a/n: Sorry to overload you with notes, but these are important!

For those of you not familiar with the Weiss Kreuz manga this part will contain some spoilers. I'm sorry to put in manga spoilers this far into the story, but the version of the murder of the Fujimiyas as presented in the manga -- explosion at the company headquarters, not assassination at home -- fits much better into the plot of this story. (And trust me, even though it's not really clear yet, the Fujimiya murder is key to this story).

Manga translations of An Assassin and White Shaman, which tell the back history of Ran's joining Weiss are available online (but are NOT necessary to understanding what happens from now on in this fic, as I explain all the relevant bits.) If you are interested, however, try the awesome "Nameless Manga Translation Site", to whom I am indebted for providing kickass translations and scans.

//...// = flashback



Chapter 11: A Meeting of Minds



[SCHU]

How many times do I have to come to this goddamned park?

I'm actually not quite sure how I wound up here. I left Ran's place this morning seething with anger, and started walking, not paying attention to where I was going, only wanting to get as far away from Ran as possible. And somehow, I wind up on a bench sitting alone in the only place in this city that holds good memories, and they aren't even mine - they're Ran's.

On a good day, the field in front of me would normally be crowded with children chasing after balls of different sorts, only the weather offering me a sense of seclusion. There's a heaviness to the air, the type of grey sky which promises rain; the whipping wind adding an unseasonable chill. The shitty weather meshes perfectly with my mood. Ideal weather for smoking and moping, and that's what I was doing, right? Sitting around feeling sorry for my fucking ass like some teenage girl who got stood up for the prom.

I suck back my fifth cigarette in a row, chased by the last of a bottle of horrible vending-machine sake. This is great, Sascha. You're on your way to being bloody well drunk before high noon. Empty, the bottle falls from my hand and hits the ground with a dull thud. It's a cheap form of escapism, but I don't give a shit - I'll take anything that dulls my senses to the pain of everything.

Ran.

That bastard actually kicked me out. I should have known that the trust wouldn't really last.

I only regret - no, hold it. I don't have regrets. Regrets are a waste of time and energy. But, in retrospect, it would have been better perhaps for me to have gone into his mind, to see what he was thinking when he did it; to try to understand why he suddenly wouldn't believe me. Or, better still, to just twist his mind into accepting whatever I told him.

Well, why didn't I? It's not as if I don't have this damned power, right?

Hmph! What a fucking joke. Power? It's more like a goddamned curse, for if there ever was a God, I must have been truly cursed to have been given it.

For starters, it's not really as simple as one would think; not near as simple as, say, speaking or seeing with my other, "normal", senses. Touching the mind of another person brings their thoughts entirely into my own; often I can't distinguish where my own mind stops and theirs begins. It's not exactly a pleasant experience, you know; losing yourself inside another person. It's like becoming one with that other mind; a fusion that's more intimate than sex or love. Sometimes, if they are particularly perceptive, I can even leave traces of myself within them, sharing some pretty damn personal pieces of myself with strangers or enemies. In short, slipping in and out of minds gives me the power to control people, but it comes at a great cost to myself.

Once I was trained in how to control the power, I relished the feeling of privacy, the simple privilege of being able to retreat into my own thoughts, my own dreams.

It's only with someone else with enormous mental discipline who can maintain channels between us with no side-effects; people like Crawford, Nagi, or the trainers at Estet. With anyone else, mental conversations are a certified pain in the ass. But then, with some people, it's worth the effort. And it _is_ true that the more I "talk" with someone, the easier it gets.

I drag heavily on the cigarette for a final time, flicking it to the ground and moving on under the dark sky, _not_ thinking about Aya. I wonder what he would say if he knew that there are times when I would give up everything for a permanent hold on normalcy, on the mundane existence wasted by so many and treasured by scant few.

Aya, Ran.

I can still remember the first time I encountered that mind, long before we were enemies and he learned to despise me.



///

Smoke and plaster dust blew in the air as the rubble settled on the site of the Fujimiya Corporation Tokyo headquarters.

Schuldig stood across the street surveying the scene: the crowds were panicked, some fearing an attack of some sort, others trying frantically to locate friends and co-workers. His ears were filled with the distant wail of emergency vehicles growing steadily louder, meshed with cries for doctors and help.

It was rather a shame, wasn't it? All those dozens of people for the sake of two... Schuldig cut off that line of thought quickly. His hands were blood red now, and would never be clean again. He had chosen his course in life, and there was no backpedalling now.

"This is a standard mission," Crawford had said. "It's the type of thing you can be expected to do - protecting the interests of your employer at all costs."

