Ciao everybody!
I'm just back from south Italy, and as promised, here's the new chapter! :D
However, I also have to tell you all that I'm leaving again, so... *sad face* no uploads again for a while... (London, here I come! 8D)
I promise that once september begins, I'll be more regular, updating weekly like I did with Nightmare Apocalypse! *nod nod*
Anyway, this being said, here's the chapter! :D
Please sit back, und ENJOY.
Antonio wandered around the outskirts of the city, that morning. He didn't have any plan in mind, to be honest, he just wanted to know what Vargas had meant with 'party', that night.
But somehow, he couldn't found any newspaper around, and the Sicilians refused to talk to him.
Spending fifteen minutes with the mafia Boss had already marked him as undesirable, apparently.
He probably had an enormous red 'X' on his forehead that everybody knew about.
He sighed, stuffing his hands deeply in his pockets. He looked up at the sun. Wow, he had wasted the whole morning trying to find a damn newspaper: it was half past noon already.
Antonio's eyes widened, however, when he walked into an apparently random street.
Apparently.
Because there were three police cars, one ambulance and a small crowd, gathered around a single spot. The Spaniard slowly edged nearer, suddenly not really knowing if he wanted to know. But this was probably what he had set out to find in the first place, he could not back down now, could he?
This was the… the 'party' Italy had been talking about.
Yet, something bugged him. Again. The reaction of the Italian that evening seemed so unjustified. He had sounded sarcastic, about the 'party'. As if he hadn't even wanted to be there.
Antonio shrugged. It was probably only his impression. Why wouldn't a psychopathic killer want to be here? To do…whatever happened.
As soon as Antonio got nearer to the 'do not cross' lines, he recoiled instinctively at the sight.
It looked as if some crazy artist had wanted to re-paint the wall of the building in dark red, along with the sidewalk. The blood however had clotted, and thus had turned black. Many bullet holes marred the side of the building, and some pieces of wall had crumbled.
Two men were carrying a dead body into the ambulance, the Spaniard saw a white hand dangling from under the white sheet covering the corpse. But Antonio knew that that amount of blood must have come from at least four people, maybe more.
He grimaced, wrinkling his nose.
So this had been the 'party'. How… how horrible. He really had no other words to describe such a massacre.
"Alright people, go home, there's nothing more to see here!" A policeman suddenly started waving his arms around as the doors of the ambulance were shut. "Go home!" He continued, talking in Italian.
Antonio didn't know what to do. Should he ask questions to the police? So he could discover what had happened? Well, it didn't look that complicated, to be honest. It had probably been a score that needed to be settled. But it wouldn't hurt to ask…
He took a few steps closer to the policeman. He was ready to ask a question, when the policeman's dark eyes widened as he looked at something behind Antonio. The Spaniard blinked, confused.
"Did you come to enjoy the show, mister Vargas?" the policeman asked, glacial.
A voice Antonio knew all too well answered from behind him. "…Not really. I was just… curious. What happened?"
The policeman scowled. "…No details released to the public, mister Vargas. Now leave, we have to clean the place up."
Antonio turned to look at the person behind him, even if he already knew who it was.
Italy Vargas stood with his back straight, arms folded over his chest. In his mouth there was the toothpick again. As soon as the Spaniard had turned around, Vargas recognized him.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" He asked, frowning, as he stepped back from the crime scene.
Antonio shrugged. "I…I don't know, I was just making a stroll when I ran into this. I wonder what happened… how horrible, so much blood…" He added, wanting to get a reaction out of the Mafioso.
No such thing. Italy's face remained straight. Well, he was scowling while staring at the crime scene, but that was his normal face when he was in his 'offensive' mood, apparently.
So Antonio was kind of surprised when he actually answered him.
"Yes, it is fucking sick."
The Spaniard blinked, not expecting that. Italy admitted himself that what he had done was sick? He quickly composed himself though. It was probably only the act to appear 'normal' to the Spaniard.
Antonio nodded. "Yeah…"
He took a moment to analyze the man. His suit didn't have a single wrinkle or tugged thread, it looked as if he were ready for a wedding. The only thing that gave him away slightly was the couple of slightly darker rings under his eyes.
"Creepface, you're staring at me again." Vargas scowled.
Antonio blinked again. "Whoa, sorry! It's just… I think my stomach is a little queasy…" he admitted. The metallic smell of blood was still lingering in the air, in spite of the fact that the massacre had been probably perpetrated during the night. And he hated that smell, it couldn't remind you of good things, obviously.
