Pyrokinetic Part 1

Step away from the window ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Schuldig kicked the door to the room shut and stood for a moment, staring down at the only other occupant. Yohji lay on a mattress in a corner of the room, blond hair askew. Spots of soot were dabbed here and there on his clothes and skin, a messy after-effect of his explosive display of power and the wreck it had made of the warehouse. Somebody – Nagi, most likely – had taken off his boots and coat, putting them in a neat pile next to the mattress. The only other piece of furniture in the room was an upturned bucket that was masquerading as a stool. Schuldig walked over to it and sat down, staring at Yohji. He didn’t like his next task. No, that wasn’t right. He hadn’t liked having to cart the former Weiss around everywhere. He hadn’t liked the way Crawford had spoken to him, unnaturally tense over the emergence of Yohji’s power. He hadn’t liked having to put up with Farfarello in his car on the way back. He hated his next task. Schuldig pulled a packet of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one, inhaling deeply. Crawford’s words echoed in his mind. “Wipe his mind clean. Orders from Estet.” The full mind wipe. . . . It was something he hated on principle. It had been done to him when Estet first got their hands on him, barely over two years earlier. It was no picnic trying to restore a lifetime’s worth of memories when you didn’t even know your own name, and had to deal with an emerging – and strong – psychic power. So he hated it on principle. It was also something he hated simply for what it was. One of Schuldig’s greatest joys in life was messing with people’s heads. It was only fair, after all – they made his head hurt, threatened that what few memories he’d collected for himself would soon be pushed out by all of theirs, sometimes even made him forget who he was until someone – usually Crawford – reminded him. So it was only fair that he give some of that pain back, although he’d never be able to repay all of it. Besides that, people always wanted to have something to be miserable about, to justify their feelings of inadequacy. He really only gave them what they wished for. But the full mind wipe. . . . It went against everything that was him, everything that had been made into him by Estet. There were two ways to wipe a person’s mind – send them straight back to the drooling infant stage, or carefully and methodically go through their memories, twisting every clear-cut impression into nothing more than a vague sense of déjà vu. The problem with the first one was that it left nothing there, just an imbecile with the mind of a child. Nothing to twist, nothing to torment, unless your prize ideal of mental torture was taking toys away from a baby. But the second one was much worse. The second one was torment for a person like Schuldig, because it removed any way that he had of messing with a person’s mind. Everything that annoyed them, everything that caused them pain or anger or hatred or even love was linked to their memories. If you removed the memories, you removed the source of the emotion. And because he had to do that himself it meant he would know that person’s mind far better than any other, that he would know exactly which buttons to push – except that because it was a mind wipe he’d removed those buttons himself. And it was final. No going back. Schuldig scowled at the man lying on the mattress. It was even worse with Yohji, because he knew him. He didn’t know very many people, outside of Schwarz. Weiss had become his personal playground, and he knew their minds inside and out. He’d even come to feel a little bit of affection for them, to his surprise – Ken’s temper, that could so easily be pushed into a murderous rage, Ran’s single-minded self-torture, Omi’s well-hidden psychoses – and Yohji. Yohji, whose mind was an exquisite arrangement of agony – Yohji, who barely needed a nudge before he radiated enough pain to keep even Schuldig drugged up on it for days. Yohji, who was far too much like him in some ways, and absolutely nothing like him in others. And Estet wanted him to wipe this man’s mind? Schuldig pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, looking at it in disgust. It had burnt down to the filter without him noticing, good nicotine gone to waste. He rolled his eyes and snorted, dropping what was left of it and crushing it under his boot heel. Schuldig stared at Yohji thoughtfully. Of course, if he didn’t want to do the full mind wipe, there was another way. . . . Crawford wouldn’t like it. But then, Crawford didn’t like much. And that had never stopped him before. A cold smirk crept across his lips. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ He blinked, and stared up into whiteness. It was all he could see. After what felt like a long time, though, he realised what he was looking at was a white-painted ceiling. It wasn’t pure white, too – a water stain spread around the far corner, and a crack ran in the plaster right above him. Turning his head required almost more effort than he wanted to expend right then, but something in him told him he had to do it. It felt as though his head weighed a ton as he slowly rolled it to the side, eyes taking in more and more white before landing on a clash of colour. The riotous blur gradually resolved itself into a redheaded man, green coat falling open around his pale lilac shirt and blue slacks – completing the impression of way too many colours. “Welcome back.” The man had sharp, angular features. He wore a smirk as naturally as skin, a thin cigarette held between slender lips. His eyes were narrow, and green. Or was it blue? As his eyes fell onto the cigarette, the half-felt craving at the back of his mind surged into the forefront in an intense wave. His gaze locked onto it, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away. The man raised a hand, and held it out. “Want it?” he said. He could only stare at the thin bar, wanting but unable to move, unable to make his throat work and pronounce the words to ask. The redhead’s smirk grew wider, and he pulled the cigarette back, placing it in his mouth again, puffing