What the frack have I been doing for a month?! I don't even know :/
Ugh. I re-did this chapter several times, cause it just wasn't coming out right. It's still not quite the way I wanted it, but meh.
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Please read and review~
Disclaimer - I don't own Generator Rex
vii.
Holiday fell in love a long time ago. It's scary to admit it, especially since bad things tend to happen to those she cares about, but it's so true that it aches, sometimes.
It was sometime before White Knight tried to kill him and long after he walked in with bright eyes and a lopsided side.
Holiday loves Rex.
She's not a very motherly person, she doesn't think, and though she's a doctor she's also a scientist and some say that her bedside manner leaves something to be desired.
But when Rex looks at her, like she's something bright and brilliant and amazing, like she's the friggin' sun in the sky, she just melts.
She wants to be motherly around him. She wants to be his protector, wants to be a person he calls family.
Wants to show him that he's not alone, not anymore, not with her.
She loves him like she loved (still loves, will always love) Beverly – in a way she didn't know she still could.
He's Rex. He's stupid and reckless and full of terrible Spanish and even worse one-liners. He isn't good with feelings and can't deal with the crippling loneliness of not knowing who is family is, and he hides it all by acting even dumber.
He's wonderful at math and strategy, and he doesn't care. He has a big heart buried deep and a strong sense of freedom.
He's Rex, ridiculous and charming, and with every day Holiday can't help but love him more.
Today is no different, except... Today it hurts.
She hadn't imagined that this was how their re-meeting would go. She'd known he didn't remember anything, had seen Six's tense shoulders and the subtle lines of pain on his face when he'd reported back to her in the Observation room. She knows that if Rex didn't remember anything of his past in their five years together, he probably won't recall them ever – but a stubborn part of her insists that maybe, if he's in a familiar environment with familiar faces, that will change.
Yet she had never considered that he might already remember something. That she'd want to move stars and planets to make it so that he didn't.
Six gets her and she's already nearly crying just watching the security cameras, but that's nothing compared to rushing into the room.
He can't see her. He probably can't see anything right now, except phantoms in his head.
Holiday wants to run towards him and clutch him tightly to her, never let go – but that might make things worse.
She hesitates by the doorway. She hates how thin he looks, how his eyes are blank and dull as he shivers and rocks back and forth. There are scratches and scars where there should be smooth skin, and there's a limb in a sling when it should be free.
Anger boils in her chest at what has been done to him, but she knows she can't hang on to it. Getting mad won't help him now.
She breathes in deep, fills her mind of only soft things.
Then she starts to call him back from wherever he's gone.
Four days.
Rex is four days old, and he feels every single hour of it. He's like a curious child; he asks so many questions even he's irritated by himself.
'What's that, Doctor Holiday?', 'What's this, Doctor Holiday?', and 'Why can I only remember bad stuff, Doctor Holiday?'. Just never ending inquires about anything and everything.
It's really friggin' annoying.
The doctor lady tells him she doesn't mind, but she says it with a tightness to her mouth and an odd look in her eyes.
Rex kinda understands. Apparently, for the first few hours he's with Providence (that is, the first few hours he didn't spend sleeping or running away from them), he just asked the same questions. Over and over and over and over.
He doesn't really remember that, and the doc brushes that fear aside easily with words like 'amnesia' and 'trauma' and 'first memories usually can't be stored' (he thinks it was probably just exhaustion though).
Still, he doesn't stop asking even when he can recall questioning something before. It's...a nervous habit, he supposes. A comfort, in these strange surroundings, that any answer he wants can be handed to him immediately.
He doesn't have to wonder, doesn't have to be blindingly ignorant. He doesn't have to die without knowing at least where he is and what he's doing.
Still, he gets that that could be frustrating to deal with.
He just wishes he knew how to stop.
"What's your first name, Doctor?" He asks today as he sits on her med table. He's not necessarily waiting to be looked over or anything, he's merely sitting there because this is where she is today, and her lab doesn't have chairs.
He swings his legs and studies a doctor-y, iPad-like chart thing in his lap, glancing up from his inspection to see her reaction.
Doctor Holiday looks over her own doctor-y, science-y iPad, probably doing more scientific things than Googling funny cat pictures, but she gives him a tired smile.
"My name is Rebecca Holiday, Rex." She says with complete patience. "Do you remember me telling you that yesterday?"
He stops swinging his legs and frowns, trying to think back to yesterday. Some moments are perfectly clear in his mind, like they are trapped inside transparent glass; while other moments are stuck behind foggy glass, the details changing, uncertain, as he desperately tries to see what's inside.
Usually, (like now) it is too much effort to think past today. There's something dark in the past, something that might snatch him away if he's not careful. So he doesn't bother trying to remember – only shrugs, goes back to swinging his legs.
