Title: The Price of Survival
Author: sylphide (kampflied@hotmail.com)
Pairings: undecided
Keywords: alternate universe, sci-fi, violence, romance
Warnings: insanity, violence (nope, no sex, non-con or otherwise)
Rating: R
Spoilers: Err... this is AU.
Disclaimer: Of course I don't own them; if I did, I would be doing a lot worse than merely writing them into situations... ^.~
Author's notes:
1. Yeah, you read that (above, warnings) right. No sex. I must be on crack. (muse: *snorts* most people write yaoi when they are on crack...) I haven't decided about lime (that's implied sexual scenes—i.e. no actual penetration—for those of you unfamiliar with the terms) yet... maybe yes maybe no. But since pairings are still undecided for now (& no, that's not a tactic to get more reviews/votes... I'll make up my own mind, depending on where the plot takes me), the question of our boys getting down to it is quite useless.
2. Pasts are largely warped. There may be a few grains of canon here & there, but if you haven't watched the original, don't try to figure out which parts of the characters' pasts are real—you'll be confused, I think.
3. Este & Kritiker: In this futuristic AU setting, they are agencies under the same government. Then again, there's only one government for the whole world(s?). Este is the psychic division while Kritiker handles stuff like intelligence, espionage, assassination, etc. Each has its own agents (obviously) and some stuff they do overlap, but they try not to step on each other's toes too often. (i.e. the relationship between Weiß and Schwarz when they come into existence is neutral, neither friendly nor hostile... think 'you leave us alone and we'll do the same') Also, don't try telling me that the spelling of Schwarz's boss organisation is wrong. SS, SZ, Estet, ß, whatver. In my non-AU fics I use SS because there was such an organisation around WWII time, but this is AU, and I like the sound of Este.
4. Schuldig's eyes are BLUE in my dictionary. I've become immune to reading about him with green eyes or having his name spelt Schuldich, etc (I have to—too many good writers do it) but they are still blue in my own fics. If you have a problem with that, please don't let me know.
5. This starts a few years before canon age for everybody. Some characters sound OOC now, but trust me, they'll appear relatively in-character by the time they reach their canon age.
//...// - telepathic speech / what Schuldig hears of others' thoughts
italic - emphasis if it's just one word/line; flashback for entire paragraphs—don't tell me you can't tell the difference.
Thanks to fieryfrost for beta-ing this.
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Part I
Hour after hour. Day after day. What for, really? He wasn't sure. He hadn't been sure of much for ages. It was a little cold, his cell, but nothing he couldn't handle.
The thought made him pause, then he chuckled, vaguely amused although he wasn't sure why. Yeah, he could handle it. He could handle anything. He always had.
"Is that him?" A voice. He hadn't heard that voice before. Must be new. Or maybe he just forgot—and he had forgotten a lot. //This place is unnerving, but certainly quite thrilling too. I wonder what they do with these loons?//
Yes, definitely new.
"Yeah. Number five-zero-three. Not so fast there—you should always check all the cell doors since you are down here, over in this section. We have regular checks three times a day, but extra caution doesn't hurt." //Not when you're dealing with these people.//
"Three times? I thought only failures are kept here." //Surely they aren't that dangerous?//
"Failed experiments. And you'd do well to remember that. We have some real headache cases here. All placid one day—then maniacal or homicidal the next. Oh damn, that one killed himself." //About time. One less for me to check on.//
"How can you tell?" //The door's locked, and everything looks okay.//
"Hanged. You can see the body swinging in the monitor."
"That's a body?" //Holy crap, I thought these were curtains!//
"Stop gaping. You'll get used to it soon. The ones who hang themselves are usually pretty okay—my worst experience was one where I tripped over the corpse as I entered, and fell plomp into a pool of his blood." //Wonder how he filched that knife... we always check for sharp things.//
"Alright, I'm done with this end. You?"
"Yeah. Let's get the one they sent for and get out of here." //Four years working in this section, and I still can't wait to scram each time.//
Following a series of identification codes, the door to his cell swung open. "Schuldig, come out." //Hope he's in one of his quiet moods—normally the sanest one around here, but when he decides to switch into berserk mode... ah, he's calm. Good.//
"Schuldig?" the new guard repeated.
"That's the name he goes by. Or used to, anyway. They're all numbers here. Still, who's going to respond to a number? He answers to that name, so I use it." //I hate it when they assign some green guard here. So many useless questions.//
He sat up, noticing as he did so that his clothes were hanging loosely. Did he lose weight again? He thought he had eaten lately... oh well. So what. He got to his feet slowly, pausing to wait for the world to stop spinning, and then followed the two guards to the doorway.
A pair of handcuffs clicked around his wrists. //He doesn't look as though he'd be any trouble today, but outsiders always feel endangered if they aren't restrained. No one listens to a guard's word—hell, I risk my neck every day among these people; you think I can't tell if one of them is safe to be with?//
He would have shrugged had he cared that much. Hey, even he didn't know if he was safe to be with. He had given up fighting himself long ago. It was pointless—but then again, so was he.
Still in that comfortable bemused state, he followed the two guards to the lift that would take them up to the next level of Este's immense underground base.
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It was cold in here, cold and dry. There was a curiously stale bite to the air. The dead and those who wish they were? Crawford pondered that, for lack of anything less morbid to occupy his thoughts. The mental decay of this place was enough to drive an unshielded psychic into hysterics, at least.
The door opened. "Mr Crawford, if you would come this way?"
Rising to his feet with a curt nod, he walked out of the waiting room into the corridor, where another worker was waiting for him.
