Chapter Text
Sometimes, the memories are blurry, too out-of-focus for me to understand. It's as if my mind is purposely telling me that I'd be better off not remembering certain things that haunt me, even to this day, freezing alone on the cold floor of my gloomy, lifeless estate. My mind is as frosted as the ice-covered windows that surround me here, and yet unlike my mind, there's always a small ray of sunlight peeking in, fighting to melt away the ice.
Well, perhaps there is some warmth, on occasion.
I've been struck with another headache, another mind-numbing annoyance on the long list of my symptoms of amnesia. The more pain I receive physically, my mental pain suffers ten times that, and then comes back to corner me into yet another unlocked memory as reward. Is that my version of a ray of hope...? Tiny fragments of things that, if I continue to remember, will eventually only hurt me even more?
Don't misunderstand me. I want to feel this pain. I want to remember everything.
My memories are like pieces of a puzzle, and I certainly intend to solve it.
That is why, I want to write down everything for you. I'll tell you all the things that you've forgotten, all those years ago. The more I write, perhaps the more will come to light and I'll understand what happened to us.
I'll start, Randou, by introducing myself properly. My name is Arthur Rimbaud.
I've remembered it for a while now, even though I know it's a name I must keep secret. I lead a different life now, here in the Port Mafia, and I'd be wise to keep it that way until every bit of the truth comes to light. I'll record it here, just in case my recovery from this amnesia somehow reverses itself and I forget things a second time.
I finally remember the day it all begin. The event that, unbeknownst to myself, would eventually spiral out of control and land me exactly where I am now, a miserable, lonely creature piecing together his past in the darkness.
I don't remember the circumstances, but I know for a fact that I was ordered to gain control of a weapon created by a secret organization and then deliver it, unscathed, to my country's government.
"It," in fact, was not a weapon at all. He was a human clone, as real as I was, when I finally found him suspended in a giant laboratory tank of fluid. The tank was well-guarded (I'd killed the guards with ease, of course), but the glass itself was surprisingly fragile. I made quick work of it and continued on to complete the last phase of my mission. He was like a full grown fetus, as naked as the day he was born when he fell into my arms, and when I caught him, that's when I realized that... well, maybe he'd never been "born" at all. Is that what made him classified as a weapon, I wondered, as I brushed away the shards of glass that stuck to his skin and littered his flaxen hair? He was breathing, had a pulse, and even bled from a few of the shards that had cut him in the process of removing him from the tank.
It was as if he was stuck in some sort of deep sleep, I remember thinking to myself as I took off my coat and dressed him in it. Nothing I did could rouse him, and to be honest, a part of me was glad; what would I possibly say to him—to a man-made clone—if he were to wake up and realize I was taking him away? I decided not to dwell too much on it, and carried him out of the facility I'd left desolate in my wake. Not a soul had survived.
Well... none but the one motionless in my arms.
Eventually, word would get out that the facility had been destroyed, and I'd be hunted down for taking such an important "weapon." It was of utmost importance that I go into hiding as soon as I got back from my mission, and unfortunately, that included me being stuck under surveillance twenty-four seven by my agency.
They'd taken the man from me as soon as I arrived, and a team of medics had gotten to work on him straight away once they found out he hadn't been conscious ever since I found him. He was like a ragdoll, completely deadweight as they poked and prodded at him for answers. His vitals, from what I could understand from their panic, were surprisingly not the issue; the real problem was that he was suffering from a very dangerous fever that only got worse as time progressed. Though not entirely the reason for his mysterious, comatose state, it certainly wasn't helping him.
At this rate, his brain—and yes, they had scanned and confirmed rather early on that he did indeed have a human brain—would overheat and every cell in his body would melt away.
I couldn't help but think that this measure was purposely put into place by the man's creator, if only to act as a sort of self-destruct mechanism if someone were to get their hands on him, just as I'd done that very day. I didn't understand how valuable he was at that time, or what kind of horrific power he truly possessed.
All I could understand at that time with certainty was that this weapon—this man—was dying.
Because of me, no less, ripped away from the environment he was likely created in and had never left a day in his life. I couldn't help but torment myself over it to a degree, guilt panging at my insides as I watched him struggle for the fleeting life he probably didn't even know he had in the first place. Truth be told, I can't remember why it upset me the way it did.
I didn't see him for a couple of days after that, because I'd been nursing my own wounds and recovering from the aftermath of my mission. They weren't serious injuries, but they were enough to keep me in bed for a day and a half. More than anything, I remember feeling exhausted. I didn't want to think about what would happen next, or what they were doing to the man I'd rescued from that facility. I didn't want to think about anything.
And so I didn't.
That is, until I heard word that the man was apparently still alive and hadn't yet succumbed to the fever. Now that I was rested and on the mend myself, it had been decided that I'd be responsible for guarding him until they made progress with his recovery. My power was necessary to help keep out enemies from our base, and without me, we were at risk of losing this man if someone were to infiltrate and take him back.
