Schu-baby

A Crushed Violets Side Story by The Queen of Blueberry Toast 
[TheKWOBT@gundamwing.net]

I finally decided how to rate this thing! It is NC-17.  It's disturbing and 
home to many a "bad" word.  Oh, and sex.  Can't forget the sex!

Disclaimer: Guess what? It's not ours! OK, we'll you've read the manga 
or seen the show, you know what does belong and what doesn't.  Weiss 
boys property of Persia.  Schwartz boys of each other.  Youji's underwear 
of Omi.

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{Xerox - Found taped to the manuscript - Little wicked smiley faces 
drawn around the following passage}

"They're [the books in modern magic shops] a real trip, you know," she 
was saying.  "They're all about medicinal herbs or list instructions for 
making a homunculus, remember what Faust did with Helen of Troy?  Oh, 
Jacopo, let's! I'd love to have your homunculus, and then we could keep it 
like a dachshund.  It's easy, the book says: you just have to collect a little 
human seed in a test tube.  That wouldn't be hard for you- don't blush, 
silly.  Then you mix it with hippomene, which is some liquid that is 
excreted- no, not excreted -what's the word?"

"Secreted," Diotallevi suggested.

"Really? Anyway, pregnant mares make it.  I realize it's a bit harder to 
get.  If I were a pregnant mare, I wouldn't want people coming to collect 
my hippomene, especially strangers, but I think you can buy it in packets, 
like joss sticks.  Then you put it all in a pot and let it steep for forty days, 
and little by little, you see a tiny form take shape, a fetus thing, which in 
another two months becomes a dear little homunculus, and he comes out, 
and puts himself at your service.  And they never die.  Imagine: they'll 
even put flowers on your grave after you're dead."

{Identified as an Excerpt from Foucault's Pendulum by Umberto Eco, 
Chapter 43: People who meet on the street.}  

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I.  She Walks Around In Circles in My Head

Let's get one thing straight.  I'm a telepath.  And not one of those wishy-
washy Star Trek ones.  There's no good in me and I don't think there ever 
was.  I'd never rent myself out as a counselor.  I have no objection to 
rooting around in the minds of my so-called friends to see who got laid 
and who didn't.  And who's lying about it.  No, humans who can't speak 
without their mouths? They're just here to amuse me.  Pity they're not 
funny most of the time, but then again, fun is where you find it, like my 
mom always used to say.  Yes, I had a mom.

And I took her for a ride, wasted her for everything she was worth, ripped 
her off.  Anyway it comes out, I ended up going to college in Europe at 
sixteen and with none of my own money.   She was almost too easy to 
work on, not that trust has anything to do with it.  Or that I trusted her in 
any way.  She had no idea what I was.  Most of us get mistaken for 
average geniuses and I was no exception; just another wonder boy off to 
mingle with avant garde ideas and cigarettes somewhere in the wings of 
established acedemia.  

Even though my philosophy teacher turned out to be this way.  He seemed 
to have had a lot of people like me over the years, and the only thing he 
ever showed any interest in besides droning about the virtues of Habermas 
was using what little ability he had to make sure we couldn't cheat.  I 
hated him.  He hated me.  Neither of us could do anything about it.

Well, almost nothing.  It was the week after the second time one of my 
fencing partners "fell" "on" "his" "rapier" during a match.  The rumor I'd 
tripped him had finally died down, and I was enjoying myself- reveling in 
the remembrance that I'd made him stab himself and grind the blunt 
practice blade all the way into his taught, little belly.  Shoot the curve in 
that damn philosophy class *and* blame me for making it harder? I don't 
think so.  Besides wiping out the competition, I had also thrown myself 
into a half-assed, busy-work paper.  Topic: the inability of language to 
describe thoughts.  At least I could get into this one.  Even writing this 
now, words are lost on me, and I'm making stuff up faster than I ever 
could steal it.  Thoughts don't last unless they get passed around- all the 
more reason to take them and taste them.  But I digress, just as I was doing 
in the paper.

Somewhere between trying to think of the French word for "honey" and 
the English equivalent of "n'est pas", I was addressed by someone using 
the offensive nickname my one injured and one dead opponents had 
earned me.  Never mind what for now, it stank of inaccuracy even if they 
*had* known just what I was capable of.  [1]

"Having lunch until you showed up," I replied, taking the opportunity to 
launch the wrappings of my sandwich past his head.  I missed.  On 
purpose.  This time.  

The little prick sat down next to me.  I made him reconsider and he moved 
to a more respectable place, two chairs down.  "You seen professor 
Emmanuel around yet today?"

"No." /Him/ needless to say.

"Just wondering.  Eugene here says he heard him arguing in the hall about 
something, with the dean no less!"

His cronie, added, "He's the last prof we'd expect to get in trouble, after 
all.  Especially on a grand, grand day like this."

