Fic: The Knowledge
Title: The Knowledge
Rating: PG I reckon
Genre: Angst
Word Count: 1360
Disclaimer: He's not mine
A/N: Set just before Gene Hunt's dramatic entrance in series one of Ashes, I wrote this over a year ago and it's a bit... florid. Really it could benefit from a total rewrite without the Pretension Fairy's presence, but I'm posting it here - unbeta'd - more because of the theory it explores than the prose. A theory that's regained some legs after comments in the series two dvd commentary. Originally, if I can recall that far back, it was inspired by two thoughts; does Gene know what he is - whatever that may be; and secondly, why do we assume Gene Hunt is a force for good?
The Knowledge.
The sound of his heels striking the floor echoed into the darkness, bouncing off unseen walls. He could never recall walking out of that darkness and into the circle of light; only this moment. This breath between first consciousness and taking his seat. It was a tired cliché; the bare bulb in its cone-shaped fitting, the single chair set below it. A stage set for interrogation. With reluctance he took his seat and waited.
He shifted uncomfortably; the wooden chair was hard. It always was. Had he ever complained about it? Asked for the impossibility of a cushion? He couldn't remember. Possibly. Once. Possibly not. It was almost too fitting, the additional torture of the hard, unyielding timber gradually bringing numbness. Like the torture of these knowledge-filled moments succumbing to the numbing relief of a new job, another task, oblivion. Christ, why wouldn't they get on with it? Tell him, let him forget again, get on with it.
Who were they anyway? At first, a thousand years ago, he'd wondered. Blinded by the stark light flooding down, pining him to this place, he could see nothing beyond in the darkness. Sometimes he thought he heard a page being turned, imagined the clip board. But they didn't need a clip board, did they? They knew everything. His imagination then.
To the onlooker it would seem like the wrong setting. Inappropriate. He wasn't there to be questioned, but to be briefed. Told what awaited him next, how he was to be called upon this time. But he knew better. This was the most searching and thorough of questionings, conducted by someone who would not - could not - be fobbed off. This was where he questioned himself.
He tried to shut it out, tried to keep in the present. So hard. The knowledge was like a physical weight; his shoulders sagged under the strain. So many. How many? He couldn't even remember any more. He could see them, though. Relive the moments. The lives. The times. He remembered that he always thought the last one was the worst. This time the last one was the worst, he knew it.
He shifted on the chair again, desperate to get up. Go.
Stayed. No choice.
Think further back then, much further. Think about how clever you thought you were, that you'd forced the deal, not been a thoughtless victim walking to your own destruction. Oh, they'd set it up beautifully; let his own vanity do the convincing. He'd been so very easy to hook. He hadn't even realised what a fool he'd been at first. Younger - no, not younger. More innocent? He pulled a wry grimace. Hardly. Less world weary then. Yes, that was accurate. Very accurate. No, he'd failed to see what he'd done, what he'd signed up for, until far, far too late. Not that it would have helped to know; there was no escape now. The misery of that knowledge would simply have had more time to torment him had he realised sooner. Instead he'd had those moments when he'd almost felt... pride. Like a young man thoughtlessly swatting wasps to impress a girl at a picnic. A boy pulling the legs off spiders. Now he was like an old man; always aware of the brevity, the preciousness of life, reluctant to step even on an ant.
Except he only knew that now. Under this bleak light in this empty moment in time. Wasn't even aware of what he was doing while he was doing it. An unconscious instrument, believing he was acting for the best. Did that make it better? Or so much worse? He could almost scream with the frustration, the helplessness of it all.
Why wouldn't they get on with it? Let him go. He almost let slip a mirthless laugh at that thought. Let him go? When he was having so much fun? No, they wouldn't let him go yet. Oh, there was the loophole of course. The get-out clause. The written rule. That tiny pilot light of hope to further torment him; the way to break the pact, negate the deal, end the whole appalling thing. It could never happen. A one in a billion billion chance perhaps, but even he didn't know exactly what criteria were required to achieve it, so how could it ever happen? How could he ever be released?
He shied away from the bleak despair of the thought and found himself once more swamped in the immediate past. It had been bad, the last one. He'd almost failed. Allowed someone too close. And he'd been punished for it. Christ, how it hurt. He was eager for the moment when that hurt, that full comprehension of what had happened - what had been lost - when it would be lifted from his shoulders and he'd be unaware again. Come on.
"Sorry to keep you waiting."
Sleek, precise, and totally insincere. Like hell they were sorry. He grunted acknowledgement and sat up a little straighter. The chair creaked.
