In Fear Of
The Weaver Atropos
Chapter 21—Libations
NOTES: Action scenes are tricky. Beware of alternating POVs.
Brad frowned. He had thought it would be a better idea if Abyssinian drove, having hoped that it would keep the man from asking too many questions, but his ploy hadn't quite worked. The man wasn't verbose, by any means, but he wasn't particular about refraining from inquiries, either.
He was partially glad Nagi was responding. He wasn't up to speaking, much less with his pulse racing as it was for Schuldich. The telepath worried him beyond measure, sometimes. Though Schuldich always bragged about his powers, and the sweetness of corrupting minds and teasing the consciousness and all that crap, Brad knew better. He knew the man was little more than a scared child who would give anything to get rid of his powers.
That was why Rosenkreuz had been so successful before. They had thought that they had rendered Schuldich entirely vulnerable in closing off his mind—which they had—but they had failed to anticipate the blessing that that was for the redhead. Schuldich, insofar as he abused his telepathy, had no qualms about forsaking it entirely, and Brad was well aware that the thoughts were something of a self-inflicted suffering for him.
It had been hard to bring Schuldich out of his mind while they had been at Rosenkreuz, not because the school had done a great job of keeping him constrained, but because the redhead had so relished the quietness in his deadened mind, that he had done all he could to stay in that state. Schuldich was a strong telepath—stronger than the lot at Rosenkreuz, he would wager, and probably only a few degrees weaker than Eszett magistrates—and the only way one was going to encase his mind, was if he would allow it. Were he to want it—once induced—Schuldich could stay curled up in his mind so long as he would please. It would take a stronger telepath to bring him out.
And, in the end, that was what worried him. Brad knew Schuldich had a habit of drifting, and he knew—from experience—that the man's chief complaint was the incessant chatter in his head. Without him around, Schuldich would have been a lot more susceptible to the voices, and in turn, inifinitely more apt to seeking shelter in his mind, once Ezsett induced him to it. He wondered how exactly, if it were even possible, they were supposed to bring the telepath back.
Ken couldn't yell anymore.
His voice was hoarse—dry and strained—and he could feel the rawness of his throat when he tried to speak. He fought against his constraints, terrified by all the blood about him, and paused in his struggling only when a cool hand settled at his shoulder, pressing him down onto the bed. "Relax. It's not your blood."
The voice was collected and calm, and Ken found himself complying for a second before buckling fiercely against the bed.
He'd be damned if he stopped struggling after he knew he wasn't even injured to begin with.
The hand at his shoulder tightened bruisingly, and he was acutely aware of the chilling power in the man's grip. He stilled despite himself.
"That's better." the man was somewhere outside his field of vision. His voice lent him an image enough, however, and Ken hesitated against his better instincts. The man seemed as though he'd be easy enough to trust, but his hand was still tight against his shoulder, the nails curling inward, and Ken was hardplaced to find a more subtle type of threat.
"We'd just like to ask you some questions, is all."
Questions. About what?
"Questions about how you've been doing—about this little troublesome problem you've got…and maybe, if you're feeling up for it, questions about the telepath."
Mastermind? What the hell did Mastermind have to do with anything?
Schuldich pressed in a little closer to Brad, burying his face in the harsh fabric of his gray trenchcoat. He felt the man's slight reciprocating touch at his hair and heaved out a heavy sigh. They were almost out. They were out.
Brad had said that they had to be inconspicuous—prevent themselves from attracting attention, so Schuldich had very reluctantly gone at his mane with a pair of scissors and was currently attempting to recover from the trauma. His hair was cut short, barely curling around his ears and only just licking at the nape of his neck. Beside Brad, the small little boy stood, his hand still clasped firmly around the American's.
His large blue eyes stared up unblinkingly at the German, who in turn looked back curiously at the child, and the two shared something of a moment in their heads. Prodigy, it would seem, was a bit dazzled by the possibilities of telepathy, his mind reaching out tentatively towards Schuldich's, timidly probing to see if he could initiate a contact of his own.
Schuldich humored him despite his better judgment, looking around to find a sea of battered faces looking back, and searched out Brad's other hand. He may not have been much of a child anymore, but Brad was as close to any sort of parental figure as he'd ever had.
From the corner of his eye, he could very vaguely make out the albino, sitting calmly, gaze trained out the window, watching the scenary roll by.
"I take it you're well-acquainted with Schuldich, then?"
Ken frowned when the voice shifted—perhaps a little too quickly for him to register—and shook his head. "I don't know who you're talking about." His voice was rough and scalded.
"You don't?" there was mockery in the voice now, "But he's the very reason you're here. Don't you remember at all?"
The brunette struggled against his confines some more, feeling steel dig mercilessly into his wrists to reopen old wounds, and shook his head again.
"Well then, maybe I should tell you a story. Or should I wait until everyone gets here before I start?"
"It's just beyond those gates." Oracle's voice was soft, controlled—almost nostalgic somehow.
"And they know we're here?" Youji turned back toward the American, still not quite sure what to make of their momentary truce.
Prodigy nodded in answer to his question. "That's the only reason we've come this far. They're waiting for us."
Aya nodded, licking at his lips. "Are you coming?"
He had directed his question at Oracle, but Prodigy had been the one to reply. "It's our welcome home."
"He's not reacting."
"It's been a while since we last saw him. He's grown stronger." The words were said almost fondly.
"Will he come out before they arrive?"
"Not unless he wants to." There was a hint of a smile in the voice, "But we can take care of the others easily enough without him."
Once they moved beyond the gates, a quick hike brought them within viewing distance of the institution, and Aya found himself at a loss to stifle the awe he felt at beholding what was Rosencreuz. He caught a glance at Oracle's scowl and Prodigy's downcast eyes even as Youji and Omi stared admiringly at the imposing building.
