Note:
The characters of Weiss Kreuz belong to their respective owners, not me!
The
Matter of Life and Death
Present...
He could feel himself dying. Like fine powder passing through a sieve,
Brad Crawford felt the blood flowing out of the wound in his abdomen, slowly
trickling onto the muddied pavement of the alleyway, and stealing his life with
it. He attempted to move his body, but
it remained completely unresponsive, probably subdued by the inordinate amount
of blood loss. Gritting his teeth
against the pain, he forced his senses to awaken and take in his dismal
surroundings. The night was not overly
oppressive but still, dark, blurry shapes greeted his vision, reminding him
that his glasses had been knocked off when he had fallen. The distant blaring of a car horn and the
hustle of the city nightlife floated to his ears, but it was just that -
distant. The stench of alley trash also
assaulted his nose, intermingling with the heavy humidity that lingered in the
air. All in all, he was dying in a
deserted, dark, and dirty alley, alone and forgotten.
Crawford mentally laughed at the irony of the
situation. Who would have thought that
he, Brad Crawford, the precognitive leader of Schwarz and assassin
extraordinaire, would end up dying from a stab wound meted out by a common
mugger? He knew that Schuldich would
definitely get a laugh out of it. Nagi
and Farfarello may not find it as humourous but yes, this would undoubtedly
amuse that arrogant redhead to no end, seeing how the great Brad Crawford had
lived through political assassinations, numerous life-threatening missions, and
even a supernatural summoning, only to be brought down by a common street thug.
An image of the telepath's mocking face flashed
before him, glittering green eyes and smirking lips hiding the wicked
deviousness of his mind.
Damn bastard.
If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be in this mess…
"Hey, Mister!"
Crawford felt something or someone prod his
shoulder.
"You shouldn't sleep here, Mister. It's gonna rain soon."
He couldn't make out the face but a small silhouette
was squatting beside him, peering at him curiously through the darkness. A boy, probably homeless, he guessed. A conclusion reinforced by the petite size
of the shadow and the high-pitched tone of the voice.
Brad opened his mouth to respond but found that he
was even incapable of that.
"Look, I'm just being nice, Mister. I was looking for some food. I didn't have to stop, y'know."
Stupid kid!
Didn't the boy see the blood?
Then again, with the lack of light back here, it would be almost
impossible to discern his blood from the other slime that littered the
pavement; furthermore, the fact that he was lying on his stomach, and hence,
the wound itself, didn't help any either.
"Well, don't say I didn't warn ya." Crawford heard the boy stand. "I hate it when it rains 'cause I always get
wet and cold," the boy muttered. "Hmm,
gotta look for a place to wait out the storm.
See ya, Mister!"
And then, the boy was gone, leaving a heavy silence
in his wake. Crawford closed his eyes
for a moment, hating the sudden loneliness that seemed to invade his soul.
(***)
20 years ago...
"Let me out, Mama!
Please, let me out!" the boy screamed as he banged his fists against the
door.
"Please!" He
felt the tears burning his eyes and marking trails down his face but he didn't
care. He just wanted out of here, this
dark place, this small place... this closet into which his mother had thrown
him. He swallowed the growing panic
rising within his chest, and banged some more.
"Please, Mama, please let me out!"
His voice cracked and squeaked, revealing the desperation and helplessness
that was slowly consuming him.
"Now, Bradley," he heard his mother's muffled but
forceful voice say from the other side.
"You know why you're in there, don't you?"
Brad remained silent; yes, he knew why he was locked
in here but that didn't mean what he had said was any less truthful.
"Don't you, Bradley?" Her voice had gotten slightly louder, anger weaving its way into
the words.
"Yes, Mama..." he answered reluctantly.
"And why are you in there?" She sounded so... So superior, thought Brad, as if she was infallible and
attempting to make a toddler understand the simplest fact.
"Answer me, Bradley. Why?"
He didn't want to answer, but if it meant getting
out of this tiny, dark closet, he would have to.
"Be - because I - I'm evil, Mama. Because I shouldn't have seen the things I
saw or said the things I said," he responded in a small voice.
"That's right, my dear," she encouraged. "Now, you're staying in there until you
fully understand your error and regret everything you said." She patted the door and started to walk
away. The panic began to take over
again and almost immediately, Brad was kicking and hitting the closet door, his
screams echoing down the recently vacated hallway.
