Part One: A Year of Progress
Crawford stood by the kitchen window, watching the city lights flicker in the distance. The coffee maker hummed softly behind him, a mundane sound that still felt almost surreal after everything they’d been through.
Fourteen months. That’s how long they’d been working for Kritiker now.
The first few missions had been tense—everyone waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the trap to spring, for this new arrangement to reveal itself as just another form of control. But gradually, something had shifted.
Kritiker’s missions were different from Takatori’s. Cleaner. More precise.
There was no expectation of carnage, no demand for excessive brutality. The targets were carefully vetted—criminals with confirmed records, threats with verifiable evidence. And the mission parameters were clear: eliminate the target, minimize collateral damage, extract cleanly.
In. Target neutralized. Out.
No complications. No innocents caught in crossfire. No cleanup operations that haunted you afterward.
And with Schwarz’s abilities, the missions were almost… easy. Schuldig could scan for threats and intentions. Nagi could disable security systems without leaving a trace. Farfarello moved through combat with practiced efficiency, no longer needing the chaos of his old madness. And Crawford’s precognition guided them through each operation with minimal risk.
It was professional. Controlled. Almost boring, compared to what they’d done for Takatori.
Crawford found he preferred boring.
Weiß took missions too, of course. But they worked separately. Parallel teams serving the same organization, but not yet ready to operate as a unified unit. That was fine. Some bridges took time to build.
The apartment door opened behind him. Schuldig trudged in, looking tired but satisfied.
“Grocery run complete,” he announced, setting bags on the counter. “Though I still don’t understand why we can’t just order delivery.”
“Because going outside is healthy,” Crawford said without turning around. “Your therapist said so.”
“My therapist says a lot of things. Doesn’t mean I have to listen to all of them.”
But Schuldig was smiling as he said it, and Crawford knew he’d gone to the store willingly. Small acts of normalcy, consciously chosen. That was progress.
Nagi arrived home next, backpack slung over one shoulder, looking pleased with himself.
“How was class?” Crawford asked.
“Good. I aced the physics exam.” Nagi’s smile was genuine, unguarded. “Professor commented on my work. Said I have real potential.”
“You always did,” Crawford said quietly. “Now other people are finally seeing it too.”
Farfarello was last, returning from his therapy session with Dr. Tanaka. He looked contemplative, calmer than he’d been even a few months ago.
“Good session?” Schuldig asked.
“Insightful,” Farfarello replied, which was high praise from him. “We talked about identity. About who I am when I’m not defined by pain or violence.”
“And?” Crawford prompted gently.
“And I’m still figuring it out. But—” Farfarello’s smile was soft, almost peaceful. “I like the process. Learning who I can be instead of what I was made to be.”
That evening, all four of them ended up on the balcony. It was a small space, barely large enough for the chairs and table they’d crammed onto it, but it had become their favorite spot. A small luxury they’d never had before—a place to just sit and exist without purpose or mission.
The air was warm, comfortable. Summer settling into the city with gentle promise.
“Talked to Aya today,” Crawford mentioned, sipping his coffee. “Weiß has a mission tonight.”
“Anything interesting?” Schuldig asked idly.
“He didn’t share details. Just mentioned they’d be out of contact for the evening.”
Nagi hummed thoughtfully. “I’m supposed to meet Omi tomorrow. Study session. Wonder if he’ll be too tired, or if he’ll want to reschedule.”
It was such a normal concern—will my study partner be too exhausted—that Crawford felt a familiar warmth in his chest. This was what he’d fought for. These mundane worries instead of life-or-death stakes.
“If he reschedules, we can go over your calculus homework,” Crawford offered.
“You just want an excuse to show off,” Nagi accused, but he was grinning.
“I contain multitudes,” Crawford replied serenely.
Schuldig snorted. Farfarello’s quiet laughter joined in. And for a moment, everything was perfect.
Just four people on a balcony, talking about homework and missions and the comfortable rhythms of daily life.
If someone had told Crawford a year ago that this would be his future, he wouldn’t have believed it.
But here they were.
Living. Not just surviving.
Living.
Part Two: Silence
The next morning started normally enough.
Crawford had an early consultation with Kritiker—reviewing intelligence reports, nothing urgent. Schuldig had a therapy appointment. Farfarello was helping at a community garden—another recommendation from Dr. Tanaka about finding purpose outside violence. Nagi had his study session with Omi.
They went their separate ways, each to their own activities, secure in the routine they’d built.
Crawford was midway through his second report when his phone buzzed. The group chat.
Nagi: Omi didn’t show up. Not answering his phone. Anyone have contact with Weiß?
Crawford frowned. That was unusual. Omi was meticulous about his commitments. If he needed to cancel, he’d message ahead of time.
He pulled up Aya’s contact and sent a message: Everything okay with your team?
No response.
Crawford tried calling. Straight to voicemail.
He checked the group chat. Schuldig had already tried reaching Yohji—no answer. Farfarello reported the same with Ken.
Crawford: No contact with any of them.
Schuldig: That’s weird, right? That’s not normal.
Nagi: Should we be worried?
