Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Mind Games and Coffee ❯ chapter nine ( Chapter 9 )
[ X - Adult: No readers under 18. Contains Graphic Adult Themes/Extreme violence. ]
By: Solaras 
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Comedy / Drama / Hentai / Romance | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 06.20.2006 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.7K | Visits: 512 | Status: Completed
Anime/Manga: Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction | Genre(s): Comedy / Drama / Hentai / Romance | Type: Continuation | Uploaded On: 06.20.2006 | Pages: 2 | Words: 1.7K | Visits: 512 | Status: Completed
Disclaimer: Weiss Kreuz is not mine.All its characters and affiliates are also not mine. Nothing involving Weiss Kreuz is mine.Sadly this is true.
Author’s Notes: Going for the weekly update. A little angst, but there can’t be sunshine all the time.
Review Responses:
KD Sarge – Thanks for the RTF tip. It made my life so much easier. More clueless precogs and confused telepaths ahead. On to the story.
darkepheonix – No, there’s no need to tie me up. I’m working see, see!
moimoi-chan – I do torture the poor guy. *sigh* To bad Schu you must angst some more.
Nariel – Don’t melt yet. Wait a few more chapters, and there will be some real heat. ;)
~telepathy~ aka communicating
/thoughts/ aka Schuldig reading someone’s mind
German Words:
Großmutter - Grandmother
Halt die Schnauze – Shut up (I found several different ways to say this online and in my
dictionary. I don’t know which way would be used, but I like this one the best. It’s literally ‘Stop the lip,’ and it made me think of a teacher or my mom saying ‘Don’t give me any lip.’ ^_^
was auch immer- whatever
Chapter Nine
Schuldig stood, hand on the doorknob, staring at his half closed door. He wanted to close it; to shut Crawford out. He wanted to keep it open, so that he wasn’t alone. He wanted to be alone, but he couldn’t be alone. There were the voices, always the voices. He wanted to go back to the living room, lie on the couch, and listen to the silence that was Brad. He wanted a physical reminder that the voices weren’t disembodied phantasms haunting him, that he wasn’t imagining things. He was fine. People could be like him; were like him. It was normal. He wasn’t possessed. His mother didn’t have to be afraid. The doctors in their white coats and the priest in their black robes lied. He wasn’t sick. There was no need for locks. Demons may like the dark, but he didn’t. He was human. He was human!
Schuldig breathed in a shaky breath, and released the doorknob; the impression of which remained on his palm. He left the door half open.
/Mom just doesn’t get it./
/Is he cheating on me?/
/I wonder if it comes in blue…/
/I could ask. I could go right up to her. Oh shit here she comes!/
/Could death be any worse?/
/I wish she’d get off my case./
/Maybe if I did my hair, he’d notice me./
/or red…/
/She’d never go out with me./
/Would anyone notice if I did it?/
The telepath stood in front of the doorway, just listening. There were always so many people, so many thoughts. Language never seemed to be a problem in people’s minds. Thoughts, Schuldig thought, were the ultimate barrier breaker. To bad everyone didn’t know that, or to bad everyone didn’t know Schuldig knew that; depending on the point of view. For a moment Schuldig just listened to a chorus only he could hear, and let it carry him away. His mind floated on a sea of noise that became closer to static the wider he let the field grow. Mentally scattering himself verged on extremely dangerous. If the net was to thin, it would break. Just one mind in excess, and Schuldig could lose himself forever in a sea of chaos, but the white noise; however, could be just as addicting as silence. If the voices couldn’t be silenced, then block them with more noise till there was nothing remotely resembling words: the Telepath’s Symphony.
Schuldig sank to the floor. His head fell back to rest on the end of the bed, and there he sat staring at nothing, as music only he could hear filled his head. Slowly, above the din, his own thoughts collected. As oil from water, Schuldig’s mind slipped drop by drop to float together all the while shaking clingy interlopers away. There beyond the interference of other minds and personalities, Schuldig thought his own thoughts, confident in the knowledge that they were his thoughts.
