Day 1.

So. This is what he knew:

1. Something had happened at Kritiker's headquarters which his Gift hadn't foreseen, rendering him to some unknown location.

2. Weiss was still afraid of him, despite his obvious vulnerability. He gathered this from the fact that they had waited for him to wake and change himself rather than do the task themselves as he slept.

That wasn't much to create a new escape plan with. For one, he had no idea where he was, and neither did his teammates… not to mention they'd be way too busy to come looking for him: Nagi would be completely drained for at least a week after pushing his power to the limit last night, and Schuldig and Farfarello would be busy wrapping up business and setting up for another move.

Crawford paced in circles around his little box of a cell. He guessed it was about six feet by eight feet, which gave him one corner of the room that couldn't easily be seen from his cell door. It wasn't much in terms of privacy, but it was something.

The only egress appeared to be his cell door, since his room was windowless, vent-less, and completely solid. He had tried to nonchalantly inspect it, to no avail; breaking out mechanically had to be dismissed, at least for now.

That meant, to some degree, he'd have to use Weiss as tools.

This was going to make his Gift ache. He still hadn't forgiven Abyssinian for cracking open his head, either. Schuldig would be much more suited for a job like this. Why hadn't he foreseen it? Crawford massaged his temples. Think, Brad.

Quick, agile footsteps down the stairs broke his reverie. Siberian, he already knew, from somewhere between his gut and his Gift. Crawford paused in his loop around the cell to stare through the bars at Siberian's approach.

"Hey, kid," Balinese bleated from his prone position on a ratty couch, "Come to rescue me from Schwarz-duty?"

"Not quite yet," Siberian said, staring at Crawford rather than his lazy teammate. Crawford met his gaze as best as he could, though everything was blurry without his glasses. "Manx wants two of us for Gaijin's first piss."

Balinese groaned and threw an arm over his eyes, "First I get stuck with first shift and now this? You better be grateful, Schwarz."

"Of course," Crawford said smoothly, leaving the sarcastic "I would love to share in this experience with you" unsaid. He had to start ingratiating himself to them, after all.

"We should make him beg," Siberian said, and something was a little off in the way he said it; Crawford could tell by the cold beat of silence in which Balinese sat up and looked at his teammate warily.

"We could," Balinese said, quietly, imploringly. The two members of Weiss stared each other down for another beat before Siberian broke it off to glare at Crawford once again.

"Go on, then, Schwarz," he said, "beg us."

Crawford stifled a smile as he got down to his knees. Idiot. He had lost every fragment of his pride at Rosenkruez a long time ago. This was too easy; it meant nothing. Nothing that he hadn't already given away to someone else, at least. "Please," he said levelly, biting back a dozen dry comments. "I do wish to be treated humanely," he added instead, with the right dose of feeling; just enough to trigger the guilt Crawford knew was lurking under the surface of Siberian's steely glare. Crawford knew he was successful when Siberian averted his eyes.

"Get up, Schwarz," Balinese said, watching Siberian carefully. Crawford stood, and the Weiss boys made their way over to him in silence. "Hands behind your head," Balinese continued; Crawford complied readily, watching Siberian clench his fist to unsheathe his claws as Balinese unlocked the door.

As soon as the door swung open, Siberian pounced toward him and Crawford flinched—such is the consequence of human reflexes. Nonetheless, Siberian seemed taken aback by his response and hesitated ever so slightly as he wrapped his hand around the older man's neck. Interesting. Crawford pretended not to notice.

They guided him out of his cell and Crawford tried to get a better bearing on his surroundings without appearing too obvious. There were no windows anywhere, so he was fairly certain he was underground; the place was shoddily outfitted for a prison—it wasn't likely they went through the trouble to seal windows. He couldn't see any other cells, which reinforced his opinion that it was a haphazard substitute for Kritiker's normal operations.

The bathroom was only a few feet directly to the right of his cell, so he didn't have much time for more inspection. Weiss man-handled him through the door and shoved him in front of the toilet.

"Are you going to do the honors, or shall I?" Crawford asked when Siberian still hadn't released him. Siberian let go like he had been zapped and jumped to hover in front of the door.

"There are still three locked doors between you and the outside, Schwarz," he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Good to know.

Crawford stretched his hands above his head, watching Balinese's slight shift to a fighting stance in the corner of his eye. His lips quirked, and he pulled down his pants and took stock of the room. It was completely bare besides for the sink, toilet, and un-curtained shower; nothing that could be used as a weapon, unfortunately.

"Performance anxiety?" Balinese asked, annoyance coloring his smile.

"Never," Crawford said firmly.

When he was finished, he rinsed his hands and turned to face his captors expectantly. His jaunt wasn't as insightful as he hoped, and much too short-lived. He didn't protest when they wrangled him—unnecessary, really—back into his cell.

"Are you going to be ok, today?" Balinese asked Siberian in a low voice before he left. Crawford didn't hear or see Siberian's response but it must have been satisfactory because the two were left alone.

They stared at each other a while before Siberian huffed and threw himself into a cushy sitting chair across from him. Crawford remained where he was; he had a good view of the room and wanted to induce visions.

"Induce" was the wrong word. Crawford simply did not experience the time linearly. His senses were ever present in a thousand futures splintering on top of an achingly long past; the present was smothered somewhere in the middle: a fragile, paper-thin lens that was reality. When he looked into the room ahead of him he could see it built as easily as he could see it destroyed as easily as he could see it as it was. The trick was finding the right moment and tracing its thread through time.