Crawford considered. Weiß had been on a mission last night. It wasn’t unusual for teams to need recovery time after operations. But complete radio silence from all four members?
Crawford: I’ll contact Kritiker. See if there’s an issue.
He called the operations desk, identified himself, and asked for a status update on Weiß.
“That’s classified,” the operator said curtly. “Not your concern, Schwarz.”
“They’re our handlers,” Crawford pressed. “We need to coordinate—”
“Weiß is on assignment. You’ll be notified if there’s anything relevant to your operations. Until then, maintain your regular schedule.”
The line went dead.
Crawford stared at his phone, that old familiar instinct prickling at the back of his neck. Something was wrong.
Crawford: Kritiker says it’s classified. Weiß is “on assignment.”
Schuldig: That’s bullshit. Omi wouldn’t miss a study session without notice if he was just on an extended mission.
Nagi: What do we do?
Crawford: We wait. For now.
But Weiß didn’t surface that day.
Or the next.
Or the day after that.
By the third day, the worry had transformed into something sharper. Schwarz met at their apartment, the atmosphere tense and serious.
“This isn’t normal,” Nagi said, pacing. “Omi always checks in. Always. Even when he’s busy. A quick text, an email, something. Three days of complete silence? That’s wrong.”
“Kritiker’s stonewalling us,” Schuldig added, frustration evident in every line of his body. “I tried going through official channels. Got the same bullshit response. ‘It’s classified. Not your concern.’ Like we’re not even part of the organization.”
Farfarello sat very still, his expression troubled. “Something bad happened on that mission.”
Crawford had been standing by the window, staring out at nothing. Now he turned to face his team.
“I’ve been trying to see,” he admitted quietly. “Trying to use my precognition to understand what happened. But there’s—” He struggled for words. “There’s interference. Like the future is clouded. I can see fragments, but nothing clear.”
“That’s not good,” Schuldig said flatly.
“No,” Crawford agreed. “It’s not.”
Nagi stopped pacing, his young face set with determination. “I could hack Omi’s files. Find out what their mission was. Where they went.”
The suggestion hung in the air, heavy with implication.
“That would violate Kritiker’s protocols,” Crawford said carefully. “We could get in serious trouble.”
“More trouble than Weiß is already in?” Nagi challenged. “Because they’re clearly in trouble, and Kritiker is doing nothing about it!”
Schuldig’s hands clenched into fists. “I’m so fucking tired of this. We’re supposed to be free now. Not prisoners, not controlled. But here we are again—can’t make our own decisions, can’t help people we care about, just supposed to sit quietly and do what we’re told.”
“Cages,” Farfarello said softly. “Just different cages.”
The word resonated through the room.
Crawford looked at his team—his family—and saw the same realization dawning on all their faces. They’d traded one form of control for another. Kritiker was gentler than Takatori, more reasonable, gave them more freedom. But ultimately, they were still being told what they could and couldn’t do.
Still being kept in a cage.
Just a nicer one.
“My therapist said something interesting last session,” Farfarello spoke up, his voice thoughtful. “He said that doing the right thing is sometimes the hard choice. That I should trust my judgment about what’s right, even if others try to tell me I can’t do it.”
Schuldig snorted. “Pretty sure he meant that for if we try to go back to being ‘evil.’ Bet he didn’t expect it to apply to disobeying Kritiker.”
“Probably not,” Farfarello agreed, a small smile playing at his lips. “But the principle stands. Do what’s right. Even when it’s hard. Even when others say you can’t.”
Crawford looked at each of them, seeing the determination, the worry, the barely suppressed fear for Weiß’s safety.
And underneath it all—friendship.
That’s what had changed over the past year. Slowly, without anyone explicitly acknowledging it, Schwarz and Weiß had become friends.
It was in the small things. Omi insisting they eat breakfast before morning briefings. Yohji bringing coffee when he stopped by to coordinate schedules. Ken grudgingly complimenting Farfarello’s combat efficiency. Aya’s subtle check-ins, making sure they were adjusting okay.
And Schwarz reciprocating. Schuldig helping Omi with a computer security problem. Nagi tutoring Ken’s younger sister in math. Crawford providing strategic advice when Aya requested it. Farfarello’s strange but genuine gratitude whenever Weiß showed them consideration.
They were friends.
And friends didn’t abandon each other.
Schuldig stood up, decision made. “Fuck it. Let’s do it. Hack Omi’s files. Find out what happened. If Kritiker has a problem with that, we’ll deal with it.”
“Agreed,” Farfarello said immediately.
Nagi looked at Crawford, waiting for the final word. Because despite everything—despite the progress they’d made toward equality—Crawford was still their leader. His decision would carry weight.
Crawford thought about the cage they’d just realized they were still in. Thought about Weiß, who’d advocated for them, trusted them, become their friends. Thought about doing what was right versus doing what was safe.
“Do it,” he said quietly. “Find out what happened to them. And then—” His jaw set. “Then we decide what to do about it.”
Nagi’s fingers were already flying across his keyboard before Crawford finished speaking.
Part Three: Discovery
It took Nagi less than two hours.
“Got it,” he announced, voice tight with urgency. “Conference. Now.”