gently. “Obviously not,” he said. Gradually his eyes moved up to the strange man’s face. Swallowing repeatedly, he managed to croak, “Who. . . ?” The smirk, if possible, got wider. “What? Who am I, or who are you?” Both, he thought, vaguely annoyed at his inability to speak. The man shrugged. “Me, I’m Schuldig. You. . . .” He smirked again. “We’ll see.” A stab of irritation went through him at the ambiguous answer. What the hell did he mean, ‘we’ll see’? [I mean you don’t have a name yet.] His eyes shot back up to meet . . . Schuldig’s, knowing that the man hadn’t moved his lips. Something in him told him this was not a usual way of communication. “You catch on quick, brennend engel,” Schuldig said, still smirking. You can hear me? Like this? “Give the man a prize.” Who am I? How did I get here? What am I doing here? What did you call me? “Well, let’s start from the end,” Schuldig said, stubbing the cigarette out on the wall before dropping it to the ground. He noticed that the room was entirely bare save for the mattress he lay on and the upturned bucket Schuldig sat on. “I called you ‘brennend engel’. It means ‘burning angel’.” The redhead snorted. “That’s what Farf’s been thinking of you as. I guess it’s appropriate.” Why? “You’re a pyrokinetic,” Schuldig said. “Means you can set things on fire at will.” He grinned evilly. “You can guess what I am.” Te . . . tele . . . telepath? “Got it in one.” Why can’t I remember anything? Schuldig’s smirk abruptly vanished. “Orders,” he said curtly. “All of us have had our memories wiped. Removes all previous loyalties, see? Sorry, Bren, but I was the one who did it.” Why? He was glaring now, as much as he was able. “I didn’t say I liked it!” Schuldig scowled at him. “I hate the full memory wipe. It’s too . . . final. But ‘orders are orders’,” he said with a sneer. Schuldig leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees and hands dangling limply. His fiery hair fell forward over the yellow bandanna as he stared him straight in the eye. “I’ll give you a piece of advice right now, Bren; give up on the past. Don’t try to go back looking for it, you’ll just get in a shitload of trouble if you do.” He scratched absently at a spot on his ribs. “I speak from experience.” He leaned back against the wall, stretching his long legs out in front of him. “Our esteemed leader sent me in here to brief you on what you’re getting yourself into,” he said, sarcasm echoing in his voice. “You’re now part of Schwarz. There are three others apart from myself: Farfarello, the psychopath; Nagi, the telekinetic; and Brad Crawford, the precog and our leader. We’re going to Germany as soon as you can walk without help to make sure I didn’t wipe your previous training when I did your memories.” Schuldig shrugged. “That’s it, Bren. Welcome to the rest of your life. Hopefully it’ll be a short one.” What did you call me? “We’re back to this?” Schuldig rolled his eyes. “Bren. It’s a shortening of brennend engel, see?” I . . . like it. Schuldig blinked at him, then smirked and shrugged as though he could care less. “It’ll do for now. Well, see ya later, Bren.” With that he got up off the bucket and walked to the door, not even glancing back at the bed-bound man. He turned his head back towards the ceiling, staring at it. Bren. I am . . . Bren. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ “The kitten’s awake.” Nagi said nothing, trying to focus on his homework despite being hyperaware of where Schuldig was at every moment. With him, if you weren’t aware of his presence at all times, you were lucky if you got away with a few bruises or his share of the chores for a month. “He’s a got a name, too. Farf’s brennend engel – seems he liked it. Our pyrokinetic now wishes to be called Bren.” Schuldig snorted, ruffling through a cupboard. “It’s appropriate, at least.” “Did you give him anything to drink?” Nagi asked quietly. “’Course not. What do I look like, a nursemaid?” The small telekinetic sighed, and shut his book. Homework would have to wait until he cleared up after Schuldig’s laziness. “Hey, I heard that. Watch your mouth, runt.” Schuldig walked into the living room, dropping onto the sofa and propping his feet up on Nagi’s homework, a packet of crisps in his hand. And just how am I supposed to watch the mouth that’s inside my head? Schuldig flipped him off as he opened the door to Kudou’s . . . no, Bren’s room. Shutting it behind him quietly, Nagi paused for a moment to just look at him. Bren lay on his back, green eyes open and staring vacantly at the ceiling. He would blink occasionally, but nothing more than that. He must be finding it hard to adjust, Nagi thought to himself. It would be hard enough even with his memories. This he knew from personal experience. Nagi himself had been adopted into Schwarz a little less than a year earlier, his power having manifested later than any other known telekinetic known – and all of them were known. Because it was invariably true that the later the power developed, the stronger it was, he was instantly the most powerful telekinetic in the world. He could remember nothing about his life before Schwarz, and had picked his name from a newspaper. Schuldig had come into his power about a year before Nagi, apparently, on his twentieth birthday. The German was the only one of them who knew his birthday, although the knowledge didn’t appear to please him much – and considering what it was associated with, Nagi wasn’t surprised. Crawford had grown up with his power, raised by Estet. Precognitives who came into their power later rather than earlier invariably went insane: it was one of the few powers where there was a drawback to the system. Farfarello . . . no one had gone near Farfarello’s mind. His memories were closely tied to his insanity, and it was that insanity and its ensuing properties that made him invaluable to Estet. No one was going to risk that by erasing his mind – and besides, not even Schuldig was stupid enough to go fooling around in there for too long. As far as Nagi knew, though, Bren had come into his powers almost a decade later than any other living pyrokinetic. The power was rare in and of itself, but power in Bren’s league was exceptional, and