Halo 09: Variation Tragedy

It took half an hour for a night guard to discover the bloody bootprints staggering from the lab door trailed by the tip of some implement dragging along the floor and drawing spidery patterns of carmine along the dusty walkway.

There was silence, and then—

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It did not take long for a second guard to come across the body of his comrade, sprawled in the hallway on its side in a filling lake of its own blood. The man stumbled backwards, covering his mouth and desperately trying to hold in whatever was trying to rip from his throat—a scream or a retch, equally probable given the circumstances.

"Hello down there," said a tenor voice from the rafters.

The man screamed as the voice's owner dropped upside-down and hung from the support beams along the hallway arch. The cadaverous creature was grinning. Blood was dripping from the rafters about an inch on either side of his head. The blood fell into the pool congregating around the man's boots.

The man screamed again.

"Oh, I truly am sorry about that. I have my weapon stored up here, and it has gotten rather dirty at both ends. Giving it a bit of a drip-dry. I do so loathe to touch the fluids that are supposed to drive human emotions if I can at all help it."

"GET BACK!"

The man fumbled with his sword and communicator interchangeably with a shaking hand, trying to decide which one to use first, backing away from the grinning boy who was now tilting his head in mild amusement. The communicator clacked loudly against his belt. His hand clenched around it, shaking so badly that the device was loosened from its plastic holster and clattered into the pool of blood.

"I… I am a member of the Zaibach army… and… all things you say will be… used…"

"Hmm, Zaibach, Zaibach, Zaibach." The boy stroked his chin with his thumb, cradling the other side in the crook of his index finger. "That's your organization. I see. Well, Mr. Rent-a-Cop of Zaibach, today is your lucky day. You aren't going to die!"

"Uh… will be…" The man stumbled back over the body and fell against the corner wall. "What the… who the hell… what do you WANT?"

"Oh, I am so sorry. Johnny at your service, but please, call me Nny. Now." Johnny beckoned the man with his forefinger. The glove was stained with blood. "You're a Rent-a-Cop like this lady here? Good. I want you to call your superior and give him a message. Would you be willing to do that for me? Pretty please?"

General Adelphos? Strategos Folken? Commander Albatou? What the—Gundress Micra? Head of—oh god… Beth… god… god… I'm going to die… The man gripped his sword hilt and cleared his vision. It was a tangible hold on reality. This isn't happening… this isn't happening…

"Now, come on…" Johnny nodded sympathetically. "It's a horrible shock to have somebody die, isn't it? What's your name?"

"E—Eric B—"

"Come now, Eric; let's be logical. I'm offering you the chance to walk away from here with all of your limbs attached. Do you want me to rebuke my offer? I'll just have to place a little intercom call myself."

"I—" Eric's mouth was already paper-dry. He swallowed and scrabbled back against the stone wall. Much to his dismay, it wasn't absorbing him away from the monster. "—yeah--…wait…I mean…"

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There was silence, and then—

"I can't suffer morons. Do learn to communicate more clearly. Lack of communication results in such painful isolation and misinterpretation. It is better this way for you."

Johnny cleaned his shower curtain rod on the fallen guard's shirt and retrieved the communicator from the bloodwashed ground. The handheld device looked very much like an Earthian shortwave radio—he deduced: hold to talk, turn on to listen. It was surprisingly easy.

Johnny switched the communicator on and held it up to his ear. Static shot through the silent hallway, whining—Johnny winced and tuned the radio—and then an utterly clear frequency.

Perfect.

Johnny depressed the talk button and cleared his throat—

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…ow…

Folken lay face-down on his bed clad only in the black pants he wore under his uniform, hair soaking and hanging in his eyes from yet another shower. The headache had returned in full force. He had taken several painkillers left from his on-again, off-again spurts of severe shoulder pain, deducing from his tolerance level for this sort of medication over ten years that he could suffice with, oh, four prescription-strength painkillers. He knew that his liver probably resembled, for lack of better description, a bad knish pie, but given the ferocity of his pain attacks the future state of an organ he didn't even notice at the time was rather inconsequential. The fact that he was completely stoned out informed him, at the furthermost and oppressed logical center of his mind, that the dosage was far too high, even given his tolerance.

If people could see Strategos Folken now… not such the terror anymore… just a pathetic, stoned-out man.

The codeine in the medication was making him drowsy, he knew. He was already inhaling the pillow and drifting in and out of consciousness, in such a state that he was able to drift back into dreams knowing exactly where he was, and commence.

I need to see a doctor about this. The headaches should not be this bad this long after injury.

He was dreaming about the healers again. The ones from Fanelia, inspirations and the cardinal reason that he believed that women were innately much smarter than men. He did not know if he was dreaming so much as remembering, for the dream was so accurate and made so much sense that it could not possibly be a quilted fabrication of truths and ideas. Unless, of course, within the context of the dream and the drugs such a quilted fabrication would make perfect sense.

The pillow smoothed into the feeling of air, and he was outdoors once again—no, in a shack so open to the air that he felt as though he was out of doors—still feeling a splitting headache at the back of his mind. He was eleven years old, awkward, endowed with a feathery alto voice, and terrified of authority. He was laying face-up on the healers' bed, watching the dark-haired one—Mauva—prepare medicine and listening carefully to every word she spoke. He had a painful crush on her and her partner, Gerthide, though he was more attracted to Mauva's straightforward and loquacious style to contrast his own severe introversion. Gerthide was more like himself: quiet, brilliant, and timid.

