Contradicting Mission
Part 22
At first, Gohan was only aware of a cold floor. Not tiles. Sheets of metal. Harsh, ungiving, and frigid. He attempted to move, roll over and sit up, but his body would not respond. His legs were asleep, tingling, cold. His hands were....behind his back? Also asleep, painfully so. As feeling slowly came back to his body-- his skin pin-prickling painfully--memory also kicked in, like a sudden wave of freezing water, chilling his mind.
Finding the good doctor, the riot, the killing, being shot in the leg. The fight between Heng and Henning's men, fighting for him, and finally a second confrontation with Henning. Then....oh, yes. The last thing he remembered--Henning ordering him beaten unconscious.
He was on his side, his cheek pressed against the cold floor in a small sticky puddle of blood. His blood. He knew it by smell. He tried again to move, get his tingly, numb hands under him; impossible. His hands were bound together, some sort of ultra-strong metal clamped around his wrists. He wasn't surprised. His mind was still pleasantly foggy; his body was only tingling, swollen, yes, but no real pain except in his right shoulder, which he laying on. Wait, small pain in the left calf. His tail throbbed dully, bruised. It had been stepped on. It was ignorable. His muddy mind was kind enough to let him remain blissfully unfeeling.
He didn't want to think about where he was, what was going to happen. How long had he been out? The blood pooled around his cheeks was still pretty wet, though the edges of the small puddle were blackened and crisped. Perhaps an hour. He ran his tounge along the insides of his mouth, trying to figure out if he was still loosing blood from it. There was a putrid, bitter tasting layer along the roof of his mouth, along the backs of his teeth, on the backs of his lips, coppery tasting. Old blood. Nothing new. Two molars were loose.
He had been out an hour? He wondered if he would be able to escape--in his current state, he was too dull to be pessimistic enough to realize his chances of escape were minimal--then realized he would probably be really late getting back to camp.
Bojack's going to kill me.......
He almost chuckled at the madness of worrying about Bojack killing him when he would probably die right here. He stiffled the urge to laugh, though his shoulders shook. No, he really shouldn't laugh. It was probably hysterics; laughter first, wreaking his body until he heaved and hurt. But then he might start whimpering. Maybe crying. No, he really shouldn't laugh.
One of his legs twitched on its own accord, shaking his entire body. The movement suddenly brought a wave of sharp pain across him, forcefully dragging him out of his half-conscious state of obliviousness. He felt everything now. And everything hurt. The floor beneath him, just by touching him, hurt. His muscles ached, his left calf throbbed, his tail seemed to pulse and boil with agony. He wanted to hunt down the man who had stepped on his tail and break everybone in his body.
Hell to his qualms against vengence, he was facing certain painful death. He was allowed to think about whatever freaking acts of violence against whoever he wanted.
He parted his lips, parched and dry, and groaned as a second, acute wave of pain crawled up his body.
"Good morning."
Gohan's body went rigid, and he tugged at the bonds on his wrists, moved his fingers, which were swollen as sausages from being bound at such an akward angle for so long. He knew that voice, oh kami, he knew. Henning. Henning was in the room with him. The boy's shoulders started heaving again as though laughter really was trying to force its way out of him; he was fighting against hyperventilation.
Foot steps behind him. Heels clicking loudly against the metal floor.
Tock tock tock....
They were getting closer to the boy, and whoever it was stopped a foot from him. Behind him. Gohan opened his eyes, sticky and crusty with old blood, but was unable to see much. Everything was fuzzy. He didn't need to see, he knew it was Henning standing behind him, above him. No doubt looking down at him, smiling.
The toe of Henning's boot prodded the boy in his arm, "You are conscious, right?"
Gohan closed his eyes again, hoping in the very depth of his heart that Henning would just go away. He heard the tock tock tock of the boots circle him, a complete 360, and stop at his head. The boy opened his eyes again; the feet had stopped inches from his face. Black boots, probably steel-toe. He rolled his eyes to see the person standing above him, his body aching too badly to turn his head. It was Henning, alright. One boot moved under the boy's cheek and forced his head to turn and look up.
Henning smiled when he saw the boy's eyes were open, "Good, for a second I thought you were just moaning in your sleep."
The Tahch-jin took three steps back, allowing Gohan to see him better. He was tall--six feet? seven?--and rather thin. Spindly. Perhaps it was the strange angle, but his arms and legs looked unproportionatly long, like a spider. A spider tending to his web. And Gohan was the fly, dangling helplessly, bound, waiting for its captor to move in apon it.
