"What sin will you confess today, my dear?"
For a moment it strikes her as odd that the old man can look at her and ask such a question. To her, her sins are the most obvious distinctive thing in the whole world. But then she remembers quickly as anything that sometimes the blood on her hands can't be seen by the average human eyes. Eyes that do not know better cannot see the black. When she stares back at the old man, she does not allow any shift in her eyes. Her face doesn't change because she has been trained to keep it still, though there are feelings dwelling there that scare her. The church is lined with roses, wedding roses, long streaks that cut through the white building like open wounds. Her eyes close because she can't bear the thoughts that come with observations. When she opens them again, the old man is still there. She tries to make her voice work, and for one hideous moment she thinks it no longer will, but then the words come.
"I love him, Father." She says, and even though she has never said it out loud, the tone remains the same. It is a comfort and a blow that leaves her heart aching. "I want to protect him, to keep him close. It's taken me forever, but I love him."
At that, the old man smiles. Though it is a fine smile, it is nothing like the smile she thinks of when she should be sleeping. That smile of his is what she has come to live for. It is the smile that keeps the bad dreams away, and the one that stirs like fire in her chest even now. "Loving isn't a sin, sweet girl." Father Carlos responds and she swallows a lump in her throat. "Of all the wrong things in this world, your heart is pointing you toward the one right thing. Experiencing love is a gift from God, in all instances." He hands her a flower, and to her horror the petals instantly curl upon themselves. The rosy red begins to fry into a dead black, until within moments all that is in her hand is a decayed token of affection. She shakes her head, knowing what she should have been aware of all along. The rose is red again, back to normal, but the vision scars through her mind like bad memory. Lately she has had the ability to know, to calculate the most likely outcome, and it's why she sees death. Death follows her, the end and the start of her actions, like a hinged shadow on the door of her soul.
"I never asked for this gift." She says in a whisper. In that instant she thinks of the things she has come to hold close. The feel of his hand on her shoulder, his eyes on her face when he thinks she isn't looking. She thinks of one time at the shoreline, her hand loosely holding a shell. These are the moments she will take with her, the moments that will have made all of this, somewhat worth it.
Father Carlos only shrugs. "God never said He would give us what we wanted, what we thought was best, or even what we asked for. He promised He would give us what we need." The girl lowers her gaze, and the old man tilts his head. "You say you've never been to a sanctuary before, why the sudden change?" She blinks, enough to tell him she has heard and she will not answer. The priest tries again, his eyebrows rising while his mouth sets. "Have you had a recent experience? What made you a believer?" When the girl finally meets his stare, he makes sure there is nothing but kindness on his end. "How did you come to believe in God?"
At that, the girl blankly backs off the steps. "I came face to face with the Devil." She recites, and then turns on a dime. He calls out to her, but she slips out the doors and into the crowd like a misguided angel. He watches the street for awhile, and when he looks down on the last step to the church, he sees it. A small collection of items. A tiny pink shell, curved unique, a black mask that seems fit for a witch in disguise. And finally a tiny flashlight, the color of fine gold with two lone words written on the side:
My Light
This is the tale of Experiment #000744532: Project Human Storm
12:29 P.M.
The Day of Creation
In the artificial womb, they see her unfold from her restrained position, slowly and with an air of robotic grace that makes one of the scientists go weak in the knees. Her hands are tiny, outstretched already, and her skin is as white as the surface of the moon. From where she is being viewed, she looks more like an alien than anything made from man. Her toes flex, a surprisingly human response to her own birth, an event which happens over many small degrees. Unlike the other previous attempts, she has all extremities and body parts intact, seemingly free of any physical mutations. Her head falls back, looking like the victim of some sort of reincarnated crucifixion, only this time she is determined to make her own miracles.
She is, by all accounts, everything they could have possibly hoped for.
The scientists stare at this beautiful creature for hours, marveling at her hair follicles, her stability, her face. For the first time they have created something that looks like a human being, with eyes and ears and a nose and lips that set still in slumber. They wonder if she will be able to learn expressions, if she will be able to blend into society, if they can teach her the world. They are so busy noticing that when a small tear runs down her face, they celebrate the success of the tear ducts, something they gave her themselves.
"My God…" One of the scientists whisper, and another shakes his head.
"No," His words echo in the laboratory, a sentence they will remember forever. "This time, God has nothing to do with this…"
In twelve weeks, the experiment learns how to walk, and how to talk.