A few minutes later, he was ushered beyond numerous security measures into the front hall of one of Este's most forbidden zones. "The meeting room is beyond this door, sir. Would you prefer privacy for your audience?"
Rank had its privileges. "Yes, thank you." Without pausing, he opened the door and walked in.
The meeting room was a medium-sized cell, airtight and soundproof like most of the rooms in this section. Glaring white light flooded its largely lifeless space, giving it a coldly sterile look. A table stood in the middle of the room, with two chairs, one facing the door and the other opposite it. A man was sitting in the former, his head bowed.
"Schuldig?" It was half way between a question and an identification.
The man lifted his head slowly, dull blue eyes focusing on him after a long blank moment. Bloodlessly pale skin was stretched tautly over high cheekbones, which might have looked graceful once, but now only accented the hollowness of the man's cheeks. Lacklustre hair fell disinterestedly onto bony shoulders, strands of it concealing the face from view. Was there any spark of life left in this wreck of an experiment that was once called the most powerful telepath Este ever turned out?
Probably not. For the headquarters to snort in disgust and declare one who had had the most potential a failure... but he had come to see for himself. He had to know if there was anything worth salvaging.
Crawford wasn't sure what he had half-way expected—as far as possible, he tried not to expect anything: preconceptions blind one's eyes, and hopes cloud one's judgement—but it was not this. Not this hollow shell.
The silence lengthened, until the younger man finally broke it, his voice rusty from disuse. "Yes?"
"Why do you ask?"
"You want me here for something." Flat, uncaring—if there was any trace of cynicism in there, it was smothered under layers of dull acceptance.
"What do you think it is?"
"I don't know."
"And you don't care." That much was obvious.
For a moment, mild surprise seemed to peer through the haze of numbness in the telepath's pale blue eyes—then the shutters of indifference came down again. "Yeah."
"What's your name?"
"Schuldig."
"That's not your real name."
A shrug. "It serves its purpose."
"When did you join Este?"
"Years ago."
"How old were you?"
"Can't remember."
Crawford wondered if it was true. Did Schuldig really forget? He had heard of telepaths who overtaxed their own powers so much that they only retained disjointed fragments of the decades—but Schuldig's telepathic powers had been legendary.
Then again, maybe that was why he broke down earlier and more completely than most.
"Do you want to get out of here?"
A strange light flashed across Schuldig's eyes. Crawford's vision became disorientated momentarily—in that instant, he saw the wild beast buried deep inside the broken exterior, a restrained creature that was born to freedom, starting to despair, but hungry, so very hungry...
Then that light faded abruptly, and the telepath became expressionless once more. But this time, the neutrality of his face was complete, almost too complete—if Crawford had been the gambling sort, he would have bet that this was a mask: that underneath, the smouldering embers had been stirred.
"You jest."
"I never jest." He held the other's flat gaze. "I may lie, but I never jest."
Another shrug. "Whatever."
Schuldig wasn't defending his own words—but it was already a vast improvement over the lethargic responses at the beginning of this interview. "You are a telepath; you can tell if I'm jesting."
Ice orbs flared for a moment before turning flinty. "Read my file. Under status it reads 'ruined'."
"I wonder." He concentrated inwardly for a moment, and released the subconscious grip on his mental shields.
He only stayed unshielded for a few heartbeats before bringing them up again. That was about as long as he wanted to risk himself in this zone, with its high concentration of uncontrolled psychics. Besides, his point had been made—Schuldig was staring at him, his eyes wide.
"Well?"
The telepath's lips pressed into a thin line. "Stop bothering me."
He accepted the abrupt brush-off gracefully. There had already been more development than he had any reason to expect from a first meeting. "I'll come again."
He felt Schuldig's guarded gaze on his back as he walked out.
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He chewed his lips as the door closed behind the stranger, sounding for all the world like the clanging of his cell door when he was first sent down here. There was that same suffocating sense of hopelessness, as though his last line to safety had been cut off—what the hell. Who was that stranger anyway? It hadn't occurred to him to ask.
It was strange, this sense of... awareness. He had been numb for a long time now, constant in that state of blissful unfeeling—but now he was thinking again. Hell, half way through that interview he had had to consciously invoke his cloak of apathy, which had come so naturally to him for ages.
Do you want to get out of here?
Did he?
He didn't know. What was out there? Beyond this comfortingly mindless routine... Memories rose, and he clamped them down out of habit. No, he did not want to leave. He was safe here, safe from the fickle fate that had always enjoyed rewarding him with a kick to the gut for daring to reach out.
He did not want to leave he was fine here he had nowhere better to go he would rather take his chances he wanted to leave—
Damn.
Why did that man have to come and upset his dearly bought equilibrium?
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"Cooperate," came a soft whisper from somewhere behind him. "It'll be easier on you. You'll be killed if you resist."
Turning, he sought the speaker—but the only one in the general direction the whisper had come from was a boy, of perhaps twelve to thirteen years of age. The blond head was bowed, apparently concentrating on the electronic game in his hand.
"Don't look around," came the hushed voice again. The boy's lips were hardly moving. "Listen, don't resist. Answer whatever they ask—they can tell if you are lying, and you can't hide anything from them."
What the—
Up until the blond boy spoke, Youji had taken little notice of him. Sure, he had looked around—he was an investigator, after all—but his heart wasn't in it. This place had little to distinguish it from any other patrol station in the city, in any case. He knew it to be one of Kritiker's bases because he had investigated it. Getting information on the government's intelligence centre wasn't simple by any stretch of imagination, but he was good at what he did—maybe too good.
