Sorry it's late! I'd been beating my head against the keyboard for nearly a week, and then poof! There it was :)
Yay! It's much longer than the last chapters, more than double the length! I hope it's worth the wait. The story progresses, as promised, we get more mean-ass aliens and more Rush-whump. I haven't changed the rating yet, I haven't felt I need to, but if ya'll disagree would you let me know?
Swearing. To be expected! Misspellings when he's musing internally are intentional…
Not mine. Still, despite all my plotting and scheming.
Damn, even I think I'm being horrible to him. Poor Nicholas
Kudos!
Afterthought- OMG in 3 hours I go pickup my PC! I am so sick of using a laptop. Ma' babyz comin' home. It's only been 4 weeks since it died :|
apologies for the repost- it lost a lot of formatting. grrr!
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Will ye marry me?
Yes…
.
Memoires, Snippet of time
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The long stretch of silence gave him plenty of time, not only to feel sorry for himself, but also to think, unfortunately, and the more he thought, the worse he felt; minutes stretched into hours with no distraction while his mind ran through scenario after scenario, desperate to understand and unable to do so. Nausea roiled his belly, left him clammy and shivery in the cold air. The pounding headache intensified, though closing his eyes helped little; colour throbbed behind his vision in time to the beat of his heart.
Enough!
He recognised the signs of self induced hysteria, and downright refused to be reduced to a quivering wreck by an overactive imagination before anything had even been done to him.
Excluding, of course, tha multiple concussions…
Shut up.
Clamping down hard, he focused on his breathing, concentrating all his attention on the simple act of slowly breathing in through the nose, hold, slowly breathing out through the mouth, hold. Repeat. Stay sane. It helped, some, and allowed him to carefully turn his attention to the situation at hand without flying off the handle. He rather expected this was the point of such a prolonged solitude, to cause captives to work themselves into such a state that their own imagination became their worst enemy. The Bugs probably found the whole thing highly amusing. If you could call what they had a sense of humour.
They would come, eventually; it was an irrefutable, unchangeable certainty. That they had taken him in the first place, rather than simply killing him, signified a desire for something, be it knowledge or entertainment, though there was the high probability that it'd be both. All work an' nae play makes' Johnny a dull boy... There was nothing he could do about it either way, though he wondered if it would be possible to ease his stay whilst he made plans to extricate himself from their oh-so-pleasant company. Remaining was not, obviously, an option; escape was the only plausibility. Experience to date having already proven that this species didn't have his best interests at heart, he rather doubted his situation would improve going forwards, regardless of his change in location (and keepers, most likely), and he had no intention of helping them if he could avoid it. Not foolish enough to think that he could not be broken -when the right pressure was applied, anyone would break- he fully intended to delay such a bleak inevitability for as long as it took to plot and execute his dash for freedom.
At least, that's the idea.
How could he plan, though, when he didn't know what the hell was going on? Like trying to Waltz blind on quicksand. No, he needed information, and quickly. So, play along? Wait it out? Would acting the coward get him what he needed, fast, or would they be disgusted enough that they couldn't play properly with him and break his neck? Would it make any difference either way? There were way too many variables, too many dependencies, and too many hidden pitfalls, and he was in no state to try and puzzle things out. At least he felt calmer, which was a blessing; he didn't think he could cope with dry heaving. Again. It hadn't been fun the last time, and he wasn't sure his head would forgive him a second round. Not to mention the fact that he'd be stuck with it trapped within the rebreather; the smell was revolting enough already without him adding to it.
Time passed. It had a habit of doing that. Weariness set in with a vengeance now that his mind had stopped racing, and he dozed lightly, half alert. There wasn't anything he could do at present, besides tie his thoughts in knots, and he really needed the rest. Unconsciousness didn't count.
The quiet echo of his breathing was abruptlyshattered some time later when the door slide open with a harsh metallic clang that set his ears to ringing, caused his headache to resume its rhythmic pounding. He jerked awake, instantly tense, defensive. Irritable. He raised an eyebrow, infusing his expression with as much arrogant condescension as the pain reverberating through his skull would allow. Well, I guess I've picked ma course. Let tha games begin.
Nothing was said as he was hauled to his feet, and shoved in the direction of the door. He fell, and was dragged upwards again by strong hands wrapped tightly around shoulders that screamed in protest. This felt all too familiar. Surprisingly, however, they retained their grip, one on either side, and supporting his weight drove him forwards. Well that's unsettling. And creepy.
