[ Elan Ceres gets everything he wants, albeit not in the way he expects.
The extent to which his clones suffer, degenerate, are pushed to breaking point until they die or are made to die -- isn't unknown to Elan. Until today, his knowledge of it has come in the form of hearsay; reports shorn of those details that aren't pertinent to Peil's missions; numbers that he supposes their researchers take to be countdowns. The strange feeling that followed his third iteration's execution coils up in him again now, as Four wrenches his hand away from Elan's, brings it to his chest, his mouth, collapses and writhes on the floor in front of him. The sting that's left in Elan's hands pales in comparison to what permet, as a substance, has done and continues to do to the other's body, the burns it's left on his skin a far cry from that awful flush covering Four's face. And all the while, Elan watches -- surprised, as he sees him(self) break character, convulsing; as Four resists -- something; as the gulf between their respective positions grows wider -- or so it might seem.
For a brief moment, Elan has the horrifying thought that this -- Four's breakdown -- could have happened anywhere; could have been seen by people, important people; could have been timed by Peil just so, kept in reserve as a playing chip for a future in which they might wish to consolidate their control --
But that flight of paranoia's a mere distraction from the distress he's witness to now, a wretchedness Elan has -- would -- never let himself feel and that frightens him to his core. Abstractly, he'd known he could only pay for his own longevity in other persons' lives. He'd hardly given it another thought when he'd hacked that "S" on the Peil Grade's piloting evaluation into a "C" -- just in case. That was before he'd been made privy to Peil's life-sucking mobile suit technology, before the duels for Miorine's hand were instituted, before the perverted brainiacs at the company had seen a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity in these circumstances to explore what they had sold to its executives as "human enhancement." Elan had shrugged and signed off on it all. He should have realized -- it would be harder to countenance suffering when it bears your own face.
Elan underestimated Peil. His clones, too, could eventually be used as a vector for control, manipulation, blackmail. Granted, they probably never expected Elan to bother with them, so -- Elan's done this to himself. (Distantly, he remembers there are three more of him, each superior to the last. Five isn't a threat. Six's resemblance to himself is uncanny, but his abilities are so far unremarkable. Seven. Seven is the problem. Seven, when they're done with him, might --)
It's Four's ragged breathing that finally snaps Elan out of his thoughts and back into the other's bedroom. He notices blood at the corner of Four's mouth and that, more than anything else, tells Elan that his request to Four -- the one that had set all this off -- is meaningless. Four will die regardless of what he wants. (And yet a little voice inside Elan reminds him, that's true of us all, isn't it?)
Again, Elan's hand seems to have moved of its own accord. He sits with his back against the desk's drawers now, eyes trained on the blankness of the wall ahead, as his fingers -- some less feeling than others -- thread through Four's hair. When he finally speaks, the emotion in his voice disgusts him. ]
We're both such suckers, aren't we?
[ Yes. Elan Ceres gets (almost) everything he wants. But he is still gratuitous; still, probably, alone. ]
it's sensitive narcissism hours
The extent to which his clones suffer, degenerate, are pushed to breaking point until they die or are made to die -- isn't unknown to Elan. Until today, his knowledge of it has come in the form of hearsay; reports shorn of those details that aren't pertinent to Peil's missions; numbers that he supposes their researchers take to be countdowns. The strange feeling that followed his third iteration's execution coils up in him again now, as Four wrenches his hand away from Elan's, brings it to his chest, his mouth, collapses and writhes on the floor in front of him. The sting that's left in Elan's hands pales in comparison to what permet, as a substance, has done and continues to do to the other's body, the burns it's left on his skin a far cry from that awful flush covering Four's face. And all the while, Elan watches -- surprised, as he sees him(self) break character, convulsing; as Four resists -- something; as the gulf between their respective positions grows wider -- or so it might seem.
For a brief moment, Elan has the horrifying thought that this -- Four's breakdown -- could have happened anywhere; could have been seen by people, important people; could have been timed by Peil just so, kept in reserve as a playing chip for a future in which they might wish to consolidate their control --
But that flight of paranoia's a mere distraction from the distress he's witness to now, a wretchedness Elan has -- would -- never let himself feel and that frightens him to his core. Abstractly, he'd known he could only pay for his own longevity in other persons' lives. He'd hardly given it another thought when he'd hacked that "S" on the Peil Grade's piloting evaluation into a "C" -- just in case. That was before he'd been made privy to Peil's life-sucking mobile suit technology, before the duels for Miorine's hand were instituted, before the perverted brainiacs at the company had seen a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity in these circumstances to explore what they had sold to its executives as "human enhancement." Elan had shrugged and signed off on it all. He should have realized -- it would be harder to countenance suffering when it bears your own face.
Elan underestimated Peil. His clones, too, could eventually be used as a vector for control, manipulation, blackmail. Granted, they probably never expected Elan to bother with them, so -- Elan's done this to himself. (Distantly, he remembers there are three more of him, each superior to the last. Five isn't a threat. Six's resemblance to himself is uncanny, but his abilities are so far unremarkable. Seven. Seven is the problem. Seven, when they're done with him, might --)
It's Four's ragged breathing that finally snaps Elan out of his thoughts and back into the other's bedroom. He notices blood at the corner of Four's mouth and that, more than anything else, tells Elan that his request to Four -- the one that had set all this off -- is meaningless. Four will die regardless of what he wants. (And yet a little voice inside Elan reminds him, that's true of us all, isn't it?)
Again, Elan's hand seems to have moved of its own accord. He sits with his back against the desk's drawers now, eyes trained on the blankness of the wall ahead, as his fingers -- some less feeling than others -- thread through Four's hair. When he finally speaks, the emotion in his voice disgusts him. ]
We're both such suckers, aren't we?
[ Yes. Elan Ceres gets (almost) everything he wants. But he is still gratuitous; still, probably, alone. ]