Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > The Halo Files

Ich Bin Ein Auslander

by benzedrine_barbie 9 reviews

Category: My Chemical Romance - Rating: R - Genres: Drama,Horror,Sci-fi - Characters: Frank Iero,Gerard Way - Warnings: [!!!] [V] - Published: 2012-02-08 - Updated: 2012-02-09 - 9143 words

5Original
Thank you all so much for your reviews, I’m glad you’re enjoying it thus far. This chapter draws heavily from the story of the Children of God/Family International cult and its founder, David Berg. Coincidentally, one of my favorite musicians, Christopher Owens from The Girls, was a part of this cult and then ran away and started making rock music. Sorry I haven’t been writing my other fic at all, but I’m real excited about where this is headed and don’t want to lose my train of thought. It practically writes itself, which is a nice change. Oh, and by the way, for those of us who don’t speak fluent German, “Ich Bin Ein Auslander” means “I am an outsider”. Enjoy.

ʬ ʬ ʬ

2. Ich Bin Ein Auslander

And that was exactly what he did. Frank sat in rapt attention, head resting on his folded arms, listening to the criminal’s narrative. A deep satisfaction glowed inside him; after all this time, he was finally beginning to understand the unspeakable crimes he’d followed as a kid. With the curtain hiding the bars, it was easy to believe they were in their own little world, somewhere far from the cold, imposing prison Frank had walked through only a few hours ago. And the man across from him only contributed to the illusion, leaning in close, his eyes alight in his hollow face. For a brief second, they’d both felt some kind of strange connection, sitting there in the half-dark; a jolt of something inexplicable. Frank felt he knew this man somehow, though he could barely even voice the thought with all its implications.

Gerard took a deep breath before he began, smoothing his palms over the pitted Formica tabletop. He’d always been good at telling stories, weaving some truth into the fictions he spun for Mikey when they went to bed as children. And later on when they had become adults, in shabby hotel rooms and wooded parks and the back of his white ’75 El Camino, the stories had continued. He didn’t know why he found it so easy to craft complex lies and imaginary worlds, setting characters in places he’d never see, describing actions he’d never accomplished. He supposed it was his psychosis, since all serial killers were supposed to be pathological liars, but these fantasies only ever came out when he willed them to, in a safe format. It was difficult for him to remember the real, unvarnished story of what had happened to him — he’d embellished so many details over the years, meshing the truth with what he wished it could have been — but the FBI man’s eyes compelled him forward. He found himself speaking easily, albeit slowly, forming each word carefully to ensure the picture he wanted to express came through. It was the truth, but he had to tell it just so, and make sure no detail got lost in translation from memory to speech.

“They say to understand a killer, you must study not only his crimes, but the factors that led to them. And in my studies, I found that often means going all the way back to their childhood, studying every point in their life when they could have chosen to be better, to rise above, but didn’t.” A twisted smirk pulled at his chapped lips. “You can say that I lack compassion, that I have no moral compass, that there’s a chemical imbalance in my brain that drives me to kill. Whatever it takes for you to justify my actions. But everything I did, I did to protect myself and my brother. I wasn’t born a murderer, Frank; I was made into one.”

Gerard paused, and padded over to the door to ask for some water. A guard entered a moment later with a pitcher and two waxed-paper cups, poured for both of them, and left. The two men listened as the locks clicked back into place one by one, heavy metal deadbolts sliding into place. Frank knew he should have felt alarmed, but he found the solitude almost comforting, and this worried him.

Just me and a mass murderer, nice and cozy, alone at last…

The black-haired man raised his cup in one scarred hand. “Cheers,” he murmured softly, bumping his glass against Frank’s and grinning as the action produced no noise. “They did away with proper tableware after I smashed a glass and tried to off myself with the broken pieces.” His smile was decidedly macabre as he pushed up his sleeve and laid his arm on the table. Frank swallowed hard as he saw the jagged, vertical white lines running up the wrist, marring the creamy skin. Why did he feel pity for this man?

The criminal’s eyes flickered down to his exposed arm, then back up to Frank. A brief flash of insight passed over his features, but he said nothing as he tugged his sleeve back down. “They serve this…loaf…to prisoners who have behavioral issues and aren’t allowed utensils. It’s enough to sustain life, or so I’m told, but it’s far from pleasant. On your way out, tell them I’d prefer to eat normal food with my hands, won’t you?”

To his surprise, Frank cracked a smile. This was not what he’d expected, to be having a civil conversation with the man he’d despised and feared for so many years. His mood swings seemed a little abrupt, his voice rusty from lack of use, but who’d have thought a serial killer would have a sense of humor? “I’ll tell the warden,” he promised, and took a sip of his water. It tasted metallic, but at least it was cold. Way drank thirstily, pausing to wipe away the drops that ran down his chin with something approaching embarrassment.

“How uncouth of me,” he said ruefully. “Now where was I?” He bit his lip. “I was born in Bellevue, New Jersey…rather longer ago than I’d care to say.” He cast his eyes down modestly, painfully aware of the gap in their ages. For some reason, he felt the uncharacteristic need to impress the man before him. “I was the apple of my mother’s eye; to my father, I was nothing more than an unfortunate accident. His name was Donnie Way, but everyone who knew him called him Don. He was an extremely charismatic man, loved by his followers and feared by everyone else.”

“His followers?” Frank questioned, dropping his pen back into his briefcase.

