Disclaimer: No I still don't own Dark Angel!
Notes: Ha! The Unspoken is finally back from vacation. Woah. It's been a while, hasn't it? I can't apologize enough for this. But now that's it's happy summer, I'll have a lot more time to write. That is. providing I get some reviews. :)
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...The Unspoken...
...by Plastic Female Plaything...
...plasticteenprototype@earthlink.net...
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It was an amazingly high quality recording, considering what it's purpose was. The camera that had captured the images now flitting across an old TV set had been purchased from a man whose eyes shifted far to often for trust. In color even. Better, far better than even the most high end of convenience store security cameras, but then again, it was a stolen camera. The recording itself depicted the store front of a grubby little shop. Food and various other products were not placed uniformly onto shelves, but instead heaped haphazardly into large cardboard boxes for the customers to rifle through. A small dark haired man stood behind reinforced glass and counter, bringing to mind a sort of fortress to protect him from those certain unlikable types.
He was watching very closely a small sickly young woman with long, limp dark hair and clothing that was far to big for her. She bent over various boxes to inspect their contents, lifting this and that, reading labels carefully only to place the object back down into the box from whence it came. For a small moment she looked up and directly into the camera, her pale face emotionless, before turning back to her task. And then the store clerk's eyes shifted to follow the path of a pretty girl, in clothing that didn't quite cover enough skin to be comfortable with the rainy sort of weather that was outside, as she came in the front door of the shop. As he was blatantly eyeing the woman's rain soaked form, the other young woman bent and stuffed what appeared to be a bag of chips and a loaf of bread into her voluminous clothing. She walked to swiftly to the door then, and as she opened it, a gust of wind from the unpleasant weather blew her hair away from her face. Leaving the back of her neck exposed. More importantly, leaving a barcode perfectly visible.
The man tightened his grip on the remote control in shock, but by then the girl was already out the door and gone from the recording. He pressed the rewind button frantically, then pause. There it was, a frozen moment in which one small girl, more bones and skin than flesh with her dark hair blown back to reveal the barcode she'd been born with; a testament given at the moment she was born to the life she would have forced upon her. The little man rewound again, to the moment that she had stared unwittingly into the camera and paused it there, staring into her face for a few moments. Then this man, who was the very same store clerk from the surveillance tape, went into the next room, picked up the telephone and, with full knowledge of what he was about to do, signed that pale faced transgenic's death warrant.
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She had no idea as to what to do with herself. It was an undeniable fact. She flitted through one day to the next, stealing only enough to keep her alive and shying away from human contact. She'd lived in this hell called Seattle for so much longer than she had intended. Every day was spent the same as the last day. Monotony invaded every motion she made; every breath she took was the same as the last taken. And the worst of it? No solution was to be found. She still had not came across a way to get one of these "sector passes" other than to posses a job. And to posses a job, she had quickly learned after a failed attempt to get one, was to ensconce oneself so completely in the inner workings of society that untangling yourself was a difficult task indeed.
Perhaps a slight exaggeration on her part, but she feared tying herself in any way to this city or the people within, so it was the only way she was capable of seeing the matter. She wouldn't stay. She couldn't. So ties could not be made. But what other choice did she have? She blamed the influence of the outsiders for this new concept of making ones problems disappear with avoidance. How very many things she didn't understand. This thing called avoidance she was displaying was nothing more than a human tendency, possessed by all. But as it can only be when avoidance is in play, the problem never really leaves. It only waits, just around the corner, lingering on the edge of your vision, for the moment to make its self apparent.
There had been a small moment, (she refused to acknowledge it now, but it had existed), when she thought she might stay. A small moment when she thought she might find a way to be happy here. A small moment when she wanted to try. But it was only very small. A frown crossed her features as unwanted memories fluttered across her mind.
