NaNo '05 - Shedding Skins (Chapter 2.1)
Shedding Skins
Chapter Two
- Of Greed and Fortitude -
He's back where he started, with nothing to live for, no reason to keep going. Last time he clang to the idea of making himself a normal life somewhere, now he no longer has that illusion. Instead he clings to the image of the Operative they sent after him, that pretty youth that is so much more talented than he ever was, and he truly hopes that he survived, for more reasons than he would care to admit.
And so this becomes his new reason to go on. To find out about this "new school" of Operatives, about the person that was once behind the pretty face, about his own origins maybe, as well. He knows that latter reason does not stand, that he shouldn't let it, but he can't help himself. He thinks of the great literary works he knows, of philosophy and psychology, and how it's only human to want to know where you come from.
Only human. Ironic.
The first step is to acquire a new identity. For that he heads to Persephone and rents out a room in a cheap hotel. He's let his beard grow, and now he finds a lovely young girl to braid his hair into cornrows, and shaves his beard so that the shortly-trimmed hairs form waves on his cheeks, the latest fashion in eminent circles. He chooses a name, too, Jeziah Lowe, and purchases the necessary ID creds. Spends half a day going over this new persona he is pulling over himself, and does not pause to wonder if Wat made it through the night, how Lily is doing, how much anger Geoff still harbours. Jeziah Lowe is a new act, after Hazael Brown, nothing more, nothing less.
A new, classier act, one that he will not let himself mistake for his true self for one second, because he has no true self outside of the personas he slides into, no true self outside of being an Operative. Just because he isn't theirs anymore doesn't mean he's any less of an Operative, and he should not have let himself forget that.
Jeziah Lowe was born on Silverhold to wealthy parents, and is idling away until his father dies and he inherits the family mining company. He was raised in high society, knows it and acts it. There is no love in him for the smaller folk, only the knowledge of his certain superiority.
And Jeziah Lowe buys first-class passage for Londinum on a big liner, because he has never been to Londinum yet and he has heard the best of society keeps there. He is to meet some associates of his father, but could not be bothered to pretend that is more than an excuse for the trip. Jeziah Lowe doesn't bother with pretences; he's far above that.
Before he leaves Jeziah Lowe mingles in the highest circles of Persephonian society, a test. His manners are conceited enough for him to be accepted by his equals without question, not that he would take any. He gets on remarkably well with one Atherton Wing, with whom he has a lot in common, it seems, including a passion for blades. They spar a few times; Atherton is an excellent swordsman, and Jeziah holds back. When he goes Atherton offers him one of his best bottles of wine, and Jeziah assures him he will call on him when he next comes to Persephone.
The liner is an impressive ship, longer than it is high, higher than it is wide, her clear-cut shape softened by rounded angles. As one of the elite, Jeziah attends a small gathering prior to departure, so that the first class travellers may make each other's acquaintance and be properly welcomed aboard by the captain of the Lennox.
Jeziah arrives fashionably early, as is the custom these days, dressed in his best clothes. Straight black slacks, and a beige tunic of silk that reaches to his mid-thigh. Golden thread has been woven into the edges of the sleeves and the high Mao collar. It looks crisp and expensive, as if it cost him a small fortune, and it would have if the silk were as genuine as it looks.
A butler introduces him to the party. A discreet look at the butler's book informs him that two dozens of guests are expected; about ten seem to be there already. There are already three small clusters of people, and before he can make up his mind on which to join a small, white-bearded man in a formal navy blue suit comes forward to greet him.
"Mr. Lowe, I'm Captain Collins, it'll be a pleasure to have you aboard."
"Thank you, Captain," he replies smoothly. "I have no doubt the pleasure will be mine also. Your ship seems... adequate."
A shadow passes on the captain's face, but is immediately overwritten by the usual fake expression of politeness. "I understand you are from Silverhold, Mr. Lowe. A happy coincidence, for we have a young lady here that comes from the very same world. Not quite the same region as you, however, if I understood correctly." The old man has steered him to one of the circles, and now gestures at a young lady in a blue sequined dress as he makes the introduction. She has a lovely, heart-shaped face, and a smile entirely too sweet to be real, not if she has been out in the world already. "Mr. Lowe, this is Miss Paquin. Miss Paquin, Mr. Lowe is the gentleman from Silverhold we were expecting. If you will excuse me..."
"Mr. Lowe," she greets him with a small curtsey, to which he replies with a slight bow. "I hear you're from Aristotle. I am from the South, myself, near Plymouth."
