When I turned seventeen, there were a few brief spurts of transgenic media interest, particularly in the area of publications. Most of the books were of little interest to me- one, an awful thesis by some Professor of Transgenic Relations, explored the various 'groups' of transgenics. There were 'true' transgenics (anomalies and Special Ops) and 'false' transgenics (X-series and human-looking Special Ops).
Then there were several sub-groups, but in particular I remember the author's mention of second-generation transgenics. Apparently I was 'blood-contaminated' from simply being born. Aya, being a second-generation mixed series, was worse off. He might as well have been a tabloid writer- in fact, he probably was.
A book I liked was a short biography written by some guy named Case M. Smith from Canada. He was half-Ordinary, half-X5... his mother had died when he was five. His book was well researched. He'd tracked down some of his mother's fellow X5s and even some of the Manticore technicians and doctors. Although Steel and I laughed at the dedication ('For my mother, the transgenic queen'), by the time we were five pages in I realised it wasn't meant to be funny. It was a heartfelt piece of writing and remains one of my favourite books even today.
There were some OK compilations as well- there aren't many former City residents I know with the patience to write an entire book by themselves. But largely they sucked. So it was with annoyance that I set out to write an essay for my English class on my family and their history, and with indignation that I stood up to read it out.
I went to an Ordinary high school still, and there had been a small number of second-generation transgenics to join the alumni. Like me, they had no interest in learning.
It was a miracle I graduated at all. I was naturally intelligent, but I had a fair few gaps in my knowledge, which I didn't care to fill.
I cleared my throat. "My essay's name is-"
"Title, Miss Xavier. It's called a title," my English teacher Mr Rockwell interrupted.
Rolling my eyes, I started over. "My essay's title is 'My Family: An Essay by Free Xavier, Aged Seventeen, For My Third-Period English Class.'"
There were sniggers even from the other second-generation transgenics. I glared at them and continued.
"For seventeen years family has come to mean a whole lot of different things. When I was little and lived in Terminal City, I was taught to think of everyone as family. Our parents had all come outta the same test tube, after all. But seriously, what is a family? I looked it up in the dictionary- 'Noun meaning a set of relatives, especially parents and children.' That's not very specific. Then again, the dictionary rarely is."
I paused. Mr Rockwell raised his eyebrows. "Is that your whole essay, Miss Xavier?"
"No, sir." I closed my eyes and went on. "If the transgenics of the City could rewrite the dictionary- or at least, if I could- the definition would probably say 'Noun meaning a set of individuals bound by their history, their unity and their love for each other and in particular by their deep admiration of the other family members.' For my family are heroes. Not all of them look human. Not all of them are saints. But they are wonderful people who I both tolerate and can't live without."
The room had gone quiet.
"My family are, at the very least, my mom Kara Xavier, my deceased dad Splint Xavier, my older brother Justin Xavier and my younger sister Steel Xavier. Then there are the hordes of extended family- aunts in spirit, uncles in arms, pseudocousins and then the ones I can't even assign a label. Some I have never met but have a respect and awe for that overcomes the boundaries of life and death- like my mother's identical twin, Eva Guevara, one of the X5 heroes who died when she was only nine so that her family could live. She, along with my mom, is one of my role models. I only wish that I could have met her."
I read off the paper and even though I considered this whole English essay thing to be an utter bore, my voice couldn't help but adopt a soft and reverent tone.
"My family is many things to many people. Monsters. Martyrs. Men and women of honour. But to me my family of anomalies, Special Ops and X-series is as natural and good as anything an Ordinary could boast. They are magnificent. They are mine."
I sat down and folded my hands in my lap, listening with uncharacteristic politeness to the other essays. As the bell rang, Mr Rockwell asked me to stay behind.
Some of the girls nudged me and grinned- they were Mr Rockwell's little fan club. I sighed at their childish antics- I thought he was pathetic.
"Miss Xavier, what do you plan to do with your life?" he asked as soon as we were alone. "Do you want to go to college?"
I raised my eyebrows. He was asking a girl wearing deep black eyeliner, henna tattoos and a ripped Ozomatli t-shirt who had hardly been in his class two weeks over the entire year if she wanted to go to college? Honestly. What did he THINK I wanted to do with my life?
