Dragon Cycle

Dragon Cycle – Pt 6 – The Opposite of Waiting

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: As always I give thanks to my fabulous beta, Iron Dog.

• • • • • • • • • • • • •

Pale skin parted under the slow drag of the razor sharp blade. Blood welled and spilled in rivulets down the parchment white skin. It dripped from the tip of the knife and hung for a suspended moment before it splashed onto the painted woodwork. It fell onto the neutral-colored carpet where it was greedily soaked up; leaving a stain that would stand in perpetuity, testament to this sacrilege.

He had more than a passing familiarity with human bodies. He knew where to use shallow cuts and where he was able to slice more deeply. He knew the pulses and beats of a living body, and understood the fluctuations and flutters of a dying one. It was almost like art; the knowing. He was a master at this, his chosen vocation.

The body under his knife would not die – Farfarello knew this for a fact. Nothing major was severed and eventually, regretfully, the flow of blood would slow and cease.

Blessed relief came with the blood-letting; the feeding of a gnawing need deep within that nothing else could satisfy. It was as good a feeling as the orgasm Schuldig had pulled from him the night before. Before that, nothing had compared to the feeling of a life pulsing away from a fresh wound.

He drew his fingers through the warm blood, smearing it, causing the pale skin to resemble some demented child’s finger-painting. He brought his red streaked fingers close to his face and twisted his hand in the light, watching the shifting patterns it produced.

In the hallway, the phone rang, interrupting his work. Farfarello raised his head and turned a half-lidded eye in that direction. Knife in hand, he got silently to his feet. In the hallway, he stood and looked at the phone for long seconds, deciding if his newest masterpiece should be interrupted by such a mundane thing before eventually lifting the receiver. He didn’t speak.

“Farfarello?”

Crawford. Finally. Contacting him the only way left to them now.

“Aye.”

“How is Schuldig?”

“Breathing.”

“Good,” Crawford said. “Now listen to me carefully, Farfarello. You’re not to leave that apartment; not under any circumstances. You’re to stay there until we come for you. Do you understand?”

“No,” Farfarello said in a low voice as he drew one blood covered finger in a random pattern on the beige coloured wall. He thought the dark red was pretty against the neutral palette.

There was a small pause before Crawford spoke again. “No?” he repeated. Farfarello heard him draw a breath. “I’ll explain this to you when we’re all together, but for now, you must stay in that apartment. You understand that you’re not to leave?”

“I understand that – just not why,” Farfarello frowned and wondered why Crawford sounded tense and was speaking to him like he was an idiot. He was insane not stupid.

“As I said, I’ll explain it all to you later. For now, just stay put and keep Schuldig safe.”

“I can do that,” Farfarello replied already turning his attention to where the next cut should be made for maximum effect.

“I know you can,” Crawford said, sounding easier now. “And that’s what you’re to do, Farfarello. Nothing more. You stay there. Make sure Schuldig remains safe and you wait for us to come to you.”

“Okay.” Farfarello set the receiver back in its cradle and returned to the bedroom, dismissing Crawford from his mind; anxious to return to his latest work of art.

• • • • • • • • • • • • •


Crawford stood still for a moment, his gaze resting on the phone. He was more than a little unsettled by the way Farfarello sounded. He didn’t need a vision to be unnerved by the tone of the Irishman’s voice just now. Farfarello sounded like he had found something to occupy himself and knowing Berserker as he did, that worried Crawford a little.

He turned for the living room.

“Nagi, get some things together,” he instructed as he arrived. “We’re through with sitting and waiting.”

“Brad…”

Crawford turned on Stein, cutting off anything else he’d been about to say.

“I want you to contact Clara now, and warn her to keep a very close watch on Farfarello,” he ordered.

“Very well,” Stein agreed. “Although, I do assure…”

“Contact her,” Crawford cut in, urgency in his tone.

“Very well,” Stein acquiesced. “As to leaving, I have my orders, and they are that we’re to wait here.”

“This is my team and I know how best to deal with them,” Crawford reminded him. “We’re going to the safe house.”

He didn’t wait for further protests. He turned and left the room.

He was halfway through packing his overnight bag when he heard Stein’s voice behind him.

“Your Irishman is indulging in some blood-letting, but he’s harming no one other than himself.”

He didn’t actually say it, but Crawford could hear the ‘I told you so” in his smug tone of voice.

“We’ll go to the house and make sure it stays that way,” Crawford replied, not pausing in his packing.

He heard the soft footfalls as Stein advanced into the room.

“Mother-hen was an understatement,” Stein remarked as he came to the foot of the bed and stopped, watching Crawford. When his comment drew no response, he moved again, this time coming to stand beside the American. He reached out, catching hold of Crawford’s hand. The precog snatched his hand back and straightened, glaring at his ‘guest’ for invading his personal space.

Stein smiled, bemused. “It’s rather touching, I think,” he said. Crawford said nothing. He knew he wouldn’t have to. “This concern for your telepath,” Stein continued. He leaned closer and asked in a soft voice, “Is it personal, Brad?”

“Only so far as the team is concerned,” Crawford replied, returning to his task with a casualness he was far from feeling. “It’s taken some time to form the cohesive unit we are and I’d hate to have to break in a new member.”

Stein gave a soft laugh as he backed off. “Yes, of course,” he said, his tone giving evidence that he hadn’t believed a word of the explanation.

Crawford, done with his own packing, straightened and stepped around Stein. He wasn’t going to buy into this conversation. He wanted to get to the safe house without delay. In the right – or wrong – mood, Farfarello could kill his own mother and not blink. Hell, he’d done exactly that – and more.

Crawford let the thought go. Now was not the time to be thinking about the Irishman’s bloody past. No sense borrowing trouble with what Farfarello might do if left alone long enough with an incapacitated team mate.