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He passed by her ally way every morning. And she watched him. He was such a pretty boy, if nothing else. She knew that to consider his physical beauty alone was foolish, but she could not help herself. She grew to enjoy the his brief passing. To look forward to it. To depend upon it. She imagined herself happy at his side, his mind-noise filling with bright words in her favor. So one day, when he passed her ally way, she was ready. She stepped out and hurried to catch up with his brisk strides. "Excuse me," she called out in her halting, stumbling tones. And this beautiful boy stopped and turned to look at her. She was faced full on with his radiance and in this moment she knew a kind of racing fear that she had never known before. Her heart beat heavily within her chest and her mind fluttered to a thousand little dreams. But then the beautiful boy spoke. "Yeah?" All her words froze within her and she could only look up at him (for he was much taller than her, but then, most were taller than her) and stare in horror as the next words fell from his perfect lips. "Listen, I don't know who you are, but I really don't have time for this." She had learned that the proper course of meeting another at one point or another involved the exchange of names. She'd found a ripped bit of paper on the ground one day shortly after her arrival to Seattle with three little letters on it. Rin. She decided then that this was as good as any name (it wasn't as though she really cared one way or another) and would call herself that if every a situation called for a name. And if ever there was a situation, she thought, that called for a name, this one was it. "My name is. Rin." She was pleased with herself then. Not for very long though. "Whatever. I don't have any money. Now get the hell away from me." Everyone of those thousand dreams fluttering in her mind fell and shattered on those words. He turned around again and hurried off in his original destination. She stared hard at his retreating form until he rounded a corner and out of her sight. She hated everyone then.
But most of all herself.
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The little store clerk sat in an over large plastic chair, one of the many that lined one wall of the waiting room he was in. He looked terribly out of place next to the white walls and the plastic potted plant in the corner. Even with his cleanest shirt on and slicked back hair, the secretary with unrealistically blond hair eyed him in a thoroughly unimpressed manner as she cracked her gum. Finally, her nasal tones announced that "Mr. Dumas will see you now."
The gold lettering on Mr. Dumas's door flashed in the artificial light from above as the store clerk stepped in. After being told briskly to sit in a chair closely resembling the one he'd just been sitting in, he waited for another quarter-hour while a stereotypically bald Mr. Dumas fussed about answering phone calls and generally attempting to ignore the store clerk for as long as he possibly could. "And just what is it that you think have to offer Seattle's number one news station?" asked Mr. Dumas, trailing his eyes down the store clerk's appearance with an air of such sarcasm that could not be ignored, even by the most oblivious. " I have this. I think you'll be very interested," said the clerk, while fishing the old video cassette out of his jacket and pushing it half way across Mr. Dumas's desk "And just what is this?" asked Mr. Dumas, pushing the cassette back towards the clerk only to have it push it right back at him. "It's footage of a transgenic." "Yes, well then. I believe we can work out something." Mr. Dumas reached forward to take hold of the video, but the clerk was faster, snatching it up and holding it up out of Mr. Dumas's reach. "I don't believe you know exactly what I'm offering. I'm not stupid." "I never made any implication that you-" "I know as well as anyone that the media hasn't seen hide or hair of one of them for way too long. All you've got is old footage. Your viewers are getting bored. What I'm offering you is exclusivity. You and I know what that would do for your station. You and I also know it'll cost you." Mr. Dumas looked passively at the tape in the clerk's hand before his answer came. "Very well. Terms and details aside, not to mention an actual viewing of the tape, I believe we have ourselves a deal." "Very good, Mr. Dumas. Very good." "Now lets see that tape."
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It was the second day after her last bathing so, according to the monotony her life had been forced into, it was sleeping night. When the sun sank below the building tops, she retreated to her little nook and made herself as comfortable as possible (which wasn't really very comfortable at all; crunched up with crumbling bricks at your back and the smell of old urine in the air) and sank slowly into the peaceful oblivion of sleep.
She dreamt of many things that night, of the dark minded man and the beautiful boy. Of the taller and the smaller under the earth and Alec's face as she refused his help. She dreamed of people and places and a single voice singing high like bird song throughout it all.
