Reboot ficlet: The Collector (MU, OMC)
Oct. 2nd, 2009 03:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
syredronningWhat might constitute the epilogue to the Mu Book series. Warning: It's REALLY dark.
The Collector
***
The house was large, dark and creepy. It was even creepier when lit, because then he could see all the pieces of skin that hung around like trophies, protected behind glass. They were covered in patterns, many of them gray and green, some with fainting colors. At first, they had looked like some parchment to him, but then he got closer and recognized their form, realizing that what looked like leather now had once spun over living limbs.
"Skin is just a canvas too," the old Klingon said before he shoved the equipment into Tom's hands and then gave the youngster a lesson in how these skins needed to be preserved to be presentable for another hundred years.
He started on the ground floor and then worked up the stairs. He was counting forty-three when he stepped into the private area of the old man and froze. There was the most complete skin of them all, spanned over a doll and protected by glass all around. Not just a back or an arm, but most of a body, all patterned with Vulcan calligraphy. It almost looked like one of those Greek statues he'd seen in some history files, missing hands and feet and the head - and from the way the pattern was abruptly cut at what once had been the throat, the owner had probably lost his head for real.
The pattern was unusual too. It wasn't painted like most others, the boy thought as he reverently opened the translucent door and started applying the first cleanser – must've been burned into the skin in some way.
The old Klingon appeared behind him, and Tom took a heart to ask, "Did you kill them all?" The Klingon barked a laugh. "Many, but not this one. That skin's the oldest of them all, a hundred years for sure."
"Who was the man?" Tom asked.
"I never found out. Bought the skin from another collector, and tracked it down until the Great War where its owner's name was lost for good."
All Tom knew was that the Great War divided the time between Terra's glory and Terra's doom, between dominance and slavery. Being born long after the war, the idea of humans ever having ruled the Empire was unreal to him.
The Klingon brushed over the nameless hide. "You see this?" He pointed at what must have been the collarbone.
"I don't see anything," Tom replied confused.
"Exactly. That's where his House Seal must've been, but it's been etched off his skin with acid. Happened once in a while, but the unusual thing is that it hasn't been substituted with a new one. Well, maybe he was killed before that could happen." The Klingon barked another laugh. "Wasn't very old either, maybe forty."
The boy had a hard time to extrapolate the age of the former owners but nodded anyway, trusting the expertise of the collector. "Not old for a Vulcan."
"It wasn't a Vulcan but a Terran – his blood was red."
Tom swallowed hard, temporarily stopping the appliance of the second cleaning fluid. The race shouldn't make a difference to him, but for some strange reason it did.
"Hurry on," the old Klingon snarled. "There are another ten in the back office, and it's soon time for you to return to the ghetto."
"Yes, sir," the boy said and quickly resumed his work. In the end, the skin looked almost alive. When he walked away from it, he turned back twice to stare at it, trying to get rid of the eerie feeling that the ghost of the branded man might ascend from hell and take revenge for his premature, violent death.
The last ten were easy, smaller pieces which he could just see as art exhibits, nothing that would ever haunt him like the other body.
When he was done, the old Klingon showed him to the door.
"What's your name?" the man asked.
"Tom Paris, sir," he replied.
"Did a good job, for a human," the Klingon replied, and dropped an extra coin into his hand. "Might call you again for a bit of work."
"Thank you."
"And maybe next time – " the Klingon eyed him with a thoughtful frown – "I might translate to you some of the writings on his body." He didn't need to elaborate which body he meant.
"That would be interesting, sir," Tom replied, trying not to show how creepy he found the idea. When the door closed, he started running and only stopped when he was home, falling down on his knees in the middle of the small kitchen.
"Tom, what happened?" his mother asked wide-eyed. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."
"It's – alright," the boy managed to say when he'd caught his breath. "Here's the money and some extra."
"Good. Do you think he'll call again? We really could use the money."
"I doubt it," Tom said. "I better go looking for another job."
