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Strange Times	By : fireun Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 3711 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Strange Times
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 7-7
- 8-8
- 9-9
- 10-10
- 11-11
- 12-12
- 13-13
- 14-14
- 15-15
- 16-16
- 17-17
- 18-18
- 19-19
- 20-20
- 21-21
- 22-22
- 23-23
- 24-24
- 25-25
- 26-26
- 27-27
- 28-28
- 29-29
- 30-30
- 31-31
- 32-32
- 33-33
- 34-34
- 35-35
- 36-36
- 37-37
- 38-38
- 39-39
- 40-40
- 41-41
- 42-42
- 43-43
- 44-44
- 45-45
- 46-46
- 47-47
- 48-48
- 49-49
- 50-50
- 45
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- 47
Aya took in his empty apartment with a fatalistic sort of calm. Nothing was broken, there was no blood. All was quiet in the back of his head where Schuldich had taken up residence.

He really wished there had been signs of a struggle. Or at least a tantrum.

Aya hung his keys on the peg, toed off his shoes and stalked through his domain with a professional intensity. Everything was just out of place enough to suggest regular habitation; nothing was out of place enough to inspire distress. It was Schuldich’s usual clutter just barely reined in by Aya’s drive towards organization; a sock half hidden under a couch cushion, a napkin under a chair in the kitchen, a coffee mug and scattered remnants of a week old newspaper on the table.

Aya frowned, closing the bedroom closet. The holster that had been casually hanging beside jeans and secondhand shirts was missing. The small pistol that had been sitting on a closet shelf next to some truly hideous footwear was pointedly absent. Frown going tightlipped, Aya made his way to the phone.
____________________

Yohji exhaled a dragon’s sigh of smoke, tapped the ash of the end of his cigarette, and rearranged his artful lounge. Park benches weren’t made to be comfortable. And really, it looked like it was going to rain at any moment. Not exactly ideal conditions for settling in for some people watching. Cigarette dangling between two fingers, Yohji readjusted his headsets, skipped the next song on his Discman, and allowed his face to sag into the politely uninterested expression of the antisocial that had accidentally wandered out into public and wanted nothing more than for the ordeal to be over so he could sneak back. He took note of everyone who walked past, every couple and every pack of kids.

Nothing out of place. No one acting like they had a bastard of a German riding their brain cells. His ass was falling asleep and he had nothing to show for all his hard work.

Seemingly languid green eyes flickered over the endless parade of people walking past, taking in every nuance of their bearing.

Yohji stood, stretched, reached for his pocket and fished out a cell phone. His call was answered on the third ring. “Hey, work is slow as hell. Gonna take a walk.”

“Don’t have too much fun.” Ken replied.

“Fuck off.”

“Don’t forget to check in later or mom will worry.”

___________________

There was nothing quite like the taste of blood. It got the heart pounding even as the stomach started roiling. The fear tickling the back of his throat like a stray bit of popcorn tasted like blood. Insistent and insidious, and all too enjoyable. It was exposure to a drug he had been too long denied. Mastermind ran mental fingers through the brain of the man huddled on the ground in front of him, arms up over his head in a futile, instinctive bid for safety. Oil on water, Mastermind’s telepathy danced and sparkled along the surface of his victim’s mind, content for the moment to be enthralled with the ripples his presence created.

Nothing of interest, just the bloody tang of fear and an acidic tinge of piss. A hors d'oeuvre to tide him over until the main course. This was not the culprit, not the source of the pain in his side. But, as Mastermind told the man a story with his telepathy, a story in which the hapless victim died in horribly painful ways merely to appease the whim of his assailant, he couldn’t help but smile.

He chuckled as he watched all the horrifying and mostly physiologically impossible ways to die the man’s thoughts bubbled forth. Those who were convinced they were going to die always came up with the best scenarios. The mind was a wonderful thing. So creative. Backed into a corner, humans had a hilarious habit of making that corner as horrific as possible.

True fear tasted like blood, was intoxicating as good alcohol, and was something he had gone far too long without.

The good part of the show was over, time to change the channel. Mastermind killed the man with a thought and let his telepathy slip free from its newly established and enforced constraints, let it snake out in search of better prey.

Someone had tried to kill him.

Really, the only way to discourage such behavior was to kill the would-be killer. Preferably someplace public. In front of all his friends.

Someone had tried to kill Aya.

He couldn’t let people get in the habit of touching his things. Let one thug get away with it and then everyone else would be over to have a go.

Mastermind brushed fingers through his bangs, readjusted his holster, and smiled condescendingly at nothing. It wasn’t their fault, not really. They didn’t know that this was his territory now. He had thought he could settle in quietly and let his infamy keep things quiet. Apparently no one had told the opposition that catering to Mastermind’s whims was the only way to keep the body count low.

Allowing a wistful desire to have Berserker with him on this campaign, Mastermind followed a telepathic nudge and turned left.
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Strange Times