Angel in Disguise

Omi swiveled in the chair, looking for Ken or Aya so he could tell them about his discovery. When he was met with Farfarello's disinterested gaze, the situation came tumbling back down on top of him. It was too much to hope for that the Irishman would be interested in the fates of the employees. Resigned, Omi shut the computer back down, and stood up. As he stretched, several joints popped loudly, and his stomach grumbled embarrassingly. He ignored it in favour of examining a bloodstain on the wall, beside the door they'd just come in through. "No body," he murmured curiously. There were red streaks on the floor leading away from the dried puddle, and through a darkened doorway down what appeared to be a hallway. Omi glanced at Farfarello, who still seemed completely uninterested, shrugged, and then wandered into the hall, two of his knives appearing in his hand as though by magic.

Farfarello watched half-interestedly as Omi sifted through the files, looking very much like Nagi, save the fact that his hands were actually moving across the keyboard. The Irishman took a quick scan of the map, dismissing it. If he tailed Omi, such information would be easily kept in the Weiss's mind.

The next files were of greater importance, however.

Escaped circus animals. Or rather, highly intelligent escaped sins against nature. An unnecessary evolution, of sorts. The Almighty would be unhappy with such things. So would Crawford. Animals were difficult for the precognitive to read, which explained why they weren't able to gather any intelligence through their usual means.

The blasphemy thrilled him, but it was otherwise boring. Intelligent animals? More like beastly humans. He'd take a feline over a homosapien any day. And that slow, one-sensory creature they'd seen before was far from perfect. If Farfarello felt compelled to pity, he would've put forth the feeling for that monster.

He watched in boredom as Bombay swiveled around, his expression excited. Excited over the mess he'd just read. Puzzles that had already been solved. Farfarello couldn't see the attraction, so he merely looked on disinterestedly, waiting for the boy to finish.

Finish, and then follow streaks of dried blood into a dark hallway. Streaks, meaning something had been dragged. Dark, as in they didn't know what was down there.

"You know in horror movies, when somebody's about to do something so obviously stupid..." Farfarello trailed off, murmuring half to himself.

He paused for a second, weighing his options, then padded forward silently after the boy with the map in his head, pulling out his largest knife, besides the retractable one. The retractable one was fun, but it didn't have much cutting power. Fun for when he wanted to play with his victims.

Right now, he just didn't particularly want to die.

*

Let me see, Omi said to himself. This hallway should lead straight down into the animal growth lab, which probably means...

Something jumped at him the moment he stepped out of the hall into the large cavernous room. It was dead two seconds later, two of his little knives in it's head. "That's a relief," he said to himself, unaware that Farfarello had followed him. He retrieved his knives, and wiped them again on his shorts before returning them to their ready positions between his fingers. He found a light switch on the wall, and flicked it on, the room exploding with light. His eyes hadn't quite adjusted to the darkness of the hallway yet, and it was easy for them to readjust to the bright room. Nothing else appeared, and he stood still for a moment, listening.

Silence. Silence was, as they said, golden. He found the bloody streaks on the floor, and followed them to what was left of a human body, half-chewed. That mystery solved - he'd been half afraid it was another creature, wounded and mad with pain - he turned his attention to the beast he'd slain in the darkness. It appeared to be a small tiger, with vaguely familiar shapes...

Omi's knives clattered to the ground as he realized what he was looking at. It was a child. Horrified, he snatched up the knives and staggered backwards. They didn't say anything about kids. Why did it have to be a kid? The chair he'd walked past a moment ago was now directly behind him, but he didn't realize the danger until it had tangled up his legs and sent him falling backwards.

His free hand shot out to catch him, landing squarely across the edge of the desk. The sharp corner bit into his already wounded hand, bringing tears to his eyes as pain lanced up his arm. When his wrist gave out, he found himself free-falling backwards, only to hit the back of his head un-gently against the self-same corner, which caused stars to explode behind his eyes.

Dizzy, horrified, and in pain, he stared aghast at the tiny figure on the floor. Half boy, half tiger, all child. Numbly, he unwrapped his hand, seeing blood starting to soak through the bandages. Motion out of the corner of his eye had his attention immediately, but he relaxed when he saw it was only Farfarello.

"Children," he whispered to the other man. "They were experimenting on children." His luminous blue eyes filled with tears, skewing the image of the Irishman and blurring the room. He turned his attention back to rewrapping his hand with some fresh absorbent cotton.

Farfarello stood back as the boy easily killed his attacker, confident that his own skills weren't necessary. Perhaps it was good that they were venturing into the dark unknown. If Omi died at this point, he could always go back and look at the map, as opposed to him dying further down the road.

