Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Standing Outside the Fire ❯ 05 ( Chapter 5 )

5

 

Welcome to the machine.

 

I opened my eyes to find myself in a dark and unfamiliar room, and for a moment I felt that flash of panic that made it feel like the walls were too close and getting closer. Then I woke the rest of the way up and remembered where I was. Blinking, I sat up in bed and reached for my glasses.

 

The room wasn't as dark as I'd expected: foggy light showed through a frosted glass window about the size of a skinny photo album, while brighter light glowed around the slightly open door. I switched on the overhead light and took a closer look at my new home.

 

The walls smelled vaguely of furniture polish. That's right, the General had said something about this having been his office, and I had passed a large desk in the main room on my way in. Now this was to be my room, complete with my own desk, chair, bed, and nightstand.

 

My bags were still where I'd dropped them, and nothing seemed to have been messed with while I slept. I rummaged through my stuff and found a fresh change of clothes, and my old wristwatch. I frowned; I didn't remember taking it off.

 

It occurred to me that I didn't know the local time. There wasn't a clock in the room, not even on the nightstand. I'd left my watch on Eastern Daylight Time, and looking at it made me suddenly, terribly homesick. I pushed that feeling away as best I could. I needed a shower, and food, and maybe then I'd feel a little more comfortable. It couldn't be as bad as I thought; I was just muddled from the trip, that was all.

 

I gathered up my nice slacks and a good shirt, and the proper underthings, and slowly tugged the door the rest of the way open.

 

Mahogany and brass gleamed before a wide picture window, the heavy curtains pulled back in an elegant sweep to either side. There was a faded patch on the carpet that looked the same size as my desk: the ghost of furniture past. The small desk had kept the company of a high bookshelf and had even had its own hanging lamp over it. I resisted the urge to survey the books present and instead turned to take in the rest of the room.

 

A brown leather sofa faced the window with a low table in between; a plush-looking armchair sat to the side. There was a low counter dividing the room from the kitchen, and in front of this counter sat a huge mahogany desk. I could tell it had been well taken care of: the color was rich and deep, and seemed to drink in the sunlight like a gemstone.

 

Seated at the massive desk was my host, head bent over some paperwork. An expensive-looking pen scratched across the papers. His left elbow was propped on the desk, his hand half-hidden in his white-gold hair. He must have been doing something important, because he seemed very intent on his work. That, or it was boring and he was trying to stay awake.

 

As if he felt me staring, he looked right up at me, then smiled. “Good morning, Bradley,” he said. “Or, more properly, good afternoon. Are you hungry?”

 

“Yes, sir,” I murmured, “but I think I'd like a shower first, if you don't mind.”

 

“But of course.” He set down his pen and rose from his seat. He showed me where he kept the towels, and which door led to the bathroom. It seemed familiar, like I'd sleepwalked there once already. “Take your time. When you're ready, there will be food waiting.”

 

“Thank you, sir,” I said, feeling suddenly awkward. I'd never showered anywhere but at home before; I was never good enough at sports to see the inside of a locker room.

 

The General smiled again, showing teeth. “Please, call me Konnor.” Before I could say anything, he turned away and went back to his paperwork.

 

The bathroom was sparse and spotlessly clean. I set myself a mental reminder to wipe down the shower door when I was done. It seemed proper somehow.

 

As I stripped down, I got the nasty weird feeling that I was being watched. The little hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and I had the powerful urge to turn around real fast. I resisted that urge; in movies, whenever you gave in and checked behind you, the monster was never there but somewhere worse.

 

It occurred to me that I had no way of knowing if there were only the two of us in the suite. I did my best to act casual, but I made sure the bathroom door was locked.

 

The hot water struggled to beat some sense into my head, drumming against the lingering fog that seemed to stay with me and make everything a little blurry. It was kind of weird that I hadn't had any clear visions since waking, but kind of welcome, too. I figured that was what people called jet lag. The visions would be back when they pleased. It always happened that way.

 

After about ten minutes of just standing under the spray, I noticed that I was fairly hungry. My belly hurried me along and I finished my shower just as the water started to get cool. There was this little window-cleaner thing by the shower door, like the kind people use on their car windshields but smaller. Well, it would probably work better than the towel, I thought, and wiped the shower door clear of water spots. This guy must be some kind of neat freak. Well, it was his home, after all, and I knew well enough to be polite in someone else's home.

 

Once I was dressed and feeling fairly presentable, I went back to my room and looked for a hairbrush. As I did my best to tame my hair, I debated whether I should put my shoes on or not. Then I recalled that my host was still in his uniform, shoes and all, so I figured it would be prudent to follow suit. When I finally had everything in order, I returned to the main room.

