Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Not With a Bang ❯ Chapter 1

“Not With a Bang”
By Viridian5
4/17/05

RATING: R; Crawford/Schuldig. Deathfic. If m/m interaction bothers you, pass this by.
SPOILERS: Small ones for “Last Mission 10: Velvet Underworld” and “Last Mission 12: Epitaph.”
SUMMARY: When your time comes, you go alone.
ARCHIVAL/DISTRIBUTION: Anywhere, as long as you ask me first.
FEEDBACK: can be sent to Viridian5@aol.com.
DISCLAIMERS: All things Weiß Kreuz belong to Koyasu Takehito, Project Weiß, Polygram k.k., and Animate Film. No infringement intended.
NOTES: I’ve been sick with a mysterious illness lately that saps my strength and doctors can’t figure out what’s causing it. This story resulted.
Thanks to Juls for her support and typo-watch.

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“Not With a Bang”
By Viridian5
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“You were slow,” I said as I drove. With more strength I might have crushed the steering wheel with the grip I had on it. Holding on this way prevented me from trying to wring Schuldig’s neck.

He didn’t look at me, just kept his head resting against the window and looked out into the night. “I know.”

“We almost missed the target. You almost got us killed.”

“I know.” Listless. No fire.

Wrong. Completely wrong.

Schuldig had been too slow. Schuldig had been getting slower over the last few weeks in so many ways where keeping him still had once been the problem. Before it had bled over into business tonight, that slowing down and mellowing could have been mistaken for coming maturity. I’d always thought that someday his voracious appetite for sensation would start to fade. He didn’t go out as much anymore, and some nights I heard him typing away at the keyboard of his laptop, a sound that felt familiar and almost cozy to me from when Nagi had been with the team, even though Schuldig no doubt cruised the internet for porn instead of work purposes.

But tonight he’d been slow to dodge and slow to fire, his reflexes off. Then he didn’t complain or try to shift blame when I castigated him for it. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

He looked at me then. “I’ll tell you when we get home. I guess it’s about time.”

I parked the car in the garage and locked it with the remote. Keeping a garage space for the car in New York City almost cost us half as much as the rent, but with our profession we needed the transportation. Schuldig once joked that we were renting an apartment for our car too. He walked a step behind me, his hands jammed into the pockets of his trench coat as if he couldn’t feel the June heat. He actually shivered a little.

He was ill. He had to be. And I hadn’t noticed. Why the fuck hadn’t he told me? I would taunt him over it for forcing me to cancel the assignment, but we taunted each other all the time.

Once inside our apartment, I turned on the lights and took a closer look at him. He looked paler, and his eyes seemed a bit dimmer. His lips were slightly cracked, as if he’d dehydrated. I’d noticed that his flyaway orange hair seemed more brittle and dried out lately, but I stayed happily ignorant of what he did with his hair and intended to remain so.

“So you’re ill,” I said. “Go to bed and consider yourself fortunate that we succeeded after all and so I’m not in the mood to kill you for your screw-up.”

“I’m ill,” Schuldig agreed softly, with a bitter twist to his mouth, “but getting better isn’t going to be as easy as going to bed. I’m burning out, Crawford.”

“So take a fucking vacation.”

“I’m burning out, Brad.”

When Rosenkreuz gave him to me, they’d warned me that either his speed or his telepathy would destroy him at a young age. I’d angrily asked them why they’d give me flawed goods. They’d laughed that I was so arrogant that I thought his longevity would become an issue then told me that I could always send him back and get a replacement.

Schuldig was now in his early 30s.

“You could have the flu,” I answered, even though we rarely became that seriously ill. “You remember how we worried when my hair went silver, but it turned out to be nothing.”

“This isn’t the flu, and it isn’t like your hair. It’s been getting worse over the last three weeks. My energy and strength went down to something like normal people and now it’s less than normal. I can barely get out of bed lately. Food doesn’t appeal to me anymore; I’m not hungry much and barely taste it. I have pins and needles in my fingers and toes. I’m cold all the time. I can feel--” He stopped. “I’ve been researching accelerated aging and chronic fatigue online. I went to see our doctor six days ago. He gave me a physical and then some, and the results all say that my body is wearing out: organs, muscles, nerves.”

