~ All standard disclaimers apply
~ Warning: Blood, MAJOR Quatre torture, maybe OOC, and of
course, angst
~ Note: Takes place after the war. All reviews appreciated,
and flames will be my inspiration for future fics (meaning I'll just imagine
what I want to do to the flamers and make that happen to one of the characters)
Remember the warning and REVIEW!
~ Demons are everywhere –even in me ~
~ Obsidian Night: Part I ~
Quatre stood at the window looking out at the black desert
night beyond the glass. It was so dark, black like obsidian. No lights pierced
the night in the distance to illuminate the desert blackness. It was so much
like that night three weeks ago, too much like that night…
Immediately Quatre banished the thought of that night from
his mind; he couldn't let himself dwell on those memories. It would be too
much. The memories would drown him, reaching up with dark tendrils and pulling
him down into their depths, never again to see the light. Quatre turned away
from the window and its view of the oppressing darkness.
He walked in the direction of his room in his house,
turning on all the lights in the rooms and corridors he passed through. He knew
that if he were caught wandering in the darkness, the awful memories of that
night would come back to torment him. Quatre was anxious to get to the safety
of his room. An unexplainable feeling of foreboding hung over him, as if his
Uchuu no Kokoro was warning him of approaching trouble.
Making it to his room without trouble, Quatre lay down on
his bed, staring at the ceiling. He was tired, but didn't want to sleep. The
war was over and the peace undisturbed, hopefully for a long time. Alone but
for the servants in his big house, Quatre found himself missing the company of
his fellow ex-pilots.
Without warning the house was plunged into complete and
total darkness.
Quatre lay on his bed for a moment, desperately hoping that
the power would come back on at any moment. Absently he fingered the scar
stretching from his left shoulder to just above his right hip, souvenir of the
event of that night. The moments stretched into minutes and Quatre began to get
anxious. It was as if the blackness outside had swept into his house, taking
over everything. It was so dark and quiet, just like that night not so long
ago…
The memories took over Quatre's mind and he was powerless
to stop them. Only light would chase away those terrible memories and keep them
at bay, like a fire repels wild animals. With the light stolen from him, Quatre
could do nothing to stop the waves of memories washing over him, threatening to
drown him in their dark depths.
~~~ Memory Sequence ~~~
The night was oppressing and black as obsidian, but Quatre
was restless. Despite the hour he thought to walk around the city, just till he
got tied. Ignoring Rashiid's fears for his safety, Quatre walked out to his
car. It would have been wiser if he had listened to the older man.
Leaving behind the warm safety of his house on the new
colony, Quatre drove in the direction of the city lights. It wasn't far; he was
there in a few minutes. The hour was late and the streets almost empty. Only a
few people were out and about at almost midnight. Quatre parked his car and got
out. He wandered the streets looking at the unlit stores and darkened houses.
The garish streetlights illuminated the night in the
immediate vicinity. Still, the night seemed dark and heavy beyond the reach of the
streetlights, pressing down around him. With his fair skin, blond hair, and
light colored clothes Quatre stood out in stark contrast with his surroundings.
He didn't realize what an easy target he posed for someone with evil
intentions.
Quatre walked on, not paying much attention to where he was
going. The houses and stores began to look more rundown, and there were more
bars and clubs. With garbage lying around, these streets were in worse condition
that the cleaner main roads. Quatre didn't notice he had entered the worst area
of the city until he was deep in the heart of it. He was turning around to go back
when a small gang approached him.
Although he was new to the area, Quatre could tell that the
boys meant him harm. Before he could leave, the gang attacked. He hadn't
forgotten what the war had taught him about defending himself. He dodged
punches and kicks, only retaliating enough to get the gang to back off. He was
fine until the knives were brought out.
Quatre's eyes widened at the sight of the gleaming blades.
"What do you want from me?"
They sneered but didn't reply. Instead they jumped on
Quatre, using their blades to make him bleed. They didn't cut him deeply, just
enough to make his blood drip. Quatre knew they wanted something and needed him
alive to get it.
