we become light, chapter thirty-six
Title: We Become Light
Pairings: Nakai/Tsuyoshi, Kimura/Shingo/Goro
Rating: R for violence and swearing
Notes: Five men meet in a dystopian cyberpunk future to free their city from the Tower, with the help of motorcycle rebels, mysterious memories, and love.
At the corner of the high-walled compound, a guard patrolled along the wall, scrutinizing the area for anything amiss. He gave the barbed wire a passing glance, spotting nothing; intruders were unlikely to get in that way, he seemed to surmise, and moved his scrutiny onwards.
He was knocked flat a second later, a hand hard on his throat before he could shout-- and then the world went dark.
Goro slipped his wire cutters back into their pocket and pulled a coil of thin cord from another, swiftly binding the guard's arms and legs. It was unfamiliar to feel the man's pulse under his hands. It made him uneasy.
Within the compound were rows of storage buildings, and beyond, a large stretch of runway. Goro slipped in and out of the shadows, making his way around the buildings. Footsteps approached; he crouched, listening.
A guard was around the corner, in the way of the clearest path. Goro took a surveying glance around the building, shifting his eyesight to thermal. Just the one; others appeared to be in buildings or congregated further down on the runway. It was the perfect timing.
He ghosted around the corner, behind the guard, and clamped one hand over his mouth, jabbing a vulnerability that made the man double. He half-carried the guard around the corner of the building, hand slipping from mouth to throat-- it would be easier to hide his tracks, easier to buy time for everyone-- but in his mind were the images of Shingo working desperately to save lives, of Tsuyoshi lunging forward to stay Kimura's knife on his throat. He was what the Tower had made him, and yet, he had changed. He was capable of changing.
Goro left the unconscious man on the ground and dashed toward the runway. He had little time, he would have to take the first one he could-- he reached the nearest silencer, black and forboding, and climbed inside.
They rushed out of the alley, still hand-in-hand, finally one step closer to the channel. It wouldn't guarantee anything, and the real fight was still ahead-- but they had spoken and people had listened. It was as though Kimura had scratched at the surface of the world and found it was made of something brighter than he'd expected.
Shingo pulled him to a stop as they rounded a corner, and then Kimura was pushed up against the wall, Shingo kissing him with giddy exhilaration. "Kimura-- that was amazing--" His hands tangled in Kimura's clothes, pressing in close, and Kimura wrapped his arms around him in return, savoring that warmth, that comfort, that pride--
Shingo pulled away slightly, grinning at him. "Guess we're not done yet, though. Let's go!"
He hurried off, back towards the motorcycle. Kimura pushed away from the wall to follow; a small movement caught his eye, though, and he glanced back.
It was the one-eyed cat, polishing off a saucer of food on someone's doorstep.
Kimura paused, looking down at the cat. It looked back up at him, cleaning its face contentedly.
"Not so bad, is it," he agreed.
Shingo stood at the door, Kimura a step behind, fiddling with his second earring. They'd found it. People had trusted them, had believed that the city still had hope.
It was true, what the merchant had said. People would die, more than would if they stayed quiet and complacent in their homes. Shingo would be responsible, in that sense, for more deaths, more loss. Inside, his other self shivered; but it wasn't unbearable, not anymore. They would save who they could, but they couldn't save everyone. They had to save the city first.
He glanced back at Kimura. And they weren't going to do it alone.
"Ready?" he murmured. Kimura caught his eye, and nodded with a faint smirk.
Shingo thought of the other three, somewhere, fighting their way through to their final battle together, and opened the door. This time, they were going to do it right.
Nakai watched the number rise in the elevator, floors slipping past. Patrol and elite living quarters, if living could be used for how Goro had described them. Training facilities. Memory drive manufacturing and programming. Even hydroponic farms and processing floors, to feed the people that fed the Tower.
And here, on the 88th floor. Communications.
He'd asked Goro why they'd bring Tsuyoshi here. That's where the cameras are, Goro had replied. To broadcast to the city.
Nakai couldn't think of anything that would have broken him faster.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding. He stepped out, once again feigning preoccupation with his workpad. There were windows at this level, a view of the city stretching out to the distant wall; near the line where Inner straight lines gave way to the crumbling Outer districts, a column of smoke rose up. Another explosion followed it as Nakai watched.
On this side of the windows, several workers sat at consoles, speaking into identical headsets. "--awaiting message from elite at the site--" "--resend, message did not de-encrypt correctly--" "--agents not in connection, may be malfunction in system--"
An elite stood near this last worker, posture stiff and straight. "Understood. We will report to Dispatch for further instructions." He turned in place and strode towards the elevator, steps measured, expression blank.
Nakai stiffened, focusing on his workpad until the words blurred, practically holding his breath as fear clutched him. He was the Tower, he was the Tower, he was--
The elite stopped, feet aligned perfectly in Nakai's vision beyond the workpad. "Purpose here?"
Nakai lifted his head-- I am the Tower-- We are the Tower-- and gave the man a cold, flat stare. "We do not ask questions."
His blood ran cold, his nerves frozen, unfeeling-- the elite shifted his gaze down, away. "No. We do not ask questions." He declined his head fractionally, and waited.
Nakai stepped past him, into the room of workers. The elite didn't move. What was he waiting for? Nakai glanced back out of the corner of his eye; the elite had turned his head slightly, regarding him in faint... confusion? Suspicion?
Whatever it was, he didn't want to wait to find out. Nakai leveled his gaze at the room; there was a single door leading off from the main area. He walked deliberately across the room and turned the handle. The elite was still waiting. He stepped inside, and let the door shut behind him.
There was one person in the room. Nakai's mind raced with possible plans-- pretend ignorance, devise a convincing lie, or would it come to a fight?-- and then the person turned and his mind went blank.
