The world was spiraling out into an unspeakable chaos and all those who watched the future as if it were a Japanese reality show could do was cling to something stable and wait for everything to fall apart.
The curse of the Oracle.
Crawford pondered the mysteries of the shattering universe over a shot of morphine. Three fingers broken in five places had been the result of his last bought in the Box. His audience howled at the carnage, always excited to see a favored and typically victorious player bite the dust. As much enjoyment as his fall had invoked Crawford, the Mighty Future Seer, would have preferred to avoid the pain.
Unfortunately his ever open third eye was focused on something else at the moment.
Like a few other nameless psychics and their untimely demise.
Of course the pendulum could always swing both ways, for or against Crawford's favor. He just had to figure out how to, parish the cliché, get the ball rolling and get his sloth-ing team back on track. Easier said than done.
The field nurse that attended to his wounds visually jumped as the fifteen-year-old's bones snapped into place with a louder wet snap than she was used to. Incompetent woman. She had a basic grasp on how to patch people up, but look where she was working. Like hell she had an actual degree. Probably didn't even have any real training. "H-how's that feel?"
And he knew about the two idiots stacked out across the apartment from theirs, watching them like peeping tom's.
An unamused chocolate gaze fixed on the pale woman. "It feels..." He drew slowly, making sure to leave no misconception of the malice and annoyance he felt right at that moment, "like you don't know what you're doing."
She looked stunned. "Of course I--"
"Save it." The American actually snapped, dismissing her with his good hand. The woman turned purple, but she did shut up and continued working. She didn't want to take lip from some smart assed kid, of all the fighter's to give he attitude... but she also didn't want to get in trouble for not taking care of one of the company's prized fighters and be blamed for crippling him.
The painkillers began to set in. While the nurse worked on constructing a cast Crawford turned his thoughts to his team and, as always, the future. As affected by his team.
Nagi brought forth no concern. He had adjusted quickly to the ranks and was already imprinting family identities on each young psychic. Crawford knew he had taken on the role of unofficial father to the boy, being both provider and commander of the household and unit. He also offered himself to Nagi as a safe, caring adult that wouldn't hurt him. Surprisingly, Nagi didn't have as much street and rape trauma as Crawford originally thought he might. Not to say the conditioning wasn't there, but Nagi's strong, bitter will kept it pretty damned repressed.
He was perhaps the second most functional member of the quartet.
Farfarello, Crawford was shocked, fell along the same lines. Yes, the Irish maniac still had spouts of hourless ramblings, where he'd randomly fall to his knees, babble and scream until he either passed out, was knocked out, or broke down sobbing. He still hallucinated and heard voices like the stereotypical schizophrenic he was. Crawford was just thankful he wasn't paranoid.
If anything Farfarello was the most lax of the group. Lax as in he didn't fear anything. If a troupe of Sweepers or worse that Sazha character suddenly exploded through their living room window with machine guns, Farfarello would have cheerfully picked up one of his knives and embraced death without a care in the world. Being attacked, being in danger just didn't enter his mind.
Psychotic episodes aside, most of which weren't aggressive or distractive, Farfarello was doing fine. He wasn't sliding downhill into insanity. He wasn't resentful or malicious towards himself, Schuldig, or Nagi. He was coming along swimmingly.
Unlike Schuldig.
Of all the people to fall apart, it had to be Schuldig. The second oldest psychic, the telepath, the person Crawford had chosen to escape with that was more out of... dare he say affection?... than necessity.
One finger snapped back into place with a loud, splintering crack. The nurse jerked to the side, expecting to be struck for her effort. It had happened before. Many times before.
He needed Schuldig, not just for his psychic power - which he couldn't neglect to remember, were essential for his plot. No, he needed Schuldig for...God, was it companionship? He had been fascinated with the German bastard ever since he laid eyes on his pale, smirking face. Schuldig was livid, defiant, an embodiment of all Crawford ever wanted to be. Bound in chains, beaten into submission, Schuldig still managed to survive and not shatter. Not give in. Crawford watched from afar, marveled at Schuldig's ability to pick himself up and keep going, unhinged, violent and passionate in his determination to survive Rosenkreuzt so he could escape into the less restricted Este and wave his smug ass in his instructors face.
Crawford romanticized that it was Schuldig that convinced him of the 'Great Escape.' To look into the red lines of the future and see all it had to offer. A blaze of flaming glory that would either save or kill all of them. A prediction that was worth dying for.