A week ago when we’d finished a long-term job in Atlanta I’d given Schuldig some options on where to go and he’d decided on New York City. Now I saw that he’d chosen as he had because one of the best doctors we knew of lived and worked here. Given our abilities and unusual physiques, we needed a discreet physician who could dabble in almost any area of expertise. Dr. Liu did excellent work and knew how to keep his mouth shut.

I saw a sudden image of Schuldig with his gun barrel in his mouth. Angry, I grabbed his right wrist. Once, he would have dodged me easily. “Your life is mine. I’m the one who decides when you die.”

He looked surprised, then smirked. “I might respect your anal fortitude, but my body apparently doesn’t give a damn. I’ve thought of killing myself while I still have the strength to pull the trigger.”

“When the time is right, I’ll kill you. That time is not now. You may have exhausted all of your ideas, but not mine.”

Schuldig shrugged. “Do your best. I’d like to see it. But I have to tell you that if I keep going downhill at this rate, you won’t have much time to work on curing me. My mental shields take a lot of physical strength to maintain.”

When he reached a certain point, he’d no longer be able to protect himself from his own telepathy and would go insane from the pressure and flood of countless minds subsuming his own. I gritted my teeth. “Noted.”

He removed his wrist from my slack grip. “Good night, Crawford. Pleasant dreams.”

Such a comedian. I didn’t sleep well after that.

Once in a while I considered retiring from the business. Anarchy had been a joke I’d toyed with, one that would have caused us too much trouble for us to actually institute, and Esset was destroyed, so I had nothing keeping me in the game aside from good money and the chance to exercise my abilities. Since Esset’s fall I could invest more strategically and openly, making me wealthy, and security work and assassination had become repetitive. I’d thought of finding a pretty, docile wife, one who wouldn’t ask many questions, and getting myself an heir or two.

During those moments of reverie I’d sometimes wonder what would become of Schuldig if I retired. With Nagi and Farfarello long gone on to other things, only Schuldig remained to remind me of Schwarz. He lived for the moment, so he might not even have real savings. With his energy and quickly flitting mind, he might not be able to adapt to a mundane life. I might even be doing him a favor by killing him to cover my tracks as I sometimes considered. If his current fatalism turned out to be correct, the Schuldig problem might take care of itself, so why wouldn’t I just let it?

I hated to see someone I’d invested time in give up so easily, that was all. He belonged to me, for me to dispose of as I willed. I wasn’t done with him yet.

“I told him not to try to keep this from you,” Dr. Liu had said as he nervously bustled around his office. I appreciated his attempt to save your life by kissing my ass but told him that I didn’t have the time for it. What he told me about Schuldig’s condition gave me little hope.

Schuldig’s body was wearing out. Everything in it. Some of the things Dr. Liu had said, particularly the bit about Schuldig’s white blood cell count, made me wonder if it might be HIV at work, but the tests had given a negative on that. Besides, even Schuldig’s nervous system was damaged. They’d tried drugs, vitamins, and herbs but saw no sign of improvement. The damage was done and worsening. I’d asked if the damage could be reversed, but Liu said that he had to know why everything was breaking down now to get any idea of therapy. He didn’t even see a reason for the obvious dehydration.

It really seemed that Schuldig was declining from terminal overwork and overstress. For example, he currently had the heart of a man three times his age.

I reiterated to Liu that we would kill him if he tried to share of any of this with another doctor or specialist. I could already see the fervor in his eyes as he pondered the puzzle that my partner had become. Liu had always been fascinated by Schuldig’s accelerated metabolism and reflexes and would welcome an opportunity to have him as a guinea pig he could show to his fellows to get their attention and adulation. Although I knew that more minds working on the problem would be best, neither Schuldig nor I would welcome Schuldig becoming a valuable lab experiment in the process.

