Dragon Cycle

Dragon Cycle – Part 9 - Arrivals and Departures

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, a big thank you to my beta, Iron Dog.


Arrivals and Departures


This was why Crawford hated the loss of his Talent. Unpleasant surprises kept being sprung on him with startling regularity. First Stein had arrived unannounced and unforeseen, and now his whole damned team had done the same. To not put too fine a point on it; Brad Crawford was getting sick of it.

The American watched as the members of Stärke filed into the hallway. One of the women simply stood there, giving him a close look. Clara. Crawford recognized her despite the years that had passed and regardless of the fact that her hair was now black and her eyes green. He didn’t recall her clearly enough to compare the Clara of now with the Clara of the past – nor did he care to. It was unimportant to his goal of getting Schuldig back from his comatose state and getting his own Talent functioning again – if it could function again. Her look said she thought she should remember him – and yet couldn’t quite do it.

Stein closed the front door and made cursory introductions. The second woman, Verena, was older than Clara and she gave Crawford a brief smile and a nod as they were introduced. Jerry, the other Stärke male, radiated a wholesome air that was at complete odds with the company he was keeping. He smiled broadly at the American upon being introduced. Crawford was immediately wary of him.

“It’s good to meet you at last,” he said. The cheery and enthusiastic way he spoke grated on Crawford’s nerves immediately. He put Crawford in mind of an over-eager puppy that just might piddle on the carpet if it wasn’t watched carefully. He almost expected Jerry to extend his hand in an offer to shake, and was relieved when he didn’t.

With the introductions out of the way, Crawford gestured. “The bedroom’s this way,” he said.

“No need to see him,” Verena replied. “He’s not going to wake up for hours yet.”

“Everything’s progressing well enough?” Stein enquired of Clara, who gave a sharp nod. Stein directed a shallow smile at Crawford. “We might as well make ourselves comfortable then.”

“Can I get a coffee?” Verena asked Crawford as the others set off towards the living room.

“Of course,” Crawford replied congenially.

Farfarello was gone from the bedroom doorway and, for a moment, Crawford considered going into the room and informing him that the resurrection he was waiting for was hours away yet. He decided against doing that. Farfarello would remain at the bedside no matter how long it took Schuldig to drag himself out of the stasis that had immobilized him for days. Farfarello’s behavior over the past few days had indicated that clearly enough.

“We might as well make coffee for everyone,” Verena said as they headed for the kitchen.

Crawford nodded absently. There were questions he wanted to ask of Clara; things he needed to know in advance so that there would be no nasty surprises. He’d had more than enough of those these past few days. He really didn’t want any more. He especially didn’t want the kind of nasty surprise that might be visited upon him within a few hours of Schuldig coming back to the land of the conscious.

As he and Verena went about brewing a fresh pot of coffee and setting out mugs, he felt the unwelcome fingers of tension tightening across his forehead. Schuldig was waking up. It was what he’d longed for ever since they’d come to this house. Now that it was actually happening, he found himself anxious.

During his time at Rosenkreuz, Crawford had learned about the effects of mind-blasting on telepaths. The tutors had called them lessons and exercises and tests. Crawford had other names for them – less pleasant and harmless sounding names. He’d seen some of the results first-hand; telepaths who’d been reduced to unseeing, uncomprehending shells; who were wrecked, not only as telepaths, but as human beings. Those telepaths had stopped living and simply existed. The mere memory of some of the results was enough to make him want to shudder. The tutors had called them “weak” Talents and “acceptable losses”. The failed telepaths had become handy test subjects for the lessons and exercises of other Talents. It still made Crawford vaguely ill to think of some of the things that had been done to those blank-minded husks of human beings.

Of course, Crawford hadn’t seen all of this with his own eyes. The information had come to him through talk and gossip. One of the purveyors of that information had been a young man who’d arrived at the institution angry and rebellious, but who’d learned the game of compliance quickly enough. Crawford had been sure to make his acquaintance once he’d become aware of his presence but the American had learned his lessons well with Stein. He’d kept their friendship on a casual footing, certain the young man was walking the same deluded path that Stein had taken. It was years before he was to realize just how wrong he’d been; years before he realized just how well that brash young man had played the Rosenkreuz game. Having finally understood the fine deceit that had been worked – almost on a par with his own - Crawford had no hesitation in including that young man in his team when the time came.

And now he was waking up…

“When I first laid eyes on you at Rosenkreuz, I didn’t think you’d last the year out.” Verena’s voice cut into Crawford’s thoughts.

He blinked and looked across at her. She was leaning a hip against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest. Her dark gaze held an amused expression.

“I’m sorry but I don’t remember you at all,” he told her.

