Omi Tsukiyono (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
oneblackcat) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
synergetic2014-12-20 12:41 am
oneblackcat) wrote in synergetic2014-12-20 12:41 am
[KBF] Waking
It didn't work.
This was Omi's first realization as he opened his eyes to a sterile, bright room. He was awake, and that meant he was alive, and that meant he'd failed.
It was his only thought for several minutes. He was confused and tired, and kept thinking about going back to sleep. A couple of times, he did.
When he finally did come to more fully, his mind was blurry except for that one thought: he was supposed to be dead. He wasn't.
It seemed like a horrible irony. Of all people to fail a suicide attempt-- a boy in the business of making things die? Of course, he'd known going into it that there was only a chance of the drug being strong enough. He missed the obvious implication that to be in a medical room and not an interrogation one, it had been a close enough call for intervention.
He thought he was going to vomit. He curled his arm around his stomach, not registering until a good half a minute later that he'd been able to move it. His hands and feet weren't tied.
He almost tried to fumble out of the bed, to find a scalpel, a pair of scissors, a syringe, anything sharp. But when one's vision was a dizzying spin, leaping out of bed was just not in the cards. It was maddening: here he was with no restraints and apparently no guards, and neither one was needed to keep him planted right there on the bed.
He blearily tried to take in more of his surroundings. A bed with white sheets. Wires and beeps from equipment monitoring his vital signs. An IV taped to the top of his hand. And, unsurprisingly, an incredibly tender sore on his tongue. As his vision cleared, Omi tried, shakily, to push himself to sitting upright. His muscles didn't seem to want to cooperate, though, and after a couple of seconds they gave out, putting him right back against the mattress.
He lay alone, watching the nothing, and wondering, vaguely, where he was. And what the heck time it was.
This was Omi's first realization as he opened his eyes to a sterile, bright room. He was awake, and that meant he was alive, and that meant he'd failed.
It was his only thought for several minutes. He was confused and tired, and kept thinking about going back to sleep. A couple of times, he did.
When he finally did come to more fully, his mind was blurry except for that one thought: he was supposed to be dead. He wasn't.
It seemed like a horrible irony. Of all people to fail a suicide attempt-- a boy in the business of making things die? Of course, he'd known going into it that there was only a chance of the drug being strong enough. He missed the obvious implication that to be in a medical room and not an interrogation one, it had been a close enough call for intervention.
He thought he was going to vomit. He curled his arm around his stomach, not registering until a good half a minute later that he'd been able to move it. His hands and feet weren't tied.
He almost tried to fumble out of the bed, to find a scalpel, a pair of scissors, a syringe, anything sharp. But when one's vision was a dizzying spin, leaping out of bed was just not in the cards. It was maddening: here he was with no restraints and apparently no guards, and neither one was needed to keep him planted right there on the bed.
He blearily tried to take in more of his surroundings. A bed with white sheets. Wires and beeps from equipment monitoring his vital signs. An IV taped to the top of his hand. And, unsurprisingly, an incredibly tender sore on his tongue. As his vision cleared, Omi tried, shakily, to push himself to sitting upright. His muscles didn't seem to want to cooperate, though, and after a couple of seconds they gave out, putting him right back against the mattress.
He lay alone, watching the nothing, and wondering, vaguely, where he was. And what the heck time it was.
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"They're not like McNuggets, really-- call or raise--"
"Is that your plan?" Robin interjected. "Dissuade us all from calling?"
"I'm going to call while I've got you beat, don't worry, but I think he just woke up."
At that, well, Robin's mood dropped. He stuffed his cards in his utility belt and stood. He'd wanted to be the one who approached Omi first, he just. Didn't want to approach him, that was all.
M'gann squeezed his arm as he passed.
"At least I took care of the language barrier this time!"
"You're a lifesaver-- or at least a dignity-saver," he said.
He strode for the door, not pausing to contemplate the level of suck awaiting him, and aiming for his usual nonchalant blitheness.
"So even the master assassin has a target he can't hit," he said by way of announcing his entrance, unconsciously echoing Omi's own thoughts.
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Omi didn't know what he was supposed to say back to the barb, nor did he understand what purpose anyone could have coming in just to make some condescending remarks. Whatever it was, Omi wasn't interested in entertaining it.
