Dragon Cycle

Dragon Cycle - Part 10 - Retrieval


Disclaimer: Of course the WK and Schwarz boys don't belong to me, we just have fun together. I write this stuff for pleasure not profit.

Author's Notes: Many thanks as always to my wonderful beta, Iron Dog.


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As soon as they were in the car, Crawford grabbed the street directory and began to look up the location of the first church. Stein started the engine and reversed out of the parking bay.

“Turn right at the first street,” Crawford instructed, his gaze still fixed on the map.

“Clara, keep tabs on Berserker,” Stein ordered his telepath.

“His mind’s a fucking mess,” she muttered from the back seat.

Stein gave a grim laugh as he brought the car to a stop before turning right onto the street as instructed. Crawford wasn’t terribly familiar with this part of town, but he had the required directions memorized now and instructed Stein on when and where to turn.

Although nothing showed on his face, Crawford was furious that this had been allowed to happen. Of course, this wasn’t the first time Farfarello had given them the slip so he could further his campaign to gain revenge against God. But fuck it all, he really didn’t need this right now. He was also concerned that Farfarello had been keeping this latest episode leashed for too long and, as a result, bringing him back to the house before he let loose his madness was not going to be an easy task.

“Two more streets, then left,” he instructed, keeping watch on where they were.

By his reckoning, they’d be at the church in less than five minutes. He could guess what awaited them there. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before, but he wished he could be spared seeing Farfarello’s handiwork again. As the leader of his team, it was a luxury he wasn’t permitted.

“I think he’s moving,” Clara said suddenly.

“Either he is or he isn’t. Which is it?” Stein snapped as he shot an annoyed glance to the rear view mirror.

Beneath the sounds of road noise and the car engine, Crawford head the slow, steadying breath the telepath took. She didn’t speak.

“Well?” Stein prompted impatiently as he made the left-hand turn and started down another street.

“I’m trying,” Clara shot back. After another pause, she went on, “He’s thinking he has to act quickly if it’s to be enough.”

“Unless there are other people in the church, he’s going to move,” Crawford said.

“We go to the first church,” Stein decided. “If he’s not there, we can still beat him to the second.”

“Left at the end of this road then take the first on the right,” Crawford directed.

Crawford knew that Farfarello had holed up in this area’s safe house a couple of times in the past. What he didn’t know was how well the Irishman knew the area and its surrounds. It was possible that he’d gotten his hands on a street directory and studied it, noting the locations of churches for future reference. In fact, it was likely he’d done exactly that. Farfarello preferred to plan ahead so that he’d have the advantage of certain knowledge when his psychosis overtook him. Farfarello wanted vengeance against God. Random victims on the street wouldn’t sate his blood lust and Farfarello realized that even when in the depths of his psychosis.

Which, if I’m correct, all works in our favor, Crawford thought.

If he was wrong, it meant they had to hope Farfarello was where they’d presumed him to be so they could stop him before he moved on to another target. Without knowledge of the area and where the churches were located, Farfarello would take off in a random direction, and trying to find him before he indulged in more bloody carnage would be all but impossible without Schuldig. Schuldig. It was always coming back around to the damn German. Crawford scowled. He really wasn’t in the mood to track Berserker by following a trail of bloody corpses across the city.

“Left, right, and then left again,” he said to Stein as they approached an intersection.

“Could he have come this far in only fifteen minutes?” Jerry wondered aloud from the back seat.

“He’s on foot, he’s not restricted to roadways,” Stein answered.

“It’s still a long way,” Jerry mused.

“Let’s just hope he’s still there,” Stein said, his tone dour.

They drove in silence now as Stein followed the last directions Crawford had given him. Taking the final left turn brought them onto a quieter road. An illuminated church spire rose above the street lights, making it easy to see. Stein began to slow the car as they drew closer. He pulled into a parking space out front and the vehicle had barely stopped before they were scrambling out. Apart from the spire, the church was in darkness.

“What’s happening?” Stein asked Clara quietly as they approached the front doors.

“I’m not getting any sense from him,” she replied, keeping her voice low. She sounded flustered. “I can’t work out what he’s doing. He’s… I don’t know.”