Eugene I found a little more to my interest.  His brain roiled with denial 
and I set my paper aside to find out what.  Cheating on his girlfriend.  
Stupid, glancing up some passing chick's skirt doesn't count.  So what did 
these two really want? I looked as they babbled on.  Rumor going around 
there was something funny about me.  I didn't need any of this- the petty 
chatter, their being further from the truth than they could imagine.  Yeah, 
like I would have been looking at Eugene's sorry butt in the showers.  

Just like that, but not entirely of their own accord, they walked off.  But I 
let go of the first boy too soon, since he spun around and called to me.  
"What's your major? I forget."

"Psychology."

As they left, they reminded each other this particular college didn't happen 
to be known for it's psyc program.  Not that I was here for anything 
remotely scholarly.

I was here to play.  See what I could do.  Be a thief.   As Eugene himself 
would have said, I was a "grand, grand" thief.  I thought of trying my hand 
at blackmail, but just then, one of the Anth teachers passed, and I helped 
myself to some test answers instead.  Grand thief all around.  

But I went back to my paper, feigning enough concentration to drive away 
even the most gossipy co-ed.  Only half of my thoughts ended up devoted 
to essay.  Too much "good stuff": I think I like my sister too much, I'm 
going to tell him tonight, I'll lose my scholarship if they find out.  Forget 
the sandwich, the cafeteria itself provided lunch.

And one tone, fiercer than the others, reeking of deliberation.  Mr. 
Emmanuel.  I picked him out at once, and hovered behind his mind, sifting 
through the vapor before me.

::...should not have brought her here.  She's completely psychotic.  I can't 
deal with this.  No.  I won't deal with this. I...::

But he ended up realizing someone was observing his inner debate from 
the gallery of another mind.  He shut himself off.  I did too since there was 
no reason for him to know it was me.  The only "bad" part of all this was I 
couldn't filter, couldn't chose who to hear, who could hear me.  My 
defenses were all-encasing, a bell jar.  At least his were too.  I smirked, 
slammed my binders and books.  Now where had those little worry puffs 
come from?

I couldn't remember what class I had next, but I whatever it was, I could 
always make the prof write my name onto the day's attendance roster and 
everything would be fine.  Mystery novels have never been my thing, 
unless there's a telepath in it.  A rotten, whiny slut usually, who has so-
called morals attached to her talent, as she would usually call it.  Walking 
is a talent.  Conventional robbery is a talent.  Telepathy is like a heart beat, 
or hunger.  Never a gift, never special to me, just always there, and that 
was even before... well, I'm getting ahead of myself.  At that moment...

...My wants seemed to have focused on something that I couldn't dip into 
directly- a mystery exactly like I couldn't stand.  My bell jar and I 
wandered over to the other end of the cafeteria.  It took me awhile to pick 
Professor Emanuel out by sight alone.  The teacher's lounge had been 
trashed a few weeks ago by some drunken soccer fans and was still in the 
process of being repaired, which left the instructors to roam the grounds 
with more impunity than even their students. 

I took the scarf off my head and jammed it in my pocket, nonchalantly 
filing behind their duck line- being well-dressed enough otherwise to pull 
it off.  As it turned out, most of the people in the group I followed turned 
out not to be residents of any kind.  The woman in the plum suit? 
Telepath.  The frantic dork with the crooked tie? Telepath.  Talk about 
redundant.  I'd never seen so many of them in one place before.  Not that 
it made me insecure.  I smirked all the way down the hall with them.  The 
idiots never noticed me, even with my obvious shields.  

"But, sir," The dork talking, "We really thought you can help! We're only 
your students.  We're powerless."

Mr. Emmanuel snorted as if to point out how understated this was.

"You are the only prominent figure in the world with any expertise in her 
condition." Nameless suit there.

"Prominent? Me?" I'd never heard him laugh like that and I never did 
again.  He swung at them with his rumpled hands.  "You're all blind! That 
lot of you! My other students, the ones who actually LISTENED to me, 
they're the prominent ones! Did you miss every one of my lectures? Did 
you ever stop to consider what you're doing with your lives and how 
worthless it is?" You tell 'em, you stupid jerk.  "Our kind, we are destined 
for greatness.  We wield the true scepter of the world from behind closed 
doors.  Run all the most lucrative syndicates.  Make the rich and richer 
grovel at our feet! Why aren't you out trampling these foolish Ordinaries 
to get what you want!? What you deserve.  I gave up my destiny for you 
people, and now you expect me to babysit that wretched THING!? Get 
out.  All of you! Go suck some poison thoughts."

But they all hung around him for a moment, like stunned birds.

"But that girl..." began the woman in the plum suit.    

"She's enough trouble to hide! I'll deal with her.  Don't any of you take 
her.  Just GET OUT!"

They did.  I was forced to turn and run with them, or else be spotted by the 
professor.  His eyes might have caught the corners of mine, and if he felt 
anything about me or the others, that I knew not.  I knew he hated this girl.  
A mad telepath? Could there be such a thing? All my life I'd figured I was 
the sanest person around, but I suppose even Ordinaries, as he called them, 
feel that way when there's no one around.  I think I am crazy therefor I am 
sane.  I pondered on this all afternoon; didn't really think about this "girl" 
and how she'd lost touch with the real world, even though she could feel it 
all over within twenty-seven dimensions, as opposed to just three.  

