Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Standing Outside the Fire ❯ 15 ( Chapter 15 )

15

 

“Always use the proper name for things.”

 

*

Voices, again. I know these voices…

 

“Schuldig?”

 

“…yes?” (He sounds exhausted…)

 

“Would you come with me for a minute?” (…Persia?)

 

“Nagi, stay here. Watch him until I get back.”

 

“Hai.”

*

 

November snow seems to be a tradition around here. I watched it turn the courtyard into a blur of white, the edges of the buildings blunted and rounded. The whole scene reminded me of a ghost ship, white against gray, and crewed with the damned.

 

I've been here over a year now, and I was still standing. I figured that was a good thing. Absently I raised the lit cigarette and took a half-hearted drag on it. Coughing followed as it always did, but the rush of nicotine kind of made me feel warmer for just a second. I wasn't hooked on it, not yet anyway. Donley had offered me one after a really bad day and it had helped a little. We were all on the lookout for any edge, any hope, any crutch that could get us through another few hours. If we could just make it back to our dorm, we were pretty sure we'd wake up the next morning.

 

I tried to move my thoughts away from that. We hadn't lost anyone since Clifford, and I didn't want to jinx it. Julian had gotten better, more in control of his gift, and he wasn't so sick all the time anymore. Georgie had had a growth spurt late summer, and now most of the tough crowd left him alone. Between his size and an innate skill with his fists, he was pretty formidable.

 

While my dormmates were doing okay, the other people in my life didn't seem so lucky. Konnor and Shelley still acted like they were hunted men, and I wondered what had happened to start all that. Then again, with Sonndheim, one doesn't really need a motive.

 

I took another puff, a long one this time, and managed not to choke. Sonndheim had gotten hold of Frettchen a few weeks back. Kid still wouldn't talk about it. He'd come back after three days looking like he'd been in a concentration camp: shaky, pale, unwashed, and somehow thinner. There were things going on here that I still didn't understand, and I had the awful feeling that not knowing was someday really going to hurt me.

 

Jules had taken me aside and explained that Herr Sonndheim had a thing about telepaths. He liked to break them. And he was good at it. Donley had perfected the blank stare, the flat intonation, and memorized the propaganda; he was invisible. Frettchen was still a bit of a flake, a joker, but he wouldn't even fit in with a clown troupe. He was too proud: fitting in was a last resort.

 

I hoped he'd take it quick. I didn't want to lose him. Friendship was the only thing we had here, the only thing they couldn't take away.

 

No, I reminded myself, thinking of Trevor. They could take that away too.

 

With a sigh I inspected my cigarette, decided there wasn't enough left to salvage, and tossed it into the snow. I wasn't sure if I'd keep the rest, but for now they stayed in my pocket. If I didn't smoke them, they were still as good as money.

 

Fourteen years old and smoking out back behind the school building. Oh, Jimmy would laugh his ass off if he only knew! His goody-two-shoes pest of a baby brother, leaning against the wall and making like a chimney - he wouldn't be able to resist running to Ma and telling her all about it.

 

This time, when I thought about home there were no tears, only a deep ache in my belly. Last year I'd spent half my birthday crying like a little kid, which I kind of still was. This year I'd watched it come and go with barely a nod. They say when you grow up, time seems to speed up and carry you along from year to year like you were falling down a hill, faster and faster until you hit the bottom. I just hadn't expected it to happen before I was thirty.

 

My classes were going well, at least. In this season of Thanksgiving, I guess that would count for something. Frau Sheffield had finally stopped treating me like some kind of impostor and taken me under her wing. She was really a good teacher, once you got past all the bristles. She taught me how to meditate and slow the visions so I could actually get a look at them, and how to make them come when they were balky. One day she even told me that I was an exceptional student, for a boy. From her, that's highest praise.

 

I trudged back to the dorm, thinking about homework. But what I was thinking deeper under the surface wasn't about my classes at all. Donley was a good teacher too, though I suspected that we'd both be in a whole lot of trouble if anyone knew about it. Still, they seem to like people taking initiative here, and I was really tired of feeling like an open book.

 

Donley was alone in the room when I got in. “Hey, Crawford. You ready?”