In Henning's hand was a strange looking staff, or perhaps a ceptre. A good inch diameter all along it's length, roughly two feet long. At the end of it, there was a peculiar glowing ball of white-green. At first, Gohan though it was a light bulb; Henning seemed insane enough to carry a light on a stick; but as his sight continued to clear, he saw it was far more than that. The light wasn't attached to the ceptre; it hovered a centimeter above the end of the staff, glowing brightly. Perhaps some odd concentration of chi? The boy's addled mind reached out and tasted the ball. Not chi, not really. Something like it, a distance cousin. Electricity, maybe.
Even as he watched it, a large spark leapt off the glowing orb and struck the ground, sizzled, spat, then vanished, leaving a black smear where it had landed.
"Ah, the glow of curiosity, even in the face of death," Henning said. He raised the staff so the glowing top pointed at the cealing, "This instument is called a Chah't ceptre."
Gohan didn't respond; he ran his tounge along the backs of his teeth again, tasted the bitter old blood. Tried thinking of something he could do--did he have the power in him to kill the Tahch-jin?--but his thoughts were sluggish. Like a race of molasses.
"Tell me, dear little Gohan," Henning said, pacing to the left, then to the right, his movements dominating Gohan's attention, "Where are you from? What are your parent's names?"
The luney little laugh threatened to take Gohan again. Why the hell would he tell Henning that? Did the Tahch-jin seriously expect an answer? He remained silent, then closed his eyes. He didn't want to watch the other pace before him like a hungry lion. Nevertheless, the tock tock tock of those boots penetrated his hearing and tore into his mind.
Henning was circling him again. The click of his heels pounding against all sides of the boy's head like the throbs of a headache. Twice circling, three times. Even with his eyes closed he knew he was being inspected, looked at, scrutinized. Feeling uncomfortable, Gohan drew his knees closer to his chest, his tail looping around his ankles, wishing his arms were free so he could wrap them around himself. Even that small comfort was denied him.
"No answer already? I thought you would at least be cooperative enough to answer those simple quesions," though the boy didn't open his eyes, he knew Henning was smiling as he spoke, grinning like a cat.
Henning was behind him again, Gohan heard the clicking foot-steps stop. There was a rustling; the Tahch-jin was kneeling, getting closer to the boy. Gohan squeezed his eyes shut tighter, his shoulders were shaking again, his whole body was throbbing as his heart began to slam viciously against his ribs.
Henning watched the boy's shoulders shake, surprised it was the only reaction he'd gotten from him since he had walked in. Stubborn little raskal, but so completly perfect, a masterpiece. The porceline white skin of his gentle young face looked like pure poetry against the backdrop of blood in which he rested his head. His ink-black hair added a lovely forground. Henning knew that this wonderful, beautiful, perfect boy was his chance to finish a work of art, to lay down the last strokes of paint to a perfectly decorated canvas. This boy, this Saiya-jin, Gohan, little Gohan. Perfect, delicious, so alive, young, so very alive. His. The work of art was his to finish. Then it would be completly perfect.
"You should be thanking me," Henning said, resting a cool hand against the boy's hot cheek; he had a slight fever, or perhaps all Saiya-jins felt so hot, "Just cooperate, and I'll make everything perfect, absolutely, completely perfect," he watched Gohan's shoulders rise and fall as he breathed, "You really should thank me."
His hand traced down the boy's sharp jaw, then rested on his neck, his fingers under the boy's chin, his thumb against the vertibre in the back of his neck. He could feel the youth's pulse, frantic, erratic, fast as a bird's. His own Tahch-jin heart excellerated. He could hardly believe it. The splendor, the joy; he opened his senses, savoring every emotion he drew forth. He was going to end this perfect thing. It would be grand, wonderful. Something never to be rushed. It had to be drawn out, elaborate, faultless. His crowning achievement.
Gohan was having a hard time breathing rapidly enough to keep up with his heart. His circulation was going too fast; he was light headed, but it was far from the pleasant fogginess he felt when he first woke up. Terror. The cold fingers on his neck were like the very hand of Death, horror, and they were trembling. Oh, kami, the cold fingers were trembling, shaking with eagerness, excitement. He felt Henning's heavy breathing on the back of his neck.