I just looked for her.  Like someone looks for a dropped watch.  I wanted 
to see her, and just because the professor didn't want me to, because at 
that point in my life I'd never seen a real lunatic.  I had no mental picture 
of her, and no time to work on one.  If it wasn't frustrating enough having 
to search for something 'manually', doing it while dragging that bell jar 
around with me sucked royally.  Then again, so would being caught, 
which was all too likely with that tele-prof in an uproar like this.

And so did not being able to find her.  First place I tried was the 
psychology studies center, better known as the college run daycare, since 
all they ever had in there were six year olds. I got greasy brat hands all 
over me, blue fingerpaint spilled on my shoe and an invitation to dinner 
with the most sickeningly matronly eighteen year old I had ever met.  
Then I took a shower, and went for the med building with my hair still 
dripping in my eyes.  No one there but a kid with chemical burns who was 
having some condoms forced on him for reasons I was sooooo tempted to 
discover.  As for the human studies building, I snuck into every single 
class and the janitor's closet.  Nothing.  Evening had come by then and the 
legitimate instructors were on their ways home.  No time to be caught 
skulking around.  I took the last opportunity of the day to hike down to the 
residents' accommodations: little peach townhouses down a crooked road 
on the other side of the campus.  Mr. Emmanuel's was empty, his 
colleagues' houses were empty.  The security guard wanted to see my 
student ID.  

About that time, I got bored, gave up, and went back to my room for a 
dinner consisting of tomato soup, a croque-monsieur and my roommate's 
insecurities.  

***

The next day, I actually went to class.  More or less.  A more accurate 
description might be that I went to class, and then arranged to run errands 
all period.  With a little cajoling of course.  The excuse provided to the 
other students was that I liked rain, and since it was pouring, yes! I would 
actually brave the chilly downpour for that note to the office that was ever 
so urgent, despite not even existing in the prof's head the moment before.  
This gave me more than enough excuses to wander the halls fully open to 
even the faintest thought-longings of another telepath.  It also drowned me 
in a gloaming fog of gloomy thoughts which, brought on by the weather, 
seemed to be pouring from even the crows that stayed huddled under the 
courtyard benches.  But this was how I usually went around and it was too 
dull a day for anyone to be truly pissed about anything.

I guess it was my third time to the admin building.  I'd already taken the 
long way around, the really long way around, and so this time gave up and 
took a short cut through the covered walkway of the science building.  
Why did the chemists and biologists get a covered walkway? I have no 
idea, but in case their labs blew up, I doubt it would have hurt anything 
except increasing the possibility of setting the entire campus on fire. 

Striding out from under the noisy canopy, I paused a moment in front of  
the door to the admin building.  My mind tensed, the knob felt thin in my 
hand as if it would fall apart.  But I opened it and met my suspicion.  The 
hall beyond crept all over with the immaterial and seeking tendrils.  They 
thrashed.  Desperately.  Missed me even, so I reached and out squeezed 
one as hard as I could.  If I'd spoken, it would have sounded like, "Shut 
up! Calm down! You know how absurd you're acting?" 

Whoever it was screamed at me so hard my optic nerves started to fizz out 
without my consent.  Pure terror.  It had to be her.  She jumped into me, 
rooting and snatching around, but she left herself so open, like someone 
spread-eagled on a bed.

All this, but she didn't realize that and I almost didn't either.  I'd come 
expecting the surreal ravings of a schizophrenic woman or at least 
someone the age of the students there.  These were the chaotic thoughts of 
a child with not a trace of self-awareness.  Gagging with terror and 
senselessness... and a certain sickening innocence that seemed to be 
fighting to breathe.  

She had not one coherent concept in her head.  But one thing she grabbed 
of me happened to be the latent ::Who are you!?:: that always came with 
this sort of contact.  

Her answer, long and stuttered, left me standing at the window, pretending 
to admire the wet grass for many minutes.  

The shards of her bit me, sank into me and fought their way out.  Her very 
first memory was of sitting on a rocking horse on the battered porch of her 
grandparents and their almost discarded couch.  She could talk then.  
Every day was beautiful if she said her prayers like that faded wretch of 
her mother told her to.  Every day was a new discovery if her father would 
put down his bible.  Which they did because God told them too.  Then she 
started saying the funny things mommy and daddy didn't like.  Her in a 
basement.  Her being chanted over by a haggard priest. Words she 
couldn't understand.  Water.  A Well.  Her mother screaming at us.  
Shaking her.  Belts.  The priest- this time he slapped her.  Why are you 
doing this, mommy? Because Jesus said so! Frying pans.  Clawing at the 
basement door during the Christmas party and having to see the lights of 
the tree through the keyhole.   I could hardly breath, my stomach hurt.  
They'd put things in me to stop the demon from getting.  So what? Fists, 
knives, rolled up towels.  I was in the well where it rained ice and slime.  
Daddy, I love you.  I'm not your father; Satan is.  I just wanted to sleep.  
But the demon wanted out of me.  Why can't anyone hear me when I 
think...? I fell.  All the way down the basement steps.

