Disclaimer: Trigun Maximum and Livio the Doublefang belong to the honorable, sometimes-very-lazy Yasuhiro Nightow, not me.
A/N: WHOA, it's be AGES since my last foray into the realm of one-shots. (Drabbles don't really count…) And, wouldn't you know it, here's a Livio one-shot, kind of in conjunction with my drabble series. There just isn't enough Livio ficcage around!
By the way, a lot of the stuff you are about to read was inspired by my RPing buddies, themis56 and nicholasdwolfwood. Their writing about the Eye of Michael has influenced this fic in a great way. For those of you who have wondered how exactly the cult brainwashes people…well, you're about to find out!
My thanks to my two betas, the aforementioned nicholasdwolfwood and Spicy-obsession, and title credit goes to the song "The Becoming" by Nine Inch Nails.
And now, on to the story!
"…all pain disappears it's the nature of my circuitry
drowns out all I hear there's no escape from this my new consciousness…" – Nine Inch Nails ("The Becoming")
Becoming
A door clanked somewhere, the sound disembodied through the thick, solid walls of his confinement. He did not let it distract him. He could not. Muffled litanies, chants that focused the mind and body echoed metallically, permeating the dank air of his cell, drowning out the voice. Sleep was not permitted, he told himself loudly. Constant vigilance and awareness was necessary. He could not falter, could not be subject to the same wants and needs that so weakened the heathens. He must not.
The narrow cubicle seemed to shrink, to become more and more the lightless vacuum it truly was as time pressed on. It made his skin crawl, but he remained in place, legs tucked beneath him in the meditation position the masters had taught him. There was a metal cot in the corner, but he dared not go near it. The object was there to entice him, to lure him away from the proper path. He knew what would happen if he exhibited even the slightest desire to approach it…to rest. He remembered what had happened last time.
Muttered breaths stopping for no more than a second, his hands ran underneath the soiled clothing, probing…touching. Grooved flesh, tender beneath his raw fingertips, protested the attention. He did not flinch away, accepting what his pain receptors were telling him. He had been punished for his failure…his weakness. He had deserved it.
Eyes closed, he continued, ignoring his discomfort; the debilitating dampness between his legs, the soreness afflicting his knees, the emptiness gnawing at his gut…they conspired against him. He would not give in to them. His master had told him that he must be more than just a man in his own mind, as well as that of his opponent. No matter how much his marksmanship progressed, he would never excel, never succeed, not unless…
"Perfect reverence," he murmured. "Perfect devotion. These create the perfect executor of orders. Those who belong to the Eye of Michael must know—"
"—that function is their entire existence," a harsh, uncompromising voice finished for him, even as the door to his "room" grated open.
"Master…" he murmured, eyes lowered in deference as he bowed his head to the ground.
The older man scrutinized him, taking in the young acolyte's appearance. The stench of a body left too long amongst its own refuse washed over him, but the smell neither displeased nor revolted him. It was merely one of many tests the new recruits were forced to endure, this crucifixion of the flesh and the senses. This one, however, was not a new recruit. He had, in fact, been brought in years ago. His willful—sometimes to the point of being violent—nature had prevented his complete indoctrination at an earlier date, but the potential had been there, too ripe a catch to ignore despite the danger.
And now, the master thought with no small amount of satisfaction, the clay has become the mold. "I trust you have been diligent in your studies."
"Yes, master," the pupil replied, his gaze still locked on the floor. His thoughts did not wander. He did not ask himself why he had been placed in solitary confinement or how long he had been there. He did not question his master's purpose in coming to him now. He did not move, awaiting his master's speech. Whether the substance of the words would be praise (unworthy), chastisement (deserving), or instructions (hopeful), he would accept.
His master nodded, something akin to (dare he hope?) satisfaction reflecting in his tone as he addressed his student. "You have been chosen, young one."
His heartbeat accelerated at those words, and the youth who was not quite yet a man quivered slightly, managing to control himself with no small amount of effort. He did not look up, his expression still carefully schooled—impassive. "I am honored, master."
