"Listen all you mother fuckers..."

The Box sat in the center of the Gambling District, a small warehouse that had been converted from a cocaine packing plant to an underground boxing club. Street fighting, in reality, a shady arena where anything went. Fighters placed their name on a roll sheet, won ten bucks American for every round they advanced, twenty if they made it to the semi-finals, fifty for the finals, and two hundred for the winner.

The fighters only won about four percent of the revenue brought in from the wealthy betting class of men who hung in the rafters and less than that from the illegal side bets transacted on the floor surrounding the ring, but it was enough to sing opportunity in anyone's ears.

"Returning Champion..." The announcer's voice faded in and out of the screams.

Schuldig cried out in pain and nearly hit the floor. He wasn't in the ring, he wasn't even in a fight. He was just trying to make his way through the crowd to find Crawford. But the deck fans, husky men who stood a good three or four heads taller than the slight German, were really violent.

Another two elbows flew out from nowhere and smashed into his side and shoulder. Schuldig made a fist, "DAMN IT, RAMBO, FIVE MINUTES IN THE RING WITH YOU AND I'D--"

"Schuldig." Nagi stepped into his field of vision, unmoving and untouched. Schuldig stared and began to, from lack of resistance to the surrounding pawing bodies, sink back to the outskirts of the crowd. The child staring at him rolled his large blue eyes and caught the telepath by the shirt tail, just in time to save him from disappearing under another mass of sweating, screaming beef bodies. "Stop fooling around." Nagi easily yanked him forward and squirmed an opening in the crowd.

The brat didn't have any trouble getting through the mass.

...in fact they seemed to be parting for him...

And Schuldig was being led along like a dog on a leash by a five-year-old, or however old he was.

Oh, the humiliation.

"Bane's down!" The announcer screamed, "Sethron advances to the quasi-finales." The crowd raised their arms and roared.

Schuldig was nearly punched in the face by an upraising fist.

One day...he swore... one day, he would be above this. One day not only would they make room for him, one day their eyes and heads would lower in fear of him. They would grovel, oh yes, they would grov--

"New challenger! New challenger." The man at the mic paused and studied the name on the sheet, making a face. "SCHWARTZ!"

Schwartz. The felt very... his group.

Schuldig balked. "Farfie??" He perched on his toes in an attempt to see over the shoulders of the howling fans and catch a glimpse of the ring.

"...Schwartz?" Nagi grumbled. "Schwartz?"

A man in front of them slapped the back of another, "Look at him! He's just a kid!" The two broke into bawls of laughter. "He-hey, ten bucks on the kid!" They cackled.

Schuldig dove head first towards the front. Nagi remained, unmoving. His gaze was locked on the shoulders of the men in front of him, his face was strewn up. He was perplexed. Schwartz. "...what a stupid name."

Before Schuldig could reach the edge, he heard a body lift from the air and hit the hollow floor with a resounding flood. The color drained from his face. "FARFIE!"

The two betting men felt ill. "Holy shit..."

Schuldig shoved through the last few bodies and nearly fell onto the outer mats. His mouth dropped.

The announcer was shocked, "S-Schwartz...Schwartz...SCHWARTZ WINS! SCHWARTZ ADVANCES TO THE QUASI-FINALS!!!"

The roar of amazement and approval was thunderous. Bradley Crawford stepped away from his opponent, to his corner of the ring, where Farfarello stood, patiently waiting for him. The oracle, Schwartz, smiled.


-------------------------------------------------------------------------

{"Where did you learn to fight like that?" Schuldig demanded.}

The American raised his wrapped fists. His breath came to him, easy and slow, everything was in synch. The man in front of him studied the boy with two swollen eyes.

{"...YMCA..." Crawford answered simply.

Schuldig grinned, "You're kidding." }

Big Bobo spit onto the floor and eased into a fighting stance. A kid, he was fighting a kid. The top of Schwartz's head barely came to his neck. He could sit on the boy and break half the bones in his body. This was the punk who took down Bane?

"FIGHT."

{Farfarello slipped under the ropes and jumped to the floor. Crawford issued a curt nod of acknowledgement. The golden eye boy shifted his head to study their leader. He turned to Schuldig. "Crawford glided like a butterfly."

The crowd broke, Nagi squirmed out. Sweat ran down his forehead, like he had just engaged in a strenuous activity. "Judge box says..." he was a little out of breath, "your next fight... ten minutes..."}

Bobo's dark meaty fist swung at Crawford's collar bone, intent on cracking it and putting the kid quickly out of his misery... and career. He gave a shout of surprise as the hit didn't contact. Agile, Crawford ducked away from the swing, taking an easy side step and watching with a sort of sadistic pleasure as Bobo stumbled off balance and collapsed on the stage ropes.

