Weiß Schrecken
Disclaimer: Weiß Kreuz and all associated and registered trademarks are copyright Project Weiß and associated firms. In the writing of this fanfiction I am making no claim or stake in the profits of it. In other words, I don't own these sexy bishounen, and I don't intent to. Get it? Got it? Good.

Weiß Schrecken

Chapter Three: Verletzend

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A single pale amber eye viewed the screen of the laptop, watching the feed from the camera hooked up to Omi's cell. Schuldich was having another one of his sessions with the kid, steadily convincing the genki fluff that Weiß had abandoned him and wanted nothing to do with him. The German was an absolute artist with words, one had to admire him. Yet, despite all the speaking, that little assassin still retained that innocence about himself and some form of belief that his team mates had not abandoned him. That brought a frown to Farfarello's lips as he leaned over Nagi's shoulder to glare at the video image. "God likes this one," he murmured.

Suppressing the urge to shudder as the Irishman's voice reached him, Nagi focused on his typing. The white-haired man was freaky, to say the least; the telekinetic had never enjoyed being around him. A good fighter he might be, and valuable to Schwarz, yes, but that didn't make him any less creepy. "God seems to favor the innocent," he spoke evenly in response, deep blue eyes staring at the screen.

"Then God favors wrong." Drawing out his extendable blade, Farfarello idly pulled it down the tender flesh along the inside of his arm. The blade went deep, missing the major veins and arteries, yet the madman hardly felt a thing. More like a feather's touch than the burning edge of a sword. The curse of his existence; he so longed to hurt God, yet his body, God's creation, never could hurt. It was a damning fact.

Lovely, now the man was bleeding. If any blood got on his new laptop, the young telekinetic would have to kill the psycho, regardless of whether or not he was valuable to Schwarz. "Perhaps you should teach God a lesson then," he replied. "Instead of complaining about it."

There was a thought. Straightening, Farfarello let the hand holding the blade drop to his side, blood slowly dripping to the floor by his feet. God had yet to acknowledge his sins; perhaps if he toyed with that innocent angel Schuldich had captured he could finally truly hurt God.

//Interesting proposal you have forming there, Farfie.//

That singular amber gaze focused again on the laptop. Schuldich, his customary smirk plastered on his face, had stood and faced the camera; in the background, Omi was huddled in the corner he had chosen as his own, tears sliding down his face as the German's words sunk in, hurting him more than any weapon could. Have you finished toying with that angel? Emotionless for the moment, the Irishman's eye was focused on the bound and gagged assassin.

//Ja, I have. For now. Care to try your hand at breaking his wings?//

The edges of his lips turned upwards in a faint, predatory smile. It would hurt God. Watching as Schuldich left the room, Farfarello turned his face to view the German as he closed and locked the door once more.

Strolling casually towards the two Schwarz members, Schuldich brushed his burnt orange hair back from his face, nodding. "Ja, ja, it would, Farfie," he commented aloud, again using his toy name for the insane killer. "A great deal of pain it would cause God."

That faint smile grew as the Irishman contemplated the concept. To suggest that attempting to give God a hard time was a hobby of Farfarello's would be an extreme understatement; the man made it his life to screw over God, wanting revenge and acknowledgement for his sins. And lying in front of him was the perfect chance to do so. "Then I will break his wings so that he can never fly," he announced, moving with even strides towards the door that separated him from the little angel that would soon be his to break.

*

Four days. Four days and he had nothing to show for it. Muttering a curse, Ken leaned back in the computer chair Omi so often frequented, missing the genki assassin's computer skills far too much. How the hell the kid managed to find all the needed mission information in the short time he took utterly stumped the brunet. Then again, Omi probably went to work with his mind clear, whereas all Ken had been able to think about was Omi, and worrying that the teen was hurt, or worse, even dead.

"Fuck!"

