TITLE: Mercury - Chapter 4
AUTHOR: Vicinity
SUMMARY: The idea of redemption leads Yves - and Jimmy - into the heart of something more dangerous than she could have imagined. Formerly titled "The Immortality Solution."
RATING: PG-13
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, not mine.
SPOILERS: Takes place after "Jump the Shark." Makes reference to another one of my stories, "Madrigal."
AUTHOR's NOTES:
*****************************************************************************
The streets are dim with twilight when she eases the car to a stop in the hotel parking lot. She does not know if he will still be awake, and so she opens the envelope in the car. She is not sure why she wants to know what is in it first, without him; she needs to know what is happening before she tells him anything, she thinks. She has to protect him . . . and that knowledge is something she has known for so long. To be the fighter, the one who protects and leads . . . it is tiring, and yet she does not think that she could ever stop.
There is a letter, typed neatly on white paper, and there are several blank sheets. Empty. She does not know why she would have expected otherwise, and so she scans over the letter. It is addressed to her, to Lois, and she does not know if there is really a difference between the identities. The letter is brief and it is unsigned and it is a warning. It is signed 'Anarchist17,' and he has made sure that there is nothing she can use against him.
She sighs, trying to overcome the urge to simply turn around and drive away, and then she gets out of the car and goes into the hotel. Her room is on the eighteenth floor, and the time she spends in the elevator is enough for her to gather what composure she has. She wonders if he is still here, and even as she wonders, she knows it is not worth thinking about. He will be. She pulls her room key out of her jacket, sliding it in and out of the lock. She opens the door quietly, not sure whether he will still be in her room or not. She is not sure whether she would like him to have gone away, so that she could think in peace, or whether she would like him to be there so that she will not let herself fall apart.
He isn't there. She slides out of her leather jacket, pausing to hang it up in the mirrored closet. Slipping out of her heeled boots, she wonders what she is going to do. How she is going to find out. Whether she should continue to work on this. What she is going to tell him tomorrow. Anarchist17's letter said nothing about the blade - in fact, it was almost careful to avoid that entirely. She wonders if she is being paranoid, if it was simply a warning and nothing less. Almost unconsciously her hand goes to her wrist, and she touches the slice gently. It is beginning to heal already, small knots forming over the gap, and she wonders if she would be able to sleep if she tried.
She crosses the room to the large windows overlooking the coast. The city should be dark, but instead neon illuminates the night. She can make out the headlights of passing cars, and she wishes that she were in one of them, headed to home and to nothing more than a television set and a late dinner. She wonders, though, if that would be enough for her. Would a mundane life be enough, and why shouldn't it be?
She turns back to the relative anonymity of her room and the more immediate problems that face her, and then she shakes her head and goes to turn on the water for a shower. She strips quickly, stepping under the steaming water and wondering if it is possible to scald herself clean. She runs soap over her body, trying to appreciate the time to reflect, and then she decides that it is of no use. She washes herself regretfully, and then steps out of the shower. Her thoughts are going in circles, and she is not accomplishing anything. Sliding between the cotton sheets, she hopes that she is tired enough to sleep without dreaming.
Light. She is younger, an adolescent, her body fresh and unscarred. She smiles, feeling cool tiles beneath her feet as she pulls the silk robe around herself. He is standing in front of the door that leads to the ocean, and the morning light streams in around him. She stretches silently, gliding behind him, and as she touches the metal in her pocket, some part of her remembers. He turns, the sun shining red on his dark hair, and then she remembers how he looked the first time. He falls, and then he is no longer Andre but all of them . . . they are fighting, and as she looks down at her hands, they are red, but this time it wasn't her blade. She glances up, and he is there, her father and Gillnitz, both of them, and they laugh as she takes the knife into herself . . .
And then she awakens, sweating and cold. She sits up as she pulls the blankets around her, reflecting on a dream she has had so many times before. She knows that she will never look into his eyes and see the recognition of guilt and death that she has seen in so many men, in men who did not deserve it. He does, though, and now she will not have the chance. In his crime he took any justice she could have been able to deliver, and so she has watched the deaths of three of her closest companions in vain.
She should have been faster. She should have been quicker. She should have known. These are thoughts that run repeatedly through her mind, and no matter how many times she tells herself that she simply couldn't have, they will not stop. Because she could have stopped him. It was possible. She failed, and so they paid for it. They paid for it, and so did Jimmy, with his innocence and his laughter.
They were buried as heroes. They died for their country, as patriots, and they would have wanted that. They did want that . . . they had no choice but to want that, because otherwise they would have gone to their deaths unwillingly. Better to choose the death of a savior than the death of a bystander.
Perhaps she, then, is their Judas. If they counted her as a friend, which she wants to believe, does believe, that they did, she in turn gave them their death. She offered it to them as heroes, and they took it as such, but what choice did they really have?
She shivers, glancing over at the clock, glowing numbers telling her that she hadn't been asleep for more than four or five hours. As her feet touch the floor, though, she thinks that if she had the choice, she would never sleep again.
