Author's Notes: Woot, Chapter three! See? I have been writing after all…

Please enjoy.

3

Training is a bitch. I loathe every second of it.

And yet, I can't help running blindly down the beach. The feel of the wind whipping sand against my face and sunburn is too enjoyable for me to pass up, even though there are dogs on my tail who would eat me alive if they could catch up. I had a bit of a head start, say…a mile and a half. And I'm fast, faster than most men, because I don't stop when they would, as I don't get cramps.

The sunburn too, it doesn't hurt, but the sand in my eyes is a bit of a distraction.

Why am I running? I don't know. It isn't as if I have anywhere to go, anyone who would take me in. I'm still a kid, after all, I can't take care of myself in the real world, since one could say I don't occupy it a certain percentage of the time.

I just want to get away, anywhere away, so long as it isn't here. I don't even have a vague idea of where I might be. I could be on some island and running around in circles for days before I realized it. I could be sixty miles from Nova Scotia. Who knows? The water is cold, but everything is in winter. There should be snow on the ground, but I can't see any.

As if I'm really looking.

I'm more worried about the dogs. I hate dogs because they typically hate me. Studying under Esset hasn't changed my mind any, either. They have the habit of using them on those of us who misbehave, or just for the kick the guards get out of hearing the other boys scream. There aren't any girls here, I suppose they go somewhere else, but that rarely ever makes a difference to teenage boys in dire surroundings.

They learned quickly to leave me be. I bit my attacker's nose off the moment he got close and after that they keep their distance. I don't bother them and they don't bother me. We'd sell one another out in a second, but that doesn't make any difference. They aren't teaching us loyalty here.

It's amazing how I escaped, I'm a little surprised myself. I don't remember much in the way of details, but I know I'd done it before at the asylum. I managed to slip out of the orderly's arms when he was trying to carry me out of my cell so the janitor could clean it and I put him out of commission long enough to get my legs unbound and make a run for it.

I glance over my shoulder and duck. Even if I can't feel pain, gunshot wounds are hell to deal with and they take forever to heal. I don't want any more beatings from these people, and getting disabled or killed isn't going to make it any shorter.

"Halt!"

Yeah, right…

I keep running, so fast my lungs are making my head light and I feel as if I might fly right off the ground if I spread my arms out and flapped them, if I got up enough speed.

I wish someone was here to get me out of the hellhole. I wish Crawford would come back. I even wish I could see Schuldig again, the prick. They sold me like property to these people, and I could never trust them again, but they never whipped me or spat in my face. It may be Esset's intention to make me feel inferior, but after two years one would think that it just isn't going to work.

I hear a shot ring out and try to duck again, running in zig zag now, but something sinks into my shoulder and empties its contents into my bloodstream. I keep running and they keep shooting, more and more of those flying needles until my legs falter and give out and I collapse onto the sand. I try to crawl away, my stomach wet with surf, to crawl into the ocean and perhaps to drown myself.

Death would be better than this place…Hell would be better than here. At least I would be welcomed in Hell.

They grab me before I can even taste the water.

"So, they must have called us for a reason. What did you do this time?" Schuldig purrs through the bars at me. I am pacing, caged like a panther and I am wishing I had the claws to cut his tongue out and the stomach to swallow it. He probably knows that, but what do I care? I send the nasty picture over at him through our mental link.

"I didn't recall the fact that you, or rather Crawford, was responsible for me. I didn't know the terms of your little slave trade entailed responsibility when I decided I didn't like my masters."

"Oh ho, fancy words for a boy who still believes in Peter Pan."

"Her name is Tinker Bell. Get it right," I snap back, my face against the bars in seconds. I am swifter than Schuldig; I became so through the little training program here, but he can still read thoughts. He still knows seconds before I do anything to move away. I can't touch him.

He only smirks.

"Actually, my darling loon, we do have responsibility for your actions. You belong to our team as well as to Esset. Whatever trouble you make comes back to us. And you've been making a lot of trouble…for two years."

"Which means what?"

Schuldig only smiles at me and reaches through the bars to touch my face. I flinch marginally, out of reflex and he only smiles wider. His fingers brush the coarse hair on my chin, as white as the rest of me. His fingers trace my jaw, now strong with a bone structure shaped by age. He glares across my chapped lips, reading the experience there.

He knows this hell.

He pulls away the moment Crawford enters, the American sighing in the way he does when he's hassled. He looks at me, brown eyes tired. He's probably exhausted by the flight here, and then from having to deal with my warden…Esset social structures put Crawford below most everyone else. It happens until a team is good enough.

We're not even complete…not yet. We're far from great, though Crawford had promised us a better future among the ranks.

"You're leaving without me," I ask flatly, barely a question at all. I can't read his eyes.

"Actually no, we're to take you with us simply because you're no longer wanted here, not because you finished the course."

