That summer was so screwed up as I remember it. I hated everything about going outside let alone being seen with my teammates. But I learned a few good lessons that summer, along with learning why I was never allowed in Schuldich's or Crawford's room when the door was closed… that, I dare say, shocked me out of ever wanting to continue going through puberty. Anyways, I was given this diary by a friend of mine… well, maybe he's more than that… But for one second, I'd like you to think of anyone you've been in love with. Well, this is all dedicated to the guy that saved my summer and who showed me how to smile.

It was 95 degrees in downtown Tokyo that day in June. It was one of those days when you lay down in front of a fan, you can't breathe and you just wish someone would dump ice on you. It was hottest on the top levels so the others mainly hung out in the basement. My room was under the basement, thank God, so it was always a bit cooler. The only problem with that is that I get huge spiders in the winter. Humongous, huge, giant, gorilla-sized, cat eating spiders that have toe nails and have leg hairs like Farfarello. When I was little I used to have Schuldich come in and kill them for me. Brad called me a wimp and Farf made me eat one once… Maybe that's why I hate them so much.

The electric fan was going at full blast as I sipped lemonade from my thermos as I read a comic book. I loved English comics; some of them really crack me up. My favorite would have to be X-men. But something nagged me in the back of my mind. Rather, someone nagged me at the back of my mind.

"Nagi, it's your turn to make dinner." He said, practically whispering it right in my ear.

"Schu, I did last night. It's Farfarello's turn." I retorted, turning the page without lifting a finger. It was too hot to move, so I didn't. Poor humans without their telekinesis, they must be squirming like worms caught on the sidewalk, burning from the sunlight. That thought amused me greatly.

"You know he'll make stew again."

"It's ok when the air conditioning is on."

"But you're a better cook."

I was beginning to get annoyed. That German could sweet talk an ass, and, after being around him for a very long time, you begin to know when he's B.S.-ing you. "You haven't made it for months." I snapped, practically growling.

"Fine. I'm making apple strudel, happy?" he dramatically stated, I could just imagine him with the back of his hand on his forehead, his green eyes closed, and the insane German swooning with each syllable in the comment.

"Extremely." I said, my voice being more dronish than usual.

"Bradley is planning something."

"What?"

"I don't know, he's blocked me out of his thoughts again." He sounded slightly suspicious, slightly depressed. No one in the least bit could even imagine what Crawford was really planning. Bradley could be tricky, very tricky, when and if he wanted to. Sometimes his cunning was the ridicule of Farf and I, mostly because he had been a boy scout (whatever that was) and was always prepared.

I know this is getting side tracked but the only thing I could think of anymore was not fighting with Weiss. We hadn't beaten the crap out of them in a while and it felt good. I never liked fighting them anyways. I was even contemplating going to the flower store to buy some edelweiss for Schuldich cause his birthday was coming up. I don't know why my thoughts always went back to that one assassin. The one with dark hair, I think his code name is Siberian, but I lack the knowledge of his real name. I wish I knew it.

My stereo was blasting the latest from Plastic Tree, though my favorite song was still Planetarium. Last year, for my birthday, Farfarello gave me a collection of literally thousands of CD's. A lot of them were American, then a few rare Japanese ones, some German hard-core, and a couple Irish rock bands. There were these 3 groups I really liked; Linkin Park, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and Rammstein.

 One of Linkin Park's CDs, [Hybrid Theory], was full of songs these really good songs about hearing voices, feeling hopeless and out of control, and lashing out at humanity. I often wondered about how people so far away and stuck in the middle of such a stupid and idiot-filled place could rise up and write songs that spoke so much truth. How did they know what I felt like? It bothered me how mindless drones in their country must flock to their concerts and still not really know what the lyrics mean.

