Part V
The milling crowds spread out as far as eyes could see, way below them. The moving vehicles looked hardly any larger, slow steady trickles of riotous colours that trotted placidly away. Schuldig adjusted his bandana to keep his hair off his face, and squinted into the distance. A few random thoughts far below provided ample amusement, and once or twice he chuckled out aloud.
"Something interesting, Schuldig?" Nagi asked from somewhere higher. Wind was strong, this high above the city's ground level, making his hair flutter. Even Schuldig would think twice before perching where Nagi did, but this was a telekinetic. He dusted his coat absently before glancing up with an automatic grin.
"Some student has just figured out what his teacher's comment on his essay actually meant. Have you heard of a play called 'Macbeth'?"
"I think so."
"The teacher wrote 'refer to Macbeth, act blah, scene blah, lines blah to blah, and the moron actually went to look it up."
"I think I see where this is going."
"Probably. The quote in question goes 'It was a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.' Ouch." [1]
Nagi did not smile, but that was only to be expected.
"By the way, do you know how dashing you look?"
"You are that bored, Schuldig?"
"I reflect but the truth, kid. Atop the Tokyo Tower, the setting sun at an artistic angle, trailing clouds of glory, silent and mysterious—don't try telling me that you aren't every girl's heartthrob."
"You are bored."
"And so are you; you wouldn't be responding to my nonsense otherwise." He opened a can of Pepsi. "Still, I suppose it's better than staying inside."
"He wants us to spread out, doesn't he? That's how I see it, anyway. We're less likely to be found if we aren't all holed up together."
"That's one reason. Another I can think of is that we'll be in the way. Crawford's strategising now; having the rest of us around would just irk him."
"You make a habit of that, don't you?"
"Not right now." Crawford was dangerously close to burning out. "He's too stressed." Prolonged strain had finally begun to tell. "He can't trust Farfarello to behave, but he can tell the two of us to scram."
Nagi nodded and lifted his eyes to the horizon. "I used to want to come up here, to the very top of the tower, bathed in the sunlight," he said softly. "I thought that one could surely see as far as one wants, up here."
"And now?"
"I was wrong." The flat assertion fell from innocent-looking lips. "But... what's right?"
"You have to decide that for yourself, kid." He wondered casually what he stood to lose if he leapt off—heh, he would probably bump on solid steel all the way down. Forget it. They would hang around here until Crawford called them back.
"Have you?"
"I thought I had, but... I'm not sure anymore."
He got a look of surprise, followed rapidly by suspicion. Ha, figured. Nagi never trusted him, did he? Smart kid.
Would Weiß take the bait?
The question began to plague him as soon as he finished setting up the aforementioned bait. Crawford nearly groaned out aloud. What was done was done; fretting over the outcome was pointless.
Now if only his head would accept that—never mind. He was stressed out, he knew—and by the time he was aware of that... Crawford allowed an ironic smile to appear, for a moment. He knew very well that even he could not take much more of this.
It would be over soon. It had better be.
He glanced at the clock. The other two would be back soon, to be briefed on his plans. Sometimes it unsettled him, that. On one hand, he wanted them to obey, but when they did trust him implicitly... every decision and every mistake rested on his shoulders alone. He craved responsibility, but he also hated it.
They all kept secrets from one another, of that he had no doubt—but they were all Schwarz. That bound them together, more firmly than any so-called trust or friendship. For example, Schuldig probably had some secret agenda for keeping Nagi out of action during their last meeting with Weiß, but Crawford had never questioned the German about that. After all, he had his own reason for wanting the same thing.
Experience gleaned from previous encounters taught him that where survival was concerned, the Weiß assassins were hardier than a bunch of cockroaches: if he wanted this to be the end-all, he had to take every precaution possible. One of which was to keep Nagi out of sight for now. There was information that he wanted to leak, after all, and who would believe that Nagi could allow anything out by accident?
Crawford wrenched his thought off that well-traversed path. He had thought through this; there was no need to go through all that again.
Just wait; the other two would be back in ten minutes or so.
Night time. Thrill of a hunt. Gunshot. Swish of a katana.
The sudden, vivid vision stunned him for a moment—and thankfully, no one was around to see that—before he interpreted it. Then Crawford smiled.
So, Weiß would take the bait.
"I don't like it," Ken muttered. "This stinks."
"I know that, Ken-kun," Omi replied, unperturbed. "I don't trust this myself." Skilled fingers flew over the computer keyboard with familiar ease. "The scraps of information, the vague suggestions, the assorted jumbled-up details... it all sounds plausible. Too plausible, in fact."
"And nothing connected with Schwarz should be this easy," Aya added.