He knew she was gone now. He knew he would be trapped in here for quite some time. He knew that no one could hear his childish
begging to be set free. But he screamed
and hit regardless, because to not do so meant dealing with the quiet, dark
oppressiveness of his current situation.
And thus, he continued to yell and hit, until
fatigue began to set in, until his hands throbbed from the continued abuse, and
until his voice was no more than a croak.
Only then, when he had no energy left in his tiny body, did he stop and
fall boneless to the ground. He pulled
his knees to his chest and leaned his head tiredly against the locked door,
vainly hoping to hear someone walk by although he knew better than that.
"Why won't you let me out, Mama," he asked in a
quiet voice, his tone that of a very scared little boy. "I know I'm evil, I know I'm bad... Why won't you let me out? I don't like it in here... It scares me, Mama." He was aware that his words would not be
heard, but he needed to speak, he needed to break the dead silence that would
descend if he didn't. And that scared
him: the silence, the darkness, the inability to move more than a metre without
hitting the wall. He hated it in
here. He hated it whenever his mother
felt it was necessary for him to be thrown in here. It was so small, so constricting, so... So much like a coffin.
"Mama, I didn't mean to say it out loud. But I saw it happen, just like it was
happening in front of me. I saw you
die, Mama. I did. I didn't want to see it but I did. And I thought I should tell you..." He took
a deep breath and swallowed, hating how his visions had branded him into such
an evil boy in the eyes of his parent.
"But Mama, why did you have to lock me in here again? I don't like it in here. Why, Mama...?"
(***)
Present...
Looking back, Crawford now understood the actions
taken by his mother: she had been scared; frightened by something she couldn't
explain and instinctively, had tried to hide it from sight.
Foolish woman.
She deserved to die for being so easily frightened, so weak...
"Ehh, what's this?" A high squeaky voice of a woman,
or rather, a teenage girl exclaimed. As
she neared his inert form, he smelled the overwhelming scent of cheap perfume
and heard the clicking of high heels - a prostitute.
"Bastard's had too much to drink, huh?" She giggled innoxiously and nudged him once
with the toe of her stiletto heels.
You're probably none too sober yourself,
thought Crawford, wanting to respond but found that he required all his energy
just to breathe.
"'kay, well, you sleep it off, honey. I'm gonna go earn myself a living." More giggles and clicking soon faded as she
walked away, once again leaving Crawford alone with his thoughts. And damn, how he hated that idea.
He could feel his body getting colder, slowly losing
the warmth that represented his life in the blood that spilled ceaselessly onto
the ground. It was sad really, feeling
himself die bit by bit like this, hovering precariously on the fine line
between life and death. Schuldich would
have enjoyed watching the whole event.
It was just the kind of thing that sadistic bastard relished.
Schuldich...
(***)
6 years ago...
"Holy shit!
This place is fucking huge," the teenage redhead exclaimed as he made a
three-sixty to take in the new apartment.
Crawford watched silently as the newly acquired telepath ran around
their new headquarters, ducking in and out of each room like a kid in an
amusement park fun house. He took in
the surroundings calmly himself: it wasn't too bad considering some of the places
he'd been assigned to in the past. If
anything, it was immaculate and cozy, with its small kitchen, living room, and
three bedrooms. Yet he could imagine
how this place must seem like a palace to Schuldich, whose lifestyle amounted
to nothing more that a warm place to sleep at night.
Crawford caught a glimpse of fiery red scurrying
into one of the bedrooms and smiled slightly as he moved into the sparsely
furnished living room to take a look at the view. So this was what his life had come to: nothing more than a
glorified babysitter for a telepathic prostitute. Crawford's smile turned a little bitter at the thought of the
redhead's former occupation. The boy
had no sense of self-worth, selling off his body every night and brushing it
off as if it was nothing. If Brad
didn't know any better, he would've surmised that Schuldich actually enjoyed his job, although he had readily
given it up when he was recruited.
A shuffling behind him prompted Crawford to turn
around, only to see a decidedly wicked grin plastered on the redhead's face as
he stood on the periphery of the living room.
Brad let out a long-suffering sigh. "What now, Schuldich?"
