New SGA fic: Forget Me Not (2 of 5)

[maisierita]

Rodney hates that John still goes to the mines sometimes. John doesn't tell him when he goes, mostly; he'll admit it if asked outright, but he never volunteers, and Rodney has stopped asking because he doesn't like to see that closed-off expression cross John's face, the way his eyes go cold and distant. Anyway, Rodney knows when John goes to the mine because he can taste it in the silian-tinged sweat on the back of John's neck, can feel the silian ash that's ground into John's skin.

Rodney could keep John from going to the mines just by asking, by inventing some useless, time-consuming chore for John to do around the house, but he's tried that and it never works out, is counter-productive, ultimately. John doesn't like going to the mines, per se, but he hates being bored, and going to the mines keeps him occupied, keeps him productive.

Rodney can relate to this; the need to be busy and useful is equally as important to him, and he doesn't think he'd do as well in John's place, trapped in a tiny apartment all day without anyone to talk to except the few servants he's met at the commissary, forced to spend his time cooking and cleaning and puttering. John is smart-very smart, much smarter than he lets on, but Rodney's very good at ferreting out the signs of true intelligence, and John reeks of it-but he is also a Class Two and that means he's restricted from doing anything except manual labor.

Sometimes Rodney wonders what John did, who he was, before he ended up here. It's not a mystery he thinks about in relation to himself; he has a feeling his life before was not all that dissimilar to his life now, but it's clear that John's better suited for a life very different than the one he's leading now. Rodney imagines John out of prison, which is hard to do because everything Rodney knows is inside the compound, but when he does, he sees John doing something exciting or dangerous. Something more challenging than doing Rodney's laundry.

Mostly this all means that Rodney spends far too much of his time thinking of things for John to do that will keep him busy at home, because every afternoon spent in Rodney's apartment is an afternoon not spent in the mines, breathing in toxic ash and coming home with bruises he never talks about.

"I have an idea," Rodney announces when he comes home one Fifth Day. "You could make a bigger bed frame; it's ridiculous that we're still squeezing onto that single mattress, especially considering what it does to my back, and we'd save a lot of rations if we requisitioned the raw materials instead of the bed itself, so-John? Are you here?"

The apartment smells of fresh bread and cream soup, so John has obviously been home, but the table isn't set and John's not in the kitchen or the bedroom.

"John?" It's disconcerting to come home to an empty apartment. It's been less than one full season and yet Rodney's already become used to John's presence.

Before Rodney has time to work himself up into a full-blown panic (which he can do in a remarkably short amount of time. "It's a talent," he has told John, who just laughs in his face), the door opens and John comes rushing in, carrying a couple of bags and looking harried. "Rodney," he says with a grimace. "I'm sorry; we ran out of hegel spice and the soup won't taste right without it. The line at the quartermaster's was unbelievable. There must have been a hundred people. It took two hours."

He brushes past Rodney and thrusts a bag at him. "Here. I got some extra soap and shampoo while I was there. Quartermaster was overstocked so they were cheap." Then he disappears into the kitchen, cursing under his breath about the soup overcooking.

Rodney blinks down at the bag in his hand, then turns and goes into the bathroom and deposits the supplies there. "You want me to set the table?" he offers when he comes out, knowing full well John will say 'no' because that is one of the things John has not eased up on, even a little.

"I-", John says from the kitchen, then pauses. Breathes once, slowly. "No," he says, and it is not Rodney's imagination that there is reluctance in his voice. "I'll do it."

This is a rare opportunity, and Rodney pounces on it. "John, it is not going to violate any unwritten servant code if I set the table once, is it? Just once? So we can eat a little sooner? I'm very hungry."

John looks torn, glancing from the table to the soup tureen and back to the table again. "I'm supposed-"

"Yes, I know it's your job, but seriously, I am very hungry, and honestly, I would prefer to save the extra five minutes if it gets the food on the table faster."

John narrows his eyes at him, like he knows Rodney's lying-which he probably does, because Rodney is lying and he can never fool John-but then he grinds his teeth together like he is conceding some long and painful war, forced to his knees with both hands bound behind his back and prevented from throwing himself on a grenade so he can die rather than give in (Rodney has a very vivid imagination). "Fine," John says. He is going to be irritable for the rest of the night. "Do you know where everything is?"

"It's my apartment," Rodney says, offended, but it turns out he does not know where everything is, not anymore; John has reorganized the plates and utensils and just about everything else. Since John never lets him do anything at all, Rodney has never even noticed.

"Hey," Rodney says, carefully placing the spoons next to the bowls, "what's this paper? Can I throw it out?"

"No!" John says, emerging from the kitchen, looking spooked. "No you can't. It's important."

"Important? Why? What-" Rodney is already unfolding it and reading it, never mind that it is John's and possibly private. Rodney has a very poor sense of personal boundaries. He goes silent as he scans the writing, recognizing Raku's small, immaculate printing. "You were reclassed?"

"Upranked," John says. He sounds happy, and comes out of the kitchen with a big serving bowl and a ladle. "I'm not eligible for reclass until at least the end of the season, probably longer."

"Upranked," Rodney says. "That's good, though. What does it mean?"

"Not very much, really," John says with a shrug that is very affected and does nothing to hide the fact that he is seriously cheerful. He disappears into the kitchen and reappears with the loaf of bread, which has a strong yeasty smell that makes Rodney's mouth water. "But you'll like this part: I'm out of the mines."

"You're out of the mines anyway," Rodney says. He breaks off a piece of bread and dips it into the soup, biting back the small involuntary moan that wants to escape. John's cooking is so good, plain and simple but satisfying in a way the commissary food just isn't. "Mostly."

"I'm out of the mines entirely now," John says. "Apparently, at my new rank I qualify for pulling hours with the sanitation department. It's not great, really, but hey, no more silian dust in the house."