"Go along with them," the boy whispered again, a rising sense of urgency in his voice as two miscellaneous patrols approached.
He gave a slight nod, although he was not sure if he would heed the advcie.
"Mr Kudou? Would you please follow me?" Polite. Too damned so.
He got to his feet, ignoring the complaints from his legs after sitting down for so long, and followed the men down a corridor. Two lift descents later, they were no longer in any place that looked remotely like the civil service. A maze of corridors, all identical-looking... he concentrated on memorising the route instead of what would happen next, although, given the level of security down here, he would probably not be able to take a single step before he was killed, let alone make use of this knowledge.
Finally, the patrol in the lead stopped at a door and rapped three times, then turned sideways and gestured at it. "Sir."
It was almost like the bow those waiters of fancy places made when they showed a rich customer to his table, Youji decided at the back of his mind. Sure, that was irrelevant, but reducing the imposing environment he was thrust into to something normal, like what he was used to handling, was his way of dealing with this chilling situation.
With a careless shrug that he did not feel, Youji pushed the door open.
Beyond the door lay an almost painfully commonplace office, with the usual assortment of cabinets, divisions, desks, chairs, and two computer terminals. A young woman looked up as he walked in, and the smile that greeted him made him uncomfortable, although he couldn't place it exactly. The woman's smile wasn't cold or cynical or fake, but... just strange. "Have a seat, please. This will take quite some time."
He went along with the pleasantries. No point in irritating these people.
"I understand you're an investigator, Mr Kudou. You've amassed an impressive record, considering the short amount of time you've been in operation, you and your co-worker. Speaking of which, who is she to you?"
"Just co-workers. We are both interested in the same line of work, and it's easier to start somewhere together than to strike out alone."
The woman lifted an eyebrow. "Trust is important if we wish to reach any kind of understanding, you know."
He shrugged. He didn't want to bring Asuka into this. "A citizen has his rights, you know. You can't force me to speak."
"That much is true—if you were still a citizen." The woman switched on the computer by her desk. "The national records are linked to this computer, if you wish to peruse them. And I think you would, Mr Kudou. On all records, you are dead."
"What?" He kept a tight grip on himself. Nothing could change the records once 'death' had been entered, a precaution against corruption cases in which someone else uses that person's name to collect benefits.
"You can check." The woman's voice continued to be pleasant and reasonable. "I believe you can tell if the records are fake—you've been through them enough times."
"No, no, you can't—" He felt panic begin to rise inside him, and deflated it as best as he could. "Hell, what am I saying. You can; you already did."
"That is right." The woman's dark eyes actually seemed to look sympathetic. "Officially, you were executed the moment you were brought into this patrol station."
"What's my crime?" He pressed his lips together, suddenly noticing how dry they felt.
"Conspiring against the state."
"I did?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes, you did." The woman drew a line with her finger. "There is an invisible line, Mr Kudou, that people are not supposed to cross. Debates at the forum, public speeches, letters to the press—if you have questions, these are the permitted avenues. Investigating the government's secretive branches is not." A smile that appeared to be vaguely self-mocking lifted her lips. "It would hardly come as a surprise to you to hear that we have double standards, I should say. Kritiker's existence isn't a secret, but looking at it too closely is not something we encourage."
"And I did."
"Yes, you did." She smiled wryly. "May I ask why?"
"Curiosity."
The woman sighed. "I don't like to accuse people of lying, Mr Kudou, but you don't leave me any choice in this matter."
"I don't like to deny anything that a beautiful woman says, but you haven't left me any choices either."
The two statements hung between them for a long moment, then the woman bowed her head. "Very well. If you insist, I have no choice but to clarify our positions in this matter."
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"Manx?"
The red-haired woman at the screen looked up, and a smile lifted her lips as she saw the blond boy. "What brings you here, Omi?" She was fond of him. Not unduly so, but it was nice to have someone around that you could count on seeing again—there were too many who survived no more than their first assignments.
"That investigator arrested today, is he with Birman still?"
"Last I checked, yes. Why?"
"Just curious." He walked closer, silent as always. Manx found herself wondering how much longer it would be before he, too, was sent into fieldwork. He had certainly received enough training. But, as another voice reminded her, he was so very young...
"How old are you now, Omi?"
"I'm thirteen."
Had it been so long? She counted mentally. Yes, she had been working at Kritiker for six years, and he was seven then... how the years flew. "You saw him? That investigator, I mean."
"I was on the ground floor when he was brought in. He looks sharp."
She grimaced. "Sharp enough to dig deeper than anyone else has ever managed before we noticed him. I hope that's enough."
"For him to accept Birman's proposal? The intelligent ones sometimes turn out to be the most stubborn, and it takes a lot of perseverance to turn up any information on us."
"True." She turned her attention to the screen as Birman's message appeared. "She just called for more extreme measures. Looks as though he's being stubborn, all right."
"Birman is good at judging if one is lying—but forcing the truth out of anyone isn't her style."
"That's the downside to being an Empath. Now, if you'd excuse me, I'll go and play the cold-hearted bitch."
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"That, Mr Kudou," the dark-haired woman remarked calmly as he drifted out of unconsciousness, "would have been unnecessary had you cooperated."
He managed a crooked smile and got up. The pain dial had been outlawed over a decade ago as a form of punishment—figured that they would have half a dozen lying around. "It was worth a try, anyway." He looked around; the redhead bearing the dial had already left.
"I doubt it." She half-closed her eyes. "But let's proceed from where we stopped; why did you investigate Kritiker."
