First of Four
--Schuldig--

The world at large is a blur in front of my eyes and I stumble across the pavement with little, to no grace at all. Getting oneself drunk beyond control again wasn't that good of an idea, but who am I to complain when that fart in the bar kept feeling me drink after drink like he did? Probably was looking for an easy lay or something. Further into the night, I'd gotten tired of sitting around and had left his sleeping form on the floor next to my bar stool, deciding on returning home. The shabby apartment I've come to call home was more than a fourteen year old street kid like me could wish for. It had a roof, and luckily enough, no other orphan had found me yet.

I would fight for the place if someone came along. Yeah.

I rub at my eyes to clear my view and it results in scraped knuckles and a sore nose as I stagger into a wall. I'm trying to glare at it for good measure, but at last figure it's not worth the effort and turn-- only to collapse onto the ground in a heap of distorted, tangled limbs. Great, next to a smelling trash can too. I don't know what, but there must be something seriously wrong with my subconscious to choose that kind of sleeping place. Even so, I close my eyes a bit to rest them from the aching that comes of trying to see. Looking at the colourful swirls on the inside of my eyelids instead, I search my mind for how many shots I actually had. Couldn't have been that many--

The waking up part is sudden, unwanted and a slap in the face, since the real time at the moment would be that of some mission gone wrong. I can feel the smarting of several cuts and what seem to be larger bruises. And my head is for once practically lying on some soft material I yet have to distinguish the identity of. Other than that, there's nothing I can see around me since it's dark as hell wherever I am. My body also seems to give me subtle warnings not to move. The first few tries hurt too much.

Chest goes up, chest goes down, chest goes up, chest goes down. That's the rhythm I observantly note as I lay on my back, head pillow-propped just so, at least I think it to be a pillow, peering, half-lidded, belly ward. Not that I see anything. Good, I'm still breathing.

"Someone get me a smoke, will ya?" I wheeze out in my misery but there is no one there to hear my request. I wonder why temporary black outs always leave me dreaming unwanted and forgotten parts of my former life. I'm not fourteen anymore. I smirk at that thought and then I try to lift my arm to my lips because I feel something has been left drying there and I want to remove it. It itches. It doesn't work, as my arm refuses to move. At least not at the moment. I hate being this helpless. Gritting my teeth doesn't do much to brighten my mood since it just adds to the itching and I settle for just being annoyed.

Now, what really happened here? I have few recollections of the actual purpose of the mission and the events taken place here. Did I make it, or do I still need to find myself to be lost in the possible countdown of one of Nagi's self-destruct mechanisms. I always told him he was overreacting when he insisted on installing them in every room in the apartment, and as things are now, with my eyesight getting used to the darkness, I can tell the contours of the TV and the large sofa as part of the den.

I'm lying on the floor.

"What the fuck…?" I ask no one at last, staring up in the ceiling. My telepathy is not working. Moreover, I can't move. Well, not that I didn't confirm that already.

"Schuldig," I suddenly hear.

I try to turn my head, but I can't and I don't know what's going on, only that Crawford has to be to the left of me. "Yeah?" I say, annoyance creeping into my voice.

"How are you feeling?" He asks, voice as emotionless and cool as ever.

"What does it look to you?" I hiss. "I'm lying here on the floor. Isn't it obvious?"

"Is there any permanent damage?"

"I have no fucking clue other than I can't use my telepathy for the moment and I don't know when it will return. I don't remember anything. What the hell happened?" I grumble at nothing and try to make out anything looking like Crawford. "I wouldn't mind some help, really," I retort, annoyed.

"I don't know what happened. And it seems I'm as immobile as you are."

I start at that. It's not what I expected, but hey, I can't move to see anything anyway. It would be worth the sight, seeing him defenseless. I sigh. "And now? What happens now?"

"I don't know."

"You're the fucking precog!"

"It looks like my power is equally useless to yours."

"Damn," I mutter. It's not like I don't particularly enjoy lying on my back, it's just that it tends to happen in a bed, on a soft mattress, not on a hardwood floor, even if that has happened often enough too. "Crawford."

"Yes?"

"Do you have a pillow under your head?"

"… No."

I grin to myself. The first schadefreud of the day. "Oh. Too bad."

"…"

TBC

AN: Well, to be honest, I've had this thing floating on my computer for a while now, and since I forgot the initial idea of the story, I just rewrote parts of it and now I have a planned out continuation of four more chapters, each of them focusing on a specific character. The order of the chapters is not supposed to conincide with the believed order the character met and created Schwarz, just so you're aware. Also, this has not been beta-ed.

Constructive crit is very welcome. Hope you enjoyed this installment. Next up is Farfarello. :)