I Will Corrupt You
By karei
Capitulus Quinque
Chapter 5
Quatre finally returned home that evening, a frustrated sigh escaping his lips as he melted into his couch. Soft white leather cushioned his drained body as his flat-lining mind absorbed the sunset before him. The house was silent and empty, as usually was on Tuesdays, and he was grateful for that. Within moments, he let sleep overtake him. Unfortunately, rest did not follow.
He awoke, sensing that few moments had passed since he lost consciousness. The sun was almost lost, but it still trailed a lazy finger along the sea, extending it to the horizon. Quatre stood up, taking a lazy stretch, watching the sky fade into the translucent indigo of twilight. Feeling thirsty, he turned and made his way out of the sitting room, heading for the kitchen. As he entered, a disquieting sight met his eyes.
He found himself not in his kitchen, but in a cathedral. By the architecture, he recognized it to be gothic, and a fairly splendid gothic church at that. The tall windows allowed the moonlight to seep through in silver rivers, bathing the stone walls in an eerie half-light. A few stained glass windows lined the area around the pulpit, each revealing many different saints, with Christ in His full glory adorning the center. Not portrayed as a martyr as is common in churches, He stood enrobed, His hands outstretched toward the empty pews, His face pleading to all observers for them to merely come to Him, embrace Him, and accept Him.
Quatre looked behind him to see if there was an escape from this room that appeared from nowhere, but as he looked back, he merely found the wooden doors of the church, open to the midnight air. Thoughts flew through his head, not panicking, but unorganized all the same. 'I don't remember installing an early fifteenth century cathedral in my house... Am I still in my house? What the hell is going on here?' Shaking his head to clear the thoughts, he suspended all disbelief he dipped his fingers into the Holy Water, making the sign of the cross before entering the church. 'Probably just a dream,' he realized.
"Quatre," he heard a voice whisper. He looked around the church to see who could have possibly spoken the words, but nothing came into his view.
"Who's there?" he asked, his voice imploring to the air a touch more than he would have hoped.
"Don't be afraid," the voice replied, "I'm not here to harm you. Quite the contrary, actually." The voice was obviously female, a quiet and demure alto, with an almost ethereal tinge to it. However, the source of the voice continued to make itself unknown.
"Please, show yourself," he said, with a calm but forceful tone.
"If you wish," she replied. He walked deeper into the cathedral to see where she may be making herself present. Looking up and down the walls, he found no new presence to the room, and no motion to signify another life in there.
"Where are you?" he called.
"I'm right here," she said, a slight giggle in her voice. He turned to the physical origin of the comment, his eyes falling on a dark cross. It was made of plain wood, four-by-fours that supported the image of the emaciated Christ. His eyes were upturned to the heavens, his features twisted with a pain greater than any physical suffering could induce, marred only by the scarlet rivulets that held their beginnings at the regal crown of thorns that he wore. Sitting upon his shoulder, or rather on the cross where his shoulder approximated, was the vision of an angel. She had long, dark hair, and was dressed in a very typical robe associated with the imagery of angels. The glowing white cassock was matched with the also familiar wings, somewhat transparent, but glowing with a light that was otherworldly. She smiled down at him, a slight teasing look in her eyes, but still very calming and "Really, Quatre, we need to work on your abilities of perception."
He scowled somewhat gently at her. "My perception is just fine."
"Is it? Then tell me, how do you see me as? Some impish being that could have descended from heaven or a Hallmark card?" She let out a soft laugh, "Do you know for certain what I even am?" His lack of response forced her to continue. "I'm a guardian, of sorts. I'm here to watch over you, Quatre."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "Why me?"
She smiled once more, easing herself off from the cross. Despite the wings, she landed as any mortal would, bending her knees to absorb the shock of the ten-foot drop. "You're very special, Quatre, although you probably realize that to a certain degree."
"What if I do, and what if I don't?"
"If you do, then you've made my job a hell of a lot easier."
"Your job as what?" he scoffed. "As my guardian? Please, I don't need any guarding."
"Don't you?" she asked, bemused. "You don't know what you're in for these next few months, Quatre. It's the adventure of a lifetime. Of a hundred lifetimes."
A feeling of uneasiness settled over his being as the guardian approached him. "What is your name?" he asked.
"I am known as Lucinda," she stated matter-of-factly, "but please, call me Lucy. Most do."
"Lucy," Quatre repeated. "Lucy, what did you mean when you asked how I saw you?"
"Well," she replied, "most mortals tend to see me as whatever image is most comforting to them. I don't understand why this," she referenced to the robes and wings, "is most common, but you people seem to have a fixation on this form."
"And what's your true form?"
"You'll see it when your mind is ready," she replied. "I'm merely here to introduce myself and to warn you. Don't get too close to people in these next few months. I mean, sure, have friends and things of the like, but don't make too many new entanglements."
