FIC: Though they sink (R)
Author: andmydog
Recipient: red_squared
Title: Though they sink
Rating: R
Character/Pairing(s): Schwarz
Spoilers: All of Kapital
Summary: Crawford sees a way to escape from Esset's chains. But at what cost?
Warnings/Content: Mild gore (canonical head wound), bad neuroscience
Word Count: 3500
Author's Notes: The dialogue completely got away from me, so... sorry about that.
Stay down, Crawford orders through the team link, and Schuldig is more than happy to comply.
His head feels like it’s been split open, but he doesn’t dare raise a hand to check. Don’t ever draw attention to your wounds when danger’s near, yes, don’t show weakness even when you’re bleeding out on the carpet, he knows that lesson well. But the greater fear is what he’ll find if he moves. If his fingers touch his brain, he’s not sure what he’ll do.
Crawford is droning on about Weiss - Weiss, fuck Weiss, they are nothing but shit to this headache - but at least whatever he’s saying has made the Walrus stop swinging that damned golf club. It’s hovering there, a splash of silver in the corner of his eye, and if he looks closer, he can see matted orange hairs tangled about the tip.
He’s going to be sick.
He’s going to die. That’s his blood staining the carpet, his brains dripping down the side of his face, his mind wet and pulsing through the glittering shards of his caved-in skull, glistening jelly dripping through his hair yea, and they sacrificed their sons and their daughters unto devils and he’s going to die, the carpet polluted with blood, the land polluted with blood...
Wait.
Wait, no. That’s Farfarello.
Keep your jelly to yourself, he growls through the link, unable to still his face adequately to conceal the wince. Shit. Shit on all of them, it hurts to project. It hurts to shield. It hurts...
Enough. It hurts to open his eyes (it hurts to try and recall when he’d closed them), but when Fearless Leader commands, he obeys. He peers up at Crawford through his blood-tinged fringe, eyes widening further with dim surprise at the hand Crawford’s extended to help him off the floor. The Walrus is gone (when did he leave? How did he not notice? Shit, he’s slipping) but even still, such an offer of assistance from Crawford? It’s an unknown charity.
Which makes it damned suspicious.
“Did you see this?” His mouth isn’t working right. No, that’s not it. It’s further back than that. His tongue feels far too large, filling his throat as Crawford pulls him to his feet. Dizziness sweeps over him, and he falls against Crawford, hands scrabbling across the other man’s arms as he fights to stay upright. “Did you know this would happen?”
Not here.
A string of profanity bubbles up in response to Crawford’s dismissal, but it’s too… too something. Focus. To form them into words. What was...?
-------------------------------------------------------------------
The moment Schuldig slumped into unconsciousness, Crawford was moving. “We need to get to the garage,” he commanded, hoisting Schuldig over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “Farfarello, take point. Nagi, behind me.” Farfarello’s injury was still bleeding freely as well, but there was no time to stop and bandage either man. The clock was ticking for both Schuldig and Farfarello; every moment that passed brought the possibility of Farfarello acting out closer to the present.
He unholstered his gun with the arm unencumbered by Schuldig’s dead weight, letting it hang ready at his side. “Into the elevator, and keep your back to me.”
Farfarello’s eye gleamed as he peered over his shoulder at Crawford, his iris nothing but a ring of gold being swallowed by the empty black of his pupil. “Are you going to shoot me?” he asked, his voice an unconcerned deadpan. Futures ticked away: Farfarello easing Schuldig’s body into the back seat, careful of his long hair as the door closes, sealing him in. Farfarello flinging Schuldig’s body against the car, screeching prophecy as he charges Nagi, his gait unbalanced. Crawford easing Schuldig’s body into the back seat, agitation making his movements harsh as Farfarello’s corpse cools on the elevator floor.
“Only if I have to. Move.”
The car would have to be abandoned. Worse, without Schuldig to shield their activity from the minds of those around them, Crawford was forced to stop three blocks away, so as to avoid association of his team with the vehicle the police would undoubtedly already be searching for. The number of lights he’d run -- and the resulting accidents - ensured it. It was unfortunate, but it couldn’t be helped. “Get Farfarello into his cell, and put Schuldig in my room,” he ordered Nagi, as the boy struggled to haul Schuldig’s limp form out of the back seat. Farfarello stood idly by, watching Nagi’s efforts with a blank half-smile, lips moving silently as he mouthed what Crawford saw would all too quickly become psalms. “No bandages, no medication for either of them.” Farfarello would only tear his off, and rip out any sutures, and Schuldig...
Crawford checked his watch. The window of success was rapidly closing. Nagi finally hoisted Schuldig up onto his feet; the delirious redhead draped across the boy’s shoulders, looking for all the world like just another drunken foreigner. Good. That was an acceptable opinion for their neighbors to develop.