"What do you say to telling me what you know first, and I'll see if there's anything of interest I can add to that?"
The woman considered it for a moment. "That's a novel request, but within the boundaries of reasonability. Very well. Your name is Kudou Youji, born to parents of mixed blood eighteen years ago. Your father officially died when you were young, but your mother brought you up believing that he is alive still—she was a comely woman with no shortage of partner proposals, I understand; there has to be a compelling reason for her to turn down all prospective partners. How am I doing so far?"
"Remarkably well."
"Thank you. Now, your mother passed away five years back, leaving no debts but no money either—she paid off everything so that you'd qualify for the welfare programme, and you spent the next three years or so under its dubious care. The programme turned you loose when you turned sixteen, and you formed a joint venture with another who had been under welfare, Murase Asuka. The last two years saw the two of you trying your hands at a number of jobs, finally settling down as private investigators. Right?"
"Investigating on the most part husbands who want to tail their wives and wives who want to tail their husbands, to be precise, but you have the general idea."
She smiled briefly and continued. "You built up contacts and informants along the way, and started spending your free time looking up the circumstances of your father's disappearance. Your co-worker has no personal stake in this, but she probably went along for the ride. Your search eventually zeroed in on Kritiker—correctly, if you want confirmation on that at this juncture, but unfortunately all the same."
"I can't agree more on that," he allowed with a self-deprecating grin. "It looks as though you have a comprehensive dossier on me, Miss—"
"I'm known as Birman." She smiled back. "Allow me to summarise your situation, Mr Kudou. You looked at what you should leave alone, and you have been silenced as a result. The citizen Kudou Youji no longer exists. Are you with me so far?"
"Where else can I be? But pray, continue. I gather there is a point to this interview which will explain why I'm still sitting here instead of cooling at the coroner's."
"That is true," Birman admitted gracefully. "Since you pointed it out, I see no reason to tarry further. Mr Kudou, are you willing to work for Kritiker?"
He felt his eyebrows rise of their own accord. Work for Kritiker? A logical option, actually, if he knew too much to be allowed to get away and showed enough potential to be of use— "What are my other options? That and death aside."
"None." Birman did not miss a beat.
That was short and sweet. Life, or death?
Not much of a choice, actually.
"It may interest you to know that information regarding your father's death would be made available if you join," Birman's voice broke into his thoughts.
"You trust me with that kind of knowledge?"
"Are you the kind to hold eternal grudges? I doubt it. Besides, I think that although you did have a personal stake in your investigation, you weren't exactly driven by burning vengeance." What did Birman see? What didn't she? That, perhaps, was the disconcerting thing about this woman: her eyes missed nothing in one's soul—but there was no condescension or superiority in her gaze—she accepted whatever you might be with an equanimity that seemed impossible to shake. "Your temperament suits the job you chose, Mr Kudou—you enjoy a degree of thrill from unpredictable danger, but you also enjoy knowledge. Not specifically knowledge as a means to get you somewhere, but knowledge for knowledge's sake. I'm right, aren't I?"
"I did say I'm curious, didn't I?" He looked around with an ironic chuckle. "And curiosity kills the cat, so here I am." He took a deep breath, somewhat self-consciously. "Live and let live, Miss Birman. I'll join Kritiker."
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"Leave me alone!" Frustrated anger burned from those mesmerising blue eyes, pushing away for all they were worth even as they drew all around them closer, pulling irresistibly. "Get lost and stop bothering me!"
"Why? Because I serve as a reminder of what you once had? What you want again?" Crawford reinforced his mental shields, although nothing on his expressionless face gave any clue to his feelings.
This was possibly the most dangerous stage for Schuldig. Yanked out of apathy—which meant the younger man's telepathic powers were active again—but still denying that fact—which meant he was oscillating between total withdrawal and complete, explosive breakdown.
Crawford schooled his face into a stolid mask. He was walking a very thin line here: provoking Schuldig out of his stupor, but not to the telepath's still way-too-close breaking point. And Schuldig wasn't shielding—if Crawford allowed any of his own fears to leak out, mentally or visibly, Schuldig would reciprocate it into a hell of a downward spiral.
With five meetings behind him now, though, he could—although he would not—pronounce one thing with confidence: the headquarters and all the files were wrong. This was no failure.
Only he believed that, though. Not even Schuldig did.
"Leave. Me. Alone." Schuldig repeated, his breath still coming in uneven gasps. "Shut the fuck up."
"You can tell me to shut up, yes, but can you tell yourself that?" He kept his gaze level, although the alternating longing and despair, loneliness and self-hatred in the other's eyes made him wince inwardly. "You probably can, I think. You can shut your entire mind down and ignore the fact that you are destroying yourself."
Harsh laughter filled the meeting room. "You actually think there's something left to destroy?"
"I know there is."
"Get lost." There was no vehemence behind the words this time. Almost mechanical, in fact.
"Really? You'll manage to slide back to the mind-numbing state you were in before I showed up, and how long would it take before you—the aware person I'm speaking to now—are totally destroyed? A year? Two? You'll be truly reduced to the state most of your cell neighbours are in, Schuldig: a mindless husk, with no thoughts left and hardly any instincts. And I won't show up then, you know. I'm here because you are not a total ruin yet, despite what you want to believe; I have no interest in a mindless shell."
Silence.
He waited. Would this be the ultimate turning point for the telepath? Or another of those 'two steps forward, one step back' scenes that marked the end of each of their previous meetings? He was getting somewhere, he knew—Schuldig clamped up each time, but each time he had been able to push further before that happened. It could take much longer, but when the situation called for it, Crawford's patience was infinite.