Brad Crawford, he thought, was not supposed to be serious. Brad Crawford was supposed to be a game to amuse Schuldig, and to prove that Großmutter was wrong. Flirting with Brad Crawford was supposed to be fun because annoying Brad Crawford was fun. If he managed to get laid in the process, however unlikely, all the better, but it shouldn’t be serious. Of course the precog should worry about Schuldig, he was planning an usurpation of a powerful organization, but where was the line of professional interest? Schuldig could take care of himself. He didn’t always need Brad Crawford, bastard precog extraordinaire. He just needed Brad sometimes, occasionally, not even that; just when he did, but only because Brad was usually already there. The precog knew what it was like to have a talent (gift/curse) ready to engulf him. Precognition may not be as volatile as telepathy, but Brad could understand enough. That didn’t mean Schuldig needed the bastard. He could do without Brad, and he could certainly make his own coffee. Brad Crawford was not supposed to be serious. Brad Crawford wasn’t supposed to look at Schuldig with honey colored eyes, and Schuldig wasn’t supposed to like them so much.
But Schuldig, who was never really alone, didn’t want to be alone. He wanted someone outside the voices, a physicality that he could see and touch. He wanted to exist outside his mind. He wanted to be noticed, and not cast aside. He wanted to be recognized, touched, and heard. He wanted to be real to somebody, and not just a voice in someone else’s head. He needed to exist.
Mental strain was starting to set in. Beyond the white noise, pain waited. Blackness hovered just out of the telepath’s control. Carefully, Schuldig began to filter through the noise. He retracted back into his own mind. The sounds became more distinct, gaining syllables, and whole words. No longer actively scanning, the voices lessoned in intensity. He could still hear them flowing through the back of his mind, around his own thoughts, occasionally through them, and back again. Slowly he came down from his high. He blinked once, again, then slowly focused on the ceiling.
“Does Crawford know you’re doing that?”
“Halt die Schnauze.”
“Dinner’s ready.”
“Ja, was auch immer.”
“I’m not saving it, if you don’t eat.”
“Nagi,” Schuldig’s eyes rolled down to gaze, past his nose, at the voice not in his head, “don’t tell Brad.”
“I suppose if your head was going to combust, Crawford would have seen it.”
“He’s focused on Estet. He pushes everything else out.”
“Not stuff involving your brain exploding.”
“How do you know?”
“Schuldig,” Nagi sighed irritably, “don’t be stupid. He would know if one of us was going to die. He’s Crawford.”
“Yeah, sure kid.”
“Don’t call me that,” Nagi snapped. “You look like crap.” The Japanese boy walked the few steps to the bathroom, rummaged through a drawer, and came back. Dropping a small bottle in the telepaths lap, he turned to leave again. “Crawford hates it when you’re reckless.”
“He hates disorder,” Schuldig replied to Nagi’s retreating back. The redhead held up the bottle of eye drops, which apparently was the signal for his eyes to announce their dry and bloodshot state.
After his eyes no longer resembled veined marbles, Schuldig strolled to the kitchen. He took his customary seat with Brad on his right and Nagi on his left. Across from him, Farfarello’s seat was empty, as it always was on Sunday. Brad gave a raised eyebrow glance in the telepath’s direction, before returning his attention to dinner. Schuldig stared at his plate of nikujaga, feeling strangely comforted by the sight of potatoes. The vegetable may have been coated in soya sauce, but the German always liked it when he could identify his food. Food, in his opinion, shouldn’t be unpredictable. There were enough things in life to watch out for other than food. But Japanese food, in his opinion, was full of oddities. Life, in his opinion, was full of oddities; namely one bastard precog extraordinaire with honey colored eyes.
End Chapter
Well what do yall think so far? I’m letting Schuldig take the route of epiphany. Is it working? I still have no idea how long this thing is going to be. On one hand (aka lazy) I could get to the point and make it short. On the other hand (aka plot) I could make it long and work in more of the anime and end up with a long story full of impact (one can dream). I’ve been setting it up to go the long route. Now tell me honestly people, would you hang around for the scenic tour? My muse demands plot! Writing gods help me.