“Crawford-san...”
Crawford held up a hand, cutting Nagi off. “Get them inside and down. I’ll return shortly.” Explanations would have to be provided - Nagi deserved that much - but they would have to wait until the current situation was resolved. Still, Crawford felt a flash of pride as Nagi merely nodded, and turned to attend to his task. The boy was proving to be an exceptional agent, and Crawford allowed himself to feel a moment’s appreciation for the fact.
But he could only spare a moment. Futures unfolded as he rounded the block and headed out into the night, looking for a good place to dump and burn the car. No more than a few blocks from the apartment or he wouldn’t make it back in time, but not so close as to draw suspicion onto residents of their building. It would be so much simpler if he could merely contact one of the local Rosenkreuz agents and have them dispose of the vehicle for him, but it was important - it was essential -- that Rosenkreuz have no reason to note the events of the evening.
Delayed tending to Schuldig, Nagi fails to lock Farfarello in his room. His mania overtakes him and he flees the apartment, slaughtering a family of six and four police officers before he’s gunned down.
Crawford shook his head, dismissing the potential future. Nagi had his instructions, and he would obey. He would raise his disagreements with Crawford later that week, but that was acceptable. By that point, either all the pieces would have fallen correctly into place, or…
The retrieval team has been sent to collect Schuldig. Crawford and Nagi stand aside as they load Schuldig, gibbering tearfully, into the back of the van next to Farfarello’s body.
...or nothing. They would succeed. They were Schwarz.
There. Just off the overpass, four men in two cars engage in a drug deal. The sellers had sampled the wares on their way to the exchange, and were jittery, paranoid. The dealers are young, inexperienced, attempting to undercut their employers and strike out on their own. A casual word taken personally, and they open fire on each other. No survivors, one car undamaged save a shattered rearview mirror.
It would do.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
He blinks, and they’re in the apartment.
Farfarello is a warm, solid weight pressed up against his side, steering him gracefully down the hall toward the bedrooms at the back. Schuldig leans into that familiar strength, eyelids momentarily fluttering closed again. He’s hurt, and he’s angry, but Farfarello is here. Good old trustworthy Farfarello. Crawford is a dick, a rancid, putrid dick that’s fucked them both over, but at least Schuldig can rely on Farf. “My hero,” he murmurs, and although he doesn’t feel like he’s got enough breath to force the words past his teeth, Farfarello snorts like he hears. Maybe he does. Or maybe Schuldig’s speaking mentally, and not aurally - it’s so easy to get those two confused.
It’s easy enough to confirm, too.
Casually, like reaching for a book on a table, he reaches curiously for Farf’s mind. Just a light grazing of the surface of his mind, just enough to see back a few seconds in time and check his reality against Farf’s. It’s a gesture he’s performed a hundred, a thousand times before, but this time the gentle touch brings with it a shooting pain. It’s like something vast and thorned has been squeezed into his skull, and it’s pressing against every inch of the shell, straining to break free. It hurts so much that he can’t refrain from poking at it like with a bruise. It feels like a bruise, too, dark and mottled and deeper than it first appears.
He can’t resist.
“Is this you?” he asks, mentally probing the edges of the mind-bruise. But before Farfarello can reply, something gives with a sensation not unlike fingertips slipping into a bruised piece of fruit, and when Schuldig can breathe again, he’s lying on Crawford’s bed.
Shit. Is he losing time, or is he that badly injured?
There’s music coming from down the hall, and a rhythmic thudding. Farfarello, then, in his room, and Nagi in his, with the stereo cranked up the way he does when he’s upset. “One, two...” Three is for Schuldig, lying on the bed, heroically not panicking at the great hole in his head. But where is four?
“Crawford?”
“Here.”
He refuses to let his relief show. “Herr Leader, I’m flattered,” he jokes, trying to lift himself off the bed, “but I’m not really in the mood.” His vision is blurring slightly, and he’d like to pretend it’s just from fatigue. Too bad he knows better. “I have this little headache, you see...”
“I didn’t bring you in here for that, Schuldig.” Crawford doesn’t laugh. He never laughs. He just swings between levels of seriousness, from stoic to coldly furious to whatever this was now. Schuldig can’t really tell. Who can tell emotions from just the face? The good stuff is inside, where he can’t reach it, safe as houses.
A stupid saying, really. There’s nothing safe about a house. A hospital, on the other hand...
The springs shift as Crawford settles onto the bed next to him, shoes off, glasses off. It’s a tritely sweet domestic scene, Schuldig thinks, or it would be if one of them weren’t still bleeding all over the pillows. “I need to you listen to me. We don’t have much time”
“I will listen to anything you want to say if you will bring me some drugs.”
