Fic: Resistance (chapter one)

[mjartrod]

 

Title: Resistance
Rating: Mostly PG-13 (will warn when a particular chapter has a higher rating).
Feedback: Is always welcome in any form.
Warnings: Slash, language and sex.
Summary: Matt Bellamy has always been a conspiracy theory enthusiast. But what happens when one day, as Muse are leaving Hong Kong after a gig for a month’s break, what is supposed to be a routine interrogation before boarding a flight turns into a manhunt operation where Matt unwillingly plays the main role?

Disclaimer: All characters and events in this story are fictional, even those based on real people and material (having been altered, added or left out for dramatic purposes). 

Author’s note: The idea came to me after picking up an amazing book in a bookstore a couple of months ago – Stieg Larsson’s first book of the Millennium trilogy. Go read, they're absolutely fantastic. Would also like to thank Anya for being my beta again and for putting up with my rants and insecurities about this :p
 

CHAPTER 1

 

Hong Kong,

Sunday, 7^TH February 2010

 

 

It was time to go home.

 

Take a break and enjoy the time off. And, of course, in a few weeks start all over again.

 

Muse and their crew had just arrived at the large, modern Chep Lap Kok airport in Hong Kong, ready for their flight at roughly 5PM back to London . In their luggage, they carried a feeling of immense accomplishment and delight. The Big Day Out tour and the side shows in Asia had been a success, the summer weather in New Zealand and Australia a major treat. In a way, and combined with the all days off in between shows, it had felt like being on holiday.

 

The band had gladly signed some autographs for a group of fans, who had been waiting at the airport entrance hoping to get a glimpse of the band and an opportunity for a picture, and they were now standing in the queue in the crowded check-in hall. 

 

“For the thousandth time, Matt, and in case you forgot,” Dom started, pulling on the shoulder strap of the bag he carried. “I am not your personal assistant. You can carry your own laptop, you said it was only while you went to the toilet.”

 

“I carry your faff bag all the time, five minutes more with my laptop won’t kill you.” He ignored Dom’s sigh, hands still firmly shoved in his grey coat's pockets, as the group finally advanced in the queue, the pretty, smiling blonde attendant behind the counter already greeting them.

 

“Jesus, I’ll be sleeping all the way home, I imagine,” Chris yawned again, Tom fiddling with his phone at his side as the boarding passes were handed to them.

 

“Nice one, Chris. Next time open just a bit wider and we’ll be able to see down to your stomach,” he mocked, turning the phone to the others to show them the picture he had just taken. Everyone laughed. “How about we put this one on Twitter?”

 

“Don’t say that word in front of him. You wanna hear the old man ranting about the internet again and how his kid has a Twitter account now, too?” Morgan laughed.

 

“You just wait until yours grow up,” the bassist mumbled.

 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Bellamy?” The blonde British Airways attendant interrupted. “Could I have your passport again, please?”

 

“Yeah, sure,” Matt fished it out of his pocket where he had placed it only seconds before and gave it to her. “Is there a problem?” He finally asked, the young woman staring at her screen with a slight crease in her forehead.

 

“Oh no, just a small technical issue... appears to be fixed.” She returned the passport to him together with his boarding pass and a smile. “Have a nice flight.”

 

He joined the others who were waiting for him in a small circle a little further ahead.

 

“Tasty one, wasn’t she?” Tom commented as they unhurriedly followed the directions to passport and security control. “Wouldn’t mind giving her my passport again. Along with something else.” They all chuckled. “What d’you reckon, Dom? You’ve been pretty tame lately, where’s the wild beast? Didn’t that one tickle your fancy? Or you’ve got such high standards now that you only touch princesses?”

 

“Excuse me,” a powerful voice boomed behind them, their chattering cut short. “Mr. Matthew Bellamy?”

 

They all stopped and turned, curiously observing the two men standing behind them. They weren’t very tall, but their presence was nevertheless intimidating: dark blue uniforms and grim faces, armed with what were probably automatic weapons. There was no doubt they were responsible for the airport’s security. Matt raised his hand, identifying himself.

 

“That’d be me.”

 

“Would you mind coming with us, please? There’s a few questions we’d like you to answer.”

 

Chris yawned again, Dom smirked, pulling on the shoulder strap of the laptop bag, the others shrugging. Unfortunately, ever since that one time at Heathrow when Matt had joked about terrorism, it had become more and more common for him to be pulled aside before boarding a flight, for a small ‘conversation’ about his views on the government and terrorism. Although it usually happened more frequently when they flew to the United States, it was not out of the ordinary for it to occur when flying home; it had certainly happened enough times to make it feel almost like routine.

 

“Go on, I’ll catch up with you all later.”

 

Dom Anderson checked one of the clocks on the pristine walls. “Still early, we’ll wait for you here.”