Oh yeah, Farfarello fans rejoice. Our favorite psychopath should be getting some stage time in the near future. Maybe next chapter if I don’t detour again.
Solaras
Author’s Notes: Going for the weekly update. A little angst, but there can’t be sunshine all the time.
Review Responses:
KD Sarge – Thanks for the RTF tip. It made my life so much easier. More clueless precogs and confused telepaths ahead. On to the story.
darkepheonix – No, there’s no need to tie me up. I’m working see, see!
moimoi-chan – I do torture the poor guy. *sigh* To bad Schu you must angst some more.
Nariel – Don’t melt yet. Wait a few more chapters, and there will be some real heat. ;)
~telepathy~ aka communicating
/thoughts/ aka Schuldig reading someone’s mind
German Words:
Großmutter - Grandmother
Halt die Schnauze – Shut up (I found several different ways to say this online and in my
dictionary. I don’t know which way would be used, but I like this one the best. It’s literally ‘Stop the lip,’ and it made me think of a teacher or my mom saying ‘Don’t give me any lip.’ ^_^
was auch immer- whatever
Chapter Nine
Schuldig stood, hand on the doorknob, staring at his half closed door. He wanted to close it; to shut Crawford out. He wanted to keep it open, so that he wasn’t alone. He wanted to be alone, but he couldn’t be alone. There were the voices, always the voices. He wanted to go back to the living room, lie on the couch, and listen to the silence that was Brad. He wanted a physical reminder that the voices weren’t disembodied phantasms haunting him, that he wasn’t imagining things. He was fine. People could be like him; were like him. It was normal. He wasn’t possessed. His mother didn’t have to be afraid. The doctors in their white coats and the priest in their black robes lied. He wasn’t sick. There was no need for locks. Demons may like the dark, but he didn’t. He was human. He was human!
Schuldig breathed in a shaky breath, and released the doorknob; the impression of which remained on his palm. He left the door half open.
/Mom just doesn’t get it./
/Is he cheating on me?/
/I wonder if it comes in blue…/
/I could ask. I could go right up to her. Oh shit here she comes!/
/Could death be any worse?/
/I wish she’d get off my case./
/Maybe if I did my hair, he’d notice me./
/or red…/
/She’d never go out with me./
/Would anyone notice if I did it?/
The telepath stood in front of the doorway, just listening. There were always so many people, so many thoughts. Language never seemed to be a problem in people’s minds. Thoughts, Schuldig thought, were the ultimate barrier breaker. To bad everyone didn’t know that, or to bad everyone didn’t know Schuldig knew that; depending on the point of view. For a moment Schuldig just listened to a chorus only he could hear, and let it carry him away. His mind floated on a sea of noise that became closer to static the wider he let the field grow. Mentally scattering himself verged on extremely dangerous. If the net was to thin, it would break. Just one mind in excess, and Schuldig could lose himself forever in a sea of chaos, but the white noise; however, could be just as addicting as silence. If the voices couldn’t be silenced, then block them with more noise till there was nothing remotely resembling words: the Telepath’s Symphony.
Schuldig sank to the floor. His head fell back to rest on the end of the bed, and there he sat staring at nothing, as music only he could hear filled his head. Slowly, above the din, his own thoughts collected. As oil from water, Schuldig’s mind slipped drop by drop to float together all the while shaking clingy interlopers away. There beyond the interference of other minds and personalities, Schuldig thought his own thoughts, confident in the knowledge that they were his thoughts.