I didn't have any particular objections, but as soon as I saw the man's face again, the guilt I tried to forget about returned just as quickly--he was still the same as I'd left him, in a deep coma that made him appear as nothing more than a motionless doll, lying there amongst all the wires and cords connected to him, keeping him alive. It was hard not to pity him, regardless of whether he was a weapon or a human... well, it didn't matter what he was. Anyone would've felt remorse at such a sight, and I couldn't bear to see it.
Watching over him the next few days were just as terrible, as I was forced to immerse myself in the rise and swell of his chest with every breath, a constant reminder that he was still alive somewhere in that empty human shell. Every time I thought I'd see him flinch or shift underneath the sheets, it still didn't change the fact that he showed no signs of ever waking up again.
What would happen then, I assumed, would be that they'd pull the IVs and the cords keeping him alive, and let him wither away once it was determined nothing could be done to save him. I wasn't entirely sure of his Abilities, but him being alive was probably only an added bonus to gaining control of him. If he were dead, I'm sure they'd still find a way to dissect whatever it was that they wanted from him. I suspected that in a worst-case scenario situation, I'd be asked to absorb his Ability into my subspace and then I'd be the one under their scrutiny.
A horrible life, to be sure... the man would probably, in truth, be better off dead. For both of our sakes. Maybe I just assured myself that was the truth to make myself feel better... it's hard to say. I felt so many things back then, of course.
It happened on an evening that I'd taken a break from my constant observation of him. Barely even minutes after I'd left, I had been alerted to come back immediately. An emergency like this could only mean one thing. My heart sunk. I feared for the worst.
As fate would have it, things turned out to be even worse than I'd expected. He hadn't taken his last breath while I was gone—on the contrary, he'd finally opened his eyes! But what lied underneath those eyes was something else entirely. The moment he'd gained consciousness, he'd gone on a rampage and apparently intended to kill the hospital staff caring for him in my absence. He was violent and unhinged, I was told, and as long as I could subdue him long enough for us to sedate him, we'd be able to resolve the conflict without having to resort to even more violence.
What I saw the moment I rushed into that room was not a man possessed by anger, or even revenge. One look at him told me all I needed to know... this man wasn't just terrified, he was feral.
He was clinging to the corner of the room like it could somehow protect him if he sunk further into it; his power must have made him able to control gravity in some way, because it was as if he was weightless the more he climbed up the wall. There were two unconscious medics by his bedside, one of them likely even dead, and everyone else in the room had their weapons aimed and ready in case I failed to restrain him. I couldn't ignore the stench of blood in the air.
Failure simply wasn't an option, however. This man was quite clearly not only a danger to others, but also himself. He'd ripped out every single tube and catheter he'd been connected to, and while he cowered like a wounded animal, the walls became more and more painted with his blood. Perhaps he was scared by the pain and simply wished to hide, but talking to him was completely out of the question.
I realized that the moment we locked eyes.
He was sweating, nearly hyperventilating as he glared at me from the corner, and I'll never forget those eyes—so cold and inhuman, it nearly chilled me to my core. I couldn't let him distract me, no matter how strange and unnerving the situation was, and I readied my Ability without thinking twice about it; I'd likely only get one chance at this, and I couldn't miss. If I did, he'd probably kill me and escape, and then this strange, unknown power of his would be unleashed on the world.
The man definitely noticed the glow of my Ability as I launched it towards him, capturing his limbs inside the subspace of my design, just enough that I could negate his manipulation on gravity and slam him quickly to the floor before he could activate it again. He didn't scream or cry out as he collided with the ground, even as the blood continued trickling down his arms and legs, desperately trying to fight against the restraint of my Ability.
I couldn't allow it.
"You're safe to approach him," I assured the last remaining medic, trembling as he fumbled with a syringe. A few of my armed colleagues escorted him closer to where my power held the man captive. He couldn't move a muscle, no matter how hard he struggled against it, even as the medic readied the syringe and jabbed it somewhere into him.
It took a short while for the sedative to take full effect, but once I released him from my restraints, he crumpled to the floor like a corpse once again.
I looked around at the room he'd left in his wake, bloody and cluttered, like a solemn battlefield. Everyone was silent as they collected him and dragged him back to the hospital bed. They'd have to reattach everything, especially before he woke up again, and even then... what would happen next? How were we supposed to tame such a power? I wouldn't always be around to restrain him, and even if I was, what kind of future would that mean for him—and for me?
Little did I know, I'd be finding out soon enough. My superior had new orders for me once the chaos had died down, and that did indeed include me staying to monitor and restrain him until they were able to figure something out.
This also meant that now, I had to stay and keep watch on him permanently and indefinitely.
Somewhere inside of me, I was furious; I hadn't signed up for the role of this man's personal restraint system. My capabilities were meant to be used for so much more. Still, I accepted the new mission and figured I'd ponder over the details of it later. As reward for my subservience, my boss even told me they'd found some new information on the man, and my ears perked up in response. As a weapon manufactured by the facility I'd rescued him from, he was referred to in files only as "Black no. 12," and that the true nature of his power was actually an artificial Ability intended for a human vessel to contain.
