Multi-part: Halcyon (NC-17 overall, various, Andy Roddick/Roger Federer) Title: The Poetry Ficlets (4/5) (Halcyon 1) Rating: R Pairing: Implied Roddick/Fish for now. Summary: … The world ended. People didn’t. Not quite. Notes: AU fic set in a hypothetical post-‘apocalyptic’ near future (I do love my apocalypses and jumping on the current AU bandwagon seemed like a good idea.) Disclaimer: Hasn’t… um, won’t happen to my knowledge, the various tennis players own themselves, T.S. Eliot owns ‘The Wasteland’. Blame the plotbunnies. They started it. Warnings: Abuse, violence, death, mentions of terrorism and drug use, the world post-‘apocalypse', probably more I've missed. It’s all fun and games here.
halcyon - adj 1: idyllically calm and peaceful; suggesting happy tranquillity; "a halcyon atmosphere".
The Poetry Ficlets – The Wasteland/ Halcyon part 1
~ What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say or guess for you knew only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. ~ - T.S. Eliot, ‘The Wasteland’
Roger’s world ended on the sixteenth of May, in the year two thousand and seven. It ended for a lot of other people at the same time in a far more emphatically final way but for Roger, it simply changed so much he didn’t recognise it anymore. Along with the people left, he had to build a new one from the ruins, had to watch a few large corporations merge together and take control of what was left whether people wanted them to or not, governments scattered and useless in the aftermath. Cities were destroyed, entire populations wiped out and the survivors left with a two very simple choices.
Work with the new establishment. Fight against it.
Roger didn’t hesitate before choosing the former.
“Sir?”
Roger glances towards uniformed guard at the door, glass of whiskey tilted precariously in his hand. Finest malt, imported at his own expense. He never used to touch it. Now he needs a glass just to get through the day. It’s metallic on his tongue and he swallows a wince along with his mouthful.
God he needs a holiday.
“What?” he demands and the guard flinches. Must be new. It usually doesn’t take them long to get used to being snapped at.
“The- the perimeter guards picked up a man trying to climb the wall. He wants to see you.”
“So? You have your orders about intruders.” Roger shrugs, turning back to his contemplation of the view from the window. The landscaped gardens stretch for less than half a mile, to the very edge of what used to be the city of Basel. On a clear day Roger would be able to see the shattered clock tower, all that’s left standing in the main square… but there’s never a clear day anymore, not with the dust in the air so he imagines it instead; paints the delicate hands sweeping across a gold face in his mind’s eye. He’s so absorbed in the illusion that it takes him almost a minute to realise the guard’s still standing uncomfortably by the door.
“What now?!”
“He’s not… he’s unusual. American. He asked for you by name.”
Roger thinks he’s heard wrong. No one asks for him by name, not anymore. He’s heard nothing but ‘Sir’ for months; even the infrequent orders from Headquarters are addressed to R.F. No one asks for him by name. Outside a select few people, none of whom would be stupid enough to climb his goddamn outer wall, no one even knows his name.
Not to mention America’s a long way away and no one sets foot on a plane without the highest level of clearance anymore. Even Roger has to wait six months for permission.
“Bring him up. Quietly. I’m not in the mood today.”
“Yessir!” The guard salutes and Roger’s suspicions that the man’s a spy are confirmed instantly; no one salutes unless they’ve been trained at Headquarters. Roger will have to find an excuse to kill him without attracting too much attention. Dammit. He’d just got rid of that aggravating little Frenchman too.
He lets his mind wander as he turns from the window, crossing to the mirror on the opposite wall and pausing to check he looks suitably threatening. Facing a captive with an unbuttoned shirt and holes in his socks would hardly give the right impression. He ignores the fact that he never unbuttons his shirts no matter how hot the day, that any sock with a suggestion of a hole is thrown away and gives himself a careful once over anyway. Clean black shirt, kingfisher emblem of his estate embroidered across one sleeve, black slacks, black shoes. In his more whimsical moments, of which there aren’t many anymore, he teases himself for acting the stereotypical ‘evil overlord’. He didn’t even realise he was playing the part until he overheard a guard – another spy, there really have been far too many of them lately and all thankfully coming in varying degrees of incompetence – call him ‘Black Federer’ when he didn’t know he could be overheard. He’d begged for mercy when Roger killed him. His entire staff knew their master’s sense of humour was non-existent on the best of days. Coining a nickname for him meant you either were very stupid or had a very serious death wish.