Schuldig sank down into his chair abruptly, and closed his eyes. "You win, bastard. How are you going to get me out of here?"
"By the appropriate steps that suit every bureaucracy: I'll file an application." He stood up. "See you tomorrow."
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For the last time the guards led him out of his cell. He cast a look back just before the door closed. Bare walls, no light, thin mattress, and a crude toilet off at one side. How long had he existed in here? He tried to remember, but discovered that he could not. There were no gaps in his memory, but all the time here merged into one long episode of monotonous dull black—differentiating the passage of time had been meaningless.
Down the corridor. Up the lift. Past the meeting room that had been the furthest an inmate was allowed to venture.
The man met him beyond the next door, and the guards stepped back. //Hope he won't have to come back again. He looks a good deal better these days.//
He smiled humourlessly to himself. It looks as though his old gift/curse had not left him yet, this ability to inspire favourable feelings in other people. They could all go fuck themselves for all he cared.
"Let's go, Schuldig." The man turned and began walking. He followed. Up the lifts. Across halls and down corridors, through transport tunnels and whatnot—the surroundings were starting to look familiar again, familiar to a younger telepath.
Then they were beyond those as well, and before him rose the gleaming image of the city, a maze of incredible gravity-defying structures. Did he miss them? Schuldig rather doubted it. He always thought that whoever who designed these must have been on a drug high, and personally, he felt crazy enough without external aid, thanks all the same. "Where are we going?"
"My apartment."
"You don't have quarters at Este?"
"Whatever gave you that idea?" The man walked up to the flyer docked closest to the terminal, and he suddenly recalled that lame joke of the epitaphs on two tombstones, one plain and one elaborate, R.I.P. and R.H.I.P—Rank Hath Its Privileges. Who exactly was this guy? "Get in."
He climbed in on the passenger side and settled down. "Who are you?"
"Crawford. Este agent; code name Oracle."
Oracle? "You're a precog?"
"Yes." Crawford started the flyer, steering it out of dock smoothly. Another contradiction, that. Most high-ranked gents had chauffeurs—but then again, Crawford was not most agents.
Then the flyer cleared the low-lying buildings, and Schuldig turned his attention to the scenery flashing past them.
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"Yo, Omi, wait up!"
Birman smiled slightly as the lanky young man brushed past her in the corridor. It was almost amusing, this unlikely duo. Even she hadn't guessed two months ago that Kritiker's latest recruit would make friends with their resident child prodigy. Personality-wise, the two were pretty dissimilar—Kudou Youji, for all that he had been through, had a streak of light-heartedness that seemed impossible to stamp out. He made light of any situation, easing tense situations and relaxing people with such smoothness that he might have passed for a marginal Empath. Then there was Omi. Birman shook her head slowly. Omi frightened her sometimes; he was so... different. The rest of them had gone—voluntarily or otherwise—from a life generally perceived to be the norm to the largely underground (metaphorically and literally) existence under Kritiker, but this blond little boy had grown up in this world. She tried her best, but it was difficult to understand Omi; she knew some parts of him better than others, but his mindset as a whole was too different from her own and that of others for her to grasp.
"Deep thoughts, Birman?" Manx nudged her gently, pausing in her walk down the corridor.
"Bombay. And Balinese." She fell into step with her colleague. "What do you think of these two?"
Manx shrugged, tossing a stray strand of hair back. "I've given up trying to figure Omi out long ago; he is what he is—whatever that is! But I for one didn't expect him and Balinese to become friends. You recruited him; what do you think?"
"I'm not sure if 'friendship' is the most appropriate term." But she hadn't been able to place her finger on a better one yet. "You've seen how Youji behaves around Omi yourself: he's all careless gaiety, dragging the boy from one amusement park to the next, or renting entertainment films and having an impromptu party in his quarters—he's treating Omi as a kid, and that's probably a first for young Bombay." She wondered how Omi felt about that, underneath. Did he resent the treatment? On the whole, she rather doubted it. At times Omi appeared to be merely tolerating the older man's presence, but he never avoided Youji, either.
"I saw him smile just now."
"Who?" She figured it out a moment later, and blinked. Manx would hardly remark about Youji smiling, but— "Omi?"
The redhead nodded. "That's a first for me, too. Six years of working here, and I've never seen him smile before today. It's not that he's depressed or sulky by nature, either... I had the impression that he just never learned how to feel happy."
"Maybe he's picking it up from Youji." They turned down into the next corridor, from which their adjoined offices could be reached. Mostly paper work today; Este was transferring some equipment over. "Speaking of Balinese, how is he coming along in his training?"
"In one word? Impressive. Speed and agility are his main strengths; fast reflexes, too—as well as quick decision-making. He has operated as an investigator before. He may work out as a single agent— Cosmos knows, we don't have many of these."
"Long range or short?"
"Both. The trainers picked one of the new gadgets for his weapon. Remember the wire-watch?"
"Of course." A potentially powerful weapon, for anyone with the right combination of speed and stealth, strength and reflexes—it was also notoriously difficult to learn. "I didn't think anyone would pick that as the weapon of choice; there are simpler ones that suit these same qualities."
Manx grinned wryly. "He was given a choice to reject it for something easier; he didn't."
Balinese's combination would be appropriate for an agent in lone operation, but... "He would make a good team mate for Omi."
Manx stopped in her steps. "Omi?"
She did not bother to recount Omi's statistics; Manx knew it by heart just as she knew every other agent's. Predominantly long range weapons, undeniably one of the best at ferreting out information but certainly not the first choice for anything involving physical danger. "Yes... you have a point there," Persia's personal secretary said slowly. "I'll take it up with Persia."
