Fic: Senses Dawning (Equilibrium)
Title: Senses Dawning
Fandom: Equilibrium
Pairing: Dupont/Preston
Rating: R
The summons came at exactly 2:59:03 a.m.; the last of the Offenders had been gunned down at 2:58:27 a.m. At 3:00:42, John Preston ducked out of sight around a corner and leaned against the wall, chest heaving as the adrenaline of battle flooded from shaking muscles to pool around his feet. His fingertips wedged into the jagged cracks between bricks, knuckles whitening under the strain of keeping him from collapsing. The constant pressure of remaining cold and impassive under a steady barrage of fear, violence, pain, beauty and the full spectrum of possible downfall he'd suddenly discovered in his world was wearing on him. Sleep would have been a welcome blessing, but not yet. Not yet.
At 3:04:13 a.m., Preston settled coolly into the car and requested that Brandt bring him to Tetragrammaton headquarters to report, as per Vice Counselor Dupont's orders.
Making his way through the empty halls, John's heart pounded a wild counterpoint to the hollow echo of his footsteps. Shadows chased each other in and out of corners in imitation of his thoughts.
An unsteady feeling made his gut clench, and he pulled a deep, silent sigh. The feelings were still unfamiliar, so the words for them sometimes sat beyond his grasp, unable to match the symptoms to vocabulary. Still, he relished the shudders and the tears, even the shakiness that threatened to freeze him where he stood. Difficult, yes, and dangerous.
But he paid the price gladly.
Apprehension. Somehow, remembering the name of it helped ease the sense itself. With a last deep breath, Preston schooled his face into its automatic mask and pushed open the door. 3:14:07 a.m.
Dupont's office was fully lit, and John suppressed the rise of panicked tension as his eyes adjusted. He was well trained to fight enemies he could not see, but, all things considered, he would rather not face his superior under a disadvantage. A part of him -a new part he was learning ran a fine line between caution and paranoia- strongly suspected that Dupont was intentionally trying to unbalance him. He stifled the idea, and crossed the room with as much indifference as he could manage.
Dupont was watching him with a curious intensity, cutting, so John imagine, through the affected poise, dismantling his precarious mask without a breath of effort. Inwardly, John steadied himself, never breaking his even stride. Dupont could not see the cacophony of infant emotions fighting for supremacy in his consciousness. It simply was not possible.
"Your uniform is dirty, Cleric. Remove it."
Disgust? "Yes, sir." Preston complied and draped the long coat over his arm, relieved now to find Dupont's attention shifted to a file on the desk.
"You have a report to make?"
"Sir. Thirty-one items confiscated, mostly visuals, but there appeared also to be a number of audio recordings in various formats. Ma-."
"What about the Offenders?"
"Twenty-six executed, two captured for interrogation and...."
"I said remove your uniform, Cleric."
John blinked. Dupont had finally looked up, the strange stare returned. "Sir?"
"Remove your uniform." John's heart skipped once and stopped. "All of it."
"Sir, I don't...."
"I gave you an order, Cleric."
A flicker of hesitation escaped before he was able to regain control. "Yes, sir." An exhaustive effort of will kept his hands from trembling as he systematically worked open the fastenings on his clothes. The apprehension of minutes before was descending into fear, and, cutting through the static that had replaced his thoughts, was a sense of foreboding confusion. The enemy's intention was unclear, neither direct nor obviously malicious, and this, more than anything, frightened him.
Dupont... Dupont smiled and stood to pace slowly around the room, beyond the edge of Preston's vision.
He fought the impulse to turn, to keep the enemy, the unknown element, within his sight, and focused instead on keeping his fingers moving.
"Now, continue your report."
He allowed himself the smallest of breaths before speaking. "Two of the Offenders have been taken into custody for interrogation and processing." He stood now in only his undergarments, black uniform folded and held to his chest, and a new emotion crept into his thoughts; something akin to fear but less immediate, something that prickled in his skin and brought a hot flush to his neck and face. Automatically, he ran through the subconscious dictionary of socially obsolete vocabulary until definitions fit themselves to manifestations: exposure, shame, vulnerability. He felt exposed, uncovered beneath lights that seemed far too bright, ashamed of his pale skin and suddenly awkward limbs, and vulnerable because he knew that Dupont could see all of this and was likely inspecting, appraising his body, gauging strength, posture, aesthetic appeal.
John shuddered.
"How did they die?" Dupont's voice came from so close behind him, he gave a start and almost turned around. Almost.
"They... were shot, sir."
"Details, Preston; perfection is in them."
His sentences were like sandpaper against John's skin, stark, harsh, and abrasive over the tenderness of untouched emotion. John felt the flush spread over his body, and his knees seemed intent on either running or giving out.
"Details, sir?"
"Continue removing you clothing, Cleric. Yes, details."
The burning of shame felt as though it would sear the skin from his body as he set down the uniform and peeled away what remained of his defenses.
"I don't un-." The undershirt caught on his mouth for a moment. "I don't understand, sir."
The lights in the room were suddenly too bright again, and John wanted to close his eyes, to shut away the cutting white, and imagine himself anywhere but here, standing exposed and humiliated before his superior.
