The House of the Lost by Victoria
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All Science Ninja Team Gatchaman characters belong to Tatsunoko Productions, no money is made from this.
The Maze


When he came to, he tried to be as inconspicuous as possible. Not moving even a finger, he scanned the surroundings for any threats.

He was alone.

There was no surveillance equipment as far as he could see.

Fortunately the room was furnished and decorated in a very austere fashion, so there weren’t any places to hide. It was about four by five metres. Ceiling white, walls pale blue, and floating floor composed of light-coloured boards. There was a bed, a rather comfy one, not too soft and not too hard, with him curled up in a foetal position under heavy covers. Beside it stood a night table bearing a lamp, glass of water, and his case of pills. On the other side of the room, by a rather large window, was a simple still life of an elegant, lush green plant and a sleek, streamlined sofa.

The only decoration was provided by two paintings, both reproductions of famous works. The first one, hanging above his head, was Edward Hopper’s Cape Cod Afternoon, whose simplicity worked well with that room’s design. The other, however, hanging on the opposite wall, was a painting by Hieronymus Bosch depicting a man in an oversized, rose coloured mantle, staring off in the distance, perhaps searching for inspiration from heavens. St. John the Evangelist on Patmos. He stared at the picture for a good while, wondering what had possessed the interior designer to settle for something like that. The juxtaposition of those two works of art was rather unnerving.

Slowly he lifted his left hand and touched his chest. By doing that he found out that, firstly, he was still a man, which made him breathe a sigh of relief. For his saviours to see him change genders… that was something he would rather forgo. Secondly, his chest wound had been treated. And he was also wearing different clothes. Now that was something to worry about. If those people examined his clothes a little more thoroughly, they must’ve found out that those were no ordinary garments.

He undid first few buttons of the shirt.

Ribs still ached like hell, but underneath a huge plaster the stab wound he received was already covered with a scab and itching. A good sign that it had begun to heal, even though it would take a considerable time even for a person like him. His boosted regeneration could only get him that far. Wounds which might’ve taken an ordinary person two months to heal would disappear in two weeks. Three at most. Depending on his physical and mental condition, and his nutrition intake. All that regeneration didn’t happen on its own.

He swung his feet over the edge of the bed and tried to stand up. It wasn’t too bad if he ignored those fractures. Considering his options, he grabbed his little box and making sure its contents were the same as before, he ate another capsule. Then he could start exploring the house.


Half an hour later he came to two conclusions. The house was empty. He walked on and on, from here to there, following staircases, crossing corridors, and knocking on doors to see who’s in though mostly they were locked. The other one was, more bizarrely, that he couldn’t find an exit. Whoever built that house didn’t follow any standard layouts. One didn’t have to be an architect to notice that. Without any apparent reasons the ground sometimes rose and sometimes fell a couple of steps. Most usually two, occasionally up to four. And at least every thirty metres corridors forked, one of the ways often ending in a cul-de-sac.

So it’s a maze, eh? Well, a detail like that can’t really hurt me. And if whoever is behind all this won’t let me go, then I’ll just have to reach the centre.

Placing his right hand on the wall, he continued with his tour, intending to get at the bottom of it and murder whoever was responsible. The more time passed the more irate he was. He realised that for all he knew those damn Science Ninjas can already be outside that very building. As big as it was, it was bound to attract attention. And then there was that matter with the Syndicate. He tried not to imagine what was happening there during his absence.

Are those mouldy-brained idiots slacking off again? Are they playing cards instead of paying attention to production processes, so that the next mecha will fall apart in the least appropriate moment? Are they making dirty jokes while they ought to be watching enemies? Playing Soggy Biscuit instead of bribing, blackmailing, threatening, kidnapping or plain old negotiating - all those odd jobs which keep the Syndicate nigh immortal? Sure they are. Unless they have a whip cracking above their heads, those fuckers never do anything right.

It took a while for his anger to dissipate and cool reasoning take its place. He kept telling himself there was no point worrying about anything except for how to get out of the house and to the nearest base.

