[story] liquidate
Jan. 31st, 2010 06:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ib_archiveauthor: d (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wk_recomend)
The city was a living thing that ate up the barren land on all sides of its outskirts. A sprawling mess, a chaotic blob that pretended to have a shape, a mismatched collection of buildings that grew ever outward and upward. Its gleaming towers stretched toward the sky, reaching for the key that would unlock the bars of their earthly prison, leaving their older, shorter brethren far behind. These older buildings were hollow concrete relics, left rotting from a derelict age in some century better left forgotten, with its barbaric wars and infantile struggles. They squatted next to the towers, relfecting none of their aspiration or hubris. A gnarled thicket of gas powered roads twisted around the buildings and cheap imitation centers of nature, while the guide lights burned with steady patience, bobbing slowly in the sky as air cars sped by dispassionately.
Dispassionate. Now there was a word to describe a city in metaphorical ruins. The city didn't look run-down; but it felt run-down. The sense of decay permeated the air, coated every surface and poisoned the water table. The city was falling apart at every level, slowly crumbling even as its concrete, steel and glass stood bravely against the increasingly harsh winds and even harsher winters.
From this far out, Brandon realized, the city looked shiny and new. It was a fairy tale, a bubble that would pop as they rolled into town, close enough to see the fading graffiti and tired people, the bulletproof glass on home fronts and electrified fences on the schoolyards. He wondered what it was that Taj saw of the city and wondered what sort of reaction his friend would have once the glossy distance was behind them and they were staring the cold hard truth in the face.
Taj had come from a tiny backwater town in eastern Æsturia, a podunk town of 156 miserable people trying to scratch a living where no living was to be made. Taj was one of four people in his age bracket; there was only one kid younger than his bracket and he had been a newlywed mistake. About 80 of Taj's fellow podunkers were over the age of sixty and the rest were spread in increasingly smaller numbers as their age brackets went younger and younger.
Taj was a bright kid, Brandon knew, having met him entirely by accident when his air car had burst a rear flap, on a trip to take to see a town he'd recently discovered, with the same name as the street he'd grown up on. Taj had helped him patch the flap into position - a feat that had taken twelve days, during which time he and Taj had shared a tent. So when Brandon had finally been upgraded in his personal quarters from a single occupant unit to a 1 1/2 occupant unit (a euphemism for sex and sleep over, Brandon privately thought), he had immediately told Taj to get his "scrawny podunk ass out of that shit hole you like to call a town and over to my place - you're moving in." And Taj, after half a second's deliberation, had packed his single bag's worth of belongings and hightailed it out of his home village.
But, watching the slow, silent awe with which Taj was regarding the glaring city, Brandon could only think that getting Taj to this particular city - or any city in the realm, really - probably hadn't been the best idea, considering the cold-hearted reality that lay in wait for them. Brandon steered his air car along the lit path, blue on his right, green on his left, and waited for Taj to say something - anything.
But Taj remained silent, staring at the city with a hunger that Brandon found vaguely disturbing, and new doubts and worries began pouring through his head.
In the past, Angie would have just gone straight home to imagine herself in a world far away, doing incredible things that would have her one true love sweeping her off her feet and begging her to marry him. Now, though, years after this glossy, shiny fairytale version of love been swapt away by the realities of life, she just went to see her friend Toni. Toni had this amazing way of making Angie feel like she was the most important person in the worlds - and this amazing thing se did with hir tongue.
Toni was both a man and a woman, and yet neither at the same time. Toni fascinated Angie, in all of hir tall lanky glory. Every night spent with Toni was an adventure, and Angie learned more and more about herself every time she saw Toni.
Toni was a loner. Though se knew more people than Angie ever wanted to know, Toni preferred to keep to hirself, spending the nights with a Bib-Vid and cup of hot Choco-Swirl. Once, when Angie was feeling at her lowest, she had asked Toni if she was imposing, but Toni had denied that thought so profusely and warmly that Angie didn't feel guilty for taking Toni away from hir reading. And just a couple weeks ago, Angie had overheard several of Toni's friends talking about how unfair it was that Toni liked Angie and not the rest of them.
Angie realized then that they were right. No one else was welcomed as warmly and enthusiastically as Angie. No one else was touched as freely by Toni. And while Toni was more than willing to engage in pleasure acts with virtually anyone, no one else got to spend the night.
This night, she told herself, she would head over to Toni's, but not for sex. No, tonight she would curl up beside Toni with her latest Bib-Vid and see if she could share some of Toni's Choco-Swirl.
"Hey! Buck-wit. What're you doin'?" Harley leaned over the back of Marshal's chair to look at the Comp. Her long blonde dreads fell against Marshal's head. Harley grinned and let the dreads hang until Marshal decided to do something about it.
