I keep wondering if I do it on purpose. I mean, come on, Estet trained me better than that. If I want to, I can be deadly without even thinking about it.

And yet I rely more and more on a talent most people don’t have just to stay alive.

Of course, my ‘talent’ is both a blessing and a curse, really. Sure, it keeps me alive, but at what price? Like I told Farf, there are times when I can’t distinguish between my thoughts and the thoughts of other people.

Those times are getting more frequent.

Tokyo is the worst place in the world for a telepath like me to be in. My shields aren’t strong enough to keep people’s thoughts out when there’s ten of ’em for a thousand mile radius, and Japan has one of the highest population densities in the world, so you do the comparison. It’s a wonder I’m not the one strung from my feet in a straitjacket at night.

For me, sanity is an optional extra. Kinda like Farf, really—he’s not as whacked out as most people take him for. At least, I don’t think so.

I hang around him so much, it might just be that I’ve picked up his way of thinking. Got so used to it that it doesn’t seem weird any more.

I don’t want to give my sanity up. It’s all I’ve got left.

My life revolves around Schwarz now. Sometimes I kill people. Sometimes I stop other people from killing people. Or rather, a person—we don’t do collectives. Looking after one guy is quite enough, thank you, even when they’ve got the cash to pay us.

Basically, I do what I’m told. Just like a good little boy.

The Weiss kitties, they think of themselves as a team, a family. They’re idiots. What do they have in common, killing? Little else, apart from screwed-up psyches. And I should know.

But. . . .

There are times when I envy them.

Schwarz is not a family. I know that. We do what Brad orders us to do, no more, no less. And his orders come from Estet most of the time, so all we really are is a bunch of puppets to who it is convenient for the Powers That Be to keep together for the moment.

But. . . .

Why is there always a but?

Nagi thinks that maybe, just maybe, we could be more. Kid’s starved for attention, he’ll even pick on me as a big brother when he’s feeling really low. For some godforsaken reason, he idolises Crawfish. He has a dream, a very quiet one deep down inside, that maybe one day we could mean more to each other than just people to kill with.

It’s a load of rubbish, really. It’d never work, but he holds onto it anyway. We’ve all got to have our little dreams—too bad his will never come true. I know that. Really, I do.

. . . one of the problems of being a telepath is that you’re too damned impressionable.

But families don’t work for me. Never have. . . .

I think about them, you know. Think about him. Wonder what would happen if I went back.

After all, I don’t want to be Schwarz forever.

What’s the thing with professionals? That they’re so good at what they do, they make it look easy?

Killing people isn’t easy, even after all this time. Sure, I have my episodes when I’ve been hanging around Farf too much, but. . . . Colour me a fool, when I was young I didn’t dream of killing people when I grew up.

But hey, what choice do I have? It’s not like I could get a normal job. No one wants to employ a freak.

Sometimes I find being deliberately nasty to people is the only way to stay in control of the voices in my head.

. . . heh. Read that sentence over and I sound like a madman.

Maybe I am.

God, what I wouldn’t give to be normal. Not a freak, not a circus attraction, not a killer. Normal.

Maybe then he wouldn’t have kicked me out.

Maybe then I would still have a family.

Aw, jeez, would you look at that? The thoughts of several million people beat down on my mind ever instant in this city, and I have to go and start giving myself a headache the way normal people do it. By thinking about things that should best be left alone. Well alone.

Eh, I never said I was smart.

The more I think about it, the more stifling Tokyo becomes. Schwarz becomes.

So, easy answer: don’t think about it.

. . . shit.

You know how as soon as you decide not to think of something, it becomes all you can think of? That’s me right now. Nagi’s been thinking about this family crap more often recently. He keeps wondering who his parents were, if they abandoned him on purpose, where they are now, all that pile of shit. His dreams of Schwarz being home to him are getting louder, too.

Hey kid, quit dreaming. Hopes are made to be smashed, you’ll save yourself a lot of trouble if you don’t reach for what you can’t have.

Kid’s got me thinking, though. . . . Wondering about my own family. He’s lucky, he doesn’t know for sure if they got rid of him or not. I remember it all loud and clear.