 

“You bet.” I sat cross-legged on the floor next to Julian's bunk. I'd tried doing this in a more comfortable setting, but I had a tendency to fall over, and that wasn't a good thing.

 

Gentle fingers tickled my awareness, warm and soft like a summer breeze.

 

I pushed them away.

 

They came at me more insistent.

 

I pushed them away.

 

Then Donley's mind hit mine with the force of a thundersquall. His hopes, his fears, his classwork, and a powerful craving for nicotine - everything that was him tried to pour into me.

 

I concentrated so hard sweat sprung out on my forehead, and the storm splashed over me, sliding off my shields to vanish into the thick cinderblock walls.

 

“Not bad,” the telepath murmured. “Not damn bad, Crawford. Another round?”

 

“Hit me with your best shot,” I told him, grinning in spite of a mild headache.

 

This time it wasn't forceful so much as sneaky, as Donley tried to find me inside my own head. I could feel him prying, probing, searching for some token to show he'd won. I thought of a song I knew by heart, and let it sort of run loose at full volume.

 

“`Conquistador', huh? Never heard that one. You make that up?”

 

I shook my head. “Nah, I'm not a musician! It's real all right. Classic rock. The best!” Squinting, I looked up at him. “Get anything else?”

 

“Besides that song? Not a damn bit.” He hopped down from his bunk and held his hand out to me. “Congratulations, kid. You're solid.”

 

“Thank you, Don.” I shook his hand, then let him pull me to my feet. “Think it'll hold against a teacher?”

 

“Fat chance, but it's a start.” He paused to light a cigarette. He offered me a drag, which I declined. “Like I told you before, it's nearly impossible to keep Them out of your head, no matter how good you are. They hate that. I think that's why Frettchen got in so much trouble, you know.”

 

“Donley, I know no one wants to talk about it, but…what did they do to him? He hasn't been right since.” I couldn't shake the feeling that he wouldn't ever be right again, either.

 

Donley sighed and looked away from me. “They put him in The Pit. It's one of their favorite tortures, especially for telepaths.” Don kind of folded his arms around himself like he'd taken a chill. Cigarette smoke curled up behind his back and broke against the edges of his hair. “It's like a sensory deprivation thing, only not really. I don't know how to describe it, only that it's something you never, never want to see firsthand.”

 

“Have you seen it?” I whispered, though I already guessed his answer.

 

“Yeah.” The word came out barely audible, as did those that followed. “Once. Two days. Never again.”

 

“What do they do to -” I began, but he cut me off.

 

“They don't have to DO anything, Crawford. They just put you in there, and leave you…” He turned to look at my face, and his eyes were flat and cold. They were the eyes of a man who could kill without remorse, if only to ward off his own torment. “It's a cell, about two meters by three or so. There's a stump of a toilet, no sink, and a frame cot with no bedding. The door -” his voice broke. He took a hit on his cigarette, and his hand was shaking like crazy. “The door has a tiny window with bars on it, and a little slot at the bottom where they shove food through. There's sometimes a single light bulb in the ceiling, but not always. Sometimes it's dark. Coffin dark.”

 

I swallowed hard. My own skin had gone clammy, and I was probably as pale as a ghost. Since being here I had heard about and experienced a number of horrible things, and I had listened to rumors about honest-to-god torture, but this…

 

Donley continued, pushing the words out as if they burned. “And there's several of these cells, all in one place, and they never put you in when you're well. They break down your shields, they break your body then leave you there to rot. It's only a few hours, or days, but you still rot. For telepaths, it's a taste of madness. Empaths too. It's not nearly so effective on phys talents unless they're already crazy or something. But telepaths…they go totally open, with the pressure inside their minds buckling under the pressure from the other cells.” He closed his eyes and breathed, “God help you if they're doing experiments in the Lab; it's right next door.”

 

“And they put Frettchen in there.” I started pacing, the anger and frustation building up in my chest and making it hard to breathe.

 

“Sonndheim put him in there,” Donley whispered, his voice so low I barely heard him.

 

I turned to look at Donley. “Sonndheim? He's in charge of that?”