"Even Trowa?" He had still been weighing on Quatre's mind. Although pleased to see that Trowa's health was no longer a question, he could not forget the quiet but strong man.
"Is Trowa that man you hit with your car?"
Quatre's eyes were cast at his feet. "Let's, um, let's not bring that up ever again, please?"
"All right, but is it him?"
"Yes, that's the guy."
"Hmm." She thought the situation over. "I believe he is all right. Hold caution, but he seems to have a pure soul. As I said, just be wary."
"Aye-aye, captain," he replied with a mock salute.
"Not funny. I'm only trying to help."
"Well, Lucy, you can make yourself helpful by getting me the hell back home." He wanted out of this dream and into something less taxing on his mental resources. It wasn't so frightening or disturbing, but it seemed to be far too real to be a dream. He would have had better production if he was simply awake.
"I suppose you've been here long enough. All right, just walk through those doors, and you'll be home."
"Thank you." He did as he was told and found himself once more sitting on the couch.
'That dream was peaceful enough,' he thought with confusion. Yet he was covered in a cold, slick sweat, and as he raised his hand, it was trembling with fear. In fact, his whole body shook, as if he had been met with some terrifying force. 'If it was so peaceful, then why am I reacting like this?'
* * * * * * * * * *
"Mr. Winner? Mr. Winner? QUATRE!!"
His hand slipped yet once more as his head hit the desk. It was Wednesday, but it may as well have been Tuesday for the way he was acting. "Saywhahuh?" he asked in a groggy tone.
"Jesus Christ, Quatre, wake up," Braddock whispered.
"Hmnn," he groaned as sleep began taking over once more. The last night had been terrible, his sleep riddled with passionate and disturbing dreams forcing him awake in a cold sweat every fifteen minutes, like clockwork.
"Johnson, I think he's sick again."
"Damnit. We really need this deal pushed through. Winner, if you're too sick to be a member of this board today, the decision will be made without you."
This got his attention. "What decision?"
"On the new distilling process."
"Oh, that," he yawned. "I had a few questions about that."
"Fire away," Johnson smiled. He was head of this project and felt confident that he could field any question the young, and apparently immature, coworker could throw at him.
"You said it would cut on the necessary manpower, correct?"
"That I did," he smiled proudly.
"So how many men and women would we put out of work as a result of this?"
"What?" The question caught him off guard.
"I said, how many-?"
"I heard you," he replied curtly. "About two hundred thousand. Perhaps more."
"So, basically, the profit we wind up gaining will not be on the distilling process itself, nor the machinery, nor the increased output of refined oil, but the lack of paychecks. Is this correct?"
Johnson fumbled for an answer. "I suppose that could be one way of looking at it..."
"Then I reject it," Quatre said flatly. "I will not sacrifice the meals and homes of over two hundred thousand people just to save two cents a gallon."
"Winner," Braddock groaned, "this will save the company a fortune. They'll find new jobs, and until then the unemployment checks help out."
"Well in that case, why don't we just cut pay on everybody from $20 an hour to $7.50? Because," he continued sarcastically, "it's so easy to survive on $300 a week when you're used to $800."
"You're looking only at the negative, Quatre," Braddock sighed. "This will help the consumers."
"Yea," Quatre retorted, "meanwhile we're eliminating over two hundred thousand consumers just to help out the rest. Great plan, Einstein. I reject it. Now if you'll excuse me," he stood from his chair, "I'll be leaving, because it is rather apparent that I'm no longer wanted nor needed for today." He walked towards the door, only turning back to comment once more. "You have the truth here, folks. Go with Johnson's plan and fire two hundred thousand people, maybe more, or find a new way to distill oil. In the mean time, I'll be getting some rest. Good day, ladies and gentlemen." He left the room in a huff.
"What was that all about?" Mrs. Callaway asked Braddock.
"No idea," he shrugged. "Maybe he got laid. I'm going to go find out." With that, he excused himself and went off chasing after his comrade.
Quatre strode down the office halls, letting the fury that Johnson had created slowly dispel. 'Lousy son of a bitch,' he mentally cursed. 'I can't believe he'd sacrifice the jobs of hundreds of thousands of people to save a measly two cents a gallon. True,' he countered, 'it does add up, but that's not the point. I'll have no part in a company that overlooks the worker to get money. After all, it's not the turn of the century, and Rockefeller's long dead.'
"Winner! Wait up!" Braddock called.
Quatre slowed to a stop, not turning around. 'What in hell could he want?' he seethed. "What is it, Braddock?"
"What the hell was that display in there about?"
Quatre turned slowly, looking up at Braddock. "You know full well what that was about. What kind of bastard just 'overlooks' the lives of a quarter of a million people for his own gain?"
