Log in

No account? Create an account

Previous Entry | Next Entry

Title: Inner-workings of Guilt
Author: penguin_sama
Pairing(s)/Characters: Schuldig, Crawford
Rating: R
Summary: an attempt at Schuldig’s back story
Warnings: language, violence, masochism
Author’s Notes: there’s not enough canon on Schu’s history
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiss or any associated characters. If I did, there would be far more Schu-time.

Braddy-boy’s face turned the most interesting colors when he was angry. Not quite purple, but far from true red, I had taken to calling the particular shade of ‘pissed the hell off’ simply George. George was a good name for a color.

Crawford’s face was George now.

“You’ll bust a blood vessel that way, you know.”

The George color pulsed. Crawford’s hands clenched around the report from Esset, wrinkling the pages irreparably. That would only serve to annoy him more, once he noticed, but hey – who was I to interrupt a good tantrum?

“You told the target that you were an assassin sent to kill him?” despite the George color of his face, Bradley Crawford’s voice was soft and even. This, I knew from experience, was as sure a sign of any of the degree of the fury which I had managed to earn.

I won’t lie. The knowledge excited me. Everyone has their kinks.

“An assassin from the future,” I corrected, flipping my hair over my shoulder. I gave him my most stunning grin, daring him to do something about it.

Crawford stared at me for a long, silent moment. He looked down at the report in his hands as if surprised to find it there, then laid it on top of his desk and carefully straightened it out. “And after that…” he spoke without looking at me – another clear sign that he was fighting the rage rising within him. I squirmed in anticipation. “After that you invited him…to a game of hide and seek?”

“I told him that if he could stay alive for forty-eight hours I would let him live.”

“And then?”

“I waited seventy-two hours, then killed him.”

It had been fun, too. Oh, how he had cried! He’d thought himself safe. He’d spent two days jumping at shadows, and when the last hour had passed he had believed it was all over. I gave him a whole day to enjoy his life. You know – really, he should have been more appreciative. Not many people get the chance to truly appreciate this shithole we call living.

I laughed at the memory, and watched the George color become neon-George. Oooh, he was going to make me suffer for my little game!

I couldn’t wait.

“Like it really hurt anything,” I said with an ostentatious roll of my eyes. “The orders were to kill him. He’s dead now. All done.”

“The orders,” Crawford growled, “Were to make it look like a suicide.”

“So? I did.”

“He went to the police. We didn’t want an investigation.”

“Then I guess you should have asked nicer when you gave me the mission.”

He stared at me, for a moment so surprised that he forgot his anger. Grinning at him once again, I hopped up onto his desk and crossed my legs.

“What was it you called me again?” I asked, tapping my chin as I pretended to struggle with the memory. “Unsolicited?”


“Ah! That’s right! That was mean of you, Brad. I mean, really – my feelings were hurt!”

I watched him rise from his desk, proud that I had finally pushed him over the edge. He struck me, hard, across the face, and I couldn’t help but to laugh.

My first memories are memories of blood. Someone’s blood – I have no idea whose. Not mine, though I know I was the cause. I think it was someone…important? What the hell does it matter?

Esset’s people came for me shortly after that, so I assume the blood was some sort of result of my so-called Talent. Anyone who would kill themselves because the infantile thoughts of some kid intruding on them drove them to the brink didn’t deserve to live anyway. I don’t care. I didn’t start to pick up on the thoughts of others until my masters began their ‘training.’ Before then I was just some intrusive little shit, broadcasting all over the place. Like I knew any better at that age.

Shit – it’s probably how the bastards found me in the first place.

Monsters are made, kids, not born. You think, at whatever-the-hell age I was when they took me, that I’d ever had the desire to hurt someone – or to be hurt? Hell no. I’m sure all I cared about back then was naptime and snacks and, hell, probably some idiot in a foam suit that looked like some fuzzy woodland creature.

No one could survive one of Esset’s special fucking schools and come away with anything like the innocence they went in with, though. No way in hell. The ones that didn’t change were the ones that died. I decided early on that I didn’t want to die. If that makes me bad, then to hell with anything else. Who the fuck gets to make those rules, anyway?

So I’m an evil little bastard. Better than being dead.

As if anyone else is any better. Their greedy little minds attack my own no matter where I go – force onto me all their petty little fears and desires. I haven’t met a person yet who didn’t deserve to die. I haven’t met a person yet who deserved to think himself better than me.

I had to learn to seek out their thoughts and hide my own – but something learned is never un-learned. Especially after the prices I had to pay for that knowledge. It’s hard to keep them out now – so hard that sometimes I have trouble figuring out whether or not the thoughts in my head are my own. It’s easier to concentrate on my own mind when there’s something to distract me from theirs. Pleasure works. Pain works even better. Both at once…ah, now that’s perfection.

And Braddy-boy wondered why I continuously strove to see that George-colored hue to his pretty face. You’d think someone so smart would’ve gotten the picture by now.

At last he released me from his office and as I made my way down the hall, bruised and bloody and limping, I couldn’t help but to feel disappointed he hadn’t done more damage.

If those fuckers who had brought me into this world had had a single brain cell between them, they would have drowned me at birth.


( 3 comments — Leave a comment )
Jan. 5th, 2009 07:26 pm (UTC)
This is the first time I've read a first person fic in Schuldig's POV, I think you captured his voice really well. I enjoyed his sense of humor, and I liked your use of the prompt word being used as a correction to Schuldig's deliberate flipancy.
Jan. 7th, 2009 07:06 pm (UTC)
And Schuldig came alive. First person was perfect for this.
Jan. 8th, 2009 05:31 pm (UTC)
This fic started out so funny (George! OMG.) that I had no idea it would get so dark and painful. I don't usually have sympathy for the bad guys, but with Schwarz, it's hard NOT too, knowing what they must have gone through. And damn them for being perfectly charming on top of it!

Great submission! Thank you!
( 3 comments — Leave a comment )