InuYasha Fan Fiction ❯ Purity Redux: Anhanguera ❯ Razed ( Chapter 13 )

“Master . . .?  Ma-a-a-aste-e-e-er . . .”

Uttering a terse grunt as he rolled over and buried his face deeper into the pillow, Caipora tried to ignore the persistent little bird that kept pestering him.

“Master . . . It’s time for breakfast!” she said, tugging on his blankets as he waved a hand to shoo her away.

It didn’t work.  Worse yet, she giggled at him.

“What have I told you about laughing at me?” he muttered, stubbornly refusing to open his eyes.

“But you have to get up,” she told him earnestly.  “If you don’t, your breakfast will get cold, and I made your bath . . .”

Heaving a sigh since he had the feeling that the little monster girl wasn’t going to give up until he got out of bed, he tossed back the covers and stood, wincing a little since his back was inordinately sore.

She danced around him and hopped onto the bed to shake out his sheets.  “I’m not bouncing!” she announced since she usually got reprimanded for getting sidetracked and always ending up, jumping on the bed.

“I can hear you, you realize,” he pointed out dryly, lumbering off toward the bathroom and ignoring the breakfast that he rarely ever ate.

He’d barely gotten into the bathroom, grabbed his toothbrush and glanced up, just in time to see her little head, bouncing up and down, and he sighed.  “Five . . .”

She squeaked.  A moment later, he heard a slightly louder thump as she landed on her butt on the mattress.  “I’m not bouncing!” she insisted as she skittered into the bathroom.

He spared her a very suspicious look as he jammed the toothbrush into his mouth.

In usual fashion, she hopped up on the counter, hands folded in her lap, and watched as he brushed his teeth.  How it could possibly be interesting enough to warrant daily watching, he didn’t know, but she invariably did as she held onto his rinse cup.  Then she handed that to him when he was ready.

“You can go eat my breakfast if you want it,” he told her—also not an unusual thing since he’d never been big on food first thing in the morning.  He didn’t remember when that first started.  She’d argued with him at the time, saying that she’d already had her meal, which she had—a small bowl of bland porridge and a glass of water.  He’d caught her, staring longingly at the arepa stuffed with chicken and avocado and some fruits along with coffee and a glass of juice, and, while he drank the coffee, that was about as adventurous as his morning habits went, so he’d told her that she could have it, and she’d argued until he’d ordered her to eat it . . .

“Okay!” she agreed easily enough, hopping off the counter and skipping out of the room.  He watched her go, shaking his head just a little, wondering once again, how a small slave girl could be so perpetually happy . . .

Having brushed his teeth, he slipped into the tub, grimacing slightly at the very hot water.  Another Saturday morning, but today was slightly different.  Today he had no lessons for once.  Since the last virgins had left yesterday, the new ones hadn’t been moved up just yet.  What it meant for him was that he had nothing to do today.

It was just as well, as far as he was concerned.  In the two days since that awful incident with the virgins, Caipora wasn’t inclined to want to be near them just yet.

Common logic told him that what he’d done, he’d done because he couldn’t stand to see it, going on and on.  That was of small comfort when, in the depths of his dreams, he was made to relive it over and over.

Something deep inside him had shifted, too—something that had started the night with the bottle.  The delicate balance that he’d existed upon for so long was tilting, and, while he knew that he dared not resist the overmaster, no matter what kind of monster he truly was, he couldn’t stomach the idea of submitting to him, ever again, either . . .

Or maybe it was just the words that Anhanguera had whispered to him that night that felt like a lifetime ago.

“Ah, my Caipora . . . You always have a choice . . . There are certain circumstances, though I suppose I shouldn’t tell you about that.  You know, in case you were ever tempted to challenge his authority on a whim.”

‘What . . . did he mean . . .?’

Even so, he had to wonder, just how many virgins did Domajin have to destroy before Anhanguera intervened?  The loss of profits alone had to be staggering, even from just one virgin.  435578 could have easily been taken to the regular sex-slave camp, which was what Caipora had assumed at the beginning, and, had there not been the odd whispers of his involvement, then she would have been—whipped, perhaps, but that healed quickly enough . . . She may not have commanded the price that she would have as a virgin slave, but she would still have been very valuable, just for her face, alone, and 984152?  There was no way around that.  The only reason she’d been made to suffer was because she dared to give him a drink of water.  Domajin had hidden that behind the guise of her acting out of orders, but anyone would realize the truth of it.