"Do you want to know what the Chah't ceptre does?"
Gohan pressed his lips tightly together, said nothing.
A humming sound buzzed in his left ear. A heavy sound, oppressive. Vzzznnnnnnn..... His skin prickled, and the ground beneath his head suddenly sparked his cheek. Electricity. He opened his eyes to see the glowing orb at the end of the Chah't ceptre hovering above him; millimeters from his eye. His hair stood on end, tugging at its roots, as though the ball was made of pure static. He felt its heat, but above that he felt the sound it was making. Such a dominant humming at such a short distance from his sensitive ears, it made him feel like his brain was being squashed flat.
"Why are you here, little Gohan?" Henning asked, rubbing his thumb along the back of the boy's neck, "Why are you on this planet?"
Gohan didn't answer; even if he had wanted to his entire body was too rigid to speak, to even move. Henning was silent for a moment, running his hand along the boy's neck, his fingertips tracing Gohan's chin, his knuckles along the scar on his cheek, his eyebrows. Tousling his hair. "You're what I've been looking for, the find of the millenium. What force brought you here? Brought you for me, that I was able to meet you? Why are you here?"
Again, the boy made no reply. His body was wrapped into as tight a ball as it could, his knees drawn up to his nose, his tail curled up between his legs, the furry tip touching his chin. His eyes remained squeezed tight. Henning's touch repulsed him, horrified him; upset his system in a way water would not be able to wash off. He was insane. More so than any other being he had ever contacted. Mad. A lunatic. A dangerious one; capable of unspeakable acts of violence. And because of that maddness, he was far more frightening than facing a thousand opponents twice, a hundred times, Gohan's own power.
Henning rocked back on his heels, "Not a word, hm? Not one?" He rocked forward and backward, forward, backward, watching the boy's shoulders rise and lower. "Fine. We can do it this way."
He leapt back to his feet, the Chah't ceptre remaining next to the boy's ear, saying, "Taste a bit of Tahch-jin technology." He rammed the instrument against the side of the boy's neck.
Finally, as a hissing noise erupted from the point of contact, Gohan made a sound. A scream. Almost inhuman in its force, his entire body suddenly arched backward, his legs kicking at the air, his arms twisting in their bonds, his body bending half-backward. His face contorted, his mouth opened so far his jaw looked unhinged as he screamed, writhing. Barely audible was the vzzznzzzzz sound of the ceptre over the pained cries exploding from the small, twisting form. Bucking, kicking, straining against his bonds until blood ran from his wrists and from the horrible wound in his leg. His tail flapped at the ground, twisting, writhing like a worm in the sun.
Finally, Henning pulled the instrument away.
Gohan's body instantly stopped jerking; then wilted. Melted against the floor. Unmoving. His skin spazmed in little ripples up and down his body, along his back, his arms, painfully down his left leg; his fingers clawed into hooks as they began shaking against his back. He breathed through already damaged ribs, raggedly, his eyes unable to open. "Ahhn....nhhn....anhn....."
Henning watched him, expressionless, his golden eyes mirthful. He began circling the boy again, watching him from every angle, admiring his pale skin, his silky hair, his strained face, the soft moans of pain. Perfect, perfect.
"I own this planet, you know," He said, circling, circling, the clicking of his boots and the moans of the boy the only things filling the perfect silence, the perfect intensity. Oh, he was enjoying it. "At my fingertips, by just the push of a button, I could cause all the Underground to cave in over the Aeesu-jin's heads. Or I could make the sky suddenly cloud and rain. I could cause earthquakes, or tornadoes, of whatever I want. Or I could cause the entire place to explode into a fiery hell. Do you want to know why?"
Gohan gave no sign he heard the question, his breath continued to labor on, his skin occationally still rippled, his eyes stayed shut. But he heard. Each and every word reached him clearly.
"Because the Aeesu-jin are idiots." Henning went on, "Thinking that by having a controlled environment they gain mastery over their surroundings. Even the weather, boy, can you imagine that? Well, I guess they didn't think about what would happen if an outside force happened to gain control of their precious technology. Too bad for them. Now that I have you, my perfect little specimen, I can destroy them and this planet at my leasure. Do you hear me? Little Gohan?"
Gohan remained motionless, unresponding, silent.
"I wonder," the Tahch-jin said, stopping before the boy's face, kneeling again, "Do you want to stop me? Will you try? Do you want to kill me? You won't be able to; you're mine now. All mi-argkh!"