Gerard sighed. “My father was obsessed with the controversy surrounding Roswell and Area 51, Project Blue Book, the Majestic 12. He was raised Catholic, but he rejected it; I suppose his belief in UFOs was like a religion to him. Every Friday night people would gather in our garage to hear him speak. His father had been a traveling preacher, so the sermonizing came easily to him.”

“What about your mother?”

“My mother put up with it because she loved him,” Gerard replied, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. “Although we could never figure out why she did. She was the one who set up the card table for the meetings, and made little finger-sandwiches for the visitors to eat. My father dealt in abstractions, in grandiose ideas about the universe and the future. It was my mother who made sure there was food on the table and that the bills got paid. She would always tuck us into bed; we could go for days without seeing Don Way.

“When I was three or four, he moved us out west to Nevada, so he could be closer to the object of his study. It was a search for knowledge, a fanaticism. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. Mikey was born a year after; he grew up knowing nothing but the desert. The first time I took him swimming, he practically had a heart attack.” He smiled slightly at the memory. “Over time, my father’s obsession grew. It began to consume him; he forgot to shave, to sleep, to eat. His writings turned him into a cult personality overnight. Donna, my mother, soon got used to followers coming in and out of our house at all hours. My father was constantly busy, always closeted away in his study or out spreading the word of his U.F.O. gospel. He called his followers the Church of the Seven Suns on a whim; he had a knack for marketing, coming up with little schemes. Making people believe in and fund his crusade. And in the end, he was just like his father. He had become the very thing he’d sworn to reject so long ago.” Gerard turned to Frank, meeting his gaze across the small table. “But isn’t that true of everyone?”

“I believe we are all responsible for our actions,” Frank said evenly. “You are in control of your own future.”

“I’m not,” the convict said. His voice went flat, the life draining out of it. “I will stay in this room until I die, and then…who knows for certain? I could simply cease to exist, or my immortal soul could fly on up to heaven to dance with the angels, for all I know. But I cannot will myself out of here, I’m certain of that much.”

“When you commit actions, you take responsibility for their consequences. You’ve killed nine people, Gerard; it kind of makes sense that your freedom to define your own future would be restricted after you took away so many others’ ability to choose.” He held his breath, hoping he hadn’t said too much. Way stared at him, head tilted slightly to the side. He shifted in his chair, leaning back and folding his arms across his chest.

“You are a conundrum, Agent Iero,” he purred. “I trouble you, don’t I? Morally. Because I seem so sane, and yet you know for a fact that I’m depraved and violent. You want to like me, but according to your judgment, I’m irredeemable. So what are you going to do?”

“I can listen,” Frank said tensely, “and do my utmost not to judge.”

“Oh, but you’ve judged me already.” The man across from him was almost cheerful, brushing strands of silky black hair away from his face. “The minute you walked in this door, you were trying to figure me out, as if we could all be read like open books. I think you’ll find I don’t give away my secrets for free, Agent Iero. You forget that I was once one of your own, that it’s easy for a man just like you to become the thing you fear. You want my story, you’ll get it. All I ask is that you reciprocate in some small way, provide a little human companionship after I’ve been waiting here for so long without any…stimulation.” That mouth twisted in an obscene grin that almost masked Gerard’s frustration. He was dropping hints like bombshells, playing with the boy, trying to get a rise out of him to no avail. It amused him greatly to toy with a person’s emotions after months of solitude, but that wasn’t why he was doing this. There was something about Frank Iero. He was attracted to him instantly, a feeling that had become utterly foreign to him after years of confinement. The feeling was both intriguing and unsettling, and it was definitely mutual. Frank found himself drawn over and over again to those brilliant green eyes set in sunken cheeks; try as he might, he couldn’t tear himself away. Here in this room, they met as equals. It was insanity, blasphemy, but nothing else mattered now.

“What happened to your father in Nevada?” he asked almost hesitantly, still lost in that endless green forest. Gerard looked away, towards the curtain that marked the boundary of his world. He could hide the cruel truth of those iron bars, but he always knew they were there. The black-haired man let his mind take him far beyond the walls of his cell, to the places he knew he would never again visit in this life. It was for the best; even now he could feel the relentless buzzing at the base of his skull, that maddening unreachable itch. Voices were calling his name, bubbling beneath the surface, leaving him quite sure that he was insane. They always talked him into doing things he shouldn’t.

“There was another move when I was thirteen, down to New Mexico itself. He started a commune in the desert, a compound where his devotees could live in peace without spying eyes and wagging tongues. I watched the theology he preached get crazier and crazier, becoming a full-fledged cult. He dictated every aspect of our lives. We wore all white, and every morning we would rise, walk out of the dormitory and clean the compound before breakfast. It was just a collection of whitewashed barns, out in the middle of nowhere. The dust got in our eyes, caked in our hair and chafed at our skin. There were sandstorms so bad we had to spend days down in the underground shelters my father had insisted we build, so we had somewhere to go in the event of an alien apocalypse. We would spend the day working or listening to sermon after sermon, sweating in the hot sun. It wasn’t exactly a conventional upbringing,” he laughed, “but it was easy to get dragged into that collective mindset, to live only for the needs of the group. I was old enough that I could resist it if I tried, but Mikey…Mikey grew up with only the cult to depend on. To him it was perfectly normal to undergo purification fasts for days, to treat a mere man like a god; he didn’t bat an eye when our father took two other wives and started calling himself the Gray Prophet. He didn’t—”

But he stopped, coughing. His mouth had gone dry as sand, and he thought of calling for more water but refrained. Frank wordlessly slid his cup across the table. The other man took it, touched at even this small gesture. He remembered the scorn, the disgust he’d harbored during his FBI days for the men he’d brought to justice. That Frank could overcome those feelings even enough to offer a murderer his water spoke volumes about his character.

