I Will Corrupt You
By karei
Part One: Ingenue
Chapter 1
The Meeting
The sky was grey that day. It was grey the day before, and it would probably be grey tomorrow. It never rained, it never snowed, and the wind never blew down with a force that could rip the soul from a person. Lightning never crashed, thunder never boomed, and hail never came clattering down, striking rooftops, cars, and dirty pigeons. It was just grey, and he liked it that way; for now, anyway. He tossed bits of old grey bread at the dirty grey pigeons, watching it land and tumble around, flecking little grey crumbs on the grey pavement. He looked down at his grey pants and sweater, and vaguely wondered if he was colorblind.
The people who passed by him weren’t grey. They were alive with color. Vibrant blues and glowing oranges, red lips framing flashing white teeth, fading to beige with a kiss and then emerging as two sets of red lips. Golden dogs with pink tongues dripping with semi-transparent slobber, black-padded paws leaving dark green dents in the shining grass, dappled with the water from the sprinklers.
At least he could be certain he wasn’t colorblind.
Faintly, he heard a boat signaling its presence to another boat; the sound floated down the river that flowed behind him and echoed against nothing. He sighed as he pitched another bit of bread at the ground, watching the pigeons flock around the prize and peck at one another for it.
It was a somewhat sadistic thing, watching pigeons feed. People only thought that the kids who fed either uncooked rice or Alka Seltzer to the pigeons were distinctly evil and ought to be put down, but something could be said of the old ladies who did their knitting and doled out bits of popcorn like benevolent gods, or Roman emperors, and could sit back and watch the carnal fury that was a hungry flock of pigeons. It wasn’t rare to see a pigeon with a missing eye or a bent wing or a broken foot. People just assume that pigeons have accidents.
Which they do, on occasion. It isn’t easy to fly and not crash into other pigeons when there are that many.
Gladiators striving for their lives didn’t fight as hard as these pigeons did for his bread. And if it wasn’t his bread, it was someone else’s bread, or a stolen pretzel, or a dead cat. Pigeons weren’t picky; that’s why they were commonly known as the rat of the sky. And by giving them bread it was as if he were asking them to breed, to multiply, to take over the city and shit on the cars and transform the grey buildings into mottled messes of white splotches and feathers.
A few of the birds hopped up onto the edge of the fountain, taking a sip of the clear water; he wondered if they would ever die from it. There was enough chlorine in the fountain water to kill a small child, let alone a pigeon. They didn’t earn the title of rats of the sky for nothing, it seemed, for the bird hopped along as if nothing were the matter. Bits of dirt and used cigarette butts floated in the water, small distractions from the ornately tiled bottom. A few leaves floated in the water, but that was to be expected - it gave the fountain character, as the trees gave the tiny square character. This whole district was about character.
The Village. A tourist trap, if he ever saw one. Tiny shops that looked like they had been built in some former European promenade, lined with overpriced bistros and shops willing to sell you fake relics for exorbitant amounts. Scooped out of the very heart of the European continent and dropped off randomly in America, so that a few visitors could say they strolled down a cobblestone road and sipped coffee while watching people go by.
You could do that in any Starbucks, minus the sipping coffee bit. It isn’t really coffee they serve, after all. But it’s the ambiance that people come for.
Why he was there, he couldn’t imagine. He never would have come of his own volition, except that he had been dragged here so many times by his friend that he had grown rather fond of the fountain. His friend - his only friend, really - was now on the other side of the globe, dealing with a sudden death, while he chucked bits of dried crust at winged rodents.
He tossed another piece of bread at the pigeons.
“You really shouldn’t do that.” He turned to see who was speaking to him, if it even was to him. There was only one other person at the fountain, and his head was buried in a book. He thought that he was imagining things, when the other man spoke to him again. “They spread disease, you know.”
“I know.” He tossed another piece to them. “I suppose this is my way of promoting entropy.”
“Hn.”
“Maybe you should try it.” He held out the half-loaf of bread wrapped in grease paper. “You’ll feel like a god, if only for a minute.”
He brought his eyes away from the book and gave the bread a disdainful look. “I’ve promoted the existence of enough filth in my day, thank you.”
“If it was any other bird than pigeons, would you feed them?”
“What kind of bird?”
“I don’t know.” He tore off another bit of bread. “A sparrow.” He tossed it to the pigeons.
“Maybe, if it was a sparrow.”
“So you’re a birdist, then?”
Now his full attention was brought away from the book. “What?”
“You’re a birdist. A racist, but with birds. You hate the pigeons, but you’ll feed the sparrows, as if one has more of a right to live.”
“Pigeons are unclean, and there are far too many of them. We could do with fewer pigeons.”
The loaf was nearly gone now. “Hitler said the same thing about the Jews.”
