Chapter Seventeen – A Year and a Day
Schuldig was watching through a one-way glass window as lights and sounds bombarded a young boy, unaware of how the action paralleled Bradley's observation of him, a year and a half ago now. The boy, who looked about seven, but was in fact ten, had dark hair and huge blue eyes. Schuldig wasn't exactly well travelled, but something about blue eyes on a Japanese child seemed a little bizarre to him, but in an exotically delicate way. He wondered whether that was how Greg had seen him.
"Schuldig?" A voice asked, incredulously. He jumped, wondering how on earth anyone could have snuck up on him without his knowledge. He turned and his jaw dropped.
"Crawford?"
The two regarded each other. Crawford had gone up market since he and Schuldig had last met, now wearing a tailored Armani suit like he was born in it. He had new glasses, which complimented his features much better and weren't nearly as scratched as his old pair. Light glinted off the well-polished lenses like a lighthouse on a stormy night. He was tanned now, and his hair was a little longer, but professionally styled. Everything about him oozed 'gentleman' and 'businessman' and, most of all, 'rich man'.
Schuldig, on the other hand, looked more the rebel than ever. His hair had grown several inches, lending it enough weight to stay out of his eyes, for the most part, but making it appear even more unruly and untidy. He'd been thinking of dyeing it for a while now, but within the walls of Rosenkruez it was hard to get hold of any kind of chemical product. He'd grown into his looks, seeming less the lanky teenager and more the self-assured young man. He'd also filled out a little, the bony arms and legs displaying proud muscles, and his chest was as hard as a rock. He walked with the air of one who knows he's God's gift to whoever. Crawford could understand the arrogance; the boy was indispensable to Estet and very attractive to boot.
"Well, this is a turn up for the books. How's… places?" Schuldig waved his hands vaguely. Despite the strict regulations on uniform, he'd managed to get hold of some rather novel items of clothing, including a ratty green jacket and some broken sunglasses. Crawford had a premonition of how those clothes would one day evolve into a much more contemporary, and, overall, Schuldig outfit.
"Good, over all. How's Rosenkreuz?" Crawford made polite conversation.
"Hell, over all. You know how it is." Schuldig flashed him a trademark smirk. "So what's going on here then?"
"I was hoping you could tell me. I found this one in Japan, cowering in an alley." Crawford watched the boy though the glass.
He was sitting impassively on the floor, watching the lightshow without interest. Occasionally, muffled sounds could be heard through the walls, which worried Schuldig slightly, as the room was soundproofed.
"Looks like their testing for epilepsy," Schuldig observed. "You know, like those strobe lighting videos that cause fits? I always wondered, what happens if you do have epilepsy, and you've been watching, say, a television series all the way through, and the final episode's full of flashing lights? Do they make another version of the climax, especially for epileptics, or do you have to rely on other people telling you what happened?" While Schuldig babbled on, he reached out with his gift, peering through the glass walls in his mind that kept 'them' out and him in, looking for someone who knew what was going on. Ah, got it. "They're not really sure what they're looking for. Boy's ridiculously clever, and it's a new brainwashing technique. If it doesn't work, he's just one telekinetic among many, if it does, well, now they've got a way to convert the smart ones."
"You noticed that too? It's depressing the number of graduate with double digit IQs, or less." Schuldig laughed, despite the fact Crawford hadn't been joking. He seemed to have forgotten how to do that. Crawford went on, "I hope they don't break him. He's immensely powerful. I think… I think he's going to be useful, later on."
"I don't like what they're doing," Schuldig confessed. "They intend to keep this up for days, you know. I'm going to keep coming back. I don't know if they're letting him out at all."
"He doesn't seem that bothered."
"And which one of us is the telepath?" Schuldig muttered. Crawford gave him a sharp look. "You noticed something?" Schuldig said suddenly. "We're avoiding it. We haven't spoken since you read those diary entries they stole from Greg May, and we're keeping to nice neutral topics. Talking about the boy. I know how upset you were," he said warningly, "and I know how upset I was. It's been over a year."
"A year and a day," Crawford said impassively. "Time heals all wounds,"
"Bullshit."
"Probably," Crawford conceded. There was no humour, as there would have been if it were Bradley talking. This worried Schuldig. He knew he'd perhaps idealised the memories of his mentor, but he couldn't have strayed that far from the truth, could he? He couldn't touch this man's mind at all, it was like holding ice: it slipped away, but not before it froze you and stung.
"So, I say, what next?" Schuldig continued. "I hated you. Completely and utterly. I guess I'm not going to hurt you, or you wouldn't still be standing here. And you hated me. It was killing you. Everyone thought so." He started to babble, trying to elicit some reaction. "You weren't sleeping, you weren't eating. You hated me, and you missed me. Didn't you? You couldn't stop thinking about me. I possessed your life, your soul. I-"
"Shut up," Crawford said tiredly. And Schuldig did, out of sheer shock. "Yes, there was some ill feeling towards you, but that's all in the past. I've changed."
