Freedom - 4 (Young Justice in Genosha)

by D Benway

I've not been sleeping much. I keep thinking of Mozambique. They show us pictures on the news some nights, showing what it's like there. It looks like Hell, and half of the children there are going to die before they're 25. They're going to die of AIDS. Bruce says it's here. I'd like to think he's trying to scare me into following his example on abstinence, but I think I'd only be fooling myself. I know a half dozen boys who've bragged about becoming carnally involved with someone. Thank God I did nothing serious with any of them.

I have been making use of the workstation Bruce gave me, looking for any clue that might suggest that Col was not involved with the banner. I have access to many of Bruce's files through the system, more than he's aware of. I'm only supposed to look at the security files at his house, but I cannot bear to go there. It is a museum to the dead, and I don't want them anywhere near me.

I have read the Magistrates' reports on the incident. I have read the Security Executive reports on the incident. The Magistrates had secured the tower on the night of the debate, and believe that their cordon could not have been breached by other than superhuman means. The Security Executive has a list of twenty three politically suspect mutants who are identified with the school, as well as a list of possible baseline human sympathizers. My name is not on those lists, nor is Bartholomew's. This comes as no surprise, as Bartholomew is practically a vegetable, living only for those blasted games. It is a mystery to me what he sees in them, as he has the same ability to move at great speed that the son of our President possesses. It seems that he was kept as a hostage during the war, but never encapsulated. The Security Executive has no records on what happened to him during the civil war. I must take note if he ever does say anything, as it may prove to be important.

I go through a backdoor and start to trawl through the main body of personal files. The files are long and there is one for each of us. They contain a remarkable number of interesting facts. I learn that the classics master I had last year practices bestiality upon wombats. I learn that it is not only other students who share my perversions, and that I should beware of the geography master.

I learn that Cassandra's mother is suspected of subversive activity, on account of her interest in mutant/human interactions in Freekville. The notes on Cassandra herself are incomplete. Someone has written that she has her head in the clouds, or that her head perhaps is full of them. She may be ferociously ignorant, but I am coming to believe that she is not as stupid as I thought she was.

The name of Colin Michael Elphinstone does appear on several lists, but only in the context of his acquaintance with Cassandra. He is referred to in two reports as a eunuch, a description wholly inappropriate to him, but not to many of his peers. He is noted as being a friend to all, but also as not having sufficient intelligence to orchestrate a political protest on his own. This, sadly, I feel to be true.

Cecily's file is much more interesting, and the most tragic. It would appear that her mother was sent to Godden Island for reasons other than those which have been suggested. The file suggests that Cecily has privately expressed rage about the sentence, but has done nothing that would act against the interests of the state and has no notion of her mother's true crime.

It's all too much. Bruce trusts me with this, as he knows I can keep a confidence. Even so, with the lack of sleep, I might reveal something that I should not. I must return to pretending to be what I'm supposed to be: Robin Drake, junior photo-journalist at the St. Ethelred's Varsity, his ear to the ground and his camera at the ready.

Col isn't here, of course. I look across the empty bed, and out of my window. The light is perfect. I take the Contarex and put on the Vario-Sonnar. It will be ideal for shots of the quad. I glance at Col's bed before opening my window. I take a picture of his classically messy sheets. I put the camera down and bury my face in his pillow. It smells like nothing else, so musky, so brutish, so wonderful. It leaves me feeling aroused. It's a small luxury I permit myself. I pick up the camera and open my window.

I'm halfway out when I see Col and Cassandra there, behind the parapet. They're staring at me as if I interrupted something important. I haven't seen either of them since I saw Bruce. I don't know if Col's been avoiding me. I haven't been going out of my way to find him.

"Hullo," I say.

What if they had tried to come in a moment ago?

"Hey," says Col.

"Like, it's not like we were up to something," says Cassandra.

"Why would I think that?" I say.

"Because you're red as a beetroot," says Cassandra.

"I was just coming out here to shoot pictures of the quad," I say.

"Boring," says Col.

"Why?" says Cassandra. "Why not take pictures of us?"

I look at Col. He has that special small smile on his face, the one that's barely there. He's wearing his black leather jacket and a pair of torn jeans and nothing else. He's got his prosthetic in, and-

Oh.

The top button of his jeans are open, just below the navel.

I can't help myself. I take a picture. Then I take another. And another. I have to go back inside to fetch another set of film magazines. I switch to the 85mm lens.

Click. Col with his eyes half closed, staring at me.

"We were talking about you," says Cassandra.