Crawford shakes his head. “No drugs. Schuldig...”
Bastard. “Crawford, my head is killing me.”
“Yes it is.”
Pain be damned. Schuldig sits upright at that; the room swims around him and he nearly falls back, but shock is a hell of a motivator. “What?!”
“Without medical attention, there is a very high likelihood that this injury will kill you. There are skull fragments pressing against your brain, which has started to swell. If the swelling is not reduced soon, it will result in permanent brain damage, and possibly death.”
Crawford reaches to adjust his glasses, forgetting for the moment that he’s not wearing them. The aborted gesture is strangely pathetic... not that Schuldig’s in a mood to be sympathetic. “Damn you, Crawford, then why are we here? Call me a doctor!”
“Enough.” Crawford is beginning to sound annoyed, the arrogant bastard. “You are Mastermind of Schwarz, and your team leader is giving you a direct order. Control yourself.”
Fuck that. Schuldig struggles to rise again, to get to a phone, to get to the door, something. Something, somebody, help, for god's sake. “Crawford, I don’t want to die!”
But Crawford, without a great gaping hole in his head, is stronger. Schuldig shoves against him, but can't dislodge the man. “Do you want to live?” Crawford asks. What kind of a stupid question is that?
“Shit on it all, yes, that’s what I’m saying!”
“No, Schuldig. Do you want to live.” He holds Schuldig down, kneeling over him and pinning his shoulders to the bed, staring him right in the eye. It's far too confining -- far too intimate -- and Schuldig feels his already tentative grip on his panic slipping away. “Do you want to be free," Crawford repeats; his hands are cool against Schuldig's fevered skin, but it's not a comfort. There's nothing comforting here. "Do you want the choice to live how you wish?”
Everything is going downhill, way too fast for his damaged brains to keep up. Schuldig shakes his head, then winces as his split skin rubs against the blanket - that was damned foolish. “I don’t understand what you want from me," he whispers, panic forcing him honest.
“Schuldig.” Without his glasses, Crawford’s eyes seem far too bright. Gleaming, almost, like Farf’s before he bites someone. Schuldig bares his teeth in futile response, but Crawford ignores the gesture. “I am asking you to join me in overthrowing Esset.”
Wait. What? “You’re completely spun.”
“We can be free, Schuldig. All of Schwarz, but only if you follow my instructions.”
Crawford sounds so certain, so sane, but only a madman would even think the things he’s saying, much less voice them aloud. “The only freedom from Esset is death,” Schuldig hisses. They sweep the apartment for listening devices regularly, but still. Better cautious than dead. Or worse than dead.
“That may be. But not our deaths.”
It takes far too long for that to make sense. “So... I’m not going to die?” Schuldig asks, hesitantly, brow furrowing as he tries to force his damaged brains to keep up.
“Not if you agree to join me in this endeavor.”
That earns him a snort, confusion and injury or no. “Endeavor." "If we’re caught, you know what they’ll do to us.”
“We will not fail. I’ve seen it.”
“Wait.” It’s hard to think, but Crawford’s words finally click. “You did know this would happen.”
“Yes.”
“You knew this would happen! You knew that shit-eating bastard would bash my brains in for the girl, and you still let me go!”
“It was necessary.”
“He almost killed me!”
“It was necessary. Schuldig, listen. The pressure on your brain, it’s blocking blood flow to the region called the anterior cingulate cortex. It controls, among other things, motivational responses to stimuli, which is why it is the location the Elders chose to root our control commands.”
Schuldig goes still. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that until the pressure on your brain is relieved, you have effectively slipped your leash.”
Schuldig starts to interrupt, but Crawford shakes his head. “Let me finish. You are functioning without restraint right now, Schuldig. And while you can, I need to you enter my mind and remove my leash as well.”
“I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“Do you enjoy being leashed, Schuldig?”
“Of course I don't, but why?! We're already the most powerful Talents Rosenkreuz has ever produced. We're living the good life here in Tokyo... and okay, I don't much like Tokyo, but we can go anywhere we like, do anything. The whole world is on our plate, Crawford! What more could you want?” But even as he protests, he can’t help be consider the possibility. This bruise, this ache filling his head, straining to get out. If it bursts...?
Tentatively, he reaches out mental fingers again, stroking the edges of the sore place.
“We are going to be free, Schuldig. The whole world on our plate, you say, but our masters will be holding our very tight collars. We can only eat what they permit us to eat. Follow my lead, Schuldig, do as I say, and this time next year you truly will be able to go anywhere and do anything you please.”
“My powers...”
