Dedicated to Naomi, who is brilliant at fanart and even better at bribery.
Insurrection
The dawn breaks on the day after my intervention and what have I learned? I've learned that drink is not the answer. That broken bones still hurt like hell. And that the spirit of my former master lives on in my friends. My mind hasn't stopped racing since they pulled me out of that pit. All night spent pouring over the last two years, searching for the nuances that should have warned me, you are not equal. I couldn't find any. If I wasn't so numb I think I'd be angry. At them or at myself. Both. Neither.
The dawn's light paints the room an ominous red and I try to remember the last time I saw the sun rise. Three months ago. With Duo. We'd finally been thrown out of a club at dawn. I recall hating the suns first rays as they stung my sensitive eyes. Neither one of us spared a glance for its beauty.
This moment is an unholy purgatory. I am waiting for the soft dawn to turn into harsh day and wake my sleeping lover. Fear and anticipation war within me. I feel him stir. We remain perched in the same precarious position we assumed the night before. Fully clothed, my back against his chest. Arms wrapped possessively around my waist. The heat of his arousal brushes my senses even though layers of cloth and denim. Anticipation proclaims defeat and departs the field. One emotion reigns triumphant.
I have never refused him. Not on one single occasion. I can't predict what his reaction will be if I say no. /Should have given him the bottle/. The dreaded "What ifs" fill my mind.
My lover is fully awake now. Lips at my neck, hands on my chest and no idea that I do not welcome his touch. I could say no. He is a good person, I know this, he wouldn't force me. But the sting of his betrayal lingers, broken glass sharp. Always he stood as my last defence against the normal world. Forever there with a ready excuse on my behalf, constantly introducing me to something new. A shame that alcohol became the something I liked most. I welcomed it as my lover. Craved sweet liquor more than sweet Duo.
How long has it been? A fortnight? A month, maybe two? In a moment of clarity I remember our argument the night before the basement. Sex was at the heart of it all. He had been horny and I had been too tired and too drunk to care. I said no.
The moment of clarity stretches into horrific realisation and I almost vomit as I hear a zipper slide down. I had forgotten. I refused. That was the breaking point. An argument had followed, violent voices screaming violent words. And the next day . . . They threw me down. My eyes close under the weight of my realisation. Hands grab at me in the dark and they snap open wide in an instant. I am not in the basement. They do not have me.
I feel my lover's arousal pressing against me, demanding and find myself on a precipice. A word of dissent, that's all it would take, a part of me reasons. But I am weak, I am injured. If he decides to, he can take what he wants. Better to be reluctant than to be raped. The internal argument is silenced as Duo pushes in.
All that echoes in the vast recesses of my mind is the voice of a little boy. And he is screaming.
A hand not my own moves to my crotch. I shy away. Acting like a spooked horse so he won't find out how spooked I really am. In spite of this, the hand reaches its goal. Its owner isn't happy with what it finds. He pulls out and leaves the bed, moving to kneel before me. That alone is enough to make me uneasy, it should be me on my knees. His cheeks are still flushed though his arousal has ebbed. His eyes ask why I didn't proclaim that I wasn't "up" for it. I wish I knew the rules to this game. He strokes my cheek, an expression of compassion on his face as his eyes linger on my wounded wing. Where was that compassion when I had truly needed it? What happened to quiet understanding and empathy and honour? Only I can bring out the worst in people. Only me.
The man in front of me is asking question after question. I have no answers. I hope he shuts up soon. Please be quiet. Shut up. Shut up!
"I need a drink," I hear the words echo in the room and know I have spoken out loud. I shouldn't have thought that, never mind voicing it, never mind to him. There goes the compassion. He looks mad. He refuses to look at me again as he grabs his boxers, pulls them on and leaves the room.
Make way for panic and the "What if" parade, they're taking control.
I wonder where he's gone? He might have gone to get the others, they might be coming to put me down again. I should be running. But I'm not. I lie still and stare, wide-eyed, right into the rising sun. I don't know how long I lie there, tracking the stars progress across clear blue sky. I hear fingers fumble at the door and my training tries to kick me into action. Be awake. Be aware. Be armed. But I can't tear my aching eyes away from the brightness. Let them come.
Duo Maxwell steps between me and the sun, forcing me to blink away vivid spots of orange and red. He places a tray of food on the floor, the compassion is back in his eyes. I feel a wave of premonition. I know what's coming next.
"..What happened in the basement?" There it is. I'm surprised he managed to hold back that long. His curiosity is a killer. He's asking the wrong questions though, I can't answer that question because I don't know what happened down there. That's the whole point. You don't know if it's real or fake, you don't know what demons are down there or what they will do. You don't know why they hurt you, but they do. I don't know why they hurt me.