“Is he still here?” Stein pressed.

“I don’t know,” she repeated.

Stein tried the front doors and found them locked. He stepped back and gestured Jerry forward. The psychometrist stepped up and placed his hands on the large brass doorknobs. He remained still and focused for only a few seconds before releasing his hold with a loud sigh.

“He didn’t come this way,” he informed them.

Without a word, Crawford turned and went back down the concrete steps. At the bottom he turned to his right and headed along the side of the church. It wasn’t an overly large building and, with the aid of the radiating glow from the street lights, he was soon at the vestry door. He found it as solidly locked as the front doors had been. Crawford resisted the urge to kick the doors in annoyance.

“He’s thinking about weddings…” Clara spoke up quietly in a puzzled tone.

Crawford faltered in his attempts to open the door. Weddings? Farfarello?

“Weddings?” Stein echoed. “There wouldn’t be any weddings this late in the evening.”

“It’s what…” Clara paused a moment, completely focused. Then she gave a nod. “Yes, yes, it’s weddings…brides and weddings and purity.”

Crawford cursed colorfully under his breath and turned to her. “Brides?” he queried as calmly as he could.

“Yeah,” she nodded.

“Fuck,” he cursed aloud. He pulled his cell phone from a pocket and punched in the number of the safe house.

It rang twice before Verena answered.

“Get me Nagi and hurry,” Crawford ordered without preamble. Within seconds the boy was on the phone. “I need you to check those church locations again and tell me which of them has a convent attached,” Crawford instructed. “Phone me when you have an answer.”

He disconnected the call. Crawford swore soundly and silently and wanted to hit something. Only the fact that Stein was watching him kept any of the turmoil he was feeling from showing.

Jerry moved away from the vestry door. “He didn’t come this way, either,” he told them.

“He was never here,” Crawford said with a calm he didn’t feel.

“It’s the closest church,” Stein pointed out, “and the only one he had time to reach.”

Crawford ignored him and attempted to do something he usually avoided; he tried to understand Farfarello’s way of thinking. The Irishman had been stuck in that safe house for days on end, his only form of release being the mutilation he’d inflicted on himself the day of their arrival. Following that episode, he hadn’t cut himself again, not even so much as a shaving-nick. But now the psychopath in him had finally taken control, and slaughtering just one of God’s servants wasn’t going to be enough to sate the insanity. Farfarello was heading for a convent and when he reached it, the Berserker would let loose. If his Talent had been functioning, he could have seen this coming and taken steps to avoid it. Crawford had never felt so useless in all his life.

How much of this situation they could salvage rested squarely on Nagi’s ability to provide the right information in the fastest time possible. Crawford found himself longing for the lost links Schuldig had provided. Even now, in this current situation, Schuldig would be more use than Clara. She didn’t know or understand Farfarello the way the Schwarz telepath did. Nobody understood Farfarello like Schuldig did. Usually a thought like that was scary but in this instance it would have been a god-send.

“I don’t know.” Clara was speaking to her team leader in a low voice.

“Then find out,” Stein snapped, loosing patience with his telepath.

“You have no idea what it’s like in there,” she protested. “I can’t grasp a single lucid thought.”

Stein placed his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. “Clara,” he said softly, “I know how good a telepath you are. I know you can find this psychopath for us before it’s too late.”

“I’m doing my best,” she replied, sounding less agitated now.

“I know you won’t let me down,” Stein said to her. His tone was almost kindly.

Jerry appeared from the back of the church. It was only then that Crawford realized he’d been missing.

“Mr. Crawford was right – the Irishman was never here,” Jerry confirmed as he joined them.

Stein looked at Crawford. “What now?”

Something in the look he gave the American and in the way he spoke echoed of challenge. Knowing the man as he did, Crawford suspected Stein was using this situation to compare them as leaders. It hardly mattered to him. Right now, he had more than enough to worry about. He didn’t need to prove himself to anyone; he knew how good a leader he was. If Stein wanted to seize this opportunity to gauge who was the better team leader, he could play his ego-boosting games on his own.

“We wait for Nagi,” he replied.