Youji said nothing. The scene before him was familiar, with hardly anything to differentiate it from a hundred other mission discussions they had had in this very room. Omi, completely in his 'on-mission' mode, so utterly focused that it was hard to reconcile this dedicated tactician with the sunny-natured boy that laid dual claim to Bombay's character. Ken, serious and intense, ready to give his damned best without holding anything back. And Aya, his eyes thoughtful, devoid of the cold mask he usually donned... No, he could not let his friends down.
"So... you think this is a trap?" Ken frowned.
Omi tapped a finger against the monitor thoughtfully. "I would say so, yes. The information I've hacked into is by no means complete, but enough for me to dig out more. Everything looks natural, but if everything really was, it'd be too much of a coincidence that natural slips could provide just sufficient data. Overall, it's targeted almost perfectly at us—difficult, but not too difficult."
"Why are we reporting this to Kritiker, then? If it's a trap, why should we involve ourselves and Kritiker?"
"Because it's the best chance we've got," Aya replied shortly.
Omi chewed his bottom lip before looking up with a wry look. "I know it's probably a trap, Ken-kun, but as Aya-kun said, it's our best shot."
"Walking into a trap?"
"There's a difference between walking into a trap blindly, and doing so with eyes open," Aya remarked.
Ken digested that. "Okay. So we appear to take their bait. Does Kritiker agree?"
"Manx is coming this evening; we'll know then." Omi headed for the stairs. "That's about all for now, I think. Dinner, guys?"
"A word with you, Schuldig."
He raised an eyebrow at the brusque request, but stayed behind while the other two left the office. The briefing was over, so what was this about?
But the American did not begin immediately, instead, he paced the entire length and width of the office, closing all the windows and doors as he passed them—Crawford must be really stressed, Schuldig decided, if he allowed himself to do pointless things like that. "What's up, Brad?"
Crawford was adjusting the window's shutter, but nearly yanked the whole thing off at that. Schuldig swallowed involuntarily. Someone was in big trouble with the precog, and he had an uncomfortably shrewd suspicion that he knew who it was. So he waited.
"Schuldig, how did Farfarello find out about Weiß's location?" Crawford shot him an irritated look before he asked. "Nagi knows better, and even you wouldn't do something as phenomenally stupid as commit some action that would advertise Schwarz's whereabouts."
So the American did simple elimination and came up with the residential lunatic. And Crawford was perfectly aware—as was Schuldig—of the fact that Farfarello could hardly have managed that alone. Again, simple elimination came up with the only person who, rationally speaking, could have given that information to Farfarello.
He managed a derisive smirk. "Is that a real question, Brad?"
Crawford glared. "On second thought, why you allowed Farfarello to do so is more relevant."
He should have realised that himself—probably would have if he had not been otherwise distracted—but it was too late now. What he needed—and fast—was an explanation. A plausible explanation that fitted his character.
Schuldig sighed, and stuck his hands into his pockets. "Look, Crawford, I was bored, okay? I didn't think Weiß was searching for us."
"You didn't think, period." All the same, the precog seemed to be somewhat satisfied—and no surprise, Schuldig thought wryly. Crawford thrived on knowledge; knowing how Weiß traced Schwarz would leave him one less thing to worry about.
Turning, Schuldig walked out of the room, letting out a silent sigh of relief as he closed the door behind him. It was a good thing that Crawford was the type that he was; had the American pressed further, he would have been hard put to come up with answers—especially since he did not know them himself.
What should he do now?
A familiar, somewhat self-mocking smirk crept up, following that thought. Really, he must have caught the rhetorical questioning virus from Crawford. Since when had what he should do hindered what he did do?
So... what could he do now?
Strolling by the window, he paused to look out. The last hints of sunset lingered on the sky, and he knew that if he looked down, he would see the people passing by below: returning after a hectic day of work and simply glad at the prospect of the waiting spouse/dog/hot bath, shopping for pre-cooked dishes because unexpected guests had shown up for dinner, feeling elated after a returned test with flying colours, excited yet apprehensive before a blind date... Common, mundane, everyday thoughts, blissfully ignorant existences—a world that he glimpsed constantly, but to which he could never belong.
Schuldig drew the curtains.
"Ready, guys?" Omi strapped the last of his darts in place. Ran wondered why the younger assassin ever bothered asking; had they had any hesitations, they would have backed out long ago. "Shall we go?"
Wordlessly, the four of them filed downstairs. As he started the car, Ran frowned to himself. Something in the atmosphere felt different; nothing tangible, just different from all other mission nights.
Well, that was understandable. This was an unusual mission.
Ran concentrated on driving, and driving alone. The next thing he knew, the mansion that was to be their battleground loomed into sight. The probably false information from Schwarz's files mentioned something about obtaining some documents that had been hidden on the mansion grounds before WWII, documents that might provide classified information on SS in its early days—in other words, information that the organisation naturally did not want its subordinates to know. A plausible mission—but probably fake.
