Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Of God and Heart ❯ One-Shot
[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]
By: frk_werewolf 
Farfarello, against orders, has a little fun terrorizing the Holy Land.
Warnings: anti-God, anti-religion, blood and gore
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Thriller / Psychological | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 09.12.2006 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.8K | Visits: 341 | Status: Completed
Farfarello, against orders, has a little fun terrorizing the Holy Land.
Warnings: anti-God, anti-religion, blood and gore
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Thriller / Psychological | Type: One Shot | Uploaded On: 09.12.2006 | Pages: 1 | Words: 1.8K | Visits: 341 | Status: Completed
Title: Of God and Heart
Author: frk_werewolf
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Prompt: #6, Mecca
Rating: R
Warnings: anti-God, anti-religion, blood and gore
Word Count: 1,613
Summary: Farfarello, against orders, has a little fun terrorizing the Holy Land.
Notes: The views presented in this fic are not my own, trust me. I'm big on the worship thing, but the main character is... well... dude has issues. Secondly, if you've never seen/heard of Weiss Kreuz, that's okay. All you need to know is that Farfarello hates God, doesn't feel physical pain, and is part of an assassin group.
From WordNet (r) 2.0 (August 2003) :
Mecca, n. A joint capital (with Riyadh) of Saudi Arabia; located in western Saudi Arabia; as the birthplace of Muhammad it is the holiest city of Islam.
He had been ordered to stay at the hotel. A simple order, given by a complex man, who had no doubt seen whatever destruction Farfarello would bestow upon this place of worship. Crawford probably knew what he was talking about, being cursed with precognition and all. Farfarello didn't really care.
How could he visit the land of Muhammad and not, shall he say, raise a little horror? It was a prime moment in his vendetta against God. If they had been in Italy, he would surely attack the Vatican with glee.
Escaping the hotel was much easier than he thought it would be. Schuldig, despite being telepathic, ignored him and Nagi was hiding in his room, playing on his computer. With his so-called bodyguards busy it was only a matter of prying open the weapon locker and strapping a few knives against his hip, thighs, and chest.
Hmm, was twelve daggers too many? Farfarello fingered the blade of one of the knives thoughtfully, before shrugging and sliding it into place.
Mecca was the place of Muhammad's birth and located in western Saudi Arabia. Only Muslims were meant to enter the holy place, but Farfarello was never one to follow orders just for the sake of God. No, God had not earned his respect.
Farfarello watched from the dark corners of the street as men and women passed. He eyed their clothes and earnest faces as they stared at their surroundings. They were followers; sheep within a flock striving toward redemption and a sense of happiness that was as false as the religion they devoted themselves toward.
Farfarello was disgusted. Did these people not realize that they all followed the same God? Christian or Muslim, it was the same Deceiver, the same Liar. Farfarello scowled, the motion pulling on the scars that lined his stoic face. He could feel sweat building up underneath his eye patch, stinging the now useless eye socket.
He stood out of place like a white clothed angel standing in the depths of hell. His skin was pale and covered with shiny scars. A bandage wrapped one arm; his latest wound, another mark that had not created pain. His stark white hair could be seen even in the shadows. Even in black bondage pants and a dark blue shirt, Farfarello was noticeable to any that glanced over. He didn't mind; it made no difference in the end.
A little boy ran by, his father yelling something in their native tongue. Farfarello didn't understand the language. It didn't matter; humans all screamed the same way.
Farfarello was not the type to fidget. He could sit for hours, waiting and watching for the perfect moment to strike. Normally he gave off the illusion of someone who was busy, by playing with a knife or inspecting his nails. That was mostly for the benefit of his teammates. While Schuldig could kill a man with a single thought and Nagi could send a person twice his size through a brick wall, neither had what it took to be a natural born killer: silence, determination, and a manic belief that what they were doing was right. As for their leader, well, Crawford relied on guns, which Farfarello scoffed at. That wasn't even murder.
No, murder was using ones bare hands.
Farfarello's single amber eye turned back to the street as a young woman passed. She was dressed like all of the rest, covered from head to toe in traditional Middle Eastern clothing. Her hands were clutched before her as she stared up at the buildings, a look of peace covering her face. Farfarello started to smile.
It was only a matter of reaching out and snatching her arm. To anyone that bothered to look, it appeared that she was simply tripping over a stone and stumbling into the alleyway. The effect didn't matter since no one was paying attention.