“Thank you,” Gerard said quietly, ignoring the pounding in his temples. Frank watched him, amusement glimmering in his dark eyes.

“Even criminals have to stay hydrated,” he quipped. Someone cleared their throat outside the cell.

“My shift is over, Agent Iero,” the guard said in a low voice. “My replacement should be here in under five minutes. If you need anything, just call.”

Frank thought of the long, empty hall that led to Gerard’s room, and shivered. He was not at all sure that anyone would hear him if he cried out. Footsteps echoed in the corridor, then faded away completely.

“Alone at last,” Gerard mused, twirling a lock of hair idly around his finger. The action was incongruously effeminate, and Frank realized after a moment that he was joking. “The old warden must be so pleased to see me making friends, he’s given us a more intimate setting for our date.”

“Will you hurt me?” Frank asked bluntly. He refused to show an ounce of fear, but the question was on his mind. Gerard understood. He knew he was crazy — in a fit of mercy, they’d let him read his medical file, the conclusions they’d drawn from the psychiatric sessions. And parts of it made sense, because he was a paranoid schizophrenic, in love with his own brother, and he did have prophetic dreams that scared the hell out of him. In another life, he would have done exactly the same when left alone with a murderer. But that was before he became the only thing he’d feared. The thought of killing again should have been tantalizing, especially after all this time without a warm, compliant body, but somehow the thought of Agent Iero bloody and still didn’t move him. If anything, he felt a dim glimmer of repulsion. He didn’t want that image to make its way into reality if he could help it.

“No,” he said heavily. Light slid off his cheekbone, cast shadows in the hollows under his eyes. “I won’t hurt you.”

“But you’re going to die so soon,” Frank whispered, bewildered. The other man flinched. “I’m sorry,” he blurted immediately, “I just can’t see why you wouldn’t, when you’ve got absolutely nothing to lose.”

“Who says I haven’t got anything to lose?” he smirked. His voice dropped into a ragged murmur, and he looked over his shoulder with mock suspicion, though the black surveillance camera in the corner would catch every word he said. “They’re worried about me, you know. In the beginning, I was considered a high escape risk, because of my brother and because I’d killed the other prisoners. Self-defense is not a legitimate justification here; they’d just as soon I was raped and beaten. God knows, if I ever saw an opening, I would have taken it. I’d been living on the run for years, with Mikey. We both knew the risks and rewards of that lifestyle, the open road.” For a second, he looked almost wistful. “But they’ve got this place locked up tighter’n Fort Knox. My brother could be half a world away by now. I’ve turned to…other…thrills to occupy my time.”

“Like trying to off yourself,” Frank said tonelessly.

“Oh, I was going to be real creative about it.” Way’s tone was cool and collected, but his eyes held the fevered light of a man possessed. “The kind of suicide I envisioned went way beyond convention. I’ve tried it a number of times, actually, but I’m never alone for long enough, and someone always rushes in. I get so close, but then I’m yanked away, forced cruelly back into this world.”

“Gerard, stop—”

“I cut my wrists, see, and I trail them across the wall, a mural…soaking into the concrete, painting my life, paying for my sins. It’s beautiful, really, in its simplicity. The need to create…” his voice trailed off into nothing.

“You’re being deliberately macabre.” Frank scowled, the pitiful contents of his stomach beginning to churn.

Gerard cocked an eyebrow. “Am I? Does it upset you?”

“Hardly. I’ve been around violence all my life. When I was ten, I witnessed a murder as I came home from school, the death of the man who lived across the street. I’ve profiled child molesters, rapists, spree killers. I’ve worked every gruesome case the other officers didn’t want. You’ve been out of the Bureau for a while, Mr. Way, but we’re made of sterner stuff than that. Finish your story.”

“Fair enough,” the older man drawled. “I suppose I’ve covered most of the relevant details, except for the matter of Mikey. The prosecutor at my trial was unsettlingly intrigued with my romantic life, and what it supposedly said about my personality. I guess you must be interested as well.”

Frank smiled. “Aren’t we all defined by our ties to other people?”

He’d meant to put the older man at ease, but Gerard’s face only grew more troubled. He picked at a fraying seam on his jumpsuit. His fingers twitched nervously, ragged nails catching on the fabric. Now more than ever, he seemed to force himself to speak. He knew these thoughts were not to be voiced aloud, and the sanity of that surprised Frank. The Gerard Way that sat before him was quite different from the maniac described in the FBI data. He watched him smooth raven hair back from his face, fold his shaking hands safely in his lap. His eyes grew far away, and for the first time, there was something tender in his expression.

“The truth is that I love my brother very much. Since the day he was born, we’ve been inseparable, closer than twins. Somehow his coming into being balanced out my darkness; it gave me comfort, even in my rages, to know that all the good, all the light that I lacked, was present in him. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t know all his thoughts, and he mine. When he was only nine or ten, I was already a rowdy teenager. I fought constantly with Don Way, challenging his authority and refusing to believe the phony prophecies he treated like gospel truth. I couldn’t believe in him. But Mikey never knew any world outside of the cult, and he believed with all his heart. I used to worry I’d lost him to this religious fervor for something that wasn’t even real. Our powerful father could do no wrong in his eyes. He was always like that, so forgiving.

