Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr-aaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Inventory week sucks!! No time, no time at all! I'm sorry for taking so
long, but time was just none existent this week. I hope y'all enjoy this
chapter. Yeah, Farfie is in it!!!
Uuuuummmmm, see previous chapters for disclaimer. Side note: {{ }} means
Brads precognitions. Okay? Enjoy!
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The next year: New York, New York
Crawford stared out of the window over the city. He thought it odd that a sunset gleaming off of smog could look kind of.pretty.
So mush had changed about him since Kensington Langly took him under his wing the previous year. His mental abilities flourished profusely. Mr. Langly was finding it harder and harder to get into his mind, not that it was easy to begin with. His visions of the future were occurring more frequently, but they didn't bother Crawford as much as they used to. He finally accepted his precognitions as part of him and nothing to fight or be ashamed of.
{{Kensington came up the elevator.}}
He stepped away from the window and walked into he kitchen. There he made drinks for himself and his roommate. Kensington liked a dry martini, shaken not stirred. How cliché of him. Crawford himself was legally too young to drink, only 18, but Kensington didn't see any problem with him having a social drink now and then, just as long as he didn't get himself smashed. Vodka had become Crawford's favorite drink, so he poured himself a small glass of that.
After setting the glasses on a tray, he brought them out to the living room and set them on the coffee table. Crawford sat down and picked up his glasses that were sitting there too. He remembered a time when he hated to wear these things, but hasn't minded lately. Besides the fact that he can see a lot clearer now, they seemed to add to his overall "look". In the short time he'd been here, Crawford had turned from a well- bred adolescent to a distinguished young man. Even Mr. Langly agreed that it was hard to tell he was only 18.
The door to the large apartment opened and Kensington walked in. He set his briefcase on the ground and took his coat off. He walked into the living room to see Crawford sitting on couch with vodka glass in hand.
"Good evening, Crawford. I trust you had a good day?" he said to Crawford as he loosened his tie and sat down with his martini.
"It was fine," he said to Kensington.
He took a sip of his martini. "I have something I want to discuss with you.
Crawford raised an eyebrow at this. Discuss? He became very suspicious with the older man. Calmly taking a sip of his vodka, and making sure every mental barrier he possessed was in place, he asked Kensington, "What do you wish to discuss with me?"
"How would you truly like to get revenge upon the world? What I mean is, other than proving to yourself that you are more than what you were told you could be."
What on earth was he talking about? Crawford blinked, "Could you elaborate as to what you're telling me?"
Kensington smiled, "Of coarse." He finished off his martini. "I am part of an elite and secret organization that would like to help people like you seek revenge on the rest of the human race. We can help you."
Crawford sat there staring at him. An elite and secret organization? Granted revenge was a sweet thought, but he never truly thought about seeking it against everybody, just those who've hurt him personally.
There's an organization whose basis is revenge? "Are you asking me if I want to join?" he finally asked Kensington.
{{Kensington set a gun on the coffee table.}}
"Well actually, no, I'm not asking you. As a member of this society, I recruit people who will follow us and help bring about our end goal."
"Which is?" Crawford cut in.
"Natural chaos of the world."
Crawford blinked again. Okay, so this guy that helped him become what he is and taught him what he knows has a gun in his pocket and is part of a cult. And he thought today was just fine.
Kensington continued, "There is a school on the outskirts of Berlin called Rosenkreuz. It's a boarding school of sorts that our new recruits go to. There, you will learn of our higher purpose and learn more about your abilities. I'm sure there are a couple of other precogs there."
A light went off in Crawford's head. In the time he'd been here with Kensington, he was also taught to be more business-like and cultured. Mr. Langly taught him everything from stocks to how to hold a wine glass, not that he didn't already know that. But one of the things he was taught was German. Kensington told him that cultured people know more than one language. Crawford thought he sounded like a snob. He figured he would have been taught French or something. He thought it interesting when he was taught German. Now it made sense. Kensington planned this from the beginning.
Crawford didn't like the sound of this.
