Black Cross

Yohji woke slowly, consciousness coming at its own sluggish pace. He gained awareness of himself piecemeal, first feeling only that he was in pain. His legs—thighs—and his back—his arms—everything hurt in raw, angry flashes of red. He moved a little, stretching muscles, licking his lips, adjusting his limbs, and he whimpered at the unexpected bursts of pain.

Then, as he woke a little more, he felt hard plastic against his skin, digging into his hips and side and neck. He was sitting in a painful curl, head slumped forward with his chin on his chest.

Harsh light made him wince as he opened his eyes; yellow shone straight into his eyes. As his eyes adjusted to the light, a wide window came into view—he was in direct sunlight. He looked around, turning slowly on an aching neck. He was seated behind the wheel of his jeep, curled up with his legs straddling the steering column, one arm across his chest and the other bent over his head.

Yohji moved to drop his legs and cried out at the pain. His feet hit the floor and he bent forward with his forehead on the steering wheel. Then he took a deep breath and fumbled for the door handle. He threw the door open and almost fell onto the road outside. He leaned against the side of his jeep to catch his breath, then closed the door and stumbled away.

He shivered and hugged his arms to his body. The sun was tinted red—Yohji did not know if it was sunrise or sunset. He looked down at his watch and found that the burgeoning headache in his left eye prevented him from focusing enough to read the numbers. He grunted, softly, and took a stumbling step away from his jeep.

He walked for blocks before it occurred to him to look around and see where he was. Some of the buildings looked familiar; he stared at a street sign for a minute before remembering which way to go to get home.

When his house came in sight he paused, wondering how long he had been gone. He could recall nothing more than calmly driving away from home—from Aya—to answer Schuldig’s psychic beckoning. God, he hurt. Why was he so damn sore?

Yohji fumbled the front door open—it was unlocked—and dragged himself into the foyer.

"Where the hell have you been?"

Yohji sluggishly lifted his head, hugging himself tightly, and met Ken’s angry gaze.

"Unh," Yohji moaned softly by way of response and walked past the brunet towards the bathroom under the staircase. He had his hand on the door knob when Ken grabbed his arm and dragged him through the living room into the kitchen.

"He’s back," Ken said spitefully, giving Yohji a shove. Shivering, Yohji looked up and found Aya and Omi sitting at the table, drinking tea and staring at him. Yohji glanced away and squinted to make out the time on the microwave clock. It was early evening, and that had been the sunset out there.

"I ask again, where the hell have you been?" Ken demanded belligerently.

"Not sure," Yohji said and fumbled his trembling hands into his jeans pocket for the bulge of a cigarette pack. He took out a cigarette but found that his lighter was gone. "Damn," he muttered unhappily. "I really liked that lighter."

"Ken, your hands are bleeding!" Omi cried out.

Ken looked down sharply at his outspread hands, examining his reddened flesh. "No, it’s not mine," Ken said, puzzled.

Yohji looked up from the useless cigarette in his hand to meet their combined gaze.

"Yohji, turn around," Omi said softly, and Yohji complied. He heard someone gasp, but he could not tell who. "Yohji-kun," Omi said quietly, and the legs of his chair scraped the kitchen floor as he stood. "How did that happen?"

Yohji frowned and turned, while craning his head around to peer at his back. For the first time he realized that he was wearing only a white tank top and dirty old jeans—he had never seen either piece of clothing before. He wondered vaguely what had happened to the clothes he had been wearing when he had left the house. The back of the white shirt was covered with the morbidly vivid red of blood, and he cringed.

"No wonder my back hurts," he mumbled and started to take off his shirt. It snagged on whatever was injured and he drew in a sharp breath.

"Here," Aya said, standing and helping Yohji off with the shirt. Yohji watched Aya’s face intently, but the redhead kept his violet eyes on the red stain.

Yohji turned to face the others as he shrugged the shirt to the floor and peered around again. Seeing nothing but red, he turned yet again and asked, "What is it?"