“Didn’t think you would,” she shrugged easily. Now she gave a self-deprecating smile. “Anyway, within six months I’d had to revise my thinking.” She looked him up and down, her gaze coming back to meet his. “Look at you now; your own team – and a highly prized team at that.”

“A team I won’t retain if I’m permanently damaged,” he reminded her.

He watched as she considered this in silence for a moment. Then she shook her head slightly with a small sigh. “This is new ground for all of us,” she admitted.

“You’re the Shield,” he said bluntly.

She met his gaze evenly. “Right the first time,” she conceded.

“Can you tell me about my shields?” he asked.

“I can tell you if they’re still there,” she replied. “Hold on a moment.” She kept her unblinking gaze locked with his for a few seconds before closing her eyes. Time stretched out as Crawford silently prayed his shields were intact. Verena gave a soft sigh and opened her eyes. “Your shields are in place,” she informed him. Crawford drew a deep breath and mentally gave thanks for small mercies. At least he had retained something. “I couldn’t detect any damage,” Verena went on, “but you might want to ask Clara to try to get into your head and see if she can discover any cracks in the shielding.”

“Thank you, I will,” he said.


• • • • • • • • • • • • •


He could hear them. Distant but clear – a clarion call. Tolling into his head…an unmelodious, discordant irritation. Worse than any mythical siren, they seduced the gullible, calling the deluded faithful to places of worship. Voices rose amongst the pealing bells, singing hymns of praise written by fools and perpetrators of the Great Lie.

“…faith of our fathers…”

He knew the words. He’d sung them with heartfelt emotion and with all the joyous innocence only a young child could possess. He’d believed the propaganda they’d pedaled – until that day…

“…faith of our fathers, living still…”

Living still. The Lie continued to spread, and fools continued to choose to believe it. Why couldn’t they see the truth? Why accept such lies and deceit without questioning? Could no one else see the true, dark, nature lurking at the very heart of the Church? How could people willingly, even happily, devote their lives to such a cancerous lie? How could they choose…why…?

“…faith of our fathers, holy faith!...”

Holy faith. There was nothing holy about the abomination that slithered into people’s souls and stole from them their right to the real truth. Once they let the deceitful serpent into their hearts, it poisoned everything inside them. Just because it sounded pretty and harmless; didn’t mean that it was. It was all the more dangerous because of that harmless air.

The bells and voices contained within his head were getting louder – unbearably so. They taunted him with the beauty of their deceit; mocked him for knowing the truth and being all but powerless to open the eyes and minds of others to it despite his efforts.

All but powerless. Not completely powerless. There were sounds and colors that could stem the tide of the Lie and he knew them better than he’d known the hymns of his childhood. The enemy was strong and obscenely powerful, but the sounds and colors were equally powerful; more so, in fact, because they were derived from the rank and file - the lowly commoners and maidservants - of God’s very own earthly army.

“…we will be true to thee till death…”

That’s how it was. So seeped in their deceit, they could not admit the truth even when faced with their own deaths. They preferred to cling to the lie and go to their deaths like their adored martyrs of old. Believing in the rancid lies of sitting at the favored right hand of God by grasping at the faith offered. He was more than willing to aid and abet them; willing to paint vestries and altars red, to cover the sickening smell of incense with that of blood, and to drown out the sounds of prayers and bells with terrified screams – because, in the end…they always screamed.

“…we all shall then be truly free…”

When the body of the devout and faithful servant of the Church lay opened and still, calm would descend. And yes, then they would truly be free…

But right now, his mind was anything but calm. It was full of the clamor of bells, and choirs, and righteous prayer; of vitriol and lies being spewed from the pulpit by men who knew of the great deceit being played upon the unwary, of angry condemnation for those who lived outside the supposedly God-given rules; and of soft, gentle voices lovingly telling of a God who allowed His only son to suffer a tortuous death to redeem those too weak to look after their own redemption…

And through it all…another voice…faint, seductive…calling to him…beseeching him…wait for me…I’m coming back; wait for me. The voice stroked his senses and slid through his mind like cool satin. He wanted to listen to that voice. He found that voice soothing, but it was too weak and the maelstrom of other sounds overwhelmed it as they clashed and collided and parted only to violently collide again inside his head.

Images formed in his mind’s eye; of nails pushed through resisting flesh, and thorns piercing the thin skin of a brow, torn flesh and blood. Of death and destruction raining from the sky, turning the heavens black with carrion birds and the ground red in a sea of blood. Of the many Servants of the Great Lie, their faces twisted in agony as they writhed and screamed at his hands yet still refused to denounce their God. Of the many more, as yet, faceless servants he was still to meet and send on their way to the truth.