I fell back into my own mind as if dropped from a dream of stepping from 
the edge of a cliff.  She had started wailing at me for pulling away.  Or 
was just wailing again, might have been wailing all this time.

"Yeah." I said to myself and purposefully dropped the paper I carried even 
as my shields descended.  It landed just where I wanted it to, in front of 
the door to teacher's lounge.  I bent down after it, and pushed the rolled up 
blanket, meant to keep the plasterboard dust out of the hall, away with my 
finger.

All I made out were her toes her feet and her bare, soot-smudged legs, but 
there she remained, huddled among the ladders, buckets and staples, like a 
wild thing unused to a cage.

I shook my head, but not for her, or for anyone, not even myself, and I 
left.  What else could I do?

But I think I knew even then I wouldn't be leaving the university without 
her.

***

The most common fate of abused children is to become abusers 
themselves, get caught by the cops and end up in jail saying, "Hey, I just 
raised my kids the same was I was brought up!".  And this goes on for 
generation after generation until the memories of bruises and hospital bills 
and trips to the shrink stretch back into infinity.  Another good reason not 
to be a psychologist-  dealing with messed up people like that whether you 
want to or not. 

That's not even counting the myriad of neurotic and psychotic tropes that 
can be traced back to it: DID, PTSD, frigidity, OCD, repression, 
alcoholism and of course the phantom RAD which is just a fancy word for 
hopeless case if it's anything besides a hatred of human flesh.  

Was I "abused" ? A lot of people who've met me over the years-- usually 
people I've screwed with in one way or another -seem to think I was.  
Despite that legalese has made one sick woman's movie channel joke out 
of the term, I still don't think so.   I just actually learned something useful 
in psyc.  Is that so hard to deal with? Yeah, maybe, considering most psyc 
teachers are pretty frickin' nuts.  

So how do I fit into this? People who beat their kids taste bad.  Kids who 
get beat up taste bad.  Psyc teachers taste bad.  Stale.  All of them; stale.  I 
guess it has to do with taking forever to deal with anything, their thoughts 
just go sour and nasty.  Doesn't matter if it's their own complexes (though 
there are some I'll admit to savoring in my old age) or other people's, 
they're all  completely insipid and I don't need them around me.  Now 
people with revenge wishes, rapists, murderers, boys in massive self-
inflicted pain- those are all different, just like currants and raspberries, and 
the wild strawberries that grow up between the tiles of an old path.  But 
I'm getting ahead of myself.  I'm hungry.  I want someone to eat.  I'll 
come back later.

Jesus, I sound like a vampire.  Yeah right.

I wonder if Aya's around?

***

Okay, so anyway, a couple of days passed and I stayed the hell out of the 
admin building.  Yeah, me the guy who spent his free time learning the ins 
and outs of every bedroom in that college the easy way decided he wanted 
a little privacy.

I stopped going to Philosophy.  That never came back to haunt me.  Turns 
out I didn't need it- would have passed my first semester or whatever the 
hell else you're supposed to do with a Philosophy class.  

I felt fine.  Felt good.  Hungry and creative.  Finished my essay and 
burned it just to see how futility looked on me.  Painted my oils teacher 
the inside of her own head and she still gave me an F.  Bitch.  

But I was in college, I was supposed to do that kinda of stuff, right?

I'd say even my dreams turned out fine, except I don't dream.  I sleep and 
I go through what I have.  It's like sorting pearls or Little Debbie snack 
cakes.  Hehe, Ok both.

But minutes after that first time, that first day, I started to feel it.  Oh I'd 
wiped everything she'd shoved at me away, but this idea, this sheaf of 
curling fragments began to come together in my head even as I left her.  It 
wasn't something I concentrated on, no more like an insistent daydream 
algorithm.  About vanity and me, about the whole world and me.  And it 
wound all around me by the end.

/OK, so she's a worthless person.  She's gonna spend most, if not all, of 
her life in a room with padded walls being fed with a plastic spork.  The 
guy who 'fixes' her is gonna be famous.  They'll both have book deals and 
she'll never get a cent from hers since she'll relapse just in time.  They'll 
die and turn into footnotes in psyc books.  His research will be questioned.  
She'll be a martyr.  And this fixing?/

/Years./

/Eons to someone who's seventeen.  Forever to a six year old.  And by the 
time they were done they'd both be sour and nasty- she a puddle of cold 
cream and he a an ocean of vinegar-wine./

"Good luck, good riddance," I said to myself.  It was early morning on no 
particular day and I stood outside under an apple tree that cried all over me 
with dew.  I flicked a fresh droplet from my collar and nailed a katydid 
with it.  "Ok, so what else can I do?"

