There was no pomp and ceremony for the surviving second year students. They were allocated new rooms and handed new timetables, and that was it. Another year over. Having missed out on the shift between first and second, this caught Bradley wrong-footed, and he spent most of the day waiting for something to happen. When nothing did, he resigned himself to the fact that he and his fellow students were of no importance here, other than as potential resources. A resource without remorse, Bradley joked with himself, as each day the idea of killing became more and more acceptable, each wound to be inflicted a mundane fact of life, each instance of torture to perform perfectly normal. Bradley's hatred of the process was as powerful as he was powerless able to prevent it happening.
There was more emphasis on physical prowess this year, and Crawford's skills as a marksman began to earn him attention from staff outside of his normal circle. He continued to work as an aide in the general studies class, teaching younger students to read and write and do the basic maths they'd need to survive in he outside world, assuming they survived Rosenkreuz first. Part of him was aware he was looking for someone, waiting for someone important. His qualms about hurting reticent students weakened considerably, and his request for a cane was well received. His figure commanded respect throughout the school, as Tanya's had.
That was something to live up to: Tanya's legacy. Things were getting clearer to Crawford. She'd needed a replacement, and had trained him to control the students and staff until she got back. And she would come back, one day, to take Rosenkreuz and lead it as she saw fit. Everyone had known her; almost everyone had respected her and her power. Crawford's skills were no mere rumour either; many students had seen firsthand what his precognitive abilities could do in pre-empting an attack on an inferior. Even Hertz began to show a grudging respect for the American, as he produced dissident after dissident. Rosenkreuz was safe for Estet while Crawford prowled the stark corridors.
He didn't form any bonds, as Tanya had. He knew he'd be staying on for a while, and didn't need a replacement. He was looking for something, and Rosenkreuz would offer it to him on a silver platter, he felt certain.
Despite this, he got to know his fellow roommates by name, but further interaction was discouraged. In some instances it was unavoidable, and he was faintly amused as the other three took out their sexual frustrations on each other due to lack of female company. Once or twice, he was invited to join in, but he decline graciously and eventually managed to get hold of some earplugs.
One night, when the groaning and panting had clamed to the slow breathing of sleep, Bradley found himself wondering what it might be like. Two of the boys, Jon and Mikhail, were clearly growing attached to each other, and Muhammad, the third, was increasingly left out of their nocturnal games. He'd entreated Bradley again tonight to join him, and as a telempath he'd recognised that Bradley's resistance was wavering.
It wasn't that Bradley was particularly in need of sex. Since Tanya's departure he'd found nothing to interest him in that area. He had known that his libido was considerably less than most boys for years now, and it didn't bother him. Still, he did occasionally feel, well… left out. He couldn't decide whether he wanted the attachment such an activity would inevitably forge between him and his partner, or whether it was weakness to be avoided. Tanya had clearly viewed it as a weakness.
He heard a faint grunt as Mik rolled over, and Jon began to snore. There was warmth in that bed below him, compassion and companionship. Things Bradley had never really known. He lanced across to the other top bunk, and saw a pair of eyes glinting in the darkness. They had a window, now they were third years. At first Bradley had taken it as a measure of trust, until he realised all third year rooms were on the fourth story. It was just meant to look like a measure of trust.
"Crawford?" the other boy murmured.
"Hn?" Bradley wished he could just fall asleep. These musing weren't doing him any good, and they had a five-mile run and 5AM.
"Any chance of reconsidering?" Muhammad reached across the narrow space between the beds to brush Bradley's face.
"No," Bradley sighed. "I'm not inclined that way," he admitted.
"Liar," Muhammad growled. Bradley stared at him, but the boy clearly wanted nothing more to do with the American. But, Bradley inner voice stuttered in objection, he's a telempath. He must know you're not lying. What is he gaining by acting like this? He must know, right?
What if he's righ- Bradley slammed the doors shut on that thought. Of course he wasn't lying. Ridiculous. So what if he'd entertained the odd thought of 'fooling around' with the others? He'd found Tanya incredibly attractive, and she was most definitely female. It was just a phase, born of loneliness, these occasional urges.
Just a phase.
Probably.