The thick, cloying smell of incense, rotting flowers and decay filled his nostrils and he felt like he was suffocating. The sounds in his head had long ago melded into a raucous cacophony, and the images in his mind were coming and going faster than he could grasp them. Everything in his head was running at too fast a speed and he no longer knew that he’d lost control.

wait…wait…the silken voice pleaded, cajoled.

If he could have, he would have, but it was too late to wait. There were things he had to do.

Places to go.

People to kill.


• • • • • • • • • • • • •


“I can’t find anything wrong with your shields,” Clara said.

Crawford held back on any outward show of relief, but he felt it all the same. Thank Christ something was finally going right. He felt he was due about now to something, anything, going his way for a change. At least he was assured that, once he was awake, Schuldig could not worm his way into his private thoughts. At this point, Crawford was willing to take any small miracle he could get.

“Thank you,” he said to her.

“I rarely come up against shields like that,” Clara commented.

“Brad is renowned for his resistance to penetration,” Stein said with a suggestive little smirk and a lingering gaze at his groin.

Crawford ignored him, as he’d been ignoring his snide remarks and less-than-subtle innuendo these past few days. As time had progressed, Stein's comments had grown more spiteful, but that was just Stein’s reaction to not getting his own way. Crawford had grown used to that from Stein in their days at Rosenkreuz and he simply followed through with the same method of dealing with it that he had used then. Crawford ignored it as if it had never happened. He was not the least interested in the man in that way and never would be.

There was another man, however, who did have his interest – on more than one level.

“Have you been able to check Schuldig’s mind?” he asked of Clara.

She gave him a blank look.

“I’d like to know what state it’s in,” Crawford clarified for her.

“Oh,” she said. She made a face. “Well, he’s not keen on my intrusion but, from what I can tell, he seems okay.”

Crawford suppressed a smile. Rather ironic for a man who so enjoyed prying into everyone else’s minds. Schuldig had always been very touchy about letting another into his mind. Crawford didn’t think being knocked comatose would have changed that. It would probably reinforce that behavior.

“He pushed me out about an hour ago,” Verena volunteered. She gave a sardonic smile. “He really doesn’t like other people being in his head.”

“Maybe you should have been less accommodating,” Stein suggested.

The look Verena gave her leader seemed benign enough, but Crawford could sense her irritation. “I was anything but accommodating,” she said evenly.

Stein’s pale eyebrows lifted slightly to which Verena gave an almost indiscernible nod. Crawford noted the silent exchange, but could only guess at what it meant.

“If he doesn’t wake up soon, we’ll be spending the night here,” Jerry said out of nowhere.

Crawford looked down into his almost empty mug. Jerry bothered him for some reason. He still had no idea what Talent the man possessed and it was always beneficial to know such things. He supposed he could just ask outright. It just seemed a little rude to do so. It was like asking someone you had just been introduced to what color their underwear was.

“Given the strength he used to shove me out of his head, I’d guess he’s about three hours away from full consciousness,” Verena offered.

Jerry crooked his arm and checked his watch. “Okay, that’ll be about ten o’clock,” he calculated. Dropping his arm, he looked around. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m hungry.”

“Food would be good,” Clara agreed with a nod.

“There are a couple of menus by the phone in the hall,” Stein told them.

Jerry was on his feet immediately. He disappeared from the room only to return within seconds, menus in hand.

As he sat down, Stein’s crack team gathered around him to try to decide on what to eat. Despite the fact these people were top-notch Talents, entrusted with carrying out Eszett’s orders and making split-second life-and-death decisions, it seemed that when it came to food, the members of Stärke couldn’t make a decision and stick with it.

The interaction between them amused Crawford for about five minutes before he decided to rouse himself and find out what Farfarello and Nagi wanted for dinner. Although, he thought as he got to his feet, it would serve them right if he “forgot” about them. After all, hadn’t they abandoned him, leaving him to play sole host to their uninvited guests? Not that he wouldn’t have tried to bow out of that duty if he had been able. Sometimes being the leader required personal sacrifices on his part.

Two steps into the hallway and he stopped dead. The front door was wide open. He knew that Stein had closed it. He remembered seeing him do it. There were various possibilities to explain the open door, the least worrying being that it hadn’t caught properly when Stein had shut it. The other possibility was that, having failed from a distance, their assailant had decided to try them at closer range. But he didn’t believe for a minute that anyone would be stupid enough to step into the lion’s den, especially not with so many lions present. All the same, his hand grasped the butt of the gun in his shoulder holster, getting ready to cross-draw if necessary. The other possibility seemed equally unlikely. But… He crossed to the bedroom door and looked inside.

The chair beside the bed was unoccupied.

