Weiss Kreuz Fan Fiction ❯ Standing Outside the Fire ❯ 16 ( Chapter 16 )

16

 

is it to be or not to be

and I replied `oh why ask me?'

 

Donley, Julian and I surveyed our new room with that kind of calm detachment that comes with surviving a disaster. The move was immediate: Smythe didn't want us staying in the room that had seen five deaths in a little over a year. There was always the chance for chemical involvement, he said, and he wasn't about to risk any more lives. The administration apparently agreed with him, or owed him a favor. In any case, there was an upper-class dorm room standing vacant, the one we were slated for anyway in another year, so Smythe pulled some strings and got it approved within the hour.

 

The room was about the same size as our old one, but it was set up for only four students instead of eight. There were real desks and chairs, one on either side of the bunk beds. There was even a slight sense of privacy: you could hang a blanket down and sit in your chair and have a tiny corner of the world to yourself.

 

Julian and I took bottom and top on the right-hand side; Donley took the top bunk to the left.

 

David Smythe straddled one of the chairs and massaged his forehead with the back of his hand, smoke from his cigarette drifting lazily back and forth as he did so. Behind him, on the desk, sat a box with Frettchen's and Georgie's belongings. He'd cleared out their stuff while we had gotten our own things around, pointedly ignoring Donley's and Julian's contraband in exchange for a handful of smokes. He turned and rummaged in the box, then pulled out Frettchen's assignment book.

 

“Schlecht, schlecht, schlecht,” he murmured. Glancing up, Smythe asked Donley, “Did he say anything to you? Any indication there was something wrong?”

 

“None, David.” Donley sounded like he was crying, and all of a sudden I remembered that, like me, he was only a kid. Fourteen, and alone, and he'd just seen one of his friends kill another friend before blowing his own brains out. We were all just kids; even Smythe wasn't twenty yet. “Lord of the Flies”, right here in Germany.

 

Smythe sighed, followed it with a deep drag of nicotine. He looked at Julian. “You want at it before they call you?”

 

I glanced from Smythe to Jules, confused.

 

Julian seemed to sag. “They probably will, won't they?” He turned to me, a wan smile on his face. “That's right, I was going to tell you first, Elvis. They want me in applied forensics. I've gotten enough control over my gift that it isn't hurting me anymore, and they need readers like that. I've been approved for a trial post, Gamma designation.”

 

In spite of the day's tragedy, I managed a smile for my friend. A trial post was like an apprenticeship, or a staff position: if it worked out, he'd be on a steady career track with real training and he could escape the day-to-day bullshit the rest of us had to deal with. He'd be almost a teacher himself, with perks like Smythe or the Hall Patrol had. And a Gamma designation - that was the intelligence division. If he did well enough, he could maybe even get out of here and transfer to Prague!

 

Then it hit me: transfer to Prague.

 

“When do you start?” Donley asked, his voice still a harsh croak.

 

“I'm on right now. I hope they don't tap me for this case,” Julian murmured. But one glance at Smythe made him shake his head. “You're right, they will. Acid test.” He sighed and reached for the notebook.

 

“When will you leave?” I asked, barely above a whisper.

 

Julian looked at me, surprised. Then he caught my meaning and smiled a little. “I'm in training here for ten months. After that, I don't know.” He took off his gloves and ran his fingertips over the paper; his expression froze, becoming mask-like and tragic. “Oh God, Frettchen…” Glancing up at Smythe, he said, “Pit casualty. He snapped.”

 

I looked down at the notebook. Across the cover, my squirrely little friend had written the German word for “bad” over and over, scrawled on top of each other and covering every inch. He'd written it hard enough to gouge into the paper underneath.

 

Guilty…

 

Donley choked back a sob, failed to catch it before it made noise.

 

Smythe stood and guided him down from his bunk, then just held him for a moment. They were both telepaths, and of all the telepaths I had known by name, they were the last two who were still alive.

 

No, I realized; they weren't the last.

 

Herr Sonndheim was a telepath, too.

 

“Gentlemen, would you excuse us?” Smythe whispered, turning Donley toward the door.

