SWEET DARKNESS
Part 2
"I've warned you, Quatre. Remember that."
His voice sounded toneless, as cold as his gaze was - but strangely, the words had less effect on me. He must've threatened me not because he was strong but because he was desperate.
I nodded and Trowa turned away from me, walked, resting his palm against the wall; he didn't feel well, far from it. Poor baka... There was no reason why I would feel sorry for him - and then I recalled suddenly how he'd called me 'pretty child' when he was delirious; not 'whore' or something like this. Unconsciously I ran the fingers over my face where he'd touched me then. Unlike Trowa's, my hands were ice-cold. I was freezing again.
Okay, there was nothing to do about it. I bit on my thumb trying to pull myself together and then kicked off one of the blankets.
"It's yours."
A short glance through the tangled strands was dark-green; no answer came. Trowa stopped at the door, examining it closely. It was the only opening in the cell, no window or anything like that. I saw his slim hands brush over the even surface.
A brief flash of anger went through me. All right, he could do it - could pretend he didn't care for anything, there were more important things than getting warm, eating, sparing yourself a bit of pain. In a little while he'd get to know that nothing else just mattered - in this place, anyway.
"You want to escape, don't you?" Why did I ask? He never answered much. "You can't escape from here."
His shoulder moved slightly.
"I can't, can I?"
No, you can't, I wanted to say. There had been others, before him, who'd been as sure that they could get out, could leave this place. No one had left this place alive; it was a thing I knew for sure.
The slot in the door opened and another lot of rations flopped in. I took mine and gnaw on it, watching how Trowa turned his bar in the hands.
"You'd want to eat it now, before it got hard."
He shrugged in reply and made a bit or two. It didn't go much further, his face went blank in pain as he tried to swallow. He suddenly was in front of me and handed me the bar. I looked warily at him.
"Why is that?"
"I can't... eat it anyway."
"Then put it to the trash," I said harshly. "I'm not allowed to take your food."
For a moment it seemed to me something changed in his eyes.
"I... I didn't want to get you in trouble."
You just promised to kill me, I thought sourly.
He was getting worse again, shaking and with too pale, wide-eyed face. Why didn't he lie down, I wondered and thought that I knew the answer - he was afraid he wouldn't get up again. I watched him hobble along the wall and annoyance I felt about him exchanged with sadness.
He was not going to survive here - because he didn't try to survive. Even if in fever he talked about having no right to die. But he didn't know how much it took here to stay alive.
*I* knew it just too well.
Sounds came right from behind the wall I was leaning against. I got agitated just for a moment, before realizing what it was. A normal thing... I could just let it slip over me.
"What's that?" Trowa's voice was sharp and tense.
It amused me a little that there still was something that could make him react. And I could see in his eyes that he knew what it was - who wouldn't? I enjoyed answering.
"People are trying to pass the time best they can."
"Having sex?"
"Believe it or not, it works," I said mildly. He shook his head incredulously. I closed my eyes; sighs and moans behind the wall were kind of lulling.
In the beginning, listening to it, I'd sometimes got excited. But not any more, not for weeks or months by now. What I felt at the moment was just amazement that someone could do it and enjoy it in this place.
"We are not going to do it," Trowa said levelly.
My eyes snapped open. He collapsed on the floor at the opposite wall, as far from me and from the offensive sounds as possible. His eyes looked warily from the exhausted face.
As I gaped a little, unable to find words, he frowned, his eyes getting even darker than before.
"Don't take me wrong, it's not because you're a whore or something. It's your personal matter what to do with your body. I just... don't do such things. I want to stay out of it."
I still couldn't say a word. You fool, my mind screamed. You don't know what happens here. As if someone's going to ask you!
"Is it clear, Quatre?"
"It is," I muttered. What was the point of explaining that I didn't want to have anything with him at all? He wouldn't believe me, would he? I shivered although it was getting warmer.
