Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction / Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Once More, With Pirates ❯ Is it Real? ( Chapter 8 )

A/N: Ooooh! I didn't intend for this to take the entire chapter, but Scar is such a fascinating character, and his thoughts and feelings in this strange environment just took over. I want to think I kept him well in character. This is the impression I get from him, and how he would react to a different environment. Let me know what you think.

 

Chapters: 8

Word Count, This Chapter: 2458

Word Count Total: 24,486

Words Left: 25,514

 

 

 

Is it Real?

 

Set my mind for open sky, but couldn't fly, so sadly; What am I? What am I? Sullen eyes shed teardrop lies then criticize, now laughing; What is real? What is real? It's really all become too much; I'm not sure what I should feel; I guess I've finally had enough; I don't know if this is real; I'm crashing in and out of touch; Can anyone please explain? -- Tim Jensen, Yoko Kanno (Cowboy Bebop OST)

 

Scar had wandered the infernal ship for hours, and had managed to stumble across the arboretum. It was quite by accident, actually; but a blissful respite from all the gloss and lights and soullessness of this technology-dominated world.

 

All he wanted to do was stay as far away from McKenna as possible. Part of him wondered if it was a deliberate act of the officers; to test him, and see if he would hold to his word. Yet another race of people who had no real understanding of the soul of an Ishballan, he thought. They were military. They'd listen to one of their own, first.

 

The place was disturbing to him. All their technology tread a very fine line toward alchemy, especially with the food and clothing processors. But he had no choice in the matter. He could not refuse food; he needed to remain alive to complete his divine mission. And his clothes were in desperate need of mending and cleaning. He was silently grateful that the processor had pictographs for the clothing, since he had no idea of the language he needed to describe what he wanted. He had to silently admit he was impressed by the fact there was something in the selection that resembled traditional Ishballan dress, though. At least with these clothes, size didn't much matter.

 

But when the quartermaster showed him the facilities, and especially the shower, he was appalled at the waste of water. He was told that the water was never wasted, but sent through scrubbers and recycled. He still seriously considered avoiding it, though. However, his own scent suggested otherwise, and there was no fine sand mixed with herb oils to be had here.

 

He couldn't deny the decadent pleasure he felt at standing in the shower, feeling the needle sting of hot water running down his body, breathing in the wet steam. Bathing in water was a purification ritual for his people; and that water was usually ice-cold. This was a most different sensation. A small sigh of pleasure dared to escape his lips, as he felt tension pour out of his body, and down the drain with the hot water.

 

His hand slid up his brother's arm, and he stared at it. He never thought he would miss seeing those accursed tattoos every morning when he woke up, but looking at the bare arm now, he felt a sharp pang of emptiness. A part of him was missing. A part of his brother was missing. The grief was sudden and overwhelming; as fresh as the day his brother was murdered. He held the arm close to his chest, and choked back a sob.

 

It wasn't until he entered the common room of the suite after his shower, that he found out McKenna had been assigned quarters here, as well. She looked small and frightened standing frozen in the middle of the room. A surge of anger and disgust shot through him, and he felt his own hands tense. It would be so easy to just snap her neck right there, right then, and be done with it. But he gave his word. Instead, he turned on his heel, and stalked out of the suite altogether.

 

He had no idea where he was going to go, or what he was going to do while he wandered through the wide, carpeted corridors of the ship. He knew he was on a ship. He understood the concept, even. But it hadn't really sunk in what being on a spaceship entailed. He hadn't seen the screen that dominated the bridge until after the Captain had ordered it off, and the windows… ports, he corrected… were covered in the War Room. As far as he was concerned, it was an environment that was contrived, and sterile. Even the very air smelled wrong. There was no hint of the outside in it at all.

 

So he wandered aimlessly and kept to his own thoughts. It didn't take him long to regret his choice of clothing, either. He noticed the people as he passed them, and no one was dressed as he was. The choice was practical, but it also made him more noticeable. After spending years trying to remain invisible, it was an uncomfortable feeling. He even regretted the loss of the tinted glasses he wore to hide his red eyes.

 

But he gradually looked around at the people he passed. The clothing was often similar; uniforms he realized. But the people were all very different. The range of skin color was often dramatic for those most like him; but there were others that were so vastly different he wondered if they were even human at all. Such as the Security Officer, and the Homunculus… Android… named Data.

 

One thing he had begun to notice when he held his head up, was the distinct lack of fear and loathing in the eyes of these strange people. They all nodded in greeting. Some smiled, some did not; but none of them showed any animosity. It was… disconcerting, to say the least.

 

He had no idea of the time he'd spent wandering the ship, but he knew he was growing tired, and came to the inescapable conclusion that he was completely, and utterly lost. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, and his head down. It was time to decide, and plan what he needed to do, since he couldn't wander this ship indefinitely.

 

It was that moment that he heard the soft sound of a door sliding open, and was hit with the scent of warm, rich earth, and perfumed flowers. He looked up, and saw a glimpse of what lay beyond the door as a young couple wandered out. They were talking in low tones, and he knew the quality of the voices. He didn't want to interrupt their romantic mood, but he desperately needed to know what was beyond that door.

 

“Excuse me,” he said, and they stopped. Their faces were fresh and unmarked by tragedy; their eyes expectant, and warm.

 

The young man smiled and said, “Can I help you?”

 

Scar nodded toward the door. “Can you tell me… what lies beyond that door?”

 

“Sure,” the young man said, and he stepped back over to the door. It obediently opened for him, and again Scar felt the rich scents roll over him. “It's the ship's arboretum.”

 

The young woman said, “It's about the closest thing you can get to being planetside here.”

 

Scar stared in wonder at just the hint of the size, and asked, “Would a guest be allowed the privilege of entering?”

