The Weiss Kreuz Picture Show

by seven dials

Yup, it's yet another obligatory Weiss Kreuz Rocky Horror parody. I know this isn't a new idea and tried very hard not to write this thing, but the muse insisted. Completed contains bad language, yaoiish sexual encounters and song parodies.

8. Hello to Oblivion

The Weiss Kreuz Picture Show A Weiss Kreuz fanfiction by laila

Part Eight: Hello to Oblivion

The doors to the theater burst open, light and smoke both streaming into the otherwise darkened room and revealing, stood in the doorway, a pair of silhouetted figures. Both tall, both sharply dressed, both carrying high-powered handguns. The light glinted off the lenses of the glasses one of the figures wore; the other shook his head like a shampoo commercial and tossed his long, shaggy hair from his face. Crawford and Schuldich stepped into the body of the room, dressed in immaculately-tailored, spotless white suits, shirts of the palest lavender and neat white ties – a sharp contrast to their earlier slightly disheveled appearance.

Then they both started to applaud, slowly and ironically.

Youji froze, his eyes suddenly wary behind the slightly skewiff sunglasses which by some minor miracle had remained on his nose throughout the Floor Show, swimming pool 'session' and all. Omi gasped in surprise, taking a pace back from Aya; the realization was dawning quite rapidly upon him that once again he had obviously been doing things he shouldn't be. Aya raised his head and glowered nastily at the interruption. Ken and Nagi took one look at one another then pulled quickly away with a matched pair of small, startled yelps – understandable, as they'd barely exchanged names and what they had seen of each other hadn't exactly impressed either of them. Persia finally wrestled his wheelchair, not to mention his delinquent leg, back under his own control, pulling his blanket firmly over his knees and stopping short in the wings, facing the stage.

After that nobody moved. The two groups stood and stared at one another – Crawford and Schuldich in quiet triumph, the little group onstage in varying amounts of bewilderment and alarm. The silence stretched out, became uncomfortable, then more than uncomfortable. Ken found the silence insufferable first and, being Ken Hidaka, he broke it.

"What the hell are you doing?" Ken asked, staring at the newcomers. And what the hell am I doing, come to think of it? And where the hell had this outfit come from? What, to cut a long story short, the hell was going on?!

And, for the first time that night, one of Ken's good questions actually got an answer.

'Crawford's Complaint'

Crawford:
Hey there, Youji
Better bow to me.
Your life's too free and easy
Do you have no shame?

The pair aimed their guns at Youji. Aya stepped away from him, then glanced back over at the blonde and froze. Youji looked stunned, almost wrong-footed, as if he hadn't even suspected he was being excessive. Omi, acting rather more prudently, grabbed Ken's wrist and dragged him to the comparative safety of the wings, wrapping his arms around his waist. Ken blinked, looked down at Omi, then pulled him close. He suddenly felt as if he wanted to cry and buried his head in Omi's wet hair to hide it. Omi clung to him, ignoring Aya's Death Glare. Nagi scrambled after them.

Crawford:
It's not hard for me to see
That you think too differently.
We shall be leaving presently.
It's time to end this game.

At a nod from Crawford, Schuldich turned to the doors. He was smirking. It was not a sight to inspire Omi with confidence. He knew he'd thought it way too many times tonight already, but he didn't like the look of this at all. Omi wanted to go home. If it hadn't been for the guns, he might well have tried to make a break for it than and there.

"Wait." Youji said. "Wait! I can explain."
"It's about time someone tried to," Ken said shakily, raising his head.
Omi hugged him. "It's okay." He murmured. What was okay? Not the situation, that was for sure. "Youji-kun? Could that explanation take in why we're all dressed so weird?" He was glad when Ken suppressed a giggle, for all it was slightly frantic.
Nagi tugged at his top, trying to get it to cover rather more of his midriff. "Yes, could it?"
Youji glared at them. "Didn't I just say I was going to explain."
"I doubt that'll be possible." Crawford said sedately. "But you can give it a go."

