Written, very belatedly, at Kyra-san's request as a birthday gift. ... I'm, er, sorry? *sweatdrop*
Title suggested by Erin-neesama. Base idea lifted from Yu's profile. Full idea from the dark twisted depths of Kay's own mind.
WARNING! WARNING! DANGER, WILL ROBINSON! This fic has inspired vast depression and great disturbance within its beta readers! There's nothing outright evil about it (although other warnings include violence, attempted rape, and attempted murder) but it is unmistakably creepy and wrong. It's about Yu, so that's natural.
CUES
...there comes a pause...
by Kay Willow
tr.v. cued, cu·ing, cues
1. To give a cue to, signal or prompt
2. To insert into the sequence of a performance
3. To position (an audio or video recording) in readiness for playing
His footsteps rang out, heels clicking against the long wooden floorboards as he moved purposefully forward.
It was the day of his graduation to the highest rank of juudou, an ancient art among the people of the even more ancient Old World. His whole clan had assembled to see him demonstrate the extent of his learning, and upon successful completion of the forms he would be gifted the symbolic belt and granted official influence within the clan. He would not yet be a man -- only ten years old as he was, it would be a good five years yet -- but in the eyes of his family, his noble father and honorable mother and beloved sister, he would have proven himself.
After the ceremony, they had gone cityside, to the heavily urban area of the colony, and spent the day there. They rarely went to the city, preferring instead the serenity of the countryside; this was both reward and warning, an excursion into the world to both showcase its delights and remind him of its treachery. There was a kind of silvered metallic beauty to it, and he thought that if he peered close enough at the maze of bright lights and clashing colors and flowing crowds he could find a rhyme and a reason to it, a heartbeat and a Zen kind of peace within the chaos. But he couldn't make himself like it, shied instantly away from it, and hoped devoutly that his exposure to it remained brief and rare. The prospect of growing accustomed to it was worse, in a way, than being constantly on edge.
It was pure chance, but he had found a store carrying calligraphy supplies near the restaurant where they settled down for dinner. His sister was learning ikebana, and while flower-arranging was another ancient and venerable art, suitably feminine for the daughter of the Hikura family, she had confessed to him that shodou appealed to her far more. While their parents had longed to indulge her love of the written word and passion for reading, shodou was not one of the arts their family practiced, and so calligraphy had been deferred as a mere hobby.
He had specifically asked for permission to take her there while they awaited the arrival of the meal, intending to buy her some ink and perhaps an old-fashioned bamboo brush with what remained of his hard-earned gift money. His father and mother had smiled indulgently and allowed it, and he had hurried Kazuhi out of the restaurant and down the street, finally turning into the bookstore and observing her flight for the rare publications with the same indulgent amusement.
That day would be forever imprinted upon his memory. It was the day that the Victim had destroyed his colony and killed his parents.
Stop. Fast forward.
His footsteps rang out, the sound hollow in the huge room that swallowed muted breathing and irreverent words and all emotion whole.
It was the day of his initiation to GOA, the military academy where he would train to become a Pilot, as he had sworn he would. Touched by the heroism of the Goddess Pilots who had done the impossible and saved the lives of a scant handful of people from a colony already dead, including himself and his sister, he had opted to follow their example and hopefully do the same for others. As an entry-level Candidate he was still far from his final goal, but he had at least taken the first steps down that path, and there was no doubt in his mind that the day would come when he found himself in that elite position.
The Administrator who swore them in had given a long speech, speaking of how the vast likelihood was that none of them would ever become Pilots, but they must try anyhow, and in the doing they would be the ones to set the stage for the future. He had listened with the respect that the man's position had merited, but as far as he was concerned this speech did not apply to him. He would be a Pilot. He could feel it in the very marrow of his bones.
The entrance, the tests, the other Candidates in his group also did not apply to him. He breezed past and through and around them without ever pausing or looking back. He never even bothered to learn the names of the other boys. All he knew was that they were in his way. If they accomplished their goals, then the chances of him accomplishing his own were lowered. Every single Candidate in this place was his rival, and he could afford to let none of them become his equal.
If that meant being alone for as long as it took, then so be it.
But, of course, he wasn't alone. Within a matter of days he had been reunited with his sister, who had departed some time before him for the Academy, for the Repairer training that would allow her to stay by his side. Kazuhi had aged in the three weeks of their separation, it seemed; she was drawn and reserved, a frail young woman now and not the ethereal girlchild she had been only a month before.