 

Konnor looked up from his desk again, then shuffled the papers together in one pile and set his pen on top. “I have something special for you, Bradley. Should help clear your head some.” He strode to his kitchenette and pulled some things from the fridge. Then he came back out, set a plate on the coffee table, and handed me a bottle of Coke. He smiled as though this were something amazing.

 

Surprised and grateful, I smiled, too. “Thank you!” The little glass bottle was so cold it made my hand ache, and I knew it would taste just perfect. It was sealed with one of those twist-off metal caps; there was no graceful way to do it, so I just went ahead and used the tail of my shirt to grip the cap and twist, then tucked my shirt back right before taking a sip. It was wonderful, though it made me homesick again.

 

“Don't worry, I have more,” Konnor said, seating himself in the armchair next to the sofa.

 

I felt fairly barbaric as I devoured my supper, but it had been hours upon hours since I'd eaten last, so I didn't feel too guilty about my lacking manners. Somehow it was the best ham and mustard sandwich I think I'd ever tasted. Once I was finished with the last crumbs, Konnor rose and retrieved his papers from the desk. He fanned them out on the coffee table in front of me, sliding the empty plate out of the way.

 

“I've been working on your schedule, Bradley,” he stated as he sat down next to me on the sofa. “I'm going to be your mentor, and as such you will report to me in all circumstances. If you need help in a class, or if you find one too easy, you must let me know at once. I can arrange for tutors or advance placement, as you need it.” His eyes smiled as he said, “I want you to do well here, Bradley. In all things.”

 

I picked up the papers and looked them over. A feeling of unrealness flowed over me as I did so. I'd only ever seen classes about history and geography and math and such. I don't know what I'd been expecting here, but the fact of it left me a little stunned. German language classes, political history, trigonometry, basic physics, tactical theory, “basic psi theory”, and “specialized training” - no fluff classes, that was for sure! No art, no phys-ed, not even wood shop or sewing. This was high school and college level stuff, and then there was that “specialized training”. I looked up at my “mentor”, the questions no doubt clear in my eyes.

 

“Traditional schooling has suited you well, Bradley. I was quite impressed with your marks. Here there are a few basics you will need, then we will evaluate you for your specialized work.” Konnor reached over to take the papers from me, plucking them delicately from my hand. He looked through them, then handed one back to me. “We operate in four-month terms here. First you will need a basic understanding of the German language. We have a very intensive linguistics program here; by the end of your first term, you will be chatting like a native.” He smiled again, as though this thought amused him. “Though, we will have to work on that accent. It will make pronunciation difficult for you in the long run.”

 

My face grew hot. All my life, I'd been around people who sounded more or less like me. Now I was in the middle of a movie set, where everyone sounded like a trained actor trying not to sound like anything at all. I sighed and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

 

My host touched my wrist. I looked up. He smiled and said, “Do call me Konnor, Bradley, when we are alone together. In public, however, you will address me as Herr General or Herr Schoenberg, never `sir' and never `mister'. Sprich nur auf Deutsch, Bradley. Speak only in German.”

 

I remembered something I'd heard in a movie once, and I tried it out loud. “Jawohl, Herr General!” I made sure to pronounce “general” the way he had, with the hard “G” and emphasis at the end of the word. It felt weird in my mouth, but at the same time it sounded oddly elegant.

 

Konnor blinked, then laughed. “That's exactly right! But we do need to work on that accent.”

 

I fought down the urge to ask him `we' who? It was pretty obvious that even Konnor had had voice lessons. His English was a little stiff, but I couldn't tell just by listening to him where he might have been from, exactly. I figured that was the whole point. “I'll try, sir - Konnor.”

 

He smiled again, a more relaxed smile that made his eyes bright. “You'll do just fine, Bradley.” Then he looked at his watch and seemed to make a quick decision. “Tell you what, it's still the dinner hour, so there won't be much traffic. How would you like a private tour?”

 

The cola had woken me up, and the sandwich had settled my stomach. Given the choice between looking over more paperwork and taking a walk, I picked the walk. Konnor put the plate and the empty bottle back in the kitchen before joining me at the door.

 

“One thing, and it's important, Bradley,” he said, taking his gloves out of a pocket and tugging them on with crisp precision. “Talk to no one unless you are addressed directly. Allow me to answer for you. If you must speak, keep your answers short. A simple `yes' or `no' will usually suffice, until you understand the language.”

 

I nodded, suddenly not looking forward to this tour anymore. This was a different world from anyplace I'd ever thought I'd be, and its rules seemed dangerous.

 

Konnor opened the door and I followed him out of the safety of his apartment and into the halls of Rosenkreuz.

 

I tried to pay attention to where we were, but once we left his building I got all turned around. It was like the place didn't want to be figured out. The hallways all looked alike, except for the occasional tiny door marker about the size of a return address label. And those didn't help any: the letters and numbers didn't seem to follow any sequence from one to the next.