Youji looked at him angrily, then drew himself up to his full height and started to walk slowly to center stage, giving Aya a gentle shove on the ass which got him moving into the wings. Nagi scrambled away from the others to take up a station next to a spotlight – not that he actually needed to bother to touch the thing in order to get it moving and trained on Youji. Once again, Omi couldn't help but marvel at how well-prepared Youji was. All the while, as his guests busied themselves creating the perfect ambience, Youji carried on walking, fixing Crawford and Schuldich – the redhead now facing back into the room and leaning on the wall, bored as ever – with a contemptuous glare. It was a shame he was soaking wet and his sunglasses were wonky, really.

Ken, pulling himself together almost visibly, let go of Omi briefly to close the plain white curtains again, hiding the utter chaos of the strange basement set, the spiral staircase and the utterly inexplicable swimming pool. Who in the world, he wondered, installed a swimming pool in the middle of a stage (Ken was, needless to say, beginning to feel a little more like himself)? Youji aside, that was. Job done, he stepped back behind Omi and put his arms around the boy's shoulders again. If he closed his eyes, ignoring the fact that they were both soaked and dressed in weird visual rock style fetish wear, Ken found he could almost pretend the last few hours had never happened.

In the middle of the stage, in the spotlight Nagi had trained on him, Youji tried to pull out a cigarette and light it, but both cigarettes and lighter were rather the worse for their dunking. Omi tossed him a spare packet and a box of matches. Youji lit up with a smile and a flourish, then cleared his throat.

'I Miss That Girl'

Youji:
Since the day that she was killed

Guests:
Oh, I

Youji:
Can no longer feel fulfilled

Guests:
Though I've tried

Youji:
She's the only one who thrilled.

Guests:
I can't lie

Youji:
But now her heart is stilled.

He tugged his still dry coat around his shoulders, pearls of water caught on the hanging ends of his damp hair, and looked mournful. He was trying to avoid looking at the little group in the wings. Yes, Aya was there but Ken had his arms around Omi again and, considering how low he was feeling right now, Youji didn't think he wanted to see that. Ken meant nothing at all by it either, which somehow made it worse than if he had been being pointed.

Youji:
And, my God, oh how I long
Just to hold her, now she's gone.
And that feels so wrong
I miss that girl.

Youji and Guests:
I miss that girl.

Youji gazed regretfully over the footlights into the near-empty auditorium as it slowly filled with flickering figures, hazy and insubstantial as overexposed photographs – many of the faces familiar as those of his guests earlier that evening, but now dressed like theater-goers on a first night. It seemed as if Youji was due to get his audience after all.

Youji:
In the end I turned to lust

Guests:
So what's new?

Though Youji didn't see it, Omi noticed Schuldich, still leaning against the rear door, stifle a yawn. He began to feel a little uneasy again, shifting his weight anxiously. His feet were killing him, too.

Youji:
But don't you think it's self-disgust.

Guests:
That ain't true.

Youji:
It's that her fate was so unjust

Guests:
Love is through.

Youji:
I doubt that I'm a man to trust.

Youji descended the little stairway into the audience and began passing between his hallucinatory guests, smiling, waving and shooting seductive glances at the most intriguing ones. There was the little brunette who had been so taken with Aya earlier, and the blonde dominatrix who had alarmed Ken, now elegantly dressed and sat in a row with three other women, one of whom, wearing sunglasses, Youji found eerily familiar. They weren't alone. The little theater, for a moment, seemed veritably packed.

Youji:
'Cause, my God, oh how I long
Just to hold her, now she's gone.
And that feels so wrong
I miss that girl.

Youji and Guests:
I miss that girl.
I miss that girl.
I miss that girl.

The figures started to fade, vanishing as Youji reached the end of the aisle, striking a yearning pose in the glare of the spotlight which Nagi had followed him round with, leaving the theater empty save for Youji, his guests and his erstwhile servants. Neither of them, it had to be said, looked as if they were in any danger of being won over by his entreaties. It was a case of too little, too late if you asked the pair by the doors. That and Crawford and Schuldich were a pair of twisted little bastards anyway, and they knew it, so they just didn't care what Youji's reasons for his behavior were.