Still not speaking, they exited the car.
"They are here."
These were the only words Crawford spoke.
Without a second thought (though whether he had ever gone as far as the first was debatable), Schuldig launched himself into action. This was just a job.
Just. A. Job.
He zeroed in onto the first Weiß member he saw. Siberian's eyes were fierce as he met his attack, and something in them looked almost glad at the upcoming fight. Like Farfarello, almost.
Good. That should keep his mind off other stuff; sparring with Farfarello always did.
He was vaguely aware of the fights that had started, all over the place. Nagi was facing off Bombay outside—surprise was dominant in that one's mind: not seeing Nagi in any of the recent encounters had led to the half-formed hope/conclusion that the telekinetic was no longer around—while Farfarello and Abyssinian went against each other elsewhere, blade for blade. That left Crawford with Yo—Balinese. That fight was more or less even, for now. Still, Crawford was a good shot, and if—
Searing pain tore through his arm, reminding him that he had his own opponent to see to. Siberian wore a feral grin, charging again, but Schuldig veered off in time easily this round.
All the same, that arm hurt like hell; he spared a look—the claws had torn right to the bone. Damn.
Two shots rang out with little warning, startling both of them into stepping back, for a moment.
And a moment was long enough for Crawford to get there from—from wherever he had been. "What do you think you're doing?" the American hissed. "See to your wound; I'll hold them off for now." His tone promised a scathing lecture afterwards, but right now, Crawford was holding his anger in check—the job had higher priority. "And call Nagi here."
"Alright." 'Here' was the entrance hall of the mansion itself. Nagi and Bombay were out in the garden grounds the last time he checked. Stepping back from the immediate vicinity of the fight, Schuldig checked again. Yes, those two minds were still there. Seizing Nagi's, he bashed through the shields—the kid tended to be distracted while employing his powers, a habit he had not managed to break yet—and projected an image of Crawford against both Siberian and Balinese into the kid's head.
That done, he tuned back into reality—and saw Crawford being backed into a corner by the combined efforts of both Weiß assassins.
Bloody. Hell.
He picked up a gun that Crawford had dropped (the precog always brought at least three when there was any chance of fighting) and aimed with his good hand. That was his off hand, though—Siberian's claws had left their marks on his right arm—and his grasp was not as firm as it might have been otherwise.
Which was partially why the gun flew off his hand, snatched away by nearly invisible wires.
Agonised green eyes met his own in that moment, even as the wires came straight at him.
Omi stared at the retreating back of the Schwarz telekinetic for a moment, confused. Naoe had the upper hand, hadn't he? Why did he break off the fight?
Frankly, Omi had not expected to see the telekinetic here at all; he had half-counted on that—big mistake. Rating by fighting prowess alone, that deceptively slender-looking young man had to be the most deadly of the lot. Which was why Omi had not tried to call for aid or join the others fighting in the mansion itself—if he was here, so was Naoe, and that meant his teammates did not have to contend with this one.
Scrambling to his feet, Omi firmly told his bruises and aches to take a long vacation, and forced himself to chase after the telekinetic. That Naoe left so suddenly could mean only one thing: that the Schwarz members inside the building had called for reinforcement—and that meant Omi had to be there too, to even the scales in Weiß's favour.
Breaking into the building through an open ground floor window, he spied ferocious fighting ahead, and hurried on.
In the entrance hall, Youji and Ken were fending off Crawford and Schuldig, in no particular order—from afar, everything looked like one grand melee.
But Nagi's arrival was about to change that. And the Japanese youth was already there, raising his hand.
Oh no. "Youji-kun! Watch out!"
The pillar shook with the impact.
Omi bit his lower lip. Where was Aya? Fighting with Farfarello, no doubt; that left them three against three here—wait, make it two versus two. From the corner of his eye, he saw Youji getting back to his feet, wires flying—and backing Schuldig down a side corridor, one narrow enough that, with the wires lashing out at full force, even the impossibly fast mindreader could not get past them to make his escape. Great. No immediate worries there, at least.
That left Ken and himself against the precog and the telekinetic.
Great.
"Siberian, let's get out of here."
"What?"
He did not reply, but dashed for the nearest window. This was something he had not been thinking about—something he had forced himself not to think about, because Schwarz had a mindreader. "Quick, Ken-kun!"
It was probably because of their many years of working together that Ken trusted his directions, illogical as they might seem. As his old friend touched down on the ground outside, Omi activated the first of the controls sewn onto his jacket for this mission.
The wall behind them shook, even as a wave of heat rolled out, washing over the two of them.
"Bomb?" Ken whispered.
"Radio-activated bombs," he grinned.