"Glar leaves," Mauva said, turning around and pointing at him with a fat, seed-laden leaf in an almost scolding motion. "They relieve most forest-borne poisons. Remember the yellow markings along the pods. They look just like common peas but for those markings. You understand?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"And for the Goddess' sake, don't call me ma'am. It makes me feel like an old lady." She returned to her work. "Normal kids in your position would be feeling all superior and privileged and mindful of their stations, but you have to keep acting like it's your fault for being born more fortunate than the rest of us."

"…I don't understand."

"You wouldn't." Mauva turned around and offered Folken a handful of blackberries, which she ended up forcing upon him after he refused in a quiet voice a few times. She batted him on the head as he walked forward to accept the fruit. "And stand up straight. You're going to have lovely shoulders when you grow up; don't make them grow crooked. If you walk like that when you go though a growth spurt, it'll stick."

Folken sat bolt upright.

"That's much better. You're not at all conceited for walking with your head held high and your shoulders back to the rest of the world. Do you think people who stand up straight are conceited?"

"No, ma'am."

"Then why is it any different for you?"

"…" Folken shrugged and hunched over his berries. "Idunno…"

Mauva whacked him again. Folken sat up straight.

"Speak up! Argh! ...You're the most precocious child I've ever dealt with. When you get older and experience life, you'll have things to say that everybody will want to hear. Trust me on this."

"Pre-what?"

"Precocious. It means you know too much for your age and you worry about stuff that shouldn't worry you until you're much older."

"…oh."

"Come on, now, sit up straight. Feel some pride. I just called you a very smart boy. Compliments like that just make kids like you glow."

"No, I'm not that smart…" he whispered, inwardly telling himself that he was the most brilliant person in the world, tragically misunderstood and therefore thought to be slow.

Mauva whacked him over the head again.

"You know you're smart. Stop putting yourself down. It doesn't make you any better of a person to do that. Pride isn't conceit."

Folken was already glowing. He whispered a shy "Thank you," and occupied himself with organizing his berries by size, nudging them around the palm of his hand, until he heard an exacerbated sigh from Mauva and the swish of her skirt against the floor as she returned to her work. Only then did he dare to watch her shyly through his eyelashes.

The door of the healer's shack opened, pouring the setting sunlight over the herbs hung in the rafters. Gerthide edged into the room, holding the door with her backside and cradling a bundle of fuel. Folken crammed the remaining berries into his mouth and jumped off the bed, running over to relieve her of the fuel and carry it over to the fireplace.

"Thank you, darling—oh, thanks, yes…" Gerthide brushed the bark and splinters off of her skirt and smiled at her partner, who was now brushing her own hands on her apron and walking over to share a brief nuzzle of welcome while she thought that Folken was well occupied struggling with the bundle of fuel. Folken shoved the fuel into the iron, sled-shaped cradle and brushed the remnants of wood off of his clothes while he secretly—with some degree of guilt and excitement borne by viewing something forbidden—watched them kiss with a small, satisfied noise from Gerthide. Folken pretended to be very interested in the ties of his shirt. He knew that they were aware of his knowledge of the true nature of their relationship, and felt a great deal of pride in the fact that he was the only person from the palace they would possibly trust with any information regarding their personal life. Sodomy, witchcraft, forbidden books—all of the things they practiced and even taught to Folken in small amounts were capitol crimes against society and the security of the crown, punishable by burning. During Folken's lifetime, only one woman had received such a punishment, and his mother had staunchly refused to allow him to attend the execution. His father thought that it would make a man out of his timid son, but Varie won the argument in the end and Folken remained inside the palace with Van, drowning out the noise in the courtyard square with the noise of the kitchens. If Folken remembered correctly, her offence was supposed witchcraft for having a gift for befriending cats. He had always loved cats himself and as such liked to visit her to play with her friends, but the cats were soon thereafter slaughtered as assumed accomplices in her craft. He cried for a solid month. His father told him to get over it, but maintained a paternal concern behind his stony mask. Folken got the impression that his father did not relish the deed any more than his son, but that he believed it was essential in maintaining control of a good society. Goau Fanel was a gentle man, but, Folken thought, blinded by adherence to tradition. He had no faith in the inherent goodness of people, no matter how off they seemed.

The women broke from their embrace, and Folken abandoned his feigned interest in his clothing. The rest of the evening commenced as usual during his visits—talking to Gerthide and Mauva while Gerthide practiced her needlepoint and Mauva sketched by firelight, painfully aware of the fact that he had no chance in winning the affections of either lady. Even if either one was interested in men as well as women—he had asked, and Mauva was, while Gerthide was not—he knew that he had no chance as a suitor. Were he in Mauva's position, he would choose Gerthide over himself any day. He was a child, and knew that both of them were aware of his crush and thought it adorable. He was unconfident, timid, prone to mumbling, and clumsy as a foal, surely no competition for the grace of a fully-grown woman. It was through them that he found an avatar for his worship of the feminine side of the universe—through their seemingly endless knowledge, sense and sensibility, compassion only matched by his own mother, and lack of maliciousness—and through their guidance that he first learned about things that would fully capture his attention later in his life.