"No, I'm not planning on college. I'm going to keep my job as a security guard. The pay is OK, and... yeah. Can I go now, sir?"
He gave me a long look. "Did you write that essay, Miss Xavier?"
"'Course I did."
"You must know you have a talent for writing-"
I gazed at him blankly.
"- or not. Hasn't anyone ever told you that you're good at this?"
I shook my head. "No, sir."
"I think you should consider writing as a career, Miss Xavier."
"Can't, sir. Writing stories doesn't pay the bills. It was most likely a fluke anyhow; I get Cs in English."
"Have you ever taken any writing workshops, Miss Xavier? Had any tutoring?"
"Like I said, I get Cs. What's the point?"
"You and your talent may someday have a formidable impact on the writing world. Free, I'd like you to do something for me."
"Extra homework?" I whined.
"Just a little. I'd like you to write something for me."
"OK," I sighed. "What, exactly? Poetry, prose...?"
"Just anything you want. And I'd like it within the week."
"You're torturing me, Mr Rockwell."
"Such is the life of an English teacher. You may leave now, Free."
I slouched around at home that evening. Justin sauntered into the kitchen and gaped at me. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm usually home about this time, aren't I?"
"Yeah, but... you're doing homework. You're not even listening to the radio. Pre-Pulse Top Thirty is on! You never miss Pre-Pulse Top Thirty!"
"Well, tonight I do. Mr Rockwell gave me extra homework."
He groaned loudly and sat down at the table with me. "Please, Free. Don't tell me you've become one of the for-life members of the I Heart Mr Rockwell Club."
"Nah. He's pathetic. I hate him."
Justin shrugged. I tried to start another essay, failed, crumpled up that attempt and crammed it into a full wastebasket.
Another attempt. Another.
"It WAS a fluke!" I snapped venomously. I couldn't take it. That bastard had tried to delude me I had some kind of... talent, some kind of thing I could do that wasn't inherited from my parents' genetic code.
"What was?" It was Mom this time, yawning and stretching like a house cat as she came into the kitchen. She gave me an odd look. "Why isn't the radio on?"
"I need to concentrate."
"Why, what are you doing?"
"Homework."
"No, really, what are you doing?"
"IS IT SO HARD FOR ANYONE IN THIS FAMILY TO BELIEVE I MIGHT WANT TO BETTER MYSELF AND FURTHER MY EDUCATION?" I screamed at her, and buried my head dejectedly in my arms.
I heard her come and sit beside me. "What's wrong, Free?"
"Do you think," I asked, more to the tabletop than to her, "that transgenics can do things that don't rely on their looks or their muscles, and be really good at them?"
"Why not?" replied Mom. "They've told me my twin loved music when she was a little child. She could have grown up to be some kind of musical prodigy. Wouldn't have been too extraordinary given her genes but... your dad said to me, he said, 'Kara, your sister loved music. It wasn't just her talent. It was her favourite thing in the world.'"
I frowned. "Where the hell did Eva Guevara learn what music was?"
"You know, nobody really knows. It's a complete mystery. But the fact is, she knew more about music that any of the X5 class at the time. She WANTED to know about it, how it was accomplished. Why, why did you want to know?"
"I have to write this crappy essay thing for Mr Rockwell."
"Don't swear, Free. What about?"
"Anything."
"Well, what do you know about?"
"Transgenics. I'm good at writing about transgenics."
"Fine, then. Write about transgenics. And put some music on, hearing silence in the kitchen is scaring your brother and myself, not to mention the neighbours."
She tuned the radio to the Pre-Pulse Top Thirty. "... and that was Air with 'Playground Love'. Now is a classic track by The Offspring. It's 'Amazed' and it's on the Pre-Pulse Top Thirty," said the DJ.
I, like many transgenics including my hero, Eva, enjoy music. Every time I listen to a song in my mom's home, wherever it may be at any one time, I always feel like whatever singer it is sings only to me, empowering me with their words.
A man began to sing on the radio. "Sometimes I think I'm gonna drown 'cause everyone around's so hollow. I'm alone. Sometimes I think I'm going down but no one makes a sound. They follow and I'm alone."
I imagine that's what Eva felt like as a small child, sitting in the dark, all alone and listening to a guard's radio, learning lessons of life and love from these... people, these role models and surrogate parents who gave her only their songs.