 

Donley flinched when I said the name aloud. “Yeah, him.”

 

Suddenly it occurred to me that, in over a year, I had never heard my dormmates, or any of the students for that matter, talking directly about Herr Sonndheim. There were hints and whispers, always the whispers, but nothing to link his name to any of it. We all knew who they were talking about, of course, but it was like saying his name out loud was courting bad luck. Like he'd somehow hear you and know what you were saying.

 

In over a year, I had learned very little about one of the men who controlled my life, and I had the feeling that most of what I had learned was wrong.

 

You see in stories where someone is so evil you aren't supposed to say his name, but I'd never in all my life thought it could be real. Time bent inside my head, and I Saw a man with scarred ivory skin and an eyepatch, and he was talking with the man with blue-green eyes.

 

“Always use the proper name for things,” he said, his voice roughly accented and low. “Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”

 

“Thanks, Far.” The red-head's voice sounded husky, like he'd been crying.

 

Guilty…

 

“Hey, Crawford.” Donley snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Where'd you go?”

 

I checked my watch, though I hadn't paid attention to the time before my shielding session with Don. That didn't help much, so I looked for another point of reference. I hadn't been out long enough for Donley's cigarette to burn down, unless he'd lit another, and the amount of smoke in the room didn't seem too much. “Sorry `bout that,” I murmured. “You know how I get.”

 

“Yeah, and if talking about him sends you off on visions, maybe we should stop.”

 

I frowned, too many unhappy ideas colliding in my brain. “Don, what else is he in charge of?”

 

“Why do you want to know? You just want to stay clear of him, I thought you knew that by now.”

 

“Yeah, but I still don't know for sure why.” I debated telling him about Konnor, and Shelley, and the watching eye.

 

But Donley made up my mind for me. He held up a hand and said, “Your shields are back down, Crawford. No, I don't want to know anything, and you shouldn't either. If the Ice Baron thinks you have something interesting, he'll get it out of you, and you won't be seen again. That's just how it is, and it doesn't matter if you're a student or a teacher. Esset loves him above all others, and it shows.”

 

“Why do people call him that?” I'd heard the nickname before, along with several more descriptive ones, but this one seemed almost too dignified for the man.

 

“Have you looked into his eyes?”

 

A chill ran down my spine at the memory of it. “Yeah. I have.”

 

“That's why.”

 

The door opened, and for one breathless second I imagined the shadow of Herr Sonndheim filling the tiny dorm room.

 

In a way I was right: Frettchen shut the door behind him and silently turned toward his bunk.

 

Donley's eyes flashed warning. ::Don't, Crawford. Just leave him alone.::

 

I sighed and nodded. I hadn't forgotten the grief and guilt over Trevor's fate; had I pushed him into something he might otherwise have avoided? I'd never have the answer to that, but I'd learned my lesson. Keeping my tone light, I turned toward Frettchen and said, “I'm going outside for a couple, you wanna go?”

 

“No, thanks. I'm kind of tired, actually. And I've got work to do before class tomorrow.”

 

Before my mouth could get me in any trouble, I picked up my jacket and headed for the door.

 

::I'll stay with him, Crawford.::

 

::Thanks, Don. And thanks for the smokes. I think I need one.::

 

It was almost dinner time, Sunday evening. A long time ago that meant supper with my family and some television time with Sarah. A year ago it meant supper in the dining hall with a couple hundred strangers, half of them watching to see if the other half were weaker or stronger than themselves, followed by an hour or more of intensive language lessons.

 

Today it meant a few more precious minutes to myself, nursing a cigarette in the courtyard before seeking out my circle of friends in the dining hall. After supper, we'd return to the dorm for any last-minute classwork and then talk in hushed tones about this or that, but never anything important. Never anything incriminating.

 

We all acted as though our rooms were bugged, and our heads as well. There was a creeping paranoia here that got under the skin and spread like scabies. When I first arrived, I didn't know what that feeling was, or why, but now I'd learned to recognize it. Brutality had become a fact of my life, but I realized it only served to distract from the larger picture, and I had never been one to stay distracted for long. Time played goofy with me anyway, I wasn't about to relinquish a moment I didn't have to.