They seemed perfect for a long time, though Folken progressively became aware of the fact that they, like anybody else, could not possibly know everything. And as he came to know them more, he saw that even women were far from perfect—many of them displayed utter maliciousness of a level he thought only capable by men. He gained an awareness of the meaning behind secret, tense, smiling looks exchanged at parties and in meetings that were truly laced with venom and pure spite. Mauva was often downright rude to the townsladies, using insults that went right over their heads and that were spoken in such a sweet tone that few could detect their true nature, and Gerthide often spent evenings venting over the small-mindedness of so-and-so, and how so-and-so deserved to be hexed, and ho so-and-so was cheating on his wife and deserved to be castrated. There was a period of depression in which his romanticized view of women as perfect was modified to consider them, as part of all of humanity, flawed, and just as responsible for contributing bad karma to the universe as men. The obsession of his fairy-tale age of innocence, forcefully perpetuated by ideas spawned from the same precocious genius that would contribute to his acute awareness of the world, dwindled. The paradox was realized, and Folken's crush for the women took a more mature turn. They were no longer paragons, but amazing people.

Karma was an idea with which Folken had become enamored after Mauva's instruction in the esoteric beliefs of Freid—several nights of sitting through oral renditions of books she had memorized on a trip as a youth. He begged for more Freidian ideology and stories for nights until Mauva finally indulged him.

"Fine, fine!" she yelled, handing him a carmine book. "You want more? Fine, but don't read this until you become a fully-matured man! You won't understand the beauty until you become sexually mature."

Folken flushed red to the very tips of his ears. He was thirteen at the time, lanky, and just undergoing the first stages of puberty and learning that arousal involved more physical 'rising' than mere blood to his face. He dared not ask anybody about the subject, knowing already fully well the meaning of the slang terms 'pop a bone' and 'hard-on' from the soldiers and knowing equally well that they were considered somehow sinful and disgusting. He accepted the book and numbly registered the title to translate to Scarlet, mumbling his gratitude. Mauva tilted his chin up with the cool tips of her fingers and looked into his eyes.

"A-ha… I see…" Mauva slid her fingers out from under his chin; he kept his eyes on hers. "You have already started."

"I… I beg your pardon?"

"Started sexual maturity. You get stiff when you get aroused." (Folken turned crimson.) "Don't worry; it's perfectly normal and healthy. It is nothing dirty or shameful, no matter what those dolts at the palace preach about celibacy and purity. It's actually quite a beautiful thing."

Folken was having a difficult time seeing how popping a boner could be considered beautiful thing, but Mauva assured him that he would understand with time, an answer he utterly loathed, which, in turn, Mauva assured him that he would come to hate less with time and would someday say to people younger than himself. It was no insult of his intelligence, she assured, but the mere fact that no amount of intelligence could emulate experience.

Folken still felt insulted. Mauva laughed at him and told him to go ahead and read the book.

Folken returned to his room with the carmine-bound book, his pulse quickening with the thrill of having something forbidden and secret tucked under his arm, something mysterious and dangerous and so rebellious, and began to read it under his covers by candlelight, creating a tent with his sheets over his head and holding the book propped against his legs and the candle in the other hand.

He learned very quickly just what the purpose behind the growing hard nonsense was. It was mechanically necessary for the activities outlined in the book to commence. He slammed the book closed upon reaching the first illustration, half-thinking that the sheets close around him were going to catch fire from the heat rising into his face.

Oh… my… god…

So, this was exactly what adults meant when they spoke of 'copulating' or 'sealing a marriage', though he had gained the impression that marriage was often a secondary concern to the act itself when people actually enjoyed it. Granted, as he learned within about four pages, 'coitus' was not the only method of sexual union—though it was the only respectable one according to society, and the book certainly did not feel obligated to only advocate respectable activity. He had very little doubt that the acts outlined in further detail later in the book would be thought rather obscene.

Well, yeah, the whole damn thing is obscene. It's weird. It's gross. It's—holy God, they're not—(flip the page, jerk head up, grow red, look back down at new page)—it's weird. Completely messy, disgusting, violating, enthralling… are those people in pain? Their faces are screwed up so—oh god damn it, not now!

Folken crossed his legs in an attempt to get himself to flatten back out, but the applied pressure, he registered with a mixture of disgusted guilt and shocked pleasure, made the arousal even worse. He gasped and froze. He wanted to rub harder and more persistently, but it felt so wrong and dirty, somehow revealing, as if the entire palace were tuned into every move he made to bring himself more pleasure and would soon come knocking at his door. He blinked and focused on the tent—solid, white sheets, closed room—and assured himself that he was completely alone and that not a soul would have an idea.

Feeling somewhat better and enthralled with the mixture of danger and arousal, he flipped through the illustrations, not bothering to read the text at the moment, wondering what it felt like to do that and be touched like this, wondering how something so dirty and obscene could possibly be as wonderful as the people in the book seemed to make it, carefully scrutinizing (and this made him feel even more dirty and as though he were violating every member of the opposite gender in some manner, Mauva and Gerthide being foremost in his mind) the finer points of the female anatomy with which he had never been acquainted.