After a brief look at Robin solely to acknowledge his presence, Omi lay his head back down on the pillow. He said nothing.
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That is the black and white view, and while Dick likes to think he's never been that naive, life would be happier if he was.
"Unfortunately, I have this thing called a conscience, and an advanced intellect that allows me to sympathize with other people. It's a drag, but--"
He pauses to tug a chair over. He's not entirely sure if he wants to rephrase.
"The stuff those people did to you, I'm-- I mean, people who'd brainwash you to think every criminal needs to die, it's hard to believe they wouldn't convince you your life is just as worthless."
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Then, as Robin continued and pulled a chair over, Omi started to understand what he was really saying. Robin hadn't come in to lecture him. He had come in to admit to some mixed feelings, and that he was bothered. Listening to him, Omi couldn't help thinking of Youji. Someone not really comfortable admitting to things like being worried about others, so the sentiment hid under a layer of blasé sarcasm. Omi was wary, but he started paying more attention.
Then came the last bit that shifted Omi's features from apathy to confusion, discomfort, and shock. There were three striking elements to what Robin said. The first was the suggestion that he knew things others 'did' to him-- brainwashing no less. This confused Omi, because the fact was those people did have to die.
The second element was how uncomfortably close to the mark Robin hit on his assessment of Omi's self-worth. It was true, he didn't think his life had any real value. For all intents and purposes, it was already over. That was what being Weiss meant. It was for people who had nothing left to lose. It was a way to take personal tragedy and turn it constructive, by fighting to keep others from experiencing that same magnitude of loss.
The third element was the simple way that line about self-worth was phrased: as though it weren't true.
After a few seconds of staring stunned, Omi tested words, still without notice that conversation was much more fluid than last time. It hurt to talk, but physical pain he could handle.
"What do you mean...? What have people done to me that..." How did he even finish that question. He tried again.
"How do you know, anything that--"
And then, his face went white, and he understood.
"Schuldig. That... Don't tell me... You saw--"
What had that bastard shared with Robin?!
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Robin didn't, either, if he was being honest. But clinging to his moral superiority was his best coping mechanism against confronting just how similar their cases were.
Similar, but not the same.
"Well, I s'pose it wouldn't be good brainwashing if you actually realized you were brainwashed." He tapped his chin. "I have an outside perspective, you see, and a couple frames of reference I can compare it to." Mentioning no archers named after Greek goddesses.
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"Two on one isn't fair play either," he said mildly, in reference to the means of his capture. He felt too awful to be upset about it now, and wasn't clear-headed enough for any idea of a counterargument to the idea he was brainwashed, though he still didn't think that was true. He had chosen this... hadn't he? Yes, Omi was sure he had. He chose it every time, because it was unconscionable to sit back and do nothing while innocent people died at the hands of monsters. Even if it damned him in the process. He believed in Weiss.
"What makes you say that? That I was--" He couldn't finish that sentence either. "You have frames of reference?"
Omi was genuinely curious about this. If it wasn't true, then there had to be some faulty reasoning, or some missing facts, to Robin's perspective. And if it was true... not that it was... Omi wanted to know what made it so.
But brainwashing was such a harsh word. His uncle had saved him...
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He flared his cape and draped it over the back of his chair. That wasn't exactly a polite question, and, well, there was no real polite answer to it.
"I do know a thing or two about being alone in the world," he said stiffly, "and then having one adult singlehandedly change your life. It's an overwhelming thing. Uberoverwhelming, even ultra-uber-overwhelming. Kids are powerless, and when an adult chooses to use that power to-- save you, like Batman did for me?"
He ran a hand through his hair. He rarely tried to articulate this feeling, the awesome gratitude and the bone-deep knowledge that nothing on this Earth he could possibly do -- except maybe solve the Waynes' murders -- would ever be even half as adequate repayment for Bruce.
"I mean, I could have ended up in foster care, he didn't know me, or anything about me, I don't even know why he was at the show that night, it's not really his scene--" Get a grip, Grayson.
He cleared his throat. "Point of it is, he never asked me to kill anyone. I mean, I chose the vigilante thing, mostly for revenge, at first -- justice came later -- but this has always been what I want to do with my life."