In the hallway, he met Nagi, who was heading towards Farfarello’s room.

“I’m getting him a change of clothes,” the boy said as he passed Crawford. “I’ll be ready to go in a couple of minutes.”

Crawford nodded and continued on to the bathroom. Going to the cupboard, he opened it and pulled out a plain, black toiletries bag. Unzipping it, he checked the contents. Soap, shampoo, conditioner, deodorant, toothpaste – none of them scented or flavored – a toothbrush and a comb were all inside. Satisfied, he zipped up the bag, closed the cupboard and went to Schuldig’s room.

Opening the door, he stepped inside. The blinds were still drawn making the room dark. Crawford could smell the faded scent of Schuldig’s favorite brand of expensive cologne. He turned on the light and went to the unmade bed, where he set down the toiletries bag before turning to the closet. There were clothes strewn about on every available surface. Over the one chair in the room, on the bed, and hanging on an open closet door; but he wanted a clean set of clothes. He didn’t spend a lot of time choosing from the colorful array inside the closet. He grabbed out a pair of black trousers, a dark green shirt and a black sweater. With these folded over one arm, he reached in and picked up a backpack from the closet floor. Going to the bed, he began to place the clothes neatly into the backpack.

He was very conscious of the scent in this room. He’d smelled it often enough and in its many forms. Smelled it, strong and enticing, when the German passed him in the hallway on his way out, or in the confines of the car on their way to see Takatori. Smelled it, old and faded, through a miasma of other odors, when Schuldig had stumbled home from a night of clubbing or a night spent in the arms and bed of a stranger. Smelled it close and intimate, warmed by the heat of passion as they’d indulged their lust in one or other of their beds. Smelled it on himself after such an interlude.

Crawford stopped, realizing his hands were shaking. Now was not the time for such reveries, he reminded himself sternly. He would not give Stein the satisfaction of knowing that he was worried by the latest turn of events. Most especially, that he was worried about Schuldig in any other capacity than as a very gifted telepathic member of his team. Crawford needed to be in control and the rock-solid leader that the world always saw. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and let it slowly out. He felt some of the tension ease.

Crawford was in control. He needed to be for his team and more importantly, for himself.

He finished packing, placing the toiletries bag on top of the clothes, and closed the backpack. Lifting it off the bed, he returned to the hallway. Nagi was by the front door, carrying two backpacks. Crawford handed over the other one and went back to his room. Stein was still there. He stopped looking about when Crawford arrived and gave him a cold smile.

“Still the minimalist,” he remarked.

“I don’t have the time or inclination to discuss lifestyles,” Crawford replied, going to the bed and picking up his overnight bag. Turning, he looked at Stein. “We’re leaving, and you can’t stay.”

Stein shrugged. “I’ll ride with you,” he said.


To keep his mind off other things, as they drove to the house Crawford gave some thought to his unwelcome guest.

Being ordered to protect a team that had been attacked put Stein’s crew right in the firing line. No leader should be comfortable with that, unless they viewed their team as nothing more than a means to Eszett’s ends. Acceptable losses. Stein was that make of man.

When Crawford first met him at Rosenkreuz, Stein had already been in the organization’s grasp for close to ten years. Although not apparent at first, it had eventually become clear to the American that any sense of humanity Stein may have once possessed had been well and truly exorcised under the daily regime of intimidation, brutality and fear.

He and Stein had seemed to click when they’d first met. They’d spent time together and gotten to know each other; they’d shared their thoughts and hopes and engaged in night-long conversations that covered topics ranging from the philosophical to the trivial. Crawford had considered Stein a friend, or as much of a friend as one could have in a place like Rosenkreuz, until he’d realized that Eszett owned Stein Altmann, body and soul.

At the time that realization had crystallized in his mind, Crawford had felt a sense of disappointment and, perhaps, something of loss. Rosenkreuz engendered a sense of distrust amongst its residents. Friends were a rare commodity in that establishment. After Stein, they were a luxury Crawford had chosen to forego.

To this day he believed that remaining aloof had done him no real harm and had probably saved him from a great deal of pain. Reliving it was pointless, he chastised himself and directed his thoughts to more immediate matters.

Although Stein claimed that what was known about the attacks was mostly presumption, it was very clear they weren’t physical in nature. Whoever the perpetrator was, they were launching their assaults on the team’s minds. Perhaps that was why Schuldig had gone down. Being a telepath, he was probably more susceptible to that type of assault.

Then there’s me, Crawford thought darkly. There’s no doubt my visions have been affected, but that happened before they took Schuldig out. Did it happen so they could take Schuldig out? He glanced briefly in the rear vision mirror. Stein sat in the back seat, his head turned to look out the window.

“What was the assumption regarding these previous attacks and whether the teams were targeted as a group or individually?” Crawford asked, dividing his attention between the road and Stein’s reflection.

Altmann turned his head and made a face. “We weren’t sure. We had thought as a group,” he said, and then he gestured lazily at Crawford, “however it appears now we may have been wrong.”

The precog silently concurred. Unless his visions had been interfered with prior to the attack that took Schuldig down, he would have Foreseen an event as major as this – and he hadn’t.

He turned his attention back to driving. It was late afternoon and the traffic was insane. They weren’t going to get to the safe house in less than half an hour. Fifteen minutes later, Stein enquired as to how long it would be before they reached their destination. Crawford gave his estimation and Stein fell silent once again.

They were only minutes away from the house when Stein pulled out his cell phone and pressed a couple of buttons. Putting the phone to his ear, he waited a moment then spoke lowly to someone on his team, advising them that he was moving to the safe house with Schwarz. He warned his team to remain alert and ended the call just as Crawford steered the car towards the underground parking area.