FIC: Future Imperfect
Jan. 31st, 2006 09:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
slashyTitle: Future Imperfect
Author: JoeyRZ
Rating: R for strong themes
Fandom: Xena/Herc
Pairing: none
Status: Complete
Sequel/Series: First story in a series of related tales.
Summary: Cruelty spans through the ages and different lives affect each other in complicated ways.
Notes: This is for the Joxerotica 2006 Challenge. This is January’s entry – Crossover: X:WP/Skinner.
Notes the Second: This is a very unusual piece for me. It’s very dark. This is sort of a character background story, and since I’ve never gotten around to watching Skinner, I may be going a little against that canon. This is a bit AU, regarding Joxer’s past.
Notes the Third: My Muse likes to inspire me last minute, so this isn’t beta’ed. All mistakes are mine.
Warning: strong themes (cruelty, torture, unmentioned rape)
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine except the idea and the words.
The first time it happened, he had been too young to understand what it meant. At four years old, he’d already been taken as dumb and altered. It became a fact, taken at face value; accepted by all and ingrained into his character.
To become unresponsive, staring into nothing for long periods of time, only to come to screaming in terror and fear, a sweet little baby voice describing horrors of the likes of skinned bodies and a man wearing human skin was unheard of before.
Little Joxer was separated from his brothers, lest his nightmarish visions rub off on the other boys. Forced to stay in his room all day and night, the little boy grew into a awkward, gangly and clumsy teenager, his coordination greatly affected by the lack of exercise.
They had lessened throughout the years, and while some where normal or happy, the horrific ones still continued to haunt him. They mostly lacked sound, but sight and smell were enough to continually send him into vomiting fits.
Joxer often wondered why he was shown these things. The hands he saw in his visions were oddly familiar, and the weight and feel of the dagger that cut so precisely into skin remained with him for days afterward. He wondered if it was a past life or a vision of his future. He didn’t know how anyone could be capable of such a thing.
On his fourteenth summer, on one specially scorching mid summer day, the teenaged Joxer found out how cruel people could be.
*******
Joxer hardly ever left his room, and never wandered outside their home. He knew his mother worried about what might happen to him if he were to space out walking across a busy intersection, where warlords were known to mow down anyone who didn’t move out of their horse’s way in time.
But Jett was away with their father in some war band or another, learning the tricks of the ‘trade’, while Jace was away with their mother, Jocasta, on a long trip to Corinth to sell their hand sewn clothes to a fresher clientele. That left Joxer alone in the house, since their servant, under whose care he’d been placed, had decided it was about time to take a couple of days off to visit her ailing mother.
His courage was battling with his fear, but after two days of eating bread and water (since he didn’t know how to cook anything), his stomach and courage won out. Joxer raided his father’s second money pouch, taking a couple of dinars, hoping it’d be enough to buy some dinner.
Having only known the polished wood floors in their house, Joxer lacked the coordination to walk the pebbled and cracked, packed dirt roads of Athens. By the time he reached a tavern, he was dirty, sweaty and bloody, his clothes torn in the knees from where he’d constantly fallen, and on his sides, where the loose shirt had caught on various sharp edges.
His innocence heightened his ignorance, and he entered the cool, darkened tavern unaware of the dangerous crowd of warlords, thieves and other lowlifes that gathered there.
Shyly ordering supper from a busty wench, he stayed close to the bar, leaning slightly on a stool. A few minutes later he was being served and the last thing he could clearly remember was taking one first bite.
He deduced his vision must have lasted an hour or more, because when he came to, gasping for breath that was interrupted by the bile rising in his throat, he wasn’t inside the tavern, but rather, in the alley behind it, surrounded by men and half dressed.
He struggled weakly, his body lethargic and weak, his mind still replaying scenes of torture and pain. A name came rushing back to him, falling off his tongue in an agonized whisper.
