"Falling From Grace"
A boy crouches in the shadows, alone and afraid. He stifles his sobs to stop the echoes bouncing from the pipes of the nether regions of the ship. It is cold, dank, and terrible, not a place for a young child to reside. But it is a quiet place. A secret place. A place where he can hide, away from them all.
Away from him.
"Rem, why do evil people exist?"
"Knives, you should know better than that," she clucks her tongue at him. "No one is evil. Not purely evil."
"Then why do bad things happen?" His puzzlement is apparent, spreading rapidly across his face. "Why do people do bad things?"
"They do because they choose to. Everyone has the free will to choose right and wrong." She looks at him as if he should understand, as if this is the obvious answer.
"They choose to do evil," he mulls quietly. "But...if they choose to do evil, doesn't that make them worse? That they could do good, but choose not to?"
"I--- of course not, Knives," she admonishes him gently. "It's part of human nature. Good and bad. But I believe that ultimately, everyone in the end chooses good, given the chance. If you do evil things, you aren't lost. There is still hope. There is always hope."
"But why is there evil? Why is there pain? Why is there suffering?" he persists in asking. "Why do they need to exist at all?" He frowns in thought, struggling with the concept.
"I don't know, Knives," she answers honestly. "Some say that evil is necessary in order for good to exist. Just as light needs its darkness, so does good need its contrast. I guess the simplest way to put it is that we can't appreciate what we have unless someone takes it away."
"That's it? That's the reason why people suffer? Why people kill? Why people torture, main, and degrade each other?" Knives asks in disbelief. "Because there's a chance we might not be grateful enough about our lives?" He looks at her as if she has just made a joke in poor taste. Perhaps he honestly believes that she has.
He tries not to think on the past. He tries not to remember the pain, the feel of fists raining down upon his hapless flesh, the bright red droplets that become rivulets running down his skin.
He tries not to remember his screams as he begs for the hurting to stop, nor his pleas for mercy, as the beating goes on. And on. And on.
And he especially tries not to remember his fear. The fear that catches him and breaks him, that takes him screaming in agony and self-loathing and faces him with his own fragile mortality.
He cries as another blow falls upon him, shattering his shoulder. He can feel his arm hanging limply, sharp pain running up his spine in silent protest, the warm feel of blood seeping through his clothes.
He looks no older than ten.
His attacker stares down at him, his eyes clouded with rage and hate, but never remorse.
"Stop it," the boy entreats him, his pleas falling on deaf ears. "Please, just stop..."
"Shut up," the man growls, "Shut up!" He walks closer to the boy meanacingly.
"Rem..." the boy whispers, a faint hope that never materializes. "Help me... Rem... anyone---" His voice cracks from the current of fear that runs through his body. I'm going to die, he thinks, despairing.
As the man draws near, the only thought in the boy's mind is---
Why?
Why did it happen?
Why didn't anyone stop it?
Why does it continue?
"But he hurt me, Rem. Why can't you stop him?"
"Hush, Knives, it's all right. We had him confined in the brig until he calmed down. Don't worry, he won't hurt you again." She kneels and pulls the small boy closer to her, trying to soothe his frightened frame. "Steve was drunk, and he says he didn't mean to hurt you. He's very sorry, and it will never happen again." She repeats it calmly, as if chanting it as a mantra would make it true.
"But he hurt me, Rem! You have to stop him..." The small boy looks up at her pleadingly,
"Knives," she admonishes him gently, pushing him back to look him in the eye. "Remember, Steve isn't a monster. He's a human being. We have to give him a second chance. Everyone deserves that."
"But---"
"Shh, Knives." She stands again, taking his hand. He knows as soon as he has lost eye contact that the conversation is over. "I'll take care of you. He won't hurt you again. I'll make sure of that."
"Do you promise?" he asks quietly, his voice barely more than a whisper.
"I promise." She squeezes his hand reassuringingly.
LIAR.
The thought resounds through his mind, echoing through the hidden corners of his psyche.
Why couldn't you save me?
Where were you when he was hurting me?
You promised to protect me.
You PROMISED.
"Damn plants," he can hear the man mutter. "Not natural." He shivers as the man draws near again, his breath heavy with the stink of alcohol and hate.
Another jolt of pain accompanies another blow, yet another agony to be borne.
"Monsters, all of you," the man tells him, bring the point home with a kick.
"You don't belong here." His voice echoes in the boy's mind as much as his hits echo through his body. The fear and loathing seething from his tone frightens the boy with its intensity.
As he slowly loses consciousness, he realizes he still does not know why.
"Evil." The man's voice slowly fades away....
What is hate?
What is pain?
He cannot think. He cannot move. He is rooted to the spot, his mind racing in circles around this fundamental flaw of the universe. The inevitable descent into entropy.
Why does evil exist?
It is there. It is omnipresent, coiled within us all. It lurks, awaiting the time when it uncoils and strikes, inflicting suffering and pain and death and---
NO.