"You should see the bed in there, Crawford. It's damn big. Just imagine what two people could do on it!" The boy sounded so excited that Brad actually
raised an eyebrow, not requiring his precognitive abilities to know where this
was heading.
Moving further into the room to join the older man,
Schuldich looked upon Crawford with a predatory gleam in his jade green
eyes. Before the American could escape,
he wrapped his arms around the older man's neck and raised himself up to place
a kiss straight on Crawford's lips.
Schuldich didn't want for it to last too long, only for it to tease and
taunt, thereby showing the cold man exactly what he was missing. True to form, Schuldich darted his tongue
out, carefully laving his partner's lips and seeking entrance in but then
quickly withdrew the temptation when he felt Crawford's stiff body begin to
relax.
"C'mon, Crawford.
What's your poison?" The telepath
asked huskily. He knew the older man
was disgusted with what he did and would undoubtedly refuse any pleasure
offered to him but that didn't deter the redhead any. What was life if one didn't take up its challenges? Seductive smile in place, he continued to
tempt. "I can trick, I can dominate, I
can submit, or hell, if you want, I can go find my handcuffs. I'm sure if I looked hard enough, I'd find
it in my luggage somewhere." Schuldich
chuckled lightly. "Mementoes of my
trade I just can't seem to throw away."
Crawford continued to stare coldly at the redhead
draped over him, his expression remaining implacable. Schuldich ignored the distain evident in the American's eyes, and
enticingly rubbed his body against the older man's, causing a wave of heat to
run through his own.
"I'd pick for you but you know I can't get through
your shields. Anything you want. C'mon, what's it going to be, Brad-ley?"
It was the name that finally ruffled Crawford; no
one, absolutely no one, had called him that since... Since her.
"Get off me, you filthy slut!" He shook Schuldich off abruptly, losing his
calm composure and surprising the redhead enough for him to stumble
backwards. Disgust and anger were clear
in both the older man's tone and face.
Quickly concealing his look of hurt, Schuldich made
a show of straightening his clothes as he tried to gather himself. Attempting to sound nonplussed, he gave
Crawford a sly grin. "Well, who'd want
a cold fish like you anyways," the former prostitute asked rhetorically,
turning around with his nose in the air and walking away as if he was royalty.
(***)
Present...
Crawford wanted to smile at the arrogance and
cockiness he remembered in the teenage Schuldich. To be honest, the redhead hadn't changed much over the years: he
was perhaps slightly more jaded and sadistic now, but he still retained the
blatant disrespect for convention and the stubborn streak of self-assurance
he'd had when he was younger. If there
was one thing Crawford could admire about the telepath, it was his defiance of
the rules and the willingness to live life by his own set, regardless of how he
was perceived by others.
A pain in the ass is what he is...
"No, we shouldn't..." Crawford heard a female voice
cut through the thick darkness and his thoughts.
"Please, I just want to talk to you alone for a
minute." A man's voice.
"But we should head home," the woman replied,
although her tone held little conviction.
"Come, Reiko, just for a minute."
Crawford could mentally picture the two at the end
of the alley, the man perhaps pulling the woman away from the noisy street and
into the quiet nook.
"Fine, but just for a minute," the woman acquiesced.
"You know you're safe with me." A pause.
"Reiko, we've known each other for four years now and..." Again, the man
stopped, seemingly at a loss for words.
Incompetent idiot. If you need to say it, just say it! Crawford scolded silently.
"That is... uhh... This is harder than I
thought. Reiko, will you... Will you marry me?"
As a response, Crawford heard something that
resembled a choked sound.
"Of all the places to propose to me, you pick an
alley!? How unromantic can you get, you
idiot?" Her emotion-laden words sounded
as if they were holding back tears.
"So is that a yes?"
Anxiousness. Insecurity.
"Yes! A
thousand times, yes!" Her enthusiastic
answer was followed by silence, save for a few smacking noises.
Crawford could easily imagine what they were doing,
and mentally smiled at their naiveté.
Such is the foolishness of young love. Don't they understand that love is an
illusion? There is no such this as
love, only lust...
(***)
3 months ago...
"You okay, Crawford?"
At first, Crawford didn't hear the German's
question, too engrossed in his own thoughts as he sat and stared sightlessly at
the far corner of his dimly lit bedroom.
"Crawford?"