Marshal sighed, rubbing his face with his hands and leaning back in his chair. Harley's dreads brushed irritatingly against his skin, but he couldn't be bothered at the moment. "I'm finishing up my Bib-Vid."
"Yeah? You've got it almost done then?"
Marshal flicked some of Harley's hair out of his face. "Just the conclusion and then editing." He smiled blissfully at his Comp, already high with anticipation of the relief he'd feel at a long project finally done.
Harley planted her elbow on the back of Marshal's chair and stuck her butt out for the students to stare at. She leaned in close to Marshal, trying to make out the symbols on the Comp screen. As usual it was gibberish, but she wouldn't embarrass herself by telling Marshal that.
"What did you write about?" She asked, sticking the end of a dreadlock in her mouth absently.
"Earth, back in the 21st Century."
Harley snorted, tossing a loaded sidelong glance at Marshal. "Okay, you can stop being an ass and tell me the truth."
Marshal looked at her startled. "I am telling the truth."
"Psh. Yeah right, and I'm the bucking Green Fairy." Harley straightened.
"Did you know that back then when the word 'buck' was first used, it was actually pronounced 'fuck'?"
Harley stared at him. "No wonder that era is off-limits. Stupidity must be contagious." Marshal shrugged non-committedly. "Look, Marshal, you can't be serious about this, can you?" He nodded. Harley rubbed her eyes, planting a hand on her hip and throwing an agitated glance around the room. "Okay. Okay, Marshal. You do realize that that era is on the WatchList, right?"
"Yes."
Her voice was soft, quiet, barely enough for Marshal to hear, because if she were heard... "And you realize that if you were caught by the Watchers, you would be arrested, detained, questioned and possibly executed for high treason?"
Marshal was calm and cool as he looked at her, face serious, set in the stubborn way he had. "Yes, Harley. I'm aware."
She pressed a clammy hand to her forehead, her stomach tied itself into burning twists, and her knees went weak. "You have a death wish." He remained silent, staring at her with those cool, knowledgeable eyes of his. She sighed, knowing that anything that happened to him would inevitably be passed onto her, if only by pure association. "Why is this so important to you?"
"Because we have to know."
Harley laughed, strained and timorous. "No. No, we don't have to know. That time is better left forgotten."
Marshal inquired mildly, "And how would you know?"
Harley remained silent, starting at the floor by Marshal's shoes. "'Cause it's treason" she muttered. But the words sounded hollow to her, like a good schoolgirl reciting propaganda by rote. And that's exactly what it was, except that she had never been a good schoolgirl, choosing instead to lift paints and practice her art on the school walls. Silence stretched between them, charged and thick, steadily growing with each passing moment. Marshal was her best friend, geeky as he was. And the last thing she wanted was to hurt her friendship with the geeky and insanely amazing Marshal. She glanced up at Marshal's hands as he busied himself with locking the Comp down.
"So, why's that time so interesting, then?"
Marshal glanced up startled. "You want to know? Honestly?"
She offered him a weak smile - the best she could do. She was dead, she knew. "Of course, you buck--" She chuckled. "Fuck-wit."
The smile that spread across Marshal's face was worth any punishment the State could dish out.
Marshal was an historian. If it dealt with the past, possibly explaining how they ended up where they were, he wanted to know. He wanted to examine everything that had happened before. And not just the before that the State had okayed, but the real before. The before that came before the before.
But, Marshal's true love and hobby had to be carefully hidden from the rest of the world, for real history, true history, was a betrayal to the State. At first, he couldn't understand why the State felt so threatened by the truth. How could events that had happened a thousand years ago have any bearing on what was happening now? How could an ancient civilization have any influence on the sanctity of the current administration? But the more he learned, the more he realized that dangerous things lurked within the well of knowledge that was forbidden to all.
However, he could not be stopped from plowing through the muddled messes the State had made of any document even remotely pertaining to the past. It was frustrating to search for something that had been carelessly tossed away, burned for the sake of preventing knowledge. Yet from the hazy bits and pieces he had been able to piece together, it was an act that all States performed, not just the State that he lived under.
He wanted to march up to those in charge and demand vengeance, even though there would be severe repercussions for him, admitting so freely that he had dabbled into realms forbidden.
But, he had discovered, slowly and with much difficulty, that there were others out there that were like him, that hungered and thirsted for knowledge. And it was to this small circle of friends that he shared his findings.
It was empowering, knowing something the State was against. But it was more empowering, a feeling Marshal equated with ruling the world, to share that same information.