After the light was flicked on, he studied the room. Surprisingly small. So many rooms in this building seemed extremely unimportant. He wondered briefly if they'd been used for other things, then cleared out before the damage struck. But then, that would mean somebody had been planning for the beasts to escape... His attention was called back quickly as a clatter shot out. A smaller throwing knife appeared instantly in his hand, but he relaxed when he realized it was only Omi. Strangely clumsy.

Noticing the boy's eyes were filled with tears, he glided over quickly, wondering if the boy had hurt himself worse than it appeared. He reached out to check, but paused at the Weiss's words, following Omi's line of sight.

Children? Farfarello blinked as he realized... it really was a child. He turned back quickly, jaw tight. Children were innocents. They hadn't even carved out whether they were angels or blasphemers. Hadn't had a chance.

"Inexcusable," he hissed to himself, sick with low, rumbling disgust. Even the sight of Omi's exposed hand only called a slight stirring.

Was this why Omi was crying? Not the pain, but the child?

He leaned over and wiped his thumb across the corner of the assassin's eye. Yes, definitely crying.

What did they always tell him, when he was little? It'll be ok? ...But that was wrong. It wouldn't be ok.

So he didn't say anything, instead watching patiently as Omi changed his bandage. As the boy leaned over, he noticed something shiny in his hair.

"You're bleeding," declared the Irishman, surveying the damage. Head wounds were never good.

Omi was still trying to kick start his stuttering brain after Farfarello gently wiped at his face; the words didn't immediately make any sense to him. "Wha...?" He reached up and felt for the sore part of his head, and his fingers came away touched with red. He shrugged, and shoved them in his mouth, licking the blood off absently. "I've been hurt worse," he added, waving his freshly re-bandaged hand at the other man.

He climbed unsteadily to his feet, wiping at his eyes with his sleeves, and tried to avoid seeing the terrible corpse in the middle of the room. Kids, he thought again. No one had warned him that kids were involved. Now his head was throbbing in time with his pulse, and his hand stung. I want to go home, he thought childishly. He was tired of being here in this crazy building with these horribly twisted experiments, and a Farfarello who was just this side shy of compassionate.

"I know," Farfarello agreed, remembering the several times they'd fought with Weiss. Specifically, the time Nagi had thrown his counterpart into the wall; a throw which should've killed him, but hadn't.

Secretly, Farfarello suspected that none of his teammates really wanted to destroy the Weiss. There was something comforting in seeing their counterparts treading water, contorting under the weight of their lives. Wondering if they'd ever end up as twisted as Schwarz was. Wondering why they hadn't already cracked.

A shiver down his spine warned him of their location. This room, while large, had only one exit. If they were attacked through it...

"Was there something you wanted here?" he asked, moving to stand between Omi and the corpse. Something caught the light, glimmering from across the room. The half-chewed corpse, which seemed to be a scientist of some sort, was holding something in his hand. A gun? Guns were boring. Too quick. At least, too quick for humans. He got no joy out of slicing up animals. He slipped over to the body, prying the gun out of the cadaver's hand with some difficulty, only noticing after a moment that it wasn't a normal piece. A quick look in the chamber revealed the difference. Tranquilizer gun. Better than nothing.

He searched everything that hadn't been chewed off, coming back with three extra darts. Four total.

Omi gave the childlike monster a last horrified stare, and wandered into the hallway. "No," he said mildly. "There's nothing I wanted down here. I was sent here to check the building out, is all." He'd come to check out the building, and he was doing so. Whether or not Farfarello was with him was irrelevant.

No, it wasn't, he decided suddenly. He wanted Farfarello's company. The thought wasn't as horrific as he'd once imagined it would be; the Irishman's recent behavioral changes - and the almost indecent moment they'd not-quite-shared when Omi cut his hand - made him something almost-pleasant to be around. Farfarello hadn't called him out for dispatching the beast; Ken or Yohji would have given him unhappy looks for killing without reason. It was just the way he had been raised; from the age of seven or eight, he'd been a member of Kritiker. At nine, he'd made his first kill, and he'd been honing his skills ever since. The fact that he was good at it was irrelevant. The fact that he... needed it ...

That train of thought brought Farfarello even closer, and he turned from introspection to look for the Irishman. The sight of him with a gun in his hand brought back memories of Ouka, and he slumped to the floor just outside the door to the lab, holding his head in his hands. The supposed madman was such an enigma.

*

The gun cocked easily in his hands, feeling at once both familiar and alien. The shape was longer than a regular hand-held, to fit the elongated tranq darts.

He stepped out into the hallway, feeling a brief thrill when he couldn't find the boy. Knowing that if he lost him this time, he probably wouldn't see him again unless the Weiss was laying half-eaten in some dark hallway. Or until they met as Weiss and Schwarz, ready and able to tear each other apart. This unfamiliar sort of game they were playing was rather entertaining. He enjoyed it.

