Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Coming Home ❯ 7 ( Chapter 7 )

7

and I'm young enough to look at and far too old to see,
all the scars are on the inside

I'm not sure that there's anything left to me

Something woke me from fitful sleep, and for several horrible moments I had no idea where I was, or when. Memories clashed with imagination and reality, dragging me into my own private hell. I could hear heavy footsteps outside a heavy door, the distant growl of spoken German, and incoherent screaming. Cold sweat poured down the back of my shirt. The darkness echoed my own panicked breathing, too loud, too fast, as I groped for the cool comfort of my gun.

Before I found my weapon, I realized I had been dreaming. The sounds faded into silence, and the voices in my head murmured in harsh Japanese, the dialect of crime. With grudging slowness, the past few days sorted themselves into more or less neat heaps in my mind. Then the most recent hours came clear: the warehouse, the yakuza, the futons on the floor.

I tried to relax, but when I reached for the light my hand was shaking so violently I nearly knocked the damn lamp off its stand. Waxy thirty-watt light glowed dimly in spite of my fumbling. I ran a hand through my hair; sweat chills followed it.

Fuck, but I needed a cigarette.

Nagi was still where we had put him, lying on his back between me and Crawford. He slept on, unmindful of my panic attack. I checked his IV line and the clear plastic bag that was keeping him alive. It would need changing in a few more hours. I didn't want to change it too early; we didn't dare waste any of it.

Crawford lay by the wall, half curled around his wounded chest. He slept deeply; the shot of whiskey had done its job well. I watched him breathe for a few moments, relieved that it looked deep and even and regular. I wondered if he ever had nightmares like mine. It wasn't something you talked about, and on second thought I decided I didn't really want to know.

Against the opposite wall, Farfarello slept without the straitjacket. The doctor had given him a powerful anti-seizure injection, and had given Brad a two-week supply and a list of alternative drugs in the event that this one didn't do the job. So far, so good, though. Farf hadn't seized since that time in the car.

Carefully disentangling myself from my sweat-drenched bedding, I levered myself up, only now really noticing how stiff and sore I was. My right hand stung along the suture lines; I had to be careful not to tear the stitches open. I tried to look them over, make sure I hadn't already ripped them out in my sleep, but the little lamp wasn't suited for that sort of work. It merely glowed reassuringly in the corner, providing a little anchor to reality.

All around us, the nocturnal denizens of Japan's underworld conducted their business and went about their lives. I couldn't sleep, so I decided to take a little look, partly out of curiosity, and partly to make sure that everything was working correctly upstairs. My shields had never been top notch, but they had become total wreckage after the tower. Whether the failing shields caused the headache or the other way around, I was getting pretty disgusted with the constant nagging pain. I needed to figure out just how bad off I was.

I let my mind float, tasting those around me, widening the net to a city block, then more. It was oddly soothing, riding the waves of humanity like that. Not for the first time I wished I could invade people's dreams, but that's a rare talent among telepaths, and not one that I possessed. The dreaming mind is different from the waking mind, just as the insane are different from the rational. It was my misfortune to be able to deal with madness better than with dreams.

I felt myself smile. Self-contemplation wasn't one of my strong suits either. I worked past my own distracted mumbles and sent my thoughts out again into the night.

Somewhere out there, the men of Weiß were recovering from their own injuries. I wondered how they fared, with their skilled and trusted doctors and safe beds in which to rest. I couldn't resist looking for them, so I did. ::Here, kitty kitty...::

It didn't work, but I really hadn't expected it to. I didn't know them well enough to recognize the feel of their minds among so many, and I really had no idea if they were even within range. But the mental exercise had done some good: it had kept me entertained, and even lessened my headache a little. This constant buzzing headache really was getting on my nerves. Anything that could distract me from it was a good thing, and looking for Weiß had been fairly distracting.

I got up and let myself out of the room as quietly as I could. The bathroom was calling and I could ignore it no longer. After relieving myself, I took advantage of the sixty-watt light dangling over the sink and studied my injured hand. The stitches looked sturdy, if a bit inflamed. I'd keep an eye on it for the next day or so. It should start to look better by then. Or rot clean off. Either way, it'd be a done deal.

I left the toilet and stretched as I walked. My back gave a series of pops and cracks that didn't seem quite as reassuring as I'd hoped they'd be. Near the warehouse ceiling, narrow windows showed a sky already growing light. I groaned. Sleep was done, then. I returned to our room.

Clear dark eyes regarded me as I entered. "How are you feeling?" Brad asked in a whisper. "Ready to drive?"

"Sure, just let me have a cup of coffee and about five thousand cigarettes first," I mumbled. "Slept like shit."

"Sorry to hear that." Brad checked his own bandages, then started dressing for travel. "These next few weeks will be critical, so I need you to stay sharp. Any problems with your talent, I want you to tell me immediately."

"Well, my shields are still gone, but other than that, it seems okay. We all know I can still project." That last came out a bit louder and sharper than I really wanted, but I was upset. Brad knew that my shields had always been a little iffy, thanks to the diligent instruction at Esset's very own school for gifted youngsters, but to have them all but nonexistent at a time when the team needed me really pissed me off.

"Use your music, Schu. It's always helped you focus before." Brad rummaged in a bag for a moment, then stepped over to me and handed me a can of coffee. "Here. You'd better get started, though I doubt you have enough cigarettes for your agenda."