He had known Harley since his school years, when he was being taught instead of doing the teaching. He had been required to take an art class of some sort in order to fulfill his degree. At first he had scoffed over the imposition, and had opted for a painting class early in his schooling to get it over and done with. It had been approximately ten minutes into the first class of the 'Mester when his protests had died and had decided that the art requirement was a very good idea. Harley had waltzed into the classroom ten minutes late and slid into the last remaining stool, which had been for the easel next to him.
He had ended up taking two more art classes; just to make sure his requirement had been filled, of course.
And it wasn't until much later that he found out that Harley wasn't even in school.
Toni, he had met in his last year of 'Versity. Se was only a year or two older than he was and already comfortably immersed in hir world of critiques and reviews. The two of them had been at the same social gathering, rubbing elbows with the up-and-coming and the elite and high society flakes, as Toni liked to call them. Toni had been among the elite, while he had been up-and-coming. Toni had brought Angie to the circle a year ago: fresh and curious, bright and eager, Angie had engaged him in many a debate. And Marshal, after hashing out a new discovery or theory with Angie, oftentimes found himself revising his theory to add the insight that Angie had provided.
And then there was Taj. Taj was a fresh face in his history classes, a clever kid, anxious to learn and absorb everything he possibly could. From math to art, literature to history and everything in between, Taj had his hand in, hoping to learn something, anything more.
Taj was neither shy nor reserved, though Marshal did know that Taj was discrete. And trustworthy, for he would not have continued his discussions and frequent meetings and lunches with Taj if Taj had turned out to not be trustworthy.
Marshal had come to know Taj in true 'Versity form. Taj, being enchanted with Marshal, could be found in a virtual permanent occupation of the sole visitor's chair in Marshal's cramped office. Eventually, getting tired of being stuck in the cramped and paper-strewn office, Marshal suggested lunch, well, dinner by that time, really.
So their conversations happened over lunch or dinner, lasting well into the evening.
Taj leaned forward conspiratorially with a crooked grin on his face and wariness in his eyes. "Look, Professor. This is all well and good, but there has got to be something more than this."
Marshal slowly leaned back in his chair, fiddling absently with his fork, spinning, rolling, stabbing gently at the tabletop. He sized Taj up, reassuring himself that the man who sat in front of him, naïve eagerness pouring from every facet of him, was in fact the man he had decided to trust should the subject ever be breached. But this outdoor 'Versity café was not the place to discuss that which was treason.
With a vague smile to match his vague words, Marshal replied: "There is more to everything, Taj."
It wasn't the City's fault, Brandon reminded himself. The reminder was a daily mantra uttered silently to... What? he wondered. To make him feel better? To alleviate any guilt or any blame, perhaps? To make him forget, possibly? There were hundreds of excuses and rationalizations he could offer himself, but the fact was, was that Taj had made his own decisions, and nothing that Brandon did or said could make Taj change.
But, the cockroach of a thought wriggled in the back of his mind, if he had left Taj to rot in that backwater shit hole, if he had never brought Taj to the City, then, perhaps Taj would still be....
No, it wasn't the City's fault, and it certainly wasn't his fault for Taj's corruption. No, that responsibility went solely to that Professor Marshal character.
It was supposed to have been him who showed Taj the wonders of the world at large, not Professor Marshal. It was supposed to have been Brandon to whom Taj looked up, not Marshal. It was supposed to have been Brandon's name on Taj's lips, not Marshal's. Marshal, Marshal, Marshal. It was all that Brandon heard anymore. How great Marshal was, how much Marshal knew. It was never supposed to be anyone but Brandon.
But Taj was drifting off, and every time Brandon tried to hold on tighter, Taj slipped further and further away.
"Taj," Brandon pleaded, afraid that Taj would leave, would find someone better, would run to that Marshal prick. Taj looked up at him, face clear, from his books, pen stopping in its hasty scribble. "Taj, please. Can't you tell me what is bothering you?"
Taj cocked his head to one side, absently stuffing the end of the pen between his teeth. Brandon stared at the pen as Taj's tongue came to tease it gently. Brandon swallowed. "What do you mean? Nothing is bothering me."
"You're different. You have been for a while. I'm concerned."
Taj smiled. "I'm learning, Brandon, that's all. Just learning and expanding and growing."
"But you'll leave me behind!" Brandon resisted the overwhelming urge to slap his hand over his mouth. Instead, he twisted his lips disapprovingly, ashamed at his outburst. But Taj only smiled, eyes big and soft, wet like a puppy's. Sometimes, Brandon hated Taj's innocence. But even more so, Brandon always hated the people who would take advantage of Taj's innocence.
Taj put his pen down and closed his books, leaning back against the couch. "Brandon. I'm not going anywhere. I'm very happy where I am. And I won't leave you behind."
"But--"
"What? What's bothering you?"
