Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Chaos Came Early ❯ Teenagers ( Chapter 6 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: KD Sarge 
Every teen's fantasy--at the mall with lots of money, no morals, and superpowers. What could be better?
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 11.01.2005 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.8K | Visits: 626 | Status: Work In Progress
Every teen's fantasy--at the mall with lots of money, no morals, and superpowers. What could be better?
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Drama / Hentai | Type: Alternate Universe | Uploaded On: 11.01.2005 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.8K | Visits: 626 | Status: Work In Progress
A/N: I do know CD should be capitalized. But my word processor will not let me put a lower case ‘s’ on the end, and I’m too anal to write it CDS or Cds. So I did it all lower case. I do hope no one is offended. ;) Oh, and while I’m being anal–my word processor and page breaks are the reasons some paragraphs get shoved together. And apparently smart quotes are the reason I sometimes get garbage instead of end-quotes. Farfarello using his “eyes” a chapter or so ago was all on me, though. Now it’s fixed.
*******
Whatever. It could have been worse, it had been touch and go for a moment, when the redhead smelled the equally-inescapable Starbucks. But Crawford had distracted the wild child by calling his brand-new cell phone, and by the time the boy remembered how to turn the gadget-laden device on, they were past the danger zone.
Sugar had to be less dangerous than caffeine, Crawford hoped, watching the telepath suck down a strawberry shake. Keeping the boy away from both was not going to be possible. Not without using the straitjacket Herr Stein had sent as a “farewell present.” What the hell was the bastard up to?
It had been an...interesting...morning. Crawford was beginning to comprehend Stein, just a little. Last night Schuldig had been furious at the mental ‘suggestion’ he’d made, to get his point across. This morning the damn boy had crawled into bed with him.
Now his vicious and effective assassins were calling each other “Farfie” and “Schu-Schu” and talking with their mouths full, comparing the assets of females walking by. So why the hell had the wild child sneaked into Crawford’s bed?
Pre-coffee or not, Crawford probably should have been less emphatic about tossing him out. Though maybe that was what the redhead had been after, reassurance that sex wasn’t what Crawford really wanted from him. But if that was so, why had the boy pouted until the straitjacket arrived?
Where Schuldig had been upset by the present, Farfarello had been fascinated. So the two spent a happy twenty minutes playing “restrain the psycho” before Crawford finished his second cup of coffee, adjusted their stocks, and was ready to leave.
Crawford sipped his third cup, and wished he could have stopped at Starbucks alone. Five minutes, and he could have had–he cut that train of thought off, as unproductive.
Giving them the cell phones before they got in the car had been a good idea. Farfarello had glanced at his and put it in his pocket, Schuldig had played with every gadget and gizmo the thing had–Crawford had gotten him every extra, he knew the telepath that well–called Farfarello, called Crawford, called for the weather in Jamaica, and been far quieter than usual for a car trip. In the new BMW. Every assassin family needed two cars, right?
Breakfast burritos and hashbrowns under a layer of red, was Farfarello’s meal choice. Crawford wondered if it was the taste of ketchup the boy liked, or the resemblance. Schuldig was–nearly done with his meal? A super-size double quarter-pounder meal, and three-fourths of the sandwich and half the fries were gone. Where was he putting it all?
Despite the fact that two growing boys had been hungry for breakfast, McDonalds had not been their first stop. Schuldig had led them into the mall through a department store, and walked directly to the teen section, where he’d picked out a complete change of clothes, including shoes, socks, and underwear, paid for it, changed into it, and walked out. Behind them the garbage can where he’d stuffed the old clothes burst into flame. Crawford saw that as a good sign, though he did wonder how Schuldig had managed it. If he were a pyrokinetic, Essett would have known.
So now the telepath wore Levis, Nikes, and a denim jacket over a t-shirt that said, “I can read your mind, and the answer is yes.” Farfarello still wore a Rosenkreuz school uniform and his bandages. Have to remember to do something about that, must not ignore the psychopath just because the telepath was crazier...
