Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Chaos Came Early ❯ On-the-Job Training ( Chapter 8 )

[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]

Hmm, this took an unexpected direction. Not that I don’t love it, and I’ll adore anyone talented enough to draw a fanart of the last image...hint, hint.

To my beloved Ass. Anon. members, and most especially to Phoenix, who keeps Schu on what passes for his best behavior without ever hurting him more than he likes.



“But Crawww-forrdd–“ Schuldig whined, “it’s hot! And there’s no beach! Hot is worthless without a beach!”

“I told you to bring warm-weather clothes.”

“That’s why I bought the leopard Speedo. Because hot means beach. Or it should.”

Schuldig in a–Crawford pointed the skycap and the boys at the curb where their escort would be in seven minutes, then swerved into the gift shop to buy a darker pair of sunglasses. Beach or no, he was quite certain the pale little exhibitionist would find a reason to wear the bathing suit. A few other purchases, since he was there and even he didn’t know when he would be near civilization again, and he rejoined his assassins playing keep-away with the skycap’s hat. Schuldig jammed the thing on his own head and left the game as Crawford approached.

“What did you get me?”

Crawford assessed his patience and decided he could hold out a while. Maybe even until the boy got distracted, though “presents” focused him rather well.

“Have you done something to deserve a present?” he asked. The German folded his arms and pouted.

“I left that stewardess alone.”

“After she threatened to open your window,” Farfarello pointed out. He made an airplane of his hand, mimicked a nose-dive as he made sputtering engine noises. Then a boom. “Crash and burn, Schu-Schu.”

“Hey, I could have changed her mind.”

“Of course you could have.” Crawford patted the boy’s head, he never knew what to do about that. He liked to be petted, but he didn’t know if Crawford was mocking him. So he accepted the touches but didn’t try for more. “Here’s our ride, gentlemen,” Crawford said as a green SUV pulled up to the curb.

“Already?” Farfarello asked. “Can we still get ice cream?”

The driver, a weather-worn man in sand-colored fatigues and a kafiyeh*, shot Farfarello a look as he tossed their luggage–Schuldig’s luggage, and Crawford and Farfarello’s one bag each–in the back of the vehicle. Crawford tried the glinty-glasses evil look, and had to suppress a grin as the man blinked. It would be more effective at night, but he passed no chance to practice.

“Later,” Crawford answered his psychotic. “We’ll get ice cream later.”

Three hours of Schuldig complaints later, Crawford realized he should have used his Talent before making that promise. He did find ice cream, but at an exorbitant cost, and–of course–the only flavor available was vanilla. Schuldig did not like “plain old vanilla.”

Fortunately the little store was run by a European, and Crawford’s Talent located a bottle of coffee liqueur to pour over the ice cream. Their driver, a religious zealot like the rest they’d come to deal with, was outraged, but wise enough not to say anything. Crawford reclaimed the bottle, and his juvenile assassins finished the trip happily. Crawford savored the iced coffee he’d indulged in, and mourned the fact he wouldn’t get any more for a while.

At the camp, Schuldig’s complaints began in earnest.

“This is it?” he demanded, stepping beside Crawford. “What a dump! Why can’t we–“

”It’s not all glamour and five-star hotels, Schu-Schu,” Crawford interrupted, timing it carefully. “The faster we complete the mission, the faster we can move on to something else.”

“Where? A mud hut in the Congo? What is this? What could possibly–“

On schedule, the driver dumped Schuldig’s bags at his feet. “You will not be pampered here, infidel. Take your things or let them lie in the dirt.”

“Why would I, when you’re so eager to help?” the telepath demanded. The man blinked, and smiled.

“Indeed, ser!” He snatched up the luggage, leaving, Crawford noted, his bag and Farfarello’s. “Your tent is this way, young master. I’m sure you’ll like it, the Mahdi* said you were to have...”

Crawford picked up his bag and followed, wondering how the boy managed such complete changes of character. Countering the driver’s antagonism had to take a lot of control, how did he do it without making a temporary robot of his victim?

Another mystery for later. Crawford looked around, seeing and Seeing. Plans must be made, the sooner to get back to the real world. Especially as the “young master’s” tent would also be his. Crawford had made certain the three of them would be together. An armed camp provided far too many ways for Farfarello to get in trouble. And Schuldig...

“Schuldig” and “Uzi” in one sentence sent that new pain shooting through his head. Crawford hoped 500 caplets of extra-strength Tylenol would be enough to get him through this.

******

Not even close, Crawford knew three days later. In his efforts to work his way into the trust of the Mahdi, he had shared the expensive and rare Tylenol with the zealot. And his second in command. And his secretary. And his cook. The man in charge of the munitions dump. His secretary. The man responsible for the care of all the vehicles of the guerrilla group. The man in charge of the camels, for whatever damn reason they had camels.

