A/N: Set approximately five years pre-Kapitel. Crawford is 22 and Schuldich is 16.

Disclaimer: I have the somewhat dubious honor of owning Vanessa Graves. The characters I actually like are not mine. sigh Some people just have all the luck...

File # P-1810-2394

Level 3 Precognitive

Well-developed short and long-term range... Excellent combat potential... Unusually strong shielding ability for a non-telepath... Top of his class at Rosenkreuz facility... Placed with a field team immediately after graduation... Recently promoted and assigned his own team... Made the unusual request that Telepath # 0104-9693 be assigned to his unit... Has not disclosed what, if any, basis his decision has in his precognition…

File # T-0104-9693

Level 4 Telepath

Strong Talent hindered by a profound lack of control... Weak shielding capability… Has suffered at least one known telepathic breakdown... Has difficulty separating his own thoughts from those of others... Extensive disciplinary history… Several escape attempts… Despite the obvious concerns, he has been placed on a field team at the request of Precognitive # 1810-2394…

The mission report, carefully tucked inside an innocuous beige folder, sat neatly upon the oversized mahogany desk. A few pages of protocol, but in Esset, it could determine life or death. Crawford ignored it. He already knew what was in there. He had written it, after all. He paid more attention to two larger files, stacked, placed to the side of the report. The tab on the upper file read "P-1810-2394 – CRAWFORD, B." It didn't take much to guess whose name was written on the file beneath it. These folders, too, sat casually on the desk, but Crawford knew better. They had been placed there deliberately, a silent reminder of the seriousness of his situation. He scoffed at the extra effort. He didn't need reminding.

At the opposite end of that desk, eyeing him carefully over those files, was Vanessa Graves, his commanding officer and probably the only person in this particular Esset facility in a suit more expensive than Crawford's. Her ash-blonde hair was pulled back into its usual no-nonsense bun, revealing a face that was all crisp, precise angles, her lips set in an expression of stern disappointment. She would have been attractive if she ever smiled, but people did not make it to her position in the Esset ranks on their pleasant personalities. Even at Rosenkreuz, he had heard rumors about her, the extremely rare pairing of two psi talents in one petite body. Telepathic and telekinetic, moderately proficient in both. Few were born, even fewer survived to adulthood, their combined powers more than their minds could stand. The fact that she was still alive inspired enough fear to send the newer agents scurrying at the mere sound of her Manolo Blahnik stilettos clicking down the hallway. Crawford, however, was unfazed. He knew what was coming, after all.

"Explain yourself," Graves commanded.

"I described the events thoroughly in my report," Crawford responded coolly. "I had assumed that would be sufficient."

Graves' emerald eyes flashed at him warningly. "I want to hear it from you," she insisted.

She was testing him, Crawford knew. As adept as he was at blocking telepathic intrusion, Graves was a human polygraph. She wanted to see if he was lying, or if he had actually been stupid enough to do what he did. Well, that was fine. He'd oblige, it wouldn't change the outcome any. Using the same formal language that he had in his report, he explained.

"We were in pursuit of the target when I experienced a precognitive episode that convinced me it would not be in our best interests to proceed as planned."

"'Not in our best interests,'" Graves echoed. "How so?"

"If I had not responded to the new information, this mission would have resulted in an Esset fatality."

"Whose?" she pressed.

Without hesitation, Crawford answered. "Schuldich."

Silence. Crawford didn't need the benefit of telepathy to know what she was thinking. She, like most in the Esset hierarchy, considered Schuldich a complete waste of talent, too unpredictable to be of any use to the organization. And Crawford himself was widely regarded as crazy for wanting anything to do with him, let alone for requesting his placement on a field unit. He was, for the most part, permitted the eccentricity because he always got the results Esset wanted. Until now.

"You sacrificed what would have been a successful acquisition of your target…for Schuldich." Graves spoke slowly, practically spat the telepath's name as if it tasted bad.

Crawford said nothing, only nodded and tried not to smirk at her growing exasperation.

"Why!" she finally asked.