“Mikey was the reason I stayed. Everyone else knew that I would have left years ago if not for him. Growing up in that atmosphere, brainwashed, with few others our age, our closeness seemed natural. And when we became…romantically involved, when that fraternal bond blossomed into something much deeper and more fundamental, it still seemed perfectly natural to us. We loved each other as only blood could love blood, knowing our father would kill us if he caught us. People dismiss my feelings as the ravings of a sick mind, but to me it’s never been anything but an unfortunate twist of fate, that the one person I could ever love was related to me. My brother, with the eyes like black water.” He paused, dipping a finger into his glass and drawing wet circles on the tabletop. “We would spend hours playing cowboys and Indians, building forts made of bedsheets. We spent all our waking hours just the two of us, exploring out in the desert. The landscape suited him, that red sand, the rocks carved into otherworldly shapes by the wind. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to the Southwest, but the sky there is so huge, and the sunsets seem to spread over everything, bathing the land in multicolored light. I got an El Camino for my sixteenth birthday — my mother saved up in secret for it, knowing I might want to get away one day — we’d go on long drives, sleep out under the stars. Mikey didn’t even know what a town looked like, couldn’t even help me pump the fucking gas. His upbringing had crippled him, but he had this innocent…wonder…about him, because he’d never seen any of the things you take for granted when you’re not raised in an anti-technology, paranoid alien cult.” He laughed savagely. “We were each other’s world; other things existed but they were of no consequence, and slid past.” His eyes flashed over to Frank, with that same foreign intelligence glinting dully behind them. “Well,” he said. “Are you disgusted like all the rest?”

And Frank couldn’t be, not truly. He might not understand, but he firmly believed it was not his place to set a boundary on what could and could not be loved. “I’m almost jealous, actually,” he said lightly. “It sounds like the romance of the century.”

Gerard’s mouth turned up in a smug little smile. “You’re admirably unprejudiced, Agent Iero. I wouldn’t have expected that; I’ll be sure to add it to the profile I’m constructing.”

Frank's mind was much too fast for conscious thoughts to register. There was a silent game between the two of them, a tension as they tried to get to each other’s cores. Neither said exactly what they meant, but instead tried to gauge what would get a response, make the other show his cards. Both had years of training in resisting psychoanalysis — Frank attended the same tedious on-the-job safety conference every March — and the struggle, however friendly, was taxing. He tried hard to gain the upper hand against the criminal, find something in him to hate, but he kept coming up blank. He forced himself to acknowledge that no matter how sane Gerard looked, he had committed crimes against humanity that could not be forgiven. All his convictions, his preconceived notions, seemed to wither in light of this charming man sitting so benignly across from him.

Frank took a heavy breath, his eyelids fluttering. “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

“Hmm, that’s an interesting possibility,” Gerard mused, tugging idly at his bottom lip. “How long do you intend to stay here, Agent Iero? To interview me?”

“It depends.”

Gerard cocked an eyebrow questioningly. “On what?”

“On how badly you flummox me,” Frank said with laughter in his voice. “You’re rather cryptic, Mr. Way.”

“I try to cultivate an aura of mystery. You can tell me what you think of me if you like; I’d be interested in hearing it.”

“Likewise,” Frank said mildly. “Except I have to turn paperwork in to my supervisors at the end of this visit, so I’m not entirely free to hypothesize.”

Gerard winked. “Not in writing, you’re not.”

The two of them laughed, briefly, in the quiet of the cell. But the noise died on Frank’s lips as he heard feet shuffling down the hall outside.

“Is everything all right, Agent Iero?” a voice said worriedly. “The other man on my watch was supposed to tag me in immediately, but he took a visit to the shitter for quite some time.”

“Fine, thanks.” Frank scrunched his nose at the surfeit of information. “You can return to your post.”

Gerard bit his fist, barely holding back a hysterical giggle. “I never want to leave this place.”

“Mr. Way,” Frank sighed softly, running a hand over his tired face. A solitary fingertip lingered on the hollows under his eyes, tapping absently. “Let’s talk about the crimes you’ve committed.”

“Down to business,” the older man said with a hard edge to his voice. “I’m not proud of some of the things I’ve done; I’m not one of those killers who spit and brag and jerk off at the scene of the crime. Killing gives me no sexual pleasure; it’s merely a form of release that I regrettably turned to at one point in my life. I feel for my victims’ families, but when I had to take a life, I tried to take someone who wouldn’t be missed. Do you think I felt any sort of attraction to female prostitutes? I, who’ve loved my brother all my life? I killed criminals and crack whores, Frank, scum and transients incapable of contributing to society.” He saw the other man’s shoulders tighten at the mention of his first name, and held up his palms in apology. His voice turned soothing. “A life is a life, but it makes me more able to live with myself, knowing that I have never harmed a child or an innocent.”

“Why did you do it?” Frank asked cautiously. “Didn’t the consequences have any meaning for you? A life behind bars, separated from your brother…the prospect didn’t deter you?”