"I don't believe you have used all of your potential. But I believe you have enough power to help us in our ultimate goal. You can be of such use to us." Mr. Langly just continued to smile.
Crawford asked him, "Who is this 'us'?"
"We call ourselves Este."
"And you aren't asking if I want to join you and this Este?"
"No, I am not."
Crawford frowned, "What if I refuse?"
Kensington frowned himself and bowed his head. He leaned forward and reached behind him into what seemed like the back of his pants and pulled out a .45. He set the gun on the coffee table.
Crawford stared at it.
Kensington sat back. "Well, if you refuse, I will kill you." He paused. "I'll give you a moment to think about it." He got up and went to the kitchen. He came back maybe five minutes later and handed Crawford another glass of vodka. He sat down with another martini.
Crawford held the drink in his hand. The two men sat there in silence for a while. To Crawford, it felt like forever.
"Well," Crawford began, "Once again, you definitely strike a hard bargain."
Kensington smiled, "It's part of my charm. Well, we should start packing. I already booked our flights to Germany tomorrow at 3:00 p.m. Make sure you pack everything because you most likely will not be coming back here.
Crawford wondered what he meant by that.
Kensington raised his martini up, "To Este. May our purpose be fulfilled."
Crawford raised his glass and clinked it against Kensington's. "Yes.to Este." He sipped on the vodka trying to soak in the new change in his life.
Crawford paused for a second. "We aren't going to have to hand flowers out at airports, are we?"
Kensington raised an eyebrow at this comment. "What, do you think we're a cult or something?"
************************************************************************
Several Months Later: Blanchardstown, Ireland
A small, lone figure wondered down the street. The light from the moon above was the only thing guiding its way down the road. It wasn't going anywhere really; it didn't have any place to go.
The night was chilly. The figure pulled its shirt tighter around itself. It couldn't remember how long it had been wandering around the countryside. Maybe ever since that night its house was robbed..
The details were so fuzzy from that time. From than on, days turned into months and it couldn't remember very much. He really didn't want to. It hurt so much. He wanted to blame something, someone.
Exhaustion was coming over the figure. It stopped and sat down on the steps of the building there by the road. Rest. It folded its arms and let its head fall down as far as it would go and closed its eyes. Suddenly, a man appeared from atop the steps and walked down to see what the figure was.
The man saw a little boy, roughly eleven years old, sitting at the bottom of the steps. The child was pale and his hair seemed even paler. His clothes were slightly tattered and he seemed like he hadn't had a bath in a while.
The man sat next to the boy. "Is there something I can help you with lad?"
The boy looked up to see a priest sitting next to him. He stared at the man. He didn't say anything.
"Do you know where your parents are?"
The boy felt tears coming to his eyes. "They are gone." The tears welled in his eyes. He felt so mad at this man for bringing it up to him. He tried to forget and he was fairly successful, but then this priest had to surface those memories again. Damn him.
"I'm sorry to hear that lad. Do you have a guardian you are with?"
The boy didn't hear a thing the priest said. He was still thinking of how his parents were taken from him. It was so unfair. How could this happen? The priest was still talking to him about something, but the boy wasn't listening.
This world was unfair. How can such unfair things happen to good people? How can God do this to good people? How can God do this? God?
"God," the boy said allowed.
"What did you say lad?" the priest asked him.
"It was God. God did this. He took my family. It's his fault. It's your fault. You are one of God's children. You killed them. He killed them," the boy pulled a knife from somewhere in his shirt. "Your fault, you and your God."
The boy plunged the knife into the priest's chest. The man let a horrifying sound rip from his lungs. He grabbed for the knife, but the boy pulled it out and stabbed it back into the man's chest. Again, he pulled it out and watched the man fall over dead.
The boy stood up, knife in hand. "I hope I hurt you," he yelled at the priest, "and your God!" He looked down at the knife; blood dripping off of it and his hand. He flipped it over in his hand, staring at the blade. He brought the knife up to his mouth and licked the blood from the blade; the salty taste stinging his taste buds.