It was instinct that woke her when she felt something roughly take hold of her arm and she lashed out with her free arm at the suddenly frightened face the heavy set man that was holding her down. She'd landed only one good hit before another man took hold of her other arm. It was then that she realized six or so men were surrounding her and more were coming close to her to help hold down her flailing body. It was their mind-noise that drew her to a large pale haired man (supposedly their leader) and more importantly, the rusted iron bar he held in his hand. But her knowledge of what the iron bar was for could not stop the pale haired man from swinging it into her head. A hand clamped over her mouth and she vaguely realized through the white pain that consumed her body that she had been screaming. She kept on with her struggling, despite the fact that her mind teetered dangerously on the edge of consciousness.
Through the pain she realized suddenly that she couldn't hear the mind- voices, and the thought scared her. But they never gave her time to dwell on her fear, or muse as to why so many sneering men she had never seen before in her life were attacking her, because the iron bar came down again, this time for her arm. The sound and feeling of the bones of her arm shattering made her bite down on hand holding her screams in. There was suddenly blood from this hand she had bitten and her own blood trickling down into her eyes so that she could not see. Her ears received the many ugly words they threw at her and the fury of the man whose hand she had just injured.
The hands forced her up from the ground then and dragged her forward out of the ally and into the street which was suddenly full of people shouting and pointing at her as she stumbled along in the unforgiving hold of the sneering men. This new pressure on her broken arm made her screams come fresh and tears to join the blood running down her face.
No escape, her mind whispered to her. This is your death you face. They'll kill you. They'll kill you. She only needed her eyes to see the wooden 'X' they were dragging her towards to confirm the truth of this. Her ears heard the multitude of people screaming "Burn her!". The acrid smell of gasoline filled her nose and her teetering consciousness slipped and fell of into comforting blackness as her body went limp in the arms of her captors.
They'll kill you. This is your death.
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To be continued..
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As always, thank you to the people who reviewed the last chapter, in this case, chapter five. Thank you Mija, Not Telling, Motorcycle_Angel, Logan's Stalker (who is always so very flattering), Insane and last but certainly not least, the faithful Jojo. You guys have no idea how much you rock. Thank you again and again and again!
Notes: Ha! The Unspoken is finally back from vacation. Woah. It's been a while, hasn't it? I can't apologize enough for this. But now that's it's happy summer, I'll have a lot more time to write. That is. providing I get some reviews. :)
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...The Unspoken...
...by Plastic Female Plaything...
...plasticteenprototype@earthlink.net...
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It was an amazingly high quality recording, considering what it's purpose was. The camera that had captured the images now flitting across an old TV set had been purchased from a man whose eyes shifted far to often for trust. In color even. Better, far better than even the most high end of convenience store security cameras, but then again, it was a stolen camera. The recording itself depicted the store front of a grubby little shop. Food and various other products were not placed uniformly onto shelves, but instead heaped haphazardly into large cardboard boxes for the customers to rifle through. A small dark haired man stood behind reinforced glass and counter, bringing to mind a sort of fortress to protect him from those certain unlikable types.
He was watching very closely a small sickly young woman with long, limp dark hair and clothing that was far to big for her. She bent over various boxes to inspect their contents, lifting this and that, reading labels carefully only to place the object back down into the box from whence it came. For a small moment she looked up and directly into the camera, her pale face emotionless, before turning back to her task. And then the store clerk's eyes shifted to follow the path of a pretty girl, in clothing that didn't quite cover enough skin to be comfortable with the rainy sort of weather that was outside, as she came in the front door of the shop. As he was blatantly eyeing the woman's rain soaked form, the other young woman bent and stuffed what appeared to be a bag of chips and a loaf of bread into her voluminous clothing. She walked to swiftly to the door then, and as she opened it, a gust of wind from the unpleasant weather blew her hair away from her face. Leaving the back of her neck exposed. More importantly, leaving a barcode perfectly visible.
