Author: Chippewa Livingston
Archive: Please ask
Disclaimer: I claim no affiliation or ownership of characters or material related to Dark Angel.
An Unauthorized Genetics Experiment: Donor
I sat on the window sill, and tried to decide whether or not I wanted a shirt. This late in August, people tend to feel chilly once the sun goes down. Male humans are not known for common sense, but there is just no point in making myself conspicuous.
Inside, the smell of cooking spices was temporarily overwhelming the combination of dog, mildew, and alcohol left over from whatever human-based life-forms used to spend their time here. The fresh air outside was tainted with diesel fumes from the freeway, garbage cans in the alley under the fire escape, and the scent of a cat in heat. Her two suitors were temporarily drowning out the noises from the plant two blocks away.
I promised myself another attempt to disinfect the apartment, and stepped out to sit in the shadows on the fire escape. The last traces of pink disappeared from the haze in the West. The trash four floors below me almost vanished in the shadows.
It seemed weird for me to be waiting. Well, no, that's not right. They trained me for an assassin, so I knew how to wait. Sometimes you waited for the right time to cross a security checkpoint. Sometimes you waited for the right time to approach your target. Sometimes you waited for the target to walk, unknowing, through the cross-hairs of a rifle scope.
That seemed different. I was waiting for nothing. I don't really know why.
I was trying to remember how long it had been, since my last mission, since the practice range back "home", and since I needed the sharp-edge focus to see nothing but my sights and a target. It wasn't like that any more, and I was having trouble thinking about it.
She turned the corner into the alley, and I thought about how I was going to find her a coat to cover up that white dress. She didn't belong here, even if her streaked hair matched the graffiti.
Her head swiveled to scan the scattered junk for wildlife, and she decided that the cats weren't worth disturbing. She let herself take a running jump onto the first level of the fire stairs, and the rusty steel under my jeans rang with the impact. Then her sensible, rubber-soled shoes were silent.
By the time she got to the fourth floor landing she noticed me. There was still enough light to pick out the color of her lipstick, and the geometric precision of her teeth when she smiles. It seemed strange that this is was I've been waiting for.
She stood next to me, and I put my arms around her legs. She leaned over and ran fingers through my hair. It would be long enough to put in a ponytail soon. Then, it was just long enough to cover the bar code.
"I am so glad to be back here with just the cats," she whisperd. "Two drunks were ready to fight over Mitzi!" She told me about Mitzi. I've never met the woman, but I could imagine blonde hair bleached to the texture of straw, the gray roots, the smell of cigarette smoke, and the lines around her eyes.
"Dinner's almost ready," I tried to tell her, but she was already inside.
I folded myself back through the window, and took three steps to the kitchen. A towel let me lift the lid. There was a strange symmetry. One pot, one burner that works, two miss-matched bowels from the Asian grocery where we bought the rice, and two people who were going to sit down to dinner.
I heard water running in the bathroom. She was always desperate to wash up after work. I knew, because the only way to get hot water there involves that same one pot, and the same stove burner.
She sat down in the one wooden chair, and let herself slump forward on to the card table. "I'm so tired," she said to the blue and white dish towels we used for napkins. Our forks and spoons actually matched. We don't think the previous tenant ever used them.
"Then I'll bring you dinner. It's about time someone waited on you, for a change." I turned off the burner, and divided the beans and rice between our two bowls.
I set down the food, and sat in my chair. (It used to be in an office, when all four of its wheels rolled). "I've got a real job this time. I think that last set of fake papers was good work."
"What is it this time?" She had heard too often about my one-day jobs. People want someone to carry boxes, dig holes, but just for the day.
"Welder's assistant. No skills required, just hard work."
"That must have taken some serious lying." She picked up her bowel with one hand curved around the bottom, and looked at me over the rim.
"I decided I was tired of that. I told him the truth."
The porcelain hit the table with a thud. "Are you insane?"
"Do I look stupid?" I had to laugh. "Just the important parts of the truth."
"Which are?" One eyebrow arched higher over blue eyes.
"That I got my girlfriend pregnant, and her parents will kill her if she goes home, and I want to take care of her and do the right thing."
She snorted. "That is just so corny and 1950s."
"That's what he told me, too. But I have the job. Union dues, payroll deduction for taxes, the whole thing."
"So what are you going to spend all that money on?"
