WEIß KREUZ
Bekämpfen Sie das Kreuz
"Lord, I would rather fight the cross; to bear it is hard. The more I progress, and the more I see Evil in the world, the heavier the Cross is on my shoulders." - Prayers (1954) by Abbe Michael Quoist.
Ein (One)
The scant, feathery blue-gray light filtered through the slits of the drawn blinds, signaling the early hours of dawn. Omi Tsukiyono rolled onto his back, shielding his still tired eyes from the meager light and sighed. It took only several blinks to clear his vision of sleep, and after a few moments of staring at the ceiling, basking in the slowly growing light, he was ready to get up and face the day.
Omi's was never an attitude of "another day, another dollar", but rather "I wonder what today will bring!" He quickly got dressed in a tee, baggy sweatshirt, and worn shorts; then he left his tiny compartment of their florist trailer with his usual, innocent enthusiasm. He had to get in his daily morning jog, if only a few miles each day before opening shop.
Omi passed by the small room Yoji and Aya shared. The slight snoring meant that Yoji Kodou was still very much asleep, but as usual Aya's bed was neatly made. Omi wondered if Aya ever slept at all. His concerns were of no importance to the staid killer; Aya Fujimiya always did whatever he wanted with little regard for the others. Always. Omi accepted it as his way, so he passed by the room with little more thought.
When he reached the main living space of the trailer, he stopped, and grinned to himself. Ken Hidaka had fallen asleep on the couch again, lanky body neatly contorted to fit in the cushioned space not designed for slumber, the throw strewn in folds on the floor. He was never certain exactly why Ken constantly seemed to prefer the sofa to his bunk, but this wasn't the first time he stayed up late at night until drifting off. Omi didn't mind, though. Shaking his head, Omi went over to retrieve the fallen blanket.
"Honestly, Ken-kun," he jokingly whispered to his still sleeping teammate. Without touching him too much, Omi adjusted the blanket back over Ken, whose evenly falling and rising chest meant he was still dead to the world, like Yoji.
If they're not up by the time I get back, I'll have to open shop by myself, Omi thought. He never had the heart to wake them, since they both slept so peacefully. Perhaps Aya would knock them awake before then. Speaking of which...
"Aya-kun?" Omi muttered to himself curiously. He walked around the counter into the little kitchenette section, wondering where Aya had gotten to. There was a pot of black coffee already brewed, though it was turned off. Omi touched a fingertip to it. Still hot. So the tall redhead hadn't been gone too long.
Shrugging, Omi grabbed something quick to eat and left the warm, if too close, confines of the shop-on-wheels and stepped into the bright morning light. Instantly he felt a chill, shivering into the folds of his sweatshirt and pulling the hood up. It was a crisp, autumn morning, a light fog still blanketing Tokyo. The air was fresh, but it bit at the lungs if one inhaled too sharply, which Omi knew enough not to do. The dawn's early rays brushed the turning trees like a painter's fine touch. It was a very picturesque day.
Autumn was his favorite season, but it only meant they would have less business. Not much grew in frigid climates, and they had limited space in the over-sized van for greenhouse equipment. Not only that, but who would want to brave snow and ice to visit an outdoor florist for mama's poinsettias? Aya had said they would start looking for a new shop somewhere...
Somewhere. Somewhere far from the Koneko no Sumu-ie, where they wouldn't be in competition with Grandma and Aya-chan, Ran's little sister. Omi wondered if they'd have to leave the city all together. That would probably be for the better, business-wise, and for their own sakes. Except, Omi thought with some amusement, lacing up his sneakers, they would have to commute into the city for missions. Assassins commuting to work. That was pretty lame.
With a tiny smile, Omi did a few stretches before he set out for his morning jog. He noticed the light was becoming more vivid and richer, and realized he'd already lost some precious time. He always ran the same route every morning, except for various shortcuts for when he was late to work. By the time he reached the park's limits he no longer felt the chill; indeed, he was already starting a good sweat. He politely greeted other joggers and even stopped to help an elderly lady collect her dog that had gotten off its leash before he glanced at his watch.