Who could’ve built a structure like that so deep in the woods? That was another fairly important question. It didn’t look like a place fit for a family. At least not the parts he had seen so far. A secret experimental facility then? His hands shook a little as those words brought forth memories he would have rather kept locked away. White walls. White-clad doctors. White gurneys. White fluid, penetrating drip by drip his veins, becoming one with him. Blinding white light accompanied by buzzing. Anything was better than that horrible, sterile colour. And if it took the blood of people to sully it, then all the better.


Those accursed hallways turned now left, now right so often, even he became slowly disoriented, though at least there was an observable change of his surroundings which confirmed that he was getting somewhere. It had been ages since he saw a window, and when even the few paintings vanished, there was nothing but bare walls without a single flaw with the exception of door recesses. The small handful of rooms, which were actually unlocked, always revealed a perfectly void place. The mere sight made him feel queasy.

If this really is a labyrinth, then there are two functions it can have. Either it exists to keep something inside - like that stupid Minotaur for example - or to prevent outsiders from reaching something valuable. If it’s the latter, then there will, most likely, be traps. Probably no rolling boulders or pits with spikes. Lasers perhaps. Or the ever popular turret machine guns. But there were no signs of those, so in that case something is meant to be kept inside. Could this really be an experimental facility?

Breathing heavily, he sat down for a while, putting his head on his knees to escape the garish light. He could feel the effects of blood loss. Since there were no windows anywhere, he couldn’t tell what time it was, but he assumed he had slept at least twelve hours, being already tired out by the stand-by duty Sousai X put him on. Possibly more. So if he was being optimistic, that was approximately a whole day with no food. If only there was at least some water…

He realised how thirsty he was. Swallowing hard, he rubbed his throat.

Oh for Christ’s sake. I really should stop whining about this shit. I’ve been through much worse than this after all. At least there’s no one trying to make me acquainted with a grenade launcher or scalpels. Or needles. I’ll be damned if I behave like some stupid, weak-ass human.

Hitting the floor with his fist, he dragged himself up on his feet and started to walk.

“There are two answers to every question. The actual solution being the first one, the intent a question was posed with the other. And remember well that the solution isn’t always the more important of the two. You understand?”

“Yes, Aunt Katarina.”

Ah yes. Aunt Katarina. That was the first time he thought of her for ages. He allowed himself to think of her. One of the ‘behavioural coordinators’ as they were called. M.D. Katarina was the only one who explicitly forbid him (or was it ‘her’ at the time? He couldn’t remember anymore) to call her ‘doctor’. With that ‘call me Aunt Katarina’ she confused him quite a bit back then. Why did she say that? Did she want to make him believe to be a part of her family? Was she trying to get him to cooperate more with the team? Or was it her guilty conscience which made her say that? He knew he would never find out. Eventually he came to learn that while he was sent to further his training in Uganda, she was executed along with the rest of her family.

So meaningless.

Her life, her death. It has been years since he read her name anywhere. Heard someone mention it. As if she and her family never even existed.

Although…

Stop thinking about those things, idiot. Focus. With a hole in your chest one would think you have better things to ponder about.

That was true.

The memories of Katarina and Giuseppe were nothing but coils of smoke. Transient and intangible. The wall, on the other hand, felt hard and cold under his hand. And unusually smooth. He still couldn’t see any cameras or gaps concealing bugs, and while that didn’t mean that they weren’t there, somehow he didn’t think he was watched. Quite the contrary. He felt ignored. Someone most definitely inhabited the house. They just decided not to pay any attention to their captive for the time being.

Which was just fine with him.

Though he didn’t have any weapons on him, providing he’d have the element of surprise he could just as well kill a person with his own two hands. Who said it was better to me looked over than overlooked?

