Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Hallowed Be Thy Name ❯ Hallowed Be Thy Name: Chapter One ( Chapter 1 )

*Disclaimer: If you're reading this, you already know. I don't own Schwarz, or any other characters. ;_; Oh well. I 'borrowed' them and emotionally tortured and tormented them for my own cruel pleasure and your reading delight. ^^; It shifts in and out of Brad's POV; don't get lost, now, kids... And remember - don't feed the wild bears. But please *do* feed me, the author, with your comments, criticism, and even flames if you like. The fic is calling out to you: Review me! ^_^

Hallowed Be Thy Name: Chapter One

Brad Crawford stared into the cold metal morgue shelf in utter shock. Usually cool, calculating eyes, hidden behind glasses, were completely transformed with the pain and fear he felt. He couldn't stand to look upon it for another moment - yet his eyes refused to obey his command and drop their gaze. Another day, another dollar, another brutal murder. That was the way it went in the business of assassination - but this...this was different...

The white sheet covered enough to keep the hardly recognizable body decent. yet it didn't cover enough to keep Brad Crawford from stifling a scream. Crawford hadn't cried since he was a child; yet with the pain and terror of yet another loss, he was now on the brink of tears. The feisty red-headed German had been found in his bed - or what remained of it - bound, gagged, throat slit, and burned. Five other murders of this sort had taken place-seemingly one a day; the killer had to be damned brilliant. As a trained assassin, Crawford knew that it was just too risky to kill this way. There was also recognizable skill in the burning; flames used to burn the bodies hadn't been allowed to spread beyond the bed each victim had taken their final rest in.

Brad's eyes finally granted him some mercy and he turned away in revulsion. His mind, however, continued its cruelty, casually ticking down the week's murders like a shopping list. Monday, a nun, a Sister Ruth; Tuesday, Takatori Reiji; Wednesday, Takatori Masafumi; Thursday, Naoe Nagi; Friday, an investigator; Saturday...Schuldig.

Am I next...?

Brad turned to the door of the morgue and left without a word.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

I couldn't believe they were dead. I mean, talk about trite, cliché, but it was true...I just couldn't; it all felt like the memory of a nightmare I'd just awoken from. I kept entering rooms, walking down halls, turning into the kitchen or the living room, expecting to see Schuldig goofing off somewhere like he always had, maybe driving Nagi and the Farf crazy (as if Farfello hadn't lost enough of his marbles already) with his mind games. Absentmindedly walking into the office, I'd expect to see Nagi solemnly working on the computer...and when they weren't there, the shock would hit me again. Gone, gone forever...

So, yeah. I'm an assassin, sure. Cold-blooded, stone-hearted bastard. But the loss emotionally ravaged me like it would anyone; we had killed together, lived together, been like a dysfunctional family of sorts. Of course we were hostile toward each other - trained assassins hardly feel the need to express love and respect. But I felt like I had lost brothers; we were of the same cold blood, the same pack. There's a strong bond in that sort of thing, you know, spilling innocent blood together. It's a sort of glue that makes you stick together through it all.

Farfello hardly seemed to feel the loss. If he'd gained anything from the experience it was some twisted sort of personal pleasure; I'd walk past his cell and hear him muttering about how it all hurt God. But then, he couldn't be blamed. His sanity was about that of a marble in a mayonnaise jar. All he cared about was hurting that God of his that he hated so much.

I alone bore the pain of these losses.

It had been years since I'd set foot inside of a church; the bitter memories of being forced to attend the morning after my parents had beaten me hadn't faded in the least. They seemed even fresher somehow, the bitterness much sharper now than before. But I'd gone to the funeral anyway, because I cared.

But how could I really care? What a joke. I hadn't questioned my career; I hadn't wondered if this was how it felt for the people who lost loved ones to our guns, fell with our bullets lodged in their hearts. I'd discovered what a selfish bastard I really was; I couldn't -wouldn't- care about the losses I'd caused, not even after two of my own.

I had to wonder who was really the worse man - myself, or the murderer. And I didn't like the answer I came up with.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

A predator lurked in the shadows, the tools of his trade hidden safely inside his jacket. He stared intently at a man's back, at the white suit he wore. The killer's hands itched to draw blood as the dark-haired man fixed his gaze on a computer screen and typed. A quick glance at the clock on the wall told him that it was ten p.m. He waited patiently for the man to stand up and walk toward his bedroom.

One golden eye glittered maniacally in the darkness.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

I stared at the screen, typing mechanically, hoping that work could help take my mind off of things for a little bit; I knew I could get up at any moment and dull my senses with alcohol, drown all my pain in a fifth of vodka. But somehow, in the face of this tragedy it just didn't seem right. I put my head in my hands for a few seconds, rubbing at the dull throbbing pain in my temples, and then took a deep breath and started typing again, trying to temporarily ignore all the sadness I felt. After staring into the screen for a while, I felt my mind slide out of control and my eyes out of focus as I began to trance out. I let my mind go and somewhat gratefully slid into the trance. My mind slid smoothly into the blank, cool, white walls of oblivion.

When I returned to consciousness, the first thing I did was glance at the clock. It had been a little after ten when I'd slipped; the clock now read a quarter past eleven. My eyes slid to the screen, then widening in shock as I saw what I'd written. Instead of a blank screen, or the mission report I'd hoped would finish itself, I found pages of i hate you for leaving me i hate you for leaving me i hate you for leaving me i hate you for leaving me i hate you for leaving me i hate you for leaving me i hate you for leaving me i hate you for leaving me i hate you for leaving me i hate you for leaving me i hate you for leaving me take me with you take me with you take me with you take me with you take me with you typed over and over again.