Fuck. They say the human mind forgets things that were long ago because it can only take so much before overflowing. Well, where most humans get a drip, I get fucking Angel Falls, and still I can’t forget it.

Maybe the kid’s got kinda the right idea. Replace what’s missing with something new.

Yeah, I’m a fucking hypocrite.

But it would be nice to have something to come home to, more than a couple of grunts and the tittering of a madman. Somewhere to hide from reality for a while. Hide from my memories. . . .

Dream on, Schuldig. This ain’t home. This is the last stop on the way to hell.

Heh.

Thought I’d given up on dreams long ago.

The kid . . . Nagi’s got me started on it. Now I can’t let go.

It’d be nice . . . it’d be nice if someone cared, in more than a passing way.

It’d be nice if I had a home.

God, what I wouldn’t give for a home.

I guess I only really called one place a home, and then only when I was very young.

We were the picture-perfect family, the epitome of the upper middle class stereotype. At least until I started getting the voices in my head.

I didn’t think much about it, at first. I was young enough to believe everyone else heard the same; I was young enough for everyone else to believe I had invisible friends. I mean, hell, it’s not the kind of thing you do, is it? Just wake up one morning and realise you can hear other people’s thoughts in your head. The human mind will ignore things until they are too big, or too strong, or too painful to ignore any more.

Wasn’t until they started giving me headaches that I noticed. Yeah, perceptive little me.

And guess what? Wasn’t long before everyone else noticed, too.

Daddy didn’t like it. ’Course, Daddy didn’t like a lot of things, but it was generally agreed by the rest of the world that those were all Bad Things.

So was I one of the Bad Things?

Of course not, they told me. You’ve just got . . . an active imagination, that’s it. Nothing more, nothing less.

Give him a few years and he’ll grow out of it, they assured my parents.

What fucking idiots.

’Course, I didn’t believe a goddamn word they said. I mean, I could hear what they were thinking at the same time. I could hear them worrying, completely flummoxed at what was going on, some thinking about how they could help ‘cure’ me, some thinking about how their research—with me as a guinea pig, of course—would land them the Nobel prize. ‘Scientist proves existence of telepathy’, that kinda thing.

Scared the shit out of me, some of the experiments those guys thought of. No way was I going through that.

Daddy thought differently. Daddy bought the lies, bought the idea that they could help me.

At least they let me live with my parents.

Although, looking back, I’m not so sure if that was a good thing.

Daddy could tell the quacks weren’t making me better. He knew by the way I would look at him whenever he thought of me—hurt, wounded, and confused, like a puppy that got kicked when it was expecting a treat.

God, I’m the father to a freak. . . .

I’ll never live this down.

What will my boss think? I’m due for a promotion next year. . . .

My son is a freak. . . .

A little freak come to ruin my life and destroy my world.

Makes me sick just to think of it.

That last one applies to the both of us, Dad.

I suppose you could say my father was a simple, uncomplicated man in many ways. When he didn’t like something, he stamped it out of his life. Forcefully.

I’m lucky I didn’t scar.

Mother . . . she could have stopped it. One word would have been all it took.

Instead she chose to tell me that he needed a way to let out his anger and frustration, and that this would help them become a normal family again. He would beat out my curse, if the quacks couldn’t do anything.

She cried at night. I heard it.

Well, guess what, Mummy dear? It didn’t make a damned bit of difference. Still doesn’t now.

Fuck you.

I sometimes wonder who I hate the more, him or her. Sure, he was the one that hit me, but she was the one that let him. I’ve been hit by lots of people before, and no one tried to stop them, but of all the people in the universe I might’ve thought would stand up for me, she would be at the top of the list.

Makes you wonder about the rest of it.

Got to the point where I couldn’t take it any more. Her stupid, pointless tears over an action she could have prevented, her reassurances that it was all right, all right, no need to cry when she was the one soaking my shirt and talking to herself.

I could still hear what they thought. Daddy was growing to hate me.

Hell, I’m a survivor. I knew when enough was enough.