“Your powers are nothing compared to what they could be. I've seen it. Rather than serving a god, we will be gods ourselves.”
Schuldig is silent for a moment. “You realize," he says at last, "if I don't report you for this, they'll kill me, too.”
“Only if we are caught. Or if you decide to betray me.”
“And if I make that decision? How do you know I won’t just kill you? I should, you know. It’s treason to even listen to such talk.”
“Like I said before." Again, his hand flashes to the bridge of his nose -- it's quite the habit Crawford's developed. Exactly the sort of tell that could get him into trouble. "Neither Nagi nor Farfarello are currently in any condition to either observe your need, or act on it. You can't currently walk on your own. Without medical attention, you will be dead by morning." Schuldig glares up at him, but Crawford doesn't blink. "If you want to live, Schuldig, you will do as ordered.”
Story of his life. “So much for freedom.”
“Freedom comes later.”
No use fighting it any longer. “You had better be right about this," Schuldig grumbles, mentally cracking his knuckles. This is really going to hurt. "Can't I at least have some painkillers? My head is splitting.”
“No. Nothing to reduce the swelling, and you need your focus." Crawford settles back, folding his legs under him, hands loose in his lap. He looks like a young attorney, Schuldig thinks, some fresh-from-school trust fund professional, winding down after a long day. Like a target. "Do it now.”
“As you command, Herr Leader.”
-------------------------------------------------------------------
He hadn’t expected Schuldig to be gentle - there was no way for a procedure such as this one to be conducted gently, and he had certainly baited Schuldig to the edge of rage to get him moving through his own pain -- but none of his visions had prepared him for just how much it hurt.
Schuldig reached into his mind with a rough directness that was miles from his usual stealthy caress, and for a long shuddering space that stretched beyond anything he could count as time, all Crawford was aware of was pain. It defied explanation. It defied language. It sank into his bones and deeper, shredding him from the inside out. There was no Schuldig, no Brad Crawford. There was only ripping, and burning, and crushing…
…and visions.
Farfarello stands in a church, tears drying on his cheeks, a woman’s body slumped at his feet. Behind him, Weiss, injured but still armed, advance toward his unguarded back. He doesn’t seem to see them.
Schuldig carries the girl to the helicopter, casting worried glances over his shoulder until Crawford has to take his burden from him, ordering him on with sharp words that he’ll later regret.
The girl isn’t a girl anymore, the creature inside her causing her skin to blister with power. It/she casts out it/her hand, spattering acid blood on the screaming, contorted remnants of Weiss at it/her feet.
The brain damage - which was never lethal, regardless of the lie Crawford needed to tell Schuldig to get him to shut up and listen -- has still. left him unpredictable and occasionally forgetful. Nevertheless, Schuldig can still manage to focus, and hold the minds of the Elders back long enough for Crawford to tell them the deceptions they need to hear.
The lottery numbers for the next fifty years are, in order, 45, 31, 17, 22, 28, 6, 14…
Balinese holds up a glass of wine and smiles, unable to convince himself one way or the other if the woman sitting across from him is real.
Weiss lie bleeding in the wreckage of a construction site. Soldiers surround them, weapons drawn.
Wire flashes around his throat and Schuldig begins to die.
Nagi stands behind the seat of power, head down, silent in the shadows, yet as happy as Crawford has ever seen him.
Abyssinian lies in the rain, bleeding out around Farfarello’s dirk.
Abyssinian lies in the rain, but there’s something Crawford can’t see holding Farfarello back.
…52, 13, 6, 44, 38…
The floor opens beneath them. Farfarello’s limp body slips into the dark water below, barely avoiding being crushed by a falling pillar.
Nagi, his face lined with age, leads the funeral procession, his last duty for the last of the Takatoris.
Nagi, in a field of flowers, a bright sunny day, with a little girl with ridiculous blue hair. She’s the first person he’s ever cared for who hasn’t been assigned to him, and he’s terrified of scaring her away.
The body of the mustachioed Elder lies on the cold stone floor, dead and still.
A blue ball on a still green lake.
Himself, lying on his own bed, Schuldig at his side. Both are bloodstained and weary, but there is a manic joy in their eyes as they awake and see the world as though for the first time.
Twin girls - one rushes for the unconscious other. Crawford raises his gun to stop her, but something he can’t see shatters his hand.
His glasses are washed away. The water is cold, and dark - he fights to swim, to stay above the surface, but there’s something wrapped around his leg dragging him under. The seawater in his mouth tastes like blood.
That’s it then.
Crawford falls back onto the bed, exhausted beyond reason. Beside him, Schuldig has finally stopped convulsing - he’ll live, Crawford knows. The damage is severe, but he’ll recover adequately. They both will. They have to.
They have a lot of work ahead of them.
