Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Coming Home ❯ 67 ( Chapter 67 )

67

 

it ain't so groovy when you're screaming in the night “let me out of this cheap `B' movie”

 

Paris. Capital of France, jewel of Europe, home of art and history.

 

And fucking crowded.

 

The press of minds all around me was making me a little claustrophobic. Even within Crawford's quiet, I still knew they were out there, waiting for my shields to slip just a fraction and let the multitudes in. Unlike Japan, the petty wants and worries of the locals here came in a language I knew and couldn't easily ignore. The weight of humanity hung over me like a summer storm, and Brad was my only shelter.

 

The closer we got to the center of Paris, the more I became aware of a vague and uncertain longing. Something was missing, but I couldn't pin it down.

 

“Remember, once we know that Esset proper has us on its radar,” Brad was saying, “we will have to dodge not only their searchers but the ones from Rosenkreuz itself. With any luck the two factions will foul each other and solve our problems for us.”

 

“Any idea how long this will take, Crawford?” Far asked. “Will we ever be able to stop?”

 

“I don't know,” Brad replied. “But if they don't manage to cripple each other, we will have to seek them both out in time. As I've said, Schwarz has become the catalyst; the future is unclear as to what part, exactly, we are to play beyond that.”

 

“At least the trip will be interesting,” Farfarello murmured, and I could see him in the rearview mirror turning to look out the window.

 

Nagi fidgeted in his seat and asked, “Crawford, have you Seen us actually fighting Esset again, or just setting them up like the last time?” I had the distinct feeling the kid was itching for a fight, and resented Weiß and necessity for taking two of the three Elders off our hands.

 

“Both, Nagi. In time, you will have your chance.”

 

Again that feeling of wanting stole over me, only this time it left me fantasizing…about pancakes. “Brad?”

 

“What, Schuldig?” Brad asked, turning in his seat to look at me.

 

I cleared my throat, unaccountably embarrassed. “Can we get some pancakes?” The craving was beyond question now.

 

Brad looked like he was about to answer when his eyes went wide and the rear window exploded into the cab. A stray bullet burned through a strand of my hair before punching a hole through the windshield and rendering my view a spider webbed fantasy in glass.

 

“Scheiße!” I heard myself shout as I ducked down in my seat and hit the accelerator. I felt an impact against the back of my seat, accompanied by a soft grunt. Glancing at the mirror, I realized that I couldn't see Nagi or Far, just the top portion of the back seat and the shards of glass in the frame. I spared a heartbeat and looked at the gap between Brad's seat and my own; all I could see was the back of Farfarello's jacket.

 

“Schuldig, drive!” Brad ordered, his own gun out and firing through the non-existent back window.

 

Teeth grinding in frustration and worry, I turned my attention fully to the task at hand. I took a deep breath, sent out a telepathic command to the drivers ahead of us - ::Do not change lanes, do not change speed!:: - and swerved my way through the traffic. My only hope was that our pursuit wouldn't be as able to dodge.

 

And through it all, the maddening desire for fucking pancakes.

 

Brad's sidearm thundered again and again; apparently they were dodging well enough.

 

My concentration slid fully into “the zone” and I knew the drivers ahead would comply with my command. Driving became easy as my reflexes kicked into high gear and I felt myself grinning. If the situation weren't so dangerous, I'd say I was having fun.

 

Brad hunched down in his seat to reload his gun. I took the moment to ask, “When we're done here, can we get some pancakes?”

 

Calm as only Brad Crawford in a firefight could be, he slipped the ammunition home and said, “What do you mean, pancakes?”

 

“I mean I want some fucking pancakes, Brad!” My eyes were beginning to sting from lack of blinking.

 

Brad spared me a mild glare. “You don't want pancakes, Schuldig. You never want pancakes. The guy chasing us wants the damn pancakes.” He turned in his seat and fired.

 

From behind us came the unmistakable whine of tires sliding sideways across pavement, followed by a satisfying crash.

 

Brad sat right-way in his seat again and asked, “Still want pancakes?”

 

I had to think about it. “Yes,” I lied, not wanting to seem like a complete fool.

 

Brad didn't buy it. “Your shields are shit. You got complacent again.”

 

“Fuck you very much,” I snarled, my body beginning to shake with leftover adrenalin.

 

Brad put his hand over mine on the steering wheel. “Throttle down, and get us out of sight.”

 

I eased back up in my seat and squinted through the ruined windshield. We'd only been in this car for a day and a half and already it was trashed.

 

Beside me, Brad had turned to survey the back seat, and I forced down my questions. I had to drive, get the team somewhere to regroup. I couldn't spare a thought for the two youngest just yet.

 

The best place I could find was beneath a bridge, unseen by those above and yet close enough to the road that getting a replacement vehicle shouldn't be too hard. I cut the engine and turned to see how my teammates fared.

 

Farfarello was crouched over the backseat floorboards, one hand and knee on the seat, the other braced against the floor. His back was covered with glass; here and there blood seeped dull crimson through his jacket.

 

Brad got out of the car and opened the back door. “You can get up now, Farfarello. It's over for today.”

 

Far's voice came low and gravelly, without intonation. “They wanted the boy.” Slowly he backed out of the car, reclaiming his hunting knife as he did so.

