Categories > Anime/Manga > Weiss Kreuz > Strange Times
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There was a lump on his left side, probably jostling some important organ or another. The mattress had that sort of utilitarian as-long-as-you-sleep-in-the-same-spot-and-never-move sort of comfort. Unfortunately, he didn't appear to be settled in the correct section of mattress.
Must be karma, or some other batch of existential, phenomenological nonsense in regards to his perception of said mattress. Honestly, he missed his decadent, almost indecent collection of high-end mattress and indulgent fabrics that were his usual place of repose. All the appropriate trappings of a delightfully shallow life were missing, replaced instead with a depressingly stoic functionality.
Everything seemed to be moving so slowly, everything seemed to be hidden behind a scrim. Drugged. He had been drugged, probably with the intent to keep him out for as long as possible. Good thing his metabolism was as neurotic as the rest of him.
The world caught up with Schuldich as he realized his brain was more than a little tangled with the graduate student huddled in a similarly cheap apartment next door. A student who was doing his best to confuse himself while studying for a test he had known about for a month and neglected for as long.
'Go read some Kant.'
And that he had been saved, and was under the dubious care of one Abyssinian.
Wallowing in the depression of the student who was now trying to wade through the categorical imperative, an idea Schuldich found endlessly amusing, Schulduch tried to pull himself into a sitting position.
After the first bladder-emptying burst of pain, which he deftly pawned off on another conveniently close mind, Schuldich decided that cracked ribs were one of his least favorite things. They followed directly after celibacy and Crawford in one of his 'moods'.
Crawford.
Schuldich bared his teeth in his most malicious snarl, the only physical expression of displeasure currently an option as his mind whipped through the better part of the city in a reflexive search for the source of his ire.
Finding nothing just served to make it worse.
Oracle. Prodigy. Berserker. Dead at the bottom of the sea.
At least they weren't confined to bed rest in the hovel of the enemy.
"Oh, how the mighty have fallen." Schuldich hissed. Or tried to. His wonderfully waterlogged and stressed lungs protested the vehement articulation with a truly stunning bout of coughing. Which pulled at his bound ribs, not to mention a diaphragm already sorely abused by similar convulsions.
Schuldich was in pain. Schuldich was unhappy. Schuldich was hungry. Schuldich was thirsty, and not at all interested in the tepid, wholesome-smelling tea sitting on the nightstand.
It was a recipe for catastrophe.
Commandeering the neighbor boy, who was going to fail his test anyway, Schuldich sent his newly acquired devotee out for the two necessities of life- beer and pizza. And a television. It was a wonder how Abyssinian got along without one.
Bedridden wasn't so bad when one had an endless supply of gofers.
Aya had sipped his tea, made sure Schuldich was drugged and at least marginally comfortable, and then slipped out of the apartment to see if any of the others had made it to the emergency rendezvous point yet.
He entered the café with his most polite smile and asked the hostess if there were any messages for him. The four young men members were regulars, after all, and sometimes missed each other throughout their busy days. It was a system Omi had devised as a sort of fallback for situations that separated them, a way to allow for an inconspicuous as possible sort of regrouping.
Nothing.
Aya thanked her, and seated himself at the usual table and ordered a cup of coffee. No point in drawing attention to the group by wandering in, asking questions, and leaving. No point in worrying. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since the tower had plummeted. They just needed time to get their bearings. And Schuldich had assured him they were alive. No harm in waiting.
Aya grimaced, reassured the waitress it wasn't the coffee, and wondered why the hell he took so much stock in the assurance of the telepath. Aya had no proof Schuldich had spoken the truth, that the statement had any basis in reality. It could have been the disconnected babbling of a disoriented telepath. Nothing more. That, and the bastard only told the truth when he had something to gain.
Or when he was trying to cause trouble.
Aya downed his coffee, left a generous tip with the bill, and stalked home. Suddenly he wasn't so confident that a sick and drugged Schuldich was a safe Schuldich.