An unseen fist connected with Quatre's stomach, making him
gag. While he was doubled over trying to get his breath, one of the gang raised
his arm. The handle of a knife crashed down on his head.
Quatre fell to the ground, unconscious and bleeding from
the wound on the back of his skull. The gang stood over him, feral smiles on
their faces, Quatre's blood on their knives. They bound, gagged, and
blindfolded him, then tossed him in the trunk of a car. They drove off leaving
nothing to show of the struggle but for a small puddle of Quatre's blood.
~~~
The strong stench of booze and stale vomit pulled Quatre from
unconsciousness. The metallic taste of blood was heavy on his tongue from a cut
on the inside of his cheek. His arms were extended above his head, suspended by
chains. His feet too were chained, preventing him from moving much. The
blindfold and gag were still in place.
Strain as he might, Quatre could hear nothing except for
his own shallow breathing and heart pounding heavily, the sound loud in his
ears. There was a whoosh of warm, musty air against his sweat-dampened skin. To
Quatre's immense relief he was still fully clothed. The sound of laughter
reached his ears, carried on the breeze made by the opening of the door.
"We oughtta get a lot from this one."
"Yeah. Good thing the Winner boy come lookin for us,
steada makin us go lookin for im."
The voices dissolved into laughter once more. Slowly the
meaning of those statements sunk in, and Quatre went stiff. They had taken him
captive for ransom, not knowing that he had disinherited himself by going off
to fight in the war.
What would they do when they found out he was worthless to
them? Would they let him go? Or would they kill him, thinking Quatre's
disinheritance was a hoax? Exactly who were these people? The questions circulated
in Quatre's confused mind. However, his Uchuu no Kokoro told him that he would
soon know. He was filled with fear at that thought.
Suddenly they surrounded him, the alcohol in their blood
streams making them over-confident. Smelling the foul stuff on their breaths,
Quatre felt like gagging. A fist connecting with his gut made his stomach heave
and he almost lost his dinner.
He was hit in the head so hard that back of his skull
slammed into the solid wall behind him. Stars danced in the blackness before
his eyes, melting and merging together then separating once again. Vaguely
Quatre was aware of something warm and thick sliding sown the back of his head.
The cut from earlier had reopened.
Quatre stood panting and fighting back nausea. He strained
to hear a noise that would alert him to their next move, but the loud laughter
effectively masked any sound. Sharp pain radiated up from his shin causing him
to gasp in pain. Quatre refused to give them any more of a reaction. He knew
that if they even suspected how much pain they could cause, they would harm him
all the more. Past experienced with OZ had taught him that if he so much as
whimpered the attacks would be a hundred times worse.
The kidnappers weren't impressed by Quatre's reluctance to
acknowledge the pain. They poked, prodded, punched and kicked at him. The only
response they received was when they boy tied to double over, only to be
restrained by the handcuffs. They repeatedly hit him in the head. After one
unusually hard blow that knocked him into the wall again, Quatre wondered if they
had given him a concussion. He didn't doubt it.
This abuse continued until he could hardly breathe and
sweat was streaming down his aching body. Quatre refused to show his discomfort,
pushing back the feelings of terror welling up inside him. A commotion halted
the attacks. Because of the blindfold, Quatre couldn't quite tell what was
going on around him. Thankfully, he could still hear. The perspiration clinging
to his skin allowed him to know when the air in the immediate vicinity moved.
A gruff voice assaulted Quatre's ears. "Yamero."
That one word was heavy with warning, daring anyone to defy the speaker. The
voice commanded attention and some odd form of respect. It wasn't as if you
were before royalty; it wasn't that kind of respect. This was more along the
lines of 'I'm bigger and badder than you so you damn well better do what I
say.'
When that one word, yamero, was voiced, all activity
stopped. Instinctively Quatre knew this was the boss, the leader of this sadistic
gang. All orders coming from this guy would be carried out without hesitation.
The others were afraid of their bigger, gruff leader. Quatre could feel their fear,
making the room seem too small for comfort.
