So Bright (The Timbuk 3 Remix) [Weiss Kreuz; Crawford, surprise]
Title: So Bright (The Timbuk 3 Remix)
Author: mistressrenet
Summary: Crawford's sight doesn't see everything.
Rating: R
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Warnings: Mention of pedophilia
Spoilers: None
Special thanks to tiggymalvern, the bestest beta a girl could ask for.
Title, Author and URL of original story: "Five Lives Brad Crawford Never Lived," daegaer, found here.
When Brad Crawford was eight, his best friend disappeared. Signs went up; serious meetings were held; counselors came in and held the children's hands.
He knew better than to tell anyone about the men in the white van, the charcoal grey suits, the dark glasses, the way Alan had screamed. He knew too well what would happen if he did. The only way to survive with a gift like foresight was to hide it, and hide it he did.
By the time he was ten, he'd seen so many of his own deaths he'd lost count. Sometimes the visions were clear as crystal; sometimes they were muddled, confusing. By the time he was fifteen they were manageable, if not reliable enough to let him win the lottery. He knew they would be, soon enough.
Getting close to anyone was impossible. As every relationship began, he saw its end; from lies, from death, from the inevitable pressure of knowing too much.
He needed no ties, anyway. Friends were just enemies who hadn't stabbed you in the back yet; lovers would cheat on you, sooner or later, probably with those 'friends' you thought you knew so well. To hell with that. His parents would die in a car accident two years from now; his sister would leave home and disappear into a haze of addiction and bad boyfriends. To hell with them, too.
He would leave Brad behind. "Crawford" was enough for him; it was tougher, stronger. Maybe he'd be a lawyer. He'd never lose, after all.
He wished any of it seemed remotely interesting.
Crawford adjusted the volume on his Walkman. Things are goin' great, the voice sang, and they're only gettin' better. I'm doin' all right, gettin' good grades, the future's so bright, I gotta wear shades. He snorted. The song was a joke.
He paused on the curb and tracked his deaths.
Two seconds from now, stepping in front of the car; possible airplane crash several miles above; pedophile three people over who thought he was significantly younger than his actual age....
You missed one, purred a voice in his mind. Killed by a stranger for your nice full wallet.
Shock ran up his spine; he hadn't seen it coming, for once. Crawford could feel the gun at his back. You're not going to kill me, he thought, as hard as he could.
Quit shouting, the voice snapped. And you can't tell.
Of course I can, he answered. Can't you?
He could hear the hiss behind him. His sight finally gave him something: scarlet hair and a boy's face.
How old are you?
I'm the one holding the gun. I should be asking questions.
Crawford pulled himself up to his full height and smirked. I already know you won't shoot me.
The gun poked harder into his back. Why won't I?
"You're the mind reader," Crawford murmured. "You tell me." He stared hard at the pedophile. Here was the future where Crawford was killed; here was the future where the red-haired boy came along, brought the gun, the future where the pedophile died in a puddle of his own urine, begging for his life, bright orange zip ties pulled so tight against his bruising wrists his hands were stone white and no longer able to move.
Not bad, came the answer in his mind. You don't object?
Crawford could feel his own heartbeat picking up. Something like anticipation; something oddly like pleasure. What would I object to?
The boy laughed. Let's have some fun. The pressure at Crawford's back disappeared.
The music from the Walkman registered again in his mind. Well I'm heavenly blessed and worldly wise; I'm a peeping-tom techie with x-ray eyes...
There was the pedophile, smiling too broadly, looking his way. His suit was cheap and his tie was ugly; bright reds and oranges. "Excuse me," he said, "did you drop this?" A fifty dollar bill.
Damn, this is going to be too easy.
"I did," Crawford said, and took it. "Thanks, mister."
"Don't call me Mister," he said, and held out his hand. "I'm Mark. Mark Shultz. It's a pleasure."
His real name is Albert Johnson, the voice in his head said. It was already becoming somewhat familiar. Crawford shook 'Mark's' hand.
"I'm Brad," Crawford said. "We were just going to the comic book store-- we were planning on spending that."