Hell, I'm seeing several points of the male anatomy I wasn't aware of before. He flipped the page and pushed up the sheet to get fresh air and check the small water-clock by his bed. The sun would be up in about two hours.

The entire night gone already…

Folken swallowed and took a deep breath. He felt numb and at the moment, still fully-self aware, but he had a feeling that as of tomorrow morning, when he had to go and join the rest of society, he would feel in some way changed, in some way that he could not fathom, isolated. He did not know whether to call it 'guilt' or 'awareness', but neither definition seemed to perfectly encompass the impending condition. He was tempted to call it 'detachment'.

So, all of the stuff in here is involving men and women together so far— Folken looked up, growing once again red. He absently stroked his erection, long past the point of feeling self-conscious about it so long as he was absolutely alone. It was a familiarity that would vanish less than two years later when his body would be maimed. What about what Mauva and Gerthide--?

Folken grew guiltily still and swallowed. No, no, I am not going to fantasize about them. I am not going to look through the book for women doing what…they must do and place their faces with the bodies. I will not do that to them. It's completely disrespectful. No. No. No.

Folken was fingering the next page as he thought this. Less than a minute later, he was flipping through the illustrations searching for the lesbian intercourse, berating himself the entire time.

This is just for education—it isn't them, every example isn't them—but you would like it to be, wouldn't you, you sick fuck—NO—just looking; it's line art; I'm just curious, becoming well-educated—it can't be horrible and forbidden if two people like Mauva and Gerthide do it and love each other so much—everybody must be mistaken—it must be just like everything else, just that sick and weird and obscene and--

Folken stopped on the first page of homoerotica. It involved not two women, but two men.

Uh… huh… well…

The erection was not lessening. Folken stopped himself from turning the page and regarded the picture carefully. Two men together was not something he had spent much energy fathoming, though upon looking at the picture he realized immediately how they adjusted their intercourse to the mechanics of their bodies—using—that opening—oh—how—disgusting—one sitting in his partner's lap, cradled, but it looked as though they were still finding the experience thoroughly pleasurable. Folken was tempted to turn the page and wish the subjects good luck and godspeed in attaining whatever it was they wanted out of that business, but he was captivated by the picture.

It was arousing him as much as the pictures of heterosexual couples.

He remembered clearly the several speeches he had heard about the dangers involved in two men feeling too strongly for one another—many of these speeches being made to him by soldiers who thought that he spent too much time inside reading—and all such allocations being alleviated by his father. Goau assured his men that pursuits of the mind made nobody any less a man then the next one, and that his son was fully as much a man as any of them.

Part of Folken's gut rebelled in guilt. Well, yeah, as much a man, but this is two men, they're liking the fact that they're both men, right? Oh god, I'm a fairy. Oh god, oh god, oh god… Is this really turning me on, or… what? What's going on? Does this make me a fairy? I'm gay. No, I'm not gay. I was attracted to women. I'm attracted to both of them? When I was looking at the men and the women together, were the men turning me on as much as the women?

Folken was looking into space, terrified to look back at the book. Homosexuality was a horrible sin, but nobody ever spoke of bisexuality. In some way, it seemed even more lewd and loose, as if it were so utterly sinful and shameful that it needed not even be given public awareness.

Stop that. Stop that this instant. Mauva likes men as much as women, and you know from them that there is absolutely nothing wrong with this sort of thing. Is there? I mean, you're completely fine with women doing that, because they're—well, they're women, it's different—but two men? Is that as much all right? It seems very… disgusting… the ass stuff just…oh god, I'm a pervert. I'm a pervert. I'm going to end up in gutters screwing around with drunks.

Folken shook his head firmly and stared at the picture once again, willing himself to snap out of it. When registering the picture as mere lines, after the initial absorption, he could block out any feelings of arousal. His erection was beginning to collapse with self-disgust. He knew that as soon as he started allowing himself to feel so, he would get aroused again. He slammed the book closed, hid it under his pillow, and fell into an uneasy drowse that could not be called proper sleep.

The next morning, as soon as the sun rose, he ran to the healers' shack, sure that everybody who saw him would instantly point at him and scream "FAGGOT!" or "PERVERT!" Mauva was already awake and preparing breakfast aside herbal bags, while Gerthide, Folken was told, had been attending a woman who had recently delivered a colicky baby. Folken was glad for this; the conversation he wanted to have could not involve Gerthide. She didn't understand. She wasn't like him. She wasn't so completely off base that even the taboo of homosexuality failed to mention her.

"All right, son, spill it." Mauva pulled a pancake off of an upturned iron and slapped it onto a plate, then slid it across the table to Folken. "You know where syrup and butter are. Now, what's on your mind? Read that book, I assume. I can read it all over you. Hah, read? Get it?"

Oh, great, she can tell, they can all tell, it's probably scrawled all over my face.

"Um… yeah." Folken set the plate on the edge of the table, yet without an appetite, and moved over to the bed. "Um… yeah. Hi. Good morn?"