And he was. He had heard for some time that a new procedure had been developed, one that surpassed all others that had gone before. It was a prototype design…but dangerous. Those who had undergone the lengthy modus operandi thus far had been psychologically and physically unable to handle the extreme changes to their bodily structures. In addition, operatives who had already been subjected to a regenerative surgery could not be used since their bodies had already been altered to certain specifications.
He understood now the reasons for the particular brutality of his training these past several weeks. The long hours spent at the gun range, the beatings when he made the slightest error, how his muscles had screamed for relief after using and reusing increasingly heavy weights, the forced fast…it all made sense. His master had been preparing him, had known that he was a candidate, and then assured that he would be chosen.
To be sanctioned, approved to serve the militant wing of the church in such a way…it was something every recruit aspired towards. It was the highest honor one could be given, this service, not only to the Eye of Michael but also to the Blessed. To Him. (1)
"That is well," his master said, and he felt that simple statement like a benediction swelling in his chest. "Come."
His master beckoned to him. And he went, uncaring that he might not live to see another day, that he might not survive. He was not happy. Emotions were complicating forces that clouded one's rational thought processes. No, he was not happy…instead, he was satisfied, content that he could be of service in this way. It mattered not whether he lived or died. As long as the Eye of Michael somehow benefited, that would be enough.
He walked with his master through the hallways, aware of the filth clinging to his skin. Ignoring it, his trust placed in the man leading him on, he followed a step and a half behind as a sign of deference. Occasionally robed figures were seen in the halls, there and gone in the space of a breath to the untrained eye. But he saw them…every subtle shift of light utilized, the whisper of a cloak…his eyes and ears were sharp.
"Inside."
His master beckoned him into his private quarters, a Spartan place containing only the bare necessities. The man was one of the finest instructors the Eye of Michael had ever produced, but he disdained any luxuries whatsoever, preferring to teach by example. The method had been largely successful.
The elder tossed a change of clothes and a towel at him. "Five minutes."
Nodding quickly, he ducked into the bathroom and cleaned himself, leaving the rank garments in a pile on the floor. The water was cold and hard, fiercely beating against his skin as the grime swirled and disappeared down the drain. He dried himself swiftly, damp, mussed hair flopping innocently over his face as he pulled on the coarse material. Once properly covered and robed, he emerged, a full minute remaining. A single corner of his master's mouth quirked upwards.
"Leave them," he said, giving the ruined clothing a brief, backward glance before turning away. "This way."
"Yes, master," he responded quietly, and he trailed after him, feeling nothing beyond the anticipation building within.
He was ushered into a darkened room, and eyes turned to face him. Men sitting around an oval table watched him carefully, their postures ramrod straight against the backs of their seats. Quelling the faint trembling of his limbs at the examination, he bowed, hands folded before him.
"I have brought him," his master stated, the words brisk and businesslike.
"So we can see, Chapel," came the reply, and he could not match the voice with a face. The timbre turned colder. "He is ready, then?"
"Yes."
"And you are certain of him?"
No hesitation. "I am."
"I see." He felt eyes upon him, then, but he did not raise his head. "Young one, do you know why you are here?"
"Yes, master," he whispered.
"And do you remember the last time we spoke with you thus?"
"Yes, master," he said, his guts writhing uncomfortably as the admission left his lips.
A pause. "Do you remember the circumstances?"
He took a deep breath. "I do, master."
Eyes narrowed. "Are you spoken for?" An eyebrow lifted. "Both of you?"
He blinked, and something stirred within him upon hearing those words. The familiar sensation gripped him, his visual of the hard floor beneath his feet splitting, his mind overfull, cramped. And then he heard it.
'Fuck, no,' his other snarled. 'You don't speak for both of us, Livio. Remember that.'
You…you don't want to, then?
'They're gonna make a fucking monster out of you, Crybaby, whether you agree to this or not. Is that what you want? To be their toy forever? We've already got power…yes, more power than those fools could ever dream of obtaining. Do you want more? Because you'll get it, no doubt about it. But there'll be a price.' He paused. 'Do you want to be their yes-man?'
