Pewter and Porcelain Part Two Most of you who read the first chapter will notice something bloody big: I changed the title. Too bad, I like this one better. This chapter promises to have at least 70% more AAML in it than the last one did. I'm actually trying at this! I admit to hating nearly all of the pokeshippy fics in existence, but I respect no shipper greater than the pokeshipper who writes fucking well. This isn't going to be a classic, but at least I'm trying to keep the kawaii out of it. And one more thing: Some content in this chapter is going to be quite risky. I am dealing with concepts like death, child abuse, betrayal, AIDS, homosexuality, and heaps more. Swearing, but no sex or violence. And also, there is a character in this who is a former Nazi death camp orchestrator, and another who is actively neo-Nazi in beliefs, who is the main villain in the story. If there are holocaust survivors, relatives of victims/survivors, or anyone likely to be offended by this, I recommend you not to read. I'm not promoting Neo Nazism, and although the former character is a 'goodie' (why can't we get better classifications than this?), it doesn't glorify Nazi ideals, and in a way sets out to destroy them. If you're Jewish, or likely to be enraged, you have the choice of reading or not, but it doesn't set out to offend you. If you're german, and somewhat offended by my attitude, remember that the world has long since forgiven you for the acts of the Reich, and you had nothing to do with it. If, however, you are Neo-Nazi, or anti-semetic, I suggest you run your ugly fucking arse out of here before I break your elbows and beat you over the head with your detached forearms. I don't condone or understand Nazi-ism, and all things shown in this fic are manifestations of the characters, and not myself. Ok... on with the story. Thanks to the readers who liked it (or didn't dislike it, at any rate), the people who dared me to do it, and KAB. For showing me how not to write an AAML. ******** ONE YEAR EARLIER Fuck he's ugly. Fuck, all his type are ugly. They're filthy. Their kind of disgusting filth can't be washed off their skin, it is their skin. The dirtiness of the dark brown infects them, permeating the skin, making their faces hideous, the noses squashed, the eyes slitted... almost ... inhumanly. "More beans, Felina?" He passed me a dish, his grimy hands ever so close to the food. I wondered why I chose one of them as an assistant, and tried to fight off the regret. "No, I'll be right." He set the dish down again, pushing it over to the side of the table. I felt sickened, and made a pledge to wash myself again after dinner. Since he arrived here, I've felt so scared, so threatened, so... dirty. I don't know if it was hormones, or pity, or maybe my wishes to do something for the greater good that forced me to take him in, but whatever it was, it was definitely pressing for closure. And that closure would hopefully happen tonight. Picking up my untouched plate (without asking, mind you - such a poorly bred creature) and his own, he pulled out from the table, and took the plates to the sink. *** NOW "Hey... hey Brick, or whatever your stupid appelle is..." Awake, but not too visibly, I whispered out "Yes?" It was Le Chien. He had a hugely disgraceful grin plastered on his face. Looking down, I could see him clasping a hold on something under the bedsheets. "Demandez that the petit infirmiere come in here and... check on me..." I groaned, my stomach churning with acid. "Do it yourself. I need sleep." He did. He reached up, pressing on the emergency call button. Almost immediately, a Joy rushed over to him. "Is there a problem, sir?" He grinned his horrible grin again, a mouthful of rotten teeth flashing out of his mouth. He whipped the sheet off his body, revealing his exposed lower half. Disgusted, Joy pulled the sheets up to his neck. I could almost hear her breathing deeply. And it happened so quickly, that Chien's arm shot out, grabbing Joy by the hair, and pulling her down to his nakedness. "Come on, bitch, as-tu faim? Skinny little chienne comme toi needs a good feed. Fuck me, whore!" Her screams, his screams, and the screams of Jake and Scheint arose the suspicions of the registrar, who rushed in as soon as he saw what was happening. Joy's mouth was clamped shut, Chien almost ripping her hair out, hitting her with his free arm. Calmly, the registrar moved to the side of the bed. And bent down, with as much deliberation as a hunter after game. And pulled the cord to the respirator. All of a sudden, Chien released his grip, gasping and gagging, his lungs slowly filling with blood. His plans for Joy discarded, he clutched at his sheets, until his skin turned as white as they. She lay motionless on the ground, coughing, spitting out whatever remnants of his semen that had managed to make it to her mouth. Then she curled up into a ball, pulling her head into her chest. And screamed so inhumanly that I was afraid her true form might break out of her skin, and run roaring out into the wilderness. *** I remember a day, back in 1943, when my supervising SS commandant requested my presence in his office. A new recruit at the time, I was shaking with both nervousness and cold. The temperature that day never rose above 22. When I entered his office, he called me to stand in front of my desk. Berating me about the cold of his room, I apologised, though I know not for, for the cold had nothing to do with me. Then he suggested me lighting a fire for him. I pointed out that there was