Freedom (6/?)

[rainweaver13.livejournal.com]

Title: Freedom 6/?
Author: Rainweaver13
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando/some Sean
Summary: A highly trained empath's first case is a shattered mystery man.

AN: There is a very distant character death in this chapter. Odds are you won't even recognize it, but for the ridiculously thin of skin, I figured I'd warn.

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
Eventually we got him calmed down enough to eat a bit of breakfast. This morning's treat was orange juice, which he sipped cautiously at first before looking at me with awe.

"Orange juice," I told him, clearly, with a smile. He was a wreck, tangle-haired, red-eyed, face still high with color, but he offered a tired smile in return.

"Lie," he said. "Lie oanjoos."

I chuckled a bit. "Drink all you want. Just don't make yourself sick."

So another tiny bit of the puzzle clicked into place. He'd never had orange juice. Breakfast went much better now. Since he was no longer convinced we were trying to poison him, he displayed a reasonable appetite, hesitating only at unfamiliar foods, and drank three glasses of orange juice. By the time he finished eating, he'd begun to yawn.

I stood and offered him a hand. I'd already crashed through every rule about not touching the patients, so a simple hand-up hardly seemed to matter. He took it with another tired smile, a small one this time.

"You need to rest." I pointed to his mattress. "I'll be back for lunch."

"Ahrri back."

"Yes. I'll be back in about four hours." No idea if he'd understand that, but it was worth a try. "You get some sleep."

His tired, bloodshot eyes studied mine, then he nodded slowly. "Seep." And moved away toward the mattress. I headed for the door.

"Ahrri?"

I paused and looked back. He looked uncertain, lost again in what must be to him such a strange world. Eventually he raised his right hand and mimed holding a pencil... or a crayon. "Bleesch? To wri?"

"Of course." I gave him a wide smile. "Someone will bring it to you, okay? Now sleep."

"Seep." Obediently, he folded himself down onto the bare mattress and curled up, pulling the paper sheets over the now-tattered pajamas.

I watched him for a moment, then stepped out the door into freedom he couldn't have, leaving orders with the watchers to give him paper and three crayons, fresh pajamas, and a glass of orange juice along with his water.

With every moment that passed, I was becoming more convinced that this man didn't really belong here. The problem was that I had no idea where he did belong.
-----

Bloom, Orlando, Emp. C1
Case #723, John Doe 439
Consultation 2: Senior Empath Sean Bean

As Orlando settled into his usual position to the side of Sean's desk, he felt the feathery touch of open greeting and returned it in kind.

"Five days you've been with our John Doe now," Sean said, rising and crossing to look out his window over the inner city. "How does his progress seem to you?"

"Quite good, actually," Orlando said, resting his hands on the folders on his knees and insisting that they stay there. "He's speaking, learning and remembering more words every day. He's losing some of his fear of this place."

"But not all."

"Certainly not all. Would you? We keep him locked up and sedated, and he's nothing to fill his hours with but to sit and stare out the window." Orlando stopped abruptly, realizing he'd begun to raise his voice.

"He still poses a potential danger to himself and others, Orlando," Sean said mildly, still looking out the window.

"Himself, maybe. But what others has he hurt since he's been here?"

In the silence, the faint classical music that served as Sean's constant backdrop seemed almost loud.

"I've checked his records, Sean. He's hurt no one but himself, unless it was by accident. He's not a violent man."

"What do you sense most from him, most constantly, I mean?"

"Fear. Fear and loss. At first there was a lot of betrayal, when he had no idea at all what was going on here and he thought people were intentionally taunting him or betraying his hopes. There's not as much of that in the last couple of days. He feels resigned."

Sean turned his back on the window, leaning against the sill, hands in the pockets of his neat fauxsilk suit. "You've broken a few regulations with him."

"He responds to touch."

"Most people do. There's a reason why empaths don't use touch."

"I know. I remember. But this isn't causing any confusion. It's helping me understand what he's trying to say. And it's helping him." Orlando paused to take a deep breath, slow down, and start anew. "Physical touch seems to help stabilize him. My guess would be that whatever his background, it involved a great deal of physical contact."

"And you think he has Talent."

"I know he has. At the very least, a degree of Telepathy. Broadcast telepathy. He used it on me, entirely effortlessly."

Sean pushed away from the window and strode back to his desk, sitting and pulling up a green folder in one motion. "After your third day with him, I sent out a standard report request on the Las Vegas Escapeway for the 14-day period surrounding John Doe's discovery. Here're the results." He slid the folder toward Orlando. "Orli... Do be careful. If you decide to do anything involving a deep search in his memories, I want you to use David or Billy to buffer. Understood?"

"But I can-"

"That's not a request, Orlando."

Orlando slid the green folder off Sean's desk and onto his existing colorful stack. "Understood," he said, only the tiniest bit irritated.

Sean smiled. "You're doing a fine job, y'know. I just don't want to see you getting lost in the man's horror. I've read the transcripts. Ugly business. Don't go in there alone."

"He has to," Orlando said quietly.