I was shocked that we'd learned so much about him in such little time. It hadn't been easy to crack into the database of Faun's facility, after all. I had no choice but to acquiesce to my orders. A part of me was even intrigued, in spite of how pain and grief this clone had already caused me.
Thus, I found myself at #12's bedside once again. Now that he was unconscious, he looked so delicate and innocent that he was almost unrecognizable. His features were much softer now that he was asleep, and I hadn't really given much thought to the way he looked until now—a literal sight for sore eyes, I duly admit, I couldn't help but let out a sigh of relief to see him so peaceful again. How much more handsome he'd be, of course, if only he didn't wake up and wreak so much havoc. Violent tendencies aside, whoever had created this man had done a fine job, because everything about his outer appearance was complete perfection.
Perhaps it was inappropriate of me to even have such lingering thoughts about him, but... how could I not see it, being forced to watch over him day and night, weeks on end?
Thus was my post, here, at his bedside.
Even with me here now, we weren't taking chances—I clearly had faith in my own Ability to restrain him if he woke up again, and I assured them I didn't need back-up. Still, even with my Ability, they deemed it necessary to belt all four of his limbs to the hospital bed. A precautionary measure to ensure his safety, they'd called it, and I tried not to be offended.
"Twelve," as we'd started calling him, didn't wake up for the rest of the night after his outburst—I know because I stayed awake the entire time, glued to his bedside, denying myself the sleep I so craved. When he finally did wake up, I wasn't sure if my eyes were playing tricks on me, or if I was imagining it.
Those eyes... they were looking straight at me. Only this time, he didn't jump into hysterics and try to escape. He struggled weakly against the bindings on his feet and wrists before realizing it was useless. Perhaps he remembered me, specifically, and the power that I possessed.
His eyes pleaded with me, and I focused even more energy onto the restraints... I couldn't risk it. Something about seeing him so up close like this while awake was terrifying, like seeing a wild animal through the sturdy glass of a zoo. The more I stared at him, the more he stared back at me. He was silent and emotionless, as if studying me for some sort of explanation. I had none to give.
Unable to help myself, I finally opened my mouth to speak. "G-Good morning." My voice only seemed to startle him more, and I noticed the rapid increase of his heart rate, still being monitored, beeping obnoxiously in the background.
Terrified, once again...? What kind of weapon could this man truly be if he was scared so easily? Though my Ability itself might be terrifying, there's nothing remotely intimidating about me otherwise; my voice is gentle and quiet, and though tall in stature, I carry myself much more humble than the other brutes I know and work alongside of.
None of this mattered to my new cloned friend, however. To him, I was nothing more than a monster; I must've been, because why else would he tremble in my presence?
Twelve had since turned his head away from me and took to staring at the opposite wall instead. Out of sight, out of mind, perhaps. He had no intentions of talking with me, clearly, but something was wrong. I was thankful he hadn't tried to attack me this time, but why didn't he even try to? Had he simply realized he couldn't move and decided against it in fear of hurting himself again? The bruises littering his arms where the previous catheters had been ripped out, only to be replaced by new ones, looked painful and made me cringe just examining them. Maybe that's why he'd decided against it. He was probably still foggy from the sedation, too.
Even with his head turned away from me, I continued staring at him. His messy mane of blonde hair obscured the scar I knew lied underneath it on his neck, the branded-on "12" that helped us identify him in documents pertaining to the experiments.
"Do you have a name?" I asked, without even thinking. "W-We call you Twelve, but... you must have a name?"
He flinched again at my voice, but eventually turned his head back to face me despite his fear. Still, his eyes betrayed nothing, only the emptiness I feared would greet me. This time, I looked away on my own, knowing that he had no answer for me. Not today, at least. Maybe eventually he'd warm up to me.
As if content with ignoring him completely, I mimicked his own tactics and picked up my book and continued reading until I noticed he'd fallen back asleep again.
These endless days and nights continued, and I was only allowed small intervals of sleep at a time. I felt as if I was going insane most days, sitting silently with my new companion, who was getting more bold about watching me while I read my books and ate my food, watching me as if I was the strange one. He'd still refused to ingest anything solid for the medical staff, which meant he was still bound to the feeding tube stitched back into him. As far as his health went, he hardly ever suffered the terrible fevers he'd had at the beginning, and everything else about him was fine. All that we lacked in understanding was his behavior. Even now, Twelve refused to utter a single word or communicate with us in any way.
I told myself that it was for the best. Speaking with him would only make things more complicated, and I had no choice but to separate myself from those thoughts of curiosity. Still, I was curious. Better yet, maybe I was bored... but either way, I wanted a different approach if I had any chances of not putting myself to sleep with such tedious repetition.
"Would you like me to... read aloud to you?" I asked one day, hesitantly, on a whim. I held up the book I was reading so that he could see it in its entirety.
Twelve only blinked at me, and I didn't bother trying to decide if that was a "yes" or a "no," so I started reading even without his consent.