What I did was get up and walk to the human studies building.  The sun 
hadn't even come the whole way up.  No one had class yet except for 
Smoking Weed First Thing in the Morning 101.  All shields, I strode into 
the office of my psyc professor.  I didn't knock, but I made him look up at 
me at just the right moment so he wouldn't be startled.  Last thing I 
needed was him having a heart attack.

Not that he wasn't about to have one anyway.  You'd think I walked in 
there with a copy of the second book of Poetics the way his face lit up.  I 
won't even consider what his mind did, that would be gross.  But I said to 
his haggard, doe-eyed face, "Ok, so what else can I do?"

I was getting an answer from someone, even a sour-brain.

"What else can you do? Well, Aubrey," I'd never spoken to him directly 
before and this guy had the nerve to use my first name.  "Do you mean 
extra-credit?"

Did I? No.  I said so.

As for him, he reached for my hand all of a sudden.  I jerked it away.  
"What did you mean then, Aubrey?" AGAIN! "Do you want to volunteer 
for something? Do you feel lonely, or helpless? Maybe worthless? 
Because those are all perfectly normal feelings.  A boy such as you 
though, you might get better answers from Mr. Emmanuel."

"He won't talk to me." I sighed and pitched back against his cubicle wall.  
"Look, I said that all wrong.  OK, well, you tell me, how hard is it to fix 
somebody?" Why not take the easy way? I didn't want to go poking 
around in this guy.  I thought I made that clear, and if I didn't, let's just 
say he was giving me this twisted motherly sorta look  the whole time.  I 
actually hitched my pants up at one point.

"I don't know what you mean."

"You know, if you have to treat them for something like Schizophrenia?"

"Well, it does depend on the disorder, the severity of it, their willingness, 
their moments of lucidity... that's a very hard question."

"Luck?"

"Luck has something to do with it."

I laughed at him.  "You work here and you believe in luck?"

"I do.  You don't know, since you're from the states, but I was a clinical 
psychologist here.  I know what luck is- it's what I don't have and what 
most people in my profession would trade their own sanity for."

"Ah, OK.  Thanks..." I shrugged at his bewildered face and started off, 
adding as I was halfway down the hall, so I had to shout it for everyone in 
those quarters to hear, "And they don't call me Aubrey anymore.  You 
know that."

So much for that name.  I didn't really have one anymore, telling him that.  
But I knew I had luck.  Luck is something people will trade their sanity 
for, is it? Luck is something no one can test, no one can spare and no one 
can give their full attention to.  You can't make luck.

You can't just make a telepath either.  Not one convinced of testing his 
luck.  Or making some himself.  Was that all my wordless musings lead up 
to?  I wanted to find out.  I wanted to do the impossible.

I wanted to make a laughing stock of... everything.  Everything that was 
the social institution of mental health, the one that couldn't explain me.  
Out of bitterness? No, bragging rights.

***

I called my mom and had her wire me some money.  It was the last time I 
ever spoke to her.  

I left campus on the 11AM bus and went to the city where I let the noise 
have every hold on me.  I saw everything illicit there in one split second of 
a blink- it was salty as skin and I relished it.  I bought a blue gingham 
dress, a pair of red mirrored sunglasses, a suit that looked awful on me and 
I never wore, a black windbreaker that I almost never took off, three silk 
scarves, a dog leash, a fountain pen, a latte, a new French dictionary, a 
Dutch credit card, a suitcase with someone else's initials on it and a pack 
of unfiltered cigarettes that I smoked all at once so I stank and I couldn't 
smell for three days.

Then I walked back to the university and took a nap.  The last thing I 
remember before falling asleep was sniggering to myself since it happened 
to be the time I used to have Philosophy class.  Around midnight, I finally 
got up and found a heap of make up work and notes my roommate had left 
on my nightstand in a pile that would have fallen to the floor if I'd touched 
it.  The paper on top was a pointless worry-summons to the school 
psychiatrist, the same guy I'd seen that morning.  I took the time to blow 
that one into the trash.

It was one of those cool, cooing spring evenings that you can't go out on 
without expecting to run into someone else out, pacing and enjoying the 
moonlight while their worries almost blot it out.  They left the streetlights 
on all night on campus, so I could hardly see the damn moon as I skipped 
between seas of shadows with my suitcase and my F painting.  Why bring 
the painting? So I could break the back window of the oils teacher and 
leave it on her back seat.  Which I did with abandon.  Then off to the 
admin building, thoroughly enjoying lurking around in the dark places 
under the fluttering fingers of the trees.

The main building stood in a cove of colorless cobalt and I walked up to 
the back door as if it was morning and I had nothing better to do than 
harass the office ladies, who were boring, as most office ladies are.  I 
grinned and made use of the credit card.  No alarms.  Supposedly there 
was a security guard who watched our files during the night, but I felt him 
all the way on the other side of the building, enjoying himself.  Ugh.  Of 
all the mental images I didn't want while committing a felony.  

