Chapter Two: Hiead Gner's Journal, Part One.
Three in the morning: a figure crept into the Relaxation Room. A t-shirt and pajama pants covered a willowy, yet strong, body. Moonlight streamed in through a far window, falling onto silver-white hair. Eyes the color of garnets glanced this way and that, adjusting to the dimness in the room. Hiead Gner smiled: a glacial smile, with no trace of warmth.
He ran toward a tree, pausing to reach into a hollow, and pulled out a small leather journal and pen. The youth went into a corner, opened the book, and began to write.
~Friday, 28 August 4209~
~Enna would like to think that he's the only one capable of something so ancient as keeping a journal: a blank book, a pen, and the ability to write as they did on Earth (and yes, on backwater colonies such as the one the brat calls home). Ha. So he can write reflections, thoughts, and comment on what happens during the day? So can I.
~He likes to think he can outfox me, keep me from watching him at this ritual he now follows, every evening, after classes and before dinner. Misguided fool. He gets so absorbed in what he does that I can, if I move quietly, see him jot a few pages of an entry. Not that I've done so lately; he seems to have developed what they used to call a sixth sense. Very little eludes Zero Enna these days. And that makes me wonder.
~I don't intend to ask him what he's thinking. Nor do I have any desire to speak with his Repairer, who seems perplexed that her partner is less open of late. As for consulting Fortran, I would sooner apply to Borstal Nine than deal with his analysis of the current situation. Besides, he'd probably apply to a Borstal if he took the guided tour through my psyche. And I'm convinced, anyhow, that Zero Enna, in his current state, requires an exorcist, not a shrink.
~To be sure, he acts much as he always has: brash, confident, with that never-say-die air in his voice. He still laughs at his own jokes---hard enough, in some instances, to force milk through his nose---and his theme song might as well be "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life." And yet, there's something else at work, and I can't place it. He wakes up, grabs his uniform, and rushes through the shower, instead of hogging the water, and strutting past Clay and me wearing a towel. His comments on the cafeteria swill are fewer and further between---much as I hate to admit it, he is right about the stuff. (How can the cooks take perfectly edible, even delicious, ingredients and produce something so offensive to the palate? Either Jai Hanuman runs the food service at GOA, or VICTIM has infiltrated the kitchens.)
~But I'm not here to waste time, musing over Zero Enna. I do that enough during regular hours. Which is, perhaps, to say I have spent more time than usual mulling over the events of the past few months.
~I've had dreams, of late, that disturb me. Not the ones where I'm stuck in some flophouse, with a man who beats me over the smallest infraction. Nor the ones where my so-called foster family sends me to the Abattoir district for "evaluation." Oh yes, having drugs pumped into my veins, electroshock therapy, and people wearing surgical masks and white coats prod me, and treat me as if I were livestock---so, dear old foster family, did they pay you enough to put me out of your misery? Not that it mattered so much, when VICTIM razed the labs built in and around those old slaughterhouses.
~But, before my thought train derails, let me continue: lately, I've been dreaming about being on a rural colony. I'm about six years old, living in a small house, outside the nearest village. I wake up, in a bed with a quilt, in a room with a writing desk. I hear a voice call me: "Breakfast is ready, love." So I throw on my clothes and head downstairs. The woman at the table---is she my mother?---pushes strands of honey-brown hair from her face. She's wearing a faded turquoise print dress, fussing over a pair of trousers that need hemming. I know she's been up most of the night: she's taken in seamstress work, to make ends meet.
~She's fixed a plate with poached eggs, potatoes, and fried trout. A smaller dish, with sweet rolls, cheese, and fresh blackberries, is just to the right of that. "So, little love, did you sleep well last night?" she asks, smiling at me. I nod. She puts down her work, and walks a few steps, to the kitchen. She comes back with a mug of hot chocolate. "Today's a special day, love. Your first day of school. Just think of the friends you'll make. You already know how to read and write, so you can follow the lessons without any trouble. And who knows what you'll discover there?" I eat breakfast, and drink the chocolate. She hands me a set of books, held together with a strap, kisses me on the cheek, and sends me off.
~There's a stream near our house: to get to the village where the school is, I have to cross a bridge. Halfway across, I look down into the water, searching for tortoises and minnows. ("What's so unusual? People do dream about their childhood." Yes, but I don't see my reflection in the stream. Oh, there's a face, all right. But it's not my face.) The voice from the house calls out: "Rei! Go on, you don't want to be late."
~I call out to her: "I'll see you this afternoon then, Mummy?" She walks to the bridge, and gives me a hug, saying, "Of course you will, little love, and you'll tell me all about the fun you've had today. Now get going." So, I kiss her goodbye, and wave, as she watches me walk to the village.