When that girlchild had left him she had been confident that they would be partnered together as Candidate and Repairer Candidate. He had not been so certain: surely the universe, which was cruel and capricious and chaotic, would not allow things to remain the same forever. Change was inevitable. It would seem that her faith had not been misplaced -- here she was, in Repairer garb, standing across from him with the number on her badge matching the mark on his wrist -- but his hadn't been either.
Looking at her was nostalgic. His sister was a stranger to him now; gone was the child who had been the living embodiment of everything he wanted to remember, of the understated warmth of his family and the simple lifestyle of his colony and that innocent way of life. Now instead was a young woman, dedicated to furthering him as a warrior and a champion, with nothing remaining of the giddy girl who had been trapped underneath the facade of a genteel lady.
What he had known was dead and gone. The complete and utter trust that the girlchild had placed in him, the soft reassuring weight of her hand sliding into his hesitantly, the self-conscious smiles and the muffled titterings and the quiet earnestness that had meant his sister to him -- things that had become his world, his purpose, his goal -- would never be there again.
The moment when she stepped closer to him to check the mark at his wrist and looked up into his eyes, the sadness he had felt deep down inside at that new realization evaporated. Instructor Sinclair went on speaking around them, but his words meant nothing as Yu quite abruptly felt as though he knew where he stood in the universe once more.
That look on her face was familiar. Different -- deeper, matured, steadier, like the girl herself -- but familiar nonetheless. The Kazuhi he had known was not gone, only changed: a child's pointless adoration had grown into something real.
She was like home, waiting for him.
Stop. Fast forward.
His footsteps rang out, rubbery soles of his GOA standard-issue boots squeaking shrilly against the metal floor, the only sound that dared to break the silence at such a grand occasion as this.
It was the day of his ascension to Top of the Goddess Operator Academy, when all his hard work and long training and single-minded dedication would be rewarded. Only a matter of time now before he was called upon to become a Pilot, to fight in the way he knew only he could, and to truly win for the first time since the day the Victim had destroyed his home. But he had persevered, and even managed to salvage his home -- there she stood, beside the Administrators, resplendent in her white and maroon formal suit, watching him walk up the honor aisle to receive his commendation -- and soon the future would be within his hands.
He didn't need to hear the whispers to know that they were there. His peers were not fond of him. That didn't concern him even a little -- he had overestimated them when he had first arrived at GOA, assumed that they would wind up some sort of rivals for status. But they had never stood a chance against him, with their half-hearted efforts and meager talents and petty distractions. They had never concentrated wholly on their goal: instead they had puttered about with their meaningless day-by-day friendships and their casual fly-by-night flirtations and forgotten how important their duty really was.
Yu could never forget. He had a debt to pay to the people who hadn't been saved, an obligation to the ones who had not yet been lost, and his sister's faith to uphold. Never, not for a moment, could he forget; even if he could, he would never allow himself to. It was childish to hide in ignorance.
The Academy Vice President stood once more before the Pilot Candidates and Repairer Candidates and spoke to them, this time not of the Goddesses or the future, but of Yu, their classmate. He could feel their anxiety behind him, their tension and anger, wanting to know why him, why not one of them, why not someone they could've cheered for.
They were so busy cheering they didn't notice their own chances for glory flying past them.
When the speech was over and the hall cleared out, Yu and Kazuhi were bid to remain behind so the Instructors could congratulate him. And they did, one by one, saying nothing meaningful and nothing unexpected until the last of them.
He didn't like Instructor Sinclair. He had never held much respect for big and brawny men, who usually believed that no one without muscles the size of their head could be considered strong, and Sinclair was the epitome of this type of man. Sinclair had always resented him in return, for having great skill in battle despite his slight size and willowy build. The man was abrasive, cruel, smug, and self-interested.
Worst of all, he sometimes looked at Kazuhi in a way that made Yu's hackles rise. He was absolutely certain that every older brother in the universe was with him in his fury whenever Sinclair eyed his sister with that look.
Sinclair actually dared to sneer at the new Top. "So you made something of yourself after all," he pronounced.
Yu resolutely ignored the man's audacity -- to challenge him here in front of the other Instructors and Administrators, on a day when he was meant to be honored! -- and instead concentrated on maintaining his impassive expression as Kazuhi shrank behind him nervously. He told himself what he had been told since the first time he had tried to defend her: that he couldn't save her from every trouble the world threw at them, that she needed to learn to stand up for herself, that she couldn't allow people to intimidate her like that -- but it was just words, meaningless words like everything else people had been parroting at him for all his life. She was his sister, and she meant more than mere words. No one would ever be able to stop him from coming to her rescue.
