Chapter Seven - …But words will never hurt me

Whizzing through the year here, impatient to bring Schu back. Really zooming… It's just occurred to me that Crawford probably does have a set birthday, but I started this already, I'm going to pretend it's in late October. Oh, and this is now officially a prequel to NRNR. If you've read NRNR, you might recognise an OC who appears very briefly in this chapter (hopefully this is her only appearance in this story). If you haven't, you might as well wait until I'm done with this one, unless you're desperate to know more about Tanya and the mystery girl.

Bradley stared at the ceiling. It was white. Like the pain that still flooded his system. It turned out Rosenkreuz students were above painkillers. Bradley would have gone through the entire beating again just to have a single aspirin.

He couldn't move. Every part of him hurt. The sheets were soaked in his blood, even now, a month after the beating. They said another two months in the sanatorium, then back into the main building, but he'd have to take it slow at first. As far as Bradley could see, he'd have to take it stationary!

But the months past and the wounds healed. Bones knitted back together, flesh rebuilt itself, new pink skin covered scrapes and grazes. Slowly, Bradley returned to the picture o health he'd been before he'd dared speak up to Herr Hertz. The irony wasn't lost on either of them; being put in a hospital by a healer.

As he recovered, bored out of his mind, Bradley thought more and more of Tanya. He asked after her every day, but she remained in solitary confinement. Not even the healers could see her. Bradley could make an accurate guess as to where she was: the laboratories. Where the walls screamed and blood had been known to seep through the stone floor. It made any haunted house a mockery of fear. And the young clairvoyant was locked in a sterile white room in that environment. When the lights were out and the rest of Rosenkreuz asleep, Bradley wept for her.

He returned to lessons on the first day of May. Over the high stone wall the scent of summer blossom drifted from alpine trees and bushes, and spring had definitely sprung. This offered no comfort to Bradley. He wasn't behind, he'd been too far ahead to start with, but there was a whole new batch of students to contend with and most faces were either new or badly worn. His own was no exception.

Another month past. Summer had taken hold of the Austrian compound and it took hold of the students as individuals. Some saw it as a symbol of everything they'd lost, others as everything they hoped to regain. Bradley just saw it as half a year gone, and most of it without Tanya. Bradley pined for her.

As Autumn approached, Bradley fell back into the habit of sucking up. He had full control of his gift now, but continued to go to Madame DuBois's tutorials. He wondered if he would go insane if he had to keep this up next year as well, but he smiled and occasionally flirted, earning privileges he would not otherwise have had. He continued to help in the General Studies lessons, teaching basic reading, writing and maths. His patience became a virtue to live up to for other students. He curse it himself, wishing he could force himself to find Tanya and approach her, even at the risk of damaging her health and mental stability permanently. His sporting prowess and weapon skills were on the verge of becoming legendary, as he even beat a telekinetic at precision shooting.

One evening, it late August, Bradley was reclining on his bunk in he winter dormitory when the door clicked open. There were considerably fewer students in both years now, bringing the dorm's total occupancy down to a mere thirty. As a second year, he had more free time, and he generally elected to spend it inside while everyone else enjoyed the late sunshine. Usually he was alone, but the minute snick of the latch signalled the end of this peace.

"Hey," a voice drawled.

"Is what horses eat," Bradley replied, bored already.

"Heh, so very droll," he voice snapped. "Now, I go' a bone to pick wi' you. Well, several, now." Bradley looked up. Standing in the centre of the room was Tanya's practical joker, as greasy as ever, with his arm in a sling. His thuggish appearance, coupled with the dark uniform, made him resemble a bouncer outside one of the more disreputable establishments.

"The knave of clubs, I presume," Crawford raised a sardonic eyebrow. The joke fell flat.

"I ain't stole no tarts," the other boy growled.

"And I am not the queen of hearts. What do you want? My patience is not as infinite as some would have you believe." Crawford swung his legs over the side of the bunk.

"I want my girlfriend back."

Bradley froze. Not… "Tanya?" he asked, as composed as ever. Outwardly, at least.

"Nah, 'ertz. Of course bloody Tanya, you prick! I was 'er favourite, and now you come in an' take the bitch from me, just when she was beginning to thaw out. Another week and I'd 'a' 'ad 'er!"

