Chapter Text
Six years ago, a little over one year after the Alien Stage disaster…
Luka couldn't sleep. Not surprising, to be fair, but frustrating nonetheless. He stared at the ceiling, the room bathed in the soft glow cast from various monitors and machines. Something was blinking. An annoying green flash, keeping a similar pace as his heartbeat. But then again, something was always blinking. Every room in every medical center had at least one fucking blinking light.
He sat up and swung around to let his legs dangle off the side of the medical bed, the tight skin of the burn scars pulling and stretching, painful where they sat tightest. Like the blinking light, there was always pain. And like the lights, you'd think he'd be fucking used to it by now, but here he is at—he glanced at the time in the corner of the closest monitor—three in the morning, annoyed with the pain, feeling a migraine beginning to creep in at the temples with the same rhythm of that blink, blink, blinking light. He wanted it gone, but he'd have to find it, and who had the patience for that?
Blink Gone, he thought randomly, stretching his fingers and flexing his feet. The right one of each moved stiffly, where tongues of flame had kissed the joints over a year ago. Maybe not so random that he thought of that, considering everything about his body reminded him of that night now. He lifted a hand, remembered the heat and agony that had marked him as he traced the roughened skin along his jaw, touched the ridge of scar tissue that permanently pulled part of his lower lip down a little, sagged in a way that collected a tiny well of drool. Well, maybe not permanently, if Father had his way. His fingers followed a ridge of scar up to his right eye, felt the tight eyelid that never fully closed anymore, the slight sunken feel at the socket, knew the milky white of his blind eye unnerved most of the few segyein staff that Father allowed to see him.
So much for Father's "magnum opus". He found something in that satisfying, humming a few bars of that last, fateful song as he slid off the bed, the floor cold beneath his bare feet. He should be wearing socks, at least according to Father and all the medical staff, but weirdly it was the one thing they always neglected to really enforce, and over time he'd found it oddly soothing to be able to feel the solid ground beneath him. He found it made him feel more real somehow, more like an actual human in an actual place in time.
Real, he thought now, counting the fingers of his left hand with his thumb. I'm real and this is real and this is now. He counted again, ran through it twice before his breath loosened. He began to run through his routine of light stretches, counting the seconds of each hold, feeling muscles and tendons ease, even those encased in unyielding scars. Lucky, they'd told him. Lucky the damage hadn't penetrated to his muscles. That they'd pulled him away before the fire could affect his mobility, that the burns had been superficial enough to be mostly cosmetic. Don't worry, they said. He'll be able to perform again one day. So, so lucky.
That fucking blinking light.
Luka dropped his arms, closed his eyes, at least as much as he was able for the right one, rubbed at his temples to will the migraine away. Maybe a walk would help. Father had paid exorbitantly to have the surgical center to themselves, the staff reduced to the bare minimum. After all, his current deformity could ruin a lifetime's reputation, disgust his supposedly devoted followers, leave him forsaken and worthless. Couldn't have that, could they? He'd become the best kept secret in the universe, shoved into the darkest of corners where he'd remain until they'd made him pretty again.
But first, another heart surgery to make sure he could survive the series of cosmetic repairs he'd endure these next few years, no doubt painful each one. Human nerves weren't as delicate as a segyein's, or so the experts say. They couldn't feel pain the same way and thus lower doses of pain meds were surely adequate. Those of a weak constitution always asked for more, but only look to those who bear it in silence. They should be the example of their brethren, those stoic, silent ones. Like Luka.
Would Father take the opportunity to rid his body of the other surgical scars over and around his heart? Luka touched the vertical line at the center of his sternum, the oldest of all his scars, felt conflicted about potentially losing this part of himself. Not that his opinion mattered in any of these proceedings.
Enough, he told himself, and strode to the door. A quick walk to clear the mind, hopefully dispel the migraine that still threatened. He cracked the door open, found the dim hallways empty, and slipped out. He knew from previous experience that most of the staff should be asleep, either by design or by chance, and he trailed a hand along the walls as he drifted down silent halls, basked in this tiny moment of freedom.
He shouldn't ever leave his rooms, he knew. Father didn't like him being unaccounted for, but one of his doctors had mentioned once how a little cardio now and then might help mitigate the risk of a migraine, and Father had reluctantly consented. No doubt he'd meant in those instances where he could be supervised, but since he never specified, Luka felt he could take liberties with it. And it was helping, a slight chill on his bare arms and beneath his feet, the tiles smooth, the walls only slightly textured, the hum of the air conditioning soothing. He paused to close his eyes, breathe in slow through his nose, let it out slower through his mouth, counting each second in and out.
And then, somewhere deeper in the facility, a slight clatter and then a hushed, "Shit."
Luka opened his eyes. Frowned. That had not been a segyein. As usual, he was the only human in the building. Or he should be at least, but obviously he was not as the same voice murmured something he couldn't hear. He began to move again, padding silently down the darkened hallway to pause beside a doorway that opened into one of the large surgical bays.
"I said I'm sorry," the same voice said in an attempted whisper, sounding flustered. "Stop yelling."
Silence.