The ambience of this place was no better than aboard the ship; the hallway, like the chamber, was chill, the lighting dull. Actually, that was a godsend; his headache would have been greatly exacerbated by brightness, and he would have been unable to focus on his surroundings, which were proving interesting. The floor was cold enough that he could feel it through his socks, and was oddly pliable; it shifted underfoot, and had he the time to test the theory, he was sure he could have dug his toes in and left an impression. He wondered if the walls were the same. The cell floor, as he was intimately aware, had been hard, stone; why was it different? Because it was a cell, perhaps? Would'na want the inmates getting comfy. The surfaces didn't look like stone, or metal, or even plastic; didn't have the biological feel that he half expected from an insectoid race, unlike the Wraith, descendents of the Aratus Bug, whose ships were formed of organic material. It was unusual for him to be clueless, and whilst normally he enjoyed a good mystery, there would be no opportunity to indulge his curiosity, and unsolved puzzles irked him, especially when he could literally touch them.
Rigid supports, ribs, rose from floor to ceiling at regular intervals and at junctions, and he was surprised to see carvings in the walls and at intersections. Directions? Was this place big enough to need them? There was a happy thought. Still, it wouldn't take him long to memorise them, and he expected there would be a pattern to them; all he had to do was pay attention. Which might be easier said than done. Pay attention now. There were many times when possessing an almost eidetic memory was more a curse than anything else, but, in circumstances where he had to learn a lot of information quickly it was a blessing. And if there was ever a time it was needed, it's now. A glance committed them, as well as the twists, turns, and directions of branching pathways, to memory. Strangely, the Bugs didn't seem bothered by his apparent 'distraction', which was a relief, although perhaps they were under orders to deliver him without further harm. Or they simply weren't bothered. Or had done this so many times they'd lost interest. Or-
Pack it in!
He swallowed, aware that his mind was running away with him again. Focus. Stay alive. Plan. A mantra to remember, and hopefully live by. So, focus. They didn't care. Fine, accept it an' move on. He had better things to worry about than a lack of abuse. Like that-
An alien. Not an alien-Bug, but an alien-Alien. Allies? Shit. A split second, and they were past it. He barely registered the guards they passed, though he would remember them as well. No, not an ally. Why? Think. It was maskless, obviously able to breathe. Thin, but that could be natural. The image hovered in his mind. No, it was the expression. Dead. Lifeless. Something else: a metal collar. Manacles. His skin prickled with gooseflesh.
Slave.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
A door, a tiny room. It lurched, and his stomach dropped to the floor. Cool; elevator. One-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand, four-one thousand, five-one- he staggered at the sudden halt. Swish! Managing to get his legs moving in time, he avoided another sharp pull; a small comfort, admittedly, but it was something.
There was little difference on this level, save that the hall was wider, taller, a litftle brighter than below. A very gentle breeze brushed over his skin, making the hairs stand on end. Air movement. Interesting. Turbines or ventilation shafts? Again, there were markings on the walls, though nothing directly opposite the elevator door. There were, however, guards standing to either side; there probably was on every floor. How many? He hadn't noticed a pad or even buttons in the elevator itself. Remote control, then? That might prove awkward. How the hell would he get his hands on one of those?
By being a sneaky bastard, obviously.
Face it, it was something he excelled at. Ask anyone…
He sighed, coughed. A tug kept him moving. There were more Bugs up here, and he was forced to do a double take. Only those who were obviously guards, like his current keepers, had their heads enclosed by the opaque hood, and although most of the rest were armoured, such could not be said for all. The nature of their race was prominently displayed by these few; little was hidden by the loose draping of shimmery, brilliantly coloured cloth, the intent of which seemed to be decoration or statement, rather than modesty. Such brightness seems so at odds with what he currently knew of them, though he readily admitted that his treatment being less than stellar had left him somewhat biased. If there were two genders, there was no telling them apart, not by his eyes, anyway; variations in height and build meant nothing, especially given that these discrepancies were small, and the facial features were broadly the same.
He found himself the focus of intense scrutiny by faces so totally alien as to be completely unreadable; that did not mean, however, that he could neither feel or interpret the weight of their stare. His skin crawled beneath attention that ranged from apathy to overwhelming malevolence. He wondered what percentage of the race was xenophobic. Maybe it's actually encouraged. People on Earth have done it, an' there are plenty there who would probably hate an entire species for tha simple fact that it exists. Prejudice needs nae reason. It was, he knew, easy to hate a race purely on principle and refuse to acknowledge any similarities or equality; doing so shatters a bigots beliefs, lays bear the fact that the target of their hatred is not so different as they wanted to think, for, if you were forced to acknowledge the similarity in one, you would be forced to extend the same acknowledgement to all, and then their guiding principles turned to dust. Indoctrination was a powerful tool. Or maybe they do just generally hate everyone else. Wonderful…
Wherever they were going, it was a fair trek. They did not relax their grip, and he was oddly grateful; they continued to support his weight and he knew that without them he would have fallen a long time ago. Still, he ached, his head felt about ready to explode, exhaustion had set in, and was literally dying for a drink. He'd even settle for that vile attempt at 'tea' the crew had come up with. Much as he dreaded arriving, he was desperate to get there, just for the chance to stop and rest. His wish came sooner than expected, and he wasn't entirely sure how he felt about that.
