Chapter Nine

God

13:20:29

Grimmjaw lowered the revolver. He removed the blood-soaked towel from Hershey's throat and covered the face.

"Two little Americans playing with a gun," a sing-song voice floated in. "One shot the other and then there was one."

Grimmjaw glared at the doorway. "There are still two of us left," he muttered.

"Or is there?" Dietrich said, tilting his head innocently.

Grimmjaw stared at the crooked smile. "What did you do to the nerd?" he asked slowly.

The silver-haired man waggled his finger. "Not telling!"

Seizing Dietrich by the collar, Grimmjaw shoved the gun into his face. "Ready to talk?"

"My, my." Dietrich raised his hands in mock surrender. "That temper of yours is going to get you somewhere. Why don't you put the gun down and we have a little chit-chat?"

"I'm a little fucking busy here, if you didn't notice," Grimmjaw said.

"But not too busy to talk," Dietrich piped up. "The longer you talk, the longer you live."

He snapped his fingers. Behind him, a horde of soldiers appeared, all pointing their guns at Grimmjaw.

Grimmjaw counted.

One.

Three.

Six.

He sucked at math, so he stopped at that.

Dietrich coaxed the gun out of his hand. Scowling, Grimmjaw released Dietrich and plopped down on the bed, crossing his legs. "Spit it out."

Dietrich sauntered over to a chair and sat down. He clasped his long fingers together. "So tell me," he said. "Why did you attack the Oberst when you first met him?"

Grimmjaw stared at him. "That's the question you wanted to ask? Fucking fox, you have way too much time on your hands."

"Oh, believe me," Dietrich grinned. "I'll have all the time to ask other questions later." He twiddled his thumb. "So why'd you attack him?"

Grimmjaw scowled. "You don't need an explanation for every shitty thing," he said. "I attacked him cuz I felt like it."

"Why?"

Grimmjaw's lips curled into a smile. "Because I knew," he said. "I knew he was strong the moment I saw him. Sure, I also knew he was some Nazi and all. But at that moment, only one thought was going through my head." He leaned in.

"I'm not bored anymore."

Grimmjaw reclined back. "Done? Can I kill you now?"

Dietrich's grin grew a bit wider. "You never cease to amuse me." He rose from his chair. "We're done. I've already decided."

Before Grimmjaw could question the Nazi's words, he was interrupted by the rat-tatting of machine guns outside. Screams filled the air. He leaped up. "What the hell is going on?"

"Oh, we're doing a little spring cleaning," Dietrich said.

Grimmjaw looked out the window. Outside, soldiers were mowing down the townspeople on the street, killing indiscriminately. They forced their way into the homes and began shooting at the inhabitants.

"Just finishing off the traitors," Dietrich translated.

"Traitors...?" Grimmjaw caught onto things quickly. He turned to Dietrich. "It's because they helped the enemy..." he said slowly. "Because they helped us."

"Ah, you're not as stupid as you look," Dietrich said.

A disgusted smirk appeared on Grimmjaw's face. "You Nazis have sunk pretty damn low."

He flung the chair at the window, shattering the glass. The soldiers at the doorway began shooting at him but he leaped through the window and onto the roof.

Clambering to the window of his own room, he kicked through. Not wasting a second, Grimmjaw grabbed his M1 Carbine and the two grenades that were left. He waited on the windowsill for the soldiers to reach his room. As soon as they burst in, he yanked out the safety pin with his teeth and flung the grenade at the soldiers.

"Special delivery." He jumped as the room exploded.

Nimbly, Grimmjaw landed on the ground on two feet.

"Oy!"

Dietrich leaned out of a window, waving his arm. "I'd worry about the remaining little American!" he called out. "Ulquiorra personally went after him."

Grimmjaw didn't wait to hear what else he had to say.

13:13:16

"Come this way."

The old couple followed. They bustled their way to the backdoor, occasionally pausing to fearfully watch the others being marched out of the inn by soldiers. A man led them, throwing glances over his shoulder.

"Hurry," the man said urgently. "If you go this way, you'll be safe. Go quickly to the bridge."

"Thank you, sir," Mr. Wirtz said. "How could we ever repay this kindness?"

"Please, just hurry—" The man suddenly froze.