The temperature rose steadily. It meant that the night was close. As long as I was there, I still couldn't figure out what was worse - the constant cold of the day or the constant expectation of the night.
"Trowa..." He could've hated me for talking again but I just couldn't keep silent, needed to do something to beat down the panic. "They'll possibly come for us soon. Don't try to fight them. If you fight them, they'll get angry. And trust me, you won't want them angry."
For a while he didn't answer - and I was ready to talk some more, just to hear a sound of someone's voice - even of my own voice, reedy and pathetic as it was. Then he glanced at me and for a moment it seemed to me there was no animosity in his gaze.
"Why do you tell me this?"
Because I don't really care what to tell...
"Why do you care?" he asked. "What does it matter if they get angry with me or not?"
"I thought you wanted to live," I said and bit my tongue. He didn't have to know I heard what he said in delirium. But Trowa didn't notice; he probably wasn't lucid enough even now to remember what he'd said.
"What makes you think that I need your advice?" he asked harshly. "I know much more than you do about survival. You think yourself so streetwise... as if you can teach me something."
I flushed; I didn't think I still could flush - but he made me. Of course, it was true what he'd said - I couldn't teach him anything. I was amazingly successful at making a mess out of my life and winding up here. But, come to think about that, he wound up here as well.
I looked away from Trowa, stared at the door - and as if on the clue, it slid open, letting Hannigan in.
I knew I had to expect him; there had been three nights when he hadn't come for me. But seeing him still made my heart feel cold and as if too heavy to beat. His long white eyes stopped on me, the pupils focusing sharply.
"Get up, slut, today is your night of fun."
I bit the inside of my lip, kept biting it even when my mouth started filling with blood. Staying silent was a priority; alone, I sometimes couldn't cope with myself and whimpered in fear. But no way I was going to show it in front of Trowa.
Although who cared...
I got up and walked to the door. The edges of my vision were blurry and it was getting worse but I didn't mind. I didn't want to see anything. Hannigan didn't cuff me - he knew I wouldn't try to escape. His hard, enormously long fingers lay on the back of my neck, pushing me forward.
"And you get up, too." Another voice sounded behind me and I knew they talked to Trowa. I could've looked back to see what happened but my own misery wrapped me up so tightly that I didn't care, could do nothing but to make a step after step along the corridor.
There were two directions and I'd gone both of them. To the left meant an interrogation room - I'd finished with it a long time ago. To the right meant the barracks - and sometimes I thought that all the agony of interrogation it was still better than what Hannigan called 'fun'.
Yet being 'fun' was possibly the only reason why I still lived. Those who were not 'fun' - died.
"Tell me, Quatre Winner, how old were you when you became a whore?" I heard Hannigan's half-amused voice behind me. He seemed to be in the mood to talk.
"Thirteen." We had talked about it before, he knew everything I could say.
"Wasn't it a bit late? I know you humans start earlier."
"I was not supposed to become a prostitute. It just... happened. When we left Nevis... we needed to survive in some way."
"So, you are not a professional?"
"No one ever complained."
"What species did you take?"
I hated this part.
"Humans. Cadmians. Vesperi. Dellians. Aomi. You."
I knew that the conversation was pleasing him immensely - heard the slight hissing sound of the air pumped through his windpipes.
"What was the worst, whore?"
"You know you are the worst."
The blow was heavy and unexpected, throwing me face down - and I cried out involuntarily, rolling on the floor, curling into a foetus position. I knew it wouldn't help me but my body reacted instinctively. Through my fingers I looked up at Hannigan, wondering if he'd reach for his charge gun now. But he didn't need to use the charge gun - he could do enough damage just with his fists.
"Don't ever forget 'sir', bitch."
"Yes, sir. Please forgive me, sir."
He waited for me to get up, standing with his long limbs folded on his chest. He pointed towards the barracks and I walked in.