A long, straight hall ended in a doorless entrance way flagged by guards. A large room followed- he flicked his gaze about it. Look. Remember. More armoured Bugs stood at each corner and at the centre of two of the five walls; another entrance was set centrally in the walls to his immediate right and left. The room was a dull sandy-brown, carved pillars rose at regular placements; set in the high vaulted ceiling were evenly spaced circular holes through which filtered light flowed. Flecks of dust danced lazily in the diffused beams. That's strangely peaceful. It put him in mind of the dusty sandstone tombs of Egypt. The same unexpected, shockingly bright material he'd seen being worn hung in great drapes of cloth that fell from where the walls met the ceiling, and colourful banners drifted on gentle air currents from structural ribs set high overhead. The floor was also carved, with amazing intricacy. A race of incredible dichotomies. At the far end, directly opposite, rose a dais upon which sat an oddly shaped chair, obviously designed to fit their physical characteristics. It was the gathering before that, though, that held his attention.
He was brought before three Bugs and forced once again to kneel. They were, physically, similar to all the others he'd seen; it was their bearing, the sheer presence they exuded that set them apart, even from the ships' Commander. Well, that and their armour, which was stunning, particularly that worn by the central figure. Dark in colour, smooth, edged with what appeared to be metal - possibly gold, inlayed with metallic symbols and carvings similar to those engraved upon the floor, only much more elaborate. Armoured skirts, split into sections to facilitate easy movement, gave added protection to the thighs, and plates arced out over the upper shoulders. There were no obvious attachments at the shoulders for the hood- presumably they didn't wear one. Helmets, maybe? No protection on the upper arms or any hands, either. They were majestic and terribly daunting, and studied him with great gravity. Unlike before, when he had encountered Bugs in the passageways, he felt nothing from them, they gave nothing away.
A chitter, a sharp hiss, and the room suddenly emptied save for the three. One approached, reached out and wrapped long fingers about his jaw, twisting his head slowly from side to side. It took all his willpower not to flinch away, though he couldn't keep from trembling. The chitinous fingers were cold, and the touch, while firm, was gentler than he expected. It crouched down before him, face to face, Its' gaze boring deep into him – eyes are as windows to the soul- and he couldn't have looked away even if he'd been unrestrained. Its' eyes were fathomless, frightening, completely and utterly inhuman; he felt like he was flailing, drowning, he wanted to scream, and then it was gone. He blinked. Hadn't even seen It move. His thoughts were in complete disarray. What the hell? It wasn't telepathic, there had been no intrusion, and yet he knew It had gained something from the encounter. His arms suddenly fell to his side, and he swayed forward with gasp of pain as stiffened muscles suddenly shifted, blood flowed freely along once constricted veins, and nerve endings came back to life with a vengeance.
Oww…
Really, that was it. He couldn't come up with anything else. With a jolt that momentarily banished the pain, he realised one was behind him, had removed his bonds. That was shocking. They're too fast! He thought, dismayed. Sound, chatter, intruded, from behind and afore, and he looked up, and was unwittingly pinned by the intense scrutiny of the Boss-Bug. It was silent, but still staring at him. He shuddered. It was just plain… wrong. The others were talking. No, arguing? About him? They seemed excited, nervous, full of anticipation; the one in front paced, both made gestures with their hands. The Boss remained impassive. He rather wished they weren't so enthused, that couldn't bode well.
I da'nae understand…
The one in his field of vision moved away to the dais, picked up things he hadn't been able to see, and his heart sank. His equipment. Again. Shit. Unlike the Commander-Colonel -Bug, this one was interested in the Ancient devices, and in the Bug ones he'd repaired. Typical. Those things are like a stone around ma neck -he pushed away the image of the slave - why had Young not taken his gear?
Obvious; that would have aroused far too much suspicion. Not only does he get me inta this mess, he manages ta make it worse as well. Bastard.