Scratched in old, gothic text, foreboding and intimidating was a nameplate: ROSENKREUZ.
They had arrived.
He sensed that he was being probed from all angles, aware of a minor discomfort that seemed to echo a more metaphysical one, and drew in a sharp breath when he momentarily stumbled, righted only by an unsympathetic force. Prodigy turned dark blue eyes on him, the expression of warning on his face disquieting only in lieu of a deeper, simmering digust.
And suddenly, it became clear to him.
Rosenkreuz wasn't a place for them. This…place…wasn't for someone like him—for humans—insomuch as it was for the elite, for the supernatural. His presence wasn't a threat, it was an inconvenience. Subjugating—or even killing—him, or the rest of Weiss, was as simple as child's play.
And these were only the students.
Suddenly, the white walls and and bright lights seemed all the more sinister.
"I'm tired of waiting."
Ken licked at his lips, blinking chocolate eyes left and right, trying in vain to discern something of his captor. "I'm tired of waiting and I want what's mine."
He was distinctly aware that there was someone else in the room—the blood that wasn't his was proof of it—and he had a dull, vague sort of notion of whom that was, though he was hesitant to accept it just as well.
"Ken—" the voice ceased to be placating, "I'm going to ask you a question, and I expect it to be answered, lest you want me to employ other means."
The brunette frowned, not pleased with the entreaty, and resolved to stay silent.
"Schuldich, as the boy is called now, what do you know of him?"
He bit his lip closed, refusing to answer, when a face suddenly loomed into his range of vision. "Don't test me, Ken."
Vaguely, perhaps subconsciously, he realized the face was familiar.
"It'll be downstairs." Oracle's voice was tight. "That's where the rooms are."
The rooms. Aya chanced a curious glance at Prodigy, hoping for an elaboration of sorts, but found none. The youth had quieted, dark blue eyes flickering across the hallway in a paranoid sort of way, and had shifted almost immediately closer toward the tall brunette.
Oracle paused, seemingly uncertain, and focused hazel eyes on Prodigy, "…Stay."
It wasn't an order, Aya noted absently, but more of a plea.
"Schuldich will need help."
I won't leave you.
Ken stared up unblinkingly at his captor, consumed by an odd stirring in his mind.
Were Mastermind conscious, he might suppose it was his doing, but he realized it was a different sort of manipulation—though not necessarily a malicious one.
Frowning, he tried to fight a little against the invasion, aware of it only because of his experience with Mastermind, and closed his eyes unwittingly at a sudden exhaustion. But even then, with his vision swirling black and his consciousness dispersing, he saw the man's face as though it were suspended above him, unmoving and sinister.
And he remembered that face from somewhere, hypersensitive to it from some other time, recalling another lifetime when he'd been strapped to a gurney and poked at incessantly. And the only thing he'd seen that time had been that face—that sinister expression, made mocking by its attempt to be soothing—and he recoiled from the familiarity of it all.
Even when he couldn't see anymore, product of the telepathy, the man's face was still vivid and lifelike before his blackened vision, sneering at him with white, pointed teeth.
It was as though the very image of it had been burned into his eyes.
The dark, curly hair framing an otherwise nondescript face; the menacing dark, brown eyes that had glittered maliciously when he'd tried to escape. He remembered it all from somewhere, and took in a sudden, choking breath as it all came crashing down on him.
He fought to surface in his realization, clawing at the surface—aware that he was drowning into a inky nothingness—and failed, muscles slackening and consciousness fading as he fell lifelessly back onto the gurney, vulnerable.
Vaguely, just before the very last vestiges of his mind drifted away, he wondered if Aya would know…
If Mastermind would know—
"So nice of you to join us."
The man had spoken only to Oracle, Aya realized, aware of the disparaging way in which he eyed Weiss. Despite his apparent distaste, however, there was a raking curiosity that was only vaguely veiled in his caramel eyes. He made brief eye contact with the redhead, turning away quickly when he did, and shifted his gaze more appreciatively on the remaining members of Schwarz. "Prodigy, Berserker." He nodded to each in turn.
He stepped away then, tailored suit clinging austerely to his long, slim legs, and gestured crisply toward a wide stage arranged before them, "…Welcome to the ceremony."
There was a brief hint of amusement in his tone, heightened by the way his eyes flickered toward Oracle in some remnant of an inside joke, and belied by a darker, more sinister sentiment. He smiled politely at Schwarz, seemingly thoughtful, before inclining his head toward a crumpled mass near the right. "That would be yours, Crawford."
The man stilled, studying Oracle with piercing, curious eyes. He was awaiting a reaction.
It was Mastermind, Aya realized, taking in sight of that wild, orange hair. He was curled in on himself, face hidden in his hands and by his hair. But even then, it was impossible to mistake the blood, and the bruises, and the cuts. His clothing was torn and rumpled.
Aya turned toward the raven-haired man, taking in the fury that briefly flitted in his hazel eyes. "I see you haven't been able to draw him out." His voice was wry, but smug. He raised a thin brow at the man standing a few feet before him, "…He was always too strong of a telepath for you to do that."
And there was a knowing glint in Crawford's eye that belied so much more.
Aya's eyes flickered briefly toward Prodigy for some sort of silent explanation, but found none. The youth was looking straight ahead, eyes trained intently on Oracle, seemingly just as perplexed by his insinuation as he had been.
"As you very well recall. I don't need to draw him out to have my way."
Oracle tightened at that, gaze returning to the immobile form at the right. His eyes hardened.
"A pity it couldn't have happened all those years ago." The tone was bemused then, but still expectant. The man was baiting him.
Oracle remained silent.