In the mind of the small boy, a wall is erected, a barrier of protection.
Not in all of us.
A ray of hope shines within, struggling to drive back the horror of his experience.
I am NOT LIKE YOU.
A thin thread, a slim lifeline to grasp, the tenuous hold on sanity. The only divider between him and the endless chaos, the eternal madness.
Humans. YOU cause suffering. You cause pain. You cause evil.
The ray of light thins, turning dark red as he feels the blood seeping from his wounds, drip, drip, dripping onto the floor.
You are evil.
The dark red spreads across his vision, coloring everything he sees. The darkness within him grows, taking root in the rich soil newly planted.
I will never be like you.
The barrier is complete, the walls are created; and he stands, in his mind, on an impregnable fortress of blood.
And later--- much, much later, as he watches the fiery stars of his creation tear into the planet below, he will remember this day, and he will remember his mission.
"I will never be like you," he whispers to the falling streaks in the sky, burning brightly as they wink out of existence against the atmosphere. "Count on that."
*****************
She always felt him watching her whenever she entered the room. At first she had shrugged it off, chalking it up to an overactive imagination.
With each passing visit, she found it harder to doubt the presence of his gaze.
It was not an admiring glance, nor was it exactly hostile. Always flickering at the edges of her vision, it would skitter away maddeningly whenever she looked directly at him, leaving her questioning both its existence and her own sanity.
She had asked Millie to accompany her once. He had been surprisingly docile then, quietly cooperating, doing as he was told without complaint.
Only a slight smirk had colored his features that day, but she could still see the faintly laughing eyes trailing her, mocking her fear.
She never asked Millie to help her again.
She stood beside him now, clean bandages in hand, uncertain what to do. He was asleep, thankfully, those sharp eyes sheathed behind shielding eyelids. In the silent moonlight, he looked almost peaceful, his breath even and slow. He stirred fitfully, whispering to himself.
"Rem..." A ghost of pain washed over his countenance, disturbing the calm that had settled there before.
He looked almost exactly like Vash.
She left the bandages behind, untouched. There was time enough to change them tomorrow.
She did not look back as she returned to her bed, away from the both of them. She wanted to be alone.
*****************
"Don't you ever get tired of them?" Knives asked Vash idly one day, staring up at the ceiling. He had yet to move from the bed in which he had awoken. Lying lazily on his back, he could hear his brother moving around the room, picking up the pieces of the dish he had thrown earlier in a rage. His moods had become erratic since he first awakened, and only seemed to worsen as time passed. Oddly enough, Knives felt little distress at his own loss of control. In a way, it allowed him the only sort of power he could hold in this place.
His brother smiled at the question, patiently cleaning up the broken shards with his hands. "I don't see how I ever could," he said contemplatively. He drew back sharply as he cut himself on the jagged glass. Lifting his hand, he watched as the blood bloomed and faded upon his fingers, trailing a deep red streak across his palm as it fell to the floor.
"You always hurt yourself cleaning up my messes," Knives remarked. "I would have thought you'd have learned your lesson by now."
"I guess I'm just a slow learner," Vash replied, wiping the blood from his hand with a clean cloth, replacing it upon the tray before changing his mind, moving it away from the unused roll of bandages sitting nearby.
Knives pursed his lips, watching him discontentedly. "Ever the stubborn one. You always refuse to listen."
"I could say the same about you." Vash laughed softly then, shaking his head. "She's right, you know. We are more alike than we'd like to admit."
"She?" Knives echoed mockingly. "Oh, that one. That little girl you've replaced Rem with."
"She's not a replacement," Vash replied quietly.
"Oh, my mistake. A proxy, then. Or a cheap copy," Knives sneered. "You can't deny she looks remarkably like Rem. You don't expect me to believe that has nothing to do with it."
"She isn't Rem," Vash said, insistent. "They are two separate, entirely different people."
"I know that," Knives pointed out. "Quite well. Rem would never slap me upside the head for looking at her wrong." Unconsciously, his hand moved upward to rub his scalp protectively. "The question is, do you know that?"
Vash straightened defensively. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't you?" Knives pressed. "Don't you ever wonder why you stay with her? With both of them?" He rose slowly from the bed, propping himself into a half-sitting position. The pain that normally accompanied such actions had receded over the past days, fading to a dull aching throb. Almost languidly, he lifted an accusing finger towards his brother. "One with the innocence and love of a child, the other the spitting image of---"
"Shut up." Vash shut his eyes, his voice dropping low. "Stop saying that."
"Say what?" Knives twisted his mouth into a smirking leer. "Does it bother you, brother?"
"No!" Vash shook his head confusedly. "She has nothing to do with Rem." He stepped closer to his brother, as if somehow proximity could better convey his meaning. "She--- both of them--- they chose to stay with me. I didn't--- I didn't force them to follow me." He quieted again, and his eyes focused upon the floor pensively. "I'm grateful that they did," he whispered. "I think... I think I might have lost myself, otherwise." He shivered at a half-forgotten memory, one he had deeply buried in his mind.