Being ignored irritated Sinclair, as it irritated all such petty bullies. His face screwed up in a grimace, and then brightened with pathetically obvious effort. He turned to the others and said with false cheer, "Take a look at our new Top! Undersized, underfed, and still managed to make it this far! A miracle, huh?"
Meaningless words. Words that conveyed nothing but empty sentiment and hostile innuendo. What was the point of such words? People like Sinclair shouldn't be allowed to speak.
The Instructors and Administrators seemed to agree. Some of them looked disapproving, as though silently encouraging Sinclair to abandon his pointless sniping; some had become visibly nervous at the man's insults, apparently expecting Yu to make some sort of retaliation, not undeserved after all this time enduring Sinclair's brand of persecution. Others of them ignored him totally, refusing to acknowledge that which was not worth their time -- Yu's route.
Noticing the indifference, Sinclair turned back to Yu and scowled. "I'm nothing but happy for you, of course. You have..." He paused purposefully. "...both..." His eyes darted to Kazuhi, and he smirked briefly before returning his attention to Yu, who could barely hide his livid anger. "...done an excellent job."
"Thank you so much, Instructor," Yu said, almost without realizing that he had spoken. "We could never have gotten this far without you." And while the red raced into the man's face as he caught the implied jab, Yu turned and took Kazuhi's elbow in his hand and left the room.
She said nothing. She didn't have to. He almost hated words: they were shallow things, and only engendered more shallow things. What could you say with words that you couldn't say without them? And they meant nothing in and of themselves -- so easy to lie, to deceive, to evade, or even to hurt. Words meant nothing. He and Kazuhi both understood that, and there never needed to be speech between them to understand. Everything they did meant something.
Some days, he wondered if the only things that meant anything were the two of them.
Stop. Fast forward.
His footsteps rang out, the only noise in the long gray corridors that stretched infinitely ahead of him as he marched towards his final destination.
It was the day of his final promotion to Pilot of the Black Goddess. He had clear memories of her, armor gleaming with the light of distant stars against the jet-black of empty space as she leaned forward and outstretched gentle metal-webbed hands to seize the rubble that had both trapped and saved the young Hikura siblings. She had lifted them up, holding them aloft like trophies, two victories among thousands of losses, but every victory counted against an enemy such as the Victim. He had been instantly captivated by that power, that strength -- that ability to hold the destiny of others in the palms of two enormous godlike hands -- that ability to control such a creature that could be called a Goddess.
Perhaps, on some level, he could now admit to himself that he wanted the power as much as he wanted to save others.
And he already had it. Somehow, even though he was not yet a Pilot, he had already reached the level of power where no one could touch him. He had read it in the shocked faces of the Administrators when the news had been announced, that Lucian Senfield was dead and he was to be the new Pilot. He had seen it in the horrified premonition that had overcome Sinclair's bruised features when the envoys exploded through the double doors. He had felt it in the air even before then, simply knowing that they couldn't do anything to him without quite being sure why.
He was too important now. He was the only one who could replace Lucian the Black Demon, a legend in the modern era, the only Pilot who had ever managed to match Teela of the White Goddess, who had reached Just Condition not once but three times. He was the sole Candidate who could live up to the expectations that she would now have for her next Pilot.
No matter the situation, he was vital to the war effort. Even if it meant interrupting a trial.
Even if it meant acquitting him, on the spot, of attempted murder.
Stop. Rewind.
Normally even and well-paced
footsteps thundered down the hallway; normally even and well-paced breathing
rattled in his throat and escaped much
too harshly. He couldn't
seem to bring himself under control. Nothing was working right: his heartbeat
pounded in his ears nearly as loudly as his ungraceful
and over-heavy treading,
and his mind raced with a thousand possibilities and desperate prayers.
He should have known better -- should have known better! -- than to trust that Sinclair would be an honorable enemy.
It had been some random Candidate
who had tipped him off, spiky sandy-and-brown dyed hair and wide friendly
eyes who had told him with all apparent
innocence that he had seen
the Instructor practically dragging Kazuhi off to the Cueval; he'd been
concerned about whether or not she had gotten into trouble.
Yu had no idea what his
number or name was.
But his sister was in trouble. She was in Sinclair's hands.
It seemed like eons before
he reached the Cueval chamber, which was locked, but he was the Top Candidate
and had an authorization code that the
administration had trusted
him not to misuse. And he wasn't misusing it. There was no better use for
it.
