Disclaimer: I do not own Dark Angel. Dark Angel and all characters, settings, etc. portrayed therein belong to such creative geniuses as James Cameron, Charles Eglee, and anyone else who might sue me if I didn't write this disclaimer.
The Guardian
The woman gazed up at the night sky, her eyes studying the shape of the winter moon before following its pale light down to the snow covered ground at her feet. Frowning, she crossed her arms in front of her chest and rubbed her bare forearms, almost as if to ward away the chill of the February night, but she could feel nothing of the cold.
Any moment now, she thought, any moment.
A bird fluttered in a tree overhead, knocking a dead twig from the upper branches. It fell slowly from above, breaking the smooth surface of the snow where she stood with a soft 'plop,' snow that lay pristine and unmarked by the imprints of her bare feet, but she paid it no mind. Shifting slightly, she took a few steps to her left, out of her place in the undergrowth and into the yard around the building. Her thin blue dress swayed lightly in the breeze, but she did not worry. No one would see her.
Fixing her eyes upon a window, she said a silent prayer and sighed as the sounds of shattering glass broke the thin night air, but sighing was a useless action, a leftover habit from long ago and nothing of the sort of necessity. Like breathing, it held no real meaning to her, not anymore. She hadn't breathed in over a decade.
They were her children.
She had watched over them all since the moment when each had been born, pulled unwillingly from the warm comfort of a surrogate's womb and thrust into a world far different than the world of other little children. There had been no Santa Claus for them, no trick-or-treating, no Easter bunny. Instead, they had taught them to be soldiers.
As soon as they had been able to stand, the instructors had tried to teach them to march, to stand in formation, and to salute. Children, she had always believed, were meant to be a little unruly. They were meant to run about in disorder, to play loudly, and to splash in mud puddles whenever the spirit so moved them. Childhood was about those sorts of things, but not about marching and saluting and yelling "yes, ma'am" and "no, sir" like mindless little robots. Her heart, long since cold and silent within her chest, had broken a bit at the sadness of it all.
They were children, only children, and since they had no mother, she filled in as best she could. She knew that she could not hold them as little children ought to be held because when she reached out to touch them, they could not feel her hand. She knew that she could not kiss their boo-boos and give them band-aids, and since they could not see her in wakefulness, she had comforted them in their dreams. Every night she waited for them to fall asleep before settling their covers more firmly about them, and then she would sing to them a lullaby that her own mother had often sung, knowing that they would not remember their dreams in the light of day.
Things weren't so bad at first. Soon after they had mastered the fine art of marching, they had taken them into the schoolroom, and she had discovered just how smart her children were. At the age in which most little boys and girls were having bedtime stories read to them, her little children were reading on their own, and she had beamed with pride as they read their lessons aloud. She would have been lying to say that she approved of such little ones reading about combat tactics and memorizing long lists of military terms when they should have been reading fairy tales, but she was proud, just the same.
She could remember the day when everything had started to change. She had been watching the little brunette with the haunting brown eyes sparring with the little blonde girl when the men had come into the gymnasium. She had known that Lydecker was coming even before she had seen him, and she had known then that things would never be the same again.
That first day he had taken them to the pool and tested them to see just how long they could hold their breath. She had thought it a bizarre exercise and had worried a bit that one of them might drown, but one by one, they had all broken the surface when they needed another breath, so she had watched over them with apprehension, especially the little boy who seemed so much weaker than the rest. But, like everything else here, the beginning was nothing. In the beginning, they had been allowed to come up for air. Later on, they were tied down.
The experiments started right after that, and the first time they had brought the children back to the cold, colorless barracks she had been horrified. They had broken . . . no, more like cut . . . their little bones for no good reason that she could see. The ones who had been taken were brought back with the injured appendage wrapped in clean bandages, but there were no casts for these children, no lollipops for their bravery, and no cartoon animals drawn on plaster of Paris by smiling pediatricians, only cold metal braces beneath the bandages to hold the bones in place. She later realized that the doctors unwrapped them every day to study the way the bones were healing.
They would usually come in the mornings, and sometimes they wouldn't bring the children back for several days. She would visit them often in the infirmary, sitting with them late into the night, though no one knew that she was there. Eventually, she found the courage to stay during the procedures, and she would hold their unfeeling hands in her own and pray as people in ugly suits, masquerading as doctors – weren't real doctors supposed to make people better? – did horrible things to her children. She was there when they injected them with horrible diseases to see if they were strong enough to survive. She held a little blonde girl's hand when her spinal cord was cut because they wanted to know how fast it would grow back together. She stood by her side and watched her heal, dry tears running down her lifeless cheeks as the little girl learned to walk all over again. And then the doctors came and took her away, and she held her hand as they started all over again.