Against the wall, perfectly still, Bombay rested with his head in hands, his form as perfect as some soft statue. Aesthetically pleasing. Farfarello could appreciate the symbol of perfect sorrow.

Somehow, though, it bothered him.

He pulled two of the four darts from his pockets, considering them. Farfarello probably needed the gun, but...

"You can throw these?" he offered, squatting down and holding the darts out at arm's length.

Omi's head jerked up, surprised to find himself not alone any more. He took the dart, and shoved the child's body to the back of his mind, to be mourned when he was no longer on a mission.

He took one of the darts, and hefted it, twirling it around his fingers. "I could," he said. "Where'd you get it?"

Farfarello cocked his head to the side, eyebrows going up automatically. The room was barren, save the desk, the half-masticated corpse, and the child-beast. Omi had gotten fairly familiar with the desk and the child-beast didn't seem the type to carry tranqs, so that only left one option...

"I teleported. They were in the bushes outside," he said flatly.

The boy stared askance at him, and then surprised himself by bursting into peals of genuine laughter.

"Such a liar," he admonished when his mirth abated, the last of the darkness gone from his mind. He twirled the dart again, surprised. The shape suggested it was a projectile, likely from a gun. This brought back the memory of Farfarello with a gun in his hand, and Omi realized they must have come from it. "Don't you need these for your gun?" he asked, climbing to his feet and dusting himself off. Now that he had them, he was somewhat reluctant to give them up. The only darts he had on him were non-filled, an oversight on his part. Normally he carried several of each kind - poison-filled, poison-tipped, tranquilizer-filled, and regular darts that could be used in a game if he so chose. He hadn't been expecting to find anything - or anyone - in the building, and had left off his usual stash. He needed more supplies for them anyway, he reasoned, and the only way he could get those was going through Manx and Kritiker - unlike his bows, which were sold in normal stores. He modified them, of course, for his own pull and grasp, and then he was off on another dangerous tangent, thinking that he would have to replace the strings on all his bows, they were wearing thin -

He cut himself off, realizing that it wasn't safe to consider Farfarello an ally who would protect him if he got distracted. It was them against the creatures, but as soon as they were free of the maze-like building, they would be at odds once again.

The boy's laughter surprised him, and he rocked backwards slightly, eye wide. Even the 'liar' comment didn't bring forth the reaction inside himself it normally would. Shake it off.

Farfarello shrugged, pulling back mentally to keep from smiling. Infectious joy was something with which he wasn't very familiar, and he hadn't really expected his 'joke' to have any effect.

"It isn't mine," he answered. "The gun." That was enough, he figured. He didn't want to explain to anyone, not even himself, why he'd given up the darts. The boy could throw well, he reasoned. It was a strategic move. But he could shoot well, too. Canceled that out.

It wasn't important, he decided finally. And besides, they fit nicely in Bombay's good hand. Interesting that such dangerous objects looked natural in the boy's grasp. A little angel, so easily piercing the hearts of others.

This caused a grin to pull at the corners of his mouth.

Fallen angel. God wouldn't forgive his trespasses so easily.

That was why he'd given the darts. He enjoyed watching the boy work. His graceful kills, even if the tranqs were relatively harmless to anything larger than a rottweiler. He wanted to watch Bombay attack without mercy, like he had a moment ago.

"Shall we go?" find more victims? he purred lowly, overeager, now that he'd figured it out.

"Do you have it on your person?" Omi asked curiously, feeling rejuvenated by his laughter and Farfarello's tone of voice. "If he's not using it any more, and you've got it, that makes it yours."

He couldn't stop the smile that tugged at the corners of his lips as he walked back through the short hall into the other room, one hand twirling the dart absently. He took a deep breath and held it briefly before bending over and stretching until his hand was flat on the floor. It tugged slightly at the backs of his thighs, but he was so limber it didn't hurt. If his hands were both well, he probably would have followed through with a handspring, just to shake off some of the loose energy coursing through him after the brief attack. He almost wanted something else to come flying through the door, something to give him another chance to show off...

Not showing off, he told himself, straightening. I don't care what he thinks about what I do.

It was a lie, and he knew it. He wanted to show the Irishman what he was capable of. He wanted to see the other man's graceful limbs wielding blades so sharp that one didn't feel the sting of their touch until the wound was dripping. It rose in the back of his mind like a tidal wave of red, the desire to kill, destroy, and devastate.

"So if I steal your shoes, that makes them mine?" Farfarello asked curiously, wondering if the boy's morals were as twisted as that last statement sounded. "You can walk fine without them, so you wouldn't be using them anymore. They would be in my possession. By your logic, I would own them. Or..."