Ten to seven. He'd have to get back to the trailer soon to open its doors. School would be starting in almost an hour, and they always had an early morning rush of girls on their way to classes. Of course the lunch hour and after school was enormously more hectic, but a decent sized group would come in the dawn. What they did with the flowers they purchased while at study, Omi could only guess. Sometimes he would see some of the girls at his own school, and they would usually hand them over to a friend or teacher. At least, he hoped, it brightened several people's mornings that way.
Suddenly a mental alarm sounded, far in the back of his mind. Omi slowed his pace cautiously, but otherwise didn't change his demeanor. No one is suspicious here, folks. Just a boy getting tired from his jog. Inwardly, he began a mental check of those alarms going off. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, besides a few more people beginning to mull around at the start of their work day. Then a slight sound caught his ear; a soft, steady hum of a car's engine. Behind him.
Why on earth... ?
Omi didn't bother turning to look. That was way too obvious. Instead, he listened, listened to its slow course over the rhythmic sound of his own footfalls pounding on the gravel. He heard it clearly; it was going at a snail's pace on the main stretch of road beside the biker's path he was on. Slow. Following him? But why? Approaching a bench, Omi slowed his own pace and stopped beside it, thankful it was vacant. He didn't want to endanger anyone, just in case -
In case of what? Why was a car such a big deal? But it had to be. He wasn't a part of Weiß for nothing, and if his highly trained senses said something was mistaken on this bright, sunny autumn day, then something had to be wrong.
Casually, Omi leaned one foot onto the seat of the bench, stretching first one leg then the other. He was breathing heavy, but he wasn't nervous. His energy was up, not waning, and he made sure to perpetually carry his smallest set of throwing darts strapped to his arm, under his sleeve; he was ready. Pretending to be engrossed in serious arm-shoulder stretches, Omi turned and saw the car.
A black sedan, nothing too snazzy, but smartly polished and smooth. A businessman's car, but not someone high on the corporate food chain. Tinted windows. Dammit. He couldn't see who was behind the wheel, or even how many there were. Omi waited, and the car didn't increase nor decrease its speed.
Finally, it neared him. And went on by. Unconsciously, Omi heaved a sigh and continued his stretching. What's wrong with you this morning, Omi, he thought to himself. I never act like that. But it just went by, right on past me. Why was I so suspicious?
Shrugging it off, Omi continued on his return jog back to the trailer, re-checking his internal security system.
Newly showered, freshly clothed, Omi opened wide the double doors to the back of the gigantic, unsightly pink florist van and began rolling out the benches and unfolding the side shelves. Luckily, on his return he found Yoji wrestling between bouts of slumber and finally deciding to get out of bed, and Ken was now in the shower. At least they'd be available to help customers so he could make his first class.
Omi slid out a sale sign boasting of the multi-colored mums; then he carefully brought out a bunch of the jeweled-tone plants when a voice made him jump.
"'Colors of autumn', huh?" said a delicate, but raspy woman's voice behind him, reading the sign he had just drug out.
"What?" Omi instinctively chimed out of shock. He wheeled around, clutching the pot safely (he had learned that lesson well enough numerous times!) and met the lady's eyes.
This was not his usual customer of the day, not a young, preening girl in a school uniform. Instead he met the gaze of a woman in her early twenties, with upswept auburn hair, bleached blonde at the front, and almond-shaped gold-brown eyes. She was smartly dressed in a teal and black business dress-suit, which stood out brightly in the soft light of the early morning hours. The matching pumps were flat heeled for hours of standing. Definitely the attire of someone with a corporation; no doubt she was on her way to work like the rest of the masses.
Always prepared to handle a customer, he asked, "May I help you?"
Her smile was warm and genuine, yet her eyes shone as if she'd been awake for hours; she fixed those bright, intense eyes on Omi. She tilted her head just slightly at him as she inquired, "Is that one of them?"
Omi blinked. "Eh?"
"A mum?"
"Oh!" Omi blushed, unknowingly, for being so slow of a sudden. He responded quickly, "No, it's a Pompon Dahlia."
Her smile widened. "I was wondering," she said. "I didn't think purple was a color of fall."
