To Have a Good Friend (Weiss Kreuz; PG-13; Tomoe Sakura)
Title: To Have a Good Friend
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Author: Daegaer
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some swearing
Prompt: 40. To have a good enemy, choose a friend; he knows where to strike.--Diane de Poitiers.
Summary: Sakura takes a job and faces her nightmares. Set after Gluhen. Many thanks to louiselux for her beta!
Sakura covered her eyes and willed the alarm clock to stop. When it didn't obey her mental command she reached out blindly and hit the button, rolling over and out of bed before she could fall prey to the weak desire to continue sleeping. The shower didn't do too much to wake her up, and she wondered when she had become so sluggish, so filled with the desire to hibernate. If she could only sleep her life away, she thought. But those thoughts didn't solve anything. All she could do was go on. She narrowed her eyes at her reflection. The hair wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all. She needed to look professional in a totally different way for the job tonight.
*
In the salon she held a photo out to the hairdresser.
"I want this," she said. "I have a party to attend tonight."
"That sounds nice," the hairdresser said, his attention already on her hair and not her answer.
"It's for work," Sakura said. "I'm going to need to blend in."
When she left her hair was jet-black and fell in a straight and shining sheet. She smiled at her reflection in the shop windows.
Hello, Little Miss Stereotype.
*
The make up made her look older, less approachable in some ways, more approachable in others. She looked like the kind of girl Westerners would assume was a rich Tokyo businessman's mistress. She practiced her most cheerful smiles in the mirror, covering her mouth with scarlet-tipped fingers and tittering like the more mindless girls she remembered from school.
"Good evening, my-name-is-Keiko," she simpered, making her German seem less polished. She grinned at her reflection. "What a charming accent you have, Keiko-chan," she said, making a little bow. "I bet you're going to knock them dead."
She slid the pistol into its holster, high up on her thigh.
"You're going to knock them all dead."
*
Her car for the evening was very cute. She hoped the owner wasn't in a hurry to drive anywhere. She'd always liked the little Smart cars, she thought as she drove away sedately. Maybe she'd buy one herself with the proceeds of the night's work; she deserved a few luxuries now that she had plenty of money in her savings. Driving helped her relax, she should definitely consider getting a car. She couldn't drive forever, though - she parked two streets away from her destination and leaned on the steering wheel, her heart pounding. Nerves. Stupid nerves after all this time. She took deep breaths and sipped from the little bottle of orange squash she always brought with her on jobs.
"Fuckers," she whispered. "You're all fucking sheep and you deserve to fucking die. Stupid sheep with not enough brains to recognize the butcher." Another deep breath. Another sip. It's OK, she thought. It's OK, everyone gets nerves. Now get out there and prey on the fucking sheep.
"Yes, Sensei," she whispered, and got out of the car.
*
The neighbouring roof looked further away than comfortable, but that was not a helpful thought. Sakura backed up, made sure her small backpack was secure, took a final deep breath and sprinted. Her mind was completely blank as she jumped, her eyes on the proper spot, just as her coach had taught. She landed, running a few steps to keep balance. She frowned. She could do better than that, she thought, dropping down to the fire escape. She crept down, wrapping her hand in a cloth taken from her pack. The window didn't seem to be alarmed after careful examination. Good. She broke it, turning the catch and sliding it up. Inside she found herself in a small, dismal office. She wasted no time kicking off her sneakers and putting on the high heels, then dumped the now empty backpack, opened the door and slipped out, closing it tight behind her. The latex gloves went down a toilet, and then, her make up checked, she ran down enough flights of stairs for it to be plausible she had merely become lost, and strolled out at last on the mezzanine, looking over the assembled guests.
Below her businessmen and politicians looking for corporate money mingled. Somewhere down there was the man she had come to meet.
Sakura headed for the main staircase, smiling politely at the people she passed.
*
The financier she was to murder stayed annoyingly close to his party, seeming to think that if anyone wished to speak to him, he was important enough for supplicants to approach. Sakura occupied herself by examining the room, picking out the bodyguards pretending to be guests. The client had been right, there were enough Japanese companies represented here for her to blend right in. She sipped at the sparkling water a smiling waitress had offered her and kept an eye on the target. He'd drunk so much champagne that he'd have to go to the toilet at some point, and then she'd have her chance. She moved on, keeping him in sight, but unwilling to stay in one spot too long.
