Glimpses

by MMB

Chapter 1: The Gilded Cage

It was Sunday – and she had another hangover. As usual.

Miss Parker stood with bowed head beneath the pounding of the hot water on her skin, her hand on the smooth tile wall of her shower to help support her. She knew better than to drink that much – her entire day off would spent with a colossal headache that would make talking or listening to music unpleasant and a sour stomach that would signal her ulcer to flare and make all thoughts of food nauseating – but she'd done it anyway. She always did.

After all, what else was there for her to do in an evening? Her brief, beautiful time with Thomas had made any ideas of barhopping and a one night stand at the end of it out of the question. Thomas had highlighted the emptiness of her life before – and losing him to an assassin's bullet had only put the emptiness of her life since into sharp perspective. She now knew what it was to love – and any false approximation of that was simply unacceptable.

She had no family to lean on when things grew overwhelming. For the most part, her family – such as they were – WERE the reason things were growing overwhelming. Her father – if he really WERE her father; with all the conflicting DNA evidence, it was hard to know the truth anymore – was an emaciated and bloodless ghoul tethered for the rest of his life to an oxygen tank thanks to emphysema. He was a monster in almost every possible meaning of the word, capable of incredible cruelty and inhumanity to others, a horror to look upon, announced by the perpetually squeaking wheels of his oxygen cart as he prowled the corridors of the Centre underground complex.

Her twin brother – again, if he really WERE her twin; there was even more chance that the evidence establishing this could have been manipulated to serve an agenda – was a fiend. Lyle was capable of even more cruelty and inhumanity than was his erstwhile father – if that were even conceivable – and she had seen for herself the direct evidence that established him as a serial murderer and possible cannibal. He was sly, devious, untrustworthy, power-hungry – all viewed as positive personality traits by those who controlled and operated the Centre and its overseer, the Triumvirate.

She had a half-brother, but he had distanced himself and, if her suspicion was correct, had been taken in by his father – Jarod's father. Major Charles was as much a success as a fugitive as was his oldest and brightest son, and he had taken his youngest under his wing and fled back into the woodwork. Miss Parker didn't resent Ethan's choice of association; she herself was living proof that the Centre was a poor place to grow up – any chance for a more normal life, any chance for a loving parent who could undo some of the damage that had been done, was better than what she could offer him. Ethan was better off far away and untouchable.

The only family she had close-by that she could think fond thoughts about was the small boy who had lived all of his life in the nursery on Sub-Level 14 – the child who was supposedly another half-brother. His exact relationship to her was unclear in view of the fact that the man who had raised her not only wasn't her father but was functionally impotent to begin with. Still, she'd considered the infant her brother since she'd assisted at his birth – and until Raines had imposed a ban on her visits, she'd been very close to him. Being forcibly separated from the boy hurt – a lot. The loss of permission to bring him home on a Saturday night and care for him herself – play with him, read to him, love him – was only the most easily diagnosed cause of her latest and deepest depression and her new affinity with all substances alcoholic.

Miss Parker turned the knobs and shut off the shower, and then reached past the barrier of the curtain for the huge, thick terry towel that hung just within reach. Even though the water had been warm, she'd been cold – and the air on her wet skin brought out the goose-flesh. She worked the towel over her wet hair first and then wrapped it around her overly slender body, wishing that it were larger so that she could swim in it – hide in it. The towel was like her life, she thought in a perverse mood – not quite big enough to do what she wanted.

She had no friends to speak of – nobody that she could easily turn to in lieu of supportive family. There was Sydney, of course, but even he had proven himself untrustworthy over time. The silver-haired Belgian psychiatrist was the only one left who had been a constant in her life – there from her very first memories and still there in his Sim Lab, ever ready to verbally lobotomize and scrutinize her at a moment's notice. There were vague signs that there was a deep fondness beneath his cool and scientific exterior that would bubble forth under stress – signs that he would go to great lengths to hide from her and maybe even himself otherwise. But he'd lied to her – told her nothing about being aware that so much she'd been told about her past had been nothing but lies. His promise to her mother was to protect her from painful knowledge – and this promise had only managed to cause more damage in the process. She wanted to be certain that if he were truly fond of her, he WOULDN'T lie to her, but she couldn't let him close enough to find out for sure. No, he wasn't a friend – he was a surrogate father figure she didn't dare love, much less trust.

Broots was too kooky to be a friend; trustworthy, yes – friendship material, no. He was the quintessential computer geek, far more comfortable sitting at a keyboard and having his romantic interludes online – and in his own mind – than venturing forth in the real world. How he'd managed to marry and be the father of a lovely girl like Debbie, Miss Parker would never know – but having a daughter made him a unit, and she would forever be outside that particular arrangement. Broots was a coward whose loyalty to her allowed him to be coerced or conscripted to do just about anything she asked of him – but he had very little initiative. He spooked easily – and he was in many ways far too intimidated by her brusque manner and bristly façade to confide in. Not to mention that he had the weirdest of friends within the Centre hierarchy – generally freaks and misfits who had taken on menial assignments that sometimes were sources of great information despite themselves. No, he wasn't a friend – he was a colleague, and that was it.