"Step forward and place your hands on the desk."
Preston complied silently. He would not allow himself to wonder about purpose or intent, merely prayed to a deity he had never considered that he would survive this night.
He did not react when he felt Dupont's hand on the small of his back, but every centimeter of skin crept with fear and revulsion. "Details. Tell me everything, every second, every shot, every piece of history in flames. Spare no description."
John felt something slipping away, something he had not known was there and for which no name presented itself. "We entered the building at approximately 2:22 a.m. Reports indicate the structure may have been a residential area at one time, so it took several minutes to eliminate rooms as possible sources of threat." 2:21:57, actually, he remembered, and it was gone, the feeling, and, in its place, a greater shame and deep hollowness. "Five Offenders where shot coming up the st-." The report broke off in a gasp of pain he had no chance to suppress.
Something had been forced into him, something solid and burning and freezing and flesh, and he felt as though it would tear his body in two. The oppressive weight of Dupont’s body pressing behind him was suffocating, and everything seemed to rise up in him, bourn on a wave of bile; he was trapped.
Dignity. The subtle thing that had slipped from him like frayed silk, the last of his bastions, was his dignity.
Preston had been shot. Once. Due to an unpredictable element during a raid early in his career. He remembered the bullet whipping past, gouging a deep furrow in his side, and the crippling physical shock for which he had been entirely unprepared. This, he decided, surprisingly detached, was worse.
"What did they look like?" Dupont's breath was like a blow striking between his shoulder blades, hot and fierce. "Tell me how the gunfire ripped through their bodies." John shivered.
"There was... blood. Everywhere." He leaned heavily against the desk, unable to focus on more than simply standing and speaking. "One of them... fell. Slipped in the blood. Fell down the stairs... at my feet." His voice shook, echoing in his own ears like a death rattle, but he could no control it; just breathing was difficult on its own.
"He looked at me. He was... terrified," John said and felt suddenly very cold.
Dupont laughed, a perverse, vicious little sound, and pushed harder in a rough and broken rhythmn. "Did you kill him?"
"I...." He remembered the man's eyes: wide, angry, a strangely depthless shade of blue. "I shot him in the face, sir."
The black Grammaton issue watch was still wrapped around his wrist, its face digging into the back of his hand. 3:28:49 a.m.
"How does that make you feel, Preston?" The choked anticipation in Dupont's voice made John's skin crawl.
3:28:52 a.m. His response was instinctive and false, scraping the roof of his mouth as it came.
"I feel nothing," he said, and wished it were true.
~
Fandom: Equilibrium
Pairing: Dupont/Preston
Rating: R
The summons came at exactly 2:59:03 a.m.; the last of the Offenders had been gunned down at 2:58:27 a.m. At 3:00:42, John Preston ducked out of sight around a corner and leaned against the wall, chest heaving as the adrenaline of battle flooded from shaking muscles to pool around his feet. His fingertips wedged into the jagged cracks between bricks, knuckles whitening under the strain of keeping him from collapsing. The constant pressure of remaining cold and impassive under a steady barrage of fear, violence, pain, beauty and the full spectrum of possible downfall he'd suddenly discovered in his world was wearing on him. Sleep would have been a welcome blessing, but not yet. Not yet.
At 3:04:13 a.m., Preston settled coolly into the car and requested that Brandt bring him to Tetragrammaton headquarters to report, as per Vice Counselor Dupont's orders.
Making his way through the empty halls, John's heart pounded a wild counterpoint to the hollow echo of his footsteps. Shadows chased each other in and out of corners in imitation of his thoughts.
An unsteady feeling made his gut clench, and he pulled a deep, silent sigh. The feelings were still unfamiliar, so the words for them sometimes sat beyond his grasp, unable to match the symptoms to vocabulary. Still, he relished the shudders and the tears, even the shakiness that threatened to freeze him where he stood. Difficult, yes, and dangerous.
But he paid the price gladly.
Apprehension. Somehow, remembering the name of it helped ease the sense itself. With a last deep breath, Preston schooled his face into its automatic mask and pushed open the door. 3:14:07 a.m.
Dupont's office was fully lit, and John suppressed the rise of panicked tension as his eyes adjusted. He was well trained to fight enemies he could not see, but, all things considered, he would rather not face his superior under a disadvantage. A part of him -a new part he was learning ran a fine line between caution and paranoia- strongly suspected that Dupont was intentionally trying to unbalance him. He stifled the idea, and crossed the room with as much indifference as he could manage.
Dupont was watching him with a curious intensity, cutting, so John imagine, through the affected poise, dismantling his precarious mask without a breath of effort. Inwardly, John steadied himself, never breaking his even stride. Dupont could not see the cacophony of infant emotions fighting for supremacy in his consciousness. It simply was not possible.
"Your uniform is dirty, Cleric. Remove it."
Disgust? "Yes, sir." Preston complied and draped the long coat over his arm, relieved now to find Dupont's attention shifted to a file on the desk.
"You have a report to make?"