A buffet table stood at one side of the ballroom, laden down with foods purportedly representing the cuisines of the various guests' countries. Two thirds of the way down she saw Japanese dishes and felt her mouth water. She hadn't eaten since noon; a couple of mouthfuls wouldn't hurt. As she came up a young Japanese man backed up to the table, most of his attention still on the room as he cast a quick glance over the sushi. Sakura feigned an interest in French pastries, not wanting to have to talk to someone who would probably know who should be present from any of the Japanese companies, especially not someone who looked so bored and who might want to chat. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, wishing he'd decide on his snack and leave so that she could take her turn. Without really looking, the young man extended a hand towards the table.
A piece of sushi from the very back platter rose into the air and spun into his grasp.
Sakura froze.
She turned around. She walked away. She couldn't think. All this time. She had been all right all this time. She kept moving, the German and American accents now dangerous, not background noise. Standing half behind a group of women discussing their husbands, she looked back at the table. It was Nagi. He was taller, older, his hair was different, but it was him. His eyes glanced about the room, flicking back time and again to another Japanese man, his face young under grey hair, talking to tall Americans.
Time to go. She would just walk out of here. She might not be able to work in Germany again, but a broken contract was nothing now. Another glance at the table. Nagi was gone. She couldn't breathe.
"Are you all right, dear?" one of the women said. "You're so pale."
"I'm fine. Thank you," Sakura said mindlessly. She walked away, trying not to look panicked, looking for Nagi, looking for tall dark-haired men wearing glasses, looking for white-haired scarred men, looking for the glint of bright red hair. Dead. She was dead. A burst of harsh laughter beside her made her spin round. Her elbow knocked a guest's arm, champagne spilling over the edge of his glass.
"Watch it," the man snapped.
Sakura looked aghast into Nagi's face. He glared at her, the familiar twist of dissatisfaction in his mouth.
"Stupid bitch," he muttered, turning away.
She was older too. She'd never been dressed like this when Schuldig had her. Her hair was a different colour. She took a careful, cautious step back.
Nagi stiffened. He came about, his face full of dawning, furious recognition. "You," he said, low and dangerous. He made the smallest of gestures and she was pulled forward. He grabbed her wrist.
Time slowed, stopped.
*
Sakura cannot breathe. Nagi's hold on her wrist is tight and painful. He smiles the smile that means he's going to hurt her.
"Heart attack time, bitch," he murmurs.
Sakura looks at him and sees, under the perfect grooming and expensive suit, the nasty child he was. She remembers how much she hates him. She pulls her arm up and sinks her teeth into his hand. People around them exclaim as Nagi curses loudly and lets go. Sakura whirls around and runs. She is no longer thinking at all, each second she is alive a whole and precious eternity.
The door is ahead. She skids around an elderly couple, the high heels treacherous. People are staring. She runs like an athlete, like a hare before the hounds. She flies up the steps.
An arm snatches her off her feet, she is held against hard muscles. She feels a sharp point dig into her side.
"Not so fast," Crawford says in her ear.
"Everything's all right," Schuldig says, stepping out in front of them. "She's eaten something that disagreed with her, poor girl. We'll help her. Just ignore us. This is unimportant." He repeats the words over and over, soothing and reasonable and people turn away, their faces placid and uncaring.
Nagi comes up, threading through the crowd. "Did you get her - you got her!"
Schuldig turns about and smiles at her, a wide and cheerful grin.
"Hello, Herzchen."
*
They drag her, fighting and screaming for help that does not come, into the toilets.
"I get to kill her," Nagi says. He waves his hand under Crawford's nose. There is blood on his cuff. "She bit me!"
"Do you mind?" Crawford says testily, grimacing as Sakura kicks him and tries to break his hold. "Schuldig, hold her." He shoves her into Schuldig's arms and runs his hands down her. She tries to knee him in the face and he pinches the back of her knee hard, making her gasp in agony. There is something very wrong about Crawford touching her, she knows, but he doesn't do anything once she stops fighting other than take her gun away. "Nice," he says, looking at it. "You must be going up in the world, Ms Tomoe. And to think, when we knew you your greatest achievement was finally learning how to go down." He flicks the safety off and holds the gun in her face. "Who are you here to kill?"