Esset had possessed the money, equipment, scientists, raw human material, and utter lack of research ethics necessary to work on a problem like this but they’d never cared. Why spend money trying to fix their tools when it was cheaper to throw the broken ones away and replace them with new ones?

I found Schuldig lying on the couch watching TV when I returned home. “Did threatening our doctor shake any information out of him that he wasn’t sharing with me?” Schuldig asked. “Information I didn’t already get by reading his mind?”

“No. But I’m confident that I’ll figure something out.”

“Really. You’ll fix this?”

I fell to the floor as my body turned to lead. Waves of weakness pulsed through my limbs. Pins and needles stabbed my fingers, while my joints ached. My heart pounded, and I heard the murmur of so many voices. I wanted so badly to sleep.... Then it ended.

I had my hands around his neck, squeezing, in moments. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

He shuddered in what seemed almost like pleasure. “I do what I want. I always have.”

Pleasure. He wanted me to kill him. Disgusted, I took my hands away. “Why the hell are you so eager to die?”

Rubbing his neck, he said, “You felt how I feel and you still don’t get it? Then you can’t understand.”

“Tell me.”

He sat up but trembled as he did. “You hate my stories.”

“I hate the ones I don’t ask for and the ones you use to waste time.”

“Fine. Look, I’ve been fast for most of the time I could remember and loved it. Telepathy told me that other people weren’t, which solved one of the great mysteries for me, because I always wondered why the hell everyone else pretended to be so slow and stupid. I’ve seen how you get when you get stuck behind some idiot who doesn’t know how to use an ATM and is holding you up. Imagine that everyone around you doesn’t know how to do anything. They’re blocking your way, making everything take longer.”

“You’ve always been impatient. If you were in such a hurry, why were you so lazy at times?”

“Ah. I realized that I couldn’t always let people know how fast I was. Sometimes I overdid the slowing down and forced myself to be too slow and languid. Sucks to be me, right?” He dimmed. “Yeah. I always knew that either the speed or the telepathy would get me if somebody didn’t kill me first but I figured the speed would take me out hard and fast, like I lived. Heart attack. Major hemorrhage in the brain. Burst blood vessel. Something catastrophic. Bang. I didn’t think it would be this fucking slow decline with me going out with a whimper. I didn’t think I would have to become one of those idiots who didn’t know how to use the fucking ATM, then worse than those people. I hate feeling like this. And I always hated waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

“Waiting to die. Though in this case my mind will drown before my body gives out totally.” He sounded too light about it all. “How far are you gonna let this go? Are you gonna hire a home aide to feed me, bathe me, and wipe my ass when it gets that bad? That’d be annoying when you’d have to kill him or her and get rid of the body later. It’d be less time-consuming and messy for the both of us if you just let me shoot myself now.”

“Shooting yourself is not an option. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Schuldig used to crackle with life. I wouldn’t have called him handsome, but he used to have something. We’d fucked around a few times to relieve boredom or tension, and he’d been a decent and flexible lover, though flighty. There was something leaden and doll-like about him now, and he looked dulled. He looked unSchuldig-like.

“If the time comes, I’ll shoot you,” I said. “You’ll get your bang.”

“You’re so good to me, Daddy.”

As I finished my breakfast Schuldig wandered into the kitchen. Rumpled, bleary-eyed, he mumbled something that might have been a request for coffee. “Where it always is,” I answered. He shambled over and spent five minutes finding the nearby mugs and figuring out how to put coffee into one.

He gulped it down so quickly that it amazed me he hadn’t burned himself, but it didn’t seem to make a difference to his level of consciousness. I’d seen him like this before, but only after he stumbled home from some club or bar tour in the wee hours. Last night he’d stayed in.

I protested, “That’s strong coffee.”

“I don’t think even cocaine would make a difference at this point.”

“Try some food instead.”

“Food?” Schuldig looked at me blankly and tiredly for a moment, then realization dawned, and he had an almost childlike look of dismay as he glanced back at the counter and stove, where the food and means to prepare it were. As he levered himself up out of the chair, he asked, “How do you people live like this?”

“We have no choice.”