Gerard laughed, exposing teeth like little white pearls. “I never expected them to catch me, not alive, at least. They wouldn’t have, if I hadn’t chosen to turn myself in. I’m not your average dumb hick who shoots the cashier at a convenience store. I had them running in circles for years, following every false trail and irrelevant clue; I was confident I could keep that chase going…well, forever. But I guess, somehow, I always knew this was where it would end — my life, I mean. This is where I belong; this is the best place for someone like me now.” He paused, frowning slightly as he realized his words contradicted what he’d said earlier, then waved his madness aside resignedly. “You might have noticed I never asked for parole. If I were to be released into the real world, I’d undoubtedly kill again. You don’t know what it’s like, going through life and then — watching the world go dark for hours at a time, not knowing where I was or what I was doing.” His voice slid lower, down to a hoarse rumble. “There’s a black mood that takes me over, and there’s nothing good or pure left in the whole world. Just talking about it brings it on.”

Gerard let his head sink to the table, the pain so intense it made him want to moan out loud. Pressure pounded in his temples, sending black spots skittering in the corners of his eyes. The waves were coming more quickly now; he knew by the time Frank left, he would have a wicked headache. His jumpsuit felt two sizes too small, and he was conscious of sweat dripping down his leg. He snapped his collar against bare skin, desperate for fresh air. But the last thing he needed was the sympathy of this man; he couldn’t stand another ounce of that hollowed-out pity. It made him fragile, like the snap of one frayed thread would break his back. Frank was young, he was good; he deserved to feel nothing at all.

Let me shudder and yearn and ache, Gerard thought ferociously, biting his lip and drawing blood. He knew he was not himself, but there was nothing he could do except wait. So stuffed with feeling, skin coming apart at the seams like an overripe fruit.

The pain stopped in increments. He drew in a shuddering breath. “There’s something wrong with my head, Agent Iero, and don’t think I’m trying to shift the blame, because I take full responsibility. I am in control of my own actions, for the most part.” He lifted his haggard face to catch the light. “But it has been diagnosed in me with all due scientific procedure.”

“What has?”

“A mass,” he said faintly, because the thought made him queasy. “Buried in my frontal lobe. It’s not organic, and it’s not growing. They said it may have been there for years, since I was born, even. Now, my knowledge of the human brain is a little foggy, but I believe the frontal lobe controls things like judgment and inhibition, as well as some eye movements.” He gestured towards his left socket impatiently, where the bright green was obscured every few seconds by that same slight spasm. “The prison doctors told me this supposedly benign mass could very well have disabled some of these functions in me since birth.” When he’d learned his epileptic bouts of violence might not be entirely his fault, it had come as a relief; but at the same time, it opened a whole host of doors Gerard did not want to see through — the terrible knowledge that something foreign was at work in his brain.

“If it’s not organic,” Frank murmured, trying in vain to piece it together, “then what is it?”

God, Gerard could have drunk that face in forever without getting his fill. Those eyes widened adorably; those puckered lips were a pink satin bow, he wanted them to unfurl for him…he swore under his breath, rubbing the sides of his head with twitching fingers. “Pure Iridium,” he said promptly. “It’s a hard, brittle metal, rare on Earth in its elemental form, but commonly found in meteors from outer space. It’s very resistant to corrosion. My scans show a perfectly shaped capsule, maybe three-quarters of an inch long, and seamless.”

Frank’s stomach let out an angry protest at its treatment, but he hardly noticed. His eyes were unfocused, lost in the knowledge he’d just gained. He wondered how the mass had gotten there — because human beings definitely weren’t born with their brains full of space metal. Could it even be possible, or was Gerard just delusional?

“I’ll show you the scans, the test results,” Way said tensely. “I can’t even begin to explain it. My point is that my thoughts are not entirely my own. There are times when I’m not myself.”

Frank leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs. His mouth still hung open slightly, and Gerard caught a tantalizing glimpse of white teeth and pink tongue. “I can’t explain it, either,” he finally whispered, shaking his head sharply as if to clear it. “You can be sure I’ll look into it, though.”

“I’d appreciate that. I don’t have access to much in the way of information here,” Gerard said with a rueful smile. That was what he hated most about prison — he could handle the other inmates, the long periods of solitude, but it was the boredom that would kill him, if he stayed alive a little longer.

A loud, metallic buzzing sound came ricocheting out of the antique PA system outside the cell. Both men held their ears and winced. “Agent Frank Iero, please report to the visitor desk, your visiting hours are over for today.”

Gerard felt a gnawing sadness at the thought of spending the hours leading up to his death alone. He’d lost track of the exact amount of time, but he could learn it without much effort — the other prisoners had taken to shouting out exactly how many days he had left whenever he walked past their cells to get to the run-down library. Frank stood up slowly, gathering his coat and briefcase. Gerard noticed he carried himself with his shoulders slumped, back tensed.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said with a sweet smile.

Gerard rose stiffly and stalked to his bed, flopping onto it in the same haphazard position he’d occupied before Frank had come in. “See if I care,” he said, more harshly than he’d meant. Iero just threw his head back and laughed. After a second, he started coughing. “Smooth,” the criminal complimented him.

“I try,” Frank croaked, clearing his throat one more time. “I enjoyed speaking with you, Mr. Way.”

