Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Not Quite Good Enough To Be Going On With... ❯ Umleitung ( Chapter 4 )

"…It was four years before I found you again. Estet had ordered me to find a partner to begin the preliminary groundwork for an elitist assassin team… I saw you in a vision. Understand, I saw you then, as you are now. I did not know what steps to take to get you there… I did not know what it would take to bend you to my will… But I saw your potential. And so I requested, and I was aprroved…"

Rochester, 1995

He turned the key in the lock, just as the screaming began. Alarms wailed, and people began tov rush down the halls in all directions.

Crawford felt his eyes widen in spite of themselves, as a man burst from a nearby room. He appeared to be the source of the screaming.

He was on fire.

As soon as the doctors reached him, he convulsed, and collapsed. Pushing his glasses up on his nose, Crawford opened the door.

He room was small, and softly illuminated. The walls were a soft peach colour, but the bedclothes, and most of the decorations were a dark green.

He was surprised. The room was full of things. Books. Clothes. Papers. A pack of German cigarettes lay upon the dresser. The room was empty. He sat in the wheeled desk chair, and waited.

"Das ist dad dritte mal diese Woche, dass einer der Patienten spontane Selbstenzundung erlitt." (The is the third time this week that one of the patients has spontaneously combusted.) A soft voice commented from underneath the bed.

"And what would you know about that?" He asked.

"Nothing."

"Kristopher, please come out here."

Sighing, the boy crawled out. He wore a white tee-shirt, and a pair of faded blue pants; the standard of the hospital. His hair, still bright orange, was pulled back from his face with a bit of twine. He was growing into his sharp nose and narrow chin, but Crawford wondered if his wide mouth would ever quite fit his face.

"…Willst du mich ficken?" (…Do you want to fuck me?) He asked, arching an eyebrow. Clever fingers slid one thin cigarette out of the pack.

"What?!"

"…Ah…" He sighed, leaning back on the bed, taking a long drag.

"I have come to retrieve you."

"Verpiss dich." (Fuck off).

"You used to be quite different." He commented.

Cool eyes, a shade closer to blue than green regarded him. "…I used to live in a closet."

"So you do speak English."

"Idiot. I do live in America."

"Of course."

After a long moment, Kristopher sighed once more, and crushed his cigarette against the wall. The paint was scorched in various places, revealing this to be his habit.

"Warum ich?" (Why me?) He asked, careful to make the question sound bored.

"Why don't you tell me?" He asked, almost smugly.

Green eyes glanced at him through thick bangs. "…So the Oracle would have his Mastermind?" He mused.

"I do not want you, Kristopher. However, I do require your abilities."

"So cold, Herr Crawford… Once, you pitied me."

"It was not pity."

"Yes, it was. When I watched your father hit you, through your own memories. Yes, I do remember. You touched my face, when no one wanted to touch me. …You pitied us both, then…"

"…You appear to have matured rather quickly." He remarked, nearly cross.

"Yessss…." Kristopher hissed, sliding down to kneel at the side of the chair. "…I have grown up very quickly… Would you like me to show you…?"

As those clever fingers brushed his pants leg, Crawford slapped him. He reeled back and crumpled against the bed, smirking, and unmoving.

"Get up. And pack your things. We are leaving this place tonight." He growled.

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