Aya kicked him hard in the gut, pushing him back a scant few inches and struck forward with his sword again. Farfarello caught the blow between his knives and the two strained against each other for a few seconds. The redhead pushed hard and the other man buckled. Seemingly pressing his advantage, Aya shoved the other man to the floor, and was promptly hurled face first against the wall in the lobby. Darting after him, Farfarello got in a nasty cut to the other assassin’s chest before being forcibly shoved away. His back slammed up against the polished brass doors of the main elevator. Seconds later, a fatally sharp katana passed through the space where his head had just been. The fine blade bit deep into the metal, sheering pieces off, finally lodging in the center.
Taking advantage of this momentary lapse, Farfarello bodily tackled the other man against the elevator doors. Aya twisted at the last moment to avoid the twin knives aimed at his belly. The weakened doors groaned loudly at the abrupt shift in weight, then suddenly bowed inwards and crackled open. Tumbling backwards, Aya grabbed for purchase on the object nearest at hand, namely Farfarello. The pair plummeted down the shaft, falling two floors before slamming full force onto the top of the elevator car stopped at floor sixteen.
Floor sixteen. Farfarello cackled a bit from his position underneath the redhead. Aya must have taken the main elevator up to that floor, then walked the rest of the way up the fire stairs after finding access to the upper floors locked out. The movement caused him a moments pause to look down. He felt… something.
“Move,” he commanded, shoving the other man off without waiting for a response. Squinting his eye in the dimly lit gloom, he spotted the cause of the sensation. A large chunk of what appeared to be appeared to be part of the destroyed elevator door neatly pinned his left thigh to the surface he laid on. He rolled his single eye in irritation.
The dazed redhead watched in morbid fascination as he made a grab for the piece. Farfarello’s fingers slipped a few times on the blood slicked metal before getting a solid grip. Soft, gushing sounds filled the air as the hunk of metal was extricated, surprisingly carefully, from the Irishman’s leg. Blood pumped freely from the ragged wound for a moment before slowing to a feeble trickle.
Against his will, Aya stared at the gash. “Do you really feel nothing?” His stomach was churning a little in sympathetic pain.
Farfarello slanted an irritated glance in his direction, “Don’t be stupid. If I felt nothing at all, I would be useless and incapacitated,” he snorted contemptuously, “I feel no pain. Only God feels the pain of this body created in his own image.”
Aya shrugged, not arguing with that logic. There was a pregnant silence, uncomfortable as the redhead stared at the indifferent Irishman. “So, why did you… lick me?” he asked finally.
“Why not?” the madman countered, not bothering to look at him again. “Why did you kill that man?”
“Do you care?” the assassin asked, curiosity grudgingly piqued.
A shake of his head, “Not really. Dead is dead, regardless of who does the killing.” He sat up and flexed his muscles experimentally.
The Weiss assassin tensed and fumbled for a weapon. “No funny moves or I’ll kill you, too. I should kill you anyway.”
This drew an amused bark from Farfarello. “If I wanted you dead, I’d have just ripped your heart from your chest after the fall. Earlier was just for sport.” His amber eye glittered with amusement and he grinned, baring sharp teeth.
Suddenly, the white haired man surged forward, scarred lips pressing intimately against Aya’s startled ones. “Red is your colour. It makes your eyes glow,” he murmured before squirreling up the heavy elevator cords to the opening above as if he hadn’t just pulled a chunk of metal from his leg. His laughter echoed down to the confused man still crouching with his hand on his lips in the gloom below.
Have fun with the kitten? Schuldig’s annoying mind-voice intruded as Farfarello descended in the service elevator.
He ignored the telepath as he made his way back through the corridor, past the defunct cameras to the parking garage he had originally entered through. The German stood leaning against the hood of his car, cigarette in one hand, and an entirely too smug look on his perfect face.
“Well?” he asked out loud, taking a lazy drag. He slid into the driver’s seat and cheerfully patted the passenger seat mockingly.
Farfarello tilted his head thoughtfully, looking at the blood soaking steadily through his pants. “I did.” He sat down and let his fellow assassin drive them home.
end -