Bad things III
Title: Sins of the Father
Genre: Sci-Fi / Drama
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Unpleasant themes, death
Summary: From Seigfried Sassoon's Survivors
"Men who went out to battle, grim and glad;
Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad. "
Wayne knew, as he stood over the other man, what he was feeling. He knew the taste of sweat and chemical residues woven into the cloth of the black bag, he knew the uncomfortable claustrophobia of the drawstring tightened around the neck. The thick coils of rope entwined around his wrists, binding his hands behind him and to the brace of the hard metal chair. He knew the feelings, the carefully coordinated vulnerability, how to pull every inch of the rope so that it forced the subjects hands into just the right position, just enough discomfort that it was impossible to relax. Of course he knew it, they were his techniques, he’d been conducting them for years. The family business of protecting the status quo. The family business of ways and means.
It was easier like this, before the bag came off. Just another threat to his security, just another dissident who’d gotten out of his depth and gotten caught. This was no naive little boy testing his limits, not even a harmless practitioner keeping his head down, this man had made an undeniable attack on the state and he had to be dealt with before he escaped back into the ether. He’d infiltrated and overcome one of their best agents and Wayne had to deal with this as a professional, not as a father.
The only problem was that as he tore the bag away from the subjects head, he did still look so very much like his son. The same dusty blonde hair, now messy and stuck up at odd angles where the fabric of the bag dragged it up, those familiar, usually piercing blue eyes now looking up at him as if through a haze of confusion. The curve of his sons jaw, rough with a speckling of stubble and tilted back ever so slightly to peer at him, as though trying to see right through him. It wasn’t his boy.
The thing, the infiltrator, the impostor blinked slowly, letting his blonde lashes fan down to brush against the top of his cheek ever so lightly, before looking back up at Wayne. There was no familiarity, no recognition in his eyes. That made it easier, his son would have known him immediately, his son wouldn’t have ever looked so unkempt, he would have kept shaving even if his situation had become suddenly drastic. Wayne’s son would never look at him with that confused, almost gentle expression on his face.
“Who are you?”
There was the imperative, find out who or what it is, find out who sent it, then cleanse it and track down it’s master. Simple, the same rules for all of them, the fact that this one had somehow gotten inside his genetic legacy was immaterial. Through procedure we are set free.
For a long minute, the impostor stared at Wayne, its expression still confused. As though it could actually not know what was going on here, why it had been brought in. It mumbled something about being lost, and Wayne’s stomach twisted with anger, this was not an accident, this thing had not just wandered into his son’s body by mistake, this was a deliberate and malicious attempt on the status quo. He drew his hand back and struck out hard, sending the things head snapping back in the chair.
When Wayne noticed the blood smeared across his knuckles, he felt justified.
“Who are you?”
A small current of pride ran through him, knowing that he’d managed to keep his voice in check. He hadn’t even sounded concerned as the impostor wearing his sons skin coughed up a little and spat, a thick red gobbet of blood and saliva onto the cement floor.
Who are you?
Hands bound to the chair behind it, brimming with that carefully coordinated vulnerability, in just the right amount of discomfort, the impostor gave his son’s name.
It wasn’t his son of course. His son would never have cried out like the impostor did when Wayne slammed his knee into the pit of the man’s stomach. When he fisted his hand in that dusty blonde hair and wrenched that head back to spit the words right in the impostors face, his son would have just kept silent and glared. His son would have been a professional, like he was being.
His son wouldn’t have kept insisting he was someone he wasn’t. His son wouldn’t have started screaming back, answered every question with one of his own, his son wouldn’t have lost his cool. His son would never have gotten to him like this. If it had been his son then Wayne would never have had to press the barrel of the gun to his forehead. He never would have had to question who it was staring at him from behind those blue eyes.
If it had really been his son, it would never have gotten to the point of him screaming that the impostor was not his only child.
His son would have gotten quiet then, his son would have found a weakness and exploited it to get out, to force Wayne to rethink himself, to re-think what he was doing to the man he had bound to the chair before him.
The impostor only stared at him, before closing his eyes and leaning in to the barrel of the gun. His lips barely moved as he spoke, and Wayne Dolan Oak watched as his son’s face creased with the impostor’s thoughts, the thing in the body of his son who claimed to be his son who didn’t even know his fathers face. His son would have admitted it was a lie. His son would never have been so stupid.
If there was any chance that the young man with the dusty blonde hair and the cornflower blue eyes was any kind of son to him at all, his last words would never have been,
“You abandoned all your sons to build this hell.”
And then, Wayne would never have had to pull the trigger.