And they would be dying for...
Another finger snapped into place and was sealed into a cast. Crawford frowned. Damn it. The future was slipping like water through his fingers. He had become so focused on his objective to provide for his teammates that he had started to neglect them. Whereas Farfarello was thriving inside his new freedom and Nagi inside his new companionship, Schuldig was falling apart.
Like a puppet cut at his strings.
No. Bad comparisons. Schuldig was no one's puppet. Schuldig had just been under the labored control of the Organization for so long that he no longer remembered how to take care of himself. He was suddenly saddled with this freedom, this lack of distraction and rigor, and he didn't know what to do. So he was turning within himself, to the voices that crumbled his shields and haunted his mind; to the drugs and sex and alcohol that numbed it.
Crack. "Oh! You okay?" The nurse hissed, "That was a little rough. Are the painkiller's holding up?"
"I'm fine." The American replied absent-mindedly. He needed to get Schuldig back on track and ready for what was about to come. Rosenkreuzt. Este. Kritker. Schwartz.
Last night's sleep had slammed him with images and events that were tittering against his favor. A investigation unit from Japan sticking their nosey little faces deeper than they were ordered to go. That pervert Sazha and his pre-teen goons. And lots of blood. Crawford was waiting for confrontation with the Mind Eraser. They stood a chance then.
But those damn florists were going to be a problem...
A wrench in his scheme that could completely screw everything up.
=========================================================================
"You understand the danger of this investigation?"
Young hands paused over the purple and red arrangement, the child's face eased into a smile, head tipping ever so slightly towards one shoulder. "Don't worry about me. I've been doing this for years."
The agent closed his lips down on a cruel comment directed at their leader, a quip that would have been meant to sympathize with the boy but would have only hurt and insult him in the end. 'This is wrong.' The last thing Ceylon wanted to do was piss off a dead man.
Agent Karl Hossen, codenamed Ceylon, of the international secret police agency known as Kritker had been working the 'Psychic Block' for nearly a decade. He lived in the heart of Vienna, the gates of Rosenkreuz, his heart laughed in bitter, painful tones when he had been informed a team of black ops from Kyoto and Tokyo were being sent to investigate Rosenkreuz up front and personal.
"Rumors of this agency has been generating since the thirteen-hundreds, Kritker has personally been overseeing criminal investigation of Este and Rosenkreuz since 1961." Ceylon reminded. The boy before him placed his hands on the table and assumed a stance of bright eyed, false interest. "Since that time Kritker agents have been lurking in the shadows of the school, making connections, picking up allies, and disappearing. I must admit... I'm shocked to hear that Persia is considering launching an offensive attack."
"Kritker Intelligence theorizes that Este is planning a ritual of some sort to resurrect an old leader. I know it seems sudden, but that's why we're going in. We're just the first wave of Weiss Assassins, four others are being trained in Kyoto and two in Hong Kong. We'll go in, be brutal, and collect as much information as we can about this resurrection thing." Chirped the child.
Kamikaze, Ceylon thought. Blitzkrieg.
"Yeah... uh, what's the difference between Roso-katz and Estet again?" A new voice pondered.
The two turned to acknowledge the late waking second member of the Nippon Team. Another kid.
"Rosenkreuz is the school that trains these guys and finds them, and Este are the people who run Rosenkreuz and hires them out to different organizations." The scruffy blonde jumped off the stool he had been perching on and rounded the corner - Ceylon grimly noted that the assassin's head barely made it over the counter - and beamed at the new arrival. "Coffee, Balinese?"
Balinese waved him off, "Unless you can pull out a gallon jug of espresso or a hooker, I'm not really interested, kiddo." He paused and pulled the waist band of his pajamas up above his naval, "...But thanks for asking."
The boy, Tsukiyono Omi, or Bombay, smiled and went back to his arrangement. Balinese retreated back to the three bedroom apartment attached to their cover location mumbling something about taking a shower and putting on some decent clothing before they opened shop and Ceylon, their contact, took up a watering can.
"I love flowers." Bombay commented upon Balinese departure. He fluffed up the petals he had been working on and pushed the vase away with a satisfied sigh. "Nothing goes wrong when you have flowers. Its like nothing else matters."
Ceylon didn't respond. Personally he always thought the infamous Kitty in the House cover was creepy and degrading. Florists by day, assassins by night? Kritker had a sick sense of humor. If that was humor at all.