"Oh," I say.

Click. Cassandra looking at me intently, as if the camera were not there. Her beads hanging down, swinging but frozen in space by the shutter.

"So, like, what is a ward anyway?" says Cassandra.

"Didn't Col tell you?" I said.

I don't like to talk about it.

Click. Col looking away now, over the rooftops. The sun picks out the line of his jaw.

"I think it's something he's forgotten," she says.

Click. The look on Col's face when she says it.

"I believe you would call me a foster child," I say. "You would call Mr. Wayne my guardian."

"So he's going to adopt you?" she says.

"Not quite," I say. "I would be too old by the time that he was able to."

Click. Cassandra, with the gears inside her head working away..

"So you're kind of like a pseudo-son-in-waiting?" she says.

"Perhaps," I say.

This is making me feel very uncomfortable. Mozambique. I must keep thinking of it.

"So, do you inherit?" says Cassandra.

"Cass," says Col.

Click. Col, offended.

"I'm getting sick of that," says Col.

I put the camera down.

"What?" says Cassandra. "It's not bothering me."

Col nods in my direction. I feel something warm run down my cheek. Oh no. This can't be allowed to happen. I cannot let myself be seen like this. I throw myself back through the window, almost landing on the Contarex.

"Robin?" says Cassandra. "Hey, Rob? Oh, shit."

I don't hear anymore because I'm halfway down the stairs and the door is closed behind. At least she doesn't care enough to come after me.

* * * * *

It's dark in here. There is no light at all, since I threw a film changing bag over the clock. I like to think it's a cave.

It's black, here, black as my traitor heart. Very few people come down here. It's a great advantage to have the only key to the school camera club darkroom. I suppose if there were some great emergency, someone would come down here and fetch me, but it's never happened.

I come down here when it all becomes too much. I can do as I wish here, and no-one will see my weaknesses. Only I know the extent of them, but still, weaknesses they are, and they are grave faults even if no-one sees them.

I wish I were strong like Bruce. He is like a lighthouse, ever standing impassive and vigilant against the pounding fury of nature. He could resist any temptation, I know it. He would not hide. He would not hesitate to track down those responsible for the banner, but he has delegated this responsibility to me and I have done nothing. Nothing that would harm Col, anyhow. No-one on the school newspaper knows anything about the banner, and I've not heard or overheard anything in the halls or refectory that might be considered reliable. The only ones I can suspect are Cassandra and Col.

Col, who I first captured on film this afternoon. Col, whom I love.

The film. I have to develop it.

* * * * *

I could not have done this if Bruce had not given me the Contarex. It has the best lenses available for a 35mm reflex camera, and I had them stopped down in the sunlight. The detail is extraordinary.

It's a picture of Col, in his black leather jacket, on the roof. I've blown it up to 16 by 20. I can see the few, tiny hairs on his chest, bleached blond by the sun near his heart. I can trace a line of a drop of sweat from his collar bone all the way down his chest down his belly to that open button at his waist.

Oh.

I've soiled myself.

It's a darkroom, so I can wash it all off. I'm generally careless enough with the water in here that everyone has seen me emerge from here soaking wet. Otherwise, I would have to spend the night here until it dried. The ventilation fan is working, and besides, the smell of the chemicals would hide any incriminating odours.

I leave the darkroom with fifteen 16 by 20 prints of Col, six 8 by 10 prints of Cassandra, and one 4 by 5 print of a banner on a school tower.

* * * * *

I'm looking at the picture of the tower, while lying in my bed. I should burn it, with the negative. The Magistrates don't need another picture. They must have hundreds, from every conceivable angle. This is almost certainly the only unsuppressed record of the entire event.

I hear the thud of Col's boots on the windowsill. I hadn't heard him fly in. I hide the picture under my pillow.

"That a picture of me?" he says, nodding in my direction.

"No," I say. "What picture?"

"You've been in the darkroom again," says Col.

"I haven't," I say.

"You can't fool this," he says, pointing to his nose.

"I printed some of the shots I took this afternoon," I say.

"She can't help it," says Col. "It's the way they all are. No respect for privacy."

"It's no bloody excuse," I say. "She has no bloody right to ask me a question like that."

"Easy on," says Col.

He's just in time. I might have lost control, had he not pointed out how close I was coming.

"You're right," I say. "Must try not to be so thin-skinned about it."

"Right," says Col. "Even with what happened with her father, he is still alive. She might smooth things over. We've no-one, no-one left at all."

And with that, he is gone. His slipstream blows the newly dried prints all about the room.

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