I wrote, listening to the music as it filled me.
Here is what I read aloud to Mr Rockwell when I gave him the paper.
THE FALL
AN ESSAY BY FREE XAVIER, AGED SEVENTEEN
I am not seventeen and a woman. I am eight years old. I am a child.
I am not capable of defending myself. I am strong and scared and I want my mommy to take care of me and tell me that everything will be all right.
But my mommy is a good woman and doesn't ever lie to me.
There is a riot outside. My brother and sister are all I have.
I don't know where my parents are.
There is noise, and screams from outside. Why are there screams?
I remember times when I literally got my hand caught in the cookie jar.
Grabbing morsels left over from dinner the night before.
Mom would yell at me because food was scarce, and I'd yell out to her what I'm thinking now.
"What did I do that was wrong? Why do I deserve this?"
We're running. A lot happens. There are murders of people who will never be people, and I see a woman who's supposed to be a girl, who isn't alive, who rescues me from danger.
It's a blur until after the end. When I see my father's body in the street.
And I silently beg my big brother not to call out to him. It will make it real.
Justin yells out to his dad, my dad, our dad who is lying on the ground, and I know we'll never be a family again.
"DAD!"
And my face is all over the country, and it makes them ashamed. I lie in my bed and cry, holding my little sister in my arms like she's my baby and not my sibling.
Dad, where are you?
You're not a soldier any more. You're a dad. Our dad. You didn't have to fight.
Nobody was making you fight.
Dad, come back. Mom isn't crying and it makes me scared. They used to hit her if she cried.
Come back, tell her nobody's gonna hit her any more.
Steel is crying again. She's woken up. She cries what I want to cry too.
"Dad, come back. You're not dead. You're not dead."
And suddenly I'm seventeen. I am a woman. I can defend myself.
I'm smart, I know it, and I have a job. I buy my own things.
But I still shake and cry in my bed at night, wondering what went wrong.
Dad... every time I lie on my bed, tired after walking home, I press my face into my pillow and try to stop breathing.
Trying to get where you are.
I don't really want to leave Mom and Steel and Justin, like you did.
I just want you to hug me one last time.
I read this to Mr Rockwell after class. He was silent as I finished. "I'll thank you for not making me read this to the class," I mumbled to my feet.
"It's... good, Free, very good. It's all true, hmm?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry."
"Mmm."
"What was your dad's name?"
"Splint. I'll thank you not to laugh. I think it's a pretty good name. I'm naming my first son Splint. I'm naming my daughters Kara, Eva and Steel, in that order. If I have another son I'm naming him Justin- if it's a girl Justine."
"After family?"
"Yes."
"I wasn't going to laugh at your father's name, Free."
"I know. I guess I'd have to forgive you. A six-year-old made it up. But it's great. Do you want me to do any more extra homework, sir?"
"No, Free. The rest of this is up to you."
That night I drummed my fingers on the tabletop as Steel sauntered in. "Gonna be Justin's birthday soon."
"Yeah."
"I think I'll make him some shelves."
"He has shelves."
"I'll make him some more shelves. What about you?"
"I dunno."
"I'll leave you to your thoughts. I need a screwdriver, I'm gonna call Deon- see if he has one."
"You do that," I replied, and watched my sister leave.
A quiet voice drifted from the radio. I turned it up. "The chills that you spill down my back keep me filled with satisfaction when we're done, satisfaction of what's to come. I couldn't ask for another," I sang along. "No, I couldn't ask for another."
Hesitantly, I picked up a piece of paper and a pen off the kitchen counter and started to scribble. "This is a story," I read aloud quietly from the paper as Deee-Lite played in the background, "dedicated to my older brother Justin in honour of his nineteenth birthday, with love from your younger sister Free Xavier..."
* * *
DISCLAIMER: 'Dark Angel' belongs to Fox and James Cameron. 'Groove Is In The Heart' belongs to Deee-Lite and 'Amazed' belongs to The Offspring. Not me. So don't sue.
NOTE: I'd like to extend a big thank you to Hearns at this point for sending me the review that helped me get off my arse and finish what I had started of this chapter. Although it isn't exactly what you asked for, Hearns, I hope that you enjoyed it.