At first, it felt a bit ridiculous, but over time I realized that this was exactly what I needed to help keep myself focused on keeping the restraints in place, as well as keeping myself wide-awake. Occasionally, I'd catch Twelve looking my way as I read passage after passage, but he never responded to it otherwise.
It became our new routine. As soon as he'd wake up from sleeping, I'd tell him good morning and start reading. He seemed to listen more intently the more I read to him. Perhaps he was even enjoying himself, in place of lying there every single day like a helpless prisoner.
I'd reached a limit, however, that I didn't want to admit to anyone. I'd reached a point of exhaustion I didn't think possible, even with my occasional breaks, and it was starting to affect my work.
I could feel my eyelids closing without my consent most days, and the pull of my Ability glowing weaker once I opened them again. At this point, even reading was impossible. I couldn't even focus on the words on the page without my brain trying to shut off in the process.
Twelve was watching me. Maybe he noticed the subtle changes in me, too.
I stood up, startling him, but I calmly reached down to one of his wrists; his eyes widened as I undid the leather harness that had kept it restrained up until now. At the same time, I released my Ability's hold on that same wrist. His hand fell limp onto the bed now that it was free. More than anything, it was a test. I was expecting more of a reaction, but Twelve only stared down at his wrist. Not once did he make movement to oppose me, nor did it seem like he even considered it.
Interesting.
In a moment of curiosity—I would also argue delirium—I released all of the restraints tied to my Ability, and then undid the other physical wrist restraint shortly after, leaving only his ankles bound to the bed. I calmly walked back around his bedside to my chair and dropped down to it. Twelve watched me the entire time, perhaps finally starting to understand that he was free from all restraints on his wrists. He attempted to sit up a few times before finally getting it right.
He stared at me like normal. Nothing more, nothing less.
"Our little secret," I whispered with a smile, before losing it to a yawn.
This new routine of ours continued. Never once did Twelve try to escape or attack me—even when I woke up from well-deserved naps, he'd be sitting there like usual, watching me with those mysterious, haunting eyes. Eventually, I began to trust him with one of his leg restraints free, too, and that he seemed to appreciate even more than having his hands free. He'd stretch his leg out miserably, probably stiff from being confined for so long, and then make a show of repositioning himself before closing his eyes.
Was he trying to say that I could trust him fully?
One morning, I remember stirring from my sleep in my chair at his bedside, and hearing him repositioning himself to turn and face me.
I opened my eyes, locking with his, and smiled. I'd grown rather fond of him, though a very strange bond we shared as captive and captor.
He parted his lips, slowly. And a hoarse, unsteady voice escaped in a soft baritone of syllables.
"Good... morning."
I nearly fell out of my seat.
Twelve stared at me, as emotionless as ever.
"You..." I stuttered, not sure what to even say. Had I imagined it?! Had I officially lost my mind? "Did you just say... 'good morning'?"
He seemed to recognize those words, but didn't respond any further than that.
I marveled at what this meant, that he did have some sort of capacity for speech. I wasn't sure whether or not I should tell my superiors straight away, or investigate him a little more myself before jumping to conclusions.
I wanted to hear it again.
"Good morning," I repeated clearly with a smile, in hopes of drawing it out of him one more time.
His eyebrows furrowed, studying me closely. He began to lift up one of his arms towards me over his bedside, and I tensed; of course, I knew better than to drop my guard completely. At any second I was prepared to restrain him at a moment's notice.
I then realized that he was reaching for something in my direction. I tried to follow his line of sight, and combined with his reach, I figured out that he was looking at the novel discarded haphazardly at my feet, likely fallen from when I'd last dozed off. I swallowed hard, not sure if I should humor him... could this be a trap? Was he trying to trick me into dropping my guard?
I slowly reached down, careful not to break eye contact, and picked up the heavy book. I saw something change in Twelve's eyes; it seemed as if I was correct in assuming he was gesturing for it. Against my better judgment, I took a deep breath and handed it towards him.
At first, he didn't seem to understand why I was stretching the book out to him, but slowly I extended it even further until he practically had no choice but to reach out for it. His pale fingers were almost shaking as they made contact with the book, and before I could even catch it, it slipped from both of our hands and splattered onto its spine with a loud thud that made Twelve instinctively recoil away from me, the same frightened response I since thought he'd grown out of.
I cursed myself and quickly tried to calm him, reaching down to pick up the book a second time.
"It's all right," I assured him, choosing to hold the book myself this time. I spoke in the same gentle tone I imagined using with an infant. "See? It can't hurt you."
I knew I had his attention when those chilling, gray eyes reluctantly came back to meet mine. I still couldn't decipher them, but at the very least, I was thankful he hadn't gone into a rampage. I didn't sense any animosity from him, and for a moment, I began to feel that maybe I had gained his trust after all.
"I see." I smiled. "You want me to read more to you, don't you?" I asked, as if I was positive he'd answer me.
I knew better than that. I didn't bother waiting for that reply, and I had already opened the book and started to read aloud. Twelve relaxed almost immediately, sinking himself further into the bed and fighting back a yawn.