"That will doubtless be why we have never met until this day," he remarks with a fake smile of his own, much less sweet because he's that much of a better actor. He thinks to himself how fortunate it is that he chose a town in the North, but out loud he sounds sorry. "A shame."
She blushes, such an act, and ensues one of the most tedious conversations he has ever had to go through, and he has had to deal with some very tiresome servants of the Alliance over the years. He is saved from utter boredom by a handsome man with striking dark eyes and beautiful features, golden skin and lustrous black hair braided into a single tress down his back. He is dressed in a stylish black suit, a cream-coloured shirt that might appear white at first glance, and an orange silk vest of a paler shade than the scarf knotted around his throat.
"If you will pardon my interruption," he tells Miss Paquin with a smile that makes her blush lightly, and not in pretence, "but I noticed you had not yet drunk." He holds out a flute of champagne for Jeziah. "I do hope white is your favourite, I only had my intuition to guide me in this choice."
Jeziah inclines his head slightly as he takes the glass. "White will do. I'm much obliged, sir."
But inside he is wondering whether this man is a danger. Every move he makes, every tilt of his head and twinkle in his eyes, every twitch of his lips and word he utters seems carefully calculated. He even sounds as if the upper class accent he speaks with is not his natural way of speaking. An Operative is trained to notice such things.
"Call me Caden, please," the man introduces himself smoothly. "Caden Lioness."
"Oh," Miss Paquin gasps, and wonder floods her features. "You're the Companion! I didn't hear your introduction."
Of course, a Companion, this would explain that. Caden Lioness is the second male Companion he meets, and the first one was something already. There is something expected in the fact that a female should be all that a Companion is, but for men to be thus... It proves to be entirely unsettling, and he does not feel any more at ease around this one than he did the previous one.
"It's because I have been here from the start, Miss Paquin, and I have not missed a one," the Companion assures her. "But I was unfortunately tangled up in a conversation, and could not excuse myself to come and welcome you."
"Are you stationed on this ship?" Jeziah asks, out of curiosity.
The Companion smiles at him. "Merely a passenger, like you. I return to the House, and my clients, in Londinum. It's been too long."
"A male Companion," Miss Paquin sighs. "It's so exotic."
"Not so much," Caden answers indulgently. "As long as there have been Companions, both genders were allowed into the Guild, although fewer men seem to hear the calling. It is merely the subject of our clients that used to be... hushed, to some extent."
Jeziah scoffs, and injects scorn into his voice. "That's putting it mildly."
The gaze the Companion levels on him is guarded, maybe a bit surprised. "Would you have a problem with me taking on male clients, Mr. Lowe?"
"Not as long as you keep clear of me," he replies sharply, raises his glass in an ironic salute, and walks away.
There is a short silence, and he hears the Companion's smooth voice reassure Miss Paquin that all is well. All is not well, he thinks, not with a Companion on board. He puts the flute down on a nearby table and goes to pick up another one, just to keep up the act. He has nothing against male Companions taking male clients, no; Jeziah does. And if Jeziah does, it is because it's an easy excuse out of Caden's company.
A Companion is too much of a risk. They are too talented at reading people, and he will not risk it. So he mingles with other people, claiming loud and wide how much he disapproves of this Companion, and quickly susses out who shares Jeziah's views, which company to keep.
If a part of him is saddened that he must cut himself off from the only company he might have truly enjoyed on the liner, he represses it deep within himself.
For the most part of the journey Jeziah manages to restrain himself to the company of those he wishes. He will not gamble with them at the casino, pretending horrid bad luck last time he indulged, but there is also the swimming pool, the tanning decks, the lounge, the cortex hubs, the billiards... all of which are reserved for the first class passengers, naturally. The smaller folk have their own, cruder forms of entertainment.
It is the swimming pool he likes best. He's always enjoyed swimming, a simple activity that develops muscles and allows him to clear his mind as he moves in the water. There is something about the environment that helps him blank out his thoughts and let go of everything that burdens him.
He went to Santo once and swam in the fabled Turquoise Sea. Swam far enough that he would be quite alone, alone in the middle of the water, swam so far out that it was an effort to make it back to shore. An effort, a challenge, a revelation. It was just him and the ocean, his burning lungs and straining muscles and his will. Trial by fire. And that is how he made it: by sheer strength of will. Faith can move mountains, they say; he knows that it can at least save a man from otherwise certain death.
