vail-kagami: Smoke (Jack/Ten, Master/Ten) [R]
Title: Smoke
Author: vail_kagami
Beta: nightrider101
Challenge: Amnesia
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Graphic violence
Summary: He doesn't know who he was or where he came from, nor does he really want to find out.
Pain.
It’s cold, dark, damp. You’re bound, can’t move - you’re trying.
There’s pain. Someone’s hurting you. You can’t see. Can’t see anything.
“Jack! Jack!”
Blood is running down your face. You are not alone.
-
“You’re by far the best fighter we’ve had in a long time, James,” Mr. Ganestam said. “Not when it comes to technique, but you know when to fight dirty, how to use the other’s weaknesses. Where did you learn that?”
James just smiled his cocky smile. His boss continued speaking and spared him the effort of lying to him.
“I’ve been watching you for a while now,” he admitted, “and I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re wasted on your current job. So how would you like to join the imperial agency? They need more people like you.”
The imperial agency. James couldn’t believe his luck - he feared that if he grinned any more his face might crack. This was the chance he’d been waiting for. It wasn’t like his job was boring, but the agency offered possibilities he’d hardly dared dreaming about. He would be able to go to space! He would see other planets, meet aliens! He would have adventures instead of simply doing his job.
James didn’t need to think about his answer. He knew he was made for a world bigger than this.
-
“Let’s make a deal.”
-
“I have no idea who I am,” James admits, and doesn’t know why - this is the first time he ever tells his story. “Six years ago I washed up on the shore in the biggest cliché that ever happened on this planet. Found some pretty good friends since then. They helped me get papers and a new identity when the research for my true identity remained fruitless. I’m working for a security agency now - which means my fake papers are pretty damn good.”
The other man watches him through alert brown eyes. His long, thin fingers are folded around his glass and James imagines them doing things to him he could only approve of.
“Last week I even got offered a job in the imperial agency,” he continues, not caring if his thoughts showed on his face. “Unfortunately I had to decline. A big loss for the IA, but, well, you can’t have everything.”
-
“It’s all right, Jack! It’s all right, it’s over.”
It’s not. This is just a pause, but you relish in it, in the brief moment without pain. His face is the first thing you see - he’s holding you, calming you, but there’s desperation in his voice.
He doesn’t look well. He’s starving, like you have been, and you’re not sure all the blood on his pale skin it yours. No, it’s not - you can feel warm, fresh blood falling from cuts on his hands, soiling your shoulders. You’re both naked, and his bony knees press into your back as you’re lying in his lap. You don’t want to move.
Thinks are getting worse, for both of you. For a while you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, breathing. In and out, in and out. It’s something to concentrate on. In and out.
You don’t know how much longer you can hold on to your sanity, but it’s him you worry about. Holding on to you with bloody hands as he silently refuses to break. A pale shadow in the dim light of the cell. A ghost.
In and out.
-
“It’s an honour to be accepted into the IA, but I believe you are worth it.”
James quite liked hearing that. It was true; unable to remember his past he still knew that he was better than anyone else. His body could act on instincts gained in a thousand battles, a thousand experiences etched into his bones, if not his mind.
“Of course the job is dangerous,” Mr. Ganestam added as James reached for the pen to sign his contract. “But I suppose you know what you are getting yourself into. You will have to say goodbye to your old life, will sooner or later lose most friends you will make in the agency, if you are not the first to die. You will have to make ugly decisions, because ugly decisions have to be made to protect the Great and Bountiful Human Empire. Not everyone is up to that. You will have to sacrifice yourself and others.”
The pen stopped just above the paper then. For he had lived that life before - it was gone from his memories, yet in his heart it remained, in the ache he felt at the thought of letting another friend die, of doing the right thing and hating himself for it. Of losing everything, because that was what it came down to, always, always. Of being alone, helpless, lost, unable to look into the mirror. Of wishing to let go of everything and be himself again, whoever that might have been. Be rid of the memories that poison his mind.