~There's another dream I've had: I'm older, maybe in my twenties, and living near a beach. Not a manmade one, with a wave pool, a real beach, situated at the base of a bluff. I'm sitting at a table, in a bungalow, listening to October rain, while sipping a cup of coffee. A cat meows, running into the kitchen, and claims my lap. It fixes mismatched eyes on me, turns, and settles in. A figure steals up, behind me, putting hands on my shoulder. "Hiead," he murmurs, "what are you thinking?" I can't make out his face, but his voice---I swear I've heard it before. Somewhere between tenor and baritone.
~A shrink might tell me that the first dream symbolizes my longing for a stable, more tranquil way of life, and that my inability to see my face echoes my inability to understand who I am. As for the second dream, I'd hear something to the effect that I have latent homosexual desires, and my unseen companion stands for the intimacy, which I both crave and fear. Although someone like Sigmund Freud would probably just say that it boiled down to repression and/or sexual immaturity. Ah, sod the psychobabble. I get a headache just thinking about it.
~Maybe a religious individual would look for some kind of spiritual insight. You know, the goddesses are trying to tell me something. But what good is that, if I don't understand the message? You'd think Mother Kali could, at least, provide better translation.
~Perhaps the most disturbing thing is that, well, I'm not the only one dreaming dreams. I've woken up, several nights, to see Enna thrash in his bed, as if he were trying to escape. But what, or who, does he need to escape? I've even heard him scream; it's a wonder he hasn't had a major EX reaction. But, as I said earlier, he seems more reserved about his body. He's even started making his bed, sorting laundry, and the like.
~Something else: When I go for my shower, I notice traces of blood in the stall. Yes, I have drawn blood when he and I fight---and so has he. But I don't recall us fighting in our sleep. If we had, I think I'd have a mark or two. Is someone abusing this boy? He doesn't seem to flinch around the Seniors, and while he does start a bit around Instructor Azuma, somehow Enna manages to rile the man.
~I'm lost for words. Won't ask if I'm going mad---can't go where I already am, eh? Thought I could sort out my thoughts if I wrote them down. They've just gotten more tangled than before. Dreams? Visions? Delusions? Who knows? ~
Hiead paused, throwing the pen down. He looked at the shadows between the trees. Who's there? The grass rustled. He got up, running toward the sound. "Whoever you are---show your face! Now!"
After scanning the room, Hiead returned to the corner where he sat earlier. He then closed the journal, replacing it and the pen in the hollow of the tree. He left the Relaxation Room, moving through the corridors, until he came to his room.
Clay snored, turning onto his side. Zero lay sobbing in his bed, eyes shut, shielding his body against a phantom presence. "I'll be good, Daddy, promise, promise. I didn't mean to take that banana, but I was hungry--- please don't be mad at me," he muttered. "No, not the stove, please, don't, don't." Zero's voice rose: "Daddy! DADDY! Stop! NO!"
Get in your bed now, Gner. If he wakes up and sees you staring, you will have a fight on your hands. Go on. Don't walk over. Don't lean in so close. Don't touch him. Idiot. Well, who's the bigger idiot here---Enna, or you, for watching the boy at such an unsafe distance?
Hiead perched at the edge of his roommate's bed, studying Zero. Dark mocha hair stuck up at angles; cold sweat covered his face and throat. The scream subsided into whimpers, and he clutched at the palm of his right hand.
You wanted to know what was the story. See if you can get a better look at the hand. Hiead's eyes widened: a dark red mark covered Zero's palm. It's a fresh mark. How does a boy burn his hand while asleep?
He returned to his bed, and stared at the ceiling. Something's not right. He heard Zero's bed creak, and turned on his side, one eye shut, the other cracked half-open. Zero made his way to the bathroom; he came out with his hand wrapped in a gauze bandage.
Hiead watched the boy return to his bed, then closed his eyes.
Author's Notes
Hello and thank you for reading. What do you think of the story so far?
I'm not walking away from "Return of the Scatterling Angel" yet---I just thought I'd like to get a head start on the prequel. Since classes are starting next week, I may not be able to post every day, but I will do my best. You have my word.
Calvin: thank you for the thumbs-up. Look for more of this tale. AnimeCat: Welcome! I am glad you enjoy the story. I believe Zero's mother may be dead (if not, I'll make corrections), and that his dreams are, primarily, dreams of his youth. Thing here is, neither Zero nor Hiead is having familiar dreams.
Coming up: A training day gets out of hand. What's happening between Zero and Kizna? And why is Hiead paying extra attention to his rival? Stay tuned.
I always welcome feedback, comment, critique, praise, and flames. Drop me a line, tell your friends, and tell your enemies.
As always, thank you, and here's to next time.
