Story Title: Mind Warp
Chapter Title: The Truth of It All
Author: Elizabeth A. Whitney, a.k.a The Silencer
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam Wing, Trowa Barton, but I do own this story and everything in it. Do not steal. Failure to comply will result in pain—massive pain.
Dedication: This is, again, to my friends. You guys are pains in the ass. Thanks.
A/N: I wrote this because I'm depressed and need to vent. The last chapter wasn't intense as this, but I think in a way, Trowa is a bit more intense that Heero. He's not as determined, but he does—in my opinion, only—have more demons to deal with. Note that this was mostly written from an empty point of view. In a lot of this, Trowa doesn't care—he's just stating facts. I hope it's believable—some of the stuff written may be personal. I don't suggest you read this if you're already depressed.
Summary: After the war is won, the five pilots share an apartment together, trying to deal with the shock of what they've been through. This chapter is about Trowa, his opinion of his life and personality, and what really happened when he got that black eye.
Note: "…" Quotes
Bold—emphasis
Italics—intense sarcasm or disbelief
Rating: PG-13 because of mild swearing in this and graphic nightmares later, as well as some tragic stuff in chapters further down the line. There will be torture and NCS. May become R.
Pairings: At the moment, none that I know of. I'm considering 3x5 possibly, and maybe 1x4, 2x4, or 1x2.
Warning: Long, intense chapter ahead. Well, that's it, so enjoy! Oh, and review please. I'd like to know what you think.
In a world of self-proclaimed love and dignity, I see things in only black and white, for color is lost on me and emotion is forgotten in the depths of time. The color—the beauty—of things signifies an ability to see beyond the surface, and reach down deep inside of something to see the truth of it. I see nothing like that—merely black and white, and the grayness of it all. It's pointless to get caught up in the distractions and warmth that color gives—you risk opening up and becoming vulnerable. What would a soldier do, once the mask is down? Nothing—no, it's better to stay behind that facade and see only in black and white.
I am The Silencer, an occupation taken up since birth and fulfilled every time I slit a throat, every time I ignore their screams; every time I see only what is meant to be seen. They call me that title—that so-called gift of freedom from humanity—because I do not talk. They believe it to be my silence that implies the label—no; new identity—but they don't realize just how wrong they are. It is not my silence, nor was it ever. I silence lives, take away the beating of their hearts; make the quiet echo in the night, instead of the laughter that might've once come from humans. I kill people, and with each dying person, a part of me wishes to die with them.
But I never do. Why should I? I'm empty inside—there's nothing left to die. If a doctor was to cut me up inside, there's be nothing there except metallic lies. You could torture me until my body was ruined and mind on the brink of insanity, and never once would I cry for mercy. Why should I deserve it? I was once the torturer, remember? I put people through this, all the while grinning. I betrayed people I cared for, killed those that might've loved me, and turned my back on a certain Nanashi that might've been. Everything to me is another job, another boundary to get over and move on with my life. I am one of the many dying crowds—a nameless assassin whose screams has been lost in the resounding echoes of my victims.
Life is merely game, and I am just one of the many players. The only difference between a civilian and I is this: they kill for glory, for bravery, for whatever love in their worthless lives. What do I kill for? I don't know, nor do I care. I kill—plain and simple. Whatever cause there may be for it is lost, left at the door. Someone once told me that, "The true person inside comes out only when they are on the battlefield, slaughtering one more innocent." That someone was correct.
That sounds cold of me, to say that you're only your real self when you're doing something considered wrong. Maybe it is cold, but I never claimed to be warmhearted. I'm just Nameless One, and nowhere in that name do you find warmth, humanity, or even boy in it. You find same, man, none, sane; alone. I am alone, alone with their cries and my own demons to handle. In the silence, I hear their pleas for mercy above anything else. It's such a surprise my dreams are not plagued with the same thing—wait, they are.
I close my eyes and strengthen my grip upon the counter before me. All lies—there's someone else in my head, some other killer that sees only in black and white. I see color. I can laugh and cry and be a true person. Can't I? The truth hits harder, almost making me buckle my knees and fall weakly to the floor. I can't. I never could, even before all of this petty shit happened. I've always been fucked up in the head, always been alone and nameless and useless to the world. Ironic isn't it, then, that I am being used to save the very world that disowned me in the first place. It's a small world, you could say. That's probably why we went to outer space.
