Quicksand

(Some more explicit stuff, but it's like... most of the chapter, so I don't know what to tell you if you're skipping that. Heh... Anyway, enjoy!)

Chapter 11: Evanescent

"Get changed."

It felt wrong to be relieved upon receiving that order, but that was what Miles felt. At least this was familiar; at least he knew how this game worked. The conversations… the mind games… he could never prepare for or predict. There was some kind of sick comfort in this familiarity.

Miles moved to sit on the floor, taking the weight off of his bruised knees for just a few moments. He undid the clasp of his belt and began the process of removing his remaining clothing, folding each article neatly and arranging them into a small pile. He handed these off to Manfred and received in turn the attire he was to wear during these sessions. Slowly, mechanically, he pulled on the tall, leather stockings and the long leather armbands, keeping his gaze on the carpet. Of course he still had the collar on; he never removed that.

With this change of attire completed, Miles returned to a kneeling position and waited. He had almost forgotten the presence of the camera, but now that he was exposed, he became more aware of it. He refused to look in that direction, trying not to think about the fact that this was all being recorded and would be preserved, possibly forever.

Nothing was said as the older man stood before the younger, simply undoing the clasp of his belt and unzipping his suit pants enough to free himself. By this point, Miles needed no command or persuasion to do what he was expected to do. The eighteen-year-old simply leaned forward and obediently took the older man into his mouth. He still hated this, but it had almost become automatic after the past two years. He knew how to satisfy his master and avoid making this worse for himself; the nausea didn't really even get to him anymore. He'd become almost numb, to this part at least.

Manfred was silent throughout the process; he was always silent. It was all but impossible to tell whether or not he enjoyed this at all. The only way Miles could tell was by the amount of violence against him. If there was little pain, he knew he was doing what was expected of him.

Unlike the first film, Miles put up no resistance. Thus, he was not forced into any painful and restraining positions, although the older man was still not exactly gentle about this. By the time Manfred withdrew and covered himself once more, Miles was still left gasping slightly for air, choking a couple of times on lingering sobs. He was hoping this would be routine and that the next part wouldn't be so bad. Somehow… he knew it was false hope…

"Get on the couch." Manfred had walked back over to his desk, his back to Miles as he spoke. The teen didn't question this – of course – and moved to the couch to climb upon it. "Lie down," was the order he received upon doing so, and he obeyed this as well. It was a very soft and comfortable piece of furniture, but Miles hated it, especially when he felt that material against his bare skin. He lay there, still and silent, and watched as Manfred used a set of keys he had retrieved to unlock one of the display cases lining the walls of his study. This particular one contained an assortment of old hunting rifles and a few other varieties of firearm. As far as the teen knew, they were all just decoration and hadn't been used – if ever – in a very long time.

When Manfred finally turned around, he was holding a handgun, the smallest weapon contained within the display case. "Now, boy, can you tell me what this is?" he asked, walking slowly toward the young man.

"…A gun… Master…" Miles replied, his anxiety building. Why did he have a gun? Why was he advancing on him with it? Was… this some kind of threat…?

"Astutely observed," Manfred stated, holding the weapon so that it pointed harmlessly toward the floor while his other hand moved over the top of it. "It is not quite as old as many of the other weapons I have in my possession, but by today's standards, it is obsolete. It was – however – considered standard-issue among law enforcement in many parts of the United States about nine years ago…"

Miles felt his chest tighten up, and he couldn't help but look away.

"Look at me when I'm speaking to you, boy," Manfred scolded, sounding just a little more harsh than he had earlier. Miles reluctantly complied, and when he did so, Manfred continued. "I assume you've guessed already? This is the exact model that took your father's life, Miles. Does it look familiar to you?"

Miles just stared up at the older man and the gun he was holding, feeling the beginnings of more tears. He couldn't answer, for this sight was frightening him, and yet another mention of his past was more than just bothering him.

"No?" Manfred asked, taking another few steps closer. "Well… I suppose it was quite dark… Perhaps it would… feel familiar." He now stood over the young man and lowered the weapon toward him. "Take it," he ordered, and he watched as Miles struggled with himself.