He didn’t sign the contract. When he left the building he felt like throwing up.
-
“One lifetime.”
Voices in your nightmare. You wish you were dreaming.
“What happens when it’s over?”
“That’s up to you.”
-
“The thing is,” James states after a long pause, “that sometimes I feel like I don’t really want to remember. I try to think of my past and feel uneasy - my mind just slips away. When the others were trying to find out who I was I only watched, and looking back I believe I didn’t want them to succeed.”
“Why not?”
“Because I fear the person I was might not have been very likeable. Maybe I’ve forgotten for a reason. Maybe I wanted to forget.”
The stranger (Was he?) runs a hand through his dark, ruffled hair, his intense eyes never leaving James’ face. The other hand is still holding the glass he has yet to drink from. There are three white scars running over the back of that hand. James has seen many scars in his life, scars much worse, yet these ones makes him feel sick, nervous, and he has to look away.
After a few seconds the man folds his right hand over the left again, covering the scars as if he knew.
“So you don’t know anything about your past?” There is curiosity in his voice, no pity. “You don’t even remember your real name?”
(“Jack!”)
“No.” James shakes his head. “But James works just fine. It doesn’t feel weird. Maybe I accidentally picked to right one.”
He gets a slight smile for that; the next moment the other is looking down into his glass.
“Maybe.”
-
A sharp pain, and you see your index finger flopping over the ground. The others follow until there’s none left on your right hand. The way they are cut off compressed the veins so you are not bleeding too much. The man who’s doing this to you is laughing in your face. You’re beginning to think of him as your master and hate yourself for it.
He lifts the hand holding the knife and you expect to be blinded, but it’s your ear that’s falling to the ground seconds later. Your mouth is sewn shut - you tear it bloody in your attempt to scream.
Your friend is watching from the other side of the cell, with tears streaming down his white face but in silence, forbidden to say a word. Your master pats you on the head. You hate yourself even more for the relief you’re feeling when he turns to the other man. No bits are cut off from him, but the knife is leaving marks on his hands, arms, neck. You were left your eyes because you must see this.
You’re lying on the floor, whimpering, bleeding. Pressing the remains of your hands to your body - your master doesn’t chain you anymore. It’s a right you have earned.
Your friend hasn’t. He’s bound to the wall, the blood running down his naked, bruised form. When your master pushes the tip of the knife beneath his fingernails he bites back his screams and you know he’s doing it for you. The man with the knife knows as well - he laughs before he leans in and licks up the blood that runs down the other’s arms, his neck, his face, as he puts his knife to an entirely different use. He gets his screams, in the end.
You watch and feel nothing.
-
He came awake with a start, as he so often did. Sitting upright in his bed he was staring down onto his trembling hands as if they could offer answers to the questions he never asked.
His heart was still racing when he let himself fall onto the pillow again, to stare at the ceiling instead. In his dreams he was trapped in a cell, he was in pain, he wasn’t alone. Details escaped him as the scene faded from his memory, leaving only a distorted echo and a foul, metallic aftertaste.
The one thing he remembered clearly was the sight of his finger rolling over the dirty floor. He’d have believed these dreams to be fragments of his lost memories but his hands are whole, and when he washed up on the shore all those years ago his body bore not a single scar.
-
You hate the sight of your friend kneeling before the other, yet you do not remember why.
“Master,” he whispers over and over again, and “Please.”
Through your one remaining eye you see the master kneeling down beside him to run a gloved hand over his bare, shivering back.
“We have a deal then?” He’s almost purring.
“Yes.” The answer is nearly inaudible, breathed at the story ground. You feel vague relief when you hear it and have not enough strength left to remember why you shouldn’t.
“Yes. You’ve won. Just let him go. Leave him alone and I’ll…”
-
The man beside him leans back his head as he finally drinks from his glass. James catches a glimpse of the collar around his neck and looks away.
