Wight
Many of the faults you see in others, dear reader,
are your own nature reflected in them.
As the Prophet said,
"The faithful are mirrors to one another."
-Rumi, Mathnawi I, 1319, 1328
With will, fire becomes sweet water;
and without will, even water becomes fire.
-Rumi, Mathnawi I, 1336
Schuldig has been feeling bored all day. He woke up and he was too bored to get out of bed; once he was out of bed he was too bored to take a shower; once he had pissed away significant amounts of time before taking his shower he was too bored to eat breakfast. And so on and so forth. He told Crawford at one point that he was bored and Crawford, who had been working on something extremely important at the time, had given Schuldig a look.
"I want to blow something up," Schuldig had said, impulsively.
"Okay," Crawford had said, "not me."
"You play your cards right," Schuldig had warned, grinning like a cat.
"And I'll get you out of my hair for the day," Crawford had finished, giving Schuldig another look.
And that had pretty much been it for that conversation, until Crawford emerged from his study for lunch. Schuldig, who had been not-eating a turkey sandwich that had too much mayonnaise, found something landing unceremoniously on the table before him.
"Go blow up Weiß," Crawford had said, and then, "there's too much mayonnaise on that sandwich." Schuldig had looked down - Crawford had thrown a file at him - and so he tossed the sandwich in the trash before he leafed half-interested through the papers inside. Building, blah blah blah, abandoned, blah blah of course, whatever, blah, second story, blah blah, okay, who gave a big old fuck?
"What the hell do I give a rat's ass about this?" Schuldig had asked, going to make himself another sandwich.
"Because Siberian is going to be there, so if you're in the mood to blow something up you might as well be useful about it," Crawford had replied calmly, and then made a face, lifting the near-empty coffee pot, "and who drank all the coffee?"
"It was Nagi," Schuldig had lied, abandoning the bread on the counter, picking up the file, and waltzing out.
So now Schuldig is bored but he has the prospect of being not-bored soon; the day is cool, and the building is hideous, and the second story is dark and nearly empty, nearly but for the thoughts that fill it. Siberian thinks the strangest stuff when he's all alone, and who knows if the others are with him: Schuldig doesn't care. He's at one end of the room, Siberian at the other. There are a whole lot of storage boxes piled up between them. If Siberian thinks he's going to save the world in an empty room with storage boxes piled up in the middle of it, then Siberian's one deluded little kitten.
But he's not thinking about saving the world.
He's thinking about this guy named Kase.
Don't you know, Schuldig said once to Crawford, people's thoughts taste like honey.
Crawford asked him to elaborate.
When you're stealing them, Schuldig explained, when no one knows you're there. Things forbidden like that taste good. Private things you're looking at that you shouldn't be touching at all. Knowing it's wrong makes it taste sweet, like honey.
I don't particularly like honey, Crawford said.
It tastes good, Schuldig said.
I wouldn't know, I suppose, Crawford said.
No, probably not, Schuldig said.
I thought they gave you headaches, Crawford pointed out, looking at Schuldig like he did only when he was thinking things through and solving Schuldig like one half of a math equation. That look only ever made Schuldig want to know what the fuck the other half of the equation was, anyway.
When it's my decision, to listen, Schuldig explained further, it tastes real fucking good.
All right, Crawford said.
So Siberian is thinking about this guy named Kase and Schuldig is diving into the mess of it like it's no thicker than water, or blood. Which isn't too much thicker than water, really, although people say it is way too much. Siberian is thinking all choppy-like and not really paying attention to much of anything. Schuldig crosses the room, to where the boxes are, and leans against one; he makes no noise. Siberian keeps thinking, and memories like this, thoughts like this, can't be translated into words. Just pictures, like a photo album, or a really old video, with all the film worn down. Slides. Maybe, slides. Schuldig isn't really listening, he's just sort of watching, the way things play out. Then, Siberian gets up, and moves over to the stack of boxes. They're not too far apart: the thoughts get really bright, really passionate. Siberian doesn't normally think too cogently, just a mess of how pissed off he is with himself or how miserable he is but this is different, burning and vivid. Schuldig knows, of course, the ways Schuldig knows shit like this, that this Kase guy is someone Siberian loves.
