Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own anything but my characters. Hanna, Mandal, LEBI, etc. Don't own Clix, either. She's HermoineGurl's. Doing a character trade thing.
A/N: Hope Agent Chlora's not a Mary Sue. Please help me if she is.
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Paranoia and Her Gun
AlterEgo 1: Agent H. Chlora, LEBI
Chapter 1: Hanna Chlora"Hanna," Mandal Birini muttered, sleep layering his voice with a yawn. "Hanna . . . Get up." Mandal kicked Hanna Chlora's pallet on the floor slowly, still burdened with sleep and cloudy eyes.Agent Chlora muttered something in her sleep and rolled over on her side, trailing wrinkled blankets behind her.
"Suit yourself," Agent Birini mumbled, hefting his LEBI bag and heading towards the door of the shabby apartment the two agents shared.
Sometimes Agent Birini thought he only roomed with Chlora so he could be her wake up call. It never worked, however hard he kicked her. He should start charging, he thought.
She slept like a dwarf on a coffee break.
"Good morning," Agent Chlora's faulty plasma clock chimed in its mockingly happy tones, breaking the doomed morning silence.
"D'Arvit, please . . . shut UP," she groaned into her pillow, wishing earnestly for a coffee. She flailed her aching arms in search for the machine.
"It's 10:00 P.M. in Friday the thirteenth of--"
Agent Chlora cursed vividly.
The clock never had time to finish; it was now in several pieces on dirty rug.
"BIRINI!" No matter. He had left without her. Again.
The LEBI agent launched herself into motion, still cursing luridly at her partner. Being angry with Mandal Birini usually gave her astounding new adrenaline, so she practiced it often. She slipped out of her crumpled boudet, her eyes still shut tightly. She turned sharply, not realizing she was on a totally different side of the pallet than usual, and buffeted her crooked, long-since broken nose on the drab wall, resulting in a keen pain. She clutched her nose as she pounded the wall with her tiny rough fist. Served it right.
At about a foot and one half tall, Hanna Chlora was extremely short—or vertically challenged, as she referred to it--, even for a fairy. It was a weakness to her, and she didn't take kindly to the subject. She didn't take kindly to much of anything. Agent Hanna Chlora's personality was . . . less than kind. It would be—she was half imp, half sprite. A bitter combination. She hadn't known her parents past the age of two years; she knew they were dead.
Before their race had died out, imps had had dark, patchy, and unhealthy looking skin, unctuous blonde hair, and nasty dispositions. After years of slaver and malnutrition under the ancient Frond Dynasty, their height was severely limited; they were never more than a foot or so tall. They sported haunting, skeletal faces that seemed to repel anyone that saw them. The imps had been described as—and actually were—small peevish demons with smart attitudes, and were useless . . . Unless you wanted killing done. Imps were very, very good at this in particular.
Their eyes were the most fascinating; two pools in the sunken faces, great watery reservoirs of memories. They were as grey as ash, and as dismal as the back of the moon. Despite the gelid colour, they were, if one really closely, as cool and thirsty as the heart of a flame.
However depressing and boring the eyes were, they held too many great and terrible secrets. Imps had appeared shortly after The Book had been written, and the pupilary mesmer seemed to work on other fairies. As The Book had not mentioned anything against this, the imps used it freely (and actually very lawfully).
As punishment for this, however, they were forced into slavery by the elf dynasty. Many escaped, or were let free. Too many.
The Hunt followed, and as a result of this bloody event, the imps almost immediately died out. But several lingered, and they made it their mission to pass on their heir as revenge. In fact, several were thought to reside in the Lower Elements today.
Well, mainly one . . .
Hanna Chlora had spotty pale green skin. Her eyes were like two dismal grey moons, her ears embarrassingly long. Her hair looked out of place next to her seemingly sprite body. It was stringy, oily, and blonde. It looked as if she had hacked it off during her coffee break, which indeed she had.
However, Agent Hanna Chlora was not a full-blooded sprite.
She stumbled out of her pit of blankets she called a bed, and into the bathroom. Making a mental note to remind Mandal how to use the toothpaste tube properly, she freshened up as best she could. She didn't make a great effort either. Hanna pulled her LEBI suit on, still cursing graphically at Agent Birini.