"You know," as he spoke, the man moved away, stepping closer toward Mastermind, "I always wondered why you took Schuldich with you. It wasn't as though he was up to par with the others," he made an encompassing gesture toward Prodigy and Berserker. "And he certainly wasn't subtle. And Ehrgeiz—"
The man paused, a peculiar gleam in his eye, torn between curious delight and irritation, "How did you manage that of all things?"
"It was difficult," Oracle's tone was clipped. He watched on, dispassionately, as the man bent at the knee and brushed at the redhead's bangs, so as to allow him a better inspection of the damage. He smiled up at Oracle as this one took in the bloodied features, making a point of draping himself lewdly atop the German before standing.
He was always gauging, always pressing for more from the precog.
"You made it seem quite simple. And controlling Berserker and Prodigy. I was expecting—"
"A disaster."
Aya let his gaze travel over the rest of Schwarz at that, trying hard to imagine the type of scenario the man was describing. He knew very little about Schwarz outside of what Kritiker had chosen to tell him, and he felt that his presence at Rosenkreuz—however unrequited and disregarded it might seem to be—was lending him privy to a multitude of privacies.
Like the relationship between Oracle and Mastermind.
There was something there, and it was obvious in the way Oracle stubbornly avoided the crumpled heap that was Mastermind, and in the way the tall man was trying so very hard to draw his attention to him. Aya had had a difficult time pinning the type of relationship between the two in the past, aware that it had always seemed to be a desperate sort of interaction, at least in Mastermind's part. The redhead always seemed to cling to Oracle for life itself—as though he were his anchor, his lifeline.
He wondered how that came to be.
The man nodded, momentarily allowing himself to focus on Prodigy, "…so very powerful, even then."
Blue eyes locked on caramel, looking forward steadfastly at the inspection. For a moment, there was a curious glint in the tall man's eyes, "…Do you remember me?"
"Yes." The answer was soft, composed. Prodigy turned blue eyes on Oracle slowly before speaking, his voice deliberate, "I remember everything."
And there was a threat in the assurance, though the rest of him remained just at quiet and tranquil as he had been the entire time.
The man straightened at that, brow raised condescendingly in the first sign of discomfiture Aya had witnessed since they had arrived. "It would do you well to forget some things, at least."
There was no answer.
"Braun."
"Crawford?"
Crawford paused, trying to gauge the man's temperament. He hadn't changed much since he had seen him last. He was still vengeful, vindictive in that way that had always fascinated him, but there was a certain latency in his actions that was putting him on edge. Braun had never been one for dramatics, and his entire manner—stage included—was striking him as strange. He looked back to Schuldich despite himself.
"Crawford?"
"Where are they?"
There was no need for clarification. Anyone who had been at Rosenkreuz long enough knew well enough who they were. The German's fears whilst at the institution hadn't been unique or unfounded; most of the students lived in constant fear of them.
Braun shrugged, not particularly forward about his answer. His eyes flickered skeptically towards Weiss, "I'm more curious about them, to be honest."
"They're here for the human."
Brad could almost sense Abyssinian's disapproval at his choice of words, presumably bristling at his having said humans in so disparaging a tone.
"Oh?" Braun turned towards Weiss, this time allowing himself a full perusal, "…these are the ones from Kritiker's experiment?"
Crawford shook his head minutely, "Just the one."
"Hmm," Braun smiled at Bombay, inclining his head in a mockery of what had been his greeting to Prodigy, "…how'd that go?"
"By whom's standards am I to judge?"
"Rosenkreuz's, of course."
Brad allowed himself a sarcastic reply, "…Brilliantly of course. Blood everywhere," his eyes narrowed, "…just like all those years ago."
At that, Braun smiled sincerely, "A success, then." He offered Abyssinian an apologetic shrug, guessing right at Weiss' leadership.
Abyssinian launched forward at that, growl forming low in his throat, but had barely moved when he stilled. Crawford frowned, aware of what had happened and hoping the man would understand. It was for his own good. He glared menacingly at Balinese and Bombay when these made to move to Abyssinian's aid, forbidding their participation with a single glance.
Braun patted Prodigy on the shoulder with a fond expression, "Much appreciated."
"You know," the man turned caramel eyes on Abyssinian by way of explanation, "we had nothing to do with that."
The 'we' was all-encompassing.
"In fact, unless I'm recalling incorrectly, we wanted nothing to do with them." Braun looked to Brad for agreement.
Despite himself, Crawford nodded. Rosenkreuz didn't make it their priority to negotiate with humans unless there was something to be gained.
"The Gift was to be used solely to further Eszett's ends."
That part was true, too.
Crawford met Abyssinian's eyes, aware that this one was looking to him for confirmation. He nodded.
"Why give it to Ken, then?" Balinese had spoken, and his voice was steady despite his expression.
Braun raised a brow, as though the answer were obvious, "Why not?"
Caramel eyes locked on hazel in a martyred expression of sympathy. "Kritiker obviously thought they had something to gain from it, and Rosenkreuz must've thought the association with Kritiker would've been worth something. They had nothing to lose, in any event. And Eszett—" Braun focused his eyes uncertainly on Brad again, "Eszett probably relished the opportunity to destroy something of mankind."
Braun frowned, seemingly unsure as to why everyone was so distressed about the brunette.
"Where is he?" Crawford asked only for Abyssinian's benefit. He had a fairly good inkling that Siberian couldn't be far off. They wouldn't have chanced to keep their two high-profile prisoners away from each other. That would introduce too many variables.
Braun gestured toward Schuldich again, waving his hand impatiently this time, "…We were told not to harm him."
He glanced at Crawford, as though wanting an answer of sorts.
Crawford raised a fine brow, just barely making out the form of the brunette, on the opposite side of the stage, hidden only by a thick, draping linen. He was tied to a gurney—eyes bandaged, mouth gagged—and was seemingly unconscious. "Eszett wanted him for the trade-off," Braun paused, flickering his gaze toward Abyssinian, "…with Kritiker."
