Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Not Quite Good Enough To Be Going On With... ❯ Gedankenuebertragung ( Chapter 3 )

Berlin, 1991

German is a beautiful language. It is the perfect blend of musical flow and harsh sentiment, he muses, as the doktor gestures him down the long, white hall. The hospital is small and tidy; efficient, and effective. He likes that.

At only eighteen years of age, he is the youngest of the executives in his organization. His official title is that of a licensing and acquisitions lawyer for a multi-national resource development corporation. This is not entirely inaccurate, but he is far more than a mere paper-pusher.

As they walk, he rifles through the file he has been handed. A brief description of the subject, both physical and psychological. A short history of how the subject came to be in their care, abandoned by parents who feared him to be the devil… He is glad that his ability to read German exceeds his limited ability to speak it. However, he is unusually adept at language, and can understand most any tongue passably.

The doktor pauses outside the door of a small, unused storage room. He continues turning pages in the folder as the man searches his pockets for his key ring, which is hanging on his belt. He has seen this file before, of course, on a cheap computer program so simple that a five-year-old could have hacked it.

A five-year-old had.

The last page of the file, however, did not appear on the computer record. It is a list of complaints against the subject, made by both doktors and other patients. There are several inkblots scattered across the page, as if it's author had been lost in thought.

One word has been scratched in the center of the page, and underlined several times.

Gedankenuebertragung?!

His lips curl into a slight smile. So the fools have some idea of the power they currently possessed.

The doktor clears his throat; he has finished unlocking the door. He notices then that the door is actually fitted with three locks, with separate keys. "Sie heisset Kristopher Rein." As an afterthought, he adds, "Er hat… eien sehr scharfen Verstand." (His name is Kristopher Rein… He has… a very keen mind.) He almost makes it sound like a warning.

He enters the room alone. The door closes rather abruptly. He never moves as his eyes adjust to the gloom. One light bulb, bare and weak, just above the door.

The room is stark and white, with an iron cot, a small table, and a chair. All of the furniture is bolted to the floor. The one small window is high off the ground and barred.

The subject is nowhere in sight.

"Bitte, nehmen sie platz?" (Won't you please sit down?) The voice that comes out from under the cot is soft, almost like a sigh.

"Sprechen sie Englisch?" He asks, sitting on the small chair. It is quite low to the ground, and he can almost make out the child now--- a vague shape in the dark under the bed.

"Ja." The voice says finally.

"…Will you come out here, please? I would like to speak with you."

"Nein."

"Why not?" He asks calmly, voice soothing.

"…" His English is heavily accented, but decent enough. "It hurts… weaker… under here."

"What hurts?"

"The metal. It makes it… not okay."

"I don't understand."

The child snickers. But he does craw out from under the bed, wincing as though the light hurts his eyes. He is tall for his age, but very thin. Dressed as he is, in his white smock, with his pale skin, and the whitewashed walls, his hair is quite a shocking shade of red.

"…My name is Bradley Crawford. I work for a corporation that is interested in your well-being."

To his great surprise, the boy hold out his hand to him, which he shakes firmly. "Wei gehts? Freut mich, Sei Kennenzulernen." (How do you do? I'm pleased to meet you.)

"Are you?" He asks, as the boy settles onto the bed. Crawling over on his knees, he begins to rummage in a hole cut into the mattress.

Only then did the boy look up at him, his face dominated by oversized features, including wide green eyes and a generous mouth. "Ja. Haben Sie etwas dagegen, wenn ich rauche?" (Yes. Do you mind if I smoke?)

Crawford shakes his head. When the boy sighs in disappointment, he nearly smiles. "No, no, I meant… Go ahead."

The boy does smile then. Carefully, he cups his hand around the cigarette, flicking the cheap plastic lighter. The tension melts out of him as he takes a long drag. He carefully flicks his ashes into what Crawford realizes is a carved out bar of soap.

"I spill them into deuche, and wash away by water." He explains.

"Where did you get the cigarettes from?"

"One janitor leaves them for me."

"And why is that?"

"…Because I tell him to."

Crawford sits forward on the chair, wishing it could move a bit. "…Kristopher…" He begins, "Would you like to leave this place?"

The boy laughs. "This is the trick question?"

"…Here, in this place, you are hurting. I can take you away from this pain. I can take you out of Germany, to a place in America. A place where people understand you."

"…Why do you ask me?"

"…We require your complete cooperation."

He snickers bitterly, quoting an old German proverb. "Better haben Kein wahl." (Beggars have no choices.) He grinds out his cigarette against the iron of the cot.

"Kristopher..." Crawford says, touching his face. The boy stares at him, torn between fear and starvation, both of and for human contact.

He jerks away, mumbling. "Der Herrgott nimmet, der Herrgott gibt…" (What the Lord doth give, the Lord doth take…)

Crawford's eyes widen a bit behind his glasses, and he drops his hand. "Kristopher… Do you want the pain to lessen? To fade?"

Hope. That is what sparkles on the boy's pale face. "…Und… was wuenschen Sie noch?" (…And… what do you want?)

He touches him then, both hands on that pale face, tangling in the ragged, matted hair.

The boy cries out, and struggles, fighting his touch, fighting his proximity, fighting his--- His mouth opens in a soundless cry, and he goes very still.

"Kristopher?!" He demands roughly, shaking him. He knows well enough, but he has to hear it from his own lips! "What do you see?!"

The boy begins to babble, shuddering as though having a seizure. "Geoffnet ist der tur… Ic hore der Mutter flehen… der Vater… schlagtauf mich ein… ei, wie… sie schreien!…" (The door is open… I can hear the mother pleading… The father is… beating me… And, oh… How they scream!)

Crawford releases him, and he curls into a ball on the bed, trembling. "…Mich so langsam in den Wahninn treibit…!" (…It slowly drives me to insanity…!)

Gently, Crawford touches his shoulder. "We can help you, Kristopher. If you agree to help us."

"Die Bewusstseinskontrolle. Desinegen sind sie hier." (Mind Control. That's why you're here.)

"More like… Manipulation, than control."

"…" He sits up, voice returning to normal as he labors on his English. "…But… I cannot… All I do is hurt. And… See… Only sometimes can I… make…"

"---You will learn." He interrupts firmly. "And you will become very powerful. …A Mastermind."

"wie Sie dieses wissen?" (How do you know this?)

"I have seen it."

The boy considers. "…die Geisteskraft..." (…the Power of Mind…)

"Ja." Crawford breathes.

And the boy smiles. "Wo muss ich unterschreiben?" (Where do I sign?)

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