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Crawford logged out of Este's database, checked the computer against bugs as he always did, and switched it off. He kept nothing vital where others had any chance of accessing it, but this was what caution was all about in the first place. "Schuldig!"
"Yeah, Brad?"
Crawford rolled his eyes mentally. In retrospect, it had been a bad idea to respond when Schuldig asked what his first name was. That had been after they accomplished their first assignment, and Schuldig's mental state had been unstable enough that he hadn't wanted to risk disturbing that fragile grip.
Besides, he hadn't counted on Schuldig latching onto it as a tool to irritate him.
"Don't call me that." He did not have to look up to know that Schuldig was now at the doorway.
"Then don't call me as though I'm your dog, Crawford." The younger man strolled in and dropped gracelessly into an available chair, all angles and bones. "We've a job."
"Yes."
"Tell me." Blue eyes looked up, intense as always.
It was almost amazing, Crawford noted to himself, how a few months could change a person. But was Schuldig in fact sane now? There were times when Crawford had the distinct impression that the mind-reader was essentially a child, a wilful, demanding, self-centric child—but then those eyes would meet his own, and there was nothing childish in their burning depths.
All the same, that had no immediate bearing on the matter at hand, so he filed it at the back of his head for future reference. "Drug trafficking. Someone's selling them around here."
Schuldig lifted an eyebrow. "Why Este agents? Thought Kritiker generally takes care of drugs."
"Este pulled the job; the drugs came from Este's stores."
"Inside job?" The telepath grimaced. "Moral of the story aka what Este wants to send: We Take Care Of Our Own."
"Yes." Besides, if Este allowed Kritiker agents to investigate, the agents could very well turn up more things than the Este headquarters wished. Crawford smiled thinly to himself. Corruption usually began at the top, and Este can control how much its own investigators uncover. The plan of action? Shut up the one who exposed himself—dead men could not reveal the vices higher up the hierarchy. "The drug seller's schedule is here; he'll be at some formal dinner party this evening. Are you all right with finishing the job tonight?"
Bony shoulders shrugged. "Why not? No point in dragging it." Schuldig was still underweight for his height and age—and from the way he ate, Crawford guessed that he really did not care either way.
"In that case..." He checked his watch. "It's three o'clock now. The formal dinner starts at eight, followed by dance, social mingling, and so on. If we slip in around ten, the timing should be about right."
"We still have plenty of time, then. Can I have some money?"
"For?" Schuldig had a tendency to splurge at whim, which was why Crawford generally kept the funds.
"I can't blend into that type of crowds like this, can I?" Schuldig gestured at himself: dark grey sweater, white slacks, and plain shoes. He seldom wore any colours other than shades of black, white, or grey, claiming that these did not clash with his hair.
Crawford drew a card from his pocket. "Try not to spend everything in there."
"Yeah, sure, I love you too, Brad."
The younger man disappeared in a whirl of orange and grey, leaving Crawford to wonder bemusedly what clothes Schuldig would choose.
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An unfamiliar ceiling greeted his eyes as he woke up, and Ken blinked. He didn't sleep over at Kouichirou's last night, did he? He did not remember that, at any rate; besides, he sort of recognised his best friend's place, and this was not it. But he definitely wasn't in his own room.
Sitting up slowly, Ken discovered—with some surprise—that he could hardly support his own weight upright, he was so weak. The room he was in was spartan in appearance, with little beyond the bare essentials such as the bed he was lying on, a table and chair nearby, as well as assorted unrecognisable equipment. Hospital? The furnishings looked like it, but hospitals generally didn't have such high-tech electronic stuff lying around—as he should know: any athlete would be conversant with these places before his first year was up, and Ken had been a professional athlete for years.
Unless, of course, he got hospitalised for something really serious—but for what? He felt fine, relatively. No severe pains, no broken bones, no... forget it. He could wait for someone to show up. He certainly wouldn't be going anywhere any time soon.
"Mr Hidaka?" The door opened, and a red-haired young woman walked in. "I'm glad to see you're finally awake."
Finally? "How long have I been asleep?" He produced a wry grin. "My muscles feel as though they're asleep still."
"They may be," the woman agreed. "Do you know what year it is now?"
"I'm not quite that muddle-headed yet, I do hope." She did not respond to that, and he had to continue himself. "It's 2024."
"I'm afraid it's not." Serious green eyes sought his own and held the gaze. "Today is the fourth of September, 2094."
"What?"
"Seventy years have passed, Mr Hidaka."
"I slept that long? Was I in a coma or what?" He looked at his hands in bewilderment. They looked as smooth and unwrinkled as he remembered. "I don't feel eighty-six."
"You aren't." She paused. "You are sixteen still, Mr Hidaka." She rose to her feet. "Do try to remember. I understand that your brain feels disoriented after so long, but do try. Press the blue button by the bed if you want anything. I'll come again tomorrow." She walked out without waiting for a reply—which was as well, since he hardly felt up to one.
Seventy years? A few months' lapse he could comprehend, but more than half a century?
What was he supposed to remember, anyway?
Normal schooling, decent family like most of the rest in the district, then spotting by that talent scout, days of training with team mates, snatching leisure time in between... he set his mental bank to 'fast forward', scanning through them briefly. What was he supposed to remember?
Training, competition, training, medical check-up—
Wait!
Everyone else went through the process pretty quickly, everyone except him. The doctor when he spoke had such serious eyes...