A sense of satisfaction ripped through him. He had hurt the one that had hurt him. But, no, it wasn't enough. He had to hurt him more. More.
************************************************************************
The next year: New York, New York
Crawford stared out of the window over the city. He thought it odd that a sunset gleaming off of smog could look kind of.pretty.
So mush had changed about him since Kensington Langly took him under his wing the previous year. His mental abilities flourished profusely. Mr. Langly was finding it harder and harder to get into his mind, not that it was easy to begin with. His visions of the future were occurring more frequently, but they didn't bother Crawford as much as they used to. He finally accepted his precognitions as part of him and nothing to fight or be ashamed of.
{{Kensington came up the elevator.}}
He stepped away from the window and walked into he kitchen. There he made drinks for himself and his roommate. Kensington liked a dry martini, shaken not stirred. How cliché of him. Crawford himself was legally too young to drink, only 18, but Kensington didn't see any problem with him having a social drink now and then, just as long as he didn't get himself smashed. Vodka had become Crawford's favorite drink, so he poured himself a small glass of that.
After setting the glasses on a tray, he brought them out to the living room and set them on the coffee table. Crawford sat down and picked up his glasses that were sitting there too. He remembered a time when he hated to wear these things, but hasn't minded lately. Besides the fact that he can see a lot clearer now, they seemed to add to his overall "look". In the short time he'd been here, Crawford had turned from a well- bred adolescent to a distinguished young man. Even Mr. Langly agreed that it was hard to tell he was only 18.
The door to the large apartment opened and Kensington walked in. He set his briefcase on the ground and took his coat off. He walked into the living room to see Crawford sitting on couch with vodka glass in hand.
"Good evening, Crawford. I trust you had a good day?" he said to Crawford as he loosened his tie and sat down with his martini.
"It was fine," he said to Kensington.
He took a sip of his martini. "I have something I want to discuss with you.
Crawford raised an eyebrow at this. Discuss? He became very suspicious with the older man. Calmly taking a sip of his vodka, and making sure every mental barrier he possessed was in place, he asked Kensington, "What do you wish to discuss with me?"
"How would you truly like to get revenge upon the world? What I mean is, other than proving to yourself that you are more than what you were told you could be."
What on earth was he talking about? Crawford blinked, "Could you elaborate as to what you're telling me?"
Kensington smiled, "Of coarse." He finished off his martini. "I am part of an elite and secret organization that would like to help people like you seek revenge on the rest of the human race. We can help you."
Crawford sat there staring at him. An elite and secret organization? Granted revenge was a sweet thought, but he never truly thought about seeking it against everybody, just those who've hurt him personally.
There's an organization whose basis is revenge? "Are you asking me if I want to join?" he finally asked Kensington.
{{Kensington set a gun on the coffee table.}}
"Well actually, no, I'm not asking you. As a member of this society, I recruit people who will follow us and help bring about our end goal."
"Which is?" Crawford cut in.
"Natural chaos of the world."
Crawford blinked again. Okay, so this guy that helped him become what he is and taught him what he knows has a gun in his pocket and is part of a cult. And he thought today was just fine.
Kensington continued, "There is a school on the outskirts of Berlin called Rosenkreuz. It's a boarding school of sorts that our new recruits go to. There, you will learn of our higher purpose and learn more about your abilities. I'm sure there are a couple of other precogs there."
A light went off in Crawford's head. In the time he'd been here with Kensington, he was also taught to be more business-like and cultured. Mr. Langly taught him everything from stocks to how to hold a wine glass, not that he didn't already know that. But one of the things he was taught was German. Kensington told him that cultured people know more than one language. Crawford thought he sounded like a snob. He figured he would have been taught French or something. He thought it interesting when he was taught German. Now it made sense. Kensington planned this from the beginning.
Crawford didn't like the sound of this.
"I don't believe you have used all of your potential. But I believe you have enough power to help us in our ultimate goal. You can be of such use to us." Mr. Langly just continued to smile.