Brad turned his head toward Schuldich's standing
figure, registering his presence but not fully understanding the words. Could the telepath read his thoughts at the
moment? Could he see how disturbed
Schwarz's leader was after tonight's mission?
Could he extract the unwanted memories their mission had brought back? Surely not.
Brad had worked hard to perfect his shields against the German. He inwardly cursed the events of this past
night. Why had Schwarz been forced to
hide in such a small space to surprise their target? And why had it been so dark?
Crawford thought he had done admirably well in maintaining his calm and
collected exterior, and in keeping the overwhelming panic at bay but he was
paying for it now. The memories were
assaulting him with a vengeance.
/ "Be - because I - I'm evil, Mama..."/
Ignoring the small childlike voice in his head and
the other man in the room, Crawford rose and moved purposefully to the mirror
above his dresser. Methodically, he
shrugged out of his suit jacket, removed his glasses, and loosened his
tie.
"I know something's wrong, Crawford. I've become quite adept at reading you
without telepathy since I can't seem to do so with it."
Crawford looked up in the mirror and saw Schuldich's
slightly blurry reflection staring back at him. For once, the redhead's discernable gaze was devoid of its usual
superiority and mockery. Oddly, Brad
was entranced with the glittering eyes that watched him, eerily black and
penetrating in his dark room.
/ "I know I'm evil.
I know I'm bad..." /
Meeting the gaze of the German's reflection,
Crawford asked, "We're evil, aren't we, Schuldich?"
The telepath seemed taken aback by the question but
answered when he noticed Crawford's serious expression.
"If you're asking if we're the bad guys, then yeah,
we always seem to get typecast as the evil ones." Schuldich said jokingly, but felt the lightness of the answer
disappear when he caught the American's intense look.
"But I think it's all relative, Crawford. If you compare us to Weiss, then yes, we
can't deny it." Schuldich paused,
searching for the right words to express what he wanted to say next. "But, before Schwarz, when I still lived on
my own, I saw and lived so many kinds of evil on the streets that it would make
even us look like saints now. I learned
young that if you wanted to survive, if you wanted to stay at least partially
sane, you had to become evil yourself and perhaps, even enjoy it a little. But that was how I lived and I didn't care
what others thought of me. I was alive
and that was all that mattered."
Schuldich continued to watch the mirror for
Crawford's reaction, and yet the older man just stood there, impassive and
unreadable.
"Do you want to tell me what's wrong?" The question was so uncharacteristic of
Schuldich, full of concern and sincerity, but he was compelled to ask it,
especially since Crawford was involved.
The man was the only one Schuldich had never managed to manipulate and
yet, he was still drawn to the American, despite the unforgotten fear of
rejection he risked.
Finally, Crawford looked away, breaking their
indirect staring match. "Nothing. Now get out," the American ground out
through clenched teeth.
Schuldich was intrigued and alarmed. In looking away first, Crawford had implied
surrender and Brad Crawford never surrendered, no matter what kind of
confrontation it was. The telepath took
a tentative step toward Schwarz's leader, unsure of why he felt an urge to
touch the man.
"What's wrong, Bradley?"
Before Schuldich could react, Crawford whipped
around and landed a wicked right hook square on the side of his jaw, sending
the redhead reeling.
"What the fuck was that..." Schuldich began to rub
his face when Crawford suddenly lunged and tackled him to the ground.
"Don't ever call me that again!"
Schuldich looked up in bewilderment at the
American's sudden loss of control.
Never in all the time he had known Crawford had he ever seen the man
behave so erratically.
"What?
Bradley?" Schuldich asked innocently, knowing that he risked more
violence, but for some reason, he wanted to see how Brad would react. The man needed to express himself once in a
while; nobody could hold everything inside himself forever, not even the
perfect Brad Crawford.
"Shut up! Shut the fuck up! " Another flurry of well-placed punches. Schuldich winced and did the best he could
to block the hits but it was damn hard considering the other man had him pinned
down. He shuddered mentally at the
bruises he'd have tomorrow.
Soon, Crawford stopped. His dark hair was mussed, his eyes were wild and his breathing
was heavy, making it the only sound to be heard in the quiet room. And oddly, Schuldich found him undeniably
sexy. He knew he'd regret this later
but he didn't care. Impulsively, the
redhead raised his head and kissed Crawford hard on the lips, expecting to be
pushed away almost immediately. But
Crawford surprised him by responding, slowly and seductively prying open
Schuldich's lips with his tongue.
