Author's notes: Well, you probably know I don't own Metropolis by now.
Chapter 5
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
-Demon in my view, Edgar Allan Poe
All through the city, birds were building nests, the sun was shining and the citizens were generally cheerful. It was a happy, joyful sort of day that didn't come often to the city of Metropolis, more favorable toward the countryside. Stalls on the street corners seemed to grow out of nothing, lively crowds bustled and jostled through the busy marketplace, and the whole city seemed alive in a way it never had before. And so, of course, it could only result in one thing.
Rock was bored.
He sprawled alone over a rather ugly green couch (one of those horrible things prized by the very rich and shunned by anyone else with eyes), the radio playing some music far too cheerfully. Not thinking of anything in particular, he stared up at the ceiling, his hands playing idly with the edges of a book. He rolled the cover first one way then the other, creasing the unmarred cardboard.
Completely alone in the apartment with Duke Red off at some official opening or other (Rock had initially been invited to these, but found the speeches so mind-numbingly boring that he would rather stay home. Now he almost regretted it. The operative word being "almost".) Rock had quickly found that it wasn't built for amusement. The only purpose it served was to be elegant. It seemed that Duke Red was opposed to the idea of television for entertainment, as the large screen dominating one wall received only educational and news channels. Every book on the shelves was either some form of textbook, manual or politically-dominated fiction. Needless to say, Rock quickly gave up on them, leaving him nothing to occupy his time. He had tried everything from cooking (well, accidental burning, really) to writing a story on Duke Red's ancient old computer before ending up here. Bored nearly to sleep, he was beginning to doze off when he heard a slight creak sound like a gunshot in the silence.
Rock jumped to his feet, instantly alert. The book tumbled from his lap. Seeing nothing after a quick scan of the room, he wasn't reassured. Still very much the paranoid enforcer, he crept toward the kitchen where the sound had originated. Easing himself in, he observed every detail, every corner and possibility. He made the full tour of the room before being satisfied. Nothing under the table, counters or chairs- nothing at all. Rock shook his head, annoyed with his soldier instincts for waking him up. Still, he couldn't dispel the feeling of eyes following him out of the room.
Back by the couch, he spied his book (now looking sadly abused, face-down on the hardwood floor) and knelt to pick it up, flipping it over to read the title, 1984. He stared, blinked, then chuckled slightly, appreciating the irony. Big brother is watching.
Standing up with the book and realizing what bad shape it was in, Rock quickly tucked it into a nearby bookcase, hoping the tattered and bent edges would go unnoticed. It was a tight fit, and the cover caught on a splinter. Rock winced at the sound of rending paper. The book was quickly removed, and the tattered cover was worse off then ever. It now sported a long gash, all in all looking as if it had been put in a blender. His father was not going to be happy about this.
Shaking his head exasperatedly, he tried to think of where the Duke would never look, where the book could be safely hidden. He turned, wondering, then it came to him. The drawers in his father's bedroom! They were kept purely for show, never opened. The only things inside were never-needed extra sheets. It was perfect! He turned, grinned and walked quickly out of the living room, turned left twice and came to Duke Red's door at the end of the hall. Painted a deep crimson and spotted with patches of golden sunlight, it was weirdly intimidating. Rock reached out to grasp the handle, but pulled back. He didn't fancy going into that room. It wasn't forbidden, no, but it felt like such an- invasion of his father's personal space. /But surely,/ he thought worriedly, /he won't mind? I'm his son, I don't need to be so wary.../
It was then he remembered just why he was going in, and had the grace to be embarrassed with himself. Telling himself firmly that destroying one of his father's books was no worse than wandering about his room, he again put his hand on the knob. The door seemed to mock his indecision, bearing the same color as Duke Red's clothes. Rock glared at his troublesome inner voice, steeled himself for anything, twisted the handle and-
The door creaked open, revealing a throughly ordinary, if decadent room. Crimson walls to match the door, king-size bed (unmade. Without a cleaning staff, Duke Red seemed a bit helpless), door leading off to a private bathroom, and a chest of drawers.
Rock smiled. Good, now he needn't be in here much longer. Hurrying over, Rock knelt down and slid a bottom drawer open. Putting the flayed book down by his side, Rock burrowed through white layers of cotton, flannel and some unidentifiable material before his fingers hit the hard wooden base. He lifted out one pile of thick sheets, intending to hide the ragged book there.
He paused and stared. Blinking, he looked down into the drawer. Revealed by the absent pile was not a drawer bottom, but a heavy, leather-bound book. Rock narrowed his eyes and cursed. The hiding place had already been used! By his father, no less!
Sitting back on his haunches, he pondered the problem. There simply were no other good hiding places. Glancing down at the broken book, he sighed and tucked it into his pocket. He'd figure out what to do with it later. But for now, he should get out of here and go back to... what exactly? He paused and thought. Complete boredom?