"Quatre, you understand what it's like to be poor. You survived, and you know they can."
He narrowed his eyes at his coworker. "John," he growled softly, "just because you can survive it doesn't mean it doesn't suck donkey shit. Besides," he continued, "you obviously give a damn about the poor too, and you can't tell me that you don't."
John dropped his head with a sigh, realizing he had lost. "Well, look, Quatre," he fumbled, "just don't let him get to you, okay? He's one of them, and a lot of them are like that. You know that."
"Yea," Quatre muttered, "so does the rest of the world." His mind wandered to Trowa for the umpteenth time that day. "Pricks like that give us a bad name," he grumbled, returning to his original anger at Johnson.
"Look, let's just go have lunch. My treat?"
"Fine." Quatre allowed John to take him to a café near the building, nothing too special, but definitely quiet and secluded, one of those hole-in-the-wall places that served better food than chain stores.
After having ordered sandwiches, Quatre having turkey and lettuce on white with Caesar dressing - he called it a turkey Caesar salad sandwich -, John and his tuna, lettuce, and tomato sandwich, they sat and continued their conversation.
"So, Quatre, mind telling me what's been on your mind these past two days?"
"Hmm?" he queried, mouth still on his straw. "Oh," he smiled, releasing the straw, "it's nothing. I accidentally hit a guy with my car on Monday night, but he survived and is doing just fine."
"Holy shit, Quatre!" John replied in shock. "So you both are okay? Well, I guess that's good. But if he's okay, why are you still worried?"
"He's just on my mind, that's all. He's poor, John. I'm not talking homeless here, but I think that he would be better off homeless, considering the shit hole he lives in."
"What about that house I gave you? Couldn't he use that?"
"I offered," Quatre sighed, fiddling with his straw. "The guy's stubborn. You understand how it is."
John smiled, "Yea, I remember. So he won't accept a handout, big deal. Make him pay you back for it."
"I did. It didn't take."
"Sounds like a hard case. I'm sure you're up for it."
"Yea," Quatre muttered. "If not me, then who?"
"Exactly. It's on our heads to help others. We've been blessed-"
"So it's our duty to bless others, I know, I know," Quatre muttered.
"You know it's true."
"Well, of course I do," Quatre replied in shock. "I'd be a dick not to repay my debt to society. But you never told me why, John."
"Why what?"
"Why you do it. Why do you help others?"
"I hate being rich." Quatre exhaled a chuckle, so John continued. "I mean it. I hate having money. People expect you to act a certain way, to dress a certain way, to drive this type of car, live in this type of house, globe-trot, et cetera, et cetera. And that's not me. It's no my fault my parents were rich. Why should I pay for it?"
"So what about James? How's he holding up?"
"Thank God I've instilled some form of morals in that boy. He donates time to shelters and spends half of his weekly allowance feeding the poor. What a kid."
"You still give him an allowance? Isn't he in college?"
"Yes, he is, but I need to help him out somewhat. It's my duty as a parent to make sure he eats and studies. Work shouldn't be his life, not yet, anyway." He sighed softly. "But I've changed the subject here. What about this guy?"
"His name is Trowa Barton," Quatre began. "I'm trying to give the bastard a chance, but it's just not working."
"It's not easy, Quatre. That's what makes our lives exciting."
"I guess," he groaned. "But I just wish he'd take some sort of help. I offered for him to be my roommate, and God could I use one. He wouldn't take, so I paid his rent, just to prove a point."
"I'm sure he was pissed about that."
"Infuriated," Quatre smiled. "It was kind of cute. But anyway, he's a struggling actor, and you know what that's like. No money and lots of slammed doors. I just need to figure a way to get my ass into his life."
"Well, try getting him a job at the office. Perhaps as a secretary or an office supplies manager. Something low-key, but keeps you two in contact."
Quatre raised an eyebrow at his friend. "And how well did that work for you?"
"Good point," John frowned. "Maybe you could say that his way of paying you back for rent would be to live in your place?"
"What kind of shit logic is that?" Quatre laughed.
Their sandwiches arrived, but neither paid any heed to them. Instead, John continued on his thoughts. "Hey, it's almost like buying a friend. Say you need the company."
"Didn't work before, won't work now."
"Shit, Quatre, you've put yourself in a hell of a situation."
"Yea, don't you know it."
"Well," John sighed, "force your way in. Refurnish his apartment or something. Say that until he gives up and takes your aid, you'll keep giving it to him. Stuff his bank account if needed."
"Oh, wouldn't he hate me for that," Quatre chuckled.
"Do it!" John smiled. He looked like a teenager who had a great idea for a prank. "You should do that. It'd get his attention, anyway."
Quatre sighed, shaking his head. "Why am I doing this again?"
"Because you owe it to the world."
"Oh yea," he sighed, "that."
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