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 Four: Zurückziehen

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God was definitely weeping by now.

Shame that the little angel wasn't.

Damn.

It would make it so perfect if he would shed those innocent tears to mix with the blood. It would kill God. But the angel was too stubborn, still somehow defiant even as his body was torn open by the blade of a sinner.

Farfarello frowned. He wanted to hear that voice broken in sobs, see those tears falling and turning red. He wanted to hear God's angel cry; it would be like hearing Him cry. But the little one had stopped crying soon after he began; the pain, it seemed, hurt less than the betrayal that Schuldich had convinced him as being truth. Golden tones shaded his eyes as he observed the innocent angel, his mind turning on how to make those wanted tears falling with only the twist of his blade, not his words.

Once bright and fluffy, golden hair now hung limp, little streams of blood tracing down from small cuts and scrapes made to that perfectly innocent skin in attempts made to assure the madman Farfarello that his angel did indeed bleed red. Crimson stained that soft skinned cheek, traces of it drawn away by the tears that had fallen. Those tears still hung at the soft edged lashes of the angel's eyes, lids slid shut over those deep sapphire irises that had reflected so much pain and anguish when he had begun. More blood wound down the angel's soft neck, branching off into a network of trails that stained red the pale skin. The ebony shirt that had hung on his wiry frame, dulled by the captive's stay in the musty room, covered the angel poorly, bits of it still hanging on, but most of it shredded beyond recognition, the skin beneath covered in a web of cuts that allowed more blood to stain the floor. The broken child's shorts still hung in nearly one piece, only a few tears in it were apparent, giving glimpses to shredded skin below. The smooth and slender legs were mostly untouched, the trails of blood staining the skin more from the wounds on his torso.

The ropes and gag lay in pieces to the side, discarded early on so that the Irishman could better see the perfection he was going to ruin. Forced open rope burns dripped even more ruby liquid to the unforgiving cement below, threading thin trails between limp fingers before giving in to gravity and plummeting downwards. There was a pool of crimson at Farfarello's feet, something that was deeply hurting God, as much as it hurt the young one before him.

"Does God still favor you?" The words carried the strong accent of the Irish as Farfarello eyed his toy, idly licking that delicious red blood from his knife. A single amber eye watched the child tremble at the mention of God. God had been put to blame for this many times already, and the golden-haired beauty was starting to fear the name. Good; fearing His name hurt Him.

Pressing his back against the wall, Omi slowly opened his dulled sapphire eyes to see what was happening; Farfarello was slowly consuming his blood and enjoying it. It made that small knot of fear in his stomach tighten a notch, throwing his already delicate and poor appetite back further. If he ever survived this, he may never want to eat again.

"Well?"

The Irishman wanted an answer it seemed. What was he supposed to say? The young white hunter had been introduced to a new kind of Hell in the past four days, finding that the demons from the outside only made worse his terrifying inner demons. And now this. Did God ever favor him? Casting his gaze to the spreading ruby pool beneath his worn runners, the teen said the only thing that he could. "There is no God." Broken tones accompanied the voice that had been worn down by endless crying, those once vibrant blue eyes losing more of their light.

Those were the wrong words; of all the things the angel could have said, that was the least intelligent. Fury clouded that single eye of the psychopath and his arm came up quite suddenly, the back of his hand sweeping across in a forceful arc, smacking the delicate skin of Omi's cheek, right where his initial cut to the soft tissue had been. Knuckles driving into that wound, he tore his hand further and then let it drop, crimson staining the bandages wrapped on his hands. But that was hardly enough. This child had just said that God did not exist. He was wrong, God DID exist, and He had taken away everything Farfarello had held. Farfarello wanted revenge for the sin done to him, wanted the God who hurt him to weep. And there was a God; only God could have done to his family what had been done!

A low growl came from his normally still throat as he raised the hand holding his blade, pressing it against the angel's shoulder. Farfarello did not often come to anger, and when he did, it had been learned that being in his way during the mood was the least intelligent thing possible. A slight smile curved on his scarred lips as he looked into those deep blue eyes. "God doesn't want you to hurt, little angel," he spoke, his voice dark and low. "God smiles on you even though you reject Him. This is wrong and He will weep for it." There was a faint click and the sound of metal sliding against metal could be heard, following by the sickening sound of flesh being torn and the crunch of bone being shattered.

