Categories > Anime/Manga > Weiss Kreuz > Schwarz Kreuz: Spawnverse
'Thou Shalt Not Kill' was one of the commandments Farfarello ranted most about and, consequently, the one he seemed to take to heart. In a manner of speaking. They all took a particular joy in breaking that rule, whether they spared a second thought to religion or not. It made them bad. It made them sinners. It got them front row seats to the fire and brimstone party.
"It's fun," Schuldig had informed them all at one point or another, eyes sparking like he needed a fix. Breathing a tad bit faster. And it might just be a mission or for business or revenge to the others, but he knew they loved it too. Just as much as he did. How could they not and stay sane?
But those were the reasons the others gave to the brats. Because some things had to be done and that was just their way, always had been, beaten into all of their minds by good old Rosenkreuz, sweet Rosenkreuz. They wouldn't change it for the world, oh of course not, but it was just a /way/, you see. What they knew.
They never really mentioned how fun it was.
So he did.
"The gun is warm in your palm, pulsing, cooling, sending shivers up your arm and through you body like the best fuckin massage you'll ever get. And then you smell copper and ruin and something worse. It's great, you know. Knowing you did that. You won, even if they guy whose head you just blew off didn't know the game was on."
It made them monsters. Evil. Corrupt. Damned for eternity and all that jazz. Like so many others but somehow worse. Marked.
And he didn't care, because he /knew/. He'd learned a long time ago, before the towers fell. Before he graduated from that place. Before he'd been dragged off the streets and pushed behind concrete walls.
The less players on the field, the better the chance you'll come out on top.
"Sometimes you'll taste it. On your tongue. And you lips. And in your mind- that's the best and worst. Tastes and traps you like molasses. You'll want to hang on for the ride, bumps and all, but you can't. Ever. Cause then you're just another loser. A pawn down on the board and pushed aside. Got it?"
Adjust the aim. Has to be right the first time, no exceptions, but a little bit of help won't hurt now. Not with this boy, anyway. He was a fast learner too.
"Don't feel bad after. Or guilty. Heh. Turn the other cheek like those lambs do and you're next. But you know that by now, right, kiddo?"
Watch him, a warped image of himself. Pale finger curling on the trigger, not for the first time but for the first time that counts. Young hands, not lined or calloused yet. Not really, except from paper cut marks and the thin slashes of a child that played with knives that weren't his. Childish scars.
A beginning.
"Don't think you're guilty. That's my job, right?" Smirk at the old joke, at the sound- bang clean and cut- at the red blossoms and powder burnt smell.
Game, set.
"You done good, brat. Keep it up and you'll be around for a while." Ruffle hair and smirk wider. "Have fun?"
Curling grin in response. Caress of burning metal.
"Good."
Match, won.
"It's fun," Schuldig had informed them all at one point or another, eyes sparking like he needed a fix. Breathing a tad bit faster. And it might just be a mission or for business or revenge to the others, but he knew they loved it too. Just as much as he did. How could they not and stay sane?
But those were the reasons the others gave to the brats. Because some things had to be done and that was just their way, always had been, beaten into all of their minds by good old Rosenkreuz, sweet Rosenkreuz. They wouldn't change it for the world, oh of course not, but it was just a /way/, you see. What they knew.
They never really mentioned how fun it was.
So he did.
"The gun is warm in your palm, pulsing, cooling, sending shivers up your arm and through you body like the best fuckin massage you'll ever get. And then you smell copper and ruin and something worse. It's great, you know. Knowing you did that. You won, even if they guy whose head you just blew off didn't know the game was on."
It made them monsters. Evil. Corrupt. Damned for eternity and all that jazz. Like so many others but somehow worse. Marked.
And he didn't care, because he /knew/. He'd learned a long time ago, before the towers fell. Before he graduated from that place. Before he'd been dragged off the streets and pushed behind concrete walls.
The less players on the field, the better the chance you'll come out on top.
"Sometimes you'll taste it. On your tongue. And you lips. And in your mind- that's the best and worst. Tastes and traps you like molasses. You'll want to hang on for the ride, bumps and all, but you can't. Ever. Cause then you're just another loser. A pawn down on the board and pushed aside. Got it?"
Adjust the aim. Has to be right the first time, no exceptions, but a little bit of help won't hurt now. Not with this boy, anyway. He was a fast learner too.
"Don't feel bad after. Or guilty. Heh. Turn the other cheek like those lambs do and you're next. But you know that by now, right, kiddo?"
Watch him, a warped image of himself. Pale finger curling on the trigger, not for the first time but for the first time that counts. Young hands, not lined or calloused yet. Not really, except from paper cut marks and the thin slashes of a child that played with knives that weren't his. Childish scars.
A beginning.
"Don't think you're guilty. That's my job, right?" Smirk at the old joke, at the sound- bang clean and cut- at the red blossoms and powder burnt smell.
Game, set.
"You done good, brat. Keep it up and you'll be around for a while." Ruffle hair and smirk wider. "Have fun?"
Curling grin in response. Caress of burning metal.
"Good."
Match, won.
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