Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Chaos Came Early ❯ Rewards ( Chapter 3 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: KD Sarge 
Enter the "no-Talent psycho."
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.10.2005 | Updated On: 11.01.2005 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.9K | Visits: 697 | Status: Work In Progress
Enter the "no-Talent psycho."
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 10.10.2005 | Updated On: 11.01.2005 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.9K | Visits: 697 | Status: Work In Progress
For RedQueen, ‘cause I really think it will make you happy. (By the way–thanks for the hugs and appreciation, but I wish you’d left Schu alone. Now every time he gets bored he threatens to come live with you. ;)
moimoi-chan, thanks for the livejournal link. Clearly I’m going to need to spend more time there. Darkephoenix, soxy–thanks for sticking with me.
*******
Crawford had read the Irish boy’s file three times, but he sat at the TV tray the hotel’s ad called a desk, and read it again. What there was of it. The internet had supplied more information, if details of his–abilities–were needed. Most of what was in the file was from the internet, Crawford had recognized it. Not having a Talent, “Farfarello” had been given only a quick training and rushed into service. In some ways, Essett was practical in its approach to tools. Mari–with no explanation of why she didn’t know the future of a non-Talent–had given 80 to 1 odds the boy would kill himself within two years, so they were going to make use of his viciousness while they could.
He had been given to Crawford because Herr Stein said he could handle ‘difficult’ subordinates. The letter of recommendation was first in the file.
On Crawford’s mental list, Herr Stein was now fifth against the wall, when he brought Rosenkreuz down.
“Ridiculous,” Schuldig muttered. The desk was in front of the mirror, maybe to make it look larger, so Crawford could see that he’d flung himself on the only bed. The German had learned English somewhere in the last six hours, and whoever he’d learned it from had an extensive vocabulary. Crawford had no doubt Schuldig would change it to suit him as he gained confidence. But for now he sounded like an American prep-school graduate. “You are a precognitive, why did we arrive so early?”
Because it was expected. Crawford knew he was arrogant. He did try not to let it show. Somewhat. If he were too compliant, they would not respect him. If he were too arrogant, they would break him.
Try, anyway.
His telepath let the silence lie between them. Crawford stifled a sigh.
“Stop it, Schuldig.”
It was a guess, but a good one. Whenever Schuldig went quiet too long, if he was looking at his leader, Crawford assumed he was trying to penetrate his shields. So far he had not been wrong.
“You could not possibly have felt me that time!”
Crawford bent his head over the file and allowed himself a small smile.
“Is it time yet?” In one of his faster-than-humanly-possible moves, the German boy was leaning over his shoulder–laying across his back–lifting Crawford’s arm to peer at his watch. “How long have we been waiting?”
“Why don’t you watch some TV?” Crawford suggested, taking his arm back.
“Why don’t you entertain me?” Schuldig remained draped, smirking at him in the mirror. Crawford didn’t react. Unlike most telepaths, who acted as if personal boundaries were immutable law, Schuldig welcomed, initiated, even demanded physical contact. With some people, he amended the thought. He hadn’t missed the fact Schuldig was careful to keep as much space as possible between him and any Rosenkreuz faculty, during their courtesy visit that morning.
That caution was why Crawford had decided to meet his newest team member here, rather than the school. Schuldig had begun to shut down as soon as Crawford slowed to exit the Autobahn, going within an hour from a rampant and loud extrovert to what Crawford could only interpret as a frightened, defensive child. He hadn’t shown it in Stein’s office, of course, while keeping his distance he had taunted Bernhard and flirted with Stein and grinned impudently at the vice dean with Gummi Bears in his teeth. But Crawford had seen him before and after, and Crawford was not a fool. Especially when the boy had a habit of bouncing out of reach if Crawford moved suddenly.
Crawford had never had, and never intended to develop, a nurturing side. But being protective of Schuldig made sense. The telepath was integral to his plans. Letting him feel safe, letting him enjoy himself–these were the things that would earn Schuldig’s loyalty. And he did need loyalty, not fear. Seeing the defensiveness this morning had only reinforced that. Even the wild child had a breaking point, and it looked like Stein had come closer than he knew to reaching it. What Stein and the rest of Essett didn’t seem to realize was that a broken tool was just that–broken, and not nearly as useful as a willing one.
On that note, Crawford reached into his briefcase and handed over the toy he’d bought in the gift shop while Schuldig was harassing the bellboy.
“What is this?” the German demanded.
“Entertainment. As requested.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a pain in the ass when you’re bored,” Crawford answered honestly.
Schuldig smirked at what he considered a compliment and opened the bag.