Youji turned, fixing the entire room with the same almost childish grin he had given them after he had ice-picked Farfarello into an early grave. He laughed. He was nervous. He had to say he shared Ken and Omi's sentiments right about now – he didn't like the look of this one little bit.

"Oh, you've finished?" Schuldich asked after an uncomfortable silence.
"Yeah." Youji smiled at him, rather too nervily to be winning. "What did you think?"
"Trite." Schuldich said simply.
Youji looked affronted. "I was winging it…" he said defensively.
"It was still trite, Kudou." Schuldich replied impassively.
"But apposite." Crawford said.

Drawing his gun, he began to advance on Youji, who backed toward the stage. He was no fool – he hadn't failed to understand Crawford's comment about Asuka being an apposite choice of subject. Maybe he should have delivered another paean to Aya's beauty. There was no way that could be worked round to getting shot in the head, could there? If only he had some kind of a weapon! But, of course, he didn't. He stumbled back toward the stage, wondering what, if anything, he could do. The answer seemed to be absolutely nothing, stand still and get shot and do it like a man.

Okay. Okay. Um… Youji suddenly realized he was all out of levers. He wasn't quite this prepared for any eventuality.

"I am glad," Crawford continued, as he carried on walking toward the stage, Schuldich waiting by the railings with a scrupulously bored expression on his face, "that you seem to have understood me so well. For when I said we were leaving, I was of course only referring to myself and Schuldich. You see, you are to remain here, if only in spirit."

Youji responded by stopping short and gazing scornfully at Crawford. He was amazingly good at it. Yes, what there was to do was to get shot and do it like a man. Well, if he had to die he was going to die with style.

In the wings, the announcement had provoked equal amounts of consternation. If when Crawford said 'we' he meant himself and Schuldich and when he said 'you' he referred only to Youji, where did that leave the rest of them? Persia gripped the arms of his wheelchair tightly whilst Omi stared between the two men, eyes huge and frightened. Aya looked instinctively around himself for a katana that wasn't there, or failing that anything that could have been used to defend himself. He couldn't see a thing.

Ken, hesitantly, cleared his throat. "And, um… the rest of—"
"Shh! Shut up!" Omi hissed frantically, slapping one of his own hands over Ken's mouth and holding it there until, sure that the boy had got the point, he lifted it away
"Sorry." Ken murmured.
Persia found his voice. "So that's your game, is it, Crawford?"
Crawford turned to him, eyes cold. "Yes, Persia, I'm afraid to say it is." He didn't sound that upset, though.
"So you're gonna kill him? What'd he do, goddammit?"

Only Ken would have asked a question like that in all seriousness. True, Youji was a bit of an asshole and he was manipulative as sin, but it was perfectly legal to be a manipulative asshole, wasn't it? If it wasn't then the world would have been a lot more sparsely populated than it was now, Ken was double damn sure of that. It certainly wasn't a capital offense and who appointed Crawford judge, jury and executioner anyway?

"You saw what happened to Farfarello." Persia said impersonally.
"Well yeah, sure," Ken protested, "but you can't blame Youji for that, Persia! From what I heard Farfie was like that already! I mean the thing with the meat was gross but speaking as an assassin here, what's the deal with killing Farfarello anyway when he was a murderous bastard himself? If you've got to shoot him can't it be for something he's done? Like corrupting the morals of a minor or kidnapping Omi and me or something?"
"They're not capital offenses, Ken-kun." Omi whispered, very glad that Ken still had his arms round him.
Ken shrugged. "So? Then don't kill him."

Crawford ignored him. He'd been right to think he wasn't going to like this kid. Ken saw the world far too simply. It was fitting, as the boy was far from an intellectual. Still, the only thing to do with someone like Ken was ignore him as much as was humanly possible.

"Quite correct, Persia." Crawford said coldly, then turned from the group in the wings. They were distracting him from the vitally important matter at hand: killing Youji and going back to the States with Schuldich to continue his interrupted life of crime. He and Schuldich had a flight to make after all; they couldn't hang around here indefinitely. "Now, Youji Kudou, your time has come. Time to leave all of this behind."

