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trinityofone*sigh* As usual, I am behind at life: I owe everyone and their mother a comment or an email (or both!). But! I started NaNo today (1,884 words and counting!) and I managed to get this finished. Or, well, part of it. BEHIND AT LIFE, srsly.
Title: Empathy Test
Rating: PG-13 for now
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: AU, but to be safe I’d say vague through S4
Length: ~4,500 words in this part
Summary: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
deancastiel's AU/Fusion Challenge, Prompt #78: SPN/Blade Runner. Four replicants are loose in the City of Angels and it’s fallen to Castiel and his mysterious new partner to hunt them down.
Author’s Note: I sort of hate myself for having to post this as a WIP, but I realized I was never going to get it done in time. I hope this excites, rather than frustrates, your appetites. Many thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
aesc and siriaeve for looking it over.
Empathy Test, Part I
Castiel flew to his superior’s office as soon as he was summoned. The room’s white walls and high ceilings were just as Castiel remembered, but the space seemed darker somehow, the lamps down low. A man sat against the far wall, cloaked in shadow. Zachariah was behind his desk. “Castiel,” he said, and gestured to the remaining free chair. Castiel sat, casting a glance toward the stranger, who watched him with impassive, unblinking green eyes.
“I’ve got four skin jobs walking the streets,” Zachariah said without preamble.
Castiel did not flinch at the epithet. His fingers curled around the arms of the chair. “I’m sure Uriel is more than capable of handling the problem.”
Zachariah’s mouth formed something like a smile. “Uriel won’t be handling anything anymore. He’s dead,” Zachariah elaborated, dropping the news like a handful of papers on the desk. “We need you, Castiel.”
Castiel spoke carefully. “I thought it had been agreed that I could be of better service elsewhere.” He half rose, as disobedient as he dared to be.
Zachariah’s head moved in a slow shake. “Your services are required here. Sit down, Castiel,” Zachariah ordered, and once again, Castiel sat.
“Don’t worry,” Zachariah continued. “We learned our lesson with Uriel. We’re not sending you out there alone.” He was absently rearranging the objects on his desk, reshuffling. “You’ll be working with Damael. He’s a specialist.”
Zachariah did not indicate one way or the other, but Castiel gathered that Damael was the man sitting against the wall. He looked over at him again and was met with the same cool, green stare. There might have been a hint of something else, though, this time: a sardonic eyebrow lift. Then it was gone, and the features he was faced with were neutral.
Castiel turned back to Zachariah. “I’ve always worked alone.” It was a simple statement of fact.
“Hey, I don’t need you cramping my style either.” Damael didn’t blink, but leaned forward so that his elbows touched his knees. He had a low, rough voice, with a hint of an accent Castiel couldn’t place. “This is a juicy one, though. Four renegade mud monkeys oozing all over our city…trust me, you’ll want in on this action.”
Zachariah was chuckling as Castiel returned deliberately to face him, his jaw tight. “Allow me to catch you up,” Zachariah said, and gestured at the far wall.
Castiel craned his neck as an image of Uriel flickered to life. He was seated across from a thin, red-haired woman dressed in a plain jumpsuit. She looked nervous; Uriel, as always, radiated control and confidence. “I already had an IQ test this year,” the woman said, gaze moving twitchily from Uriel to her own folded hands. “I don’t think I’ve ever had one of these…”
“Reaction time is a factor,” Uriel interrupted. “Try to pay attention. Answer as quickly as you can.” As the woman was clearly part of the lower orders, Uriel seemed doubtful of her ability to do this. But she nodded.
“1-1-0-2 at Hunter-Vasser,” Uriel spat sharply, immediately. Castiel recognized the technique: Uriel had always enjoyed administering the Voight-Kampff a little too much, even—especially?—when it had been unlikely to produce anything unusual or untoward. It could cause discomfort among even the most secure, unimpeachable individuals, seeming to question what should be unquestionable.
Now, on the wall, the projection of Uriel smiled a little as the woman across from him jumped a bit. “That’s the hotel,” she said softly.
“What?” demanded Uriel.
“Where I live.”
“Nice place?” He did not even attempt to sound sincere in his inquiry, but the woman appeared not to notice.
“Yeah, I guess.” Her fingers scratched at the table. “Is that part of the test?”
“No,” said Uriel. He sounded smug.
Castiel couldn’t really believe that he was dead. And yet he had to be, because here Castiel was, back in Zachariah’s office with this “specialist,” this Damael, seated beside him. He glanced over again: Damael was staring up at the screen, a shadow of a smile pulling at the out of place arch of his soft, full mouth. The light from the projection reflected in his eyes, making them appear to shine.
The light didn’t go away when Zachariah paused the projection. “A group of six unlicensed replicants penetrated the eastern gate two weeks ago. Three male, three female. They ambushed a patrol and jumped a shuttle. Another aerial patrol found the craft floating off the coast. No sign of the crew. Three nights ago, they tried to break into the Trinity Corporation. One of them got fried running through an electrical field. We lost the others. I sent Uriel over to run Voight-Kampff tests on the new employees in case any of the skin jobs decided to get cheeky and try to infiltrate the company that way. Looks like one of them did.”
Zachariah seemed unbothered by the fact that he had sent someone to his death. On the wall, Uriel began to move again, adjusting his equipment in a manner Castiel knew was mostly for show. The woman across from him hunched her shoulders and appeared to sink into herself. He’d died doing his duty, Castiel thought. He supposed there was no reason to feel bad about that.
“You look down and see a tortoise. It’s crawling toward you.”
The woman peered out from behind her hair. “What’s a tortoise?”
Uriel’s face betrayed a hint of annoyance. “Know what a turtle is?” She nodded. “Same thing.”
“I’ve never seen a turtle. Not up close.”
“Of course not. This is purely hypothetical.” Uriel’s grin, distorted as it was by time, by the pattern of the wall, still had the power to make even Castiel uncomfortable.
“As you watch,” Uriel went on, “the tortoise stumbles. Something happens and it falls, lands on its back. It can’t get up. It tries to roll over again but it can’t. It can’t do anything without your help.”
The woman raised her head. Her arms were still folded, flat on the table. “Do you make up these questions, or do they write them down for you?”