Omi's eyes went wide, pain screaming through him as the blade extended, biting through his shoulder and bone to penetrate the wall behind him, pinning him there. By some miracle, he managed not to scream as the flesh was torn through and broken, not even when his knees buckled, throwing all his weight onto that blade, though a broken whimper broke through pale lips as a tear freed itself to show the agony he was currently in.

"Do you think He is crying for you yet?" the Irishman asked, leaning in to lick some of the surfacing blood off of the teen's face. That smile faded, replaced by a frown when the youth shuddered and refused to give more than a token whimper to the pain he was inflicting on God's child. The grip he had on his blade tightened as he pressed the weapon deeper. He wanted to hear a scream that would make Him tremble and weep. Throwing all of his strength into it, Farfarello wrenched the blade that was still embedded in firm flesh, twisting it to tear open the wound and release more of that crimson liquid that summoned up God's tears.

That was it, his limit. All resolves and self-assured promises faded away in that moment of pure and utter agony. Despite his desire to the contrary, Omi let loose a scream that echoed in and beyond his small cell. A scream of terror and pain beyond the imagination and ability of a normal human. A scream that would certainly make Him cry.

*

Each step he took made a faint thud that sounded like thunder within the fragile bounds that was currently Youji's mind. Despite having downed four Tylenol after Ken had informed him they were going to get Omi back, the playboy was still under the effects of a massive hangover. Yet, despite the driving pain each small sound incited within his skull, the blond kept forcing himself onwards. He had to get to Omi. The kid had been gone four days, God only knew what condition he was in. Aya and Ken had refused to show him the short bit of video they had managed to nab of the kid. All he knew was that he was still alive, somehow, and still with Schwarz. And those bastards would pay for it. But getting Omi back mattered above all. Ever since the genki kid had been taken, Youji had been drinking himself stupid, blaming himself for the entire incident. Swearing revenge on Schuldich for whatever might happen to the young assassin while he was captive. He'd been obsessing over his stupidity instead of trying to fix it. That was changed; now he was going to make up for his mistakes and get the kid back.

Following behind Youji, Ken's mind was focused on killing something, ANYTHING, just killing. That video feed played over and over in his mind. Omi bound and gagged, trying to cry through a foul rag. Whoever had caused that was going to die. The blood rage of Siberian was in effect and wouldn't boil down under the crimson tone of his opponent's life was staining the claws of the tiger. The sharp sound of his Bugnuk extending and retracting in an endless cycle filled the air, helping Youji's hangover none, yet no one tried to stop it. It was a sign that Ken was ready to kill, and that getting in the way was the worst thing that could be done.

Aya was last, sheathed katana held in his gloved hand; violet eyes searched the corridor they were moving down. The basement of the hotel, the current lair of Schwarz. Omi was down here somewhere, and they had to find him before it was too late. The stoic assassin was having his own difficulties forgetting the image of the crying boy, so instead of trying to banish it, he embraced it, promising blood for blood. Whoever broke the youngest of Weiß would be broken for it. Of that he was certain.

Reaching a T-branch in the hall, Youji glanced back; Aya and Ken knew where they were going, he was merely taking the lead because he refused to let anyone else bungle up their charge in a situation that was clearly his own fault. The playboy was taking surprising responsibility in the matter. "Well, which way?" he demanded, careful to keep his voice low.

Debating and recalling the small section of the building's plans he's studied on the way, Ken looked down each extension of the hall, green eyes thoughtful. "Left," he replied, allowing the blond to start down it before he moved, the ruby-haired assassin again taking up the rear.

There was silence as the moved onwards, the only faint sounds being the soft clicking of their shoes on the cement floor and the occasional drip of water from a broken pipe. Then a scream echoed down the hall, reaching the trio and making them freeze. There was no mistaking the voice that uttered the sound of pain and fear; Omi, youngest and leader of Weiß, had. Muttering a curse to whoever had caused that scream, Youji sprinted down the hall, the other two close behind. And, inside, he only prayed he wasn't too late.

