Freedom (5/?)

[rainweaver13.livejournal.com]

Title: Freedom 5/?
Author: Rainweaver13
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando/some Sean
Summary: A highly trained empath's first case is a shattered mystery man.

AN: This chapter is a little short, but it's heavy going in places so I didn't want to make it any longer. BIG OLD UGLY ANGST.

Rating/Warnings: Sci-fi AU. Suitable for adults who can deal with adult language, brutal violence and intense situations.
Disclaimer: This is complete fiction. To the best of my knowledge, neither Orlando nor Sean Bean are empaths, nor has Viggo ever been a battered amnesiac. It's something I dreamed up. It has no relation to reality, and I'm not making any money from it.



Bloom, Orlando, Emp. C1
Case #723, John Doe 439
Case notes
I was jarred awake early this morning by the previously unheard sound of someone banging at my door. I was almost too groggy to wind my way through the narrow path between books and stacks of notes without falling, but pleased to find that I automatically reached out to read the person on the other side of the door.

Irritation overlaying a small burst of excitement overlaying ongoing boredom. A watcher, then.

Running a hand through my hair I pulled the door open. "Yes?" Blinking against the bright light of the corridor.

"Your John Doe is calling for you."

I froze for a moment, startled. Calling for me. "How long?"

"Started about a half-hour ago." The watcher was slumping back down into boredom now that he'd delivered his message. "Shouting at first, but not any more."

"Half an hour!" I dashed back into my room to grab a clean uniform, stripping without a thought in front of the watcher. "Why didn't you alert me sooner?"

I could feel the shrug, even though my back was turned and I couldn't actually see it. "Thought he'd stop."

Pulling the tunic on and snapping my ID into place, I barged out past the watcher, jerking my room door shut behind me and setting off for the ICU at a fast trot.

-----
He huddled in his safe corner, wedged in as tightly as possible, all his paper blankets pulled in, around and over him. Long tangled hair and haunted blue eyes under yesterday's purpling bruise were the only things visible. The first time I heard his ragged voice say "Ahrri" in a tone of utter desolation, I almost turned around and went to Sean's office to tell him I couldn't do this. But I watched him on the monitor as the watchers attached my throat mike and slid the small recorder into place. Watched as his head fell over against the wall and he murmured "Ahrri" again, with such loss and betrayal I could feel it through the thick padded walls.

And I knew this was why I'd been given such a difficult case: To prove that the strength of my ability wouldn't be overpowered by the problems it would encounter. If I could help John-not-John out of this wasteland, I'd prove myself strong enough to help others.

I knew I would do whatever it took.
-----

Bloom, Orlando, Emp. C1
Case #723, John Doe 439
Session 5.1

I clear my throat as I enter, and tired but wary blue eyes turn to track me. I'm open to him so I feel a burst of hope and what feels like pleasure, but it's tempered by wariness and uncertain betrayal.

I cross to the end of his mattress and stop, not invading his safe space. "Hello," I say, somewhat foolishly. "I came as soon as I heard you wanted me."

His brows draw down and he cocks his head slightly, trying to worry the sense out of that long sentence.

I try again, dropping slowly down to my haunches to be on his level. "You called me?"

He licks his lips, which are dry again I notice, and split from yesterday's fiasco. "Ahrri."

"Yes. Here I am."

He drops his head and I open to him a bit more. A confusion of emotions runs through his jangle of mind, so many and so fast I can't sort them out. Not quickly enough to help. Then his shoulders shake once, twice and he locks himself up tight. And all I can feel is steely determination.

"Ahrri hell no hurr," he says carefully, his head still down, and I can feel him wrestling with something that doesn't want to take shape on his tongue. "Tank. Ahrri."

With that he looks up, hesitant, and his eyes are bright. "Tank."

For a heartbeat I'm losing myself in his eyes, so full of pain but so willing to be generous. "You're welcome," I manage, before I embarrass myself.

He extends one hand, palm up, and looks at me. "No hurr?" And mimes raising his palm to his mouth, tongue flicking out to catch the imaginary pills.

"Yes." I nod, berating myself for not thinking of this. "Wait." As if he's going to go anywhere.

I trot over to the door and send for three aspirin and, glancing over at his empty water jug, a glass of water. I have them in a matter of moments and go back to his corner, stepping just near enough to put the tablets and water on the floor in front of him before stepping back to the end of the mattress.

The relief he feels at the arrival of the simple analgesic is somewhat humbling. It's easy to forget the crippling power of pure physical pain. Watching him take the three tablets slowly and carefully, I tell myself I won't forget this lesson. You can't heal a person's mind if the body just hurts.

Add to his orders: Aspirin to be given on a regular schedule as determined by chemist.

He watches me so closely, and even though I know it's just because he's trying to read my body language, looking for clues, it's an unnervingly intense gaze. Moving slowly, he picks up the edge of one of the blankets and, with an effort, tears a narrow strip from it. Still watching me, he grasps the strip in one fist with an end extending and brings the fist toward his shoulder.

Now I'm watching him as closely as he's watching me, and he taps one finger of his casted arm against his temple. The steely determination shifts to add a sense of compulsion to watch, to understand, as he mimes the motion again.

