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Erlösung	By : quietladybirman Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 1944 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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Erlösung

a Weiss Kreuz fanfiction by laila

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two: prisoner of war
When he closes his eyes, Ken can see them dying.
The General fires twice. Two shots in quick succession, one shattering Kaori’s ribs and piercing her heart, one tearing into an eye socket and punching a hole through the back of her skull, both delivered neat as an executioner. A quick death; almost, for all the blood and the bone and the matter, a tidy one. It is over before her body has finished falling, but she would have known it was happening. Ken is not yet twenty; this is last four years of his life; he is sure she would have felt it for all that Powell had no interest in her pain.
(It’d be Hell living like this, anyway, Youji had said, and he’d smiled at him as if he were glad: why, Ken wonders, did I have to fight so hard?)
He doesn’t know what he wants for them now. Maybe nothing at all; a moment of pain, mercifully curtailed, and then limitless silence and calm. That sounds good enough. He knows, though, that if it was true and there is something else, he doesn’t want them to be hurting. Let them be free of pain: Ken believes just enough to know he has no right to hope for that. Not for his team, and certainly not for himself. If God lives, Weiss is damned – Akira too, and Kaori. We thought it was a game—
You can't worry about the dead, Ken, his father had said impatiently: with a wife newly buried and a young family to support, a dangerously depressed child was just another worry he didn't need and was in no state to deal with. He'd been perfectly right - why worry about what won't change? What was gone was gone.
But Ken lives on and can still be made to suffer.
Why does it then feel selfish, to fear for himself? Why does he feel he has no right to be afraid?
Powell lowers the gun and tucks it back inside his tailored jacket, calm and careful as ever. He might have done nothing more than swat a mosquito. There’s something calculated about such understatement, an almost theatrical air to his movements, his gestures: Powell must know how intently he is being watched. Nothing else moves. Even Kaori’s guards haven’t so much as flinched, though the girl they were watching over lies dead at their feet, her skull shattered and her body slowly leaking blood.
Checkmate. What happens now?
Powell says only, “Dispose of that, and take the woman away.”

“Sir.” One of Manx’s guards.