For the presentation to the head administrators, they buy the experiment a new dress, so she can be presentable. It is the color of a summer sea tide, to match her still growing hair and the color of her irises, another scientist buys a bright blue bow to doll her up. During the process, the experiment shows the first emotional action they have ever seen. She grabs the hand of one of the doctors named Monica, and squeezes slightly. It is a logical connection: Monica is the experiment's primary caretaker. And yet there is some disappointment, when the experiment completes this action her face remains the same. There is no shift in features, nothing in her eyes that soften. It is bittersweet indeed, for the experiment and her makers. Emotionally, she is barren, defected, and it saddens those who worked so hard.
They take her down to the presentation room, and she is placed in front of the men and women who will decide her future. She keeps her hand closely intertwined with Monica's, it is as if her face never moves. Her short hair waves over her cheeks, gives her character, so that when all of the scientists look upon her, they see for a moment something besides a life form. But a very physically attractive young female that has eyes like ice but one limb trying to make some sort of human connection.
One of the administrators leans forward, his lips brushing the microphone. His voice washes over like a swell, and yet the child only stares straight ahead. "Can you tell us your name please?" The scientists stumble over this, of all the things in the world to ask, it is a name? Something they've never even given her? The child takes a long look at her creators, a long look at Monica, who mouths reassurance.
When she answers, her voice is made sweet, but it doesn't charm anyone. "No name." She answers, this tiny little infant girl who surpasses all others. "I…am…nothing." Her words are simple facts, it seems, as though not even she realizes the words she speaks are impacting and strong. "I am a living…weapon." She is reciting facts, everything she has ever heard from the ones who thought she couldn't hear them. "I am made to look…like a person. But I'm not. No name."
Monica squeezes her hand, and while the scientists and the board are too shocked to speak, she gets down on her knees to talk to the little child. "You may be a weapon that we created, but you are also living. That's why we called you a living weapon. Living things have names don't they? Names are important, they identify you, they help shape you. In some cases, they can even define you. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yes." She says softly. "Understood."
Monica smiles then, and runs her finger down the small child's face. "Good. Now, what would you like your name to be?"
"To define myself with a name…" The girl replies with her head bent, her lips slowly moving. "I would have to know myself. Therefore…I can't have a name."
They move onto the next question. For the duration, they call her Girl, to make it easier.
"Are you happy, Girl?"
The question makes her look upward, toward Monica. She then says what Monica has told her to say if she doesn't understand a question, or she doesn't know enough to answer one. "Insufficient information to draw a conclusion."
"Are you in good health, Girl?"
"Very." She says. "My vitals are very strong…constantly."
"Do you dream?"
At that, her face transforms, but in a way that is too small to be specified. "Oh, yes." She says, and though her face doesn't show emotion, her voice does. "I dream."
"What do you dream of?"
"Light," she says, almost eagerly, almost, or perhaps they perceive it that way. "I see the pictures on the wall in my mind and I am a part of them."
"Pictures on the wall?"
"They decorate. Girls, on grass, outside, running. When I dream, I am in those pictures in my mind."
"Do you know what you are?"
"No." She answers plainly. "One minute I am, the next, I am not. I seem to live to exist."
"That's got to be terribly confusing."
"Yes."
"Are you a girl?"
"In terms of physical form, yes." She recites.
"Do you think of yourself as a person? Do you look at yourself and see a girl? Or a machine? What do you feel, when you think about yourself?"
The girl is quiet for awhile, and then with a small breath she speaks.
"Insufficient information to draw a conclusion."
"Try again honey. What do you do when you want to ask a question?"
"Use an upper inflexion that suggests I need the help of someone who can provide an answer." She says, and when Monica holds up a card with a picture of a popular beverage, she only hinges for a moment. "May I please have a drink?" She blinks and then tries again, this time choosing another part. "May I please have a drink?" She tries again. "May I please have a drink?" When Monica smiles she nods. "Better. Do you think it was better." She blinks. "I mean, do you think it was better?"
"You're coming along fine." Monica compliments, with a sparkle in her eye. They are lying in her bed, which feels very different than falling asleep under the hands of testing scientists. "One day, I hope you can have a bed like this," Monica whispers, as if she is paranoid about her words. Still, the way she says them makes Girl listen. "And I hope you can have friends that sleep beside you, I hope that one day you won't need me anymore to tell you what to say. These are all the things I've wished for you."
Girl stares at her, her thoughts unreadable to anyone but her. "Monica."
It doesn't sound like a question, there is no inflexion, but still Monica understands. "Yes?"
"Are we friends?"
