Title: Inadvertent Silk
Author: ScullyAsTrinity
Category: Vignette, drama, pre-Matrix
Disclaimer: She ain't mine. Neither is the heroin.
Rating: R, drugs.
Feedback: Alllll to BNLXPhile12@aol.com
Characters: Trinity
Summary: Trinity before she was unplugged.
Note: This was inadvertently inspired by Beguile and her series "Semi- Charmed Life"
---
Remember the dinner parties.
The soft lights, the way you dimmed them to just the right hue to set a particular shadow over the room. The darker hints of the wallpaper finding fault with the softer tones of the carpeting. The design within the wallpaper, frustrated, attempting to jump from its confining background and attack the viewer's eye. The perfect contrast of red on red making your dining room a darkly inviting place.
The carpet itself, the cream spance of it looking all too inviting, much too plush to be real. It wasn't inexpensive. It held vestiges of guests since gone, affairs not to be remembered and stains that could tell of intense moments forgotten.
The food, which someone had spent hours preparing, lay like a strange bounty on the dark mahogany of your table. The delicacies and the banalities of supposed exotic dishes. Strange, heavy scents wafting off of the concoctions to reach up and tickle the senses of your guests. A twinkle in your eyes as your eyes lifted from the food to connect with the next hopeful. Woo them with food, ply them with wine, appear to be the height of sophistication, the epitome of grace and charm. Kill it need be. Seduction was in that bag of tricks you carried slug against your hip. That satchel that bounced in an entrancing way when you would saunter into the room.
You'd play on the senses of the guests like a finely tuned harm from the days of Sparta and Athens, when art was still considered a virtue. You yourself, a beautiful bouquet with stunning depth and reach. Amazing, the way you could draw someone in and keep them entranced while you stripped them naked.
The comments were that important, though they did make you smile. What a wonderful flavor, excellent bouquet, and my what a wonderful watercolor. Where did you get it? You would smile that seductive smile and say "A friend", receiving a faint thrill from remembering how you did acquire that piece of artwork. Magnificent it was, if they had only known how you had come to own it.
The whole charade would always play out like fine silk. It would lilt into place. The presence, the perfume, the performance. It all suited you. You were a wealthy socialite, why not? What did you have to hide, other than the sad truth about you family and your supposed love for opium. None of it really mattered, because none of it was real.
The black looked good on you, it always did. The red of your lips fought with the stark paleness of your ski for dominance. Neither seemed to ever get the upper hand. That was fine. What was more was the way your lips, those fine lines hiding the depth of your intentions, the way they would caress your food. Wrapping around the carefully polish silver they would clean every tine, savoring everything you knew to be false. The guests would all be captivated by the way you dabbed your lips with the carpet- colored napkins, how the color seemed to be more vibrant after the fact.
At that particular time, you would always excuse yourself. You knew they watched as you sifted out of the room and took particular delight in shaking your hips. You'd make your way down the tiny hallways into the room that you spent most of your time in. Monitors lined the walls, the particularly dark walls. Always to the point, you'd make your way to the back of the large room and extract the large vile of heroine that you kept for instances such as this. Everyone would indulge, this you knew. You, however, would not.
The people who thought they knew you, your guests, would sit in nervous anticipation on this Venetian chairs that you had taken careful scrutiny to choose. Many of the women would wonder if their lips looked as good as yours, if your lipstick had some special ingredient, if you had paid more than they had for beauty. They didn't know that you had paid nothing at all. They didn't know that as soon as you were done with them the expensive clothes and cosmetics would be abandoned and that you would forego sleep to hack away at the remaining pieces of the puzzle.
Reaching the table, you'd place the vile down, alongside the needles and thin pieces of rubber. For a moment, several pairs of eyes would look at you incredulously, as if they did not partake in this pastime everyday of the week. But you were to be trusted, you were a worthy confidant and the person closest would choose a needle and a strap with particular care. They didn't know what they were doing even as they did. The glass vile would take turns being lifted into the air and tapped.
That smile that was so dangerous was particularly sweet when it reached you and you filled your own syringe. Meticulous care was taken to be sure that you took just the right amount. At that time there was always a wisecrack made by one of the haughtier men at the table. You'd smile that sexy smile and put him back in his place. Everyone was anxious to fuel up and the first would naturally cringe when the thin steel met the flesh on their upper arm. It felt different, they would say before the drug overtook them. A particular altered enzyme in the heroine, you would explain, gave an even greater smile.
And as they all tranced out, they wouldn't notice you slipping the unused syringe into the napkin to your left. While your guests were climbing invisible stairs to ineffable heights you would slip on latex gloves and dispose of the used needles in a bright orange biohazard container. Even you could not be too careful. After hiding the container you would retreat to the back room and retrieve your small tape recorder and notepad.
That's when you got your information. That's when you came into possession of the secrets that you would sell. Amidst all the talk about how they were embezzling and cheating would be the diamond in the rough that you'd take care to dust off and underline.
Back to the room until your guests would sober up. Secrets sold before they were even out of your house. Money made, checks cashed under your hacker alias. Mission accomplished.
As you would usher the nameless, faceless debutants out your front door you would often wonder if any of it would amount to anything. If you'd ever find what you were looking for, if you would ever find Morpheus. Get out of this stinking pit of waste and find some real cause.
It didn't matter how much money you spent, how many secrets you sold or how many laws you broke.