would only grow with time. And, as with all powers, it took its toll. Nagi had no doubts that for the first few months Bren would accidentally set things on fire whenever his emotions became even slightly imbalanced – the same kind of thing had happened to him. Schuldig had never learned to shield himself from the thoughts of others, although he gained good control in most of the other aspects of his power. Realistically, that left him at square one in some very important ways. Together, they were the strongest team of psychics to be found anywhere in the world. Hell, individually they were each still the strongest of their kind. Which just meant it was easier for Estet to catch them when their powers manifested and they were left weak and disorientated. Nagi sighed and pushed away from the door. A jug of water with a small glass was placed just behind the bucket that Schuldig must have been sitting on – when Nagi brushed it, the seat was still warm. He carefully poured a glass, and moved over to Bren’s side. “Here, drink this.” Wary of touching the untrained pyrokinetic, he used his powers to raise Bren’s head a little, tipping the glass to his lips. Green eyes locked into his, staring into him like the older man could see every little secret hiding place inside him, even as he gulped down the liquid. It was a little like Schuldig’s stare when the man was in a bad mood, the only difference being that Nagi knew Schuldig could see his every little secret. When Nagi finally took the glass away from Bren’s lips to refill it, he was a little startled to hear the familiar voice come tumbling out of Bren’s mouth, still hoarse. “You’re Nagi.” Nagi glanced at him, then nodded. Schuldig must have told him about the rest of Schwarz. “Th . . . thank you,” Bren got out. “For the w . . . water.” “Don’t speak, you’ll just hurt your throat.” Nagi placed the glass at Bren’s lips again. “Can you move at all? Blink once for yes.” Bren appeared to think about it. After a moment, one arm moved slightly, but that appeared to take all of his strength, his face creased with pain. “Don’t try that again. All your reserves are gone,” Nagi said quietly, mentally smacking himself for the stupid question. “When all of us came into our powers, we came into it with a huge burst that let out all we had locked in us. You are no different, but you’re stronger than any other pyrokinetic, just like I’m stronger than any other telekinetic. It will take a while for your strength to return, and even longer before you have your full reserves back.” The Japanese boy shrugged. “I’m still a bit weaker than I should be, and it’s been a year. You may take more time, or you may take less.” Gently, he pulled the glass back from Bren’s mouth. “Now, you need to rest. Sleep.” Bren stared at him, and then nodded slowly. Nagi was shocked to see something like trust slip over his face before he closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ “Has anyone seen Yohji-kun?” Omi asked, slipping his apron over his head as he entered the front of the shop. “I tried knocking on his door, but there was no reply.” He tied the strings behind him in a neat bow, heading towards the watering cans. “He’s been gone a long time.” Ken snorted. “He’s probably at some girl’s apartment, sleeping off too much drink and sex.” He ruffled Omi’s hair as he passed, heading for the register. “Don’t worry about him, he’ll be back soon. He always is.” ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Nagi stomped into the living room and threw himself down on the sofa, glowering at everything in sight. He was pissed off and he didn’t care who knew it. Somehow, the Japanese telekinetic had been lumped with the duty of caring for Bren while he was still too weak to move himself. It had been three days so far, and he had hated every moment of it. He knew the reason for it – Crawford was busy making arrangements for their return to Germany and reporting to their Estet superiors, Schuldig was . . . Schuldig, and Farfarello couldn’t be trusted around a half-dead atheist, let alone their new member. At least Nagi didn’t have to actually touch the man and risk setting off his powers by accident. But still, it pissed him off. He was the one who always got the worst jobs. Oh, Schuldig always complained that it was him who always got the dirty work, but for the redhead anything more strenuous than bending a paperclip – or spending so much time playing mind games, or killing people, but then if it was fun it wasn’t work, was it? – was a strain on his poor, beleaguered shoulders. Ha! The worst part about this job, though, was that Bren was an absolutely awful patient. He set back his recovery by pushing his limits too far. He was bossy. He was nosy. He would not shut up. It came as an intense relief to Nagi when the idiot had finally gained enough strength to move around a little and handle the most basic of his physical needs himself, so that the boy wasn’t needed to wait on him twenty-four hours a day. Not that he really needed me to wait on him, anyway, Nagi thought grumpily. Even so. “Yo, kid,” Schuldig said, strolling lazily into the room. “What’s with the storm clouds? You’re going to give me a headache if you keep this up.” “Good,” Nagi muttered, sinking further down in his seat. “I heard that,” the redhead told him, leaning over the top of the sofa so he hung upside down in Nagi’s vision. “Does this have anything to do with our fiery new member?” Nagi simply glared. Schuldig’s ever-present smirk got marginally wider. “Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be taking care of him right now?” “He’s got enough strength to walk around and go to the bathroom on his own now,” Nagi grunted. And then frowned as his teammate’s smirk slowly transformed into something with a far more lascivious edge. “What are you up to?” “Oh, nothing yet,” Schuldig replied cheerfully, his face vanishing from Nagi’s sight. Sitting up, the boy twisted in his seat and stared at the German’s back as he stalked purposefully towards where he knew Bren to be right now. A small smile twitched the corner of his lips. Schuldig was quite possibly the most irritating man on the planet, even when he was trying not to be. Perhaps especially when he was trying not to be. Revenge is sweet. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Bren leaned heavily against the wall, trying to wash his hands and stay upright at the same time. He wasn’t sure he was succeeding. If he was to believe what Nagi said, this was all his own fault anyway for pushing himself too hard. For someone who gave off an impression of being quiet and thoughtful, Nagi certainly had an acidic tongue in his head, and Bren had been on the receiving end of it several times. The boy might have a point, however – it was all he could do to stay upright at that moment. He was just so tired all the time, wanting to do nothing more than eat, sleep, and shit – but he didn’t really care if he was setting his recovery back. He needed to push his limits, needed to get back whatever he could as soon as he could. Because otherwise all he would know was the white room, and if he didn’t leave before he was comfortable with that being all he knew, the rest of the world would be too terrifying to even think of exploring. So he had to push his limits now. “But you’re not quite ready for it,” a voice murmured in his ear, breath brushing his cheek as two strong arms found their way around his midsection. Bright orange hair showed at the edge of Bren’s vision. He stiffened in the embrace, then gasped as his legs gave way, head spinning with fatigue. Schuldig chuckled, hoisting Bren upwards. The blond man glowered at the floor and his now-useless legs – he did not like having to rely on this strange person to hold him up, but it wasn’t like he had a choice. He was too tired to even lift his arm enough to try to move – however ineffectually – the redhead’s arms away. “I’m not that bad, am I?” Schuldig asked him, sounding far too cheerful for his own good. He grabbed Bren’s arm and hooked it around his shoulders, holding onto the wrist. His other arm rested firmly against Bren’s waist. “Well, now you’re back on your feet, what do we do with you?” Bren’s first impulse was to tell Schuldig to let go of him, but somehow that took too much energy and he simply hung there, suspended from the hold the other man had on him. He was cold – but then he was always cold. Although his hands were colder than usual. . . . Suddenly, he remembered something. “I have to dry my hands,” Bren mumbled, even as his exhaustion hit him full force. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a strangely gentle expression flicker over Schuldig’s face before the German masked it. “What you need is sleep,” he was told, being easily manhandled out of the bathroom and along the hall, into the room Bren had been sleeping in for the past few days. “I’ll dry your hands for you.” “Oh . . . good. . . .” Bren passed out, slumped against Schuldig. The German regarded him with a strange expression. He’d felt Nagi’s annoyance from two streets away and come hurrying home, intent on mischief – only to find that the source of the boy’s irritation was too tired to annoy. And yet this was not pissing him off. Instead, he had a strong urge to carefully tuck the blond man into his bed – well, mattress – and leave as quietly as possible, letting him sleep. If Schuldig prided himself on anything, it was that he never suppressed his impulses for any reason. It was part of what kept him unpredictable, since if those impulses contradicted all of his previous beliefs and behaviours – well, who cared? So instead of just dumping Bren on the floor to sleep for a while in complete discomfort, he picked the blond man up (and even without eating properly for the better part of a week he still needed to lose some weight) and carefully laid him on his mattress, pulling the blankets up over him. The redhead settled on the bucket-turned-seat and lit a cigarette, inhaling absently as he allowed himself to truly look at Bren. He really was quite pretty, Schuldig decided. Even with the shadows under his eyes and the pallor his skin, there was still something attractive about him. His blond hair pooled on the pillow in short golden waves, framing a fine-boned face with a firm jaw. He was long and lean, his skin smooth and tinted gold, and Schuldig knew his muscle tone would fill out quite nicely once he gained some strength. But then, Schuldig had known many other attractive men in his lifetime. (Slept with most of them, too.) He’d known many other new talents, as well, ones exhausted by their blast of power. (He’d slept with quite a lot of those as well.) But he’d never before felt like just tucking them in once he got them to a bed. Maybe it was because he’d known Bren while he was Yohji. Maybe it was because Crawford had told him his visions had shown Bren as part of Schwarz. Maybe he was just getting old. Whatever the reason, change was always entertaining. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Gradually, Bren gained more energy and strength. He built up a strong appetite, moving swiftly from soup to large amounts of solid food. Nagi grumbled that he was cooking for Japan. Schuldig spent more time with Bren during his convalescence after their interlude in the bathroom. He explained about Schwarz and Estet, and warned the blond man that he would have to undergo training on his talent. The expression on the German’s face as he said that made Bren wary of what that training might entail. After another week of convalescence, Bren was strong enough to get up and walk around the apartment. “Don’t push it,” Nagi warned, holding open the door to his room. Bren grinned at him, hearing the worry underneath the irritated tone. “You mean you won’t catch me when I fall?” he asked, fluttering his eyelashes at the boy. Nagi blushed, then scowled. Bren loved to tease him – it was just so easy to get a response. “The only way you’ll fall is if you act like an idiot and push your limits again,” the kid grumbled. “Then you’ll deserve it.” “Nagi.” The small Japanese boy jumped, and turned to face Crawford. The tall American nodded to him, then looked at Bren with cool eyes. “I see you’ve recovered a fair amount of your strength,” Crawford said. “Nagi, go get Schuldig and Farfarello. There are some things which need to be explained to Bren, and it would be