* * *
I wasn't alone there to serve them this night; there were other prisoners whose names I never knew and didn't want to know. I avoided any gaze I could meet as Hannigan walked me towards the bed - and I knew others were as little eager to see my face as I was to see theirs.
What we had to do to stay alive made none of us happy - no matter how little choice we had over that matter. But none of us would prefer to die anyway, I thought cynically.
I hadn't always been like that... so cold - so jaded. And, maybe, remembering that I'd been different was the worst thing. I remembered my sisters and their constant, unquestioning love, my father's pride and care. I remembered being clean and confident in my ability to stay worthy, no matter what. It was all in the past now; never to be back.
"Undress, slut," Hannigan said behind my back. I took off my top and pants quickly. They were my only clothes and if they got torn, I would have nothing to wear at all. I didn't need to look to feel Hannigan move behind me, get closer. His index finger traced my spine, hard, the fingernail cutting the skin in some places. The pain didn't make me shiver, dispensable as it was. He pushed me forward and I scrambled onto the bed, lay on my back looking up at the morph's spidery figure.
He touched my face impassively, neither caressing nor hurting - rather indicating his possession of me. My eyelashes trembled under his fingers but I didn't close my eyes - I knew it would be punished with a blow that would make my mouth fill with blood. There was something I could do, though, and I prayed for Hannigan to never know I did that. I tuned down my vision, unfocused my gaze until his white face became just a stain floating in front of me.
I wished I could tune down my other sensations as well. But even as it was, at some moments I almost managed to slip away, to be out there. Yet now and then Hannigan returned me to reality - his hand on my face while his other hand kept thrusting inside me as he made me look at his comrades, his voice hissing with pleasure:
"Look at him - isn't he pretty? The little prince of mine, little blond slut..."
I never knew with how many of them he shared me. Several hours later, when the last one of them retrieved his organ out of me, I felt squashed and groggy, unable to raise my head, just lying there as my blood soaked into the sheets. They'd torn me - they always did.
"Get up, whore," Hannigan's voice came - ruthless. He must've had a soft spot about me - or he wouldn't keep me for so long, wouldn't he? And yet I knew better than to expect any mercy from him.
I knew I had to get up - before he would get angry, before he used a charge gun - and I made myself roll down on the floor, then got on my fours, then pushed myself up. The room swirled around me wildly.
"Shower."
Shower was the only good thing about it all. Surely it was not done for my benefit but because their fluids became acid when coagulating on and inside my body - and next time I wouldn't be this much 'fun' for them.
The water was pure pleasure, running over my bruised body, washing off their ejaculates. I fell on my knees, my mouth half-open in pain, as I tried to wash the liquids out of my rectum. It hurt like hell but I knew it had to be done. It would be worse if I didn't do it.
I didn't hear Hannigan behind the rustle of water, just felt him embrace me from behind.
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir, for taking me," I whispered feeling tears well in my eyes. I just wanted to be left alone. I hadn't been crying since I was a child - but this place was getting under my skin, little by little, destroying my mind faster than it destroyed my body.
He left me on the floor, gagging and coughing, spraying the wet tiles with blood - and it took a quarter of hour for me to be able to get up again and finish washing myself.
The cell was empty when I returned, Trowa's blanket lay in a heap at the wall just as he left it, his uneaten ration next to it. I looked around numbly, not knowing what I felt. What took them so long with him? Or was he already dead? He should've wished to be dead, I thought suddenly, if he wanted to keep this integrity of his... not having sex, huh...
I picked up the blanket and wrapped it around myself. The cell rocked around me gently, like a huge ship. If I closed my eyes, I could almost imagine I was on a ship, like that beautiful liner we all traveled with, my father's warm hand on my shoulder, my sisters next to me, giggling...
I buried the face in my arms and wailed.
"Shut up, you fuckin' kid!" someone yelled behind the wall; so, I bit on my palm and kept silent.
***********************************************************
They had never promised it would be easy. They had promised it would be endurable - and he would have at least three weeks before this thing started killing him.