Recipient: red_squared
Title: Though they sink
Rating: R
Character/Pairing(s): Schwarz
Spoilers: All of Kapital
Summary: Crawford sees a way to escape from Esset's chains. But at what cost?
Warnings/Content: Mild gore (canonical head wound), bad neuroscience
Word Count: 3500
Author's Notes: The dialogue completely got away from me, so... sorry about that.
Stay down, Crawford orders through the team link, and Schuldig is more than happy to comply.
His head feels like it’s been split open, but he doesn’t dare raise a hand to check. Don’t ever draw attention to your wounds when danger’s near, yes, don’t show weakness even when you’re bleeding out on the carpet, he knows that lesson well. But the greater fear is what he’ll find if he moves. If his fingers touch his brain, he’s not sure what he’ll do.
Crawford is droning on about Weiss - Weiss, fuck Weiss, they are nothing but shit to this headache - but at least whatever he’s saying has made the Walrus stop swinging that damned golf club. It’s hovering there, a splash of silver in the corner of his eye, and if he looks closer, he can see matted orange hairs tangled about the tip.
He’s going to be sick.
He’s going to die. That’s his blood staining the carpet, his brains dripping down the side of his face, his mind wet and pulsing through the glittering shards of his caved-in skull, glistening jelly dripping through his hair yea, and they sacrificed their sons and their daughters unto devils and he’s going to die, the carpet polluted with blood, the land polluted with blood...
Wait.
Wait, no. That’s Farfarello.
Keep your jelly to yourself, he growls through the link, unable to still his face adequately to conceal the wince. Shit. Shit on all of them, it hurts to project. It hurts to shield. It hurts...
Enough. It hurts to open his eyes (it hurts to try and recall when he’d closed them), but when Fearless Leader commands, he obeys. He peers up at Crawford through his blood-tinged fringe, eyes widening further with dim surprise at the hand Crawford’s extended to help him off the floor. The Walrus is gone (when did he leave? How did he not notice? Shit, he’s slipping) but even still, such an offer of assistance from Crawford? It’s an unknown charity.
Which makes it damned suspicious.
“Did you see this?” His mouth isn’t working right. No, that’s not it. It’s further back than that. His tongue feels far too large, filling his throat as Crawford pulls him to his feet. Dizziness sweeps over him, and he falls against Crawford, hands scrabbling across the other man’s arms as he fights to stay upright. “Did you know this would happen?”
Not here.
A string of profanity bubbles up in response to Crawford’s dismissal, but it’s too… too something. Focus. To form them into words. What was...?
-------------------------------------------------------------------
The moment Schuldig slumped into unconsciousness, Crawford was moving. “We need to get to the garage,” he commanded, hoisting Schuldig over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. “Farfarello, take point. Nagi, behind me.” Farfarello’s injury was still bleeding freely as well, but there was no time to stop and bandage either man. The clock was ticking for both Schuldig and Farfarello; every moment that passed brought the possibility of Farfarello acting out closer to the present.
He unholstered his gun with the arm unencumbered by Schuldig’s dead weight, letting it hang ready at his side. “Into the elevator, and keep your back to me.”
Farfarello’s eye gleamed as he peered over his shoulder at Crawford, his iris nothing but a ring of gold being swallowed by the empty black of his pupil. “Are you going to shoot me?” he asked, his voice an unconcerned deadpan. Futures ticked away: Farfarello easing Schuldig’s body into the back seat, careful of his long hair as the door closes, sealing him in. Farfarello flinging Schuldig’s body against the car, screeching prophecy as he charges Nagi, his gait unbalanced. Crawford easing Schuldig’s body into the back seat, agitation making his movements harsh as Farfarello’s corpse cools on the elevator floor.
“Only if I have to. Move.”
The car would have to be abandoned. Worse, without Schuldig to shield their activity from the minds of those around them, Crawford was forced to stop three blocks away, so as to avoid association of his team with the vehicle the police would undoubtedly already be searching for. The number of lights he’d run -- and the resulting accidents - ensured it. It was unfortunate, but it couldn’t be helped. “Get Farfarello into his cell, and put Schuldig in my room,” he ordered Nagi, as the boy struggled to haul Schuldig’s limp form out of the back seat. Farfarello stood idly by, watching Nagi’s efforts with a blank half-smile, lips moving silently as he mouthed what Crawford saw would all too quickly become psalms. “No bandages, no medication for either of them.” Farfarello would only tear his off, and rip out any sutures, and Schuldig...
Crawford checked his watch. The window of success was rapidly closing. Nagi finally hoisted Schuldig up onto his feet; the delirious redhead draped across the boy’s shoulders, looking for all the world like just another drunken foreigner. Good. That was an acceptable opinion for their neighbors to develop.
