Subconscience
Schuldig hated the cold. He hated the heat, too. Hated the rain. Hated the sun. Hated the snow. Hated the Summer, hated the Fall, hated the Winter. He abhorred the Spring. He hated the noise. He hated the silence. Hated the crowds and hated the solitude. Hated computers. Hated phones. Especially cell phones. He hated the radio. He hated pasta. Hated fish. Hated meat. He hated vegetables. He particularly detested Broccoli. He hated art. Hated science. He hated school. Absolutely loathed Rosenkreuz. He hated Eszett. Hated Takatori. Despised Takatori. Pissed on Takatori. He hated Japan. Hated the USA. Hated Germany. Just for principle, he hated Antarctica, too. He hated animals. He hated people. He scorned plants. He hated the theatre. Hated meetings. Hated reading minds. Hated Weiß. Hated work.
"Schuldig," Nagi asked him tiredly one day in the middle of his whining, "isn't there anything in the World that you find to your liking?"
Inadvertedly, just for the briefest moment, barely a fraction of a second, Schuldig's eyes flew fleetingly to the place where Crawford was standing, softly speaking to Takatori.
"No," he lied.