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| /* Boy, in your makeup */ Cold, hard, unyielding ... my gun, my reality, and my life. I mechanically snap the clip into my 9mm, my movements smooth and efficient from years of practice, and then load the first bullet into the chamber. Now, I wait. No, we wait - just Schuldich and I tonight - patiently for the targets to enter the room, for them to all file into the boardroom like innocent lambs to the slaughterhouse, unsuspecting of that final, blessed reprieve that we have been hired to grant. I do not know who they are, because I did not bother to ask. It will not affect the outcome and therefore, is unimportant. All that concerns me is the money we will acquire this night, the payment for a team of hired assassins going freelance. This is survival, Schwarz's survival, ... my survival. And so, they will remain faceless, remain anonymous, remain silent to me until the very end. I do not care. I feel Schuldich shift restlessly beside me, his warm body sidling up against my side to initiate his habitual game. "What do you say, Crawford," he whispers into my ear, his warm breath tickling the tiny, sensitive hairs on my skin. "Do we have enough time for a good fuck?" His voice makes me hard, straining and chafing uncomfortably in my pants at the thought of him naked, groaning, and sweating beneath me. Or is it the upcoming events of this night that is causing it? This expectation, this anticipation is just as heady and potent as the finest aphrodisiac - the kill, the blood, and the power of destruction in my hands - a climatic release of the highest order. Perhaps it's both. Perhaps it's neither. Sex - a reaffirmation of life. Death - a reaffirmation of life. And life? Life ... what a joke. /* Playing your favourite role in front of everyone */ "Not now, Schuldich," I say tonelessly and push him away. He stumbles slightly, but knowing him, he'll probably try again. I wonder what drives him ... what makes him act the way he does, because deep down, we are the same. On the surface, we differ like night and day, but at our core, in our very essence, we are alike, a dark empty void occupying the space where our hearts should've been. "But Crawford," he exhales huskily as he nears me again and runs his hand teasingly along the back of my neck. I feel a subtle shiver run down my spine at the fluttering touch and fight hard to suppress a physical reaction. "You know you want to continue the game," he says quietly. The game. It's all some great game to him: the seduction, the rejection, the capitulation, and then the fornication. /* Shine in the light before your moment comes */ Violently, I shrug away from him and level my loaded gun at his head. Our gazes meet, mine serious, and his twinkling in amusement. My arm remains steady as he moves forward and runs his tongue lovingly along the metal barrel of my weapon, his verdant eyes never leaving me during his little venture. My erection gets worse. "I don't want to play your game, Schuldich," I answer apathetically. /* Boy, you gotta wake up */ He stops what he's doing and gives me one of his lopsided grins. "You're wrong, Crawford. You're playing my game right now, whether you realize it or not." All of a sudden, he becomes serious, and reaches into his jacket to remove his own gun. "They're here," he states blandly. I nod and lower my weapon, the tension between us now shifting and metamorphosing into something else. This is it; all this waiting, all this figurative dancing is mere foreplay, inevitably leading to this explosive, all-consuming orgasm at hand. On my silent signal, we burst into the room, he taking down the ones on the left, while I handle the ones on the right. I count twelve of them in total, expensive suits and leather attaché cases going to waste as I pull the trigger repeatedly. I feel the surge of power dart through my body, the recoil run up my arm, and the absolute control seize my mind. They fall, dull thumps on the carpeted floor. But they die soundlessly, eyes wide, mouths opened in a shocked 'O' as bullets rip through their flesh and pierce their hearts. Muted screams, unheard shouts, silent deaths ... this is ambrosia, this is ecstasy ... this is what I have lived for my whole life. /* Because the sins of time bury all the signs of the loaded dice you just couldn't throw */ (***) I can't say that I was raised in a broken home, and yet, I wouldn't call it a loving one either. I had a mother, a father, and if there ever was a time when they did love me, I don't remember it. My fondest memories of them were when they managed to look at me without the fear or paranoia in their eyes, because it actually made me feel normal and human for that brief moment in time. Most often, they avoided me, remained apathetic toward me, averted their gazes from me, all because they were afraid of my powers. I don't recall how they discovered my precognition, or maybe they didn't and I had revealed it to them in a period of childish ignorance. Either way, it's of no major importance now. The shroud of the passing years has clouded my youth but I still do remember certain aspects of it as if it were yesterday. My clearest recollections were of afternoons spent at school, watching other children run happily and excitedly into their waiting parents' arms the moment classes let out. I used to stand there and wonder, what did they say to their parents to get those adults to smile like that, and what was so interesting about school that kept the moms and dads so enraptured? I never did find the answers to those questions, not a single clue as I watched all those years, standing in front of the school with my bag strapped securely to my back, and the molded, plastic handle of my lunchbox hanging from my fingers. I remember that lunchbox, a basic blue thing with a cartoon train on it that used to hold