no wood left in the camp, the timber that was left from clearing the forests to build the camps being sent directly to Nuremberg for construction of Speer's stadium. He pointed to the activity yard outside. "Soak the undesirables for a while in vodka - should make em burn faster." I was 17 when I heard that. I could not believe how casually, how off-handedly he'd provided me with that advice. Fighting back nausea, I asked him to repeat himself. He told me to line a couple of the prisoners up against the far wall, and shoot them with a single bullet, to save on ammunition. I could feel the blood rushing out of my head when he advised me to have them drain for a while, to ensure they burnt well. I don't know which is worse - his command, or the fact that I obeyed it, like I obeyed all his others. Stirring me out of my reverie, the young asian man in our ward gasped in his sleep, a few sobs becoming audible. I could understand why he was so upset at this point of time - the fact that he'd survived far longer than the doctor's had predicted yesterday meant nothing to him, or to anyone else. He was painfully ill, and the events of the night before had done nothing to enlighten him. At the very least, the French bastard was dead, but watching someone die before you is an incredibly disgusting feeling. I've seen it. Standing silently, I moved over to sit on the boy's bed, putting a hand on his forehead. Taking a sharp intake of air, I pulled back, to notice that the slight pressure I'd placed on his head had left a deep, purple bruise. His eyes opened wearily, and I bent my head down to him. "Are you feeling any better?" "No... I don't want..." "Nobody ever does. Your life was stolen, young Brock. It's terrible for you, but it's also terrible for me, because I used to be in the business of stealing lives myself. And it's only when you're made aware that your 'charges' are in a way more human than you are, that you realise how disgraceful and horrible you were, and in fact were the one deserving to die." His eyelids fluttered closed. "Why didn't you just leave the army? Why didn't you disobey orders?" "Nobody ever did that. It would be considered high treason to act against the wishes of the Fuhrer. And back then, I almost believed in what he said. He was a very charismatic man." "He... he was... how could anybody believe in something so evil?" "Easily... he promised us answers to the Depression, our economic angst. He promised us a better future - ha! There is nothing beautiful, or pure, or even decent about the Aryan vision. If it had gone ahead, children like you wouldn't have been born. He promised us one thousand years of racial purity, where blonde children could walk free in the streets without being brainwashed by the evil jews. He was so wrong. He gave us six years of tyranny, and robbed the world of 6 million innocents. They'd done nothing wrong. It was all because he was so afraid." "What happened when the war ended, when he died?" he almost breathed his question. "I was afraid. Afraid of what would happen if an Allied soldier found me. Afraid of what my future held, when all that I'd accepted and believed in came crashing down and was revealed as hell. And afraid of what would become of me when I died, how I would live another day knowing that I was responsible for the deaths of over 700." "Do you hate me?" I looked at him. Brock. The little boy, the same age as me when I was asked to light a fire using the skeleton of a five year old girl. "I could never hate one like you. One whose trust and love for all is extended to those who hurt him. My past may never change, but my beliefs and attitudes will." "Then why... why did she..." He didn't continue, breaking into sobs. I didn't touch him, but simply let the blood flow down his face. No salty tears, just thin, watery blood. Using my sleeve, I dabbed gently at the tender skin around his eyes. "She did it because she is horrible. She did it because she has never learnt from the greatest lesson the world has been dealt. She did it because you are a better person than her, and it pains the little caucasian whore that one of her 'undesirables' could ever rise above her." "Would you... would you have done it?" "Not even when they would have made me." ***** Tapping my feet nervously against the opposite chair, I watched as Misty walked up the hall, her face down, her face ashen. "He wants to see you." she said, taking the seat beside me. "What the fuck would I ever say to him, Misty? What is there to say? How would I say it? 'Oh, hi Brock, you're looking lovely, isn't it a nice day outside?!'" She seemed almost taken back by my anger. Clenching her jaw ever so slightly, she sat down next to me. "I can understand why you wouldn't want to see him. But would you at least do it for his sake? You don't have to say anything. He won't care." "But I would." Clicking her nails against a page in the magazine she'd just picked up, she looked out thoughtfully across the room. "He'd visit you, you know, if you were in his spot. Brock's a very strong person." "I DON'T GIVE A FUCK ABOUT WHAT BROCK IS!!!" I screamed, saliva darting out of my mouth. My words had garnered quite a bit of negative attention, and I lowered my tone, moving in closer to her face. She'd at this stage dropped the magazine she was holding, her mouth agape. "I'm going to live, and I don't want to live feeling like the most revolting loser. I don't want to live with images like his. I don't need it. I have a life ahead of me." "So did he." She responded almost