SECRETS OF SIROC

Disclaimer: I do not own Young Blades or the characters within, save the original characters created by me.

A/N: My apologies if scene breaks/formatting does not hold. I've been fighting to get those to keep on upload and have finally given up trying to make it work. I have put extra spaces between scenes, but those holding have also been iffy.

This is for Sally "Jedi," who got me started on this fic so long ago, and for Jean and Daring, who managed to get me to start writing on this again after more than a year's haitus. — Dani

SECRETS OF SIROC

Prologue

We only see the surface, the characteristics that define our world — the color of skin or even the class society places a man in. But locked beneath the façades, secrets dwell. In darkness, they lie in wait for the day they will be revealed. They wait for victims to rise up, stand their ground and put aside painful memories instead of hiding in distractions. Fear forces us to go through the motions of living; we fail to act or do what's right. But if we seek the truth and face the past, the secrets will always be revealed.

SECRETS OF SIROC Chapter One: A Man Before His Time

Siroc closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. Dark bags hung under his eyes but he shook off the fatigue as he picked up his notebook and quill, scratching a few notes.

He looked up from his notebook toward the window. The grey light of dawn had crept up on him. Once again, he had worked all night, lost in determination and his inventions. His hand quickly went to his mouth, stifling a yawn. He stretched out his arms over his head, closed his eyes tightly then quickly opened them. He was determined to finish.

He picked up a small stirring stick, and then dipped it in the clear liquid that sat in a bowl on the table. He lifted the stick out slowly and moved it away from the bowl and let one drip fall from the stick into another bowl on the table.

The explosion sent him flying backward.

The sound of the explosion echoed through the garrison. Instinctively Captain Duval, who had just finished dressing, crouched and covered his head. "What in the …" he started, rushing from his room. His footsteps were resounded by the sound of shattered glass falling against stone. His eyes briefly scanned the garrison. Noting that everything was intact, dread filled him and his mouth went dry. He pushed past several musketeers who stood barely clad in the hall, obviously awoken by the sudden noise. He knew exactly what had happened but silently hoped he was wrong.

Captain Duval stood in front of Siroc's laboratory door. He pushed once, but the door opened only mere inches. Smoke trickled through the small gap. He shoved again, forcing the shelving that had fallen in the door's path enough to allow him entrance and was immediately greeted by rushing smoke. He covered his mouth and nose, coughing. His boots crunched wood and glass as he squeezed through the door. "Siroc?" he called between coughing fits. There was no answer. He held his breath and fanned the smoke away from his face. "Siroc!" he called again, moving through the room as the smoke finally began to clear.

Duval turned around. His eyes locked on a figure that lay slumped against the wall, head hanging forward. "Siroc!" Duval yelled. This time his voice was full of alarm. Duval went for the inventor but before he could take a step, Ramon and d'Artagnan were already by his side. D'Artagnan shook Siroc's shoulders frantically, trying to rouse him. The color had drained from his face the moment he had entered the laboratory and seen his friend's unconscious form. The blonde's face was lined with black streaks. D'Artagnan's unbound hair fell forward as he shook him again.

Siroc opened his eyes and immediately started coughing. He shook his head from side to side as four hands pulled him to his feet, trying to clear his head. He looked around the hazy room. The windows were shattered and the rest of the room was filled with debris. In the middle of it all, the table rested in two pieces, broken right down the middle. He glanced at d'Artagnan and Ramon, who still held him tightly by the arms. Both men looked relieved. His eyes came forward and locked on the figure that stood fuming in front of him.

Duval stabbed his cane in Siroc's direction. "What is the meaning of this?" the captain yelled. His fear for the man in front of him had been replaced by relief then sheer anger as d'Artagnan and Ramon lifted him to his feet.

"I —" Siroc coughed. "I was testing something, sir." After making sure he could stand, he pulled his arms from d'Artagnan and Ramon. He ran his right hand through his messy, blonde hair, forcing it back out of his face. Shards of glass fell to the floor.

Duval stepped up, kicking some of the debris and bringing his face to the inventor's. "Next time you decide to TEST something, it better not blow up my garrison or I'll throw you in the Bastille and forget about you!" he yelled. The aging musketeer took a deep breath to calm himself. "Is that understood?"