Responding to his partner's request by opening his
mouth, the telepath groaned pleasurably deep in his throat and wrapped an arm
around Crawford's neck, effectively pulling the man down closer to the ground
on top of him. His body was
instinctively reacting to Brad, fire flowing through his veins and inevitably
pooling in his groin. He had wanted
this, needed this, desired this for six years.
This was victory, was it not? He
had wanted to shatter that mask of ice that the mighty leader of Schwarz wore
and prove that underneath it was a hot-blooded human who yearned for the
pleasures of the flesh like everyone else.
And he had done it.
So it is a victory then, Schuldich thought
as he undid the buttons on Crawford's shirt, all the while, returning his
partner's demanding kisses. But if
this is victory, why does it feel so hollow?
(***)
Present...
Crawford remembered that night vividly, every caress
and every kiss; he had felt wonderfully alive that night despite the chaos of
his thoughts. He hated to admit it, and
especially not to Schuldich, but the arrogant redhead had learned his trade
well, knowing exactly what he wanted, and how he liked to be touched without
having to break through his mental shields.
Perhaps that was what had kept Crawford going back for more in the
ensuing months. Of course, he never
initiated anything - no, that would contradict his icy exterior - but he had
never refused whenever the telepath issued an invitation, which was quite
often. The redhead seemed to have an
insatiable sexual appetite and Crawford had found himself succumbing quite
easily to the ex-prostitute's charms after having had a taste of it that first
night. To put it simply, Schuldich was
addicting.
A shuffling sound jolted Crawford from his
self-reverie. At first, he thought it
was perhaps an animal but when the stench of unwashed humanity and fermenting
garbage assaulted his still working senses, he could only surmise it was a
person. He counted himself lucky that
he didn't possess the strength to gag or vomit.
He heard a bit more shuffling and the sound of cloth
rubbing against cloth, leaving him with the impression that the person in
question was rummaging through his expensive suit looking for a non-existent
wallet.
Nothing but a beggar and a thief. There's nothing there, you fool. It was stolen long ago by the son of a bitch
who stabbed me.
"Chh...
Nothing but a worthless dead man," croaked an ancient voice as it began
to move away. Crawford listened as the
old man ambled further down the alley, grateful that the overwhelming stink had
gone with him. And the silence
descended once again, reminding him of his imminent trip into oblivion.
(***)
5 hours ago...
"C'mon, Crawford.
Come out with me." Schuldich
leaned over the back of the American's desk chair to nuzzle his lover's
ear. "You can't stay cooped up in here
and read files all night."
Crawford remained silent as he tilted his head away
from the annoying man and kept his attention on the papers in front of
him. "Go away, Schuldich."
But the German wouldn't take the hint and moved his
head to work on Crawford's neck.
"Please... Bradley." Schuldich didn't know why he had used that
name. Perhaps it was because he was a
little masochistic or perhaps it was because he wanted to get a rise out of the
usually collected Schwarz leader, but either way, he was certain to get some
kind of reaction from his lover. The
telepath braced himself as he felt Crawford's body stiffen.
Brad pushed his chair back and rose, causing
Schuldich to step back in order to avoid getting his foot rolled over by the
moving chair. Expecting an explosion
like that first night they had slept together, the redhead was surprised at how
calm the older man's words were.
"Look, just because we fuck each other doesn't give
you the authority to order me about or manipulate me according to your wishes,
Schuldich. I am Schwarz's leader, and
you, you're nothing but its resident whore."
Normally, the German would have simply laughed at
those words, or maybe even felt complimented, but for some reason, when they
came from Crawford's mouth, they cut into him, and cut deep. Yet, he didn't betray his normally smug
exterior, smiling coldly and shrugging off the insult as if it was nothing.
"But you can't deny the fact that you've enjoyed me
in that role, Crawford," Schuldich taunted as he reached out with the intention
of pulling the other man against his own body.
Crawford slapped his hand away. "You're a slut, Schuldich. You were then, and you still are now. Let me tell you this, my attentive lover. You're nothing. You place no value on yourself, have no sense of self-worth, bartering
out your body every night." The
American's insulting tone descended heavily upon the redhead, who stared
intently back, barely keeping his own thoughts from exploding. "How many lovers have you had,
Schuldich? How many nights have you
actually spent alone in bed?" When the
telepath didn't respond, Crawford continued.
