In the Hands of an Enemy - prologue
by newtypeshadow (kai)
Disclaimers:
The series and characters of Weiss Kreuz belong to their respective owners, who are now even MORE loaded as a result. Sides, this is fanfiction, meaning it's in no way authorized by anyone remotely important to the series.
inspired by ongoing RP with RA (Rose Angel) in which Ran and Schu are lovers, and Ran knows about Schu's mental capabilities, but has no wish to regain memories blocked by his amnesia.
An: I'm planning on writing more of this, but I think it can still stand alone this way while giving your imagination room to romp and play in the fanfiction fields of Weiss Kreuz. ^_^ (though I have been wrong before...*sigh*)
//telepathic conversation//
**vision**
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Schuldich checked his watch again. Crawford was late meeting him, and it was a cold night with practically no moon. To make things worse, his former "Fearless Leader" had given him an address in what had to be the dingiest, most run down, rat- and psychopath-infested neighborhood in America. Not even homeless people would come here. And aside from that, why the fuck would he want to be in America anyway? Oh, wait...American...riiiight...Red-orange hair whipped violently across the German's cheeks, stinging his numbing face. The arctic-worthy breezes worming their way through his coat and layers of shirts could surely be felt in the darkest corner of hell. Speaking of which - "Where the hell are you?" he muttered. "You're a precog, dammit, and if you knew you were gonna be late, you shoulda told me that..." With a final comment about the general worthlessness of all things American, Schuldich gave up and started walking back to his rental car.
Five steps later, he heard it. Or...felt it. In his mind emerged the familiar tug of Crawford's presence somewhere near him. Schuldich stopped walking and concentrated, opening the link further. Crawford was defiantly close, and he was preoccupied. Fighting, specifically, although the enemy remained unclear to the telepath, and, for all intents and purposes, irrelevant. Schuldich was just about to try looking through Crawford's eyes to get a baring - time would be wasted going through his mind for an address that was probably wrong by this stage in the fight - when a gunshot echoed through the deserted streets. Barely seen under the lone dim, broken street lamp, a rat in a dark alley screeched and skittered out of a fallen garbage can across the street. Schuldich smirked. How cliché could you get? Shoes clicking against the gritty pavement, he ran across the street, simultaneously pulling a loaded gun from his pocket - old habits die hard, and you could never be sure with Crawford what you were getting into. He pressed his back to the soiled brick wall beside the alley and listened. No sounds could be heard inside it. Deciding it was as safe as it would ever be, the telepath clasped the gun firmly in both hands and swung into the open, glaring into the...empty...alley? Where the hell was he? He should have been right there!
The gunshot to his right, followed by the sound of breaking glass and a body hitting the pavement, answered that question. With a groan, the body went still. Schuldich ran up to the form sprawled out on the sidewalk, head hanging off the side and onto the street. A glance assured him it was not his former comrade, and a quick dive into his mind ensured he wouldn't be conscious for at least nine hours. That taken care of, Schuldich stepped cautiously into the abandoned store, which formed one wall of the alley. So this dump had been their final battle arena...
His foot crunched on broken glass when he stepped through the shattered storefront display window, and the German instinctively brought a hand to cover his nose and mouth. The entire place smelled of piss, blood, sex, and booze, and he could almost feel helplessness radiating off the walls, pain settled permanently in cracks of the battered tile floor. Schuldich would have laughed at himself if he hadn't seen Crawford's body on the other side of the room; he thought he'd be used to this smell, even comfortable in it, it had been home for so long, after all...but it seemed one never could get used to it.
Crawford lay huddled against the corner directly across the room from the display window. It was too dark to tell how hurt he was, but Schuldich could smell fresh blood, and some of it was leaking from the American. His eyes adjusted enough in the darkness that he could see the gun near Crawford's hand, and the blood on his shirt, reflecting what light there was. The man's prescription glasses were nowhere to be seen, and his obsidian hair hung in his face like vines of nothing trying to swallow his existance. "Crawford?" The German strode over to him and immediately began checking his injuries. Minor slashes on his legs, a large gash on his thigh - definitely needed stitches...
"Schuldich?" Crawford's voice was unusually soft, not nearly as commanding as it usually was. "Schuldich, what are you doing?" The question ended in a barely stifled scream.
