Stable, Predictable, Safe
unrepentantAuthor
A cat that writes stories.
This was my entry to the 'Mischief and Malice' oneshot contest, a villain POV piece featuring a character from the Heartache continuity. No background knowledge ought to be strictly necessary. My interview for the contest can be found here.
"There are open cells closer to the entrance, sir. I could arrange a transfer for your convenience, if you wish."
The bisharp held his salute and stared straight ahead in disciplined deference, not meeting Matthias’ eye. Still, the guard managed to look somehow defiant. His kind had an aura of authority – an innate focus, a readiness for decision-making – that made them adept for leadership. Such a waste, to see this one tasked with an almost ceremonial role. His helm was so polished that in it, Matthias could see his own face (and much of his tongue, wrapped around his own neck as it must be). All polish; no practice. This guard may as well be a clerk. Escape attempts were not made from these cells.
Matthias made a contemplative noise in his throat, and shook his head. "No, I think not."
"May I ask why, sir?"
Still staring straight ahead. Bold, though, to question his superior. Was that because he had no fear, or because he knew he needn't fear reprisals from Matthias? Either way, it would be interesting to humour a native speaking out of turn.
"I want him to know that it takes time for me to reach him, and more for me to depart," explained Matthias, calmly. “He should have the impression that my visits are significant, that I do not make them casually.”
"Yes sir. I understand."
Did he? Perhaps. Matthias nodded, and the salute dropped. With Bisharp's deft crank of the lever, the door to the cells opened for Matthias, and he walked through. The door closed behind him, and the bolt clunked back into place. It would take time for him to reach the cell containing the man who was his latest concern. This was necessary.
It gave Matthias something of practical use, too. A moment to contemplate matters alone, without the eyes of others (either human or native) to distract him from his task. Sometimes he used that opportunity to ideate with a clear mind about the method he would use. Other times, to contemplate the importance of the work, and guard himself against guilt, sympathy, or other dangerous thoughts.
This time, however, he used it to remember what it was like to be human. Truly human, mind and body. He detested his organisation’s grotesque belief that the human world from which his soul had come made him anything other than a greninja. He was an amphibian, through and through. Entirely a pokémon, simply one with memories from another body.
They said that humans that came to this world only ever remembered meagre scraps from their past lives. Their name, that they were once human, and perhaps two or three memories of their past life, if that. Matthias could remember four: Looking kindly down on his sister, bedridden and frail, and promising her that he’d make the world a gentler place. The moon, shining down on water, and shimmering like liquid, silver light. The feel of wooden game pieces in his fingers and the clack with each placement, as he closed in on a victory condition, dismantling his opponent's every stratagem. Last of all, a burning in his chest from a betrayal he couldn't even name, and holding tightly to ice-cold conviction until the fire in him guttered out for good.
He'd give up all those memories if he could trade them to remember the appearance of his own face. In his dreams, sometimes, he saw himself as a human with nothing there but blank, pale skin, without even any eyes. He dreamed of forming water shurikens to tear the old body apart (for leaving his memory, for the sin of letting him go) and instead rending his own tongue. Sharp-edged water cut him open, the flesh around his neck fell away—
—and he woke with his tongue held tight in his fists, clenching his jaw until it ached.
He wondered if the man in the cell ever had dreams like that.
After pacing nearly the whole corridor’s length, and passing far too many buzzing, flickering fluorescent lamps, Matthias arrived at the correct cell. He knocked first. You had to do things properly. You had to be composed, correct, controlled. You had to believe that it was all necessary and as sanitised as possible, and mean it, for as long as you had to work.
So he knocked. Three evenly-spaced raps with the firm pad on his forearm. When he heard no reply, he pulled the window hatch aside and peered in. The cell was occupied, as expected, by a wretched-looking red-furred figure. Good. Matthias punched in the code for the door lock, and let himself in.
Normally the cell would contain little more than its occupant, Matthias, and the darkness. Just essential items. In this case, the asset who'd brought the occupant here had found it necessary to put bindings on his paws. Bound paws were a complication for Matthias's usual approach. The occupant was a delphox, in fairness – presumably he'd tried to summon fire or cast other spells. The fox shifted, trying to gather himself from the floor and onto his hindpaws.
"There's no need to stand," said Matthias, to the other man in the cell. "Or to make an introduction. I know who you are, Jesse."
The delphox glowered at him, lips curled back over predatory teeth.