Boss-Bug moved, then, but only as much as was necessary to receive the instruments and look at them. Beyond that It held Its' bearing. Ok, a bit much with tha' melodrama, don't ya think? The chattering continued, and he closed his eyes, really wishing they'd stop; the sound went right through his head, managed to make his teeth itch. The darkness behind his eyelids deepened, and he opened them to see Boss-Bug directly in front of him. He jumped, swallowed. Slender fingers reached out, grasped the rebreather and paused; realising Its' intent, he froze, wide-eyed, terror clawing at his belly. He held a breath -what It had been waiting for- and then pulled it free.
It studied his face, unhindered by the mask. Cool air brushed over his lips, making them tingle. Time paused; the universe seeming to hold its' breath with him. Dust hung frozen in the light. Suspended. He was instinctively, intimately aware of his surrounding, of the sudden fragility of his own existence; so much he had done and left undone; so much he had said and not said and wished he could take back; bottomless sorrow, soaring joy; contentment; regret. His life didn't flash before his eyes -even as he fought to keep down his panic, he knew It wouldn't let him die- but a face rose unbidden before him, unwanted for the pain, yet craved in equal measure for the love it bought with it. Eternal, unchanging; unchangeable, now. Her hair would never grey, her skin never crease. No new laughter lines would adorn the corners of her eyes. She was frozen forever as he was for a moment, and in that boundless eternity he could reach out and touch her, and be whole again, and loved, and he would have given anything, anything, to still be moving through time together, with her forever. His reason. His life. His heart.
His glory.
Gloria.
He felt It replace the rebreather, felt it suction to his cheeks, around the back of his head, felt the sudden weight of it, and he blinked, returning, grounded once again in the hated present. He swallowed, again, past the lump in his throat, and struggled to push the past aside, to focus. This is important! Pay attention! He needed to have all the pieces. Its' expression was one of fascination, satisfaction; worrying separately, and downright stomach turning together. It had what it wanted. A flick of fingers, and he was back on his feet, being led away; the doorway that had been on his right, this time. Not back to the cell, then. He had time, now, to think, he could allow that always alert, almost separate part of his mind to review his journey without conscious input, but his thoughts didn't take the turn he expected. Although he should have anticipated it, all things considered. Memories of her were always raw, and he was well aware that her death was largely to blame for him being the person he was now. There were other factors, but losing her had devastated him, and he'd sworn never to suffer that again. He couldn't. he allowed the thoughts in; they were a welcome distraction. Her smile hadn't changed, he reflected, down through all the long years, despite everything. Maybe he was imagining it, projecting what he wanted onto his memories, but her smile was no different at the bitter end to how it had been the first moment he saw her. Every moment of happiness, of joy, blinding and brilliant shone through her undiminished, illuminating his memories even as the brightness hurt him. She'd been his light, and had lifted him in ways he could never have imagined, and watching her lingering, waking death had made him unbelievably angry, an anger that was barely diminished even now, and tarnished everything, casting a bleak shadow that blocked out the sun, smothering everything below. If he was lucky, there may be an ending soon…
He shook his head. No need to be thinking like that.
So many moments crystallised in his memory when she had changed his life, changed him, turned his world upside down. That she had said 'yes' had never ceased to astound him. Even now, he wondered what blessing, what benediction had bought her into his life and kept her there for more than twenty years. He'd never felt worthy of her, his Glory, but then that was the point, wasn't it? Love wasn't about someone else belonging to you, it was about you belonging to someone else; and he had belonged to her completely, always would, as surely as the sun would always rise in the East. He'd been so nervous, which had never made sense. Going down on one knee on a quiet evening in Hyde Park during a trip to London, watching her smile through her tears, knowing he had been the one to bring that light to her. It hadn't been an expensive ring, but he had saved, hard, made the day special, never to be forgotten.
'Will ye marry me?'
'Yes…'
And she kissed him, long and sweet, her tears on his cheeks, her fingers threaded through his hair. Gently, he took her hand, kissed her fingertips and raised the ring. Hesitated. Was it enough? Would anything ever be worthy of her?
'It's not-'
'shushhh,' she whispered, 'it's beautiful.'
She meant it, truth shone from her eyes. His heart relaxed, a tension he hadn't even realised he carried broke away. He smiled up at her, unrestrained, and slipped the ring upon her finger.
'Tha gaol agam ort…'
'I know. I love you too…'
He wondered whether his possessions were here. He wanted his ring with a passion so fierce it made him shake. They wouldn't understand such a request, though, and even when they did asking for it would only result in mocking refusal. So, steal it back on the way out. Plan.