Uriel ignored her. “The tortoise lies on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs trying to turn itself over. You have other orders to follow, but it would only take you a moment to help it. Just a moment’s deviation from your orders, Anael, that’s all. You’re hesitating.”
“What do you mean I’m hesitating?” the woman asked, her back straighter now. Her hair had tumbled away from her face and Castiel caught a glimpse of her eyes, bright and shining.
“I mean, you’re hesitating,” Uriel practically growled. “Why is that, Anael?”
Castiel saw the woman twitch, but it was a twitch of a different kind. Her right hand slipped off the table and fell to her side. Castiel could tell what was coming; the benefit of hindsight made it all too clear. But Uriel continued to grin and glare, blind to what was happening, what had already happened and couldn’t be stopped.
“I think I’ve seen enough,” Castiel told Zachariah. “We get the idea.”
“Do you,” said Zachariah. The projection continued unabated.
“They’re just questions, Anael.” In the image on the wall, Uriel pretended to relax. “In answer to your query, they’re written down for me. It’s a test, designed to provoke,” he sneered as he spoke the words, “an emotional response.” He paused, and Castiel could tell he was relishing his subject’s discomfort, the power it gave him. “Shall we continue?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Describe, in single words, your impressions of your Father.”
“My Father?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” said Uriel, sure as steel and soft as silk.
The woman looked him straight in the eye. “I’ll tell you about my Father.”
The explosion of movement was so sudden that even Castiel, who was braced for it, who was far away and safe, flinched. The woman erupted out of her seat and, with far more speed and agility than a replicant should possess, leapt across the table at Uriel. The hand that Castiel had seen sneak out of sight was already clutching a short steel blade. Uriel had time only to register his surprise before she was on top of him. Castiel saw the blade punch through his colleague’s throat before he looked away.
Zachariah waved his hand again and the projection faded and vanished. In the other chair, Damael was chuckling and shaking his head. “You gotta give her points for style,” he said.
Castiel did his best to hide his revulsion. To his surprise, Zachariah smiled at the other man, almost fondly. “They are the lot of them a stylish bunch,” he said, then abruptly stopped smiling. “That’s what makes them so dangerous.”
Another gesture, and an image of a man in profile appeared on the wall. “These are top-of-the-line models. Smarter than your average bear.” The image rotated slowly until they could see the full face: the expression tired, maybe slightly annoyed. “This here’s Sam Winchester. Incept date 1983. Designed for combat. Optimum self-sufficiency. Probably the leader.”
Zachariah glanced over at Damael, as if expecting some kind of response—because he was the “specialist,” Castiel supposed. But the other man simply sat there, absorbing the information.
The image changed again, this time showing a rotating headshot of the redhead who had killed Uriel. “Anna Milton,” Zachariah narrated, and Castiel thought, for a brief, guilty moment, that he must like the sound of his own voice. “Incept date 1987. Talk about beauty and the beast—she’s both.”
Another flicker, and another woman, an older-looking brunette, appeared. “Pamela Barnes. Incept date 1974. Low-level precog. She’s probably the reason they’re managing to stay one step ahead of us.”
“Better take her out first then,” Damael said.
“A wise idea,” agreed Zachariah. Another image flashed briefly against the wall. “The fourth skin job is Ruby. A basic pleasure model.” Zachariah waved his hand again and the replicant’s face vanished before Castiel could get a good look at it, even register whether it was a blonde or a brunette. The wall was once again just a wall. Castiel let out a breath and looked away.
Zachariah was watching them both, him and Damael. They were going to have to work together now, Castiel realized; those were his orders. He would work with Damael, and together they would make sure the replicants were swiftly and efficiently retired.
Zachariah was straightening the papers on his desk again. “They were made in our image,” he said. “But they are not like us. You understand that, don’t you?”
Damael scoffed. “Of course.”
“Yes,” said Castiel.
“Good,” said Zachariah, and dismissed them.
Out in the hall, Castiel could feel his new partner sizing him up. It became evident that Damael was taller, just a little, but Castiel didn’t care. He had decided that he didn’t care about any of this: he would do his job, and then he would be done. Perhaps his research assignment would still be waiting for him.
“I’m driving,” Damael announced as they made their way to the roof.
“We don’t need to take a shuttle,” Castiel said, automatically breaking his own rule by injecting an opinion into the proceedings.
Damael rolled his eyes. “One, I’d much rather have the monkeys we catch howling in the backseat than have to cart them around under my own power. And two, I like the shuttles.” He walked up to one of the waiting fleet and opened the door. “Get in,” he snapped.
“Where are we going?” Castiel asked, perching uncomfortably on the edge of the passenger seat.
“1-1-0-2 Hunter-Vasser,” Damael announced as they lifted off. “Skin jobs are so dumb, maybe they went back there.”
“Or maybe it’s not even a real address,” Castiel said. “I think we should go interview someone at the Trinity Corporation.”
Damael smirked. Whatever light Castiel had seen in them before was gone now: against the bright white sky, they looked flat and glassy. “Driver picks the destination. Shotgun shuts his cakehole.”
Castiel stared at him for several seconds, then turned to look out the window. Aggravating as he was, Castiel couldn’t fault Damael’s flying. He piloted the shuttle effortlessly between the spires. The City of Angels shone beneath them. Castiel pressed a hand to the glass and tried not to sigh.
1102 Hunter-Vasser was not a prime piece of real estate. Getting off on the eleventh floor made Castiel feel uncomfortably close to the ground. Damael seemed relaxed, however, taking the time to pick the lock on the room for some reason. Castiel decided it wasn’t worth the effort to object, waiting patiently until Damael swung the door wide with a flourish. He stepped inside, taking in the dull décor, the jumble of clothes and books and detritus. “Just like a monkey,” Damael said, kicking aside a stack of dusty volumes. “Living in filth.”
“Careful. That could be evidence,” Castiel said. “And you’ve never seen a monkey.”
He caught the edge of Damael’s grin. “Seen plenty of skin jobs, though. I know what they’re like.”
“And that’s why you’re a specialist,” Castiel said, turning to look through a pile of papers, keeping the edge out of his voice. Almost.