"…Then don't fucking go look at a crime scene, idiot. You do look paler than a damn mozzarella. Go and drink some water, there's a fountain over there." Italy grumbled, pointing. Antonio thought it might be a good idea, he really didn't feel that good around blood. It made him nauseous. At least it had clotted up, so it had lost its original colour. Even if he was a detective, and so saw blood almost on a daily basis, he hadn't gotten used to it. At all. He probably never would.
He curtly nodded, and dragged his feet to the small cylinder by the sidewalk, and cupped his hands to get some fresh water. He splashed some onto his sweated face, and then got some more to drink. When he was finished, he straightened up and wiped his eyes from the water. He looked around, searching for the Mafioso.
But he had disappeared into thin air, just like smoke.
A single, muttered curse escaped his lips.
"Joder."
He wandered around Palermo looking for the Italian the whole afternoon, but couldn't find him anywhere. Maybe he was with Ludwig. Hmm, probably. He hoped the German would be able to cope with the 'offensive' mood of Italy. Or maybe he would switch moods just in between. He briefly wondered what could be the trigger of his mood swings. He had heard of magicians, who snapped fingers or whistled after they had hypnotized somebody. It didn't seem likely, however… He chewed the inside of his cheek.
Antonio returned to the crime scene shortly after that. Until the sunset, he tried gathering clues about what had happened at the 'party', because he still couldn't find a newspaper anywhere, or a TV tuned right or even a radio.
Slowly but steadily, he learned what had happened.
At least four people had died in that street, killed with machineguns. Many machineguns, judging from the amount of holes in the wall of that building. He had also noticed that the pool of black blood had been spread a little on the dark grey asphalt, as if a wheel had driven through it. Probably a vehicle. Even more probably, the Rolls Royce Vargas had jumped in, that evening. He had seen also a few bloody footprints leaving the crime scene, but the trail soon stopped around a corner. The policemen had looked for witnesses, and remained gathered around the footprints for a long time. However, they couldn't find out who had left them. Not one of the four victims, obviously, because their bodies had been found in the middle of the pool of blood. Maybe it had been a random person that had walked there. The police and Antonio found it tempting and exciting to think it could have been a survivor, but it was highly improbable. If Vargas had to kill, he would never leave survivors. The mafia never forgave or forgot anybody.
Whoever those footprints belonged to, he was gone and would never talk with the police. The people of Palermo never cooperated with the officers, because in most cases it would mean death. In other cases it meant a beating, public humiliation, kneecapping, your car being destroyed, or the cutting of ears or noses, or even fingers. In other cases it meant your wife or children being kidnapped, until you fulfilled whatever the mafia asked you to do or until you paid the blackmailers.
He grimaced. He had thought that maybe, just maybe, Vargas could not have been that psychopathic killer. That maybe it had all been a misunderstanding. That perhaps he was good.
That very small human hope had always made part of him when he caught criminals. He didn't think of criminals as something different from him. Quite the contrary, he himself had not been… exactly a model citizen, for a while, before he became a detective. Long story. Anyway, he knew criminals quite well, and he knew that they were just as human as he was.
Vargas was certainly lonely, if he looked for the company of Ludwig. But if Italy had committed such a brutal murder, and apparently he did so almost every week, his hopes of maybe redeeming the man sank lower than his feet.
He sighed, letting his head hang. Once more, he felt the French gun pressing under his arm. As if calling for him.
He smiled faintly, remembering his Parisian friend that had gifted him that weapon. He wondered how he was doing at the moment. How were things going in France? His friend, Francis, owned a restaurant somewhere in Paris. Whenever he wasn't cooking or managing the restaurant, he would be constantly in flirt-mode. And with anyone. Francis flirted with women, ladies, teen girls, men, boys, anyone. And he constantly justified himself saying that he had too much 'amour' in him, and that he had to share it with everybody, or else he'd explode. And whenever he said this, he would sigh, clutching dramatically his heart, and do as if he had shed a tear. Of course, he wouldn't force anybody. He was simply very handsome, and had especially refined flirting skills that almost nobody could resist. Antonio would simply laugh every time he saw him in action, Francis was incorrigible. In that exact moment, he was probably flirting with someone, or having a romantic drink. Actually, he was most probably already in bed with someone.
Antonio snapped back to reality when someone grabbed his shoulder and pulled him sideways into an alley.