I'm not sure whether my voice was soothing or boring to him, maybe both, but when I continued our reading, Twelve would always close his eyes and be fast asleep before I could even make it to a new chapter.
This routine became strangely ordinary for us.
The medical staff couldn't believe the progress I had made with him, though I assured them I hadn't done a thing. It was now possible for them to examine Twelve without having to sedate him, as long as I was around to keep him calm. Somehow, my presence was all it took to tame him.
He'd gotten much healthier-looking, they said, and we hoped that before long, they'd be able to disconnect him from IV fluids and the feeding tubes; the only issue was that Twelve still refused to make any effort to eat, even for me. If I so much as came near him with cutlery of any kind, he'd tense up and cower away from me like I was holding a gun to his head.
I told them he just needed time.
I also made it a point to start eating my own meals in front of him as often as possible. He seemed to learn best from visual instruction, so I took my chances and made sure he watched every piece of food I consumed.
I started mostly with breads. Things that didn't require utensils to frighten him. Eventually, less bland foods that had very fragrant smells—fruits, salads, soups. I always knew I had his attention when I brought it to my lips and swallowed, his eyes always pinned on me.
Finally, I made up my mind one day that I wasn't going to accept defeat. My own stomach growled as I sat beside him with a bowl of rice and a wooden spoon.
I reached the spoon out to him, as a test, just as I'd offered him the book the first time. He didn't pull away, but he made little effort to understand I was actually handing it to him.
Bowl of rice still in hand, I stood up to tower over his bedside—another test. Still no reaction. I smiled, secretly thankful he no longer felt threatened by me getting closer to him than I'd ever been before.
I took a small bite of the rice myself, as if pleading him to follow my example. He shifted, still sitting in place while I offered him the spoon yet again.
My heart was pounding. One wrong move could take our progress backwards, ruin his trust in me completely. He stared at the spoon, eyes as blank as always.
I remembered a time when he'd go insane at the mere sight of it. Now, he wasn't scared. But I needed him to accept it.
"Please," I whispered to myself. I steadied the spoon with rice and decided to lean in even closer, deviating from my original plan without even thinking about it.
Somehow, I'd gotten the courage to bring the spoon to his lips, and Twelve allowed me to rest it there awkwardly while he stared at me in confusion.
Was this some sort of permission...? I didn't want to have to cram it in his mouth, but I couldn't let this moment go to waste, either. I was so close. Every moment of patience I'd been storing up inside me was boiling down to this moment.
"Eat," I begged him, still holding my position. We stayed like this a short time.
Shakily, I saw his lips part, if only a little; I slid the spoon further, and it dawned on me that he still hadn't stopped me.
I'd finally done it. I had convinced Twelve to eat his first bite of food, though barely even a few grains of rice. Progress, nonetheless, and I let out a sigh of relief.
I watched patiently for his instincts to take over for the rest. He seemed to realize that there was only two ways to get the sticky rice out of his mouth now, and that was to either spit it out or swallow it.
Hopefully watching me eat all this time had helped him remember the latter.
The muscles in his neck twitched, and then bobbed slightly as he made his decision.
"Yes!" I celebrated under my breath, but loud enough for him to hear me. "You did it...!"
Twelve didn't understand why I was so pleased, I'm sure, but if only he could have known how proud I was...!
By the time I was able to report the wonderful news to the medical staff, Twelve had consumed four more tiny spoonfuls on his own accord. He still didn't trust the spoon, but he had made such great progress I didn't even care. Table manners and etiquette be damned.
Domesticating Twelve even to this point was seen as a miracle to those of us who had been with him since the day we'd brought him here. Though still a far cry from "normal," he was starting to show signs that he could be molded into such with much more time and even more patience.
And who better to fill that role than I, you may ask? Truly, there was none other. I say this not to brag on my ability to pacify the strange man, but simply because he wouldn't allow anyone else to do it in my place. Even my superiors became increasingly aware of how much Twelve depended on me for comfort and direction.
"You'll be allowed to leave this place if you're good and continue to eat for me," I explained to him, a man who knew nothing of what I was saying. It didn't matter to me that he didn't comprehend my language, because he still listened and hung onto every word of it.
Twelve trusted me. Me, the very same man who had kidnapped him from his so-called creator.
I was his only source of light in this bleak, uncertain world, and though I didn't quite understand it at the time...
The warmth this man made me feel had begun to change me, as well.
A heaping tray of food was brought to Twelve's bedside. He steadied it on his lap perfectly, held out his hand for the proper utensils to eat it with.
This was it. Our last supper.
All of our progress culminated into this, he (albeit somewhat still clumsily) picked up his spoon and then glanced over at me to pick up mine.
He was waiting on me to eat, just like I'd always done for him.
"Alright," I said, following his lead and picking up my own utensil. "You must be starving, if you're this eager. Let's eat."
Eat was one of the few words that stuck in Twelve's memory, because just like "good morning", his eyes inherently reacted to it.