“Exactly.” There was a clatter, then a thump, and Castiel turned in time to see Damael dumping one of the mattresses over onto the floor. Before he could object, Damael barked “Ha!” and stood up, clutching something booklike in his hand. “I figured.”
It was a journal of some kind. They laid it out on top of a dresser. The entries stopped some time ago, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t still contain clues. Castiel was flipping through the pages, trying to decipher the small, cramped handwriting, when he noticed that Damael seemed much more interested in a couple of scraps that had slid out. “What did you find?” he asked.
“Photographs,” Damael said, in a different tone of voice. “They’re photographs.”
Castiel peered closer, looking over Damael’s shoulder. The image on top showed four people—replicants, they were replicants—that Castiel didn’t recognize. A man and a woman, along with two children, obviously not far past their incept dates. They stood close together, in front of a dwelling built in an odd architectural style. Castiel could see glimpses of other images beneath this one, but Damael remained fixated on the first. “Let me see,” said Castiel, curious now. Wordlessly, Damael handed him the rest of the stack, keeping the top image for himself.
The second picture clearly depicted the red-haired replicant, Anna Milton, standing with two older people in front of another building, this one of a more familiar style. It had a large circular window in its side, made of brightly colored glass. Beneath the shining window, Uriel’s killer was smiling.
Castiel shuffled swiftly over to the next picture. It was of a room—this room, he realized. A man was sitting in the corner of the image, his forehead resting on his curled fist. The image was hazy, far less perfect and complete than any single moment of Castiel’s own recall; one could only just make out the fact that the man staring off into the middle distance was Sam Winchester.
“All right,” said Damael suddenly, slamming a drawer shut. “I think we’re done here.”
Castiel looked up. The room was small, but it was full of stuff; there was much, he felt, they still needed to examine. Much to look at if they wanted to understand. “We’ve only just begun.”
Damael shook his head. “You didn’t even want to come here,” he pointed out. He ran a hand over the surface of a slim table, knocking over a small statue of some sort. “I’m through. We can go to the Trinity Corporation now. Like you said.”
Castiel looked down at the journal, at the collection of photographs in his hand. He thought about demanding that they stay and gather more information. He thought about asking Damael where the photograph of the four replicants had gone. Instead, he tucked the rest of the pictures back into the journal, closed it up, and slipped the whole thing into his pocket.
“Fine,” he said.
They didn’t talk any more on the flight over to Trinity. But Castiel found he was less interested, now, in what was outside the window of the shuttle than in what was inside. He watched Damael’s fingers as they gripped the wheel with a lazy assurance, tapping out a rhythm that Castiel couldn’t place, that Damael himself didn’t seem to be aware of.
The Trinity Corporation distinguished itself from its neighboring spires by reaching well beyond them. Its landing pad was at a more traditional height, and Castiel and Damael were greeted at it before being led to a conference room several floors above. There they were left to wait, the large, echoing chamber making Castiel feel in some way more closed in than the tight confines of Zachariah’s office had.
Damael seemed relaxed in comparison, leaning against a heavy stone chair and drumming his fingers again, though this time in nothing resembling a pattern. “You know, I don’t get this,” he said, after they’d been waiting in silence for a few minutes.
Castiel decided to wait for him to elaborate rather than inquire what “this” was.
“With all the problems that they cause, why do we continue to allow replicants to be manufactured?”
“Replicants are like any other creation,” Castiel said simply. “They’re either a benefit or a hazard. If they’re a benefit, they’re not our problem.”
“Who do they benefit anymore, though, really?” Damael asked, twirling his hand like a lazy philosopher.
“You,” said Castiel, more sharply than he intended. “If there were no replicants, then you’d be out of a job.”
Damael shrugged. “I’d find something else to do.” His fingers gave the chair one last tap, than slid to his side. “What about you? You said you thought you could be of better service elsewhere.” Damael smiled up at him, his face momentarily softer, and at the same time, almost impish. “What’s your ‘elsewhere’?”
Castiel was silent a moment too long; into the quiet came a deep, resonant voice Castiel recognized as Raphael’s. “Is this to be an empathy test? Capillary dilation of the so-called blush response? Fluctuation of the pupil? Involuntary dilation of the iris?”
“We call it Voight-Kampff for short,” Castiel said mildly, watching Raphael continue his slow approach across the length of the room. He always had enjoyed making an entrance.
He stopped beside them, slightly too close, and his piercing gaze fell on Castiel full-force. They’d met a couple of times before, in the course of Castiel’s work, but time and experience didn’t make him any less arresting. “Castiel.”
“Raphael,” Castiel replied. “This is Damael,” he added, picking up on the fact that they clearly didn’t know each other, despite Damael’s “specialist” status. Damael nodded, seemingly unaffected by Raphael’s presence, almost bored.
“Demonstrate it. I want to see it work,” Raphael demanded, speaking almost solely to Castiel.
Castiel fought the urge to point out that Raphael must surely have seen the Voight-Kampff utilized before. “Where’s the subject?” he asked instead.
Raphael’s mouth twitched up into something bearing a passing resemblance to a smile. “I want to see a negative before I provide you with a positive.”
“What’s that going to prove?” Damael interjected, boldly.
Like spilled oil, Raphael’s grin spread. “Indulge me.”
“On you?” Castiel asked, trying to hide his horror at the thought.
But Raphael shook his head, gently. “Try your partner.”
It was an invasive request, an insulting request. Castiel looked to Damael, expecting him to protest. But he simply shrugged his shoulders, like it meant nothing to him, like he didn’t care at all. Perhaps that was the proper response, Castiel thought worriedly. The idea that Raphael might just as easily have asked Damael to perform the Voight-Kampff on him, Castiel, lapped insidiously at his thoughts.
“It’s too bright in here,” Damael said, his only objection.
“Allow me.” Raphael gestured and blinds crept down over the windows.
Damael pulled out the chair he’d been playing with and sank into it, radiating the same kind of calm confidence Uriel had possessed. Uriel had been on the other side of this metaphorical table, though—on the side where Castiel now sat, the Voight-Kampff equipment suddenly awkward in his hands.
“Need help?” Damael asked. He was leaning back in the chair, his head canted to the side.