 

Donley clung to him, huddling against his side as if trying to hide inside his jacket.

 

Smythe leaned down and kissed his forehead before ushering him from the room.

 

I blinked, startled. I hadn't realized they were together like that, but now it made perfect sense. They'd always had a casual sort of comfort with each other, bantering and sharing smokes and all. And Donley had always seemed like he was in a safe place, anchored and steady. I watched the door close as if it was the curtain between acts in a stage play. Something inside me really wanted Donley and Smythe to stay in the room with us, as if that could prove that they would still be okay tomorrow. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow… I sighed and turned my attention back to the present, my sister's voice echoing in my thoughts for one strange moment before it faded into silence.

 

Julian slowly picked through the items in the box, occasionally stopping to flex his fingers as though they hurt. I joined him, looking at the remains of two lives in a sturdy cardboard banker's box.

 

Then I realized another significance of this: Smythe was giving us first dibs. Anger and disgust rolled through me; I felt like a scavenger, and I didn't like it. But I'd been through this before, and it was simply the custom of the land. When Jules offered me Frettchen's half-full box of lemondrops, I accepted without comment.

 

Julian sorted the items according to utility. Textbooks without notes he set aside to be returned to the appropriate classes. Any notes he would go over for evidence; then anything useful to either of us or to Donley he'd set aside so we could copy them before turning them over to the investigation.

 

He gave me first call on the contraband.

 

I watched him work, running his hands over the books and notes and things, trying to taste the events that had led to the shooting. Every now and then he'd sigh, and shake his head, and look much older than his almost-fifteen years. He was a winter baby, February 17; I caught myself wondering how old he'd been when Esset had found him.

 

How old had Frettchen been? This place was hell on telepaths; how long had he endured it before he just couldn't anymore?

 

How much longer did Donley or Smythe have before they went the same way?

 

“Why telepaths?” I heard myself asking.

 

“Why telepaths what?” Jules replied, distracted.

 

“Like you said, people here have it in for them,” I mused. “They've got it bad, right from the start, and it only gets worse. I was just wondering why, that's all. I'd think telepaths would make pretty good spies, it just seems strange to let them burn out like this.”

 

“You've been dozing through Psi Theory again, haven't you?” Julian asked with a bitter smile. “They're hard to train. More importantly, they're hard to tame. They have so much trouble keeping their sense of self together, they resist the programming. They fight it. The phys talents don't have that. They're like thugs: they're strong and they know it, and they'll follow anyone powerful enough to gain their admiration. As for the blues, empaths are meek. They avoid conflict; it's the way they're wired, they just can't stand other people's anger. You and me, we're like regular people who happen to be very useful to Esset. We follow the rules, we go to our jobs, we keep our heads down and try to eke out a little bit of happiness. We'll probably both end up with desk jobs, you know that, right?”

 

I nodded. “Yeah, I know. Could be worse. Could get a field assignment,” I joked half-heartedly.

 

Julian laughed out loud. “You? On a field team? That's like putting the goose that lays the golden eggs in an unguarded pen! One fox and it's all over! No, my friend, they'll want to keep you under lock and key, in a nice safe office somewhere with your own secretary and a ficus plant.”

 

Now I had to laugh, the horrors of earlier fading as though they were months behind us.

 

Returning to my question, Julian sobered again and said, “But telepaths… They're rebellious by nature. They have to be. Otherwise they get swallowed up in everyone else's thoughts and lose themselves completely. Problem with that is, Esset wants predictable soldiers, not free-willed radicals. But they still want their mind readers. The trick is to break them, just enough to control them but not enough that they…” He looked at the book in his hand, dropped it back into the box. Julian turned toward me and said, “It's a fine line, Elvis. Donley and Smythe figured out how to walk it. From what I've seen, two out of five is about right.”

 

Two out of five? “You mean, any telepath has only a 40% chance of getting through Rosenkreuz alive?”

 

Julian sighed, shook his head, and said, “Of surviving any given year. They get more telepaths than anything here. It's the most common talent, at the usable level, anyway. They get more in, and they only field about a third of them. Maybe not that many.”

