| Subject: Chapter 266 - Part 1 |
Author:
KatherineG.
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Date Posted: Saturday, November 18, 06:36:15am
In reply to:
KatherineG.
's message, "Dreams in the Dark (258>?) continued" on Monday, October 23, 07:10:30am
Dreams in the Dark (266/?)
by Katherine Gilbert
It had already been a long, torturous day--but that was nothing new. Just watching Ackerman trying to turn the newsreel crew, spreading his lies about Nikita, had been punishing--giving him so many fears of what the future might hold. If the crew believed him, if they even kept his slander somewhere in the back of their minds, it could prove so damaging--could work so easily into any of their enemies' plots. Pretending that the woman was having an affair would be one of the most effective ways of destroying her; his heart ached at the thought. And he wouldn't even be around to defend his beloved from their venom.
Michael could only hope that others would be, could pray that such rumors would never be allowed to go so far in the first place. But this, in some ways, was probably only a dream. If their enemies were smart, which they demonstrably were, then an attack on the woman's reputation would certainly be the easiest form of victory. Once the public heard that she was cheating on her husband--the man who had gone off so nobly to defend their Allies against a terrible invader, the man they had loved long before they had ever heard of her--all their sympathy and love for her would vanish; his pain went so deep. It was only too ironic that the fact that she was carrying their child would only make her situation that much worse.
He was tormented by these possibilities, couldn't stop their pain--knowing it would be all too easy to destroy her. That her wretched father was now in on the game only made the potential outcomes deadlier, made her need protection so much more; his eyes were wide in fear. But, having been exiled so very far away, he had no way of looking after her at all.
He was on his way back from supper now, the newsreel crew finally having wrapped up; it only made him feel slightly less vigilant, needing to remind himself of the truth. He had done what he could today, had cultivated--or manipulated--every possible ally he could find, was getting quite good at it. He would nearly have felt guilty at his twisting of the tormented Eric to his own ends had the man not been so potentially dangerous a threat. But the truth was different--Elkins slightly less than sane, at the best of times. That was the sort of person you had to make into your, rather distant, friend--because having him as an enemy was far too deadly to contemplate.
He had only one real threat of this sort left around him, then--or only one who really mattered. While Ackerman had clearly made the attack today that he had been planning for some time, this didn't mean that the younger man's enmity was now at an end. Even with the intense concentration which his own job required, even with Van Vactor's constant watch--even with the need to prove himself to be at least 2-3 times as good as all those around him, just to leave the impression that he was holding up to their, much younger, standard--Michael knew where much of his concentration always needed to be. His self-styled enemy wasn't through with him yet--hadn't gotten enough out of the newsreel crews to satisfy him; the actor's heart pounded more rapidly. Still, for one as willfully cruel as the recruit, it was difficult to say just how much pain he needed to inflict, before he could finally find some satisfaction.
This truth wasn't comforting, Michael now on the alert to all the sounds of the night around him. The snow had stopped once again--had been quite obliging for the newsreel crew, although they didn't seem to know the difference--so the constant muffling of all noise from its falling wasn't a factor. Still, if someone were careful and took the proper precautions, the collected snow could be used to hide his approach; the actor was learning this more and more, was practicing it himself. The decided "crunch, crunch" that films always included was more fiction than necessary reality; his ears were trained for any movement around him. And all of this was important to remember, if he had any hopes of foreseeing the man's next move.
He was focused, ready--as much as it was possible to be, at least--certain that he wouldn't make it back to the barracks uneventfully; still, he allowed his mind to wander, needing to keep his calm--analyzing these newer insights. His realizations about the potential uses of a snow pack were novel, to him--despite his years of experience with the stuff in his youth. Then, there had been no real reason to walk quietly, his usual strut at the time developed as a slap in the face to all those who disliked him, an announcement of his will and presence; it had only morphed into his more adult stride with the calming of his fury in his late teens. Those who came to fight him weren't exactly interested in subterfuge, either--were far too straightforward for that; he nearly smiled. There was still a lot to learn, then, even in his mid-thirties--even if he wished that none of it had to be done.
