Title: Submerged
Setting: AU Dystopian Earth (Orwellian)
Rating: M
Summary: When everything around you is controlled and governed by the government, do you live to fight another day or do you die a martyr? After all, the truth is relative.
Prompt: From the Seventh Sanctum- Depression, pundit, lies, distant nurse and professional courtesy.
Disclaimer: Fill in the blank- Bleach does _ belong to me. ;P
Submerged
Chapter 1: Shallow waters
He smashed the TV set the first week it came into his new life, didn't really need it anyway when all that it showed was what the government wanted them to see, hear, feel and know.
A replacement came within a fortnight but when that too was smashed and thrown out of the window, the higher-ups knew better than to waste their precious little resources on a nut job like him.
It just wasn't worth it.
He wasn't worth it.
Strangely enough, he was fine with that and to be perfectly honest; he didn't give a fuck about how people talked behind his back.
They all know his story.
He laughed bitterly; it was funny how one day you were on top of the hierarchy, friends with the boss and rubbing shoulders with the higher ups; thinking that you were the next big thing after Stephen Hawking and the next thing you know, you're worse than nothing.
You became the know-it-all who turned cuckoo one day and tried to kill himself.
They used him to sell their story and he was a dumb fuck who was in too deep, right until the last minute when reality caught up.
He tried to make amendments of course, contra-statements, documentaries, blogs and social media gestures; if only to make himself feel a little better and a little less guilty, but who was he kidding; they had anticipated his every move.
They had him all figured out- his contacts, his weaknesses, his properties, his reputation and his actions.
He was the little hamster caught up in their maze, thinking he was making scientific progresses for the better of mankind when the truth was that they were using him for their own perverse amusements.
The minute they figured out he was planning to turn coats, they had him arrested, discredited and certified insane.
Officially, the story was that he had been suffering from depression for decades and had decided to stop taking his meds in a sudden stroke of madness.
He tried to kill himself as a result and in view of his services and contributions to the nation and science, he was kept on the government's payroll and provided with a nurse.
Anyone with half a brain could see that this was a make-shift house arrest and his nurse was his glorified babysitter to make sure he didn't make any more attempts to connect with the other party or kill himself again.
XXX
He blinked.
It was late in the afternoon though you couldn't quite tell the time with the curtains drawn and lights dimmed.
There was nothing but silence and he felt numb; probably the aftereffects of tranquilisers, though he doubted that they would be so liberal with the meds after his failed suicide attempt.
He propped himself up, listless eyes adjusting to his surroundings. The familiar sight of his well-worn copies of Shakespeare and Crichton, his work bench buried under mountains of scattered paper and his tagged and holed idea board calmed him; he was back in his government-assigned quarters and they have not confiscated his works.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
That was when he noticed a presence to his right by his bedside.
He shifted his gaze to that direction and saw a young woman in her twenties, her face hidden behind- oddly enough, Orwell's 1984. She was dressed very neatly in a navy blue dress with a proper pair of black Oxfords- civilians' clothing but her rigid posture was a dead give-away to her military origins.
His new nurse, he decided; contemplated to ask about her predecessor, but decided that he didn't really care enough and small talks drained him.
He cleared his throat and she looked up from her book, calmly inserting a book mark before she closed her book.
She had the complexion of a china doll that belonged in his great-grandmother's antiquated china-wear collection, black hair knotted into a tight bun and her facial features were dominated by a pair of cerulean blue eyes that betrayed nothing.
He reluctantly made the introductions when it became apparent that she was not any more inclined to speak than he was.
"I am Rukia, your new carer," she replied coolly and extended her hand, it was cool to the touch; much like her personality and the handshake was brief.
Their eyes met and he realised that his first impression of her wasn't that far removed from the truth.
She was as callous and cold as they come by, didn't waste time playing nice.
"Breakfast will be served at 9 sharp, lunch at 1.30pm and dinner at 7," she continued and he raised an eyebrow, but decided not to comment. Ground rules were necessary especially for co-habitation and the food he cooked was less than edible, though he was slightly miffed at her authoritative tone.
He nodded in acquiesce and she told him to rest while she prepared dinner.
She had her hand on the doorknob when she had suddenly whirled around and said briskly, "and one more thing, it's professional courtesy not to die on your carer. I will appreciate it immensely if you try to keep yourself alive under my care."