"We have other colors," he offered. "This one is called Moor Place, and is always purple. Or were you looking for mums?"
"No, I was just looking. But those are pretty, what you're holding. Will they die soon for the winter?"
"These are bulbs. You can just prune them back after their natural growing cycle and leave them someplace cool and dark for hibernation. They'll be back again come spring. Or they should do well indoors and bloom continuously if fertilized and kept properly. Bulbs are easy to force. That's why it's good for the shop because we can sell them at awkward times."
"Force them to flower?" she wrinkled her nose slightly. "That sounds wrong." She stepped closer to finger one of the small globe-shaped blooms. "But I guess it helps with the business. Must be hard to keep a flower shop."
"Not as hard as some other businesses," he replied. Never rude or flippant, Omi always enjoyed talking with customers, and he tried his best to make thoughtful responses. He had a way with people, ever courteous.
"I guess you would know," she said, glancing away. Omi thought, just for a second, there was something in that glance, but he couldn't quite tell what it was. Had he said something? They were just talking about other lines of work. Maybe what she did for a living wasn't an easy topic for her. After all, what he did was -
"I can't imagine doing business from a trailer, though," she commented, scanning her eyes over the automobile. "Do you live in it too? It's awfully big."
"Mmm," he nodded. "It's actually good for business because we can just pack up and move if another shop opens."
"I suppose that's true." She turned to face him, and her eyes held his intently. Omi blinked, his fingers fidgeting around the flower pot. She had a gaze as piercing as a cat's, someone who could delve into your very being. It was alluring, but yet, there was something about her, some other aspect that was familiar.
"It must be hard on someone so young, like yourself?" She looked sincerely worried.
"I don't run things alone," he replied, smiling. They were a team. Always. "The others help out, and we all do our best. It makes it easier."
"How many owners are there?"
"Ken and I pretty much mind the customers, while Aya is the best with the flowers. He can make anything grow and flourish beautifully. Yoji tends to all the finances and such." He grinned. "I still have some years of school before I can handle things like that! But sometimes Yoji needs me to help him with computers."
"Ah, computer hacker, huh?" She smiled devilishly.
"I - wouldn't say that."
She stared at him for a few more moments, then said brightly, "Well, I'd love to stay and meet your friends, but I'm afraid I have to get to work! But before I go -" She lifted the pot of purple Pompon Dahlias from Omi's hands. "I'll give these a good home!"
Omi smiled. "Sure."
After she had paid for the flowers and received her hand-written receipt, Omi watched her leave, getting into a black car across the street. Then his mind finally wandered back to work. He began setting out foil-wrapped pots of mums again, all the shades of the autumn season, and then spied a group of teen girls down the way. Here comes the first wave! I wonder if the others are up yet?
Deciding to quickly check on the others, Omi turned to mount the stairs - and came face to face with Yoji. Or rather, face to face-with-a-cigarette. Yoji was grinning wickedly at him in that all-too familiar way that sometimes confused him, small rivulets of gray, filtered smoke rising around him. He was elegantly sprawled on the stairway, his eyes twinkling behind lowered shades.
"Way to go, bishounen," he said suavely. "You always keep your innocent cool when you're flirting. Drives them wild." He winked behind the tinted lenses, then turned his slender face in the direction the woman had left. "Of course, she's another story."
"Yoji-kun?"
"She could very well end up in jail if she keeps hitting on minors openly like that. She could get her fancies somewhere more secretive than out in broad daylight on a respectable street corner."
Omi planted his small fists on his hips, indignant to his friend's teasing. "Yoji-kun," he said warningly.
Yoji smiled impishly. "It's only 'cuz I wasn't there for her to check out." Laughing, Yoji reached out to playfully ruffle Omi's hair.
Omi was in the process of fending him off when another voice, deep and resonant, spoke up from the door above Yoji. "You should watch what you say to strangers."
"Huh?" Omi looked up to meet Aya's violet hard gaze. His expression was more serious and stern than usual.
