"There's nothing else to lose. There's nothing else to find. There's nothing in the world that can change my mind. There is nothing else." {Lifehouse – "Hanging By a Moment"}
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[Part 3]
On a starless night, if you go to the shore somewhere far from the lights of the city and stare out into the horizon, you can't tell where the sky ends and the water begins. There once was a boy who felt like that. In the deafening chaos of his mind, he lost his thoughts, he lost himself, and even lost his own name. Had he not been scooped up off the streets by someone who recognized his potential, he would have ended up dead, or worse. He had been given a chance, he'd been given a purpose, and he'd been given a name - though it wasn't a very good one. Sure, he was guilty of a lot of things. He just didn't regret them.
Brad Crawford was all of the things that Schuldig was not. Calm, logical, intelligent, neat, punctual. At first, Schuldig hated him, and the feeling was likely mutual, because the telepath was something that simply would not, and could not, be controlled. But over the years, as they had drawn blood and shed blood together, Schuldig realized that he actually kind of liked him. He liked to think the feeling was mutual. But just when he was starting to develop an appreciation for the American's quirky sense of humor, just when they had perfected the comedic timing of their meaningless banter, just when he had convinced himself that maybe, and just maybe, that he had a home, and that home had a name, and that name was Crawford, that's when it was over, just like that. Schuldig didn't argue, for once. That was his only regret now.
His relationship with the ocean was complicated. He had almost drowned once. But there was still no place on earth as peaceful as the spot on the horizon where the sky and water meet. His search had thus far had taken him to Japan, the most obvious place to start, which turned up nothing but memories, some of them more pleasant than others. He took a ferry to Korea, because it was cheap, and then took a plane to Dubai, because where else would a shrewd but successful businessman be but there. Except that he wasn't. Then he came to America. To New York, to L.A., and now, here he was, with an overnight layover in Seattle. The only things he knew about Seattle was that it was the home of Starbucks, and that there was the Space Needle. It was from the top of the Space Needle that he saw the ocean, and like a moth to a flame, that's where he was drawn to. The lights from the city were too bright to lose himself in the ambiguous horizon line, but the sky was starless and the pier was quiet, so it would do.
Because the future was not his to see, his theory of how the fabric of time was woven was like this: There are infinite realities, existing simultaneously, where all possible outcomes occur. You're only aware of just one of those realities. That would mean there would be uncountable realities where he was already dead a hundred times over, and it was just as real as him sitting on the pier. That would mean there was a reality where he was getting married to Elise a month from now. That would mean there was a reality where he was still with-. No, maybe not that. He guessed there are some outcomes that are simply not possible.
He stared up at the starless sky in fearful awe of its vastness. Somewhere under this same eternal sky, he imagined, Nagi was happy devoting his life to research, Farfarello was happy devoting his life to God, and Crawford was happy devoting his life to being an insufferable prick. It begged the question, what was he devoting his own life to, and was he happy? For now, he was devoted to finding answers. He was devoted to finding himself, his real self, the self he had left in the hands of a certain clairvoyant who he had expected to be more careful with it. He was going to find him, come hell or high water, but whether it would make him happy or not had yet to be seen. Failing that, he thought, there's still Tibet. Under the eternal sky, he laid down and closed his eyes and listened to the silence, waiting to hear the voice of God.
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Despite the late night, he was up with the sun. In the shower, he contemplated shaving and decided it was a waste of time. The stubble shadowing his jaw made him look like someone other than himself, and he took a moment to appreciate it. This was a man who wouldn't have let the best things in his life slip away. Here was a man who would see what was important before it was gone.
His phone burbled an alarm, letting him know he had approximately ten minutes to get out the door. Mocking, ghostly laughter rang through his head, and for once he couldn't tell if it was a vision or a memory as he contemplated the look on Schuldig's face as the German man realised he was actually running late.
The weather report said sunny and clear, but Crawford's instincts warned him to bring a rain jacket. He tied the mess of hair at the nape of his neck with a rubber band and dressed hurriedly, not bothering to lock the door behind him when he left. In the first place, he would have foreseen any potential trouble, in the second, a locked door was practically an invitation, and in the third, there was truly nothing in the flat worth taking. All of his financial assets were tied up in foreign banks or large tracts of property, including an island off the coast of Hokkaido. He lived in the dark, squalid apartment because he hated living alone in large houses, and saw no reason to waste space. Plus, it was also an effective cover. Regardless of the way things ended, he'd been a vicious businessman and successful assassin for many years before leaving the business and kicking the rest of Schwarz out with him. Enemies might be few and far between, but they still existed.
That thought drew him up short as he realised the feeling of disquiet had never gone away. He slowed to a walk, peering around corners suspiciously. He didn't know if the feeling meant something dangerous was coming, or something un-threatening, but he didn't like the sensation of not knowing exactly what to expect. It made him nervous.
As he passed the pier on the way to the quay, where the ship he was helping to rebuild was lodged, his head suddenly came up like a puppet whose strings had been pulled. He saw only a young woman out for an early morning jog, and a stranger perched on the pier, either dead, sleeping, or contemplating the rapidly lightening sky. Crawford glanced up and saw the clouds were tinted red, a sure sign of coming rain. He clutched his jacket collar around his neck and continued on his way.
Three times, he nearly turned back and stifled the urge to go and find out if the man on the pier was still breathing. He was already late, and unsuccessfully tried to convince himself that he didn't care.
The foreman for the job they were working - a freight liner designed by a rich old eccentric, who wanted to build himself a sort of floating palace to spin out his remaining years in privacy and luxury - was also late, later than Crawford was, and he dodged the bullet of humiliation and being scolded like a child in front of the entire crew.
He went to work with half a mind far away from his assigned task, dwelling on a desolate-looking redhead in a Berlin airport, receding into the distance as Crawford left him at the gate and walked away without looking back.