“She is not to be harmed. I may have further use for her. As for the boy—” A pause, as if for thought. An understated nod in Ken's direction. “Search him, then bring him to my office.”
He doesn’t explain what for, but he doesn’t have to. It doesn’t matter what he might want with Ken; orders are orders and it’s enough for these men that the General wants him at all. Powell turns to the door and hurries from the room as if there are other, more important matters he should be dealing with and he has dallied quite long enough over tonight’s little entertainment, diverting though it has proved: he doesn’t even glance back at them, but he doesn’t have to do that either. Manx he no longer needs, and Ken he will see soon enough.
(Why? There’s nothing left to take – Ken isn’t sure even he believes that. Not now. He takes a breath, holds it, releases. He fights for calm. Count to ten, his father had said, once upon a time… They already know you’re frightened, Hidaka. The last thing you need to do is prove it.)
“Ken,” Manx says: just that.
Her guards thrust her from the room. She struggles: she twists in their grasp and kicks out and one of them curses at her in English and she pretends his words mean nothing. She yanks her head back, searching for Ken. Her hair is in her face. Manx meets his gaze for a fraction of a second and her eyes say nothing to him but stay alive.
And then the hands of his own captors are tightening about his arms and he is hauled away from the body of the girl Omi died trying to protect. His guards force him back down the shallow stairway and back out into the corridor: the brightness of the lighting makes him squint. This time, when he stumbles, Ken can’t seem to find his feet, and after a while he stops trying. He simply slumps in the arms of the soldiers and lets them drag him onward, into a service elevator, with a broken floor gauge and battered beige paneling. Ken stares at the floor, watching in dazed fascination as his blood drips onto the scuffed linoleum. His limbs are aching, the manacles nag him, biting at the skin of his wrists, the wound in his shoulder throbs; he can’t seem to focus and can’t imagine why he’s still conscious.
The soldiers talk over him, speaking in English: one of them says something that makes his comrade laugh nastily, and Ken knows that they are laughing at him. It hardly seems to matter.
Ken is cursorily searched in a reception area: these men know he is no threat at all. One of his guards rifles his pockets and roughly runs a practiced hand across the contours of his body, without discovering anything more incriminating than a square of gauze and a bit of lint, or anything more dangerous than door keys. They take his goggles, they remove his boots and socks then lead him, barefoot and bewildered, into a wide, well-furnished office, its windows offering a sweeping view out across the huddled buildings of the night-dark base. Snow blows in flurries across an empty parade ground; a sentry shivers by a gate, huddling into the collar of his coat.
Powell is already there, stood with one hand resting against his desk, a benevolent dictator’s smile on his face. His gaze sweeps down Ken's body like he was just another commodity, and his eyes are as dispassionately appraising as those of a housewife at the butcher’s, sizing up a joint of meat. He nods briskly. (Yes, you’ll do.)
“Leave us,” he says, and the soldiers’ hands drop from Ken's upper arms; they salute smartly and he hears them slip silently away, quietly closing the door behind them. Ken thinks he hears the scrape of a key in a lock. Then footsteps in the corridor, American voices, another brash young man’s laugh, like something from an undubbed war movie. The soldiers know what he is here for.
Ken, for them, is nothing but a barrack-room joke.
He is beginning to understand. (No. No, he can’t. He’s a General, he can’t possibly—) He is alone with Powell, and already he is bound and bleeding.
Effectively helpless. He doesn’t know what to do: it is impossible for him to believe there might be nothing. Ken is caught on the expectation that he can save himself and how? (It’s wrong. It’s got to be wrong.) His hands are cuffed behind him; his feet are bare. How can he, when it is an effort to so much as stay on his feet, now that there’s nobody to hold him there?
From Manx’s pet to General Powell’s.
And all Powell does is watch him and wait – and what for, God damn it? What does Powell think he’s waiting for? His gaze is an obscenity, it leaves Ken feeling stained. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. He knows he’ll sound frightened and hopeless, he knows his voice will be hoarse. He knows that whatever he says it will be wrong. Ken knows, too, that he is going to speak anyway because he can’t stand the silence and doesn’t want to wait: he would rather anything happened than nothing did. Powell’s calm is just another weapon, one which he is helpless against.
“Is this it, then?” Ken hears himself saying: it could have been a minute later, it could have been as many as twenty. Shut up, he thinks. Shut up, you idiot. “Is that why you did all this? To get—”
He can’t finish the sentence. The words get stuck in his throat. That’s what he’s after, Ken. This man wants (oh God, no) to fuck you. What are you going to do about it?
“To get laid?” Powell chuckles briefly and indulgently. The words, on his lips, sound quite ridiculous: from any other middle-aged man, standing tall and spry in his nice tailored suit in the middle of his nice big office, it might well have made Ken smile, but here on his own territory General Powell is not even remotely amusing. “Of course not. You’re a fringe benefit. But what else am I supposed to do with you?”

“You could kill me,” Ken says: mere wishful thinking.

Powell simply smiles. Somehow, it is worse than if he had screamed at him. “Oh, I’m sure I will, in time.” It isn’t a threat, merely a statement. He says, apropos of nothing at all, “What’s your name?”
He knows it. Powell has called Ken by name once already. He asks again only because he can; his face registers no surprise at all when Ken fails to answer, not even to offer him a lie.
It starts too soon. Ken knows what he is here for just as clearly as Powell does but he was expecting camouflage, however perfunctory: questions perhaps, a poor parody of an interrogation or a thrown punch. It starts with a touch that is anything but casual, with a hand on the shoulder, grasping just the slightest bit too hard. Ken winces and recoils, scowling. He aims a kick at Powell’s legs – back off, bastard – but misses; he stumbles slightly, loses his footing. His vision swims like the world caught in water, the floor seems to give a sudden sick lurch beneath him and he almost falls, but Powell is there, and Powell catches him. Hands about his waist, again that one bit too tight: he pulls against them. Hears metal striking metal as he struggles against his handcuffs, wrists twisting against the manacles that encircle them, you can’t let this happen—
“Let go,” Ken says: a catch there, something tremulous and uncertain in his voice. Already he sounds breathless. (What’s the matter? Forgotten how to fight?)

“Stop that,” Powell says sharply, “you’ll hurt your wrists.”
He hears Powell shift slightly, stooping. One of the man’s hands slips insinuatingly down his thighs and it is all Ken can do to suppress a shudder. He wants to run, to fight, and knows he can do neither. He’s too hurt to walk unaided, there’s nowhere and no one for him to run to. (Weiss are dead, Ken. You killed them.) He wants to curse Powell, to demand the man get off, stop touching me; he opens his mouth to protest and his feet are swept from under him and he is in Powell’s arms – he cries out, wordlessly, and doesn’t even manage to sound indignant. Ken is cradled against Powell’s chest like a woman or a child, but his grasp is hard enough to hurt. Ken’s arms are pinned against his sides, his thighs pressed tightly together. Stop it.
Oh, Jesus. Jesus Christ, he’s strong. Ken tries to struggle and finds he can barely even move; he tries to kick and strikes nothing but air. This one would be difficult enough fully-armed and uninjured, never mind now. He wants to fuck you, Kenken, and you’re going to let him, because there’s nothing else to do.
“Asshole! You’re gonna regret this, let go!”