The German slid the blood-soaked shirt he had just finished peeling from Crawford's chest wound around the injured man's shoulder to hold it back. "Shut up, you really screwed yourself over this time. Save your strength." He peered closely at the wound, then slid Crawford down to the floor and applied pressure to it. "I can't see for shit in here, not the way I need to, but this doesn't look fatal. At this point, it's more likely you'll bleed to death than anything else. You shouldn't be walking on that leg, but like hell if I can carry you to the car. It'll heal alright anyway as long as you get to a hospital soon. Like, ten minutes ago soon, but that can't be helped, can it?" Realizing at this point in the one-sided conversation that he was talking for his own benefit, the former assassin-turned-nurse fell silent and concentrated fully on his fingers and the American's mangled body.
Crawford moved his head against the floor, digging it painfully into a piece of broken tile as he did so. He reached up with his left hand, the only hand that worked now, and tried to pry Schuldich's hands off his chest.
"Cut that out, man," the German snapped irritably, carelessly batting the hand away. "I'm trying to think of the best way to get you to the car without fucking you up more than you've already done."
The injured man ignored him. Blood was seeping down the sides of his face from his forehead, heading for his ears. He tilted his head and tried to ignore the wet, slimy feeling of his own bloody black hair slapping into his eyes. "Schuldich," he rasped, "Take him and leave."
Schuldich ignored him.
//I'm dying,// Crawford told him, voice laced with pain Schuldich could feel in his head.
//Don't waste your strength. You'll need it - this is gonna hurt.// The fiery headed telepath removed his hands and ripped the side of Crawford's shirt hanging on his shoulder, tore it into a long strip, lifted the prone man's back, slick with blood, off the floor, and began wrapping it around the wound. It could fit around once with a bit of room, but twice was out of the question. Schuldich shrugged off his coat and removed his outer shirt, folding it into a small square big enough to patch the hole, and tied it to the wound with the strip of Crawford's shirt. He didn't have enough time to tear his shirt to pieces and make a good field wrap out of his shirt, so it would have to do this way. The precog convulsed when the knot tightened, then went limp. Schuldich picked him up carefully and began walking outside, noting the ease with which he picked up the American with a frown and a flicker of worry; Crawford should have felt much heavier, especially to someone as out of shape as himself. //I'll fix your leg in the car. If I'm in a good mood.//
Crawford stopped him over the body of his enemy. //Take him.//
//No.// Schuldich struggled to hold on to his leader, who, despite his growing weakness, still tried to worm his way out of his grasp. //Stop that.//
//Leave me here, and take him.// The American received a glare and felt his savior tense to start walking again. //I saw myself die here. You need to take him with you and leave me here.// Skepticism. Crawford raised a bloody hand and tugged the former-assassin's collar, smearing a bloody handprint on the once pristine silk shirt. //Put me down. Look for yourself.//
An invitation into Crawford's head? Schuldich almost dropped him in the initial surprise. Sadly enough, he couldn't waste any more time here. Crawford would die if he did that. Schuldich's footsteps echoed on the empty street as he resumed walking to his car. He tried to ignore the smell of death emanating from Crawford, the taint of it in his mind whenever he spoke. Crawford would die there, within minutes. Schuldich hadn't been an assassin for so many years without learning to recognize its insatiable, deep molasses tug in mind as well as body. His steps slowed, and he turned back to look at the body on the sidewalk. A rat was sniffing hungrily a few feet from its foot. Letting out a defeated sigh, the telepath rested his former leader against his chest, head nestled in the crook of his neck, and bowed his head so their foreheads met. A last curious, pained look into the American's dimming golden brown eyes, and Schuldich was diving into his mind.
**silver flash - a sword swinging, arcing closer, trail of light in the darkness, burning into his eyes**
**no time to dodge - impact, blood, pain, blood, red**
**red hair covering a bloody face fallen in a gutter; tarnished sword slowly dripping crimson on the sidewalk, owner lying in a circle of broken glass**
**glasses broken, gone; gun empty, too far away**
** life seeping away, orange, Schuldich's face, indecipherable words, death**
**happiness: Schuldich and Ran laughing over a well lit kitchen table, a warm cup of coffee clasped in each man's hands**
**Germany, Ran's face impassive but for bright violet eyes, flicking everywhere at once to try to take everything in and apply it to memory; Schuldich in front of him pointing out a sign and turning to explain its meaning; the redhead pulling him to the side and clasping his hands from behind, wrapping his arms around Schuldich's body as a kid on a bike careens past, nearly crashing into someone behind them; their left hands intertwined, matching rings glittering in the light**
Schuldich took an involuntary step back as the images reeled in his head, and he almost dropped his charge for the second time that night. He would be happy. Happy...with...Weiß? The enemy? "Fujimiya Ran?" The man Crawford had just fought to his own demise, someone they'd all thought insignificant in their first encounters, the man lying twisted with his face in the gutter. No. He shook his head.