Trowa remembered the huge hall on Oatta, the light dimmed, deeply colored virtual landscapes changing on the walls. The exchange carried on over his head as if he wasn't present, the Oatta's voice low and insistent.
"He's too old. Six-, seven-year-old would be perfect, wouldn't suffer any inconveniences, wouldn't feel discomfort. But his body will counteract."
In reply, Raymond Dien sounded as always - calm, level and patient.
"He's the youngest member of the delegation. We don't have any other choice and we don't have time or possibility to seek for another transporter. Anyone of us would agree to be in his place but you refuse..."
"No, no, it's out of question." For once the Oatta spoke hastily. "The vaccine will kill any adult person within days. It'll be an outright murder and a waste of the product."
"Then I don't see any ground for discussion."
Trowa sat quietly, looking at his hands folded on his lap. His participation in the conversation was not needed; and anyway, what could he say? Oatta didn't understand anything about them Misques - maybe, no one did. The readiness to die for the sake of fulfilling the mission that Raymond Dien and other showed - Trowa felt it, too. No fear, no pride for being chosen - just knowledge that he was following his duty, serving his Order and his people. His life didn't belong to him but to Misques.
Trowa still felt a small twinge of excitement and worry at the thought of what he was supposed to do. What if he'd turn out to be unworthy? What if he didn't manage... But of course he would manage - there was nothing so difficult about it.
He'd heard about the seizure-flu; the epidemic that mowed clean the whole colonies in the Northern Sector. Fortunately, the population of Trowa's own planet was immune to it. But the Northern Sector would definitely pay for the vaccine a lot. And it was a lucky chance that Misques in the travel came across Oatta who had this medicine and also had an interest in spartanium and were willing to exchange. Spartanium didn't cost much but the vaccine would cost a lot. And it was not only a question of money but of prestige as well.
Honor for his planet - and another good deed performed by the Order of Misques.
Involuntarily, Trowa shivered. Raymond Dien didn't seem to notice it, to Trowa's relief; he should've known better than to lose self-control. The landscapes on the walls changed to seascapes, blue and green, as Trowa kept looking at them through the hay-colored web of his bangs. He loved beautiful places; and being a member of the diplomatic mission meant that he would see a lot of beautiful places all around the world.
A shadow fell over him, dulling the colors of virtual pictures to grey. Above him, the toad-like shape of the Oatta towered. The round orange eyes focused on him.
"Come with me, child," the alien said. There was no haughty note in its voice as there had been when it'd talked to Raymond Dien. Trowa wanted to say he wasn't a child, fifteen was by all means an age of maturity in Misque Order - but somehow he didn't feel like arguing. The Oatta's webbed paw touched his shoulder as he got up on his feet.
The touch was unnecessary, adding nothing to Trowa's way and, confused, he looked at Raymond, wondering how to react. The Oatta's paw curiously felt very warm - and somewhat pleasant. Trowa had forgotten how a touch could've felt - during his years in Misque Order no one had touched him other than in game or by necessity. The alien's touch was somewhat different. Almost like... a caress?
It didn't make sense - why would the Oatta want to caress him? And anyway, Trowa hardly could know how a caress would feel. He certainly didn't know much of these in his life. Maybe, only when he was very young, below two years old - but even then Trowa didn't think his mother had ever caressed him. She must've known she would give him away once a girl would be born - so, there was no reason to get attached to him.
He still felt somehow disoriented and unable to cast this touch out of his mind as they proceeded to the surgery room. Two other delegation members joined Raymond there.
Trowa looked at the plastic-covered cot, Oatta-sized, in the middle of the room and reached for the buttons of his jacket. The silver badge was prickly under his palm and it was when he realized his hands shook slightly.
He had still a long way to go to become a real Misque; he wondered if Raymond would chide him later for it.
"Just the jacket," the Oatta said. "And pull down your pants a little bit."
