February 22, 2005

Inspiration strikes at the oddest moments, and from the oddest things. I wrote this after a re-evaluation of my collection of Saiyuki-related fanart, which brought to light an idea that was based on one of the pieces. The link is in my profile, if you’re so inclined to view it.

This is left more or less in its original form. I was going to work on editing it, then decided I like it the way it is. Sanzo’s name has been changed, of course, as in the future he is most likely to have a different name. He does retain a culturally-relevant position of status, however. Goku’s name has not been changed, for obvious reasons.

Standard disclaimer applies, as always.

Soon We Shall See Face to Face
By Pervasive Threnody

---

Morning in Restful Recovery Mental Healthcare Center was bustling with activity, even more so than usual-days on the wards were always frenetic, with patients coming and going and needing care at overlapping times. There never seemed to be a dull moment, for better or for worse, with this day being no exception.

“Hey,” yelped a worker as she slip-slid across the floor. “What gives? Someone’s going to crack their neck on this floor!”

“It’s been cleaned and waxed,” spoke up a co-worker, who looked as if she were having trouble staying upright herself. “We’re having visitors today, so they buffed everything up last night during the graveyard shift.”

“Oh, bigwigs.” The first worker nodded knowingly. “Maybe they’re ones the hospital execs hate and want to see slip and fall,” she quipped.

“Wouldn’t that be the day.” The second giggled in agreement. “Actually, I hear it’s a regional director. He used to work here or something, back in the day.”

“Bet he’s a balding old fart,” said her friend, shaking her short brown hair with a playful laugh. “Well, at any rate,” she continued, grabbing a chart from the nurses’ station, “I don’t have time to spend talking. I’ve got a list of patients to see that’s longer than my…leg?” Her voice wavered a bit, then died completely.

“What? What are you staring at?” The other frowned, annoyed, then lost her own voice as she followed the brunette’s shocked gaze. “Oh, my…”

-

God, this will never end.

His expression blank, Huang Shaiming, Ph.D. followed the cadre of hospital supervisors with as much calm composure as he could manage. The plan had been for him to avoid coming at all; it wasn’t as if he’d never been here before. Moreover, he did not particularly appreciate the fawning attention he was receiving from the staff.

Especially the female ones. He could feel their eyes on him with every step he took. Curious eyes, hungry eyes. Predatory eyes. Well, little wonder, when they spend most of their waking hours in this forsaken place, he thought. Not that Restful Recovery Mental Healthcare Center was a particularly unsavory place to be; it was just … well, depressing. More often than not, the patients coming in would never get out by their own free will; if they did leave, it was to be transferred to another care facility very much like this one, in both form and function.

There were days when Shaiming was very, very glad he’d long since climbed the career ladder.

“And, over here,” the tour leader was saying, presumably for his benefit, “is our newly-renovated Activities Center...” This was the apparent point of his visit - a complete renovation had taken place of both the interior and the exterior of the hospital, one whose cost figures had slid across Shaiming’s desk more than once, and his subordinates had wanted him to see the fruits of all the work. He vividly remembered those spreadsheets, as well as how many needless monetary allocations he’d slashed from the cost analyses. It’d gotten him some very dirty looks from his peers, of course. Not that he really cared.

“…As a result, we’re continuing to add to scheduled daily events for all patients, to improve their socialization and chances for recovery.” The staff member looked at Shaiming and smiled; it was his cue to nod.

They moved on. The group walked by a central nurses’ station. Shaiming rolled his eyes at the pair of blank-faced, awe-stricken women following his every move, and turned away to keep pace with the tour. Repressing a sigh he forced himself to pay attention.

-

It’s just too depressing in places like this, Shaiming thought to himself. The tour group had reached the Critical Care wing, which housed patients whose functioning was too severely impaired for ‘normal’ daily life. He’d spent more time in this wing during his residency than he’d ever wanted, often wondering in those early days just how many of the patients had been cooped up here for longer than they could remember. It was the unsettling discomfort he’d gotten from thoughts like that, that had made him question his choice of profession in the first place.

As if being a penny-pinching bureaucrat was any better.

The tour leader’s speech was interrupted by the passage of a school of white-coats down the corridor. They were doing what Shaiming secretly referred to as the “Hurry to get to nowhere walk” – the anxious, brisk cadence of caregivers who had been urgently summoned but didn’t want to alarm anyone who wasn’t involved.

“He at it again?” Shaiming heard one say curtly.

“Yeah, but this time he’s shaken them off,” was the cryptic response. The group vanished around a corner; the tour leader made to follow them, falling back to explain the situation to Shaiming as they walked.

“He’s our newest Critical patient,” the man said in low tones. “He was brought in from the streets a few weeks ago. No home or family to speak of, and no name he cares to give, either. Hasn’t said a word to anyone. He just sits hunched on his bed all day. He’s usually only active at night, which is when we give him tranqs-but it looks like he’s putting up a fuss for the day shift this time.”

“What kind are you giving him?” Shaiming inquired.

“Mostly minor ones—Valium, Ativan—and they’ve been working fairly well…”

The sound of a sharp, pained scream interrupted the conversation.

“…But, apparently, not well enough.”

They had come upon the patient in question; instantly, Shaiming lost all interest in what more the man had to say.

His first thought, on peering at the cordoned, plastic-windowed observation room, was that it looked a hell of a lot like a cage from his vantage point. His second thought was that that seemed just about right, given the noises and movement coming from inside.

Not that Shaiming could see much of who-or what-was inside. All his eyes could perceive was a blur of white and what might have been brown; that was how fast the patient was careening about.