And sometimes, Brandon thought bitterly, he really hated how perceptive Taj was. But Taj was softhearted, always giving in to a choked up tone, or a pleading look. So, how to play to that? How to turn this conversation to his advantage?
"You're going to leave me behind."
Taj pulled his legs to his chest, hugging his knees. "No I won't, Brandon. I already said that I wouldn't."
Brandon sat down and affected a look of devastation. It wasn't that hard to pull off the look simply because it was truthfully how he felt, just nowhere near as strongly as he was making out. But it was more important to keep Taj with him, by his side, than it was to keep his own pride.
"I'm not that smart." Brandon sighed regretfully. He hoped that he wasn't pilling it on too thick, but it was too late to back out now. "Not near as smart as you. I won't be able to talk to you anymore and you'll go away."
Taj gazed at him sympathetically. "No matter how much I learn, we'll always be able to talk. You are smarter than you think, Brandon."
"But I don't know what it is that interests you anymore. What are you learning? What is it that absorbs you?" Brandon inwardly winced at how pathetic he sounded. He hoped that he wasn't playing it too far up, that Taj didn't pick up any insincerity in his demeanor. Not that there would be much to pick up, Brandon reflected, not with the exaggeration of already present feelings and fears.
Taj studied him carefully and silently. The weight of his stare was heavy, and Brandon envisioned the stare as a physical thing, feeling him, measuring him, judging him and finding him severely lacking.
But Taj seemed to come to some conclusion and relaxed, stretching his legs out and pulling a Bib-Vid out of his bag. "I got this from a friend today. I think that you will find it as fascinating as I do."
"We must liquidate all of the deviant variables in our society."
"That is why I am here." Brandon watched as orders were given and received by the man's quiet and professional taping, his work at the Comp punctuated by well-timed nods. He sat baffled as men poured in and out of the bland doors at the back of the sterile office. He watched his Savior carefully. "Taj is just a kid. Just a stupid kid from a podunk backwards town. He was a victim of Marshal's diabolical plan. You'll save him, right? Save him and let him live his life peacefully?"
The Savior just stared at him, nodded once and returned to the paperwork strewn across his desk.
The door crashed open, sending loose papers fluttering and busting open the flimsy drywall where the knob punched through the wall. Marshal jerked awake, heart pounding, sitting up and throwing the covers aside. Panic raced through his system, ramping up as he searched the dark room for the source of the noise. He reached for the light switch, sidling out of bed, careful not to present his back as a target. He was tackled, sliding off the bed and crashing to the floor with a heavy thump that snapped his shoulder out of place with the additional weight of a heavy body.
He knew he cried out with pain; it was too blindingly hot of a pain to remain silent about, especially when his assailants were wrenching his arms behind his back, heavy boots digging into his back, crushing him to the hardwood floor.
It was cold. Cold and drafty. She could feel frigid metal under her legs and against her back. Her shoulders were strained; her hands numb. She was sitting. She could feel cold and rough concrete beneath her bare feet. The realization that she was naked crawled slowly through her from her feet, up. Well, whoever had put her here had been gracious enough to leave her in her underwear.
The room was small; she could feel the pressure from the walls beating at her ears. There were people in the room with her, she could tell. She looked around, finally realizing as she moved her head that there was a blindfold on.
She panicked.
Her canvasses were in tatters; her paintings ruined. They had not stopped there, though. Her hands were useless, every bone crushed, fingers twisted and mangled. She couldn't feel her hands, though, and for that she was oddly grateful. But she could see the bluish tint of her skin below the ice and was smart enough to understand the implications of frostbite. Her fingertips, where they peeked out from the intermittent cover of ice, were black.
She wondered when they were going to kill her.
She wondered if Marshal was already dead. Even though it brought a sour taste to her mouth, she hoped that he was dead, for then he wouldn't have suffered as long. Although she knew that it was wishful thinking, she continued to delude herself anyway.
Brandon watched Taj sleep, the heavy bruising slowly fading away. They had Saved Taj, had given him back, had let him have a second chance. And Brandon would be damned to the same Hell that Mar-- that thing was currently residing in before he allowed Taj to ruin his chance. Brandon would make sure that Taj didn't give in to temptation, that Taj was never even around temptation.
Taj and his 'Versity days were over.
The Saviors had managed to place Taj in the same company that Brandon worked for - a good wholesome company. Brandon was confident that he could watch out for Taj, monitor his every move and be there when the slightest deviation was in sight to steer Taj away from corruption and toward Salvation.