"Hallo!" the voice behind him said brightly, and he could hear the boy's grin. "Ich bin Hans. Wie geht's?"
"Oh, you're German?"
"Exchange student," the boy answered, in German so thick Crawford thought he could cut it with a knife. His clothes were terrible, too; an amazingly tacky Hawaiian shirt in bright blues and oranges that clashed with his hair. "I am thirteen, ya?"
"Hans," Crawford hissed. "We're not supposed to tell people stuff like that."
"He is not stranger!" 'Hans' chirruped. "His name is Mark, ya?"
Crawford rolled his eyes. "I guess," he said.
"You know what?" Mark said. "My car's right around the corner. I could drive you boys, and then you won't have to worry about losing your money again. We could even swing by Starbucks-- my treat." He tried to look trustworthy. He looked like a pedo.
Hans grinned. "Brad. Can ve? Please, please?"
Crawford sighed an exaggerated sigh. "Okay. But no Starbucks. Just straight to the store, okay?"
"No problem," Mark said.
Shit, what a rotten liar. His face was innocent, but Crawford remembered the predatory gleam in his eyes from the vision. You know, it's easier to hunt predators than prey? Predators are predictable. And they never see it coming.
Good to know, Crawford said, as they followed Mark down the block. Are you really German?
Of course I am. "Is quiet here," 'Hans' said, as they entered a dark alleyway. A few rats scurried in their wake.
"This is the best place to park," Mark said cheerfully. "No one comes out here, but it's not too far from the stores. It's my little secret. Guess it'll be our little secret now, huh?"
"Yes." Something in Hans' tone went back to Crawford's spine. And maybe lower, but he wasn't thinking about that right now. He was thinking about the gun, and the crying, and the death.
They wouldn't get caught.
Maybe they'd never get caught.
Crawford almost gasped, but forced himself to keep walking normally. A new future was opening up in front of his vision, so fast and overwhelming it was hard to digest. There were bodies. Lots of them.
None of them were Crawford's.
The future's so bright, the song finished in his ears, I've got to wear shades; I gotta wear shades....
Author: mistressrenet
Summary: Crawford's sight doesn't see everything.
Rating: R
Fandom: Weiss Kreuz
Warnings: Mention of pedophilia
Spoilers: None
Special thanks to tiggymalvern, the bestest beta a girl could ask for.
Title, Author and URL of original story: "Five Lives Brad Crawford Never Lived," daegaer, found here.
When Brad Crawford was eight, his best friend disappeared. Signs went up; serious meetings were held; counselors came in and held the children's hands.
He knew better than to tell anyone about the men in the white van, the charcoal grey suits, the dark glasses, the way Alan had screamed. He knew too well what would happen if he did. The only way to survive with a gift like foresight was to hide it, and hide it he did.
By the time he was ten, he'd seen so many of his own deaths he'd lost count. Sometimes the visions were clear as crystal; sometimes they were muddled, confusing. By the time he was fifteen they were manageable, if not reliable enough to let him win the lottery. He knew they would be, soon enough.
Getting close to anyone was impossible. As every relationship began, he saw its end; from lies, from death, from the inevitable pressure of knowing too much.
He needed no ties, anyway. Friends were just enemies who hadn't stabbed you in the back yet; lovers would cheat on you, sooner or later, probably with those 'friends' you thought you knew so well. To hell with that. His parents would die in a car accident two years from now; his sister would leave home and disappear into a haze of addiction and bad boyfriends. To hell with them, too.
He would leave Brad behind. "Crawford" was enough for him; it was tougher, stronger. Maybe he'd be a lawyer. He'd never lose, after all.
He wished any of it seemed remotely interesting.
Crawford adjusted the volume on his Walkman. Things are goin' great, the voice sang, and they're only gettin' better. I'm doin' all right, gettin' good grades, the future's so bright, I gotta wear shades. He snorted. The song was a joke.
He paused on the curb and tracked his deaths.
Two seconds from now, stepping in front of the car; possible airplane crash several miles above; pedophile three people over who thought he was significantly younger than his actual age....
