TITLE: Mercury
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:
*****************************************************************************
She is sitting in front of the windows when he opens the door, and he raises his hands in apology when she stands up quickly. "It's just me, Yves," he says, and she nods.
"So, what happened?" he asks, when she does not volunteer anything.
"It was a trap. I received a warning. And this," she pulls her sleeve enough to show him the slight cut. She has decided to be honest, though not to tell him more than necessary. There is really nothing else she can do, because she can only hold him away for so long. He reaches out for her arm, and she pulls it away. He frowns slightly.
"Are you okay?" he questions concernedly.
"I'm fine," she replies automatically. He sighs.
"You don't have to," he stops when he sees the look in her eyes, and he does not finish what he was going to say. "What are we going to do?"
"I," she informs him, "am going to find out who Anarchist17 really is. And why he stopped with a cut."
He nods. ""How're we going to find out about the Antichrist?"
"What?" She shakes her head slightly.
"The guy . . . your contact.
"You're not . . . ah." She sighs, not wanting to bring it up again. "By going through all of the information we exchanged, looking for anything that might hint at his identity. Anything at all." She hands him a sheaf of papers and then reaches for her titanium notebook.
They work in relative silence, his suggestions of bringing in some of his music quelled by her disinterested stares. She does not know what he thinks he is looking for, and she does not know how he would understand any of what he is seeing - computer printouts, lines of code - but she does not want to take the time to explain. She scrolls through what she has on the laptop, various minimalist letters. Nothing.
[root@neo /usr17:] She blinks, rereading the line. It shouldn't be there, she thinks. She shouldn't have gotten so close . . . but there it is. She wonders why Anarchist17 didn't catch it, and she wonders if he ignored it on purpose. It doesn't matter at the moment, though, as she stares at the glowing characters. Neo. The system. Wherever it was located, she would find, at the least, a record. She minimizes the screen, pulling up a new window.
She stretches, waiting for the search to conclude. She glances around the room, wondering when the morning turned to afternoon and how early shadows can already be forming. She has lost a day, and she does not know how many she has left. She looks over at him, sprawled across the floor, surrounded by papers, and judging by the expression on his face, hard at work. She smiles slightly, turning back to the computer.
One result. Obsidian, Inc., working out of Seattle.
"Got it," she breathes, and he looks up, startled.
"You did? I haven't found anything . . . I don't think this is in English," he says confidentially, and she sighs.
"Thanks for helping, Jimmy," she tells him, and he grins.
"No problem. Are we going somewhere tonight, or . . ."
"Tomorrow," she says. "Tomorrow."
"What are we doing tonight?"
"I have no-" and she sees what he wants. "Do you want dinner, Jimmy?"
He nods. "There's a room service menu over there," she gestures in the general area of the uniformly designed table. "Order something. I've got to work on this."
Sometime later she looks up, and for a moment she wonders why it is so dark. Then she realizes that he is gone and that he's left a tray on the table for her, evidently several hours ago. She sighs, wondering when he left and why she didn't hear him go. She thinks that she should have, that she should have said something, but when she looks back at what she has accomplished, she has to wonder if she would have gotten it done otherwise. It has been so long since she has done this, and she had not remembered how much she missed it.
Turning off her notebook, she leans her head onto the table, relishing the feel of the smooth wood grain against her warm skin. She lets out a deep breath, wondering if mental exhaustion will be enough to allow her to sleep. She wonders how long it will be until he returns.
She is almost asleep, and then she is awake.
Sharpness all over her body, burning, tingling with pain and pleasure at the same time should she scream with pain or pleasure or just terror but she can't speak can't move and it hurts hurts but hurts so exquisitely goddamn much
And then it is over, and she is sitting rigid in her chair, measuring each breath and wondering if she made any noise. For a moment she isn't sure if it was real, but as she attempts to get up, she feels leftover twinges in her muscles. Moving more slowly, she knows it had to be. Whatever Anarchist17 was carrying, she now has in her own body.
