Ok, the sequal has begun! Mind you, it'll come slow because I'm not sure
how to make a sequal to the origional. Jeese, when you guys give me a
challange...
Anyway, thanks for all who reviewed "Skin Deep" and I hope this lives up to
at least some of your standards.
****DISCLAIMER: (don't you hate these?) I don't own seaQuest. *bawls* but I have been to the studios! I do own Jarod, Sam, and all other origional characters, blah blah blah blah, you know the drill. If I were making any money, I'd have a better computer.****
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Skin Deep Part 4.
Walk on the Ocean.
The day's were still proving to be cold by Florida standards.
Measuring at an unprecidented 60 degrees, it was the coldest winter in history. A rare climate change. No frost layered the windows of the quiet cookie-cutter houses along Buckland Street in the northern suburbs, but those who were unaccustomed to lower than 70 degrees thought there should have be. It was a morning just like hundreds before: cars parked along the side of the curb beading with silver rain drops in the early light from a midnight storm, birds chirping clear songs in the oak and birtch trees, and the occasional dog barking from a backyard.
Pleasant people lived here, people with secrectarial jobs and managing possitions, doctors, lawyers, and even a high paid waitress or two. They had no other worries than their families and economics. The neighborhood was always kept clean by the Neighborhood Watch group, and the people knew each other by name. They would wake up, kiss their wives, hug their children, and drive to work in decent four door Scions or Corollas. That's how the day would begin for them--the average working man.
Had anyone been outside at 5 o'clock in the morning, the sight of a shiney black Le Saber sedan parked along side the community play ground might have caused an upstir of questions. Even more would have ensued from the look of the middle aged man exiting the car.
Edward Phalwell held a cigarette in one hand, and kept the other tucked in the pocket of his ebony duster. The thin line of smoke from his lit cigarette twisted upwards before disipating in the winter breeze. He drew in a long pull and held the smoke in his lungs, his blood, before exhaling two perfect streams from his nostrals. Strands of his close cut brown hair matching his evenly cut thin beard flicked in the wind.
He glanced to his watch just as the digital numbers changed from 4:59 to 5:00, and looked up across the slightly swaying swingset in the playground where the figure of a man in a thick blue sweater and blue jeans was walking toward him.
"I see your people are known for punctuality," Phalwell said. He voice was deep and civilized, holding the inflection of a well mannored Harvard graduate. "An honerable trait."
The other man--much younger at age 23--clutched at the collar of his sweater. Unlike Phalwell, his body was not acclimated to abnormal weather changes. "Why do we have to meet out here? I'll freeze my ass off."
"Perhaps you should concider more important things at the moment, Mr. Lancing. We needed the cover of a less press populated area," Phalwell flicked the glowing cigarette butt to the ground and smothered it with the toe of his polished shoe. "Do you have it?"
Lancing nodded and withdrew a minidisk jewel case from his pants pocket. "It's all there. Everything you wanted to know on the Kinkades and the Wolenczaks."
"Including their children?"
Lancing hesitated, forcing himself to swallow before it froze in his too cold body. His words came forced. "Yes."
"Excellent," Phalwell took the disk and fingered it pleasingly with a grin. "As per the agreement, here's your reward." The business man brought out his hand that had been in his pocket the whole time, and opened it toward Lancing. In his palm lay a credit chit, and a crumpled piece of white college ruled paper. "The directions are written in detail, but I'm sure you can find your way."
Lancing took the items and unwrapped the paper for a look. "Thank you," he choked.
Phalwell nodded, turning back for the car.
Lancing ran a hand through his medium cut, dusty brown hair. "Tell me, what do you intend to do with the information?"
"Oh, I intend to exact my revenge, Mr. Lancing. Samantha Kinkade and Lucas Wolenczak have something I greatly desire, and I do not forfeit easily," he hissed. "You will keep in touch with the Kinkade girl."
It was not a question. Lancing nodded, his voice caught in his throat.
"Good," Phalwell's grin mimicked that of a cat satisfied after eating a mouse. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some people to call. Please continue your studies, Mr. Lancing. You continualy prove to be an invaluable asset to us."
Lancing watched the head of Phalwell Industries climb into the black sedan, pull quietly forward, and drive away down the empty suburban street.
His throat had gone dry an hour ago, and the cold wind cracked his lips when he breathed. Yet for all the cold was worth, his fists still shook with barely contained hot anger.
Phalwell would not get away with this, that much he was certain, but as of right now the business man held all the cards, as well as the young psychic's little sister.
Lancing took the crumpled note from his pocket and read the address.
45 S. Baker St.
Apt. 4D
5pm.
There was something about the number 5 Lancing believed Phalwell for some reason favored.
Placing the note back in his pocket with the credit chit that would survive him the next semester at the Chatton Parapsychology Center, Jarod Lancing crossed the empty playground back to his jeep.