'Hell, maybe Persia really thinks Weiss is a bunch of superheroes.'
The door opened and two boys drifted in. Omi greeted them warmly in a high prepubescent voice that staggered with a thick Japanese accent, but got the 'I am so genki' message across nonetheless.
Ceylon studied the newcomers with a frown. Suspicious. Teenage boys didn't just waltz into flower shops on Saturday mornings.. Especially teenage boys that looked like that. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Manson. And they were holding hands.
Bombay leaned over the counter, eyes glowing, "Can I help you? Are you looking for any particular flower?"
Apparently the boy was unaffected by the appearance of the tall Italian with the sweeping spiked hair the color of blood and haunting, almost glowing eyes to match. His mouth split, lips drawing out a curtain of fine white teeth. Was he wearing fake fangs? And he spoke. "A dozen Irises."
"And a dozen poppies." Quipped the short dark haired boy next to him, black eyes alit with something that put Ceylon immediately on his guard but caused Bombay to nod and smile even more politely than before.
"Irises and poppies?" Balinese's voice rang from the back room, the youth reappeared with an apron in hands, skin tight belly shirt wet around the collar and sides from the shower water that clung to his skin. He grinned easily and took his position at the counter. "Those are death flowers. Who died?"
Ceylon crossed his arms, even if he didn't officially work here, he was suppose to keep an eye on these children assassins on-and-off mission. Now that officially included monitoring any suspicious business transactions they might engage in while working in their cover shop. "That's going to cost a little more money than I think you boys have."
Valentine turned on him with his teeth drawn back in a mock grin that's true intent was to, like an animal, bare his fangs at the challenger. "And two dozen Coral Bells." Spoke the shorter boy, voice lucid, though expression not sane. He was staring intently at Ceylon and stroking his own neck with a black gloved hand.
In an attempt to break the tension, Bombay asked what form of payment the boys wished to make. A credit card appeared in the red head's hand as well as a photo ID, the Japanese boy gratefully accepted it, handed it over to the smirking Balinese, and bounced into the backroom. "Just one moment!"
Balinese processed the order. While the numbers churned inside the register unit, the florist assassin had time to tease the customers. With a wink sent in Ceylon's direction, Balinese set his hands on the check-out counter and swung his weight onto the table. "So, the ol' coven meetin' to sacrifice to Satan or Pan or Lestate or whoever the hell you NIN-Marilyn wannabe's claim to follow?"
"Yes, it's human sacrifice night at the Jr YMCA. Want to come? It's black tie. We're still taking applications." Valentine sneered, "But don't bother calling, they only take virgins."
"Oh, the four-year-old is witty!" Balinese coo-ed.
Valentine tried to keep his face neutral as he struggled to keep Talbot from lunging forward and gutting the obnoxious florist. An auditable rip from taunt the shirt collar he was clinging to cut through the room.
"Yohji! These are customers, be nice!" The return of the genki marked a period of silence between the static trio. Bombay came stumbling out with the four dozen roses, small arms almost unable to hold onto such a large pile. He somehow managed to get it into Talbot's arms and backed away with a nervous laugh. "There you go. Would you like me to separate it into smaller arrangements, it would be easier to carry and might look a little more attractive."
The two psychics exchanged glances, then divided up the huge boutique themselves.
Valentine ran his tongue along his teeth as he ran his fingers through one of the poppies. In front of him Bombay stared with unmarked pride, the poor innocent, honestly thinking he had brighten up someone's day with the stupid flowers.
The stem Valentine had been fingering snapped in half.
==========================================================================
Farfarello's eye snapped open and he flew upwards so quickly from his sprawl on the couch that he caused Nagi to yelp in surprise.
"Farf, what's wron..."
The sound died on the child's lips as he stared at the elated sociopath. Farfarello hung on the edge of his seat, lips pursed in an excited grin, his whole face radiating a sudden jubilant pleasure that sent shivers up and down his spine. Finally, he turned to the younger psychic and whispered, "Somebody's going to die tonight."
===========================================================================
Schuldig stumbled against the alley wall, his out-of-control body taking out two trashcans. He remained there for a moment, breath shallow. He ran his fist across his face, his knuckle slowly crossed the damp, blue and green bruise that was beginning to creep up the side of his cheek. A trickle of sweat made its way to the bottom of his chin.
He began to chuckle dryly.
That really annoyed the two men pounding on him.