After all, this was the hard part.  I had to put my bell jar up no less and 
was wearing these squeaky sneakers I kept thinking I could hear even 
when I stood still.  The black scarf over my hair kept coming undone just 
when I peered around corners to double check. There's no point in doing 
something illegal if you don't at least pretend to be getting into mood. The 
security lights were burnt out- half of them.  I made due with the smirks 
the crescents and the half-phase orbs outside threw.  Besides, my legs 
knew the way.

Finally I did hear something as I came up too the door.  Without the hum 
of the daylight inhabitants, I could make her out.  Hear her.  Little shifts of 
cloth and plaster.  Sighs.  Whimpers.

She sounded like a dead thing gone after someone that night.  I ground my 
teeth, shook it off, shrugged, and kicked in the door.

Bang.

That made her stop.  At first all I saw besides wisps of dust and shredded 
tarp were these two pale, gaping eyes glinting at me from behind a heap of 
boards.  At least they looked pale compared to the dim surroundings.  Was 
there any more of her? I could, after a moment, see some incidental 
stunted motion movements around those eyes.  The closer I got, the more 
she faded in, appeared for me- a puny little thing in these filthy overalls 
looking at me like I was god or her father.

I knew why she could barely breathe, even without anything of mine.  
She'd already told me... 

"Who're...?"

"Quiet!" I hissed and held my finger to my lips just to get my point across.   
I hadn't even been sure she COULD talk, and now that I knew she did, I 
wished she COULDN'T.  Last thing I needed was her screaming halfway 
past the girl's dorm or something.

Not willing to play Jane Fosse with her (Did she have a name? Screw it.) I 
reached into her cubby and yanked her out by the shoulders.  She gasped 
but went limp as a rag, eyes clamping closed.  Then I did something I was 
pretty sure would disturb her more than it did me.  I pulled her clothes off 
after a lengthy session of her buckles and the lack of light verses my 
fingers.   She was cold all over. 

I'd dropped my shields by then, I'd had no choice.  The only way I'd get 
through that part at least was by keeping her lips shut nice and tight with 
just barely enough touch from my mind.  The gingham dress fit her well 
enough- but she was thin and you could kind of tell she had no panties on.  
I would have gotten the thing on faster if she hadn't kept tugging at the 
strands of my hair that had fallen out of my once again lopsided scarf.

"Look," I finally began, "You stop that or we'll never get outta here."

She did.  Words were enough.  The tilt of her cheeks and the way she 
popped her finger against her numb  lips said, "Where?" but I didn't 
answer, not that question.

"You want out, right? Well, I do, too.  And you're coming along,"

The little girl came up closer to me before I even started walking out of 
the room.  I heard her trailing behind me like a puppy the whole way 
across campus.  Stupid brat- what made her think she could trust me? 
What made  her think I was anything better than where she'd come from? 
Was she that desperate? Then this would stand as evidence for the sheer 
beauty of the number I was gonna do on her.  I never once had to look 
back for her until we reached the gate.  I didn't have to test the nearness of 
her thoughts.  She, under the phosphorescent glow of the nightlights of 
that college, did every little thing that a child has in their power on a dark 
night, to let me know she was still back there; gasped at a glow worm, 
flapped her feet hard against the crack in the walkway, stuttered and 
moaned at the branches she twiddled as she held them out of her face 
when we hid in the mulberries.  

She only touched me once and I jumped so hard I might as well have 
slapped her.  Good thing we'd nearly reached the gate by then.  Well, the 
side gate, more or less a striped arch of wrought iron across the 
maintenance entrance.  I couldn't even see make the thing out it had so 
few bars that were all too welcome to blend into the dark road beyond- the 
one where there were no streetlights, only a mile of dark and patchy 
woodland that kept the children here out of view of the city below.  I could 
hear the nightingales, and the crickets- see the spatters of more glow 
worms and of moths and the uneasy creakiness they guarded.    

What I couldn't do was fit through the bars.  It wouldn't have been a 
problem for her, but what good would that have done?

The gate was more than ten feet and I had baggage, so I paced back the 
line of oaks until I seemed to have a suitable space between the gate and 
me, since I could jump pretty well, back then.  The little girl hung there 
beside it.  What did she think I'd do?

"Want a ride?" I asked.  

She came up to me either because she could understand or she couldn't.  I 
didn't care, I just hoisted her up and stuffed her in my windbreaker since 
she was there.  It felt damn weird having a twitching little lump against 
me, and even though she was slung up in my coat, she kept kinda 
squirming away from me.  Like I was too warm for her. 

I shrugged and took off, vaulting up onto the center rung of the gate on my 
very first try, over on the second swing, suitcase, brat and all.  We landed 
with a soft crack on the pavement below.  Stupid sneakers.  If leaving 
them behind wouldn't have provided a "clue" for Mr. Emmanuel, I would 
have.  In the mean time, I dropped the kid and she followed me into the 
undergrowth, where she stood huddled around herself, and I had to cram 
my fist in my mouth to keep from laughing.  What a joke.  I wasn't even 
sweating.  This was too easy.  