Roger regrets the need to for it but it’s a matter of controlling his staff or going to sleep one night never to wake up. It’s why he has a discreet system of security locks for his bedroom and a set of blindly loyal guards just outside his door every night. He’s cheated death too many times to push his luck now. Still, rooting out spies is becoming a little tiresome. Roger’s network is still lying low after their latest ‘mission’ six weeks ago; the last assassin to even get past the outer wall was back in March. For the first two years ‘new civilisation’ as the survivors referred to it was simply a constant battle to keep breathing; Roger remembers days crouched in ditches, dizzy with blood loss; chained to pipes inside an old warehouse while people argued in six different languages over whether he lived or died; hunting wolves through a metre of mountain snow just because it was catch one or die of starvation. It was living on two hours sleep in every forty eight, snatched in twenty minutes naps; listening to the wolves howling scant inches away while around him twenty frostbitten people huddled together up a tree. It was living life knowing you could be dead within seconds for any number of reasons.
Roger misses it. At least the constant threat of death made him feel alive. Now he feels… useless. Frustrated. Surrounded by politics and backstabbing, none of which was ever his forte though he’s picked up the tricks easily enough. There’s no clue to his old identity here; not a tennis ball within a hundred miles and he can’t even remember the last time he touched a racquet but he doesn’t think he’d even be able to play if he had one. Too much has changed, including him. Occasionally he forgets there’s ever been anything but this, a scant patch of gardens in a blasted landscape, a house that’s a prison more than a shelter. He named the estate Halcyon in another rare fit of whimsy but it’s an empty joke. He’s not calm and peaceful. He’s just practically comatose with boredom.
“Sir?”
The goddamn guard again and Roger spins sharply, mouth open to snarl a furious threat when he remembers they’re bringing up the American. His teeth click as he snaps his mouth shut again and leans idly back against the wall, crossing his arms.
“Bring him in.”
The guard turns, waves in two guards Roger recognises as being loyal to him and this little spy is going to have to go quickly if he’s already ordering Roger’s personal guards around. The Swiss bites down on his annoyance and gives the filthy, half-starved man they drag in between them a dismissive glance. He looks no different to a thousand other people scrabbling to survive in the ruins of Europe and Roger’s irritated that something of potential interest is just another idiot, albeit a little more stupid than most if he really did climb the wall in full daylight. At least most of them have the sense to wait until after dark. The dismissal is on the tip of Roger’s tongue when the captive looks up and meets Roger’s eyes.
The world suddenly feels unsteady beneath Roger’s feet and he leans harder against the wall. Oh…
… fuck, fuck fuck, remember there’s a spy in the room. “Doesn’t look much,” Roger remarks harshly as the captive opens his mouth. “Did he say anything?”
“He asked for you by name,” the spy-guard repeats. “Says he’s Andy Roddick and you’d know him.”
And as usual the prize for being an idiot goes to… Roger narrows his eyes as Andy opens his mouth again, desperation flashing across his face. Desperate or not, the American just gave this spy one name too many and made Roger’s life infinitely more difficult. Roger’s furious and Andy’s going to know exactly just how furious any second now but he takes the time to compose his voice before speaking, tilting his head to one side as if considering the filthy, bruised Andy who may have walked here from wherever the hell he’s come from by the look of him, dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes and long sleeves tattered… Something occurs to Roger and he’s across the room in a few swift strides, grabbing Andy’s wrist and bringing it up sharply, Andy flinching from the movement. Roger holds his breath as he rips back one torn sleeve and feels a wave of disappointment at the faded track marks under the ingrained dirt. No matter how useful the new black market endurance drugs can be, he’d thought better of Andy.
“He’s filth,” Roger says in a disgusted tone, letting go of Andy’s wrist and dusting his hands off with obvious distaste. “Get rid of him.”
“Roger?!” The horror in Andy’s cracked voice is clear and he tries to struggle to his feet, one of the guards pushing him back down. “Roger please it’s me I swear, don’t- why are you doing this?! Roger!”
“Sir, he’s clearly a valuable hostage.” The spy-guard sounds as shocked as Andy and Roger knows that he knows exactly who Andy is. “Headquarters will want to question him, you can’t just kill him-“
The man’s back against the wall faster than he can blink, Roger pinning him with a knife to the man’s throat. The guard whimpers and Roger inwardly sighs.