Genre: Sci-Fi / Drama
Rating: Teen
Warnings: Unpleasant themes, death
Summary: From Seigfried Sassoon's Survivors
"Men who went out to battle, grim and glad;
Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad. "
Wayne knew, as he stood over the other man, what he was feeling. He knew the taste of sweat and chemical residues woven into the cloth of the black bag, he knew the uncomfortable claustrophobia of the drawstring tightened around the neck. The thick coils of rope entwined around his wrists, binding his hands behind him and to the brace of the hard metal chair. He knew the feelings, the carefully coordinated vulnerability, how to pull every inch of the rope so that it forced the subjects hands into just the right position, just enough discomfort that it was impossible to relax. Of course he knew it, they were his techniques, he’d been conducting them for years. The family business of protecting the status quo. The family business of ways and means.
It was easier like this, before the bag came off. Just another threat to his security, just another dissident who’d gotten out of his depth and gotten caught. This was no naive little boy testing his limits, not even a harmless practitioner keeping his head down, this man had made an undeniable attack on the state and he had to be dealt with before he escaped back into the ether. He’d infiltrated and overcome one of their best agents and Wayne had to deal with this as a professional, not as a father.
The only problem was that as he tore the bag away from the subjects head, he did still look so very much like his son. The same dusty blonde hair, now messy and stuck up at odd angles where the fabric of the bag dragged it up, those familiar, usually piercing blue eyes now looking up at him as if through a haze of confusion. The curve of his sons jaw, rough with a speckling of stubble and tilted back ever so slightly to peer at him, as though trying to see right through him. It wasn’t his boy.
The thing, the infiltrator, the impostor blinked slowly, letting his blonde lashes fan down to brush against the top of his cheek ever so lightly, before looking back up at Wayne. There was no familiarity, no recognition in his eyes. That made it easier, his son would have known him immediately, his son wouldn’t have ever looked so unkempt, he would have kept shaving even if his situation had become suddenly drastic. Wayne’s son would never look at him with that confused, almost gentle expression on his face.
“Who are you?”
There was the imperative, find out who or what it is, find out who sent it, then cleanse it and track down it’s master. Simple, the same rules for all of them, the fact that this one had somehow gotten inside his genetic legacy was immaterial. Through procedure we are set free.
For a long minute, the impostor stared at Wayne, its expression still confused. As though it could actually not know what was going on here, why it had been brought in. It mumbled something about being lost, and Wayne’s stomach twisted with anger, this was not an accident, this thing had not just wandered into his son’s body by mistake, this was a deliberate and malicious attempt on the status quo. He drew his hand back and struck out hard, sending the things head snapping back in the chair.
When Wayne noticed the blood smeared across his knuckles, he felt justified.
“Who are you?”
A small current of pride ran through him, knowing that he’d managed to keep his voice in check. He hadn’t even sounded concerned as the impostor wearing his sons skin coughed up a little and spat, a thick red gobbet of blood and saliva onto the cement floor.
Who are you?
Hands bound to the chair behind it, brimming with that carefully coordinated vulnerability, in just the right amount of discomfort, the impostor gave his son’s name.
It wasn’t his son of course. His son would never have cried out like the impostor did when Wayne slammed his knee into the pit of the man’s stomach. When he fisted his hand in that dusty blonde hair and wrenched that head back to spit the words right in the impostors face, his son would have just kept silent and glared. His son would have been a professional, like he was being.
His son wouldn’t have kept insisting he was someone he wasn’t. His son wouldn’t have started screaming back, answered every question with one of his own, his son wouldn’t have lost his cool. His son would never have gotten to him like this. If it had been his son then Wayne would never have had to press the barrel of the gun to his forehead. He never would have had to question who it was staring at him from behind those blue eyes.
If it had really been his son, it would never have gotten to the point of him screaming that the impostor was not his only child.
His son would have gotten quiet then, his son would have found a weakness and exploited it to get out, to force Wayne to rethink himself, to re-think what he was doing to the man he had bound to the chair before him.
The impostor only stared at him, before closing his eyes and leaning in to the barrel of the gun. His lips barely moved as he spoke, and Wayne Dolan Oak watched as his son’s face creased with the impostor’s thoughts, the thing in the body of his son who claimed to be his son who didn’t even know his fathers face. His son would have admitted it was a lie. His son would never have been so stupid.
If there was any chance that the young man with the dusty blonde hair and the cornflower blue eyes was any kind of son to him at all, his last words would never have been,
“You abandoned all your sons to build this hell.”
And then, Wayne would never have had to pull the trigger.