route_1065 | She said I don't mind, if you don't mind

Entry tags:

schuldig | weiss kreuz

She said I don't mind, if you don't mind

Who: Schuldig (

aufsassig) and anyone who stops by!
Where: Around on Route 34 and Goldenrod City
When: Thursday, April 24
Summary: The lack of mental chatter in the city is starting to get to Schuldig, so he goes looking for someplace a little noisier — and finds it in the tall grass.
Rating: G to PG?
Log:

[It's been the better part of a week now, and Schuldig's telepathy is still on the fritz (although not on the Fritz, which he would argue is precisely the existing problem if he were the sort to make stupid puns, which he's not — usually), and that bothers him. In his experience, the only times a psychic has ever been cut off from their abilities is when there's someone out there actively blocking them from it, and it's bad enough an implication that there's someone out there cutting him off at all; worse still, he doesn't actually know who's doing it, which makes resolving that little complication a hell of a lot more difficult.

What he's been surprised to find, though, is that it still works fine around the animals. It's too quiet in the base with all the people floating around like enigmas to him, and the few animals he's run across in there have all had a sort of unsettling undercurrent in their thoughts — love the team, support the team, fight for the team, all glory to the team. The degree to which he can sense it tends to vary based on the animal, but it's always there, even in his own organization-given rascals.

There used to be an old saying around school, about never trusting a gun that someone else handed you. He assumes the same probably goes for — what did they call them? Pokemon. That's not to say the gun isn't useful, or that you ought to throw it away instead of making your life a little easier (and someone else's a little shorter) with it. You just...never forget where it came from, that's all.

That means a team of his own. One he makes himself, not one he's given. Crawford would approve of that, right?

And that's how he'd discovered that it's actually quite a soothing place to be, out in the tall grass on Route 34; there's a brace of trees on one side and the faint rushing of the ocean on the other, but amidst the rustling of the tall blades in the afternoon breezes, there's a bright clamor of minds all chattering away. The noise makes the world feel a little less empty and dead, and even when they encroach in on his thoughts, it's never hard to distinguish between himself and some dopey beaver rustling around for twigs. It's telepathic white noise, filled with simple desires and instinctive aims, and it's soothing. Bless that overhead sun; he'll stay out here all day.

...He's also got his Team-given Abra out, and in between his busy schedule of sunning himself and reading magazines he probably stole from inside the Base, he's lazily pitting her against whatever wild Pokemon might happen to drift their way — or whatever wild Pokemon he decides to compel to drift her way, because the little darling needs the practice, and you don't get stronger without effort and a healthy dose of anxiety and terror inflicted by your superiors.

And that's where you'll find Schuldig today — either soaking up the sun out on the Route as his budding collection of Psychic-types gradually grows, or wandering around through the city in the late afternoon, looking altogether pleased with himself (and fortunately not sunburned) as he surveys the wares in the windows of the shops in town and strongly considers buying himself an ice cream on his way back to the barracks.]

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[Did someone say peace and quiet?

Blake's on his bat, flying towards Goldenrod. He's gotten a lot better at flying since his first try - and gotten a lot better at telling Ray Liotta to keep from trying to break the goddamn sound barrier. Being up here in the rushing air always makes him think about the first time, though. Hanging on for dear life and swooping down to punch an asshole, and all the weirdness that had led to. Fuckin' nostalgia.

The experience still makes his stomach whirl around, so he sets down on the road outside to walk the rest of them way and let his heart get unlodged from his throat. He's strolling a little unsteadily with his four-winged bat waddling along beside him when he sees a guy with bright orange hair and can't help saying in surprise,]

Look at that. It's Ziggy fuckin' Stardust.

[You know, it's a good thing Schuldig has spent a lot of time around Farfarello and consequently trained himself out of using religious-based exclamations of surprise, because if he hadn't, Blake's abrupt arrival would've almost certainly elicited a particularly vocal JESUS GOD or something similar.

This inability to read people's minds is really going to get on his nerves, man. Normally he would've at least known someone was passing through; this time there's just a big mess of dead space...and some kind of bat near it.

...Okay, if he's gonna have to start sensing people by their adorable animal friends, this place is gonna get real old, real fast.]

And who's that make you? Weird, Gilly, or the Spiders from Mars?

[The reply is dry and vaguely accented German, despite the universal translator; with one hand, he surreptitiously pokes the Abra at his side to direct her to turn her attention with him to this new and interesting thing in their midst.]

[Don't blame him, he's just a sneaky motherfucker.

