.
Mon Cœur Glacé
Chapter 1: The Old City
Author's note: So here I am, trying my hand at some Enslaved fanfic, which is not an easy task when your source material is already so close to perfection. I'm going to be focusing on little random moments between Monkey and Trip - jumping between various parts of their journey as I see fit - which highlight their growing relationship, as well as all the problems they must face living in a post-apocalyptic world. Timing is a pretty tricky thing in this game; the odyssey probably only takes a maximum of four days or so, but for the purposes of this fanfic, let's say it's at least a few weeks. I've got several ideas, so expect a number of chapters of varying length. (: Of course, lots of spoilers from here on in. Hope you enjoy!
"Mon cœur glacé" is a French lyric from the wonderful song No Death In Love, played during the ending credits of Enslaved. It translates to "my frozen heart".
It was odd living in the shadow of a fallen civilization. Or rather, it would have been odd were this shadow not so all-encompassing, so omnipresent. You do not think about that which you observe every day.
Monkey found that most people tried their best to not dwell on such things, tried their hardest to live quiet uneventful lives even though each moment was brimming with unspoken threat. But Monkey knew: there was no use in running or hiding. He had learnt to face his threats head-on, so they couldn't sneak up behind him like elusive phantoms.
They called this place the Old City, and although Monkey had never seen it with his own eyes before, he had heard whispers of it. People across the land spoke sometimes of the Old City. There were other ruins like it, apparently, but this one was the largest and most grandiose. Monkey could not fathom the perfected expertise and enormous manpower required to construct a single metropolis, let alone multiples of them. Who knew how much of this endless land humans had once conquered.
The Old City was disgusting and bewitching, divine and hellish. It was overrun with deadly machinery but overgrown with lush jungle. It did not seem to care that it was so obviously in contradiction of itself, that it was an abomination for life and death to exist together in such close confinement. The city cared for itself only, and was not welcoming to strangers. It would trick and beguile, it would entice and confuse, yet never would it fully reveal its secrets. Perhaps it was better for some things to remain buried.
Travelling against such a backdrop, Monkey felt that the environment was leaching into him, spawning a similar mix of opposing emotions. He could not feel anger towards his captor, the red-headed girl with the soul-pool eyes. Frustration occasionally, yes; but he understood her motives far too well for real anger. Truth be told, he knew that in her situation he would have done the same thing. Survival was all that mattered. It was simply his bad fortune to be the captured one. Monkey did not like to attempt to change things he had no way of changing – he preferred to get on with the job, get the girl home, fulfil his task. Perhaps it was this straightforward single-mindedness which caused people to call him Monkey, simple Monkey. Let them call him what they wanted. Monkey did not care.
Trip was smart in a technological way, quick when faced with wires and bolts and rusted metal. But Monkey was smart in a Monkey way, in a way that involved being acutely aware of his surroundings, being alert and agile, able to cling to debris with a nimbleness surprising for his size.
Over the course of time he had learnt to handle his fear and utilise it as a tool. Adrenaline could change the course of battle. Whether fighting mechs or clutching a crumbling foothold, Monkey knew he had to embrace his speeding heartbeat: let this overwhelming drive be a part of you, and then use it, force it to push you further and further. There was no use in panic. Better to look ahead steadily and leap boldly into the abyss.
He could not give up, because he had to save himself and save Trip. Save Trip. He never knew his pulse could beat so fast till the moment she was hanging from a ledge, slipping, screaming, falling, falling. He could not allow anything to happen to her. This was his duty.
Trip was a strange creature. Like the vines which climbed and flourished upon the skeletons of a broken civilization, she existed as a bastion of beauty in a perilous land. It was strange to neither expect nor require companionship, to scour the world as an eternal outsider, and then abruptly be tied to another human being for an uncertain period of time. Monkey knew he would endure this life alone: he could not trust people, and reclusion was the best way to stay alive. He had come to terms with it. So then, how to deal with someone who inadvertently, inexplicably, exasperatingly, became to him – he could think of no other word – a friend? In this world friendship was a token of a bygone era. People were not friends – they bartered, traded information, made impromptu alliances perhaps. Anyone fool enough to trust the bond of friendship would be long dead by now. And yet there was a warmth to it, an uncomfortable comfort to which Monkey did not rightly know how to respond. Humans were made to be social. What else could he do but hold onto this one glimpse of kindliness, this single tender link in a vast existence of solitude, as weak and frail and sacred as a fresh bud struggling towards the light? By all rights he should want to kill her. It was all very awkward, Monkey thought.
Monkey did not have a lot of time for thinking between waves of mechs, but when he did, he thought about Trip. When he had a spare moment, when she was busy scanning the route ahead or planning their next move, he relaxed his muscles as much as he dared and hunkered down amidst the swaying grasses of this ancient city. He would watch her fixing the dragonfly in her hair or checking schematics with her holographic armband. How the hell did that thing work? She had a strange way of swaying her hips, like the long grasses, an action which seemed to have no practical purpose. Monkey did not know people well enough to distinguish if the things he noticed were typical to all humans, or just quirks belonging to Trip.
Once, whilst they were walking together, she stopped and bent over to pick up a flower blossoming amidst the bones of a broken old vehicle. He turned back to see her with a look on her face like the rising sun. He was struck hard, like a blow to the chest, with the realisation of just how young she was. Monkey wasn't technically old - few lived long enough to develop grey hairs or withered skin - but he was old enough to realise that, in such a world as theirs, each of his days was a blessing. People lived young and died young, only wishing to grow old enough to produce offspring. Monkey was something of an anomaly. Trip was all untainted skin and the glow of youth, eager and hopeful, and he was covered in battle scars from mechs.