Personally, Rodney doesn't think sanitation is such a step up, except that so far as he's heard, no one's died while cleaning out the public toilets, and John seems to be genuinely pleased. "So how does that work? I thought sanitation was strictly scheduled."

"Oh, it is. The staff are all new Class Threes, and they're psychotic about sticking to schedules because they're afraid they'll get demoted if they're late. I'm just assigned as a backup for emergencies. Clogged toilets, broken showers, trash overflows, that kind of stuff."

"The disgusting stuff," Rodney says dryly.

"Yeah, but if I do well there, it'll increase my chances of getting reclassed."

John, like all the other Class Twos Rodney has ever met (or heard other people talking about), wants to be promoted with an intensity that far outstrips rationality. Rodney understands that it's a big deal, especially for the Twos stuck in the mine; he even understands that John, who's more or less leading the relatively privileged life of a Class Five, still wants the security of being Class Three, where his freedom from oola stew and his ability to shower in private is not dependent on remaining in Rodney's good graces. But Rodney also knows that once John is promoted, he'll go live in the dormitory with the other Threes, that he'll eat all his meals in the Class Three commissary, that there will be no more late nights sitting up reading literature out loud or early mornings spent in bed together. Rodney doesn't think it's asking too much for John to be a little put out by the possibility of losing those things.

But he can't say this to John, because John's sitting across from him, dipping his bread in his soup and smiling in the rare way that means he's truly, genuinely happy. And Rodney, who is stupid and hopeless because John is his servant and they are not now nor have ever been on equal footing, doesn't want to dim that smile, even a little bit.

~~

It's a strange, strange prison, Rodney thinks. He's got nothing in memory to compare it to, obviously, but there's a part of him that feels very strongly that prison isn't this. Prison, he thinks, is a cell, or a cage, maybe damp and dank, or cold and sterile, barely lit or else illuminated so brightly it's impossible to sleep, with vermin, inedible food, and hard labor.

Prison isn't warm, sunny days, strolling leisurely back from a late, long lunch, his servant/lover/best friend at his side. To be sure, he only gets one afternoon off in eight, and the food in the commissary is only barely tolerable, especially now that he's used to John's cooking, but ... he's gotten the chance to get used to John's cooking, and there's nothing about that that feels like prison, or any kind of punishment.

"I'll tell you one thing," John says, "I am never complaining about the state of your bathroom again."

"That bad?"

John spent the morning on latrine duty, cleaning out the public restrooms that are scattered throughout the complex. To Rodney, it sounds absolutely disgusting, but John's in a pretty good mood despite the hours spent up to his knees in filth and stench. John, Rodney thinks, likes tasks that are concrete, where he can see the difference he's made, even in a short amount of time. He wouldn't be well-suited for Rodney's job, to sit and toil in a lab day after day, making dubious progress in infinitesimal increments. Not that Rodney's all that crazy about the slow progress, either; it's the one part of his life that doesn't feel like it fits. Rodney still doesn't have any idea what his life was like before, but he guesses the accomplishments ran closer together.

"You can't even imagine. Kilef-I mentioned him, right?-he says that the team that was assigned to the latrines on the outer loops got reassigned to mess clean-up last week because Etrus slipped and broke her leg and Jenul got some kind of stomach virus and has been throwing up all week."

"They didn't assign anyone else to cover the latrines?"

John gives him a look. "Obviously not, or they wouldn't have needed me on clean-up duty."

"Well, yes, obviously they didn't do it, but that doesn't mean they shouldn't have done it."

"Should've, could've," John says, and shrugs. "It wasn't so bad, once I got used to the smell. May have to burn the clothes, though. I've already run them through the wash, and they still stink."

Someone steps into their path, large and bulky and ominous. "Hey, John. Let's talk."

They both stop and take a step back from the security officer who's blocking their way, inexplicably paying attention to them in the exact way security officers don't. Looking directly at them, even, with eye contract and everything.

John eyes the man dubiously. "Sir?"

The man nods slowly. "Of course," he says, "you don't remember me. You've been Treated since then."

John glances over at Rodney, who feels threatened and helpless in equal measure, his good mood evaporating rapidly. John's attention is already back on the security officer, and he looks, for once, completely and utterly focused and intent, assessing. Rodney is not sure why John glanced at him; there was a message in John's eyes, but Rodney has no idea what it meant.

No one around them is paying any attention, on purpose, probably. Nothing good ever comes of talking to security, and no one here ever wants to get involved in someone else's problem.

"I'm sorry, sir," John says. He's deferential, but not submissive, and in truth he doesn't sound particularly sorry, which isn't a surprise as he doesn't know what he's supposed to be apologizing for, but also isn't very smart, since the security officer obviously has some kind of grievance, and there is clearly nothing to be gained by pissing him off further. John probably realizes this, but he's also obviously made the assessment that nothing he can say or do is going to be sufficient appeasement. As Rodney watches, John's back straightens and his shoulders tense, readying for a fight. Rodney recognizes the signs, even though he doesn't ever remember seeing them before. "If I did something to offend you."

The man laughs. It's anything but pleasant. "You didn't offend me," he says. "And I shouldn't even be talking to you. A Class Two." He spits it out like it's a filthy insult. "But it's not right, you not remembering. It's not fair, that you get to just forget it, forget everything, like it never happened."

"Believe me," John says, and wow, Rodney thinks, it's like John's becoming someone else entirely, right before his eyes: growing taller, leaner, more intent, "I wish I could remember it too. Along with lots of other things. Like, say, my life."

The guard's studying John, eyes glinting meanly. "I can see it in you, still. Doesn't matter how many times they Treat you. Some people can't be fixed."