better if they are present.” Crawford led the way into the common room of the apartment, gesturing for Bren to take a seat. A white three-piece suite dominated the room, arranged in a semi-circle facing a widescreen television. Bren eased himself onto the smaller of the two sofas, wondering what the heck this was all about. He watched nervously as Crawford moved to stand in front of the TV. Schuldig sauntered in a moment later, and paused beside Bren. “Here, move over, would ya?” The blond man looked up at him with a smirk on his face, grateful for the distraction from Crawford’s impassive countenance. “There’s enough room on this couch for even your fat arse to sit, Schu.” He grinned back at Bren. “But not enough room for both our fat arses! Move it, tubby!” Bren snorted and turned away from him. A moment later, he let out an “Oof!” as a lanky and surprisingly heavy redheaded German landed in his lap, stretching out over the length of the couch. Schuldig batted his eyelashes up at him. “Told ya there wasn’t enough room,” he said sweetly, before turning his attention to Crawford. “So, boss-man, what’re we needed for now?” Bren scowled at the head of wild orange hair in his lap. He was startled to realise that he was getting a bit pissed off, as for the past month or so it felt like he’d been living in a kind of limbo – he’d simply been too tired most of the time to really feel much of anything, at least for long stretches. Nothing had appeared to affect him much, his emotions trying to sort themselves out without the help of memories to influence them. He highly doubted anyone really realised how much of their everyday lives are influenced by memory, but he was having to deal with it. Now, however, he was getting pissed off with Schuldig – a realisation which gratified him somewhat, as it indicated that he’d begun to settle on a kind of balance, and so his normal reactions were asserting themselves. So he did absolutely nothing to try to control the anger rising in him, which proved to be an incredible mistake. Schuldig seemed oblivious, more concerned with niggling at Crawford for details of their meeting than paying attention to his pillow’s emotional state. Bren stared at the vivid fall of orange hair, teeth clenching, relishing the strong feelings rising in him and examining how Schuldig’s hair spiked and stood out wildly, no pattern to it, just like . . . fire. . . . Schuldig sniffed the air. “Hey, you smell something burning?” he turned to ask Bren, and— “HOLY SHIT!” Schuldig leapt off the couch like his ass was on fire. Well . . . it was actually his hair, but close enough. He threw himself onto the ground and rolled around in a panic, trying to stamp out the flames. Bren stared at him, too shocked to move. He knew without a doubt that it had to have been him that did that, it had to, but he didn’t know how he’d done it, or why it had happened, or— He realised he wasn’t angry any more, and the flames were no longer growing. Crawford was suddenly there, holding a jar. He tipped it up on Schuldig, a splashing fall of water dousing the stubborn flames. Schuldig sat up, spluttering. “That little bastard set my hair on fire!” “I know,” Crawford said calmly. “Then why the hell did you let him?” “We have an untrained and very powerful pyrokinetic with us now, Schuldig.” Crawford stared down at him, unmoving. “You many not have realised it, but this means every time his emotions become the slightest bit unstable, he’ll set something on fire without realising it.” Schuldig glared at him. “And why do I in particular need to learn this, O Anal One?” Crawford just glared back. “Because you’re the one most likely to set him off. You’ve made pissing people off into an art form, Schuldig, now watch your back.” He smirked suddenly. “Or your hair. You’re lucky Bren wasn’t too pissed off, or you might have ended up bald.” Schuldig got to his feet, grumbling, and glared at Bren. “This is all your fault,” he announced. “What is?” Nagi asked, entering the room. “HE SET MY HAIR ON FIRE!” “Oh, is that all?” Nagi shrugged and settled into the armchair. “It’s about time.” Schuldig threw his hands into the air. “You people are all impossible!” he declared. “Crawford said you would need this,” a rasping voice said, and thrust a towel into Schuldig’s line of vision. Schuldig glared at Farfarello before reluctantly accepting the towel and slumping down on the sofa next to Bren. “You could apologise,” he suggested snidely. “S-sorry,” Bren stammered out, honestly contrite. “I have no idea how I—” “And that is precisely what we need to talk about,” Crawford interrupted, setting the jar down on the coffee table. “As I said before, we have an untrained and very powerful pyrokinetic living with us now. Estet has forbidden us from attempting to train you further, Bren, but for our own safety it has now become necessary that we tell you the barest minimum of how to control your talent.” “Why are we only doing this now?” Nagi asked. Crawford adjusted his glasses. “There are three reasons. The first is that Bren has been focusing on recuperation, to the point where there would be no benefit in teaching him this earlier, as he would have been unable to concentrate. The second is that I saw that now would be the time when he reached a level strong enough to begin to use his talent without trying to. The third is that this would be a useful subject lesson to Schuldig on why pissing off pyrokinetics is a bad idea.” Schuldig glowered at him. “I should’ve known you’d be involved in this,” he muttered. “I can’t help it if you love to meddle,” Crawford snapped. “Talking to a mirror, are you?” Crawford ignored him. “Getting back to the point, it is important that all of Schwarz be here to input on Bren’s basic training, as he will need us to ground him.” “Uh, what?” Bren was slowly getting more and more confused. Schuldig snorted. “Start from the beginning, Crawford-sensei.” Crawford continued to ignore him, which was probably the wise thing to do. “You’ve now reached a level in your recuperation where your talent will resurface,” he told Bren. “In the stronger talents, the initial outburst of power when the talent materialises is enough to exhaust your for a