schmetterling | Entries tagged with schu fic

Schuldig didn't consider himself fragmented or inauthentic, he didn't consider the problem of his telepathically adopted likes and dislikes to be much of a problem at all. But then he was never in a position to process the consequences, and that was the problem; always moving on to the next focus, the next consideration, the next response to sensation, curious and sampling, tempted and restless. What he likes, what he wants, what he's thinking of or remembered having, all these things that make up his surface constantly sampled from elsewhere and roiling around his center. Choosing food, clothes, personal possessions, daily hygiene rituals; all problematic despite rigorous programming received at Rosenkreuz, directly addressed in their foundation training for telepaths. A similar course was given to team-leaders, "the eclectic surface personalities and core persona of sensitives." (*)

However, Schuldig has been fickle and dissatisfied for several days and is now truly hungry. His inability to shop effectively frustrates him, there's never exactly what he wants in their quarters when he wants it, sometimes by the time a meal is delivered he's just not that into what he's ordered anymore, and he dislikes dining-in at restaurants because he has to concentrate while remaining in place and waiting while dozens of minds review dozens of choices. Unable to find something satisfying, not willing to fill up on something just for the sake of nutrition, he's irritable, energy flagging, looking for a place to settle down and rest when not immediately tasked. The weaker he becomes the less able he is to focus on satisfying his hunger, and the cycle seems to be converting into a spiral toward the floor.

Crawford doesn't need (or receive) a glimpse of the future to know that this shouldn't be allowed to continue, but doesn't think he can solve Schuldig's lack of appetite with a weapon. On their way home from yet another thrilling day at the Takatori office tower, Schuldig merely watches the scenery change, waiting for the ride to end. He doesn't notice the detour toward the flashing lights and waiving flags of a street closure, a colorful summer matsuri. The festival is teeming with people, bustle, noisy minds and activities, and as Crawford parks and hops out Schuldig narrows his eyes and sinks low in his seat.

Forty minutes later Crawford returns and gets a reaction when he fits several skewered furankufuruto into the cupholder between their seats and the stink of cheap oily meat fills the car. "Foods of nostalgia, supposed to help with appetite." Schuldig's side-eye is accompanied and undermined by a quiet internal gurgle, and he pushes himself into a more upright position. Crawford continues, dropping napkins in Schuldig's lap, "immersion in the interest of the crowd in seasonal junk-food should-" he's interrupted.

"Ja. Hai. Yes. Okay? It's a good plan," he's already picking one up, turning it and considering the garish 'meat' on a stick, breaking the skin with his fingernails to hear it snap.

"Look, I know this is crap, but it's got the crowd effect going for it. Mm, what a smell. I'm almost interested. Fuck it, I'll suck on one if you eat two," trying to convince the telepath, Crawford is apparently going all-in. Schuldig quirks a brow and begins cautiously applying his teeth to the festive meatstick.

"Karumeyaki when you're done with that. Lots of energy in sugar. Takoyaki for Naoe, have one if you want, there's a surprise inside each one." Crawford tucks a container of bready looking balls and a waxed paper package on the floor at Schuldig's feet and jams the key in the ignition. "Lets get home before they get too.. whatever."

Schuldig nudges the box with his foot, and pokes his first skewer stick out the window. "One," he announces, licking his fingers clean.

---

(*) Crawford once confided this training failed to actually propose a means to cope beyond maintaining a separate credit line for telepathic/empathic team members personal expenses, similar to the recommendation of additional medical and property insurance for teams which included kinetics. Crawford had *not* confided that this credit line could be monitored for excessive out-of-pattern purchases which might indicate a crisis of self and desperate search for identity, but Schuldig had gleaned that tidbit late one night as his sleepy team-leader reviewed their monthly expense reports, thoughts unguarded.(**)

(**) The spending spree which followed resulted in a calm discussion of limits, expectations, disclosure, and trust. At gunpoint. There was no doubt on two points following this discussion: that Schuldig had a very solid, confident, and opinionated core personality indeed, and that Crawford was adept at demonstrating a direct-line effect understood and retained by his team sensitive. This resolution owed credit more to the Rosenkreuz combat instructors than their counterparts in psychology.

Schuldig is given a set of scrubs that have been boiled at least a hundred times; Esset was never as cheap as this, resorting to some bargain laundry service. Must be Naoe's influence on the Kritiker board, he decided, grimacing as he finished dressing. "Ready or not, here I come," he alerted his escort, slipping his feet into the paper booties and shuffling into the hall.

The walk was brief but the corridors and stairs were blandly modern and designed to make the way un-memorable. Dampers were in effect, though with less strength between doors so Schuldig could occasionally feel a dizzying pull between muffled silence. His guide was keeping his own thoughts quiet and subtly shielded, while he himself was not, and his expressions betrayed him as well as uneven pace and direction. What the hell, he'd have a minute or so to pull himself together, and how serious could this interview.. debriefing.. whatever it was be, they expected him to arrive in hospital garb.