To Crawford, the wait seemed endless. He found himself silently cursing the absence of his Talent again. If he’d been whole, this never would have happened. He’d have been aware of the probability and Farfarello would have been restrained. But his precognitive ability had been taken from him and he had to deal with this without that advantage. He drew a slow, deep breath, steadying his thoughts, and reminded himself that it wasn’t just his Talent that made him a good leader. He was more than his Talent. He was itching to move, but there was no point to it unless they knew where to go. Silently, he urged Nagi to hurry.

Although the wait seemed to go on for an eternity, in reality it was only minutes before Nagi was back on the phone with the information they wanted. The call was over in less than thirty seconds and Crawford was heading for the car even as he slipped his cell phone back into his pocket.

“Where are we going?” Stein asked as he fell into step with the American.

“I know the way,” Crawford replied. He held out a hand for the car keys. “I’ll drive.”



The location Nagi had given seemed something of a stretch, but when Farfarello was in the mood for slaughter and had a target in mind; it was not beyond him to pull off the impossible. Crawford knew this; Stein didn’t.

They’d been in the car almost ten minutes when the Stärke leader made a sound of annoyance.

“This is too far for him to have come,” he protested.

Crawford continued to drive in silence. Stein was entitled to his opinion, as wrong as it was.

“He had a head start, and we went to the wrong church,” Jerry pointed out.

Stein’s grunt said he disagreed although he chose not to say anything more. He slouched down in his seat and shot annoyed looks at Crawford for not telling him where they were headed and why Farfarello would have gone this way. They continued on in silence for a few more minutes before Clara spoke.

“He’s started,” she said, her voice so low Crawford almost didn’t hear her.

“We’re nearly there,” Crawford informed them.

“The thing is,” Clara went on quietly, “he seems farther away.”

Stein turned in his seat to look at her. “What do you mean?”

“Just that,” she answered. “He doesn’t seem close. I can’t explain better than that.”

Her words made Crawford uneasy. If they’d been wrong again….

He almost thumped the steering wheel in frustration. Damn it all to hell! How he wanted his Talent back…or even his telepath. At least Schuldig might be able to give them a firm lead on the Irishman’s whereabouts. If Clara was right, it meant they were blundering around in the dark with no indication of the right direction to take. If Clara was right, they might as well head back to the safe house and wait for Farfarello to come home. If Clara was right, once he did come back, Farfarello wasn’t going to experience freedom again for a very long time to come.

Five minutes after arriving at their destination, Jerry had confirmed that Farfarello hadn’t entered the church. Clara’s verification that the Irishman was still in the midst of his killing-spree was at odds with the calm and smiling nun who opened the convent door to their knock. They apologized to her, gave her a story about having the wrong address and turned away.

“He’s farther away,” Clara insisted quietly as they headed for the car.

“That’s really of no help. We need a location,” Stein growled.

“I’m doing my best,” Clara defended. “He’s not particularly focused on street names at the moment.”

“How far could he get in half an hour?” Jerry wondered aloud.

Realization hit Crawford so hard he stopped walking. He cursed himself soundly. Farfarello was insane not stupid. He obviously had a plan in mind for his purging regardless of how senseless the slaughter would seem when he was done.

“What’s wrong?” Stein asked.

Crawford started forward again. “We’ve presumed too much and didn’t give him enough credit,” he replied, reaching once more for his cell phone.

Nagi answered his call almost immediately.

“Find me all the convents within a half-hour’s drive from the house,” Crawford instructed.

As he disconnected, Stein looked at him in surprise. “You think he has a car?”

“I’m sure of it,” Crawford replied.

“Let’s hope there aren’t too many convents, then,” Jerry sighed.


Nagi wasn’t so fast to phone back. They chose to wait in the car, sitting in silence, each occupied with their own thoughts. Crawford found it difficult to think of much else other than that people were dying while they sat on their asses, powerless to stop the carnage. Where the fuck could Farfarello have gone? How fast could they get there once Nagi had provided the crucial information? How many nuns were in that convent and how loudly were they screaming? He had a sick feeling that sweeping this under the carpet was going to cost Eszett a bundle. The organization was exceptional when it came to damage control, but unauthorized slaughter on the scale now taking place tended to irritate them. There would be questions – Crawford and Stein both being called on to account for the night’s events. Crawford was not looking forward to that.