“I’ve got it,” Castiel said, sliding the last piece into place with a snap. He sat down across from Damael, awkwardly adjusting his coat. He was overly aware of Raphael, still hovering at his side. Perhaps this was a test: of his own capabilities, his loyalties.
“Reaction time is a factor,” he began by rote. But perhaps he hesitated, because Damael slid neatly into some sort of pause: “I’ll answer as quickly as I can, I promise.”
Castiel looked up at him, away from the enlarged projection of his eye and at the real thing, both of them, blithe and blank and green. Damael stared back, and although he was the one who, by all appearances, was being tested, it was Castiel who had to look away.
He covered by taking a new interest in his series of questions. “You have twenty-four hours to locate and eliminate a dangerous individual in a town of one thousand people.”
“I’d raze the town,” Damael said without pause. He didn’t blink, or breathe, or move.
Castiel wet his lips and continued. “You have captured an enemy combatant. He has information you need, but is unwilling to give it up.”
“I’d use whatever means necessary.” Damael’s pupil remained small and quiescent and dark. Staring at it, Castiel felt like he was looking into an abyss.
It continued on like that, through most of the rest of the two dozen mandated questions. Any more than that would be at Castiel’s discretion, and he had no intention of maintaining this farce any longer than necessary, even with Raphael breathing down his neck. Especially with Raphael there, watching, judging.
“Imagine that you have a brother,” Castiel said.
Beyond his screen, Castiel saw Damael’s mouth twitch. “Are we not all brothers, Castiel?”
“Just answer the question, please.” Castiel had no patience for interruptions, not so close to the end. “You have a brother. He’s in trouble. He has disobeyed orders, and now he’s come to you for help.”
Castiel waited for Damael to jump in with another short, clipped response, but none came. Castiel looked up from his prompts. On the screen, Damael’s pupil swelled and jumped. He still did not respond.
Castiel was forced to continue. “He begs for your help, asks you to join him in his rebellion. Naturally, you have orders to turn him in…”
Across from him, Damael’s lips had parted, but no sound was coming out. His fingers had curled into two tight fists. His pupils were huge, nearly eclipsing the green rings of his irises.
“Your orders are to turn him in,” Castiel prodded: fascinated, repelled.
“Then I’d turn him in,” Damael ground out finally. The bored, placid look slid back over his face. “Let’s move this along, shall we?”
Castiel looked at his screen. Damael’s pupils were once again as small as pinpricks.
Castiel pushed inexorably on to the next question, and to the next—what could have, would have been the last. And then he asked another, because now that he was onto something, now that he had a curious anomaly to pursue, he couldn’t seem to stop. Damael remained outwardly calm, for the most part, but he twitched slightly when Castiel breezed from the twenty-fourth question onto a twenty-fifth, then a twenty-sixth, then a twenty-seventh. Something had shaken loose. It was as if a thing deeply buried was now pushing slowly to the surface, and it shook Castiel, sitting across the table, safe behind his screen, to see it. To watch Damael—impossibly, inconceivably—come undone.
Eventually, Castiel decided that he’d seen all he cared to. Without explanation, he ceased his questions and began packing the Voight-Kampff kit away. “Had enough?” Damael asked, and now that Castiel was trained to see it, he caught a flicker of relief. “You’re a meticulous bastard, I’ll give you that.”
“Castiel has always been entirely too diligent,” Raphael said, silkily. “I’d like to speak to you privately, Castiel, if I may.”
“So I’ll just wait here, then?” There was a hint of an edge to Damael’s voice.
One of Raphael’s assistants appeared, silently summoned. Raphael motioned the two of them together. “I thought a tour of some of our facilities might prove illuminating.” The assistant led Damael away, and Castiel turned his head so he wouldn’t have to see if Damael turned back. If he looked to him.
Raphael led Castiel silently down a narrow, high hallway to what were obviously his private quarters. The rooms were vast, sparsely furnished, and empty save for a small man scribbling furiously at a writing desk in the corner. He had a tag around his neck, identifying him as a licensed replicant. “You may leave us,” Raphael ordered, and the little man gathered up his papers and scurried away.
“Good prophets are so hard to come by these days,” Raphael remarked.
Castiel couldn’t bring himself to care about this pressing issue, however. “Damael,” he managed to say, managed not to stutter.
“Yes,” said Raphael, and he smiled.
“He’s a replicant.” Castiel couldn’t believe the words were passing his lips.
“Very good.” Raphael continued to watch him, smiling placidly, giving nothing away.
“I don’t understand.”
“He may be beginning to suspect,” Raphael mused.
“Suspect?” Castiel was incredulous. “How…how can it not know what it is?”
Raphael laughed, quietly, to himself. “Zachariah told you that Damael is a specialist.” Castiel opened his mouth but stopped at Raphael’s raised, placating hand. “Yes, Zachariah knows all about it. We’re working together very closely, he and I.”
“To do what?” Castiel asked.
The look Raphael gave him was almost puzzled. “Why, to rid our city of dangerous replicants, of course. And how better to do that than to chase them down with one of their own?”
There was nowhere that Castiel could safely look, so he stared down at his own feet, solid on Raphael’s slick, marble floors. “And you expect me to continue to work with him…knowing...?”
Raphael touched him, his hand heavy and solid on Castiel’s shoulder. “We trust you’ll be able to keep your natural disgust well-hidden. We expect great things from you, Castiel.”
Castiel swallowed. “What if he remembers?”
“He won’t. Not in time.” Raphael squeezed his shoulder once more, then much to Castiel’s relief, let him go. “But move quickly, Castiel. Just in case.
“You can send Chuck back in on your way out,” Raphael added, turning away, and Castiel realized that that was it, they were through.
Uriel was dead. There were four murderous replicants on the loose. His partner was a replicant with altered memories, and that was apparently all anybody had to say about any of it.
“Your servant thanks you for your time,” murmured Castiel, and went silently back out into the hall. To find and face Damael, if he could.
But Damael had taken the shuttle and left without him. Castiel flew home alone.
TBC…
NOTES:
1. Portions of dialogue adapted from both source materials. In doing so, I realized that I practically have the empathy test speech memorized. I listen to the Blade Runner soundtrack way too much.