“Adieu.” Gerard waved royally. His hand froze in midair; his body went rigid. Before Frank could even grasp what was happening, the murderer fell back onto the bed, his muscles contracting involuntarily. It looked painful. Gerard lay there, back arching and relaxing and arching again in rhythmic spasms, with a look of the purest boredom on his marble features. He gasped like a fish out of water, scrunching eyes shut against the onslaught of pain bursting across the inside of his skull. He didn’t dare talk or he’d bite his tongue off. The world went black in patches, buzzing in and out of his consciousness while he waited, immobile. Through the fog, he was dimly aware of a guard rushing in, speaking much too slowly.

“He gets like this sometimes. His head bothers him.”

“I know.” Frank Iero’s voice was soft, detached. “He told me.”

Gerard was having the peculiar sensation that if he extended his arm all the way, his raw fingertips would brush the velvet of the FBI agent’s skin, sink into it without resistance. That pity would yield easily, and he could get at what lay underneath.

“Mr. Way? I don’t know if you can hear me, but please take care of yourself. Don’t try anything rash; I — I need you to finish your story.”

That subdued, almost embarrassed request caught him off guard. He unclenched his jaw with a massive effort. “They took me to the infirmary for blood loss,” he said venomously, “and they’ll take me there again. There is always a way, Agent Iero. And I intend to be the author of my own ending.”

Frank nodded, unsurprised, and slung his coat over his shoulder as he walked out the door. His stomach had gone silent, and he no longer wanted anything to eat. Behind him, Gerard Way watched the light fade with eyes like dull glass.

ʬ ʬ ʬ

Big Bob’s Drive-In Motel, Florence, Colorado, 6:13 p.m.

Frank left the prison and drove to his motel in a daze. The headlights of cars passing in the other direction left streaks across his vision. He was feeling something strange — overexposed, almost, like a photograph left in the chemicals for too long. The shutter had jammed and let too much in. He sat absently on the bed in his room for a while, staring at one of those horrible watercolor prints, then ventured out again to get some food.

The sun had set without him noticing, leaving a smear of orange on the horizon. His wingtips clicked against the pavement as he walked down the highway. Eventually he happened upon a decent-looking diner and ordered a salad, a baked potato, vegetable minestrone, and a grotesquely large milkshake. He finished, found a grocery store, and bought a few essentials for tomorrow. The silence as he headed back was a relief, but he found his thoughts drifting to Gerard. He wondered what the criminal was doing. He could almost picture him sitting on his threadbare cot, the single lamp bathing him in a dim gold glow, his fevered eyes twitching in that hollow white face. Frank made a mental note to talk to a psychologist about Gerard, ascertain just how crazy he actually was. He couldn’t be sure, of course, but when they’d talked today, he’d gotten the impression of a man in torment, not one who was too insane to care. Frank could identify with hating the past, with gazing upon your own inner demons. And that was perhaps part of the trouble — when Gerard spoke, it struck a chord that resonated in him, too.

He went back to his dingy motel room and collapsed on the bed, groaning as the mattress springs prodded into his back. So much for a good night’s rest. He watched the television until nine, ate some bread and cheese, and turned out the light. His fingers itched for a smoke; the room was too hot and still, and he was far too alone for his liking. He couldn’t even…god, he couldn’t even recall the last time he’d been on a date or gone out at night for anything other than a stakeout. There just wasn’t anyone he wanted to spend time with, truthfully, although he knew he hadn’t exactly put himself out there, spending all his nights poring over work. He considered Kat, briefly…but Agent Katerina Smirnoff had better things to do with her time than waste it on her clueless ex-partner. The two had been close friends in the academy, and it pained Frank to admit it, but they’d been a great team when they were first assigned to the Violent Crimes division in Savannah. Kat did all the autopsies and evidence-based analysis; Frank covered the theoretical motives behind each case, constructing detailed profiles to ensure the perpetrator was caught. Through countless long nights in the lab, they’d discovered a shared interest in music, although Frank’s tastes were decidedly punk-rock in nature and Katarina went in for heavy metal and ‘80s hair bands. They began going to concerts together in the precious little time they had off; their friendship bloomed.

Frank had worked in Savannah for nearly three years when his supervising officer saw his behavioral analyses and asked him to consider a career in criminal profiling. He and Agent Smirnoff were splitting the rent on a tacky two-bedroom condo for financial rather than romantic reasons, but she decided to make the move to D.C. as well, where there were more opportunities for her pathology research. They were both quick to deny gossip and good-natured teasing at work; although they were close, their relationship was purely professional. Not that Frank didn’t consider the alternative — the child of first-generation Russian immigrants, Kat possessed icy good looks, all high cheekbones and white-blond hair — but he wouldn't dream of jeopardizing the first true friendship he’d ever known.

It was Kat who’d confessed her feelings one night in an alcoholic haze. He still remembered that feeling of disconcerting lightness, dropping his glass and blearily watching it dissolve into a thousand shards of crystal. He could not reciprocate. Since then, the two had drifted apart somewhat, but they still saw each other from time to time. They had the same group of friends, although Frank rarely ventured out at night, and were always cordial at work, but the spark had gone out without either of them realizing.

He dragged himself from his reminiscing and turned on the light again. He called her, but while the phone was ringing, he stupidly realized he really had nothing to say. The situation remained the same — Frank had preferred men since his teenage years, and he doubted that was going to change.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end of the line was fuzzy with static, but distinctly feminine, the remnants of a Russian accent still shaping the vowels.