"When did we plant—"
"We didn't." His grin grew wider. "We are backed by Kritiker, remember?" That had been one of his reasons for bringing their organisation into what was, after all, more of a private feud between Weiß and Schwarz. He didn't tell the other three, though—it was hard enough for one person not to think about it and thus slip the information out to Schwarz; with four, that would be impossible.
"What about Aya? And Youji?"
"Aya-kun's not in the building, and I'm not activating the explosives in the direction Youji-kun took." He pressed a few more controls, effectively sealing the mansion's entrance hall from all sides. "Now, let's get on with our end of it."
They were alone now, alone with each other. Youji kicked the door shut with his heel before leaning back against it, his body sagging to fit its stolid, unyielding surface. Across the room, Schuldig had taken an almost identical stance, leaning against the window in the corner. The room was silent, save for their harsh breathing, fresh from the exertions of the fight.
The fight, which was still continuing beyond this room that they had entered, out of sight.
He closed his eyes, wearily. How long more? How much more of this could he take?
"Are your ribs okay? You got bashed into the wall just now." Quiet. Casual. So natural that it became unnatural.
"A few got cracked; nothing broken, though." His reply felt stuck in his throat, yet the words, when they finally forced themselves out, sounded damned automatic. "And your arm?"
A familiar, somewhat wry chuckle. "Didn't think you'd notice; it wasn't half as spectacular as your injury was."
He looked up at last. Tumultuous blue eyes met his gaze for one stunned moment before jerking away. "Schul—"
"Enough!" Schuldig burst out suddenly. "It's over, remember?" A pause, but the Schwarz member rushed on before he could reply. "No, scrap that; nothing's over. There never was anything to begin with."
"There never was anything," he echoed, his voice hollow. "Remember our cicada?"
"Our?"
He ignored that. "I guess its song is over."
Silence, then Schuldig sighed and slouched into a convenient chair, the hysterical energy of a few moments ago deserting him as abruptly as it had appeared. "Yeah... I guess so." The normally smooth voice was tired and raw with emotions, each one complex, all conflicting—distinguishing even one from the multitude would be impossible.
He did not reply; he had nothing to say to that. All that they were doing now was waiting—waiting for the inevitable, neither wishing to initiate it—how long would the deadlock last? Without anything better to do, he dropped his gaze to study the pattern of shadows on the floor. The room was filled with moonlight, almost like the night when they went out to observe the cicada nymph—almost. It was over now; if ever there was a chance in the first place.
Some moving shadow caught his eye, sailing through the air/floor. What was it? Looking up, he stared—and tensed. "Schuldig, watch out!"
Even as he spoke, he knew it was too late—the glass of the windowpane shattered before his last words was fully out of his mouth.
The orange-haired young man turned, but only in time to see the gleaming katana bury itself into his body.
Youji wasn't sure what he would have done next, given the choice—but he wasn't given one. Aya was standing before him between one breath and next, the familiar smell of blood and leather surrounding him. "Are you all right?"
"How—" he faltered, unsure of what to ask.
"I heard from Omi that you two went this way, after I knocked out Farfarello; wasn't sure if I could catch him unaware, but figured that he might have his attention elsewhere." Aya spoke rapidly, fast enough that he could barely comprehend them, numb as he suddenly was. "What was it? Mind-control?"
He blinked, trying to think of a rational reply—but apparently his blank stare had been answer enough for his teammate. The redhead was supporting him carefully. "How do you feel now? I heard you met the telekinetic."
He managed a half-hearted grin. "I'll live, Aya. Thanks." Craning his neck, he pushed his old friend to one side gently, moving him out of his direct line of vision.
Only a small pool of blood marked where Schuldig last stood.
"Damn, he got away," Aya muttered, retrieving the blood-splattered blade that he had thrown just now. "Youji, get out of here."
"What? Why?"
"Omi just told me that he's detonating explosives around the place. We're hoping to trap Schwarz inside, and that means we can't hold back anything." A gloved hand settled on his shoulder urgently. "This place is going to turn hotter than Hell soon; let's move."
He brushed that hand aside. "In a moment, Aya." What exactly did he mean by that? "Go on first; I'll join you guys outside." Where did he want to go? He didn't know that, either.
Amethyst eyes held his gaze for a moment, as though their owner was unsure of the right course of action.
He did not wait. "Ja, Abyssinian."
Ran frowned slightly, a wry expression crossing his face. Youji knew his habits too well, didn't he? Somehow, Youji always knew when he could get away without having Ran going after him. Not doing so in time, anyway.
But what was Youji after? Ran had no idea; at least, he thought so.
"Abyssinian? Is Balinese with you?"
He adjusted his grip on the katana, still dripping the Schwarz mindreader's blood, and activated the speaker. "Abyssinian speaking, Bombay. Balinese isn't here."
