Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Mind Games and Coffee ❯ chapter ten ( Chapter 10 )

Disclaimer: Weiss Kreuz is not mine.All its characters and affiliates are also not mine. Nothing involving Weiss Kreuz is mine.Sadly this is true.

Author’s Notes: Warning for blood. Farfarello takes the stage. It’s not too bad. I could have done much worse, but since this is not a fic dealing mainly with the workings of Farfarello’s mind, I restrained myself. It is important to me, however, to work in scenes like this because it’s Schwarz. They kill people for a living, and don’t appear particularly sorry for it. It has to be dealt with, exorcised from my mind, and then turned into a push for the plot. Oh and happy news! I might just know the course of the plot.



Review Responses: Chapters keep coming, and reviews are increasing. The charts are looking good people.


KD Sarge – Yes, it looks like I’m succumbing to the long and plotted muse. Hopefully, in exchange my muse will let me keep up the weekly updates. My muse, like me, is such a slacker.

moimoi-chan – Let the ‘yay’s continue. Another chapter is here.

Cierzo – Everyone votes for plot. Oki *rolls up sleeves* plot! It may not look like it yet, but there is plot I promise, I think, maybe… Epiphany! Right that, see plot! And while I figure this mess out, here is bastardly adorable Schuldig to distract entertain you. ^_^

Heta Noitio – I was rather enthused with that insult myself. Long ficcie it is. *huggles you back* I’m happy you’re reading.

darkephoenix – Stone! Metal! *squeak* Here it is! I’ve brought the new chapter! *bows* Call off the inquisition!



~telepathy~ aka communicating
/thoughts/ aka Schuldig reading someone’s mind



German Words:

Scheiße - shit



Chapter Ten


Darkness reigned inside. The inky blackness stood poised to enslave all that should step within its reach; even being so bold as to threaten the invading light spilling from the open door. Schuldig hovered in the doorway to Farfarello’s room, casting his blue-eyed gaze about for any sign of life. Sedatives kept the Irishman from joining the living the day before, but now, over twenty-four hours later…


“Farfie, you in there?” Schuldig questioned the darkened room. “Scheiße, don’t tell me you found a new way to sneak out.”


Taking a few steps into the room, Schuldig felt along the wall for the light switch, his form slowly swallowed by the darkness. His fingertips brushed across smooth plaster, till they felt even smoother plastic. Along the edge of the switch casing his fingers went, up over the metal screw head, and finally to the base of the switch itself. A light build of tension in the redhead’s arm flowed to his index finger, and was lost in a spasm of flailing limbs!


Schuldig’s yelp, and ensuing curse, was lost in a heavy palm pressed over his mouth. A golden eye, the only thing of his assailant that caught the scant light, glowed in the mass of darkness above him. The ball of fiery amber descended to within an inch of the telepath’s own wide eyes. Blue eyes quickly narrowed, and a muffled string of protests and curses accompanied an angry struggle.


Farfarello rode out the bucking and flailing, as easily as any predator with a good grip on its prey. The antelope was fast, but the lion was stronger. The hand not already busy shutting the German’s mouth, snatched up two wrists, and restrained the pounding fists. Pushing Schuldig’s arms above his head, Farfarello once again brought his eye level with those of the telepath.


“Tsk, tsk,” Farfarello breathed against Schuldig. “Be sober; be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roaring lion, walketh about seeking whom he may devour.”1 Farfarello’s hiss of laughter moved to brush along his captive’s ear, the hair on Schuldig’s neck rose in its wake. “Tell me Guilty One, what is it like to devour someone’s mind, gain their knowledge, defile that last stronghold, and rip away their power? Do you think, if I eat yours, I would gain your power? Bone is such a flimsy barrier. The flesh is weak. He made us so. He set us amongst the wolves with nothing but skin to protect us, like a science project: see how long man can survive. But I have claws, Guilty One.”


At some point, unnoticed by Schuldig, the hand over his mouth had lifted, but he noticed the edge of a blade when he felt it. He could feel the deliberate increase of pressure, as the knife bit into his throat.


“Get off,” Schuldig said evenly, while trying not to move his jaw muscles. His answer came in the burn of splitting skin. A small slit nothing more, but enough to rupture tiny blood vessels just below the surface. “I will kill you.”


“Nay, for you are no servant of God,” Farfarello purred. “Though He may try and smite me, He has no power over us unless we give it to Him. I will take of His, and destroy. You, Guilty One, have never been His. You will not strike me down. You will help me.”


“Devil’s disciple am I?”


“Not the Devil. Where he fails, I shall succeed. The Fallen Angel reigns in Hell. He has no more power here than God. I am here, and God shall feel my wrath.”


Schuldig felt the knife lift away, and replaced by the swipe of a tongue. A trail of warm wetness followed the cooled path of blood down the telepath’s throat. As he spoke, Farfarello’s breath pooled in the hollow of Schuldig’s throat and slithered across his collar bone.