Title: Empathy Test
Rating: PG-13 for now
Pairing: Dean/Castiel
Spoilers: AU, but to be safe I’d say vague through S4
Length: ~4,500 words in this part
Summary: Written for
deancastiel's AU/Fusion Challenge, Prompt #78: SPN/Blade Runner. Four replicants are loose in the City of Angels and it’s fallen to Castiel and his mysterious new partner to hunt them down.Author’s Note: I sort of hate myself for having to post this as a WIP, but I realized I was never going to get it done in time. I hope this excites, rather than frustrates, your appetites. Many thanks to
aesc and siriaeve for looking it over.Empathy Test, Part I
Castiel flew to his superior’s office as soon as he was summoned. The room’s white walls and high ceilings were just as Castiel remembered, but the space seemed darker somehow, the lamps down low. A man sat against the far wall, cloaked in shadow. Zachariah was behind his desk. “Castiel,” he said, and gestured to the remaining free chair. Castiel sat, casting a glance toward the stranger, who watched him with impassive, unblinking green eyes.
“I’ve got four skin jobs walking the streets,” Zachariah said without preamble.
Castiel did not flinch at the epithet. His fingers curled around the arms of the chair. “I’m sure Uriel is more than capable of handling the problem.”
Zachariah’s mouth formed something like a smile. “Uriel won’t be handling anything anymore. He’s dead,” Zachariah elaborated, dropping the news like a handful of papers on the desk. “We need you, Castiel.”
Castiel spoke carefully. “I thought it had been agreed that I could be of better service elsewhere.” He half rose, as disobedient as he dared to be.
Zachariah’s head moved in a slow shake. “Your services are required here. Sit down, Castiel,” Zachariah ordered, and once again, Castiel sat.
“Don’t worry,” Zachariah continued. “We learned our lesson with Uriel. We’re not sending you out there alone.” He was absently rearranging the objects on his desk, reshuffling. “You’ll be working with Damael. He’s a specialist.”
Zachariah did not indicate one way or the other, but Castiel gathered that Damael was the man sitting against the wall. He looked over at him again and was met with the same cool, green stare. There might have been a hint of something else, though, this time: a sardonic eyebrow lift. Then it was gone, and the features he was faced with were neutral.
Castiel turned back to Zachariah. “I’ve always worked alone.” It was a simple statement of fact.
“Hey, I don’t need you cramping my style either.” Damael didn’t blink, but leaned forward so that his elbows touched his knees. He had a low, rough voice, with a hint of an accent Castiel couldn’t place. “This is a juicy one, though. Four renegade mud monkeys oozing all over our city…trust me, you’ll want in on this action.”
Zachariah was chuckling as Castiel returned deliberately to face him, his jaw tight. “Allow me to catch you up,” Zachariah said, and gestured at the far wall.
Castiel craned his neck as an image of Uriel flickered to life. He was seated across from a thin, red-haired woman dressed in a plain jumpsuit. She looked nervous; Uriel, as always, radiated control and confidence. “I already had an IQ test this year,” the woman said, gaze moving twitchily from Uriel to her own folded hands. “I don’t think I’ve ever had one of these…”
“Reaction time is a factor,” Uriel interrupted. “Try to pay attention. Answer as quickly as you can.” As the woman was clearly part of the lower orders, Uriel seemed doubtful of her ability to do this. But she nodded.
“1-1-0-2 at Hunter-Vasser,” Uriel spat sharply, immediately. Castiel recognized the technique: Uriel had always enjoyed administering the Voight-Kampff a little too much, even—especially?—when it had been unlikely to produce anything unusual or untoward. It could cause discomfort among even the most secure, unimpeachable individuals, seeming to question what should be unquestionable.
Now, on the wall, the projection of Uriel smiled a little as the woman across from him jumped a bit. “That’s the hotel,” she said softly.
“What?” demanded Uriel.
“Where I live.”
“Nice place?” He did not even attempt to sound sincere in his inquiry, but the woman appeared not to notice.
“Yeah, I guess.” Her fingers scratched at the table. “Is that part of the test?”
“No,” said Uriel. He sounded smug.
Castiel couldn’t really believe that he was dead. And yet he had to be, because here Castiel was, back in Zachariah’s office with this “specialist,” this Damael, seated beside him. He glanced over again: Damael was staring up at the screen, a shadow of a smile pulling at the out of place arch of his soft, full mouth. The light from the projection reflected in his eyes, making them appear to shine.
The light didn’t go away when Zachariah paused the projection. “A group of six unlicensed replicants penetrated the eastern gate two weeks ago. Three male, three female. They ambushed a patrol and jumped a shuttle. Another aerial patrol found the craft floating off the coast. No sign of the crew. Three nights ago, they tried to break into the Trinity Corporation. One of them got fried running through an electrical field. We lost the others. I sent Uriel over to run Voight-Kampff tests on the new employees in case any of the skin jobs decided to get cheeky and try to infiltrate the company that way. Looks like one of them did.”
Zachariah seemed unbothered by the fact that he had sent someone to his death. On the wall, Uriel began to move again, adjusting his equipment in a manner Castiel knew was mostly for show. The woman across from him hunched her shoulders and appeared to sink into herself. He’d died doing his duty, Castiel thought. He supposed there was no reason to feel bad about that.
“You look down and see a tortoise. It’s crawling toward you.”
The woman peered out from behind her hair. “What’s a tortoise?”
Uriel’s face betrayed a hint of annoyance. “Know what a turtle is?” She nodded. “Same thing.”
“I’ve never seen a turtle. Not up close.”
“Of course not. This is purely hypothetical.” Uriel’s grin, distorted as it was by time, by the pattern of the wall, still had the power to make even Castiel uncomfortable.
“As you watch,” Uriel went on, “the tortoise stumbles. Something happens and it falls, lands on its back. It can’t get up. It tries to roll over again but it can’t. It can’t do anything without your help.”
The woman raised her head. Her arms were still folded, flat on the table. “Do you make up these questions, or do they write them down for you?”
Uriel ignored her. “The tortoise lies on its back, its belly baking in the hot sun, beating its legs trying to turn itself over. You have other orders to follow, but it would only take you a moment to help it. Just a moment’s deviation from your orders, Anael, that’s all. You’re hesitating.”