They gathered around Nagi’s laptop in the living room. The late afternoon sun streamed through the windows, cheerful and oblivious to the tension crackling through the apartment.
“Omi’s security was good,” Nagi said, his fingers still moving across the keys. “But I’ve been studying with him for months. I know how he thinks, how he codes. Got through his encryption faster than I expected.”
“And the target’s security?” Crawford asked.
“Laughable.” Nagi’s voice was grim. “Either they’re incredibly arrogant or incredibly stupid. Probably both.”
He pulled up a file, then another, building a picture of Weiß’s mission.
“Their target was Kurosawa Hiroto. On paper, he’s a legitimate businessman. Real estate, import-export, the usual cover. But Kritiker had intelligence that he’s actually running a trafficking operation. High-end. Exclusive.”
“Trafficking,” Schuldig repeated, his voice dangerous. “What kind?”
Nagi’s face was pale. “The worst kind. He hosts private parties for wealthy clients. Exclusive events with no rules, no limits, no consequences. His victims are—” He stopped, swallowing hard. “They’re tortured. Raped. Killed. Whatever the clients pay for. And they pay a lot for the ultimate thrill. Zero limits.”
Horror settled over the room like a physical weight.
“Weiß was supposed to infiltrate one of these parties,” Nagi continued. “Gather evidence. Then eliminate Kurosawa before he could escape.” He pulled up another file. “But something went wrong. They were compromised.”
His fingers moved again, and suddenly the laptop screen split into four feeds.
Security camera footage. Live feeds.
Four cells. Four prisoners.
Weiß.
Crawford’s breath caught. Aya was in the first cell, visible bruising on his face, his posture suggesting cracked ribs or worse. Ken in the second, favoring one leg, dried blood on his shirt. Yohji in the third, one arm held at an awkward angle. And Omi in the fourth, the youngest looking the most battered, one eye swollen shut.
But all of them were conscious. Alert. Still fighting.
“They’re alive,” Farfarello said, something like relief in his voice.
“For now,” Nagi said grimly. “The next party is tonight. And according to the files I found—” His voice wavered. “Weiß are the main attraction. Four assassins, captured alive. Kurosawa’s clients are going to pay premium prices for this.”
The implication hung in the air, too horrible to voice aloud.
Crawford felt something cold and sharp settle in his chest. He reached for his phone, trying Kritiker again.
This time he got through to a supervisor.
“We know about Weiß’s situation,” Crawford said without preamble. “They need immediate extraction. What’s the timeline—”
“How do you know about that mission?” The supervisor’s voice was sharp with suspicion. “That’s classified information, Schwarz.”
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is—”
“Weiß is on assignment. The situation is being handled. Schwarz is to maintain operational silence and await further instructions.”
“They’re going to die if—”
“This is not your concern.” The supervisor’s voice turned cold. “Any further unauthorized investigation into classified operations will result in disciplinary action. Do you understand?”
The line went dead.
Crawford lowered the phone slowly, fury and fear warring inside him.
“Well?” Schuldig demanded.
“They told us to stay out of it.” Crawford’s voice was hollow. “Said the situation is ‘being handled.'”
“Bullshit,” Ken would have said, if he’d been there. But he wasn’t. He was in a cell, waiting to be tortured and killed for entertainment.
Crawford looked at the laptop screen, at the four people who’d become their friends over the past year. Who’d fought for them. Believed in them. Given them a chance when they deserved none.
He opened himself to his precognition, reaching for the future, trying to see what would happen if they did nothing.
The vision hit him like a blade.
Screaming. Blood. Four bodies, broken beyond recognition. The party-goers laughing, drunk on violence and power. And afterward, the emptiness. The guilt. The knowledge that they could have acted but chose safety instead.
Crawford’s eyes snapped open. “If we do nothing,” he said, his voice steady but strained, “Weiß dies tonight. All of them. I’ve seen it.”
Silence fell over the room.
This was it. The real test. Not of their abilities or their willingness to cooperate with Kritiker. But of who they’d become over the past year.
Were they still the people who did whatever was necessary to survive, regardless of the cost to others?
Or had they become something different?
“Kritiker wants us to stand down,” Crawford said carefully. “If we obey, we stay safe. No complications. No trouble. We maintain our current arrangement.”
“And Weiß dies,” Schuldig finished.
“Yes.”
“Or,” Nagi said quietly, “we go after them. We save them. And we deal with whatever consequences Kritiker throws at us.”
“Which could be severe,” Crawford warned. “This isn’t bending rules. This is breaking them. Directly disobeying orders. Hacking classified information. Taking unauthorized action. They could revoke everything we’ve earned. Put us back in cells. Or worse.”
“I know,” Nagi said. “But I also know Omi wouldn’t hesitate if our positions were reversed. None of them would.”
Schuldig stood up, his decision clear in every line of his body. “No more cages,” he said firmly. “Not from Takatori. Not from Rosenkreuz. And not from Kritiker. We make our own choices now. And I choose to save our friends.”
“Agreed,” Farfarello said. “Doing what’s right, even when it’s hard. Even when others say we can’t.”
They both looked at Crawford. And then at Nagi. Waiting.