* * *
Crawford worked hard throughout the third year, despite the cruelty now even less disguised. Of the four member of his room, he was the only one to survive the year. Jon was shot for heresy, and Mik shot himself. Crawford felt faintly smug, believing that by turning down the other boys' offers of sex he'd avoided the kind of entanglements that could lead to that sort of behaviour. Their useless affection had made them weak. Muhammad was less fortunate, despite his enforced solitude, as through his telempathy he suffered Mik's suicide and ended up being taken to the Laboratories.
In the weeks running up to the end of the final year, the students were closely questioned as to their plans for the future. Any which didn't mesh with Estet's plans for their future were rapidly discarded, but even the hellish organisation recognised that a happy employee was a peaceful employee. So those that wanted field work usually got field work, and those that wanted to train students stayed at Rosenkreuz, and those that wanted to be swallowed whole by the system disappeared into office buildings, and those with plans like Crawford's kept them hidden. Yes, he wanted to command a field team, but he didn't want to be trapped in Berlin under the watchful eye of Estet's bureaucracy. He told them he wanted to continue training at Rosenkruez, a risky decision, considering it could mean he never got to leave, but he cautiously expressed a desire to learn the techniques employed by field leaders. He wanted independence, but he was willing to put up with several more years of imprisonment to get it on his won terms.
The last day loomed, and Bradley was not alone in his apprehension. The general rumour was that there was some kind of test to pass before they could leave, and those that failed were sent to the Laboratories. Crawford found it ironic that Estet had been established for millennia, but still couldn't work out what caused the psychic powers on which it's whole philosophy was based. They were in terror of the day when there were no more psychics to ensnare, and their limited resources ceased to be expendable drones.
Bradley woke on the final first of November, alone in a room designed for four. The curtainless window faced west, but the grey tint of the sky told him it was about 8 AM. He climbed out of his bunk and faced it, naked, and watched the stars fade. From this high up he could see over the wall and into the Austrian Alps. The grandeur of the lofty peaks represented to him everything he wanted to obtain, the immovable power of the eternal. They also represented everything that was currently out of reach. The mountains in which Victor Frankenstein was born glowed in the dawn light, but the mere thought of the tale depressed Crawford. At least eh creature had been free, even if it was only to suffer.
He dressed, never taking his eyes from the window, and cleared his things into a small grey bag he'd been provided with the night before. He still owned only what Rosenkreuz had given him: a grey uniform and his glasses. He wondered if his original possession would be returned to him. He doubted it.
As instructed, he made his way to the main hall. One of the first to arrive, he leant nonchalantly against a wall outside. A dream last night had provided him with a clue as to the nature of the 'test'. First, an essay about the glory of Estet, something that would destroy many of the less literate students. Then, a staged attack, in which those that put their own lives above the glory of Rosenkreuz would not survive. Many of those that didn't would probably die as well, as their talents dictated. Finally, a psychic scan, to determine those who were loyal from those who weren't. Bradley hoped it would be Gregory administering it, but doubted it. The Englishman rarely left his desert home, and as this event occur four times a year, the chance of him being required were slim.
He was almost surprised by Madame DuBois, whose arrival he picked up on mere moments before it happened. She seemed startled to find him there so early, and fought not to show it. Being a person of very little body language himself, Crawford generally found the gestures of others extremely telling, and Madame DuBois was a very extravagant person when it came to gesticulation.
"Bradley," she smiled falsely. "Are you looking forwards to ze last day?"
"Oui," he said pleasantly. "It promises to be interesting."
"You are thinking of staying on, oui?"
"Yes. I want to train harder and in other areas before I further Estet's glorious accomplishment's in the field." The incessant flattery and sycophantic worship wore Crawford's nerves to the bone, but he smiled and praised his bosses obsequiously whenever he could. Tanya's advice had saved his life and his sanity more times than he could count, now.
"Bien, bien," Madame DuBois murmured vaguely, her eyes unfocused. "Monsieur Crawford, I advise you to be most careful in the final part," she said enigmatically, and wandered away. Her behaviour didn't surprise Crawford, but he found it a little despicable. He never allowed himself to become so distracted by a vision or premonition. And he certainly wouldn't be so vague. If she was going to offer advice, why couldn't it be constructive? Something along the lines of 'don't hate Rosenkruez when they scan you' would have been more useful.