"The last task was... poorly done. We trust there will be no repeat."
Not a question; a statement. A threat? Or a promise. But how could they threaten him when he was already damned? What punishment beyond that which he was suffering already?
"Regrettably he was allowed to return, albeit briefly. Information was passed on. Information that your next, ah, client is aware of."
The chilling, horrific knowledge settled in his brain. Into his heart. That was how he could be punished. He wasn't to have that ache removed, but reinforced. Reminded of it. It would be there still, right in front of him. He was numb with the realisation. How could they? But they could. They liked him to have fun, didn't they?
He struggled against it. There must be some corner of his conscious self where he could believe what he did was good. A noble thing, accompanying them on the path to the inevitable. But how could that be? If it had worked before, that shred of comfort, it could never work now. No-one cheers to see a man in the prime of life throwing himself off a building. He had felt no satisfaction in seeing the car lifted out of the canal. No sense of job well done. Just...
Job done.
"As always, you will be fully informed."
No sooner the word than the deed. He knew. A woman. A mother.
Oh dear God, no. No. Not involving a child. No, no, no. He clenched his fists to stop himself crying out in protest. He would not give them the satisfaction. Not here. Not when he was himself. He screwed his eyes tightly shut and willed himself to be asleep; dreaming, tossing and turning in a nightmare created by some dark corner of his mind. Better to be insane than this.
He opened them again to find he knew everything. In that moment of transition, from himself to the hollow shell he hoped he became, briefly he still had the knowledge. All of it. He knew what he was. He knew who he was to be. A dinosaur in a changing world. He knew himself to be a stranger in a city he didn't neither knew nor understood. He remembered a failed marriage. He remembered what he'd lost. Who he'd lost.
The bright electric light of the room blurred into the dazzling sunshine of a summer's day. Dust was rising from the ground; dancing, confused in the unfocused shafts of intertwined natural and artificial light.
He was stepping out of a car.
He was getting up from the chair.
For a moment he knew both worlds; the real and the unreal to be found in both. There was a woman. A beautiful woman. In one world he knew her to be needing rescue from that silver-suited bastard. In the other, he looked and something - something unexpected and unaccustomed - sprang up within his battered heart.
The get-out clause. The written rule. Hope.
Maybe you could save me.
But the knowledge drifted away and he was left in the moment.
"Today, my friend..." he said.
Fin.
Rating: PG I reckon
Genre: Angst
Word Count: 1360
Disclaimer: He's not mine
A/N: Set just before Gene Hunt's dramatic entrance in series one of Ashes, I wrote this over a year ago and it's a bit... florid. Really it could benefit from a total rewrite without the Pretension Fairy's presence, but I'm posting it here - unbeta'd - more because of the theory it explores than the prose. A theory that's regained some legs after comments in the series two dvd commentary. Originally, if I can recall that far back, it was inspired by two thoughts; does Gene know what he is - whatever that may be; and secondly, why do we assume Gene Hunt is a force for good?
The Knowledge.
The sound of his heels striking the floor echoed into the darkness, bouncing off unseen walls. He could never recall walking out of that darkness and into the circle of light; only this moment. This breath between first consciousness and taking his seat. It was a tired cliché; the bare bulb in its cone-shaped fitting, the single chair set below it. A stage set for interrogation. With reluctance he took his seat and waited.
He shifted uncomfortably; the wooden chair was hard. It always was. Had he ever complained about it? Asked for the impossibility of a cushion? He couldn't remember. Possibly. Once. Possibly not. It was almost too fitting, the additional torture of the hard, unyielding timber gradually bringing numbness. Like the torture of these knowledge-filled moments succumbing to the numbing relief of a new job, another task, oblivion. Christ, why wouldn't they get on with it? Tell him, let him forget again, get on with it.
Who were they anyway? At first, a thousand years ago, he'd wondered. Blinded by the stark light flooding down, pining him to this place, he could see nothing beyond in the darkness. Sometimes he thought he heard a page being turned, imagined the clip board. But they didn't need a clip board, did they? They knew everything. His imagination then.
To the onlooker it would seem like the wrong setting. Inappropriate. He wasn't there to be questioned, but to be briefed. Told what awaited him next, how he was to be called upon this time. But he knew better. This was the most searching and thorough of questionings, conducted by someone who would not - could not - be fobbed off. This was where he questioned himself.
He tried to shut it out, tried to keep in the present. So hard. The knowledge was like a physical weight; his shoulders sagged under the strain. So many. How many? He couldn't even remember any more. He could see them, though. Relive the moments. The lives. The times. He remembered that he always thought the last one was the worst. This time the last one was the worst, he knew it.