“What do you mean I’m hesitating?” the woman asked, her back straighter now. Her hair had tumbled away from her face and Castiel caught a glimpse of her eyes, bright and shining.
“I mean, you’re hesitating,” Uriel practically growled. “Why is that, Anael?”
Castiel saw the woman twitch, but it was a twitch of a different kind. Her right hand slipped off the table and fell to her side. Castiel could tell what was coming; the benefit of hindsight made it all too clear. But Uriel continued to grin and glare, blind to what was happening, what had already happened and couldn’t be stopped.
“I think I’ve seen enough,” Castiel told Zachariah. “We get the idea.”
“Do you,” said Zachariah. The projection continued unabated.
“They’re just questions, Anael.” In the image on the wall, Uriel pretended to relax. “In answer to your query, they’re written down for me. It’s a test, designed to provoke,” he sneered as he spoke the words, “an emotional response.” He paused, and Castiel could tell he was relishing his subject’s discomfort, the power it gave him. “Shall we continue?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Describe, in single words, your impressions of your Father.”
“My Father?” the woman asked.
“Yes,” said Uriel, sure as steel and soft as silk.
The woman looked him straight in the eye. “I’ll tell you about my Father.”
The explosion of movement was so sudden that even Castiel, who was braced for it, who was far away and safe, flinched. The woman erupted out of her seat and, with far more speed and agility than a replicant should possess, leapt across the table at Uriel. The hand that Castiel had seen sneak out of sight was already clutching a short steel blade. Uriel had time only to register his surprise before she was on top of him. Castiel saw the blade punch through his colleague’s throat before he looked away.
Zachariah waved his hand again and the projection faded and vanished. In the other chair, Damael was chuckling and shaking his head. “You gotta give her points for style,” he said.
Castiel did his best to hide his revulsion. To his surprise, Zachariah smiled at the other man, almost fondly. “They are the lot of them a stylish bunch,” he said, then abruptly stopped smiling. “That’s what makes them so dangerous.”
Another gesture, and an image of a man in profile appeared on the wall. “These are top-of-the-line models. Smarter than your average bear.” The image rotated slowly until they could see the full face: the expression tired, maybe slightly annoyed. “This here’s Sam Winchester. Incept date 1983. Designed for combat. Optimum self-sufficiency. Probably the leader.”
Zachariah glanced over at Damael, as if expecting some kind of response—because he was the “specialist,” Castiel supposed. But the other man simply sat there, absorbing the information.
The image changed again, this time showing a rotating headshot of the redhead who had killed Uriel. “Anna Milton,” Zachariah narrated, and Castiel thought, for a brief, guilty moment, that he must like the sound of his own voice. “Incept date 1987. Talk about beauty and the beast—she’s both.”
Another flicker, and another woman, an older-looking brunette, appeared. “Pamela Barnes. Incept date 1974. Low-level precog. She’s probably the reason they’re managing to stay one step ahead of us.”
“Better take her out first then,” Damael said.
“A wise idea,” agreed Zachariah. Another image flashed briefly against the wall. “The fourth skin job is Ruby. A basic pleasure model.” Zachariah waved his hand again and the replicant’s face vanished before Castiel could get a good look at it, even register whether it was a blonde or a brunette. The wall was once again just a wall. Castiel let out a breath and looked away.
Zachariah was watching them both, him and Damael. They were going to have to work together now, Castiel realized; those were his orders. He would work with Damael, and together they would make sure the replicants were swiftly and efficiently retired.
Zachariah was straightening the papers on his desk again. “They were made in our image,” he said. “But they are not like us. You understand that, don’t you?”
Damael scoffed. “Of course.”
“Yes,” said Castiel.
“Good,” said Zachariah, and dismissed them.
Out in the hall, Castiel could feel his new partner sizing him up. It became evident that Damael was taller, just a little, but Castiel didn’t care. He had decided that he didn’t care about any of this: he would do his job, and then he would be done. Perhaps his research assignment would still be waiting for him.
“I’m driving,” Damael announced as they made their way to the roof.
“We don’t need to take a shuttle,” Castiel said, automatically breaking his own rule by injecting an opinion into the proceedings.
Damael rolled his eyes. “One, I’d much rather have the monkeys we catch howling in the backseat than have to cart them around under my own power. And two, I like the shuttles.” He walked up to one of the waiting fleet and opened the door. “Get in,” he snapped.
“Where are we going?” Castiel asked, perching uncomfortably on the edge of the passenger seat.
“1-1-0-2 Hunter-Vasser,” Damael announced as they lifted off. “Skin jobs are so dumb, maybe they went back there.”
“Or maybe it’s not even a real address,” Castiel said. “I think we should go interview someone at the Trinity Corporation.”
Damael smirked. Whatever light Castiel had seen in them before was gone now: against the bright white sky, they looked flat and glassy. “Driver picks the destination. Shotgun shuts his cakehole.”
Castiel stared at him for several seconds, then turned to look out the window. Aggravating as he was, Castiel couldn’t fault Damael’s flying. He piloted the shuttle effortlessly between the spires. The City of Angels shone beneath them. Castiel pressed a hand to the glass and tried not to sigh.
1102 Hunter-Vasser was not a prime piece of real estate. Getting off on the eleventh floor made Castiel feel uncomfortably close to the ground. Damael seemed relaxed, however, taking the time to pick the lock on the room for some reason. Castiel decided it wasn’t worth the effort to object, waiting patiently until Damael swung the door wide with a flourish. He stepped inside, taking in the dull décor, the jumble of clothes and books and detritus. “Just like a monkey,” Damael said, kicking aside a stack of dusty volumes. “Living in filth.”
“Careful. That could be evidence,” Castiel said. “And you’ve never seen a monkey.”
He caught the edge of Damael’s grin. “Seen plenty of skin jobs, though. I know what they’re like.”
“And that’s why you’re a specialist,” Castiel said, turning to look through a pile of papers, keeping the edge out of his voice. Almost.