He gestured airily and contemptuously around him with the hand that wasn't holding the gun, a gesture which took in the whole of the theater, the damp young men huddled in the wings, the whole of the house and everything that was in it, then leveled the gun at Youji. The blonde drew himself up to his full height and gave Crawford a look of measured disdain.

"Do your worst." He said. Determined to go out with style.

As Crawford's finger tightened on the trigger of the gun, Nagi broke the silence. With a wordless cry of protest, he threw himself in between Crawford and Youji, arms outstretched. He wasn't thinking. That much was obvious. Had he chosen to use his head – not to mention his powers – there was no way that Crawford should have been able to touch Youji, or he himself for that matter. But Nagi wasn't thinking that clearly. After the boy's near-hysterical scream, the report of the gun seemed almost anticlimactic.

Nagi was dead before his body had finished falling.

Omi cried out in shock. Crawford cursed softly under his breath and cocked the gun again. Youji decided to hell with pride and made a leap for the curtains as Crawford fired at him again. The shot whistled past him as he grabbed the material and attempted to scale the . And the inevitable happened. The white curtains hadn't been designed to bear the weight of an adult male. With a single sickening crack, the proscenium came crashing down, the curtains and tab tracks collapsing on top of Youji along with several tones of plasterwork and assorted debris, the white fabric billowing over his limp form and shrouding it completely.

Aya had witnessed all this from the wings, and now he sprang forward with a furious cry. Dropping to his knees in the middle of the billowing fabric, stirred and agitated by gusts from the still-active wind machine, he dug through the debris until he found Youji.

Lifting the debris from on top of Youji and tugging him from the curtains, Aya picked him up gently and cradled him in his arms – an action which, had Youji actually witnessed it, would have shocked the blonde to the core. Youji, however, was beyond being shocked by such things, though it was impossible for Omi and Ken, watching from the wings and unable to risk getting any closer without becoming fatally entangled in the confrontation – both were unarmed and far from at their best; even Ken could tell that intervention would have been suicidal – to tell if the blonde was dead or merely stunned.

Clasping Youji to him, the redhead raised his head and fixed Crawford with a look of pure hatred. It was exactly the kind of expression that the phrase 'if looks could kill' had been invented for and, for an instant, it left the American quite taken aback, giving Aya quite long enough to spring to his feet and make for the spiral staircase, Youji draped across his back.

Crawford reloaded, firing repeatedly, grazing Aya several times with the slugs, once or twice severely, but failing to administer the coup de grace before the young man, making it to the top of the spiral staircase, vanished through the exit which Youji had made his own dramatic entrance through barely half an hour beforehand.

Crawford made as if to hurry after them only to be restrained by – of all people – Schuldich, resting one hand on his shoulder and shrugging slightly. Leave it, Crawford, his gesture was saying. It's really not worth it. We've got more important things to worry about than where that one's gotten off to.

"I don't know how much more I can take of this," Ken said into the silence that followed.
Omi swallowed. "Me either." He said, voice tremulous. "Why can't we go home?"
"It was necessary." Crawford said coolly.
Schuldich shrugged. "Eh. Whatever. These things happen."
"These things happen?" Omi echoed.
Ken laughed incredulously. "You've just killed three guys and all you can say is these things happen?"
"I thought you were an assassin." Schuldich said archly.
"Yeah, but I don't go around saying crap like these things happen after killing someone!" Ken yelled.

Persia held up one hand for silence. Ken was, as ever, going about this the wrong way. That boy would talk them all into an early grave if he wasn't careful. Okay, it was a sell-out. Okay, he didn't want to be seen to agree with these lunatics. But all the same… he did want to get out of here alive. Maybe it was time they tried a different approach. There was nothing to be gained by taking a hard-line stance on this. Perhaps diplomacy would be the answer to all their prayers.

