I hear voices in my head.

Ok, so maybe that's not so weird, seeing as how I'm a telepath and all. It can be a bit disconcerting, though, when you hear a voice that belongs to a person who has been dead for nearly a year.

I was drunk the first time it happened. I had overindulged a bit on the whiskey - something I can proudly say I've been doing less frequently than I had in those first few months after his death - when I heard it.

Schuldig.

That was it. That was all he said, that first time, anyway. Just my name. I recognized his voice immediately; the voice, the accent, the mental feeling I got when he had spoken to me in my mind - that was something that could not be replicated. But even in my drunken stupor, something had pierced through the joy I had felt at hearing that voice say my name for the first time in months.

Even with seven shots of whiskey in me, I was painfully aware of the fact that Bradley Crawford was dead.

For weeks, I was constantly looking over my shoulder, as if I expected Brad to come walking into the room at any moment. But I knew - I knew - that he was dead; I remembered how it had happened all too clearly. It was my fault. Of course, it had to have been; I am Schuldig, guilty. I now had one more death on my conscience, and this one weighed heavier on its own than the hundreds of others altogether.

The one person who cared enough about me to save me, the one person I had been able to bring myself to trust and love, even after the horrors of Rosenkreuz, the one person who had stepped in to save my ass more times than I could count - the one time he needed me, the one time he counted on me to be there, I had failed him. I had not been where he needed me, and he had died. The worst part was that he had warned me of this. He had told me up there on that windy rooftop as we waited for Weiss to approach that I would fight Geisel, and that he would face Berger. There was a tense pause before he added that he would need my assistance when I had defeated the Rosenkreuz lackey.

I had tried to get to him, I gave everything I had to try to find him. After Nagi helped me finish off that fire-breathing bastard, I had mentally searched for Brad. I could tell that he was only a few floors down, but he was fading in and out of consciousness so my idea of his location was fuzzy at best. I had to work to keep my panic at bay as I had searched through the seemingly endless rooms for him. When the building began trembling, on the verge of collapse, I had begun screaming his name, mentally and out loud, in hopes of rousing him, or at the very least alerting someone, maybe Nagi or Mamoru - the others probably wouldn't have helped me anyway - that he was missing.

I had just stepped into the doorway and seen his blood-covered form slumped against a wall when the building collapsed around me.

Flashback

I wake up and suck in a breath, only to immediately cough it out in a cloud of dust. I seem relatively unharmed, and quite sure that Nagi had something to do with that, seeing as how a building has just collapsed on my head.

Brad. . . he had been right there. I had seen him. Surely Nagi had. . . surely he wouldn't just. . .

"Excuse me, sir," a coldly formal voice speaks somewhere to my right. I sit up and turn my head on a stiff neck (lying on rubble for a while will do that to you) to see who is speaking. I instinctively scan the mind and am surprised to find some fragile shields guarding the woman's thoughts. My mental searching for Brad has exhausted my mind to the point that I decide it is not worth the effort to break through her shields.

"Who are you?" I demand, taking the more direct route.

"I am from Kritiker. We have been ordered by Mr. Takatori to spare you, at Mr. Naoe's request, I would assume. We must ask you to leave now, though." I detect a hint of an accent, but I cannot place it. Her dark hair and eyes suggest eastern Europe. I shake my head slightly and bring my mind back to task.

"Fine, but my leader, he is just over-"

"Mr. Crawford was killed, though whether it was from the collapse or from previous injuries, we do not yet know. His body has been removed, so you need not concern yourself"

I can't think, can't move, can hardly feel. Brad is dead. I had not gotten to him in time, and he is dead because of that. And this woman says I shouldn't concern myself?

"Can I. . . can I see him?" I manage to choke out. I want to see him. . . to touch his hand at least one last time. . . and perhaps I want to assure myself that he really is gone, that he isn't going to show up with that quiet amusement in his eyes and inform me that it was all a misunderstanding. The thought of Bradley Crawford being dead, gone forever. . . how is it possible?

"No, you cannot," the woman replies brusquely. "His body is being transported to a secure Kritiker facility. It is already gone." In a burst of anger, I let out a blast of telepathic power, specifically designed to search out Brad, searching for that spark of life, that mind that was always partially focused on the future, the mind that was the only one I could let my shields completely down for. . .

We had discovered in the past that I could communicate with him within 50 miles. I could detect his presence within 100. I feel nothing where the comforting presence of his mind should have been.

I jolted awake, knocking over a lamp and whacking my head against the arm of the couch in the process.

Usually sleeping in a bed works better, remarked a voice in my head dryly.

Thanks Brad, I replied sarcastically. I've learned to take it where I can get it, though. I could feel his mental presence sober immediately, and nearly withdraw before I sent out a silent plea to stay.

Yes, he said seriously. You do have to take what respite you can get, don't you? You have a few more hours before the sun rises, he continued in an almost gentle tone. Go on to bed. I'll stick around.

I felt relief wash over me as I headed to bed as directed. I always slept better with his presence in my mind. It had been two months since I had begun hearing his voice again, and it was now an everyday occurrence, though he did withdraw completely from my mind at times, sometimes for days at a time. What he did during those times, I never asked. I was afraid of the answer. I did not ask where he was even when he was 'with' me for the same reason; although my mind knew that Brad was dead and that I must be imagining his presence in my mind, somehow my heart could not accept that answer, and it was more than content to live in blissful ignorance for the time being