Crawford thought about the cage they’d realized they were still in. Thought about Weiß, who’d given them freedom even while maintaining supervision. Thought about the future he’d seen—two futures, actually. One where they obeyed and were safe but hollow. One where they acted and faced consequences but kept their humanity.
The choice was clear.
“We save them,” Crawford said. “All of us. Together. Whatever it costs.”
Nagi’s smile was fierce and determined. “Then let’s get to work. We have—” He checked the time. “Four hours until the party starts. We need to move fast.”
They gathered around the table, and for the first time in fourteen months, Schwarz began planning an unauthorized operation.
Not because they were ordered to.
But because it was right.
Part Four: Extraction
The mansion sat on the outskirts of Tokyo, isolated and ostentatious. Perfect for hosting the kind of party where screams wouldn’t be heard by neighbors.
Schwarz approached in darkness, moving with the practiced efficiency of a team that had worked together for years. But this time, there was something different in their movements. Purpose beyond survival. Urgency beyond self-preservation.
They were saving their friends.
“Security is heavy,” Schuldig murmured, his telepathy scanning the grounds. “Lot of minds in there. Most of them twisted, excited, anticipating violence.”
“The guests,” Nagi said, his voice tight with disgust.
“And guards,” Schuldig continued. “Twenty, maybe twenty-five. Professional. Armed. This isn’t going to be clean.”
“Don’t need clean,” Farfarello said, his old edge returning—but controlled now, directed. “Need fast.”
Crawford’s eyes were unfocused, tracking possibilities. “Nagi, can you disable their security system?”
“Already done.” Nagi’s telekinesis had been working since they’d parked, invisible tendrils of power reaching through the building’s infrastructure. “Cameras are looped. Alarms are off. Motion sensors are blind.”
“Good. Schuldig, I need a path to where they’re holding Weiß.”
Schuldig’s eyes closed, his consciousness spreading through the mansion like smoke. “Basement. Three levels down. They’re in reinforced cells—probably meant to hold them until the party really gets started.” He paused, something dark crossing his face. “Brad, some of the guests are already there. Watching them. Taunting them.”
Crawford’s jaw tightened. “Then we move now. Farfarello, you’re on point. Take out any guards between us and the basement. Quiet if possible, fast if not.”
“Understood.”
“Nagi, you’re our exit strategy. Once we have Weiß, I need you to collapse the stairwells behind us. Slow any pursuit.”
“Can do.”
“Schuldig, you’re with me. We get Weiß out of those cells and moving.”
“What about the guests?” Schuldig asked, and there was something dangerous in his voice.
Crawford met his eyes. “We’re not here for them. We’re here for Weiß. Anything else is a distraction we can’t afford.”
“Even though they—”
“I know what they are. What they’ve done. What they planned to do.” Crawford’s voice was hard. “But we’re not judges or executioners tonight. We’re rescue. Focus on that.”
Schuldig nodded reluctantly. “Okay. But if any of them get in our way—”
“Then they’ll regret it,” Crawford finished. “Move out.”
They breached the mansion like shadows, swift and silent. Farfarello took point, his combat knife finding throats before guards could raise alarms. Not the wild violence of his old madness, but precise, controlled elimination of threats.
Down the first stairwell. Second. Third.
The basement level was different—cleaner, more sterile. Built for a specific purpose. The cells lined one wall, reinforced plexiglass and steel.
And in front of those cells, a small crowd of well-dressed people stood with champagne glasses, watching the prisoners with anticipation and hunger.
Crawford’s precognition flared, showing him the next thirty seconds in crystalline clarity.
“Now,” he said.
Nagi’s power exploded outward. The champagne glasses shattered. The guests were flung backward, slamming into walls with concussive force. Not killed—Crawford had been specific about that—but incapacitated, groaning and disoriented.
Schuldig’s telepathy slammed into their minds, overloading their senses with manufactured pain. They wouldn’t remember clearly what had happened. Just confusion and terror.
Farfarello moved through them like a ghost, securing their hands with zip ties pulled from his tactical vest. “Alive,” he said, almost proudly. “Like you said, Oracle. Not judges tonight.”
“Good,” Crawford moved to the cells. The locks were electronic, sophisticated. “Nagi—”
“On it.” The locks clicked open simultaneously.
Aya was first out of his cell, moving despite his injuries, his eyes sharp and assessing. He took in Schwarz’s presence, the incapacitated guests, the situation, and understanding flashed across his face.
“You came,” he said, and there was something raw in his voice.
“Of course we came,” Crawford replied. “Can you move?”
“Yes.” Aya turned to his team. “Yohji, Ken, Omi—we’re leaving.”
They emerged from their cells, battered but alive. Omi’s eyes met Nagi’s, and something unspoken passed between them. Gratitude. Recognition. Friendship.
“Thank you,” Omi said quietly.
“Later,” Crawford said. “Right now, we move. Nagi, collapse the stairwells. Schuldig, blind anyone who tries to follow telepathically. Farfarello, rear guard. Weiß, stay close.”
They moved as a unit—not two teams, but one. Schwarz protecting Weiß as they climbed back through the mansion. Behind them, Nagi’s telekinesis brought tons of concrete and steel crashing down, sealing the basement level.
