[ Chuck remembers very few things. Pain is predominant, excruciating
agony searing through his limbs, the forceful removal of his arm from
shoulder down, blurred faces, sharp eyes and a shrewd, unfeeling voice that
left him angry and confused and obedient, taking orders and executing them
with military and deadly precision.
Seven years. Seven years of experimentation, of pain and torture and
no, no that’s not quite right, is it? Wipe him again, start over. He
remembers too much.
What he was supposedly remembering is always a mystery to him
because the moment something does come back he’s taken into the
back, locked down and wiped, brain scrambled up so much he barely remembers
what’s up and down. He’s generally left there in that chair to rest after,
a small comfort that isn’t really a comfort more that it’s a fucking
necessity because the shit they do to him is so goddamn awful Chuck can
never stand or function properly for hours after.
He’s sent on mission after mission though and he’s always a success,
in and out and reporting back and then he’s crammed back into the cryotube
and frozen up again until they need him to go blow someone elses head open.
It’s just another mission, another day in the life of whoever the
hell he is but then the blond says that name and acts like he knows him and
Chuck stops, brow narrowed, skin around his eyes dark and indicative of
little to no sleep and he’s confused, staring and pausing in his blows. ]
[That rhymes and maybe this the worst time to think of something like that but it reminds him of calling him Chuckles and teasing him and laughing at his scowl and then kissing it away and--
Raleigh lowers his gun because he isn't thinking straight, isn't thinking about how to defend himself because there is no defending himself against a ghost, against the past come back to slap you in the face.]
[ He feels...confused. Disjointed. Like something is tugging at his brain and he can't exactly place who or what or why. It confuses him and that makes him angry, makes him want to beat Raleigh in the face with the butt of his gun, until it's an unrecognizable mess of flesh and gristle and bone.
But he doesn't. He pulls back, panting and wild-eyed and pissed off and he doesn't lower his gun but he stops. ]
[Somehow that's worse. That's worse than losing Chuck in the first place. It's worse to have Chuck's eyes and his scowl staring him in the face but for the other man to not have any idea of who Raleigh is. Who they were. Who even Chuck was.
Raleigh thinks that he could accept it better if this was Chuck deciding that he didn't give a shit and that he sold out for the money. Because on some level, maybe he kind of expected something like that and he can be pissed at him for it. Can fight back. But this?
How can he fight someone who doesn't even know who he is? He's not mad, he's just heartbroken.]
[ He swallows and actually takes a step back, eyes wild. Who is Chuck? Who? What's he talking about? Why does he know me? He can't know me. No one knows me. I'm a ghost.
His eyes narrow and he looks at Raleigh again, gun still up, finger toying with the trigger. ]
I don't know who you're talking about.
[ Stop talking, stop talking, it's so confusing, I don't understand -- who am I?
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no subject
[ Chuck remembers very few things. Pain is predominant, excruciating agony searing through his limbs, the forceful removal of his arm from shoulder down, blurred faces, sharp eyes and a shrewd, unfeeling voice that left him angry and confused and obedient, taking orders and executing them with military and deadly precision.
Seven years. Seven years of experimentation, of pain and torture and no, no that’s not quite right, is it? Wipe him again, start over. He remembers too much.
What he was supposedly remembering is always a mystery to him because the moment something does come back he’s taken into the back, locked down and wiped, brain scrambled up so much he barely remembers what’s up and down. He’s generally left there in that chair to rest after, a small comfort that isn’t really a comfort more that it’s a fucking necessity because the shit they do to him is so goddamn awful Chuck can never stand or function properly for hours after.
He’s sent on mission after mission though and he’s always a success, in and out and reporting back and then he’s crammed back into the cryotube and frozen up again until they need him to go blow someone elses head open.
It’s just another mission, another day in the life of whoever the hell he is but then the blond says that name and acts like he knows him and Chuck stops, brow narrowed, skin around his eyes dark and indicative of little to no sleep and he’s confused, staring and pausing in his blows. ]
Who the fuck is Chuck?
no subject
Raleigh lowers his gun because he isn't thinking straight, isn't thinking about how to defend himself because there is no defending himself against a ghost, against the past come back to slap you in the face.]
You-- oh my God. Chuck... please.
no subject
But he doesn't. He pulls back, panting and wild-eyed and pissed off and he doesn't lower his gun but he stops. ]
Who is Chuck?
no subject
Raleigh thinks that he could accept it better if this was Chuck deciding that he didn't give a shit and that he sold out for the money. Because on some level, maybe he kind of expected something like that and he can be pissed at him for it. Can fight back. But this?
How can he fight someone who doesn't even know who he is? He's not mad, he's just heartbroken.]
You are. What happened to you--
no subject
His eyes narrow and he looks at Raleigh again, gun still up, finger toying with the trigger. ]
I don't know who you're talking about.
[ Stop talking, stop talking, it's so confusing, I don't understand -- who am I?
Where do I belong? ]