"I am being careful! But, I mean, didn't Isaac say this place is shut down for remodeling? It's empty, so—what are you writing?"
More silence.
Curious, Luka peered around the doorframe, easily caught sight of the two silhouettes framed in each other's dim flashlights. One was looking over the shoulder of the other as he scribbled on a spiral bound pad of paper. They stood near an ultrasound machine, looked as if they'd been wheeling it across the room. Both were dressed in all black and wearing masks and knitted caps like some bad caper comedy. The one reading looked to be a couple inches shorter, seemed to be several years older than the one writing, with black hair visible in a short ponytail hanging out the back of his cap, trim and fit but frazzled, his posture and voice a little nervous, verging on agitated.
The other seemed calm if a little impatient, tilting the paper at his companion once he'd finished writing.
"I know, I know. No names, never assume safety," he waved a hand at the paper, "all that stuff. There's a reason why I don't do these."
The second man lowered his pad of paper and did something with his free hand that had the first man sighing, lowering his voice as he said, "Okay!"
Luka frowned, squinted. What was that? Some gesture he didn't quite catch. He pulled back when the younger man pocketed the paper and pen and glanced around the room. In only a few moments, he heard them pushing the machine across the room, the wheels almost silent on the tiles. He waited until he heard them push through the doors on the far side, knew they led to the hall that would take them to the back loading dock. Seems as if the local population had decided to take advantage of a supposedly empty surgical center to liberate some supplies. Were they part of the so-called rebellion? The same group from that night, who had looked to be taking orders from her before she—
Luka cut the thought off, felt the scars on his hands pull painfully as he clenched his fists, ruthlessly shoved those images down and away. Instead, he slipped into the room, skirting the wall to the scrub room, crouched on the far side of a sink where he could still peer over through the window above and waited. Several long moments passed before they returned, splitting up to sort through the assortment of supplies that had been left waiting for unpacking and placement. A remodel ruse only worked, after all, if the building did actually undergo a remodel. Father had complained bitterly about the expense.
The older man removed a plastic cover and quietly exclaimed over an autoclave sterilizer, and Luka found himself smiling. Looked like it was about to get even more expensive.
The younger man's head snapped up, and he tapped the box he stood beside to get the other's attention. When the older man turned, he tugged his mask down to frown, pressing his finger to his lips. The other man waved at him dismissively, but he kept silent as he turned back to exam his newest discovery.
Luka stared, brow creasing as he watched the younger man huff an annoyed breath before he pulled his mask back up, pulling out his pad and flipping through papers to consult something. A list, most likely. Because Luka seriously doubted this man had any sort of extensive medical knowledge beyond what any other Anakt Garden graduate would have picked up from the frequent testing and exams they'd all been subjected to over the years.
He never forgot a face. Especially not one he'd studied for months on end, watched and learned every nuance and tic, all while knowing he'd ultimately witness their inevitable death at the end of a duet. Which had happened to the owner of this particular face. At least, he'd thought it had.
Till.
Interesting, he thought. Now that he knew to look, he saw the teal in those slanted eyes, even in the dim from this distance. They had been an extraordinary color after all, made brighter by the thick, black lashes that rimmed them. Some of his hair was visible at his temples, too, starting to fall where it'd been tucked haphazardly beneath the cap, the color a pale gray. Luka looked at his neck, waited for him to turn so he could see where the metallic letters of his name should be. Instead, when Till finally turned to open another box, he saw layers of scars, some fresh, some old where the name had once been. Had something happened to his neck? Is that why he didn't seem able to talk?
And then, even more surprising, Till looked up and glanced over the top of the box, frowned and shook his head as if in response to someone who wasn't there. He glanced over his shoulder at his companion unwrapping the sterilizing machine, looked back to the empty space opposite him and made a shooing motion, obvious annoyance in the flick of his fingers.
Very interesting.
Luka settled in to watch, fascinated now. The two worked systematically, silent and more efficient with the older man locked in on claiming the autoclave. At one point, Till lifted a hand toward his companion, made a shape with the fingers of his right hand. When the other man didn't notice, Till tapped again on a box near him, made the hand gesture more emphatically when his companion finally looked over. Luka could see it clearly this time, folded the fingers of his own hands into the same shapes, and wondered what they meant. Because clearly they meant something with the way the older man turned and crossed the room to Till, bent his head to see what Till gestured at inside the box. "Come here," perhaps?
How had Till survived? Had he been with the rebellion all this time? Because this had to be the rebellion. Who else would have taken him off that stage?
He remembered the shot. He'd started to turn away as he always did when his win was declared, blowing kisses to the audience and showering them with appreciation, but Till had drawn his eye as something in his expression blossomed before he darted toward the edge of the stage. Then watched Till fall as he'd been reaching for someone in the audience. Mizi, he reminded himself. He'd been reaching for Mizi, who'd disappeared after her round with him. Poor bastard, he'd thought as the shot knocked Till sideways. It felt worse, somehow, when they had one last flicker of hope before the end. And then Mizi had made it onto the stage somehow, scrambling to cradle Till to her, and Luka had turned away again to let them both die in peace, found himself suddenly facing his own past instead. A past he worked now not to think about as he studied the former idol.