He watched construction workers on their knees, smoothing freshly poured cement. They looked up, and he did too, and he could see clearly—the frame of the building, the general layout, and yes, they were underground, only one storey below the surface. He listened to workers talk about stupid, silly things: wives, personal projects, the weather. He guessed it was the 1950s or so… One of them mentioned it was to be an office building and his mind jerked in response, automatically finding images of men shuffling through stacks of paper—a mailroom, perhaps?

Something impacted his body, and out of reflex his mind reeled, racing through time to find the present. He glanced down at his watch, a training mechanism from Rosenkruez that helped him center himself in time. When he looked up, he was face-to-face with an angry Siberian.

"Stop staring at me."

Paranoid little shit. Crawford shrugged and yawned. "I was sleeping with my eyes open. Don't wake me up next time."

There were a few cardinal rules at Rosenkruez that went against the typical "kill or be killed" mindset and they were:

1. Give a telepath space when he needs it

2. Don't interrupt a clairvoyant's vision

Perusing through time wasn't the easiest thing, after all. For rookies, an interruption might mean being lost in time for an indeterminate period. For Crawford, it meant disorientation and a lingering feeling not unlike panic. He could already feel the prickle of sweat under his arms. He supposed he shouldn't have assumed Siberian would ignore him, but it wasn't as if he'd get any chances in private to consult his Gift.

"Sleeping?" Siberian sneered with suspicion.

Crawford knew Weiss had a vague idea he could "see the future", but it was clear they had no idea what that entailed. So he shrugged and nodded, "Yes, sleeping."

Siberian didn't seem to quite buy it, but he backed away. His twitchiness made Crawford's skin itch, and if it weren't for Balinese's reaction he wouldn't have known it was atypical. Was this relevant information? Could he use it to his advantage?

Crawford was just starting to look with his Gift for what to say when Siberian spoke up of his own accord.

"Why are you doing this? Why do you do any of this?" There was no curiosity in his tone, only accusation. He was only looking for reassurance that Crawford was a bad, bad man.

He was right, of course, but that impression wouldn't do Crawford any favors. "Choice is different for you than for me," Crawford said, "Firstly, you think you have them; I know that I don't. You can only see the means and I can't stop seeing the end. I wanted to be a doctor," just a touch of wistfulness—he didn't want to be dramatic, "I Saw things. I thought that I could—I thought that I would be one. I didn't See hospitals in my future, but I Saw the fights and injuries and I thought I was going to be a military paramedic or something similar. I did not choose to be made into a weapon by Rosenkruez and sold to Essett, but it happened and there was nothing I could do to stop it."

Crawford neglected to say that he had always, always known that he was a murderer. It was true, though, that once upon a time he thought he might be able to inexplicably become a doctor; kids were stupid.

Siberian studied him with something that wavered between hardness and interest. Not a bad start. Crawford's Gift warned him it was coming, but he let Siberian punch him squarely in the gut anyway. While he was doubled over, Siberian grabbed him by the hair to yank his head against the bars.

"No choice?" Siberian said with a hiss, "Schwarz has done terrible things. It's unforgivable! I don't care what you played dress up as when you were a kid, I would rather DIE than do what you've done, you selfish piece of shit." He hadn't let go of Crawford's hair. This was all part of Crawford's vague start of a plan, but Siberian's actions were starting to rile him a little. He actually was human, after all.

"You don't know anything about me," Crawford said, almost by accident. He certainly hadn't planned to sound like a petulant child.

Siberian's laugh was cold. "I know enough." His fierce grip in Crawford's hair didn't let up, but after a while his breathing became a little less manic. He brought up a clawed hand to let the blades prick beneath Crawford's chin. "Some of my teammates think we got lucky catching you, but Balinese and I know better. I don't know what sick plan you had in letting yourself be captured, but let me tell you something: you will not get out of here alive. And I don't know if you were expecting three meals a day, but I'm going to do everything I can to make this hell for you."

Crawford's brief flare of anger faded to annoyance. Siberian's threats were so absurd they lost meaning. Weiss did not have the power they thought they did.

"Your official interrogation begins tomorrow," Siberian continued; apparently he had a bit of a megalomaniac complex, "And I will be there to watch you scream and cry. Hopefully I'll even get to help motivate you."

"You'd love that, wouldn't you? Hearing me scream?" Crawford had meant simply to remind Mr. Holier-than-thou that the behavior might be discordant with his righteous philosophy, but while Siberian let go of his hair (at last) as if he had been burned, his discomfort didn't have quite the right shameful twist. No, there was something else there, in that conflicted blush. Crawford just didn't know what. He planned to use it to his advantage, though.

Siberian seemed lost in thought and Crawford was tired, so he retreated further into his cell. Yes, Schuldig's Gift would make this a lot easier. He needed more alone time with his Gift, playing out scenarios to get a grip on what might be going on in Siberian's head. Crawford sat down against the wall, and pulled his hood up. Through his half-lidded eyes, he could see the blurry figure of Siberian still lingering by his cell door, watching.

"You'll be sorry, Schwarz," Siberian said in a quiet, dangerous way.

"Crawford," Crawford corrected him, "Brad Crawford. It was nice to meet you, Siberian. I'm glad we talked."

Crawford couldn't see well enough without his glasses to tell for sure, but he was fairly certain he'd flabbergasted the younger man. Satisfied at the thought, Crawford let his eyes close and… drifted… off… to sleep.