A few minutes later we got up and left, started walking across the dew and 
the hoards of skittish things below it.  The town loomed like a coiled 
serpent with chimneys for thorns, and yet the air hung otherwise serene 
around us and the moonlight.  My shields were on full power now since I 
had to reason to leave them down.  She was behaving pretty well, 
especially for someone totally whacked.  I couldn't have planned it better 
if I'd taken more than ten seconds to think it through.

"It's dark..." whispered the little girl.

"So what? No one around to see us like this."

"I dunno.  I kinda like the dark.  I'm OK."

Yeah, this was one messed up kid alright.  And I marched right into town 
with her stepping on my heels.  Maybe she thought this was a dream? I 
thought kids could tell dreams weren't real at six.

Maybe she was so far gone it didn't exactly matter.  Anything shiny for 
her to follow, she would.  Did.

The evening remained, holding on longer just for me.  Making the first 
day of my game into one endless spell of darkness- perfect for all the 
thoughts that taste the best.  We passed a bar and I considered buying 
myself a raspberry beer to celebrate, but it turned out all the maudlin 
considerations rolling out of the place were better than even the richest 
burgundy.  So I stood.  And I tasted for awhile.  And I realized she was 
lagging behind me.

"Hurry up, would you?"

No answer, she just came and stood real close to me, trying to catch my 
eyes with hers.  Heh, I could see their color in the dank light from the bar 
now.  Ultramarine.  And wet, but I paid no attention to that. 

"Where are we going?" From about ten feet away.

"Bus depot.  Then the airport." I thumped the suitcase and swung it into 
my other hand.

Pause, then from fifteen feet.  "O-Okay."

I couldn't hear the patters of her anymore, just the whir of an Audi on a 
side street.  Someone leaving late or early.  "I said hurry up already!"

Nothing, just the headlights throwing my shadow and no other.  The old 
pervert in the car gave us both nice, lechy looks.  Well, me and something 
back on the other side of the alley we'd passed, and somehow I didn't 
think it was a cat.  I spun around and watched him pass her.  She, frozen to 
the sidewalk there, caught in the echoes of his Italian opera that had left 
his car, not hearing the words. Or did she even see him?

So much for wondering.  She started to bawl.  Loud.

I just stood there in damp, hot resentment that had hit just so fast.  The 
sound of the motor died, and there I was, watching her crunch her face up, 
feeling mine stiffen with anger.  And I'm usually so good stuffing that sort 
of thing inside.  I wrenched myself into some slow steps, dragging the 
suitcase over the concrete.  "Hey! Would you stop that? I came back, 
alright.  Now do you want to get outta here or not?"

"I... I... I..." Anyway, I guess that's pretty close to her gurgles.  Her arms 
were wrapped so tightly around her chest it was a wonder she didn't break 
her own ribs.

"What? What do you want? Candy? Money? Cookies?"  Sighed as I 
stamped my foot.

"I... I... I... I... I... I think... I... but you..." This died wretchedly in a fit 
of moans as she dropped her head away from me and collapsed on the 
pavement.  

Another car passed.  I could feel my cheeks burning.  I didn't even know 
these people, I didn't even taste these people.  I didn't want to.  What did I 
care what they thought.  Oh yeah, like this was *MY* kid or something.

"You're making a scene! Now stop it!" 

That's when it hit me.  If I got on that plane, this *was* my kid.  If I 
started poking around in that blond little head of hers, this was my kid.  Of 
all the people I could have remembered- no home ec teachers, no knocked 
up whores, not even my own parents, who I'd forgotten before I even left 
home- I heard Mr. Emmanuel as if the old bastard was standing beside me.

 /"My other students, the one's who actually LISTENED to me, they're 
the prominent ones! Did you miss every one of my lectures? Did you ever 
stop to consider what you're doing with your lives and how worthless it 
is?  Our kind, we are destined for greatness.  We wield the true scepter of 
the world from behind closed doors..."/

And there she was, blubbing like there was no tomorrow.

/"...Run all the most lucrative syndicates..."/

There she was making a total fool of me without even trying.

/...Make the rich and richer grovel at our feet! Why aren't you out 
trampling these foolish Ordinaries to get what you want!? What you 
deserve."/

Good question.  This was definitely not what I wanted.  Esteem or no 
esteem.  Bragging rights or no bragging rights.

This was hell and I should have known.  I even hated myself for a minute.  
Yeah, ten seconds for all this.  Real smooth.

At least she wasn't yelling.  It wasn't too far back.  Hey, I could be curled 
up in my hard little dorm issue mattress by dawn and she could be back in 
basement of her own madness before then.  Or maybe if she'd just be quiet 
I could prove them all wrong. 


So I walked over and I hauled her up by her left arm.