“Crawford-san...”
Crawford held up a hand, cutting Nagi off. “Get them inside and down. I’ll return shortly.” Explanations would have to be provided - Nagi deserved that much - but they would have to wait until the current situation was resolved. Still, Crawford felt a flash of pride as Nagi merely nodded, and turned to attend to his task. The boy was proving to be an exceptional agent, and Crawford allowed himself to feel a moment’s appreciation for the fact.
But he could only spare a moment. Futures unfolded as he rounded the block and headed out into the night, looking for a good place to dump and burn the car. No more than a few blocks from the apartment or he wouldn’t make it back in time, but not so close as to draw suspicion onto residents of their building. It would be so much simpler if he could merely contact one of the local Rosenkreuz agents and have them dispose of the vehicle for him, but it was important - it was essential -- that Rosenkreuz have no reason to note the events of the evening.
Delayed tending to Schuldig, Nagi fails to lock Farfarello in his room. His mania overtakes him and he flees the apartment, slaughtering a family of six and four police officers before he’s gunned down.
Crawford shook his head, dismissing the potential future. Nagi had his instructions, and he would obey. He would raise his disagreements with Crawford later that week, but that was acceptable. By that point, either all the pieces would have fallen correctly into place, or…
The retrieval team has been sent to collect Schuldig. Crawford and Nagi stand aside as they load Schuldig, gibbering tearfully, into the back of the van next to Farfarello’s body.
...or nothing. They would succeed. They were Schwarz.
There. Just off the overpass, four men in two cars engage in a drug deal. The sellers had sampled the wares on their way to the exchange, and were jittery, paranoid. The dealers are young, inexperienced, attempting to undercut their employers and strike out on their own. A casual word taken personally, and they open fire on each other. No survivors, one car undamaged save a shattered rearview mirror.
It would do.
-------------------------------------------------------------------
He blinks, and they’re in the apartment.
Farfarello is a warm, solid weight pressed up against his side, steering him gracefully down the hall toward the bedrooms at the back. Schuldig leans into that familiar strength, eyelids momentarily fluttering closed again. He’s hurt, and he’s angry, but Farfarello is here. Good old trustworthy Farfarello. Crawford is a dick, a rancid, putrid dick that’s fucked them both over, but at least Schuldig can rely on Farf. “My hero,” he murmurs, and although he doesn’t feel like he’s got enough breath to force the words past his teeth, Farfarello snorts like he hears. Maybe he does. Or maybe Schuldig’s speaking mentally, and not aurally - it’s so easy to get those two confused.
It’s easy enough to confirm, too.
Casually, like reaching for a book on a table, he reaches curiously for Farf’s mind. Just a light grazing of the surface of his mind, just enough to see back a few seconds in time and check his reality against Farf’s. It’s a gesture he’s performed a hundred, a thousand times before, but this time the gentle touch brings with it a shooting pain. It’s like something vast and thorned has been squeezed into his skull, and it’s pressing against every inch of the shell, straining to break free. It hurts so much that he can’t refrain from poking at it like with a bruise. It feels like a bruise, too, dark and mottled and deeper than it first appears.
He can’t resist.
“Is this you?” he asks, mentally probing the edges of the mind-bruise. But before Farfarello can reply, something gives with a sensation not unlike fingertips slipping into a bruised piece of fruit, and when Schuldig can breathe again, he’s lying on Crawford’s bed.
Shit. Is he losing time, or is he that badly injured?
There’s music coming from down the hall, and a rhythmic thudding. Farfarello, then, in his room, and Nagi in his, with the stereo cranked up the way he does when he’s upset. “One, two...” Three is for Schuldig, lying on the bed, heroically not panicking at the great hole in his head. But where is four?
“Crawford?”
“Here.”
He refuses to let his relief show. “Herr Leader, I’m flattered,” he jokes, trying to lift himself off the bed, “but I’m not really in the mood.” His vision is blurring slightly, and he’d like to pretend it’s just from fatigue. Too bad he knows better. “I have this little headache, you see...”
“I didn’t bring you in here for that, Schuldig.” Crawford doesn’t laugh. He never laughs. He just swings between levels of seriousness, from stoic to coldly furious to whatever this was now. Schuldig can’t really tell. Who can tell emotions from just the face? The good stuff is inside, where he can’t reach it, safe as houses.
A stupid saying, really. There’s nothing safe about a house. A hospital, on the other hand...
The springs shift as Crawford settles onto the bed next to him, shoes off, glasses off. It’s a tritely sweet domestic scene, Schuldig thinks, or it would be if one of them weren’t still bleeding all over the pillows. “I need to you listen to me. We don’t have much time”
“I will listen to anything you want to say if you will bring me some drugs.”