Siroc nodded, trying to stifle another cough. Duval narrowed his eyes, staring hard at the ex-slave before he stormed out of what was left of the laboratory, mumbling something about it being to early for this kind of excitement.

The inventor watched Duval's retreating back shove past the crowd that had gathered at the door. He took a breath, as deep as he could, before he felt the sensation to cough again. He shoved his way through the debris that covered the lab floor and picked up a piece of one of the bowls that had been sitting on the table. He tossed the piece down and silently cursed himself. He had once again underestimated an invention. But, at the same time he couldn't help but feel intrigued. The liquid had been stronger than he had anticipated. 'Had the larger bowl been farther away, perhaps my laboratory wouldn't be in pieces now,' he thought. 'But that is for another day, another test.'

He sighed. Who was he fooling? His curious nature had almost gotten him killed, again. He kicked a piece of the bowl hard, sending it across the room and ran his hand through his hair again, pulling slightly in frustration.

"What exactly were you testing, mi compadre?" Ramon's voice drew Siroc back to the two musketeers that had remained in the room. The Spaniard's hair stuck out in every direction. His shirt hung freely, while d'Artagnan wore no shirt. They stood watching their friend, both men concerned.

"An explosive liquid," Siroc answered, as he knelt down and rummaged through the debris near the table, fishing for something in the mess. His hands found an old, worn, leather-bound book. He gently brushed it off before tucking it into the top of his pants and standing back up.

"Why would you make an explosive liquid?" d'Artagnan asked, slightly confused. His arms were crossed in front of him and his head tilted slightly.

"Well, I hadn't really thought of the applications yet," Siroc answered in an impatient tone. He turned around to face his friends. "It was just an idea," he stopped, pulling his leather apron off and draping it over the edge of one of the table pieces. "Which apparently worked," he added smugly. His lips pursed, forcing the edges of his mouth down into a frown.

"Sometimes I wonder what goes through your head, Siroc. You could have been killed," Ramon replied. He had a knack for stating the obvious.

But despite how badly his night's work had gone, Siroc wasn't in the mood to hear about something he was already well aware of. He had other reasons why he did the things he did. "Well I am still alive, Ramon. So please spare me the lecture," he snapped.

Both d'Artagnan and Ramon were taken back by Siroc's words. He rarely lost his patience and when he did, only God could save the person who had incurred Siroc's wrath. But the haggard, tired and frustrated look on younger man's face revealed that his impatience was more from lack of sleep and the current state of his laboratory than being truly offended at Ramon's words.

"Why don't you go get some sleep, Siroc? Ramon and I will start cleaning up in here," d'Artagnan suggested as he stepped forward and put his hand on Siroc's shoulder, squeezing gently. D'Artagnan raised one of the corners of his mouth in an attempt to convince the inventor that they could handle the mess. The blonde's eyes moved from d'Artagnan to Ramon, who had his arms crossed in front of him. He and d'Artagnan looked as disheveled as Siroc felt.

Siroc closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He felt as if he could sleep for an age. "Thank you," he finally said. "Wake me after a while?"

His two friends only nodded in reply. Siroc waded through the mess to the door. He didn't bother to shut it behind him as he usually did, a habit to 'protect' his sacred space. There wasn't much left in there to even qualify it as a laboratory anymore though, a thought that greatly saddened him. That room, his inventions, had been his escape from everything. The loss was frustrating.

As he shuffled down the hall to his room, he pulled the small book from the top of his pants and opened it, noting the singed edges. He flipped through a few pages before stopping. His eyes studied the sketch on the page. It had been five years since he had seen the girl in the sketch, since he had escaped from his former life and found freedom as a musketeer. He shuttered at the thought of his childhood.

He entered his room and shut the door. He sat down on the bed and pulled his boots off before flopping into a laying position. He set the book on the stand next to the bed and wished he could have done more for her, to save her from the life he had escaped from. He had given up hope long ago of ever seeing her again. The image in the book and his memories were all that remained, and in his carelessness, he had almost lost it. At least when he was at work, he could forget all the pain he had suffered early in life, a pain his friends could never understand. He silently cursed himself. One night's experiment had destroyed his sanctuary, his retreat.

Until it was restored, he would have to find another way to hide and forget.