Archive: Please ask
Disclaimer: I claim no affiliation or ownership of characters or material related to Dark Angel.
An Unauthorized Genetics Experiment: Donor
I sat on the window sill, and tried to decide whether or not I wanted a shirt. This late in August, people tend to feel chilly once the sun goes down. Male humans are not known for common sense, but there is just no point in making myself conspicuous.
Inside, the smell of cooking spices was temporarily overwhelming the combination of dog, mildew, and alcohol left over from whatever human-based life-forms used to spend their time here. The fresh air outside was tainted with diesel fumes from the freeway, garbage cans in the alley under the fire escape, and the scent of a cat in heat. Her two suitors were temporarily drowning out the noises from the plant two blocks away.
I promised myself another attempt to disinfect the apartment, and stepped out to sit in the shadows on the fire escape. The last traces of pink disappeared from the haze in the West. The trash four floors below me almost vanished in the shadows.
It seemed weird for me to be waiting. Well, no, that's not right. They trained me for an assassin, so I knew how to wait. Sometimes you waited for the right time to cross a security checkpoint. Sometimes you waited for the right time to approach your target. Sometimes you waited for the target to walk, unknowing, through the cross-hairs of a rifle scope.
That seemed different. I was waiting for nothing. I don't really know why.
I was trying to remember how long it had been, since my last mission, since the practice range back "home", and since I needed the sharp-edge focus to see nothing but my sights and a target. It wasn't like that any more, and I was having trouble thinking about it.
She turned the corner into the alley, and I thought about how I was going to find her a coat to cover up that white dress. She didn't belong here, even if her streaked hair matched the graffiti.
Her head swiveled to scan the scattered junk for wildlife, and she decided that the cats weren't worth disturbing. She let herself take a running jump onto the first level of the fire stairs, and the rusty steel under my jeans rang with the impact. Then her sensible, rubber-soled shoes were silent.
By the time she got to the fourth floor landing she noticed me. There was still enough light to pick out the color of her lipstick, and the geometric precision of her teeth when she smiles. It seemed strange that this is was I've been waiting for.
She stood next to me, and I put my arms around her legs. She leaned over and ran fingers through my hair. It would be long enough to put in a ponytail soon. Then, it was just long enough to cover the bar code.
"I am so glad to be back here with just the cats," she whisperd. "Two drunks were ready to fight over Mitzi!" She told me about Mitzi. I've never met the woman, but I could imagine blonde hair bleached to the texture of straw, the gray roots, the smell of cigarette smoke, and the lines around her eyes.
"Dinner's almost ready," I tried to tell her, but she was already inside.
I folded myself back through the window, and took three steps to the kitchen. A towel let me lift the lid. There was a strange symmetry. One pot, one burner that works, two miss-matched bowels from the Asian grocery where we bought the rice, and two people who were going to sit down to dinner.
I heard water running in the bathroom. She was always desperate to wash up after work. I knew, because the only way to get hot water there involves that same one pot, and the same stove burner.
She sat down in the one wooden chair, and let herself slump forward on to the card table. "I'm so tired," she said to the blue and white dish towels we used for napkins. Our forks and spoons actually matched. We don't think the previous tenant ever used them.
"Then I'll bring you dinner. It's about time someone waited on you, for a change." I turned off the burner, and divided the beans and rice between our two bowls.
I set down the food, and sat in my chair. (It used to be in an office, when all four of its wheels rolled). "I've got a real job this time. I think that last set of fake papers was good work."
"What is it this time?" She had heard too often about my one-day jobs. People want someone to carry boxes, dig holes, but just for the day.
"Welder's assistant. No skills required, just hard work."
"That must have taken some serious lying." She picked up her bowel with one hand curved around the bottom, and looked at me over the rim.
"I decided I was tired of that. I told him the truth."
The porcelain hit the table with a thud. "Are you insane?"
"Do I look stupid?" I had to laugh. "Just the important parts of the truth."
"Which are?" One eyebrow arched higher over blue eyes.
"That I got my girlfriend pregnant, and her parents will kill her if she goes home, and I want to take care of her and do the right thing."
She snorted. "That is just so corny and 1950s."
"That's what he told me, too. But I have the job. Union dues, payroll deduction for taxes, the whole thing."
"So what are you going to spend all that money on?"