"Which is why he's on the other side of the locked door. Never forget that, lad."
--------

Bloom, Orlando, Emp. C1
Case #723, John Doe 439
Case notes
I was almost afraid to open the green folder. When I did, I could tell immediately that someone - maybe one of Sean's assistants - had pre-sorted the contents, moving extremely unlikely prospects to the back, clipped together. At the front of the folder waited four files, like coiled serpents. Any one of them could possibly help John recover... or finish destroying him. I approached them almost fearfully.

John Doe 436, found the day before my John, on the same side of the Escapeway but twenty miles farther from Vegas. Fully clothed in city standard wear, death by stabbing; apparently robbed. I didn't think he had anything to do with John.

Jane Doe 693, found the day before John, same side of the Escapeway, about six miles from his location. Naked, horribly mutilated, clearly tortured, dead. Whoever did it, for reasons known only to themselves, had left her face untouched. I stared for a long time at the attached photo; she was lovely even in death, with delicate features and long reddish-blonde hair. Looking at her, I had a strong bad feeling that I might be looking at the Manda of John's memories.

Setting her file aside, I scanned John Doe 457, found just outside Las Vegas the day after John. Suffering from sunburn, dehydration and heat stroke, he had recovered fairly well at the MedCenter and been released into Empath Center five weeks ago. His current diagnosis was early onset senile dementia. I puzzled over him for a while, eventually putting him with the girl but without any real hope he was related to John's case.

The final file was for John Doe 452, found the same day as John, on the same side of the Escapeway, about three miles from his location. His injuries were eerily similar to my John's, down to the round burns and the precise knife cuts, except that he had a broken leg rather than a broken arm. Excited, I scanned the file more quickly. 452 was still being treated in the MedCenter. He had not regained consciousness. An attached photo showed a bruised, battered young adult male with thick black hair. Karl? Not a dozen buildings away?

I sat back with the files and forced myself to breathe slow and calm. Clearly I couldn't just rush into the room with this information and show it to John. There's no predicting how he might respond to that. But at least there was the tiniest sliver of hope I could offer him. It was possible that his Karl might be alive. Not well. But alive.
-----

Bloom, Orlando, Emp. C1
Case #723, John Doe 439
Session 5.3
"You're gonna love this," one of the watchers murmurs as I reach to open John's room door, but just looks away with a smirk when I give him a questioning stare.

I open the door quietly and let it close soundlessly behind me, immediately transfixed. John is coloring the wall. Blue and green and brown, sky and trees and earth. Better than childish; less than expert. He's currently crouched under the barred window, drawing brown and green fish leaping in a blue stream.

And all the time, he's speaking. Slowly, carefully, apparently running through the words he knows, trying to say them better, more clearly. Hurr-t. Lie-k. Hol-d. Loo-k. See-p. Very very careful of final sounds and easily confused plosives. Bleesch? Pleesch? Bleesch? Pleesch? Hurrt. Liek. Hold. Look. Seep. Ahrri. Hell-p. Karl. Karl.

He pauses in his drawing and touches a fish he just finished, one that's leaping high above the water of the crayon stream. I can't see his face, but I can hear the smile as he says, "Karl." He touches a smaller fish, in the water, and says, "Manda." The sturdy fish in the front of the three, swimming defiantly upstream, apparently, he caresses and calls, "Ian."

Then he's back to work, fiercely scrawling a fourth fish with less care, a crooked fish trailing the other three, fins lopsided and ragged. He pokes it with a frustrated finger. "I. Who I? Stupid. No. No. Lee him lone. Not stupid. Not. Jus not same." With an abrupt irritated motion, he pops his fist against his forehead, then... "Ow... ow...." And he falls over on his good arm, rolls onto his back and starts laughing up at the ceiling.

I reach behind me to open the door silently and close it again, making a sound and stepping forward. "Hello, John."

He stays on the floor, the laugh fading but a tired smile remaining, and holds up a "wait" finger. Clears his throat and says carefully, "Hell-o, Ahrri." Then swings his good arm toward the colors on the wall. "I make." He rolls up, gingerly, onto his knees and points. "Tree. Sky. Blue. Wa-er. Fish." A quick glance over his shoulder to see how I'm reacting.

I move toward him, opening myself to him and feeling nothing but the warm glow of accomplishment overlaying the constant bubble of fear. "This is great," I say, laughing a little. "I like it."

He looks more alert than he has at any time since I've begun to see him, and I recall that I had his sedatives dialed back by another ten percent today. I'd love to just get rid of the damn things entirely, but I suspect Sean would overrule me on that.

John pats the padded floor beside him and I graciously accept the invitation, dropping to sit crosslegged beside him, my clipboard on one thigh. Together we consider the fishy stream.

"Who I?" he says abruptly. "Who I name?"

"I don't know," I tell him honestly. "I wish I did."

He studies me intently, those blue eyes still somewhat bloodshot from this morning's adventure and so riveting it's hard to look away. "Ahrri look," he says carefully, with just a hint of questioning. "I look, Ahrri hold?"

"I'm not sure that's such a great idea, so soon after-"

He reaches for my hand, surprising me. "I show thing," he says, and I can tell he's thought about this. "What Ahrri like?"