Today was the day. Twelve was going to be released from his hospital bed, even if he didn't realize what that meant for him. A brand new freedom for him that would change the course of his future forever.
His feeding tube had been removed successfully and he'd been doing just fine without it the past couple of days. The last of his IV fluids still hung at his bedside, almost empty now as it swayed, and we ate in our usual silence.
Of course, I was overjoyed for him. This is everything I'd ever hoped for Twelve the moment I'd stolen him from the lab, all those weeks ago. The idea of anyone—even a thoughtless clone—being trapped indefinitely bothered me to my core. Surely he'd have a better life with our organization... wouldn't he? From what I'd gathered from my superior's orders, Twelve would be rehabilitated into our program and trained as a spy, if only just to study him and grasp the concept of his powers completely.
Still... I was going to miss his strange company, and I couldn't deny it any longer.
After we ate, a small team of medical staff came to join us. Twelve still didn't trust them in the same way he trusted me, but he calmed down the moment we locked eyes and like always, wordlessly assured him he'd be fine.
How strange it was to see him devoid of all the wires and machinery that once kept him alive. Twelve was standing before me now, shakily holding onto the edge of his bed, like an actual human being. I held out my hand to steady him, but instead of taking it, he simply stepped closer until he was so close to me that I could feel his breath on my skin.
If anyone else had grabbed onto me so rudely to steady themselves, I'd have shoved them off in an instant. But for Twelve, who knew nothing of social normalcy, I allowed him to do whatever necessary to regain his footing.
Once steadied, he was back to his normal self. Always watching me with those ghastly blue eyes... never a single thought behind them, but it wasn't accurate to say they were completely empty now.
We were roughly the same height, I realized now that he was standing so unnecessarily close to me. I gestured towards the clean set of clothes the medics had left for him to change into. "Though it makes little difference to you, I'm sure, you can't leave this place in a hospital gown."
As always, Twelve allowed me to do what I pleased with him. He didn't question it when I sheepishly turned him around to untie the gaudy hospital gown, nor did he flinch as I redressed him in the new outfit which consisted of a plain pair of slacks and a simple cotton shirt.
Although confused, he followed my lead perfectly and even seemed to recognize that he now matched me more appropriately considering his previous attire. He stared down at himself, pinching the seams of his new clothes with something akin to curiosity.
How I wish I could have known his thoughts back then, and what these new foreign things made him feel. I couldn't begin to imagine what went through his head.
The next person that visited us was my boss. Twelve seemed to recognize him from previous meetings.
He handed me a stack of documents and pulled me aside, as if worried Twelve would understand whatever top-secret info he was about to share with me.
"This is everything we know about him," my superior said, and I took the files from him. "You understand more about him than we do, but there's a detailed schedule attached that we insist you adhere to as best you can in the coming weeks."
Though I'm at a loss, I hardly let it show. "A new assignment for me, then, I take it?" I glanced over at Twelve, who was staring absently out the window. "What is to become of... him?"
"You're in charge of his training, Rimbaud."
This time, my jaw dropped to the floor.
"If anyone can do it, it has to be you," my boss continued. "He'll stay under your surveillance until we can figure out our next course of action. In the meantime, it's imperative you teach him the basics. All the psychologists are confident he has both the mental and physical capabilities of a fine soldier."
"I... I understand." I didn't, but at that point, I couldn't even begin to protest. "And if he loses control again...?"
He nodded. He didn't have to say anything more. We both knew that was the real reason I was in charge of Twelve's rehabilitation.
He handed me a small suitcase, and then my hat.
"We have the car ready. At your leisure."
Depsite the fact that he'd nearly had a breakdown in the car multiple times, and was clearly confused by all things that leaving the medical facility entailed, Twelve regained what little composure he had left once we arrived back at my apartment.
I hadn't been able to study much of the report I'd been given (Twelve had made sure of that much by cowering against me in the backseat and distracting me with his sheer terror of it), but from now on, I would be the one taking care of him. He'd stay with me, train under my instruction, and ultimately accompany me on my missions once he was ready to do so.
Was it wrong of me to be somewhat content with this outcome? At the very least, I didn't have to worry about losing Twelve's company any time soon.
He followed me, step by step, into my residence—now his home, too, I reminded myself. The first manner of business was showing him his new room. Thankfully, the guest bedroom once belonged to a relative of mine and I hadn't changed anything about it since I'd moved into the place last spring.
I gave him a short tour of his dwellings, though calling it a tour might be a bit of a stretch considering it merely consisted of him tracking my heels like a lost puppy. I smiled, and assured him that we'd be fine. This would be new for both of us, but how hard could it be?
Thankfully, I had plenty of books at my disposal—some of them academic enough to teach him things, even, especially paired with the books my superior had sent home with us. I'd never taught someone to read or write, but considering Twelve's already apparent interest in reading—well, listening to me read—I knew he already had the intelligence to accomplish it.
Our journey started here.