"A decision had to be made." He said pedagogically.
"What?" Ken retorted.
Omi turned to him, blinking and startled. "Persia?"
Crawford nodded, taking his glasses off and cleaning them with a pristine white handkerchief as he spoke. "Quite correct. You are an astute man, Persia. We have to be seen to make a stand on these matters." He placed the glasses back on his nose, tucking the handkerchief away.
"You're quite right." Persia replied, somehow managing to ignore Ken and Omi, who were now exchanging glances over his head as if he had gone utterly insane.
"Sorry about Farf." Schuldich said lazily, pushing his hair from his face with a languid hand.
"Yes, well." Persia looked uncomfortable. "It may have been a blessing in disguise."
Crawford smiled. It was nice to deal with amenable people for once. "Persia, you and your friends must leave now, whilst it is still possible. Schuldich and I have wired this entire house with explosives and will be detonating them on our departure. Go now."

And he turned away from them, back to Schuldich.

As the group departed hurriedly, Persia wheeling his chair like a demon, Ken slipping slightly on the heels he still hadn't had time to remove, Crawford gave Schuldich a small, but completely genuine smile. The slender German was throwing and catching a set of car keys, the keys flashing in the inadequate light as they spun through the air.

"You knew all that would happen, didn't you Crawford?" Schuldich said with a grin.
"Why else," Crawford replied levelly, "would I have decided that tonight was the night? Our time is now. We will be back in America within hours."
"Ah, America." Schuldich smiled. "No more struggling with chopsticks. I take it you've got something big planned when we get there. Crawford?"
"But of course."
"Any hints?" Schuldich teased. Crawford's smile simply became secretive, and Schuldich shook his head in mock despair. "I see. No hints. Oh, well. I should be used to your ways by now, Crawford. You do like playing the game, don't you?"
Crawford extended one hand to Schuldich; Schuldich took it, his grin becoming feral, wildly excited. "Come, Schuldich. There is work to be done."

And, wrapping their arms about each other, the two young men exchanged a searing, passionate kiss before they, too, headed out of the castle. It seemed that there was something to be said for having to use the tradesman's entrance after all.

A terrible roar, ear-spitting, so loud it feels the brain is being pulverized by the sound. A gust of flame. Debris, spiraling outward in all directions. A wave of superheated air, heavy with dust, forceful enough to knock an individual off their feet.

Then an equally terrible silence.

And then nothing at all.

"Uh…"

Later. How much later Ken had no way of knowing. The first thing he became aware of was the sensation of pressure. Trying to raise his head, he realized there was something on top of him. A heavy lump of something. With a combination of brute strength, stubbornness and more than a little luck, he managed to push the lump of something up far enough to allow himself to scramble free of it. Once he had pulled himself above it, the lump revealed itself as a renegade part of an interior wall. A charred, blackened part of an interior wall. It weighed a ton. In trying to move, he realized how badly his body ached. What had happened, had a building fallen on top of him or something?

Somehow Ken got to his knees, coughing like a consumptive, and rubbed his eyes. He blinked. He felt dizzy and lightheaded and not entirely sure about where he was never mind what was going on or why he was there. The sun was up. Somehow, though he wasn't sure quite how he knew this, Ken felt as if there was something very important missing. Several somethings, in fact.

Hang on. Hadn't there been a castle about here somewhere?

Maybe a building really had fallen on him.

He was kneeling on top of a pile of rubble toward one edge of a bomb site, surrounded by dust and debris. It looked like a little bit of Berlin circa 1945 had been somehow transported through space and time to wind up here. What few trees were still standing were blackened and splintered. The castle was no longer visible, in fact no longer even existed except as a few charred pieces of masonry stood in an immense crater. A large proportion of the place seemed to have quite literally disintegrated. Still, that wasn't what he was missing.

Well, at least I'm out of the castle now, Ken thought hopefully. That had been very important, hadn't it? Trying to get out of that castle…

At which he suddenly remembered where he was and what was going on.

Scrambling to his feet, ignoring the head rush, Ken looked unsteadily around himself. He rubbed at his eyes again and coughed a little more. He looked, though there was no way he could have been aware of it, an absolute mess. His face and arms were stained with soot and the dust from the explosion, dust which also clung to his hair. He'd lost one of his gloves, a seam had gone in his top and the zip was barely doing its job any more. The fishnets, unsurprisingly, were badly torn. He wouldn't have cared even if he had known.

