Gundam Wing Fan Fiction ❯ Silent Revolution ❯ Chapter 7

Chapter Seven - Owie I

 

Warnings: flashback/ memory of potentially disturbing content.

 

 

`….Owie….' A low, pain filled groan echoed throughout the seemingly tiny, cold metal space.

 

“AH!” He let out a gasp, pain shooting through every inch of his body. His nerves seemed to be on fire - a result, no doubt, of the concoction of new chemicals they had injected into his system; even a gundam pilot couldn't be immune to everything, after all, not after all the technological and biological advances forced upon them because of war. A slow scientist was a useless scientist, after all, which meant a dead scientist. The faster one researches, the more likely one is to stay in favour.

 

Not an inch of skin failed to scream at him, crying out in pain. Hundreds of tiny little lines covered his body from small, precisely made cuts. Some from scalpels made by the dear-doctors attempting to verify who, exactly, he was, some from special interrogators brought in just for lil' ol' him, others from the regular guards, bored, seeking a brief amusement. His back alone was testament to that. Jagged lines, gouges where flesh had been torn out completely, entire strips of skin missing as though pealed from his back.

 

It had been years since he had last been whipped with a belt, not since his time on L2, on the streets, as a child. He had only ever allowed himself to be caught that once by a shop keeper.

 

She had looked so friendly and kind, the motherly, middle-aged type of woman. She hadn't been, though. Of course not. She had been just like everyone else on that godforsaken colony. Out for herself. Who could blame her? Life was too hard, too short in the slums of space.

 

She had a husband-the owner of their small bakery. He had been none too pleased to come home to his wife- the woman seething, though not letting the child know. She had been an expert at masks. She had had her husband completely under her control.

 

It was she who had told him-no, ordered him, to do it. And so he had. The massive, wall of a man-all muscle from years upon years of hard work, of lifting and working in intense heat all day, had taken off his long, thick, sturdy belt. It had had a slightly rusted metal buckle, from years of use and miss care. Small flakes of the metal had come off during the whipping, falling, worming their way into his wounds.

 

Rough hands and a gruff voice had ordered him into position, tying his hands in front of him to a piece of metal piping sticking out from the cold back store rooms wall with a piece of old, ratty shoelace. The same hands carefully removing his filthy, huge t-shirt from him moments later, as though remembering how hard it was to find clothing when on the streets, showing that much respect to the little urchin anyway.

 

He had screamed when the first stroke hit. The man knew what he was doing. He hadn't known it could hurt so much-not from a simple, single hit. He had seen one of the older boys' before-Junno, he had called himself. He had been nine, or about there, when he had gone into the trade. The trade, as they referred to it, was streetwalking, prostitution. Looked down upon by the majority of the thieves and beggars on the streets, the older ones-those who usually kept themselves to themselves, having long ago learned it was every man, woman and child for themselves, warned the children away from it.

 

Better to starve, better to catch the plague, better to be beaten to death, than to get involved in that trade. A sure-fire way to attract the wrong kind of persons attention-especially so young.

 

He had seen him that day. He had been looking through a dumpster. The market had been closed for almost three days, the weather system having gone on the fritz again; allowing freezing cold winds to let rip, and torrential rain to pour down, resulting in snow and ice across various parts of the colony.

 

He had seen Junno. Wearing those ratty, skin-tight jeans that he was so proud of - a gift from one of his first customers, and a much too large shirt left open-more than likely pilfered from another customer.

 

It had been his fault. It had been. He had been the one stupid enough to get mixed up in that business-everyone knew you just didn't do it. You didn't. Not that young. Not it you could help it. Not unless you were funny in the head.

 

But Junno had. And he had paid the price.

 

The wide, violet eyes of a child, three at that time, had watched, as a man- dark suit-black, burgundy shirt, black hair with grey peppered throughout, had backhanded the boy into a wall. He had grabbed him by the back of his neck when Junno had turned to run.