"I'll reach him. You have to get out quickly yourself." The mansion's foundations shook—again—even as they spoke. Omi's voice grew terser. "Now, Abyssinian. Out."
Ran nodded absently as the line went dead, noting the wind direction and the flames that had begun to lick the walls in some wings. There was no time to lose; he had already wasted too much with Youji just now, when he should have been concentrating on dragging the older assassin out of this place. Well, too late for that now.
Taking a deep breath, Ran plunged into the blackening fumes. Waiting here would do no good, and neither would chasing after his teammate now, when he had no idea where Youji went.
Damn it all, Youji had better come out of this in one piece.
The cursed wounds hurt.
Agony poured forth from the fresh cuts on his arm, and the still fresher stab on his shoulder burned ferociously. Within his body, everything converged at some point; everything was just white-hot pain.
Schuldig grimaced through the haze that threatened to cloud over his mind. It had been ages since he felt injuries of this magnitude firsthand. None of it was fatal by itself, but if left unattended—like he was doing now—
Every step sent another jolt of pain up his raw nerves, but he pressed on anyway. He had to. Crawford and the rest of his teammates were busy trying to get out themselves, he knew that from a brief mental scan—and damned if he was going to yell for help like some dependent... he would get out of this place by himself.
Turning down a corridor, he almost collided head on with another. "Schuldig?" Arms caught him before his legs gave up in sheer relief.
Green eyes met his own when he lifted his head, filled with anxious concern. "Are you okay?"
He froze. "Balinese." Gripping at the wall behind him, he forced himself to straighten, pushing the other young man away with his free hand. "Why are you here?"
Youji stepped back, and his arms fell to his sides. "I... I'm not sure. But I can't leave without knowing if you survived Aya's attack."
"Well, I have. So?" His words fell harshly. "Are you here to end it all? Your teammates certainly want to." And... if it came down to that—which looked very possible right now—he would rather be killed by Youji than any of the other Weiß members.
The blond young man sighed. "Schuldig, you know I won't do that."
He blinked. Youji had dropped his mental shields—the ones that he had taught the other to build—and, mind to mind, he knew that Youji wasn't lying.
Moreover, he saw that Youji's mind was as full of conflict as his own: Loyalty? Friendship? Sides? Black and white? Or a murky grey?
Youji produced a roll of bandages from somewhere to staunch the blood on his shoulder. "I'm sorry about that."
He grinned humourlessly, watching the Weiß assassin perform first aid with skill honed from years of practice. "Your teammate meant well—for you, anyway."
"And your teammates, too," Youji said with equal dryness. "But I can't stand by and watch mine get hurt, and neither can you."
"Which means, sooner or later, we'll have to pit ourselves against each other." Smoke was starting to come down the corridor. He opened the nearest door that led into some room and entered, with Youji right behind him. The heavy door would provide some temporary barrier against the fire, and that would have to do—whatever they had to talk about, they had to say it now, before the outside world intruded and they became Schwarz and Weiß once more. "I don't want to, I—" He paused, surprised at himself. Did he really mean that? "I can't," he whispered at last, wonderingly. "I can't kill you."
Youji closed his eyes briefly. The image that flared across into Schuldig's own mind was a replay of their Christmas Eve, so very long ago. "We've come too far to back out," was said softly.
"That's true," he agreed, his mind numb—then tensed as Youji's arms wrapped around him tightly. "Youji—"
"Don't," Youji whispered achingly. "Don't."
Don't what?
But he did not ask it out aloud; he knew the answer. All too well.
Fumes had begun to seep through the slim space below the door, and, from the corner of his eye, he could see flames licking the window. He had studied the layouts of the mansion before the mission, and knew that this wing faced an inner courtyard, with no way out. If they hurried, they might still be able to get out, with Youji's wires—but what then?
"When we leave, we'll be enemies again," Youji muttered, echoing his own line of thought almost perfectly.
And he would have nothing left except memories, bittersweet memories of the light-filled world he had touched once—but could never forget. One more regret to the precarious scales of cynicism versus insanity that he had sustained until recently.
And... he was too tired.
"Then, let's stay here."
In response, Youji pulled off his transmitter and crushed it under his heel. "Let's."
It was past midnight now; the darkest hour, usually.
Crawford took off his glasses and wiped the lenses with care, the familiar routine helping him to calm down. Some distance below, the mansion was burning like a lit torch now, lighting up half the sky. Specks of ash rose up with the hot air, irritating him, but he did not move from his vantage spot; he was still waiting.
Nagi stood beside him, expressionless as always. What was the boy thinking about? Crawford wondered that sometimes, but he was Crawford and he did not ask. Farfarello was just coming to, having been literally dragged through hellfire by Nagi's powers just now as they got out. It had been that close.