I wonder what it's like, sitting at home and watching all of this on TV. You can't feel the heat of war upon the nape of your neck, the warmth that blood can provide. You don't see mutilated bodies or the streaking of bodily fluids on your cloths, on the walls—everywhere you go. All you see at home are glorious Gundams, rising up above the pain and saving the day once more. You see the victory of it all, not the pain. With every triumph, people still die. There are still those families that have to be told that their son died, that they will never see their baby boy again because some pacifist bitch turned away blindly while the world had to keep fighting. There are still repairs to be made, work to be done. Just because we win one conquest doesn't mean that tomorrow morning we don't have to go out and do it again. There's always something more to do, someone else to kill.
Sometimes I feel that everything I'm looking for—all of the emotions, my name, my parents, even—is locked up away in a small box up on the shelf. When I was younger, I could never reach the shelf because I was too small. But now, it's still just as far away as it was when I was 5. I keep reaching for it, striving for that one goal to be human again, but I never get it. I'm held back always, either by my height or by my lack of technique—anything and everything is used as a restraint. I never reach the box, and I never will.
The sun is rising; I didn't realize how early in the morning it was. That's an odd thought, since I'm usually aware of my surroundings. It's not bragging—I just like to know where I am, what I'm doing, etc. Call it paranoia or a bad experience in the past—it doesn't really matter to me. There are a lot of things about me that reveal…inner turmoil, as Dr. Laura so eloquently put it. I check my digital watch silently, wondering how much time I have to myself before the other pilots rise and begin World War 2 all over again. I've learned to make myself absent when that starts—I don't need yelling early in the morning.
It is 4:55, so in five minutes Heero will be up, followed by Wufei, Quatre, and then Duo. I sigh, sipping—with disgust—my bitter coffee absent-mindedly as I stare outside, watching the morning dew form lightly upon the leaves and then disappear without a trace once more. The sun is bright now, shining down through the window and burning my freezing skin. I can't feel it, if you'd believe that. I'm aware of the rays warming me, but I don't feel any of them. It's as if I'm watching myself from another point in the room, there but not there just as easily. I suppose it's the result of being so detached from my life thus far, and now I'm paying the price. Lucky me.
Pulling on my old, worn coat, I glance out of the glass once more before heading towards the rustic door at the end of the hallway, and placing my hand upon the cold brass of the doorknob. My mind is racing, swirling with different ideas and revelations. I believe that I think too much for my own good. My mind isn't clouded with distractions like emotions and whatnot—I cut those out a long time ago—so I can delve deeper, see things that others probably couldn't handle. It plagues me in my sleep, but also comforts. I have the truth to hold me, the cold truth to keep me warm and keep reality in check. I don't need blanket of lies—not when I've something so much heavier.
I walk out into the day, yawning slightly after the restless night full of unwanted insomnia and haunting dreams that would not leave me to rest. The sun burns me, reminding me that I have not been outside in the light in some time, and should probably get some sunscreen. I make a mental note, adding it to the long list of things I should probably do in the next 24 hours…if I ever get any time. I've always something else to do—chores, taking care of someone sick, jumping off a plane…
The road is clear, along with the sidewalk beside it. Many people are still asleep, so no one should be out and about, getting ready for the day and W.O.R.K. I sigh slightly, having been out of work for quite some time. I quit the circus—it was getting to be too much to handle. The clown mask was just a daily reminder that my mask was only half-on, only slightly believable. Plus, Catherine's idea of supper—soup that looks like the equivalent of dirt—was getting to me. People were calling me anorexic from not eating her…eh, "food."
Briefly I wonder if any shops will be open at this supposedly ungodly hour, but that's a ridiculous thought in its own right. It's barely even 5:30, and since this is the modern era, very few people would get up just because they feel like it. I mean, I would, but I've never considered myself apart of this vast society of sophisticated business people. After all, they rule the world, don't they? They pull more their own weight, what with taxes and never-ending political debates between liberals and conservatives. And then there's that whole pacifism problem—I don't care, personally, but the rest of the universe seems to. I wonder why. Maybe pacifists are like bugs—just bring in the exterminator and kill them all off with a good poison or two. It worked for Hitler, didn't it?
