Title: Rebirth (Part 3/4)
Author: linaerys
Rating: PG-13 for violence. No sex.
Characters: Manning, Kroenen, Abe, a few OCs from the BPRD, including pathologist to the undead, Dr. Leah Andrews
Summary: After the movie, Kroenen has been recovered and made a bargain to get the BPRD to help him repair himself.
Feedback: Pretty please! I can never get enough feedback!
Kroenen retreated out of the glare coming in the windows, to lurk--no--cower in the dark shadows where he belonged. He had expected no different. Why would this human agency keep its word? But still it rankled, and what rankled more was the knowledge that he could tell them nothing they did not already know. His undead army still waited in jars, but was useless without Rasputin's activation, and he would return when he chose, like some dark Messiah whose second coming was only the beginning. What rough beast . . .? Kroenen thought.
He tried to control his thoughts of escape, beneath the level of the fish creature's prying, but a thousand scenarios paraded through his mind. Most of the operating theater's potential weapons were locked away now, automatically closed behind seamless cabinets, but a few extra implements were merely locked in glass cabinets. He might be able to fight his way out, but the BPRD held his weapons and masks hostage. They provided him with the wardrobe of the insane--soft shapeless tunic and trousers with no metal anywhere on them. It was scarcely less demeaning than going without.
His eyes swept the room. As if placed there by mistake, his key lay in a metal tray near the sink, but Leah did not make mistakes, not here. He knew enough of her mind to know how relentlessly focused it was, seeing nothing beyond the task, the knife, the flesh; a mind like his own. Such clear thinking was so rare in a woman, ruled as they were by base and homely desires, but Leah must have cut that part of herself out, unsexed like Lady Macbeth. Kroenen approved of such ruthless self-surgery.
Still, her mind was weaker than his, and here was the evidence. He put the key back in his chest and wound it quickly, a motion so habitual it was automatic. His clockwork was not necessary to his survival, such as it was, but granted him strength and speed far beyond what he could achieve without it. Kroenen felt the sand in his veins start to course more quickly, and as it did it came pouring out of the still-unhealed holes in his arms and legs.
He searched around for suturing thread, but found none, and even if he could, he needed further help to sew up the exit wounds the stakes had made. The sand flowing from Kroenen's wounds had ebbed to a trickle, and he felt the hated weakness coming over him. He must lie down and allow his body to generate more. There would be time enough to decide what to do.
Abe could not sleep, and instead swam in endless eddies around his tank. He wished, as he often did, for the warmth of a tropical ocean that would heat his body up to a human's temperature, a warmth he thought he remembered from his own pre-history. He did not know why he should feel even a scintilla of sympathy for Kroenen. The man walked along his path toward evil with the precision of an automaton, there could be no forgiveness for him.
Or perhaps that was why Abe pitied him; the Nazi followed his path as though he had no other choice. Abe could not hear the creature's thoughts, although if he stretched his mind, he could sense the presence of others in the BPRD. Hellboy's glowering, smoldering presence in the deepest recesses, Liz, her mind filled with images of fire and death, and Myers, who dreamed of kittens, and a young blonde girl who took his hand, but he could not sense Kroenen, except deep in his own mind. A pit of inhuman sentiment had settled in Abe's consciousness, an alien coldness.
Abe swam to the top of his tank. He knew what he was doing, but did not know what he hoped to accomplish by it. How could he possibly understand Kroenen, or hope to explain Manning's new requirements of him. Kroenen was like a canker in BPRD; as long as he stayed there he ate away at their resolve to fight evil, for how could they fight evil without becoming it. Manning had an answer, of course, to use Kroenen and then destroy him, but in Abe's mind that made them just as bad as those they opposed.
Abe was looking, he decided, for some spark of humanity in the wreck of a man they had imprisoned. If Abe could see that, something in him would be satisfied. He slid into his air suit, and strapped on the water-breather. As he walked down the hall he found he'd picked up his Rubik cube. He twirled it idly between the long fingers of his right hand.
Kroenen lay on his back on the operating table, a surgeon's mask covered his lipless mouth, but the lidless eyes stared straight into the blackness of the ceiling. According to Dr. Andrews's reports, Kroenen did not sleep, but he must have some other state of repose. We should get his mask back to him, Abe thought.