And Schuldig was nowhere to be seen or heard.
"No sigh yet, Nagi?"
The telekinetic shook his head. "He hasn't attempted to communicate at all since the bombs started; the last contact was when he called me to give you a hand." A slight crease had begun to form on that smooth brow. So.. was Nagi worried? Quiet and rational as usual—but Nagi seldom spoke except when it was a direct response to a question, in conversations with him, anyway.
"Do you think he's still in there?" The question surprised him. Stupid. Why and how did he blurt it out?
"I don't know... I doubt it, though." Nagi's eyes were on some distant point. "If he's really stuck inside, he'd contact me to open up some sort of path for him through the fire."
Crawford started mentally. Something about the way Nagi phrased it made him uncomfortable. Normally he would have dismissed such trivialities, but his failure to predict the bombs in time still weighed heavily on his mind, and he dared not let anything through—how did he make such a colossal slip? He doubted if he could ever forgive himself completely regarding that.
"On the other hand," Nagi continued—without prompting; he must be really concerned. "Schuldig should contact us after he gets out. Perhaps he's distracted."
He opened his mouth to reply, then shut it with an audible snap as a vision—one of the clearest and most vivid that he had ever had—assaulted him.
"Let's go, Nagi. Carry Farfarello with you." Turning, he made for the car they had parked, a (hopefully safe) distance away.
"We aren't waiting for Schuldig?" Surprise flickered over otherwise impassive eyes.
His expression turned grim, and he did not stop or look back. "We're not. Now move."
Because... there was no one to wait for.
Schuldig, what the hell are you thinking?
"He's what?"
"I said, his signal's simply gone!" Omi's voice was growing shrill as it became more frantic. "And without pinpointing his location, it'll be suicidal for us to barge back in there!" The three of them were standing together, next to their car. Behind them, flames roared and ran rampant through the mansion's grounds, so much so that the heavens themselves seemed ablaze.
Ken turned to look back. Omi was right. Hell, it was probably close to suicidal even if they knew exactly where Youji was, inside there. Even here, the heat was growing unbearable. "Maybe the fire disturbed the signals."
"Kritiker's electronic equipment had all been through extreme tests," Omi snapped. "Even if the speaker's switched off, I should still be able to detect it!" Against the fiery backdrop, his face was a constantly conflicting mess of light and shadows. Ordinarily blue eyes appeared to be burning in one moment and murky in the next. "But—Youji-kun's signal's just gone..."
Aya had said nothing all this while, Ken noted, glancing covertly at his redhead teammate. Of all of them, Aya was the last to have seen Youji—right before the older assassin went off to goodness-knows-where. "Aya?"
Blank violet eyes met him. Ken swallowed. He hated it when Aya pulled the storm shutters over his so-called windows to the soul. "Yes, Ken?"
"You okay?"
For a moment it looked as though Aya was going to laugh, then the redhead snapped back into control. "Yes." Like Ken himself, he also turned to gaze at the burning mansion. "I wasn't sure whether I should chase after him when he left... I think he knew that. He usually does."
"Yeah," Ken agreed, only half-listening. "Omi?"
"Still no sign." The younger boy was visibly torn. "And guys, we can't stay."
"What?" He would have went on further, but Aya clapped a hand on his shoulder warningly.
"We have no choice, Ken." The usually cool voice was now utterly, coldly emotionless. "We have to go."
"Like hell—" He broke off. Inwardly, he goddamned well knew that he was being unreasonable. The other two didn't want to leave their teammate behind any more than he did—but what else could they do? "Fine. We go."
Heedless of injuries, they pressed into each other, holding on tightly, as though hanging on to each's last anchor. There wasn't much air left around them, consumed by the raging flames, but they didn't care. Really, if one got down to it, what was actually worth caring about? Not much. What was worth fretting over? Even less.
"Schuldig."
"Hmm?"
"Remember what you asked me once? About whether I believe in Heaven and Hell."
"Sure. Last Christmas."
"I think I'll believe. Hell's probably the only place available to both of us."
"So, we'll go together?"
"Deal."
"Deal."
"'La commedia è finita'?" The elderly artisan read carefully, his expression puzzled. "What's that?"
"It doesn't matter. Just engrave it," Crawford replied shortly, then turned and walked out of the shop to his car, parked along the road. Nagi was waiting for him inside, although he had no idea why he ever wanted to come along. The Japanese boy had hardly spoken, since...
He had expected some pain, when it first happened, not now. But pain, when it came, seeped in slowly—and the ache was only growing worse. Eventually he would get over it, of course, but when would that be?
"Pragmatic as always, Crawford." The painfully familiar voice laughed teasingly in his mind. For a moment, he practically saw the smirking German, attired in his favourite green jacket and wearing the outrageously clashing yellow bandana that only he could get away with—but the moment flickered and died. "Lighten up, Brad."
