Author: NagiLite

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Believe me, if I owned Weiß, I wouldn't be worrying about getting a job. *sweatdrop*

Warnings: This is YAOI. Don't know what that means? Well, try to catch up with the rest of us, won't you? ^-^v


What WERE we?

Four humans caught in the unmerciful heart of the Underworld, the Messengers of Hades, Killers of the Innocent. We were what no one else wanted to be, every mother's fear and every child's nightmare. We were Gods.

Because no matter how painful it was to channel my powers and hold each and every mental cry in check, I was proud of my telepathic abilities. There was a unique thrill in the business of being different.

I killed sadistically, drawing out the hidden anguish of my victims and shoving all of that at them in one go. Driving them over the line between insanity and reality. smirking when their pitiful brains exploded. They were, after all, inferior to me.

Men, women, children, it didn't matter. Whoever Crawford said to take out, I took out. There was no time for remorse, which was why Nagi was unsuited for our job. So sensitive behind his carefully erected walls. The four of us had one thing in common--we all wanted revenge on a world that had rejected us. Hate. It was hate that we dined on, morning, noon, and night.

I look back now on all the taunts I threw Farfarello's way. He was the Irish psychopath who hated (still hates) God and Christians. We all teased him at one time or another. It was easy to pretend he was stupid as well as crazy, though in reality his mind was sharp like his knives. So easy. His rages excited me. Maybe we were all afraid of him. Who could say whether we ourselves were sane or not?

I never touched him. Bradley, I mean. Blasphemy to call him by his first name. Twenty-seven and in control at all times. Even in his sleep his mouth would narrow into a tense line. I know, I watched. Beautiful despite (or because of) his years. The American stereotype of life and humor was nowhere in him. He was cold, through and through. Yet still he appealed to me, enough to wake me panting in the night, alone in my huge canopy bed. I wanted to tear down that canopy and suffocate him with it. Let him get a feel of what it was like to be helpless when the voices took control.

When they were oh, so loud, and holding my hands to my ears did nothing because it was in my head.

Nagi understood partially; his telekinesis had a few side affects, one being massive migraines much like my own. He brought me ice and Aspirin on those days when I couldn't even lift myself out of my blankets. Even Farfarello made an extra effort to keep the T.V. volume down. Their thoughts were deafening then, when my defenses weakened. Only Crawford possessed the silence I wanted so much.

It was impossible to get near a man who wrote me off as a slut and an annoyance. Why did I even care, really? He gave me my daily servings of hate and I gave him nothing. If neither of us had ever been Schwarz, would I have noticed him? I would only ever let HIM dominate me, if he wanted to, but he never did. I became sure of his asexuality. Even then I stayed near him, telling myself it was for the bountiful quiet of his mind but knowing it was for an entirely different reason.

I never touched him.

Nagi, young outside, old within, was willing and ready and he took me to his bed like a professional. The slender arch of his neck, while delicious, didn't catch my eye. My hands on his thighs--lips by his ear--I never once felt anything, imagining that he was Bradley and I was me and we were making love instead of simply having sex.

I cried out Crawford's name and Nagi slapped me, but not hard. From his thoughts I could tell he understood. He never saw me, either. He saw a blue-haired girl and pink lips, a pale shadow of a past kiss he'd never receive again.

Sometimes Farfarello was calm enough to cook for us. I looked forward to those days. He pulled out numerous cook books, banged pots and pans, filled every room of our extensive house with the scent of sweet deserts and elaborate main courses. He seemed normal, a small smile softening his pretty face. Yes. He was pretty. If only his life had been different, what might have become of him? Would he have had a family, a home, an acceptable lifestyle?

Nagi and I had our dreams, Farfarello had his own world, and Crawford...Crawford had his long nights awake, killing or working or doing anything to keep himself busy. Even after Weiß disbanded, we stayed together, we went on. Schwarz endured far longer than Weiß. I thought it was sort of symbolic.

It was too bad for Nagi, though. I knew he wanted to leave. Find his beloved Schreient girl. Begin all over again. But what did he have to go on, where could he start? Society didn't even believe in telekinesis. And no workplace out there would take on an applicant with no past records. Nagi had none. I held him tight as he slept and thought of how I could manipulate Bradley into my room, onto my pillows.

After a few new doses of hate and the desire for revenge, Nagi's resolve hardened. He was an assassin, after all, and so were we. Weiß's separation was unfortunate; killing wasn't nearly as fun without them there to play with.

I knew what we were.

I never laid a finger on Crawford.

I knew what we weren't.

But I knew what we were.