Disclaimer: Xenosaga belongs to Monolith Soft and Namco. I'm just borrowing a pair of interesting characters to provide my fellow fans with some entertainment. ;)
Author's Notes: Heh. I love writing drama, arguments and psychological stuff. No wonder this story was such a pleasure to make. I'm almost happy with the final result, too, which certainly doesn't happen very often.
My thanks go to BlueTrillium for proofreading this fic in her usual, scrupulous manner, and for helping me come up with a decent title. :)
What Strings Are Made Of
by Lucrecia LeVrai
The terrible, debilitating pain was gradually fading, turning into a fairly innocent migraine, unblocking his senses and the ability of rational thought. Gaignun let out a long, shaky breath, and then carefully tore his fingertips away from his temples, lowering both hands onto his desk—assuming it was his desk, anyway. The dark top was made of his favorite sort of wood, but it still didn't look familiar. Neither did the seals on the documents scattered all around him. For a brief moment, Gaignun could only stare at the papers in despair, as if he was seeing them for the first time in his life. Then his gaze fell on a digital calendar nearby. He closed his eyes and moaned.
His memory felt like an old fishing net with torn and frayed edges, its once regular pattern ruined and full of extra holes. With no small amount of terror, the man realized he could not recall what he had been doing only a moment ago. Or an hour ago. Or during the past few weeks, for that matter.
The discovery was alarming, but by no means an entirely new experience. He had long lost count of similar awakenings, and he knew exactly what—or rather who—brought them on. Unfortunately, that single piece of knowledge didn't make him any wiser, let alone stronger. He was still no match for the parasite that grew inside his mind; the parasite he had involuntarily helped to plant by killing his father nearly fifteen years ago.
At least, at this particular moment, his skull no longer felt as if it was going to explode. U-DO and Yuriev had temporarily withdrawn into the corners of his subconscious, leaving him in a state of blessed clarity. Gaignun forced himself to reopen his eyes, he needed a better look at his surroundings.
He lifted his head and froze.
He couldn't recognize the spacious, posh office around him, but that came as no big surprise. He was more shocked to discover that he had company—and not just any company. There was a woman sitting on a claret couch in front of his desk, some thirty feet away, impossible to miss against a large picture window that covered the whole opposite wall. She wore masculine clothes—a neat black suit, a white shirt and a navy blue tie—but Gaignun could see that the costume had been tailored to fit her slender figure, detracting nothing from her attractiveness. She didn't look like an orderly businesswoman, but like an assassin… which was exactly who she must have been.
She stared back at him as he studied her appearance, a neutral, unreadable expression on her face. Her features were a little different than the ones Gaignun held in memory, but still, there could be no mistake.
"Citrine," he breathed at last, unable to keep the surprise—and a certain amount of unease—from his tone.
His sister didn't even stir, nor did her expression change. "I'm glad you recognize me." Her voice sounded as crisp as ever, tinted with some familiar arrogance.
"It's been fifteen years. I thought I'd never see you again."
"Does it mean, then, that you are happy to see me now?"
"I am," he replied, aware that he was speaking the truth.
"You'd have to excuse me, but I find it quite hard to believe. You made no attempt to look for me during these past fifteen years."
"I thought you were dead," he said bluntly.
"But as you can see, I'm not," Citrine spoke in a slightly mocking manner, tilting her head to the side. She still kept her hair short and wore no earrings, Gaignun noticed, a show of complete disdain for vanity—a sign that certain things never changed.
Finding no suitable answer to her last statement, he merely shrugged his arms, in what he hoped looked more like a gesture of helplessness, rather than nonchalance. His sister didn't try to press the subject, either, and an awkward silence fell between them. What was there to say, anyway? They had been strangers once, as children, connected only through their father and their mission, otherwise as far apart as a shy, growing boy and a bossy girl could be. Fifteen years of separation obviously didn't bring them any closer. As far as he was concerned, she had never considered him her friend. He remembered liking her, though, but it was such a long time ago…
"Where are we?" he finally asked. He imagined that she would understand his desire to know.