He waited patiently in the center of the ring for the big oaf to collect himself.

An animal-like roar, a cry of a stabbed pig or cow, frothed from Big Bobo's mouth. He twisted from the ropes and came charging at the waiting teenager. Crawford's brown eyes shined under the light of the stadium.

{"Do you know what's always going to happen?" Nagi questioned.

Crawford frowned, considering. "Not always."

"You can't dodge everything that comes at you, the idiot audience will think its a set up." He pointed out. "Crawford, you'll have to take some hits."

"...thanks for the insight."}

Red strings. Tight and twitching. Moving in every direction, waves of crimson water. Scarlet blood.

Crawford threw out his fists, he almost broke them on Bobo's rock hard stomach. The oracle growled and tried to jump back and round up for another punch. A hand, the palm bigger than his face, slapped down on his head.

The floor left his feet. He was dangling, his hair made ripping sounds.

The crowd swept up before him, black, dusty faces that glared outside of the blinding light that surrounded the two fighters. Crawford saw Farfarello, clamoring up onto the mat, only to be thrown to the floor by Nagi, who had a firm hold of his legs. The mad man was slowly dragged off the ring.

A fist.

{Schuldig winced, "I gotta go..."

"What?" Nagi scowled, he checked the clock on the judges table. "The next fight begins in four minutes."

The German held a hand to his head, "I gotta go." Dazed green eyes swept nervously towards the crowd. At first Nagi thought he was looking for an opening to escape in. Then he realized.

He wasn't looking at their bodies. He was looking at their minds.

"Schu..."

"...who? I mean, what? I'm...fine." He started walking. "You comin', Irish?"

Farfarello tilted his head, "I want to watch."

"Whatever." He vanished in the throng.}

Crawford's body flew across the ring like a limp doll. For a moment he was airborne and spineless. An expression of shock wrinkled his red face. Everyone in the stands seemed to hold their breath. Then he hit the ground.

The sound, a child's body digging into the floor, pass the floor, through the floor, under the floor, was reverberating.

Farfarello screamed, Nagi and his telekinesis was barely able to hold him back.

The Oracle's back arched in agony.

"BOBO WINS!!!"

He hadn't foreseen that.


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

Schuldig was found sitting between two trash cans when they came out, an hour later. He didn't raise his head as the three passed. He just remained frozen, mumbling slightly into the bottom of his lip, hair loose and slightly disheveled, hanging in green frosted clumps around his face. His fingers twitched.

"Schuldig..." Nagi's low voice murmured.

The German's chin jerked up.

Nagi took a step back.

"I told her...I told her, May, I told her I'd get that ring. I just have to make a bit more money...and Darien never calls me. He never calls me and I have to feed the kids. Child support's not cheap... because..." Schuldig grabbed his bangs and buried his face in his knees.

The bowie knife whipped into Farfarello's hands. The blade pointed towards his teammate.

Schuldig's shoulder's shook, he let out something that seemed like a sob. "I just can't take it anymore."

Crawford limped forward. The two younger boys parted to give him room. He eased down to his knees. The motion screamed at his throbbing back, but he ignored it. Crawford laid a hand on Schuldig's shoulders.

The oracle and the telepath made physical contact.

The barrier raised and washed into silence.

"...Schuldig..."

"Schuldig...Schuldig...I'm Schuldig?" He twitched, a violent jerking motion that ran from his neck and seized every part of his body. Then, like any passing moment, the tension eased, Schuldig raised his head and looked around as if just waking up. "...fucking hell."

"What's wrong with him?" Nagi demanded.

"In Rosenkreuzt, Schuldig was given medication to help combat the voices that invaded his head. I'm not sure how they work exactly, but they did, and now they're leaving his system and he'll be overcome." Crawford spoke of Schuldig's doom in a calm, soothing voice. "He might have adjusted to our thought process and create a natural barrier against our minds, but the tonight, being in that crowd, must have overloaded him."

Farfarello was fascinated. "He thinks he's someone else."

"Shut up, fuck-up." The topic of conversation growled.

Farfarello twirled his knife and looked generally amused. "Who's the fuck-up?"

"It will happen to Farfarello too, though for different reasons. I'm surprised he's managed as far as he has. Occasional outbursts aside." Crawford frowned, "I would assume his disorder is in remission, but I don't see that lasting long."