"Like I said. A good for nothing
whore."
The last word lingered in the room as Schuldich
watched the older man stare accusingly at him.
When it was apparent that Crawford was done, the German finally spoke,
at last seeing the truth that had been in front of him all this time but hadn't
been able to grasp until this moment.
"You may call me a whore, you may call me a slut,
but at least when I die, Bradley, I can say that I've lived. You, what can you
say? You've been dead probably since
before we met and I know you've never permitted yourself to really live for as
long as I've known you. Cool and
collected, that's Schwarz's Crawford.
But that's all you are, isn't it, Bradley? That's all there is to you because everything that you were was
somehow killed off long ago. You've
never truly lived, have you? What are
you so afraid of that you shy away from anything remotely pleasurable? You're one fucking hypocrite in saying I have
no sense of self-worth. How much value
did you put in yourself when you gave up your own life without a fight?" Schuldich paused, reviewing his words to
make sure he had said everything on his mind.
Then, as an afterthought, "And for your information, I've only had one
lover in the past three months, Bradley, and that's you."
Schuldich stopped, breathing deeply as he watched
for a reaction from Crawford's stony expression. After what could have been an eternity, the American's lips moved
into an empty smile.
"Fuck you, Schuldich," he said lowly and
tonelessly. He then turned around and
calmly walked out of the room, leaving the redhead standing alone and stunned
by his desk.
(***)
Present...
He had run after that confrontation. Crawford couldn't recall the last time he
had ever run away from anything but nevertheless, he had run. And for once, his precognitive abilities had
failed him, neglecting to warn him of the danger he had run to.
It's all Schuldich's fault, Crawford
thought. If the redhead's words hadn't
been replaying themselves in his mind, he would have been more aware of his
surroundings. If what Schuldich said
hadn't been tainted with some truth, he would have been less distracted and seen
the dark figure come at him with a knife.
Truth? Did what the telepath say
actually hold a smidgeon of truth in it?
A loud rumble of thunder finally gave way to the
first drops of rain that had been threatening in the humid air. Crawford was completely numb now, oblivious
of any pain in his body. Still, he
heard the patter of raindrops hit the filthy pavement, its tempo a mocking
contradiction to that of his slowing heartbeat. He knew he had lost a staggering amount of blood; too much of his
life lay pooled with the rainwater on the pavement. He was alarmingly close to death.
/ "How much value did you put in yourself when you
gave up your own life without a fight?"/
Schuldich's words echoed in his head as he closed
his eyes once again, giving into the heaviness of his eyelids. Perhaps the telepath was right. Perhaps he had given up on the pleasures of
life long ago. Perhaps unconsciously,
he had learned that to live had meant making himself vulnerable to a pain he
swore he'd never experience again.
Perhaps he had died somewhere between that dark closet and the moment he
had decided to leave a normal life behind.
But he couldn't do anything about it now, could he? A little too late to realize that he'd
missed out on truly living, wasn't it?
In the back of his mind, he heard Schuldich laughing
at his stupidity. He imagined the
redhead's look of self-importance at learning he'd been right. And lastly, he saw an image of the
irritating man's dancing eyes sparkling with life as he, time and time again,
defied convention.
/ "You should see the bed in there, Crawford... Just imagine the things two people could do
on it!" /
/ "C'mon, Crawford, what's your poison? ... Anything
you want..." /
/ "...you had to become evil yourself and perhaps
even enjoy it a little... But that was
how I lived... I was alive and that was all that mattered..." /
/ " ...at least when I die, Bradley, I can say that
I've lived..." /
Crawford didn't know why Schuldich's voice intruded
on his thoughts during his last moments of coherency but they did, obtrusive,
annoying, and somehow, ringing true.
He couldn't seem to reopen his eyes now; there was
just too much effort involved and so he resigned himself to the permanent
darkness. He could feel the last bit of
air leave his lungs that very moment, indicating that death hovered close at
hand, but with his last breath, he managed to mutter words that had been left
unsaid for far too long.
"I want to live, Schuldich. Teach me to live..."
(***)
"Life
can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards."
- Soren Kierkegaard, Life
(***)
End
