Posted: 10/31/00
Title: Surrogate
Author: Jay / carboxylated@yahoo.com
Archive: All those with prior permission are welcome (and hugged profusely) to archive this.
[Note: all fics accessible @ http://www.geocities.com/fenris_wolf0]
Category: Angst(?)
Pairings: None
Disclaimer: Gundam Wing is quite sadly not mine, but in fact the
property of Bandai, Sunrise, and other large corporations and companies
I have no affiliation with. (Again, quite sadly.)
Rating/Warning: PG-13, I suppose. Geez, scary thing, no coupling.
::crosses fingers:: Anyway, I guess it's a little angsty, but it's more
just me messing with your mind to compensate for my crappy lack of a
Halloween. And depending on your POV, it *could* be a deathfic... But
yeah, it's twisted. I hope. Oooh, and Dr. J bastardization. Well. Sort
of. I understood him, but I guess it's because I wrote him... ehehe...
and I can see why he did what he-- aw, just read.
Feedback: Hit me!
Notes: Yeah, I'm not doing much for Halloween. Sob. So I thought I'd torture y'all here instead. :-)
Apologies in advance for any stupid mistakes I make. It's low sugar intake, I tell you.
The room was dark and silent, save from the click and whirl of machines. His imposing frame was half-hidden by the bulky screen in front of him as well as the clutter of dark glass tanks around him, as his prosthetic fingers clicked, habitually, goggled-eyes creasing as they traced the sine curves that detailed #HY-30135's activity.
"I see," he murmured.
The machines beeped critically, a long, screech drawing out from them before the lines flatlined.
"Subject offline," a monotonous voice beeped, digital syllables drawn from somewhere inside the construct of red and blue wires.
Dr. J's mouth was set into a firm line, curving ever so slightly downwards. Disappointing. #HY-30135 had been expected to last longer. He sighed, metal fingers gently clicking in a dull remonstration, reminding himself that the situation had become highly... unusual and that things had not gone along their projected path. He touched the pad before him, brow still wrinkled, as he entered a series of commands into the central system.
The glass tubes behind him glowed, a soft green, red lights dancing as the dark form hovering in the cytoplasmic material slowly sharpened. Dr. J looked at #HY-30136 critically, now thoughtfully tapping his chin.
"Very well," he sighed, keying in another set of commands.
SYSTEM ONLINE: #HY-30136
OPENFILE> HY.15932.13.195.MEM
UPLOADFILE> HY.15932.13.195.MEM
...
PROCESSING
...
UPLOAD COMPLETE.
SYSTEM ONLINE AND FUNCTIONAL.
The liquid had begun draining, a slender figure encased in glass. Dr. J swiveled in his chair, still mentally cursing OZ. System #HY-30135's abrupt shutdown had further complicated already delicate matters. He grimaced: successfully splicing the original gene had been hard enough without the added task of retaining memory, for the convenience of battle as well as contact. Dr. J chuckled silently, still impressed with his own brand of mad science. The new prototype was showing promise, however-- impact resistance had tripled, promising no more vaguely messy cleanups.
The glass slowly opened as tubes retracted.
"HY-30136," he greeted the figure, machines now clicking anxiously, monitoring heart rate, brain waves...
"Reporting," came the emotionless voice. It opened its eyes, and Dr. J once again felt a pang of pride-- pride for constructing such a creature of ability and beauty, for resurrecting it from the ashes, replicating body and salvaging mind...
After staring for a few moments, Dr J. smiled, slightly, before proceeding coldly. "Heero Yuy, you have a new mission."
His fingers clicked as the machines whirled.
He tried to remember, desperately attempting to sew together the gap that tore a jagged hole in his memory. Heero had woken up, eyes sliding over an unfamiliar female face, to discover tight bandages wrapped around his limbs. A month had passed, Trowa had explained. And he was already dead.
Already dead. Heero closed his eyes, willing the growing unease to disappear, to lift from his chest. The sensation of déjà vu swept over him, the overwhelming conviction of his nonexistence. He raised his hand to gingerly test his fingers. He probed the skin over his shoulder, testing muscle. It was still hard and firm... nothing had atrophied.
