Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Coming Home ❯ 6 ( Chapter 6 )

[ Y - Young Adult: Not suitable for readers under 16 ]

6

Relax, I'll need some information first...just the basic facts; can you show me where it hurts?

My throat closed up in sudden panic; my hand reached instinctively for my gun.

The doctor checked Brad's pulse, then turned to me. Speaking slowly in more formal Japanese, he asked me what had happened.

I ignored Brad's injunction against speech. The man knew I was foreign, there was nothing for me to let slip anyway. "Broken ribs," I told him, "maybe more."

He started unbuttoning Brad's shirt, and I moved to help. The doctor muttered at me for getting in his way, but used the opportunity to take a quick look at the back of my head. His fingers were amazingly gentle, and rather cool. He felt my skull for bumps and other structural issues, then told me to sit the hell down and let him finish with Brad. I sat down, holding the linen shirt. Beside me, Brad began to stir.

::Hey, nice of you to join the party,:: I told him, trying to keep my concern at bay.

::How long was I out?::

::Long enough to X-ray Farf, not long enough to get the pictures back.::

Brad explained to the doctor where the pain was, and allowed him to unwrap the makeshift bandage. I flinched when I saw the dark bruises covering his torso. The doctor shook his head again, then helped Brad to his feet and led him to the X-ray machine.

I paced. Nagi lay as though simply sleeping, with a tube stuck in his arm. The bag was labelled in several languages. It was some kind of nutrient liquid. Absently I found my hand caressing the soft dark hair that spread out on the pillow like a halo. He looked so small, on that table, and his skin still felt too cold. On impulse I draped Brad's shirt over him like a blanket and stood there, not knowing where else to stand.

I realized I was still playing with Nagi's hair, and I smiled. He'd been such a small thing when Brad had brought him in for training. We were his guardians, his tutors, during a time when he was most vulnerable. Brad had found him on the streets in one of Japan's most desperate slums. The American had been on Esset business; they had not expected him to come back with a psi-talented child.

Crawford had brought him back, handed him off to me, and left again almost immediately. But not before telling me about the lice.

"Lice? As in bugs, Brad?" I had been appalled at the thought of bugs in my home, parasites carried in on a small, filthy urchin that I was obviously now expected to care for.

"Yes, Schuldig, lice. I'm sure he's clean now." And with that reassurance he had gone.

Now I played with his hair, so soft, so fine. When I had first met the child, his hair had been like straw, cooked and brittle from the chemical delouser. His scalp, too, had been burned, though not too badly. I had taken him into the bathroom and bathed him, changing the water several times for my own sanity. He had taken a liking to my fingernail brush, and scrubbed under his nails while I worked on salvaging his hair.

I had been so young and vain back then, with the world before me and a good career prospect. I was on a team, I had my own room in a decent apartment in preparation for leaving the facility with that team, and through Brad I had access to goods and treats I had barely remembered existed outside those walls. I had never been good at sharing, but I had used up nearly a whole bottle of my precious aloe conditioner on the boy, massaging it into his scalp, soothing the burn and turning his hair from scorched fiber to something resembling hair again. I had conditioned, rinsed, changed the water, then repeated the cycle until the water started to chill. Then I had lifted the exhausted child from the tub and wrapped him in towels, and carried him to the sofa. I'd wanted a smoke, but couldn't bring myself to light up. I had just sat there, cradling this little waif, drying his hair, as he had slept uncaring and trusting for perhaps the first time in his life.

I found myself crying; I quickly scrubbed the tears away. My hand was shaking. I didn't want to think about how close we had just come to losing him to the sea, or what I would do if Brad was wrong and Nagi didn't wake up. In many ways, Nagi was still that tiny urchin, lost and alone, but for some reason trusting me enough to sleep naked in my arms.

I started pacing again, stopping only when the doctor beckoned me to a chair. He disinfected my hand and scalp, and sewed up what needed sewing. While he worked on me, he spoke carefully with Brad, who was in no hurry to reclaim his shirt from where I had left it and simply stood there bandaged from hip to armpit.

After finishing with me, the doctor showed Brad the X-rays of his own injuries and of Farf's. Crawford sported six broken ribs; it was sheer luck that kept him from having a punctured lung to go along with it. And Farfarello had been damn near lobotomized. The doctor was no neurosurgeon, and had no grounding in psychology or brain disorders. He could only speculate what sort of long-term effects the Irishman would have. In my opinion, it didn't sound like much would change for him.

As for Nagi, the doctor couldn't find anything wrong, aside from a low body temperature and the fact that he had been unconscious five days. The boy was a little dehydrated, but we had kept him alive with the sports drink, and now he had an IV line in his arm. The doctor gave us half a dozen IV bags with that nutrient stuff in them, and showed Brad and me how to change them out.

The woman opened the door and pushed a little cart into the clinic, then shut the door quickly. On the cart were three bowls of fried noodles. I felt my mouth water in spite of my better judgment. I had never imagined food being such a rarity in my life. Farfarello had woken up at the sound of the door closing. He sat without help, and devoured his bowl of mystery meat noodles without comment. I finished picking at mine, not quite able to handle the meat but doing fair damage to the rest of it.