The man tightened his grip on the remote control in shock, but by then the girl was already out the door and gone from the recording. He pressed the rewind button frantically, then pause. There it was, a frozen moment in which one small girl, more bones and skin than flesh with her dark hair blown back to reveal the barcode she'd been born with; a testament given at the moment she was born to the life she would have forced upon her. The little man rewound again, to the moment that she had stared unwittingly into the camera and paused it there, staring into her face for a few moments. Then this man, who was the very same store clerk from the surveillance tape, went into the next room, picked up the telephone and, with full knowledge of what he was about to do, signed that pale faced transgenic's death warrant.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~- ~-~-~
She had no idea as to what to do with herself. It was an undeniable fact. She flitted through one day to the next, stealing only enough to keep her alive and shying away from human contact. She'd lived in this hell called Seattle for so much longer than she had intended. Every day was spent the same as the last day. Monotony invaded every motion she made; every breath she took was the same as the last taken. And the worst of it? No solution was to be found. She still had not came across a way to get one of these "sector passes" other than to posses a job. And to posses a job, she had quickly learned after a failed attempt to get one, was to ensconce oneself so completely in the inner workings of society that untangling yourself was a difficult task indeed.
Perhaps a slight exaggeration on her part, but she feared tying herself in any way to this city or the people within, so it was the only way she was capable of seeing the matter. She wouldn't stay. She couldn't. So ties could not be made. But what other choice did she have? She blamed the influence of the outsiders for this new concept of making ones problems disappear with avoidance. How very many things she didn't understand. This thing called avoidance she was displaying was nothing more than a human tendency, possessed by all. But as it can only be when avoidance is in play, the problem never really leaves. It only waits, just around the corner, lingering on the edge of your vision, for the moment to make its self apparent.
There had been a small moment, (she refused to acknowledge it now, but it had existed), when she thought she might stay. A small moment when she thought she might find a way to be happy here. A small moment when she wanted to try. But it was only very small. A frown crossed her features as unwanted memories fluttered across her mind.
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He passed by her ally way every morning. And she watched him. He was such a pretty boy, if nothing else. She knew that to consider his physical beauty alone was foolish, but she could not help herself. She grew to enjoy the his brief passing. To look forward to it. To depend upon it. She imagined herself happy at his side, his mind-noise filling with bright words in her favor. So one day, when he passed her ally way, she was ready. She stepped out and hurried to catch up with his brisk strides. "Excuse me," she called out in her halting, stumbling tones. And this beautiful boy stopped and turned to look at her. She was faced full on with his radiance and in this moment she knew a kind of racing fear that she had never known before. Her heart beat heavily within her chest and her mind fluttered to a thousand little dreams. But then the beautiful boy spoke. "Yeah?" All her words froze within her and she could only look up at him (for he was much taller than her, but then, most were taller than her) and stare in horror as the next words fell from his perfect lips. "Listen, I don't know who you are, but I really don't have time for this." She had learned that the proper course of meeting another at one point or another involved the exchange of names. She'd found a ripped bit of paper on the ground one day shortly after her arrival to Seattle with three little letters on it. Rin. She decided then that this was as good as any name (it wasn't as though she really cared one way or another) and would call herself that if every a situation called for a name. And if ever there was a situation, she thought, that called for a name, this one was it. "My name is. Rin." She was pleased with herself then. Not for very long though. "Whatever. I don't have any money. Now get the hell away from me." Everyone of those thousand dreams fluttering in her mind fell and shattered on those words. He turned around again and hurried off in his original destination. She stared hard at his retreating form until he rounded a corner and out of her sight. She hated everyone then.
But most of all herself.
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The little store clerk sat in an over large plastic chair, one of the many that lined one wall of the waiting room he was in. He looked terribly out of place next to the white walls and the plastic potted plant in the corner. Even with his cleanest shirt on and slicked back hair, the secretary with unrealistically blond hair eyed him in a thoroughly unimpressed manner as she cracked her gum. Finally, her nasal tones announced that "Mr. Dumas will see you now."