"Good morn, 'ken. Don't give me that 'I've lost my appetite' nonsense. You're a growing boy; you have to be hungry. Eat up."

"I… uh… diet. Hi. Um… yeah."

"Don't start that again." Mauva set her current herbal bag on the table and sat next to Folken, spreading her skirts underneath her. "I thought I beat that mumbling nonsense out of you already. You're too damn skinny as it is. If you're going to grow to your full height—which, as I have already told you time and again, is going to be beautifully abnormal—you had better eat up."

I'm going to be short the rest of my life. Shut up. "I… I really need to talk to you about something."

 "Ah-ha." Mauva nodded. "You read the book."

"Well… yeah. And… urm…"

"Discover some stuff your parents would never tell you about, I wager."

"Well, yeah. I mean, no. I mean…" Folken scratched the back of his neck. "Actually, I've never talked to my parents about this sort of thing. I mean, they don't even know that I'm… you know… doing that thing. You know. Um… getting aroused."

"Oh, I'm sure they've guessed. You're of the right age. Your father will probably come and talk to you about it very soon if he hasn't already."

"He hasn't. It's a really dirty thing."

"Naw, not at all. How do you think you got here?"

"…MAUVA."

"Well, it's the truth." (Folken was turning red.) "Yeah, your parents had sex, probably several, several times, probably still do—"

"Could we please not talk about that? That's not why I'm here. I mean…"

"You're not here to talk about sex?"

"Yes! I mean, not with my parents—god, no—I mean—no—I'm—well—"

"You masturbated and you feel guilty about it?"

"Yes! I mean—that's not the whole thing—it's—well, that's like, touching yourself, right? Because it feels good?"

"Yes, that would be what masturbation is, and it's completely healthy and normal. Did you completely get off?"

"Yeah,  no—I beg your pardon?"

"Did you have an orgasm?"

"Did I—NO!" Folken half jumped up, thought better of it, and sat back down. "I—well, I almost—I couldn't, you see, because…"

"Oh, is that what the problem is? You think you're impotent at thirteen? I can assure you that the plumbing might be wacky for a while—"

"NO! That's not it! Argh!" Folken buried his head in his hands. "I didn't get to that point because I felt guilty and disgusted because I was looking at pictures of men and it was getting me off, all right? The—it—just collapsed. All right? The plumbing—the stuff is fine."

"…ah. I see." Mauva started laughing. Folken looked up indignantly. "No, no, it's not you; no wonder you felt so bad. The idiots up at the palace treat homosexuality as if it is completely dirty and shameful."

"I am not homosexual! I—I was getting off of both women and men, all right? I go both ways."

"…ah. Is that all?"

"Is that all? I'm—I'm a two-wayer, all right? It's even worse than going just one way or the other. It means I'll sleep with anything that moves."

"Now, that is just nonsense." Mauva draped her arm around Folken's shoulders. "I've heard that rumor too. It's a very common myth. It—well—its basis in fact, you see, lies in the fact that many bisexuals are extremely promiscuous. So are many homosexuals. Stereotypes have a basis in fact, I am sorry to say. It's part of the culture. I often wonder if it is more of a self-fulfilled prophesy on the part of those who fulfill that stereotype or not, but I see no reason that it should apply to everybody. It most certainly does not, in fact. I am bisexual myself."

"I know, and that's why I'm talking to you. It—well, it seems even worse than being homosexual, right? People don't even talk about bisexuality."

"I beg your pardon? Are you insulting me?"

"NO! I mean—well, I know that since you're—that way—it can't be that bad. I mean… well, if somebody like you is that way, it can't mean everybody who is that way is bad."

"It doesn't make anybody bad on that basis alone. But thank you. Yes, true bisexuality is extremely rare." Mauva stood and began to prepare tea. "There is some truth in that. Most people do go one way or the other. Especially men. Bisexual men are very rare. If you were a woman, I would suspect that you might be just confused—it is very common for young, heterosexual women to be mildly attracted to other women when they are young; some of them fear men and are attracted to strong women as a proxy—but not so for men."

"But if you're attracted to a gender at all—no matter how they act socially, I mean—doesn't it mean that you have that sexual orientation? I mean, straight men are absolutely not attracted to feminine men, are they?"

"Women are a little bit different. It is difficult to explain. Here." Mauva offered Folken a saucer of tea and resumed her seat beside him with her own saucer. "Yes, the absolute line is physical gender, regardless of social action, cross-dressing, whatever—but those heterosexual women soon come to realize that they cannot love other women, regardless, and the women who are lesbians or bisexual can. For some reason, heterosexual guys aren't the same way with feminine men."

"…" Folken sipped his tea. "So you think I really am a fairy?"

"Pst. I never said anything of the sort. You are quite possibly a bisexual man. Sexual orientation doesn't determine your sexual identity at all. You see, you're seeing everything in terms of attraction between feminine and masculine. You know what I mean? Gay men are very aware of the fact that they are men, and love people who are the same. Some lesbians are the most feminine women I have ever met, and love the same. Gerthide isn't butch, is she? I mean, yeah, there are some who sort of take on the opposite gender role—that's the butch / fairy thing, and some are attracted to people who are that way, and it's fine—but that is definitely not always the case."

"But you said that stereotypes have basis in fact."