“Oh yes?” Powell sounds amused. Ken can’t see his face, but he is sure the man is smiling. I doubt it, Weiss. I doubt that very much.
The desk: Powell lays him down on it, gentle as a father putting a sleeping child to bed. If Ken turns his head, he can see a name plate, engraved with English letters, and the edge of a photograph frame. Powell sits on the edge of the desk, obscenely casual, then bends over him, holding him against the wood with one hand pressed hard against his chest. Ken shifts uneasily beneath him. He wonders inanely if Powell can feel his heart beat and, if so, if he can tell it is racing.
Let’s do this the easy way. No.
“I’m going—” He pushes against Powell’s hand, pushing up with his elbows, back arching and forearms flat against the wood behind him – feels the wound in his shoulder shriek in painful protest, and a gout of blood surge down his arm. “—to fucking kill you! Let me go, you bastard!”

“Feel better?” Powell asks. Now that’s off your chest, boy…

“Fuck you.”

“I’ll take that as a no, then.” Frowning, just for a moment: a look of grandfatherly disappointment. He looked almost dismayed, as if he had been expecting something different. Yes, stubborn. Too bad.
And reaches down and, working one-handed, casually undoes Ken's jeans. The button pops free, the zip unfastens with a single harsh rasp. Ken starts, head jerking back and eyes going wide as Powell (no, oh, Jesus Christ no) slips one hand inside his pants, fingers insinuating themselves beneath the waistband of his underwear. He gasps audibly as he feels the man’s fingers closing about him, gently rubbing against him, feels a flush creeping to his cheeks – no. No! No, it’s wrong, it’s all wrong, it shouldn’t be like this, he can’t let this happen, has to move, has to get free—
Ken thinks – how can he not? – of Youji: propped up on one elbow, half-hidden behind a veil of darkness. Jesus Kenken, he says, sensitive much? Then he smiles, showing his teeth. He even laughs briefly, soft and low and breathy. Ken wonders what he must have said to him; he can’t remember that. I never, Youji says, said it was a bad thing…
(I never meant to kill him.)
“Bastard!”
He shrieks it. Frantic, furious, he pushes away from the table, forcing back Powell’s hand: this time Ken manages to sit. Lunges forward and – wants to punch that smug, sick little smile, to smash the man’s face until it’s bloody and distorted, and so swollen it doesn’t look like anything any more. Ken wants to make this man hurt for what he’s done to Weiss, for what he’s doing to him. His hands are still bound and it barely seems relevant. Catches Powell in the side with a raised knee, more by accident than anything, but it isn’t enough. Nothing could be payment enough for what this man has already done.
Powell turns, spitting an obscenity and reaching for his shoulders: Ken has seconds, he can’t fight but he has to. Powell’s shoulder presses against his jaw and Ken bites it.
He bites down hard until he tastes blood. Until he hears Powell yell something in English, feels the hand between his legs tightening about him, squeezing and twisting until he wrenches his head back and hears himself shrieking high and thin and pained: the cry is torn from him. Then a hand on his forehead, thick fingers twisting in his tangled hair, holding him upright – Powell’s face is suffused with fury and for a second Ken wishes he was smiling again, then the man punches him in the solar plexus, knocking the breath from his body. Ken gags; he very nearly vomits. He is still struggling to draw breath when his head is slammed back against the desk. The impact is hard enough to leave him dazed and dizzy, to make the room swim before him and his vision fade to gray.
Powell shouts again, again in English; Ken can’t quite catch the words. No doubt he is cursing him.
A blow to the face, then another. Pain takes root, budding and blooming across his jaw, his left cheek. Ken bites down on his lip to keep himself from crying out, then feels Powell’s hands back on his hips. Feels him groping for the waistband of his underwear – fucking bastard! – dragging it off along with his jeans.
Ken blushes again, furiously. He hears himself saying, “No.” (I’m gonna kill you. Don’t do this.)
His sweater and tee-shirt are torn open, ripped from him equally unceremoniously and cast to the floor, leaving him lying naked on the desktop, the varnished wood cool against his skin, and already slightly sticky with blood. Ken can feel the metal edge of the general’s blotter digging into his back and he draws his knees together, shifting uneasily. He has nowhere to run, he has given up on fighting, but he wishes there were somewhere he could hide. Powell frowns, roughly forces Ken’s legs apart, then steps back and gazes down at him, his eyes as coolly assessing as any anatomy student’s, a derisive smirk twisting the corners of his lips. Already Ken knows better than to try and move. He simply lies wounded and exposed while Powell rapes him with his eyes.
Powell says, “What’s your name, boy?”