"I have had other visions related to Schuldich," he said calmly. "And I believe his long-term usefulness makes him an unacceptable loss."

He could see Graves biting back the obvious question, but she knew better than to ask. It was extremely rare for a precognitive's visions to make sense to anyone but the precognitive himself. It wasn't like vision in the conventional sense of the word, but rather a sudden and certain knowledge of what was to come. True, the experience was sometimes accompanied by images, but they were not the core of what precognition meant. Instead, she released a resigned sigh, and Crawford almost felt a twinge of regret. She had favored him, before this incident. In an organization where connections were power, it was always a shame to burn bridges. Still, he tried to focus on the greater good.

"You let your target escape, Crawford."

"Yes."

"You know what that means, then."

Crawford saw the impending blow, and braced himself for it.

"Esset does not tolerate failure," Graves said coldly.

And with a flicker of her green eyes, sent him flying across the room.

Schuldich found himself pacing, back and forth across the suite he and Crawford had been assigned to for the duration of the inquiry. The goddamned inquiry. Recalled to headquarters like disobedient children, grounded to their rooms and anxiously awaiting punishment from Mommy Dearest. Rosario and Nezlikowski had gotten off easy, he thought bitterly. Questioned, released, and then promptly reassigned. Apparently Vanessa "Thundercunt" Graves had decided that the blame for their mission's failure rested solely with him and Crawford. No, Schuldich angrily corrected himself, just with Crawford. He hadn't done anything wrong, for once. The one night in life he decided to not be an asshole and follow orders, and all hell breaks loose. It figures.

He still didn't understand what exactly had happened, just that Crawford had stopped them abruptly, changed the plan of attack, put Schuldich where he was basically useless. The result was a bullet lodged in Rosario's right shoulder, and their target winning the right to live for a few more days. Sure, another unit got him in the end, but Esset did not like redundancy. They did things right the first time, or not at all.

He forced himself to sit down and relax, only to spring to his feet again when the door was opened and Crawford shoved roughly inside. Graves herself had accompanied him back, immaculate as always. Of course, she didn't need to lay a hand on Crawford to deliver her punishment. Schuldich felt a brief flash of panic that he might be next. Graves must have picked up on this because she glanced at him briefly, amusement glittering in her eyes. Then she was gone, the rhythmic click of her heels echoing down the corridor.

Schuldich looked on as Crawford slowly and laboriously picked himself up off the floor. He must have been in pain, Schuldich thought, but as usual he gave no indication of it. "Nice to see you made it back," he joked.

Crawford dusted himself off, took off his glasses to examine the cracked lens and dented wire frame. "Killing me would have meant too much paperwork," he retorted.

Limping slightly, he made his way to the bathroom, which he had made sure was fully stocked with first aid supplies before leaving for his 'meeting' with Graves. Schuldich grabbed the case containing Crawford's spare glasses from the coffee table and followed him. Crawford accepted the glasses with a brief nod of thanks, and went back to gingerly blotting the blood off his split lower lip. Not knowing what else to do, Schuldich perched on the edge of the bathtub and watched. He pulled the ever-present pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, pulled one out and paused, waiting for Crawford's inevitable chastisement. It didn't come. He put the cigarette between his lips and lit it, allowing the nicotine to calm his irritated nerves.

Crawford winced as he shrugged off his jacket, carelessly letting it fall to the floor. Schuldich reached out and scooped up the designer article, laying it over the side of the bathtub and smoothing out the wrinkles with the flat of his hand. Seeing Crawford like this was almost enough to make him feel guilty for what happened. Almost.

"This is going to be a two-person job, Schuldich," he said, unbuttoning his once-crisp shirt.

Schuldich nodded silently and dug through the medicine cabinet for bandages. Graves liked throwing people into walls; they'd both seen that before. It was inevitable that anyone would come out of a confrontation with her with a few broken ribs. Sure enough, as Crawford peeled off his undershirt, Schuldich could see his side mottled with already darkening bruises. He swore under his breath and assisted Crawford in wrapping the injury.