"I knew it!" Schuldig crowed. "You've turned into an emotionless robot."
Crawford looked a little peeved, which was an improvement on utterly apathetic, but not much. "That's not entirely true," he objected. "It's just, for the job we have to do, I can't afford to be as emotional as you."
"But I can?"
"We all cope in different ways."
"Heh." Schuldig turned to stare back at the window. The boy inside yawned. "You haven't even asked what I'm doing here," he said a little resentfully.
"You're going to tell me," Crawford pointed out.
"Tests. They want to see just how powerful I am. Pretty damn powerful, as it turns out."
Crawford frowned. Something inside him was clamouring for attention, but he'd forgotten how to respond to it. Perhaps Schuldig was right, perhaps he was dead inside. But still, he had been trained to follow his intuition, and something felt very wrong about all this.
"Don't let them know your limits," he warned, cautiously.
"I don't know my limits," Schuldig admitted candidly. "There's some talk now about that cocktail of drugs they found me on. They think it's enhanced my powers. You know, I'm stronger and faster than I ought to be too. That's really confused them."
"Schuldig, this is important. What ever you do for them, keep a little something in reserve. Never give it all you've got. Lie."
"I don't lie." Crawford had Schuldig's attention now, though. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know, but something about this set up smells funny, if you know what I mean. If the worst comes to the worst, we need to be able to surprise them. Don't let them know the full extent of your powers. It'll help if they underestimate us." Crawford was looking distinctly uneasy, and Schuldig was increasingly aware that the man had very little idea of what they were talking about.
"Who are they?" Schuldig asked softly.
"I wish I knew. It's all so unclear. I think it's a long way off, yet." Crawford sighed, his shoulders slumping. "You'll just have to be satisfied with that." He looked at Schuldig closely. "Keep it in mind, that's all I'm saying. It was… nice… seeing you again. Goodbye."
"Auf Wiedersehen," Schuldig said vaguely. It wasn't until after Crawford's footsteps had receded down the corridor it occurred to him to ask who 'us' were, as well.
* * *
Crawford stared around his Rosenkreuz apartment. It not only had a bathroom, but it had a fully fitted kitchen as well. Unfortunately, until they started paying him wages, it would remain an empty kitchen, and he was ravenous. He pressed a hand to his complaining belly and wished his body would catch up with the time difference. It was several hours until supper. Still, the fridge looked better, empty and white. He frowned at himself. He was appreciating the aesthetic austere beauty of an empty refrigerator? He'd been alone too long.
It wasn't huge, as apartments go, but after staying in a Japanese hotel that was little more than a cubby hole (an interesting experience, but not for the claustrophobic) it felt huge. And empty. He mind wandered back to a time when he'd hated that aloneness, that empty feeling. Before Schuldig, when he'd have done anything to have someone to share the burden. Funny, he didn't think he could stand a permanent companion now. Some noisy obnoxious person professing to knowing his every thought and desire, always there, getting in the way, acting like they knew him? No, he'd go mad.
He frowned at himself in a mirror. Speaking of noisy obnoxious people, it had been a shock seeing Schuldig again. He'd grown up a bit, it seemed, gained a little maturity. Rosenkreuz was force-feeding adulthood to the Peter Pan-esque teen. It was a bitter pill, but it was all for the best. Crawford mused on what sort of adult Schuldig would be. Echoes of Hertz resounded in his mind.
He refused to consider Schuldig's words and their implications. Crawford too had matured, in his own opinion. He had adapted and evolved to suit his new purpose in life. He could kill without remorse, and live without fear. He was his own man, as far as Estet would allow. He was going somewhere, dammit!
The sudden burst of unaccustomed emotion gave Crawford a headache, and he stared at the mirror. Why did it bother him so much, what Schuldig thought? Once up on a time, perhaps, but he was over that immature little crush. Why did he feel like he was in the wrong here, like Schuldig was right to criticise him?
Crawford sighed. Rather than contemplate the fact the his subconscious wasn't letting go of the fact his apartment, his stomach and his life were all empty, he elected to go to bed and try and get some sleep. He was badly jetlagged, and he would be back to his old self in the morning. Well, new self. And he was going to ignore the nagging question of 'why, if he really was going somewhere, wasn't he being consulted on where that was?'
* * *
Schuldig ignored the snivelling of the boy on the bunk beneath his. Crawford was back. His shields had always been good, but now they were impenetrable. Schuldig hadn't even been aware of his presence. Not good.