His reminiscence and fanciful planning was brought to an end along with the hallway. One horizontal elevator ride, too much walking, one vertical ride, and even more walking. Lots of doors and branches. Easy. It opened, another short ride down, and he was lead through. The hallway curved away, and after half a dozen yards doors appeared at regular, frequent intervals along the outer curve. With rarity, one would appear along the inner wall. Something about the solid, faceless barriers sent a chill shooting down his spine; his scalp prickled with unwelcome premonition, and he was right; a few minutes of walking later, -thirty eight doors- they came to one left open, a yawning, hungry mouth, and it was to this dark room that he was consigned.
A careful examination of the room had revealed much, and little; the former in that it was largely empty, no cot, blankets or even bucket, and the latter in that he wasn't really surprised. There was a rectangular recess in the wall, the purpose of which he couldn't begin to guess, but beyond that the surfaces were hard, smooth and cold. Not metal, but not stone, either, and certainly not a plastic, though it could have been a polymer of some sorts. Crawling to a corner of the far wall, he sat facing the door, waiting. He had no way of knowing how much time had passed, but pass it did and eventually the door slid open again. There was no opportunity to prepare before he was dragged forth, and he blinked in the dull light of the passage. His bearings had to catch up as he was led to the left, away from the direction they had initially come from. An indistinguishable, solitary door on the inner curve was their destination, and through it a brighter room, larger than he had expected.
Three more Bugs were within, garbed in a dark material from neck to ankle, leaving feet, arms and head bare, hovering over consoles and displays. He realised he was shaking. He felt sick. He didn't need specifics to know that this was truly bad. Could guess at what they were. Oh God… A gesture, and he was pulled, struggling, to a low bench fitted with restraints; he was shoved to his knees, and his head forced down, face into an oval shaped hole, a strap looping over the back of his head. He fought, though it was futile. Please… Wrists were bound, weight settled across his shoulders, hair was brushed aside. He wouldn't beg, he wouldn't. A cold weight settled across the back of his neck, covering the scalenus muscles on either side, reaching from hairline to last cervical vertebrae; clamped down harshly, dug in
'Please…'
He tried to twist away, desperate, terrified, all in vain; the pain that came was excruciating, burning so hot it felt like ice ripping through him. He was on fire, relentless, beyond anything in his worst nightmares. It was incessant, interminable. His whole body was wracked by terrible spasms, and he choked, barely able to draw breath. There was no relief from the agony, no end in sight, no escape.
He screamed.
He lay shivering, conscious, huddled in a corner of the dark cell. From time to time shuddering convulsions twisted his body, and when they did he whimpered. He could scarcely think, couldn't string a coherent sentence together. He was lost. Alone. His mind, numbed, barely registered where he was, only that it was a bad place, scarcely knew who he was; that knowledge had been a long time in returning, and was incomplete. Sense of self had been scattered in the maze of agony he had endured, when his mind had skittered away to hide. There had been nowhere, despite how far he retreated from himself, no blackness, no blissful oblivion. It had hurt too much to pass out.
Repeatedly he raised his hand to the root of the pain, wanting to soothe it, to make it go away; touching only made it flare anew, blazing white-hot that tore into him, and he would wail, jerk away, only to try again and again with the same result. Nothing helped. It wouldn't ease. It wouldn't. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted…
Please…
He wanted it to go away. Wanted to not hurt. Wanted to wake up and find himself somewhere else. Anywhere else. There was no escaping the reality, though, no delusion that this was any hallucination. Wanted to pass out. Wanted to weep. He had no tears; the shock was too great. Wanted with a powerful desire things he couldn't remember, couldn't put a name to, only knew that their absence left an aching hole within. Wanted to be safe. Hard metal caught his face. Memory stirred
Go away…
They'd dumped him in here, unceremoniously. Before that.
Go away!
A dim hallway. Being dragged by his arms. He'd felt like lead. Felt like air. Head dangling, body limp; feet and knees trailing along the floor. Before that.
Please…
A room. Tall, shadowy shapes. He could barely see, couldn't hear beyond the roaring in his ears. Mighty weights about his wrists, so cold against his burning flesh. Manacles. 'sn't there more?
Dae'n wanna remember…
The tug was persistent, unwavering. Nae, nae more. Please?
He had lost all control of his body as he lay heaped upon the floor, but had been too far-gone to feel any humiliation.
Lemme sleep…
Half crazed with terror and pain. Hyperventilating. There was no air, only fire, and his throat had constricted, couldn't remember how to breathe. Didn't know when they'd stopped, didn't feel his release, only the ice floor beneath a body slick with sweat and bodily fluid. He'd heaved and heaved until his throat was raw. It'd stopped him screaming, couldn't manage even a whisper. Couldn't move, no coordination.
'sn't tha' e'nff?
They'd branded him.
O' God…
A thought circled what little sanity he had. Refused to let go.
Nae…
This was the start.