“You know my name,” Ken says. His voice sounds like a stranger’s.

“I want to hear it from you. Will you tell me your name?”
Ken says nothing. He merely averts his eyes, gazing blankly through the windows at the snow, still falling in anarchic flurries, and shivers sinuously. He tells himself it is only from cold.
Movement: the rasp of fabric on fabric. The sound of a closet door creaking open, then clicking closed. Powell is slipping off his tailored jacket, no doubt placing it neatly on a hanger. He unfastens his belt, he loosens his tie, just a little; it gives him something of the air of an overgrown schoolboy. Powell walks back over to the desk and perches back on the edge of it, gazing at Ken over his shoulder. (And blood on his shirt, just a little.) It is as if he can’t quite work out why there should be a naked boy on his desk, and is wondering what to do with him.
Powell reaches for him again, and Ken flinches. Tries to draw his knees together; once again Powell parts them. There are hands upon him, and those hands are now only terrifyingly gentle. He is being caressed, coaxed into receptiveness. Ken hears himself gasp: soft, fractured sound – no. This isn’t happening. Stop.
(Sick fuck – what the Hell does he think he’s doing?) “No,” Ken says again, louder this time. “Stop.”
“You don’t mean that.” Powell says. Just relax.
No. Not like this. Stop. Ken clings to his pain. He thinks of Aya, gazing at him in bewilderment as the claws of his bugnuks rip him apart inside. Of Youji falling to his knees and smiling and Omi, dying for the sake of a lie at the hands of two men he had forlornly believed he could call friends. (Why couldn’t I save him?) Ken doesn’t understand. He never meant to kill them, never meant any of this. Powell’s palm rubs against him, working him until he’s flushed and panting for breath, his body dappled with sweat and Ken wishes he had never fought at all, wishes Aya had killed him, that he’d stood and waited and said only, make it quick. He fights against arousal, teeth gritted, his eyes half-open and gazing into nothing. I don’t want this.
He probably deserves no less. Ken closes his eyes and sees his friends dying.
“What’s your name?” Powell murmurs, like a lover. His hand stills for a second.

Ken whimpers. He arches up into the touch, his eyes opening again. Why did he—No. No! Please, dear God, don’t let him make me want this. “Jesus, please—”

“Your name.” Powell drags a slow finger up Ken's chest, smiling at the way he shivers. The touch burns. “That’s all I want. Just tell me your name.”

(Please stop.) “Ken.” The word is caught and carried on a gasp. Bastard.

“What was that?” Slowly, Powell starts to rub against Ken again, teasing him with the tip of one finger; his other hand presses down against the boy’s chest, the ball of one thumb resting atop one of his nipples, gently grazing against already painfully sensitized flesh. Biting his lip, Ken struggles desperately, futilely, to choke back a moan. Why do it like this? Why can’t he just – why is he making me like this? “Tell me your name.”

“Ken!” Oh, God. You’ve lost and you know it. “My name is Ken!”

Powell smiles at him, all benign benevolence. “Good. You’re learning,” he says.
And gets up, and walks away.
Just walks off, turning his back on Ken – the boy cries out, something that sounds almost like a protest – as if he were of no more interest to him than the blotter he lies on. Abandoning him to his own painful arousal, unasked-for and unwanted, to heightened sensations and damp and tingling skin, and (please no) the ghost of Powell’s hands upon him, his chest, his thighs, sliding against him. (Please, dear God, not this.) He is stimulated, he is humiliated; his cheeks are flushed, his legs bent at the knee, splayed wide. (Touch me—no goddammit!) Tears prickling against the backs of his eyes.
He’ll come back. He probably never left – he’ll be just out of sight, just watching. Watching you pant and whimper and want him, and hate yourself for wanting it at all. He’ll be back, once he thinks he’s made his point. Now tell yourself there’s not a part of you that’s glad.
(The body, just that. It can do only what it is programmed to. He – what the Hell’s wrong with you, Hidaka? This guy’s raping you! – can no more stop it than he can stop himself breathing. Ken might as well rail at himself for blinking away dust.)
It’s no lie at all, but it feels like one.
Stop it, he thinks again. Oh God, oh God, please God.
Powell stops make-believing that Ken is irrelevant, gives up on the pretense that he is busy elsewhere. Oh, are you still here? He plays at surprise, raising his brows as if caught off-guard by Ken's bewildering persistence, but the smirk, when he steps back into view, tells his prisoner that he has seen everything. He flushes, then yelps at the feel of Powell’s hands about his waist, dragging him down toward the edge of the desk and, though Ken struggles against him and curses, his struggles lack conviction as well as strength. He can’t even persuade himself he has any right to be saved. His friends are dead and he killed them. Whatever happens next, he clearly deserves it all.
No words now. Just the rasp of a zip and a hand on Ken’s thigh, large and pale against his own darker skin, spreading his legs wider. (Powell bending over him again, teeth scraping against the skin of his neck, hard enough to leave a mark.) Then fingers, slick and slippery, insinuating themselves between his legs, working their way inside. Ken's breath catches in his throat; he gasps audibly, eyes going wide. Tears glistening there, threatening to spill now.
“Fuck, I—stop it!”