 

My guide kept up a brisk pace, pausing occasionally to tell me about this class or that wing. The “campus” itself, he said, consisted of seven main buildings and several outdoor arenas. The main buildings housed teachers, staff, and students, and held the dozens of traditional classrooms within their mazelike halls. There was one building he pointed out from a distance as he informed me we would not be touring that part of the facility just yet. Something about the way he said that made me grateful I didn't have to go in there.

 

Suddenly I reeled, nearly toppling into Konnor as a vision came over me, a violently fast glimpse of me being carried into that building on a day of no sun. Time slithered through me, leaving me unanchored.

 

“Are you all right?” Konnor asked, gripping my shoulder tightly.

 

“Y-yes, I mean jawohl, Herr General,” I whispered, feeling suddenly nauseous. I wanted to ask him what that building was, and I wanted never to know the answer.

 

“We'll get you into training to see if you can tame those visions a bit,” Konnor said, releasing me as I got my balance back. “I've made arrangements with one of our best. Her Sight obeys her commands. Perhaps you will find similar luck with yours.”

 

We entered one of the class buildings, and the awful pressure against my sense of time vanished almost immediately. It was like walking through one of those air curtains in a restaurant, where things are clearer on the other side. I wondered if they had some way to keep my gift from working right; I didn't much like that idea. As nasty as that last vision had been, the thought of my gift abandoning me at someone else's whim didn't set well at all.

 

The classrooms looked pretty normal, with desks of appropriate size for the age of the students and the number of chalkboards giving away how hard the subject was. Konnor showed me the room they used for advanced physics, and I guessed right off that was what it was for just by the eraser marks on the three huge boards and the smell of pencil shavings coming from the trash can. Either that, or some kind of hard science class, but there was no lab counter or sink, so it had to be math or physics.

 

I realized my mind was wandering and hurried to rein it in. I didn't think it was a good idea to let it roam about loose in a place like this.

 

Konnor turned and gave me an odd, amused look, then asked if I was getting tired again.

 

“No, sir,” I yawned. “My head just feels thick, is all.”

 

He scowled a little, then reached out and gently pushed my bangs back from my face. I blinked, not noticing that I'd had hair in my eyes until it was gone. Konnor shook his head and smiled. “The only way to get over jet lag is to adopt the local clock. Have you set your watch yet?”

 

“No, sir,” I mumbled, reluctant to give up that link to home.

 

Konnor checked his own watch, pushing his sleeve back with a graceful hand. “It is now…6:43.” Clearly he expected me to set my watch by his, so I did, running it a little ahead to make up for my delay in following his lead. He corrected the date for me, and I thanked him for that. I didn't want to go losing track of time here.

 

As we continued on our tour, General Schoenberg smiled and nodded to the other teachers, and students stepped briskly out of our way. I stared a little, as I'd never been in a school with uniforms before. I'd heard about them, of course, but the public schools in Kentucky didn't bother with that. Besides, regular schools probably didn't have uniforms that looked quite so soldier-like. These seemed very stiff, with one of those jackets with the double row of buttons and a high collar. I noticed that some of the students wore red trim, while others had blue. I couldn't figure the difference, and made a note to ask Konnor about it later. The jacket itself seemed to come in two shades, too. The bigger boys wore a light grey, the younger wore dark.

 

The teachers and staff wore expensive-looking suits, all dark blues and black; the only one in a uniform was General Schoenberg.

 

I swallowed, realizing that I hadn't seen any girls here. I'd been brought up to see boys and girls as pretty much equal, except boys were usually better at football. I hadn't realized that this was one of those boys-only places, though it probably said as much in the literature Herr Hansen had given me. It seemed very strange to me to bother separating kids like that, but I figured there must be a reason for it. Just another thing to ask about later, I supposed.

 

We'd gone into another of the buildings, and I found myself studying the marble pattern on the tiles the way I used to look for pictures in the clouds. When Konnor stopped suddenly, I almost ran into him. His back went stiff, and then I heard his voice talking right into my head. ::Stay here. Do not seem curious.:: He fidgeted with his gloves as if to make sure they were still on, then strode ahead down the hall.

 

A man had stepped out of a doorway and turned toward us as if he'd been waiting. I couldn't see him clearly, he was just too far away and the light was wrong. Remembering Konnor's order, I tried to look unconcerned as I stood at my best approximation of parade rest.

 

This man's voice carried, a deep and raspy grumble of sound that reminded me of cigars and cheap whiskey. I couldn't understand him, as he spoke in German, but his tone made it sound nasty. It made my hackles go up, and it was all I could do not to shudder. Something about him set me all on edge; suddenly I knew I didn't ever want to See any visions he might inspire.

 

Konnor looked tense enough to snap as he turned toward me and gestured for me to join them. My feet carried me forward, though my heart was trying to fly loose from my ribs. For some reason I was crazy scared of this man, and I knew I didn't dare let him see that.