Oh, and everyone? I have an online journal up. If you're interested, which you're most likely not, it's under the section for a personal link on my profile. Laters, all!
Then there were several sub-groups, but in particular I remember the author's mention of second-generation transgenics. Apparently I was 'blood-contaminated' from simply being born. Aya, being a second-generation mixed series, was worse off. He might as well have been a tabloid writer- in fact, he probably was.
A book I liked was a short biography written by some guy named Case M. Smith from Canada. He was half-Ordinary, half-X5... his mother had died when he was five. His book was well researched. He'd tracked down some of his mother's fellow X5s and even some of the Manticore technicians and doctors. Although Steel and I laughed at the dedication ('For my mother, the transgenic queen'), by the time we were five pages in I realised it wasn't meant to be funny. It was a heartfelt piece of writing and remains one of my favourite books even today.
There were some OK compilations as well- there aren't many former City residents I know with the patience to write an entire book by themselves. But largely they sucked. So it was with annoyance that I set out to write an essay for my English class on my family and their history, and with indignation that I stood up to read it out.
I went to an Ordinary high school still, and there had been a small number of second-generation transgenics to join the alumni. Like me, they had no interest in learning.
It was a miracle I graduated at all. I was naturally intelligent, but I had a fair few gaps in my knowledge, which I didn't care to fill.
I cleared my throat. "My essay's name is-"
"Title, Miss Xavier. It's called a title," my English teacher Mr Rockwell interrupted.
Rolling my eyes, I started over. "My essay's title is 'My Family: An Essay by Free Xavier, Aged Seventeen, For My Third-Period English Class.'"
There were sniggers even from the other second-generation transgenics. I glared at them and continued.
"For seventeen years family has come to mean a whole lot of different things. When I was little and lived in Terminal City, I was taught to think of everyone as family. Our parents had all come outta the same test tube, after all. But seriously, what is a family? I looked it up in the dictionary- 'Noun meaning a set of relatives, especially parents and children.' That's not very specific. Then again, the dictionary rarely is."
I paused. Mr Rockwell raised his eyebrows. "Is that your whole essay, Miss Xavier?"
"No, sir." I closed my eyes and went on. "If the transgenics of the City could rewrite the dictionary- or at least, if I could- the definition would probably say 'Noun meaning a set of individuals bound by their history, their unity and their love for each other and in particular by their deep admiration of the other family members.' For my family are heroes. Not all of them look human. Not all of them are saints. But they are wonderful people who I both tolerate and can't live without."
The room had gone quiet.
"My family are, at the very least, my mom Kara Xavier, my deceased dad Splint Xavier, my older brother Justin Xavier and my younger sister Steel Xavier. Then there are the hordes of extended family- aunts in spirit, uncles in arms, pseudocousins and then the ones I can't even assign a label. Some I have never met but have a respect and awe for that overcomes the boundaries of life and death- like my mother's identical twin, Eva Guevara, one of the X5 heroes who died when she was only nine so that her family could live. She, along with my mom, is one of my role models. I only wish that I could have met her."
I read off the paper and even though I considered this whole English essay thing to be an utter bore, my voice couldn't help but adopt a soft and reverent tone.
"My family is many things to many people. Monsters. Martyrs. Men and women of honour. But to me my family of anomalies, Special Ops and X-series is as natural and good as anything an Ordinary could boast. They are magnificent. They are mine."
I sat down and folded my hands in my lap, listening with uncharacteristic politeness to the other essays. As the bell rang, Mr Rockwell asked me to stay behind.
Some of the girls nudged me and grinned- they were Mr Rockwell's little fan club. I sighed at their childish antics- I thought he was pathetic.
"Miss Xavier, what do you plan to do with your life?" he asked as soon as we were alone. "Do you want to go to college?"
I raised my eyebrows. He was asking a girl wearing deep black eyeliner, henna tattoos and a ripped Ozomatli t-shirt who had hardly been in his class two weeks over the entire year if she wanted to go to college? Honestly. What did he THINK I wanted to do with my life?
"No, I'm not planning on college. I'm going to keep my job as a security guard. The pay is OK, and... yeah. Can I go now, sir?"
He gave me a long look. "Did you write that essay, Miss Xavier?"