It was the plain-faced man.
Pairings: Nakai/Tsuyoshi, Kimura/Shingo/Goro
Rating: R for violence and swearing
Notes: Five men meet in a dystopian cyberpunk future to free their city from the Tower, with the help of motorcycle rebels, mysterious memories, and love.
At the corner of the high-walled compound, a guard patrolled along the wall, scrutinizing the area for anything amiss. He gave the barbed wire a passing glance, spotting nothing; intruders were unlikely to get in that way, he seemed to surmise, and moved his scrutiny onwards.
He was knocked flat a second later, a hand hard on his throat before he could shout-- and then the world went dark.
Goro slipped his wire cutters back into their pocket and pulled a coil of thin cord from another, swiftly binding the guard's arms and legs. It was unfamiliar to feel the man's pulse under his hands. It made him uneasy.
Within the compound were rows of storage buildings, and beyond, a large stretch of runway. Goro slipped in and out of the shadows, making his way around the buildings. Footsteps approached; he crouched, listening.
A guard was around the corner, in the way of the clearest path. Goro took a surveying glance around the building, shifting his eyesight to thermal. Just the one; others appeared to be in buildings or congregated further down on the runway. It was the perfect timing.
He ghosted around the corner, behind the guard, and clamped one hand over his mouth, jabbing a vulnerability that made the man double. He half-carried the guard around the corner of the building, hand slipping from mouth to throat-- it would be easier to hide his tracks, easier to buy time for everyone-- but in his mind were the images of Shingo working desperately to save lives, of Tsuyoshi lunging forward to stay Kimura's knife on his throat. He was what the Tower had made him, and yet, he had changed. He was capable of changing.
Goro left the unconscious man on the ground and dashed toward the runway. He had little time, he would have to take the first one he could-- he reached the nearest silencer, black and forboding, and climbed inside.
They rushed out of the alley, still hand-in-hand, finally one step closer to the channel. It wouldn't guarantee anything, and the real fight was still ahead-- but they had spoken and people had listened. It was as though Kimura had scratched at the surface of the world and found it was made of something brighter than he'd expected.
Shingo pulled him to a stop as they rounded a corner, and then Kimura was pushed up against the wall, Shingo kissing him with giddy exhilaration. "Kimura-- that was amazing--" His hands tangled in Kimura's clothes, pressing in close, and Kimura wrapped his arms around him in return, savoring that warmth, that comfort, that pride--
Shingo pulled away slightly, grinning at him. "Guess we're not done yet, though. Let's go!"
He hurried off, back towards the motorcycle. Kimura pushed away from the wall to follow; a small movement caught his eye, though, and he glanced back.
It was the one-eyed cat, polishing off a saucer of food on someone's doorstep.
Kimura paused, looking down at the cat. It looked back up at him, cleaning its face contentedly.
"Not so bad, is it," he agreed.
Shingo stood at the door, Kimura a step behind, fiddling with his second earring. They'd found it. People had trusted them, had believed that the city still had hope.
It was true, what the merchant had said. People would die, more than would if they stayed quiet and complacent in their homes. Shingo would be responsible, in that sense, for more deaths, more loss. Inside, his other self shivered; but it wasn't unbearable, not anymore. They would save who they could, but they couldn't save everyone. They had to save the city first.
He glanced back at Kimura. And they weren't going to do it alone.
"Ready?" he murmured. Kimura caught his eye, and nodded with a faint smirk.
Shingo thought of the other three, somewhere, fighting their way through to their final battle together, and opened the door. This time, they were going to do it right.
Nakai watched the number rise in the elevator, floors slipping past. Patrol and elite living quarters, if living could be used for how Goro had described them. Training facilities. Memory drive manufacturing and programming. Even hydroponic farms and processing floors, to feed the people that fed the Tower.
And here, on the 88th floor. Communications.
He'd asked Goro why they'd bring Tsuyoshi here. That's where the cameras are, Goro had replied. To broadcast to the city.
Nakai couldn't think of anything that would have broken him faster.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding. He stepped out, once again feigning preoccupation with his workpad. There were windows at this level, a view of the city stretching out to the distant wall; near the line where Inner straight lines gave way to the crumbling Outer districts, a column of smoke rose up. Another explosion followed it as Nakai watched.
On this side of the windows, several workers sat at consoles, speaking into identical headsets. "--awaiting message from elite at the site--" "--resend, message did not de-encrypt correctly--" "--agents not in connection, may be malfunction in system--"
An elite stood near this last worker, posture stiff and straight. "Understood. We will report to Dispatch for further instructions." He turned in place and strode towards the elevator, steps measured, expression blank.
Nakai stiffened, focusing on his workpad until the words blurred, practically holding his breath as fear clutched him. He was the Tower, he was the Tower, he was--
The elite stopped, feet aligned perfectly in Nakai's vision beyond the workpad. "Purpose here?"
Nakai lifted his head-- I am the Tower-- We are the Tower-- and gave the man a cold, flat stare. "We do not ask questions."
His blood ran cold, his nerves frozen, unfeeling-- the elite shifted his gaze down, away. "No. We do not ask questions." He declined his head fractionally, and waited.
Nakai stepped past him, into the room of workers. The elite didn't move. What was he waiting for? Nakai glanced back out of the corner of his eye; the elite had turned his head slightly, regarding him in faint... confusion? Suspicion?
Whatever it was, he didn't want to wait to find out. Nakai leveled his gaze at the room; there was a single door leading off from the main area. He walked deliberately across the room and turned the handle. The elite was still waiting. He stepped inside, and let the door shut behind him.
There was one person in the room. Nakai's mind raced with possible plans-- pretend ignorance, devise a convincing lie, or would it come to a fight?-- and then the person turned and his mind went blank.
It was the plain-faced man.