He could feel the curves of her body in the darkness, covered by the many layers of clothing. Farfarello wondered if her skin was slick with sweat, captured between flesh and cloth. She struggled in his grasp, releasing whimpers behind a hand-covered mouth. He pulled her further into the darkness.
He wasn't surprised that, as he spun her around and pressed her back against the wall, she kicked out at him. It was a solid thump of a sandal-covered foot, connecting with his shin. Farfarello grinned, teeth nearly white in the shadows. Using half of his body, he pinned her to the wall and pulled out a small blade. He ran it down her cheek, a droplet of blood welling up in its wake. Her whimpers stopped and she stared back at him with wide eyes.
"Will your deity still love you if I cut out your tongue?" Farfarello asked, casually. She gasped and spoke rapidly in her native language. Farfarello tilted his head, pretending to listen, before casually running the knife down her throat and to the front of her robes. She mouth snapped shut, brown eyes clenching shut. "Yes, that's right. Don't look and all that is here will disappear. Illusions, trapped within your mind. Did God put them there?"
The cloth was easily cut open due to the sharpness of the blade. He severed it in a straight line, leading to her belly button. There, he had access to her chest.
"He won't save you," Farfarello whispered. He grazed the blade across her skin, watching the blood, before returning the knife to its sheath. "He doesn't care. Liar and thief, that's what God is. He makes you love and care, then what does He do?" Farfarello pressed his fingers into the small wound, thrusting his hand forward and ripping past layers of flesh and muscle. He smiled as the woman let out a gasp. She was strong. He wondered how long it would take to make her scream. "He takes it all away."
He could feel her ribs if his wiggled his fingers just so and he knew that all he needed to do was slipped his fingers between two ribs and pull. He slipped his other hand up her neck, squeezing softly, before covering her mouth. A twist of fingers and a loud snap filled the air. The woman screamed, the sound muffled and high pitched as her body momentarily thrashed against his.
"Movement," Farfarello said, "is like...what? Liquid? No, perhaps not."
He took his time with the second rib, feeling the bone slowly bend out of shape and snap within his grip. A cold sweat had erupted across the woman's skin and Farfarello briefly wondered what it tasted like. Then he scowled and focused on the wound. God was trying to distract him, but it would not work.
"God holds your heart," Farfarello commented as his hand slipped past the broken rips. From there it was a matter of digging his way through the right lung and finding the woman's heart. "He has your heart, but it won't stay safe. He can't protect you from me."
Farfarello pulled his hand out and pulled out a new knife, it's clean blade gleaming in the darkness. He looked up at the woman, who was now silent. Her breathing was shallow, face giving off the illusion that she was covered in ash, and her eyes were fluttering randomly. He knew that she would pass out at any moment or, perhaps, simply drop dead. That, he decided, would be no fun at all.
It was best to get things over with so he could move on to the next God follower.
Farfarello had stabbed and tortured so many people in his lifetime. When he was twelve he had decapitated his second foster father. At fifteen he had slaughtered five nuns, leaving the bits of flesh swimming in a pool of holy water. After a few years in a mental hospital, tucked away in a distant part of Ireland, Farfarello had come to accept the fact that murder was his gift. As a bearer of death, it was only natural that he knew the exact ways to cut and twist, bringing forth the right level of pain.
He knew how deep to slide in the blade, slicing through the spongy material that made up the woman's right lung. She was already wheezing, blood filling her lungs. A gurgling sound escaped her throat, but she wasn't dead just yet. No, God was making sure she felt every spec of agony Farfarello forced upon her.
The knife was place back where it belonged, blood soaking into his jeans. A quick thrust of his hand, slipping into moist heat, and he was able to enclose his hand around that throbbing mass of muscle. He rotated his fist, ripping tissue, before withdrawing his hand. A glob of meat, nearly unidentifiable to those who were not used to seeing human organs, sat in his palm. Farfarello looked up, watching as the woman's nerves sent one last message, causing her to blink. Then, she slid down the wall and onto the ground, blood gushing from her open chest.
"Ashes to ashes," Farfarello murmured. He tilted his hand, allowing the heart to fall into the woman's lap. "Dust to dust. So you shall walk through the valley and God will keep you safe from harm. He will protect you from outside forces, but will God protect you from Himself?"