"See what in me?" John's voice is low and kind of scary. He's got his fists clenched at his side, and Rodney's never seen him less relaxed. He looks like he's holding himself in check, like he could go off at any minute.

"Violence," the man says. "Aggression. It's in your blood. They can Treat you until the end of time and they won't be able to erase it." He leans in close. "You want it."

"No," John says. "You're wrong."

But he's not wrong, Rodney thinks. He's not wrong, and this must be why John's been Treated over and over; maybe he tried to escape and maybe he didn't, but if he did he didn't do it the way Rodney would, with subterfuge and deception. John would do it honestly, openly, but it would be loud and fast and violent, and people would get hurt and John, maybe, wouldn't really care if it got him what he wanted. Or maybe he would care a little, maybe Rodney's reading too much into the way John's standing there looking alive and expectant and eager.

The officer laughs. "It's driving you crazy," he says. "Knowing I'm right about you, not knowing what you did."

"It's not going to keep me up at night," John says, slow and careless, "but you obviously want to tell me."

The officer's laughter abruptly dies away, and he leans in close, feigning intimacy, his eyes glinting. Rodney's starting to wonder if he's entirely sane, and that is just wonderful, that is all they need, to be accosted by a security officer with some kind of problem with John and an undiagnosed psychological instability. There is just no way that can end well. "They tell me I should just forget it. Like you did. That it's not important, that no one actually died, so it doesn't matter."

"I can't defend something I can't remember," John says levelly. "If you're trying to get me to swing first, it's not going to happen."

"No, I can see that," the guard says. He sounds disappointed, maybe a little resigned, but then, without warning, he throws a punch directly at John's face.

To Rodney, it's a complete surprise, even though he's been standing there watching the conversation go downhill, knowing it would come to this, that there's no way it could have come to anything else. But to John it must have been no surprise at all, because he ducks out of the way long before the punch comes anywhere near his face, and comes up with a punch of his own to the guard's midsection that leaves the man gasping. Then, carefully, John takes a step back and away, out of range.

"We don't have to do this," he says evenly, except, god, he wants to. Rodney can see it in his eyes, alive with unholy anticipation. It's a little bit terrifying, because Rodney has never seen John want anything quite this much.

"I think we do," the guy says, and just like that, they're fighting, over what? The guard has never actually said, and John doesn't seem to care that he doesn't know.

Rodney has never seen anybody actually punch anybody else-or if he has, he doesn't remember it-but it's a lot worse than he'd imagined. Flesh hitting flesh makes a sickening kind of thud, and skin splits far too easily, spilling blood everywhere.

"Stop," Rodney says, as if anyone's listening to him. "Stop! Someone's going to see you."

But neither of the two men pays any attention, or else he's right, and neither of them cares, are either oblivious to the consequences or are not scared by them. Rodney thinks in a sort of nauseated horror: John did want this, he's enjoying it; in some sick, twisted sort of way, he likes it. John's face is bloodied and his mouth's set in a hard, grim line, but Rodney can still tell that John's not fighting his hardest, that if he wanted to, he could end this right now, but he's dragging it out because he likes it. In some way that Rodney hopes he'll never understand, this is fun for John.

It's not fun for Rodney, and it's especially not fun when the guy pulls out a subduer and points it at John's head. "Now," he snarls, "you'll finally get what you deserve," and good god, it's so cliché Rodney wants to laugh, except that the guy is pointing a weapon right at John's head, and there is no way out of this, but in a blur of movement John twists out and under and he knocks the guy's legs right out from under him, kicks the subduer away.

He's good at this, Rodney thinks, torn between admiration and horror. Somehow, despite all the Treatments, John's retained memories that he shouldn't, and he knows just how to twist and bend and brace himself, to take a fight and make it his own.

When the guard rises to his feet, John is right there, attacking now instead of defending, dodging and weaving and twisting in a pattern that's familiar, even though Rodney can't remember from where. Rodney racks his brain and racks it some more trying to remember before he gets it; when he does, he laughs, even though it's not funny, but still, it's the damn exercises, the one John does all the time with the sticks, the ones he can't remember learning but does religiously nonetheless.

John with the sticks is all fluid grace, liquid motion, and Rodney's always liked watching him twist his body around, hard muscles rippling under golden skin, but it's different when it's fast like this. In slow motion, as exercise, it looks like some kind of exotic dance, but at speed it's easy to see the moves for what they are, violence doled out with deadly precision. Even without the sticks, John looks lethal. Rodney thinks that if he had his memory, if he was reacting on more than instinct, the security officer would already be dead on the ground.

As it is, the officer is running out of energy. He didn't expect this, Rodney thinks; how could he have? He's obviously seen John fight before, maybe fought with him himself, but that was at least one Treatment ago, and he'd been expecting less skill, less vigor. "John," Rodney says urgently, "John, we have to go," even though there is nowhere to go, no place to run. But it's too late anyway, because someone obviously overcame their fear of getting involved and has called in a security detail. There are four hulking officers running towards them with their weapons drawn, and the officer John's fighting looks up from where he's lying on the ground, blood streaming from a cut over his eye, and grins. "You lose," he says, and that's when the world goes to hell.

~~

"I don't think you understand," Rodney says, with false and highly exaggerated patience. He is tired and worried and hungry and stressed to a degree he has not previously experienced. "I'm not asking you to see him. I'm telling you that I'm going to see him."

The woman behind the desk squares her jaw. "You are the one who doesn't understand. No prisoners are admitted to the ward unless they're patients. I don't care who you are. You're not going to see him."

But of course, Rodney does see him, is seeing him even now, in his head. John is screaming, collapsed on the ground, writhing in what must be agony. He's screaming over and over again, just won't stop screaming. Rodney can't recall now how long it lasted, only that it seemed to go on forever, and that there was nothing he could do to stop any of it.