"It'd be inadvisable for you to take part in any more events of a competitive nature, Mr Hidaka..."
"Your previous injury cannot tolerate that kind of strain..."
"But—but next month's competition is vital! Please! Coach—you tell him! I can't back out now!"
"Mr Hidaka, this is—"
"Obviously I can't stay on the team after this. One last time, then. Coach?"
"I'm afraid I'm siding with Ken, doctor. The upcoming competition is the one that an entire generation of athletes hope to participate in, and no one can replace Ken's position on the team."
"Thank you, coach! Doctor—"
They put him on medication, pills and vials and whatnot, smothering his injured area in foul-smelling ointments every moment when he was not actively training, trying to reduce the damage done there. He put up with everything, knowing that he wasn't doing himself any favours, but pressed on anyway. The team needed him; no one else could blend into their standard of coordination within this short time...
And that afternoon, one of the last before he had to stop taking drugs in order to keep within the competition's rules...
Taking the pills; that was the last thing he did...
Before he woke up seventy years later.
"The pills!" Someone must have sabotaged them, someone—
Ken's eyes widened. No. No—
—Someone on his team.
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Crawford stared.
He seldom did that, but there was no other word for his reaction upon seeing Schuldig.
"Hideous, isn't it?" The telepath had started laughing the moment Crawford began staring, and only managed to gasp out that question now. "Too bad, I like it."
Crawford firmly reminded his pupils to stay the size they were supposed to be. "I thought you preferred colours that do not clash."
Schuldig readjusted his new (and obscenely yellow) bandana with a smug smirk. "Either that, or clash to such an outrageous extent that they synchronise on their own grounds."
"'Outrageous' is certainly the word," he admitted. Yellow headband against orange hair? Green jacket with white pants? "Why sunglasses?" These had gone out of fashion decades ago, even before natural light joined the dictionary of archaic words.
"Found them in an antique shop. As for the colour... ever heard of the phrase rose-tinted vision when one talks about optimists?"
"You and optimism?"
"Yeah, ha ha." Schuldig waved a hand at the unopened bag by the door. "Set your mind at ease, though. I bought something less inane for tonight. Plain black. Sensible enough for you yet?"
"Hopefully. Why did you buy the green set then?"
"I like the combination. Haven't I said so?" The younger man picked up his bags and headed for his room down the corridor. "Just wait a moment; I'll turn myself over to dull colours again."
Crawford shrugged wryly. It looked as though he hadn't seen the last of Schuldig's flamboyance.
Ten minutes later, the two of them were zipping through the city. Schuldig spent the time looking out of the window, pressing his palm against the clear plastic pane. Crawford concentrated on steering.
"We're nearing. Building up in front."
"The ugliest one over there? Figures."
He pulled up the vehicle near their building, and the two of them got out. Schuldig took care of the human guards along the way, and Crawford handled the computerised security measures.
Once inside, they split up, each scanning through the crowds in his own way. Crawford mingled into the glittering scene with practiced ease, keeping an ear out for anything of interest as he casually strolled about, two flutes of champagnes in hand. Not that he cared for drinking to any large degree, but this was one of the more plausible excuses for looking around and making his way through crowds.
//Crawford? I found our target. Over here.// The image of 'here' explained for itself as Schuldig sent it across their shared mental link.
//I'm coming.// He left the glasses on the nearest table and began the intricate manoeuvres required to get across an entire hall of dancers in full swing.
//No need to hurry, he's quite, quite busy.// There was a soft snicker. //You didn't have to leave the drinks behind, you know. I thought one is for me.//
//Not on a job, no,// he sent back dryly. He was still adjusting to the mental link Schuldig set up, and it definitely took more concentration to keep one's feelings out of telepathy. The telepath had used this all his life, but Crawford was only starting to get used to it.
It had surprised him, when Schuldig first brought the subject up. That was scarcely more than a month ago. For nearly two months, the telepath had continued his zigzag between using minimum telepathy and denying he had any to use at all, much like he had been back at Este's centre, only to a less extreme degree—so for two months, Crawford had taken the brunt of all their assigned jobs, from infiltration to assassination, from intelligence-gathering to body guarding. In his own mind, he was sure that Schuldig would recover eventually—he was willing to wait.
And then Schuldig himself broached the subject, asking if he wanted a mental link—before then, Crawford could have counted on one hand the number of times that the younger man willingly admitted that he still possessed telepathy.
//The target is moving now. Balcony to your right and above, almost entirely out of sight. Any guesses for why he's going there? Not alone, I may add.// Schuldig sounded vaguely amused, for some reason. //I'll meet you there.//
He ascended a flight of stairs that led to the end of the large open-aired balcony, currently bathed in shimmering night-lights and containing only two occupants. //Schuldig, are you here yet?//
//Yeah. Shall I stun the one he's with now?//
//In a moment. Let me look around.// A thought struck him suddenly, taking him by surprise. Then again, why not? According to his long term plan, he would have to bring Schuldig into it, and this was as inconspicuous a way as one could reasonably expect.