Sakura cannot talk, the fight has drained out of her; she can only look at him in horror. Schuldig squeezes her shoulder, whispering in her ear, his voice familiar and terrifying.
"Come on, answer the nice man, Herzchen. That's it, think of your target . . . good girl." He lets her go. "It's Baertschi. And why do you want to kill Herr Baertschi, Herzchen? What has he ever done to you?"
Sakura swallows. Crawford is still holding her gun on her. Schuldig makes an encouraging gesture.
"I -" she says. "I'm being paid to kill him."
"And you said it wouldn't stick," Schuldig says impishly to Crawford.
"Can I kill her now?" Nagi says, tapping a foot.
"Not yet. Who gave you the contract, Ms Tomoe?"
Sakura shakes her head. She doesn't know. Crawford's going to shoot her with her own gun. "I don't know his name," she whispers. "Please don't kill me, Crawford-san."
"Always the same old tune with you," he says. "Details, quickly. Picture him. Now, Ms Tomoe."
She tries to obey. Her contact was tall. She pictures his height, his muscular build, his wild hair, the strange tattoos on his face, the way his German sounded odd. She pictures the fair-haired boy who was waiting for him when she tailed him back to his hotel. She tries to be accurate.
"Who the hell's that?" Schuldig says, looking puzzled. "Guys--?"
Crawford frowns and shrugs. Nagi scowls ferociously and kicks the bin. It flies into the air and hangs suspended, slowly crumpling.
"I know him," he says unwillingly. "He's one of fucking Kryptonbrand."
"What do they want -" Schuldig stops, looking intently at Nagi. He runs a hand through his hair and begins to laugh. "Oh, Nagi."
"Shut up," Nagi snarls. "He should have asked me," he says, suddenly forlorn, his face that of an unhappy child.
Schuldig and Crawford are both laughing. Sakura feels her knees give out, and lets herself crumple down beside the urinals. Schuldig rounds on her and pulls her up, smoothing her hair down and straightening her dress. "Up you get," he says. "Poor Herzchen, so scared. You cheer up, now. You have a job to do. I'll handle this, Brad."
Crawford nods and hands him the gun. "A pleasure, Ms Tomoe," he says.
"Fucking bitch," Nagi snarls, misery audible under the anger. "If you ever cross my path again-" He storms out, followed by Crawford.
"Let's see if I can help get your shit together," Schuldig says, winking at Sakura. He tucks her gun at the back of his waistband and lifts her chin in his fingers. "You used to have more fight. Wakey-wakey. Get that brain up and running." He takes out a comb and presses it into her hand. "Come on, you know I always took care of you. Stop worrying, I won't let Nagi kill you. I'm not going to kill you. I'm not going to fuck you or even hit you, so stop the walking dead act."
"You're not going to kill me?" Sakura says.
"Scout's honour."
"Why?" All these years she's known she's dead the moment Schwarz sees her.
Schuldig considers it as if it's a question he's never been asked before. "Baertschi," he says at last, "apparently is making it difficult for Takatori Enterprises to break into the European market. Mr Takatori finds it . . . morally difficult to justify having him killed by Kritiker, so he called in a favour from some friends. Who subcontracted to a local, i.e., you, to further hide Takatori's involvement. Or so Nagi surmises. What does it matter? You just care about the payment, right? We only wanted to make sure you weren't here for Takatori - we're on the same side in this, Herzchen, why should I want to kill you?"
Takatori, she thinks, remembering the election posters. She's not surprised to find Schwarz working for that family. Kritiker. Aya-san said that name. Schuldig rolls his eyes.
"Anyway," he says. "I'd better get back out there so Takatori can swear he knew where all his guards were when the thorn in his side met an unfortunate end. You stay here, I'll give Baertschi the idea he needs to take a leak. Oh and, Herzchen? You should remember Mr Takatori - though you knew him as Omi." He laughs at her face. "Yeah, he looks like you, all sweet little lamb on the outside, but inside he's all wolf." He puts her gun on the floor and steps back.
