Blinded

Part Six

One year working as an SS agent had been enough.

There was thrill. There was power. There was control. Crawford determined when someone would die because he was the one who pulled the trigger, but it was the SS who decided who should die. All along, Crawford had been a piece on SS' chess board. Despite being given greater and greater power during his short first year as an agent - undoubtedly because Neumann was pulling strings - Crawford still was not the one to call the moves, and he knew he never will be.

He wanted back the control he had over his life. He did not want to be a pawn. Not even a king. He wanted to be the one playing the chess. He wanted out.

Nobody knew he had such thoughts, because the strongest telepath had given him the best mind training -- You'll thank me later, Brad -- and no one could read from him if he did not allow it. Since given the order to find himself a new partner to work with, Crawford began to draft plans that would give him his escape.

Working with Neumann for the past year had taught him one important thing: precognition alone could only achieve so much. He had to form a team that worked the way he and Neumann did together. He needed a telepath.

Crawford arrived at the Hamburg branch of SS with one purpose: to find that Schuldich that Neumann told him about. They were expecting him, and let him in as soon as he showed identification. The boy at the door showed him to the records room and let him stay there for as along as he needed to pick out a teammate. Crawford wasted no time and pulled out Schuldich's inch-thick file from a metal cabinet straight away.

He drew a deep breath the moment he opened the file.

Some forty pages of paper were filled with Schuldich's statistics and background. Everything from height and weight to school grades to family background, even down to the size of his ring finger was recorded. Blood tests results. Discipline records. Training exercises that were completed. A thick pile of photographs at the back.

But it was the palm-sized photograph, attached to the front page by a paperclip, that caught Crawford's complete attention.

Platinum blonde hair that was almost white framed a face so perfect it could have been sculpted. The strong jawline, a mark of masculinity, was softened by perfect, pale skin and high cheekbones. The face was lifted slightly, as if to deliberately show off his neck. Aqua blue eyes - or were they green? - looked down at the camera, as if amused. The hair was just long enough to touch the collarbones, and unruly bangs fell as if to hide those wild eyes. A lop-sided, uncaring smile completed the picture.

Crawford's fingertips trembled when he touched that photograph. This was beauty. He was staring at beauty in the eye. And he could own this creature.

He sat down and took his time to read through the information and study all the photographs at the back of the file that were taken before Schuldich entered Rosenkreuz. Apparently Neumann and the woman from the Elders - Sanroujin (1) - had their eyes on Schuldich for longer than anyone thought. They waited for the right moment to snatch the boy up from parents who no longer wanted him, and gave him the usual choice - Rosenkreuz or death. The boy accepted the offer without a fight, but had proved himself to be harder to control than most other trainee agents. He absorbed what Rosenkreuz had to teach him like a sponge, but was always too keen to be doing something real, jumping at chances to back up full SS agents on the field or to join in interrogations. Schuldich was good at his job, but also good at creating troubles, the worst offense committed being an invasion of their own agent's mind, leading to almost irreversible damages. That time, Neumann had to step in to prevent Schuldich's certain death.

The German had also had several hunger strikes after using telepathy, one of which lasted so long Rosenkreuz had to hospitalise him. He seemed to have suffered "telepathy backlash", as they called it, which was for a telepath to lose control of his powers after a prolonged mind-reading session. If starving himself did any good in easing this effect, no one had any idea since telepaths were rare and Rosenkreuz had few people who could help him. It was Neumann, again, who came to the rescue.

So Neumann was handing to Crawford his favourite beast. Crawford smiled at the idea.

An hour later, Crawford stood outside Schuldich's cell, hardly able to keep his composure as the supervisor opened the lock.

When the heavy door that could keep even the strongest telekinetic out of trouble was finally opened, he stood in the doorway and all he could do was stare in awe.

The ninteen year-old sat at the corner of his prison, head tilted back, dirty hair slightly longer than it was in the photograph falling over his face. Those eyes were green in this light. They turned, from gazing at the ceiling to gazing at the new visitor.

Something pierced through Crawford that moment and he had to take a step back. For a moment, what sat there was not a boy but an animal that existed to destory and take revenge on the world that had abandoned him. Underneath all that, there was a longing, although to what, Crawford could not guess.

//My name's Brad Crawford. Come with me.//

Those were the only words he could manage. He expected questions from the boy, and maybe resistance too, but not a word was asked. The boy got up, legs obvisouly weak from sitting for too long on the cold floor, and went to pack his small amount of belongings, leaving behind all that he could not care less about.

//I suppose I don't need to bring much?// Telepathy easily crossed their language barrier.

//Only what you think you can't live without.// Crawford answered, noting the almost empty canvas bag that Schuldich was holding.

