Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ The Sous-Chef ❯ Chapter 20

The Sous-Chef

by RedQueen

 

 

Chapter 20

Chapter rating: NC-17

Author's email: fieryredqueen76@yahoo.com (DO NOT DISTRIBUTE)

Disclaimer: WK isn't mine. No one pays me for my insanity.

Summary: Farfie explains it all. Aya is overwhelmed, in more ways than one. Blood. Hunting.

 

 

 

A/N: So! I'm back, after what, a two year hiatus? I'm awfully sorry about that. As you know if you read my LJ, I've had some pretty ghastly medical problems, which as yet are not resolved, but I've become used to them—and the truckload of drugs I have to take—enough that I am able to write again. This chapter was extremely difficult for me, both in terms of keeping continuity and being able to concentrate enough that I didn't cock-up too badly. This actually used to have a very different ending, until my inner Farfarello woke up and said, “What the fuck did ye do to me? Ye made me a great blubbering pansy, ye stupid bint!” So hopefully the new ending is better.

 

One note: A lot of the stuff I read is written by Brits, so I tend to unconsciously use the British spellings of words—`armoury', `organisation', `realise', and so forth. I am an American, so leaving the spellings as they are might be a bit pretentious of me, but I don't feel like trying to change them all. I thought I had been spelling that way consistently, but I honestly can't remember. So if you come across a word like that, please ignore it.

 

I also can't remember if I used italics or the ::word:: format for private thoughts, but from not on it's:

 

::word:: = telepathic conversation

italics = private thoughts. When it doesn't mean word stress, of course.

 

Thank you to my wonderful betas, Skyrat13, Omni_fabulae and Fluffymaru. They were each extremely helpful to me in spotting my screw-ups so I could get this chapter out with some measure of confidence.

 

This chapter is dedicated to Tirwolf, who has been the proverbial squeaky wheel as far as trying to get me to continue this. If when I finish the next chapter, you still want to beta for me, I'd really appreciate it.

 

Next Chapter: back to Yohji's POV!

 

 

Chapter 20

 

Aya followed Farfarello into his apartment in silence. He absently pet the head of one of the Rottweilers who charged them when they walked in the door. He leaned against the wall, waiting, as Farf called to them with a noise that sounded like a snake hissing over and over, herding the dogs into the bedroom. “I'm gonna change, Aya, so make yourself at home,” the albino called, and Aya walked listlessly to one of the chairs in the living room. He stopped himself just as he was pulling his knees up to his chin, his accustomed sitting position when he was upset or depressed. It wouldn't do to show that much weakness.

 

Farfarello came out of the bedroom a few minutes later, his silvery-white hair loose, brushed and spilling around his shoulders, looking vibrant in a tight black tee-shirt and loose brown corduroys. Aya was glad he'd gotten some of his pent-up sexual frustration out of his system earlier.

 

“D'ye wanna drink?” Farf asked, pulling a bottle of Southern Comfort from his liquor cabinet.

 

Aya gave him his iciest glare.

 

“Right. Well, if ye change your mind....” he said, pouring a tumbler full for himself and sitting on the couch across from Aya with it.

 

There was another minute of silence, which Farfarello broke, saying, “Ye smell like roses. How was Chloé?”

 

Aya said nothing.

 

“Heh, the crime scene smelled like roses, too—not to a normal person, sure, but I could tell. All those funny punctures in the walls and so forth were telling, as well.” He shook his head, smirking. “Fucking roses. Really a stupid weapon. But then, Kritiker and its affiliates have always been partial to those who have an…unusual armoury. Makes their agents absurdly easy to track, though. Lucky they have Talents on their side now to s—”

 

“I want to know about Inferno,” Aya cut in. His leg wanted to start bouncing up and down, and it took some effort to resist the movement. He forced himself to concentrate on breathing normally, clearing his head, as though he was on a mission. He was on a mission; an intelligence gathering mission. The notion helped him center himself.

 

Farfarello leaned forward, hands clasped, elbows resting on his knees. “Why did ye sleep with him? Chloé, that is?”

 

The question jarred Aya a little—he'd forgotten that Farf's nose would pick that up—but he hid all reaction, except for annoyance that Farf was still withholding the information he had come here to receive.

 

“I'll tell ye everything ye want to know; I said I would. I'm just kind of curious about this. I didn't think ye were so....”

 

“Slutty?” Aya hissed. “Easy? Whorish?”

 

Farf cocked his head minutely. “I was going to say hircine, but ye can call it what ye like.” He grinned crookedly. “I've nothing against whores or sluts, by the way.”

 

“Takatori said if I killed him it'd be an international incident, and it was either that or sex.”

 

Farf nodded. “That frustrated, huh? I can't blame ye.” He sighed, tossing his hair back over his shoulder. “Inferno, eh? It's not Esszet, I can tell ye that much.”

 

“Are you the head of the organisation?” Aya asked, eyes narrowing.

 

Farf's expression was grim. “Aye. And I'm no figurehead, either.”

 

Aya felt a bit like he'd been slugged in the gut at this confirmation, but he pressed on. “What are Inferno's objectives?”

 

“At the moment, to assist Crawford in cornering the market on mercenary Talents in Asia, Europe and North America.”

 

Aya couldn't hide a twitch of surprise at that. “Crawford?”