Powell laughs, soft and breathy, something felt more than heard. “You’ll have to do a bit better than that.” Wraps his fingers around Ken, and listens as he struggles to choke back a sob.
It doesn’t hurt for long; it’s the absence that makes Ken cry. Pain he could, at least, understand: it would be simple compared to this, to being forced to feel…

(No. Mary Mother of God, not this – and it feels good, doesn’t it? Just relax. The brush of fingertips against his chest, the hand at his waist and the tilt of the hips, sweat pearling up across his brow, his chest and back; his legs tightening about his rapist’s waist, gonna kill him, the fucking pervert! The push and the flex of it, and tears on his cheeks and oh Jesus fuck – and need, white-hot and demanding. Touch me. Urgency. No. Lips parted, hair in his eyes, panting for breath—no!)
Not like this. Never like this. He forces himself to think of nothing.
He doesn’t want this. Ken never wanted this: this man bent over him, a hank of hair grazing against one bruised cheek, the tails of an untucked dress shirt brushing his raised thighs. He shudders, revolted, when Powell runs his tongue across the plane of one cheek, tasting his tears.
Ken never meant this, but it hardly seem to matter what he might have meant when his body betrays him so completely – he lets his head fall backward, moans helplessly as Powell shifts against him, pushing forward, pressing in deeper. He arches his back and raises his hips, he writhes beneath Powell’s touches but his cuffed hands are balled into fists, his dark eyes wide and frightened and fixed upon nothing at all. He can feel his pulse racing, feel the tears as they crawl down his cheeks. Powell thrusts two fingers between his parted lips; he can taste sweat and the coppery taint of his own blood, it doesn’t even occur to him to bite. Ken has never met a man who hated him so much.
Breath quickening, eyes falling closed: Ken is moving with him now, hips flexing in time with Powell’s thrusts. Powell’s fingers dragging against him, and him arching up into it, shuddering, drowning in sensation—
Ken cries out: hoarse, inarticulate, pained.
Leaving him – Oh, God – enervated and struggling for breath, his skin sticky with sweat, and with blood. Oh God. He weeps openly and helplessly, vocal as a frightened child, and can’t even cover his face.
Powell’s hips spasm and he spits a hot, forceful curse over him, fingers tightening almost painfully, then his grip slackens. Raising his head from Ken's shoulder, Powell pushes away. Disengaging. The look in his eyes, as he steps from the desk, is detached, dispassionate – almost clinical, the look of a man who has completed some small chore. Fastidiously, he looks for something to wipe himself off with before tugging his pants back up, rearranging his disordered clothing and tightening his tie. His forelock tumbles into his eyes, roguishly; easy to imagine a wife or a girlfriend reaching out to him and pushing it away with a smile, before she reaches for a cigarette or turns out the lamp.
“There now,” Powell says. He wipes a tear from Ken's cheek then ruffles his hair, a perversely paternal gesture. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
Ken barely hears him. Barely senses the hands that touch his face. Lost, drifting, stupefied with terror and despair, and overwhelming exhaustion, he opens distant, tear-glazed eyes and stares blank and uncomprehending at the unremarkable ceiling. Maybe, he thinks, maybe I am dead after all. Maybe this is Hell; maybe there's nothing the Devil can dream up that could possibly compare with more of the same only worse, much worse...
“Ave Maria,” he murmurs, uncertain where he is.
And oblivion opens its arms to greet him and he plunges gratefully into it.
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