"Can't you tell by yourself?"
A question countered by a question, but no mockery this time. Gaignun tore his eyes away from the woman's face. The window behind her offered a fantastic view of some metropolis, and even though all large cities looked exactly the same to him, he was certain he recognized the massive silhouette of the universe-famous Federation Parliament in the distance.
"Is this Fifth Jerusalem?" It was almost funny, in a bitterly ironic way, how he couldn't even remember the journey, let alone his arrival in the city.
"That's right. We're currently in the Orbital Weapon Research Facility. Dr. Yuriev owns the bigger part of the building, and this is one of his less used offices." Citrine's tone remained dispassionate as she finished, "That's all you need to know for now."
"I still don't know the way to the nearest space terminal," he said.
"I believe this sort of information is quite irrelevant in your situation."
Gaignun understood perfectly well what Citrine was telling him. He was a prisoner here and she was his guard; he had realized it from the moment he had laid his eyes on her. Yuriev must have seen this moment coming, a sudden lapse in his own steel concentration that allowed the younger man to resurface. Gaignun could sense the slimy bastard at the back of his mind, struggling to regain control of their shared body… No, damn it all, it was his body, and his father had no right to it—too bad he actually had to remind himself of the fact.
He had no idea what made the other man so weak today. Perhaps the scientist had been overworking himself recently, staying up late, inhaling wrong sort of chemicals, or abusing his mental powers. Maybe it was a mere coincidence. It didn't really matter, the only thing that did was the way this sudden chance could be used. Gaignun realized it was too late to seek Jr.'s help, let alone his understanding, but if he could warn his brother somehow… Unfortunately, communicating via the link was out of the question. Telepathy meant lowering your own defenses, and lowering his defenses under these circumstances would be equivalent to inviting the son of a bitch back. He would manage to send a few sentences, and then what?
Not being able to use telepathy didn't rule out other alternatives. Gaignun began to rise from his chair.
"Don't move."
The fair-haired woman barely stirred as she spoke, but she flicked her wrist, revealing a small gun in her hand. The barrel was pointed straight at the younger U.R.T.V.
Anyone else could have been bluffing, but not Citrine. Gaignun didn't feel a stab of fear as he looked at the weapon—he should have expected that his sister would be armed, anyway—and yet he didn't try to stand up any further. The lingering headache chose exactly this moment to come back with a vengeance, forcing the man to hiss in pain and fall back into his seat, before he could even consider his options.
"You don't look so well, Nigredo," Citrine said, measuring him with a cool gaze. Her voice sounded neither mocking nor compassionate. "I take it you're not particularly scared of me, just feeling a bit under the weather. It'd be for the best if you just stayed in your chair."
A bit under the weather, indeed…
"You would use this?" he asked, gesturing at the gun in her hand, surprised with his own calmness. Was he ready to welcome death at this point, accept it as his only salvation? No, he thought after a momentary consideration, not yet—not until he was certain that he could drag Yuriev with him.
Citrine dismissed his half-hearted accusation with a shrug. "Don't be absurd, I'm not going to hurt you. It's just a tranquilizer."
He gave her a wry smile despite himself. "So I managed to break free from my prison only to find myself in another one?"
"Father predicted that something like this might occur," she said, confirming his earlier guess. "He felt tired today and asked me to keep a close eye on him. I won't leave this room for as long as you have full control of that body."
"That body?" Once again, his lips curled into a bitter, humorless smile. "It's my body, Citrine, and yet you make it sound as if I was the unwelcome intruder."
A tiny frown crossed Citrine's forehead, and the harsh look in her eyes softened somewhat. "I think you should be reasonable and try to accept your situation," she spoke after a moment. "You're only making things worse with your futile resistance, both for Dr. Yuriev and for yourself."
Gaignun discovered that couldn't bring himself to hate her, not even under these circumstances—but he surely hated her words. In a voice dripping with sarcasm, he observed, "It must be easy for you to offer such helpful advice."