You missed one, purred a voice in his mind. Killed by a stranger for your nice full wallet.
Shock ran up his spine; he hadn't seen it coming, for once. Crawford could feel the gun at his back. You're not going to kill me, he thought, as hard as he could.
Quit shouting, the voice snapped. And you can't tell.
Of course I can, he answered. Can't you?
He could hear the hiss behind him. His sight finally gave him something: scarlet hair and a boy's face.
How old are you?
I'm the one holding the gun. I should be asking questions.
Crawford pulled himself up to his full height and smirked. I already know you won't shoot me.
The gun poked harder into his back. Why won't I?
"You're the mind reader," Crawford murmured. "You tell me." He stared hard at the pedophile. Here was the future where Crawford was killed; here was the future where the red-haired boy came along, brought the gun, the future where the pedophile died in a puddle of his own urine, begging for his life, bright orange zip ties pulled so tight against his bruising wrists his hands were stone white and no longer able to move.
Not bad, came the answer in his mind. You don't object?
Crawford could feel his own heartbeat picking up. Something like anticipation; something oddly like pleasure. What would I object to?
The boy laughed. Let's have some fun. The pressure at Crawford's back disappeared.
The music from the Walkman registered again in his mind. Well I'm heavenly blessed and worldly wise; I'm a peeping-tom techie with x-ray eyes...
There was the pedophile, smiling too broadly, looking his way. His suit was cheap and his tie was ugly; bright reds and oranges. "Excuse me," he said, "did you drop this?" A fifty dollar bill.
Damn, this is going to be too easy.
"I did," Crawford said, and took it. "Thanks, mister."
"Don't call me Mister," he said, and held out his hand. "I'm Mark. Mark Shultz. It's a pleasure."
His real name is Albert Johnson, the voice in his head said. It was already becoming somewhat familiar. Crawford shook 'Mark's' hand.
"I'm Brad," Crawford said. "We were just going to the comic book store-- we were planning on spending that."
"Hallo!" the voice behind him said brightly, and he could hear the boy's grin. "Ich bin Hans. Wie geht's?"
"Oh, you're German?"
"Exchange student," the boy answered, in German so thick Crawford thought he could cut it with a knife. His clothes were terrible, too; an amazingly tacky Hawaiian shirt in bright blues and oranges that clashed with his hair. "I am thirteen, ya?"
"Hans," Crawford hissed. "We're not supposed to tell people stuff like that."
"He is not stranger!" 'Hans' chirruped. "His name is Mark, ya?"
Crawford rolled his eyes. "I guess," he said.
"You know what?" Mark said. "My car's right around the corner. I could drive you boys, and then you won't have to worry about losing your money again. We could even swing by Starbucks-- my treat." He tried to look trustworthy. He looked like a pedo.
Hans grinned. "Brad. Can ve? Please, please?"
Crawford sighed an exaggerated sigh. "Okay. But no Starbucks. Just straight to the store, okay?"
"No problem," Mark said.
Shit, what a rotten liar. His face was innocent, but Crawford remembered the predatory gleam in his eyes from the vision. You know, it's easier to hunt predators than prey? Predators are predictable. And they never see it coming.
Good to know, Crawford said, as they followed Mark down the block. Are you really German?
Of course I am. "Is quiet here," 'Hans' said, as they entered a dark alleyway. A few rats scurried in their wake.
"This is the best place to park," Mark said cheerfully. "No one comes out here, but it's not too far from the stores. It's my little secret. Guess it'll be our little secret now, huh?"
"Yes." Something in Hans' tone went back to Crawford's spine. And maybe lower, but he wasn't thinking about that right now. He was thinking about the gun, and the crying, and the death.
They wouldn't get caught.
Maybe they'd never get caught.
Crawford almost gasped, but forced himself to keep walking normally. A new future was opening up in front of his vision, so fast and overwhelming it was hard to digest. There were bodies. Lots of them.
None of them were Crawford's.
The future's so bright, the song finished in his ears, I've got to wear shades; I gotta wear shades....