“Clara?” Jerry’s voice was laced with concern.

Pulled out of his reverie by that one word, Crawford was immediately aware of the sound of panicked breathing coming from the back seat.

“Clara?” Jerry tried again.

Crawford turned his head and saw that the telepath had pushed herself into the corner of the back seat. She sat rigidly, her face drained of color, her eyes wide and staring in horror, her mouth open to accommodate her rapid breathing. Even as he watched, Clara began to tremble. Stein had also turned in his seat and he spoke her name loudly and sharply.

Clara didn’t hear. She was shaking and her breath wheezed in and out of her. “No,” she panted in a low voice. “No…no!” She raised her hands and flailed wildly at something only she could see. “Stop!” she cried. “Stop! Oh God, please stop!” she said as her voice rose to a shriek.

Her hands dropped to her sides and she sat unnaturally still, frozen in place. But she could still breathe, and on every panted breath came one word. “Out.”

“Clara,” Stein said forcefully. “Listen to me, Clara. Concentrate on my voice. You can hear me, I know you can. Listen to me. Focus on me. Forget everything else…”

“I have to get out,” she ground out through clenched teeth.

“Focus on my voice, and you will,” Stein promised.

Right then, Crawford’s phone rang. He hastily pulled it out of his pocket and, leaving Stein to deal with Clara, answered the call. As he’d expected, it was Nagi, who concisely relayed the information he’d been asked to collect. Disconnecting the call, Crawford could hear Stein still trying to coax his telepath back to sanity. For the second time that night he felt a sense of frustration and futility. He would be forced to race about the city trying to locate a madman who was, even as they sat here, turning a convent into a slaughterhouse. He doubted Clara was going to be of any further use. He’d expected her to be tougher; to be able to plunge into Farfarello’s mind without flinching…maybe he’d expected too much. After all, even Schuldig had required time to acclimatize himself to the Irishman’s mind.

But right now, he had to decide which direction to take. He turned his head, taking a look at Clara, who was breathing more easily and looking less horrified, but he knew she wasn’t going back into Farfarello’s mind anytime soon, if ever. It was down to him. He had to make a decision – with no clue to help him make the right one.

Four convents were within a half-hour’s drive of the safe-house. They’d already visited one, so that left three to check. Because of the distances between them, if he didn’t guess correctly, there’d be no saving any of the brides of Christ from the vengeance of the Berserker. Nagi had given him the names of the convents and the Orders of the nuns who inhabited them, but there’d been nothing about those names to suggest that Farfarello might single one out above the others. Basically, Crawford had nothing to go on and it pissed him off no end.

He grabbed the street directory and turned on the interior car light. Within minutes, he had the locations of the convents firmly in mind. Two were to the south, within a ten-minute drive of each other and almost twenty minutes away from where the group was currently parked; the other one was further away – to the north-west – and would necessitate at least a forty-minute drive, but it was more secluded than the others. Gut instinct told Crawford this was the convent they needed to get to. In possession of a vehicle, Farfarello would have had time to get there and begin his bloody work.

He started the engine, drawing Stein’s attention.

“Where are we going now?” the Stärke leader asked, sounding irritated.

“To visit the Sisters of St. Therese,” Crawford replied, steering the car back onto the road.

“Oh, is that where your psychopath is?” Stein enquired with false civility.

We can only hope, Crawford thought, but he didn’t bother to reply to Stein’s question.

Almost a half-hour into the drive and Stein broke the rather pleasing silence by sighing loudly.

“How far away is this place?” he wanted to know.

“Another ten-fifteen minutes,” Crawford advised him.

Stein shook his head. “I hope you are right about this,” he muttered before lapsing into silence once more.

Jerry and Clara had remained silent the whole way. Jerry focused his attention out the window, and Clara, fully lucid once more, sagged in the back seat, limp and pale and staring at her trembling hands. Stein would turn every now and then and speak to her, obviously checking on her physical and mental well-being. She’d reply in a small voice that had grown less shaky the longer they’d driven.