"They do. They are not absolute truths, just generalizations. There are many bisexual and gay men who are what you consider a 'fairy'. And even then, being effeminate isn't a bad or shameful thing at all. Some of the sweetest people I have met are complete flamers. And it most certainly does not make them any less strong than a masculine man. Femininity is paraded as the side of 'weakness' to masculine 'strength', but you know what I think about that."

"You think it's nonsense. But they—I mean, fairies—sleep with everybody."

"Most do. Not all. Some are saving themselves for their special someones. You see, I think men are more likely to get into trouble sleeping around with one another than women. They're naturally more likely to want sex, and if you have two men together—who think about sex all the time anyway—there is no sensible woman there to say 'Stop thinking with your dick; we are not having a one-night stand.' Men naturally want to spread seed. Actually, now that I think about it, some women are just as bad."

"…um. Thanks."

"I never said you. Goddess." Mauva started laughing. "You've got too much of a head on your shoulders. I'm explaining in terms of most people. When I say that most people grow up and become mundane and superstitious peasants, it applies in the same way that I make generalizations here. Not everybody, but most. You're not most people, 'ken."

"Well, thank you for that."

"You're welcome."

"So… this is perfectly natural."

"Well, it's perfectly natural in the way that it is natural for somebody to like reading or hunting. Not everybody likes it, but it is perfectly natural for that person. Other people might not understand it and would never be able to love it, but people respect each other's interests for the most part. Readin' ain't any less natural than anything else just because only a few people enjoy it."

"Well, ask almost anybody at the palace. They seem to think it's a dangerous pastime."

"Well, there you go. Prosecution rests. Don't take advice from most people."

"And I would say that this is a little bit more dangerous and rare than enjoying reading. And reading you can learn to love, but this… you can't really make yourself go one way or another, can you? It's not a choice, is it?"

"Some people try to make it one, but no. I've known many a gay man who has felt utterly disgusted with himself and has tried to go straight, but he just can't force it. Same way, a lot of artists try to force themselves into bisexuality to feel open-minded and different—it's sort of a counter-culture phenomenon in the art schools in Astoria; shocking how different the world outside this little country can be—but many of them are actually straight. Yes, I guess hobbies were sort of a bad example, but then again, some people can learn to love reading and others can't, no matter if they get the same amount of exposure, and some people only become aware of their sexualities when exposed to things that make them respond. Anyway, there isn't a thing dangerous about it. And yes, it is considerably rarer than enjoying reading." Mauva scratched Folken's back half-consciously. "We're a rarity of the rare, Folken. We swing both ways, but we are not promiscuous—well, I have no way of knowing, but I have a feeling that you just are not. And that reminds me of the potential dangers we should discuss."

"Oh… great."

"If you end up with a boyfriend someday—obviously, he's going to either be gay or bisexual like yourself—and he has been sleeping around a lot, there is a good chance that he will have illnesses that only spread with intimate contact. Because of that promiscuity stereotype—well, yeah, true for the masses of the minority, so to speak—you're in a spot of danger."

"I know."

"And the second thing… well, it's not really a danger, but it can be a tragedy." Mauva folded her hands in her lap and slackened her shoulders. "…do you want children?"

Folken shook his head. Mauva sighed. "Well, yeah, you're thirteen. You're not supposed to want kids for years yet. If you end up with another man as your life companion, you two will be unable to have children of your own. That is the one cardinal sacrifice homosexual couples make. It's the true sacrifice—not social rejection, not social danger—but the one misfortune that is not brought on by the hate and ignorance of others."

Mauva was weakly brushing her hair back behind her ears with a forlorn expression. Folken nodded.

"You wanted children, didn't you?"

"It was the reason I debated spending my life with another woman. But in the end, I just loved Gerthide too much." Mauva gave Folken a sad smile. "I don't regret my decision, but it saddens me. I wish there were a way for us to have children. I have to suffice with watching others' children grow around me."

"I am sure your and Gerthide's children would be lovely."

"Thank you. But, ah, enough of that." Mauva waved her hands. "What's done is done, and I'm plenty happy with all I have right now. So, do you feel any better? Want more tea?"

"Yes, please. I'll get it." Folken walked over to the table and found the teapot. "So, I'm not doomed to spend the rest of my life hanging on streetcorners in women's clothing catering to sailors in Astoria?"

"Unless you want to be one of the sailors."

"Oh, such a life decision. That alleviates all of my fears." Folken turned around and offered Mauva more tea, which she accepted. He was smiling. "Here. Maybe I'll end up a transvestite someday. I don't see any problem with it."

"No, you'll have the completely wrong body shape. You're going to be unquestionably masculine." Mauva sipped. "I don't like cross-dressing men who aren't androgynous. It just looks terrible. Either have a womanly body shape and make yourself look decent, or don't. Though, I have no problem with any man who chooses to wear makeup."

"…you're serious?"

"I'm serious. Personality androgyny is fine no matter what you look like, but fashion sense never hurt anybody."

"I think I'm pretty much a guy."

"No, you're far too sensible."

"…hey."

"I'm serious." Mauva smiled. "So, future sailor, do you have any other plans for your future that don't involve behaving stereotypically? Oh, yeah, aren't you going to become king or something?"