 

The young man looked at him oddly. “Of course. It's there for everyone to enjoy.”

 

Everyone, he thought, as he entered. Everyone. The very word held a mystic, magical quality for him. He was never everyone. He was an Ishballan; reviled by the rest of his world at large. He was an outcast; marked by a brother who practiced the dark arts, and thus disowned by his own people. And he was a killer. Alone, even among outcasts, for his holy mission.

 

He discovered the meditation pond soon after entering, and settled in the carefully manicured grass next to it. It was clear and stocked with large ornamental fish. The multi-colored glass beads and stones at the bottom reflected the reddening light as the ship created a false sunset in the arboretum. He looked up at the contrived sky of the enormous room, and sighed. Even here, I cannot escape the artificiality of this world.

 

He resigned himself to the fact that he was stuck here, and at least the arboretum was leagues better than being in close proximity to McKenna. He stared into the reflecting pond, and tried to still his mind. He doubted he would get into a deep meditative state here. He hadn't achieved one in so long as it was. He always had to keep one part of his mind alert, no matter what. Such was the price he had to pay for his mission.

 

He was tired, though. And his fatigue enabled him to lose himself in the shifting pattern of the light reflecting off the surface of the water. He hadn't realized just how deep he'd gone, until he heard the small gasp next to him. He blinked, and jerked his head up, mentally cursing himself for allowing his guard down. Then came nearly nose-to-nose with a small child that had intensely blue skin and eyes. He had no idea if the child was male or female, but he sensed that it was female. Her white hair was gossamer threads that reminded him of the silk of a butterfly cocoon, and she bore a pair of antennae that were quite animated. He was momentarily stunned silent at her beauty, and had to consciously stop himself from reaching up and touching her.

 

She smiled brilliantly, and chirruped. Then she said, “Your eyes!”

 

Instinctively he wanted to look down, to hide his Ishballan red eyes from her, but he couldn't.

 

A larger version of the child arrived, and chirruped at her in a scolding tone. It was then he realized that it was their language, and not just sounds. He also steeled himself for the disapproving glare; the fear and loathing he was accustomed to.

 

Instead, the parent nodded at him, and smiled. He (She? Scar couldn't tell) then spoke in a melodic tone, “Please forgive my daughter, Stranger. She doesn't yet understand the ways of other people, and their need for solitude.”

 

“Papa,” she said, tugging at his tunic, “Did you see his eyes? They look like the sunset at home.”

 

“Yes, they are beautiful eyes, but you were impolite. You must apologize.”

 

The little girl came back up to Scar, and bowed contritely; with exaggerated solemnness for one so young. “Please forgive me, Stranger. I meant no disrespect.”

 

Scar couldn't help himself. He smiled. “You are young. It is easy to forgive our children.”

 

She chirruped gleefully, and then stunned him with a quick, light kiss near his temple. Before he could shake himself out of his shock, she had run off with her Papa.

 

Unconsciously, he reached up and lightly touched the spot she had kissed him. That one small act, so innocent and accepting, had shaken him much deeper, and more significantly than all the nods and smiles he'd experienced so far.

 

He watched the child pass the small, elegant woman he'd seen on the Bridge earlier. Counselor Troi, he reminded himself. The woman was coming his way, but she took the time to greet the child with a warm smile.

 

When she reached him, she nodded, and gave him a similar smile. “Hello Scar.”

 

He glanced back at the child, now further in the distance. “The child…”

 

Troi looked back over her shoulder. “That's Mirrah.” She faced Scar once more. Her smile was warm, but the depth of her eyes was discomfiting.

 

“What is…” He realized he was at a loss for words. The child was not properly human, but she was no abomination, either.

 

Troi gestured to the grass next to him, and he nodded. She sat down, and said, “Mirrah is Andorian. It's a world different from the ones humans come from.”

 

Then she became serious, and said, “I want to apologize for the mix-up in assigning quarters, Scar. I assure you, it was not deliberate on our part.” She sighed, and leaned back a little. “Unfortunately, it is liable to take some time getting corrected. We're picking up a group of physicians, and their quarters have already been assigned.”

 

He regarded her in silence a moment. “I gave my word, Counselor. I will honor the truce as long as I remain on your ship.” He glanced up, past her shoulder, and saw the guards in the distance. “You don't need to keep constant watch over me.”

 

Troi glanced back, and then faced him again. “They are there for your protection as well, Scar.”

 

“Protection?” he asked in disbelief. “For a killer?”

 

“You're not from a Federation world,” she said. “It is not our job to judge. But as long as you are a guest on this ship, your life will be protected like everyone else's.”

 

He cast a significant look in the direction of the guards, and asked, “Does everyone have guards assigned to them?”

 

She smiled a little. “No. But not everyone is sleeping in close proximity to their worst enemy, either.”

 

He cast an ironic smile at her, as he got to his feet. “Then… I am not like everyone else, am I?”

 

She studied him a moment, then got to her feet. He was struck again by the depth of her eyes. She sees deeply, he thought. It made him uncomfortable, because he wasn't sure if allowing her to see deeply into his soul would be wise. He also had the strange feeling that if she wanted to, he wouldn't be able to stop her.

 

“Tell me about your world, Scar,” she said.

 

Instead of answering her, he turned and started to walk away. Before he'd taken a step, he felt her small hand on his arm. Soft, strong, and warm. He looked down at the hand. It was long fingered and as elegant as she was. Pale and smooth; not calloused with a hard life, and harder work.

 

“How would someone who has never toiled in the blistering sun for her very survival understand?” He asked, not looking into her deep-seeing eyes. Bitterness crept back into his voice. “How can someone who has never lived in fear of rape from soldiers, or seen her children butchered in front of her very eyes be able to possibly comprehend my world?” He jerked his arm free of her grip, and left the arboretum.