Alarms finally began to blare. Guards converged on their position.
“Through them!” Crawford commanded.
Farfarello moved like flowing water, disarming and disabling with brutal efficiency. Schuldig’s telepathy scrambled their coordination, making them fire at shadows. Nagi’s telekinesis deflected bullets, turned weapons against their users.
And Weiß, despite their injuries, fought alongside them. Aya’s katana sang even as he favored his ribs. Ken’s fists flew even as he limped. Yohji’s wire snapped and cut even with one arm wounded. Omi’s crossbow found marks even through his swollen eye.
They fought together. Protected each other. Moved as one.
And they made it out.
The escape vehicles were where Schwarz had left them. They piled in, Weiß in the back seat, Schwarz up front. Nagi drove—his telekinesis making him capable of maneuvers no normal driver could manage.
As they sped away from the mansion, sirens beginning to wail in the distance, Crawford allowed himself one moment of relief.
They’d done it.
Against orders. Against protocol. Against every rule Kritiker had established.
But they’d saved their friends.
And in that moment, the cage felt less like a cage and more like a choice they’d made to break free from.
Part Five: Aftermath
They didn’t go back to Schwarz’s apartment. Too obvious. Instead, Nagi drove them to a safe house Crawford had scouted months ago—a precaution he’d never mentioned to Kritiker. Old habits die hard, and maintaining bolt-holes had always been second nature.
The safe house was small but functional. Medical supplies, secure communications, enough space for all eight of them.
Schuldig and Crawford tended to Weiß’s injuries with practiced efficiency. Nothing life-threatening, thankfully, but painful. Aya’s ribs were cracked, not broken. Yohji’s arm was dislocated but could be reset. Ken’s leg was badly bruised. Omi’s face looked worse than it was.
“You’re lucky,” Crawford said as he taped Aya’s ribs. “Another few hours and—”
“I know,” Aya interrupted quietly. “We know what would have happened.” He looked up, meeting Crawford’s eyes directly. “You saved our lives. All of you. Even though it meant defying Kritiker.”
“Of course we did.” Crawford’s voice was matter-of-fact. “You’re our friends.”
The word hung in the air—finally spoken aloud after a year of unacknowledged truth.
“Friends,” Aya repeated, and something softened in his expression. “Yes. We are.”
Across the room, Omi was being tended to by Nagi, who worked with gentle precision.
“I’m sorry I missed our study session,” Omi said, attempting humor despite his injuries.
Nagi’s hands trembled slightly as he cleaned the cut above Omi’s eye. “Don’t apologize for being kidnapped, idiot.”
“Still. I should have messaged—”
“They took your phone immediately,” Nagi interrupted. “I saw it in the security footage. You couldn’t have warned us.” He paused, his voice dropping. “But I should have looked sooner. Should have realized something was wrong immediately instead of waiting three days.”
“You had no reason to suspect,” Omi said gently. “We’re assassins. Sometimes missions take time.”
“But you would have looked for me,” Nagi said, and it wasn’t a question. “If our positions were reversed, you wouldn’t have waited three days.”
Omi smiled despite the pain. “No. I wouldn’t have. Because we’re friends.”
There it was again. That word. Simple and profound.
Yohji winced as Schuldig reset his shoulder with a practiced motion. “Fuck! Warning next time!”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Schuldig’s grin was sharp but not unkind. “Besides, you’ve been dislocated before. You knew it was coming.”
“Knowing doesn’t make it hurt less.”
“True.” Schuldig’s expression turned more serious. “You okay? Really okay? What they did to you before we got there—”
“Was bad,” Yohji admitted. “But not the worst I’ve experienced. And thanks to you guys, it didn’t get worse.” He met Schuldig’s eyes. “Thank you. For coming. For risking everything.”
“What are friends for?” Schuldig said lightly, but his eyes were sincere.
Farfarello was helping Ken, checking his leg for breaks or fractures. His touch was surprisingly gentle, clinical.
“You were holding back,” Farfarello observed. “In the cells. I could see it on the security footage. You were hurt but not fighting, not struggling. Why?”
Ken grimaced. “Because struggling would have made it worse. They wanted us to fight, to give them a show. So we didn’t. Gave them nothing. Just waited for an opportunity to escape.”
“Smart,” Farfarello said approvingly. “Survival through stillness instead of violence. I’m learning that too. From my therapist.”
Ken looked at him, really looked at him. “You’ve changed. All of you have. You’re not—”
“Monsters?” Farfarello supplied, his smile soft. “No. We’re trying not to be. It’s hard. But we’re trying.”
“I can see that,” Ken said quietly. “And for what it’s worth—thank you. For saving us. For being friends even when we probably didn’t deserve it.”
“Everyone deserves friends,” Farfarello said simply. “That’s what Dr. Tanaka says. And I think he’s right.”
Once everyone was patched up as well as possible, they gathered in the safe house’s main room. Eight people, two teams, sitting together in the aftermath of their unauthorized rescue.
“So,” Yohji said, breaking the silence. “What happens now?”