Faded denim was a good color on Schuldig, he looked more...normal. The telepath needed all the help he could get with that, though no matter what he wore he would be striking, eye-catching and–
“Herr Crawford, don’t you like your breakfast?” the boy asked, smirking at the still-full styrofoam tray. Faced with nothing he wanted, Crawford had chosen the only meal that allowed him to use utensils to eat. But he still didn’t want the food.
“No,” he answered, and stood. “Are you ready?”
“Schu-Schu wants noise,” Farfarello said. The German smirked at him.
“I know just the store,” Crawford said, checking one more time that he’d brought earplugs.
Keep telepath use to a minimum Essett taught team leaders. It was a an oft-repeated rule. Non-Talents and most Talents were better off exercised regularly, but telepaths were fragile. A leader who wanted an effective telepath built his plans around using him only when absolutely necessary.
Except Schuldig broke all the rules. Crawford got that jolt again, as his telepath rifled the mind of each person in the cd store. One after another, like fans doing the wave in a stadium, one person would straighten and shiver, then bend over the racks again while the next person reacted...how could he do that? Or rather, why would he? Most telepaths would go into hiding for days after reading that many people.
Schuldig was not most telepaths. He clapped his hands, tossed a grin at Farfarello, and started grabbing cds.
400 marks later, Schu-Schu had his noise, and a top-of-the-line personal cd player to play it, replacing the no-frills one he’d been given the day before. Crawford wondered if his plan would fail after all. If nothing bothered the boy, not even finding himself in the gospel section time after time–Farfarello had odd ideas of what was hurtful or embarassing–what difference could it make?
When he realized he’d not only been influenced, he hadn’t even realized it, though, perhaps that would convince Schuldig to learn to shield. He walked out with a variety of loud music, but he also had cds by Yanni, Barry Manilow, John Tesh and Anne Murray.
And the Queen 4-cd Platinum Collection.
From music they went to clothes, that other most-important of a teenager’s life. But not back to the department store, “Schu-Schu” stopped in front of a black storefront where a sullen-looking teen with three facial piercings and black make-up rolled her eyes at his interest.
Schuldig raised an eyebrow and grinned at her. She shivered, then scurried into the store, snatching clothes and accessories, then running back to present the items to the telepath.
“Good girl,” he told her, and if she’d had a tail she’d have wagged it. Schuldig threw his leader a triumphant look, Crawford just took her stool from behind the register and sat to watch for witnesses. He’d known the telepath had power, that wasn’t the question. If they got out of here without frying the girl’s brain or “Schu-Schu” taking parts of her psyche with him, then the boy would have done something to be proud of.
“My friend too,” Schuldig said, waving his hand at Farfarello. The girl raked him with a measuring glance and scurried off. Schuldig set the clothes on the counter and pulled off the denim jacket.
“Dressing room,” Crawford said, remembering the boy’s penchant for nudity.
“Why?” Schuldig retorted, but he went. The wild child was worth the aggravation, Crawford reminded himself. With that little flame-haired pyromaniac, he would burn the world.
Especially if Schuldig could use his power, without driving himself insane.
To do that, he had to learn to shield. Round and round it went–
When the moans started Crawford sighed and turned the hate-everything-fad-music-of-the-week up and did his best to ignore Schuldig’s delight with the girl’s talent.
Probably had her tongue pierced.
Farfarello came out of the other dressing room, blushing and not looking at Crawford. Who had to count to ten not to grin delight.
Blush or not, here was his vicious killer. The school uniform was gone, Farfarello wore a flat black leather vest and pants, laced so tightly he’d make a good anatomy model. The bandages were discarded, now Farfarello wore a black leather eyepatch, and his single eye glowed with joy and madness as he surveyed himself in the mirror. He didn’t look thirteen, he looked every inch the killer, right down to his tall lace-up boots. Except–
Crawford snatched up a pair of fingerless gloves and held them out. Farfarello took them with a slow-spreading smile. “I’m wearing dead animals,” he murmured, slipping them on.
“It’s just the beginning,” Crawford promised. White, he thought, surveying the effect Farfarello’s new look had on his own appearance. If his team meant to wear black–that was what teenagers did, wasn’t it? If they were going to wear black, he would wear white.