Heavy footfalls approached Quatre. He could feel the
leader's eyes roaming over his body from his arms chained above his head to the
blindfold, down the length of Quatre's slightly quivering torso, all the way to
his ankles bound in the cuffs. The man's piercing gaze unnerved the small
Arabian boy.
"This one's too pretty to be a boy. You sure you got
the Winner boy, not one of his sisters?"
A shiver made its way down Quatre's spine. He didn't like
the way things were going. The leader's words were laced with scorn for the boy
before him, potent with hidden meaning, hinting at things to come. Extremely
unpleasant things, if he could trust his Uchuu no Kokoro.
"Well, I guess there's only one way to find out."
It wasn't the leader but one of his loyal goons who made that suggestive statement.
A tendril of fear snaked its way into Quatre's heart.
"Later." Quatre was tremendously relieved.
"Did you deliver the ransom note yet?"
Someone must have replied in the affirmative, but Quatre
didn't hear the reply. Too many thoughts circled in his mind, too many questions.
He had been right; they had abducted him for money. But they didn't know they would
get none. They didn't know Quatre had disinherited himself by fighting in the
war. No matter how much his sisters loved him, they wouldn't be able to stop this
gang.
Most of the Winner fortune had been donated to charity.
Quatre's father had left each of his children enough money to allow each of
them to live the rest of their lives, not in the luxury they had lived in
before, but pretty close to it nonetheless.
There would be no way to pay the outrageous sum of money
that was undoubtedly demanded. He would die unless he managed to escape, on his
own or with help, it made no difference. He knew none of his sisters were
capable of breaking into this place and getting both of them out, undetected
and unharmed.
Briefly Quatre considered the authorities, but no. This
gang had probably warned in the ransom note and if the police were contacted
they would kill him. That meant he would get no help, unless one of the former
Gundam pilots came to his rescue. But none of them would be notified of his
disappearance.
Unless Quatre managed to get himself out of there by
himself, he would be tortured and killed, this he knew.
A swift, sharp jab to his ribs brought Quatre back to the
present. He winced inwardly. The elbow, at least he assumed it was an elbow,
had landed very solidly right on a slowly forming bruise. He thought it was
from a fist, but it could very well have been from a boot. The earlier brawl
had been too fast-paced for Quatre to know exactly what had connected with
which part of him.
"-don't look much like a boy." Someone was bent
over Quatre, blowing air tainted with alcohol onto his face. "You sure we can't,
er, examine him?" The boy in question didn't like the way the word
'examine' was emphasized.
Someone else sighed in exasperation. Quatre heard
incoherent mumbling. When someone fumbled with the front of his shirt he pulled
back as far as he was able. Despite his efforts they unbuttoned his shirt.
Because Quatre's arms were suspended above his head, it wasn't possible to take
the shirt completely off unless the shirt were ripped or the handcuffs
unlocked. They left the shirt hanging open.
He heard some whispered comments and even a low whistle
when his shirt hung open around him. Quatre stood uncertainly, waiting for
whatever was next. If not for the fact that he could practically feel their
eyes on him, he would have relished this moment of relative peace. The stress
was beginning to get to him, and knowing everyone in the room was staring at
his chest wasn't helping any.
"Well. Guess you did get the right one."
"You sure we can't look for more, uh, evidence?"
Quatre drew in a sharp breath. They wanted to WHAT?! Even
with the blindfold he knew a few, if not all of them were eyeing his crotch. He
felt his face grow warm with both that thought and the fury that they would
even consider it. They had no right to do that!
But they had attacked him, brought him here against his
will, and chained him. If they had done all that just form for money, what was
to stop them from doing more? He shouldn't be surprised that they would go so
low as to sexually harass him. The words that reached Quatre's ears next eased
his fears, if only for the moment.
"No. We just captured him. No need to rush. He ain't
goin anywhere."
So Quatre knew he was safe, at least for the moment.
However, maybe this was worse. Now he knew one thing they had planned for him,
but he didn't know when it would happen. They may decide to "search for
evidence" later on today, or maybe they would wait until tomorrow, of the
day after.