“Kritiker is going to be furious,” Omi said, his analytical mind already working through the problem. “We disobeyed direct orders. Hacked classified systems. Conducted an unsanctioned operation.”
“We saved your lives,” Schuldig countered.
“Yes. But from Kritiker’s perspective, we also showed we’re willing to act independently. That we can’t be controlled.” Omi looked at Schwarz. “This is going to have consequences. Serious ones.”
Crawford had been quiet, his mind working through possibilities. “I need to contact Kritiker. Explain what happened. Take responsibility.”
“We all take responsibility,” Aya said firmly. “This wasn’t just Schwarz’s operation. We’re in this together now.”
“You were the victims,” Crawford pointed out. “You didn’t authorize our rescue.”
“But we’re grateful for it,” Aya countered. “And we’ll make sure Kritiker knows that. Schwarz acted to save their handlers. That should count for something.”
“Should,” Nagi said. “But will it?”
No one had an answer.
Crawford made the call.
He identified himself, explained the situation in clear, concise terms. Schwarz had received intelligence about Weiß’s capture. Kritiker had refused to act. Schwarz had made the decision to conduct an unauthorized rescue. All four members of Weiß were alive and recovering.
“The consequences should fall on me,” Crawford said into the phone. “I gave the orders. I take responsibility.”
The response was immediate and expected: report to Kritiker headquarters immediately. All of Schwarz. And Weiß too, once they were able to travel.
“Understood,” Crawford said, and ended the call.
He looked at his team. “Tomorrow morning. We report in.”
“What do you think they’ll do?” Nagi asked, fear evident in his voice.
Crawford’s precognition was frustratingly unclear. Too many variables, too many emotions clouding the future. But he could see fragments.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But whatever happens, we face it together.”
“Together,” Schuldig agreed.
“Together,” Farfarello echoed.
“Together,” Nagi finished.
Across the room, Weiß exchanged glances. Then Aya spoke.
“We’ll speak for you,” he said. “Advocate for you. Like we did before. You saved our lives. That matters.”
“It might not be enough,” Crawford warned.
“Maybe not,” Aya agreed. “But we’ll try anyway. Because that’s what friends do.”
That night, they all stayed at the safe house. Eight people crammed into a space meant for four, but no one wanted to be separated. Not yet. Not with the uncertainty of tomorrow looming.
Crawford found himself unable to sleep, his mind turning over possibilities. Around 2 AM, he gave up and went to the small kitchen to make coffee.
Aya was already there, moving carefully due to his ribs, also making coffee.
They worked in comfortable silence for a moment.
“Thank you,” Aya said finally. “I know I said it before, but it bears repeating. You saved our lives. And you did it knowing it could cost you everything you’ve built over the past year.”
“You would have done the same,” Crawford replied.
“Yes. But that doesn’t diminish what you did.” Aya poured coffee for both of them. “A year ago, I never would have believed Schwarz was capable of this kind of selfless action.”
“A year ago, we weren’t,” Crawford said honestly. “But you changed us. Gave us the chance to become something better. This—saving you—it’s proof that the chance wasn’t wasted.”
They sipped their coffee in silence for a moment.
“What do you think will happen tomorrow?” Aya asked.
“I don’t know,” Crawford admitted. “My visions are unclear. Too much depends on variables I can’t predict. Human choices. Emotional reactions. The future is murky.”
“That must be frustrating for someone who built their life on certainty.”
“It is.” Crawford smiled slightly. “But it’s also liberating. Not knowing means anything’s possible. Even hope.”
“Hope,” Aya repeated. “You’ve changed too, Crawford. More than you probably realize.”
“For the better, I hope.”
“Definitely for the better.”
They finished their coffee and returned to the makeshift sleeping arrangements. Tomorrow would bring consequences, judgment, possibly the end of everything they’d built.
But tonight, they were together. Schwarz and Weiß. Friends.
And that was enough.
Part Six: Judgment
Kritiker’s headquarters felt different in the harsh morning light. More imposing. More unforgiving.
All eight of them entered together—Weiß still visibly injured, Schwarz walking with the quiet dignity of people who’d made peace with their choices.
They were escorted to a conference room. Large. Official. The kind of space where careers ended and lives were decided.
Waiting for them was a panel of three people. Crawford recognized the woman on the left—Director Himura, Kritiker’s head of Asian operations. The man on the right was a stranger, probably from legal or internal affairs. And in the center—
Takeda.
The man who’d tested Crawford a year ago. Who’d made him crawl. Who’d seen him at his most vulnerable and decided he was worth saving.
Their eyes met briefly, and Crawford couldn’t read his expression.
“Sit,” Director Himura commanded.
They sat. Schwarz on one side of the table, Weiß on the other, facing the panel.
“Let’s be clear about what happened,” Himura began, her voice cold and precise. “Schwarz conducted an unauthorized operation. You hacked classified systems. You disobeyed direct orders to stand down. You infiltrated a private residence and used lethal force against multiple individuals.”
“We saved our handlers’ lives,” Crawford said calmly.
“That’s not the point,” the legal representative interjected. “The point is you acted independently. Demonstrated you can’t be controlled or trusted to follow protocol.”