varying length of time afterwards. The energy needed to utilise your power comes directly from you, so when your energy levels fall below a certain point your power becomes inaccessible.” “In non-computational terms, when you’re too tired you won’t be able to set things on fire,” Nagi interjected. “Try being a telepath. Someone out there always has enough energy, so you do too. Once, just once, I’d like to be able to turn this damn thing off,” Schuldig muttered. “The point is, you’ve had this talent for several weeks now, but have been too tired to utilise it,” Crawford continued. “Now you are able to, unless you learn the basics of control it will end up using you. Don’t think of your pyrokinesis as anything like any other thing you can do; it’s not. It’s not an aptitude that will fade away if you don’t exercise it – quite the opposite. If you don’t learn to expel your talent in a controlled way, it will find its own way out. What happened just now with Schuldig is a perfect example of that. The only way you will be able to control it is if you keep practising with it, and this requires that we start now.” Bren frowned as he absorbed the information. Then he nodded. “Let’s get started, then.” “Good.” Crawford turned to Nagi. “I would like you to teach Bren.” “What?” the Japanese boy jumped, and stared incredulously at Crawford. “Why me?” “Out of all of us here, your talent is the closest to Bren’s in the way it expresses itself. Neither Schuldig nor I have talents than can be called at will, or switched off at will. Also, if Bren loses control you can do damage maintenance.” Nagi nodded slowly. “That does make sense, Crawford-san,” he said. He turned to Bren, and added, “We should probably do this in another area of the apartment. Where would you prefer?” “Uh . . . my room?” “Ooh, can I come watch?” Schuldig interjected, grinning. He jumped suddenly and grabbed his shin. “Ow! Watch it, you shitty little runt!” he yelled, glaring at Nagi. “I have a job that needs you and Farfarello,” Crawford told Schuldig. “There will be plenty of time later on for you to annoy Bren.” Schuldig pouted. “Spoilsport. You just want to get us out of the way, don’t you?” Crawford raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps. Now get to it, all of you.” ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Nagi watched as Bren settled himself cross-legged on the bed, then shut his eyes and took a deep breath. Crawford had shown quite a bit of faith in him but trusting him with a task as important as this, and although he knew he could do it perfectly well he couldn’t help feeling a bit nervous. “Hey, kid, don’t fall asleep on me here.” Nagi’s eyes snapped open, and he glowered at the older man. “Don’t make me tie your gut in knots,” he retorted. “If you want to control your power, you’re going to need my help, so quit trying to piss me off.” “Why? It’s working, isn’t it?” Bren grinned at him. The only thing that stopped Nagi from actually doing what he’d threatened was the hint of nervousness in Bren’s expression. He has no idea what he’s getting into, either, Nagi reminded himself. And he’s a stubborn ass – like Schuldig – and can’t admit that he’s actually afraid. [I’ll get you for that one, runt.] Schuldig sounded amused. Aren’t you supposed to be out on that task Crawford gave you? [I’m only here to rein in Farf when he gets overexcited. There’s no actual work for me to do. So, how’s our baby doing?] We haven’t started yet. With that, Nagi blocked Schuldig out and turned back to Bren. “The first thing you need to know is what kinds of things are likely to set off your power. The most common is an emotional imbalance.” “Is this the part where you tell me I have to repress everything I feel?” Bren interjected, a cynical look on his face. “I don’t think that’s possible.” Nagi nodded, pleased that Bren seemed to be on the same wavelength as him. “That’s because it isn’t,” he replied. “Most people think that if an emotional imbalance causes an upset of some kind, the quickest and easiest way to deal with it is to repress it. However, this just causes more problems at an indeterminate later date, because even repressed feelings are still felt and still affect you. You can’t stop feeling things, and while ignoring them will only help you maintain control for a short time, you’re stuck with this for the rest of your life.” Bren frowned. “So . . . what now?” “Your emotions only cause a problem when they have an upset,” Nagi continued. “Every person on the planet has a default mental state, which is how they feel when they’re not reacting to an outside influence. It’s . . . like your resting stage. What it exactly feels like or at what point you find yourself in it varies from person to person, but the first thing you need to do is figure out where yours is.” “Why?” Nagi scowled, irritated. “I was just getting to that,” he said. “The reason you need to find it has to do with the nature of your power. Telekinesis and pyrokinesis are similar in that they’re what we call ‘control’ powers. There are two types of power; control and default. The main difference between them is that control powers do not automatically activate when you’re in your resting stage, while default powers do. Schuldig and Crawford have default powers – the only time theirs are inactive is when they’re at such an extreme high or low that the body’s innate self-preservation instincts kick in. Control powers are practically the opposite. They—” “They default to inactive?” Bren interrupted. “And the others default to active?” “Yes,” Nagi replied cautiously. “So with a control power, any move from the resting stage will result in me using it by accident.” “Until you learn a greater amount of control, yes,” the Japanese boy nodded. “That will only come with training you in the different uses of your power, however. And the amount of power you use is proportional to the amount you move from your resting stage – if you’re only slightly upset, you’ll start a small fire, but if you’re feeling a strong emotion – like if you’re extremely angry – you might end up blowing up the building.” Bren blinked, startled. “I’m not that strong, am I?” Nagi grinned wryly. “We don’t actually have