But when would tomorrow arrive? Quatre had no way of
telling the time, or even if it was day or night. If there were windows he
wouldn't be able to see outside them because of the blindfold. He didn't even know
how long he had been unconscious so he could make an estimate.
Warm air brushed past his arm, still a few degrees cooler
than his fair skin. Either the people around him were moving or the door was
opening. Quatre hoped that the door was opening to let the people out of the room.
He listened intently to the footsteps and was relieved to hear them moving away
from where he was tied.
Quatre figured most of the gang members left the room, but
he knew a few were left in the room with him. His assumption was confirmed when
someone poked him in the ribs.
"So. Looks like it's just you n me till someone else
takes over." Quatre was beginning to consider the options available to him
when his guard spoke again, almost to himself. "Now, what to do with
you?"
Quatre barely had time to register a low chuckle before
something connecting with his stomach made him want to double over. The man
continued to strike Quatre, a low chuckle coming from his throat all the while.
Quatre heard but failed to register the sound. It wasn't until much later that
he would realize that this man was only one of the newer members. The others
were much worse.
The man punched Quatre square in the face, and the boy
could feel the blood dripping. Blood filled his mouth, metallic and salty. He
tried to spit it out, knowing that blood is bad for the digestive system.
Unfortunately, the gag was still firmly in place, refusing to let the boy rid
himself of the blood in his mouth. Quatre couldn't keep the liquid in his mouth
forever. Either he forced himself to swallow the salty liquid, or he could try
to get the gag to absorb the blood. Quatre opted for the second choice.
He opened his mouth and allowed the blood to seep out onto
the gag. Quickly the strip of fabric became soaked with blood. It was heavier
than before, and sticky. There was still a little blood left him Quatre's mouth
and he swallowed it. He had a feeling that when he got out –if he got out –he
would have more to worry about than just a little blood in his system.
Pain skittered up from Quatre's foot marking when a heel
ground into his toes. A faint crunch was barely audible as bones broke. In
spite of Quatre's training he almost cried out as he felt the bones cracking
beneath the heavy boot. Quatre knew he had been through much worse during the
war but the pain was still strong.
Since the war had ended Quatre had been taking it easy.
There was no longer the need to be ready to fight at any given time, no longer
the need to constantly train. Yet Quatre continued to train, knowing there was
always a chance that another war would arise along with the need for soldiers.
Eventually the man tired of tormenting the young boy.
Because of the blindfold and the pain Quatre could not tell where the man had
gone, only that it was somewhere off to his right. He had no idea how long the
attack had lasted. Time was irrelevant as was knowing when the sun rose and
when it set.
Although he was incredibly tired, Quatre didn't sleep. He
told himself that he had to be ready for the next attack. Even if he hadn't
stifled the urge to sleep, sleep would have evaded him. The pain from his
numerous wounds was enough to keep him awake for days.
What seemed a few minutes later, but could well have been
hours later, something happened. Sounds reached Quatre's ears, sounds of boots
thudding against the concrete floor and loud voices talking. Then dim light
pressed against his eyelids through the rough weave of the blindfold. Even this
dim light seemed painfully bright to Quatre's overly adjusted pupils.
A few thin tendrils of fears snaked their way into Quatre's
heart. He had no idea of what was going to happen to himself in a few short
moments. What was certain was that he was not going to like it, but no doubt
his captors would enjoy it. He was not kept in suspense for long.
The sound of a knife being whetted reached Quatre's ears.
He prepared himself for the feel of cold, hard steel pressing against his skin,
but the feeling didn't come. Quatre's heart thudded in his chest, drowning out
the noise of what was going on in the room around him. It was because of this
that he failed to hear the sound of a gas torch being turned on.
Perhaps the fear of the unknowing clouded Quatre's mind. He
was able to hear a slight, continuous hiss under and between the beating of his
heart. A peculiar smell assaulted his nose. It was familiar, yet unfamiliar. A
vague memory lurked just beyond the reach of Quatre's conscious mind, teasing
him.
