Disclaimer: I don't own Weiss Kreuz or any of the characters therein, I do own the dying man, but who wants a dying man? And the only thing I'm getting out of this is pleasure, not money.
Conversation
The nameless man coughed, a little blood spattered his chin as he did. A shaky hand reached up to wipe the blood away, but only succeeded in smearing it more across his face before it collapsed again at his side.
He rolled his head wearily to the side and looked at his murderer.
His murderer was sitting on the ledge of the open window, humming an old circus tune and smoking. The smoke was blown gently back into the room by the wind and the dying man felt it against his face though he could no longer smell it. It made him cough and he wished his murderer would put the cigarette out so that he would not cough anymore.
"You won't be coughing anymore soon enough anyway," his murderer said, "so I think I'll go right on smoking."
The man lifted a hand that lay by his side and placed it carefully against the wound in his stomach. If he could staunch the flow of blood, maybe he could crawl away and get help.
"You're not going anywhere," his murderer said, "by the time I've finished this cigarette, in, say one or two minutes, you'll be dead."
The dying man knew his murderer was lying; a stomach wound could take hours to kill you, he'd heard, and anyway, he couldn't possibly die now, it was inconceivable.
His murderer's laugh was clear as bells, "Inconceivable? How full of itself humanity is! Face it man, I nicked a lung when I stabbed you."
The dying man coughed for a little time as his murderer puffed away at the cigarette, and decided that perhaps his murderer was right. But something would save him, he knew; the baddies always got just what they deserved, and the goodies survived. At the last moment, some hero would take out his murderer and save him with some miracle medical fieldwork.
His murderer laughed some more, "Such a Manichean view! But if the baddies always get it, then who's the bad man, Mr. Dying-alone-on-the-floor-from-a-stab-wound-to-the-belly?"
You've killed me! The dying man realised with horror and then a flash of red-hot anger. You've killed me!
"That's right." His murderer agreed calmly.
Murderer! The dying man cursed, murderer!
"That's right." His murderer agreed.
And it was then that the dead man realised that his murderer was replying to things he had thought and not said out loud. He opened his eyes, which he hadn't noticed had closed, and examined his murderer. He smoked, and had bright carroty red hair and what appeared to be, in the poor light of the dead man's eyes, green eyes. Or maybe blue ones. He spoke with a German accent too that grew stronger when he laughed. And he was a dab hand with long and sharp and piercing objects, such as daggers.
"And, against all logic," his murderer added, "I am a telepath."
There was a pause as the dead man let this register. All right he thought, maybe I am dying, and maybe you are a telepath, but I'm not the bad person here, after all, you killed me.
"As I said, such a Manichean view. How can you divide the world into only black and white? What is a bad person, what defines a good person? You, judging by what I've scrounged from your mind, seem to have, shall I quote? 'Got just what you deserved.'"
Well, the dead man thought crossly, you'll get what you deserve too.
"Perhaps you should consider that I have already got, or am getting what I deserve right now?"
The dead man had no reply to that. Perhaps telepathy was his murderer's punishment though for the life of him (which was fast running out) he couldn't see how. And anyway, everyone died eventually. His murderer would not escape it either, however long it took.
"Mmm," his murderer agreed, "out of curiosity, what is it like, dying?"
What's it like being a telepath? The dead man shot back.
His murderer acknowledged the retort with a small nod, and brought the cigarette from his lips to knock some ash off, it was almost finished. The dead man shut his eyes again; he didn't want to watch that sooty cancerous butt being trod into the ground. It reminded him too much of himself. He wished he'd conducted his life differently, if only he'd known this was his future…
"I know a man who can see the future, " his murderer volunteered, "he told me once that all men were doomed to failure, simply because they would never know if their decisions were the right ones to take. I asked him by what criteria he determined which were right and which were wrong."
And what did he say? The dead man wondered weakly.
"He told me the ones he took were right and the ones everyone else took were wrong, but he would not specify further, and that was answer enough to my question."
The dead man could feel his life slipping away through his fingers that still clutched hopelessly at his wound. His breath was shallow and slow. He was glad his murderer had stayed with him so that he wouldn't die alone. Even though he felt as if he was already in a coffin he knew his murderer would stay with him in his mind until the end.
"I get off on death-throes, what can I say?" His murderer said, and the dead man could hear his grin in his words. "And you are alone, whether you die in a crowd or with me, you die alone. It is a particular experience I have no intention of sharing it with you.
The dead man was so afraid, he couldn't breath, or maybe it was the fact he couldn't breath that was making him so afraid. He could hear his murderer stubbing out the cigarette as he rose from his seat at the window. A hand brushed his hair away from his face; the dead man had lost all sensation in his arms and the bottom half of his body long before so he surmised that it was his murderer's hand. He felt as if he was floating and tried to writhe, to breath, but a finger tapped him on his forehead reprovingly as if to say 'behave!'
"Goodbye, goodnight,
I bid you farewell,
If we meet again,
We'll meet in hell." His murderer sang to that old circus tune and the dead man wanted to tell him that those weren't the right words, but then he realised he'd forgotten them.
He could hear footsteps walking casually away from him faintly, and thought 'if we meet again, it'll be too soon!' and died.
"How caring." His murderer muttered, he lit up another cigarette and then, glancing at the body, put it out. "He's got nothing to worry about; it's very unlikely we'll meet seeing as I've just freed him from hell." His murderer stepped over the body and shut the window. His lively face was uncharacteristically expressionless as he looked down at the corpse. The dead man had a smile on his face that just screamed 'I know something you don't know!'
"I can wait," his murderer said dryly.
He stopped in the doorway, on his way out but then, all men are, and glanced back at the body, "Perhaps, hell is empty," he mused, "and all the devils," he ran a hand through his thick orange hair, "are here."
He shrugged, switched off the lights conscientiously, and left the smiling body to its secrets.
By the time he had made it down to the street and stepped out into the wet and the bustling crowds, he had a smile on his face too.
End