His gaze shifted back to the gaping drawer, and its mysterious contents. /I really shouldn't-/ Rock thought to himself, /but... It's his own fault for leaving me here with nothing to do, right?/
Rock spared only one glance at the door before picking it up.In zone one, a place that rarely saw any light beyond that of grease-coated lamps, the broken dome let in the yellow of sunlight. Crowds filled the streets, cheerfully jostling and bustling, vying for the best prices or just someone rich enough to make it worth their while to pickpocket. An air of carnival spread like a virus, leaving no one unaffected.
Almost no one.
Pushing through the thick crowds, Kenichi simply walked with no direction or intention. Tima trailed behind, eyes flat and dull, acting for all the world like a marionette with invisible strings. He didn't allow himself to think, just to concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. The two had been wandering for hours, Kenichi ignoring the stiffness in his legs and Tima just as complacently faithful as a dog. Deep in a numb fog of despair, Kenichi barely noticed as he walked into someone and was knocked to the ground. He gave a vague mutter of apology as the young man he'd collided with hoisted him to his feet, and Kenichi continued walking with the young man regarding him oddly until the crowd swallowed him up.
The man, about nineteen, scratched his head as he looked at the place where Kenichi had disappeared. Finally, he just shrugged his ragged, blue-clad shoulders and turned away, almost walking into a short blonde girl standing directly behind him.
"Sorry," he said, stepping away. She stared at him.
He stared back.
The girl didn't look away. The young man, beginning to be extremely unnerved by her unblinking gaze, shifted nervously. Tima followed, staring all the while.
"Er..." he said, "why are you staring at me?"
Tima didn't answer, but stepped forward and grabbed the front of his once-red shirt, never breaking eye contact."Boy! Boy!"
Kenichi started and turned toward the sound, shaken out of his cloud. The speaker was a little old man walking nearby.
"You left your sister back there, boy!" said the old man, "you should be more careful. Lucky I noticed, what with me walking beside you these past minutes! Your parents'll not be pleased, boy!"
He said these last words to thin air. Kenichi had plunged back into the sea of people, fired by a sense of unease."Look, kid..." the brown-haired young man said, trying to dislodge the girl's fisted hands from his shirt, "why don't you go find your brother to cling to?" His hands wrapped around hers, trying to unclench her fingers by force. They didn't bend an inch. "Jesus..." the young man swore softly, "You're strong. What're you made of, steel?"
She stared, expressionless. He laughed nervously, as her flat eyes did not leave his own.
"Seriously, kid," he said, eyed darting for an escape route, "get off me." He again tried to loosen her grip, to no avail. "Why don't you go find your father, hey?"
The young man smiled wanly, and Tima's face showed a spark of emotion.
For the first time since her revival, her green eyes narrowed and she spoke without prompting. "Don't- don't like father," she said, troubled by something she couldn't quite remember, "mean."
The young man tried to pull away. It didn't work. Tima stared at him some more, this time not dully, but as if analyzing every inch of him. She spoke slowly.
"Why- is it?" asked Tima, "why?"
"Tima! Tima!" cried Kenichi, running up to the two of them, "why didn't you follow me? I could have lost you! I-" here he turned to the young man- "I'm really sorry... She doesn't usually do things like this-"
The young man regarded him with an air of amusement. "That's all very well," he said, "but she's doing "things like this" now. Would you mind getting her off?" he gestured down at Tima's hands firmly attached to his shirt. "I can't seem to persuade her."
Kenichi nodded and turned to Tima. "Let go, Tima," he said gently, "You- you shouldn't just grab people-"
"Red," stated Tima.
Kenichi stopped mid-sentence. /Sh- she spoke-/ "What?"
"Red," she repeated, letting go of the faded fabric in her hands, "Red suit, red man." She moved her piercing gaze to Kenichi. "All Red!" she proclaimed, eyes wide, hands on his shoulders as if she was trying to convey something of the utmost importance. But as Kenichi watched, the glow faded from her eyes. Again, Tima looked only at the ground in a kind of bleary indifference.
Kenichi, his brief hope quashed, turned to the man who was just finishing up buttoning his blue overcoat, hiding the reddish shirt. "I- I'm really sorry," Kenichi apologized again, "she really doesn't usually do this sort of thing... Tima just- Reacted to something, I guess."
The man shook his head, his stubby brown ponytail wagging from side to side. "Don't worry about it, kid," he smiled, "worse things have happened." He shrugged and pulled a battered green cap from his side pocket, slipping it on. "I think it's- uh..." he stopped. Now the boy was staring at him. Was this whole family crazy?
Kenichi stared at him, rapt. With that cap on he looked so much like- "A... Atlas?"