Slowly the memory became clear. At first it was veiled,
indistinct, shapes and sounds blending in with each other. Gradually the scene
became clearer. Eventually Quatre was able to make out the shapes of buildings,
red flames rising up to lick at the sky. He remembered screams of pain and
terror filling the smoky air, and a strange smell all around.
The smell in the memory and the one that was now permeating
the air were the same. Fire, powered by gas. Quatre did not realize the meaning
of his realization until too late. But even if he had known what was about to
happen there was nothing he could have done. Bound as he was, Quatre could
hardly move an inch.
Burning hot metal against his skin brought the Arabian back
to the present moment. He fought back a gasp of surprise. The people around him
must have noticed because a low chuckle ran through the room. The metal, a
knife, Quatre realized, pressed closer to the tender skin on the side of his
neck.
Carefully Quatre swallowed, but despite his efforts the hot
knife cut into his throat. The feeling of blood dripping was becoming rapidly
familiar. The blade was removed; apparently they weren't going to end his life
that quickly. Something was rubbed into the fresh wound that stung badly,
making Quatre cringe and suck in a breath through clenched teeth.
"Couldn't you come up with anything better than salt
in a cut?" The voice was patronizing.
"Well it worked, didn't it? He's in pain!" The
second voice seemed defensive.
"That wasn't very original, y'know." Another
voice spoke up.
"Like you could do any better?" Quatre became
slightly alarmed at that statement.
"Well duh! I'm not an idiot like you."
"You callin' me an idiot?"
The argument continued. Quatre half hoped it would last a
long time. The longer the argument, the more time he had. However, the angrier
the people, the more they would hurt him. Quatre hadn't been afraid of being tortured
by OZ, mainly because he had been able to see the blows coming, so he was able
to prepare himself, even if he hadn't been able to dodge the attacks. With the blindfold
in place, he would not be able to prepare for the attack.
"Yamero." Again the deep voice of the gang leader
silenced his followers. "Tell me, one of you, is his family going to pay
or not?"
"I-iie. They, they said-" A growl from the leader
put an end to the stuttering.
"What did they say? Someone better tell me!"
"They said they couldn't pay it. He isn't –they said
he isn't the heir any more. He's useless to us."
"NANI!?"
Quatre barely felt the wave of fear pass through the room.
He was too overwhelmed by his own fear. He had the distinct impression that it
was not very smart to upset the leader. The consequences could and very well
would be extremely dire.
"They probably lied," Someone else spoke up.
"They probably thought we would let him go if we thought he was
worthless."
Quatre assumed the leader was considering the worth of the
man's words. He had hoped that they would let him go. The moment the follower
finished his thought that hope was dashed. From the viewpoint of the leader
that suggestion would sound very plausible.
"Send one more message. Tell them that we will kill
him if the ransom is not paid by tomorrow noon."
Quatre felt his throat constrict with fear. He would die.
There was no way his sisters could pay that ransom. By fighting in the way, he
had basically stated that he didn't share the family's ideals. To his father
that meant his son was a traitor. He had forbid his daughters to financially
help their brother, but he was not so cold-hearted that he refused to let them
help him any other way. Quatre knew he was in trouble.
Warm musty air once again brushed against the boy's skin;
one of the gang members had left to deliver the leader's message. As soon as he
had left the leader spoke.
"And now we'll show you how to properly inflict pain
upon someone."
Sounds of scuffling and a muffled yelp of surprise reached
Quatre's ears. He braced himself for pain to erupt on his body and the feel of
blood sliding down his skin to the floor. Another yelp, this one of pain,
almost drowned out the words that came at the same time.
"Don't use a sharp blade; a dull one hurts much
more."
"I must admit, the fire was an interesting idea, but
it's better alone." Another yelp followed the statement.
When no one attacked him Quatre realized exactly what they
meant by showing how to "properly" inflict pain upon someone. Instead
of making the person watch while the rest of the gang hurt their captive, they
figured "hands on" experience was the best. Torturing one of their
own was a drastic method of teaching someone a lesson. Even though he felt a
little sorry for the man, Quatre had to admit that he was glad he wasn't the
one being tortured.