"'Course I did."
"You must know you have a talent for writing-"
I gazed at him blankly.
"- or not. Hasn't anyone ever told you that you're good at this?"
I shook my head. "No, sir."
"I think you should consider writing as a career, Miss Xavier."
"Can't, sir. Writing stories doesn't pay the bills. It was most likely a fluke anyhow; I get Cs in English."
"Have you ever taken any writing workshops, Miss Xavier? Had any tutoring?"
"Like I said, I get Cs. What's the point?"
"You and your talent may someday have a formidable impact on the writing world. Free, I'd like you to do something for me."
"Extra homework?" I whined.
"Just a little. I'd like you to write something for me."
"OK," I sighed. "What, exactly? Poetry, prose...?"
"Just anything you want. And I'd like it within the week."
"You're torturing me, Mr Rockwell."
"Such is the life of an English teacher. You may leave now, Free."
I slouched around at home that evening. Justin sauntered into the kitchen and gaped at me. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm usually home about this time, aren't I?"
"Yeah, but... you're doing homework. You're not even listening to the radio. Pre-Pulse Top Thirty is on! You never miss Pre-Pulse Top Thirty!"
"Well, tonight I do. Mr Rockwell gave me extra homework."
He groaned loudly and sat down at the table with me. "Please, Free. Don't tell me you've become one of the for-life members of the I Heart Mr Rockwell Club."
"Nah. He's pathetic. I hate him."
Justin shrugged. I tried to start another essay, failed, crumpled up that attempt and crammed it into a full wastebasket.
Another attempt. Another.
"It WAS a fluke!" I snapped venomously. I couldn't take it. That bastard had tried to delude me I had some kind of... talent, some kind of thing I could do that wasn't inherited from my parents' genetic code.
"What was?" It was Mom this time, yawning and stretching like a house cat as she came into the kitchen. She gave me an odd look. "Why isn't the radio on?"
"I need to concentrate."
"Why, what are you doing?"
"Homework."
"No, really, what are you doing?"
"IS IT SO HARD FOR ANYONE IN THIS FAMILY TO BELIEVE I MIGHT WANT TO BETTER MYSELF AND FURTHER MY EDUCATION?" I screamed at her, and buried my head dejectedly in my arms.
I heard her come and sit beside me. "What's wrong, Free?"
"Do you think," I asked, more to the tabletop than to her, "that transgenics can do things that don't rely on their looks or their muscles, and be really good at them?"
"Why not?" replied Mom. "They've told me my twin loved music when she was a little child. She could have grown up to be some kind of musical prodigy. Wouldn't have been too extraordinary given her genes but... your dad said to me, he said, 'Kara, your sister loved music. It wasn't just her talent. It was her favourite thing in the world.'"
I frowned. "Where the hell did Eva Guevara learn what music was?"
"You know, nobody really knows. It's a complete mystery. But the fact is, she knew more about music that any of the X5 class at the time. She WANTED to know about it, how it was accomplished. Why, why did you want to know?"
"I have to write this crappy essay thing for Mr Rockwell."
"Don't swear, Free. What about?"
"Anything."
"Well, what do you know about?"
"Transgenics. I'm good at writing about transgenics."
"Fine, then. Write about transgenics. And put some music on, hearing silence in the kitchen is scaring your brother and myself, not to mention the neighbours."
She tuned the radio to the Pre-Pulse Top Thirty. "... and that was Air with 'Playground Love'. Now is a classic track by The Offspring. It's 'Amazed' and it's on the Pre-Pulse Top Thirty," said the DJ.
I, like many transgenics including my hero, Eva, enjoy music. Every time I listen to a song in my mom's home, wherever it may be at any one time, I always feel like whatever singer it is sings only to me, empowering me with their words.
A man began to sing on the radio. "Sometimes I think I'm gonna drown 'cause everyone around's so hollow. I'm alone. Sometimes I think I'm going down but no one makes a sound. They follow and I'm alone."
I imagine that's what Eva felt like as a small child, sitting in the dark, all alone and listening to a guard's radio, learning lessons of life and love from these... people, these role models and surrogate parents who gave her only their songs.
I wrote, listening to the music as it filled me.
Here is what I read aloud to Mr Rockwell when I gave him the paper.