He wonders how long before his current state of faithlessness costs him his life.
He is still spacing the shots out as much as he dares, but the nightmares are getting harder and harder. He had forgotten what it was to dream, and the reminder is not an entirely pleasant one. Dreams are not clear enough, they blend together when anything remains at all, and it makes him realise that he is not in control of his own mind. He cherishes each night of dreamless sleep the shots can offer him, and only after those does he feel truly rested.
He is not getting any better at dealing with the seizures. They sneak up on him when he least expects them, and he almost prefers the visions to the fits of trembling. Most of the time the visions are easier to cover up. Almost prefers them, though, because the trembling is easier to deal with. The visions are just inconsiderate dreams that do not care that he is not asleep, they say too much and too little and make even less sense than River Tam's ramblings.
He has taken a shot two days ago; it is much too early to have another injection when they are such a limited supply. But he keeps seeing River everywhere he looks, and sometimes a Reaver is creeping up on her and he doesn't dare warn her, and she keeps telling him something but he can't read her lips and no sound is coming out of her mouth.
Jeziah excuses himself out of the company of his friends and locks himself up in his room. He sits in a lotus position on the bed and attempts meditation. It does nothing for him, because he can still hear River's silence and she dances in front of his closed eyelids. He takes it for about two hours before he decides to head for the swimming pool, a last resort before he injects himself.
The gangways are for the most part desert, as it is the passengers' sleeping shift, and he finds the pool empty, even of River. He quickly strips, steps through the automatic shower that decontaminates him in a heartbeat, slides into the tight black swimming trunks that stop just above his knees, as is the latest fashion, and walks to the edge of the pool.
River is on the other side, paying him absolutely no mind as she crouches and dips her fingers into the water. Then she looks up at him, but before she can speak the words he can never hear he's flexed his legs and pushed off.
He dives into the water, straight and smooth, and focuses on the feel of it sliding across all of himself as he swims with powerful, efficient strokes of his arms and legs. He does his best not to think of the way River is likely to swim, with more grace than anyone else he's ever seen, maybe not as efficient as himself but entirely more breathtaking, and she attains efficacy on another level. He does his best to banish her out of his mind but there is nowhere else for her to go, and he isn't sure whether that is his thought or hers.
When he reaches the other end of the pool there is a shadow standing above the water, and he doesn't want to surface and see her there still. So he flips over, still under water - he has excellent apnoea, of course - and swims back the way he came from, to put as much distance as possible between him and her. As if that mattered in the slightest, because as he nears the end of the pool the shadow is still there.
And, he thinks with a start and a tightening knot of anxiety in his chest, maybe he ought to try and catch her. He never has, because doing so in public would be the most foolish thing to do, because doing so in the privacy of his cabin would have made the outcome of his attempt matter entirely too much. But here, in this empty pool, what does any of it matter?
So when he reaches the end of the pool he kicks upward, stretches out for her immaterial legs and grasps the back of very real knees. But already his own weight is bearing him back down, and on top of him the person - not a figment of his imagination - that he caught, and they splash down hard into the water. His reflex is to help gravity along and swim deeper, if only to avoid the flailing of whoever he dragged down.
He resurfaces a few feet from the other man, and forgets to keep a neutral face for a moment. Good thing Caden is too busy sputtering water out to notice. The Companion runs a hand through his long hair, sleeking it backward, and looks at him curiously.
"I'm well aware you don't like me, but is that any call for such a treatment?"
"I thought you were someone else," Jeziah states after a few seconds.
"Someone female, no doubt," Caden casually replies. "Will you horribly mind if we share the pool, Mr. Lowe? I swear I will keep to the one side. Unless you're expecting some company, I'd hate to be a bother."
Jeziah scowls. "Do as you wish, Companion. I care not."
He feels the weight of Caden's gaze as he swims away, and out of nowhere the Companion laughs. It's a low chuckle and he isn't sure what to read into it. So he dives back down under the surface and swims, only comes back up for a breath every once in a while. But it is pointless; the more he tries, the less he manages. Caden's presence seems to have banished River effectively, but at what price. Even after the Companion climbs out of the swimming pool he remains aware of him, knows exactly where he is and what he is doing.
Caden is sitting at the edge of the pool, feet and calves in the water, swinging them languidly. He knows the rhythm his legs are following, can feel it reverberate within himself. The only thing he doesn't know is whether Caden is sitting upright or has laid down on his back, possibly with his hands crossed under his head.
