Fullmetal Alchemist Fan Fiction / Cowboy Bebop Fan Fiction ❯ Once More, With Pirates ❯ The Line Begins to Blur ( Chapter 25 )

A/N: Well, I'm finally getting over the creeping crud. Expect updates a little more often than they had been. And before I get any complaints about not showing the questioning part, give it time. There will be questions asked.

 

Special thanks goes out to The Dark Lord for his help in Middle Eastern culture, and words. The words rast megee jabeh are Persian, and authentic. Rast = truth; rast megee = tell me the truth; and rast jabeh = truth box, the formal being rast megee jabeh, or “tell me the truth box”. The court hearing is also Middle Eastern based, but some artistic license was taken by me, and any glaring inaccuracies are purely mine. Thank you also to my beloved for his assistance in choosing the chapter, and song title.

 

The Line Begins to Blur

 

There are things that I said I would never do; There are fears that I cannot believe have come true; For my soul is too sick and too little and too late; And my self I have grown to weary to hate - Nine Inch Nails (With Teeth)

 

 

Havoc heard a sinister hiss from the black box next to him, and he edged away, nearly stumbling off the raised platform.

 

“Q, what kind of kangaroo court is this?” Jet asked.

 

The entity smirked, but it was Scar who answered, as he stared around in something akin to awe. “It's an Ishballan court.” He leveled his gaze at Mustang, and added, “But from at least a century ago.”

 

“I'm somewhat familiar with the history,” Mustang said. “We won't be questioning the defendant directly, correct?”

 

Scar shook his head, and faced Q. “There is supposed to be an interlocutor, if you are intending for this trial to be authentic.”

 

“What do you think you are?” Q asked.

 

Scar glared at the entity. “I cannot. I'm an outcast.”

 

Q lifted a brow and stared down at the Ishballan from the raised throne. “That may be the case, but you were intently studying your culture's history before the war escalated, were you not?” He came out of his casual slouch, and leaned close to Scar. “You also assisted your brother with record-keeping before he became an outcast, as well. Didn't you?”

 

Scar didn't flinch or step back, but held Q's steady gaze with his own. “That was modern-day court,” he said. He nodded toward the back box near Havoc. “We disposed of the rast jabeh a century ago. We are enlightened enough to understand that neither the scorpion, nor the asp can determine truth.”

 

Q smirked, and came to his feet. “You're right, scarred man. Neither can determine the truth,” he said as he crossed to the witness platform. On the way, he glanced down at McKenna, who looked up at him with wide, frightened eyes.

 

He laid a hand on the top of the box. Another angry hiss emitted from it, causing Havoc to cast a wary look at it. Q seemed to find the Second Lieutenant's reaction humorous, but didn't comment. Instead, he looked back at Scar. “But it did serve a vital purpose at the time.” He smiled coldly. “I took the liberty of putting a nice modern twist on the rast megee jabeh.”

 

He faced the three men behind the narrow pedestals, and fixed his gaze on Riker. “You're familiar with old Earth literature, Commander Riker. Do you know what a gom jabbar is?”

 

Riker's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

 

Jet's went wide. “You can't be serious, Q,” he said.

 

Q cocked a brow at Jet. “Oh, I am impressed. You didn't strike me as the type of man who was interested in reading anything deeper than the current true crime magazines.”

 

“The fact that I can impress you thrills me to death,” Jet said blandly.

 

Mustang and Havoc looked from one man to the other, lost; and the tell-tale twitch of the Colonel's brow alerted his Lieutenant that he was growing annoyed. He could see the man's fingers quiver, and knew he wanted nothing more than to snap.

 

“Excuse me, Gentlemen,” Mustang said. “Perhaps you could enlighten those of us who haven't read the same literature?”

 

“The gom jabbar is a needle dipped in a fast-acting poison,” Riker said, keeping a hard, level gaze on Q. “Held at the jugular of a person being tested to see if he's `human'.” He nodded at the box. “That… box is the actual test. It would cause an increasing pain to the person being tested, while they held their hand inside of it. The pain was purely mental, though. Even still, if you jerk your hand out, you're immediately killed by the poisoned needle.”

 

Mustang's eyes went wide. Havoc edged further away, and slipped off the platform. It was only by sheer force of will that he was able to gracelessly catch himself before being humiliated a second time.

 

“Q you can't determine if someone is telling the truth by torturing them!” Mustang protested. “All you'll get out of them is what you want to hear.”

 

Q chuckled, and strode around the platform to Havoc. “That much is true, Flame Alchemist. Which is why this gom jabbar; or rast jabeh isn't quite the same.” He stopped directly in front of Havoc, and pinned him with a look. “If you lie; if you hesitate, you will be in excruciating pain. It's quite simple. Tell the unvarnished truth, and you'll come away with your hand intact.”

 

Havoc's jaw set, and his eyes narrowed. “Fuck you Q,” he said low. “I don't need a damned torture box to tell the truth. Ask me what you want. I'm not sticking my hand in that.”

