AN: Becca—yes, I admit it, I stole your name! Uh, I think I had just read your review, and I needed a name, and so…yeah. Hope you don't mind your cameo in the story, lol!! JenniGellerBing—I swear, I took the name of the last chapter from the song lyrics, not your very cute fic, LOL!! Jess—Man, I WISH I were a professional writer! Getting PAID to do what I love…how COOL would that be, huh? *sigh*
Songnote: I have tried to keep the songs within the timeline that I am writing in, however the song used in this chapter was actually released in 1970. I know you don't mind, right? ;)
Story Summary: Winter, 1966. The US has sent over 300,000 troops to the war in Vietnam. Air Raids, Chemical Warfare, and strained international relations are affecting domestic opinion more than ever.
Monica, Rachel and Phoebe have arrived in San Francisco, and have already made new friends. In Vietnam, Ross was injured in his attempt to cross the border, and a last minute bombing has him believing Joey and Chandler are dead. As he heads to Saigon, Chandler finds a severely injured Joey moments before the Viet Cong find him.
The Age of Aquarius
Chapter Ten: Above Us Only Sky
~Two Weeks Later~
Saigon, South VietnamThe crudely made bamboo ceiling fan turned slowly, a never-ending circle, whipping the hot, sticky air through the uppermost areas of the overcrowded room.
Ross stared at the fan blankly, his mind on all that had happened since he'd left home. He'd been holed up in a small, hard hospital bed since he'd reached Saigon, and he was getting more and more restless. There were people here that needed the bed much more than he did; his injury—a bullet wound to the leg, and a slight concussion—seemed so trivial next to what he was seeing all around him—people with horrible wounds and infections, children missing limbs, soldiers missing faces. It was becoming too much to bear.
Another soldier was placed on the bed next to his, and once again Ross' mind wandered to Joey and Chandler, and the situation he had put them in. Guilt crept into him, and he swallowed it down again. He wondered if they had survived the blast; he wondered if they were alive, and cursing him for leaving them. His mind took him back to those days he'd spent, deep in the jungles, surrounded by hostile eyes. He remembered watching Joey's confident gait, as he swung his machete through the thick foliage, his movements smooth and quick. He remembered Chandler's quiet confidence, and the way his eyes had sparkled when he'd mentioned Monica.
Monica.
Would Ross be the one to tell her? Would he have to face her and tell her that Chandler had been killed guiding him to safety? Ross glanced over at the soldier that had been brought in moments earlier. The man was asleep, or perhaps unconscious. There was a deep gash over his left eye, and his arm was in a sling. Ross wondered if this man was a hero—if he had sacrificed himself for the welfare of another.
Ross lay back on his bed, and sighed deeply, as a profound sadness consumed him.
His eyes went again to the ceiling fan, still turning and turning, it's purpose evident; it's existence, simple.
If only his existence were so.
North VietnamA constant, irritating dripping was coming from the ceiling, hitting the puddle below with a ragged, uneven rhythm that was driving him mad.
The rainwater was leaking through the thin, worn 'roof' of the small room. The air was more damp than usual, and consequently, the dirt floor was turning to mud.
Chandler watched through half-closed eyes, as another dirty droplet of water threatened to fall from the ceiling, and hit the growing puddle again.
He'd been in this room for an immeasurable amount of time, drifting between consciousness and darkness. He was vaguely aware that his captors had healed his initial head wound, a curious move considering the beatings he had been taking ever since. They seemed to be grilling him for information, but between their inability to speak English, and his limited knowledge of Vietnamese, the interrogations were not going well.
Chandler attempted to sit up, wincing as a searing pain shot through his head. For a moment, there was silence—Chandler was acutely aware of his own labored breathing. He focused on it, trying his best to concentrate; he needed to figure out how to get away from this place. He closed his eyes, and reveled in the silence that engulfed him. His mind wandered, and struggled to recall how he'd gotten to this place. He remembered yelling at Ross. Then there was a horrible noise…and a flash. The smell…the smell would follow him for the rest of his life. It was the most repugnant thing he'd ever experienced. Burning flesh, and…death. Death surrounded him, shadowing him like an obsidian shroud. Then there was the haunting image of the bodies. And Joey.
Joey. He'd been burned, mauled…near death. He remembered talking to him—telling him everything was going to be all right.
But it wasn't all right. There had been a noise, the cocking of a gun…and darkness.
Darkness engulfed him, and he lingered there, comforted by the warmth of the unknown.
When he emerged from the darkness, he found himself in the worst possible situation.
The prisoner of a war where all rules had been broken.
The images of the recent days were too disturbing, and too painful for words. Chandler let his mind drift away from the now. He thought about New York, and Phoebe, and Joey, and their lives before this horrible war had torn them all apart.
But mostly, he thought about Monica.
He wondered where she was, and what she was doing. He wondered if she was happy.
He wondered if she thought about him half as much as he thought about her.
He smiled, despite all that was happening, and all that would happen.
In the silence that enveloped him, he found comfort in his memories.
Then, as though it was trying to mock him, a droplet of water slipped from the ceiling, and hit the puddle in the corner, shattering the sweet silence.
San Francisco, California
Phoebe looked up at the address number again, before making her way into the dilapidated, South of Market warehouse, a small smile pursing her lips. Things had been going well with Chris, and she was more that happy to help him with his cause, if it meant that she was able to spend more time with him. She walked through the dimly lit warehouse, her heart racing as the people that filled the room watched her cross the room, skepticism and resentment lining their eyes.