Schuldig put bread into the toaster. “No choice? I thought you were going to destroy the world and remake it in your own image, like every other American. What happened to that?”

“I grew up.”

“I’m glad I’ll never grow up. I love fucking with the world order.”

“No sausage or bacon?”

Looking a little nauseous just from hearing the words, Schuldig answered, “Not in the mood for it.” He stood near the toaster. So impatient.

“It’ll never toast if you watch it. You know that.”

“I don’t want to sit down and get up again.”

Because you’re dying by degrees.

“Stop staring at me,” he said.

“Don’t worry. Your coat might not be as glossy as it used to be, or your eyes as sharp, but the view isn’t all bad.”

He actually sagged for a moment, but his voice sounded light as he answered, “You’re such an asshole. You’re going to have to pay my replacement big money to put up with you.” The toast popped up. He grabbed and buttered it. “If the view bothers you, you can always take me out back and shoot me.”

“I’m not ready to go that far yet.” Curious, I tossed a dishtowel at him, and it hit his bare arm. To my further horror, it also took him a moment to realize that anything had happened. “You’ll work by remote tonight. I don’t trust your current reflexes.”

“I wasn’t ready for that!”

“Not ready? That never mattered before.”

“I want to go.”

“I’m not letting you commit suicide that way either. You shouldn’t have reminded me of the annoyance replacing you will be.”

Angry, he flopped down into the chair. The emotion made him seem more alive. “You’re such an asshole. I’ll haunt you when I’m dead.”

“I doubt it.”

“Maybe you’re right. Hell would be preferable to an afterlife spent hovering around you.”

It felt odd to do an assignment without him physically watching my back and contributing to the kills, but his telepathic presence, only allowed into the top edge of my mind, made it easier than if I’d done it completely alone. He provided information and warnings. Aware of how petulant being left out made him, I let him natter in my mind about this and that instead of demanding that he stick completely to business. He could be very funny as he sneered at this security guard or that thug based off information he took out of their feeble minds.

Having him hovering in my mind gave me the seed of an idea that I kept deeply submerged so he wouldn’t read it too soon. It needed more time and thought before I could present it.

When I opened the door to our apartment, I found him leaning against the nearby wall. His gaze seemed intent and predatory, almost hot, as he said, “C’mere,” then threw himself at me. Seeing a Schuldig I recognized and sensing no threat, I let him push me against the wall and nuzzle my neck. “You smell so good,” he murmured. “Sweat and gunpowder and blood and success. Mmm.”

We’d been trained to enjoy that. Since it worked for us, I didn’t try to break that bit of brainwashing.

Buzzed myself, I didn’t punish him for being too familiar with me or presuming too much. I put my hand on his back, pushing up under his sweater to reach his skin, and smirked over his pleased sigh. He enjoyed our work but had been deprived tonight. Feeling generous, I said, “It wasn’t the same without you,” something so obvious that it verged on idiocy and so neutral that it could be read any way you liked, but he seemed to like it. All sticks and no carrots made for resentful employees.

He smacked my arm. “Stop playing me.” But he still sounded pleased.

I expected him to get more familiar and aggressive but he simply breathed and pressed me against the wall. A little impatient myself, I ran my hand up and down his back to spur him on, which made him laugh and say, “You’re hot for it. Usually you make me whine and beg and shit.”

“I have certain expectations of you. I got them through experience.”

“Crawford, I’m dead man walking. If we got into it, you’d find out that my mouth tastes like metal and I’m not... right. You’re not the politest guy, and even if you were I could read your distaste so why bother?”

“Metal.”

“For about two weeks. It’s fucking disgusting. But if you’re hot for something I could always blow you.”

“Oh, could you?”

“You’re such a bitch.”

Hard, I let him manhandle me over to the couch and push me onto it. He unbuttoned my suit jacket and smiled as he saw my gun harness, then undid my pants and pulled away my underwear. Kneeling between my spread legs, he licked and sucked me with such great skill that I could almost ignore how brittle his hair felt in my grasping hands. He hadn’t actually blown me that often, but his telepathy let him know what I liked. I usually avoided sex with him partly from the knowledge that he could read me easier with my guards down and pleasure blasting my mind. He took it slower tonight, and someone watching us might mistake it for affection instead of hastening infirmity.