"Sir. Thirty-one items confiscated, mostly visuals, but there appeared also to be a number of audio recordings in various formats. Ma-."
"What about the Offenders?"
"Twenty-six executed, two captured for interrogation and...."
"I said remove your uniform, Cleric."
John blinked. Dupont had finally looked up, the strange stare returned. "Sir?"
"Remove your uniform." John's heart skipped once and stopped. "All of it."
"Sir, I don't...."
"I gave you an order, Cleric."
A flicker of hesitation escaped before he was able to regain control. "Yes, sir." An exhaustive effort of will kept his hands from trembling as he systematically worked open the fastenings on his clothes. The apprehension of minutes before was descending into fear, and, cutting through the static that had replaced his thoughts, was a sense of foreboding confusion. The enemy's intention was unclear, neither direct nor obviously malicious, and this, more than anything, frightened him.
Dupont... Dupont smiled and stood to pace slowly around the room, beyond the edge of Preston's vision.
He fought the impulse to turn, to keep the enemy, the unknown element, within his sight, and focused instead on keeping his fingers moving.
"Now, continue your report."
He allowed himself the smallest of breaths before speaking. "Two of the Offenders have been taken into custody for interrogation and processing." He stood now in only his undergarments, black uniform folded and held to his chest, and a new emotion crept into his thoughts; something akin to fear but less immediate, something that prickled in his skin and brought a hot flush to his neck and face. Automatically, he ran through the subconscious dictionary of socially obsolete vocabulary until definitions fit themselves to manifestations: exposure, shame, vulnerability. He felt exposed, uncovered beneath lights that seemed far too bright, ashamed of his pale skin and suddenly awkward limbs, and vulnerable because he knew that Dupont could see all of this and was likely inspecting, appraising his body, gauging strength, posture, aesthetic appeal.
John shuddered.
"How did they die?" Dupont's voice came from so close behind him, he gave a start and almost turned around. Almost.
"They... were shot, sir."
"Details, Preston; perfection is in them."
His sentences were like sandpaper against John's skin, stark, harsh, and abrasive over the tenderness of untouched emotion. John felt the flush spread over his body, and his knees seemed intent on either running or giving out.
"Details, sir?"
"Continue removing you clothing, Cleric. Yes, details."
The burning of shame felt as though it would sear the skin from his body as he set down the uniform and peeled away what remained of his defenses.
"I don't un-." The undershirt caught on his mouth for a moment. "I don't understand, sir."
The lights in the room were suddenly too bright again, and John wanted to close his eyes, to shut away the cutting white, and imagine himself anywhere but here, standing exposed and humiliated before his superior.
"Step forward and place your hands on the desk."
Preston complied silently. He would not allow himself to wonder about purpose or intent, merely prayed to a deity he had never considered that he would survive this night.
He did not react when he felt Dupont's hand on the small of his back, but every centimeter of skin crept with fear and revulsion. "Details. Tell me everything, every second, every shot, every piece of history in flames. Spare no description."
John felt something slipping away, something he had not known was there and for which no name presented itself. "We entered the building at approximately 2:22 a.m. Reports indicate the structure may have been a residential area at one time, so it took several minutes to eliminate rooms as possible sources of threat." 2:21:57, actually, he remembered, and it was gone, the feeling, and, in its place, a greater shame and deep hollowness. "Five Offenders where shot coming up the st-." The report broke off in a gasp of pain he had no chance to suppress.
Something had been forced into him, something solid and burning and freezing and flesh, and he felt as though it would tear his body in two. The oppressive weight of Dupont’s body pressing behind him was suffocating, and everything seemed to rise up in him, bourn on a wave of bile; he was trapped.
Dignity. The subtle thing that had slipped from him like frayed silk, the last of his bastions, was his dignity.
Preston had been shot. Once. Due to an unpredictable element during a raid early in his career. He remembered the bullet whipping past, gouging a deep furrow in his side, and the crippling physical shock for which he had been entirely unprepared. This, he decided, surprisingly detached, was worse.
"What did they look like?" Dupont's breath was like a blow striking between his shoulder blades, hot and fierce. "Tell me how the gunfire ripped through their bodies." John shivered.
"There was... blood. Everywhere." He leaned heavily against the desk, unable to focus on more than simply standing and speaking. "One of them... fell. Slipped in the blood. Fell down the stairs... at my feet." His voice shook, echoing in his own ears like a death rattle, but he could no control it; just breathing was difficult on its own.
"He looked at me. He was... terrified," John said and felt suddenly very cold.
Dupont laughed, a perverse, vicious little sound, and pushed harder in a rough and broken rhythmn. "Did you kill him?"
"I...." He remembered the man's eyes: wide, angry, a strangely depthless shade of blue. "I shot him in the face, sir."
The black Grammaton issue watch was still wrapped around his wrist, its face digging into the back of his hand. 3:28:49 a.m.
"How does that make you feel, Preston?" The choked anticipation in Dupont's voice made John's skin crawl.
3:28:52 a.m. His response was instinctive and false, scraping the roof of his mouth as it came.
"I feel nothing," he said, and wished it were true.
~