"You know," whined the taller man, the one who's neck was almost twice as thick as his head and a quarter the size of his chest. He cracked his knuckles irritably, the sound bounced and resounded inside his enormous neck. "if I didn't like pounding into this little shithead so much I'd probably stop... cause the little fuck up seems to be so high off his ass that he's NOT feeling it."
The other sneered, "Beat him anyway. He'll feel it in the morning."
A fist took him by the shirt collar and pressure another punch, this time along the jaw line.
Every night Schuldig stayed up in that shit apartment wondering if they would find him in his sleep. Wondering if morning would never come. A sense of weightlessness filled his guts as he was dropped back onto the filthy alley floor. He laughed again, for the thrill of it. His fingers clenched and he felt blood on his hand. He couldn't tell if it was his own. So he kept on laughing.
The thugs standing over him started speaking about money, and drugs... and collections. But his mind was shutting down and he didn't care.
Schuldig remained on the ground, listening to the thoughts around him. Thoughts of rage, hunger, and despair. The silent screams of Vienna's ghetto, all clawing at him in one ripping clamor. Louder than any drug injection or beating, beckoning him to madness. Those voices... even if he crossed his eyes and concentrated, he couldn't focus on the snarled words of the men speaking to him, everything else was too loud.
"Where is he again..." The German whispered. His hoarse question drew the stunned attention of his attackers. "He's always late. Never around when I need him" He grinned and tilted his head back so that it was resting against the bricks. "Oh, there it is."
Glossy jade eyes turned to the looming shadows.
"Hey," he called, voice void of sanity, so oblivious that it caused the two previously aggressive drug traffickers to take a step backwards. "do you think... it was all a dream and this is me waking up? Or... or do you think this is all a dream... and I'll wake up there again..."
Rosenkreuz...
Crawford said they were going away and would never come back. They would have freedom. Was this freedom? A drug addict getting beaten brainless in the hub of some nameless warehouse district.
Schuldig sighed, "Figures things would turn out this way."
It wasn't as bad a heroine, but it wasn't good either. Any drug that required injections with, preferably, sterile needles was not a good thing. But what was wrong with trying to stop the voices? And making a few bucks while he was at it.
"Shit man, he's really fucked up." Mumbled the second. "Forget him. He's freaking me out."
What was wrong with just trying to forget everything?
But the first wasn't convinced. He dared a step forward and pulled Schuldig to his feet. The younger boy was putty in his hands, deadly limp and still chuckling through cracked and bleeding lips. Schuldig's head bent forward, lolling softly from one shoulder to another, his fingers continued to twitch, and it was oblivious he was lost in his own little world.
A world full of roses, crosses, and dark haired men named Crawford.
They said that the final plummet of the cracking psychic was to break away completely from his own mind and spend the rest of his brief existence skipping from one person's thoughts to another, forever living a fantasy of what he wanted to hear and what he really heard, while his body wasted away into nothingness.
Dull jade eyes lifted to meet the bloody fist that was coming his way. Knuckle bones crushed against his skull and he fell again. Nothingness looked attractive.
Schuldig laid on the floor, hair a mess, features drained. He began to laugh and the two left him alone in disgust.
==========================================================================
Nagi's little rabbit heart began running the 4K as the door handle shuddered with the power of an annoyed kick. The child jumped over the couch, yelling for Farfarello to get in there. Seconds later the small Irish teenager appeared, knife in hand, gaze intent on the rattling door.
The two stared ahead of them wondering if this was the end. If a Sweeper team had come to claim them. Wondering why Crawford hadn't warned them. Wondering if Crawford had taken Schuldig and abandoned them. Another hard kick.
"Open the damn door." A familiar voice hissed.
Farfarello visibly relaxed, but Nagi was still on edge. Hands poised in a striking position, the Asian nodded for his companion to take the knob, which Farfarello did with a bemused raise of the eyebrow.
Crawford stood before them, expression sour. Schuldig was pooled in his arms, face more mangled than the older boxer, incredibly pale, and morbidly limp. Crawford, Farfarello noticed, cradled him gingerly, propping Schuldig's head under crook of his neck as a parent would a sleeping child. A husband a bride.
Farfarello held the door open and couldn't help but grinning. He took in the casts on Crawford's fingers. "Oh good, you two finally broke water."
Crawford glared and pushed the albino aside, going to lay Schuldig on the couch. Nagi dogged at his heels, demanding to know what was going on. After setting Schuldig down and staring at him for a long time, Crawford sighed and ran a hand through his bangs.