"Sure,” he growled, in that drawling accent of settlers in the far west. “That's me, much as I may wish I weren't. Who the fuck are you, and what godforsaken shit are you here fer, huh?"
Matthias nodded in understanding. "I think you already know, Jesse. You must also already know that what happens here depends more on you than it does on me. What you won't already know is that I understand very well what you mean when you say you wish you weren't yourself. I have felt that same way many times."
Jesse scoffed at him, his muzzle contorting with vicious contempt. Such a fantastically human expression. Matthias could see it in the subtleties of Jesse’s eyes as they danced away from eye contact – a sign of the mixed hatred and self-hatred only a human could manage. A greninja’s peerless degree of night vision let Matthias perceive such things, but his human mind let him attribute meaning to them.
"What, that I don't wanna be the sorry bastard stuck in some goddamn dungeon, waitin' to get his shit kicked in? No fuckin' shit'. You’re a regular philosopher, ain'tcha?"
Matthias shook his head, carefully. "That's not what you meant, Jesse. I'm told you held your own with remarkable proficiency in combat when our assets subdued you. I'm told you healed from your wounds before you could even be brought here. I'm told you made repeated reference to concepts native 'mon don't concern themselves with in this part of the continent, not least of which was ‘Hell’. I know all too well that for a person like you, words like that are vessels for thoughts and feelings that natives cannot possibly understand."
Jesse stared at him, eyes narrowed. His ears flattened back a little, but there was a tiny pause there. A clue that he had not been born with those ears, and did not flatten them as a reflex – that he had learned the motion.
"You're a fuckin' human, ain't you?" growled Jesse. "Explains yer accent and the weird bullshit act you've got goin' on."
"Yes. I am human."
Jesse glanced about, still with that growl crackling in his throat. It sounded a little more desperate than before. Good. Intimidation achieved in this slow, creeping way often lasted all the longer.
"So," Matthias continued, "you will realise you are not in a position to leverage your intellect, nor the strength in battle granted by your human soul. You must also have noticed by now that you cannot read my mind due to my elemental type."
"I fuckin' get it," growled the prisoner. The occupant. The occupant of the cell. "You can kick my fuckin' ass on account of half a dozen fuckin' reasons, move the fuck on. You gonna ask questions? You gonna try t'make me sign on to whatever the fuck yer sinister fuckin' secret club full a' sonofabitch bullies and thugs is s’posed to be?"
"I don't believe I can persuade you of our ideology in the next three hours, no," said Matthias. "Neither do I think you'll answer any of the questions my superiors would have me ask you. At least, not truthfully."
This was true enough. Beating assets to within an inch of their lives and swearing vociferously about the wrongdoing he intended to correct made Jesse a poor choice for recruitment. Most of the individuals Matthias worked with in this place would not give up useful information (particularly not the location of human-descended 'mon or human-empowered natives whom they cared for), at least not at first. If they would do that, they wouldn't have been brought here. Matthias’ detainees were the defiant ones. Ones who would resist human supremacy violently.
In a dark cell with nothing but himself, his bindings, and a bucket neither of them acknowledged, Jesse still had defiance to fall back on. Defiance could sustain a person for a long time.
"Alright, asshole," said the man, "what the fuck is the point of you bein’ here?"
The delphox – the man – rolled his eyes, looked like he wanted to spit in Matthias's face. It would be acceptable if he did, of course. Defiance fought first, and died later.
"I'm going to change you, Jesse," said Matthias, the words leeched of all warmth by the ice in his chest. "Your stubbornness, while impressive, is not useful. I'm going to motivate you to behave differently, and so make you useful. I'm going to be patient with you, and attentive, and return as many times as necessary, until I no longer find any defiance in you."
Jesse grit his teeth and nodded sharply as if he'd accepted a challenge to battle. The delphox was making a fairly successful effort of hiding his fear, but Matthias could detect it all the same. He could cite the flaring of his nostrils, the posture of his tail, the panic in his eyes, but he knew without relying on such signs. He knew there would be fear, because Jesse was used to being able to defeat just about anyone, but was intelligent enough to realise that in close quarters, with no wand, facing an opponent who held all the cards, facing a species who had the matchup advantage, facing another human likely for the first time... that any use of force would go poorly.
Those who were rarely less than the strongest ‘mon in the room reliably became afraid when, for once, they were the weakest.