He frowned.
"Well that depends. Are you going to follow me into the bathroom like I'm some goddamned invalid?"
She wrinkled her nose in distaste.
"I would resign first thing in the morning if that were the case."
"Then, I guess we're in an agreement. Just as it would be on your part to treat me like a grown man. I'm under house arrest, not fucking retarded," he finished smoothly and she gave him an indiscernible smile on her way out.
He reached for the book on his nightstand.
Big brother is watching, huh?
How appropriate, he thought grimly.
XXX
It was Friday night.
She had her weekends off- a two-day break from an otherwise 24/7 job as a carer to the certified invalid, Dr. Ichigo Kurosaki.
He was a quiet man, one who didn't speak unless you badgered and prodded him with a stick. His work kept him confined either in his bedroom or study and even during meal times, she could count the number of sentences that they have spoken to each other with one hand.
Yet, he valued his independence and intelligence fiercely and from what she understood, had attempted self-suicide when this was compromised.
She gave him plenty of space, probably because it suited her just as well.
She was an aloof and reserved person by nature, wasn't in the habit of making small talks with complete strangers about the weather and wasn't even the slightest bit intrigued by other people's businesses.
She smirked; she would have made a lousy spy.
The doctor liked Shakespeare, words of the bard, flowery poetries that were sprouted from the mind of lucid dreamers, but he dealt with numbers and maths, making up complex algorithms with a flick of his wrist and treating calculations as though they were living, breathing entities that were parts of a bigger puzzle of life.
Some parts of her were inherently awed by his drive and ability to make equations into something that were much more interesting than what they should be.
She hated maths; in her life, it was only expected to be used for addition, subtraction, multiplication and division.
She didn't like to think herself as a compassionate being, soldiers who killed on the field seldom were; but she thought maybe there was a tiny part of her within that pitied the man's solitude and his need to keep himself busy before he truly loses his mind from the lack of human interaction.
She baked him a cake for today- their third month anniversary of living together, not that she would ever admit the sentimentality out loud of course, but he was nice and he cooperated.
It only seemed right to show her appreciation.
The only problem was that the man wore his pride like his skin, he didn't tolerate sympathies and no amount of professional courtesy and polite indifference could disguise it.
He came out of the showers minutes later; hair still damp and wearing his usual attire of oversized shirts and jeans, but spectacles foggy with steam.
The orange-haired scientist blinked owlishly perhaps his vision slightly blurred from the steam while she carefully took the cake out of the oven. She did not bother to spare him a second glance as she made the chocolate frosting but it soon became apparent he was still rooted to the spot.
She raised her eyebrow quizzically at him and cleared her throat.
At that point, he seemed to finally shake himself out of his stupor and awkwardly ran a hair through his damp orange hair before retreating back into his room.
Somehow, she had unwittingly heaved a sigh of relief when she heard the slight click of the door shut as he went inside his bedroom.
She much preferred to work and cook alone than being stared at.
XXX
Dinner was as usual, a sordid affair for both of them. She was rather surprised that he wanted to join her for dinner that night, since sometimes he wouldn't even bother leaving his work bench for food and preferred to have his dinner delivered right to his study.
Sitting opposite from one another, she spied him playing around with his peas and wondered briefly if it was because he disliked them or was it because he was still thinking about some complex mathematical theorems.
She did not put it above him.
After all, there was an incident two weeks ago, where he had thrown all his worn clothes into the garbage bag thinking that it was the laundry basket and the week before that, where he had left the gas stove on while he was making supper for himself because he had a 'eureka' moment.
He was an absent-minded man that needed others to clean up after him because common sense was deemed less important than equations and algorithms in his head.
The man stood up to clear the table after she left.
It was his unwritten code- never leaving the table until she made the first move to do so. Perhaps it was one of his weird and self-designated manners that he thought would be respectful, Rukia didn't really mind.
"So, did you finish your book?"
She almost dropped the plate she was washing. This had to be the first time that he voluntarily spoke to her about something utterly unimportant- he was making small talks.
She closed the tap. "Yeah, it was interesting," she replied; somewhat uncertain about how to continue this random conversation.
She thought about treating him like Renji, who she would meet up regularly and just talk about the various new developments (barring the government-sensitive stuff) in their respective lives, but then again she remembered that half the times Renji hadn't even heard of the books she mentioned, let alone have a meaningful conversation about them.