"We," he declared, "have problems."
The curse of the Oracle.
Crawford pondered the mysteries of the shattering universe over a shot of morphine. Three fingers broken in five places had been the result of his last bought in the Box. His audience howled at the carnage, always excited to see a favored and typically victorious player bite the dust. As much enjoyment as his fall had invoked Crawford, the Mighty Future Seer, would have preferred to avoid the pain.
Unfortunately his ever open third eye was focused on something else at the moment.
Like a few other nameless psychics and their untimely demise.
Of course the pendulum could always swing both ways, for or against Crawford's favor. He just had to figure out how to, parish the cliché, get the ball rolling and get his sloth-ing team back on track. Easier said than done.
The field nurse that attended to his wounds visually jumped as the fifteen-year-old's bones snapped into place with a louder wet snap than she was used to. Incompetent woman. She had a basic grasp on how to patch people up, but look where she was working. Like hell she had an actual degree. Probably didn't even have any real training. "H-how's that feel?"
And he knew about the two idiots stacked out across the apartment from theirs, watching them like peeping tom's.
An unamused chocolate gaze fixed on the pale woman. "It feels..." He drew slowly, making sure to leave no misconception of the malice and annoyance he felt right at that moment, "like you don't know what you're doing."
She looked stunned. "Of course I--"
"Save it." The American actually snapped, dismissing her with his good hand. The woman turned purple, but she did shut up and continued working. She didn't want to take lip from some smart assed kid, of all the fighter's to give he attitude... but she also didn't want to get in trouble for not taking care of one of the company's prized fighters and be blamed for crippling him.
The painkillers began to set in. While the nurse worked on constructing a cast Crawford turned his thoughts to his team and, as always, the future. As affected by his team.
Nagi brought forth no concern. He had adjusted quickly to the ranks and was already imprinting family identities on each young psychic. Crawford knew he had taken on the role of unofficial father to the boy, being both provider and commander of the household and unit. He also offered himself to Nagi as a safe, caring adult that wouldn't hurt him. Surprisingly, Nagi didn't have as much street and rape trauma as Crawford originally thought he might. Not to say the conditioning wasn't there, but Nagi's strong, bitter will kept it pretty damned repressed.
He was perhaps the second most functional member of the quartet.
Farfarello, Crawford was shocked, fell along the same lines. Yes, the Irish maniac still had spouts of hourless ramblings, where he'd randomly fall to his knees, babble and scream until he either passed out, was knocked out, or broke down sobbing. He still hallucinated and heard voices like the stereotypical schizophrenic he was. Crawford was just thankful he wasn't paranoid.
If anything Farfarello was the most lax of the group. Lax as in he didn't fear anything. If a troupe of Sweepers or worse that Sazha character suddenly exploded through their living room window with machine guns, Farfarello would have cheerfully picked up one of his knives and embraced death without a care in the world. Being attacked, being in danger just didn't enter his mind.
Psychotic episodes aside, most of which weren't aggressive or distractive, Farfarello was doing fine. He wasn't sliding downhill into insanity. He wasn't resentful or malicious towards himself, Schuldig, or Nagi. He was coming along swimmingly.
Unlike Schuldig.
Of all the people to fall apart, it had to be Schuldig. The second oldest psychic, the telepath, the person Crawford had chosen to escape with that was more out of... dare he say affection?... than necessity.
One finger snapped back into place with a loud, splintering crack. The nurse jerked to the side, expecting to be struck for her effort. It had happened before. Many times before.
He needed Schuldig, not just for his psychic power - which he couldn't neglect to remember, were essential for his plot. No, he needed Schuldig for...God, was it companionship? He had been fascinated with the German bastard ever since he laid eyes on his pale, smirking face. Schuldig was livid, defiant, an embodiment of all Crawford ever wanted to be. Bound in chains, beaten into submission, Schuldig still managed to survive and not shatter. Not give in. Crawford watched from afar, marveled at Schuldig's ability to pick himself up and keep going, unhinged, violent and passionate in his determination to survive Rosenkreuzt so he could escape into the less restricted Este and wave his smug ass in his instructors face.
Crawford romanticized that it was Schuldig that convinced him of the 'Great Escape.' To look into the red lines of the future and see all it had to offer. A blaze of flaming glory that would either save or kill all of them. A prediction that was worth dying for.
And they would be dying for...