He never went there again, but it took a long time before he stopped dreaming about the nameless human and his beautiful, terrible skin.
***
The Collector
***
The house was large, dark and creepy. It was even creepier when lit, because then he could see all the pieces of skin that hung around like trophies, protected behind glass. They were covered in patterns, many of them gray and green, some with fainting colors. At first, they had looked like some parchment to him, but then he got closer and recognized their form, realizing that what looked like leather now had once spun over living limbs.
"Skin is just a canvas too," the old Klingon said before he shoved the equipment into Tom's hands and then gave the youngster a lesson in how these skins needed to be preserved to be presentable for another hundred years.
He started on the ground floor and then worked up the stairs. He was counting forty-three when he stepped into the private area of the old man and froze. There was the most complete skin of them all, spanned over a doll and protected by glass all around. Not just a back or an arm, but most of a body, all patterned with Vulcan calligraphy. It almost looked like one of those Greek statues he'd seen in some history files, missing hands and feet and the head - and from the way the pattern was abruptly cut at what once had been the throat, the owner had probably lost his head for real.
The pattern was unusual too. It wasn't painted like most others, the boy thought as he reverently opened the translucent door and started applying the first cleanser – must've been burned into the skin in some way.
The old Klingon appeared behind him, and Tom took a heart to ask, "Did you kill them all?" The Klingon barked a laugh. "Many, but not this one. That skin's the oldest of them all, a hundred years for sure."
"Who was the man?" Tom asked.
"I never found out. Bought the skin from another collector, and tracked it down until the Great War where its owner's name was lost for good."
All Tom knew was that the Great War divided the time between Terra's glory and Terra's doom, between dominance and slavery. Being born long after the war, the idea of humans ever having ruled the Empire was unreal to him.
The Klingon brushed over the nameless hide. "You see this?" He pointed at what must have been the collarbone.
"I don't see anything," Tom replied confused.
"Exactly. That's where his House Seal must've been, but it's been etched off his skin with acid. Happened once in a while, but the unusual thing is that it hasn't been substituted with a new one. Well, maybe he was killed before that could happen." The Klingon barked another laugh. "Wasn't very old either, maybe forty."
The boy had a hard time to extrapolate the age of the former owners but nodded anyway, trusting the expertise of the collector. "Not old for a Vulcan."
"It wasn't a Vulcan but a Terran – his blood was red."
Tom swallowed hard, temporarily stopping the appliance of the second cleaning fluid. The race shouldn't make a difference to him, but for some strange reason it did.
"Hurry on," the old Klingon snarled. "There are another ten in the back office, and it's soon time for you to return to the ghetto."
"Yes, sir," the boy said and quickly resumed his work. In the end, the skin looked almost alive. When he walked away from it, he turned back twice to stare at it, trying to get rid of the eerie feeling that the ghost of the branded man might ascend from hell and take revenge for his premature, violent death.
The last ten were easy, smaller pieces which he could just see as art exhibits, nothing that would ever haunt him like the other body.
When he was done, the old Klingon showed him to the door.
"What's your name?" the man asked.
"Tom Paris, sir," he replied.
"Did a good job, for a human," the Klingon replied, and dropped an extra coin into his hand. "Might call you again for a bit of work."
"Thank you."
"And maybe next time – " the Klingon eyed him with a thoughtful frown – "I might translate to you some of the writings on his body." He didn't need to elaborate which body he meant.
"That would be interesting, sir," Tom replied, trying not to show how creepy he found the idea. When the door closed, he started running and only stopped when he was home, falling down on his knees in the middle of the small kitchen.
"Tom, what happened?" his mother asked wide-eyed. "You look as if you've seen a ghost."
"It's – alright," the boy managed to say when he'd caught his breath. "Here's the money and some extra."
"Good. Do you think he'll call again? We really could use the money."
"I doubt it," Tom said. "I better go looking for another job."
He never went there again, but it took a long time before he stopped dreaming about the nameless human and his beautiful, terrible skin.
***
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(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-02 08:39 pm (UTC)