This time the gasp was drawn through a tight throat and so it wheezed with shock. Omi cried out and even Aya made a noise of surprise.

"What?" Yohji asked, hurting and beyond the edge of his patience and endurance. "What is it?"

He met Ken’s eyes, but the brunet only shook his head.

Yohji swallowed hard and strode out to the hallway where a mirror hung on the wall. He turned his back to it and looked around to regard his reflection.

"Jesus Christ," he swore in a hiss and his blood ran cold.

A new tattoo, badly cared for, was the injury that bled so profusely in little red beads that popped up on the surface of his skin. The tattoo was a large, ornate cross covered in spiraling tendrils and delicate leaves and swirls, like the letters of Gothic Illumination. What made the others gasp and caused him to curse was that the cross was not only black, but upside-down.

"Schwarz Kreuz."

Yohji looked up in surprise and met the reflection of Aya’s eyes in the mirror. He turned his head, giving relief to his awkwardly twisted neck and looked at Aya full on. Aya was watching him with those cool violet eyes turned slightly down in sadness.

"Weiß Kreuz, Schwarz Kreuz," Ken said then, his voice rising in excitement. "White and black, the cross and its inversion. Our exact opposite." He paused and looked away from his intense study of Yohji’s back to meet his green eyes. "God, Yohji, why would you get something like that tattooed on your body?"

"I didn’t!" Yohji snapped and clenched his shaking hands into fists. "Christ," he swore softly, his voice breaking, "I didn’t."

Ken’s eyes softened a little but his voice remained harsh. "Could’ve fooled me, then."

Yohji let his breath out in a rush and let Aya guide him into the kitchen, going almost docilely. Aya pushed him gently but firmly down to straddle a chair at the table and then left the room. He returned shortly with a bottle of rubbing alcohol, some cotton swabs, and an unmarked tube that made Yohji slightly nervous.

"Here," Aya muttered, pulling up a chair behind Yohji and pressing alcohol-soaked cotton on his back. Yohji hissed at the sudden pain of the alcohol on the tiny punctures all over his back, but gulped back a cry and clenched his teeth.

Ken stood in front of Yohji, hands on hips, and with Aya cleaning his back, Yohji could not turn away. He narrowed his eyes and glared at the floor, twirling an unlit cigarette in his hand and trying not to jump when Aya started rubbing the cotton in small circles to clean the blood.

"Yohji, I am demanding—for the third and last time—where the hell were you? You disappeared in the middle of the night and were gone all day without a cell phone, a beeper, or even one of Omi’s long-range comm units tucked in your cuff! I mean—" he broke off for a moment and Yohji glanced up. Ken was running his hands through his hair, choking the brown locks strangling in his fingers. "I mean, you disappear. All right, we expect that from you, it’s just something you do. Fine. But, dammit, you don’t just—just leave without giving us some way to find you! It’s not only stupid, but dangerous! Where the fuck is your head?"

Yohji didn’t speak; not to protest or to defend himself. What was the point, when Ken was right? The fact that Yohji had not purposefully done any of the things that made Ken so angry at him right then did not matter. Yohji sat still for his punishment like a good little boy.

"Ow," he said, jumping as Aya applied some kind of cream from that unmarked tube onto his back.

"Sorry," Aya said softly. Yohji frowned and stuck the unlit cigarette between his lips. He nibbled absently on the filter as Ken raged on.

"—for the last few days like a total prick and doing—" Ken paused uncomfortably, glanced over at Omi, "—you know what you’ve done."

Yohji lifted one eyebrow and looked over at the kid. Omi was leaning against the sink. His large blue eyes were downcast, his face was blush red. His features were creased with guilt. In his over-sized T-shirt and worn, old jeans, he looked about 13 years old.

Yohji sighed deeply and put his left hand over his face. A lump of nausea in his throat made him gag and guilt burnt hot inside his chest.

"’M’sorry," he mumbled inadequately.

Ken broke off for a moment in his continuing tirade and stared at Yohji.

"You’re…huh?" Ken asked, confused.