"What is it?" Raymond's voice sounded above but, lying flat, Trowa couldn't see the man any more.
"Local anesthesia."
"Is it necessary?"
"By all means, it's necessary," the Oatta snapped.
Trowa didn't feel the incision. He could see, though, how a capsule of transparent material cracked in the Oatta's paws - and a black cylinder slipped inside his body.
"He'll start feeling sick in about three hours," the Oatta talked while sealing the wound. "The symptoms are identical to the ones of seizure-flu. But it is not transmittable and it isn't lethal. At least not for a while. The cylinder must be removed within three weeks the latest, though."
"It's all right," Raymond said. "It takes seven days to reach the Northern Sector."
They took a passenger ship there. It was slower but safer in the strained situation in the region. Trowa didn't come out of his room even once on the trip. He was slightly taken aback with how bad it turned out to be. Of course, he knew that people were dying of it - but still he didn't expect the utter weakness of his body, alternating floods of hot and cold that either made him pile all available blankets over himself or left him breathing with open mouth, like a fish on a shore.
The light hurt his eyes and he kept the room dimmed, apart from the times where other members of the delegation came to visit him. They talked about his duty and the honor the Order would acquire due to him. At first Trowa felt mildly irritated with them - as if he needed to be reminded of his duty. But they surely meant well - and later he was so weak he just slipped out of lucidity as they talked.
They probably noticed he didn't listen and stopped coming - all except Raymond Dien who seemed to take a kind of charge over him. He came to leave dishes with food on Trowa's table.
"You have to eat. You can't allow weakening your body like that. You have responsibilities."
In the periods of relief Trowa managed to make himself eat a few bits. His throat was constantly sore and swallowing hurt - and eventually he gave up, flushed the food down the toilet. Raymond would be mad if he knew about it but Trowa felt so distressingly feeble and unstable that he decided he didn't care.
Only cold water was good, when Raymond brought him a glass that was misted and dripping with melted ice - and held it while Trowa drank. Raymond's long pale fingers were cold as well - and sometimes, in the weakest moments, Trowa wished Raymond touched his forehead with those fingers. Raymond never did, of course.
It must've been third or forth day when the ship stopped suddenly. At first Trowa remembered just bits and pieces - Raymond who came to his room, his jaw set hard as he waited for Trowa to dress, exasperation flaring in his dark eyes when Trowa's fingers were so awkward they couldn't cope with buttons.
"Morphs moved their post," he said through clenched teeth finally.
In the hangar the line of passengers was long and silent as they walked through the check. Trowa had never seen morphs before - and in any other case he would probably try to see and memorize as much as he could. But as it was, he had to spend all his strength on just standing upright.
"Damn freaks," he heard Raymond's voice behind him, the words hissed with as much emotion as the Misque General could allow. "Abominations."
And dangerous abominations, above all. Considered by humans a dead-end branch, the morphs managed to conquer all the center of the galaxy within last fifty years, driving humans away to previously uninhabited planets. The epidemics of seizure-flu were morphs' fault among the rest; those planets just didn't fit for humans and the humans didn't have funds or possibilities to move out there.
The uniformed creatures, tall and swift moving, paced fluidly along the line, their eyes without irises focusing briefly on the passengers. The morph-dogs on their leashes panted hard and eyed everyone warily.
A morph in a silvery helmet that encased the upper part of his face and long sheet of white hair streaming over his back stood talking to others, arms folded on his chest. His silhouette could look human, Trowa thought - if the long extra-phalange fingers didn't give him away. He wondered briefly if the species could be a hybrid between human and morph and if it was possible, taking into account the obvious high position of the man, his jacket adorned with signs generously.
"Move," Raymond whispered behind Trowa, pushing him slightly as the line walked.
Trowa made a step - and that was when one of the dogs yanked the leash, reached him in a moment, its heavy paws pushing him in the chest, its ugly muzzle shoving under his ribs, just where the cylinder was sewed into his body.