Mildly perplexed, he had stepped outside, uncertainly. A few flat inquiries lead him to the shower stall, which was just a bare curtained section with sun-warmed water that spurt sporadically from a mildewed nozzle. Swinging his clothes over one makeshift wall, he stood in the running water, savoring the contact of the balmy liquid on his skin, running down his legs and plastering his hair flat against his head, soggy strands hanging over his eyes.
The curtain swept open and his body tensed, relaxing fractionally. Heero crooked the edge of a smile at Trowa's surprised expression, which quickly smoothed into his usual blank look.
"Didn't know you were here," he murmured, attempting to look into Heero's eyes. Heero merely shook in ill-concealed amusement, water shaking from his bangs. Wordlessly retrieving a stained towel and wrapping it loosely around his waist, he reached for his clothes. As he walked out, brushing Trowa's shoulder, the taller boy's voice rang out.
"What are you?"
The tone, more than the question, stopped him. He cocked his head slightly. "*What* am I?"
Trowa repeated his question. "What are you, Heero Yuy?"
He could have sworn that he heard the sound of machines beeping in his head. Heero blinked deliberately, tucking the noises back so that they were only an indistinct buzz.
"Why do you ask?" He asked, carefully.
Trowa's eyes traced his shoulders, down his chest and arms, searching for something...
"It's nothing," Trowa finally said. "It's just..." He turned, abruptly. "You haven't a mark on you," he commented.
Heero stared at his smooth, uninterrupted flesh. His eyes rose to meet Trowa's again.
"I don't scar easily," he said succinctly.
SYSTEM ONLINE: #HY-30136
COMMANDLINE> SAVEAS> HY.15932.14.195.MEM
His skin prickled as his head rang again. The discomfort was only minor, but the feeling of invasion seemed to permeate his skull. Heero rubbed his temples, shifting uncomfortably in the dark cell. His memory seemed to wander back to the sounds of machines beeping, as if it was his first conscious memorable. Before that, his mind encountered the same black hole that engulfed his dreams. His body seemed to have hung, suspended in time, listless, until he woke up that day in the circus. That memory, at least, was fresh in his mind. He tried to count the days or weeks or months since that, but his head only throbbed more.
Inexplicably, it vanished as suddenly as it came, and Heero stared into the darkness with renewed clarity.
"You guys don't talk much, do you?" A cheery voice rang out in the gloom. Duo Maxwell was ineffably optimistic, the sound of his rustling clothes giving the only indication of his position. Heero's head tilted, slightly, ears pinpointing the direction.
"Hmm, well, that's a pity. What's a guy like me to do with *you* for company?"
That was unnerving. Without so much as a sound, Duo's voice echoed from the opposite direction.
"Maxwell, please," Wufei snorted, voice annoyed. "Some of us are trying to rest."
"Aah, don't get your panties in a twist." More rustling, then another sudden shift in position. "A guy needs some talk, y'know, for sanity's sake."
Wufei did not grace them with an answer, instead lapsing into his customary silence. Heero moved a little, cuffs on his wrist chafing the skin.
"Yo, Heero!" Duo settled by the silent boy, jostling him companionably. After receiving a confirmatory grunt, he continued. "You ever see that old show, Star Trek?"
Silence.
"Y'know what *always* bothered me, man?" He elbowed Heero slightly to punctuate his point. "The entire 'beam me down Scotty' thing."
"Hn?" This elicited a response, finally.
"Yeah, the teletransportation stuff."
"Explain yourself," came the terse reply.
"I mean..." Duo edged closer. "Who's to really say that it was really you on the other side?"
"What would it matter?" Heero muttered. He could hear Duo roll his eyes, before launching into an enthusiastic reply.
"Of course it would matter! You'd be dead, and it'd just be a copy in your place."
Heero paused, considering. "Would he have your memory?" He asked, flatly.
"He has your memory, your personality, your behaviors... but he isn't *you*."
"I don't see the difference," Heero replied.
"Well," Duo said, a little miffed. "Maybe *you* don't. You don't seem like the type that would."
"I am pragmatic," Heero responded, deadpan. "My function is to complete missions. If an exact replica of me could perform the same functions with the same efficiency, we would be, by definition, congruent. I see no change if we were suddenly exchanged."
"So you wouldn't mind if someone killed you and just put a copy of you in your place?" Duo asked.
"I see no ramification to whatever following sequence of events."
The chain links connecting Duo's cuffs clinked as he rose, sighing.
"Whatever you say, Heero. Whatever you say."