Sarcasm, Duo once told me, is the only way for people to see the truth. He's not sarcastic, in any way, but I tend to be so he cared to give me that enlightening piece of information. I must say I have to agree—after all, if someone is being sarcastic, you automatically notice and instinctively understand what they stand for and what they're playing at. It's a good way of saying something, without saying it at all.
There's a meadow out by our house, a few miles west, down the road. I like it there; it's peaceful and a place of solitude, so I can just sit there in the silence, and listen to the soft blowing of the wind or the gentle rustling of the great oaks all around me. Nature, to me, is nice, though I find myself unaffected by it. I merely enjoy my own company…to a certain extent, and if that is to be found in a stray meadow, so be it.
Heroes, I've come to realize, are not what everyone believes them to be. They are not glorious men, running around with large swords and damsels in distress to rescue left and right. I mean, they could be if they truly wanted to, but I doubt that that's really an option nowadays. The only damsels I know of are either prostitutes or soccer moms, and both are usually entangled in some sexually activity so it really doesn't matter.
Now, I'm no hero. How could I be? I've killed sure, but that doesn't mean I had a purpose. Of course, there's that whole war-ending cause, but it doesn't really strike a note with me. I don't like war—don't get me wrong—but I also don't think it can easily be accepted because peace is behind it. If you're looking for peace, don't ask for war. If you're searching for war, don't fight for peace. The two don't and should never mix. The results tend to be disastrous, if my life is any example. Then again, I'm just the weird kid with big bangs, so I could be wrong.
Heroes aren't made in wars, either. If they were, I would've seen more of them in the passing years. Boys would've become men a lot sooner, had heroes surfaced. We had nothing to hold onto, nothing to tell us that we were right and the bad guys were wrong. In fairy tales, you always know who's good and who is evil. The valiant and noble always triumph—of course—and the sinister forever imprisoned for their malicious deeds. That one truth—that one golden rule—is the reason champions can conquer, can overcome their fears. Did we have that? No. People switched sides; they died before you could get the real "scoop"; friends you once knew suddenly betray you at the dropping of a new, juicy deal; everything leaves and there's no one left to save. In this war, you could've easily been both: the good guy and the enemy. It doesn't take much—really; after all, it's a matter of opinion. To Relena, Oz was the foe, but to them, she also was the wrong one. You really have to decide for yourself. Try rock, paper, scissors—shoot.
The wind whistles by, cooling my skin gently as it sings happily, reminding us all that spring is approaching. I glance up, noticing the sun's rays wavering in brightness. I want to melt in the light, just disappear without a trace and waste away in the pool of heat given to me by the giant of a star. It's sad, you know, to think that it'll die one day. It makes you wonder so many things: how will people survive without light? Will people even be alive then? Will they notice? Will they care? The sun is really only one star in a trillion or more. They'll be more; shall be bigger and betters ones that will make the sun be absolutely nothing in comparison. It's almost…it's a lot like people, isn't it? Think about it: every single second someone on this planet dies, but that same second, someone is born. Humans are constantly being replaced. If you're lucky, someone cares and mourns your loss, but it's really nothing when you think about the 6 billion other people in the world. It just doesn't really matter, because you're nothing—a speck of color in a vast painting of large brush strokes. Makes you feel inferior, doesn't it? It does me.
My mind wanders as I lie there, absorbing up the few waves of heat I can gather. I think about the other four pilots, their personalities, problems. Quatre's empathic, but he's so innocent that a lot of stuff doesn't process with him. Inconvenient, isn't it? He's very smart, though, and musical, so I suppose there's a future ahead of him. The girls love him because he's sensitive; the guys like him because he gets them and keeps his distance. Basically, Winner has everything: looks, talent, MONEY, and people just lining up to be with him. Call him in the Sensitive Type if you want, I don't really care. It doesn't change anything to me. Not a lot does, then again.