//Well then.// Schuldich shrugged, and dropped the bag onto the floor. He needed nothing. //Let's go.//

"Der Job (The job)?" It was the first thing Schuldich asked, when they arrived in the house SS provided them in Hamburg.

"Not yet, we're on standby." Crawford pulled out a black credit card from his wallet, handing it to the German. "You know your way around the city? Go get yourself whatever you need, though I must warn you we aren't staying in Germany for long." He had over a million dollars in that account. The German had to be buying houses to spend it all.

For the first time since they left the camp, the German smiled. The shoulders relaxed and the face brightened as corners of his lips turned upwards gently. "Also kann ich kein Auto kaufen (So I can't buy a car)?"

"We're only staying for three days, so no." Crawford stared. That smile almost took the breath out of him. "And from now on, speak only English. No telepathy unless I say so."

The German nodded and left with the credit card. When he came back a few hours later, his hair had been trimmed, he wore new, clean clothes, and smiling, he set down a plastic bag on the coffee table.

When the door to Schuldich's room closed, Crawford sank himself into the couch. There was mint chocolate in the bag Schuldich brought in - well, somebody was quick at picking up details. Did he see the chocolate in the car and in the kitchen, or did he just read his mind without him realising?

Casting that though aside, Crawford took some of that chocolate, closing his eyes to recall that smile that almost melted him on the spot, the same way the chocolate melted in his mouth.

Schuldich was beauty personified. Now that Crawford had him in his hands, what should he be doing next?

The silence stretches from seconds into minutes. Crawford shifts once, uncomfortably, pulling his coat together. Schuldich is not saying anything. His face is unreadable, and he is not even making a sound. Whatever he is feeling about all that Crawford has just revealed, he is not showing it.

At last, perhaps five minutes later, the German's grin is back in place. //You know what I'd do, if I see something I like badly?// He pauses until Crawford looks at him. //Own it. Fuck it senseless.//

"Mentally or physically?"

//Depends on what it is. If it's a person, then both.//

"You're suggesting that I should have done that to you?"

//Nah. I know you wouldn't.// Schuldich waves a hand dismissively. He knows such a thought could never have crossed Crawford's mind. //And I know you think otherwise, but I've never done it with guys.//

Crawford blinks once, then shakes his head. Schuldich always knows more than he would like him to. "So what are you trying to say, really?"

Schuldich does not reply. He looks to their left, where a hired worker is approaching their location with a pair of long clamps to pick up litter left behind by passerbys. He wears a thick jacket and a scarf that threatens to be blown away by the ripping wind. The man curses the cold weather.

It must be very cold today. They should not be sitting out here. //Let's go back.// Schuldich stands, hands unconsciously going to straighten his clothes that do not exist. He can still pretend.

//You haven't answered my question, Schuldich.// Crawford follows the German.

//Something crossed my mind that day, when we were in that house. I was thinking that I wouldn't mind if you do it. How'd ya say it? I wished I was gay. Fucking weird. I thought a guy either is or isn't, but apparently not.// Schuldich finally gives up his secret. It was nine years ago anyway, and he is dead. Secrets no long bother him. //I was quite upset when I discovered that we are both straight and it's never gonna happen.// He adds, laughing.

Crawford is not sure what to say to that. They walk the rest of the way back to the hotel.

//Calm down. It just crossed my mind. Never stayed there.// The German, sitting on the carpeted floor, cocks his head to a side and points at it with his index finger, grinning. He can guess that Glyn felt exactly the same thing the first time he set eyes on Crawford. And this man, for everything that he is and can do, has no idea what his mere presence can do to people.

Crawford smirks in return, almost relieved. He settles in the bed again. He likes the feeling that he is finally spilling it all out. The German must have realised his thing for blondes - Glyn, Neumann and Schuldich all had blonde hair. He must have now realised a lot of other things. The fact that Crawford could not let Schuldich complete his Rosenkreuz training because he had to own that beauty right there. The fact that he actually thought the German was beautiful. The fact that his heart beated faster - and sometimes it still does - when he looked at him. But there is one more thing -

//By the way, do I look like Jamie? The way I smile.// From the floor, Schuldich looks up at the American with large, innocent eyes that hide a sadness he feels as he asks the question.

Crawford does not lie. He bites his lips and nods.

Schuldich accepts that answer in silence. So that is why. He has been under Jamie's shadow all these years. It does not matter. As long as Crawford wants it that way, it does not matter to Schuldich. But putting it the other way around, every time he smiled to get out of whatever mess he was in with Crawford, he was using Crawford's weakness against him. The poor man.

And to think Brad Crawford, fearless leader and mercenary extraordinaire, has such a weakness, too.

//So I wasn't the only M-type in the group. You let me torture you like that.// Schuldich murmurs. //You could've told me.//

"You'd have thrown away your smile for me. I know." Comes a whispered reply. "Because of exactly that, I didn't want you to know. You've given up enough for me already, Schuldich."