~ Stop thinking. ~ He did something with his mouth and hand that made thinking impossible for a while.

Afterward I felt boneless and lazy. Feeling this relaxed would be dangerous done daily, but it made for a nice, occasional vacation. Schuldig was now lying on the couch with his head resting on my thigh, an act even more intimate than the blowjob. I pondered whether I should let him continue to do so and sensed him waiting for me to decide. Feeling this relaxed made me more impulsive too, so it surprised him when I pulled him up into my lap more, undid the fly of his jeans, and jerked him off. Writhing, whimpering, exultant, he seemed more himself. His smug, satisfied smile afterward did as well.

As we half-dozed on the couch for a while I thought about my idea and he occasionally licked my fingers, which I’d left to rest over his mouth. I could feel him hovering about me, skimming the edges of my mind but not going deeply, aware that I treasured privacy.

Finally I said, “Schuldig, I have an idea. The problem is that your body is breaking down, but you’re a telepath. You’ve ridden along with me a bit. I’ve watched you turn people into vegetables. There must be a way to transfer your self out of your body and into a different one.”

He sighed. “Can’t be done. Not successfully.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Essett tried and failed. If transfers worked, do you think the Elders would have stayed in their decrepit bodies for so long or concerned themselves with all of that complicated demon shit? They would have just transferred and been immortal. You can’t be sure that you’ve erased everything without causing brain damage. You also can’t be sure that you’ve transferred all of your self over. Would it really be me or a copy of me?”

“You almost sound like you’re talking about the existence of the soul.”

“Nah. Do I look like a priest to you? Besides, putting someone into a new body could make them nuts. Even if you found me a telepath, let alone somebody up to my level, to make it more homelike, the different body could be traumatically different. New looks, new reflexes, new health concerns....”

“You would be alive.”

“It can’t be successfully done. If it could, the Elders would have looked more like the Youngers. I appreciate you thinking about me, though. It was a nice idea.”

He was right. Of course they would have. “Are you patronizing me?”

“Are you being an oversensitive little bitch again?”

“I refuse to incriminate myself.”

“It’s a good thing Esset isn’t around anymore. I’d probably get a place in the vegetable garden until I kicked the bucket. Pfitzner hated me yet wanted my ass enough to take me that way if he could.”

Esset allowed its favorites some wasteful extravagances, like the “vegetable garden,” where it kept talents who’d lost their minds or gone comatose yet retained some physical appeal. Some people actually got off on that.

We’d manipulated Weiß into helping us destroy Esset and all its works. Nobody would be gangbanging my immobile, insane telepath.

Schuldig stretched and levered himself up off me. “Good night. That’s the best time I’ve had in a while.”

I sat for a while after he left for his bedroom.

When Schuldig didn’t come to breakfast, I went to his bedroom and found him still sleeping. After shaking him for a while with no result, I left him there and contacted more doctors by e-mail and phone. They didn’t have any ideas Schuldig and Dr. Liu hadn’t already tried. They might have been more useful if I could divulge more, but we couldn’t afford to reveal too much. Studying Rosenkreuz’s file on Schuldig again didn’t provide any new revelations either.

In the midst of my work I received an e-mail from one of Nagi’s addresses with a subject heading of “If You Need a Friend.” He had a sense of humor. I read:

*I know he’s declining.

If you need help with anything afterward, please let me know.*

He provided a local phone number. For him or to contact his minions?

Did he know about Schuldig’s condition from sources or did he feel it through whatever remained of the link Schwarz had once used? I’d be happier knowing for sure.

The second statement was far less cryptic. He was offering a cleaning crew and perhaps employment. Nagi headed an organization of his own now and occasionally took work from Kritiker. Hell, sometimes Schuldig and I did jobs for Kritiker as freelancers. Work was work.

I sent back: *I’ll let you know.*

Schuldig wandered into the kitchen at 4 p.m. and immediately sat down. Propping his head on his hand, he said, “I’m hungry.”