"Schuldig," she says. The name doesn't stick in her throat as she thought it would. If the rules have changed enough that he hasn't killed her, enough that he's explained things to her - "Could I - could I go home?"
He looks back from the door, vague puzzlement on his face. "Sure. Why not? I mean, I was surprised you were still in Europe, let alone in the business." He winks. "Don't tell Brad I said that!"
The door closes quietly after him. Sakura raises a shaking hand to her face. Then she dives for the gun and comes up, holding it on the door. Nothing happens. There is only silence. She can feel her heart, beating fast. She counts the seconds out in her breaths.
Slowly, time moves once more.
*
Sakura lowered the gun and numbly searched in her clutch bag for the silencer. She had to wait. It was important to do what Schuldig said. She dragged his comb through her hair, then walked to the sinks and splashed water on her face, trying not to think. Behind her the door opened, and Baertschi came in. He paused in surprise.
"I'm sorry, Miss, am I in the wrong -"
She shot him twice in the chest, put away the gun and walked out, not looking at the body. Nobody paid attention as she came into the ballroom and headed for the main entrance. She was sure she looked awful, as sick and as scared as she'd been after her first job, but no one so much as glanced at her.
Reaching the hall, she looked back. The crowd parted a little, and she saw Nagi, standing proprietarily close to the young man with grey hair, watching him avidly. It was Omi-san. Behind them, Schuldig put a hand on Crawford's sleeve, whispering something and getting a smirk in reply. She paused, thinking of how she had lived by their rules even when she was free of them, while they had simply forgotten her. Her time with them had been an eternity to her, an unimportant interlude to them. She could have gone home years ago, she realised, but had stayed, had poured blood on her own hands. Omi-san smiled brightly at Nagi, and she knew all at once that Japan was no longer home to her. Not if it had become a country where someone as kind and good as he could willingly employ Schwarz and hire killers like her. It was a final, cold sort of freedom, the last of a series Schuldig had forced upon her as an unwanted gift. It felt neither good nor bad. It felt like she was awake. She took a breath and wiped carefully under her eyes, sure the mascara had run. She was alive. She was awake.
Sakura turned her back on them all and walked, alone, into the night.
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Author: Daegaer
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Some swearing
Prompt: 40. To have a good enemy, choose a friend; he knows where to strike.--Diane de Poitiers.
Summary: Sakura takes a job and faces her nightmares. Set after Gluhen. Many thanks to louiselux for her beta!
Sakura covered her eyes and willed the alarm clock to stop. When it didn't obey her mental command she reached out blindly and hit the button, rolling over and out of bed before she could fall prey to the weak desire to continue sleeping. The shower didn't do too much to wake her up, and she wondered when she had become so sluggish, so filled with the desire to hibernate. If she could only sleep her life away, she thought. But those thoughts didn't solve anything. All she could do was go on. She narrowed her eyes at her reflection. The hair wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all. She needed to look professional in a totally different way for the job tonight.
*
In the salon she held a photo out to the hairdresser.
"I want this," she said. "I have a party to attend tonight."
"That sounds nice," the hairdresser said, his attention already on her hair and not her answer.
"It's for work," Sakura said. "I'm going to need to blend in."
When she left her hair was jet-black and fell in a straight and shining sheet. She smiled at her reflection in the shop windows.
Hello, Little Miss Stereotype.
*
The make up made her look older, less approachable in some ways, more approachable in others. She looked like the kind of girl Westerners would assume was a rich Tokyo businessman's mistress. She practiced her most cheerful smiles in the mirror, covering her mouth with scarlet-tipped fingers and tittering like the more mindless girls she remembered from school.
"Good evening, my-name-is-Keiko," she simpered, making her German seem less polished. She grinned at her reflection. "What a charming accent you have, Keiko-chan," she said, making a little bow. "I bet you're going to knock them dead."
She slid the pistol into its holster, high up on her thigh.
"You're going to knock them all dead."
*
Her car for the evening was very cute. She hoped the owner wasn't in a hurry to drive anywhere. She'd always liked the little Smart cars, she thought as she drove away sedately. Maybe she'd buy one herself with the proceeds of the night's work; she deserved a few luxuries now that she had plenty of money in her savings. Driving helped her relax, she should definitely consider getting a car. She couldn't drive forever, though - she parked two streets away from her destination and leaned on the steering wheel, her heart pounding. Nerves. Stupid nerves after all this time. She took deep breaths and sipped from the little bottle of orange squash she always brought with her on jobs.