Brandon was still upset that Taj had been returned to him in such poor condition, but really, Taj had deserved it, after all. Perhaps he would learn from his punishment - be thankful that he had gotten off so easily and realize just how lucky he had been to have found a friend as good as Brandon.
the end
wk_recomend)The city was a living thing that ate up the barren land on all sides of its outskirts. A sprawling mess, a chaotic blob that pretended to have a shape, a mismatched collection of buildings that grew ever outward and upward. Its gleaming towers stretched toward the sky, reaching for the key that would unlock the bars of their earthly prison, leaving their older, shorter brethren far behind. These older buildings were hollow concrete relics, left rotting from a derelict age in some century better left forgotten, with its barbaric wars and infantile struggles. They squatted next to the towers, relfecting none of their aspiration or hubris. A gnarled thicket of gas powered roads twisted around the buildings and cheap imitation centers of nature, while the guide lights burned with steady patience, bobbing slowly in the sky as air cars sped by dispassionately.
Dispassionate. Now there was a word to describe a city in metaphorical ruins. The city didn't look run-down; but it felt run-down. The sense of decay permeated the air, coated every surface and poisoned the water table. The city was falling apart at every level, slowly crumbling even as its concrete, steel and glass stood bravely against the increasingly harsh winds and even harsher winters.
From this far out, Brandon realized, the city looked shiny and new. It was a fairy tale, a bubble that would pop as they rolled into town, close enough to see the fading graffiti and tired people, the bulletproof glass on home fronts and electrified fences on the schoolyards. He wondered what it was that Taj saw of the city and wondered what sort of reaction his friend would have once the glossy distance was behind them and they were staring the cold hard truth in the face.
Taj had come from a tiny backwater town in eastern Æsturia, a podunk town of 156 miserable people trying to scratch a living where no living was to be made. Taj was one of four people in his age bracket; there was only one kid younger than his bracket and he had been a newlywed mistake. About 80 of Taj's fellow podunkers were over the age of sixty and the rest were spread in increasingly smaller numbers as their age brackets went younger and younger.
Taj was a bright kid, Brandon knew, having met him entirely by accident when his air car had burst a rear flap, on a trip to take to see a town he'd recently discovered, with the same name as the street he'd grown up on. Taj had helped him patch the flap into position - a feat that had taken twelve days, during which time he and Taj had shared a tent. So when Brandon had finally been upgraded in his personal quarters from a single occupant unit to a 1 1/2 occupant unit (a euphemism for sex and sleep over, Brandon privately thought), he had immediately told Taj to get his "scrawny podunk ass out of that shit hole you like to call a town and over to my place - you're moving in." And Taj, after half a second's deliberation, had packed his single bag's worth of belongings and hightailed it out of his home village.
But, watching the slow, silent awe with which Taj was regarding the glaring city, Brandon could only think that getting Taj to this particular city - or any city in the realm, really - probably hadn't been the best idea, considering the cold-hearted reality that lay in wait for them. Brandon steered his air car along the lit path, blue on his right, green on his left, and waited for Taj to say something - anything.
But Taj remained silent, staring at the city with a hunger that Brandon found vaguely disturbing, and new doubts and worries began pouring through his head.
In the past, Angie would have just gone straight home to imagine herself in a world far away, doing incredible things that would have her one true love sweeping her off her feet and begging her to marry him. Now, though, years after this glossy, shiny fairytale version of love been swapt away by the realities of life, she just went to see her friend Toni. Toni had this amazing way of making Angie feel like she was the most important person in the worlds - and this amazing thing se did with hir tongue.
Toni was both a man and a woman, and yet neither at the same time. Toni fascinated Angie, in all of hir tall lanky glory. Every night spent with Toni was an adventure, and Angie learned more and more about herself every time she saw Toni.
Toni was a loner. Though se knew more people than Angie ever wanted to know, Toni preferred to keep to hirself, spending the nights with a Bib-Vid and cup of hot Choco-Swirl. Once, when Angie was feeling at her lowest, she had asked Toni if she was imposing, but Toni had denied that thought so profusely and warmly that Angie didn't feel guilty for taking Toni away from hir reading. And just a couple weeks ago, Angie had overheard several of Toni's friends talking about how unfair it was that Toni liked Angie and not the rest of them.
Angie realized then that they were right. No one else was welcomed as warmly and enthusiastically as Angie. No one else was touched as freely by Toni. And while Toni was more than willing to engage in pleasure acts with virtually anyone, no one else got to spend the night.
This night, she told herself, she would head over to Toni's, but not for sex. No, tonight she would curl up beside Toni with her latest Bib-Vid and see if she could share some of Toni's Choco-Swirl.
"Hey! Buck-wit. What're you doin'?" Harley leaned over the back of Marshal's chair to look at the Comp. Her long blonde dreads fell against Marshal's head. Harley grinned and let the dreads hang until Marshal decided to do something about it.