The cost was, in this case, the life of the CEO of the Fujimiya Trading Company, one of Taketori's largest partners, and his wife.

From what Schuldig had gleaned from various intelligence reports, Fujimiya Trading was involved in more than stocks. It was, in fact, actively engaged in washing money through its operations which then freed up "clean" capital for Taketori to use in funding his political career. Taketori's less desirable transactions, then, could go unnoticed underneath the blanket of legitimacy provided by the Fujimiyas. As far as Schuldig was concerned, it sounded like a pretty tight operation, and a sweet deal for both parties involved. The problem, however, was that Taketori was a paranoid bastard, and was convinced that his partner was committing untold acts of treachery. He hired Schwartz to not only protect his own affairs, but to plant narcotics at Fujimiya's main plant, and to ultimately dispose of the Fujimiya family itself. Which Schuldig would do without hesitation, especially after walking through the mind of Fujimiya Shiro.

It was in Taketori's office, last week. Taketori, his small face flushed to an almost impossible shade of purple with rage, practically screeched at Schuldig.

"Go in there, you freak, and tell me what you see. I want to know everything about Fujimiya's plans to screw me over."

*Do it, Schuldig.* Crawford sent.

*Fine, fine...fucking asshole. But I'm waiting until the guy goes to sleep.*

One convenient trick Schuldig had learned is that his extra sense is easier to control in normal people when the other mind is asleep, making it almost painless to slip in and out of dreams; a fairly easy way to fuck with someone's head and delve into their subconscious. With Fujimiya, it was an easy enough matter, once he had actually passed out after a night of drunken debauchery. What Schuldig discovered about the Fujimiya family made him inwardly cringe.

First of all, there was Shiro. Drunk on the money he was making from his deal with Taketori, he ignored the fact that he went on golfing holidays and weekend whoring trips all thanks to blood money. Oddly enough, he actually was once a man of morals. And it was true, he was plotting against Taketori, even to the extent of an assassination. Then, of course, there was the lovely wife. She was having an affair with her tennis instructor, blissfully and knowingly living off the profits of Taketori's enterprises while turning a blind eye to the abuse suffered by her daughter, Aya, at the hands that bastard, Fujimiya. Aya, to her credit, he supposed, bore it in silence, and maintained the fragile sense of stability which kept the family afloat.

The only one without any major blemish upon their souls was the boy, the only son. He was...innocent. It was funny, actually, in a sad sort of way. The kid had completely shut himself off from the whole screwed up situation, convincing himself that he had the perfect life with the perfect family: his parents loved each other; his mother was practically a virgin saint; his father a brilliant and admirable businessman; his sister utterly innocent with nothing ugly lurking underneath her genki mask. As for himself? He was the oldest child and only son, heir to the much-envied family corporation. He had pride in his own job, and excelled at whatever he pursued. Sports, education, friends; nothing was beyond his reach.

Poor delusional kid, who didn't even know how miserable he was.

It was this kid who Schuldig now spied across the street, sitting amidst a pile of rubble, the crumpled figure of his sister laying at his side. Pulled by some force beyond mere curiosity, Schuldig casually made his way through the erratic traffic to the pair. It was odd; he had seen this face over and over in his mind, but it was utterly different in life. He wasn't just some kid, he had an almost ethereal beauty -- blazing red hair, wide purple eyes, and tear-streaked pale face.

Schuldig peered down, unable to quite understand what compelled him to speak:

"You're alive, kid?"

The purple eyes remained lifeless, locked on the German's but not really seeing him; not seeing anything but the explosion which had killed dozens, including his parents. After a few meaningless lines, Schuldig caught himself, and hastily retreated, calling back to the huddled form of the surviving son: "Good luck, boy!"

Shaking his head, Schuldig returned to the flat he shared with the rest of Schwartz.

***

That evening he spoke with Crawford, trying to keep his tone light when it was, in actuality, filled with apprehension.

"I saw Fujimiya's son today. At the site. He was alive."

"Alive?" Crawford answered, mildly interested from behind his newspaper. "Why didn't you just dispose of him, then?"

Schuldig shrugged.

"Well...you know how these Japanese gossip. I mean, we wouldn't want the media to bring up any questions if the only surviving son of the Fujimiya CEO just happened to have an unfortunate "accident" minutes or days after the explosion. It might come back to haunt Taketori."

Crawford placed down the newspaper and met Schuldig's gaze.

"In other words, Schuldig, you couldn't bring yourself to do it?"

There was an odd silence for a moment, before the soft reply.

"Perhaps."

***

Later that night , Schuldig lay on his mattress tossing and turning, running the encounter with the boy over and over in his thoughts.

What the hell was it about that kid?