Crawford shivered; the wind was getting to him; Schuldich had forgotten it. //He is no longer your enemy. You are not Schwarz anymore.// Even his mental voice was fading.
"He is still your enemy, and I consider him mine."
//It's...not personal. I once thought it was. I once needed...someone to hate...// Crawford shuddered once more, and Schuldich put him down. The American immediately tried to curl into a ball, and couldn't. His leg hung limply out, and his chest wound was bleeding profusely around the bandage. //Please, Schuldich. Take him...It's my last request.//
"That's not fair," Schuldich growled, switching back to verbal communication.
//You deserve happiness, and you will have it...// Crawford's mental voice sounded strong for a moment, like it used to sound when he was head of Schwarz and Schuldich had put all faith in him because it had somehow brought him safely out of every ordeal. This was the voice Schuldich trusted. //Take him now. Leave me in peace.//
Schuldich glared at him even as his eyes began to burn and the wind tore at him viciously like the demons in his soul. He could feel the lifeline inside Crawford's mind shredding more completely with each breeze, larger and large pieces dancing away from him with each silent attack of the wind on his defenseless body.
"Sometimes...happiness...comes only in the hands of an enemy..." The American laughed bitterly at some private joke this represented, and blood spattered onto the pavement. He suddenly balled up completely and coughed. He didn't stop coughing. A gurgling sound rose from his throat, and his breathing caught, held, stopped.
The street lamp had gone out and the wind died down by the time Schuldich blinked himself out of his stupor and saw Crawford's dead body with his mask of bitter, playful indifference back in place. With a grumble, he got up and walked over to the fallen man on the sidewalk - Fujimiya Ran, if the vision held true, which it did - and picked him up roughly. A moan escaped the bloody, cracked lips of the redhead when he did so, but Schuldich didn't care. He stumbled back to the rental car, muscles screaming at him to get some exercise, and dumped Ran into the front seat. Habit dictated that he leave no damning evidence behind, so he ran back to the assassin's fallen sword and sheath and picked them up, mentally complaining about Ran's weight all the while, and threw the dirty, sheathed weapon into the seat between the redhead's legs. Schuldich was in no mood to play nice, happiness shit or not. Ran could deal with it. Crawford was dead. Speaking of whom...
Schuldich walked around the car and approached his dead leader...former, whatever...A quick decision had him cradling the corpse with his bloody arms and placing the soulless shell gently on the back seat, buckling it in so it wouldn't fall should he make any turns or sudden stops. Fuck the rental car, he had the money to replace it, and the option of burning the damning bloody seats and hoping the entire bloody memory went down with it was looking better and better. The telepath slid into the driver's seat and started the car. After a brief mental battle between his spiteful nature and his better judgment, he buckled Ran's seatbelt, pushed the redhead's seat back, and started driving.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Brad Crawford was cremated, as per his will, and his remains were placed under the care of Schuldich, along with most of his possessions and money via Estet's remaining channels. Naoe Nagi and Schuldich were the only non-family members in the handful of oblivious, apathetic people who appeared at the brief funeral, as well as the only ones who knew of Crawford's abilities, the true nature of Rosenkrauz, and the deceased's life following his schooling there.
The two former Schwarz members continue to communicate, though only when necessary, keeping loose tabs on one another, and no more. Farfarello disappeared immediately following the resignations of Naoe Nagi and Schuldich from Schwarz, and has yet to be found.
Schuldich has taken up residence in America. His roommate lives under a false name; his true identity is undetermined.
