Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Standing Outside the Fire ❯ 12 ( Chapter 12 )

12

 

There is no dark side of the moon, really. Matter of fact, it's all dark.

 

I got back to my dorm right before curfew. True to their word, my fellows were waiting up for me, nearly jumping at the door as I came in.

 

“You all right?” Frettchen asked, watching my face and probably trying to look in my head.

 

“Yeah, I'm okay,” I murmured, wanting only to sleep. Konnor had kept me at his apartment only long enough for the codeine to wear off before sending me back to my room, and now the pain was starting to rise up again. His words echoed in my mind, and I turned to Julian. “You'd better lose those pills, Konnor said there'd be a search.”

 

“Konnor?” Julian said, puzzled. Then his expression changed and he asked, “Konrad Schoenberg?”

 

I felt myself blush. “He told me to call him that.”

 

Julian glanced at Frettchen, who shook his head and turned away. With a sigh Julian said, “Don't blurt that out so readily, Elvis. Pets get noticed.”

 

Anger swelled in me, anger at a dozen other things and it turned and aimed itself at Julian. “I'm not his pet!” I shouted, losing all sense of cool. “I just do what I'm told, and I still end up getting hurt! What am I supposed to do, disobey them?”

 

“If you want to end up like Trevor, yes.”

 

I blinked and stared at Donley.

 

He stopped pulling stuff out of his own cache and glared at me. “They kill you if you fight, Crawford. Sometimes they kill you if you don't fight, but it's usually the safer road.”

 

The anger wouldn't leave. It had been growing for too long. “Safe? Nothing's safe here! You said it yourself, it doesn't matter if you fight or not!”

 

Donley grabbed my shoulders and shook me, banging my back against the bedframe. “There's fighting, and there's fighting, Crawford. There are ways to get things done, ways that work. Figure it out.”

 

“Where's Smythe?” Georgiev asked, his tone expressionless.

 

“Don't,” Frettchen snarled as the lights-out warning sounded. “He'll straighten out by morning.”

 

I gathered my dignity and struggled up into my bunk. Sleep roared over me like an unwelcome storm.

 

Morning came too early, with the sudden opening of our door and a flood of light.

 

“Stand to!” Smythe barked from the doorway as two other guys swept past him.

 

Everyone leaped from their beds to stand at attention in the middle of the room. I did my best to hurry, but managed to be the last one up.

 

Smythe kept watch as the two guys tore through our belongings and searched the bedding. Every now and then I could hear a rattle or a clink as something or other ended up in their bags like a weird trick-or-treat buffet.

 

Within ten minutes it was over. Smythe took the bags and told us what they'd found: a handful of headache pills, two half-smoked cigarettes, some cash, and…my old watch.

 

I started to protest, but Frettchen elbowed me in the side.

 

Smythe looked sharply at me and said, “Crawford, didn't you get a timepiece from requisitions?”

 

“Yes, sir,” I replied, “but -”

 

“Your talent entitles you to a watch.” His eyes looked sad as he added, “Not two of them.” He folded the bags shut and followed his assistants out the door. “We'll inform you of any actions. Stand down.”

 

My mind reeled. That watch had been one of the few things I'd brought from home, and now it had been taken away.

 

“Good move on the smokes, Don,” Clifford said, reaching up under his mattress where they hadn't searched and pulling out a handful of cigarettes. He offered them to the telepath.

 

“If they didn't find anything, they'd know we were holding out,” Donley said, taking half.

 

“Sorry about your watch,” Frettchen said. “Maybe Smythe managed to nick it himself. You never know, it might come back.”

 

I shook my head. “It doesn't matter,” I whispered. I'd lost so much already, what was one old watch worth, anyway?

 

“Thanks for the heads-up, Elvis,” Julian said, resting a hand on my shoulder. “This could have been really ugly.”

 

Since we were all up early, we made use of the showers before all the water went cold. The bruises were really starting to show on me, but I didn't care. They already knew, may as well not worry about it anymore.

 

Back in the dorm room, I looked through my textbooks and tried to remember where we were at in my classes. German didn't matter now, as I'd be getting specialized training with Shelton Grant. I felt myself frown as I wondered just how specialized it might get. Everything about the guy reminded me of someone who just might fondle young boys, though I'd noticed nothing of the sort with Konnor until it had happened.

 

The things I'd presumed were proving themselves to be of little use; I wondered just how many other presumptions in my life were way off course. I'd never thought of myself as a bigot, but that was back home. Now I realized that I'd been guilty of thinking the worst of someone by they way they seemed. Kids my own age were proving themselves as brave as firefighters, while strong and kind-seeming men turned out to be child molesters.

 

About the only one I was pretty sure I had pegged correctly was Sonndheim.

 

At the usual time, Smythe returned with our mail. He was alone, and I finally noticed the dull red burn marks on his right cheek and hand. A chill trailed down my spine.