"Fuck you," spat the prisoner. Occupant, occupant. "Go crawl up yer own ass and suffocate on shit."
"Yes, that's exactly the kind of response I mean," said Matthias, matter-of-factly. "Let's begin."
Jesse spat in his face. Matthias saw the motion before it ended, and did not blink. The moisture impacted the crest of Matthias' head, and lingered there for a moment, before settling into the dampness of his amphibian skin. His skin crawled, but ice, ice, only ice in his chest. He must remain calm, keep an ordered mind. React cleanly. Pristine. Without anger or pride or pettiness.
Matthias spat back, a flood of ice-water jettisoning from his gullet and crashing into Jesse, flattening him against the wall for one, two, three, four seconds. Enough time to fail to take a breath. Enough time to fear that there’d be no next breath. When it ended, Jesse fell into a slump, eyes closed, gasping from the shock of it. His fur would retain a great deal of water. He'd weigh more, he’d bleed warmth fast, and tire quickly from shivering, and all this would remind him at all times that his visitor could do this to him again, in an instant.
There was only ice in Matthias' chest. It was the most necessary feeling, the one that let him do a thing like this. In the dark and the cold there was logic, there was peace, there was consistency. Heat was volatile. Emotion was volatile. Matthias couldn't work with volatility. So he kept cold, and he kept numb, and so kept his heart stable.
"Fuck you," choked out Jesse, already trembling. Good. The intended outcome.
The moon, shining down on water, and shimmering like liquid, silver light. The feel of wooden game pieces in his fingers. The burning in his chest, and the ice that replaced it. The ice that did not change, the ice that could be depended on. It was predictable. Just as things should be.
"Let's continue," said Matthias. "I expect to be done soon, Jesse. I can only do so much to you in a single session before there are diminishing returns."
There. There was a flash in the eyes, a flash of naked fear. Fear he could make last.
He would drown the delphox, next. Drowning followed by resuscitation, of course. Adequately safe, when done with skill and care. Everything should be done with care, with certainty. You had to mean it, you had to make a conscious decision, or the means would not be justified by the ends. There could be no accidents in this, nothing unintentional.
Stable, predictable, safe. No volatility. No surprises. Everything perfectly under control.
Humans summoned from another world to take on pokémon form... Many have been heroes, with their adaptability, determination and strength in battle. Some, however, use those same qualities to do terrible things – so long as they can justify their actions to themselves. What is a little enhanced interrogation, when you're making a better world? A world that is stable, predictable, safe.
Stable, Predictable, Safe
Stable, Predictable, Safe
"There are open cells closer to the entrance, sir. I could arrange a transfer for your convenience, if you wish."
The bisharp held his salute and stared straight ahead in disciplined deference, not meeting Matthias’ eye. Still, the guard managed to look somehow defiant. His kind had an aura of authority – an innate focus, a readiness for decision-making – that made them adept for leadership. Such a waste, to see this one tasked with an almost ceremonial role. His helm was so polished that in it, Matthias could see his own face (and much of his tongue, wrapped around his own neck as it must be). All polish; no practice. This guard may as well be a clerk. Escape attempts were not made from these cells.
Matthias made a contemplative noise in his throat, and shook his head. "No, I think not."
"May I ask why, sir?"
Still staring straight ahead. Bold, though, to question his superior. Was that because he had no fear, or because he knew he needn't fear reprisals from Matthias? Either way, it would be interesting to humour a native speaking out of turn.
"I want him to know that it takes time for me to reach him, and more for me to depart," explained Matthias, calmly. “He should have the impression that my visits are significant, that I do not make them casually.”
"Yes sir. I understand."
Did he? Perhaps. Matthias nodded, and the salute dropped. With Bisharp's deft crank of the lever, the door to the cells opened for Matthias, and he walked through. The door closed behind him, and the bolt clunked back into place. It would take time for him to reach the cell containing the man who was his latest concern. This was necessary.
It gave Matthias something of practical use, too. A moment to contemplate matters alone, without the eyes of others (either human or native) to distract him from his task. Sometimes he used that opportunity to ideate with a clear mind about the method he would use. Other times, to contemplate the importance of the work, and guard himself against guilt, sympathy, or other dangerous thoughts.
This time, however, he used it to remember what it was like to be human. Truly human, mind and body. He detested his organisation’s grotesque belief that the human world from which his soul had come made him anything other than a greninja. He was an amphibian, through and through. Entirely a pokémon, simply one with memories from another body.