"Fuckers," she whispered. "You're all fucking sheep and you deserve to fucking die. Stupid sheep with not enough brains to recognize the butcher." Another deep breath. Another sip. It's OK, she thought. It's OK, everyone gets nerves. Now get out there and prey on the fucking sheep.
"Yes, Sensei," she whispered, and got out of the car.
*
The neighbouring roof looked further away than comfortable, but that was not a helpful thought. Sakura backed up, made sure her small backpack was secure, took a final deep breath and sprinted. Her mind was completely blank as she jumped, her eyes on the proper spot, just as her coach had taught. She landed, running a few steps to keep balance. She frowned. She could do better than that, she thought, dropping down to the fire escape. She crept down, wrapping her hand in a cloth taken from her pack. The window didn't seem to be alarmed after careful examination. Good. She broke it, turning the catch and sliding it up. Inside she found herself in a small, dismal office. She wasted no time kicking off her sneakers and putting on the high heels, then dumped the now empty backpack, opened the door and slipped out, closing it tight behind her. The latex gloves went down a toilet, and then, her make up checked, she ran down enough flights of stairs for it to be plausible she had merely become lost, and strolled out at last on the mezzanine, looking over the assembled guests.
Below her businessmen and politicians looking for corporate money mingled. Somewhere down there was the man she had come to meet.
Sakura headed for the main staircase, smiling politely at the people she passed.
*
The financier she was to murder stayed annoyingly close to his party, seeming to think that if anyone wished to speak to him, he was important enough for supplicants to approach. Sakura occupied herself by examining the room, picking out the bodyguards pretending to be guests. The client had been right, there were enough Japanese companies represented here for her to blend right in. She sipped at the sparkling water a smiling waitress had offered her and kept an eye on the target. He'd drunk so much champagne that he'd have to go to the toilet at some point, and then she'd have her chance. She moved on, keeping him in sight, but unwilling to stay in one spot too long.
A buffet table stood at one side of the ballroom, laden down with foods purportedly representing the cuisines of the various guests' countries. Two thirds of the way down she saw Japanese dishes and felt her mouth water. She hadn't eaten since noon; a couple of mouthfuls wouldn't hurt. As she came up a young Japanese man backed up to the table, most of his attention still on the room as he cast a quick glance over the sushi. Sakura feigned an interest in French pastries, not wanting to have to talk to someone who would probably know who should be present from any of the Japanese companies, especially not someone who looked so bored and who might want to chat. She watched him out of the corner of her eye, wishing he'd decide on his snack and leave so that she could take her turn. Without really looking, the young man extended a hand towards the table.
A piece of sushi from the very back platter rose into the air and spun into his grasp.
Sakura froze.
She turned around. She walked away. She couldn't think. All this time. She had been all right all this time. She kept moving, the German and American accents now dangerous, not background noise. Standing half behind a group of women discussing their husbands, she looked back at the table. It was Nagi. He was taller, older, his hair was different, but it was him. His eyes glanced about the room, flicking back time and again to another Japanese man, his face young under grey hair, talking to tall Americans.
Time to go. She would just walk out of here. She might not be able to work in Germany again, but a broken contract was nothing now. Another glance at the table. Nagi was gone. She couldn't breathe.
"Are you all right, dear?" one of the women said. "You're so pale."
"I'm fine. Thank you," Sakura said mindlessly. She walked away, trying not to look panicked, looking for Nagi, looking for tall dark-haired men wearing glasses, looking for white-haired scarred men, looking for the glint of bright red hair. Dead. She was dead. A burst of harsh laughter beside her made her spin round. Her elbow knocked a guest's arm, champagne spilling over the edge of his glass.
"Watch it," the man snapped.
Sakura looked aghast into Nagi's face. He glared at her, the familiar twist of dissatisfaction in his mouth.
"Stupid bitch," he muttered, turning away.
She was older too. She'd never been dressed like this when Schuldig had her. Her hair was a different colour. She took a careful, cautious step back.