Shaky hands closed around the gun and took it from its owner's hand. Miles hated the feel of this thing; he hated guns in general, and he certainly didn't want to be holding one… especially one that exactly resembled the gun that had taken his father from him. No, this gun didn't actually feel familiar, for he'd not really stopped to examine that back in the elevator. He'd just… picked it up and thrown it… It had only been in his small hand for a brief moment. Still, just the knowledge that he'd once held and accidentally killed with a gun just like this was enough to drag up a vivid memory, to make him tremble and want so badly for this weapon to leave his grasp.

"The gun is loaded, Miles," he heard Manfred say above him, bringing him out of the fog in his own head. "What will you do with it?"

Miles grimaced, closing his eyes and turning his face away. "…Nothing, Master…"he whispered.

"And why is that?" the prosecutor pressed, obviously enjoying the torment he was creating with such simple yet well-placed actions and words.

"I… dislike guns… Master…" the young man whispered in return.

A low, amused laugh escaped Manfred's lips and he slowly moved away from the couch, back toward his desk. He stopped when he reached it, leaned upon it, and gazed back over at his ward. "That is your only reason, is it?" he inquired, folding his arms over his chest and watching Miles with a keen stare. "Was your dislike of guns not so prominent, what would you do with it? Would you shoot me, Miles? You seem to have so much resentment pent up inside… so much anger that you long – but have too much fear – to release."

"No, Master…"

"What about her?" the older man asked next, looking over toward the woman standing silently behind her video equipment. "I can see that you find being filmed quite humiliating, and she could be an easy substitute for the true object of your hatred. Or perhaps you could simply destroy the camera; that would erase the record of this evening without committing anything more than a civil offense."

Miles' grip on the gun was tightening, but only because these words were creating a boiling tension within him as if… as if he was… being tempted. "…No, Master…."

"Hm…." Manfred made a show of looking thoughtful, but the smirk couldn't be entirely hidden. "Then… would you turn it on yourself?"

Miles flinched.

"It would be a much more full-proof way to ensure your 'escape', would it not?" the German man continued, watching with satisfaction as the proverbial needle sank in. "Your pain, your humiliation, and your overwhelming guilt would all come to an abrupt end. If you act quickly enough, neither of us could reach you in time to stop you."

Miles couldn't speak, couldn't respond. His heart was suddenly pounding in his ears as he stared at the gun. Manfred was right… It would… be so easy… quick and probably painless… He could escape, despite his earlier thoughts about atonement and the need to continue suffering.

But why…? Why was Manfred apparently trying to convince him to use this gun...? He knew this man fed on his fear, but his words were true: Miles could simply point the gun at himself and pull the trigger, and while he would be free, it would open up a massive can of worms for the other two in the room. It would be on tape, in Manfred's study, with a gun that only Manfred held the key to unlock, not to mention the current state of the teen himself.

Miles jumped in surprise when he felt a larger hand close around one of his that held the gun. He'd been so distracted by his mental panic that he hadn't even realized he'd been approached. Manfred guided the teen's hand upward, and Miles gasped when he felt the metal bump up against his lips.

"Open your mouth," the prosecutor ordered, and out of habit, Miles complied. The gun was pushed forward, the muzzle sliding between the young man's lips.

All he could taste now were polished metal and gunpowder. Miles stared up at his tormentor with nothing but pure horror in his wide gray eyes. Manfred released his grip on the gun, leaving Miles to just hold it there, leaving him in this suicidal position.

…Was he about to die…? The day he'd jumped into the river, Miles hadn't really been thinking clearly. He'd not really thought about death itself save for its power to take him away from harm. Now, things were moving much more slowly, giving him time to dwell on every event, every thought, every possibility, and now he was terrified. Was he going to be forced to pull the trigger? Was he going to be forced to end his own life…? He'd never once thought that Manfred would kill him; the prosecutor wouldn't dirty his hands with something like that, surely.