Fujimiya Aya, the only remaining member of Weiß, disappeared the night of Brad Crawford's death. Scattered sightings confirm he is alive, but his whereabouts remain unknown. Kritiker is still searching intensely for their best agent.
by newtypeshadow (kai)
Disclaimers:
The series and characters of Weiss Kreuz belong to their respective owners, who are now even MORE loaded as a result. Sides, this is fanfiction, meaning it's in no way authorized by anyone remotely important to the series.
inspired by ongoing RP with RA (Rose Angel) in which Ran and Schu are lovers, and Ran knows about Schu's mental capabilities, but has no wish to regain memories blocked by his amnesia.
An: I'm planning on writing more of this, but I think it can still stand alone this way while giving your imagination room to romp and play in the fanfiction fields of Weiss Kreuz. ^_^ (though I have been wrong before...*sigh*)
//telepathic conversation//
**vision**
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Schuldich checked his watch again. Crawford was late meeting him, and it was a cold night with practically no moon. To make things worse, his former "Fearless Leader" had given him an address in what had to be the dingiest, most run down, rat- and psychopath-infested neighborhood in America. Not even homeless people would come here. And aside from that, why the fuck would he want to be in America anyway? Oh, wait...American...riiiight...Red-orange hair whipped violently across the German's cheeks, stinging his numbing face. The arctic-worthy breezes worming their way through his coat and layers of shirts could surely be felt in the darkest corner of hell. Speaking of which - "Where the hell are you?" he muttered. "You're a precog, dammit, and if you knew you were gonna be late, you shoulda told me that..." With a final comment about the general worthlessness of all things American, Schuldich gave up and started walking back to his rental car.
Five steps later, he heard it. Or...felt it. In his mind emerged the familiar tug of Crawford's presence somewhere near him. Schuldich stopped walking and concentrated, opening the link further. Crawford was defiantly close, and he was preoccupied. Fighting, specifically, although the enemy remained unclear to the telepath, and, for all intents and purposes, irrelevant. Schuldich was just about to try looking through Crawford's eyes to get a baring - time would be wasted going through his mind for an address that was probably wrong by this stage in the fight - when a gunshot echoed through the deserted streets. Barely seen under the lone dim, broken street lamp, a rat in a dark alley screeched and skittered out of a fallen garbage can across the street. Schuldich smirked. How cliché could you get? Shoes clicking against the gritty pavement, he ran across the street, simultaneously pulling a loaded gun from his pocket - old habits die hard, and you could never be sure with Crawford what you were getting into. He pressed his back to the soiled brick wall beside the alley and listened. No sounds could be heard inside it. Deciding it was as safe as it would ever be, the telepath clasped the gun firmly in both hands and swung into the open, glaring into the...empty...alley? Where the hell was he? He should have been right there!
The gunshot to his right, followed by the sound of breaking glass and a body hitting the pavement, answered that question. With a groan, the body went still. Schuldich ran up to the form sprawled out on the sidewalk, head hanging off the side and onto the street. A glance assured him it was not his former comrade, and a quick dive into his mind ensured he wouldn't be conscious for at least nine hours. That taken care of, Schuldich stepped cautiously into the abandoned store, which formed one wall of the alley. So this dump had been their final battle arena...
His foot crunched on broken glass when he stepped through the shattered storefront display window, and the German instinctively brought a hand to cover his nose and mouth. The entire place smelled of piss, blood, sex, and booze, and he could almost feel helplessness radiating off the walls, pain settled permanently in cracks of the battered tile floor. Schuldich would have laughed at himself if he hadn't seen Crawford's body on the other side of the room; he thought he'd be used to this smell, even comfortable in it, it had been home for so long, after all...but it seemed one never could get used to it.
Crawford lay huddled against the corner directly across the room from the display window. It was too dark to tell how hurt he was, but Schuldich could smell fresh blood, and some of it was leaking from the American. His eyes adjusted enough in the darkness that he could see the gun near Crawford's hand, and the blood on his shirt, reflecting what light there was. The man's prescription glasses were nowhere to be seen, and his obsidian hair hung in his face like vines of nothing trying to swallow his existance. "Crawford?" The German strode over to him and immediately began checking his injuries. Minor slashes on his legs, a large gash on his thigh - definitely needed stitches...
"Schuldich?" Crawford's voice was unusually soft, not nearly as commanding as it usually was. "Schuldich, what are you doing?" The question ended in a barely stifled scream.