“If you had the choice to return to you old life, would you take it?” the stranger asks with genuine interest in his voice. James shakes his head at once, wasting not one second with consideration.
“I never even try to remember. My thoughts just run elsewhere when my mind wanders back to my past, and when I hold on to it anyway I feel sick. Nervous. Like there’s something I don’t want to see. It’s like a warning to myself.”
“And you’re listening to it?”
“For once, yes.” James looks at him, this thin, attractive man he doesn’t want to part with. “I don’t remember anything, but sometimes, in certain situations, I’m getting an impression of my past anyway. Like shadows, or rather, like smoke. It has no substance, but it stinks.” He snorts. “I get the feeling I’m a lot happier as the man I am now.”
The other watches his face as he speaks, and after he’s stopped. Then he smiles, for the first time a real smile.
“I’m glad,” he says. He empties his glass before adding, “I have to leave.”
James hand closes around his wrist as he stands, pulling his closer. He looks up into those large brown eyes and without knowing why he asks, “Kiss me.”
For a second those eyes leave his face, flicker to the entrance of the bar as if looking for something, then long fingers cup his face and soft lips brush against his. The kiss is chaste but it lingers. James closes his eyes until the lips disappear. He doesn’t know this taste. Maybe that’s what he had wanted to know.
The lips are gone but the hands remain and dark, bottomless eyes bore into his.
“Take care of yourself.” It sounds like a plea, followed by the ghost of a smile and a whisper. “Goodbye.”
James does not stop him this time. He watches as the man leaves, walks out of his life without looking back. Someone’s waiting for him at the door, someone who’s sending shivers down James’ back. He can’t believe in the affection of the gesture as the stranger puts an arm around the waist on the man he’s kissed and leads him outside, nor in the smile he’s sending in James’ direction.
The night swallows them one moment later. James keeps staring through the open door for another moment before turning back to his drink. It’s none of his business, really.
September 3, 2008
Author: vail_kagami
Beta: nightrider101
Challenge: Amnesia
Rating: R
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Graphic violence
Summary: He doesn't know who he was or where he came from, nor does he really want to find out.
Pain.
It’s cold, dark, damp. You’re bound, can’t move - you’re trying.
There’s pain. Someone’s hurting you. You can’t see. Can’t see anything.
“Jack! Jack!”
Blood is running down your face. You are not alone.
-
“You’re by far the best fighter we’ve had in a long time, James,” Mr. Ganestam said. “Not when it comes to technique, but you know when to fight dirty, how to use the other’s weaknesses. Where did you learn that?”
James just smiled his cocky smile. His boss continued speaking and spared him the effort of lying to him.
“I’ve been watching you for a while now,” he admitted, “and I’ve come to the conclusion that you’re wasted on your current job. So how would you like to join the imperial agency? They need more people like you.”
The imperial agency. James couldn’t believe his luck - he feared that if he grinned any more his face might crack. This was the chance he’d been waiting for. It wasn’t like his job was boring, but the agency offered possibilities he’d hardly dared dreaming about. He would be able to go to space! He would see other planets, meet aliens! He would have adventures instead of simply doing his job.
James didn’t need to think about his answer. He knew he was made for a world bigger than this.
-
“Let’s make a deal.”
-
“I have no idea who I am,” James admits, and doesn’t know why - this is the first time he ever tells his story. “Six years ago I washed up on the shore in the biggest cliché that ever happened on this planet. Found some pretty good friends since then. They helped me get papers and a new identity when the research for my true identity remained fruitless. I’m working for a security agency now - which means my fake papers are pretty damn good.”
The other man watches him through alert brown eyes. His long, thin fingers are folded around his glass and James imagines them doing things to him he could only approve of.
“Last week I even got offered a job in the imperial agency,” he continues, not caring if his thoughts showed on his face. “Unfortunately I had to decline. A big loss for the IA, but, well, you can’t have everything.”