He shifted on the chair again, desperate to get up. Go.
Stayed. No choice.
Think further back then, much further. Think about how clever you thought you were, that you'd forced the deal, not been a thoughtless victim walking to your own destruction. Oh, they'd set it up beautifully; let his own vanity do the convincing. He'd been so very easy to hook. He hadn't even realised what a fool he'd been at first. Younger - no, not younger. More innocent? He pulled a wry grimace. Hardly. Less world weary then. Yes, that was accurate. Very accurate. No, he'd failed to see what he'd done, what he'd signed up for, until far, far too late. Not that it would have helped to know; there was no escape now. The misery of that knowledge would simply have had more time to torment him had he realised sooner. Instead he'd had those moments when he'd almost felt... pride. Like a young man thoughtlessly swatting wasps to impress a girl at a picnic. A boy pulling the legs off spiders. Now he was like an old man; always aware of the brevity, the preciousness of life, reluctant to step even on an ant.
Except he only knew that now. Under this bleak light in this empty moment in time. Wasn't even aware of what he was doing while he was doing it. An unconscious instrument, believing he was acting for the best. Did that make it better? Or so much worse? He could almost scream with the frustration, the helplessness of it all.
Why wouldn't they get on with it? Let him go. He almost let slip a mirthless laugh at that thought. Let him go? When he was having so much fun? No, they wouldn't let him go yet. Oh, there was the loophole of course. The get-out clause. The written rule. That tiny pilot light of hope to further torment him; the way to break the pact, negate the deal, end the whole appalling thing. It could never happen. A one in a billion billion chance perhaps, but even he didn't know exactly what criteria were required to achieve it, so how could it ever happen? How could he ever be released?
He shied away from the bleak despair of the thought and found himself once more swamped in the immediate past. It had been bad, the last one. He'd almost failed. Allowed someone too close. And he'd been punished for it. Christ, how it hurt. He was eager for the moment when that hurt, that full comprehension of what had happened - what had been lost - when it would be lifted from his shoulders and he'd be unaware again. Come on.
"Sorry to keep you waiting."
Sleek, precise, and totally insincere. Like hell they were sorry. He grunted acknowledgement and sat up a little straighter. The chair creaked.
"The last task was... poorly done. We trust there will be no repeat."
Not a question; a statement. A threat? Or a promise. But how could they threaten him when he was already damned? What punishment beyond that which he was suffering already?
"Regrettably he was allowed to return, albeit briefly. Information was passed on. Information that your next, ah, client is aware of."
The chilling, horrific knowledge settled in his brain. Into his heart. That was how he could be punished. He wasn't to have that ache removed, but reinforced. Reminded of it. It would be there still, right in front of him. He was numb with the realisation. How could they? But they could. They liked him to have fun, didn't they?
He struggled against it. There must be some corner of his conscious self where he could believe what he did was good. A noble thing, accompanying them on the path to the inevitable. But how could that be? If it had worked before, that shred of comfort, it could never work now. No-one cheers to see a man in the prime of life throwing himself off a building. He had felt no satisfaction in seeing the car lifted out of the canal. No sense of job well done. Just...
Job done.
"As always, you will be fully informed."
No sooner the word than the deed. He knew. A woman. A mother.
Oh dear God, no. No. Not involving a child. No, no, no. He clenched his fists to stop himself crying out in protest. He would not give them the satisfaction. Not here. Not when he was himself. He screwed his eyes tightly shut and willed himself to be asleep; dreaming, tossing and turning in a nightmare created by some dark corner of his mind. Better to be insane than this.
He opened them again to find he knew everything. In that moment of transition, from himself to the hollow shell he hoped he became, briefly he still had the knowledge. All of it. He knew what he was. He knew who he was to be. A dinosaur in a changing world. He knew himself to be a stranger in a city he didn't neither knew nor understood. He remembered a failed marriage. He remembered what he'd lost. Who he'd lost.
The bright electric light of the room blurred into the dazzling sunshine of a summer's day. Dust was rising from the ground; dancing, confused in the unfocused shafts of intertwined natural and artificial light.
He was stepping out of a car.
He was getting up from the chair.
For a moment he knew both worlds; the real and the unreal to be found in both. There was a woman. A beautiful woman. In one world he knew her to be needing rescue from that silver-suited bastard. In the other, he looked and something - something unexpected and unaccustomed - sprang up within his battered heart.
The get-out clause. The written rule. Hope.
Maybe you could save me.
But the knowledge drifted away and he was left in the moment.
"Today, my friend..." he said.
Fin.