 

The frontman followed the bulky security guards, hands in the pockets of his grey coat, throwing a disguised eye roll to the group over his shoulder. It was a pain in the arse to do this all the time and he berated himself again for acting like an idiot that one time. Clearly a sense of humour wasn’t part of these people’s jobs, but he had only himself to blame. He should have known better. They were leading him through a series of hallways now, walking side by side with him and, not for the first time, Matt felt like some sort of criminal. Even more so with two heavily armed men escorting him.

 

He wasn’t used to being called right after check-in, it normally happened at passport control or right before boarding, which sometimes turned into a hassle because it could delay the flight. Fucking tight security with everything these days, he ranted to himself. They finally stopped in front of a door, which they opened and motioned for Matt to go through. Stepping confidently into a white room, the singer suddenly stopped at the sight of the table in the centre where two more Asian men in dark suits were sitting. A large rectangular mirror was placed on the wall right behind them.

 

The man on the right was very tanned and had a seriously unfriendly look; the one on the left, older, paler and wearing wire-framed glasses, seemed less disagreeable. Both possessed the stance of figures of authority. The guy on the right indicated the chair opposite them for Matt to sit. He did as requested, trying not to show too much curiosity about the mirror on the wall, unsure whether to keep his arms on the top of the table or on his lap, whether to cross his legs or sit upright, whether to look straight at the men or look down at the table. As always, he discovered that he’d never quite got used to this, no matter how many times it had happened.

 

The door was shut and for a few moments there was silence, the four men in the room simply staring at Matt.

 

“Your passport.”

 

The man on the right stretched out his small tanned hand and again Matt pulled it out of his coat pocket, clumsily dropping his boarding pass under his chair in the process. Bending to pick it up from the floor, only then did he place his ID on the man’s palm; his grim expression told the singer that he had already waited for too long. He then handed it to the man at his side and sat back in his chair, observing Matt intently. This was slightly off the usual procedures and the singer cleared his throat, getting antsy with all the silence.

 

His passport was scrutinised back and forth, all the stamps inspected, before the man in glasses raised his head and faced the singer. “Matthew James Bellamy.” He spoke in a deep voice, emphasising the ‘a’ in Bellamy, and Matt groaned inside, wishing they’d hurry the fuck up. “Born on the 9th June, 1978. Cambridge , England .”

 

“Yes.”

 

“In the past month you’ve been to Japan , South Korea , New Zealand , Australia , Singapore , Hong Kong .”

 

“I travel a lot. I play in a band.” He rubbed his nose, voice trailing off as the man narrowed his eyes at him, his expression turning suddenly unpleasant. Should he not have spoken? “That’s, that’s my job.”

 

“We know.”

 

Leaning back in his seat, he tossed Matt’s passport onto the table, while the man on the right, who had been fairly quiet so far, leant forward, interlacing his fingers, still not taking his eyes off Matt. The English musician glanced around the room, decidedly uncomfortable. Of course, he’d been in this situation before and he couldn't say it had ever been an enjoyable experience; but for the first time he felt like he was actually being interrogated for committing a crime, the presence of the two armed security guards standing by the door not helping in the slightest. He looked again at the mirror. It did look awfully like those mirrors you saw in interrogation rooms in films.

 

“Do you remember where you were on the 27^th of January?”

 

The question took him by surprise, he wasn’t expecting anything of the sort. They usually asked him about his political views, about his thoughts on subjects like terrorism and violence, and he always told them what they wanted to hear, gave them the PC crap and that was it. Certainly nothing like this. Still, they were waiting for a reply and he had to think for a moment, deciding not to ask impertinent questions that could land him in even more trouble.

 

“I was in Australia , I’m pretty sure. I can’t really remember, it was maybe Melbourne or Adelaide or...” He paused, moving his hand to his pocket. “I’d have to check my iPhone, I’ve got my schedule there. I have a goldfish memory.” He let out a nervous chuckle, but no one else in the room laughed.

 

“You were in Melbourne .”

 

“Yes, yes that’s it.” He nodded. This was getting a little too odd.

 

“And what did you do that night?”

 

“I...” He stroked his chin. The gig had been the previous day, he was sure of it. This was the night of... that was the tennis night. He’d won a shitload of money off Lily. “I went to watch an Australian Open match, you know, the tennis tournament.”

 

“And after that?”

 

“I went back to my hotel.”

 

“And after that?”

 

He paused, slightly surprised. “I... went to bed.”

 

“You went to your room?”

 

He fidgeted in his seat and hoped he wasn’t about to break out in a cold sweat. What the fuck was this about? “Yeah, I went to my room.”

 

“Alone?”