Obviously the dying bit hadn't stuck considering Till was here now, nodding at his friend and making a new gesture. Again, Luka mimicked the shape with both his own hands, though the meaning of this one was less clear than the first. As the two apparently came to some agreement, Till picking up the box in question and the other returning to the autoclave, releasing the locks on the wheels and maneuvering it behind Till as they made their way back to the door that would take them to the docking area. Luka moved his fingers back into the first shape, appreciating the almost elegant curve in each of the fingers. Maybe it meant something akin to "look at this" or "I need your assistance"?
As the older man pushed the autoclave through the door, he swung it open too hard, and it banged against a metal surgical bed standing against the door behind it. Luka couldn't see Till any longer, but he'd obviously made some sort of gesture or expression at the older man because he said again, "Sorry!" in too loud a whisper if Luka could hear it from here.
Luka frowned as they disappeared, shifted his focus to listen through the open doorway he'd come through earlier. Hopefully the segyein guard had nodded off as he usually did about this time, but if not—a light began to grow in the doorway. Well, shit.
He glanced back at the door the two rebels had disappeared through. It'd taken them several minutes last time to load their prizes into whatever conveyance they had to carry it away. The guard could find the room empty and turn to leave again before they got back. Luka watched, calming his breath, counting his heartbeats as the light grew brighter, solidified into the beam of a flashlight, turned the corner. The segyein swept the light over the room.
"Who's there?"
Luka grimaced. Not so lucky then.
The segyein guard stepped deeper into the room, slowly moving through the scattered collection of new, unboxed equipment, flashlight sweeping through each deep shadow, and Luka debated. The door the rebels would come through didn't have a window. If they were smart, they'd notice the light leaking beneath it before they even opened it. Less smart, they'd open it slowly, catch the light before the guard could notice the movement. Not smart at all, they'd bang right through. He'd bet that Till would be one of the first two. The man had been reactive and emotional, but he hadn't been an idiot. His friend, though…he was way too excited with what they'd been finding and much too convinced that they were alone.
And didn't the fact that he was so excited mean they likely needed everything they were taking? Even if they managed to avoid getting caught, leaving now meant they'd have to leave stuff behind. This had to have been a great opportunity for them, after all. He didn't think they'd spotted the anesthesia machine in the corner yet, and that must be something they'd want.
He heaved a sigh, let his head fall against the sink beside him, the metal cold at his temple. Dammit. Father wasn't going to be pleased. And then Luka stood, shuffling into the main room as he yawned loudly. "Hello?"
The flashlight swung toward him, blinding him. He raised a hand against it, then rubbed his eyes as if sleepy. "Luka?" the guard said and thankfully lowered the light.
He put on a sleepy, confused expression, made a show of looking around, ruffling a hand through his hair. "Where am I?"
"What?"
"I fell asleep in my room, and then I woke up here." He turned in a circle, let himself look more awake and flustered. "Am I still in the right building?"
"Were you sleepwalking?"
Good little segyein, connecting those dots, Luka thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He put a little quaver in his voice as he said, "I don't know. I guess so? But now I don't know how to get back to my room."
The guard's voice softened. He was a fan, after all. They always were. "C'mon. I can take you back."
"Thank you so much," Luka said, falling into step behind him as he led Luka back the way he'd come. "I'd have been so frightened if you hadn't found me."
"Not at all," the guard said, preening a little. "Say, I know we're not supposed to talk to you, but since I'm helping and all, do you think maybe I could get your autograph or something? My spouse and I are huge fans."
"Yes, of course," Luka said, glancing behind him to see the room still dark and quiet. Probably be best to distract the guard for a while anyway. "Be happy to."
Father had, indeed, been furious, though he hid the anger behind a wall of concern. "Sleepwalking? You've never done that before. That's very dangerous."
"Yes, Father."
"We'll have to make sure that never happens again. It's my job to protect you, after all."
"Yes, Father."
Heperu tsked at him, grabbing Luka's shoulders and straightening them. "Mind your posture."
"Sorry, Father." Luka tried not to wince as the scars on the right side stretched painfully.
"We'll just have to start containing you at night. We'll need to start monitoring your heart anyway after your surgery. I'll have them start setting the alarm if you're ever disconnected. That way the staff can come help you before you get too far or hurt yourself."
Luka tried not to grimace, said a silent, longing goodbye to his late night moments of freedom. "Thank you for taking such good care of me, Father."
Heperu nodded, distracted now with the circumference of Luka's upper arm. "Have you been sneaking snacks? You seem pudgy." His long fingers moved down, pinched at Luka's waist.
"I think it's the scars." At Heperu's sharp look and disapproving tsk, he quickly added, "I've only been eating what the staff gives me, Father, I promise."
"Hrm. I might have another talk with them about adjusting your intake. You have become more sedentary over the last year."
Because everything always hurts. "I'll do better, Father."
"Yes, yes. Of course you will." Heperu patted Luka's head, frowned at his dead, milky eye. "We'll put everything back the way it was."