Our first night back at my apartment had been uneventful. Twelve seemed at a loss for what to do with all the space he had now been given; not surprisingly, I even found him staring at the walls a few times, and that's when I realized how overwhelming this new scenery must be for him. Shortly after, I'd convinced him to follow me to his new bedroom. Sure enough, my suspicion was correct. Twelve was still dangerously drowsy from his long day today, though he may have tried to ignore it. I barely even turned my back for a moment before I realized he'd already crawled into the bed (ten times more lush than the stiff hospital mattress he'd been used to, I might add) and closed his eyes. I turned off the lights and decided to leave him be. Though an enigma of a man to be sure, my new friend was surprisingly predictable. Perhaps I knew his needs even better than he did.
Still proud of our progress together that evening, I retired to my own bedroom in an almost identical state of exhaustion. When was the last time I'd slept in a real bed, I wondered? I couldn't even recall how much time had passed since I'd been forced to guard Twelve's bedside, and that's when I realized how drained my mind truly was. Constant use of my Ability, on top of that, must have only made things worse for me.
I deserved this relaxtion just as much as Twelve did, surely. And so I drew myself a bath, changed into my finest silk bedclothes and crawled into my long-awaited bed with a book I hadn't touched—or even thought about—in weeks. Thus is the life of a government spy, I suppose; how strange that even being away from my own home would make me feel so nostalgic to return to it, even after all I'd been through.
Between the bath and the book, I could barely keep my eyes open once I'd melted completely into the warm sheets of my bed. God, how I'd missed this mundane life of mine.
I flipped to the next page, and immediately felt the presence of another; my training in espionage came in handy at a time like this, because I could hear the intrusion before it had even transpired—the gentle creak of my door, halfway open already, paired with the fingers grasping the handle confirmed my suspicions.
I was so relaxed that I had almost forgotten I wasn't alone in this building tonight... an error I'd soon come to shrug off as nothing more than ordinary.
I cleared my throat.
"You can come in," I announced to the curious blue eyes peering just around the door, meeting with mine. "Are you alright?"
Twelve slowly made his way into my bedroom. He kept close to the walls as he made his way closer, never once taking his eyes off me.
I still had my book in my hands when he gently plopped down beside me, on the other side of my bed, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
I continued staring at him like a deer caught in the headlights, but it didn't stop him from settling further into my bed despite my surprise. He lied beside me, motionless, and that's when I realized what he was truly staring it.
It wasn't me, it was the book I was grasping for dear life.
A bit relieved, I shook my head and chuckled. "You still want me to read to you, even now?"
Twelve blinked at me, shifting anxiously against the pillow he'd apparently claimed as his own.
Reading and sleeping were clearly what he associated most with me. What point was there in denying it now? It was a bit strange, but I couldn't help but feel warm inside when I began reading to him, just like I'd done at his hospital beside.
Except this time, he was at my bedside. In my bed, no less, alarmingly close to dozing off completely the more I read to him.
When I'd steal a glance at him, his eyelashes began to flutter closed more and more, and his body was almost entirely limp against my mattress. His gentle snore came next, and that's when I knew there was no turning back now.
Twelve was, evidently, spending the night with me.
I quietly set my book on the nightstand, careful not to wake him even though I knew he was clearly already sound asleep--I decided to simply allow it, if only because I was too exhausted to go through the trouble of dragging him back to the guest room.
Besides, the thought of sleeping alone somewhere new must have frightened him. Who could blame him? And who better to crawl into bed with than the person who had slept at your beside for weeks?
That must have been what he was thinking.
In truth, it didn't end there. Little did I know at the time, this would become our normal nighttime routine, just as it had been before he'd moved in here with me.
It didn't matter how many times I tried to explain to Twelve that he had his own bedroom, he'd somehow end up crawling into my bed every single night.
What else could I do but simply accept it?
Days turned to weeks.
Communication was still a work in progress, but Twelve studied diligently when I taught him words and phrases, and eventually, how to read.
I should've realized way before then that Twelve was indeed special. He was truly a genius, learning to read and write at such a rapid, almost impossible rate of comprehension.
I was beyond thrilled that we could finally communicate with each other. Twelve's speech was still broken, but it was clear that he was so close to mastering it the more I tested him.
Still, he refused to leave my side even for a minute, every single day that passed. He had become quite dependent on me and shadowed my every step. If I'd let him, he would've damn near followed me into the bath every night (and yes, he'd certainly tried in the beginning). He'd wait patiently outside the door for me, as a compromise, anytime I needed my privacy.
It was a start.
Finally, in the evenings, I'd convince him to watch television while I cooked only meters away in the kitchen. The rooms were connected, at least, and though Twelve quite enjoyed watching television, he also struggled with the fact that I was completely out of his direct line of sight while he watched it.
"I'm right here, you don't need to worry yourself," I assured him every time he craned his neck around to make sure I was still there. "Watch your TV, and when I'm done we'll eat together."
He always grumbled, but would eventually acquiesce.