“Am I supposed to do something about that?” I answered.

“Yeah. You’re the healthy one, so you make food. When you were sick we always cooked, fetched, and carried.”

“I was rarely sick.”

“Good thing too, because you were a pain in the ass as an invalid.”

“I’ll be kind this once. I’ll make dinner.”

“Breakfast for me, but sure.”

I cooked macaroni, which required little effort, and heated up sauce from a jar. He was hardly a food snob and ate it with what looked like enjoyment, even though he could only finish half the bowl. We sat in silence for a while before he said, “The end is coming soon.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“I slept through most of the day. I feel like my body is made of lead. I can remember the precise shade of purple Abyssinian’s eyes turned when he was really pissed off, but I can’t remember what I ate for dinner yesterday.”

I hadn’t even thought that his mind might deteriorate along with the rest of him. “I haven’t given up.”

“But you haven’t found anything either. Crawford, when the time comes you have to kill me before my shields break down, when I still have some control. If you wait, I won’t have anything left to stop the power backlash from hurting you.”

I didn’t want to hear this. “You’re being too defeatist.”

“Promise me. Promise me or I’ll take care of myself tonight to be sure it’s done right.”

“I always make sure things are done right.”

“Promise me.” Driven, he looked like my partner.

“I promise.”

“Good. You know, Nagi’s in town. He just arrived today.”

“I had the feeling he might be.”

“You know why he’s here.”

“Yeah.”

“Thanks for dinner. Now it’s time for another nap. I fucking hate my life. What’s left of it.”

This time it didn’t surprise me that he didn’t show for breakfast or that I couldn’t wake him. However, as the day progressed into night and he still hadn’t roused I started to become... concerned and returned to his bedroom. We’d rented this apartment already furnished, so the rooms didn’t show our tastes at all, his even less than mine. The clean, simple lines of the modern furniture suited my tastes, but he’d always preferred dark wood and ornamentation. We hadn’t intended to stay here long so hadn’t bothered to bring many of our possessions out of storage. Only the closet of colorful clothing and the deep red silk sheets on his bed showed his preferences.

He was lying on his side, the way he preferred to sleep. His hair looked wilder and messier than usual, while his wide and usually mobile mouth was twisted up in what might be pain. His pointed chin always helped him look more stubborn. I noticed the glimmer beneath his lashes. His eyes were slightly open.

~ It’s the last straw. I can’t open my mouth. ~

“Tragic.” I said it with sarcasm but saw the truth in it. He’d reached the point where he no longer had the strength to move. Soon his shields would fade and the world would pour into his mind.

You can’t move. Of course you’d want to die.

“How are your shields?” I asked, but I could hear a low roar at the edges of my own mind. He was failing.

~ Going. It’s time. ~

I left the room and returned with my gun. It all felt surreal. After all the years of joking that I’d put him down someday, I would actually be doing it. I hadn’t thought it would come to this. I thought we had more time.

Shooting him in his bed would require a cleaner crew afterward. Nagi had thought this through better than I had.

~ C’mon, do it. You always said you wanted to. ~

“I don’t actually. It’s so much trouble and mess.”

~ I offered to take care of it for you, but you turned me down. ~

I pointed the gun at his head. I intended to do this in one, clean shot. There would be no suffering.

~ That’s the way I prefer it. Now can you get it over with? Waiting for it makes it harder to take. ~

There was so much static at the edges of his telepathic voice. He was losing it. I saw his teeth clench involuntarily in pain.

I shot him. It’s amazing how loud a silencer could actually be.

It was so silent afterward. A part of my brain that I hadn’t even been aware of before went quiet. Dead.

I prided myself on my cold blood and practicality, yet I couldn’t look at what remained of him. I didn’t have to. He was dead. The silence told me so. I couldn’t remember the last time it was so silent.

My teeth hurt.

I called Nagi’s number and actually received the boy himself. “It’s done,” I said.

“I know. I felt it a little. Even Farfarello might have felt it.”

I gave him the address, then waited in my bedroom until he and his employees arrived. Schuldig had never been in this room.