The man in the lead gave a polite bow as they reached their destination, a small room with a table, two chairs, and one obvious observation mirror, and pointed to the chair opposite the mirror. Schuldig gave a slightly stiff and comedic bow in return before sitting, but to his surprise his guide accompanied him inside and settled into the chair across from him. For a moment neither spoke. Schuldig tried on his best "I knew you'd do that" face and his guide smirked right back.

"Du Halsabschneider, you're reading me," Schuldig leaned forward, thin and predatory, defenses crackling as he desperately tried to keep up a front. This guy, this holding cell errand boy, could read him despite the effect of the dampers? Schuldig couldn't even really feel the barriers or resistance of the dampers, it was like appreciating heat or cooling without ever feeling the air move; whatever new technology Kritiker was rolling out was new and horrifying, and damned if he was going to fail whatever..

"Too late," the man across the table shrugged. Schuldig opened his mouth to protest, frowned as he realized that was ridiculous given the circumstances, and then the circumstances brought heat to his cheeks. The other rose from his chair and Schuldig watched, rapt, desperation suppressed but rising. "Don't bother getting up, and don't be too disappointed, this wasn't actually your interview."

With that Schuldig was left alone to consider his reflection.

Schuldig was in a good mood. Having a good time. He'd been in a good mood since leaving München.. Wait, or was it Paris? No, he'd been in a terrible mood upon leaving München: everyone else gearing up for the mayhem of the yearly fest until he'd thought he was going to fly apart, bursting into so many pieces he'd never find them all, never restore the fragments to the container of his mind. So he'd fled. To Paris. And hated it. Hated the people, hated the food, hated the weather and the stink of the city and.. good God, everyone else hated it too! A slow smile can be spread over his memory at this point. It had been intoxicating how unhappy the Parisians were, a toxic miasma and his mind thrilled at the presence of his favorite drug, favorite flavor, favorite.. everything.

Though he'd miss it all, he was in a terrific mood when he left Paris.
Well-prepared for the inevitable crash in that he'd be coming down from the highest of highs; why do anything half-way, if it's.. no additional effort or work to do it spectacularly high-speed, full-throttle, wings wide.

Schuldig has no wings. He stands on the footwide balcony-for-show in the rathole hotel he's chosen and spreads his arms to the night. Stretching {ostensibly to any unknowing observer}, trying to fly {he tells himself, giddy, lying}, trying to fall {trying not to think this, ignore it, but the giggles give him away}. He laughs, it's forced out of him as he leans forward, hips pressed to the cold metal railing at a magical point that is just low enough to appear very very dangerous, and just high enough to prevent him from spilling over and decorating the concrete below; a red carpet of glossy blood, a tangled fluff of bright hair, long limbs broken and twisted.. he can see it, with his minds eye, and realizes he's failed to ignore the thought that he's courting death out here, pressing against the night. The quiet whispers and voices and thoughts battering in like endless waves or winds tease, utterly without the mass to hold him up. It's not fair, they press against him and pass through him, he feels them, gaining entry and smashing about.. he presses back and would fall against nothing down into nothing. Until he hit the pavement. Not fair at all.

He grunts, dissatisfied, and lets his arms drop, picking up his head to look out over the street below. Smoke time; he rummages in a pocket and produces pack and lighter, shakes a slim cigarette up to his lips and sparks it with quick, economical movements. Plenty of time to watch the night, smoke in the dark, play with his precarious balance in the gusting wind and unpredictable mindscape of Tokyo. God, he hates it here, why is he back here? It's insane, this place is insane, the people are insane, they make each other insane, it all makes -him- insane; the pavement below tempts, attracting his attention with a flicker from a malfunctioning soft-drink vending machine. "Hn," a puff of smoke and his eyes flit to the low rooftops nearby, though some reach a few tentative and weak floors higher than his building; he's discontent to continue watching, waiting, maybe someone will try to outdo him. The 4th floor would hardly be considered making an effort.

A smirk and the sparking, glowing buttend of his cigarette makes the leap; a shining orange-tipped proxy, winking out before it has a chance to bounce from sidewalk to street. Now.. that *really* pisses him off. Oh he hates this place..

Doitsujin-schu @ Tumblr

Schuldig is falling, and if someone doesn't catch him he's just going to -SPLASH- oh, well, not such a hard landing after all. Why still falling, though? He's trying not to lose his fingers to the wire around his neck and angry about the inevitable damage to his hair, he's trying to keep his eyes open, he's trying not to mentally scream because his team doesn't need that while they're trying to swim, he's contemplating the odds of being crushed by stone that's falling underwater before he runs out of air and sucks in water - sinking not falling, it's sinking stone, is it stinking faster than he is? This one is, this large one coming very quickly, it's definitely coming down on him. Can Farf and Nagi even swim? He thrashes and kicks. Parts of the tower coming at him very quickly, very large, very bad. His lungs are bursting and just before the debris smashes him he lets out all the air he's been trying to conserve.