As if that weren’t bad enough, Caipora had found Kato yesterday down by the beach, half in the water, having torn his own throat wide open.  His blood was soaked into the sand, his eyes open and still full of that shock, that horror that Caipora knew first hand, never truly went away.  Kato hadn’t been able to reconcile what he’d seen that night.  He’d taken the easy way out of it . . .

Letting out a deep breath as his head fell back, as he closed his eyes, he tried to will away the questions.  Maybe Kato had taken the easy way out, sure, but then, if he were honest, truly honest, with himself, wasn’t he just a little jealous that he couldn’t do that, too?  It was easy to try to say that he was stronger than that; that he could bear the burden of everything he’d seen and done since arriving here in this place, but how much truth was there in that, really?  Maybe the true strength lay in the ability to remove oneself from the hell, to never allow oneself a chance for redemption—if there really was such a thing . . .

The soft little thuds of tiny feet coming closer made him turn his head, crack his eye open.  Five stripped off her gown and slipped into the tub with her little cloth to wash his back.  He leaned forward, resting his upper arms on his raised knees, letting his head fall forward as she diligently scrubbed him clean.

“Master?”

“Hmm?”
< br> “When I grow up, will I be chained to one of those racks, too?”

Head lifting abruptly, he turned to stare at her.  Five was leaning on the side of the tub, wiggling around as she struggled to reach the bottle of shampoo.  “Why would you think that?” he growled, unable to repress the irritation that shot to the fore; the idea of the little girl, trussed up on one of those monstrosities.

Frowning as she concentrated on squeezing a glob of shampoo out of the bottle, she shrugged offhandedly.  “You were on one,” she pointed out.  “435578 was on one . . . Was she bad because her skin tore?”

“No, she . . .” Trailing off, hating the idea of lying to the child—unsure why he even cared at all when he’d already told so many lies and intended to tell so many more . . .

She shrugged again.  “Then the master would beat me?”  Her eyes opened round, a strange sort of light aglow—a light that Caipora did not want to understand.  “Would you beat me on it, Master?”

It felt like the breath was knocked out of him.  Staring back into her startling, with such a frank and frightening expression—a morbid curiosity—banked in those eyes . . . “I . . . No,” he said, swallowing hard, hating the lie that he was telling her.  Or . . . Or was it . . .?  “I wouldn’t . . .” He grimaced.  “Just . . . Just be a good girl, Five.  Do whatever the masters tell you, and . . . and don’t argue with them, okay?”

Her frown deepened, turned more introspective.  “If I’m good, I won’t get beaten?  I won’t get put on The Rack?”

“I-I-I . . . Uh . . . N-No,” he heard himself say, brushing aside the many times that the slaves—that he—was shackled to The Rack when they hadn’t done a damn thing wrong, either . . . A sudden flash—a grown up girl with hair so blonde it was almost white—hair that carried a slightly bluish tint, eyes downcast, trying in vain to restrain her fear, her cries, when that lash came down—when she was violated in every way that was possible . . .

And he grimaced because that was the reality for a slave like her . . . The ugly, ignoble reality . . . Slaves lived, and slaves died, and no one gave a great goddamn . . . and it was something that not even he could save her from . . .

‘Five . . . I can’t . . .’

“We’ll refuel and stuff.  We’ll be ready when you get back.”

Nodding quickly, Caipora turned, quickly hurried away from the helicopter as it slowly wound down.

It was the first time in . . . In a long time that he’d been sent into Maiquetía . . . The last time was when he was still stationed at the Meat House.  That time, he’d been sent to deliver a slave to one of the purveyors at a ratty old bar near the ocean.  This time, he was picking up a shipment of necessities.  All he had to do was to sign on the dotted line, basically.  Then he’d be free to do whatever he wanted while they loaded the helicopter and got it ready for the return trip.

He located the shipping yard easily enough.  They were arranged by letters surrounding the small landing pad.  After a couple minutes of checking to make sure that he was who he said he was, they allowed him to sign for the cargo, promising that they’d have it loaded before two.

For a brief second, he considered, simply staying around, getting the hell out of there again, but he did rather need to get a few pairs of pants since his seemed to keep getting ruined.  Besides, he was the boss on this little venture.  The helicopter would wait for him.