You gave better than you got.
Author: ScullyAsTrinity
Category: Vignette, drama, pre-Matrix
Disclaimer: She ain't mine. Neither is the heroin.
Rating: R, drugs.
Feedback: Alllll to BNLXPhile12@aol.com
Characters: Trinity
Summary: Trinity before she was unplugged.
Note: This was inadvertently inspired by Beguile and her series "Semi- Charmed Life"
---
Remember the dinner parties.
The soft lights, the way you dimmed them to just the right hue to set a particular shadow over the room. The darker hints of the wallpaper finding fault with the softer tones of the carpeting. The design within the wallpaper, frustrated, attempting to jump from its confining background and attack the viewer's eye. The perfect contrast of red on red making your dining room a darkly inviting place.
The carpet itself, the cream spance of it looking all too inviting, much too plush to be real. It wasn't inexpensive. It held vestiges of guests since gone, affairs not to be remembered and stains that could tell of intense moments forgotten.
The food, which someone had spent hours preparing, lay like a strange bounty on the dark mahogany of your table. The delicacies and the banalities of supposed exotic dishes. Strange, heavy scents wafting off of the concoctions to reach up and tickle the senses of your guests. A twinkle in your eyes as your eyes lifted from the food to connect with the next hopeful. Woo them with food, ply them with wine, appear to be the height of sophistication, the epitome of grace and charm. Kill it need be. Seduction was in that bag of tricks you carried slug against your hip. That satchel that bounced in an entrancing way when you would saunter into the room.
You'd play on the senses of the guests like a finely tuned harm from the days of Sparta and Athens, when art was still considered a virtue. You yourself, a beautiful bouquet with stunning depth and reach. Amazing, the way you could draw someone in and keep them entranced while you stripped them naked.
The comments were that important, though they did make you smile. What a wonderful flavor, excellent bouquet, and my what a wonderful watercolor. Where did you get it? You would smile that seductive smile and say "A friend", receiving a faint thrill from remembering how you did acquire that piece of artwork. Magnificent it was, if they had only known how you had come to own it.
The whole charade would always play out like fine silk. It would lilt into place. The presence, the perfume, the performance. It all suited you. You were a wealthy socialite, why not? What did you have to hide, other than the sad truth about you family and your supposed love for opium. None of it really mattered, because none of it was real.
The black looked good on you, it always did. The red of your lips fought with the stark paleness of your ski for dominance. Neither seemed to ever get the upper hand. That was fine. What was more was the way your lips, those fine lines hiding the depth of your intentions, the way they would caress your food. Wrapping around the carefully polish silver they would clean every tine, savoring everything you knew to be false. The guests would all be captivated by the way you dabbed your lips with the carpet- colored napkins, how the color seemed to be more vibrant after the fact.
At that particular time, you would always excuse yourself. You knew they watched as you sifted out of the room and took particular delight in shaking your hips. You'd make your way down the tiny hallways into the room that you spent most of your time in. Monitors lined the walls, the particularly dark walls. Always to the point, you'd make your way to the back of the large room and extract the large vile of heroine that you kept for instances such as this. Everyone would indulge, this you knew. You, however, would not.
The people who thought they knew you, your guests, would sit in nervous anticipation on this Venetian chairs that you had taken careful scrutiny to choose. Many of the women would wonder if their lips looked as good as yours, if your lipstick had some special ingredient, if you had paid more than they had for beauty. They didn't know that you had paid nothing at all. They didn't know that as soon as you were done with them the expensive clothes and cosmetics would be abandoned and that you would forego sleep to hack away at the remaining pieces of the puzzle.
Reaching the table, you'd place the vile down, alongside the needles and thin pieces of rubber. For a moment, several pairs of eyes would look at you incredulously, as if they did not partake in this pastime everyday of the week. But you were to be trusted, you were a worthy confidant and the person closest would choose a needle and a strap with particular care. They didn't know what they were doing even as they did. The glass vile would take turns being lifted into the air and tapped.
That smile that was so dangerous was particularly sweet when it reached you and you filled your own syringe. Meticulous care was taken to be sure that you took just the right amount. At that time there was always a wisecrack made by one of the haughtier men at the table. You'd smile that sexy smile and put him back in his place. Everyone was anxious to fuel up and the first would naturally cringe when the thin steel met the flesh on their upper arm. It felt different, they would say before the drug overtook them. A particular altered enzyme in the heroine, you would explain, gave an even greater smile.
And as they all tranced out, they wouldn't notice you slipping the unused syringe into the napkin to your left. While your guests were climbing invisible stairs to ineffable heights you would slip on latex gloves and dispose of the used needles in a bright orange biohazard container. Even you could not be too careful. After hiding the container you would retreat to the back room and retrieve your small tape recorder and notepad.
That's when you got your information. That's when you came into possession of the secrets that you would sell. Amidst all the talk about how they were embezzling and cheating would be the diamond in the rough that you'd take care to dust off and underline.
Back to the room until your guests would sober up. Secrets sold before they were even out of your house. Money made, checks cashed under your hacker alias. Mission accomplished.
As you would usher the nameless, faceless debutants out your front door you would often wonder if any of it would amount to anything. If you'd ever find what you were looking for, if you would ever find Morpheus. Get out of this stinking pit of waste and find some real cause.
It didn't matter how much money you spent, how many secrets you sold or how many laws you broke.
You gave better than you got.