Gohan had been waiting, even as the pain of his body coarsed through him, for Henning to get close enough. When the Tahch-jin kneeled so close and in such easy range, he struck, not caring about repercussions, not caring if it got him killed. He wanted Henning to stop, stop saying he owned him, stopped getting so close to him, stopped touching him and hurting him and just being there.
So with all the speed and force he had, he kicked with his good right leg, ramming his foot into the Tahch-jin's ribs.
The effect was almost satisfying, as the smug, gleeful smile on Henning's face contorted in pain, he doubled over sideways clutching his side, "Aah! Ahh! You! You hit me!"
Even as his enemy reeled, Gohan wondered if he had the energy to strike again--perhaps in the head? He began to bunch his leg up in preparation. But Henning wasn't about to be taken by suprise twice. Gripping his Chah't ceptre, his other hand pressed against his agonizing ribs, he rammed the sphere against the boy, repeatedly; pulling it away then jabbing again, banging the glowing ball against Gohan's sides, his neck, his head, his legs; hacking and beating at him rigorously, frenzied, screaming, "You hit me! You hit me!"
BzzznnnZZzznvsssnnSSzzZn.....
His words were inaudible under the louder screams erupting from Gohan, as his body bucked and contorted, writhed, twisted, his muscles straining then relaxing, then straining again. Blood ran from his wrists where his bonds bit through his skin, and more blood ran from the deep, burnt hole in his leg as his thrashing tore it more, again and again, adding further pain to his dilemma. It was agonizing, horrible, painful. His mind was white, his skin felt like it was burnt to a black char, stars flashed before his vision as his convulsing banged his head continuously against the ground. He was on fire! Burning to ash in non-existant fire.
Henning paused, staggered away from Gohan for a second, heaved. The boy could not see him, but he recognized the sound of splattering blood; his attack must have done more damage than he thought. Henning was coughing up blood. Finally, the Tahch-jin uprighted himself, standing tall, though he kept one hand under his arm, against his side.
"You," he said, his voice full of anger, "You've done a very, very bad thing. A stupid thing. Oh, you really shouldn't have done that."
He stalked toward the boy, still gasping as pain exploded from different parts of his body. Henning kicked him in the back, driving his boot between the boy's shoulderblades. He kept talking as he brought back his foot and kicked a second time, "You really-" he rammed his foot into the boy's back again, lower, into his ribs "-shouldn't have-" Gohan gasped in pain as the force of the blow lifted him from the ground and rolled him onto his stomach "-hit me!" He kicked a third time, "How dare you!" His blow connected with the boy's shoulder, "How dare you hit me!" He kicked the boy again, lower, in the thigh. "You hit me!" Again, in the soft area between the ribs and the hip bone. "You hit me!" Again in the shoulder, so hard the boy's body was lifted from the ground again and pitched another foot, landing on his side.
Staggering, Henning stepped back to survey the damage he had inflicted.
The boy wasn't moving; at first glance he might have appeared dead. His skin was deathly pale, gray. His face was smashed in the puddle of blood that ran afresh from his nose and mouth. A gurgle was the only sound the he made as he breathed. Where the Tahch-jin's boots had struck him, the skin was already swelling, small spots of blood forming along the welts where it had torn. His tail was curled up between his legs like a humbled dog, making him look smaller, yet.
Henning's anger seeped away into nothingness at the sight. This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. It was supposed to be controlled, elaborate, artistic. Beautiful. It wasn't supposed to be brute strength hammering against some creature tied down so it could not fight back. That was wrong. That was murder. This boy deserved so much more than that. Henning felt shamed.
"You shouldn't have hit me," he said, though not aware that his attempt at appology was the same thing he screamed while he was doing it, "I don't respond well when violence is inflicted on me."
In a strange moment of crystal clearity, Henning saw that the boy was still conscious, his eyes open and bright, as though the brutal beating he had taken had done nothing to his soul. For what was pain to the body for a soul of gold? Henning's hands were shaking, in fear as much as awe. He suddenly didn't feel worthy of being in the boy's presence after such unforgivable behavior.
He slowly walked backwards towards the door, his golden eyes locked with the boy's gleaming ebony. Too perfect. Frighteningly, fully, wholly perfect. Oh, kami, what he had was more precious than he had thought. Think. He needed time to think. Oh, kami, so perfect.
