Vanishing Into Thin Air
A special project from Manticore...
DISCLAIMERS: The only characters I own are the ones not recognizable from the show. All others belong to James Cameron & Co., et cetera, et cetera.... please don't sue me.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please review and I will continue the story. Hope ya like it!
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LYDECKER: The first Z-series were created around the same time as the X-4s. The Z-series did not receive the same military training as their counterparts; they were trained to be spies, not soldiers.
The Z-1s were terminated before birth when several debilitating genetic defects were discovered. The Z-2s were used as a control group. Shortly after birth, they were given to foster families across the United States without any knowledge of their origin. The Board monitored the Z-2s closely, observing their progress. After the escape in 09 and subsequently the Pulse, the Board decided to bring the Z-2s back to Manticore for safety reasons. Most of them were recalled and reprogrammed successfully, though a few still remain missing.
It was the Z-3 group that was particularly interesting. The first of the Z-3s was born in November 2005. They had the same genetic structure as the X-6 group, with a few alterations. The Z-3s were entered into Project Phoenix a few years after birth.
Project Phoenix was one of the riskiest experiments approved by the Board. The project scientists argued that it would revolutionize military intelligence. Their plan sounded indestructible to the Board. But they underestimated how well the experiments would work, as well as the Z-3s themselves.
LYRA: Whenever I think about Manticore, it takes a lot of effort not to scream aloud with anger. Those ba$tards took more than eight years of my life, and now they hunt me like I'm some rat that got in the house. It's been five years since the escape, and they haven't caught this rat yet. I still remember the barbed wire, the searchlights, the blood--no, they'll never catch me. I won't go back to Manticore.
A neon sign blinking in the gray, early morning light of the Seattle alleyway proclaimed: ABE'S ANTIQUES. Below the sign, a rust-colored metal door stood, barely distinguishable from the bricks around it. It was toward this door that a girl swiftly walked. She was of medium height,
with wavy golden-blond hair reaching past her shoulders. She wore faded jeans and a black leather jacket over a T-shirt. Her tattered sneakers padded almost noiselessly along the garbage-strewn alley.
The girl stopped at the door of the antique shop. She glanced around cautiously before rapping three times on the door. After a moment, it opened a crack. The gruff voice of a man spoke: Who's there?
It's me, Abe, the girl said. Her voice was somewhat low in pitch.
The man opened the door further, letting her in. I didn't know it was you, kid. Those gangsters were roaring down Washington Street last night, keepin' me awake. Abe closed the door and yawned. He was middle-aged, short, and had small, squinty eyes. His wrinkled button-up shirt was as gray as his thinning hair. Muttering about coffee he vanished into a room behind the counter of his shop.
The girl looked around the dark, dusty antique shop. Battered chests of drawers and rolltop desks were crammed next to grimy porcelain vases. Few of the items were truly antique; most had been made before the Pulse and were more or less well-crafted. the store was neither large, nor very prosperous, but there were plenty of rich people who liked old furniture. The girl didn't really care. Her job was easy; Abe paid pretty well, and he didn't ask questions.
Abraham Miros sipped his coffee slowly while standing at the counter. It was fake coffee-- he hadn't had the real stuff in months--but it woke him up a little. He watched the girl as she wandered around the room. He knew she was checking off the inventory in her head, making sure nothing was missing; it was as much a part of her morning routine as his coffee was a part of his own. Though the girl was only thirteen, still a kid, she was good. Ever since he'd hired her, not a single antique had been stolen.
Abe remembered the day she had walked into his store, about three months ago. God knows why she was there--he didn't even remember seeing her come through the door--but at any rate, she somehow caught the thief who'd tried to steal a thousand-dollar watch. Abe hired her on the spot, and business had gotten better since then. Sure, he had worried about hiring the girl at first. She could be a thief herself, for all Abe knew. But he had to admit, Lyra was a good security guard.