Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Coming Home ❯ 22 ( Chapter 22 )

22

I knew the moment had arrived for killing the past and coming back to life

It was nearly sunup as I returned to the apartment. My heart thumped anxiously. Pleasant thoughts of Balinese faded into anxious thoughts of Crawford. I wondered if he would let me back in, or if he would be waiting for me at the door, gun in hand. ::Brad? I'm back.::

Nothing. I swallowed and tried again. ::Brad, let me in, I'm home.::

::One moment, Schuldig.::

The apartment was so well made that I couldn't hear him walking to the door, and the lock made very little sound as it turned. I opened the door and stepped in, carefully closing and locking it behind me.

I turned, and Crawford motioned for me to follow him to his room. I couldn't pick up anything from his thoughts to indicate just where this might be going. I followed, terribly aware that I still stank of cheap cigarettes and whiskey. At least I wasn't drunk anymore.

He shut the door and regarded me with an unreadable expression on his face.

I blinked, mildly surprised. He had shaved while I was gone, and showered, too. He looked, well, normal. Before I could relax, I reminded myself that I had disobeyed a direct order: I had left the apartment without permission, though I had overheard him say it didn't matter. We both knew that didn't count. I fully expected him to take it out of my hide, and I braced myself.

But the expected blow never fell. "Did you turn left?" he asked, voice mild.

"What do you mean, Brad?" I had feared punishment for my delinquency. I had hoped he had come back to reality from his recent excursion to the outer rings. But this odd question threw me.

"When faced with the choice to continue on straight or turn left, what did you do?"

His eyes sparkled with what might have been expectation or malice; I really had no idea how to interpret this. "I…turned left," I replied, remembering how I had crossed the street toward that little club.

Brad gave me a ghost of a smile. "All right, then. I trust you're not hung over? Good. Because we have things to do now, and I promise you, I'll work you even if you're trashed."

"What kind of things?" When Brad Crawford said there were things to do, they were usually interesting. Then sudden memory prompted me to ask, "Oh, how is Nagi?"

"I gave him something pretty strong for the headache last night. It made him a bit queasy but he didn't vomit. I'll assess his condition when he wakes up. As for what kind of things we have on the agenda," he went on, making the transition from Nagi to business as smoothly as ever, "our work starts now. Take your shower and meet me in the kitchen when you're presentable."

Arguing that I hadn't had any sleep would be futile. When Brad Crawford said "now", he meant "now, or else." So, fifteen minutes later, I sat in the kitchen with Brad, my wet hair clinging to the back of my neck and dampening my t-shirt. I devoured my eggs and toast, grateful for the non-Asian fare, and sucked down coffee like an addict.

Brad watched me eat, his eyes thoughtful. I wondered if he knew where I'd gone last night, and who I'd met. I hoped he didn't.

There were, however, more important things we needed to discuss. The question was, how do you ask someone if they've recently had a mental breakdown? Around a mouthful of toast, I said, "Brad, I have to tell you, that mood swing of yours was really frightening. I'm glad you're feeling better now."

Brad regarded me flatly. "I don't get mood swings. Telepaths get mood swings, Schuldig, and I am not a telepath."

I rolled my eyes.

His voice softer, Brad said, "What I get…is much worse." He seemed distant for a moment, then turned back to his coffee.

I debated asking what he meant, then realized I did not want to know. Instead, I asked him, "So what is this work we need to do today?"

That familiar smug look returned to his face as he pushed his glasses back up with one elegant finger. "You are going shopping today. I want you to use your telepathy to make sure no one remembers seeing you. You'll need the practice."

"What am I shopping for?" I asked, a little excited by the prospect despite my lack of sleep. Something about his manner suggested intrigue.

"Disguises." He sat back and sipped his coffee.

I looked at him, a little startled. "What, is there a costume shop nearby? What do you mean, disguises?"

Brad smiled a thoroughly superior sort of smile. "What do you think I mean, Schuldig?" He'd obviously Seen something that came through loud and clear this time, and knew exactly what he wanted me to do. I realized he was hoping I would guess it on my own.

The caffeine had jump-started my brain, and now I pondered his question. Disguises, huh? What the hell would I be able to find nearby to use for disguises? I thought about the streets I had wandered the night before. There were some houses, some shops, the park of course, but nothing that seemed appropriate. I closed my eyes, trying to envision the shops more clearly. There had been a small bakery, a news stand, a restaurant, a hair stylist, a few bars, and a money lender.

Hair stylist. I felt myself grin, and Brad's echoing smile told me I'd figured it out. "Hair color," I said, feeling almost as smug as he looked. "Makeup. We already have clothes they've never seen us in before, thanks to you," I added, putting it all together in my head. Then one detail came up that I couldn't make fit. "What about Farfarello? With the scars and the eyepatch, he'll be damn near impossible to hide."

"I've already taken care of that," he stated, picking up a small bag and setting it on the table. As I reached for it, he explained, "There's a theatrical supply place not too far from here. I got us everything we'll need in that regard."