“It’s Frank,” he said, with a hint of panic. “I — uh…I wanted to ask your opinion on a project I’ve been assigned.” That came out of nowhere, a surprise even to him. “It’s…challenging.”

“Did Simmons give it to you?” The clink of glasses echoed somewhere close by; he could just picture her stepping out of some tiny downtown club, standing with the smokers in the cold. He paused.

Shit. He instantly regretted saying anything about his newest 'assignment'. How am I supposed to talk my way out of this one?

“Not exactly. It came to me by…strange channels. But it’s clear that someone wants me on this case.”

Katarina sighed. “Frankie…”

“I mean it, Kat. Please.”

A long silence. “What is it, exactly? And this better not have anything to do with the Way case; I’ve autopsied enough charred civilians for today.”

“You’re working the Way case?” Frank asked, almost dropping the hotel phone in his excitement. “As in, Gerard Way?”

Katarina sighed. After not speaking to anyone for hours, Frank reveled in her clipped, surgically precise tones. Simmons used to joke that they were a study in contrasts, Kat’s steely gaze and unerring professionalism standing against Frank’s bouncy, energetic warmth. He knew them both too well. “No, his brother. Michael Way. He’s been blowing up public buildings all over the country. Catastrophic fires that start nearly instantaneously; by the time the police get to the scene, there’s nothing left to reveal how it was started. They’ve been making me test the bodies to see if it’s a chemical agent of some kind. A new bioweapon, maybe.”

“I very much doubt he has a fully equipped lab in the back of his car. If I recall, he never even finished high school.” He waited, then asked the obvious question when it became clear she was finished speaking. “How do you know it’s him?”

“He’s not exactly shy about it.” She was definitely rolling her eyes. “Sends a letter to the local PD a week before he strikes; no demands, no ransom money, nothing. He writes them poems.”

“A real artistic soul,” Frank concluded with a grin. “Do you know why he’s escalated so suddenly?” Even the most psychopathic personality didn’t start out with full-blown murder. Usually they built up a string of convictions for less serious crimes before stressors in their lives drove them to kill. As far as Frank knew, Mikey had never even been arrested before.

“The date set for Gerard Way’s execution is fast approaching,” Kat said grimly. “I believe it’s something on the order of twenty days now.”

Frank felt a pang in his side. It pained him for some reason, the thought that the charismatic, tortured killer he’d just met would soon cease to exist. Somehow he couldn’t picture Gerard cuffed and restrained, sitting in the electric chair with a hood hiding his striking face, or lying silently in his cell while a lethal poison coursed through his veins. It just seemed…well, wrong.

Kat continued, filling the silence obligingly. “I hope you manage to finish your profile before then. I’m sure the court will want to read it when the case is closed. Maybe it will make it into the official press release.”

“He knows something,” Frank said heavily. “I’m sure of it. There’s something he won’t tell me, and I have to try to get it out of him before he dies. I can’t explain it, how I can sense it, but he might be able to help me crack the Halo files.”

“Halo?” She echoed in disbelief. “Is that what you said?”

“Why, have you heard of them?” He patted down his pockets before realizing he was wearing only boxers, muttered a curse, and dropped the phone on the bed as he scrambled around the room for a pen and paper. Ruffling his hair distractedly, he grabbed at the handset again and held his breath, hoping he hadn’t missed anything.

“—from office gossip, but of course I have never seen them myself. They are highly classified; I could never get access. Apparently the D.O.D. closed the files to everyone but the top tier of the Bureau. You’re saying you’ve seen them?”

“A little more than that,” he said breathlessly. “They’re sitting in my closet.”

“You can’t be serious — do you have any idea of the trouble you’d get into —”

“I didn’t steal them,” he insisted. “They were left for me to find. Someone broke into my apartment and dumped them in my living room. Archive security is so high that I can only guess someone very high-ranking took them out and delivered them to me. Whoever it is, they want the Halo Files reopened so badly they’re willing to go through unofficial channels.”

“Illegal channels, you mean.”

“Look, Kat, don’t tell anyone about this. Something very strange happened to those people thirteen years ago; I think we should do what we can to shed some light. The details don’t add up, and you know me, I can’t leave something like this unanswered.”

“All right,” she said after a moment. “I won’t tell anyone. But Frank, if you’re doing this for your own personal glory, if you just want a challenge…”

He laughed. “Since when do I care about my reputation?”

“I don’t know, perhaps you’re up for some big promotion, perhaps you’re going to lose your job —”

“As if. Simmons would never let that happen.”

“He favors you shamelessly. You’re his protégé, and he intends to ride your coattails all the way to the top. As for the Halo files, I’m not even sure of the details of the murders, but I overheard something a long time ago concerning the victims’ connection. I was in the morgue late one night cleaning up, and I’d gone upstairs to report my findings to Assistant Director Bishop. He was in a meeting; I waited outside the door. But I heard him mention a project called Lux Nova, and the mortalities, the supernatural aspect to them. I asked around and found out that Lux Nova came to a mysterious end about a decade ago, but there are no records of its existence in the FBI database. It piqued my curiosity, but I never heard anything else about it.”

Lux Nova, Frank thought. He knew Gerard had been high up in the FBI around the time of the murders, and made up his mind to ask him about it. It was a lead, anyhow, and a solid one at that. “Thank you, Kat. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime. I’ll talk to you soon, yeah?”

“Sounds good. Bye.”