The man's eyes widened. "H- how do you know Atlas?" he stuttered, then was abruptly suspicious. "Are you a Marduk?"
Kenichi stared, openmouthed, unable to respond.
The man narrowed his eyes, "I had nothing to do with that! Leave me and my brothers out of it!" the man said, dropping into a fighting stance. "I'll fight you if I have to!" His eyes darted back and forth from one improbable enforcer to the other. Kenichi abruptly found his voice.
"I'm no Marduk!" he exclaimed, "I met Atlas just before the revolution! He helped m- mnfff!" Kenichi cried out indignantly, for the man had clamped a hand over Kenichi's mouth. "Mffnllff!"
The man leaned close to Kenichi, whispering in his ear. "Never," he whispered, "never talk about any sort of revolution here. Do you think Duke Red's spies aren't everywhere?"
Kenichi stared. He didn't know. The man frowned. "Well they are. You should be more careful." He removed his hand from Kenichi's face, looking shifty. "Kid..." he said, glancing left and right, "If you really want to know about Atlas..." he trailed off.
Kenichi nodded. "I do."
The man looked up, then back down. He nodded too. "Follow me."Rock sat in the center of an explosion of photographs, for that had been what the leather-bound book contained. Actually, not so much a book as a hollowed-out hiding place, but that wasn't important.
The pictures were- incredible.
He picked up first one, then the other, stared at them, and picked up more. He arranged them into piles. He spread them out in lines. He studied each one in detail, committing them to memory, as Rock knew he couldn't keep them all.
Grabbing one at random, Rock lifted it to his face and smiled gently, sadly. It was Tima.
Running in a park with a small dog behind, she and the dog both raced for something outside of the frame. Tima wore an exultant, childish grin as she ran, frozen in time, and the dog stuck in mid-air. Rock felt something between joy and misery as he looked, able to break contact only when he put one picture down to grab another. Shivering slightly, he dropped the snapshot. Automatically, Rock chose another from the hollowed book.
Rock stopped and stared, mystified, at the half-photo in his hand. It showed a black-clad chest and shoulders, just the barest bit of head and neck. There it ended, having been torn in half. He fished around for a few seconds, sorting through shots of Duke Red with Tima and Tima with a doll and Tima in summer until his hand brushed a ragged edge. Pulling it out, he set the two halves together. It was a snapshot of a boy.
Wondering, he stared, unable to figure out who the boy might be. Perhaps nine years of age, and wearing a black suit. The boy looked at the camera with such a sad expression, as if there was simply nothing left to live for, nothing in the world. There were two blurry figures in the background, and the boy bore a fading bruise on his cheek. Picking it up and bringing both halves close to his face, he gasped.
It was him.
Rock shivered again and let go. The pieces fluttered to the floor, and Rock stared at them until he heard a clock chime. Nine-
Wait. Nine?
Rock sat bolt upright, staring over at the window. It was completely dark. /How long have I been sitting here?/ he wondered, beginning to panic, /I've got to put this stuff away-/
He leapt up, scattering photos left and right. Frantically, he stuffed them back into the book, praying his father stayed out just a bit longer. There were just a few left when his trembling hands gave out, scattering a handful across the floor and under the bed. Grabbing all the photos in sight, he crammed them into the book, snapped it shut and re-buried it in the drawer. Still worried, he looked around and saw a bright corner sticking out from underneath the bed. Rock crawled in, and seeing only two paper squares he grabbed both, put them in his pocket with the mutilated paperback and ran to the kitchen. He paused only to shut his father's door behind him.
Sliding into a kitchen chair, Rock tried valiantly to get his ragged breathing and wildly beating heart under control. The sixteen year-old put his hands down flat on the table, watching them shake. If his father had found him in that room- Rock shook his head. He didn't even want to think about it. Not at all. Sighing in relief, he put his head on the table and stayed still for a long time.-Zone One-
The room was cramped and cluttered, but clean. Plain whitewashed walls held yellowed posters and odds and ends occupied the peeling linoleum floor, while ragged books, unidentifiable bits of metal and rolls of faded cloth sat on every shelf. In the center of the chaos sat a round, rough wooden table, around which were Kenichi and Tima. The young man they'd met on the street finished ladling soup into three shallow bowls, handed them out, and sat down himself.
Tima stared down at her soup, flat-eyed. Kenichi had trusted the young man so far because of his association with Atlas, but trust stretched only so far. He watched the young man with uncertainty, looking from him to the food. What if he'd put something in it? What if he was some crazy who lured children into his apartment and-
"What are you waiting for?" asked the brown-haired man, "for it to grow legs?"
Kenichi jumped, his train of thought interrupted. "Uh..."
"It's not much," the man shrugged, "but it is edible. So go on!"
Kenichi watched him. "You shouldn't take food from strangers," he stated, "I know that much."