Another finger snapped into place and was sealed into a cast. Crawford frowned. Damn it. The future was slipping like water through his fingers. He had become so focused on his objective to provide for his teammates that he had started to neglect them. Whereas Farfarello was thriving inside his new freedom and Nagi inside his new companionship, Schuldig was falling apart.
Like a puppet cut at his strings.
No. Bad comparisons. Schuldig was no one's puppet. Schuldig had just been under the labored control of the Organization for so long that he no longer remembered how to take care of himself. He was suddenly saddled with this freedom, this lack of distraction and rigor, and he didn't know what to do. So he was turning within himself, to the voices that crumbled his shields and haunted his mind; to the drugs and sex and alcohol that numbed it.
Crack. "Oh! You okay?" The nurse hissed, "That was a little rough. Are the painkiller's holding up?"
"I'm fine." The American replied absent-mindedly. He needed to get Schuldig back on track and ready for what was about to come. Rosenkreuzt. Este. Kritker. Schwartz.
Last night's sleep had slammed him with images and events that were tittering against his favor. A investigation unit from Japan sticking their nosey little faces deeper than they were ordered to go. That pervert Sazha and his pre-teen goons. And lots of blood. Crawford was waiting for confrontation with the Mind Eraser. They stood a chance then.
But those damn florists were going to be a problem...
A wrench in his scheme that could completely screw everything up.
=========================================================================
"You understand the danger of this investigation?"
Young hands paused over the purple and red arrangement, the child's face eased into a smile, head tipping ever so slightly towards one shoulder. "Don't worry about me. I've been doing this for years."
The agent closed his lips down on a cruel comment directed at their leader, a quip that would have been meant to sympathize with the boy but would have only hurt and insult him in the end. 'This is wrong.' The last thing Ceylon wanted to do was piss off a dead man.
Agent Karl Hossen, codenamed Ceylon, of the international secret police agency known as Kritker had been working the 'Psychic Block' for nearly a decade. He lived in the heart of Vienna, the gates of Rosenkreuz, his heart laughed in bitter, painful tones when he had been informed a team of black ops from Kyoto and Tokyo were being sent to investigate Rosenkreuz up front and personal.
"Rumors of this agency has been generating since the thirteen-hundreds, Kritker has personally been overseeing criminal investigation of Este and Rosenkreuz since 1961." Ceylon reminded. The boy before him placed his hands on the table and assumed a stance of bright eyed, false interest. "Since that time Kritker agents have been lurking in the shadows of the school, making connections, picking up allies, and disappearing. I must admit... I'm shocked to hear that Persia is considering launching an offensive attack."
"Kritker Intelligence theorizes that Este is planning a ritual of some sort to resurrect an old leader. I know it seems sudden, but that's why we're going in. We're just the first wave of Weiss Assassins, four others are being trained in Kyoto and two in Hong Kong. We'll go in, be brutal, and collect as much information as we can about this resurrection thing." Chirped the child.
Kamikaze, Ceylon thought. Blitzkrieg.
"Yeah... uh, what's the difference between Roso-katz and Estet again?" A new voice pondered.
The two turned to acknowledge the late waking second member of the Nippon Team. Another kid.
"Rosenkreuz is the school that trains these guys and finds them, and Este are the people who run Rosenkreuz and hires them out to different organizations." The scruffy blonde jumped off the stool he had been perching on and rounded the corner - Ceylon grimly noted that the assassin's head barely made it over the counter - and beamed at the new arrival. "Coffee, Balinese?"
Balinese waved him off, "Unless you can pull out a gallon jug of espresso or a hooker, I'm not really interested, kiddo." He paused and pulled the waist band of his pajamas up above his naval, "...But thanks for asking."
The boy, Tsukiyono Omi, or Bombay, smiled and went back to his arrangement. Balinese retreated back to the three bedroom apartment attached to their cover location mumbling something about taking a shower and putting on some decent clothing before they opened shop and Ceylon, their contact, took up a watering can.
"I love flowers." Bombay commented upon Balinese departure. He fluffed up the petals he had been working on and pushed the vase away with a satisfied sigh. "Nothing goes wrong when you have flowers. Its like nothing else matters."
Ceylon didn't respond. Personally he always thought the infamous Kitty in the House cover was creepy and degrading. Florists by day, assassins by night? Kritker had a sick sense of humor. If that was humor at all.
'Hell, maybe Persia really thinks Weiss is a bunch of superheroes.'