He hung up in a daze, crawled back under the covers without bothering to turn off the light. Thoughts were running through his head thick and fast, but he was too exhausted to make sense of them. That night, after his first interrogation of the prisoner he would come to know so well, Frank Iero slept like a baby.

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Gerard was young. He could feel it in his bones, that lightness he used to take for granted. The sun was streaming in through the windows of his father’s study, illuminating each individual particle of dust. He swiped a hand through the air, marveling at both the pink, unscarred transparency of his skin and the way his simple movement made the tiny specks dance, hum with energy.

“Gerard.” His father’s voice was stern. He slowly became aware that he was not alone; there were others in the room, watching him. He dropped his hand back to his side, his smile fading. Something was missing. He scanned the figures quickly, instinctively searching for Mikey. The door opened with a creak. No one reacted. His mother entered unobtrusively, and — there — cowering behind her legs, the pinched little face he’d know anywhere. His brother had grass stains on his white shirt (what were they thinking, dressing a little kid in white clothes?); his eyes flashed behind thick horn-rimmed glasses that constantly slid down his nose.

Gee? Mikey thought. He was always hesitant at first, sending out that tendril of psychic energy like a whisper into the darkness, like he wasn’t sure he’d get a reply.

I’m here.

Did they hurt you yet?

No. Not yet. I won’t let them.

I won’t let them. His brother smiled, soft lips curling slightly. The room took on a rosy glow, and Gerard let himself bask in that subtle light, let it melt his fear away. Mikey crossed the room, shuffling slightly in his too-big shoes, and stood next to him. Their father was speaking.

Gerard couldn’t remember the words, exactly, but he was in trouble. Something about the two of them sneaking out of the dormitory at night. Well, duh. Like Mikey could sleep, crammed in there with all the other kids. No one else even knew he was claustrophobic, but Gerard would take him and drive him out into the desert, until there was nothing blocking out the sky. The two of them would sleep in the backseat, curling around each other like commas, like inverses undoing each other until it was all balanced and sleep came crashing down.

Mikey was afraid for him; he could feel the anxious tension. He sighed softly, breath spiraling from his mouth and stirring the dust again. Mikey reached for his hand instinctively, swaying on his spindly legs, but Gerard stepped away, hating himself for it.

We can’t. Mikes, you know we can’t here. They’ll know.

Mikey reacted like he’d been stung. Sorry. Sorrysorrysorry—

Their father was still talking, his voice rising in anger. Gerard felt nothing except his brother. He filled his mind with the cool night air, open space, a picnic with the cold chicken left over from lunch. Mikey’s muscles eased; he tipped his head back with an expression approaching ecstasy. If Gerard listened carefully, those foreign thoughts were dimly lit pictures in his mind’s eye. Mikey was pressing pink lips to his brother’s cheek and temple, cooling his rage with kisses. He offered himself up without a second thought. It was stronger than love, it was…

Gee.

His eyes flew open. He was still in his cell, staring at the bare cement wall, but if he focused, he could see something entirely different painted behind his eyes. In his head, the road was flying past, winding through a landscape of red rock and wide-open sky. His body felt different, thin and fragile. Blond hair tangled in the wind. He could smell Mikey on his clothes and on the surface of his skin. He wanted to scream, his freedom was so painfully close; he could taste the desert on his lips. But that other presence in his mind, the weight of another consciousness, stopped him.

Gerard. Mikey said his name with a smile, rolling it off his tongue, luxuriating in it. I’m coming for you.

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I'll post a new chapter soon, sorry this took forever to write. Thanks to everyone who reviewed; I'm really overwhelmed by the response this has gotten and so grateful to all of you. Cheers!

I’ve gotten a couple requests for the playlist I listen to when I’m writing this. (I know what you’re thinking – really? Yes. I’m not just being fatuous.)

Skip this bit if you’re not interested, but discovering new music is one of the greatest joys in my life, so I thought it couldn’t hurt. It’s mostly songs about…you guessed it, murderers and criminals. There’s some gritty, scruffy rock, some blues, a little bit of New Wave synth and some folksy shit that reminds me of the desert, where most of the story will take place – this might not sound exactly like your cuppa tea if you like MCR, but whatever. Give it a listen if you like, and three cheers for being cultured and open-minded.

The Halo Files Playlist
1. “Two Against One” – Danger Mouse & Daniele Luppi feat. Jack White
2. “We Used to Vacation” – Cold War Kids
3. “Whenusleep” – Salem
4. “Papillon” – The Airborne Toxic Event
5. “Nail In My Coffin” – The Kills
6. “Vicious Streak” – New Order
7. “The Creature” – Kurt Vile
8. “Sweetest Kill” – Broken Social Scene
9. “Get Burned” – Sleeper Agent
10. “(Antichrist Television Blues)” – Arcade Fire
11. “Criminals” – Atlas Sound
12. “Too Afraid To Love You” – The Black Keys
13. “The Passenger” – Kings of Convenience
14. “What Remains” – The Foals
15. “Firewall” – Bright Eyes
16. “Agoraphobia” - Deerhunter
17. “Corsicana” – The Antlers
18. “Vomit” - Girls

Hope that satisfies your new-music cravings. R & R, it lends me courage when I’m chilling at 3 a.m. with my cocoa typing away about mass murderers and freaking myself out in my empty apartment. Suggestions, weird shit you’d like to see, you name it. You’re all swell. xo
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