And then came the first casualty, a dark haired little boy who was accidentally shot as they snuck through the woods in their camouflage, the guns they'd been taught to use held firmly in their hands. She hadn't been there that day, and it had been hard to forgive herself for letting him die alone. Was he frightened, she had wondered, as he looked down at his own body? Was he afraid of the bright light when they came to take him away? Did he run from them instead of following? Is he still out there somewhere in those woods, wandering about in limbo? Somehow, she knew that everything was okay, that he had followed instead of running, and that thought, at least, gave her comfort.
Still, there were bright spots to her heart-wrenching days. At night, alone in their barracks, they were almost like normal children. Sitting up in their beds, they would make up stories to tell each other, stories about "good soldiers" and "nomalies" that reminded her of fairytales about knights slaying dragons, and she would sit on the corner of one of their little beds and listen with them. One of the little boys discovered that he could make shadow puppets with the moonlight that shown in through the window, and sometimes the little girls would climb onto a bed in a circle and whisper to each other in low voices. She never knew what they whispered about. All little girls are entitled to their own secrets, and so she would leave them be, but she couldn't help but smile as they whispered and giggled back and forth.
It was on one such night that they named each other, despite the fact that they had already been "named" by the numbers which had been assigned to each before their birth. She discovered with joy that the little girl with the haunting brown eyes was called Max, and her friend with the blonde hair, the one whose spinal cord had been cut, was Jondy. The boy with the wonderful stories, the one who made shadow puppets with the moonlight, was Ben. She learned the other names as well, Krit, Jace, Zane, Syl, Tinga, Jack, and all the others. Even the little boy who seemed to be in charge, the one who acted as though he carried the weight of the world upon his little shoulders, had a name. He was Zack. But the brightest spot of all had come when she hadn't expected it at all.
Max was sick. They had given her an injection of something, she had fallen ill, and they had taken her to the infirmary. Her little forehead was burning up, and the doctors had buzzed about, taking her temperature and shaking their heads sadly. She sat there with her that evening, holding her hand between her own, but she had not worried. Years ago, soon after she had died, she had learned that those who were about to die could see her, but Max only lay in her bed, staring silently at the ceiling, so she knew that the girl would live.
Around midnight, the door to Max's room had swung silently open, and she had frozen at the sight of Lydecker as he crept silently into the room and took his place beside the little girl's bed. A tear had trickled down her lifeless cheek, and a prayer had formed on her lips when she heard him begin to speak, and she had stopped to listen. He said nothing of consequence that night, only words to assure the girl that she was a good soldier and that she would be okay, and as the night wore on, the little girl, exhausted by her fight with the fever, finally succumbed to sleep. Lydecker had sat there and watched her for a while, studying her with a peculiar light in his eye, and then, just before dawn, he had spoken again. "There's no other way," he had said, sounding more as if he were speaking to himself than to the little girl beside him, and then he had risen to leave.
There's a chance, she thought with a smile, as the door closed softly behind him, but she knew that that chance was dependent upon Lydecker. His feelings of regret for the life this little girl led might be the only chance, but still, it was a beginning. With a smile breaking over her face, she had leaned over to kiss Max's feverish forehead, and for just a moment, the world had seemed a whole lot brighter.
Life, or rather afterlife, moved quickly after that. Somehow she knew that something was about to happen, that the day-in and day-out routine of the children's lives was about to come to an end, much like a bomb ticking down to zero, but she didn't know how until Jack, the weak little boy she had so worried about, had a seizure and collapsed in formation. She had seen the well-masked worry on Lydecker's face as they had wheeled the boy in on a gurney. She had watched him veil the shock as he spoke to a superior on the phone, and she had seen the sadness in his eyes as he had turned and nodded to a young doctor, but the young man showed no signs of remorse as he reached for a syringe, filled it with a solution from a mysterious bottle, and injected it into a vein in the little boy's arm.
From her place in the doorway, she felt his heart slow, felt his confusion and then his terror as suddenly he was standing beside the gurney, gazing down at the familiar, yet lifeless body lying motionless atop it. With a gasp, he took a step back, and she watched his shoulders jerking as he gasped for breath in a ghostly form of hyperventilation. She frowned, knowing the feeling all too well. She had reacted the same way all those years ago, gazing down at her own body as the reality of the situation had set in. She watched him for a moment before speaking.
"It's okay. You don't have to be scared anymore." His eyes aglow with fear, he whirled around in a combat stance to face her, but he slowly lowered his arms as he took in the sight of her. Wide-eyed, he stared at her, scrutinizing every inch of her, from the dark hair curling at the top of her head down to her bare feet. Finally, his eyes came to rest on the long blue dress she wore, the dress she had been buried in, the dress that she would wear for eternity. He swallowed nervously.
"I'm dead, aren't I?"
"Yes," she answered simply. She expected him to cry, children often did, but he remained silent.