Shut up, Schuldig, and don't call me that.
"Why not, Braddy-kins? You look too young not to use your first name," the mindreader grinned carelessly, but there was a challenge in those lazy yet cold blue eyes. "Take off those spectacles, and you can pass for a high school prefect."
"All the more reason for me to keep them on."
Yes, that was how the don't-call-me-that issue first started, long ago. Their first meeting, in fact.
Crawford gritted his teeth, and shoved the memories as far back as he could. If this had been an actual mental conversation, shielding would have sufficed—but it was not, and he could hardly shield against his own mind.
And his mind would insist on replaying these scenes.
Nagi gave him a brief nod as he got into the car. "Done?"
"Done. The plaque will be ready tomorrow." He started the car.
"What does that line mean, anyway?"
"'The comedy is finished.' Italian play or opera, I think." [2]
"That sounds like what Schuldig would choose," the telekinetic murmured, then glanced sideways at him. "You chose it?"
"No, he did. Although I don't think he remembered it." He adjusted the back view mirror with one hand, keeping most of his attention on navigating Tokyo's traffic. "Or, if he did, he probably thought I forgot."
After all, that had been years ago.
Schuldig chuckled as he laid down a book. In all the time Crawford had known the exasperating young man, he was seldom seen without a book in his free time. Literature, history, science—name any topic, and Schuldig could probably sustain an intelligent conversation on it. And the stranger the subject, the better. The mindreader had an inordinate obsession with reading irrelevant things. "Hey, Brad."
"Don't call me that."
"Yeah, sure." Schuldig didn't bother to sound sincere. "Have you ever thought about what to put on your tombstone? You know, last words and stuff."
"No." Why would he? If he was already dead, he wouldn't care, would he? Besides, they were underworld agents. What's the chance of a proper burial—with an actual body?
"Well, listen to this guy's last words: 'God will forgive me, it is his business.' [3] I got a sudden urge to stamp this on Farfarello's grave—only I suspect he'd rise from the dead just to get back at me for that."
"Possible." He held the newspaper a little higher. It was almost always a mistake to reply—Schuldig usually managed to drag him into pointless conversations like this one. He wanted to end this.
Schuldig got the hint, of course—but he clearly didn't care. "What would you choose, Brad?"
"Nothing." That should end the conversation. Hopefully.
"Know what I'd like?"
Obviously not. "No."
"I don't either." The German was out to be irritating today. "But let me see... 'He that dies pays all debts'? [4] Hell, no. I'd rather short change death, thanks all the same. Oh yes, this one: 'La commedia è finita.' Short and crisp, no?"
He went on perusing the news.
"Ah well, guess you've never heard of that line. It's the closing line of the play I was reading the other day."
"I didn't know you speak Italian."
"I read a translation—but who wants a translation for an epitaph? Oi, Brad, are you listening?"
He ignored it, and the mindreader finally shrugged it off, settling down on a couch. "Never mind, I was feeling whimsical."
Schuldig...
His knuckles were white when he noticed them, and he had to force his hands to relax. Damn. If he had any desire right now, it was to punch that smirking bastard in the mouth. How dared he leave? Schuldig being irritating, Nagi stolid, Farfarello unpredictably predictable, and himself forcing the inevitable chaos into some semblance of order—all part of the same comfortingly familiar routine. How dared Schuldig change that?
"Crawford." Nagi was looking straight ahead.
"Yes?"
"What did you see that night?" They both knew what night Nagi was referring to. "You had a vision."
"That doesn't concern you." He wasn't ready to think about it himself; he would probably never be.
"Okay." The youngest member of Schwarz drew back from the topic. "By the way, I've booked the air tickets."
He nodded, but made no reply. There was nothing to reply about; Nagi always accomplished his assigned tasks perfectly.
Tomorrow, after collecting the plaque he had ordered to Schuldig's specifications, Schwarz would leave Japan. It was time to leave, before SS found their tracks here—at least, that was what he told himself.
"Crawford," Nagi spoke again after a long pause, as they neared their safe house. "We aren't ever coming back to Japan, are we?" He sounded resigned.
"Probably not."
It was a sober group that gathered in the cemetery that grey morning. The three of them were there, of course, as was Manx. That wasn't really all that surprising; as the main link between their team and Kritiker, she knew each of them well enough to come voluntarily. Omi carried a bunch of cattleyas, Youji's favourite flower. The hole had already been dug. It wasn't very large, though—after all, there was no coffin. No body. Not in a recognisable state, anyway.
After the fire burned out, the three of them had returned to the site, along with Kritiker's cleaning crew. Battered up and bandaged—but the doctors who tried to advise them to rest could all hang themselves for all they cared. They had to know what happened to their teammate.