The German slid the blood-soaked shirt he had just finished peeling from Crawford's chest wound around the injured man's shoulder to hold it back. "Shut up, you really screwed yourself over this time. Save your strength." He peered closely at the wound, then slid Crawford down to the floor and applied pressure to it. "I can't see for shit in here, not the way I need to, but this doesn't look fatal. At this point, it's more likely you'll bleed to death than anything else. You shouldn't be walking on that leg, but like hell if I can carry you to the car. It'll heal alright anyway as long as you get to a hospital soon. Like, ten minutes ago soon, but that can't be helped, can it?" Realizing at this point in the one-sided conversation that he was talking for his own benefit, the former assassin-turned-nurse fell silent and concentrated fully on his fingers and the American's mangled body.
Crawford moved his head against the floor, digging it painfully into a piece of broken tile as he did so. He reached up with his left hand, the only hand that worked now, and tried to pry Schuldich's hands off his chest.
"Cut that out, man," the German snapped irritably, carelessly batting the hand away. "I'm trying to think of the best way to get you to the car without fucking you up more than you've already done."
The injured man ignored him. Blood was seeping down the sides of his face from his forehead, heading for his ears. He tilted his head and tried to ignore the wet, slimy feeling of his own bloody black hair slapping into his eyes. "Schuldich," he rasped, "Take him and leave."
Schuldich ignored him.
//I'm dying,// Crawford told him, voice laced with pain Schuldich could feel in his head.
//Don't waste your strength. You'll need it - this is gonna hurt.// The fiery headed telepath removed his hands and ripped the side of Crawford's shirt hanging on his shoulder, tore it into a long strip, lifted the prone man's back, slick with blood, off the floor, and began wrapping it around the wound. It could fit around once with a bit of room, but twice was out of the question. Schuldich shrugged off his coat and removed his outer shirt, folding it into a small square big enough to patch the hole, and tied it to the wound with the strip of Crawford's shirt. He didn't have enough time to tear his shirt to pieces and make a good field wrap out of his shirt, so it would have to do this way. The precog convulsed when the knot tightened, then went limp. Schuldich picked him up carefully and began walking outside, noting the ease with which he picked up the American with a frown and a flicker of worry; Crawford should have felt much heavier, especially to someone as out of shape as himself. //I'll fix your leg in the car. If I'm in a good mood.//
Crawford stopped him over the body of his enemy. //Take him.//
//No.// Schuldich struggled to hold on to his leader, who, despite his growing weakness, still tried to worm his way out of his grasp. //Stop that.//
//Leave me here, and take him.// The American received a glare and felt his savior tense to start walking again. //I saw myself die here. You need to take him with you and leave me here.// Skepticism. Crawford raised a bloody hand and tugged the former-assassin's collar, smearing a bloody handprint on the once pristine silk shirt. //Put me down. Look for yourself.//
An invitation into Crawford's head? Schuldich almost dropped him in the initial surprise. Sadly enough, he couldn't waste any more time here. Crawford would die if he did that. Schuldich's footsteps echoed on the empty street as he resumed walking to his car. He tried to ignore the smell of death emanating from Crawford, the taint of it in his mind whenever he spoke. Crawford would die there, within minutes. Schuldich hadn't been an assassin for so many years without learning to recognize its insatiable, deep molasses tug in mind as well as body. His steps slowed, and he turned back to look at the body on the sidewalk. A rat was sniffing hungrily a few feet from its foot. Letting out a defeated sigh, the telepath rested his former leader against his chest, head nestled in the crook of his neck, and bowed his head so their foreheads met. A last curious, pained look into the American's dimming golden brown eyes, and Schuldich was diving into his mind.
**silver flash - a sword swinging, arcing closer, trail of light in the darkness, burning into his eyes**
**no time to dodge - impact, blood, pain, blood, red**
**red hair covering a bloody face fallen in a gutter; tarnished sword slowly dripping crimson on the sidewalk, owner lying in a circle of broken glass**
**glasses broken, gone; gun empty, too far away**
** life seeping away, orange, Schuldich's face, indecipherable words, death**
**happiness: Schuldich and Ran laughing over a well lit kitchen table, a warm cup of coffee clasped in each man's hands**
**Germany, Ran's face impassive but for bright violet eyes, flicking everywhere at once to try to take everything in and apply it to memory; Schuldich in front of him pointing out a sign and turning to explain its meaning; the redhead pulling him to the side and clasping his hands from behind, wrapping his arms around Schuldich's body as a kid on a bike careens past, nearly crashing into someone behind them; their left hands intertwined, matching rings glittering in the light**
Schuldich took an involuntary step back as the images reeled in his head, and he almost dropped his charge for the second time that night. He would be happy. Happy...with...Weiß? The enemy? "Fujimiya Ran?" The man Crawford had just fought to his own demise, someone they'd all thought insignificant in their first encounters, the man lying twisted with his face in the gutter. No. He shook his head.