Marshal sighed, rubbing his face with his hands and leaning back in his chair. Harley's dreads brushed irritatingly against his skin, but he couldn't be bothered at the moment. "I'm finishing up my Bib-Vid."
"Yeah? You've got it almost done then?"
Marshal flicked some of Harley's hair out of his face. "Just the conclusion and then editing." He smiled blissfully at his Comp, already high with anticipation of the relief he'd feel at a long project finally done.
Harley planted her elbow on the back of Marshal's chair and stuck her butt out for the students to stare at. She leaned in close to Marshal, trying to make out the symbols on the Comp screen. As usual it was gibberish, but she wouldn't embarrass herself by telling Marshal that.
"What did you write about?" She asked, sticking the end of a dreadlock in her mouth absently.
"Earth, back in the 21st Century."
Harley snorted, tossing a loaded sidelong glance at Marshal. "Okay, you can stop being an ass and tell me the truth."
Marshal looked at her startled. "I am telling the truth."
"Psh. Yeah right, and I'm the bucking Green Fairy." Harley straightened.
"Did you know that back then when the word 'buck' was first used, it was actually pronounced 'fuck'?"
Harley stared at him. "No wonder that era is off-limits. Stupidity must be contagious." Marshal shrugged non-committedly. "Look, Marshal, you can't be serious about this, can you?" He nodded. Harley rubbed her eyes, planting a hand on her hip and throwing an agitated glance around the room. "Okay. Okay, Marshal. You do realize that that era is on the WatchList, right?"
"Yes."
Her voice was soft, quiet, barely enough for Marshal to hear, because if she were heard... "And you realize that if you were caught by the Watchers, you would be arrested, detained, questioned and possibly executed for high treason?"
Marshal was calm and cool as he looked at her, face serious, set in the stubborn way he had. "Yes, Harley. I'm aware."
She pressed a clammy hand to her forehead, her stomach tied itself into burning twists, and her knees went weak. "You have a death wish." He remained silent, staring at her with those cool, knowledgeable eyes of his. She sighed, knowing that anything that happened to him would inevitably be passed onto her, if only by pure association. "Why is this so important to you?"
"Because we have to know."
Harley laughed, strained and timorous. "No. No, we don't have to know. That time is better left forgotten."
Marshal inquired mildly, "And how would you know?"
Harley remained silent, starting at the floor by Marshal's shoes. "'Cause it's treason" she muttered. But the words sounded hollow to her, like a good schoolgirl reciting propaganda by rote. And that's exactly what it was, except that she had never been a good schoolgirl, choosing instead to lift paints and practice her art on the school walls. Silence stretched between them, charged and thick, steadily growing with each passing moment. Marshal was her best friend, geeky as he was. And the last thing she wanted was to hurt her friendship with the geeky and insanely amazing Marshal. She glanced up at Marshal's hands as he busied himself with locking the Comp down.
"So, why's that time so interesting, then?"
Marshal glanced up startled. "You want to know? Honestly?"
She offered him a weak smile - the best she could do. She was dead, she knew. "Of course, you buck--" She chuckled. "Fuck-wit."
The smile that spread across Marshal's face was worth any punishment the State could dish out.
Marshal was an historian. If it dealt with the past, possibly explaining how they ended up where they were, he wanted to know. He wanted to examine everything that had happened before. And not just the before that the State had okayed, but the real before. The before that came before the before.
But, Marshal's true love and hobby had to be carefully hidden from the rest of the world, for real history, true history, was a betrayal to the State. At first, he couldn't understand why the State felt so threatened by the truth. How could events that had happened a thousand years ago have any bearing on what was happening now? How could an ancient civilization have any influence on the sanctity of the current administration? But the more he learned, the more he realized that dangerous things lurked within the well of knowledge that was forbidden to all.
However, he could not be stopped from plowing through the muddled messes the State had made of any document even remotely pertaining to the past. It was frustrating to search for something that had been carelessly tossed away, burned for the sake of preventing knowledge. Yet from the hazy bits and pieces he had been able to piece together, it was an act that all States performed, not just the State that he lived under.
He wanted to march up to those in charge and demand vengeance, even though there would be severe repercussions for him, admitting so freely that he had dabbled into realms forbidden.
But, he had discovered, slowly and with much difficulty, that there were others out there that were like him, that hungered and thirsted for knowledge. And it was to this small circle of friends that he shared his findings.
It was empowering, knowing something the State was against. But it was more empowering, a feeling Marshal equated with ruling the world, to share that same information.
