Title: I Once Knew A Man
Author: Gilly Wrist
Reviews are most welcome and greatly appreciated.
I once knew a man you know as a monster.
He is long gone now. As last season's hatchlings, so he has left the nest. And he has crashed down into this earth. Not all of us can fly.
But once, I knew this man. And for that once. For that instance. I ask of you to spare him now.
I will begin now in the third. It is easier this way. I do not know in what person I will be at this end.
The man/the boy (I was just a boy) cannot stand for shaking. His breaths were gasps, his voice, not above whispering rasps. (The words were curses, and best not heard anyway.) He was dying. And the men in uniforms not matching his own were stalking closer. This fighter/this boy really, this soldier answers to Maxwell. They, the men in uniform, did not know this. But they know he was someone. A someone not on their side. A someone of suspicion. A someone of presumed espionage. These men were correct.
Maxwell had been engaging espionage. Now Maxwell was engaging in dying. The artillery either stopped or the boy had lost his hearing. The men grabbed him by the arm pits and he had no resistance. He was a boy in the arms of men, marveling at how wet his side felt. The shrapnel watering can. The inability to draw much breath held his awareness in his lungs. This was a gift. He was so very dizzy. This was also a gift.
He woke up in the back of a truck. The road was the surface of the moon and each bump, each bump sends a shattering earthquake down his form. The sounds were starting to return to his ears. He heard his own whimpers. The spinning remained.
He then remembered fluorescence and a cold table. This was a hospital. A laboratory. And he had never been so grateful when the mask was pressed down over his nose. If this is my death, he thought. OK.
It is a bright death. Squinting bright. Hard and cold.
The boy woke up in a cell. It was not his death. His hair is hard and crunchy with dried blood. His side is tightly bandaged. He did not dare peek under the bandages as one would not dare peek under the dress of the Santa Maria. There are Certain Things on the list of damnable. Certain Things cannot be unseen. The condition of yourself as Frankenstein is one of them.
He waited, as all must do, in the cubicles of stopped time. The fluorescent rods in the ceiling never switched off. This light was of no comfort. This was a lab rat's death. This worried him. It smelled sterile. It was too bright.
The opening door of the guards was a comfort until he realized they are taking him for a official-acronym-procedure processed by the mind as power and pain. He never imagined torture to be so obvious inside the clean bright halls of official men. In his darkest thoughts, he would paint these rooms poetically. A construct of reality that had some sense. Darkness, bars, medieval shit buckets, rats. He imagined a dark hole with Jean Valjean. The obviousness of all this pained him. The pain of the debriefing pained him. Everything hurt.
He was grateful they only prodded his side. He was grateful they broke his wrists and ankles instead. The wound in his side was a pain to his core. Just the prodding made him nauseous. Perhaps the men had noticed him turn green and decided it was best to torque around elsewhere. No one enjoys the smell of vomit. His broken joints were dull compared to his side. The lasting impression of these purposed disabilities felt as feeble and slow. It thudded around in his gut. His slimmest chances for escape, for defense, had been shattered in four deliberate thuds. He was invalid. He was alone. And if they find out who he is. Things will not improve.
He was once again in the arms of men and they set him down on the cot in the cell. This was a nice gesture. Maxwell believed days have past. He was however, not sure at this time. He retraced his thoughts in circles. His mission had failed. The other pilots cannot rescue him this time. His lips are chapped.
These couple days, the guards carry him to and from his cell. His ankles were swollen and black. The guards told him they are bored. He told them he was once a street performer. They both mourn the loss of his slight-of-hand. That's a shame, both parties feel. Finally, something in common.
It was at the end of these couple days, while he was being dragged down the hallway, that the guards froze. He heard a clicking of boots with authority. He did not dare look up but the shiny shoes stopped before him anyway. His head was hanging over. His eyes were trained on the ground. He marveled at those shiny perfect boots. He hoped his bangs would hide him.
The guards were stiff and alert. He could feel their sharp breaths. He could only hear his heart in his throat. A man of authority, a man of dogma and belief, did not want to bear witness to how enhanced interrogation smelled. A man of state did not want to see the runoff of policy.
He tried not to breathe. He tried to will his nose to grow. His eyes to change color. He could not be recognized.
And then a gloved hand cupped his chin and forced his head up. The other hand, swept his bangs to the side of his face. The man's face was unreadable but Maxwell knew he knew.
Not a muscle twitched on the man, but the pupils in his ice eyes dilated.
Maxwell felt his cheeks heat up. He was terribly embarrassed to be caught red-handed. It was a bizarre feeling, to be sure. But the embarrassment of it all overwhelmed him. A wry smile twisted over his cracked lips. A "well-I-guess-this-is-it" sort've smile, a smile of recognition, a smile of you found me, I guess it's my turn to count to ten and you go hide.