The query was heavy, weighed down with a dark intent he could neither name nor ignore. Uncertainty—unfamiliar and terrifying—clotted his throat, the confusion he had not felt since being no more than a child making his stomach heave. He shook slightly, felt his fingers clench and unclench. And he began to question.
His other was right. Once he agreed to this, there was no going back. He knew what the surgery would entail. He had already been given treatments…but nothing on such a grand scale. His muscles and bones had not yet been completely fortified, but the preliminaries had been finished this past week. He was already taller than most of the students, greater in stature than even some of the masters. Adept with weapons of all sorts, he knew that a set of guns was being prepared especially for him. To continue would be to give up any claim he might still have to free will.
At that thought, his muscles loosened, and the tension unwound in his stomach. Free will… he wondered, the concept an oddity—frightening. He could not recall having it, only a horrifying knowledge that he had no direction. That he was not needed. That…he had no purpose in living.
Until now.
Knowing this, the certainty that he could serve, that he had some reason to exist…it soothed him. Calmed him. Sinking easily back into the comfort of unquestioning loyalty and acceptance, he had an answer.
"Yes."
"Very well, then." A hand gripped his elbow. "Prep him."
He was steered out of the room, then, relief washing over him. The right choice had been made. He was sure of it. Looking up, he saw the thin smile twisting his master's bearded face. And that was all the assurance he needed.
As they walked, he became curiously aware of the lack of commentary from his other. Puzzled by the eerie silence, he nonetheless continued on. His other could be unpredictable. It would be best not to disturb him.
Footsteps echoed loudly as they entered the medical bay, a resonance meant to intimidate the faint of heart…the unworthy. His bearing was dignified, however, fierce devotion shining in his eyes. The same gleam was still present as he was strapped tightly to an operating table, buckles snapping into place as leather cords reinforced with steel threads clamped over his arms, legs, and torso. He squinted, staring into the blinding light above him, the hum of machines buzzing in his ears. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the glint of cruel instruments, their purpose clear. He was not afraid.
"Master…" he whispered, and he twisted a little in his bonds, trying to see.
"I am here."
Those three syllables were all he needed to hear, and a small, relieved smiled touched his lips. Men in white smocks and masks covered his face, and he breathed in the sweet fumes evenly. He watched them move, and strange thoughts filtered into his awareness. A few minutes later, a needle pricked his forearm.
They stabbed me, he thought vaguely, oddly bemused by the idea of it…
Everything fragmented, and he was unsure exactly when his world shifted. Numbness settled over him, a blanket that smothered feeling, thought, and perception. Flashes of white and black swirled overhead, sometimes clashing, mingling as a grey muddle for a moment before splitting once more. He was barely conscious, unaware as more needles were inserted into his skin—blood, opiates, and synthetic plasma cycling between his body and the machines. His eyes flickered, lidded and dull as his breathing was regulated by a respirator, his life-giving functions synchronized with the life-support apparatus.
And then nothing…
…nothing but pain.
His eyes flew open, ragged gulps of oxygen inflating his lungs as he tried to remember. He was on his stomach, he realized, and attempted to push himself up, only to collapse on the thin padding. A low hiss escaped his teeth, excruciating pain firing in his synapses. His bones, muscles, everything, felt raw, as if he had been ripped to shreds and then rebuilt, piece by piece…
Which I was… he realized.
But that did not explain the unrelenting throbbing cold in the middle of his back, the ache at the side of his head, the bandages…he froze. His hands came up slowly, clumsily, where he could see them. There were no dressings, no gauze, nothing. He winced, sensitive to his body's uncoordinated movements. Strange…
Carefully, he touched his face, felt the mess of grey hair, coarse and tangled. Fingers traced the outline of his jaw, across his nose, his ear…my ear, he thought, eyes wide as he fingered the cold metal where an ear had once been. The skin beneath was tender, the gentle pressure enough to set off alarms in his brain.
His hands dropped, lying limply at his sides, and he licked his dried lips. How long have I been here…?
'Hell if I know.'
He swallowed. Lazlo…what happened?
'Just what I fucking told you would happen,' his other snapped.
Then what…why am I…?
'Still haven't noticed, huh? I'll give you a hint,' came the mocking reply. 'Check your back, dumbass.'