The young man rolled his eyes. "I'm eating it too. I wouldn't poison myself."
"But-" said Kenichi, still uncertain, "how do I know I can trust you? I don't know a thing about you! Not even your name!"
"It's Myth," he said, smiling wryly, "now eat."
Kenichi watched him carefully. "What's your full name?"
"Prometheus, all right?" he said, annoyed. "But call me that and I kill you. Now eat already!"
Kenichi narrowed his eyes. "One more question. How do you know Atlas?"
Myth smiled proudly. "He's my brother."
Kenichi blinked. "Really? You two don't look much alike. The only reason I thought you were him was your hair and that hat." He gestured to the ragged green cap still perched on Myth's head.
"Well, not really," he shrugged, "we sort of adopted each other in the street. We looked enough alike to make it work. but yeah, the hat's his." Myth fingered it affectionately. "Keeping a bit of him near me, you know? It's kinda nice."
Kenichi nodded, feeling sad. "I was there, you know."
Myth looked bewildered. "Where?"
"At the revolution. In the snow. I saw him die, right in front of me. There was nothing... Nothing I could do..." Kenichi wiped away a tear from his eye, bringing his voice back under control. "He was so nice to me... He hid me when the Marduks were after us- I'll always be grateful to him."
Myth smiled wanly. "You don't know? Atlas is still alive."
Kenichi's head snapped up, and he was radiant with happiness. "H-he is? Really? Can I see him? Can I talk to him?"
The young man's smile faded. "Well, you can see him- you can even talk to him, but... I'd guess you just have to see for yourself."
Myth stood, steadying the table with his hands. "Come on," he said in a low voice, beckoning to Kenichi, "this way." Myth picked his way through the clutter to a door on the far side of the room. Opening it, he gestured to Kenichi to take a look inside.
Atlas was there.
Asleep in a low bed, his hair out of its usual sections and spread in a cloud on the pillow, he looked far younger than Kenichi remembered him. Lying on his back, covered in patched sheets... Could this really be the vibrant revolutionary leader who'd upset a city? The same man who'd spoken out fearlessly against the Marduks?
"Atlas..?" queried Kenichi, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, "Atlas? Can you hear me?" He turned to Myth, whispering, not willing to break the silence. "Why doesn't he wake up?"
Myth said nothing, only slowly shook his head and watched his "brother" sleep.Broken out of his reverie by his stomach growling, Rock realized he was hungry. Also thirsty. He'd been in that room far longer than he'd thought. Still on shaky legs, he stood up from the fancy kitchen table and fetched a plate and glass from the cupboard. Putting them on the table, he began hunting through the fridge. Rock pulled out a bowl of leftover chinese food and a carton of milk. Putting the bowl in the microwave, he opened and sniffed the milk, made a disgusted face and poured it down the sink. It was several days rotten. Neither himself nor Duke Red ate at home often, as neither could cook. Rock briefly wondered what had possessed him to buy milk in the first place.
Tossing the carton in the garbage, he looked through the fridge again. Nothing to drink but a bottle of beer. A half-empty one, at that, but he really didn't like water...
Rock glanced at the door, then down at his still-shaking hands. His father wouldn't be happy and he didn't ever like beer, but it might quell the nervousness. He grabbed it and pulled off the rubber seal, put on to keep it from going flat, before he could change his mind.
Sitting back at the table, he drank deeply, grimacing at the bitter taste. Rock put the bottle down with hands that were slightly less nervous. Feeling calmer, he pulled the two stolen photos from his pocket and put them on the table. The first was the same shot of Tima running he'd been looking at before, and he tucked it affectionately back into his pocket. But the other... He'd never seen it before. It was ragged and stained, as if handled too many times with dirty fingers. It had bits missing from the edges, and one rip as if someone had slashed it viciously with a blade.
Rock shivered as he remembered the ripped photo in the room.
The main focus of the photo was still clear, however. Two boys, one five and smiling, the other seven and looking up. One with short hair, one with hair pulled back into sections. They stood together in a yellow-grass field, a blue-trimmed house in the background at sunset... and the slashing hole in the paper that ran from one's face to the other's neck.
Shiver.
The microwave beeped, and Rock heard it from a long way off, as if in his dream that was captured here on paper. He tucked the photo back into his pocket with the smiling face of Tima, but it was difficult... His hands, no longer shaking, seemed to have trouble finding the opening. With a vague sense of alarm, he realized that something was very wrong. One mouthful of beer couldn't do this, could it? The drink had to have been drugged-There had to have been something in... in something...
The world began to blur and fade around the edges, with Rock barely hanging on. He struggled to remember, to stay awake for a few moments more, but he was already too far gone. Eyes weighted with lead, he slumped forward.
His last coherent thought was of Tima's smiling face.