He had known Harley since his school years, when he was being taught instead of doing the teaching. He had been required to take an art class of some sort in order to fulfill his degree. At first he had scoffed over the imposition, and had opted for a painting class early in his schooling to get it over and done with. It had been approximately ten minutes into the first class of the 'Mester when his protests had died and had decided that the art requirement was a very good idea. Harley had waltzed into the classroom ten minutes late and slid into the last remaining stool, which had been for the easel next to him.
He had ended up taking two more art classes; just to make sure his requirement had been filled, of course.
And it wasn't until much later that he found out that Harley wasn't even in school.
Toni, he had met in his last year of 'Versity. Se was only a year or two older than he was and already comfortably immersed in hir world of critiques and reviews. The two of them had been at the same social gathering, rubbing elbows with the up-and-coming and the elite and high society flakes, as Toni liked to call them. Toni had been among the elite, while he had been up-and-coming. Toni had brought Angie to the circle a year ago: fresh and curious, bright and eager, Angie had engaged him in many a debate. And Marshal, after hashing out a new discovery or theory with Angie, oftentimes found himself revising his theory to add the insight that Angie had provided.
And then there was Taj. Taj was a fresh face in his history classes, a clever kid, anxious to learn and absorb everything he possibly could. From math to art, literature to history and everything in between, Taj had his hand in, hoping to learn something, anything more.
Taj was neither shy nor reserved, though Marshal did know that Taj was discrete. And trustworthy, for he would not have continued his discussions and frequent meetings and lunches with Taj if Taj had turned out to not be trustworthy.
Marshal had come to know Taj in true 'Versity form. Taj, being enchanted with Marshal, could be found in a virtual permanent occupation of the sole visitor's chair in Marshal's cramped office. Eventually, getting tired of being stuck in the cramped and paper-strewn office, Marshal suggested lunch, well, dinner by that time, really.
So their conversations happened over lunch or dinner, lasting well into the evening.
Taj leaned forward conspiratorially with a crooked grin on his face and wariness in his eyes. "Look, Professor. This is all well and good, but there has got to be something more than this."
Marshal slowly leaned back in his chair, fiddling absently with his fork, spinning, rolling, stabbing gently at the tabletop. He sized Taj up, reassuring himself that the man who sat in front of him, naïve eagerness pouring from every facet of him, was in fact the man he had decided to trust should the subject ever be breached. But this outdoor 'Versity café was not the place to discuss that which was treason.
With a vague smile to match his vague words, Marshal replied: "There is more to everything, Taj."
It wasn't the City's fault, Brandon reminded himself. The reminder was a daily mantra uttered silently to... What? he wondered. To make him feel better? To alleviate any guilt or any blame, perhaps? To make him forget, possibly? There were hundreds of excuses and rationalizations he could offer himself, but the fact was, was that Taj had made his own decisions, and nothing that Brandon did or said could make Taj change.
But, the cockroach of a thought wriggled in the back of his mind, if he had left Taj to rot in that backwater shit hole, if he had never brought Taj to the City, then, perhaps Taj would still be....
No, it wasn't the City's fault, and it certainly wasn't his fault for Taj's corruption. No, that responsibility went solely to that Professor Marshal character.
It was supposed to have been him who showed Taj the wonders of the world at large, not Professor Marshal. It was supposed to have been Brandon to whom Taj looked up, not Marshal. It was supposed to have been Brandon's name on Taj's lips, not Marshal's. Marshal, Marshal, Marshal. It was all that Brandon heard anymore. How great Marshal was, how much Marshal knew. It was never supposed to be anyone but Brandon.
But Taj was drifting off, and every time Brandon tried to hold on tighter, Taj slipped further and further away.
"Taj," Brandon pleaded, afraid that Taj would leave, would find someone better, would run to that Marshal prick. Taj looked up at him, face clear, from his books, pen stopping in its hasty scribble. "Taj, please. Can't you tell me what is bothering you?"
Taj cocked his head to one side, absently stuffing the end of the pen between his teeth. Brandon stared at the pen as Taj's tongue came to tease it gently. Brandon swallowed. "What do you mean? Nothing is bothering me."
"You're different. You have been for a while. I'm concerned."
Taj smiled. "I'm learning, Brandon, that's all. Just learning and expanding and growing."
"But you'll leave me behind!" Brandon resisted the overwhelming urge to slap his hand over his mouth. Instead, he twisted his lips disapprovingly, ashamed at his outburst. But Taj only smiled, eyes big and soft, wet like a puppy's. Sometimes, Brandon hated Taj's innocence. But even more so, Brandon always hated the people who would take advantage of Taj's innocence.
Taj put his pen down and closed his books, leaning back against the couch. "Brandon. I'm not going anywhere. I'm very happy where I am. And I won't leave you behind."
"But--"
"What? What's bothering you?"