Phoebe tried her best to ignore the hard stares and silent judgments—after all, it was something that she and Chris needed to get used to, if they wanted to make their relationship work.
Phoebe couldn't understand why the people that worked with Chris couldn't accept their relationship. She'd expected people on the street to react badly to an interracial relationship, but she'd hoped that these zealous members of the Black Panthers could see past the color of her skin, and accept her as a person—especially since she was so willing to help out with their cause.
"Hey, gorgeous," Chris flashed his heart-stopping smile, and pulled Phoebe toward him.
"Hi," Phoebe said softly, her nervousness about the grave stares of the other people in the room.
"What's wrong?" Chris asked, his eyebrows furrowing.
Phoebe glanced over her shoulder, then back at Chris, "Nothing," she smiled, and kissed Chris.
"I'm glad you're here," Chris smiled, and released his hold on her, "We have a lot to finish before tomorrow's protest."
"Okay, what can I do?" Phoebe shoved her nervousness away, and followed Chris toward a long table in the center of the room.
"Well, you can work on these signs," Chris pointed to a set of large posters and a set of markers, "You can work with Alexandria here."
"Okay," Phoebe smiled, and extended her hand toward the large, angry-looking black woman that was standing next to her, "Hi, I'm Phoebe," she said.
"Hi," Alexandria said, and took Phoebe's hand, as Chris turned to walk away. As soon as he turned away, Alexandria dropped Phoebe's hand as if it were diseased.
"So, what are we working on?" Phoebe asked.
"Look bitch," Alexandria hissed, I don't know what you think you're doing, but we don't need some little white princess comin' in here, foolin' with Chris' head. We've got enough to deal with, you know?"
"I—I don't, um—"
"Yeah, you think you can just swoop in here, some Great White Hope, and make everything better. We know what we need to do, bitch, we don't need—"
"Look," Phoebe interrupted harshly, startling both herself and Alexandria, "When I met Chris, I wasn't looking at his skin, I was looking at his…smile. I know you don't want me here, but Chris does, and that's all I care about!"
Alexandria opened her mouth to protest, but closed it quickly, and stepped back to look Phoebe up and down. A large smile broke onto her face, and she laughed heartily.
"Yeah, he does have a fantastic smile," Alexandria mused, and shook her head, "Alright, string bean, let's make some signs."
Phoebe relaxed visibly, and smiled. "Okay!" she said, and grabbed a green marker.
Monica stared up at the star-studded sky, and reveled in the rare silence that surrounded her. The house was usually a flurry of activity, and the street was usually filled with cars and people. Tonight, however, no one was around, and Monica took the opportunity to sit out on the front porch, and stare at the stars.
She rubbed her bulging tummy protectively, and wondered where Chandler was, and what he was doing. She wanted desperately to get in contact with him, but had no idea how. She sighed sadly, when she realized that she didn't even know if he was still alive. She felt her baby move, and looked back down at her stomach, smiling.
"What's the matter, baby?" she whispered.
"Hey," Rachel said, as she shuffled up the front steps, with several shopping bags in her hands.
"Hey, Rach," Monica smiled, as the baby moved again, "whoa!"
"What's the matter?" Rachel rushed up the last few steps, and set down her bags, before sitting next to Monica.
"Oh, nothing…the baby's just…restless tonight," Monica smiled reassuringly.
"Oh. Well, let me take these bags in, and I'll cook some dinner. You want some milk?" Rachel asked, as she walked up to the door.
"Yeah, that'd be great, Rach, thanks," Monica called. The baby kicked, and Monica looked back down at her bump. "What is wrong in there?" she wondered aloud. What was her baby trying to tell her?
North Vietnam
The small, Vietnamese man in the dark uniform laughed, when his prisoner cried out in pain. He had the American soldier tied to a chair, and seemed to be enjoying that days little torture session. They had him on a small bamboo chair, his feet tied to the back legs of the chair, and his arms tied behind him. The tiny torturer's partner was a fat, oily man with a thin mustache. He continued to scream at the man in Vietnamese, as the small one struck the prisoner with a thin, razor sharp whip.
The prisoner cried out in pain, but refused to speak. The small man whipped the prisoner once more, before moving across the room to consult with his partner.
Chandler struggled to catch his breath, and was vaguely aware that the two interrogators had moved away from him, and were speaking in low whispers. They seemed to be arguing with one another. As his sweat mixed with his wounds, Chandler had to concentrate to keep from crying. The pain seemed to be intensifying, and eventually, the hushed argument across the room faded, and he was engulfed by the darkness.
When he awoke again, he was alone in another room. He tried to look around, but one of his eyes seemed to be sealed shut. His arms and legs were still bound, though he was no longer attached to the chair. He struggled to sit up, but his bound arms and legs threw off his balance, and he tumbled back onto the ground.
He struggled to breathe, and as he took in some moist oxygen, his lungs convulsed, and he let out a ragged cough. The violence of the motion set his already screaming gashes on fire, and he winced.
A slow, soft moan emanated from the far corner of the room. Chandler froze, and tried to search the bleak darkness with his eyes. He slowly rolled to his back, and then to his other side, as another groan surfaced.
"Hello?" Chandler called out into the darkness.
"Mmmph," came the reply.
Chandler squinted, as his eyes struggled to adjust to the dark. He made out a hunched, lifeless form—it was a man—perhaps another prisoner? The man looked up slowly, and Chandler started, as his eyes locked on his cellmate's.
"Joey."
Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today...
Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace...
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one
Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world...
You may say I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one
"Imagine", John Lennon