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:
*****************************************************************************
She is sitting in front of the windows when he opens the door, and he raises his hands in apology when she stands up quickly. "It's just me, Yves," he says, and she nods.
"So, what happened?" he asks, when she does not volunteer anything.
"It was a trap. I received a warning. And this," she pulls her sleeve enough to show him the slight cut. She has decided to be honest, though not to tell him more than necessary. There is really nothing else she can do, because she can only hold him away for so long. He reaches out for her arm, and she pulls it away. He frowns slightly.
"Are you okay?" he questions concernedly.
"I'm fine," she replies automatically. He sighs.
"You don't have to," he stops when he sees the look in her eyes, and he does not finish what he was going to say. "What are we going to do?"
"I," she informs him, "am going to find out who Anarchist17 really is. And why he stopped with a cut."
He nods. ""How're we going to find out about the Antichrist?"
"What?" She shakes her head slightly.
"The guy . . . your contact.
"You're not . . . ah." She sighs, not wanting to bring it up again. "By going through all of the information we exchanged, looking for anything that might hint at his identity. Anything at all." She hands him a sheaf of papers and then reaches for her titanium notebook.
They work in relative silence, his suggestions of bringing in some of his music quelled by her disinterested stares. She does not know what he thinks he is looking for, and she does not know how he would understand any of what he is seeing - computer printouts, lines of code - but she does not want to take the time to explain. She scrolls through what she has on the laptop, various minimalist letters. Nothing.
[root@neo /usr17:] She blinks, rereading the line. It shouldn't be there, she thinks. She shouldn't have gotten so close . . . but there it is. She wonders why Anarchist17 didn't catch it, and she wonders if he ignored it on purpose. It doesn't matter at the moment, though, as she stares at the glowing characters. Neo. The system. Wherever it was located, she would find, at the least, a record. She minimizes the screen, pulling up a new window.
She stretches, waiting for the search to conclude. She glances around the room, wondering when the morning turned to afternoon and how early shadows can already be forming. She has lost a day, and she does not know how many she has left. She looks over at him, sprawled across the floor, surrounded by papers, and judging by the expression on his face, hard at work. She smiles slightly, turning back to the computer.
One result. Obsidian, Inc., working out of Seattle.
"Got it," she breathes, and he looks up, startled.
"You did? I haven't found anything . . . I don't think this is in English," he says confidentially, and she sighs.
"Thanks for helping, Jimmy," she tells him, and he grins.
"No problem. Are we going somewhere tonight, or . . ."
"Tomorrow," she says. "Tomorrow."
"What are we doing tonight?"
"I have no-" and she sees what he wants. "Do you want dinner, Jimmy?"
He nods. "There's a room service menu over there," she gestures in the general area of the uniformly designed table. "Order something. I've got to work on this."
Sometime later she looks up, and for a moment she wonders why it is so dark. Then she realizes that he is gone and that he's left a tray on the table for her, evidently several hours ago. She sighs, wondering when he left and why she didn't hear him go. She thinks that she should have, that she should have said something, but when she looks back at what she has accomplished, she has to wonder if she would have gotten it done otherwise. It has been so long since she has done this, and she had not remembered how much she missed it.
Turning off her notebook, she leans her head onto the table, relishing the feel of the smooth wood grain against her warm skin. She lets out a deep breath, wondering if mental exhaustion will be enough to allow her to sleep. She wonders how long it will be until he returns.
She is almost asleep, and then she is awake.
Sharpness all over her body, burning, tingling with pain and pleasure at the same time should she scream with pain or pleasure or just terror but she can't speak can't move and it hurts hurts but hurts so exquisitely goddamn much
And then it is over, and she is sitting rigid in her chair, measuring each breath and wondering if she made any noise. For a moment she isn't sure if it was real, but as she attempts to get up, she feels leftover twinges in her muscles. Moving more slowly, she knows it had to be. Whatever Anarchist17 was carrying, she now has in her own body.