Shouted, the word echoed through the mission room. He probably should not have been so loud, but the soccer player could not have given a damn had he been paid too. It was early morning, Aya was manning the shoppe alone. Youji had stumbled in a few hours ago, dead drunk, as he had been since the day that Omi went missing. Ken shook his head. Of all of them, Youji had taken the situation the worst, blaming himself for Omi's situation. And when the playboy took to self-blame, there was only one way he could dull the pain, apparently. Drinking himself silly every damn night, stumbling in during the early hours and sleeping the day, and his hangover, away.

Scowling, Ken placed his hands over the keyboard again, retracing his latest steps to see where the hell he'd gone wrong. By some sheer stroke of luck, he had happened upon some hidden files that belonged to Schwarz, and he had spent the last twelve straight hours working at trying to trace their locations. He was dead tired, but there was no way he was going to give up until he succeeded in tracking them down. He refused to let them have the youngest assassin, the one he could only wish to have as a little brother, without a damn good fight.

The sound of feet padding down the mission room stairs fought with the tapping of the keys for dominance in the air as Aya came down, calm, cold eyes watching as Ken went to work. The ruby-haired assassin had heard Ken's exclamation and excused himself from the shoppe, letting Momoe take over while he checked on the young soccer player. "Any progress?" he asked evenly.

"Not a fuckin' damn step forwards," Ken retorted, brushing a hand through his dark hair. "I'd almost say two damn steps back, for all the shit this thing is feeding me." Screen after screen of useless information tracked past his untrained eye as he attempted to weed out the false from the truth.

A pale skinned finger struck the screen, tapping against one particular entry as Aya peered at the words with his violet gaze. "Try this one," he commented. Straightening, he let the ex-J-leaguer work, never once showing his true emotion on the outside. Omi's capture had them all on edge, though Aya masked it best of all. Still, he was worried about the golden haired boy who showed so much passion and energy for life. Schwarz would pay for trying to darken the light that Omi spread with his presence. Aya would make sure of that.

Nodding, Ken went to work, reading the information on the entry Aya specified, tracking it down as fast as possible. Let this work. Fuck, let this work. If this doesn't work, I'm going to kill something, and it won't be me, damnitall! There was a beep and the faint hum of the computer working, causing Ken to pause in his rabid typing. An affirmative response on the trace popped up and he grinned.

"Bingo!"

The jubilation of victory quickly faded as the video feed mirrored on Nagi's laptop appeared on screen, displaying Omi, ropes binding his arms and legs together, with a strip of cloth gagging him, laying curled up in the corner of a dark room. Even without sound it was not hard to tell that the teen was crying; his shoulders shook with forced silenced sobs, faint tears splattering on the ground, released from the sapphire eyes hidden under his wheat colored bangs. The sight made both assassins' blood run cold.

"What the fuck have they done to him..." Anger building in him, Ken watched the image, forcibly entranced by it. Part of him was overjoyed at seeing the genki teen still alive, if in bad shape. The other part of him was screaming for the blood of the ones who had done that to the young assassin.

"Where is the feed coming from?" Aya demanded, ever the calm one, even as he silently swore to kill Schuldich for doing that to Omi. "Trace it."

Startled out of the daze the video had placed him in, Ken nodded once more, diving back into his half-skilled hacking. A warning beep sounded as the machine informed him that he had been noticed and the person manning the laptop at the other end of the line was working to kick him out of there. "Damnit... The ironic bastards are holed up in that same damned hotel we were using as a watch point," he reported as the information came up. "Hiding in the damned basement!" Before he could read off more, the screen went dark, his computer cut off from the other suddenly.

"Get Youji," Aya said calmly before Ken could react. "Tell him we're going to get Omi back." Closing his violet eyes, the ruby-haired assassin turned away, heading up the stairs to don his mission gear and retrieve his katana. Weiß had a mission, and they would not stop until their youngest was back and safe with them.