Crawford shivered; the wind was getting to him; Schuldich had forgotten it. //He is no longer your enemy. You are not Schwarz anymore.// Even his mental voice was fading.
"He is still your enemy, and I consider him mine."
//It's...not personal. I once thought it was. I once needed...someone to hate...// Crawford shuddered once more, and Schuldich put him down. The American immediately tried to curl into a ball, and couldn't. His leg hung limply out, and his chest wound was bleeding profusely around the bandage. //Please, Schuldich. Take him...It's my last request.//
"That's not fair," Schuldich growled, switching back to verbal communication.
//You deserve happiness, and you will have it...// Crawford's mental voice sounded strong for a moment, like it used to sound when he was head of Schwarz and Schuldich had put all faith in him because it had somehow brought him safely out of every ordeal. This was the voice Schuldich trusted. //Take him now. Leave me in peace.//
Schuldich glared at him even as his eyes began to burn and the wind tore at him viciously like the demons in his soul. He could feel the lifeline inside Crawford's mind shredding more completely with each breeze, larger and large pieces dancing away from him with each silent attack of the wind on his defenseless body.
"Sometimes...happiness...comes only in the hands of an enemy..." The American laughed bitterly at some private joke this represented, and blood spattered onto the pavement. He suddenly balled up completely and coughed. He didn't stop coughing. A gurgling sound rose from his throat, and his breathing caught, held, stopped.
The street lamp had gone out and the wind died down by the time Schuldich blinked himself out of his stupor and saw Crawford's dead body with his mask of bitter, playful indifference back in place. With a grumble, he got up and walked over to the fallen man on the sidewalk - Fujimiya Ran, if the vision held true, which it did - and picked him up roughly. A moan escaped the bloody, cracked lips of the redhead when he did so, but Schuldich didn't care. He stumbled back to the rental car, muscles screaming at him to get some exercise, and dumped Ran into the front seat. Habit dictated that he leave no damning evidence behind, so he ran back to the assassin's fallen sword and sheath and picked them up, mentally complaining about Ran's weight all the while, and threw the dirty, sheathed weapon into the seat between the redhead's legs. Schuldich was in no mood to play nice, happiness shit or not. Ran could deal with it. Crawford was dead. Speaking of whom...
Schuldich walked around the car and approached his dead leader...former, whatever...A quick decision had him cradling the corpse with his bloody arms and placing the soulless shell gently on the back seat, buckling it in so it wouldn't fall should he make any turns or sudden stops. Fuck the rental car, he had the money to replace it, and the option of burning the damning bloody seats and hoping the entire bloody memory went down with it was looking better and better. The telepath slid into the driver's seat and started the car. After a brief mental battle between his spiteful nature and his better judgment, he buckled Ran's seatbelt, pushed the redhead's seat back, and started driving.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Brad Crawford was cremated, as per his will, and his remains were placed under the care of Schuldich, along with most of his possessions and money via Estet's remaining channels. Naoe Nagi and Schuldich were the only non-family members in the handful of oblivious, apathetic people who appeared at the brief funeral, as well as the only ones who knew of Crawford's abilities, the true nature of Rosenkrauz, and the deceased's life following his schooling there.
The two former Schwarz members continue to communicate, though only when necessary, keeping loose tabs on one another, and no more. Farfarello disappeared immediately following the resignations of Naoe Nagi and Schuldich from Schwarz, and has yet to be found.
Schuldich has taken up residence in America. His roommate lives under a false name; his true identity is undetermined.
Fujimiya Aya, the only remaining member of Weiß, disappeared the night of Brad Crawford's death. Scattered sightings confirm he is alive, but his whereabouts remain unknown. Kritiker is still searching intensely for their best agent.