It didn't take long for him to get absorbed into whatever he was watching (even the most boring of commercial breaks had him on the edge of his seat), and I was thankful for every second of it. Babysitting a fullgrown man proved exhausting, especially now that I had little time to myself that didn't involve helping Twelve study or teaching him basic needs.
Little by little, I learned what worked best for him. Small things began to surface in his otherwise nonexistent personality, like discovering his favorite foods for the first time, or the disgusted scowl he'd give me after tasting my favorite blend of coffee. That hateful little growl he'd give me when I corrected one of his misspelled words, and even the preferences he took over his clothes began to amaze me (dark-colored clothes seemed to inspire him more than the creams and pastels, as he would simply refuse to wear certain things I'd picked out for him if they weren't boring enough for his tastes).
Still, no matter what he did to infuriate me during the day, he'd always crawl back into my bed at night and I'd have no choice but to laugh it off and forgive him; he knew all too well now that I couldn't pass up an opportunity to share the contents of my books with him.
And then he'd wake up, tell me "good morning," and we'd repeat it all over again until those unassuming weeks turned to months.
At that point, I'm not sure which I was impressed more by—Twelve's speech and literacy, or his heightened physical prowess during our training. Hand-to-hand combat was obviously the first matter of business, and he'd already mastered the art of besting me in a struggle. I couldn't even convince myself that I'd been taking it easy on him in some way, because I wasn't.
And Twelve knew it, cocky grin and all.
Still, nothing made me happier than to find him perusing my bookshelves, burying his nose in nearly every book he could get his hands on. My collection was the furthest thing from small, and yet he had read over a fourth of it in less than six months. He no longer needed me to read to him at night, which saddened me, but he still climbed into my bed like usual and simply read on his own.
Somewhere, deep inside me, I was grateful he still stayed at my side. I'd grown very used to him, and imagining a night without him made me shiver.
"You're up early." I rolled over one morning to see Twelve engrossed in a book I didn't recognize. The sun hadn't even fully risen yet.
He kept his clear blue eyes glued to the pages, devouring them. "I couldn't sleep."
I raised an eyebrow. "Unusual for you," I teased. "What are you reading today?"
Twelve glanced my way, and I noticed the redness under his eyes, puffy from lack of sleep. "Poetry."
I couldn't help but blush. A man diligently reading poetry, of all things, at the crack of dawn? At this rate, we'd practically become the same person. I was so proud I couldn't even form a reply.
"I enjoy it," he added, likely for my sake. "These feelings that humans have are..." He paused to grasp for the appropriate word from his small but ever-growing vocabulary. "...interesting."
It once bothered me when Twelve talked about "humans" as if he wasn't one, but I'd learned to accept it. One day, I felt positive he'd feel human enough... it just took time.
"Well, I have many recommendations on poetry," I answered finally, trying to mask my excitement. "Though I'm sure you'll find yourself drawn to specific things, the more you discover your own tastes."
"This collection is old." Twelve lowered it down, just enough that I could see the handwritten pages underneath his fingertips. "I've not been able to put it down." He must have sensed my surprise. "What's the matter?"
"N-Nothing." I'm a terrible liar, but thankfully Twelve is still too naive to delve into it further. "I'm... simply happy you're enjoying it."
Twelve let his eyes fall back into the pages. "Do you have anymore books like this?"
"Like... what?"
"Old. Not printed." Twelve hesitated, pointing at the handwritten words signed at the bottom of the poem he's reading.
Paul Verlaine.
"I'm... afraid not." My cheeks felt warm again. "Paul Verlaine no longer exists, you see."
"No longer... exists?" Twelve echoed my words in exactly the same timber and tone. "Explain."
"The reason these pages are so old is because this isn't a book, it's a... journal, of sorts. It's handwritten." I rolled my eyes, embarrassed I had to spell it out further. "I wrote these poems."
For the first time in quite a while, I saw a hint of surprise in my friend's eyes. "You...?" He looked back down at the pages. "You are... Paul Verlaine?"
"Was Paul Verlaine. That name no longer belongs to me."
"Who does it belong to?"
I remember laughing, in spite of myself. "No one. Paul Verlaine is dead, now that I have a new name."
"Paul Verlaine is... dead." Twelve was visibly bothered by that notion, still tracing the pages with his fingertips. "If you teach me to write like this... can I bring him back to life?"
I was so confused at this point, I wasn't sure whether he liked the name or the poems themselves. I'm afraid to ask now, for my ego's sake, because Twelve had become painfully honest in his personal opinions.
"Can I... have this name? Since you no longer own it?" Twelve fidgeted at my side. "And I can learn to write this poetry. Just like Paul Verlaine."
This man never ceased to amaze me. "You want me to call you... Paul? Is that it?"
He stared uncomfortably at me, and I knew that meant yes.
"It does suit you, I suppose." It wasn't a lie. I truly believed at that moment I couldn't imagine calling him anything else. Anyone connected with my old name no longer knew me, and any trace of my past had been swept away along with it. It was settled.
Twelve became "Paul" just like that, and Paul Verlaine was that much closer to becoming human than he'd ever been.