my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches faithfully day after day. I was sick of those sandwiches, but it was all I knew how to make back then, because my parents would have never had the presence of mind to make lunch for their freak of a son. And so, I used to wake up early every morning to slap the sticky, sweet spreads onto two pieces of bread and head off to school with it tucked inside my trusty lunchbox. Safe to say, lunch was never a surprise for me. I sometimes wondered why they even bothered to clothe and shelter me. It wasn't until I got a little older when I realized that they were slightly more concerned about appearances than in silently disowning their son. So, did I envy them, those children who got picked up everyday after school? I don't know. Perhaps. I couldn't blame my parents though; they were human after all, easily susceptible to the phobias that plague the weak and narrow-minded. I think that may have been the reason why I never told them about their deaths. I saw them die - bloody, mangled corpses in the end, barely recognizable after a half-ton semi rammed them head on while they drove unknowingly in their fancy Cadillac. Of course, I never said anything to them about the vision because, well, I had learned long ago that I was never to speak to them period. Their passing was of no concern to me for my life wasn't going to be any richer or poorer without them. I was eleven when they put me into a foster home, a rebellious hellion and a reclusive loner. I never fit in well with the other children there, but it didn't bother me. I had been in that position all my life, always observing, always watching, sitting on the sidelines as my youth passed me by. I think I was twelve when I met him, or maybe eleven still - I don't remember. His name was Kyle something - his last name eludes me now after all these years but it's inconsequential - a thirteen year old boy who was a latent telepath. We unconsciously gravitated toward each other in that foster home, two outsiders banding together in a world that held no place for us. We used to sit outside and watch the other kids play ball or tag, or whatever games caught their fancy, the sun shining brightly as their innocent laughter floated around him and me. I asked Kyle once if he wanted to join them and I distinctly recall him shaking his head and saying 'no' in such an arrogant way. I may not have been a telepath but I saw a hidden fear in his eyes then, a fear of rejection. I hated fear. But I accepted his answer, and we sat by contently watching the other boys and girls run around in their picture perfect field of clear, blue skies and vibrant, green grasses. /* What they taught you then / How to make new friends */ I was thirteen when I took my first life, or more specifically, lives. Thirteen, when they came. Thirteen, when they gave me my first gun - a 9mm, a killer's gun, an assassin's gun. I never really asked who they were or what they wanted: they were men in expensive suits who looked god-like in their confidence to a child at my age back then and I merely took what I was given. But gave us - Kyle and me - guns they did and told us to kill. We never questioned them and deep down, I think we may have even wanted an excuse to do as they asked. Thus, we obeyed, like good children looking for praise. It was one of those indescribably beautiful days when we killed them, the other children at the foster home. I didn't know if these men wanted the others dead for their own personal reasons or if the request was something of a test for us but either way, we did as we were told. I remember the sun beating down on the two of us that late summer afternoon when we raised our shiny new guns to our peers as they ran merrily around the field playing their games. And then we shot; we pulled the triggers, repeatedly, rhythmically, happily as the other children ran and screamed, their cheerful voices rapidly changing to shouts of terror. There was noise: screams, screams, and more screams. And there was blood: so much blood that the lush, green grasses were dyed deep red by the end of the day. I was covered with the stuff as the slaughter went on. But that was what that day was - a slaughter ... a slaughter of life, a slaughter of laughter, a slaughter of innocence. /* And all at once the door you came through before slams closed / And all the ones you can't turn back */ And me? What did I feel that afternoon when the fields ran crimson with the life of children? Nothing. Nothing, but the drastic recoil of the gun that traveled all the way up my arm and into my chest. But oddly enough, I do remember screaming, screaming so loud as my weapon went off that my voice was mingled into the death cries of the others. And there were tears ... the tears that had leaked treacherously from my eyes and mixed warmly with the droplets of blood that were already splattered on my face. But still, I felt nothing, no sentiments, no emotion as we walked away from the blood-drenched field, clips empty and bodies hollow. I never looked back. /* You're slipping through the void / Fear of paranoia, you're gone */ We were recruited into Rosenkreuz after that, two outsiders with psychic abilities who weren't really outsiders any longer. For two years, we lived a rather benign existence, honing our powers, and refining our technique. I can't say much about that period of my life, only that there, I learned the efficiency of routine and the benefits of foresight. For the very first time, my powers were an asset and strangely, I felt like I belonged. And I thought Kyle enjoyed it too, this sense of usefulness, of power, of conformity we were gaining. I was fifteen when I had to kill him - Kyle something-or-other, by definition of the word, the only person to ever come close to being a 'friend'. I saw him try to escape from the organization before it even happened, and