He could see the uncertain look in Abyssinian's eyes.
Persia was dead. They had killed him.
Braun's voice was quiet when he spoke next. "The altar is ready," he paused, "…but we only need one sacrifice." He turned toward Abyssinian, regarding him momentarily.
Crawford remained still. He was aware of the implications in his tone. "We all have to make some sacrifices," Braun's caramel eyes lingered on the German's frame in an obvious bid, "…but better some than others. Some people are just expendable."
Braun smiled as he trained his eyes back on him. "Just the one sacrifice."
Crawford couldn't win, he realized. He could trade Siberian's life easily for Schuldich's, but Schuldich would still be lost, insofar as Braun and Eszett were concerned. If it wasn't now, then it was later.
Bitterly, he realized he had set the stage for the sacrifice.
It made perfect sense, Aya realized, taking in the sight of the brunette before him. It had made perfect sense all along. Kritiker had needed a link—an alliance to Eszett to ensure its own survival in case things didn't work out. And Ken had been that sacrifice—that insurance policy that Kritiker so needed.
Absently, he remembered the brunette's file, recalling how very detailed the observations had been, and how long the man had been scouted before his recruital. Ken hadn't joined Weiss. He had been primed and prepped for the job since before he had even conceived of his future. The orphanage, Kase, the J-League—all of that had been arranged to ensure that things happened as planned.
His disease, his involvement in Weiss—it was all to appease Eszett.
To appease Eszett and to save Kritiker.
He had been ceremoniously clothed and bathed and placed before the sacrificial altar.
All that was left was the final libation.
Crawford had known, even all those years ago when they'd only barely plotted their escape, that Schuldich would never stand a chance. Rosenkreuz wanted him—needed him—in all the wrong ways. What was more, Eszett wanted him, and—like Brad had guessed when he'd made the telepath's acquaintance—he was entirely expendable. Powerful, yes, but nonetheless expendable.
And that consideration had been made too long ago to count—back when Rosenkreuz still had some token interest in the man.
Their escape from Rosenkreuz had offered mixed benefits at best. Though it had suggested the beginnings of freedom, it also signaled the end of their training—training which Schuldich needed much more than Brad ever would. The redhead was young and indisciplined, both in age and in Gift, and a longer stint at Rosenkreuz—despite all its horrors—would have proved useful to his developing powers. Schuldich had been left with stunted potential, to develop his powers as he might, with little guidance or instruction otherwise.
Brad had known, then—just as he knew now—that Schuldich would never be forgiven for his transgression. Crawford was of an old stock, the type to be excused with a minor punishment, but Schuldich—the man had never been a favorite of the academy, and even as a student his involvement had been only grudgingly allowed. Rosenkreuz was, for all its social radicalism, an institution founded entirely on money and aesthetics. The redhead was a blemish on the reputation of the academy, and his entire refusal to conform to Rosenkreuz's standards did little to help his acceptance.
To his advantage, he was powerful—enough to intrigue the ambitious bastards overseeing the institution, at least—and he was gorgeous. He didn't have the typical sort of effeminate allure that seemed to be the favorite of the instructors, but he was rough, and coarse and rude, and that held with it an entirely different appeal of its own. To make matters worse, Schuldich seemed to be driven wholly by his libido, be he unaware of it or not, and everything the redhead did, correlatedly, was saturated with sex and lust. His movements, his hair, his eyes—they always smouldered with a lingering desire.
Crawford had always assumed that it was a character trait that hadn't been all that positively cultivated by his former prostitution—though the redhead fervently denied he had ever even been a prostitute—and had dismissed it as unimportant. But it hadn't been—not when it made Schuldich all the more of a desirable protégé. And certainly not when it made Rosenkreuz deride him all the more for it.
Schuldich spoke little about the time he had spent at Rosenkreuz without him, but the way the instructors looked at him, the way they sneered at him. It was enough for him to know.
Schuldich hadn't been as much of a student at Rosenkreuz as he had been an allowance—a source of mockery, but an excusable one—and one that had been exploited so long as it had been allowed. The aesthetics of that had changed when he'd become involved, but Eszett's plans hadn't. They had thought, perhaps correctly at the time, that Schuldich was a diversion to Brad—just another rising student who wanted a taste of the benefits his loyalty to the institution could reap. And maybe, they had hoped that Schuldich's association with him would tame the redhead—make him useful.
They would never have expected their escape. Not when Brad had been such a complacent student.
Still, even then, Brad had questioned the redhead's ability for survival.
Nagi wouldn't be a problem. Even as a child, he had been too strong for Rosenkreuz to control; Prodigy had been as acceptable a moniker as they could have been able to manage. And Nagi, unlike Schuldich, was cultured—quiet in that introspective, intellectual way that the academy loved. He wasn't brash or irrational, and there was a submissiveness about him that would trick anyone into underestimating him. Besides, his power was not expendable. Not by any means.
Berserker was another story entirely. Rosenkreuz hadn't known what to do with him years ago; it was unlikely they'd know what to do with him now. His saving grace would likely only be his devotion to Brad, and even then, that loyalty didn't imply absolute obedience. The key to managing Farfarello, he had understood early on, was to just let him be. Offer him boundaries, and maybe hope that he would stick to them. But certainly not to command anything of him. The man would do as he liked.
But Schuldich…
Schuldich's problem was that he wouldn't conform—neither then, nor now.
Even when his spirit was broken, there was a mockery about him—about his replies and his dripping sarcasm. He was careless about authority figures, and rarely gave a damn about routine. He was the very mark of what the institution stood against.
And ironically, he had been allowed to survive only because they needed him.
And now, they didn't need him anymore.