*

The consistent tapping of fingers meeting a keyboard muffled out the sound of the approaching assassins, but those laying in wait hardly needed something as simple as audio warning to know that the kittens were about to appear. Ever calm, Nagi worked on his laptop, keeping a midnight toned eye on the small video feed still linked to his computer; Farfarello was enjoying bloodying the boy far too much. It was almost enough to make the young telekinetic sick. Almost.

Schuldich, on the other hand, seemed to be ignoring the telekinetic and the laptop's screen entirely, his jaden eyes covered by flawless lids. His face suggested a state of concentration in the mind of the telepath, as though he were reaching out and searching for something with his thoughts. It seemed that he found it all too soon, for his eyes snapped open and his usual smirk spread across his features. "They're here."

Those words were like a command to action. Nagi cut his laptop from the networks and shut it down swiftly, closing it and pushing it into his small pack. Schuldich moved across the room they had been holed up in for a few days, unlocking and opening the door to Omi's improvised cell. Green eyes watched as Farfarello pulled the blade from the teen's body, seeing the child slump to the ground, one hand weakly clasping at the wound to try and stop the seemingly endless flow of blood.

//Come on, time to live the angel alone and withdraw before the kitties arrive.//

The sharp sound of Farfarello's blade retracting again cut through the air as the Irishman nodded. As much as he desired to remain and continue hurting God, he knew the necessity of leaving. Schuldich had been adamant upon that, in organizing their little escapade with the angel. Apparently the German wanted to play with Weiß more than by just killing their youngest.

Wordlessly, the pair left, closing the door once more and dropping the child into darkness as the shadows threatened to claim his weakened mind.

*

When the three eldest of Weiß finally reached Schwarz's temporary hideout, all traces of their enemies were gone. Only the areas cleared of dust and dirt gave any indication that the room had been inhabited recently at all. That and the faint tang of clove smoke that hung in the air, tainting their senses with the essence of vanilla and cinnamon. The telepath of Schwarz tended towards those and it was an irrefutable sign of his past presence there.

First in, Youji held a length of wire within his gloved hands, ready to strangle the first of the psychic bastards he happened to see. Emerald eyes filled with rightful fury searched the room, the pain of his hangover sitting in the deep green tones of his gaze. There was no one present. Uttering a powerful curse, the playboy kicked at the chair Nagi had been occupying only a few moments before, sending it skidding across the floor. "Fuck! Where the hell are they? And where's Omi?!"

The calm stature of Abyssinian filled the doorway as Aya followed the blond in, katana drawn and held in one hand. Violet eyes narrowed, observing the state of the room, the slightly disturbed coating of dust. "They left," he said simply, sheathing the blade and straightening from the defensive posture he'd assumed.

Last in was Ken, vibrant green-blue eyes also searching, but solely for their young friend. His claws had been retracted for the moment, his fingers curled loosely about the metal that would unsheathe them at a second's desire. There was no doubt that he wanted Schwarz's blood, but his priority was making sure Omi was safe before he went to gut the cowardly bastards who had taken him in the first place. "Stay calm, Balinese," he said, trying to keep the anger and worry from his voice. "He must be here somewhere." Of course, what went unvoiced was the worry that Schwarz had taken the child with them when they departed. It had taken four days to find him, and Ken wasn't certain if he could do such again.

It was Aya, with his sharp ability to observe and take notice of even the smallest details, that first noticed the small crimson ribbon slipping out from under the door at the far side of the room. Narrowing his eyes, recognizing the fluid as blood, he moved with steady steps to the door. His saya was used to smash the lock holding the door shut, his foot raising to kick the wooden block open. And what he saw inside caused even the most silent and controlled of Weiß to draw in a sharp breath of surprise and dismay.