Antoinette (poetisa)
Three in the morning: a figure crept into the Relaxation Room. A t-shirt and pajama pants covered a willowy, yet strong, body. Moonlight streamed in through a far window, falling onto silver-white hair. Eyes the color of garnets glanced this way and that, adjusting to the dimness in the room. Hiead Gner smiled: a glacial smile, with no trace of warmth.
He ran toward a tree, pausing to reach into a hollow, and pulled out a small leather journal and pen. The youth went into a corner, opened the book, and began to write.
~Friday, 28 August 4209~
~Enna would like to think that he's the only one capable of something so ancient as keeping a journal: a blank book, a pen, and the ability to write as they did on Earth (and yes, on backwater colonies such as the one the brat calls home). Ha. So he can write reflections, thoughts, and comment on what happens during the day? So can I.
~He likes to think he can outfox me, keep me from watching him at this ritual he now follows, every evening, after classes and before dinner. Misguided fool. He gets so absorbed in what he does that I can, if I move quietly, see him jot a few pages of an entry. Not that I've done so lately; he seems to have developed what they used to call a sixth sense. Very little eludes Zero Enna these days. And that makes me wonder.
~I don't intend to ask him what he's thinking. Nor do I have any desire to speak with his Repairer, who seems perplexed that her partner is less open of late. As for consulting Fortran, I would sooner apply to Borstal Nine than deal with his analysis of the current situation. Besides, he'd probably apply to a Borstal if he took the guided tour through my psyche. And I'm convinced, anyhow, that Zero Enna, in his current state, requires an exorcist, not a shrink.
~To be sure, he acts much as he always has: brash, confident, with that never-say-die air in his voice. He still laughs at his own jokes---hard enough, in some instances, to force milk through his nose---and his theme song might as well be "Always Look on the Bright Side of Life." And yet, there's something else at work, and I can't place it. He wakes up, grabs his uniform, and rushes through the shower, instead of hogging the water, and strutting past Clay and me wearing a towel. His comments on the cafeteria swill are fewer and further between---much as I hate to admit it, he is right about the stuff. (How can the cooks take perfectly edible, even delicious, ingredients and produce something so offensive to the palate? Either Jai Hanuman runs the food service at GOA, or VICTIM has infiltrated the kitchens.)
~But I'm not here to waste time, musing over Zero Enna. I do that enough during regular hours. Which is, perhaps, to say I have spent more time than usual mulling over the events of the past few months.
~I've had dreams, of late, that disturb me. Not the ones where I'm stuck in some flophouse, with a man who beats me over the smallest infraction. Nor the ones where my so-called foster family sends me to the Abattoir district for "evaluation." Oh yes, having drugs pumped into my veins, electroshock therapy, and people wearing surgical masks and white coats prod me, and treat me as if I were livestock---so, dear old foster family, did they pay you enough to put me out of your misery? Not that it mattered so much, when VICTIM razed the labs built in and around those old slaughterhouses.
~But, before my thought train derails, let me continue: lately, I've been dreaming about being on a rural colony. I'm about six years old, living in a small house, outside the nearest village. I wake up, in a bed with a quilt, in a room with a writing desk. I hear a voice call me: "Breakfast is ready, love." So I throw on my clothes and head downstairs. The woman at the table---is she my mother?---pushes strands of honey-brown hair from her face. She's wearing a faded turquoise print dress, fussing over a pair of trousers that need hemming. I know she's been up most of the night: she's taken in seamstress work, to make ends meet.
~She's fixed a plate with poached eggs, potatoes, and fried trout. A smaller dish, with sweet rolls, cheese, and fresh blackberries, is just to the right of that. "So, little love, did you sleep well last night?" she asks, smiling at me. I nod. She puts down her work, and walks a few steps, to the kitchen. She comes back with a mug of hot chocolate. "Today's a special day, love. Your first day of school. Just think of the friends you'll make. You already know how to read and write, so you can follow the lessons without any trouble. And who knows what you'll discover there?" I eat breakfast, and drink the chocolate. She hands me a set of books, held together with a strap, kisses me on the cheek, and sends me off.
~There's a stream near our house: to get to the village where the school is, I have to cross a bridge. Halfway across, I look down into the water, searching for tortoises and minnows. ("What's so unusual? People do dream about their childhood." Yes, but I don't see my reflection in the stream. Oh, there's a face, all right. But it's not my face.) The voice from the house calls out: "Rei! Go on, you don't want to be late."
~I call out to her: "I'll see you this afternoon then, Mummy?" She walks to the bridge, and gives me a hug, saying, "Of course you will, little love, and you'll tell me all about the fun you've had today. Now get going." So, I kiss her goodbye, and wave, as she watches me walk to the village.