This truth had once been an unbelievably pleasant one, when he had been with his beloved, but was much different here; his thoughts returned to his immediate nemesis, pondering the man's next move. While Ackerman's various slanders might well prove more successful than he dreamed--depending on the plans of Nikita's other enemies--this fact, undoubtedly, wasn't entirely clear to the recruit just now, his lust for giving pain unslaked; Michael's thoughts turned. Bill Ackerman really was nearly the classic sadist, could find no happiness except in the misery of those around him; it was no wonder that he never received any mail--his family probably unendingly thankful that he was gone. Perhaps his reach was less wide-ranging than some others of his kind Michael had known, such as Bauer, but the tendency was there, nonetheless. Give him the opportunity, and he could undoubtedly teach the Nazis a thing or two about inflicting pain. All he was really waiting for was the chance to practice his technique.
This thought nearly made the actor shiver, wondering again how he always managed to end up around so many of this man's kind. There were hundreds of them in Hollywood, a small smattering here, as well. Still, he supposed both choices made a certain amount of sense. In the city which the studios controlled, there were always opportunities for carrying out such inclinations--desperate, easily-controllable women a dime a dozen, sometimes literally; no one much cared what happened to them. Here . . . Well, here, such men were given the promise of not only being able to give into such tendencies but a training and refining of them--were brought in more by the promise of inflicting pain and death in multiple forms than by any real fears for what the Nazis might do to the rest of the world; it wasn't a viewpoint with which he could sympathize. For those such as himself or Sikes, this work was only a, highly unpleasant, necessity--negotiation getting their Allies nowhere; his heart ached a little, as he pondered further. But such thoughts were probably also the excuse of every person, good or bad, who had ever picked up a gun.
He hated all of this, still wondered constantly whether any of them were doing the right thing. And what about once the war truly got going--as it was bound to soon? Of course the Nazis, and those who worked with them, would inflict pain and terror on the world in every conceivable form--but what about those who fought them? Was it entirely logical to believe that they were safe from eventually mirroring their enemies? Was that even possible? The history of warfare was certainly against it, provided a never-ending list of atrocities--every one committed with the excuse that those who did it were only getting revenge for what had once been done to them. There was no real purpose to any of it, every new bit of inconceivable pain carried out against another--usually wholly innocent--group of people justified entirely in the minds of their persecutors by tales of the last bit of pain carried out against their own countrymen. There was rarely even any questioning; something in him froze. And those who did were inevitably given the title of "traitor."
He hated these truths, hated all they seemed to signal. And he couldn't forget all the stories, the images, he had seen of the last Great War, couldn't help but fear where all of this would lead. He even remembered the treaty which had finally ended it, the unpayable fines which were levied against so many countries--Germany primary among them. Was it entirely unlikely that such retribution--retribution which could as justifiably have been made against any of the countries involved, all of them guilty, in his mind, of no cause higher than a lust for each other's lands--had at least made it easier for a man such as Hitler to rise to power? Poverty, especially crushing, unending poverty and hunger, made people desperate. And the more fearful and needy you were, the less reasonable you tended to be.
This theory made a terrible sort of sense to him, as he moved further toward the barracks--still trying to remember to listen out for his own, personal enemy--but it all just deepened his fears. The more retribution which was taken--always carried out in the false names of either "justice" or "security"--the more likely you were to create yet more atrocities of exactly the same kind as those you were supposedly taking retribution for in the first place; he tried to remember this, when it came to his own nemesis. He had to find a way to fight him off, to keep him at bay. But he needed to do so in some manner which wouldn't cause all of them yet more pain down the road.
This seemed a nearly impossible task just now, Ackerman's desires to destroy him unending. There were days when he wondered whether the younger man would be happy with any other result besides his enemy's death; the shudder ran deep. And then what might happen to the woman the actor loved was left much better not thought about.
His mind turned here, couldn't help pondering the beautiful woman--and all she went through, his heart pulling taut at the truth. Even his more war-weary thoughts were partly down to the lessons her mercy had taught him; his heart pounded strongly. God, he loved her, wanted nothing of the world besides her safety and happiness. If he could be with her too, could hold and love her . . . well, that was his ultimate fantasy and goal; the sigh lingered frostily in the crisp air. But nothing he could imagine of his future would mean anything, unless she were safe.
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