The woman didn't reply.
Farfarello glanced down at his hand, covered in blood. After a moment of thought, he brought it to his lips and proceeded to suck on finger clean. As he continued his ministrations, Farfarello turned and looked back toward the street. Perhaps he would find another victim before heading back to the hotel.
Author: frk_werewolf
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Prompt: #6, Mecca
Rating: R
Warnings: anti-God, anti-religion, blood and gore
Word Count: 1,613
Summary: Farfarello, against orders, has a little fun terrorizing the Holy Land.
Notes: The views presented in this fic are not my own, trust me. I'm big on the worship thing, but the main character is... well... dude has issues. Secondly, if you've never seen/heard of Weiss Kreuz, that's okay. All you need to know is that Farfarello hates God, doesn't feel physical pain, and is part of an assassin group.
From WordNet (r) 2.0 (August 2003) :
Mecca, n. A joint capital (with Riyadh) of Saudi Arabia; located in western Saudi Arabia; as the birthplace of Muhammad it is the holiest city of Islam.
He had been ordered to stay at the hotel. A simple order, given by a complex man, who had no doubt seen whatever destruction Farfarello would bestow upon this place of worship. Crawford probably knew what he was talking about, being cursed with precognition and all. Farfarello didn't really care.
How could he visit the land of Muhammad and not, shall he say, raise a little horror? It was a prime moment in his vendetta against God. If they had been in Italy, he would surely attack the Vatican with glee.
Escaping the hotel was much easier than he thought it would be. Schuldig, despite being telepathic, ignored him and Nagi was hiding in his room, playing on his computer. With his so-called bodyguards busy it was only a matter of prying open the weapon locker and strapping a few knives against his hip, thighs, and chest.
Hmm, was twelve daggers too many? Farfarello fingered the blade of one of the knives thoughtfully, before shrugging and sliding it into place.
Mecca was the place of Muhammad's birth and located in western Saudi Arabia. Only Muslims were meant to enter the holy place, but Farfarello was never one to follow orders just for the sake of God. No, God had not earned his respect.
Farfarello watched from the dark corners of the street as men and women passed. He eyed their clothes and earnest faces as they stared at their surroundings. They were followers; sheep within a flock striving toward redemption and a sense of happiness that was as false as the religion they devoted themselves toward.
Farfarello was disgusted. Did these people not realize that they all followed the same God? Christian or Muslim, it was the same Deceiver, the same Liar. Farfarello scowled, the motion pulling on the scars that lined his stoic face. He could feel sweat building up underneath his eye patch, stinging the now useless eye socket.
He stood out of place like a white clothed angel standing in the depths of hell. His skin was pale and covered with shiny scars. A bandage wrapped one arm; his latest wound, another mark that had not created pain. His stark white hair could be seen even in the shadows. Even in black bondage pants and a dark blue shirt, Farfarello was noticeable to any that glanced over. He didn't mind; it made no difference in the end.
A little boy ran by, his father yelling something in their native tongue. Farfarello didn't understand the language. It didn't matter; humans all screamed the same way.
Farfarello was not the type to fidget. He could sit for hours, waiting and watching for the perfect moment to strike. Normally he gave off the illusion of someone who was busy, by playing with a knife or inspecting his nails. That was mostly for the benefit of his teammates. While Schuldig could kill a man with a single thought and Nagi could send a person twice his size through a brick wall, neither had what it took to be a natural born killer: silence, determination, and a manic belief that what they were doing was right. As for their leader, well, Crawford relied on guns, which Farfarello scoffed at. That wasn't even murder.
No, murder was using ones bare hands.
Farfarello's single amber eye turned back to the street as a young woman passed. She was dressed like all of the rest, covered from head to toe in traditional Middle Eastern clothing. Her hands were clutched before her as she stared up at the buildings, a look of peace covering her face. Farfarello started to smile.
It was only a matter of reaching out and snatching her arm. To anyone that bothered to look, it appeared that she was simply tripping over a stone and stumbling into the alleyway. The effect didn't matter since no one was paying attention.
He could feel the curves of her body in the darkness, covered by the many layers of clothing. Farfarello wondered if her skin was slick with sweat, captured between flesh and cloth. She struggled in his grasp, releasing whimpers behind a hand-covered mouth. He pulled her further into the darkness.