-
“It’s all right, Jack! It’s all right, it’s over.”
It’s not. This is just a pause, but you relish in it, in the brief moment without pain. His face is the first thing you see - he’s holding you, calming you, but there’s desperation in his voice.
He doesn’t look well. He’s starving, like you have been, and you’re not sure all the blood on his pale skin it yours. No, it’s not - you can feel warm, fresh blood falling from cuts on his hands, soiling your shoulders. You’re both naked, and his bony knees press into your back as you’re lying in his lap. You don’t want to move.
Thinks are getting worse, for both of you. For a while you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, breathing. In and out, in and out. It’s something to concentrate on. In and out.
You don’t know how much longer you can hold on to your sanity, but it’s him you worry about. Holding on to you with bloody hands as he silently refuses to break. A pale shadow in the dim light of the cell. A ghost.
In and out.
-
“It’s an honour to be accepted into the IA, but I believe you are worth it.”
James quite liked hearing that. It was true; unable to remember his past he still knew that he was better than anyone else. His body could act on instincts gained in a thousand battles, a thousand experiences etched into his bones, if not his mind.
“Of course the job is dangerous,” Mr. Ganestam added as James reached for the pen to sign his contract. “But I suppose you know what you are getting yourself into. You will have to say goodbye to your old life, will sooner or later lose most friends you will make in the agency, if you are not the first to die. You will have to make ugly decisions, because ugly decisions have to be made to protect the Great and Bountiful Human Empire. Not everyone is up to that. You will have to sacrifice yourself and others.”
The pen stopped just above the paper then. For he had lived that life before - it was gone from his memories, yet in his heart it remained, in the ache he felt at the thought of letting another friend die, of doing the right thing and hating himself for it. Of losing everything, because that was what it came down to, always, always. Of being alone, helpless, lost, unable to look into the mirror. Of wishing to let go of everything and be himself again, whoever that might have been. Be rid of the memories that poison his mind.
He didn’t sign the contract. When he left the building he felt like throwing up.
-
“One lifetime.”
Voices in your nightmare. You wish you were dreaming.
“What happens when it’s over?”
“That’s up to you.”
-
“The thing is,” James states after a long pause, “that sometimes I feel like I don’t really want to remember. I try to think of my past and feel uneasy - my mind just slips away. When the others were trying to find out who I was I only watched, and looking back I believe I didn’t want them to succeed.”
“Why not?”
“Because I fear the person I was might not have been very likeable. Maybe I’ve forgotten for a reason. Maybe I wanted to forget.”
The stranger (Was he?) runs a hand through his dark, ruffled hair, his intense eyes never leaving James’ face. The other hand is still holding the glass he has yet to drink from. There are three white scars running over the back of that hand. James has seen many scars in his life, scars much worse, yet these ones makes him feel sick, nervous, and he has to look away.
After a few seconds the man folds his right hand over the left again, covering the scars as if he knew.
“So you don’t know anything about your past?” There is curiosity in his voice, no pity. “You don’t even remember your real name?”
(“Jack!”)
“No.” James shakes his head. “But James works just fine. It doesn’t feel weird. Maybe I accidentally picked to right one.”
He gets a slight smile for that; the next moment the other is looking down into his glass.
“Maybe.”
-
A sharp pain, and you see your index finger flopping over the ground. The others follow until there’s none left on your right hand. The way they are cut off compressed the veins so you are not bleeding too much. The man who’s doing this to you is laughing in your face. You’re beginning to think of him as your master and hate yourself for it.
He lifts the hand holding the knife and you expect to be blinded, but it’s your ear that’s falling to the ground seconds later. Your mouth is sewn shut - you tear it bloody in your attempt to scream.