any indication of how strong you might be,” he said. “The later a power emerges, the stronger it is, and yours emerged decades later than any other pyrokinetic. You’ll get to meet some of the other ones with pyrokinesis later on, and considering what they can do. . . .” Nagi shuddered. “I’m willing to bet you could take out not just this building, but quite a few of the ones around it with no trouble at all.” Nagi regretted saying that immediately as Bren’s face went blank. Green eyes stared at Nagi, and if the boy didn’t know better he’d say they were slightly afraid. [That’s because he is,] Schuldig interjected. [Good going, kid.] I’m sorry, Nagi blurted. I shouldn’t have— [No, he needed to hear it.] And then Schuldig was gone. Nagi blinked and shook himself, trying to get rid of the bizarre feeling that always came with one of Schuldig’s mental visitations – and suddenly noticed that Bren was still staring off into space. “Ah . . . Bren. . . .” Green eyes blinked, and Bren came back to himself. Raking a hand through his hair, he smiled at the dark-haired boy. “I guess if I’m that dangerous, you’d better tell me what I’ll need to know,” he half-laughed, but Nagi caught the remnants of shock and dismay behind it. He took a deep breath, and continued. “Keeping yourself at the resting stage is really very simple,” Nagi said. “It’s pretty much just the same as keeping your temper. Counting to ten usually works quite well, although if that doesn’t work just keep on counting until you’re not pissed off any more – or you fall asleep.” Bren grinned, looking relieved. “Sounds simple enough,” he said. “This is where the complicated part comes in,” Nagi told him. A small, sadistic part of him that he tried to keep very well hidden relished the sudden crestfallen look Bren developed. “You have to exercise your power occasionally, or it will exercise itself.” “Crawford mentioned this earlier,” Bren said. “I didn’t understand it then, either.” Nagi sighed. “Your power . . . it becomes sort of like a bodily function,” he said. “The thing bearing the closest resemblance to it is . . . going to the toilet.” He felt his face growing hot, and scowled at the half-startled, half-amused look on the blond man’s face. “Unfortunately, it is. You can only hold it in for so long before you have to let go, and if you don’t choose where to . . . go, eventually your body will choose for you.” Bren pressed his lips together, trying to stifle a grin. He wasn’t succeeding very well. Nagi scowled at him again, his face beet red. “Don’t laugh at me. I’d like to see you come up with a better analogy!” That seemed to set Bren off, making him burst out laughing. He fell over sideways, clutching at his stomach and laughing into the mattress. “It’s not that funny,” Nagi told him. “You’re right, you’re right,” Bren said, still chuckling as he rubbed his hand over his forehead. “It was just the way you said it, and— Shit!” Bren jolted upright, holding his hand out in front of him. Nagi had suspected something like this would happen, so he wasn’t all that surprised to see a thin sheath of flames covering Bren’s fingertips. The dark-haired boy shifted surreptitiously, readying himself in case Bren’s fire got out of hand. Literally. He hurriedly stifled a giggle, and put on a serious face. “This is exactly what I was talking about,” Nagi said. “You moved from your resting state, and this is the result. Try counting to ten to calm down.” Bren looked back at his hand, and set his jaw. Nagi watched as he closed his eyes and took a couple of calming breaths, slightly startled to see the flame sheaths on his fingertips disappearing quite quickly. Much more quickly than he would have expected. The blond man opened his eyes, and dropped his hand into his lap. Staring at it, he spoke. “So . . . I guess I can’t feel too much of anything without this happening, huh. Positive or negative.” Nagi’s serious look didn’t change. “Sucks, doesn’t it.” “Yeah.” “You’ll occasionally want to go talk to Schuldig,” he informed Bren, choosing to barrel onwards as fast as he could so this would be over quickly for the both of them. “If you don’t find some way of moving from your emotional resting state, this sort of thing will end up happening while you’re in that resting state, and then you’ll have no way of stopping it until it’s run its course. Schuldig’s good at pissing people off, so in this case he actually helps for once.” “I quite like him,” Bren muttered, only half paying attention. Nagi blinked. Oho, really? This could be interesting. “Try saying that after a few more weeks of him,” he suggested. “You don’t have a few more weeks,” Crawford said from behind him. Nagi jumped and spun around, startled, then straightened. He lowered his eyes to the floor – there would be some form of punishment for not hearing Crawford approach, he was sure of it – but it would come later rather than now, in front of Bren. Crawford nodded to him, then took a couple of steps into the room and faced Bren directly. “You’re going to have to step away from this . . . window, as it were, into your power,” he said. “Estet called. We leave for Germany in two days.” ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Omi was pacing the shop, nervous energy tingling in his veins. “Where is she?” he demanded for the hundredth time, pausing to glare out of the window before resuming his circuit of the room. Ken sighed, casting a quick glance at Aya. The man had been getting more and more irritable recently, but he didn’t seem to be too pissed off with Omi’s pacing, which was something. “Calm down, Omi,” he said – for the hundredth time. “Manx will be here soon.” Omi suddenly stopped and threw himself down beside Ken. “I’m worried, Ken-kun,” he whispered. “Yohji-kun’s never been gone this long before . . . something has to have happened.” Aya snorted. “The idiot probably got himself caught on his own wires.” Ken glared at him over the top of Omi’s head. Intellectually he knew it was Aya’s own way of worrying about the older man, but emotional responses don’t often tie in with intellectual ones. In an effort to remain civil, however, he bit his tongue on the automatic response, instead turning his attention to