Nagi let himself into the apartment telekinetically, and his people followed. He looked very stylish in his tailored suit and only slightly boyish. Time had passed.

By the time I entered the bedroom he’d already wrapped the corpse in the blood red sheets and set it on the floor while his men took care of the bed. No evidence would linger.

“Cremate the body,” I told him. Schuldig was gone, betrayed by his own body. Nothing of it should remain.

“Is that his request?”

“Are you challenging me?”

“We never cared much what happened to the meat afterward.”

“No, if one of us died on a mission we had agreed to burn the body. You know that.”

“To make the evidence harder to follow. This isn’t a mission. We could learn things from his body. Maybe stop this from happening to anyone else.”

“You know he wouldn’t give a damn about that now that he’s dead, and I don’t either.” There wouldn’t be any scientists or doctors gangbanging his body. “Cremate him. Burn his clothes as well. If you try to take the body for experimentation, I will find out. Trust me on that.”

Nagi finally bowed his head in assent, then said, “Maybe you should get out for a bit. Leave this to me. You can come back in an hour. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

I wanted to strike him for suggesting that I’d gotten too close to Schuldig but didn’t so much as raise my hand. I’d already done my part.

I ended up in Bryant Park, sitting amidst people enjoying the city and the night. No one noticed. Life went on.

When I returned, no trace of you remained in the apartment at all. Nagi had taken everything, even the toiletries. Without you, I could work alone in blessed silence, with no distractions.

I couldn’t work. Eventually I slept.

Farfarello crouched amidst gravestones and tall grass. Cherry blossoms fell from the tree behind him. It always unsettled me to see him with two eyes.

“God is laughing,” he said.

Normally I would sneer. Tonight, in my head, I couldn’t deny the truth. “He is.”

I didn’t need to be a precog to know that I would never settle down with that pretty, docile wife. Her docility would incense me when it didn’t bore me. She wouldn’t have a big enough mouth.

“Are you going to make Him stop?”

I had grown up and given up on changing the world, but right now I wanted to scream like a child. I would. “It depends on how sadistic He is. What I intend might make Him laugh harder if He truly hates His children.”

“It’s a risk. Do it for yourself then, or do it for Schuldig. He always loved a good show.” Farfarello looked down. “I miss him. He leaves a hole.”

“I know.”

Nagi contacted me and invited me to breakfast in his hotel suite. For want of anything else to do and to break up the silence, I accepted his invitation. As we dined, he said, “I have a place for you if you want it. I know you haven’t worked alone for a long time.”

I’d expected his offer. “I’m taking a break from mercenary work for a while. I intend to take care of some personal business.”

Nagi looked at me for a while, then said, “I can understand that.”

We passed the rest of breakfast with business-related pleasantries, shoptalk. At the end as I started to leave, he asked, “You don’t intend to do anything rash, do you?”

“I won’t do anything I haven’t planned out,” I answered.

Working on my own, it took me two months to get Schuldig a suitable bang. Blowing up the White House turned out to be easier than it should have been. In the current political climate it was enthusiastically attributed to Middle Eastern saboteurs instead of a white American working on a tribute to a citizen of Old Europe. The president wanted an excuse to go to war with Iran anyway, although no American officially called it a war.

War, official or not, was good for my business.

This war started a global slide into chaos, which I didn’t mind at all. The world could go to hell since it had nothing in it I cared for. Once or twice Farfarello visited me in my dreams and we toasted marshmallows as it all burned. If I’d had an orange-haired demon sitting on my shoulder watching, he would have laughed.

But I didn’t. You told me you wouldn’t haunt me, and you didn’t. It annoyed me to feel disappointed about that. Silence haunted me. I’d loved silence once.

It led to me thinking of more bangs to give you. One of them will probably get me too someday. I don’t court it, but it wouldn’t bother me if it happened.

It’s the only retirement people like us can expect. Maybe I’ll see you in hell.

  ************************THE END*********************     More Viridian5 stories can be found in The Green Room version 3.0 at http://viridian.shriftweb.org/