Crawford had no concerns for her. She wasn’t part of his team - thank god. She’d let them down more than once this day. Her attempt to right those wrongs by diving into the Irishman’s mind had done nothing more than render her totally useless. There was no doubt that Stein was pissed off with her, despite his displays of concern.

Crawford was beyond being merely pissed off. Beneath his calm exterior, he was seething. His team had been viciously attacked by an anonymous assailant. His Talent was MIA with no idea whether the condition would prove permanent. Farfarello was on a self-imposed mission against God. Schuldig, through no fault of his own, was unconscious and of no use. Nagi had to be left behind to keep an eye on the sleeping telepath, and he was being forced to work with a team not his own. He decided he ought to count his blessings – that list would be much shorter and probably less depressing.

Silence reigned inside the car for the next five minutes. Crawford concentrated on the road ahead, putting personal concerns aside for the time being. The car’s headlights cut through the night, illuminating the road ahead. Crawford didn’t know the road at all and they were traveling at a good clip, so he was grateful to have no distractions.

Then his phone rang. He reached for it, hastily pulling it out of his pocket. Maybe Nagi had some more help for them. Please, please, don’t let us be going in the wrong direction, he prayed as he pressed a button and held the phone to his ear.

“Nagi?”

“Verena actually.”

“Where’s Nagi?”

“Occupied. Listen, Crawford, Schuldig says that Farfarello is at the Sisters of St Therese convent.”

“Schuldig?” Crawford repeated, unable to believe what he’d heard. “Schuldig’s awake?”

“Took us by surprise but, yeah, he’s awake. Sick as a dog, of course, but functioning. We told him why you weren’t here and, a couple of minutes later, he gave us the name of the convent. Oh, here’s Nagi with the directions.”

Barely had she finished speaking than Nagi was on the phone. As the boy began to speak, Crawford cut him off.

“We’re already on our way there,” he said, feeling strangely light hearted. “How’s Schuldig?”

“He’s in the bathroom, puking,” Nagi replied.

“Warn him against using the links,” Crawford instructed. “You know what else he needs to do, make sure he does it.”

Nagi gave a mean little laugh. “I will,” he said.

Crawford knew the boy would take perverse delight in ordering the telepath about and Schuldig would be too sick to argue. He really wouldn’t need Nagi to tell him to stay in bed, although he would need the boy to make sure he ate some plain toast and drank some water.

“We should be back within the hour,” Crawford told him before ending the call.

“So he’s awake,” Stein said, “and, he knows where your Berserker is.” His tone was accusatory, and Crawford looked into the rear view mirror, seeing Clara bow her head slightly.

Stein was extremely intolerant of failure and the Stärke telepath had failed them more than once. Stein’s verbal lashings would continue, in varying degrees of vindictiveness, until he felt Clara understood just how very displeased he was with her efforts. It didn’t matter to Crawford. For once, it wasn’t something he had to deal with. It was a Stärke problem and he’d thankfully leave it to them.

His own mood had buoyed considerably in the last few minutes. Finally, he’d caught a break. It was about fucking time. They were going in the right direction and, very soon now, they’d have Farfarello cornered and caught. Once they’d returned to the house, the Irishman would sleep. It was par for the course after such “incidents”. There’d be no need for medications or restraints – it was too late for those, anyway. With Farfarello safely tucked away, there’d be a phone call. That call would result in an Eszett team springing into immediate action and taking whatever steps were necessary to cover up the night’s slaughter. Farfarello would have to be disciplined, of course, but that was a matter for another day. Right now, after all else that had happened, Crawford was almost happy. Finally, things were going right.

But he was honest enough with himself to admit this wasn’t the sole reason for his improved mood.

When they got back, Schuldig would be awake. He’d be extremely unpleasant company for a day or two, but he’d be awake at last. The fact he’d been able to locate Berserker reassured Crawford that he’d suffered no permanent damage as a consequence of the attack. While Crawford was glad that Schuldig was fine, he felt irritated that he seemed to be the only one on the team to have suffered any damage. His mood lightened again as an idea for Farfarello’s punishment began to form in his head.