“Paddleball? Sounds...interesting.” With a wink in the mirror. Crawford gave him a small smile.
“Try it.” He knew it would be annoying. He knew he would hate the damn thing.
He knew the string would break after 243 successful bounces.
Schuldig un-draped himself and flopped back on the bed, throwing the packaging on the floor. Crawford stood and hung up his suit jacket, he knew what would come next. He didn’t need his Talent for that. The paddle swished the air as he pulled off his shoulder holster and hung it behind his jacket. He needed to get it adjusted, his gun poked him when he moved.
“It’s defective,” the boy growled, swinging and missing, swinging and missing. “It’s broken!” he snapped, and threw it. Crawford caught it and started bouncing. Schuldig bolted upright.
“How did you do that?”
“Practice.” Crawford handed the toy back. “I once reached 500 before I stopped counting.” It was good for hand-eye coordination, he didn’t say. And it built muscles in the wrist and arm that were useful while holding a gun. And it got Schuldig off his back–literally–for a little while.
And until Schuldig actually succeeded in hitting the ball with the paddle, it was quiet.
Thwack! “Ha!” Swoosh. “Scheisse!”
Interesting. Had his American ‘tutor’ not known any swear words?
Thwack! “Ha!”
Crawford went back to the thin file, and reminded himself that he had known there would be repercussions. He had stepped on toes in his battle for Schuldig, and it was a given that someone had tried to make him pay. He would succeed anyway. Exactly what he was supposed to do with a thirteen-year-old non-Talent who was mad as a hatter, he didn’t know, but he was sure he would think of something. Crawford was used to–as the foolish optimists put it–making lemonade.
After all, lemonade was only opportunity mixed with intelligence, determination, and discipline.
Thwack! Thwack! Thunk! “Scheisse!”
Besides, they’d had Farfarello one-sixth of the time they’d had Schuldig, and the file wasn’t even a tenth as thick as the German’s. That meant he was easier to handle, right?
Sure, Crawford. Tell yourself that.
Thwack! Counting Crawford’s bounces, that was fifteen, 228 to go.
Finally someone knocked on the door. Schuldig dropped the toy and slid up on the bed, but didn’t rise. Crawford opened the door and stepped back.
Two men, flanking a white-haired boy. With most of his head and one eye wrapped in bandages, and a large coat flung over him to hide the restraints.
“In public,” one of the men growled, as the other kicked the door shut behind them. “How the hell did you come up with the brilliant idea to do this in public?”
Schuldig was staring wide-eyed at the boy and coming off the bed slowly, as if he didn’t realize he was moving. Crawford caught the grumpy man’s eye and jerked his head. Shut up. He wanted to see where this would go.
Farfarello’s hands were shackled in front of him, he was reasonably sure it wouldn’t go too far.
“Ver-damm-te Scheiss-e,” Schuldig breathed, spacing out the syllables then lapsing completely into German. “You have got some serious stuff going on in there!”
Crawford almost gasped as his Talent focused–just as the golden-eyed boy focused on Schuldig. He had been telling himself it wasn’t only him, Mari couldn’t read the boy’s future either–then suddenly it was there.
Farfarello. This one would hunt for him. He Saw the boy a man, standing over a redheaded man in the rain, his hands already moving to stab his enemy. Crawford’s enemy.
Farfarello would kill at his command.
Schuldig’s customary smirk was still wide-eyed admiration. Farfarello’s lips quirked in the tiniest of smiles. Crawford blinked. Could it be that easy? It couldn’t. Could it?
The escort who hadn’t spoken chuckled. Schuldig stiffened.
“Hey, Red, Stein loaning you out now?”
Schuldig stepped back, Crawford straightened. This one wasn’t Talented, but the German was afraid of him. Why–
The man grinned and grabbed at Schuldig’s arm. The boy bounced back, Crawford stepped forward. “Don’t touch–“
Farfarello leaped onto the chair behind the door, wrapped his shackles around the man’s neck and pulled. “Don’t touch,” he said, soft and lilting. The man choked and struggled, groping at the boy’s shoulders and not finding a grip. Crawford stepped to his jacket, but didn’t pull his gun. Not yet.
“Bloody loon, get off!” Grumpy punched Farfarello, he rocked with the force but didn’t let go. Berserker, his codename, he was unstoppable–
“Wichser!” snarled Schuldig, who didn’t know. Grumpy spasmed and folded to the floor. The other goon emitted a loud cracking noise, and Farfarello dropped the body. He stood on the chair, looking at it. Then his eye rose to Schuldig, who flipped his hair and smirked shakily. Then both looked to Crawford. He pushed his glasses back and smiled.