My back…?
He reached up tentatively, something cold and undeniably metallic meeting his fingertips. His face blanked with shock. It was a hand.
'Nice touch, isn't it? I personally requested that feature. Thought we might as well go all-the-fucking-way since you were so goddamn determined to see this through. A handy little device, wouldn't you say?'
He did not answer, his gaze suddenly drawn to his hands. The size of them…of him…he was a stranger in his own body. Wild-eyed, he rolled off of the hard mattress, his chin smacking against the floor, and he tasted blood. Ignoring the shrieks of his muscles, the agony of his joints, he scrambled to his feet. The foreign weight protruding from his back dragged him down, affected his balance. He gritted his teeth, beyond thought, beyond reason as he began slamming his fists against the door to his cell. It was different from the one he had occupied before, but its purpose was the same. It was a prison.
Corded arms he did not recognize pounded away as flesh broke and red trickled down mangled fingers. He did not stop, could not stop, and a wrathful shriek tore from his lips, filling the room with fury. Then he knew…I'm a monster…
…and he laughed.
The sound poured from his mouth, the volume steadily increasing and not the least bit sane. The harsh grating of the maniacal noise penetrating his senses drowned out everything as the damp stains smearing his cheeks heated his skin. And still he raged, the metal groaning beneath the frenzied assault.
They were breaking through.
Moments later, words filtered into the small compartment through a hidden speaker, the dull monotone filling his ears, expanding in his mind. He shook his head violently, clamped a hand over his one ear. But he could still hear. He struggled, ranted and raved, slammed his head brutally against the wall, splattered crimson half-blinding him, his skull caving as he tried to rid himself of the calming effects of the litanies, the chants that he had recited so faithfully for the past several years…to no avail.
Panting loudly, he slid to the floor, fingers twisting about his hair, pulling violently, as if to yank it out. He did not notice that the left side of his scalp had been shaved. He was not aware of the reparations of the self-inflicted damage to his body. Groaning softly, he slumped against the wall, too tired to wonder at the absence of the metallic third arm digging into his back. His mind wandered, jaw slack and eyes unfocused as the steady, unyielding repetition stimulated the reorganization of the chaotic tumbling of thoughts and memories that he had once known. And slowly, he began to understand…
They no longer bear relevance to my existence.
Time passed, the seconds blurring into minutes, the minutes into hours. He did not know how long he remained there, how long it took for the mutilated door to finally creak open. He blinked, staring at the silhouette outlined in the doorway. It was a face he knew well. Automatically, his mind blank, he pulled himself into a kneeling position, his head bowed low.
"Master…"
The elder man's smile was fierce, grim as he evaluated his pupil. Fortified bones, enhanced musculature, sharpened sensory nerves…it was all there. His student had grown physically and was now taller than any other operative. But he looked deeper, saw to the heart of him. The wild yet cowed look in his eyes, the steel reflected in them, the thin line of his mouth and set angle of his jaw…he bore more than the look of an assassin. He possessed the soul of one. Excellent.
"Come with me."
He stood smoothly, and there was no pain as he trailed through the halls after his master. His step was confident, yet humble, and he moved with a grace that belied his large form. He padded quietly along, saying nothing as his master brought him out of the facility and into the pitiless light of day. They were going to the gun range.
When they arrived, his instructor spoke briefly, in low tones, with the weapons master. Satisfaction hinted in the lines deepening his brow, sketching his mouth, the elder waved the man away. Master C stepped outside, then, and abruptly offered him a gun. After no more than a mere second's hesitation, fingers wrapped firmly around grip of the .45. He waited, looking at his master expectantly, and Master C read the unspoken question in his eyes.
"Shoot yourself."
Inhale.
It was not a request.
Aim.
The cold muzzled pressed against his stomach.
And.
Fingers tightened around the trigger.
Fire.
The bark of the .45 resounded across the range.
Exhale.
He lifted the gun away…and saw the red sap oozing out of the wound. But as he watched, something strange began to happen. Blood coagulating before his very eyes, skin cells replicated and spread, closing over the hole quickly and efficiently. He stared, curiously unmoved by the bizarre sight. Within moments, the injury had completely healed itself.