...~~'a big mess of dead space' isn't an inaccurate description, either~~

Blake regards him with some suspicion. If the Abra takes a look into Blake's mind, on top of a background of banked violence, masculinity, and ego as massive and lumbering as it is fragile, she'll see the thought that men aren't supposed to be pretty. It isn't right.

Then, when the guy speaks, a ripple of instinctive hostility towards foreigners vanishes under something else. Recognition. Blake's expression brightens with surprise.]

You know David Bowie? Hah! Fucking hell, I almost gave up on finding anybody from the real world.

[He barely notices the instant of loneliness that flickers across the back of his mind.]

[Someday, when she's at a higher level, Schlingel will have more power and appreciation for the fine nuances of the human brain; as it is, her training is still in the rudimentary stages, and Schuldig's spent more time focusing on don't you DARE let them find out what you're doing you little scheissekopf than on some of the subtler techniques of telepathy. She's doing her best here, but what she gets comes in flashes — the brief flavor of machismo, a touch of acceptance combined with the recognition that appears on the guy's face.

She's still pretty worthless, but she's trying, and it's a little more than Schuldig knew before. Luckily, this guy seems like the type who doesn't guard his thoughts very well; maybe if he's distracted, he'll project a little more, and Schlingel can dig a little deeper without risking notice.

Worth a shot, he decides.]

Know him? Son of a bitch stole my look.

[He answers with overplayed arrogance, making a show of flipping out his mane of hair as if for emphasis.]

Somebody said I oughta sue him for that, but I figure if I ever meet the guy I'll just pop him one in the mouth and call it even.

[And he watches carefully, disguised behind a disarming grin, to see what this stranger does about that.]

[Blake looks at him for a second.

Then he tilts his head back and barks a full-throated laugh, loud enough to make the bat next to him squawk and flap. Going straight for violence gets right on his good side.]

That's a whole lot more fun than dealing with any pissant lawyers.

[He remembers the terror and exhilaration of the wind whipping past him, a blonde guy turning with a look of shock that you could see even past the sunglasses, the sheer vicious joy and satisfaction in the crack of his knuckles. It's followed rapidly by a confused tangle of emotions that he deliberately ignores.]

You some kinda rock star?

[Sunglasses, huh. He resists the urge to shake out his hair again, and reminds himself to find a bandana and a pair of shades the next time he heads past the department store. He wasn't wearing them for the ritual when the tower came down, which is probably why he didn't end up with them here.

Oh, right. There's this guy. Funny how it's still so easy to drift on somebody else's thoughts even when they're not actively crowding into his head.]

Nah. I'm a florist.

[He lets that hang for a second, then barks a laugh of his own before the other guy has the chance to wonder if he's actually serious.]

Why, you want me to sing you a little tune?

[For a second, Blake nearly believes him, then he grins.] You could make a hell of a bouquet with some of the plants here that spit goddamn acid.

[Blake gets a better look at the guy. He's strange-looking, a lot slimmer and more willowy than a man's supposed to be, but there's an easy straightforwardness to the way he talks, without any effeminacy that'd set off Blake's alarm bells. His gut tells him this guy's on the level.

He waves his hand.] Nah, I didn't come out here for a concert.

[He gestures toward himself.] Carter Blake, by the way.

[The bat squeaks. He did all the work to get here, you know.]

Yeah, yeah, I didn't forget you. That's Ray Liotta.

[His gut is also arguably what told him that Ethan Mars was the Origami Killer, but you know, what the hell, we all have off days.

This just happens to be one of them.]

Dietrich Jaeger. Charmed, I'm sure.

[He doesn't bother to introduce his Abra; honestly, she's probably all the happier that he doesn't. She's a quick study, and being the center of Schuldig's attention is rarely an attractive place to be.]

Why Ray Liotta? Goodfellas, right?

[That was not his fault he was being totally reasonable, it was good police work]

That is the Krautiest name I've ever heard.

[He sure won't forget it.

It's a good thing Steve isn't out right now; she wouldn't be sure what that word means, but would have the feeling she needed to be apologizing profusely for him anyway.

Blake's barely noticed the little creature on the ground.

His grin grows, tinged with amazement.] Yeah. Yeah, Goodfellas! Holy shit, you know how long it's been since I've run into anybody here who's even heard of the classics?

[Hell, the last person he could remember who'd even known old movies was Dirk. For an instant an image flashes through his mind - rain pattering on the sides of the tent while they talked about Scorsese.]