Nagi stiffened. He came about, his face full of dawning, furious recognition. "You," he said, low and dangerous. He made the smallest of gestures and she was pulled forward. He grabbed her wrist.
Time slowed, stopped.
*
Sakura cannot breathe. Nagi's hold on her wrist is tight and painful. He smiles the smile that means he's going to hurt her.
"Heart attack time, bitch," he murmurs.
Sakura looks at him and sees, under the perfect grooming and expensive suit, the nasty child he was. She remembers how much she hates him. She pulls her arm up and sinks her teeth into his hand. People around them exclaim as Nagi curses loudly and lets go. Sakura whirls around and runs. She is no longer thinking at all, each second she is alive a whole and precious eternity.
The door is ahead. She skids around an elderly couple, the high heels treacherous. People are staring. She runs like an athlete, like a hare before the hounds. She flies up the steps.
An arm snatches her off her feet, she is held against hard muscles. She feels a sharp point dig into her side.
"Not so fast," Crawford says in her ear.
"Everything's all right," Schuldig says, stepping out in front of them. "She's eaten something that disagreed with her, poor girl. We'll help her. Just ignore us. This is unimportant." He repeats the words over and over, soothing and reasonable and people turn away, their faces placid and uncaring.
Nagi comes up, threading through the crowd. "Did you get her - you got her!"
Schuldig turns about and smiles at her, a wide and cheerful grin.
"Hello, Herzchen."
*
They drag her, fighting and screaming for help that does not come, into the toilets.
"I get to kill her," Nagi says. He waves his hand under Crawford's nose. There is blood on his cuff. "She bit me!"
"Do you mind?" Crawford says testily, grimacing as Sakura kicks him and tries to break his hold. "Schuldig, hold her." He shoves her into Schuldig's arms and runs his hands down her. She tries to knee him in the face and he pinches the back of her knee hard, making her gasp in agony. There is something very wrong about Crawford touching her, she knows, but he doesn't do anything once she stops fighting other than take her gun away. "Nice," he says, looking at it. "You must be going up in the world, Ms Tomoe. And to think, when we knew you your greatest achievement was finally learning how to go down." He flicks the safety off and holds the gun in her face. "Who are you here to kill?"
Sakura cannot talk, the fight has drained out of her; she can only look at him in horror. Schuldig squeezes her shoulder, whispering in her ear, his voice familiar and terrifying.
"Come on, answer the nice man, Herzchen. That's it, think of your target . . . good girl." He lets her go. "It's Baertschi. And why do you want to kill Herr Baertschi, Herzchen? What has he ever done to you?"
Sakura swallows. Crawford is still holding her gun on her. Schuldig makes an encouraging gesture.
"I -" she says. "I'm being paid to kill him."
"And you said it wouldn't stick," Schuldig says impishly to Crawford.
"Can I kill her now?" Nagi says, tapping a foot.
"Not yet. Who gave you the contract, Ms Tomoe?"
Sakura shakes her head. She doesn't know. Crawford's going to shoot her with her own gun. "I don't know his name," she whispers. "Please don't kill me, Crawford-san."
"Always the same old tune with you," he says. "Details, quickly. Picture him. Now, Ms Tomoe."
She tries to obey. Her contact was tall. She pictures his height, his muscular build, his wild hair, the strange tattoos on his face, the way his German sounded odd. She pictures the fair-haired boy who was waiting for him when she tailed him back to his hotel. She tries to be accurate.
"Who the hell's that?" Schuldig says, looking puzzled. "Guys--?"
Crawford frowns and shrugs. Nagi scowls ferociously and kicks the bin. It flies into the air and hangs suspended, slowly crumpling.
"I know him," he says unwillingly. "He's one of fucking Kryptonbrand."
"What do they want -" Schuldig stops, looking intently at Nagi. He runs a hand through his hair and begins to laugh. "Oh, Nagi."
"Shut up," Nagi snarls. "He should have asked me," he says, suddenly forlorn, his face that of an unhappy child.
Schuldig and Crawford are both laughing. Sakura feels her knees give out, and lets herself crumple down beside the urinals. Schuldig rounds on her and pulls her up, smoothing her hair down and straightening her dress. "Up you get," he says. "Poor Herzchen, so scared. You cheer up, now. You have a job to do. I'll handle this, Brad."