like a functional member of the overall entity named Rosenkreuz, I reported him. They ordered me to take care of him, and I did, with my trusty 9mm in hand. I cornered him in one of the training rooms and he understood the moment he saw me what I was there to do; he didn't even need his telepathy for it either. I shot him point blank, first in the heart and then in the head. His blood made a morbidly fascinating pattern on my clothes, and on my face. The rapidly cooling droplets were really quite an annoyance because they slid down my skin so agonizingly slow that I had to blink several times to prevent the stuff from getting in my eyes. I never did understand why he wanted out all of a sudden. Our existence wasn't too bad. But his last words still ring clear in my head to this day - calm, sane words said quietly before I pulled the trigger. "I wanted to play with them, Brad," he had told me a little wistfully. "I wanted to be on that field." I didn't understand. And then I fired. Why? Why did he want to go back? I still don't understand. But the good thing was, he didn't fight. He let it happen willingly, silently ... almost invitingly. And he didn't scream, not a single sound from him as my bullets tore through his body and stole from him the only thing he had left of value - his life. /* Well, the screaming kings are flying bulletproof wings / You've lit the fire */ That didn't matter though, because I still heard them, faint but present - the screams of those souls I had taken years earlier. Children running and shouting as my gun went off again ... and again ... and again. It didn't last long, but nevertheless, their voices were there in my head the moment Kyle died. And then, they were gone. Just gone. Silence. Quiet. I stood there for a few moments - for how long, I don't recall exactly - as his blood ran down my face and soaked into my skin. I thought about ... nothing. Nothing ran through my mind then, just as no emotions clouded my non-existent conscience. I just stood, unmoving, that cold, hard gun dangling from my fingers, reminding me of how far I had come. I ... I think I might have actually enjoyed it ... or maybe not. I'm not sure. But one thing was certain; I liked the feel of that weapon pressed against my skin. I liked how my palm rested so comfortably against that handle. I liked ... I liked the power that was at my disposal ... (***) /* Toys you gotta pick up / Showing off your skills of moves you borrowed */ The last body falls to the floor, eyes glazed over in shock as the two bullets pierce through vital organs - the final kill of the night, a shared kill, a perfect kill. No sound, no screams, just silence. It's gotten so much better over the years, my speed now good enough to preempt any cries before they leave the throat. I've improved. As per routine, we move through the quiet room, ensuring that we've left no one out of the messy massacre, and that we've left no evidence - because that would mean inefficiency. And I don't like inefficiency. Suddenly, I feel his hand glide across my shoulder blades. I don't need to turn to know what look is going to be on Schuldich's face, and I don't need my precognition to know where this is going to lead. I shake him off as the last vestiges of adrenaline run their course through my veins. /* Pride that you can't hide becomes pretty wild */ "Not now, Schuldich," I reply in my normal business voice. "If not now, then when?" he purrs as he leans near me again, his warm breath caressing the side of my cheek. Schwarz's resident telepath - he's nothing if not persistent. "Don't you feel it, Crawford? The blood that's still pumping through your body, the rush that hasn't yet worn off, that orgasm that still needs to be reached ..." His hands are slowly, enticingly, seductively dancing over me, eventually coming to rest on my straining erection. "Besides," he continues. "It's not like anyone will see. They're just corpses now anyways." He moves to place a quick kiss on my neck and proceeds to trail his tongue down toward my collarbone, leaving a rapidly cooling, moist trail in his wake as he moves to undo my tie. /* What part of the plan don't you understand? / You're a family man */ Why does he always do this? Why is he never business and adhere to routine? God, it drives me fucking crazy sometimes when he latches onto me like this and exploits the weaknesses of the flesh. Doesn't he understand? We're Schwarz. We kill. We survive. Nothing more. Abruptly, I shove him off and walk away, but I don't get far before he calls me. "Crawford." His voice is sharp as it resonates off the boardroom walls and cuts through the haze of death that lingers in the air. "Why do you deny it? You know you need it as badly as I do." I freeze for a second, thinking over his words. Do I? Do I need this? Do I need him? I don't need anyone. I've never needed anyone. /* And then you shed your skin */ But before I know it, I am in front of him, my long strides covering the distance between us within a blink of an eye. And I kiss him, hard, bruising, punishing. I am not gentle - I never claimed to be - but he would not have it any other way. I dart my tongue out, forcefully prying his compliant lips apart and wanting to be inside him any way I can. He tastes enticing, alluring, sweet ... and I hate sweetness. It reminds me of innocence, of youth and freshness, of the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I used to make when I was lonely and weak. And so, I bite him, bite him hard until I feel the tangy essence of his blood glide onto my tongue, washing away any residue of that wretched sweetness he originally tasted of. I hear him groan, whether with pleasure or pain, I don't know but his hands start to work on my belt buckle, nimble fingers that work efficiently despite the heat of the moment. I let him finish the task but the second he has my zipper undone, I