 

“He's asked for my assistance, and I'm giving him what he asks for. It's not altruistic, mind, although I would help him even if there was no benefit to myself, unless his interests were contrary to my own.” He leaned back and fixed his eye on Aya's. “Schwarz is still being hunted. We want to ferret out the myriad of groups who are hunting us or Weiß, and the few who want your sister so they can try to summon the former hea—”

 

Aya couldn't help raising his brows at that, and interrupted Farf again. “What the hell do you care about my sister? What the hell do you care about Weiß, for that matter?”

 

“Having all those groups mucking about is not profitable for Crawford.”

 

Aya waited for Farfarello to elaborate, then shook his head. “I don't…I'm not getting....”

 

“It's not so hard to understand. With the Talents all splintered off into little groups or rogue individuals, it means there's a lot of untapped potential. Crawford wants to create a mercenary organisation that will give Talents a measure of security while allowing them to maintain independence. Crawford would get requests from the private sector, mostly individuals, for various things—primarily stuff like we used to do, like bodyguard duty and assassination, espionage, that kind of thing. He'd then either assign the missions to individuals or small teams, according to their skill levels and abilities, or let them choose from a list sent to their encrypted email accounts. Of course, Crawford would get a chunk from every mission—the missions would be paid in advance, with a waiver signed beforehand absolving Crawford of any responsibility should the mission fail. Naturally,” Farf added, grinning, “if someone failed a mission, it would mar his reputation, and there would be severe repercussions. But nothing like Esszet used to do. More like grueling training and pay cuts. And he'd have headquarters all over the world eventually, starting with, as I said, Eurasia and North America.”

 

Aya tried to make sense of what Farf was saying. “So…Crawford is going to take over Inferno after he's done getting rid of or recruiting the Talents that are hunting us?”

 

Farfarello shook his head. “No, no. Really, Inferno doesn't have anything to do with Crawford. It's just that I have a connection with him, and an interest in helping him to destroy our enemies.”

 

“So…what is the purpose of Inferno? How did it get started? Why did you start it…what is it?” Aya asked, perplexed.

 

“Ahhh…well, Schwarz made all sorts of underworld connections, ye know. Even though I was more of a background figure, I was remembered. When I'm not completely in hiding, I'm rather easily recognised.”

 

Aya snorted and rolled his eyes.

 

“So while I was in Europe with Sean, we started this whole side business in assassination, terrorism and espionage, just for fun, if ye can believe that. It was damn hard, trying to organise all that and pass classes, but I managed it pretty well, I must say. I hadn't known I had it in me, but I learned a lot from Crawford, even if I didn't know it at the time. I would consult him from time to time, too, so that helped. Eventually I got a reputation pretty much worldwide, even if no one knew exactly who I was. So eventually it grew into what it is now.”

 

At the name of Farfarello's late partner in crime, Aya's eyes narrowed. “About Sean,” he said, “you told me before that you didn't kill him. Was that true?”

 

“I haven't lied to ye, Aya. Left out some things, but I never told ye a lie. I told ye he was mad on drugs, right? So he was bribed into selling me out, and I found out about it. So I set him up instead. It was a situation he could have easily survived if he hadn't become an addict. But he had, so he's dead now.” Farf shrugged. “And anyway, though we worked closely together in Europe, he never had much to do with Inferno. Just went on some jobs with me. The loss of that git was felt far more at Thibodeaux's than Inferno.”

 

Aya nodded. He'd had to kill enough drug lords to know what junkies were like, what tragic selfish bastard slaves they were. “He sounds like he might have been better off dead,” he mused.

 

“I agree completely. But let's get back on track. What else did ye want to know?” Farf asked, crossing his legs with a corduroy whisper.

 

Aya paused, collecting his thoughts. “I still don't really understand Inferno's purpose,” Aya sighed. “If it's not Crawford's brain-child, why did you found it in the first place?”

 

Farfarello steepled his fingers beneath his chin. “Inferno's purpose doesn't have anything to do with what's going on right now. It doesn't involve you, Crawford—not much, anyway—or Schu, or Takatori. I know I said I'd answer all your questions…but that one I won't answer until all this blows over, if you're still around. It really doesn't have any impact on the situation at hand.”

 

“I'm not sure I can accept that, Farfarello.”

 

Heaving a deep sigh, Farfarello paused to drink the rest of his bourbon. “How about this,” he said, setting the glass down. “Let's go over the things that actually have relevance to our current situation. After that, then decide what ye can and can't accept. Okay?”

 

As much as Aya didn't want to let Farfarello dictate any of the terms of this discussion, he didn't want to belabor a point so much that Farf would give the discussion up as a lost cause. Partially because that would mean he'd be giving up on Aya as well, though Aya wasn't ready to admit that. Something in Farf's tone told Aya that was a distinct possibility, if he pressed too much. Besides, if he was telling the truth and Inferno's purpose actually wasn't pertinent, then it would be a waste of time anyway. “Let's put it aside for now, then,” Aya agreed.

 

“Yes, let's.”

 

“So…what has any of this got to do with me or Schuldig, or Yohji, for that matter?”

 

“Yohji hasn't got anything to do with it, beyond keeping the both of ye sane, thus far. I'm pretty sure there's something he's meant to do later on, especially since after today I'm sure he'll know about all of this. You are needed for your ability to block out telepaths. At least, that's what Schu and I have surmised from all the hints Crawford's given us. When Schu and Yohji went to get ye in Japan, he didn't have a clue about anything except that we'd need ye.”