Bradley fought the bitterness back. He was scared. He hadn't appreciated the warning because it had only served to heighten his nervousness. And he new perfectly well how hard it could be to wrench yourself back from the mental precipice the visions could leave you on. A sort of psychic vertigo that claimed many passive mentals, losing themselves in their gift and withdrawing completely from reality. And he also knew how vague the premonitions could be. It wasn't her fault if she could only give a vague waning. Still, resentment built up inside of him. He resented her, he resented Rosenkruez, he resented Estet, but right now, most of all, he resented his father.
His father. Yes, that was where it had all started. Stupid petty little man too wrapped up in profit and loss to realise his son was a human being. To realise his son needed to be loved and appreciated and cared for. Bradley glowered at the wall as scenes played across the inside of his skull. Yes, that man had deserved what was coming to him. He'd been willing to bet that whatever faulty gene had blessed him with this foresight had come from the bastard. He'd never have sunk this far if it hadn't been for his father. He'd never even have come to Rosenkreuz if the man had been better at what nature required of him. He wouldn't be a killer, he wouldn't be an emotionally sterile murderer. He'd have just been Bradley Crawford Junior, some nice kid who liked boxing and would be at a good university probably doing law or something to do with the stock market.
Images flickered through his subconscious, unconsciously screened by Bradley as the product of his gift. The shifting future swirling in a maelstrom of uncertainty, most of it irrelevant to him. Suddenly, his subconscious threw up a selection of images. That redheaded boy again, in an alley with a needle. A much smaller, Japanese boy, also in an alley, crying pitifully. Another redhead stepping out of a tube train on the London Underground, uncertainty masking scarred features. Bradley Crawford Senior had been a terrible father, but Bradley Crawford Junior could be a better one to these lost souls. He would guide them, lead them. He would mould and control them. They would be his.
"An admirable sentiment," a slimy voice murmured. Crawford didn't even turn around. "Pity it's wrong. They will be Estet's, and you, no doubt, will be dead by the end of today."
"You must be the man who performs the final test," Crawford commented nonchalantly.
"Quite. I'd tell your seniors know of your heresy, but I want to see how far you get in the other tests. You strike me as a good liar; I want to read your essay, once I have your head stuffed and mounted on my wall."
Crawford turned slightly and raised an eyebrow. "An interesting sentiment," he purred. "Some might question your loyalty to Estet, if you are so willing to sacrifice one of their most powerful precognitives to decorate your mantelshelf. Some might say you are wasting valuable resources. Some might even say your time here is up." The short man stared up at Crawford's shining glasses.
"What is that supposed to mean?" he demanded, trying to force his way past Crawford's shields.
"I had a vision," Crawford told him candidly, letting his mind show he was telling the truth. "You won't last the day."
"You'll go down with me," the little man threatened.
"Oh, I doubt that," another voice joined them.
"Herr Hertz," Crawford bowed at the waist. "Such an honour to be graced with your presence. Are you here to oversee the loyal as the ascend into the glorious service of Estet?"
"Ja," the man muttered in reply. "Herr Vladimir, I was hoping it would not be you again," he addressed the Czechoslovakian telepath with barely disguised loathing. A/N: I can't remember if it was still Czechoslovakia or the Czech Republic at this point (about 12 years ago now, late eighties early nineties), but think Central Europe in General, really.
"The feelings more than mutual, you little Nazi." Vladimir actually spat on Hertz, whose brows twisted in contempt.
Wiping the saliva from his cheek, Hertz drew himself up to his full height of 5ft4. "I am your superior in every possible way," he snarled. "You have treated me with disrespect. You know the punishment for that," he began to smile. Vladimir's eyes widened. "You are lucky you are such a rare commodity, or I would kill you now. You will conduct the scans as usual, and I will speak to the council to decide what to do with you. Herr Crawford is quite right, your loyalty is rapidly becoming suspect, worm." With that, the ex-nazi strode away down the corridor.
"He has a stick made from a human bone, and a cat o' nine tails made from strips of human flesh," Crawford said conversationally. "I was beaten with both, and spent months in the ward. I didn't pass out until he started whipping my front."
The Czech gave a whimper, and fled.