Upon stumbling up, she caught herself subconsciously using her eye mesmers in the mirror. Her eyes switched the mesmers on whenever she was angry, sad, or annoyed. They were hard to control. She closed her eyes, glad that this time she had caught the reflection before something had happened. Last time she had accidentally mesmerized herself with her eye's reflection. Agent Chlora had stood there an hour or so in an odd, unblinking trance; an unending staring contest with her own mirror image. Mandal had returned home, made fun of her, and pulled her safely away. Afterwards he had made some more fun. Hanna had set his desk aflame.
On her way out of the door today, she wrenched the wires from Birini's electric shaver, revenge for leaving her behind. Ultio ultionis.
She left, slamming the titanium door and securing it with the micro- key. Hanna hefted her heavy bag, throwing it over her sloping shoulder. She let it hit her thigh as she galloped, with a slight limp today, through the halls.
"Mornin' Agent Chlora," The apartment building's friendly janitor said, tipping his raveled hat politely.
"I'm sorry, Mo. I can't talk today, Agent Birini left me again." She zipped past the old pixie, giving him a salute.
"That Birini, obsessed with that what's-it job of his . . .," Mo muttered, more to himself than to Hanna.
Hanna's inadequate hybrid wings wouldn't carry her very high. The weight of the body bag (There wasn't a cadaver in it, or her victim's severed head, opposed to Agent Ecel's popular beliefs.) she carried burdened her further, reducing her flight to several inches about the tiles. So she floated roughly down the stairwell. She zipped through the lobby, returning to the ground, dodging pesky civilians, tourists, whatever; they're all the same. Bulky cameras swinging from their necks, forming in great herds . . .
Agent Chlora paused in the doorway, peering with wide cautious eyes out into the big, wide, frightening world.
It was not the Agent Chlora people at the office knew. If they had observed her horrible paranoia, her constant, checking glimpses, they hadn't commented on it. There was a reason Hanna's grey eyes swept the darkest corners, wandered the atramentous alleyways, glanced suspiciously at tourists.
A reason few, if any, knew.
No one was watching, no one was waiting. Hanna exited the apartment building swiftly, still glancing about, walking briskly, if not jittery and nervously. She checked the usual surroundings, analyzing every person. Were their eyes grey? Did they have blonde hair? Skeletal faces?
Were they looking for her?
Were they coming?
Not today.
Hanna continued, taking up a sort of canter – sprint, heading eastwardly towards the exerts of Police Plaza. After glancing up and down her route, Agent Chlora's paranoia had subsided somewhat. Somewhat.
She could've sworn she'd seen something, heard someone calling, so she turned sharply, never slowly. And in that split second, she collided with something quite, to her, altitudinous.
Before she knew what she was doing, Hanna's paranoia came rushing back. She drew her can of cheap pepper spray she'd been fingering, taking blind aim at where the perpetrator's eyes should have been. Should have.
The sprite, for sprite it was (in fact, Private Chix Verbil, though Agent Chlora didn't know this.) screamed loudly, collapsing to the sidewalk on his knees, clutching at his eyes.
"Oh, D'Arvit," Hanna hissed, bending down.
Words mingled, mostly Hanna's (and those were mainly colourful curses.). Eventually she bent down, her greasy hair caressing her uneven shoulders. She tried to pull the sprite's paws away from his eyes, but he pulled sharply away at her cold touch, refusing her "sympathy".
She must resort to dreadful measures . . .
"I'm sorry," She hissed through clenched teeth.
And suddenly the sprite was okay, absolutely fine, rising to his feet.
He'd faked it. Synonym for lame? Is there a better word?
"Ah it's alright. You missed anyway," The sprite said. He held out his gloved hand. Agent Chlora saw that it was a LEP glove. She rejected it.
So this officer had faked pain, and then practically mocked her aim. Agent Chlora fumed inwardly, her eyes narrowing with uncontrollable mesmer.
"I'm Private—Hey! Where are you goin'?" Hanna had hefted her bag, and started back to work. She was late.
"Away,"
"But I didn't get your name!" Private Who-Ever-Who-Cares shouted through the throng of people closing in.
"I didn't give it to you,"A/N: . . . Mary Sue? cower Please tell! PLEASE, PLEASE R/R!!
Niffler