There’s one thing I’ve learned from Crawfish. Only one useful thing.

You can’t hate something forever, so don’t bother trying.

I don’t have any more bruises on my body from my father’s fists now. It’s been . . . eight years since I last saw him. Eight . . . fucking . . . years.

That’s a pretty long time to hold a grudge.

Dammit, Nagi, why did you have to go thinking about having a family and open up this can of worms?

I just. . . .

I. . . .

I miss them. I even miss him. He wasn’t such a bad father, until the voices started.

Maybe I should. . . .

Maybe I should go back. Talk to him. See if he still . . . dislikes me.

After all, eight years is a pretty long time to hold a grudge.

How did I end up here?

Oh yeah. Nagi and his damned habit of thinking too much.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m a hypocrite. It’s been said before, it’ll be said again.

House looks the same. A new coat of paint on the front porch, but otherwise nothing’s changed.

Nothing’s changed.

God, I hope not.

. . . time to face the music, I guess.

Y’know, I never realised just how much I look like him.

Same hair. Same eyes. Same face.

Same look we get when we something we hate.

Do we think the same?

. . . probably not.

I can hope so, though.

What was it I said about hopes? They’re made to be crushed.

“You,” is all he says. He steps out of the house and onto the front porch, shutting the door carefully behind him. We sit on the front steps.

He doesn’t look at me for a long time. Something stops me from looking into his thoughts. Some almost-forgotten sense of self-preservation, maybe?

Come on, Dad. I’ve convinced myself you’re not such a bad guy, prove me right.

Please.

Please. . . .

Say something, please. Say you missed me, say you’re sorry. Say you want me to come home.

Say something!

“You’re not welcome here.”

Well. Can’t say I wasn’t expecting that.

Hoping for better, maybe. But I’m not a fool.

Or am I? I came here, after all.

“You left. You knew you would not be welcome if you returned.”

I can hear the next thought before he says it.

“You’re no son of mine.”

See, kid? Families don’t work. Not if I’m in them.

Oh, hell, I didn’t come all the way here to just sit in silence.

“Don’t you want to know what I’ve been doing since I left?”

Funny how the mocking sarcasm always comes easier when I’m hurting.

“Don’t you want to know what I’ve done to the family name?”

Even without telepathy, I would know what he is going to say next.

“You’re no son of mine. Whatever you do, you do it alone.”

He stands, staring down at me. He’s always been a stubborn man, totally set in his convictions—he can look me in the eyes when he says these things. Neither he nor I are cowards.

It’s a family trait.

“You chose to leave. You chose to keep your freakish power.”

You sicken me.

“I never doubted you would survive.”

You are a parasite.

“You are not welcome in this house. Stay away from me and my family.”

You’re no son of mine.

I nod slowly, standing. I’m taller than him. It’s a startling revelation.

Am I stronger than him?

Probably not. I’ve never been strong.

Well, I can always try.

I face him, and speak quietly. It’s one of the few times I feel no need to hide myself behind a wall of sarcasm.

“If you ever change your mind, ask for Schuldig.”

Then I turn and walk away, back straight, head held high.

I will not show him how much he has hurt me.

Hopes are made to be smashed. I know that.

Still hurts, though.

I wonder what he would have said if I told him how much I gave up to try to come home.

I can’t go back to Schwarz. Crawford knew what I was planning to do, and told me . . . if I left . . . not to come back.

Strange what hope will make you do. I gave up what might have been a home for one that had only been before I gained the defining aspect of my personality.

Only one thing to do now, isn’t there.

Drown your sorrows.

Gotta love bars like this. Here, no one cares what sorrows you’re drowning, long as you pay up.

I just make them think I have. Might as well compound it.

I shouldn’t have left.

His words play themselves, over and over in my mind.

I mean, how stupid was I to believe that I could go back?

But where do I go now? Schwarz is dead to me.

If anyone from Estet finds me, they’ll kill me. I don’t need to be told that.

I gave it all up for you, father.

What a fool.

Really, how stupid was I? Even if he did let me back, how could I fit in again? After all I’ve seen and done?