"Are you the Blue Lady?" he asked quietly, and he seemed stunned by the sound of her laughter.
"No," she said, reaching a hand out to him. "No, I'm . . . I'm just a friend." He studied her hand for a moment before reaching up to take it, and she led him out of the room and out into the empty corridor outside. She could hear the sounds in the room behind of them, and she didn't want the little boy to see what was happening there.
"Was I a good soldier?" he asked quietly, as if afraid of his own voice, and she frowned. A child who never got to be a child, she thought to herself. What will he do in the Hereafter? But no, some angel would take him under his wing, that she knew. He would learn to be a child.
"It doesn't matter," she heard herself say as she leaned over to press a kiss against his forehead. "You were a wonderful little boy. That's all that matters."
The light came then, bright and almost blinding, and they turned to see a white-robbed man walking out from it. He held his hand out for the little boy. "Go on," she told him. "It'll be okay." Jack looked up at her, then over at the strange man and his smiling, peaceful face, and he walked forward. The man reached down to take one of the little boy's hands and smiled down at him kindly, but it was to her that he spoke.
"You understand that your place in the Hereafter was assured." It was a statement, not a question. "You can cross over whenever you feel that it is time."
"I know," she answered simply, "but I have to stay. It isn't time yet." The angel nodded in understanding, and they turned to go, her eyes following the two figures as they walked into the light and vanished.
That was it, the beginning of the end. Had it really been such a short time ago? And then this morning, Max had started with the seizures, and they had tried to protect her. They were only children, but they had fought off the guards for fear of losing their sister. They knew what had happened to Jack, and they feared that it might happen to them all eventually.
Though they would never know it, she had been running down that hallway beside them, begging over and over again for their safety, but she had known that it wasn't to be. She had known that Lydecker would be coming, and she had sensed his presence in the hallway adjoining this one . . . and then she had watched helplessly as Eva had fallen to the floor.
The guards, heavily armed and intimidating in their uniforms, had hurried the other children off down the hallway, leaving Eva to bleed to death upon the cold floor. She had watched them go, her gaze resting on Lydecker's back as they had disappeared around a distant corner, and the fleeting feeling of hope that had been blossoming within her chest since that night in the infirmary had withered like the leaves of autumn. Turning her attention back to the little girl beside her, she watched as blue eyes filled with pain and terror looked up into her own, and she had known in that instant that the little girl would die. She had sat there with her, kneeling down in a pool of the little girl's blood, and held her hand for that brief moment before the end, and it had been all that she could do to hold back her tears.
"I'm sorry," came the little girl's voice from beside her, as she gazed down at the now lifeless hand in her own. She pasted a smile on her face and tried not to let the hurt show.
"For what?" she asked, releasing the body beside her and reaching up to run a comforting hand over the little girl's buzz cut.
"I didn't think they were real," Eva said, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Ben's stories. I just thought he made them up."
The woman smiled at that and pulled the little girl into an embrace, mostly to comfort herself. She felt the little body stiffen in her arms and realized that the little girl had never been hugged by an adult. Light flooded the corridor, and Eva held on to her, burying her face against the woman's shoulder.
"What about Max?" a little voice whispered in her ear.
"Don't worry," she answered. "It'll all be okay." Somehow she knew that Max would be okay. She had always known that somehow, someday all of these children would find peace, not only Jack and Eva and the little boy in the woods, but all of them, though peace would come more easily for some than it would for others. Pulling back from the little girl, she looked over at the white-robbed man who waited patiently in the light. She smiled down at Eva.
"You should go with him. Jack's waiting for you." The girl nodded and took a few steps towards him before stopping to look back at her.
"Aren't you coming, too?" she asked.
"No. Not yet. Someday, but not yet." Glancing up, she caught the eye of the angel, but this time, he did not invite her to come along. Moving a cautious eye over the body of the little girl lying on the floor, he merely nodded in understanding before taking the little girl's hand and leading her into Eternity.
When the medics, led by Lydecker, came rushing into the room, the light had already faded away, and at the sight of him, she burst into tears. Her hopes had dimmed, but as they carried the body away, she knew that she would never give up, she couldn't. Giving up just wasn't an option, and standing here in the freezing cold of a February night in Wyoming, she knew now more than ever just how much she was fighting for.
On the radio she could hear men talking, and then the voice of a soldier broke through the static. "Seven units have been recovered - three wounded, and two killed. Repeat, seven units . . ." She frowned at that and said another prayer for those still on the run, especially for little brown-eyed Max, hiding beneath the ice at their feet.
As the soldiers approached the clearing she saw the children, three of them now instead of two, wandering about in confusion. Slightly frightened at the sight of her, they gazed at her with cautious eyes before taking a few hesitant steps in her direction.
"Are you the Blue Lady?" one of them asked, and she laughed again, just as she had with Jack, and a bright light flooded the clearing.