“With respect,” Aya spoke up, his voice firm despite his injuries, “Schwarz acted because Kritiker was failing to. My team was captured, tortured, and scheduled to be killed. When Schwarz requested information or assistance, they were stonewalled and threatened with discipline.”
“The situation was being assessed—”
“For three days,” Aya interrupted, something fierce in his voice. “While we were beaten and displayed like trophies. While our captors planned to torture and murder us for entertainment. If Schwarz had waited for official authorization, my entire team would be dead.”
“That’s speculation,” Himura said.
“That’s fact,” Crawford countered. “I saw it. My precognition showed me exactly what would happen if we did nothing. Weiß dies tonight. All of them. That was the future we prevented.”
Takeda leaned forward, speaking for the first time. “Why?”
Crawford met his eyes. “Why what?”
“Why risk everything you’ve built? Your freedom, your progress, your carefully reconstructed lives. You could have stayed safe. Let the situation resolve itself. Protected your own interests. Why risk it all for Weiß?”
The question hung in the air, weighted with significance.
Crawford could have given strategic answers. Could have talked about maintaining handler relationships or protecting organizational assets.
Instead, he told the truth.
“Because they’re our friends,” Crawford said simply. “Because over the past year, Weiß has shown us kindness, consideration, and genuine care. They’ve fought for us. Believed in us. Given us chances we didn’t deserve. And when they were in danger, when they needed help—” He paused. “There was never really a choice. We couldn’t abandon them.”
“Even knowing it would mean consequences,” Takeda pressed.
“Even knowing,” Crawford confirmed. “Some things matter more than safety. More than following rules. Friendship is one of them.”
Schuldig spoke up next. “A year ago, we were Takatori’s weapons. Then we became Kritiker’s supervised assets. But through all of it, Weiß treated us like people. Like we mattered beyond our usefulness. They invited us to breakfast. Helped with homework. Checked in just to see how we were doing. Small things. But they added up.”
“And when they were in danger,” Nagi continued, his voice steady, “we realized something. We’re not in a cage anymore. We get to make choices. Real choices. Not based on survival or obedience, but on what’s right. And saving our friends was right.”
Farfarello’s contribution was simple but profound. “My therapist says doing the right thing is sometimes the hard choice. This was the hard choice. But it was right.”
Himura’s expression was unreadable. “You’re aware this constitutes a serious violation of your release terms.”
“Yes,” Crawford said.
“You’re aware we could revoke your freedom. Return you to custody.”
“Yes.”
“And you’d do it again anyway.”
Crawford met her eyes directly. “If our friends were in danger and Kritiker refused to help? Yes. We’d do it again.”
The legal representative leaned back, shaking his head. “This is exactly why supervised release was a risk. You’ve proven you can’t be trusted to follow orders.”
“No,” Aya interjected. “They’ve proven they can be trusted to do the right thing. There’s a difference.”
“From a legal standpoint—”
“From a moral standpoint,” Yohji interrupted, “Schwarz saved four of your operatives. Four lives that you were apparently willing to sacrifice for procedural reasons.”
“That’s not fair,” Himura said. “We were assessing the situation—”
“You were debating,” Ken cut in, his voice hard. “While we were being beaten. While they planned to torture us to death for entertainment. Schwarz didn’t debate. They acted.”
Omi’s voice was quiet but carried weight. “I’ve worked in intelligence for years. I understand protocol. But I also understand that sometimes protocol fails. Sometimes you need people who are willing to break rules when those rules become obstacles to doing what’s right. Schwarz proved they’re those people.”
Takeda had been listening to all of this with an inscrutable expression. Now he spoke, addressing his fellow panel members.
“A year ago, I tested Crawford. Pushed him to his breaking point to see if his surrender was genuine. Do you know what convinced me?” He looked at Crawford. “It wasn’t his compliance or his information. It was his willingness to give up everything—including his dignity—for his team. That level of care, that depth of love—it can’t be faked.”
He turned back to Himura and the legal representative.
“And now, a year later, Schwarz has done it again. They’ve sacrificed their security, their carefully rebuilt lives, their freedom—all to save their friends. That’s not the action of controlled assets or strategic operatives. That’s the action of good people making hard choices.”
“They still violated protocol,” the legal representative insisted.
“Yes,” Takeda agreed. “And we need to address that. But we also need to recognize what their violation represents. Growth. Moral development. The transformation from weapons into people who care about others beyond their immediate team.”
Himura was silent for a long moment, her expression thoughtful.
“Weiß,” she said finally. “You’re their handlers. Your professional opinion: can Schwarz be trusted?”
Aya didn’t hesitate. “Yes. Absolutely.”
“Even after this?”
“Especially after this,” Aya said firmly. “Because they proved they’ll do the right thing even when it costs them everything. That’s exactly the kind of people Kritiker needs.”
“Agreed,” Omi added. “Their skills are valuable, but their integrity is more valuable. They could have stayed safe. They chose to help instead.”
“They’re good people,” Ken said, and coming from him—who’d been the most hostile to Schwarz initially—the endorsement carried weight. “Rough around the edges, still learning, but good. And getting better every day.”