He reacted immediately to the stranger, his right hand going for the gun, but another hand stopped him by grabbing his wrist. The Spaniard was about to lash out at the assailant, but a hushed voice made him halt.
"Fermo, Carriedo! Stop! It's me, Delisi, the Lieutenant!"
Antonio immediately unfolded his fingers that he had readied into a punch. He barely recognized the young face of the Captain's subordinate in the darkness of the alley. "Huh? The Lieutenant?"
Delisi nodded quickly. "Yes! You have to follow me!" he whispered urgently. He grabbed the Spaniard's elbow and started dragging him through the alleys.
"Hey, hey, hey, wait a second! What happened?" Antonio asked, surprised. Weren't they supposed not to make contact, ever?
"Beilschmidt and Vargas are in the hospital right now!" The Lieutenant panted.
"What?!"
Everything else was forgotten, as they hurried to the hospital.
Ludwig sat in a chair just outside Italy's hospital room. The Italian had been immediately taken to surgery, the bullet had hit his abdomen and hadn't come out.
The German's elbows were resting on his knees, while he was staring at his intertwined fingers.
Thoughts were rampaging in his head like a hurricane. He felt like a small boat during a storm in the ocean, and he was slowly but steadily spiralling down in a whirlpool. Actually, a maelstrom.
Italy Vargas had been shot.
Italy Vargas had been shot because he had shoved him out of the way.
Italy Vargas had taken the bullet destined for him.
What the hell…?
What the hell?!
It didn't make any sense!
Ludwig sighed, tiredly rubbing his eyes with his palms. Why on earth would the mafia Boss shove him out of the way?
Actually, Ludwig saw a reason to it all, but… it didn't make sense. Like all the rest.
Italy Vargas had wanted to protect him. Like a friend. He had shoved away the person he -apparently- cared for and taken the bullet instead of him.
That was something that happened in those predictable American movies. It didn't happen in real life! People cared too much for themselves to be ready and sacrifice themselves for others. People were too selfish. Only saints could do such a thing. Not criminals. And especially not a mafia Boss.
Ludwig sunk his fingers in his blond hair. It was all a mess, the locks weren't slicked back anymore, so blond bangs hung almost in front of his eyes.
He was so confused. This had never happened to him, so he felt lost. Without any prior knowledge to hang on to. He felt like he did on the first days of his career, with his first few criminals. He felt exposed, weak, unarmed… lost.
Because he was starting to feel himself some kind of attachment to the Italian. That illogical part of him was starting to care for the man. It had never happened to him before. Criminals were criminals, they were not people. Even if he knew that the world wasn't black and white, but a wide scale of greys. Actually, he knew it all to well, thanks to his broth-
Don't think about that, he ordered to himself, shaking his head furiously.
Still, he… he was starting to care for that criminal. This illogical feeling he couldn't control.
And he had to fight it.
…Did he want to fight it?
It didn't matter if he wanted or not, he had to. He had to remind himself that he was a detective, and that Italy Vargas was a mentally unstable criminal. And not just any criminal.
A criminal that has taken a bullet for you, that illogical part of him whispered, against his normal train of thought. The German's blue eyes landed on the dark blood stain on his grey suit.
The detectives were the hunters, the criminals were the prey. Not a harmless prey, mind you. A criminal was actually a bloodthirsty and dangerous prey, a lion. And everyone knew that no hunter could ever befriend a lion.
It was simply against nature.
He has taken that bullet for you, that voice in his mind whispered again. A lion could befriend a hunter, if the hunter put down the gun.
But not if the lion had killed dozens of villagers.
He has taken that bullet for you, the voice repeated once more, stubborn.
Ludwig groaned, baring his teeth and closing his eyes so he wouldn't see the blood stain.
"Damn it all."
Even his own damn mind was against him.
After an hour or so, Italy left the surgery room. He was carried to a normal hospital room, where he was laid down on a bed, but in an almost sitting position. Ludwig knew that otherwise the anaesthetic would get to his head and give the Italian a migraine. Vargas' eyes were closed, the total anaesthesia would last somewhere around the six or seven hours.
Nobody was permitted to enter his room, for the first few hours. Not even Ludwig. Not that he wanted to, of course…!
Even so, when Captain Kirkland walked into the hallway with three other officers, he found the blond sitting just outside the Italian's door.
The British Captain didn't have exceptionally long legs, but in no time he was in front of the German, together with his men. He had to remember their act. He only hoped the blond would remember it as well.