"Maybe. I dunno. Nice name, though."
Her smile tightens, and he thinks he's maybe said that before.
"Thank you."
There's a sliver of guilt and shame growing in the pit of his stomach. It's not my fault, he insists, shoving the feeling away, but that doesn't change the fact that it feels like it is.
This is his memory problem; it's his brain. Shouldn't he be able to keep something up there?
Apparently not, he thinks. He tries not to dwell on it, though.
"Rebecca." He mutters to himself instead, testing the name out. "Doctor Rebecca Holiday."
It has a pleasant ring to it, sounds long and grand and fancy to his ears. It also seems strange, since it still seems odd to Rex that not everyone has one, short name like 'Rex' or 'Six'.
Middle names are things most people have as well, he's at least half-certain about that, and he opens his mouth to ask hers, but then quickly shuts it.
Save your memory space for something important. Something in him snaps. It's probably right.
An urgent thought breaks in, dragging him delightfully away from his guilt.
"I wonder what my middle name is." He whispers. He taps a finger against the glowing screen of the iPad, wracking his brain for names, guy names, that go in-between the first and last part of a name.
Wait...He doesn't have a last name either. Unfortunately, he has a single name like some weird, infamous celebrity – he's just...Rex. No, no, sir, ma'am, it's just Rex. No other name.
Always just...Rex.
Something vital feels missing from that, though, and he begins to despise the sound of it in his head. His name needs more, he thinks. It needs something else.
"What's my last name, Doctor Holiday?" He speaks up suddenly, making her look up again from her work across the room.
"We don't know, Rex." This time the patience is slipping slightly. There's a crease in her brow that wasn't there before.
"You don't remember us explaining this to you?"
A part of him is irked by her tone, by her are-you-really-this-much-of-a-child inflection.
"No, well, yes, but – what do you think my last name is?" He clarifies. "Something cool, probably. Like Bond. Rex Bond."
Understanding blooms on her face, and her crimson lips test out a smile.
"Most likely not." She disagrees gently.
"Or Sanchez! Rex Sanchez."
After a moment, they both wrinkle their noses at each other in unison.
"Okay, not Sanchez." He admits.
"No."
They fall into a semi-comfortable silence. Both turn back to their ipad technology.
"Doctor Rebecca Holiday." He murmurs once more to himself. "Huh."
The rest of the afternoon is spent in the lab, Rex googling surnames and trying to ignore the way Holiday keeps glancing over at him.
He likes the feel of 'Rex Rodriguez' on his tongue until he catches her amused gaze. Rex realizes he's mouthing names to himself and tightens his lips immediately.
He doesn't mention anything more about names that day.
Rex isn't sure why, but he dreams. He doesn't think he should be able to – not when his chest feels so hollow, his insides empty and carved out, and his breaths gasp like the air around him is impossibly thin. There's a harsh, cold nothing spreading inside him, an empty void that threatens to swallow him whole.
Still, the dreams come all the same. There's constant darkness, and there's always a sense of loneliness, but he thinks that sometimes the dreams stop. Sometimes they become nightmares.
He dreams of a deep, cruel laughter, visions of blurred faces in white coats, and people yelling, always yelling, for someone he's pretty sure is him. He can't ever hear the name they scream, though.
None of the dreams ever make sense. Sometimes they're in several languages, none of which are ever comprehensible – not the words, necessarily, just the meaning of it all – and sometimes, even more bewildering, no one ever speaks a word.
They all leave him empty and desolate, feeling as cold and abandoned as a desert at night. Because as messed up as whatever junk he's seeing is, it's a part of him. It's part of his memories or experiences or thoughts – it's some bit that is all him, and that is almost worse than the nightmares.
Tonight, he isn't sure which one this will be. He can't tell whether it's a dream or a nightmare; he thinks it may be both.
Tonight, he dreams he is small, childlike as only his body remembers being.
Holiday is tucking him into bed.
The lab-coat is gone and she looks more like a mother (or how he images a mother looks) – with grey streaks running through her hair, glasses perched on her nose, and a kind smile turning up faint lips.
He opens his mouth and even in his small state, the voice that comes out is his regular teenage one.
"Tell me a story." He says.
She tips back her head and a laugh pours from her mouth, but he frowns because it doesn't sound right – but then, how would he know? He's never heard her laugh in real life before.
Nevertheless, Dream-Holiday settles into a chair beside his bed, a chair that probably hadn't been there a second ago. Rex is too caught up in Holiday to care.
"You always want to know more, huh?" She says, head tilted to the side and her hands folded in her lap.
Rex isn't sure what she means.
"Tell me a story." He urges.
That same generic, female laugh echoes again, only more sad this time.
"I've told you stories before."
"Again, again!" He demands, slapping the covers impatiently. The covers feel like nothing, but the rising annoyance starts to burn in his chest.