 

Esset didn't want a following, it wanted slaves. Brainwashed, helpless slaves. Preferably with powers the rest of the world didn't have.

 

I didn't want to end up like Frettchen.

 

They break the telepaths, they use violence to keep the phys talents in line, and they make sure the students have almost no freedom to think for themselves. From the looks of things, the higher-ups did the same to the teachers. They dole out favors to make you think you're obeying willingly, but the truth of it is you didn't have any choice at all.

 

I concentrated on my shields, the product of nearly a year of practice. Donley said they were solid, they'd hold against another student. But that wasn't enough.

 

I wanted them to hold against Sonndheim.

 

The bell announcing the second dinner hour sounded, and I gave up the cigarette in favor of food. Julian met me on the way to the dining hall, his face pink with the cold and lit with a genuine smile. “Hey, Elvis! Sit with me, would you? I've got some news and I want you to be the first.”

 

We queued up behind a long line of charcoal-jacketed kids and waited. A few older students wandered by, sizing us up. I kept my shields high and tried not to smirk at their confusion when they noticed they couldn't read me. I could feel them trying, their minds pressing against mine like snakes searching a nest for eggs. All they got was Radio USA, KBMC Kentucky - classic rock, no commercials.

 

Julian and I reached the serving line and accepted our ration for the evening. I'd almost gotten used to the bland food; in fact, the bland stuff was better than the flavored stuff, though I couldn't really pinpoint why. We took our trays and found a couple of empty seats at the end of one long table. I looked around for our other dormmates, saw Georgie talking with a couple of redshirts near the middle of the room.

 

A sudden flare against my shields startled me, a flash of crimson despair that vanished as soon as it had come - vanished into the sound of gunfire.

 

“Jesus! Get down!” Julian grabbed me and threw me under the table, sliding in on top of me.

 

I lay there, peeking out through the table legs and the benches, trying to deny what I'd seen in that second before Julian had reacted.

 

Frettchen, pistol in hand. Georgie and the two redshirts falling in a spray of blood.

 

One more shot rang out, and Frettchen collapsed to the floor.

 

I struggled to get up, but Julian pinned me firmly. “Don't, Elvis! Just stay down!”

 

“It's Frettchen, Jules! Let me go!”

 

“Everyone, may I have your attention?” I didn't recognize the voice, but it carried through out loud and inside my head. “Form two lines, north end and south end. Follow the security detail to the courtyard. You may take your trays with you.”

 

“Come on,” Julian whispered, clambering out from under the table and offering me his hand.

 

I stood up and turned to try to see what had happened to my friends. Part of my mind insisted that they were going to be okay, that they'd be taken to the hospital and they'd be okay.

 

But when I saw Georgie I knew he was gone. And when I saw Frettchen, it was worse. He'd shot himself in the face.

 

“You two all right?”

 

“Yes, David. We're all right,” Julian replied, his voice thick with emotion.

 

“Come with me. I've already found Donley. We're going back to the hall in a group. Bring your trays.”

 

“I'm not hungry,” I heard myself whisper. I couldn't get the image of the blood out of my head, or the flare I'd seen against my shields - that was Frettchen's only goodbye.

 

Donley looked like total hell. He'd been alone with Frettchen before this happened, the way I'd been alone with Trevor. I put my hand on his shoulder and quietly asked if he was okay.

 

“I didn't know he had a gun,” he whispered. “He told me to go on ahead to dinner, that he'd be along in a minute.” Don gazed at me and Julian, his eyes haunted. “I left him alone.”

 

“It's not your fault,” Julian told him.

 

With sudden insight I understood. “He's right, Don. It's not your fault. It's Sonndheim's.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

A/N:

“Always use the proper name for things.”

Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone - J.K. Rowling

 

The quote is continued in Bradley's vision, spoken in a future context Bradley cannot yet know.

 

This chapter begins with another reminder that this story is being told as a flashback. Brad Crawford is in hospital, you recall, fighting for his life after a brutal psionic duel at the Koua Academy. When past, present, and future get blurred together, it gets a little hard to keep them all separate.

 

scabies - a contagious skin disease that is caused by a mite and characterized by intense itching.