And Scars Fade
I believe we're crossing the great ravine
Still yearning halfway a stranger
I believe in our multiplicity
Still part-blind no reason for anger
I believe we pull up our roots and retreat
A new crop of aerials in Dacca and Canberra
Why don't you tell me the truth about you...
(Midnight Oil)
two:
He never knew he could be bored enough to make his food into artwork before he ate it. And somewhat nice artwork too, considering the regularity of his low grades within the PLANT education system on any subject that grounded itself in abstraction. He really hadn't made good scores on his creative writing either. It wasn't that he disliked it; simply that he'd never had the knack. He could no more produce a bestselling novel than he could sprout wings and fly – all those superior genes and enhanced ability appeared to have moved to the part of his brain that handled logic and mechanics.
Despite his little 'handicap', he might actually have received compliments on his mixed-salad and lasagna model of the Buster Gundam, complete with a beam rifle made of celery sticks. It was impressively accurate. Unfortunately, there was no one there to see it but him, because you didn't get many visitors when you were imprisoned for desertion. Athrun's appearance had broken the monotony nicely, but that had been a week ago (probably. He couldn't tell the passage of time except by his stomach or internal clock, and he didn't keep careful track of how many meals he'd been brought, so he might be a bit off. Rusty had been the clock-watcher, anyway.) Which brought him back to his newfound hobby, which at least kept his hands busy, and his brain occupied with something besides the constant replay of memories. Images of the war, of the twinkling lights of Buster's cockpit, of moving targets and explosions of roseate smoke, of Yzak and Nicol and Miguel, of Commander le Creuset and that strange, sorrowful girl Mirallia...even of Kira Yamato, who he hadn't really talked to but knew was still alive with a certainty that came from all the shots he'd fired and Strike had evaded in the past. Images of Athrun's curious little smile as he talked from the other side of the bars, maddening him with its message of I have a secret, and I'm not going to tell you!
Too much. He muttered to himself and ate Buster's celery gun.
What felt like five hours later, the entire meal long since polished off and Dearka long since given to singing Lacus Clyne's pop songs at the top of his lungs in hopes of attracting attention, there was the welcome sound of the door sliding open out of schedule. Dearka paused at his second repetition of "and the stars in the sky," as both Pimple and Bob (named on the basis of his having absolutely no special feature whatsoever) paused to unlock the door, eyed him in a way normally reserved for the criminally insane, and beckoned him out. Hooray, he thought sourly to himself. Something's -finally- happening!
Neither of the two men seemed inclined to start conversation, either with him or each other, but the blonde found plenty to interest him as he was led through a meandering series of hallways. He'd assumed he was being held in an actual prison building, but rows of doors lined the halls, just as they had when he'd first been brought there, and this time he was able to get an occasional glimpse of offices and conference rooms. They even passed business-suited men and women on occasion, some who raised eyebrows at their awkward group. One (a lady bearing a striking resemblance to Captain Ramius) even gave him an encouraging smile. He realized that he'd been, in fact, held in a very ordinary work-structure in one of the PLANTs.
Not so ordinary, he amended a minute later, stepping into a new room and stopping short before his two guards urged him forward. The crowded office, books and documents piled onto every available surface, did not give the impression of a courtroom. However, the imperious-looking female seated behind the cluttered desk did have a pose and attitude very much like that of a trained judge. She motioned crisply to Pimple and Bob, who saluted and moved back outside before the door could shut on them. Only then did she actually look directly at Dearka, and then it was a calculating jade stare from behind her folded fingers, which were tipped with long, bloodred nails.
She reminded him far too much of a cat, one of the sadistic kind who preferred to swallow their prey alive and squirming, rather than making a clean kill. Even her hair was feline, short and dark and furry-looking. He almost expected her to purr.
"Dearka Elsman," she drawled instead, in a voice surprisingly deep, almost masculine in quality. There were some documents arrayed in front of her, distinguished from the rest by the photos on each page, each one containing his grinning face. "We'd appreciate it if you'd answer some questions."
...Shit...
The time after his first day of 'trial' found Dearka resting, almost glad to be back in his dim little prison. It was better than having his brain picked apart by the Catwoman (that is, the scary lady who'd introduced herself as Ms. Hatchett), who was apparently a master interrogator instead of a judge. She'd asked him for details of his capture; he'd given those without hesitation. Questioning about his situation at Orb had him deflecting her with vague answers – he really didn't think "They let me go but I went back anyway," was going to work very well, and he didn't want to endanger himself with an outright lie.
She'd pressed at it, though, interspersed with variations of the question, "and why did you fight for the Clyne faction, Mr. Elsman?" He'd hated that kind of extensive questioning for most of his life, and it had been a struggle not to give the same answers every time. The Catwoman was good at her job, and had driven him frazzled long before he was released back into Pimple and Bob's care.
"Athrun, Yzak," he implored the unchanging ceiling, "I don't mean to sound ungrateful, but hurry up and get me the hell out of here."
The second and third days combined to almost make Dearka wish he'd never laid eyes on Orb, ever. He was sick of the cell, sick of the hallways, sick of the office and the two guards and Ms. Hatchett with her constant probing on the same points they'd already gone over again and again and again. And as much as he tried to keep himself under control when he wasn't sitting around alone...someone – two someones – ended up feeling the effects.
"Hey, boys!" Dearka greeted them when they entered, couple with the mocking grin that had irritated Yzak most, back in the ZAFT military academy.
It went downhill when they dragged him off to Hatchett's offices for a fresh round of torture – on the path there he kept up a continuous monologue of satirical comments, some which either had them biting their lips to keep from laughing, flushing tomato-red, or outright wishing that they could knock him out. Dearka found it made him feel better, particularly when he caught Pimple making eyes at a couple of the younger ladies they passed and promptly began ribbing them the same way he'd teased Miguel when he found out the young man had had a girlfriend. Except that he was much less sympathetic, since let's face it, they were taking him somewhere very unpleasant and they all knew it.
Bob actually started laughing once they were in the privacy of the lift. Pimple sucked in air through his teeth in frustration, before finally addressing his charge.
"Elsman. Shut up. Please."
Needless to say, the blonde nearly doubled over upon seeing his expression. Sadly, the lingering hilarity vanished in the Catwoman's presence, but once it was over and he had rested his brain a bit, it still made him grin a little. Even prison had its own brand of highlights...
On the fourth day of questioning, everything changed.
Authoress-ramble: Yes, I'm pulling the chapter's starting lyrics out of my ass. Sorry, Google's. It's a random bad habit of mine to hunt down fitting songs for fics without listening to them first. ; And I promised something less boring, I know --; I tried, really, though it took a real brainfart to come up with a Buster Gundam made out of prison food (XD;) When there's nothing to do, I guess you stretch it to the limits. And did I mention I hate that judge-lady? Even though I made her?
I know I made the whole three-day period of Dearka's interrogation WAY fast. It was too repetitive otherwise. Next chapter will be the last, and hopefully the most eventful, because Dearka can finally pop out of that stupid cell block! Yay! And I can put in Yzak and have tons of scenes with gooshy romance!
Just kidding. I don't think they work that way.
the machination/Uzumaki-sama: In all the time I have been writing fiction, yours ranks as one of the best comments I've EVER received on my work! Thank you so much! DreamAnimeKitten: I hope you like this new chapter too =) Yzak: Kwee! glomps Teh Mistress of DeaYza herself likes my fic? I'm honored!
Reviews still inspire muchly! :3 –downpoint-