The German is stunned to silence. These can simply be the most heartfelt words he has ever heard from his former leader. After working together for so many years, Schuldich knows Crawford cares more about some people, Schwarz in particular, than he let on. He does freely dispose of those who do not give him what he wants, but at the same time, he treats well those who respect and care about him, to an extent that he tolerated Tot for Nagi's sake. He does get out of his way to help these people - Glyn is a fine example that comes to Schuldich's mind. But such words. Crawford just does not say these things.

But perhaps, for a group like Schwarz, there had to be a leader like Crawford. His role did not permit him to display any weakness.

//Heh. Don't you even imagine you've got that much influence over me, O-Leader. I do nothing for nobody.// Schuldich says coolly, both himself and Crawford knowing it is a plain lie, told to soften the atmosphere again. //Those are words of the weak, Brad.//

"I never said I haven't got weaknesses of my own."

//Ah. But you hate being weak. You hate it when someone finds out your weaknesses.// Schuldich abandons the floor and sits on the bed again. //You gave me hell when I teased you about your soft spot for Nagi.//

Crawford chuckles softly. "True."

//So why are you showing it and even admitting to it now, or should I not ask?//

The question makes a ripple on Crawford's calm surface. He slouches into the bed as if suddenly defeated. "It's why I'm telling you all this now. You'll find out."

For their second job as a team, and Schuldich's first assassination job, they stayed in a small apartment in Amsterdam provided by the SS.

Strictly speaking, they were not Schwarz. SS only ordered Crawford to find a partner to work with. This partnership lasted for three years before Schwarz came into existance.

By the end of their first job, a three-months long protection service, though, Crawford realised "partnership" was not the word to describe their working relationship. First of all, Schuldich had little field experience. Crawford expected that, Neumann and Silvia had both worked on the field for much longer than he did in the last team, so he could imagine some of the problems Schuldich had to deal with. Facing real people instead of other trainees in combat, learning when to kill and when to let live... Schuldich dealt with it well.

The second issue that made Crawford rethink their relationship was Schuldich's unnerving devotion to him. Sure, the German could be irritating - by then Crawford was sure it was a trait found in all telepaths - but beyond that, he had always displayed an absolute trust to the precognitive. If Crawford told him to run towards the source of the bullets or jump into a fire, he would do it, no questions asked. Trusting a precognitive during a job was important, but to never ask "why" about his decisions...

Assassinations required planning. They were not quick hit-and-run jobs - those were for amateur killers, not assassins. Planning meant learning the target's movements, habits, trusted people, the name of his milkman and the brand of his toothpaste, if necessary. How they killed could also depend on their client, some of whom may ask for an "accident" whilst others want the ugliest, most publicised death possible. The most difficult ones may even specify the time of death and how exactly they want the target to die. The worst job Crawford ever landed himself into had involved several garbage bags, a wood shredder, and much gore.

He kept his composure throughout, yes, but he would rather not think back to that event again. Who said he had no weaknesses? There was someone infinitely more evil and disgusting than Crawford ever could be.

He was glad that the German's first job would be a simple, clean one involving only a silent bullet in the head.

Schuldich was sitting at the table, next to him, whilst he drew out the floorplan of the building. "Two men here." He circled a doorway. "One here. I'll distract him, you move in for the kill."

Schuldich gasped as he watched Crawford drew arrows on the paper, indicating their exit routes. "You see all this?" He asked, forgetting to use past tense. "In your head?"

"Yes, I saw it. It's called a 'vision'." Crawford passed the piece of paper to the German. "Are you clear on what you have to do?"

Schuldich smiled at him, a finger going up to tap at his own temple, which was covered by a cream-coloured headscarf. "Tell me there to my head." He paused, suddenly stuck for words. "Ich - "

"English, Schuldich." The American immediately pointed out, one eyebrow arching with warning. "I'll talk to you by telepathy during the job, if that's what you meant."

There was definitely something more the German was trying to say. The eyebrows were knotting and he groaned angrily.

"You can always try the dictionary." The American suggested coolly.

"I kan't do Englisch." Schuldich sighed and got up, pushing his chair back with enough force to scratch the floorboards, and left for his bedroom without another word. Thinking that the teenager had given up, Crawford retreated to his own bedroom as well to get some rest. Schuldich's First Kill must run smoothly, and he had strained himself by looking too far into the future to plan things right. His clairvoyance only allowed him to see into the next few minutes, hours if he was lucky, with a good degree of accuracy, but definitely not the next day. Attempting visions upon visions had resulted in a headache that frayed the edges of his sight. He crashed into bed once he was in his room, tempted to tell Schuldich to get him some painkillers.