Rodney closes his eyes against the vision, but of course that just makes it worse, makes more vivid the convulsions wracking John's body, the pink-tinged foam on John's lips. He shudders once and shakes himself out of it, already practiced at it after only a few hours. "Look," he says carefully, "I understand that you have rules, and that you probably have no personal discretion to bend them, being, what, a Class Three?"

"Four," the woman says tightly. Her name, Rodney notes, is Tilja. Her name tag is old and scratched. He wonders how long she's been here.

"Four," Rodney says. "Good for you. But surely there's somebody here who does have the authority to make an exception? I am not asking for fun, you realize. I have legitimate reasons for needing to see John." Needing to see John alive, not screaming, not writhing. Needing to see him breathing on his own, not gasping for breath, lips turning blue. The fact that he can't close his eyes without seeing John doing all those things is, in Rodney's mind, the most legitimate reason of all.

"Legitimate reasons," Tilja says skeptically. She takes out a stylus, taps it slowly against a tablet. "Then why don't you give me some of those reasons, and I'll take the list to my supervisor, and he can tell you that you're not going to see your friend."

Rodney huffs. (John is screaming in his head, and Rodney can't stop it, can't do anything, and the security officer is standing off to the side wiping the blood off his nose, grinning). "He's my servant. My reasons for wanting to see him are personal, and if you think that I'm going to recount them for you so you can put them up on the bulletin board, you are sadly mistaken."

"And you," Tilja says distinctly, "are not getting onto the ward."

"Listen to me," Rodney says desperately, "I have to see him. Couldn't you just see your way around your precious, inflexible rules for just long enough to let me in there?"

"No." She sounds bored.

"Rodney."

Rodney spins around. Raku is standing there, looking slightly irritated and tremendously harried. His usually immaculate hair is skewed at funny angles, and his Administrator's robe is crooked. "I understand that you find it effective in the lab to bludgeon your coworkers with the force of your intractability, but I suggest that it would be in your best interests not to antagonize the Facility staff."

"I wouldn't need to antagonize her if she would just let me in to see John."

Raku looks away for a minute, his eyes and expression grave. "Rodney," he says, with unexpected compassion, "he's not going to remember you."

Rodney stares at Raku for a minute, then shakes his head, dismissing his utterly ridiculous, implausible words. "No," he says firmly. "No, no, no. You can't have had him Treated already. It's only been a few hours. It was just ... we were just walking back from lunch."

"We didn't Treat him," Raku says carefully. "But, Rodney-"

"No," Rodney says. "No, see, that's good. Especially because it wasn't his fault. I mean, that officer, he just attacked John for no reason. Well," he says, "for no reason that he was willing to share. I'm sure he had some reason."

"He had a good reason, in his mind," Raku says. "Though that was no excuse for accosting John like that, and he will be disciplined appropriately. Still, Rodney, you must remember, John has no legal standing, and he did swing first."

Rodney gapes at him. "What? Who- what? Who told you that?"

"Elsha," Raku says curiously. "The officer himself."

"But-" Rodney gapes some more, because the one thing he hasn't considered is that the officer will simply lie, as if he can't be called on it, as if nobody had been there to see. "But he's lying. He threw the first punch, not John. John wouldn't do that." Although John had wanted to; Rodney remembers the eagerness John has been unable to hide, the way he was holding himself in check. But he had held himself in check. He'd had that much self-control, at least.

Raku's voice is gentle. "You have no way of knowing this, but believe me when I tell you John would throw the first punch. He has before."

"Fine," Rodney says peevishly. "Maybe he would. Maybe he has, in some past life he can't remember. Elsie knew about it though, right? That's probably what gave him confidence that his bald-faced lie would be credible. The only problem, a rather big problem, if you ask me, is, hello, an eye-witness? Namely me? I was standing right there. I know he's lying."

Raku sighs. "Rodney. Understand, even as a Class Five, you are a prisoner as much as John. You have no more legal standing than he does."

Rodney snaps his fingers, a lot. "Right, right. I'm sure whatshisname knew that, too. If he even noticed me. It's not like the officers ever acknowledge us, anyway. We're not even people to them, more like scenery. But surely my testimony counts for something. You people aren't completely irrational. I mean, we're talking about John's life, here. If you Treat him again, he'll lose everything." He focuses on Raku again, who's looking a little assaulted himself, and very conflicted. "Can't you shoot me up with more of those happy drugs that made me tell you everything? Truth serum, or whatever it was? I can't lie to you then, right? I can understand that you don't want to use them on your precious, sterling Eslu, because he's a security officer and therefore his word is beyond reproach, but I'm just another prisoner. What's to stop you from using them on me? I'm even volunteering."

"I'm not certain any evidence you give would be admissible," Raku says with a frown, but he's considering it, Rodney can tell.

"But what's the harm? Even if it gives you evidence you can't use, you'll know the truth, at least. Don't you want to know if you've got some psychotic, vindictive officer roaming around beating up prisoners on a whim?"

"Hardly a whim," Raku murmurs. "It was hardly a whim, Rodney. But very well. Come with me."

~~

It is a short walk from the Facility ward to an examination room suitable for an interrogation. The walk back, an hour later, seems much longer. That is mostly because the room is spinning, and Rodney is feeling vaguely nauseous, the memories of John on the ground (screaming, screaming, screaming) that much more vivid after intense grilling about them. He'd gone through it over and over, answered question after question, and though he'd had to tell them how John had looked, how he'd wanted it, no matter how Raku phrased his questions, the answer was always the same. Elsha, the guard, had provoked the assault. Elsha had tried to get John to swing first, and when that failed, he'd thrown the first punch himself.