 

His jaw tensed and he had to gather all his strength and cool to speak without his voice quivering. “I went to my room, went to the toilet, undressed and went to bed. Alone. I didn’t pick up a groupie on my way up to the room, if that’s what you’re implying.”

 

The man turned to his colleague and they exchanged inscrutable looks, before returning their full attention to Matt with narrowed eyes. “For someone who claims to have a bad memory, you are very sure of what you did that night.”

 

Heart racing, Matt hoped he was keeping his best poker face on. Yes, he remembered that night very well and was unlikely to forget it any time soon. For a moment, he re-evaluated his decision and considered relaying another account, but as his mind worked furiously over what could have possibly prompted these questions, he concluded that nothing that he could have said would change anything. He hadn’t done anything wrong – they hadn’t done anything wrong. It wasn’t illegal, it was ridiculous. What the hell did these people in Hong Kong have to do with it, anyway?

 

“So on the night of the 27^th of January, Matthew James Bellamy attended a tennis match in Melbourne and then he went straight to bed in his hotel room.” The one who’d examined his passport earlier reiterated, adjusting his glasses. “Is there anything you wish to change or add?”

 

“We had a few drinks at the hotel bar all together before going up.”

 

“You and...?”

 

“Me and Dom, who is the drummer in the band, Tom Kirk, who’s a friend and works for us, and Lily Allen, she’s an English singer. You might know who she is.”

 

The grim guy leaned forward again, breath smelling of stale coffee reaching Matt’s nostrils. “What are your thoughts on Zhang Hongbo?”

 

Matt blinked and he was sure his face was blank for a moment. “My thoughts on what…? Sorry? Is that someone’s name? Can you say that again?”

 

“Zhang Hongbo.” The look the man gave him was bordering on hateful. “What about the Sun Yee On Triad?”

 

“The what? I’ve no idea what that is.” A triad? Were they seriously asking him about a triad?

 

“You’ve never heard of it?”

 

Matt shook his head in bewilderment. “Zhan? Zhang?” He tried pronouncing it a few times. “I’ve never heard that name before.”

 

“You play poker. You gamble.”

 

“Yeah, but what’s that got to do with anything?” How did they know he played poker? It wasn’t exactly a secret he was fond of casinos, but still... “What is this about?” He finally asked, unable to stop himself anymore.

 

“Where is your laptop?”

 

He was stumped again. “With the rest of my luggage outside.” He wasn’t sure why, but something told him he didn’t want to give away the answer to that question so easily. And it hadn’t been exactly a lie anyway...

 

Apparently they weren’t even questioning what he had said, simply turning to each other, exchanging a few quick words in Cantonese before standing, motioning for Matt to stand as well. “You may go.”

 

He still felt slightly in shock, but he jumped out of his seat, anxious to get the hell out of there and board his flight. He had taken no more than two steps towards the door before he turned back to them, eyes scanning the table where his red British passport still lay out of reach.

 

“Um, I need my passport.”

 

The man who had been sitting on the right, glaring at him throughout, grabbed the small book slowly. And then, staring straight at Matt, pocketed it with a nasty grin.

 

“You wait outside until someone meets you.”

 

Matt couldn't believe his own ears. “But I have-” He interrupted himself, swallowing all the insults he wanted to throw at them, his mouth going dry. What the fuck did they think they were doing? Were they trying to make sure he missed his flight?

 

He spun on his heels and left without a word, fuming, and as much as he didn’t want to admit it, very worried. Something very fishy was going on. That had been an interrogation. And to add to it all, he didn’t have the slightest clue what those questions were about, he didn’t know who that man was (it was the name of a man, wasn’t it?), he didn’t understand why were they asking him about his activities on a night which he had spent in a different country... He heard the stomping of the boots of the uniformed security guards behind him, low voices speaking quick Cantonese in a monotone and then fading away as they took a different hallway; he desperately wished he knew what they were saying.

 

“There he is.” Matt heard a familiar voice and spotted Dom Anderson walking towards him with a magazine folded in his hand, pulling his small trolley case. Chris, Tom and Dom followed behind him, all looking bored and sleepy. “What’s up?” Anderson frowned, immediately sensing Matt’s nervousness.

 

“I don’t know what the fuck’s going on, but that was bloody weird.” Matt lowered his voice, looking over his shoulder as the others joined him and Anderson, intrigued now. “They took my passport and asked me a load of weird shit. Fucking hell, that was an interrogation about some Chinese dude and a triad and they wanted to know where I’d been when we were in Melbourne- ”

 

“Woah, woah, woah,” Dom Anderson raised his hands, asking him to slow down, the words tumbling out of the singer’s mouth at frightening speed. “What do you mean they’ve got your passport? Why didn’t they give you back your passport? Matt, they can’t keep it just like that!”