 

“In Japan—so you and Schuldig have been in contact with Crawford, and he predicted that you'd need me for something? Have you and Schuldig been in contact?” A thought struck him. “Does Nagi have anything to do with all this?”

 

“I don't really know anything about what Nagi knows or does. As far as I know, his role's pretty much out in the open—Kritiker security, that is. No, I haven't been in contact with Schuldig, although I knew he'd be showing up at some future date.”

 

“Known since when?”

 

“Hmm…two years ago, I guess. I didn't know he'd be showing up with you personally, but I knew he'd be bringing someone besides Yohji. I'm sure Schuldig knew ye'd be the one coming before I did.”

 

Aya felt his insides twist, even though he'd been prepared for this sort of revelation. “So that's the reason Schuldig didn't protest taking me with them. No…I think he might have even suggested it. It wasn't because he `liked' me.”

 

“But he does.” Farf held up a hand before Aya could bite off a scathing rejoinder. “He does, Aya. Yes, we've been using ye. Yes, we've been withholding information from ye. But there's reasons we couldn't let ye know about what we were doing. You or Yohji. Yohji, obviously, because he'd never have let ye do what you're doing now—never would have let us get hold of ye in the first place. Not that he could have stopped us, but Schuldig is understandably reluctant to completely alienate him, and neither of us wanted to alienate you, either. That's still our desire. At first, purely from a tactical perspective, but…like I said before, Aya, ye grow on a body awful fucking fast, for all that you're so angst-ridden.” He smiled as Aya glared at him.

 

“So why couldn't you tell me about this earlier? Why couldn't you tell me I was helping you hunt Esszet? Did you think I wouldn't want to? Did you think I was untrustworthy?” Aya didn't like the plaintive note that was creeping in around the edge of his voice. He would have liked Farfarello to think he wasn't hurt by all this, but he supposed it would be ridiculous to think that someone that insightful wouldn't figure out something so obvious. Even so, he didn't want to be up-front about it.

 

“If ye had the leisure to think over what I've just told ye a little more, I'm certain you'd come up with the answer. But in the interest of expedience, I'll tell ye. We needed to know exactly how effective ye are against telepaths, without accidentally feeding them information they shouldn't have.”

 

Aya frowned. “I thought my telepath-blocking ability was something you guys discovered recently. Like, after we came to New Orleans.”

 

“Yeah, that was…ye see, Crawford doesn't give out information. He gives hints and riddles and half-truths, and ever since we were assigned to his team, Schu and Nagi and I have been trained to uncover what his prophecies mean. All oracles work that way—if they went around giving out straightforward information, the future they were speaking of would change. So they all master the art of obscurity, so to speak. So we knew to expect something from ye that would be useful against Talents, but we didn't know exactly what. And in the beginning, ye weren't impervious to telepathic invasion. Schu's built up your resistance to what he thought was an acceptable level to start with, and so these missions I've been sending ye on are designed to apply that. However, we didn't want to be telling ye anything until we were certain that ye could unconsciously block out groups of telepaths, to keep information out and also to keep ye from thinking about trying to block out telepaths. If ye build up the wall unconsciously, Schu says, it makes it a hell of a lot easier when ye start doing it consciously.”

 

“So you've been sending me on missions you knew would be monitored by enemy telepaths, is that what you're saying?”

 

“That's what I'm saying. That's why I wanted more time, before I told ye all this—your mental blockade is good, really good, but it's not at the level Schu wanted it to be before he started training ye.”

 

“What, exactly, will he be training me to do? I mean, I know the skill, but to what end would I be trained in this skill, were I to cooperate with you?” Aya asked, brows furrowed. He wasn't in mission mode anymore; too much of this made sense for him to keep up his icy, furious edge. Even though he still felt like he knew almost nothing. But when had that ever concerned him before? Had he ever really cared about the objectives, the ends to the means, of Kritiker? Farfarello—assuming he could trust the man, which he was not at all certain of—was already telling him a lot more than he'd ever been told working as Birman's `dog'.

 

“We're not entirely sure of that. See…something troubling has happened over the past week or so.”

 

“What's that?”

 

“Well….” Farfarello pinched the bridge of his nose, a gesture that surprised Aya. It spoke of secrets his eagle eye couldn't penetrate, of agitating frustrations. “Crawford and a couple of his teams invaded the old Rosenkreuz facility, several days ago. Supposedly there was still a lot of information to be dug up there, mostly regarding the experiments that went on in the lower levels. Y'know, where I used to live?” Farf flashed a snarling smile. Aya was always a little unnerved by his wicked-looking incisors; they looked made for tearing into living flesh. “But when they got down there, the place was empty. Cleaned out completely, and recently, too. And…they were ambushed by a large contingent of former Esszet, a lot of whom were instructors at Rosenkreuz. High level Talents. Whether Crawford knew it was going to happen or whether he was really taken by surprise, no one's sure of, but…only a few of Crawford's team members survived to tell this tale, and Crawford…he's vanished.”

 

“Eh?” Aya started. That was certainly not something he'd been expecting to hear. He mistrusted it, but Farfarello looked sincerely troubled, and that was hard to ignore. “Vanished literally or figuratively?” You never knew, with a lot of Talents around.

 

“Figuratively, but possibly literally as well. No one knows at what point he left the scene. It seems that when the battle died down and Crawford's Talents took stock of the situation, Crawford was nowhere to be found. He's presumed abducted, which is not good news for any of us. He's an extremely valuable man, is Crawford. And without his guidance….” Farfarello sighed and scratched the back of his neck. “We have some idea of what to do from here, based on what he's already told us.”