Considering their outrage, it wasn’t the use Schuldig put them to. Crawford did not ask where the boy had got the paint.

As he’d planned, though–he couldn’t See what Schuldig would do, but he could judge how long it would take for the Jihad* members to want to execute him–as he’d planned, the first encounter after he joined the Mahdi’s advisors sent the brand-new satellite communications center of the nascent democratic government sky-high. Without the loss of a single holy warrior. The Mahdi was most pleased. His followers were also, but still grumbled about cancelling the stoning of the infidel.

Crawford ducked into his tent, dusting sand off his suit. He carried the Tylenol with him now, but he didn’t take the medicine in front of the zealots. He’d told them he was out. Remembering he shared a tent with Schuldig, they believed him.

“No,” a vaguely familiar voice was saying, “that is not the way. We do not question God, it is not our right. We obey.”

“But you don’t even agree on what he said,” Farfarello argued. “The prime minister thinks he is doing the right thing, and your Mahdi wants to kill him.”

Not again. Crawford closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose for a long moment. As usual, it didn’t help much. He went to the cooler, though he was sure Schuldig had used all the ice by now. Again.

“The man is wrong, he caters to the infidels,” the mullah* said, anger growing in his tone. Crawford wondered how he justified the Mahdi accepting arms and money from Essett, not to mention his three infidel “advisors.” He had no intention of asking, though, he wanted the mullah–well, as an ally wasn’t going to happen, considering what Schuldig had done to his student–but at least, not directly antagonistic.

“Your Mahdi is catering to us,” Farfarello pointed out with his usual lack of anything resembling tact. Crawford stifled a sigh and scratched at the interior curtain, announcing his presence before he pulled it aside. As expected, the two sat cross-legged on a fine example of rug-weaving, Farfarello picking at the edges of holes he’d made over the last few days. For once no knife was visible.

“The Mahdi,” Crawford told his killer with a warning look, “is a wise man who accepts the assistance of those who believe his cause is right.” He nodded to the mullah. “He is kind enough to take into account the fact we are not used to the conditions he and his followers are well capable of enduring.”

Farfarello opened his mouth to continue the argument, Crawford talked over him.

“Imam*, will you join me for refreshment?”

“The hospitality of the house honors me,” the man said without hesitation, “but I must go to my duties.” He bounced to his feet as quickly as Schuldig might have, wished them peace in Allah and left.

“He’s not supposed to do that,” Farfarello said, dragging a book from under his cot. “See, right here, it says–“

Crawford walked away, half-listening as he went for something to wash the Tylenol down. Even though he hadn’t seen Schuldig in hours, he had received a full accounting of the wild child’s activities of the night before, and he wanted medication.

Where did Schuldig come up with such things?

There was nothing in the cooler. Not one bottled water, not a drop of ice-melt, nothing. Crawford turned to Farfarello, who shrugged.

“Schu took it.”

Of course he did. Crawford went for the curtained off section the German had claimed, but Farfarello laughed and pointed at Crawford’s “bedroom.”

Patience, Crawford reminded himself. He was a patient man, a careful man when it came to what he wanted, and he wanted the flame-haired wild child who was the most powerful telepath Essett possessed. He would not strangle the boy. He pulled the curtain aside, to see why the bastard was in his room.

Schuldig lay face-down on Crawford’s cot, his pretty pale ass glowing in the dim tent.

What the hell?

Farfarello bounced past. “Wakey, wakey, Entschuldigung*!” he called, slapping the most prominent part of the German. “Papa Bear wants to know who’s sleeping in his bed!”

“Goldilocks,” the German growled, “with a bazooka. Lea’me ‘lone, Farfie.”

Crawford noticed that his bed was dripping. And under the blanket were lumps that looked suspiciously like soda cans and water bottles. “Schuldig? What’s going on?”

Farfarello giggled and poked. “Show him, Schu-Schu bear.”

::Touch me again and that camel’s love won’t be unrequited, you eunuch Irish freak.:: So Farfarello had helped? Why wasn't he surprised?

“Eunuch? Who’s a eunuch?” Farfarello asked. “Who’s gonna be a eunuch?”

Banter aside, Crawford had heard pain in the German’s mental voice. Damn it, had someone tried to stone him after all? Had Farfarello already stabbed him? Both would make the psychotic laugh. Berserker considered Schuldig a friend, but he had odd ideas of friendship. Crawford knelt by the head of the cot.

“Schuldig?” he asked softly, the boy responded well to occasional gentleness, “what happened?” He didn’t touch the boy, he hadn’t missed the fact that the hyper little monster hadn’t moved yet. “How bad is it?”

