At what point did Schuldig loose his partnership with the Bradley Crawford and become his pawn?
From the very beginning, he realized.
Naoe Nagi was a slight boy, deceitfully thin and breakable. To the normal observer it would be unimaginable to think that a child like that could hold such awesome power. But Crawford and Schuldig weren't the average observer, now were they?
Whatever self-indulged pleasure had been on the Asian's face a moment ago had quickly melted away, smooth features retreating into a blank mask of nothingness that seemed to be a natural expression on the little telekinetic. He stood there almost at attention, arms held straight but limply at his sides, fingers clenched every so slightly, legs stiffly pressed together. He seemed either ready to salute, run away, or crumble in ashes. He frightened Schuldig.
Crawford ignored both of them. The cunning mastermind was once again on his knees, leaning over the body of the Sweeper commander, rummaging through his equipment like a common pickpocket.
"I'm not sure exactly," He said, thinking out loud again, Schuldig wondered if this was another trick. If another Sweeper team wasn't out there, ease- dropping, and Crawford just felt that they were too stupid or unskilled to simply read his mind. "what they use to mask their...ah...thought process, but if we can find it, it will be very useful."
Schuldig wrapped his arms around himself, approaching the other boy with an upturned chin and cruel smile. "Rambling American, wasting your breath, you know what you're looking for."
Hands paused inside the commander's vest. Crawford spared a glance over his shoulder. "My plans end here. It's anybody's game, Schuldig."
Nagi remained silent, and Farfarello still hadn't moved.
"How did you work this out?" Schuldig demanded.
"Be patient," Crawford murmured. He ripped the helmet off the commander and was surprised to find that he recognized the face underneath it. It was a young man, a year older than himself, an empath if he remembered correctly, they were in the same micro-economics class.
Schuldig caught the train of thought. "Is he dead?" He asked, even though the empath's twisted neck was easy to see from where he stood.
Examining the helmet, Crawford snorted in disgust. He tossed the cap aside. "I thought... wait," Fingers came down on the commander's death white throat, tracing around to the back of the neck. He felt something sharp and metal-like buried into the skin. Eyes narrowing, Crawford pinched the item and ripped it out. The tiny diskette gave way with a dry slurp.
"That's vile." Schuldig commented.
The attachment appeared to be a computer chip, the kind found inserted into a computer tower to increase memory capabilities or conduct energy. It was small, half the size of a finger, and had jagged razors prodding from its bottom.
"Nagi, could you remove three more of these from the others?" Crawford requested softly.
The child reacted without hesitation. The Sweepers surrounding them jutted back and forth as a pair of psychic claws tore at their helmets. Nagi's arms were raised, brow furrowed in concentration. Around him the helmets cracked and shattered, falling to debris and mixing with blood. One of the body's was victim to too much telekinetic force and his head caved in. Nagi didn't seem to mind.
The chips slurped out and floated to Crawford.
Nagi swayed on his feet.
He's very good, Schuldig thought. "What are those?"
The Oracle grabbed the attachments and attempted to wag the chunks of flesh and pools of blood from them. "I believe," he said, "these are what the Sweepers used to become undetectable to your scans. If we..."
"Whoa, wait." Schuldig interrupted. He made a gesture with his arms, stepping away from the crazed American. "I'm not penning that to the back of my spinal cord, if that's what you're thinking."
"It's quite effective." A light voice informed from the side. The two turned to gap at Nagi, who hadn't said anything until then. "And easy to install. You would assume you needed an access port to plug it into, but it attaches to the back of your neck without any technological support. The Sweepers cannot read you."
His voice was haunting, it brought a cold shiver to Schuldig's back, and he suddenly felt more afraid than he ever had in Rosenkreuzt, or in the alleyway. Nagi spoke in such a robotic deadpanned that he seemed surreal. Completely unattached to everything around him.
"That's how you came around without them noticing."
Nagi touched the back of his head, fingers brushing where the data chip he stole from the Sweepers that originally chased him must have been. "Yes."
Schuldig tilted his head, "How old are you?"
"...I rather not tell."
Back to his search, Crawford retrieved a bowie knife and a tranquilizer gun. He went from body to body, collecting darts and storing them in a carrying pouch he had lifted from the commander. "This should take care of Farfarello until we decide what to do with him."
He approached the unmoving teen, weapon in hand.
"Don't shoot him up, you'll kill him." Schuldig warned, "He's already knocked the hell out, leave him alone."