She did scream then.  So did I.  I dragged us both into an alley, broke my 
bell jar down and jumped into her head, tearing at everything loud in it as 
closed as it would go.  I got far enough into her my sight went out 
completely, and her mind cried out in protest, over and over, louder and 
louder.  It was worse than a Tori Amos record blaring in my ear with the 
treb all the way up and it lashed at me.  Yes, lashed at me.  I kneeled down 
and grabbed her by the shoulders, as if touching was going to make my 
hold on her stronger.  OK, so I haven't lost all tropes of people who can 
only talk.  

I looked down, don't ask me why, but it was then I finally realized I 
hadn't even bought her shoes.  /You stupid ass! What, did you think she 
was just gonna grow some? This is hopeless! Oh yeah, this is it.  I don't 
care what the hell she is, I AM NOT gonna deal with this anymore!  I'll 
just leave her somewhere, say she's an orphan and be done with it! I don't 
need anything to look after! I need her to SHUT UP! You and Mr. 
Emmanuel.  How could I let him get to me? How could I let YOU get to 
me.  You and your wasted life that won't leave me alone! I can taste 
everything in you! I can feel your father's belt on your back! I can hear 
your mother saying she hates you.  She's right! You worthless gutter 
trash! You little.../

::I'm sorry.::

Thoughts.  Words don't do them any good, even if I resort to comparing 
them to food.  I may use words here, but they're nothing like words.  
Words are their pale echo.

So when someone apologizes mind to mind, it's not so empty.  It's not the 
signifier between the capitol "I" and the dangling "y".  It's everything in 
them, plunging into you and caressing.  At least it was with her.  But 
having shields, having never met someone else this form filling-  ::You 
jumped into me with my own line!? Why you little... you little... If you're 
so damn sorry would you stop it already!?::

::Stop what?::

::That noise! Can't you even hear yourself in there! That racket! That stuff 
in you that hurts!:: I reached around and pulled up the acrid licorice 
effigies of everyone who'd ever known her back wherever she was from.  
Mom.  Dad.  Rats.  Pastor. Her reflection.  Her own whimpers, over and 
over and million singing nerves that came with each one.

::I... I... I...::

::Not again!::

::But I don't know how!::

::Then stop fighting me and let me do it already!::
 
Silence.  I'd been thinking about it so long I actually shuddered when it 
passed over me.  My hold on her remained... further.  Not further than I'd 
ever walked into another person.  It takes an awful lot to make someone 
stab themselves but... I had her inside and she didn't mind me there, 
sitting like a spider at the center of the web of her.  Sure, there was 
nothing left around besides me and a few shreds of... someone.

Silence isn't golden, by the way.  It's kinda purple.  And kinda grey.  And 
misty sorta.  Tastes like water.  Feels like nothing.  Sounds like the whir of 
a fan somewhere down the street. I'd never heard a mind go so quiet 
before... and I'd done it.  She'd let me...

::There.  Happy now?::

Not in the least.  An inquiry fell through my entire recollection of my 
body.  Only one thing that could mean.  ::Who ARE YOU? I wanna know! 
Why won't you tell me? Please tell me.  I need to hear your name, I 
haven't got one, but please, anything.::

I let her in on my nickname, since I didn't want her running around telling 
everyone we met my real one.  How dumb would that be? ::Schuldich.:: I 
shoulda known it was too much for some little American brat to 
pronounce, and too much for one who knew the connotation as soon as I 
thought of it to deal with.

Her face and her mind nearly went to tears again.  It was pathetic beyond 
words.  I sighed, but I didn't leave her head like I usually would have 
done.  

::Fine, call me whatever!::

Thoughts of nonsensical syllables wheeled around me, she hit me with a 
few.  Tried to find some other title for they guy with her in the alley.  The 
guy who happened to be me.  My body smirked, but that didn't last.  Not 
until I heard her idea.

::Schu-baby!::

Christ.  I started pulling away at that, figuring even a kid could sense my 
disgust.  But as my vision faded in again, that was all the affirmation I 
could ever need.  This WAS a little girl.  A sad, helpless brat that I has 
single-handedly kidnapped.  Of my own derision.  Her nose was running.  
Her mental hands were still in me like blue needles.

I gave up, wiped the snot off her upper lip and hoisted her onto my 
shoulders.  She was fuckin' cute enough without cut up toes yet.  "Fine, 
call me Schu-baby."

*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*&*


[1] Both of the linguistic jokes from the opening in one note! 
a) "fell" "on" "his" "rapier"- one of my betas remarked this joke requires a 
diagram, and since I'm bad at ASCII art, I'll just fake one with text.  The 
idea is that this over-punctuated statement is amusing because rather than 
calling into question that the poor fellow had an "accident" with his 
sword, it takes exceptions with that idea, the fact he fell, that he fell "on" it 
(as if he could fall in it, which he can't but anyway), that it was his rapier 
and that it was a rapier at all.
b) There is no English Equivalent of "n'est pas", although, it's rather like 
"ne" in some respects if you're familiar with Japanese particles.