~Don't worry, Miranda,~ he thought, ~ I'll get you out of there. I promise.~
* * * *
((Please R&R. Thank you. :o) ))
****DISCLAIMER: (don't you hate these?) I don't own seaQuest. *bawls* but I have been to the studios! I do own Jarod, Sam, and all other origional characters, blah blah blah blah, you know the drill. If I were making any money, I'd have a better computer.****
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Skin Deep Part 4.
Walk on the Ocean.
The day's were still proving to be cold by Florida standards.
Measuring at an unprecidented 60 degrees, it was the coldest winter in history. A rare climate change. No frost layered the windows of the quiet cookie-cutter houses along Buckland Street in the northern suburbs, but those who were unaccustomed to lower than 70 degrees thought there should have be. It was a morning just like hundreds before: cars parked along the side of the curb beading with silver rain drops in the early light from a midnight storm, birds chirping clear songs in the oak and birtch trees, and the occasional dog barking from a backyard.
Pleasant people lived here, people with secrectarial jobs and managing possitions, doctors, lawyers, and even a high paid waitress or two. They had no other worries than their families and economics. The neighborhood was always kept clean by the Neighborhood Watch group, and the people knew each other by name. They would wake up, kiss their wives, hug their children, and drive to work in decent four door Scions or Corollas. That's how the day would begin for them--the average working man.
Had anyone been outside at 5 o'clock in the morning, the sight of a shiney black Le Saber sedan parked along side the community play ground might have caused an upstir of questions. Even more would have ensued from the look of the middle aged man exiting the car.
Edward Phalwell held a cigarette in one hand, and kept the other tucked in the pocket of his ebony duster. The thin line of smoke from his lit cigarette twisted upwards before disipating in the winter breeze. He drew in a long pull and held the smoke in his lungs, his blood, before exhaling two perfect streams from his nostrals. Strands of his close cut brown hair matching his evenly cut thin beard flicked in the wind.
He glanced to his watch just as the digital numbers changed from 4:59 to 5:00, and looked up across the slightly swaying swingset in the playground where the figure of a man in a thick blue sweater and blue jeans was walking toward him.
"I see your people are known for punctuality," Phalwell said. He voice was deep and civilized, holding the inflection of a well mannored Harvard graduate. "An honerable trait."
The other man--much younger at age 23--clutched at the collar of his sweater. Unlike Phalwell, his body was not acclimated to abnormal weather changes. "Why do we have to meet out here? I'll freeze my ass off."
"Perhaps you should concider more important things at the moment, Mr. Lancing. We needed the cover of a less press populated area," Phalwell flicked the glowing cigarette butt to the ground and smothered it with the toe of his polished shoe. "Do you have it?"
Lancing nodded and withdrew a minidisk jewel case from his pants pocket. "It's all there. Everything you wanted to know on the Kinkades and the Wolenczaks."
"Including their children?"
Lancing hesitated, forcing himself to swallow before it froze in his too cold body. His words came forced. "Yes."
"Excellent," Phalwell took the disk and fingered it pleasingly with a grin. "As per the agreement, here's your reward." The business man brought out his hand that had been in his pocket the whole time, and opened it toward Lancing. In his palm lay a credit chit, and a crumpled piece of white college ruled paper. "The directions are written in detail, but I'm sure you can find your way."
Lancing took the items and unwrapped the paper for a look. "Thank you," he choked.
Phalwell nodded, turning back for the car.
Lancing ran a hand through his medium cut, dusty brown hair. "Tell me, what do you intend to do with the information?"
"Oh, I intend to exact my revenge, Mr. Lancing. Samantha Kinkade and Lucas Wolenczak have something I greatly desire, and I do not forfeit easily," he hissed. "You will keep in touch with the Kinkade girl."
It was not a question. Lancing nodded, his voice caught in his throat.
"Good," Phalwell's grin mimicked that of a cat satisfied after eating a mouse. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some people to call. Please continue your studies, Mr. Lancing. You continualy prove to be an invaluable asset to us."
Lancing watched the head of Phalwell Industries climb into the black sedan, pull quietly forward, and drive away down the empty suburban street.
His throat had gone dry an hour ago, and the cold wind cracked his lips when he breathed. Yet for all the cold was worth, his fists still shook with barely contained hot anger.
Phalwell would not get away with this, that much he was certain, but as of right now the business man held all the cards, as well as the young psychic's little sister.
Lancing took the crumpled note from his pocket and read the address.
45 S. Baker St.
Apt. 4D
5pm.
There was something about the number 5 Lancing believed Phalwell for some reason favored.
Placing the note back in his pocket with the credit chit that would survive him the next semester at the Chatton Parapsychology Center, Jarod Lancing crossed the empty playground back to his jeep.
~Don't worry, Miranda,~ he thought, ~ I'll get you out of there. I promise.~
* * * *
((Please R&R. Thank you. :o) ))