"You didn't mention a third partner, Bradley Crawford." Nagi suddenly accused.
"Trust me." The oracle replied. "He's useful. Very unpredictable, but useful. Schuldig, would you like to carry him?"
"No."
"That wasn't a request." Crawford moved away from Farfarello and stared down the street ahead of them. "We need to find cover and get these implants on. The second Sweeper team will be here soon."
Muttering, Schuldig wrapped one arm under Farfarello's knees and the other under his back. He was surprised at how light and thin, skeletally thin, the Irish boy was. Rising to his feet, he flipped his hair in the older boy's direction. "I still have a lot of questions..." A smirk, "Bradley Crawford."
The brunettes lips thinned. "Patience." He said.
He and Nagi began to walk away from the main road, towards the city. Schuldig remained in place for a moment, staring at their retreating form. He regarded the body in his hands. "Patience." He mumbled. "Crawford. You'll find I have all the patience in the world."
He began to walk.
"...but the world doesn't have much patience left for us."
========================================================
What was the point of Fran Krauler asking, "have the boys been returned yet?" She already knew the answer.
Charles Leistung's eyes were stuck to the giant window glass, the gray pane that covered one wall of his well-dressed office. Both hands stationed clinging to the silver top of his walking cane, an antique piece, a wolf head with glinting ruby eyes. The children of Rosenkreuzt had learned to associate the snarling beast with the Headmaster, choosing often to focus on its glowing eyes instead of Leistung's thin, hawk-like face.
Krauler weighed his silence, mouth turning upwards in her statue-isque way. She stood behind Leistung, hands clasped behind her back, one foot lifted slightly off the floor, rolling from side to side. "The other council members won't admit it, but they are beginning to fear that oracle and his little flunkies."
"Bradley Crawford had a contact." Leistung whispered.
Bradley Crawford has somehow passed their crackpot teams of telepaths, their 1984 security, and communicated with someone on the outside. But with who? And how?
Thoughts heavy, Krauler shared her fellow psychics view of the clouded window. They let a moment pass in silence, before the woman gave in and let out a sigh. "Inform me the moment they're captured. We are Este, we cannot fear anyone..." The woman turned on her heels, she was remarkably graceful for a woman of her age.
Leistung listened to her leave. His breath caught in his throat as she paused at the large double doors dividing his office from the administrator corridor.
"...Least of all three little boys."
The door opened and closed.
=========================================================
The fourth shadow let out another scream as his head scrapped against the pipe ceiling.
The great, powerful, sexy Schuldig was cold, wet, miserable, and worst of all: starving. He treaded water, freezing cold water that came up to his ankles and soaked into his shoes. Every other fumbled step in the narrow walkway caused his head to smash against the ceiling. Cobwebs clung and gathered around his once beautiful orange-red hair.
"This is a sewer!" He pointed out.
Little Nagi, leading the four, released a bemused snort, "Nothing gets by him."
The youngest psychic moved easily down the dark pathway. A head shorter than the German, he had plenty of room to stretch out. Nagi was able to scamper across the water without even bending over. It wasn't fair.
Something jumped onto Schuldig's shoulder and crawled up his neck, onto his face.
Letting out a shriek, the fourteen-year-old dropped Farfarello onto the ground and slapped at his cheeks. The panic attack caused him to bang his head three more times onto the ceiling before he settled down.
Farfarello was rudely awaken to a mouthful of cool, slimy water. But he didn't mind, he couldn't taste it anyway. Though he was startled to find himself half submerged in such a cold, unfamiliar area; he didn't remember falling asleep in some place wet.
The Irish child sat up and peered owlishly into the darkness, single amber eye adjusting quickly to the lack of light, tracing the outline of Schuldig's shivering form, than Crawford's, than Nagi's. Where was he?
Whimpering, the body next to him answered his question, "I'm in a sewer!" he wailed.
"This isn't a sewer, Schuldig." Crawford cautiously pointed out. "It's a storm drain, run-off from the streets comes through here, not sewage."
"Thank you, o'fearless leader, I feel sooooo much better." Normally Schuldig wasn't so melodramatic, so out of control, so emotional. But he had to be given some leeway, he had just busted out of a place that would have put Roswell's security and secrecy to shame; he had been attacked by a bunch of freaks with laser guns; and he really, really hungry. He'd return to his normal cool-headed, witty character later, after the trauma had worn off and he had gotten something to eat.