"You pass."
He looked at his master, the full scope of those words slow in reaching him. To have passed…it was something he had dearly wished for, had worked to achieve for so long. And now…
The weapons master emerged, a bundle folded neatly in his arms. He presented it to Master C, who then turned and held the items out to his pupil.
"These are yours." The mass of smooth leather left his hands. "Now, cleanse yourself and return." A pause. "I have something else for you."
He nodded once, inclining his head to both men before ducking into the facility. Inside the locker-room, he showered and dressed quickly. The suit fit his altered body's structure perfectly, and he pulled the black shirt over his head, the third arm already nestled in his back, hidden from view. As he finished, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
As he leaned forward over the sink, his thumb and forefinger pushing against the skin of his left eye, tracing the thick, black lines. The tattoo stretched up his forehead, over his scalp, as well as down, across his cheek. And he understood implicitly what it meant. He was marked. The thought neither disturbed nor displeased him. He simply accepted, deft fingers fastening the skull mask over the left side of his face.
He returned to his master's side, then, watching as he ushered the arms expert forth. Two wrapped packages were placed in Master C's hands. They were large, unwieldy, and their shape…
"These," Master C began, "are yours."
He took them, felt their weight as he removed the cloth covering. Two identical white crosses unfolded before him, the barrels pointing to the fore and back on each, the black symbol of the order emblazoned on their lengths. They fit in his hands…belonged there.
"And these," his master continued, "are his."
He stared, watching as a small group of cultists brought up three large crucifixes. Three Cross Punishers. For who…?
'For me,' his other gleefully answered.
"Their names," Master Chapel said, "are Doublefang and," he took a breath, "Tri-Punisher." His eyes glistened. "Bear them well, as their names are now your own: Livio the Doublefang and Lazlo the Tri-Punisher of Death."
Livio knelt, honored beyond words, his head bowed. He had passed the trials and tribulations set before him, and his master had seen fit to use him. His belief had been avowed, unwavering in the face of hardship. He was reaffirmed in his purpose: to follow the orders his master gave.
No more.
No less.
Hours later, after the ritual induction ceremonies had been completed, he was guided to his new quarters, a simple room with bare walls, a bathroom, and a sheeted mattress lying on a skeleton frame. It was more than he had expected to have, almost luxurious compared to the deprived nature of his training. The surroundings were bleak…but kinder somehow.
He undressed mechanically, leaving everything folded in a neat pile, and washed his face. The features staring back at him in the mirror were hardly recognizable as his own, but he knew that would soon change. Absently, he ran a hand through the cropped hair covering the left side of his scalp. It made him feel lopsided, but he knew it would grow quickly.
Once finished, he barely glanced at the bed, choosing instead to lie down on the smooth floor. His head resting in the crook of his elbow, he closed his eyes, breathing evenly through his nose. He was asleep in minutes…
…and that night, he dreamed. His other spoke to him. It was unlike the other times, when they had conversed. This was different. It was one-sided…and he derived no comfort, however succinct, from the contact.
'So that's what you've become, Livio…a mindless pawn. A plaything for old men too lazy to get off their own fucking asses and do things,' he sneered. 'Well…I guess that's fine. I'll go along with it. But…' he grinned, 'looks like this is the end of our…mutual relationship…until you can take responsibility for your own ass, that is…'
…his eyes slipped open, and he pushed himself slowly into a sitting position, peering uneasily across the room, at the absence of light painting the walls. It was not yet time to get up. His brow furrowing slightly in thought, he tried to remember, sensing that something had shifted inside of him. Something dark and strange. It confused him, but his mind could present no explanation.
Livio lay back again, dismissing the matter from his thoughts. There was no logical reason for them, he told himself, his eyelids drooping for a full minute before slowly sliding shut. He was content, his soft breaths attesting to the fact. After all, he had a purpose.
And that was enough.
(1) Just to clarify, in the story, the Eye of Michael is the militant branch of a church that worships Plants, i.e. the "Blessed". And naturally, the reference to "Him" is, of course, Millions Knives.
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