“dennis…”
“Ain’t no Dennis here, boy. But we’ll treat you better than he ever could,” a raspy voice sounded in his ear, and everything else became pain.
*******
It was Alesia who found him the next day, bloody and battered, whimpering still in pain, where he had collapsed in an alleyway after trying to find his way home.
Alesia had basically raised the triplets. Doing the dirty tasks of cleaning, washing and feeding, he was more of a mother to the boys than Jocasta ever was.
Almost carrying the skinny boy home, the matronly servant drew a hot bath in the inside bathhouse and carefully lowered the boy into it. Taking great care, she cleaned every cut and bruise, washing blood away from even the most intimate places, hot tears running down her face.
“to be someone else…”
Alesia barely heard Joxer, his voice hoarse and his throat raw, the words were almost painful to hear.
“that’s what he wants.”
“What who wants, Joxer?”
“Dennis.”
“Who’s Dennis?”
“I will be.”
*******
Dennis huddled into a small ball, crying to himself. Not even his imagination was now free from the terrors in his life.
“joxie, joxie, joxie…” he whimpered over and over again, his voice too soft to be heard by his father. The older man was passed out cold in the living room, an almost empty bottle of whiskey hanging precariously from his fingers. But any loud noise would rouse him up enough to go and ‘visit’ his son.
At fourteen, Dennis knew his daydreams were very unusual from those his classmates usually had. He dreamed not of making out with the prettiest girl in the school or of being the football champion, but of another life, not necessarily a better one, but a different one. Where his father ignored him, instead of paying *too* much ‘attention’ to him. Where his mother’s love came from someone not obligated to give it. And where he had brothers, instead of being an only child.
It wasn’t the perfect fantasy life, but it was good, in comparison.
But this last daydream had shattered the safety of the fantasy. His dear Joxie. His other self. His past life, as he often, jokingly referred to him, had been desecrated. Violated and changed.
There was no more safe haven from the harsh reality of his life. His mind was corrupted and there was no going back.
Joxie was dead. Dennis was dead.
Only Skinner remained.
End
Author: JoeyRZ
Rating: R for strong themes
Fandom: Xena/Herc
Pairing: none
Status: Complete
Sequel/Series: First story in a series of related tales.
Summary: Cruelty spans through the ages and different lives affect each other in complicated ways.
Notes: This is for the Joxerotica 2006 Challenge. This is January’s entry – Crossover: X:WP/Skinner.
Notes the Second: This is a very unusual piece for me. It’s very dark. This is sort of a character background story, and since I’ve never gotten around to watching Skinner, I may be going a little against that canon. This is a bit AU, regarding Joxer’s past.
Notes the Third: My Muse likes to inspire me last minute, so this isn’t beta’ed. All mistakes are mine.
Warning: strong themes (cruelty, torture, unmentioned rape)
Disclaimer: Nothing is mine except the idea and the words.
The first time it happened, he had been too young to understand what it meant. At four years old, he’d already been taken as dumb and altered. It became a fact, taken at face value; accepted by all and ingrained into his character.
To become unresponsive, staring into nothing for long periods of time, only to come to screaming in terror and fear, a sweet little baby voice describing horrors of the likes of skinned bodies and a man wearing human skin was unheard of before.
Little Joxer was separated from his brothers, lest his nightmarish visions rub off on the other boys. Forced to stay in his room all day and night, the little boy grew into a awkward, gangly and clumsy teenager, his coordination greatly affected by the lack of exercise.
They had lessened throughout the years, and while some where normal or happy, the horrific ones still continued to haunt him. They mostly lacked sound, but sight and smell were enough to continually send him into vomiting fits.
Joxer often wondered why he was shown these things. The hands he saw in his visions were oddly familiar, and the weight and feel of the dagger that cut so precisely into skin remained with him for days afterward. He wondered if it was a past life or a vision of his future. He didn’t know how anyone could be capable of such a thing.
On his fourteenth summer, on one specially scorching mid summer day, the teenaged Joxer found out how cruel people could be.