“They aren’t even trying anymore are they?” he murmurs, putting more pressure behind the knife blade. The spy’s eyes roll frantically and his throat bobs, the sharp metal opening up a thin trickle of crimson. Roger thinks he hears a stifled gasp from Andy but ignores it, his attention focused on the trembling man he’s wondering how best to kill.
“How long have you been here?” Roger demands and gets only a choked whimper in reply. “If you answer I promise I won’t kill you.”
“Two- two days,” the spy chokes. Roger decides he’s telling the truth and lessens the force behind the knife a little. Two days isn’t enough time to have learnt anything of importance, though if he’s had time to get a message to Headquarters about Andy… “What have you told them?”
“N-nothing. I was to report back tomorrow.” The spy gulps for breath and Roger really wants to kill him, because a spy this useless wouldn’t last an hour once Headquarters found out he’d talked, especially so easily. He’d practically be doing the man a favour. But he had promised.
“Good.” He steps back, wiping the blood-stained knife on the spy’s shirt as he does. “That’s all I needed to know.” He looks over the man’s shoulder at the guard who was watching for Roger’s hand signal and has come silently up behind the still-trembling spy. “Unfortunately when I promised I wouldn’t kill you, I never said he wouldn’t.” He nods at the waiting guard and the spy’s neck makes a sharp cracking sound as it breaks. Roger looks down at Andy and meets pure shock, stunned disbelief in the American’s eyes. He feels a twinge of regret.
You had to do it. You just saved your life and Andy’s. It was him or you.
The little voice of commonsense doesn’t make Roger feel better. It rarely does these days but Andy’s mute horror somehow makes it worse. He looks away from the American’s accusing stare and walks away towards the window.
“Thank you.” His voice wavers a little and he hastily steadies it. “Take it out. Leave the American.”
“Yes Sir.” The guards remove the body with a quiet efficiency, leaving Andy kneeling on the cold grey tiles. Roger found carpet inevitably had to be changed every week because it showed too much; tiles can be cleaned, wiped down, hide the guilty secrets of which there are far too many in Halcyon. He tries not to remember that he killed the little French spy in exactly the spot where Andy’s crouched and speaks as soon as he hears the hiss of the soundproofing kick in as the door closes.
“Why are you here Andy?”
“Jesus.” Andy still sounds shaken. “You… Roger you just killed a guy!”
“I am aware of that.” Roger realises the knife is still clenched in his hand, the ridged hilt digging into his palm and slips it back into his wrist sheath, still within easy reach. He’s sure it’s Andy; only the American would be brave – or his favoured theory, stupid – enough to try and break into Roger’s estate in broad daylight but there’s never any harm in being wary. “Answer the question.”
There’s a long silence and when Roger glances back to see what’s wrong he finds Andy still staring at him, hazel eyes bright and accusing in the dirty face. It’s enough to make the knot in Roger’s chest tighten because he hasn’t seen Andy in three years although he’s had detailed reports coming in every so often of the American’s movements. He’s done the same for all the players he could find; Henman’s a valuable contact in the now-glacial Britain, Hewitt is still using a metaphorical blunt knife to do a scalpel’s work in the Australian Resistance and there are many more people from the old tour working within Roger’s network of spies and various resistance movements but Andy led his own group in Texas, successfully destroying major corporate buildings all over the U.S., though Roger personally thought they’d been too disorganized to do more than fleeting damage. He’d had no reports from Texas for almost three months now but that wasn’t unusual with the current state of communications and flights. He’d thought Andy was still there. He’s a little disbelieving that the American is actually here right now, because he can’t see how it’s possible.
“Andy?” His voice is carefully neutral. “Answer the question.”
“I came to ask for help,” Andy mumbles. “I thought… fuck knows what I thought. I didn’t think you’d kill someone in front of me.”
Roger feels a spark of anger, turning sharply to the American who hasn’t moved to get up. “South Dakota, November fourth. Nineteen people in the building when you set the charges. California, March sixteenth, your group supplied the materials that later killed over a hundred people. July twenty second – your snipers shot and killed twelve men getting off a plane. Would you like me to continue?”
“Fuck.” Andy sits down hard, scattering dust as he runs a hand through too-long, filthy hair. “You… they said you were having me watched but I never thought… how do you do that?”