I'm not sure what he means. "What am I like?"

A little grimace and a head shake. "What Ahrri like. Some ting."

"Ahh..." I consider for a moment. "I like dogs."

"Dog. Woof?" He barks at me quizzically, confirming.

"Yes." I have to grin.

"Kay," he says and takes a slow, deep breath, closes his eyes, starts to breath slowly and evenly, and ... nothing. He's still holding my hand and I'm starting to feel a bit foolish, sitting there on the floor holding hands and staring at nothing when abruptly I realize I'm not staring at nothing any more. In the air in front of us is a dog, black and brown, long-haired, with liquid brown eyes. It sits and pants, flag of a tail waving behind it, and I can smell it. I smell dog breath and the musk of a dog coat that needs washing.

It looks absolutely real, as if I could reach out and touch it. I look over at John and he's sitting peacefully with his eyes closed, his lips barely moving. When the dog barks, I nearly fall over.

He's creating a three-dimensional illusion, with sound and scent. Sweet saints... he's not just a Talent, he's a treasure. If there's ever been anyone with all three of those capacities, plus the Telepathy I picked up from him earlier, I've never heard of it. I'm afraid I'm simply staring at him when he finally opens his eyes, letting the dog dissolve into nothing, and turns to look at me.

His smile is small and genuinely pleased, crinkling the skin around those laser blue eyes. "Ahrri like woof dog?"

For a moment I can only gape at him like an idiot. "Y-yes," I manage to stutter finally. "I like it a lot. That was great!"

He gives a crisp nod as if pleased with himself and, for the first time since I've been seeing him, runs a hand through his tangle of hair to drag it off his face. "I look name. Ahrri help. How?" He looks hard at me, wanting advice. "How look?"

Apparently he's determined to do this, and he's given me an illusory dog as payment. Suddenly John Doe isn't as childish as he has been. Child-like, yes, but not childish anymore. He wants his name, and I can't blame him. I rub my face and think, then wiggle around to face him.

"Can you think of a happy time? A good memory? With Karl, maybe?" That's a gamble, but it's the only name that's come up more than once.

He nods slowly, a ripple of uncertainty and fear washing across his mind but tamped down by that steely determination.

"You find a happy memory, good memory, and I'll look, like we did with the needle memory, okay?"

"Yes." He grits his teeth, closes his eyes and sinks into the chaos of his own mind with a grim bravado I'm not sure I could ever manage. I slide my hands onto his knees, leave myself open enough to him to be able to tell if he gets into trouble, and wait. It seems forever but is probably only ten minutes or so when he drops his head in that surrender position and whispers, "Find. Ahrri look."

He slides his hands over mine and I have just enough time to remember Sean telling me not to do this alone before I'm opening myself up to the shattered mirror-maze of his mind again. This time it's easier to locate the bit of unbroken memory, since I've found one before. Not giving myself time to doubt, I open to it-

Laughter. Giddy, hysterical male laughter.

"Will you both stop that!" an annoyed voice asks and the towering illusion explodes, raining sparkles of colored light all over the two young men on the ground. Each twinkle vanishes as it hits the dirt, leaving nothing in a short time but you, with Karl's back warm against yours, still shaking, and Ian glaring down at the two of you.

"I told you to practice controlling the illusions," he scolds, but there's a hint of amusement behind the teacher role.

"We were controlling it," Karl says, his deeper voice slightly strangled with laughter still.

Ian snorts. "And which of you had the brilliant idea that a giant..." he pauses to search for a delicate word ... "genital would be an appropriate thing to practice with?"

You hold your head down and snicker, not answering because words are still hard for you, and you get tangled in them. Let Karl handle it.

"Viggo did," Karl says, and you abruptly sit up straight, eyes wide, and whirl on him. He falls over laughing again, and you climb on top of him, rolling him over, pulling him into a tussle. Ian watches and finally gives up trying to be stern.

"Giant cocks, spraying fireworks," he mutters, and you hear his mind. "And this, I think I can take to the world."

Laughter. Laughter and wrestling, and everybody's dirty and it's such a good time why does it have to end why do we have to leave why did we try to go to the world why why-

Gently this time, I ease myself out of the memory and sit for a moment looking at John - no, Viggo - sitting perfectly still, head down, caressing a fragment of happy memory. I turn my hands slowly so that I am holding John's - Viggo's - and prepare to call him back.

"Viggo, it's time to come back. Come back to Ahrri." I keep my voice gentle but firm, and he responds so willingly. "Come back now. We know your name. Come back. You are Viggo."

I can feel his disengagement from the wistful memory, the moment he encounters these syllables that encapsulate who he is. Slowly he looks up until his eyes meet mine.

"Viggo," he says quietly, thoughtfully. "I am Viggo." He lets go my hands and lifts his right hand to my face. "Tank you, Ahrri," he says solemnly, then leans up and, before I have time to react, kisses first one cheek then the other. "Tank you for hold Viggo."

Comments

[elfinobsession.livejournal.com]

What a roller coaster. Poor Manda. Yeah for Viggo! *crosses fingers for Karl*

Viggo's powers are incredible.