The floor was not brown, nor grey, or any tone it should have been; it was stained crimson, covered by blood. Bits of it tainted the walls as smudged handprints and sourceless smears of deep red. Even the poor light of the cell illuminated that crimson tones too well. And there, crumpled in the corner, a hand weakly clasped to the bleeding wound in his shoulder, lay Omi. His normally vibrant sapphire eyes were covered by deathly pale skin, his chest rising and falling in the faintest of manners. It took a moment for Aya to realize that he was indeed still breathing, instead of being dead, as he had feared he had been.

"Omi!"

The exclamation came from Ken, the ex-soccer player forcibly pushing past Abyssinian and run to his fallen team mate's side. The brunet didn't take notice of the liquid that clung to his knees, staining his jeans as he knelt beside the teen; all his concerns were focused on the oft beyond innocent Omi. "Omi? Omi!" The gloves and his weapon of choice were quickly stripped off, the dark haired assassin scrambling to unfasten the orange shirt at his waist. Fingers pulled at the cloth, drawing it into a bundle which he held against Omi's wounded shoulder, carefully pulling the teen's hand away before laying pressure on it. "Come on, kid, give me a sign you're okay," he spoke, his words quick and strained. Pleading to the genki youth to respond somehow.

Pale as a ghost, Youji stood just behind Aya, staring at the broken form of the youngest assassin. All that blood pooled around the unresponsive boy brought a trembling to his form even as nausea rolled in his stomach. The playboy was used to blood, yes, but never so much of a single team mate's spilt in that fashion. The thought of the person who could ever do such a thing with a clear conscience twisted his stomach in a knot, killing any and all faint touches of his appetite. And it wasn't just from disgust, but from anger. When Kudou Youji got his hands on the bastard who'd done that to Omi, there would be Hell to pay, and he'd be handing out the payment. But for now, he couldn't stand to see that sight, lest it enrage him to the point of snapping to anything and anyone. Turning on his heel, the blond left. He was going to be sick, and then he was going to find Schwarz and kill each last one of them. Painfully.

Sighing, Aya turned to watch the playboy leave, a thin eyebrow raising in a questioning manner. Yet, he made no move the stop the elder assassin, knowing and respecting that sometimes a man just needed to be alone to deal. That was how things went too often for himself, and the claimed ice cold man did have heart enough to allow others their needed privacy.

Meanwhile, Ken was leaning over Omi's still form, one arm sliding around the boy's back and help hold him up, the assassin praying for a response. "Come on, Omi, it's Ken," he continued, hoping his words would bring back his young friend. "Give me a sign you're okay, kid. Come on, please!"

Finally the faintest stirrings of motion came from the injured teen, his breath deepening slightly as his eyes forced themselves open, pain and exhaustion shadowing their depths. Red stained lips turned up in a faint, reassured smile. Weiß had come for him; they hadn't abandoned him after all. "You came..." he whispered, his voice faint. "Ken-kun... Aya-kun..." Faded sapphire took in each assassin in turn before falling on the retreating form of Youji, who's posture was clearly that of an angry man disappointed with something. Unknown to Omi was that Youji was disappointed that Schwarz was gone, unable to be beaten into a bloody pulp for their actions. All that the child saw was the hurried exit, and all that he could figure, in his weakened mental and physical state, was that Balinese was displeased that he wasn't dead yet.

And that was just too much for him. The breath lefts his lungs as his eyes fell shut once more, no new breath of air taken to replace the needed oxygen. The teen's body went completely limp within Ken's arms, no response showing when the concerned assassin gently shook him.

"Omi?" This couldn't be happening. Ken watched the boy's chest, seeing no rising or falling, no breaths being taken. Omi couldn't be dead, it wasn't allowed. That just didn't happen, not to one so young. Kami, don't let him be dead! Please! Shaking the still form, he bit his lip. "Come on, Omi, breath for me. Omi... Omi!

"OMI!"

Nothing.



Author's Note:



*hums and looks innocent* Nope, the story ain't done yet. My apologies on the delay in finishing this chapter. Life caught up, I had to quit smoking cold turkey (now more than a week since my last cigarette *preens*), and I almost ran out of inspiration. Anyways, reviews are still appreciated and greatly desired. And thanks to those who have given feedback. Working on chapter five now; hope to get it finished very soon.