//I did. No one's noticing this end of the party.//
//Fine.// If he looked closely, he could see Schuldig hovering in the shadows, but his mind kept gliding off that to think of something else. The telepath had explained it the other day: he was projecting a suggestion to all the receptive minds in the vicinity that there was nothing worth noticing here. Crawford was shielded, but wisps of the suggestion still got through—that was how powerful Schuldig was now, and Crawford doubted if Schuldig had reached the peak of his powers yet. //Schuldig, stun both of them.//
//Huh? Okay.// There was hardly a whisper to his psychic senses, but the couple on the balcony (approaching a horizontal position in the first place out of the consideration for the innate difficulties in performing some things vertically) collapsed into a heap on the floor. //Now what?//
//Search through the target's mind. He should know of some names in Este connected to this drug business.//
Schuldig's next thought held traces of incredulity. //And you're going to report that? We'll be next for silencing.//
So the younger man had reached the same conclusion as he had regarding this business. //I know what I'm doing, Schuldig.//
Something akin to the mental equivalent of a shrug passed down the link. //If you say so.// Then, softly, as though it was an afterthought— //I trust you.//
Crawford started, then immediately clamped down on his instinctive reaction before he allowed himself to even identify it. The job. Get the job done first. //Are you done?//
//Not yet... there. You want it now?//
//Might as well.// He withdrew a ray gun and pressed it against the target's heart. Schuldig could have killed him with a mind blast, in all possibility—but death by obviously psychic means pointed all too clearly at Este, and Crawford avoided that as far as possible. Stick to something less conspicuous. He received the chunk of information Schuldig passed him and stored it away for now; going through the names could wait.
He fired, then pocketed the gun. //Let's go, Schuldig.//
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"Ran-kun?" She pressed her face into his shoulder, all cold shivers. "I'm scared."
So was he, but one of them had to be strong, and he would protect his little sister to his best ability. "We'll be fine, Aya-chan. They won't hurt us; they wouldn't dare."
He hoped so, anyway.
But killing the two of them made no sense, he reminded himself once again. The sole purpose of their kidnapping was just so that their father's political rival could have the upper hand. Fujimiya's party and Takatori's had been opposing each other for as long as he could remember; this most recent dispute was over some proposed bill or other—as usual.
Yes, the Fujimiya children were more useful alive than dead.
The door to their tiny prison opened, and he made out—painfully—the somewhat familiar silhouette of Takatori Reiji against blinding white light. "How have the two of you been?"
He felt his blood run cold. The man behind Takatori had a gun in his hand. "You can't kill us. If our father finds out—"
An amused, condescending chuckle answered him. "Not to worry, boy. He'll meet you when you go over. Your kidnapping left him somewhat distraught, and my assassins had quite an easy time."
"No!" In sheer rage—and sheer folly, come to think of it—he rushed at the monster, eager to strike.
A resounding blow saw him sprawled on the ground, his vision spinning.
"Convey my regard for Mr Fujimiya, will you?" From the corner of a rapidly swelling eye, he saw the gun's muzzle pointing straight at him.
No—
"Ran-kun!" Suddenly his sister was there, between him and the gun, throwing herself over him, trying to shield very inch of him with her smaller body.
No, Aya-chan—
Then the world went black around him.
In this new world of darkness she came to him in a dream, a dream of sunshine and blue skies, of a field of marigold, stretching as far as he could see, for as long as he could go in any direction. And she stood in the field, a golden vision of unsullied joy and tinkling laughter; and she beckoned to him, and he followed. But no matter how fast he ran, he couldn't catch up with her, placidly picking more flowers to join her bouquet. She smiled and beckoned; he waved back and strove to move more quickly, among flowers of the brightest gold...
White. He was looking at white.
But everything should be that mellow shade of yellow—
He sat up, disoriented and confused. The white he first noticed had been the ceiling, although most of the room was painted with that same sickly shade. He was lying on a plain bed, and there were a number of tubes attached to his arms, effectively limiting his field of movement to the bed itself. Where was he? And what was that all-too-vivid dream about? For that matter, who was he?
His mind produced the answer after some rummaging. His name was Fujimiya Ran, only son of the family. He had a younger sister Aya. His father was a well-known and popular politician, representative of the Democratic Party. His address was—
Here he halted the litany, his attention caught by something closer at hand—the bed against the wall furthest from him, the only one in the room beside his own, to be exact.
He looked more closely. Someone was lying in that bed, evidently still asleep. The neat state of her blanket, though, seemed out of place—even asleep, anybody would twist and turn a bit, distorting the blanket to some degree. He left that for now, though, and went on to focus on the bed's occupant. More tubes from the large machine behind that bed, an exact duplicate of his own, were attached to her arms, almost as pale as the sterile white sheets themselves. Only a part of the face was visible from this angle, but it looked familiar, and the blue-black hair laid onto motionless shoulders in two braids—
"Aya-chan!"
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tbc
More notes:
1. Omi sounds extremely OOC, I know. Personally, I've never been comfortable with the cheerful-happy-innocent-kid image. This is my take on his character, and I'm not anywhere near done messing up his head. XD As stated above, though, this will meet up somewhere along the way with the genki-looking boy. (keyword: 'looking') Nope, no explanations beyond that at this point. I may explain after I finish the fic.
2. In case you haven't figured out, Ran & Aya-chan have been in deep slumber in the same way as Ken has been. (Filched the idea off Yuki Kaori's Neji... translations for that comic are available at www.sakura-crisis.net, if you want to check it out.) I haven't decided yet who saved them from death, or how long it has been. And Omi is still of Takatori blood, in case you are curious—but Takatori Reiji isn't his father. I'll decide their relationship after I determine how long it has been for Ran-kun. (Although I've to admit, there's a certain ridiculousness in proclaiming—however dramatically— "Your great-great-grandfather killed my... !" Then again, Ran's sense of humour isn't what I call normal. XD)
3. In case anyone's wondering, yes, there is a plot. I'm laying the foundations for now, but I do know (roughly) where I'm heading, and I have some idea of how this can end. I.e. I won't leave it hanging. Promise.