Rammstein, however, was all rage against the government, or so Schuldich tells me. But whatever the lyrics mean, I'm hooked on their CD Mutter. There's this one track when they talk about I think it's a fairy tale. It's cool, but I believe that my favorite song would have to be Scar Tissue by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Some people call me gothic because I always wear black clothes and listen to depressing and what some would call "disturbing" music. I laugh when they do. I may be different, but they're all the same and they're afraid of different things. So they're afraid of me. That helps my ego: not. In truth I want to fall in love with someone who doesn't consider me a freak or a psycho or and experiment gone wrong, some one who is also different but the same as me. Sort of…

Looking back I never think I've ever truly been in love before. Tot wasn't love; she was a diversion from my loneliness. And now I'm asking myself, is it wrong to have a bond with someone you don't know out of fighting, or to be in love with someone you only see to when you're ordered to harm him? Like I said before, there's a reason I don't want to fight with Weiss anymore.

There was a knock at my door. I always kept it locked.

"Who is it?" I asked, half expecting it to be a prank by SNL where the clever land shark would trick me into opening the door and then eat me. Farfarello thought it was hilarious and constantly tried to talk like it.

"Candy gram." Said a very forced and raspy voice. Farfarello. It was like he also read my mind sometimes. He calls it "brotherly intuition", I tell him we're not exactly brothers, and then the insane Irishman makes it clear to me that I'm his little brother by putting me in a headlock.

"Come in you idiot." I answered, lifting the latch with a mental hand and still sitting on my bed. The insane Irish man walked in. He had a wife-beater on with baggy jeans cut-offs, and entered just as Illuminati came my stereo. Once again, a smile was on his face and his yellow eye was fixed on me in an unsettling manner. In the scarred and bandaged hands of the white haired maniac was a Crown Drugs bag.

"I got you a pack of cigarettes, like you asked," he said, tossing them at me. They stayed suspended in mid air for a second then found their place next to my Mana lighter on the bed stand. "I also got you another roll of film for that camera of yours." This he threw at my desk and it landed lightly on top of the black Polaroid lying on the desk.

"How much did it cost?" I asked, fishing my wallet from my pocket.

"Nothing, you needn't be worrying about it."

"Do my ears deceive me? Did you do something for me for free?" I gasped sarcastically, punching him in the shoulder.

"Aw, shut up brat." He replied, ruffling my hair. Sometimes he could be cool like this. Other times, though, he was just purely psychotic. "Listen, why did you start smoking?" Was he concerned? Could he be concerned?

"It gives me a quick fix." I said with all honesty. He looked at me for a second, then smiled once again, and left my room, closing the door behind him. Farfarello was like a big brother to me, though I'd never admit it. So, naturally, when he started smoking 3 years ago, I did too… I bet I was the only 12 year old out there smoking, maybe still the only one out there who felt like he needed to smoke. So I watched him shake his head and leave with his plastic bag. When I had locked the door again I looked around, listening for someone out side, listening in on what I might say next. But I couldn't hear a sound.

My life is so messed up. Really messed up. I'm a teenager with telekinetic powers in an assassin-for-hire group along with a clairvoyant workaholic and a mind-reading German who make noise together till 2 am, making my stomach churn, and a homicidal Irish-man with one eye and immunity to pain that falls asleep in front of the TV with about 4 gallons of porter in his stomach. To top it all off, I'm a smoker and addicted to drugs, enjoy writing dark poetry, listening to loud evil music in different languages, and I have a huge crush on the teammate of a rival assassin group. Think you still have big problems? Try being a teenager in this little "family".

I recently became addicted to a lot of drugs, mostly pain prescriptions. I found them in Schuldich's locked cabinet; he used to be addicted too. Smoking has become my hobby and if you ever wonder why I never show my wrists, look in my waste paper basket. They're usually some bloody bandages in there. I know I'm messed up, but who really cares? No one. Depression and heartaches can be forgotten with a few pills, and scars can be covered by makeup, just like how a person can be concealed by a mask.

I took one last look suspiciously around my room. Then my hand found its way under the black silk pillow I was resting against. A crumpled picture was soon clasped between my fingers as I pulled out the only image I had of the assassin.

It was just some shot I took of him when he was in the flower shop, sleeping on the white table, surrounded by some little purple flowers. He was handsome and I vaguely remember him snoring. But it's useless to get hooked on someone you can never get close to, isn't it?

I can't help how I feel for Siberian though, it's not like I can dismiss love, let alone easily and without finding out if he considers at least something for me.

"That's it," I said, putting the picture back. "I'm going to the flower shop tomorrow." And after that statement was when my summer went from bad to worse.