 

From beneath him, crammed into the space between front and back seat, Nagi let out a low groan. He got up on all fours, wincing as he put weight on his right hand. I vaulted from the car and helped him out on my side. His face was ashen, and he was trembling.

 

::Chibi, what happened?:: I asked, fear and worry getting the better of me.

 

Aloud, Nagi replied, “The window. Glass. It almost hit me. I couldn't move. Then Farfarello cut the seat belt and pushed me down.”

 

“They wanted to hurt the boy,” Far growled. “I won't allow that.”

 

“Which side were they, Brad?” I heard myself asking even as my mind raced to assess Nagi's condition. The kid seemed rattled as all hell, and he was cradling his right arm, but he didn't even have a scratch on him.

 

Brad checked Nagi's arm, found it was dislocated at the shoulder. No wonder the kid looked so pasty; it had to hurt like hell. I held Nagi still while Brad forced it back into the joint. Nagi gasped, but didn't faint.

 

“That,” Brad stated, replying to my earlier question, “was probably Esset. Remember, the factions use the same tools, but the directness implies the identity.”

 

I looked at Nagi, sitting on the ground, propped against a tread-burned tire; then at Far, standing at the edge of the bridge's shadow like a sentinel. ::Brad, can you tell me something?::

 

::Depends on what you want, Schuldig.::

 

::Esset should want us to pay for wounding it, right? If it doesn't, it will. But what about Rosenkreuz? What do they want, really?::

 

::Not `they'. `He'.:: Brad regarded me with a steady gaze. ::He's after me, Schuldig. And he will stop at nothing.::

 

I debated forcing the issue, demanding to know more, but I knew I'd get nowhere. Instead I turned and strode over to where Far stood, his back seeping blood through his coat. He'd calmed down enough that we should be able to tend his wounds safely.

 

Slowly I stripped off his jacket, feeling like I was undressing a mannequin for all the help he gave me. Then I tried to get his shirt off, but Far stopped me. He peeled it off, little bits of glass falling free as he did so. “My back feels wet,” he murmured, “and sticky.”

 

I felt my face go pale. Far's left shoulder bore a jagged hole decorated with upholstery and glass. Blood seeped from it in a slow trickle. I checked from the front: no exit wound. Shit. “Nagi, we need you.”

 

I guided Far to lie on his belly away from the broken glass. Nagi knelt beside him, resting his right hand on Far's back while he checked the wound left-handed. “Wipe and cut,” Nagi said, not looking up. “Probably stitch.”

 

Brad handed him the alcohol and gauze.

 

Nagi cleaned the wound of debris, then concentrated a moment. He frowned and shook his head. “I can't do it like this. I'm sorry, Far.”

 

“No need,” Farfarello murmured. “Use the switchblade, it's smallest.” He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small knife, offered it to Nagi.

 

“Arigato,” Nagi whispered. He poured alcohol over the blade, then set about removing the bullet.

 

I couldn't watch. He'd done the same for me once, but he'd been able to use his powers to grab the slug rather than dig it out with a pocket knife.

 

Brad didn't turn away. He watched Nagi's field surgery, collecting the bullet once it was free and providing Nagi with a sharp needle and a roll of dental floss to finish the work.

 

Far seemed to be dozing.

 

By the time he was done, Nagi looked rather ill. His shoulder must be hurting like hell, I thought. He stumbled toward Brad.

 

“Good work, Nagi.” Brad gave him a small bottle of sports drink and a couple of aspirins. “Farfarello, stay put for a while. I don't want those stitches coming out. Schuldig, get us another car. We need to get moving.”

 

I sighed against the welling headache and nodded. Hopefully Brad would take over driving for a while; I was all funned out.

 

Within half an hour we were back on the road, Nagi sleeping in the passenger seat and Far keeping watch beside me in the back. Brad drove fast and with certainty, apparently with a destination in mind. Or a desired time of arrival - with precogs, location could be either geographic or sequential.

 

My telepathy was getting a hell of a workout: we stopped for groceries and made money on the transaction. I didn't like resorting to thievery, but I rationalized that short-changing was not so heinous an act as robbery. Besides, we were nearly out of money.

 

Brad had told me to get enough food for about four days, so I did. He had to help me carry it all back to the car, but as he did so he murmured, “Thank you, Schuldig. Get some sleep. I'll be driving for while.”

 

I didn't even think to ask where we were going.

 

 

A/N:

 

it ain't so groovy when you're screaming in the night “let me out of this cheap `B' movie”

 

Queen, “Headlong” from Innuendo. Welcome to my “Pulp Fiction” chapter, where two men engaged in the serious business of getting shot at can calmly discuss the possibilities of breakfast. Schwarz lives in surreal circumstances at the best of times, and these are not the best of times for them. Non-sequiturs become the norm, and everyone slips a little further into “The Twilight Zone”.

 

Brad Crawford wanted to get Esset's attention, and he succeeded big time. He's taking a mighty gamble, that the two factions with reason to hunt and apprehend Schwarz will interfere with each other and not band together for the common goal. Obviously he knows more about what's going on than he's telling his team, but in the command structure of an Esset field team that's only to be expected.

 

And Schuldig, Schuldig, Schuldig…get yourself some damn pancakes, already! Clearly Rosenkreuz doesn't bother training its telepaths to handle the daily ebb and flow of humanity very well. Of course, if they had just left him alone as a child and allowed him to build his own shields, he would probably have been fine.