There was a lump on his left side, probably jostling some important organ or another. The mattress had that sort of utilitarian as-long-as-you-sleep-in-the-same-spot-and-never-move sort of comfort. Unfortunately, he didn't appear to be settled in the correct section of mattress.
Must be karma, or some other batch of existential, phenomenological nonsense in regards to his perception of said mattress. Honestly, he missed his decadent, almost indecent collection of high-end mattress and indulgent fabrics that were his usual place of repose. All the appropriate trappings of a delightfully shallow life were missing, replaced instead with a depressingly stoic functionality.
Everything seemed to be moving so slowly, everything seemed to be hidden behind a scrim. Drugged. He had been drugged, probably with the intent to keep him out for as long as possible. Good thing his metabolism was as neurotic as the rest of him.
The world caught up with Schuldich as he realized his brain was more than a little tangled with the graduate student huddled in a similarly cheap apartment next door. A student who was doing his best to confuse himself while studying for a test he had known about for a month and neglected for as long.
'Go read some Kant.'
And that he had been saved, and was under the dubious care of one Abyssinian.
Wallowing in the depression of the student who was now trying to wade through the categorical imperative, an idea Schuldich found endlessly amusing, Schulduch tried to pull himself into a sitting position.
After the first bladder-emptying burst of pain, which he deftly pawned off on another conveniently close mind, Schuldich decided that cracked ribs were one of his least favorite things. They followed directly after celibacy and Crawford in one of his 'moods'.
Crawford.
Schuldich bared his teeth in his most malicious snarl, the only physical expression of displeasure currently an option as his mind whipped through the better part of the city in a reflexive search for the source of his ire.
Finding nothing just served to make it worse.
Oracle. Prodigy. Berserker. Dead at the bottom of the sea.
At least they weren't confined to bed rest in the hovel of the enemy.
"Oh, how the mighty have fallen." Schuldich hissed. Or tried to. His wonderfully waterlogged and stressed lungs protested the vehement articulation with a truly stunning bout of coughing. Which pulled at his bound ribs, not to mention a diaphragm already sorely abused by similar convulsions.
Schuldich was in pain. Schuldich was unhappy. Schuldich was hungry. Schuldich was thirsty, and not at all interested in the tepid, wholesome-smelling tea sitting on the nightstand.
It was a recipe for catastrophe.
Commandeering the neighbor boy, who was going to fail his test anyway, Schuldich sent his newly acquired devotee out for the two necessities of life- beer and pizza. And a television. It was a wonder how Abyssinian got along without one.
Bedridden wasn't so bad when one had an endless supply of gofers.
Aya had sipped his tea, made sure Schuldich was drugged and at least marginally comfortable, and then slipped out of the apartment to see if any of the others had made it to the emergency rendezvous point yet.
He entered the café with his most polite smile and asked the hostess if there were any messages for him. The four young men members were regulars, after all, and sometimes missed each other throughout their busy days. It was a system Omi had devised as a sort of fallback for situations that separated them, a way to allow for an inconspicuous as possible sort of regrouping.
Nothing.
Aya thanked her, and seated himself at the usual table and ordered a cup of coffee. No point in drawing attention to the group by wandering in, asking questions, and leaving. No point in worrying. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since the tower had plummeted. They just needed time to get their bearings. And Schuldich had assured him they were alive. No harm in waiting.
Aya grimaced, reassured the waitress it wasn't the coffee, and wondered why the hell he took so much stock in the assurance of the telepath. Aya had no proof Schuldich had spoken the truth, that the statement had any basis in reality. It could have been the disconnected babbling of a disoriented telepath. Nothing more. That, and the bastard only told the truth when he had something to gain.
Or when he was trying to cause trouble.
Aya downed his coffee, left a generous tip with the bill, and stalked home. Suddenly he wasn't so confident that a sick and drugged Schuldich was a safe Schuldich.
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