 

“We being Inferno?”

 

“We being Nagi, Schu and me. We have to trust that he knew this would happen, and has told us all we need to know. The alternative, that he didn't see this coming, would mean all of us are in some deep shite. But Crawford's never failed us, and we still have strong forces on our side—`our' in this case meaning Schwarz, Kritiker, Inferno and, to some extent, Kryptonbrand. Plus the remains of Weiß. Heh,” Farf chuckled, shaking his head, “in all honesty, we've been relying too heavily on Oracle. He manipulates the situation to make sure we do, but that's no excuse. After so many years of being his charges, with him unavailable it really feels like someone took the sun away and left us stumbling in the dark.”

 

Aya raised an eyebrow at the analogy. He would never have pegged Crawford as being someone else's `sun', but…as a guiding light, he supposed it made sense. Still, it seemed awfully sentimental, since Farfarello had told him once that he didn't much like Crawford.

 

“I still don't like the man, make no mistake,” Farf added, as though reading Aya's thoughts, “but I trust him completely. He's the only person in the world who's never, to my knowledge, lied to me. Lies of omission, maybe, but all precogs have to do that. So I'm not getting sobby over the man, but at the same time, I don't like not being able to get any news of him.”

 

“I understand,” Aya said, though he didn't really. He'd never had someone like that in his life.

 

Even so, Farfarello seemed to accept that response, with an incline of his head. He stretched his arms and back, crackling his spine, and then reached over and picked up the bourbon and his glass, refilling it. When he was done, he tipped the bottle to Aya, an unspoken question in his eye.

 

“Where did you get all this information about Crawford, if he's not in contact with any of you?

 

“Ye might have heard that Nagi left Japan. He went back to Europe, to try and find Crawford. So all of this is from him.”

 

Aya sighed. He still needed to digest all of this before he could make up his mind, maybe talk to Yohji. He was sure Schuldig was telling him all this same information. He didn't think Yohji would take it well. In fact, his first response would probably be to grab Aya and run. He smiled slightly; he found Yohji's protectiveness equal parts annoying, amusing and touching. Realizing Farf was still holding the bottle up while he drifted, he nodded once. He kind of felt like he needed it, what with the day he'd been having. Maybe alcohol wasn't the wisest course of action, but until Aya knew what the wisest course of action was, he would welcome a little buzz. His well-honed warning senses were quiet, anyway.

 

Farf handed him a glass filled almost to the rim, clinking it with his own before Aya could pull his hand away. “Salut.”

 

“Hn.”

 

Once they were relaxed again, Aya downed about half his drink and asked, “So what in the hell does me working in your restaurant have to do with any of this?”

 

Farf looked a little surprised. “About as much as me working in that restaurant has to do with any of this. In other words, nothing. It's a sideline, for me. An eighty-hour week sideline, to be sure, and I have found the mafia connections and other unofficial purveyors here helpful to an extent, but for the most part I do it because I like it. It's a shit job sometimes, but any job is shit some of the time. Hiring you on was just a whim of Schuldig's, to get ye associated with me so ye could start doing assassination missions.” He smiled. “I wanted to kill him for suggesting it, at first. And for all that it's worked out fine thus far, ye still don't really have all the skills ye need for this kind of work, and I haven't the time to teach ye. Inferno takes up a lot of time as well. In both cases, I'm lucky to have competent people to whom I can delegate responsibility. Even so, I only take a whole day off when I'm burnt out beyond all recognition. I won't be able to keep up this pace forever, I'm sure, but I've still got plenty of years.”

 

Aya nodded. “You're being very forthcoming. Even though you said you'd answer all my questions, you're giving out more information than I'd need to know, assuming everything you say is the truth. Why?”

 

Farf sipped his whiskey. “We're talking,” he nearly mumbled. “This is a conversation, isn't it? I don't really think of ye as an employee, y'know. Not like some grunt to be screwed and then screwed over. So when we're talking, I feel good about it, and I say whatever's on my mind.” He looked up at Aya, face unreadable. “Should I stop?”

 

His mouth was already open to tell Farfarello to just answer his questions and leave out any extraneous personal information. But however unwilling his mind was to indulge the lunatic, hearing him say things like that made Aya's chest feel like it was constricted with bands of ever-shrinking iron. So when the words came out of his open mouth, they were, “You don't have to stop.” Then he drained the rest of his whiskey and poured himself another just as large, even though he still felt it was unwise. He didn't know what to do, how to feel, about any of this. He badly wanted Farfarello to be telling the truth about everything, he realised. He wanted it, because if this was the truth, he could forgive Farf and Schu. He understood enough about trying to follow a precog's prophecies to know that the withholding of information was critical to the success of one's ambitions, whatever they might be. So he could forgive them.

 

How could he possibly find out if all of this was true?

 

He sighed, rubbing his temples. “Never mind all that right now. Who the hell are Kryptonbrand, anyway? What do they have to do with all this?”

 

Farf smiled wryly. “Not much, really. They've been force-fed information from all fronts—Inferno's, Kritiker's, Esszet's splinter groups, even Crawford. Takatori wants them to stay concerned with their own local affairs, where he can call on them for back-up that can't ask or answer too many questions; they've got some good people, and their founder—KR—has a fuckload of money. Takatori's been handling him with kid gloves to stay in his good graces without raising too many suspicions, or getting him too interested in things Takatori would rather he didn't know about. Heh heh…ye probably fucked that up last night, I imagine. Kritiker ain't gonna be happy with ye; I'm sure you'll be hearing about it before the day's out—assuming ye go home, that is. Me, my phone's unplugged and my cell's in my sock drawer—I sure as hell don't want any of that runt's bitching.”