He moodily hoists himself out of the water, registers the fact that Caden is sitting upright and ignores the way his gaze rests on him, undemanding. Instead he turns his back on the man and heads for the driers.
"Don't leave."
Two words, too quiet to echo in the silent room, not even a "please," and yet he stops, turns his head slightly to the side before remembering who he is, and Jeziah Lowe turns around fully to face the Companion, crossing his arms over his chest.
Jeziah's words are a scornful challenge. "Why not?"
Caden has got to his feet and he marks a temporary pause, frowning slightly. Irritated, confused? Companions are harder to read than most people; they know too much about, have been trained too well in body language.
But he recovers, and his face only shows an open invitation and careful respect as he speaks. "Join me in the sauna." There is a slight twitch to his lips, and amusement makes his dark eyes twinkle. "I'm taking a break from my Companion duties on this journey, Mr. Lowe. You'll be quite safe with me."
And, without waiting for an answer, Caden turns and walks away towards the sauna.
He wonders why he hasn't walked out of the pool already, wonders why he stays rooted to the spot, looking at the Companion's back up until the point when he steps into the sauna. Companions are dangerous creatures, males perhaps even more so than females. And yet there is something so compelling about them, at least about this one, and perhaps that is the danger in point of fact.
Know thy enemy, he thinks, and clings to it as if it truly were a valid reason for following Caden.
He has never liked saunas, but of course Jeziah quite enjoys them. As he walks in Caden is adding stones to the hob and pours some water over them. The hob sizzles and a new fragrance fills the air, something light and refreshing, in direct contradiction to the steamy, oppressive atmosphere. It is oddly pleasing but he does not let his features relax. Caden moves to the wooden benches and sits on the lower one, leaning back with his arm spread along the edge of the upper bench.
"Are you just going to stand there?" he asks, and his tone sounds quite insolent.
After a few more seconds Jeziah moves to the upper bench and sits down, looking warily at the Companion as if he expected some sort of betrayal. Caden seems oblivious to the scrutiny, as he has tilted his head back to rest upon the upper bench and closed his eyes, breathing fully in and out.
"Those are my personal stones," he explains without opening his eyes. "The fragrance is so much better than anything you usually find in public saunas."
"By public I take it you mean, not Companion," Jeziah answers, and starts to relax as he lets the smell pervade him through and through, closes his eyes and thinks of places he's been, like the Turquoise Sea of Santo and the pine forest of Ezra. "It's not an unpleasant smell."
Again comes the low chuckle, and he has to force himself not to tense up. "I'm glad you approve."
Seconds tick away, minutes even, and finally Jeziah asks. "Why invite me to join you?" He opens his eyes and finds that Caden is already looking at him.
The Companion blinks, face flushed from the sauna's heat, skin shining with sweat. "You intrigue me. I intrigue you. I thought it would be mutually beneficial."
Jeziah does tense this time, and frowns, and sits up from his relaxed slouch. "Who do you -"
"Don't bother denying it," the Companion interrupts with a dismissive wave of his hand. "You're as much of a lie as I am. More, maybe, because everybody knows I'm a lie, a fabrication. It's my trade, and why people hire me. You're hiding it."
And as simply as that, Jeziah is gone. There is no more need for Jeziah now, and this is exactly why Companions are dangerous. He stands and steps down from the benches, and he sees Caden tense and sit up straighter when he notices the change. Yes, he remembers Inara Serra's reaction at his arrival, how he did not have to say a word. Caden Lioness is not any less talented.
"Or I could be reading too much into things," the Companion suggests as calmly as he can manage, because in no circumstances do they lose their cool.
It would be so easy to kill him now. It would create more problems, surely, the murder of a Companion would not go uninvestigated, but would that really be worse than having somebody here reading so much into him? Most Companions know how to fight, to some extent, but they are nowhere near good enough for someone like him, and snapping Caden's neck would not be that hard.
"Don't kill him," comes River's voice, and he whips his head around to the doorway, expecting to see her there.
She's nowhere to be seen, and he looks back at Caden and frowns. Killing him would bring entirely too many problems; besides, he is not sure what he would be killing him for. Or perhaps, knows it only too well.
"I think it's best we keep our distance," he states, and turns to leave.
The Companion doesn't come after him and Jeziah goes straight to his cabin. That shift he sleeps curled down on himself, clutching the cover to him, in the throes of nightmares that rouse him now and then. He manages to hold out until lunch time before taking his shot.