There was a presence behind him. He slowly turned to face another man. A look of terror flitted past his face. "Oberst Schiffer..." he whispered.

Ulquiorra stood there with his hands in his pockets. "...What are you doing?" he said. "Fuchs."

Fuchs swallowed hard. He tried to hold the Oberst's knife-like gaze.

"What's wrong?" Ulquiorra said. "I'm talking to you."

Fuchs tried not to blink.

"What are you trying to pull—" Ulquiorra continued, "—helping traitors escape?"

Fuchs lowered his gaze.

Nobody dared to move. Fuchs stood dumbly. Mr. and Mrs. Wirtz cowered on the floor, unable to move.

"...No response?"

Fuchs clenched his teeth.

"Very well."

Ulquiorra turned to Mr. and Mrs. Wirtz, who flinched when the acid eyes glazed over them. "Mr. and Mrs. Wirtz, you are hereby accused of treason," he began.

"But why?" Mr. Wirtz dared to interrupt.

"For sheltering American soldiers."

Mr. Wirtz's eyes widened in shock. He could guess who the Americans were.

Then Ulquiorra did something rather uncharacteristic. He gave the old man a second chance. "Do you regret your actions? Are you willing to hand over the Americans?"

Mr. Wirtz bit his lip. A tremor passed through him as he clutched his wife closer. Mrs. Wirtz looked briefly at Mr. Wirtz, then dipped her chin and closed her eyes, acceptance evident on her face. Mr. Wirtz spoke in a pained but firm voice.

"I don't know of Americans, I only know of human beings."

There was silence. "I see."

Two gunshots rang in the air.

Fuchs jerked his head up. When he saw the gun in Ulquiorra's hand, he whirled around.

Mr. and Mrs. Wirtz lay on the ground. Mr. Wirtz had his arms wrapped around Mrs. Wirtz, locked in an eternal embrace. There was a bullet through each of their heads.

As Ulquiorra lowered the gun, the backdoor burst open.

Reynolds stood outside, panting. His eyes darted around and landed first on Ulquiorra, then a trembling Fuchs, and finally, the dead Mr. and Mrs. Wirtz. He choked when he spotted them. "No... No—this can't be happen—!"

He stumbled backward and broke into a run.

"Oberst!" Soldiers appeared at Ulquiorra's side when they heard the gunshots. "Should we go after him?"

"No." Ulquiorra turned to Fuchs. "Escort Oberstleutnant Fuchs to a room and stand guard. I will deal with him later."

"What about the American, sir?"

"He is mine to kill."

13:28:03

Reynolds was in a daze. He wondered if this was all a dream. No, a nightmare. If only he could wake up.

He ducked instinctively when the firing began. The air was thick with the acrid smell of gunpowder mixed with clouds of dust. People screamed as they tried to flee from the soldiers. They scrambled over each other, jostling and shoving. He moved uncertainly as if to help, but each time he approached someone, the person was shot.

This was worse than the battlefield. This wasn't a battle. It was a massacre.

He yelled when something grabbed his ankle. It was an old man, bleeding from the head. He crawled through the dust, dragging a torn leg.

"Help them!" the old man cried.

"Help...?"

"They're in the church! They're going to die in the church!"

The church stood in the center of the town. Reynolds saw soldiers lead a huge throng of people to the church doors.

Reynolds looked back at the old man. "I-is there anything I can do for you? Anything I can give?"

The old man looked at him.

He looked at him with eyes that would forever haunt him until the end. The old man raised his head, his gaze focused on the church's lonely cross that pierced the sky.

"Give them tomorrow."

13:45:29

Grimmjaw was looking for the nerd.

Because of all the fucking dust and screeching, he was having a hard time.

"Oy, nerd!" He grabbed a skinny blonde with glasses. It wasn't him.

"Please, sir! Help me, please—"

Disgusted, Grimmjaw threw him to the ground. He didn't understand a fucking word the guy was saying anyway.

He spotted another blondie. But it was the town retard. He was surrounded by a circle of soldiers, who laughed at him, kicking and spitting on him.

"Look at this dumbshit! It's retards like these that dirty our nation!"

"How do you want to kill him? Should I stick this gun and—" Yells pierced the air.