He sat up and Abe's approach and stared (as if he could do anything else) through the glass. "I gather you, ah, heard," said Abe. Kroenen did not answer, either mentally or out loud. "I could say it wasn't my idea, which it wasn't, but I still speak for BPRD, and stand behind the directive." Abe heard, or imagined he heard, an exasperated sigh. Kroenen lay down again, and Abe detected a whiff of impatience from him.
Your justifications do not interest me, thought Kroenen.
"I don't care what 'interests' you," said Abe snippily. "The deal is this: give us useful information about Rasputin, Ilsa von Haupstein or anyone else you know of planning to come back and cause Armageddon, and we will continue to provide you with medical care. Refuse and you can stay in one of the deepest cells until you change your mind." Abe heard the tone in his voice and hated himself for it, and hated Manning for making him do this. He cultivated a cool, light persona for dealing with everyone who wasn't a close friend. It kept people from focusing on his differences, kept them professional, but he didn't know he had this nasty vindictive part of himself.
I don't know what they're planning, thought Kroenen as he sat back up. What makes you think I was in their confidence?
"Don't even try it. Anything could be helpful--histories, rituals, anything. It's an easy bargain to make," said Abe, not believing it himself. Perhaps it was Manning's voice he heard himself speaking with.
Betrayal comes easy for you, does it? Kroenen asked, not maliciously, but curious. Abe looked down at the puzzle in his hand.
"I think you know it does not, but you . . . ." Abe said.
And you are not even human--would you have less, or more to lose than I did--I would? Kroenen asked.
"I am as human as I can be," said Abe, "and not under discussion." Kroenen tipped his head to one side, in that bird-like gesture he favored. Perhaps he practiced such gestures that did not require facial expressions, since he kept it covered.
I had goals once, Kroenen thought, and Abe realized this was a thought he was not meant to catch, a thought with a hint of despair behind it. Then came the next thought, crisp and focused: All there is to barter with is information, nicht wahr? You do not think I could be helpful to this office otherwise? This special, secret project?
Abe did not like the nasty implication Kroenen placed on the words "special" and "secret", but he pressed on. "This deal is not pleasing to either of us," said Abe, trying to sound harsh and conciliatory at the same time. "Give me something for Manning, and you will get Dr. Andrews's services back."
Kroenen stood up off the operating table that was his bed. He looked horrifying, yet somehow comical in the red pajamas BPRD had provided for him. He put his hand up to the glass and splayed his fingers. Abe could see the stitches from never-healed, self inflicted wounds stretching as he did so. Abe looked at the hand to avoid looking Kroenen's raw eyes, his mangled and unreadable face.
Abe put his own hand up to the glass--the contact was immediate and wrenching. Night--rain--piercing pain--Rasputin pulled into another dimension--pages written in blood--words read from Ilsa von Haupstein's blood red lips--blood sacrifices screaming and dying--breathing in the smoke of burning dead. And through it all ran a thread of hatred and self-inflicted pain so deep and constant that Abe felt himself growing queasy. He wrenched himself away from the contact, and found that he had clenched his other hand around the Rubik cube so hard that the corners had left deep blue dents in his palm that hurt when he loosened his grip.
Kroenen tilted his head again. It doesn't help does it? I've held nothing back, and yet it gives you nothing. Abe couldn't tell if he heard gloating in the creature's thoughts or desolation. He let the toy fall from his hand and walked away from the window. He could sense Kroenen had actually held back, but he had still given Abe so much information, that Abe would be sorting through it for days, or years.
Kroenen had given Abe most of his memories, probably many clues that could help them prevent Rasputin's return, and yet Abe could not bear to poke into that new corner of his mind. He could feel it festering there like a disease, but Abe was afraid if he looked at it, it would consume the rest of his mind. How could anyone live with such memories? Those who do not learn from history are destined to repeat it, thought Abe, an adage that the BPRD had proved time and again, but what good was such a history. It oppressed him with a sense of the inevitability of human failure and evil.
What does it profit a man to gain the world if he would lose his own soul? Abe asked himself. He found no answer.