“If you honestly think I’d tell you that then you’re stupider than I thought,” Roger remarks dryly, picking up the glass of whiskey from the table. He sips it, swishing it round his mouth in an attempt to ground himself; this is the closest he’s been to anyone from his old life in over a year and the ice in his glass clinks slightly with his trembling hands. “Just don’t go pointing fingers Andy. At least I look the people I kill in the eye first.”
He feels more than sees Andy’s flinch. “That’s not fair Roger. You have no idea what lengths we go to, to avoid killing innocent-“
“Spare me.” Roger sighs. “You didn’t come here to defend your actions to me Andy. What do you want help with?” If it’s within his power to help the American, without endangering himself or his network, he knows he’ll do it. It’s what he’s worked so hard to build his resources up for; to help people and if he can’t help an old friend then he more useless than he’d thought. “If I can safely help, I will.”
Another long silence and Roger’s a little startled. He’d expected Andy to jump on the offer but when he looks back the American’s still sitting motionless, staring into space. Roger frowns.
“Andy?”
“They took Mardy.”
It’s a broken whisper but Roger knows instantly why Andy’s here; knows exactly what was enough to bring him across thousands of miles of land and ocean for a chance of help because the reports he received from Texas were explicit down to the last detail. Andy and Mardy were – had been – inseparable, working together, living together, sleeping together and if Mardy’s been caught… He shivers at the thought of what will happen to Andy if he can’t help. “When?”
“Three months ago.” Andy’s still talking in a cracked whisper, as if saying the words louder will make them more real. “I got back from a recon in Montana and… and… It was chaos. They’d destroyed everything.”
Roger knows the attack he’s talking about but he hadn’t known Andy’s group was the target or he’d have taken more of an interest in the reports. Even worse he knows exactly what happened to the people they brought back with them. He puts his glass down before suddenly weak fingers drop it, meets Andy’s eyes and can’t help the knowledge showing through. Realisation for a moment and then Andy’s face crumples into tears.
“He’s not dead, he’s not-“
“I’m sorry,” Roger says softly. “They sent them to the British rock quarries. No one lasts there more than a few weeks-“
“HE’S NOT DEAD!” Andy’s scrambling to his feet, half-running, half-falling across the room to beat his fists helplessly against Roger’s chest and shoulders, tears streaking the dirt on his face. “He’s not, he’s not-“
“Sssshhh. Shhh Andy, shhh.” Roger pins Andy’s arms to his side in a half-hug, ignoring the dirt and dust rubbing off onto his clothes. Andy leans against him, still sobbing and Roger blinks; he hasn’t touched anyone beyond handshakes and fights in… in almost two years. He’d have thought he’d have forgotten how to hug someone but it’s as natural as breathing, Andy shaking against him and Roger’s soothingly stroking his hair before he realises, instinct kicking in and all he can think of is making Andy feel better.
“Tell you what,” he says softly. “I have contacts in Britain. I’ll let them know who we’re looking for, see what they come up with. You never know.”
Andy’s hands clench convulsively in Roger’s shirt and he raises a tear-and-dirt stained face shining with hope so strong it almost brings answering tears to Roger’s eyes. “You think… you think there’s a chance he…”
No. It’s impossible and Roger knows it but he can’t ruin that shining hope, can’t let Andy down again so soon. Keeping him here in hope means Roger will be able to keep an eye on him, stop him doing anything stupid when he finally realises Mardy isn’t coming back. He almost hates himself for his next words. “Yes. It’s unlikely but there’s a chance.”
“Oh god.” Andy buries his face in Roger’s shoulder, still shaking and the Swiss hugs him tighter. “Thank you, thank you so much-“
“Ssshh. Thank me if we find him.” Roger wonders what he’s doing. Britain is hardly more than a giant glacier these days, ocean currents and climate having changed so what was green fields became white sheets of ice and snow, inhospitable and practically uninhabitable. He has contacts but they’re limited and finding Mardy Fish amongst the rock quarries will be worse than looking for a proverbial needle in a haystack, since the haystack wouldn’t usually be in a blizzard at the same time. He shouldn’t be encouraging Andy to hope. It’s cruel. It’s unfair.
But he can’t bring himself to spell their chances out for the American and simply hugs him closer. Andy’s tears have slowed and he’s just leaning into Roger now, trembling a little. The Swiss strokes the matted hair and closes his eyes.
Somehow he doesn’t think boredom will be a problem anymore.
“So,” he murmurs quietly. “I guess I should be saying welcome to Halcyon.”