silently. "Then let me live mine! He'll be dead as soon as you know it - how does it affect him, what I do or don't do?" "Don't think about the practicalities, Ash. Act from what your sense of decency tells you to do. And that is make your best friend's death easier on him and yourself." "I... I want my friend back." I felt a hand sweep across my back. I looked up into her eyes, which were remarkably dry. "Why aren't you even crying about this?" "I could ask you the same thing. I've done all my crying. There's nothing I can do but be there." I lent in towards her, my head falling on her shoulder. Her head lowered itself onto mine. "See him, Ash. Just let him die feeling he was worth something to someone." "But he is... to me..." "Then let him see it." She stood abruptly, taking a few strident steps away from me. She strode to the end of the room, and turned the corridor, her footsteps audible... until she was out of eyesight, anyway... ***** I'd been here for four hours straight - I hadn't moved a muscle. I was hunched inside a cabinet, waiting for her to leave her laboratory. Four hours. Add that to the two hour plane flight from Pewter City, and the time it took to find her horrible place, and you can imagine how tired I was. I would have given the world for sunlight of any amount. But I had to wait, to be patient. I hadn't returned here in some time. I remembered how one night, my father picked me up out of my bed, and carried me to a boat. "Stay low, Wilhelmina." "Daddy, what's happening?" "You're going to be free, sweetie, and you'll never ever have to live with the guilt that would have grown." "What?" And he pushed the boat from the dock, standing there, as the man who rowed took me further and further away from Valencia Island. About half an hour later, I heard a soft pop. I had no idea what it was - my gondolier told me it was probably just someone firing an emergency flare. The next morning, the Jennies would find my father naked and facedown in the water under the pier, his brains picked out by scavenging animals. I watched her picking through her documents, occasionally frowning, and throwing a bunched up piece of paper into the sink. She seemed rushed, nervous, agitated. As though she were afraid of being watched. Adjusting my position, I leant a foot back. It made a very soft crunch. Gingerly, I reached underneath my feet, and pulled up a long, smooth stick. I moved it into the crack of the doors, into the light. It was a bone. It was the bone of a human hand. Brock had told me all sorts of things about his stay with her. How she put salt in his food, how she sold his belongings, how she occasionally remarked about her previous 'dirty' assistants. He told me that he was the lucky one. He managed to live another day. He'd said that he saw the freshly upturned dirt from where she buried their fragile, emaciated bodies. And for the largest portion of time, I'd try to pretend that he was exaggerating his circumstances. And the betrayal, the heartbreak, the fear, the anguish, the deception and the acid travelled through my stomach, coursing its way through my veins. I pushed the cupboard doors open roughly, startling her, and causing her to reach for a nearby vial. Smashing down one end on the counter, she brandished it, putting it between me and her. "Don't you come another step closer young lady, I swear I will hurt you." "No, mother, YOU'RE the one who will get hurt! Fuck you for killing daddy! Fuck you right royally for killing my love. And more than anything, fuck you for thinking you could kill those people. I swear, mummy, I'm not the china doll I was then." She dropped the beaker on the ground, and her face fell. "But... Billie, darling, I'm your mummy! I love you!" I didn't care. I couldn't care. I rushed at her, pushing her roughly to the ground and pummelling her with balled up fists, grabbing at her hair and smacking her head into the ground. Doing all and any that I could to hurt her, to maim her, to kill her. And she wouldn't retaliate. She lay there, limply, blood flowing freely down her face and into her mouth, her eyelids fluttering tiredly. I stopped my ministrations, and stumbled away from her. "You'll regret that when the Lord comes to judge." She said, her lips moving partially, and her eyes fixed on mine. "He has created our Aryan purity as saviours and sole inhabitants of Heaven. And for your choice to associate with the depraved souls, who God doesn't even wish to think of, then you won't be among us." I didn't think. I just did it. I picked up a tube containing mercury. I walked briskly over to her, and forced the silver fluid down her throat. I covered her mouth and nose, and watched as her eyes bulged in pain and fear. "Fuck eugenics." I said. I released my blockage of her airways, her head lolling back. I picked her head up by the hair, and looked into her face, then dropped it back down on the ground. And it came, with that sound, the realisation of my actions. I'd killed my own mother. I'd killed My own mother. I'd killed my own mother. My own mother. My hands acted as a separate being to my body. Without even allowing my brain to form a concensus, my left hand pulled the drawer of her desk open ever so slowly and deliberately, the sound of the wood scraping making the final impression on my ears. The pooling of the blood, the strong, rusty scent filling the air filled sight and smell. The touch of cold metal filled my fourth sense. And the taste of the bullet, when it entered my mouth and blew out my brain, completed me. *****