 

He wasn't as tall as Herr Schoenberg, and he certainly wasn't as pleasant to look at. This man seemed permanently old, as if he'd been bewitched as a child. He was probably only in his forties, maybe not even that, but he looked older, badly worn somehow. His hair was steely gray all the way through to his eyebrows, which were shaggy and wild looking. He had that hooked kind of nose that actors who played Russian spies tended to have, with large oily pores and a fine spray of red veins at the tip. His mouth seemed to know only two expressions: a murderous frown, or an arrogant sneer. Right now it was trying to smile, but the eyes told me different. Those eyes weren't old at all. They were young and deadly, burning with an inner power that would keep them fresh for decades beyond their time.

 

They were torturer's eyes.

 

I swallowed.

 

“Herr Crawford, I presume?” the man asked, but not of me. He glanced at me only enough for me to see those eyes, then turned back toward Konnor as if I weren't even there. His English sounded thick on his tongue, and I got the impression he didn't want me knowing what he was talking about anyway. He said something else in German, pausing in the middle to look me up and down like a side of beef; I felt my face go red, but I couldn't understand exactly why.

 

Then this other man switched back to English, though he was still talking to Herr Schoenberg and not to me. “Shall you introduce us properly, Kort old man?”

 

Konnor lightly gripped my shoulder and cleared his throat. “Bradley, this is Herr Sonndheim.” Konnor wasn't looking at me as he spoke; instead, his eyes were fixed on my new acquaintance. “He is one of our chief administrators.”

 

Sonndheim smiled, his eyes full of secrets. “Always a pleasure to meet one of Schoenberg's boys. Good evening, Bradley Crawford.”

 

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me feeling somehow dirty and Konnor looking utterly furious.

 

“Come on,” Konnor snarled, giving me a harsh glare that I knew wasn't really meant for me at all. I followed, trying all the while to ignore that monster-behind-the-left-shoulder feeling.

 

When we reached his apartment, Konnor neatly shut and bolted the door behind us, then yanked off his gloves, threw them on the desk, stormed into the bathroom, and slammed the door. I could hear the water running full blast, though he hadn't turned on the light.

 

I sighed and slipped into my bedroom. The tour - no, that man, Sonndheim - had left me feeling all off-stride. I wanted something, anything, to just make me feel normal again.

 

I tugged the door nearly shut, then flopped onto the bed with my books and tried to get my head back into the story. When I picked up the book I'd been reading on the plane, something fell out of it. That's right, I'd finished the first book and left the bookmark tucked into the back cover. I lifted the little strip of cloth and looked at it, then really read it for the first time. It was a religious poem, about footprints in the sand. Something so totally Gramma it made my chest hurt. I swallowed and tried not to cry. She said it would give me comfort, but I didn't believe in her god.

 

All it gave me was a sense of what I'd lost.

 

I wrapped myself around my pillow and sobbed. I couldn't help it, the tears just came and came and it felt like they'd never stop. I missed my family, I missed my world, and I'd just had a hell of a welcome into my new life. What's that saying about a brave new world, that has such people in it? If it's all the same, they can count me out.

 

A soft knock sounded at my door. “Bradley, are you all right?”

 

I choked back the sobs and whimpered, “Yes, sir. I'm sorry, I guess I'm just homesick.”

 

The door opened and Konnor came in. He rested his hand on my shoulder like my brother used to do. “There's no shame in that, Bradley.” Then he sat down on the bed and helped me up so I was sitting next to him. He looked into my eyes as he gently brushed my hair back from my face again. His fingers were warm. “Tears will pass in time. Don't be ashamed of them, but do try to keep them within this apartment.”

 

I nodded. His hand slipped a little, accidentally cupping my face for a moment. I backed away, not wanting him to feel awkward about it.

 

Konnor's hand seemed to linger of its own accord, ending up on my shoulder again as I moved. He cleared his throat. “Now. First lesson,” he said softly. “Never apologize. For anything. No matter what it is for, or to whom. You are above such things, Bradley. Apologies are for…other men than we. Understood?”

 

I'd been brought up to believe that apologies were a part of being civilized. That real men knew how to take responsibility for their actions toward others. If this was the first lesson, I wasn't looking forward to the next.

 

I heard my own voice, giving him the only answer he would accept.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

 

A/N:

 

Welcome to the machine.

(Continued…)

 

A glimpse of Rosenkreuz through young Brad Crawford's non-20/20 eyes. It's a confusing place, with strange customs and rules. The mix of familiarity and formality is dizzying, leaving one to wonder who are friends, and who are foes. Brave new world, indeed.

 

Note about names:

Konnor and Kort are both traditional nicknames for Konrad, though all are more commonly found with a “C”.