There was Sam, but her mind very nearly skipped over him entirely. He was a sweeper – nothing more, nothing less – hired muscle and brawn to make HER seem more imposing and intimidating. He did exactly what she asked of him with no questions asked, and volunteered no thoughts of his own otherwise. Sam was a piece of Centre furniture that had legs and wore a black business suit – she'd never even stopped to consider if he had feelings to begin with.

Miss Parker shivered her way into her bedroom and dug through her drawers for fresh lingerie and something comfortable – and not business-like – to wear on her one day of rest. Somehow silk and satin and lace beneath a soft sweatshirt and pants didn't seem like too much, and a pair of soft white athletic stockings and deck shoes finished her "look" for the day. She seated herself at her vanity and gazed at herself in the mirror – dark, wet hair hung limp at the sides of her face, her eyes were bloodshot and puffy, her mouth thin and prone to scowling, and the beginnings of worry lines between her carefully manicured eyebrows.

When had it gone wrong, she asked herself? She had money – more than enough of it – and the will to use that money to get her anything she wanted. She knew that many found her attractive – all it would take would be a little effort on her part to put her porcupine personality through a radical adjustment, and she'd have friends and acquaintances to burn. So why was she sitting here with no idea how she was going to spend an entire twenty-four hours away from the Centre, her hair in wet strings, her eyes looking as if she hadn't slept a wink, her stomach turning and her head pounding? When had making the effort no longer been worth it? She ran the brush through her hair, pulling the wet strings back against her skull and out of her face – and sighed. That hadn't helped either.

A slight turn of the head brought her gaze to the window of her bedroom – a blue sky clearly visible beyond. Jarod wouldn't hesitate – he'd be out in the sunlight, making friends with strangers, if she knew him at all. He had walked away from the darkness of the Centre and could now enjoy the light of life free of everything except the need to watch over his shoulder constantly. She was free to come and go as she wanted, but was less free than he was. It wasn't fair!

She wandered down the stairs and out into her living room, not entirely sure what had brought her there. The door to her mother's studio – the door that Thomas had installed so that she could touch the refuge her mother had created for herself so many years ago – had been locked for several years now. Her mother – the one person in her life she'd loved openly and unconditionally and completely – had lied to her too. She'd pretended to commit suicide, and had lived nearly a half year yet carrying a half-brother that would be grown before he'd ever know his half-sister. She hadn't been able to face that sunny room since discovering that deep and complete betrayal by the one person she'd thought she could trust completely. She still loved and cherished her memories of her mother, but now there was a limit to that love and regard.

Every day, she stood in front of that door – often after a long and tiring day at work – and still couldn't bring herself to forgive her mother for what she'd done. Today was no different.

Miss Parker turned and picked up her old-fashioned glass from the coffee table, where she'd left it, and carried it into the kitchen. She dumped out the melted remains of the ice cubes that had chilled the whiskey the night before and placed the glass in the top drawer of the dishwasher with all the others.

It was too early to start drinking again, and there was nothing that actually needed to be done – and nothing she genuinely wanted to do, nobody to talk to, nowhere to go. Having a housekeeper once a week take care of dust, fingerprints and dust bunnies meant she didn't even have chores that needed attention. Her eyes fell on the briefcase that she'd placed on the floor next to the phone table near the front door – and she heaved a big sigh.

She might be free of the Centre physically, but it held her in tight bond otherwise. It was ironic – it was obscene. She walked over and retrieved the briefcase and carried it back to the kitchen, granting the locked studio door one more bitter glare. She put the leather case on the kitchen table and moved to her counter to begin the ritual of making coffee that was only a little bit better than the sludge that Broots tended to make at work. The contracts in her briefcase were part of the boring make-work duties that had been hers since Jarod had ceased leaving many clues to his whereabouts and/or little crusades on behalf of the Little Guy. Even if she hadn't been drinking the night before, she'd need plenty of coffee to keep her from dozing off as she worked.

She tried to summon up her old disdain for Jarod and the merry chase he'd led them all for over six years now, but couldn't. His cage had been miserable, and he'd escaped. He lived in the sun, went where he wanted and except for keeping an eagle eye constantly aware of the slightest approach of Centre personnel, his life was his to make of what he would. He WAS free.

Her cage was gilded, and she'd never escape. She lived in an underground facility, went where and when she was told and, except for in her dreams – nightmare, really – her life would never be one of her choosing.

And she'd better get to work. The day was half-over already.

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