"Where are you taking this," The man asked. His words slice with an air of enunciated steel. Maxwell did not catch the guard's response. The admiral released his chin and his head dropped down to those shiny boots once more. "Gentlemen, I will accompany you."
There was a point somewhere, where the gravity of the situation was simply beyond. Maxwell stopped recording events except for the rhythmic click of the shoes on the floor. The screech of the metal chair snapped him out of the daze. He was alone in an interrogation room with Zechs Merquise.
"You are not to breathe one word of this. Not a word. In two days time you will be transferred to me alone. Is that clear, Pilot 02."
Silence.
"You do not tell them a word of who you are."
Maxwell's mouth was slack with surprise. His eyes held a question.
The voice lost some steel as it lowerd, but the aristocratic air remained fundamental. "You will under my protection. You may be killed. But you will no longer be harmed."
The question was answered. It was a gift.
The Merquise got up, and the chair screeched once more. Maxwell winced a beat after as the noise kicks around his sluggish skull.
"Thank you" Maxwell managed to choke out. He had not spoken for a couple days. His voice was hoarse and weak. It was exhausted.
The man's eyes pierced through his own for a moment. And then the man is gone.
For two days he was left alone. Left to his thoughts, left to the steel of the Merquise. This is was a rogue right hand man. This was in the basket with the snake. He would not survive this. He had perhaps gotten used to the thought. He had perhaps trusted the Merquise, but the thought of not surviving did not thud down his spine like before. If he did not survive it would be ok. It might even be nice.
On the third day an officer introduced herself as Noins. She helped him into a wheelchair and shackled him to it and he went down corridors trying not to worry his lip. His wheelchair was strapped into the transport. He was left alone for the duration of the flight. As the plane began its descent, Noin appeared in the cargo hold with a black hood in her hand. "This will not be for very long." It was not sorry. It was not cruel. This was orders. The darkness was welcome after so many days in the cell with the lights always on. He wanted to sleep. The fear in his belly kept him awake. It was disconcerting to be pushed on a wheelchair while the hot breaths of his exhales were pushed back up his nose at every inhale. He heard the wheelchair over tarmac. The wheels over pavement. The wheels down a smooth surface like marble. The wheels down a muted surface like rug or carpet. He heard elevators. Automatic doors. He finally heard the knob twist of a door. And then the chair stopped moving. And then he heard the door close.
It might have been five minutes, but sleep eventually took him. The darkness of the hood and the silence of the room tempted the exhausted 18 year old. And the exhausted 18 year old surrendered.
When he woke up, it is from the light. Someone had removed his hood while he was asleep. He shook his head, discouraged by his poor reflexes. He sighed and blinked before mustering the courage to look around the room. It is an ornate chamber. A head of state office. And Zechs was behind the large mahogany desk. Maxwell realized he was no longer shackled. His wrists and ankles were in hard casts. Someone had set his bones. He was freezing cold and his head was pounding.
The blonde admiral put down his papers and removed his glasses. "There is a glass of water beside you. It is yours"
Maxwell cringed as he turned. His neck was stiff and he gingerly picked up the glass. He felt the corners of his eyes crinkle in gratitude as he slowly drank it down.
"I need you to recount events to me since your capture."
Maxwell nodded, beginning soft and steady. "They found me in the wreckage. I think around 12 men. Two of them carried me to a truck. I passed out from pain. My left side was badly wounded from the shrapnel. I awoke on a hospital table. I awoke again in a cell. I am not very sure of the time." He flashed Zechs an apologetic shrug before closing his eyes. He heard the scritch scratching of Zech's pen taking notes. His voice remained steady and low. "I was interrogated seven times. Um…enhanced I guess by loud noise, ice baths, general assault, and hammers. My two wrist and two ankle injuries were acquired during these enhancements."
When Maxwell opened his eyes he shrank in his wheelchair. Zech's eyes were poison. Maxwell quickly looked away. The gaze was so sharp and scalding, he dare not look back in the direction of the desk. He held his breath as not to sob. He squeezed his eyes shut to keep the tears from spilling over. He jumped as a hand touched his shoulder. His reflexes were so poor.
"You will not be harmed anymore. I promise you." The voice was firm. "Do you have their names. Was it the two men holding you when I found you?"
It was Maxwell's turn to glance sharply. "Why."
"These things are outside of protocol. They are torture and a violation of the code and procedure for prisoners of war."
"It was systematic." Maxwell said quietly. "Reprimanding one man just moves the practice further underground."
"Executing men," Zechs countered. "These men would die for this."
Maxwell shook his head. "Then I cannot. These men will not die on my accord."
Zechs searched his face. Maxwell shifted; it was uncomfortable to stare up at the man standing before him.
"You are seeking to spare these monsters?"
Maxwell watched as Zechs paced around the room. "It would be a further torture to carry their deaths."
"They deserve their justice."