"Yes, Carolynn. I think of you as my friend. I sometimes even feel protective instincts toward you. I was there when you were a small infant, I taught you how to talk, I was there for everything you did. We have been friends since I first held you." Monica makes a motion of a cradle with her arms. "Just like this."
"Why do you call me Carolynn?"
"I think you deserve a name." Monica answers with an honest straight expression. "I hope one day you will smile and everyone will love you. Even give you a nickname. Carrie, for short. But of course some of the scientists do not agree, they think if we give you a name it will damage the results we want. But I see you as a Carolynn, it is a sweet name for a sweet girl."
For awhile, she does not say anything. Monica straightens up and prepares to read for the night. But then to her surprise the experiment forces her way into her arms, her head on Monica's chest, her tiny legs tucked beneath her even tinier body. She grabs Monica's arms and forms it into the cradle position, albeit a little larger. "When you held me," she whispers, eyes bright and clear even in the dim light. "Was it like this? So I could hear your heart beating?" Her ear strains. "It sounds like a slow music, doesn't it? Like I make you happy."
Monica is struck by her observations. The clock beside her moves two minutes forward, until the little experiment has closed her eyes and drifted off into sleep. Monica feels a tug, that same urge, not to ever let her go. She holds her still, like she should, ignoring the needle marks on her arms, or the way she is unnaturally cold.
"Yes, Carolynn." Monica whispers, stroking the hair back to see the face of a child. "It is exactly like that."
"What will she be used for?" Chairman Guerra spread his hand over the detailed notes that had been made at the observation, his face puzzled and set with an arrogant type of determination. "Are you meaning to tell me I'm supposed to be fine that my money has gone to creating the next atomic bomb? That I'm supposed to sleep well knowing that we made a human that has the potential to kill millions?"
His hands, large and well groomed like a man who had enough money to worry about such things, roamed from the notes to gather and clutch themselves. Beside him, Chairman Monica Harte pursed her lips and told herself to calm down the rapid beating of her heart. The pictures that stood next to the reports were ones that were almost bone-chilling. It was her little creation standing with her arms at her sides while her eyes stared straight at the camera. She didn't look right, didn't look like she belonged at all. But Monica had been with her little miracle, taught her how to ask and how to smile and how to tell the truth even if it was potentially not the best option. She had brushed her hair, laughed at her easy cold humorous antics, allowed the child to have someone to confide in. And now, the life she had worked so hard to build rested solely on a small group of investors.
"I say give her to Singe." A woman formally known as Darleen Howards spoke up, and for a moment Monica wanted to stare intensely at the woman's ring finger, where just last week a very classy expensive testament to love had been. Instead she allowed all her breath to leave in a fell swoop. "It's obvious that she's dangerous. Too dangerous, and we can never be too careful. It would be a hard investment at first, but Singe would control her, make sure we don't loose anymore than what's necessary."
"No." Monica trembled as she stood up. "You can't possibly give her to Singe. What are you thinking? Giving our greatest scientific advancement to a crime lord that has paid his way into corrupting each and every one of you? Just because you don't understand her? Singe will turn her into a Gold, if we give him this child. She was born to be a weapon yes, but she's shown no signs of homicidal aggression, she has never presented anymore paranormal activity than you or me. Her powers will come, but we have made our own superhero. After years of leaving our city to White Pantera and Flama Dama and heroes who fail to eliminate the evil permanantly, we decide to throw away our one opportunity to clean up Miracle City? She could be great. She could save us all one day."
"Forgive me Monica." Guerra adjusted his tie so that it hung looser, and his portly face showed a bit of compassion and kindness. "I do not mean to bring up a painful memory. But we have all heard this before. Last time, I believe it was Siniestra who seemed to hold the exact same promises. And in the end, she had to be taken to Singe." The man removed his glasses, so that Monica could see the deep rings underneath them. This committee, this underground group, was one that knew too much to not be haunted. "You have to understand, we cannot relive that incident." His eyes fleetingly landed on Monica's lower body. "Some of us still carry permanent reminders."
"She's different." Monica whispered, and when she moved to stand up straighter, everyone was painfully aware of the slight sound of metal constructing around nerves to match her brainwaves. It was hard to detect, but no one in that room could mistake the subtle sounds of a woman with two metal limbs. "I can feel it. She isn't like Siniestra. She can be good." Her arms opened, her hands falling open in opposite sides. "She can be good, but only if we steer her away from Singe."