"No," she smiled, reaching out a hand to touch each of them as she had been unable to before, "but that man there will take you to see Jack and Eva." Looking up, she smiled sadly at the angel. He held out his arms, inviting the children to come with him, but the sounds of a humvee broke through the still night air, and they glanced towards the line of brush, as if not quite sure which way to run. Taking two hands in her own, she offered them a reassuring smile.
"It's all over," she said. "You don't have to be afraid anymore." They stood, watching with wide eyes as Lydecker's men got out of the humvee and studied the edges of the clearing, but the angel, the children, and herself were beyond the vision of the living, and the men continued checking the underbrush, oblivious to the event occurring just beyond their plane of existence. Smiling at the children, she pushed them gently towards the angel, and they began to walk towards the light.
Frowning, she glanced back at Lydecker for a moment. "You don't have to suffer for his sins," the angel told her as he took two of the children by the hand, pausing briefly to smile down at the third. "That's already been done for him, if he so chooses. God's forgiveness has no limits."
"But there will be no one left down here to pray for him," she answered, her eyes never leaving Lydecker's pacing figure as he spoke into his radio. "And who will look after him if I don't? Someone has to, don't they?" But the angel did not respond.
"He has reasons for the things that he does," she said after a moment. "He doesn't intend to cause pain. Shouldn't that, at least, count for something?" Again, there was no response, and she knew that he knew what she was thinking. "The road to hell is paved with good intentions," she said with a sigh, feeling more than a little bit guilty and knowing that, in a way, she was the catalyst for all of this mess.
"Yes, perhaps," he answered after a moment. "But you shouldn't hold yourself to blame for his actions, and you certainly weren't responsible for your own death."
"I don't," she answered, finally turning her head to look at him. "And I know I'm not, but I can't just give up on him." They shared a look, and she knew that the angel understood. He glanced down at the children gathered around him.
"I won't be coming for any more of them, not for a long time."
"Thank you," she said, "for letting me know," and then she smiled at the children as he turned and led them away.
As she made her way across the clearing, Lydecker finished with his radio and closed his weary eyes for a moment, his hands dropping loosely at his sides. She knew what he was thinking. She'd always been able to read his expressions, even all those years ago, when they had sat side-by-side in Mrs. Everson's eighth grade biology class. She watched as his eyes lifted, as his gaze rested on two soldiers pulling a body bag out of the undergrowth, and he shuddered. He had never intended for it to turn into this.
"Oh, Nora," he whispered, glad that no one was close enough to see him in his uncharacteristic moment of weakness. "It's a good thing that you aren't here to see all of this, to see what I've become. You wouldn't understand a bit of it." His eyes followed the body bag as it was carried towards him. "All I wanted was to build something."
"But I am here, Deck. For better or for worse, remember?" she said, but her words fell upon deaf ears. "And I do understand, but armies of perfect soldiers and battles fought without casualties aren't going to bring me back." She laid her hand against his cheek, reveling in the feel of early morning stubble against her fingertips, but she withdrew her hand. What good was touch when he couldn't feel her hand against his cheek? And what good would speaking to him do if he couldn't hear her? Oh, but what she'd give to see those blue eyes smiling down at her just one more time. Her mind drifted back through the years, to high school dances, to the young man who had nervously met her father at the door, to the way he'd shyly led her out onto the dance floor, and the way he'd looked at her at their wedding reception, as if she were the only woman in the world. Yes, that was the man she knew, not this tired, miserable old man who stood before her now. Frowning, she watched as his gaze continued to follow the route of the body bag.
"You killed a little girl this morning, Deck." She sighed. "And how many lives have you taken tonight, all for nothing? How many more will you take? How many more children will be hurt?" She shook her head in frustration. "I can't save you on my own, Deck," she cried. "You've got to help me!" But she knew her pleas were unheard, and a tear slipped down her cheek as he turned to make his way back to the humvee.
The children, she thought, and her mind slipped back to the night he'd sat with Max in the infirmary. His only chance, she still believed, lay with those children. If only he could see them as they were, as little people and not just little soldiers, then there might be a chance. If he could love them all as he almost loved Max, then maybe he could feel sorrow and guilt, but she didn't know how, not now. Maybe, the only thing he could do to save himself was to morn for those who had been lost, to try to protect that which he had tried to destroy, but that seemed to be a lost cause, too. No, there had to be another way . . .
"I'm sorry, Nora," he said quietly as he walked away, and the sound of his words pulled her from her sorrow. A small smile broke through her tears as his words repeated in her mind. I'm sorry. It wasn't much, but if he could say those words at the end, then maybe, just maybe, those words would be enough.
THE END
Please review! ALL feedback is welcome!
I haven't written a simple short story in ages, and I'm a bit rusty. : )