 

I looked at the unclaimed bunk next to us. “I miss them, Jules.”

 

“Me too, Elvis.” He put his arm around my shoulders. His presence was warm, comforting; I sagged against him, fatigue and grief and hunger all taking their toll at once.

 

I sighed and let the feelings wash through me. Frettchen was gone, Georgie was gone. Trevor, Clifford, and that other guy I hadn't even known by name. Two guys in red shirts - my mind rushed to compare them with the boy in my visions, the boy with eyes like smoky embers and wavy dark hair. I really didn't know, as I hadn't seen their faces, but I had the feeling that this wasn't a relevant thing at the moment.

 

“You okay?” Julian asked, his voice lower than it used to be. When had it gone from a high tenor to something more adult-sounding? Until just then, I hadn't noticed. But now it was all I could think about.

 

Other than Konnor, this was the first time I'd let some guy hold me this long, and I realized I didn't much mind it. I liked Jules. He was nice, and solid, and I trusted him. Maybe that's how Donley felt about Smythe. In any case, I found myself sort of smiling at him as I said, “Yeah, I'm okay.”

 

Julian stared at me for a second, then kind of awkwardly he brought his face closer to mine. His eyes looked a little scared, and I could feel his breath on my lips right before he kissed me.

 

It wasn't like with Konnor. Julian's mouth was soft and uncertain, seeking, not demanding at all. And instead of fighting, I found myself kissing back. It felt…nice.

 

My arms wrapped around him and we just stood there, breathing around the kiss as time slid past us. Julian shifted his weight a little, moved so his thigh was between my legs; his own hard-on pressed against my thigh, and he moaned softly into my mouth.

 

I liked this. I liked it a lot. But I was afraid we'd end up falling over if we just stood there like that, so I backed us up toward the unclaimed bunk.

 

Limbs flailed, not sure where to go as we rearranged ourselves horizontally. Then his leg was back between mine, pressing deliciously, and I gasped against his lips. We rocked against each other, still fully dressed except for our jackets. We kissed until the pleasure stole our breath, then we concentrated on the lower half of our bodies and rode each other to the finish line. When I saw Julian gasp and knew that he was coming, it made something in my belly tighten up and I came too, excited for him as much as for myself.

 

Afterward, we lay there in each other's arms, sticky but not wanting to seek out the showers just yet. We'd be using a different shower now, and I realized I didn't even know for sure where it was.

 

Julian brushed the hair back from my face. His own hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his cheeks and forehead in ringlets. “Thanks.”

 

“Anytime,” I gasped, still kind of high from the pleasure. Maybe Konnor had been right, when he'd talked to me months ago about finding a playmate. I'd always liked Julian, always trusted him. It seemed a natural enough choice.

 

And, in the wake of tragedy, it felt good to just hold another human being. I'd used to watch “M.A.S.H.” in the reruns, late at night, and it always kind of hit me in the chest how people reacted to the horror of war. Sometimes they turned in on themselves, and sometimes they turned on those around them.

 

The ones who turned to someone else were the lucky ones, the ones who survived to the end of the series.

 

I'm going to be one of those.

 

 

 

 

 

A/N:

is it to be or not to be

and I replied `oh why ask me?'

“Suicide is Painless” - Theme from “M.A.S.H.”

 

Again we have a reminder of the world Bradley has left behind, a world where tragedy is doled out in entertainment rather than a fact of daily life. Shakespeare and “M.A.S.H.” have a sort of odd resonance together, and the fact that Bradley knows them both gives another glimpse into the strength of his character.

 

That Frettchen was writing schlecht - bad - over and over on his notebook is a peek ahead at the mind control efforts in Glühen. Nothing is coincidental.

 

As his older sister would have been in high school when he left, it's not unlikely that Bradley would have been subjected to her reciting Shakespeare for an English class. And given Bradley's powerful memory, I'm not surprised that he kept it. (Ironically, I hear that Herr Sonndheim favors this particular passage himself.)

 

“To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”

 

-- Macbeth (Act V, Scene v)