Did he still hate Crawford? For prying into his private life, yes. For not even bothering to ask Schuldig in the hope he might tell him something of his own free will, yes. For letting Rosenkreuz take him away, yes. For not caring that this was the first time they'd seen each other in a year… Well, no. If Crawford could be bothered to remember that it was exactly a year and a day, that he'd clearly remembered the date when Schuldig had been forced to go back to the dormitories, then surely, surely, he cared just a bit? Or he had, once.
Then there was this matter of the lack of Bradley. Schuldig hadn't known Crawford as long as he'd have liked, but he'd noticed early on that the man tended to file his thoughts under either 'Crawford' or 'Bradley'. Or, as Schuldig like to think of it 'crawfish' and 'baddy'. There wasn't anyone here who could be called good, and the blasé way Bradley had admitted to killing had confirmed this opinion. But now it was just Crawfish. Cold, slimy, emotionless Crawfish.
There was no balance, Schuldig decided, between Bradley and Crawford. Bradley was an okay guy, a little stern, an overachiever, but not a bad sort, overall. He'd been kinda nice to Schuldig, especially with that whole 'monsters' deal, despite the fact that he was clearly very attracted to Schuldig and having him in the same bed must have been absolute torture. Then there was Crawford, who saw people as statistics and numbers to be balanced and shifted and played with until an extra million dollars or so snuck into Crawford's own pocket. He was a guy who had no particular opinions on killing, as long as his suit didn't get dirty. He'd brown-nose his way to the top, and heaven forbid any one should get in his way.
Schuldig rolled over, suddenly uncomfortable. He had a sort of… affection, for Bradley, but dammit if Crawford didn't turn him on. If Crawford was going to the top, Schuldig wanted to be right up there with him. Which right now meant beating him at his own game. Sycophants beware, Schuldig's going to outdo the lot of you to get back in Crawford's good books. Preferably the ones with the disappearing millions. He'd always wanted one of those shiny red phallus-symbolism cars.
* * *
The night passed slowly for both men, but even slower for a certain small boy. Sitting in a room full of flashing and weaving coloured lights and being bombarded with meaningless tones, Nagi was bored. No, he'd been bored after about an hour of this, now he was drowning in ennui and suffocating in tedium. So bored he was thinking up synonyms for bored. And wondering if there were any synonyms for 'synonym'.
A/N: according to the computer thesaurus, there aren't, but it's a pretty bad thesaurus as thesauri go. Huh, 'Thesauri' is actually a word….
Another wave of lights shimmered in an alarmingly predictable pattern. If he could work out what they wanted from him, he'd do it. He'd do whatever he had to, to get out of here.
Naoe Nagi, age ten, watched the lights patiently, waiting for an answer. The scientists got bored first.
* * *
Crawford was eating breakfast when Schuldig plonked a tray down next to him, flashing what he hoped would be a winning smile. It was oddly similar to a smirk.
"What are you doing?" an incredulous Crawford asked.
"Joining you for breakfast," Schuldig said scornfully.
"You're not allowed-"
"You actually haven't changed a bit, you know that?" To Schuldig's surprise, Crawford blushed. He pushed a little further. "Go on, say 'I see' in that speculative monotone of yours. It'll make my day."
"Shut up."
"Oh, I'd forgotten that one! Yes, 'shut up' was part of the staple diet as well."
"You haven't changed either. As incommodious and infantile as ever."
"Oh, but I have. I understood that, which I wouldn't have before." Schuldig smirked, and got on with the task of trying to convince himself he really did want to eat the watery gruel. Crawford's nostalgic acceptance of the grey paste was bothering him. People weren't supposed to feel nostalgic for something that looked like it ought to be used to put up wallpaper, and tasted like it too.
"Stealing information from other people's minds hardly makes you an academic," Crawford said witheringly.
"Sure it does," Schuldig grinned. "To steal from one person is plagiarism, to steal from many is research. Anon said that. He gets quoted a lot, you know."
Crawford winced sympathetically. "Anon is short for anonymous. It means they don't know who said it," he explained. Schuldig grimaced, but suddenly broke into a smile. Crawford stared at him like he'd grown wings.
"That's the Bradley I knew! Shame you aren't still helping teach. My standard's have gone right down." Crawford stared at him. Well, it had been a long time since he'd felt anything like sympathy, and Schuldig did have a knack for arousing it in him. Arousing other things too, but he was above that now.
"You're half way to the end of your time here," Crawford pointed out conservatively. Schuldig looked nonplussed. "The essay," Crawford reminded him.
"Ouch, ja," Schuldig grimace again. "I'd forgotten that. Little help?" He gazed imploringly at Crawford. It was too perfect, really.
"Maybe," Crawford said evasively, standing up. "Well, it's been pleasant talking to you again. Good to see a familiar face once in a while." And with that, he left.
