Sweepers were low level psychics with combat abilities that made up for their lack of psychokentic power. They were created to serve two purposes: the first being to capture resisting Talents, those who successfully ran from their first "invitation" into the organization, Este. Their second duty was to capture escaped psychics. That obligation was almost forgotten among the Sweepers, as a successful escape hadn't occurred within the last four generations.

So, what made these three brats special?

"Farfarello, be care--"

"YIYIYIYI."

Schuldig sighed, "Why do I even bother?"

The pale boy charged, fists poised into claws, ready to rip at the tender flesh of the stomach, the eye, the neck. But the targets were armored, wearing black vests and head gears, heavily armed and masked, they easily caught the screaming Farfarello by the wrists and flipped him around, throwing him at Crawford.

A light passed the Oracles eyes and he easily stepped out of the way. His breath had begun to rise again, body reacting not to the fear of capture, but the terror of having to run again. "So, you were just waiting to wear us out?"

"Punishment will be minimal if you surrender right now." The Sweeper leader informed, the same words he said to the five, eight, ten year olds who ran from recruitment.

Farfarello picked himself up and balled his fists, tensing up like a cornered animal. The enemy circled them, weapons drawn. As they came closer Schuldig and Crawford identified what they were carrying. Shock rifles. They hadn't been ordered to destroy.

"I can't read any of them." Schuldig hissed to Crawford, green eyes flickering nervously from the American to the Sweepers. He was able to detect them the first time, why were they coming up as a blank now?

"They have some sort of cloaking device." Crawford knowingly whispered back. He couldn't just say they were masking their 'spiritual energy.' Expressions like that had always come across to him as whimsical and superstitious. He didn't believe in gifts, souls, or spirits, powers such as telekinesis, precognitation, and other abilities exhibited in Rosenkreuzt were merely the result of chemical imbalances and hyperactivity occurring in the brain. To him, the term power was too grandiose and self-glorifying.

The Sweepers inched forward.

"What now fearless leader?" Schuldig whined, eyes shifting back and forth more than ever.

"Just wait." Crawford replied.

The German wanted to scream in annoyance and ball in fear. What just happened? A moment ago all the telepath was reading from Crawford was fear and doubt in his own plans. Now, in the face of danger, he suddenly became cool and collective? He was just as clueless as the rest of them before the enemy jumped in.

Had one of his predictions come true? Had a vision passed by Crawford's mind that Schuldig didn't notice? That was hard to believe, all other oracles of his age and level usually grabbed their head and expressed physical discomfort when a vision hit. Schuldig had seen this in Crawford before. He couldn't have seen anything.

Farfarello was aiming to attack again. The Irish boy would continue to throw himself at the enemy and get slammed to the floor until he was either dead or unconscious. He rather be crushed than have to surrender willingly.

"Shoot the Manipulator." The Sweeper commander ordered, "Telepath, Oracle, on the ground, hands over your head."

"We're not going down that easily." Schuldig fired a mental attack at the three bodies closest to him, but his thoughts just bounced back. Whatever they were using to cloak themselves also served to shield his psychic retaliation. "Damn."

"On the ground. Hands on your head." The commander ordered again.

The two younger boys began to protest, but were interrupted by Crawford's hypnotic drone. "Do as he says."

Schuldig gasped. "What?"

The American began to lower himself to his knees, his face remarkably calm, almost amused. His eyes trained forward, appearing focused on the shoulder of the commander.

The current situation wasn't acceptable to the psychopath. Farfarello tore off, recklessly rushing again at the Sweepers, this time being shot instead of pushed back. Surrounded by a wave of electric current, Farfarello fell backwards, stunned. His mind couldn't register the pain, but that didn't stop his body from reacting to the electrocution.

"On the ground!" A weapon was aimed at the remaining psychic.

"Schuldig." Crawford snapped, already on his belly.

His eyes stung and for a laughable moment, he thought he might cry out in frustration. What was the point? Schuldig thought. My god, what was the point? All of this planning, late night meetings, the risk, the escape, for... what? An hour of freedom? Did Crawford want to be punished? Was this a game to him? Was he planning this all along?

"I should've known this was a SHIT PLAN." The fourteen-year-old bellowed, dropping suddenly to the ground and trembling, he placed his hands on top of his head.

God, he was stupid.

Stupid to ever trust Bradley Crawford.


================================================================


He had never talked to the oracle before. Crawford was a year older and two academic levels higher than himself. His power put him on a different training schedule than the telepath, and they hardly gave each other a second glance at the gym. But there he was one day, three weeks before the escape, standing behind him in line for the drinking fountain.

(Schuldig.) The mental thought was a knife edge pulse in the German's mind.

Leaning over the fountain, his mouth stopped working. The water ran over his lips, down the drain. Suddenly he became painfully aware of how close the American Talent was to his body. He didn't respond.

Crawford's voice played across his head, a small murmur, a background noise:

{I'm dreaming of you.}


====================================================================

In Rosenkreutz powerful telepaths lurked in every corridor, always monitoring the thought of its recruits. There were ways to mask their thoughts, to make them less evident than others. Children were taught that a person thought with two voices. Their direct consciousness, that said things like, (Class beings in 10 minutes, Jimmy's cute, ect.), and the subconscious, that appeared even in waking moments, whispering out odd, off-topic comments, {I'm scared. I'm cold.} without warning.