"Good evening, Beilschmidt." He said, glacial.
Ludwig's head snapped up, blue eyes finding green ones. The blue pair blinked, understanding.
"Excuse me, do I know you?" The deep voice of the German replied.
Arthur Kirkland internally sighed out of relief.
"No. But I know you." He paused. "Vargas is in here."
It wasn't a question, it was a statement.
"Yes. Nobody is permitted to enter, not even you, I'm afraid." Ludwig said sarcastically, glancing at the other three nervous policemen. Their hands were fiddling with their pockets, fingertips centimetres away from their guns. "I don't think he'd be able to answer to any of your questions, mister important police officer. He'll be knocked-out for a while." He continued.
Kirkland almost wanted to smile. Ludwig was a good actor, he had to admit it. And he really looked intimidating. Even if he was sitting down, his icy glare made you somehow feel as if he were towering over you.
"That means I'll have to settle with one of the medics, I'm afraid." Arthur smiled sweetly.
Ludwig didn't answer, and followed the Captain with his eyes as he walked with his men down the corridor to look for a medic.
Many thoughts were rampaging through the Brit's head. The man that had shot Vargas had been identified as a survivor of the shootout of the night before. So five people were supposed to die that night. Arthur didn't know the motive behind their murder. Those five seemed simply five random people, he couldn't find anything that connected them, beside the fact that apparently they had all been friends. They weren't from another mafia, or even important people. Also how the fifth man had managed to survive was a mystery for him. Kirkland felt somehow a little triumphant: Vargas had made a mistake, he had left a survivor! It was also kind of incredible that the man had been able to walk through the alleys with at least four bullets in his body, for a whole day, after also having been kneecapped. The man had had a gun, and only one purpose in his mind: find Vargas and make him pay. So of course he wouldn't stop by a police officer and tell him what happened. Or go to a hospital, like any sane person would have done.
Normally, Kirkland would have been overjoyed. Finally, a survivor! Even if he had died, it could mean that Vargas was getting sloppy. And that man had shot that bloody mafia bastard!
But detective Beilschmidt had been with the Italian, and had reacted to the unknown danger by shooting the man, giving the final blow. Arthur didn't blame him, the man could have wounded a lot of innocents with his brittle state of mind and body. But he was kind of disappointed to have lost a potential witness that could have landed Vargas in jail. And where the hell had Vargas' gorillas been? Normally, the Mafioso would be surrounded by undercover henchmen and bodyguards, so that they could intervene whenever something happened. Arthur frowned. Something didn't quite add up. Indeed, where had his henchmen been?
Anyway, the survivor was dead now. But before he died, he had aimed at Beilschmidt, who had stood between Vargas and him. He had been in the way.
And so, the strangest thing had happened.
Vargas had shoved Beilschmidt aside, and taken the bullet instead.
Arthur almost couldn't believe it when Delisi told him what had happened. But indeed, Italy Vargas was in the hospital, in surgery because of a bullet wound.
Whatever Beilschmidt and Carriedo were planning, it had worked. Something was changing. Vargas had never done such a thing before. He had never exposed himself so much.
He had sent Delisi to find Carriedo and bring him to the hospital, because there was the possibility that also Beilschmidt had been wounded. However, like he had seen, the German was in top shape. Too bad for the grey suit, though. Blood stains were difficult to wash out of clothes. Anyway, even if Beilschmidt was well, Delisi was still out there looking for Carriedo. Any moment now they both would return.
The British Captain finally found the medic who could tell him the Italian's conditions.
"Hmm, he was never in life danger, the wound isn't too nasty. He has taken the bullet not from the front, but a little sideways, around the left hip. It didn't come out, so we had to open him up and extract the piece of lead. Lucky for him, it didn't hit the kidneys, or else he'd be dying right now. The bullet only hit the intestines." The medic said, looking at his note pad. "So, we opened up his abdomen and extracted the bullet. Then we sewed the damaged intestines up again, put a soluble plaster and then stitched up his abdomen. We also closed up the bullet hole in his side. The anaesthesia will last somewhere around the six hours, and he won't be able to move from that bed for at least twenty-four hours. Until then, he won't be permitted to eat. After that, he can be moved to a chair and such, but he'll be able to walk properly already after four or five days."
The Captain nodded, as he received the information.
"I'll wait until the morning, so I can talk with Vargas. I need to ask him questions."