They said that humans that came to this world only ever remembered meagre scraps from their past lives. Their name, that they were once human, and perhaps two or three memories of their past life, if that. Matthias could remember four: Looking kindly down on his sister, bedridden and frail, and promising her that he’d make the world a gentler place. The moon, shining down on water, and shimmering like liquid, silver light. The feel of wooden game pieces in his fingers and the clack with each placement, as he closed in on a victory condition, dismantling his opponent's every stratagem. Last of all, a burning in his chest from a betrayal he couldn't even name, and holding tightly to ice-cold conviction until the fire in him guttered out for good.
He'd give up all those memories if he could trade them to remember the appearance of his own face. In his dreams, sometimes, he saw himself as a human with nothing there but blank, pale skin, without even any eyes. He dreamed of forming water shurikens to tear the old body apart (for leaving his memory, for the sin of letting him go) and instead rending his own tongue. Sharp-edged water cut him open, the flesh around his neck fell away—
—and he woke with his tongue held tight in his fists, clenching his jaw until it ached.
He wondered if the man in the cell ever had dreams like that.
After pacing nearly the whole corridor’s length, and passing far too many buzzing, flickering fluorescent lamps, Matthias arrived at the correct cell. He knocked first. You had to do things properly. You had to be composed, correct, controlled. You had to believe that it was all necessary and as sanitised as possible, and mean it, for as long as you had to work.
So he knocked. Three evenly-spaced raps with the firm pad on his forearm. When he heard no reply, he pulled the window hatch aside and peered in. The cell was occupied, as expected, by a wretched-looking red-furred figure. Good. Matthias punched in the code for the door lock, and let himself in.
Normally the cell would contain little more than its occupant, Matthias, and the darkness. Just essential items. In this case, the asset who'd brought the occupant here had found it necessary to put bindings on his paws. Bound paws were a complication for Matthias's usual approach. The occupant was a delphox, in fairness – presumably he'd tried to summon fire or cast other spells. The fox shifted, trying to gather himself from the floor and onto his hindpaws.
"There's no need to stand," said Matthias, to the other man in the cell. "Or to make an introduction. I know who you are, Jesse."
The delphox glowered at him, lips curled back over predatory teeth.
"Sure,” he growled, in that drawling accent of settlers in the far west. “That's me, much as I may wish I weren't. Who the fuck are you, and what godforsaken shit are you here fer, huh?"
Matthias nodded in understanding. "I think you already know, Jesse. You must also already know that what happens here depends more on you than it does on me. What you won't already know is that I understand very well what you mean when you say you wish you weren't yourself. I have felt that same way many times."
Jesse scoffed at him, his muzzle contorting with vicious contempt. Such a fantastically human expression. Matthias could see it in the subtleties of Jesse’s eyes as they danced away from eye contact – a sign of the mixed hatred and self-hatred only a human could manage. A greninja’s peerless degree of night vision let Matthias perceive such things, but his human mind let him attribute meaning to them.
"What, that I don't wanna be the sorry bastard stuck in some goddamn dungeon, waitin' to get his shit kicked in? No fuckin' shit'. You’re a regular philosopher, ain'tcha?"
Matthias shook his head, carefully. "That's not what you meant, Jesse. I'm told you held your own with remarkable proficiency in combat when our assets subdued you. I'm told you healed from your wounds before you could even be brought here. I'm told you made repeated reference to concepts native 'mon don't concern themselves with in this part of the continent, not least of which was ‘Hell’. I know all too well that for a person like you, words like that are vessels for thoughts and feelings that natives cannot possibly understand."
Jesse stared at him, eyes narrowed. His ears flattened back a little, but there was a tiny pause there. A clue that he had not been born with those ears, and did not flatten them as a reflex – that he had learned the motion.
"You're a fuckin' human, ain't you?" growled Jesse. "Explains yer accent and the weird bullshit act you've got goin' on."
"Yes. I am human."
Jesse glanced about, still with that growl crackling in his throat. It sounded a little more desperate than before. Good. Intimidation achieved in this slow, creeping way often lasted all the longer.
"So," Matthias continued, "you will realise you are not in a position to leverage your intellect, nor the strength in battle granted by your human soul. You must also have noticed by now that you cannot read my mind due to my elemental type."