 

He gave me another pass to the requisitions office, to pick up my gear for the self-defense class. His voice whispered in my head. ::You all right, Crawford?::

 

I formed the thought as carefully as I could, just like they'd told us in class. ::Yes, thanks. What about you?::

 

Smythe smiled and broke contact. He palmed something and passed it to Georgiev, then left the room in silence.

 

After he was gone, I let the curiosity pop out with a question. “What happened to him?”

 

Clifford sighed and looked at me the way my brother used to, when I was being a “little pest”. “That's what can happen to you if your gun misfires and you're lucky enough to drop it in time.”

 

“He has a gun?” I blurted, feeling very naïve again.

 

“Come on, we'll be late for breakfast.”

 

The day crawled by in a deepening haze of pain. My body hurt, and it didn't seem like it would stop hurting anytime soon. The self-defense class was pure torture - even though I was starting late, the teacher expected me to keep up with the other kids, who looked at me like I was total dirt.

 

Then I had to deal with the showers.

 

I'd only just started to feel safe in my dorm shower, but here I had to strip and wash in front of twenty other boys I didn't know. Hell, I didn't even know their talents - the workout uniform was like what they wear for karate and judo and stuff, but all dark grey.

 

The afternoon classes were almost a welcome reprieve compared to that mess. I listened attentively to the discussion on psi talents and their strengths and weaknesses, hoping to learn something that would make me feel safer.

 

I already knew that the telepaths' greatest weakness was in their connection to self, and for the empaths it was the possibility of overload. But I wasn't afraid of those.

 

What I wanted was an edge on the redshirts, a bit of insight that would prove useful if they ever tried to hurt me again.

 

What I got wasn't what I expected.

 

“The family of psychokinetic talents is best known for its visible effects,” the teacher repeated, “those things that affect matter as we know it. But what we are interested in today is the invisible, or waveform, effect.”

 

I sat up a little straighter. A whisper of Sight informed me that this would be more important than it seemed, so I prepared to take notes more closely.

 

“A well-trained telekinetic can produce a sort of shield or barrier around himself and several other people within a small area, say ten or twenty meters in diameter. One school of thought holds that this shield is made up of gaseous particles; another, that it is a manifestation of human will itself. Until we have the answer to that, it is enough to know that it is a potent effect. Though invisible, this barrier can be used to stop bullets or provide protection in the case of a building collapse. It may even…”

 

The room spun around me and everything went dark.

 

I woke up in a strange room. Bright, cold light assaulted my mind.

 

Konnor looked down at me, a worried expression on his face. “What do you remember, Bradley?”

 

Remember? When? I struggled to recall what had happened, where I was.

 

“You fainted in one of your classes,” he went on, absently brushing the hair back from my forehead with one white-gloved hand.

 

“Where am I?” I whispered.

 

“When you didn't come around immediately, they sent you to medical. The doctor called me.”

 

I sat up slowly, allowing Konnor to brace my back a little. “I don't remember.”

 

“What do you remember?”

 

I frowned, images wandering into my head. “There was a tower,” I mumbled, “and water, and we were all falling…” Time snapped back into its proper track like the needle on an old phonograph record, and I looked up at Konnor. “Herr Norton was talking about the physical talents, and waveform effects.”

 

Konnor frowned, looked around as if to make sure no one else had heard me. “A vision? Strong enough to knock you out for twenty minutes?” Lowering his voice, he asked, “What else did you See, Bradley? Who was with you?”

 

The vision scattered like startled cockroaches when the light goes on. I shook my head. “I'm sorry, I don't remember anymore.”

 

If he was upset that I'd apologized, he didn't say anything about it. Konnor looked at his watch, then sighed. “If you do get any more of this, I want to hear about it. Understood? Just inform your dorm head that you need to speak with your mentor. Herr Smythe, isn't it?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Konnor escorted me from the medical center. As we left, I turned back and felt my breath catch in my throat.

 

Though today was bright and clear, that was the building I'd Seen when I'd first arrived and Konnor had taken me on a tour: the building I'd be entering on the day of no sun.

 

“Bradley?” Konnor gripped my arm tightly as though afraid I would fall.

 

“I'm all right,” I whispered, though I didn't feel all right at all.

 

Throughout dinner, homework, and my language lesson with Mr. Grant, one thought kept echoing through my mind. I couldn't concentrate, I could barely muddle through. By the time I returned to my bunk and collapsed on the thin mattress, the thought had become a mantra.

 

Is this how madness starts?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A/N:

There is no dark side of the moon, really. Matter of fact, it's all dark.

(spoken) - Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon

 

For a precognitive, loss of a watch is comparable to loss of time itself. Bradley's schedule has been disrupted repeatedly since his arrival, his personal safety has been violated, and now he begins to fear madness. Coincidence? I think not.