Wrong: someone Siberian loved.
Crawford probably saw this coming. Probably knew Schuldig needed to get some of the agitation and boredom out of his blood, out of his bones. Schuldig takes a couple of steps, moves onto Siberian's side of the storage boxes. It smells like wood and old dust, cobwebs laden with dust, in this place. And paper. Something about it smells intensely like paper, like the bindings of new books. Siberian smells a lot like grass and the dirt that gets in cleats and some unknown flowers. Probably big, smelly yellow ones; Schuldig doesn't know that much about flowers and doesn't care for what he does know. There are, like, bugs in them, and that creeps Schuldig out.
"Hey," Schuldig says, putting a hand quickly over Siberian's mouth, sticking his thumb into his lower back like the barrel of a gun. "Don't say anything, I'll fucking kill you." The little shocked flare of Siberian's thoughts is something Schuldig just eats up, like a kid shoves stolen candy quickly in his mouth. The smaller, more compact body tenses. The muscles in Siberian's back go tight. Siberian wants to know what the hell Schuldig wants with him, and Schuldig grins really slowly. "I've been bored lately," he whispered against Siberian's ear, "so I thought I might see how the better half lives." He nuzzles his thumb sweetly in the small of Siberian's back and he can feel the revulsion roll over the shorter guy's skin like a wave. "Guess I should've waited for an invite?" Siberian wants to bite his hand, to bite his fingers off. Schuldig laughs against his ear.
"So," Schuldig says, "who the hell is Kase?"
Siberian bites the palm of Schuldig's hand, or tries to, and Schuldig cuts his cheeks with the clutch of his fingernails.
"Bang bang," Schuldig whispers, "I wouldn't do that shit if I were you." He clicks his tongue against the backs of his teeth jams his thumb again into Siberian's back. It probably doesn't feel much like a gun at all, but he's got the guy pissed terrified.
"So," Schuldig says again, "who the hell's Kase?" And then he slips his hand from Siberian's mouth and gets his Ruger out of his jacket. He holds it against Siberian's back in the stead of his thumb. Siberian swallows. "You'd better answer," Schuldig tells him.
"A friend," Siberian says. Schuldig rubs the gun in slow circles against Ken's back.
"Yeah?" Schuldig asks. "Is he dead?"
"Yes," Siberian says. For a little while Schuldig is silent.
"You killed him," Schuldig says.
"He was going to kill me."
"That's real heroic," Schuldig says.
"He tried to kill me," Siberian whispers.
"You're a real fucking hero," Schuldig mutters against his ear.
"Fuck you," Siberian hisses, and the gun jams against his lower back and he hisses again, only this time in pain.
"I'm the one with the fucking gun," Schuldig tells him, none-too-patiently. "Tell me about fucking Kase."
"Why the hell do you want to know?"
"I'm the one asking the fucking questions." Siberian swallows, and fumbles around for some sort of appropriate answer. There isn't one. You can't describe the people you've lost with mere words, it isn't possible. Siberian's struggling with some kind of answer because the gun's shoved into his back, and he has to. But there really isn't one.
"He was a friend," Siberian mutters helplessly, "he was a friend, or at least I thought he was."
"But you thought wrong, because he tried to kill you."
"Yeah," Siberian says.
"So you paid him back for that bitter betrayal by killing him?"
"It wasn't for revenge," Siberian protests.
"Of course it was," Schuldig murmurs sweetly in his ear, "you're only human, of course it was."
"No," Siberian insists, "it wasn't revenge, I had to."