Yohji simply nodded. “What they said. Schwarz saved our lives. I trust them.”
Takeda leaned forward again. “Director Himura, I’d like to make a recommendation.”
“Go ahead.”
“I recommend we grant Schwarz full operative status. Same rights, same pay, same autonomy as any other Kritiker team. With one condition.”
Crawford’s attention sharpened. “What condition?”
“You work with Weiß. Not under them as handlers, but alongside them as partners. Joint operations. Combined expertise. Two teams that can function independently but choose to work together.”
He looked at both teams.
“You’ve proven you work well together. That you trust each other. That you’ll protect each other. That’s rare. Most of our teams barely tolerate each other. But you—” He gestured between them. “You’ve built something real. Something worth preserving and utilizing.”
Himura considered this. “Joint operations. Weiß and Schwarz as partners rather than handlers and supervised assets.”
“Yes.”
“That’s unprecedented.”
“So is what they did yesterday,” Takeda pointed out. “Unprecedented calls for unprecedented solutions.”
The legal representative looked uncomfortable. “There should be consequences for the protocol violations—”
“There are,” Takeda interrupted. “The consequence is they can’t operate independently anymore. They have to work with Weiß. They’ve shown they’ll break rules for their friends—so we make their friends their permanent partners. That way, rule-breaking becomes collaboration.”
It was elegant. Turning punishment into opportunity. Restriction into partnership.
Himura’s expression shifted from stern to thoughtful to—was that approval?
“I’ll need to clear this with upper management,” she said. “But provisionally, I’m approving Takeda’s recommendation. Schwarz and Weiß will operate as joint teams. Equal status, equal authority, mutual accountability.”
She looked at Crawford.
“You wanted freedom. Real freedom, not just a nicer cage. This is as close as Kritiker can offer. You’ll have full operative rights, but you’ll share them with Weiß. Are you willing to accept that?”
Crawford looked at his team. Schuldig was grinning. Nagi looked hopeful. Farfarello’s smile was peaceful.
Then he looked at Weiß. Aya met his eyes with understanding and acceptance. Omi nodded encouragingly. Ken gave a small thumbs up. Yohji winked.
“We accept,” Crawford said. “Not because Kritiker demands it, but because we choose it. Because Weiß are our friends. And working with friends—that’s not a restriction. That’s a privilege.”
Aya stood, extending his hand across the table. “Partners, then. Equal partners.”
Crawford stood, clasping his hand firmly. “Partners.”
Around them, the other team members joined—hands meeting, agreements made, friendship formalized into partnership.
Himura watched this with something that might have been satisfaction. “Then we’re done here. Welcome to full operative status, Schwarz. Try not to break too many more rules.”
“We’ll try,” Schuldig said cheerfully. “No promises though.”
“I’d expect nothing less,” Himura said dryly. “Dismissed.”
Epilogue: Partners
Two weeks later, Schwarz and Weiß sat together in a private room at a restaurant—celebrating Nagi’s completion of his first semester of university classes with perfect marks.
“To Nagi,” Omi raised his glass. “The smartest person at this table.”
“Hear, hear!” The others echoed, glasses raised.
Nagi blushed but smiled, genuinely pleased.
The conversation flowed easily—jokes, stories, comfortable silence. The kind of interaction that came from genuine friendship rather than forced cooperation.
“So,” Yohji said, refilling his sake. “First joint mission next week. Everyone ready?”
“Depends,” Schuldig countered. “Are you finally going to stop making terrible puns during operations?”
“Never,” Yohji said solemnly. “It’s part of my brand.”
“Your brand is being annoying,” Ken said, but he was grinning.
“You love it.”
“Debatable.”
Farfarello leaned toward Aya. “Thank you. For speaking for us with Kritiker. For believing we could be more than weapons.”
Aya’s expression softened. “You’ve proven it. Every day. You’re not weapons anymore. You’re partners. Friends.”
“Family,” Crawford said quietly.
Everyone looked at him.
“We’re family now,” Crawford continued. “Not just Schwarz. All of us. Weiß and Schwarz. We’ve fought together. Bled together. Saved each other. That’s family.”
“Chosen family,” Omi added, his voice warm. “The best kind.”
“To family,” Aya raised his glass again.
“To family,” they all echoed.
As they drank, Crawford felt something settle in his chest. Peace. Real peace, not just the absence of conflict.
A year ago, he’d surrendered everything to save his team. Stripped himself of dignity, pride, control.
And in return, he’d gained something immeasurably more valuable.
Freedom. Real freedom. Not just the absence of chains, but the presence of choice.
Friends who’d become family.
A life worth living rather than just surviving.
He looked around the table—eight people who should have been enemies, who’d become allies, who’d transformed into family.
Schuldig caught his eye and raised an eyebrow. You okay, Brad?
Crawford smiled, the expression genuine and unguarded. Better than okay. I’m happy.
Good, Schuldig sent back. You deserve it. We all do.
And looking around the table, seeing the laughter and warmth and genuine affection between people who’d once been trained to kill each other—
Crawford believed it.
They deserved this.
All of them.
And they’d fight to keep it.
Together.
THE END