When they pulled up to the convent, Farfarello was waiting for them in front of the open door. They were too late to save any of the brides of Christ if the Irishman was waiting for them. He was covered in blood and gore, and it puddled around his feet. There was a familiar, sated look in his eye and an aura of calm surrounding him. Crawford resisted the great urge to hit him. It wouldn’t have had any effect and would have only served to anger him further with the Irishman. Instead he merely looked at Farfarello and said, “It’s time to go.”

As Farfarello moved away, Crawford reached for the door and pulled it shut. He didn’t glance inside; he didn’t need to. He knew what he’d see if he did. He’d seen the results of Berserker’s handiwork often enough not to want to put himself through that ordeal unnecessarily. Whatever lay behind the now-closed door was, thankfully, for the mop-up team to contend with.

A sheet of plastic was retrieved from the boot of the car, ostensibly to protect the back seat, but Clara suggested they wrap it around Farfarello.

“To catch any of the…bits…that might fall off during the trip home,” she explained, eyeing him with disgust and a faintly green look.

Given the state of the Irishman, it was a fair request.

With Farfarello settled, Jerry and Clara climbed in on either side of him and sat as far from him as humanly possible while still remaining in the car. Crawford found this somewhat amusing and, had he possessed Stein’s childish mean streak, he might have remarked on the team’s apparent squeamishness.

The drive back to the safe house was uneventful apart from when Farfarello had alarmed his fellow back-seat passengers by drawing a knife from his vest. Stein had turned sharply but before he could act, Crawford had called him off.

“Leave him,” he’d said. “He won’t harm them. He’s done for now.”

Stein remained in position, watching Berserker closely. When it became apparent that Farfarello only wanted to hold and examine the bloody weapon, Stein had turned back around. But he never relaxed completely throughout the whole journey and Crawford caught Stein glancing in the rear view mirror more than once.

Once they reached the safety of the underground car park, Jerry and Clara had their doors open and were disembarking almost before the vehicle had come to a complete stop. Farfarello, still engrossed with his knife, was content to remain where he was until Crawford leaned down and looked in at him.

“Farfarello,” he said, gaining the Irishman’s attention. “We’re home.”



He’d completed his duties as a team leader.

Farfarello had been cleaned up, restrained and put in bed, where he was now sleeping soundly. Strictly speaking, the straightjacket wasn’t necessary, but it was a concession to the other team in the house. If they knew how easily he could escape from it should he want to, they’d have been less mollified by its application. Farfarello hadn’t protested against the fitting of the straightjacket. He knew the rules and was happy enough to comply with them when it suited him. Crawford had no idea how many nuns had been housed in the convent, but apparently there had been enough to satisfy the Irishman’s psychotic nature given how placid he was now. The phone call had been made and, even now, a clean-up team was headed for the slaughterhouse that had been a convent. Crawford would tackle the written report tomorrow.

For now he wanted only one thing. He went into Schuldig’s bedroom and stood at the side of the bed. The telepath was lying on his side, breathing normally again and looking less corpse-like than he had last time Crawford saw him. These were all good signs. After any bout of backlash, Schuldig wanted to sleep. Although, to the casual observer, it might have appeared he’d done nothing but sleep these past four days, Crawford knew that wasn’t the case. He’d been unconscious, but behind his protective Shields, the telepath had been busy putting a battered mind back together. It wasn’t at all surprising that he was sleeping now. He had to be exhausted.

Given that Schuldig had been able to offer help in the hunt for Farfarello, Crawford was satisfied he’d come out of his stasis with no ill-effects. With that concern settled in his mind, Crawford would have liked to allow himself the indulgence of sitting on the bed for a few minutes, perhaps touching the German’s hair and skin, because it seemed so damned long since he’d been able to do just that. But there were others in the house, and Crawford was not going to let his guard down, no matter how tempting it was to do so.

He gave the German a final glance then turned away.

Tomorrow, he told himself as he left the room. Tomorrow Schuldig would get up from that bed, and stay up, for the first time in too long. It would be Crawford’s immense pleasure to press him back down onto a bed – any bed – as soon as was humanly possible.

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More A/Ns:

Sorry this took so long to post - Christmas and all.

Thanks again to those who have taken the time to leave a review - I really do appreciate it.