Crawford shakes his head. “No drugs. Schuldig...”
Bastard. “Crawford, my head is killing me.”
“Yes it is.”
Pain be damned. Schuldig sits upright at that; the room swims around him and he nearly falls back, but shock is a hell of a motivator. “What?!”
“Without medical attention, there is a very high likelihood that this injury will kill you. There are skull fragments pressing against your brain, which has started to swell. If the swelling is not reduced soon, it will result in permanent brain damage, and possibly death.”
Crawford reaches to adjust his glasses, forgetting for the moment that he’s not wearing them. The aborted gesture is strangely pathetic... not that Schuldig’s in a mood to be sympathetic. “Damn you, Crawford, then why are we here? Call me a doctor!”
“Enough.” Crawford is beginning to sound annoyed, the arrogant bastard. “You are Mastermind of Schwarz, and your team leader is giving you a direct order. Control yourself.”
Fuck that. Schuldig struggles to rise again, to get to a phone, to get to the door, something. Something, somebody, help, for god's sake. “Crawford, I don’t want to die!”
But Crawford, without a great gaping hole in his head, is stronger. Schuldig shoves against him, but can't dislodge the man. “Do you want to live?” Crawford asks. What kind of a stupid question is that?
“Shit on it all, yes, that’s what I’m saying!”
“No, Schuldig. Do you want to live.” He holds Schuldig down, kneeling over him and pinning his shoulders to the bed, staring him right in the eye. It's far too confining -- far too intimate -- and Schuldig feels his already tentative grip on his panic slipping away. “Do you want to be free," Crawford repeats; his hands are cool against Schuldig's fevered skin, but it's not a comfort. There's nothing comforting here. "Do you want the choice to live how you wish?”
Everything is going downhill, way too fast for his damaged brains to keep up. Schuldig shakes his head, then winces as his split skin rubs against the blanket - that was damned foolish. “I don’t understand what you want from me," he whispers, panic forcing him honest.
“Schuldig.” Without his glasses, Crawford’s eyes seem far too bright. Gleaming, almost, like Farf’s before he bites someone. Schuldig bares his teeth in futile response, but Crawford ignores the gesture. “I am asking you to join me in overthrowing Esset.”
Wait. What? “You’re completely spun.”
“We can be free, Schuldig. All of Schwarz, but only if you follow my instructions.”
Crawford sounds so certain, so sane, but only a madman would even think the things he’s saying, much less voice them aloud. “The only freedom from Esset is death,” Schuldig hisses. They sweep the apartment for listening devices regularly, but still. Better cautious than dead. Or worse than dead.
“That may be. But not our deaths.”
It takes far too long for that to make sense. “So... I’m not going to die?” Schuldig asks, hesitantly, brow furrowing as he tries to force his damaged brains to keep up.
“Not if you agree to join me in this endeavor.”
That earns him a snort, confusion and injury or no. “Endeavor." "If we’re caught, you know what they’ll do to us.”
“We will not fail. I’ve seen it.”
“Wait.” It’s hard to think, but Crawford’s words finally click. “You did know this would happen.”
“Yes.”
“You knew this would happen! You knew that shit-eating bastard would bash my brains in for the girl, and you still let me go!”
“It was necessary.”
“He almost killed me!”
“It was necessary. Schuldig, listen. The pressure on your brain, it’s blocking blood flow to the region called the anterior cingulate cortex. It controls, among other things, motivational responses to stimuli, which is why it is the location the Elders chose to root our control commands.”
Schuldig goes still. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that until the pressure on your brain is relieved, you have effectively slipped your leash.”
Schuldig starts to interrupt, but Crawford shakes his head. “Let me finish. You are functioning without restraint right now, Schuldig. And while you can, I need to you enter my mind and remove my leash as well.”
“I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“Do you enjoy being leashed, Schuldig?”
“Of course I don't, but why?! We're already the most powerful Talents Rosenkreuz has ever produced. We're living the good life here in Tokyo... and okay, I don't much like Tokyo, but we can go anywhere we like, do anything. The whole world is on our plate, Crawford! What more could you want?” But even as he protests, he can’t help be consider the possibility. This bruise, this ache filling his head, straining to get out. If it bursts...?
Tentatively, he reaches out mental fingers again, stroking the edges of the sore place.
“We are going to be free, Schuldig. The whole world on our plate, you say, but our masters will be holding our very tight collars. We can only eat what they permit us to eat. Follow my lead, Schuldig, do as I say, and this time next year you truly will be able to go anywhere and do anything you please.”
“My powers...”
“Your powers are nothing compared to what they could be. I've seen it. Rather than serving a god, we will be gods ourselves.”