But this way… he wouldn't have to… It would be a suicide, and if they just… destroyed the tape, there would be few reasons to believe otherwise. But then… why tape it in the first place…?

"...It is both amusing… and pitiful." Manfred was simply standing over him, taking in the fear, something that satisfied him just as much as – if not more than – physically taking advantage of the young man before him. "Manipulating you is… almost too easy, Miles Edgeworth. I could tell you to pull the trigger right now…. And I doubt you could disobey me."

Was that true…? Could he bring himself to disobey….? Could he bring himself to pull the trigger…? Was… he really going to have to choose between such a horrible option… and a worse one…?

"Of course… I'm responsible for it, aren't I?" Manfred continued. "You have indeed become perfectly obedient, just the way I have desired it. Yet somehow… I am not entirely pleased. Sometimes… I miss the fight I was so determined to be rid of within you."

A heavy silence lingered, and then Miles felt a light tug on the gun.

"No mater…" Manfred said as he drew the weapon away from his toy. "I suppose I'll get over it. After all… I cannot be angry with you for learning your lessons, now can I?"

Relief. An overwhelming, almost crippling relief spread through Miles entire being. A particularly violent sob shook him and he buried his face in his arms, weeping beneath the lingering weight of what had just happened, what he feared could've happened. As sure as he'd been about wanting to die just over a week ago, that had been one of the most terrifying experiences he'd ever had. Now, the gun was being put back in its place and locked away, where it could neither harm, tempt, nor frighten him.

He was still trying to recover from such an immense scare when he felt Manfred pick him up from the couch, causing him to gasp slightly in surprise. Before he could really react beyond this or register what was happening, he'd been placed upon the cold, hard surface of the desk. He knew now what was coming next, for it was only here that he was taken. Never anywhere else, not even on the couch. It was always this desk. Other things were done to him elsewhere, but not this.

No words were spoken, but with a certain guiding push, Miles knew that he was to lie down on his back this time, which he did. He was hoping he'd be taken face-down so that he might at least be able to hide his tears and shame, but it seemed that Manfred had thought of this as well. Miles' arms were pulled up over his head and his wrists were bound with a length of latex tether, and though he was able to move his arms still, this was just a reminder that he was to stay still.

There were only a few more moments of preparation before Manfred was looming over Miles once more. The young man's legs were lifted apart, and then he was breeched. Miles' reaction was a sharp hiss, teeth gritted against the sensation and eyes closed.

This had happened so many times that the beginning no longer really hurt. In fact, while the movements were slow, his body betrayed him. Whether or not it was better for him emotionally to feel this instead of the pain was still a question to him, but in the heat of the moment, his thoughts had no baring. Small, quiet moans would rise in his throat despite his efforts to hold them back, and he knew that Manfred enjoyed seeing such a struggle. Yes, he preferred to see the pain he could cause, but watching Miles unwillingly enjoy this for at least a few moments was just… priceless.

As always, Miles tried to ignore the feeling of another man moving in and out of him, but – just as usual – it didn't work. He couldn't ignore it; it overwhelmed him, and as those movements became faster and more power was put behind them, the pain set in. He hated the pain as well, but at least he was no longer moaning in pleasure beneath this humiliation. When faced with the choice, he had to say that he preferred the pain here.

Those quiet moans were now small hisses, gasps, and soft cries of pain as what Miles had come to know as gentleness left this act. The thrusts of the older man's hips were sharp and calculated, steadily growing more violent, as he intended to finally obtain a release after all the time he'd spent feeding his sadism.

Not until the very end, when he was being pounded mercilessly, did Miles begin to protest this going on any longer. He always tried to keep quiet and be a 'good little pet', but there was just a certain point at which he couldn't hold it in any longer. "N-no… Please, stop! A-ah… Master… please…!"

And yet there was a reason Miles was never scolded for this. His begging and pleading was often what drove the older man over the edge. He pushed in deep and released, even then completely silent while Miles gave a groan of physical and emotional anguish. This was always another moment of mixed feelings: relief that it was over, but a sense of drowning in shame, a loathing and disgust at that warmth that spread through his midsection.