 

He weakly kicked and screamed, fighting his hardest to get away. But he couldn't. He had caught too many diseases from various sources by that point. The cold was getting to him. It was futile.

 

Even from that distance, he had heard the crack as the older boys arm had snapped like an old, brittle forgotten rats skull on a back ally floor. He swore people from miles around would have heard his screams.

 

One of the old tramps - Genève, in her early twenties, had come down for him. She had seen him, cowering behind the bins from her hiding spot in one of the warehouses. She hadn't had the heart to allow the boy to watch as Junno's trousers were ripped from him, the older man-a customer who obviously felt his prices unfair- advanced on Junno, crying and writhing in pain.

 

His first scream was like that, that sound Junno had made when his arm had been snapped. It had been shrill and panicked and pure and full of fear and pain. It shone with the innocent terror of a child, unable to understand why this was happening to him.

 

He had only been three or four at that time. But it had taught him well. After he was done, the man had looked apologetic. He had asked him his name. He hadn't known what to say. He couldn't remember a name. He could barely remember anything before the streets and the cold and the endless, sharp hunger pangs. Violet eyes-a gaunt, young face, something wet, dripping onto his face. Two older people-shouting at the violet-eyes girl? Teenager? Demanding….something.

 

He was going to let him stay the night, or give him something to eat-maybe both. He had kind eyes, for a L2 born and bread man. He had held him briefly, trying to comfort him as fat, desperate tears made their way down his tiny elfin face, leaving rivers of skin visible through the grime and dirt.

 

But then his wife had returned. She had said she would deal with him-see him back alright. She had taken him through the bakery.

 

He had glanced back, once, at the man who had caused him so much pain, and yet shown him more compassion than he could remember.

 

He had been led-dragged, really, by his arm. Her clean, weatherworn hands had gripped his tiny arm with a bruising force, digging into the filthy, delicate skin. She had taken him into one of the baking rooms.

 

She had lifted him up onto one of the counters, so she could speak to him, eye to eye. She had hissed what a worthless, thieving little street rat of a bastard he was. She had laid on thick the promises of what would happen should she see him again.

 

She held his arm over one of the hobs, pressing it down onto the red hot metal.

 

It lasted no more than a thirty seconds, a minute at most. To him, it seemed like an eternity.

 

His shrieks of pain and terror had brought the large man running. But all he could smell was his own sizzling flesh. He curled up into a ball, cradling his arm to his chest as he rocked, trying to comfort himself.

 

He was vaguely aware as the giant of a man hit his wife, backhanding her into a wall. There was shouting, one furious, one indignant.

 

He saw his dirty, ratty t-shirt fall to the floor, forgotten. He took his chance, darting out to get it, before running.

 

It had almost killed him, getting caught that first time. But it had also saved him. Genève had found him again, and this time, she had introduced him to some of the street rats his own age. To Solo.

 

 

 

The walls seemed to be pressing down on him. Never in his long, long, fifteen years of living had he felt the slightest twinge of fear when it came to the dark. When it came to water? Yes- never had an L2 gutter rat seen so much water as a river, let along an ocean. When it came to a forest? Of course- never before had he seen terrain such as that-so natural, the furthest thing from the man-made jungle he was used to surviving in. when it came to fires? Childhood had taught him that water was too precious of a commodity to waste on such things, and once on fire, it was likely to be recovered.

 

But the dark? Not during the cold, harsh dark nights on the streets as a child, living in warehouses and sleeping under dumpsters whenever possible. Not during his first trip off of the colony where he believed he was born on, when hidden away in that packing crate. Not even during that first night on Earth, when a storm so harsh it blocked out the moon and starts blew in, trapping him miles from his gundam, still too far from the safe house to make it back safely until morning, forcing him to spend the night in a forest.

 

It was so dark. So silent. Too much nothingness, pressing in on him, choking him, suffocating him, destroying him slowly from the inside out.