"Omi…"

Where the hell was Omi?!

Ken didn't even know where to start looking. Couldn't see a bloody thing. Just rubble and dust and debris and the charred leg of a statue. Persia's wheelchair, a wreck. Persia lay a few yards distant, barely any less of a wreck himself. The man, his own clothing ripped and stained, also covered in dust and soot, stared up at the morning sky, or at least Ken assumed it was morning anyway, as if there was something fascinating there. Ken barely noticed.

"Omi!"

He turned. Nothing. Trying to ignore a rising tide of panic, he stumbled forward, trying to think. If Persia was behind him and had been in the tunnels, and Omi had been in front of him, Omi would be further to the edge, wouldn't he? Wouldn't he? Could one reason with explosions? Ken tried to collect his scattered wits enough to think logically. Could he do that? He doubted it. He felt too dizzy and sick and dispirited. God, going through all that only to lose Omi now would be too much. He couldn't take any more of this. This was way too much to deal with for one night.

Anxious, barely even thinking about where he was going, Ken picked his way over one of the larger piles of rubble, slipping slightly as he reached the apex and, losing his footing, tumbling down the other side and landing heavily on his front. Wincing, he pulled himself back to his knees.

'This Is Real'

Ken:
I really wish
I understood
But now I doubt
I ever could.
'Cause all I know
Is that I should
Be dreaming.

Ken got back to his feet, propping himself up against the debris he had tumbled down, and called Omi's name again. And finally, behind him, something stirred. Omi, coughing, in a state of almost dangerous déshabillé, tugged himself out from the rubble he had been half-hidden under. He had sacrificed one of his boots in order to struggle free. His hair was a chaotic, wind-blown mess. The little blonde gazed distractedly around, blinking back tears, searching the blasted landscape.

Omi:
Although it's crazy
This is real.
We've gotta live
Move on, and heal.
But all I know
Is that I feel
Like screaming.

"Omi!"

Ken practically shrieked the boy's name, scrambling back over the rubble and grazing both shins badly in the process, slipping down to the dusty, arid ground in a kind of controlled fall. Wild-eyed and disheveled, beside himself with panic, spattered with soot and dust and his clothing torn, Ken was in no state to inspire any kind of finer feeling in anyone. Except, that was, in Omi. Omi didn't think he'd ever been gladder to see Ken in all his life.

"Ken-kun!" He cried. "I thought—" He couldn't finish. "Oh, God." Ken said fiercely. "Never mind that…"

Omi tried to get to his feet but stumbled, pitching forward and into Ken and knocking him off-balance. The pair landed in a flurry of dust just behind the pile of rubble, lying side by side. Omi didn't care. Enough for now that the night was over, that they were away. That they were together. He put his arms around Ken and tucked his head under his lover's chin. Returning the embrace, Ken rested his cheek against the top of the boy's head, little caring about the dust which polluted his hair.

There was no way to make sense of what had happened to them, so better not even try.

Back in her study, Manx stood by the side of her desk, gazing incuriously at an illuminated globe of the world which span smoothly but frantically on its axis. The dossier lay open on a lectern in front of her. Reaching out one slender hand, she arrested the globe's spin almost casually before turning back to her book for the final time, her expression utterly sedate.

Manx:
And so we see the morning sun
Dispel a night which was quite dumb
And thank the Gods this fic is done
But where's the meaning?

Closing the dossier and leaving it on the lectern, Manx turned and headed for the study door, reaching out to flip off the light as she passed. In the near-darkness of the study, now illuminated only by the faintly malign glow of the globe, her small sigh of relief went almost unnoticed.

Phantom Voices:
Me-eaning.

She closed the door behind her and locked it.

Some girls do insist on having the last word.

'Mild Spoiler – Don't It Figure?: Reprise'

Ouka:
Mild spoiler – Don't it figure?
That's the end of this crazy picture.
Weren't things getting insane in places?
Disbelief marked the fangirls' faces.
Oh – at the late night, double-feature
Picture Show.
This fanfic blows
Oh – to the late-night, double-feature
Picture Show.

-ende-