Categories > Anime/Manga > Weiss Kreuz > Siberia

ii. Like With Wolves

by Bladderwrack 1 review

Power and ownership, clothing, permafrost, the trans siberian express.

Category: Weiss Kreuz - Rating: R - Genres: Angst, Drama - Characters: Crawford, Schuldig - Published: 2006-02-04 - Updated: 2006-02-04 - 450 words

In the foyer, waiting, he squirms his hips to redistribute the scrunched fabric of his vest under the waistband. New jeans, still shop-starched and leaving indigo shadows on his legs. They cup round the small of his back, skim his calf muscles unexpectedly and constantly, reminding him of the presence of his own body. Institutional wear, uniforms, borrowed garments and 'growing room'. Schuldig is used to having his clothes hang off him.


He sits between Crawford's legs and fiddles with the hem of the valance. When they're done here, they'll go somewhere else. Skip seasons, make it summer.

'Do I get to kill that blonde bitch?' says Schuldig.

'Which blonde bitch?' says Crawford.

'The hell do you mean, "which blonde bitch"?' He's angry, suddenly. 'The one working for Nabokov, the one in the grey suit. You know.'

'Ah. Her.'

'So, do I get to kill her?' repeats Schuldig. He pushes his head irritably at Crawford's thigh, for emphasis.

'You can if you want to,' grants Crawford.

Sociopathy, disassociation, self-interest. These qualities keep Schuldig from functioning in one sense, keep him from going insane in another. The wrong kind of insane, that is.


Schuldig moves precisely, back to back with Crawford. He doesn't need to see Crawford to follow his movements. He knows this back as intimately as a lover, as intricately as a killer - he goes with Crawford without ever touching clumsily. The scene seems oversaturated, he's focused so taut. Berserker's high is bleeding off into him, and the little bit of Crawford too that thinks like Farfarello, close at his back. He narrows his eyes and shoots through the plasterboard wall, knocking down the armed man in the corridor before he can even get to the door.


She wasn't there at the scene, so he decides he wants to fuck her instead. It's almost insultingly easy. Her flat is nicer than he expected. Her breasts are small and her face is somewhat plain, but she makes some effort at least. He comes away with unbloodied hands; and then on the street corner it's the man himself, it's Crawford who knew to be there to shoot when she followed Schuldig holding her boyfriend's gun, thinking to empty his pockets, thinking to make a quick buck.

Next day in the hire car, Schuldig traces over the bruises on his chest and abdomen through a clean white cotton vest. He's obscurely pleased with himself. Like a dog, like with wolves. He's reaffirmed his status. The roads manifests ten metres before them in the fog, scrolling out like a video game.

Crawford: he's the only one who's allowed to kill Schuldig. This is a principle Schuldig respects even as he's unaware of it.
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