The door opened and two boys drifted in. Omi greeted them warmly in a high prepubescent voice that staggered with a thick Japanese accent, but got the 'I am so genki' message across nonetheless.
Ceylon studied the newcomers with a frown. Suspicious. Teenage boys didn't just waltz into flower shops on Saturday mornings.. Especially teenage boys that looked like that. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Manson. And they were holding hands.
Bombay leaned over the counter, eyes glowing, "Can I help you? Are you looking for any particular flower?"
Apparently the boy was unaffected by the appearance of the tall Italian with the sweeping spiked hair the color of blood and haunting, almost glowing eyes to match. His mouth split, lips drawing out a curtain of fine white teeth. Was he wearing fake fangs? And he spoke. "A dozen Irises."
"And a dozen poppies." Quipped the short dark haired boy next to him, black eyes alit with something that put Ceylon immediately on his guard but caused Bombay to nod and smile even more politely than before.
"Irises and poppies?" Balinese's voice rang from the back room, the youth reappeared with an apron in hands, skin tight belly shirt wet around the collar and sides from the shower water that clung to his skin. He grinned easily and took his position at the counter. "Those are death flowers. Who died?"
Ceylon crossed his arms, even if he didn't officially work here, he was suppose to keep an eye on these children assassins on-and-off mission. Now that officially included monitoring any suspicious business transactions they might engage in while working in their cover shop. "That's going to cost a little more money than I think you boys have."
Valentine turned on him with his teeth drawn back in a mock grin that's true intent was to, like an animal, bare his fangs at the challenger. "And two dozen Coral Bells." Spoke the shorter boy, voice lucid, though expression not sane. He was staring intently at Ceylon and stroking his own neck with a black gloved hand.
In an attempt to break the tension, Bombay asked what form of payment the boys wished to make. A credit card appeared in the red head's hand as well as a photo ID, the Japanese boy gratefully accepted it, handed it over to the smirking Balinese, and bounced into the backroom. "Just one moment!"
Balinese processed the order. While the numbers churned inside the register unit, the florist assassin had time to tease the customers. With a wink sent in Ceylon's direction, Balinese set his hands on the check-out counter and swung his weight onto the table. "So, the ol' coven meetin' to sacrifice to Satan or Pan or Lestate or whoever the hell you NIN-Marilyn wannabe's claim to follow?"
"Yes, it's human sacrifice night at the Jr YMCA. Want to come? It's black tie. We're still taking applications." Valentine sneered, "But don't bother calling, they only take virgins."
"Oh, the four-year-old is witty!" Balinese coo-ed.
Valentine tried to keep his face neutral as he struggled to keep Talbot from lunging forward and gutting the obnoxious florist. An auditable rip from taunt the shirt collar he was clinging to cut through the room.
"Yohji! These are customers, be nice!" The return of the genki marked a period of silence between the static trio. Bombay came stumbling out with the four dozen roses, small arms almost unable to hold onto such a large pile. He somehow managed to get it into Talbot's arms and backed away with a nervous laugh. "There you go. Would you like me to separate it into smaller arrangements, it would be easier to carry and might look a little more attractive."
The two psychics exchanged glances, then divided up the huge boutique themselves.
Valentine ran his tongue along his teeth as he ran his fingers through one of the poppies. In front of him Bombay stared with unmarked pride, the poor innocent, honestly thinking he had brighten up someone's day with the stupid flowers.
The stem Valentine had been fingering snapped in half.
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Farfarello's eye snapped open and he flew upwards so quickly from his sprawl on the couch that he caused Nagi to yelp in surprise.
"Farf, what's wron..."
The sound died on the child's lips as he stared at the elated sociopath. Farfarello hung on the edge of his seat, lips pursed in an excited grin, his whole face radiating a sudden jubilant pleasure that sent shivers up and down his spine. Finally, he turned to the younger psychic and whispered, "Somebody's going to die tonight."
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Schuldig stumbled against the alley wall, his out-of-control body taking out two trashcans. He remained there for a moment, breath shallow. He ran his fist across his face, his knuckle slowly crossed the damp, blue and green bruise that was beginning to creep up the side of his cheek. A trickle of sweat made its way to the bottom of his chin.
He began to chuckle dryly.
That really annoyed the two men pounding on him.