"When you say had, you mean in the sexual sense?" Crawford enquired coolly, walking towards the younger man.

"What do you fucking think?" He'd grown a bit, since Crawford had last seen him. They were about the same height, but Crawford still had the utmost confidence in his own physical superiority. The kid had a broken arm, for God's sake!

"I think not. I think she's the most powerful clairvoyant Estet has ever seen, and to violate her would be to commit suicide. I think you're a jumped up little twat who saw more than was actually there. I think your life is going to extend all of five minutes if you don't get the fuck out of my sight right now."

"You think you're so fucking tough," the boy sneered. "Look at this. Personal note from the ice queen herself. She wan'ed me."

With trepidation, Bradley took the yellowing paper from the boy's slimy hand. In what was definitely Tanya's handwriting, it read: 'You are what I want, you are what I need. Be flattered.' Bradley calmly folded it up again and placed it back into the outstretched hand. The younger boy smirked.

"What is your gift?" Crawford enquired.

"Huh?" The boy stared at him. "That all you got to say? No wi'y comeback? No rep-art-tay?"

"Telempath, I presume? Passive, of course." Crawford walked slowly around him, forcing the boy to turn to keep an eye on him.

"An' wha' of it?"

"You are powerful, yes? You could feel her desire?"

"I'm the most fucking powerful telempath in the whole fucking place! She wan'ed me! You saw wha' it said in the no'. She need me! I fel' it. She wan'ed to have me as her own!"

"I see." Confidence began to creep back into Crawford's tone, the smug self-confidence of a man who knows he's already won, and is just waiting to see how long it will be before his opponent realises. "So, she wanted you. You're a very 'powerful' person. She wanted to own you. Tell me, how long were the two of you well acquainted?"

"Coupla months. It don' take long for a chick to realise she wan's a bi' of this," the boy leered, lifting his shirt to display a dark nipple and squeezing it with dirty nails. Crawford's eyes raked disapprovingly up and down the lanky, greasy figure.

"I see." Inwardly, he was laughing, but outwardly he remained as calm as ever. "So, you didn't know her all that well, as a person. She didn't tell you of her plans." No questions, not any more. They weren't needed. The facts fell into place like dominoes. Or, as a more sinister part of Crawford's mind supplied, like corpses into graves. "She never told you of how she plans to make changes to this place, how she plans to take control once Hertz has passed away and who she needs to help her. She saw you had power, no doubt you boasted of it, and she saw how it could be used. She is not a woman given over to carnal lusts, boy, and the mere supposition that you could inspire such sensations in even an earthworm is beyond belief. You have power, and she wanted it. That is all."

"An; you? You ain't a telempath. Wha' power you go' that's so vi'al to 'er?" Crawford had to hand it to him, he held his fear well. If the places had been reverse Crawford would have been looking for a way out of the situation. On the other hand, perhaps the boy was just too stupid to read the signs.

"I have the ability to know when and how she's going to succeed," Crawford said calmly. "I have better people skills than you'll ever have, and I can read body language better than you can read emotions.  I am intelligent, practical, methodical and foresighted. You, boy, are a prat."

Silence reigned.

"You bastard!" the boy shrieked, and the arm in the sling suddenly unwound itself to shove the end of a gun into the centre of Crawford's forehead. Crawford, already prepared for this eventuality, slammed his fist into the boy's shoulder, knocking him off balance and weakening his grasp on the weapon. Grabbing the young man's wrist and elbow the bone gave with a satisfying crack, and the gun clattered on the stone floor.

There was a brief respite, Crawford still holding the broken arm and his assailant pale and panting. Both pairs of eyes turned towards the dull metal of the gun barrel. Neither noticed a gentle 'snick' as the door opened once more.

The young man was about to go for it, even at the expense of his arm, so Crawford made the first move and dove towards the firearm. A dry palm curved around the smooth grip and his finger found the trigger almost automatically. The first shoot went right into the heart.

The boy gasped as life left him. Crawford watched with professional detachment as the body twitched and sank to the cool floor. As it collapsed, another figure became visible. She was small, on the cusp of adolescence, with a faint smile. Her eyes burned.