The monitoring telepaths rarely paid attention to the subconscious thoughts. In large groups, it was almost impossible to detect them, unless they were focusing one on person impractically. It wasn't in the children's training, but the more clever Talents, like Crawford, could learn to focus their subconscious and use it for communication.

But he still had to be careful.

That night he climbed into bed with the other four oracles in his dorm. He tried not to act suspicious, though usually he stayed sitting up with a night light into the early hours of the morning, studying. No one questioned his turn in. Perhaps he was just tired. The great Bradley Crawford.

{"I found you."} Schuldig appeared almost the moment he closed his eyes. The telepath, the dream walker, was near tickled to find that someone like Crawford had taken an interest in him. That someone like Crawford 'dreamed' about him.

With that assumption in mind, Schuldig waltzed into the American's dreams surrounded by a shower of rose petals and nothing else.

Crawford was mildly shocked. {"Put some clothes on!"}

Schuldig spread his arms, disappointed. {"You don't approve?"} He tilted his head to the side, and smirked, {"Alright. Imagine me in something sexy that you can undress me from."}

Taking control of the dream, Schuldig suddenly found himself adorn in a modest pair of sweatpants and matching shirt. He frowned. {"That's not very sexy."}

{"I have a...proposition for you."}

{"My mother warned me American's were boring, but this, my god..."} He paused, {"A proposition? Haven't heard that one in awhile."}

Crawford simultaneously cursed his decision and the fact that Schuldig was the only telepath he could use for his purposes.

The dreamscape was dull and gray, they were in Crawford's mind and everything, including the two boys, were starting to fade; becoming half- formed. This was a sign of a subconscious switch, when the brain moved from one dream to another. That annoyed Schuldig.

{"Listen... I could be having wild monkey sex with a pyrokentic right now."}

The other did something unexpected. He smirked. {"Listen, have you ever thought of..."}


==================================================================


At fifteen, Crawford was a master of faking his thoughts and subconscious. Schuldig was aware of this. He should have known better than to have merely trusted the damnable American's surface thoughts. Crawford really wasn't sure of himself at all. He tricked him.

Now here he was, on the ground, lips practically kissing the dirty pavement. It was a cold night in Vienna, he could see his breath, he was miserable, and he was about to be bound and drug away back to Rosenkreutz for a certainly unspeakable punishment.

Next to him, Bradley Crawford lay, mind a complete blank.

Schuldig briefly pondered using his last few seconds of 'freedom' to break Crawford's skull open with his boot.

The Sweepers inched forward, stepping over Farfarello's body and taking out their tranquilizer guns. At least they wouldn't be shocked into submission, but they also wouldn't be allowed to be taken back awake. Schuldig awaited darkness.

Crawford's gaze flickered upwards, at the same spot he had been staring when he first lowered to his knees.

A series of gagged screams cut the air, causing Schuldig to jump. He wondered if Farfarello had gotten up and in a last dramatic attempt, jumped one of the Sweepers. But no, the first thing he saw was the prone body of his former psychotic partner. If not Farfarello than...

One by one the Sweepers were swept off their feet. They were thrown at the neck, as if closed line with a thick metal bar. The circle flew backwards, flipping deftly into the air and slamming into the pavement. From the ground Schuldig could feel the uncomfortable prickle and pressure of a kinetic energy wave.

Another psychic?

Crawford leapt up, snatching one of the shock guns from the fallen guards. He began firing back and forth, hitting each stunned Sweeper in the chest. They spasm and stilled.

Unbelieving, Schuldig picked himself up and took a gun. He was too stunned to fire.

Crawford, the son of a bitch, had been planning this all along.

The Sweepers were practically smoking when the American finished with them. He dropped the used rifle and picked up another, charging it to fire again, in case any of the charred bodies dare to even twitch.

Schuldig's eyes were wide. "What...HAPPENED?"

"I foresaw all of this." Crawford explained simply.

"WHATEVER HAPPENED TO WANTING TO CURSE AT YOUR OWN STUPIDITY? FOR BEING FOOLISH?? TERRIBLY FOOLISH???" Schuldig screamed, his voice cracking.

"...all part of the plan. The Sweepers are telepaths, low level, almost useless telepaths, but telepaths nonetheless. They can read high emotional surface thoughts, and I had to lure them out. You caught some of my 'doubt' yourself, it was a very believable performance." His calm monotone made Schuldig want to tear his throat out. "I needed them to come out here. At this spot. You understand?"

"No."

Crawford made a noise that might have been laughter.

Footsteps sounded from the street. Another Sweeper team, the German suspected, whirling around.

A boy, a very young boy, stepped into the circle of fallen bodies. He was pale, weary, but extremely pleased with himself.

"Schuldig, may I introduce to you my accomplice." Crawford made a lavish wave of his hands.

Schuldig stared.

"A telekinetic... Naoe Nagi."