Thankfully Terminal City was a disarray of dark, dirt and dump
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Thankfully Terminal City was a disarray of dark, dirt and dump. Max was tucked on a catwalk, above Command, watching her misfit family prepare their stand against Seattle. She had freed them of the basements and barracks, and taken them with her towards the light of a non-Manticore life. Her mistake. Light had spit in their face. Light was for Ordinaries.
It wasn't as if they needed it. As a matter of fact, most of them beneficiated of a very good night vision. And even in the dull atmosphere of the warehouse very few bulbs hung over some table or other post. Computer and TV screens were enough. Dark clothes and dirty faces didn't stop freaks and transgenics of working together without collision.
Mole barked a remark about surveillance to Dix. Attention caught, she observed his form : green, yellow and black in the grey cloud of his cigar. Joshua was beside him, with his brown hair, brown freckles and brown clothes. Even his scent was brown, earthy and secure, the scent of family and care. Thankfully nothing white.
White was the blouse of the doctors prodding and slicing during the tests. White was the teeth of the guards joking over their suffering bodies. White was Lydecker's mug beside Jack's open corpse. White was the winter she lost her brothers and sisters to a ten years solitude.
And later, white was the sound of Ben's neck, hollow and stark in the woods. The police spots tracking and lacerating the mule. Cece's skin, after everything that had happened.
It wasn't even strange to find that White was the name of their enemy. Such was the way of her life.
Another of her mistakes. She thought she had managed to evade Manticore, making her life in Seattle, with Original Cindy, Herbal, Sketchy, even Normal. And Logan.
Logan was there in Command, helping at a computer, a bit apart from the others. Logan was blue eyes, blond hair, and hope. Her apparent death didn't change that. But the white gloves did, festering and destroying their relationship. She had drifted away from him, more and more each day. Her shining knight – when did she start channelling Alec ? – was just too shining in their damp and dump City. His voice this tiny bit grating when he was calling her name. And his dreams painfully idealist, full of heroics and white dresses. She looked longingly at him. She wasn't quite ready to forfeit her dreams, and she still hesitated, but the comforting darkness of her own kind was calling to her.
This painful meditation was suddenly disturbed. A familiar presence was coming, heady scent and stealthy steps immediately recognized. Alec was climbing the stairs, both purposeful and playful, smirk and gait full of tricks, hands and eyes sombre. She knew some of his inner demons and didn't need to know more, because her own insides weren't any lighter. He was more than family, though he did grate on her nerves. In a few seconds he would be in front her, babbling, explaining the latest jam, and considering the state of his brown leather jacket and his dark blue jeans, it ought to be another sewer problem. He was near now, and she turned her head. He was gazing at her, a tiny flicker of surprise in his regard, without doubt at seeing her so quiet. She could already feel him analyse and plan, and she knew he would push her buttons to shock her out of her mood. Another infuriating discussion in perspective. But for this moment she didn't care. She basked in the rightness of there being no white in Terminal City. No white in Alec.