The clock on the wall showed it was nearly midnight.

::We have a place to stay the night,:: Brad told me. ::You'll have to get these two to the car, I won't be much help for a couple more days. But we have the means to care for Nagi, and we have medicine now to help with Farf's seizures. If we can just get through the next few weeks...::

Brad and I watched as the doctor piled the X-rays and needles and anything else that might have our blood on it into a small pottery kiln and closed the door. He turned it on, and even at this distance we could feel the heat rising. Brad nodded. The doctor's work was done as promised.

Brad reclaimed his shirt and I lay Nagi across the back seat. Farf took shotgun. Brad gave me directions through the back alleys to a warehouse by the docks. It looked nasty.

A heavily tattooed man met us at the door. The doctor had called ahead, told him to expect guests. He told Brad to pull the car inside and opened the garage door for us.

Inside the warehouse, twenty or so young men were busy stripping and painting cars and working on small electronics. I picked up enough random thoughts to know that this was only a small part of a much larger fencing operation, and that harboring territory war refugees was a part of their daily routine.

::And I thought Takatori was the low point in my career,:: I quipped, reaching for a cigarette and cursing when I realized they were in the trunk of the car.

::Schuldig, not now.::

Farf was steady enough to carry our bags, so I loaded him down. Brad and I cleaned out everything we intended to keep from the car, then I carried Nagi to the small room that would be our home away from home for the night. No beds, no cots, just thin futons on the floor, but there were blankets and an electric hotplate, and we had free access to water and a bathroom with a working lock on the door, so it wasn't all bad.

::Schuldig. You're projecting.::

::Sorry.:: Shit, but my shields were damn near nonexistent now. I had been so concerned about my teammates that I had totally neglected myself, and now I was a wreck. ::Hey, is it safe for me to walk around outside a bit? You know, suck some nicotine?::

Brad pondered a moment, then said out loud, "Smoke outside. There's a little shop a few doors down, go see what you can find there." He handed me some money. "You'll sleep better if you do."

I frowned, then dug out my cigarettes and lighter and moved toward the door. ::You okay with these two, Brad?::

::I don't See anything significant for the next few hours, so go and take a break, Schuldig. I know you need it.::

One of the yakuza let me out and promised to watch for my return. I leaned against the unlit wall and put a cigarette to my lips, the first in far too long. I wasn't exactly addicted, but they sure did help with the shielding. Not addicted? Hell. My hands shook as I struck fire and brought it to the tip.

The first inhalation made me choke, but the second was pure heaven.

I stood there and allowed my mind to rest. The minds of the yakuza in the warehouse were all humming along in a harmonious buzz that allowed me to pretty much ignore them. Minds in unison were so much more bearable than the fiercely independent, or the egotistic and agitated minds found throughout the more populated areas. This wharfside slum was actually quite comforting to my bruised and overworked psyche.

I never could stay still for long. Restlessness and curiosity pushed and pulled me toward that little shop Brad had mentioned. It looked like it was closed, but as I stood there staring at the window, I saw movement inside. The door, though, was locked.

As if hearing me try the doorknob, the figure inside opened the door a crack, suspicion and fear flowing out with the thickly accented dialect.

I bowed, trying to figure out the best course of action here. Sticking with the more formal usage, I said, "Good evening, auntie. Is this a shop for tourists?"

She frowned, but let me in. Junk food, soft drinks, booze, and dusty boxes cluttered the shelves. In the back, a small freezer hummed and hiccupped. I browsed around, more pleased than I'd expected to be. I found a little wicker basket and started filling it with things that looked tasty, highly sugared, loaded with caffeine, and/or alcoholic. On second thought, I put back the bottles of booze and gave a closer look to the selection. A bottle of high-proof vodka went into the basket, along with a good strong whiskey. Either could be used medicinally, if need be. Rum had too much sugar for that.

As I turned toward the checkout counter, my gaze fell on a bin of dusty cassette tape boxes. I set the basket down and started rummaging, my mood lifting even more.

By the time I was done, I barely had enough cash in hand to pay for it all. Something about the situation made me want to keep honest, here, so I gave her the money and she handed me my basket with a smile. I bowed and left, completely pleased with myself.

She locked the door behind me.

A/N:

Relax, I'll need some information first...just the basic facts; can you show me where it hurts?

"Comfortably Numb" from The Wall by Pink Floyd, a signature Crawford band. Brad Crawford is not the kind of man to accept drugs for extreme pain: he would rather confront it and defy it to even touch him in the first place. He won't allow the yakuza doctor to give him anything strong enough to make him foggy, though he's in more pain than he's showing. Thanks to the mental link between the members of Schwarz, and the more intimate link forming between him and Schuldig, Crawford's personal soundtrack to this story will work its way into Schu's head, giving him some well-known songs to hold on to and a little more insight into his leader's viewpoint.