"..Why are you afraid?" I laugh at that one. Short and quickly stifled but I know he hears the edge of mania. The start of the laugh I laughed in my mobile suit as I cut down so many people. If I hadn't laughed, I'd have cried and then I would have been the one cut down. There are so many answers to his question, so many accusations and confessions and emotions, all trying to get out at once. As they surge forward they get caught in my throat, strangling me. I look back at him in silence and see his forehead crease in disappointment. He brushes the hair from my face in that well known expression of comfort and whispers that he's sorry and he hopes I will tell him when I'm ready. Then he gets dressed and leaves me be.
I resent him for making it sound so easy. How would I start that conversation? I can't even begin in my head. I want him to know, want him to know what they did to me and why it hurt so much. I want him to feel pain. I want him to know that they are guilty. On the night that we had first made love Duo told me that if I couldn't tell him how I felt, I should show him. The advice proved most useful then. I think it should apply now.
In the attic there is a box marked "Confidential", marked "Private". It is a large box, reaching to the waist of most people and just as wide. The contents have been seen by only two people; Dr. J, who created them, and Lady Une, who packed them away. The box has been sitting in the attic for two years, a thick, uniform layer of dust attests to the fact that it has never been touched in this time. The polished surface of the knife in my hand is dull in the gloom cast by the solitary light bulb hanging from the rafters. With nervous anticipation I plunge the knife through the cardboard and slowly cut it open. Dirt clings to me as I pull back the lid. The contents seem innocent enough. Sheaves of paper, rows of vid-disks, all carefully wrapped in plastic sheets to prevent damage and damp. These print-offs, scribbled notes, photographs, audiotapes and moving pictures document my tutelage beneath the good doctor. The organisation known as "Preventers" raided his laboratory; they found him rotting in his office. Lady Une had personally inventoried any piece of evidence pertaining to "01" and had forwarded what she found to its rightful owner. That would be me. I had accepted gruffly, ordered the box to be taken to the attic, remarked that the world must indeed be safe if the leader of its battle arm was pushing paperwork. As I pull out a pile of photographs I realise why the Lady had been so discrete. I hastily place them back in the box, fighting a wave of revulsion. I have to force myself to delve into the contents again.
I pick up a row of vid-disks, close the dreaded box and make my way back to my room. To my laptop. I spread the disks out across the desk, my left hand hovers above them, unsure of which to choose. Every disk is labelled "01", all but one. Towards the left hand side of the spread is a disk labelled with not two, but three numbers. "101". I look away as I remember the small brass plaque, bearing those three innocuous digits, which adorned the door to the basement. I look back and the number stares right back at me, printed in J's unmistakable handwriting. For some reason I'm not happy that I've found what I'm looking for.
I slide it into the laptop and press play, all the while feeling like I am being herded towards that dreaded door. The screen flickers to life and I manage to watch long enough to see a much younger version of myself thrown down a metal staircase, into darkness. With a whimper I hit stop. The force of the blow causes the image to waver but it does not end. The image switches to infrared and I see my counterpart beating against the door, see a hint of movement in the bottom left-hand corner of the screen. The monsters waiting for me. Frantically I hit eject and the image cuts to black. The shaking is back. Oh God. My rational mind dissolves; I don't know what takes control.
I find myself in the kitchen. Crouching on the floor and fumbling in the concealed alcove of a cupboard. I find the bottle hidden there and sink back on my heels. I throw the vid-disk, still in my trembling left hand, onto the counter and concentrate my efforts on opening the bottle. I can feel eyes on me but hell if I care. I want to drown. Drown everything. I tip back my head, straighten my throat to make a clear passage and upend the bottle. The burning fluid pours into me, faster than I can swallow. I start to choke and almost smile. I try to breathe and the alcohol fills my lungs. I am drowning on dry land. A hand grabs for the bottle, upsetting my aim and stinging liquid splashes into my open eyes, blinding me. There is shouting and confusion. A strong hand catches my broken arm and more pain rips through me. I don't know why they hurt me, but they do. I start to fight, throwing back my good elbow, feeling it connect with something, feeling that something break. I hurt them back.
All I can see is blurs and shadows and streaks of flesh coloured light. The fight goes on and I stumble, losing ground. I turn and see a great maw of darkness in front of me. I am pushed towards it. I lose my footing and for a moment I am weightless, falling. I realise what is happening. Remember that I am not in training. J is dead, long dead and still I cower from his shadow. This is the life of peace I fought for. I truly am a fool; I deserve everything they give me. Gravity is pulling me down. I'm still afraid. Then my head hits the concrete with a sickening thud.
I think no more.
Fin?
If you're over 18 and not easily fazed, go and view Heero's demons:
www. duoxheero .com /pictures/naomi/insurrection.jpg