He opened the door and backed out of the room, the youth's eyes began to shut and when the door slid automatically between them, his eyes were closed completely.
Joru Le'Armont's mind was in turmoil. He had been unable to stay to watch the stomach-twisting sight of the helpless boy being forcefully rendered unconscious. He had left. Ran, actually. Horrified, repulsed, unable to allow his eyes even one more glance at the bloody little boy, he escaped to his room where he washed his hands and arms and face six times, as though trying to rid himself of the gory sights he had seen. He stayed there half an hour before venturing out to find his brother.
Apon finding Henning, he begged him one more time to just kill the boy--unfruitfully--he had been left with no choice other than to follow behind Henning's curtails as the stronger sibling led the way down the hall to Gohan's cell, where the poor child had been left to his injuries. Henning, horrible, cruel Henning, had even suggested Joru accompany him in--in--to the boy's cell to watch first hand as his torment began. The gentler Tahch-jin had forcefully declined, but after his brother had vanished within he made himself wait outside the door.
Did the boy know, he wondered, that there was a person on his side, just on the other side of the wall? Did he know that Joru was silently standing there, wishing there was some way he could help him, save him, but just didn't have the courage to do so?
With a sudden crystal clearity, he remembered the first time he met Son Gohan. And then he remembered something the boy had said, and each word remembered stung the Tahch-jin like a knife in his heart.
Despite what you must think of me, I'm not a killer. I don't want to have to kill you, or anyone else, but I will if you try to stop me. Don't let your dignity get in the way of your judgment, because I've seen people's pride kill them just as surely as a blast of chi. The Tahch-jin may be a great people, but if they were the greatest, you wouln't be shaking like that
Joru had heard the words, but at that time he didn't listen to them. Now that they sank in, they hurt. Son Gohan was a good person. The realization was tormenting him. A good person, only trying to survive and help his allies to do the same. A good boy, a good person, yes, even a good soldier. He faught. He faught better than Joru had thought possible, but he faught for peace. He faught for life. He faught for everything Henning wanted to destroy. A good person, clever. More. Despite his youth, he was more than clever. Wise. Life had taught him harshly, but he remembered its lessons, and applied them. Son Gohan earned himself the right to live in this world.
And it was destroying Joru.
The door to the boy's cell slid open, and Henning walked out, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, one hand crossed over his ribs; he walked stooped over, his face wrinkled with pain, his eyes pinched in the corners.
"Henning, what-"
"Shut up," Henning interupted, causing Joru to flinch. His brother had never spoken roughly to him before. "Ahg....That boy....I think he broke one of my ribs. I'm going to see our medics....ooonn...."
Joru did not move to help his brother down the hall to the medical chambers; rather, he hung back, watching Henning as he staggered down the hall, stooped over, one hand supporting him against the wall. Slowly the other Tahch-jin dissappeard around a turn.
Joru realized he was feeling happy Henning was suffering. It was actually quite surprising. Before now, he had never even considered violence as a way of punishment for a fellow Tahch-jin--especially his brother!--but now, as he began to realize he and Son Gohan were on a different side than Henning, it was just. Right. Fair.
But Joru felt it wasn't enough.
Henning had been injured, but the boy was still the ultimate victim. Poor child, condemned, cornered, hopeless..... Joru wasn't aware he was considering what he was until he had opened the door of the boy's cell and slipped inside, glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one saw him.
Inside, the lights were dim, and the Tahch-jin's eyes took a moment to adjust; but his senses were already reeling. The cell smelled of blood, horror, and the perculiar smell of burnt ozone that came off the Chah't ceptre. When his eyes adjusted, he was at first frozen in horror. The boy was more cadaver than child. His skin almost as gray as the metal sheets beneath his head, blood covering the floor, his face, his clothes. His hair was matted to the side of his face, sticky, tangled.
"Oh, kami, kami....," Joru said, a hand over his mouth. He ran forward towards the boy, but stopped before he touched him. He didn't know what he was doing. Why was he in here? He didn't belong here. His robe was dragging behind him in the blood, it's ends and corners already turning frightful red. He remembered something Henning had said to him.
You don't want to get your perfect hands dirty. You don't want any blood there, because you can never wash blood away. Ever. Have you ever killed someone, brother? Ever felt the memories of blood on your palm? No? You've never lived. You've never truely lived.....