The medic's brows furrowed. "Technically, only family and close friends are allowed to see him, especially after he's just woken up…" the British Captain shot him a glare. "…But seeing your identity, and the one of the patient I'll obviously make an exception!" The medic quickly added.
Arthur and his three men slowly returned back to Vargas' room.
"Sir?" one of his men asked, before they walked around a corner.
"Yes?"
"I'm kind of confused. I'm sure you want to interrogate him like the… the man he is, but in this case…" his subordinate hesitated.
"Continue, I'm listening." Arthur said.
The policeman glanced sideways at the German, sitting far away from them. "…In this case, technically, he is the victim, sir."
The Captain stopped dead on his tracks. His subordinate was right.
Arthur finished for his man. "…Even if we all know the man was someone that survived the shootout, which was organized by Vargas himself, we cannot prove it. Not anymore, at least, now that the shooter is dead. So indeed… Vargas is just a victim."
"That's what I'm saying, sir. And that kraut shot out of self-defence."
The Brit scowled. "Bloody hell. You're right. But that doesn't change the fact that I will ask him questions. And you three will guard the corridor." He ordered to the men. "No one looking suspicious must come through, only medics and nurses. There are other patients as well, here, so of course people will walk around this wing. So make sure that they really are medics and nurses, or even patients. I don't care if they protest, check thoroughly."
The men nodded in unison, "Yessir," and went to their assigned places.
Kirkland slowly walked towards Vargas' room, and sat some meters beside Ludwig. Arthur glanced around to make sure no one was listening, and then, without looking at him, he started talking to the blond.
"So, Beilschmidt. What the hell are you doing?"
The German was staring at his hands. "What do you mean?"
"You know very well what I mean. You're playing as Vargas' new damn best buddy." Arthur whispered snarling.
Ludwig did not answer, and kept staring at his hands.
"I won't meddle with your methods, or Carriedo's. I trust both your judgement and experience on this. And I don't want to know what you're both planning. But let me tell you, the game you are playing is dangerous. You are, quite literally, toying with fire. Do not burn your fingers, Beilschmidt, because that means the end for you." Arthur continued.
The German slowly nodded. "I know that. You don't have to lecture me like a worried mother." He glared at the Brit.
"Good. I'm simply warning you both. I know you have much more experience than I do with criminals, I know your fame precedes you both. It's just… please don't get burned, Beilschmidt." The Captain stared back at the German. Ludwig looked into the Brit's green eyes and saw the guilt of his two men, killed by the mafia. As well as all the other victims. Drowned, shot, stabbed, beaten…
"I'll be sure to wear fireproof gloves." Ludwig answered, voice flat.
The Captain blinked, and then shook his head, before standing up. "You don't have to sit guard here, you know. He won't wake up-"
"In six hours, I know that." Ludwig interrupted him.
The Brit blinked. "You could get some shut-eye. It would do you good."
"I can sleep on a chair." The blond stated, voice flat.
The Captain frowned, looking back at the German. "Why are you doing this? Why are you so eager of staying here?"
Ludwig cocked an eyebrow, lips set in a straight line. "I have an act to keep up, remember? Vargas has many eyes, beside his own. It will be more credible if I really remain here."
"…You're right. My mistake. But I'll leave to get some sleep before he wakes up. Three of my men are guarding this wing of the hospital. And just so you know, they all think you are one of Vargas' most loyal men now."
"I think the whole city does, am I wrong?"
Arthur shook his head. "No. You aren't. Goodnight, Beilschmidt. And good luck."
"Thanks. Goodnight, Captain."
Arthur left the corridor, while Ludwig remained seated on the uncomfortable plastic and metallic chair.
He had convinced himself he was doing this for the sake of the mission and the act that he had to keep up. But somewhere, deep down… he really wanted to stay there.
"Shut up." He muttered to nobody in particular, as he covered his face with one hand.
He remained there, sitting.
Waiting.
Damn, I also had to do some medical research for this. I personally have been only once or twice in a hospital, so I don't have the faintest idea of how things work. Thankfully, a friend of mine is studying 'nursing' at university, so...
Anyway! "Italy" Is unconscious at the moment, Arthur thinks he knows stuff better than Ludwig and Antonio do, our favourite German is currently dealing with so-called mindfucks and Antonio... is still Antonio. XD
I hope you liked this, I'll see you next chapter! ;D
...
Joder : (spanish) Shit.
Amour : (french) Love
Fermo! : (italian) Stop!