There was a brief silence. Citrine finally lowered her gun, letting her hand rest in her lap. Gaignun knew that his sister's semi-relaxed posture was authentic, and yet he also knew that even in this position it would take her less than a second to aim and fire. He was unable to overpower her mentally, either. It was a perfect checkmate.
"It's not like I don't pity you, Nigredo," she said at last. Her tone could be almost described as sympathetic. "I imagine it must be a very unpleasant experience, especially for someone so determined and bent on resisting. But still, this is the role you're meant to fulfill. It's no use to struggle against fate."
"Fate!" he all but spat the word. "Is it fate that compels you to preach at me now, under the guise of false compassion?"
"I speak nothing but the truth."
Gaignun pressed his fingers together to hide their shaking—whether from grief or anger, he was no longer sure. His headache grew a bit stronger. "Why?" he asked. "Why are you helping him?"
Citrine gave him a look that clearly questioned his sanity. "Isn't that obvious?"
"No," he said. "No, it isn't. Do you fancy yourself his partner? His assistant, or perhaps even his daughter? Citrine, he's merely using you, just like he has used every single one of us. We're nothing but expendable pawns in his game."
"He's still our father."
"Fifteen years ago," Gaignun went on without a pause, completely ignoring the woman's remark, "he sent us all to Old Miltia to die. You weren't there, so I'll tell you what happened, though you must have already heard his version. It was a suicide mission from the start. We were supposed to defeat U-DO at the cost of our lives."
"You were soldiers. Weapons."
"We were human. Children." It took nearly all of his self-control not to raise his voice. "And believe me when I say that Miltia was hell. Before we left the Institute, I thought I could handle it all, kill without a second thought, obey every order, no matter the cost. Looking back, I can't believe how very wrong I was."
"You seek justification for your own weakness?" Citrine wasn't bad at controlling her temper, either, but the calm mask she had worn since the beginning of their discussion was slowly starting to slide off. "You should've stuck to your orders. Ultimately, it was Rubedo who turned that mission into a complete disaster."
"Don't you dare blame Rubedo," Gaignun hissed in reply. "He did what he thought was right, what he thought might have saved us. I'm alive right now only thanks to him. Every U.R.T.V. who died that day was Yuriev's victim, no one else's. He was the person who betrayed us."
Citrine looked angry, but she didn't reply at once. And when she finally opened her mouth to speak, her voice sounded nearly soft, "I think you're viewing this from a wrong perspective."
"How is this a wrong perspective?" he asked incredulously.
"You're letting your emotions cloud your judgment. We are human, I know, and both fear and survival instinct are integral parts of human nature. You were afraid to die back then, and you are afraid to die now, because of course losing your subconscious to Father is equivalent to dying. It makes you feel bitter and betrayed." She paused and shook her head. "Nigredo, you can't deny who you are, or fight your own shadow. Dr. Yuriev has every right to ask these sacrifices of us. He didn't pluck you, a poor, unfortunate child, from some random suburban home just to throw you into the middle of war. Whether you want it or not, you were created as a weapon, and you must fulfill that role."
Gaignun clenched his teeth. "I see you're perfectly happy about fulfilling yours."
"I am."
"You really don't mind being a tool?"
"I don't view myself as a tool."
"Listen–"
"No," she interrupted at once, "you be quiet for another moment and listen, Nigredo. The three of you, Six-six-six, Six-six-seven and you, irrationally tried to defy your purpose. And the result? At what cost did you manage to follow your own path? Rubedo refused to carry out his orders—he ended up killing almost everyone for no good reason. Albedo, unable to stop him, fell straight into insanity. And you? You thought you could escape your fate by killing your father, but guess what, it didn't quite work the way you planned it." She kept staring into Gaignun's eyes as she spoke. He didn't lower his gaze, even though her overconfidence was almost too painful to watch. "In the end," she said, "I'm the only one who is living completely true to myself. I'm not constantly forced to choose between my own whims and my duty. I accepted this path, and I'm content with my place in the world."