Yohji shook his head.

Ken sighed audibly and grabbed a fistful of his hair again. Yohji was actually rather proud of Ken, and the way he was taking this—especially after what Yohji had done…

Yohji figured that at this point, were he Ken, he would either be completely incommunicado when it came to Yohji, or else he’d be waving those bugnuks in the air and making up war cries as he went.

Tsk, tsk, with the lies, Yohji-kun! You know you’d’ve loved anything Ken would have done to you. You little whore. Said affectionately.

Yohji jumped.

"Sorry," Aya murmured again, resting gentle fingertips on Yohji’s shoulder. Yohji whirled halfway around, eyes wide, frantic. Aya frowned and tilted his head.

Listen, little mouse. No, no, not to Hidaka’s maternal shriekings. Listen—on the radio…

Just then Yohji realized that there was another source of constant speech in the house besides Ken. The police monitor, the radio that Ken loved to keep on so he could listen to all the calls back and forth between dispatcher and policeman, was on and it was turned up loud.

Yohji’s eyes widened. The First Bank of Tokyo—the building he had met Schuldig on that night—the rooftop where, blinded and paralyzed by fear, he had lost his mind.

"We have to go," Yohji blurted, standing suddenly. He pushed the chair away from him and turned to face Aya. "Now. We have to go there, now."

"Where, Yohji?" Aya asked, eyes intent.

"To the First Bank HQ. Weren’t you listening? We have to go."

He looked out the kitchen window, then, and saw the deep shadows of night blanketing the wall of the building beside theirs. They had to go, they had to go, they had to go.

"Listen!" he commanded sharply, his voice rising in panic as they all stood still, making no move to leave.

Yohji pointed at the doorway separating the kitchen from the living room where Ken kept the radio and shook his arm. "We have to go there. Now!"

"What the fu—"

"Yohji," Aya cut Ken off. "Why do we have to go there, Yohji?"

Yohji shook his head so hard that his hair whipped around. "Aya," he pleaded. He stepped forward, grabbed Aya’s hands and looked at the redhead with tears watering his eyes. "We have to go, Aya. We have to go there."

Aya’s forehead was creased, his eyes were narrowed, but he nodded. "Okay."

"What?!" Ken demanded.

Yohji caught the quieting glance Aya sent at Ken; knew that they would go to the office building now only because Aya wanted to stop this apparent fit of Yohji’s. It didn’t matter. They were going.

Such an obedient little mouse. Come now, my little white mouse. I have some cheese for you. A laugh, bubbling inside Yohji’s mind. A little piece of cheese for you and your comrades. Come to my mouse trap, Yohji-kun, and get your reward.

Aya pulled the car into one of the many empty parking spaces. Yohji looked at his watch—it was later than he had thought. Everyone in the office building had gone home for the night already. Though Yohji had fervently protested, Aya had insisted that he change, just as they all did, into his "work clothes." Aya had had to force Yohji, actually yanking the black cropped T-shirt over his head and pulling his arms through the sleeves of his long coat. Yohji had pleaded with Aya the entire time, insisting that they go, they go, they go now.

Now they were here and Yohji threw himself out of Aya’s car, not bothering to close the door behind him. He ran around to the side of the building, looking for an emergency exit or some hidden entrance. He found one just as the others caught up to him.

"Yohji," Omi began uncertainly.

Yohji had already picked the lock open and was inside the building. He heard footsteps behind him and led the others on, moving quickly through a dim corridor.

"Why wasn’t there a security camera? Why didn’t an alarm go off when he forced the door open?" Omi was asking of the others.

"I don’t know," Ken replied, a scowl evident in his voice. "I don’t like this."

Yohji stopped and so did the others behind him.

"Yohji—?" Omi called tentatively.

Yohji held up a hand and listened.

To the roof, little mouse, Schuldig called him in a singsong. To the roof.

Yohji ran off like a shot, leaving the others behind him. He had one thought, one goal, one purpose. The roof, the roof, the roof, little mouse. To the roof.