Crawford nods and hands him the gun. "A pleasure, Ms Tomoe," he says.
"Fucking bitch," Nagi snarls, misery audible under the anger. "If you ever cross my path again-" He storms out, followed by Crawford.
"Let's see if I can help get your shit together," Schuldig says, winking at Sakura. He tucks her gun at the back of his waistband and lifts her chin in his fingers. "You used to have more fight. Wakey-wakey. Get that brain up and running." He takes out a comb and presses it into her hand. "Come on, you know I always took care of you. Stop worrying, I won't let Nagi kill you. I'm not going to kill you. I'm not going to fuck you or even hit you, so stop the walking dead act."
"You're not going to kill me?" Sakura says.
"Scout's honour."
"Why?" All these years she's known she's dead the moment Schwarz sees her.
Schuldig considers it as if it's a question he's never been asked before. "Baertschi," he says at last, "apparently is making it difficult for Takatori Enterprises to break into the European market. Mr Takatori finds it . . . morally difficult to justify having him killed by Kritiker, so he called in a favour from some friends. Who subcontracted to a local, i.e., you, to further hide Takatori's involvement. Or so Nagi surmises. What does it matter? You just care about the payment, right? We only wanted to make sure you weren't here for Takatori - we're on the same side in this, Herzchen, why should I want to kill you?"
Takatori, she thinks, remembering the election posters. She's not surprised to find Schwarz working for that family. Kritiker. Aya-san said that name. Schuldig rolls his eyes.
"Anyway," he says. "I'd better get back out there so Takatori can swear he knew where all his guards were when the thorn in his side met an unfortunate end. You stay here, I'll give Baertschi the idea he needs to take a leak. Oh and, Herzchen? You should remember Mr Takatori - though you knew him as Omi." He laughs at her face. "Yeah, he looks like you, all sweet little lamb on the outside, but inside he's all wolf." He puts her gun on the floor and steps back.
"Schuldig," she says. The name doesn't stick in her throat as she thought it would. If the rules have changed enough that he hasn't killed her, enough that he's explained things to her - "Could I - could I go home?"
He looks back from the door, vague puzzlement on his face. "Sure. Why not? I mean, I was surprised you were still in Europe, let alone in the business." He winks. "Don't tell Brad I said that!"
The door closes quietly after him. Sakura raises a shaking hand to her face. Then she dives for the gun and comes up, holding it on the door. Nothing happens. There is only silence. She can feel her heart, beating fast. She counts the seconds out in her breaths.
Slowly, time moves once more.
*
Sakura lowered the gun and numbly searched in her clutch bag for the silencer. She had to wait. It was important to do what Schuldig said. She dragged his comb through her hair, then walked to the sinks and splashed water on her face, trying not to think. Behind her the door opened, and Baertschi came in. He paused in surprise.
"I'm sorry, Miss, am I in the wrong -"
She shot him twice in the chest, put away the gun and walked out, not looking at the body. Nobody paid attention as she came into the ballroom and headed for the main entrance. She was sure she looked awful, as sick and as scared as she'd been after her first job, but no one so much as glanced at her.
Reaching the hall, she looked back. The crowd parted a little, and she saw Nagi, standing proprietarily close to the young man with grey hair, watching him avidly. It was Omi-san. Behind them, Schuldig put a hand on Crawford's sleeve, whispering something and getting a smirk in reply. She paused, thinking of how she had lived by their rules even when she was free of them, while they had simply forgotten her. Her time with them had been an eternity to her, an unimportant interlude to them. She could have gone home years ago, she realised, but had stayed, had poured blood on her own hands. Omi-san smiled brightly at Nagi, and she knew all at once that Japan was no longer home to her. Not if it had become a country where someone as kind and good as he could willingly employ Schwarz and hire killers like her. It was a final, cold sort of freedom, the last of a series Schuldig had forced upon her as an unwanted gift. It felt neither good nor bad. It felt like she was awake. She took a breath and wiped carefully under her eyes, sure the mascara had run. She was alive. She was awake.
Sakura turned her back on them all and walked, alone, into the night.