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It was well and good that Robin never had needed to resort to that. Omi was genuinely glad for it, because it was an ugly, depressing business. But if killing weren't necessary, Weiss wouldn't exist. Only Crashers would. And in the end, that was pretty beside the point to whether anything constituted brainwashing, wasn't it? Omi wanted to serve justice, too. The real difference was in how each of them defined it.
But Robin was also several years younger than him. Omi remembered that age. Death, and especially killing, was a difficult subject to grapple with. He didn't much care to tread into the territory of killing anyway. So instead, Omi honed in on the other part. About being alone, and having someone to take you in.
It was striking how bare-open the boy was laying out some of his feelings. Omi knew from experience how incredibly difficult it was to talk about such things even with close friends. And he was a stranger to Robin. A stranger and a criminal. No doubt, it was the parallels between their childhoods. The tragedy and loss of family, then the adoption into a life of vigilante work.
But there was a huge difference that yet remained, and maybe it was that difference that accounted for why one of them killed and one of them didn't. Robin still had people that loved him. He still had things to live for.
Omi tried again to slowly sit up, succeeding this time. He had no interest in getting any farther than that-- not now that he was under watch. It was partially to stall. Thinking clearly was difficult, and he felt it important to respond to this the right way. He just didn't know what that right way was.
He normally would not discuss matters of that period between the kidnapping and the present day. The fact that Robin had, though, and unquestionably despite that same kind of discomfort and avoidance of doing so... Omi couldn't ignore that.
"You're right. The sense of indebtedness is overwhelming. The awe that that someone would..." That you still meant something to someone. "I have to admit... when I saw what I did... earlier. It really brings to light the difference in how what we live can shape who we are, and what we believe."
That was about as close as Omi could come to confessing he'd probably have come out just like Robin had he lived that same life.
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"I'm surprised you feel it, though," Dick pressed. "I mean, I saw-- Batman was strict, he never accepts good when he knows I can do better -- I have to get straight As or I hang up the cape, for one thing -- but he never... did anything to hurt me. Mentally or physically. He wanted me to leave all the work to him, he's never asked me to do anything horrific like-- like with the dog."
Dick's never had a pet before, mainly because he doesn't have the time for one, but he grew up around elephants and lions and there's always been an animal lover deep in his heart.
"Look, I hurt people sometimes, I'm sure I've fractured some bones, and maybe some people deserve it, but an innocent dog..."
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If there was ever any doubt that Schuldig had shown Robin his past, that statement erased it. Omi had never told anyone about Kuro. To his knowledge, the only other people who knew at all were Manx and his uncle. The mention of him brought on a fresh pang of sorrow. He'd really loved that dog.
He could not deny that it had hurt to have to kill him, either. It was a valuable, probably necessary training exercise for the sheer mental will it took... and as long as the dog had to die... but oh, it had hurt. And that was an uncomfortable truth right then, because the reasoning made sense looked at from the outside-- it made it more understandable why Robin was calling his training by such an awful word. Without the experience to help someone understand why it had been important... and still. That poor dog.
Omi looked at his knees when he answered. "That was so sad. Why do so many bad things happen to innocents..."
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"The human condition isn't always optimum," he said briskly. "I've learned to deal. But you have to have realized by now, him making you do it? Old Yeller is historical fiction, they veterinarians and shelters who... they call it putting them to sleep, it's supposed to be a quick, painless death performed by, uh, trained professionals who are psychologically equipped to have that on their consciences and know how to sleep at night. Why would a grown man make a child do it?"
He paused to breathe, but barreled on before Omi could get a word in.
"It's brainwashing. Textbook, actually. Take a vulnerable individual, make sure they're entirely dependent you for survival, and they'll believe anything you tell them. You have nowhere else, no one else to turn to, not believing everything he tells you is going to be literally impossible to do because what's he gonna do if you don't? Turn you out? I mean, I suppose you knew he wouldn't kill you, at least-- he had you to do that."
no subject
Omi belonged in the shadows. He had known this for years. He had to belong there because he didn't belong anywhere else. Persia could have sent him to an orphanage or a foster home... but what point would that have served? He wasn't wanted. Between the life he had now and the hypothetical one of sitting idle in a foster home with a family that was just trying to be nice by providing a house and meals? Be a service or be a burden: Omi knew he preferred the former.