Joru shivered, but remained in the bloody room, smelling of death, not for his own sake, but because he felt he owed it to the boy. He was only seeing the wreck after the crash, Son Gohan had suffered through it. It was this boy's blood that covered the floor, and this boy's blood that filled the air with the thick, coppery smell, and it was this boy's screams that Joru had heard on the other side of the door way as Henning mercilessly brutalized him, enjoying every cry of pain with sadistic pleasure.
The Tahch-jin became aware of a soft gurgling sound; the boy's breathing. He was still alive. For now. But Joru found no comfort, no relief, in that fact. How long would the boy have until Henning came back to continue?
It was then that Joru first developed a mutinous thought. And the instant the notion took him, he swooped down, pulling a chain of keys from a fold in his robe, and unlocked the bonds on the boy's torn wrists. Gohan let out a sound, a half groan, half sigh, as his arms came around to his front, then wrapped around his knees. His eyes slowly slid open, fevered, hazy, and he looked up at Joru in confusion and more than a little apprehention. The Tahch-jin took three steps backward, giving the boy space.
Joru took a fourth step back when the small form jerked suddenly, and the listless, catatonic look vanished from the boy's pale features, replaced by a sharper, more aware appearance. His body started trembling uncontrolably, and for a moment he could only bury his face in his knees.
The Tahch-jin half held out a tentative hand, wishing he could put his hand on the boy's shoulder, try to comfort him, to reassure him, but withdrew it. Instead he folded his hands behind his back and looked over his shoulder at the door. For a moment, he feared that perhaps Henning would come storming back in and become enraged at the betrayal by his own brother. But the door stayed shut. The only two people in the room were the shivering, bloody boy and the Tahch-jin, who was quiet pale on his own.
The boy stirred again, gathered his arms under him and pushed himself up to sitting. Slowly. The corners of his eyes were pinched, expressing the agony of even such a simple movement. He was still shivering, but more than that Joru saw his skin twitching, spazming, rippling wildly across his body. A particular tick had developed in his cheek, and a second beside his eye.
Now sitting, the boy looked down at his wrists, ran his fingertips over the shredded skin where the bonds had torn. His tail slowly, tenderly twined around his waist, came to rest in his lap, the tip poking around like a blind snake. The boy wiped his mouth on his sleeve, and looked with dull distaste at the blood he found there. His body heaved, and a dry cough, sounding something like the weeze of a dying animal, shook his body. Then a second time. Then a third. Mercifully, he turned away from Joru as a fall of crimson built up in the back of his throat and forced its way out between his teeth.
It seemed to take supreme effort, but the boy lifted his head, his heavy but sharp eyes meeting the Tahch-jin's. He licked his lips, opened his mouth and tried to say something, but the his voice was strangled. It sounded like he had swallowed a hand-full of gravel, chased it with a mug of salt, then went three days without food or water in an arid desert. The attempt to speak wracked him with a second coughing fit, and he held his fist over his mouth out of a polite habit that really didn't have a place in such a coarse situation.
He cleared his throat a few times, coughed intentionally to loosen whatever clog remained in his traechia, swallowed, licked his lips again, then asked with effort,
"Why?"
His voice was hardly a whisper.
"Because I don't think it's right that my brother kills people."
The boy closed his eyes and shook his head, No, that wasn't what he was asking. He asked again, carefully pronouncing each word, "Why does he want to kill me?" When he said 'he' his face contorted and his quiet voice almost spat the word out like poison. Joru didn't have to guess who he was. He knew. Henning.
The problem was, Joru didn't know. He didn't know why Henning was such a maniac. He just always had been.
The boy started speaking again, his voice seemed to have partially returned. It was a quiet voice, Joru was sure it was soft even when not stressed. And polite. Soothing. The kind of voice you expect the thin crecent of a moon to have.
"There's got to be a reason," the small voice said, "Some reason he wants to hurt me. There always is a reason." The troubled look on his face prooved just how much this question bothered him. "People have wanted to kill me before....," here his voice cracked and he paused to clear his throat, then he continued, "But they always had a reason, even if it was petty, or twisted, or unjust. Always reasons. Because of who my father is...was..., or because of what I am, or what I'm not, or what I don't want to be. Or because I stand in their way. Or because they want revenge. But Henning.....I just don't....... I just don't understand why he would be so- " His voice rose with each word until his voice cracked again and his voice stopped completely. The last two or three words he uttered were mouthed without sound.