Schuldig wakes up with a jolt and tries to suck back the hoarse shout he must have just emitted as yet another Nurse Feelgood maintains the machinery maintaining him. "Save it for the debriefing," she tests the travel rumpled telepath's hearing, most of her patients can't or won't reply for the first few days.

He hears her, blinks as he resets his internal calendar from dream-time to the present; the fall in the ocean was.. at least? or probably? a couple years ago. Debriefing, why? He remembers holing up in a quiet city away from the center of everything after the last adhoc team assignment. Simple eavesdropping and reportage, the job was boring and so were the other operatives. He flexes his fingers, tries to settle his legs as best the bindings will allow- hey, no ankle straps? He picks up his head and bends his knees, experimentally sliding his feet around on the sheet.

"I wasn't on a job," he says, the mouthguard is gone, though it feels like talking through glue and his throat hurts. The nurse can hear the roughness, hnf's in reply and lifts a sippy-cup to his mouth.

"Just making small-talk, I'm not sure whose desk you'll wind up on." The water is room temperature, perfect, and as he tries to guzzle she pulls it away before he overdoes it. "You arrived in the intake courier parcel, we've unpacked you. Probably have you ready for delivery tomorrow." She pats his arm and Schu looks there, realizing he can lift his hand to his face, can push back his hair, and can't hear a thought from anyone else - didn't notice anything outside himself even when she touched him. He looks around the small room, noting something cramped about the edges of the walls and the low, slightly arched ceiling. There's more than one small device near the door, on the wall, over head, with subtle LEDs winking; dampers, sensors, scattering units, the usual, maybe even a smoke or C02 detector in the mix. His left arm is still strapped down at wrist and elbow, though it seems that's to protect a small cluster of IV's against movement while he's been unconscious. She tucks the sippy cup in his left hand on her way out the door.

"What the fuck, again?" he whines, unamused.

He's almost conscious, convulsing and fighting instinctively against a choking sensation and invasion of his nose and throat. A breathing tube is removed though all he knows as he wakes into panic is that too many hands and straps are holding him down and there's a lot of fuss around his head - again? Kicking against the catheter team is thwarted by the tie-downs around bony knees and ankles. His veins burn, he struggles to roll away; it's futile, he's been efficiently immobilized and restrained, physically and chemically.
He becomes aware of himself with no sense of the time or day, and no memory of several fits of semi-consciousness. His inability to lift a hand to his head or curl up against his discomfort comes as an unpleasant and familiar sensation, almost self-explanatory. Tied down? He hadn't ignored a summons, had he? Disobeyed an order to appear? Rejected an assignment? His mind skips through a number of logical reasons he might have been tranqed and tanked while the rest of him squirms, stretches, pulls, tests, HATES the restraint. Beeping monitors at the bedside broadcast and magnify his failure to maintain calm by analyzing the situation and understanding his options and opportunities - FUCK YOU, CRAWFORD, WHEREVER YOU ARE. The machines reach a crescendo and reward his "high score" with a tranquilizer dump into the IV. He fades back with a whining complaint against the mouth guard, and snorts through his nose - good one, assholes.
The next time he surfaces he's watching a special forces nurse - is that a cattle prod at his hip - change fluid bags. The nurse notices his eyes tracking and nods, acknowledging him with a wry "Good morning, sunshine," which causes him to lift a brow and grunt against the mouthguard in reply. Might as well be.. social. "I suppose you're wondering why we've brought you here today," the nurse responds, leaning in and smiling.
Schu stills and the monitors slow, betraying everything - he's going to have to yank them down or kick them over later, fucking machines.
The nurse grins suddenly, shrugging and stepping back as he thumbs open the fresh IV drip. "I have no idea, whatever, but you hang in there, red."
Schu can feel his face slack and he tries, tries so hard to swear against the mouthguard as lips numb; where the fuck does Kritiker get these assholes? What the fuck kind of nurse bastard rotten jackass..
He forgets to be grateful that he's alive, but he smiles as he sleeps.

He doesn't care; he's not flattered like some of the little twerps had hoped, or impressed by their ability to annoy him, or frightened by their ability to find him.
Between assignments when he's "free" the senior operatives will send their trainee telepaths out into the ether: find this signature, find this mind, find this unknown agent. It's partly to assess the new talents, and partly a ring of fire to keep a rattlesnake contained.
When they get too close, nearly dialed in, he shocks them silent. He knows tricks they've only heard hints of, and he's a grumpy old rattlesnake, these days. It's not worth complaining about yet, not unless their supervisors try to take him to task for damage done to fresh goods. For now both sides are comfortable pretending that nothing is happening.

He's remained in service despite breaking from not one, but two anchors. The first, Crawford, had been a catastrophic sundering. He'd barely survived. The second he wasn't entirely sure that he had survived, not yet. Not on days like these when he found himself untethered, floating out and wandering; returning to himself only to throw up from the shock of inhabiting a body, shaking his way to a can of coffee or juice from the vending machine at the end of the hall, at the bottom of the fucking stairs.