I gently dumped the contents of the bag on the table and rummaged through them. Putty, pancake makeup, cream makeup, fake hair in several shades, spirit gum, and, of all things, a fake scar kit. I looked up. "Fake scars? Doesn't he have enough? Or is that for someone else?"

Brad chuckled. "Actually, I was thinking we could use that to blend into his own scars, help with the texture problem. It'll take some practice, and we'll both have to become proficient with it. I don't know how well Farfarello would be able to apply it to himself, with his impaired depth perception."

I nodded. "What about the eyepatch?"

"I'm hoping that we can disguise the scars enough that he can get away with dark glasses instead."

I flashed him a happy grin. Yes, this was certainly mayhem talk. "So all I need to do is worry about you, me, and the kid? And some hair color for Farf?" At his nod, I clapped my hands with glee. "Damn, Brad, if I'd known it'd be that easy --"

"Hold on, Schu," he said, raising a hand to catch my attention. "I never said it would be easy. We'll have to get so adept at changing disguises that it will become our lifestyle for a while. It will become boring, then stressful, and sometimes it won't quite work. But I've Seen that it will get us through the next few months relatively unscathed."

That "relatively" bothered me, but I didn't feel like asking. Sometimes it was better to leave foreknowing solely in Brad's domain, and not try to be a part of it. "Fair enough, I'll try to treat it seriously. Do you have a shopping list for me, or am I faking it?"

"As gifted as you are at faking and bluffing," he said, "I do have a list. But I fully expect you to use your own unique creativity, Schuldig. You know what kind of look would work best for Nagi. I want each of us to be able to melt into any crowd anywhere in the world and vanish without a trace."

"Okay, so what's on the list?" I asked as I cleaned up my breakfast plates.

"Electric clippers for me and Farfarello, hair dyes, bleaching kits. Skin bronzing cream. A mustache care kit --"

"Mustache care, Brad?" I blurted. "For whom?" I honestly didn't know if I could even grow one, and I had never seen Brad try, either.

With a wry smile he held up the fake hair and spirit gum. "At least until I have time to grow my own."

"What did they teach you in leader training, anyway?" I asked. The thought of Brad knowing how to apply fake hair to fashion a believable mustache truly boggled my mind.

"Be sure to get unscented deodorant, too," he went on as though I hadn't interrupted. "Anything else you might find that could possibly be useful. And when you're done, make sure the clerk and anyone else who saw you will remember someone other than a red-haired gaijin man, understood? Be subtle, Schu."

"Are you sure about the clothes?" I asked. "Maybe I should look for new outfits too."

"Not at this time," Brad stated. "We need enough of the makeup supplies to practice for a while. When we're ready to take our show on the road, I'll let you know. Now get going. I want you back here for lunch."

I dressed as generically as possible, and as an afterthought tied the gaudy teal silk scarf around my head, covering my distinctly non-Japanese hair. Brad nodded his approval as he handed me some cash and wished me luck.

Sunlight streamed over me as I walked, and I delighted in the subtle scents that come with a Japanese summer morning. True, technically it was late spring, but already the air was heady with the fullness of summer, and birds were everywhere. I nearly danced as I strolled down the street, any lingering fatigue totally forgotten.

Again, influencing the non-psionic minds around me was quite easy. I entered the hair stylist's shop unnoticed and looked around. It was actually a supply shop, not a place where people went to have their hair done but where one could get all manner of things to do one's own. I shook my head. It figured that I had misread the sign; I really wasn't all that good with written Japanese. But Brad had known I could find all these things here, and I hadn't questioned, and now here I was, the only customer, surrounded by shelves of disguises.

I grabbed a shopping basket and set to work. Fortunately most of the packages were labeled in at least two languages, one of them easier to read than Japanese. I found something to remove temporary colors without bleaching, then grabbed half a dozen temporary colors, some permanent colors, bleaches and activators, mixing bottles, gloves. The next aisle saw some electric clippers and a few sets of hand shears join the goods in the basket, as well as a couple of hair extensions.

Trying to hurry, I passed by the display of regular makeup, then backpedaled. I regarded the gaudy eye makeup and nail polish, and grinned. Handfuls of nail enamels and makeup went into the basket, and I picked out a few choice eyeliners, too. On impulse, I added three sets of magnetic clip-on earrings.

They didn't have the deodorant, but they did have the suntan-in-a-bottle stuff, in several shades. I dumped five in the basket and called it good. The clerk eyed me suspiciously for a moment, but I gave her the suggestion that I was a half-Japanese woman starting a parlor out of her home, and she smiled and finished the transaction.

I still had a little money left, so I stopped in at the bakery on my way back home. Home, I thought wryly. Well, it was as close as I would get to one for a while, I may as well call it that. I picked out some sweets for later, paid, then erased my image from everyone in the building. Sudden pain flared behind my eyes; I winced and hurried back to the apartment, now cursing the very morning sun that had cheered me not so long ago.