AUTHOR: Vicinity
SUMMARY: The idea of redemption leads Yves - and Jimmy - into the heart of something more dangerous than she could have imagined. Formerly titled "The Immortality Solution."
RATING: PG-13
DISCLAIMER: Not mine, not mine.
SPOILERS: Takes place after "Jump the Shark." Makes reference to another one of my stories, "Madrigal."
AUTHOR's NOTES:
*****************************************************************************
The streets are dim with twilight when she eases the car to a stop in the hotel parking lot. She does not know if he will still be awake, and so she opens the envelope in the car. She is not sure why she wants to know what is in it first, without him; she needs to know what is happening before she tells him anything, she thinks. She has to protect him . . . and that knowledge is something she has known for so long. To be the fighter, the one who protects and leads . . . it is tiring, and yet she does not think that she could ever stop.
There is a letter, typed neatly on white paper, and there are several blank sheets. Empty. She does not know why she would have expected otherwise, and so she scans over the letter. It is addressed to her, to Lois, and she does not know if there is really a difference between the identities. The letter is brief and it is unsigned and it is a warning. It is signed 'Anarchist17,' and he has made sure that there is nothing she can use against him.
She sighs, trying to overcome the urge to simply turn around and drive away, and then she gets out of the car and goes into the hotel. Her room is on the eighteenth floor, and the time she spends in the elevator is enough for her to gather what composure she has. She wonders if he is still here, and even as she wonders, she knows it is not worth thinking about. He will be. She pulls her room key out of her jacket, sliding it in and out of the lock. She opens the door quietly, not sure whether he will still be in her room or not. She is not sure whether she would like him to have gone away, so that she could think in peace, or whether she would like him to be there so that she will not let herself fall apart.
He isn't there. She slides out of her leather jacket, pausing to hang it up in the mirrored closet. Slipping out of her heeled boots, she wonders what she is going to do. How she is going to find out. Whether she should continue to work on this. What she is going to tell him tomorrow. Anarchist17's letter said nothing about the blade - in fact, it was almost careful to avoid that entirely. She wonders if she is being paranoid, if it was simply a warning and nothing less. Almost unconsciously her hand goes to her wrist, and she touches the slice gently. It is beginning to heal already, small knots forming over the gap, and she wonders if she would be able to sleep if she tried.
She crosses the room to the large windows overlooking the coast. The city should be dark, but instead neon illuminates the night. She can make out the headlights of passing cars, and she wishes that she were in one of them, headed to home and to nothing more than a television set and a late dinner. She wonders, though, if that would be enough for her. Would a mundane life be enough, and why shouldn't it be?
She turns back to the relative anonymity of her room and the more immediate problems that face her, and then she shakes her head and goes to turn on the water for a shower. She strips quickly, stepping under the steaming water and wondering if it is possible to scald herself clean. She runs soap over her body, trying to appreciate the time to reflect, and then she decides that it is of no use. She washes herself regretfully, and then steps out of the shower. Her thoughts are going in circles, and she is not accomplishing anything. Sliding between the cotton sheets, she hopes that she is tired enough to sleep without dreaming.
Light. She is younger, an adolescent, her body fresh and unscarred. She smiles, feeling cool tiles beneath her feet as she pulls the silk robe around herself. He is standing in front of the door that leads to the ocean, and the morning light streams in around him. She stretches silently, gliding behind him, and as she touches the metal in her pocket, some part of her remembers. He turns, the sun shining red on his dark hair, and then she remembers how he looked the first time. He falls, and then he is no longer Andre but all of them . . . they are fighting, and as she looks down at her hands, they are red, but this time it wasn't her blade. She glances up, and he is there, her father and Gillnitz, both of them, and they laugh as she takes the knife into herself . . .
And then she awakens, sweating and cold. She sits up as she pulls the blankets around her, reflecting on a dream she has had so many times before. She knows that she will never look into his eyes and see the recognition of guilt and death that she has seen in so many men, in men who did not deserve it. He does, though, and now she will not have the chance. In his crime he took any justice she could have been able to deliver, and so she has watched the deaths of three of her closest companions in vain.
She should have been faster. She should have been quicker. She should have known. These are thoughts that run repeatedly through her mind, and no matter how many times she tells herself that she simply couldn't have, they will not stop. Because she could have stopped him. It was possible. She failed, and so they paid for it. They paid for it, and so did Jimmy, with his innocence and his laughter.
They were buried as heroes. They died for their country, as patriots, and they would have wanted that. They did want that . . . they had no choice but to want that, because otherwise they would have gone to their deaths unwillingly. Better to choose the death of a savior than the death of a bystander.
Perhaps she, then, is their Judas. If they counted her as a friend, which she wants to believe, does believe, that they did, she in turn gave them their death. She offered it to them as heroes, and they took it as such, but what choice did they really have?
She shivers, glancing over at the clock, glowing numbers telling her that she hadn't been asleep for more than four or five hours. As her feet touch the floor, though, she thinks that if she had the choice, she would never sleep again.