"You know," whined the taller man, the one who's neck was almost twice as thick as his head and a quarter the size of his chest. He cracked his knuckles irritably, the sound bounced and resounded inside his enormous neck. "if I didn't like pounding into this little shithead so much I'd probably stop... cause the little fuck up seems to be so high off his ass that he's NOT feeling it."
The other sneered, "Beat him anyway. He'll feel it in the morning."
A fist took him by the shirt collar and pressure another punch, this time along the jaw line.
Every night Schuldig stayed up in that shit apartment wondering if they would find him in his sleep. Wondering if morning would never come. A sense of weightlessness filled his guts as he was dropped back onto the filthy alley floor. He laughed again, for the thrill of it. His fingers clenched and he felt blood on his hand. He couldn't tell if it was his own. So he kept on laughing.
The thugs standing over him started speaking about money, and drugs... and collections. But his mind was shutting down and he didn't care.
Schuldig remained on the ground, listening to the thoughts around him. Thoughts of rage, hunger, and despair. The silent screams of Vienna's ghetto, all clawing at him in one ripping clamor. Louder than any drug injection or beating, beckoning him to madness. Those voices... even if he crossed his eyes and concentrated, he couldn't focus on the snarled words of the men speaking to him, everything else was too loud.
"Where is he again..." The German whispered. His hoarse question drew the stunned attention of his attackers. "He's always late. Never around when I need him" He grinned and tilted his head back so that it was resting against the bricks. "Oh, there it is."
Glossy jade eyes turned to the looming shadows.
"Hey," he called, voice void of sanity, so oblivious that it caused the two previously aggressive drug traffickers to take a step backwards. "do you think... it was all a dream and this is me waking up? Or... or do you think this is all a dream... and I'll wake up there again..."
Rosenkreuz...
Crawford said they were going away and would never come back. They would have freedom. Was this freedom? A drug addict getting beaten brainless in the hub of some nameless warehouse district.
Schuldig sighed, "Figures things would turn out this way."
It wasn't as bad a heroine, but it wasn't good either. Any drug that required injections with, preferably, sterile needles was not a good thing. But what was wrong with trying to stop the voices? And making a few bucks while he was at it.
"Shit man, he's really fucked up." Mumbled the second. "Forget him. He's freaking me out."
What was wrong with just trying to forget everything?
But the first wasn't convinced. He dared a step forward and pulled Schuldig to his feet. The younger boy was putty in his hands, deadly limp and still chuckling through cracked and bleeding lips. Schuldig's head bent forward, lolling softly from one shoulder to another, his fingers continued to twitch, and it was oblivious he was lost in his own little world.
A world full of roses, crosses, and dark haired men named Crawford.
They said that the final plummet of the cracking psychic was to break away completely from his own mind and spend the rest of his brief existence skipping from one person's thoughts to another, forever living a fantasy of what he wanted to hear and what he really heard, while his body wasted away into nothingness.
Dull jade eyes lifted to meet the bloody fist that was coming his way. Knuckle bones crushed against his skull and he fell again. Nothingness looked attractive.
Schuldig laid on the floor, hair a mess, features drained. He began to laugh and the two left him alone in disgust.
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Nagi's little rabbit heart began running the 4K as the door handle shuddered with the power of an annoyed kick. The child jumped over the couch, yelling for Farfarello to get in there. Seconds later the small Irish teenager appeared, knife in hand, gaze intent on the rattling door.
The two stared ahead of them wondering if this was the end. If a Sweeper team had come to claim them. Wondering why Crawford hadn't warned them. Wondering if Crawford had taken Schuldig and abandoned them. Another hard kick.
"Open the damn door." A familiar voice hissed.
Farfarello visibly relaxed, but Nagi was still on edge. Hands poised in a striking position, the Asian nodded for his companion to take the knob, which Farfarello did with a bemused raise of the eyebrow.
Crawford stood before them, expression sour. Schuldig was pooled in his arms, face more mangled than the older boxer, incredibly pale, and morbidly limp. Crawford, Farfarello noticed, cradled him gingerly, propping Schuldig's head under crook of his neck as a parent would a sleeping child. A husband a bride.
Farfarello held the door open and couldn't help but grinning. He took in the casts on Crawford's fingers. "Oh good, you two finally broke water."
Crawford glared and pushed the albino aside, going to lay Schuldig on the couch. Nagi dogged at his heels, demanding to know what was going on. After setting Schuldig down and staring at him for a long time, Crawford sighed and ran a hand through his bangs.
"We," he declared, "have problems."