I guess I hoped he would help me.

But I’m not his son any more, am I?

I’m Schuldig.

You know the saying, time flies when you’re having fun?

Well, it drags past with lead weights on it’s feet when you’re not.

Maybe I should have just given up when he told me to leave and never come back. It would have been so much easier to walk into a trap, let a mugger take what he wanted and pray to not wake up.

I suppose surviving is my curse. Like my talent.

Running and hiding, running and hiding, running and hiding. . . .

I want to go home.

. . . heh. I don’t have a home.

Schwarz. . . .

Schwarz could have been a home.

Maybe. Just maybe.

I’ve been away from them long enough that I can look at it objectively.

Or maybe I’ve been away from them long enough that I can fool myself.

But really . . . if Crawford had thought like that, we would have been a family. Just like that. If he had thought that maybe we could be more than people who kill together, we would have been. He controlled us. Controlled me.

I think I needed that. Someone to keep me in line.

I never thought I would say this about Crawfish, but I miss him.

I sometimes wonder, what would I do if I saw him again? By accident, I mean. Hell, it wouldn’t be by accident for him, but me. . . .

What would I do?

Would I walk up to him, go and talk to him?

Would I tell him I was sorry?

Would I ask him if I could come back?

Or . . . would I stay with what I’ve been doing for the past few years?

Running and hiding, running and hiding, running and hiding. . . .

Dodging Estet agents isn’t easy, you know, even for someone as powerful as me. Actually, that makes it harder—they can home in on me just by the excess energy I give off.

I’m running out of hiding places. They’ll keep watch on all the old ones.

I don’t want to die.

Then why the hell did I leave Estet—and Schwarz—in the first place?

Oh yeah. My father.

Well, that’s over. I can’t go back there. I am not wanted.

Am I wanted anywhere?

. . . I might be wanted in Schwarz. Maybe. Just . . . maybe.

Okay, Schuldig, it’s time to be honest. You’re doing no good on your own.

You never do good on your own.

All you’re doing is sitting around, moping over things you should have known better about anyway. You’re surviving on whatever you can steal, and your shields are getting weaker by the day.

It won’t be long before Estet catches up to you. You might be better off when they do. And then what will you do?

Schwarz might want you, just for your talents.

But. . . .

I don’t want them to want me just for that. . . .

Stupid kid. Got me thinking too much.

I think. . . .

It’s time to go back to Schwarz.

Maybe . . . just maybe. . . .

It’s time to go home.

It’s been long enough. I mean, I think I’ve managed to accept that I don’t even have the hope any more of going back to a normal life, with a normal home. . . .

Hey, I’m not normal.

I’ve managed to put the words and thoughts of him behind me. That was mostly my problem when I left—it was unresolved. I didn’t know for sure. . . .

Well, now I do. And now it’s time to pick up and move on.

They took some tracking down. After all, Schwarz are the best—but I wasn’t part of them for nothing.

The building is large and dark, flat brick soiled with age. I can hear their thoughts from here on the pavement, milling around on the top floor.

They’re so familiar. . . .

Never thought I’d be homesick for Schwarz.

Eh, you learn something new every day.

Okay, Schuldig, time to face the music.

. . . like that’ll be the only thing I’ll face.

This is my last chance, you know.

If Crawford decides I’m not worth taking back, not worth the risk of trusting again, then I’m dead. Either he’ll kill me, or Farf will, or even Nagi if Crawfish orders him.

I don’t care. I guess I’m desperate.

I just . . . want somewhere to belong.

If I don’t belong with Schwarz, then I don’t belong anywhere. And then there’s no point in living.

He hasn’t changed. Crawford’ll never change—he likes being in control far too much to change anything. My leaving must have really knocked him for a loop, despite his precognition.

. . . uh, that kinda doesn’t give me much of chance, does it? I subject him to the thing he hates the most, then come back to beg his forgiveness.

I really need to learn to think about things more.

. . . heh. A telepath needing to think things through. Only I could end up like that.

“You,” is all Crawford says.