*

The words couldn't be true. They just couldn't be. Weiß would never betray him; they wouldn't abandon him for Schuldich to pick up, like some unwanted kitten. But why, if that was false, did it hurt so much to consider? Huddled against the corner, trying to gain some sort of reprieve from the thoughts that the German got his mind working on, Omi knew the answer to his own question. Schuldich had too oft pointed out truthful occurrences that supported the idea that Weiß had abandoned him. And despite his best attempts to find some other reason to explain everything, Omi found his resolve weakening. It would be so easy to just accept the words as truth; it would hurt so much less. And that thought was what was making him cry, tears sliding down his normally bright and genki face. His sobs were forcibly choked back, the gag never once having been removed from blocking his mouth.

After the first day, he had given up on trying to squirm free of the ropes. His wrists and bonds were tainted by the crimson blood that had surfaced from the repeated abuse of his skin; it hurt to even move them now, thus he barely bothered to try. Besides the pain of motion, the teen was beginning to lack the energy for anything, even crying. It had been four days without food or water, interspersed with faint bits of sleep that could hardly be termed refreshing. He was nearing his limits and about to give up. No one was coming for him; Weiß would have appeared long ago had they wanted to get him back. He was alone, in the hands of his enemies, abandoned by his companions.

More tears slid down his face, dropping to a floor that should have been sparkling clean for all the liquid the past four days had brought to it. It seemed that each time he managed to stop crying, Schuldich would come back in and talk some more to him. And each time would bring him closer to the edge of utter collapse. Each time made the German's words sound more truthful than the last. And each time would destroy every resolve he had to not cry, leaving him in tears once more. Would it ever end? There wasn't a moment when he didn't want it to, and there were often times where he would have gladly killed himself to be free of the painful truth in the telepath's little speeches. But life wouldn't leave his body, keeping him firmly in reality, where pain also ceased to give him a respite from its constant presence.

A crack of light appeared in the room as the door opened, widening as the hinged creaked from the motion. A human's shadow was cast in the room, the person stepping in and shutting the door again, dropping them into the near darkness that had been haunting the young assassin since his capture. Twisting his head to search for the intruder, he mentally pleaded that it wasn't Schuldich arriving with more words to torment him.

//Nein, nein, Kätzchen. I'm taking a coffee break, so this one's come to take my place.//

The mental words, nasal as always and covered with that constant accent, cut through him, driving a cold stab of fear into the boy. He recognized the man who was approaching, a thin-bladed knife in hand. Farfarello. The one who had killed Ouka. The man who had constantly proven to be a nearly impossible to defeat enemy; one of the bad people who just refused to die. And the man who was currently the only other person in the room with him. He had a sinking feeling that it was a far from good thing.

Closing the distance between them, the calm face of Farfarello lowered to his level, the Irishman kneeling before him, a soft smirk plastered on his face. That single amber eye contained the glint of foreboding intentions, chilling Omi's slight hope to breaking point. What an innocent little angel; God must truly love him. One scarred hand reached out, fingers gracing the youth's chin, turning the tear streaked face towards him. Those sapphire eyes, so filled with despair. He would be certain to add pain to their blue depths. That would make God cry. Still holding that delicate, unmarred chin, the madman's other hand, knife held within his grasp, raised up. A soft whimper escaped the boy as the blade's point rested on his cheek, a faint blood spot appearing beneath the metal that was digging into his skin. The sound was like soothing music to him.

"God favors you," he informed the scared and broken little boy in front of him. Keeping firm pressure on the blade, Farfarello pulled it downwards; skin parted and blood followed the sharp point's path. Another soft, muffled cry escaped the delicate angel. Leaning back on his heels, the white-haired man smiled and pulled the blade back, licking the crimson fluid that marred it.

Oh, yes, God was hurting now; and He would hurt a great deal more when he was finished.



Author's Note:



Okay, well, chapter three turned out... differently than I had originally thought it might. And took longer too. *sighs* Sorry for the delay. -Hopefully- chapter four will be finished faster. And, yes, I do try to keep a pretty constant length/size to each chapter; helps me stay organized. Just in case you noticed and were wondering. *grins*