Taking the cigarette from his mouth, Yoji said, "Tch, come on, Aya." He rolled his head back to glance at Aya out of the corner of his eye. "Our little Omi isn't a toddler anymore. He knows the do's and don't's of talking to strangers." Looking back at Omi, good-natured Yoji winked again.
The cold look from Aya, whose eyes never left Omi, kept the young assassin from grinning back at Yoji. The expression was so fierce.
"Aya-kun?" Omi asked worriedly. "Is something wrong?"
For a time, Aya made no response. Finally he said, his tone serious, as if he were choosing his words carefully, "Be mindful when someone starts asking about us and the business."
He meant it, and not as a precaution about the safety of the business or the van. When Aya said to be careful, whether it was over coffee and cake or while dressed in a buckled-down trench, it was a life or death matter.
Wearing only a pair of scuffed, faded blue jeans, Ken left the shower stall and dim light of the wash room into the humidity-controlled, dark nursery, warm water dripping off him just as it was their new young seedling plants. The trailer was so small in comparison to any normal household environment, but then what was good enough for the flowers...
Toweling off his dark hair, Ken's mind held fast to that one word. Normal. When you were an assassin, when you killed another human being for pay, it was hard to find any normality in life. Maybe, in comparison to other assassins, Weiß was more normal than most others. At least, he hoped it was. Or should he hope it wasn't?
As he laid the towel around his shoulders at the nape of his neck, he looked at his arm, around the wrist which bore his lethal, heavy bladed bagh nakhs and leather gauntlet, to his hand. He flexed his hand, opening and closing it methodically, watching the scar tissue of some old wounds, and some newer ones, ripple taut across his muscles. He had many scars all over his body, more inside than out, but the one that always drew his attention was the fine lines around his left hand, where Yoji's garrote wire had severed right through his gauntlet, that time with Kaori and Akira Hibana. That scar drew his attention, as well as the scar left on his memory, and on his soul.
Ken smirked sadly. "Normal?"
Suddenly a definite click broke through the silence of his soft word. It drew his attention up towards the ceiling where the small camera slipped out of its hiding and shed a river of light against the far wall, onto the waiting screen. In the corner, a small clock began a countdown - the countdown to the message.
Ken stared ahead at the screen in surprise, his dark brows drawn. "A mission?" he whispered aloud to himself. Now?
"Aya-kun?"
Omi was certain he wasn't going to get anything further out of the hardcore killer, whose lips remained in a firm line, sealed shut. Yoji shrugged his broad shoulders lazily. He knew Aya well enough, too, and wasn't stirred by his reluctance to talk. He was in the process of making smoke rings with his cigarette, in what Omi could only guess was his own procrastinating to begin work. The sounds of bare feet approaching alerted them all. Aya turned, leaning against the doorframe so the other two could see Ken - see the grave expression on his face.
With damp locks straggling into his eyes, bare chest with a towel around his neck, Ken said darkly, "Guys," and motioned with his somber eyes for them to come back inside.
Yoji made a confused sound, grinding out his cigarette and rising unhurriedly. Aya said nothing, merely followed Ken inside the van. With a sigh Yoji stood and Omi quickly shut the doors to the van; habit, he wasn't worried about that group of girls stealing them blind. But, he thought with a profound new worry, what could have Ken so upset?
As soon as he walked through the door and had it closed, he found out.
"We have a mission," Aya announced, unmoved by the sudden event.
"A mission?" Omi asked, startled. "This early?"
Aya was already following Ken into the nursery, not paying any heed to Omi's query. Yoji on the other hand, was slightly chagrined. Making a hissing tsk sound through his teeth, he hurriedly poured himself a cup of black coffee, which was only lukewarm thanks to Aya turning the pot off, and said, annoyed, "Persia could at least wait till everyone's had their breakfast." He clattered a heaping spoonful of sugar into the mug and made off, Omi at his heels.
05... 04... They all took their places about the screen, waiting. Curious. 03... 02... 00:00:01. The familiar silhouette filled the screen, the picture available only up to the man's mouth. The shadow with the name of their new target. What happened next shocked them all, except Aya did not show it.
"White Hunters, hunt the tomorrow of the Dark Beast."