Maxwell stopped speaking. He had nothing more to say. And he knew better than to enrage this man again.
"You are a very strange creature" Zechs said finally. "I knew some who called you Priest. I did not know why." He picked up the notes on his desk. "Fair enough. If it is your wish they remain unidentified I will pick two men at random to be punished and see to an oversight of procedural enforcement."
The Merquise sat down on the edge of his desk. "And now we must discuss what I am to do with you."
Maxwell did not even attempt to swallow the spit in his mouth.
"You, clearly, 02, cannot be in the prisons. You are too critical to leave to the minds of men. And yet, I cannot inform my superiors. Not until you are at least well. It" and now a dark smile twisted across the man's features. "It violates my moral code." He scanned over the boy. "You cannot face a trial like this. Unable to stand. With casts on your wrists and ankles. It won't do."
Maxwell frowned, wrapping his head around the words. "Does it not fit your vision?" He asked finally. "That one of your five terrorists is an orphan with broken bones?"
"It's almost comical," Zechs replied. "So many memos and meetings and money for this. For you." The comment was almost snide.
"I assure you." Maxwell answered. "We all are not much to look at. We are all children of war."
"Do you care for them?" Zechs asked. "The other four. Do you know them?"
Maxwell nodded. "I care for them. Do not be troubled." At this a dark smile flashed over his tight chapped lips. "They will not be coming for me."
"How can you be sure?" Zechs pressed, standing up from the edge of the desk.
"Because I do this all the time. Get caught."
"But he is always around you. Heero Yuy. 01"
Maxwell snorted. "Is this why? Is this why you've brought me here? As bait for him? You will be waiting a long time."
"I think that's a lie." Zechs answered.
"I don't" Maxwell interrupted. "I don't lie. I do not lie. He will not come."
"You are so sure." Zechs said, moving to his desk and pushing through some paperwork in his drawer. "I can read the history of your many captures and escapes. And who aided you."
The pilot paled. "Please don't." It was hardly above a whisper. He felt so cold he shivered. His head ducked as he cringed.
"Then explain how now is different." Zechs looked up from his papers.
Maxwell weakly shook his head.
"March 23rd, 4 years ago, or should we go back to the lockups during that street gang of yours where was it Colony V-087- ?"
Maxwell convulsed, color draining from his face. He held up his casted hand, albeit shaking, fingers stretched out. "Stop." He took a deep shuddering breath, his head was pounding with pressure. "I will explain."
Zechs sat back down. "Go on."
His face flushed with embarrassment as he sought to begin. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish as he sought to sort this all. The last few days before his capture. How he ran.
"You are rouge." Zechs said.
Maxwell nodded, stunned by the guess. "I refused a mission. The other pilots got orders to terminate me. He will find the situation I'm in now as a satisfactory conclusion."
"What of the others."
"I will not speak of them. Your question was Heero. I answered you."
"What did he call you when you last spoke with him. What was your name"
"Duo." Maxwell answered. "He didn't call me a number if that's the question. He called me by my name."
"I'm satisfied for today. There is a band around your thigh. If you try leaving this apartment you will be sedated immediately and I will be alerted. If you stop breathing I will be alerted immediately. Your location will be monitored at all times. The band monitors your pulse. When I am alerted, they are alerted. And if they are alerted, Treize will know you are here. You do not want Treize to know you are here."
Maxwell nodded.
"You have your own bedroom. My private doctor will be on call for you. You will be fed three times a day and there is already a packet of physical therapy exercises in your room if you chose to do them once the casts come off. You may listen to the radio. You may read books. I would not bathe. I will send a nurse tomorrow to wash your hair if you wish. My doctor said your side is infected and should remain bandaged for now. Do not answer the door or the phone. Do not attempt escape. You have a high fever. You are sick and broken and you will not survive. If you are found during an escape, I can no longer help you and you will be back in the prisons."
The boy did not respond.
"Do not be hard on yourself for what you've shared. You are delirious and dehydrated. My doctor had intravenously given you some pain medication to set your bones. Forgive me for asking questions of you in this state. I feared to wait, knowing the better you were, the less you would say."
Zechs moved behind him and started to wheel him over to his room. "The bathroom is through the door on the left. The closet is on the right. I'll have to find clothes for you."
Maxwell did not say anything.
Zechs folded back the bed covers.
"I am going to help you into bed." He announced, slipping his arms behind Maxwell's back before he could protest. Another snaked along the back of his thighs. The boy gasped in pain as Zech's gingerly pivoted and set him down on the bed, pulling the sheets up around him. "There is a commlink that reaches only me on the nightstand. You may use it and I will have your requests arranged."
The boy nodded. "Thanks" He would not meet Zech's eyes since mentioning the other pilots.
"You are welcome 02. I am sorry for your treatment thus far. It will improve in my care."
The boy would still not look at him and the Merquise left.