After random arachnids stopped trying to burrow and nest in his head.
From the very beginning, he realized.
Naoe Nagi was a slight boy, deceitfully thin and breakable. To the normal observer it would be unimaginable to think that a child like that could hold such awesome power. But Crawford and Schuldig weren't the average observer, now were they?
Whatever self-indulged pleasure had been on the Asian's face a moment ago had quickly melted away, smooth features retreating into a blank mask of nothingness that seemed to be a natural expression on the little telekinetic. He stood there almost at attention, arms held straight but limply at his sides, fingers clenched every so slightly, legs stiffly pressed together. He seemed either ready to salute, run away, or crumble in ashes. He frightened Schuldig.
Crawford ignored both of them. The cunning mastermind was once again on his knees, leaning over the body of the Sweeper commander, rummaging through his equipment like a common pickpocket.
"I'm not sure exactly," He said, thinking out loud again, Schuldig wondered if this was another trick. If another Sweeper team wasn't out there, ease- dropping, and Crawford just felt that they were too stupid or unskilled to simply read his mind. "what they use to mask their...ah...thought process, but if we can find it, it will be very useful."
Schuldig wrapped his arms around himself, approaching the other boy with an upturned chin and cruel smile. "Rambling American, wasting your breath, you know what you're looking for."
Hands paused inside the commander's vest. Crawford spared a glance over his shoulder. "My plans end here. It's anybody's game, Schuldig."
Nagi remained silent, and Farfarello still hadn't moved.
"How did you work this out?" Schuldig demanded.
"Be patient," Crawford murmured. He ripped the helmet off the commander and was surprised to find that he recognized the face underneath it. It was a young man, a year older than himself, an empath if he remembered correctly, they were in the same micro-economics class.
Schuldig caught the train of thought. "Is he dead?" He asked, even though the empath's twisted neck was easy to see from where he stood.
Examining the helmet, Crawford snorted in disgust. He tossed the cap aside. "I thought... wait," Fingers came down on the commander's death white throat, tracing around to the back of the neck. He felt something sharp and metal-like buried into the skin. Eyes narrowing, Crawford pinched the item and ripped it out. The tiny diskette gave way with a dry slurp.
"That's vile." Schuldig commented.
The attachment appeared to be a computer chip, the kind found inserted into a computer tower to increase memory capabilities or conduct energy. It was small, half the size of a finger, and had jagged razors prodding from its bottom.
"Nagi, could you remove three more of these from the others?" Crawford requested softly.
The child reacted without hesitation. The Sweepers surrounding them jutted back and forth as a pair of psychic claws tore at their helmets. Nagi's arms were raised, brow furrowed in concentration. Around him the helmets cracked and shattered, falling to debris and mixing with blood. One of the body's was victim to too much telekinetic force and his head caved in. Nagi didn't seem to mind.
The chips slurped out and floated to Crawford.
Nagi swayed on his feet.
He's very good, Schuldig thought. "What are those?"
The Oracle grabbed the attachments and attempted to wag the chunks of flesh and pools of blood from them. "I believe," he said, "these are what the Sweepers used to become undetectable to your scans. If we..."
"Whoa, wait." Schuldig interrupted. He made a gesture with his arms, stepping away from the crazed American. "I'm not penning that to the back of my spinal cord, if that's what you're thinking."
"It's quite effective." A light voice informed from the side. The two turned to gap at Nagi, who hadn't said anything until then. "And easy to install. You would assume you needed an access port to plug it into, but it attaches to the back of your neck without any technological support. The Sweepers cannot read you."
His voice was haunting, it brought a cold shiver to Schuldig's back, and he suddenly felt more afraid than he ever had in Rosenkreuzt, or in the alleyway. Nagi spoke in such a robotic deadpanned that he seemed surreal. Completely unattached to everything around him.
"That's how you came around without them noticing."
Nagi touched the back of his head, fingers brushing where the data chip he stole from the Sweepers that originally chased him must have been. "Yes."
Schuldig tilted his head, "How old are you?"
"...I rather not tell."
Back to his search, Crawford retrieved a bowie knife and a tranquilizer gun. He went from body to body, collecting darts and storing them in a carrying pouch he had lifted from the commander. "This should take care of Farfarello until we decide what to do with him."
He approached the unmoving teen, weapon in hand.
"Don't shoot him up, you'll kill him." Schuldig warned, "He's already knocked the hell out, leave him alone."