There was an audible beep of the transmission ending, and then a small red light in the corner began flashing. Omi was instantly on top of it, sliding out one of his portable laptop computers and lifting the screen to view. With a click, buzz and a whirl, it lit into life. Without loading, a transmission was instantly received, and the video fed into the connection from Kritiker.
"Weiß," the familiar voice greeted them, though there was a dismal tone in the greeting.
"Manx," Omi said, surprised, to the video feed.
"Hey Manx," Yoji piped in, "where's our computer-generated Persia?"
"We didn't have time to get ourselves together with this mission," came the unhesitating reply. "Apologies, but this comes straight from the top ranks."
"Eh?" Ken muttered, tilting his head at the screen. "Top ranks? What's going on, Manx? You look flustered."
The vibrant woman with the duo shocks of crimson hair finally smiled. She fingered the microphone piece around her mouth, but didn't lose a beat when she said, "Everyone at headquarters is in an upheaval. There's been an incident that hits close to home.
"Weiß, last night, Takeshi Yori, Vice President of Taro Minor Technologies -" an image of a burly man at some corporation luncheon flicked onto the screen, then quickly receded into a small corner of it, showing Manx again as she continued - "received a coded transmission over a secure line. His only son has been kidnapped. What follows is the voice transmission that was received."
There was a rolling sound of static, which didn't clear. Instead, it gave way to only more crackling sounds, and somewhere within the jumbled line of communication came a throaty, digital voice. "We have your son. No police. No force. We repeat, we have your son. If you want him back alive, wait." There was a rush of noise, discomforting (Omi, sitting closest to the speakers, winced slightly), then nothing but the sound of a dead link.
"What was that?" Yoji asked incredulously as Omi quickly withdrew his other laptop and began working on the coded sound file. "I hardly heard a ransom in there."
"No ransom was stated," Manx replied in agreement. "Yori was told to wait. We can assume from that this was only the first of what will be numerous communications."
"So you think," Yoji said, shaking his head in disbelief at the uncertainty of it all.
"How long ago was that first demand?" Ken asked.
Manx seemed to pause. "An hour. His father woke up this morning to find his son gone."
"What?" Ken said, slack-jawed. "How did you find out about it so fast?"
Yoji overrode his inquiry, asking, "How old is this kid?"
"Here are his stats and a recent picture." Manx's image disappeared to a round of files and a photograph. Her voice said, "Akira Yori is sixteen years old." The picture shown to them was one taken from a high school. He wore a typical black uniform of a private school, a rich man's son. He seemed fairly tall, which his stats told them he was, with black-brown eyes and ebony hair. Finely featured, a somewhat smarmy expression, nothing out of the ordinary for a Japanese school boy.
"Sixteen, huh?" Yoji said, as if that answered everything. "Are you sure he's not just some spoiled, rich brat playing a joke on papa with his friends? You remember being sixteen, don't you Manx?"
"I remember my parents worrying whenever I stayed out too late," Manx replied with some passion, "and Akira's father is devastated over this."
Uncertainty clutched at Omi's mind as he worked on the evidence provided. According to the boy's data, his mother had been dead for several years and his school records were clean. There didn't seem to be any real evidence to prove he was the rabble-rouser Yoji was hoping for. Omi could actually feel sorry for the kid, and judging by Ken's drawn expression, the boy-Weiß knew he felt the same.
"Manx?" Omi asked from his laptop. "This is heavy level encoding. It's difficult to even get a snippet of this guy's voice without the background scrambler. He's using some sort of major equipment. A professional?"
"We think so."
"More than one?" Ken asked.
"Kritiker doesn't seem to think that. We think it's someone working alone, judging by the time differences."
Ken put a hand up to his mouth, leaning slightly into his fist. "Could be struggling then," he mused thoughtfully.
"The boy's room was in disarray, but nothing was missing."
Ken sniffed. "Except the boy."
"The window was sealed, the doors to the Yori townhouse were still all locked up."
Omi blinked. "An inside job."
Manx nodded slightly. Suddenly, without warning, Aya's heavy voice broke the swirl of the moment and exchange of information. "Who's the target?"