But he could certainly hear him.

“What’s he screaming about?” Shaiming yelped over the din. “Sedate him, already!”

“We’ve tried,” a technician said breathlessly, looking flustered. “Our strongest tranquilizers don’t seem to be working, and he’s already received the maximum dosage for his weight!”

“How can you tell what he weighs,” Shaiming mumbled under his breath. “I can’t even tell what he looks like.” The doctors handling the case ignored the comment and began to banter amongst themselves about what to do.

“Um, perhaps we should go,” said the tour leader nervously, shifting his eyes toward the room. “We honestly didn’t mean for this to be part of the tour, Dr. Huang… Dr. Huang?”

-

Despite the raging, howling cries of the observation room’s occupant that were bombarding his ears, Shaiming felt as if he’d gone deaf. Or possibly mad. It took him a moment, however, to fully realize why.

The patient had finally stopped his anxious, frantic, cross-room ricochet, and was looking straight at Shaiming.

And then he spoke one word without uttering a breath.

You.

At that moment Shaiming wondered if he was becoming a candidate for hospitalization himself. Did I just?...

You!

He felt a twinge of the old unease at the urgent imperative. This is why you left, he told himself sternly. You started becoming a bit of a case, yourself. Hearing voices, just like this one.

Hearing voices just like this one.

The realization hit Shaiming all at once.

It was the same voice he’d heard in days past; the one that had been the reason why he left. He’d thought he was going mad, and had worried for a time that he was. But then, the voice had stopped.

Until now.

Shaiming shook himself from his trance, embarrassed that he’d allowed his concentration to lapse. Fortunately, no one was paying any attention to him; all eyes were focused on the patient at hand.

The boy was still standing motionless, as if paralyzed, but his eyes were looking over every inch of Shaiming’s rail-thin body. Scrutinizing, analyzing. Despite himself, Shaiming felt a small blush rise to his pale cheeks.

What came next, however, he would never be able to live down, as long as he was alive.

The boy was stumbling forward, as if massively heavy chains were dragging from his ankles. When he reached the window he began to paw at it, wide-eyed, his chest heaving from the fruitless effort of trying to get through. The delicate features of his face contorted and he uttered a guttural cry—a real one, this time.

“He’s never done this before,” a voice said above the resultant hubbub. “What’s going on?”

“He looks like he’s crying,” someone else commented. “No… like he’s trying to get someone’s attention.”

As if on cue, all eyes turned to Shaiming.

-

He wondered, for a moment, if he was in a bizarre dream—one in which no one else existed but himself and this complete and utter stranger.

He didn’t remember having moved, but the next thing he knew he was standing at the window. The boy continued to paw madly at the window, never ceasing, until Shaiming was at last standing before him.

They stood there, motionless, for what seemed like an eternity. Then the boy extended his arms once more and pressed his hands against the window, as if trying to reach out for Shaiming’s own.

It’s you.

What? Who the hell are you, and why are you acting like you know me?

But I know you, oh God, do I know you…

The boy had begun to cry. He pressed his face to the window and looked at Shaiming imploringly. Please, believe me.

And despite himself Shaiming reached back, his face and hands meeting the boy’s own as if it was what they’d wanted to do all along.

-

He wasn’t sure how long they stood there like that, lost to the world. It didn’t matter. When at last the spell broke Shaiming pulled away and said quietly, “Open the door.”

“Sir, I really don’t think that’s—”

“I said, ‘Open the door.’”

There was no further questioning, just the sound of a staff member scampering toward the door release button. A buzzing noise sounded, indicating the lock was disengaged. Without hesitation Shaiming stepped into the room.

Upon entering he received an armful of long-limbed, sobbing young man, who instantly attached himself and held on tight. “Oh my God,” the boy said between hiccupping cries, his voice ragged from disuse. “I can’t believe you’re here. I missed you so much…”

“What the hell is going on,” Shaiming mumbled, suddenly embarrassed. He tried to pull away. “Stop hugging me.”

“NO.” The boy clutched him tighter. “Never, ever, EVER…again…”And with that, his knees buckled and his eyes glazed. Shaiming sank to the floor, taking the boy with him. Overwhelmed, he closed his eyes, wanting to faint himself.

“What a complete idiot,” he whispered, heaving an exasperated sigh.

“Am not.” The boy was gazing up at him now with wide-eyed wonder. “What’s your name this time?”

This time, huh? “HuangShaiming,” he answered.

“Like the sun,” said the boy with a contented smile. “Always and always.”

“You have completely lost me.” Shaiming frowned. “I suppose you have a name?”

“Yeah… ‘m Goku.”

“Goku, is it.” At the sound of Shaiming’s voice, the boy tightened his grip even more. “I think that sounds like something I’d name my pet chimp.”

“Uh-huh…” Goku’s eyes drooped. “Something like that.” And he was out like a light. Despite himself, Shaiming felt a lump rise in his throat as he looked down at the peaceful face.

I don’t get it. But I guess I don’t care… I’ll pry it out of you later, anyway.

After all, you’re going to be staying with me for a while.

Owari-

---

Writing this was a bit strange – I myself sort of believe Goku is as mortal as anyone else. If he can age, he can die, is my reasoning. But, since Minekura hasn’t really said if he is or not (that I know of), here he retains his youth and life. I also don’t know that much about mental care facilities, only what I’ve studied in my Psychology classes. So, the setting is a BIT convoluted. But I think it’s at least somewhat believable.

What will happen to them from here on? Who knows! The possibilities are endless; however, my stamina as a writer is not. ;) At any rate, I hope you liked it. I liked writing it!