And the house went on and on, dismissive to anything he had been thinking about. This house and its inhabitants were perfectly indifferent to Aunt Katarina, her husband and son. His training in Africa and Middle East. His past deeds and everything he might’ve been preparing to do in the future. Just a piece of cold architecture, only slightly more bizarre than a run-of-the-mill big city mall. And if they didn’t care, no one could hold it against him if he decided to kill anyone who would cross his path. After all he didn’t have any other choice. They saw him sans his mask. In such a situation, although he wasn’t exactly happy about it, he wouldn’t shy away from offing even youngsters.

It’s not like I got any special treatment just because I was a kid.

He thought gruffly to himself while taking another turn.

And it’s not like I’m the worst person around. I’m just the most obvious one. Most people have the potential to become monsters beyond my wildest imagination. And my imagination is pretty wild already.

When he looked up, the wall of that fairly short corridor wasn’t perfectly straight anymore. Slight as they were, there were protrusions and recesses serving no apparent reason. Nearby, to his right, there was a room without any door. An aquarium could be seen inside through the wide, open doorway. Bluish water, plants, driftwood. No sign of fishes.

There is neither ‘good’ nor ‘bad’ anyway. Just people, wanting to vilify actions of their enemies and justify their own. How many people did Gatchaman kill by now? How many did ISO ignore while pursuing their air castles? How many did U.N. refuse to help because of bureaucracy?

Several steps later he had to amend his impression of the corridor. It was actually pretty long, however as its height and width increased with each meter, it tricked one’s senses. An ingenious optical illusion.

They are no different from me. It’s just that I have no need to feed the public with lies about my righteousness.

When he reached the room, the entryway was about twice his height. The aquarium was enormous and beside it stood a long, cream-coloured sofa which was about a third its length. Finally a clear sign of human presence. He was quite relieved, slowly starting to doubt if the girl he had seen was even real.

He sat down and watched the fishes, hoping to gain some peace of mind. Now that he was right in front of the aquarium, he saw there was actually quite a couple of those little buggers. All of them from the same kind. Marbled angelfish. He looked closer. They seemed to be in a good health, and their habitat was squeaky-clean though there was not a single ancistrus in sight. In other words, someone took a really good care of it on a regular basis. How many times did that person sit on the sofa and watched this little world?

And concerning the proof of human presence, he realised that if he wanted some, all he had to do was look at the clothes he wore. White pants, white shirt. Even white underwear, he observed moodily. He wasn’t exactly happy with someone showing him that kind of goodwill.

Unbuttoning his shirt, he checked the wound. Part of the scab cracked and the bandage was soaked by an alarming amount of blood which didn’t stain the shirt only because the layer of gauze had been too thick. That was the disadvantage of Sufentanil. It was extremely potent, able to bring relief even to someone as analgesics-resistant as him; however it meant at the same time that he couldn’t feel any pain whatsoever. Plus, there was that thing with respiratory arrests.

He lay down on his back and closed his eyes for a moment. His numbness to pain didn’t mean he was entitled to push his body as much as he pleased. Quite the contrary. Proper rest was paramount if he wanted to get any better.

As he stirred, he noticed a light pressure between his shoulder blades. There was something under the padding. Rolling on his side, he put his hand under the upholstery and pulled out the thickest moleskin notebook he had ever seen. There was hardly any writing inside, just a plethora of pictures, all done rather unskilfully by a child’s hand. Boredom of the house’s sterility finally disrupted, he rolled over on his stomach and flicked through the pages.

A little girl in a white dress, standing inside a house with no doors or windows.

The same girl eating alone, her parents in a different part of the house, separated from her by an impassable partition, going about their own business.

The same girl feeding the fishes…

…and reading books…

…and building a kite.

About halfway through the sketchbook things started to get strange, nevertheless reminding himself he had to rest, he closed the book and used it as a pillow. As he slowly relaxed and lost focus on the world, he kept hoping that whoever the masters of the house were, they had no immediate ill intentions. He didn’t want to admit it, but they were starting to creep him out.
Chapter End Notes:
This chapter got updated a little bit since I got finally acquainted with HTML tags. -_-
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