Besides, the sober suits made him look like a minor businessman. Another convention he should have done away with sooner.
Yes, white. No more trying to fit in. He had his killer, he had his telepath–
In the dressing room, Schuldig yodelled at the top of his lungs.
******
Farf’s outfit is thanks to the inspiration of RedQueen. *glomp* Moimoi-chan, Phoenix–sorry it took so long. Paju–I quoted your review to three friends. Thank you so much!
*******
Teenagers
McDonalds, Crawford reflected, was inescapable. He watched as Schuldig rolled his eyes in delight, biting into a double-quarter-pounder with cheese–shouldn’t it be a half-pounder?Whatever. It could have been worse, it had been touch and go for a moment, when the redhead smelled the equally-inescapable Starbucks. But Crawford had distracted the wild child by calling his brand-new cell phone, and by the time the boy remembered how to turn the gadget-laden device on, they were past the danger zone.
Sugar had to be less dangerous than caffeine, Crawford hoped, watching the telepath suck down a strawberry shake. Keeping the boy away from both was not going to be possible. Not without using the straitjacket Herr Stein had sent as a “farewell present.” What the hell was the bastard up to?
It had been an...interesting...morning. Crawford was beginning to comprehend Stein, just a little. Last night Schuldig had been furious at the mental ‘suggestion’ he’d made, to get his point across. This morning the damn boy had crawled into bed with him.
Now his vicious and effective assassins were calling each other “Farfie” and “Schu-Schu” and talking with their mouths full, comparing the assets of females walking by. So why the hell had the wild child sneaked into Crawford’s bed?
Pre-coffee or not, Crawford probably should have been less emphatic about tossing him out. Though maybe that was what the redhead had been after, reassurance that sex wasn’t what Crawford really wanted from him. But if that was so, why had the boy pouted until the straitjacket arrived?
Where Schuldig had been upset by the present, Farfarello had been fascinated. So the two spent a happy twenty minutes playing “restrain the psycho” before Crawford finished his second cup of coffee, adjusted their stocks, and was ready to leave.
Crawford sipped his third cup, and wished he could have stopped at Starbucks alone. Five minutes, and he could have had–he cut that train of thought off, as unproductive.
Giving them the cell phones before they got in the car had been a good idea. Farfarello had glanced at his and put it in his pocket, Schuldig had played with every gadget and gizmo the thing had–Crawford had gotten him every extra, he knew the telepath that well–called Farfarello, called Crawford, called for the weather in Jamaica, and been far quieter than usual for a car trip. In the new BMW. Every assassin family needed two cars, right?
Breakfast burritos and hashbrowns under a layer of red, was Farfarello’s meal choice. Crawford wondered if it was the taste of ketchup the boy liked, or the resemblance. Schuldig was–nearly done with his meal? A super-size double quarter-pounder meal, and three-fourths of the sandwich and half the fries were gone. Where was he putting it all?
Despite the fact that two growing boys had been hungry for breakfast, McDonalds had not been their first stop. Schuldig had led them into the mall through a department store, and walked directly to the teen section, where he’d picked out a complete change of clothes, including shoes, socks, and underwear, paid for it, changed into it, and walked out. Behind them the garbage can where he’d stuffed the old clothes burst into flame. Crawford saw that as a good sign, though he did wonder how Schuldig had managed it. If he were a pyrokinetic, Essett would have known.
So now the telepath wore Levis, Nikes, and a denim jacket over a t-shirt that said, “I can read your mind, and the answer is yes.” Farfarello still wore a Rosenkreuz school uniform and his bandages. Have to remember to do something about that, must not ignore the psychopath just because the telepath was crazier...
Faded denim was a good color on Schuldig, he looked more...normal. The telepath needed all the help he could get with that, though no matter what he wore he would be striking, eye-catching and–
“Herr Crawford, don’t you like your breakfast?” the boy asked, smirking at the still-full styrofoam tray. Faced with nothing he wanted, Crawford had chosen the only meal that allowed him to use utensils to eat. But he still didn’t want the food.
“No,” he answered, and stood. “Are you ready?”
“Schu-Schu wants noise,” Farfarello said. The German smirked at him.