"Not for long." Folken replaced the teapot and sat back down. "Assuming that I ever to take the wretched office, I am going to abolish the monarchy and set up a representative government."

"…" Mauva took a sip. "You're going to what?"

"Oh, come on. Don't tell me you cotton that divine right nonsense."

"Of course not, but I am not sure that I understand what you mean."

"Oh, it's great!" Folken sat on the edge of the bed, set the saucer on the floor, and made illustrating movements with his hands. "You see, I read about it in some old manuscripts translated from Mystic Moon documents—hidden up in the library—and it's great! It's just great! You see, instead of having a royal family and the eldest son becoming king, you don't even have a royal family and—well, start from the beginning. Assume that there is no royal family."

Mauva thought about this for a moment. "…everybody owns everything?"

"Yes, no, well, no. Not exactly. The leaders are elected. People vote for who runs the country, but you see, even that leader isn't the absolute leader, he's sort of like a commander—"

"And what if he is a she?"

"—she as well, sorry. Anyway, he or she is just like a commander, and there's a senate and a congress and these checks and balances so nobody has absolute power, and it's run by the people and—well, it means that the country is run by somebody who isn't me, somebody who runs for the office and wants to be there, and I'm free to do whatever I want."

"So this is just your method of getting out of being king?"

"Well… yeah, but it'll also be the best for the country in the long run, so everybody wins. I wouldn't do it if I thought it was going to hurt the country. If you get a bad leader you can knock him out of power, and everybody is equal under law—we'll have no more class nonsense—and the people will be happier."

Mauva took a long drink of tea and set the cup on her saucer, staring at Folken. "You read of this?"

"Yes."

"From Mystic Moon documents."

"They're sort of old, but yeah. The empires fell, sooner or later, but I think that I could make it work. I've worked some bugs out of it."

"And you, young man, think you can save the world."

"I'm thirteen. I've seen a lot."

"Right." Mauva smiled. "And you think these people will drop their sacred traditions at the drop of a hat? They'll just accept the destruction of their society?"

"I'll be king, won't I? They'll have to do as I say. It'll all work out. And then I'll travel the world. I'll finally be free from this place, and I'll see everything. My family has money; I can bum a little off of them." Folken grasped Mauva's hands, nearly knocking the tea off of her legs. "I'll take you and Gerthide and Van, if you all want. We'll go to Astoria, and Freid, and the Islands of Bern, and Zaibach—there's so much happening in Zaibach, travelers tell me, and I really want to see it—and I'll enter a university after I'm done traveling and do something grand with my life. Van can do whatever he wants, and you and Mauva can settle down anywhere in the world. I'll come visit you. I'll buy an airship or use Escaflowne to travel all over the world. We can even look for the Mystic Valley or the Ruins of Genova, if you want."

"Drunk with youth and freedom, I see."

"What?"

"Nothing." Mauva lowered their clasped hands. "It sounds grand, Folken. I would love more than anything to go with you. Just don't expect the path to establishing your new country to be easy. Tradition is against you."

"Psh." Folken made the motions Mauva usually made with that comment. "A lot of things are impossible until somebody does them. I'll do it. It'll all work out. The world will be better for it, and everybody will be happy that way. Maybe every country will copy us and the whole world will be happy. Humans would be able to forge their own fates."

"If only." Mauva sighed. "Monarchs aren't so willing to give up the power that makes them better than everybody else."

"But they're not better! They were just born into a certain family—"

"Yeah, well, tell them that, and everybody else that grew up loving divine right. The idea that there is something holy to idolize on Gaea." Mauva sighed again as Folken's face fell. "Don't worry about it. You'll do something grand and be happy, son. It'll all work out. If anybody is going to fix this country, you will be the one to do it. I think fate did intervene in having you be the first-born Fanel son. You're going to make everything better."

"…you really think that?"

"I truly do, Folken. You're a brilliant kid. You're also a little off." Mauva ruffled his hair. "It's what the world needs. You were born to balance out the stagnation of tradition in the world. It's time to do some things because they make sense."

"Oh… all right." Folken was beaming. He stood up and looked out the window. "Wow, already midday. I'm sorry to have taken so much of your time."

"No, it was a good talk. I'm glad that you came to talk to me." Mauva stood up and gathered the teacups. "I—no, I do not need help, before you ask—hope that you feel better about your new self-awareness now?"

"Oh, yes, much. I'll just have to keep it under wraps."

"Close wraps. Your father would flip on you if he knew. And who knows, you might end up being a straight man after all. You'll know for sure soon. Teenagers are perpetually confused about everything until they turn about twenty-eight."

"Yes, well… all right." Folken gave an awkward half-bow and waved. "Thank you so much once again."

---------------------

And it didn't turn out the way you wanted it to,

It didn't turn out the way you wanted it, did it?
Folken grasped his pillow until it ripped under his claws, still face-down in his bed and inhaling cotton and feathers sharply in a half-feverish, half-sleeping state of recollection.

Somebody found out. Somebody finally got them. They were burned alive.