Author: linaerys
Rating: PG-13 for violence. No sex.
Characters: Manning, Kroenen, Abe, a few OCs from the BPRD, including pathologist to the undead, Dr. Leah Andrews
Summary: After the movie, Kroenen has been recovered and made a bargain to get the BPRD to help him repair himself.
Feedback: Pretty please! I can never get enough feedback!
Kroenen retreated out of the glare coming in the windows, to lurk--no--cower in the dark shadows where he belonged. He had expected no different. Why would this human agency keep its word? But still it rankled, and what rankled more was the knowledge that he could tell them nothing they did not already know. His undead army still waited in jars, but was useless without Rasputin's activation, and he would return when he chose, like some dark Messiah whose second coming was only the beginning. What rough beast . . .? Kroenen thought.
He tried to control his thoughts of escape, beneath the level of the fish creature's prying, but a thousand scenarios paraded through his mind. Most of the operating theater's potential weapons were locked away now, automatically closed behind seamless cabinets, but a few extra implements were merely locked in glass cabinets. He might be able to fight his way out, but the BPRD held his weapons and masks hostage. They provided him with the wardrobe of the insane--soft shapeless tunic and trousers with no metal anywhere on them. It was scarcely less demeaning than going without.
His eyes swept the room. As if placed there by mistake, his key lay in a metal tray near the sink, but Leah did not make mistakes, not here. He knew enough of her mind to know how relentlessly focused it was, seeing nothing beyond the task, the knife, the flesh; a mind like his own. Such clear thinking was so rare in a woman, ruled as they were by base and homely desires, but Leah must have cut that part of herself out, unsexed like Lady Macbeth. Kroenen approved of such ruthless self-surgery.
Still, her mind was weaker than his, and here was the evidence. He put the key back in his chest and wound it quickly, a motion so habitual it was automatic. His clockwork was not necessary to his survival, such as it was, but granted him strength and speed far beyond what he could achieve without it. Kroenen felt the sand in his veins start to course more quickly, and as it did it came pouring out of the still-unhealed holes in his arms and legs.
He searched around for suturing thread, but found none, and even if he could, he needed further help to sew up the exit wounds the stakes had made. The sand flowing from Kroenen's wounds had ebbed to a trickle, and he felt the hated weakness coming over him. He must lie down and allow his body to generate more. There would be time enough to decide what to do.
Abe could not sleep, and instead swam in endless eddies around his tank. He wished, as he often did, for the warmth of a tropical ocean that would heat his body up to a human's temperature, a warmth he thought he remembered from his own pre-history. He did not know why he should feel even a scintilla of sympathy for Kroenen. The man walked along his path toward evil with the precision of an automaton, there could be no forgiveness for him.
Or perhaps that was why Abe pitied him; the Nazi followed his path as though he had no other choice. Abe could not hear the creature's thoughts, although if he stretched his mind, he could sense the presence of others in the BPRD. Hellboy's glowering, smoldering presence in the deepest recesses, Liz, her mind filled with images of fire and death, and Myers, who dreamed of kittens, and a young blonde girl who took his hand, but he could not sense Kroenen, except deep in his own mind. A pit of inhuman sentiment had settled in Abe's consciousness, an alien coldness.
Abe swam to the top of his tank. He knew what he was doing, but did not know what he hoped to accomplish by it. How could he possibly understand Kroenen, or hope to explain Manning's new requirements of him. Kroenen was like a canker in BPRD; as long as he stayed there he ate away at their resolve to fight evil, for how could they fight evil without becoming it. Manning had an answer, of course, to use Kroenen and then destroy him, but in Abe's mind that made them just as bad as those they opposed.
Abe was looking, he decided, for some spark of humanity in the wreck of a man they had imprisoned. If Abe could see that, something in him would be satisfied. He slid into his air suit, and strapped on the water-breather. As he walked down the hall he found he'd picked up his Rubik cube. He twirled it idly between the long fingers of his right hand.
Kroenen lay on his back on the operating table, a surgeon's mask covered his lipless mouth, but the lidless eyes stared straight into the blackness of the ceiling. According to Dr. Andrews's reports, Kroenen did not sleep, but he must have some other state of repose. We should get his mask back to him, Abe thought.