He wasn't surprised that, as he spun her around and pressed her back against the wall, she kicked out at him. It was a solid thump of a sandal-covered foot, connecting with his shin. Farfarello grinned, teeth nearly white in the shadows. Using half of his body, he pinned her to the wall and pulled out a small blade. He ran it down her cheek, a droplet of blood welling up in its wake. Her whimpers stopped and she stared back at him with wide eyes.
"Will your deity still love you if I cut out your tongue?" Farfarello asked, casually. She gasped and spoke rapidly in her native language. Farfarello tilted his head, pretending to listen, before casually running the knife down her throat and to the front of her robes. She mouth snapped shut, brown eyes clenching shut. "Yes, that's right. Don't look and all that is here will disappear. Illusions, trapped within your mind. Did God put them there?"
The cloth was easily cut open due to the sharpness of the blade. He severed it in a straight line, leading to her belly button. There, he had access to her chest.
"He won't save you," Farfarello whispered. He grazed the blade across her skin, watching the blood, before returning the knife to its sheath. "He doesn't care. Liar and thief, that's what God is. He makes you love and care, then what does He do?" Farfarello pressed his fingers into the small wound, thrusting his hand forward and ripping past layers of flesh and muscle. He smiled as the woman let out a gasp. She was strong. He wondered how long it would take to make her scream. "He takes it all away."
He could feel her ribs if his wiggled his fingers just so and he knew that all he needed to do was slipped his fingers between two ribs and pull. He slipped his other hand up her neck, squeezing softly, before covering her mouth. A twist of fingers and a loud snap filled the air. The woman screamed, the sound muffled and high pitched as her body momentarily thrashed against his.
"Movement," Farfarello said, "is like...what? Liquid? No, perhaps not."
He took his time with the second rib, feeling the bone slowly bend out of shape and snap within his grip. A cold sweat had erupted across the woman's skin and Farfarello briefly wondered what it tasted like. Then he scowled and focused on the wound. God was trying to distract him, but it would not work.
"God holds your heart," Farfarello commented as his hand slipped past the broken rips. From there it was a matter of digging his way through the right lung and finding the woman's heart. "He has your heart, but it won't stay safe. He can't protect you from me."
Farfarello pulled his hand out and pulled out a new knife, it's clean blade gleaming in the darkness. He looked up at the woman, who was now silent. Her breathing was shallow, face giving off the illusion that she was covered in ash, and her eyes were fluttering randomly. He knew that she would pass out at any moment or, perhaps, simply drop dead. That, he decided, would be no fun at all.
It was best to get things over with so he could move on to the next God follower.
Farfarello had stabbed and tortured so many people in his lifetime. When he was twelve he had decapitated his second foster father. At fifteen he had slaughtered five nuns, leaving the bits of flesh swimming in a pool of holy water. After a few years in a mental hospital, tucked away in a distant part of Ireland, Farfarello had come to accept the fact that murder was his gift. As a bearer of death, it was only natural that he knew the exact ways to cut and twist, bringing forth the right level of pain.
He knew how deep to slide in the blade, slicing through the spongy material that made up the woman's right lung. She was already wheezing, blood filling her lungs. A gurgling sound escaped her throat, but she wasn't dead just yet. No, God was making sure she felt every spec of agony Farfarello forced upon her.
The knife was place back where it belonged, blood soaking into his jeans. A quick thrust of his hand, slipping into moist heat, and he was able to enclose his hand around that throbbing mass of muscle. He rotated his fist, ripping tissue, before withdrawing his hand. A glob of meat, nearly unidentifiable to those who were not used to seeing human organs, sat in his palm. Farfarello looked up, watching as the woman's nerves sent one last message, causing her to blink. Then, she slid down the wall and onto the ground, blood gushing from her open chest.
"Ashes to ashes," Farfarello murmured. He tilted his hand, allowing the heart to fall into the woman's lap. "Dust to dust. So you shall walk through the valley and God will keep you safe from harm. He will protect you from outside forces, but will God protect you from Himself?"
The woman didn't reply.
Farfarello glanced down at his hand, covered in blood. After a moment of thought, he brought it to his lips and proceeded to suck on finger clean. As he continued his ministrations, Farfarello turned and looked back toward the street. Perhaps he would find another victim before heading back to the hotel.