Ran closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the sight that finally greeted their eyes when the cleaning crew excavated to the centre of the site, where a room had collapsed onto itself—like most of the rest during the fire—and, buried underneath all the rubble...
The two bodies were twined together so closely that they appeared to be one entity, at first glance. Physical identification was impossible, but various tests confirmed that one of the two was their missing teammate. The other body matched no records, and they could only conclude that it was a member of Schwarz. That the deceased member was not the Japanese young man was all they could conclude, from the body's height.
"He fought to the last." Ken's somewhat awed whisper jerked Ran back to the present. In the soccer-lover's hands lay the urn that carried the cremated remains—indeed, most of the two bodies disintegrated into ash the moment the crew tried to move them. The box probably contained some of the Schwarz member's remains, too, but that could not be helped. Kneeling, Ken placed the urn into the waiting hole carefully.
"That he did." Omi's response was equally soft. Both bodies had had their arms around the other's neck. Kritiker had concluded in the end that both parties, doubtlessly worn down by earlier injuries, had finally resorted to fighting hand-to-hand and then strangulation. "Youji-kun..."
Ran picked up a shovel, saying nothing. There was a lot that he could say, but nothing seemed right.
Mutely, they began covering the urn with soil.
"'While the light lasts I shall remember, and in the darkness I shall not forget,'" [5] Manx murmured under her breath, tracing the words on the tombstone. "I wonder what he meant by that."
Ken looked up with a wry smile. "Who knows? He never mentioned what he chose for his epitaph to us—not to me, anyway. Omi? Aya?"
"Me neither." Omi added the last bit of soil, which covered the urn completely, his movement slow and dragged.
"Same." Ran patted the loose earth in place with the smooth side of his shovel.
It was an arrangement that Kritiker had for all its field agents, that. A confidential list of things the agent wanted done on the occasion that he or she died in action—it could be modified at any time, and requests were permitted to total no more than a specified sum in monetary terms. The exact figure differed depending on the nature of the job, but from what they heard, an assassin's sum was one of the largest.
All that Youji had requested for was a proper burial and this epitaph.
Having flattened the soil before the tombstone, they stepped back, and Omi picked up the bouquet. This was their last bunch of cattleyas; the flower shop had ceased ordering them, since... that.
The cattleyas, blooming luxuriously, were laid down gently on the newly upturned earth.
Omi turned to face them, his expression undecipherable. "Let's go, guys. Manx, are you coming along?"
Persia's secretary nodded. "I have to brief you on your new arrangement; Persia has approved Weiß's request to be placed on mobile."
"Fine." The rationale behind their request never came into question; everyone, including Manx, knew why Weiß wanted to leave Tokyo.
Some weeks later, Ran, taking a break from driving their new M-Cat [6], found himself alone in the main living area of the van. Ken was driving, and Omi was busy at the back, familiarising himself with the van's telecommunicating devices. As was usual nowadays, his idle mind went through bits and pieces of conversation, from a winter afternoon the year before.
"I don't think he meant any harm."
"It's just him... I don't know what to think."
"I won't betray Weiß, Aya."
Gazing at the scenery that flashed by outside the van's window, Ran noted bemusedly that summer was almost over. Leaves had started to mellow overhead, and lately, during the nights when they parked off the expressway in the countryside, between destinations, he had heard fewer cicadas, that symbol of summer.
"He fought to the last," Ken had said. Indeed, the two bodies had been close together, so close that they could be mistaken for one. Fighting? Or...
Sometimes, Ran wondered.
[1]: Okay, confession time: I borrowed this joke from my literature teacher. Apparently he really wrote it on some poor lout's essay. According to him, anyway, but he likes to be entertaining, and I personally won't swear to the authenticity of that tale.
[2]: That's 'I Pagliacci' (The Clowns) by Ruggiero Leoncavallo, 1892. I think it's an Italian opera... *sweatdrops* What? Have I seen/read it myself? Obviously not.
[3]: The chap in question is Heinrich Heine, d. 1856.
[4]: From 'The Tempest' by William Shakespeare. Okay, I know I've had my characters quote the Bard way too often... ^^;;
[5]: *sweatdrops* Gomen, I don't know the source for this one... I got it off Agatha Christie's 'While the Light Lasts', which is a collection of her earlier literary attempts, and one of the short stories used this line. From the way it was said, though, I got the impression that the character was quoting—and I don't know from where! __ I hate it when I can't identify the source. (yeah, I'm obsessed about identifications; if you've followed all the footnotes so far, you should have noticed that for yourself...) If you know, please (x n times, n approaching infinity; so sue me, I'm a double maths student) mail me!
[6]: M-Cat = multipurpose-communication advanced transporter, according to the OVA Gakken Mook.