 

Aya ignored the slight toward his former team leader—he was still fond of Omi Tsukiyono, but didn't much care for Mamoru Takatori. “You make it sound almost like Inferno and Kritiker are working together.”

 

Farf shook his head. “No, Takatori's got nothing to do with Inferno. But he is allied with Crawford.”

 

“Really?” This was definitely news to Aya. “Why?”

 

“Takatori has an interest in gathering Talents as well.”

 

“But then, shouldn't they be working against each other?”

 

“If they were both looking to plunder the same market, yes. But Takatori's not looking to deal in mercenary work. He aspires to be an international arms dealer.”

 

“Arms?”

 

“Yeah. Except in this case, the arms consist of Talents instead of, say, semi-automatics and cluster bombs. He'll sell troops to the highest bidders, and never mind if they go to war with each other afterward. Just like any other arms dealer, really, except he won't be smuggling or selling to terrorists, or doing anything illegal, as far as I know. He'll be dealing with governments, standing military, all above board.”

 

Aya was floored. It took him several minutes to find his tongue again. “Um…how's he going to manage that headquartered in Japan? I don't think that he'd be able to amass the kind of manpower you're talking about before the U.N.—“

 

“The official headquarters of that operation is not in Japan. It's in Antarctica.”

 

Aya shut his mouth with a snap. “Well. That takes care of that, then, doesn't it,” he muttered. It seemed that secret-keeping was not only the province of Schwarz. He knew he'd been out of the loop, but this made him feel like he might as well have been unconscious—in a coma, his mind whispered—for the past five years.

 

“I hear they've got quite a little set-up going down there on the frozen continent,” Farf was saying. “All the creature comforts with none of the hassles of blinding blizzards and temperatures that reach minus seventy degrees Celsius. It helps, naturally, to have Talents who can control the weather, melt permafrost, grow any kind of plants in any kind of weather and create arable land.”

 

“Create arable land?”

 

“Yeah, ye didn't think Talents could only do useless things like read your mind and stop bullets, did ye? If NASA had sent Talents to the moon, it'd be in danger of overcrowding by now.”

 

Aya had a headache now. He had known that Omi had changed, that taking on the mantle of head of the Takatori family had altered his mindset about many things. But never in his wildest dreams had he imagined that Mamoru would take things to this kind of level. It was like the perky boy with the wide blue eyes had never even existed in the first place. Maybe he really hadn't. No one could become an assassin that early in life and not be warped, he thought. Well, technically no one could become an assassin at any point in life and not be warped, but that wasn't the point.

 

He wondered how much of the changes in Mamoru could be attributed to Nagi Naoe.

 

Farfarello was saying something. “I'm sorry, I was lost in thought. What was that, again?” Aya asked.

 

“I said I wanted to move on, since all this doesn't have much bearing on the current situation either, and I asked ye how ye felt about the assassin jobs, knowing what ye know now. Assuming what I say is true.“ There was a distinct twinkle in his yellow eye as he said this, and Aya caught himself on the edge of smiling.

 

“I….” He tried to take stock of his feelings about his current situation, in light of everything that he'd been told since yesterday. Yesterday seemed like weeks ago. He decided that what he wanted was to not be blind anymore. “I want to know what the people I am supposed to kill have done to deserve to die.”

 

Farf was nonplussed. “Well, I guess I've got no problem with reciting their rap sheets, if that makes a difference. What, if ye don't think they're worthy of death, you'll refuse the mission?”

 

“I'd like that prerogative.” He folded his arms across his chest.

 

“Ye want me to put together a video? Ye want to deny dark beasts their tomorrows, yeah?” The Irishman sounded amused.

 

“What's wrong with wanting a reason to kill someone, instead of just doing it blin—”

 

Farfarello actually rolled his eye. “You've been killing blindly since ye started the assassination gig seven years ago, Aya. I thought ye said ye didn't believe in this crap anymore.”

 

“Killing blindly?!” Aya's face flushed with fury. “My Kritiker teams always had reasons to—”

 

“I really didn't think ye were this stupid, Aya,” Farf said, his face radiating disappointment, all amusement gone.

 

It hurt. That pissed Aya off a lot.

 

He stood from his chair and slammed his empty tumbler on the end table. “Thanks for a lovely chat,” he bit out. “I'll think about what you've said.”

 

“Sit down, Aya,” Farf commanded, dangerously.

 

Aya kept walking.

 

He just barely sensed Farfarello's approach before the maniac was on him. They tussled briefly, before Farf made a very convincing feint and head-butted Aya in the chest, which, combined with the alcohol, slowed him down enough for Farfarello to knock him onto his back, further pushing the wind from his lungs. He struggled for breath as Farfarello pinned his wrists to the floor beside his head, straddling Aya's ribs, which didn't help him get any more air into his lungs.