How then did everything Robin said make so much sense? Why did it hit so hard, and why was it so painful and shocking to hear? He tried to remind himself-- insistently-- that Persia had given him the Kuro mission for a reason. It was important to be able to, because--
"He never did anything to hurt me. Mentally or physically."
Because one day, he might be assigned to do the same to Ken, Youji, or Aya.
Or, more to the point, to someone else he called family...
"Persia, you knew my past all along. Why would you assign me to a mission to kill my brothers?"
"I am a Takatori, too. It's hard for me to fight against my own brother."
"Why do you make me do this then?! Why don't you do it yourself?! Why not hunt evildoers as part of Weiss?"
"Me, in Weiss? I'm sorry, but I don't have that kind of strength."
"No, you just don't want to get your hands dirty! You're just selfish!"
The words from that argument rang in his head.
"He wanted me to leave all the work to him, he's never asked me to do anything horrific."
"Persia is always concerned about you. Believe in him."
Omi cringed as Manx's assurance cut through his memory. What should he think about her? She had always been so nice. He bowed his head as his hands lifted to clutch it on both sides. He sucked in a deep breath to hold, willing himself to keep composure through the torrent of trauma, deceit, manipulation and abuse flooding his mind, all surfacing as the ugly truths that they were. Recognizing how horrible some of those things were hadn't been possible before, with no real basis for comparison. With that generous helping of Robin's memories, seeing how different it could have been... and now the ruthless presentation of the facts from the boy himself...
Omi had first responded to the contrast with simple gladness Robin had been found by someone who was good to him, who had provided for him all of the things that Omi to that day quietly ached to have himself. Until then, he had simply accepted it was not meant to be, because it was true, wasn't it? There was nowhere else, no one else to turn to.
Six years later, it was still true.
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Watching someone go through a mental breakdown is never pleasant. Nor is watching someone's life crumble before their very eyes. When everything you thought you knew about yourself is a lie... he thought of Roy again.
No one would ever accuse Dick of being delicate. Tact was something he was hoping to learn as he grew up, but it didn't happen today.
Pressing him further just seemed cruel, now, but so did waiting patiently for a response. Kind of a dilemma.
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As he returned to a point of cognizance of his surroundings, the next challenge became what in the world he was supposed to say to the boy next to him. Admitting Robin was right was too painful. Denying it was beyond Omi's current capacity.
Part of him wanted to ask what it was Robin wanted from him, but it seemed a horribly unkind response to someone who had, Omi was sure, exposed himself in an uncomfortable (and probably uncharacteristic) way in an effort to help him. However harsh it had been... Omi did not doubt good intentions.
And yet he did have to wonder why Robin thought him worth it. He'd made no effort to hide his contempt. With that in mind, Omi's natural demeanor was humility as he broke the silence, though he kept his head buried under his hands.
"I understand you've done a lot for me... coming in and talking to me, even about your own life, for the sake of making the point. That couldn't have been easy."
A breath for courage, and Omi continued.
"Can I... ask you a favor? There's a question that I want an answer to."
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"...There's a lot that you know right now. You know about me. The history I have and the circumstances of... everything, past and present. You know the loyalty and bonds that come from working as part of a team. And you probably know what the options are better than I do... If you were me right now, knowing all that you do... what would you do? Really think about it, please."
Omi did not want the knee-jerk answer that could so easily come from resting comfortably in the position of world-beloved hero. An answer that did not truly consider the position he faced would not be helpful. But he wanted-- needed advice. And of everyone available... Robin was probably in the best position to offer it. Omi couldn't promise that he would do whatever it was that Robin suggested, but neither could he ignore the real value of his perspective, and the subsequent weight it would receive as he evaluated for himself.
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"Uh, reserving the right to change my mind later?" he muttered. "Well."
It was hard to say. Very few things have only one answer.
"That depends on your final goal," he said, after a long moment. "Do you want to go back to what you were doing? Do you want to live a quiet life like a normal person? I'm not equipped to advise in either of those directions."
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On the other hand, answering with his ultimate goal might not be the best response. It was curious to Omi that Robin seemed to be saying a quiet, normal life was no more feasible than continuing as Weiss. He would be right, too. Omi had long ago realized that such a life left him restless and frustrated in the face of newspaper headlines. That Robin recognized that much was an encouraging sign. It did beg the question, though...