“Farfarello, this is Schuldig. I’m Crawford.” He looked at his watch. “Are you both ready for dinner?”
*******
hee hee, enjoyed this far too much–I may have to join Assassins Anonymous or something.
moimoi-chan, thanks for the livejournal link. Clearly I’m going to need to spend more time there. Darkephoenix, soxy–thanks for sticking with me.
*******
Crawford had read the Irish boy’s file three times, but he sat at the TV tray the hotel’s ad called a desk, and read it again. What there was of it. The internet had supplied more information, if details of his–abilities–were needed. Most of what was in the file was from the internet, Crawford had recognized it. Not having a Talent, “Farfarello” had been given only a quick training and rushed into service. In some ways, Essett was practical in its approach to tools. Mari–with no explanation of why she didn’t know the future of a non-Talent–had given 80 to 1 odds the boy would kill himself within two years, so they were going to make use of his viciousness while they could.
He had been given to Crawford because Herr Stein said he could handle ‘difficult’ subordinates. The letter of recommendation was first in the file.
On Crawford’s mental list, Herr Stein was now fifth against the wall, when he brought Rosenkreuz down.
“Ridiculous,” Schuldig muttered. The desk was in front of the mirror, maybe to make it look larger, so Crawford could see that he’d flung himself on the only bed. The German had learned English somewhere in the last six hours, and whoever he’d learned it from had an extensive vocabulary. Crawford had no doubt Schuldig would change it to suit him as he gained confidence. But for now he sounded like an American prep-school graduate. “You are a precognitive, why did we arrive so early?”
Because it was expected. Crawford knew he was arrogant. He did try not to let it show. Somewhat. If he were too compliant, they would not respect him. If he were too arrogant, they would break him.
Try, anyway.
His telepath let the silence lie between them. Crawford stifled a sigh.
“Stop it, Schuldig.”
It was a guess, but a good one. Whenever Schuldig went quiet too long, if he was looking at his leader, Crawford assumed he was trying to penetrate his shields. So far he had not been wrong.
“You could not possibly have felt me that time!”
Crawford bent his head over the file and allowed himself a small smile.
“Is it time yet?” In one of his faster-than-humanly-possible moves, the German boy was leaning over his shoulder–laying across his back–lifting Crawford’s arm to peer at his watch. “How long have we been waiting?”
“Why don’t you watch some TV?” Crawford suggested, taking his arm back.
“Why don’t you entertain me?” Schuldig remained draped, smirking at him in the mirror. Crawford didn’t react. Unlike most telepaths, who acted as if personal boundaries were immutable law, Schuldig welcomed, initiated, even demanded physical contact. With some people, he amended the thought. He hadn’t missed the fact Schuldig was careful to keep as much space as possible between him and any Rosenkreuz faculty, during their courtesy visit that morning.
That caution was why Crawford had decided to meet his newest team member here, rather than the school. Schuldig had begun to shut down as soon as Crawford slowed to exit the Autobahn, going within an hour from a rampant and loud extrovert to what Crawford could only interpret as a frightened, defensive child. He hadn’t shown it in Stein’s office, of course, while keeping his distance he had taunted Bernhard and flirted with Stein and grinned impudently at the vice dean with Gummi Bears in his teeth. But Crawford had seen him before and after, and Crawford was not a fool. Especially when the boy had a habit of bouncing out of reach if Crawford moved suddenly.
Crawford had never had, and never intended to develop, a nurturing side. But being protective of Schuldig made sense. The telepath was integral to his plans. Letting him feel safe, letting him enjoy himself–these were the things that would earn Schuldig’s loyalty. And he did need loyalty, not fear. Seeing the defensiveness this morning had only reinforced that. Even the wild child had a breaking point, and it looked like Stein had come closer than he knew to reaching it. What Stein and the rest of Essett didn’t seem to realize was that a broken tool was just that–broken, and not nearly as useful as a willing one.
On that note, Crawford reached into his briefcase and handed over the toy he’d bought in the gift shop while Schuldig was harassing the bellboy.
“What is this?” the German demanded.
“Entertainment. As requested.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a pain in the ass when you’re bored,” Crawford answered honestly.
Schuldig smirked at what he considered a compliment and opened the bag.
“Paddleball? Sounds...interesting.” With a wink in the mirror. Crawford gave him a small smile.
“Try it.” He knew it would be annoying. He knew he would hate the damn thing.
He knew the string would break after 243 successful bounces.