Crawford turned hazel eyes at the redhead before him, a heavy frown pulling at his lips.
His first mistake had been crossing Braun.
He had met the redhead in one of the chambers, having been called there by Brecht and instructed to witness a session. As one of the higher-ranking students, he was often privy to the darker happenings at Rosenkreuz, and the underground sessions with the new recruits were no different.
He had witnessed a few, though none so brutal as the one with the redhead, and had never been too particular to them, but was hardpressed to neglect orders.
When he arrived, it had already begun.
The recruit was younger than he had assumed, tall and thin, with a disheveled mane of hair and flickering emerald eyes. Those eyes had flashed to him upon his entry, taking in the whole of him with surprise, and Crawford had seen the way the boy had relaxed. As though there were some reprieve in his presence. "Herr Brecht?"
"Crawford." The man had nodded curiously at him, seemingly just as aware of the change in the boy's demeanor.
He was about to inquire when he felt the tell-tale prickling at his consciousness, and frowned, "…a telepath."
Again, the boy stilled, this time marveling at his words. Emerald eyes studied him intently, wide and curious, but suspicious and shielded just the same. "His name?"
"Schuldich. Or so he says." Brecht considered the youth absently, "They haven't been able to read his mind."
Crawford nodded, a little mesmerized despite himself. The boy was young, but there was something distinctly jaded about him—something he couldn't quite place. And then, suddenly, there it was, plain as day.
The redhead seemed to realize Brad's interest just as soon as he had inadvertedly realized it himself, and a lewd, knowing grin spread itself across the boy's lips. His eyes smouldered suddenly, darkening in lust, and he shifted minutely away from his guards, twisting into a slouching, beckoning position. Brad raised a brow.
"He's a prostitute," Brecht muttered, displeased by the show, "they found him just outside the streets of Rhine-Ruhr."
"Oh?" Brad turned his eyes back on the German, who was smiling suggestively at him, seemingly biding his time.
"…His victims enjoyed it."
"Victims?"
"He's a killer, too," Brecht paused again, not sure if he should be satisfied or disturbed by the fact.
"How old is he?"
"Only five years younger than you are. Looks younger. Works to his advantage, I suppose."
Brecht brushed faded blonde locks from his eyes, scrutinizing him, "You should've been here earlier."
Brad didn't have to ask to know what had transpired. Despite the wide grin spread across the telepath's face, the American could make out the very beginnings of a black eye and busted lip. There was a cut at his brow from which he was bleeding, and tell-tale bruises at his arms.
"Braun's on his way," he added unnecessarily.
Crawford nodded, not quite sure why Brecht had felt the need to inform him of the fact. He turned his eyes back to the recruit, who was looking amusedly back at him, and frowned. "Is he always like that?"
"No."
No?
Brecht glared at the telepath despite himself, "Only since you've arrived. He's calmed down, to be honest."
That hadn't been much of a surprise. Crawford had found that he tended to have that effect on people. Maybe that's why Brecht made a habit of inviting him to these things. Brecht considered him for a moment, before nodding curtly, "Maybe it's time we allowed you a responsibility."
Crawford turned hazel eyes on the youth that was now sitting quietly across from him, no need for restraining in his compliance. That infuriating smile was still on his lips, but his eyes had changed. They were curious, uncertain. It seemed as though he were trying to gauge his personality, determine how much of him he could trust. Crawford felt the prickling at the edge of his mind begin anew. He frowned.
"With the telepath?"
"He can't read you can he?"
"No."
Emerald eyes drooped a little at the assertion.
Brecht nodded, "…We'll see then."
He had left then, dismissed, and offered a curt nod to Braun when this one entered. The minute the door closed behind him, he heard the very beginnings of a scuffle and a multitude of profanities begin. There was a nasal quality to the German's voice, he noted absently, as this one rose louder in volume, calling out—surprisingly—to him.
He frowned as he moved further away, remembering the youth's suggestive smile.
He had met with Brecht a few weeks later, at his request, to discuss the German.
"He's uncontrollable," the man muttered with a grimace, "even by Braun's standards. He's starting to lose his patience."
Braun? Patience? Crawford wondered briefly why on earth the telepath was still alive if he had crossed Braun.
"His sexual quips help, I suppose, and you know Braun," there was a brief uncertain flicker to his eyes then, as Brecht wasn't sure how much of the illicit happenings at Rosenkreuz Crawford had been exposed to, "but even then, I can't figure out if he's a strong one or not. It doesn't help that no one can read him."
"I don't understand the trouble."
"There seems to be something stunting his progress."
Brecht paused, massaging at his temples in a forlorn gesture, "I think it's because he's too strong—the fact that no one can breach his wall worries me, but it's a sign of his strength at the very least—but I think he's lost…his barriers."
"Oh?"
"I think that's why he has trouble concentrating—using his power."
"Because he can't control it."
"Because it's too strong," Brecht frowned, "No one agrees with me."
"They think he's not strong enough. That that's the reason why he can't handle the exercises."
Brecht nodded, rummaging around his desk for the German's folder, "He's not weak, by any means. And those murders I was telling you about, he didn't use weapons."
Brecht turned his eyes abruptly on Crawford, "I don't think he's weak at all."
"But Braun thinks otherwise."
It was difficult to miss the displeasure on Brecht's face. The man was one of the few at the institution that Brad would chance to say wasn't entirely black-hearted in his endeavors. He was just at the wrong place, at the wrong time, he supposed.
"Braun thinks he'd make a good diversion."
"And waste of talent."
Brecht nodded, hesitating before beckoning him forward, "…He can't control him."
"You mean the telepath?"
"He can't control him at all. And the lessons end in punishment most of the time. The telepath's been stubborn. He refuses instruction. He barely eats. And if the guards manage to pry something into his mouth, he manages to pry something into their mouths and they end up dead, if you understand my implications."