The city was a curious mix of old and new, of rich and poor.  The area where the shipping office was located was one of the more ramshackle areas with tired-looking little shops interspersed with homes that looked like little more than hovels on the packed and narrow streets, many of them, stacked up in such a way that he wasn’t sure how they stayed erect.  Yet, there was a certain warmth that seemed to live there, too.

He could have easily gone deeper into the city, but he didn’t rightfully care as long as the pants he found fit—and these shopkeepers needed the money more than the flashier big stores farther inland.

It only took him about half an hour to buy ten pairs of pants and a few shirts—mostly black since that was the color most of the trainers wore.  Checking his watch, he realized that he had a ridiculous amount of time to waste, so he found a small café that was little more than a couple rickety old tables set out on a small and dirty veranda.  It didn’t matter, anyway.

He was drinking a cup of very strong coffee, watching as the children ran down the street, playing with a ratty old ball that looked like it might have been older than him, a small smile, toying at the corners of his lips.  Those children—normal children—had no idea the ugliness that lived so close.

The sudden image of Five flashed through his head—of her curiosity, of her brilliant smile . . . Staring at the playing children, his smile faded.  For a moment—only a moment—he saw what it would have been like, if she were one of those dusty but happy children.  Her laughter would have trailed out behind her, her bare feet, grayed with the dirt of the street, and she’d spend her days, playing ball and tagging along with her friends . . .

But just as quickly as the image had come to him, it faded, only to be replaced by another one—a darker one—of a grown up Five, strapped to The Rack . . .

He willed away the imagery.  Better to try to focus on other things because there was no comfort in those thoughts at all . . .

Digging out his cell phone, he frowned.  It had occurred to him that he could easily call Eduardo away from the confines and cameras and perpetual spies.  Even so, this phone was issued to him when he’d started working for the organization, and, while he didn’t know if it was bugged, he couldn’t really take that kind of a chance, either . . .

Dropping some money onto the table, he slipped back onto the street, blending easily into the milling crowd until he came to a small shop that sold cell phones, it said.  There was a good chance that the phones were illegally obtained, but he didn’t much care.  He only needed it for a few minutes, anyway.

He paid a lot more money for a cheap and ridiculously basic phone, but it was prepaid, so he figured that it was good enough.  Wandering down to the beach, weaving between cheap metal houses with just enough space to squeeze through sideways, he was satisfied enough that no one was near.  Most of the people who lived here were busy, trying to hustle to make a living.  On that beach, there was a small outcropping of rocks that hid a tiny strip of land—at least, until the tide came in.

Dialing the number, he leaned against the rock, careful to keep monitoring the area for anyone or anything.  The call connected after the third ring.

“Eduardo St. George.”

“Hey,” he said.  “It’s me—uh, Diego.”

“Diego,” he repeated, the squeak of his desk chair loud in the background.  “What are you—? How are you—? Did something happen?”

“No,” he replied, letting out a deep breath, irritated that he had to reassure the South American tai-youkai.  “I’m . . . running an errand.  Going to throw away this phone when I’m done, and I don’t have a lot of minutes on it.  Just wanted to touch base with you—and I wondered if you could, uh . . . If you could do me a favor?”

“Anything, anything . . . Whatever you want.”

“I need you to contact them.  Tell them that every six months isn’t working.  Tell them to deliver a year’s worth next time.”

“A year’s worth?  But they won’t agree to that.  They want to see you—to know that you’re alive.  You know this.”

Dragging a hand over his face, he grimaced.  “I know,” he replied.  “You’re wrong.  They don’t want to hand over a year’s supply because they want to keep thinking that I’ll walk through the doors any time.  You’ve got to understand, there are cameras everywhere out there.  I risk everything, every time I go there to meet with them.  I’m being watched.  Everyone is.”

“Watched?  Why?”

He snorted.  “Because Domajin’s a sick fuck, that’s why.  Anyway, please.  Just . . . Just convince them.  I’ve got to go.”

“Wait!  You—”

He hung up the phone with a heavy sigh, stared at it for a long moment before bracing his stance, drawing his arm back to launch it into the sea.  Suddenly, though, he stopped, lowering his hand slowly, staring at the device as another thought occurred to him—one he really hadn’t considered before—and before he could talk himself out of it, he flipped the phone open, dialed another number.