As if he had heard his thoughts, Schuldich entered his room, without knocking or a word of warning. The German, standing beside the bed and holding his dictionary, grinned at the other man triumphantly. "Trust." He said, as if proud that he had taught himself a new English word.

"What?" Throw him out or not throw him out, Crawford asked himself, but his aching head refused to answer.

"I trust you." Schuldich waited a moment longer until he could see that Crawford understood what he was trying to say earlier at the table, then turned on his heels and left. "Gut-night."

After freezing in amazement for several seconds, Crawford picked himself up to look for the painkillers.

Trust. What a joke. Schuldich must be the first one in SS to say the word, and he was so, so wrong.

It all worked according to plan, right down to how Schuldich executed the shot. Crawford had gone through with him earlier how to shoot in close distance without getting blood splattered on himself, and the German performed well - until the moment after the shot, when their telepathic link suddenly went dead.

The caterer, who cursed when Crawford knocked over his food cart, had gone back to the kitchen to get something else for his boss instead. The other two men in the hallway went away for things to clean the gravy-soaked carpet with. Crawford took the chance to look for his partner, a step not planned for. They were not meant to see or associate with each other in any way during the job.

The target was in his armchair, eyes and mouth wide open like a fish, with a hole in his forehead. Schuldich stood, separated from the target by a work desk only, gun in his left hand. Nobody moved in the room. The target because he was dead, and Schuldich because... Crawford was not sure. Could it be fright, that he had killed someone?

A shocked man was difficult to handle enough. A shocked and armed man could be worse. Crawford looked for the best way to proceed, knowing they had less than three minutes to leave the building if they wanted to avoid any battles. Crawford tried telepathy again, but no response came.

He took several steps closer, trying to see the expression on the German's face. Blue eyes were squeezed shut. Lips pressed together tightly. Every muscle on the face was tense, as if trying to shut out something too painful to bear. The outstretched hand, still holding the gun, shook with tension. If he was breathing, Crawford could not see it. Calculating his chances of getting shot at this angle, Crawford decided it was too slim, so he reached out and placed his hand on Schuldich's shoulder.

Upon the touch, the German came back to life again, and shook his head violently as if trying to shake out the reminisce of whatever he felt in the last few moments. Then, realising where they were, Schuldich took the lead and they were out of the building before anyone was back.

Later, Schuldich said what happened was a "headache". He did not bother explaining himself. It was not until many years later that Crawford understood what had happened: Schuldich had locked himself to the man's mind, and when the shot was fired, the pain of death went into Schuldich, only he could not die from it because the wound was not his. Empathy at its best. He had the pain of getting a bullet in his head without dying. After that time, Schuldich learned when to detach himself from people's minds, and that a physical touch with the precognitive could bring his mind back to normal because of how their powers influence and interfere with each other. That interference could heal, but it could also bring pain. Great pain.

But Crawford only found out years later. He wished the German had told him in the beginning, it probably would have saved the younger man a lot of pain.

//What's that look for?// Schuldich asks, turning away from Crawford to stare up at the ceiling. He wonders if the bed is soft, he cannot feel it even though he is laying on it. He supposes it is.

"Explain." The American says, dragging out the word slowly, making sure he sounds very irritated.

//I told you I'm the M-type. I like torturing myself, okay?//

Crawford just looks at the German, not accusingly, but obviously not satisfied with that answer. "Explain, now."

//Fine, fine, asshole.// Schuldich rolls over in the bed, pushing his face into the pillow. //I was afraid, okay? I was scared that you'd throw me out, or send me back to Rosenkreuz or something.//

"Care to expand on that?" Crawford thinks he knows why, but still...

//It's a weakness, and you hate weaknesses. You eliminate them at the first chance you get.// Sighing a little, Schuldich continues. //I wasn't going to give you a chance to get rid of me for something I could deal with on my own.//

"Of course you can deal with it yourself. My arm for you isn't like plank for a drowning man." Crawford laughs with a good dose of sarcasm, pulling covers on the effects of those words have on him. Weakness? Schuldich knows so much, yet so little.

Schuldich has yet to discover what Crawford's real weakness is.

[to be continued]

1. Sanroujin: Literally translates to "Three Old People". They appeared at the end of the anime, wanting to use Aya-chan's body to resurrect a person they referred to as "the Great One". During their meeting with Schwarz prior to the ceremony, the old woman mentioned that Schuldich was her "chosen telepath". [go back up]

Author's note: This fic is running wilder than I expected it would. I'm cursing myself as I type this out as well. Argh. I don't know what's going on, but I promise you, it's Brad's fault, not mine. My aim was to finish below 40000 words, but by the looks of things, that won't be possible. I need to double that estimate! It's not the first time fics take off and get lives of their own. It happened with [When You Gonna Learn] and [Epitaph] as well, so (hopefully) it's not a bad thing. And yes, the "weakness" theme will appear a lot in this fic from now on.