He recalled the Oatta's voice:
"You don't need to worry, the vaccine won't be shown on x-rays."
But apparently the dog could smell it.
Trowa swayed, trying to stay on his feet against the dog's weight. Blood beat in his ears and he couldn't be sure if he heard the rustle of voices behind him, Misques exchanging quiet, hasty remarks. Oh God, what was going on? Did he fuck up, after everything - let them down on their mission, couldn't do what was demanded from him? The dog's claws scratched his skin through the material of his jacket. Even with his vision going blurry Trowa still could see how the morphs moved towards him, the one with long white hair breaking his conversation, walking up as well.
"What's there? Does he have some smuggling on him?" The morphs' voices were harsh, snappy.
"He's a member of Misque Order, you insult us all by saying it, sir." It was Raymond Dien's voice.
"Misque or not Misque, the dog smells something."
The leash was jerked and the dog pulled away from Trowa - and then morphs' hard hands grabbed him and yanked him out of the line.
"Search him."
He knew it was not reasonable to fight - so, he stayed motionless even as they tore his jacket open and groped over his body. The touch over the scar made him wince involuntarily.
"He's nothing on him."
The dog was still too close, glaring at him as it was held on the leash. Trowa felt choking, agitation making his troubled breath even more difficult. He had nothing on him... so, they were supposed to let him go. They had nothing against him, they didn't have right...
"He has nothing on him. But how about *in* him?"
The voice was cold, brittly beautiful - and without looking Trowa realized that it was the human-like morph talking. He heard again how the Misques shifted and talked behind him.
"I'm certainly interested to know," the morph said, making a step towards him - and a sling blade flashed in his long-fingered, white-gloved hand.
In his feverish state of mind Trowa didn't feel so much scared as mesmerized with the knife catching the light. The morph's small mouth twisted in a mean smile as he approached.
And at the next moment everything happened. A hand grabbed Trowa's shoulder, yanking him aside, Raymond's voice against his ear said quietly and inarguably:
"Run."
The clashing of metal was already all around; Misques' traditional sabers many considered something like decorations - but they surely could use their weapons.
On the right, there was a way to the shuttle area - and Trowa knew he had to get there. A part of his mind was screaming in despair - why did they do it? Why did they fight for him? None of them apart from Raymond ever called him by his given name. And now they fenced and died for him.
The door was so close when huge, unbearable pain hit into his back, Trowa's body refusing to obey as he flopped face down on the floor, smashing his nose bloody and convulsing in pain. He would've thought he was dying - but it hurt too much to think about anything at all.
"Good work, Hannigan." The voice of the human-like morph sounded above him. Trowa tried to pull his limbs together, tried to turn - and when he did, the morph stood on one knee next to him. His gloved hand reached to Trowa's face and pushed his bangs away. For a few moments his eyes met Trowa's - blue irises and black pupils in the slits of the helmet. It couldn't be - it must've been fever - morphs' eyes were always white, not blue...
"Stupid boy," the morph said as Trowa shook his head, trying to escape the touch. "What is it you hide? Well, we'll find out."
The morph moved and his white hair brushed over Trowa's face, soft and smooth. Other morphs yanked him up on his feet and turned to face the hangar. Nine bodies in burgundy-red uniform lay on the floor motionless and the morphs moved between them, delivering control shots. Trowa didn't know if he really saw it or if it was something delirium brought to him - how Raymond's body jerked in a convulsion after this shot. But pools of bright blood, much lighter red than the one of the uniforms, was what he definitely saw.
"Take him away," the blond morph said. "I'm going to deal with him later."
To be continued
Thanks and hugs to everyone who gave me feedback to the first part. Well, the rule stays. You want more of it - you gotta C&C. Call me a bitch if you want - but there will be a new chapter only if I get reviews. And oh boy, the next chapter's gonna be something :-) Looks like some 6x3 goodies might be coming your way, ne? Or maybe not.