 

“Ye want to know why ye killed all those dark beasts for Kritiker?” he hissed, deadly quiet. Aya could hear the dogs whining at the bedroom door. “Come on, ye know all this already. Everyone you killed was linked either directly or indirectly—but not by more than a degree or two—to Reiji Takatori. Kritiker was not founded to hunt fucking dark beasts; it was founded to take down Reiji Takatori. And do ye know why? Because Shuuichi fucked Reiji's wife, and she had his kid, and then she killed herself. And even though he was the adulterer, Shuuichi blamed it all on his brother Reiji. Before that, they were close. The Takatori were thick as thieves, so they were. He didn't make any fuss about manipulative criminal activities then, oh no. And then after he broke with Reiji, he never went after anyone that wouldn't hurt his brother or his brother's industry. Why do ye think he picked up Omi so goddamn young? And without even knowing it was his own goddamn son. Why the fuck do ye think they picked up you, for pity's sake? You, with your goddamn `Takatori, shi-ne' nonsense. And Yohji? His woman was killed by Reiji's employees. Ken was dishonored and burned by his affiliates. D'y'think this is all a big fucking coincidence, Aya? Even after Shuuichi's death, the people ye killed were chosen for specific socio-political reasons, Aya, to meet a profit margin. Not because they were the worst or did the most damage, though yeah, I grant you some of them did quite a lot.”

 

He let go of Aya's wrists and leaned back, as Aya wasn't fighting him anymore. He just felt sort of stunned, even though Farfarello was right, he did know all of this already. At least he could breathe a little, now, though Farf was heavy on his ribs. Spots danced in front of his eyes.

 

“Ye remember how ye were given the mission to kill me? But ye didn't. Ye couldn't have, but that's beside the point. Ye remember how that just sorta petered out, that mission, after I did me mum in?”

 

Aya winced at the memory. “We had an awful lot to do after that, as I recall,” he wheezed.

 

Farf thoughtfully put more of his weight on his knees, and Aya drew a deep, grateful breath. “Did ye have any other missions ye didn't complete?”

 

Aya struggled to recall. He remembered some missions that went awry, but in the end, they'd always managed to off their targets somehow, except….

 

Except here was Farf, considerately not compressing his ribs with his thighs.

 

“I can't remember any,” he admitted.

 

“That's probably because ye completed all your missions, except for me. And that's because Esszet paid Kritiker a hefty sum to divert your attention elsewhere. They had a whole budget set up to bribe people their operatives pissed off, whether they were likely to do any harm or not. It's money what makes the world go `round, Aya. At least I'm not having ye kill strictly for profit, or because I fucked my brother's wife. I'll be paying ye for some of these missions out of my own pocket, actually.”

 

Aya's eyes hurt, they were open so wide. “No shit.”

 

“I've been as truthful as I can so far; I've no need to tell a stupid lie like

that.”

 

“You don't have to—”Aya began before catching himself. What was he going to say? He'd kill people for free, because he and Farf were such good friends? He couldn't quite hold back a snort of laughter at the thought.

 

Farf might have been Schuldig, the way he could read Aya's mind. “Ye were about to say something really silly, weren't ye? `Ye don't have to pay me, I'll just do charity killing for the fun of it,' or summat like that, eh?” He was grinning widely, his face suffused with such good humor that Aya almost felt embarrassed.

 

He was tired of Farfarello having complete control over the conversation, over him, especially since he was feeling drunker by the minute and lightheaded from the remnants of oxygen starvation. He didn't think wrestling would do any good, and giving Farf a good sock in the jaw wouldn't be productive since Farf couldn't feel pain, the fucker. He suddenly recalled a specific torture that Yohji used to employ on him, which he'd always hated. What the hell, he thought, this day's absurd enough already. He reached out with both hands and tickled Farf's ribs.

 

Or tried to, at any rate. Apparently the same thing that deadened Farf's nerves to pain and temperature changes also prevented tickling from having much effect. Or at least, not the one Aya was going for.

 

Farf hummed with pleasure, deep in his chest. “Mmmm. People have told me that tickling is normally a mix of pleasure and pain, basic nerve overstimulation.” He bent down and whispered in Aya's ear. “I just get the pleasure.”

 

Aya tried hard not to shiver or get aroused. He only partially succeeded.

 

“But,” Farf continued, sitting back up, “if that's the game ye want to play….”

 

Uh oh. “I—uh, we haven't finished ta-aaaah!” Aya's voice rose up in a rather unmanly shriek as Farfarello pinned him with his thighs and unerringly found his most ticklish spots, on his sides just under the armpits. He was in tears very quickly, beating at Farf being entirely ineffective, and much to his chagrin found himself dangerously close to wetting his pants before Farf stopped.

 

He gasped for breath for a few seconds, glad that Farf had decided to have mercy on him—only, the expression on the albino's face looked more like he was trying to figure out if he needed to be mad or not.

 

Wondering what he'd done to cause that, all of a sudden, he followed Farf's eye to his abdomen, where his shirt had rucked up around his sides. There were several scratches there, souvenirs of Chloé's roses from his morning dalliance, but he couldn't see what was causing Farf's sudden change in mood. “Farf?”

 

“I knew I smelled blood on ye. I didn't think it was your own. What are those scratches from? Did ye fall in a thicket somewhere?”

 

“Oh, um…you know about Chloé's ability, right? Summoning roses and thorny vines and so forth?”

 

Farf nodded slowly. “So, I assume before Chloé convinced ye that ye were on the same side, ye must have fought?”

 

“Well, yes—”

 

“Is that when this happened?”

 

“No.”

 

“When did this happen?”

 

“What's with this interrogation, Farfarello? They're just scratches,” Aya pointed out, probably unnecessarily, but he was irked now.