A sickening churn started in his belly at what that empty chair might mean. Moving away from the door, Crawford went along to Nagi’s room. He gave a perfunctory knock before opening the door. Nagi was lying on the bed, flicking through a magazine. He looked up, scowling at the intrusion.

“Have you seen Farfarello?” Crawford asked before the boy could get started on matters of privacy.

The scowl dissolved. “No,” Nagi answered as his gaze landed on the obvious gun clutch.

Crawford closed the door and made for the bathroom. His stomach did a slow rollover when he found that room empty. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He headed back to the living room.

“…but you always…” Jerry was saying to Clara.

“Where’s Farfarello?” Crawford cut him off sharply, looking to the telepath for the answer he didn’t want to hear but knew he was going to get.

Her dark brows rose in consternation. “Excuse…” she began but stopped quickly as Crawford closed the distance between them in a few steps.

“Where is he?” he demanded, looming over her.

She met his gaze defiantly for a second or two before letting it slowly slide away. It seemed like an eternity before she spoke and confirmed Crawford’s fears. “He’s not here.”

He swallowed the curse that rose in his throat. “Find him,” he ordered.

She looked to Stein, who had his cold, pale gaze fixed on her.

“Do it,” Stein snapped.

She dropped her gaze to her lap and closed her eyes. Within minutes, she shuddered violently.

“Oh, good God,” she whispered.

“Where?” Crawford wanted to know.

She gave her head a slight shake. “I think…a church…oh, God,” she groaned as the color bled from her face and she turned an unhealthy shade of green.

“Shut him down,” Stein ordered her in a cold, unemotional voice.

“Without killing him,” Crawford added in warning with a pointed look at Stein.

She gave him a brief look before dropping her gaze and closing her eyes again. She swallowed convulsively and pressed her lips into a grim line. Crawford saw her knuckles whiten as her grip tightened on the pen she’d been using to write down the dinner orders. Her hands began to shake and she made a low, pained noise in her throat. Less than a minute later, she expelled a long, loud breath.

“I can’t,” she panted. “His mind…” She shook her head and shuddered.

“He can’t be far away,” Crawford said. He turned to go and fetch Nagi and found the boy standing just inside the doorway, laptop clasped in his arms. “Where are the nearest churches around here?”

Nagi moved to the low coffee table and set the laptop down, kneeling before it.

“How did you not notice he was gone?” Stein enquired of Clara, his tone containing traces of venom.

“I was focused elsewhere,” she answered flatly.

“You should have been keeping a check on him,” Stein reprimanded. “Just because we were all here was no excuse to neglect your duty.”

“I didn’t,” she argued back, refusing to look at her leader. “I was keeping a check on him. There was no indication anything was out of the ordinary.”

Crawford ignored the altercation and looked at Nagi. “Anything?”

“Almost,” the boy replied, his entire focus on the screen in front of him.

While he waited, Crawford planned. Find the church, get there and get Farfarello out. Cover their tracks and try to minimize the damage and media attention. Stein would have to come, being a telekinetic, and Clara to keep tabs on the Irishman in case he moved on…

“Three,” Nagi spoke up.

Crawford moved around to look at the screen. Farfarello couldn’t have been gone more than ten or fifteen minutes. “Show me,” he said.

Nagi pointed at the screen. “We’re here. The first church,” his finger traced the smallest distance, “is here. After that,” his finger moved to the right a little, “this one. The third one is an unlikely location.”

He pointed to its location and Crawford agreed with him. It was, perhaps, just a little too far away to be the site of Farfarello’s unleashed madness.

“What are the street addresses?” he wanted to know.

Clara offered him the pen and notepad she’d been using. Crawford held up a hand, giving his head a shake. As Nagi read out the addresses, he committed them to memory. He already had a good idea where the second church was, but they’d need the street directory to reach the first. Fortunately, the company car always came equipped with one.

Now he looked at Jerry. The time for wondering was over.

“What’s your Talent?” he asked.

“Psychometry.”

So Jerry was useful for more than just making the leader of Schwarz uneasy. Crawford returned his attention to Nagi.

“You stay here. Be ready for us when we get back with Farfarello,” he said to Nagi. He looked across at Verena. “You, too.” He turned for the door. “The rest of you come with me.”

There was no dissent and no arguments; they simply did as they were told.

• • • • • • • • • • • • •

A/N: Farfarello was not supposed to run off like this but he wouldn't sit still a moment longer and I just had to go along with it.

I've also made some changes to the summary, hopefully for the better. As for the chapter titles? *sigh* Yes, they still suck!

"Faith of Our Fathers" - written by Frederick W Faber, pub 1849 - Copyright-Public Domain

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