"Perfectly."
"I mentioned your power over him to Scrir."
Scrir? He was involved with the telepath, too?
Brecht nodded a little at his look, "You were the only one that managed to calm him, even if he still kept up with that infuriating charade. He started up the minute you left."
Crawford nodded, remembering the screams. "Where is he now?" he asked suddenly, curious. He hadn't seen the youth since their first meeting.
"With Braun." The tone was mildly apologetic. Nevermind the implications.
Crawford nodded, remembering the way those dark, emerald eyes had relaxed in his presence.
"He's claimed him."
"Schuldich?"
Brecht nodded, "I'd prefer if it weren't the case. Scrir's looking into it now."
They were planning on taking Braun's toy away? Were they insane?
"It would help if you asked." It wasn't so much a suggestion as it was a covert command.
Crawford frowned, not sure how he was supposed to maneuver his way out of that one. He didn't want to cross Braun—his mentor, technically—but he certainly didn't want to chance angering Brecht. The man had more leverage in Rosenkreuz, though it was admittedly a different sort of leverage than the kind that Braun possessed.
He nodded.
Scrir had wanted to see with his own eyes whether or not Crawford really was capable of controlling the telepath. He had sat in on a few sessions with Braun already, much too his dismay, and had come to the general conclusion that the telepath was thoroughly uncontrollable. Furthermore, because no one could really discern the extent of his power (or lack thereof), he had become expendable to the academy, insofar as testing and experimentation were concerned.
The German was, in short, destined to become little more than a pet to quench the desires of the faculty. His origin didn't help matters much in that regard. It seemed as though the redhead was more than willing to comply when it came to those types of matters, though he did have his restrictions. Braun seemed to be one of them.
Crawford had nodded to the tall, imposing man once he'd arrived, taking in the short, cropped brown hair and intimidating brown eyes. He was as severe in appearance as he was in temperament, and Crawford knew Scrir was of a difficult sort to deal with. He was a conservative, of the sort who believed that Rosenkreuz should function for the betterment of Rosenkreuz and not be a puppet of Eszett. That stock would disappear in coming years.
"Crawford." The man inclined his head.
"Herr Scrir," Crawford gestured for the man to lead the way, following silently a few steps behind. He didn't know where the telepath was being held, else he would have set the path. Scrir turned towards him, small brown eyes trailing curiously about his form.
"He's unmanageable, that one. I'm surprised you requested him, to be honest."
Brad frowned. Of course he was surprised he'd requested him. He had never made a point of asking for anything, much less questioning authority figures above him. He could only imagine the wrath Braun would incur on him should the redhead choose to cooperate with him. "I'd just like to help Rosenkreuz in whatever way I may."
He returned the man's heavy gaze unflinchingly, wondering when the hell he became such an apt liar.
Scrir nodded, making a sudden move to the right, "He's being held here temporarily," there was a bit of a smile coupled with the statement, "the guards weren't able to get him downstairs last night."
Crawford nodded, not sure why the statement was amusing, and entered to the sounds of violent scuffling, cursing, and all-around chaos.
His steps were stark against the white marble of the holding room, and the telepath stilled immediately at his entry. The German's voice was softer than he remembered, sharp and airy, "Crawford!" He seemed pleased.
Scrir glanced curiously at him, having been exposed to the telepath's antics already, and surprised by his sudden civility.
Crawford inclined his head politely, not sure what to expect exactly, when the redhead shifted closer, relaxing in that boneless way he had the first time they'd met. He settled himself in the chair Scrir proffered and turned hazel eyes on emerald. The German was positively enthralled.
There was an energy about his frame visible in the way he moved about constantly, and his eyes were upturned and lax at the corners. There was a fresh bruise on his cheek from where he'd been hit earlier, and his mouth was purple and swollen. Crawford could very barely make out a hard, red blemish on his neck.
The redhead scratched at his head, smiling uncertainly when Crawford made no comment, and shifted about nervously again.
"He's thrown off by his inability to read you," Scrir noted unnecessarily.
The German sniffed at Scrir's comment, turning his chair away from the man with a loud scratching sound, and smiled at Brad again. His expression was lacking the devious sexuality it had had in their first meeting; at the moment, he was all hesitant smiles and vulnerable enthusiasm.
"Why are you so excited to see me?"
The telepath brightened suddenly, then—as though surprised—turned curious eyes on him. "You really don't know?"
Crawford shook his head.
Schuldich offered him a contemplative look as he leaned forward conspiratorily. "I can't hear the voices when you're around."
Scrir straightened at that, regarding the telepath intently.
Schuldich nodded, locking his eyes on Brad's, "It's the first time someone takes away the voices." And his own voice was quiet, barely heard.
The telepath turned to Scrir, chair loudly scratching across the floor once more, "I can think when he's around."
And the way he spoke made Crawford think that he knew exactly why he and Scrir were there. His brow quirked as he considered the possibilities of Schuldich as a strong telepath; maybe Brecht was right.
"Do you like Brad?" Scrir's voice was careful, thoughtful.
"Brad? Is that his name?" The redhead looked more pleased than he had earlier, and for a moment, Brad thought he saw a mischievous glint in the youth's eye.
Scrir nodded. "Brad Crawford."
"Hello, Brad Crawford." The smile on his face was mocking now, and Crawford understood.
"Hello, Schuldich."
Schuldich had been unceremoniously deposited at his room a few days later, wicked grin spread across his lips, and coiled mass of latent sexuality just waiting to spring at him. There were fresh remnants of Braun's abuse on him, he noted, taking in the darkened bruise under the German's eye, and his broken lips. His cheeks were likewise discolored, and under his clothes, once the telepath had stripped for a mandatory bath, there were a myriad of other suggestive marks.