 

“Tell me when this happened.” Farfarello's voice was mild, but there was something in his eye that raised Aya's hackles.

 

Now he was curious. Which was probably a damning emotion around Farfarello, but he couldn't help it. He wanted to know what Farf's reaction to the truth would be, though he couldn't imagine it having any importance whatsoever, since Farf already knew he'd had sex with Chloé. “He grew the vines during sex, and wrapped them around both of us.” It occurred to him that maybe Farf was concerned about diseases transmittable through blood, understandably. Aya really needed to start being more careful about that, or he'd end up regretting it. Not that he necessarily planned on screwing Farfarello again. At least not until he'd processed all this information.

 

“Ye let him do this?” Farf asked, his voice strangely quiet.

 

“Yeah…I don't think either of us bled enough to transmit any diseases, but I probably shouldn't have chanced it,” he muttered uncomfortably, looking away.

 

Farfarello was silent. Aya felt Farf's legs vibrating and his eyes shot back to the man sitting on him. With growing alarm, he realised Farf was shaking. From head to toe. His teeth were clenched and bared, his fists tight and his eye alight with something Aya had never seen in it before.

 

Aya began calculating how exactly he would have to twist his body to throw the madman off of him so that his head hit the wooden floor hard enough to at least stun him and give Aya a chance to get away. It wouldn't be easy, especially if Farf was in a killing mood, which Aya was almost sure he was. His finely honed assassin senses—the ones that had kept him alive all these years, the ones that had been so quiet all this time—were screaming at him that he was in a tremendous amount of danger.

 

He made his move a half a second late, though, as Farfarello chose that moment to stand, hauling Aya to his feet as he went. Aya twisted and swept a foot at Farfarello's feet, one hand punching at Farf's throat and the other one reaching for a heavy knickknack on a nearby bookshelf. Farf managed, somehow, to simultaneously fend off his attacks, prevent him from grabbing the potential weapon, pin all his limbs and slam him hard against the wall. Aya ended up being the one stunned, as Farf had made sure his head hit the wall with a skull-rattling crack. Aya struggled and then screamed as the lunatic bit him viciously just above his left collarbone, hard enough that his teeth were probably meeting in the meat of Aya's shoulder, hard enough that Aya was sure he could kiss that chunk of flesh good-bye.

 

Farf reared his head back, still pinning all of Aya's fucking limbs somehow and he had to get free before the asshole went for his jugular, but it was like his limbs were caught in cement even though he'd put on so much muscle and shit he was going to be eaten alive by this fucking batshit-crazy cannibal son of a bitch and even though he didn't particularly want to live he didn't want to die this way—

 

“This is mine, Aya, do you hear me?” Farf yelled, flecks of Aya's blood peppering Aya's cheeks and throat, red painting Farf's lips and teeth like he'd eaten a tube of lipstick instead of Aya's fucking shoulder. “You hear me?! No one else draws your blood. No one else, you bualadh craicinn striapach! Cojeda tú, tú asno perra!! Your blood is mine!!! Damnú ort!!!” he screamed, so loud Aya felt his head vibrate.

 

He had no idea what language or languages Farf had slipped into—some of it sounded like Spanish, but the rest was something he'd never heard—or how the hell he was supposed to survive this. Farfarello apparently had enough adrenaline running through his system to send an elephant into convulsions, and all his strength was focused on Aya. He felt no trace of fear, even so. He was really pissed off, more aroused than he'd ever been in his life, and his shoulder hurt like someone was taking a blowtorch to it. Farf's face was right up in his, so Aya moved his head—about the only thing he could move, at the moment—and bit Farfarello's lip as hard as he could. He didn't have much hope that this would make any difference, since Farf couldn't feel pain. He tasted his own blood, but he didn't stop biting until he was sure he could taste Farf's as well.

 

Farf backed off enough at that for Aya to move his hips, and he thrust his groin against Farf's, hard. The lunatic gasped, stared at Aya for a second, and then his hands shot to Aya's fly, more dismembering it than undoing it. Aya could move, and for about two seconds he expected that his survival instinct would take over and he'd try to get the fuck out of that apartment, leave this psychopath and his world of food and blood forever, but his fingers were already unzipping Farf's pants, lifting his heavy, livid cock out of them, and Farf was already crushing it against his own, pressing and slipping, his hands around both of them and Aya's hands around his hands, Farf's tongue thrusting desperately in his mouth, almost nauseating with blood, his shoulder burning and throbbing, and the tiny part of his mind that wasn't stupid with sensation wondered when the hell he'd decided to stay a part of this freakshow, before even that was lost and the world exploded.

 

“Ciach ort… bastún….” Farf panted, his breath hot on Aya's neck, where his face was pressed next to the hot mess of his shoulder. His arms were around Aya's back, holding him tightly. “Ngrh!” Farf growled, his voice strained, and he abruptly let go of Aya and backed off a couple of steps.

 

“What the hell, Farf?” Aya ventured, still short of breath, too boneless to tuck himself back into his pants. He felt like Farf's hands had just ripped out a piece of his soul. Combined with the events of the past 18 hours or so, he felt so dazed it was like he was slogging through corn syrup, physically and mentally. “Fucking lunatic son of a bitch,” he added after several seconds, feeling like he had definitely not cursed enough today. Today really felt like a cursing day.