"You didn't mention a third partner, Bradley Crawford." Nagi suddenly accused.
"Trust me." The oracle replied. "He's useful. Very unpredictable, but useful. Schuldig, would you like to carry him?"
"No."
"That wasn't a request." Crawford moved away from Farfarello and stared down the street ahead of them. "We need to find cover and get these implants on. The second Sweeper team will be here soon."
Muttering, Schuldig wrapped one arm under Farfarello's knees and the other under his back. He was surprised at how light and thin, skeletally thin, the Irish boy was. Rising to his feet, he flipped his hair in the older boy's direction. "I still have a lot of questions..." A smirk, "Bradley Crawford."
The brunettes lips thinned. "Patience." He said.
He and Nagi began to walk away from the main road, towards the city. Schuldig remained in place for a moment, staring at their retreating form. He regarded the body in his hands. "Patience." He mumbled. "Crawford. You'll find I have all the patience in the world."
He began to walk.
"...but the world doesn't have much patience left for us."
========================================================
What was the point of Fran Krauler asking, "have the boys been returned yet?" She already knew the answer.
Charles Leistung's eyes were stuck to the giant window glass, the gray pane that covered one wall of his well-dressed office. Both hands stationed clinging to the silver top of his walking cane, an antique piece, a wolf head with glinting ruby eyes. The children of Rosenkreuzt had learned to associate the snarling beast with the Headmaster, choosing often to focus on its glowing eyes instead of Leistung's thin, hawk-like face.
Krauler weighed his silence, mouth turning upwards in her statue-isque way. She stood behind Leistung, hands clasped behind her back, one foot lifted slightly off the floor, rolling from side to side. "The other council members won't admit it, but they are beginning to fear that oracle and his little flunkies."
"Bradley Crawford had a contact." Leistung whispered.
Bradley Crawford has somehow passed their crackpot teams of telepaths, their 1984 security, and communicated with someone on the outside. But with who? And how?
Thoughts heavy, Krauler shared her fellow psychics view of the clouded window. They let a moment pass in silence, before the woman gave in and let out a sigh. "Inform me the moment they're captured. We are Este, we cannot fear anyone..." The woman turned on her heels, she was remarkably graceful for a woman of her age.
Leistung listened to her leave. His breath caught in his throat as she paused at the large double doors dividing his office from the administrator corridor.
"...Least of all three little boys."
The door opened and closed.
=========================================================
The fourth shadow let out another scream as his head scrapped against the pipe ceiling.
The great, powerful, sexy Schuldig was cold, wet, miserable, and worst of all: starving. He treaded water, freezing cold water that came up to his ankles and soaked into his shoes. Every other fumbled step in the narrow walkway caused his head to smash against the ceiling. Cobwebs clung and gathered around his once beautiful orange-red hair.
"This is a sewer!" He pointed out.
Little Nagi, leading the four, released a bemused snort, "Nothing gets by him."
The youngest psychic moved easily down the dark pathway. A head shorter than the German, he had plenty of room to stretch out. Nagi was able to scamper across the water without even bending over. It wasn't fair.
Something jumped onto Schuldig's shoulder and crawled up his neck, onto his face.
Letting out a shriek, the fourteen-year-old dropped Farfarello onto the ground and slapped at his cheeks. The panic attack caused him to bang his head three more times onto the ceiling before he settled down.
Farfarello was rudely awaken to a mouthful of cool, slimy water. But he didn't mind, he couldn't taste it anyway. Though he was startled to find himself half submerged in such a cold, unfamiliar area; he didn't remember falling asleep in some place wet.
The Irish child sat up and peered owlishly into the darkness, single amber eye adjusting quickly to the lack of light, tracing the outline of Schuldig's shivering form, than Crawford's, than Nagi's. Where was he?
Whimpering, the body next to him answered his question, "I'm in a sewer!" he wailed.
"This isn't a sewer, Schuldig." Crawford cautiously pointed out. "It's a storm drain, run-off from the streets comes through here, not sewage."
"Thank you, o'fearless leader, I feel sooooo much better." Normally Schuldig wasn't so melodramatic, so out of control, so emotional. But he had to be given some leeway, he had just busted out of a place that would have put Roswell's security and secrecy to shame; he had been attacked by a bunch of freaks with laser guns; and he really, really hungry. He'd return to his normal cool-headed, witty character later, after the trauma had worn off and he had gotten something to eat.
After random arachnids stopped trying to burrow and nest in his head.