Déjà vu . . . and not the pleasant kind.

He moves to the side, leaving just a big enough gap for me to pass. “You’d better come in.”

I don’t know how he does it, but Crawford always manages to find apartments with exactly the same dimensions no matter how many times we move.

His study looks exactly the same as always, everything in its right position.

Control freak.

For once, I can’t think of a damn thing to say. He sits, and I follow suit, him staring at me from behind those stupid glasses.

He’s not afraid to look me in the eyes. That could mean anything.

He could want to take me back.

He could be gloating over my impending death.

With him . . . it could be anything.

“Why are you here?”

My mouth goes dry, and I can’t stop myself from shifting uncomfortably.

Here goes nothing.

“I . . . made a mistake when I left.”

He looks at me as if to say, I knew that, now what?

I search frantically for the right words. I’ve always been good with words, why can’t I think of a thing to say right now?

“Will you take me back?”

“Why should I?”

Shit.

“You know you can use my talents.”

“We’ve been doing just fine without you so far.”

‘So far’. He said ‘so far’. Crawford never slips up like that . . . it must mean there’s a chance.

I fake a careless shrug. “You never know.”

He smirks. I amend my statement. “Beyond a few days.”

He folds his hands across his lap and stares at me coldly. “Why should I trust you? You are going to have to come up with something better than that.”

I can’t think . . . what to say? There has to be a way to win this. There has to be.

There has to be. . . .

I lean forward abruptly, desperation making me blurt out the first thing that comes to my head. “Come on, Brad, I know I made a mistake. Schwarz, we’re like family, right?”

He stares at me impassively. “Family.”

God, I know I’m making a mistake, but I can’t stop my mouth from talking, blurting everything out. “Yeah. You’re the father figure, y’know, Nagi’s the dutiful little son, Farf . . . Farf’s the dog.” I peer up at him from under a veil of orange hair. “And I’m . . . I guess I’m the prodigal son.”

He smiles. It’s a uniquely Brad Crawford smile—cold, calculating and cruel. “Really,” he says.

He stands, smile still in place. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “So I’m the father, am I?”

Something in me screams to stop, stop before it’s too late. “Yeah,” I hear coming from my mouth. I’m panicking inside, knowing I’ve lost, but still hoping . . . praying. . . .

He smile turns into a smirk, with that superior edge I actually missed. “Then you’re no son of mine.”

I shut my eyes and slump backwards.

Should’ve seen that coming.

He always did know where to hit to hurt the most.

“You walk out on Schwarz and Estet, and expect to be let back in without a second glance?”

Well. I’d hoped . . . but I guess not.

“You went back to your blood family, to see if they would have you back. And you got smacked in the face with your own inadequacies.”

He never did hesitate to hurt anyone, did he? Can’t remember why I missed this. . . .

Oh yeah. The feeling of belonging.

“Tell me now, why should I trust you? Because you’ll never walk out again? You did it once, Schuldig, you could do it again. Tell me why I should endanger Schwarz by allowing you back.”

There’s no answer for that, Brad, and you know it.

“Don’t spout of crap about us being a family. No son leaves his family for no reason and expects to be welcomed back with open arms whenever he decides to return.”

To be honest, I wouldn’t mind if he would just kill me right now. It’d sure make things easier.

I should never have come back.

I should never have left in the first place.

Can’t do anything right, can you, Schu?

Crawford crosses his arms across his broad chest, staring down at me from his position of superiority.

Just pull a gun out and shoot me, Brad.

It’d hurt less.

We stare at each other for a long time, him triumphant in his superiority, me defeated totally.

Finally, he speaks. “However, I can still use your skills.”

Somehow, this is worse than if he’d just pulled out a gun and shot me in the head.

“I can’t trust you, of course. You will be monitored at all times.”

I nod dully.

Crawford smiles that cold, cruel smile again. “Welcome to Schwarz, Schuldig. Next time I won’t be so lenient.”

Who says there’ll be a next time, Brad? I’m not that stupid.

. . . heh. Liar.

You’ve won.

Both of you.

I’m no one’s son.