Your friend is watching from the other side of the cell, with tears streaming down his white face but in silence, forbidden to say a word. Your master pats you on the head. You hate yourself even more for the relief you’re feeling when he turns to the other man. No bits are cut off from him, but the knife is leaving marks on his hands, arms, neck. You were left your eyes because you must see this.
You’re lying on the floor, whimpering, bleeding. Pressing the remains of your hands to your body - your master doesn’t chain you anymore. It’s a right you have earned.
Your friend hasn’t. He’s bound to the wall, the blood running down his naked, bruised form. When your master pushes the tip of the knife beneath his fingernails he bites back his screams and you know he’s doing it for you. The man with the knife knows as well - he laughs before he leans in and licks up the blood that runs down the other’s arms, his neck, his face, as he puts his knife to an entirely different use. He gets his screams, in the end.
You watch and feel nothing.
-
He came awake with a start, as he so often did. Sitting upright in his bed he was staring down onto his trembling hands as if they could offer answers to the questions he never asked.
His heart was still racing when he let himself fall onto the pillow again, to stare at the ceiling instead. In his dreams he was trapped in a cell, he was in pain, he wasn’t alone. Details escaped him as the scene faded from his memory, leaving only a distorted echo and a foul, metallic aftertaste.
The one thing he remembered clearly was the sight of his finger rolling over the dirty floor. He’d have believed these dreams to be fragments of his lost memories but his hands are whole, and when he washed up on the shore all those years ago his body bore not a single scar.
-
You hate the sight of your friend kneeling before the other, yet you do not remember why.
“Master,” he whispers over and over again, and “Please.”
Through your one remaining eye you see the master kneeling down beside him to run a gloved hand over his bare, shivering back.
“We have a deal then?” He’s almost purring.
“Yes.” The answer is nearly inaudible, breathed at the story ground. You feel vague relief when you hear it and have not enough strength left to remember why you shouldn’t.
“Yes. You’ve won. Just let him go. Leave him alone and I’ll…”
-
The man beside him leans back his head as he finally drinks from his glass. James catches a glimpse of the collar around his neck and looks away.
“If you had the choice to return to you old life, would you take it?” the stranger asks with genuine interest in his voice. James shakes his head at once, wasting not one second with consideration.
“I never even try to remember. My thoughts just run elsewhere when my mind wanders back to my past, and when I hold on to it anyway I feel sick. Nervous. Like there’s something I don’t want to see. It’s like a warning to myself.”
“And you’re listening to it?”
“For once, yes.” James looks at him, this thin, attractive man he doesn’t want to part with. “I don’t remember anything, but sometimes, in certain situations, I’m getting an impression of my past anyway. Like shadows, or rather, like smoke. It has no substance, but it stinks.” He snorts. “I get the feeling I’m a lot happier as the man I am now.”
The other watches his face as he speaks, and after he’s stopped. Then he smiles, for the first time a real smile.
“I’m glad,” he says. He empties his glass before adding, “I have to leave.”
James hand closes around his wrist as he stands, pulling his closer. He looks up into those large brown eyes and without knowing why he asks, “Kiss me.”
For a second those eyes leave his face, flicker to the entrance of the bar as if looking for something, then long fingers cup his face and soft lips brush against his. The kiss is chaste but it lingers. James closes his eyes until the lips disappear. He doesn’t know this taste. Maybe that’s what he had wanted to know.
The lips are gone but the hands remain and dark, bottomless eyes bore into his.
“Take care of yourself.” It sounds like a plea, followed by the ghost of a smile and a whisper. “Goodbye.”
James does not stop him this time. He watches as the man leaves, walks out of his life without looking back. Someone’s waiting for him at the door, someone who’s sending shivers down James’ back. He can’t believe in the affection of the gesture as the stranger puts an arm around the waist on the man he’s kissed and leads him outside, nor in the smile he’s sending in James’ direction.
The night swallows them one moment later. James keeps staring through the open door for another moment before turning back to his drink. It’s none of his business, really.
September 3, 2008