Raku leads Rodney back to the waiting room outside John's ward, and then leads him to a chair and sits him down. "Rest now, Rodney. That was quite a long session. I'll be back in a few minutes."

It's longer than that before Raku returns, but Rodney's not quite sure how long because the drugs are making him feel sick. Also, he hasn't eaten in hours, which is making him sicker still, so he just sits there with his head down, trusting that Raku will come get him when it's necessary, and leave him alone before that. His stupid, drugged brain is being particularly recalcitrant. Rodney has had enough of seeing John screaming on the ground, and he would like very much for his brain to just quit it, instead of proving, again, how close to perfect his visual memory is. Rodney considers that falling into a hypoglycemic coma would likely solve his immediate problem, though he is none too sure that he won't, upon waking, be forced to deal with it all over again.

This is why, he thinks, he needs to see John. Even if John is unconscious in a bed, connected to tubes and monitors and things, he won't be screaming. Rodney desperately needs a new image of John to lay over the old.

There is a tap on his shoulder. "Yes?" Rodney says blearily. His eyes are not focusing all that well. "Yes, what is it?"

"Rodney." It is Raku, sitting in the chair next to him. "I wanted to tell you, in person. We ... I've forwarded your testimony to the council. They'll have to decide what to do with it, but I think ... your testimony was quite compelling. I believe Elsha will be held accountable for assault. He will no doubt object to you as a witness but ... it is uncommon, but there is legal precedent for interrogating him with the serum, if necessary."

Rodney takes a deep breath. "Good," he says. "That's good. That's excellent. Can I ... can I tell John?"

Raku's face goes blank. "Rodney. As I told you, he will not remember you."

"Maybe not now," Rodney says. "I understand that he'll be a little out of it for a while, but it's been hours, already. I mean, you can't have Treated him already; I did research. It takes days to do it properly. You can't just zap somebody and boom, he loses his memories ..." But then Rodney remembers the day he accidentally punished John, just a few seconds with a small subduer, how John had gone into convulsions then, too, how'd he lost consciousness, how confused he'd been, how he'd lost hours.

"That- that-" Rodney stammers, horrified. "That's the Treatment? You've done that to me? To all of us here?"

"No," Raku says. But he's not meeting Rodney's eyes. "Subduers are designed to punish." He is silent for a minute. "Treatment is drawn out over a number of days. It's far less traumatic. But the underlying technology is the same, and John is ... not an optimal subject."

"Not optimal," Rodney repeats hollowly. "I want to see him."

Raku draws in breath slowly. "There is no point."

"I don't care if he doesn't remember me," Rodney says. He stares at his knuckles, and the visions overlaying them are all John: John screaming, but also John cooking, John laughing, John grinning at him before pulling him down to bed. "I remember him."

~~

John's asleep when Rodney's finally given permission to enter his room. He's woken once, according to the attendant, who's disinterested and matter-of-fact, "but he won't remember it."

"Why are his hands restrained?" Rodney asks angrily, as soon as he steps through the door.

"It's a necessary precaution," Raku says from the doorway. He seems reluctant to enter the room itself, and he's more reluctant still to look at John's still form in the bed. "He's usually violent when he wakes. Understand that it's for his own protection as well as our own."

"Credit me with some intelligence," Rodney says. "I doubt very much he needs protection from himself." His back is to the door, rigid with anger, because it's 'John's usually violent when he wakes', not 'John's woken up violent in the past', and how many times does it take to form a pattern, for something to be habit?

"Think what you will," Raku says quietly. "But I believe you would agree it would not do John any good to be subdued again so soon."

"Go away," Rodney says. And then, because Raku is his superior and is doing him a big favor, even if it's out of guilt, Rodney adds, "please. I'd like to be alone with him."

"Very well." There is silence for a minute. "But Rodney, remember that you are required to report to your lab tomorrow morning. There is no dispensation for injuries to a servant, no matter the circumstances." Then he leaves, which is good, because Rodney has suddenly begun to understand how John could have been so eager to punch someone that he would disregard the severity of the consequences.

Raku closes the door behind him, and Rodney collapses into the chair near the bed with a sigh. There are, at least, no beeping machines, no tubes or monitors, and while that's a relief, it's also disconcerting, because without having any reason to expect anything at all, Rodney had expected something very different than this. As clearly as if he'd actually seen it, he'd imagined John lying there, clipped to more monitors than can be counted, white-coated attendants bustling around, doctors with clipboards taking notes. This is strangely silent, sterile, and unfamiliar, which is odd because his whole life is unfamiliar, every new experience something very literally without precedent.

Lying there, asleep, John looks relaxed, placid, but the bruising around his mouth and eyes belies the sense of calm, making it impossible to pretend that John's just lying down for a nap. This is all like some terrible bad dream, preferably someone else's bad dream-John's, maybe, so that when he wakes up, this will all just fade away into misty water-colored memories-which is just the sort of insipid, sappy metaphor that John comes out with all the time, from some hidden wellspring of trite.

Rodney wants this all to fade away into insubstantial mist, wants it badly enough to let himself believe, just a little, that it will actually happen if he wishes for it hard enough. John will wake up, and he will look at Rodney, and the white walls around them will fade away and they will wake up somewhere else, still themselves, but better, with their memories and their freedom. Rodney's even, what-Stupid? Naïve? Blindly optimistic?-enough to squeeze his eyes tight shut and wish, like there's actually a chance that will work, but when he opens his eyes, nothing's changed.

"Come on, John," he sighs. "Time to wake up."

The fact that John does, at that moment, is so laughable, so absurd, that Rodney wouldn't believe it except for the fact that it actually happens.