He seemed so frail and weak just sitting there, but underlaying that was something else. A powerful desire to never feel that way again.

Intrigued, Schuldig finally gave into the desire to seek Ran out, and to enter his dreams. It was there when he learned the essence of the boy who would come to ensnare the very core of Schuldig's being.

Through the visions and the pain, he found that Ran was a boy who would go to any lengths necessary to avoid feeling weak. He would never be taken advantage of, never again be left with raw and bleeding sores. He would exact vengeance on those who had hurt his family and would protect the remaining members - his sister and himself - with his very life.

"Can you survive, kid? Can you make it on your own? Can you quench your thirst for revenge until you are able to exact it with a practised and deadly precision?"

As Schuldig retreated from the depths of Ran's mind, he erased the memory of his presence, wiping all traces of the German with dyed-green hair from the boy's mind, knowing that when Ran awoke the next day he would only vaguely recall the tall gaijin, and shortly, the image would leave his mind altogether.

"Someday we will meet again, Fujimiya Ran. Until then...

///



I sigh as the but of my sixth cigarette hits the ground.

Not going inside of Ran this morning was a decision I made, and it's not one I'm going to change now.

It's beside the point to think that maybe I wanted him to trust me on his own, to not _have_ to twist his mind into submission and acceptance. I wanted to tell him the truth, to lay everything on the line and see him trust me. Instead, I got what I goddamned well deserved - a kick in the pants and a sign pointing to the door.

As the first droplets of rain come down from the sky, I shake off the memories and tighten my jacket around me, heading for home.

***

The apartment is dark as I enter. As usual, Farfarello is locked up in his padded cell, Nagi is pounding away on his computer, and Crawford is in his office, no doubt waiting for me to report in. I hang my wet coat on the rack in the hall, kick off my boots, and head to the office. No sense in avoiding the inevitable, right?

As expected, he's sitting behind his desk clad in the standard white business suit, arms folded against his chest, stern look on his face.

"Honey, I'm home."

"You look like shit. Where the hell were you?"

As if he doesn't know. I suppose he really just wants to hear me say it, to admit my defeat with Aya. Well, I'm going to make him work for it. I saunter in and cooly stand in front of his desk, crossing my arms and affixing the standard smirk to my face.

"You mean you don't know? Bradley dear, you're slipping."

I really should have known better than to tease him about his powers. It's the one thing he's actually sensitive about; the plain fact is, that since the final battle with the leaders of Estet and Weiss, Crawford's mental abilities have been diminished. While his control and focus have stayed firm, his visions have been even more unpredictable and unreliable, and I know that it's not a subject to be brought up lightly. But then, when I have I ever shown tact?

"Don't pull that garbage with me, Sascha. We were supposed to talk after the meeting last night, remember? I don't like to be kept waiting."

The name stings like a slap across the face; I actually stumble for a moment from the shock of hearing it. This was taking things a bit too far! And they call me a heartless bastard.

"Call me that again, Bradley, and I will rip that stick out of your ass and drive it through your chest."

A slow smile spreads across his face as he calmly replies.

"It wouldn't be wise to threaten me. I know too many of your secrets. Including your sordid affair with Weiss."

I was wondering how long it would be before he brought up Aya.

"Do sit down, Schuldig. We've got a lot to discuss, haven't we?"

This isn't good; this _so_ isn't good. I need to redirect this conversation quickly, because I can't hear what he has to say like this, not with the tension in the air and that deadly hostility on the edge of his voice. Think, Schuldig! What could get you out of this situation, and fast...Of course! And who ever said that my gun was my deadliest weapon? I uncross my arms and relax into a smile, seductively slinking around his desk and standing behind his chair. I lean down and whisper in his ear, the scent of his cologne filling my senses.

"Now Bradley, must we leap right to business?"

With a wicked grin on my face, I reach out swirl his chair around and straddle his waist. I tangling my fingers in Crawford's hair, and tip my head down to make my mouth meet his.

Fuck, he tastes good. I'd almost forgotten -- It's been awhile.

Despite his efforts to retain some sense of composure, he can't fight the pressure of my hips rocking into his or my hands sliding over his chest. He moans into my mouth and finally reaches up to pull me closer. Good. This just might work.

Without warning, he wrenches his mouth free and pushes me off his lap. Smirking, he stands up and cooly walks past me and out of the office. Into my bedroom. Gotcha, Crawford.

As he pushes me back onto my bed and quickly undoes his pants, I keep reminding myself: this is what I want. This is the life I choose. And when he chews on my lower lip drawing blood, I remind myself that Aya was just a game, and now it's time to look out for myself...right?

Of course, right.



~~~`~,~@