 

“But they didn’t ask me any of the usual questions! Didn’t you hear what I just said?” He hissed before he went on to summarise the whole meeting. “Don’t say you have my laptop, or they’ll keep us here for longer, I just have a feeling,” he warned Dom.

 

“You lied to them,” Dom said quietly, and for a moment neither of the two spoke, only exchanging a long look. “I don’t know what’s going on, but if they want to give you shit, they probably can.”

 

“He didn’t lie, it’s not a lie to say the laptop is here, he just didn’t tell them who had it.” Tom reasoned. But both ignored his comment. “Jesus, this is bloody odd!” He scratched his head.

 

“I’m right, yeah? This is fucking bizarre.” Matt rubbed his face with his hand, honestly wishing someone would tell him he was being paranoid. He only wanted to go home, the last thing he needed now was problems with the authorities in Hong Kong . Or Australia . Or anywhere, really.

 

“Matt? Matt Bellamy?”

 

A young man wearing a uniform with a small notebook in his hand stood behind them and if at first they thought he was part of the staff at the airport, they soon realised he was only there as a fan. The boy had an uneasy smile on his lips and Dom Anderson practically ripped the notebook out of his hands for the guys to scribble a quick autograph. The tour manager was about to give him a bollocking for approaching them again, as he recognised him as one of the fans who had been waiting at the entrance outside, when the boy started speaking in a murmur to Matt, his head low.

 

“They are calling the police.” His voice was so small that Matt was the only one who could hear him clearly. “I heard them saying they are calling the police because of you. Please don’t tell anyone I warned you. But I know that you don’t have anything to do with the Sun Yee On.”

 

“What?” Dom mouthed, Matt gaping.

 

“Thank you so much for the autographs,” the boy grinned, thanking them at normal volume and then walking away, leaving them all stunned.

 

“Wait...” Tom tried weakly, but the boy actually quickened his pace and the photographer swayed in hesitation, struggling not to follow him.

 

“Leave him, leave him be,” Anderson advised, holding his elbow.

 

“They’re getting me arrested.” Matt was frozen on the spot, his voice slightly high pitched. “They’ve called the police to arrest me!”

 

“You don’t even know if that’s true, we don’t know who that boy was.”

 

The look Matt shot Dom could kill. “Why would he lie? I’m not being paranoid, don’t you think this is all too much of a coincidence? Me being interrogated about some triad and a Chinese guy-”

 

“Matt. Calm down, Matt.”

 

“I’m not going, I’m not going anywhere with them.” And he started looking around, checking for any signs of police, security guards, terrorists, anyone that could have their eyes on him. And all of a sudden, he felt an itch, something prickling, crawling all over his body. Everybody was watching him. Everybody was potentially dangerous, everybody had malicious intentions, his every move was being followed by someone. His eyes found security cameras everywhere and behind his back he could almost smell their anxiety. “I’m not getting arrested here and not without knowing what’s going on.”

 

“What, you're gonna run away if they really intend on arresting you?” Dom’s face contorted into an expression of concern when he realised Matt was staring at him very seriously. “You’ve lost it.”

 

“You won’t even make it out of the airport,” Chris intervened. “That's crazy, you have nowhere to go.”

 

“All of this is crazy, don't you see what's going on? They could have asked me a load of things before calling the police, but they didn’t believe anything I said, they fucking had it in for me from the start.” He looked away from Chris, instead scanning the area surrounding them, looking for the exit. “If they don’t want to arrest me, then there’s nothing wrong with leaving, but if they want to throw me into a bloody cell then I'm not gonna wait for them. And it’s not like they told me I couldn’t leave.”

 

“You have nowhere to go!” Chris repeated in a hiss, distressed.

 

“Unless you try the embassy.”

 

Everyone turned to Dom Anderson. No one had a better suggestion and it was obvious Matt wouldn't be deterred, the singer gripping the material of his coat in his fingers, brows knit as his gaze darted suspiciously. 

 

In Matt's mind, there was no doubt that the warning from the young man, added to what had happened in the interrogation, was real. He didn’t know much about the prisons in Hong Kong and as for their judicial system, he only had a vague idea that it was similar to the British one. But he was sure he'd be thrown into jail without much ado if he didn't act. How many innocent individuals ended up behind bars without a trial, without a chance to even properly defend themselves? It happened every day, all over the world. The general public just didn’t hear about it often in the mainstream news; it wasn't convenient to let the people know how often and how badly the authorities and the police screwed up. 

 

The small group of fans at the entrance hadn't yet left, probably because they could still see the band. An idea instantly formed in his mind. At the moment, Anderson 's suggestion seemed the lesser evil. Matt didn't know what was going on, but perhaps if he reached the embassy at least he could manage to stay out of jail until everything was sorted.

 

One thing was certain: he was not going to stay at the airport and wait to see what happened next.