Crawford sat at the kitchen table and watched as Schuldich made coffee. It was one of the few things they had in common. He considered the telepath carefully, trying to see the same worthless creature that everyone else did. Schuldich was tall and wiry, still in the slow process of filling out after an adolescent growth spurt had tacked several inches onto his height. He'd rebelled against the stuffy uniforms and standardized crew cuts enforced by Rosenkreuz the second he stepped outside the walls of the compound, favoring garish outfits that never failed to give Crawford a screaming migraine, not to mention attracting unwanted attention when he needed to be inconspicuous. The flaming red hair only compounded the problem. He was growing it out, having vowed to inflict painful insanity on the next person to take scissors to his hair, and it presently stuck out in several unruly directions. His bangs were perpetually in his face, and the back was close to brushing his shoulders. Crawford could see how it would be easy to dismiss Schuldich – the boy was ridiculous. But every time he caught sight of the fierce, manic intelligence sparkling in the telepath's blue eyes, he found it impossible to forget what he'd seen of their destiny.

Conscious of being stared at, Schuldich shot Crawford an odd look and brought over the coffee.

"So," he asked, pouring entirely too much sugar into his mug, "What happens now?"

Crawford couldn't help but smirk. Precognition interested Schuldich with an almost childlike fascination, and this was not an uncommon question. "Apparently she believes there is no greater punishment than having to work with you, because you are not going to be reassigned." He'd gotten one victory out of this debacle, at least. Not that getting to keep Schuldich could be considered much of a victory…no one else would have him.

Schuldich snickered at Crawford's dry humor and sipped at his coffee. Then the smile fled his face. He fidgeted in his seat, and finally blurted out, "Just what did you see back there? I mean, why the hell am I so important?"

Crawford regarded him calmly, not surprised by the question. This moment was an important turning point, of course he'd already seen it. The outcome, however, was less clear. That was up to Schuldich, who even Crawford found impossible to accurately predict. But he knew his own role. He'd bided his time long enough, and now it was time to disclose the reason for his interest in Schuldich.

"Because we're going to destroy Esset," Crawford said frankly.

Schuldich almost choked on his coffee. "You're kidding."

"I've seen it happen." This was a half truth. He'd seen that it could happen, that it was possible, if he was careful enough in his manipulations of the timeline. And if he had Schuldich backing him up.

The telepath eyed him suspiciously. "When? And how?"

Crawford recalled what he'd seen and quickly calculated in his head. "Approximately five years from now. In a seemingly random sequence of events, we will strike at the very heart of the organization. Of course, the fall will not be immediate, but we will cripple Esset and it will not recover."

Schuldich looked surprised, and Crawford knew what he must be thinking. What heart? Esset was deliberately decentralized, making it easy to recover from the loss of any one of its branches. Except for an entity wrapped in rumor and enigma…

"Are you telling me they're real?" Schuldich asked incredulously.

"Yes."

The look in Schuldich's eyes told Crawford he was still not convinced. "I'll take your word for it. Who's 'we'?" he pressed.

"You and I," Crawford responded willingly. "Along with two other agents who will replace Rosario and Nezlikowski. There are others involved, who believe they are working against us, but they will unwittingly play into our hands."

"And what do I have to do?"

Crawford took a deep breath. This would be the hard part. "Stay with me, and do as I say. If something happens to disrupt the timeline, we could lose our chance."

Schuldich was silent for a long time, considering, and looking deep into Crawford's eyes as if he thought he stood a chance of breaking into the precognitive's well-guarded thoughts.

"As much as I'd love to stick it to the man," Schuldich began cautiously. "I'm afraid that's just not going to cut it. You should know that by now. So what's in it for me?"

"For the time being, you don't have to worry about being sent back to Rosenkreuz as a test subject and having your brain dissected," Crawford said sardonically.

"And if we actually manage to pull off this crazy stunt of yours? What then?"

"Freedom."

Again, silence. And finally, a resigned sigh. "All right, I'm in."

A flicker of light danced across the lenses of Crawford's glasses, and his precognitive sense tingled excitedly as the future shifted in his favor.