Grimmjaw glanced over his shoulder. Wonderweiss sat on the ground, this time surrounded by dead soldiers with broken necks. He rose and trailed after a butterfly.

Grimmjaw faced forward. "I said he was fucked in the head."

Someone suddenly crashed into him. "BASTARD, I'M GOING TO KILL—" Grimmjaw looked at the man he held by the throat. "Nerd." He released him.

"Grimmjaw!" Reynolds coughed. "What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you," Grimmjaw scowled.

"Where's Hershey?"

Grimmjaw hesitated. "He's...waiting for us. Let's go. The Nazis blew up the fucking bridge so we gotta find another way."

"We can't!" Reynolds burst out. "They're killing everyone—the church—we have to go save—"

"What the hell are you saying?" Grimmjaw interrupted. "Are you insane?! Those people are going to die—there's nothing we can do to change—"

"THEN WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?!" Reynolds screamed. "ABANDON THE PEOPLE WHO SAVED US?"

"SHUT THE HELL UP!" Grimmjaw roared. "IS THIS ABOUT YOUR WOMAN? IS IT, NERD?! ARE YOU GOING TO DIE FOR SOME BITCH YOU'VE KNOWN FOR ONLY A WEEK?"

"DON'T CALL HER THAT!" Reynolds bellowed. He staggered back, panting and purple in the face. "Don't you dare call her that," he said in a quieter voice.

He steadied his breathing as the look in his eyes changed. "I'm going back."

Grimmjaw was quiet.

"I'm going to the church and there's nothing you can do to stop me." Reynolds turned around. "Good-bye, Grimmjaw."

Grimmjaw watched the nerd run. A smirk slowly appeared. "You've changed, fucking nerd."

14:16:47

The instant Reynolds reached the church he noticed only one thing. The silence.

When he realized there were no soldiers, he hurriedly pushed past the church doors, and then stopped.

He gagged. The stench of blood filled the air. Horror coursed through him as he stared at the sight in front of him. The church, the sacred ground, was littered with dead. They were mostly women and children.

He made his way through. The red seeped into the cracks of the stone floor, painting a cross of blood. Crimson reflected off the dusty chandelier. As Reynolds waded through the sea of corpses, he raised a trembling hand for the cross around his neck. Lord, have mercy on us.

Then he spotted her. A halo of hazel hair glowing in the crimson darkness. Reynolds tripped over limbs as he ran. "Greta!" He knelt down next to the girl.

Greta was still breathing. Faintly. Her small breast twitched as it moved up and down. But when Reynolds saw her up close, he saw the bullets that riddled her petite frame. She said only word.

"Why?"

Unable to answer her, Reynolds shook his head. He hugged her closer to him, shoulders shaking. Choking with grief, he didn't even hear the door creak open.

Someone entered the church.

14:11:32

The soldiers took no notice of Grimmjaw as they passed by him. He was disguised, anyway. Just a moment ago, he snuck up behind a Nazi, broke his neck, and snatched his helmet so he could cover his blue hair.

"So are we done for today?" one soldier asked.

"Yep. There's a few that got away but we cleaned up most of them in that church," the other chuckled. "Ah, but we need to wait for Oberst Schiffer. He went back to finish some business." He thumbed at the church.

Grimmjaw perked up when he caught one word from the German jabber. Schiffer. Where had he heard that word before...

What's your name?

Ulquiorra Schiffer.

Grimmjaw's eyes widened. He saw the soldier pointing at the church. He put two and two together.

Fuck.

14:30:00

"She is already dead."

Reynolds raised his swollen eyes. He glared at the dark figure standing in front of him. "Why?" he said in a raspy voice.

"We followed orders."

Reynolds staggered. A fury like no other seized him. "ORDERS? ORDERS?!" he screamed. "YOU KILLED CIVILIANS, INNOCENT PEOPLE JUST BECAUSE YOU WERE ORDERED TO?"

He burst out laughing, bitterly. "What? So if your general ordered you to kill yourself, WOULD YOU SHOOT YOURSELF IN THE HEAD?"

Even as he panted for breath, his shout echoed in the church, an undying scream of rage.

Ulquiorra didn't reply. He had an indifferent look, as if he was patiently waiting for a child's tantrum to pass.