Duo Maxwell—the name suggests only two things in my mind: innocent laughter and destructive chaos. He's not a fool, though, as much as Wufei would love to argue that point. Who else could get through a war like that, and still keep his shattered mask in place with great super glue? Duo's not the bright, cheery person everyone would like him to be. He has a sense of humor, which is probably good or else the house would be a lot quieter. Duo's smart, though he'd never admit it. In his opinion, he's the "stupid baka," or the idiot who just cracks jokes and goes along with everything, letting other people make the important decisions. There's a…a charm about him though, that's undeniably intriguing. He keeps us together; he's the glue in this cemented group, and will do anything to keep it together. That earns serious admiration—no one else would care so much about four stupid, lost boys like he does. Duo definitely is different than any other person I've ever met.
Heero is a hard shell to crack, mainly because people get afraid of what's beneath the façade of strict rules and indignant replies. What if he really is just a brutal killer? What if Heero's nothing more than an empty shell? What if he shows that little part of our own selves that we don't want—need—to see? It's difficult to deal with that, especially you're of a fragile mind. My basic opinion of Yuy is this: he's not the cold-hearted bastard he'd like to be. Beneath is just another guy dealing with shitty problems that he never should've dealt with. He's capable of emotion—we all know that—but he's not keen on showing it. 'Ro understands humanity, since he's seen quite a bit of it. He's had the blessing of being naturally perceptive, but also intensely ambitious. It's a balance, a delicate one that could rock either way easily; thus why he has so many problems in life. He'll figure it out, though. Make it his mission.
I sigh, a picture of Wufei painting itself in my brain. He's different, and complex. There are two Wufei's really to speak of: the real one and the one that we see everyday. He's got thick skin, so it's tough to ever really see the true Chang. He's so locked up inside of his head; I don't even think he knows where he put the key, metaphorically speaking. I have mixed feelings about Wu, though: part of me is fascinated by the Chinese mystery, but the other part is afraid, though of what I'm not sure. He's honorable, in more ways than one, and possibly the only true person I consider a friend. He opened up to me, and I don't know how to deal with that. No one's ever done that before, considering it's me they're talking to. Truth to be told, Wufei is so many different things it's hard to categorize him in one certain group. He has a wickedly sadistic sense of humor, but also can get very serious and depressed at vulnerable times. He has a code of honor, but also doesn't like to play the rules. Fei's a multi-dimensional person, one that will definitely grow with these passing days. He's got a lot of talent, and I've been lucky enough to witness a mere portion of it.
Bitterly, I notice that each and every pilot—besides me—has a place in the world, a certain talent that makes them fit with one another as well as life. Quatre's sensitive and caring; Heero's determined and the leader; Duo's humorous, but also deep; Wufei is the voice of reason, the chastiser, and the shape shifter. I sigh, letting my body fall gently back into the course grass, and shut my eyes. Questions ring in my ears, battering my senses with each crushing blow. Who am I? I know the answer to that one—Nanashi, the Nameless One, the Silencer. I have no true name, such as Bob or Jeffrey, but merely a title; it is one that reminds people who I am and why they should fear me. It reminds me why I should fear myself.
It's cold out, despite the sun. I feel unusually restive, as my skin is crawling with unseen insects and goose bumps. I swallow back a lump in my throat and close my eyes, ready to fall asleep and fall away in that meadow. Hands find me, grabbing me in places I didn't want and searching me out in others. They mark me, like paint on a warrior or blood on the slayer. I crawl out of my skin, finding refuge in my mind. There, the hands can't find me. There, only my demons can.
I wish there was a reason for my pain. Sure, I had a fucking shitty childhood, but lots of kids do. Quatre's wasn't exactly peachy, but you don't see him crawling around on all fours, begging for mercy from his own sins and skeletons in the closet. Hell, even Heero deals with things better than I, and sometimes I think he has more to deal with.
I suddenly hear voices—rough, grammatically incorrect voices that remind me of days with mercenaries. Tough men, ones that would sooner smack you about the fucking head than ever show even so much as a hint of kindness. I shudder as I catch a few bits of their conversation, and slowly move to get away from there. I don't know who they are, and I don't really want to find out, thank you very much. I begin to pull my body up to an upright stance, hoping that they just think of me as another person—another passerby or innocent civilian.
