Fandom: Blake's 7
Status: New, complete
Archive: Ask me, and I will probably let you. Not without permission though.
Series/Sequel: First in the Cat Who Walks Alone Trilogy
Disclaimers: They aren't mine. They belong to the BBC and Terry Nation. I mean no offence.
Notes: Once again, thank you to my guiding angel, Hanofer, who has made this all possible for me. I don't know what would have happened without you.
Summary: Someone has survived the tragedy of Gauda Prime. But who is he, and what is it he remembers?
Warnings: Implied character death. Nothing graphic.
*Feedback is welcome, as is constructive criticism. Flames will be incinerated along with sender.*
The man who sat in the cell had no name. Oh, sure, he probably did have one once, but now, he simply couldn't remember what it had been.
Perhaps more to the point, he didn't want to. He remembered too much of the past as it was, and a name would only be an added distraction.
He remembered amazingly little about his past. He suspected that he was younger than he felt, though that wouldn't be too hard. He had noticed that he had dark hair, but with no mirror it was hard to say much else. He was lightly muscled and had very fine motor skills. He was a wanted criminal for something quite drastic considering he was in a maximum security isolation cell awaiting execution.
He had killed more times than he cared to remember.
No one knew him, no one cared enough to write, call, or even enquire about him. So everyone he had known was either dead or didn't care.
The man closed his eyes again and willed away the pain.
It was shortly after the second meal of the day when he had his first visitor. He had been in there at least three months he had guessed, and he had seen no one in that time, save the guard who brought the meals. He couldn't remember what a voice sounded like, a face looked like, skin under his fingers.
"Are you awake?" The voice from the closed door was cool, high, and sultry. Probably a woman's. He'd missed them in here. It was also vaguely familiar.
He thought about it. The words were hard to form after so long in silence. 'Hopefully not', sounded like an adequate reply, so he said it.
A light laugh, cold and chilling. "Oh, I'm afraid you are."
It touched something, but he wasn't quite sure what. It was too familiar. "Who are you?" he mumbled.
"I'm hurt. You don't know who I am?"
"No," he spat at her. He was really starting to dislike this woman who he had not even seen yet. "Should I?"
"You swore to kill me. You should at least remember that."
It meant nothing to him. "No. Go away."
The mood became cold. "I would play nicer if I were you."
"You aren't." The more he said, the easier it became to talk again.
She moved into sight. She was small and petite, with shaved black hair and large almond shaped eyes and full lips. Though definitely beautiful, there was something about her that made him shudder with revulsion. "Do you remember me now?"
The name flashed into mind with a remembrance of loathing, though why, he wasn't sure. "Servalan."
She smiled, a predatory, self-satisfied smile. "Very good Avon."
The man frowned. Was he Avon?
Servalan caught the frown and fell slightly more serious. "You don't remember anything, do you? Not even your name."
He thought about that. "Go to hell, Servalan. I won't be a pet to keep you amused."
She shrugged and turned to leave. "You already are, Avon. Your entire existence lies in my hands."
The next three, maybe four days were passed by himself. The name Avon still meant next to nothing, though a few others had appeared in his mind unbidden. Vila, the name meant more than his own, a man he had lived with, shared a lot with. Possibly someone called Taren, Tavern, Tarrent, a pilot at any rate of some description. There were a few others floating in the background of his conscious mind, but he didn't want to remember any more. Something back there hurt a lot to think of.
"Are you awake, Avon?"
He didn't reply, hoping she'd go away. He loathed her. He didn't know why, he simply did. She had hurt him at some point. She didn't leave however, apparently aware that he was actually awake and ignoring her. He guessed that there was a camera in his room, and she had observed him.
"Avon, you aren't being very sociable."
"I don't feel very sociable. Leave me alone."
"Is that any way to speak to the person who could save your life?"
He snorted in contempt. "My life means nothing. Take it or don't, see if I care."
"You will care. Avon. I want you to care."
"You can't make me care. I have nothing to care for. Living in a cell with no one for company is not a life. So, if I must choose between an existence in this cell and execution, either way is death."
She clicked her tongue. "Always so pessimistic, Avon. I can make your life worth living again. No more cells, no more boredom, and I know a mind like yours would be bored in there, and no more isolation."
"The price is not worth it. There is nothing out there for me."
"How do you know? You can't remember anything from before now. There could everything out here for you."
He rolled over. "I know that there isn't." Images flashed by, people dying, friends, though never admitted friends, dying. "Everything worth living for is dead. I might not remember it, but I can," he paused to find the right word, "feel it. I know."
"An old cynic like you following a gut feeling? My, Avon, you have forgotten who you are."
With that, she left again. Unfortunately, he knew she'd be back.
He wanted nothing more than to left alone. Left alone by Servalan, left alone by the memories that kept on insisting that they be remembered. Piece by piece, his life, (that's a real joke) was coming back to him. It was slowly at first, but over the course of a couple more days it speeded up and he began to remember.
Vila, Tarrent, Soolin, Dayna, Jenna, Cally, Gan, the list went on probably. All dead. Everyone that had mattered, dead. And Blake. Roj Blake, whose idealism and optimism had actually started to affect him, dead as well, by his hand.
Of course, he hadn't told her that he had remembered anything. He continued to play the fool with her, slowly being "won over" by her persuasion and common sense. Never speaking except when she was there, mulling over his plans in his sharp mind, honed by years on the run. He needed nothing more than his mind and a working body.
He was going to get out and avenge his friends.
Kerr Avon was back.
The End, for now.