He sat up and Abe's approach and stared (as if he could do anything else) through the glass. "I gather you, ah, heard," said Abe. Kroenen did not answer, either mentally or out loud. "I could say it wasn't my idea, which it wasn't, but I still speak for BPRD, and stand behind the directive." Abe heard, or imagined he heard, an exasperated sigh. Kroenen lay down again, and Abe detected a whiff of impatience from him.
Your justifications do not interest me, thought Kroenen.
"I don't care what 'interests' you," said Abe snippily. "The deal is this: give us useful information about Rasputin, Ilsa von Haupstein or anyone else you know of planning to come back and cause Armageddon, and we will continue to provide you with medical care. Refuse and you can stay in one of the deepest cells until you change your mind." Abe heard the tone in his voice and hated himself for it, and hated Manning for making him do this. He cultivated a cool, light persona for dealing with everyone who wasn't a close friend. It kept people from focusing on his differences, kept them professional, but he didn't know he had this nasty vindictive part of himself.
I don't know what they're planning, thought Kroenen as he sat back up. What makes you think I was in their confidence?
"Don't even try it. Anything could be helpful--histories, rituals, anything. It's an easy bargain to make," said Abe, not believing it himself. Perhaps it was Manning's voice he heard himself speaking with.
Betrayal comes easy for you, does it? Kroenen asked, not maliciously, but curious. Abe looked down at the puzzle in his hand.
"I think you know it does not, but you . . . ." Abe said.
And you are not even human--would you have less, or more to lose than I did--I would? Kroenen asked.
"I am as human as I can be," said Abe, "and not under discussion." Kroenen tipped his head to one side, in that bird-like gesture he favored. Perhaps he practiced such gestures that did not require facial expressions, since he kept it covered.
I had goals once, Kroenen thought, and Abe realized this was a thought he was not meant to catch, a thought with a hint of despair behind it. Then came the next thought, crisp and focused: All there is to barter with is information, nicht wahr? You do not think I could be helpful to this office otherwise? This special, secret project?
Abe did not like the nasty implication Kroenen placed on the words "special" and "secret", but he pressed on. "This deal is not pleasing to either of us," said Abe, trying to sound harsh and conciliatory at the same time. "Give me something for Manning, and you will get Dr. Andrews's services back."
Kroenen stood up off the operating table that was his bed. He looked horrifying, yet somehow comical in the red pajamas BPRD had provided for him. He put his hand up to the glass and splayed his fingers. Abe could see the stitches from never-healed, self inflicted wounds stretching as he did so. Abe looked at the hand to avoid looking Kroenen's raw eyes, his mangled and unreadable face.
Abe put his own hand up to the glass--the contact was immediate and wrenching. Night--rain--piercing pain--Rasputin pulled into another dimension--pages written in blood--words read from Ilsa von Haupstein's blood red lips--blood sacrifices screaming and dying--breathing in the smoke of burning dead. And through it all ran a thread of hatred and self-inflicted pain so deep and constant that Abe felt himself growing queasy. He wrenched himself away from the contact, and found that he had clenched his other hand around the Rubik cube so hard that the corners had left deep blue dents in his palm that hurt when he loosened his grip.
Kroenen tilted his head again. It doesn't help does it? I've held nothing back, and yet it gives you nothing. Abe couldn't tell if he heard gloating in the creature's thoughts or desolation. He let the toy fall from his hand and walked away from the window. He could sense Kroenen had actually held back, but he had still given Abe so much information, that Abe would be sorting through it for days, or years.
Kroenen had given Abe most of his memories, probably many clues that could help them prevent Rasputin's return, and yet Abe could not bear to poke into that new corner of his mind. He could feel it festering there like a disease, but Abe was afraid if he looked at it, it would consume the rest of his mind. How could anyone live with such memories? Those who do not learn from history are destined to repeat it, thought Abe, an adage that the BPRD had proved time and again, but what good was such a history. It oppressed him with a sense of the inevitability of human failure and evil.
What does it profit a man to gain the world if he would lose his own soul? Abe asked himself. He found no answer.