"You don't ever have to kill anyone," Schuldig tells him, all this kindness like honey sheathing his words, "you sound like someone's got you testifying. You sound like a criminal." Because Schuldig's always wanted, somewhere in his chest, to prove that Weiß is just what he is, anyway. Cold-blooded. Killers. They have hot blood, of course, they're all only human; but killers, they're killers, and whatever side you're killing for, you're killing all the same. Not that Schuldig gives a shit about justice. Not that Schuldig gives a shit about what's right and what's wrong. There's death and there's dying, there's facilitating death, enjoying that people are dying, helping them to die. Causing them to. And there's hypocrisy about it: people killing and saying, We're Doing This Because We're Right. That's the shit Schuldig can't fucking stand. And that's what Weiß is all about, saying that they can do this because they have a reason, and they can kill people for killing other people because they're doing it for the Good of Man fucking kind. "Killing is killing," Schuldig explains, "you're a Good Guy, you should know that. Isn't that the sort of shit you blame us for? Christ, you hate us. You hate my fucking guts, that's for sure. You're such a fucking hypocrite. You're all fucking hypocrites."
"I know," Siberian says, "it's true. We're killers. You - you like it. I don't."
"That doesn't count for shit," Schuldig tells him calmly, "we kill. It doesn't matter if we fucking enjoy washing blood off our hands all our lives or not, it doesn't matter if we fucking laugh while we shoot someone's head to shit or if we cry afterwards, we do it. We kill. We're the same person, you and me, only I get it and you fucking don't. Only I'm willing to admit what the fuck I am and all you can do is hide behind some pretense that you're good." Schuldig's still caressing Siberian's lower back with the barrel of the Ruger. "Christ," he says, "there isn't fucking good or bad in this God damn world, there are just people who accept what they fucking are and people who think they can lie their way through it. Wake up. Fucking wake yourself the fuck up."
"Shut up."
"When you have the fucking gun shoved up my ass," Schuldig snaps back irritably, "then you can tell me what the fuck to do." Siberian's going to be bruised the fuck up, because Schuldig's getting rough now. And that's kind of funny, because whoever he's fucking, if he has the balls to fuck anyone, is gonna notice it and wonder what the fuck all happened to him. He's being stupid. He's pissing Schuldig off. If Crawford had said to kill him then Schuldig would kill him, but Crawford didn't tell him to do that. Crawford will most certainly kill Schuldig if Schuldig does something he doesn't want him to do. Schuldig may do shit he's not supposed to, but he's not in the mood to court death. Well, to court death yet, anyway. "You got that?"
"Yes."
"Yeah?"
"Yes."
"So tell me."
"What?"
"How was he, in bed? Did he fuck well?" Siberian lets out this roar of intense pain and Schuldig whips up the Ruger and shoots him through the shoulder. Pigeons, who were nesting in the blind, empty windows flap desperately away in a flurry of agitated flight. Their wings sound like paper rustling. Schuldig laughs and somewhere he hears someone else - Bombay, it's Bombay - utterly panic. There's blood on Schuldig's face. And he likes the smell of blood, when it isn't his own.
"Wake up, kid," Schuldig says, "wake the fuck up, go get another ass to fuck, one that'll show you what the hell you are. 'Cause it's human. 'Cause it's me." And the sooner Siberian figures it out, the better, Schuldig figures. They're all fucked up. Some of them just understand it better then others.
Siberian's face is white; he's clutching his shoulder and there's blood on his gloves.
"I'll kill you," he says.
"No," Schuldig says calmly over his shoulder; he's already turned to go, "you won't. It's the people who know who they are that survive."
Schuldig still really wishes he could blow the place up, but he's gotta go already; Bombay's running down the stairs from the fourth floor thinking worried, panicked thoughts. Gotta get a silencer on this gun, Schuldig thinks to himself, and makes a mental note to thank Crawford for this one, because he feels real fucking vindicated, like maybe he can make himself a sandwich now, watch some TV, and go to sleep sated and satisfied.