lyrasoze@hotmail.com

Hello all! This chapter has been a long time in coming, I know. This chapter has a slightly more formal tone to it, and it is fairly short. I wanted to get the story moving again, and I couldn't think of a way to do it without this filler. The tone of this chapter is also more ceremonial, if you will, than the others, because it felt like a more formal setting.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything interesting. You can search my room if you don't believe me.

Under Attack
By Lyra Matsuoka
Rated PG-13

Chapter 6 : Fantasy Unfolding


For as long as I can remember, there has been nothing more frightening than the sound of a gun safety being clicked off. To me, that deadly little snap of sound meant that whoever was holding that gun, whoever gripped that weapon, had officially declared their willingness to use said instrument of death. And my mother had never been afraid of her gun. It was an extension of her arm, and she rarely missed her mark.

But as deadly as she was with that .45, any sane person would have been far more concerned with the man whom I knew was standing at her side. The fact that I couldn't see him was irrelevant. I felt his presence.

Jack and I stood motionless, waiting for the perfect moment to make our presence known. There was no need to speak. I was honestly more worried that my mother would shoot us for scaring her than I was about her shooting us on sight. My mother never, ever shoots on sight. Something to do with her wanting to know whom exactly she is killing, or some moral principle of that sort. It's a fascinating thing, the human mind.

My mother moved into the living room first, gun held firmly in her hand. I watched her carefully. It was amazing to me how she managed to hold that gun so carelessly and yet still give the impression that she was ready to kill anything that looked at her the wrong way. She had always been like that, all shadows and quicksilver. My eyes flitted across her features, and then slid to the darkness behind her.

Candlelight made monsters out of music boxes and a fairyland of the fine furniture in the room. In this surreal landscape, my father was perfectly at home. The shadows stirred briefly, parting to allow Hannibal Lecter entrance to the pool of light that danced at his feet. It might have terrified another man, to be surrounded by so much elegance and carefully cultured taste. Fabrics that blended perfectly with wallpaper and flower arrangements created a divine frame for the people who resided there. And my father, standing very still, cocked his head to one side.

"Mischa. Jack."

My mother sounded shocked. I heard Jack start towards her and knew that he was reaching slowly for the gun. She would never let him take it, but it never hurt to try; and she would most likely allow him to push the barrel down until it was pointed at the floor. I was too wrapped up in watching my father to observe the familiar interchange.

"Mischa," my father said smoothly, opening his arms. I walked into them and wrapped my arms around him, leaning into his infinite strength. We were silent, my father and I, though I heard Jack and my mother conversing quickly and quietly in the background. My father squeezed me around the middle and I turned my head into the curve of his neck. And suddenly I wasn't tired anymore. I wasn't hurt, or upset, or even tearful.

I was pissed off.

"I jumped off a cliff," I said slowly, my words a bit muffled. Well, my head was buried in my father's shoulder, and I chose to sacrifice articulation for the moment.

"What?" My mother sounded shocked. My father just smiled slightly.

"That's my girl," he whispered into my hair. Now is that freaky or what? I knew he was going to say that. That is one of the best things about my family. They are pretty damn accepting of everything I do.

"I jumped off a cliff. It was a rush. A rush that ended in a large amount of cold water and a long swim, but for those forty seconds, I was on top of the world."

My father took my hand and led me to the couch. My mother, having a slightly more informal view of parenting, slung her arm around my brother's waist and led him to the loveseat across from the couch. Jack and I grinned at each other. It was good to be home.

Dinner was informal, or as informal as it is possible for a Lecter family gathering to be. My parents were careful not to ask too many questions, but they were concerned about security. My father leaned back in his elegant chair and allowed my mother to fire questions at the two of us. Where had we stashed the guns? What had these men looked like? Were they FBI agents? I saw a flicker of emotion in her eyes and wondered if Clarice Starling was remembering faces of men she had known so many years ago. I shook my head slowly from side to side, and my mother returned slowly. I knew that she harbored a different life in her memories, and that they seeped through every now and then. I had learned the value of patience.

My mother's hair was dark, as dark as mine, but longer. The few strands of gray streaking through her tresses lent them a glimmer that my own did not possess. My hair absorbed the light; my mother's reflected it. But to look into her face was to see a mirror of my own, with few differences. I bore no mark of courage on my cheekbone; I was not certain that I deserved to wear such a thing.

My parents were not concerned about the "agents" who had followed me into the woods. I looked so much like my mother that, so many years later, anyone seeing my in the gloom would assume that I was her. For some reason, my mother has been frozen in the minds of the public, and I was likely to be mistaken for her before the account was filed away and forgotten.

But Jack was a different story. He looked like me, of course, but many people had seen him, many more than had seen me. Most of these would put the encounter from their minds, looking back on it once in a great while with curiosity. But those who had pursued us knew that jack was alive. And more likely than not, they knew that I was as well.

We had been careful, my brother and I, and my parents resolved to keep to themselves for the next few days until the accounts of the 'hijacking' had passed from the media.

Jack and I kept our theory to ourselves. Perhaps the morning would be a better time to share, but now was a time for reflection. I drew strength from my family. My mother laughed softly as Jack delivered a witty punch line and I smiled at her amusement. My father watched Jack intently, though my brother seemed oblivious. Finally, his gaze shifted to me, and we sat observing each other for a few moments.

"You cut your hair," he began.

"You had your nose done," I tossed back.

"My previous nose did not match my new tuxedo," he drawled, leaning back in his chair.

"My hair took too long to brush every day."

"You look like your mother did when she was very young."

I took a breath. This is an uncommon occurrence. My father very rarely compares me to my mother. He selects fabrics for their contrasts and textures, and he knows which colors suit me and which do not, but he rarely speaks on the subject of the striking resemblance between my mother and me. I've always thought that the similarity worried him. But I will not refuse the compliment now that it has been offered, for a compliment it surely is. "Thank you."

He inclined his head, and extended his hand. I placed my own in his and we both stood, leaving Jack and my mother to their conversation. My father and I walked through the house, talking softly as we went. There was a formality in his demeanor that faded once we were among family, and we spoke of my travels and of his theories and experiments. It was a comfortable way to spend the evening, and I realized that I had missed these quiet discussions and late night music sessions.

My father and I spoke of many things, but as we approached the music room our thoughts and words turned to my spectacular swan dive off a cliff.

"We are under attack," my father murmured, seating himself at our baby grand piano.

"So it would seem," I added, watching his face carefully. My father gazed out into space, and I fell silent. He was thinking, scrolling through possibilities in his mind, and he would not speak while he was considering these things. He was capable of ignoring a person standing in the same room with him for hours on end, and so I saved my thoughts.

I saw sheet music placed on the harpsichord and on the baby grand. I reached for it. "Caro Mio Ben, Se Tu Mami, Tu Lo Sai," I murmured, rifling through the paper. The music spoke to me and the Italian lyrics hovered on the edge of my tongue.

When I looked up again, my father was watching me, his maroon eyes intent on my face. "You have a theory."

"I do."

"You believe that Mason Verger's family has something to do with this."

"His son, yes."

My father fell silent once more, but he was still looking at me. I watched his expression, and knew that my dreamy violet eyes were now focused and assured. He and I both knew what had to be done...and I was the only one who could accomplish such a feat.

"I'm going back."