Manfred stepped away and concealed himself again, only having to refasten his pants and belt to accomplish this, for – once again – he never removed a single article of clothing for this. He left Miles lying there on the desk, still save for his trembling and the occasional jolt created by his sobs. On camera, the focus was on the explicit sight between his legs, the liquid that dripped from him. There wasn't really any blood this time around, just another mark of his body's conditioning and heightened threshold for abuse.

This was the point at which Miles expected it all to be over. Normally, he'd simply be ordered to get dressed and leave, or he'd be given some kind of speech first depending on what had happened to get him here, or rather, what Manfred was blaming it on. He was sure something would be said this time; a lot of talking and emotional torment had taken place. Why stop now?

"You think I'm finished with you… don't you, boy?"

Miles' breath hitched in his throat when he heard this, and that was followed by a small whimper of fear. "Master… please… I –"

"Silence." Manfred no longer had to shout to get Miles to instantly obey, even in his most desperate moods. He fell silent, lying there panting and awaiting what was in store for him next.

"I informed you that I would be putting more focus toward the means of achieving success as opposed to the emphasis on what will happen should you fail," came Manfred's almost business-like tone, his back to the young man waiting on pins and needles for whatever was coming. "However…" Manfred turned around, a riding crop in his hand once more. "That does not mean failure will go unpunished. You knew better than to disobey me and throw yourself into the Kyll, and yet… you did it anyway. You intended to lay to waste all of the efforts I've put into raising and teaching you… Once again, a blatant show of ingratitude."

He was going to be whipped again? He hated this, of course, but at least it was something he knew, could predict and anticipate. He had feared something worse, something that would torment his mind and…

Why hadn't he been hit yet? Miles had closed his eyes to brace himself, and he was considering opening them again before he felt a hand against his hip. He flinched and squeezed his eyes shut tighter as he was pushed onto his side. It was at this point that he expected the beating to begin, but it was a different sensation that caused such a cry of anguish to rise from within him.

The leather grip of the crop was inside of him. A white-hot flash of pain surged through his body and he was almost certain he'd pass out right then and there. But no… that would've been a mercy. He could feel that unforgiving leather moving inward, beginning the process of tearing him apart. His bound hands formed fists, every muscle tense.

"N-no…! Oh, God… please… stop… Master… please…." His words were cut off as he gave another cry at the feel of that handle being pulled out slightly. There was no need for Manfred to order him to stop speaking; the agony did that just fine.

This was not the first time he'd been violated with some sort of foreign object, but in this moment, Miles decided that this was the worst experience he'd ever had. The blood didn't take long to spill, and the tears didn't take long to overcome him completely. His pleading was unintelligible, for he simply couldn't speak properly through all of this, couldn't think straight.

He was going to die… This was certainly going to kill him… It wasn't the first time he'd thought it that night, and just like the first time, he was terrified. At least when he was threatened with the gun, it hadn't hurt, probably wouldn't have hurt for very long if he'd pulled the trigger. This… was pure torture… How long would it take him to bleed to death…? How long would he have to lie here awake and endure this before his brain finally overloaded and rendered him unconscious… spared him…?

He was barely even aware when it was over. However, by this point, the fear of death had transformed back into the want for death. No one should have to hurt this badly – physically or emotionally – and live to tell about it. He was shaking badly when he felt a pressure on his shoulder and heard that sinister voice in his ear.

"I certainly hope this will be the last time I'll have to teach you this lesson…?"

"Please… Kill me…." Never had his pleading words consisted of these before, but today, it was all truly too much. His lips barely moved from weakness and exhaustion as he whispered his desperate request, his voice only just picked up by the camera still filming every second of this horror. "…I'm so tired… please… Master… let me go…."

Laughter. God, how horrible it sounded! It seemed to surround, envelop him, echo over and over as the loudest thing in his mind, when in reality, it was just a soft, dark chuckle.