Omi. “It’s okay, Omi,” he said. “Kritiker will find him. It’s not like Yohji to just take off without telling anyone – if there was a problem, he would at least have told the source of his next pay cheque.” I think. . . . Omi sighed and slumped. “I hope you’re right, Ken-kun,” he murmured. The shop once more fell into a deep silence. Omi had called Manx a week and a half after Yohji’s disappearance, but the redheaded woman had told them to wait for another week before calling her again. Yohji’s notorious unpredictability had caused the most sensible response – wait for the idiot’s money to run out and him to come crawling back – but it was also apparently the wrong one. When Yohji hadn’t come back, and hadn’t called, or emailed, or written, or anything, Omi had developed a permanent case of nervous tension, calling Manx at every available opportunity to beg her to do something. Eventually the woman gave in, and for the past few days had been gathering as much information as possible on their teammate’s disappearance. Now she had apparently reached a conclusion and was coming to meet them. The shop had been shut down for this very purpose. When a sharp knock sounded on the back door, Omi was there and opening it so fast he nearly got hit in the face with Manx’s fist as she went to knock again. “Have you found anything?” the teenager demanded, acting so wildly out of character that Manx blinked. Aya clamped a hand on the blond’s shoulder and drew him back. “Let her in first, Omi,” he said quietly, but his eyes were fixed directly on her. Manx swallowed nervously. “Shall we take this to the mission room, gentlemen?” she said, trying to retain as much composure as she could. Omi was halfway down the stairs before she could blink. Ken sighed. “Look, we’ve all been worried, Omi especially,” he murmured to her. “Just get whatever news you have over with quickly, okay?” Manx nodded jerkily, trying to hide her trepidation. She was certain that Omi was not going to like this. Once in the mission room, she pulled a tape out of her bag and put it in the VCR. “A mission? At a time like this?” Aya said, disgust colouring his tone. “No, it’s not a mission,” Manx said, starting the tape. “It’s CCTV footage.” “What has that got to do with the price of peanuts in Prague?” Ken said incredulously. “A lot.” Manx fast-forwarded the tape for a few moments, and then suddenly paused it. “Tell me what you see here.” “I don’t have time for guessing games,” Aya growled at her. She raised a hand. “Please, just humour me.” Ken leaned forward, peering at the video. A car was shown in the centre frame, slightly blurred – most likely due to speed. There was something familiar about it . . . but no. Nothing came to mind that was particularly intriguing about this footage. Suddenly, Omi gasped. “That’s . . . that’s. . . .” Ken twisted his head to peer at him, confused. “What?” Manx pointed to the rear passenger seat, and the person who was staring out of the window. Ken looked, and gasped, wondering how the hell he could have missed Farfarello. Aya, however, wasn’t impressed. “What has a piece of CCTV footage of Schwarz got to do with anything?” He was glaring, hard, a hint of desperation was showing through. Surely Manx had found something on Yohji’s disappearance. . . . “Yeah, I don’t see what this has to do with Yohji,” Ken chimed in. He was relieved that Aya was turning his bad temper on someone other than him and Omi for once, but treasuring a reprieve from his bad mood took a back seat to finding out what had happened to their friend. Manx rolled her eyes. “You’re looking, but you’re not seeing,” she complained. “What’s Farfarello holding?” “Someone’s arm,” Omi said, subdued. Ken glanced at him, wondering what had him so down. “Yohji’s arm,” Manx said. “What?” Ken was on his feet in an instant. Even Aya straightened, looking alarmed. What the fuck was going on? Manx fished around in her bag, and thrust an A4 sized picture at them. “Look at that,” she said. “It’s a close-up of the arm Farfarello’s holding. Now tell me you can’t see that that’s Yohji.” Feeling sick inside, Ken took the picture. The details were slightly fuzzed, although they had been sharpened somewhat, but he didn’t really need that. Manx was right, the evidence was there, plain as day. That was Yohji’s watch. “The design was meant to be unique,” Manx said quietly. “There’s no other like it anywhere. We have no choice but to conclude that Yohji was in that car, with Farfarello.” “Which means he’s dead.” Ken jerked around to stare at Omi in horror. “You . . . you can’t mean. . . .” he trailed off. Aya swung around and punched the wall as hard as he could, glaring. His jaw set, and he stormed up the stairs without a second glance. “Omi . . . you can’t . . . I mean . . . he might not. . . .” It was useless to try and argue with facts, and Ken knew it. His legs suddenly felt boneless, and he fell onto the couch beside the boy, staring at the photograph. “Shit. . . .” Manx cleared her throat, attracting his attention. Omi remained slumped on the sofa, arms wrapped around himself as he huddled in a ball. “Weiss will be removed from active duty,” she said softly. “The official word is that you have three months to get over it. Realistically, I’ll try and give you as long as you think you need.” She glanced at Omi and bit her lip, then leaned over and pulled the tape from the VCR, slipping it into her bag. “Call me if you need anything.” Head held deceptively high, she walked up the stairs. Ken stared after her, wondering for a brief moment how she felt about this. Yohji had always flirted outrageously with her . . . but then, Yohji flirted outrageously with everyone. . . . No more. A soft, choking sound came from beside him, and Ken quickly turned to find Omi’s face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking. “Hey, Omi,” he whispered, wrapping an arm around the boy’s shoulders. “It’s okay, y’know? We’ve got each other. . . .” “K-Ken-kun,” Omi whispered. “I thought . . . I hoped . . . but I still knew . . . somewhere. . . .” “Yeah,” Ken murmured, pulling Omi’s face into his shoulder as the boy began to sob in earnest. “Yeah. . . .”

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