Her hair was brown, her eyes brown, her skin a pale cream. She hands were tucked neatly behind her, and her long dress made her look like a relic from days long gone. She regarded Crawford with detachment, licking her lips like a child who's just finished eating the sweets the strange man who wanted her to get into his car gave her.

"Shh," she murmured, the playful smile akin to that of a certain eight-foot reptile left over from the days of the dinosaurs. Crawford expected any tears she shed to be equally fake. "You must cheer up a little," she told him. "I hate that everyone here is so sad all of the time. One day, I'm going to do something about it."

This time, it wasn't a 'snick' or a 'click' but a 'bang' as the door flew back on its hinges. The three adults Crawford had first met at the airport in Japan strode in. Madame Dubois looked harried, and Crawford guessed she was the reason Gregory had been dragged from his home in the Sahara at short notice, which was why he looked furious. Herr Hertz's smile sent shivers down his spine, and old injuries twinged in sympathy for the beating that was likely to come.

"Fille!" Madame DuBois snapped. "'ow did you come to be out 'ere?"

"They left the door open," the girl said. There was a moment's silence. "After they all died," she finished.

"Herr May?" Hertz gestured to the Crawford and the girl. "I suppose you can do it?" Lackeys started to hustle the child out of the room.

"Yes, but not at once. Not to him. Really, you have no idea how strong his shields are. You don't want to risk him, do you?"

"Nein, nein, I suppose not. Still, I know how to break him." Hertz's grin widened. "There are places where we can send him, ja?"

"Non!" Madame DuBois snapped. "'e is too precious. Remember what The Ancients said. We need 'im intact!" There was silence.

"I suppose… I think I could remove her from his memory," Gregory offered. "He'd just remember us arriving, and, of course, this conversation. She's an image, nothing more. Faces can be difficult to remember accurately anyway, so it could just be a case of a slight nudge."

"I see. Ja, do that."

Crawford stared at them in bafflement. He'd just shot a fellow student, a student who was an equal, not an inferior, and they were talking about removing something from his memory. Someone, a female someone. The only woman present was Madame Dubois, but she didn't seem to be the person they were talking about. Mr May was leaning against one of the walls, suddenly overcome by fatigue. Bradley wished he could put this down to jetlag, but he doubted it was so.

*She spoke to him, * Gregory warned the others. *That's not going to go away. *

*A beating will make him forget, * Herr Hertz said confidently.

*The Ancients were not impressed with you last time, * Madame DuBois reminded the short German. *We need him on active duty once he leaves here, and crippled are not very active, non? *

*A few scars, that is all, * Hertz reassured them. *He killed an equal. *

*We don't want to make him think that killing is bad. He'll need to be able to when he leaves. * Madame DuBois expressed futher doubts.

*Anger is the wrong motivation! If he had killed for the glory of Estet- *

*Carlos wasn't exactly a model student. He had no love for the establishment, * Gregory inserted.

*Ach, you are both overcome by his looks and your fear of our superiors. A little time in solitary, at least? *

*Yes, because madness is what we really want to inspire. We need him whole, body and mind. * Gregory glowered at the diminutive controlled of Rosenkreuz.

"Fine," Hertz grumbled aloud. "Herr Crawford, you have done well to kill this traitor. Herr May has told us of his heresy against Rosenkreuz, and Frau DuBois foresaw the struggle. You should have brought him before us, so we let you off once and once only." He strode out of the room, followed by Madame DuBois.

"You know I did it for no such reason," Crawford moved to lean on the wall next to Gregory. Servants began to scuttle in a start to clear up.

"Yes, but he really wasn't particularly enamoured with our bosses. Next time, don't let your instincts get such control over you," Gregory warned. "Beat him to a pulp, yes, but leave him alive for us to kill."

Crawford grimaced. "Thank you for that piece of advice. You know, it was him who had the gun."

"Keep it, it may come in handy." Gregory smirked, and slid and overly friendly arm around Crawford's waist. "Fighting over a girl, aye? I've seen her. She's still unstable, but you might be able to get a message to her."

"Tell her I love her," Bradley said softly. He rested his head on Gregory's shoulder. "Tell her I'm waiting for her. Tell her I'll wait forever, if that's what it takes."