[Fortunately, the observation about the utterly fake name he's thrown just makes Schuldig laugh (a legitimate one, albeit not necessarily an honest one, because there's a difference); pretentious people are fun to play with because there are so many layers of control to peel back, but the blunt ones are just a lot of fun because they'll say what Schuldig usually already knows — what everybody's thinking.]

What kind of barren wasteland is this? People don't watch movies?

[Surprisingly enough, he doesn't have to lie about that one. Movies still taste like rewards in Schuldig's set of experiences — cheap and easy distractions, like greasy hamburgers or the wind that blows in your face when you're going fast. A dark and quiet place that's populated with minds who are all pointed in the same direction, thinking the same thing; explosions and interactions and narratives that he never has to search for the ulterior motive.

As soon as he'd had the opportunity, he'd started devouring films the way some hard-up kids devour candy as soon as they get the chance. Who knew his prestigious repertoire would suddenly come in handy in the oddest possible way.]

No Godfather, no Untouchables? You're kidding me.

[It's not even close to the fakest-sounding name Blake has heard lately. The other guy, he had a guy claiming his name was Snake. He's kinda glad the guy laughs instead of getting pissed off, though. He doesn't really feel like getting in a fight right now.]

Oh, they got movies. They're just all weird-ass local versions. Some of them come close, but it's not the same.

[Nothing's really the same as home. He wouldn't say he hates the place, it has plenty of good points, but fuck, it's good to talk to somebody who knows how things are supposed to be.

Christ, you even know the Untouchables. [Blake looks as near to delighted as a face like this can get.] Not the Untorchicables, the real fuckin' thing!

God, it feels like a hundred damn years since I ran into somebody from the real world.

[He'd started to get that creeping feeling that it had all been a crazy dream.

He points at him.] Now, if you know On the goddamn Waterfront, I will fuckin' buy you lunch.

[Well, you know, ain't it just nice when you can make somebody's day without even trying. And after a brief mental conference with Schlingel, he abruptly starts to see why — so this Carter Blake guy had been starting to think he was crazy, huh?

It's not like he has any real idea of when or how a strong positive relationship with this random guy might come in handy, but in Schuldig's world and experience, it never hurts to have a couple wild cards in play because you never know when you're going to need to pull one out of your sleeve later.

Besides, watching the guy about pee himself over classic movies is kind of funny.]

"I coulda been a contender." Good thing you came along, too, I was getting kind of hungry.

[Free lunch is always a good bribe, anyway.]

[As time goes on, the real world feels more and more distant. Sometimes he's going along his business and he realizes with a jolt that it's been days since he thought about reality. Hell, besides Heather and a couple others, he's practically the only person around from anything like Earth. It's enough to catch you somewhere between worrying about going native and homesick as fuck.

Something as simple as somebody else remembering it puts him on good, solid ground.

When he hears the old line, he flat out cackles.]

"Instead of a bum!" You're all right, Fritz.

[He claps him on the back.]

What'd'ya feel like?

[Professionally, he sort of feels like breaking the guy Blake's arm for touching him, but that's neither here nor there and it'd be a shame to throw away such a budding friendship — or, you know, a free lunch. It's not even that he's all that hungry, despite what he'd claimed; you just don't turn down advantages when they come your way, and food is always a correct answer.]

I dunno. You know any place in town that serves a decent —

[Briskly, he sizes the guy up; no time to trust Schlingel with the delicate job of bodyslamming in and out of his head without risking him knowing it, but people often have a certain look about them and he's seen this type before. Carter Blake, clearly an American, old timey cop movies and a mouth and he hates lawyers...]

— hoagie?

[Manipulative or not, a hoagie does sound pretty good right now. They spent so long in Japan that he's ready to kill for something massive and stuffed between two slices of bread to eat.]

[Blake's in a good enough mood to hold back and try not to bowl the skinny guy over.]

Fucking hell, it's been a long time since I heard somebody use the right word for it. [Blake has very strong feelings about this.] There's a place in the city that makes a good one, though. They call it after a fire bird or something.

[He sets out toward the city, motioning for Dietrich to follow. The bat gracefully folds its two sets of wings and pads along.]

Hey, where are you from, anyway?

[He waves his hand] Besides fuckin' Germany.

[Well then. That's probably enough Abra-catching for the day, and all things considered Schlingel is probably glad for the respite — though her psychic workout isn't through yet, and she knows it. Still, she follows along obediently as her master gets up and begins to trail his new friend, silent and unassuming as she's supposed to be.]

We moved around. Friend of mine, he's got a deep-down soft spot for American classics, but he thinks he's too classy to admit that you can be a guy who likes to wear a white suit and get grease all over your face at the same time.