He paused over this. “Fair enough.” He reached into a brown paper bag and pulled out a sandwich. Tearing off a bit of crust, he threw it to the birds.
“All hail entropy.”
“Indeed,” he replied, putting the sandwich away.
“My name is Trowa.”
“Heero.” He set his book in his lap, spine-up so that his place would be saved. “I suppose you promote chaos on a regular basis then?”
Had Heero known better, he might have spotted the smile on Trowa’s lips.
“Only when the mood so strikes me. Or,” he continued, “if there’s nothing decent on television.” He tossed the last bit of bread out to the pigeons and poured the remaining crumbs off of the grease paper. The pigeons ripped at the bread like starving lions at a felled gladiator. One walked away with a bit of a trophy only to be mauled by two other pigeons, jealous of his success.
“It’s a bit barbaric, don’t you think?”
Trowa nodded. “Makes me glad to be human.”
“Because humans have proven themselves better, correct?”
Trowa chuckled this time. “As history has shown us.” He looked over into Heero’s lap at the exceedingly slim book. “What are you reading?”
Heero picked up the book and held it up for Trowa to see. “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead. It’s a play by Stoppard.”
“Good play?”
“I like it.”
“I’ll have to look it up sometime.”
Wordlessly, Heero flung the book across the fountain; it landed neatly in Trowa’s lap. As payment, he received a quizzical look. “I’ve read it about thirty-seven times. If you can decipher the original text underneath my notes, I will applaud you.”
“Are you sure?”
Heero thought about this one. “Not really. If you read it aloud in front of me, so I know you can decipher it, then I can applaud you. Otherwise, I doubt it.”
“Was that meant to be a joke?” Trowa asked, raising his eyebrow at Heero.
“Yes.”
“I hate to break this to you, but it was poorly executed.”
“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice.”
Trowa tried his best to look apologetic. “I’m sorry. Would you like to try again? I won’t point it out if you fail this time.”
“No, no,” he replied with a dismissive wave. “It’s too late for that. The moment passed.”
“Suit yourself.” Trowa flicked open the book and began to read as the two of them lapsed back into silence.
A cool breeze brushed past him, rushing leaves along the ground and creeping up the legs of his trousers. He shivered and felt his hair stand on end with goose bumps. With one hand he rubbed warmth back into them, holding the book open on the first page with the other. A few dull brown sparrows sang, but he didn’t really notice. He drew into himself to shut the breeze out, his thin sweater doing absolutely nothing to stop it from dragging over his body and raising his skin all over his body.
“It’s a bit cold today, don’t you think?”
Trowa shrugged. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“By the way you’re shivering, one would assume otherwise.”
“I’m glad you’re so attentive to these details.” Trowa looked over at Heero, a bit coldly. “Don’t you have someone else to stalk at this time?” He noticed the book Heero held. “Exactly how many books do you carry?”
“In answer to your first question,” Heero replied, “no, I do not have anybody to stalk at the present moment. I have a dinner to attend to, but that isn’t for a few hours, and I’m not even certain whether I will be dining with this person or not. And five, at all times.”
“Why so many?”
Heero looked back down at his book. Trowa could see from a quick flash of the binding that it was one of the more famous “heady” classics - Crime and Punishment. “Delays occur in life, and television is extremely dull.”
“You seem to do a lot of reading,” Trowa noted.
“I suppose. I have a lot of time to waste.”
“Must be nice.”
“Not really,” Heero replied, his face still in the book. “I get restless with nothing to do.”
“Well, it doesn’t seem like you have to work too hard. That must be very soothing.”
Heero’s eyes flickered up at him, and for a moment, Trowa thought he saw something within his eyes. Something strange and frightening and...old.
“I put in a few hours, here and there.”
“Oh.” He looked away, somewhat uncomfortable, both at the look and at the unintended insult.
“What do you do for a living, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I don’t mind. I’m a messenger.” He shrugged. “It may not be much, but I eat.”
“So, you must know the city well, then. Tell me,” Heero said, setting his book aside, “where can someone go if they want to have fun?”
Trowa quirked an eyebrow. “Exactly what kind of fun are you looking for?”
There was a momentary look of blankness on Heero’s face. Then, what can only be described as a smile - even though it looked nothing of the sort - came on Heero’s face. “Nothing like that. I’m thinking something along the lines of a play, or the cinema, or a nice place to get a drink. That sort of thing.”
“I see. Well, there’s the Performing Arts Center, and it has a very nice bar on the first level which is open nightly.” He continued to list off nearby theatres, the better bars, and a few sights around the city. Heero nodded and appeared to be listening attentively, at which Trowa stopped. “You’re not going to remember a thing I tell you, are you?”
“Probably not. Would you be willing to show me?”