Of course! It's giving an injection. I nod to let him know I understand. Now he's showing me, clumsily and hard to make out, images of yesterday, from his perspective. The needle came. He was scared. He ran. He woke alone, no idea what had happened. He called for the only person he knew. No one came. He was scared.

Before I can make the decision to stop myself, I walk over to his corner and sit down beside him with only a couple of feet between us. He makes no move to get away.

"I'm sorry I wasn't here."

"Ahrri no hurr."

"I'm sorry I scared you with the needle." I mime the injection. "It was to help the hurt."

He shifts uneasily under his rustling coat of paper, searching for a word and trying to shape it. "Scare."

"You're scared of needles?"

He nods uncertainly, watching me.

"Do you know why?"

Slowly his head shakes.

"Maybe you saw a lot of needles when you were a child?"

His bright intelligence, freed from the burden of constant heavy sedation, makes him more of a partner in this search. I can feel him prying around the jumble of his mind, trying to find something to latch on to, something that might help. Again, after a while, his head shakes slowly.

We sit in commiserating silence for a moment. I don't know what he's thinking about, but I'm busy being boggled by the fact that a few minutes ago he actively helped me access a recent memory. He all but pushed the playback button and shoved it in front of me. Whoever John Doe is, he's not just some vagrant. He's got Talent of some kind.

His fingers, two of them, tap my knee gently. I look back at him. He is frowning slightly, but he is emanating excitement, albeit a terrified sort of excitement.

"Need." He mimes the injection again, without the paper strip. "Fine need. Hell." He flattens his hand on my knee. "Ahrri loo. Ahrri ..." He grimaces as he can't find the word in his excitement, but he lifts his hand away to clasp it with his other hand. He looks at me expectantly, gripping the hands together.

"Hold?"

He nods, once, relieved. "Ahrri loo. Ahrri hol I." And with that he drops his head and opens his mind to me, absolutely unguarded, in an act of trust that nearly takes my breath. I open myself to him and pause in the face of the jumble, trying to work out what he's seen, what he's found about needles that he's willing to let me access. I pull up my Telepathy, which is nowhere near as strong as my Empath skills but useful in situations like these, and after what seems like forever of just scanning the landscape of shattered mirrors, I see one that seems whole. Moving into it, I find-

"Get the two young guys first."

"Hey, gimme that zap, this one's moving."

"No sweat. Once you pop'em they won't be moving for a while."

Hard laughter. Dirt floor or very dirty floor. Blood dripping steadily onto the floor below. Arms hurt, burn like fire. Back hurts, strained. Move head a little can see Karl's head beside. Blood slides from under dark hair to the floor, mingling with yours.

"I'm scared," you whisper and to your shame you know you're crying.

"Be strong, little brother," he whispers, barely audible. "Try to live."

"Hey, shut up over there." Something hits Karl with an audible whoosh and a thunk and he screams although Karl never screams and you cry more.

"This pissant's such a crybaby. I think he's more of a girl." A hand slaps your ass and you try to struggle but you're bound in such an awkward position you can barely more. "Let's pop this one first. It stops'em from making sounds but not from crying. I want pretty girl here to cry me a river." More laughter.

And then the needle. Short, ugly, with a bulbous syringe. Jammed into your neck and within minutes you can't move. Can't talk. Can't make a sound. Can only move your eyes and they cut you down and go to work on you and you don't miss any of it and you can't do a damned thing and they do things just to make you hurt and things to make you hurt more and somebody breaks your arm and god it hurts it hurts and the burns and knives cut this, cut that, suck this hey he can't suck fucking useless can't swallow that's damned funny look at this watch him cry, and rape rape rape again again again they spill out of you down your legs and blood is everywhere and you can't call can't scream can't say anything and then they start on Karl and you can't move, can't look away, have to watch and you watch watch watch watch watch watch-

I wrestle myself free of that horrific memory with an effort that leaves me panting and then I realize John is still just sitting there, head down, shaking, trembling from head to toe, counting on me to hold on to him, to not let him get lost. All because he so trustingly wants to help me find the problem with needles.

I open to him again, cautiously and restrained, and find him perched on the edge of his own mind, ready to fly free at the least provocation. I need to call him back, but what do I call him? Dammit, we need his name. Names have power, even now.

"Hey, it's Ahrri," I say gently. "Time to come back. I've got you."

Even in his mind, he's fading out. It would be so much easier for him to just quit trying than to come back and fight for more of these horrid memories.

"You made me promise, remember? Orli look. Orli hold. I did what I promised. Now it's your turn. Come back... little brother."

That might have been a worse mistake than the needle.

He shimmers, then turns toward me. "Karl?"

"Just Ahrri," I say. "But I'm here. I'm holding you. Come on back now." And with that I break about another half-dozen regulations and touch his head, stroking the rough tangled hair.

There's a breath-holding moment when I'm not sure which way he'll go, and then, surprisingly, comes the sound of weeping. First quietly, then increasingly harsh, deep, rasping sobs, ugly crying.

I do the only thing I can. I slide over beside him, put my arms around him, and try to wick a little of the worst of it away.

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My daughter would love yoru icon. Ben Browder was her first crush. gald you liek story
Rain