10183.238.196.LOG
DATA> Have determined that #HY-30137 will have to be engineered and
stored on time-lapse basis, releasing on a command from a remote system
because of furthering complications. This is a preemptive move. Have set
system to periodically update memory files from #HY-30136 and have
programmed .mem file to load into #HY-30137 upon command.
He had done it.
All he could remember was an explosion... and bright light. He had retained consciousness for a time after, until he had finally left Wing and promptly collapsed. Machines... the machines were here again. Heero's eyes hurt.
But he had done it.
Metal stroked his cheek.
"The world needs heroes," Dr. J murmured.
Machines. He had been born into machines... a memory rippled; he had been born from...
Heero twisted, pain shooting through his side. "Where am I?" He croaked, throat rusty.
"Home," came the crisp reply. "You're dying."
Heero closed his eyes. "Dying?" It seemed so... familiar. He couldn't feel his arms. "Why? I... I won the war."
"You did," Dr. J agreed. "You're dying because you bypassed your impact resistance threshold. You broke yourself saving the world."
"I did?"
"As far as I can tell, your skeleton just... buckled in. You've shattered multiple bones, including ones in your spine." There was a gleam over those goggled eyes. "So you're going to die."
"Aa."
"But the world needs heroes," Dr. J continued, repeating his earlier words. "I just need one last memory update for #HY-30137, and you can sleep, Heero."
"#HY-30137?" Heero asked, even as electrodes were being placed on his forehead.
"You yourself are only the latest in a long of alpha and beta versions." Metal scraped his chin. "I've worked at raising your impact resistance again. Well, not *your* resistance, per se." Dr. J looked vaguely amused. "You're just a copy of the original. He died... five years ago? Six?"
"I'm what?" His voice rattled in his throat.
"A copy." The last of the electrodes were attached. "There. This provides much better data transfer-- direct lines, that is." Dr. J suddenly gave a barking laugh. "Want to meet yourself?" He asked, slyly. "#HY-30137!"
A slim boy stepped forward from the shadows. Heero looked calmly at the same eyes, the same jaw, the same messy hair, the same skin tone, the same flash of teeth, the same disappearing collarbone lines... machines were clicking, whirling again.
Heero's head throbbed as he was broken down into binary code.
The boy-- himself-- reached out one hesitant hand, curiosity evident in his dark eyes, resting his fingers gently on one arm. Heero couldn't feel the skin on skin, but he wondered if he would experience anything different than what would happen if he touched himself-- it was actually a ludicrous thought-- if maybe, they shared the same nerves.
He felt tears forming at the edges of his eyes.
/I see no ramification to whatever following sequence of events./
He was dying.
/Whatever you say, Heero. Whatever you say./
He would never live ardently or savor peace.
/You yourself are only the latest in a long of alpha and beta versions./
His keen eyesight was beginning to fail him. Struggling to keep the figure into focus, his lips opened and moved of their own volition. A few soundless cries proceeded coherent syllables.
"My name..." His breathing was becoming labored and harsh. "My name is Heero Yuy."
His name. He had stolen his name from a boy who had stolen the name from a boy who had stolen... from a boy who had stolen the name from a man that lay six feet under, in the quiet of his grave. Borrowed. His eyes fluttered. He had borrowed it, then.
He felt fingers pressing own his eyelids-- fingerprints matching his exactly-- and a voice, identical to his own down to every single tone, whispered a fragment of Shakespeare-- where had he picked up Shakespeare?-- into his ear. "That which we call a rose..."
SYSTEM OFFLINE: #HY-30136
SYSTEM ONLINE: #HY-30137
SYSTEM ONLINE AND FUNCTIONAL.
Heero Yuy drew away from the dead man on the table.
[fin]
Jay's Widdle Notes: I'M SO TERRIFIED OF STAR TREK! Don't laugh! AND THIS IS WHY! Because I'm absolutely convinced that this is sort of what happens when they zap people around. Anyway, this is why I've refused to watch so much as a single episode. Also because I'm pretty sure I had some pretty traumatic Trekkie encounters as a child. ::grins:: But... I'm *so* serious... God, this wasn't too sad, was it? I only realized at the end that it could definitely be seen as a deathfic. I'm pretty dense. (But he died in the beginning too... it alludes to it...)
Jay
Send responses thisaway. ;-)