He cleared his throat, but did not try to repeat himself, burying his face in his hands instead and rubbed his temples, picking at dried blood with his nails, then running his hands into his hair.
Joru rubbed his palms together behind his back. Quietly he said, "Though trying to figure out people like my brother is nearly impossible..... Well, I have a theory." The boy looked up from under his hands. He didn't say anything, but his eyes begged an answer, "My brother...well, he seems to think your....special. I have to admit, there something particular about you, but Henning had recently been nothing short of obsessed."
The boy shuddered. Joru wished he hadn't started talking, but felt it important to always finish a statement.
"You're like a bright light," he continued, "You shine as you go along you way. But where there's a light, there's a shadow. And with a light as bright as yours....well, I think Henning is your shadow of sorts. He wants to be the darkness in your bright."
Gohan shook his head, "That's wrong. I am my own shadow." But even as he said it he felt it was slightly wrong. If light was goodness, and darkness was evil, then neither described him as he depicted himself. He wasn't the bright, shining light his father was, unmarred by the darkness around him, always raging and winning against the darkness around him. Yet Gohan also knew that deep down, he wasn't evil. Perhaps not quite in control of his power. Emotional. But the son of Son Goku wasn't evil.
Remembering his father gave him a sudden surge of humiliation at being so helpless.
Slowly, slowly he gathered his right leg under himself, his left leg dragging limply behind, then slower still he stood, wincing, his face pinched with pain. His tail hung limply behind him. His breathing was strained and raspy, rattled. But for a moment he was standing. But he wasn't thinking of that.
Remembering his father always brought back the memory of his death, and the circumstances behind it. The quiet belief that he didn't really have evilness in him suffered a potentially mortal blow. Maybe he had a little darkness in him after all, considering how he intended to deal with Cell. Maybe more than a little. As though on cue, he saw shadows dancing into his pereferal vision, as though climbing out of him and over his eyes.
His knee buckled.
Joru was surprised then the boy suddenly started falling. Instantly reacting, he reached forward and caught the boy's slender shoulders before he hit the ground. He steadied Son Gohan, but his own mind had gone white. Terror gripped him. Revulsion crept across his heart and stomach.
His bare hands were on the boy's bare arms. His bloody, torn, bruised bare arms. The Tahch-jin felt the sticky blood under his own palms. Warm. His skin was hot. His abused muscles were solid as stong. Joru felt the boy regain balance on his right leg. And then he felt, felt, Son Gohan. Felt his mind, his past, and his pain. His fear, hesitation, ambition, pride, humiliation, determination, his youth, his life, his grief even as the boy thought of his father.
In a hollow voice, not knowing even why he said it or where the words came from ,"Mind of a scholar; heart of a warrior; soul of a pacifist. Son Gohan...." Joru felt a warm tear slid down his cheek.
The words struck something somewhere deep inside the boy. He took a step backwards, tearing his arms loose from Joru's grip. Those three statements made his throat constrict, made him feel enlightened and hopeless at the same time. Le'Armont was crying. It took Gohan a moment to realize his eyes were leaking, too.
Tears streaming easily down his face now, Joru looked to the wall on the far side of the room and raised his hand, concentrating his chi. He wasn't as strong as his brother, but he had trained. He knew how to fight. He played simulations. And he knew what had to be done. Clearer than anything he had ever known.
He blasted, incinerating the wall before it had a chance to crumble inward or explode. All was silent in the room for a moment as both of them stared at the hole the Tahch-jin had made.
"Go left, three doors on the right is an exit. Since were on the top floor of the Underground, you'll be led right outside." Joru said.
The boy looked at him, surprised, swiping his hand under his eyes to remove the wet evidence of his weakness. "You....you're..."
"Letting you go. But for Kami's sake, you must go now before they find your missing."
Gohan limped heavily toward the crude exit, paused, looked back, "If your brother finds out you betrayed him-"
"He won't if we don't tell him. Please. Live."
Gohan nodded finally. Smiled weakly, and limped as quickly as he could around the corner.
Joru said a prayer for the first time in over twenty years as he hurried out of the cell and to his room to change his clothes and wash himself. A full shower. It wouldn't be enough. It never would.
You don't want to get your perfect hands dirty. You don't want any blood there, because you can never wash blood away. Ever........
Joru ferverently prayed aloud in Tahch-go as he ran.
To be continued.........