 

Bruised and swollen, mottled purple-blue eyelids fluttered open. Bloodshot eyes strained, trying desperately to see something, anything, anyone.

 

`Why cant I learn to just keep my big mouth shut?' He grit his teeth. He could feel the muscles in his face crying out in pain. He tried moving his jaw tentivley. It felt stiff and slow, protesting to the slightest of movements.

 

The soldier in him demanded that he first assess the situation, then his own condition. The teenager in him tried desperately to convince him to lie back down, give in to the pounding in his temples, just behind his eyes, that felt as though a gundam was stomping away up there, and go back into the sweet realms of unconsciousness.

 

Soldier won over teenager, as it had in every past instance.

 

He lay on the hard, cold metal floor of one of Oz's finest gundam-proof, all-inclusive suites. No bed, no sheets, no toilet or washing facilities of any kind. Not even a bucket. `Well, on the upside, they hardly ever remember to feed me, so needing the toilet shouldn't be a problem…for a while, at least' he thought to himself. He had half-surprised that they had remembered to give the cells a ventilation system. Prisoners, after all, hardly deserved to share the same air as them, did they?

 

He focused on trying to see past the pain. His wrists were still pulled tauntly behind his back, painfully positioned into metal, electronically locked cuffs. They tightly secured his wrists, preventing any real movement in his arms.

 

It was cold. He could feel the cool of the frigid, loudly gurgling air system seeping through his clothes in places, meeting no resistance in others, as his clothes, or rather, what was left of them, were torn and ripped, blood soaking the white to crimson.

 

Flashback

 

“Sssshiiiiit” Let out a hissed curse under his breath, eyes impossibly wide. He knelt on one knee, doubled over in pain. His stomach was screaming at him in protest to its rough treatment, as a large, dirty fist pulled away from the already bruised, abused flesh.

 

He stumbled toward, his arms previously wrenched painfully behind his back released suddenly. He gasped for breath, no witty retort or smart remark making it to his split, bloody lips. He was too busy focusing on breathing, on staying on his feet.

 

“Off”

 

He didn't spare them a glance from where he crouched on the metal floor, as the harsh voice of his guards reached his ears. His mind raced, replaying the scene again and again, over and over in his mind. It was as if he had been on autopilot from the second he had pulled that trigger. He took in nothing of what was going on around him, from the fight to his capture, his initial interrogation to his cell.

 

“I said, take `em off!”

 

The voice barked again.

 

Smack!

 

His face flew to one side, cheek stinging. He blinked, violet eyes turning slowly upwards to face his tormentors. There were three of them. Large, heavy men in uniform. Each face showed a different emotion. One, leering at him, his excitement obvious. One grinning, a manic, sadistic glint in his eyes. One cold, calculated, his anger, frustration more focused, channelled.

 

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

 

It clicked. “There's no fuckin' way I'm takin my clothes off, you sick mother fu-”

 

He fell as a steel-toe capped boot came in contact with his temple. He lay there, dazed, even his will unable to overcome the pounding.

 

“-all on orders. Need to check `em for evidence and weapons, don't we?”

 

He came around to hands. Hands holding him down with brutal, bone-bruising force, one pair on his wrists, pulled tightly, taunt above his head. One pair holding his ankles down and together. He squirmed uselessly, bucking against them. He swore, using every curse-word he knew in English, then in Japanese, then those he had picked up from a certain two pilots in Cantonese, Mandarin and Arabic.

 

They laughed. A final pair of hands ripped and tore at buttons and cloth. A knife appeared in the fray within minutes.

 

He wouldn't do it, though. He did not let one tear fall. His eyes closed for no more than a second, his gaze always locked on one of them, piercing them, penetrating them. They may have only been looking for now, humiliating him, roughing him up, getting started, following orders. But he doubted it would be the last of it.