"Which directions are you equipped to advise in?"
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He shrugged. "Obviously, I only have my own experiences to draw from," he said, slowly. "But... you know, I know killing people isn't satisfying. You're, you've got to be, disappointed by the waste of life. I'm not saying everyone can be rehabilitated, or do better if given a chance, but I am saying cutting off that chance is wasteful."
But that doesn't really answer the question, does it?
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Had he been bolder, more verbally reckless, he might have countered with the obvious, "Stopping criminals is. I know you agree with that much." But it implied too much that the method was satisfying by extension, and that point Omi had to concede. Killing was not fun. It was vindicating to know a target would never take another innocent life again, but that satisfaction was from the ends, not the means.
And, though Robin had never directly communicated his advice, Omi found an implied piece well enough in what Robin said and-- more importantly-- what he didn't say. Normal life wasn't an option. Killing was unsustainable... and yet, Robin had not suggested jail. He hadn't suggested turning himself in. What he had suggested was that it was wasteful not to offer someone the chance for rehabilitation.
What was the logical conclusion of all of that? Omi hesitated to believe it, but he had no question about what it was, nor how to respond to it. He lifted his head a few inches. Not enough to look Robin in the eyes, but enough for the conviction to be seen in his face.
"Stopping criminals is what gives my life purpose. Without that, I don't see any meaning in continuing to exist." He delivered the statement without self-pity-- it was simple fact. No family, no future; if he wasn't serving some broader cause, like fighting to protect the city, he was just taking up space.
"You qualified a minute ago that your advice depends on my final goal. Ultimately, that's it. I want to do everything I can to end the harm of criminals the law hasn't been able to put away on its own. I don't care if I die trying. I want to protect all of the people who have--"
Who have all of the things I don't.
"What do I need to do to achieve that."
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"Beyond that, I don't know. I do know," and here he leveled his best Batman glare, which was usually diminished by his smaller stature, but still got the job done, "that giving you what you want is not a priority. Right now, I don't trust you to do the right thing under pressure, and that means you're not getting thrown into any situation that would require you to make that right decision until you prove otherwise."
He held a hand up.
"And don't go playing the 'I've changed!' game with me. You have not. We've barely talked and while I am extremely persuasive, you're brainwashed and I'm not dumb. You haven't come around to my way of thinking just because of one heart-to-heart."
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It was all fair enough, what he specified in conditions, of course. It was reasonable that he wouldn't be trusted right off. It was reasonable to operate from the idea-- the true idea-- that he wasn't that much different already. Maybe the difference was that Omi had assumed such things to be obvious. It was quite the unpleasant shock to discover Robin didn't consider him already possessing such basic understanding. Did Robin really think he felt so entitled?
Omi realized now that he was continuing to make the same mistake over and over with these two. Their images and reputations as forces for good had lent them favor. Every time, he had tried to cooperate with Batman or Robin, and every time, it left him in a worse off position. He'd tried to warn them out of the mansion, to help them fight off Schuldig. He'd tried to avoid making trouble when confronted with Batman. He'd tried to show a willingness to work towards some alternative lifestyle.
He'd acted on what he thought was the right thing to do.
It seemed he was wrong, though. This wasn't a relationship open to reciprocity or understanding. This wasn't the way someone who really wanted to help talked. Most likely, they were just trying to squeeze more information out of him to use against Kritiker. It was probably the only reason they had stopped him from killing himself, too. What other value did he have to them, after all? Nothing was going to change here. It was time to shut them out. Both of them.
Completely ignoring Robin was rude in its own right. However, beyond his resolution to offer no further inadvertent help, Omi was not any more interested in engaging condescension now than when Robin had first entered the room. He closed his eyes and turned his head away, his voice as soft and quiet as ever but with an unshakeable firmness.
"I'm done talking. Please, leave me alone."
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With the very glaring exception of what Batman might say about it, he stood with the basic intent behind the words. Maybe Omi could use a second chance, but would he be using it to escape punishment or to do right?
Really, only the fact he was already going to be explaining himself to Batman kept Robin from the comeback that was forming as he stood to leave, shaking the wrinkles from his cape.