“I know just the store,” Crawford said, checking one more time that he’d brought earplugs.
Keep telepath use to a minimum Essett taught team leaders. It was a an oft-repeated rule. Non-Talents and most Talents were better off exercised regularly, but telepaths were fragile. A leader who wanted an effective telepath built his plans around using him only when absolutely necessary.
Except Schuldig broke all the rules. Crawford got that jolt again, as his telepath rifled the mind of each person in the cd store. One after another, like fans doing the wave in a stadium, one person would straighten and shiver, then bend over the racks again while the next person reacted...how could he do that? Or rather, why would he? Most telepaths would go into hiding for days after reading that many people.
Schuldig was not most telepaths. He clapped his hands, tossed a grin at Farfarello, and started grabbing cds.
400 marks later, Schu-Schu had his noise, and a top-of-the-line personal cd player to play it, replacing the no-frills one he’d been given the day before. Crawford wondered if his plan would fail after all. If nothing bothered the boy, not even finding himself in the gospel section time after time–Farfarello had odd ideas of what was hurtful or embarassing–what difference could it make?
When he realized he’d not only been influenced, he hadn’t even realized it, though, perhaps that would convince Schuldig to learn to shield. He walked out with a variety of loud music, but he also had cds by Yanni, Barry Manilow, John Tesh and Anne Murray.
And the Queen 4-cd Platinum Collection.
From music they went to clothes, that other most-important of a teenager’s life. But not back to the department store, “Schu-Schu” stopped in front of a black storefront where a sullen-looking teen with three facial piercings and black make-up rolled her eyes at his interest.
Schuldig raised an eyebrow and grinned at her. She shivered, then scurried into the store, snatching clothes and accessories, then running back to present the items to the telepath.
“Good girl,” he told her, and if she’d had a tail she’d have wagged it. Schuldig threw his leader a triumphant look, Crawford just took her stool from behind the register and sat to watch for witnesses. He’d known the telepath had power, that wasn’t the question. If they got out of here without frying the girl’s brain or “Schu-Schu” taking parts of her psyche with him, then the boy would have done something to be proud of.
“My friend too,” Schuldig said, waving his hand at Farfarello. The girl raked him with a measuring glance and scurried off. Schuldig set the clothes on the counter and pulled off the denim jacket.
“Dressing room,” Crawford said, remembering the boy’s penchant for nudity.
“Why?” Schuldig retorted, but he went. The wild child was worth the aggravation, Crawford reminded himself. With that little flame-haired pyromaniac, he would burn the world.
Especially if Schuldig could use his power, without driving himself insane.
To do that, he had to learn to shield. Round and round it went–
When the moans started Crawford sighed and turned the hate-everything-fad-music-of-the-week up and did his best to ignore Schuldig’s delight with the girl’s talent.
Probably had her tongue pierced.
Farfarello came out of the other dressing room, blushing and not looking at Crawford. Who had to count to ten not to grin delight.
Blush or not, here was his vicious killer. The school uniform was gone, Farfarello wore a flat black leather vest and pants, laced so tightly he’d make a good anatomy model. The bandages were discarded, now Farfarello wore a black leather eyepatch, and his single eye glowed with joy and madness as he surveyed himself in the mirror. He didn’t look thirteen, he looked every inch the killer, right down to his tall lace-up boots. Except–
Crawford snatched up a pair of fingerless gloves and held them out. Farfarello took them with a slow-spreading smile. “I’m wearing dead animals,” he murmured, slipping them on.
“It’s just the beginning,” Crawford promised. White, he thought, surveying the effect Farfarello’s new look had on his own appearance. If his team meant to wear black–that was what teenagers did, wasn’t it? If they were going to wear black, he would wear white.
Besides, the sober suits made him look like a minor businessman. Another convention he should have done away with sooner.
Yes, white. No more trying to fit in. He had his killer, he had his telepath–
In the dressing room, Schuldig yodelled at the top of his lungs.
******
Farf’s outfit is thanks to the inspiration of RedQueen. *glomp* Moimoi-chan, Phoenix–sorry it took so long. Paju–I quoted your review to three friends. Thank you so much!