He watched the boy stretch, feeling his insides shift around inside him.

"...If I took you, Weiss could easily find a replacement..."

His form was surprisingly malleable.

"That makes you useless, and in my possession."

Under the massive pile of clothes where he hid a countless number of projectile weapons, he was deceivingly deadly.

"Would that mean you were mine?"

Omi turned at the Irishman's words, knowing that his emotions were written across his face as clearly as if he'd become a printed book for all to read. But what the other man would see in those words...

His mind staggered over the things he suddenly wanted to say, piles of thoughts colliding behind his eyes, stopped by the same need to kill that just moments ago had him bouncing on his toes, ready to start a fight with Farfarello just to see the blood. Weiss needs me. I'm yours. Don't take me away. I hate them. I'm not useless. I'm like you.

When the red tide receded enough for spoken language, he finally managed to say simply, "I need my shoes."

He turned to exit the room, tucking the tranq dart into one of the many pockets in his jacket. Outwardly, he was perfectly calm; inside was a riotous mess of emotions flinging themselves back and forth.

Farfarello grinned to himself as the boy stared back at him. He'd expected a hasty I'm not useless or an I'd like to see you try or something equally snappish, but the chosen response was... confusing.

He thought about it for a moment before following Omi.

"But I don't," he retorted finally, going back to the basics. "Maybe shoes aren't as important as you think they are."

Omi looked over his shoulder at the older teen, scowling. "Maybe you don't need shoes because you're weird," he at last. "But I need my shoes. They protect me."

For a moment, he wasn't sure what Farfarello was talking about; from his point of view, his shoes were the metaphor for his team.

"I'm weird?" Farfarello grinned. He couldn't dispute that, but for this argument, he thought he'd actually followed a rational line of thinking.

Oh. But he was talking to a Japanese kid.

The boy had probably never in his life run barefoot through the moist morning grass. One of the few happy memories the psychopath could recall. This caused the grin to slip from his face.

"Maybe your need for shoes is a conditioned response," he frowned. The shoes' other meaning rested listlessly in the back of his mind, perfectly satisfied that his metaphor was golden, even without it pecking at his brain. "Perhaps you think they're protecting you, and they're really slowing you down."

He rolled his eyes up in thought, staring at the ceiling, "Honestly, I don't see the need for any clothing whatsoever. But Crawford won't let me outside without."

He didn't even like Farfarello walking around the apartment in the buff. What was going to happen there? Carpet burn? Skin rash from the couch?

The Irishman snorted, realizing how much he disliked this social norm.

Omi stopped dead for a moment. Slowing me down?

It made a sickening sort of sense. Weiss did slow him down; they were, with the occasional exception of Aya, unwilling to kill any but the selected target, no matter the danger to themselves or the mission. He recalled the dirty looks he received when he killed 'unnecessarily.'

"Maybe they do slow me down," he agreed quietly. "But they support me when I need it." Farfarello's other comment, about not needing clothes at all, caused a slow, deep flush to rise from his neck up through his face, and he adamantly told himself he wasn't blushing, and didn't want to see it anyway. He let that statement slide without further comment. The hallway opened up into another bridge-room, with three closed doors leading away from it. The room gave him an eerie feeling that prickled at the back of his neck, but he couldn't determine where it was coming from. He propped himself against the wall to wait for the Irishman to catch up, and closed his eyes, trying to remember where to go from there.

The moment he rested his full weight against the wall, however, it swung inwards, tipping him backwards into a slightly lower room, and then swung closed again as soon as he was free of it.

Farfarello followed lazily, dragging the tip of his knife along the wall. Now that he had the information he came for, he was ready to go. It was an added negative that there was nobody to kill. The boy was fun, but there was no reason he couldn't take him home.

Crawford might not even mind, although he'd be mad for a little while that he hadn't been consulted about the decision.

A little lost kitten. Farfarello sneered, thinking of all the fun places he could take his pet to help sharpen his claws.

But the boy's morality was still intact. Besides, owning a pet was a big responsibility. He chewed on his lip, considering.

A loud noise echoed from somewhere up ahead, and he realized how far behind he'd gotten.

A room with three doors, and no Omi. He clenched his teeth, frustration bubbling up. Little prick. He'd sneaked through one of the doors and left the Irishman here to rot.

Could he get out now? Keypads were on every door. There were no ventilation ducts in this catacomb. No windows.

Shit. Well, Crawford knew he was here. He had invaluable information the man needed. He'd just have to wait for rescue.

He slumped against a door, scraping the floor with his knife, imagining what he'd do to the Weiss if he ever caught him again.

Shit shit shit. He hated cages.