John wakes with a gasp, draws a choked, strangled breath, and is all at once wide awake, no graceful, dreamy transition easing the way from sleep to consciousness. "What-" He looks around with wide, panicked eyes, and what small hope Rodney has been nursing that John would remember him, flees. "Where-"

Rodney begins to understand what Raku meant, that 'John is usually violent when he wakes,' because John can't be aware of where he is, can't really be comprehending what's happened, but he is already pulling against the bindings on his wrists, testing their strength, struggling against them. He's sitting up, wild-eyed, looking around the room, assessing it; Rodney thinks that in the first few seconds John's already pegged anything that could possibly be used as a weapon, every place that could possibly be an exit.

Who are you? Rodney thinks, taken aback. This is a side of John he's never seen, never suspected existed, deeply buried instinct coming to the fore without anything to impede it, patterns of behavior so profoundly entrenched that even Treatment can't erase them. Rodney's more intrigued than afraid. Who were you?

"Who are you?" John asks, done with the room and now assessing Rodney with just as much calculation. "What is this place?"

"I'm Rodney. This is a ... a sort of hospital. You're safe."

John regards him silently for a minute, still pulling restlessly at the straps on his wrists. "I don't know you," he says finally, with reluctance, as if he's not sure he should be admitting it, as if he's giving something away.

"No," Rodney says. "No, you wouldn't. Although you did know me, before. You just don't remember it."

"Why not?" John, Rodney thinks, has already realized that it's not just Rodney he doesn't remember. He is far calmer about it than Rodney suspects he was in the same circumstances. "Was there an accident? How long have I been here? Why am I tied down?"

"You-" Rodney sighs. "It's complicated. There are people here whose job it is to explain all of this to you. I wouldn't know where to start."

John's brow crinkles, and that expression, at least, is familiar. "How about you start by telling me who you are? Telling me your name doesn't give me a whole lot to work with."

"Wouldn't you rather know who you are?"

"I'm John," John says simply. "And if there are people here whose job it is to explain this to me, I guess I should let them do it. But I assume you can tell me about yourself, even if it's not your job."

"Funny thing about that," Rodney says. "I can't tell you as much about me as you'd expect."

~~

It's actually a little disconcerting talking to John, who never stops pulling against the restraints on his wrists the entire time, even when he doesn't appear to be consciously doing it. John listens carefully to everything Rodney says, interrupting infrequently, asking questions that seem focused on identifying their, well, captors, which is a term Rodney has never, ever even considered applying to Raku and the other Administrators, trying to assess their tactical position-"we're in prison", Rodney says blankly, "I don't think we have a tactical position,"-trying already to figure out a way to escape.

"Shh!" Rodney says, dropping his voice and looking frantically at the door, which remains quite firmly closed. "Stop thinking about escape. That's what got you into trouble before."

"I thought you said I was fighting." John's eyes are cool, and constantly assessing, always calculating. He is so very little like he was. Rodney can't decide if this persona fits him better than the old. It is quite possibly too soon to tell.

"You were fighting this time. But you've been Treated before. I don't know how many times. And look, it's really not so bad here, for a prison."

"Have a lot of experience with other prisons?" John asks skeptically. "What did you do to wind up here, anyway?"

"Ecological terrorism, apparently. And before you ask, no, I don't know what your crime was. They don't release that information to the other prisoners and you never volunteered it." It's the one question Rodney was never bold enough to ask, and the one question that all his hacking of the compound mainframe proved unequal to answer.

"If I even knew," John says, sighing. He leans back against the pillows, still tugging listlessly against the bonds on his wrists. "They might have only told me the first time. Maybe I never asked."

"It strikes me as extremely probable that you would have asked."

The door opens, and both John and Rodney flinch, although Rodney sees John's eyes flick automatically to the hallway outside, still, always, assessing. It is just the bored attendant, who ignores John completely and speaks to Rodney in a flat, disinterested tone. "You need to leave now," he says to Rodney. "It's time for his exam."

Rodney looks at John, who looks impressively unconcerned, even bored himself. "Are you going to be all right?"

John now looks amused, wearing a quirky little smile. "What will you do if I say no?"

"Right." Rodney looks at the attendant, who now appears both bored and hostile, which is not a very good combination for a caregiver. "I'll come back tomorrow after the end of my shift. Maybe I'll bring dinner. If that's allowed?" He looks at the attendant, who shrugs.

"Your rations," he says. "Do what you want with them."

"I'll bring dinner," Rodney says to John. "I have leftover pizza."

Both John and the attendant look at him, confused. "What's pizza?"

~~

The pizza, which is what John started calling the cheese bread one night, although he never said why and only looked confused when Rodney pressed him on it, reheats well enough, and is still warm when Rodney enters the ward the next evening. John eats it cold for breakfast sometimes, but Rodney doesn't see the appeal of congealed cheese on soggy, saucy bread.

"I brought dinner," he says, unnecessarily he thinks, to the attendant at the desk in the hall. It is a different person, a woman now, with short dark hair, an illegible nametag that marks her as a Class Three of high rank, and the same bored expression as yesterday's attendant, as if she has seen it all and none of it has been that interesting.

She has obviously been briefed about Rodney, because she doesn't give Rodney a hard time at all when he says he is there to see John. "I think he's already eaten," is what she says instead, scratching mechanically with her stylus. It makes sense that John has eaten, because it is long past dinnertime, and it's only Rodney's need to do something constructive that had made bringing food at this hour seem like a good idea.

It was a bit of a waste of time, perhaps, but stopping home and reheating the meal took hardly longer than stopping off at the commissary, which is always crowded in the evening. Plus it gave Rodney a chance to regroup after a day spent with a lab full of people who knew exactly what had happened and were fully determined not to mention it at all, even by oblique reference, which meant that Rodney couldn't talk about it either, which was torture.