“Come with me purveyor of sin, and we shall sound the hunt.”


“Why do you think I’m here?” Schuldig smirked. “Brad said it’s ok to play, so let’s go play. Let’s go hunt your God.”


Farfarello raised his head and smiled. The light from the doorway reached him at last, only to cast deep shadows across his face. Schuldig grinned back at the menacing set of teeth above him. Farfarello knew that this close, it was his thoughts that danced through the telepath’s mind. Once away from the apartment and the Oracle, Farfarello’s mind would be the strongest influence. The Guilty One would help him destroy God. Schuldig wouldn’t just restrain him like Nagi, he would join in. Farfarello’s red obsession would become Schuldig’s, and the hunt would be twice as fun.


There were several reasons why Schuldig always accompanied Farfarello. Crawford, for all his love of good boxing, abhorred the mess. Farfarello had always respected the American’s own lust for blood, controlled as it was, but Crawford preferred his suits in neutral colors, not red. Nagi, by collective agreement, was too young for the Irishman’s brand of killing. Farfarello liked the boy, as his faith was placed in technology, the God killer. In front of Nagi, Farfarello made an attempt at restraint. Killing was one thing, but molding intestines was something else entirely. Schuldig on the other hand, had no problem with blood. The German had seen enough of it gush from his own nose by the age of six, for him to be squeamish. It was also therapeutic for the telepath to get of his mind, so to speak, and Farfarello gladly let him romp through his.


* * * * * * * * * *



Schuldig grinned down at the Japanese man, whose arms he was holding. Farfarello sat on his legs, and proceeded to make an abdominal incision. Slowly, while the man screamed and pleaded, Farfarello pulled out the kinky rope of his intestines.


“Lamb of God, I look to thee; thou shalt my example be; thou art gentle, meek, and mild; thou wast once a little child.”2


“Eh, I don’t know that hymn. Pick another,” Schuldig laughed.


“Thou wast once God’s child. Now your mine.” Farfarello wrapped the line of innards tight around the man’s neck.


“Scream if you still can,” Schuldig said, “no one will here you, or at least they think they won’t. Now the real science project begins, which will kill you first: lack of air or pain.” The redhead watched as Farfarello began to strip away skin. “Nice knife. Is it new?”


“Home shopping channel,” Farfarello stated without looking up. “Let’s see if it’s as good proclaimed. If it doesn’t skin him as well as the tomato on TV, then I still have thirty days to return it.”


The man coughed and wheezed, while his throat muscles flexed beneath the fleshy binding. Pink froth dribbled down his chin with every choked scream. Nasal laughter and a golden gaze haunted the doomed man.


Once the man’s mind descended into black silence, the telepath left Farfarello to his work. Schuldig sat against a relatively bloodless space of brick wall, and watched the trail of smoke from his cigarette slither towards the sky. Blood seeped along the ground, pooling in cracks and potholes. The air in the alley, situated between two warehouses, was thick with the smell of raw meat. Stray dogs waited behind dumpsters for the humans to leave. Scavengers ate last. Farfarello pulled out the dead man’s liver, and threw it to a particularly large dog.


“How pliant is this Mephistopheles,” the psychopath said to the dog.


Beside him, laid out on the ground, were the flayed skin and a pile of various fleshy lumps, organs. Only the small intestine and the eyes were excluded from the sideline display. The intestine was wrapped around its owner’s neck. The eyes were left in.


“The Liar will look into your eyes, and into you soul, there he shall find me,” the Irishman told the corpse. He stood and stretched like a large contented cat; his pale skin splattered liberally with blood, and as he moved toward Schuldig, a cloud of red rain followed him. Wet gore splashed on Schuldig’s face, as he looked up at the man above him.


“And what are you that live with Lucifer?” Schuldig offered the line and Farfarello smirked.


“Unhappy spirits that fell with Lucifer, conspired against our God with Lucifer, and are for ever damned with Lucifer,” Farfarello replied.


“Where are you damned?” Schuldig quoted again.


“In hell.”


“How comes it then that thou art out of hell?”


“Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it.”3




End Chapter



Farfarello demanded that the chapter end on that line. I wanted to make the chapter longer, but he’s armed and I’m not. I always thought Farfarello seemed like someone who might appreciate Marlowe, and now just seemed an interesting time to work that in. If you’ve read it, you’ll get it. If not, then it’s still a cool set of lines. Off to work on the next chapter. More BradxSchuness next time. ^_^




Endnotes, because I put way to much thought into this chapter.

1 Bible, 1 Peter v. 8
2 Wesley, Charles. “Gentle Jesus, Meek and Mild”
3 Marlowe, Christopher. Doctor Faustus. Scene 4 Lines 30, 71-78.