Braun had made sure to brand the telepath, if only temporarily, before handing him over to Brad.
"I can read his mind, you know," Schuldich's voice had been disinterested, regarding him carefully from his perch by the floor.
"Brauns's?" There was a surprise. Not many of the students could do that.
Schuldich nodded, licking his lips and looking away, "…He hates you."
As if that weren't obvious.
"Can you read mine?"
"No."
There had been a distinct pout in his voice when he had answered.
And then, softer, "…What did he do to you?"
And emerald eyes had turned to him, serious for the first time since he'd seen them, and the telepath had frowned.
"Well?"
Crawford glanced momentarily at Abyssinian, taking in the uncertainty that lingered in his amethyst eyes, and frowned despite himself. "No."
Beside him, he could see Nagi stiffen. It didn't seem like a fair tradeoff, but then again, Nagi didn't understand the implications of what Braun was proposing. The boy wouldn't question him, though. He never would.
Still, it was difficult—interaction with Schwarz without having the German's ever-present telepathy as a guide.
Braun's features tightened minutely, "I have no qualms about handing him over, Crawford."
Brad nodded, aware of the fact, but glad—if only—that Schuldich was safe within the confines of his mind. There, he could feel no pain, no distress. He would be nothing but murky pleasure, stretched thin with nothing to encumber him. "We'll wait for them, then."
And his tone was severe, resigned.
Aya studied the way Prodigy straightened at Oracle's assertion, presumably surprised that he were refusing a tradeoff that would leave the telepath alive. Aya might've been awed by Oracle's humanity if it weren't for the nagging feeling that there was something else afoot.
There was something going on between Oracle and Braun—something that not even the rest of Schwarz seemed to know.
He knew they had arrived the moment Schuldich groaned.
The telepath stirred suddenly, curling in on himself with a trembling, feeble moan. His fingertips—caked with blood—twitched, and his hands came to his hair, where they clenched bruisingly at his head. His body, battered as it already was, shuddered in a series of spasms that paralleled his internal struggle.
Suddenly, his breathing hitched, and an expression of pain overtook his bruised features. He remained there—back arched and fingers clenched—poised as though momentarily frozen, before his eyes snapped open, a visible horror burning in their emerald depths. There was confusion, and uncertainty, and then growing despair as the tears gathered in his eyes, a distinct, familiar panic beginning to settle into his being.
"Crawford—" His voice was a terrified, whispered plea, and emerald eyes flickered edgily about, seeking him out, afraid to face them without him.
And his eyes finally settled on hazel, and the telepath seemingly crumpled before him, burying his face in his arms and trying to crawl back into the silence. He was awake, and all the torture that he hadn't felt earlier, was about to return with a vengeance.
Crawford?
And he nodded, relishing the voice that rang clear in his head, aching a little at the obvious fear in Schuldich's expression.
Where are we?
And he knew, even as he approached the telepath, wrapping his arms about his waist and hoisting him up in a single move, that the man already knew. He could feel it in the way Schuldich clung to him, fingertips curling tightly against the fabric of his blazer, lips pressed feverishly to his neck, mind clawing instinctively at his own, yearning for the silence his mind had always proffered.
He held the redhead tightly to his chest, pulling him along despite the distinct warning in Braun's expression, and felt a sickening wave of disgust when his hands—flat along the plane of Schuldich's back as they were—came back slick with blood. But the German couldn't feel the pain, not yet. He was too panicked.
"Schuldich. The link," his voice was plaintive, and he stroked reassuringly at the man's hair with his request.
Schuldich nodded, head still buried within the crook of his neck.
"Siberian—" Schuldich's voice was tense, but the terror in it was beginning to fade.
Crawford caught the way Abyssinian tightened at the mention of his comrade. "Siberian. The Gift—"
And the telepath paused suddenly, hands flying bruisingly to his head as he weakened against him. Instinctively, Brad brought the German closer, his arms tight and constraining about Schuldich's middle. He flicked his eyes about, trying to gauge where the others would make their entrance, and paused when he caught sight of a grand, heavy oak door just beyond the stage.
His breath left him suddenly when he realized what was happening.
He had seen Ken almost as soon as he had caught Oracle's alarmed exhalation of breath.
Get him.
The words, whispered in his mind, were accompanied only by an unsympathetic pair of hard, hazel eyes. Nevertheless, he moved, propelled by instinct—by the adrenaline in his veins—managing to evade Braun only by Prodigy's aid, and falling to the floor just inches of where the brunette lay, covered by a coarse coir throw.
He attempted to wake the man, nudging desperately at his shoulder, frowning when the whispering voice returned—more frantic, urging him to hurry.
He could hear Braun's fury at being held captive, strong guttural growls escaping his lips in a series of short, clipped tones, but most important to him was Ken, who wasn't responding. He pushed at the man's chocolate bangs, trying to peer into his eyes—they were open, but seemingly blank—and let out a forlorn cry of his own when his attempts yielded no results.
Just bring him here. Bring him back.
And the voice was different that time, softer—weaker, and his curious eyes met with bright emerald when they flickered anxiously about. He nodded, understanding, and pulled Ken into his arms, rising to his feet and scattering about the marble floor back to where the others were waiting.
Back to where Oracle was holding Mastermind protectively against his chest.
Back to where Mastermind was staring intently at him, his eyes more vulnerable than usual, their expression belying that he knew something of great interest to him; that he knew something about Ken. About the 'Gift.'
And just when his muscles began to falter—the after-effects of the adrenaline setting in—the doors flung open, and his world turned black.
He had anticipated it happening, but he had been unsure of how to prepare for it, either way. He had known it had been reckless to bring Weiss along; they were formidable allies in their own right, but they were useless against Eszett.