Well, it's not any better than what you did to the citizens of your own homeland, is it? Folken ran his fingers down his face. Go ahead. Justify yourself by saying that it was out of genuine compassion for all of humanity. Tell that to the people who died. See what they say, you bastard. Some of them are probably still suffering in wretched conditions as you lie here and mope about a small concussion.

"HEY-A-LOOO----ZAIBACH!"

What the HELL?

Folken jerked up. The speakers in the hallway were whining and sputtering shots of static as the speaker cleared his throat, momentarily lost his grip on the button causing an abrupt silence, and then resumed his occupation of the frequency.

"Ah, that's better! How are you all doing tonight? Hey, can you all hear me? Good! That's good, because you're all going to die! Do you hear me? YOU'RE ALL GOING TO DIE!"

Oh shit. OH SHIT.

Folken sat up and blindly groped for his shoes underneath the bed, bent at an awkward angle, half-listening to the noise in the hallway and half searching the floor out of the corners of his eyes. He gave up and dropped to his knees, wincing at a pain that shot through his skull and nursing it while he found his boots and yanked them on with one hand.

Socks… forget it. Forget it. Just go.

"I'm Johnny C, but you all can call me JOHNNY! If I really like you, I'll allow you to call me Nny, but I don't think it's going to matter much when you are all DEAD. Yes, YOU ARE ALL GOING TO DIE, you small-minded haxxor rectal tics, robotic soldier killing-machines, ASSHOLE COMMANDERS. A-HA! WEEEE! I think I'll find a better weapon. Excuse me for a moment."

Folken was already out the door and yanking his cloak around his shoulders by this time, stumbling down the hallway and smoothing his hair back with his free hand after slamming his door and taking the time to lock it. The whining static died abruptly with a final screech, and the hallway was once again silent but for the rushing footfalls and the slamming open of doors around corners. People were emerging in confusion.

"Strategos," asked the first soldier in the hallway, "What is—"

The intercom cracked on once again. "I can't call it much of an honor to talk to you all this evening—"

Folken brushed past the soldiers and strode toward the laboratory, listening to the intercom the entire time and nursing his head, the latter of which was protesting such sudden turbulence and rising.

"—but you might say that this is the last conversation you will ever have in your life, some of you, Depends on how far away I am. But isn't human contact just a bitch? It would be kinder for me to shut up and leave you to solitude, BUT I WON'T. Hey, you know what I've learned about people during my delightful visit to your floating hellhole? THEY SUCK NO MATTER WHERE YOU ARE! Oh, yeah, by the way, Commander Albino Dildo, you're first."

Commander WHAT? Dildo—Dilandau?

"Do you know why? BECAUSE YOU ARE A VIOLENT, INSECURE—"

"Folken!" Foruma yelled down the hall.

"—SHALLOW WASTE OF ORGANIC MATTER—"

Folken stopped in front of the older man, lowering his hand and standing up straight. Foruma was drawn with wracking stress, chalk-white, and obviously not amused.

"—FOR WHOSE DEATH THE WORLD WILL REJOICE! I am doing a public service here!"

"Garufo is dead," said Foruma.

"…what?"

"So, wh~oo among you will be spa~ared? Do you know? Do you know? I know! NOBODY! HA! Because I HATE ALL OF YOU!"

"The prisoner has escaped," Foruma said acidly. "Garufo was found impaled and mangled in the lavatory adjacent to your lab. There were two domestic guards found murdered in the same fashion outside the laboratory door."

Garufo… what the hell was he doing in the laboratory in the first place? Oh, he betrayed my trust, great. Now this has happened.

"This is all your fault, Strategos Folken."

"HEY, I heard a great joke! Jesus Christ walks into an inn holding three nails—"

"…I was not the one who broke into the laboratory and destroyed the mechanisms of defense installed therein, Sorcerer."

"—and he says, 'Can you put me up for the night?' WOOOHA! I love that one! …Oh, come on, haven't you seen The Crow?"

"But this ship," Foruma hissed, "is under your jurisdiction. Did you not say that you wanted full responsibility for the prisoner?"
Folken gave Foruma a wan look. Yeah, sure, whatever, I always shoulder every responsibility that comes my way. Why not this? The only one of you bastards I could stand is now dead—he was a decent man, damn it—and now this. Now all of this. Was it not a member of your organization who set the prisoner free in the first place? Aren't you trespassing on my territory? And then you venture to call it my fault—

"OH COME ON, GIVE ME A BREAK! I'M JUST AN ARTIST TRYING TO BE BRILLIANT HERE!"

"We KNOW!" Foruma barked at the speakers. He turned back to Folken and removed his glasses, cleaning them on the hem of his robe, nervous beneath the calm pallor. He sighed. "Well, Strategos, do something about this mess. We are returning to the capitol immediately to bury the body of Hain Garufo and house the prisoner in our main facilities."

"…you first presume to place full responsibility of the ship in my hands, and then reap the benefits of my position while you leave me to deal with—"

"ARGH, STOP TALKING! SO MUCH BLITHERING EXCESS! EXCESS! RAMBLING AND RAMBLING AND—argh—egh—"

The intercom squealed off. Foruma replaced his glasses over his eyes and stared at Folken.

"The law requires that you return to the capitol given the circumstances. Don't place yourself in more jeopardy than you already harbor. Just do what I tell you, for once."