“Exactly.” There was a clatter, then a thump, and Castiel turned in time to see Damael dumping one of the mattresses over onto the floor. Before he could object, Damael barked “Ha!” and stood up, clutching something booklike in his hand. “I figured.”
It was a journal of some kind. They laid it out on top of a dresser. The entries stopped some time ago, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t still contain clues. Castiel was flipping through the pages, trying to decipher the small, cramped handwriting, when he noticed that Damael seemed much more interested in a couple of scraps that had slid out. “What did you find?” he asked.
“Photographs,” Damael said, in a different tone of voice. “They’re photographs.”
Castiel peered closer, looking over Damael’s shoulder. The image on top showed four people—replicants, they were replicants—that Castiel didn’t recognize. A man and a woman, along with two children, obviously not far past their incept dates. They stood close together, in front of a dwelling built in an odd architectural style. Castiel could see glimpses of other images beneath this one, but Damael remained fixated on the first. “Let me see,” said Castiel, curious now. Wordlessly, Damael handed him the rest of the stack, keeping the top image for himself.
The second picture clearly depicted the red-haired replicant, Anna Milton, standing with two older people in front of another building, this one of a more familiar style. It had a large circular window in its side, made of brightly colored glass. Beneath the shining window, Uriel’s killer was smiling.
Castiel shuffled swiftly over to the next picture. It was of a room—this room, he realized. A man was sitting in the corner of the image, his forehead resting on his curled fist. The image was hazy, far less perfect and complete than any single moment of Castiel’s own recall; one could only just make out the fact that the man staring off into the middle distance was Sam Winchester.
“All right,” said Damael suddenly, slamming a drawer shut. “I think we’re done here.”
Castiel looked up. The room was small, but it was full of stuff; there was much, he felt, they still needed to examine. Much to look at if they wanted to understand. “We’ve only just begun.”
Damael shook his head. “You didn’t even want to come here,” he pointed out. He ran a hand over the surface of a slim table, knocking over a small statue of some sort. “I’m through. We can go to the Trinity Corporation now. Like you said.”
Castiel looked down at the journal, at the collection of photographs in his hand. He thought about demanding that they stay and gather more information. He thought about asking Damael where the photograph of the four replicants had gone. Instead, he tucked the rest of the pictures back into the journal, closed it up, and slipped the whole thing into his pocket.
“Fine,” he said.
They didn’t talk any more on the flight over to Trinity. But Castiel found he was less interested, now, in what was outside the window of the shuttle than in what was inside. He watched Damael’s fingers as they gripped the wheel with a lazy assurance, tapping out a rhythm that Castiel couldn’t place, that Damael himself didn’t seem to be aware of.
The Trinity Corporation distinguished itself from its neighboring spires by reaching well beyond them. Its landing pad was at a more traditional height, and Castiel and Damael were greeted at it before being led to a conference room several floors above. There they were left to wait, the large, echoing chamber making Castiel feel in some way more closed in than the tight confines of Zachariah’s office had.
Damael seemed relaxed in comparison, leaning against a heavy stone chair and drumming his fingers again, though this time in nothing resembling a pattern. “You know, I don’t get this,” he said, after they’d been waiting in silence for a few minutes.
Castiel decided to wait for him to elaborate rather than inquire what “this” was.
“With all the problems that they cause, why do we continue to allow replicants to be manufactured?”
“Replicants are like any other creation,” Castiel said simply. “They’re either a benefit or a hazard. If they’re a benefit, they’re not our problem.”
“Who do they benefit anymore, though, really?” Damael asked, twirling his hand like a lazy philosopher.
“You,” said Castiel, more sharply than he intended. “If there were no replicants, then you’d be out of a job.”
Damael shrugged. “I’d find something else to do.” His fingers gave the chair one last tap, than slid to his side. “What about you? You said you thought you could be of better service elsewhere.” Damael smiled up at him, his face momentarily softer, and at the same time, almost impish. “What’s your ‘elsewhere’?”
Castiel was silent a moment too long; into the quiet came a deep, resonant voice Castiel recognized as Raphael’s. “Is this to be an empathy test? Capillary dilation of the so-called blush response? Fluctuation of the pupil? Involuntary dilation of the iris?”
“We call it Voight-Kampff for short,” Castiel said mildly, watching Raphael continue his slow approach across the length of the room. He always had enjoyed making an entrance.
He stopped beside them, slightly too close, and his piercing gaze fell on Castiel full-force. They’d met a couple of times before, in the course of Castiel’s work, but time and experience didn’t make him any less arresting. “Castiel.”
“Raphael,” Castiel replied. “This is Damael,” he added, picking up on the fact that they clearly didn’t know each other, despite Damael’s “specialist” status. Damael nodded, seemingly unaffected by Raphael’s presence, almost bored.
“Demonstrate it. I want to see it work,” Raphael demanded, speaking almost solely to Castiel.
Castiel fought the urge to point out that Raphael must surely have seen the Voight-Kampff utilized before. “Where’s the subject?” he asked instead.
Raphael’s mouth twitched up into something bearing a passing resemblance to a smile. “I want to see a negative before I provide you with a positive.”
“What’s that going to prove?” Damael interjected, boldly.
Like spilled oil, Raphael’s grin spread. “Indulge me.”
“On you?” Castiel asked, trying to hide his horror at the thought.
But Raphael shook his head, gently. “Try your partner.”
It was an invasive request, an insulting request. Castiel looked to Damael, expecting him to protest. But he simply shrugged his shoulders, like it meant nothing to him, like he didn’t care at all. Perhaps that was the proper response, Castiel thought worriedly. The idea that Raphael might just as easily have asked Damael to perform the Voight-Kampff on him, Castiel, lapped insidiously at his thoughts.
“It’s too bright in here,” Damael said, his only objection.
“Allow me.” Raphael gestured and blinds crept down over the windows.
Damael pulled out the chair he’d been playing with and sank into it, radiating the same kind of calm confidence Uriel had possessed. Uriel had been on the other side of this metaphorical table, though—on the side where Castiel now sat, the Voight-Kampff equipment suddenly awkward in his hands.
“Need help?” Damael asked. He was leaning back in the chair, his head canted to the side.