 

End of Flashback

 

His chest still felt as though it was on fire. A mottled blue-black mass covered the once-pale expanse.

 

`One, two…shit, four' he pressed at his chest, gritting his teeth through the pain as he felt for broken ribs. He was on his back, thankfully. He couldn't have turned himself over for anything. `Dislocated shoulder' he guessed-he hoped. He was no perfect soldier-no setting his own bones; he knew if it were broken, he truly would be screwed. Not that he could put it back in place dislocated either, but still.

 

He managed to lift his head high enough from the ground, cautiously lifting his leg. His right ankle was a swollen mess. Sprained or broken, either way it would be a long while before it would be able to support his weight-even longer if it wasn't seen to sometime soon. `Shit….ShitShitShit!'

 

Moving caused wounds to reopen. Four gunshot wounds-none of them clean, each row swollen, infected, oozing and still containing their bullets; one in his left shoulder, causing muscles and tendons to cry, refusing to comply with the simplest of commands. One in his right calf, one in his lower, right arm, one wedged into his hip. A graze on his cheek from a near-miss oozed sluggishly. Every inch of visible, once creamy pale skin was now stained a dark blue-black, green-yellow, purple.

 

`Basically, I'm screwed. Completely and utterly screwed' He let out a hollow, half hysterical laugh. He had no chance of escaping, even without his current injuries.

 

He knew. Of course he knew. Even in they-even if the other pilots did, by some miracle, come back for him; it would all be over even quicker. He would be a liability, one that they could not afford. He would be terminated, `for the good of the mission,' no questions asked.

 

Of course, insulting the guards' parentage hadn't been his brightest idea. Nor had some of the variety of, ah, shall we say, creative insults towards their good selves during his interrogation helped his situation in the slightest.

 

After all, they still didn't know who, or why he was there. Just that he was. And their suspicions.

 

He let out a long, ragged sigh. He could feel it already-his breaths far too shallow and erratic to be considered normal. It was so cold. He was too far gone for his body to attempt to shiver any longer. He desperately wanted to shift, to find a more comfortable position. He knew it would do more damage than good.

 

`Look's like my luck's finally run out, ne, Shinigami? It's time to pay for what I've done. I know I won't be joining you up there, Sister Helen, Father Maxwell. There's no way they'd let me in up there with a blackened soul like mine. You, Solo, you-will you be down there to greet me? Always together-you swore to me, all those years ago. I don't think so, though. Selfless to the end, weren't you, rat-king? I'll bet you're up there with Sister Helen and Father Maxwell, laughing your arse off at me' His lips twisted involuntary into a small smile, sending painful twinges shooting through his face.

 

He tried to make light of the situation. ``Just my luck I'm going to die a virgin''

 

All those years of the streets. Sleeping in alleyways, behind dumpsters, in abandoned factories. Living hour to hour, going days without a meal. After being taken in by the church, it, along with his braid and the good Sisters cross, were all that he had left, all that was truly his. The only parts of him that had remained untainted.

 

Click. Swoosh. Thud. Thud. Thud.

 

“You Wish, pretty boy. You will be begging for death by the time that we are through with you.”

 

Six guards. Smirking. Getting closer. Too close. Too many. Too much.

 

Pain filled violet widened in fear. He tried desperately to push himself back, to make it to the wall, to try and escape.

 

The doors closed alone, in the dark, with only his six soon to be rapists for company. He whimpered.

 

“No…”

 

End of chapter Seven.

 

 

Authors Notes - Please review, and I shall continue to update. Also: The first chapter of `Somewhere I belong' was posted on Monday-chapter two should be up by early next week at the latest. Thank-you.

 

Just to let you know: the entire Duo's past thing, along with some of the more graphic descriptions of his state? XD Wasn't in the original re-write of this. It's just something that came to me whilst typing this up, and, I thought it would fit in nicely. : ) Let me put it this way: this chapter was just under three pages when I started typing it up XD