Brad Crawford, he thought, was not supposed to be serious. Brad Crawford was supposed to be a game to amuse Schuldig, and to prove that Großmutter was wrong. Flirting with Brad Crawford was supposed to be fun because annoying Brad Crawford was fun. If he managed to get laid in the process, however unlikely, all the better, but it shouldn’t be serious. Of course the precog should worry about Schuldig, he was planning an usurpation of a powerful organization, but where was the line of professional interest? Schuldig could take care of himself. He didn’t always need Brad Crawford, bastard precog extraordinaire. He just needed Brad sometimes, occasionally, not even that; just when he did, but only because Brad was usually already there. The precog knew what it was like to have a talent (gift/curse) ready to engulf him. Precognition may not be as volatile as telepathy, but Brad could understand enough. That didn’t mean Schuldig needed the bastard. He could do without Brad, and he could certainly make his own coffee. Brad Crawford was not supposed to be serious. Brad Crawford wasn’t supposed to look at Schuldig with honey colored eyes, and Schuldig wasn’t supposed to like them so much.
But Schuldig, who was never really alone, didn’t want to be alone. He wanted someone outside the voices, a physicality that he could see and touch. He wanted to exist outside his mind. He wanted to be noticed, and not cast aside. He wanted to be recognized, touched, and heard. He wanted to be real to somebody, and not just a voice in someone else’s head. He needed to exist.
Mental strain was starting to set in. Beyond the white noise, pain waited. Blackness hovered just out of the telepath’s control. Carefully, Schuldig began to filter through the noise. He retracted back into his own mind. The sounds became more distinct, gaining syllables, and whole words. No longer actively scanning, the voices lessoned in intensity. He could still hear them flowing through the back of his mind, around his own thoughts, occasionally through them, and back again. Slowly he came down from his high. He blinked once, again, then slowly focused on the ceiling.
“Does Crawford know you’re doing that?”
“Halt die Schnauze.”
“Dinner’s ready.”
“Ja, was auch immer.”
“I’m not saving it, if you don’t eat.”
“Nagi,” Schuldig’s eyes rolled down to gaze, past his nose, at the voice not in his head, “don’t tell Brad.”
“I suppose if your head was going to combust, Crawford would have seen it.”
“He’s focused on Estet. He pushes everything else out.”
“Not stuff involving your brain exploding.”
“How do you know?”
“Schuldig,” Nagi sighed irritably, “don’t be stupid. He would know if one of us was going to die. He’s Crawford.”
“Yeah, sure kid.”
“Don’t call me that,” Nagi snapped. “You look like crap.” The Japanese boy walked the few steps to the bathroom, rummaged through a drawer, and came back. Dropping a small bottle in the telepaths lap, he turned to leave again. “Crawford hates it when you’re reckless.”
“He hates disorder,” Schuldig replied to Nagi’s retreating back. The redhead held up the bottle of eye drops, which apparently was the signal for his eyes to announce their dry and bloodshot state.
After his eyes no longer resembled veined marbles, Schuldig strolled to the kitchen. He took his customary seat with Brad on his right and Nagi on his left. Across from him, Farfarello’s seat was empty, as it always was on Sunday. Brad gave a raised eyebrow glance in the telepath’s direction, before returning his attention to dinner. Schuldig stared at his plate of nikujaga, feeling strangely comforted by the sight of potatoes. The vegetable may have been coated in soya sauce, but the German always liked it when he could identify his food. Food, in his opinion, shouldn’t be unpredictable. There were enough things in life to watch out for other than food. But Japanese food, in his opinion, was full of oddities. Life, in his opinion, was full of oddities; namely one bastard precog extraordinaire with honey colored eyes.
End Chapter
Well what do yall think so far? I’m letting Schuldig take the route of epiphany. Is it working? I still have no idea how long this thing is going to be. On one hand (aka lazy) I could get to the point and make it short. On the other hand (aka plot) I could make it long and work in more of the anime and end up with a long story full of impact (one can dream). I’ve been setting it up to go the long route. Now tell me honestly people, would you hang around for the scenic tour? My muse demands plot! Writing gods help me.
Oh yeah, Farfarello fans rejoice. Our favorite psychopath should be getting some stage time in the near future. Maybe next chapter if I don’t detour again.
Solaras