And then he was there, looking out over the neon city below him. He looked down and saw the sheer face of the building sliding away beneath his feet. He was standing on the ledge. I see, he thought, remembering the call he had heard on the police radio. Then I’m the jumper!

"Now turn around, Yohji, and face your friends when they come through that door."

Without even giving his body the order to move, Yohji turned his back on the city. There, leaning against that wide metal pipe, was Schuldig, green hair whipping in the wind. His teeth gleamed even in the thin, weak light the moon pushed through the heavy ceiling of smog and clouds covering the sky. He moved a little, only to cross his ankles and rest one elbow on the pipe, but Yohji shivered at the elegance—the grace his benefactor possessed. The wind ripped at Yohji, buffeting him and making him sway back towards the precipice, whipping his hair and coat; but Schuldig stood in the breeze like a reed—bending only slightly, gently—remaining upright and beautiful.

Schuldig looked at Yohji and gave him a smile—a special smile, meant only for Yohji—and he swooned. He held himself still on that ledge because that was what Schuldig wanted—but it took all Yohji’s will not to leap down and kneel at the German’s feet. To worship, to adore, to serve.

"Good little mouse," Schuldig said, and his voice lifted Yohji into the height of ecstasy.

A noise came from beyond Schuldig and for the first time, Yohji saw the door. It had not been worth looking at when he had his master and guide there to admire, but it became significant now as three men came through it and looked stealthily around the rooftop.

"Yohji!" Omi gasped.

Aya threw out an arm and stopped Omi as the boy ran towards Yohji. Omi came up short, surprised, then followed Aya’s gaze to the Schwarz standing concealed in the darkness.

"Schuldig," Ken hissed, and the metal blades of his glove sang as he drew them.

Schuldig threw his head back and laughed. He walked out of the shadows, flowing like liquid to stand between Yohji and the others. He wore all black.

"Yohji," Omi called, keeping a wary eye on Schuldig. "What are you doing, Yohji-kun? Get—get down from there!"

Yohji did not waver, did not budge. Not I, Yohji thought, getting a little power, a fraction of a fraction of control back as Schuldig shifted some of his concentration to the others. Not I, he taunted himself, the good little mouse.

"No," Schuldig said in response to Omi’s demand. "He won’t get down until I tell him to. Isn’t he wonderful?" Schuldig asked then with a bright grin. "Who needs a pet dog?"

"What do you mean—‘until you tell him to’?" Ken asked slowly, face moving in confusion though his body was taut and poised for war.

"I mean, little white mouse," Schuldig said, pacing a little and turning so that his back was to Yohji, "that he won’t do it until I tell him to. In fact," and Schuldig turned again so that his face was in profile and he could look to the left at Yohji, to the right at the others, "he won’t do anything until I tell him to."

The silence was unbroken for a long moment and Yohji could almost feel the words moving in their brains. He could feel their dawning understanding, sense their comprehension grow into horror. They all knew about Schuldig’s powers; had seen what the Schwarz could do with them. They had to realize—they had to figure it out.

"Sakura," Aya gasped then, and Yohji knew that he understood. Sakura, the girl that Aya had allowed himself to care for because she resembled his sister. Sakura, the girl that Schwarz had used against Weiß when they had captured Aya-chan’s body for use in a bizarre cult ritual. Sakura, the girl that Schuldig had possessed so utterly that he had been able to overcome her love for Aya and make her shoot him. Sakura. Yes, Aya understood.

Schuldig laughed, and the feel of his amusement still affected Yohji, though he was resisting those suggestions of fawning adulation for the Schwarz. Control of the mind in little pieces. Thoughts first, then the body.

The green-haired German laughed again, threw a grin at Yohji. He knew what Yohji was doing, thinking, feeling. Yohji’s heart sank.

"Yes," Schuldig said, and Yohji could feel the psychic picking the memories out of his mind. "Yes. Her. I remember the child. Yes, exactly," he said, pleased. "Though Kudou was considerably stronger than she, and I admit that it took quite a bit more effort to take his mind than hers. Still…" He trailed off and shrugged. "Everyone has a weakness, everyone has a fear. His vulnerability, it turned out, was fear. Once you figure that out," he said in a confiding tone, "it’s all downhill from there."