Dream-Holiday has a look of pity in her eyes. She leans over to kiss him on the forehead, to ruffle his hair like a child.
"Oh, Rex," She says. "You wouldn't remember them anyway."
Then she's pushing back her chair and walking out the door, gone even as he jumps up and goes to follow her.
Rex finds himself alone in a hallway. The hallway keeps getting longer and longer, and he starts to run but he can't find Holiday. Somehow he knows he won't, not here.
"Holiday!" He calls anyway. "Holiday! Wait for me! Someone, please!"
And then the hall starts to disappear, flaking out around him in pieces like it was never real at all.
Suddenly he's on a roof, his feet bare and bloody and his knees scratched up. He glances up from his feet and is almost blinded by a bright, burning red sun.
Agent Six is in front of him, sunglasses revealing nothing even in the light. The man's mouth is curled in a smirk – it's such a foreign sight that is occurs to Rex once more that he really is just dreaming all of this. As in most dreams though, the thought is soon swept away, and he is left only with confusion.
"Agent Six, you're smiling." He tells the man, his brow furrowed. "You aren't supposed to do that."
Six doesn't answer him. Maybe he can't even hear Rex.
"I know you, kid. I know who you are." He says, like he's reading from a script – unemotional and rehearsed.
The words Rex is supposed to say next don't come.
"But...I don't know who I am." Rex points out instead. They feel more natural on his tongue, they mean more to his current struggles.
"Oh really?" Six raises an eyebrow. Now they're both off-script.
Suddenly Rex is jerked forwards, one of Six's strong hands clutching his shirt collar, and he finds himself staring Six in the eye.
One of Six's swords is raised to his throat. The grim smile never leaves the man's face, doesn't so much as twitch, making it oddly easy to remember that this isn't really him.
"You know exactly who you are, Rex." Six threatens. "You always have. You knew long before we even met."
"N-no..." Rex says. The sword moves closer to press into his skin. It doesn't feel sharp, but Rex is somehow still scared.
"You know, Rex."
"No! No, I don't."
"You know everything."
"No!" Rex insists, beginning to struggle against the agent's grip. It feels impossible and it only serves to tighten his captor's hold.
"You know exactly who I am –"
"No!"
Suddenly Rex doesn't want to know where this is going. This is a dream – his dream – and he should be able to control it, but he doesn't remember how to.
"– you remember who Holiday is –" Six continues, ignoring Rex's screams.
"No, no!"
"– and you know better than anyone who –"
"STOP!"
"– Van Kleiss is."
Rex manages to break away and stumbles a few steps backwards, collapsing to the ground.
"I don't, I don't, I don't know..." He cries. Tears are wet and burning on his cheeks and they feel more real than anything else here.
"I don't know anything about him."
"Rex, don't lie." Abruptly, the voice changes into something less gravelly. The tone changes into something quieter, softer, and way more frightening.
Rex jerks his head up. Van Kleiss is standing in Six's place, smiling the same way the other man had.
"You're only hurting yourself."
There's blood dripping from his golden claw, blood as red as the sun behind them, and Rex despite his dread can't help but follow the blood trail back. It ends by his feet, and he realizes the blood is coming from him, from his chest.
He looks down and sees five needle-sized holes gushing blood on his shirt.
When he throws back his head and screams, the only person around to hear it laughs.
A/N: So maybe Rex has a few left over issues. Hehehe...
Also, I want to repeat that I do not ship Rex/Holiday. I love the familial bond they have, kind of a cross between mother/son relationship and older sister/younger brother relationship, and I love writing that but I do not see them romantically. Hope if I confused anyone that cleared it up :)
I wanna promise you guys that I'll have the next chapter up next week, but lately my promises seem to fall through so I won't. Just know that we're finally (almost) getting to the exciting parts, which should motivate me - and maybe our villian will even show up in a chapter or two!
Replies to reviews:
rlfremeau: That was the sweetest review ever! Thank you :)
Sparky: Thanks! Your reviews are always wonderful to read ^^ And that's a pretty interesting theory on Rex's amnesia - it would certainly make sense, considering his amnesia portrayed on the show doesn't really fit any realistic type of retrograde amnesia.
Headcanon accepted. :D Hope you enjoy this chapter!
YellowAngela: Aww! Thanks! I'm afraid the conclusion might not be for quite a few more chapters, but I promise that we're getting there.
Please keep reading!
QueenPersephoneofHades: Thank you so much! That means a lot to this humble, recent-high-school-graduate writer ^^
Hope you keep reading!
CyanLugia: *strokes invisible beard* Maybe, maybe not. You'll just have to see. Lol, thank you so much for reading! Hope you keep on reviewing!
Awesomesauce~
Kokoro