One of the damned bastards sees me, and I feel my stomach drop out, leaving only cold emptiness to deal with what could possibly be an awkward confrontation I don't need. A strong hand grabs my shoulder, and I wonder if this is the polite thing to do when you want someone's attention. The owner of the hand snarls at me. Guess not.
"What're you doing out 'ere, little one?" The voice is sharp, stingingly, like a piece of un-sanded wood or rusty knives. It cuts into me, slicing large mutilating gashes through my body, until the mask is left, crumpled on the floor and all that's left is me, standing there, alone.
But I've dealt with the likes of you before.
"I was walking, if that's all right with you." My voice is quiet, reproachful; just as it usually is. I can feel the hoarseness in it—how long has it been since I've last spoken? A while, I imagine.
I catch a glimpse of his face and feel my insides freeze, then crack like chilled glass. His skin is dirty, a muddy color of red that I would've thought impossible for a human. His eyes are small, black, and beady; reminding me of a beetle's or insects', in general. Not the prettiest sight I've ever seen.
"Hey…I know you!" The bitch holding onto me has a friend, and as soon as I see him, the word rat pops up into my head. There's a nametag on his filthy shirt—what an idiot—, written in loopy letters that I would expect from a gas station. His name is Bob. How original.
"You're one of those shitty, god-damned, Gundam bastards that killed off my fucking brother!" Well, isn't he quite the potty mouth. I could just refuse, you know. I didn't kill his brother. Heero or Quatre did. Not me.
Then, I realize, how would I know the difference?
So I merely gulp down the rising phlegm in my throat, and hope that they don't notice my lack of comfort. I'm not afraid of them—they don't look like the brightest bunch of little fighters—I just don't really want any more blood spilled on my part. And…what if they're a lot smarter than they look?
I don't think I could react to that.
I don't think I want to react to that.
I don't think I will, period.
"Well, aren't ye?" I've lost my voice, it seems. What a great time to get laryngitis.
"I…no..." I don't know why I suddenly feel like the world is going to end and I'm going to be dead on these bitches' watches. I've dealt with worse, far worse. These two dolts couldn't even hold a candle to the flame of the guys I've fought in the past. So why do I feel so fucking nervous? I don't know—maybe it's because I haven't fought in a while. Maybe I'm just a chicken. Maybe it's a combination of both.
"You're lyin', you great brute!" A gun he had been toting makes contact with my jaw, and I feel newfound pain grow from the spot that had been hit. I know they'll be a bruise later, something I'll have to worry about and cover up. I don't go sprawling back—quite the opposite, actually—I merely stand there, staring at him with cold eyes that clearly state I'm not going to fight. Why should I? There's no point in defending myself. I'll only end up hurt and mangled when it's all done.
"Why would I lie?" My voice is, once again, cool and calculated, as I maintain a certain level of logic and calm while the other two are emotionally freaking out. That's why I may win and they may lose.
"'Cause ye don't want ta face us, you scaredy-cat!" I don't know how to reply. All I wanted this morning was to be alone with my own thoughts, but somehow I've found myself in yet another fight. Surprised, are you? Trowa Barton—in fights daily? I can upturn people, when I want to. You'd never expect me wanting conflict, but it's a nice place to vent. I don't get angry—I never do, really—but I hit with every chance I get and pound away every mistake and all of the guilt I've ever had to harbor. And it works—every time.
Sometimes my conscious kicks in and I wonder if this is right, if I should even bother trying to hurt them, if maybe I should wasting my life like this. But, my response to that is simple: what life? I don't have one. Sometimes…Sometimes I feel like I'm dead inside, not even here. It's like I'm watching everything from a surveyor's point of view, and am not really the one "in the action." I don't feel any of it, so it doesn't really count. Well, not in my book, at least.
I let them pull my arms back roughly behind my slender back and mutter cruel things in my ear. I would let them kill me right then and there if I had the chance. Let them beat the hell out of me—what should I care? It's just pain, simple physical pain that means nothing in the end. It blocks out everything else going on in my head, so it's worth it. I'm even the Victim, as opposed to the grinning Murderer. That truth is easier to handle.