And sometimes, Brandon thought bitterly, he really hated how perceptive Taj was. But Taj was softhearted, always giving in to a choked up tone, or a pleading look. So, how to play to that? How to turn this conversation to his advantage?
"You're going to leave me behind."
Taj pulled his legs to his chest, hugging his knees. "No I won't, Brandon. I already said that I wouldn't."
Brandon sat down and affected a look of devastation. It wasn't that hard to pull off the look simply because it was truthfully how he felt, just nowhere near as strongly as he was making out. But it was more important to keep Taj with him, by his side, than it was to keep his own pride.
"I'm not that smart." Brandon sighed regretfully. He hoped that he wasn't pilling it on too thick, but it was too late to back out now. "Not near as smart as you. I won't be able to talk to you anymore and you'll go away."
Taj gazed at him sympathetically. "No matter how much I learn, we'll always be able to talk. You are smarter than you think, Brandon."
"But I don't know what it is that interests you anymore. What are you learning? What is it that absorbs you?" Brandon inwardly winced at how pathetic he sounded. He hoped that he wasn't playing it too far up, that Taj didn't pick up any insincerity in his demeanor. Not that there would be much to pick up, Brandon reflected, not with the exaggeration of already present feelings and fears.
Taj studied him carefully and silently. The weight of his stare was heavy, and Brandon envisioned the stare as a physical thing, feeling him, measuring him, judging him and finding him severely lacking.
But Taj seemed to come to some conclusion and relaxed, stretching his legs out and pulling a Bib-Vid out of his bag. "I got this from a friend today. I think that you will find it as fascinating as I do."
"We must liquidate all of the deviant variables in our society."
"That is why I am here." Brandon watched as orders were given and received by the man's quiet and professional taping, his work at the Comp punctuated by well-timed nods. He sat baffled as men poured in and out of the bland doors at the back of the sterile office. He watched his Savior carefully. "Taj is just a kid. Just a stupid kid from a podunk backwards town. He was a victim of Marshal's diabolical plan. You'll save him, right? Save him and let him live his life peacefully?"
The Savior just stared at him, nodded once and returned to the paperwork strewn across his desk.
The door crashed open, sending loose papers fluttering and busting open the flimsy drywall where the knob punched through the wall. Marshal jerked awake, heart pounding, sitting up and throwing the covers aside. Panic raced through his system, ramping up as he searched the dark room for the source of the noise. He reached for the light switch, sidling out of bed, careful not to present his back as a target. He was tackled, sliding off the bed and crashing to the floor with a heavy thump that snapped his shoulder out of place with the additional weight of a heavy body.
He knew he cried out with pain; it was too blindingly hot of a pain to remain silent about, especially when his assailants were wrenching his arms behind his back, heavy boots digging into his back, crushing him to the hardwood floor.
It was cold. Cold and drafty. She could feel frigid metal under her legs and against her back. Her shoulders were strained; her hands numb. She was sitting. She could feel cold and rough concrete beneath her bare feet. The realization that she was naked crawled slowly through her from her feet, up. Well, whoever had put her here had been gracious enough to leave her in her underwear.
The room was small; she could feel the pressure from the walls beating at her ears. There were people in the room with her, she could tell. She looked around, finally realizing as she moved her head that there was a blindfold on.
She panicked.
Her canvasses were in tatters; her paintings ruined. They had not stopped there, though. Her hands were useless, every bone crushed, fingers twisted and mangled. She couldn't feel her hands, though, and for that she was oddly grateful. But she could see the bluish tint of her skin below the ice and was smart enough to understand the implications of frostbite. Her fingertips, where they peeked out from the intermittent cover of ice, were black.
She wondered when they were going to kill her.
She wondered if Marshal was already dead. Even though it brought a sour taste to her mouth, she hoped that he was dead, for then he wouldn't have suffered as long. Although she knew that it was wishful thinking, she continued to delude herself anyway.
Brandon watched Taj sleep, the heavy bruising slowly fading away. They had Saved Taj, had given him back, had let him have a second chance. And Brandon would be damned to the same Hell that Mar-- that thing was currently residing in before he allowed Taj to ruin his chance. Brandon would make sure that Taj didn't give in to temptation, that Taj was never even around temptation.
Taj and his 'Versity days were over.
The Saviors had managed to place Taj in the same company that Brandon worked for - a good wholesome company. Brandon was confident that he could watch out for Taj, monitor his every move and be there when the slightest deviation was in sight to steer Taj away from corruption and toward Salvation.
Brandon was still upset that Taj had been returned to him in such poor condition, but really, Taj had deserved it, after all. Perhaps he would learn from his punishment - be thankful that he had gotten off so easily and realize just how lucky he had been to have found a friend as good as Brandon.
the end