"Heh," Gregory snorted. He slipped his hand inside Bradley's shirt. After almost a year, Bradley was getting used to this sort of teacher-student interaction, but it still creeped him out a bit. Still, he owed Gregory his life, so a minor grope would go unremarked. Gregory let his tongue trace the inside of Bradley's ear. "If it bothers you, tell me to stop."

"Would you?" Bradley asked rhetorically. Gregory shook his head.

"You warned me my favourite was about to run, and you were right and I was wrong. I've been a bit lonely…" Gregory pressed Bradley against the wall, and Bradley could feel the heat of Gregory's erection through the worn trousers.

"If you need me intact, I wouldn't say this is the way to go about it," Bradley warned. Gregory sighed.

"I guess not. Hey, don't worry about the shooting okay? Killing a person can confuse you a little, so you may recall things that couldn't possibly have happened, and you can forget the conversation altogether." He moved away from Bradley, wandering out of the room.

"Or not, as the case may be," Bradley murmured.

* * *

Bradley received no return messages from Tanya, and he began to doubt that Gregory had ever delivered his. It stung, slightly, especially the idea that Gregory had delivered the messages, but Tanya hadn't replied anyway.

September departed and October slipped by. As it neared the first of November Bradley realised he was about to enter the third year. He wondered if Tanya would graduate or stay down. He hoped fervently that she was kept down, so he could have the pleasure of her company another year. Then they could be together when they left. She was going to work for Estet, in their Berlin headquarters.

Bradley woke up on the first of November, stomach clenched in anticipation. When he slept tonight, it would be in one of the third year dormitories. Only three other occupants, and real mattresses. He'd missed real mattresses.

He'd also missed Tanya. Taking a walk that was now routine for him, he headed to the laboratory complex. She'd been moved there for rehabilitation after she'd been able to stand human company again. Perhaps today they'd let him see her. Perhaps today there'd be a message.

He was a familiar face by now to the technicians and grunts that paced the harsh white corridor. THX-1138, Bradley thought, and door 1138 to match. For some reason he'd always preferred George Lucas's early success of his vision of dystopia to the epic Star Wars trilogy, in all it's 'evil is bad and good is better' glory. The Crawford part of him admired the harsh amoral, asexual regime. The Bradley part hated that part of himself.

He raped on 1138 and for the first time the door actually opened. Usually, there would be a brief conversation through the door, harsh but almost sympathetic words always to the effect of 'no visitors'. There was no premonition of doom as the door swung silently on plastic hinges, but what Bradley was within almost destroyed him.

The room was empty. There were signs of recent habitation, but it was clear that its occupant had left. For good. On the bed was a single sheet of white paper. With trembling hands Bradley picked it up, and read with trepidation.

Bradley (he read),

Thank you for your sentiment expressed through Mr May. Forever can be a long time, especially when what you want is forbidden by the fates. Still, it's nice to hear a friendly voice, so here is a number at which I can be reached: 434 578 666. I hope you feel honour bound to contact me, if you manage to find a telephone within the walls of Rosenkreuz.

Tanya.

Bradley sat down on the bed. No returned 'sentiment', then. And what did she mean, 'forbidden by fate'? He didn't cry, he wasn't a tearful person, but the cold message left a gash in his heart that would be many years without healing. The phone number was an empty courtesy, as she knew as well as he did he'd never be allowed access to any form of communication with the outside world as long as he was in this hellhole. Her words did not hurt, they mortally wounded.

And what was this about 'honour bound'? Surely she didn't expect him to bend to her every whim, especially when she made it clear she didn't share his feelings? He ground his teeth. There was no honour among thieves, as the saying went, and there'd be less among killers. He was not an inferior to do her every bidding. Why should he call? Why should he even make the attempt? What right did she have to assume these things? She stood up sharply. No, he would not call. He would not make the effort to do something for someone who clearly felt he was less than worthy of her attentions. He strode out of the small room and towards the main 'school', determined never to think of her again.

But still, he folded up the note carefully and put it in his breast pocket.

That was a bit longer than anticipated, and I didn't even cover all that I wanted to. Still, there's always the next chapter (a phrase I'll regret by the time we hit triple figures, no doubt).