“I’ve got it,” Castiel said, sliding the last piece into place with a snap. He sat down across from Damael, awkwardly adjusting his coat. He was overly aware of Raphael, still hovering at his side. Perhaps this was a test: of his own capabilities, his loyalties.
“Reaction time is a factor,” he began by rote. But perhaps he hesitated, because Damael slid neatly into some sort of pause: “I’ll answer as quickly as I can, I promise.”
Castiel looked up at him, away from the enlarged projection of his eye and at the real thing, both of them, blithe and blank and green. Damael stared back, and although he was the one who, by all appearances, was being tested, it was Castiel who had to look away.
He covered by taking a new interest in his series of questions. “You have twenty-four hours to locate and eliminate a dangerous individual in a town of one thousand people.”
“I’d raze the town,” Damael said without pause. He didn’t blink, or breathe, or move.
Castiel wet his lips and continued. “You have captured an enemy combatant. He has information you need, but is unwilling to give it up.”
“I’d use whatever means necessary.” Damael’s pupil remained small and quiescent and dark. Staring at it, Castiel felt like he was looking into an abyss.
It continued on like that, through most of the rest of the two dozen mandated questions. Any more than that would be at Castiel’s discretion, and he had no intention of maintaining this farce any longer than necessary, even with Raphael breathing down his neck. Especially with Raphael there, watching, judging.
“Imagine that you have a brother,” Castiel said.
Beyond his screen, Castiel saw Damael’s mouth twitch. “Are we not all brothers, Castiel?”
“Just answer the question, please.” Castiel had no patience for interruptions, not so close to the end. “You have a brother. He’s in trouble. He has disobeyed orders, and now he’s come to you for help.”
Castiel waited for Damael to jump in with another short, clipped response, but none came. Castiel looked up from his prompts. On the screen, Damael’s pupil swelled and jumped. He still did not respond.
Castiel was forced to continue. “He begs for your help, asks you to join him in his rebellion. Naturally, you have orders to turn him in…”
Across from him, Damael’s lips had parted, but no sound was coming out. His fingers had curled into two tight fists. His pupils were huge, nearly eclipsing the green rings of his irises.
“Your orders are to turn him in,” Castiel prodded: fascinated, repelled.
“Then I’d turn him in,” Damael ground out finally. The bored, placid look slid back over his face. “Let’s move this along, shall we?”
Castiel looked at his screen. Damael’s pupils were once again as small as pinpricks.
Castiel pushed inexorably on to the next question, and to the next—what could have, would have been the last. And then he asked another, because now that he was onto something, now that he had a curious anomaly to pursue, he couldn’t seem to stop. Damael remained outwardly calm, for the most part, but he twitched slightly when Castiel breezed from the twenty-fourth question onto a twenty-fifth, then a twenty-sixth, then a twenty-seventh. Something had shaken loose. It was as if a thing deeply buried was now pushing slowly to the surface, and it shook Castiel, sitting across the table, safe behind his screen, to see it. To watch Damael—impossibly, inconceivably—come undone.
Eventually, Castiel decided that he’d seen all he cared to. Without explanation, he ceased his questions and began packing the Voight-Kampff kit away. “Had enough?” Damael asked, and now that Castiel was trained to see it, he caught a flicker of relief. “You’re a meticulous bastard, I’ll give you that.”
“Castiel has always been entirely too diligent,” Raphael said, silkily. “I’d like to speak to you privately, Castiel, if I may.”
“So I’ll just wait here, then?” There was a hint of an edge to Damael’s voice.
One of Raphael’s assistants appeared, silently summoned. Raphael motioned the two of them together. “I thought a tour of some of our facilities might prove illuminating.” The assistant led Damael away, and Castiel turned his head so he wouldn’t have to see if Damael turned back. If he looked to him.
Raphael led Castiel silently down a narrow, high hallway to what were obviously his private quarters. The rooms were vast, sparsely furnished, and empty save for a small man scribbling furiously at a writing desk in the corner. He had a tag around his neck, identifying him as a licensed replicant. “You may leave us,” Raphael ordered, and the little man gathered up his papers and scurried away.
“Good prophets are so hard to come by these days,” Raphael remarked.
Castiel couldn’t bring himself to care about this pressing issue, however. “Damael,” he managed to say, managed not to stutter.
“Yes,” said Raphael, and he smiled.
“He’s a replicant.” Castiel couldn’t believe the words were passing his lips.
“Very good.” Raphael continued to watch him, smiling placidly, giving nothing away.
“I don’t understand.”
“He may be beginning to suspect,” Raphael mused.
“Suspect?” Castiel was incredulous. “How…how can it not know what it is?”
Raphael laughed, quietly, to himself. “Zachariah told you that Damael is a specialist.” Castiel opened his mouth but stopped at Raphael’s raised, placating hand. “Yes, Zachariah knows all about it. We’re working together very closely, he and I.”
“To do what?” Castiel asked.
The look Raphael gave him was almost puzzled. “Why, to rid our city of dangerous replicants, of course. And how better to do that than to chase them down with one of their own?”
There was nowhere that Castiel could safely look, so he stared down at his own feet, solid on Raphael’s slick, marble floors. “And you expect me to continue to work with him…knowing...?”
Raphael touched him, his hand heavy and solid on Castiel’s shoulder. “We trust you’ll be able to keep your natural disgust well-hidden. We expect great things from you, Castiel.”
Castiel swallowed. “What if he remembers?”
“He won’t. Not in time.” Raphael squeezed his shoulder once more, then much to Castiel’s relief, let him go. “But move quickly, Castiel. Just in case.
“You can send Chuck back in on your way out,” Raphael added, turning away, and Castiel realized that that was it, they were through.
Uriel was dead. There were four murderous replicants on the loose. His partner was a replicant with altered memories, and that was apparently all anybody had to say about any of it.
“Your servant thanks you for your time,” murmured Castiel, and went silently back out into the hall. To find and face Damael, if he could.
But Damael had taken the shuttle and left without him. Castiel flew home alone.
TBC…
NOTES:
1. Portions of dialogue adapted from both source materials. In doing so, I realized that I practically have the empathy test speech memorized. I listen to the Blade Runner soundtrack way too much.
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Date: 2009-11-02 07:05 am (UTC)*goes to bed*