That's why entering the clinic is kind of a relief, because at least here no one is pretending that nothing has happened. Here, everyone knows what's happened. If they don't talk about it, it's because they don't care. John's just another blank face to them, and Rodney of less interest than that.

With an awkward nod of thanks-awkward because Rodney is not used to thanking people of lower class and rank, and also because the woman can not be more bored or disinterested in him and his meager gratitude-Rodney slips into John's room, foil-wrapped pizza in hand.

"Hey," he says, "I brought that pizza I promised."

But here is where things do not go according to plan, because according to plan, John is supposed to look up and give him a tentative, weary smile and say something like, "I thought you weren't going to come," and Rodney will say, "I told you I had to work, but look, here's the pizza. You'll love it."

Except instead what happens is that John looks up from where he is tugging on the restraints that still tie him to the bed, and his face sets into a hard, unforgiving scowl. He shows no sign at all that he recognizes Rodney. "You don't need to keep throwing doctors at me," he says, his voice cold. "I'd be a lot more inclined to listen to you if you'd just untie me."

Rodney stands very still for a minute, then edges into the room, shutting the door behind him with his foot. It is impossible to miss the way John tracks the shutting door with his eyes, and the wary attention with which he watches Rodney sit down. There are red marks all around his wrists, and small drops of blood on the sheets.

"Um," Rodney says, with undeniable brilliance. "Not having a good day?"

"Well," John says sarcastically, "I woke up in a hospital somewhere and they won't tell me who I am or what I'm doing here. So no, not having so much of a good day. Which doctor are you? The one who won't tell me what's wrong with me, or the one who won't tell me anything else?"

"I'm-" Rodney stops, and very carefully places the pizza on the table next to John's bed, where John glares at it suspiciously. "Excuse me for a minute."

"Sure," John drawls, and drops his head back on the pillow. He does not watch Rodney leave.

"Hey," Rodney says, snapping his fingers at the attendant at the desk. "You. There's something wrong with him. He doesn't remember who I am."

"He was Treated yesterday," she says, without even looking up. "Of course he doesn't remember you."

Rodney takes a very long, very deep breath. "I came to see him yesterday," he says. "Hours afterward. He was awake. We had a long conversation. He doesn't remember any of it."

"He was Treated yesterday," the attendant repeats. She is still not looking up. "What did you expect?"

Furious, Rodney stalks back into John's room and throws himself into the chair. "Don't," he says testily, "bother asking me any questions, because apparently you won't remember the answers anyway."

John blinks at him, taken aback enough to swallow whatever barb he'd been about to hurl in Rodney's direction. "Okay," he says, after a bit. He fiddles idly with the straps around his wrists. "So, not a doctor, then?"

"No." Grumpily, Rodney rips open the foil on the pizza. "Is there enough play in those straps for you to eat?"

"I-" John blinks at him again. "Yes. But I already ate. Although whatever it was they gave me wasn't very good."

"No," Rodney says. "You hate the food in here except what you cook yourself." He shoves half the pizza at John. "Here. You made this the other day. You'll like it."

John accepts the pizza dubiously. "Do I cook?"

"I told you not to bother asking me questions," Rodney snaps. He feels guilty at the hurt expression that flashes across John's face. "Sorry. I'm just-" He waves his hand around. "I wasn't expecting this, and I probably should have been, and finding out I was wrong makes me very irritable, which you will learn once you can start remembering me again."

"If you say so." John takes a bite of the pizza, and the glum expression on his face brightens. "It's good."

"I just hope you wrote the recipe down," Rodney sulks. "I'd hate to have to wait for you to invent it again."

~~

John is "acclimating", according to Raku, who Rodney tracks down the morning after his third evening visit to John in which John, again, did not remember him.

"It's a significant neurological trauma," Raku says. "Even when administered in the clinic."

Rodney flashes to John writhing on the ground, screaming, then thinks about all the closed, locked doors in the Facility, the blank stares on the faces of the recently Treated, the clinical, jaded disinterest of the doctors and attendants. He wonders how much different it really is being Treated instead of subdued, whether it's just the setting that draws the distinction, whether Raku is looking for a line that doesn't really exist. "And it's worse for John," he says flatly, "because he got hit with the subduers."

"They're used infrequently. It was unfortunate the officers were so quick to react upon arriving at the scene. They shouldn't have been used on John at all, given his history."

"You said he wasn't an optimal subject for Treatment. Meaning what?"

Raku tightens his lips and glances around, then leads Rodney to a more secluded area in the park. "He'd been Treated four times before this. Once upon arrival, then again a week later, and twice more over the course of the three seasons before he came to you. The latter two were following escape attempts. During the second of those, he attacked four security officers, grievously injuring three of them."

"Including Elsha."

"Yes. Elsha was humiliated, as were they all, although Elsha took it harder than the others, and should have been more extensively counseled. But understand, Rodney, that John should not have been able to-Treatment is designed to break the neural connections in the pathways that control violence, to make inaccessible the memories and abilities that would allow a prisoner to stage and execute such an attack."

"It doesn't work on John very well, then."

"No it doesn't. Occasionally a prisoner will require a second Treatment, but no one has ever required a third, until John. Unfortunately, the doctors have no idea why, which makes his incarceration problematic. The only recourse is repeated Treatments, but the cumulative side effects are a significant deterrent."

"Like the fact that he can't remember anything from one day to the next? Is that permanent?"

Raku draws in a deep breath, holding it for a few seconds before releasing it slowly, maybe gathering his thoughts. "The doctors don't believe so, but it's far too early to tell. It's only been a few days." He looks at Rodney, mouth quirking up in something that's maybe half a grin, half a grimace. "What's your first memory after Treatment, Rodney?"