The dark-haired man shook his head. "If you've never tried anything different, you don't know what you're talking about."
"According to your standards, I've been living a free life for the past fifteen years, during the time you and Rubedo became Helmer's dogs," Citrine retorted. "I was young, too. You'd be surprised to hear about half of the 'different' things I've tried. The Salvators were practically mine, because I had Ruryk wrapped around my finger. But unlike you, I haven't forgotten to whom I owe my existence, my powers, my raison d'être. We, Designer Children, don't fit into regular society. I'm a killer, and I always will be. I might as well work for someone I respect and care about."
"Too bad he doesn't care about you. At the very least, you could just live for yourself, Citrine."
"That would be meaningless. If you deny your own purpose in life, what do you have left? Certainly not freedom, we've already discussed that."
She kept measuring him with a challenging gaze, yet in the end Gaignun drew back, averted his eyes. The man felt defeated, unable to undermine the twisted logic in his sister's words. He knew better than to appeal to her conscience; it wasn't as if she had none, but she obviously wouldn't let it dictate her actions. She wasn't going to help him, because the very idea of lifting a finger to disobey Yuriev must have seemed alien to her.
"I pity you as much as you pity me, Citrine," he said at last.
"I see I haven't managed to convince you," the woman replied in a mildly disappointed voice.
Gaignun tried to shake his head, but stopped quickly, because the headache was becoming unbearable. He knew, from his long experience with similar blackouts, that he had only a minute or two before the darkness would swallow him again. He felt like burying his face in his hands and groaning in frustration, but he forced himself to look up for the last time. His older sister was still sitting on the couch in front of him, cold, composed and beautiful as ever. Gaignun thought he would hate to see her die—and yet if it came to losing either her or Jr., the choice was obvious.
"You may look in the mirror tomorrow and see a successful, satisfied woman there," he said quietly. "But I am looking at you right now, and I keep seeing a puppet. Our purpose does not define us, Citrine."
She glared at him defiantly, her lips pressed into a thin line. "I stand by what I said. You can't fight against fate."
"You're wrong again. The question is not whether you can fight, but whether you can win."
"So you believe you can win?" She leant forward and threw him a highly unamused look. "Look at yourself, Nigredo. You can barely sit upright at the moment."
Her final remark was true. The damn parasite was back, this time for good. The corners of Gaignun's vision were going fuzzy, his breathing became erratic, and it felt as if he had cotton in his ears. He had to grasp the desk for support, and concentrate very hard on what the woman was saying, in order to understand her at all.
"Then perhaps it's not the victory that counts, but the struggle," he spoke.
"You're beyond foolish," came Citrine's reply. Gaignun could no longer see the expression on her face—his head sank down to the desk and rested there.
"As a child, I used to think I didn't have a choice," he said after a longer pause, his voice slightly distorted by his left cheek pressed against the smooth wood. "But I've come to realize I was wrong. There's always a choice, Citrine. The only meaningless thing to do is to give yourself up."
She didn't reply to his statement, but he heard a soft rustle the moment she stood up, and then the sound of her heels tapping against the floor. He opened his eyes to see her standing above him. Her irises could almost pass for blue in this light, but they were nowhere near as vibrant as Rubedo's.
"You're such a hypocrite, Nigredo. You, too, don't live for yourself, or for your own freedom."
"But for someone I respect and care about," he finished, quoting her earlier words, albeit not deliberately. "The difference between us is that it doesn't make me a slave."
"Whatever you say, little brother," she snickered. "I'm glad we could have this conversation, even if it was a rather short one."
Gaignun said nothing in reply. Citrine leant over him, and for a moment he thought she would stroke his cheek in an extremely uncharacteristic gesture, but of course she did nothing of the sort.
"Sleep well, Nigredo," these were the last words he could hear from her, before Yuriev managed to push him under the surface. "Sleep and consider the things I said. Soon enough, we will both meet in hell and see which one of us was right."
It was not a soothing promise, but a promise nonetheless.