"I fuckin' get it," growled the prisoner. The occupant. The occupant of the cell. "You can kick my fuckin' ass on account of half a dozen fuckin' reasons, move the fuck on. You gonna ask questions? You gonna try t'make me sign on to whatever the fuck yer sinister fuckin' secret club full a' sonofabitch bullies and thugs is s’posed to be?"
"I don't believe I can persuade you of our ideology in the next three hours, no," said Matthias. "Neither do I think you'll answer any of the questions my superiors would have me ask you. At least, not truthfully."
This was true enough. Beating assets to within an inch of their lives and swearing vociferously about the wrongdoing he intended to correct made Jesse a poor choice for recruitment. Most of the individuals Matthias worked with in this place would not give up useful information (particularly not the location of human-descended 'mon or human-empowered natives whom they cared for), at least not at first. If they would do that, they wouldn't have been brought here. Matthias’ detainees were the defiant ones. Ones who would resist human supremacy violently.
In a dark cell with nothing but himself, his bindings, and a bucket neither of them acknowledged, Jesse still had defiance to fall back on. Defiance could sustain a person for a long time.
"Alright, asshole," said the man, "what the fuck is the point of you bein’ here?"
The delphox – the man – rolled his eyes, looked like he wanted to spit in Matthias's face. It would be acceptable if he did, of course. Defiance fought first, and died later.
"I'm going to change you, Jesse," said Matthias, the words leeched of all warmth by the ice in his chest. "Your stubbornness, while impressive, is not useful. I'm going to motivate you to behave differently, and so make you useful. I'm going to be patient with you, and attentive, and return as many times as necessary, until I no longer find any defiance in you."
Jesse grit his teeth and nodded sharply as if he'd accepted a challenge to battle. The delphox was making a fairly successful effort of hiding his fear, but Matthias could detect it all the same. He could cite the flaring of his nostrils, the posture of his tail, the panic in his eyes, but he knew without relying on such signs. He knew there would be fear, because Jesse was used to being able to defeat just about anyone, but was intelligent enough to realise that in close quarters, with no wand, facing an opponent who held all the cards, facing a species who had the matchup advantage, facing another human likely for the first time... that any use of force would go poorly.
Those who were rarely less than the strongest ‘mon in the room reliably became afraid when, for once, they were the weakest.
"Fuck you," spat the prisoner. Occupant, occupant. "Go crawl up yer own ass and suffocate on shit."
"Yes, that's exactly the kind of response I mean," said Matthias, matter-of-factly. "Let's begin."
Jesse spat in his face. Matthias saw the motion before it ended, and did not blink. The moisture impacted the crest of Matthias' head, and lingered there for a moment, before settling into the dampness of his amphibian skin. His skin crawled, but ice, ice, only ice in his chest. He must remain calm, keep an ordered mind. React cleanly. Pristine. Without anger or pride or pettiness.
Matthias spat back, a flood of ice-water jettisoning from his gullet and crashing into Jesse, flattening him against the wall for one, two, three, four seconds. Enough time to fail to take a breath. Enough time to fear that there’d be no next breath. When it ended, Jesse fell into a slump, eyes closed, gasping from the shock of it. His fur would retain a great deal of water. He'd weigh more, he’d bleed warmth fast, and tire quickly from shivering, and all this would remind him at all times that his visitor could do this to him again, in an instant.
There was only ice in Matthias' chest. It was the most necessary feeling, the one that let him do a thing like this. In the dark and the cold there was logic, there was peace, there was consistency. Heat was volatile. Emotion was volatile. Matthias couldn't work with volatility. So he kept cold, and he kept numb, and so kept his heart stable.
"Fuck you," choked out Jesse, already trembling. Good. The intended outcome.
The moon, shining down on water, and shimmering like liquid, silver light. The feel of wooden game pieces in his fingers. The burning in his chest, and the ice that replaced it. The ice that did not change, the ice that could be depended on. It was predictable. Just as things should be.
"Let's continue," said Matthias. "I expect to be done soon, Jesse. I can only do so much to you in a single session before there are diminishing returns."
There. There was a flash in the eyes, a flash of naked fear. Fear he could make last.
He would drown the delphox, next. Drowning followed by resuscitation, of course. Adequately safe, when done with skill and care. Everything should be done with care, with certainty. You had to mean it, you had to make a conscious decision, or the means would not be justified by the ends. There could be no accidents in this, nothing unintentional.
Stable, predictable, safe. No volatility. No surprises. Everything perfectly under control.
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