When they spoke, he could almost see the cogs turning in her brain, her thinking as she decided on how to best address him, in exactly which manner and pitch. She was his captor. She had no real emotional attachment to him; she had enslaved him and forced him to do her bidding. But there seemed to be something in Trip, a compassion probably born from an upbringing in a sheltered village community, which caused her to exhibit an irrational gentleness to people. Even to Monkey - even to her slave.
There was a quiet, apologetic tendency in her voice, like she was almost regretful of having to place the headband on his head. Worry in her tone when he lost his grip. He could hear the quavering of subtle emotions he could not place.
What on earth did that mean?
He remembered the first time she spoke his name. "You know, Monkey…" Pretending that he hadn't just told her a moment before. Like she'd known it her whole life. Trying to be friendly, to encourage trust. Why would she do that? He'd never really called himself by anything before - that was what other people did. There had been no need. But now he thought it to himself more often, repeating it under his breath. Monkey, Monkey. Was there an elusive power to it, knowing your entire existence could be condensed into a single word, like the history of an entire race was compacted into these bare metallic carcasses? Monkey. Maybe more than just a name.
It was so unreal to think that at one time thousands of humans, or even more, had lived all together in one city. How long ago could that be? It felt impossible. What connections did they share with these undefined people of the past? Did they speak the same language, did they look the same? When he touched the side of a decaying building, was he mirroring the actions of an ancient man from hundreds of years ago? What war could be catastrophic enough to push the reset button on an entire civilization? Monkey wondered if Trip thought these things too.
Sometimes Monkey felt remorseful. It was worst when they happened across sections of intact rooms, the air still heavy with memories of life, clinging to a long-lost past. Air which perhaps had not been disturbed in hundreds of years. Rows of chairs, rows upon rows. If so many people could fit in here, how many would there be in an entire city? Where did their bodies go? Did they become ash, swept away on the wind, or did they fall back into the earth? Trip would stop and brush the back of a chair with her fingertips - Monkey would carry on. But he could not stop the deep sadness from penetrating his heart.
Perhaps the artifacts they came across would reveal something about these archaic peoples, if only they could decipher them. Monkey once saw a small metal object glinting in the sun, on the dusty ground. Foliage had grown up all around it. It was cylindrical, thin, tiny in his fingers. When he pushed one end a small point emerged from the other, but it appeared to have no other function. Another time he nearly stepped upon a circular disk, rounded like his cloud with a hole in the centre. But this disk shone silver like the stars - as he stopped to pick it up he saw reflected in its surface a rainbow, so pristine and lucid that it was like staring perfection in the face. Surely only the most advanced technology could create something so beautiful. Even Trip shook her head in bewilderment.
Trip could read, although Monkey could not. Sometimes they would pause so she could attempt to decode the various messages they found scattered around the city. She said that the writings of the Old People were a little different to the ones used today, though they had definitely been related at one point. She knew some words well enough that she could distinguish them without trying: fire, eject, stop.
"So what does it say?"
"Just a minute." She cocked her head to one side and silently mouthed the words, getting a grip on their weight, their meaning. "The first word is definitely stop. After that, the, that one's easy. The last one is w… wor? War? Stop the war."
"Stop the war." Monkey's voice was gravelly. When Trip looked over at him there was a softness in his blue eyes, behind the aggressively crimson paint, behind the isolation, behind the mask.
She stood up and held out her hand to him. "Come on, Monkey." It was less of a demand, more of a kindness. He grasped her palm, his massive hand dwarfing hers, and got to his feet. He turned to allow her to climb onto his back. When he carried her she could feel all his muscles rippling under her arms, pure energy from a man as dynamic as the racing clouds. Trip was in awe of Monkey. She wished she could be like him - so self-sufficient, a perfect machine built for survival and protection. She wished she knew how to defend herself, so she did not have to force others to defend her. So she would have no need to enslave.
Monkey knew he was a being forged of tendons and flesh. He had no skills other than the ability to remain alive. He was not like Trip, full of potential and possibilities. He knew that behind his wall of muscle he was just another beating heart, like all those others which had been thoughtlessly extinguished in this ghost of a city.
The phantoms… they followed them through this place.
One day Monkey found a ring abandoned close by a doorway, impossible to miss as the sunlight bounced off it. He took it gingerly, tracing its silver pattern and its inlaid stone of deep red. This was the first object he had found in the city which he could identify and name. It was a most curious sentiment, and he felt his chest expand unexpectedly. Here was a connection to the Old People: a small shining link enduring time, warfare, destruction.
"Trip? C'mere."
She came to him from an adjoining room, eyebrows inquiring.
"Look what I found."
He passed it to her, and their fingers grazed. She took the object in both hands and raised it close to her eyes, turning it in her fingers. "It's… a ring." Trip looked back at him, a myriad of emotions passing over her face, glinting flecks in her eyes, and Monkey could see she understood.
"Yeah. You should keep it," he said.
A shadow crossed her features. She shook her head, tried to hide the sudden strangulation of her voice. "I can't keep it, Monkey… this belonged to someone once. It would be like… stealing." She attempted to say something more, but the words wouldn't come. "Please. Leave things as they are." As she left, the ring fell from her fingers. It hit the mossy floor with a muffled clink.
Monkey stood there for some time, his eyes fixed on the ring. The sun moved through a canopy of leaves and cast a heavy beam of light through a shattered window, illuminating every corner of the antiquated room until each surface gleamed with a thousand memories. He wondered when the phantoms would leave them. In truth, he knew they never would.