Caden takes his advice and keeps his distance for the remainder of the journey. Jeziah ignores him, ignores his looks and everything that will never be said. He doesn't want to think back on the almost-murder, unnecessary, and what for. Everything he has done as an Operative, he has done thinking he was making a better world. He was ready to damn his own soul to bring forth a better world for people to live in. Now he is scum, nothing more, considering murder for no other reason than his own personal comfort. Nothing rests on him anymore, his own personal comfort is nothing.
But still he goes on, does not throw himself down on his sword, because he wants to find out about Operatives. He wants to know about the new school, and the old one, and he wonders how much exactly he has in common with the young Operative, and with River Tam.
He only has two shots left when the Lennox docks at the harbour of Londinum's capital city, Irving. He has been here many times before, knows the city like the back of his hand. Also knows he must avoid ID checks if he can. That is why he is nowhere near the first class quarters when they dock, but instead down with the luggage, beard shaved off, and he slips out easily. An Operative must know how to go about unnoticed.
It does not take him long to get involved in the preparations for the next protest; they seem to multiply as days go by, but he knows just as Captain Reynolds does that it will not last. It might hold out long enough for the Alliance to be forced to recall the Parliament, yes, but the true culprits will be re-elected, undoubtedly, after they sacrifice a couple of scapegoats.
So Jeziah changes, morphs into one of those idle rich kids who get involved in political movements because they have nothing better to do and it makes them feel better about the ludicrous amount of money they possess. From working on the protest he quickly notices which of the volunteers is part of something more, and it is not that hard to stalk him after the day's work. It probably means it is a trap, but he will either be killed, or survive and have a word with whoever those men are.
Deep down, he believes it is destiny. Because it is too simple, he should not have found him so quickly, the coincidence is too much. Deep down, he lets himself think that it is God granting him this one wish, before he dies, and he wonders whether in it he will find his salvation.
The man he's following turns into a side street he has himself used for an ambush once. There we go, he thinks, and makes sure his bullet-proof gauntlets are well secured on his forearms, not to mention the plastron that protects his chest.
He turns the corner of the side street and takes twenty steps, pretending to be looking around for his disappeared mark when he is in fact assessing the number and position of his opponents. Three of them, one behind a second floor window, one on an exterior staircase, and the one he was following, stepping out behind him now, cocking a gun noisily.
"Stop right there, Jez." He complies; this is exactly what he is looking for, after all. "Turn around."
Again, he obeys. His mark must be about thirty years old, a gaunt man with hollow cheeks, an impressive nose, bushy dark hair and a very clear gaze. If he is as wealthy as Jeziah - doubtful - he hides it well, both in his demeanour and dress. The clothes are common, the accent colloquial, the only thing that sets him apart right now is his gun, a Locke P-74, an expensive piece of weaponry he probably does not have a permit for. Nicco, he's called, and he's given him the impression to be a very nervous man, nervous but also careful and, mostly, passionate.
"Why are you following me?"
To the point, also. "To make contact with your network."
"My what?" Nicco frowns. Jeziah smiles slightly, does not bother dignifying the fake confusion with any reply, so the man drops the act. "Who are you?"
"Not here," he replies, and he is deadly serious now. "Who I am is not something to be discussed in the streets."
Nicco's face hardens. "Now or never, Jez."
He shakes his head slowly, because it cannot be now, and it should certainly not be never. The bullet hits him square in the chest. Nicco has killed before, is used to it, did not hesitate one second when faced with someone that jeopardised the network's safety. But he's not a professional; a professional hardly ever aims for the chest.
He takes the hit and rolls with it, down to the ground and back on his feet in a second. He's sprinting towards Nicco, who only now thinks of aiming at his head, blocks the bullets with his gauntlets, disarms the man and presses the P-74 to his temple, looking up at the other two men.
"Shoot me and he dies, too. You won't be fast enough for me."
"Who tells you I'm indispensable?" Nicco mutters between gritted teeth.
"Don't worry," he reassures him earnestly. "I very much doubt your friends could kill me either way."
The cold barrel of a gun is pressed to his nape, and he tenses. "No, but I bet I could."
The voice is feminine, and also dangerous. Its owner doesn't need to utter her demands that he has already let go of Nicco and surrendered the P-74. He kneels on the ground, hands up on either side of his face, and the barrel slides to the right a bit as she leans close to talk to him.
"I know your type, Operative."
Next thing he feels is a sharp, flaring pain at the back of his skull, and he plunges into unconsciousness.