That only enraged Reynolds more. He fumbled for his gun. "You're going to die here," he breathed. "And you're going to go to hell for this."

Ulquiorra's expression hardly changed. "...American," he said. "Who killed these people?"

"You!" Reynolds spat. "IT WAS YOU! YOU KILLED THE TOWNSPEOPLE ON SOME FUCKED-UP WHIM! DID YOU EVEN HAVE ANY IDEA HOW LOYAL THEY WERE? ALL THEY DID WAS PRAISE HITLER DAY AND NIGHT!"

"Their deaths were certainly not their fault," Ulquiorra acknowledged. "But we cannot be blamed either."

"BULLSHIT!" Reynolds shouted. "THEN WHO DO WE BLAME? GOD?"

"You."

Reynolds froze. "What?"

"Don't use 'God' as an excuse, American," Ulquiorra said. "The townspeople were slaughtered because they helped an enemy of the state. They were branded as traitors the moment they let you step inside."

"But—we were the ones who tricked them, they can't be penalized for that—"

"It was their foolish mistake. But you are right." Ulquiorra moved aside to show the pile of corpses to Reynolds. "It wasn't their fault. It was yours."

"No—"

"You killed them, American. You disregarded their lives by placing your safety above anything else. You used these people and would have tossed them aside if danger ever came your way."

"That's not true—"

"We should escape when the German army finds out." Ulquiorra's eyes never left Reynolds, who desperately tried to avoid the cutting gaze. "You've thought of this before. You would have ran and left the townspeople behind to face the consequences."

No, please, no... Reynolds stared at the cross in his hand. God, do not abandon me. Do not leave me like this.

Ulquiorra glanced at the cross dismissively. "Christians," he hissed, treating the word like a repulsive creature. "They rely on everything. They use everything as a scapegoat. They are the most irresponsible humans I have ever seen."

A flush filled Reynolds' face. He looked up angrily.

A mistake.

The hypnotic green eyes bore into him, closing him into a trap. "Do you think God exists?"

Reynolds couldn't say anything. His voice had left him.

"What kind of God would let this happen? What kind of God would kill the innocents? What kind of God is that, American?"

"God..." Reynolds croaked, "has his own plans for all of us."

"Then what plans did he have for these victims?" Ulquiorra knelt down beside Greta.

"DON'T TOUCH HER!"

Ulquiorra brushed the hazel curls out of the pallid face. "Is this all their life amounts to? To be killed for such trivial reasons." He stood up.

Reynolds' eyes remained on the white face. So white against the dirt and blood. A pure face.

I killed her, he realized. He lowered his gun. I killed them all.

We should have known. Known that they would be seen as traitors for helping Americans. We knew they were going to be punished.

He looked around. A shudder passed through him as he saw the faceless faces, twisted in grief and terror.

We did all this.

"Reynolds." The way Ulquiorra said his name was like a final judgement. "There is no God."

Something inside him broke.

14:44:41

It's nearly over. Ulquiorra watched the American. All he needed to do now was wait.

Reynolds continued to stare at the dead bodies. His eyes scrunched up, as if willing them to come back to life. But silence was all that greeted him.

He let out a choked sob. It was a pitiful sound. It pierced through the air like the cry of a wounded animal. Trembling, he raised the gun once more. He pointed it at his own head. The cross was clasped in his other hand.

Ulquiorra continued to watch; no emotion betrayed in his green eyes.

There was a CRASH! Grimmjaw kicked through the church door. "Wha—"

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!" he bellowed. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?! ANSWER ME, REYNOLDS!"

Reynolds looked at him with eyes of anguish, eyes that reflected a tormented soul. He whispered once.

"…Forgive me."

He pulled the trigger.

Reflections...

A reminder: the genre of this fanfic is angst/suspense. Focus on the word 'angst.'

On a positive note, I have officially graduated (hooray)! Freedom.

...and Answers

1. Hershey

A. Hershey was...well, Hershey. He was an OC on my part. So I was pretty surprised when a few readers professed their fondness for this character. You can guess what I was drinking when I created him.

2. Fanart

A. I'd love to see your fanart XD I'd draw one if I had a waccom tablet and an ounce of skill my friend the artist has.

3. Predictions

A. There are a lot of sharp readers out there. That's all I'll say for now.

Until next time.