The gold lettering on Mr. Dumas's door flashed in the artificial light from above as the store clerk stepped in. After being told briskly to sit in a chair closely resembling the one he'd just been sitting in, he waited for another quarter-hour while a stereotypically bald Mr. Dumas fussed about answering phone calls and generally attempting to ignore the store clerk for as long as he possibly could. "And just what is it that you think have to offer Seattle's number one news station?" asked Mr. Dumas, trailing his eyes down the store clerk's appearance with an air of such sarcasm that could not be ignored, even by the most oblivious. " I have this. I think you'll be very interested," said the clerk, while fishing the old video cassette out of his jacket and pushing it half way across Mr. Dumas's desk "And just what is this?" asked Mr. Dumas, pushing the cassette back towards the clerk only to have it push it right back at him. "It's footage of a transgenic." "Yes, well then. I believe we can work out something." Mr. Dumas reached forward to take hold of the video, but the clerk was faster, snatching it up and holding it up out of Mr. Dumas's reach. "I don't believe you know exactly what I'm offering. I'm not stupid." "I never made any implication that you-" "I know as well as anyone that the media hasn't seen hide or hair of one of them for way too long. All you've got is old footage. Your viewers are getting bored. What I'm offering you is exclusivity. You and I know what that would do for your station. You and I also know it'll cost you." Mr. Dumas looked passively at the tape in the clerk's hand before his answer came. "Very well. Terms and details aside, not to mention an actual viewing of the tape, I believe we have ourselves a deal." "Very good, Mr. Dumas. Very good." "Now lets see that tape."
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It was the second day after her last bathing so, according to the monotony her life had been forced into, it was sleeping night. When the sun sank below the building tops, she retreated to her little nook and made herself as comfortable as possible (which wasn't really very comfortable at all; crunched up with crumbling bricks at your back and the smell of old urine in the air) and sank slowly into the peaceful oblivion of sleep.
She dreamt of many things that night, of the dark minded man and the beautiful boy. Of the taller and the smaller under the earth and Alec's face as she refused his help. She dreamed of people and places and a single voice singing high like bird song throughout it all.
It was instinct that woke her when she felt something roughly take hold of her arm and she lashed out with her free arm at the suddenly frightened face the heavy set man that was holding her down. She'd landed only one good hit before another man took hold of her other arm. It was then that she realized six or so men were surrounding her and more were coming close to her to help hold down her flailing body. It was their mind-noise that drew her to a large pale haired man (supposedly their leader) and more importantly, the rusted iron bar he held in his hand. But her knowledge of what the iron bar was for could not stop the pale haired man from swinging it into her head. A hand clamped over her mouth and she vaguely realized through the white pain that consumed her body that she had been screaming. She kept on with her struggling, despite the fact that her mind teetered dangerously on the edge of consciousness.
Through the pain she realized suddenly that she couldn't hear the mind- voices, and the thought scared her. But they never gave her time to dwell on her fear, or muse as to why so many sneering men she had never seen before in her life were attacking her, because the iron bar came down again, this time for her arm. The sound and feeling of the bones of her arm shattering made her bite down on hand holding her screams in. There was suddenly blood from this hand she had bitten and her own blood trickling down into her eyes so that she could not see. Her ears received the many ugly words they threw at her and the fury of the man whose hand she had just injured.
The hands forced her up from the ground then and dragged her forward out of the ally and into the street which was suddenly full of people shouting and pointing at her as she stumbled along in the unforgiving hold of the sneering men. This new pressure on her broken arm made her screams come fresh and tears to join the blood running down her face.
No escape, her mind whispered to her. This is your death you face. They'll kill you. They'll kill you. She only needed her eyes to see the wooden 'X' they were dragging her towards to confirm the truth of this. Her ears heard the multitude of people screaming "Burn her!". The acrid smell of gasoline filled her nose and her teetering consciousness slipped and fell of into comforting blackness as her body went limp in the arms of her captors.
They'll kill you. This is your death.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~- ~-~-~
To be continued..
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As always, thank you to the people who reviewed the last chapter, in this case, chapter five. Thank you Mija, Not Telling, Motorcycle_Angel, Logan's Stalker (who is always so very flattering), Insane and last but certainly not least, the faithful Jojo. You guys have no idea how much you rock. Thank you again and again and again!