Schuldig un-draped himself and flopped back on the bed, throwing the packaging on the floor. Crawford stood and hung up his suit jacket, he knew what would come next. He didn’t need his Talent for that. The paddle swished the air as he pulled off his shoulder holster and hung it behind his jacket. He needed to get it adjusted, his gun poked him when he moved.
“It’s defective,” the boy growled, swinging and missing, swinging and missing. “It’s broken!” he snapped, and threw it. Crawford caught it and started bouncing. Schuldig bolted upright.
“How did you do that?”
“Practice.” Crawford handed the toy back. “I once reached 500 before I stopped counting.” It was good for hand-eye coordination, he didn’t say. And it built muscles in the wrist and arm that were useful while holding a gun. And it got Schuldig off his back–literally–for a little while.
And until Schuldig actually succeeded in hitting the ball with the paddle, it was quiet.
Thwack! “Ha!” Swoosh. “Scheisse!”
Interesting. Had his American ‘tutor’ not known any swear words?
Thwack! “Ha!”
Crawford went back to the thin file, and reminded himself that he had known there would be repercussions. He had stepped on toes in his battle for Schuldig, and it was a given that someone had tried to make him pay. He would succeed anyway. Exactly what he was supposed to do with a thirteen-year-old non-Talent who was mad as a hatter, he didn’t know, but he was sure he would think of something. Crawford was used to–as the foolish optimists put it–making lemonade.
After all, lemonade was only opportunity mixed with intelligence, determination, and discipline.
Thwack! Thwack! Thunk! “Scheisse!”
Besides, they’d had Farfarello one-sixth of the time they’d had Schuldig, and the file wasn’t even a tenth as thick as the German’s. That meant he was easier to handle, right?
Sure, Crawford. Tell yourself that.
Thwack! Counting Crawford’s bounces, that was fifteen, 228 to go.
Finally someone knocked on the door. Schuldig dropped the toy and slid up on the bed, but didn’t rise. Crawford opened the door and stepped back.
Two men, flanking a white-haired boy. With most of his head and one eye wrapped in bandages, and a large coat flung over him to hide the restraints.
“In public,” one of the men growled, as the other kicked the door shut behind them. “How the hell did you come up with the brilliant idea to do this in public?”
Schuldig was staring wide-eyed at the boy and coming off the bed slowly, as if he didn’t realize he was moving. Crawford caught the grumpy man’s eye and jerked his head. Shut up. He wanted to see where this would go.
Farfarello’s hands were shackled in front of him, he was reasonably sure it wouldn’t go too far.
“Ver-damm-te Scheiss-e,” Schuldig breathed, spacing out the syllables then lapsing completely into German. “You have got some serious stuff going on in there!”
Crawford almost gasped as his Talent focused–just as the golden-eyed boy focused on Schuldig. He had been telling himself it wasn’t only him, Mari couldn’t read the boy’s future either–then suddenly it was there.
Farfarello. This one would hunt for him. He Saw the boy a man, standing over a redheaded man in the rain, his hands already moving to stab his enemy. Crawford’s enemy.
Farfarello would kill at his command.
Schuldig’s customary smirk was still wide-eyed admiration. Farfarello’s lips quirked in the tiniest of smiles. Crawford blinked. Could it be that easy? It couldn’t. Could it?
The escort who hadn’t spoken chuckled. Schuldig stiffened.
“Hey, Red, Stein loaning you out now?”
Schuldig stepped back, Crawford straightened. This one wasn’t Talented, but the German was afraid of him. Why–
The man grinned and grabbed at Schuldig’s arm. The boy bounced back, Crawford stepped forward. “Don’t touch–“
Farfarello leaped onto the chair behind the door, wrapped his shackles around the man’s neck and pulled. “Don’t touch,” he said, soft and lilting. The man choked and struggled, groping at the boy’s shoulders and not finding a grip. Crawford stepped to his jacket, but didn’t pull his gun. Not yet.
“Bloody loon, get off!” Grumpy punched Farfarello, he rocked with the force but didn’t let go. Berserker, his codename, he was unstoppable–
“Wichser!” snarled Schuldig, who didn’t know. Grumpy spasmed and folded to the floor. The other goon emitted a loud cracking noise, and Farfarello dropped the body. He stood on the chair, looking at it. Then his eye rose to Schuldig, who flipped his hair and smirked shakily. Then both looked to Crawford. He pushed his glasses back and smiled.
“Farfarello, this is Schuldig. I’m Crawford.” He looked at his watch. “Are you both ready for dinner?”
*******
hee hee, enjoyed this far too much–I may have to join Assassins Anonymous or something.