THE FALL
AN ESSAY BY FREE XAVIER, AGED SEVENTEEN
I am not seventeen and a woman. I am eight years old. I am a child.
I am not capable of defending myself. I am strong and scared and I want my mommy to take care of me and tell me that everything will be all right.
But my mommy is a good woman and doesn't ever lie to me.
There is a riot outside. My brother and sister are all I have.
I don't know where my parents are.
There is noise, and screams from outside. Why are there screams?
I remember times when I literally got my hand caught in the cookie jar.
Grabbing morsels left over from dinner the night before.
Mom would yell at me because food was scarce, and I'd yell out to her what I'm thinking now.
"What did I do that was wrong? Why do I deserve this?"
We're running. A lot happens. There are murders of people who will never be people, and I see a woman who's supposed to be a girl, who isn't alive, who rescues me from danger.
It's a blur until after the end. When I see my father's body in the street.
And I silently beg my big brother not to call out to him. It will make it real.
Justin yells out to his dad, my dad, our dad who is lying on the ground, and I know we'll never be a family again.
"DAD!"
And my face is all over the country, and it makes them ashamed. I lie in my bed and cry, holding my little sister in my arms like she's my baby and not my sibling.
Dad, where are you?
You're not a soldier any more. You're a dad. Our dad. You didn't have to fight.
Nobody was making you fight.
Dad, come back. Mom isn't crying and it makes me scared. They used to hit her if she cried.
Come back, tell her nobody's gonna hit her any more.
Steel is crying again. She's woken up. She cries what I want to cry too.
"Dad, come back. You're not dead. You're not dead."
And suddenly I'm seventeen. I am a woman. I can defend myself.
I'm smart, I know it, and I have a job. I buy my own things.
But I still shake and cry in my bed at night, wondering what went wrong.
Dad... every time I lie on my bed, tired after walking home, I press my face into my pillow and try to stop breathing.
Trying to get where you are.
I don't really want to leave Mom and Steel and Justin, like you did.
I just want you to hug me one last time.
I read this to Mr Rockwell after class. He was silent as I finished. "I'll thank you for not making me read this to the class," I mumbled to my feet.
"It's... good, Free, very good. It's all true, hmm?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry."
"Mmm."
"What was your dad's name?"
"Splint. I'll thank you not to laugh. I think it's a pretty good name. I'm naming my first son Splint. I'm naming my daughters Kara, Eva and Steel, in that order. If I have another son I'm naming him Justin- if it's a girl Justine."
"After family?"
"Yes."
"I wasn't going to laugh at your father's name, Free."
"I know. I guess I'd have to forgive you. A six-year-old made it up. But it's great. Do you want me to do any more extra homework, sir?"
"No, Free. The rest of this is up to you."
That night I drummed my fingers on the tabletop as Steel sauntered in. "Gonna be Justin's birthday soon."
"Yeah."
"I think I'll make him some shelves."
"He has shelves."
"I'll make him some more shelves. What about you?"
"I dunno."
"I'll leave you to your thoughts. I need a screwdriver, I'm gonna call Deon- see if he has one."
"You do that," I replied, and watched my sister leave.
A quiet voice drifted from the radio. I turned it up. "The chills that you spill down my back keep me filled with satisfaction when we're done, satisfaction of what's to come. I couldn't ask for another," I sang along. "No, I couldn't ask for another."
Hesitantly, I picked up a piece of paper and a pen off the kitchen counter and started to scribble. "This is a story," I read aloud quietly from the paper as Deee-Lite played in the background, "dedicated to my older brother Justin in honour of his nineteenth birthday, with love from your younger sister Free Xavier..."
* * *
DISCLAIMER: 'Dark Angel' belongs to Fox and James Cameron. 'Groove Is In The Heart' belongs to Deee-Lite and 'Amazed' belongs to The Offspring. Not me. So don't sue.
NOTE: I'd like to extend a big thank you to Hearns at this point for sending me the review that helped me get off my arse and finish what I had started of this chapter. Although it isn't exactly what you asked for, Hearns, I hope that you enjoyed it.
Oh, and everyone? I have an online journal up. If you're interested, which you're most likely not, it's under the section for a personal link on my profile. Laters, all!