Waiting, listening as the phone rang on the other end, he swallowed hard, willing away the dizziness that swept through him.  It had been almost nine years since he’d called this number.  It could have easily been changed at some point . . . The dread and the fear—fear?—mingled with a sense of unmistakable excitement, even as the voice in the back of his mind berated him for doing something so incredibly reckless.

“Hello?” the cheerful female voice answered.  She paused, waited, as his grip tightened on the phone, as a pain so deep, so dark, spiraled through him, as he swallowed hard, blinked fast, wanted to open his mouth, to reply, but knowing that, despite his desire to answer her—he just couldn’t do it . . .

“Hello?” she repeated, her voice taking on a hint of confusion.  “Hello?”

“Who is it?” he heard the masculine voice in the background.

“I . . . I don’t know.  Maybe it’s just a wrong number . . .” she said, her voice muffled, as though she were holding her hand over it.  “Hello?”

All too soon, she sighed, ended the connection.  Caipora let out a deep, shaking breath, closing his eyes as he snapped the phone closed, held it tight for only a moment before he launched it out into the sea.

Sinking down in the sand as the lick of the harmless little waves pulled in close beside him, he covered his face with his hands, positive now that the one moment of weakness was a huge mistake.  The cavernous emptiness that surrounded him was harsh, ugly.  He hadn’t felt this way in so long, and as terrible as it was, there was something almost comforting about the idea that anything could touch him so profoundly . . .

The dull pain that resonated with every beat of his heart took a long time to subside.  As welcome as those voices were, they had the power to hurt him, too, and it wasn’t really something that anyone would understand.  After all, it was his choice, wasn’t it?  His need to play hero . . .

“Are you sure this is what you want to do?”

Packing just a few things into a black leather backpack, he slowly turned to stare at her.  “I’m . . . I’m sorry.  I have to do it.  It doesn’t really have a thing to do with, ‘want’ . . . That’s not something that even makes sense.”

“It’s so dangerous, and you . . .”

“Lots of things are dangerous.  It doesn’t mean that it isn’t necessary.”

The sadness in her aura as she ducked her chin, wrapping her arms around her stomach, as though she simply needed someone to hold her . . . After a moment, though, she lifted face, a gentle smile brightening her aura.  “Just come home safe, okay?  Even if it takes a while, just promise me that you’ll come home.”

Letting out a deep breath, he stepped over to her, hugged her tight.  “I will.  I promise.”

She nodded, blinking back tears that gathered in her eyes.  “See that you do.”

Brushing away the memory—something he didn’t often allow himself—he gritted his teeth as the ache in his chest reached a new level of pain.  On that day so long ago, he’d really thought that it would be such an easy thing, that he’d be back home before he knew it.  Thinking about that day—about the naivety that he’d carried around with him back then . . . It was a terrible feeling.  Giving in, calling her . . . It only served to remind him, and that reminder was painful.  It was the first time since he’d left that he’d heard her voice, but as much as he hated the overwhelming sense of loss, a part of him couldn’t be sorry.  Hearing that voice—those voices—after such a long time . . .

It reinforced the reason why he was there—why he was subjecting himself to all of it . . .

Even if he couldn’t keep that promise . . . Even if he knew deep down that he could never could go home again . . .

The sun was sinking over the ocean when Caipora stepped into his quarters after spending the bulk of the afternoon, getting the helicopter unloaded, inventorying the stock items and putting them away.  Dropping the bags onto the sofa, he heaved a deep sigh and shrugged off his jacket.

Five skittered over to him, taking his jacket and carefully brushing it off with her hands before stowing it into the heavy wardrobe.  “Master!  I missed you!” she chirped, careening around on her heel, she took off to go fetch his supper before he could stop her, tell her that he wasn’t really hungry.

He pulled the clothes out of the bags, tossing them into his laundry bag for the next time the slaves gathered the wash.  He was in the middle of stuffing the empty bags together into one of them when she returned with a very healthy tray of food as he pulled a smaller bag out of his satchel.  “Did you do well in your lessons?” he asked her, reaching for the cloches, frowning at the food.

“I didn’t get smacked,” she told him, sinking onto her knees beside him—her customary spot while he ate.

“And did you eat your dinner?” he asked her, dropping the covers and reaching for the sealed bottle of cachaça.