She pursed her lips.
He snorted. "Well, I didn't think that you of all people would actually read it, much less find it interesting. After all, freedom of thoughts and ideas, much less reading is frown upon by them these days. I am actually surprised they let you own the book to begin with."
She froze. Ah, how could she forget, how could she miss the old bitter man hidden underneath it all.
"The war was over a long time ago, Ichigo."
He gave another loud forceful laugh. "OVER?! That's what they want you to think."
He dragged her to the window, forcefully exposing the blinds; out of the rain-streaked window, they both saw nothing; heard nothing but the pitter-patter of the rain. His grip on her sud-filled intensified and the penetrating gaze he focused on her was sharp enough to go through her like a beam of laser.
"You're a Thought Police, aren't you?"
She shook her head. Part of her was inclined to tell him the truth that the war was over, been over for years; she should know. She was there on the frontlines, watching in hopelessness as the bullets and shrapnel fell upon unsuspecting soldiers, burying deep beneath their skin and skulls.
She was a survivor- made it out of the hell-hole with Renji and a handful of others, some still on active duty.
And none of it would have been possible if it hadn't been for him.
She peered at him with something akin to pity.
This brilliant man would never know what he had done, the contributions he made to achieve to bring back an era of peace, delivering the God-given right for freedom for speech and thoughts back to the people.
He was a hero, in the purest and truest sense of the world.
Without him, the Rebels would have never been able to come up with technological advances powerful enough to rival those of the Government.
Without him, there would be no victory for the Rebels, much less the gift of literacy, equality and freedom for the public.
Without him acting as their informant/insider, they would have never been able to strike the defining blow to the Government, crushing them and their agenda once and for all.
Yet in that pivotal moment, he had not been part of the victory.
No, he had been left behind enemy lines; tortured in such a way that though he would still be the brilliant scientist he was, his mind was shattered beyond repair.
Ishida had taken a look at his psyche and for the first time ever, the stoic man had cried.
His mind was stuck during that dark phase in history, when he was first approached by the Government to join the Think Tank and the what-if world that he had conjured up as a self-protecting mechanism where the Government had won and everyone was a pawn to the dictatorship.
What good would the truth do to him?
She doubted his pride and sanity could take another blow like that, to make him doubt his own existence and role in the war was a cruel treatment to a war-hero.
So, she kept her silence and offered to compromise.
"Would you like to have some cake?"
But that just agitated him more so than any careless statement ever would, something that Rukia learnt the hard way as he turned violent.
"I don't want the fucking cake!" he bellowed; eyes wild and she thought, he looked as if he might snap if she weren't carefully.
"You just don't fucking get it!" he screamed again and she wrangled free of his grip, retreating away from him. She knew the look in those wild eyes and it got her adrenaline pumping.
Without skipping a beat, she reached for the stun gun he had strapped on her thigh holster.
He looked at her in disgust, like she was the scum of the earth; unworthy of even his anger. "So," he gritted his teeth, "you're in league with them."
She shook her head and told him, "It's not what you think, Ichigo."
Yet the brilliant man merely guffawed and she fired. She got him right in the chest, watching as he slumped forward and collapsed on to the tiled floor.
She ignored his pained look, knowing full-well she was powerless to help him. He was a victim of his own mind.
Her heart still pounding, she pressed the red button on the house phone.
Agent 14, what it your code red emergency situation?
"Boss down. Relapse. Contact the psychs," she commanded sharply.
Roger that.
Lieutenant Rukia of the 13th Division cursed.
This was his fourth relapse after the failed suicide attempt and she thought not for the first time, that personally a proud man like Ichigo Kurosaki deserved a swift end than this never-ending misery.
Hese's Corner:
What is the truth?
Who is telling the truth?
Rukia/Ichigo… I'm taking bets. XD It's all for a good cause of course, since Hese's birthday is coming up on the 9th. Mind of a mad hatter, manners of sloth- of which, I make no excuses for myself.
I seriously recommend Orwell, especially Animal Farm. The dark dystopic feel in 1984 as mentioned is thrilling.
Reviews are kisses and alerts are hugs. I love being favourited as well because it makes me all warm and gooey inside.
*flutters eyes*