"Eh?" Omi turned to look at Aya with a curious look, Yoji's eyes merely shifting in his general direction while Ken arched a brow. Manx looked stunned, but quickly regained herself. His simple question seemed so out of the moment. Leaning against the far wall, hidden in shadows, eyes closed as if in deep thought, Aya Fujimiya asked again, "Who's the target?"
On screen, Manx simply blinked as she studied Aya. Omi breathed hesitantly, "Aya-kun."
He opened his eyes, and the piercing gaze with which he studied Manx was almost feral. "Weiß is an assassin group, called upon to take a life of one of the Dark. Persia gives us a target, and we take out that target."
Broken down into simple facts as such made the entire mission one big confusion. And that seemed to dawn on the other members of Weiß. Ken looked at the screen and asked, "Do you know who kidnapped this boy?"
Manx looked somewhat unhappy with the progression of the mission, but there was something also undecidedly proud in her voice. "We think someone from Kritiker took the boy."
There came an exasperated chorus of "WHAT?" from three of the four Weiß members.
"Move to secure channel." The video feed died in a swift moment. The system whirled again, rebooting, and Omi quickly opened the channel in a new interlink. No video this time; only Manx's voice echoed through the room. They now knew how serious things would be; tension grew in the tight space, so thick Aya could have cut it with his katana.
"For some time now, we have had troubled of leaks within Kritiker. That's why I need to discuss this on a channel secured even from other agents. There has been rumors of a new agency on the verge of taking over operations. Rumors for now. How long until the dog bares its fangs is unknown."
"So you think they're more than just rumors?" Yoji asked.
"No one can say for sure. But one leak is certain, and it needs to be plugged up."
"You think this leak kidnapped the boy to make good with your new unknown rumored agency?" said Yoji.
"Possibly."
"Why call on Weiß, or Kritiker for that matter, over this kid? What does he have to do with any of this?" Ken asked, staring at nothing in particular as he listened.
"Takeshi Yori," Manx informed them, "is the financial supporter and one of the heads of Kritiker." Omi and Ken shared a stunned look while Yoji shook his head. Aya's eyes became mere slits at this turning point. "Now you understand why he would call on Weiß to take out the kidnapper, and how I learned of the abducting so soon after. Contacting the police is out of the question until we know more about the kidnapper. Omi, I'm leaving that up to you for the moment. I will feed you information over a secure line as we learn more."
"Understood."
"We can't allow you access into Kritiker's files. Find him as you would any other target," she added, as if it would be an initiative for the assassins. "Yori funds Kritiker, he funds Weiß. To continue on as we have been, we need to nip this thing in the bud. Now. I'll be in touch."
"Manx." Aya asked before she closed the channel. "If the kidnapper is Kritiker, he knows the secrets. How long until he knows everything about Weiß?"
There was a heavy moment of silence. Foreboding. The gravity of the situation hit home and made things more desperate.
Her only reply was, "White Hunters of the Night. Hunt out the Darkness."
The transmission ended. Now, time was an issue.
There was silence in the room. Black. Lit only by laser lights forming a checker pattern across the floor. Black. A sound, like a heartbeat. The sound of silence. Black. Never ending, yet occasionally broken by the dead clack of computer keys. A dark room, seemingly without entrance or exit, nowhere but headquarters.
Black. Schwarz.
The door behind the computer terminal opened, spilling outside light into the dark room. "Hey, boss wants a status report before long," said the exuberant, distinctive voice. The tall German with the chaotic shock of carrot-colored locks was framed in the doorway. His shadow, as unique as him, fell across the face of the computer and the young Japanese boy working on it.
Nagi Naoe said nothing, but on occasion would tap a few keys without much thought. His large, liquid blue eyes fixed on the screen, were void of emotion or response. A series of encrypted lines of numbers scrolled before his eyes at a fast rate, yet he seemed to be reading every line of text and every set of numbers. He'd pick one or two out, leaving the rest untouched. In the corner of the screen was a moving bar, a clock, and it was counting down. Nagi seemed to pay it no mind as he continued his work. The clock was reaching zero time left.