She nodded.  “We had a big, fancy meal with lots of bread and meat and fruit . . .”

“You’re not supposed to lie to your masters,” he reminded her mildly.

She sighed, her face shifting into a very pronounced pout. “I wish it wasn’t,” she muttered.

He very nearly chuckled at her flip response.  He didn’t, but he did smile the tiniest bit.  “If you’re hungry still, eat this,” he said, waving a hand at food arranged on the coffee table.  “I ate in the city.”

She shot him an incredulous look, probably because it was a lot of food.  “Really, Master?” she breathed almost reverently.

He rolled his eyes and stood up, wandering over to the balcony and opening the doors.  “Eat what you can, Five,” he told her.

She didn’t have to be told twice.

Frowning as he surveyed the twisted merriment going on so far below, he grasped the railing, steeling himself against the unholy draw—the music, the aggression, so rife in the air . . . The angry yells, the heady sense of absolute abandon that carried even to him where he stood . . .

The screams, the grunts, as the matches shifted into a show of ultimate domination . . . He wasn’t as affected by it as he usually was, and that was a relief.  He wasn’t sure, but he thought that maybe it had something to do with just hearing those voices, even if he couldn’t answer them.

In the hours that he’d spent, sitting on the beach, just thinking and trying in turn, not to think, he’d realized in a vague sort of way that what he’d gotten from that call was something that he’d so sorely needed, even if they’d never know.  The will to continue when he’d felt as though he were simply being carried along, as he’d lost focus on the ultimate goal, even if that hadn’t been his intention . . .

Unfortunately, he knew, too, that there really wasn’t a way to rush anything.  All he really could do was to bide his time until an opportunity presented itself.  Anhanguera was the goal—the prize.  Unless or until he was summoned to him again, Caipora had no choice but to wait . . .

“I ate too much,” Five groaned, shuffling out onto the balcony beside him.

Dragging his gaze off the debacle below, he cocked an eyebrow when he saw her, tiny hands braced on her lower back, sticking her non-existent belly out.  “Wow . . . Did you eat it all?”

She heaved a sigh, shook her head sadly, undoubtedly because she wanted to, but simply could not.

He ruffled her hair.  “Take the dishes to the kitchen.  I have something for you when you come back.”

She looked truly befuddled by that: not surprising, given that she’d never been given anything before.  He could see the questions forming in her gaze, and he raised an eyebrow in a silent reminder that she needed to obey him.  She wrinkled her nose but hurried away to remove the tray of food.  He watched her go for a long moment before turning and heading back inside, too.

She returned so quickly that he had to wonder if she hadn’t run the whole way, and he shook his head.  “Did you get in trouble for running?” he asked her.

She shook her head.  “Everyone’s outside,” she told him.  “Well, the masters are, anyway . . .”

He shook his head since she was probably entirely right.  “Wipe off the table, then you can have your surprise,” he told her.

Her little face scrunched up in a thoughtful sort of expression.  “What’s a surprise, Master?”

He wasn’t sure why her question caught him off guard.  It shouldn’t have.  Slaves were never given anything at all—nothing in the way of anything that could be considered to be a luxury.  In truth, he didn’t know why he’d bought what he had.  He supposed that it had just been a whim.  Even so . . .

He picked up the small plastic bag, dug into it, only to bring out a thick coloring book and a box of twenty-four crayons that he promptly set on the table before her.  She blinked, stared, her eyes going wide as she leaned from side to side, inspecting the items from all angles.  “Is . . .? Is this for me?” she whispered, turning that wondering gaze on him for a few moments before she looked back at the book and crayons once more.

“You can’t take them out of this room,” he warned her.  “I’ll put them in the wardrobe.  You can color if you want to.”

She carefully reached for the book like it was the most precious thing on earth, and something about that . . . It bothered him, too.  She didn’t seem to notice the scowl on his face as she studied the book from all angles, setting the crayons aside for the moment, simply content to turn page after page, to look at the images—the outlines in black ink, printed on the thin, fibrous paper.

“What are you doing?”

“Shh . . . I’m picking the prettiest picture . . .”

Flinching inwardly at the sound of those voices that had come, unbidden, into his head—the voices of a long-forgotten memory—he pulled out a book that he’d bought for himself, cracking it open to read.  Five kept leafing through the pages, taking such a long time as she stared at the pictures.