The door glided open without
a sound, but the silence was broken by Kazuhi's scream, no longer muffled
by the thick walls designed to block out the external
world, walls that performed
their intended function too well.
Sinclair was there but Yu
barely saw him. For a long, utterly blank moment he could only stare at
the slender girl sprawled across the floor, at the
bruise already darkening
on her fair cheek, at the thin trail of blood from a split lip, at the
torn remains of her shirt clinging to the hand he used to pin her to
the ground. In that single
moment Sinclair raised a hand with clear violent intent, and she struggled
against his grip, resisting futilely but unwilling to simply
give in.
Suddenly, in unison, they
both looked over at the door. His gaze met his sister's for a single second,
horrified to desperate, and then he glanced over saw
Sinclair's frustrated eyes
and smug leer, and his vision went red.
He dimly heard his sister
cry out again as he launched himself at the man. Rage boiled through every
vein and artery in his body, shrieking from his every
pore; his scalp seemed to
come alive with the electric energy of wild EX, his entire being filled
with hatred and one burning desire.
DIE!
Sinclair had turned to meet
him but was unable to react fast enough to avoid the single fist that smashed
into his jaw with a force he surely never
suspected in his "undersized,
underfed" Top. The Instructor stumbled back, nearly stepping on Kazuhi
as she forced herself to her feet, and then started
forward again like a bull
teased too far.
Yu braced himself to meet
the charge, but he didn't have the chance. With a frantic shout, Kazuhi
grabbed Sinclair's shoulders and fought to hold him back.
But she was too light, too
tiny compared to the full-grown monster of a man; Sinclair reared back
and slapped her hard across the face, sending her crashing
to the floor.
And that was the last thing
he remembered. Other people later described to him, or testified to, his
terrifying silence as he mercilessly battered the
Instructor; the utterly
stark, dead expression that he wore for the minutes it took for the late-arriving
Candidates to haul him off the man and get him under
control; the snarl that
twisted his lips long after he had been forced into an EX suppression chamber.
The next thing he knew, the
Academy's Vice President stood before him again, speaking with audible
disapproval. The Candidates who had come with the
idea of backing him up (the
ringleader of whom, Rioroute Vilgyna, had been the same Candidate who had
warned him in the first place) had suffered
numerous minor injuries
and one nearly a concussion. Sinclair, he reported, had suffered broken
ribs, a dislocated shoulder, massive internal bleeding,
six fractured bones in his
arms and legs, and three compound fractures that were unlikely to be fixable
without major surgery. The man would probably
never teach again -- the
fact that he had survived at all was a tribute to the medical staff of
GOA.
He absorbed it all without
comment. All he kept seeing, over and over again, was his sister, wounded
and assaulted and trying her best to fight, to help
him...
And he knew he would do it again.
Stop. Fast-forward. Play.
His footsteps came to a sudden halt, and he looked up, startled from his focus, to see the Chief Administrator there once more.
Displeasure written across his aristocratic features, the man said coolly, "You must know that you would have been found guilty."
He nodded. He had indeed been guilty of the crime he'd been accused of. But who had been the guilty one in the grand scheme of things? What was the meaning of this brand of justice?
"You have no self-control." Noticing his instinctive bristling, the Vice President added, "Certainly you are very quiet and contained. But in a crisis, in the heat of your own upset... when it matters, you do whatever pleases you without thought of the consequences, or your duty as the one who will surely bear the future of all humanity upon his shoulders. A champion of man must champion man; he must not bow to instinct. What if Sinclair had found a weakness in your senseless rage and killed you? What then would become of us?"
It was madness, to lecture him about the reasons why he should not have fought for his sister, her honor, perhaps her very life. It was absurd, listening to an elderly man attempt to explain why there was no excuse for acting according to the few feelings he had left within himself.
It was more meaningless words.
"Someday," was the distant prediction, "you will learn how important every human life is, no matter how insignificant you may perceive them. I only hope it is not too late when that lesson comes to you."
They both went their separate ways, and he immediately dismissed the affair out of hand. He would never see either Sinclair or the Administrator again; he was a Pilot now. His dreams were all there, in the palm of his hand, and he need never worry about the opinions or feelings of others, not ever again.
Kazuhi waited for him on the shuttle that would take them both to GIS. She looked small and fragile against the dispassionate white metal of the tiny vessel, a livid bruise barely visible underneath careful makeup that the other Repairers had given her to hide it; Yu knew that there were bandages underneath her loose kimono. She ignored him when he entered, not even turning to look at him, only continuing to stare out the window. He wondered if perhaps this might somehow be part of the psychological repercussions that happened sometimes with assault, details he had been warned of but never really considered.