"Was it—" Ken broke off and pinched his lips together angrily.

"Yes," Schuldig answered Ken’s unspoken question, picking up on his thoughts instead. "It was me." The Schwarz was glowing with pride and amusement. "Or, rather, it was us. Some of the time, anyway. I’ll leave it to you to wonder when it was just him with you, or when it was me. Whether it was him, or me playing—as I love to do."

Ken swallowed, his Adam’s Apple bobbing, and he looked into Yohji’s eyes. Yohji could not respond, even to nod.

"I’ve had fun," Schuldig said, pacing again. "Lots of fun," and he looked Aya right in the eye. Yohji wanted to scream. "But I decided I would have more fun if you knew you were part of the game. It was too easy with you not knowing—I want a bit of a challenge." He put a hand to his chest and tilted his head as he turned to face the others. "I know. I never leave well enough alone. I always have to complicate things." Schuldig sighed tragically. "It’s a failing of mine."

"Yohji," Aya said, his eyes fixed on Yohji’s. His tone was hesitant and questioning. Yohji could not answer.

"Oh!" Schuldig exclaimed suddenly, clapping his hands together. "I almost forgot to ask you! How do you like his tattoo? I had Farfarello do it, you know. He enjoys working with sharp objects," Schuldig said in a joking manner.

"It’s disgusting," Aya said calmly. Yohji was watching the redhead very carefully. He knew Aya well—he was definitely making a plan, biding his time. He appeared wary but at rest, but his façade concealed the tight way he held himself. Yohji felt it—knew it. He was surprised that Schuldig could not sense it; but then the German was too busy congratulating himself.

"Do you think so, really?" Schuldig asked, turning again and regarding Yohji. "I thought it was a nice touch, really. A forget-me-not, if you will."

Then, while Schuldig was distracted, Aya moved. He ran quick like lightning across the rooftop, passing Schuldig, and heading right for Yohji, poised precariously on the ledge.

Schuldig whirled around and glared at Aya.

"Oh no," he spat just as Aya came near the ledge. "You don’t get him that easy. Jump, Yohji."

Just a casually stated command, not even shouted, and Yohji had to obey. He threw his arms out and fell backwards, pushing himself off almost gently as he tipped backwards.

And that was when Schuldig released his mind.

Yohji felt Aya’s flash of fear just as the wind rushing past his falling body snatched the word, "God," from his lips.

He saw Aya’s wide, stricken eyes and threw his arms forward. The ledge was falling away from him rapidly, but he aimed there as he pressed the quick release tab on his wristwatch that would shoot the wire from his wrist as fast as a bullet.

And then he fell freely, the wind pounding his body as if it wanted to hold him up, fly him up to the roof. Shining, shivering glass windows flew past his eyes so quickly that they were like a river.

I’m falling, he thought, just as pain shot through his wrist and he stopped short.

His body slammed forward into a window and the glass splintered like a spider web from the impact. Then he felt a tug and looked up. They were all there, the three of them, leaning on the ledge and pulling the wire up.

Yohji hung by his wrist a thousand and more feet from the earth and was slowly hoisted to the roof. The watchband bit into his wrist even through his glove, but he just held onto the wire tightly and did not look down.

And then he was on the ledge, being pulled over onto the rooftop. Someone’s arms were around him, pulling him close as he looked around and saw that Schuldig was gone.

"Aya," he said, his voice hoarse and scratching the word like an old record.

"Yes," Aya confirmed, and his voice shook miraculously with fear or worry or anxiety or any number of emotions that Aya never showed.

"Okay," Yohji said, pushing himself closer to Aya, letting his head fall onto the shoulder that was covered in black leather and draped with one long, red lock of hair. Then, he let his eyelids flutter closed and fell yet again into a deep darkness far from the ground.