Guerra, the only undecided vote, gave a deep sigh. "Alright, it's decided. We'll keep her existence hidden, and we'll watch her closely. At the first signs of homicidal behavior, she will be removed and taken to work for Singe."
At his words, Monica let loose an exhausted sigh she didn't know she had been keeping. And when she sat down, she did not notice the metallic clink of her legs, or the tear that had fallen at the mention of Siniestra. All she could notice was the picture, and the sudden realization that if one looked hard enough, the girl in the reports was just like everyone else, a human being with all the potential in the world to be good or evil.
"How are you feeling today?"
The girl looked up from the floor, her eyes big and bright. "I seem to have forgotten." Her hands hovered over the button that was presented in front of her. "I know I'm supposed to press it when I'm ready, and then I will be given a series of tests to determine my strength…" Her words fell for a moment, then on another beat, continued. "But will I be harmed?"
"No," Monica replied. "If something goes wrong, you say the codeword, and we'll stop. But only say it in an emergency, because we need this test. Do you remember the codeword?"
At that, the girl gave a slow nod. "Carolyn. That's the codeword."
Monica nods back. "Very good. That's very good." She disappears from the room and walks the stairway to the observation deck, where the other main scientists are. When she sits down she sees the creation waiting, her fingers touching the rim of the button. And then she presses it, sending a jarring alarm sound that signals the start of the test.
The experiment turns her head to the sound of the door opening behind her. All the scientists hold their breath as a robot meant to challenge wheels itself a couple of yards away. The little girl springs forward in a manner that can only be done when one has not been taught how to fear. She lands a punch on the frame of the lower left leg, and just like that the material underneath her fist gives way to the force. When she dodges a sweeping arm, a second punch to the leg renders the appendage completely useless. Sparks fly but rather than giving up, the machine reaches out and grabs the girl by the throat. Monica jumps with a start, and though the other scientists become uneasy, they seem to be more concerned with their own morbid curiosity.
The little girl struggles, but her little legs and arms can inflict no damage from where she is being held. They watch her arms desperately try to unhook the death grip on her neck. Through the speakers in the room everyone hears her weak effort to speak. "C…Carolynn…" she wheezes, and her lips edge towards a bruised blue coloring. "C-Carolynn…"
"That's the word," Monica says. "Somebody stop the test!"
No one moves. Nearly fifteen seconds pass by.
Monica's eyes widen. "Stop the test!"
Several more seconds pass, agonizing for Monica, before the robot's hand releases. The caregiver sprints back downstairs to their little creation, who is gasping and coughing and trying to regain as much oxygen as she can. When Monica lifts her into her arms, the girl trembles and shakes, clearly unnerved and possibly even experiencing fear.
"I said the word…" Her breathing is shallow, her voice raw. "I said the word…I said the word and nobody listened…"
"I know," Monica embraces her; heartbroken and ashamed at her own colleagues. "I'm so sorry…" The woman begins to cry, in absence of the child's own tears. "I'm so sorry."
Over the course of five years, she grows and develops farther than any of the scientists could have ever dreamed.
Electric charges come in concentrated blasts from her hands. She can manipulate the moisture in the air, causing it to essentially, "rain" whenever she wishes. On dirt undisturbed by concrete she can use her powers to make rocks crumble and make the earth shake. Her bones are unbreakable, but light, so when she manipulates the air around her, she flies and glides with no problems. Her brain is advanced, able to calculate and predict the enemy's motions based on what she observes. She is quick witted and able to improvise, even startling the smartest scientists.
She cannot read, and her social skills are below the desired goal, but they make progress by allowing her to live with Monica. The investors throw more money, thrilled with her progress and how they are changing the face of history.
They do not give her a name. To be fair, she does not seem to mind.
When the press ask about their current activity, Monica Harte stares into the camera with a raised eyebrow. "We're trying to cure cancer." She lies, all the while thinking of what they have done. "And as far as that goes, we haven't made any progress."
A/N: Woah, s'been a long time since I posted something, hasn't it?
The truth is that I just have too many of my SGC works in progress, with nowhere to put them. This was written so long ago it has cobwebs on it, and upon re-discovering it, I think I might continue. This was going to be Carma's prelude, if you will, an explanation of how she was made, for what purpose, and all the things that transpired that made her an evil assassin. Upon deleting everything I hoped to revamp my entire series. It's now called the Chronicles of the Second Generation, and I hope to find someone interested in helping me write the plans I have in my head. If anyone's interested, I'm your chica.
Regardless, whether or not I'll continue this falls on those who read it, and if they like it. Yes Yes.