Although he wasn't the one being physically tortured, every
time they struck the man Quatre was pained. His Uchuu no Kokoro was channeling
from the other man, bringing some of his pain to the young boy. He sucked in a
deep breath. The restraints kept him from grasping the fabric of his shirt, now
hanging open, and attempt to alleviate the pain.
Quatre felt it was his fault he felt the other man's pain.
He had been glad of the fact that he wasn't the one being tortured instead of
feeling completely sorry for the man. Quatre saw it as Allah's way of punishing
him for being selfish. It never occurred to him that it was perfectly normal
for one to feel relief about the fact that one wasn't being tortured. Even if
it had, when had his life ever been completely normal?
Quatre had no idea of how long the gang tortured one of
their own. It might have been a quarter-hour or mere seconds. Time was unstable
and irrelevant. Time seemed to speed up and them slow down unchecked. It didn't
matter how time progressed because there was little to no hope of his being
rescued.
Yet he held on to that hope, fragile as it was. There was
always a chance, slim though it may be, that one of his sisters had contacted
one of the ex-Gundam pilots. If they had even informed Rashiid there was hope
of rescue. There was always hope, there had to be hope. For when hope died all
life ended.
"Hey, I think our little captive is feeling left
out." The voice pulled Quatre from his inner mulling.
He experienced a sinking feeling in his stomach as the gang
members crowded around him. Quatre's throat constricted in fear again, making
it hard for him to breathe. He could feel their breath hot against his skin,
stinking of beer, vomit, and rancid food.
A boot connected with his shin directly on top of the
bruise from a previous kick. Quatre sucked in a breath through tightly clenched
teeth. Excruciating pain engulfed his right hand unlike any blow previously
dealt. A jagged strip of pain began at his left shoulder and worked its way to
just above his right hip. Blood gushed from the fresh gash, staining his skin
and his pants with the red liquid.
The attack continued, blows coming too fast for Quatre to
realize just what was happening. All he was aware of was fiery pain exploding
over his body, and every now and then that same pain that covered his hand
would appear somewhere else. Fire, his mind slowly supplied; he was feeling
sluggish from the blows appearing all round.
Something sharp struck him once again in the skull and he
knew no more.
~~~
When Quatre came to he was acutely aware of the throbbing
all over himself. Everything hurt, especially his head. A wave of nausea passed
over him. Quatre waited until it passed, then shifted his arm. He could feel
the rough weave of fabric against his tender skin.
Quatre froze, thought suspended in his muddled brain.
Fabric? Against his skin? But last thing he remembered was
being chained in an upright position, arms above his head, blows from an unseen
enemy winding him. Why could he feel fabric against his arms, legs?
Had he been rescued? Had someone pulled him from the
sadistic gang's grasp? Quatre opened his eyes to see his savior, but found he
could see nothing. The blindfold was still in place. Why?
As his brain began to clear Quatre realized he was lying on
his back upon a rough material, limbs chained. So. He had not been rescued; his
savior had not come. His limbs were chained, eyes blindfolded, mouth gagged,
hope of rescue diminished.
When his mind was working again Quatre began to wonder why
he had been re-chained on his back. An answer came to mind immediately: rape.
They had wanted to look for more so-called "evidence" that he was a
boy and they had been presented with the perfect opportunity to do so with
little chance of their victim resisting in any way.
Yet his backside was not in as much pain as he expected
accompanied rape. Perhaps they had not attempted yet, but they very well might
have raped him and the pain would come the moment he moved. Quatre desperately
wanted the first to be the case, although he knew the other was just as likely.
Quatre let out a small groan; he couldn't help it.
A low voice reminded him that they had never left him
unattended since they a first acquired their little prize. "Are you awake
yet Little One?"
~ Tsuzuku ~
~A/N: Mwahaha. Yes, I am evil. Major cliff-hanger. Was that
Trowa, or just some jerk who decided to call Quatre 'Little One' by mere
chance? I know, but I'm not saying a word! Feel free to flame, complain, etc.
I'm working on the next part, and hopefully I'll get it up soon. Ja!