She was silent the whole journey, staring out at the star-encrusted tapestry of space. He said nothing as well, but the quiet didn't feel comfortable, like it usually did.
When GIS was in sight and they were told to gather their belongings, she stood abruptly. "I am not sorry," she said tightly, breath coming fast, "that you were not prosecuted."
She appeared to be searching for more words, struggling against the silence that had gripped them both. He watched her, curiously. Of course she hadn't wanted him to be tried and arrested for his deed; what a pointless thing to say.
And then she blurted, "But... I wish that it had not been necessary at all."
His sister had never criticized him before. The censure, no matter how oblique and indirectly-said, came like a slap in the face. He sat straighter upright, staring at her retreating back in shock and distress.
He didn't understand.
Stop. Fast forward.
His footsteps rang out, but they only echoed within his heart. His body was trembling, weak from injury and grief, and it was the subject of great concern among the staff and crew of GIS.
"Yu, come to the medical bay."
"Please, you're hurt, you must get that tended to..."
"Sir -- sir, I'm sorry -- but the battle isn't over yet. There won't be much of an intercession before you have to go out there again. Please, please get that tended to--"
He ignored them all, walking past them without a sound. He neither wanted nor needed their medicines, their potions, their automics; he was tired in body but more in spirit. They couldn't help him in the way he needed help. Even though he had never needed this sort of aid before, he knew automatically that it was nothing that would go away with herbal creams or a doctor's scalpel.
It was the day Ernest died.
Perhaps his favorite thing about the Goddess Integration System was the fact that part of it was his. One chamber in it belonged completely to him, and he had modified it appropriately; cleared it of all furniture, modified the visual circuits to reflect a traditional doujou in appearance, and made for himself a perfect chamber in which to be alone, to meditate, to find peace. It was so devoid of anything "interesting" that Gareas and Rioroute couldn't bear to spend more than five minutes there. Leena and Tune and Ernest respected his privacy, and Phil preferred to spend no more time in his company than was necessary, and nobody had ever heard of Teela ever approaching another Pilot in his private sanctuary; he and his sister were guaranteed their privacy when they chose to seek it.
He couldn't reach his inner balance. Serenity wouldn't come to him, danced ever out of his reach. The events of the battle loomed over him whenever he tried to reach for harmony.
They had all been thoughtless, so thoughtless. Teela had embraced her EX, seeking the power necessary to use her abilities, and while she had been lost in that search everything had fallen apart. Gareas had plunged heedlessly into the swarm in a futile pursuit of the Top Victim; Ernest had followed in his wake with an absurdly calm air despite his flimsy shielding; he himself, seized with the EX-enhanced foresight that something was to go horribly wrong. Without Teela's guidance, the only Pilot to retain his sense of duty was Rioroute, the careless and joking.
And in their frenzy of random and incoherent activity, even the entire Academy fleet had been unable to help them.
Unable to prevent Ernest from deliberately sacrificing himself.
Yu had been unable to prevent it. He had acted on impulses he hadn't known he possessed, thrown himself into a berserker rage, dared to act against orders with the intent of securing the greater good.
And Ernest was still dead.
His anger changed nothing. His position changed nothing. His name and his heritage changed nothing.
He was powerless now.
After some twenty minutes, she joined him in the little room, sitting by his side in full uniform.
"The funeral will be in a little under an hour," she said simply.
He didn't react. They sat together as the minutes ticked by, without speaking or even looking at each other. And the silence, and the emotions understood but trapped within, slowly came to weigh upon his heart, a hateful and ravenous thing that sucked up all around it and gave nothing in response. When, he suddenly wondered as tension built up inside him, had the quiet become a chore instead of a blessing?
He didn't understand the tension until it broke something deep within him.
"It never really occurred to me that failure was an option," he offered, almost without even realizing that the voice speaking was his own. "I think I saw being a Pilot the end, and not the fight of the Pilot. Like once I was here everything was guaranteed from that point on."
She nodded, but made no other movement.
"When someone dies, it's permanent, isn't it," he mused under his breath. "They don't come back. There's no happy ending. It doesn't get made right. Why does it have to be like this?"
She leaned against him comfortingly and looked up at the single window, at the stars and the empty, meaningless void they accented.
"I suppose..." He laughed, just once, tinged with bitterness, and raised his face to the darkness. "...I'll just have to get used to it."
Stop.
Eject.
...um. Happy extremely belated birthday...? *massive sweatdrop* What is everyone looking at me like that for?