Crawford asked him, "Who is this 'us'?"
"We call ourselves Este."
"And you aren't asking if I want to join you and this Este?"
"No, I am not."
Crawford frowned, "What if I refuse?"
Kensington frowned himself and bowed his head. He leaned forward and reached behind him into what seemed like the back of his pants and pulled out a .45. He set the gun on the coffee table.
Crawford stared at it.
Kensington sat back. "Well, if you refuse, I will kill you." He paused. "I'll give you a moment to think about it." He got up and went to the kitchen. He came back maybe five minutes later and handed Crawford another glass of vodka. He sat down with another martini.
Crawford held the drink in his hand. The two men sat there in silence for a while. To Crawford, it felt like forever.
"Well," Crawford began, "Once again, you definitely strike a hard bargain."
Kensington smiled, "It's part of my charm. Well, we should start packing. I already booked our flights to Germany tomorrow at 3:00 p.m. Make sure you pack everything because you most likely will not be coming back here.
Crawford wondered what he meant by that.
Kensington raised his martini up, "To Este. May our purpose be fulfilled."
Crawford raised his glass and clinked it against Kensington's. "Yes.to Este." He sipped on the vodka trying to soak in the new change in his life.
Crawford paused for a second. "We aren't going to have to hand flowers out at airports, are we?"
Kensington raised an eyebrow at this comment. "What, do you think we're a cult or something?"
************************************************************************
Several Months Later: Blanchardstown, Ireland
A small, lone figure wondered down the street. The light from the moon above was the only thing guiding its way down the road. It wasn't going anywhere really; it didn't have any place to go.
The night was chilly. The figure pulled its shirt tighter around itself. It couldn't remember how long it had been wandering around the countryside. Maybe ever since that night its house was robbed..
The details were so fuzzy from that time. From than on, days turned into months and it couldn't remember very much. He really didn't want to. It hurt so much. He wanted to blame something, someone.
Exhaustion was coming over the figure. It stopped and sat down on the steps of the building there by the road. Rest. It folded its arms and let its head fall down as far as it would go and closed its eyes. Suddenly, a man appeared from atop the steps and walked down to see what the figure was.
The man saw a little boy, roughly eleven years old, sitting at the bottom of the steps. The child was pale and his hair seemed even paler. His clothes were slightly tattered and he seemed like he hadn't had a bath in a while.
The man sat next to the boy. "Is there something I can help you with lad?"
The boy looked up to see a priest sitting next to him. He stared at the man. He didn't say anything.
"Do you know where your parents are?"
The boy felt tears coming to his eyes. "They are gone." The tears welled in his eyes. He felt so mad at this man for bringing it up to him. He tried to forget and he was fairly successful, but then this priest had to surface those memories again. Damn him.
"I'm sorry to hear that lad. Do you have a guardian you are with?"
The boy didn't hear a thing the priest said. He was still thinking of how his parents were taken from him. It was so unfair. How could this happen? The priest was still talking to him about something, but the boy wasn't listening.
This world was unfair. How can such unfair things happen to good people? How can God do this to good people? How can God do this? God?
"God," the boy said allowed.
"What did you say lad?" the priest asked him.
"It was God. God did this. He took my family. It's his fault. It's your fault. You are one of God's children. You killed them. He killed them," the boy pulled a knife from somewhere in his shirt. "Your fault, you and your God."
The boy plunged the knife into the priest's chest. The man let a horrifying sound rip from his lungs. He grabbed for the knife, but the boy pulled it out and stabbed it back into the man's chest. Again, he pulled it out and watched the man fall over dead.
The boy stood up, knife in hand. "I hope I hurt you," he yelled at the priest, "and your God!" He looked down at the knife; blood dripping off of it and his hand. He flipped it over in his hand, staring at the blade. He brought the knife up to his mouth and licked the blood from the blade; the salty taste stinging his taste buds.
A sense of satisfaction ripped through him. He had hurt the one that had hurt him. But, no, it wasn't enough. He had to hurt him more. More.