Schuldig is silent for a moment. “You realize," he says at last, "if I don't report you for this, they'll kill me, too.”
“Only if we are caught. Or if you decide to betray me.”
“And if I make that decision? How do you know I won’t just kill you? I should, you know. It’s treason to even listen to such talk.”
“Like I said before." Again, his hand flashes to the bridge of his nose -- it's quite the habit Crawford's developed. Exactly the sort of tell that could get him into trouble. "Neither Nagi nor Farfarello are currently in any condition to either observe your need, or act on it. You can't currently walk on your own. Without medical attention, you will be dead by morning." Schuldig glares up at him, but Crawford doesn't blink. "If you want to live, Schuldig, you will do as ordered.”
Story of his life. “So much for freedom.”
“Freedom comes later.”
No use fighting it any longer. “You had better be right about this," Schuldig grumbles, mentally cracking his knuckles. This is really going to hurt. "Can't I at least have some painkillers? My head is splitting.”
“No. Nothing to reduce the swelling, and you need your focus." Crawford settles back, folding his legs under him, hands loose in his lap. He looks like a young attorney, Schuldig thinks, some fresh-from-school trust fund professional, winding down after a long day. Like a target. "Do it now.”
“As you command, Herr Leader.”
-------------------------------------------------------------------
He hadn’t expected Schuldig to be gentle - there was no way for a procedure such as this one to be conducted gently, and he had certainly baited Schuldig to the edge of rage to get him moving through his own pain -- but none of his visions had prepared him for just how much it hurt.
Schuldig reached into his mind with a rough directness that was miles from his usual stealthy caress, and for a long shuddering space that stretched beyond anything he could count as time, all Crawford was aware of was pain. It defied explanation. It defied language. It sank into his bones and deeper, shredding him from the inside out. There was no Schuldig, no Brad Crawford. There was only ripping, and burning, and crushing…
…and visions.
Farfarello stands in a church, tears drying on his cheeks, a woman’s body slumped at his feet. Behind him, Weiss, injured but still armed, advance toward his unguarded back. He doesn’t seem to see them.
Schuldig carries the girl to the helicopter, casting worried glances over his shoulder until Crawford has to take his burden from him, ordering him on with sharp words that he’ll later regret.
The girl isn’t a girl anymore, the creature inside her causing her skin to blister with power. It/she casts out it/her hand, spattering acid blood on the screaming, contorted remnants of Weiss at it/her feet.
The brain damage - which was never lethal, regardless of the lie Crawford needed to tell Schuldig to get him to shut up and listen -- has still. left him unpredictable and occasionally forgetful. Nevertheless, Schuldig can still manage to focus, and hold the minds of the Elders back long enough for Crawford to tell them the deceptions they need to hear.
The lottery numbers for the next fifty years are, in order, 45, 31, 17, 22, 28, 6, 14…
Balinese holds up a glass of wine and smiles, unable to convince himself one way or the other if the woman sitting across from him is real.
Weiss lie bleeding in the wreckage of a construction site. Soldiers surround them, weapons drawn.
Wire flashes around his throat and Schuldig begins to die.
Nagi stands behind the seat of power, head down, silent in the shadows, yet as happy as Crawford has ever seen him.
Abyssinian lies in the rain, bleeding out around Farfarello’s dirk.
Abyssinian lies in the rain, but there’s something Crawford can’t see holding Farfarello back.
…52, 13, 6, 44, 38…
The floor opens beneath them. Farfarello’s limp body slips into the dark water below, barely avoiding being crushed by a falling pillar.
Nagi, his face lined with age, leads the funeral procession, his last duty for the last of the Takatoris.
Nagi, in a field of flowers, a bright sunny day, with a little girl with ridiculous blue hair. She’s the first person he’s ever cared for who hasn’t been assigned to him, and he’s terrified of scaring her away.
The body of the mustachioed Elder lies on the cold stone floor, dead and still.
A blue ball on a still green lake.
Himself, lying on his own bed, Schuldig at his side. Both are bloodstained and weary, but there is a manic joy in their eyes as they awake and see the world as though for the first time.
Twin girls - one rushes for the unconscious other. Crawford raises his gun to stop her, but something he can’t see shatters his hand.
His glasses are washed away. The water is cold, and dark - he fights to swim, to stay above the surface, but there’s something wrapped around his leg dragging him under. The seawater in his mouth tastes like blood.
That’s it then.
Crawford falls back onto the bed, exhausted beyond reason. Beside him, Schuldig has finally stopped convulsing - he’ll live, Crawford knows. The damage is severe, but he’ll recover adequately. They both will. They have to.
They have a lot of work ahead of them.