 

Farfarello's cock should have been softening—Aya had seen him come—but he was still hard. His face was set in a ferocious scowl, his teeth clenched, his hands clawed and shaking. His nose was crinkled in a way that might have been cute if it had accompanied a different expression.

 

Wariness fuelling him with enough adrenaline to chase off the lethargy, Aya zipped himself up and glanced down at his shoulder, which was bleeding quite a lot. He needed to disinfect it as soon as possible; human bites were among the worst as far as bacterial infection—but he wasn't sure he should draw any attention to himself right now by moving or speaking. Farfarello's eye was as wide open and as deranged as he'd ever seen it back in Japan, and Aya's blood mingled with his own on his lips, spread on his cheek, his chin, his neck and hair, dark red and pale contrasting, like a Lovecraft painting of a monster, like Goya's painting of Saturn devouring his son.

 

Farf fisted his hands in his hair suddenly, his movements jerky and violent. He licked his lips, his tongue dipping to the divot just below and swiping it clean, eyelids fluttering in apparent bliss. His eye snapped open and fixed on Aya—on his shoulder—and Aya prepared to fight, but Farfarello opened his mouth and roared the way Aya had heard tigers roar on the Discovery channel, during his first listless weeks in New Orleans. It sent a primal, spiraling spear of fear through his guts, which he forced away, a liquid red heat through his chest down to his groin, which he rode out, and provoked an answering growl from his own throat. He realised he was smiling, teeth bared at the predator in front of him.

 

In one blurring move, Farf zipped his dick back in his pants, and then turned and leaped over the couch. Not upright, like a man, but by grabbing the back of the couch, pulling his feet up to either side of his hands, throwing his upper body forward and shoving off with his feet. It was damn fast; Aya could barely track his movements before he came to a stop at his bedroom door. He was yelling something, and there were two answering barks from the other side of the door. He opened the door and raced into his room, as Romulus and Darius charged out and sat in front of the balcony door, paying no attention to Aya, tension vibrating through their powerful frames.

 

Aya wondered if he should follow Farf, or grab a kitchen knife, or get the fuck out of there.

 

Shit, his shoulder hurt. And the palpable tension was really getting to him, making him feel like he was losing control of his body, of his will. To what end, he didn't know. He hadn't felt anything like this since his very first assassination mission, and cursed himself for letting his control get so weak.

 

Farf raced back out of the bedroom and stopped in front of Aya, the dogs whining impatiently. His hands, face and hair were clean, though the lip Aya had bitten was starting to swell, giving him a strangely pouty look. He had a hunting knife in his hand, a gleam in his eye and a real smile on his face. Not a grimace, not a snarl. He licked his knife, and Aya felt like his veins were sizzling, blood burning. He tensed for combat.

 

“Come with me,” Farf purred.

 

Aya started. “What?”

 

Farf laughed, s high, childish, cheerful laugh, full of mischief and glee. “Come hunting with me.”

 

Aya squinted, relaxing. “Hunting what?”

 

Farf gave him a look that said, “Ye know what, ye daft cunny!”

 

Eyebrows should not go so high that they were not technically attached to one's forehead, but Aya was sure his were. “It's the middle of the fucking day! Are you insa—are you a complete idiot?!”

 

“No, I'm not. Trust me! I want ye to come! I'll even let ye borrow one of my blades, if ye like. Let's go!!”

 

He might have been a kid trying to coax his friend onto a roller coaster. Aya found it disturbingly endearing. “I—ow, fuck!” Aya had spread his arms, prompting his shoulder to remind him that it was pretty seriously wounded. “I can't go anywhere until I get this disinfected and possibly stitched up,” Aya growled.

 

Farf deflated a little. “Ah, I guess you're right. Human bites are nasty.”

 

Aya glared at him.

 

He laughed again, and held up his hands, palms to Aya. “I have antiseptic ointment and all that stuff in the cabinet under the sink in my bathroom.”

 

“Of course you do,” Aya muttered. “What assassin doesn't?”

 

“Probably one that's got blood poisoning. Use what ye need. But next time, you're definitely coming with us. Oh, and leave this door open. Stay here till we get back, okay?”

 

Us? We? Aya thought, but before he could ask, Farf was sliding the balcony door open, making a strange whistling, trilling noise, and he and the dogs raced to the edge of the balcony and jumped off.

 

Aya followed them, quick as he could, in time to see them land, one after another, on a lower balcony railing, then leap onto a shed at the edge of the garden, and from there to the ground. They melted into the shadows of the oak trees almost as soon as they touched down.

 

Aya stood a minute in shock.

 

Those dogs…hunt with Farf? But they're so well-behaved, so disciplined and affectionate….

 

Come to think of it, Omi had been like that. And he was a trained killer, too. Plus there was no danger of the dogs growing up to sell people to warring countries. Aya decided he could accept this new aspect of the dogs.

 

How grisly, though.

 

Aya was disturbed to find that he actually wanted to go with them; he wanted to see those powerful beasts in action. All three of them. He imagined Farfarello taking his hands, smiling, laughing and pulling him over the balcony railing into a roiling sea of blood, so they could drown together.

 

He wanted to go. He wanted.

 

Aya forced himself to turn and walk back into the apartment to take care of his shoulder, instead, angrily stamping down the yearning for his blades.

 

He wondered how Yohji was doing, if Schu had told him everything yet and what Yohji would do. He would probably want to take Aya away from all of this, somehow. If he did, Aya knew he shouldn't fight him.

 

But he probably would.