~There's another dream I've had: I'm older, maybe in my twenties, and living near a beach. Not a manmade one, with a wave pool, a real beach, situated at the base of a bluff. I'm sitting at a table, in a bungalow, listening to October rain, while sipping a cup of coffee. A cat meows, running into the kitchen, and claims my lap. It fixes mismatched eyes on me, turns, and settles in. A figure steals up, behind me, putting hands on my shoulder. "Hiead," he murmurs, "what are you thinking?" I can't make out his face, but his voice---I swear I've heard it before. Somewhere between tenor and baritone.
~A shrink might tell me that the first dream symbolizes my longing for a stable, more tranquil way of life, and that my inability to see my face echoes my inability to understand who I am. As for the second dream, I'd hear something to the effect that I have latent homosexual desires, and my unseen companion stands for the intimacy, which I both crave and fear. Although someone like Sigmund Freud would probably just say that it boiled down to repression and/or sexual immaturity. Ah, sod the psychobabble. I get a headache just thinking about it.
~Maybe a religious individual would look for some kind of spiritual insight. You know, the goddesses are trying to tell me something. But what good is that, if I don't understand the message? You'd think Mother Kali could, at least, provide better translation.
~Perhaps the most disturbing thing is that, well, I'm not the only one dreaming dreams. I've woken up, several nights, to see Enna thrash in his bed, as if he were trying to escape. But what, or who, does he need to escape? I've even heard him scream; it's a wonder he hasn't had a major EX reaction. But, as I said earlier, he seems more reserved about his body. He's even started making his bed, sorting laundry, and the like.
~Something else: When I go for my shower, I notice traces of blood in the stall. Yes, I have drawn blood when he and I fight---and so has he. But I don't recall us fighting in our sleep. If we had, I think I'd have a mark or two. Is someone abusing this boy? He doesn't seem to flinch around the Seniors, and while he does start a bit around Instructor Azuma, somehow Enna manages to rile the man.
~I'm lost for words. Won't ask if I'm going mad---can't go where I already am, eh? Thought I could sort out my thoughts if I wrote them down. They've just gotten more tangled than before. Dreams? Visions? Delusions? Who knows? ~
Hiead paused, throwing the pen down. He looked at the shadows between the trees. Who's there? The grass rustled. He got up, running toward the sound. "Whoever you are---show your face! Now!"
After scanning the room, Hiead returned to the corner where he sat earlier. He then closed the journal, replacing it and the pen in the hollow of the tree. He left the Relaxation Room, moving through the corridors, until he came to his room.
Clay snored, turning onto his side. Zero lay sobbing in his bed, eyes shut, shielding his body against a phantom presence. "I'll be good, Daddy, promise, promise. I didn't mean to take that banana, but I was hungry--- please don't be mad at me," he muttered. "No, not the stove, please, don't, don't." Zero's voice rose: "Daddy! DADDY! Stop! NO!"
Get in your bed now, Gner. If he wakes up and sees you staring, you will have a fight on your hands. Go on. Don't walk over. Don't lean in so close. Don't touch him. Idiot. Well, who's the bigger idiot here---Enna, or you, for watching the boy at such an unsafe distance?
Hiead perched at the edge of his roommate's bed, studying Zero. Dark mocha hair stuck up at angles; cold sweat covered his face and throat. The scream subsided into whimpers, and he clutched at the palm of his right hand.
You wanted to know what was the story. See if you can get a better look at the hand. Hiead's eyes widened: a dark red mark covered Zero's palm. It's a fresh mark. How does a boy burn his hand while asleep?
He returned to his bed, and stared at the ceiling. Something's not right. He heard Zero's bed creak, and turned on his side, one eye shut, the other cracked half-open. Zero made his way to the bathroom; he came out with his hand wrapped in a gauze bandage.
Hiead watched the boy return to his bed, then closed his eyes.
Author's Notes
Hello and thank you for reading. What do you think of the story so far?
I'm not walking away from "Return of the Scatterling Angel" yet---I just thought I'd like to get a head start on the prequel. Since classes are starting next week, I may not be able to post every day, but I will do my best. You have my word.
Calvin: thank you for the thumbs-up. Look for more of this tale. AnimeCat: Welcome! I am glad you enjoy the story. I believe Zero's mother may be dead (if not, I'll make corrections), and that his dreams are, primarily, dreams of his youth. Thing here is, neither Zero nor Hiead is having familiar dreams.
Coming up: A training day gets out of hand. What's happening between Zero and Kizna? And why is Hiead paying extra attention to his rival? Stay tuned.
I always welcome feedback, comment, critique, praise, and flames. Drop me a line, tell your friends, and tell your enemies.
As always, thank you, and here's to next time.
Antoinette (poetisa)