Hot damn…

I wait impatiently for them to open the cell and rush out almost before the guard could undo my handcuffs. I was then shuffled into the car that was idling in the front lot, the driver conveniently unaware of his surroundings as we got in and he drove us to the airport. We would take a private plane for the sake of avoiding metal detectors. I set them off half the time anyway, with whatever pins they put in my leg or fingers or wrists or head.

It is difficult to understand the pain of a broken bone, the way Schuldig screamed when Crawford smashed his fingers some time ago, the way the man whined and whimpers for days afterward. He nursed his hand for weeks, claiming that the pain was simply too much to get through without medications. The last time I broke my leg I had to walk a couple of miles to the hospital. I didn't feel a thing.

The leather of the seat is cool through my threadbare trousers and I shiver against the chill winter air that spills through the door after Crawford and Schuldig. I shift a little closer to the German, simply because he is giving off heat and he looks at me out of the corner of his eye.

Not holding anything against me, oh bitchy queen of vindication?

Schuldig and his sense of humor. If he didn't talk so much maybe people would actually like him.

Eh, what can I say? I like him like this. He entertains me.

/Whatever would I have to hold against you/ I ask, my mental voice mocking innocence. Schuldig snorts, which makes Crawford look up from the papers he's looking over. The American barely gives us a glance before looking down again.

So this means we can make up when we get home? He sounds hopeful. He obviously hasn't had a good fuck in weeks, if he's asking me, of all people.

Don't belittle yourself so, my dear. You were splendid. I hope you haven't lost your touch in these two years. You've grown rather rugged…I like it.

/You make me ill./ And that was that.

I hadn't exactly agreed, but I hadn't disagreed either…

As if Schuldig would listen when I said no anyway…

He leans down to my ear, his still-green hair brushing against my face, and kisses my earlobe. I almost flinch, but I don't want to catch Crawford's attention again.

"You'll love airplane sex…you like airtight spaces like that, don't you?" he whispers.

I shiver. Crawford keeps right on reading.

Schuldig was wrong.

I absolutely hate airplane sex. I absolutely hate airtight spaces.

It's called claustrophobia, and I am suffering it right now. Schuldig is trying to calm me, hushing me as best he can and still trying to get my pants off, but I'm hyperventilating. My breaths are so huge I feel as if I'm about to faint. There are black spots bursting before my eyes and tears streaking my cheeks.

I am not having fun…

"Stop," I plead for the tenth time in a row, my voice breaking with shuttering.

"Its fine, Farfie, nothing is going to happen. The walls aren't going to close in on you."

I wasn't worried about the walls. It was the air that seemed to be leaving the room. How could Schuldig not see that?

I force myself away from him and turn, ready to order him to unlock the door he was leaning against and let me out. I don't care about my state of undress, I just want out.

Schuldig's face is distorted like a Dali painting, melting right off his skull. His fingers are claws, the sharp talons ripping through cloth and flesh and his psycadelic clothing is swirling and forming horrible faces that scream at me.

I do the only natural thing one would do, I attack him and fight for my life. He is keeping me here, in this vacuum, and I refuse to die here with a monster like that. I rip at his face, my short nails tearing screeches out of him, both German and English, and I tear his shirt from him, stomping on it savagely.

Farfie…Farfarello! Listen to me. It's okay. Everything's okay. Just calm down. Deep breaths…deep breaths…

I'm going to die if I can't get out of here. I try to shove him aside, but he grabs me. I try to fight him, but he holds me back through the sheer force of his mind pressing into mine. He inserts calm emotions, serene pictures and the sound of a mother's heartbeat, though his underlying current of thought is both worried and a little terrified. My fighting slows and eventually stops. I slump in his arms, still seeing black spots and still unable to breathe.

He shushes me and strokes my hair and presses the need for sleep into my head.

"I'm sorry, Farfarello," he says softly. I am surprised. The man never apologizes.

I slip into sleep before he can say more. But I remember the cuts on his face and the cooling blood under my nails.

I come hazily to awareness at the sound of Crawford's angry voice. I hear a hand connect with skin and Schuldig's whine in protest, only half-indignant.

"Never do anything to hurt the team, Schuldig. How many times have I told you!" Crawford shouts. The man never shouts. He is always quiet, in control, direct. The change terrifies me.

"And then you do this!" the American continues, "I said nothing before about your little indiscretion, but I didn't think you'd be stupid enough to repeat it!"

Schuldig mumbles something, but Crawford has already turned away, sitting in his seat and focusing on his newspaper.

Schuldig sighs and rubs his cheek, then focuses his blue eyes on me, the gold flecks glinting at me even from across the cabin.

Sleep, lovely. We'll be home soon.

I obey.

Fin chapter 3

Please Review

To My Readers:

eva84: I'm glad you got the age thing. A lot of people don't understand why I insist on the age of some character. I agree that a lot of writers try to over mature him. But think about it, he was picked up at a really young age and even in the anime he's 19 or 20 years old right? I'm 18 and I'm still really immature. Sure, there's a lot of people who aren't, I just know them…(laughs). Thanks for reviewing. I hope you're enjoying the fic.