"I-" Rodney stops for a minute, and thinks. He doesn't have any specific first memory, actually, any particular time or place he can point to and say with conviction that it's the first thing he remembers. In his earliest memories, he's already living in the Class Four dorms, already working in the labs. He knows there was orientation, knows there must have been an adjustment period, a time when he had to learn his way around the complex, had to learn the rules and regulations, the structure of his daily routine, but he doesn't remember any of it.

"You're probably missing the first few weeks," Raku says gently. "Short-term memory is the first to return. It takes significantly longer before the neural pathways regenerate sufficiently to allow memories to imprint for the longer term."

"Okay, fine," Rodney says. "But John's not remembering anything at all, not even his own name. And his short-term memory wasn't very good even before this. He couldn't-he had lists all over the place, things to do, when to do them, because otherwise he couldn't remember. It took him a week before he could find his way back to the apartment on his own, and that was a month after his last Treatment."

"As I said, the cumulative effects are of concern. It's why he was given to you in the first place. You were upranked ahead of schedule primarily so he could be placed with you."

Rodney stares, head spinning. "Why? Why with me, specifically? What did you think I could do that your doctors couldn't?"

"It wasn't any one thing, specifically. It is just that you and John are ... not of this region." Raku says this slowly, reluctantly, as if admitting some great and painful secret, and his voice has dropped even lower. "You acclimated well enough, but John was having difficulty and the Council felt-hoped-that by placing you together, it would alleviate some of the stresses that may have been contributing to his continued trouble. It appears," he adds, "that it was working. John has settled some, significantly by some accounts. He has been more focused, more tractable, gaining weight, even."

"He wasn't going to get fat on oola stew," Rodney said sourly. He focuses on this one point, because the rest is too loaded to deal with, throwing everything he'd thought he'd known into turmoil. "If you want the prisoners in the mines to eat better, you should give them food that's actually edible."

"There is nothing wrong with the food in the mines," Raku says with a frown. "It is simple, perhaps a little plain for some, but nutritious and palatable. My wife makes oola stew once a month, at least. It is my eldest daughter's favorite."

Rodney considers this. "John and I must be from very far away then," he says finally. "Because I've tasted oola stew, and I have to tell you, I agree with John."

"You are from very far away indeed," Raku admits. "Though no one suspected it would affect your diet. Fortunately it does appear that you also have gained weight on John's cooking."

Rodney is minutely offended, even though Raku clearly means no disparagement, and it is also very evidently true. Rodney wonders if this is some sociological aspect of his former life peeking through, because there is no stigma associated with excess weight in the compound; no stigma associated with weight at all unless a person has so little or so much as to be unhealthy. He does not mention this to Raku, because now more than ever he is afraid that if he admits to having an occasional flash of blurry memory, even if it is so indistinct as to be inarticulable, that he will find himself waking up in the Facility again himself.

He asks the next question without any expectation of receiving an answer, asking it anyway because the possibility of getting an answer is still positive, though infinitesimally small. "Were John and I convicted of the same crime?"

Raku frowns at him. "You know I can't tell you that."

"Can you at least tell me if we knew each other? You said we were from the same region, very far away from here. It seems a big coincidence."

"Coincidence or not, I can't give you any details of your life before, as you well know. I have already told you far more than I should have." Raku looks at the nearest chronometer, and says, "And we have spent far too long in conversation. You will be late for work if you do not hurry."

Rodney leaves without another word, because his supervisor is very particular about his hours. He gets to the labs just in time, but if he gets any work done at all during the next eight hours, it's by sheer unconscious accident.

~~

That evening, Rodney tries his hand at cooking. There is a pasta dish John is partial to, made with the same red sauce he uses for the pizza, served with small balls of ground fried veela meat. John has no recipe written down, but there is extra sauce in the fridge, and leftover veela patties available at a discount from the commissary.

Rodney samples the meatballs before taking them John, and decides that even though he hasn't gotten the spices quite right, the result is still pretty good, certainly good enough for someone who's eating ifflet root soup every day for dinner, "as a neurological restorative," one attendant told them with a smirk.

This night's attendant is the bored-looking woman, and she pays Rodney no attention as he sails into John's room. "Before you ask," he says, placing the pot of food carefully down on the nightstand, "no, I'm not a doctor, and if they haven't already told you you've got a friend who keeps coming by to visit you, you do, and I'm him."

"You're Rodney," John says, after a moment of what Rodney interprets to be baffled silence.

"Yes!" Rodney is excited at this evidence that John's memory has started to work again. After the morning's conversation with Raku, he had half convinced himself that John's memory might never start to work again at all. "You remembered!"

"No," John says. He still sounds baffled. "They said my former supervisor would probably be stopping by to visit, and that his name was Rodney. They didn't say you'd be so loud. Is that food?"

"Oh," Rodney says. He deflates a little. John's memory is not working after all. "Yes, it's food. I'm guessing you still don't care for the ifflet soup."

"What, I've had that before?" John shudders. "You'd think I'd have remembered anything that foul."

"You probably blocked it out on purpose."

Cooking dinner cost Rodney an entire hour, so he has only a little while to spend with John, but by the time the attendant comes in to kick him out, he's gotten a sense of who John is today. Each day sees the aspects of John's personality integrate a little better; every time Rodney visits, John the stranger resolves more into the John Rodney remembers: inquisitive and a little self-deprecating, wry and irreverent.

"I'll be back tomorrow," Rodney promises, hastily cleaning up the plates and silverware as the attendant watches.

"Don't blame me if I don't remember you," John says placidly.

"I'll only hold it against you for a few years," Rodney shoots back. "Promise."

John lifts a middle finger in his direction, and Rodney spends the rest of the night trying to figure out what that means. He has no success, but when he dreams, it's filled with images of John doing the same exact thing. Rodney just wishes he knew if the dreams are genuine memories or hopeful delusions.

Part 3