grab his wrists and immobilize them. I continue to plunder his mouth, sucking and licking the remnants of the coppery liquid that's still flowing freely. He likes it rough, and I like to play rough, something we've discovered as time had worn on. This isn't the first time he's - no, we've - done this, and it definitely won't be the last. I push him until he falls over the boardroom table, the cold, shiny polymer surface undoubtedly uncomfortable against his back as his legs dangle off the side. He wants to feel me, he wants to hold me but I won't let him. Keep this as it is, Schuldich. A simple post-kill screw, no more, no less. /* And all at once the door you came in through before slams closed / You find yourself you can't turn back */ Fuck romance, fuck foreplay, and fuck the games. The heat that's been building up inside me all night has thoroughly consumed me, and I need to release it through what he's offering. I work quickly on the belt of his designer pants, my motions swift and sure, even without the benefit of my eyes. When all barriers are removed between us, I break the kiss. His breaths are coming out heavy, and as I look down at him, I see a thin, red line of blood stream down his chin, and that evil twinkle sparkling in his eyes. He's challenging me, daring me, testing me as he does each time he plays this game of his. But I won't succumb to his provocations. I won't. He doesn't seem to understand that I can't give in. I can't give in to him because I have nothing worth giving up. That was the sacrifice I made when I decided to pick up that gun so many years ago. Without preamble, I roughly turn him over until his chest is pressed against the table and the bare skin of his ass is exposed to view. The movement is so sudden that his jaw hits the surface with a dull crack, but he suppresses his cry and lets out a muted grunt instead. /* You're slipping through the void / Fear of paranoia, you're gone */ And so, I enter him, heedless of the pain I inflict, of the damage I cause as my erection drives into him, violently tearing tissue, and lubricating the passage with his blood. Tightness ... blessed tightness and warmth surround me in a heavenly haze. He cries out at the ruthless invasion, but tries to muffle it by biting his already abused lips. I don't wait for him to adjust, nor do I wait for him to get comfortable. I shift my hips and glide further within him, hurting him more, setting the movements to my own rhythm, and savouring the frisson of pure pleasure that engulfs me. The pressure builds torturously within my body at the frantic pace, and I am sure he feels the same, our heavy breaths echoing in a room of the silent dead. This is how he likes it ... and this is how I like it. He comes first, his stuttering gasp the only noticeable sign of his release: so quiet, so serene in his climax ... so different from the cries of the children I hear as white, blinding light consumes my senses when I finally reach my moment of orgasmic ecstasy. We remain as we are for a minute, with me still inside him, letting our bodies recover from the overexertion. I rest my sweat-covered forehead against the back of his shoulder for a moment as each of our breaths synchronizes with the other's. I slowly pull out, push off of him, and clean myself with my handkerchief. As I begin to compose my appearance again, he slides boneless to the ground, and turns over to stare at me, his body looking as lifeless as the corpses in the room. "Crawford ... " he breathes out, his sex-glazed green eyes looking at me pleadingly, and imploringly. /* Well, the screaming kings are flying bulletproof wings / You've lit the fire */ Does he see? Does he know ... ? Perhaps. Because I notice pity flash in his eyes ... brief and fleet but there. I don't want his pity. I don't want anyone's pity. I never asked for it. The choices I made back then, I made unforced and knowingly. And I will live with them, content or otherwise. His expression remains impassive as I return his heated look. I throw him the handkerchief and turn away, but not before I see anger spark in his eyes. And he ... despite everything, he still finds it in him to show such fire, such emotion ... such life. Should I envy him? Should I envy him like I envied all those other children who ran so lovingly into their parents' waiting arms? But didn't I say before that I would never turn back, back to when everything was beyond my control, when I was powerless to alter fate? Ah, and so it comes back to that, to the issue of control and power. Yes, I like it. I like the feel of it at my disposal, just as I like the feel of my 9mm in my hands. I have stood on top of the world, and I like it there. Giving myself one last check, I walk around a body and make my way out of the room. /* Boy, you got your makeup smeared / Playing your favourite role in front of everyone */ "Crawford, don't ..." Schuldich's frustration and fury can be heard in his words. I ignore him and keep walking. I leave him, bloody, but not broken. Never broken. He is strong, like me; it is this strength that will always bind us together. And it is what will keep me coming back for more. He will never break, as I will never break. /* Shine in the light before your moment's gone */ "Crawford, don't you fucking leave!" What are you trying to do, Schuldich? What are you looking for? You want to get inside me, don't you? You want to find something in there that you can claim, that you can gloat over in the end? Well, I won't let you, Schuldich, because there's nothing in there to find. It's hollow, you see, barren, empty, echoing with the screams of slaughtered children, kings and queens who had stolen everything that was human in me a long time ago. "Crawford!" I don't stop and I don't look back. I wonder if he understands ... I have never looked back.
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