“I don’t see why not. I’ve nothing else to do tonight.”
“Fantastic. Would you like to meet somewhere later in the evening for show, and perhaps a meal or a few drinks afterwards?”
Trowa did his best to give Heero a mockingly sultry look. “It’s a date.”
“I suppose I could have phrased that differently.”
“Just a bit.”
“Where should I meet you?”
A few hours later, Trowa successfully met up with Heero at Garden Park. When he saw Heero in a crisp-looking suit, he looked down at his own clothes and tried to straighten out his overcoat, picking a piece of lint off of it.
“You make me feel underdressed,” Trowa announced as he walked up. Heero rose from the bench and extended his hand, which Trowa took and shook firmly.
“Not really. I had only packed for business, so I’m stuck with these monkey suits. But enough about that,” he said. “What have you planned?”
“Well, I hope you’re a fan of Shakespeare. I found a showing of Macbeth only two blocks from here, and I reserved two tickets.”
Heero nodded. “Sounds fine. Let’s go before the show starts.”
They walked through the cold breeze, and Trowa did his best to ignore it as it ran through his sweater like water through a sieve. He was all too grateful when they finally reached the playhouse and he could sit in warmth and watch Macbeth. They walked up to the ticket counter.
“I have two, for Barton.”
The woman behind the glass checked the reservation list. Finding his name, she began to ring up the ticket on the computer. “That will be thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents, please.”
Trowa reached for his wallet, but before he could even pull it out, Heero slid a credit card underneath the window. He looked at the plastic. “I suppose I can just give you the cash for my half, then.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I insist,” he said, counting out the eighteen dollars and seventy-five cents he owed.
“Really, no,” Heero replied as he signed the receipt. “This is a company card. I’m not paying a dime.”
Trowa sighed with bills in hand. “Are you sure?”
“Positive. And I hope you enjoy the free show as much as I do. Now let’s get going,” he said, moving towards the door. “I’d like to find a good seat.”
They managed to find fair seats, as all the good ones had been taken already. About ten minutes after they sat down, the house dimmed and the play started. Overall it was a good show, definitely worth the money which they had paid - correction: would have paid - and as the play finished and they walked out, the two of them found themselves engrossed in conversation over the play. Neither one was very hungry, so they merely walked to a nearby lounge for a drink.
“I must say, I was really impressed with Lady Macbeth,” Heero said. “I’ve seen some productions where the actress portrays her as weak and only,” he paused for the word, “only baggage for her husband. But this woman knew what she was doing.”
Trowa nodded, taking a sip of his Gin and Tonic. “I agree. She seemed so focused and so in control, and her ambition for her husband to take the throne was really strong. I was impressed.”
Heero swallowed a bit of his Scotch before he spoke. “Do you see plays often?”
“I never used to. It’s only been in the last few months that I’ve been going.”
“Why’s that?”
He shrugged. “I never had an interest. But Quatre - he’s a friend of mine who I met recently - he really enjoys this sort of thing, and he got me interested in it.”
Heero looked at him in shock. “Quatre Winner?”
Trowa looked equally surprised. “Do you know him?”
“I’m a genealogist, you see.”
He realized he had never asked Heero what he did.
“I’ve been tracing this line of very important women through history, and if I’ve done my homework correctly, it seemed as though Mr. Winner is one of two living ancestors.”
“One of two?”
“His mother, Jolanda Bartlomowicz, currently lives in Poland.”
Trowa shook his head. “Not anymore.”
“Did she move here?”
“No. She passed away. Quatre is currently there attending to the funeral.”
Heero appeared to lapse into deep thought after Trowa said this. “I was hoping...” he started after a long pause, but trailed off, mumbling. “It’s too late, I suppose.” He looked up at Trowa. “What is Mr. Winner like? I need a first-hand account.”
Trowa was about to speak, but he stopped himself.
“Let me explain,” he started, seeming to sense Trowa’s trepidation. “You see, I have first-hand accounts of every member of his entire family, multiple accounts, and I’ve been noticing some interesting patterns in behavior. If you’d like, I could take you to my room and show you these documents - I couldn’t let you actually sit down and read them, though. It might taint the information you’d give me.”
“Assuming, of course, that I even give you any information.”
“True.”
Trowa sighed. “What is this for, anyway?”
“I’ve been called to help with the Human Genome Project. I’m a behavioral psychologist as well as a genealogist, among other things. My job is to see if I can’t make some sort of thesis on behavioral heredity. Mr. Winner’s family is one of thirty I’ve been studying, and a first-hand account would be extremely helpful.”
He hesitated. “I suppose...”
“Please? It would be a great service to mankind.”
Trowa let out a breath of air. “All right. I met him about four months ago. I bumped into him, I guess you could say...”
End of Chapter One