 

“If you intend to tell the complete truth, then you have nothing to fear, do you?” Q said. A slow, cold smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and he added, “Of course, keep in mind, the price for refusing to cooperate.”

 

Havoc swallowed hard, and glanced at Mustang.

 

The Colonel's dark eyes flashed briefly, then the mask fell back into place. “It appears that we have no choice in the matter,” he said.

 

Q smirked, and strode back to the black box. “Ah, but you do, Dear Colonel,” he said. “There is always a choice.” He faced Havoc, and gestured at the box.

 

“Some choice,” the Lieutenant said, as he stepped back up on the platform, and stared nervously at the box. “Torture or destruction of the entire human race in three universes. Both sound so appealing.”

 

Sweat trickled from under his bangs as he stared down at the box. He took a deep breath, and slowly reached toward the opening. Just before he slipped his hand in, he hesitated. “It's all in the mind,” he said quietly.

 

He glanced up at Q, as if for confirmation. The entity just smirked, and said, “Indeed. But the mind is inextricably linked to the body. What the mind perceives, the body will experience.”

 

Havoc's eyes went back to the box. “Gee, that's… comforting,” he mumbled. He closed his eyes, set his jaw, and slowly slid his hand into the box. Revulsion washed over him as the `occupant' of the box enveloped his hand. It was warm and wet, and brought back one of his more unpleasant childhood memories with a rush.

 

Jean Havoc had been a farm boy before joining the military, and had done his fair share of disgusting chores with no problem. But one time he had to help with a difficult calf delivery. He violently lost his breakfast the moment he had to shove his arm to the elbow into the cow's womb, and was never enlisted to help with birthing again. In his defense, he had only been ten when it happened, but it was a memory that remained fresh throughout his life.

 

Every instinct within him screamed to pull back out, but he mentally fought hard for control. His hand twitched only the tiniest bit, but something needle-sharp suddenly bit into his wrist at the movement and sent a surge of hot, stinging pain up to his shoulder. He hissed, and forced his hand to still.

 

“Lieutenant?” Mustang said.

 

Havoc opened his eyes, but the grimace that twisted his lips remained. “I'm alright, Colonel. It's just a little… gross.”

 

Q smirked at Havoc, and strode back to the throne. He casually waved a hand back as he climbed the dais, and sheaths of paper appeared on both the pedestals, and in Scar's hands. The men looked down at them, puzzled. “Your questions, Gentlemen,” Q said, as he sat.

 

“You're not going to let us decide which questions to ask?” Riker asked.

 

“You've already made the decision, Commander,” Q said. “I just extrapolated the information you've collected from your ship's computers.”

 

Mustang skimmed over the list, and furrowed his brow. “Some of these questions have absolutely nothing to do with the charges, Q.”

 

“You'd be amazed at what you can find out about a person when you ask the right questions, Colonel Flame,” Q said. “Shall we proceed?”

 

0o0o0

 

Havoc gasped, and fell against the wall. He felt like he'd been twisted and wrung, and put away wet. His right arm hung limply at his side, and he was almost afraid to look at the damage. It stung in a thousand places, and ached all the way up to his neck. The right half of his chest and back throbbed in sympathetic agony, and he was certain slime was dripping from his hand.

 

It's over, he thought as he chanced a glance at his surroundings. He was back in his quarters on the Enterprise. He ran back through some of the questions he was asked, and they made little sense to him. Questions about his time serving in Ishbal were to be expected. It was the personal ones that confused him. What was the point in asking about his relationship with Mustang? And why was he forced to admit he harbored a secret resentment over the man's love life? So many of the questions were so intensely personal, that the men asking them looked as if they were in physical pain.

 

It was nothing compared to how Havoc felt being forced to answer them. He felt dirty, ashamed, violated. He felt like he'd been raped.

 

He felt like he'd been standing on that platform for days instead of hours, and after awhile, the lines between who was supposed to be the prosecution and the defense blurred. He felt like he'd been the one accused, and charged.

 

The burning pain in his hand gradually faded into numbness, and he dared to bring it up to eye level. It was, to his amazement, unscathed and unslimed. But that didn't alleviate the surge of nausea that welled up. His legs felt like jelly, and he was certain that if he tried to move away from the wall, he'd collapse in a heap, but he didn't have the luxury of staying put. Not if he didn't want to embarrass himself again.

 

What seemed like hours later, he raised his head from its pillow on one arm and the toilet seat. His right arm remained down at his side; whether it was all in his head or not, it still felt disgusting, and he didn't want it anywhere near any other part of him.

 

The brief thought that he was currently envious of Fullmetal for his ability to be able to detach his arm went through his mind, and a manic giggle burbled up from his chest that threatened to become an insane cackle if he couldn't clamp down on it in a hurry.

 

When he was finally able to get himself under some semblance of control, he stripped, and stumbled into the shower. He ran the water scalding hot, and scrubbed at his right hand until it was raw. But he didn't think any part of him would feel clean again.