"Kill you? I didn't spend all this time here tonight just to let you off so easily…"

Miles could feel the rush of air as Manfred moved away from him, stepping back from the desk to move about the office a bit before turning to just look upon the broken young man lying at the center of attention.

"Look at you… Pathetic. I wonder…" A smirk rested upon his lips as he leaned down just a little, to emphasize his words to Miles.

"…What would your father think of you now…?"

This was the point at which everything around him faded to leave only his heartbeat and his ragged, uneven breathing… and his shame. Miles hardly remembered the rest of the night, and the only reason he was somewhat aware of what had happened after this was because Amelinda had brought it up to him the day after. In his mind, he'd fallen from the world around him into a sea of blackness, hearing only whispers of voices from the outside, voices he couldn't understand.

"Ach… Herr von Karma… Look at this…"

On film, something strange was happening. The image of the poor teen was being intermittently obscured by strange prismatic colors and static lines. The audio was also being distorted slightly, but Manfred could be seen walking toward the camera and disappearing behind it to observe what had seemed to puzzle Amelinda.

"…Did this just start?"

"Ja. It's never done that before… Did something just turn on that would mess with it…?"

"Nein. Perhaps it is overheating, though I've never heard of that happening before... No matter. We're done here."

There was a sudden spike of interference again, and this time, the screen went dark for a moment before the picture returned. There was a shriek from the woman filming, something she apparently hadn't felt the need to filter like she did her spoken words. "What the hell is that! What happened to the lights?"

There was no response from the man standing beside her.

"I'm getting the hell out of here! You pissed off something!" The sound of quick footsteps and then the opening and slamming of the study door signaled someone's exit. Silence fell for a moment, save for the continued electrical or magnetic interference that was causing the picture and sound to behave so strangely, as if the recording was corrupted or damaged.

Then, unmistakably and on film, it became clear why this was so important. There was always a decorative throw blanket draped over the back of the couch in that study, but that night, it had been moved. It rose into the air like some sort of magic carpet, carried on a non-existent breeze over to the desk, and fluttered down to cover the young man lying there. It hid him from view, wrapped around his exposed and battered body to protect and warm him.

Then the bonds fell away. The tie on Miles' wrists unwound itself and fell to the floor, and the young man – in his unconscious state – drew his arms to himself, curling up further into the small, thin blanket, the best comfort he had and would ever have in this room.

Simple, seemingly insignificant actions from an unseen individual, but in reality, it was the best a desperate parent could do for their suffering child from beyond the grave.

Perhaps, had it not been for her experience in the field of criminal law, her steel nerve, Franziska wouldn't have made it to the end of that film.

And even though she'd watched it all the way through, she had all but missed the most important part thanks to the tears that clouded her vision. She'd been crying since before the halfway point, and she couldn't stop. How could somebody be so cruel…. And how could that somebody be her own father…?

The prosecutor shut off the video – which was now just an idling black screen – and ejected the memory card. She threw it aside furiously and stood up, moving toward the bathroom to uselessly dab at her eyes with tissues. Poor… poor Miles… How on earth had he managed to put any of that behind him? How had he buried nine years of that away and hidden it completely from the world? How was it that he wasn't more disturbed…?

And in the midst of all of that, she could hardly even think about what she'd been watching that horrid scene for in the first place. Sure… that could've been doctored, and most would probably claim that it was somehow heavily edited, but why…? What would be the purpose for going through all that trouble just to prove to someone in the future that ghosts existed? She couldn't create the motive in her head no matter what avenue she tried to explore. It all led her to one conclusion.

….That had actually happened…

Slowly, mechanically, Franziska made her way upstairs and carefully opened the door to the bedroom she and Miles were sharing. Tearful eyes met tearful eyes, and she knew right then that his dreams had not been kind to him. She came to his side and lay down, burying her face in his chest, feeling his arms around her.

"I'm s-so sorry…" she sobbed, clinging to him tightly. "Oh god… Miles… h-how did you ever…?"

"…I did what I had to… in order to survive…"