[He shrugs, pleased for the aside about Crawford because it'll make the smile on his face tinge more genuine.]

I was in Japan before I got here, though. Contract work. That's what keeps us moving.

[the little animal is so quiet Blake barely notices it. It's one of the sand digger ones, right?

He laughs] What kind of asshole wears a white suit? You friends with Colonel fuckin Sanders?

But hell, around now, anybody who knows Pulp Fiction is something other than a shelf in the bookstore is fine by me, no matter how they dress. ]

Contract work? You look even less like a construction worker than you do a florist.

Contract work. Security gigs, personal protection, that kind of thing. I hang out with a lot of famous people.

[And doesn't that sound familiar...]

Most of the time I keep them from getting shot.

[Blake strolls alongside him into the city, hands in his pockets. Usually when he's out on a Route he' on his own, but it's not so bad to have some company.

He shoots his companion an incredulous work.] You serious? No offense, buddy, but it's hard to imagine you holding an AK-47.

[There's a whole lot of things this guy doesn't look like.

A memory pops up.] Must be a more common line of work than I thought. I had a guy telling me that the other day.

[...Well, that's funny. He was just telling that story to a guy the other day...hmmm.]

You sure you're not just trying to make me jealous?

[He chuckles as they walk along, idly watching the ground until he finds a small, palm-sized stone that suits his needs. Then, almost whimsically, he scoops it up and tosses it once or twice to test out the weight.]

I'm a Sig Sauer kind of Kraut, anyway.

[He says, pitching the rock and nailing a target tree branch with surprising accuracy from a fair distance away.]

[That phrasing strikes him as odd. He thinks, He doesn't mean it that way, don't be a fuckin' weirdo. He'll just let it go by.] It was another newcomer, too. Wouldn't give me a name.

[He watches with curiosity as Dietrich stops to pick up a rock. He lets out a low whistle when it smacks the distant tree.] Not bad.

[A hint of challenge comes into his voice.] Guns are a whole lot different than rocks, though.

Sounds like the kind of dick who'd make prank phone calls to the network. I sure as hell wouldn't trust him.

[He says, and flashes a shit-eating grin once he's sufficiently echoed Blake's own first words back at him.]

I'd still buy him lunch, though.

[It takes a moment of narrowed eyes for Blake's keen police mind to work through that. Then he laughs.] That was you? I thought you sounded familiar.

[no he didn't]

Lunch isn't much to pay for a little entertainment.

Sorry about the runaround.

[No, he's not.]

I just don't trust open channels, you know? Especially when I didn't know who might've been listening in yet — or who might've recognized my name before I recognized them.

[Damn, what a good story. Listen to him go; Crawford would be shaking his head, the bastard, but inward he'd be cackling.]

Wish they had a shooting range around here, but I haven't seen one of those, either.

Careful guy, huh. You in witness protection or something?

[Inwardly, he's impressed. Most people around here don't think that far ahead.]

Hell, I guess nobody's told you the news. No weapons around here. Never seen anything that comes close to looking like a gun, and even knives don't keep an edge for shit.

[He jerks his head towards his bat.] Get used to relying on these guys to get anything done.

[The animals aren't so bad, but come to think of it, god, he misses the bark of his SIG Sauer at the range. There's nothing like the power of a piece in your hand. Yelling at a bat to bite somebody just isn't the same. Makes you feel less like a badass and more like middle management.]

[Now, for that Schlingel finally got her act together (it's about time, the little dummkopf), and Schuldig finds himself rewarded with the brief, delicious taste of middle-aged angst and bully-grade need for anger management. Oh, this is rich, and he's missed getting drunk on other people's insecurities.

He's keeping this one, all right.]

I'd heard that. I was holding out the hope that somebody was playing a sick joke on the new guy.

[... c: ]

I'm gonna be pissed if my aim goes to shit for lack of practice, let me tell you.

[If insecurity's your liquor, Blake is your fuckin' St. Patrick's Day parade. Anybody skimming along his brain is riding a choppy tide of aggression and poorly-suppressed doubt. This is a guy who's constantly watching for signs of weakness, because isn't everybody else doing that first?]

No such luck.

If you think anybody's bullshitting you about the rules around here, ask a native. They're not bright enough to make anything up.

[That's a troubling thought. Fuck, Blake's probably gotten rusty by now.

He gives a careless tough-guy wave of his hand.]

Nah. All you gotta do is remember that you squeeze the trigger instead of yelling, 'Gun, use Bullet on Methhead!'

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She said I don't mind, if you don't mind

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