I hit the power switch without saving or bothering to shut down, and walked out of the room to head to bed.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

The catlike, amber-colored eye retreated down the hall along with its stealthy, silent owner as the man stood up and turned to leave the office. The silent silhouette took one final glance at the clock before he turned and sneaked silently down the hallway. 11:20.

It was almost time.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

I paused briefly in the hallway, listening suspiciously, swearing I'd heard a rustle; the sound clothes inevitably made when one walked was a sound nearly inaudible to all but the most trained assassin. I listened for a moment longer, and then shook my head with a faint sigh.

I turned into my own dark bedroom. Depositing my blazer on the floor in a rather uncharacteristic manner, I collapsed onto the bed still mostly dressed with a heavy sigh. Was it really just yesterday

i hate you for leaving me

that I'd been talking with Schuldig, full of life? Had it only been a few days

take me with you

since I'd last seen Nagi alive, his luminous, innocent, solemn eyes staring into my own?

It seemed like ages, and yet the last moments of their lives that I'd witnessed seemed fresh to my mind as if I had just seen them minutes ago--

Shit.

I sat bolt upright in bed as a shadow on the wall shifted ever so slightly. I still had my glasses on but couldn't make out anything in the faint light cast by moonbeams peeking through the blinds. I groped blindly for the lamp beside the bed, not daring to turn my attentions for a moment, gazing around the room with fear and suspicion. My eyes slowly adjusted to the dark a bit more and I hopelessly felt for the switch on the lamp as the shadow moved again. My fingers grazed the switch and wound around it, twisting it and hearing it click, and though it wasn't very loud, the click seemed deafening-because the lamp wouldn't turn on...

Calm down, Brad, the bulb just blew out, that's all, and you're imagining the shadows, you dumb paranoid fuck.

My eyes slid slowly to the clock beside the lamp, searching for the crimson numbers glowing comfortingly in the darkness. The blood-red readout stared back at me. 11:31.

See? The clock still works. The bulb just fucking blew, you goddamn pansy. Funny how you're fearless when you're the predator, but the second you become the prey, your palms start sweating and you're shaking and you can't control your mind...this is life when you're not the one holding the gun, Bradley. This is what it feels like for the people you kill.

My mind cruelly taunted me as I trembled nervously. I knew it was ridiculous, I knew I was being paranoid...but Christ, I'd been trained to be paranoid. Better to err on the side of caution, and all that other feel-good won't-get-caught-if-you're-careful bullshit. I gulped a few mouthfuls of still air and tried to relax, finding myself unable to close my eyes for the fear.

You like it much better when your finger is the one on the trigger, don't you, Bradley? You like it much better when it's not the blood of those you love being spilled, when there's no risk in it for you because you've got the upper hand and the gun.

This time instead of a shadow, my eyes landed on a definite shape, moving and shifting fluidly in the darkness and not bothering to conceal itself any longer. The silhouette seemed to glide, moving toward the end of my bed. I felt a person's weight press on the springs. My eyes fixed on a shock of wild orange hair.

"Sch-Schuldig?!" My voice caught in my throat. The one word that passed my lips was shrill and squeaky. The grinning redhead leaned in on the bed until he was inches from my face. My heart skipped a beat, staring into feral emeralds set in their sockets, framed by delicate, perfectly formed eyelashes.

"You were expecting anyone else?" The raspy voice didn't belong to Schuldig. My mind's pretty visions of the feisty German melted. The red hair was whipped off with a pale, scarred hand and I found myself staring into the pallid scarred face and one golden eye that belonged to Farfello.

"What do you think you're doing, Farfello?"

The scrawny, scarred body pressed its weight on my legs, keeping me from escaping, though I doubt I could have moved if I wanted. My brain shot flight commands to my arms, which ignored them in favor of waiting to be pinned down and forcibly rendered completely helpless. "Wh--why--" I felt bile rising in my throat, burning as it came up. My stomach flipped and twisted with the unfamiliar nausea of nervousness.

You don't like the way it feels to be the innocent deer staring down the end of the hunter's rifle, do you, Bradley?

I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. The breath caught in my throat as a straight razor shimmered faintly and pressed itself to my jugular vein.

"The sacrifices hurt God." The psychotically calm Irishman's voice harshly greeted my ears. "Just one more. You're it, Crawford." The razor's press against my flesh loosened slightly. Is this how you're going to die, Bradley? As a sacrifice to a God you don't believe in?

"Farfello..."

"Shut your damn mouth," the raspy voice hissed. "And keep it fucking shut or I'll just kill you now."

I called on my mind's abilities, to no avail. A cruel darkness hovered in my mind, as it had all week.. "What...why can't I see into the future?"

"Because you don't have one, Bradley." A ghostly, bony hand reached toward my eyes and slid my glasses off the bridge of my nose. I heard a sharp cracking noise and knew he'd broken them. My eyes slid out of focus.

"So you're going to kill me now anyway?"

"No, no no..." A dry, harsh laugh. "It's eleven forty-one, Bradley. You've got nineteen minutes to live..."

"Why?"

"Remember Sunday school, Bradley? Creation? On the seventh day, God rested." he mimicked the words of a priest, of the bible.

A chill started at the base of my neck and jumped down the length of my spine. I shivered involuntarily. "I meant, why are you doing this...killing us...we saved you..."

"It hurts God, Bradley. It hurts God when we hurt the ones we love." For a fleeting moment I thought I might be able to talk him out of this, stop him...until by some cruel trick of vision, my weak eyes perfectly, clearly, focused on that one golden eye, on the megalomaniacal hatred and cruel laughter that resided there. What with the darkness of the room and my broken glasses, long discarded on the floor in favor of teasing my throat with the cold blade, I couldn't see much...yet I could so clearly see his one eye, sparkling with bloodlust. In that moment I knew he had never been capable of love...

Insanity was cruel that way.