"Hayaku," said Schuldig teasingly, drawing the word out in a cooing sound as if to cause tension in the younger boy. Of course it had no effect as Nagi made no effort to hurry. He moved like a leopard into the room, smooth, soundless, to stand behind Nagi's chair.
Clack. Clack. ACCESS BREACHED! Files found. Clack. Uploaded. Clack. Clack. Clack.
"Done," Nagi announced. When he spoke it was soft and emotionless. A word. Nothing more.
Time: 0
"Cutting it close there," the German said, with his typical unscathed Cheshire Cat grin. He leaned over Nagi's shoulder and gave that grin to the screen. "Australian International Bank funds breached, heh?"
"Money to be transferred by wire, small funds at a time, into an unknown account, set up at Crawford's disposal," Nagi said.
"Who the hell needs to work?" Schuldig laughed. He straightened and said with his usual dark mirth, "God, I love Schwarz!"
"I presume everything went as a success then?" said a baritone voice at the door as outside light was suddenly cut off.
Nagi closed his eyes and said, without turning to the man, "I was in and out. No trace. Nothing. Clean job, Crawford."
"Schuldig didn't interfere with your work?"
Schuldig made a whiny sound, half sardonic and half growl, and said, "I would never." The tilt of his head was in mock innocence for the man named guilty. "Who do you want to play with next?" he asked as the other strode into the room. Schuldig folded his arms over his chest expectantly.
"Next?" Crawford said, amusement creeping into his voice. "I would think we're pretty much set for the next century, wouldn't you?"
"One can never have too much -"
The scrape of Nagi's chair echoed shrilly off the walls as the boy pulled back from the computer terminal. The other two men turned to look; Schuldig's arms fell as he made a surprised sound. They could only stare at the screen in a unified confusion. There, on the screen as Nagi closed the browser he was working from, was a black screen with nothing but a large white cross in the center.
"What did you do, Nagi?" Schuldig finally said accusingly. His eyes were caught on the image of the white cross. A fire burned behind them. Fires of anger. "If that's your idea of a joke, it's not funny."
Nagi made no response, but suddenly, the email files opened. An announcement of new email was there to greet them. Without touching the mouse or a single key, Nagi Naoe opened the files with nothing more than a thought. The new mail opened to a message in simple code. Decoded, the message that was scrawled across the screen was startling, to say the least.
Message. Boy kidnapped is at the abandoned warehouse of Taro. Begin the mission on Wednesday, dusk. Message ended.
"Is this -?" Schuldig said, his voice a thick growl.
"Weiß," said Nagi.
Schuldig arched a brow. "Did you intercept their transfers?" Nagi just glanced at him in a negative way. "What a stroke of luck, to have one of their missions fall into our laps like this." His voice was unsure.
"It can't be for real," said Nagi easily. "Nothing is that simple. Are we going to bet on luck?"
"No," said Crawford. The two Schwarz members turned to look at the American. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be concentrating on something only he could see. When he finally opened his eyes, lenses of his glasses reflecting dull light, he wore a vague smile. "They'll be there."
"Our boss is viewing the future again," Schuldig said, only half sarcastically, his hearty grin returning. "If you say so, then this may be our big opportunity."
"Kidnapped boy?" Nagi mused quietly.
"Their targets are of no concern of ours," said Brad Crawford. "However, I think Schuldig is correct." He bared his teeth in a lupine smile, villainous and excited. "This may be a good chance for a reunion."
"To hell with reunion," Schuldig spat. His hand balled into a fist. "I'm taking my time on them. My revenge -"
"Do you suppose Weiß could be sending this message to us?" Nagi asked, unconcerned either way. "A trap?"
Crawford sniffed. "I've never known Weiß to give anyone a head's up. If we were their target, we'd be the last to know about it. I don't see this as a trap."
"But who would -?"
"Weiß..."
The soft, purring tone of Farfarello came from somewhere within the darkness. None of them had been aware that the Irishman was even anywhere in the room. Looking hard enough, one could almost see the glowing, solitary amber eye; it shone with a lust and an excitement that went beyond sanity.
He smiled. "Finally."