The German sighed and lifted his face. A face that glowed more than his hair. Crawford held his features still. Rule one of dealing with Schuldig: do not laugh.

“I fell asleep!” the boy wailed, actual tears in his eyes. Crawford saw the redness continued down his chest as far as was visible. And along the tops of his arms, that he’d moved to prop himself up.

Damn. No wonder the boy was in pain, and had turned his–Crawford’s!–bed into a cold compress.

“Schuldig, why my bed?”

“Because I need to sleep in mine tonight!” the boy answered, burying his face with a groan. ::If you’re not going to help, go away!::

Farfarello giggled and reached to poke, Crawford shook his head.

“Berserker, go get more ice. And ask Hassan for more of the green Gatorade.” That was Schuldig’s favorite, he’d drank all the camp had the first day. Crawford had added an extra two cases to the list for the next supply run, to have been performed this morning. “Politely!” he called as the tent flap fell behind the Irish boy. At least he listened. Most of the time.

The Oracle threw a light blanket over his telepath. Schuldig sniffled, he ignored it. At least the boy’s back wasn’t burned. It was better this–

How naked had the boy been when he fell asleep?

Crawford shook his head free of the image, and went for his laptop. And the Home Health for Families DVD-ROM.

Ironic that he’d vowed at age ten that he was never having children.

The sunburn was not as bad as it could have been, Crawford was relieved to discover. He went back to the German in his bed. Again.

Schuldig was shivering. Well, he was lying on everything cold in the tent, and badly burned as well. The manual had said he might get fever and chills. Crawford piled a bunch of pillows against one of the tent poles before he touched the boy’s shoulder.

“Schu, sit up.” The nickname was better than ‘Schu-Schu,’ at least, and meaningless. Whatever the boy’s sense of humor, Crawford doubted it helped his sense of self to be called “guilty” all the time.

::Yen 'aal deen ommak.::

“If my mother had a rooster, it would already be damned. Sit up and take these.” The telepath lifted his head with a whine, Crawford held the Tylenol in his line of sight. And carefully pulled a can of soda from under him, to wash it down.

Schuldig sat up, whimpering. Crawford waited until he finished the Tylenol before shaking the can of Solarcaine. The boy didn’t recognize it, he didn’t react until Crawford sprayed a wide swathe across his chest. Then he closed his eyes.

“Face,” he whispered. “Please.”

Just like any other wild creature, pain tamed him. Well, as long as Crawford wasn’t the one inflicting the pain, probably. He could work with that. Crawford sprayed the stuff on his hand, and stroked it onto the radiant face carefully, just as the directions said. Schuldig shivered, but otherwise sat perfectly still, until Crawford had covered every bit of reddened skin. He was glad to see the pale streak at the boy’s waist, apparently he’d at least had sense enough to wear the Speedo.

“Cold,” Schuldig whispered, opening his eyes to see the reaction to his new challenge. Crawford grabbed a light, dry blanket.

“Then come over here.” He sat on the cushions and opened his arms, his legs spread for the boy to sit between them. Schuldig’s eyes widened.

“You don’t want the blanket touching, do you?”

Schuldig winced and came, putting his back to Crawford’s chest as he sat gingerly. Crawford wrapped the blanket around, holding it off the boy with his arms propped on his knees, and reminded himself the miserable child shivering against him was the most powerful telepath he could possibly hope for, and able to use his ability without losing his mind, besides.

The miserable child leaned back with a sigh, soft strands of flame brushed Crawford’s jaw. “Warm...” he breathed.

*****

Please don’t flame me about my terrorists, I’m well aware the Pillars of Islam teach peace, just as Christianity does. A shame so many of both faiths ignore those parts...

I just needed a setting I could easily convey.

*******

kafiyeh–that cloth people in the Middle East wear to protect their heads from the sun. Not giving them a particular nationality, just trying to set the scene.
Mahdi–“divinely-guided one” the guy’s calling himself somewhere between a prophet and a messiah.
Jihad–“struggle,” or “battle”, a duty to strive for religious improvement. Jihad has come to denote any conflict waged for principle or belief and is often translated to mean “holy war.”
Mullah–A Muslim scholar and teacher
Imam–Leader." The one who leads the salat (prayer service in the mosque)
Entschuldigung–excuse
Yen 'aal deen ommak–damn your mother’s rooster. *shrugs* Don’t ask me, Swearasaurus said so.

********

I don’t own Tylenol, Gatorade, or Solarcaine, or any rights thereto. All Middle Eastern terms (aside from the swearing) and translations came from here. http://www.mq.edu.au/mec/Glossary.html