"You always do this," Knives scowled. "Every time you start losing an argument you slip into that shell of sentimentality. As if that could protect you from the truth."
"It is the truth."
"Truth should induce belief, not the other way around." He smiled at Vash. "Which came first for you?"
*****************
After Vash left the room he closed his eyes, waiting for the next change of the guard. It would be that tall girl next, probably. Not the most intelligent of conversationalists. It was a pity, really, that he had to goad his brother so. He missed their talks of old, of not having to deal with the frustrating limitations of human intellect and frame of reference.
He missed talking to someone as if they were a person, instead of a thing.
Well, you could solve that very quickly, he could hear his brother say. It's all in your attitude. But he refused to capitulate in that way. Loneliness was no excuse for pathetic behavior. Speaking with them was akin to speaking to a highly trained pet; you might approximate the experience in short bursts, but very quickly you would realize how limited their understanding truly was.
He had no desire to hear his brother's words parroted back to him again. If he was to hear such drivel, he wanted it from the source. There was no point in arguing with a lackey.
A creak and a rush of air announced the door. He waited. Faintly, the scent of vanilla drifted past him.
Not that woman then. The tall girl instead, as he expected. Of course.
He quashed down a moment of disappointment. He did not gain any satisfaction from that woman's presence. She was merely a toy to pass the time, nothing more. A predictable one at that, flying into a rage at the least provocation. He shouldn't even be deigning to talk to her.
But it was better than endless silence. Better than the slow atrophy of his mind and tongue.
Wasn't it?
"Knives-san, would you like to play a game?"
He opened his eyes and stared at her. He must have been hearing things.
"I beg your pardon?"
"A game." She held out a board and bucket invitingly. Small, colorful objects peeked out from the bucket in her hand, rattling lightly as she moved. She was smiling at him, damn it.
"You're joking, right?" He looked at her incredulously. Freud was right, he thought to himself, suddenly scrabbling with a forgotten memory of lessons with Rem. All humans really do have a death wish. In his mind, he was six again, sitting on soft artificial grass, his eyes and voice alight with excitement as he leaned towards his surrogate mother. She smiled at him, pleased that he had grasped the lesson so quickly. They had spoken often once, whenever Vash had grown bored and wandered off to play with his toys. He would listen to her, rapt, as she revealed the secrets of the universe--- his attention focused upon her hands, her mouth, her eyes. Her mind.
She was clever enough for you then, a voice in his mind whispered to him. That was a long time ago, he told it firmly. Rem could never comprehend who I am now.I suppose we'll never know, it replied, a wisp of regret threading his memory. He blotted it from his attention. There were more important things than sentiment to deal with now.
Or at least, there used to be. Now all he had were the ramblings of the cheerfully insane. It was enough to drive him mad.
He flicked his attention back to the tall girl, her game still stretched out towards him. He drew a breath, intending to tell her exactly what he thought of her offer. Lonliness is no excuse for pathetic behavior, he chanted to himself. Remember that.
*****************
Vash tilted his head to the crack in the doorway, drawn by the sound of voices. Laughter trickled out slowly, accompanied by edges of light. Curious, he peeked into the gap left by the half-open door.
"You're breaking my concentration." Surprisingly, he could only hear mild irritation in his brother's voice.
"I'm sorry, Knives-san." Millie's voice, punctuated by giggles, was like the light peal of piano keys turned staccato. "You just looked so serious. I've never seen anyone focus so hard on a game."
"Chess is not a game," he admonished her. "It is far older than you could ever imagine. It is strategy incarnate." His hand lifted a bishop, wavering over a square. Vash recognized the move and grinned. "It is a prelude to the art of war."
"I don't think you should put it there," Millie said uncertainly. "My ken could get you."
"It's called a queen." Knives grimaced. "Call it by its proper name. You people have bastardized the game quite enough over the eons as it is." He glared at the bright cherry red and blue spotting the board in front of him. "Is white and black too much to ask?"
Millie's answer was lost as Vash turned away with a smile. Perhaps, things were not as hopeless as it seemed.
It's been far too long since I've last worked on this. I need to rewatch Trigun again.
Apologies to anyone in linguistics; I realize the transformation queen-->ken may or may not make sense phonetically, but I have not been paying enough attention in my linguistics class to make this authentic. Feel free to give me suggestions if you think of any.
It's been two or three years since my last post, and I'm still not sure where this story will go. I think I've mellowed a lot since that time, and as a result, I suspect my rendition of Knives has done so accordingly. If this seems OOC to you, I apologize. Maybe I'll make him more mean and snarky in the next chapter (whenever that will be). I have missed writing fanfiction, though. Maybe now that I'm graduating, I'll have more time to work on it. We'll see.