*******
Joxer hardly ever left his room, and never wandered outside their home. He knew his mother worried about what might happen to him if he were to space out walking across a busy intersection, where warlords were known to mow down anyone who didn’t move out of their horse’s way in time.
But Jett was away with their father in some war band or another, learning the tricks of the ‘trade’, while Jace was away with their mother, Jocasta, on a long trip to Corinth to sell their hand sewn clothes to a fresher clientele. That left Joxer alone in the house, since their servant, under whose care he’d been placed, had decided it was about time to take a couple of days off to visit her ailing mother.
His courage was battling with his fear, but after two days of eating bread and water (since he didn’t know how to cook anything), his stomach and courage won out. Joxer raided his father’s second money pouch, taking a couple of dinars, hoping it’d be enough to buy some dinner.
Having only known the polished wood floors in their house, Joxer lacked the coordination to walk the pebbled and cracked, packed dirt roads of Athens. By the time he reached a tavern, he was dirty, sweaty and bloody, his clothes torn in the knees from where he’d constantly fallen, and on his sides, where the loose shirt had caught on various sharp edges.
His innocence heightened his ignorance, and he entered the cool, darkened tavern unaware of the dangerous crowd of warlords, thieves and other lowlifes that gathered there.
Shyly ordering supper from a busty wench, he stayed close to the bar, leaning slightly on a stool. A few minutes later he was being served and the last thing he could clearly remember was taking one first bite.
He deduced his vision must have lasted an hour or more, because when he came to, gasping for breath that was interrupted by the bile rising in his throat, he wasn’t inside the tavern, but rather, in the alley behind it, surrounded by men and half dressed.
He struggled weakly, his body lethargic and weak, his mind still replaying scenes of torture and pain. A name came rushing back to him, falling off his tongue in an agonized whisper.
“dennis…”
“Ain’t no Dennis here, boy. But we’ll treat you better than he ever could,” a raspy voice sounded in his ear, and everything else became pain.
*******
It was Alesia who found him the next day, bloody and battered, whimpering still in pain, where he had collapsed in an alleyway after trying to find his way home.
Alesia had basically raised the triplets. Doing the dirty tasks of cleaning, washing and feeding, he was more of a mother to the boys than Jocasta ever was.
Almost carrying the skinny boy home, the matronly servant drew a hot bath in the inside bathhouse and carefully lowered the boy into it. Taking great care, she cleaned every cut and bruise, washing blood away from even the most intimate places, hot tears running down her face.
“to be someone else…”
Alesia barely heard Joxer, his voice hoarse and his throat raw, the words were almost painful to hear.
“that’s what he wants.”
“What who wants, Joxer?”
“Dennis.”
“Who’s Dennis?”
“I will be.”
*******
Dennis huddled into a small ball, crying to himself. Not even his imagination was now free from the terrors in his life.
“joxie, joxie, joxie…” he whimpered over and over again, his voice too soft to be heard by his father. The older man was passed out cold in the living room, an almost empty bottle of whiskey hanging precariously from his fingers. But any loud noise would rouse him up enough to go and ‘visit’ his son.
At fourteen, Dennis knew his daydreams were very unusual from those his classmates usually had. He dreamed not of making out with the prettiest girl in the school or of being the football champion, but of another life, not necessarily a better one, but a different one. Where his father ignored him, instead of paying *too* much ‘attention’ to him. Where his mother’s love came from someone not obligated to give it. And where he had brothers, instead of being an only child.
It wasn’t the perfect fantasy life, but it was good, in comparison.
But this last daydream had shattered the safety of the fantasy. His dear Joxie. His other self. His past life, as he often, jokingly referred to him, had been desecrated. Violated and changed.
There was no more safe haven from the harsh reality of his life. His mind was corrupted and there was no going back.
Joxie was dead. Dennis was dead.
Only Skinner remained.
End