Crawford stiffened, aware of the way Nagi mirrored his movement, and tried to set Schuldich back on his feet.
They could afford no weaknesses. They could show no weaknesses.
"Nagi." His voice was authoritative. Unaffected.
He caught the nod the boy offered him, blue eyes trained exclusively on the shrouded figures that had appeared before them.
"Take care of them." And it was clear that he meant Weiss, because there'd be no way Nagi would be able to eliminate Eszett on his own. Nagi was the strongest among them, save perhaps for Schuldich, as Brad's own gift was largely useless on the battlefield, his visions coming of their own accord with no regard to him.
Still, it was suicide to attempt to face Eszett so brazenly. So…arrogantly.
"Crawford."
He inclined his head slightly in greeting, tense and ready to retaliate, aware of the vengeful way Braun was eyeing him.
"And…is that Schuldich?"
He didn't miss the longing in the voice, nor did Braun, apparently, who stiffened.
For a moment, he straightened, suspicious. He had recognized the second voice that had spoken. He could likewise sense the recognition in Schuldich—in the way the redhead tensed beside him, hand squeezing desperately about his wrist—
As if to say that he, too, recognized the voice.
As if to say that, maybe, he not only recognized the voice, but knew exactly who it belonged to.
Brad nodded, gesturing towards Nagi and Farfarello with a frown, "…and Prodigy and Berserker, if you remember them."
He had no doubt that they did.
Nagi and Farfarello had been amongst the strongest at Rosenkreuz.
As he spoke, his eyes swept about the cloaked group, taking in the dark brown shrouds—of the same coir fabric Siberian had been wrapped in—and counting.
Six. There were six of them.
He frowned, trying to remember something that was escaping him.
At his right, Nagi took a sudden step forward, an echoing suspicion swimming in his bright blue eyes.
"But why should he know Eszett?" Schuldich scampered suddenly off his bed, face seeming strangely haggard as framed by his messily cropped orange hair.
Brad shrugged, removing his glasses and rubbing wearily at the bridge of his nose.
It had unnerved him, too, he would admit—Prodigy's knowledge of Eszett.
Schuldich persisted, fingertips curling bruisingly about the skin of his forearm, "…He's been held all his life, you said. There's no reason for him to know. He's never made it beyond the downstairs chambers."
Crawford nodded, aware of the facts. He very vaguely remembered the way the child had placed his hand in his, matter-of-factly telling him that Eszett had been behind it. But behind what, exactly?
Behind the infecting of the students at Rosenkreuz with the Gift?
But those being held in the downstairs chambers shouldn't even have had access to that kind of information.
Especially not a kid who had never been let out. Prodigy wasn't even a telepath.
"Crawford!" Schuldich's voice was urgent, and his emerald eyes were fervent. "There's no reason he should know about them!"
Brad frowned, concerned about the matter but likewise irritated by the German's desperation. He wished he had more time to think things out; he had a feeling he was missing out on some bigger picture—on something Prodigy knew without necessarily being aware of it.
"I read his mind today," Schuldich grumbled, rubbing at his hair in a nervous habit, settling himself back on Brad's bed, "…and it's not normal, Crawford. It's not normal at all."
"What? No honey this time around?"
He ignored Schuldich's heated glare.
"He has the weirdest sort of memories. They're not so much memories as they are thoughts. It's like he's filed them away as memories."
The American's brows furrowed at the revelation, and he leaned forward, curious to ascertain exactly what the redhead was suggesting.
"It's like he's replaced his experiential memories with thoughts. With theories—a multitude of them." Schuldich frowned, pulling his knees to his chest and settling his chin atop them. "And I can't tell if they're real, or made up…or if the things floating about in his memory are actually what he heard or what he thinkshe heard."
"…His memories aren't trust-worthy, is what you're trying to say."
Schuldich frowned, biting a little at his lower lip, "…no. Not exactly. His memories…are all warped by his age. He has no concept of figurative expression; everything he hears, he's filed away literally as some memory. An actual memory. Not a thought—"
"And Eszett?"
"That's the point…" Schuldich paused, seemingly gathering his thoughts, "…his memories about them are…difficult to describe."
He turned bright emerald eyes on hazel, "…They're all liquid memories, Crawford—flowing from one to the next. But I can't figure out if it's because Eszett's been involved with him…or because they aren't memories at all."
Crawford's eyes narrowed as he stared unblinkingly back at the redhead, taking in the burdening purple shadows beneath his eyes. "So what about them?"
"…Well. There's a fixed number of them. And they gather regularly."
Brad nodded, having suspected as much.
"But they gather at Rosenkreuz, Brad. According to his memories, they gather at Rosenkreuz."
"So?"
"So?" Schuldich groaned, "So it's not that they're gathering at Rosenkreuz…it's that they're usually at Rosenkreuz."
Brad considered the implications of that. "How many are there, exactly?"
"His visions vary about the exact count," Schuldich shifted again, throwing himself backward so he could stare uninhibitedly at the ceiling, "…but it's never any more than three."
"Just three?"
The redhead nodded, closing his eyes and swimming in Prodigy's disjointed memory. "But I don't know. It could just as well be something he heard."
"Where did they gather in Rosenkreuz, exactly?"
Schuldich raised his head minutely, turning so that his gaze met Crawford's, "…in the chambers. In a hidden room beyond Prodigy's cell."
"So then—"
"Then Farfarello should know, too. He should have been able to hear what Prodigy heard. All of the ones downstairs would know."
AN: The storyline/plot shifts at the beginning and end of chapters might read oddly, but that's because I don't write IFO by chapters, but as a free-flowing sort of sequence. So, technically, each chapter isn't so much a chapter as it is a portion of the overall story. I've given up saying this is the last chapter. Just know that the story's completely written at this point.
REVIEW!!