Suddenly, I'm on the cold ground again, and one of their fists makes contact with my stomach. By my reflexes, I recoil slightly, but not enough to strike a note in their satisfaction. Another blow, then another—they keep coming, bringing with them fiery impulses and bruises that will fade once more. I bind my time, waiting for the fight moment to strike. If I act too rashly—well, I might just lose then. Oh, the horror.
I feel my right eye flicker from behind my bang, as they hit it straight on. The pain is small, compared to everything else, but I still know it's there. As Duo Maxwell would say, "I'm being beaten to a bloody pulp."
With each enlightening blow, another gash is formed or bruise wrought. In a sickly, twisted way, I enjoy all of this. The throbbing of my aching muscles and skin brings comfort, above all else. By them, I can tell I'm still physically human, even if mentally I'm gone. It reminds me that I haven't at least lost that ability: to be wounded. In all of the salty tears and metallic blood, I manage a small smile and find myself just where I want to be: hours from death; moments from salvation; seconds from my true self.
Time seems to melt, as I don't do anything in reaction to their violence. Why should I? I'll just wait, wait and bind my time for now.
Something stings me—his words.
"C'mon, little girl…let's play a new game…" I've heard that before. My "brother" in the mercenary…he…
There's the sound of unzipping, and I can't move. Memories flash before my eyes as I struggle to pull free. Laughing—I hear cruel laughing above all of this confusion. My wrists brush up against cold metal—they've handcuffed me. Just great.
I open my eyes, and watch them unravel a small black bag, hidden inside weapons of torture. I think I'm going to vomit. A cunning knife is taken out with a lusty smile, and the owner of the grin glances over at me, obviously pleased. He takes the tool and rolls up my shirt, and draws a long line of blood across my stomach. It hurts so much that I can barely feel it. The stranger brings his mouth down to mine and sucks the air away from my lungs. He then goes to my stomach and laps up the blood, before biting the wound. I would scream, but my mouth is silenced by a filthy cloth.
The other dunce gets a hook, one that might be used for fishing, and turns to my groin with an evil smile that can only mean more pain. I try not to watch, but am mesmerized by the slowness of their movements. Grabbing the skin of my part, he pulls the hook through, dangling me as a fish would. There's blood everywhere, and my mind is gone. I am a victim to them. I am the victim for them.
We're out in a field, so it's odd how quickly the meadow turns into a torture chamber. Soon, I am bound to a tree by freezing shackles, and they're taking advantage of my lethargic state. Someone rams their cock into me, and I am blinded by sickly sweet agony that quickly dissolves into nothing more than intense torment. His rhythm is quick and painful, and his thighs are tight around my waist. More ramming, then semen spills out onto the ground, and I wonder whether it is my own or theirs. I don't have a chance to, however, because the other pushes his friend aside and comes over to get some of the same product. What are they selling? Me.
The second is rougher, so what I felt before is tripled and then some. All I can think of is how I'm going to die, all for solitude. Again, I am lost in the insanity of this cruelty, and only once do I moan in pain. That would give them pleasure—screaming. They've already gotten enough of that.
White, searing pain blinds me as I feel something burning my upper left arm. It's as if they're carving right through my skin—maybe they are. I flinch, swallowing back another scream; I don't want them to think they've broken me.
I catch another glance of what they're doing and my eyes widen in fear. A small needle is strolling across my skin marking it as one would with a cow and hot poker. I think he numbed my arm, because I don't feel the pain and can barely keep my opens. The blood is thick, covering me like a blanket and keeping me there in the dark. I don't know where I am, but I still can feel the blows of anguish wash over me—at least, I think I can. I'm not really sure anymore.
And then, before I can even decipher the jumbling mess of words in my head, it's over. I'm alone again, bleeding with my pants down and lips bruised. My right eye tries to flicker open but can't; the rest of me aches. I glance over at my left arm and my face falls in disgust: a tattoo, a mark of raging hormones greets me. A simple, black dragon—my thoughts immediately go to Wufei—sits there, with a blue rose in the middle of it and then fire below the blooming bud. I can barely distinguish it, as I'm dizzy and the entire world is swirling.
Then, suddenly, I'm awake.
They raped my body.
They marked my mind.
They took my fucking soul.