Farfarello frowned.

Crawford started, painfully to get back up again. A hand reached out and held onto his arm. He frowned down at the wanting telepath, scowl deepening as Schuldig took command of his arm and placed his fingers on the German's cold face. Schuldig held his hand there and smiled, "Feels so good, feels so numb." He sang.

"Crawford." Nagi warned. His head jerked to the side, motioning them to pay attention to what was happening behind them.

the four turned to regard the dark shadows that approached from the alleyway. Crawford slapped Schuldig's hand away and stood at his full height.

The shadows stepped into the light and leered. "Schwartz?" One said. "Come with us."

The American nodded. The others started to follow but were halted by their leader. "I'll return in an hour." He paused, "Don't worry, I'll be fine." His chin lifted and he sneered at the men, "It's just business."



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


The Box was an empty skeleton when the lights were out, the crowd gone. The noise silenced.

Crawford found him in the ring, head bowed, engaged in the centerfold of an American magazine. He recognized the title. His step-brother always had a Playboy hiding somewhere in their house. The book's page tucked back to the spine and turned. The reader carefully scanned the next photograph, completely ignoring the Oracle.

"Hn." The brunette released a gentle snort and turned on his heels, prepared to walk out the doors.

"Wait." A heavy English accent stopped him. The body on the stage turned another page and kept reading. Crawford turned, his lips thinned. The dark skinned boy, a teenager, finished the book, lifted his head, and smiled. "Schwartz."

The Oracle waited.

The other boy managed to look offended. He set the magazine down and stalked towards the edge, peering down at Crawford with both arms set neatly on the ropes. "Don't skimp on the niceties, mate. You act like I offended you."

"Perhaps you have." Crawford replied dryly. "I don't like being ignored."

He jumped, "Oh! Aren't you the sassy one? Schwartz..." dark shadowy eyes stared at him from the stage. "...I'm Nigel." He said slowly.

Crawford raised an eyebrow as if to say: yes, and...?

The boy, Nigel twisted and placed his back on the velvet ropes, so that he was facing away from the psychic. He lifted a bronze hand flippantly, "I'm you're bookie, mate."

He feigned ignorance, "...my what?"

'You're bookie, mate.' He knew Nigel would say. 'The man who arranged your matches, professional and all. I'll tell you, you may have gotten your ass...'

"You're bookie, mate. The man who arranged your matches...professional and all. I'll tell you, you may have gotten your ass kicked back their, but you brought more revenue than Bobo and all his buddies combined." Nigel replied. "You're a kid, mate. But you got guts, and people will pay to see you others beat them outta your body."

The fifteen-year-old crossed his arms. An eerie smile was on his lips, not the reaction Nigel had expected to get out of someone he had just insulted. "I assure you, I won't loose next time."

"They'll pay either way. The further you advance, the more money they'll shell out, the more they'll root for you to loose. This here's a high stakes game, it is. We got people working on the inside. No throwing fights and all, but we make sure our high rollers come every weekend and our super stars are there to entertain them."

Sazha slipped into the room, hidden in the shadows. He laid himself against a wall and watched, eyes brimming with an unsettling emotion.

"You'll be paid a percentage, plus the money you win from advancin', it'll be like a regular nine to five, only not nine to five." Nigel said, "you can't beat that."

Lust.

Wine red eyes flickered from Nigel to Crawford, to Nigel again.

"What do you say, mate? Next fight's Sunday night."

Crawford knew who Nigel was. He had seen him in Rosenkreuzt, with the other Talents. A tart, useless boy who was only good for fighting and mouthing off.

The American nodded. "Sunday night then."

What an entertaining child. Sazha grinned and retreated. He had to... check on Talbot. Have some fun. This Oracle, Schwartz, couldn't be the only one enjoying himself out in the city, away from the watchful eye of the Council... now could he?

Nigel, the original, bumped into him in the halls leading to the warehouse's office units. "Whots goin' on, Sazh." He demanded. "'e could get killed in there. Then our whole mission would be fucked to hell. What's the point of waitin' around?"

Sazha placed his hand on Nigel's face, thumb caressing the round cheek, pressing down on the skin as it shivered underneath his grip. Nigel tensed. "Patience." He purred.

The fourteen-year-old wrenched away, demanding at a safe distance, "You're gonna let this birdie fly, Sazha? That's just stupid."

"Nigel," he replied. He sounded disappointed, and spoke in an informative nasal. "don't you know..."

The copy shook hands with Crawford and saw him off to the door, then faded from existence.

"...the higher you fly, the harder you fall."


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